Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘I swear this is the right drum,’ said the driver, a small, leather faced man of fifty with a single eye, glancing with some difficulty either side of the building. ‘I’ve got it written down right here. 221b Baker Street. A right jemmy house it is too,’ he said, admiring our handsome lodgings.

  ‘Is there no name?’ I asked.

  ‘No name,’ confirmed Mrs Hudson, ‘just an address.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, looking at the large crate, I think we should accept it and take it upstairs.’

  ‘Would you be so good as to lend me a hand?’ I asked the driver. ‘Mrs Hudson will watch your cart.’

  We manhandled the wooden crate off the vehicle and up the stairs. It was not as heavy as I expected and it was soon in situ beside the rug in the sitting room under Holmes’ disapproving gaze. I tipped the man and my friend and I were left alone with the foreign object.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Holmes. ‘I have more enemies in London than a hanging judge. How do you know that thing is not stuffed with dynamite?’

  ‘I don’t,’ I mused, ‘but it made a curious sort of tinny noise as we hauled it up the stairs.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Holmes. ‘I think I will take a stroll while you prise it open.’ He selected a couple of papers, his golden snuff box and the Persian slipper that contained his tobacco. ‘I don’t wish to alarm you, Watson, but perhaps we ought to say our goodbyes in case we don’t get another chance.’ I looked at my friend for a sign that he was pulling my leg, but did not detect any irony.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, extending a hand. ‘But I think you’re being absurd, Holmes.’

  ‘It has been a distinct pleasure,’ said Holmes, receiving my hand and giving it a brisk, firm shake. ‘I shall see you on the other side.’

  He disappeared through the door without so much as a backwards glance and presently I could hear him and Mrs Hudson on the street outside in conversation about the weather.

  Using an iron rod I had found beneath the sink, I took a deep breath, shut my eyes then pulled up the first plank from the packing case. I was still alive. I worked at another and then another until I had a clear view into the container. It appeared to be some sort of mechanical contraption in several parts, the most distinctive being a brass trumpet shaped device. I laughed out loud.

  ‘A phonograph!’ I shouted.

  I ran to the window.

  ‘A phonograph, Holmes!’ I called. ‘Come on up and take a look.’

  It took some time to assemble the components. Holmes watched with interest, susceptible as he was to new inventions, and keenly awaited the finished article.

  ‘I think that will do it,’ I said, tightening the last bolt.

  ‘A wonder of the age,’marveled Holmes. ‘Now let us see what it has to say.’ He stepped forward as if he was used to operating such a thing every day. He released a catch, fiddled with a button and began to slowly turn the handle.

  ‘Greetings Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ a thin, distant voice began. I started at the sound. ‘Greetings to you too, Dr Watson.’

  ‘Wizardry!’ I cried.

  ‘My name is Duleep Singh, the rightful owner of the Koh-I-Noor.’ Holmes and I exchanged a glance. The recording was rudimentary, but the voice was that of a middle aged Indian, one known to us as the last Maharajah of the Punjab, now a country gentleman who ruled a more modest kingdom on the Norfolk/Suffolk border. He was famous for his love of shooting, dinner parties and French wine.

  ‘The diamond known as the Koh-I-Noor was taken by your countrymen from my father when the Punjab became part of your great empire. For many years, as you may know, I have been a friend of the British and a guest of your great Queen. I have no argument with your country. In many ways I am now more British than the British. I have worn your clothes, eaten your food and shot your game. But as I grow old, I feel the call of my home and my religion. I long to gaze into the hills at Shivalik, watch the sun set on the Sukhna Lake and kneel at the temple of Chanti. But most of all, now I know I must right a final wrong. Mr Holmes, I seek the return of the diamond that belonged to my father the Maharajah, Ranjit Singh. It must return with me to the Punjab where the natural order of things can be restored and the stone returned to its people. As a loyal subject Mr Holmes, I do not expect you to help me in this enterprise. I would forgive you if you were to report me immediately to your government.

  ‘But I appeal to you now, as one noble man to another, to help me in this matter. I have received word that others are pursuing the diamond and that the Queen herself may be in danger. I have heard from my friends that there is a man hell bent on obtaining the diamond for himself and who will stop at nothing until he holds it in his hands. His name is Warwick Snitterton and there is no more fearsome man alive in all of England.

  ‘Mr Holmes, do what you can to stop him. Find him before he finds the diamond. The police will not help solve a crime that has not yet been committed. To help you, I have placed an object on the roof of St John’s Lodge, in Regent’s Park that I believe will be useful in your efforts. You are a man of immense powers. I place this matter into your hands and now only providence knows our destiny.’

  There was the sound of static and hiss and it was clear that the contraption was still running. ‘How do you stop it?’ we heard Singh ask. ‘The lever, there,’ a voice returned. ‘Yes,’ Singh replied, ‘yes, of course.’ There was a click and the recording ceased.

  ‘Marvelous,’ cried Holmes, ‘quite marvelous!’

  ‘Enough about the machine,’ I said, rising to my feet, ‘what does this mean for our case?’

  ‘The case has developed a pleasing level of complication,’ my friend returned.

  ‘Then Chatburn was right about Snitterton? He is a monster, intent on obtaining these Indian diamonds. He must be stopped Holmes!’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Holmes. ‘But in any case, the Maharajah has announced himself as another interested party and provided a name with which we are familiar. He has also provided a tantalizing clue.’

  ‘My brain has begun to ache with all this,’ I confessed.

  ‘Then let us seek some refreshment in Regent’s Park, my dear Watson, and retrieve this clue. It may yet provide the key to it all. And if we fail to find anything they serve splendid lemonade by the boat house which will provide ample compensation.’

  ‘There is a small question,’ I put in, as Holmes and I walked briskly towards the park in the brilliant morning sunshine. ‘The Maharajah mentioned that his clue was on the roof of St John’s Lodge.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ my friend replied. ‘I heard the very same thing.’ We stepped through Clarence Gate and made our way across the bridge.

  ‘Is the house not occupied by the marquis of something or other?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ agreed Holmes.

  ‘And do you not think he would object to the pair of us clambering about on his roof?’

  ‘Again, quite possibly!’ Holmes repeated. We walked a few steps in silence and I wondered for a moment at the banality of my existence had I never met this exasperating and extraordinary man. We took a detour north, missing the house entirely.

  ‘I have the makings of a plan,’ said Holmes, ‘but it will require a degree of audacity. Would you prefer to sit this one out, Watson?’

  ‘Never!’ I declared.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Holmes, ‘then follow me.’

  We advanced on the park keeper’s lodging at the edge of the Zoological Gardens and Holmes rapped smartly on the door with the end of his cane. A tall, gangly looking man answered the door, initially with a rather severe looking expression, the reason for which was obvious. He was holding in his hands the apparatus with which to make tea and we had plainly interrupted his tea break. It was possible that he was approaching fifty and his hair was receding, but his eyes
were as wide and optimistic as those of a boy. His eyebrows leapt at the sight of Holmes.

  ‘So close a neighbour and so rare a visit!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘The fault is all mine,’ said Holmes bowing low.

  ‘I haven’t yet had a chance to thank you in person for your assistance over the little embarrassment of our runaway elephant. You will be pleased to know we have had words with Her Hugeness and she has given me her word not to repeat the stunt.’

  ‘Watson, may I present one of the great men of London: Mr Nicholas Kibble, the Head Keeper at London Zoo.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ I replied removing my hat. ‘However do you keep them all from devouring each other?’ I asked, rather foolishly.

  ‘With iron bars and regular meals,’ he replied smartly. ‘Now what can I do for you gentlemen?’

  ‘May we come in?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Kibble. ‘Please excuse the mess.’

  His office was compact and colourful. One wall was lined entirely with shelves laden with books on every conceivable topic relating to the beasts in his charge. Against another were the skulls of some of his former tenants, each accompanied by an affectionate nickname. A pair of skulls that conceivably could have once belonged to a pair of lions or tigers were endearingly labelled: ‘Samson and Delilah.’ His desk was a mountain of paperwork and as a measure of the international nature of his correspondence, there were envelopes with postmarks from around the world. Kibble continued with his tea-making chores and fetched two extra cups and saucers from a small cupboard.

  ‘Now,’ said Holmes, sparking his pipe into life, ‘you will remember The Adventure of the Empty Giraffe House?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ said Kibble. ‘Your help was invaluable in that most delicate of cases.’

  ‘It is another, alas, that Watson has not yet written up for posterity,’ bemoaned Holmes, a little unfairly. ‘However, due to its singular nature, I cannot blame him, for it would defy credulity.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the keeper. ‘For a giraffe to disappear and reappear again in the same place after three days is the work of a stage magician not a criminal. You have never fully explained it to me to this day.’

  ‘Well,’ said Holmes. ‘Perhaps I will provide a fuller account on another occasion, but the point is this. In the matter of Juno, I suspect foul play.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Kibble replied, bring his tea cup clattering to the table. ‘My man in the elephant house is one of the best we have. He is still overcome with guilt over the matter but his honour is beyond question. It was a freak of the elephant’s own nature.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ replied Holmes, calmly. ‘It is my belief that a toxin was administered to the elephant which caused a momentary bout of madness.’

  ‘Who would have access to such a medicine?’

  ‘A man used to dealing with wild beasts; an expert in his field. We have such a man under our watch.’

  ‘Who is this man?’ demanded Kibble, feeling a creeping insinuation.

  ‘His name is Snitterton,’ replied Holmes.

  ‘Snitterton?’ he shouted. ‘Warwick Snitterton? If it is the same fellow, I knew him as a young man. A more talented veterinarian I have yet to meet. He had a sixth sense for an animal’s ailment and a Midas touch when it came to administering the remedy. He saved Princess, our snow leopard and Sinbad, our white tiger when I had told him to leave them in peace.’

  ‘Can you think of any grudge he may have held towards you?’

  ‘None,’ replied Kibble. ‘He was a fine man. A little arrogant perhaps, and one who did not suffer fools gladly, but no more so than any man keen to make his way in the world. Tomfoolery such as this would not be in his nature.’

  ‘He has returned from India and is at large in London. However, we believe he is close at hand and it is our desire to question him over the matter.’

  ‘I still refuse to entertain the idea,’ said Kibble sipping at his tea, ‘but I acknowledge at least that he would be capable of administering such a dose. But the question remains, how can I help you?’

  ‘We simply require two park keepers’ uniforms,’ my friend explained, ‘one in my size, the other to fit Dr Watson.’

  ‘An odd request,’ said Kibble, dabbing tea from his lips, ‘but if you believe it will help that is easy enough to arrange.’

  ‘And one more thing,’ asked Holmes. ‘What is the name of your rarest bird?’

  Ten minutes later Holmes and I were outside the grand front entrance of St John’s Lodge dressed in matching blazers and bowlers. Holmes was clutching a butterfly net while I was holding a pail and hooked stick. My friend had rung the bell and we waited rather anxiously for a response.

  ‘Play a straight bat, Watson,’ my friend advised.

  A tall venerable fellow, clearly the butler, answered the door. His hair was a thick white as if his head had been dipped in cream. In contrast, his cheeks were a livid raspberry, giving the overall impression of a flavoursome iced dessert. He appeared to have difficulty making us out, squinting into the midday sun.

  ‘Yes?’ he drawled.

  ‘We are from the Zoological Gardens,’ explained Holmes. ‘A Ruby-Throated Hummingbird has escaped from the aviary and has been spotted on the roof on the Lodge. I appreciate it’s an awful imposition, but would you mind if we go up and retrieve it?’

  ‘A ruby...what?’ the butler began.

  ‘A Ruby-Throated Hummingbird,’ my friend repeated taking a step forward into the hall.

  A more magnificent porch could not be imagined outside royal circles. Large oil paintings adorned the walls; magnificent tiles were laid underfoot and gold dripped from every fitting.

  ‘Is it this way?’ Holmes asked, taking the first of the wide luxuriantly carpeted stairs without waiting for an answer. ‘My name is Mr Stanley. I don’t think we’ll be more than ten minutes. Once these things come down to roost, they don’t fly off again for hours. We’re not expecting any fun and games are we Livingstone?’

  ‘None at all,’ I confirmed and followed Holmes up to the first floor.

  ‘Do mind the vase at the top of the stairs!’ the butler called, his mind, slowly engaging.

  ‘We shall!’ my friend yelled back.

  We climbed flight after flight. It seemed impossible that we had not yet reached the roof. As we passed a miniature version of Michelangelo’s David, however, Holmes pointed out a small door which we found unlocked. It led outside to a narrow set of winding iron steps.

  ‘This way, Watson!’ he called.

  We clambered out onto the roof.

  ‘Have you fathomed,’ I panted as I followed him up the staircase, ‘how the Maharajah managed to plant the item on the roof in the first place?’

  ‘Of course, Watson. He is a man who moves in the most fashionable circles. It would be easy enough for him to slip away during a little soiree for a little night air.’

  ‘Holmes,’ I said, catching his arm. ‘Wait.’ My friend paused mid step. ‘Is it not possible that this is a trap?’ There was a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Anything is possible until it is proved otherwise, Watson. But I have taken what precautions I can.’ This failed to reassure me.

  The roof was divided into a number of rectangular spaces, each with raised ironwork at the centre and handsome white balustrades at the front and sides. A small ornamental tower rose from the rear of the lodge.

  ‘What are we looking for, exactly?’ I asked, scanning the rooftop.

  ‘For anything and everything,’ said Holmes.

  We split up and methodically searched the roof for anything out of the ordinary. I found a pair of empty wine glasses left behind after some midnight tryst and a gentleman’s comb. Neither of these things struck me as items of any importance. Holmes himself ca
me back empty handed.

  ‘Think Watson,’ urged Holmes. ‘What are we really looking for?’

  ‘Over here,’ I cried. Tucked inside a small alcove was a small, black tin box.

  ‘Bravo, Watson!’ cried Holmes.

  Holmes knelt down and examined the tin, which I identified immediately as an ammunition case, routinely used by the British in Afghanistan.

  ‘Well, well,’ my friend began, ‘what will we find inside Pandora’s Box?’ A pair of gulls swooped over our head in the direction of the Zoological Gardens.

  ‘You may never find out, Mr Stanley. Get to your feet.’

  We rose slowly to find the butler standing at the top of the stairs, holding a pistol.

  ‘No luck!’ called Holmes. ‘It must have flown off before we got here. There’ll be hell to pay when we report this.’

  ‘Do you take me for an imbecile?’

  ‘Certainly not, sir,’ said Holmes. ‘You are the Marquis of Bute.’

  ‘I have long since been in the habit of opening my own front door,’ he said. ‘Too many fraudsters have slipped past my dim-witted butler and made off with the family silver. I wanted to catch you red handed. But what the devil do you hope to find on the roof?’

  ‘A magnificent, exotic bird, of course,’ replied Holmes. ‘You can vouch for our credentials with Mr Kibble, the head keeper himself.’

  ‘A likely story. What have you got there?’

  ‘Nothing but an empty tin. A cigar box perhaps?’

  ‘It seems half of London has been up on this roof in the last week. Only yesterday a government inspector came around to check the leading. His paperwork appeared to be in order but I followed him up all the same. I frisked him as he left to check he wasn’t hiding my heirlooms down a trouser leg.’

  ‘A sensible precaution,’ said Holmes.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to take the same precaution with you and your colleague.’

  ‘Please go ahead,’ my friend said cheerfully.

  ‘But first, the box,’ said the marquis. ‘Hand it over.’