‘Well,’ said Holmes with that customary gleam in his eye. ‘I did not hold out much hope of finding our veterinary friend and yet here he is. Born 1835 in Bromley, studied at The Royal Veterinary College in Camden. Specialises in exotic animals. While still a student he saved a leopard and white tiger at London Zoo when all hope had been abandoned.’
‘So how does a cow-doctor end up in India?’
‘It says here that he received a CBE while only 23; he was offered his own choice of post. He probably chose India to get at close quarters with the big beasts.’
‘And what of his human interests?’ I enquired.
‘Engaged to the Countess of Salisbury. Called off at the last moment. Received a fine while still in Calcutta for threatening behaviour: dangling a man upside down from a tree a few feet above a starving tiger while on a hunting trip.’
‘Strikes me as a man with a peculiar sense of humour.’
‘Redeems himself by saving the Viceroy’s pet elephant which had contracted bluetongue.’
‘Another elephant!’ I exclaimed.
‘Ah,’ said Holmes retrieving a pencil from his acid stained tabletop, ‘now this is of is singular interest. Returns to England shortly after the death of a servant who was savaged by an Asiatic Lion in the service of the Viceroy. The two matters remain unconnected.’
I picked up the volume and continued to read. ‘It says here he has extraordinary powers of observation, medical deduction, superb reactions and an uncanny empathy with animals.’
‘Sounds a capital fellow,’ said Holmes. ‘Now where would we begin to look for him in London?’
I was troubled that night by a strange dream. I was back in uniform in Afghanistan, and found myself, as so many nights before, in the Maiwand Pass during that traumatic battle and retreat of 1880. In the smoke and the chaos, I felt the burning sensation as the Jezail bullet entered, wreaking its terrible havoc on my shoulder, exploding the bone and missing by a hair’s width my subclavian artery. I could see Captain Slade and those formidable men of the Royal Horse Artillery as they covered our retreat, knowing full too well that they would soon be overrun.
And yet this time things were different. From my vantage point, across the pack horse upon which Murray, my orderly, had thrown me, I saw the Afghans begin to fall back. I saw a look of horror and fear on the faces as they abandoned their weapons, turned on their heels and fled. Despite the horrible pain I began to laugh at the astounding turn of events. Who or what had intervened in our favour? It was then I heard the trumpeting, the thunder of feet and saw the dust clouds as eight elephants charged the Afghan lines. They were an unnatural hue: a devilish shade of red, with burning white eyes, as if they had stormed straight through the gates of hell.
I found myself being shaken awake. It was with some relief that I saw it was my old friend Sherlock Holmes staring kindly back at me.
‘Chasing phantoms again, Watson?’
‘Just a dream, old fellow. I am frightfully sorry if I woke you.’
‘Not at all,’ Holmes assured me. ‘I didn’t hear a thing.’
‘Then what’s all this about? What’s the time?’
‘A quarter to three in the morning,’ Holmes informed me, as if this was a perfectly reasonable hour to rouse a man from his bed. I noticed he was fully dressed, his coat hung loosely around his shoulders. From the nutty vapours, I could tell that he had already smoked his first pipe of the day. ‘I’m embarking on a small expedition if you would care to join me.’
Five minutes later, I had climbed into some day clothes and splashed cold water on my face.
‘I hope this is worth it, Holmes,’ I muttered as we tiptoed down the steps to avoid waking our neighbour’s cocker spaniel, or worse still, Mrs Hudson.
‘You said it was a dull dream,’ Holmes countered. ‘And anyway, with a bit of luck we’ll be back in time for kippers and coffee at seven. I’ve left a note with Mrs Hudson to have them ready on our return.’
A hansom was waiting for us on the corner. The driver’s face was hidden in shadow and he gave no greeting. The minute we were inside, he shook the reins and we were away, flashing like a black phantom down the road. We saw barely a soul, just a solitary drunk performing a slow waltz down Marylebone Road and a single constable on silent patrol. The street lamps flickered like the dreams of a million sleeping Londoners.
We darted along several rat runs and largely kept away from the main streets. At one point we bumped along cobbles and I caught a glimpse of Paddington Street Gardens; however, the unusual choice of route, combined with the darkness of the hour, finally succeeded in throwing my sense of direction.
‘Where in heaven’s name are we heading?’ I demanded of Holmes, but he refused to be drawn.
‘Now it is the time of night,’ my friend recited, his eyes twinkling, ‘that the graves all gaping wide, everyone lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide.’
I was astonished then, to find ourselves once again in Queen Street, pulling up just short of the jeweller’s shop we had visited the previous afternoon.
Holmes leapt out of the cab, his cloak flapping like a bat’s wings about him. I followed him, taking a moment to drop some coins into the palm of our mysterious driver. Holmes rarely dealt in small change himself as I had learnt to my cost.
‘Now Watson, my dear Watson,’ whispered Holmes. ‘Are you ready once again to trust me with your life?’
‘What makes this occasion any different from the others?’ I answered.
‘Then you must do exactly what I say. This is not a moment for initiative or originality, do you understand?’ I was flattered that Holmes believed I was capable of either.
We stood outside the dim, unlit shop a moment, while Holmes scanned the environs left and right for any sign of life. A lamp flickered at the end of the street casting its shadow across the road. ‘Right,’ he said, satisfying himself we were alone, ‘follow me.’
Holmes whipped around to face the wall and placed a hand on the cold, grey stone. Reaching up, he hauled himself a foot off the ground.
‘Ready for a little night climbing, Watson?’
I had heard of this form of urban mountaineering, which was said to be practised by athletic gentleman in our more exclusive universities. However, never once had I felt the inclination to try it for myself.
‘Come along, Watson,’ urged Holmes, ‘it’s far easier than it looks.’
Soon we were both twelve feet up, sidling along a thin stone ledge. The street appeared to be several miles below. Holmes had attached himself to a drainpipe and was using it as a support to reach the second floor window. I followed suit and joined him, a little breathless, on the window sill. For a moment we stood like two petrified saints high up over the London street. Holmes pressed a finger to his lips then pointed upwards. I rolled my eyes.
My friend stepped out to his left into what appeared to be thin air. However I deduced that he had once again employed the drain pipe, this time to swing himself around the corner of the building. Once again, I did the same, with no real sense of what I would find on the other side. The answer was very little indeed. I found a small protruding brick onto which to plant a foot and another to cling to with my fingertips. There was no sign of Holmes. The night was warm; a slight breeze ruffled my shirt. For a terrible moment I believed he had fallen, characteristically without a sound so as not to place me in jeopardy. Surely not! I searched frantically in the darkness and with a sense of monumental relief recognised my friend’s pale, thin features lurking in the shadows.
I joined Holmes in an alcove, making my position safe by lodging myself between the two brick walls. I dimly recollected that in climbing circles, this manoeuvre was called chimneying. We smoked in silence side by side and although I have enjoyed tobacco in more relaxed circumstances, it was given an extra frisson by the in
herent danger of our precarious perch. I watched the blue-white smoke coil upwards as if a snake was being charmed from its basket.
We continued our ascent, walking our way up the walls until we were level with the third floor. Suddenly Holmes froze. His hearing, keener than mine, had detected something. Sure enough, there were footsteps approaching and below us I saw a constable on his beat, walking in that particular measured and vigilant sort of manner unique to officers of the law. He was looking to his left and right as part of his natural gait.
Holmes responded by entering a zen-like state. If I did not know better, I would have said that by some miraculous means he had managed to stop his heart beating and his lungs performing their vital work. To my horror, it was at this moment that a coin, which I had held back from the driver of our hansom, in part due to his rather offhand manner, managed to work its way out of my pocket. I heard it drop to the street and land on the pavement with a sound like a dinner gong. The constable stopped immediately. He shot a glance behind him. He performed a slow 360 degree turn and then walked to the source of the noise. The coin gleamed in the moonlight. The constable picked it up and examined it between thumb and forefinger as if he had never seen one before. All he had to do was raise his head and he would find us hanging above him like a pair of ravens roosting in a tower. But luck was on our side. He looked in every direction except up. Pocketing the coin, he had evidently convinced himself that it was his after all.
We were untroubled again until we reach the roof. Here we found that an athletic twist was required to swing ourselves up onto the final stone ledge supporting the guttering. Already I was feeling dizzy from the altitude, the nervous encounter with the constable and the unexplained nature of the visit. However I had been in stranger spots with Holmes and the cards had invariably fallen in our favour. I had no choice but to trust him.
Holmes is a man of extraordinary paradoxes. One moment, he is akin to a convalescing patient, pallid of skin, listless and apparently without energy. He can languish in his armchair, consuming nothing more nourishing that Persian tobacco with the look of a man who has died in his sleep. At other times, he exhibits an extraordinary vitality, no doubt the secret behind his effortless mastery of several branches of martial arts and the marvellous strength that allows him to bend metals and bring men twice his weight to the ground. I have never quizzed him on these contradictory states; however, it is clear that he has hidden reserves that may be drawn upon in extremis. It was from these reserves that Holmes drew to make an extraordinary leap onto the roof. In a moment, my friend was peering down at me, proffering a gloved hand. I accepted gratefully and at last, like two alpine adventurers, we found ourselves at the summit.
There was a narrow indentation in the building that ran from the pavement to the roof: surely just a whimsy of the builder for it appeared to serve no practical purpose. And it was in this that Holmes had lodged himself, his back pressed up against one side, his feet planted on the other and nothing but fresh air beneath him. His arms were folded as if he was seated in an armchair at the Reform Club.
‘Care to join me?’ invited Holmes.
He proffered another pair of cigarettes and I gratefully accepted one.
‘I’m not expecting a lamplighter at this hour,’ he said. ‘Do you have a flame?’
‘Well,’ I said, feeling something like Nelson himself standing over London. ‘Have I earned an explanation yet, or am I to assume that London’s greatest detective has finally turned to the very devilment which he has hitherto vowed to destroy?’
‘Not quite!’ Holmes said. ‘But your answer is just moments away.’
As fleet as an alley cat, Holmes hopped across the tiles and headed for a small elevated window. I followed him on all fours, a little less keen to risk my life on loose tiles and gravity. I finally caught up with Holmes at the window, which he was attempting to raise.
‘As I thought, Watson,’ my friend muttered, ‘it is quite secure.’ For a moment, I felt that Holmes had discovered a flaw in his plan, without caring to admit it to me. ‘This leaves just one other possibility.’ With a short jump he arrived at the foot of the chimney and pressed his hands to the surface, as if testing for a loose brick.
‘Watson,’ he hissed, with a triumphant look, ‘fortune favours the brave.’
When I finally reached the chimney myself, I found that my friend had once again disappeared. The rooftops of London are a ghostly sight at night; I imagined them dispatching the thoughts of the sleeping masses into the clouds. At once I felt a terrible melancholy and utterly alone. It was strange that this man, so cold in disposition, so cool minded and cerebral in his dealings now proved so indispensable to me. I heard the scraping of bricks and there was a chink of light.
‘Will you join me?’ a familiar voice enquired. The opening grew wider, and with a little discomfort I managed to squeeze myself through the aperture.
I emerged in the attic room and saw my friend already seated in one of the chairs around the long table, reading by the light of a single candle. It was only once safely inside that I realised that I had clambered directly through the painting of The Viceroy of India. I examined the frame and saw to my astonishment that the canvas was held on an elastic catch and could be rolled back and forward as required. It snapped back into position as soon as I was through.
‘Ingenious!’ I exclaimed.
‘Perfectly simple,’ said Holmes. ‘An old magician’s trick.’
‘But how did you know this was the way in? We barely spent a minute here yesterday.’
‘Again, this can be explained with the utmost ease,’ Holmes replied, laying down his piece of paper. ‘To begin with, I noticed on the exterior of the building black scuff marks on the brickwork, which could not explained by anything other than the toe or heel of a gym shoe. It is the safest way to climb the exterior of a building and always favoured by members of the illicit climbing fraternities of our great universities.’
‘Yet we didn’t wear any such shoes,’ I put in.
‘Which is precisely why we found it so difficult,’ Holmes admitted. ‘Besides, I wanted to prove that it was possible without the right footwear, the reasons for which will become clear.’
‘And the painting?’
‘The painting I had no idea about,’ Holmes conceded. ‘I merely knew there had to be a means of entry somewhere from the roof. We may well just have arrived through the mouth of that fearsome Bengali Tiger over there on the wall.’ It was reassuring to hear that my friend could still surprise himself from time to time.
Given the early hour and the excitement of the morning so far, I felt a strong desire for a cup of cocoa. Holmes appeared to understand the cause of my agitation.
‘Not long now Watson,’ he said.
‘Not long until what?’
‘The start of the meeting,’ he replied.
THREE - The Meeting
I stared at Holmes in disbelief.
‘The meeting is due to begin in ten minutes,’ he explained calmly, ‘which gives us precisely nine minutes to find somewhere suitable to conceal ourselves and attend the meeting as uninvited guests. I have a copy of the minutes of the last one. Chatburn was careless enough to leave them lying around, which furnished me with the relevant details.’
‘But what do we possibly have to gain from such an imposition?’
‘I have reason to believe that Chatburn is not telling us everything about The House of the Ruby Elephant or its curious activities.’
I considered the matter, then scanned the room.
‘I had pre-selected this trunk for you,’ my friend advised, as if I was the prospective purchaser of a delightful new home. ‘I believe it to be sufficiently large and well ventilated to prevent suffocation.’
‘That is reassuring,’ I remarked, ‘and what of your accommodation?’
‘I wi
ll be hidden beneath the cloth of this low table.’
‘Let us hope then,’ I said with resignation, ‘that the chairman keeps the business brisk.’
‘Indeed!’ Holmes beamed.
The next hour was simultaneously the most uncomfortable and astonishing of my life. While the trunk was roomy enough, as my friend had predicted, it had a peculiar musky smell that I could not quite put my finger on. It was not by any means unbearable, but it made my breathing rather laboured and succeeded in bringing on a headache. My legs were folded beneath me and it was while I was still adjusting their position that I heard the door open and the sound of low muffled voices. I detected the scent of cigar smoke as others entered the room.
Soon a man called his fellow members to order. I will not trouble you with the minutes of the entire meeting, and in this capacity, no doubt the secretary of the society did his job with admirable diligence. However, these would not have captured the strange atmosphere at the start of the gathering, which to my ears were more akin to the beginning of a voodoo ritual than a meeting of professionals. I heard what appeared to be someone humming a low, sustained note like a man attempting to tune a piano without the aid of a tuning fork. The voice was joined by another, at the same pitch. If there had been more musicality to the performance, I might have taken them for a male voice choir warming up for an evening of Monteverdi, which would have made Holmes and me feel very foolish indeed. The sound swelled to a cacophony, making the lock of the trunk rattle. I was almost certain at this point that this was indeed a musical company, and thought for a moment about revealing myself. Surely a fulsome apology and a firm handshake would have sufficed.
It was then that I heard Chatburn declaiming above the racket, in a voice filled with affected mysticism:
‘By the two lamps of the sun and moon, and in the blood of Prince Nizam, I declare open this meeting of The House of The Ruby Elephant!’ It was rather overdone, I felt, and smacked of amateur dramatics. I knew that Holmes would be similarly scathing about the performance. Then a chill ran through me:
Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants Page 3
