Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants (26 page)

Crabtree stumbled into the room a way behind and gawped.

‘Now that's what I call an armchair!' he exclaimed.

‘Not much good to us now,' I muttered.

‘To the roof!' shouted Holmes.

A side door took us out onto a narrow terrace and into a strong breeze. The afternoon was slowly fading and the evening was beginning to mine the first diamonds from the night.

‘We seem to spend half our time on rooftops,' I complained.

‘The situation, I grant, may seem perilous,' my friend began, ‘and I appreciate that you have all endured a spell of some discomfort. However, I promise that we are entering the endgame and that a solution to the present crisis will present itself. “Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.” As sure as night follows day, there will be another way down.'

I took Mrs Hudson's hand, while Crabtree did the same for Mrs Woodbridge. Standing a full foot shorter than her, however, it appeared the lady was caretaking him. In this manner, we followed Holmes around the perimeter of the octagonal roof, as if participating in some elaborate dance.

We were not alone for long. From the same door, the Archangels followed, scuttling after us like black beetles. We could see the glint of the blades attached to their canes and already they were taking pot shots at us across the roof, shattering pane after pane in the glass dome. Ducking beneath the shelter of a balustrade, we finally found a defensive position. Holmes and I pulled our revolvers and made an inventory of our ammunition.

‘It is hopeless,' I whispered beneath my breath.

‘At first glance, it would seem our position is weak,' agreed Holmes. ‘However, we have three shots a piece. Enough to take care of each of these villains, with one left over for sport.' It was an optimistic assessment. Mrs Hudson crouched with clenched fists.

‘Let them have it, doctor!' she urged. ‘They deserve nothing more than a supper of lead this evening.'

‘Hear, hear,' said Mrs Woodbridge. ‘A fussy lot they are, too. Last night they turned their noses up at my marbled blancmanche. The cheek of it!' Holmes pressed a finger to his lips.

‘A challenge!' he shouted. A shot rang out, followed by another, then the firing ceased.

‘If you are men of any honour,' Holmes cried. ‘Then you will let these women go. What's more, I challenge each of you in turn to single handed combat. That is, without firearms. I will give you a minute to consider my proposition.'

‘As you wish, Holmes,' returned a voice at last. It belonged to Michael. ‘A foolish notion, but it will provide us with some amusement. I shall be the first to challenge you - and the last.'

‘Then step forward with your hands clear and I shall do the same.'

‘If there is foul play,' warned Michael, ‘my friends will make short work of you.'

‘Sherlock Holmes does not break his promises,' he said, giving us a little wink.

Holmes stepped forward and I saw the Archangel emerge from the shadows. They both stepped forward onto the glass dome, edging along the steel seams that held the panes together. The glass was already pockmarked with holes from our previous exchanges and it seemed the whole thing would give at any time.

‘You are agents of evil,' pronounced Holmes, balancing himself beautifully, his arms outstretched like a tightrope walker.

‘We are merely mercenaries,' said Michael. ‘Morality does not enter into it. You are simply an impediment to a financial goal.'

‘You talk like a city banker!' remarked Holmes.

‘Who knows who we used to be?'

Soon they stood facing each other at the very top of the dome. From a distance they appeared like two stone gods, silhouetted against the sky. Then it began.

Michael lunged, striking Holmes with a blow to the solar plexus. In the same moment, my friend drew back, absorbing little of its intended force, then parried with a jab that immediately hit home. Michael barely flinched, instead ducking low and sweeping his foot in an attempt to knock Holmes off balance. He almost succeeded. Holmes hopped over the foot and chopped at Michael's neck from above with the side of his hand.

‘Heaven's alive, doctor!' cried Mrs Hudson. ‘Wherever are the police?'

‘They will be here directly,' I assured her, with little conviction.

Holmes was employing much the same technique I had seen before; the mysterious art of Bartitsu, that exotic but effective combination of the eastern martial arts with the best of the British Fancy, that is to say, the boxing ring. Michael recovered swiftly and leapt up, for a moment entirely clear of the dome, landing on a steel seam, perhaps four feet from Holmes. He reassumed his attacking pose then lurched forward with both fists in a hammer blow. With the reactions of a man half his age, Holmes stepped sideways and watched dispassionately as Michael mistimed his landing and crashed directly through a pane of glass. His horrifying scream filled the night sky. Below we could see the outline of his body in the pool of water, the shadows of the electric eels snapping at his immobile form.

‘Another!' shouted Holmes. At that moment, he was a gladiator, an ancient champion of justice.

The Archangels however had reconsidered their position. The firing resumed and Holmes darted back to the safety of the balustrades.

‘Smart work,' I muttered.

‘Merely perfunctory,' he replied. ‘I knew they would not see it through. Still, it has bought us a little time.' He retrieved a cigarette from the silver case and a lick of flame brought it to life. ‘Now when did you say Gregson will here?' I stared at him in disbelief.

‘He's not coming,' I said. ‘I made it up.'

‘As I suspected; a remarkable fib, Watson, splendidly told. Then we require another plan. I suggest you stay here while I investigate our exit options.'As it turned out, we were overtaken by events.

A huge white object appeared like a new moon from behind a cloud. A burst of flame illuminated it, filling it entirely with light.

‘The balloon!' I exclaimed. Until now, it had been nothing but supposition, but here was the evidence, right before our eyes. ‘Holmes,' I gasped, ‘you were right!'

I caught a glimpse of Featherstone in the basket, his face fixed in an expression of devilish glee. In his hand, he appeared to holding one of the stars from Orion's Belt. It gleamed brighter than anything else in the night sky.

‘Can you see it, Holmes?' he shouted. ‘It's only the Koh-I-Noor!'

For a moment, everything stopped; even the Archangels looked transfixed by the moonlight gleaming through the stone.

‘Take a good look,' Featherstone cried. ‘It will be the last you ever see of it. Give my regards to Wyndham.' At his side, we saw Miss Braithwaite, still wearing the ruby necklace, disappearing into a life of untold riches and unknown brutality. As the balloon slowly rose, Holmes and I trained our revolvers at the basket, but we both knew the barrels were empty. Crabtree's muzzle-loading musket had already expelled its single shot and we watched helplessly as the diamond, the fiend and his mistress all slipped from our grasp.

There was the sound of a horse's hooves. At first, it was a faint drumming, like fingers on a tabletop, then it grew louder, more insistent until the clatter was unmistakable. We turned and in the darkness made out the flash of a white stallion galloping up the drive.

‘Here comes the cavalry!' cried Mrs Woodbridge.

‘Lord save us!' exclaimed Mrs Hudson.

I glanced at Holmes, who wore a non-committal look. As ever it was impossible to discern whether this was part of some master scheme of his, or just another quirk of fate.

‘Whoever this rider is,' I remarked, ‘he is alone.' Sure enough our cavalry was a small one; as the single rider approached I saw he was wearing a turban; a purple cape trailing behind him. He held the reigns in one hand and in the other gripped his rifle. He stood up in his saddle: ‘By the five rivers!' he cried.

A single shot rang out and Featherstone dropped like a mannequin from the basket. Miss Braithwaite screamed. Still a hundred yards away and the rider had hit his mark.

‘A remarkable shot!' I cried.

‘It can only be the Maharajah,'declared Holmes. ‘You will recall he is the fourth best shot in England. But look alive; the balloon is running away with itself.' Sure enough, the contraption had begun to veer and lurch, throwing the unscrupulous Miss Braithwaite from one side of the basket to the other. She had no control over it. The balloon was drifting above the house and we saw her only opportunity. In an instant Holmes was on his feet.

‘Jump!' he shouted to her. ‘You must jump!' We saw her face blanch as she peered down on us, at the shattered panes of glass beneath and the dead Archangel far below.

‘Never!' she cried.

‘It is your only chance,' I called. The balloon drifted not six feet above us and all at once she tumbled into our arms, narrowly avoiding the same fate as Michael.

‘The diamond!' she screamed, reaching up at the abandoned balloon.

‘A simple thank you would suffice,' remarked Holmes.

‘The Stradivarius!' she wept.

‘Now that it is a shame,' agreed Holmes. Lightened of its load, we watched the balloon sail up and over the trees. Presently we saw the three remaining Archangels fleeing into the fields on the backs of three black stallions.

‘They must believe the police are here,' my friend laughed. ‘Watson, I do believe your remarkable piece of fiction has saved the day. Crabtree once again looked crestfallen. ‘Not forgetting,' added Holmes, ‘the remarkable valour of our friend here.'

The Maharajah brought his horse to a halt directly below us and bowed low.

‘Bravo!' Holmes called down from the roof.

‘What of the diamond?'Singh asked. We pointed in the direction of the balloon. ‘Then it is my destiny to follow it,' he returned.

‘We understand,' replied Holmes. But wait, what of Snitterton?'

‘In the hands of the law,' he explained. ‘His attack was rendered harmless by the very simple administration of an Indian Quinine Tonic.' Holmes smiled broadly.

‘His Achilles' Heel!'

‘My associates have promised to deliver him to Scotland Yard.'

‘We are once again in your debt, Maharajah,' said Holmes.

‘Farewell, my friends,' he cried. ‘I fear this will be the last time we meet, but your kindness will never be forgotten.' With that, he turned his steed, snapped the reins and galloped away down the long drive.

‘I wonder,' said Holmes, as we made our way back into the house, ‘if there is any tea to be had? I feel we could all benefit from a pot of Lipton and a slice of fruit pie.' We stepped carefully over the broken glass and down the steps to the upper chamber.

‘Good lord, Holmes,' I shouted as we entered the room. ‘Look over there.' Slumped on the Peacock Throne was the lifeless body of Gustavus Wyndham, his diamond eyes staring into nothing. He had been shot through the heart.

We pulled open the front doors of Hixstead Hall and were met almost immediately by the man Mrs Hudson identified as the gardener. His face was pale with fear.

‘He's nothing but a coward,' she dismissed.

‘And he has no idea how to grow tomatoes,' added Mrs Woodbridge.

‘Summon the local inspector,' Holmes told him, ‘and they may look more favourably on your case. Attempt to flee and things will not go well for you.' We left him running down the drive in the direction of the village.

‘Now,' said Holmes. ‘What do you say to that pot of tea?'

‘A splendid idea,' I agreed, and we proceeded to the kitchen.

TWENTY - The Gift

What have I learned these long years in Holmes' shadow? Surely it is that there is no finer way to spend an afternoon than with a good blend of tobacco and an equally well chosen blend of tea. Perhaps I have also learned that there is no black and white when it comes to the workings of the human soul. The more dealings I have had with men of Scotland Yard and those of the criminal world, the less sure I am of the difference between them. I have witnessed the same qualities in the best inspectors as I have seen in the most notorious of thieves. There is the same delight in their control of each turn of events, the thrill of the chase, the prospect of glory and the pursuit of the prize. Above all, in the best of them, there is a sheer joy in the way they play the game. If the prize was nothing more than a handful of dust or sack of straw, it seems, they would still play with the same vigour.

Holmes himself, I have said on more than one occasion, would have made quite the most fearsome adversary the world could ever face. To watch him break a safe with the same ease you and I open our front door or to slip away into the shadows pursued by twenty men is to recognise his talent for the dark arts. When the coin is thrown that puts a soul on the side of good or on the side of evil, it has equal chance of falling on either. An additional turn of the coin in the air and Holmes would have been the leader of a criminal dynasty and Featherstone, the staunchest ally of Scotland Yard.

I am sometimes asked what keeps me returning to the door of 221b Baker Street. When I have a beautiful, intelligent wife at home, a medical practice that delivers a steady if unspectacular income, why do I continue to put myself into harm's way? The answer is simple; Baker Street is a place where adventures begin. It is a place where the speckled shell of ordinary life breaks away to reveal the bizarre workings beneath. It is a portal into another world. The seventeen steps occasionally lead down to the gates of hell; they also lead up to the doors of paradise, as they did when they led me into the path of Mary Morstan. I have no compunction in admitting that I am a man of limited scope and abilities with no greater than usual charisma; adventure would not normally find me. Without my excursions with Holmes, life would be safer, more regular and more peaceable. It would also be intolerably dull. But if I am pressed, there is another reason that drives me along Baker Street and that is Sherlock Holmes himself. Like the man who becomes obsessed with a great work of art, I am compelled by his company. Each day, I marvel afresh at the glint and gleam of his mind; at the way he looks at the world. I imagine it is like the workers who spent time with Leonardo or Michelangelo. Just to watch them work, to listen to the workings of their minds as one tiny cog meshes with another, is to lose oneself in a world of wonderment.

These are the consolations for dwelling in the life-draining fog of tobacco smoke, the insufferable mess; for enduring the tiresome mood swings and the infernal air of superiority. And yet there is something else too. I return to Baker Street for his friendship; it is hard won, it is testing in the extreme; at times it is barely reciprocated and yet Sherlock Holmes is the dearest friend I have ever had.  

Two days later and Holmes and I were in familiar positions, lounging in leather chairs at 221b Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was recuperating with her sister at the coast and once more we were fending for ourselves. The next day Mary would return from Bath, entirely oblivious of our escapades.

‘Time for another pipe before Gregson arrives?' asked Holmes.

‘I'm afraid not,' I said. ‘I think I hear him now.'

Soon enough the tow-headed Gregson was in our midst, rattling off his questions, some of which would never be fully answered.

‘It's been a damnable affair,' he said, turning his hat slowly in his hands. ‘Naturally, we are grateful for the return of the Timur Ruby. But the loss of the Koh-I-Noor is a dent on the reputation of Scotland Yard from which we may never fully recover. To have it stolen before us renders us fools in the eyes of the public.' He glanced out of the window. ‘Lestrade has taken a leave of absence,' he added, not wholly without pleasure. ‘I'm afraid he's taken it rather personally.' Holmes, who I believe held Lestrade in higher regard than the self-serving Gregson, narrowed his eyes at this remark.

‘Then there is the body count,' Gregson went on. ‘Not inconsiderable, even by your standards; and three of these so called Archangels are still at large.'

‘A regrettable lapse,' agreed Holmes. ‘But I'm certain that you have your best men on it.'

‘Naturally,' said Gregson. He tapped his fingers lightly on the top of his hat.

‘I cannot help but feel, Holmes,' he ventured, a little accusingly. ‘That there is more to this business than meets the eye.'

‘In what sense?'

‘Well, we have Miss Braithwaite in custody as you know. She talks of this Maharajah and believes he has escaped to the continent with the diamond. We happen to know of your visit to his estate. You understand that your special status would afford you no protection if it was discovered that you have abetted him in any way?'

‘We would never seek any special treatment,' Holmes replied calmly. ‘There is a single law and each one of us is subject to it.'

‘Still...' said Gregson.

Holmes rose to his feet with an air of finality. The interview was over.

‘The case, I believe, is closed,' he said, shaking the man's hand. ‘You have work to do, a ruby to return and three villains to locate. Then there must be a mountain of paperwork awaiting you.' Gregson nodded, still clearly unsatisfied with the answers he had received.

‘Perhaps,' suggested Holmes, ‘this will help?' He held up a single bent wire and placed it in the Inspector's hand. ‘It will revolutionise the world of work. It is called: the paperclip.' Gregson stared at the tiny object and then back at our stony faces.

‘Gentlemen,' he said briskly, then put the paperclip in his pocket and returned the hat to his head.

We waited until the door was firmly closed before uttering a word.

‘Now,' said Holmes with a smile. ‘I have been saving a 1865 port for a moment such as this. Would you make it worth opening the bottle?'

‘Certainly,' I replied. He retrieved the vintage from the cabinet along with a pair of glasses.

‘There is just one small errand we need to run in the morning,' he said, toasting my health.

‘Oh, yes?' I asked.

‘We have a diamond to return to Her Majesty the Queen.'I stared at him, dumbfounded.

‘You will recall our audience at the Royal Albert Hall,' he said with a dry laugh, ‘when she was good enough to let us hold the Koh-I-Noor?' I nodded. ‘Well I took the opportunity to switch it with the perfect replica made by our friend Mr Wilberforce. When I asked you to keep my opera glasses safe, you were in fact, in possession of the world's most famous diamond.' He leaned over and picked up the case from the mantelpiece where it had remained since I placed it there. He unbuckled the leather strap and rolled the diamond into his palm.

‘Quite a pebble!' he chortled and sipped at his port.

‘And the Maharajah?'

‘Duleep Singh, who succeeded in capturing our runaway balloon, will go to his grave believing he is in possession of his birthright and in all likelihood, will never know the truth.' I shook my head.

There was another knock at the door.

‘Who is it this time?' I demanded returning my glass to the table. I trotted down the seventeen steps and was met by a tradesman at the door.

‘A delivery for Mr Holmes,' the man said. I signed for the parcel and returned with it upstairs.

‘Anything important?' enquired Holmes.

‘No idea,' I replied, handing it to him.

He carefully untied the string and threw off the brown paper.

Inside was a violin case. A moment later he held in his hands a 1724 Stradivarius and a card inscribed in purple ink:

A gift for Mr Sherlock Holmes, a prince amongst men, from Duleep Singh, last Maharajah of the Sikh Empire.

There was an envelope too, one I recognised from my encounter with Macintosh in Trafalgar Square. My friend slit it open with a silver paper knife and peered inside. It was a photograph; the portrait of Sherlock Holmes and me taken by Singh himself at his house. At the bottom, beneath the image of my friend, Maharajah had written:
The Great Mogul
.

‘But what is the meaning of this?' I asked.

But Holmes was absorbed by his violin. He applied a little resin, picked up the instrument, drew back the bow, closed his eyes and began to play.