by Mike Hogan
“This is a Scotland Yard detective,” I said, introducing Lestrade. “Mr Holmes is also a detective.”
“Also?” Holmes snarled.
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary last night?” I asked. I gestured to the body.
The man shook his head. “This ain’t properly my beat. I patrol the Carlton Gardens, see? I look in here to the alley now and then is all. The commissionaires from the clubs meet here and we have a nip and a smoke in the wee hours, but I’m nary away from my Gardens more than five minutes.”
He jerked a thumb towards the trees behind him. “I shoo away the ladies of the night, see? Gents smuggle fallen women in the back doors of the clubs, or try to. Them Germans from the embassy won’t be told; they do the business in the bushes.”
“Tell them about the gas men, Mr Noakes,” said Churchill.
The watchman looked Holmes up and down and sneered. “He didn’t ask about the gas men, did he? Too busy asking about last night. Nothing happened last night. I checked the alley half a dozen times - not a sausage.”
He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “I’m a worrier, me. I don’t sleep; I walk and I worry. And I’ve cat’s eyes.”
He crouched as if to spring, then turned and poked Holmes in the chest with his forefinger. “No bugger got up to mischief here last night. I’ll swear to that on any bunch of Bibles you care to muster.”
“The gas men,” Churchill persisted. “The wrong ‘uns.”
“That was Saturday night,” the watchman said sulkily. “Three blokes come on a gas company cart and dug that hole. They said they was mending the gas pipe. I told ‘em, there’s no use you digging in the alley; there ain’t no gas pipe in the Gardens else I’d have me hut connected. The pipes is all in Pall Mall. I saw the new ones laid in ‘79.”
He leered at Holmes. “I didn’t like the look of the beggars, so I got the bobby over from Waterloo Place, but they was already gone.”
He sauntered off towards Pall Mall, whistling.
“Bah,” said Holmes.
I pulled out a packet of sweets from my pocket. “Have a humbug, Holmes.”
We left Churchill squatting on a bollard at the entrance to the alley writing his notes, and followed Inspector Lestrade along Pall Mall past the Reform Club and into the lobby of the Travellers Club next door. An elderly, heavily bearded man in an embroidered Indian coat and turban stood by the porter’s desk. His left hand was bandaged. Standing with him was a pale man wearing evening clothes.
“Ah,” said Lestrade. “This is Mr Kanji - is that right, sir?”
“I am plain Kanji,” said the Indian man, bowing. “The honorific is superfluous.”
Lestrade introduced us to Kanji and to the manager of the club.
“The Committee will have to be informed,” said the manager wringing his hands. “I have no choice in the matter.”
“Show me the scene of the crime,” said Holmes.
A Bow is Sufficient
We left Kanji in the lobby with the manager and followed Lestrade up the grand staircase of the Travellers Club, past the first-floor Library, and on to the bedroom floor.
A pageboy stood guard before the closed door of a corner room.
“The Yard did not hear of the theft until early this morning, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade as he opened the door. “The owner of the jewels was out carousing with his fellow princes until three. He came back and found that Kanji fellow unconscious on the floor.”
Lestrade ushered us into a large room, well lit by a wide, arched window. A four-poster bed stood in the middle of the room, and an ornate dressing table was set against the opposite wall. A roll-top desk stood in the corner by the window. An open door led to a small dressing room furnished with a tall cupboard, and then to a private bathroom and lavatory.
An open jewel case lay on the floor just outside the dressing room door. Beside it was a small patch of what looked like dried blood.
“The thieves fiddled the lock on the bedroom door - a simple domestic lock - and found the jewel case on a shelf in that dressing room,” said Lestrade. “There are several other jewel cases there, but they were empty as the jewels are with their owner.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I understand that the gentleman wears them on his person.”
Holmes knelt beside the stain on the carpet and stared at it for some moments. He cocked his head to one side and whipped out his magnifying glass.
“Old Kanji heard something,” Lestrade continued. “He came from his bedroom next door. He says he thought his master was back from the party, and he wanted to know whether he required anything. He was knocked unconscious without seeing his assailants. He’s wearing a bandage under the turban, and he has a bruise on his hand.”
Lestrade checked his pocket watch. “The night man sent for a constable. I arrived forty-three minutes ago. I interviewed the Club staff. You know how it is Mr Holmes, there’s a bribed servant at the back of most cases like this. Some staff are foreigners, sir, Italians and the like. I have them under guard awaiting further interrogation through an interpreter. I have no doubt that the blackguards who coshed Mr Kanji were let in by confederates. They didn’t come through the front door; the night porter is an ex-Thames Division police sergeant and absolutely reliable. We were about to check the back of the building for signs of forced entry when we saw you on the roof, and I found the body.”
He turned to me. “What were you doing on the roof of the Carlton Club, Doctor?”
Holmes leapt to his feet. “Have you moved anything, Lestrade? Has anyone else been in the room since the incident was reported?”
“Just me and the Club manager. We touched nothing.”
“Interesting,” said Holmes. “Inspector, may I draw your attention to the indentations in the carpet, the dust and to the positions of the stain and the jewel box.” He held out his magnifying glass. Lestrade and I knelt and examined the carpet most carefully.
“Do you mean this tiny dent, Holmes?” I asked, looking along the plush of the carpet against the light. “There’s a sort of pock that a walking stick might make.”
“There are three times three, exactly aligned. Come, let us examine the roof.”
The pageboy led us through an unmarked door and up a narrow service staircase lined with pipes and tubes.
We passed out of a small door and onto the roof of the Travellers Club. I followed Holmes to the edge of the building and watched as he hunted along the balustrade, sometimes stopping and examining the stonework through his lens. He looked into the well between the Travellers and the Reform.
“Any more bodies, old chap?” I asked.
“No. It is not much of a gap, although the Reform is higher as you see. They crossed easily with the ladders, even in the dark. There are traces of green paint and sliver scrapes here and here.”
Lestrade shook his head in puzzlement. “Ladders, Mr Holmes? Are you connecting that body with the robbery? How did they cross Carlton Gardens? It is thirty feet if it’s an inch. How were they not seen?”
“In the dark, Inspector? They sabotaged the gaslights on both sides of Pall Mall; we saw them at it. Anyway, nobody ever looks up.”
“Don’t look down; nobody looks up,” I said with a grin. “What a fount of aphorisms you are this morning, Holmes.”
“The thieves popped out onto the roof of Colonel Delacy’s flat,” said Holmes, ignoring my quip. “They used a short ladder to gain access to the roof of the Carlton Club. They carried the longer ladder, or ladders with them. That suggests a larger gang than the three we saw last night, the ladder sections would be cumbersome and heavy. They crossed Carlton Gardens from the roof of the Carlton Club, then they came over the roof of the Reform and into the Travellers. It seems a tortuous method of entry, but it was effective.”
“If you discount th
e loss of one of their gang,” I said. “I suppose he missed his footing. My goodness, lecture trips to America and rooftop trapezes. The stolen jewels must be valuable.”
Holmes stood with one foot on the balustrade. He tapped a finger against his lips and stared across the Park. “Or important or both. I have a strange feeling that something else is afoot.”
Lestrade looked at him in puzzlement. “Mr Holmes -”
“Well, Inspector,” said Holmes over-riding him. “I must meet the victim.”
We trooped downstairs. Kanji waited at the door of the Library on the first floor. Lestrade excused himself and clattered down the stairs and out of the Club.
“Under the present egregious circumstances,” said Kanji as he nodded for the pageboy to open the door, “a bow from the waist will be sufficient.”
The Library was a fine, large room, bright in the light from tall windows. The walls and pillars between the bookshelves were white and gilt. A Greek frieze ran around the cornice of the central bay. A young man in a brocaded frock coat and pale-yellow turban sat in a leather chair in front of a richly carved fireplace. No other club members were in the room. He stood and faced us.
“Your Highness, Thakore Sahib,” Kanji intoned, bowing deeply. “May I present Doctor John Watson and Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
He turned to us. “Gentlemen, I have the honour to present His Highness Sir Bhagwatsinhji, Knight Commander of the Most Eminent Order of the Indian Empire, LL. D., Thakore of Gondal.”
Kanji bowed again even more deeply.
The young prince, I guessed him to be in his early twenties, wore a thick walrus moustache, but no beard. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark bags under them; he was clearly unwell, or under considerable strain. He smiled and held out his hand. I followed Holmes’ lead and shook hands in the English manner.
He sat and indicated places on the sofa opposite his chair. Kanji stood behind him and to the side.
“Coffee?” asked Thakore Bhagwatsinhji in a high, nervous voice. Kanji instructed the page to bring cups and a fresh brew.
“The LL. D. from Edinburgh is honorary and new,” the Thakore said, “as is the knighthood and KCIE. I value the doctorate of law the more because Samuel Johnson was LL. D. He earned his, coming up from obscurity. The Scots do not think much of Doctor Johnson. At school, he was my hero. I visited Litchfield, not without a slight sense of disappointment, but his house near Fleet Street is full of his spirit.”
Holmes leaned forward impatiently. “Inspector Lestrade has requested that I act in this case as consulting detective,” he said. “I understand that Your Highness has suffered a material loss.”
“Yes, it is a frightful business. I suppose we should have placed the jewels in the Club safe, but it seemed disrespectful or even sacrilegious, and it would have been inconvenient as I wear them often. The loss was not just material: the emeralds have spiritual significance. I thought it best to keep them in their box in my room.”
“Alas, Thakore Sahib, that was my poor advice,” said Kanji, shaking his head.
“It was my decision, Kanji,” said the Thakore, smiling back at him. He turned to Holmes. “My senior adviser has little faith in banks, or in steamships, or gas, or anything Western. He particularly detests Edinburgh, although the university was kind enough to give me an honorary degree. Do you know Edinburgh at all, gentlemen?”
“As a matter of fact -” I said.
Holmes overbore me. “Did you recently receive a tin of Fortnum’s Jubilee Dundee cake?”
The Thakore, Kanji and I looked at Holmes in astonishment.
“From Her Gracious Majesty, yes,” the Thakore answered. “We all did - I mean the other princes here for the Jubilee: Jaswantsinhji of Limdi and Waghji of Morvi, for example. I actually received two, one earlier in the year and one last Wednesday: an oversight, I expect. My companions, Limdi and Morvi, and I had a couple of slices each of my cake with sherry before we went out last night.”
“The cake was tampered with,” said Holmes. “A soporific was added: an opiate probably.”
I blinked at Holmes.
“Ah, an opiate,” said Bhagwatsinhji, nodding. “Opium has roborative properties. That explains our drowsiness over dinner. Our English companions thought that we were drunk, and they were quietly censorious. Well, then, opium. There is little danger of long-term effect or harm: opiates are benign, unless abused.”
“Do you have a medical training, sir?” I asked.
“A little. I intend to complete my medical degree at Edinburgh.”
“That’s a fine ambition,” I said. “If I -”
“The emeralds, Your Highness,” Holmes said sharply. “Can you describe them? What is their value?”
“Under normal circumstances, this would be a storm in a teacup. The necklace stolen was composed of inferior emeralds, full of flaws. There are fourteen stones, each the size of, let me think, your waistcoat buttons, Doctor. They are strung on a gold chain that hangs around my neck: the neck of the Thakore of Gondal. The stones are fragile. I dropped the necklace on a marble floor when I was a boy and cracked one. Do you remember Kanji?”
“Vividly, Your Highness.”
“How would we value the emeralds?” the Thakore asked his adviser.
“A half-crore of rupees, Sahib, or less.”
Bhagwatsinhji shrugged. “The monetary loss is not significant; the value of the emeralds is their symbolic significance. There is a history behind these stones.”
“Might we hear it?” I asked.
The Tiger’s Spring
Thakore Bhagwatsinhji smiled and began what was almost a recitation.
“Devobhai, one of my ancestors, incurred the dislike of the consort of the then-chief of Gondal, his nephew. She poisoned the Prince’s ear with venom about his uncle and eventually Devobhai was obliged to leave the court with his family and make his fortune elsewhere. He decided to settle in Jam. A part of his journey lay through a jungle. He halted in the shade one afternoon to give rest and fodder to his horses and bullocks.
“He was chatting with his friends and followers, and smoking his pipe, when a force under Maharajah Fateh Singh appeared. They were returning from a tribute-collecting expedition. The greater part of the cavalcade had marched past when a panic arose in the rear. A huge tiger had issued from his place of concealment and pounced upon one of the horses. Alarm and confusion prevailed.
“Devobhai instantly grasped his opportunity. After providing for the safety of the ladies, he armed himself, mounted his horse and hastened to where the Maharajah’s elephant stood. Devobhai’s bearing (and some say his handsome upturned whiskers) attracted the Maharajah’s notice. Devobhai craved permission to slay the tiger.
“Fateh Singh said that he would kill the tiger himself rather than jeopardise the life of a noble-looking man like Devobhai. Ah here is coffee.”
A waiter placed a tray of coffee and cake on one of the Library tables under the anxious supervision of the club manager. The Thakore gestured for his adviser to take up the story as we helped ourselves. I decided against having cake.
“Devobhai’s reply to the Maharajah was simple,” said Kanji. “When water and milk are boiled together, water boils first and then the other.”
He looked at Holmes and at me. I nodded sagely, not understanding the aphorism at all.
“When you have a dog,” said Holmes. “Why bark yourself?”
Kanji gave him a venomous look; Bhagwatsinhji burst into peals of laughter.
“I’ve not heard the saying glossed in quite that fashion,” he said. “That is exactly the meaning. Well, Devobhai prayed to his tutelary goddess, Ashapuri the hope-fulfiller, and quickly proceeded to where the tiger rended his victim. The beast, on seeing him approach, crouched to spring at his throat. Devobhai hurled his javelin with such force that it
entered the animal’s brain and laid him dead on the ground. The feat, performed with the quickness of lightning, was witnessed by the Maharajah, who, in admiration of it, alighted from his elephant, patted Devobhai on the back, and put his emerald necklace around the warrior’s neck.”
“Ah,” I said. “And those are the missing jewels.”
“Indeed, Doctor” said Bhagwatsinhji, sadly. “But that is not the end of the story. The Maharajah enquired where Devobhai was going. He explained his circumstances, and he was offered a lucrative post at court. Devobhai declined. However, when pressed to accept a favour, he requested that the annual tribute due from Gondal might be remitted.”
“Shrewd,” said Holmes with a smile.
“What a brave and resourceful fellow,” I said. “And generous, asking for a boon for the state that had thrown him out.”
“It was not as unselfish a request as it at first appears, was it, Kanji?” said Bhagwatsinhji.
“It was not, Thakore Sahib,” said Kanji with a thin smile. “Devobhai Sahib had visited an astrologer before leaving Gondal. He had been assured that one day he would mount the gadi -”
“Throne,” said the Thakore.
“- and rule Gondal. On the death of his nephew and despite some machinations in the zenana -”
“Women’s quarters.”
“- he was proclaimed chief of Gondal. The emerald necklace became his symbol of authority.”
Holmes stood. “Perhaps Your Highness might care to view the remains of what we conjecture might have been one of the gang who stole the jewels?”
Kanji excused himself and retired upstairs. I followed Holmes and Bhagwatsinhji down the stairs to the Club lobby. Holmes darted to the porter’s desk. The porter gave him a sheet of paper that he scanned for a moment. He re-joined us at the door.
“The thing is, Mr Holmes,” said Bhagwatsinhji. “I have to wear the jewels to Buckingham Palace three days from now, the day of the Procession and Thanksgiving Service at Westminster Abbey. I am invited to a reception and supper with the Queen, followed by a ball. I attend Miss Adele Murray, of the Perthshire Murrays.”