Sherlock & Co. - The Musgrave Ritual - Part One

Episode Date: January 6, 2026

OLD SCHOOL - It was Sherlock's birthday and he was commemorating the occasion by shooting HIS gun at OUR wall. So I moved out. Ok I tried to move out. Then things changed very quickly as we found ourselves at a funeral for one of Sherlock's old teachers. I was still annoyed about the gun thing though. Part 1 of 4 This episode contains swearing, gunfire, references to bullyingListener discretion is advised. A new clothing store has opened: www.sherlockwear.com 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 2026.SHERLOCK AND CO. Based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Paul Waggott as Dr. John Watson Harry Attwell as Sherlock Holmes Marta da Silva as Mariana Ametxazurra Joel Emery as Reginald Musgrave Tommie-Lee Kidd as Victor Trevor Additional Voices: Lauren HallMatthew MalthouseStefan BennettDarcey FergusonAdam Jarrell Written 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

Happy New Year, folks. I'm here to tell you that in 2006 there is going to be an explosion of content in the Sherlock and Co-Patryon. There's already so much stuff and now there will even be new shows and some exclusive Patreon-only adventures. So sign up now for just £6 a month while stocks last. Sorry, I just wanted to say while stocks last. There'll be stocks. com forward slash Sherlock and Co. See you there. Happy New Year and welcome aboard Sherlock and Co. Airlines. This is a non-stop flight to the adventure of the Musgrave ritual. I mean that's not true. It's four parts, so that's four stops.

Unless you give me six quid a month, in which case it is non-stop. No smoking, put your seatbelt on, and no shagging in the toilet. Off we go! I am compromised. Death approaches, and I did not have the sharpness of mine to detect my assassins. Happy birthday! You fool! Assassin!

Oh, please shut up! And get out of my room. My name is Dr. John Watson, once of the British Army Northumberland Fusolier 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. Take Covering Take cover! We have contact with the enemy! We have contact with the enemy, Sherlock! Sherlock, Sherlock, do you copy? Getting a visual on the tango. Sherlock, can you hear me, God damn it!

Yes, I bloody can. Can you please stop shouting? What the hell are you doing? I am failing, Watson. I am failing miserably. What? Knock. Target, there, on the wall.

I haven't even come within an inch of it. I'm getting old, clearly. You! What? The fist is going to come within an inch of your eye in a minute. Give me that. Excuse me. It's my birthday. Yeah, well, it's about to be your death day. What is going on? What is that noise? My point, exactly. What on earth is with all the shouting, Watson? No, I'm done. I'm done. I'm moving out. No, you're not. Don't be stupid. He's shooting the wall, Mariana. What? I thought you were

playing a video game or something. Look, touch. Feel, these are real bullet holes, in a real wall. What the hell is this? Oh my god Oh I was throwing out an old machete Of course, yeah, old machetes Oh God Yeah, I don't want to hold on to them for too long, eh? Well, I have a new one now I was just carving lettering here

C.R. Charles Racks For the king? I had no idea you were such a realist When the mood takes me. For the king You hacked the wall with a machete And then shot at it Did the wall do something to you

Do I have to go and have a talk with the wall? No, that's preposterous, Watson. Nothing I have ever done or said is anywhere near the realm of preposterousity that you seem to exist in. For your benefit, Mariana, that is not a novel, a quirky English locution for your extensive vocabulary. Watson, in his deranged anger, has just made a word up. Thanks. And also thank you for the word locution. A pleasure. It's not deranged, mate, okay? This is warranted.

Understandable, deserving anger directed at a gunman. What are you doing? I told you, I'm moving out. No, you're not. Yes, I am. You live here, you work here. It's his birthday. His birthday, honestly, I don't have to live here, though, do I?

I could go and stay somewhere else, just come over here for work. And what? Be as angry. You're still going to come here and see bullet holes and complain about his kitchen mess. Kitchen mess, lounge mess, bathroom mess, hallway mess, mess, Window sill mess, mantelpiece mess, every surface, every corner, every possible area is covered in his mess, except for, drum roll please. Don't open that.

His masterful suite, his impeccable, glorious bedchamber that gets all the special attention and cleanliness that he deliberately negates everywhere else. Look at it. Look at it. It's perfect. Oh, no, sorry. But for this, on the floor, oh dear, little bit of brown fluff, let me get that for you, Your Highness, let me just pick this up and put it in the bin for your perfect room.

You are aware that's Graham's droppings. Oh, Jesus Christ! Graham! Do not call the pest guy. I'm not calling the pest guy. I may entertain an organising of certain stray items, but I refuse to part with my papers. Yes, hello there. My name is John. I would like to look at the flat you have on Rossmoor Road, please.

Yep. Yeah, great. Okay, 1 p.m. today's great. Yeah. Yeah, all right. See you then. You're not actually doing this. Rossmoor Road, perfect. Two-minute walk. You found a flat you can afford two minutes away from Baker Street. Yeah. Oh, God, I'm stuck.

Ten minutes into central London? Strudding to breathe. Just, it's quite tight in here. Well, that reduced space and smaller floor plan make for much more efficient energy usage. Of course, yeah. Especially in this cold snap. Freezing, in it? The door won't close. Shalok, you're on my foot.

Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the sizes below a single mattress, but... 30 minutes into central London, Cricklewood offers a lot, actually. It's an exciting neighbourhood. Exciting. Oh, cool. Oh, my God. Probably some of your new neighbours having a friendly game of cricket. Unusual to play it with a break, mind.

Hmm. It's an hour into central London. Yep. Stanmore is on the up, you know? You can ask anyone. Of course. Yeah, sure. Is that mould? Well, eh? No, no, no, that's a wallpaper design.

Wallpaper's back in. Or so the wife keeps telling me anyway. It's moving. Right, but look at the space, how clean it is. Beautiful space, it's a beautiful space. Never mind the space, that noise. Yeah, incredible transport links actually. M25, right on your doorstep.

Jesus Christ! Little tip, if you see a gap in the traffic flow, you can dash right across to the McDonald's on the other side. A? Not too shabby. Watch, I'll show you. Let me... Wait, okay. Be brave! Be brave! Archie, I know I said pack your things, mate, but um, don't bother. Don't bother, there's nowhere else to go. Perhaps the disastrous property hunt confirms that you are in fact a perfectionist.

I'm a perfectionist? Yes. Not in the slightest, mate. The demands for cleanliness? Not a single one of those dwellings were suitable to your ridiculous standards. Sherlock, not wanting bullet holes in the walls, being able to move in my own lounge instead of drowning in rubbish. That is not perfectionism. Well, it may be my birthday, but it could well be yours, couldn't it?

Sorry, what? Your wish? and incessant demands have been granted. Tadda? Sorry. I have reorganised, and the vital documentation that was once all over this flat has been digitised for the most part,

thanks to Mariana, and I have incinerated the papers that I am comfortable parting with. Sherlock, there is literally a pile of papers in every corner. The one on the kitchen table is taller than me and blocks out the sun, and do not make a comment about my height. Yes, but, as I say, for the ones that I am comfortable parting with... And that's it?

Yes. That's the mammoth clean-up task that was going to save our living arrangement. Indeed. That's the sacrifice I deserve, a handful of paper, literally scraps of paper. Well, I wouldn't look at it that way. Sherlock, look at me.

Yes, Watson. I am disappointed in you, and I am feeling let down by some of your actions that are not just to me, but by anyone's standards. Selfish. You said that? Yeah.

John. He, look, he prefers the truth. He doesn't like the whole social dance around it. You want it delivered in a way that he can digest. You've probably hurt his feelings. You know that, right? Sometimes, look, I don't want to hurt his feelings, especially on his birthday,

but sometimes we have to take a little bit of pain to ease the bigger pain of our friends, right? John, he could be... I mean, he could be going through something right now. His brain works differently, do you and me? Going through something, please. Victor! Sherlock's late for the funeral.

What? What? What? Hey, uh, you okay? Yes. Sorry, I didn't, um... I didn't know. No. Well, you wouldn't, would you?

If, uh, if that's why you've been acting off, you know, doing erratic things, then, um, I understand. I haven't been off or doing erratic things. Ah, 39 seconds, that lasted. What do you mean? You haven't been doing erratic things. Shh. Hey, John. Sorry about the rush earlier. No, don't be daft. Blind me, mate, no, not at all. I'm just glad we got him here in time. Yeah. You're okay, Sherlock?

Hmm. Can't help question my detachment. Perhaps her deliberate emotional mechanism, maybe. You don't have to be bawling on the ground, Sherlock. Everyone processes it differently. Yes. He meant a lot to you. And you're showing your respects. That's enough, right? He don't need to do a big show.

Quite right. And how are you, Victor? Yeah, sad, but this is how things go, I suppose. Indeed. Got himself to a ripe old age. That's the important thing. Sherlock mentioned he was a

teacher at your... At the college, Dulwich College? Mr Musgrave, yeah. The good teacher. Which, a good man. Yeah. You remind me of him a bit, actually, John. Hey, really?

Huh. Yeah. Maybe that's why Sherlock gets on with you. Formative memory of Mr. Musgrave. You say, get on. Ow! You punched me. I'm in mourning.

Shush. So, what was the deal with Musgrave? I can't imagine going to any of my teacher's funeral. It's funny, because the more I think about it, as I've got older, he really didn't need to be there in teaching i mean that's my overwhelming memory of him he was so like uh green trouser brigade hurrah henry sort of thing hoorah henry is what like a upper class aristocrat type oh god that but times by ten john he owned a castle wow and he uh he went to teach yeah but he'd done like

10 or 15 years or something in these London comps before doing some time with us a dullidge. He learned teaching the hard way and, yeah, hard times created a very good man. He brought a lot of real-world thinking, he called it, to a classroom of kids that weren't probably ever going to get those kinds of lessons. Look, I can see where you've been off then. It's always sad to see a good man go no matter what age.

Well, it has all been a rather challenging predicament. The decision to come to the funeral or simply let it pass me by. Why would you not come? Sherlock, why would you not come? Reginald. Reginald? See the, uh... Okay, so look over my shoulder but pretend like you're not looking.

Right, yep. See the guy talking to the vicar? Uh-huh. That's Reginald Musgrave, his son. Oh, okay And what, we have a problem with him Mr Musgrave was so lovely But Reginald was

A tyrant The devil adorned in human flesh A bastard, a wanker A platinum-plated prick Oh, all right Okay, let's just Mr Musgrave had such a soft spot for Sherlock His son, Reginald however

He set his sights on me, Watson He set his sights as the circling hawk does To the adorable little field mouse You call in yourself an adorable little fieldman I was a recluse, John. I kept it to myself. I had quirks, peculiarities, my whimsies were plentiful. I had a foible or six.

Yes, yes, I know. And Reginald punished me for it in every way you could imagine. Yet every act of torture he dressed in some boyish, ritualistic language. Those cruel, vindictive little musgrave rituals. Peanuts. Wet willies, swirlies, donkeys, slapsies. He'd have me whipped, toppled, flicified, thatchered. Thatcher. What's Thatchard?

He listed my body parts on a public exchange and other boys would buy them. Stakeholders in my arm, my nose, my foot. They would taunt me and demand dividend payouts on their investment. Totally unregulated. Sickening. Yeah, sorry, that is beyond me, mate. Well, if you held a controlling interest in my left arm, you could demand I present it for whatever indignity you'd purchased. He'd even ring a bell to open trading.

Right. Watson, it's very straightforward. Imagine my extremities as financial instruments. I get it. All right, sir, thank you. I'm sorry that that happened. Good Lord. Yes, there is no cruel a man.

He is an incarnation of hatred, spite and wickedness. Goodness, homes from the lower dorms. Delightfully good to see you, old boy. Hi, Reginald, good to see you too. So sorry about your father. Very, very decent of you, most thoughtful. Let me just have a quick matter with you. the family and I'll circle back two ticks lovely man. Thank you so much.

Satan himself. Sorry, that guy. Guy, you say, inferring a cell or two at least of humanity. Far from it, John. Far from it. The guy that held your shoulder and called you a lovely man. The serpent sheaths its fangs, Watson. Does that make it any less deadly? Maybe, maybe just try and focus on Mr. Musgrave for now. Shall we? Yeah, I don't think you're going to get. or Thatcher at a funeral, mate.

Well said, John. You know, I'll never forget when he used to sneak those little mass challenges and riddles into our dorm. Yes, and the passwords. Yeah. He'd pin a piece of paper to our dorm room door and they'd be these really complicated quests where we'd have to solve these different things around the school to get the passwords, to get in the door. All those little ten paces to the east and all... Oh, I can't remember them now, but God, what a funny mind he had.

I knew even at the time the door would open as it always does, with or without the password, but it was impossible to not immerse yourself in his brilliant make-believe world. A powerful mathematical mind, swimming in a fervent imagination, a beautiful, coalescence. He loved Sherlock's trick too. It's not a trick. Of course. But yeah, he really let you go to town with your observational skills, analytical things, didn't he? Yes, he did. A good man with a good soul. He allowed many lost boys to feel found. Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Sorry again. Guys, it's sad to see someone like that, go. Hey, 86 years old, you know?

Of course, yeah, of course. Oh, he's coming back. He returns to his prey. Good luck, gentlemen. Hold fast. Don't give him the satisfaction of panic. Yeah, all right. Hi! Hello, mate. Hi, sorry. I meant to introduce myself before. I'm John. John. Splendid. Reginald Mud's Grave. Good stuff. Good to see you, man. Bless you. An honour for us all to be here for Mr Musgrave. You are a marvel. You are a marvel.

And Victor, Victor, Trevor? Oh, Victor, I'm so sorry. So sorry. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. Forgive me. Believe my eyes, honestly. Don't say I know you as well, John. Do not say that to me. Oh, no, not me. But, uh, got to say, we could have done with a man like your father at a Swindon Comprehensive with a cider-downing epidemic. Ha ha ha ha ha! Jeepers! Your education sounds much more thrilling than ours, doesn't it, gents? He made a lasting impression, your dad. Sherlock here hasn't seen him since school days. And you still came out.

That's, honestly, that is, that is, I shan't forget. It's invaluable, really, truly. He spared many of his hours for me. A couple of mine this afternoon won't come close to covering that enormous debt of time and detention. Yes, well, goodness gracious. Yeah. You know, I do so wish I had him for a couple hours more. continue that much

time spent with that extraordinary mind of his was always rather an event he possessed well this fiendishly clever little trick picked it up during his teaching days I believe he could pull flawless deductions from the most infinitesimal detail

quite quite disconcerting frankly but utterly mesmerising of course he never disclosed the method and now that he's gone I find myself quite in need of it, quite in need of it, desperately so. Everything feels misaligned without it. Yes, so what are you up to these days, Sherlock?

And Guinness as well, thanks. You're surprisingly calm? Wait, you haven't poisoned his pint or something, have you? No, I have not poisoned his pint, John. Just checking. Should I? Um, no. No.

Yes, of course not. I'm not going to kill a man. Not on my birthday, anyway. Well, that's a relief. Come on then. What? You've obviously got some sort of plan. Do I, indeed? Yes, you do, indeed. Well, I'll have to let my next roommate know, won't I? Ha, come on.

You're moving out, remember? Is this what you do on your birthday? You're one of those birthday sulkers? I am not a birthday sulker. Yes, you are? You're taking shots at everybody, literally in the case of our lounge wall. I'm taking shots at that man over there, because he's... as a vindictive bastard. Well, I mean, you're not quite taking shots at him, are you? I mean, it's all been extremely civil.

And I shall remain so. Why? Because something is afoot. And I feel it might well be the game itself. Of course. Thank you, John. Not a Wiltshire cider, thank goodness. Cheers, sir. Oh, most civil of you.

Reginald, I was just wondering, whilst mulling what you spoke of earlier, I could do it for you, if you like. Do it? Pardon me? Your father's observation game. The trick, the trick he used to do, yes. Again, it's not a trick. Do it, do it. To bring a grieving son, a little light-hearted relief. That is a small ask.

Reginald, now, let me see. Privately educated, of course, I... then left and went on to live my life the way I did. But what of you? A prestigious university? I would say LSE. Wow. That's an easy one. It's very chilly out. You wore a scarf. That scarf is at least a couple of decades old. It's purple and gold, the colours of the London School of Economics. But you also have a wallet containing two very exclusive credit cards, valuable watch there and your phone as notifications regarding stock prices. So you clearly went to work in finance. You were extremely successful.

I could do simple things like point out your well-sund complexion, your various accoutrement, that I have done so already. I could even remark that you've had both teeth and hair done to an exceptional Harley Street rather than Turkish standard. But what convinces me of your success, not your background, nor the shiny spoils of your career, but of this. This? This. Your posture, not merely upright, but drilled.

The sort of bearing, I'd say, hammered into you by institutions that insist on exactness. sandhurst not as a career choice but perhaps as a corrective course from your family then I suspect the finishing tutors men who bark endlessly about standards I don't recall any plans to eat yet your cutlery is aligned

your glass placed precisely on its ring and you have corrected it unconsciously when the condensation of a fresh beer has nudged it off centre oh have I indeed forgive me your manners are not remotely casual nor instinctive though they are performed with this

fidelity You wait for everyone's glass to be charged before touching your own, not out of anything natural, not warmth or consideration, but out of training. Propriety executed to regulation. When John sneezed, you said most civil of you, an expression that hasn't been natural since 1894, but you delivered it perfectly, because that is what one says, in the correct tone, at the correct time. Oh, that's what that was. You hold doors, Reginald, perhaps for kindness, yes, but I would assume mostly because you were taught that failing to do. so reflects poorly on one's house. You apologise for things that aren't your fault

because decorum, in your mind, at least, demands the appearance of responsibility. And when people sit down, you straighten their chair without realising it. Yeah, you did that to mine. It is because misalignment irritates the version of Reginald here that was moulded day after day by those who thought rightly or wrongly

that precision would sculpt character. I... One has certain standards that one must uphold. One does, yes, but one can point out one's standards, a hard one. Can one not? One is a bit lost. Here?

In honour of your father, Reginald, we must now show our workings, mustn't we? The aforementioned properties of the terms, variables, constants and coefficients. The equation, given we know the algebraic conditions of our society, is simple. Take that well-off upbringing, add it together with a world-class education and your peerless etiquette, times it, of course, by that obsessive desire for perfection that grants those banks, boards, investors to trust you with large expensive things. What then is our sum total? Success. Success. That is why I see you as a successful man. Many can have the treasures and trinkets. Very few can have the map itself to such jewels that high society holds. Congratulations to you on that,

and cheers to the memory of your father. To him, you are a credit, Reginald. Um, yes. Cheers. Like, it's amazing, isn't it? That you can pick up on all those things. I cannot help but feel the old man's hand upon the room, even now. He influenced me greatly. Oh, and you him?

Perhaps. It would be an honour if that were the case, even in small part. I don't believe my father ever managed anything quite of that calibre, but it's quite astonishing. It's interesting you were well-founded, Holmes. Thank you. That's very kind. John here is a fan also. Right, John?

Of the deductions. Yeah. Four, great stuff. Yeah, I'd set up a big tent in Regents Park and charge for deductions if the council had let me. Yeah, no, it's quite the trick. Not a trick. Although the rest of my habits are becoming a bit of a frustration.

Ha, yeah, okay. not air all our dirty laundry in the pub. Dirty laundry, of course, being one of them. Yep. Many others. The most prominent in our bickering at this moment are the unfiled papers, of course. They need a home to be tidy.

They cannot be discarded without being tended to first, of course. Rather like observations when being brought together to form the picture of the man I see in front of me. There is, I'm afraid to say, an observation that lingers unfiled. Is there indeed? Yes, and it's rather an important one. You said you needed it

Needed it You said the trick of deduction You needed it Why As like Well Need like his heart and soul Need it

Right in an emotional sense I thought the same But the words didn't arrive in sorrow His voice didn't falter His eyes remained fixed His stare firm I'm right Aren't I Reginal

Reginald Musgrave. Hmm? Do you require my services? Services. Sherlock runs a detective agency. He's very good. Very, very good. The best.

Um, if I may, what are your plans for this weekend? The Musgraves have been at Hurlestone Castle for nearly 700 years. Oh, there it is, look. Wow. Spectacular. When my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, his very first act, before treatment plans, before Wills, was to arrange for my succession there. Most would have called it a gift.

He, I hope, understood. It was rather more of a burden. Hurlstone is an immense, temperamental organism, a bewildering patchwork of 13th, 14th, 17th, and 18th century fabric. Spires that pierce the clouds, cavernous halls, fireplaces large enough to stable a pony, staircases that refuse to end. He'd hoped to hand it to the National Trust,

but the local authority rather hopelessly complicated the matter. After that, he rather fancied converting the whole ground floor into a first-class hotel. One would have reservations about such a thing, but... Here we are. It was that, or condemned the place to rot. Let it crumble into some grotesquely inaccurate museum of English aristocracy. We secured approval eventually, though the paperwork was chaotic.

Once I assumed full control of the estate, the true weight of it began to pull me into dark, murky depths. Things must be so, Holmes. They must be the way I want them, or I find it rather difficult to cope. Perfection is how one must see every task, from brushing one's teeth, to restoring the greatness of a once mighty seat. I scoured the field for the most capable individual to lead the restoration, and there he was. Richard Brunton, Heritage Development Director. impeccable credentials, everything properly in place, just how I like things to be.

Hi there, my name is Richard Brunton. I'm one of the leading heritage development directors here in the UK. Help me with the door, please. He set to work at once. Construction progressed beautifully, methodical, orderly. No unnecessary improvisation. His team were consummate professionals, diligent, punctual, appropriately deferential to the building's quirks and idiosyncrasies. We were mere weeks from commencing the Interior Programme. When? Well, just three weeks ago, Richard Brunton, my esteemed, project manager, leading expert in the high medieval period, vanished off the face of the

earth. Sherlock and Co. I don't know. No. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.