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  The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans

  By

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fogsettled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubtwhether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to seethe loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent incross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third hadbeen patiently occupied upon a subject which he had recently made hishobby--the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth time,after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavybrown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops uponthe window-panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endurethis drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about oursitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tappingthe 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 ofcriminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possiblewar, and of an impending change of government; but these did not comewithin the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded inthe shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmesgroaned and resumed his restless meanderings.

  "The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in thequerulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. "Look outthis window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, andthen blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderercould roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseenuntil 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 thanthat," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I am not acriminal."

  "It is, indeed!" said I heartily.

  "Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men whohave good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive againstmy 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--thecountries of assassination. By Jove! here comes something at last tobreak our dead monotony."

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

  "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, theDiogenes Club, Whitehall--that is his cycle. Once, and only once, hehas been here. What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?"

  "Does he not explain?"

  Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.

  "Must see you over Cadogan West. Coming at once."

  MYCROFT.

  "Cadogan West? I have heard the name."

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

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

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

  Holmes chuckled.

  "I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to bediscreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right inthinking that he is under the British government. You would also be rightin 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 fiftypounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind,will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the mostindispensable man in the country."

  "But how?"

  "Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. There hasnever been anything like it before, nor will be again. He has thetidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storingfacts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have turned tothe detection of crime he has used for this particular business. Theconclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is thecentral exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. Allother men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We willsuppose that a minister needs information as to a point which involvesthe Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic question; he could get hisseparate advices from various departments upon each, but only Mycroftcan focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would affect theother. They began by using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now hehas made himself an essential. In that great brain of his everythingis pigeon-holed and can be handed out in an instant. Again and againhis word has decided the national policy. He lives in it. He thinksof nothing else save when, as an intellectual exercise, he unbends if Icall 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 isCadogan West, and what is he to Mycroft?"

  "I have it," I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon thesofa. "Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogan West was the youngman 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 toalter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the world can he haveto do with it? The case was featureless as I remember it. The youngman had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself. He hadnot been robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspectviolence. Is that not so?"

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

  "Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be amost 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 ofage, 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 hisfiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about7:30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can giveno motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when hisdead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outsideAldgate Station on the Underground system in London."

  "When?"

  "The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide ofthe metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at apoint close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel inwhich it runs. The head was badly crushed--an injury which might wellhave been caused by a fall from the train. The body could only havecome on the line in that way. Had it been carried down from anyneighbouring street, it must have passed the station barriers, where acollector 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 wasfound are those which run from west to east, some being purelyMetropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It canbe stated for certain that this young man, when he met his death, wastravellin
g in this direction at some late hour of the night, but atwhat 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. Accordingto my experience it is not possible to reach the platform of aMetropolitan train without exhibiting one's ticket. Presumably, then,the young man had one. Was it taken from him in order to conceal thestation from which he came? It is possible. Or did he drop it in thecarriage? That is also possible. But the point is of curiousinterest. I understand that there was no sign of robbery?"

  "Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His pursecontained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on the