Episode XI - The Boscomb Valley Mystery

A man lies dead by a quiet pool, a son stands accused, and the village is certain the case is closed. We step onto the platform with a telegram in hand and a question in mind: what if the obvious story is the wrong one? From the first “cooee” echo to the last whisper of “a rat,” we track how tiny details can overturn a perfect narrative.

We walk you through Holmes’s chain of reasoning as he reads the ground like a book: square-toed prints that come and go, a right-sided limp, the tell-tale ash of an Indian cigar smoked through a holder, and a stone that speaks louder than a gun butt. A map of Victoria turns a dying clue into a name—Ballarat—and a colonial past reaches into an English meadow. The investigation widens into motive and consequence: old crimes in the goldfields, decades of blackmail, and a hard choice set before a father who would do anything to shield his daughter.

What follows is part detection, part moral reckoning. We explore how circumstantial evidence seduces juries, why last words matter, and when mercy must temper truth. Lestrade’s certainty meets Holmes’s method, Miss Turner’s courage meets James McCarthy’s silence, and a confession arrives not as victory but as the end of a long penance. By the close, a life is saved, a secret is kept, and the balance between justice and compassion feels fragile and human.

f you relish classic detective work—footprint analysis, weapon inference, tobacco ash taxonomy—woven with big questions about law and conscience, this story will stay with you. Listen, share your favourite clue, and tell us: at what moment did you doubt the “obvious” culprit? Subscribe, leave a review, and pass it on to a friend who loves a twist driven by the smallest trace.

Transcript

Telegram And The Train To Ross

SPEAKER_00 0:08

Sherlock Holmes Alone, Episode eleven.

Holmes Summarises The Case

Evidence Against James McCarthy

Miss Turner’s Plea And Motive Hints

Prison Visit And Night Analysis

Morning At Hatherley Farm

Tracking At Boscombe Pool

Deductions: The Unknown Australian

John Turner’s Confession

Outcome And Quiet Aftermath

SPEAKER_01 0:12

The Boscombe Valley Mystery. Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired from west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the eleven fifteen. So ran the telegram I sent to Watson one morning back in October of eighteen ninety one. I did not give him much notice. I calculated that by the time the telegraph reached him, he discussed the invitation with his wife, made the decision to come along and assist me, contacted doctor Anstruther to take on his patience, he would be left with perhaps half an hour to ready himself and arrive in time for the train. I was not, however, worried about that. I knew his experience of camp life in Afghanistan had had the effect of making Watson a prompt and ready traveller. His wants, like my own, were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated he would be in a cab with his valise, rattling away at Paddington station. I was pacing up and down the platform when he arrived. It is really very good of you to come, Watson. It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me whom I can thoroughly rely on. Local aid is always either worthless or else biased. If you will keep the two corner seats, I shall get the tickets. We had the carriage to ourselves, save for an immense litter of papers which I had brought with me. Among these I rummaged and read, with intervals of note taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then I rolled all the papers into a gigantic bowl and tossed them up upon the rack. Have you heard anything of the case, Watson? Not a word, Holmes. I have not seen a paper for some days. The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult. That sounds a little paradoxical, Holmes. But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man. Is it a murder, then? Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you as far as I've been able to understand it, in a very few words. Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in Heffordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is Mr John Turner, who made his money in Australia, and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as possible. Mr Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant, but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English families, and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of sport, and were frequently seen at the race, meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants, a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half a dozen at least. That is as much as I've been able to gather about the families, and now for the facts. On june third, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house in Hatherley about three in the afternoon, and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the streams which runs down Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive. From Hatherley Farmhouse to Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a gamekeeper in the employ of Mr Turner. Both these witnesses dispose that Mr McCarthy was walking alone. The gamekeeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr McCarthy pass, he had seen his son, Mr James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening papers of the tragedy that occurred. The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the gamekeeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and reeds around the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge keeper of Boscombe Valley Estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood, and close by the lake, Mr McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near the pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for help of the lodge keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the Boscombe pool. His head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt end of his son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances, the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of willful murder having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next decisors. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police court. Well, Holmes, I could hardly imagine a more damning case. If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal, it does so here. Ah, my dear Watson, circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing. It may seem to point in a very straight line to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an entirely uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, who you may recollect in connection with the study in Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that two middle aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home. I'm afraid that these facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of this case, Holmes. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been overlooked and by no means obvious to Mr Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means of which he is quite incapable of employing, or of even understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right hand side, and yet I question whether Mr Lestrade would have noted even so self evident a thing as that. Well how on earth could you know that, Holmes? My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by sunlight. But since your shaving is less and less complete as we get further back on the left side until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round to the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that the side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my Metier, and it is just possible that it may be of some service to this investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out of the inquest, and which are worth considering. And what are these minor points, Holmes? It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Harthley Farm. On the inspector of Constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his desserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury. No, it was a confession. No, no, no, my dear Watson, not a confession, for it was followed by a protestation of his innocence. Coming on top of such damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious remark. On the contrary, it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he may be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as to not see that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him either as an innocent man or else as a man of considerable self restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had had that very day so far forgotten to fulfil his duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty conscience. Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence, Hans. So they have, and many men have been wrongfully hanged. Well what is the young man's own account of the matter? It is, I'm afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it for yourself. I picked out from my bundle a copy of the local Heffershired paper, and having turned down the sheet, I pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. This is the young man's statement in his own words. It includes an interview with the coroner. I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday, the third. My father was absent from the home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren, which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the gamekeeper, as he had stated in his evidence, but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of cooy which was the usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried forward and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me, and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. Well, a conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned toward Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than a hundred and fifty yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes and then made my way to Mr Turner's lodge keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter. Did your father make any statement to you before he died? He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a rat. And what did you understand by that? It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious. What was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel? I should prefer not to answer. I'm afraid that I must press it, young man. It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which follows. Now that is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise. I must still refuse. I understand that the cry of coup we was a common signal between you and your father? Yes, it was. How was it then that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol? Well I do not know. Did you see nothing which had aroused your suspicion when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured? Nothing definite. What do you mean? I was so distracted and excited as I rushed out into the open that I could only think of nothing except my father, yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid, perhaps. When I rose for my father, I looked around for it, but it was gone. Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help? Well yes, it was gone. You cannot say what it was. No, I had a feeling something was there. How far from the body? A dozen yards or so. And how far from the edge of the wood? About the same. So you're saying it was removed when you were what, within a dozen yards of it? Well yes, but with my back towards it. This concludes the examination of the witness. That concluded the examination of the witness. I see that the coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention with good reason to the discrepancy about his father's having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the sun. Indeed, Holmes, the young man has done nothing to increase his chances of being understood in the situation. Everything he says seems to point to his own guilt. Well, my dear Watson, both you and the coroner have been at some pains to single out the very strongest points in the young man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him too much credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too little if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury. Too much if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so autre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, no, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that this young man is innocent, and what he says is true, and we shall see whether that hypothesis will lead us. And now I shall speak not another word of this case until we are on the scene of the action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes. It was nearly four o'clock when, at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country town of Ross. A lean, ferret like man, furtive and sly looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dust coat and leather leggings which he wore in defence to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms, where a room had already been engaged for us. We sat in the lounge and sipped some tea. I've ordered a carriage, and I know your eccentric nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime, Holmes. It was very nice and complimentary of you. It is entirely a question of barometric pressure. Well I don't quite follow you, Holmes. Well, Estraud, how was the glass? twenty nine, I see, no wind and not a cloud in the sky. I have a case full of cigarettes here, which needs smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage tonight. Well, Holmes, you have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions from the newspapers. My dear Lestrade, the case is as plain as a pike staff, and the further one goes into it, the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very positive one too. Well, Mr Holmes, she has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Ah Lestrade, there is always more to be done, that I can say with certainty, and oh bless my soul, here is the young lady's carriage at the door. We had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks. All thought of her natural reserve lost in an overpowering excitement and concern. Oh Mr Sherlock Holmes, I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it, I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point, Mr Holmes. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his fault as no one else does. But he is too tender hearted to hurt a fly. Such a change is absurd to anyone who really knows him. I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner. You may rely upon my doing all that I can. But Mr Holmes, you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion. Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent? I think that it is very probable, Miss Turner. There, now, did you hear that, Inspector Lestrade? Mr Holmes gives me hopes. I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions. Isn't that right, Mr Holmes? Oh, but I know he's right, Inspector Lestrade. Oh, I know that he is right. James never did it. And about his quarrel with his father. I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it. It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other, as brother and sister, but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them. And your father, Miss Turner, was he in favour of such a union? No, Mr Holmes. He was against it also. No one but Mr McCarthy was in favour of it. A quick blush passed over her young, fresh face. Thank you for this information, Miss Turner. May I see your father if I call tomorrow? I'm afraid the doctor won't allow it. The doctor? Yes, Mr Holmes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willow says that he is a wreck, and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr McCarthy was the only man alive who had known my dad in the old days. In Victoria. Ha! In Victoria. Now that is important. Yes, uh Mr. Holmes, at the gold mines. Quite so, quite so, at the gold mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money. Yes, certainly, that's right, Mr. Holmes. Thank you again, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me. You will let me know if you have any news tomorrow. No doubt you will go to the prison and see James. Oh, and if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent. I will do that, Miss Turner. I must go home now, for Dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him. Goodbye, and God help you in your undertaking. She hurried from the room, as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street. Well, Mr Holmes, I am ashamed of you. Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I'm not an overtender of heart, but I call it cruel, Holmes, cruel indeed. I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy Lestrade. Have you an order to see him in prison? Well yes, of course, Mr Holmes. I am the chief investigator, after all. Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford, and to see him tonight. Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours. It was indeed late before I returned. I came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town. I found Watson still wide awake and making an attempt to read some novel which he had found lying about. Ah, my dear Watson, I see you have found a way to pass the time. No indeed, Holmes. I have been trying in vain to interest myself in this puny novel. The plot of the story is so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we are groping, and I found my attention wandered so continually from the action to the fact that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to consideration of our case and the day's events. Now, Holmes, supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father and the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade. It was something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts, so I rang the bell and call for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. Now, see here, Holmes. In the surgeon's deposition, it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. You see, Holmes, right here. Now clearly, Holmes, such a blow must have been struck from behind. That is to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarrelling with his father he was face to face with him. Still, it does not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to commit some attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. Ah yes, peculiar indeed, Watson. And what do you think that may mean? Well, I don't know. It could not be delirium. A man dying from sudden blows does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I've cudgled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then there is the incident on the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true, the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have then had the hardihood to return and carry it away at the instant when the sun was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing is. I do not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I do have great faith in your insight, Holmes. I cannot lose hope as long as every fresh fact seems to strengthen your conviction of young McCarthy's innocence. I appreciate your faith in my abilities, Watson, and your insights are of great value to me. The glass still keeps very high. It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. And on the other hand, the man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when rather exhausted by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy. Oh, and uh what did you learn from him, Holmes? Hm, nothing. He could throw no light upon his own case. Frankly, Watson, 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'm 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 tastes, if it is indeed a fact that he was adverse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as Miss Turner. Ah, my dear Watson, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is actually 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 for 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 the 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 this barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding in the papers that he is in serious troubles, 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 dockyards, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered. But Holmes, if young McCarthy is innocent, who has done it? Ah, who indeed, Watson? 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 someone could not have been his son, for his son was away and he did not know when his son would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry coo wefore he knew his son had returned. Those are 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 I 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. Mr Holmes, there is serious news this morning. It is said that Mr Turner of the Hall is so ill that his life is despaired of. I presume he is an elderly man, Lestrade? About sixty, 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 Heatherly Farm rent free. Indeed, now that is interesting, Lestrade. Yes, Holmes. 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 had 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 proposal, and all else would follow? It is more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much, Lestrade. Do you not deduce something from that? Oh, Mr Holmes, always deductions and inferences with you. Look, I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies. Oh indeed, Lestrade, you are right. You do find it very hard to tackle the facts. Anyhow, Holmes, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get a hold of. And that is, Lestrade That this McCarthy sor met his death from McCarthy junior, and that all theories, to the contrary, are the merest moonshine, Holmes. Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog. But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left. Yes, Holmes, that it is. 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 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, when the maid, as I had requested, 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 had on then. I measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points. Then we were led to the courtyard, from which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool. I must admit that the transformation which can overcome me when I am hot upon a scent such as this may be rather disturbing to anyone who may be observing. Men who only know me as the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would fail to recognize me. It is virtually a Jekyll and Hyde scenario. Despite the fact that I am fully committed to the case, I am well aware of almost an animal metamorphosis that overtakes me. My face will flush and darken, my brows will drawn into two hard black lines, while my eyes shine out from beneath them with steely glitter. My face bent forward, my shoulders bowed, my lips compressed, and the veins stand out like a whipcord in my neck. My nostrils seem to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and my mind is so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before me that a question or remark will fall unheeded upon my ears, or at the most, only provoke a quick, impatient snarl in reply. So swiftly and silently I made my 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 I would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once I made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and Watson walked behind me. I was indifferent and contemptuous for every one of my actions was directed towards a definite end. The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed grit sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hathardley 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 site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On the Hathardley side of the pool, the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us to 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. Very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. I turned upon Lestrade. Lestrade, why did you go into the pool? Oh well I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace, but how on earth did you know I went into the pool, Holmes? Oh 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 in like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge keeper came, and they have covered all the tracks for six or eight feet around the body, but here are three separate tracks of the same feet. I drew out a lens and lay down upon my waterproof to have a better view. These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. And of course 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 too, quite unusual boots. They come, they go, they come again. Of course that was for the cloak. But where did they come from? I ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track, until I was well within the edge of the wood, and under the shadow of a great beach, the largest tree in the neighborhood. I traced my way to the farther side of this and laid down once more upon my face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time I remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up critical evidence into an envelope, and examining with my lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as I could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this I also carefully examined and retained. Then I followed a pathway through the wood until I came to the high road, where all traces were lost. Well, it has been a case of considerable interest. 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, perhaps write a little note. And 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 to Ross, I still carrying with me the stone which I picked up in the wood. This may interest you, Lestrade. Oh and what is it? A stone, Holmes. I don't see why it could possibly interest me. As I say, Holmes, stick to the facts. It is the murder weapon, Lestrade. Ridiculous ridiculous, doctor Watson. I think you should examine our companion. He may well be afflicted with brain fever. I assure you that my mind is as clear as a bell. Well, Inspector Lestrade. The only fever that afflicts Sherlock is the fever of the chase, and his symptoms suggest that he is near to solving it. No, Watson. Holmes, look, I see no marks, no blood on this stone. There are no marks. There is no blood. Well, Holmes, how do you know it is the murder weapon 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. Hm and the murderer Holmes is a tall man left handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick soled 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. Oh Holmes I'm afraid that I'm still a sceptic. Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard headed British jury, Holmes. Nivaron, you work your method, and I shall work mine, Lestrade. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train. What? And leave your case unfinished, Holmes? No, Lestrade. Finished. But the mystery it is solved. Well who is the criminal then, Mr Holmes? The gentleman I described. But who is he, Holmes? Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighbourhood. And I am sure with your attention to facts and details, you should have no trouble in finding the man. Mell Holmes, I am a practical man, and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left handed gentleman with a gain leg. I shall become the laughing stock of Scotland Yard. Well, all right, I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Goodbye, Lestrade. I shall drop you a line before I leave. Having left Lestrade at his rooms, Watson and I drove over to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. I sat and silently, buried in thought. I found myself in a perplexing position. Look here, Watson, just sit down in this chair and let me preach to 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. Oh, pray do so, Holmes, by all means. Well now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy'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 cou 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 son's ear. Now, from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true. Then what of this cou e, Holmes? Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was a mere chance that he was within earshot. The cou e must be meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had had the appointment with. But coo e 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 at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia. Well what of the rat then? I took a folded paper from my pocket and flattened it out on the table. This is a map of the colony of Victoria. I wired to Bristol for it last night. I put my hand over part of the map. And now what do you read? Let's see here a rat. And now I raised up my hand. Ballarat Ballarat, Holmes. Quite so, Watson. 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. Oh Holmes, that is wonderful. And it is obvious, Watson, and now you see, I had narrowed down the field considerably. The possession of the grey garment was the third point which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness into definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak. Certainly, Holmes. 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. Oh quite so, quite so. Then comes our expedition of today. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile estrade, as to the personality of the criminal. But how did you gain them, Holmes? Well, you know my methods, Watson. 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 left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped. He was lame. But his left handedness You were struck yourself by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet it was upon the left hand side. Now how can that be unless it were by a left handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between father and son. He had even smoked there. I found 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 over a hundred and forty varieties of pipe, cigar and cigarette tobacco. And having found the ash, I then looked around 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. Holmes, 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 which all this points. The culprit is Mr John Turner to see Mr Holmes. The hotel waiter opened the door of our sitting room and ushered 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 yet his hard, deep lined, craggy features and his enormous limbs showed that he at once possessed unusual strength of body and of character, no doubt. 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. You had my note, Mr Turner? Yes, the lodgekeeper brought it up. You said you said you wished to see me here to avoid a scandal. I thought people would talk if I went to the hall. And why did you wish to see me? He looked at me with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered. Yes, it is so, Mr Turner. I know all about McCarthy. The old man sank his face in his hands. God help me. But I would not have let him come to arm, the young man. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Azus. I am glad to hear you say so. I would have spoken now, had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart. Well, it will break her heart when she hears that I'm arrested. It may not come to that, Mr Turner. I am no official agent. It was your own daughter who required my presence here. And I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however. I'm a dying man, Mr Holmes. I have diabetes for years. My doctor says it's a question of whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in jail. I rose and then sat down at the table, with my pen in my hand, and I laid a bundle of paper in front of Mr Turner. Just tell us the truth, and I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here will be a witness. 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 needed. It's just as well. It's a question whether I shall live to these eyes, 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 had been upon me these twenty years, and he's blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to know him and how I came to be in his power. It was the early sixties at the Diggins. I was a young chap then, hot blooded, reckless, ready to turn a hand at anything. I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with me 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 Bellarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Bellarat gang. One day, a goal convoy came down from Bellarat 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 the four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got to the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon driver, who was this very McCarthy man. I wished to the lord that I'd shot him then, but I speared him. Thought I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, and we became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from the old pals, and I was determined to settle down to a quiet life, a respectable life. I bought this estate, and I set myself up to do a little good with me money, to make up for the way in which I 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 ever had done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf. And I did me best to make up for the past. All was going well when this McCarthy laid his grip upon me. I gone up town about an investment, and I met him in the Regent Street with hardly a coat on his back or a boot on his foot. Here we are, Jack. We'll be as good as 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 ail. Well, down they came to the West Country. There was no shaking em off, and there they've 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 me 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 without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked for a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice. His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl. 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 mingle with mine. Not that I had any dislike for 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 to the surface. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were some slut 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 man, and a desperate man at that. 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've sinned, I've 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 have suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he'd been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son, but I 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. 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 much higher court than the Azizas. I will keep your confession, and if young McCarthy is condemned, I shall be forced to use it, if not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye, and your secret, whether you are alive or dead, shall be safe with us. Farewell then Your own deathbeds when they come, gentlemen, will be easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine. Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbles slowly from the room. God help us, Watson. 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 go Sherlock Holmes. Or Dr. John Watson, for that matter, Holmes. James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by myself and submitted to the defending counsel. 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.

SPEAKER_00 58:08

Sherlock Holmes Alone adapted and performed by J. P. Winslin, based on the original writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.