Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants

by Christopher James

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, my dear friends.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ I cried. Macintosh smiled thinly then fell forward. A silver helmed dagger protruded from his back and I saw a black stain expanding across his lilac cape.

  ‘Heaven help us,’ I cried, but Holmes was already pulling me away. We tore across the square.

  ‘Murder!’ shouted a newspaper vendor. ‘Stop those men!’ We bolted for our lives, Holmes proving himself quite the most athletic beggar to have plied his trade in the nation’s capital. We took off down Pall Mall and then into Whitcomb Street where a carriage was waiting for us.

  ‘Inside!’ my friend cried.

  The driver, a huge fellow in a dark cape shook out the reins, let out a cry and away we flew.

  Holmes was pale. He slumped against the side of the carriage, holding his head.

  ‘Suffice to say,’ he said gravely, ‘that did not go according to plan.’ I felt my pocket.

  ‘The ruby elephants,’ I moaned, ‘they’re gone. It must have been Macintosh’s assailant. Confound it, all Holmes.’

  My friend reached into his own pocket and mechanically passed me the paper bag. I took the liberty of picking your pocket first,’ he said grimly.

  ‘But why send me alone?’

  ‘I would have been too conspicuous. Whoever was sent would never have dealt with me. It had to be you, Watson, and you had to appear entirely honest and straightforward.’

  ‘Then who are we dealing with. That bird. Didn’t the Maharajah send us a note via similar means? He can’t have had anything to do with this, surely.’ Holmes did not reply. ‘There are forces at work, Watson, which we have yet to fully understand. There are conspiracies upon conspiracies.’

  ‘Poor Macintosh,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘The piteous fool was doomed from the moment he made a pact with the devil,’ said Holmes. ‘I believe he was living beyond his means and was an especially weak target. He needed the money. It was either that or blackmail. They knew we would trust him.’

  ‘And then they planned to murder him?’

  ‘His assailant had two targets,’ muttered Holmes grimly. ‘Both Macintosh and Snitterton. Our veterinarian was prudent enough to send a stooge.’ Holmes leaned his head out of the carriage.

  ‘Thank you Mycroft,’ he said. ‘Here will do.’

  SIXTEEN - The Archangels

  The next day was as fine and bright as a new penny. The disasters of the last twenty four hours seemed somehow distant, as if they had befallen perfect strangers or were something we had read about in the newspapers.

  At breakfast there was no sign of Holmes. By nine thirty he had still not made an appearance and the door to his bedroom remained firmly shut. Had he finally succumbed to his fatigue after a prolonged spell of excitement? I peered out of the window. Poor Macintosh! What was to be done? Surely the police would need to speak to us. But then how much should we tell them? I felt that Holmes must be formulating a plan.

  Sunlight streamed into our rooms at 221b Baker Street, illuminating the unholy mess that my friend insisted on leaving behind him. For a military man, tidiness is next to godliness and judged by this Holmes was the devil himself. The ashtray was spilling over; his papers were spread out on the rug at the foot of his armchair in a haphazard order known only to the great detective and no fewer than ten books were left open on the tables and armrests, each with its own idiosyncratic book mark: a white goose feather; a spoke from a bicycle and a single strand of red hair.

  I felt there was vital work to do. But what? The day could not go to waste. After feasting on eggs, perfectly poached by Mrs Hudson, I was suddenly taken with the notion of visiting our friend Juno at London Zoo. I was intrigued to discover whether the elephant had returned to more docile habits. It was she, after all, who had begun this odd train of events.

  I passed Mrs Hudson at the door. ‘Would you be so good,’ I asked her, ‘to let Holmes know I have gone to the zoo? The Elephant House, to be precise.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. She was clutching a large bouquet of flowers.

  ‘How lovely,’ I said. ‘Do you have an admirer?’ She blushed. ‘They’ve just arrived, Doctor. No name.’

  ‘How odd. Well, if I were you, I would accept them in good faith. I will be back at around one o’clock.’

  I walked briskly along the pavement, tapping my cane to a tune and rhythm of my own making, when presently I got the sensation I was being followed. I turned briskly and looked back at the sea of bowlers, bonnets and Homburgs hoping to catch the sneak. The pedestrians swam past me like so many fish.

  I set off again at marching pace, weaving through the crowd and crossing the road in an attempt to drop my pursuer. I even stopped to tie my shoelace thinking that if I went out of sight I would lose him. Still, when I set off once again, I got the distinct feeling he was back on my tail. It occurred to me of course that this was an irrational paranoia. Turning, I could not identify a single one of the four million Londoners with any malign intent. But when I walked, I could hear a pair of footsteps echoing my own. It was clearly someone highly trained, skilled in the art of concealment and subterfuge. Naturally, this brought Holmes to mind. Was this a prank of his? Was he testing me again? What would Holmes himself do to evade such a pursuer? Up ahead I saw Whittington’s, the gentleman’s hatter. That was when I hit upon the notion of a disguise. It was the perfect Holmesian solution. I sidled up to the entrance then slipped inside.

  Only slowly did my eyes acclimatise to the gloom. I knew Mr Pettiman, the owner, slightly, and he bowed when I entered.

  ‘Dr Watson,’ he began in his own charming way, ‘to what do we owe this pleasure? A new bowler for the autumn, perhaps?’ He was a large, portly man with ruddy cheeks and a flattened nose, suggesting a much earlier career as a boxer.

  ‘I was in fact thinking of something entirely different.’

  ‘A radical!’ Pettiman applauded. ‘So many gentleman of a certain age become stuck in their ways. Only a few of us have the capacity for change.’

  ‘I was thinking perhaps of a top hat.’

  Pettiman winced momentarily, and held up his fingers in a gesture of exaggerated delicacy.

  ‘Would you not consider that something of a backward step, doctor?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I said. I glanced behind me, once again feeling an uncomfortable presence. Then I hit upon it.

  ‘The deerstalker,’ I said. ‘Would you have any?’

  ‘Surely, Dr Watson that is the exclusive domain of Mr Holmes. It is a hat he has made all his own these recent years, would you not agree?’

  ‘Then I confess,’ I said quickly, ‘it is a surprise present for him. The other has become somewhat dog-eared and I fear, in his fondness for it, he has become blind to its demerits.’

  ‘What a friend he has in you!’ Mr Pettiman exclaimed.

  I heard the doorbell and slipped towards the back of the shop.

  ‘Mr Pettiman,’ I confessed. ‘I have an inkling I am being followed. Would you be so good as to invent a white lie for me while I retire to your store room?’ He gave me a wink and I disappeared behind a large green curtain concealing the entrance to the back room.

  The customer spoke in a hushed tone and I didn’t catch the exact nature of his enquiry. Mr Pettiman’s response however was plain enough:

  ‘No,’ he affirmed in his powerful baritone, ‘it’s been entirely quiet all day in fact. It’s this infernal sunshine. How can a man sell a hat without a drop of rain? I have a mind to switch to selling parasols.’

  I parted the curtain a half inch and peered through. It was a tall, thin man in tight fitting black suit and waistcoat, a tall black hat in his hand and a monocle affixed to one eye. His face was just as thin, white and drawn almost to a ghostly degree and his nose was that of
a sparrow hawk. It could only be one of the Archangels, although which one, I could not make out. He nodded in a slow and rather sinister fashion then left the shop.

  ‘I am most obliged,’ I said, remerging. ‘From the moment I set foot outside 221b Baker Street, I have had the feeling I was being followed. At least now I know I am not losing my mind.’

  ‘A strange fellow indeed,’ mused Pettiman. ‘But say what you like about him, he is the owner of a magnificent hat.’

  Mr Pettiman took a dim view of me trying on the deerstalker. I confessed that in reality I planned to use it as a disguise.

  ‘While of course I understand the parlous circumstances you find yourself in,’ he cautioned, ‘you must be aware how easy it is to put a hat out of shape.’ I declined the hat box and pressed it down on my head.

  ‘Dr Watson,’ said Pettiman in a low, cautioning voice, ‘I sincerely hope you resolve your current difficulties and return for a fitting of your own. A man’s choice of hat is no mere trifle. It defines a man in every sense. I am not the first to say that you can tell a man’s character by the way he wears his hat.’ I nodded and thanked him for his consideration.

  Stepping out of the back of the shop, I negotiated my way along an alley and past a pair of cats scrapping over some discarded bones. At the corner I passed another man, also dressed in a long black coat with a black topper. He was sitting on a bench holding a black cane, topped with a globe of gold or brass. I had no doubt that this was the Archangel. I pulled the brim of the hat lower on my face and hurriedly crossed the street. How had he so quickly worked his way around to the back? There was no adjoining road for a hundred yards and even then he would have had to take a long detour around the houses. It seemed nothing short of wizardry.

  I hurried around another corner and I believed I heard once again the sound of footsteps echoing my own. How I wished Holmes was with me! He would have engineered an ingenious escape. As things stood there was nothing else to do except put myself into the care of a policeman before it was too late. But even if I could make it back to Baker Street, would that not bring dangers of its own? It would be like letting the lion in through the front door.

  At the corner of Devonshire Place my prayers appeared to be answered. There, in all the sombre finery of his office, was a police constable ambling at that dignified pace that chills the heart of every scoundrel and blackguard in London. His hands were folded behind him, his truncheon in one of them. Occasionally irritated by their pedantry, I confess I rarely been so relieved to see a policeman.

  ‘Constable!’ I called. The man turned slowly and eyed me with immediate suspicion. He was thinner than most and had an intelligent sparkle and keenness in his expression that surprised me.

  ‘My name is Dr John Watson of Baker Street and I believe I am being followed.’

  ‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘That hat you’re sporting sir,’ he said in a slow, measured tone. ‘Is it one you normally wear?’

  ‘It’s new,’ I said quickly, glancing back along the street.

  ‘How new?’ he asked.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘I bought it today as it happens, but how can this be of any consequence?’

  ‘Just that it looks rather ill-fitting, sir,’ he went on. ‘If it’s new, I would consider returning it for something closer to your size.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your advice Constable,’ I said, ‘but if it’s all the same to you, I would be grateful if you would escort me back to Baker Street.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Whether you have your receipt with you?’

  ‘My receipt?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No I do not, and what’s more,’ I warned him, ‘I don’t much like your insinuation.’

  ‘I am not a magistrate, Dr Watson,’ he said, narrowing his eyes at me in a most uncomfortable manner. ‘But I can tell you that we take a dim view of petty larceny. Now would you like to tell me where you acquired this hat here of yours or am going to have to invite you to explain yourself down at the police station?’

  ‘I obtained this hat perfectly lawfully at Pettiman’s on Marylebone Road,’ I said, quite red about the gills. ‘Now if you don’t mind, constable, I believe that my life is be in immediate danger. Would you mind if we discussed this further in a hansom on route to Baker Street?’

  ‘All in good time, sir,’ he said. ‘Now tell me,’ he said. ‘What would you think if a perfect stranger appeared before you dressed as Sherlock Holmes and asking to be taken to Baker Street?’

  I stared at him dumbfounded.

  ‘Why, I am Holmes’ closest friend,’ I protested. ‘I live at the same address.’

  ‘Of course you do, sir,’ he said, peering along the street himself.

  As we were speaking, the tall, gaunt man with pale face and topper swept past us, fixing me with a deadly stare as he went. His eyes were those of the devil himself, black and fathomless.

  ‘Constable,’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s the man! Arrest him!’

  ‘On what possible charge?’ the infuriating fellow asked.

  ‘This is preposterous!’ I shouted. ‘If you cannot help me, then I insist on making my own way home.’ I bustled past him, before feeling his heavy hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Not so fast, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I think before we progress further, a visit to Mr Pettiman’s is in order.’ I stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘I am asking you as a law abiding citizen, either take me into custody or allow me to go on my way. My sincere belief is that if we remain here, both of our lives are in danger.’ The constable gave me a rum look.

  ‘I am afraid Dr Watson, that some of this sunshine may have gone to your head. ‘You are beginning to sound like a fantasist.’

  It was too late. At that moment, a brougham swept past, its driver flailing his whip, pitched forward like one of the four horse men of the apocalypse. I saw the policeman topple to the ground in front of me, still with the same expression of mild amusement on his face, his throat perfectly slit. I reached for my own, for a moment wondering whether I had suffered the same fate. I spun around in terror, looking for an escape, but the carriage had already turned and was bearing down on me at a thunderous pace. The driver, shrouded by a hood, had the look of the reaper himself, his features buried in darkness. At the last moment I saw a sabre appear, flashing brilliant silver in the morning sunlight.

  I awoke in a room that was perfectly dark. In fact, I could not say whether it was a room or not. I felt my head and neck, which gave some small comfort that I was not mortally wounded, or even dead, but I could not say for sure whether there was any blood or injury. I was in no pain and I was not bound or gagged. I considered for a moment that this was some sort of purgatory. I walked a few paces, feeling in front of me with my hands like a blinded man, but felt nothing. I touch the floor which was cold, smooth and slightly damp, like that of a cellar.

  ‘Where am I?’ I heard my own voice echo and die away. I tried again: ‘Who are you?’

  I heard my voice reverberate with no answer except its own, decaying to nothing. I stumbled forward in one direction and then another and finally fell to my knees.

  ‘Stand up, Dr Watson,’ came a voice. ‘This is the hour of your testing.’ It was a voice as calm as it was commanding.

  ‘Look here,’ I warned. ‘Half of Scotland Yard will be bearing down on you within in a few minutes. You mark my words.’ There was no answer. I listened for any sound that might orientate me: horses, carriages, people, but heard nothing that might give away my location.

  ‘Let us bring an end to this nonsense,’ I said, collecting my wits and dusting down my trousers. ‘There is a right and a wrong way to do business, no matter how dark your dealings. What is it you want?’

  ‘You know what we want
,’ the voice pressed.

  ‘Quite frankly,’ I said, beginning to lose patience, ‘I don’t. If you name your terms we can discuss this sensibly. And for pity’s sake light a lamp.’

  ‘There is no need for that here.’

  There was something about the voice that was cold, but familiar.

  ‘Have we met?’ I demanded. ‘Are you the man who followed me?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Tell me your name at least,’ I asked.

  ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Michael.’

  ‘What are you?’ I demanded. Feeling emboldened. ‘A forger? A thief. A blackmailer?’

  ‘I am Michael, the Archangel.’

  I struggled for breath. I saw the policeman once again fall to the ground. I saw the blood on the pavement. I felt my hand once again rise to my throat. I shouted in terror.

  There was a light, in the form of a single flame, at one end of the room. From the other side, I heard another voice.

  ‘I am Raphael,’ it announced and another torch was lit.

  Then behind me, another: ‘Uriel.’ And at the fourth point of the compass: ‘I am Gabriel.’ I was at the centre of the four flames. In the flickering light I could now make out the figures of four men, almost identical in form. Tall, thin, pale of face, each with a top hat, a burning torch in one hand and a cane in the other.

  I had by now the small comfort of knowing at least that these were mortal men of flesh and blood. But I could not fathom what they wanted with me.

  ‘The Archangels,’ I began bravely. ‘Were they not guardians of all that is good? Were they not the enemies of evil?’

  ‘Good and evil,’ said Michael, in his sinister way, ‘are relative constructs. Every man believes in his own just and good cause. What one man sees as abhorrent, to another is a noble act. We all have our obligations and motivations. And we have good reason to believe that you know something to our advantage. What do you know, Dr Watson, of the mountain of light?’

  I was stunned into silence. Eventually, I essayed an answer.