Sherlock Holmes and 'The Kiss of Death' Copyright 2005 Peter C. Shumway

Chapter 9 – The Illusion of Reality

 

"For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his soul?"  The words from St. Matthew Chapter 16 kept churning over and over in Holmes' mind and he didn't know why.  Nothing made sense.  Humanity didn't deserve Bell's contributions any more than Bell deserved the fate handed to him.  "Our lifetimes are but fleeting reflections in the black waters of vanity," thought Holmes.  "Nightmares masquerading as dreams haunt our very souls."  The detective felt confused and lost for the first time in his career.  His great logical mind could not unravel the greatest of mysteries – the futility of life and the finality of death.

It was early morning by the time the fire was extinguished and all the official questions were answered.  The house and its contents were completely destroyed.  The local police were not entirely satisfied with Watson's story of the avenging venom killer setting fire to Bell's house.  The constable had little choice however but to accept the theory since all the evidence in the matter had burned to the ground.  Holmes and Watson left the police station and once again returned to London.

The sun had just cleared the horizon as they stepped into their Baker Street rooms.  Holmes took the small puzzle-box Bell had given him out of his coat pocket and set it upon the small table by the sofa.  He took the strip of paper, which Bell's Memory Typist had printed, from his coat pocket and unfolded it.  Holmes read it to himself, folded it back up and placed it next to the puzzle-box.  Then he collapsed on the couch, stared at the ceiling and fell asleep.

Watson was also exhausted.  He shuffled into his bedchamber and like Holmes, fell asleep with his clothes on.  When the doctor awoke later that afternoon he found his colleague awake but still flopped upon the sofa.  For the rest of the day Holmes did not utter a single word.  He just lazed on the couch and stared at Bell's small wooden box.

Watson thought it ironic that of all the great inventions Professor Bell created, his only legacy to mankind was a worthless practical joke; a box which did not even open.

For the next entire day Holmes did little else but stare at the box.  He occasionally picked it up only to toss it back down on the stand.  It was a puzzle he did not care to solve.  Watson knew of Holmes' moods and tried to let it pass.  The doctor knew it would be futile to try and console his friend.  Each time Watson tried to start a conversation, Holmes responded with a disinterested wave of his hand.

Sorrow succumbed to depression for Holmes.  It was a deep, dark, vile depression.  Later that evening when Dr. Watson returned from a medical call, he noticed that Holmes had managed to pry himself up from the sofa to dip into the cocaine bottle on the mantelpiece.  The morocco case where he kept his needles lay on the table next to the puzzle box.

Usually Holmes only resorted to the drug when he was not on a case.  He despised boredom and would on occasion use the drug to stimulate his mind.  This time Holmes just wanted to escape.  Drained from all creative thought and ambition he slid into the darkest form of depression... that of self-pity.  He blamed himself for the death of his old friend.

The next morning Watson decided to discuss the matter with Holmes.  The doctor had just returned from the tobacconist.  Holmes was half-laying, half-sitting on the sofa as he stared at the ceiling.  His eyes were dark and bloodshot.  Watson talked as he filled the canister on the breakfront with the fresh shag.

"Do you think your seven-percent solution will solve anything?"

"Leave me alone Watson."

"A murderer runs loose in London and you sit idle."

"There are undoubtedly numerous murderers in London.  Let some other bungling fool try to catch them."

Holmes leaned back a little more and closed his glossy eyes.  Watson was furious.

"Maybe you have given up but I have not.  There are a few un-traveled threads of inquiry left.  I will follow them myself if I have to."

Watson had hoped Holmes could be goaded into working on the case rather than to sit idle and watch the doctor continue the investigation without him.  It was not working.

All of a sudden Holmes sat up.

"Do you hear a clicking sound?" asked he.

They listened carefully.  Holmes leaned over to the puzzle-box Bell had given him and picked it up.  The box was making a clicking sound like a loose watch gear.  Suddenly the drawer popped open and a woman's decayed finger rolled out into his lap.

Holmes picked up the hideous thing and turned it over in his hand.

The timer on the drawer had malfunctioned.  The mechanism was supposed to open the box drawer four days earlier.  The severed finger was intended to scare Professor Bell however it had a different effect on Sherlock Holmes.  It snapped him out of his black state of mind and ignited a fire within him.

He quickly stood up and threw the severed finger across the room at his laboratory table.  It knocked over a beaker and ricocheted into the wall before falling to the floor.  He picked up his morocco case full of needles and slammed it back down on the mantelpiece next to the cocaine bottle.  Then he stormed into his bedroom and emerged twenty minutes later dressed as an old lady carrying a carpetbag.  Watson almost laughed when the little old woman spoke in Holmes' deep voice.

"You are correct Watson.  The venom killer must be stopped...  at any cost."

The baritone lady strode across the room and picked up his Webley police model revolver and slid it into his dress.

Just then Mrs. Hudson knocked politely and stepped in with their lunch.

"Oh, excuse me.  I didn't know you had company."

"Mrs. Hudson, this is my aunt... Daisy Thornbright recently arrived from America," explained Watson as Holmes' posture quickly changed from a six-foot man to a five-foot woman.

"It is so nice to meet you Daisy," greeted the landlady.

"The pleasure is mine dear," crackled Holmes in a perfect American accent.

"Can you stay for lunch?"

"I am afraid I cannot.  I am on such a tight schedule.  My next train leaves in less than an hour.  Thank you just the same."  Holmes turned to Watson.  "Well Jackie don't forget to write."

Then Holmes walked over to Watson and gave him a kiss on his cheek.  Watson was caught completely off guard.

"I... won't forget... Daisy...  let me help you to the street."

"Have a pleasant trip," added Mrs. Hudson as the two men made their way down the stairs.  Holmes chuckled.

"Your razor could do with a fresh blade Watson."

"Had I known you were going to kiss me I would have given up the game from the start," complained Watson.

"It is just as well Mrs. Hudson be kept unaware of our escapades."

Holmes stopped to carefully look around the street.

"As I started to say earlier Watson, the venom killer must be stopped.  I will do anything to put an end to his terror."

Holmes shuffled over to a public hansom.  The driver jumped down and helped the little old lady into the cab.  The cabbie drove Holmes to the offices of the Times.  When they arrived at the newspaper's headquarters, the young man opened the door of the carriage for Holmes, tipped his hat and bid him a good day.  Holmes reached into his leather purse and produced the payment.  The cabbie accepted the fare however waved-off an offer of a feeble tip, jumped back on the vehicle and sped off.

Holmes adjusted his dress, stepped slowly through the wood-trimmed glass doors of the Times building and shuffled up to the front desk.  A courteous gentleman with a thin mustache stood up from behind the desk and greeted him.  Holmes asked the man, in his sweet-old-lady voice, to search the newspaper archives for articles on the venom experiments from three years ago.

"I am sorry ma'am.  We do keep copies of all our past issues in the basement but it would take too much time to read months of papers searching for those particular articles."

"Is it possible that I may spend some time myself in the basement young man?" asked Holmes as he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and held it to his lip.

"I am sorry.  The new policy of the Times is very clear on the matter.  The archives are simply not available to the general public.  The last gentleman we let down there tore all the issues concerning last year's Drisdale murders off their racks and filled the place with tobacco smoke."

Holmes coughed a little into his handkerchief as the man continued.

"I am afraid I can not help you ma'am."

"This is a matter of life and death young man."

"I am sure it is," smiled the patronizing clerk.

 

 

Not far from the wharves east of London Bridge, was a place of business never seen by most Londoners.  In the basement of a small paper company warehouse there resided a social hide-a-way for escaped convicts, common thieves and ruthless cutthroats.  It was not a lawfully established place of commerce and therefore it did not have a proper name but to London's darkest commoners it was usually referred to as the 'Den'.

To find the Den was quite difficult.  One had to pass through a maze of side streets and alleys, practically crawl through an opening in a crumbled wall, and descend a dark, rotted stairway.  Once inside the dirty cellar a person had to fit in with the crowd or he would find himself swimming in the Thames much worse for wear.  Drink, drugs, and foul language were in abundance as were rats, lice and various social diseases.

Discussions amongst the patrons varied in context and in volume.  A whispered talk between two gorilla-like ruffians in a dark corner was usually more interesting than the loud outbursts of a drunken witch at the bar.

No one knew who the owner was nor cared much to know.  No one asked questions nor gave answers, yet many things could be overheard in that smoke-filled hole.  Such was the case with the two blackguards who sat at one of the tables near the back of the main room.  One of the men was about thirty years of age with black, greasy hair.  He only had about two teeth that had not yet completely rotted and fallen out of his mouth.  The other man was a few years younger and had very large ears that stuck out from his wool cap.  He also sniffed continually like he had a runny nose.  Obviously neither man had bathed in weeks.  They were getting quite drunk and started talking a little louder.

"He's a bloody fool he is."

"Aye.  (sniff)  Bennett should know money ain't nothin'.  (sniff)  It ain't ta me ya know.  Ya don't see me doin' somebody else's dirty work." (sniff)

A copper skinned man with one arm slid into the room and calmly sat at the bar.  His left shirtsleeve, which was not occupied, was tied into a knot and had what appeared to be a human scalp hanging from it.  The two men at the back of the bar continued their discussion.

"Bennet's young and stupid he is."

"Aye.  Snippin' the wire can get ya the locker." (sniff)

The two men paused long enough to pass a bottle of rye back and forth a couple times.  The younger man blew his nose into a dirty handkerchief, which only made matters worse for he seemed to sniff even more.  No one seemed to take any notice to the drunkards, as it was a common a sight as any row.

"I 'ear Bennett got plenty for it too."

"Yeh, (sniff) I 'ear he's spendin' it on a bird down Bethn'l." (sniff)

"I 'eard the same."

"Eh, ya know...(sniff)  ya know what?" (sniff)

"What?"

"He's probably waitin' by the bloody pub (sniff) with his bloomers on fire already, he is." (sniff)

At that, the older man laughed quite loudly, slapped his bad knee, and began to cough.  He coughed violently for a full minute by which time both men had completely forgotten what they were talking about.  The one-arm man at the bar stood up and left.

 

 

It was late afternoon when Watson returned to Baker Street from a routine medical call.  He noticed Holmes had been in the rooms while he was away.  The old dress, which the detective had worn, lay in a corner of the room and several volumes from his records were spread about his desk.  To Watson's disappointment, Holmes did not leave a note.

"What progress can possibly be made in finding one man amongst the teeming millions of London?" Watson asked himself.

The doctor disliked being left in the dark on a case.  He would rather risk having a poisonous dart find his neck than to sit by and not know what progress Holmes was making.  He had to contend himself with doing a few mundane chores until it was time to retire.

 

 

On the corner of Winchester and Cheshire an old blind woman could be found selling starched collars every day except Sunday.  She knew by the chill in the air that evening was upon her.  She was just about to pack up her wares when Holmes dropped a sovereign into her basket.

She immediately picked up the coin and felt its size and weight.  The toothless smile that spread across her wrinkled face was sign that payment was quite adequate.

"What ya want ta know?" she asked.

"What's Bennett been up to?"

"He's been up ta no good as usual.  Snipp'd the wire at Waterloo Station for some Aussie bloke last week.  I 'eard he hit the tobacconist on Main the day before that.  He's spendin' it as fast as he can get it I 'ear."

"Where can I find him?"

"Who wants ta know?" asked the blind woman.

Holmes gently grabbed her hand and firmly pressed another sovereign into her palm.

"Just tell me where I can find Bennett."

 

 

In the dark, despondent alleys deep in the poorest section of Bethnal Green district, society's outcasts sometimes sought temporary refuge.  Near the South entrance of one of the vile side streets, two ladies of the evening could be heard as they complained, in their own foul way, of recent troubles.  Toward the centre of the rat-infested alley, lay a filthy, half-starved vagabond.  He sucked on an empty pint bottle of halfpenny wine and mumbled openly to himself.  At the North entrance of the dark alley, two men ducked in from the lighted street.

"What do ya mean she doesn't want ta see me.  I pay 'er plenty," cried the younger man holding up a fist full of bills.

"That's not it Bennett.  She just doesn't like the way ya treat 'er," explained the other man.

"If that's the way she is about it then the devil with 'er."

Bennett shoved his money back in his pocket and the two men stepped back out into the lighted street.  They each took off in separate directions.

The loathsome vagrant lying in the centre of the dirty alleyway tossed aside his empty bottle, stood up and staggered out into the street.  He took off after the man with the money and caught up to him outside a local pub.

"Can ya spare a bit for an old man, sir?" asked the ragged beggar.

"Not a bloody cent for the likes of you.  Now be off before I break ya jaw."

As he turned away to go into the pub the vagabond pulled out a small revolver from somewhere within his ragged heap of clothes.

"You are too generous Bennett," came a deep steady voice.

The man turned around to find a Webley .38 stuck in his ribs.

"Sherlock Holmes!" cried Bennett.

Holmes straightened up and looked the young man straight in the eye.

"I want answers.  Who paid you to take out the wire at Waterloo?"

"I honestly don't know who he is Mr. Holmes."

Holmes pulled back the hammer of his revolver.  The young man's voice crackled.

"Please man, you've gotta believe me, I don't know who he is.

"Where did you meet?"

"In the 'Bucket-of-Blood'…the Briar's Pub on High Street in Blackwall...it was early last week.  All I can tell ya is that he talked with an accent he did.  Aussie I think.  He paid me plenty and all I 'ad ta do was ta snip the wire.  And when the four-twenty from Norwood pull'd in ta deliver a tele ta none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  I didn't mean ya no harm sir."

"Where can I find this Aussie?"

"I don't know.  Honest Mr. Holmes.  I don't know."

 

 

The next morning Watson awoke hoping to see Holmes.  Unfortunately the detective was still not about.  The doctor started to worry if his friend had fallen victim to the venom killer.  He remembered how easy it was for the murderer to shoot Holmes with the sedative and just how lethal the toxic solution was which killed Dr. Collins and Professor Bell.

"It would be a horrible death," he thought.

He picked up the morning paper, which had been delivered to the door and rang the bell for breakfast.  Then he settled down in his favorite chair to read.  There were no deaths reported, only a rash of burglaries:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watson looked over to the corner of the room where a pile of old faded newspaper lay in a heap.  He was relieved that Holmes was apparently still alive.  Then the doctor walked over to the pile and picked up two papers that were placed on top.  The first paper was an old issue of the Daily Telegraph.  It was folded open to the obituary page and one of the entries was circled in ink:

 

 

Watson tossed the paper aside and carried the other paper from the pile over to his chair and sat down.  It was an old cover-page of the Times.

The tall clock standing in the corner of the room chimed eight times.  Watson watched the clock's brass pendulum swing slowly back and forth.  It reminded him of Bell's static eliminator invention.  Then he looked down at the paper and noticed another article that Holmes had also circled in ink.

 

 

Just then Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door.

"Come in."

"Breakfast sir," stated the landlady as she carried a silver tray over to the dinning table.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

"The eggs are fresh Doctor.  If Mr. Holmes returns just give me a ring.  I have more makings."

"I will Mrs. Hudson," said he.

The landlady left the room and closed the door behind her.  Watson looked back down at the old newspaper and continued reading.

 

 

Watson continued to read as he uncovered his eggs and buttered his toast.

 

 

Watson set down the butter knife and picked up his fork.  He broke the yolks of his eggs then glanced back down to the article.

 

 

Watson had enough.  If he read one more disgusting word he was going to lose his appetite.  He set down the paper and finished his meal.  Then he smoked his morning cigarette before picking the paper up again.  He read of how the audience had revolted against the evil magician.

 

 

"Served him right," thought Watson.

There was a knock on the door.  It was Mrs. Hudson again.

"Telegram sir.  It is from Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

The landlady picked up the dishes from the dinning table and left.  Watson quickly opened the dispatch.

 

COME AT ONCE TO SCOTLAND YARD WHITEHALL GATE STOP BRING OLD PAPERS STOP BE ON GUARD STOP

 

Watson grabbed his pistol along with the two old newspapers and ran out.  He secured a cab and raced to Whitehall Place.  When he arrived at the Yard, Inspector MacDonald and Chief Inspector Hinkerson greeted him.  They were impatiently standing in front of the building by the gate.

"Dr. Watson, I hope you know what all this is about," grumbled the Chief Inspector.  "Holmes sent us a telegram asking us to meet him here."

"I know as little of the matter as you I am afraid," replied Watson.

"Oh you know much more than he does Watson," sounded a voice from above them.

All three men looked up to see Sherlock Holmes sitting in an overhanging tree.  He had a noose tied around his neck.  The other end of the rope was tied to the branch he was sitting on.

"Don't do it Holmes!" cried Watson.

"I assure you I am not going to kill myself.  This is merely a simple demonstration my good fellow."

"I don't know Holmes.  I don't like the looks of..."

"Get down this minute young man," ordered Hinkerson.

"Very well."

Holmes jumped off the branch.

All three men gasped at the same time.

"You look a little pale Watson," laughed Holmes.

It was quite a spectacle.  Sherlock Holmes was laughing and talking as he dangled by his neck from the tree branch.  Many of the people passing by stopped in their tracks to watch.  One woman picked up her child and ran off in another direction.

"You're alright!" exclaimed Watson.

"Of course I am Watson.  This is an old magician's trick.  Help me down and I will explain."

Watson and MacDonald untied the rope and helped the detective down from the tree branch.  Holmes showed them how the real rope was fastened to a harness under his clothing and a fake rope was tied around his neck.  He then handed the two policemen the old newspaper articles that Watson brought with him.

"During their treatments of Adrian Menton, the medical team who conducted the venom experiments unintentionally killed her.  Sir Walter Timms who was poisoned two weeks ago commissioned the team of doctors.  Dr. Collins and Professor Bell also worked on the team and are now twisted corpses."

"Are ye suggestin that Menton staged his death using this hangman trick?" asked MacDonald.

"Exactly.  He was under terrible pressure to stop performing his morbid illusions.  He also wanted to drop out of sight.  He loved his wife dearly and could not bear to perform in public any longer without her."

"How could he fool the medical examiner?" asked Watson. "You can not just stop your pulse you know."

"I anticipated your skepticism Watson."

Holmes rolled up his shirtsleeves up to his elbows.

"Take my pulse."

Holmes held out his wrists.  Watson placed his fingers on his friend's carpal artery.  Holmes' skin was cold and clammy and there was no sign of a pulse.  The doctor lifted his fingers and set them back down several times before looking up at Holmes.

"I don't understand this at all," stated Watson.

Then Holmes reached up under his jacket and produced a cricket ball from under each arm.

"It is a mentalist's illusion Watson.  He claims to have mind control over his body functions and can stop his heart from beating at will.  He has someone from the audience monitor his pulse while he applies a little pressure against the brachial arteries using a couple of balls such as these."

"That is amazin Mr. Holmes," remarked MacDonald.

"Menton had his sister working as his assistant and she was obviously in on the deception.  I suspect it was her footmarks we found along with Menton's at Canton Marsh in Dartmoor," added Holmes.

"You think Menton staged his death and is now revenging the death of his poisoned wife?" asked Hinkerson.

"Yes.  And I also believe Menton dug up his wife's grave and is now sending parts of her to his victims.  He is an evil, twisted man gentlemen."

"This is preposterous.  I think the only twisted mind around here is yours Holmes," grunted Hinkerson.

"I could use a few of your men in tracking down and capturing Charles Menton Inspector."

"I am not about to spend any of the Yard's time chasing down a dead man."

"Menton is still alive and I can prove it.  Accompany me to Chislehurst to the cemetery where Menton and his wife are supposed to be buried and exhume their graves.  It is my bet that we will find their caskets empty."

"There is no way I am going to play along with you this time Holmes," protested the overweight Hinkerson as he turned and started to walk toward his wagon.  Holmes had to think fast.

"If I am wrong I will give up my practice.  You have my word."

The Chief Inspector stopped, turned to Holmes and smiled.

 

 

An hour later they arrived at St. Mary's church in Chislehurst.  Hinkerson brought along the two uniformed men from Dartmoor, Garth Varlander and Sergeant Mike Fisher, who were in London for annual ballistics training.  They were delegated to do the digging.  Garth was not pleased with the assignment and grumbled the entire trip; however, the big Swede would prove later to be a mule with a shovel.  Fisher on the contrary was glad to be involved with capturing whoever killed Dr. Collins.

The six men walked around to the back of the old stone church and opened the rusty, iron-wrought gate at the entrance to the cemetery.  According to the new caretaker, Mr. Homer Applegate, the old caretaker retired about a year ago and did not keep written records of the burial sites.  Apparently, he kept track of such matters in his head.  Mr. Applegate did not know where the Mentons were buried so Hinkerson ordered the men to split up and search for the headstones.

Watson hated cemeteries.  They always gave him the jitters.  He had to force himself to put aside his childish superstitions and help with the search.  He and the others walked around and looked for the Menton sites.  The graves were not arranged in any discernable pattern and it soon became an unsystematic search.  Watson wandered around aimlessly for about fifteen minutes reading the inscriptions on the stones when he heard MacDonald give a yell.

"Here they are," shouted the inspector from up on a small hill.  They all ran to where MacDonald was standing.  The graves were located next to an old oak tree.  Watson didn't think either grave showed any sign of disturbance.

"Okay men, start digging," ordered Hinkerson.

"Wait a minute," said Holmes.  "Something is not right."  He knelt on one knee and looked closer at the headstones.

"What's the matter Holmes?  Losing your nerve?" jabbed Hinkerson.

"These markers have recently been moved," stated the detective.  "Also notice that the roots from this oak tree have grown across these graves.  This site is much too old to be the Mentons'.  The magician and his wife were only buried three years ago."

Holmes stood up and looked around.  He walked over to the adjacent graves and examined the headstones.  Then he shook his head and continued checking other graves nearby.  Down the hill on the other side about twenty yards away the detective found what he was looking for.

"Here men."

Watson and the others picked up the shovels and walked over to where Holmes was standing.

"Menton is a very clever foe.  He has been here within the past two days to switch the headstones of his grave with those up on the hill.  He predicted our current course of action," explained Holmes, as he looked around a little nervously.  "Menton has watched our every move from a dark wing of life's stage and he has anticipated our every action."

"Very clever for a dead man," remarked Hinkerson.

"He is very much alive Inspector."

"The only way to know fer sure is to start diggin," suggested MacDonald.

"I say we dig up his grave rather than hers," added Watson.

"I agree," remarked Holmes as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves, grabbed a shovel and looked up at the darkening sky.  "We had better get started.  It looks like it is going to rain soon."  The uniformed men also shed their coats and started to dig.  It was hard, dirty work.

Mike Fisher, the smaller of the uniformed men, took several breaks.  Varlander worked like an ox.  Holmes kept pace with the big Swede and matched every swing of the man's pick with a thrust of his shovel.

"Don't forget your promise Holmes.  If Menton is in this coffin, you find another line of work," reminded Hinkerson.  "By the way, you seem to be pretty handy with that shovel."

Holmes ignored the chief inspector's remarks and kept digging.  After what seemed to be an hour of grueling work, Holmes and the two uniformed men unearthed the coffin.  They dug for another twenty minutes before they could get the box free.  Then the three men lifted the casket up to the grass.  Watson extended his hand and helped them out of the enormous hole.

Several ominous black clouds had moved in above them and it started to rain.  Holmes began brushing some of the dirt off the top of the casket when Hinkerson pushed him aside.

"This is a police matter.  We will take it from here.  Open it up men," ordered the chief inspector.

Varlander and Fisher opened up the coffin.  The repulsive body of Menton with his neck stretched and his face twisted lay peacefully inside.

Watson gasped.  He could not believe Holmes was wrong.

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes," apologized MacDonald.

"Now you can see why these matters should be left to the police," rubbed Hinkerson.

Holmes stepped a little closer to take a better look but the chief inspector held him back.  Holmes chuckled.

"What's so funny?" asked MacDonald.

"This is not Menton.  Can't you see this is a wax replica.  There is no sign of decay."

"Nonsense.  Close it up men before we get any wetter," ordered Hinkerson.

Holmes was desperate.  He leaped over to the coffin, shoved Fisher aside, reached into the casket and ripped off Menton's head.  He grabbed Menton's nose and snapped it off like a candle from its base.  Then he held it up to Hinkerson's face and squeezed it flat.  He squeezed the paraffin nose with such a force that the wax not only flattened out but it broke in half and fell to the muddy ground.

"Wax Inspector.  Menton is our man."

Chief Inspector Hinkerson watched the pieces of wax fall to the ground.  Then he looked at the wax head of the magician in Holmes arms in disbelief.

  It started to rain much harder and the wind started to gust hard enough to rearrange some leaves leftover from last autumn.  Hinkerson turned up the collar of his frock-coat and ordered his men to place the wax head back into to casket and close it up.  He would send fresh recruits to re-bury the box after the rain stopped.  The chief inspector then gave Holmes a long hateful stare, turned without saying another word, and walked back to the police wagon.

  

 

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