The Musgrave Ritual - Part One

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Oh please shut up and get out of my room My name is Dr John Watson once of the British Army Northumberland fuselage regimen Now a true crime podcast that based in central London I don't have much experience in criminology So this is mostly a record of how I met possibly the most brilliant and bizarre person I have ever and will ever know Join me as I document the adventures of Sherlock Holmes Oh Oh HURCH! HURCH! We have contact with the enemy. Sherlock! Sherlock, you copy! Getting the visual on the tanko. Sherlock, can you hear me, Goddammit! Yes, I bloody can. Can you please stop shouting? What the hell are you doing? I am failing Watson. I am failing miserably. What? Look, target there on the wall. I haven't even come within an inch of it. I'm getting old, clearly. You! What? My fist is going to come within an inch of your eye in a minute. Give me that! Excuse me, it's my birthday. Well, it's about to be your death day. What is going on? What is that noise? My point exactly. What on earth is with all the shout in Watson? No, I'm done. I'm done. I'm moving out. No, you're not. Don't be stupid. Are you shooting the wall, Mariana? I thought you were playing a video game or something. Look, touch! Veal, these are real bullet holes in a real wall. What the hell is this? Oh my God. Oh, I was throwing out an old machete. Of course, yeah, old machete. Yeah, don't want to hold on to them for too long, eh? Well, I have a new one now. I was just carving lettering here. CR Charles Racks for the King. I had no idea you were such a royalist. When the mood takes me. For the... You hacked the wall with a machete and then shot at it. Did the wall do something to you? Do I have to go and have a talk with the wall? No, that's preposterous, Watson. Nothing I have ever done or said is anyone near the realm of preposterous elasticity that you seem to exist in. Feel benefit, Mariana. That is not a novel that quirky English locution for your extensive vocabulary. Watson, in his deranged anger, has just made a word up. Thanks. And also thank you for the word locution. A pleasure. It's not, it's not deranged. Mate, okay, this is warranted, understandable, deserving anger directed at a government. What are you doing? I told you, moving out. No, you're not. Yes, I am. You live here. You work here. It's his birthday. His birthday. Honestly, I don't have to live here though. Do I? I could go and stay somewhere else, just come over here for work. And what? Be a angry. You're still going to come here and see Bullard Holds and complain about his kitchen mess. Kitchen mess, lounge mess, bathroom mess, hallway mess, window sill mess, mantle piece mess, every surface, every corner, every possible area, is covered in his mess. Except for drumroll, please. Don't open that. His masterful suite, his impeccable, glorious bed chain, where they guess all the special attention and cleanliness that he deliberately negates everywhere else. Look at it. Look at it. It's perfect. Oh, no, sorry. But for this, on the floor, oh dear, little bit of brown fluff. Let me get that for you. You're highness. Let me just pick this up and put it in the bin for your perfect room. You are aware that's Graham's droppings. Oh Jesus Christ. Graham. Do not call the pest. I'm not calling the pest going. I may entertain an organising of certain stray items, but I refuse to part with my papers. Yes, hello there. My name is John. I would like to look at the flat you have on Rossmore Road, please. Yeah. Yeah, great. Okay, 1pm today's great. Yeah. Yeah, alright. See you then. You're not actually doing this. Rossmore Road. Perfect. Two minute walk. The flat you can afford two minutes away from Baker Street. Yeah. Oh god, I'm stuck. 10 minutes into central London. It's not into breathe. It's quite tight in here. Well, that reduced space and smaller floor plan make for much more efficient energy usage. Of course, yeah. Especially in this cold snap. Freezing in it. The door won't close. Oh, jealot, you're on my foot. Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the sizes below a single mattress. 30 minutes into central London, Crickwood offers a lot actually. It's an exciting neighborhood. Exciting! Oh, cool. Oh my god. Probably some of your new neighbours having a friendly game of cricket. Unusual to play it with a brick mind. Hmm. It's now into central London. Yeah. Stammer is on the up. You know, you can ask anyone. Of course. Yeah, sure. Is that mold? Well, there. No, no, no, no. That's a wallpaper design. Wallpapers back in. Or so the wife keeps telling me anyway. It's moving. One hour and 45 into central London. Right. But look at the space. Look at how clean it is. Beautiful space. It's a beautiful space. Never mind the space. That noise. Yeah. Incredible transport links, actually. M25. Fly on your doorstep. Jesus Christ. Little tip. If you see a gap in the traffic flow, you can dash right across to the McDonalds on the other side. Eh? Not too shabby. Watch. I'll show you. Let me. Wait. Okay. Be brave. Be brave. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Archie, I know I said pack your things, mate, but, um, don't bother. Don't bother. There's nowhere else to go. Eh? Ah! Perhaps the disastrous property hunt confirms that you are, in fact, a perfectionist. I'm a perfectionist. Yes. Not in the slightest, mate. Eh? The demands for cleanliness? Not a single one of those dwellings were suitable to your ridiculous standards. Sherlock, not wanting bullet holes in the walls, being able to move in my own lounge instead of drowning in rubbish. That is not perfectionism. Well, it may be my birthday, but it could well be yours, couldn't it? Sorry. What? Your wish. And incessant demands have been granted. Ta-da. Sorry. I have reorganised and the vital documentation that was once all over this flat has been digitised for the most part, thanks to Marianna, and I have incinerated the papers that I am comfortable parting with. Sherlock, there is literally a pile of papers in every corner. The one on the kitchen table is taller than me and blocks out the sun and do not make a comment about my height. Yes, but, as I say, for the ones that I am comfortable parting with. And that's it. Yes. That's the mammoth clean-up task that was going to save our living arrangement. Indeed. That's the sacrifice I deserve, a handful of paper, literally scraps of paper. Well, I wouldn't look at it that way. Sherlock, look at me. Yes, Watson. I am disappointed in you, and I am feeling let down by some of your actions that are not just me, but by anyone's standards, selfish. You said that? Yeah. John. Look, he prefers the truth. He doesn't like the whole social dance around it. He wants it delivered in a way that he can digest. You've probably heard his feelings. You know that, right? Sometimes, look, I don't want to hurt his feelings, especially on his birthday, but sometimes we have to take a little bit of pain to ease the bigger pain of our friends, right? John, he could be... I mean, he could be going through something right now. His brain works differently. Do you want me? Go in through something, please. Victor! Sherlock's late for the funeral. What? What? What? Hey, yeah. You OK? Yes. Sorry, I didn't know. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Well, you wouldn't, would you? If... If that's why you've been acting off, you know, doing, doing erratic things, then, um... I understand. I haven't been off or doing erratic things. Ah, 39 seconds. That lasted. What do you mean? You haven't been doing erratic things? Shh. Hey, John. Sorry about the rush earlier. No, don't be daft. Blimey mate, no, not at all. No, just glad we got him here in time. Yeah. You OK, Sherlock? I can't help question my detachment. Perhaps her deliberate emotional mechanism maybe? You don't have to be born in on the ground, Sherlock. Everyone processes it differently. Yes. He meant a lot to you. And to show your respects. That's enough, right? You tell me to do a big show. Quite right. And how are you, Victor? Yeah. Sad, but... This is how things go, I suppose. Indeed. Got himself to a ripe old age. That's the important thing. Pfft. Sherlock mentioned he was a, um... a teacher at your... At the college, Dullich College? Mr. Musgrave, yeah. The good teacher. Good man. Yeah. You remind me of him a bit, actually, John. Hey, really? Ha! Yeah. Maybe that's why Sherlock gets on with you. Formative memory of Mr. Musgrave. You say, get on. Get out! You punched me. I'm in mourning. Shush. So, what was the deal with Musgrave was, uh... I can't imagine going to any of my teachers' funeral. It's funny, because the more I think about it, as I've got older, he really didn't need to be there in teaching. I mean, that's my overwhelming memory of him. He was so like... green trowels of brigade, hurrah, Henry sort of thing. Who wrote Henry? What, like, uh... Upper class aristocrat type? Oh, God. That, but ties by Ten John. He owned a castle. Oh, wow. And he, uh, he went to teach. Yeah. But... He'd done, like, ten or fifteen years or something in these London camps before doing some time of us at Dullich. He learned teaching the hard way, and... Yeah. Hard times created a very good man. He put a lot of, uh... real world thinking, he called it, to a classroom of kids that weren't probably ever going to get those kinds of lessons. Well, I can see where you've been often. So, it's always sad to see a good man go, don't know why age. Well... It has all been a rather challenging predicament. The decision to come to the funeral or simply let it pass me by. Why would you not come? Sherlock, what? Why would you not come? Reginald. Reginald? See the, uh... Okay. So look over my shoulder, but pretend like you're not looking. Right, yep. See the guy talking to the vicar. Uh-huh. That's Reginald Musgrave, his son. Oh, okay. And, uh, and what, we have a problem with him? Mr Musgrave was so lovely, but Reginald was... A tyrant. The devil adorned in human flesh, a bastard, a wanker, a platinum-plated prick. Oh, all right. Okay, let's just... Mr Musgrave had such a soft spot for Sherlock. He's some Reginald, however. He said his sights on me, Watson. He said his sights as the circling hawk does to the adorable little field mouse. Are you calling yourself an adorable little fieldman? I was a recluse, John. I kept to myself. I had quirks, peculiarities. My whimsies were plentiful. I had a FOIBAL or six. Yes, yes, I know. And Reginald punished me for it in every way you could imagine. Yet every act of torture he dressed in some boyish, ritualistic language. Those cruel, vindictive little Musgrave rituals. Peanuts. Wet willies, swirlies, donkeys, slapsies. He'd have me whipped, toppled, flickrified, thatchered. Thatchered. What's thatchered? He listed my body parts on a public exchange and other boys would buy them. Stakeholders in my arm, my nose, my foot. They would taunt me and demand dividend payouts on their investment. Totally unregulated. Sickning. Yes, sorry, that is beyond me, mate. Well, if you held a control interest in my left arm, you could demand I present it for whatever indignity you'd purchased. I'd even ring a belt open trading. Right. Watson, it's very straightforward. Imagine my extremities as financial instruments. It's just, I get it. Alright, sir, thank you. I'm sorry that that happened. Good lord. Yes. There is no cooler man. He is an incarnation of hatred, spite and wickedness. Goodness. Homes from the lower dorms. Still like fully good to see you, old boy. Hi. Reginald, good to see you too. So sorry about your father. Very, very decent of you. Most thoughtful. Let me just have a quick matter with the family and I'll circle back to you. Takes lovely matter. Saitan himself. Sorry. That guy. Guy, you say? Enferring a cell or two at least of humanity. Far from it, John. Far from it. The guy that held your shoulder and called you a lovely man. The serpent chees its fangs, Watson. Does that make it any less deadly? Maybe, maybe just try and focus on Mr. Musgrave for now. Shall we? Yeah, I don't think you're going to get dunked or, or, or, or thatchered. A funeral, mate. Well said, John. You know, I don't forget when I used to sneak those little mass challenges and riddles into our dorm. Yes. And the passwords. Yeah. He'd pin a piece of paper to our dorm room door and they'd be these really complicated quests where we'd have to solve these different things around the school to get the passwords to get in the door. Those little ten places to the east and, oh, I can't remember them now, but God, what a funny mind he had. I knew even at the time the door would open as it always does, with or without the password, but it was impossible to not immerse yourself in his brilliant, make-believe world. A powerful, mathematical mind, swimming and a fervent imagination. A beautiful, coalescence. He loved Sherlock's trick, too. It's not a trick, of course. But yeah, he really let you go to town with your observational skills and it's cool things, didn't he? Yeah, he did. A good man with a good soul. He allowed many lost boys to feel found. Yeah. Yeah. That's right. Yeah, sorry again, guys, it's a sad to see someone like that go. Hey, 86 years old, you know? Of course, yeah, of course. Oh, he's coming back. He returns to his prey. Good luck, gentlemen. Hold fast. Don't give him the satisfaction of panic. Yeah, all right. Hi, hello, mate. Hi, sorry, I meant to introduce myself before. I'm John. John, splendid, regional maths grave. Good stuff. Good to see you, man. Bless you. I offer us all to be here for Mr. Musgrave. You are a marvel. You are a marvel. And Victor. Victor Trevor? Oh, Victor, I'm so sorry. So sorry for giving me, for giving me, for giving me, blame my eyes, honestly. Don't say I know you as well, John. Do not say that to me. Oh, no, not me. But, uh, gotta say, we could have done with a man like your father at a Swindon Comprehensive with a cider downing epidemic. Jeepers, your education sounds much more fitting than ours, doesn't it, Jens? He made a last-in impression, your dad. Sherlock here hasn't seen him since school days. Then you still came out. That's, honestly, that is, that is, I, I shan't forget, invaluable, really, truly. He spared many of his hours for me. A couple of mine this afternoon won't come close to covering that enormous debt of time and detention. Yes, well, good-discretious. You know, I do so wish I had him for a couple hours more. I'm turning that much, yeah. Time spent with that extraordinary mind of his was always rather an event. You know, possessed, well, this fiendishly clever little trick picked it up during his teaching days, I believe. He could pull flawless deductions from the most infinitesimal desale. Quite, uh, quite disconterting, frankly, but utterly mesmerising, of course. He never disclosed the method. Now that he's gone, I find myself quite in need of it, quite in need of it desperately. So everything feels misaligned without it. Yes. So, what are you up to these days, Sherlock? And Guinness as well, thanks. Thank you. You're surprisingly calm. Wait, you haven't poisoned his pint or something, have you? No, I have not poisoned his pint, John. Just checking. Should I? No. No. Yes. Of course not. I'm not going to kill a man. Not on my birthday anyway. Well, that's a relief. Come on then. What? You obviously got some sort of plan. Do I indeed? Yes, you do indeed. Well, I'll have to let my next roommate know, won't I? Ha ha, come on. You're moving out, remember? Is this what you do on your birthday? You're one of those birthday sulkers. I am not a birthday sulker. Yes, you are. You're taking shots at everybody, literally, in the case of our lounge wall. I'm taking shots at that man over there because he has a vindictive bastard. Well, I mean, you're not quite taking shots at him. Are you? I mean, it's all been extremely civil. And I shall remain so. Why? Because something is a foot. And I feel it might well be the game itself. Of course. Thank you, John. Not a wheelchair side, thank goodness. Cheers. Oh, my civil opinion. Reginald, I was just wondering whilst mulling what you spoke of earlier, I could do it for you. If you like. Do it, probably. Your father's observation game. The trick. The trick he used to do. Yes. Again, it's not a trick. Do it. Do it. Bring a grieving son a little lighthearted relief. That is a small ask. Reginald, now. Let me see. Privately educated, of course. I then left and went on to live my life the way I did. But what of you? A prestigious university. I would say LSE. Wow. Wow. That's an easy one. It's very chilly out. You wore a scarf. That scarf is at least a couple of decades old. It's purple and gold. The colors of the London School of Economics. But you also have a wallet containing two very exclusive credit cards. A valuable watch there and your phone as notifications regarding stock prices. So you clearly went to work in finance. You were extremely successful. I could do simple things like point out your wealth, some complexion, your various accoutrement that I have done so already. I could even remark that you've had both teeth and head done to an exceptional, Harley Street rather than Turkish standard. But what convinces me of your success, not your background, nor the shiny spoils of your career? But of this. This. This. Your posture. Right. But drilled. The sort of bearing I'd say hammered into you by institutions that insist on exactness. Santa. Not as a career choice, but perhaps as a corrective course from your family. Then I suspect the finishing tutors, men who bark endlessly about standards. I don't recall any plans to eat yet your cutlery is aligned. Your glass plays precisely on its ring. And you have corrected it unconsciously when the condensation of a fresh beer has nudged it off center. Oh. Have I indeed. Hmm. Your manners are not remotely casual nor instinctive. Though they are performed with this fidelity, you wait for everyone's glass to be charged before touching your own, not out of anything natural, not warm for consideration but out of training. Prepriority executed to regulation. When John Sneed, you said most civil of you, an expression that hasn't been natural since 1894, but you delivered it perfectly. Because that is what un-sense. In the correct tone, at the correct time. Oh. That's what that was. Your whole door was regionaled. Perhaps for kindness, yes, but I would assume mostly because you were taught that failing to do so reflects poorly on one's house. You apologize for things that aren't your fault because decorum in your mind at least demands the appearance of responsibility. And when people sit down, you straighten their chair without realizing it. Yeah, you did that to mine. It is because, Miss Alignment irritates the version of Reginald here that was molded day after day by those who thought rightly or wrongly that precision would sculpt character. I...one has certain standards that one must uphold. One does, yes, but one can point out one standards are hard one. Come on, not. One is a bit lost. Here. In honour of your father, Reginald, we must now show our workings, mustn't we? The aforementioned properties of the terms, variables, constants and coefficients. The equation, given we know the algebraic conditions of our society, is simple. Take that well-off upbringing, add it together with a world-class education and your pianist Etica, to times it, of course, by that obsessive desire for perfection that grants those bank's boards an investors to trust you with large, expensive things. What then is our sum total? Success. Success. That is why I see you as a successful man. Many can have the treasures and trinkets very few can have the map itself to such jewels that high society holds. Congratulations to you on that and cheers to the memory of your father. To him, you are a credit, Reginald. Come. Yes. Cheers. Cheers. Oh, it's like, it's amazing, isn't it? That you can pick up on all those things. I cannot help but feel the odd man's hand upon the room. Even now. He influenced me greatly. Ah. And you, him? Perhaps. It would be an honour if that were the case, even in small part. I don't believe my father ever managed anything quite of that caliber, but it's quite a sushine. It's interesting you were well-founded, Holmes. Thank you. It's very kind. John here is a fan also. Right, John? Of the deductions. Yeah. Four. Great stuff. Up a big tent in Regents Park and charge for deductions if the council had let me. Yeah. No, it's quite the trick. Not a trick. Although the rest of my habits are becoming a bit of a frustration. Ha. Okay, let's not air all our dirty laundry in the pub. Dirty laundry, of course, being one of them. Yep. Many others. The most prominent in our bickering's at this moment are the unfiled papers, of course. They need a home to be tidy. They cannot be discarded without being tended to first, of course. Rather like observations when being brought together to form the picture of the man I see in front of me. There is, I'm afraid to say an observation that lingers unfiled. Is there indeed? Yes. And it's rather an important one. You said you needed it. Needed it. You said the trick of deduction. You needed it. Why? It's like, well, need like his heart and soul, need it, right? In an emotional sense. I thought the same. But the words didn't arrive in sorrow. His voice didn't falter. His eyes remained fixed. His stare firm. I'm right, aren't I, Reginald? Reginald, musgrave. Hmm? Do you require my services? Services. The Murlock Rounds Detective Agency. He's very good. Very, very good. The best. Um, if I may, what are your plans for this weekend? The musgraves have been at Holstone Castle for nearly 700 years. Oh, there he is. Look. Wow. Spectacular. When my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, his very first act, before treatment plans, before wills, was to arrange for my succession there. Most would have called it a gift. He, I hope, understood. It was rather more of a burden. Holstone is an immense, temperamental organism, a bewildering patchwork of 13th, 14th, 17th, and 18th century fabric. Spires that pierce the clouds, cavernous halls, fireplaces large enough to stable a pony. Staircases that refuse to end. He'd hoped to hand it to the National Trust. But the local authority rather hopelessly complicated the matter. After that, he rather fancied converting the whole ground floor to a first-class hotel. One would have reservations about such a thing that... Here we are. It was that, or condemned the place to rot, let it crumble into some grotesque, inaccurate museum of English aristocracy. We secured approval eventually, though the paperwork was chaotic. Once I assumed full control of the estate, the true weight of it began to pull me into dark, murky depths. Things must be so, poems, they must be the way I want them. Or I find it rather difficult to cope. Perfection is how one must see every task from brushing one's teeth to restoring the greatness of a once mighty seat. I scoured the field for the most capable individual to lead the restoration, and there he was. Richard Brunton, Heritage Development Director, impeccable credentials, everything properly in place, just how I like things to be. My name is Richard Brunton. I'm one of the leading heritage development directors here in the UK. Help me with the door, please. He said to work at once, construction progressed beautifully, methodical, orderly. No unnecessary improvisation. His team worked consumer professionals, diligent punctual, appropriately deferential to the building's quirks and idiosyncrasies. We were mere weeks from commencing the interior programme. When? Well, just three weeks ago. Richard Brunton, my esteemed project manager, leading expert in the high medieval period, vanished off the face of the earth. To binge this adventure in full, and without ads, go to patreon.com-4-shurlockenco.