Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  To pass the hours, I decided to walk the majority of the way and marched at soldier’s pace through the centre of the city, taking especial notice of the fine bonnets worn by the women of London spilling out of the cafes and theatres, the shops and restaurants. I saw magnificent creations: silk hats decorated with rhinestones and flowers, glittering with sequins. It was admiring these wonders that I almost collided with Miss Penelope Braithwaite. She was wearing a tightly fitted blue silk turban in the modern style with a single green feather as a plume.

  ‘Do look where you’re going, won’t you?’ she reprimanded.

  I spluttered my apologies. ‘Forgive me, Miss Braithwaite.’

  ‘Doctor Watson!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘My mind was somewhere else entirely.’

  ‘And so were your manners,’ she snapped, ‘but no matter.’

  ‘I am a perfect oaf,’ I blushed. ‘I’m so terribly sorry. And you must excuse my friend Holmes, too for his outburst at your flat the other day. His manner can be, shall we say, direct?’

  ‘I imagine that he has not got where he has got to today by being anything other than direct.’ She adjusted her turban a little and glanced down the street. I was uncertain whether she wanted to continue the interview.

  ‘We have certainly enjoyed your playing these last few days,’ I put in. ‘No doubt you have heard, Holmes’ too?’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘For an amateur he has a surprisingly good ear.’ I smiled inwardly, certain that my friend would wince at this faint praise.

  ‘Please,’ I insisted, ‘I must not detain you. You are clearly on an urgent errand.’

  ‘That is true,’ she confessed. ‘But doctor, the remarkable coincidence is that my destination is 221b Baker Street. I have an urgent matter that I need to discuss with Mr Holmes.’ I was taken aback at this startling information, but quickly recovered myself.

  ‘Then perhaps I can save you an unnecessary journey?’ I said, ‘because Holmes is currently engaged on other business. I imagine tomorrow afternoon would be the earliest he could consider an appointment.’ Her face immediately fell into despondency. Her blue, glassy eyes clouded with fear and uncertainty and she narrowed her rose lips.

  ‘Doctor, it is a grave matter.’ I was at a loss.

  ‘Then surely an officer of the law should be your first port of call?’

  ‘That is quite impossible,’ she said quietly. ‘The police cannot be involved at any cost.’

  ‘Surely a few hours will not make so much difference?’ She shook her head. ‘I am in some danger. I cannot return to my flat and even standing here talking to you I feel is quite unwise.’

  ‘Then you must proceed to Baker Street as you planned,’ I said. I scribbled a note on my prescription pad and put it in her hand. ‘Hand this to Mrs Hudson and she will make you quite at home until we return.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ she said. I nodded, much affected by the woman and her predicament.

  That night was exceptionally warm and clear. The moon hung in the sky like a freshly minted shilling. By my pocket watch it was five minutes to midnight. I leaned back against the wall in what shadow I could find. Despite my best efforts to conceal myself however, one or two drunks had lifted their hats to me on their return from The George and Vulture public house on Pitfield Street. Finally at two minutes to twelve, I turned the corner and looked up at the dark shape of the plumage factory looming above me. There was no sign of light save for a weak yellow glow from a window on the ground floor. This, I imagined, was the janitor’s room. But as the bells of St Leonard’s chimed the hour, sure enough, in a room on the third floor, there were three bright flashes, which I took to be the sign.

  Creeping like a burglar up to the door, I crouched down out of the line of sight of the janitor’s window. Lurking in such a manner would take some explaining if an officer of the law happened to be passing. The last peal died away and all that could be heard were distant voices and faint clatter of a hansom running a late fare.

  Presently, there was the click of a latch. The door opened a fraction and my blood froze as I waited for the man to identify himself. It did not take long for me to recognise the brilliant glint of my friend’s eyes and the trace of a smile on his thin lips.

  ‘Watson,’ he whispered, ‘be quick, for we are not alone this evening.’ He pushed the door outwards and I slipped inside.

  The corridor had a cold, institutional look about it. The bricks were painted two colours: a pale yellow up to waist height and a horrible blood red from there to the ceiling. Pipes ran along the walls and disappeared around the corner. Holmes, still dressed as the milliner, tugged my arm and hauled me a little way up the corridor, before dragging me backwards with that curious strength of his into a small ground floor room.

  Holmes pressed a finger to his lips and almost immediately I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. As well as being possessed of one of the finest deductive minds I have ever encountered, Holmes also had a highly developed sense of hearing: the sort more readily associated with a piano tuner. Presently I saw him relax.

  ‘The bird has returned to its roost,’ he announced, evidently alluding to the janitor scuttling back to his broom cupboard. ‘Well, Watson, it has been a remarkable day. The case has seen some singular developments and presented some most interesting points. I am happy to admit that it has succeeded in winning my entire attention.’

  ‘I assume then, that your disguise held out?’ I began.

  ‘Indeed it did,’ said Holmes. ‘On arrival I was taken to an upper room and shown an aviary’s worth of feathers. Of course I feigned as much interest as I could, without my mind being the least bit engaged. As expected, the vendors were clearly not interested either. I remarked that the men of the company were not those with whom I normally did business. They were perfectly polite and explained that there had been a company takeover. I then enquired, barely able to keep a straight face, whether they were expecting any emu feathers to be delivered soon. They told me they were expecting some in shortly. This revealed them to be the charlatans I knew they were and almost certainly part of the criminal gang calling itself the Order of the Sapphire Butterfly. I paid for some feathers which none of us could identify, then told them I would show myself out, explaining I had visited many times before. Presumably not to arouse any suspicions, they agreed and I left the room.’

  Holmes and I crept out of the cupboard. My friend sprang up the stairs, as light footed as a fawn and I stumbled after him. It was a marvel to see this apparently aged milliner so sprightly. We edged along a corridor and stopped at a door halfway along. Holmes reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a key that he had plainly acquired during his afternoon’s work. Inside the air smelled of cigars and formaldehyde. Holmes locked the door again. In the gloom I could make out a mass of papers heaped haphazardly on the table. Feathers were scattered everywhere as if there had been a fatal struggle between every bird on Earth. On the far wall was a map of some description, and it was to this that Holmes turned his attention.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ breathed Holmes.

  ‘It appears to be a map,’ I posited, ‘a plan perhaps of some building. A large building.’

  ‘Very good,’ Holmes twinkled. ‘Now we must work quickly, Watson,’

  He handed me paper and charcoal. ‘Draw as much as you can as well as you can. It is essential to capture as much detail as possible.’

  A poor draftsman, I nevertheless settled down to my challenge while Holmes paced the room searching for other clues. At intervals I heard murmurs of delight as Holmes made discoveries of one kind or another, while I struggled with the plan before me. It was the most confounded work and my charcoal snapped on more than one occasion. The glass in the door suddenly flashed with light.

  ‘Under the table,’ Holmes hissed. Folding ourselves beneath it, we le
t the cloth fall and held our breath.

  The light from a lamp spilled across the floor. The carpet of feathers shone with gold and we heard the click of the lock.

  ‘In here,’ a man said.

  It was deep, commanding voice, which I immediately recognised as Snitterton’s. We watched two pairs of boots make their way to a couple of poorly upholstered armchairs not three yards away from our hiding place.

  ‘Cigar?’ Snitterton invited.

  ‘Splendid,’ replied the other. It was an older voice, but equally well mannered. Through a small tear in the cloth, I could just about see him; he was in his early sixties, I would say, thin lipped, with bright eyes and a startlingly bald head. Tufts of white hair sprouted just above his ears, bordering the bare hill of his cranium. The veterinarian had, I noted, a striking charisma that switched easily between charm and menace.

  ‘So you have three,’ the older man said, picking up a conversation that had clearly begun elsewhere.

  ‘Yes, three,’ Snitterton confirmed. ‘My own, Chatburn’s and Peaceheart’s.’

  ‘And there are five more.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Snitterton, ‘just as I said.’

  ‘Would you mind if I examine them again?’

  ‘If you must,’ said Snitterton, ‘but it is really not necessary. Each is identical in every way.

  ‘My client is very particular,’ the bald man explained. ‘And he has been burnt in the past.’

  ‘Are you questioning my integrity?’ Snitterton accused him, his tone suddenly cooler.

  ‘Not at all,’ the man soothed. ‘He has perfect faith in your ability to deliver.’

  ‘That’s not exactly the same thing.’

  Understandably, perhaps, given the evening’s excitement, by the time Holmes and I returned to Baker Street our candles were burning low. We let ourselves in and clambered the stairs thinking of little but a hot bath, a slice of Mrs Hudson’s cold meat pie, a smoke and a nap. It was only reaching the top of the stairs that I remembered my encounter with Miss Braithewaite and my instructions to meet us here.

  ‘Well, Watson,’ sighed Holmes as he pushed open the door to our sitting room, ‘I don’t mind admitting I’m deuced tired. Given the choice, I prefer brain work to night-owling, but sometimes we have little choice in the matter.’

  ‘Quite,’ I agreed. ‘There was just one thing, however. You have a client waiting for you.’

  Holmes stopped his tracks. He peered in through the doorway, open not more than two inches.

  ‘If you mean Miss Braithwaite, then I’m not in the least surprised.’

  Once again, Holmes confounded me.

  ‘But I haven’t mentioned a word,’ I started. ‘How could you possibly know?’

  ‘Simplicity itself. I caught a slight scent of her perfume on you when you joined me in the feather factory,’ he explained. I shook my head in wonderment.

  ‘And besides,’ he added, ‘I’ve just seen her umbrella in the doorway.’ I closed my eyes.

  Ms Braithwaite was sitting reading quietly in my chair. She had the good sense at least not to sit in Holmes’place. She looked up and closed the book as we entered.

  ‘Ah, The Time Machine,’ said Holmes. ‘A book more in line with Dr Watson’s tastes than my own,’ he smiled. ‘But who wouldn’t wish for such a device? The crimes we could undo. The futures we could reinstate.’

  ‘You will forgive the intrusion,’ she said, ‘but without Dr Watson’s invitation I fear that I would have nowhere else to turn.’

  ‘Our evening has been an unusually taxing one,’ Holmes explained. You will understand if we delay our interview by a few hours more. You will be perfectly safe here. Please avail yourself of more tea and once you have completed the novel, Dr Watson I know will be pleased to receive a full report on its merits.’ Holmes and I then retired to our respective cots and for a few blank, blissful hours, slept the sleep of the dead.

  FIVE - The Violin Teacher

  I was awoken by the sound of a violin. The piece was not one I recognised, but I knew immediately it was not my friend Sherlock Holmes playing. His was a jerky, somewhat fitful style that mirrored the restless nature of his mind. This was sonorous, mournful music. It was sorrowful, mysterious and entirely intoxicating. I could have lay listening for hours. Eventually I prised myself from my pillow, dressed and joined Holmes and Miss Braithwaite in the sitting room.

  ‘Ah, Watson,’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘We are in need of a critical ear. Perhaps you are familiar with Tchaikovsky’s recent concerto?’

  ‘I confess I am something of a Philistine when it comes to such matters. But it sounds wonderful.’

  Miss Braithwaite gave a hesitant smile, then laid her fiddle aside.

  ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, you will forgive me,’ she began, ‘but as you know, there is an urgent question on which I need your advice.’

  ‘Naturally,’ nodded Holmes, ‘but before you begin, perhaps you can tell me why you have not attended your lessons this last week?’ She stared at him.

  ‘But...’ she started, ‘this is nothing short of wizardry!’

  ‘Nonsense. Living so close, we have become somewhat familiar with your routine. Surely, Watson, you too have noticed that on a Tuesday and Thursday morning we are usually deprived of Miss Braithwaite’s talents. This last week we have had the pleasure of hearing you play every morning.

  ‘That’s precisely the reason, I’m here,’ she explained. ‘I am gravely concerned about the welfare of my teacher, Mr Ignatius Wimpole. Last Tuesday I called as usual at half past nine and received no answer. I spoke to the janitor and Mr Wimpole had not been seen for two days. I returned on Thursday and there was still no trace. On returning to my rooms, I found this note waiting for me.’ She handed a folded piece of paper to Holmes, who received it between two long white fingers. He studied it for a few moments.

  ‘Most singular!’ he pronounced. He passed the note to me and I scanned it.

  Your lessons are now over. I have nothing left to teach you. I wonder in all honesty whether I ever had anything of use to impart in progressing your ambition to be the pre-eminent concert player of the day. You have an unusual gift that would be better developed in the hands of another. Please do not call again and I am sorry we cannot bid farewell in person. Yours, Ignatius.

  ‘A remarkably sad note,’ I put in.

  ‘I agree. A very poor way to end things. Do you recognise the handwriting?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Miss Braithwaite. She produced another note and presented it to Holmes. ‘I received this two months ago.’

  Your playing reminds me of my own. Very proud today. Ignatius.

  He compared the two as a master forger might hold up two banknotes to the light.

  ‘Certainly there are similarities,’ he said. ‘If it was the same author, the longer note was clearly written in a mood of extreme agitation. There are inconsistencies in the letter formations. Did you ask the janitor any more questions?’

  ‘Mr Wimpole’s rent is paid some months in advance. The man was unwilling to disclose anything more.’

  Presumably you have alerted the police to this disappearance?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why ever not? This sort of abrupt farewell feels rather ominous don’t you think?’

  ‘I agree entirely,’ she said. ‘Then I received this.’

  You have been asking questions. Don’t. Our professional relationship is at an end. If you persist, or ask the police to track me down, I will not be responsible for the consequences. Ignatius.

  Holmes lay back in his chair.

  ‘A strangely contradictory tone. What do we know of the man? Does he have a wide circle of friends? Does he travel? Has he made enemies?’

  Miss Braithwaite was silent.

 
‘There is something more,’ she said. ‘At my last lesson, Ignatius asked me to marry him.’

  ‘Well,’ said Holmes, joining the fingers of each hand and raising them to his lips. ‘There is our answer.’ Miss Braithwaite remained silent.

  ‘How did he respond,’ my friend asked, ‘when you said no?’

  ‘Well that’s just it. I didn’t say no.’

  Holmes and I rose to our feet.

  ‘Then what’s the meaning of these notes?’ I spluttered.

  ‘If I knew that, doctor,’ she said blushing, ‘I wouldn’t be here!’

  Holmes had already retrieved his hat and was putting on his coat.

  ‘There’s a hansom on the other side of the road,’ said Holmes. ‘If we are quick we can catch it and be at Wimpole’s place in ten minutes.’

  We bundled out of the cab, but it was clear we had been pipped at the post. A burly, bearded constable was standing outside the property.

  Holmes peered at the man.

  ‘Constable Rance, if I’m not mistaken,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Holmes,’ he nodded.

  ‘You’ve moved to day duty, I see.’

  ‘It certainly appears that way, Mr Holmes,’ he muttered glancing up at the sky.

  ‘And I said that you would never rise in the force,’ countered Holmes. ‘How wrong I was. Would you be so good as to let us in?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Holmes. This case is under the supervision of Inspector Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard and the area is strictly off limits.’

  ‘Then would you be so good as to pass him this note?’

  Holmes pressed something into the constable’s hand.