His Last Bow by Arthur Conan Doyle (good books to read in english .txt) 📕

to

Woolwich.”

 

At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which

he handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:

 

See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.

Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker

Street, a complete list of all foreign spies or international

agents known to be in England, with full address.

 

Sherlock.

 

“That should be helpful, Watson,” he remarked as we took our

seats in the Woolwich train. “We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a

debt for having introduced us to what promises to be a really

very remarkable case.”

 

His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-strung energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive

circumstance had opened up a stimulating line of thought. See

the foxhound with hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls

about the kennels, and compare it with the same hound as, with

gleaming eyes and straining muscles, it runs upon a breast-high

scent—such was the change in Holmes since the morning. He was a

different man from the limp and lounging figure in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown who had prowled so restlessly only a few

hours before round the fog-girt room.

 

“There is material here. There is scope,” said he. “I am dull

indeed not to have understood its possibilities.”

 

“Even now they are dark to me.”

 

“The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which

may lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body

was on the ROOF of a carriage.”

 

“On the roof!”

 

“Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a

coincidence that it is found at the very point where the train

pitches and sways as it comes round on the points? Is not that

the place where an object upon the roof might be expected to fall

off? The points would affect no object inside the train. Either

the body fell from the roof, or a very curious coincidence has

occurred. But now consider the question of the blood. Of

course, there was no bleeding on the line if the body had bled

elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in itself. Together they

have a cumulative force.”

 

“And the ticket, too!” I cried.

 

“Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This

would explain it. Everything fits together.”

 

“But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from

unravelling the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not

simpler but stranger.”

 

“Perhaps,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, “perhaps.” He relapsed

into a silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up

at last in Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew

Mycroft’s paper from his pocket.

 

“We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make,” said

he. “I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention.”

 

The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green

lawns stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog

was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A

butler answered our ring.

 

“Sir James, sir!” said he with solemn face. “Sir James died this

morning.”

 

“Good heavens!” cried Holmes in amazement. “How did he die?”

 

“Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother,

Colonel Valentine?”

 

“Yes, we had best do so.”

 

We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant

later we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man

of fifty, the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild

eyes, stained cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden

blow which had fallen upon the household. He was hardly

articulate as he spoke of it.

 

“It was this horrible scandal,” said he. “My brother, Sir James,

was a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such

an affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the

efficiency of his department, and this was a crushing blow.”

 

“We had hoped that he might have given us some indications which

would have helped us to clear the matter up.”

 

“I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you

and to all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the

disposal of the police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan

West was guilty. But all the rest was inconceivable.”

 

“You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?”

 

“I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no

desire to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes,

that we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to

hasten this interview to an end.”

 

“This is indeed an unexpected development,” said my friend when

we had regained the cab. “I wonder if the death was natural, or

whether the poor old fellow killed himself! If the latter, may

it be taken as some sign of self-reproach for duty neglected? We

must leave that question to the future. Now we shall turn to the

Cadogan Wests.”

 

A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town

sheltered the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with

grief to be of any use to us, but at her side was a white-faced

young lady, who introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the

fiancee of the dead man, and the last to see him upon that fatal

night.

 

“I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I have not shut an

eye since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and

day, what the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most

single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would

have cut his right hand off before he would sell a State secret

confided to his keeping. It is absurd, impossible, preposterous

to anyone who knew him.”

 

“But the facts, Miss Westbury?”

 

“Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them.”

 

“Was he in any want of money?”

 

“No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had

saved a few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year.”

 

“No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be

absolutely frank with us.”

 

The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her

manner. She coloured and hesitated.

 

“Yes,” she said at last, “I had a feeling that there was

something on his mind.”

 

“For long?”

 

“Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried.

Once I pressed him about it. He admitted that there was

something, and that it was concerned with his official life. ‘It

is too serious for me to speak about, even to you,’ said he. I

could get nothing more.”

 

Holmes looked grave.

 

“Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go

on. We cannot say what it may lead to.”

 

“Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to

me that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke

one evening of the importance of the secret, and I have some

recollection that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a

great deal to have it.”

 

My friend’s face grew graver still.

 

“Anything else?”

 

“He said that we were slack about such matters—that it would be

easy for a traitor to get the plans.”

 

“Was it only recently that he made such remarks?”

 

“Yes, quite recently.”

 

“Now tell us of that last evening.”

 

“We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab

was useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office.

Suddenly he darted away into the fog.”

 

“Without a word?”

 

“He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never

returned. Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office

opened, they came to inquire. About twelve o’clock we heard the

terrible news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you could only, only save his

honour! It was so much to him.”

 

Holmes shook his head sadly.

 

“Come, Watson,” said he, “our ways lie elsewhere. Our next

station must be the office from which the papers were taken.

 

“It was black enough before against this young man, but our

inquiries make it blacker,” he remarked as the cab lumbered off.

“His coming marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally

wanted money. The idea was in his head, since he spoke about it.

He nearly made the girl an accomplice in the treason by telling

her his plans. It is all very bad.”

 

“But surely, Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again,

why should he leave the girl in the street and dart away to

commit a felony?”

 

“Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is a

formidable case which they have to meet.”

 

Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and

received us with that respect which my companion’s card always

commanded. He was a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle age,

his cheeks haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous

strain to which he had been subjected.

 

“It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of

the chief?”

 

“We have just come from his house.”

 

“The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead,

our papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday

evening, we were as efficient an office as any in the government

service. Good God, it’s dreadful to think of! That West, of all

men, should have done such a thing!”

 

“You are sure of his guilt, then?”

 

“I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted

him as I trust myself.”

 

“At what hour was the office closed on Monday?”

 

“At five.”

 

“Did you close it?”

 

“I am always the last man out.”

 

“Where were the plans?”

 

“In that safe. I put them there myself.”

 

“Is there no watchman to the building?”

 

“There is, but he has other departments to look after as well.

He is an old soldier and a most trustworthy man. He saw nothing

that evening. Of course the fog was very thick.”

 

“Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the

building after hours; he would need three keys, would he not,

before he could reach the papers?”

 

“Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key of the

office, and the key of the safe.”

 

“Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?”

 

“I had no keys of the doors—only of the safe.”

 

“Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?”

 

“Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those three keys are

concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have often seen them

there.”

 

“And that ring went with him to London?”

 

“He said so.”

 

“And your key never left your possession?”

 

“Never.”

 

“Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And

yet none was found upon his body. One other point: if a clerk

in this office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simply

to copy the plans for himself than to take the originals, as was

actually done?”

 

“It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans

in an effective way.”

 

“But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West has that

technical