Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘Then you will take the case?’ asked Featherstone, sitting forward with an earnest look about him.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Holmes. ‘But one thing more. Have you seen Wyndham associate with any unfamiliar men, four to be precise?’

  Featherstone glanced at me then looked back at Holmes.

  ‘No,’ he said, not entirely convincingly, in my view. Holmes glanced at his pocket watch.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, we still have time to catch the four o’clock train to Bury St Edmunds. Watson, there is a chance we will miss the last service back to London, so pack what you need for a trip to the country and let us be ready in ten minutes.’

  We had no trouble finding a growler and soon found ourselves bumping down Marylebone Road towards King’s Cross. Presently, we swerved from the main road and darted down a side alley, into another and like so many occasions, within the space of ten minutes of leaving Baker Street, I had entirely lost my bearings.

  ‘There is an expert I wish to consult briefly,’ Holmes said by of explanation. The carriage slowed and Holmes let himself out.

  We were standing outside Crabtree’s shop. I had never seen it before and did not even recognise the street. The walls were painted black, the window was also blackened and across the door was the legend, in a minute superscription: Crabtree’s Lenses. Holmes pushed open the door to the accompaniment of a single ting from a tiny bell. As we entered the grotto, I felt as a child might, stepping into a house of wonders. All about me was shimmering glass: a thousand monocles hung suspended from the ceiling with gas light glinting from each one. They winked and glistened as they slowly revolved this way and that, never quite catching the light in the same way. It was as if we had walked into a rainstorm and the rain had stopped in mid air.

  As the breeze blew through the open door, several hundred of these monocles began to chime together. And it was in this sweet cacophony that our small, bespectacled friend appeared on the other side of the counter. He was barely tall enough to see over the top, but on seeing the towering figure of Holmes his small eyes lit up.

  ‘Mr dear Mr Holmes,’ said Crabtree, lifting his counter slightly and walking beneath it into the shop. ‘What a pleasant and unexpected surprise.’ He was clearly never more comfortable than on home soil.

  ‘There is talk,’ he said, addressing Featherstone, ‘of the monocle falling out of fashion. However I can see that you are gentleman of impeccable taste. That much is evidenced by your choice of Mr Sherlock Holmes as your friend.’

  ‘Crabtree,’ said Holmes, ‘there is none other like you in all of London. Your single minded dedication to your craft, to the art and science of the single lens is a credit to you. There is nothing you do not know about the monocle.’ Crabtree blushed and bowed low, so as almost to disappear. ‘We have come on an urgent matter,’ said Holmes, moving to business. ‘Mr Featherstone, if you would be so kind as to produce the monocle you found in the butler’s parlour.’ The man placed it in Crabtree’s outstretched palm. He received it as solemnly as a communion host. The optician bustled to his counter and searching with his hand on the surface felt for a magnifying glass. He let his two monocles dangle on their cords.

  ‘Gold,’ Crabtree muttered. ‘Not more than five years old. Not English.’ He squinted and continued to mumble to himself. ‘A darker lens than you would find here. South African I would say.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Holmes. ‘You are worth your weight in gold sovereigns.’

  ‘Then I would be only too happy to accept them,’ Crabtree said, returning the monocle to Featherstone and rubbing his hands together. ‘You know how much I love an adventure, Mr Holmes,’ he added. ‘Could you not give an inkling of what’s afoot?’

  ‘Alas, not yet my dear Crabtree,’ sighed Holmes. ‘You find us at the very crux of our case. We are heading to Bury St Edmunds on the four o’clock train to settle a matter that may have far reaching consequences.’

  ‘And you could not use my powers once again on your adventure? I would only be too happy to join you and provide what service I can. You will know how quiet it can become in a specialist trade such as mine and in a backstreet such as this.’ He looked a little crestfallen, peering around the walls of his shop. The monocle trade, I do not mind admitting, can at times become, well, rather monotonous.’

  ‘Your services rendered so far have acquitted you well enough,’ said Holmes. ‘I have no doubt that if ever the day comes when Dr Watson chooses to chronicle the case, he will not forget you in his account.’

  NINETEEN - The Man with the Diamond Eyes

  It is difficult now to recall my precise feelings as we sped once again into the east on the 4.24pm from King’s Cross. Although I could not know it at the time, it felt that we were nearing the end of our adventure, perhaps even all of our adventures together. We were rushing towards some final fate; good or ill.

  I reflected on my role in this singular drama. In many ways, I had simply been carried on successive waves of events: dropped by one and picked up again by another. At times I had plunged beneath the surface, tumbled helplessly on the ocean floor, only for my companion, Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street, to seize my collar and haul me back up again. How much Holmes himself was carried on the same waves and how much of the course he steered himself was impossible to say. The difference was how he faced them. While I went under, he appeared to ride effortlessly above the swell, gaining a view of the sea all around us. He seemed to know where each new wave would form, when it would reach its zenith, and how it would break before it reached the shore. His was an extraordinary gift of observation enhanced by intuition, and even, though he would never care to admit it, a little clairvoyance. Foresight, instinct; call it what you will, but at times it seemed my companion was possessed of superhuman powers. He was a man who might, if he had wished, have had anything he wanted, had he not been consumed by the art and science of crime, its detection and punishment. He pursued each case with the doggedness of a scientist determined to solve a seemingly impossible problem. Whether he did this simply to amuse his overactive mind, or was compelled by some inner moral compass, I do not believe I will ever discover. However, the radiance of his mind was beyond doubt. It had a tremendous, almost physical presence. It was like a glow of a lighthouse in a storm. When all was lost, Holmes shone brightest.

  We had a compartment to ourselves. Holmes and I sat opposite each other at the window with Featherstone next to me, his arms folded, staring straight ahead. As was his habit on such journeys, Holmes spent most of his time with his nose in The Times until we were well into the Essex countryside.

  ‘The youth are rising in the north,’ my friend remarked looking up from his paper. ‘Have you heard of this disturbing trend of scuttling?’ I shook my head. ‘Gangs of young men, alienated by their work, are at war with each other. They give themselves exotic names such as the Bengal Tigers and the Angel Meadow Lads. They take to the streets and attack each other with the heavy buckles of their belts. There appears to be little good reason beyond boredom and lack of purpose.’

  ‘They should box, for heaven’s sake,’ I put in, ‘or try a walk in the hills. Then there is a mountain of exciting literature.’

  ‘Not everyone spends their leisure time like you,’ Holmes said. ‘But regardless, these gangs are the breeding ground for a new criminal class. You mark my words, gentleman. This needs to be stopped or the country is at risk of collapse.’

  The station at Bury St Edmunds was a fine, mid-century, red brick building. Two magnificent towers flanked the tracks. It seemed a wonderful thing that such embellishment could be found at a simple country station. As we pulled in, the sky darkened and a thin rain began to fall.

  We found a hansom easily enough and took off through the bustling streets until the town was left behind. We drove through a forest, catching the occasional flash of a deer through the trees. We came then into
a pretty village, each house set well apart from the next with colourful gardens. Finally we reached the imposing black gates of the Hixstead Estate, bolted shut. On either side of the gate were stone columns, each topped with a stone pineapple: a touch of the exotic. Featherstone dropped down and unlocked the gates himself, waving us through, before securing them again. He rejoined us on the other side. As we made our way down the drive, all trace of summer seemed to vanish from the land. We passed one dead tree after another, each twisted in horrible fashion, or else split by lightning. A bird of prey roosted in the upper branches of a dead beech tree while a few desultory sheep nibbled at the thin grass.

  ‘The estate,’ Featherstone admitted, ‘has fallen into some disrepair.’ We felt it better not to concur. ‘Just a word of warning, gentlemen: do not expect a warm welcome from Wyndham.’

  The house was an extraordinary construction: an octagonal tower adorned with a frieze of stone carvings of classical inspiration. To this folly, a wing had been added at each side. Every window was shuttered and the place gave the impression of being entirely deserted. Foliage grew freely between the brickwork and an unmistakable air of neglect hung about the place.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ our driver said, casting his eyes up at the grim facade, ‘I will take my leave of you now.’ Featherstone fetched the stable boy who was loitering by a wall and handed him the keys to gate, with instructions to return after he had let the man out of the grounds.

  We entered by a side door and immediately the house announced itself as a dismal place. The smell of damp hung in the air and notwithstanding the month, it was bitterly cold. Many of the statues and sideboards were covered, as if the house had been shut up for the season. Featherstone led the way down the corridor, holding a dim lamp ahead of us.

  Presently, we found ourselves in a large drawing room. A coffee pot and cup lay unwashed on the table, showing signs of recent habitation but in every other respect it was more like a museum of curiosities than a room in a house. Even in the poor light, my eyes leapt from one extraordinary object to another. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling and Featherstone fiddled with a mechanism that eventually succeeding in illuminating it. In its glow we gazed about the chamber in much the same way as grave robbers may once have gazed upon the chambers of the great pharaohs. On the wall were two clocks, one showing London time, the other, South African. Examination of the second hands showed that both were running backwards. In a glass cabinet was a stuffed pigeon, distinguished from the mundane in that it had two heads. In another cabinet was a ghoulishly misshaped skeleton, purporting to be that of a mer-man.

  ‘A regular house of horrors!’ remarked Holmes. ‘But pray, Featherstone, take us to the true horror: the scene of the crime.’ We filed out and followed him down another dimly lit corridor.

  ‘The paintings, Holmes,’ I remarked, stopping suddenly, ‘look at the paintings!’

  Along the walls were canvasses, housed in heavy gilt frames. Beneath each was the name of the work and the artist. But it was the paintings themselves that astonished. Each one had been painted perfectly black.

  ‘A singular business,’ murmured Holmes. ‘And yet one that has a perfectly simple explanation. I believe that Wyndham thinks that if he cannot see these great paintings, then no one shall. The world is as blind to them as he is. Am I right.’

  ‘Perfectly correct, Mr Holmes.’ said Featherstone, shaking his head.

  We finally arrived at the butler’s office.

  ‘I must prepare you gentlemen, for an unwelcome sight.’

  ‘I assure you,’ said Holmes, ‘we have seen worse.’

  Featherstone pushed open the door and held up the lamp. The butler was slumped forward, his arms hanging down straight and apelike, his knuckles almost brushing the floor. But his head, which rested on the desk, was turned to us, his eyes and mouth wide open. His face had a horrific white pallor, as if he had died in a moment of appalling shock.

  ‘This,’ said Featherstone, ‘is exactly as I found him. I would say he was surprised.’

  ‘An understatement,’ pronounced Holmes. ‘Could we have a little more light in here?’he requested. Featherstone fiddled with the gas and the room was filled with a pale, yellow light.

  Holmes stepped nimbly over several of the papers scattered across the floor. He lifted one carefully between thumb and forefinger and showed it to the man.

  ‘What does this relate to?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing more than household accounts,’ said Featherstone, glancing at the sheet. He scrutinised it rather more carefully. ‘It is a bill for laundry.’

  ‘The candidates for this person who surprised him,’ suggested Holmes, ‘are rather few in number are they not? The stable boy, the gardener or Mr Wyndham himself. Besides you, of course.’

  ‘Generally speaking,’ the manager went on, ‘the gardener and the boy are not permitted inside the house and they do not have a key.’

  ‘Then my list becomes shorter still.’

  ‘There is a wound to his head,’ Featherstone pointed out.

  Holmes peered carefully at the butler’s body. ‘He is a large man. I suppose it is possible that he fainted and struck his head against the table. But there would be hardly enough force to kill him.’ My friend continued his inspection. ‘There is a tear in the back of the man’s jacket,’ Holmes observed. ‘He is an otherwise impeccably turned out fellow. How could that have happened?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Featherstone.

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ my friend continued, ‘that this is something he overlooked when he dressed this morning.’ My friend peered at the small rip in the fabric and carefully lifted the flap of material. The white shirt beneath was also torn and a section of the man’s skin was revealed, a horrible purplish red colour.’

  ‘What is your theory, Featherstone?’

  ‘I believe that Mr Gustavus Wyndham, sadly, has finally taken leave of his senses and murdered this poor man. It could have been done on a whim, over some trifling task left unfinished. As I have already said, he has a fiendish temper and I found his monocle beside the body.’

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes. ‘Well I think it is time we met this friend of yours.’

  We returned along the corridor towards the drawing room. Holmes appeared to drag his heels a little, which was unlike him, and followed at the back of the group. As we re-entered the chamber, I marvelled again at the bizarre paraphernalia that filled the shelves and sideboards. An ashtray fashioned from the upturned shell of an armadillo contained a collection of coloured birds’ eggs. A stuffed badger stood on hind legs in the corner, thoughtfully smoking a pipe. It was both unpleasant and tasteless. The air was still and thick with dust and I felt a terrible urge for fresh air. Preoccupied as I was, therefore, I had entirely failed to notice the man sitting in the armchair bent over a draughts board. I could not see his face, but it was immediately clear from his hair and demeanour that this was the same blind millionaire we had met at Lords Cricket Ground. He did not look up from his game.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Gustavus Wyndham. ‘Tell me, do any of you play draughts?’

  ‘On occasion,’ my friend replied, joining us.

  ‘Then take a seat.’ It was only at the second glance that I saw that each of the pieces was a diamond; on one side pure white stones, on the other, brown.

  Holmes pinched his trousers at the knee and dropped into the empty chair opposite the man.

  ‘Your move,’ said our host. He touched a hand to the gold rim of his dark tinted spectacles.

  Holmes, playing black, analysed his position, then moved a piece.

  ‘I am here at the invitation of your employee, Mr Featherstone.’

  ‘Is that so?’ asked Wyndham.

  ‘What do you think, Tom? Can he beat me?’

  ‘Impossible to say,’ Featherstone rep
lied.

  ‘I have come to provide an opinion on the matter of your butler, Mr Billington.’

  ‘A very fussy man, wouldn’t you say, Tom?’

  ‘If you say so Wyndham,’ muttered Featherstone.

  ‘Well I do say so.’

  ‘Tell me,’ asked my friend. ‘How is it you can play draughts, despite your handicap?’ Wyndham did not reply, instead continuing to scrutinise the board. Presently, he raised his head and removed his glasses.

  ‘You see, Mr Holmes,’ he said, calmly. ‘I don’t see it as a handicap.’

  I was aghast. It was not the fact that this man was injured. It was the embellishment he had made to his damaged face. In the hollow of his scarred eye sockets, Gustavus Wyndham wore a pair of large diamonds. Holmes appeared unruffled.

  ‘What can you tell me about the butler?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘That the man is a fool. That he cannot make a decent gin and tonic. What else do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know how he died.’

  Wyndham returned a hand to his knee.

  ‘Tom,’ he said, slowly. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘We found the body,’ Featherstone answered.

  ‘When did you find it?’ Wyndham demanded, rising to his feet. ‘Why was I not informed? Perhaps this is why fresh clothes did not appear this morning and the reason he has been ignoring my bell all day. What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘I thought perhaps you would like to explain,’ said Featherstone folding his arms. ‘Mr Holmes has seen what I have seen and the evidence appears conclusive.’ Wyndham appeared genuinely shaken.

  ‘The man was a fool, yes,’ he murmured, ‘but a well meaning one.’

  Featherstone sloshed some brandy into a glass.

  ‘Drink this,’ he said, planting it in Wyndham’s hand.

  ‘Do you mean to say,’ the older man said, ‘a murderer has been at large in my house and no one has had the decency to tell me?’

  ‘I think we can dispense with the play acting, can’t we?’said Featherstone. ‘Of all your talents, I was unaware that amateur dramatics was among them.’