Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants , livre ebook

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128 pages

English

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It is summer 1890 and the game is afoot. When an elephant escapes from the London Zoological Gardens, Holmes and Watson become embroiled in one of their strangest cases yet. Engaged by a jeweller in fear for his life, the trail leads Sherlock to two secret societies, each pursuing the eight ruby elephants said to unlock a vault containing the lost Nizam diamond.Standing in his way are some deadly foes: the Archangels: assassins in top hats and tailcoats, hell bent on the murder of the great detective and the acquisition of the treasures of the realm.The adventure leads the intrepid pair to Lord's Cricket Ground, the Royal Albert Hall, a bizarre series of thefts at the National Gallery, deepest rural Suffolk and ultimately the very heart of the Empire. With high speed chases on Penny Farthings and a cast of eccentric characters, it takes all of Holmes' ingenuity - and a little help from Mycroft - to unravel this elephantine mystery.

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	19 décembre 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781780928227
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title page
Sherlock Holmes
and the Adventure of the Ruby Elephants
Christopher James

Publisher information
2015 digital version by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2015 Christopher James
The right of Christopher James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not necessarily those of MX Publishing.
Originally published in the UK by MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Cover design by www.staunch.com

Dedication
For my father

Epigraph
The valley in which I found myself was deep and narrow and surrounded by mountains which towered into the clouds . As I wandered about, seeking anxiously for some means of escaping this trap, I observed the ground was strewn with diamonds, some of them of an astonishing size. I wandered up and down the valley, kicking the diamonds contemptuously out of my path, for I thought they were vain things indeed to a man in my situation. At last, overcome by weariness, I sat down upon a rock but I had hardly closed my eyes when I was startled by something which fell from the ground with a thud close beside me.
It was a huge piece of fresh meat and as I stared at it, several more pieces rolled over the cliffs in different places. I had always thought that the stories the sailors told of the famous valley of diamonds, and of the cunning way which some of the merchants had devised for getting at the precious stones were mere travellers’ tales, but now I perceived that they were surely true.
These lumps of meat, falling with so much force upon the diamonds, were sure to take some of the precious stones with them when the eagles pounced on the meat and carried it off to their nests to feed their hungry broods. Then the merchants, scaring away the parent birds with shouts and outcries, would secure their treasures. I chose the piece of meat which seemed most suited to my purpose and with the aid of my turban, bound it firmly to my back; this done, I laid down upon my face and awaited the coming of the eagles .
From The Arabian Nights: The Second Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor, property of Dr. John. H. Watson M.D.

ONE - The Fugitive
In the long history of my association with Sherlock Holmes there has rarely been a case of more singular interest than that of the Ruby Elephants. Leafing through my notes I am reminded that there were a number of features which also mark it as one of the most disconcerting we have yet encountered. For unlike many of our exploits it was not merely one problem, but a series of puzzles that were interlinked in the most peculiar fashion. And yet despite its complexity I am quite certain that it elicited the most brilliant of all of Holmes’ feats of deduction. My friend, I know, disapproves of my rating of his cases in this way. However, he knows that it is for my own private amusement and need for order and for this he is prepared to turn a blind eye.
It was a morning in mid July when the summer heat was beginning to impose itself on our rooms at 221b Baker Street.
‘Do you see this simple length of wire?’ Holmes asked, holding a nondescript bit of steel up to the light. I glanced up from my newspaper. ‘In two years time it will make a man a million pounds. In five years it will make him ten million.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ I muttered.
‘I have never been more serious in my life’ my friend insisted.
‘Then will he use it to pick a lock at the Tower of London?’
‘Nothing of the kind!’ Holmes was clearly in a playful mood. ‘Shall I show you?’
‘By all means,’ I sighed. ‘My practice is somewhat sluggish of late and I’d very much like to know how to conjure pounds and shillings from thin air.’ He furrowed his brow and began to manipulate the wire, bending it back on itself until it resembled something like a hair clip. He studied it again, rearranged an angle or two, then cast it onto the coffee table in triumph. It skittered across the polished wood and onto our bear skin rug. I picked it up and examined it.
‘I fail to see how it has increased in value,’ I confessed.
‘And that, my dear Watson, is why you are not a millionaire. You are a man of inestimable qualities, but you lack the essential gift of imagination.’ Holmes lit a cigarette, drew on it, then left it smoking in the ashtray. ‘Now you are aware,’ he went on, ‘that I have a somewhat haphazard filing system.’ I surveyed the sea of papers around our feet and swamping every available surface.
‘I am,’ I confirmed.
‘This,’ he said, holding up the folded wire, ‘is of more use than a score of clerks and a hundred filing cabinets.’
He picked up a handful of papers from his feet.
‘The notes,’ he announced, ‘from that curious case of the Laughing Earl.’
‘A ghoulish affair,’ I remarked.
‘And yet one you have not committed to paper, I note,’ said Holmes with a slightly peevish air.
‘I was under the impression that you put little stock in the written records I make of our adventures?’
‘No matter,’ he said, brushing this aside. ‘Pay attention.’ He tapped the sheaf of paper into alignment on the table top, then with a little cough and the air of a practiced showman, he picked up the wire between thumb and forefinger, fixed it neatly at the top of the pages and secured all five sheets together. I stared at Holmes. ‘Rather wonderful, isn’t it?’ he marveled, looking inordinately pleased with himself.
‘A million pounds?’ I repeated, incredulous.
‘If every man in Britain bought a hundred for a shilling,’ Holmes calculated, ‘it will not take long for our inventor to amass his fortune.’
‘Remarkable,’ I said, examining the bent wire it in the palm of my hand.
‘Simplicity itself,’ said Holmes.
My friend and I were enjoying our renewed acquaintance. Mary, my wife of a year, was spending a fortnight in Bath with her friend Louise, taking in the architecture and spa with excursions to Stonehenge and the great cathedral at Wells. Although she had originally mooted the idea as a second honeymoon, I politely suggested she may enjoy it more with her close friend and confidante. At a loose end, I therefore took the opportunity once again to enjoy the company of my friend Sherlock Holmes. I knew that despite his chronic untidiness and irregular habits, some novel amusement and adventure would soon come our way. My timing, as it turned out, was impeccable.
‘I note you have spent some time in Bath before,’ Holmes remarked.
‘I don’t recall mentioning that to you,’ I said. ‘How could you possibly know?’
‘Elementary,’ Holmes laughed. ‘Two years ago I heard you singing a song quietly to yourself. It was about a farm boy who worked in an orchard. The refrain made reference to ‘The Rose Coloured Fruit and the Rose Coloured Sky.’ I looked it up in an anthology of popular songs and discovered that it had its roots in the Bath area. Rather more prosaically, I later found a sketch of the Royal Crescent on your desk. I remember admiring it for the draughtsmanship, my admiration only slightly diminished when I saw that it was copied from an ink pot you were using, which also carried the legend: ‘A souvenir from Bath Spa.’
I shook my head. ‘Your memory is as impressive as your ability to absorb the smallest details.’
‘You will have heard me say something of the sort before, Watson, but it is so often the merest trifle that is key to all.’
‘Quite. But you are perfectly correct. I have had my fill of the delights of Bath. Despite its charms, I could not face another dose of its gentility just yet. I am willing to risk that a separation so soon after our nuptials will not have any negative consequence on our affections. In fact,’ I mused, ‘I am willing to wager that our ardour will be keener on her return.’
Holmes however appeared to have lost interest in our discussion, instead turning his attention to an experiment he was conducting on his acid stained tabletop. He was busy emptying a liquid from one glass vessel into another, delighting when the second solution appeared to change colour.
‘A breakthrough, Watson,’ he cried, ‘a veritable breakthrough!’
An hour later, Holmes and I were in our familiar positions, he balancing two quantities of an unknown powder on a set of brass scales while I was engrossed in a novel with the sensational title: Return to Doom Island. Being unacquainted with the first visit, I was struggling to find my bearings. Presently, I heard a commotion down in the street. Laying aside my book for the third time that morning, I strolled to the window.
An exodus of Baker Street appeared to be underway. Women were holding their bonnets to their heads and fleeing at speed. Men clutched their bowlers and sprinted like Olympians down the centre of the road. Boys scrambled over each other, kicking up clouds of dust, caps flying as they raced towards the Marylebone Road.
‘I say, there’s an awful hullabaloo out there.’
‘I imagine it’s the first day of the sales,’ my friend remarked.