"Ah..." I paused. "Mr. Whitlow? You seem to have an environmental health issue on your front garden." I said.
"Not any more I don't." His tone implied we were talking about a bit of black spot on his roses rather than three quietly decomposing corpses. Actually, strike the 'quietly' they were exhausting gasses at a phenomenal rate. Had I not played in the sulphur pits of hell as a child I might have been revolted. "I'd stand a bit further away if I were you."
I had the foresight to heed his advice and joined him at the top of the seven steps to his front porch. It was well that I did, because the three headless corpses began smoking and, after another minute, burst into flame, the flesh charring and incinerating before my very eyes.
"It takes about half an hour," he said. "Would you like a drink?"
"Tea would be splendid," I said, unable to take my eyes off the burning corpses.
"Tea?" said a voice. "Watch he doesn't chop your head off. He offered us anything we wanted and then cut our heads off with a mattock."
"We did ask for blood and brains, mind," said a second voice. "I think it was a cunning trap."
"mmm-mm. mmm-mm-mmm." said a third.
All three were coming from the terracotta pots I'd seen Mr Whitlow carrying. Each contained a severed head. The first two were still speaking, but unable too move from the position their heads had been left in. The third pot was full of soil as far as the eyes.
"Ah," said Whitlow, returning with a silver tray and tea for two. "Ignore them. They're just peeved because I guessed what they were."