"This is getting downright ridiculous." I noted incredulously as Holmes inspected the new corpse.
She, as the first victim, was dressed in the regalia of the witches of folklore – down to the greenish tint to the skin. Although the paste applied to the skin to create the colouration seemed to be water soluble. The woman, having been drowned, appeared a lighter shade of jade than her sister. One could tell immediately that Miss Glinda had at least been truthful about the relation of the two witches; the only notable difference between this witch and the last was in the shape and structure of the nose and placement of the wart.
"It's terrible, Watson. But I must know what she wished to tell us." Holmes placed his hands in his back pockets and took in the details of the room.
We had found the body partially submerged in an ornate stone fountain, her hair tangled over her eyes and face, her mouth wide open beneath the surface of the water. I had been shocked and repulsed by this scene, and was instantly enraged by the notion that Oz had claimed another life.
"It's tiring me out, Holmes." I muttered, taking a brief medical inspection of the body. Cause of death was undoubtedly forcible submersion by another party; there were bruises on the wrists, and all of the outward signs of hypoxia and acidosis leading to cardiac arrest.
"Watson!" Holmes declared sharply.
"Well, I wasn't being disrespectful! I meant it's emotionally draining to have to deal with all of this…" I defended myself, but noticed as I turned around that he had not been speaking in regards to my comment. He had found a small secret panel behind one of the avant-garde paintings on the wall.
"What's in there, Holmes?"
I was astonished as my companion turned to face me, holding in his hand an exact replica of the cabochon ruby that rested atop the walking stick.
"What on earth does it mean?" I asked. There was no reply. Holmes's eyes narrowed at the sight of something just beyond my shoulder. Before I could turn to look, a familiar voice said:
"Turn around very slowly, Doctor."
I followed the command, and was met by the barrel of my own revolver and the glittering eyes of Miss Glinda.
"Mr. Holmes, if you would be so kind as to hand me that stone." She requested; taking a step towards Holmes, the revolver remaining locked on me. He did as she asked.
The change in Miss Glinda since last we encountered her was overwhelming. Gone the sing-song tone of voice, the delicate charm, the eccentric style of dress. Before us stood what could have been a different woman entirely. She had spoken in low, callous tones; her expression was one of haughty disdain and cool logic; her dress had the sleek sleeves and harsh lines of the American upper society, and her red hair was tucked beneath a veiled black hat.
"Now for the walking stick, Dr. Watson, or I'll shoot your dearest friend with your trusty weapon."
"You sense of irony never fails to impress, Miss Glinda," Holmes said as I handed over the second ruby, "I was particularly fond of the scarecrow."
"Childish, but once I had the idea in my head I found it irresistible. I never would have dreamed you'd attach yourself to it so." Miss Glinda shrugged, pocketing one ruby.
Holmes seemed to be preparing himself to lean against the nearby windowsill, and our assailant took her opportunity to detach the ruby from the walking stick. She was mislead though, for as soon as she readjusted herself to accommodate the use of both her hands, she rendered the revolver powerless. Holmes flung himself forward from the window and disarmed her immediately; taking the gun from her, and pulling her hands around behind her back.
"How wretched of you! I'm just a delicate lady!" Miss Glinda complained.
"Oh! Delicate my foot!" Holmes barked a sarcastic laugh, "Here, Watson, come get your revolver. Keep it on Miss Glinda – there are quite a few questions to be answered."
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A/N: Whoops. Looks like another short chapter – sorry!