Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  I was shaking as we passed through the kitchen and into the back yard. Once alone I turned to Holmes who was still entirely unruffled.

  ‘That’s higher than I thought,’ he said, still in character, rubbing his chin and peering up at the roof. ‘We’re going to have to watch our step, my friend.’ I stared at him.

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ I demanded.

  ‘Stop your carping, Huffam,’ he snapped, ‘or you won’t see no tin from this job. Not a farthing.’

  The yard was enclosed on all sides with grimy stone walls, each fifteen feet tall. Moss and lichen cluing to the damp brickwork and at far end was a pile of old chairs, broken tables and assorted cast offs. The only exit was a single padlocked gate.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ I said to Holmes. ‘There’s something amiss.’

  ‘Courage Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘We will footle about here for an hour or so then make our excuses and leave.’

  Together we raised an ancient looking ladder up against the wall of the house and made half hearted efforts to get our tools in order.

  ‘Personally,’ I said, inspecting the rotting wood, ‘I’m not keen to test the soundness of this ladder.’

  ‘Watson,’ said Holmes at length. ‘I am minded to admit that I may have made a mistake. In the future, whenever my plans grow too outlandish, you may remind me of this. Now what do you say to turning the ladder around, leaning it against the back wall and making our escape?’

  ‘A much better plan,’ I agreed.

  ‘And the soundness of the ladder?’

  ‘I am prepared to risk it!’

  ‘Excellent.’

  We lifted the ladder from the house and carried it over to the far end of the yard. I agreed to go first.

  ‘Quickly,’ urged Holmes. ‘I believe we have aroused some suspicion.’ I stood on the highest rung and saw that there was an identical yard and house on the other side of the wall. I glanced back at Holmes then shouted in alarm.

  ‘My dear Holmes! Behind you!’

  In the far corner, from behind a lean-to shed attached to the house I was aware of something in the shadows. It was a dark, slow moving object that emerged from the darkness.

  ‘Dear God,’ I shouted. ‘It’s a bear!’

  Holmes seized a heavy iron from the tool bag and set himself in a defensive position. Sure enough the animal lumbered forward, its head down, advancing on all fours. I could see its enormous head and loathsome claws.

  ‘Up the ladder, Holmes,’ I shouted. ‘There’s no time to be lost.’

  My friend made a leap for the ladder and staggered up a rung or two. However the shock was too great for the antique; there was a crack and I lurched to one side clawing at the top of the wall. The ladder gave way beneath me, despatching Holmes into the yard. I was left hanging from the wall. The bear continued its slow advance; Holmes ran to the gate and shook the lock, hammering it with his iron.

  ‘I can’t hang on!’ I shouted then dropped, landing heavily next to my friend. We stared in horror as the beast rose up on its hind legs.

  ‘Well, Watson,’ said Holmes gravely. ‘This may very well be goodbye.’

  Holmes seized a broken chair and held it, legs outwards as our last defence against the great beast.

  ‘Not a pistol between us,’ I sighed.

  ‘Fools!’ cried the bear.

  The head rose to reveal the snarling, bearded face of Snitterton. There was the wild look of the devil in his eyes and in any other situation, it would have been absurd.

  ‘You!’ I shouted. He levelled a shot gun at us.

  ‘Not a step closer or I’ll blow you both to kingdom come.’

  I raised my eyes to the three figures standing in the upstairs window. The impostors playing Mrs Hudson, Holmes and myself stood impassively at the window staring at us in the most unnerving fashion.

  ‘You were fools to come here,’Snitterton growled. ‘But I knew he could not resist.’ He nodded towards Holmes. You masquerade as a detective, a vigilante, an angel of justice, but that’s just a charade. Watson, I almost feel sorry for you. You are nothing but a meddler. But Holmes, you are the master of it all. Your simple friend here follows you like a lapdog. You hold yourself above the law; cooperating where it is convenient and where there is a chance to curry favour. Otherwise, you are a slave to your superhuman ego, your arrogance and your greed.’ He cocked the rifle. ‘Yes,’ he sneered. ‘Greed.’ I looked over at Holmes, who was as grim faced as I had ever seen him.

  ‘Doctor,’ he said, jabbing me with the end of the rifle. ‘Would it surprise you that Sherlock Holmes has known about my plan all along? The plan to reunite the eight elephants of Ranjit Singh?’ I narrowed my eyes.

  ‘If he was holding back, he had good reason,’ I said.

  ‘Never fear, Watson,’ said Holmes calmly.

  ‘Then he did not tell you what power you hold if you possess all eight? As you will soon both be dead there is nothing to be lost in telling you now. Our society, The House of the Ruby Elephant, was a front for eight common thieves. We had heard the legend of the Nizam Diamond: a stone of supreme size, 340 carats of pure starlight. Then by chance, we met a traveller at the Viceroy’s Palace who had spent time at the old fort at Golconda, home of the legendary diamond vault. The fort was long since ruined. But he spoke of a hidden chamber. Inside was a safe in the shape of an elephant, impregnable in every way. But it was a safe without a combination. Instead, there are the indentations of eight elephants. Only when all eight are in place will the door to the safe spring open. On his deathbed, Singh sent the ruby elephants to the four corners of the world. Our life’s work has been to bring them together.’

  It seemed hopeless. He had us caught like rabbits; but for now he was absorbed in his tale. ‘Chatburn was the first to find one; he bought it from a corrupt official at an exorbitant price. The man did not know the true worth of the ruby, but he could see Chatburn wanted it badly. For a time, this gave Chatburn some power among us. Then I heard of a famous dealer in Lahore who dealt only in the finest gemstones. I travelled to see him; brought him as much as could afford and promised him favour with the Viceroy. He resisted for a long time then finally gave way; he had a pair of ruby elephants. He did not know, or did not admit to knowing there were others. We bargained for two days over them. I left a poor man, but with two rubies in my pocket. The others searched; travelled all around India. Only two more were found. Peaceheart got lucky; he saw his in a bazaar; picked it up for the price of a chapatti. That left only Ignatius; the musician who stole one from a visiting prince.

  ‘From then on, there was nothing but bitterness and rancor. We fought; we despised those who had found none; they in their turn lived in resentment. For a while, I contented myself with my work: healing the great beasts of India; taming the tigers and elephants. Then I found one of my rubies had vanished. I accused Chatburn of stealing it from me by bribing a servant to take it from my rooms. In a rage, I faced down the servant with a lion I was treating; I only meant to scare him, but the animal was in a fever, broke loose and savaged the man. I left after this under a shadow; our quest for the ruby elephants incomplete.’

  ‘A colourful tale, Snitterton,’ I snarled, ‘but what is the meaning of these actors?’ I pointed up at the window.

  ‘Ah, Doctor Watson,’ he smiled. ‘This is a stroke worthy of Holmes himself. I have employed these impostors as an accessory to your own death. They will be seen fleeing from the property in open view. The police will find the bodies of two grubby, anonymous workmen in the back garden. Holmes you are well known enough to be recognised without any trouble, especially after your heroics with the elephant. You will be convicted of your own murder.’

  ‘Ingenious!’ congratulated Holmes. ‘Now perhaps you will allow me to put forward a theory about the elephant at the Zoological Gardens. Your t
arget was not the beast at all. It was the man riding on its back. He was an employee of the East India Company and was the only witness to your crime at the palace; he was blackmailing you. You devised a dart and impregnated it with a poison of your own devising. But your aim was not as good as your laboratory skills. You shot the elephant instead, driving it mad. It was enough poison to kill a man, but not a great beast such as Juno. Watson, you remember the wound on the elephant’s flank? That was no broken branch; it was the place where the arrow hit home.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Snitterton, ‘but alas no one else will get to hear your theory. Any final questions?’

  ‘The other ruby elephants,’ I asked. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Where are they indeed!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘For a long time I suspected Chatburn had them. I staged a truce with him; tried to take him into my confidence. But it seemed he had no others, at which point I realised he was of no further use. Then it occurred to me. Surely the Maharajah, also the owner of the infamous Koh-I-Noor, would not be so cruel as to deny his son the chance to acquire the Nizam diamond too. From that moment on, I knew it was the son who had them - the last Maharajah.’

  ‘And what of these Archangels? Are they in your power? Are they your agents?’

  ‘You ask too much doctor,’ he said, growing tired. ‘I have told all I care to.’

  ‘If you had any sense, you would turn yourself in,’ I reasoned. ‘You are possessed of a brilliant mind who could still offer some useful service to your country. The Crown may take your record into account and grant some leniency.’ He laughed at this suggestion.

  ‘Perhaps in your fairy tale world, doctor. Besides, think what I stand to lose. I am so close to my goal and unimaginable wealth. Which path would you take?’

  ‘I would choose the path that would allow me to live with my conscience and at peace with my soul.’

  ‘Then doctor,’ he said. ‘We are very different men.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Enough!’ he exclaimed. ‘It ends here!’

  ‘One last thing,’ said Holmes, raising a finger. ‘Would you allow us a last drink?’

  ‘A drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘We are civilised people after all. Perhaps a gin and an Indian Quinine Tonic?’

  As my friend uttered these words Snitterton dropped the rifle and his eyes glazed over.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said, then reached into thin air, wrapping his hand around an invisible glass.

  ‘Quick, Watson,’ shouted Holmes, grabbing my arm, ‘back through the house.’ He pushed me ahead and swiftly followed.

  We tore through the building while the three strange actors thundered down the stairs in pursuit. We burst through the front door while a shot rang out.

  Holmes and I stumbled into the street, tripping on the loose hems of our ill-fitting work trousers. Another bullet cracked over our heads.

  ‘Keep running!’ urged Holmes.

  We rounded a corner into a side street and straight into the arms of a waiting police constable.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he said, seizing us both by the collar. We both flew forward and were almost strangled by our own neckties. The constable was a giant of a fellow. Over six and half feet tall and almost as wide, he not so much resembled a policeman as a brick wall. I was still reeling from the impact with his torso.

  ‘Constable!’ I cried, ‘we are in mortal danger.’

  ‘You are now you’ve run into me.’

  ‘Constable,’ I persisted, ‘this is no business of yours.’

  ‘You’re finely spoken for a mumper; a lovely bit of jerry talk. A more likely pair of mutchers I have never seen.’

  ‘Constable Gibbons!’ said Holmes breaking into a smile.

  ‘Don’t get familiar with me...’ he warned.

  Holmes wiped some of the dirt from his face and removed his hat.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ cried the astonished constable. ‘Sherlock Holmes!’

  ‘The very same.’

  They greeted each other like old friends.

  ‘If there was any justice in this world,’ remarked Holmes, returning the dirty cap to his famous cranium, ‘you would be the head of Scotland Yard by now. In my view there are too many blunderers hiding behind their desks. The real police work happens out here on the streets where the scoundrels of the earth plough their wicked furrow.’

  ‘Please, Mr Holmes, that’s enough,’ the embarrassed constable returned, blushing. ‘Now how may I be of service? You and your friend seem to be in an awful hurry.’

  ‘As it happens,’ said Holmes. ‘The good doctor Watson here was perfectly correct. We are both about to be murdered.’

  ‘Murdered, you say!’ He glanced behind us. ‘Well these murderers of yours seem to have lost interest all of a sudden.’ Sure enough there was no sign of our pursuers.

  ‘They clearly saw you, Gibbons,’ laughed Holmes, ‘and thought better of it. Now as you can see, we have been working incognito and I believe we are on the verge of catching London’s most dangerous man. If you are quick, you will be the one who leads to the eventual arrest of Warwick Snitterton, the killer of Ignatius Wimpole and Wenceslas Chatburn.’ Gibbons’ eyes bulged.

  Holmes scribbled down the address and pressed it into the constable’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Summon Gregson and whoever else you need,’ instructed Holmes. ‘Arrest anyone you find in this house.’ The man nodded his assent.

  ‘Gibbons,’ cried Holmes. ‘Take great care, but this is your moment!’

  ‘You can rely on me, sir.’

  ‘One more thing,’ added Holmes. ‘I see you have remarried?’

  ‘How would you know that sir?’

  ‘The minute indentation on your ring finger, the extra polish of your shoes and the fact that you have begun to trim the hair of your nose and ears and eyebrows. You had rather begun to let yourself go following your return to bachelor life, is that not so?’

  ‘You could say that, sir, yes.’

  ‘Well I rather think a sergeant’s salary will come in rather useful to a newly married man, wouldn’t you agree constable?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, sir!’ he replied.

  ‘Well, so long Gibbons,’ said Holmes, ‘and good luck!’

  ‘Right you are, sir!’ he replied, then jogged off, transporting his portly frame in the opposite direction.

  ‘Now I don’t know about you, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘But I’m famished. What do you say to a plate of eels?’

  I looked up and sure enough we were standing outside the premises of A. Grimes, one of the new pie and mash shops that seemed to be springing up all over London. If truth be told, I cared neither for eels, nor for the queer establishments in which they were served, which, with their white tiles and mirrors, more closely resembled public conveniences than respectable restaurants. However, I had to confess that the strain on the nerves supplied by the day’s adventures had also given me a ravenous hunger.

  Moments later we were inside the shop, cradling huge mugs of tea while the eels were coaxed into their pastries and doused in their own juices.

  ‘Well, Holmes,’ I began, leaning back in my chair. I can’t wait a moment longer.’

  ‘Give them a chance!’ he said. ‘We’ve barely sat down.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Not the food, the tonic water!’

  ‘Ah,’ my friend smiled. ‘It had a marvellous effect did it not? I wondered myself if it would work, but I was not disappointed.’

  ‘But...how?’

  ‘You will remember Mr Nicholas Kibble, the charming head keeper at the Zoological Gardens? As we were leaving he muttered a little piece of advice in my ear. You will remember that he and Snitterton were once acquainted? Well, years ago
, they would regularly attend social functions together. On one particular evening, he mentioned that they had been treated to an after dinner entertainment by a hypnotist who asked for a volunteer. Being a young, plucky sort of fellow, Snitterton put himself forward and challenged the man to put him into a trance. But being a gifted practitioner of the art, the hypnotist swiftly took him into his power, using the words ‘Quinine Tonic Water’ as the trigger. It was a harmless trick that caused the subject to reach for an imaginary glass. Snitterton was furious to discover he had fallen so easily for the hypnotist’s ruse and stormed out of the room before the man could undo the work. It subsequently became widely known that you only had to mention these three words, and the man would be thrown, temporarily, into the same trance. Such was his fearsome reputation, few dared to try this for themselves.’

  ‘Astounding!’ I cried. ‘Your man Kibble saved our lives.’

  ‘Really such a silly thing,’ said Holmes glancing across at the counter, ‘but useful none the less. Now here comes our lunch and not a moment too soon.’

  THIRTEEN - The Admiral

  Holmes emerged from a long spell in the bath. The soak appeared to have done him good; he looked a good deal less jaded than I had seen him of late and the combination of a hearty supper of Mrs Hudson’s pease pudding and a good night’s sleep appeared to have restored his energies. He was clad in his dressing gown, cradling a drink of his own devising in one hand and holding an old pamphlet in the other.

  ‘Now, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘What do you make of this?’ He cast the publication in my direction, It was the programme from the Great Exhibition of 1851, slightly damp, presumably from Holmes having read it in the bath.

  ‘Something of a relic,’ I said. ‘It’s forty years old. It may even be worth something; or it would have been if it hadn’t just been steamed through.’