Tragedy at the Manse

(Sorry about this one. Personally, I blame the BBC... and yes, I do know there's one or two clichés in here.)

The cold wind wails, it whistles and moans,
The shutters creak, the timber groans,
The night, pitch-dark and filled with sleet
Steals in on swift and nimble feet
When suddenly it comes alive:
Seen roaring fleet-foot down the drive
A car appears. Seated warmly within
Is Judge B. Millicent, filled with gin,
His far-famed smile a fearful grin.
The windows glitter, caked with ice -
The butler opens up and sighs
For this wholly unexpected guest
Fits in completely with the rest
Of his misapprehensions.

The house party's members, well-known to the nation
As people of sheer boundless wealth and good station
Sit eying each other with baleful glares -
The host leaves the library. Everyone stares
At his vanishing back, and wonders who'd try
To collect such antagonists. No one knows why
The host left his recluse to return to the manse.
When he enters again they all eye him askance
And wonder about his intentions.

The host leads Judge Millicent into the room -
His illustrious presence heightens the gloom
Considerably. The guests whisper in twos
Or stare at the ceiling, examine their shoes
And most of them try to think up good excuses
To fly from this trap and the first cold abuses
Are exchanged. But then the hostilities cease
And the house party feels slightly less ill at ease
As the dinner gong sounds. The group, thirteen in all,
Troops quickly and noiselessly into the hall
Which is crossed for the dining room, candle-lit, warm,
That exudes a quite unmistakable charm
Though the dinner guests quickly subdue it.

Yet the starters, inventive and sprinkled with wine,
Again mellow the atmosphere. Frankly, the shrine
Of one's stomach is hallowed and honoured indeed
For a well-fed, contented man hardly will breed
Any evil - though hungry, deprived of his food
It's likely that he will get up to no good
And his caterers surely will rue it.

When the second course - venison - is in full swing
The host downs his drink and then takes off his ring,
Eyes his guests and addresses them in a low voice
And hails them in stiff, formal wordings, whose choice
Is not quite in tune with a seasonal mood
But the guests sit in silence, neglecting their food
As they hear that old voice, cracked with age.

He explains to them all why his brilliant career
Had been voluntarily stopped in the year
That his wife had been brutally murdered one night
By someone then still unknown. Because the sight
Of fickleness, glamour and power and the whim
Of two-faced sly fortune'd turned hateful to him
He'd wrung himself loose from his station in life
To meditate on the sad plight of his wife:
No more limelight, so far from the stage.

His slow meditations proved fruitful at last,
With damnable evidence, slowly amassed.
He'd sent invitations to those he had seen
In the days when the horrible murder had been
To have them all present and witness, this day,
The denouement. The villain will certainly pay
For his grave misdemeanour. Shakily, grey,
After adding dark hints to his terrible boast
The host leaves his chair and proposes a toast
To the fall of the murderer, echoed by most
Though the judge just sits twisting his ring.

They withdraw to the library. Over the Port
They suggest to play parlour games that will cut short
A tedious evening, and musical chairs
Is to be the first item. The radio blares
A jitterbug dance-tune, but nobody cares
So it certainly takes them a bit unawares
When the judge busts the radio. Masculine, tall
And commanding a jealous respect from the hall
He lifts an old violin under his chin
And with a taut bow and a saturnine grin
Plays some fast Paganini. The other guests dance
And the music engulfs them and brings them in trance
When the judge breaks his bow and they scuttle for seats -
"You shan't get me!" he cries and quickly retreats
To the poetry corner. A leather-bound Donne
Destroys the tall window. Before they've begun
To realise Millicent acts somewhat strange
He leaps to the chandelier, rocking the chains
Like an over-sized bat on a swing.

He jumps through the window and makes for his car
And starts it at once, but he will not get far:
His car, slightly doctored, will only drive straight
And his passion for speed can but quicken his fate...
Then the host, who feels glad there has justice been done,
Tells his guests he's afraid it's the end of the fun
And slashes his wrists. Shocked, they leave him alone
And quiet returns. Just the whistle and moan
Of the thickening snowstorm can faintly be heard
In their cosy, warm cars. "It is really absurd
To spoil our weekend like this," they reflect
When to their amazement they think they detect
In their rear-view mirrors the manse is on fire:
The flames round the tower get higher and higher
And up on the battlements, dancing like mad
The placid old butler is singing, begad -
"Who knows what tomorrow will bring?"