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- [00:01]
Friend
Yeah, sure thing. Hey, you sold that car yet?
- [00:04]
Car Seller
Yeah, sold it to Carvana.
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Friend
Oh, I thought you were selling to that guy.
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Car Seller
The guy who wanted to pay me in foreign currency, no interest over 36 months. Yeah, no. Carvana gave me an offer in minutes, picked it up and paid me on the spot. It was so convenient.
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Friend
Just like that?
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Hugh Bonneville
Yeah.
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Friend
No hassle?
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Car Seller
None.
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Friend
That is super convenient. Sell your car to Carvana and swap hassle for convenience. Pick up. These may apply.
- [00:34]
Hugh Bonneville
I'm Hugh Bonneville and welcome to Sherlock Holmes Short Stories, the series where we delve into the files of fiction's most brilliant detective. Following his keen mind and unerring instincts from the first subtle clue to the final dramatic revelation. This time we embark on one of Sherlock Holmes first ever cases, the Musgrave Ritual. Over two spine chilling episodes, we'll follow a young Holmes as he unravels a twisted mystery hidden within the walls of a crumbling manor home. There'll be devious butlers, hidden treasure, secret passageways, and at the center of it all, an ancient family ritual with a forgotten purpose. From the Noiser podcast network, this is the Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual, Part 1. An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind. And although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he he was none the less in his personal habits, one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough and tumble work in Afghanistan coming on the top of a natural bohemianism of disposition has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit. And when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian and slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held too that pistol practice should be distinctly an open air pastime. And when Holmes in one of his queer humours would sit in an armchair with his hair trigger and a hundred boxer cartridges and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic done in bullet pox, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it. Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions and of turning up in the butter dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases. And yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them. For, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy, during which he would lie about with his violin and his books hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus, month after month, his papers accumulated until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned and which could not be put away save by their owner. One winter's night, as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that as he had finished pasting extracts into his commonplace book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so, with a rather rueful face, he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor, and squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages. There are cases enough here, Watson, said he, looking at me with mischievous eyes. I think that if you knew all that I had in this box, you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in. These are the records of your early work, then? I asked. I have often wished that I had notes of those cases. Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely. Before my biographer had come to glorify me. He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of way. They are not all successes, Watson, said he, but there are some pretty little problems among them. Here's the record of the Tarleton murders and the case of Vanbury the wine merchant and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti, of the clubfoot and his abominable wife. And here. Ah. Ah. Now this really is something. A little recherche. He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest and brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children's toys are kept in from within. He produced a crumpled piece of paper, an old fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it and three rusty old discs of metal. Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot? He asked, smiling at my expression. It is a curious collection. Very curious. And the story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still. These relics have a history, then? So much so that they are history. What do you mean by that? Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one and laid them along the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. These, said he, are all that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave ritual. I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never been able to gather the details. I should be so glad, said I, if you would give me an account of it and leave the litter as it is. He cried mischievously. Your tidiness won't bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of of this, or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account of this very singular business.
- [08:17]
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- [08:48]
Hugh Bonneville
You may remember how the affair of the Gloria Scott and my conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of first turned my attention in the direction of the profession which has become my life's work. You see me now when my name has become known far and wide and when I am generally recognized both by the public and by the official force as being a final court of appeal in doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first at the time of the affair which you have commemorated in A Study in Scarlet. I had already established a considerable, though not a very lucrative connection. You can hardly realize then how difficult I found it at first and how long I had to wait before I succeeded in making any headway. When I first came up to London, I had rooms in Montague street, just round the corner from the British Museum. And there I waited, filling in my too abundant leisure time by studying all those branches of science which might make me more effic. Now and again cases came in my way, principally through the introduction of old fellow students, for during my last years at the university there was a good deal of talk there about myself and my methods. The third of these cases was that of the Musgrave ritual and it is to the interest which was aroused by that singular chain of events and the large issues which proved to be at stake that I trace my first stride towards the position which I now hold. Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself and I had some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally popular among the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me that what was set down as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme natural diffidence in appearance. He was a man of exceedingly aristocratic type, thin, high nosed and large eyed, with languid and yet courtly manners. He was indeed a scion of one of the very oldest families in the kingdom, though his branch was a cadet one which had separated from the northern Musgrave sometime in the 16th century and had established itself in western Sussex where the manor house of Holston is perhaps the oldest inhabited building in the county. Something of his birthplace seemed to cling to the man and I never looked at his pale, keen face or the poise of his head without associating him with grey archways and mullioned windows and all the venerable wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we drifted into talk and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen interest in my methods of observation and inference. For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he walked into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little, was dressed like a young man of fashion. He was always a bit of a dandy and preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had formerly distinguished him. How has all gone with you, Musgrave? I asked after we had cordially shaken hands. You probably heard of my poor father's death, said he. It was carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had the Holston estates to manage and as I am member for my district as well, my life has been a busy one. But I understand, Holmes, that you are turning to practical ends those powers with which you used to amaze us. Yes, said I, I have taken to living by my wits. I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very Strange doings at Hurlstone and the police have been able to throw no light upon the matter. It is really the most extraordinary and inexplicable. You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him, Watson, for the very chance for which I had been panting during all those months of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my inmost heart I believed that I could succeed where others failed and now I had the opportunity to test myself. Pray let me have the details. I cried. Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me and lit the cigarette which I had pushed towards him. You must know, said he, that though I am a bachelor I have to keep up a considerable staff of servants at Hurlstone for it is a rambling old place and takes a good deal of looking after. I preserve too and in the pheasant months I usually have a house party so that it would not do to be short handed. Altogether there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two footmen and a boy. The garden and the stables of course have a separate staff. Of these servants the one who had been longest in our service was Brunton the butler. He was a young schoolmaster out of place when he was first taken up by my father but he was a man of great energy and character and he soon became quite invaluable in the household. He was a well grown handsome man with a splendid forehead and. And though he has been with us for 20 years he cannot be more than 40 now with his personal advantages and his extraordinary gifts for he can speak several languages and play nearly every musical instrument. It is wonderful that he should have been satisfied so long in such a position. But I suppose that he was comfortable and lacked energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlstone is always a thing that is remembered by all who visit us. But this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan and you can imagine that for a man like him it is not a very difficult part to play in a quiet country district. When he was married it was all right but since he has been a widower we have had no end of trouble with him. A few months ago we were in hopes that he was about to settle down again for he became engaged to Rachel Howells, our second housemaid. But he has thrown her over since then and taken up with Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the head gamekeeper. Rachel, who is a very good girl but of an excitable Welsh temperament, had a sharp touch of brain fever and goes about the house now. Or did until yesterday, like a black eyed shadow of her former self. That was our first drama at Holston, but a second one came to drive it from our minds and it was prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of Butler Brunton. This was how it came about. I have said that the man was intelligent and this very intelligence has caused his ruin, for it seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about things which did not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the lengths to which this would carry him until the merest accident opened my eyes to it. I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last week, on Thursday night, to be more exact, I found that I could not sleep, having foolishly taken a cup of strong cafe noir after my dinner. After struggling against it until two in the morning, I felt that it was quite hopeless. So I rose and lit the candle with the intention of continuing a novel which I was reading. The book, however, had been left in the billiard room, so I pulled on my dressing gown and started off to get it. In order to reach the billiard room, I had to descend a flight of stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to the library and the gun room. You can imagine my surprise when, as I looked down this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming from the open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the lamp and closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally, my first thought was of burglars. The corridors at Hurlstone have their walls largely decorated with trophies of old weapons. From one of these I picked a battle axe. And then, leaving my candle behind me, I crept on tiptoe down the passage and peeped in at the open door. Brunton, the butler, was in the library. He was sitting fully dressed in an easy chair with a slip of paper which looked like a map upon his knee and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand in deep thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him from the darkness. A small taper on the edge of the table shed a feeble light, which sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed. Suddenly, as I looked, he rose from his chair and, walking over to a bureau at the side, he unlocked it and drew out one of the drawers. From this he took a paper and returning to his seat, he flattened it out beside the taper on the edge of the table and began to study it with minute attention. My indignation at this calm examination of our family documents overcame me so far that I took a step forward and brunton looking up, saw me standing in the doorway. He sprang to his feet, his face turned livid with fear, and he thrust into his breast the chart like paper which he had been originally studying. So I said, this is how you repay the trust which we have reposed in you. You will leave my service tomorrow. He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly crushed, and slunk past me without a word. The taper was still on the table and by its light I glanced to see what the paper was which Brunton had taken from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing of any importance at all, but simply a copy of the questions and answers in the singular old observance called the Musgrave Ritual.
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Car Seller
You don't wake up dreaming of McDonald's fries, you wake up dreaming of McDonald's hash browns. McDonald's breakfast comes first. But I.
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Hugh Bonneville
It is a sort of ceremony peculiar to our family, which each Musgrave for centuries past has gone through on his coming of age, a thing of private interest and perhaps of some little importance to the archaeologist, like our own blazonings and charges, but of no practical use whatever. We had better come back to the paper afterwards, said I. If you think it really necessary, he answered with some hesitation to continue my statement. However, I relocked the bureau using the key which Brunton had left, and I had turned to go when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned and was standing before me. Mr. Musgrave, sir. He cried in a voice which was hoarse with emotion. I can't bear disgrace, sir. I've always been proud above my station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My blood will be on your head, sir. It will indeed, if you drive me to despair. If you cannot keep me after what has passed, then for God's sake, let me give you notice and leave in a month as if of my own free will. I could stand that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be cast out before all the folk that I know so well. You don't deserve much consideration, Brunton, I answered. Your conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a long time in the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace upon you. A month, however, is too long. Take yourself away in a week and give what reason you like for going. Only a week, sir? He cried in a despairing voice. A fortnight, say at least a fortnight. A week, I repeated, and you may consider yourself to have been very leniently dealt with. He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast like a Broken man, while I put out the light and returned to my room. For two days after this, Brunton was most assiduous in his attention to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed and waited with some curiosity to see how he would cover his disgrace. On the third morning, however, he did not appear, as was his custom after breakfast, to receive my instructions for the day. As I left the dining room, I happened to meet Rachel Howells, the maid. I have told you that she had only recently recovered from an illness and was looking so wretchedly pale and wan that I remonstrated with her for being at work. You should be in bed, I said. Come back to your duties when you are stronger. She looked at me with so strange an expression that I began to suspect that her brain was affected. I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave, said she. We will see what the doctor says, I answered. You must stop work now, and when you go downstairs, just say that I wished to see Brunton. The butler is gone, said she. Gone? Gone where? He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. Oh, yes, he is gone. He is gone. She fell back against the wall with shriek after shriek of laughter, while I, horrified at this sudden hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The girl was taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing, while I made inquiries about Brumpton. There was no doubt about it that he had disappeared. His bed had not been slept in. He had been seen by no one since he had retired to his room the night before, and yet it was difficult to see how he could have left the house, as both windows and doors were found to be fastened in the morning. His clothes, his watch, and even his money were in his room, but the black suit which he usually wore was missing. His slippers, too were gone, but his boots were left behind. Where, then, could Butler Brunton have gone in the night? And what could have become of him now? Of course, we searched the house from cellar to garret, but there was no trace of him. It is, as I have said, a labyrinth of an old house, especially the original wing, which is now practically uninhabited. But we ransacked every room and cellar without discovering the least sign of the missing man. It was incredible to me that he could have gone away, leaving all his property behind him. And yet, where could he be? I called in the local police, but without success. Rain had fallen on the night before, and we examined the lawn and the paths all round the house, but in vain. Matters were in this state when a New development quite drew our attention away from the original mystery. For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill, sometimes delirious, sometimes hysterical, that a nurse had been employed to sit up with her at night. On the third night after Brunton's disappearance, the nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely, had dropped into a nap in the armchair. When she woke in the early morning to find the bed empty, the window open and no signs of the invalid, I was instantly aroused and with the two footmen started off at once in search of the missing girl. It was not difficult to tell the direction which she had taken, for starting from under her window we could follow her footmarks easily across the lawn to the edge of the mere where they vanished close to the gravel path which leads out of the grounds. The lake there is eight feet deep and you can imagine our feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl came to an end at the edge of it. Of course we had the drags at once and set to work to recover the remains. But no trace of the body could we find. On the other hand, we brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected kind. It was a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old rusted and discoloured metal and several dull coloured pieces of pebble or glass. This strange find was all that we could get from the mere and although we made every possible search and inquiry yesterday, we know nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells or of Richard Brunton. The county police are at their wits end and I have come up to you as a last resource. Next time. In the thrilling conclusion of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual, hidden motives are revealed as the true purpose of the ancient ritual is brought to light. A trail of clues leads to what appears to be a dead end and Holmes uncovers both treasure and tragedy as he ventures deeper into the labyrinthine walls of Hurlstone Manor. Can't wait a week until the next episode? Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noiser Plus. Head to www.noiser.comscriptions for more information or click the link in the episode. Description.
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- [28:41]
Eglantine
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- [29:14]
EBGLIS
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