Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - The Musgrave Ritual: Part Two

Episode Date: March 27, 2025

Holmes travels to Hurlstone Manor to investigate the butler's disappearance and its connection to the enigmatic Musgrave Ritual. As he decodes the meaning behind the ritual's archaic verses, Holmes realises this is no mere family tradition—it's a riddle that has guarded a shocking secret for generations... A Noiser podcast production. Narrated by Hugh Bonneville  Written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Produced by Katrina Hughes and Addison Nugent Sound Design and Audio Editing by George Tapp and Josh Latham Compositions: Dorry Macaulay and Oliver Baines Mix & Mastering: Liam Cameron Series Consultant: Dan Smith For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the Noiser+ banner to get started. Or, if you’re on Spotify or Android, go to noiser.com/subscriptions Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Welcome to Sherlock Holmes short stories. I'm Hugh Bonneville and from the Noiser Podcast Network this is The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual, part two. Last time, Holmes began recounting to Watson a mystery that helped establish him as London's premier gentleman detective. Long before he met Watson, in the early years of his practice, Holmes was visited by an old college acquaintance named Reginald Musgrave. Reginald told Holmes of a series of bizarre happenings that had recently occurred at his family's manor home.

The trouble began when he caught his faithful butler, Brunton, breaking into his desk to study an ancient family document, which detailed the so-called Musgrave Ritual. Reginald immediately dismissed Brunton for this breach of trust, but the butler begged for time to sort out his affairs before leaving. Reginald agreed, but just a few days later the butler disappeared without a trace, leaving behind his clothes, money and his ex-lover, the housemaid Rachel Howells, now hysterical with grief. The case took an even darker turn when Rachel's footprints were found leading to the edge of a cliff above a

lake on the Musgrave estate. Reginald assumed the poor girl had jumped to her death, but when they dragged the lake, they found nothing but a mysterious bag filled with rusted metal and dirty stones. The local police were baffled by the whole affair, so Reginald turned to his old friend Sherlock for answers. Now, Sherlock is continuing his story. You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I listened to this extraordinary sequence of events and endeavored to piece them together

and to devise some common thread upon which they might all hang. The butler was gone, the maid was gone, the maid had loved the butler, but had afterwards had caused to hate him. She was of Welsh blood, fiery and passionate. She had been terribly excited immediately after his disappearance.

She had flung into the lake a bag containing some curious contents. These were all factors which had to be taken into consideration, and yet none of them got quite to the heart of the matter. What was the starting point of this chain of events? There lay the end of this tangled line. "'I must see that paper, Musgrave,' said I, "'which this butler of yours thought it worth his while

"'to consult even at the risk of the loss of his place.' "'It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours,' he answered. "'But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to excuse it. "'I have a copy of the questions and answers here, if you care to run your eye over them. He handed me the very paper which I have here, Watson, and this is the strange catechism to which each Musgrave had to submit when he came to man's estate. I will read you the questions and answers as they stand. Whose was it? His who is gone. Who shall have it? He who will come. Where was the sun? Over

the oak. Where was the shadow? Under the elm. How was it stepped? North by 10 and by 10, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under. What shall we give for it? All that is ours. Why should we give it? For the sake of the trust. Why should we give it for the sake of the trust? The original has no date, but is in the spelling of the middle of the seventeenth century,

remarked Musgrave. I am afraid, however, that it can be of little help to you in solving this mystery. At least, said I, it gives us another mystery and one which is even more interesting than the first. It may be that the solution of the one may prove to be the solution of the other. You will excuse me, Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears to me to have been a very clever man and to have had a clearer insight than ten generations of his masters.' "'I hardly follow you,' said Musgrave.

"'The paper seems to me to be of no practical importance.' "'But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that Brunton took the same view. He had probably seen it before that night on which you caught him.' "'It is very possible we took no pains to hide it.' He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon that last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or chart which he was comparing with the manuscript and which he thrust into his pocket when you appeared. That is true, but what could he have to do with this old family custom of ours, and what does this rigmarole mean? I don't think that we should have much difficulty in determining that, said I.

With your permission, we will take the first train down to Sussex and go a little more deeply into the matter upon the spot. The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlston. Possibly you have seen pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building, so I will confine my account of it to saying that it is built in the shape of an L, the long arm being the more modern portion and the shorter the ancient nucleus from which the other had developed. Over the low, heavily-linteled door in the centre of this old part is chiselled the date 1607, but experts have agreed that the beams and stonework are really much older than this. The enormously thick walls and tiny windows

of this part had, in the last century, driven the family into building the new wing, and the old one was used now as a storehouse and a cellar, when it was used at all. A splendid park with fine old timber surrounds the house, and the lake, to which my client had referred, lay close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from the building. I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not three separate mysteries here, but one only, and that if I could read the Musgrave ritual aright, I should hold in my hand a clue which would lead me to the truth concerning both the Butler Brunton and the Maid Howells.

To that end I turned all my energies. Why should this servant be so anxious to master this old formula? Evidently because he saw something in it which had escaped all those generations of country squires and from which he expected some personal advantage. What was it then, and how had it affected his fate? It was perfectly obvious to me on reading the ritual that the measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the document eluded,

and that if we could find that spot, we should be in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the old Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a fashion. There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and an elm. As to the oak, there could be no question at all. Right in front of the house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there stood a patriarch among oaks, one of the most magnificent trees that I have ever seen.

That was there when your ritual was drawn up,' said I, as we drove past it. "'It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability,' he answered. "'It has a girth of twenty-three feet.' "'Have you any old elms?' I asked. "'There used to be a very old one over yonder, but it was struck by lightning ten years ago, and we cut down the stump. You can see where it used to be? Oh, yes.

There are no other elms? No old ones, but plenty of beaches. Now I should like to see where it grew. We had driven up in a dog cart, and my client led me away at once without our entering the house to the scar on the lawn where the elm had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and the house. My investigation seemed to be progressing. I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was, I ask. I can give you it at once, it was sixty-four feet.

How do you come to know it? I asked in surprise. When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry, it always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was a lad, I worked out every tree and building in the estate. This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more quickly than I could have reasonably hoped. Tell me, I asked, did your butler ever ask you such a question? Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. Now that you call it to my mind, he answered, Brunton did ask me about the height of the

tree some months ago, in connection with some little argument with the groom. With the Fizz loyalty program, you get rewarded just for having a mobile plan. You know, for texting and stuff. And if you're not getting rewards like extra data and dollars off with your mobile plan, you're not with Fizz. Switch today. Conditions apply. Details at fizz.ca.

This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on the right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the heavens, and I calculated that in less than an hour it would lie just above the topmost branches of the old oak. One condition mentioned in the ritual would then be fulfilled, and the shadow of the elm must mean the farther end of the shadow, otherwise the trunk would have been chosen as the guide. I had then to find where the far end of the shadow would fall when the

sun was just clear of the oak. That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no longer there. Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I could also. Besides, there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to his study and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied this long string with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a fishing rod, which came to just six feet, and I went back with my client to where the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the top of the oak. I fastened the rod on end, marked out the direction of the shadow, and measured it.

It was nine feet in length. Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six feet threw a shadow of nine, a tree of sixty-four feet would throw one of ninety-six, and the line of the one would of course be the line of the other. I measured out the distance which brought me almost to the wall of the house and I thrust a peg into the spot. You can imagine my exultation, Watson, when within two inches of my peg I saw a conical depression in the ground. I knew that it was the mark made by Brunton in his measurements and that I was still upon his trail.

From this starting point I proceeded to step, having first taken the cardinal points by my pocket compass. Ten steps with each foot took me along parallel with the wall of the house, and again I marked my spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to the east and two to the south. It brought me to the very threshold of the old door. Two steps to the west meant now that I was to go two paces down the stone flagged passage and this was the place indicated by the ritual.

Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment, Watson. For a moment it seemed to me that there must be some radical mistake in my calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the passage floor, and I could see that the old foot-worn grey stones with which it was paved were firmly cemented together and had certainly not been moved for many a long year. Brunton had not been at work here. I tapped upon the floor, but it sounded the same all over over and there was no sign of any crack or crevice. But fortunately Musgrave, who had begun to appreciate the meaning of my proceedings and who was now as excited as myself, took out his manuscript to check my calculation.

And under, he cried, you have omitted the and under. I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but now of course I saw at once that I was wrong. There is a cellar under this then, I cried. Yes, and as old as the house, down here through this door. We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion striking a, lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner.

In an instant, it was obvious that we had at last come upon the true place, and that we had not been the only people to visit the spot recently. It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which had evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the sides so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space lay a large and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the center, to which a thick shepherd's check muffler was attached. "'By Jove!' cried my client, "'That's Brunton's muffler.

I have seen it on him and could swear to it. What has the villain been doing here?' At my suggestion, a couple of the county police were summoned to be present, and I then endeavored to raise the stone by pulling on the cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the aid of one of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying it to one side. A black hole yawned beneath, into which we all peered, while Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the lantern. A small chamber, about seven feet deep and four feet square lay open to us.

At one side of this was a squat brass-bound wooden box, the lid of which was hinged upwards with this curious old-fashioned key projecting from the lock. It was furred outside by a thick layer of dust, and damp and worms had eaten through the wood so that a crop of livid fungi was growing on the inside of it. Several disks of metal, old coins apparently, such as I hold here, were scattered over the bottom of the box, but it contained nothing else. At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for our eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it.

It was the figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down upon his hands with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and his two arms thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had drawn all the stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have recognized that distorted, liver-colored countenance. But his height, his dress, and his hair were all sufficient to show my client, when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed his missing butler. He had been dead some days, but there was no wound or bruise upon his person to show how he had met

his dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the cellar, we found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was almost as formidable as that with which we had started. I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I had found the place referred to in the ritual. But now I

was there, and was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was which the family had concealed with such elaborate precautions. It is true that I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton, but now I had to ascertain how that fate had come upon him, and what part had been played in the matter by the woman who had disappeared. I sat down upon a keg in the corner and thought the whole matter carefully over. You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the man's place, and having first gauged his intelligence, I try to imagine how I should

myself have proceeded under the same circumstances." In this case, the matter was simplified by Brunton's intelligent being quite first rate, so that it was necessary to undertake any allowance for the personal equation, as the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that something valuable was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found that the stone which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move unaided. What would he do next?

He could not get help from outside, even if he had someone whom he could trust without the unbarring of doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he could, to have his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he ask? This girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman's love, however badly he may have treated her. He would try by a few attentions to make his peace with the girl Howells, and then would engage her as his accomplice. Together they would come at night to

the cellar, and their united force would suffice to raise the stone. So far I could follow their actions as if I had actually seen them. But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy work, the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I had found it no light job. What would they do to assist them? Probably what I should have done myself, I rose and examined carefully the different billets of wood which were scattered round the floor. Almost at once I came upon what I expected.

One piece, about three feet in length, had a very marked indentation at one end, while several were flattened at the sides, as if they had been compressed by some considerable weight. Evidently, as they had dragged the stone up, they had thrust the chunks of wood into the chink, until at last, when the opening was large enough to crawl through, they would hold it open by a billet placed lengthwise, which might very well become indented at the lower end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it down onto the edge of this other slab.

So far I was still on safe ground, and now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama? Clearly only one could fit into the hole, and that one was Brunton. The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked the box, handed up the contents, presumably, since they were not to be found, and then... and then what happened? What smoldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into flame in this passionate Celtic woman's soul when she saw

the man who had wronged her, wronged her perhaps far more than we suspected in her power. Was it a chance that the wood had slipped and that the stone had shut Brunnton into what had become his sepulcher? Had she only been guilty of silence as to his fate? Or had some sudden blow from her hand dashed the support away and sent the slab crashing down into its place? Be that as it might, I seemed to see that woman's figure still clutching at her treasure trove and flying wildly up the winding stair, with her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams from behind her and with the drumming of frenzied hands against the slab of stone which was choking her faithless lover's life out. Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her peels of hysterical laughter on the next morning.

But what had been in the box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must have been the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from the mirror. She had thrown them in there at the first opportunity to remove the last trace of her crime. For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter out. Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his lantern and peering down into the hole. These are the coins of Charles I, said he, holding out the few which had been in the box.

You see, we were right in fixing our date for the ritual. We may find something else of Charles I, I cried, as the probable meaning of the first two questions of the ritual broke suddenly upon me. Let me see the contents of the bag which you fished from the mirror." We ascended to his study, and he laid the debris before me. I could understand his regarding it as of small importance when I looked at it,

for the metal was almost black and the stones lustrous and dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it glowed afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metalwork was in the form of a double ring, but it had been bent and twisted out of its original shape. You must bear in mind, said I, that the royal party made head in England even after the

death of the king, and that when they at last fled they probably left many of their most precious possessions buried behind them, with the intention of returning for them in more peaceful times. My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a prominent cavalier, and the right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings," said my friend. "'Ah, indeed,' I answered. "'Well, now, I think that really should give us the last link that we wanted.'" I must congratulate you on coming into the possession, though in a rather tragic manner, of a relic which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater importance as an historical

curiosity." "'What is that, then?' he gasped in astonishment. but of even greater importance as an historical curiosity. But what is that then? He gasped in astonishment. It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the kings of England. The crown? Precisely. Consider what the ritual says. How does it run? Whose was it? His who is gone. That was after the execution of Charles. Then who shall have it?

He who will come. That was Charles II, whose advent was already foreseen. There can, I think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem once encircled the brows of the royal stewards. And how came it in the pond? Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer. And with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise and of proof which I had constructed.

The twilight had closed in, and the moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative was finished. And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he returned? Asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen bag. Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the Musgrave who held the secret died in the interval, and by some oversight left this guide to his descendant without explaining the meaning of it. From that day to this, it has been handed down from father to son until at last it came within reach of a man who tore

its secret out of it, and lost his life in the venture. And that's the story of the Musgrave ritual, Watson. They have the crown down at Hurlston, though they had some legal bother and a considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it. I am sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to show it to you. Of the woman, nothing was ever heard, and the probability is that crime to some land beyond the seas. Next time on Sherlock Holmes Short Stories, we embark on one of the great detectives' most celebrated cases, a scandal in Bohemia.

When a mysterious masked man appears at 221B Baker Street with a delicate problem, Holmes finds himself suddenly drawn into a web of international intrigue. At the center of the whole affair lies Irene Adler, opera singer, adventurous, and one of Sherlock's most worthy opponents. Will Holmes catch Adler before she uses a compromising photograph to topple one of Europe's most powerful monarchies? Or has the great detective finally met his match?

Find out next time.