Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  As we drew closer we could make out a figure standing in the portico. He was extending his arms in welcome, a glass orb of yellow light above his head, giving him a saint-like aspect in the early evening dusk. It was immediately apparent that we were being met by the Maharajah himself. ‘There he is,’ William exclaimed in his barely comprehensible way, ‘standing right there on the throshel!’

  He was a handsome man of fifty, of medium height and portly build from plenty of good living. He stood straight and proud, making full use of his five and a half feet. His skin was dark and lustrous and his eyes shone with an intelligence tempered with a distant sadness. He carried himself with the nobility of his bloodline: the generations of Indian kings who came before him. His clothes were those of a conventional English aristocrat: a velvet jacket with a fine gold braid, a waistcoat, pocket watch, shirt and tie. Like my friend Holmes, he sported a deerstalker, suggesting a fondness for the outdoor life. It seemed curiously regalia for the last King of India.

  ‘My friends, my friends!’ the Maharajah exclaimed as we ascended the steps. ‘I am perfectly honoured by your visit.’ He shook us both warmly by the hand.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes. ‘It is we who are humbled by your invitation.’

  ‘Forgive the paucity of the welcome,’ said Singh, waving a hand dismissively towards the stupendous house and grounds. ‘Four years have seen the place slide almost into ruin. There was a time when fifty staff would assemble for a visit such as this. When the Prince of Wales would visit on a shooting tip, they would line the drive from the gate to the door. Now there are but a handful of us.’ He clapped his hands and four men sprang from inside the door. They collected every piece of our luggage and disappeared back into the house. The Maharajah gave the driver a steely look. ‘That will be all, William,’ he snapped. The man, who had clearly been lingering for a tip, barely hid a scowl.

  ‘Now, come inside, gentlemen. There is fresh tea in the pot and much to discuss.’

  Walking through the door was like stepping from one continent into another. We were led into the main hall where huge arches towered over us, each decorated with smaller arches in the Indian style. The balconies were supported by stone pillars, each painted white and topped with an intricately carved stone block, as if lifted from a temple in the Punjab. Enormous patterned rugs carpeted the floor. Back copies of The Wildfowlers’ Shooting Times and The Amateur Photographer lay scattered on the tabletops. Two servants arrived carrying a giant silver dish between them. On this was a silver tea pot whose contents would have quenched the thirst of twenty men.

  ‘Your journey was without incident?’ our host enquired politely.

  ‘Entirely,’ said Holmes.

  ‘A blessing,’ said the Maharajah. ‘Motion and long-during action tires the sinewy vigour of the traveller.’

  ‘Love’s Labours Lost!’ identified Holmes. ‘You are a scholar as well as a sportsman. But sir, it is you who has travelled most these last years? You are barely a week back from Paris, I note?’

  ‘William told you I expect.’

  ‘He revealed when you arrived, but the country is obvious from your cologne: a scent only obtainable from a perfumier on La Rue de la Saint Croix, unless I am very much mistaken?’

  The Maharajah shook his head and laughed.

  ‘I have heard stories of your powers but it is something wonderful to witness them at first hand.’ He clapped his hands again and the tea was poured with great ceremony.

  ‘And now to business,’ he said. ‘You have brought the ruby elephant?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Holmes, reaching into his pocket.

  ‘Keep it,’ said the Maharajah holding up his hands. ‘Keep it for now. All will be revealed.’

  ‘Do you have the others?’ I blundered.

  ‘All in good time, doctor!’ I sipped my tea, an astonishing concoction, both delicious and revitalising.

  ‘The leaves are picked from a small valley near my home town,’ he said, noting my appreciation. ‘It is a like a vale of heaven.’ He sighed and returned his tea cup to its saucer. ‘You will know gentlemen, something of my history. I cannot pretend I have been misused. Your government and especially your Queen have given me everything I have asked for; everything except my freedom. For decades I have played at your expense. I have grown to love your fields and moors; your hills and lakes. I have dined with lords and sported with princes. But now, I only wish to return to my home. Of course, I understand why they cannot allow this. They know it would spark a revolution, a mutiny; a call for India to once more belong to its people. But all the same, this cannot stop me wishing it were so. At night I dream of the five rivers of my homeland. I see the Chenab slide past me like a stream of silver bringing the melted snows from the mountains.’

  ‘How may we assist, you?’ asked Holmes plainly.

  ‘Gentlemen, I do not expect you to defy your Queen and be an accessory to my escape. But perhaps you can thwart the plot to steal the Nizam Diamond. You have met this man Snitterton and know him to be a monster. If I can help you apprehend him, then perhaps, just perhaps, Her Majesty will relent and allow me to return home.’

  ‘But what of the Koh-I-Noor?’ I asked.

  ‘I will propose an exchange,’ said the Maharajah. ‘I believe the Nizam to be of greater value than the Koh-I-Noor. I believe that it will be in the interests of your country to accept the arrangement.’ Holmes and I exchanged a look.

  ‘The Queen is very attached to the stone,’ cautioned Holmes.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ he said with a little impatience. ‘But first, there is a matter of some pressing importance.’ He clicked his fingers and two assistants appeared, ferrying a large item obscured by a rich purple cloth, decorated with gold braid. ‘Over time I have cultivated certain interests,’ he explained. He rose to his feet and approached the object. ‘Would you do me the very great honour,’ he asked, whipping away the cloth ‘of allowing me to take your photograph?’ A large, mahogany, tailboard box camera was mounted on a tripod.

  ‘Well,’ said Holmes at length. ‘Unless you plan to publish the results in the gutter press, I cannot see why not. Watson, do you have any objection?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I replied.

  ‘Splendid!’ said the Maharajah. ‘Then let us proceed. You may not know, but I am a member of the Photographic Society. Of course, I am strictly an amateur but I have no doubt that the photograph will be the dominant art form of the 20th century. If you wouldn’t mind standing over there, leave the rest to me.’

  He arranged us by a wall with a small arched window to our left and a gaudy painting of Singh as a younger man on the right.

  ‘That will do nicely!’ he said, disappearing beneath the black hood. ‘Hold very still! I can see you are both naturals at this.’

  We posed until a small explosion told us the Maharajah had what he wanted.

  ‘Perfect!’ he exclaimed. ‘And now, perhaps you could allow me to show you something else?’

  ‘Lead on!’ said Holmes.

  We followed the Maharajah up an ornate staircase and into a darkened room lit only by a single lamp. Across an entire wall was a simply enormous painting of an Indian street scene cast in shadow. The light flickered on the ceiling to reveal elaborately decorated patterns and coving, entirely in keeping with this house of wonders.

  ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘What I am about to show you has never been seen before by western eyes. It was transported in secret by my most trusted men.’ We followed Singh to the far end of the room where a large safe lay against the wall. He crouched and worked at the lock until we heard a click and saw the cold, steel door swing open. He reached in and extracted a metallic object the size of a dinner plate

  ‘My dear Holmes!’ I shouted. ‘It’s an elephant!’

  ‘Of course it is!’ said the Maharajah. He li
fted it onto an octagonal card table at the centre of the room and laid it down with great care. It was a thing of great beauty, cast in gold and studded with jewels. ‘It is centuries old,’ he said. ‘It may not even have been opened for a hundred years.’ He brought the lamp closer to reveal its detail: namely eight indentations, each in the shape of a small elephant. ‘It was designed by a master craftsman,’ he said. ‘His artistry was only exceeded by his ingenuity. Although it is plated with gold, the structure was fashioned from one of the strongest alloys available at the time. This master then devised a mechanism that would only open when all eight animals are in place.’ He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a small black velvet bag. Untying the cord, it opened to reveal three of the fabled ruby elephants.’

  ‘It is too much to hope,’ he asked, ‘that one day we may unite them all?’

  Holmes smiled one of his impossible smiles. He reached into his own pocket then scattered five more elephants like dice onto the table.

  ‘Impossible!’ whispered the Maharajah.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Holmes calmly. ‘May I smoke?’ he asked. Singh waved his assent, still staring at the assembled elephants before collapsing heavily into a chair. My friend sat at the table and drew a silver cigarette case from his jacket. I had not seen it before. He flipped open the lid and offered it around the group. We each took a cigarette, accepting the flame Holmes proffered.

  ‘Watson,’ my friend began. ‘You are intrigued by this new cigarette case and are wondering at this very moment where I acquired it. Am I right?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I confirmed.

  ‘The answer is in plain view.’ He dropped the lid to reveal the initials: WS.

  ‘Warwick Snitteron!’ I ejaculated.

  ‘Bullseye, Watson.’

  ‘But how...’

  ‘You remember in the yard when I succeeded in putting the man under a hypnotic spell? Well, before we made our escape, I decided to test my powers as a dipper, or pickpocket as the art is more commonly known. I thought I had struck unusually lucky with the cigarette case until I alighted on the elephants. A lucky hit, wouldn’t you say?’

  The Maharajah appeared to be in a state of shock. The cigarette burned away in his fingers, his mouth agape. He was utterly transfixed by the sight of all eight elephants together on the tabletop. Impressive though it was, I was still somewhat offended that Holmes had not revealed this momentous news to me before.

  ‘Snitterton will be madder than a wounded bull after this,’ I said.

  ‘This is precisely why I held back from telling you while we were still in London. If he had succeeded in accosting you, it would have been better that you knew nothing.’

  ‘Words fail me, Holmes,’ I sighed and leant back shaking my head at the limitless guile of the great detective.

  It was some time before the Maharajah felt his hand was steady enough to drop the ruby elephants into place. They fitted snugly into their golden graves and it was wondrous to think of the time that had elapsed since they were last united.

  As he held the last ruby, the nobleman gave us a long, sorrowful look.

  ‘Truly,’ he said. ‘I did not believe that this moment would come.’ He extended his thumb and fingers around the lid and prepared to open the casket. A single bead of sweat formed on his brow.

  ‘Wait!’ I cried. They both stared at me. ‘What if it’s a trap?’ The Maharajah lifted his hands from the treasure. ‘I have heard stories of such things,’ I continued, ‘mechanisms to ward against grave robbers and ancient enemies. Who knows what waits for us inside? A poison? A blade? A primitive explosive?’

  ‘Come now, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘You have been reading too much of The Arabian Nights. If anyone knew of such a thing, it would be the Maharajah. Surely, if he was aware of any danger, he would have mentioned it before?’

  Singh rose from his chair, put a hand to his beard and walked over to the painting.

  ‘Doctor, you are wiser than you know,’ he said, without turning around. ‘As a boy, I knew of the curse of the ruby elephants. There was a curious rhyme that we chanted:

  He who seeks them will not see eight

  He who finds them will not see five

  He who unites them will not survive’

  ‘Superstitious nonsense!’ scoffed Holmes. ‘It was most probably devised by the man who made the casket.

  ‘There is no greater deterrent than a curse,’ I suggested. The Maharajah appeared agitated.

  ‘A curse is no more superstitious than a prayer,’ he mused, staring at the painting. ‘And yet we do not laugh at the man praying to his God.’

  ‘Let us say for a moment that there is some truth in it,’ I said. ‘What is its meaning?’

  ‘“He who seeks them will not see eight,” Holmes repeated. ‘Perhapsthis infers that the man who seeks the elephants will not live longer than eight years. So if we open it, there is no immediate danger...’

  ‘The last line is not so vague,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Enough of this,’ cried the Maharajah. He ran back to the table and dropped the final elephant into place. At once the lid sprang open and the Maharajah let out a shriek of horror.

  Holmes and I rushed to his side. Singh’s hands were pressed to his eyes and he shouted in pain.

  ‘The curse!’ I cried. A curious green cloud had enveloped the table.

  ‘Dust!’ exclaimed Holmes covering his mouth. ‘It is nothing more that dust!’

  ‘Dust?’ repeated the Maharajah, groggily. As he spoke, the cloud began to clear. Inside the golden elephant lay the stone.’

  ‘The Nizam!’ I shouted. ‘Look at its size! It’s impossible!’

  I was seized by the same fever that gripped me upon seeing the Koh-I-Noor. I began to laugh hysterically. ‘It’s absurd!’ I roared. ‘Holmes, it’s perfectly absurd.’ I began to lose my balance.

  Holmes struck me smartly across the face.

  ‘Watson!’ he shouted. ‘Pull yourself together, man.’ In a moment of superhuman strength, Holmes seized both the Maharajah and I and dragged us to the window. He threw open the shutters and smashed the glass.

  I awoke in the drawing room, lying on a couch of exotic design. The doors to the garden were open and a warm breeze flowed into the light filled room. I focused to find Holmes sitting next to me, offering me a glass of water.

  ‘Drink slowly Watson,’ he said. I did as he said, then sat up.

  ‘Where is the Maharajah?’ I said, glancing around the room.

  ‘Recovering,’ said Holmes. ‘He had a greater dose than you.’

  I rubbed the side of my face where a handsome bruise was developing.

  ‘You have me to thank for that, Watson,’my friend confessed. ‘For a moment, I thought I was losing you. Once again, if ever there is a time when I appear to have gone beyond the limits of my powers, remind me of this day. Watson, you were right to be wary and I was wrong to be so belligerent. That was no dust. It was a noxious powder of some unknown provenance that produced an hallucinogenic and ultimately asphyxiating affect. I have taken a sample to study once we are back at Baker Street. I fancy, once I have processed my results, it will make an excellent subject for a short, instructive monogram.’

  ‘The diamond,’ I murmured. The vision of that astonishing rock reappeared in my head.

  ‘It is quite safe,’ smiled Holmes, unwrapping a handkerchief. ‘I seem to be collecting diamonds like a child collects pebbles from the beach.’

  Two cups of strong tea restored some vigour to the system. While we waited for the Maharajah to sleep off the ill-effects, Holmes and I decided to take a constitutional.

  ‘Another five seconds and I fear you would have both slipped away,’ explained Holmes as we strolled across the grass. A deer sprang from behind a beech tree, stopped for a moment
to study my friend and me, then darted into the undergrowth. ‘While it wasn’t a curse, the rhyme was a fair warning of what to expect. Given the formidable levels of toxicity, I am now inclined to believe that the five and the eight referred to seconds, not years.’

  The sun illuminated the estate in all its glorious colour. It had been a wet summer and the grass was as green as it would be in spring. Despite the fact the Maharajah had been away, the grounds were in excellent order.

  ‘What do you make of the Maharajah’s plans?’ I asked Holmes, retrieving a scrap of blue cloth from the ground.

  ‘I am uncertain,’ Holmes admitted. ‘However I am inclined to let him leave with the Nizam diamond. The Queen, I fancy, can afford to go without another foreign object in the treasury. Singh was much wronged by the British and I would not stand in his way if he wished to make a further attempt to return to India. You will remember Watson, that we owe him our lives. I have no doubt that he will make adequate compensation for our time and trouble in this matter, despite the fact that he was not our original client. It has been, would you not agree Watson, a singular case?’

  ‘Quite. But what of Snitterton and the Koh-I-Noor?’ I asked.

  ‘Half of Scotland Yard is currently on his trail and notwithstanding Gregson’s limited powers of detection, I would suggest that he will be apprehended within days rather than weeks. It was too much to hope that he would be arrested at the property we visited. I have also wired some particulars to the inspector that will make the task of finding him somewhat less onerous. As to locating the Koh-I-Noor, that is work still ahead of us.’

  That evening we joined the Maharajah for a feast that defied easy description. He was dressed in full ceremonial robes. A splendid red turban covered his head while a ceremonial sword swung from a silk sash at his belt. Holmes and I sat on either side of him as his guests of honour. The rest of the party was made up of his retinue. While all appeared to be in his employ there was it seemed, a graded system of servants. Those acting as advisers were afforded privileges of the office, dining with us, while those of lower rank assumed more menial duties. All trace of the poison’s effects had disappeared from the Maharajah and he spoke with gusto, lambasting the service, toasting Holmes and me, while holding forth on politics, photography and philosophy. He was more than a match for Holmes on all of these subjects.