“Well, Mr. Gregson,” said the American, looking across at theofficial, “I don’t know what your British point of view may be, butI guess that in New York this lady’s husband will receive a prettygeneral vote of thanks.”
“She will have to come with me and see the chief,” Gregsonanswered. “If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she orher husband has much to fear. But what I can’t make head or tailof, Mr. Holmes, is how on earth YOU got yourself mixed up in thematter.”
“Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking knowledge at theold university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of thetragic and grotesque to add to your collection. By the way, it is noteight o’clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden! If we hurry,we might be in time for the second act.”
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellowfog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the ThursdayI doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in BakerStreet to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first dayHolmes had spent in cross-indexing his huge book of references.
The second and third had been patiently occupied upon a subjectwhich he had recently made his hobby—the music of the MiddleAges. But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our chairsfrom breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still driftingpast us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-panes,my comrade’s impatient and active nature could endure this drabexistence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-room ina 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 meantanything 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. Icould see nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was notcommonplace and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed his restlessmeanderings.
“The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow,” said he in thequerulous 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 dayas the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and thenevident 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 worthythan that,” said he. “It is fortunate for this community that I amnot a criminal.”
“It is, indeed!” said I heartily.
“Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fiftymen who have good reason for taking my life, how long could Isurvive 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 theLatin countries—the countries of assassination. By Jove! herecomes something at last to break our dead monotony.”
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burstout laughing.
“Well, well! What next?” said he. “Brother Mycroft is cominground.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a countrylane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Malllodgings, the Diogenes Club, Whitehall—that is his cycle. Once,and only once, he has been here. What upheaval can possibly havederailed him?”
“Does he not explain?”
Holmes handed me his brother’s telegram.
Must see you over Cadogen West. Coming at once.
Mycroft.
“Cadogen West? I have heard the name.”
“It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should breakout in this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its orbit. Bythe way, do you know what Mycroft is?”
I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time ofthe Adventure 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 alsobe right in a sense if you said that occasionally he IS the Britishgovernment.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundredand fifty pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitionsof any kind, will receive neither honour nor title, but remains themost indispensable man in the country.”
“But how?”
“Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. Therehas never been anything like it before, nor will be again. He hasthe tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity forstoring facts, of any man living. The same great powers whichI have turned to the detection of crime he has used for thisparticular business. The conclusions of every department arepassed to him, and he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse,which makes out the balance. All other men are specialists, but hisspecialism is omniscience. We will suppose that a minister needsinformation as to a point which involves the Navy, India, Canadaand the bimetallic question; he could get his separate advices fromvarious departments upon each, but only Mycroft can focus themall, and say offhand how each factor would affect the other. Theybegan by using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he hasmade himself an essential. In that great brain of his everything ispigeon-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 unbendsif I call upon him and ask him to advise me on one of my littleproblems. But Jupiter is descending to-day. What on earth can itmean? Who is Cadogan West, and what is he to Mycroft?”
