Free Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants by Christopher James

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Cigar?’ Snitterton invited.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜So you have three,’ the older man said, picking up a conversation that had clearly begun elsewhere.
    â€˜Yes, three,’ Snitterton confirmed. ‘My own, Chatburn’s and Peaceheart’s.’
    â€˜And there are five more.’
    â€˜Exactly,’ said Snitterton, ‘just as I said.’
    â€˜Would you mind if I examine them again?’
    â€˜If you must,’ said Snitterton, ‘but it is really not necessary. Each is identical in every way.
    â€˜My client is very particular,’ the bald man explained. ‘And he has been burnt in the past.’
    â€˜Are you questioning my integrity?’ Snitterton accused him, his tone suddenly cooler.
    â€˜Not at all,’ the man soothed. ‘He has perfect faith in your ability to deliver.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜If you mean Miss Braithwaite, then I’m not in the least surprised.’
    Once again, Holmes confounded me.
    â€˜But I haven’t mentioned a word,’ I started. ‘How could you possibly know?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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