The busker was sitting on a step, huddled between two buildings, doubled over a three-stringed guitar, in front of one of the many black-beamed, fishermen pub of this fisherman town (more on it in a later post, perhaps). He had almost no hair, except for a dirty mohawk which had collapsed like a breaking wave. He hammered the strings and the guitar wailed out in pain. He yelled in a raven's breaking voice:

"Ding, dong! The witch is dead, the witch is gone!"

If I had known he was announcing old Thatcher's death, like that - somewhere between a medieval herald and a fool - I might have flicked a pound his way. But at the time I didn't think much of it and walked away.

He was the first in the town to know. The news hit the rest of Penzance six hours later, over the local radio news report at the end of the day. It just goes to show, doesn't it, that old Sherlock's sources are still as sharp as ever.