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

Episode Date: April 8, 2026

The mysterious ‘rat’ falls into Sherlock’s trap.  But what will the great detective do with him, once he’s solved the murder of Charles McCarthy?  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

When WestJet first took flight in 1996, the vibes were a bit different. People thought denim on denim was peak fashion, inline skates were everywhere, and two out of three women rocked, the Rachel. While those things stayed in the 90s, one thing that hasn't is that fuzzy feeling you get when WestJet welcomes you on board. Here's to WestJetting since 96. Travel back in time with us and actually travel with us at westjet.com slash 30 years. Welcome to Sherlock Holmes short stories. I'm Hugh Bonneville, and from the Noisor Podcast Network, this is

The Boscom Valley Mystery, Part 2. Last time, Holmes and Watson traveled to Herefordshire, where a young man called James McCarthy had been arrested for his father's brutal murder. Inspector Lestrade told Holmes it was an open-and-shut case. Charles McCarthy had been found with his head stoved in, following a blazing row with James. But Holmes suspected there was more to the case than met the eye, and he wasn't the only one.

Alice Turner, a young woman from a neighbouring family, was convinced that James was wrongly accused. Her father, John, was the McCarthy's landlord, both families having returned to England from Australia two decades earlier. While Holmes went to interview the accused, Watson attempted to piece together the clues, the strange angle from which the fatal blow was struck. The piece of grey fabric,

briefly spotted at the crime scene, and the dying man's final words. A rat. Now the good doctor can do nothing but wait for his friend to return, hopefully, with some new information. It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town. The glass still keeps very high, he remarked as he sat down. It is of importance that it should not rain before, we are able to go over the ground.

On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy. And what did you learn from him? Nothing. Could he throw no light? None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was screening him or her,

but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at, and I should think, sound at heart. I cannot admire his taste, I remarked, if it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner. Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely in love with her. but some two years ago when he was only a lad and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly, had he known the truth.

It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly, and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered. If he is innocent, who has done it? Ah, who?

I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry, Cooee, before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please,

and we shall leave all minor matters until tomorrow. There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock, Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe pool. There is serious news this morning, Lestrade observed. It is said that Mr Turner of the Hall is so ill that his life is despaired of. An elderly man, I presume, said Holmes.

About 60, but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent-free. Indeed, that is interesting, said Holmes. Oh, yes. In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him.

Really? Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter? who is presumably heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner as if it were merely a case of a proposal

and all else would follow, it is the more strange since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that? We have got to the deductions and the inferences, said Lestrade, winking at me.

I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies. No, you are right, said Holmes demurely. You do find it very hard to tackle facts. Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of, replied Lestrade with some warmth. And that is, that McCarthy Sr. met his death from McCarthy, Jr., and that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine. "'Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,' said Holmes, laughing. "'But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left. "'Yes, that is it.' "'It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed,

"'with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls. "'The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, "'gave it a stricken look, "'as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door where the maid at Holmes' request showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the sons, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the courtyard from which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed,

and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal life, for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient, snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently, he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the woods to the boscombe pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many feet both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes homes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made

quite a little detour into the meadow. Desraude and I walked beside him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end. The book Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some 50 yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hathalie Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods, which lined it upon the farther side, we could see the red jutting pinnacles which marked the sight of the rich landowner's dwelling. On the Hathorley side of the pool, the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass 20 paces across,

between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. The strad showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round like a dog who was picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

What did you go into the pool for? he asked. I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth? Oh, tut-top, I have no time. That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it. And there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the Lodgekeeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet. He drew out a lens and laid down upon his waterproof to have a better view,

talking all the time rather to himself than to us. These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the souls are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then?

It is the butt end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ah! What have we here? Tiptoes, tiptoes. Square, two, quite unusual boots. They come, they go, they come again. Of course that was for the cloak.

Now, where did they come from? He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track, until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beach, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this, and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves, and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope, and examining

with his lens not only the ground, but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the high road, where all traces were lost. "'It has been a case of considerable interest,' he remarked, returning to his natural manner. "'I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. "'I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, "'and perhaps write a little note.

"'Having done that, we may drive back to our luncheon. "'You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently. "'It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood. This may interest you, Lestrade, he remarked, holding it out. The murder was done with it. I see no marks. There are none. How do you know then?

The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon. And the murderer? Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-sold shooting boots,

and a grey cloak smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar holder, and carries a blunt penknife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search. Lestrade laughed. I am afraid that I am still a sceptic, he said. "'Theories are all very well,

"'but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury.' "'Nuveron,' answered Holmes calmly, "'you work your own method, and I shall work mine. "'I shall be busy this afternoon "'and shall probably return to London by the evening train.' "'And leave your case unfinished?' "'No, finished. "'But the mystery.

"'It is solved.' "'Who was the criminal, then?' "'The gentleman I did. described. But who is he? Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populace neighbourhood. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. I am a practical man, he said, and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the laughing stock of Scotland Yard. All right, said Holmes quietly. I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Goodbye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position. "'Look here, Watson,' he said when the cloth was cleared. "'Just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you.' you for a little. I don't know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me expound. Pray do so. Well now, in considering this case, there are two points about young MacArthur's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you against him.

One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry, coo-e, before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the sun's ear. Now, from this double point, our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true. What of this?

Coo-ee, then. Well, obviously, it could not have been meant for the sun. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The Kui was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But Kui is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscompool was someone who had been in Australia.

What of the rat, then? Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. "'This is a map of the colony of Victoria,' he said. "'I wired to Bristol for it last night.' He put his hand over part of the map. "'What do you read? "'A rat,' I read.

"'And now?' He raised his hand. Ballarat. Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer, so and so of Ballarat.

It is wonderful, I exclaimed. It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a thwart. third point, which, granting the sun's statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak, certainly, and one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly wander. Quite so.

Then comes our expedition of today. By an examination of the ground, I gave a the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Estrade as to the personality of the criminal. But how did you gain them? You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles. His height, I know, that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces. Yes, they were peculiar boots. But his lameness. The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his lest. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped. He was lame. But his left-handedness? You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury, as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest.

The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be, unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and the son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my Special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar and cigarette tobacco.

Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam. And the cigar holder? I could see that the end had not been in his mouth, therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt penknife. Hootens, I said, you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot escape, and

you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is, Mr. John Turner, cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room and ushering in a visitor. The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and, of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows, combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance. But his face was of an ashen white,

while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease. Pray, sit down on the sofa, said Holmes gently. You had my note? Yes, the lodgekeeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal. I thought people would talk if I went to the hall. And why did you wish to see me?

He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered. Yes, said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. It is so. I know all about McCarthy. The old man sank his face in his hands. God, help me, he cried. But I would not have let the young man come to harm.

I give you my word that I would have had. have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes. I am glad to hear you say so, said Holmes gravely. I would have spoken now, had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart. It will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested. It may not come to that, said Holmes. What?

I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however. I am a dying man, said old Turner. I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live, month, yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a jail.

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very. Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. "'Just tell us the truth,' he said. "'I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely. "'It's as well,' said the old man. "'It's a question whether I shall live to the assizes, "'so it matters little to me, "'but I should wish to spare Alice the shock.

"'And now I will make the thing clear to you. "'It has been a long time in the acting, "'but will not take me long to tell. "'You didn't know this dead. man McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you, first how I came to be in his power. It was in the early sixties at the diggings. I was a young chap, then hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything. I got among bad companions,

took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here, a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat gang. One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it.

There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing. but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon driver, who was this very man, McCarthy. I wished to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men and made our way over to England without being suspected.

There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife, died young, she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby, her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path, as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me. I had gone up to town about an investment and I met him in Regent Street. I was going to

with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot. "'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm. "'We'll be as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don't, it's a fine law-abiding country, is England, and there's always a policeman within Hale.' Well, down they came to the West. country. There was no shaking them off. And there they have lived rent-free on my best land ever since.

There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness. Turn where I would. There was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse, as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have And whatever it was I gave him without question Land, money, houses Until at last he asked a thing which I could not give He asked for Alice

His son, you see, had grown up and so had my girl And as I was known to be in weak health It seemed a fine stroke to him That his lad should step into the whole property but there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine, not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him,

and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool, midway between our houses, to talk it over. When I went down there, I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be

alone. But as I listened to his talk, all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think, as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I, and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed,

but my memory and my girl. Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply, as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer.

I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry, brought back his son, but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred. Well, it is not for me to judge you, said Holmes, as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation. I pray not, sir.

And what do you intend to do? In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned, I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be. be seen by mortal eye, and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us. Farewell, then, set the old man solemnly. Your own deathbeds when they come will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine. Tottering and shaking in all his

giant frame. He stumbled slowly from the room. To help us, said Holmes after a long silence. Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words and say, There but for the grace of God goes Sherlock Holmes. James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes, on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes

and submitted to the defending council. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead. And there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past. Next time, on Sherlock Holmes short stories, Holmes faces the one man in the world whom he considers his intellectual equal, Professor James Moriarty, the so-called Napoleon of Crime.

For many years now, Holmes has been working to bring down Moriarty's crime syndicate. Now, at last, he stands on the verge of completing his life's work. But Moriarty doesn't intend to go down quietly. And when Holmes' nemesis finally catches up with him, the great detective will find himself between a rock and a hard place, with no solution in sight. That's next time. Can't wait a week until the next episode? Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noyser Plus.

Head to www.org.com slash subscriptions for more information, or click the link in the episode description.