The Adventure of the Dead Wild Bore by Andrea Frazer Page B

the contents of Dibley’s dustbin.
    â€˜This could all be circumstantial,’ Streeter hedged, not at all liking the fact that they were way ahead of him in finding the killer. Again!
    â€˜But these fragments were actually taken from his fireplace, and the others are still in his dustbin partly burned,’ persisted Holmes.
    â€˜His specialist interest is the books and stories of Sherlock Holmes, and I bet he knows nothing about e-books. He’d probably think that if he destroyed the original, that would be the end of that. There wasn’t even a television in his house, as far as I could see,’ added Garden carelessly.
    â€˜You’ve actually been in his house?’ This did arouse Streeter’s interest.
    â€˜Would you, please, just go round to his house and take the newspaper package from his dustbin, then compare any fingerprints on that with any you found on the sheet of paper that was with Antony’s body? If they match, and you confront him with that evidence, I’m sure he’ll confess,’ pleaded Holmes. Nobody must find out about Garden’s alter ego, or their secret member of staff would be blown, and they couldn’t use him for undercover work in the future.
    â€˜And if they do match, and he doesn’t sing like a canary?’ asked Streeter, looking for some sort of deal as to these two rivals’ sources.
    As Holmes and Garden left the police station with obvious relief, Garden said to Holmes, ‘You know they say fact is stranger than fiction?’
    â€˜Yes, old man?’ replied Holmes.
    â€˜Well, I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s certainly less dangerous than fiction.’
    â€˜How do you mean?’
    â€˜I read quite a lot of contemporary murder mysteries …’ At this, Holmes raised his eyebrows in disapproval.
    â€˜Whatever for?’ This was anathema.
    â€˜New stories. I can’t exist for the rest of my life on Conan Doyle.’ Holmes looked scandalised. ‘Anyway, when it gets towards the end of the story, the hero or heroine always get themselves into a tight spot with the murderer, and their own life is endangered, then the intrepid policeman, or whoever, comes along and saves then. We’ve hardly been put in any peril in this case, have we? In fact, when I get to that bit of the modern formula now, I usually just stop reading. It’s obvious that the main protagonist isn’t going to be killed, and it just seems a bit too formulaic.’
    Holmes nodded solemnly, then said, ‘We did get in a bit of bother at The Black Swan.’
    â€˜I prefer to think of that as the exception, rather than the rule. Let’s hope things continue the way they’ve gone in this case. I don’t want to end up with high blood pressure, or a hole in the head.’
    â€˜Just so, old chap. Just so,’ agreed Holmes, sagely. He could hardly argue with that, could he?
    The fingerprints did match, Dibley had sung like the proverbial canary, and everything had happened just as Holmes and Garden had surmised, with it later being reported in the local paper that Dibley had entered The Sherlock public house, sneaking in by the outside entry to the gents, where he’d removed and hidden his tie and jacket. He had then gone into the bar and seen the jugs and tray waiting to go upstairs, unattended, in the hatch from the kitchen.
    Moving behind the bar, the crush of young people meaning he didn’t bump into anyone he knew, he came back out again, through the snug, and upstairs, where he knew Antony to be, having kept watch for him arriving. His crime was, indeed, premeditated.
    Having seen off his intended target, and used the deerstalker that had been hung on the wall of the meeting room, he then left the tray in the upstairs room and calmly came back down again, went out by the saloon bar door, stashed the slim briefcase with the disgusting manuscript inside it in his car, entered by the