The Snake and The Rabbit

The House

As it turned out, Luther Maxwell was the name of the innkeeper. But everyone just called him Max. From what we could gather, The Lady first started calling him Max and it stuck to him. Max had not done anything to keep up the appearance of Mrs. Brookstead’s house. Indeed, the grass was up to our knees as we walked along the broken path to the house.

“I must enquire,” Holmes turned at the door toward our guide, “why have you not taken as good of care with this home as you did the other?”

“Mrs. Brookstead has a son, able bodied, criminal but able bodied none the less. Why can he not look after things? The Lady, to my knowledge has no one.”

Holmes grunted slightly.

Upon opening the door, a foul odor came to our noses. The inspector held a handkerchief to his nose, Holmes his glove covered hand. Our bright eyed constable friend from last night, threw up in the bushes beside the porch.

“What is that smell?” The innkeeper gagged.

“Death,” came Holmes’ very calm reply.

The house had almost no furniture at all. The sitting room had a desk and a chair. The kitchen had a table and a chair. A small bed room had a single bed. There were no pictures on the walls. No books anywhere to be found. The last door Holmes opened was as grotesque a thing as I had ever wished to see. We found the source of the foul odor. From floor to ceiling, the walls were covered with two phrases. In many places they were overlapping each other: one was, please forgive me and the other was I am sorry. Over and over at least a hundred times each of the phrases appeared.

“A woman’s hand writing,” Holmes pointed out.

“A woman lived here,” the innkeeper reminded us.

“Even so,” Holmes remarked as he busied himself studying the writing.

“Do I even suggest that this was written in blood?” Inspector Hopkins reminded me sharply that he was in the room.

“It is,” Holmes answered, “blood from the same person.”

“But how?” I asked. “There is no blood on the floor. How could someone do all this without spilling a drop on the floor?”

“Because, each drop was precious. Each drop has a purpose.” Holmes took out his glass to look more closely at this horror. Inspector Hopkins was busy writing notes. Our investigation was interrupted by a cry.

Behind us, we found a man, in his thirties, screaming wildly at the sight before him.

The Snake and The Rabbit