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The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans is a detective story written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the famous British author who created Sherlock Holmes. This story was first published in 1908. It is one of the most popular Holmes adventures because it mixes mystery, spying, and national secrets.
In this version, the story is rewritten for Level 4 English learners (B2). The language is a bit easier to understand, but the main events and characters are the same as in the original story.
The story is about a young man who is found dead near the train tracks in London. At first, it looks like an accident. But soon, Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson discover something much more serious. Important government documents are missing, and someone may have stolen them. Holmes must use all his skills to find the truth before it is too late.
If you are looking for stories in English to read PDF, this is a great choice. The mystery is exciting, the characters are interesting, and the ending is surprising.
We recommend you to read this story. It will help you improve your English and enjoy a classic detective adventure at the same time.
This story was rewritten by LearnEnglish-new.com for English learners. Enjoy reading the story and improve your English skills!
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Contents
Chapter One: The Fog and the Telegram
Chapter Two: Secret Plans and Suspicious Death
Chapter Three: On the Tracks of the Truth
Chapter Four: The House Above the Tracks
Chapter Five: Justice and Honour
Chapter One
The Fog and the Telegram
It was the third week of November, 1895, and a thick yellow fog had covered all of London. For four long days, Sherlock Holmes and I, Dr. Watson, could barely see the houses across the street from our apartment on Baker Street. Each day, the air outside became heavier and more depressing.
Sherlock Holmes, never a man who enjoyed doing nothing, spent the first day going through his books. On the second and third days, he tried to study the music of the Middle Ages—a new hobby of his. But by the fourth morning, he was walking back and forth in our room, full of nervous energy.
He tapped his fingers on the table. He stared out the window. He sighed heavily.
“There’s nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?” he asked, not hiding his disappointment.
By “interest,” Holmes meant criminal activity. Political news and wars didn’t excite him as much as clever crimes.
I scanned the newspaper again. “Only small thefts,” I said. “Nothing important.”
Holmes groaned. “This city is so full of people, yet the criminals are all boring,” he said. “Look at this fog—it’s perfect for crime. A murderer could walk through the streets like a tiger in the jungle.”
Just then, the maid entered with a telegram.
Holmes quickly tore it open. After reading it, he laughed with surprise. “Well, well! My brother Mycroft is coming to visit.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“No, Watson, that’s strange,” Holmes replied. “Mycroft never visits me. He stays in his routine: his club, his office, and his home. He never comes here unless something very important has happened.”
Holmes passed me the telegram. It was short:
Must see you over Cadogan West. Coming at once. — Mycroft
“Cadogan West?” I said. “That name sounds familiar.”
Holmes frowned. “Not to me. But if it made Mycroft leave his usual path, then something serious must have happened.”
I remembered where I had seen the name. “It was in the newspaper! Cadogan West was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning.”
Now Holmes became alert. He sat up and lit his pipe. “A death that moves Mycroft must be more than just a train accident.”
I opened the newspaper and found the article. “Cadogan West was twenty-seven, unmarried, and worked as a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal.”
“Government work,” said Holmes. “Now we know why Mycroft is involved.”
“The report says he left work on Monday night. He was last seen around 7:30 p.m. by his fiancée, Miss Violet Westbury. He disappeared in the fog. His body was found the next morning beside the railway line near Aldgate Station. His head was crushed, probably by a fall from the train. But he still had his money and his bank book. So it wasn’t robbery.”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “A man working with top-secret materials, found dead on the train tracks, with no sign of theft? Yes, Watson, this may be the beginning of something very unusual.”
Just then, the doorbell rang. A moment later, Mycroft Holmes entered our sitting room.
Chapter Two
Secret Plans and Suspicious Death
Mycroft Holmes sat heavily in the chair by the fire. He looked tired and serious, which was unusual for him. He took off his gloves slowly and looked at his younger brother.
“This is a disaster, Sherlock,” he said. “The Prime Minister is furious. The Admiralty is in chaos. We have a real crisis on our hands.”
“What are these secret plans?” Holmes asked.
Mycroft lowered his voice. “They are the plans for the Bruce-Partington submarine—one of the most secret military projects in Britain.”
I leaned forward, surprised. “What kind of submarine is it?”
“Very advanced,” said Mycroft. “If another country builds one, naval warfare will change forever. Two years ago, the government secretly spent a huge amount of money to buy full rights to this invention. The plans are extremely detailed, with over thirty separate technical parts. These are locked in a special office at Woolwich Arsenal.”
“But Cadogan West had seven of those papers in his pocket,” said Holmes. “How did he get them?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” said Mycroft. “Ten plans were stolen. Seven were found on his body. The other three—the most important—are missing. They may already be in the hands of a foreign agent.”
Holmes stood up. His eyes were shining now with excitement.
“This is serious, indeed,” he said. “What do we know about the people who had access to the plans?”
Mycroft pulled a paper from his coat. “These are the key names,” he said. “First is Sir James Walter, a highly respected expert. He had one of the two keys to the safe. He left work early that day to attend a dinner in London.”
“His alibi is confirmed?” Holmes asked.
“Yes. His brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, saw him leave. And Admiral Sinclair confirmed his arrival at the dinner,” said Mycroft.
“Then we move on to the second keyholder.”
“That would be Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk. Married, father of five, quiet man, not very popular but hardworking. He says he went straight home that evening. Only his wife can confirm that.”
“And Cadogan West?”
“He worked directly under Johnson and saw the plans every day. He was known to be a bit proud and hot-tempered, but honest.”
“Who locked up the safe that night?” asked Holmes.
“Johnson. He said everything was in order at 5 p.m.”
“So West must have had a fake key—or several. He would need one for the outer door, one for the office, and one for the safe.”
“True,” said Mycroft. “But no keys were found on him.”
“Did he have money on him? If he was selling the plans, he might have been paid.”
“Only a small amount. Not what you’d expect from selling military secrets.”
Holmes started walking around the room slowly, thinking. “We must also ask: why take the original plans? Why not copy them?”
Mycroft replied, “They are too technical. Only experts like West, Johnson, or Sir James could copy them correctly.”
Holmes nodded. “Then the thief needed the originals. But still, why were only seven papers found on West, not all ten?”
“That’s another mystery,” Mycroft said. “And don’t forget—West had two tickets for the theatre. He was supposed to go with his fiancée. But he left her suddenly and vanished into the fog.”
“He clearly didn’t plan to disappear. Perhaps he saw something, or someone, near the office and decided to act.”
“Possibly,” said Mycroft. “But we need answers. Sherlock, I am asking you officially: help us solve this. We must recover the missing papers before they reach our enemies.”
Holmes smiled. “Then let’s begin. Lestrade, will you join us?”
Inspector Lestrade, who had been listening quietly, nodded. “Of course.”
“Then we start where the body was found—Aldgate Station,” Holmes said.
Chapter Three
On the Tracks of the Truth
That same afternoon, Holmes, Lestrade, and I went to Aldgate Station, where the body of Cadogan West had been found. The fog had started to lift, but the station still felt cold and damp.
A red-faced railway officer met us and pointed toward the spot near the tracks. “This is where the body was found,” he said. “It was lying three feet away from the metal rails, just before the tunnel opens up.”
Holmes looked around carefully. “Could someone have thrown the body down from the street above?”
The officer shook his head. “No. The walls are too high and solid. The body had to come from a train.”
Lestrade added, “The train must have passed around midnight on Monday. No signs of a fight were found inside any of the carriages, and no doors were open. There were also no tickets on the body.”
“A man must have a ticket to get on a train,” Holmes said. “So either West dropped it or someone took it to hide where he came from.”
“There was one new report,” said Lestrade. “A man on a train passing Aldgate around 11:40 p.m. said he heard a loud thud outside—like something heavy falling. But the fog was so thick, he couldn’t see anything.”
Holmes didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the tracks, deep in thought. His sharp eyes followed the line where the train moved out of the tunnel. Then he walked slowly toward the curve in the tracks, near a group of points—the metal devices that help trains switch tracks.
“Points… the curve… yes, yes,” he whispered to himself. “That’s where it would fall.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Watson, it’s just an idea—but it may be important,” he said. “This area has both a curve and points. If something heavy were on top of a train, this is the kind of place where it might slide off.”
“Wait,” I said. “Do you think the body was on top of the train?”
“That’s exactly what I think,” Holmes said. “He didn’t fall from inside the train. He fell from the roof.”
We were all silent for a moment.
Holmes continued, “That’s why there was so little blood at the scene. He didn’t die here. He was already dead when he fell. And it explains why there was no ticket—he didn’t enter the train in the normal way.”
“But how could someone put a body on the roof of a train?” I asked.
Holmes looked serious. “We’ll need to visit Woolwich. But first—” he stopped and pulled a small telegram from his coat. He quickly scribbled a note and handed it to me.
“Send this to Mycroft,” he said. “I need a full list of all known foreign spies and agents currently in England.”
As we rode the train to Woolwich, I could see Holmes’s mind working fast. His eyes were sharp, his hands tense.
“We’ve learned something important,” he said. “Cadogan West probably discovered something that night. Perhaps he saw someone breaking into the office. Maybe he followed them here to London.”
I nodded. “That would explain why he left his fiancée without warning.”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “A good citizen, loyal to his country, would act without thinking of anything else.”
We arrived in Woolwich and took a cab to visit the people closest to the case.
Our first stop was the home of Sir James Walter, but we were too late. The butler answered the door with a pale face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Sir James passed away this morning.”
Holmes was shocked. “How did he die?”
“It was a heart attack—or something similar,” said the butler. “His brother is inside. Colonel Valentine Walter.”
We were shown into a dim drawing room, where Colonel Walter sat with a tired, broken look on his face. His eyes were red.
“This terrible business killed my brother,” he said softly. “He was a man of honor, and this was more than he could bear.”
Holmes asked, “Did he speak of Cadogan West?”
“He believed West was guilty, but… the whole thing confused him deeply.”
We left the house with heavy hearts.
Next, we visited Miss Violet Westbury, Cadogan West’s fiancée. She lived in a small house with his mother.
“I still can’t believe it,” she said, her voice trembling. “Arthur would never betray his country.”
“Did he seem worried or nervous before his death?” Holmes asked gently.
She hesitated. “Yes… for about a week, he seemed troubled. He told me there was something serious happening at work. He didn’t say much, only that foreign spies would do anything to get the secret plans.”
“Tell me about the night he disappeared,” said Holmes.
“We were walking to the theatre. But the fog was thick. Our path took us near the office. Suddenly, Arthur stopped and said, ‘Wait here.’ He stepped into the fog and never returned.”
She wiped her eyes. “Please, Mr. Holmes, help clear his name. His honor meant everything to him.”
Holmes nodded. “I will do my best, Miss Westbury.”
Our final stop was at the office in Woolwich Arsenal. Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us. He looked tired and nervous.
“We were one of the best-run offices in the government,” he said. “Now the chief is dead. West is dead. And the papers are gone.”
Holmes asked questions about the keys, the safe, the timing. Everything Johnson said matched the reports. But outside, Holmes showed me something odd.
“Look,” he said, pointing to a laurel bush below the office window. “The branches are broken—and there are marks on the ground. Someone may have climbed in or out.”
We also noticed that the metal window shutters didn’t close completely.
Holmes leaned close to me and whispered, “Someone outside could have watched what happened inside the room.”
We left Woolwich for London, but just before boarding the train, we spoke to the ticket clerk.
“Yes,” he said. “I remember Cadogan West. He was shaking and nervous. Took the 8:15 train to London Bridge. Alone.”
On the train, Holmes sat quietly for a while. Then he said:
“Watson, I think West saw someone stealing the papers—someone unexpected. Perhaps a colleague. He followed the person to London. Maybe even fought him. And then…”
He paused.
“And then his body ended up on top of a train. But who was the thief? And where are the missing papers?”
Chapter Four
The House Above the Tracks
When we returned to Baker Street, a note from Mycroft was waiting. It listed three possible foreign spies currently in England:
- Adolph Meyer – Westminster
- Louis La Rothière – Notting Hill
- Hugo Oberstein – Caulfield Gardens, Kensington
Holmes circled Oberstein’s name.
“He was in London on Monday,” said Holmes. “And now he’s gone. That’s our man.”
He pulled out a map of London and looked closely at the location of Caulfield Gardens.
“Watson,” he said excitedly, “Caulfield Gardens is built right above the Underground tracks. And I remember something else: trains often stop below those windows. This is the place!”
Later that evening, Holmes and I met at Goldini’s Restaurant near Gloucester Road, just a short walk from Oberstein’s house. I had brought the tools Holmes requested: a lantern, a chisel, a crowbar, and my revolver.
Over coffee, Holmes explained.
“West was placed on the roof of a train. The only place that makes sense is this: Oberstein’s back window overlooks the track. When the train stops there, someone could lower a body onto the roof.”
“Couldn’t someone see from another house?” I asked.
“The fog was thick,” said Holmes. “And Oberstein lived quietly with just one servant. Now, he’s gone to Europe, likely to sell the missing plans. But he left too soon. He thought he was safe. That’s our chance.”
At midnight, we walked through the fog to 13 Caulfield Gardens. A children’s party was going on next door, but Oberstein’s house was dark and quiet.
Holmes pointed to the small gate leading to the lower entrance. “We’ll go in through the kitchen area. Ready, Watson?”
With quick work, Holmes opened the door. We climbed the stairs in silence until we reached a narrow window. He pushed it open. A cold wind blew in—and then a sound: a low roar.
A train passed below, its engine loud and its carriages rattling.
Holmes used the lantern to check the windowsill. It was dirty with soot, but clearly marked and rubbed, as if something heavy had rested there. Then he found what he had hoped for.
“Blood stains,” he said softly. “Very faint—but here they are.”
We waited. Soon another train passed and stopped directly under the window. The roof of the car was only a few feet below.
“So,” Holmes whispered, “this is how they did it.”
We then searched the house. Most of the rooms were empty. But in the study, Holmes found a locked box. Inside were strange papers filled with technical notes. But then he found something more valuable: a small envelope with old newspaper clippings.
“Messages from the Daily Telegraph ‘agony column,’” Holmes said. “All signed ‘Pierrot.’ Listen to these messages.”
He read aloud:
- Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given on card.
- Too complex for description. Must have full report. Payment awaits you when goods delivered.
- Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so suspicious.
Holmes smiled. “Oberstein was arranging the deal through these secret messages. Now we know the time and place of the final meeting. It matches the night West died.”
The next morning, Holmes met again with Mycroft and Lestrade.
“Here’s today’s newspaper,” Holmes said, pointing to a new message in the agony column:
To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important. Your own safety at stake. – Pierrot
“I wrote that one myself,” said Holmes.
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “So if he answers it, we’ll catch him?”
“That’s the plan,” Holmes replied.
That evening, we returned to Caulfield Gardens. The back door was left open, just like before. Mycroft and Lestrade waited inside with us in complete silence.
At 11 p.m., we heard footsteps.
Then—two taps on the door.
Holmes opened it quickly. A man stepped in—and froze when he saw us.
He tried to run, but Holmes grabbed him and threw him to the floor.
His hat fell off. His disguise fell apart.
It was Colonel Valentine Walter—Sir James’s brother.
Everyone was stunned.
We helped him to the sofa. His face was white, and his body shook.
“I came to see Oberstein,” he whispered.
“Everything is known,” Holmes said firmly. “We know you were in debt. You copied your brother’s keys. You arranged meetings with Oberstein using coded messages. And Cadogan West saw you.”
Walter covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t kill him,” he cried. “I swear—I didn’t.”
“Then explain,” Holmes said calmly.
Walter took a deep breath.
“Yes, I gave Oberstein the papers. I needed the money. I didn’t know West had followed me. He saw me at the door. Oberstein opened it. West pushed in and demanded answers. Oberstein hit him—with a weapon he always carried. West died almost immediately.”
“What did you do then?” Lestrade asked.
“We panicked. Oberstein didn’t want to lose the deal, so he hid three plans. He placed the other seven in West’s pocket to make it look like he was the traitor. Then we waited for a train to stop, and we dropped the body onto it.”
“And your brother?” Holmes asked.
Walter’s voice broke. “He caught me once with his keys. He never said anything, but I think he knew. He died of a broken heart.”
Holmes was silent. Then he stood.
“We have what we need.”
Chapter Five
Justice and Honour
After Colonel Walter’s confession, everything became clear.
The stolen papers had never left England. Oberstein still had the three most important plans—but Holmes had a final idea to catch him.
“Colonel,” Holmes said, “you’re going to help us one more time.”
Walter looked up in surprise. “What can I do?”
“You’re going to write a letter to Oberstein,” Holmes said, “and tell him you have a missing piece of the submarine plans. If he wants it, he must come meet you—with cash. We’ll arrange the rest.”
That evening, under Holmes’s dictation, Colonel Walter wrote the letter:
Dear Sir,
One important piece is missing. I have it. I need an extra £500. I will meet you at noon on Saturday at the smoking room of the Charing Cross Hotel. I will only accept English notes or gold. No postal delivery. – V.W.
Holmes sent the letter to the Hotel du Louvre in Paris, where Oberstein had gone to hide. Now, they could only wait.
Saturday came. The team gathered at Charing Cross Hotel, watching from hidden positions.
At exactly 12:00, Hugo Oberstein walked into the smoking room. He looked calm and confident.
Holmes gave the signal. Lestrade stepped forward, and Oberstein was quietly arrested. In his bag, they found copies of foreign letters, money, and—most importantly—the three missing plans.
“Got him,” Holmes whispered to me.
A few weeks later, Holmes and I walked through the park. The air was fresh. The trees were beginning to bloom again.
“So the papers are back,” I said. “And Colonel Walter?”
“In prison,” Holmes replied. “He may have had good reasons, but betrayal cannot be forgiven.”
“And Oberstein?”
“Also in prison,” said Holmes. “He will stay there for many years. He tried to sell the plans to every country in Europe.”
“Do you think justice was done?”
Holmes paused.
“Yes,” he said. “But it cost us dearly. Sir James is dead. Cadogan West is dead. And Colonel Walter lost everything.”
He looked out toward the river. “Still, we saved the country. And I think that matters more than recognition.”
I smiled. “But someone did recognize your work, didn’t they?”
Holmes gave a small grin. “Let’s just say… a certain gracious lady was pleased.”
He didn’t say more—but weeks later, I noticed he had a new emerald tie pin. It sparkled in the sunlight.
I never asked who gave it to him.
But I knew.
— THE END –
The Original Version of the Story: gutenberg.org
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