The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (25 page)

"One moment," interrupted Holmes. "When were they seen last?"

"I saw them at four and as her ladyship picked one shortly before dinner, they were there

about eight o'clock. But the flowers are of no matter, Mr. Holmes. It's the ruby!"

"Ah!"

Our visitor leaned forward in his chair.

"The library was empty for only a few minutes," he continued almost in a whisper. "But

when Sir John, fair demented over the mystery of his flowers, returned and opened the

drawer, the Abbas Ruby, together with its jewel-case, had vanished as completely as the red

camellias."

For a moment we sat in silence broken only by the tinkle of burning embers falling in the

grate.

"Joliffe," mused Holmes dreamily. "Andrew Joliffe. The Catterton diamond robbery, was it

not?"

The man buried his face in his hands.

"I'm glad you know, sir," he muttered at last. "But as God is my judge I've kept straight since

I came out three years ago. Captain Masterman was very good to me and got me this job with

his brother-in-law, and from that day to this I've never let him down. I've been content to

keep my wages, hoping that eventually I might save enough to buy my own cigar shop."

"Go on with your story."

"Well, sir, I was in the hall, having sent the stableboy for the police, when I caught Captain

Masterman's voice through the half-opened door of the library. 'Damn it, John, I wanted to

give a lame dog a chance,' said he, 'but I blame myself now that I did not tell you his past

history. He must have slipped in here while everyone was in the conservatory and—' I

waited for no more, sir, but telling Rogers, the footman, that if anybody wanted me then

they would find me with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I ran here through the snow, believing from all

I've heard that you will not think it beneath you to save from injustice one who has already

paid his debt to society. You are my only hope, sir, and—My God, I knew it!"

The door had flown open and a tall, fair-haired man, wrapped to the ears in a snow-

powdered cape, strode into the room.

"Ah, Gregson, we were expecting you."

"No doubt, Mr. Holmes," replied Inspector Gregson drily. "Well, this is our man, and so

we'll be getting along."

Our wretched client leaped to his feet. "But I'm innocent! I never touched it!" he wailed.

The police-agent smiled sourly and, drawing from his pocket a flat box, he shook it under

his prisoner's nose.

"God save us, it's the jewel-case!" gasped Joliffe.

"There, he admits it! Where was it found, you say? It was found where you put it, my man,

under your mattress."

Joliffe's face had turned the colour of ashes. "But I never touched it," he repeated dully.

"One moment, Gregson," interposed Holmes. "Am I to understand that you have the

Abbas Ruby?"

"No," he replied, "the case was empty. But it cannot be far, and Sir John is offering a

reward of five thousand pounds."

"May I see the case? Thank you. Dear me, what a sorry sight. The lock unbroken but the

hinges smashed. Flesh-coloured velvet. But surely—"

Whipping out his lens, Holmes laid the jewel-case beneath the reading lamp and examined it

closely. "Most interesting," he said at length. "By the way, Joliffe, was the ruby mounted?"

"It was set in a carved gold locket and chain. But, oh, Mr. Holmes—"

"Rest assured I will do my best for you. Well, Gregson, we will detain you no longer."

The Scotland Yard man snapped a pair of handcuffs on our unhappy visitor and a moment

later the door had closed behind them.

For a while, Holmes smoked thoughtfully. He had pulled up his chair to the blaze and,

with his chin cupped in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees, he stared broodingly into

the fire while the ruddy light waxed and waned on his keen finely drawn features.

"Have you ever heard of the Nonpareil Club, Watson?" he asked suddenly.

"The name is unfamiliar to me," I confessed.

"It is the most exclusive gambling club in London," he continued. "The Members' List,

which is privately printed, reads like Debrett with a spicing of the
Almanach de Gotha.
I have

had my eye upon it for sometime past."

"Good heavens, Holmes, why?"

"Where there is wealth follows crime, Watson. It is the one fixed principle that has governed

man's wickedness through all his history."

"But what has this club to do with the Abbas Ruby?" I asked.

"Perhaps, nothing. Or again, everything. Kindly hand me down the Biographical Index

marked 'M' from the shelf above the pipe-rack. Dear me, it is remarkable that one letter of the

alphabet can embrace so many notorious names. You would find it profitable to study this list,

Watson. But here is our man, I think. Mappins; Marston, the poisoner; Masterman. Captain the

Honourable Bruce Mastennan, born 1856, educated at—h'm! ha!—suspected of implication in

the Hilliers Dearbon inheritance forgery; secretary of Nonpareil Club; member of—quite so." My

friend flung the book on the couch. "Well, Watson, are you game for a nocturnal excursion?"

"By all means, Holmes. But where?"

"We will be guided by circumstances."

The wind had fallen and as we emerged into the white, silent streets, the distant chimes of

Big Ben struck the hour of ten. Though we were well muffled, it was so bitterly cold that I

welcomed the need of our brisk walk to Marylebone Road before we could hail a hansom.

"It will do no harm to call at Manchester Square," remarked Holmes, as we tucked the rug

about us and jingled away through the snow-covered streets. A short drive brought us to our

destination, and as we alighted before the portico of an imposing Georgian house, Holmes

pointed to the ground.

"The guests have gone already," said he, "for you will observe that these wheel-marks were

made after the snow ceased to fall."

The footman who had opened the door to us took our cards, and a moment later we were

ushered across the hall into a handsome library where a tall, thin man with greying hair and a

most melancholy countenance was warming his coat-tails before a blazing fire. As we entered,

a woman, who was reclining on a chaise lounge, rose to her feet and turned to look at us.

Though the leading artist of our day has immortalized Lady Doverton, I venture to think

that no portrait will ever do full justice to this imperious and beautiful woman as we saw her

then, in a gown of white satin with a single scarlet flower flaming at her bodice and the golden

glow of the candles shining on her pale, perfectly chiselled face and drawing sparkles of fire

from the diamonds that crowned her rich auburn hair. Her companion advanced on us eagerly.

"Really, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, this is most gratifying!" he cried. "That you should face the

inclemency of the night in order to fasten upon the perpetrator of this outrage speaks highly for

your public spirit, sir! Most highly!"

Holmes bowed. "The Abbas Ruby is a famous stone, Sir John."

"Ah, the ruby. Yes, yes, of course," replied Sir John Doverton. "Most lamentable.

Fortunately, there are buds. Your knowledge of flowers will tell you—" He broke off as his

wife laid her fingers on his arm.

"As the matter is already in the hands of the police," she said haughtily, "I do not

understand why we should be honoured by this visit from Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"I shall take up very little of your time, Lady Doverton," replied my friend. "A few minutes

in your conservatory should suffice."

"With what object, sir? What possible connection can there be between my husband's

conservatory and the missing jewel?"

"It is that I wish to determine."

Lady Doverton smiled coldly. "In the meantime, the police will have arrested the thief."

"I think not."

"Absurd! The man who fled was a convicted jewel-robber. It is obvious."

"Perhaps too obvious, madam! Does it not strike you as somewhat singular that an ex-

convict, though aware that his record was known already to your brother, should steal a

famous stone from his own employer and then conveniently condemn himself by secreting the

jewel-box under his mattress, where even Scotland Yard could be relied upon to search?"

Lady Doverton put a hand to her bosom. "I had not considered the matter in that light," she

said.

"Naturally. But, dear me, what a beautiful blossom! I take it that this is the red camellia

which you plucked this afternoon?"

"This evening, sir, just before dinner."

"Spes ultima gentis!"
observed Sir John gloomily. "At least, until the next crop."

"Just so. It would interest me to see your conservatory."

We followed our guide along a short passage which, opening from the library, terminated in

the glass door of a hothouse. While the famous horticulturist and I waited at the entrance,

Holmes commenced a slow tour through the warm, stifling darkness, the lighted candle which

he bore in his hand appearing and disappearing like some great glow-worm amid the weird

shapes of cacti and curious tropical shrubs. Holding the light close to the camellia bush, he

spent some time peering through his lens.

"The victims of a vandal's knife," groaned Sir John.

"No, they were snipped with a small pair of curved nail-scissors," Holmes remarked. "You

will observe that there is no shredding on the stalks such as a knife would cause, and

furthermore, the small cut on this leaf shows that the scissor-points overreached the stem of

the flower. Well, I think that there is nothing more to be learned here."

We were retracing our steps when Holmes paused at a small window in the passage and,

opening the catch, struck a match and craned over the sill.

"It overlooks a path used by the tradesmen," volunteered Sir John.

I leaned over my friend's shoulder. Below, the snow lay in a long, smooth drift from the

house wall to the edge of a narrow pathway. Holmes said nothing but, as he turned away, I

noticed that there was something of surprise, almost of chagrin, in his expression.

Lady Doverton was awaiting us in the library.

"I fear that your reputation is overrated, Mr. Holmes," she said, with a gleam of amusement

in her fine blue eyes. "I expected you to return with all the missing flowers and perhaps even the

Abbas Ruby itself!"

"At least, I have every hope of returning you the latter, madam," said Holmes coldly.

"A dangerous boast, Mr. Holmes."

"Others will tell you that boasting is not among my habits. And now, as Dr. Watson and I

are already somewhat overdue at the Nonpareil Club—dear me, Lady Doverton, I fear that you

have broken your fan—it only remains for me to express our regret for this intrusion and to

wish you a very good night."

We had driven as far as Oxford Street when Holmes, who had sat in complete silence with

his chin upon his breast, suddenly sprang to his feet, pushed up the trap and shouted an order

to our driver.

"What a fool!" he cried, clapping a hand to his forehead, as our hansom turned in its tracks.

"What mental abberation!"

"What then?"

"Watson, if I ever show signs of self-satisfaction, kindly whisper the word 'camellias' in my

ear."

A few minutes later, we had alighted again before the portico of Sir John Doverton's

mansion. "There is no need to disturb the household," muttered Holmes. "I imagine that this

is the gate into the tradesmen's entrance."

My friend led the way swiftly along the path skirting the wall of the house until we

found ourselves under a window which I recognized as the one opening from the passage.

Then, throwing himself on his knees he commenced carefully to scoop away the snow with

his bare hands. After a few moments, he straightened himself and I saw that he had cleared a

large dark patch.

"Let us risk a match, Watson," he chuckled.

I lit one and there, on the black earth exposed by Holmes's burrowings in the snow-drift, lay

a little reddish-brown heap of frozen flowers.

"The camellias!" I exclaimed. "My dear fellow, what does this mean?"

My friend's face was very stern as he rose to his feet.

"Villainy, Watson!" said he. "Clever, calculated villainy."

He picked up one of the dead flowers and stood for a while silently contemplating the

dark, withered petals in the palm of his hand.

"It is as well for Andrew Joliffe that he reached Baker Street before Gregson reached him," he

observed thoughtfully.

"Shall I raise the house?" I asked.

"Ever the man of action, Watson," he replied, with a dry chuckle. "No, my dear fellow, I

think that we would be better employed in making our way quietly back to our hansom and

then on to the purlieus of St. James's."

In the events of the evening, I had lost all sense of time, and it came as something of a

shock when, as we wheeled from Piccadilly into St. James's Street and stopped before the

door of an elegant, well-lighted house, I saw from the clock above Palace Yard that it was not

far short of midnight.

"When its neighbours of clubland go to bed the Nonpareil Club comes into its own,"

remarked Holmes, ringing the bell. He scribbled a note on his calling-card and, handing it to the