In the idyllic yet perilously picturesque county of Midsomer, where thatched cottages hide skeletons in more ways than one, death has always been a delightful diversion. For over two decades, Midsomer Murders has enthralled audiences with its blend of cozy rural charm and gleefully macabre intrigue—think eccentric villagers wielding antique weaponry, long-buried grudges unearthed like forgotten turnips, and a body count that rivals a Shakespearean tragedy. Now, in a bold leap from the small screen to the footlights, the beloved ITV series steps onto the stage with The Killings at Badger’s Drift, a world-premiere adaptation that captures the show’s wry wit and winding mysteries in a format as intimate as a village fete gone fatally wrong. Launching its UK tour on October 24, 2025, at Richmond Theatre, this theatrical resurrection promises to transport fans back to the series’ origins while inviting newcomers to the deadly delights of Badger’s Drift.

The story, of course, is the one that started it all: Caroline Graham’s 1987 novel The Killings at Badger’s Drift, which served as the blueprint for the 1997 TV pilot episode. In this stage incarnation, written and directed by the versatile Guy Unsworth—known for his sharp adaptations of Agatha Christie’s works—the narrative unfolds with the precision of a well-oiled grandfather clock, ticking inexorably toward revelation. The plot kicks off with the untimely demise of Emily Simpson, a kindly spinster and keen observer of Badger’s Drift’s avian inhabitants. What appears to be a tragic tumble down a woodland path—perhaps a slip on dew-kissed leaves—quickly unravels under the scrutiny of her devoted friend, Lucy Bellringer. Refusing to chalk it up to misfortune, Lucy enlists the aid of Causton CID’s finest: the unflappable Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby and his eager-beaver Sergeant, Gavin Troy.

As the investigation deepens, the village’s serene facade cracks like fine china under a blunt instrument. Emily’s death proves no accident but a calculated poisoning (staying truer to Graham’s book than the TV’s bludgeoning for dramatic flair), sparking a chain of killings that ensnares the community in a web of jealousy, illicit affairs, and scandals as old as the Magna Carta. Birdwatchers turn suspects, the local vicar harbors unholy secrets, and even the seemingly innocuous Women’s Institute harbors a viper in its jam pots. Barnaby, with his pipe-smoking patience and piercing insight, methodically sifts through alibis and motives, while Troy—wide-eyed and impulsive—provides the comic foil, blurting out the very questions the audience is dying to ask. The climax delivers that quintessential Midsomer payoff: a killer unmasked in a flurry of confessions, red herrings discarded like yesterday’s broadsheet, and a denouement that leaves the auditorium buzzing with “I knew it!” and “How did I miss that?”

What elevates this from mere nostalgia to a fresh theatrical triumph is Unsworth’s clever translation of the TV formula to the stage’s constraints and strengths. Gone are the sweeping drone shots of sun-dappled meadows; in their place, David Woodhead’s evocative set design conjures Badger’s Drift through a modular village tableau—sliding trucks of quaint pubs, creaky barns, and overgrown copses that shift like puzzle pieces to reveal hidden chambers of deceit. Matt Haskins’ lighting bathes the action in golden-hour glows that turn sinister at the flick of a gel, while Ella Wahlström’s soundscape weaves in the rustle of leaves, the chime of a distant church bell, and ominous swells of strings that mimic the TV’s signature theme without aping it outright. Max Pappenheim’s original score adds a layer of playful menace, underscoring the humor in horror: a jaunty waltz for a ballroom betrayal, a discordant trill for Troy’s pratfalls.

At the heart of it all is Daniel Casey, stepping into Barnaby’s brogues with the ease of a man reclaiming a favorite armchair. Best remembered as the fresh-faced Sergeant Troy from 1997 to 2005—delivering lines like “Gardening can be dangerous, sir” with boyish bewilderment—Casey’s promotion to the elder statesman role is a meta-masterstroke. Now 53, he imbues Tom Barnaby with a seasoned gravitas: rumpled suits, a world-weary squint, and a dry humor that cuts through the countryside’s syrupy politeness like a scythe through hay. “I never expected to revisit Midsomer’s twisted secrets,” Casey reflected in a recent interview, “but playing the boss who once schooled me feels like poetic justice.” His Barnaby is less the avuncular John Nettles archetype—warm but distant—and more introspective, haunted by the moral ambiguities of small-town sins. A poignant scene in Act Two, where he pores over Emily’s birdwatching journal by lamplight, reveals a man who sees not just clues but the fragile humanity they betray.

Opposite him, as the youthful Troy, is James Bradwell, fresh from his turn as the scheming Lord Basilio in Netflix’s Bridgerton. Bradwell brings a vibrant energy to the role, his Filipino-British heritage adding subtle layers to Troy’s outsider status in the parochial village—echoing a 2011 production controversy over the show’s perceived insularity, which Unsworth quietly nods to through microaggressions from bigoted locals. Bradwell’s Troy is plucky yet vulnerable, his earnest questions (“Sir, do you think the vicar’s hiding something under his cassock?”) landing with perfect timing, eliciting guffaws from the crowd. The duo’s chemistry crackles: Barnaby’s paternal guidance tempers Troy’s hot-headed charges, their banter a lifeline amid the mounting body count.

The ensemble, a nimble seven-strong company masterminded by casting director Ginny Schiller, multi-rolls through Badger’s Drift’s rogues’ gallery with dizzying dexterity. Nathalie Barclay (Killing Eve) morphs from prim busybody to heartbroken widow, her transformations signaled by a mere hat-tip or accent shift. John Dougall (Waking the Dead) anchors the production as the blustery pub landlord and oily estate agent, his booming baritone delivering exposition with Shakespearean flair. Julie Legrand (Silent Witness) steals scenes in dual roles—a fluttery spinster and a steely femme fatale—sliding onstage in one instance as both victim and villain in a split-second coup de théâtre that draws gasps. Chandrika Chevli (Unforgotten), Rupert Sadler (The Deep Blue Sea), Chris Agha, and Rhîan Crowley-McLean round out the villagers, their quick-changes and character pivots a testament to Unsworth’s economical staging. It’s homicidal panto at its finest: broad strokes of eccentricity masking razor-sharp satire on English village life, where everyone’s a suspect because, well, everyone knows everyone else’s business.

Produced by Nicholson Green Productions and Colin Ingram Ltd., in association with the TV show’s Bentley Productions and All3Media International, The Killings at Badger’s Drift honors its roots while innovating for the live arena. Running a brisk two hours and 20 minutes (with interval, naturally, for a mid-murder cuppa), it clocks in at a pace that rivals the show’s tautest episodes. Unsworth, drawing from his Christie expertise, peppers the script with Easter eggs for die-hards: a nod to the TV’s ornithological opener, where Emily spies a rare bird (and rarer crime) through her binoculars; sly references to later Midsomer motifs like poisoned scones and vicarage vendettas. Yet it’s accessible to the uninitiated, with exposition woven seamlessly into village gossip. Caroline Graham, now in her nineties, has endorsed the adaptation as “fast-paced and witty,” capturing the “bizarre murders and beautiful setting” that hooked readers decades ago.

The tour, which wrapped its initial leg in late November 2025 amid rave notices, has already extended into 2026, crisscrossing the UK and Ireland like Barnaby on a hunch. After a sold-out bow at Richmond, it charmed Malvern’s festival-goers with its pastoral perils, electrified Chester’s Storyhouse, and drew hearty applause in Eastbourne before a rousing Sheffield stint at the Lyceum. Winter brings Truro’s Hall for Cornwall, Guildford’s Yvonne Arnaud, and Brighton’s Theatre Royal, where audiences can ponder suspects over seaside fish and chips. February heats up in Blackpool’s Grand, Glasgow’s Theatre Royal, and Nottingham, while spring unfurls in Cheltenham, Birmingham’s Alexandra, Norwich, Derby, Cardiff, Leicester’s Curve, Cambridge, Oxford, Bromley, Darlington, Manchester’s Opera House, and Dublin’s Gaiety—capping with a June flourish at Bath’s Theatre Royal. Tickets are vanishing faster than clues in a red herring fog, with matinees catering to the silver-haired sleuths who’ve made Midsomer a Sunday staple.

Critics, much like the villagers, have unearthed a few quibbles amid the acclaim. The Guardian dubbed it “occasionally lethal” in its pacing, praising the “homicidal panto” energy but noting moments where the interval feels like a commercial break in disguise. Radio Times hailed a “thrilling stage debut,” awarding five stars for retaining “all the heart of the beloved TV show.” The Times found it an “enjoyable romp,” sharp on sinners if soft on surprises, while Metro insisted “it would be a crime to miss it.” WhatsOnStage lauded the “charming and surprisingly funny production” that satisfies old fans and ensnares new ones, and the Daily Mail cooed that “Midsomer maniacs’ hearts still beat—if you’re not mad already, you will be after this.” Early audiences echo the sentiment: pensioner packs in provincial theaters erupt in cheers at Troy’s gaffes, while younger crowds—drawn by Bridgerton buzz—marvel at the timeless appeal of a good gossip-fueled gorefest.

For the uninitiated, Midsomer Murders is more than a procedural; it’s a peculiarly British balm, a escapist idyll where the countryside’s beauty belies its brutality, offering catharsis through corpses. Since John Nettles’ Barnaby first prowled Causton in 1997, the series has amassed 140+ episodes across 24 series (with more brewing), syndicating to 200 territories and amassing a global fanbase that rivals Coronation Street’s soap suds. Graham’s novels—six in total, from Death of a Hollow Man to A Ghost in the Machine—laid the groundwork, blending classic Golden Age detection with modern mores. The stage version distills this essence, proving the formula’s portability: why watch when you can witness, gasping in unison as the curtain falls on the culprit?

As The Killings at Badger’s Drift tours, it revives not just a story but a cultural touchstone. In an age of gritty Scandi-noir and bingeable true crime, Midsomer’s unapologetic artifice—polite poisonings over graphic guttings—feels like a warm woolen blanket on a stormy night. Daniel Casey’s return, flipping the mentor-mentee dynamic, adds a layer of heartfelt homecoming, while the production’s ingenuity ensures it’s no dusty relic but a vibrant revival. Whether you’re a longtime devotee replaying episodes on ITVX or a theater novice lured by the lure of live suspense, this adaptation beckons: step into Badger’s Drift, mind the brambles, and prepare for a killer evening. After all, in Midsomer, every ending is just another twist waiting in the wings.