Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - The Boscombe Valley Mystery: Part One

Episode Date: April 1, 2026

Holmes and Watson head down to Herefordshire… where an Antipodean murder mystery is playing out.  But who has killed local landowner Charles McCarthy, two decades after he returned home from Australia with his family?   And what light can the dead man’s final words – ‘A rat!’ – shine on the mystery?   A Noiser podcast production.    Narrated by Hugh Bonneville   Written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  Produced by Duncan Barrett  Sound Design and Audio Editing by 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

Great news. The federal EV rebate is back. Eligible customers get up to $5,000 with the federal EVAP rebate on select 2027 volt and 2026 Equinox EV models. Visit your local Chevrolet dealer today for more details. 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, Holmes and Watson are embroiled in an Australian murder mystery, playing out in rural Herefordshire. John Turner and Charles McCarthy both spent most of their lives in the Antipodes,

before returning home to the old country. Charles and his son James took up residence on Turner's estate, where the young lad soon grew close to his landlord's daughter, Alice. But now, Charles McCarthy has been found dead, his head stoved in with a blunt object, and James has been arrested for his father's murder. Can Sherlock prove the young man's innocence before he's condemned to the gallows? From the Noiser podcast network, this is the Boscombe Valley Mystery, Part 1. We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram.

It was from Sherlock Holmes, and ran in this way. Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for, from the west of England, in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad, if you will come with me, air and scenery perfect, leave Paddington by the 1115. What do you say, dear? said my wife, looking across at me. Will you go? I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present.

Oh, Anstrother would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases. I should be ungrateful if I were not seeing what I gained through one of them, I answered. But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour. My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than, less than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform. His tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and

taller by his long grey travelling cloak and close-fitting cloth camp. "'It is really very good of you to come, Watson,' said he. "'It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biased. If you will keep the two corner seats, I shall get the tickets. We had the carriage to ourselves, save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball, and tossed them up onto the rack. "'Have you heard anything of the case?' he asked.

"'Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days. The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult. That sounds a little paradoxical, but it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. this case, however. They have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man. It is a murder, then. Well, it is conjectured, to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have

the opportunity of looking personally into it. I would explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a very few words. Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross in Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hathalie, was led to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant, but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect

equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of 18, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English families, and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthy's were fond of sport, and were frequently seen at the race meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants, a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts.

On June the 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatharly, about three in the afternoon, and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake, formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscom Valley. He had been out with his serving man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment, he never came back alive. From Hatherly Farmhouse to the Boscom Pool is a quarter of a mile,

and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a gamekeeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The gamekeeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass, he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

The two MacArthur was seen after the time when William Crowder, the gamekeeper, lost sight of them. The Boscom Pool is thickly wooded round with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl of 14, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodgekeeper of the Boscom Valley Estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there, she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened

by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthy's quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood and to ask for the help of the lodgekeeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him, they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the

butt end of his son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances, the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of willful murder having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before for the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next assizes. Where are my gloves? Come on, heat. Winter is hard, but your groceries don't have to be. This winter, stay warm.

Tap the banner to order your groceries online at voila.ca. Enjoy in-store prices without leaving your home. You'll find the same regular prices online as in-store. Many promotions are available both in-store and online, though some may vary. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police court. I could hardly imagine a more damning case, I remarked. If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal, it does so here. Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing, answered Holmes thoughtfully.

It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the study in Scarlet to work out the case in his interest.

The Strard, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is, that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour, instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home. I am afraid, said I, that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of this case. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact, he unresolved. answered, laughing. Besides, we made chance to hit upon some other obvious facts, which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade.

You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade, would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that. How on earth! My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by the sunlight. But since your shaving is less and less complete

as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly, as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my metéé, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering.

What are they? It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Hadley Farm. On the inspector of Constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury. It was a confession, I exclaimed.

No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence. Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious remark. On the contrary, said Holmes, it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances

were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural, if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father,

and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are disputed, "'fraid in his remark appear to me "'to be the signs of a healthy mind "'rather than of a guilty one.'

"'I shook my head. "'Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,' "'I remarked. "'So they have, and many men have been wrongfully hanged. "'What is the young man's own account of the matter? "'It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, "'though there are one or two points in it, which are suggestive,

you will find it here, and may read it for yourself. He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the sheet, he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement

of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of a carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way. Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave evidence as follows. I had been away from home for three days at Bristol,

and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday the third. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return, I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscom Pool, with the intention of visiting the Rabbit Warren, which is upon the other side.

On my way I saw William Crowder, the gamekeeper, as he has stated in his evidence, but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool, I heard a cry of, which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried forward and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there.

A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hathalie Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired.

I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner's lodgekeeper, his house being the nearest to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter. Coroner, did your father make any statement to you before he died? Witness. He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to.

a rat? The coroner. What did you understand by that? Witness, it conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious. The coroner. What was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel? Witness, I should prefer not to answer. The coroner, I am afraid that I must press it. Witness, it is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to do, with the sad tragedy which followed. The coroner. That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer

will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise. Witness. I must still refuse. The coroner. I understand that the cry of cooie was a common signal between you and your father. Witness, it was. The coroner. How was it then that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?

Witness, with considerable confusion, I do not know. A juror man. Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured? Witness, nothing definite. A coroner. What do you mean? Witness. I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open that I could think of nothing except of my father.

Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward, something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid, perhaps. When I rose from my father, I looked round for it, but it was gone. Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help? Yes, it was gone. You cannot say what it was? No, I had a feeling something was there. How far from the body?

A dozen yards or so. And how far from the edge of the wood? About the same. Then if it was removed, it was while you were within a dozen yards of it. Yes, but with you. my back towards it. This concluded the examination of the witness. I see, said I, as I glanced down the column, that the coroner in his concluding remarks

was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father's dying. words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the sun. Holmes laughed softly to himself, and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat. Both you and the coroner have been at some pains, said he, to single out the very strongest points in the young man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imagination, and too little? Too little if he could not invent a

cause of quarrel, which would give him the sympathy of the jury, too much if he evolved from his own inner consciousness and anything so utre as a dying reference to a rat and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now, here is my pocket petrarch. And not another word. shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in 20 minutes. This April on the Noiser podcast network, real Vikings continues as the Norseman journey through the Med, over to Ireland, and across to North America. On short history of,

we witnessed the U.S. Civil War and follow the remarkable life of Bob Dylan. On real survival stories, we're marooned in the Indian Ocean, in a survival story truly for the ages. And in Sherlock Holmes' Short stories, an Australian expat is found dead near a body of water and his son is in the frame in the Boscom Valley mystery. Get all of these shows and more early and add free on Noiser Plus. And if you haven't already, get your hands on a copy of Noys' book, a short history of ancient Rome. Available in all good bookshops and wherever you get your audiobooks. It was nearly four o'clock when we, at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley and over the broad, gleaming seven, found ourselves of being pretty,

little country town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty

in recognising Lestrade of Scotland Yard. With him, we drove to the Hereford Arms, where a room had already been engaged for us. I have ordered a carriage, said Lestrade, as we sat over, a cup of tea. I knew your energetic nature and that you would not be happy until you had been

on the scene of the crime. It was very nice and complimentary of you, Holmes answered. It is entirely a question of barometric pressure. The strad looked startled. I do not quite follow, he said. How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind and not a cloud in the sky. I have a case full of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage tonight.' The Strad laughed intelligently. You have no doubt already formed your conclusions from the newspapers, he said. The case is as plain as a park staff, and the more one goes into it, the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady.

and such a very positive one too. She has heard of you and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do, which I had not already done. Why? Bless my soul! Here is her carriage at the door. He had hardly spoken before they rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted,

a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve, lost in her overpowering excitement and concern. Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, I am so glad that you have come, I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it, I know it, and I want you to start upon your work, knowing it too.

Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does, but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him. I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner, said Sherlock Holmes. You may rely upon my doing all that I can. But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? "'Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?' "'I think that it is very probable.' "'There now,' she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade.

"'You hear, he gives me hopes!' Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "'I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick "'informing his conclusions,' he said. "'But he is right. Oh, I know that he is right. James never did it.' and about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it.

"'In what way?' asked Holmes. "'It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister, but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and, well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them. And your father? asked Holmes. Was he in favour of such a union?

No. He was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy. was in favor of it. A quick blush passed over her fresh young face, as Holmes shot one of his keen questioning glances at her. "'Thank you for this information,' said he. "'May I see your father if I call tomorrow?' "'I am afraid the doctor won't allow it.' "'The doctor.' "'Yes. Have you not heard?' "'Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck, and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known Dad in the old days in Victoria.

Ah, in Victoria, that is important. Yes, at the mines. Quite so, at the gold mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money. Yes, certainly. Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material. "'I'll tell me if you have any news tomorrow. "'No doubt you will go to the prison to see James.

"'Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent. "'I will, Miss Turner. "'I must go home now, for Dad is very ill, "'and he misses me so if I leave him. "'Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.' "'She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street. "'I am ashamed of you, Holmes,' said Lestrade with dignity after a few minutes' silence.

"'Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel.' "'I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,' said Holmes. "'Have you an order to see him in prison?' "'Yes.' but only for you and me. Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him tonight?

Ampaw. Then let us do so. Watson, I feared that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours. I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-batch novel.

The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to the fact that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade. It was something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell

and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition, it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot on my own head. Clearly, such a blow must have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. It did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worthwhile to call Holmes' attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium.

A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious, no. It was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cuddled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true, the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the sun was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off.

What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was. I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock. Holmes' insight that I could not lose hope, as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's innocence. Next time on Sherlock Holmes' short stories, the great detective returns bearing new information from the accused. A forensic analysis of the crime scene reveals fresh clues to the true guilty party.

And a long-hidden secret is finally unearthed that threatens to bring down to the families. That's next time. Can't wait a week until the next episode. Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noisor Plus. Head to www.org.com slash subscriptions for more information or click the link in the episode description.