And then, after hours of pondering and walking around the room, the detective starts to cry.
"What's the matter?", asks his partner.
"What's the matter? What's the matter, you ask? I'll tell you what the matter is," he screams, almost, "I've been analyzing and working on this case for hours, I've recovered every single piece of evidence from Lord Heath's mansion -the laudanum, the knife, the gun, the rope, the love letter, the last will and testament, the jewels, the money, the blood, and the fingertips- and still I cannot find the murderer. I'm absolutely clueless."
A subordinate officer in the room says: "Pardon me Detective Waters, but from the clues it's quite clear that the assassin is..."
"No!!! Don´t say it! Shut up!! Quiet!!!! You see? Can't you see that everyone can solve this murder but I just cannot do it?? That's the problem! How can I be a detective this way? No wonder I've never won the National Detectives Award and Scholarship... I'm just no good at this at all. I can't even come up with a simple witty observation, a keen remark or a memorable joke about this situation..."
Detective Waters puts his hands to his face and breaks down. All of the police officers in the room with him remain quiet, they all know it's not his fault. It's probably just an inexperienced writer's mistake, trying out a detective story: few can get it right the first time.