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 of 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 CADOGAN WEST. COMING AT ONCE. MYCROFT. “Cadogan
West? I have heard" 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 is 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 speciality
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 advises 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 pigeonholed 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 today.
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! Cadogan 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 fiancée, 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 the 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 also is possible. But the point is of curious interest. I understand
that there was no sign of robbery?" "Apparently not. There is
a and yadda yadda yadda you’ll have to get the book . |
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