Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez: Part One

Episode Date: July 22, 2026

Part one of two  Holmes and Watson are called to the home of a reclusive professor whose young assistant has just been murdered. From the heavy prescription of the pince-nez left at the scene, the murderer must have been half-blind when they made their escape... but can Holmes bring the case into focus?  A Noiser podcast production.    Narrated by Hugh Bonneville   Written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  Produced by Duncan Barrett  Script Supervisor: Chris McDonald  Sound Design and Audio Editing: Tony Onuchukwu  Sound Supervisor: Tom Pink  Compositions: Dorry Macaulay and Oliver Baines  Mix & Mastering: Josh Latham  Series Consultant: Dan Smith  Executive Producer: Katrina Hughes    For ad-free listening and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Just click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

You've been looking forward to this all week. And with Cutwater's cocktails, this? Took only seconds, because tonight's about catching up. Not catching the server. Whether it's our Cutwater lime margarita, lemon drop martini, or rum mitai. They're expertly mixed and ready before the snacks hit the table. Cutwater. Expertly mixed cocktails. A perfect pairing for an evening with good company.

Please enjoy responsibly. Must be 19 plus. 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, on a stormy November night, Holmes is visited by Inspector Stanley Hopkins, who is baffled by a curious crime.

The young secretary, Mr. Willoughby Smith, has been found murdered in the home. home of his employer, the reclusive Professor Corum. The professor is bedbound, and his staff were all elsewhere in the house when the murder occurred. But there are a number of curious clues, including a bloodstained knife and a golden pince-nez, apparently snatched from the killer during a struggle. From the Noyser Podcast Network, this is The Adventure of the Golden Pinsnees, part one. When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our work for the year 1894,

I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most interesting in themselves, and at the same time most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the Red Leach and the terrible death of Crosby, the banker. Here also I find an account of the Adelton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British Barrow. The famous Smith Mortimer succession case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Jure, the boulevard assassin, an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from the French president and the order of the Legion of Honour.

Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that none of them unite so many. singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so curious alight upon the causes of the crime. It was a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November. Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening. He engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest, I, deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside, the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange, there, in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on

every side of us, to feel the iron grip of nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces, all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end. Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out tonight, said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. I've done enough. I've done enough. enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating from the second half of the 15th century.

Hello, hello, hello, what's this? Amid the droning of the wind, there had come the stamping of a horse's hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the curb. The cab, which I had seen, had pulled up at our door. What can he want? I asked, as a man stepped out of it. Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats and galoshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather. Wait a bit, though. There's the cab off again.

There's hope yet. He'd have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed. When the light of the hall-lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very practical interest.

Is he in? he asked eagerly. Come up, my dear sir, said Holmes' voice from above. I hope you have no designs upon us on such a night as this. The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining waterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes not to blaze out of the logs in the grate. Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes, said he. Here's a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon,

which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something important which has brought you out in such a gale. It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the late. editions? I've seen nothing later than the 15th century today. Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my feet. It's down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham, and three from the railway line.

I was wired for at 3.15, reached Yoxley Old Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab. Which means, I suppose that you are not quite clear about your case. It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled. And yet, at first, it seems so simple that one couldn't go wrong. There's no motive, Mr Holmes. That's what bothers me.

I can't put my hand on a motive. Is a man dead? There's no denying that. But so far as I can see, no reason on. earth why anyone should wish him harm. Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair. Let us hear about it, said he. I've got my facts pretty clear, said Stanley Hopkins. All I want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out, is like this. Some years ago, this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man who gave the name

of Professor Corum. He was an invalid keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a bath chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man.

His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarleton. These have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character. The professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes, but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith,

the very young man, straight from the university, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the professor's dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages, which bore upon the next day's work. This, Willoughby Smith, has nothing against him, either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge. I've seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a decent, quiet, hard-working fellow,

with no weak spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the professor's study, under circumstances which can point only to murder. The wind howled and screamed, the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed his singular narrative. If you were to search all England, said he, I don't suppose you could find a household more self-contained or free from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them go past the garden gate. The professor was buried in his

work and existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood and lived very much as his employer did. The two women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the gardener, who wheels the bath chair, is an army pensioner, an old Primean man of excellent character. He does not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the grounds of Yorksley Old Place. At the same time the gate of the garden is 100 yards from the main London to Chatham Road. It opens with a latch and there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in. Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarleton, who is the only person who can say anything

positive about the matter. It was in the forenoon between 11 and 12. She was engaged at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Corum was still in bed for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting room, but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread.

She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later, There was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant, there was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence.

The maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was showing, and she opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to raise him, she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of his neck.

It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him, It was one of those small ceiling wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing tables with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor's own desk. At first, the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on pouring some water from the caraf over his forehead, he opened his eyes for an instant. The professor, he murmured. it was she.

The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead. In the meantime, the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but she was just too late to catch the young man's dying words, leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the professor's room. He was sitting up in bed, horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him that something terrible had occurred.

Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the professor was still in his night clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at 12 o'clock. The professor declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the young man's last word. the professor it was she, but imagines that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer the gardener for the local police. A little later, the chief constable sent for me.

Nothing was moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths leading to the house. "'It was a splendid chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr Sherlock Holmes. "'There was really nothing wanting.' "'Except Mr Sherlock Holmes,' said my companion with a somewhat bitter smile. "'Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you make of it?' "'I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, "'which will give you a general idea of the position of the professor's study, and the various points of the case.

It will help you in following my investigation. He unfolded a rough chart, and he ledgered across Holmes' knee. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studded it over his shoulder. It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly, by the garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly complicated.

The escape must have also been made along that line. Four of the two other exits from the room, one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs, and the other leads straight to the professor's bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to the garden path. which was saturated with recent rain, and would certainly show any footmarks. My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border, which lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track.

I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down, and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the night. One moment, said Holmes. Where does this path lead to? To the road.

How long is it? A hundred yards or so. At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could surely pick up the tracks. Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point. Well, on the road itself. No, it was all trodden into mire. Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or going?

It was impossible to say there was never any outline. A large foot or a small? You could not distinguish. Holmes gave a sigh of impatience. It has been pouring rain and blowing a house. hurricane ever since, said he. It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well, it can't be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing? I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that someone had

entered the house cautiously from without. I next examined the corridor. It is lined with coconut matting and had taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study. This itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article is a large writing table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double column of drawers with a central small cupboard between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were always open and nothing of value was kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been committed.

I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the bureau and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been self-inflicted. Unless he fell upon the knife, said Holmes. Exactly, the idea crossed my mind, but we found the knife some feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there are the man's own dying words,

and finally, there was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's right hand. From his pocket, Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez with two broken ends of black silk cord, dangling from the end of it. Willoughby Smith had excellent sight, he added. There can be no question that this was snatched from the face or the person of the assassin.

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and, finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

"'That's the best I can do for you,' said he. "'It may prove to be of some use.' The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows. "'Wanted a woman of good a dress, attired like a lady, she has a remarkably thick nose with eyes which are set close upon either side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering, expression and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months.

As her glasses are of remarkable strength, and as opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her. Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins. which must have been reflected upon my features. "'Surely my deductions are simplicity itself,' said he. "'It would be difficult to name any articles "'which afford a finer field for inference than a pair of glasses, "'especially so remarkable a pair as these.

"'That they belong to a woman, I infer, from their delicacy, "'and also, of course, from the last words of the dying man. "'As to her being a person of refinement and well-dressed, "'they are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your nose, showing that the lady's nose was very broad at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there are a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic, or from insisting

upon this point in my description. My own face is a narrow one, and yet I I find that I cannot get my eyes into the centre or near the centre of these glasses. Therefore, the lady's eyes are set very near to the sides of the nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead, the eyelids and the shoulders. Yes, I said.

I can follow each of your eyes. arguments, I confess, however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double visit to the optician. Holmes took the glasses in his hand. You will perceive, he said, that the clips are lined with tiny bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new. Evidently, one has fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that the older of them has not been there more than. and a few months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the same establishment for the second.

"'Haw, George, it's marvellous,' cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of admiration, to think that I had all that evidence in my hand and never knew it. I had intended, however, to go the round of the London opticians. Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us about the case?' "'Nothing, Mr Holmes. "'I think that you know as much as I do now, probably more. "'We have had inquiries made as to any stranger seen on the country roads "'or at the railway station.

"'We have heard of none. "'What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime. "'Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest? "'Ah, there I am not in a position to help you, "'but I suppose you want us to come out tomorrow?' "'If it is not asking too much, Mr Holmes, "'there's a train from Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, "'and we should be at Yorkshire Old Place between eight and nine.

"'Then we shall take it. "'Your case has certainly some features of great interest, "'and I shall be delighted to look into it. "'Well, it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. "'I dare say you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire. "'I'll light my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee before we start. The gale had blown itself out next day,

but it was a bitter morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our career. After a long and weary journey, we are lighted at a small station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was being put into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast,

and so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley Old Place. Hopkins met us at the garden gate. Well, Hopkins, any news? No, sir, nothing. No reports of any stranger seen? No, sir. Down at the station, they are certain that no stranger either came or went yesterday. Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?

Yes, sir. There is no one that we cannot account for. Well, it is only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay there, or take a train without being observed. This is the garden path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I pledge my word. There was no mark on it yesterday. On which side were the marks on the grass? This side, sir. "'this narrow margin of grass between the path and the flower bed.

"'I can't see the traces now, but they were clear to me then.' "'Yes. Yes. Someone has passed along,' said Holmes, stooping over the grass border. "'Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must she not, "'since on the one side she would leave a track on the path, "'and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed. "'Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.' I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face. You say that she must have come back this way?

Yes, sir, there is no other. On this strip of grass? Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Hmm. It was a very remarkable performance, very remarkable. Well, I think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is usually kept open, I suppose.

then this visitor had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would have provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the writing table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no traces upon the coconut matting. Then she found herself in this study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging.

"'Oh, not more than a few minutes, sir. "'I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Marker, the housekeeper, "'had been in there tidying not very long before, "'about a quarter of an hour,' she says. "'Well, that gives us a limit. "'Our lady enters this room, and what does she do? "'She goes over to the writing-table. "'What for?

"'Not for anything in the drawers. "'If there had been anything worth her taking, "'it would surely have been locked up. No, it was for something in that wooden bureau. "'Hello? "'What is that scratch upon the face of it? "'Just hold a match, Watson. "'Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?'

"'The mark which he was examining "'began upon the brasswork on the right-hand side of the keyhole "'and extended for about four inches "'where it had scratched the varnish from the surface. "'I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you'll always... these fine scratches around a keyhole. This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is cut.

An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there? A sad-faced elderly woman came into the room. Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning? "'Yes, sir. Did you notice this scratch?' "'No, sir. I did not. I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these

shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?' "'The professor keeps it on his watch-chain. Is it a simple key?' "'No, sir, it is a Chubbs key.' "'Very good, Mrs. Marker. You can go.' "'Now we are making a little progress.' Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged, young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key, she makes this scratch upon the door.

He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with. or without the object for which she has come. Is Susan the maid there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the time that you heard the cry, Susan?

No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I'd have seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, for I would have heard it. That settles this exit. Then, no doubt, the lady went out the way she came. I understand that this other passage,

leads only to the professor's room. There is no exit that way. No, sir. We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor. Hello, Hopkins. This is very important, very important indeed. The professor's corridor is also lined with coconut matting. Well, so, what of that? Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, I don't insist upon it. No doubt, I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be suggestive. Come with me and introduce me.

Next time on Sherlock Holmes short stories, Holmes comes face to face with the enigmatic Professor Corum. And a simple offer of a cigarette sparks an unexpected breakthrough. That's next time. Can't wait a week until the next episode. Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to NoisorPlus. Head to www.com slash subscriptions for more information, or click the link in the episode description.