Disclaimer- Owing to my obsession I would love to be able to say I own these characters. Unfortunately there are still as they always have been, property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Damn!

You'll have to forgive any inaccuracies in regards to the shooting, I know nothing about medicine or medical science. I don't even know all that much about science! and the same goes for historical inaccuracies if there are any. Just ignore them and focus on the story. =D



The Case of the Missing Link


While I'm unsure of the chances of my being allowed, or even wanting, to present this to the public, I feel that, in the interest of completeness, I am obliged to make a complete record of events.

Even if it is only ever to be seen by my own eyes, and perhaps those who are already involved to an extent, this is still a part of the extraordinary career of Sherlock Holmes, the highlights of which I have endeavoured to keep an accurate record of within my writing, and so I am writing what I feel is the hardest case for me to write.

There will be some who will try to disagree, and claim that, surely, writing of my friend's apparent demise at the hands of Moriarty was harder than any other thing I have ever done, before or after. However I feel that the uncertainty presented by this is ultimately harder than the definite end that I saw in that incident. For now, as a result of the recent events, I am uncertain as to the well being of my friend.

For many weeks now, Holmes had been on the trail of a devilish group of women who are, as I am sure you will know, being called the Praying Mantises, owing to the female of this unwholesome creature being famous for eating it's mate. Like their namesake, the women of this gang are known for striking up relationships with wealthy men, and then, the man is found dead and the woman has disappeared.

It had long been a favourite theory of the investigating police that the women were being organised by someone to take money from the men involved. And Holmes, upon reading of the second murder, immediately decided that any leader of this group must in some way be connected to each man who had been killed by these women.

It was after the third killing that Lestrade came to ask for assistance in the case.

Three murders in one week. Now you see Holmes, I would never admit this to anyone but you and the good doctor, but we have no idea where to go on these murders. You said there must be a connection between them and who ever is organising their deaths, and I've had some of my best men looking in to it, but we can't find anything.

All we know for certain is that each man has been seen with a strange woman in the weeks leading up to his death. We have no clues as to the identity of the women, no idea as to where they meet the men in the first place, we're not even certain as to the number of women, although it seems pretty certain that there is more than one.

Holmes, as usual, had listened to Lestrade with a vacant expression on his face that only his close companions knew for what it was; a sign that his fantastic mind was working at full speed. Both Lestrade and myself knew better than to interrupt whatever mental processes were taking place and it was a few minutes before any response was forthcoming.

I have already been making inquiries in to this case, although I have not pursed it as intensely as I may have done. However there is a certain amount of originality that is emerging that makes it nearly irresistible. Thank you Lestrade, I hope to have a result for you shortly.

So saying he reached across his table for the newspaper accounts he had saved and began studying them. Lestrade rose and bid us farewell. I walked with him to the door to show him out, while Holmes was writing something in the margins of the various newspapers he had by him.

I wouldn't worry any more Lestrade, said I as he headed for the stairs, you and I both know Holmes is more than likely to solve this for you.

came the reply, and I certainly hope our faith is not misplaced this time. It's a fiendish business and that's the God's honest truth. I find it hard to believe even Holmes will be able to make any sense out of with the lack of information we have. But you're right of course. If anyone can solve this, it's Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

When I returned to my chair, I saw Holmes had discarded the newspapers and was instead leaning back in his chair. I settled down to read quietly and was surprised when he began talking.

Picture it Watson, he said, ignoring preamble as was his want. One man makes a fortune from a gold mine on South Africa. Another, inherits a legacy, and another amasses a personal fortune through work in in the theatre.

Wealth seems to be the only thing connecting these three people. That and the fact that they have all been found shot dead on their own doorsteps after having been seen in the company of a strange young lady.

Maybe there is no connection, I suggested. Maybe wealth is the only link.
Holmes looked at me seriously and I was gratified to see he was seriously considering that option.

If that is true, he said eventually, then I feel it is unlikely that this case will ever be solved. He chuckled slightly as I looked at him in surprise. Even you will have to admit that no evidence means no case to be taken to court.

I acquiesced with a nod and a shrug, seeing a determined light spring in to his eyes.
Come Watson! he cried a few moments later. We shall investigate the scenes for ourselves. Newspapers are all very well, but nothing will ever beat first hand observations.

Holmes spent the cab ride going over the few details he knew about the first man.
Jonathan Taylor was born in America. His mother, Susanna, and his baby sister both died during childbirth a few years later. Not long after that, when Jonathan was six his father, Paul, moved them to South Africa. There he met a young lady called Catherine Roberts and they were married about two years later when Jonathan was eight.

Catherine's father owned a gold mine that became Catherine's when he died and the mine made the Taylors a very rich family. Paul, and then Jonathan after him, bought and worked gold mines for a living. Jonathan soon became a wealthy man in his own right.

About four years ago Catherine died, a few months after that Paul did too, and about three years ago Jonathan moved to England, with his large fortune.

And seven days ago, Jonathan was found dead on his own front door step with a bullet hole in his head.

Although there were not many facts to go over, the drive was a short one, and Holmes had just finished when were arrived at Jonathan Taylor's house. We had been assured by Lestrade that all three houses had been left exactly as they had been found, and that we would be free to come and go as we saw fit.

Holmes was pleased to find the overall area had indeed been mostly preserved.
It may be that there is hope for Lestrade yet, he remarked to me with a slight hint of a grin as the officer on duty showed us the spot where the body of the fist victim had been found.

Here is it sir, said the police man. We've left it alone as much as we could, you can still see his blood here and here. We all know as how you like to have everything left alone.

Holmes looked at him with his eyebrows raised and the young man pointed to me.
The doctor's writing, he said, by way of explanation. We all read them down at the station.

Thank you constable, said Holmes, with a slightly sardonic tone in his voice, but I could tell he was pleased nonetheless. The police offer left and Holmes began to peer about on the steps leading to the door and at the ground around them as well.

I asked, as he finally stopped looking around.

he sighed. The only thing I can think of is he was shot from a long way off. But the coroner found powder burns showing he was shot from close range. He stood still for a few seconds with his hands clasped behind him and his eyes fixed to the ground.

That is strange however, he muttered, so quietly I almost didn't hear him. And of course it has rained, which would account for it. Come Watson! he yelled, suddenly striding towards the cab we had left waiting. I hurried after him and soon we were being driven to the house of the recently deceased Stephen Archer, a man who, according to the people who knew him, had never knowingly made an enemy of anyone.

As before, Holmes spent the cab journey going over the details of the life of the man in question.
Stephen Archer has lived in England his entire life. His father, James, had land in America which produced a large yearly pension and which was passed on to Stephen when he died about twelve years ago. Natural causes, he added, no doubt noticing my questioning look.

Elizabeth, Stephen's mother, was woman of wealth in her own right, having inherited a small fortune from her father who made his money on the stock market. She died about 7 years ago, again of natural causes.

And the police checks haven't revealed any feuds or grudges against him of any kind? Holmes shook his head, a strange look on his face.

What are you thinking? I asked, curious as to his current theory.

It's a long shot Watson. If it pays off I shall have solved one piece of the puzzle.

Which piece?

The curious lack of footprints surrounding the area in which a close range shooting had occurred. There was no time for me to press any further information out of him, for at that moment we arrived at Stephen Archer's house and Holmes sprang from the cab as soon as it stopped.

I stayed behind to ask the driver to wait and to speak with the sergeant who had been left to guard the house. When I got the the front door steps Holmes was lying on the ground running his fingers along markings that were invisible to me, and the young police officer.

Is he all right sir? he asked me quietly, apparently afraid to disturb the man in front of us, who was now looking at the ground with a magnifying glass.

I should say so, I responded, and I don't mind admitting I was slightly put out by the question. He is Sherlock Holmes. A look of admiration sprang to the young man's face and he backed away slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Holmes, who had ignored his presence and was now comparing the ground he was lying on to a sketch in his notebook.

A few minutes later we were being driven to the house of Lloyd Morgan, a man who had made his fortune through the theatre and had been forced to leave America where he had been living his entire life due to a scandal involving him and a female co-star. It is not necessary, nor it is polite, to enter in to details of this scandal, but I am sure you will have heard rumours of it, and if this is not the case, I am sure you will be able to hazard a guess as to it's nature.

We were met by Lestrade when we alighted from the cab, and he was all too glad to show us the area. Holmes took little notice of this, but instead went immediately to the front steps where the body had been found, and throwing himself to the floor, began again to measure and compare markings.

My puzzlement seemed to be matched by Lestrade's, but we both waited for him to finish before asking any explanation. It seems amazing to me now that we both treated this opportunity to observe the single most greatest mind on this planet as a common place occurrence. Nevertheless , Holmes finished his scrutiny of the ground, and then rose and faced Lestrade.

Did you find any foot prints? he asked, stressing the you', and making Lestrade look, I think involuntarily, down at the ground.

None that I can recall, he said slowly, obviously wondering how much Homes was going to tell him he had missed.

Good. I would have been very surprised if you had. After working with Homes for as long as I have, I may be excused for thinking he will fail to surprise me. However, whenever this occurs, something else will occur to make me think that I will never cease to be amazed by him. I could tell by the pleased look on his face, that Homes had puzzled both Lestrade and myself.

If a man is shot from a close range, it stands to reason that someone was standing by him doesnt it? Without waiting for a response, he continued. If someone was standing by the man, there would be footsteps.

Now in the first two instances it is possible that any foot prints that there were had been obliterated by the rain. However here, there has been no rain to wipe away any marks. In fact, the only marks I can find of any kind that do not belong to police shoes, are those of a carriage. No footprints, of any kind.

He said this with the air of a man who has just made clear a mystery of existence, and gave every impression of expecting a response. When none was forthcoming he gave an impatient snort.

If there are no footprints, no one was standing there at all, neither killer or victim. Therefore none of the men were killed at their homes at all, they were shot somewhere else and moved here by carriage.

What does this tell us? asked Lestrade and receiving a glare in return.

It tells us that we will not find any clues here or at either of the other houses and that we may well never find any clues owing to the incalculable number of areas where these murders may have taken place.

Lestrade stared at the ground for a few seconds and then looked back up at Holmes. Even before he opened his mouth it was obvious he was going to appeal again for help.
A case like this is impossible, he said weakly, the look in his eyes confirming the slight desperation he was feeling. We can't let out that we can't find the killer. If I could say that you were working on this case... He trailed off hopefully and I saw Holmes smile at his obvious discomfiture.

Of course Lestrade. I should be delighted. I have queries to make. Do you care to join me Watson?

Of course.

Over the next few weeks I saw very little of Homes. I received several telegrams and notes asking me to look up seemingly insignificant details about the past of the three men and their families and I interviewed numerous visitors who had some equally obscure fact to brought to his attention.

Finally, after about three weeks, I arose to find Homes sitting at the table and eating his breakfast with an air I can only describe as complacent. He looked up as I entered the room and I could see at once he was in a talkative mood.

I began, taking my seat, have you solved the case?



My surprise was evident at his answer and he at once began to explain.
No doubt you have been thinking that I have been asking you to discover futile facts about the three men's pasts and families, but I assure you every detail you unearthed was of the utmost importance to my investigation.

I was working from the assumption that the men must have something in common, as you know. Now, as the police checks had found nothing in the case of the men themselves, I reasoned the connection had to be in the past.

I nodded, and, as I began to see why biographies of the men's ancestors had been so important I felt a swell of pride that I had been trusted to such a vital part of the investigation.

Thanks to your diligent efforts and a few of my informers, I managed to find the connection. Jonathan Taylor probably never knew his great uncle Robert Leader, or that he had a gambling problem. Likewise, it is unlikely that Stephen Archer had any idea that his grandfather was a confidence trickster.

Lloyd Morgan, being from a less publicly concerned family, may have known his grandfather was imprisoned for blackmail, but during the trial no name was ever found for the mysterious partner that was constantly alluded to.

Are you saying that the man who wasn't caught in each case, is the same man?

Excellent Watson! Now do you see why the information you collected for me was so important? Thanks to an old college of mine I was able to dig through a few financial records, as well as a few personal records that were never passed on to anyone, and, knowing that the man was the same in each case, quickly found the only possible culprit.

Brian Weastie. I found his name in the personal records of each man.

If his name was there then why wasn't he arrested with them?

His name was one of many in the records. It was only because I was looking for a link that I noticed it. Now, as to the relatives of these men. It is a widely known if not entirely accurate idea that characteristics are passed on through generation to generation. In this case, Brian Weastie's grandson has inherited his talent for crime. The young man has had many close calls with authorities in the past. He cam to England about 1 year ago and quickly established an illegal gambling den here in London.

For the past few nights I have been visiting it and have had the good fortune to became aquatinted with Mr. Peter Weastie. As far as I can tell, he found records belonging to his grand father that showed he was owed money by his partners'.

It is my opinion that he tried to extract the money from the men's family. Whether he was successful or not, it is clear that the women who had been seen with the men work for Mr. Weastie. I have an eye witness who corroborates that.

I had been sitting in silence for the duration of this and finally found my tongue when Holmes stopped speaking.
Are you saying that the men were killed because they refused to pay an ancient debt? I asked in disbelief, certain that Homes had the wrong track this time.

Maybe they did pay, he said, almost carelessly. We'll know soon enough for I am going back to see him tonight with a few of Lestrade's best as company.

Do you want me to go too? I asked.

If you care to, Homes answered I would appreciate the company on the ride back. I would ask you to accompany me in to the gambling den, but the police have orders to go in when I leave and I wouldn't like for you to be delayed in leaving and get caught up in their arrests.

That evening we travelled to one of the lower areas of London and were met by a group of police officers, being led by Lestrade. After a few minutes spent in conversation Holmes walked in to the gambling den of Mr. Peter Weastie.

I stood with the police officers waiting for him to re-emerge. We stood in a group, not caring if we looked conspicuous, for Holmes had said he would be a few minutes at the most. Fear of upsetting his investigation kept us from action for a full quarter of an hour. Finally Lestrade decided to send in one of his men, and he returned with alarming news.

The entire building was empty. Lestrade and his men rushed in immediately, and I followed close behind, concern for my friend over riding any fear of whatever danger there may have been.
The only sign of life that we found was the hat Holmes had been wearing, and a splash of blood on the floor next to the cover of a trap door that was clearly used as an escape route.

That was three weeks ago, and though I live in constant hope that I will one day receive word of my friend, my hope that he will be alive is rapidly dimming. And so comes an end to the last case of Sherlock Holmes, and if this case should ever come to by viewed by the public eye, then I can only hope they will appreciate the grief this has caused me, and as such forgive any lapses I may have had in the overall detail of this piece of writing.