Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure Of The Musgrave Ritual 2 Of 2

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks so much for joining me tonight and welcome to part two of the Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual,

A Sherlock Holmes story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Devotees of Sherlock Holmes,

Known as Sherlockians or Holmesians,

Frequently gather in societies all around the world to pay tribute to the master detective.

The most established of these societies are the invitation-only Baker Street Irregulars,

Which was founded in 1934,

And the Sherlock Holmes Society of London,

Which was founded in 1951 and is open to anyone.

So before we go ahead,

Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable by settling down into your chair or your bed,

Relaxing your hands,

Releasing your shoulders and softening your jaw.

That's wonderful.

Well,

We left part one with the disappearance of the butler,

Brompton,

And Sherlock Holmes is recounting the story as told to him by Mr Musgrave.

Dr Watson is listening.

Of course,

We searched the house from cellar to garret,

But there was no trace of him.

It is,

As I have said,

A labyrinth of an old house,

Especially the original wing,

Which is now practically uninhabited,

But we ransacked every room and attic without discovering the least sign of the missing man.

It was incredible to me that he could have gone away,

Leaving all his property behind him,

And yet where could he be?

I called in the local police,

But without success.

Rain had fallen on the night before,

And we examined the lawn and the paths all around the house,

But in vain.

Matters were in this state when a new development quite drew our attention away from the original mystery.

For two days,

Rachel Howells had been so ill,

Sometimes delirious,

Sometimes hysterical,

That a nurse had been employed to sit up with her at night.

On the third night after Brompton's disappearance,

The nurse,

Finding her patient sleeping nicely,

Had dropped into a nap in the armchair when she awoke in the early morning to find the bed empty,

The window open,

And no signs of the invalid.

I was instantly aroused,

And with the two footmen started off at once in search of the missing girl.

It was not difficult to tell the direction which she had taken,

For starting from under her window,

We could follow her footmarks easily across the lawn to the edge of the mere where they vanished,

Close to the gravel path which leads out of the grounds.

The lake there is eight feet deep,

And you can imagine our feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl came to an end at the edge of it.

Of course,

We had the drags at once,

And set to work to recover the remains,

But no trace of the body could we find.

On the other hand,

We brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected kind.

It was a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old rusted and discoloured metal,

And several dull coloured pieces of pebble or glass.

This strange find was all that we could get from the mere,

And although we made every possible search and inquiry yesterday,

We know nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells or Richard Brunton.

The county police are at their wits end,

And I have come up to you as a last resource.

You can imagine,

Watson,

With what eagerness I listened to this extraordinary sequence of events,

And endeavoured 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.

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 contents.

These were all factors which had to be taken into consideration,

And yet none of them got 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.

What was the month?

The sixth from the first.

Where was the sun?

Over the oak.

Where was the shadow?

Under the elm.

How was it stepped?

North by ten and by ten,

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.

The original has no date,

But is in the spelling of the middle of the 17th 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 of no practical importance.

But to me it seems immensely practical,

Said I,

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 had to do with this old family custom of ours?

What does this rigmarole mean?

I don't think 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 Hurlstone.

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 has developed.

Over the low heavy lintel door in the centre of this old park is chiselled the date 1607,

But experts are 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 the cellar when it was used at all.

A splendid park with fine old timber surrounded the house,

And the lake to which my client had referred lay close to the avenue about 200 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 the clue which would lead me to the truth concerning both the butler Brunton and the maid Howells.

To that then I turned all my energies.

Why should this servant be so anxious to master the 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 alluded,

And that if we could find that spot,

We should be in a fair way toward knowing what the secret was which the old Musgraves have 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 I've 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 23 feet.

Here was one of my fixed points,

Secured.

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 beeches.

I should like to see where it grew.

We had driven up in the 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's impossible to find out how high the elm was?

I asked.

I can give you it at once,

He said.

It was 64 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 on the estate.

This was an unexpected piece of luck.

My data were coming more quickly than I could reasonably have 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.

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 oaks.

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.

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 was now a simple one.

If a rod of six feet threw a shadow of nine feet,

A tree of 64 feet would throw one of 96 feet,

And the line of 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 exaltation,

Watson,

When within two inches of my peg,

I saw a conical depression in the ground.

I knew 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 there must be some radical mistake in my calculations.

The setting sun shone full upon the passage floor,

And I could see 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,

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 calculations.

And under,

He cried,

You have omitted the and under.

I had thought that it meant 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,

As old as the house,

Down here,

Through this door.

We went down a winding stone stair,

And my companion,

Striking a match,

Lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner.

In an instant,

It was obvious 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 all 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 centre,

To which a thick shepherd's check muffler was attached.

By Jove,

Cried my client,

That's Brompton'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 endeavoured 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 a curious old-fashioned key projecting from the lock.

It was furred by a thick layer of dust,

And dampened worms had eaten through the wood,

So a crop of living 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.

Even without seeing his face,

His height,

His dress and his hair,

Were all sufficient to show my client 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 end.

When his body had been carried from the cellar,

We found ourselves still confronted with a problem 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 I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton,

But now I had to ascertain how that fate had come to 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 tried to imagine how I should myself have proceeded under the same circumstances.

In this case,

The matter was simplified by Brunton's intelligence being quite first rate,

So it was unnecessary to make any allowance for 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 who he could trust,

Without the unbarring of doors and considerable risk of detection.

It was better if he could to have his help mate inside the house,

But who could he ask?

This girl had been devoted to him.

A man always finds it hard to realise 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,

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,

This raising of the 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 around the floor.

Almost at once,

I came upon what I expected.

One piece,

About three feet in length,

Had a 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 the 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 get 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 smouldering 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 Brunton into what had become his sepulchre?

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 peals 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 20 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 coins of Charles I,

Said he,

Holding out the few which had been left 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 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 lusterless and dull.

I rubbed one of them on my sleeve,

However,

And it glowed 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 headway 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 II 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 possession,

Though in rather a tragic manner,

Of a relic which is of great intrinsic value but of even greater importance as a historical curiosity.

What is it 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.

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 which will take some time to answer.

And with that,

I sketched out 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 until 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 voucher.

And that's the story of the Musgrave ritual,

Watson.

They have the crown down at Hurlstone,

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 mention my name they would be happy to show it to you.

Of the woman nothing was ever heard and the probability is that she got away out of England and carried herself and the memory of her crime to some land beyond the seas.