The Adventure of Bruce-Partington Plans

In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog
settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt
whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see
the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in
cross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third had
been patiently occupied upon a subject which he had recently made his
hobby—the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth time,
after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy
brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon
the window-panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endure
this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our
sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping
the furniture, and chafing against inaction.

"Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.

I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything of
criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possible
war, and of an impending change of government; but these did not come
within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in
the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes
groaned and resumed his restless meanderings.

"The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the
querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. "Look out
this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and
then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer
could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen
until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim."

"There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."

Holmes snorted his contempt.

"This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy than
that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I am not a
criminal."

"It is, indeed!" said I heartily.

"Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men who
have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive against
my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all would be over.
It is well they don't have days of fog in the Latin countries—the
countries of assassination. By Jove! here comes something at last to
break our dead monotony."

It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst out
laughing.

"Well, well! What next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is coming round."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country lane.
Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall lodgings, the
Diogenes Club, Whitehall—that is his cycle. Once, and only once, he
has been here. What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?"

"Does he not explain?"

Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.

Must see you over Cadogen West. Coming at once.

Mycroft.

"Cadogen West? I have heard the name."

"It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break out in
this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its orbit. By the
way, do you know what Mycroft is?"

I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of the
Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.

"You told me that he had some small office under the British
government."

Holmes chuckled.

"I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be
discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in
thinking that he under the British government. You would also be right
in a sense if you said that occasionally he IS the British government."

"My dear Holmes!"

"I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and fifty
pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind,
will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the most
indispensable man in the country."

"But how?"

"Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. There has
never been anything like it before, nor will be again. He has the
tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing
facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have turned to
the detection of crime he has used for this particular business. The
conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the
central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. All
other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We will
suppose that a minister needs information as to a point which involves
the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic question; he could get his
separate advices from various departments upon each, but only Mycroft
can focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would affect the
other. They began by using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he
has made himself an essential. In that great brain of his everything
is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in an instant. Again and again
his word has decided the national policy. He lives in it. He thinks
of nothing else save when, as an intellectual exercise, he unbends if I
call upon him and ask him to advise me on one of my little problems.
But Jupiter is descending to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is
Cadogan West, and what is he to Mycroft?"

"I have it," I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon the
sofa. "Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogen West was the young
man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning."

Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.

"This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my brother to
alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the world can he have
to do with it? The case was featureless as I remember it. The young
man had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself. He had
not been robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspect
violence. Is that not so?"

"There has been an inquest," said I, "and a good many fresh facts have
come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it was a
curious case."

"Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a
most extraordinary one." He snuggled down in his armchair. "Now,
Watson, let us have the facts."

"The man's name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven years of
age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal."

"Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!"

"He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his
fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about
7:30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can give
no motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when his
dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outside
Aldgate Station on the Underground system in London."

"When?"

"The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide of
the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at a
point 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-gray, 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 withing 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."