By the time we climbed into a hansom cab, the rain had cleared temporarily, the sun shone briefly through a cloudy haze, and little rivers were flowing among the cobblestones. It seemed we had sufficient time to reach Charing Cross and our meeting with Gregson.

But along the way, cryptically ordering our driver to halt momentarily, Holmes jumped out to ask some street urchins the whereabouts of our own Irregular, Wiggins. He did this several times along our route, each time obtaining new information on his search. It was at one lengthy stop, at Covent Garden where the boy finally was found, that I grew noticeably impatient. We were in danger of missing our train. Holmes told the driver to continue on, with a note of apology to be left at the station office for Inspector Gregson. Thus, we were forced to a later schedule. After Holmes’ long discussion with Wiggins, of which I could not clearly hear, we resumed our trip, after hailing another passing hansom.

And so it was that we found ourselves a few miles outside of Croxley, not with Gregson, but rather accompanying a grim faced local constable, a short, quiet, introspective man who was wearing a rather quite plain outfit that would misguide any person’s initial attempts to identify his occupation. I surmised that the weight of the tragedy that had befallen his range of jurisdiction and seemed to become a tangible burden showing in every fiber of his being.

After awkward introductions, we had been channeled from our train by our seemingly reluctant host into an awaiting trap where a driver held tight the reins of a modest but quite muscular horse. The London storm had luckily not extended to this part of the rocky Hertfordshire plain, though in all likelihood it looked to make its presence known quite soon.

Moments later, we were traveling somewhat uncomfortably down the lane in this rolling, shaking transportation, creaking along steadily beneath the threatening sky, hoping we may reach our destination before the blackened clouds let loose their fury. The bitterly cold wind forced me to press my collar close to my neck.

Holmes was not put off by the somewhat somber demeanor of our new companion, for he leaned over deliberately near his ear and asked, “So what can you tell us about the area, Constable Harkness?”

With that, unexpectedly, our companion’s face changed in a dramatic transformation, beaming in anticipation of imparting proud knowledge of the area’s history, his grim thoughts lost for the moment beneath the adopted role of helpful teacher. It was quite amusing.

We were then entertained by an onslaught of information about every landmark we passed. As the trap groaned and lurched along the dirt, and later the cobblestone, roads, we discovered the nuances of the local color. I could not help marveling at the man’s renewed confidence. Although it was soon apparent why his knowledge was so extensive: his family line extended through this area for generations, dealing with and protecting the people behind the surnames that so easily rolled off his tongue. He told of how his little hamlet had become a major commercial success with the introduction of John Dickerson’s revolutionary machine-made paper that outdated the handmade paper of three centuries before. True, it had come at a bit of a cost, but the bleach odors and extensive refuse, which the mill produced, were being dealt with by the best chemists they had. He told us about “Penny Row,” not unlike a row of almshouses which were furnished for the benefit of the elderly, all for the nominal fee of a penny a week. The constable warned us about Watford Road near the market place where footpads were known to attack unwary passersby from their hiding places in the Common Moor.

When the trap’s ambling direction took its riders closer to Croxley itself – we were told that some of the locals call it Croxley Green -- our now jovial host was sure to point out the traditional festivals held here yearly.

His tale began as we passed the thatched roofed cottages surrounded by cherry trees. He told us of the “Cherry Sunday” celebrations that the town regularly engaged in; and, as we finally reached our destination, the estate of the victim, he finished by recounting the May Day festivities, a yearly event which was accompanied by dancing throughout the day, a crowning of a May queen and the ever-present Maypole.

As we skirted a line of tall elms leading to the front door of a large stone structure, the imposing manor house of Hagswell, I noticed the unmistakable form of Gregson at the door. He gave us a brief smile and a curt greeting as we stopped before the long stone step. The inspector mentioned he had taken great pains to leave the body as it was discovered and told us to follow him. We barely had time to alight from our unwieldy confinement and stretch when we were ushered in hurriedly to a room off the hallway.

Therein, my first impression seemed to be of a very typical manor library properly bedecked with trophies adorning the hardwood walls, animal hides across the floor and rows upon rows of leather bound covered books. Everything seemed quite normal and serene, even the man behind the great desk before us was sitting quietly in contemplation. The sudden realization that this man was not moving, and would not move, brought me back to reality.

The corpse, held upright in the armchair, was in his mid-30s, tall, even lanky, and wore a grey dressing gown. It was just as Gregson had explained: a ludicrous grimace wore upon the pale features. However, the inspector's initial impression surely did not do it justice, since the look was contorted unnaturally, a bizarre tightening of the lips, and subsequent change of facial muscles, that actually defied description. It reminded me of another case Holmes and I had shared years ago, featuring a diminutive culprit I knew could no longer threaten anyone anymore. Of course, this was a different case with different circumstances. The sudden recollection nevertheless made me shiver.

Gregson said something to Holmes. But the detective seemed to be ignoring everything around him as he made his way straight to the victim. After a brief moment of enthusiastic, focused inspection, Sherlock Holmes reached down for one of the hands, which seemed to be clenched very tightly.

Without explanation, Holmes suddenly forced the rigid arm upward and outward and pried open the fingers. Inside, there was revealed a crumpled note, which Holmes, after calling out a triumphant shout, handed to me with a flourish.

I read the incongruous sentences several times to myself before reading the contents out loud for all to hear:

“The garland. The garland.
A very pretty garland.
As ever you wish to see.
It’s fit for Queen Victoriar.
So please remember me.”

Yet this simple children’s song filled me with a total horror, because, though the letters were formed carefully in pen, I could see that ink had not been the medium used.

These words were printed in blood.

Proceed to Part Three