Poetry Noir
The Laureate lay face upwards on the communal table at the Poets' Writing Retreat, transfixed, and doubtless for he was a believer, transfigured. Is this a dagger that I see before me? thought Chief Inspector Shakeshaft. Of course it bloody was. Bumhole, how art thou translated.
The poet's collected works lay higgledy-piggledy all around him. Shakeshaft picked one up at random and opened it. Every line of every poem had been scored through heavily in black.
'Redacted, guv?' breathed Sergeant Dickinson, a woman of few words.
Shakeshaft shook his head. 'Edited more like, Emily. And this,' he pointed to the body, 'the final editing. Edited out of the living altogether.'
'An inside job?' said Sergeant Dickinson. The Laureate had been a critic too. 'TLS?' she added. 'That means...'
Shakeshaft shook his head again. 'Anyone could have done it.' He indicated the slim volumes. 'Anyone who can read, that is.'
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