Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘No one in London is safe while these men are at large,’ Holmes reflected, looking in the direction of their flight. ‘But for now, it’s brandy all round. Tonight, gentlemen, you are the toast of London.’

  NINE - The Concert

  Holmes was in his element. From our comfortable box in the second tier of the Royal Albert Hall we watched the evening crowds find their way to their seats, their programmes fluttering like the wings of a thousand butterflies. My friend clutched his own programme as if it were the title deeds to Buckingham Palace.

  ‘Now Watson,’ he gushed. ‘You know my opinion of this piece, Mozart’s Violin Concerto No 5 in A. Not as bombastic as his symphonies, more understated than his horn concertos, it is a sublime delight of infinite subtlety.’ I dipped another stick of rhubarb into my pot of sugar.

  ‘I’m sorry, Holmes,’ I garbled. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Really,’ said Holmes, lighting a cigar, a trail of smooth white smoke unfolding from his lips. ‘It is so terribly uncouth.’

  My friend of course had a fetishist’s interest in the violin and would no doubt have been here on any account. However, there was another reason to explain our attendance. It was the first performance by our new friend, Miss Penelope Braithwaite since the mysterious demise of her teacher. We both thought it prudent to attend, but had decided not to announce it, since her nerves were still somewhat frayed. We were therefore to a greater or less extent, incognito. Through my opera glasses I could see Penelope clearly below us in a blue chiffon dress, fidgeting in her seat, flicking the pages of her music backwards and forwards. The conductor, a rotund, genial looking man with an enormous set of grey whiskers, appeared to tumultuous applause. He smiled and pressed his palms together in appreciation.

  ‘A genius,’ declared Holmes, applauding as loudly as anyone. A hush soon fell upon the room and the fine strains of the opening bars drifted high into the rafters.

  I found the piece pleasant enough, although lacking the drama of Mozart’s other compositions, and I soon found myself feeling rather sleepy. My friend, on the other hand, was in a rapture. His eyes were closed, his long chin raised and he appeared to be conducting the music himself, holding a tiny, invisible baton between the thumb and first finger of his left hand.

  To pass the time, I scanned the men and women in their rows of seats, peered up at faces in the circle and the gallery, wondering if I was alone in allowing my thoughts to drift. I believed I could spot two or three of my patients: an ageing colonel with a rather severe case of gout. I was impressed he felt able to attend at all. Then there was a station master whose frozen shoulder had dogged him for years to the point he was often unable to raise his whistle to his lips. It was only then that I saw Snitterton in the stalls directly below us. His dark, fulsome whiskers masked much of his face, but the fine high brow and indomitable manner were unmistakable. I glanced across at Holmes but felt that it unfair to disturb his reverie.

  ‘Watson!’

  I woke with a start.

  ‘Don’t tell me that you nodded off?’ sighed Holmes.

  ‘Well,’ I began, somewhat blearily. The concert appeared to be over and people were beginning to leave their seats. ‘I noticed you had your eyes closed.’

  ‘In appreciation!’ he said.

  ‘Well I was doing the same,’ I countered. Holmes did not look convinced.

  ‘So,’ I said, a little more chipper now I knew I was safely on the other side of the interminable piece, ‘shall we head back to Baker Street for a nightcap?’

  ‘A nightcap?’ smiled Holmes. ‘My dear fellow, that was only the end of the first part of the programme. We have so much more to look forward to.’ My spirits sagged. ‘But at least let me buy you a glass of champagne to tide you over. You may even find you enjoy yourself. “The man that hath no music in himself is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.”’ Holmes’ wisdom from the Bard was becoming something of an irritant.

  We made our way through the crowds to the bar, Holmes nodding occasionally to former clients or contacts in his professional circles. For a man with few friends, he was acquainted with a surprisingly large and diverse group of individuals, from archdukes to greengrocers. Suddenly we heard a familiar voice:

  ‘Sherlock Holmes!’

  We turned to find Inspector Lestrade behind us, his keen, dark, eyes fixed upon my friend.

  ‘Inspector!’ smiled Holmes. ‘What a delightful surprise. I never had you down as a music lover.’

  ‘And you are quite right,’ Lestrade admitted. ‘This is not my cup of tea at all.’

  ‘Then alas, both you and Watson are passing an equally disagreeable evening.’I raised my eyebrows in solidarity. ‘But if music has not brought you here,’ Holmes went on, his eyes quickening with interest, ‘then you must be here on some official business.’ He glanced around him. ‘I see you have some agents with you. Ten if I am not mistaken.’ Lestrade looked astonished, then suspicious. ‘How could you possibly know?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, I see three around me now,’ pointing out three entirely innocuous looking gentlemen milling around near the bar. Five would be too few for such an important visit and as a man with a sense of neatness and order, you would not have picked an odd number. Ten would be the number you would choose. Am I right?’

  ‘What visit?’ I garbled, ‘Did I miss something.’

  Holmes raised a glass towards Lestrade.

  ‘How is Her Majesty enjoying the concert?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ pleaded Lestrade, glancing to his left and right. ‘Do you want the whole of London to know?’ Holmes flashed a congenial smile.

  ‘Confound it, Holmes,’ Lestrade added, shaking his head at the great detective, ‘is there no secret safe from you? You have a devilish way of tickling out the truth.’

  We made our way to a side gallery and Lestrade explained the detail. The Queen was on a low key visit, having developed a taste for Mozart and his violin concertos in particular. However, she was also exhausted by recent commitments, especially her Golden Jubilee celebrations, and felt an ostentatious entrance and exit would prolong the evening unnecessarily and simultaneously shorten the musical programme. She was, however, Lestrade explained, showing signs of restlessness and, he felt sure, would appreciate the diversion of a meeting with one of London’s brightest minds.

  We were ushered through a pair of plush, green, velvet curtains. Behind these were two footmen standing rigidly still and staring straight ahead. Lestrade stepped forward and opened a door to a second room. I followed him and Holmes through, adjusting my necktie nervously and brushing sugar from the collar.

  In the corner of the room was a stout, grey haired woman sitting with a pile of knitting in her lap. At first I took her for a lady in waiting before catching that imperious, unmistakable look. I became quite rooted to the spot. Remembering our manners we gave a low neck bow.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, putting her needles to one side. ‘Please take a seat. Have you had some refreshment?’ Lestrade gave a little cough.

  ‘Yes Ma’am,’ he stuttered. ‘Thank you for asking. You remember Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Remember?’ she cried. ‘Mr Holmes, the Empire owes you a debt of honour a hundred times over. How could we forget your innumerable services to the Crown?’Holmes nodded demurely and stepped into the light.

  ‘I see that you are wearing my favourite colour in your tie pin,’ she noted. ‘It is as if you knew I would be here.’

  Holmes smiled his inscrutable smile.

  ‘How are you enjoying the programme, Ma’am?’

  ‘Exceptional,’ she pronounced. ‘We particularly enjoyed the lead violinist. A Miss Braithwaite I believe?’

  ‘Yes,’ I put in, ‘she is very fine.’

  The Queen peered at me in a most disconcerting
way. Clearly some protocol had been breached.

  ‘Yes, a talent to watch,’ she agreed at some length. ‘Are you fond of this concerto, Dr Watson?

  My eyes were drawn to a startling brooch the Queen was wearing. The diamond was simply enormous, a rounded, glistening gem that transfixed me with its glare.

  ‘Dr Watson,’ prompted Holmes. ‘Her Majesty has asked you a question.’

  ‘Yes,’ I cried, without thinking. ‘It is nothing short of magnificent!’

  ‘I see you have taken a shine to my brooch, doctor,’ she said, following my gaze. ‘Well I cannot blame you. For a thousand years it has driven men mad with rage, women wild with jealously, started wars and brought down Empires.’

  ‘A noble stone, Ma’am,’ said Holmes. ‘Is it not the Koh-I-Noor itself?’

  ‘I see you have an eye for such things, Mr Holmes’

  ‘Is it such a feat to identify the most famous jewel in the world? But I have not seen it for many years,’ confessed Holmes. ‘I understand your late husband commissioned some vital work to enhance its qualities.’

  ‘He succeeded spectacularly,’ I glowed.

  ‘Dr Watson, I am beginning to like you,’ said the Queen. I was quite speechless. ‘Are you blushing, doctor?’ she asked.

  She rang a small bell and a man appeared from behind another curtain. He was a handsome Indian, with a fine black beard, a head dress of white and gold cloth, red vest and elegant robes.

  ‘Gentleman,’ she said. ‘May I present one of the wisest, most gracious men in London: Karim, the Munshi.’

  Again, we bowed low. I had heard something of this man, an attendant who had won the favour of the monarch; they had become almost inseparable. There were whispers in court that he was a charlatan and a thief but nothing would stick. The Queen held him in an esteem she had reserved only for the Scotsman, John Brown and of course Prince Albert himself.

  ‘Dr Watson,’ she asked calmly, would you like to hold the Koh-I-Noor?’ Then she turned to her friend. ‘Karim, would you be so good as to remove it from my person?’ I glanced at Holmes, who raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise, Ma’am?’ asked Lestrade to my irritation.

  ‘Is the doctor a known diamond thief?’ she asked.

  The Indian stepped forward, his eyes on the Queen.

  ‘Of course,’ he said softly, in accented English. He struck me as a noble man, with graceful, deliberate actions. He stepped forward and gently unpinned the brooch from her dress without ceremony or a moment’s hesitation. I noticed a brief smile pass between them.

  ‘What can you tell us about this stone?’ she asked him.

  ‘It is a stone of wonder and enormous power,’ he whispered. ‘It was cut from the Kollur mine of Andhra Pradesh and was once said to be the eye of a goddess. The other eye is lost to time. It has passed through the hands of many great men and women. It brought great glory and great misfortune. It was once known as the Diamond of Babur, the prize of Akbar and Lodi. It was once in the Peacock Throne of the immortal Shah Jahan, he who built the Taj Mahal.’ I listened, enraptured by the Munshi’s knowledge, as I felt him place the stone into my hands. Its weight was stupendous; a heat seemed to radiate from within and my heart leapt as if a current of electricity had passed through me.

  ‘You hold in your hands the history of India,’ said the Queen.

  ‘May I?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘But of course,’ she said. ‘How could we deny you the thrill too, Mr Holmes?’

  He produced a pair of gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. I passed the stone gingerly to him, as if handing over an unstable compound. In an instant, my friend whipped it up to the light.

  ‘A purity beyond measure!’ he marvelled as the light burst through its core and exploded. We were for a moment blinded by its brilliance.

  The five minute bell sounded.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Lestrade. ‘We cannot detain you any longer.’

  ‘Really,’ she said. ‘I feel altogether too tired to return to the concert. Really, I am such a Philistine. You will not think ill of me if I were to return home, would you Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Your Majesty has the same freedom as any citizen of England to come and go as she pleases.’

  ‘This,’ he said, handing back the brooch to the Indian, ‘is a privilege that we will never forget.’ He bowed once again. ‘As-Salamu Alaykom,’ he said, the meaning known only to them.

  ‘Inspector,’ added the Queen, a little more severely. ‘If you learned Mr Holmes’ impeccable manners, I cannot help but feel you would go further.’

  Holmes and I hurried back along the gallery towards our box.

  ‘Astonishing,’ I said shaking my head. ‘I had no idea you and the Queen were on such familiar terms.’

  ‘A women of extraordinary substance,’ said Holmes. For a man who did not compliment the fairer sex as a matter of personal policy, this was an incredible statement.

  ‘And what of the diamond?’ I asked.

  ‘What of it?’ asked Holmes. ‘I think it is the most perfectly useless lump of rock I have ever encountered. The dullest mind holds infinitely more fascination for me. Its capacity for cunning, deception, evil and skulduggery has no limits. Its ingenuity increases with its desires and its workings are our most fathomless mystery. A diamond on the other hand, is merely a lump of prehistoric vegetation crushed into existence in the deepest kilns of the Earth. Its value is a construct of the human mind.’

  ‘Bit of a sparkler, all the same, don’t you think Holmes?’

  ‘Smoke and mirrors,’ scoffed Holmes. ‘Albert almost destroyed the stone trying to make it shine. He may as well have tried to polish the sun.’

  ‘Did you know that she would be here this evening?’

  ‘I have a friend inside the palace,’ Holmes admitted, ‘who overheard a chance remark suggesting as much.’

  ‘And you never thought to tell me?’

  ‘You never asked, my dear Watson.’

  The orchestra had barely struck up when I noticed the empty seat below me.

  ‘Snitterton,’ I cried. ‘Do you see? He hasn’t returned.’

  Holmes frowned and peered into the empty seat as if the very act of staring would make him materialise.

  ‘Most disconcerting,’ he said. ‘The reason I chose this box was to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘You knew he would be here?’

  ‘Naturally,’ he said.

  ‘Enough!’ I whispered. ‘I am utterly in the dark. I insist on some clue!’

  ‘There is no time,’ said Holmes. ‘Mozart will need to wait for another day.’

  He rose from his seat, tore his coat from the stand and made for the door.

  Holmes and I dashed through the foyer and out into the balmy evening, tailcoats flapping, pursued by an agitated looking Lestrade.

  ‘The diamond!’ panted Lestrade. ‘Someone has stolen the diamond!’

  We skidded to a halt.

  ‘You don’t mean to say...’ I began.

  ‘The particulars, quickly, Lestrade,’ demanded Holmes.

  ‘The Queen was returning to her seat. As we turned into the corridor a man with a shrouded face ripped the diamond from her dress. We gave chase but he was too far ahead of us. We have half the force out with his description.’

  ‘This is grave, very grave’ muttered Holmes. ‘It will be the talk of London.’

  Lestrade shook his head. ‘This cannot get out,’ he said. ‘We will be a laughing stock. Her Majesty is beside herself.’

  ‘You must examine the scene, Holmes,’ begged Lestrade.

  ‘We have our own urgent business,’ said Holmes. ‘A man we have been pursuing in an entirely different matter has been sighted.’

  ‘It must wait!’ said
Lestrade.

  ‘Very well,’ said Holmes. ‘Watson, you go on ahead. Speak to that driver in the blue coat. I shall meet you back at Baker Street. Here, take my opera glasses.’ He stuffed the black leather case into my hands then disappeared back inside with Lestrade.

  ‘You there,’ I called to the driver of a hansom who was feeding his horse.

  ‘Did you see a growler leave in a great hurry?’

  ‘And what if I did?’

  ‘Well did you?’ I asked. He continued to tend to the animal.

  ‘There’s half a crown in it if you did,’ I coaxed.

  ‘In which I case, I did,’ he concluded, patting the neck of the glossy mare tethered to his cab. I frowned.

  ‘Did you really?’

  ‘Really what?’

  ‘See a carriage leave in a great hurry!’He was becoming exasperating.

  ‘’Ere what are you, some sort of jack? A crusher in mufty? I ‘ain’t no buck cabbie you know. I saw a carriage leave in a hurry, or my name ‘aint’t Matthew Porter.’

  ‘Do you happen to know what direction it left in?’ He narrowed his eyes at me until I had pressed the coin into his hand.

  ‘That way, I reckon,’ he said, cocking his head towards Knightsbridge. ‘And that ‘aint no flam.’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ I cried. ‘You have yourself a fare. Catch him and there’s another crown in it for you.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, hopping up to his seat, ‘so long as you’ve got the chink, I’ll follow the devil through the gates of hell.’

  We took Kensington Road at a clip, the Royal Geographical Society flying past on our right, the Serpentine on our left until we arrived at Hyde Park Corner. I leaned my head out of the hansom and called to the driver.

  ‘Any idea which way?’ I shouted.

  ‘If I know old Hasker,’ Porter replied, ‘he’ll go straight up Piccadilly.’

  We clattered on, speeding past lumbering broughams and omnibuses until finally in the distance I could see another hansom travelling almost as fast as ours.

  ‘There he is!’ shouted my driver in triumph.