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“What do you mean?” I asked.

He looked at the railwayman. “Are there many stations with this many points?”

The man shook his head. “No, not many.”

“And there’s also a bend in the track. Points, and a curve. Interesting!”

“Have you found a clue, Mr Holmes?” Lestrade asked.

“Not really a clue—more like an idea,” Holmes replied. “But this case is now much more interesting. Very unusual. Still, why not? I don’t see any blood on the tracks.”

“There was hardly any,” said Lestrade.

“But I thought the injuries were serious,” I said.

“They were,” said Lestrade, “but there were no wounds we could see.”

“I would have expected more blood. Can I see the train that passed just before midnight?” asked Holmes.

“I’m sorry,” said the railwayman. “That train has already been taken apart. The carriages were used on other trains.”

“I made sure every carriage was checked carefully,” Lestrade added.

Holmes turned away. “Actually, I didn’t want to examine the carriages,” he said sharply. “Watson, we’ve done all we can here. We don’t need to bother Mr Lestrade any longer. Our next step is to go to Woolwich.”

Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother and gave it to me to send. It said:

“I think I know the next step, but I might be wrong. Please send me a list of addresses of all foreign spies in England. —Sherlock”

“This should help,” Holmes said as we got on the train to Woolwich. “We should thank Mycroft for giving us this interesting case.”

Holmes was now a completely different man from this morning. Before, he was bored and unhappy, walking around our living room in his dressing gown. But now, he was his usual self—the clever detective, ready for adventure!

“There are clues here,” he said. “I should have noticed them earlier. Watson, I believe Cadogan West didn’t die on the train tracks. I think his body was placedon top of a train carriage.”

“On the roof?” I shouted.

“Yes, it sounds strange. But think about it. His body was found exactly where the train bends and shakes. That’s the perfect place for something on the roof to fall off.”

“And there was no blood on the ground. That makes sense if he bled somewhere else.”

“And the missing ticket!” I added.

“Exactly, Watson. Maybe there was no ticket because he was already dead. Dead men don’t buy tickets. Everything fits.”

“But even if that’s true, we still don’t know how or why he was killed,” I said.

“That’s true,” Holmes said, thinking hard. He stayed quiet and deep in thought until the train arrived at Woolwich Station. Then, he took out Mycroft’s notes and called for a cab.

“We have several visits to make this afternoon,” Holmes said, looking at the paper. “We’ll start with Sir James Walter.”

Sir James lived in a beautiful house, with green grass that went all the way to the River Thames. As we arrived, the fog started to lift and weak sunlight broke through the clouds.

Holmes asked the cab to wait, and we walked to the front door and rang the bell.

A butler opened the door. He looked sad.

“Sir James, sir,” he said quietly. “Sir James died this morning.”

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

“Would you like to come inside, sir? You can speak to his brother, Colonel Valentine.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Holmes replied.

We were taken into a quiet, dark living room. A tall, handsome man with a light beard came in. He was about fifty years old and was Sir James’s younger brother.

Colonel Valentine looked very sad. His eyes were red, his cheeks were wet with tears, and his hair was messy. It was hard for him to speak.

“It was this terrible scandal,” he said. “My brother was always proud of how well his office worked. The shame from the scandal broke his heart.”

“We had hoped he could give us some information to help with our case,” said Holmes. “Do you know anything else?”

Colonel Valentine shook his head. “I only know what I’ve read or heard. I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Holmes, but you must understand that we are very upset. Please leave us now.”

We left and got back into the cab.

“I didn’t expect that,” Holmes said. “I wonder if his death was natural, or if something more suspicious happened. Maybe Sir James was part of this case. But we’ll think about that later. Now let’s visit Cadogan West’s family.”

Arthur Cadogan West’s mother lived in a small but neat house outside Woolwich. She was too sad and confused to speak clearly. Sitting next to her was Miss Violet Westbury, Arthur’s fiancée. She had been the last person to see him alive.

“I can’t explain it, Mr Holmes,” Violet said. “I haven’t slept since Arthur died. I keep thinking about what happened. Arthur was loyal and honest. He would never sell a government secret. Anyone who knew him would say the same.”

“But what about the facts, Miss Westbury?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, I know. I can’t explain them.”

“Did he need money?”

“No. He didn’t spend much. His salary was enough. He had saved some money, and we were going to get married next year.”

“Was he acting normally before his death?”

She blushed and paused before answering.

“Well... I felt he was worried about something.”

“For how long?”

“Just the past week. I asked him about it. He said it was about work but didn’t say more.”

Holmes looked serious.

“Please tell us everything, even if it makes him look guilty. We need the truth.”

“I don’t know more. A few times, I thought he was going to tell me something. He just said that foreign spies would pay a lot for it.”

Holmes looked even more serious.

“Anything else?”

“He also said the government was not careful. He thought it would be easy for a traitor to steal the plans.”

“When did he say that?”

“Not long ago.”

“Now, please tell us about that last evening,” said Holmes.

She looked very sad. I felt sorry for her.

“We were going to the theatre. The fog was thick, so we walked. We walked past the Woolwich office. Suddenly Arthur ran away.”

“Without saying anything?”

“He shouted ‘Good heavens!’ and ran off. I waited, but he didn’t come back. So I walked home. The next day, people came to ask where he was. Around midday, we heard the terrible news. Oh, Mr Holmes, surely he didn’t do anything wrong?”

Holmes just shook his head sadly.

“Come, Watson,” he said. “Let’s go to the office.”

In the carriage, Holmes turned to me.

“Things looked bad for Cadogan West before,” he said. “But now they look worse. He had a reason – maybe he wanted extra money for his marriage. He also talked about the stolen plans. It looks very bad.”

“But Holmes,” I said, “his good character must mean something. And why would he leave his fiancée in the street to go commit a crime?”

“Exactly. There’s still much we don’t understand,” replied Holmes.

At the office, we were met by Mr Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk. He was a thin, serious-looking man with glasses. His face looked tired, and his hands were shaking.

“This is terrible, Mr Holmes!” he said. “Sir James is dead, Cadogan West is dead, and the secret papers are gone! But when we locked the office on Monday, everything was fine. I can’t believe West did this!”

“So you think he’s guilty?” asked Holmes.

“Yes. I can’t see any other reason.”

“What time did the office close on Monday?”

“At five.”

“Did you close it?”

“Yes. I’m always the last to leave.”

“Where were the Bruce-Partington plans?”

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

“Is there a night watchman?”

“Yes, but he watches many rooms. He’s a trustworthy old soldier. He didn’t see anything that night. But the fog was thick.”

“If Cadogan West took the papers, he would need three keys, right?”

“Yes – one for the outer door, one for the office, and one for the safe.”

“And only you and Sir James had those keys?”

“I didn’t have keys to the doors—only the key for the safe,” said Johnson.

Holmes thought for a moment. “Was Sir James a tidy person?”

“Yes, I think so. I know he kept all three keys on the same key ring.”

“And he took that key ring with him to London?”

“He said he did,” replied Johnson.

“And your key was always with you?”

“Yes, always.”

“Then Cadogan West must have made copies,” said Holmes. “But no keys were found on his body. Every time we learn something new, we find another mystery. Three papers are still missing. I understand they are the most important ones?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Johnson.

“Do you mean someone could build a Bruce-Partington submarine with just those three papers—even without the other seven?”

“That’s what I told the Admiralty. But I looked at the plans again today, and now I’m not so sure. One very important part of the submarine is shown on one of the seven papers we got back. Without that part, the thieves can’t build it.”

“But the missing three are still the most important?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, they are,” said Johnson.

“Can we look around the rooms?”

Holmes looked carefully at the safe’s lock, the door, and the metal shutters on the window. Then we went outside to the garden. Suddenly, Holmes got very excited.

There was a laurel bush outside the office window. Some of its branches were bent or broken. Holmes looked at them closely with his magnifying glass. He also looked at some light marks on the ground under the bush. Then he asked the chief clerk to close the window shutters. They didn’t close fully. So, someone standing outside could see into the office.

“This might be important,” Holmes said quietly. “But I don’t think we’ll find anything else in Woolwich. Let’s go back to London.”

However, Woolwich still had something to offer. A train station clerk told us he saw Cadogan West on Monday night. West took the 8:15 train. He was alone and bought a single third-class ticket. The clerk knew him well and saw that he looked nervous and excited. He was shaking and had trouble picking up his change.

We checked the timetable. 8:15 was the first train West could take after leaving his fiancée at around 7:30.

“Let’s think this through, Watson,” said Holmes on the train. “I believe we’ve learned something useful.

“Our visit to Woolwich made Cadogan West look guilty. But something still doesn’t make sense. Let’s imagine a foreign agent offered West money for the secret papers. That night, West was walking to the theatre with Miss Westbury. As they passed the office, he saw that same agent going inside. Curious, West followed him. Through the gap in the shutters, he saw the agent steal the documents. Then he followed the man. That’s why he didn’t make copies—because he didn’t steal them himself.”

“What’s the next step?” I asked when we got to Baker Street Station.

“Now we have some problems,” said Holmes. “You’d expect West to stop the thief and call the police. Why didn’t he? Was the thief someone he knew—like his boss? That could explain why he didn’t report it. Or maybe the thief disappeared into the fog. Perhaps West chased him to his home—if he knew where the man lived. He must have thought it was very serious. He left Miss Westbury in the fog without even saying where he was going.

“Our trail ends here for now,” Holmes said as we walked to our flat. “Even if our guess is right, we still don’t know how West’s body ended up on the roof of a train, with seven papers in his pocket. My plan now is to work from the other side. If Mycroft has found the foreign agents’ addresses, we might find our man.”

Sure enough, when we got to Baker Street, a note was waiting. Holmes read it quickly and passed it to me:

“There are many foreign agents in London, but only a few who could be involved in such an important case. The only ones to investigate are:

Holmes smiled. “Even with all the government’s help, they can’t solve this case for us.”

I smiled too, but I could see the pressure Holmes was under.

He opened a big map of London and studied it closely.

“Well, well,” he said after a while. “Things are looking better. Watson, I really believe we’re going to solve this.”

He patted my shoulder. “I’m going out for a quick look. I won’t do anything big without you, my friend. Stay here. If you get bored, start writing the story of how we saved the country.”

When Holmes started acting more cheerful, I knew he had discovered something important. That long, foggy November evening I waited for him to come back.