Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

These most unmemorable lines were writ in a cultured hand, but lacked talent, however heartfelt the sentiment that lay behind them. It was the custom that the lady’s name should be anonymous, but not that of the author. Thus a bold Foppington,followed by a flourish of which only an English aristocrat would be capable, adorned the end of the poem.

Even I had heard of this fop, whose name was so well bestowed. Lord Foppington was the grandson of the Duke of Westshire, and prided himself on his reputation as the most fashionable macaroni in London society, clad in exquisite silks and satins.

“And now,” Mr. Thomas said even more gravely, “see today’s verse, in the same hand but hardly of the same nature or intent.” He turned the page, where I read on the next sheet:

Alas, I am spurned by fairest—, my love divine

But no other shall with her form entwine

No other hand shall win her favour

From death’s cold grasp no man can save her.

“It is not the thing, sir; indeed it is not,” Mr. Thomas moaned.

“It is a jest,” Mrs. Thomas quavered. A slender woman of far less height than her husband, she was clearly indignant that the world had singled out her beloved spouse for such tribulation.

As indeed tribulation it was. I did not like this affair. I perceived that no name was attached to this verse, but it looked to be from the same hand as its predecessor. “How did it come?” I asked. “Did the poet bring it?”

“It was by our door this morning,” Mr. Thomas told me. “Many of our poets spend their evenings in the Rooms, either dancing or playing cards, according to the evening, and they pen their tributes during the midnight hours, leaving them by our door to find in the morning.”

By the cold light of day, I thought, many must rue their hot-headed declarations. No wonder the fashion for anonymity of the damsels so highly praised by the poets. Did the author of this last verse rue his violent declaration, or was it merely a lovers’ quarrel which time had solved? Somehow I did not think so. “Have you spoken to his lordship today?” I asked.

“Lord Foppington has not appeared this morning, and no wonder,” Mr. Thomas said in a tone of disgust. “Nor, fortunately, has the fair Miss Olivia Cherrington, whom all know to be the nymph he threatens.”

“He is coming,” squealed Mrs. Thomas, running to the window. “Husband, pray do something. Miss Cherrington accompanies him.”

There was a hush outside as all turned to the approaching couple, who seemed to take such attention as their rightful due. Her maid walked dutifully behind her. Both Lord Foppington and Miss Cherrington were in full dress, despite the early hour, he in beribboned breeches and elegant frock coat, she a delightful shepherdess with ornate polonaise drapery, white stockings peeping below the calf-length skirt, and her hair piled high on her head. They looked as though they indeed graced a stage.

“Mr. Thomas, Miss Cherrington is impatient to read my latest poem,” Lord Foppington drawled, seemingly unaware of the twittering disapproval around him.

“I would,” lisped Miss Cherrington. She looked a sweet child for all her affectation, although more a dainty automaton than a young lady with a mind of her own.

“Pray do not,” Mr. Thomas said anxiously.

“Why?” she asked indignantly, turning the fateful page to read it. I made no attempt to dissuade her. If this was a true threat against her life, she should know about it.

“Oh!” A gasp, then Miss Cherrington grew very white and swooned into Mr. Thomas’s arms. Mrs. Thomas hastened to bring salts, which, firmly removing the young lady from her husband’s arms, she applied to the victim’s nostrils with no immediate effect.

“This is your doing, my Lord,” Mr. Thomas said angrily.

Lord Foppington smiled. “She swoons for my love.”

I stepped forward. “She fears, my lord. You must assure her it is a jest.”

“Fears? A jest? Who are you, sir?” Lord Foppington eyed me querulously.

“Parson Pennywick of Cuckoo Leas. Miss Cherrington fears you wish to kill her.”

“Kill her?” Lord Foppington looked blank.

“Your poem threatens it, sir.”

He cast a look at the verse and looked up, frowning. “This is not my poem. I wrote of love, I wrote of her beauty — not this.”

Miss Cherrington quickly opened her eyes. “It is your hand, my Lord,” she snapped, and swooned again.

His lordship looked alarmed. “Fairest nymph, let me recite my poem for today. Hark—

“When fairest — takes the waters
Withdraw, all ye other daughters
So far in beauty—”

Mr. Thomas had heard enough. “Do you deny you wrote this?” He pointed to the disputed verse.

“Certainly I do.”

Miss Cherrington, now fully awake, burst into tears. “You are a villain, my Lord.”