Black Peter - Part Two
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or Sherlock & Co. Members Club. You decide. Patreon.com forward slash Sherlock & Co. Previously on Sherlock & Co. John, there's been a murder. We need you. I'll be right there, Hopkins. Don't worry, Watson is on the case. It's, um, yeah. As you can see, it's brutal. This is monstrous. Yeah, yeah. He's pinned to the wall, Sherlock. He's pinned to the wall. Indeed, Sherlock.

How? It's a harpoon through his chest. What in the hell? Look at his face. Yes. Frostbite. Frostbite. He was a very troubled, lonely man, sir. Sir, I thought you said he was married. No, he was, yeah. How can he be lonely? Well, he preferred to be out here in his cabin. And to be honest with you, she preferred that too. You're watching Peter Orwell, Kerry.

How was a man murdered with a harpoon in a locked cabin?

Who did it? And why did they leave a notepad written in Japanese under the window they crawled out of? Shall we get to work? Oh, look at you. You're so cool, making it to part two. Get over yourself. Right, let's get stuck in. Swearing, obviously. Death stuff, sex stuff, anything else is in the episode description. Come hither, let's crime solve.

All right. Who, me? No. Harpoon Harry in there, or whatever we're calling him. Black Peter? You know, it feels a bit... What? Suspicious? Yeah, the crime. Yeah, but... I mean, the name. What name? Black Peter. Yes. What about it? I know I'm desperate for an adventure, but can I...

You know... What? Publish the episode if everyone is using the name... Black Peter? Yeah. You're confusing me, Watson. It's just... I don't want people to think there's a racial sort of connotation. He's a frostbitten mountaineer. No, I know... Then what's the problem? Alright, alright, fine. Thank you. Noted. What are you doing, exactly? Looking for footprints. Oh.

I was thinking we go speak to Mrs Carey. Oh, we shall, Watson. But first, I need the prints. Why? Because I wouldn't want to get off on the wrong foot. Nice. Thank you. It was a pun because of footprints. Yeah, yeah, I got that. MUSIC PLAYS

Some shoutouts splattered across Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa and Michigan now. So to Madeline, Monica, Max, Heather and Brad. Shoutouts to... Shoutout to Clarissa from John.

A shout out to Skew in Scotland. Sidney Smith wants to give a shout out to Emily Wood. Ask and you shall receive, Sidney. Well, if I randomly press on the email, you shall receive. Anyway, Finny wants a shout out for Vanny and Soph. You've got it, Finny. Watson, Sergeant Hopkins. Oh, I've been called over.

And yep, he's lying on the ground in the forest. What are you doing, mate? Working. Yeah, of course. What do you need me for? I have an issue with my prints. Oh, you sound like King Charles. Prints. Footprints. Yeah, I know. What? What is it? Come lie down here. Oh, wonderful. Oh, this is so uncomfortable. Oh, slug juice on my arm.

Right. You look happy. This is what we like to do, is it? Do you enjoy it? It was a royal we. A royal we? Yeah, you know, instead of saying I, I say we to suggest that, I don't know, that we're some coherent unit rather than one guy doing shout-outs and another one lying in the dirt. Look. Okay, yeah, what am I looking at? This and this. The indentations into the ground. Yeah. Both feet pointing away from the cabin, next to one another.

Meaning? Um, landing. They climbed out the window and jumped down. Correct. You called? Sergeant Hopkins. Following a close inspection of the undergrowth outside this cabin window, I can tell you, you don't have one suspect. You have two. Two? Indeed. If you'd like to come and lie in the dirt with me, I can demonstrate. Yeah, come on down. It's really fun. Uh, yeah. All right. All right.

What are we looking at here? Prints here are size 8. I'd say male. They're trainers. Very little impression on the soil to work with, which suggests the underside of the footwear was carrying a lot of dirt and foliage.

The intruder had been walking through these woods for some time and probably in the dark. They failed to avoid particularly soggy, thick mud that acted like an adhesive on the bottom of their trainer and was picking up the leaves and forest residue.

You see that one? There, by my left hand. Here, you see another, both pointing different directions. This trained individual entered the cabin and exited the cabin. Right, okay. Then here, we have these two prints, pointing outward, right underneath the window itself. Larger, size 12, a hiking boot, well, shoe, to be exact, the Northern LD3.

Voted the best walking shoe by livefortheoutdoors.com Oh, lovely. You don't hang about, do you? The prints head off westward into the woodland before fading as the forest floor turns to the brush of the common. But maybe the wife, maybe she... Widow. Right, yes. One of these could be hers. Maybe, I mean, she had to discover the body somehow.

She's not just going to kick the door down, is she? Yes. Which leads me to another problem. Go on. Up we get. This way. To the front of the cabin now. Don't remember this Winnie the Pooh story, eh? Piglet chasing some harpoon murderer. Winnie the Pooh? Yeah. What about Winnie the Pooh? This place is the inspiration for the Hundred Acre Wood. Oh, okay.

So did you think I was just talking about Winnie the Pooh? I'm not a maniac, Stanley. Right, no, yeah. There, look. The front door. Yeah, she kicked it in. Well, you see the porthole window here at the top of the door? Rather cute, I find. Adds a homely touch to an otherwise bleak-looking cabin. Delightful, yeah.

Nautical. How tall is Mrs Carey? She's about five, five foot. She's five foot two, actually. Right. How do you know that? We haven't even met her. Black Peter is six foot two. There's a picture of them on the wall of his cabin. Okay, fine. Continue. Her foot size is in proportion from what I can tell. No prints of that size at the rear of the cabin with the others, so this porthole window is where she would have seen her blood-stained husband.

Right. Great. Good work. Do you see the problem? The porthole window is... Six foot high. Oh. Take a closer look at that door now. What am I looking for, exactly? Damage. Sergeant Hopkins...

Damage? Yeah, she's booted it and it's smashed right open. I noticed the splintered door frame earlier. How many times? You what? How many attempts did it take the petite 5 foot 2 Mrs Carey to kick open the door? I mean, I'd say it's fairly clean. You'd be right. So... One? One.

A diminutive 53-year-old woman, mother of two, strolled down this pathway, peered through a window a foot higher than her eyeline, and then proceeded to smash open a door held shut with a 200mm steel padbolt with one kick, all the while forgetting that she hadn't seen her husband, who left for his cabin nearly 40 hours earlier. Does that sound feasible to you? No. No, it doesn't. Me neither.

And yeah, we're in the cabin now. Oh, seriously? Yep. Let me see. There. Did the camera flip? Ah, yeah, there you go. Oh, okay. Yeah, that's a lot of blood. They took him out of there, right? Yeah, he was taken away earlier. What are you thinking? Well, it's complicated because... I was talking to Sherlock. I'm thinking the longer I inspect this crime scene...

the less it all makes sense. Right. Oh, sorry, one moment. What the hell was that? Oh, I was just ordering a coffee. A Spanish place? Portuguese, genius. Oh, of course she speaks Portuguese. This murder, I feel it may be unintentional.

But we... All the activity is at the back window. No one is using the front door. This is all cloak and dagger stuff, mate. Look at this part of the wall. What do you see? Two nails. To hang something. Remember what I said about the sun? The morning sun comes through that window there.

It would illuminate this wall. You can see the bleaching on the wood from a thousand sunrises at least. Yeah. Relax your eyes. Now you see the ghost of something. Hung on these nails, eclipsing the early morning rays to this part of the wall. Ah, yeah. It's, uh, like a rifle or... No. A harpoon. A harpoon.

So, Black Peter owned the harpoon? Cold-hearted killers don't come unarmed, Watson. But we know that Peter was expecting a guest. A guest he thought highly of. Because he dressed up smart? Exactly.

So, things got out of hand with the house guest. Well, cabin guest. Oh, okay. I... Yeah, I got the email. Excellent. What email? I contacted the admin for the Woodmansley community Facebook page to ask the truth about Peter. Oh. Okay, this is what I've got. Um...

Hi, Mariana. Thank you so much for your message. The death of Peter Carey is a shock, but I suspect the people of our community will not be all that saddened to hear it. Peter was a very complex man. He should have been given help a long time ago.

He tormented our village with constant threats and demands to turn off the water supply, to shut off the phone lines and electricity cables. He attacked a doctor for killing children with vaccinations. He would take people's mobile phones and suggest they were being used to track him. Peter was...

Bleak.

Indeed. Do you think someone in the village just snapped and killed him? Never mind the village, I think someone in the house did. You think it's time to visit the widow of Peter Orwell Carey? Let's do it. It's a beautiful area. Indeed. Ugly circumstances, though, you've got to say. Yes, quite. Orwell Carey.

Why would you call your kid Orwell? Peter Orwell Carey? His parents didn't. He did. Oh. What, like through depot? He was untrustworthy of governments, to say the very least. Oh, you found him online then? Took some time, but yes.

Peter abandoned most platforms and applications in the past few years. A constant fear of surveillance. A narrowing and belligerent world view gave him limited options. But you can find older videos of his on a YouTube alternative. Right, worth a watch? No. Yeah, I thought so.

But that's where he refers to himself as Peter Orwell Carey. A nod to George Orwell and 1984. Of course. So he thinks the dark government forces are taking over. He thought that, yes. What's that? What are you playing with in your hands? It's ash from tobacco. Where did you find that? Well, that's not quite the structure of the question. Is it?

Not. Where didn't I find it? It was just about everywhere inside. Which suggests signs of a struggle. What, er, why exactly? A brawl in that cabin after, ooh, what looks like cigars were smoked and there was this lighter. PC, Peter Carey. Mm.

You examined the man? Well, sort of, yeah. Any signs that he was a smoker? Well, they're just cigars. It doesn't mean he was a smoker. OK, fine. Signs that he was a cigar smoker? No, not that I saw, no. Yes, well, concerning. There was also this same ash in the forest out the back window. But where it wasn't...

Was by the front door. Right, let's just pause a second, please, for goodness sake. Are you tired? Is it your leg? No, it's not my leg. It's my head, mate. Why? What's wrong with it? You! You are what is wrong with my head. First, it's the wife. Then it's the cigar-smoking intruder who wears trainers. Hiking shoes. The man in the trainers did not... See what I mean? It's a cabin in the woods, on private land. Yes. Where are all these bloody intruders coming from?

I've seen shops with less footfall than this. Debenhams should have had a spot in that forest. They might have stood a chance. What are you getting at, Watson? Sherlock.

You're being... Being what? I'm not being anything. I'm analysing the case. If you think it's the wife, then just say it's the wife and we will get the police up here. Oh, it's not the wife. God help me. Fine. The bloke who kicked the front door open. Oh, it's not him either. This is why the police just leave you to it. Is it? Yes. Why? Because they don't have a bloody clue what you're on about and you just play it all aloof. Well, if it works so well, I will continue to do it. Great. Now...

Are we ready to meet the widow of Black Peter? Not really, but fine. It was the royal we. Yeah, of course it was. Lovely garden. Yeah, very nice. I like that raised area with the snowdrops and daffodils. Yeah, it's great, mate. The begonias are delightful. Will you shh? Hello there. Hello. Hi.

Can I help? Yes, actually. Regarding a particular formation of events in the cabin just down there. That your late husband... Look, if you want to talk about Peter's death, I don't. Alright? And I notice you don't wish to mourn, either. Suit yourself. Excuse me! Sherlock. I actually don't wish to speak about his death...

But I do wish to speak about your affair, Polly Carey. Oh, God. An affair with a gardener, from the looks of it. Who the fu-

She could do with shagging an interior designer. Who puts carpet in the bathroom? Watson. Oh, God, she's not behind me, is she? I'd rather you kept your voice down while we are guests in this woman's house. Oh, come on, mate. She needs a serious case of bad cop, bad cop. Why is that, exactly? Because she obviously got her lover boy to do the deed. How is that obvious? He kicked the door open, right? Am I right? You are. But in the circumstances, that's not a crime. In fact, it's the only reason we know about the crime. It...

Shallow, she-

She didn't even know he was missing, alright? That poor bloke rotted away in a cabin, pinned to the wall with a harpoon stuck in him like he's a fucking dartboard. Tell you what, when we're done here, why don't we hunt down Phil the Power Tailor? Yeah, see what Michael Van Gerwen was up to night before last. This is a gruesome murder, I get it. The victim is a bellend by all accounts, but last time I checked, that doesn't constitute a death sentence. Ha! You'd be buggered if you did. Ah, Jesus, sorry, I... We were just comparing notes about the case.

Mm-hmm. I... Look. No, you look. You think it's that straightforward. Well, it's not. All right? Mrs Carey... Don't call me that. Polly, you have to come clean. There is nothing clean about my life, Dr Watson. There was once, a long time ago, but not anymore. Look, we have reason to believe... You do. I don't. Just royal we. We have reason to believe...

that you had a hand in the death of Peter Orwell Carey. Don't! Just don't, alright? Sorry, don't what exactly? Take that Orwell bollocks elsewhere! Good God, honestly! Polly, I'm here for information, not for a suspect. Sure. Watson, that's enough. Sure. You can see that my companion here needs some convincing, and I need information.

Without those, Mrs Carey, I fear your circumstances will become even more complicated. The police and the media have cruel methods of tormenting their suspects, particularly the ones that may not always be squeaky clean. No, yeah, I know. I know. Peter had very intense bouts of psychosis. He would think he was back there. And it was... All this rage would just come out and it would just...

I'd have to hurt the kids. They're much older now, they don't even visit. He was an abuser. He was. Just how much he knew about it, I don't really... You can't tell, can you? What do you mean, back there? Hmm? You said back there. Peter would think he's back there. Where's that? K2. The mountain? It was quite difficult to get out of him. But yet, in 2010, Peter and his climbing partner, Patrick, they got caught in a snowstorm that nearly ripped them off the face of the mountain.

That's all he used to say about it. And he took shelter. But when Peter started to show signs of mental decline, that agitation and just wickedness. I did some research, spoke at length to Patrick and got some more details. Peter abseiled through a crack in the rock to shelter from this storm, but also to rescue Patrick. He'd lost some insulation in the climb and the wind chill was hitting him pretty hard. So they took the decision to lower themselves into the mountain.

They were in there for some time. I think both pretty convinced of their own death. It's pitch black. You're frozen. You're dying. The mind does what it does in order to cope with that, right? Of course, yeah. What they didn't know, and never would have in that kind of storm, was that they lowered themselves into a research science.

When the weather patterns came back to normal and a bit more predictable, the research team returned to the area. By chance, because they were measuring temperatures, they picked up their body heat. Total luck. They were airlifted out that same day. Wow. But the Peter Carey I knew, the Peter Carey I loved, he died in the frozen darkness. And what I got back was Black Peter.

Peter, the conspiracy theorist that refused to use a phone because the government were going to kill him. That wouldn't drink tap water because he feared poison. That wouldn't look me and his kids in the eyes. That bastard, the cynic, the ranting, raving, wife-beating, dwelling prick. Look, I know he's just died and I've mourned this man. Do you understand? I mourned this man a decade ago.

And all I've done since is fight for my life against this stranger! I spent a long time treating this frostbite. It's a defence that the body takes. It constricts the blood vessels in the extremities, preserving more important areas. But what it leaves behind? Charred. Dead skin. Devoid of sensation. A feeling coarse as rock, black as an empty void. Fucking hell. Why didn't you leave him? I feel like I did, to be honest.

I met somebody and I suppose it... This is so stupid. But when you get to my age and you go through things like that, I think confidence leaves you and you trust yourself only to circumstance. Henry is... He has a garden in service. He does most of the houses around here. He's great at that. Anyway, we got very close. We began, yeah, an affair. And a younger me, a bolder, ballsier Polly...

would have left Peter and started a new life with Henry but I just part of me thought that maybe Henry just wanted the thrill of it all not actually me as a person just the lust the passion the the sneaking around and the horny messages the late night meetups the foreplay the oral and the relentless well she really opened up didn't she yes she indeed quite

So I was right. Horny Henry kicked the door open. With those big powerful legs of his. Yes, she mentioned those. Yep. Again, not the kind of material I was hoping for when we whisked off to the home of Winnie the Pooh. I don't want to keep asking. Sorry, it's just stuck in my head. Stupid bear. Been thinking about what to call this adventure. I could call it the Winnie the Pooh killer or Winnie's revenge.

Or something... Like it doesn't... Why would you do that? No, I won't. I'm just saying I could. Right. Because it's out of copy right now, isn't it? You know, anyone can make a new Winnie the Pooh. But it's like, just make something new. You know, why go and just adapt the same old stuff that was written a hundred years ago? It's boring.

Shall I do some shouting? No. Why? Because you've just reminded me we have another piece of evidence that needs attention. Reminded you of what? Hey, where are you going? The cabin's down there. We're not going to the cabin. Well, where are we going?

To Poo Corner. Sorry, what? Poo Corner. Right, can you elaborate? You know, like Peter Carey's widow managed to do all too well? It's an information centre. Gift shop, sweet shop and tea room, all themed around Winnie the Pooh. Right, why are we going there? Because I'm looking for a Japanese man with size 8 feet. Ah, right, and you thought, oh...

Oh, I know where to find a Japanese man with size eight feet. The Winnie the Pooh Visitor's Centre in East Sussex. That's what I concluded from his notebook, yes. Why? The Japanese language is written down using three distinct styles of script. Kanji, hiragana and katakana.

Etihad, yeah.

One thing here did pop out at me. What's that? Poo-san. Poo-san? What does that mean? It would appear the sixth most popular cartoon in Japan is... Winnie the Pooh. Correct. Known there as... Poo-san. So, we have a tourist. A murderous tourist that stalks forests in the south of England at night? I don't think so. But let's go and find out, shall we?

Sure. I will, however, need someone who speaks perfect Japanese. Where the hell are we going to find that? Yes. Thank you for inviting me to this adventure. Oh, for goodness sake.

Oh, my God.