His last bow Some later reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes
close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel in which
it runs. The head was badly crushed—an injury which might well have
been caused by a fall from the train. The body could only have come on
the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any neighbouring
street, it must have passed the station barriers, where a collector is
always standing. This point seems absolutely certain.”
“Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or alive, either
fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is clear to me.
Continue.”
“The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the body was
found are those which run from west to east, some being purely
Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It can be
stated for certain that this young man, when he met his death, was
travelling in this direction at some late hour of the night, but at
what point he entered the train it is impossible to state.”
“His ticket, of course, would show that.”
“There was no ticket in his pockets.”
“No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular. According to
my experience it is not possible to reach the platform of a
Metropolitan train without exhibiting one’s ticket. Presumably, then,
the young man had one. Was it taken from him in order to conceal the
station from which he came? It is possible. Or did he drop it in the
carriage? That is also possible. But the point is of curious interest.
I understand that there was no sign of robbery?”
“Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His purse
contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on the Woolwich
branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through this his identity was
established. There were also two dress-circle tickets for the Woolwich
Theatre, dated for that very evening. Also a small packet of technical
papers.”
Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
“There we have it at last, Watson! British government—Woolwich.
Arsenal—technical papers—Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete. But
here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for himself.”
A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was ushered
into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of
uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame
there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its
steel-grey, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its
play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross
body and remembered only the dominant mind.
At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard—thin and
austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest.
The detective shook hands without a word. Mycroft Holmes struggled out
of his overcoat and subsided into an armchair.
“A most annoying business, Sherlock,” said he. “I extremely dislike
altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no denial. In the
present state of Siam it is most awkward that I should be away from the
office. But it is a real crisis. I have never seen the Prime Minister
so upset. As to the Admiralty—it is buzzing like an overturned
bee-hive. Have you read up the case?”
“We have just done so. What were the technical papers?”
“Ah, there’s the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The press
would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched youth had in
his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine.”
Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of the
importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.
“Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of it.”
“Only as a name.”
“Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most
jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it from me
that naval warfare becomes impossible within the radius of a
Bruce-Partington’s operation. Two years ago a very large sum was
smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in acquiring a monopoly
of the invention. Every effort has been made to keep the secret. The
plans, which are exceedingly intricate, comprising some thirty separate
patents, each essential to the working of the whole, are kept in an
elaborate safe in a confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with
burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable circumstances
were the plans to be taken from the office. If the chief constructor of
the Navy desired to consult them, even he was forced to go to the
Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet here we find them in the
pocket of a dead junior clerk in the heart of London. From an official
point of view it’s simply awful.”
“But you have recovered them?”
“No, Sherlock, no! That’s the pinch. We have not. Ten papers were taken
from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of Cadogan West. The
three most essential are gone—stolen, vanished. You must drop
everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the
police-court. It’s a vital international problem that you have to
solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the missing
ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found, how can the
evil be set right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you will
have done good service for your country.”
“Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far as I.”
“Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details. Give me
your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent
expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question
railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye—it is not my
métier. No, you are the one man who can clear the matter up. If you
have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list—”
My friend smiled and shook his head.
“I play the game for the game’s own sake,” said he. “But the problem
certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall be very pleased
to look into it. Some more facts, please.”
“I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of paper,
together with a few addresses which you will find of service. The
actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government expert,
Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two lines of a
book of reference. He has grown grey in the service, is a gentleman, a
favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose
patriotism is beyond suspicion. He is one of two who have a key of the
safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in the office during
working hours on Monday, and that Sir James left for London about three
o’clock taking his key with him. He was at the house of Admiral
Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the evening when this
incident occurred.”
“Has the fact been verified?”
“Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in London;
so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem.”
“Who was the other man with a key?”
“The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of
forty, married, with five children. He is a silent, morose man, but he
has, on the whole, an excellent record in the public service. He is
unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker. According to his own
account, corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at home the
whole of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has never left
the watch-chain upon which it hangs.”
“Tell us about Cadogan West.”
“He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He has
the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a straight,
honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next Sidney Johnson in
the office. His duties brought him into daily, personal contact with
the plans. No one else had the handling of them.”
“Who locked up the plans that night?”
“Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk.”
“Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan West. That
seems final, does it not?”
“It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In the first
place, why did he take them?”
“I presume they were of value?”
“He could have got several thousands for them very easily.”
“Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to London
except to sell them?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West took the
papers. Now this could only be done by having a false key—”
“Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room.”
“He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London to sell
the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans themselves back in
the safe next morning before they were missed. While in London on this
treasonable mission he met his end.”
“How?”
“We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he was
killed and thrown out of the compartment.”
“Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the station
London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich.”
“Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass London
Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example, with whom he
was having an absorbing interview. This interview led to a violent
scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he tried to leave the
carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his end. The other closed
the door. There was a thick fog, and nothing could be seen.”
“No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge; and yet
consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We will suppose, for
argument’s sake, that young Cadogan West _had_ determined to convey
these papers to London. He would naturally have made an appointment
with the foreign agent and kept his evening clear. Instead of that he
took two tickets for the theatre, escorted his fiancée halfway there,
and then suddenly disappeared.”
“A blind,” said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some impatience to
the conversation.
“A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2: We will
suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign agent. He must
bring back the papers before morning or the loss will be discovered. He
took away ten. Only seven were in his pocket. What had become of the
other three? He certainly would not leave them of his own free will.
Then, again, where is the price of his treason? One would have expected
to find a large sum of money in his pocket.”
“It seems to me perfectly clear,” said Lestrade. “I have no doubt at
all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the
agent. They could not agree as to price. He started home again, but the
agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took the more
essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That would
account for everything, would it not?”
“Why had he no ticket?”
“The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent’s
house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man’s pocket.”
“Good, Lestrade, very good,” said Holmes. “Your theory holds together.
But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On the one hand, the
traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of the Bruce-Partington
submarine are presumably already on the Continent. What is there for us
to do?”
“To act, Sherlock—to act!” cried Mycroft, springing to his feet. “All
my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go to the
scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone unturned!
In all your career you have never had so great a chance of serving your
country.”
“Well, well!” said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “Come, Watson! And