“It is one of the biggest — if not the biggest — rubies that the world has ever seen. Hence its fantastical sobriquet. It is the property of the Raja of Kalipaur.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, the phrase now slotting into place. “He is sending the stone as a gift to the Queen.”
“Indeed. A tribute to Victoria, Empress of India. The stone is estimated to be worth somewhere in the region of two million pounds.”
I whistled softly. “A very nice gift indeed.”
“It has come to my attention that someone intends to steal the Elephant’s Egg as soon as it reaches these shores.”
At these words I froze. I knew that there could be only one criminal daring and audacious enough to attempt such a robbery: Professor Moriarty. And only Sherlock Holmes was clever and resourceful enough to stop him. So this is why I had been sent: to interfere with Holmes’ investigation, to lead him off the scent.
To say that I suffered from mixed emotions on hearing Sherlock Holmes, his face wreathed in a beatific smile, refer to the proposed threat of the precious ruby would be a gross understatement. I was delighted that the challenge of such a case had stimulated my friend to such a degree that he was indeed himself again. The Holmes of old, capricious and mischievous — the eager foxhound once more. On the other hand, I realised that in this particular case he was about to challenge the greatest — and more importantly — the most dangerous criminal genius of the age. And I was the creature bound to his will while my true loyalties lay elsewhere. I saw myself as the medieval heretic who is tied to four horses in order to be torn asunder for his treachery. It was at that moment that I knew, whatever the consequences might be, that I had to choose, for my own sanity, for the love of Mary and for the only true friendship I could call my own. Up until now, my loyalty to Holmes had never been tested. True, I had reported back on his detective work but I had never attempted to interfere with it for any reason. Now I knew I couldn’t, and — more importantly — I wouldn’t.
“How do you know all this?” I said quietly, trying desperately not to reveal my agitation.
Holmes waved his arms like errant butterflies. “I have my methods,” he replied, leaning backwards, allowing puffs of smoke to spiral to the ceiling. “It is the job of the detective to know many things and to keep abreast with items of current information in the criminal world. Within the last fortnight, two jewellers have met rather sudden ends. A suspicious death and a suicide, which in itself is always a suspicious death.”
“Two jewellers?”
“Experts in their field. Not only for judging the quality and price of sparkling stones — but also in the cutting and shaping of such gewgaws.”
“What has this got to do with the Elephant’s Egg?”
“Everything! I believe these two men to have been murdered.”
“Why?”
“You were always good with the questions. That piercing inquisitiveness is one of your more accomplished qualities. Why indeed? The two men — their names are incidental — were experts at cutting up large stones — jewels, agates, rubies — into a series of smaller items. If you were to steal a red blob as large as the Raja’s ruby, you would want it to be cut up into several slivers, glittering babies which collectively would fetch as much as the mother egg. It would be almost impossible to sell the original — but smaller treasures would be an easy sale.’
The logic was clear, and I was certain Holmes was right.
“The deaths were clumsy and hurried. The coincidence is too great to ignore. A large precious stone is due to arrive in this country and be placed on display — bait enough for the greediest and sharpest of thieves — and two men who would be capable of... adapting the stone for easy disposal are themselves disposed of.”
“But why murder, when, if what you say is true, these two jewellers would be useful to the supposed thief?”
“If they agreed to his demands. There are still some upstanding fellows in our community who would resist the temptation to break the law, whatever the consequences. However, once they had been approached and once they had refused, our master thief could hardly let them go.” Holmes drew his forefinger along the line of his neck.
I shuddered, not solely because of the graphic image he had presented, but also because I knew he was right. Moriarty would have no compunction in disposing of these recalcitrant jewellers. Moriarty was a man of ice, without warmth or consideration for others. We were all just pawns on his great chessboard, and we could be taken at any time to enhance his game.
“I investigated these murders. Scotland Yard, blinkered as usual, saw nothing suspicious in the men’s demise, but I collected sufficient evidence to convince myself that I was correct. My next move was to find out how many other jewellers in the city were expert enough to carry out this specialised operation. Surprisingly there are not many — but one name stuck out from the rest: Patrick Graves.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“He was involved in a counterfeiting scandal some years ago. A matter concerning a diamond necklace. Not every stone was a fake, and so it was easier to convince the unsuspecting buyers that they were all genuine. He could sell three necklaces for the price of one set of stones. A tidy profit when you are dealing with items of fifty thousand pounds a time. He had aristocratic connections and a good lawyer: he was found not guilty. So much for British justice.”
“If, as I think you are saying, this Graves fellow has a natural criminal bent, why wasn’t he approached first by... by the...?”
“Master thief,” added Holmes, as I stumbled over my words.
I nodded.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps a thief should not employ a thief. There is no honour among thieves. But after two failures with upright gentlemen, it seemed to me that Graves was the next likely candidate. Two nights ago, I visited his house in Chiswick and I was just in time to witness his abduction — or, to be more precise, I was just in time to prevent his abduction, but I failed. There was only one of me and there were three of them... brawny fellows, too.”
“I should have been with you!” I blurted the words without thinking, and regretted my utterance instantly.
Holmes gave me a wry grin. “Perhaps you should. You might have prevented me from receiving a blow to the back of my neck and a nasty stab wound to my leg.”
“Great heavens! Let me see the wound. How severe is it?”
“The wound is fairly deep, but it has not severed any arteries. I have stitched it myself in an amateur but acceptable fashion. It will heal in time.”
“Why didn’t you come to me for treatment?”
Ignoring my question, Holmes rose and crossed to the window and looked out. “These are dangerous times, Watson. I know I am being watched. That’s why you saw me in disguise just now. I never leave the house without assuming some other persona than my own. More than ever I feel that my life is in danger.”
“In what way?”
“Well, I think you know, my friend,” he said slowly.
I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
With a wave of his hand, he beckoned me to the window.
“See that fellow down there? The one in the brown bowler and grey overcoat?”
“Yes.”
“Another of Moriarty’s men. On guard to watch over me.”
“Moriarty’s men...?” I found myself repeating the phrase dumbly as my stomach began to tighten with fear.
Holmes gave me a sour grin. “Professor James Moriarty, the greatest criminal in London Town. He’s very adept at employing fellows to spy on people, as you well know.”