Who Killed Lord Lyall?

Who killed Lord Lyall?

And how was it done?

A pressing question, assemble everyone.

On your feet, right down this aisle;

Stand you all in single file.

Leave Lady Lyall at her bench;

Poor soul’s just lost her spouse.

For God’s sake, call her serving wench!

And all the maids in this confounded house.

Yes, even the scullery, sitting quiet as a mouse.

Come forth, young Lyall, the only son.

The receiver of Lord Lyall’s fund.

He drinks all day and gambles for fun.

Wasn’t he by his own kin shunned?

Could he want his pater gunned?

Up next, the surgeon, come forward sir,

What did you manage to decipher?

You say hemlock’s a plausible cause;

My dear Lady Lyall, for her tears, let’s pause.

The surgeon nods and meekly withdraws.

Coming third, there’s Darcy the valet;

He says he saw young Lyall with a mallet.

But look how the boy does pale,

You say there’s been a history of blackmail?

Pity Lord Lyall can’t tell that tale.

Maids, come forth and let out the cat,

Young Lyall’s in hot water, I’m certain of that.

In comes the maid with a tale of her own,

In the hearth, she saw, a mortar of stone.

And in it, she swore something shone.

Lady Lyall lets out a gasp,

The whole room turns its gaze.

She says hemlock was in her son’s grasp,

Pharmacy his latest craze.

Her scornful eyes nearly set the boy ablaze.

Young Lyall, do you dabble in pharmacy?

Is the hemlock your creation?

Was murder, for you, a fantasy?

Your father’s wealth your passion?

What else could justify such an action?

‘Murderer!’ cry the maids.

‘Look how his charming visage fades!’

‘Crept into his father’s room’;

‘With poison, he was Lord Lyall’s doom.’

‘He is to blame for this time of gloom.’

Who killed Lord Lyall?

And how was it done?

The answer’s rather vile;

It pleases no one.

Let’s turn to the boy who gambles for fun.

Young Lyall is silent;

His hands clasp in fear.

Says he isn’t the assailant;

And his conscience is clear.

Yet he dabbles in a vile career.

He plays with hemlock;

Greeds for coin.

The reaper does knock;

Hell he must join.

He won’t simply get away with a hefty fine.

‘Look at you, fair ladies and gents,’

Young Lyall speaks with calm.

‘You glare in anger and murmur comments’

‘But I meant Lord Lyall no harm.’

His words had not a shilling of oratory charm.

Young Lyall searched for a friendly face;

As a policeman cuffed him hard.

Not one eye met his in warm embrace.

Fate dealt him a cruel card.

He walked in silence to his end, led by a burly guard.

‘That’s English justice!’ cried the surgeon;

The maids joined him in applause.

Young Lyall will spend the night in dungeon;

As fit for his fatal flaws.

‘Yes, this is a celebratory cause.’

The valet called for a glass of wine;

The maids ordered a lunch so fine.

Not one of them could care less;

As the former heir faced death’s caress.

They’d now been blessed by a new heiress.

Through this mood of cruel blood-thirst;

Not one fathomed it was all rehearsed.

Orchestrated by one so vile;

Let’s take a glance at Lady Lyall;

She scarcely hid her vicious smile.

By: Samiksha Deshpande