Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants (3 page)

Holmes crushed his cigarette into the ash tray like a man putting paid to a bad habit, not that for a moment did I think he would ever give it up. He smoked enough to fumigate a thousand swarms of bees into a lifetime of slumber. As a medical doctor I have cautioned against his excess and yet he ignores my council. Tobacco in all its forms delights the narcissist in him, the actor in him, and it colours his every thought and deed.

My friend peered intently at the reproduction of a portrait of Warren Hastings, the first British Viceroy of India.

‘Well to me it's quite clear who wrote your note,' Holmes declared at last.' Mr Snitterton is the thirteenth fairy who hasn't been invited to the ball.'

‘That much I had divined myself,' said Chatburn with some impatience.

‘I suggest that you make contact with the man and have it out with him. Failing that, I would inform an officer of the law and ask that they pay him a visit.' Chatburn peered at the ground.

‘There is one thing more,' he muttered. ‘You were right about the tie pin. It was the only object missing when I opened up this morning. The ruby elephant was the badge of our society. Some of us had them, others did not. There are eight in existence. To us, they are a mark of rank and prestige. As a prominent member, naturally I had one and prized it above all other things. I kept it in the cabinet you saw downstairs. In terms of intrinsic value, it is not worth much more than the other trinkets you see in my shop. It is well made, naturally. But in terms of what it means, it is priceless beyond measure. You must understand, Mr Holmes, that I am an unmarried man and have no family to speak of. The friendship, the indelible bond between men offered by our society, means everything to me. Without the badge I hardly dare show my face.'

‘Surely they will understand your circumstances,' I put in.

‘Dr Watson, as I made clear, The House of the Ruby Elephant is a society with its own rules and peculiarities. On this point, we are quite strict.' We heard the rain begin to drum on the roof above the attic room.

‘Gentlemen,' Chatburn continued, ‘this Snitterton is not to be trifled with. When he is on your side, no firmer friend could you desire. But turn him against you and he is the perfect devil of a man. I once heard of a young officer who cheated him at cards. The soldier found himself bound at the wrists and ankles in the mountains alone with no food, water and it was only by a miracle that he was rescued by a passing patrol. Snitterton had no qualms about leaving him to the wolves. Mr Holmes, I believe my life is in danger. This note is a warning.'

‘Mr Chatburn,' said Holmes in measured tones. ‘Dr Watson and I will return to Baker Street to consider the matter further. It has certain features of singular interest. You will hear from me by midday tomorrow if we wish to take the case.'

The newspapers had not yet arrived. Unusually, Holmes was already up, pipe lit, and wearing his favourite mouse-coloured dressing gown. Lying open on the table was a volume of his famous Index of Biographies and I did not have to look hard at it to see that it was open at the letter S: Snitterton.

‘Well,' said Holmes with that customary gleam in his eye. ‘I did not hold out much hope of finding our veterinary friend and yet here he is. Born 1835 in Bromley, studied at The Royal Veterinary College in Camden. Specialises in exotic animals. While still a student he saved a leopard and white tiger at London Zoo when all hope had been abandoned.'

‘So how does a cow-doctor end up in India?'

‘It says here that he received a CBE while only 23; he was offered his own choice of post. He probably chose India to get at close quarters with the big beasts.'

‘And what of his human interests?' I enquired.

‘Engaged to the Countess of Salisbury. Called off at the last moment. Received a fine while still in Calcutta for threatening behaviour: dangling a man upside down from a tree a few feet above a starving tiger while on a hunting trip.'

‘Strikes me as a man with a peculiar sense of humour.'

‘Redeems himself by saving the Viceroy's pet elephant which had contracted bluetongue.'

‘Another elephant!' I exclaimed.

‘Ah,' said Holmes retrieving a pencil from his acid stained tabletop, ‘now this is of is singular interest. Returns to England shortly after the death of a servant who was savaged by an Asiatic Lion in the service of the Viceroy. The two matters remain unconnected.'

I picked up the volume and continued to read. ‘It says here he has extraordinary powers of observation, medical deduction, superb reactions and an uncanny empathy with animals.'

‘Sounds a capital fellow,' said Holmes. ‘Now where would we begin to look for him in London?'

I was troubled that night by a strange dream. I was back in uniform in Afghanistan, and found myself, as so many nights before, in the Maiwand Pass during that traumatic battle and retreat of 1880. In the smoke and the chaos, I felt the burning sensation as the Jezail bullet entered, wreaking its terrible havoc on my shoulder, exploding the bone and missing by a hair's width my subclavian artery. I could see Captain Slade and those formidable men of the Royal Horse Artillery as they covered our retreat, knowing full too well that they would soon be overrun.

And yet this time things were different. From my vantage point, across the pack horse upon which Murray, my orderly, had thrown me, I saw the Afghans begin to fall back. I saw a look of horror and fear on the faces as they abandoned their weapons, turned on their heels and fled. Despite the horrible pain I began to laugh at the astounding turn of events. Who or what had intervened in our favour? It was then I heard the trumpeting, the thunder of feet and saw the dust clouds as eight elephants charged the Afghan lines. They were an unnatural hue: a devilish shade of red, with burning white eyes, as if they had stormed straight through the gates of hell.

I found myself being shaken awake. It was with some relief that I saw it was my old friend Sherlock Holmes staring kindly back at me.

‘Chasing phantoms again, Watson?'

‘Just a dream, old fellow. I am frightfully sorry if I woke you.'

‘Not at all,' Holmes assured me. ‘I didn't hear a thing.'

‘Then what's all this about? What's the time?'

‘A quarter to three in the morning,' Holmes informed me, as if this was a perfectly reasonable hour to rouse a man from his bed. I noticed he was fully dressed, his coat hung loosely around his shoulders. From the nutty vapours, I could tell that he had already smoked his first pipe of the day. ‘I'm embarking on a small expedition if you would care to join me.'

Five minutes later, I had climbed into some day clothes and splashed cold water on my face.

‘I hope this is worth it, Holmes,' I muttered as we tiptoed down the steps to avoid waking our neighbour's cocker spaniel, or worse still, Mrs Hudson.

‘You said it was a dull dream,' Holmes countered. ‘And anyway, with a bit of luck we'll be back in time for kippers and coffee at seven. I've left a note with Mrs Hudson to have them ready on our return.'

A hansom was waiting for us on the corner. The driver's face was hidden in shadow and he gave no greeting. The minute we were inside, he shook the reins and we were away, flashing like a black phantom down the road. We saw barely a soul, just a solitary drunk performing a slow waltz down Marylebone Road and a single constable on silent patrol. The street lamps flickered like the dreams of a million sleeping Londoners.

We darted along several rat runs and largely kept away from the main streets. At one point we bumped along cobbles and I caught a glimpse of Paddington Street Gardens; however, the unusual choice of route, combined with the darkness of the hour, finally succeeded in throwing my sense of direction.

‘Where in heaven's name are we heading?' I demanded of Holmes, but he refused to be drawn.

‘Now it is the time of night,' my friend recited, his eyes twinkling, ‘that the graves all gaping wide, everyone lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide.'

I was astonished then, to find ourselves once again in Queen Street, pulling up just short of the jeweller's shop we had visited the previous afternoon.

Holmes leapt out of the cab, his cloak flapping like a bat's wings about him. I followed him, taking a moment to drop some coins into the palm of our mysterious driver. Holmes rarely dealt in small change himself as I had learnt to my cost.

‘Now Watson, my dear Watson,' whispered Holmes. ‘Are you ready once again to trust me with your life?'

‘What makes this occasion any different from the others?' I answered.

‘Then you must do exactly what I say. This is not a moment for initiative or originality, do you understand?' I was flattered that Holmes believed I was capable of either.

We stood outside the dim, unlit shop a moment, while Holmes scanned the environs left and right for any sign of life. A lamp flickered at the end of the street casting its shadow across the road. ‘Right,' he said, satisfying himself we were alone, ‘follow me.'

Holmes whipped around to face the wall and placed a hand on the cold, grey stone. Reaching up, he hauled himself a foot off the ground.

‘Ready for a little night climbing, Watson?'

I had heard of this form of urban mountaineering, which was said to be practised by athletic gentleman in our more exclusive universities. However, never once had I felt the inclination to try it for myself.

‘Come along, Watson,' urged Holmes, ‘it's far easier than it looks.'

Soon we were both twelve feet up, sidling along a thin stone ledge. The street appeared to be several miles below. Holmes had attached himself to a drainpipe and was using it as a support to reach the second floor window. I followed suit and joined him, a little breathless, on the window sill. For a moment we stood like two petrified saints high up over the London street. Holmes pressed a finger to his lips then pointed upwards. I rolled my eyes.

My friend stepped out to his left into what appeared to be thin air. However I deduced that he had once again employed the drain pipe, this time to swing himself around the corner of the building. Once again, I did the same, with no real sense of what I would find on the other side. The answer was very little indeed. I found a small protruding brick onto which to plant a foot and another to cling to with my fingertips. There was no sign of Holmes. The night was warm; a slight breeze ruffled my shirt. For a terrible moment I believed he had fallen, characteristically without a sound so as not to place me in jeopardy. Surely not! I searched frantically in the darkness and with a sense of monumental relief recognised my friend's pale, thin features lurking in the shadows.

I joined Holmes in an alcove, making my position safe by lodging myself between the two brick walls. I dimly recollected that in climbing circles, this manoeuvre was called chimneying. We smoked in silence side by side and although I have enjoyed tobacco in more relaxed circumstances, it was given an extra frisson by the inherent danger of our precarious perch. I watched the blue-white smoke coil upwards as if a snake was being charmed from its basket.

We continued our ascent, walking our way up the walls until we were level with the third floor. Suddenly Holmes froze. His hearing, keener than mine, had detected something. Sure enough, there were footsteps approaching and below us I saw a constable on his beat, walking in that particular measured and vigilant sort of manner unique to officers of the law. He was looking to his left and right as part of his natural gait.

Holmes responded by entering a zen-like state. If I did not know better, I would have said that by some miraculous means he had managed to stop his heart beating and his lungs performing their vital work. To my horror, it was at this moment that a coin, which I had held back from the driver of our hansom, in part due to his rather offhand manner, managed to work its way out of my pocket. I heard it drop to the street and land on the pavement with a sound like a dinner gong. The constable stopped immediately. He shot a glance behind him. He performed a slow 360 degree turn and then walked to the source of the noise. The coin gleamed in the moonlight. The constable picked it up and examined it between thumb and forefinger as if he had never seen one before. All he had to do was raise his head and he would find us hanging above him like a pair of ravens roosting in a tower. But luck was on our side. He looked in every direction except up. Pocketing the coin, he had evidently convinced himself that it was his after all.

We were untroubled again until we reach the roof. Here we found that an athletic twist was required to swing ourselves up onto the final stone ledge supporting the guttering. Already I was feeling dizzy from the altitude, the nervous encounter with the constable and the unexplained nature of the visit. However I had been in stranger spots with Holmes and the cards had invariably fallen in our favour. I had no choice but to trust him.

Holmes is a man of extraordinary paradoxes. One moment, he is akin to a convalescing patient, pallid of skin, listless and apparently without energy. He can languish in his armchair, consuming nothing more nourishing that Persian tobacco with the look of a man who has died in his sleep. At other times, he exhibits an extraordinary vitality, no doubt the secret behind his effortless mastery of several branches of martial arts and the marvellous strength that allows him to bend metals and bring men twice his weight to the ground. I have never quizzed him on these contradictory states; however, it is clear that he has hidden reserves that may be drawn upon in extremis. It was from these reserves that Holmes drew to make an extraordinary leap onto the roof. In a moment, my friend was peering down at me, proffering a gloved hand. I accepted gratefully and at last, like two alpine adventurers, we found ourselves at the summit.

There was a narrow indentation in the building that ran from the pavement to the roof: surely just a whimsy of the builder for it appeared to serve no practical purpose. And it was in this that Holmes had lodged himself, his back pressed up against one side, his feet planted on the other and nothing but fresh air beneath him. His arms were folded as if he was seated in an armchair at the Reform Club.