Disclaimer: I am a copy-cat. Everything belongs to A C Doyle.
Chapter 2:
"Well it is like this Mr. Holmes", said Lestrade, "Miss Edwards, Mr. Johnson's fiancée, decided to pay him a visit last week, at about eight o' clock, only to find him dead. Her screams alerted the beat constable, who in turn alerted Scotland Yard and I was put in charge of the case.
"Initially, it seemed rather cut and dried – the place was in a mess, the drawers pulled out, all the shelves in disarray, every corner seemed to have been searched. No money or valuables were found in his rooms. Everything seemed to point to a petty burglary.
We found Johnson on the floor. He had been shot twice, in the chest, at close range, after a struggle. It seemed as if he had surprised the intruder, tried to fight him, but ended up losing his life. The coroner put his death between one and three at night. I filed my report, and started looking for our usual suspects. Jim Smith had been seen in the area a few days before the murder, and disappeared shortly after, so I was pretty sure we had our man, but when we found him, he had a perfect alibi – he had been at an opium den at Upper Swandam Lane, and on emerging had created such a nuisance that he had been arrested, and detained for the next two days. It was then that I came to Baker Street, hoping to consult you, only to be told that you were working on a case abroad.
"To make matters worse, Miss Edwards insisted that Mr. Johnson's death was not motivated by any petty theft. She felt that Johnson had looked rather nervous the last few days she had met him, but had assured her there was nothing to worry about, though she was quite sure he was hiding something. Miss Edwards was adamant that there was a deeper meaning behind Johnson's death. While Miss Edwards was understandably upset, she continued to harass me. She refused to accept plain facts. All this I could have taken in my stride, but unfortunately, she is the sister of one of the senior correspondents of the Telegraph, Adam Edwards, who seems to agree with his sister. He has promised to track the progress of the case.
"And today, Miss Eliza Edwards has gone missing, and well, I hate to admit it, but it seems that Miss Edwards may have been right after all."
"What can you tell me about the late Mr. Johnson?" I asked Lestrade.
"He was a free-lance journalist, more of a penny-a-liner. Had an income of about two hundred to three hundred pounds a year. He lodged at Cecil Street, off the Strand, and was engaged this past month to get married to Miss Eliza Edwards, whom he met when he had visited her brother. He had no family, a few friends – all of them journalists, and no apparent enemies. He paid his rent regularly, and was according to his landlady, Mrs. Hurst, a good tenant."
The case, I felt, certainly had some features of interest; unfortunately with over a week since the murder, the trail had become a bit cold. Miss Edwards' disappearance though could probably throw us back on the track. Watson looked as if he was eager to put forth his own report of the case, and I invited him to do so. The inspector however, after finally finding me home, and impatient to continue his investigation with Mr. Edwards breathing down his neck, insisted that we leave immediately for Cecil Street, and implied that Watson could fill in the seemingly irrelevant details later.
I got Upper Swandam Lane from the Man With the Twisted Lip :). As if I was not leaching enough from Doyle already!