Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus (2 page)

Holmes shook his head. I started, surprised, for the name was somehow familiar to me. Miss Holmes' eyes narrowed. “You know of it, Doctor Watson?”

“I think I have heard the name,” replied I. “It is vaguely connected in my memory with my campaign in India, though I cannot place it exactly.”

Mycroft Holmes breathed as though with relief. “Excellent. This submarine—or rather the plans for its construction—has been the most jealously guarded of all government secrets. Perhaps I had better give you a brief sketch of its history. The submarine was developed some twenty years ago by a renegade Northern Indian prince calling himself Captain Nemo, who used the vessel to cause considerable headaches among the international shipping routes. By providence the Captain and his ship were reported as lost several years ago. Two years ago, to be exact, we learned of its location under the seas, and a top-secret expedition was dispatched to seek out and recover the ship, and learn its secrets. According to the reports submitted to me at the time, the vessel, when discovered , was too damaged to be moved, so the party was obliged to study and document its every detail
sub undis
. When the observations were completed, the ship was blasted to oblivion. Meticulous plans were drawn for its reconstruction, and special Engine cards were created for the purpose of storing the vital information. These were kept in an elaborate strongroom in a confidential office adjoining the Woolwich Arsenal, and never removed from the premises. If the chief Navy constructor desired to consult them, even he was constrained to go personally to the office in Woolwich.”

Mycroft paused in her narrative, and Holmes half-opened his eyes. “The plans have been stolen, I see,” he mumbled. “Who is Cadbury, and what has he to do with the matter?”

I looked, astonished, towards my friend, who was leaning placidly with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingertips joined together. Inspector Lestrade appeared to share my astonishment; Mycroft Holmes did not seem disturbed.

“Cadbury was the junior clerk employed in the Woolwich Arsenal office. Early this morning, he was found dead beside a London railway line, with seven of the ten Engine cards in his pockets. The three most essential cards are vanished, and we have not the slightest clue where they are. It is wretched, absolutely wretched, from an official standpoint! You must drop everything, Sherlock; never mind all your petty puzzles and intrigues for the moment. This is a vital international problem, and I can hardly exaggerate its importance.”

“What are the risks?” queried Holmes.

“The technology of the submarine's weaponry and power generator is far advanced for its time. The missing cards show detailed schematics of the power generator – a technology so sophisticated and mysterious that our best engineers have not been able to completely discern its workings. The weaponry itself is so powerful that Naval warfare becomes impossible within the radius of a Nautilus operation. If the plans were to fall into the wrong hands ...” Mycroft Holmes left off speaking and shook her head with utmost solemnity.

Holmes' eyes opened slightly again. “You begin to interest me,” said he. “Who is officially responsible for the plans?”

“Sir James Valentine, the son of a distinguished officer in the Afghanistan War. I see that Dr. Watson knows of him.”

“Indeed I do,” I replied, nodding heartily. “I had the honor of briefly serving with Colonel Hugh Valentine's regiment in '78, just before his death.”

“Sir James was instrumental in locating the lost submarine and drafting its plans,” continued Mycroft. “He oversaw the financing of the expedition, and managed the research of the Nautilus for the Navy.”

“Pray, go on,” said Holmes. Who had access to the strongroom?”

“Sir James himself kept a set of keys,” said Mycroft, “and Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk and draftsman, kept the only other set. I may add that the plans were undoubtedly in the office during working hours on Monday, and Sir James left the office during the early afternoon, taking his keys with him. By the by, he was summoned to meet us here. How deuced odd that he has not yet arrived.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Perhaps he did not have the good sense to take the train. These new-fangled gurneys crowding the streets these days are enough to prevent anyone from arriving at one's destination at all. But do continue. Who was the last to see the cards?”

“Mr. Johnson locked up the cards for the night while the office staff prepared to depart, and was the last to leave the office, according to all accounts. He claims to have been at home with his family during the whole of the evening, and Lestrade's men are even now verifying his statements. He has a wife and five children, to whom he is apparently devoted, and is known to be a man of retiring disposition when not in the office. A dour-faced man, not very popular among his colleagues, yet hitherto steady and trustworthy. For my part, I would be intensely surprised to learn that Sidney Johnson had anything to do with the events of last night.”

“I presume the office is well guarded?” queried Holmes.

“The office is equipped with burglar-proof windows and doors; the grounds are well lit, and patrolled by trained guards, mainly old soldiers, all of whom have proven their loyalty time and again. Mr. Johnson had not yet discovered the loss of the cards when Lestrade approached him this morning about the death of his junior clerk, and the presence of the cards on his person. They verified that the strong-room had indeed been bereft of its most valuable contents, and Lestrade notified me at once.”

“The guards had neither seen nor heard anything during the night?”

“Not a soul of them. There was, however, a dense fog, which would have effectively prevented them from seeing their fingertips at arm's-length, much less a thief slipping silently through the door.”

“I see. Tell me more about Cadbury.”

“He was one of the finest Engine programmers in the service, and had done excellent work at the office for over ten years; he had the reputation of being a sound, honest man, though perhaps a trifle hot-headed. His duties brought him into daily contact with the cards.”

“He did not possess a key to the strongroom?”

“No; though the possibility that he had a duplicate must be considered.”

“Was such a key found on his person?”

Lestrade found his voice for the first time. “No, the only key we found was the key to his rooms. There were no signs of robbery about his person; all his possessions were intact, except for the missing cards.”

Holmes smiled kindly at the inspector, and resumed questioning his sister.

“What would the value of the cards be, assuming that he intended to sell them?”

“He could have gotten several thousands for them very easily.”

“That is settled, then. How did he meet his death?”

Again, Lestrade answered at Mycroft's silent prompting. “He was found early this morning by a railway plate-layer named Mason, just outside Aldgate Station on the Underground system in London. His head was badly crushed—an injury we suspect was caused by a fall from the train.”

“What else was on his person, besides the key to his rooms?” inquired Holmes.

“Well, he had about two pounds fifteen, in loose change; a Monetary card issued by the Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank, through which his identity was established. There were also two dress-circle tickets for the Woolwich Theater, dated for that very evening.”

“Only two pounds—I see. Not the spectacular sum one might expect for the sale of the three missing cards. Interesting. Did he have a train ticket?”

“No sir, none that we could find.”

Holmes sat upright. “No train ticket! That
is
really singular. If I am not mistaken, the lines near the station at Aldgate run mostly Metropolitan trains, and it is my experience that it is not possible to reach the platform on a Metropolitan line without necessarily exhibiting one's ticket. It is indeed remarkable. I presume all trains and carriages were searched?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes; first thing this morning. My lads are still at work, but so far, we haven't found a thing to help us discover where the young man came from, where he was headed, or how he met his death.”

“I see,” said Holmes again, leaning back into his chair. “Well, sister Mycroft, there are points of interest in this case, but I do not see how I can be of much use to you. If the plans were stolen last night, as seems to be the case, then regardless of how it was accomplished and for what reason, the obvious result would appear to be that the cards are even now in the hands of whoever sought to acquire them. Perhaps they are already on the continent. What is there for us to do?"

"To act, Sherlock—to act!" cried Miss Holmes, pounding on the desk with both fists. "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 your entire career you have never had so great a chance of serving your country. If you ever had any fancy to find your name on the next honors list--”

“Not I,” Holmes smiled and shook his head. “I play the game for the game's sake. But Mycroft, surely your own powers are at least equal, if not superior, to mine. Why not solve the case yourself?”

“It's a question of details, Sherlock. Give me all the details, and I will solve the matter right here in my office. But running here and there, cross-questioning railway guards, and lying on my face with a lens to my eye—these are not my métier. No, you are the one who can clear the matter up, brother Sherlock. I know that once you are put onto a scent, you will follow it till its end. May we count on you to help us?”

Holmes shrugged. “I shall look into the matter. Come along, Watson. Lestrade, if you will favor us with your company for an hour or two, perhaps you can enlighten us in all the minor details of the case. Good-bye, Mycroft; you'll receive my report before evening, though I warn you that you may expect little.”

We had hardly left the Ministry building when a frantic page shouted Holmes' name, and rushed out after us in a flurry of askew collars and flushed cheeks. Holmes, frowning at the disheveled youth, took up the note and tore it open as the messenger turned and fled back up the steps into the building.

“What is it, Holmes?” I asked anxiously, for the color deepened in Holmes' face, and his eyes held the telling glint of the hound upon a scent.

“The matter grows graver,” replied he with a grim smile, handing the note to Lestrade. “Kindly read it aloud, Lestrade?”

The inspector's eyebrows rose, and a low whistle escaped his lips. “It's from Miss Holmes,” said he. “'Have just received notice of Sir James Valentine's death by suicide this morning.' But this is awful, Mr. Holmes! What can it possibly mean?”

“I'm afraid it can only mean one of a few things,” replied my friend. “But we mustn't lose time in idle speculations, Lestrade; our work is cut out for us. Let us first repair to the station where young Cadbury's body was found, and from there we can proceed to investigate the matter of his employer's death. Come Watson; we shall take the train with Lestrade, and return for the Widow later.”

Despite the dim, foggy weather and the somber task before us, my heart gave a silent leap for joy at the prospect of leaving the Widowmak'r behind.

On our way to the station, the inspector, at Holmes' prompting, provided further details regarding the deceased Cadbury.

“Well, now, let me see,” Lestrade scrutinized the pages of his pocket notebook. “He was an only son, living with his widowed mother, Madame Cadbury, in a small house near Woolwich.”

“Soon to be married, I understand?”

“He was engaged to a Miss Victoria Valentine; the sister, in fact, of Sir James Valentine.”

Holmes took in this information with a severe frown. “How informative, Lestrade. Can the young lady account at all for her fiancé's actions of the evening?”

“She was officially informed this morning of her fiancé's death, but no statement was taken at the time. We are, of course, seeing directly to the interrogation of the young man's immediate family and associates.” Lestrade puffed out his breath in characteristic pompous fashion.

“Well, I shall direct my attention thither immediately after we finish our examination of the place where the body was found,” said Holmes. “Perhaps Miss Valentine or Madame Cadbury can shed some light on our little problem. Ah, here we are at Aldgate, if I am not much mistaken.”

Two men met us on the platform; one red-faced elderly representative of the railway company, and a man whom I judged to be a plain-clothed policeman. The old gentleman courteously led the way to the spot where the body had lain. Holmes' quick eye swept over every detail of the scene before us. A chalked body mark lay about nine feet to the left of an outward curve in the rails, not a hundred yards from the station. Holmes examined the mark and rails with great care, his powerful lens close to the ground.

“Barely a trace or two of clotted blood where the body landed, still less where he rolled to a halt,” he remarked. “Not much bleeding, I see.”

“No,” replied the plain-clothes, with something of a shudder, “there was a terrific wound to the head, but the doctor supposed that the hemorrhage must have been mainly internal. It was a most ghastly sight.”