Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants (4 page)

‘Care to join me?' invited Holmes.

He proffered another pair of cigarettes and I gratefully accepted one.

‘I'm not expecting a lamplighter at this hour,' he said. ‘Do you have a flame?'

‘Well,' I said, feeling something like Nelson himself standing over London. ‘Have I earned an explanation yet, or am I to assume that London's greatest detective has finally turned to the very devilment which he has hitherto vowed to destroy?'

‘Not quite!' Holmes said. ‘But your answer is just moments away.'

As fleet as an alley cat, Holmes hopped across the tiles and headed for a small elevated window. I followed him on all fours, a little less keen to risk my life on loose tiles and gravity. I finally caught up with Holmes at the window, which he was attempting to raise.

‘As I thought, Watson,' my friend muttered, ‘it is quite secure.' For a moment, I felt that Holmes had discovered a flaw in his plan, without caring to admit it to me. ‘This leaves just one other possibility.' With a short jump he arrived at the foot of the chimney and pressed his hands to the surface, as if testing for a loose brick.

‘Watson,' he hissed, with a triumphant look, ‘fortune favours the brave.'

When I finally reached the chimney myself, I found that my friend had once again disappeared. The rooftops of London are a ghostly sight at night; I imagined them dispatching the thoughts of the sleeping masses into the clouds. At once I felt a terrible melancholy and utterly alone. It was strange that this man, so cold in disposition, so cool minded and cerebral in his dealings now proved so indispensable to me. I heard the scraping of bricks and there was a chink of light.

‘Will you join me?' a familiar voice enquired. The opening grew wider, and with a little discomfort I managed to squeeze myself through the aperture.

I emerged in the attic room and saw my friend already seated in one of the chairs around the long table, reading by the light of a single candle. It was only once safely inside that I realised that I had clambered directly through the painting of The Viceroy of India. I examined the frame and saw to my astonishment that the canvas was held on an elastic catch and could be rolled back and forward as required. It snapped back into position as soon as I was through.

‘Ingenious!' I exclaimed.

‘Perfectly simple,' said Holmes. ‘An old magician's trick.'

‘But how did you know this was the way in? We barely spent a minute here yesterday.'

‘Again, this can be explained with the utmost ease,' Holmes replied, laying down his piece of paper. ‘To begin with, I noticed on the exterior of the building black scuff marks on the brickwork, which could not explained by anything other than the toe or heel of a gym shoe. It is the safest way to climb the exterior of a building and always favoured by members of the illicit climbing fraternities of our great universities.'

‘Yet we didn't wear any such shoes,' I put in.

‘Which is precisely why we found it so difficult,' Holmes admitted. ‘Besides, I wanted to prove that it was possible without the right footwear, the reasons for which will become clear.'

‘And the painting?'

‘The painting I had no idea about,' Holmes conceded. ‘I merely knew there had to be a means of entry somewhere from the roof. We may well just have arrived through the mouth of that fearsome Bengali Tiger over there on the wall.' It was reassuring to hear that my friend could still surprise himself from time to time.

Given the early hour and the excitement of the morning so far, I felt a strong desire for a cup of cocoa. Holmes appeared to understand the cause of my agitation.

‘Not long now Watson,' he said.

‘Not long until what?'

‘The start of the meeting,' he replied.

THREE - The Meeting

I stared at Holmes in disbelief.

‘The meeting is due to begin in ten minutes,' he explained calmly, ‘which gives us precisely nine minutes to find somewhere suitable to conceal ourselves and attend the meeting as uninvited guests. I have a copy of the minutes of the last one. Chatburn was careless enough to leave them lying around, which furnished me with the relevant details.'

‘But what do we possibly have to gain from such an imposition?'

‘I have reason to believe that Chatburn is not telling us everything about The House of the Ruby Elephant or its curious activities.'

I considered the matter, then scanned the room.

‘I had pre-selected this trunk for you,' my friend advised, as if I was the prospective purchaser of a delightful new home. ‘I believe it to be sufficiently large and well ventilated to prevent suffocation.'

‘That is reassuring,' I remarked, ‘and what of your accommodation?'

‘I will be hidden beneath the cloth of this low table.'

‘Let us hope then,' I said with resignation, ‘that the chairman keeps the business brisk.'

‘Indeed!' Holmes beamed.

The next hour was simultaneously the most uncomfortable and astonishing of my life. While the trunk was roomy enough, as my friend had predicted, it had a peculiar musky smell that I could not quite put my finger on. It was not by any means unbearable, but it made my breathing rather laboured and succeeded in bringing on a headache. My legs were folded beneath me and it was while I was still adjusting their position that I heard the door open and the sound of low muffled voices. I detected the scent of cigar smoke as others entered the room.

Soon a man called his fellow members to order. I will not trouble you with the minutes of the entire meeting, and in this capacity, no doubt the secretary of the society did his job with admirable diligence. However, these would not have captured the strange atmosphere at the start of the gathering, which to my ears were more akin to the beginning of a voodoo ritual than a meeting of professionals. I heard what appeared to be someone humming a low, sustained note like a man attempting to tune a piano without the aid of a tuning fork. The voice was joined by another, at the same pitch. If there had been more musicality to the performance, I might have taken them for a male voice choir warming up for an evening of Monteverdi, which would have made Holmes and me feel very foolish indeed. The sound swelled to a cacophony, making the lock of the trunk rattle. I was almost certain at this point that this was indeed a musical company, and thought for a moment about revealing myself. Surely a fulsome apology and a firm handshake would have sufficed.

It was then that I heard Chatburn declaiming above the racket, in a voice filled with affected mysticism:

‘By the two lamps of the sun and moon, and in the blood of Prince Nizam, I declare open this meeting of The House of The Ruby Elephant!' It was rather overdone, I felt, and smacked of amateur dramatics. I knew that Holmes would be similarly scathing about the performance. Then a chill ran through me:

‘If there are enemies amongst us, let them show themselves now, or we seek them out and drain them of their God-light.' I shut my eyes, almost expecting the lid of the trunk to be flipped open. I felt entirely protective of my God-light.

‘Then let us begin,' Chatburn finished. I expelled the remaining air in my lungs.

‘What news of Snitterton?' a voice came in.

‘Yes Jack, what news?' came another, rather more prosaically. I puzzled at the name.

‘Still at large. But I have taken steps. You will have heard of the great detective, Sherlock Holmes? I have engaged him to seek out Snitterton on our behalf. Where we have failed, Holmes will surely succeed. I provided a simple clue that will send him on a chase across London. Once he delivers him to us, we will finish him.'

‘Naturally, Chatburn,' came a voice of authority, we are all concerned that Snitterton is gathering his forces. We have heard that he has sworn vengeance on us all.'

‘And yet,' came yet another, ‘It is you, Jack, with whom he has his grievance. What say you to squaring up to him, man to man, eh? Get this thing over with.'

‘I wish,' said Chatburn wistfully, ‘I only wish it was that simple. You heard the curse he placed on our order as he left. No man can lift such a curse, not even I.'

The room broke into a flurry of conversation. I heard the strike of matches and the sloshing of drinks.

‘Order, brothers, order,' Chatburn called. ‘Mr Smyth, would you care to furnish us with what we know of Snitterton's plans?'

‘Of course, Mr Chairman,' came a low voice I had not yet heard. There was the sound of chair legs grinding backwards as he rose to his feet. Some heavy steps worked their way around the room, coming slowly towards me. Clearly this was a man of some size and stature.

‘Brothers, this news came to me from an acquaintance, who has neither the wit nor the inclination to lie. Snitterton has formed a society of his own: The Order of the Sapphire Butterfly.'

‘Sounds somewhat derivative,' a voice chipped in.

‘Think what you will,' rebuked Smyth. ‘He has already signaled his intention. No doubt you will have heard of the elephant that escaped from the London Zoological Gardens. I believe the elephant was drugged with a powerful stimulant that sent it mad and out into the streets. With Snitterton's knowledge of animal medicine, such a stunt was easy enough.'

Once more, the room broke into a mutinous fray, before Chatburn called them again to order.

‘Brothers, please!' A relative hush descended, before a dissenting voice called out:

‘Who will be next? You, Ignatius? How about you, Peaceheart?'

‘Gentlemen. Here is my pledge: that before the week is out, Snitterton will be out of the picture for good.'

The meeting proceeded in varying degrees of audibility while my confinement become increasingly uncomfortable. Try as I might, I failed to glean the purpose of the society, precisely what role Chatburn held or the common interest that bound them together. I hoped Holmes had divined something more useful than I.

Just as the blood had drained entirely from the lower half of my legs, the meeting drew to a close. Once more the strange humming filled the room and Chatburn's incantations were every bit as ridiculous as those which began the meeting: ‘You who wait for the sun to set on the sea, the rain to fall on the desert, the day to pass in the hills; wait for the hour of the elephant. Hathhee, in the hour of the setting sun we honour and salute thee.'

‘We honour and salute thee,' the other members chorused.

The chairs scraped again and the conversation turned to general matters; I heard more than one yawn, excusable given the early hour, and within ten minutes, the last of them had gone. Still I dared not move. Who was to say a house servant or even Chatburn himself would not return to empty the ashtrays?

Presently I heard a light knock on the lid of the trunk and before I had time to panic, the lid lifted to reveal Sherlock Holmes. He peered down at me, folded as I was, like a spider in a matchbox.

‘I fancy you are ready to be posted to West Bengal, Dr Watson.'

‘I would prefer that to our other exit options,' I replied ruefully, uncoiling myself and testing my weight on a leg.

‘A most enlightening meeting, wouldn't you say?'

‘I'm not entirely sure, Holmes,' I said honestly. ‘In fact I would go as far to say that I am perhaps less enlightened than when we arrived.'

‘My dear Watson,' Holmes assured me. ‘All will be revealed in a moment. But as for now, there is something else.' Holmes strode to the other side of the room where a large cabinet stood and thick curtains covered much of the dark wood. ‘Would it surprise you very much if I told you we are not alone?' With a magician's flourish, he tore down the curtain to reveal the shadowed form of a tall man.

I staggered out of the trunk and shambled a few steps forward. My mind reeled; filled with horror and incomprehension.

‘Would you care to step into the light, Mr Snitterton?' my friend invited.

Dutifully, like Frankenstein's monster, the man loomed towards us. Snitterton was a great beast of a man; forty, black bearded with shoulders like Atlas and a livid purple birthmark that pulsed angrily on his neck. He was wearing a rich blue jacket in the military style, with a white silk shirt. He had the curious air of a circus strongman, slightly dandyish and with a fierce intelligence. His eyes blazed like hot coals and his high, wide forehead was red with fury. Like us, he was pearled with sweat from his confinement and he clenched and unclenched his fists as if to mirror his shallow breathing.

‘You have made a sorry mistake, Mr Sherlock Holmes,' the man growled. ‘You are mixed up in a business beyond your limits and jurisdiction.'

‘I am beholden to neither,' Holmes returned curtly.

‘I would dare say your ignorant friend Dr Watson here has more sense than you in this matter.' I bristled somewhat at this backhanded compliment, but was more preoccupied by the pins and needles creeping up my legs, denying them of their ability to hold me upright. I crashed forward, unwittingly toppling the giant, who quickly scrambled to his feet.

‘First class, Watson!' my friend applauded. ‘A magnificent opening salvo.' Holmes adopted a stance I had seen before, something he practised during long evenings at 221b Baker Street, especially when we were without a case. His legs were set akimbo, bent at the knees. His left arm was down in anticipation of a blow from the taller man. Above his head, he held a poker, which he had produced seemingly out of nowhere.

He parried Snitterton's first blow and then slid lithely beneath him so the man rolled over Holmes' back, with barely any contact being made. Once more, Snitterton found himself on the floor.

‘Perhaps our friend is unfamiliar with the art of bartitsu,' Holmes chided. Snitterton growled, again picking himself up before hurling himself at Holmes, this time with a revolver in his hand. In an instant, Holmes had sent his cane spinning like a blurred bicycle wheel, which succeeded in knocking the weapon from Snitterton's hand and snapping his fingers at the same time. The fiend emitted a howl like a dog whose paw had been caught beneath a shoe and he reeled backwards - far enough for Holmes to place a jab directly onto his jaw. Snitterton's thoughts now had turned to flight and he glanced at the picture of the Viceroy, clearly aware of what lay behind it.

‘Quick, Watson,' my friend urged, ‘he's at the twenty two yard line. Bring him down!'

I tackled as best I could, but the feeling had still not entirely returned to my legs. We both watched aghast as Snitterton ran at the painting of Warren Hastings and crashed directly through it, leaving the Viceroy in ribbons. We ran to the empty frame and peered beyond as the morning light filled the room. The roof slates reflected the brilliance and we squinted out beyond them and down onto the cobbles. Either he had slipped to his death or else made a miraculous escape across the rooftops. There was the sound of feet coming up the stairs, no doubt Chatburn come to investigate the commotion.

‘I think,' said Holmes, ‘that we would be wise to follow suit.' We scrambled through the painting and out, once more into the wilds of London.

‘Three nil!' Holmes exclaimed. ‘Really my dear Watson, you must do better.' I glared at the great detective, the lid of a cigar box gripped in my hand, before retrieving the champagne cork that had ricocheted off the table into the corner of the room.

It was Holmes' idea to revive our occasional sporting rivalry with a game of ping-pong. We played in the manner my friends and I had pioneered in the officer's mess in Afghanistan; that it is to say, to line up a pile of cheap novels in the centre of the dining room table and wallop a makeshift cork ball over the top. It was generally first class fun, but of late Holmes' game had improved no end and I rather suspected that he had been getting in some private practice.

It was late afternoon by the time Holmes and I had reconvened. After a perilous dash across three rooftops, a leap onto the roof of a Greek restaurant next door and a necessarily speedy descent down the drainpipe at the rear of the premises, we had lost no time returning to 221b Baker Street. After a pair of kippers courtesy of the inestimable Mrs Hudson and a cigar apiece, we found ourselves entirely spent from our morning's exertions. We had therefore opted to retire to bed for a few hours to recover our wits.

I served smartly, only to find the cork back on my side courtesy of a deft backhand slice. Holmes let out a snort of triumph. ‘The secret is to examine the behaviour of the ball and in a millisecond, project yourself into the ball's future. You will be there to meet it in precisely the right spot and in precisely the right moment. Quite elementary.' In a mood such as this, Holmes could be unbearable.

I dispatched the ball again in Holmes' direction. ‘Take me back to the very start,' I said, as he sent it back with topspin. ‘How did you know that access to Chatburn's place could be gained from the roof?'

‘At first this threw me,' my friend confessed. ‘I saw no obvious ladder or steps and the door to the attic itself from the inside was perfectly secure; three separate locks you will have noticed. On our exit, therefore, I examined the walls again and noticed the tell-tale marks of black rubber plimsolls, the kind favoured by university climbers. I wagered that these belonged to Snitterton, whom we know attended King's College, Cambridge as an undergraduate and no doubt was one of the infamous night climbers.' I retrieved the ball from the floor.

‘Do you make that five nil, Watson?'

I grunted my acquiescence.

‘That took us, after a little investigation, you will remember, inside the attic room. Chatburn's minutes provided the date, time and venue of the next meeting. If I had found the minutes, then I deduced that the previous intruder had also seen them and planned to eavesdrop in the same way.'