Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘It’s more to do with where I found it,’ said Holmes, ‘that is to say, in Snitterton’s feather factory.’

  ‘How curious,’ I said. ‘A bit of a risk, though, don’t you think? Do you not think he’ll miss it?’

  ‘I left Snitterton’s copy in place then purchased another from Samuel’s near St Paul’s. What do you make of his interest in it?’ I leafed through the damp pages.

  ‘Surely the gemstones,’ I said at length, ‘given the nature of his interests.’

  ‘I concur, Watson.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mrs Hudson dusting flour from her hands, ‘I’ve tried to keep him outside, but he’s a like a stray mongrel. The minute the door’s ajar, he slips straight in.’

  ‘Allo, Mr ’Olmes,’ smiled Wiggins, the smartest urchin north of of the Thames and defacto leader of the Baker Street Irregulars. He was wearing an ill-fitting pair of black trousers fashioned at some point in the distant past for a small man rather than a boy. They were sheared off near the ankle and held up by a length of string tied haphazardly around the waist and a pair of braces. A grubby vest was partially hidden by an even grubbier grey shirt. The outfit, which gave off a pungent odour all of its own, was topped off with a raffish looking cap.

  ‘Urgent message from Inspector Gregson,’ he panted, evidently having arrived directly from the scene.

  Holmes rose to his feet.

  ‘Well, let us have it, Wiggins,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘Don’t just stand there wearing out Mrs Hudson’s carpet.’

  The boy cocked his head to one side and adjusted the angle of his hat.

  ‘Oh I see,’ continued Holmes. ‘You are entitled to enjoy the comforts of our study but I am not entitled to a word of your message until I part with a shilling? I understand.’

  Holmes patted his dressing gown pockets. ‘Well you will excuse me Wiggins, but like most others, I am not in the habit of carrying much short change with me in the bath. Perhaps the good Dr Watson would be prepared to sub me?’ I rolled my eyes and fished a shilling from my pocket. I flipped it across the room. Wiggins snatched it expertly from the air.

  ‘There’s something up in Trafalgar Square,’ he explained.

  ‘Be precise!’ said Holmes indignantly.

  ‘That is precise,’ Wiggins insisted. ‘There is a man at the top of Nelson’s Column.’

  ‘There has been a man has been at the top of Nelson’s column since 1843!’

  ‘Well, now there’s another one, sir!’ blurted Wiggins. ‘They don’t know if he’s alive or dead. He’s right up there at the top and no one’s got a single idea how he got up there or how to get him down. Gregson says you need to come straight away.’

  ‘Hellfire, Watson, this sounds like a scorcher.’

  A hard, warm rain was falling on London. It darkened the stone and washed the dust from the great facades of Regent Street. The shoppers took shelter beneath the awnings of the shop fronts as we churned past in our growler, the spray hissing from our wheels. Coach and horses, mighty spires and towering buildings reflected themselves in the glistening streets.

  ‘There is hysteria in the air, Watson,’ mused Holmes, his gloved hands resting on his cane. ‘The summer brings with it a peculiar kind of crime: a wrong-headed spirit which grips the criminal mind and persuades him that his scheme possesses a logic to which it cannot possibly aspire.’ My friend peered out into the streets, lost in his thoughts.

  We found that a sizeable crowd had mustered in Trafalgar Square. Constables in shining capes stood at even intervals holding it back. Our driver shouted our credentials and we drove through a narrow opening that took us almost up to the great column itself.

  I spied Gregson in charge of the scene, issuing instructions and answering questions.

  My friend and I descended from our carriage and were quickly ushered beneath police umbrellas. The rain applauded loudly while the inspector filled us in. ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,’ Gregson nodded. ‘I thought this might appeal to your bizarre tastes. We’ve decided he’s not a jumper. In fact, if he’s not just a very sound sleeper, it’s quite possible he’s dead already. Our men have telescopes trained on him and he hasn’t moved so much as an inch in an hour. There’s no evidence of a rope and so far we have no clear idea how he got there. I don’t mind confessing that we are almost at a loss.’ Holmes was clearly disarmed by Gregson’s frank admission.

  ‘Surely inspector,’ he goaded. ‘You have a theory. You always have a theory even if it is later proved to be entirely erroneous.’ Gregson smiled.

  ‘Well, I did say, we are “almost at a loss.” There is an idea forming.’

  ‘Splendid. Well then let us hear it,’ Holmes invited. ‘I always knew you were one of the few men of Scotland Yard possessed of an imagination.’

  ‘One of my constables found this,’ he said, producing what appeared to be the end of an arrow. The arrowhead itself was contorted by some blunt trauma. ‘It is my conjecture,’ Gregson postulated, ‘that an arrow was fired from the upper window of a nearby building. This arrow was connected to a fine thread, which was in turn connected to a stouter rope or line. A pulley was then installed on this make-shift system. It is perfectly plausible that the body was transported along this line to the top of the column. The first attempt was unsuccessful; the arrow rebounded from the stone and this fragment fell to the ground. The villain tried to tidy up after himself but in the darkness and in his haste, missed this vital piece of evidence. I have men making enquiries at both Canada House and the South Africa High Commission.’ Holmes nodded throughout this explanation.

  ‘Bravo, Inspector. It is an entirely credible theory but one that is alas, perfectly wrong.’

  Gregson’s face fell. ‘Show me your evidence to the contrary,’ he demanded. ‘My theory is not only perfectly reasonable, it has the advantage of material proof. On what grounds do you reject it?’

  Holmes took the broken arrowhead out of Gregson’s hand and inspected it at close quarters.

  ‘The first thing I would say is that this is the end of an iron railing.’ He scanned the immediate area and pointed to a grassy patch adjacent to the National Gallery. ‘I would suggest it came from over there. I’m sure the gallery’s director, Sir Frederick would be glad of its safe return.’

  ‘Crestfallen’ would not do justice to the expression that formed on Gregson’s face in those few moments. He knew he was beaten, but he fought on regardless.

  ‘Well,’ he said, gathering himself, ‘let us say for a moment you are right about the railing. My theory is still entirely within the realms of possibility. There is no other way for a man to ascend the column, bearing the full dead weight of another man upon his back and without a rope. For the sake of the younger officers here, perhaps you would be so good as to provide an alternative explanation?’

  ‘Given time,’ said Holmes, ‘given time. If you would just allow me to inspect the scene as carefully as you have done yourself, I would happily join you in your willingness to discount the impossible, which perhaps will leave us with the truth.’

  All efforts were being made to reach the top. An enormous ladder had been fetched from somewhere and another was being lashed to it. This improvised staircase was then hoisted up against the column to create a vertiginous, bending mechanism that rose to three quarters of its height. The policemen appeared to be drawing lots to decide who would be the first to make the ascent. While they were debating, the ladder swayed and bent in the wind like legs of a drunken giraffe. Finally, a sergeant volunteered himself for the terrifying mission, and so, with a rope and hook slung over his shoulder, I watched in horror as he scaled the first ten or so rungs. The ladder undulated wildly, and for a moment he appeared to lose his balance, which drew a collective gasp from the crowd. He had only just regained his composure when the ladder suddenly buckled and he toppled into the arms of the c
onstables below.

  ‘What would you say to a stroll, Watson?’ asked Holmes, observing this chaotic scene.

  ‘How congenial,’ I replied, and making our excuses we left the police to their public tomfoolery.

  ‘This case certainly presents some unique features,’ he mused. ‘Whether this is a new case or one connected to the series of strange occurrences I am not yet sure, but from what I have seen through Inspector Gregson’s binoculars, there is something curiously familiar about the man at top.’

  When it came to evidence, Holmes was like a buzzard stalking its prey. If it was there, he would find it. Holmes’ eyes darted left and right, looking for anything out of the ordinary. I have never forgotten his words:”you know my method. It is founded on the observation of trifles.” However, today they seemed in short supply. We found nothing but the usual detritus of London - newspapers, the wrapping of a sandwich, a hairpin and an old sixpence. Holmes tapped the ground with his end of his cane then watched as the wind caught a sheet of newspaper and carried it across the paving stones. His eyes lit up.

  ‘You’ve had an idea,’ I said.

  ‘An inkling,’ he corrected, then strode with purpose back the way we came. In that precise, efficient way of his, he scanned the building tops at each compass point.

  ‘There!’ he cried in triumph. ‘Do you see the weather vane up there on the gallery?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, peering into the drizzle. ‘It is at something of an angle.’

  ‘Exactly right, Watson. Now look at the flag on Canada House.’ I peered in the direction he indicated.

  ‘That too; it is leaning to one side.’

  ‘Not just one side, Watson,’ shouted Holmes, ‘the same side! It is as if it has been knocked or dislodged by someone or something.’

  ‘The storm? The wind?’

  ‘Impossible,’ snorted Holmes. ‘This is merely a little light summer rain.’

  He strode to the very edge of the square where a man sat huddled on the ground, his back to a stone wall. He was almost entirely obscured in a pile of rags, his face dark with dirt and grease.

  ‘Hello, my friend,’ said Holmes. My friend nudged me for a shilling to give to the vagrant. ‘How long have you been here?’ The man opened a single eye.

  ‘Toast your blooming eyebrows.’

  ‘Another shilling? Very well then.’ I produced another.

  ‘What are you, one of these mutton shunters? I got every right to be here. Just as much as you.’

  ‘Of course, you have,’ my friend assured him, ‘and no, I’m not a policeman.’

  ‘Well, if you’re willing to sub me a shant of bivvy, then I’ll tell ya. I’ve been here for two days and two nights and a better spot there could not be found in all of London. I’m an old sailor, you see, and while the Admiral watches over me, no ‘arm will come. Do you follow? No ’arm! Not that I’m afraid of any man alive.’

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Holmes, suddenly serious of purpose. ‘Did you notice anything unusual last night?’

  The man looked quizzically at Holmes, narrowing his single eye.

  ‘Well there are sights to be had any hour of the day or night. Just yesterday evening for instance, a couple had a right collie shangles right in front of my nose.’

  ‘I believe he means a fight,’ I elucidated.

  ‘That’s right,’ the man continued, ‘like I said, a fight. I don’t think they even knew I was here. She took the hat off his head and put her fist clean through it. He chased her right round the column.’

  ‘Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Let me see.’ He appeared to freeze mind sentence. I passed him another coin.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, like a clockwork toy springing back to life. ‘An old man came and stood by the column for close on an hour yester-night at around eight of the clock. He just stood there and didn’t say a thing. Troubled looking he was.’

  ‘Could you describe him?’

  ‘Of course I could. He was a bald headed fellow, sixty if he was a day, with a full dark beard. He had a dour look about him and heavy saddle bags under the eyes.’

  ‘A remarkable description,’ complemented Holmes. ‘It is as if you know the man.’

  ‘I do,’ the man said plainly. ‘It was the Prime Minister, the Marquis of Salisbury!’

  ‘Upon my word!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘My guess is that he came here to think things over,’ the old seadog continued. ‘If he’d asked for my opinion, I would have given it to him. He’s been building houses for the poor but he hasn’t built one for me yet!’

  ‘How about the night itself,’ pressed Holmes. ‘Did you see anything in the early hours?’

  ‘Well this rain gave me a proper drenching, alright,’ he complained, pulling his rags closer around him. ‘Like a drowned rat, I was.’

  Behind me, the ladder was again brought to bear against the column and the crowd emitted another theatrical gasp. I was losing patience with the man’s tales.

  ‘Perhaps we ought to leave this gentleman in peace, Holmes,’ I suggested. ‘He has been most illuminating, has he not?’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Holmes, raising a finger, ‘one thing more.’ I sighed and passed the man another shilling. It was as if I was feeding a machine in an amusement hall.

  ‘Did you happen to see, at any point, a giant balloon?’

  Not for the first time, my jaw slackened. However, the old sailor didn’t skip a beat.

  ‘A balloon you say,’ he said, stroking his grizzled chin, ‘a balloon.’ He peered up into the sky, and rolled his single eye across the heavens as if he had at one time been the beneficiary of some theatrical training.

  ‘Now you mention it that does sound familiar.’

  ‘Quickly Watson, another coin!’

  ‘I’m growing short,’ I said, handing over yet another.

  ‘Yes, a balloon!’ he cried, as if in a moment of epiphany ‘It was a magnificent white balloon. It appeared out of nowhere at around three in the morning. I was awoken by the hiss of its escaping gas.’

  ‘Great heavens!’ I ejaculated.

  ‘I thought I was dreaming,’ the man said in a voice filled with wonder. ‘I looked up and it was as if I was staring at a huge diamond.’

  ‘Did you not think to mention this before?’ I demanded, infuriated. Holmes held up a calming hand.

  ‘Describe what you saw,’ he cajoled.

  ‘It came in low from the west and glided east,’ the sailor said, jingling the coins in his hand. ‘Blow me if it didn’t clip the tops of them roofs,’ he added, waving his arm around vaguely.

  ‘It clipped them!’ said Holmes, hopping in triumph, ‘did you hear that, Watson? It clipped them!’

  ‘You are a strange fellow and no mistake,’ the sailor said, peering at my friend.

  ‘What else? What else?’ Holmes cried.

  ‘It passed only for a moment over the admiral but if my eye didn’t deceive me, something was bundled out and left at the top with him. I’m thinking now, that this is the cause of all this benjo, am I right?’

  ‘You most certainly are!’ said Holmes. ‘Anything else? Was the square deserted?’

  ‘There was a woman on the ground,’ the vagrant continued. ‘A right bag of oranges, she was. She had some sort of light, as if she was signalling to them fellows in the balloon.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘That’s the strange thing,’ he said. ‘She was a white woman but she was wearing Indian type clothes. What do you call those things?’

  ‘A sari?’ I asked.

  ‘If you say so, sir. And one thing more; I would swear blind she was carrying a violin case.’

  ‘My dear Holmes!’ I cried. ‘This is too much; surely this man is describing
our friend Miss Braithwaite?’ Holmes appeared perfectly unruffled.

  ‘Your single eye served you well. Your last shilling, if you please, Dr Watson.’

  ‘How did you know it was my last?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I watched you count them this morning before you dropped them into your pocket. Since then it has been a simple matter of subtraction.’

  ‘Or in my case,’ grinned the oily man, baring his three remaining fangs, ‘addition!’

  Holmes whipped around and headed back towards Gregson, the crowd parting before him.

  ‘He’s never going to believe it,’ I counselled, chasing hard on his heels.

  ‘Of course he won’t,’ my friend agreed. ‘But we cannot wait any longer to inspect the body.’

  Gregson by now was attempting to personally supervise the rescue, without any noticeable result.

  ‘Send for this man,’ said Holmes, pressing a card into Gregson’s hand. ‘He is the finest steeple jack in London. If any man can do it, it will be him.’

  While we waited, Holmes and I tumbled into the welcoming glow of The Harp, a public house a stone’s throw from Charing Cross. I lined up a pair of pints and for a brief, blissful moment of serenity we supped at the nutty brown ale.

  ‘Surely this changes everything,’ I said, wiping my lips.

  ‘Only if your mind was set in a particular direction,’ sparkled Holmes. ‘I’m afraid you always had more faith in Miss Braithwaite than I did. Think back on the portraits of India on her staircase; the curious connection between the Ruby Elephant and her violin teacher; the unexplained presence of Snitterton at the concert. I’m afraid Watson, that she deliberately positioned herself in our midst from the beginning.’ I shook my head, while at the same time, concurring with Holmes’ logic. ‘Surely,’ my friend added. ‘it would not surprise you entirely to know that she is Snitterton’s daughter.’ I spluttered into my pint, succeeding in showering my friend in froth.

  ‘I take it from that,’ Holmes remarked coolly wiping beer from his face, ‘that you had not yet arrived at the same conclusion.’

  It was late afternoon by the time Morris Digby, the man with the best head for heights on either side of the Thames had been summoned from the spire of St Helen’s and transported under police escort to Trafalgar Square. He was not a man to be hurried. He unpacked his equipment carefully, unfolding a cloth that contained his rivets, winches and pliers and brought out a small suitcase that contained several coils of ropes and the wooden boards that made up his bosun’s chair.