Deep Dive
Shownotes Transcript
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The cardboard box. Right. Okay. Uh, intro read. Oh, hey there. It's everybody's favorite discharged military doctor turned private sort of freelancer for investigative purposes. Me. That's me. Hi. Welcome.
Strap in, this is the adventure of the cardboard box. Yeah, I'll think of a better title later and change this opening, but it's just easier in the edit if I just add this waffle at the start. Waffle, waffle, waffle. Blah, blah, blah. You need about 40 seconds of it, so...
blah blah yeah yeah yeah uh contains blood and guts and human remains and death blah blah uh lovely right that should be about the right length then i'll just put a reminder to redo this bit later when i can think of a better title why is that still recording stop recording your knob stop record start
Yeah, I'm just... This is me apologising on his behalf. Matt? It's fine, honest, John. No, no, no, it's not fine. He's a little, I don't know, down in the dumps at the moment. He's not thinking things through like he usually does. Don't worry about it, honestly. It's just beer mats, mate. I thought he broke the fruit machine. What did he do to the beer mats, Matt? Added some punctuation that he thought was missing or something. I don't know. Great, great. OK, well, sorry again.
Happy New Year's, folks. Little heads up for this adventure. Sherlock is a little lacking in the socialisation department. Put it that way. Maybe a little too much stimulation over Christmas. Who knows? Yeah, you might be privy to a wee bit of callousness. He's not a monster by any means. Just, yeah, uncalibrated, I believe he called it once. I don't know.
Got something to the music? Who's done that? Me. Too loud, I'm afraid. I've had to pair to the speaker as Matt here can't be trusted. What the hell is this? Nocturne by Chopin. You're welcome. See, look. The patrons are up and dancing. Leaving. That's... that's them leaving. No, they're not, Watson. Don't be stupid. Ah, yes they are.
My name is Dr. John Watson, once of the British Army Northumberland Fusilier Regiment, now a true crime podcaster based in central London. I don't have much experience in criminology, so this is mostly a record of how I met possibly the most brilliant and bizarre person I have ever and will ever know. Join me as I document the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
I think Mrs Hudson may have been right. Right about... On the 16th, at around 3pm, she said you and I have a rapport. Sorry? She was speaking to a client and mentioned that Sherlock and John have a rapport. Right. Er, yeah. Guess, erm, guess we do. Yeah, maybe. I don't know. You disagree? No, I... It's just quite early. I haven't woken up properly yet. The answer is no.
What answer is no? To what you're thinking right now. You're joking, aren't you? I merely wanted to see if there was a rapport between us. I have confirmed my findings, that will be all. Are you... Did you read my mind? I did not read your mind. If I had have done, I would have nodded off. Sherlock. Last night, I had considered that if Mrs Hudson's judgement was correct, and there was in fact a rapport between us, then I should be able to not just see your train of thought, but climb aboard it and take a ride. This is my stop.
And my answer is no. I do not wish to accompany you on a trip to the countryside. Jesus Christ! That's amazing! Let me just check if I was recording the... Oh, yes, recording! Get in! Now, that is content. Not really. Yeah, really. You revved my mind. People are going to go bloody mad for that, mate. So, I mean, how? What?
I am... Oh, God, how did you know? Watson, I really am in no mood to show off. It began with Mrs Hudson's comment that I allowed myself to stew in last night as I had cleared a number of other focuses from my mind. I contemplated that if there was indeed a rapport and an understanding of one another, I would, in theory, be able to follow your thoughts for the day, having access to you and given my foundational understandings of Dr John Watson. I suspected I could do such a thing.
So I entered your bedroom at 6am to begin my work. First off, you had a nightmare. Wow. Yeah, I did. Yeah. Your pulse was raised, your hands were clammy, but you didn't have an erection. Sherlock! Let me finish, Watson. Your usual sleeping position is on your right-hand side. You should sleep on your left, by the way, Doctor. Much better for the stomach acid, but this morning you were on your back. What's wrong with being on my back? Wrong for breathing, but just right for nightmares.
Your tongue slides back, causing obstruction, and without the rib and neck muscles that are resting, breathing becomes laboured, and a light hallucinogenic sleep tugs you into unconsciousness. All the while, your subconscious mind races with the constant unease of the struggling breath. Right. OK. Terrifying. Thank you. Perfect conditions to conjure up the angst and dread that make up our nightmares.
You had your nightmare. You eventually awoke. You made a cup of tea. At which point, I made myself visible so that you would have to offer me a cup of tea because I didn't think I wanted one, but when I saw that you were having one, I decided I wanted one. You then sat on the couch and began to replay the nightmare over in your mind. I suspected it was something to do with war or conflict. You were looking for something deeper, something that was maybe provoking these bad dreams. You thought perhaps loneliness. You checked your phone and saw no messages, and the scarring from the removed tattoo caused an itch.
You smiled as you recollected some army japes, a near impossible camaraderie to replace, as many soldiers know. At that point, Archie yawned and your attention turned to him. And as usual, your concerns about Archie's well-being in London took over and you began to wonder about a trip away. But that would feel like a holiday. Ah, no way. Not a pleasant thought for Dr John Watson, who suffers from work-related guilt and shameful feelings about being unable to reach his full potential. So why not make it a working holiday? Take the laptop with you and Archie.
But your work very much resides with me, so you'd have to convince me to come, in which case you'd have to ask first, and my answer is no. That's the door.
Shamefully frugal, I'll be honest. We just full potential. Shut up. Were you saying something? No, who was it? Delivery. What have you got? Cardboard box. Yeah, I know that. I meant what's in it. I don't know. I haven't opened it. Right, yeah, of course, because you can read minds, but not remember what you've ordered online. I haven't ordered anything online. Oh, okay. So, you're going to open it?
Have you finished talking? Yes. Sure? Just open it. You were asking me questions. This, this is the opposite of rapport, just so you know. What is? Open the bloody box, please. So you wouldn't consider a country retreat any time soon? Watson, I've told you many times, I love to lie in the very centre of eight millions of people with my filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime.
You've told me that many times. That. Ah, lovely. That's a very thoughtful gift. How nice. What is it? A present from Lestrade. The Inspector? Indeed. Why would Lestrade give you a present? It's my birthday. What? I think it is, anyway.
She wouldn't be so generous otherwise. Why didn't you tell me? Tell you what? That it's your birthday. Would it be relevant to our work? No, it would have been relevant to me. For, you know, I could have got you a gift. But I don't want a gift. Oh, you seem pretty happy with this one from Lestrade. That's because it's a lovely gift. Oh, well, in your current weird mood to find something lovely. Wow.
It must be pretty special. What is it? It's a cardboard box containing around a kilogram of coarse salt and a pair of human ears. See? Oh, Jesus Christ! Watson, what's wrong? Get those out of here now. Good God almighty, Sherlock, call the police. It's from the police. Come on now, Doctor. You're a doctor. What is wrong with you? It's all right, Archie. Hey, Archie, it's all right, mate. Is everything OK? Very well, Mrs Hudson.
Did we wake you? Or do you intend to wear that t-shirt today? Um, right. No, this, um, these are my pyjamas. It's, um... Cartoon mermaids. Aren't you a little old for that? Hi. Hi. Um, right. Are you recording, John? Yeah. Great. Lovely. Thanks for coming up.
Sorry about the noise. Yes, apologies, Mrs. Hudson. Our Watson is being very shouty this morning. First it was his erection, or lack thereof. Right, right, now, hold on. Now it's about these. Oh my God! Sherlock! You're shouting again, Watson. No, no, no, no, no. Put them away! Are they real? Oh, very much so. And they were delivered here? Mm-hmm. Ay, Dios. It's, um, it's Sherlock's birthday. Oh. Yeah. Happy birthday, Sherlock. One of the happiest, Mrs. Hudson.
Why is she little? The mermaid on your shirt. What makes her the little mermaid? She seems in proportion to the others. Um, I don't really know. I've never really thought about it. Huh. Well, now you have. Stop playing with the ears. Put them down. Of course. Yes. Sorry. Very excited. Do you want to...
Do your thing. Right, yes. Lestrade has very kindly sent these on. What she lacks in intelligence and any discernible talent required to be an officer, she makes up for in kindness. She sent these to you for your birthday? I suspect for two reasons. First, the case makes very little sense to Scotland Yard, which isn't surprising. And second, yes, for my birthday. Let us start with the address. 221B Baker Street? Nope.
There. Miss S. Cushing. 44 Cross Street, Croydon. Done with pencil. Looks like the word "Croydon" has initially been spelt with an "I", which has been erased and changed to a "Y". Handwriting is scrawny. Rushed. Masculine. What are you doing? Kerosene. With a mineral oil. Most likely not kerosene, then.
But diesel. Two thumb marks, bottom left-hand corner, tied with tarred string twine. Knot still intact. Clove hitch knot. Interesting. Twine cut with scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side. Watson, care to take a look? Oh, no, I don't really want to... Ah, OK. God. I mean...
I don't think I'm going to discover anything you haven't, mate. Correct. Mrs Hudson... I'll track down Miss Cushing and let her know you're on your way. Perfect. You read my mind. It would appear we two have a rapport. Great. We're on our way? What is the actual plan here? Come on. I'm all ears. Hey? John. Give me the box. You can't be trusted. Oh, come on. That was a joke. It was a jo... MUSIC
With an hour before boarding, there's only one place to go. The Chase Sapphire Lounge by the club. There, you can recharge before the big adventure or enjoy a locally inspired dish. You can recline in a comfy chair to catch up on your favorite show or order a craft cocktail at the bar.
Whatever you're in the mood for, find the detail that moves you with curated touches at the Chase Sapphire Lounge by the club. Chase, make more of what's yours. Learn more at chase.com slash sapphire reserve. Cards issued by JPMorgan Chase Bank and a member FDIC. Subject to credit approval.
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So, this is the Croydon tram. Yes. It's a first for me. Yes, me too actually. Well, quite the birthday you're having. First severed human ears, then the Croydon tram. Did you keep the receipt? The receipt for what? For the tram. No.
Sherlock, Mariana said to keep them. They're business expenses. We charge them back. Why? Because it's a tax thing. You don't know, do you? Yes, I do, mate. Pretty bloody obvious. What is it, then? Well, so, the expenses... For up to ten grand, you get expenses as a sort of... Oh, wait, this is our stop. This tram is for Wimbledon. The next stop will be...
But I think claiming back expenses means that you get, you know, like a tax-free sort of... like it's tax-free. I'm tying myself up in knots here a bit, but I know what I mean. So just keep the receipts, all right? Knots. Yes. Quite the day for knots. Is it? It certainly is. Here we are. Number 44, home of Miss S Cushing.
How do you want to do this? Do this? Yeah, you know, do you want to do a whole good cop, bad cop sort of vibe? Maybe I'll go in first, shit her up a bit, you know, give her the old, all right, love, time to start talking. Sorry, and why on earth would you do that? Well, you can do bad cop if you want. It's just I was in the army, yeah, and I've seen my fair share of enforcers, you know. Then you come in, all RP and with your hooms and your wences and she feels more at ease and spills the beans. This
This woman doesn't have any beans. Oh, doesn't she? No. Not a single bean? Certainly not. What makes you so sure? Aren't I always? Yeah, that's true, I suppose. So, what are we going to do? Just play it by ear? Oh, what? That really is enough. Oh, no. No, that wasn't a deliberate joke. Just please be polite. Oh, politeness lessons from Sherlock Holmes. Welcome to Opposite Land.
Are you Jehovah's Witnesses? Oh, er, no, not at all. We're actually... Would you like to be? Sorry? I'm Susan. I'd like to take this opportunity, actually, to share an important passage with you. Are you familiar with Revelation 21.3?
I'm not entirely sure, to be honest, what a Jehovah's Witness is. It's a millenarian, restorationist Christian denomination with non-Trinitarian beliefs distinct from mainstream Christianity. Oh, well, sounds great. Tell you what, I'll take that pamphlet and I'll give it a read later. And maybe my friend and I can come in and discuss what you received in the Post recently.
Well, there you go. A Jehovah's Witness just slammed a door in my face. We really are in opposite land. I have most of the information I need. Do you? Yes. Besides, she wasn't the intended recipient of the parcel. Really? Her recycling bins. See the one for glass? Red wine stains in the bottom. So? She's a Jehovah's Witness. She's prohibited from premarital sex, homosexuality, gender transitioning, adultery, smoking, drug abuse, blood transfusions and... Alcohol. Alcohol.
So why is there a red wine stain in her glass recycling receptacle? Why are there another woman's shoes by the door that aren't her size? Why is there a lockbox with a spare key on the wall? She had a house guest? Miss Cushing, your sister has recently moved out, hasn't she? How do you know... I fear, Miss Cushing, that she may be in danger. She may even be dead. Oh my god! No! No!
Sarah's dead! Sarah, my Sarah! You remember the... gruesome package you received in the post? No, I... Yeah, I gave it to the police. No, no, no, no, no, please. They were hers. They were her ears. Miss Cushing, do you want to just take a seat? Maybe I can get you a cup of tea. Can I just grab you for a second? Yes, please do.
Milk and sugar, Miss Cushing? She can't hear you. She's sobbing. Yeah, listen. Also, what happened to shitting her up? Maybe I can get you a cup of tea. Milk and sugar, Miss Cushing. Well, what are you doing, mate? What? Oh, hi, Susan. Your sister's dead and had her ears cut off. Ear? You can't just...
Wait, what? Ear. Not ears. It was two ears. The package had two ears in it. One from her sister, probably not the one she's crying about, and one from somebody else. I just need to work out who that somebody else is. Are you serious? Milk. Strong. No sugar. Thanks, Watson. Sherlock. Sherlock. God's sake. Miss Cushing, I must confess, I don't know much about you. But fortunately for me, you are wearing your hair up, and I can note that your ears have a number of anatomical peculiarities, as many do.
Yours do in fact correspond exactly with what I have already seen this morning, the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all essentials, they are the same ear. So it led me to the conclusion you have a sister. But what has made things even more clearer, Miss Cushing, is this photograph here. You have two sisters.
And it brings me enormous relief to tell you that Sarah is not dead. Oh. But that one is. Mary! Right, that is not on, mate. That's not on at all. Had two sisters, I should have said. Incorrect tense. This T isn't very strong. Sherlock! Right, OK, that, that's enough. Enough. You need to apologise. That was rather forthright, wasn't it? Can't quite gauge if it was what I said or the way I said it.
What do you think? Well, I think I inform people about deceased loved ones from now on. Alright? I'm going to get emails about this, for God's sake. For what? For you being... What was the word? Uncalibrated? Uncalibrated. She's just lost her sister. But she's also gained the one she thought she lost. That doesn't matter, mate.
You've just told her Sarah is dead. Mary. Mary is dead. This, these are seismic moments in people's lives, all right? You know, they need to be handled with care, understanding and love. I mean, these are delicate, private moments. Oh, let me just check I'm recording before I go speak to her.
It's gonna be okay, Susan, yeah? We're gonna find who did this and maybe we might even find Sarah. Mary. Right, yeah, Mary. Sarah was the intended target, not of the murder, but of the package. As I mentioned in the doorway, she used to lodge here, did she not? She did, yeah. Until recently? Yeah, maybe two months ago.
She got a job in North London, so she moved out. You saw S Cushing and assumed the package was addressed to you. It was the disgusting med students who pissed in the lounge. In the bloody lounge! Sorry, I am really lost here. I let out a house down the street to some of the uni students...
I had some medical lads in there and they were hideous. Drinking all hours, getting in fights, late on rent. And then, then I found out they pissed all over the carpet. So I chucked them out. This is just them playing some horrible, cruel joke on me. You're wrong. I'm not.
got access to all those body parts, haven't they? Yes, you're still wrong though. A medical student would have access to a much sharper tool to remove those ears. It would have been a much cleaner cut and they wouldn't have been preserved in coarse salt. No, no. I know what they're capable of. And I know that if they rented a house in Croydon, they'd know how to spell Croydon. The police arrested them. Yes, well, the police are stupid. Miss Cushing, do you have any of Mary's belongings here? Anything at all? Um...
Last time she visited she... she left her hat... hold on... um... yeah... yeah, here. What are you doing? Smelling. Sniffing. Sniffing for what? Diesel. Diesel? The... the fragrance for men? No, the fuel. I could probably sniff out CK1, given the chance. And Paco Rabanne? All I wore up until about 25? Here. Smell that. I'd rather not. Smell. Watson.
Yeah, there's definitely a whiff of it, yeah. Excellent. Could you please just tell me what's going on? Miss Cushing, was Mary married? She's married, yes. Ah, apologies. Would you like to use the present tense? Please.
They live on a canal boat, don't they? Her and her husband. How did you know that? Yeah, how did you know that? The package was processed at Brentford Post Office, right next to the canal engaging lock. The whiff of diesel on the parcel matches that of Mary's hat. So we can assume that Mary was murdered by her husband. Jim. Jim Browner. Jim Browner.
How do we know that it was Jim? Well, firstly, it's his wife. Husbands do kill their wives. Secondly, one ear belongs to Mary. The other ear belongs to a man. Perhaps a lover. Oh, good Lord. Thirdly, the smell of diesel. Narrowboats, barges, they use diesel engines. Typically close to the tiller, that's the steering position, that was on the package. But diesel dominates plenty of other fields. Mechanics, transportation, farming. Which brings us to the fourth point.
You cut it open, didn't you, Miss Cushing? The cardboard box? Yeah, I did. Why? Because I couldn't... The knot was too tight. I couldn't undo it. That's because it was tied with a clove hitch knot. A favourite of the canal dwellers and seafarers, in fact. Miss Cushing, we will track down Jim Browner. Bring him to justice for the murder of his wife, Mary, your beloved sister.
We'll find out what he wants with Sarah and why he sent such a gruesome message. Thank you. Watson, time to set sail. We're not, are we? Not on a canal. Oh, yes, we are. Thank you, Mr... Captain, Sherlock Holmes. For goodness sake. Well, I tell you what, it's a bit nippy, but this is better than the Croydon Tram, I have to say. I think I agree with you, Watson. This is the life.
You know how to drive this thing, don't you? Mm-hmm. Oh, Mariana, someone has just reported a missing person in Croydon, Jamie Dyer, same age as Mary and pictured with her on Instagram five years ago. Well, Watson, we've found their ears. Let's go find the rest of them. MUSIC PLAYS
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