by P. C. Martin
Miss Valentine started violently, and stammered, “Why... no. No, I'm sorry. You see, I regret very much that, in my first shock, I … I threw it into the fire. I thought it was a cruel joke, you see, and you can imagine my chagrin at having done so when a few moments later I learned that the note had not been false.”
Holmes reached for his hat. “If there is anything we can do for you, Miss Valentine, or if any fresh knowledge or memory relating to the case arises, do not hesitate contact us.”
“I thank you from my heart, Mr. Holmes,” replied the girl, smiling through a mask of tear stains. “You, too, Doctor. And oh, I must beg you not to forget that dear Arthur—Mr. Cadbury—was a single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man. He would have cut his right hand off before selling a State secret confided to his keeping. The facts all tell against him, I know, but... oh, his honor was more important to him than anything else in the world. I cannot explain his actions, but I, who knew him better than most, can assure you that there must be some mistake in all this...”
Her voice trailed off, her liquid eyes and trembling lips more eloquently appealing than her stumbling words. Holmes' face reflected deep gravity as he bowed, and we wished her good morning.
A few words with the constable on duty on our way out divulged the bare facts of the master's death. Around six o'clock that morning an urgent message had been taken to Sir James with his tea; he rang not five minutes later for his valet, to whom he entrusted a sealed letter for his sister Miss Valentine, with instructions to have it delivered immediately. Nearly an hour later, at ten minutes past seven, another messenger arrived with a summons for Sir James to appear at the offices of the Ministry; the valet took the message upstairs, and found the door locked. As no answer came to his repeated knocks, the valet fetched the footman and the gardener, and the three forced the door and entered the chamber, where they found Sir James slumped over his desk, cold dead. The doctor and police were summoned, and the cause of death was determined to have been suicide by poisoning. The letter to Miss Valentine apparently explained his reasons for taking his own life. So much the constable was able to tell us.
* * *
“Now for Madame Cadbury,” said my friend briskly as we walked down the path toward the gate. “I say, Watson, did anything strike you about the young lady whose company we have just left?”
“She seemed dazed and heartbroken to me, poor lass.”
“Yes, she certainly had the appearance of one lost in grief. But she retained sufficient command of her wits as to avoid speaking the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“Holmes!” I cried.
“My dear Watson, I am convinced that she knows much more than she admitted, and what is more, she lied in one or two little points. I wonder now, whether she was not trying to shield someone, most likely her fiancé. Unless...” Holmes caught his words abruptly and lapsed into brooding silence as we hailed a cab and made our way to the house of Cadbury's mother.
I puzzled within myself, trying to recall whether during our interview Miss Valentine had given any sign of purposely endeavoring to withhold information from us. At last, I shook my head over my friend's cold, calculating nature, so devoid of the commonest human empathy for a bereaved soul, as to be able to coolly suspect her of concealing vital information, or even of lying. Holmes' mental powers are undoubtedly some of the greatest I have ever known, but in the realm of ordinary human emotion, I fear he is entirely handicapped.
Our interview with the mother of Arthur Cadbury was a tedious and painful one. The old lady wept profusely, repeating over and over that her boy was neither thief nor traitor to his country. Holmes, who could be most ingratiating with the female sex when he chose, spent long minutes attempting to soothe her, mostly by vociferously agreeing with every statement she uttered, in order that we might gain some useful data. He asked her trivial questions about her son's boyhood and received in reply a torrential discourse on the delightfulness of her late lad's filial disposition. In vain, however, did he attempt to extract any bit of information that might assist us in our investigation. At length, the tearful interview came to a close, and Holmes and I left, exhausted and ruffled in the nerves.
“My word, Holmes,” said I, mopping my brow, “if nothing else, we have at least been given bountiful evidence from a creditable source that this fellow Cadbury is the saintliest of all angels currently residing in Heaven's highest quarters. I pray that we shall not be the ones to disprove that woman's illusions, for it seems likely that she will be sorely disappointed.”
“Possibly. On the other hand, Watson, though at present the young man seems cast in the blackest shades, I am not quite convinced that he was the base scoundrel he appears to have been. It is just possible that he, being as innocent as the day, was framed as the perpetrator of this wicked deed. ”
“Shall we go now to the offices of the Arsenal?” I queried, spying a cab parked at leisure down the street.
“Yes, and by Jove, let us pray that we find no disconsolate women there.”
I vigorously nodded my head in agreement.
* * *
Mr. Sidney Johnson met us at the Woolwich Arsenal offices with the respect that my companion's card usually commanded. His wrinkled cheeks were haggard, his face gruff and deeply lined.
“It is deplorable, Mr. Holmes. Our chief dead, Cadbury dead, the cards stolen. The place is thrown into confusion. And yet, yesterday we were as efficient an office as any in the government service. To think that Cadbury—Cadbury! Whom I trusted as I trust myself—could do such a thing.”
“You have no doubt that it was he who took the cards?”
“Well...” Mr. Johnson sputtered, surprised at the question, “the cards were found on him, were they not? Who else could have taken them?”
“That is exactly what we are set to find out. Tell me, Mr Johnson, what time was the office closed yesterday?”
“At five. I always stay on after the others leave, and see that all is properly locked up. I personally secured the cards within the strong-room, where they are always kept except when they are in use. This morning I did not notice that anything was amiss, until the police questioned me about my clerk, and we discovered that the cards were missing from the strong-room.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Tell me, did Cadbury possess, or have access to, keys to the office and strong-room?”
“Only to the office itself. He did not, to my surest knowledge, have a key either to the outer door of the building, or to the strong-room. I have one set, and the other was in Sir James' possession. My set never leaves my watch-chain,” Mr. Johnson pulled a ring of keys from his waistcoat pocket as he spoke. “And Sir James was known for his meticulous carefulness in all security matters. His caution was a byword among his employees and associates.”
“I see,” said Holmes, briefly inspecting the keys in the clerk's upturned palm. “Well, well, if Cadbury is the culprit, must have obtained a duplicate set somehow. And yet none was found upon his body, nor in his rooms. How very singular. One other point: if Cadbury had desired to sell the plans, would it not be far easier simply to copy the plans for himself than to take the originals, as was actually done?”
“It would have been difficult,” said Mr Johnson. “The cards are complex and highly technical, and are not easily copied.”
“But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or Cadbury had that technical knowledge?”
“No doubt we had, but I beg you won’t try to drag me into the matter, Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in this way when the original plans were actually found on Cadbury?”
“Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk of taking originals if he could safely have taken copies, which would have equally served his turn.”
“Singular, no doubt—and yet he did so.”
“Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable. Now there are three Engine cards still missing. They are, as I understand, the vital ones.”
> “Yes, although there is a fourth card which may be considered of equal importance to the construction of the main ship; I am surprised that it was not taken along with the others. It graphs out the details and positioning of several double valves with automatic self-adjusting slots which control the flow of seawater into the steam-generator that powers the vessel. Even if the thieves are able to understand how the generator itself works—something which we have not been able to fathom—they could not complete its development without the intricate graphs contained in this other card.”
“That is most interesting, Mr Johnson. And now with your permission, I shall stroll about the premises.”
Holmes dropped to his knees and inched around the office and along the outer corridor in snail fashion, pausing occasionally for a closer look at a misplaced speck, or trifles of the kind. I followed cautiously in his wake, staying well clear to avoid upsetting his research. At one point he glanced over his shoulder at me, and sent me to inquire of Mr Johnson how many people frequented the office adjacent to the strong-room, and particularly whether there were any female employees or frequent visitors.
I returned speedily with the answer. No, there were no female employees in this building, save the ancient charwoman on Wednesdays and Fridays, and no visitors of any sort, besides the occasional Navy officer or constructor who came to consult the plans. Only Mr Johnson himself, Sir James, and Mr Cadbury ever used the offices on this level; three male secretaries shared a partitioned office down the hallway, and were not permitted to enter the main office quarters. Holmes, without a sign that he had attended a single word, continued inching his way to the front door on his hands and knees. He pushed the door open and nearly collided with Lestrade, who stood poised to enter the building. Holmes sighed impatiently at the interruption and rose to his full height, disregarding his dusty trouser knees.
“Well, well, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade jovially, “hard at work, aren't we? Formed any of those exotic and wild-limbed theories of yours yet?”
“Lamentably, no,” said my friend coldly. “Although I have discovered one or two singularities which may reveal fresh facts. Your untimely coming has just interrupted a very promising trail.”
“Ah, well, Mr. Holmes, even the best of us must deal with little inconveniences,” said Lestrade. “When you've been as long in the profession as some of us have, you'll have gotten used to such things.” Holmes' thin lips set in a white line; Lestrade chuckled and proffered a small bundle. “I thought you might like to see the personal effects of Sir James, as well as the artifacts found on Cadbury's person.”
Holmes took the bundle and glanced cursorily through it; the only item that briefly arrested his attention was a set of keys on a gilt chain. He returned the lot to Lestrade without ceremony, and then excused himself, crouching low again to examine the threshold and step, and proceeded to disappear around the side of the building, inspecting the muddy snow-clad lawn and footpath closely as he went.
Lestrade glanced at me and shrugged significantly. I said nothing, though I sympathized somewhat with his complete ignorance of Holmes' train of reasoning up to this point. A sudden shout from Holmes brought us running around the corner to where he stood before a window.
“See here, Watson,” he said, as I approached, “these shutters do not quite meet. It is possible for a person over 5 feet 8 inches to peer into this office, when the blinds are up. Dear me, what is the good of iron bars on shutters that can be pried apart with a common jemmy?”
Lestrade coughed gently. “No shutters had been tampered with, Mr Holmes; Johnson the head clerk was certain of that.”
“All the same, Lestrade, it is at least possible that someone may have peeped through this very crack and seen the thief at work in the strong-room, which happens to be immediately in the line of vision.”
“Possible, no doubt,” scoffed Lestrade, “but highly unlikely. You're asking me to believe that someone just happened to creep through the fog, unseen by any of the guards, to that very window, at the very time that Cadbury was taking the cards. Well, that's fine. Who was this person then? What was his motive for looking through the window? Where is that person now? Why did he not immediately report to the guards? Facts, Mr. Holmes; give me the concrete facts, and the case is quickly solved. Wild speculations and fanciful theories are all right when sitting in an easy chair, but the harsh reality of crime demands that frivolous fancies must be dispensed with, and only hard facts taken into account. I recommend that thought to you, Mr. Holmes. If you'll excuse me now, gentlemen, I must continue about my business.” Holmes watched the inspector's dignified departure with twitching lips, and presently burst into hearty, silent laughter.
“We must give him some credit, Watson; he is meticulous in his pursuit of trivial facts, and though he very seldom draws correct conclusions in any save the most childishly straightforward cases, at least he saves us the trouble of having to gather every scrap of trivia for ourselves. Occasionally he has stumbled upon some vital shred of information, to which he himself attributed little or no importance, but which served to unlock an entire case for me. Yes, our dear Lestrade has his uses now and again. But come, Watson, you shall be wanting your lunch shortly, and as I have seen all there is to see here, and there are one or two matters I should like to attend to, I propose that you and I return to Baker Street by the next train.”
Mycroft Holmes' reply to her brother's telegram awaited us in our rooms at Baker Street. Holmes tossed it to me to read aloud while he rummaged about among the jungle of papers that adorned our sitting room for a mislaid stack of varied maps of London. Mycroft's message ran thus:
“There are numerous small fry, but few would handle so great an affair. Possible men to consider are Adolphus Meyer, of 13 Great George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, Campden Mansions, Notting Hill, and Peter von Oberon, of 19 Caulfield Gardens, Kensington. Latter is reported to have left London for Stockholm this morning.”
Holmes, having located his assortment of maps, spread them across the table just as Mrs. Hudson entered with our luncheon.
“My dear Mrs. Hudson, you really are dreadfully in the way,” snorted Holmes irritably as our housekeeper, disregarding the state of the table, proceeded to set our places with the experience borne of long years' resignation to her tenant's irregular habits. When at last the table was set and our plates served, Holmes' maps occupied the surfaces of the crockery, and he studied them with great concentration as we ate. His animation grew as his research continued; the color crept into his pale cheeks, and his display of impatience when Mrs Hudson once again upset the arrangement of his papers as she removed our dishes was altogether more human than his habitually dispassionate nature allowed, to my great, though concealed, amusement.
At last, after a quarter-hour's earnest research, Holmes gave forth a triumphant cry, and disappearing into his room, presently emerged in the attire of a professional loafer in a slouch hat and disreputable shoes.
“You shall hear from me before evening, Watson,” he said as he pocketed a selection of his precious maps and tossed the remainder out of sight behind the sofa. “If my idea proves to be correct, I shall most definitely want your assistance tonight; it may be that adventures lie before us.”
“Certainly,” said I, half rising from my chair. “Shall I come with you now?”
“No, no,” said Holmes, perceiving my intentions, “I am going on a reconnaissance, and must go alone. There are one or two theories I should like to put to test. Never fear, I shan't do anything serious without my trusted comrade and biographer at my elbow.”
Chapter Three
All the long afternoon I waited impatiently, vainly trying to imagine the direction Holmes' chain of reasoning had led him; attempting to discern which fact had struck him as the vital clue upon which his interpretation of the mystery was centered. The promised message from Holmes did not arrive until shortly after nine o'clock, just as I contemplated ringing the bell for my supper.
; “Dining at Goldini's, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Come at once. Bring my black Engine trousseau from the bureau drawer, the blood-light from my workbench, my burglar kit, hunting crop, and your revolver. Avoid getting arrested, please. —S.H.”
Quite a nice collection for a respectable citizen to carry about, thought I. Holmes' allusion to his burglar kit and Engine trousseau filled me with a palpable sense of foreboding, for with the aid of the former he could break into any building, safe and strong-room made by man, and with that of the latter access whatever information he desired from any Babbage Engine, no matter how advanced or complex its programming. Nevertheless, I obediently filled every pocket of my overcoat with the required equipment, and set out into the dim, fog-draped streets.
When I arrived at Goldini's Restaurant, I was greatly surprised to see Mycroft Holmes seated beside her brother at a small round table in the corner, the surface of which was covered with a number of maps, guidebooks, and cigar ash.
“Ah, Watson,” called Holmes. “I hope you have not yet had your supper—no? Excellent, you must join us in a coffee and Curacao. Have you brought my tools?”
“They are scattered about my pockets.”
“Marvelous! Try one of the proprietor's cigars; they are less poisonous than one would expect. Dear me, what a lovely night; absolutely ideal for our purpose.”
Mycroft Holmes raised her eyebrows very delicately, but said nothing. My misgivings returned in a rush.
“What is your plan, Holmes?” I asked, warily.
“My dear Watson,” Holmes lowered his voice to a dramatic pitch, “we are going to commit a felony. How does a round of breaking-and-entering sound to you?”
“Holmes!” I ejaculated, eyes rounded in horror. “You don't mean it!”
“Afraid so,” Holmes said, puffing out a huge cloud of blue smoke. “You see, if we are to succeed in learning the truth of this strange matter, and consequently retrieving the lost cards, we must discover how the theft was accomplished, who besides Cadbury was involved in the matter, why he was killed, and why the seven cards replaced in his pocket. After my reconnaissance and research of the afternoon, it is clear that our next step must be to search the premises which I suspect to have been the location of the crime, and learn for ourselves what secrets they may disclose.”