is, Ted asserts, by making it look like an accident.
It's very easy, he continues, getting a bit of a swagger
about him as he warms to his subject.
That chicken who died snorkeling last week, for instance?
Murdered, says Ted.
By who? Emma asks, face a portrait of irritated confusion.
Ted prods his chest with a thumb.
No, Raoul shoots back, better to drape your actions
in the fine regalia of justice. Invite the chicken
to a whist drive or some such, then lock the door,
dim lights, and inform him, coldly, of his crimes
and consequent punishment.
Death? says Emma.
By murder, no less, says Raoul.