Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘Good girl,’ said Holmes in a low voice I had not heard before, proffering the piece of fruit, before switching to words in the native tongue of its homeland, which I took to be a branch of Bengali.

  For a moment I was uncertain if the elephant was going to charge my friend for his audacity, insolence, poor grammar or a combination of the three. But to the admiration of the spellbound crowd, the animal accepted the gift and allowed Holmes to guide her with the help of his impromptu ankus back in the direction of Regent’s Park. As we left him, Holmes patted the elephant’s side and examined for a moment a bloodied patch on its flank.

  ‘My my,’ he said, ‘you have been in the wars.’

  ‘Probably a scrape with a railing or broken branch,’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes of course,’ said Holmes.

  TWO - The Jeweller

  Once more, Holmes and I found ourselves in the comfort of our armchairs, the morning papers spread open on our laps.

  ‘This is nothing short of a disaster, Watson,’ my friend moaned. ‘A trifling matter blown up into a proper stink. The inspector assured me there would be no publicity and that that my name would be kept out of the papers.’

  ‘Oh, come, Holmes, it was hardly his fault. Half of London and all of Fleet Street were witness to your ‘elephant whispering’. This bubble around was entirely unavoidable.’ My friend continued to glower at the headlines.

  When Mrs Hudson appeared at the door, therefore, with a card on a silver platter, it was something of a welcome distraction. ‘A Mr Wenceslas Chatburn, of Queen Street’s Jewellers,’ she announced. Holmes hesitated.

  ‘Do you think he’s buying or selling, Watson?’ he asked.

  Mrs Hudson cleared her throat before I had time to respond.

  ‘He appears to be in considerable distress,’ she elucidated, ‘and says it is a matter of the gravest urgency.’

  Mr Chatburn appeared at the door like an apparition, holding his hat in trembling hands. He was pale faced, with rheumy eyes, with an aspect so resembling Jacob Marley that a monocle dropped from my eye. The likeness was uncanny in every respect with the exception of the chains. On closer inspection, however, these were present too. I noted not one but two pocket watches hidden in the folds of his waistcoat. The glittering rivulets spanned his midriff like the chains on Tower Bridge. His dark suit was of an older style and unfashionable cut, suggesting a man from another age; a spectre from the past.

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Holmes,’ he began falteringly, ‘you do not remember me.’ Holmes looked inscrutable. ‘It was I who attended to the broken lid of your golden snuff box, some time ago. We exchanged a few words at the time about Wedgwood.’ An uncomfortable silence fell upon the room. ‘It is possible of course,’ he added, trailing off, ‘that the encounter was more memorable for me that it was for you.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ announced Holmes at last, advancing on the man with his hand outstretched. ‘I remember our intercourse with nothing but positive associations, not to mention your superior work on the snuff box. However what is troubling me, is my difficulty reconciling the man standing before me, with the hearty, ruddy faced jeweller with whom I bandied in March of 1887. But tell, me why did you come via The Strand, and not Pall Mall, which would be infinitely the most straightforward route?’ Our visitor appeared dumbfounded.

  ‘Why,’ he said, perplexed by Holmes’ apparent intimate knowledge of his morning’s journey. ‘There was an accident involving a hansom and an omnibus, and a constable took it upon himself to close the road. But how could you possibly know? The incident took place not ten minutes ago.’

  ‘It is absurdly simple,’ said Holmes, lowering his eyes. ‘A ticket stub from the Princess Theatre is attached to the sole of your shoe, which must have been acquired during your detour.’

  ‘Yes of course,’ Mr Chatburn confirmed, ‘I stopped to buy a newspaper on The Strand, only a few yards from the theatre. Mr Holmes, I see your powers of deduction are as keen as ever.’ His eyes clouded over again as he remembered the business at hand.

  I invited him to sit.

  ‘Now perhaps you will be good enough,’ my friend began, ‘to furnish us with the details of the problem. Please be as full and as frank as possible in your account.’

  Mr Chatburn laid his hands flat on his knees and composed himself.

  ‘As a jeweller,’ he began, ‘one would expect from time to time to encounter some of London’s more unsavoury elements. I was aware of that when I entered the business. For the aspiring burglar, he is a pane of glass away from a prize that will lift him from the gutter into a world of comfort and ease. On my side of the window, I am a pane of glass away from a ruinous robbery or even a fatal blow to the back of the head. That is a risk we run.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Of course we take every conceivable precaution. Everything of value is transported to the safe at night; our shutters are virtually impregnable and the local constables display the highest degree of vigilance.’

  Holmes narrowed his eyes, pressed his palms together and allowed his fingers to dance with the very slightest impatience. The jeweller quickened his narrative.

  ‘And so it was this morning that I opened the shop as usual, sat at my desk to begin the business of the day when I discovered a note had been placed in the centre of the desk addressed to me.’

  He handed over the note, which contained only a single line:

  MELA SHIKAR

  ‘Was anything taken?’ I asked.

  ‘Not a thing,’ Mr Chatburn assured me.

  ‘And what do the police have to say about this?’ Holmes enquired.

  ‘I have not yet troubled them,’ the jeweller confessed. ‘As I said, there has been no robbery.’

  ‘And your staff,’ Holmes pressed. ‘Are they partial to practical jokes of this nature?’

  My two staff have have never displayed the least tendency towards this kind of behaviour. They are both sober, respectable men who value their position above all things. This would be an absurd whimsy and entirely out of character.’

  ‘I am not a linguist,’ Holmes said, ‘but perhaps it would have been more instructive if you had visited a library before your arrival here. It is merely an instinct, but I would not be surprised if they words were not Assamese in origin.’

  ‘Mr Holmes, I am more impressed than ever.’

  ‘Having spent time on the Indian sub-continent, I am familiar with the phrase,’ Chatburn revealed. ‘It refers to the way elephants are caught in the wild. A lasso is thrown by the rider of one elephant and its great bulk is used to secure the other.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ I ventured.

  ‘And entirely logical,’ Holmes added, ‘given their Brobdingnagian size. But can you think of any possible inference?’

  ‘No I can’t,’ Mr Chatburn assured us.

  ‘Do you have any idea how your intruder may have gained access to your premises?’

  ‘None at all. I hold the only set of keys and there is no sign of a break in.’

  ‘If I had a guinea for every time I heard those words, Mr Chatburn, I would be sitting at this very moment in a small café bar in Florence reading the works of Mr William Shakespeare and enjoying a glass of something cold and invigorating. Well, it’s a fine day for an excursion Watson, what would you say if we joined Mr Chatburn in Queen Street?’

  Soon we were confined in a hanson cab, hurtling down Baker Street, a glossy brown mare bearing us swiftly onto Wigmore Street. We took a smart turn at Goodge Street, galloped through Bloomsbury before being deposited in Drury Lane just as the matinee crowds were exiting the theatres.

  ‘It’s been an age since we took in a play, Holmes,’ I remarked. ‘They’re staging a splendid production of The Jaws of Death at the Britannia and I hear that The Mystery of the Gladstone Bag at the Pavili
on is absolutely capital.’

  ‘Do you not find our own adventures dramatic enough?’ Holmes asked, peering at a man in a pince-nez and a large black beard standing outside a public house.

  It is sometimes refreshing not being at the very epicentre of the drama,’ I ventured.

  ‘I hold the world but as the world Watson,’ Holmes mused. ‘A stage where every man must play his part.’

  The shop reflected its owner: perhaps a little too sober and austere to truly excite the potential purchaser of an engagement ring. There were tall, narrow windows, each lit by an overhanging lantern painted in black. It had more of the air of a funeral parlour than the place a rash young man would conceive a romantic notion and suddenly commit himself to married life. One had the impression that if such a customer appeared, Mr Chatburn would do his best to dissuade him of the merits of his scheme, selling him the item only with the utmost reluctance.

  Mr Wenceslas Chatburn led us into the shop. Holmes inspected the locks, both front and back while I applied the same test to the windows. They were the strongest I had seen and would have secured even the most cunning and resolute of Her Majesty’s guests at Wormwood Scrubs. The place was a dragon’s lair of riches: precious stones winked at every turn. In one cabinet I found a fabulous menagerie containing a dragonfly encrusted with sapphires, a diamond studded bumblebee and a monkey with emeralds for eyes. There was a musty air; it was more of a museum than a shop.

  ‘Tell me,’ Holmes suddenly asked. ‘When did you lose your tie pin?’

  Chatburn was caught entirely off guard.

  ‘My tie pin?’

  ‘Yes,’ my friend persisted. ‘We have met on two occasions and on both you were wearing the same pin: a fine ruby elephant. What’s more I can see the outline on your tie left by its absence.’

  ‘Mr Holmes,’ Chatburn said hurriedly. ‘I am a jeweller with a hundred different tie pins. I wear some for a week, some for a day and some days none at all. You will allow a dull man such as I the indulgence of some small variety.’ It seemed to me a valid point and Holmes let the matter rest.

  We followed the jeweller on a dour journey through the upper floors, gloomy havens with couches hidden beneath dustsheets, paintings turned to the walls and dark paper peeling from the walls. A smell of damp hung about the place.

  ‘You will note that the windows are as secure here as on the ground floor,’ Chatburn assured us.

  ‘And the roof?’ enquired Holmes. ‘Is there an attic?’

  ‘There is, although it is of no consequence. It is barely visited.’

  ‘All the same,’ my friend insisted. ‘If we neglect one aspect then most likely that will be where the answer lies.’

  We allowed our eyes to accustom to the gloom. At the top of the stairs, Holmes stared at the jeweller, as if spending a moment with the man’s most intimate thoughts.

  Climbing into the attic was like travelling from London directly into another continent by means of some secret trapdoor. What lay before us appeared to be a room in the palace of the Viceroy of India. Holmes asked for another light to be passed up and led the way into the upper chamber. On the floor I could see a magnificent rug of intricate design. There were rows of tall backed chairs in dark wood that lined the sides of the room and at intervals there were cabinets filled with porcelain bowls, jugs painted with Punjabi patterns, intricate gold candlesticks and other paraphernalia. At the other end of the room, low couches with soft coloured cushions and a large, forbidding wooden chest carved with the likeness of an ancient palace. Most alarming of all was the row of tiger heads peering into the room as if through high windows. All bared their teeth, wearing their final savage expressions for all eternity.

  For once, I believe my friend was lost for words.

  ‘Mr Chatburn, you have surprised us all,’ he said finally.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Chatburn asked, looking delighted at our startled faces. ‘I was a company man in Calcutta and took quite a liking to the place. I was allowed a generous baggage entitlement on my return.’

  Holmes scoured the room with an expert eye, carefully inspecting the wall panels and roof, satisfying himself it was secure.

  ‘Is the room used by anyone, except yourself of course?’

  ‘Never,’ Chatburn assured us.’ It is a place of memories, little more.’

  ‘Then what,’ asked Holmes, ‘explains the cigar ash in the ashtray? You are not a smoker yourself. What’s more, I have counted the remains of two different brands. Mr Chatburn, you will understand that while Watson and I are charmed by your mementos we cannot afford to waste our time. I have half a dozen cases that Scotland Yard have left with Mrs Hudson in the vain hope I will give them half an hour of my attention. This is proving to be a fruitless, and dare I say, exasperating diversion. When we are given half a story, we cannot very well be expected to find the whole truth.’ Mr Chatburn moved uneasily to a chair and sat down.

  ‘Mr Holmes, it is clear that I must now tell you everything.’

  My friend’s eyes gleamed like two pearls in the gloom. I produced a silver cigarette case and the flash of my match lit a fire in the tigers’ eyes.

  ‘I would be grateful if you would,’ said my friend. ‘And be warned, Mr Chatburn, we only have time for the facts.’

  ‘For some five years I was in the employ of the East India Company, valuing and preserving artefacts, including those in the possession of the viceroy himself. You can imagine, Mr Holmes, that I moved in some of the most exclusive circles in India, mixing with some of our most important people. Over that time, certain alliances were formed and I found myself in the company of gentlemen with similar interests - namely polo, pig sticking, fine wines and object d’art. There were eight of us in this affiliation and as time went on, our bond became more intimate. Soon, we were a club, with our own emblem, etiquette and even our own name: The House of the Ruby Elephant.

  ‘For many months, we revelled in our newly established society, with black tie dinners, lectures, expeditions deep into the Punjab. However some half a year after our formation, certain tensions could be observed. Two of our number, Jack Brace, a business man, and Warwick Snitterton, a veterinarian by trade, began vying to lead our small party. Neither would cede their claim and successive votes proved inconclusive - largely because none of the other members felt they wanted or needed such a president. Eventually the dispute was settled when Snitterton left the society after a particularly fearsome argument across the table one evening, swearing he would never return. He was never seen by us again and he left India itself shortly afterwards.

  ‘One by one, we returned to England, meeting informally as the opportunity arose. Soon it was apparent that all remaining members, except Snitterton of course, wanted to meet once again and under our old name. We were reunited one evening in the Carlton Club. I vowed that night that I would provide a fitting venue of my own that would remind us of those heady Indian days. We held our first meeting in the room not two days ago and it was the start of a new era for us. Then this morning I found the note.’

  Holmes crushed his cigarette into the ash tray like a man putting paid to a bad habit, not that for a moment did I think he would ever give it up. He smoked enough to fumigate a thousand swarms of bees into a lifetime of slumber. As a medical doctor I have cautioned against his excess and yet he ignores my council. Tobacco in all its forms delights the narcissist in him, the actor in him, and it colours his every thought and deed.

  My friend peered intently at the reproduction of a portrait of Warren Hastings, the first British Viceroy of India.

  ‘Well to me it’s quite clear who wrote your note,’ Holmes declared at last.’ Mr Snitterton is the thirteenth fairy who hasn’t been invited to the ball.’

  ‘That much I had divined myself,’ said Chatburn with some impatience.

  ‘I suggest that you make contact with
the man and have it out with him. Failing that, I would inform an officer of the law and ask that they pay him a visit.’ Chatburn peered at the ground.

  ‘There is one thing more,’ he muttered. ‘You were right about the tie pin. It was the only object missing when I opened up this morning. The ruby elephant was the badge of our society. Some of us had them, others did not. There are eight in existence. To us, they are a mark of rank and prestige. As a prominent member, naturally I had one and prized it above all other things. I kept it in the cabinet you saw downstairs. In terms of intrinsic value, it is not worth much more than the other trinkets you see in my shop. It is well made, naturally. But in terms of what it means, it is priceless beyond measure. You must understand, Mr Holmes, that I am an unmarried man and have no family to speak of. The friendship, the indelible bond between men offered by our society, means everything to me. Without the badge I hardly dare show my face.’

  ‘Surely they will understand your circumstances,’ I put in.

  ‘Dr Watson, as I made clear, The House of the Ruby Elephant is a society with its own rules and peculiarities. On this point, we are quite strict.’ We heard the rain begin to drum on the roof above the attic room.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Chatburn continued, ‘this Snitterton is not to be trifled with. When he is on your side, no firmer friend could you desire. But turn him against you and he is the perfect devil of a man. I once heard of a young officer who cheated him at cards. The soldier found himself bound at the wrists and ankles in the mountains alone with no food, water and it was only by a miracle that he was rescued by a passing patrol. Snitterton had no qualms about leaving him to the wolves. Mr Holmes, I believe my life is in danger. This note is a warning.’

  ‘Mr Chatburn,’ said Holmes in measured tones. ‘Dr Watson and I will return to Baker Street to consider the matter further. It has certain features of singular interest. You will hear from me by midday tomorrow if we wish to take the case.’

  The newspapers had not yet arrived. Unusually, Holmes was already up, pipe lit, and wearing his favourite mouse-coloured dressing gown. Lying open on the table was a volume of his famous Index of Biographies and I did not have to look hard at it to see that it was open at the letter S: Snitterton.