Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  Plate upon plate of brightly coloured food arrived at the table. Vast dishes of tandoori chicken arrived, piled high, followed by lamb rogan josh, Chicken biryani and shami kebabs. Fish courses followed, including a spectacular catfish that had been prepared in a delicate sauce.

  ‘Lip-smacking good, isn’t it?’ the Maharajah said, registering my obvious enjoyment. All this was complemented by a supply of excellent wine that flowed liberally from his cellar. Judging by his spirits, I could tell that Holmes had been as good as his word and repatriated the diamond to him. We fought our way to the end of a peculiar carrot based dessert that was the only dish that had failed to make an entirely positive impression.

  ‘So gentlemen,’ the Maharajah said, drawing on a cigar. ‘It appears you have solved the mystery of the ruby elephants. No doubt Dr Watson, we can look forward to a written record of the case? You have taken some notes?’

  ‘I have jotted down one or two points,’ I confessed, ‘although such is the singular nature of the events that they have printed themselves, albeit in somewhat jumbled and unedited form, indelibly on my mind.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ he remarked. ‘It will surely take its place alongside your splendid account of the Study in Scarlet and the Sign of the Four.’

  ‘The Sign of Four,’ I corrected him.

  ‘I apologise. Both are, as you say in the book trade, humdingers.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ I bowed. ‘If I do write it up I hope that I will do justice to your kindness and hospitality.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Holmes, ‘it will be embellished with a great deal of the unnecessary decoration that his readers seem to enjoy. It is my own view that a simple statement of the facts will be remarkable enough in itself.’

  We puffed contentedly on the Maharajah’s splendid cigars.

  ‘Of course,’ said Holmes, ‘it is possible that there are some events which are yet to reveal themselves which may still have a bearing on the outcome of this singular case.’

  ‘Mr Holmes,’ said the Maharajah as the stopper was removed once again from the port, ‘I have one last request before you leave.’

  ‘Name it,’ my friend stated.

  ‘In life it is rare to encounter a mind as fine as yours. Would you do me the great honour of joining me in a game of chess?’

  The Maharajah led us into the main hall which been cleared as if for a dance. Along the walls orange trees sprouted from porcelain jars; chairs and couches were set back in the archways and tea things and sweetmeats were laid out on the tables.

  ‘I thought you said chess, my dear sir,’ said Holmes affably. ‘Or are we to dance the tango?’

  ‘Chess,’ laughed Singh, ‘just as I said.’ The ornate gold doors at the far end of the hall slowly opened and a procession of masked men and women began to file in.

  ‘A masquerade?’ I asked.

  ‘Not quite doctor,’ said Singh. We watched them drift past us in their curious costumes. Some were in flowing red robes; others were in splendid royal cloaks and headdresses. Others had a curious animal-like appearance. They glided by as if in a trance, appearing neither to see or hear us, moving to pre-determined places in the hall. Presently, I noticed they were dividing into two groups. Holmes smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he said. ‘Maharajah, you do nothing by halves.’

  I remained mystified until the point at which all thirty two guests had formed themselves into two opposing lines, with a space of perhaps ten feet between them.

  ‘Great Scott!’ I shouted. ‘Human chess!’

  The two commanders met in the middle and shook hands. Holmes as the guest was elected white and made the first move, tapping his left knight and requesting that he move to the third row. The knight was a tall, thin man, his skin painted white, a small horse head mask disguising his features.

  ‘The Queen’s Gambit,’ remarked the Maharajah. ‘I have heard that it is growing in popularity.’ Singh replied by moving his own queen pawn forward. ‘It begins!’ he cried.

  The man, a small fellow scuttled forward. I noticed a faint grid had been marked on the floor. Holmes parried with a white pawn of his own to meet it.

  Presently, the Maharajah’s bishop, a tall, elegant fellow silently glided across the room, moving four spaces, until it was next to Holmes’ knight.

  ‘You are in a little danger,’ smiled Singh.

  Holmes appeared unruffled and signaled for his knight to press ahead with the attack, sending it forward until it stood next to the Maharajah’s forward pawn. Singh’s bishop retreated back a space to consolidate his position. Holmes slid over to his queen, a slight, graceful woman wearing the painted mask of a goddess. He bowed theatrically before her and whispered in her ear. She stepped forward two spaces.

  ‘Now it gets interesting, Mr Holmes!’ laughed the Maharajah, lifting his cigar from an ashtray and drawing on it thoughtfully. He sent the pawn to his queen’s immediate right forward a space. In reply, Holmes’ queen quickstepped to the extreme right of the board.

  ‘You have a curious mind, my dear Holmes,’ he muttered, shaking his head, ‘most curious.’ He dispatched his knight on the king side to the third row until it stood next to Holmes’ own horseman. Holmes responded instantly, sending another pawn forward from the ranks.

  The Maharajah’s bishop appeared to have a mind of its own and retreated back to the third rank without being asked. It seemed to be answering a nod from Singh. His initiative was not rewarded as Holmes drew first blood, taking it with his knight. The Maharajah reacted swiftly, his pawn in turn taking the knight. The pieces retreated gracefully from play. Holmes charged with another pawn, while Singh’s knight surged forward with a daring attack down the centre. My friend covered this with his bishop in an effort to repel the advance.

  ‘Knight,’ called the Maharajah, ‘retreat to the third rank, in front of your queen.’ For a moment, nothing happened. Then Holmes’ pawn let out a cry, falling to the ground, clutching its side.

  ‘Illegal move!’ shouted my friend.

  ‘He’s hurt!’ cried another pawn, breaking ranks and running forward.

  ‘Suddenly the same black knight flew towards Holmes, wielding a switchblade.

  ‘Assassin!’ I shouted and the board went into uproar, pieces flying in all directions. I pulled my revolver and took aim but such was the chaos, I could not be sure I wouldn’t hit an innocent party. From the alcoves emerged a cohort of Singh’s attendants, their swords drawn. Seeing himself outmanoeuvred, the assassin turned and bolted up the stairs towards the gallery.

  ‘After him,’ shouted Singh, ‘and bring me my rifle!’

  While the pawn received attention the rest of us joined the pursuit. I found myself next to Holmes on the staircase.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

  ‘I believe him to be Gabriel, the Archangel. And unless I am very much mistaken, he wants the Nizam diamond.’

  ‘Well he can’t have it!’ shouted Singh, on my other side, clutching his gun.

  ‘We have him cornered,’ called one of the attendants as we arrived on the landing. ‘He’s barred the door.’

  ‘Then break it down!’ ordered the Maharajah and together we put our shoulders behind the effort. As it crashed to the ground we saw Gabriel poring over the golden elephant, attempting to lever it open, quite impossible without the eight ruby elephants.

  ‘Don’t move!’ I shouted, but it was too late. Like a vampire bat, he moved in a blur, melting from one space to another. My bullet did nothing more than dislodge a piece of plaster from the wall. Singh meanwhile discharged a round from his rifle that almost succeeded in blowing a hole in the side of the house.

  ‘He’s gone!’ shouted Holmes as the smoke cleared. Sure enough, the window swung on its frame and the room was empty. Singh dived to the window and took aim, but th
e darkness was complete and we could do little more than listen to the sound of the man bounding like a hare into the fields.

  The pawn (in fact the same man who had served us dessert earlier that evening) had escaped with a light injury. His cut was dressed and brandy was served to all.

  ‘The world is at war,’ said the Maharajah gravely, staring into the middle distance from his couch. ‘It is an invisible war, conducted from the shadows. It is not a war between nations but between the forces of good and evil. At stake is everything that is fine and noble in the world.’

  The next morning we took breakfast on the lawn beneath a large parasol. The strong August sun buttered the grass and two of the Maharajah’s attendants stood by, cooling us with giant fans that appeared to have once been the tail feathers of a pair of peacocks.

  ‘Really,’ I said, nodding towards the servants, feeling a little embarrassed by the attention, ‘it is not necessary.’ The Maharajah frowned, suggesting I had caused some offence. I said no more.

  We each drained at least a pint of coffee before attacking the contents of an adventurous menu consisting of Halwa, Puri and Chanay; a dish based around a flattened bread, cooked in oil. When we had eaten our fill, Holmes laid down his fork and sat back in his chair.

  ‘Watson,’ he said, wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin, ‘my dear Maharajah. There is something I have not yet shared with you.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a note. ‘The ruby elephants,’ he said, ‘were not all I found in Snitterton’s pocket. He was careless enough to leave a letter containing a message, which I believe will be of the greatest interest. The astonishing thing is that I do not think he has read it.’ He laid the envelope and letter on the table.

  ‘The envelope is almost revealing as the message itself. The postmark is Bury St Edmunds, which gives us a location, without knowing whether it has any significance beyond the place of dispatch. The handwriting on the envelope is rudimentary. Do you see there are no less than four spelling mistakes in the words:

  DILIVURD BUY HAND

  This would lead us to believe that either it was inscribed by an uneducated fellow or by a child, deliberately employed for the purpose. However I believe there is something ticklish in this... You will have noticed the odd bend of the second d? The pen was held in the right hand of a normally left handed fellow, which gives us a significant clue.’

  ‘So much from three simple words!’ exclaimed the Maharajah.

  ‘The ink too is of singular interest,’ continued Holmes. ‘On first glance, it appears to be a dark blue. Closer inspection however, reveals it to be a shade of purple, which is a much rarer choice, principally used abroad. If my memory serves me, the purple is produced by the addition of an indigo paste to a gallo tannate solution, a method almost unheard of in this country.

  ‘The letter itself is typed. It is written on a heavy stationery of a superior type produced by Jarrold and Sons up until last year. Do you see the small watermark of the J in the bottom left hand corner? They are a Norfolk based company, indicating a local connection. Watson, you will be aware that I am a minor authority on stationery and the author of a handful of monograms on the subject that are considered definitive in certain circles.’

  ‘Yes, I said, tapping the ash from my cigarette. ‘I believe you have mentioned it before.’

  ‘I have such stationery myself,’ admitted Singh, looking more closely. ‘I hope that does not put me in the frame?’

  ‘Based on the evidence alone,’ said Holmes crisply, ‘it tells us that the author is a person of significant means and lives locally, which puts you entirely within the frame.’ Singh frowned.

  ‘And what of the message itself? Is it Polish?’ We stared at the singular type.

  vpsvwil, wt xgn epby fystgsjyu xgns unmx xgn vwkk hgv epby ywrem ykyfephma jyym jy pm mey hpmwghpk rpkkysx ox mey fpwhmwhr gt mey aeswjf rwsk pm 7fj gh 7 pnrnam, w vwkk oy vypswhr mey apffewsy onmmystkx, w vwkk kypby twsam, meyh vpkl mg hykagha igknjh, xgn vwkk fpaa jy mey fpilpry phu w vwkk rwby xgn mey rsypm jgrnk, rnampbna

  ‘It certainly appears to be Eastern European in origin, with the super abundance of the letters v and w, and initially that is where I began my enquiries. I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I availed myself of your excellent library this morning before breakfast.’The Maharajah nodded his approval. ‘My instinct was the same as yours; that it was perhaps Slav in root, possibly a dialect; however I found nothing to corroborate my theory. I therefore concluded it was a cipher of some description.’ Singh clapped his hands and more tea was summoned.

  ‘At first of course, it seems impossible. However there is a grammar of sorts at work, although the type is all set in a lower case. I did not know initially whether this had any significance. I then looked at the words around the numbers, which could conceivably be a date and time.

  ‘Yes,’ I cried, seeing a little sense in the code. ‘Do you see the letters “pm” before the first seven? Does this tell us it is written backwards?’

  ‘Watson,’ my friend laughed gently. ‘As a man of medicine, I would put my faith in no other. However in this area you are something of a novice.’ I was a little taken aback by my friends’ remark.

  ‘It seems a perfectly plausible notion,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Of course it does,’ agreed Holmes. ‘But it also suffers from being entirely incorrect. Let us assume instead that the letters “fj” represent “pm.” This gives us two letters of our alphabet. Let us make a further leap and suggest that “gh” will be the words “on.” This takes us to four. Still too few to provide a breakthrough, but a positive start none the less. Let us make one more assumption, that the word “pnrnam’ stands for the present month of ‘August.’

  ‘There is a single w,’ pointed out the Maharajah. ‘Surely an “i” or an “a”?’

  ‘Splendid!’ said Holmes. I wholly concur.’ Singh flashed me a defiant look, as if we were playing a childish game of point scoring with Holmes.

  ‘Don’t lose heart, Watson,’ my friend encouraged. ‘What else do you see?’

  ‘The first and last words,’ I cried. ‘Surely they are names!’

  ‘Bravo!’ shouted Holmes. The Maharajah looked crestfallen.

  ‘Then it is Snitterton?’ he asked, looking rather doubtful.

  ‘Too few letters,’ tutted Holmes. ‘It is “Warwick.” This confirms our speculation about the letter “i.” Armed with this knowledge, we now have the following slightly less garbled message.’ He produced a fresh piece of paper and swiftly scribbled the following:

  warwick, it xou eaby pyrtormyu xous uutx xou wikk now eaby yiget ykypeants myyt my at tey hational gallyrx ox tey painting ot tey serimp girk at 7pm on 7 august i wikk oy wyaring tey aappeiry outtyrtkx, i wikk kyaby tirpt, teyn wakk to nykaons cokumn, xou wikk pass my tey packagy anu i wikk giby xou tey gryat moguk, guatabua

  Holmes turned the piece of paper around and presented the fruits of his labours. ‘It is tantalisingly close to a kind of sense, would you not agree?’ While I continued to puzzle over the note I drummed my fingers impatiently on the breakfast table. Holmes watched them dancing on the table top with a strange curiosity.’

  ‘Eureka, Watson!’ he cried, slamming a hand down onto the table. ‘You have it!’ Singh and I both looked utterly baffled.

  ‘You have an idea?’ said the Maharajah?

  ‘I have the solution,’ cried Holmes. ‘Quickly,’ he said, turning to our host. ‘Do you have a typewriter?’

  ‘Certainly,’ he confirmed. He clapped his hands yet again and a machine was produced, made by North’s of London.

  ‘The keys, the keys!’ cried Holmes, rubbing his hands feverishly. He fed a clean sheet into the typewriter and started to clatter away at the keyboard. Finally the commotion ceased and my friend whipped the paper from beneath the ribbon and slid it across the table.

 
warwick, if you have performed your duty you will now have eight elephants meet me at the national gallery by the painting of the shrimp girl at 7pm on 7 august. i will be wearing the sapphire butterfly. i will leave first, then walk to nelson’s column. you will pass me the package and I will give you the great mogul. gustavus

  ‘My dear Holmes!’ I shouted.

  ‘How did you do it?’ Singh spluttered.

  ‘Once I had the key, it was absurdly simple. Watson here provided the vital inspiration with the dance of his fingers on an invisible keyboard. What is more, Watson was also correct when he said that the code was written backwards.’

  I laid back in my chair, beaming, slowly folding one hand and then the other behind my head in a look of supreme triumph.

  ‘This man Gustavus,’ Holmes went on, ‘has created a rudimentary cipher of his own devising by reversing the letters on each row of the keyboard. Therefore we begin top left of the keyboard, with “poi” representing “abc” down to the third row of letters on the bottom left with “cxz.” It is an ingenious, but ultimately flawed system. The Maharajah stood up and gave my friend a low neck bow.

  ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ he said. ‘I believe your skills to be unrivalled in all of the Empire. No criminal is safe while you remain alive.’

  Only I would notice it, having spent innumerable hours observing his habits and mannerisms, but Holmes’ eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch at this remark.

  ‘But who or what,’ I asked, ‘is this great mogul?’

  Singh nodded slowly. ‘I believe, doctor, that he is referring to yet another diamond. The Great Mogul is a stone of nearly 800 carats. It belonged to Shah Jahan, the great Mughal Emperor. It was last owned by Nadir Shah, the ruler of Persia. When he was murdered, in the middle of the last century, all trace of it was lost.’