The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans | Page 7

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 fiancee
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? Once 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 you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour
or two? We will begin our investigation by a visit to Aldgate Station.
Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before evening, but I
warn you in advance that you have little to expect."
An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel immediately
before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old gentleman
represented the railway company.
"This is where the young man's body lay," said he, indicating a spot

about three feet from the metals. "It could not have fallen from above,
for these, as you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it could only have
come from a train, and that train, so far as we can trace it, must have
passed about midnight on Monday."
"Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"
"There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."
"No record of a door being found open?"
"None."
"We have had some fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade. "A
passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about
11:40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a
body striking the line, just before the train reached the station. There
was dense fog, however, and nothing could be seen. He made no report
of it at the time. Why, whatever is the matter with Mr. Holmes?"
My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity upon
his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved out of the
tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a network of points. On
these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I saw on his keen,
alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostrils, and
concentration of the heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.
"Points," he muttered; "the points."
"What of it? What do you mean?"
"I suppose there are no