Sherlock & Co. - The Hound of the Baskervilles - Part One

Episode Date: September 23, 2025

THE CURSE - Dr. Jamie Mortimer returned to collect his walking stick. My companion could sense an unease from our visitor. A harrowing story laid inside this surgeon from Wolverhampton... It was time to let it out.  Part 1 of 10 This episode contains swearing, references to distressing themes, references to violence, mutilation, sexual assault, animal cruelty and death.Listener discretion is advised. For merchandise and transcripts go to: www.sherlockandco.co.uk For ad-free, early access to adventures in full go to www.patreon.com/sherlockandco To get in touch via email: [e-mail] Follow me @DocJWatsonMD on twitter and BlueSky, or sherlockandcopod on TikTok, instagram and YouTube. This podcast is property of Goalhanger Podcasts. Copyright 2025.SHERLOCK AND CO. Based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Paul Waggott as Dr. John Watso nHarry Attwell as Sherlock Holmes Marta da Silva as Mariana Ametxazurra Omari Douglas as Dr. Jamie MortimerWritten by Joel Emery Directed by Adam Jarrell Editing and Sound Design by Holy Smokes Audio Produced by Neil Fearn and Jon Gill Executive Producer Tony Pastor Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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has come back. It's um... Hi everyone. It's that podcast again. That one that lifts you up that can bring a little break from life or the world every week.

That little light that glows a little bit. it every Tuesday. Well, yeah, welcome to that podcast for the next 10 weeks. That's right, 10 weeks. This is 10 parts. That little light might be a little dark, sometimes scary dark. And you will be there with me alone in the dark. Like the last big one we did together. I won't be doing these intros, I'll just let it run through. Yeah, sign up to get the first volume of five parts right away and see you at the end of it all.

Archie, we don't, no, no, no, no, we don't chew the mic, for God's sake, man, look at that. That's a lot of slobber. Archie, mate, sort your life out. I think it's rather harsh to blame Archie. Sorry for chewing the mic. I didn't chew it, did I? Yes, but you did want a bulldog in the first place. You are responsible for training him.

Sherlock, I and an ex-girlfriend wanted one. Five and a half years ago. He knows better than that, don't you? Hmm? Don't look at your scrotum, look at me. Your self-esteem wanes once more, dear Watson. It dulls as the melancholy winds of autumn chill off the dense summer air. No, it does not dull as the melancholy winds of autumn chill off the dense summer air,

but there's nothing wrong with my self-esteem. Wait, what does that have to do with this slobbering knobhead? Once again, your deep roof. frustrated frustration against your own position. God's sake. There was a time when you first acquired your beloved bulldog, a time of military pride and a doctorship of noted prominence. Right, stop.

And had he chewed a vital tool of your profession back then? Perhaps medical supplies, uniform, medals. Just... But now he choose a microphone, the microphone of a podcaster. Yes, all right. John Watson, the podcaster. There's nothing. wrong with being a podcaster. Goodness. Not even Archie was convinced by that retort. I suggest you

gather yourself before our client arrives. You must have clarity. I do have clarity. I always have clarity. Like many things, Watson, envy as a fog. It hangs like a cloud over a landscape that we must observe keenly. Many pitfalls lie ahead. I do not wish to tread unwisely. Do you? Ah yeah, ask a leading question, then shut the door, mate. Very helpful. What was that? said the game is afoot. Indeed. Indeed. Ah.

My name is Dr. John Watson, once of the British Army, Northumberland Fuselier Regiment. Now, a true crime podcast that are based in central London. I don't have much experience in criminology. So this is mostly a record of how I met possibly the most. brilliant and bizarre person I have ever and will ever know. Join me as I document the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Look at it, Watson.

Marvel at my concoction. I shall be remedied to full health in an instant. My fatigue and strain shall be vanquished in a blitz of vitamin and nutrition. You'll be blitzing out your ass with all those cheers things, mate. Please just buy a smoothie from the shop. Oh, yes, hi. It's got put through again from the last person. Our internet is down.

Well, well, it's on and off. Hmm. Yeah, no, I've done that. Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've done both those things. Please turn the gender off. The turn it's a rather stubborn. Shush.

Right, can you just check if you have a problem in the area? Maybe if there's been an engineer that's been dispatched. Hello? God's sake, they've transferred me again. Come, the smoothie is complete. And now I must work with this enchanting elixir, fueling my every thought and notion. What?

Stop what you're doing. Come. Feel free to take a glass for yourself. Stop what I'm doing. I'm sorting the internet out. I wish for us to focus on this accidental souvenir of Dr Mortimer, which was left in our office by mistake. Mariana spoke with him. Go and ask her about it.

But I'd rather work through you. Work through me. Can't you see I'm in the middle of something? The internet is fine. It just can't handle the demands of the games console at the moment. I have had a long day. I would like to shoot some people online and laugh at them. Is that unreasonable?

It makes you laugh. Killing these people? Why? Ah, don't give me moral lectures, mate. Not when you pull spiders apart. I don't pull them apart. Oh, right. What was it in the kitchen earlier,

then a spider physiotherapy session? Yes, hello. Hi. Yeah, my internet's very slow and very patchy. And yes, I have done all the things with the router that you're going to ask me if I've done. Can I please just get an engineer or just confirmation that there's a problem in the area?

No, no, no, no. only hold if I'm going to... Oh, for fuck... What do you see, Watson? Uh, it's like a flashing red light, then it goes green for a bit. Not the router. What do you see? A red mist descending over my eyes.

Can you recreate the man? What now? From his walking stick. Mate. Can you, John? I'm not doing this. You refuse to observe. No, I refuse to do your little game that you're way better at.

It's like me asking you to do the washing. up. They've... Oh my God, they've actually hung up. Oh, and great. Just smelled that awful smoothing. Come, sit. Here, I'm sat. Yeah, it's a very nice walking stick, but Dr Mortimer is imminent. I'm sure we can figure him out then.

Our somewhat more sinister doctor from our most recent case, he tells me I am examined. From afar, a buyer for my blood. Yeah, lots of weirdos out there, mate. Don't worry about it. it, probably just a fan of the podcast, you never know? Hmm, that strikes me as somewhat unlikely. Have you met our fans? But expelled blood, like this stick, are disconnected parts of us.

Are they not? Uh, yeah. No. I know. I would like you to try to examine. Yeah, well, I'm not a genius, so I don't see the point. You underrate your own abilities. Yeah, I do.

For good reason. Now, can you please shed some light on this situation so I can listen semi-intently and then go for a wee. Light. Yes. Rather like. Genius. What?

It shines, does it not? Out in the darkness. A beacon to some, a paining glare to others. It certainly stings from time to time. Yep. I know I'm just seen as the, you know, assistant.

It shouldn't sting. You wouldn't understand. I understand more than you know. Great. You understand everything. Apparently, so much so, I can't even. to do a routine case as the lead detective at my own agency. You are not luminous, Watson.

Lovely, thank you. But you are a conductor of light. A conductor of light? Our router here. Slowed. Laggy. Weak. Why? Because they won't send out a bloody engineer

and I was duped by a very favourable monthly cost. It's because of light. The fibre optic cables that come through into this property. Feeding that router. They merely conduct the light into its. path. They feed it, John. Now, Dr. Mortimer's walking stick. Ah, right. Okay, fine. Let's give it here. Let's have a looky look. Okay, walking stick, wood. Very polished, smooth on the handle. The top here, little metal sort of plaque says, top.

to Jamie Mortimer, M-R-C-S-C-C-H. Indeed. Meaning he's a surgeon. Called Jamie. M-R-C-S is Royal College of Surgeons. Correct. Very good. And C-C-H is... I don't know.

That could be maybe a club. Maybe, yeah, this was probably given to him by the club. He's got to be old. He's got a walking stick. what kind of clubs to old people attend golf there's no G in that CCH Hockey Erling

not going to be doing them if he's elderly OK so maybe not a sport uses a walking stick after all CC could mean Conservative club Conservative club

Henley Hungerford They're kind of conservativey type places Right? Very good indeed. Really? Really.

Am I right? I didn't ask you to be right. Because you're the genius. And you possess the ability to stimulate it. And for that, I am forever in your dead. Thank you, mate. I appreciate that. You're in debt for that, of course, but also the washing up, the laundry, the cooking. Yes, yes, yes.

Dealing with nearly all people, cleaning the bathroom. Okay, thank you. The observations you made are interesting, though. So, elementary. Really? Yes. I'm afraid your only significant ones were erroneous. Oh.

CCH. I would venture is Charing Cross Hospital. Ah, yeah, shit. Yeah. This is certainly a gift, so I would imagine a leaving present. Probably retirement gift. No. Why not?

Because he's not old enough. Well, he uses a walking stick. As have you, upon occasion. Yeah, yeah, okay. Oh, your smoothie is starting to separate all the slushy bits. going to the bottom. So, Mortimer, Royal College of Surgeons, Charing Cross Hospital. Why would a walking stick be such a gift? Perhaps an ironic one do we think. The famous gallows humour of the medical profession. Well, could be. But just... You just what? I just don't think you're going to get

that much from a walking stick. Jamie Mortimer is a young doctor. He works in a rural location. A moorland, I'd say. A morland that he walks regularly. He's potentially of mixed heritage. The handle here has traces of pomade, certainly heavier than most products, closer to a shear or castor oil. I would say he rested his head against a stick on his journey to this very office. A hair even transferred in the pinch between handle and embossed nameplate, an afro-textured hair, so that confirms initial observation regarding heritage. This handle tells us many things about Jamie. He's leaning on this stick far more than a an elderly gentleman, like you denoted would do.

Observe the frule, worn, not evenly, but on the inner edge, ground into an ellipse. Meaning? Meaning the stick is planted close to the midline as a stabiliser, not thrust wide as one does to ease, say, arthritic pain. Then examine the wooden mould of the handle, not the wear of a light fingertip, no, but a deep gloss left by the heel of the palm, day after day bearing true weight. This is no ornament or proporeceptive stabiliser. We can confirm that down here. 30 centimetres down from the tip,

a neat scuff band rubbed smooth against the shaft's varnish. You see? I... Yeah, I see that. Unlikely a trouser hem, too consistent for accident. It's the trace, Watson, of a synthetic shin. Brusing stick each time he sits, rises or even crosses his legs.

Like so. Ding. Ow! And ding! And ow! And ow! Ow! Indeed. Flesh would bruise before it wore wood so evenly. Note the shaft. An inch shorter than a man of five foot eleven would require

if his limbs were natural and equal. The cut compensates for a right leg that stands a fraction lower than its fellow left chum as prosthetics I want to do. He's an amputee. There are our ingredients, Watson. Now, chop them up, plop them in a blender, and mush them into a delicious slurpable gloop of deduction juice.

Bottoms up. Oh, goodness me, that's grotesque. You are a clever, clever man. In some ways, not so much in others, but question, mate, if he's that dependent on the stick, why did he leave it at half flat? Yes. Dr. Jamie Mortimer is a man of perseverance, refusing to be defined by what is missing below his left knee.

The stick is not a vital instrument for errands to London. His prosthetic leg will be modern. It will no doubt have balance features a custom-moulded socket, shock pylons. No, this stick here is a companion for the moors, John. That is where Mortimer tests himself. That is where he searches for his soul in challenging rambles of self-examination. It was brought along to London because of habit. It was abandoned because of absent-mindedness.

Because of distraction and fixation on something else. Something troubling this young man. Something haunting him. Ah, the internet's back. Darkness lifts. The light returns. And my final observation grows ever so dimly. Yes.

The pock-to-indents of granite smattered on the base of mortals. to mystic from a granite-ridden moorland, Dr. Watson. Does the ancient expanse of Dartmoor call us once more? Let's go see. No, my colleagues say, sorry, and I'm dying. I just, that. Ah, no, this I have my prosthetic to die. Maybe I'm a little too attached to this.

Here they are. Dr Mortimer, I presume. Yes, hi. John, Dr. John Watson, and this is... Sherlock Holmes. That's right. Good to meet you, Dr. Mortimer. Call me Jamie, please.

I like to be proper. Jamie would be proper. I'm afraid the doctor title is a little outdated. Huh. Really? Struck off. Goodness. Correct. I apologise.

I didn't. I, um... I thought I caught everything. Caught everything. He, uh, our resident detective here, predicted everything about you before your arrival. Except that. You know you could have just asked me, right? Where's the fun in that exactly?

Ha! How'd you mean, predicted? He surmised pretty much exactly what I'm saying now. prosthetic limb, young doctor. Jamaican background. Ha, I mean, he didn't give me the exact country, that's true. What else? Dartmoor. Goodness me.

What curious talent? Not quite. It is not my talent that is the curiosity, but rather my curiosity that is the talent. Please, take a seat. Jamie. That's very kind, but I just can't get my stick. The morning exercise doesn't let up. Ah, yes, that determined ramble across the moors.

Now, this... This is bloody clever. I could perform a few more tricks if you'd care to take a seat. If you'd care to take a seat. Honestly, I just came to get my stick. Without this thing, I tumble over just about every outcropping, sink into every Maya. Quite the tenacity.

A little too tenacious for the GMC. Mariana, thank you so much. Oh, no, no, no problem. Sorry, I didn't see it when you left it before. I hope I was helpful. And, uh, Dr Armstrong case was, yeah. I've seen the news that the football is recovered, so, yeah. Righto. That's the West Country, I suppose.

You loathe him. Hmm? Dr Leslie Armstrong. That's... not true. True and truth are loaded terms. But it is at least accurate, is it not? How exactly... You broke eye contact mentioning his name.

You grasped your stick with one hand. You rubbed your right temple with the other. His very mention brings irritation, does it not? Mr. Mortimer. Sherlock, he's the reason. You are a brave whistleblower, Jamie. The establishment protects its wizened elders a little too vigorously from its tenacious juniors.

Cut in a long, long story, very short. Yes, I would say you've got the measure of it yet again, Mr. Holmes. Very impressive. I hope it impresses you enough to stay and share you. your story. I think Jamie mentioned a train, Sherlock. So maybe we could set up a Zoom call? What train would that be?

Paddington. The Totnes. What time? Um... The train... You have to imminently catch a train and you're not sure of its departure time. What does it say on the ticket? No, I know. I bought an open return. That's why.

Um, let's... I think Jimmy wants to go. That's my deduction. So we'll set up a call. We will not be setting up any kind of call. Well, we can always just reach out. Tell me, Jamie. What do you do for work?

In between things, right now. Okay, if we're putting him through this, can I at least offer him some tea? We've also got the posh biscuits, Mariana from Lestrade. Yes, yes, we do. There are these little shortbread things with the chocolate... And the caramel ones as well? Irresistible, surely, Jamie.

Tea, shortbread, caramel. And a captive audience for that tale. That tale that wakes you in the night and keeps you away from the morn. And has you subconsciously discarding your walking companion, as if to shut out the darkness entirely. Whoa, whoa, okay. Okay, Jamie, sorry, that's me.

That's my dog. I left the upstairs door open. Yeah, he kind of lives between the two floors. See, he's just chubby little bulldog. Are you okay with dogs? Um, yeah. Yeah, I am. Sorry, yeah. There we go.

Gonna give you a sniff. Might get a lick if you're lucky. There you go. You'll get a fart if you're unlucky. Nope, fart free. Right. Uh, yeah. Kettle.

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He's not being cruel. He's just, he's tired. He's grouchy and... Yeah, maybe he's rushing things. If Sherlock is tired and grouchy, why isn't he doing the usual thing after a case and sleeping for two days straight? Because...

I don't know. He said he could smell a case or something. Smell a case. He's just... He's restless. Why? He said he's euphoric after Cases. He said that that's the only thing that brings him true happiness. Not about Anne Penae Pasta. He said resolutions to problems are the only calm in the storms of his mind. Wow, will you really pay attention to what you says, don't you?

I just don't get why he's restless. Something about blood. It's this blood thing. The Armstrong situation. Someone wants to buy a sample of... Sherlock's blood. Why? It's a cup of tea, not a souffle. What does that mean?

You are taking a long time. You've never made a souffle in your life, have you? And neither have you. Can we please hurry? You're the one in the way. I'm trying to carry the tray. Righty, righty, right. A round of cupers with some nice biscuits to boot. Probably a bit too posh for a dunk, but I won't judge. There you go, Jamie.

Thank you. I feel like you're all looking at me No, no, not at all. Why do you feel like that, Jamie? Because you're all looking at me. Oh, no, no, no, I was looking out the window at that lamppost. It's a good, isn't that one? Our clients find it rather therapeutic, Jamie.

to talk do they now I can assure you they do yeah well this isn't really an

internal crisis as such it's more out there in the wild as it were so just quick back story I

when I was 17 I got starting a car accident in Wolverhampton where i'm from and i died yeah right hmm our first ghost client yeah for 11 minutes i was dead i remember just darkness complete just swallowed pitch blackness and then these little glowing blobs of light and they were sort of guiding me through it like the little lights on a plane through the aisle

the safe passage and I could hear my grandfather's voice and I kept walking towards him thinking okay guess I'm dead but I'm gonna go see Gramp you know maybe I'll don't know me Elvis or

something and he just said my granddad not Elvis he went not yet Jimmy Boy and then bang bright light, hospital, tubes, beeps of monitors and bangs of the bed and doors flying open and voices just this constant shouting over each other and then Dr. Sadiqi, the man that saved my life. It took my leg, of course, but saved my life and he, yeah, yeah. And the other thing he did, I suppose, was

Give me meaning Give me a purpose, I just I just wanted to be a surgeon from the moment I was discharged I did med school, graduated from Royal College of Surgeons Yeah, then a Normal, shitty, semi-shitty, I should say Life of a young CT1, CT2 surgeon Great short bread

You see Worth it now Totally worth it So then Of course I called out Dr Leslie Armstrong around Four years ago Malpractice

Latent malpractice I got agitated As I apparently do And I suppose I, yeah, when things didn't get sorted, I transitioned from blowing the whistle to out and out shouting and screaming. The medical council didn't really, it wasn't the message that they took offence to it, was the method of delivery, I suppose. I may have tested the protections afforded to your average, whistleblower. Stealing of files? And the rest? Yeah. I see. He got a slap on the wrist. I got the knockout blow. Struck off. I left London. No chance I'm affording rent or anything like

that anymore. And I saw on Reddit, I think it was. Maybe it was Facebook. I don't know. These struck off doctors, retired doctors and all this. They had these They had private patients. They weren't like practicing within the NHS or even prescribing drugs or nothing like that, nothing dodgy. But they were kind of servicing these sort of well-off clients, I guess you'd call them. You do realize you're addressing a detective who's not actually a detective that services sort of well-off clients?

So you understand. And I thought, yeah, I might go and do that. And one of them had turned down a client in Devon on the, yeah, I think it was the Reddit. So, sounds stupid really. I just looked up pictures of Devon and I thought, yeah, it looks lovely. Yeah, make sense to me. Did you do that with Tottenham, Mariana? Yeah, yeah, that's exactly what I did.

Yeah, and I took it. Took the job. Who is your client? was He was my client Who was he Sir Charles Baskerville

Take all the time you need And uh All the biscuits I've actually got another pack I was just hiding Because I didn't want them all to go Shh Yeah sorry, yep

I don't know how well You all know Dartmoor I mean I didn't Not long ago But you um You go into the West Country you go past Exeter and these two main roads split off the 830 goes northwest the 838 goes

southwest and they're both just forking around the mass that is darkmoor and that's the last time you see a main road you get into that moorland and it's all little paths and old roads bending veering teetering over hills and stooping down valleys, ponies and sheep and cows. They'll just wander into the roads. It's... Some days it's stunning. It really is stunning on others, many others. It's haunting.

So bleak and harsh. and lonely and quiet. It's the quiet that can, um, and sell you most sometimes. Funny that, meant to be a luxury in this day and age. Silence, silent retreats, noise cancelling thingies, but...

No. I don't think we, uh, I don't think we like the quiet anymore. Humanity. I think we're afraid of it. I think it makes us think a little too hard. In one of those bleak, harsh, lonely spots, a few miles south of Prince Town is Baskerville Hall.

Big, bloody. raw iron gates climbing weeds and trees writhing around it these weather bit and old pillars then the emblem the crest in the middle the big boar's head of the Baskervilles I am I was made executor of his will and I was made executor of his will and have these what is the documents left me with other bits and pieces by Sir Charles I had asked him about about family history I meant regarding any potential conditions in old age he misunderstood and I got the full backstory and from that point on I think I probably feigned my interest a little too

convincingly. This is a family records or? Oh, I see, I see. This is writings on the Baskerville lineage. Right. This house was first occupied in the 42nd year of the 18th century. Blimey, all right, that's one way of putting it. This manner of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, a most wild, profane and godless man. It so happened, Hugo came to love, if indeed so dark compassion can be known under so bright a name. A young maiden, however, feared his evil name in his customary mist of wine and wickedness. He stole the girl from her home, facing her in his upper chamber. Yet before the evening was out, she climbed the ivy of the South Wall,

fled across the bracken and brushed to her father's farm. Hugo returned to find the cage empty, and the bird escaped, Whereat Hugo ran from the house Saddled his mare and unkenald the pack And giving the hounds a kerchief of the maids He swung them to the line And so off Full cry in the moonlight over the moor

Jesus That's horrible Keep reading A local shepherd noted The impossible sight that met his eyes that night I saw first that of the maid, the shepherd recounts, then the hounds. Hugo Baskerville passed me thence on his black mare, and there behind him, running mute upon his track,

such a hound of hell that God forbid should ever be at my heels. Say, separate paper here. It's an account of what was discovered that night by the locals of Prince Town. It's kind of hard to read, old English spellings and, yeah. Bowman and Hare his two sons with Dermond the stable hand did upon the 11th of October 1743 in the clearing of hatchets wood betwixt the stone pillars of Tavistock Bridalway spy a dreadful sight. There was the mare, black and overturned, all soaking in blood, and round about her lay eight bull and terrier dogs torn and marred,

each uttering the whimpered breath of death. There also was found the body of Hugo Baskerville, ripped open, and... and at his throat a foul thing in shape like unto a hound yet larger than any hound mortal eye had ever beheld. The company fled in fear when the flaming eyes and dripping jaws were turned upon them. I don't really know what to say. The locals say more than enough.

Believe me. How so? At first I ignored it, what they said. Which was what, Jamie? I can't believe I'm bloody saying this. That every Baskerville, every male head of household Baskerville had a bloody and mysterious death. Oh, on the moor?

Yeah, they, um, it's, it's, they said it's a curse, all this. Do you believe it? What, what makes you believe it? Because they're, because they're rights. Like, every single Baskerville man from 1743 to now died out there. It's in the records. It in the night, in, in the darkness, like ripped open, drowning on their own blood as something. What happened to Sir Charles, Jamie?

Sorry, just. Just give me a sec. She's give me a sec. Evenings are getting darker now. Mm-hmm. You said your hotel is... It's literally the other side of Regence Park, so not that gate, the one after it.

Cool, cool, cool, cool, go. We will gladly walk you there, weren't we, arch? Great. I'm sorry, Jamie, to have hurried my instincts upon you. Don't be daft. Need to get it out, don't I? Whole thing's driving me here. I mean, mad.

It's actually driving me mad, isn't it? I think a therapist would probably call it misplaced grief. I don't know. At least in the thing I worked so hard for. You said you can hear it. Yeah. I don't know if that's...

am i just manifesting something or is actually out there outside my cottage or probably off in the mire somewhere i can always hear these howls and screams screams of what i don't no i i think um yeah uh a fresh start might be really required. Just what the doctor ordered, eh? Did you really come to London, just a war-nuts of Dr Armstrong, Jamie? Because I feel that to be somewhat excessive for just the imparting of knowledge. Good observation, again. Um, just over a month ago, Sir Charles Baskerville's health was declining pretty sharply.

He was 88. I had become, over the sort of days and weeks before that, a kind of secondary doctor, really. Outside of schooling, I'm a specialised surgeon, so he was being seen by registered professionals and I was, I suppose, I became a bit of a sort of carer. I don't live far, he paid well, so on the 17th, he told me he wanted a check-up for a clean bill of health before he headed to London the next day. Actually, no, no, that was it. A friend nearby, Stapleton, he'd called me and said,

this idiot thinks he's fit enough to go to London, do something. So I spoke to Sir Charles and I just said, you know, your heart is very weak, you're showing signs of kidney failure. You've got all these markers, blah, blah, blah. Not quite sure he accepted it, but yeah, I told him what he needed to hear. And a few hours and a nightmare or two later, I bush, just bolt up right in bed that someone's pounding on the door, Mortimer! Mortimer! Answer it.

It's a resident of the Baskerville Hall estate. Who? The underkeeper. Frank Barrymore. He and his wife live in the hall too. She tends to the gardens. And he works for the local gamekeeper? Correct.

He says to me, they're very... They're very rigid and no nonsense, the Barrymore's. He says, Sir Charles is dead. We head up to the house, and we stop just after the gates in the tree line drive, all gravel. Still a good 200 yards from the house itself, and there he is. Sir Charles was on the ground. face down, arms out, fingers dug, well, clawed into the ground, so tight could barely wrench him out. Took a second to identify him, his face was so contorted and twisted into such a horrified expression.

and Barrymore and I, we just stood there. What was he doing out there? In front of the house, at his age, at that time. Well-timed story. Right, well, hotel really is just the other side of the park. I've got plenty more details on it all. Just a night away from Dartmoan means a proper night's sleep, so... No, go to sleep, okay?

We can... we'll revisit this, okay? Sure, sure. No blood? No? No injuries. No? Then what do you have for me, Jamie? I have this, Sherlock. I have this.

Sleep tight. Night Jamie. It's a photo of gravel. Is that where they found the body? Can I see, Sherlock? Footprints. Yeah, okay. That's a start.

Big, small. The prince of a man, a woman. What have we got here? Of a beast. What is it? What do you see? The hound of the Baskervilles. To hear right up to the end of part five of The Hound of the Baskervilles, go to patreon.com

forward slash Sherlock & Co. I don't know.