Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants by Christopher James Read Free Book Online Page A

puffed triumphantly, rather like Mr Stephenson’s Rocket on its voyage along the Liverpool and Manchester Railway.
    â€˜Did you notice anything odd about Snitterton’s attire?’
    â€˜Not in particular,’ I said.
    â€˜What have I said about observation? You have eyes but you do not see, Watson! The man was festooned with feathers.’
    â€˜He is an animal man,’ I countered, ‘surely that is a satisfactory explanation.’
    â€˜His specialtiy, as we know is the big beast, not ducks and chickens.’
    â€˜So where do a few feathers lead us?’ I asked, reasonably enough.
    â€˜Nowhere at all by themselves,’ said Holmes. ‘But during our scuffle in the attic, Mr Snitterton was careless enough to drop this.’ Holmes held up an envelope, with the name ‘Fotheringay’s Feather Factory’ and an address scrawled across the centre in black ink.
    â€˜No detective work required, Watson, the postman would find it just as easily as we would. Now what say you to a little self-poison?’ He administered two doses of The Dimple, a smoky blend of Scotch whisky of which we were both inordinately fond.
    The smoke, I noticed, was beginning to creep across our rooms with the deadly stealth of a boa constrictor, slowly enveloping not only Holmes but everything else too. It curled around my shoulders and neck as if waiting for its moment to strike.
    â€˜Would you mind very much,’ I asked, ‘If I opened the window?’
    Holmes shrugged.
    â€˜Only if you want us to catch our death.’
    â€˜A little close today though, wouldn’t you agree Holmes?’
    â€˜O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out,’ he declaimed, ‘against the wreckful siege of battering days.’
    â€˜I’m not entirely sure,’ I confessed. ‘But speaking personally, I feel a trifle confined.’
    â€˜There’s nothing worse than a confined trifle,’ Holmes remarked facetiously. Heaving up the glass frame I inhaled a life giving blast of oxygen.
    The streets teemed with the bustling of hundreds of Londoners; a lawyer snapping his fingers to hail a hansom; a drunkard weaving his haphazard way to the corner of Marylebone Road. Their shadows danced at their heels, like accomplices.
    â€˜Wait,’ Holmes uttered, suddenly starting to his feet. ‘Music!’ A remarkable transformation was apparent on his features, charging his cheeks with colour. His eyes glinted as they did when finally making headway in a particularly difficult case. Through the maelstrom of birdsong, chatter, the clatter of hooves and the calls of the paperboys and flower girls, I too could pick a melody.
    â€˜Paganini, if I’m not very much mistaken.’ declared Holmes, joining me at the window. ‘Violin Concerto No. 3. Simply majestic.’
    Holmes stood with his eyes closed, in a state of utter serenity, as if absorbing a noble gas. Suddenly the practical part of his mind took over.
    â€˜Where do you think the sound is coming from?’ he demanded. I scanned the rooftops and windows.
    â€˜I would say from a westerly direction,’ I said, my hands clinging to the bottom sill.
    â€˜Look at those flowers down there,’ he pointed out. ‘Do you see how they are blowing in an easterly direction? I would suggest the sound is coming from somewhere to the east, bouncing off the facade of that not insubstantial town house over there and returning to us for our own private delectation.’
    I searched the upper windows to the east and sure enough made out the silhouette of a figure playing a violin behind a curtain of white lace some three floors up from street level.
    â€˜I am quite certain it is a woman playing,’ Holmes deduced ‘from the colour and tone and from the barely perceptible breath between phrases. I would also wager that she studied under the influence of Ignatius Wimpole, from the minute stress she is placing on the