Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants (7 page)

‘Then perhaps the Diogenes Club?' I put in, recalling that this was Mycroft's principal haunt.

Mycroft and Holmes both peered at me with a mixture of contempt and disapproval.

‘You will remember Watson,' scolded Holmes, ‘that the Diogenes has particular rules, the salient one being that no one may speak within its walls, except in the Strangers' Room, which is hardly inviting.

‘Then may I suggest the patisserie on the corner?' drawled Mycroft. ‘They serve an excellent cream horn and I challenge any man in London to defy their éclair.'

‘A capital idea, Mycroft,' proclaimed Holmes. ‘Lead on!'

I gazed in wonder at the mountain of pastries before Mycroft. An enormous napkin billowed beneath his chin as he prepared for the task ahead. He gave it a little tug to check it was securely fastened in the same way a yachtsman might check his sail before attempting to circumnavigate the world.

‘And how is Her Majesty's Government?' Holmes enquired.

‘As a matter of fact,' his brother replied, ‘I am engaged in a delicate matter myself, upon which I would value your opinion. We are about to cede a British possession to a foreign power. The flag is to be returned to Great Britain and there are conflicting ideas about what to do with it. The Prime Minister is minded to have it burned and the ashes scattered in the North Sea. The Home Secretary believes it should be kept in The British Museum. The Foreign Secretary is determined to have it made into a suit for him to wear during meetings with governors of British Protectorates who are causing us difficulty.'

Mycroft took a huge bite from the end of an éclair and a great blob of cream dropped to his plate. ‘I would be grateful for your own views.' It was impossible to know whether this was some attempt from Mycroft at humour. His expression was entirely inscrutable and presently he returned his attention to his pastry.

‘The matter is simple,' said Holmes at length. ‘The flag should be folded carefully and kept in the foreign office until Heligoland is returned to the British Empire. A large piece of éclair shot out of Mycroft's mouth and landed on the next table. His eyes bulged and his cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

‘Need I remind you Sherlock, that this is an entirely secret matter of state! How the devil did you discover the name of the possession?'

‘Anyone who reads The Times once a week could make the same educated guess. And besides your splendid new cuff links are German made; I am guessing they are the gift of a German diplomat who has grown generous in anticipation of its new acquisition. Mycroft recovered himself.

‘With a little practice, Sherlock,' he said with a wry smile, ‘you will make a passable detective.' He glanced across the half empty café for eavesdroppers. ‘Now what is it can do for you?'

Holmes produced a notebook upon which he had scribbled the contents of Wimpole's suicide note. He also outlined the general points of the case: how we had learned from the previous notes that the teacher was infatuated with his brilliant student. My friend also sketched, in some considerable detail, the unpleasant state in which the body was found. Mycroft listened dispassionately to the details, looking for all the world as though he was listening to someone reading a weather report. ‘Well,' said Mycroft dabbing cream from his chin, ‘there are two possible explanations. Either this is a genuine note, or...'

‘Yes?' I urged.

‘Or,' he repeated casting me a reproving look, ‘he is attempting to communicate with us from beyond the grave.'

‘Beyond the grave?' I ejaculated.

A waitress clearing plates at the next table gave a small gasp and a fork clattered to the floor.

‘Control yourself, Watson,' urged Holmes. ‘Go on, Mycroft, you have interested me exceedingly.'

“‘
All the beauty has vanished from the world.
' Mycroft muttered, reading over the line. ‘He has lost something of immeasurable worth. Well, that could be read either way: the loss of the violinist's affections or something else of immeasurable worth. The answer is in the next line. “
The jewel of my eye has been taken from me. Nothing can replace it.
” This could of course be interpreted in the metaphorical sense, but we know he was no poet. So let us suppose for a moment he is not referring to Miss Braithwaite. Let us suppose he is referring to an object; the Stradivarius for instance. “
All art, all hope, all love has gone. I will go now to the mountain of light. Only there will you find the truth.”'
Ah,' professed Mycroft. ‘Here is where it becomes more difficult.'

‘Yes,' sighted Holmes. ‘My own reasoning had taken me to a similar point.'

‘Difficult,' said Mycroft, raising a finger, ‘but not entirely opaque.'

My friend's eyes gleamed.

‘He mentions the word jewel in the previous sentence for a reason. The only jewel I know with that name is the Koh-I-Noor.'

Holmes clapped a hand to his forehead.

‘What a glock I have been!' he cried. ‘Watson, I have been as gulpy as a schoolgirl. The Koh-I-Noor. It means mountain of light!' I stared at the brilliant brothers and inevitably felt somewhat dim-witted in their company. I was aware of the famous gem, but I remained confused.

‘But what possible significance could this have?'

‘Unless I am very much mistaken,' said Holmes, summoning the bill, ‘someone is planning to steal the diamond. Find the thief and we will find the murderer.'

‘But it has not yet been stolen?'

‘Rest assured it will be.'

‘Then we must also warn the Queen!' I cried.

‘There should be no cause for alarm. We must let time do its work!'

SIX - The Confectioner

After a magnificent lunch of sardines and an 1884 vintage claret, Holmes was housed once again in his favourite leather chair. He was absorbed in a periodical from The Royal Institute of Chemistry, while disappearing like a stage magician in a fog of his own tobacco smoke.

‘Do you have any fixed views,' my friend enquired, ‘on the question of stereochemistry?'

‘None at all,' I remarked. ‘I am a perfect blank on the subject.'

‘Think of it then, as the relative distances between atoms in a molecule. Compare it for example,' he said, tapping the bowl of his pipe gently, ‘with the variable distances between you and I, and Mrs Hudson downstairs. Together we make up our household, just as atoms make up a molecule. At any one moment our whereabouts can be plotted on a three dimensional model. We would never inhabit exactly the same coordinates twice.'

‘Oh I don't know about that Holmes,' I countered. ‘For instance, you are prone to muse at length in your chair, whereas I am likely to be found at the window, pondering the comings and goings of the street, the perambulations of the flower girls and businessmen.'

‘Ah, yes,' agreed Holmes. ‘An estimable point, but you have not factored in the constant motion of Mrs Hudson, who occupies the same space for little more than a second at any given time.'

‘And what is the possible significance?'

‘Her movements, as the third in our triumvirate, give the whole an entirely distinct signature.'

‘I am not certain I have divined the upshot,' I confessed.

‘Nor am I,' my friend conceded, refilling his pipe bowl in much the same way that a squirrel restocks a tree cavity with nuts for the winter. ‘And yet the unique signature of any given object, animate or inanimate, at any given moment, would make the work of detection a matter for the chemist rather than the policeman.' The smoke curled above him, as it would a genie newly emerged from his bottle.

‘With the exception of yourself, Holmes,' I ventured, ‘I have yet to see a scientist leap through a window clutching a Webley Bulldog,' Holmes managed a thin smile then cast the periodical to one side.

Following our scientific exchange, Holmes grew increasingly restless. He paced the room, once or twice took up his violin, drew back the bow and played a desultory bar of some mournful air before laying it down again. Opening a volume from his Index of Biographies, he searched for an entry, then, evidently failing to find his man, snapped it shut again. He made repeated forays to the Persian slipper for tobacco as if he was stoking the hungry firebox of a locomotive on the Great Western Railway.

‘Excuse me gentlemen,' said Mrs Hudson. ‘I can see you are engaged in important matters.'

Holmes raised an eyebrow.  

‘A Miss Peaceheart calling for you, doctor,' she said.  

Holmes and I exchanged a glance.

‘A patient of yours?' asked Holmes.

‘Show her in,' I instructed.

A small pretty woman with a white, leonine face appeared in the doorway, dressed in the black and white costume of a shop assistant.

‘Oh, doctor,' she stammered, struggling to get her words out. ‘You need to come straight away. It's father.'

‘Mr Peaceheart. Yes, I remember, the confectioner on Berwick Street. What seems to be the matter?' I asked.

‘We're afraid he's losing his mind,' she said.

‘What symptoms?' I demanded.

‘He's giving away stock, for nothing! Mother's tried to lock the door, but he won't have it!'

‘Care to join me, Holmes?' I asked, retrieving my hat. ‘From the sounds of it, you will at least receive half a pound of clear gums for your trouble.'

‘Certainly,' replied Holmes.

We thumped down Oxford Street in a brougham, Miss Peaceheart anxiously clutching a handkerchief throughout the journey. ‘Our family as you know has been away for some time. We only returned to reopen the business last year. He has not been himself,' she explained, ‘not by any stretch.'

A crowd was already assembled on the corner of Berwick Street and we drew to a halt beside a group of grubby looking boys in short trousers sitting on the curb with a gleeful look on their faces.

‘Chocolate, sir!' one of them cried, his cheeks and chin smeared with the stuff. ‘More chocolate than you've ever seen!' Another's pockets were overflowing with fruit pips, bulls' eyes and pear drops. Each boy was in a happy trance, his eyes perfectly glazed over.

Holmes stepped smartly past them and parted the crowd in a masterful manner.

‘Doctor coming though!' he cried, ‘stand back there!'

It is my positive belief that besides an alternative career as one of the world's greatest villains, Holmes would have been a great commander of men. He had an unswerving belief in his own judgement and an ability to impress his character upon any situation.

The scene that greeted us at the shop front was like something directly from the Vaudeville stage.

Mr Peaceheart, a small, slack-cheeked, balding gentleman was standing on a stool with a jar of humbugs under his arm. He was scattering them into the crowd as if feeding the ducks. His wife was attached to one of his legs, partly to prevent him from toppling to the floor and partly in an effort to bring him down from his perch.

‘Another jar, Mrs Peaceheart,' he cried. ‘Another jar!'

His daughter, whom we had ushered through the crowd with us, looked on, quite bewildered.

‘I am not afraid to say,' she confessed, ‘that before today, he was one of the meanest men I have ever known. And I say that as his loving daughter!'

‘Mr Peaceheart,' I shouted above the throng. ‘I'm a doctor! Would you give me a moment?'

‘Can't you see, doctor,' he replied, without breaking away from the disposal of his livelihood, ‘that I have important work to do?' He hurled an entire jar's worth of pineapple cubes into the air, most of which landed in a sheet held out by some enterprising urchins.

‘I'd very much like to speak with you now,' I called back. A handful of Tom Thumb Drops dropped into the brim of my bowler hat while a cloud of sherbet, like dandruff, gathered at my shoulders. The clamour grew more intense and the crowd was plainly beginning to swell as word spread.

‘Can't you do something?' his daughter implored.

Holmes, I noticed, was studying the man with a look of great intensity.

‘Watson,' he said. ‘I am going to make a citizen's arrest.'

‘You can't possibly, Holmes,' I called back. ‘It's not illegal to give away humbugs!'

‘I believe this to be the murderer of Ignatius Wimpole.' I stared at him, astonished.

‘On what possible evidence?'

‘I'll explain later,' said Holmes and reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his Webley police revolver and fired a shot into the air.

The effect was instantaneous. The crowd, maddened by sugar, dispersed at speed, leaving a trail of liquorice sticks, aniseed balls and black toffees on the streets in its wake.

Mr Peaceheart was left standing on his chair in the doorway like a politician without a crowd.

‘But we still have so much left!' he cried.

‘Mr Peaceheart,' commanded Holmes. ‘Step down from that chair or the next shot will pierce your heart. Watson, would you be so good as to find a police constable? Send word to Inspector Gregson to meet us here.'

Half an hour later, we were inside the shop with the door firmly shut. Gregson was pacing the room, sucking thoughtfully on a rhubarb and custard.

‘Perhaps you could tell us, Mr Peaceheart, what you were doing on the evening of the 16
th
July?'

‘He was here with me,' Mrs Peaceheart interjected.

‘Is that true, Mr Peaceheart,' Gregson persisted.

‘I have no idea,' the stout confectioner muttered, his arms folded.

‘Have you ever heard of a man called Ignatius Wimpole?'

I have no idea,' he repeated, then started to laugh.

‘Do share the joke,' growled Gregson irritably.

Peaceheart's laugh grew louder, then more shrill, until it was clear he was now sobbing.

‘Get a grip, man,' said the inspector, but the shopkeeper was clearly beyond our help and now in a hysterics. ‘I think it best,' Gregson said, ushering the wife and daughter to the door, ‘that we take your husband into our temporary care for his own safety.'

‘What is it you think my husband has done?' she cried.

‘I'm sure this is simply a misunderstanding,' I said. ‘Now perhaps a cup of tea?'

Holmes was unusually quiet on the way back to Baker Street.

‘Did the confectioner look familiar to you?'

‘Of course he did,' I admitted, ‘he was my patient.'

‘When was the last time you saw him?'

‘Two years ago?'

‘You disappoint me,' said Holmes lightly. ‘Well, let's try something else. Did you notice anything unusual about his house?'

‘There was a pair of crossed elephant tusks on the wall.'

‘Bravo!'

‘A little exotic for the back kitchen off a tradesman off Oxford Street, don't you think?'

‘Yes, I suppose it is.'

‘Now think back to our midnight climbing adventure. It took me a moment, but now I am quite certain. I believe that our Mr Peaceheart was sitting directly to the left of Mr Chatburn at the meeting of the House of the Ruby Elephant.'

‘No!'

‘I am quite certain.'

I now registered his voice, clearly, as one of the speakers at the meeting of that sinister club.

‘I do believe you're right, Holmes.'

‘You sound surprised! There is one thing more,' he added. ‘He was also one of the men who attempted to sell me the emu feathers in the factory.' I stared at my friend, dumbfounded.

‘A double agent!' I cried.

‘So it would seem.'

‘Then he is working for Snitter-'

‘Or Chatburn,' added Holmes.

‘But why are you so certain that he is the murderer of Ignatius Wimpole?'

‘Do you remember the white powder we found in his apartment?'

‘Yes,' I confirmed.

‘Lemon sherbert,' said Holmes.

As we turned into Baker Street, I noticed four smartly dressed men standing together on the corner, locked in close discussion. They were wore identical black tail coats, top hats and walking canes.

‘What do you make of those gentlemen, Holmes. Lawyers or stockbrokers?'

Holmes peered at them.

‘Neither,' he declared. ‘I believe they are mercenaries. Private soldiers; former military men, trained at Her Majesty's expense. See how they stand in conference, four square, with their hands clasped behind them like officers before a battle.'

‘Really Holmes,' I said, dropping my newspaper to my lap and surveying the pandemonium that was our room. ‘It's years since I've seen the rug. Do you think we ought to have a clear out?'

My friend appeared not to have heard me. He was picking his way gingerly across a mine field of correspondence, bundles of notes and towers of old cuttings to the coat scuttle where he kept his cigars.

‘What do you say to a good American cigar, Watson? There is a choice of a Kentucky Cardinal or an Uncle Bob's Satisfaction.'

‘And what do we have to celebrate?' I demanded. ‘We have a dead violinist and a confectioner who has lost his mind. It feels like we're making precious little progress.'

‘We're making excellent progress, Watson!'

‘Now let me give you the latest in the Tranby Croft affair,' said Holmes raising a white hot piece of charcoal from the fireplace and touching it to the end of his cigar. The case has aroused my curiosity although I believe it has not yet made the papers.

‘A colonel has been caught cheating at baccarat at a house party. He had been invited at the invitation of the Prince of Wales himself and was foolish enough to get caught red handed. A pact of secrecy was made to save his honour in exchange for a solemn vow that he would never play again. I was called myself to the house to investigate at the request of the prince himself.'

‘Holmes, you are an utter mystery to me,' I said, accepting the repulsive American cigar despite myself. I cannot remember you mentioning this.'

‘You will recall I said I had a small matter to attend to in the north?'

‘I remember that,' I mused, thinking back. ‘I believed that was to assist an inspector in the East Riding of Yorkshire with the Case of the One Legged Vicar.'

‘I attended to that at the same time.'

‘Holmes, it seems impossible to me that I am your closest confidant and yet I feel I know next to nothing about you. You are a closed book.'

‘Watson,' mused Holmes wreathed in a mellow balm of smoke. ‘A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.'

I peered at him.

‘Is that you or Shakespeare?'

‘Cassius,' said Holmes.

‘So what did you do?'

‘I instructed them to say nothing but continue to play as planned the following evening, stationing observers at discreet angles to the colonel. He was quite clearly seen topping up his stake. It was my suggestion that the colonel should sign a declaration stating that he will never again gamble in polite society, to preserve his reputation, though in my heart I knew it would get out. The prince is greatly troubled by it and I fear he himself will be summoned as a witness.

‘Impossible!' I cried.

‘Just you wait, Watson.'