Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants (16 page)

‘Did you happen to see, at any point, a giant balloon?'

Not for the first time, my jaw slackened. However, the old sailor didn't skip a beat.

‘A balloon you say,' he said, stroking his grizzled chin, ‘a balloon.' He peered up into the sky, and rolled his single eye across the heavens as if he had at one time been the beneficiary of some theatrical training.

‘Now you mention it that does sound familiar.'

‘Quickly Watson, another coin!'

‘I'm growing short,' I said, handing over yet another.

‘Yes, a balloon!' he cried, as if in a moment of epiphany ‘It was a magnificent white balloon. It appeared out of nowhere at around three in the morning. I was awoken by the hiss of its escaping gas.'

‘Great heavens!' I ejaculated.

‘I thought I was dreaming,' the man said in a voice filled with wonder. ‘I looked up and it was as if I was staring at a huge diamond.'

‘Did you not think to mention this before?' I demanded, infuriated. Holmes held up a calming hand.

‘Describe what you saw,' he cajoled.

‘It came in low from the west and glided east,' the sailor said, jingling the coins in his hand. ‘Blow me if it didn't clip the tops of them roofs,' he added, waving his arm around vaguely.

‘It clipped them!' said Holmes, hopping in triumph, ‘did you hear that, Watson? It clipped them!'

‘You are a strange fellow and no mistake,' the sailor said, peering at my friend.

‘What else? What else?' Holmes cried.

‘It passed only for a moment over the admiral but if my eye didn't deceive me, something was bundled out and left at the top with him. I'm thinking now, that this is the cause of all this benjo, am I right?'

‘You most certainly are!' said Holmes. ‘Anything else? Was the square deserted?'

‘There was a woman on the ground,' the vagrant continued. ‘A right bag of oranges, she was. She had some sort of light, as if she was signalling to them fellows in the balloon.'

‘What was she wearing?'

‘That's the strange thing,' he said. ‘She was a white woman but she was wearing Indian type clothes. What do you call those things?'

‘A sari?' I asked.

‘If you say so, sir. And one thing more; I would swear blind she was carrying a violin case.'

‘My dear Holmes!' I cried. ‘This is too much; surely this man is describing our friend Miss Braithwaite?' Holmes appeared perfectly unruffled.

‘Your single eye served you well. Your last shilling, if you please, Dr Watson.'

‘How did you know it was my last?' I asked.

‘Because I watched you count them this morning before you dropped them into your pocket. Since then it has been a simple matter of subtraction.'

‘Or in my case,' grinned the oily man, baring his three remaining fangs, ‘addition!'

Holmes whipped around and headed back towards Gregson, the crowd parting before him.

‘He's never going to believe it,' I counselled, chasing hard on his heels.

‘Of course he won't,' my friend agreed. ‘But we cannot wait any longer to inspect the body.'

Gregson by now was attempting to personally supervise the rescue, without any noticeable result.

‘Send for this man,' said Holmes, pressing a card into Gregson's hand. ‘He is the finest steeple jack in London. If any man can do it, it will be him.'

While we waited, Holmes and I tumbled into the welcoming glow of The Harp, a public house a stone's throw from Charing Cross. I lined up a pair of pints and for a brief, blissful moment of serenity we supped at the nutty brown ale.

‘Surely this changes everything,' I said, wiping my lips.

‘Only if your mind was set in a particular direction,' sparkled Holmes. ‘I'm afraid you always had more faith in Miss Braithwaite than I did. Think back on the portraits of India on her staircase; the curious connection between the Ruby Elephant and her violin teacher; the unexplained presence of Snitterton at the concert. I'm afraid Watson, that she deliberately positioned herself in our midst from the beginning.' I shook my head, while at the same time, concurring with Holmes' logic. ‘Surely,' my friend added. ‘it would not surprise you entirely to know that she is Snitterton's daughter.' I spluttered into my pint, succeeding in showering my friend in froth.

‘I take it from that,' Holmes remarked coolly wiping beer from his face, ‘that you had not yet arrived at the same conclusion.'

It was late afternoon by the time Morris Digby, the man with the best head for heights on either side of the Thames had been summoned from the spire of St Helen's and transported under police escort to Trafalgar Square. He was not a man to be hurried. He unpacked his equipment carefully, unfolding a cloth that contained his rivets, winches and pliers and brought out a small suitcase that contained several coils of ropes and the wooden boards that made up his bosun's chair.

Inspector Gregson, who had presided over the public farce for the bulk of the day, was well beyond the point of frustration.

‘Can't we hurry this along?' he asked, retrieving and replacing his pocket watch without even bothering to look at the time.

‘If you would prefer to ascend, Inspector,' said Digby slowly, without taking his eyes off the column, ‘then be my guest.' He weighed up the column as a chef might survey his ingredients before cooking a delicious dinner. Eventually the climb began. As the offices emptied, the crowd swelled to an even greater size as the show unfolded against the skyline. He inched up, as a sloth might ascend a great tree in the great forests of South America and after ten minutes, he was half way. He had his own elaborate system of ropes and pulleys, which appeared magically from his person rather like thread from a spider. He swung a little to the left and right, dropped down a foot or so while he secured a position, before winching himself up again. He was an artist at work. Within half an hour, he was at the base of the Corinthian capital, where the column flowers outwards and five minutes later he was at the top. A hush fell upon the crowd as they waited for him to pronounce on the fate of the man.

‘Dead!'

The steeplejack's shout echoed around the hushed square. A low murmur soon replaced the silence, and the crowd began to disperse. The game was up.

‘Another notch on the reaper's belt,' I heard a man mutter.

‘This strange summer grows stranger still,' I said to an impassive Holmes.

Presently we heard a squeaking coming from the top of the column. The bosom's chair was being gently lowered and Gregson was preparing to clamber aboard.

‘We always knew you'd rise to the top, sir,' one of his constables joked. The inspector glared at him. Having safely delivered Gregson, the chair began to lower again. A note pinned to the wooden seat requested that Holmes join them.

‘Well,' said Holmes, ‘I think it's only fair, in the interests of the public record that you join us too, doctor.'

All of London lay below us. It was a city of spires and rooftops, towers and thoroughfares. The buildings curved and twisted as if distorted in a hall of mirrors. I don't know how much time Nelson spent in a crow's nest himself but I imagine the sensation was similar. We seem to sway in the breeze. Nelson had become a stone god pushing his way up into the clouds, his face as cold and impassive as it was when he sighted the French fleet.

‘You've gone a little green, Gregson,' remarked Holmes.

‘Thank you, Holmes,' said the Inspector. ‘I would be grateful if we do not prolong this any longer than is strictly necessary.'

My friend and I were already one step ahead of Gregson. The dead man was the queer, bald headed fellow we had seen negotiating with Snitterton in the feather factory. Holmes gave me that steely look that told me this information was not to be shared. The body was quite rigid and lying at a haphazard angle face down at Nelson's feet.

‘I say this body fell from a height,' averred Holmes

‘Preposterous,' scoffed Gregson. ‘Where from? The moon?'

‘Close,' said Holmes. ‘A balloon.' Gregson stared at him. My friend explained his theory in that clear, reasonable manner of his, showing the path that the hot balloon had taken, crushing the weather vanes and railings along the tops of the buildings. Holmes even picked up a piece of ribbon and a scattering of sand that could, conceivably have spilled from the balloon's basket. Gregson stare had turned into a look of intense irritation.

‘I'm afraid I find that very hard to believe. Help me turn the body, doctor.'

We grasped the man's shoulders and with some effort (he was a portly fellow) managed to turn him onto his belly. I leapt back in horror, a dangerous business one hundred and seventy feet above the ground. His eyelids were wide open but where his eyes should have been, there were two gleaming stones.

‘Are they diamonds?' I spluttered.

‘No, said, Holmes, bending low over the body, ‘only glass.'

‘A ghoulish business,' said the steeplejack distastefully as he watched the scene unfold.

‘There's something in his hand,' I said.

Rigor mortis had set in, and Gregson had to break the poor man's finger to release the small slip of paper he still clutched. The inspector uncurled the note and read the first line with some astonishment.

‘To Mr Sherlock Holmes, Esq.' He stared at the note and scanned it again. ‘It's for you!' he blurted.

‘So it appears,' agreed Holmes. ‘Read on.'

To Mr Sherlock Holmes, Esq,

The state of play at lunch

You have played a fine innings. You have managed to deny my bowlers any easy wickets. Your defensive play is ingenious and your attack has a grace that few possess. But now it is my turn to bat. I feel you have exhausted yourself at the crease. Abandon the match and return to the club house while you still can. This is your final warning.

GW

‘Who is this GW?' Gregson demanded.

‘I have no idea,' said Holmes.

‘I should arrest you now,' the Inspector threatened. ‘What exactly are you holding back?'

‘I assure you,' said Holmes truthfully. ‘I have to the best of my knowledge, and without consulting my notes, had any dealings with a GW.' He peered at the finger Gregson was pointing at his chest.

‘Are you a cricketing man?' asked Holmes.

‘When I have time, yes,' said Gregson.

‘Then you will know that W.G. Grace scored two centuries in a single match against Yorkshire in the summer before last. Watson, I believe you were there.'

‘I certainly was,' I confirmed. It was a magnificent match.'

‘What is your point, Holmes?'

‘I'm not sure I have one yet,' my friend said. ‘But look at those initials, albeit the wrong way around, the cricketing theme and the use of the word ‘grace' in the second line.'

‘Are you implying the finest cricketer this country has yet produced has blood on his hands?'

‘I have no idea,' said Holmes innocently. ‘It is merely an observation. Inspector, I have a thousand enemies in London alone. Any one of them could have sent this note.'

‘But how did they know you would be here to receive it?'

‘Because of the extraordinary manner of its delivery. They knew you would call me for me at once.'

‘I have had quite enough of this,' said Gregson, his complexion by now an even sicklier shade of green. ‘If you don't mind gentlemen, I would be grateful if we could continue this discussion on terra firma.'

FOURTEEN - The Maharajah

‘What are your thoughts,' I asked Holmes, laying down my copy of The Time Machine, ‘on intelligent life on other planets?'

‘I sometimes wonder if there is any on our own,' quipped Holmes.

The thermometer beneath the portrait of General Gordon confirmed that it was the warmest day of the year so far. The bricks of the houses opposite gleamed as if they were made from nine carat gold and despite the fact that our windows were half open, the air in our stuffy rooms at Baker Street had become so hot and heavy it was a wonder we did not have to spoon it like treacle into our mouths. I could barely think for the heat and loosened my collar.

I was constantly astonished by Holmes' ignorance of the celestial bodies. Around the time of our first adventure, he had confessed that he was ignorant of the fact that the Earth revolves around the Sun. He could not point out a single constellation and reached the grand total of four when I asked him to name the planets. I was not therefore expecting any kind of sensible response.

‘Gentlemen,' said Mrs Hudson, appearing at the door with a tray of lemonade and sugar. ‘I thought you might like a cooling glass of something.'

‘Mrs Hudson, how thoughtful and timely; it is as if you escaped from the court of Nebuchadnezzar,' congratulated Holmes. ‘In a previous life I am convinced that you attended to the needs of a great king or emperor.'

‘Well I have come down in the world,' she said, raising an eyebrow and casting a disapproving look around the room.

The beverage had a powerful restorative affect on my brain, dousing some of the fires that had taken hold therein.

‘Well?' I prompted Holmes, pressing the side of the glass like a cool balm against my forehead. ‘What is your view of extraterrestrial life and its chances of communicating with our own?' Holmes sat forward and joined his fingers like a great general about to make his first move.

‘I can only provide an answer to this question by applying the sort of hard logic you find so infuriating.'

‘Try me,' I invited.

‘We have good reason,' he began, ‘to believe that we are the very zenith of civilisation. No human society has ever reached our level of scientific advancement, our sheer pitch of reasoning, knowledge or sophistication. It has taken us two thousand million years to reach this point and what have we achieved? We have produced the paperclip. Watson, it is a great leap from a paperclip, or even a steam locomotive to producing a vehicle that can escape the clutches of gravity, pierce the iron roof of the Earth and travel to the stars. It could take another five billion years.

‘Let us say, for the sake of argument, that there are a number of Earth-like bodies in the universe capable of sustaining life similar to our own. What stage are they at in their evolution? Are they still grubbing at the mouths of their caves? Have they stumbled yet on the advantages of the wheel or the means to produce fire? Are they at the paperclip stage? Let us infer from the deafening silence of the universe that none of them have gone beyond this. This means that we are the apotheosis of all extant life, which means if we wish to send an olive branch, it is incumbent on us to devise the steel dove that will deliver it.

‘By the time we develop such a mechanism, it is possible that we will have exhausted the generosity of the sun and disappeared in a lightning flash and a puff of smoke. I therefore believe that while it may of course be possible that there is intelligent life in the universe, it is unlikely we will ever have the evidence to prove or disprove it either way. This is precisely why I choose not to waste energy on any matters that go beyond the realm of the Earth. There is quite enough incident in our own goldfish bowl to keep us from wondering what other fittings and furnishings can be found in the sitting room.'

I let Holmes' words die away and such was their definitive tone, it felt there was no more that could be said on the subject. Indeed it was the sort of pronouncement that might, if overheard south of the river, in all probability cause the gentlemen of the Royal Observatory in Greenwich to shake their heads in defeat, fold up their star charts and pack away their telescopes for good. It was at this moment that Holmes spotted the bird at the window.

‘I say, he's a handsome devil,' Holmes remarked, pointing to a sparrow hawk that had inexplicably appeared on the sill. It stared at me with a piercing, yellow eye; its black pupil fixing me to the spot.

‘It must have escaped from the gardens at Buckingham Palace,' I said. ‘Shoo it away. There will be pandemonium if it gets into the room.'

‘Wait,' said Holmes. ‘What's that tied around its leg?'

He advanced carefully, treading softly across the room in his moccasins. Two feet away from the bird, he pounced, catching it in both hands. He detached a tiny scroll from its left leg then placed the bird back on the sill. It appeared to be entirely unfazed by its molestation.

‘Well, well,' said Holmes, unfurling the message, ‘it's from the Maharajah.' He handed the note to me.

Gentlemen,

You have proved yourselves highly worthy of my respect. The manner in which you conducted yourselves in Regent's Park has proved you are brave and resourceful men. I was only too glad to be of some small assistance with my rifle when you ran into difficulties. I am a modest man, but you will understand now why I am said to be fourth best shot in England.

I have returned from exile to conclude one piece of unfinished business and with this I require your assistance. I would therefore like to invite you both to my estate which has lain dormant these past years. There we will enjoy each other's company while I explain the particulars. A carriage is waiting outside which will bear you to the station. I will be only too delighted to meet you in person.

Your friend,

Maharajah Duleep Singh

‘It was him!' I exclaimed.

‘Naturally,' said Holmes. ‘It had all the hallmarks of a test which he observed throughout. Why else would he ask us to retrieve an object he had placed there himself?'

‘Astonishing.'

Holmes scribbled a reply, rolled it tightly and then with the patience of a veterinarian secured it to the foot of the sparrow hawk. At Holmes' nod, it blinked its eyes, shook out its wings then soared into the sky.

‘Well,' said Holmes, gathering up his smoking paraphernalia, ‘are you game for a weekend in the country?'

‘Never more so,' I cried. ‘London in August is a dustbowl. Good riddance to it!'

We packed within minutes and soon found ourselves inside an airy brougham heading in the direction of King's Cross Station.

‘The country!' I mused, as we bowled along Bishopsgate. ‘The sun setting over the fields, the balmy mists over the lakes; the cool cider served by the smiling maiden...'

‘I fail to share your enthusiasm,' remarked Holmes. ‘Every hour in the city offers a fresh strain of criminality. A decade can pass in a country village without so much as a corrupt postmaster.'

‘Come, Holmes,' I urged. ‘Think of it as a holiday.'

‘At least,' my friend said, gazing at the sun gleaming in an office window, ‘there is the prospect of progress in our case. The Maharajah I feel sure will provide some intelligence on this singular business of the ruby elephants.'

London slipped away in a blur of red brick, chimney stacks, dusty yards and windowless factories. It gave way to the fields of the Home Counties, cool marshes, long grass, lakes like pools of melted gold, crowds of willows at the edge of the water, farms and the great country houses.

‘A perfect tonic, wouldn't you agree Holmes?'

‘A glass of claret for me,' he replied.

He was distracted by a volume he had brought with him from 221b Baker Street.

‘A remarkable man,' he murmured, looking up from his book. ‘The Maharajah has been a guest of Queen Victoria since the age of 15. He has been extended every luxury and enjoyed every trapping of the British aristocracy. He has lived in splendour in Northern Britain, in Yorkshire and finally in Elevedon, Norfolk. He has been baptised in the Church of England, taught to shoot, to appreciate art and architecture. And yet, he was a prisoner. He was forbidden to see his mother, to return to India independently lest he rallied the people of the Punjab against the British. Four years ago he left - attempting to return to his homeland - but was prevented by our government. He has converted to Sikhism and now lives in unhappy exile in Paris.' Holmes closed the book.

‘Where is that glass of wine, Watson?'

Let me find the steward,' I said and rose from my seat.

The train was roughly half full; for the most part, it was business types and gentlemen farmers, all semi-obscured by their copies of The Times and the Illustrated London News. Eventually I located the steward who promised that we would receive his prompt attention. Returning to my carriage, I encountered a tall, gaunt looking man in the corridor, distinguished by a scar across his chin and a hollow look in his eye. He pushed past me, without making eye contact.

‘I say,' I said. ‘What's the hurry?' He disappeared down the corridor without looking back.

A sleek black cab was waiting for us at the station, its driver a wily looking old man with uneven features. His nose swerved like a signpost over to the left and his moustache sprouted beneath like a tuft of grass.

‘Are you the gentlemen that have come up to see the Maharajah?' he burred in his local dialect. Holmes nodded. ‘Then you need to come alonga me.' He climbed down to help us with the luggage, glancing at the station clock. ‘You have made masterous good time.' Perhaps mistaking me for Holmes' man servant he stopped and stared at me at moment. ‘Well are you going to mow in with these bags, or will I be doing it all by myself?'

‘My name is Doctor Watson,' I said.

‘Beggin' your pardon, doctor,' he said, bowing a little too deferentially. There was something about the man I did not like.

‘Thass a rare gentlemen, that Maharajah,' remarked William, the driver, who had introduced himself as we jogged along the lane.

‘So I understand,' replied Holmes.

‘I was mighty surprised to find he had returned. Four years he been gone; then last week, there he wuz again. I don't know what's brought him back. But he pays a tidy wage and I am obliged of it.'

Holmes nodded, distractedly. ‘But he ‘ain't half got a temper,' the driver said, disloyally as we turned into the drive. ‘He wuz hooly raw wi me when I wuz late the other day.'

The hall was an imposing Georgian construction that had been subjected to a number of radical alterations over the years. The Maharajah had brought his own ideas to the house, rendering it in the Italian style on the outside while inside it resembled a palace in Lahore. It had strong vertical lines, a pleasing symmetry and stared out over the grounds through its forty windows. Handsome balustrades lined the ramparts.

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?'