If I should totalise the ingredients: the Mystery, the Path, the False Target, the Procrastination, the Test, the Waverer, the Malefactor, the Elucidation,
The whole arrived at is only a cunning whole, and, if artificed, only a watchmaker’s whole.
But if any element of the series were omitted, woe would befall the land.
The Detective knows to saunter, while others are deep in the maelstrom of events; this is the divertissement for a gentleman,
The Detective feasts a little on the air of panic, except that he surely does not yet know, and he will only properly enjoy the last stages, more assured inside,
The Answer, which is the colour of transparency, only when it arrives.
The Mystery’s Death, mourned by a jamboree of exultation,
Its feebleness mocked, provided we are shown.
But we are at the beginning—
If there is a signpost saying Mystery, and we walk the other way, we are lost to ridicule,
—And so, picking up his coat, and asking that a cab be called for our journey to the morgue,
He took on the case, having no alternative.
The Mystery is undivided by revelation, undamaged by its own death,
Diminished not at all.
Such that his desperation keeps its recklessness.
And when first he took himself into this wrestling match with Mystery,
I believe he formulated, for his own resilience, two rules:
That he should never despair or hope.
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When No One is Looking by Hannah Shilling is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.