Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘If this is bribery, sir, then you’ve picked the wrong man.’ He stared straight ahead.

  ‘Bribery!’ laughed Holmes. ‘Constable Rance, you hold in your hand the solution perhaps, to the entire case. If Inspector Gregson discovers you have delayed the delivery of this piece of evidence, I can only think of the consequences for your career.’ Rance shifted uneasily.

  ‘Perhaps if you were to wait here a moment,’ he said, ‘I shall see whether the inspector will admit you.’

  ‘I am obliged,’ said Holmes.

  ‘What did you give him?’ said Miss Braithwaite.

  ‘Nothing more than my card,’ said Holmes.

  Presently Gregson appeared at the door, bounding with energy as ever, almost as tall as the doorway itself. The sun gleamed from his fair hair and his eyes twinkled with the thrill of a new case.

  ‘Sherlock Holmes!’ he said, extending a hand. ‘You don’t waste a minute. You must be able to smell trouble from ten miles. Surely news has not yet reached the wire?’

  ‘What news?’ enquired Holmes. Rance narrowed his eyes.

  ‘The violin teacher,’ said Gregson. ‘Grisly, but it looks like a suicide to me.’

  Miss Braithwaite’s face drained of colour and she teetered. I caught her just before she made contact with the pavement.

  ‘Splendid save, Watson,’ congratulated Holmes. ‘I can see why the University of London valued your fielding skills.’

  Leaving Miss Braithwaite in the care of Constable Rance, Holmes and I followed Gregson upstairs. We entered through a bright yellow door and found ourselves in a richly decorated room, adorned with plants, pictures and ornate oriental-looking furniture. There was a strong smell of incense and coffee. On the writing desk was a small white elephant. Holmes and I exchanged a glance.

  Lying on a caramel coloured rug was the long, slender body of Ignatius Wimpole. His face was a horrible, bloated blue and there was a horrid thin gash across his throat. A deep red stain had formed beneath the wound.

  ‘Poor devil,’ I muttered. ‘Is this how you found him?’

  ‘The janitor was here first,’ explained Gregson. ‘He cut him down.’

  ‘Violin strings,’ said Holmes, inspecting the wire around the unfortunate teacher’s neck. ‘What a ghastly exit.’

  ‘Yes, we noticed that,’ Gregson put in quickly.

  ‘Have you found the violin yet?’ enquired Holmes.

  ‘Still looking.’

  ‘Is that a motive?’I asked

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Gregson, ‘There was no sign of forced entry.’

  ‘Really?’ cried Holmes in disbelief. ‘Even though it’s a Stradivarius? Good God, man, it could be worth tens of thousands of pounds!’

  ‘For a fiddle?’ said Gregson, dismissively. ‘There’s a note too,’ he added, handing over a piece of cream writing paper. Holmes peered at the handwriting carefully then handed it to me.

  All the beauty has vanished from the world. The jewel of my eye has been taken from me. Nothing can replace it. All art, all hope, all love has gone. I will go now to the mountain of light. Only there will you find the truth.

  ‘Rather poetic, don’t you think,’ said Gregson. ‘Impressive, given that it wasn’t his line of work.’ My friend scribbled down the words on a scrap of paper, then appeared absorbed in his own thoughts. He was pacing the apartment like a lion in his cage, his eyes scanning this way and that, as if committing each detail to that photographic memory. He stopped a few feet from the body, stooped down to the floor and inspected a small patch of white powder with the tip of his finger.’

  ‘We’ve given the place a thorough examination,’ Gregson informed him. ‘Further work is quite unnecessary, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Thorough, you say,’ repeated Holmes with only the smallest trace of irony.

  ‘Yes, thorough,’ confirmed Gregson, barely disguising his irritation.

  ‘Then you won’t mind me taking a sample of this white powder for examination?’

  ‘Mr Holmes, you may take powder of any colour you please,’ Gregson laughed. ‘But on this occasion, I fear your presence here is merely ornamental. It is a suicide. Sometimes,’ he said, drawing himself up to his full height and sounding a philosophical note, ‘there is no mystery, only tragedy.’

  ‘This janitor,’ Holmes said abruptly. ‘Do you still have him?’

  ‘I’ve already given him a grilling. Rance is holding him downstairs.’

  ‘I think we have seen enough,’ nodded Holmes, and wrapping the sample of powder in a fold of paper, we wished Gregson good luck and made our exit.

  The afternoon sun lit the motes of dust as they drifted through our sitting room. We had found some temporary accommodation for Miss Braithwaite with one of my female patients and Baker Street was ours once more. Holmes sat staring at Wimpole’s final note, occasionally twisting it between his fingers as if there was some way of angling it to the light which would suddenly reveal its meaning.

  ‘Confound this thing,’ cried Holmes at last, casting it aside. ‘I cannot fathom it.’

  ‘Is it not possible,’ I suggested, ‘that these are merely the words of a heartbroken man? Perhaps there is no riddle.’

  ‘Impossible,’ snapped Holmes. ‘I will swear this note was written under duress or I will never touch another case. He is attempting to tell us something unbeknown to his captor and executioner.’ Holmes sighed, joined his hands as if in prayer and pressed them to his pursed lips. ‘There is nothing else for it,’ he announced with an air of resignation. ‘We will need to consult my brother.’

  ‘Mycroft,’ I shouted, ‘of course!’ And yet, quietly I could not believe my friend was at a loss. It was almost without precedent. Holmes, I think detected my disappointment.

  ‘Watson,’ he confided, with an air of solemnity, ‘it seems my powers are waning.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said firmly, ‘It shows character to ask for help.’

  ‘You are, Watson,’ smiled Holmes, ‘a friend of the first order.’ He whipped a gold watch from his pocket, glanced at it, then returned it just as swiftly. ‘If we are quick,’ he said, leaping from his chair, ‘it is just possible we may be able to intercept Mycroft as he makes his way between Whitehall and the Diogenes Club.’

  ‘You know his routine to the minute?’ I marveled.

  ‘He is as predictable as the two fifteen from London to Brighton. He does not swerve from his beat except on Christmas and holy days. He is a creature of the most unwavering habits.’ We seized our hats, raced down the stairs, tumbled out of the front door and into a waiting hansom.

  As we neared Charing Cross, Holmes leaned dangerously out of the window. ‘There he is,’ he cried, right on time.’ I peered over his shoulder and sure enough, turning into Cockspur Street was the great, lumbering figure of Mycroft Holmes. Such was his size and bulk, it was as if a walrus had escaped from the zoo and was waddling its way steadily across the city.

  So as not to alarm the man, we alighted from the cab and walked the last twenty yards. Given our haste, he could easily believe we were attempting an abduction. Mycroft appeared to have detected our presence however and turned slowly, like a giant suddenly aware of a sound distantly below him.

  ‘Sherlock,’ he sighed, on seeing his brother, ‘this can only mean unwanted excitement. I note you arrived by hansom and came up past the Red Lion.’

  ‘Mycroft, I cannot help but observe that you enjoyed eggs for breakfast this morning and have changed your brand of cigar. If I’m not very much mistaken, I believe you are now smoking the Gurkha. Rather modern for your tastes, I would have thought?’

  ‘Surely, Sherlock, you can allow a man the capacity to change.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but some things never change, my dear Mycroft. Your appetite for bedtime reading. You stopped at Henderson’s for a cop
y of Mr Jerome’s new novel did you not?’

  ‘There you have me,’ admitted Mycroft with a small, noble bow of his well made head. He produced a copy of Three Men in a Boat from his pocket.

  ‘My dear Mycroft,’ soothed Holmes. ‘To business if we may. Forgive us this intrusion; you are a fellow of regular habits. If I could have forewarned you of our interruption I most certainly would have. However I seek your most urgent counsel on a matter of the gravest concern. But where can we talk in private?’

  ‘Surely, my rooms,’ Mycroft began, ‘would be the logical starting point.’

  ‘No time!’ cried Holmes.

  ‘Then perhaps the Diogenes Club?’ I put in, recalling that this was Mycroft’s principal haunt.

  Mycroft and Holmes both peered at me with a mixture of contempt and disapproval.

  ‘You will remember Watson,’ scolded Holmes, ‘that the Diogenes has particular rules, the salient one being that no one may speak within its walls, except in the Strangers’ Room, which is hardly inviting.

  ‘Then may I suggest the patisserie on the corner?’ drawled Mycroft. ‘They serve an excellent cream horn and I challenge any man in London to defy their éclair.’

  ‘A capital idea, Mycroft,’ proclaimed Holmes. ‘Lead on!’

  I gazed in wonder at the mountain of pastries before Mycroft. An enormous napkin billowed beneath his chin as he prepared for the task ahead. He gave it a little tug to check it was securely fastened in the same way a yachtsman might check his sail before attempting to circumnavigate the world.

  ‘And how is Her Majesty’s Government?’ Holmes enquired.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ his brother replied, ‘I am engaged in a delicate matter myself, upon which I would value your opinion. We are about to cede a British possession to a foreign power. The flag is to be returned to Great Britain and there are conflicting ideas about what to do with it. The Prime Minister is minded to have it burned and the ashes scattered in the North Sea. The Home Secretary believes it should be kept in The British Museum. The Foreign Secretary is determined to have it made into a suit for him to wear during meetings with governors of British Protectorates who are causing us difficulty.’

  Mycroft took a huge bite from the end of an éclair and a great blob of cream dropped to his plate. ‘I would be grateful for your own views.’ It was impossible to know whether this was some attempt from Mycroft at humour. His expression was entirely inscrutable and presently he returned his attention to his pastry.

  ‘The matter is simple,’ said Holmes at length. ‘The flag should be folded carefully and kept in the foreign office until Heligoland is returned to the British Empire. A large piece of éclair shot out of Mycroft’s mouth and landed on the next table. His eyes bulged and his cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

  ‘Need I remind you Sherlock, that this is an entirely secret matter of state! How the devil did you discover the name of the possession?’

  ‘Anyone who reads The Times once a week could make the same educated guess. And besides your splendid new cuff links are German made; I am guessing they are the gift of a German diplomat who has grown generous in anticipation of its new acquisition. Mycroft recovered himself.

  ‘With a little practice, Sherlock,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘you will make a passable detective.’ He glanced across the half empty café for eavesdroppers. ‘Now what is it can do for you?’

  Holmes produced a notebook upon which he had scribbled the contents of Wimpole’s suicide note. He also outlined the general points of the case: how we had learned from the previous notes that the teacher was infatuated with his brilliant student. My friend also sketched, in some considerable detail, the unpleasant state in which the body was found. Mycroft listened dispassionately to the details, looking for all the world as though he was listening to someone reading a weather report. ‘Well,’ said Mycroft dabbing cream from his chin, ‘there are two possible explanations. Either this is a genuine note, or...’

  ‘Yes?’ I urged.

  ‘Or,’ he repeated casting me a reproving look, ‘he is attempting to communicate with us from beyond the grave.’

  ‘Beyond the grave?’ I ejaculated.

  A waitress clearing plates at the next table gave a small gasp and a fork clattered to the floor.

  ‘Control yourself, Watson,’ urged Holmes. ‘Go on, Mycroft, you have interested me exceedingly.’

  “‘All the beauty has vanished from the world.’ Mycroft muttered, reading over the line. ‘He has lost something of immeasurable worth. Well, that could be read either way: the loss of the violinist’s affections or something else of immeasurable worth. The answer is in the next line. “The jewel of my eye has been taken from me. Nothing can replace it.” This could of course be interpreted in the metaphorical sense, but we know he was no poet. So let us suppose for a moment he is not referring to Miss Braithwaite. Let us suppose he is referring to an object; the Stradivarius for instance. “All art, all hope, all love has gone. I will go now to the mountain of light. Only there will you find the truth.”’Ah,’ professed Mycroft. ‘Here is where it becomes more difficult.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighted Holmes. ‘My own reasoning had taken me to a similar point.’

  ‘Difficult,’ said Mycroft, raising a finger, ‘but not entirely opaque.’

  My friend’s eyes gleamed.

  ‘He mentions the word jewel in the previous sentence for a reason. The only jewel I know with that name is the Koh-I-Noor.’

  Holmes clapped a hand to his forehead.

  ‘What a glock I have been!’ he cried. ‘Watson, I have been as gulpy as a schoolgirl. The Koh-I-Noor. It means mountain of light!’ I stared at the brilliant brothers and inevitably felt somewhat dim-witted in their company. I was aware of the famous gem, but I remained confused.

  ‘But what possible significance could this have?’

  ‘Unless I am very much mistaken,’ said Holmes, summoning the bill, ‘someone is planning to steal the diamond. Find the thief and we will find the murderer.’

  ‘But it has not yet been stolen?’

  ‘Rest assured it will be.’

  ‘Then we must also warn the Queen!’ I cried.

  ‘There should be no cause for alarm. We must let time do its work!’

  SIX - The Confectioner

  After a magnificent lunch of sardines and an 1884 vintage claret, Holmes was housed once again in his favourite leather chair. He was absorbed in a periodical from The Royal Institute of Chemistry, while disappearing like a stage magician in a fog of his own tobacco smoke.

  ‘Do you have any fixed views,’ my friend enquired, ‘on the question of stereochemistry?’

  ‘None at all,’ I remarked. ‘I am a perfect blank on the subject.’

  ‘Think of it then, as the relative distances between atoms in a molecule. Compare it for example,’ he said, tapping the bowl of his pipe gently, ‘with the variable distances between you and I, and Mrs Hudson downstairs. Together we make up our household, just as atoms make up a molecule. At any one moment our whereabouts can be plotted on a three dimensional model. We would never inhabit exactly the same coordinates twice.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know about that Holmes,’ I countered. ‘For instance, you are prone to muse at length in your chair, whereas I am likely to be found at the window, pondering the comings and goings of the street, the perambulations of the flower girls and businessmen.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ agreed Holmes. ‘An estimable point, but you have not factored in the constant motion of Mrs Hudson, who occupies the same space for little more than a second at any given time.’

  ‘And what is the possible significance?’

  ‘Her movements, as the third in our triumvirate, give the whole an entirely distinct signature.’

  ‘I am not certain I have divined the upshot,’ I confessed. />
  ‘Nor am I,’ my friend conceded, refilling his pipe bowl in much the same way that a squirrel restocks a tree cavity with nuts for the winter. ‘And yet the unique signature of any given object, animate or inanimate, at any given moment, would make the work of detection a matter for the chemist rather than the policeman.’ The smoke curled above him, as it would a genie newly emerged from his bottle.

  ‘With the exception of yourself, Holmes,’ I ventured, ‘I have yet to see a scientist leap through a window clutching a Webley Bulldog,’ Holmes managed a thin smile then cast the periodical to one side.

  Following our scientific exchange, Holmes grew increasingly restless. He paced the room, once or twice took up his violin, drew back the bow and played a desultory bar of some mournful air before laying it down again. Opening a volume from his Index of Biographies, he searched for an entry, then, evidently failing to find his man, snapped it shut again. He made repeated forays to the Persian slipper for tobacco as if he was stoking the hungry firebox of a locomotive on the Great Western Railway.

  ‘Excuse me gentlemen,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘I can see you are engaged in important matters.’

  Holmes raised an eyebrow.

  ‘A Miss Peaceheart calling for you, doctor,’ she said.

  Holmes and I exchanged a glance.

  ‘A patient of yours?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Show her in,’ I instructed.

  A small pretty woman with a white, leonine face appeared in the doorway, dressed in the black and white costume of a shop assistant.

  ‘Oh, doctor,’ she stammered, struggling to get her words out. ‘You need to come straight away. It’s father.’

  ‘Mr Peaceheart. Yes, I remember, the confectioner on Berwick Street. What seems to be the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re afraid he’s losing his mind,’ she said.

  ‘What symptoms?’ I demanded.

  ‘He’s giving away stock, for nothing! Mother’s tried to lock the door, but he won’t have it!’

  ‘Care to join me, Holmes?’ I asked, retrieving my hat. ‘From the sounds of it, you will at least receive half a pound of clear gums for your trouble.’