Sherlock
Holmes and 'The Kiss of Death'
Copyright 2005 Peter C. Shumway
Chapter 6 – Searching The Mire
Many at Scotland Yard recognized Sherlock Holmes as England's first and foremost private consulting detective. Some of the officials at the Yard however did not concede to the amateur and never acknowledged his genius or welcomed his talents. Holmes never concerned himself with his official standing. He was devoted to solving crime and his only ambition was criminal justice.
Inspector MacDonald and Chief Inspector Hinkerson each took several deep breaths of air as they stepped out into the street. They had just emerged from the pathology rooms located in the basement of the Charing Cross Hospital. The morning fog was welcomed over the stagnant odor of formaldehyde.
The post-mortem examination upon Collins' body confirmed Holmes' deduction. Doctor Collins died from extreme poisoning. They still needed to discover if Collins was murdered or if he committed suicide. Chief Hinkerson instructed MacDonald to arrest Miss Hart if any proof of foul play were to come about.
"She is just an old frail woman sir. I don't think she could kill anyone," protested MacDonald.
"Appearances can be deceiving boy," explained the senior officer. "I was almost killed once by a little old man walking through Hyde Park. The cane he carried had a shotgun built in it. When I stopped him to talk of the weather he nearly shot my head off. Afterwards, during the inquiry, we discovered that he was a retired assassin who had been dodging the Swiss police for years."
"I will do as ye say but I still agree with Holmes. I don't believe the sweet lass is guilty of any crime."
"Holmes! Holmes! I can't believe you consulted Sherlock Holmes on this case. Oh, I am sure he is up to his ears with wild theories by now."
A hundred miles away in the snake-infested swamplands of Dartmoor Sherlock Holmes poked his head up out of the black water.
"I'm alright."
Holmes had just lost his balance negotiating a deep water-hole and fell in over his head. He immediately swam over to a moss-covered scrub oak and climbed up on its roots. A slimy aquatic plant was draped over his right shoulder. Holmes re-positioned the stilts under his feet and stood back up. He wobbled a bit until he regained his balance. Watson shook his head as he watched on.
"This is impossible Holmes. I think you should give it up."
"Nonsense Watson. Now that I have officially inducted myself, I am ready to retrace the murderer's steps."
Holmes picked the swamp lily off his shoulder and fished his deerstalker cap from the pool of water. He twisted the hat with his hands to ring out some of the water before slapping it back on his head. Then he produced a small compass from his muddy waistcoat pocket and laid it in his left palm. He turned it horizontally to align the magnetic needle with the face of the dial.
"North is that way," he indicated, pointing a mossy finger toward the mottled bramble, fir trees and stale water. "Remember Watson, we will use the same method of navigation which our murderous friends used. I will give a yell when I am ready to leave the house. After you hear my cry, you give a loud cry every ten minutes to lead me back. We have the advantage of daylight so we should be able to carry this off."
Watson sighed nervously as his friend disappeared into the gruesome mire. Once Holmes was out of sight Watson could do nothing but wait. It seemed to be an impossible venture. "How can anyone, even Holmes, find a clue in this endless moor?" thought Watson.
Time passed very slowly for the doctor. He sat for several hours listening carefully for Holmes' signal as he tried to imagine what could possibly drive any man to commit such a horrifying murder. As he sat on the muddy bank, he suddenly realized that three nights ago the murderer's accomplice sat on the very same bank listening patiently for a man to be killed.
Murder never made sense to Watson. "How can one person be so callused as to take another's life?" thought he. "How could the venom killer have the intelligence to plan such an elaborate crime and yet not have the intelligence to realize the magnitude of his actions?" In Watson's mind, no murderer could ever possess a genius intellect.
A faint cry sounded far off in the distance. Watson barely heard it.
"Was that it?" he asked himself. "Sounded more like a bird... It must have been Holmes," thought Watson. "He's been gone a long time. Well, here it goes..."
The doctor screamed at the top of his lungs. It was an awkward yell, which seemed to fall dead against the thick foliage.
"I didn't know you had it in you Watson."
Watson swung around to his left to see his friend standing only ten yards behind him.
"Very funny Holmes."
Holmes laughed so hard that water shook from his clothes. Watson was not amused.
"I really despise your acts of ventriloquism."
"I just wanted to see if you were listening Watson," chuckled Holmes. "I could use a little of that brandy if there is any left."
"Of course there is," snapped Watson as he handed Holmes the flask.
Holmes had reached the house and decided that it would be faster and easier to walk the road back to where the doctor was waiting. Watson noticed blood trickling down the side of the detective's face. Holmes had hit his head on a protruding branch and cut himself just above his left ear. Watson started to take a look at it.
"It's only a shallow cut Watson," remarked Holmes waving off his friend's medical concerns. The detective took a couple of hearty sips of the brandy.
The two men sat down on the muddy ground. Just as Holmes re-capped the bottle, Watson offered him a dry handkerchief. Holmes wiped the blood and sweat from his hands and face.
"You are in the presence of a crazy man Watson. No one in his right mind would attempt to travel through this miserable swamp on stilts to search for clues."
Watson produced a couple of dry cigarettes.
"Sneaking up on me was a dirty trick Holmes."
"Be of good cheer Watson. At least you are still dry."
The two men lit their smokes.
"I must say Holmes, this has been your most ambitious effort to date. It is unfortunate that it has been in vain."
"Actually I made real progress Watson. It occurred to me after traveling several yards that the man must have stopped somewhere to rest. It is very difficult to walk on stilts and ten-fold harder through the water." Holmes took a draw on the cigarette. "Therefore, I looked for a place where he might stop and sit a while. I found a small island between here and the house. He not only stopped there to rest but also smoked a cigarette. Although the ash was a few days old, it was still intact. It is fortunate that it has not rained since the murder."
Watson knew Holmes could identify one hundred and forty brands of tobacco from their ash.
"Was the cigarette an unusual brand?" asked he.
"Not really. It is a darker ash than these Bradleys." Holmes took another deep draw on his cigarette and then tapped the ashes into his hand before letting them fall on the ground. "From the ashes I deduced the brand to be either Demmings or Carters. Then I found the stub of the cigarette lodged in the bank of the island. The cut of the tobacco is definitely Carters... not very unusual at all. However, the cigarette itself is quite revealing."
Holmes reached into his waistcoat and produced a dirty, wet cigarette stub and held it up to Watson's nose.
"What do you make of that?"
Watson wrinkled his nose at the pathetic clue. He didn't make anything of it.
"Makeup Watson - see the greasy black smudges on the mouthpiece? It has the distinct texture of theatrical makeup."
Watson took a closer look at the cigarette and nodded.
"Obviously the man blackened himself so he would not be seen travelling through the mire," deduced Watson.
"Precisely Watson."
Holmes took a contemplative draw on his cigarette.
"This is a more significant discovery than you imagine. If an ordinary man were to blacken himself for a mischievous mission he would probably use chimney soot, boot polish, tobacco ash, or even mud, but not grease paint."
"An actor?" guessed Watson.
"Perhaps. Considering the use of the walking sticks, he may even be a juggler or a circus clown. But let's not make that deduction yet."
"What else did you find?"
"He set his blowgun on the ground while he smoked. It made a very nice impression in the mud. From the diameter of the tube and the pattern of the binding I am sure it is Australian. Also, from the worn edges and various nicks and scrapes I would say it was at least ten years old. It also has a leather strap tied to each end for carrying."
"Fantastic Holmes. Did you find anything else?"
"This man is an expert marksman Watson. I stood at the exact place he did when he shot Collins. It was an extraordinary shot for a blowgun and even more remarkable considering he was balanced on stilts. He is an extremely dangerous man Watson. I only hope we can nab him before he strikes again."
"You believe he will kill again?"
"It is very possible. I believe Sir Walter was also a victim of his blowgun. There may be more murder attempts before we are done."
"How are you so sure this case is related to our 'Laughing Nobleman of Winchester'?"
"One of the sets of foot imprints left on the ground we are sitting on matches those I found outside Timms' window. Timms, like Collins, was poisoned by means of a blowgun although the dose was not lethal. I do not yet know what the connection is between Sir Walter Timms and Dr. Collins, but when I find that link I will be closer to finding our man."
Holmes took a last draw on his cigarette.
"I did not tell you Watson, that I managed to acquire the bone that was found in Sir Walter's soup. The police threw it in the trash after testing for poison. It tested negative for toxins but it was no ordinary soup bone."
Holmes put his cigarette out in the mud by his foot and both men stood up.
"What kind of bone was it?" asked Watson.
"A human left tarsal."
Watson's eyes opened wide.
"That's right Watson. Poor Sir Walter dined on someone's left ankle just before he went completely mad."
