Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘Ms Penelope Braithwaite please,’ declared Holmes, ‘handing over his card. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes and his associate Dr Watson at her disposal.’

  ‘Astonishing’ I said.

  ‘A simple mathematical calculation based on sound, speed and distance,’ he explained, suddenly distracted by the haphazard flight of a bumble bee inspecting the flower in the window box. ‘Were you aware, Watson,’ he said, breaking off and continuing to inspect the insect, ‘that a honey bee’s wings beat some 200 times a second? This is what produces that pleasing buzzing sound.’

  I smiled at my friend. ‘And I believed they were simply of a musical disposition.’

  ‘Perfectly inaccurate,’ Holmes dismissed as we were finally granted admission.

  We were led up a staircase of dark wood carved in the old fashioned style, with a set of amateur watercolours depicting scenes from rural India hung at intervals along the wall. On the third floor we were shown to an elegant parlour. The rooms were decorated in a tasteful, eastern style. A low table was set with a plain vase containing a single orchid; a white upright piano rested against the far wall.

  ‘The two gentlemen to see you,’ the housekeeper said, before pulling shut the double doors behind her. Miss Braithwaite was an attractive woman of thirty, with a tangle of strawberry blonde hair and a short pretty nose. By far the most unusual aspect of her appearance, however, was the fact that she was wrapped in a sari of startling turquoise blue. She held both her violin and bow in her left hand and waited, with an expression of vague ennui, for an explanation of our interruption. My friend took the lead.

  ‘Please accept our apologies,’ Holmes began, ‘but my friend and I have a private detective practice on Baker Street, not one hundred yards from your address.’

  ‘Mr Holmes,’ she interjected, ‘your fame precedes you. You will credit me firstly with being able to read and secondly a familiarity with the pages of the London press. You are rarely away from them.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Holmes. He paused while he joined his fingers and gathered his thoughts, perhaps unused to an interruption of this nature. ‘I do wish I were here under happier circumstances. However, as I explained, and as you appear to be aware, I am concerned with cases of the most delicate and difficult nature. These are invariably problems that require concentration of the most intense kind. I sometimes even find it necessary to ask my friend Watson here to refrain from speaking for certain periods. Miss Braithwaite, I will be plain. Your musical practice is a distraction of the most unwelcome nature.’

  The woman appeared flabbergasted. ‘I am a student of the great Ignatius Wimpole. I am perhaps one of only three violinists of serious note in the whole of London and you appear to be suggesting that I should refrain from practising during daylight hours so you can sit in your armchair and think of ways to increase your wealth and fame. Mr Holmes, I am minded to call an officer of the law and have you both forcibly removed from my property.’ She took a step towards us.

  ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Holmes coolly, standing his ground. ‘It is Mr Wimpole who should explain himself to the police after the incident with your hand.’Miss Braithwaite stopped in her tracks, her expression suddenly clouded with confusion and anxiety. ‘Please go, Mr Holmes,’ she muttered, and we retreated down the stairs.

  The reader may imagine I was left in a state of some perplexity after this interview. However it was not until we were safely back inside the confines of 221b Baker Street that Holmes was willing to explain himself. The bowl of his pipe flashed with flame and he proceeded to breathe life into the tobacco with some expert bellows work.

  ‘Well I wasn’t expecting that,’ I confessed. Holmes concluded the business of ignition.

  ‘What exactly were you expecting?’

  ‘For you to pay her a compliment. You were quite taken by her performance if I recall correctly. But how the devil did you know her name?’

  ‘Once I knew she was a student of Wimpole,’ my friend replied, ‘it was all absurdly simple. I happen to know that he takes very few students and recalled reading in the London Spectator that the only woman in this number was Miss Braithwaite.’

  ‘And the injury to the hand?’

  ‘Well that was an educated guess based on the fact that I already knew that she was playing in some pain. I have heard that Wimpole can be something of a brute when his students do not meet his exacting standards. He also has a notorious temper. A violinist of her order would otherwise take the utmost care to avoid such an injury.’

  ‘Still, I believe we made something less than a positive impression.’

  Holmes began to pace the floor in a methodical fashion, which I took to mirror the workings of his mind.

  ‘I’m afraid that was a regrettable, but unavoidable consequence. What did you notice about the house?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, reflecting. It was furnished in a somewhat bohemian manner, certainly. Not exactly to my tastes, but perfectly suited to someone of an artistic temperament. There appeared to be something exotic about the Indian decor and dress. I also noticed the music open on the stand. As you surmised, it was Paganini’s Violin Concerto No. 3. I cannot fault your knowledge of the subject.’

  ‘Very good, Watson.’

  ‘It will not surprise you that I had entirely different reasons for entering the house.’

  Naturally, it did.

  FOUR - The Order of the Sapphire Butterfly

  When I descended for breakfast the following morning, I could find no trace of Holmes. His bed had been slept in but his coat and hat were still hanging on the stand. I asked Mrs Hudson if she had seen him leave. ‘Only if he climbed out of the window, doctor,’ she assured me, before beseeching me to tackle the kippers before it was too late. I ate in silence, wondering as to the nature of my friend’s errand, while scanning the newspaper. I was not surprised to see that there was still talk of Juno’s escape from the zoo and our old friend Langdale Pike had written up his column in the most sensational terms.

  With no thought for his own safety, and while all of London cowered behind him, Sherlock Holmes approached the beast with a stare like an Indian Fakir. Armed with little more than a brolly and an iron nerve, the detective performed his curious magic, mastering the mighty elephant within moments.

  Holmes would be appalled, I thought. Presently Mrs Hudson returned enquiring after the kippers.

  ‘Perfectly done, Mrs Hudson,’ I said, although in truth I was too distracted to eat. There were now two dangerous societies in London with which we had become embroiled and despite Holmes’ explanations, the matter lay in a confusing state. Once more my mind wandered. I was just weighing up the merits and demerits of a trip around the corner to the lending library to exchange Escape From The Sinking Island for The Octopus with Nine Legs when there was a knock at the door. Mrs Hudson appeared with a card.

  ‘A Mr Ishmael Bartholomew,’ she announced. ‘He says that he is a hatter with a shop in Whitechapel and wishes to see Mr Holmes on urgent business.’

  ‘Most peculiar,’ I questioned. ‘Holmes hasn’t said anything about a hat.’

  ‘Perhaps there is some other matter. A personal enquiry maybe?’ suggested Mrs Hudson.

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ I said. Holmes had few social callers, outside of his brother and perhaps Pike, especially if he was seeking some juice relating to a current case.

  ‘Yes, please show him in. I’m sure Mr Holmes will return momentarily.’

  I rose to greet the visitor, although as it transpired, this was hardly necessary. He was the most terribly stooped man I had ever seen. Old beyond his years, he was deeply lined about the face and wore a clouded pair of spectacles with a broken left lens. The lining of his coat had burst at the seams and his hat was so crumpled that one could be forgiven for thinking that it had been sat upon my our runaway elephant. It seemed a curious calling card for a man
in the hat trade.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Holmes is out,’ I explained, ‘but you are welcome to wait for him.’ I passed over the newspaper and indicated to Mrs Hudson to refresh the pot.

  ‘Oh, don’t be afraid, Dr Watson, ‘the old man croaked, peering at me in a rather sinister way.

  As Mrs Hudson left us, Mr Bartholomew and I spent an awkward moment or two together in silence.

  ‘How would one go about choosing a new hat?’ I asked, by way of conversation.

  The visitor considered this question as if it was one of life’s great imponderables. Even seated, he was stooped and appeared to address his answers to the floor.

  ‘That would depend, Doctor,’ he said in his cracked voice. ‘It would depend on the occasion, on your personal taste and the fashion of the day.’

  ‘And what would you recommend for me?’ I asked, happy to accept this free consultancy.

  ‘You are blessed Doctor,’ he offered after some time, ‘with a well shaped head, which deserves to be aired, rather than hidden from view.’

  ‘But surely you are doing yourself out of a sale,’ I countered.

  ‘Doctor, it is better to tell the truth, even if it is to your cost. Over the long term, truth will always be rewarded.’ This seemed remarkably profound for a hat maker from Whitechapel.

  ‘Would you perhaps care to share the nature of your business with Mr Holmes,’ I ventured.

  ‘That, my dear Watson,’ the man said, looking up and beaming, ‘is entirely out of the question.’ I stared again at the old man and at once the scales fell from my eyes.

  ‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are incorrigible!’ My friend sat up straight, tore the grey moustache from his lip and discarded the hat.

  ‘You fooled me entirely,’ I said, shaking my head with incredulity.

  ‘The mind and the eye are easily deceived; it is less the work of disguise and more the power of persuasion. Now I believe Mrs Hudson still has some kippers warming for me; they are my first priority.’

  Holmes tucked into his breakfast with gusto and was now restored to his familiar garb.

  ‘Perhaps you are wondering Watson,’ remarked Holmes, forking in mouthfuls of smoked fish ‘why I went to the trouble of becoming my own client?’

  ‘Besides a natural tendency for showmanship and a childlike pleasure in dressing up?’ ‘Well there is, of course, good reason. Just as we infiltrated the House of the Ruby Elephant, it is equally essential that we get closer to the Order of the Sapphire Butterfly, whatever that might transpire to be. Thanks to Mr Snitterton’s carelessness, we now know the location of the butterfly house. However, we need an excuse to get inside. I have ruled out a rooftop entry - I fancy Mr Snitterton might be wary of that possible weakness.’

  ‘Then how do you propose to get in?’

  ‘By walking in through the front door,’ he said simply. ‘I will, in the persona of Mr Bartholomew of Bartholomew’s Hatters of Whitechapel, arrive on legitimate business wishing to purchase feathers for a new line of ladies’ hats.’

  ‘An audacious entrance,’ I admitted.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes, ‘It will be perfectly ordinary. We will visit this very afternoon.’

  It was not unusual for Holmes to spend many hours in silence. He had for most of the rest of the morning stood in silent vigil over a glass vessel on his chemical table, adding thimblefuls of coloured powder to a mixture that was bubbling gently over a low flame. His concentration was absolute, as if there was not another soul left alive upon the Earth. Neither was it unusual for the atmosphere inside 221b Baker Street to be one that is no longer capable of supporting human life. I loosened my collar and looked longingly at the window, knowing that it was against Holmes strict instructions to open it while he was conducting his experiments. Presently, there was a small explosion, and from the chemical table thick black smoke began to belch from the beaker. As the smoke cleared, I saw Holmes’ face like the devil himself igniting the very fires of hell.

  ‘My dear doctor,’ he said, appearing to shake himself from his trance. ‘Would you be so good as to open the window and share our fumes with the rest of London?’

  ‘A pleasure, Holmes,’ I said, flinging open the window and feeling the cool air lapping in. ‘I trust your experiment reached a satisfactory conclusion?’

  ‘Dramatic if not entirely satisfactory,’ Holmes confessed, ‘although it has advanced me in one respect. It has eliminated yet another avenue of enquiry. As I have long said, if you eliminate the impossible, whatever you are left with, however improbable is the truth. Now what say you to a simpler experiment - the infusion of tea leaves in boiling water?’

  ‘That always brings a satisfactory result,’ I agreed.

  While Mrs Hudson prepared the tea, I did my best to coerce the smoke to the window, wafting it out with yesterday’s copy of The Times.

  ‘What the devil were you doing anyway, Holmes? You had the very look of a medieval sorcerer.’

  ‘You are closer than you think in your assumptions,’ nodded Holmes. ‘I was attempting to make diamonds.’

  ‘Well of course you were,’ I laughed. ‘Why, if I had left you a little longer, then I would have been able to close my medical practice; you could have wound up your detective work and we could both have retired to Devon to live off sea air and cream teas.’

  ‘What a conventional fantasy, my dear Watson. Would you not wish to visit the mountain monasteries of Tibet, the great lakes of Africa or the Inca ruins of the Americas?’

  ‘Not especially,’ I admitted.

  ‘Nor I,’ he said. ‘There is sometimes a joy in the mundane; the deep peace of the west country, the lavender in the field, the clouds in the sky, the quiet public houses in the quiet streets of English villages; the buzzing of the bees...’

  He threw himself down in his velvet lined chair and lit his pipe. A white plume rose up and joined the black fumes en route to the window. ‘But surely we are city men, Watson,’ he countered, equally happy to make the opposing case. ‘Would you not miss the fizz in the air, the mighty money men and architects of the Empire walking the streets like the gods of the Earth? And what of the women, Watson? That, as I have said before, is your department. What infinite delights of sophistication and beauty dwell within these ten square miles? Could you turn your back on that so readily?’

  ‘Holmes,’ I said. ‘You know I am more than happily married. But you make both cases so persuasively I hardly know my own mind.’

  Just then we heard the unmistakable strains of a violin.

  ‘Ah,’ said Holmes. ‘Ms Braithwaite strikes up again. Mozart, this time, I think. Still a little underdone, would you not agree, Watson?’

  ‘It sounds perfectly serviceable to my ears, Holmes,’ I put in.

  ‘Perhaps I should be so bold as to give her a lesson from here.’

  He leapt from his chair as quickly as he had dropped into it, displaying once again that strange athleticism that he could suddenly summon at will. He seized his fiddle and bow from the shelf, where they were balanced on a freshly printed copy of The Gentle Art of Making Enemies.

  He stepped lightly to the window and listened intently for a moment to the music drifting across the rooftops. To my astonishment, he picked up the piece immediately and played either from memory or extemporised brilliantly on the theme. After a minute or so, he stopped and listened again, keeping perfectly still. It appeared that Miss Braithwaite had stopped playing. But then her violin started up again, more strident this time. Holmes gave me a bright eyed look and let her play on for a while longer, before joining in again, the music taking extraordinary leaps and dives as it travelled up and down the scales. I watched him as his slight figure played against the window, his movements as fine and nimble as a cricket balanced on the end of a blade of grass.

  This long-distanc
e duet played out for the next five minutes, no doubt much to the bemusement of the passers-by beneath our respective windows. Finally Holmes laid his violin aside.

  ‘Here endeth the lesson, Watson,’ he declared. ‘Violin Concerto No. 2 in D Major. A work of genius. I am much moved by the idea of genius,’ he added more quietly, and there was no need to explain further.

  He sipped his fifth cup of tea of the day with immense satisfaction. He was, I noticed, smiling to himself between sips, although I could not tell whether this was because he felt he had in someway bested Miss Braithewaite or because he felt he had impressed her. Knowing something of my friend’s cool relations with the fairer sex, I decided it must be the former.

  Lunch passed without ceremony and so it was that Holmes and I found ourselves a street away from a large red brick building in the East End of London. Once more Holmes had assumed the persona of Bartholomew the milliner, and in the hansom Holmes disconcerted me somewhat by staying entirely in character throughout the journey. When I asked him for the time he peered at me with rheumy eyes as if I were a stranger on a train. Only as we approached the building did I hear the voice of my inestimable friend: ‘Remember, Watson. Be here on the stroke of midnight, wait for the flash in the third floor window. I will come down and let you in.’

  I watched Holmes as he turned the corner and became, once again, the ancient milliner, a pronounced limp coupled with a lugubrious manner rendering him every inch the weary tradesman. I considered the career he might have enjoyed on the London stage. He would have been a sensation.

  I passed the evening as best I could, laying aside one pot-boiler after another: The Black Shawl, Silver’s Revenge, The Unending Storm, but none could sufficiently distract me from the fate of my friend at the plumage factory. Suppose his cover was blown? He would be beyond the reach and protection of the law. We had not even let our old friend Inspector Lestrade in on the case; there were no burly constables waiting in the shadows to bowl in at the first sign of trouble. I wondered whether Holmes had overreached himself this time.