A/N:Ta-da! We finally wrap up the mystery. It only took me eight chapters. Sorry about that. Honest. There were just so many things that wanted to be told and it got in the way of us find out who the murderer is. And I have one final ace up my sleeve that will be revealed in the next chapter. The last chapter.

I really hate to see this story end, it's been a part of me for these last six months. But I have other ideas that have been patiently waiting in the wings for their turn.

Next up should be the long awaited (by me anyway) sequel of Death and the Youth, entitled "Hypnos and the Detective" which is a Mystrade story. I have some of it done so it shouldn't take me too long. And then a "10 Things I Hate About You" fusion with the Holmes brothers as Kat and Bianca Stratford. Mystrade and johnlock. So that will be fun.

Enjoy!


Phryne stormed past Greg with Sherlock fast on her heels.

"Miss Fisher!" he cried, as he tried to bar her way. "I have indulged you long enough, I cannot simply condone this intrusion into my morgue!"

Mac lifted an eyebrow and said, "I believe you'll find it's Dr Hooper's morgue, and I think she'll let us look at the body."

Greg looked to Jack, who merely shrugged his shoulders. "You're of no help," Greg spat.

"I warned when this whole business started," Jack explained, hands in his pockets, "that you could let her have her way or you could try and stop her. And that if you opted for the latter, that meant she would sneak in here, probably after dark, Mac and Sherlock in tow. Then she'd find some evidence which she would proceed to rub in your face for not having let her look in the first place."

Phryne shrugged her shoulders, "I wouldn't have waited until dark, I just would have sent Dot in as a distraction and slipped in the back."

Greg buried his head in his hands and resisted the urge to scream. He drew his hands across his face and sighed. "Fine, but only five minutes, and if Dr Hooper wants you out sooner, you leave, is that understood?"

"Yes," Phryne said with a triumphant smile. "Which is better for everyone as I have Dot and John on a mission for me."

"You're not withholding evidence, are you, Phryne?" Jack asked.

"Not at all, fact-finding only," she assured him.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, but she wasn't even fazed. She strolled past him and then indicated to Mac to lead the way. Mac smirked at Greg as she too sailed past. The three men followed the ladies out.


Mac knocked on the door to the morgue, "Molly?"

Molly started, "Oh, hello, Dr McMillan. Back so soon?"

"With your company as a lure, how could one resist?" Mac replied.

Molly blushed. "What can I do for you?"

"My friends here," she said, indicating Sherlock and Phryne, "would like to look at the body of Mary Morstan. It won't take more than a couple minutes, I promise."

Molly shuffled from side to side, "I'm not sure, I mean I just called the family, they'll be coming any minute and I–" Molly looked to Greg, feeling hopelessly lost.

"It's all right, Mols," Greg said, reassuringly. "Just give them five minutes. Then you can shoo them off."

Molly smiled, "Yes, yes, of course."

She went and pulled down the sheet from Mary's face.

"A little further, please," Phryne requested.

Molly looked around at the men, "But it's not decent."

"Not that far," Phryne snapped. "Just low enough to see where she was pushed."

Molly blushed again, this time from shame.

"Phryne!" Mac hissed.

"Oh for God's sake!" Phryne snarled back. Phryne took the sheet from Molly's hands and pulled it down to reveal the hand prints. "And there is evidence that Anthea couldn't have killed her, Detective Inspector!"

Jack frowned. "Her hands are too small."

"Exactly!" Phryne turned to Sherlock. "Go on, you want to show off and I want to let you."

Sherlock lifted the sheet enough to pull out Mary's arm. There on the upper arm were bruises.

Molly leaned forward to look. "What's so important about those? They were made well before she died. They're yellow, you see."

"Yes, they are. But we can compare the size of the hand that grabbed her here, to the ones on her chest," Sherlock explained. And he measured the two sets of bruises.

"They're the same size, so what?" Greg asked.

"So, Detective Inspector," Sherlock sneered, "I suspect that the bruises were made by the same person."

"David Lancaster," Mac supplied.

"And how would you know that?" Jack asked.

Mac indicated with her chin the bruises on Mary's arm, "I saw him make those."

"David was rough with Mary?" Greg asked. "When?"

"A couple days before the murder," Mac replied. "I didn't think anything of it because he wasn't at the party."

"I think you'll find, Detective Inspector, that all you need to do is place David Lancaster at the scene and the rest will fall into place."

Hugh knocked on the door. "Miss Fisher?"

"Yes, Hugh?" she asked, turning to the door.

"Dotty called and told me to tell you that the servants did see someone lurking around that night."

"Why didn't they mention it when we questioned them?" Jack asked.

"Uh...well according to Dotty he was usually lurking around the house, and the night of the party wasn't out of the ordinary. They just assumed that he had come to surprise Mary."

"Who, Hugh? Who was it?" Phryne asked.

"David Lancaster, Miss."


David tapped his fingers on the interrogation room table, slouched in the chair indolently. "Really, hauling me in here like some errant school boy over a couple of dead squirrels? Surely you have better things to do with your time. Like, I don't know, solve a murder?"

"Oh we're working on that," Greg replied. "And if it was only a couple of dead squirrels no one would have noticed, would they?"

David shrugged. "Like I care."

"You should, animal cruelty in England is taken very seriously," Greg said.

"What? A fine? Tell me how much and I'll be on my way," David said, pulling out his wallet.

"So you don't deny poisoning the animals on the Undershaw estate?" Greg asked.

"Like I said, it's just a couple of animals. They're vermin anyway."

Greg's fingers itched to wrap around the arrogant bastard's neck. He schooled his features into blank indifference as to not give David the satisfaction of seeing him upset.

"And the raven?"

"Ah. I should have known that's what brought your attention to me," David huffed. "But it was worth it to see the look on that queer's face thinking it was one of his. He looked so stricken. So shocked." His countenance became that of utter depravity, his mask finally dropping at last. "So how much is the fine?"

Greg folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "£5000 and at least three years in prison."

"What?" David squawked, sitting up at last.

Jack walked in with a folder under one arm and sat down next to Greg. "I wonder if they'll let you do those three years before you hang?"


On the other side of the glass, Sherlock and Phryne were watching the scene unfold in front of them.

"I wanted to do this bit," Sherlock complained.

"Nah," Phryne disagreed. "It's better to leave this part to the professionals. If nothing else, to ensure that when it goes to trial it doesn't get thrown out on a technicality. Besides, the best bit is when you get to be clever and show how you got to your conclusion."

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "I suppose."

"In any case," she said, tossing her hair back, "it's fun to let them think they're good for something. You get to tag along to more cases that way."

Sherlock chuckled. "Fair point."


David whined about all sorts of things, "I didn't kill her. I wasn't anywhere near Undershaw. I wasn't invited." He put his hands flat on the table, palms down, fingers spread. "I hadn't been by since we played doubles tennis with you and the girls. And if anyone says otherwise, they're lying."

Greg cocked his head to the side, "And who do you think is lying?"

David sniffed, "They all hate me, jealous of my good looks and charm. There's that queer, or the cripple, or even that tart they have up at the manor, now." He licked his lips. "I'd love to get my hands on that one. What that one needs is good belting. She's like a wild filly and I'd love to break her."

Jack dashed for the door and managed to lock in time before Phryne could burst through. Suddenly there was pounding on the other side and screaming that could be heard, "You open this door this instant, Jack Robinson!"

David sneered. "What? Are you going to to hit me for insulting your tuppenny whore? Teach me a lesson?"

Jack walked back to the table and there was a thump of Phryne kicking the door before the noise ceased altogether.

"No, just preventing myself, or DI Lestrade here, from having to arrest Miss Fisher for assault," he said casually.

David looked at the glass and gulped.

"I'd reckon you just had a very lucky escape," Greg said. He looked up at Jack, "So what set her off? The questioning of her morals?"

Jack laughed. "She might say that she was worth more than two pennies, but no, that wouldn't bother her. No, it was the implication that in order to be of any merit, all she needs is a 'good man' to make her settle down. And of course, threatening to beat her spirit out her."

Greg scoffed, "If the War couldn't beat out that woman's optimism, I highly doubt that anything could."

Jack looked up at the glass and smiled. "She has an indomitable spirit and I have seen her take on things that break lesser men." Jack turned to David. "Men like you."

David shrugged, "Do get on with it, who has seen me at Undershaw the night of the party?"

Jack and Greg looked at each other, "I don't believe either of us said that anyone had," Greg replied.

"No, but it was implied. Plus there is no evidence that I killed her, so there must be a witness."

"But we do have evidence," Jack said, pulling out some photos from the folder and tossing them in front of David.

David looked at images and with snarl of distaste pushed them away. Jack grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand down on the photo of the bruising on Mary's chest.

David growled and snatched his hand away. "That doesn't prove anything, there are a number of men with similar-sized hands that could have made those marks."

"That's true, but how many of them were seen quarreling with the deceased days before her murder," Greg asked and then threw the photo of the bruises on Mary's arm to him.

David pushed this photo away, too. "Yes, of course I was upset. Here I am with everything, good looks, charm, money, brains, and she picks that doddering old man over me?"

"Who is a war hero and has a steady medical practice," Jack supplied.

"Whatever," David growled. "What else have you got?"

"Well, as you said, you must have been seen," Greg said, "And you were, by a couple of servants."

"Oh is that all?" David laughed. "Who cares about a bunch of filthy servants? I thought you were talking about someone important."

"Mycroft cares for his servants," Greg defended.

"Miss Fisher as well," Jack added.

"Oh for fuck's sake," David huffed. "Provide actual evidence to the murder or I'm done here."

"The fascinating thing about bruises that appear after death is that they are clearer than regular bruises," Greg said, pulling out the final picture. "They show all sorts of detail that wouldn't otherwise show up."

The picture showed the fingerprints on the body. David looked at the picture and then at the folder holding the other pictures.

"I'm pretty sure we can match these prints," Greg smiled, "to the ones on that photo you pushed away."

David paled and then turned red, "Yes, fine. I killed the bitch. Pushed her down the stairs. She deserved it. I knew that she spread her legs for just about anyone, but it was galling when of everyone she could have had, she picked a crippled old man."

"How did you know she would go up to the second floor?" Jack asked.

"It was her favorite thing to do at parties," David explained. "Prying through people's belongings. Sometimes she would have me stand guard for servants and the owners. I knew this time wouldn't be any different. So I went upstairs and waited. I thought I was going to have to wait for hours. But no, up she came, headed straight for Sherlock's room. I stepped out from behind one of the suits of armor and confronted her. I gave that bitch one more chance, and she dared to call me pathetic."

"She called you pathetic, and you pushed her down a flight of stairs?" Greg asked.

"She made the prettiest picture, lying at the bottom the stairs as blood and life poured from her empty head," David replied. "I told her I'd make her pay. Now, who's the pathetic one?"