Adventure 5 of the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gesine. The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Adventure 5. The Musgrave Ritual. An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought, he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although he also affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was nonetheless in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow lodger to distraction. Not that I am the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough and tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe-end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jackknife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous heirs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly in open air pastime, and when Holmes, in one of his queer humours, would sit in an armchair with his hair-trigger and a hundred boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic VR done in bullet-pox, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it. Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics, which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them. For, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy, during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, slowly moving, saved from the sofa to the table. Thus, month after month, his papers accumulated until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript, which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away saved by their owner. One winter's night, as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his commonplace book, he might employ the next two hours to bring our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently, pulling a large tin box behind him.  I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper and tape into separate packages. There are cases enough here, Watson, said he, looking at me with mist to his eyes. I think that if he knew all that I had in this box he would ask me to pull some out, instead of putting others in. These are the records of your early work, then? I asked. I have often wished that I had notes of those cases. Yes, my boy, these rolled on prematurely before my biographer had come to glorify me. He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender caressing sort of way. These are not all successes, Watson, said he, but there are some pretty little problems among them. He is the record of the Tarleton murders and the case of Vamburi, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of rickoletti of the clubfoot and his abominable wife. And here, ah, now, this really is something a little richarchee. He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest and brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children's toys are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, an old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty old discs of metal. Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot? He asked, smiling at my expression. It is a curious collection, very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still. These relics have a history, then? So much so that they are history. What do you mean by that? Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one and laid them along the edge of the table. Then he receded himself in his chair, and looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. These, said he, are all that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave ritual. I had heard him mention that case more than once, though I had never been able to gather the details. I should be so glad, said I, if you would give me an account of it. And leave the letter as it is? He cried mischievously. Your tidiness won't bear much strain after all, Watson, but I should be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of this, or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete, which contained no account of this very singular business. You may remember how the affair of the glorious Scott and my conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of first turned my attention to the direction of the profession which has become my life's work. You see me now when my name has become known far and wide and when I am generally recognized both by the public and by the official force as being a final court of appeal in doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first, at the time of the affair which you have commemorated in a study in Scarlett, I had already established a considerable, though not a very lucrative, connection. You can hardly realize then how difficult I found it at first and how long I had to wait before I succeeded in making any headway. When I first came up to London, I had rooms in Montague Street just round the corner from the British Museum and there I waited, filling in my too abundant leisure time by studying all those branches of science which might make me more efficient. Now and again cases came in my way, principally through the introduction of old fellow students for during my last years at the university there was a good deal of talk there about myself and my methods. The third of these cases was that of the Musgrave ritual and it is to the interest which was aroused by that singular chain of events and the large issues which proved to be at stake that I traced my first stride towards the position which I now hold. Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself and I had some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally popular among the undergraduates but it seemed to me that what was set down as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme natural diffidence. In appearance he was a man of exceedingly aristocratic type thin, high-nosed and large-eyed with languid and yet courtly manners. He was indeed a scion of one of the very oldest families in the kingdom though his branch was a cadet one which had separated from the northern Musgraves at the time in the 16th century and had established itself in western Sussex where the manor house of Hurlston is perhaps the oldest inhabited building in the county. Something of his birthplace seemed to cling to the man and I never looked at his pale keen face or the poise of his head without associating him with grey archways and mullion windows and all the venerable wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we dressed it into talk and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen interest in my methods of observation and inference. For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he walked into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little, was dressed like a young man of fashion. He was always a bit of a dandy and preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had formally distinguished him.  I asked, after we had cordially shaken hands. You probably heard of my poor father's death, said he. He was carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had the Hurlston Estates to manage and as I am a member for my district as well my life has been a busy one. But I understand, Holmes, that you are turning to practical ends those powers with which you used to amaze us. Yes, said I, I have taken to living by my wits. I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very strange doings at Hurlston and the police have been able to throw no light upon the matter. It is really the most extraordinary and inexplicable business. You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him Watson for the very chance for which I had been panting during all those months of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my inmost heart I believed that I could succeed where others failed and now I had the opportunity to test myself. Pray let me have the details, I cried. Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me and lit the cigarette which I had pushed towards him. You must know, said he, that though I am a bachelor I have to keep up considerable staff of servants at Hurlston for it is a rambling old place and takes a good deal of looking after. I preserve, too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a house-party so that it would not do to be thought-handed. Altogether there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two-foot man and a boy. The garden and the stables, of course, have a separate staff. Of these servants the one who had been the longest in our service was Brunton, the butler. He was a young schoolmaster out of place when he was first taken up by my father but he was a man of great energy and character and he soon became quite invaluable in the household. He was a well-grown, handsome man with a splendid forehead and though he has been with us for twenty years he cannot be more than forty now. With his personal advantages and his extraordinary gifts for he can speak several languages and play nearly every musical instrument it is wonderful that he should have been satisfied so long in such a position but I suppose that he was comfortable and lacked energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlston is always a thing that is remembered by all who visit us but this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan and you can imagine that for a man like him it is not a very difficult part to play in a quite country district. When he was married it was all right but since he has been a widower we have had no end of trouble with him. A few months ago we were in hopes that he was about to settle down again for he became engaged to Rachel Howells, our second housemaid but he has thrown her over since then and taken up with Janet Trogelis the daughter of the head gamekeeper. Rachel, who is a very good girl but of an excitable welch temperament had a sharp touch of brain fever and goes about the house now or did until yesterday like a black-eyed shadow for former self. That was our first drama at Hurlston but a second one came to drive it from our minds and it was prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of Butler Brunton. This was how it came about. I have said that the man was intelligent and this very intelligence has caused his ruin for it seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about things which did not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the lengths to which this would carry him until the nearest accident opened my eyes to it. I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last week on Thursday night to be more exact I found that I could not sleep having foolishly taken a cup of strong café noir after my dinner. After struggling against it until two in the morning I felt that it was quite hopeless so I rose and lit the candle with the intention of continuing a novel which I was reading. The book, however, had been left in the billiard room so I pulled on my dressing gown and started off to get it. In order to reach the billiard room I had to descend a flight of stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to the library and the gun room. You can imagine my surprise when as I looked down this corridor I saw a glimmer of light coming from the open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the lamp and closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally my first thought was of burglars. The corridors at Hurlston have their walls largely decorated with trophies of old weapons. From one of these I picked a battle axe and then leaving my candle behind me I crept on tiptoe down the passage and peeped in at the open door. Brunton the butler was in the library. He was sitting fully dressed in an easy chair with a slip of paper which looked like a map upon his knee and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand in deep thought.  A small taper on the edge of the table shared a feeble light which sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed. Suddenly as I looked he rose from his chair and walking over to a bureau at the side he unlocked it and drew out one of the drawers. From this he took a paper and returning to his seat he flattened it out beside the taper on the edge of the table and began to study it with my new attention. My indignation at this calm examination of our family documents overcame me so far that I took a step forward and Brunton, looking up, saw me standing in the doorway. He sprang to his feet. His face turned livid with fear and he thrust into his breast the chart-like paper which he had been originally studying. So, said I, this is how you repay the trust which we have reposed in you. You will leave my service to-morrow. He bowed with the look of a man who has utterly crushed and slunk past me without a word. The taper was still on the table and by its light I glanced to see what the paper was which Brunton had taken from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing of any importance at all but simply a copy of the questions and answers in the singular old observance called the Musgrave Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony peculiar to our family which each Musgrave for centuries past has gone through on his coming of age, a thing of private interest and perhaps of some little importance to the archaeologist like our own blazenings and charges but of no practical use whatever. We had better come back to the paper afterwards, said I. If you think it really necessary, he answered, with some hesitation. To continue my statement, however, I relocked the bureau using the key which Brunton had left and I had turned to go when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned and was standing before me. Mr. Musgrave, sir, he cried in a voice which was hoarse with emotion, I can't bear disgrace, sir. I have always been proud above my station in life and disgrace would kill me.  If you cannot keep me after what has passed, then for God's sake let me give you notice and leave in a month as if of my own free will. I could stand that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be cast out before all the folk that I know so well. He don't deserve much consideration, Brunton. I answered, your conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a long time in the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace upon you. A month, however, is too long. Take yourself away in a week and give what reason you like for going. Only a week, sir? he cried in a despairing voice. A fortnight, say at least fortnight. A week, I repeated, and you may consider yourself to have been very leniently dealt with. He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a broken man, while I put out the light and returned to my room. For two days after this Brunton was most assidious in his attention to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed, and waited with some curiosity to see how he would cover his disgrace. On the third morning, however, he did not appear, as was his custom, after breakfast to receive my instructions for the day. As I left the dining-room, I happened to meet Rachel Howells, the maid. I have told you that she had only recently recovered from an illness and was looking so wretchedly pale and wan that I remonstrated with her for being at work. You should be in bed, I said. Come back to your duties when you are stronger.  I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave," said she. We will see what the doctor says. I answered, You must stop work now, and when you go downstairs, just say that I wish to see Brunton. The butler's gone," said she. Gone? Gone where? He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. He is gone. She fell back against the wall with shriek after shriek of laughter while I, horrified at this sudden hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The girl was taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing while I made inquiries about Brunton. There was no doubt about it that he had disappeared. His bed had not been slept in. He had been seen by no one since he had retired to his room the night before, and yet it was difficult to see how he could have left the house, as both windows and doors were found to be fastened in the morning. His clothes, his watch, and even his money were in his room. But the black suit which he usually wore was missing. His slippers, too, were gone, but his boots were left behind. Where, then, could butler Brunton have gone in the night, and what could have become of him now? 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 in cellar 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 round 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 Brunton's disappearance, the nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely, had dropped into a nap in the armchair. When she woke in the early morning to find the bed empty, the window open had 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 mirror, 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 be found. 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 mirror. And although we made every possible search and inquiry yesterday, we know nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells or of Richard Brunton. The county police are at their wit's ends, and I have come up to you as a last resource. You can imagine Watson with what eagerness are listening to this extraordinary sequence of events and endeavour to piece them together and to devise some common thread upon which they might all hang. The butler was gone, the maid was gone, the maid had loved the butler, but had afterwards had caused to hate him. She was of welsh blood, fiery and passionate. She had been terribly excited immediately after his disappearance.  These were all factors which had to be taken into consideration, and yet none of them got quite to the heart of the matter. What was the starting point of this chain of events? There lay the end of this tangled line. I must see that paper, Musgrave, said I, which this butler of yours sorted worth his wild 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 eyes 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. Who was it? Here's who is gone. Who shall have it? He who will come. Where was the sun? Over the oak. Where was the shadow? Under the elm. How was it stepped? North by 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 to be of no practical importance. But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that Brunton took the same view. He had probably seen it before that night on which he caught him. It is very possible. We took no pains to hide it. He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon that last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or chart which he was comparing with the manuscript and which he thrust into his pocket when you appeared. That is true. But what could he have to do with his old family custom of ours and what does this rigmarole mean? I don't think that we should have much difficulty in determining that, said I. With your permission, we will take the first train down to Sussex and go a little more deeply into the matter upon the spot. The same afternoon saw us both at Halston. Possibly you have seen pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building, so I will confine my account of it to saying that it is built in the shape of an L, the long arm being the more modern portion and the shorter the ancient nucleus from which the other had developed. Over the low, heavily linteled door in the centre of this old part is chiseled 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 a cellar when it was used at all. A splendid park with fine old timbers rounds the house and the lake to which my client had referred lay close to the avenue and 100 yards from the building. I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not three separate mysteries here but one only, and if I could read the Musgrave ritual or write 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 I turned all my energies. Why should this servant be so anxious to master this old formula? Evidently because he saw something in it which had escaped all those generations of country squires and from which he expected some personal advantage. What was it then and how had it affected his fate? It was perfectly obvious to me on reading the ritual that the measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the document eluded and that if we could find that spot we should be in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the old Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a fashion. There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and an elm. As to the oak there could be no question at all.  That was there when your ritual was drawn up, said I, as we drove past it. It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability, he answered. It has a girth of twenty-three feet. Have you any old elms? I asked. There used to be a very old one over Yondo but it was struck by lightning ten years ago and we cut down this stump. You can see where it used to be? Oh yes. There are no other elms? No old ones, but plenty of beaches. I should like to see where it grew. We had driven up in a dog cart and my client led me away at once without our entering the house to the scar on the lawn where the elm had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and the house. My investigation seemed to be progressing. I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was. I can give you it at once. It was sixty-four feet. How do you come to know it? I asked in surprise. When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry it always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was allowed I worked out every tree in building in the estate. This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more quickly than I could have reasonably hoped. Tell me, I asked. Did your butler ever ask you such a question? Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. Now that you call it to my mind, he answered, Brunton did ask me about the height of the tree some months ago in connection with some little argument with the groom. This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on the right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the heavens and I calculated that in less than an hour it would lie just above the topmost branches of the old oak. One condition mentioned in the ritual would then be fulfilled and the shadow of the elm must mean the farther end of the shadow, otherwise the trunk would have been chosen as the guide. I had then to find where the far end of the shadow would fall when the sun was just clear of the oak. That must have been difficult homes when the elm was no longer there. Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it I could also. Besides there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to his study and whittled myself this peg to which I tied this long string with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a fishing rod which came to just six feet and I went back with my client to where the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the top of the oak. I fastened the rod on end marked out the direction of the shadow and measured it. It was nine feet in length. Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six feet through a shadow of nine a tree of sixty-four feet would throw a shadow of ninety-six and the line of the one would of course be the line of the other. I measured out the distance which brought me almost to the wall of the house and I thrust a peg into the spot. You can imagine my exaltation Watson when within two inches of my peg I saw a conical depression in the ground. I knew that it was the mark made by Brunton in his measurements and that I was still upon his trail. From this starting point I proceeded to step having first taken the cardinal points by my pocket compass. With each foot took me along parallel with the wall of the house and again I marked my spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to the east and two to the south. It brought me to the very threshold of the old door. Two steps to the west meant now that I was to go two paces down the stone flagged passage and this was the place indicated by the ritual. Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment Watson. For a moment it seemed to me that there must be some radical mistake in my calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the passage floor and I could see that the old foot-worn grey stones with which it was paved were firmly cemented together and had certainly not been moved for many a long year. Brunton had not been at work here. I tapped upon the floor but it sounded the same all over and there was no sign of any crack or crevice. But fortunately Musgrave who had begun to appreciate the meaning of my proceedings and who was now as excited as myself took out his manuscript to check my calculation. And under, he cried, you have omitted the and under. I had thought that it meant that we were to dig but now of course I saw at once that I was wrong. There is a cellar under this then? I cried, yes and as old as the house down here through this door. We went down the 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 that we had at last come upon the true place and that we had not been the only people to visit the spot recently. It had been used for the storage of wood but the billets which had evidently been littered over the floor were now piled at the sides so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space lay a large and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the centre to which a sick shepherd's check muffler was attached. By Jove, cried my client, that's Brunton's muffler. I have seen it on him and could swear to it. What has the villain been doing here? At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to be present and I then 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 this curious old-fashioned key projecting from the lock. It was ferred outside by a thick layer of dust and dampened worms had eaten through the wood so that a crop of livid fungi was growing on the inside of it. Several discs 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 hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and his two arms thrown out on each side of it. This attitude had drawn all the stagnant blood to the face and no man could have recognized the distorted liver-colored countenance but his height, his dress, and his hair were all sufficient to show my client, when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed his missing butler. He had been dead some days but there was no wound or bruise upon his person to show how he had met his dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the cellar we found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was almost as formidable as that with which we had started. I confess that so far Watson I had been disappointed in my investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I had found the place referred to in the ritual but now I was there and was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was which the family had concealed with such elaborate precautions. It is true that I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton but now I had to ascertain how that fate had come upon him and what part had been played in the matter by the woman who had disappeared. I sat down upon a keg in the corner and sought 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 that it was unnecessary to make any allowance for the personal equation as the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that something valuable was concealed. He had spotted the place. The stone which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move unaided. What would he do next? He could not get help from outside even if he had someone whom he could trust without the unbarring of doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better if he could to have his helpmate inside the house but whom could he ask? This girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman's love however badly he may have treated her. He would try by a few attentions to make his peace with the girl Howells and then would engage her as his accomplice. Together they would come at night to the cellar and their united force would suffice to raise the stone. So far I could follow their actions as if I had actually seen them. But for the two of them upon a woman it must have been heavy work the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I had found it no light job. What would they do to assist them? Probably what I should have done myself. I rose and examined carefully the different billets of wood which were scattered round the floor. Almost at once I came upon what I expected. One piece, about three feet in length had a very marked indentation at one end while several were flattened at the sides as if they had been compressed by some considerable weight. Evidently as they had dragged the stone up they had thrust the chunks of wood into the chink until it last when the opening was large enough to crawl through they would hold it open by a billet placed lengthwise which might very well become indented at the lower end since the whole weight of the stone would press it down onto the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe ground. And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama? Clearly only one could fit into the hole and that one was Brunton. The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked the box handed up the contents presumably since they were not to be found and then what happened? What smoldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into flame in this passionate Celtic woman's soul when she saw the man who had wronged her wronged her perhaps far more than we suspected in her power. Was it a chance that the wood had slipped and that the stone had shut 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 peels of hysteric laughter on the next morning. But what had been in the box? What had she done with that? Of course it must have been the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from the mirror. She had thrown them in there at the first opportunity to remove the last trace of her crime. For twenty minutes I had sat motionless thinking the matter out. Musgrave still stood with a very pale face swinging his lantern and peering down into the hole. These are coins of Charles I, said he, holding out the few which had been in the box. You see we were right in fixing our date for the ritual. We may find something else of Charles I. I cried as the probable meaning of the first two questions of the ritual broke suddenly upon me. Let me see the contents of the bag which he fished from the mirror. We ascended to his study and he laid the debris before me. I could understand his regarding it as of small importance when I looked at it for the metal was almost black and the stones lustrous and dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it glowed afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metal work was in the form of a double ring but it had been bent and twisted out of its original shape. You must bear in mind, said I, that the royal party made head in England even after the death of the king and that when they 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 the possession, though in rather a tragic manner, of a relic, which is of great intrinsic value but of even greater importance as in 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. How does it run? Whose was it? His who is gone. That was after the execution of Charles. Then who shall have it? He who will come. That was Charles II whose advent was already foreseen. There can, I think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem once encircled the brows of the royal stewards. And how came it in the pond? Ah, that is a question which will take some time to answer. And with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise and of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in and the moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative was finished. And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he returned? asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen bag. Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the Musgrave who held the secret died in the interval and by some oversight left this guide to his descendant the meaning of it. From that day to this it has been handed down from father to son until at last it came within reach of a man who tore its secret out of it and lost his life in the venture. And that's the story of the Musgrave ritual Watson. They have the crown down at Halston, though they had some legal bother and a considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it. I am sure that if you mentioned my name I am 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. End of Adventure 5 The Musgrave Ritual Recorded by Gazena in September 2007 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by J. A. Carter February 2007 The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle Adventure 6 The Adventure of the Regate Squire It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the spring of 1987. The whole question of the Netherlands Sumatra Company and of the colossal schemes of Baron Maupartin are too recent in the minds of the public and are too intimately concerned with politics and finance to be fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They led, however, in an indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem which gave my friend an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh weapon among the many with which he waged a long battle against crime. On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyon which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel du Lang. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick room and was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in his symptoms. His iron constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch. The triumphant issue of his labors could not save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion. And at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was literally ankle deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed and that he had outmaneuvered at every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe were insufficient to rouse him from his nervous prostration. Three days later we were back in Baker Street together but it was evident that my friend would be much the better for a change and the thought of a week of springtime in the country was full of attractions to me also. My old friend Colonel Hater who had come under my professional care in Afghanistan had now taken a house near Regate in Surrey and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend would only come with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. A little diplomacy was needed but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyon Hater was a fine old soldier who had seen much of the world and he soon found as I had expected that Holmes and he had plenty in common. On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's gun room after dinner. Holmes stretched upon the sofa while Hater and I looked over his little armory of firearms. By the way he said suddenly I think I'll take one of these pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm. An alarm? said I. Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton who is one of our country magnets had his house broken into last Monday. No great damage done but the fellows are still at large. No clue? asked Holmes cocking his eye at the Colonel. None is yet but the affair is a petty one one of our little country crimes which must seem too small for your attention Mr. Holmes after this great international affair. Holmes waved away the compliment though his smile that it had pleased him. Was there any feature of interest? I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers burst open and presses ransacked with the result that an odd volume of Pope's Homer, two plated candlesticks, an ivory letterweight, a small oak barometer and a ball of twine are all that have vanished. What an extraordinary assortment I exclaimed. Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of anything they could get. Holmes grunted from the sofa. The county police ought to make something of that, said he, why it's surely obvious that but I held up a warning finger. You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For heaven's sakes don't get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds. Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation toward the Colonel and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels. It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be wasted. For next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took a turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at breakfast when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him. Have you heard the news, sir? He gasped. At the Cunningham, sir. Burglary cried the Colonel with his coffee cup in mid-air. Murder! the Colonel whistled. By Jove said he, who's killed then, the JP or his son? Neither, sir. It was William, the coachman, shot through the heart, sir, and never spoke again. Who shot him, then? The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd just broken at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end in saving his master's property. What time? It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve. Ah, then we'll step over presently, said the Colonel, coolly settling down to his breakfast again. It's a bad-ish business, he added when the butler had gone. He's our leading squire around here, his old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow, too. He'll be cut up about this, for the man has been in his service for years and was a good servant. It's evidently the same villains who broke into Actons. And stole that very singular collection, said Holmes, thoughtfully. Precisely. It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same, at first glance, this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of their operations and not to crack two cribs in the same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions, I remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably the last parish in England to which the thieves would be likely to turn their attention. I suppose that I still have much to learn. I fancy it some local practitioner, said the Colonel. In that case, of course, Actons and Cunninghams are just the places he would go for since they are far the largest around here. And the richest? Well, they ought to be, but they've had a lawsuit for some years which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton has some claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been at it with both hands. If it's a local villain, there should not be much difficulty in running him down, said Holmes with a yawn. All right, Watson, I don't intend to meddle. Inspector Forrester, sir, said the butler, throwing open the door. The official, a smart keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room. Good morning, Colonel, said he. I hope I don't intrude, but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here. The Colonel waved his hand toward my friend and the Inspector bowed. We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes. The fates are against you, Watson, said he, laughing. We were chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you can let us have a few details. As he leaned back in his chair in the familiar attitude, I knew that the case was hopeless. We had no clue in the Acton affair, but here we have plenty to go on, and there's no doubt that it's the same party in each case. Ah, yes, sir.  Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was a quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown. They both heard William, the coachman, calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his bedroom window, saw the fellow as he gained the road but lost sight of him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he was middle-sized and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no personal clue, and if he is a stranger, we shall soon find him out. What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he died? Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house with the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course this act in business has put everyone on their guard. The robber must have just burst open the door, the lock has been forced, when William came upon him. Did he see his mother before going out? She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her. The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was never very bright. There is one very important circumstance, however. Look at this. He took a small piece of torn paper from a notebook and spread it out upon his knee. This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the rest of the sheet from him, or he might have taken this fragment from the murderer. It reads almost as though it was an appointment. Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here reproduced. Facsimile. At quarter to twelve learn what maybe. Presuming that it is an appointment, considered the inspector, it is, of course, a conceivable theory that this William Curran, although he had the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league with the thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him to break in the door, and then they may have fallen out between themselves. This writing is of extraordinary interest, said Holmes, who had been examining it with intense concentration. These are much deeper waters than I had thought. He sank his head upon his hands while the inspector smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the famous London specialist. Your last remark, said Holmes, presently, as to the possibility of there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. But this writing opens up. He sank his head into his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again, I was surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with color and his eyes were as bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old energy. I'll tell you what, said he, I should like to have a quiet little glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave my friend Watson and you and I will step around with the inspector to test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I'll tell you again in half an hour. An hour and a half had elapsed before the inspector returned alone. Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside, said he. He wants us all four to go up to the house together. To Mr. Cunningham's? Yes, sir. What for? The inspector shrugged his shoulders. I don't quite know, sir. Between ourselves I think Mr. Holmes has not quite got over his illness yet. He's been behaving very clearly and is very much excited. I don't think you need alarm yourself, said I. I have usually found that there was some method in his madness. Some folk might say there was madness in his method, muttered the inspector.  We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field. His chin sunk upon his breast and his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. The matter grows in interest, said he. Watson, your country trip has been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning. You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand, said the Colonel. Yes, the inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance together. Any success? Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I'll tell you what we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this unfortunate man. He certainly died from a revolver as reported. Had you doubted it, then? Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted. We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son who were able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken through the garden hedge in his flight. That was of great interest. Naturally. Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother. We could get no information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble. And what is the result of your investigations? The conviction that your crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we are both agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of paper in the dead man's hand bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written upon it, is of extreme importance. It should give us a clue, Mr. Holmes. It does give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought William Kerwin out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of that sheet of paper? I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it, said the Inspector. It was torn out of the dead man's hand. Why was someone so anxious to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket most likely, never noticing that a corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we could get the rest of that sheet, it is obvious that we should have gone a long way toward solving the mystery. Yes, but how can we get it the criminal's pocket before we catch the criminal? Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it could not have taken it, otherwise of course he might have delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note then? Or did it come through the post? I've made inquiries, said the Inspector. William received a letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by him. Excellent! cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back. You've seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well, here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you the scene of the crime. We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne House which bears the date of Malpiquette upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and the Inspector let us round it until we came to the side gate which is separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the road. A constable was standing at the kitchen door. Throw the door open, Officer, said Holmes. Now it was on those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling, just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window, the second on the left, and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that bush. So did the son. They are both sure of it on account of the bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The ground is very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us. As he spoke, two men came down the garden path from round the angle of the house. The one was an elderly man with a strong, deeply lined, heavy-eyed face. The other, a dashing young fellow whose bright, smiling expression and showy dress were in strange contrast with the business which had brought us there. Still at it, then, said he to Holmes. I thought you Londoners were never at fault. You don't seem to be so very quick after all. Ah, you must give us a little time, said Holmes, good-humoredly. You'll want it, said young Alec Cunningham. Why, I don't see that we have any clue at all. There's only one, answered the Inspector. We thought that if we could only find good heavens, Mr. Holmes, what's the matter? My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression.  Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried him into the kitchen where he lay back in a large chair and breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shame-faced apology for his weakness, he rose once more. Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe illness, he explained. I am liable for the sudden nervous attacks. Shall I send you home in my trap?" asked old Cunningham. Well, since I am here there is one point on which I should like to feel sure. We can very easily verify it. What is it? Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of this poor fellow William was not before but after the entrance of the burglar into the house. You appear to take it for granted that although the door was forced the robber never got in. Maybe that is quite obvious, said Mr. Cunningham, gravely, why my son Alec had not yet gone to bed and he would certainly have heard anyone moving about. Where was he sitting? I was sitting smoking in my dressing-room. Which window is that? The last on the left, next to my father's. Both your lamps were lit, of course, undoubtedly. There are some very singular points here, said Holmes, smiling. Is it not extraordinary that a burglar and a burglar who had had some previous experience should deliberately break into a house at a time when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still afoot? He must have been a cool hand. Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have been driven to ask you for an explanation, said Mr. Alec. But as to your idea that the man had robbed the house before William tackled him, I think that it is a most absurd notion. Shouldn't we have found the place and changed and missed the things which he had taken? It depends on what the things were, said Holmes. You must remember that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow and who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from Acton's. What was it? A ball of string? A letter weight? And I don't know what other odds and ends. Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes, said Old Cunningham. Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly be done. In the first place, said Holmes, I should like you to offer a reward, coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here if you would not mind signing it. Fifty pounds was quite enough, I thought. I would willingly give five hundred, said the JP, taking the slip of paper and the pencil with Holmes at hand unto him. This is not quite correct, however, but I am advancing over the document. I wrote it rather hurriedly. You see, you begin, whereas at about a quarter to one on Tuesday morning an attempt was made, and so on, it was at a quarter to twelve, as a matter of fact. I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any slip of this kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as to fact, but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident was enough to show me what Holmes was like to him being himself. He was obviously embarrassed for an instant while the inspector raised his eyebrows and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back to Holmes. Get it printed as soon as possible, he said. I think your idea is an excellent one. Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away in his pocketbook. And now, said he, it would really be a good thing that we should all go over the house together because the erratic burglar did not, after all, carry anything away with him. Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had been forced. It was evident that a chisel or a strong knife had been thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see the marks in the wood where it had been pushed in. You don't use bars, then, he asked. We have never found it necessary. You don't keep a dog. Yes, but he has chained on the other side of the house. The servants go to bed. About ten. I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour. Yes.  Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us over the house, Mr. Cunningham. A stone flag passage with the kitchens branching away from it led by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house. It came out upon the landing of the second more ornamental stair, which led up from the front hall. Out of this landing opened the drawing room and several bedrooms, including those of Mr. Cunningham and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the architecture of the house. I could tell from his expression that he was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading him. My good sir, said Mr. Cunningham with some impatience, this is surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs, and my son's is the one beyond it. I leave it to your judgment whether it was possible for the thief to have come up here without disturbing us. You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy, said the son with a rather malicious smile. Still I must ask you to humor me a little further. I should like, for example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the front. This, I understand, is your son's room," he pushed open the door, and that, I presume, is the dressing room in which he sat smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the window of that look out to? He stepped across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and glanced round the other chamber. I hope you are satisfied now, said Mr. Cunningham, testily. Thank you. I think I have seen all that I wished. Then, if it is really necessary, we can go into my room. If it's not too much trouble. The JP shrugged his shoulders and led the way into his own chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back until he and I were the last in the group. Near the foot of the bed was a small square table on which stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed at Holmes to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces, and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the room. You done it now, Watson, said he, coolly, a pretty mess you've made of the carpet. I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit, understanding that for some reason my companion desired me to take the blame upon myself. The others did the same and set the table on its legs again. Hello, said the inspector, where's he got to? Holmes had disappeared. Wait here an instant, said young Alec Cunningham. The fellow is off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he's got to. They rushed out of the room, leaving the inspector, the colonel, and me staring at each other. Upon my word I am inclined to agree with Mr. Alec, said the official. It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me that his words were cut short by a sudden scream of help, help, murder. While I recognized the voice as that of my friend, I rushed madly from the room onto the landing. The cries which had sunk down into a horse in articulate shouting came from the room in which we had first visited. I dashed in and on into the dressing room beyond. The two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands while the elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered at his feet, very pale and evidently greatly exhausted. Arrest these men, Inspector, he gasped. On what charge? That of murdering their coachman, William Kerwin. The inspector stared about him in bewilderment. Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes, said he at last. I am sure you don't really mean to, Tut Man, look at their faces, cried Holmes curtly. Never certainly have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed with a heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly marked face. The sun, on the other hand, had dropped all the jaunty dashing style which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome features. The inspector said nothing, but stepping to the door he blew his whistle. Two of his constables came at the call. I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham, said he. I trust that this may all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you can see that— Ah, would you drop it? He struck out his hand in a revolver which the younger man was in the act of cocking clattered down upon the floor. Keep that, said Holmes, quickly putting his foot upon it. You will find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted.  The remainder of the sheet, cried the inspector, precisely. And where was it? Where I was sure it must be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you presently. I thank Colonel that you and Watson might return now, and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you will certainly see me back at lunch and time. Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word. For about one o'clock he rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking room. He was accompanied by a little elderly gentleman who was introduced to me as Mr. Acton, whose house had been the scene of the original burglary. I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small matter to you, said Holmes, for it is natural that he should take a keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you must regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrol as I am. On the contrary, answered the Colonel warmly. I consider it the greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of working. I confess my expectations and that I am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen the vestige of a clue. I am afraid that my explanation may disillusionize you, but it has always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend Watson or from anyone who might take an intelligent interest in them. But first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about which I had in the dressing room, I think that I shall help myself to a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength has been rather tried of late. I trust you had no more of those nervous attacks. Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. We will come to that in its turn, said he. I will lay an account of this case before you in its due order, showing you the various points which guided me in my decision. Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly clear to you. It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to recognize out of a number of facts which are incidental and which vital. Otherwise, your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case, there was not the slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the key of the whole matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand. Before going into this, I would draw your attention to the fact that if Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the assailant after shooting Kirwan had instantly fled, then it obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec Cunningham himself, for by the time that the old man had descended, several servants were upon the scene. The point is a simple one, but the inspector had overlooked it because he had started with the supposition that these country magnets had had nothing to do with the matter. Now, I make a point of never having any witnesses, and a following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so in the very first stage of the investigation, I found myself looking a little escance at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham. And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper which the inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you not now observe something very suggestive about it? It has a very irregular look, said the Colonel. My dear sir, cried Holmes, there cannot be the least doubt in the world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words. When I draw your attention to the strong tees of at and to to, and ask you to compare them with the weak ones of quarter and twelve, you will instantly recognize this fact. A very brief analysis of those four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that the learn is written in the stronger hand and the what in the weaker. By Jove it is as clear as day, cried the Colonel. Why on earth should two men write a letter in such a fashion? Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who distrusted the other was determined that whatever was done each should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men it is clear that the one who wrote the at and the to was the ringleader. How do you get at that? You can use it from the mere character of the one hand as compared with the other, but we have more assured reasons than that for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all the words first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These blanks were not always sufficient and you can see that the second man had a squeeze to fit his quarter in between the at and the to, showing that the latter were already the first is undoubtedly the man who planned the affair. Excellent, cried Mr. Acton, but very superficial, said Holmes. We come now, however, to a point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction of a man's age from his writing is one which has been brought to considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases because ill health and weakness reproduce the signs of old age even when the invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the bold strong hand of the one and the rather broken back appearance of the other, which still retains its legibility, although the tees have begun to lose their crossings, we can say that the one was a young man and the other was advanced in years without being positively decrepit. Excellent, cried Mr. Acton again. There is a further point, however, of your interest. There is something in common between these hands. They belong to men who are blood relatives. It may be most obvious to you in the Greek ease, but to me there are many small points which indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that a family mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of writing. I am only, of course, giving you the leading results now of my examination of the paper. There were twenty-three other deductions to you. They all tended to deepen the impression upon my mind that the Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter. Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the details of the crime and to see how far they would help us. I went up to the house with the inspector and saw all that was to be seen. The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with absolute competence, fired from a revolver at the distance of something over four yards. There was no powder blackening on the clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as to the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point, however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch moist at the bottom. As there were no indications of boot marks about this ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon the scene at all. And now I had to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get at this, I endeavored, first of all, to solve the reason of the original burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood from something which the Colonel told us that a lawsuit had been going on between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to me that they had broken into your library with the intention of getting at some document about the necessity of importance in the case. Precisely so, said Mr. Acton. There can be no possible doubt as to their intentions. I have the clear's claim upon half their present estate, and if they could have found a single paper which, fortunately, was in the strong box of my solicitors, they would undoubtedly have crippled our case. There you are, said Holmes, smiling. It was a dangerous, reckless attempt in which I seemed to trace the influence of young Alec. Having found nothing, they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to be an ordinary burglary to which end they carried off whatever they could lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was much that was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the missing part of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man's hand and almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question was whether it was still there. It was with an effort to find out, and for that object we all went to the house. The Cunningham's joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise they would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was about to tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of a fit and so changed the conversation. Good heavens! cried the Colonel laughing. Do you mean to say that all our sympathy was wasted in your fit and imposter? Speaking professionally it was admirably done, cried I, looking in amazement at this man who was forever confounding me with some new phase of his astuteness. It is an art which is often useful, said he. When I recovered I managed by a device which had perhaps some little merit of ingenuity to get old Cunningham to write the word twelve so that I might compare it with the twelve upon the paper.  I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness, said Holmes laughing. I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together and having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind the door, I contrived by upsetting a table to engage their attention for the moment and slipped back to examine the pockets. I had hardly got the paper, however, which was, as I had expected in one of them, when the two Cunninghams were upon me and would I verily believe have murdered me then and there, but for your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man's grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my wrist round in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that I must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from absolute security to complete despair made them perfectly desperate. I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect demon ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against him was so strong, he lost all heart and made a clean breast of everything. It seems that William had secretly followed his two masters on the night when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and having thus got them into his power proceeded under threats of exposure to levy blackmail upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games of that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part to see in the burglary scare which was convulsing the countryside an opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up and shot, and had they only got the whole of the note and paid a little more attention to detail in their accessories it is very possible that suspicion might never have been aroused. And the note, I asked? Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us. Fax Emily If you will only come round at quarter to twelve to the east gate, you will learn what will very much surprise you and maybe be of the greatest service to you and also to Anne Morrison, but say nothing to anyone upon the matter. It is very much the sort of thing that I expected, said he. Of course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The result shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that you cannot fail to be delighted in the traces of heredity shown in the peas and the tales of the G's, the absence of the eye dots and the old man's writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker Street tomorrow. End of Adventure 6


It is the mass media's job to help suppress anti-war movements. In a new article titled European anti-war protests gained strength as NATO's Ukraine proxy war escalates, the Grey Zone, Stavrula-Pobst, and Max Blumenthal documented the many large demonstrations that have been occurring in France, the UK, Germany, Greece, Spain, the Czech Republic, Austria, Belgium, and elsewhere opposing the Western Empire's brinkmanship with Russia and its proxy warfare in Ukraine. Pobst and Blumenthal conclude their report with a denouncement of the way the Western media have either been ignoring or sneering at these protests while actively cheerleading smaller demonstrations in support of arming Ukraine. When Western media has not ignored Europe's anti-war protest wave altogether, its coverage has alternated between dismissive and contemptuous, they write. German state broadcaster Deutsche Welles nearingly characterized the February 25 demonstration in Berlin as naive while providing glowing coverage to smaller shows of support for the war by the Ukrainian diaspora. The New York Times, for its part, mentioned the European protests in just a single generic line buried in an article on miniscule anti-Putin protests held by Russian emigres. This bias is, of course, blatantly propagandistic, which won't surprise anyone who understands that the mainstream Western media exist first and foremost to administer propaganda on behalf of the US centralized empire, and chief among their propaganda duties is to suppress the emergence of a genuine peace movement. As we've discussed previously, it has never in human history been more urgent to have a massive, forceful protest movement in opposition to the empire's rapidly accelerating trajectory toward a global conflict against Russia and China. Other peace movements have arisen in the past in response to horrific wars which would go on to claim millions of lives, but a world war in the atomic age could easily wind up killing billions and must never be allowed to happen. And yet the public is not treating this unparalleled threat with the urgency it deserves. A few protests here and there is great, but it is not nearly enough. And the reason people have not answered the call is because the mass media have been successfully propagandizing them into accepting the continuous escalations toward world war that we've been seeing. People aren't going to protest what their government is doing if they believe that what their government is doing is appropriate, and the only reason so many people believe what their government is doing with regard to Russia and China is appropriate is because they have been propagandized into thinking so. The mass media are not telling the public about the many well-documented western provocations which led to the war in Ukraine and sabotaged peace at every turn.  The mass media are not telling the public about the way the U.S. Empire has been encircling China with war machinery in ways it would never permit itself to be encircled while deliberately staging incendiary provocations in Taiwan.  The mass media are not reminding the public that after the fall of the Soviet Union the U.S. Empire espoused a doctrine asserting that the rise of any foreign superpower must be prevented at all cost. They're letting that agenda fade into the memory hole. Because people believe Russia and China are the sole aggressors and the U.S. and its allies are only responding defensively to those unprovoked aggressions they don't see the need for a mass protest movement against their own governments.  The narrative that Russia and China are acting with unprovoked aggression actually prevents peace because if your government isn't doing anything to make things worse then there's nothing it can change about its own behavior to make them better. But of course there is a massive massive amount that the Western power alliance can change about its own behavior with regard to Russia and China that would greatly improve matters. Instead of working to subordinate the entire planet to the will of Washington and its drivers they can work toward de-escalation, diplomacy, and detente. We're not going to get de-escalation, diplomacy, and detente unless the people use the power of their numbers to demand those things and the people are not going to use the power of their numbers to demand those things as long as they are successfully propagandized not to. This means propaganda is the ultimate problem that needs to be addressed. Ordinary people can only address it by waking the public up to the fact that the political media class are lying to them about what's happening with Russia and China using whatever means we have access to. So that's what we need to do. We need to fight the imperial disinformation campaign using information. Tell people the truth using every medium available to us to so distrust in the imperial propaganda machine because propaganda only works if you don't know what's happening to you. Our rulers are always babbling about how they're fighting an information war against their enemies but in reality they're fighting an information war against normal Westerners like us. So we must fight back. We need to cripple public trust in the propaganda machine and begin awakening one another from our propaganda induced sleep so that we can begin organizing against the horrific end they are driving us toward.


All right, knee is feeling great. I finished my strength phase a week ago about. This is my day two of in the power phase where I'm just doing baby jumps and slowly, gradually increasing the jump intensity by jumping harder, a little bit more range of motion and also adding some weight. But that's basically all I'm gonna be doing. I might add in some sleds, but basically just gonna be moving weight, trying to move it faster and build up to max jumps. And I'm super pumped. Gonna try to dunk in about 35 days. That's around when I'll be doing this power phase for about four weeks, four or five weeks. Cause next week I'm on vacation for the whole week. Not gonna be training, definitely gonna be stretching. Speaking of stretching, last night to warm up for today, I hit the sauna for a few minutes and then I went to stretch and my mobility feels as good as it's ever been. If not the best, I was able to touch the floor with my fingertips legs completely straight. It's always been hard to keep my legs straight when I reach down, but touch the floor and hold it while keeping my legs fully straight and flex straight. So that's really big improvements. I'm really looking forward to making progress with my flexibility and getting super mobile and keeping my body healthy, that body love. All right, let's work! Explode, but I gotta take it easy. I'm ready though, I'm ready. Knee feels great, no pain at all. I'm seriously just trying to hold back, but I'm feeling really good. About the baby jumps and adding some weight to it or just jumping is that I'm building that confidence on my knee. Like I had no worries today that it would hurt because I've been doing so gradual that I knew I could handle a little bit more and just pushing it. I know what I'm feeling, exactly what I'm feeling. And so I have no concern that I'm gonna be hurting it because I'm taking it so gradual and that's helping me get confident to jump off of it. Even when I was jogging, I felt like I could sprint, which I haven't felt that mindset in a while. So I'm feeling really great. Vacation in two days, I'm out for the whole week. Better believe I'm gonna be stretching and taking care of my body. I'm gonna be eating like a ton and stuff like that, but definitely gonna take care of my body. And when I get back, it's gonna be right back to it. One week won't hurt me that much, but I'm looking forward to taking some a break, but I'm gonna try to post some content when I can. But other than that, probably taking a ton of pictures if you wanna follow my photography account. I know I have a million accounts, but yeah. I look forward to it. I'm gonna try to keep up with my daily motivational emails, but just follow my story because it'd probably be a little bit easier for me to post on my Instagram story. Probably won't be posting too much. I wanna be in the moment, but yeah, I look forward to getting back to training and dunking in about a month. Let's get it.


G'day, May 40 here. So the world is becoming increasingly secular. One, many of our explanations for how things happen are no longer rooted in faith and religion and tradition, but in science and secular explanations. Two, our lives are ever increasingly operated according to the efficiency maxims of, say, neoliberalism. So tradition has less and less control over our lives. And three, many of the services that religion used to provide, such as comfort and community, are now increasingly being better, more efficiently, more effectively provided by other mechanisms. So people instead of turning to church for a sense of comfort, they turn to music, to movies, to TV, to psychotherapy, to psychotherapeutic drugs, etc. Okay, so how does religion compete in this increasingly secular age? And so I'm just thinking about how whenever you see religion depicted in the news, it's almost always depicted in a negative sense, like religion, when it hits the news, it's almost always for a bad thing. So in an increasingly secular age, how does religion compete? And so I think it competes by giving explanations that are more and more effectively fitting a secular age. So instead of talking about God all the time, and I believe in God, but they're also all sorts of substitution words that you can use, such as reality, right? So instead of talking about humble yourself before God, you can talk about humble yourself before reality. In addition to talking about developing a personal relationship with God, you can talk about developing a positive relationship with reality. So using language that is perhaps more effective in the secular world or just providing alternatives to the worn out language of religion or supplementary uses of language beyond the traditional religious uses of language. So you can also talk about how everybody needs a hero system, like everybody needs something to believe in, everybody needs some sort of transcendent cause, that they feel themselves a part of. Because just looking at the world completely rashly and empirically, we will tend to be completely crushed by our own insignificance. So, you know, knowing that we will die one day and in all likelihood, we will have not left much of a mark on the world. How does the individual attach himself to something that lives on beyond him?  So Argentina just won the World Cup. For generations to come, they will be celebrating this. This will give them a sense of meaning and a sense that Argentina is the greatest country in the world. Why is Argentina the greatest country in the world? Because they just won the greatest World Cup ever played. So Argentina has a national day off right now. It's a national holiday to celebrate, which builds a sense of community, a sense of connection and a sense of passion and transcendent meaning. But, you know, Argentina is the greatest place in the world, which you would want Argentinians to believe. Like, why would anyone want to live in a community, a tribe or a nation that one does not believe is the greatest in the world?  So I'm heavily influenced by the teachings of Ernest Backer, who wrote an incredibly profound book, The Denial of Death. He says, This is the terror to have emerged from nothing, to have a name, a consciousness of the self, to have deep inner feelings. I don't know about you, but my feelings are so deep, so exquisite and excruciating inner yearning for life and self expression.  It seems like a hoax. What kind of deity would create such a complex and fancy worm food? So we're all going to end up as worm food one day. So Ernest Backer says the fear of death is the primary motivating factor behind much of human behavior. It's the idea of death. It's the fear of death. That's what haunts us. And this is where religion may be able to provide, you know, more effective suggestions, community answers, philosophies, rituals, right? So we have all these activities designed to avoid the fatality of death, to overcome it by denying in some way that it is the final destiny for all men. So I was listening to Richard Spencer talking about how Elon Musk is inevitably on this trajectory of defeat. Well, we're all on trajectory of defeat.  So I may be the only person within 200 miles lighting candles observing Hanukkah. 300 miles, 400 miles. What an opportunity to give witness to the Almighty.   Great place to practice my singing. Okay, we're the only animal who's aware of our own mortality. So the Mount Lion P 22, that was just captured in Los Angeles. He was euthanized. I don't think he had an awareness of his own mortality. Right. So this awareness of our mortality tends to elicit anxiety and fear. Right. And these things can be so debilitating that to properly function, we must repress or deny our own mortality. So this is an example of non-rational, even irrational beliefs that service. Right. We walked around meditating on or just keeping present in our mind that we're going to die. I don't think that would be conducive to our human flourishing to use some, you know, wellness terminology. How's your human flourishing these days? Welcome to the 40 Institute for the International Study of Human Flourishing. Okay. So that poor cat was an incel. It was boxed in by Western civilization. He couldn't reproduce, but he lived a magnificent life. He raged against the dying of the light. He made it to age 12 in Los Angeles. That's like 100 human years. So how do we go about denying death? What outlet had he for joy? I'll tell you the outlet he had for joy. He killed a koala.  He killed a koala in the Los Angeles Zoo. He also killed a few Chihuahuas. It's a guarantee he'd pick me up.  You know, you have a good feed. You immediately feel better. He composed this magnificent ode to joy after eating that koala. Okay. So the most effective way for denying death, according to Ernest Becker, is to strive for the heroic. So Argentinians are vicariously participated in their World Cup victory, the greatest World Cup of all time. They have this vicarious sense of the heroic. That's the most normal natural and probably healthy way for people to attach themselves to the heroic is to attach to their community, their tribe, their nation. So to vicariously take part in activities which lead you to believe you're part of something that is more than just your physical self, right? We need to attach most of us to something we'll live on past, our physical death. And so this will grant us a form of immortality. So to participate in something heroic, we usually attach ourselves to our people, perform the rituals of our people, such as Australia Day is coming up. I know it's a major event in your calendar. But now for the first time, employers are going to make taking a day off on Australia Day is now voluntary because for Indigenous people and those who sympathize with Indigenous Australians, Australia Day is actually a very sad time. Once everyone finds out it's all controlled by a hidden hand, it's going to make them feel like a dummy, says the chat. Okay. So we participate in rituals such as Australia Day or 4th of July, or we watch the Super Bowl and feel very American, whatever you need to do to feel part of your nation. That's going to give you a sense that you're part of something that transcends your earthly existence, you're part of something transcendent, eternal and heroic. Now, the great YouTube live streamer, he can have a sense of transcendence, knowing that his videos and his words may well live on beyond him, to speak to countless masses down through time or the great writer, to have a sense that his writings will live on beyond him, the great painter. But what about the great masses of mediocre people? Now, what about the people who are incapable of personally achieving the heroic, unlike the fantastic live streamer, the artist. How do they fulfill their need for heroism? So society usually will act as the vehicle by which the vast majority of people act out their urge for heroism. But also religion. If you are part of an organized religion, that's a way of vicariously acting out your need for heroism. So if you're a Christian, you believe that Christianity provides the vehicle for eternal salvation. If you're Jewish, you believe that Jews and Jewish people elevate humanity. The Jews are a pilot project for humanity, that we have laws and rituals and perspectives on life that make life better. So every religion offers a vehicle for the heroic. So for most people acting in heroic fashion, it seems like too big of a task. Or we may feel too small to be a hero. But usually everybody is a hero to someone. Even a 56-year-old in-cell, there are going to be some people who find some part of his life streaming or his life heroic. Even the in-cell can be a hero to someone. So we want to be heroic. We may feel too small for the task. So we try to disguise our struggle by saving a lot of money, by trying to do something distinctly of getting tattoos, dressing in a special way, using special language, living in a better home, in a better neighborhood, with a better car, with children that are ex-cell. But underneath all this, we ache to feel cosmically special. And we try to distract ourselves. We try to mask this need to feel transcendently, cosmically special. So we deny death by becoming fully absorbed in whatever role society has for us. And we strive for whatever our particular community, our particular nation, sees as most heroic. Some people will be the pursuit of science, for other people the pursuit of beauty, for other people the pursuit of seduction, for other people the pursuit of athletic greatness, Hollywood greatness, whatever society prizes the most, we strive for that. So society is a codified hero system. Society lets us know what is most important and then we strive for that and that's how we choose the heroic. Society is the living myth of the significance of human life. It is a defiant creation of meaning. So, Ernest Becker argues that it's essentially a biological necessity that we develop the hero system or subscribe to the hero system of the society around us.  So there was a great psychologist, Alfred Adler, in the 19th century saw low self-esteem as a central problem of mental illness. So what type of person has the most trouble with self-esteem? Someone who lacks connection to heroic transcendence of his fate. Someone who doubts his own immortality. Someone who doubts the abiding value of his decisions, his actions, his own life, his loves. Someone who's not convinced that his having lived makes any difference. So mental illness is just another style of being bogged down by the fear of death. So this leads to thinking such as terror management theory. So we try to deny death. We try to deny terror. We try to navigate the difficult, challenging environment. And we develop ways of managing our terror. And so the religious can point out that secular people have heroic systems just as much as religious people. And that they are non-rational. So for everyone who says our religion's irrational or non-rational, the thought for religious person or the person making that argument is also subscribing to some kind of non-rational, even irrational hero system. So religion at least has the advantage of, you know, millennia of experience, of time-tested ways of organizing community and family in individual life. It gives you rituals for human connection. It provides art and music and regular gathering and other ways of providing comfort in a challenging and difficult world. And you feel attached to something that's immoral, transcendent, that is cosmically special. Because, you know, without this biological necessity of attaching to something greater than ourselves will be crushed by our own insignificance and debilitated by fear, anxiety, even terror. I gotta get to work. Bye-bye.