Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants (6 page)

‘Indeed,' she said. ‘For an amateur he has a surprisingly good ear.' I smiled inwardly, certain that my friend would wince at this faint praise.

‘Please,' I insisted, ‘I must not detain you. You are clearly on an urgent errand.'

‘That is true,' she confessed. ‘But doctor, the remarkable coincidence is that my destination is 221b Baker Street. I have an urgent matter that I need to discuss with Mr Holmes.' I was taken aback at this startling information, but quickly recovered myself.

‘Then perhaps I can save you an unnecessary journey?' I said, ‘because Holmes is currently engaged on other business. I imagine tomorrow afternoon would be the earliest he could consider an appointment.' Her face immediately fell into despondency. Her blue, glassy eyes clouded with fear and uncertainty and she narrowed her rose lips.

‘Doctor, it is a grave matter.' I was at a loss.

‘Then surely an officer of the law should be your first port of call?'

‘That is quite impossible,' she said quietly. ‘The police cannot be involved at any cost.'

‘Surely a few hours will not make so much difference?' She shook her head. ‘I am in some danger. I cannot return to my flat and even standing here talking to you I feel is quite unwise.'

‘Then you must proceed to Baker Street as you planned,' I said. I scribbled a note on my prescription pad and put it in her hand. ‘Hand this to Mrs Hudson and she will make you quite at home until we return.'

‘Thank you, doctor,' she said. I nodded, much affected by the woman and her predicament.

That night was exceptionally warm and clear. The moon hung in the sky like a freshly minted shilling. By my pocket watch it was five minutes to midnight. I leaned back against the wall in what shadow I could find. Despite my best efforts to conceal myself however, one or two drunks had lifted their hats to me on their return from The George and Vulture public house on Pitfield Street. Finally at two minutes to twelve, I turned the corner and looked up at the dark shape of the plumage factory looming above me. There was no sign of light save for a weak yellow glow from a window on the ground floor. This, I imagined, was the janitor's room. But as the bells of St Leonard's chimed the hour, sure enough, in a room on the third floor, there were three bright flashes, which I took to be the sign.

Creeping like a burglar up to the door, I crouched down out of the line of sight of the janitor's window. Lurking in such a manner would take some explaining if an officer of the law happened to be passing. The last peal died away and all that could be heard were distant voices and faint clatter of a hansom running a late fare.

Presently, there was the click of a latch. The door opened a fraction and my blood froze as I waited for the man to identify himself. It did not take long for me to recognise the brilliant glint of my friend's eyes and the trace of a smile on his thin lips.

‘Watson,' he whispered, ‘be quick, for we are not alone this evening.' He pushed the door outwards and I slipped inside.

The corridor had a cold, institutional look about it. The bricks were painted two colours: a pale yellow up to waist height and a horrible blood red from there to the ceiling. Pipes ran along the walls and disappeared around the corner. Holmes, still dressed as the milliner, tugged my arm and hauled me a little way up the corridor, before dragging me backwards with that curious strength of his into a small ground floor room.

Holmes pressed a finger to his lips and almost immediately I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. As well as being possessed of one of the finest deductive minds I have ever encountered, Holmes also had a highly developed sense of hearing: the sort more readily associated with a piano tuner. Presently I saw him relax.

‘The bird has returned to its roost,' he announced, evidently alluding to the janitor scuttling back to his broom cupboard. ‘Well, Watson, it has been a remarkable day. The case has seen some singular developments and presented some most interesting points. I am happy to admit that it has succeeded in winning my entire attention.'

‘I assume then, that your disguise held out?' I began.

‘Indeed it did,' said Holmes. ‘On arrival I was taken to an upper room and shown an aviary's worth of feathers. Of course I feigned as much interest as I could, without my mind being the least bit engaged. As expected, the vendors were clearly not interested either. I remarked that the men of the company were not those with whom I normally did business. They were perfectly polite and explained that there had been a company takeover. I then enquired, barely able to keep a straight face, whether they were expecting any emu feathers to be delivered soon. They told me they were expecting some in shortly. This revealed them to be the charlatans I knew they were and almost certainly part of the criminal gang calling itself the Order of the Sapphire Butterfly. I paid for some feathers which none of us could identify, then told them I would show myself out, explaining I had visited many times before. Presumably not to arouse any suspicions, they agreed and I left the room.'

Holmes and I crept out of the cupboard. My friend sprang up the stairs, as light footed as a fawn and I stumbled after him. It was a marvel to see this apparently aged milliner so sprightly. We edged along a corridor and stopped at a door halfway along. Holmes reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a key that he had plainly acquired during his afternoon's work. Inside the air smelled of cigars and formaldehyde. Holmes locked the door again. In the gloom I could make out a mass of papers heaped haphazardly on the table. Feathers were scattered everywhere as if there had been a fatal struggle between every bird on Earth. On the far wall was a map of some description, and it was to this that Holmes turned his attention.

‘What do you make of it?' breathed Holmes.

‘It appears to be a map,' I posited, ‘a plan perhaps of some building. A large building.'

‘Very good,' Holmes twinkled. ‘Now we must work quickly, Watson,'

He handed me paper and charcoal. ‘Draw as much as you can as well as you can. It is essential to capture as much detail as possible.'

A poor draftsman, I nevertheless settled down to my challenge while Holmes paced the room searching for other clues. At intervals I heard murmurs of delight as Holmes made discoveries of one kind or another, while I struggled with the plan before me. It was the most confounded work and my charcoal snapped on more than one occasion. The glass in the door suddenly flashed with light.

‘Under the table,' Holmes hissed. Folding ourselves beneath it, we let the cloth fall and held our breath.

The light from a lamp spilled across the floor. The carpet of feathers shone with gold and we heard the click of the lock.

‘In here,' a man said.

It was deep, commanding voice, which I immediately recognised as Snitterton's. We watched two pairs of boots make their way to a couple of poorly upholstered armchairs not three yards away from our hiding place.

‘Cigar?' Snitterton invited.

‘Splendid,' replied the other. It was an older voice, but equally well mannered. Through a small tear in the cloth, I could just about see him; he was in his early sixties, I would say, thin lipped, with bright eyes and a startlingly bald head. Tufts of white hair sprouted just above his ears, bordering the bare hill of his cranium. The veterinarian had, I noted, a striking charisma that switched easily between charm and menace.

‘So you have three,' the older man said, picking up a conversation that had clearly begun elsewhere.

‘Yes, three,' Snitterton confirmed. ‘My own, Chatburn's and Peaceheart's.'

‘And there are five more.'

‘Exactly,' said Snitterton, ‘just as I said.'

‘Would you mind if I examine them again?'

‘If you must,' said Snitterton, ‘but it is really not necessary. Each is identical in every way.

‘My client is very particular,' the bald man explained. ‘And he has been burnt in the past.'

‘Are you questioning my integrity?' Snitterton accused him, his tone suddenly cooler.

‘Not at all,' the man soothed. ‘He has perfect faith in your ability to deliver.'

‘That's not exactly the same thing.'

Understandably, perhaps, given the evening's excitement, by the time Holmes and I returned to Baker Street our candles were burning low. We let ourselves in and clambered the stairs thinking of little but a hot bath, a slice of Mrs Hudson's cold meat pie, a smoke and a nap. It was only reaching the top of the stairs that I remembered my encounter with Miss Braithewaite and my instructions to meet us here.

‘Well, Watson,' sighed Holmes as he pushed open the door to our sitting room, ‘I don't mind admitting I'm deuced tired. Given the choice, I prefer brain work to night-owling, but sometimes we have little choice in the matter.'

‘Quite,' I agreed. ‘There was just one thing, however. You have a client waiting for you.'

Holmes stopped his tracks. He peered in through the doorway, open not more than two inches.

‘If you mean Miss Braithwaite, then I'm not in the least surprised.'

Once again, Holmes confounded me.

‘But I haven't mentioned a word,' I started. ‘How could you possibly know?'

‘Simplicity itself. I caught a slight scent of her perfume on you when you joined me in the feather factory,' he explained. I shook my head in wonderment.

‘And besides,' he added, ‘I've just seen her umbrella in the doorway.' I closed my eyes.

Ms Braithwaite was sitting reading quietly in my chair. She had the good sense at least not to sit in Holmes'place. She looked up and closed the book as we entered.

‘Ah, The Time Machine,' said Holmes. ‘A book more in line with Dr Watson's tastes than my own,' he smiled. ‘But who wouldn't wish for such a device? The crimes we could undo. The futures we could reinstate.'

‘You will forgive the intrusion,' she said, ‘but without Dr Watson's invitation I fear that I would have nowhere else to turn.'

‘Our evening has been an unusually taxing one,' Holmes explained. You will understand if we delay our interview by a few hours more. You will be perfectly safe here. Please avail yourself of more tea and once you have completed the novel, Dr Watson I know will be pleased to receive a full report on its merits.' Holmes and I then retired to our respective cots and for a few blank, blissful hours, slept the sleep of the dead.

FIVE - The Violin Teacher

I was awoken by the sound of a violin. The piece was not one I recognised, but I knew immediately it was not my friend Sherlock Holmes playing. His was a jerky, somewhat fitful style that mirrored the restless nature of his mind. This was sonorous, mournful music. It was sorrowful, mysterious and entirely intoxicating. I could have lay listening for hours. Eventually I prised myself from my pillow, dressed and joined Holmes and Miss Braithwaite in the sitting room.

‘Ah, Watson,' exclaimed Holmes. ‘We are in need of a critical ear. Perhaps you are familiar with Tchaikovsky's recent concerto?'

‘I confess I am something of a Philistine when it comes to such matters. But it sounds wonderful.'

Miss Braithwaite gave a hesitant smile, then laid her fiddle aside.

‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, you will forgive me,' she began, ‘but as you know, there is an urgent question on which I need your advice.'

‘Naturally,' nodded Holmes, ‘but before you begin, perhaps you can tell me why you have not attended your lessons this last week?' She stared at him.

‘But...' she started, ‘this is nothing short of wizardry!'

‘Nonsense. Living so close, we have become somewhat familiar with your routine. Surely, Watson, you too have noticed that on a Tuesday and Thursday morning we are usually deprived of Miss Braithwaite's talents. This last week we have had the pleasure of hearing you play every morning.

‘That's precisely the reason, I'm here,' she explained. ‘I am gravely concerned about the welfare of my teacher, Mr Ignatius Wimpole. Last Tuesday I called as usual at half past nine and received no answer. I spoke to the janitor and Mr Wimpole had not been seen for two days. I returned on Thursday and there was still no trace. On returning to my rooms, I found this note waiting for me.' She handed a folded piece of paper to Holmes, who received it between two long white fingers. He studied it for a few moments.

‘Most singular!' he pronounced. He passed the note to me and I scanned it.

Your lessons are now over. I have nothing left to teach you. I wonder in all honesty whether I ever had anything of use to impart in progressing your ambition to be the pre-eminent concert player of the day. You have an unusual gift that would be better developed in the hands of another. Please do not call again and I am sorry we cannot bid farewell in person. Yours, Ignatius.

‘A remarkably sad note,' I put in.

‘I agree. A very poor way to end things. Do you recognise the handwriting?' asked Holmes.

‘Yes, of course,' said Miss Braithwaite. She produced another note and presented it to Holmes. ‘I received this two months ago.'

Your playing reminds me of my own. Very proud today. Ignatius.

He compared the two as a master forger might hold up two banknotes to the light.

‘Certainly there are similarities,' he said. ‘If it was the same author, the longer note was clearly written in a mood of extreme agitation. There are inconsistencies in the letter formations. Did you ask the janitor any more questions?'

‘Mr Wimpole's rent is paid some months in advance. The man was unwilling to disclose anything more.'

Presumably you have alerted the police to this disappearance?

‘No.'

‘Why ever not? This sort of abrupt farewell feels rather ominous don't you think?'

‘I agree entirely,' she said. ‘Then I received this.'

You have been asking questions. Don't. Our professional relationship is at an end. If you persist, or ask the police to track me down, I will not be responsible for the consequences. Ignatius.

Holmes lay back in his chair.

‘A strangely contradictory tone. What do we know of the man? Does he have a wide circle of friends? Does he travel? Has he made enemies?'

Miss Braithwaite was silent.

‘There is something more,' she said. ‘At my last lesson, Ignatius asked me to marry him.'

‘Well,' said Holmes, joining the fingers of each hand and raising them to his lips. ‘There is our answer.' Miss Braithwaite remained silent.

‘How did he respond,' my friend asked, ‘when you said no?'

‘Well that's just it. I didn't say no.'

Holmes and I rose to our feet.

‘Then what's the meaning of these notes?' I spluttered.

‘If I knew that, doctor,' she said blushing, ‘I wouldn't be here!'

Holmes had already retrieved his hat and was putting on his coat.

‘There's a hansom on the other side of the road,' said Holmes. ‘If we are quick we can catch it and be at Wimpole's place in ten minutes.'

We bundled out of the cab, but it was clear we had been pipped at the post. A burly, bearded constable was standing outside the property.

Holmes peered at the man.

‘Constable Rance, if I'm not mistaken,' he said.

‘Mr Holmes,' he nodded.

‘You've moved to day duty, I see.'

‘It certainly appears that way, Mr Holmes,' he muttered glancing up at the sky.

‘And I said that you would never rise in the force,' countered Holmes. ‘How wrong I was. Would you be so good as to let us in?'

‘I'm afraid not, Mr Holmes. This case is under the supervision of Inspector Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard and the area is strictly off limits.'

‘Then would you be so good as to pass him this note?'

Holmes pressed something into the constable's hand.

‘If this is bribery, sir, then you've picked the wrong man.' He stared straight ahead.

‘Bribery!' laughed Holmes. ‘Constable Rance, you hold in your hand the solution perhaps, to the entire case. If Inspector Gregson discovers you have delayed the delivery of this piece of evidence, I can only think of the consequences for your career.' Rance shifted uneasily.

‘Perhaps if you were to wait here a moment,' he said, ‘I shall see whether the inspector will admit you.'

‘I am obliged,' said Holmes.

‘What did you give him?' said Miss Braithwaite.

‘Nothing more than my card,' said Holmes.

Presently Gregson appeared at the door, bounding with energy as ever, almost as tall as the doorway itself. The sun gleamed from his fair hair and his eyes twinkled with the thrill of a new case.

‘Sherlock Holmes!' he said, extending a hand. ‘You don't waste a minute. You must be able to smell trouble from ten miles. Surely news has not yet reached the wire?'

‘What news?' enquired Holmes. Rance narrowed his eyes.

‘The violin teacher,' said Gregson. ‘Grisly, but it looks like a suicide to me.'

Miss Braithwaite's face drained of colour and she teetered. I caught her just before she made contact with the pavement.

‘Splendid save, Watson,' congratulated Holmes. ‘I can see why the University of London valued your fielding skills.'

Leaving Miss Braithwaite in the care of Constable Rance, Holmes and I followed Gregson upstairs. We entered through a bright yellow door and found ourselves in a richly decorated room, adorned with plants, pictures and ornate oriental-looking furniture. There was a strong smell of incense and coffee. On the writing desk was a small white elephant. Holmes and I exchanged a glance.

Lying on a caramel coloured rug was the long, slender body of Ignatius Wimpole. His face was a horrible, bloated blue and there was a horrid thin gash across his throat. A deep red stain had formed beneath the wound.

‘Poor devil,' I muttered. ‘Is this how you found him?'

‘The janitor was here first,' explained Gregson. ‘He cut him down.'

‘Violin strings,' said Holmes, inspecting the wire around the unfortunate teacher's neck. ‘What a ghastly exit.'

‘Yes, we noticed that,' Gregson put in quickly.

‘Have you found the violin yet?' enquired Holmes.

‘Still looking.'

‘Is that a motive?'I asked

‘I doubt it,' said Gregson, ‘There was no sign of forced entry.'

‘Really?' cried Holmes in disbelief. ‘Even though it's a Stradivarius? Good God, man, it could be worth tens of thousands of pounds!'

‘For a fiddle?' said Gregson, dismissively. ‘There's a note too,' he added, handing over a piece of cream writing paper. Holmes peered at the handwriting carefully then handed it to me.

All the beauty has vanished from the world. The jewel of my eye has been taken from me. Nothing can replace it. All art, all hope, all love has gone. I will go now to the mountain of light. Only there will you find the truth
.

‘Rather poetic, don't you think,' said Gregson. ‘Impressive, given that it wasn't his line of work.' My friend scribbled down the words on a scrap of paper, then appeared absorbed in his own thoughts. He was pacing the apartment like a lion in his cage, his eyes scanning this way and that, as if committing each detail to that photographic memory. He stopped a few feet from the body, stooped down to the floor and inspected a small patch of white powder with the tip of his finger.'

‘We've given the place a thorough examination,' Gregson informed him. ‘Further work is quite unnecessary, Mr Holmes.'

‘Thorough, you say,' repeated Holmes with only the smallest trace of irony.

‘Yes, thorough,' confirmed Gregson, barely disguising his irritation.

‘Then you won't mind me taking a sample of this white powder for examination?'

‘Mr Holmes, you may take powder of any colour you please,' Gregson laughed. ‘But on this occasion, I fear your presence here is merely ornamental. It is a suicide. Sometimes,' he said, drawing himself up to his full height and sounding a philosophical note, ‘there is no mystery, only tragedy.'

‘This janitor,' Holmes said abruptly. ‘Do you still have him?'

‘I've already given him a grilling. Rance is holding him downstairs.'

‘I think we have seen enough,' nodded Holmes, and wrapping the sample of powder in a fold of paper, we wished Gregson good luck and made our exit.

The afternoon sun lit the motes of dust as they drifted through our sitting room. We had found some temporary accommodation for Miss Braithwaite with one of my female patients and Baker Street was ours once more. Holmes sat staring at Wimpole's final note, occasionally twisting it between his fingers as if there was some way of angling it to the light which would suddenly reveal its meaning.

‘Confound this thing,' cried Holmes at last, casting it aside. ‘I cannot fathom it.'

‘Is it not possible,' I suggested, ‘that these are merely the words of a heartbroken man? Perhaps there is no riddle.'

‘Impossible,' snapped Holmes. ‘I will swear this note was written under duress or I will never touch another case. He is attempting to tell us something unbeknown to his captor and executioner.' Holmes sighed, joined his hands as if in prayer and pressed them to his pursed lips. ‘There is nothing else for it,' he announced with an air of resignation. ‘We will need to consult my brother.'

‘Mycroft,' I shouted, ‘of course!' And yet, quietly I could not believe my friend was at a loss. It was almost without precedent. Holmes, I think detected my disappointment.

‘Watson,' he confided, with an air of solemnity, ‘it seems my powers are waning.'

‘Nonsense,' I said firmly, ‘It shows character to ask for help.'

‘You are, Watson,' smiled Holmes, ‘a friend of the first order.' He whipped a gold watch from his pocket, glanced at it, then returned it just as swiftly. ‘If we are quick,' he said, leaping from his chair, ‘it is just possible we may be able to intercept Mycroft as he makes his way between Whitehall and the Diogenes Club.'

‘You know his routine to the minute?' I marveled.

‘He is as predictable as the two fifteen from London to Brighton. He does not swerve from his beat except on Christmas and holy days. He is a creature of the most unwavering habits.' We seized our hats, raced down the stairs, tumbled out of the front door and into a waiting hansom.

As we neared Charing Cross, Holmes leaned dangerously out of the window. ‘There he is,' he cried, right on time.' I peered over his shoulder and sure enough, turning into Cockspur Street was the great, lumbering figure of Mycroft Holmes. Such was his size and bulk, it was as if a walrus had escaped from the zoo and was waddling its way steadily across the city.

So as not to alarm the man, we alighted from the cab and walked the last twenty yards. Given our haste, he could easily believe we were attempting an abduction. Mycroft appeared to have detected our presence however and turned slowly, like a giant suddenly aware of a sound distantly below him.

‘Sherlock,' he sighed, on seeing his brother, ‘this can only mean unwanted excitement. I note you arrived by hansom and came up past the Red Lion.'

‘Mycroft, I cannot help but observe that you enjoyed eggs for breakfast this morning and have changed your brand of cigar. If I'm not very much mistaken, I believe you are now smoking the Gurkha. Rather modern for your tastes, I would have thought?'

‘Surely, Sherlock, you can allow a man the capacity to change.'

‘Ah, yes, but some things never change, my dear Mycroft. Your appetite for bedtime reading. You stopped at Henderson's for a copy of Mr Jerome's new novel did you not?'

‘There you have me,' admitted Mycroft with a small, noble bow of his well made head. He produced a copy of Three Men in a Boat from his pocket.

‘My dear Mycroft,' soothed Holmes. ‘To business if we may. Forgive us this intrusion; you are a fellow of regular habits. If I could have forewarned you of our interruption I most certainly would have. However I seek your most urgent counsel on a matter of the gravest concern. But where can we talk in private?'

‘Surely, my rooms,' Mycroft began, ‘would be the logical starting point.'  

‘No time!' cried Holmes.