Sherlock McGlock

It was a dark and stormy night. The kind of night that left you wondering if anyone was going to come out of this thing alive.
A bolt of lightning flashed outside the window, as I paced back and forth in front of the alter. The priest shifted nervously in his seat, while the widow, the maid, the doctor and the mechanic exchanged confused glances in the front pew.

"It has come to my attention that the murderer might be in this very room," I said, in a voice that real knowing, as if I were an art professor or a museum curator who always wanted to be an art professor but just didn't have to guts to leave the museum.

"Uh excuse me, put would you please sit down?" snarled the priest, as if he had something to hide. "You're standing in front of the casket, and no one can pay their respects."

I was beginning to think that the priest was behind this whole thing. He had just given a speech about the victim. I think he knows too much.