Part 4: "Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go 'round"

The sergeant stood back to let Lestrade give the crime scene a look, aided by photos from what passed as Forensics in these parts (though he provided mild background noise, mostly going on about the story they'd run in today's Tadfield Advertiser). The D.I. and Sherlock studied the broken branches and scattered leaves, and the blood stains that this morning's light rain hadn't quite washed away, while John inspected the perimeter, noting that what seemed to be half the village and all of the visitors had passed through the area before the police tape had gone up.

Sherlock had a minor explosion when John told him this, and another one, smaller but more violent, when he saw it for himself. It was a good job that the sergeant had, at that point, whisked Lestrade off for a look at the body at the local hospital's mortuary, otherwise he'd have gotten a very unpleasant earful. (The constable had already fled, having decided that it was safer to go and tell the woman who ran the Manor that the officers from the Met had arrived, never mind how much Miss Hodges resembled Cruella De Vil. At least she'd be happy to hear that they'd soon have the crime scene tape down.)

"I don't see what you're so upset about," said John, watching Sherlock throw himself to the damp ground several feet outside the crime scene. "It's not like you expected any different. You said before we left London that it was just another mindless crime."

The look his flatmate gave him would have withered the more fragile kind of houseplant. "You don't have to sing it!"

"You played Queen almost all the way from London," John pointed out. "Some of it stuck."

"Fine. It still is mindless, and I wouldn't be here if there was anything halfway interesting happening anywhere else." Sherlock inched forward on his elbows to give a patch of grass a closer look. "There hasn't been a decent case for weeks," he complained, voice slightly muffled by his proximity to the soil.

"I suppose I should be glad Greg even managed to get you out of the flat. Quiet Sunday mornings with a cup of tea really aren't your scene, are they?" John crouched down next to the detective. "What have you got there? There's no blood, no stain—"

Sherlock glared, and not entirely because of the question. "You know to look for more than that."

The doctor grinned back at him, all innocence. "Well, what is it then?"

"Bicycle tracks. Here and here" – he pointed them out – "leading away from the crime scene and across the lawn. You saw the photos. Don't tell me you didn't notice that Saltire was in biking gear and without a bike."

"I thought Forensics cleared it away with the body. Or that he'd maybe put it away before heading back. The constable said there was a bicycle shed on the grounds."

Sherlock tsk-ed and got to his feet, brushing dirt and grass off his coat. "A place like this wouldn't have a bicycle shed on the front of the property." He took a step back, surveying the scenery. "The main building was rebuilt thirty, maybe forty years ago, probably after a calamity of some sort – a fire most likely, but that's just a guess – and you can tell they've spent a fortune on the upkeep ever since, always pays to have something scenic for the pamphlets. They wouldn't ruin it with a conveniently placed bicycle shed, and Saltire was coming up the drive, back to the Manor, possibly from the village."

"You've got mud on your face," said John helpfully, getting up himself. "Just there, on your chin, no, you missed it again – there. So the killer took Saltire's bicycle?"

"And his own. There are two sets of tire tracks, John – see, one of them has a patch on one wheel - and he was pushing them – there's a clear print here, and with a foot that size and that kind of shoe and Shad Sanderson's employee profile, it's more than likely that we're dealing with a male killer." Sherlock set off across the lawn, keeping to the left of the tracks with his flatmate following at a decidedly more sedate pace.

If they had been in the city – or, actually, John realized with some surprise, anywhere but Tadfield – he'd have hurried after Sherlock because, well, following the literal trail of a killer is an unsafe thing to do, even at the best of times, especially for a consulting detective with the self-preservation of a suicidal mayfly. But – and John knew he was being fanciful – it was hard to believe that anything bad could happen here. Yes, there had been a murder, and some people would point to that as definite proof that dark forces of one sort or another were abroad, but this village…it was hard to put his finger on it. If he had to define it, John would say that it felt like Tadfield was loved, immeasurably, unconditionally, and just as it was. It was probably a great place to raise your kids.

"And before you ask," Sherlock was saying, as they rounded the main building, "Yes, it was one of the others from Shad Sanderson. You know how they're cooped up during training courses like this. No matter how foul Saltire was, he's not been here long enough to make enemies, and it wasn't your friendly neighborhood mugging either, he still had his wallet, his phone, and his very expensive diver's watch."

"Unless he was from around here," suggested John, though the idea seemed ludicrous the instant it aired. "Or, no, he couldn't have been, the police would have said."

"So it was either the Mad Tadfield Bicycle Murderer or a Shad Sanderson employee, and my money's on the latter." Sherlock gave John a quick, look-at-me-I'm-clever smile. They had reached the part of the grounds where the land sloped gently downwards from the back of the manor. There were tasteful gardens, a gazebo, a shed in the distance that might well have been the one for bicycles, and, somewhat closer, a large-ish pond. Sherlock pointed at it. "That's where he dumped the bicycles – see how the mud's been disturbed at the edge of it? Stupid, of course, he'd have done better to take them all the way to the shed, even if he did need to wash the blood off, but then he'd just committed an unplanned murder in the dark, and was probably trying to sneak back in before people noticed he wasn't at dinner, no chance at all that he was thinking straight."

"Those bikes – if they were fished out of the pond, and we find out who they belong to-"

"We'll find the killer. Or we might. They were probably provided by the conference center, since not every London banker has his very own bicycle."

"But there might still be, I don't know, assigned numbers or something." John considered the pond. "It doesn't look very deep."

"Yes, exactly. Here, hold my coat."

"Sherlock, no!"

They were still arguing about the feasibility of consulting detectives going for dips in ponds – or rather John was protesting vehemently while Sherlock tossed him his coat, his scarf, his jacket, his shoes, and his socks – when Lestrade found them, and John, at least, was deeply thankful when he said that the investigation had been called off.

"Oh, don't stop me now!" Sherlock stamped one bare foot, and the trouser leg he'd assiduously been rolling up fell back down over his shin in a miniature cascade of expensive tailoring.

"It's not like you were having a good time," said Lestrade. "Anyway, we've got a confession. One of the other trainees – name of Ned Wilder, and he has the credit cards to prove it – went down to the local police station just after we got here. And he called his mum first, otherwise he'd have gone first thing this morning."

"He let her know he just killed a man? How nice. What else is there?" demanded Sherlock, every line of his body suggesting that he was inches away from grabbing Lestrade by the lapels and shaking him. You could almost hear him pleading with the universe for the case to become more interesting: on a scale of mountain moving, his willingness to believe in the possibility of a satisfying resolution would have shifted 0.585 of an alp.

"Well, apparently, he learned that Saltire was getting ahead through some unscrupulous deals, and confronted him when they were cycling yesterday evening. Which they weren't supposed to be doing since the extra practice would have given them an unfair advantage over the others, but that's bankers for you." The D.I. consulted his notebook. "Said that he wanted to break free from his lies, because that was no way to live or do business, but Saltire was so self-satisfied and smug that he lost his temper and attacked him with his, ah, bicycle pump."

John grimaced, remembering the crime scene photos.

Sherlock made a face too, though for an entirely different reason. "Unimaginative," he said, and slumped.

"Yeah, well, sorry about that. Does he earn any points for pinning Saltire down with the bicycle to keep him from fighting back? Didn't think so." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, and gave Tadfield Manor a dark look over his shoulder. "Personally, I blame this training course of theirs. Healthy competition, my arse. You know how these City boys crack under pressure. Might as well give them actual guns and have done with it. They already look at each other like they're planning murder."

"So we're done here?"

"Well, yes. Technically, we never really started. Unless you want to stay for the paperwork? Nope, didn't think so either."

"But what happens to Best of Queen albums when you leave them in cars?" asked Sherlock as he let himself into Lestrade's car. "And what did things turn into before Queen came along? Did they turn into anything?"

John shook his head. Since the case had practically evaporated, he really shouldn't have been surprised that Sherlock had gone back to the Queen phenomenon, worrying at it like a hell-hound with a bone once he'd gotten his shoes back on. "You're a man with a one-track mind."

"So much to do in one lifetime," sang Lestrade under his breath in the driver's seat. He flicked on the radio, though he knew better than to expect anything different.

Ooh, you gonna take me home tonight, ooh, down beside that red firelight….

"Oh, stay there, I like this one."

Sherlock raised a judgmental eyebrow. "'Fat-Bottomed Girls'? Really, John?"

"I like the song," said John again. "And, well, fat bottoms anyway. Yours is plenty good enough," he added, smiling a little when he saw Sherlock twist ever so slightly in his seat, looking below and behind him with a downward flick of his eyes that wasn't quite as subtle as he hoped.

"I'm starving, is anybody else hungry?" asked Lestrade, rather louder than was necessary, even accounting for the fact that John had reached over and turned up the volume on the radio. "I think I saw a Burger Lord at that last service area."

The doctor groaned. "Greg, no, you know that's not even real food!"

"The chips are nice," volunteered Sherlock.

"Those chips," said John, "have never even seen potatoes."

"Hey, look, it's my car, and if we're going to listen to Freddie Mercury again all the way back to London, we're at least going to stop where I want." Lestrade reversed, and swung onto the scenic drive, where he gave a little wave to the constable who was taking down the crime scene tape. "Even if it is for junk food made out of real junk."

And they drove off with the familiar strains of Queen washing over them.