4. A String of Emeralds

Never Look Down

“Good morning, Watson. I trust you slept well.”

“Like a log, Holmes.” I sat at our breakfast table, cracked my first boiled egg and helped myself to toast soldiers. “What is in the news?”

“The Jubilee preparations go ahead. There is much speculation on the probability of anarchist attacks. One nervous correspondent abhors the erection of wooden benches along the sides of the nave of Westminster Abbey as constituting a boon to fire-bombing anarchists.

The threats of these gentry to destroy, at one fell blow, the heirs apparent of several European dynasties were overheard in a low Soho cabaret by detectives lurking in that notorious quarter.

They are clearly speaking of Lestrade; he lurks very creditably. It is one of the things I admire about him.”

Mrs Hudson bustled in with a tray.

“Devilled kidneys and bacon, gentlemen. Kippers and more toast are on the way, only Billy bent the toast fork again and a batch fell in the fire.”

“Excellent, Mrs Hudson,” I said helping myself to kidneys. “I am surprised that the scent of breakfast bacon has not drawn Churchill from his lair. He ate hardly anything at supper last night.”

“He’s still fast asleep, Doctor. I sent Billy up twice, but Master Winston nodded off again. It’s like that with boys at his age. I remember my nephew, Frankie -”

Holmes dropped his egg-spoon and newspaper and stood, knocking back his chair. “I have been a fool. Watson, you must look to Churchill.”

He loped past me into his bedroom and was out again in an instant. He grabbed his hat and stick, slipped his pistol into a frockcoat pocket and made for the door. “When you have seen to the boy, join me at the Diogenes Club. Bring your revolver and your medical bag.”

He leapt out of the door and clattered down the stairs. The front door opened and slammed shut.

“Well,” said Mrs Hudson shaking her head. “There he goes again and I’ve kippers paid for cash down seething in milk and as tender as could be. What is it this time, Doctor?”

I drained my coffee cup.

“I have not the foggiest idea, Mrs Hudson. Cash down for the kippers, you say? Then I would be a profligate fellow if I refused one. Or perhaps two.”

After breakfast, I followed Billy upstairs.

Churchill was in the lumber-room at the top of the house, fast asleep on the old camp bed that I had used on campaign in Afghanistan. He had made a nest for himself amid the piles of newspapers, trunks, and odd bits of furniture that had cluttered the sitting room and bedrooms until we put them into store. The old tin despatch box from my Army days stood next to the bed. On it was a charming studio photograph of Lady Randolph with Churchill on one side and his younger brother, Jack, on the other. Next to it was a full-length Vanity Fair drawing of Lord Randolph cut from the magazine and pasted on a piece of card. Pinned to the wall behind the bed were signed postcards of Colonel ‘Buffalo Bill’ Cody and the Indian Chief, Red Shirt.

Churchill was face down on the bed, fully clothed and fast asleep.

“Why didn’t you help the boy into his pyjamas, Billy?” I said crossly. “He’s still wearing his boots.”

Billy looked at his toes.

“I dursn’t Doctor,” said Billy, turning pink. He called me ‘Woomany’ - that’s his name for his nurse, Mrs Everest - and asked for a goodnight kiss.”

I tried shaking the boy, to no avail. I removed his boots and socks and tickled his toes. I whispered ‘bacon and kidneys’ in his ear. Billy held a plate of kippers under his nose and Churchill snorted, half-opened his eyes, said something unintelligible and went back to sleep. Heroic measures were necessary.

Thirty minutes later, the same dusty porter as before showed me into the Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall.

Holmes was at the window, alone. The curtains were drawn against the glare outside; Holmes peered through a chink with a long brass telescope.

“Ah, Watson. How is Churchill?”

“Two buckets of cold water poured over him in the backyard brought him around. He is still spluttering with indignation and vowing legal action.”

“You did not use any of our American ice, I hope. Look and tell me what you see.”

I took the telescope and focussed on the other side of the street. “I see your brother watering his window box. His nasturtiums are coming along nicely.”

“Yes, he looked out ten minutes ago. He instantly noticed the drawn curtains here. He is assiduously watering, pruning and keeping an eye out. He will have caught the glint from the telescope lens as you wave it about in your indiscreet way. Look farther up; check Colonel Delacy’s flat.”

“The windows are closed and curtains drawn. I see no movement.” I returned the telescope to Holmes.

“I am afraid we are too late; I am a mole not to have seen the signs. I deserve to be kicked up Pall Mall and back again. Kindly open the curtains and wave to Mycroft. He can let us in quietly.

“What is all this about, Holmes? Mrs Hudson is livid about the kippers.”

“Good morning, Brother,” Holmes said as we slipped into the lobby of Mycroft’s residence. “Did you sleep well?”

Mycroft blinked at Holmes. “Sleep? I did indeed, extraordinarily well,” he exclaimed.

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, dear,” said Mycroft. “Up the stairs again, then. It is my knees, Doctor; I am a martyr to my knees. They are the reason that I rarely sleep.”

Holmes unrolled his burglar kit on the floor outside Colonel Delacy’s door for the second time in less than twelve hours.

He looked up at me. “Ten hours and forty minutes to be exact. Be prepared for anything, Watson. We may be up against a desperate crew.”

“Is this wise, Holmes?” I remonstrated. “The Colonel may not be as hospitable as on our first visit. There is the matter of the Isfahan carpet. And there is the blunderbuss; he aimed a wide-bore elephant gun at me not ten hours and forty-one minutes ago.”

Holmes put his finger to his lips. He bent over the lock.

“I slept like a baby,” said Mycroft turning to me. “I haven’t slept so well in decades. Yet, I do not feel refreshed. I have tried any number of remedies. Do you know Crosby’s Vitalized Phosphites, Doctor? No? An American remedy. I was advised to take them against brain hunger in the night, but they do not answer. I have made the philosophy of sleep my study. Is it not odd that a man will never admit that he was asleep? In a railway compartment, for example, a fellow absolutely snoring like a rhino will say, ‘Oh, I was thinking of something’ or ‘I closed my eyes for a moment’, as if sleeping were a sin. What is so moral about being awake?”

“Ssshh,” said Holmes. I heard a soft click. Holmes opened the door and we crept through the hall to the sitting room. He cocked his pistol, and I my service piece. He slowly turned the door handle and opened the door.

The scene was as we had left it the evening before. The gas was still lit and the cake plates and port glasses had not been cleared away. Colonel Delacy was asleep in his armchair. The shotgun was not in sight. The room was tremendously hot and stuffy. I opened the curtains, turned off the gas, and flung the windows wide.

“See to the Colonel,” said Holmes as he disappeared through a side door.

I made my weapon safe and attempted to wake the Colonel. I loosened his tie, took off his stiff collar, and shook his arm, but he slumbered on. I was loath to use smelling salts to wake him as there was no medical emergency that I could discern; he snored gently. Mycroft took a seat on the sofa and regarded him with envy.

Holmes peeked around the door. “Come and look, Watson.”

I followed him into a short corridor that led to a small kitchen.

“Can you not wake him?” Holmes asked.

“He is sleeping peacefully. I can hardly strip him, carry him down to the street, put him in a tin bath and pour two buckets of water over his head as I did with Churchill. He is a retired colonel of Indian infantry.”

“Look,” said Holmes pointing at the kitchen ceiling.

I looked up and saw square hatch that led to the roof space. It was closed. Holmes crouched to examine the linoleum floor covering.

“Do you see?”

“What?”

All I could see were some faint indentations about a foot apart, and several slight scratches in the linoleum.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned. Holmes nodded towards the kitchen door; he put his finger to his lips once more and slipped through doorway into what might be the larder. I pulled out my revolver and took a position behind the door.

I heard footsteps as someone stumbled along the corridor and then an almighty yawn. I came out of my hiding place.

“I say, Doctor,” said Churchill yawning again. “You were mean to go off without me. Can I borrow one-and-six for the cab?”

Holmes darted back into the room and pulled the kitchen table to a position below the ceiling hatch. I helped manoeuvre it to his satisfaction.

“Mind the evidence,” he cautioned, pointing to the linoleum. He sprang on to the table. I passed him my stick and he carefully lifted a corner of the hatch while he and I covered it with our guns. Churchill reappeared behind me.

“Up you go,” said Holmes. “See what you can see.”

“I say, Holmes,” I remonstrated.

Churchill jumped up, climbed on Holmes’ shoulders and disappeared through the hatch.

“Holmes, we are chasing dangerous miscreants. Is it wise to send the Duke of Marlborough’s nephew to scout the roof space?”

A head popped down through the hatch. “All clear, come on up.”

Churchill reached an arm down, grabbed Holmes’ wrist and helped him scramble up and through the hole. Holmes and Churchill pulled me up through the hatch - a narrow squeeze - and I followed them across lines of wooden beams to a small iron door set in the brickwork. It opened easily.

“Recently oiled,” said Holmes with a smile. “We are on their track.”

We writhed through the doorway and stepped out on to the roof of the building. A stone balustrade guarded the edge. I looked over it into Pall Mall. The street was quiet.

“Come along, Watson.”

I jogged along the balustrade behind Holmes. We stopped at the corner.

“That is the Carlton Club,” said Holmes pointing to the neighbouring building. A three-foot gap and a wall eight or ten feet high separated it from Mycroft’s building. A short wooden ladder was propped against the wall. Churchill had already scrambled across.

“That’s odd,” said Holmes. “They did not retrieve their ladder when they left.”

Churchill appeared from behind some chimney pots. “I’ve found something!” he shouted. He waved to us and disappeared again.

Holmes jumped up on the balustrade, ran up the ladder and followed him.

“I say, Holmes,” I called. “That is private property.”

I hesitated and warily eyed the gap between the buildings. The drop was straight down into a tiny yard lined with rubbish bins.

Holmes peeked from behind the chimney. “They say that it is a wonderful policy never to look down, old friend. Let me give you an arm. Is your wounded leg troubling you?”

I jumped up and climbed the ladder in a series of jerky, awkward movements. I followed Holmes to the far end of the rooftop where Churchill leaned over and looked down.

“You are puffing like a grampus,” said Holmes.

“Nonsense. I am delighting in the cooling breeze. I am drawing in invigorating draughts of oxygen.”

“Very well. The alley or lane below us is Carlton Gardens,” said Holmes. “The building across from us is the Reform Club.”

I nodded.

“How far would you say the gap is, Watson?’

“The width of the alley? Twenty-five feet or more.”

“No man can jump that far.”

“Indeed not,” I agreed. “Although the Pathans on the North-West Frontier can leap surprising distances: ten or fifteen feet is nothing to them. I measured one leap at eighteen feet four inches with a vertical drop of four feet. The man did not survive, however.”

“The fall?”

“The bayonet.”

I sat on the balustrade with Churchill while Holmes closely examined the top and sides of the stonework through his magnifying glass. He grunted with satisfaction several times as he scraped slivers of some substance into small envelopes and pocketed them. He stood. “Someone crossed the gap last night, while you, Churchill and the Colonel slept so well. They used a ladder.”

I raised my eyebrows. “A ladder? How could they possibly get a thirty-foot ladder up here? They would have to drag it through Colonel Delacy’s flat, manhandle it through the hatch and carry it up the ladder that we ascended. Even in sections, it would be weighty; they would have to double each length so it would not bow or slip. They would require a large crew.”

I considered. “A bamboo ladder would do it, in sections with metal sleeves perhaps, but bamboo of the requisite length would not be easy to find in London. Wait! I have it! The new bamboo grove at Kew! They must have stacks of bamboo. Should we not contact the curator, Holmes?”

Holmes pointed to the edge of the roof. “Not bamboo, judging by these scratches. It is something metallic; there are shiny scrapes. Here are traces of green paint. You will remember that three men were repairing the gas lamp outside the Diogenes Club. Their ladders were dark green in the gaslight.”

“I say, gentlemen,” said Churchill with a smile. “When you are done with your ladder, you might like to know that there is a body on the ground below us.”

I followed his pointing arm and looked straight down into the alley. A deep trench followed the line of the wall; the earth from the digging formed a long mound about four feet high. Over the lip of the trench, face up, lying half in it and half on the earth mound, was a man in a grey suit. His limbs were twisted at awkward angles, and he was clearly dead.

“I shall go down,” I said. “Ah, here are the police.”

Two policemen in uniform followed a civilian around the corner from Pall Mall and into Carlton Gardens alley. I recognised at once, although the figure was ludicrously foreshortened, the angular form of Inspector Lestrade.

He gave orders, pointing up and down the short street and the police constables hurried to obey him.

“They never look up,” said Holmes, just as Lestrade looked up.

“Stay exactly where you are,” the Inspector shouted. “You are surrounded by armed men.”

“Good morning, Inspector Lestrade. How are you?” called Holmes, waving. “There is a corpse in the trench below us.”

The Gas Men

“Here’s a rum do, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade.

“Indeed so,” he answered.

We stood in Carlton Gardens next to the corpse. Two uniformed policemen hurried past us towards the garden at the end of the alley.

I checked the man’s vital signs, more for form’s sake than in the hope that he might be alive. I shook my head. The corpse was that of a middle-aged man. It was splayed over the edge of the trench with the head at an unnatural angle; his neck was broken.

“Coroner’s on the way, Doctor,” said Lestrade in his nasal twang. “I sent a messenger. No need for you to bother yourself.”

He tapped the side of his nose and pointed to the Carlton Club. “I had to ask the Coroner himself to come out and have a look. We have to do things right with all them government top-nobs in the club next door. Looks like he fell from the roof; unlucky beggar, if he’d dropped square on the mound of earth he might have survived.”

A policeman brought the Inspector a black bowler that he had found in the trench. Lestrade tossed it carelessly onto the body. I saw Holmes stiffen like a hunting dog on point.

“You arrived remarkably quickly, Inspector,” I said, avoiding Holmes’ eyes.

“I am investigating a burglary at the Travellers Club just along Pall Mall, Doctor. We were about to check the back of the building for evidence of forced entry when I saw the body. I don’t suppose there’s any connection.” Lestrade looked up. “No, no, that’s twenty-five or thirty foot or more between the buildings: you’d need trained gibbons.”

He crouched like an ape, swung his arms and hooted. “Monkeys, Doctor, ha, ha.”

He straightened and his face returned to its normal pale, rat-like countenance and sharp, anxious mien. “Not a simple burglary, Mr Holmes,” he said with a sly look. “There is an Imperial aspect to the case.”

“How awkward for you,” said Holmes. “However, returning for the moment to our corpse; has the body been searched?”

“Thoroughly,” Lestrade replied. “I found nothing of importance. My feeling is that he is an employee of the Carlton who slipped. They are having some repairs done; that would explain the trench. Accidents will happen.”

He looked around and bent forward conspiratorially. “Tell you the truth, Mr Holmes, as soon as I saw the body, a thought went through my mind. It’s bad enough with the Fenian dynamiters, I thought. Now with Indian princes getting robbed at the Travellers Club, I’ve enough on my plate. I’ll leave bodies dropped from the Carlton Club roof to the local force. The fixed point constable at the Haymarket was first on the scene, so I’ve requested an inspector from C Division to take over.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you a member of the Carlton, Mr Holmes? I didn’t mean any harm talking of top-knobs. What were you doing on the roof?”

“We need not bother the denizens of the Carlton Club, Inspector. What did you find on the body?”

Lestrade reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a ring of keys and some papers. “Here is all there was: nothing of interest, except perhaps the White Star envelope.”

“May I?” asked Holmes. Lestrade passed the items to Holmes. He examined them carefully, holding several up to the sunlight. He moved to the corpse and studied the dead man’s clothing, loosening his shirt and examining the label on the collar. He took off one shoe and subjected it to minute scrutiny through his magnifying glass. He paid special attention to the bowler hat. He nodded to Lestrade.

“I would be happy to offer my assistance in the matter of the robbery, Inspector.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure, Mr Holmes. You’d best come and meet the foreign persons involved in the theft.”

“Where is Churchill?” I asked, looking around.

“What’s going on?” cried a voice. A heavily bearded man in a blue uniform came up to us from the garden end of the alley. He carried a lantern and a truncheon. Churchill accompanied him, grinning broadly.

“What’s it to you?” Lestrade asked with a sniff.

“This is the Carlton Gardens night watchman,” said Churchill proudly.

“Oy, look, there’s a dead man in that hole,” the man said.

“Were you on duty last night?” asked Holmes.

“Who are you that’s asking?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes.”

The man glared at Holmes and said nothing.

“This is a Scotland Yard detective,” I said, introducing Lestrade. “Mr Holmes is also a detective.”

“Also?” Holmes snarled.

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary last night?” I asked. I gestured to the body.

The man shook his head. “This ain’t properly my beat. I patrol the Carlton Gardens, see? I look in here to the alley now and then is all. The commissionaires from the clubs meet here and we have a nip and a smoke in the wee hours, but I’m nary away from my Gardens more than five minutes.”

He jerked a thumb towards the trees behind him. “I shoo away the ladies of the night, see? Gents smuggle fallen women in the back doors of the clubs, or try to. Them Germans from the embassy won’t be told; they do the business in the bushes.”

“Tell them about the gas men, Mr Noakes,” said Churchill.

The watchman looked Holmes up and down and sneered. “He didn’t ask about the gas men, did he? Too busy asking about last night. Nothing happened last night. I checked the alley half a dozen times - not a sausage.”

He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “I’m a worrier, me. I don’t sleep; I walk and I worry. And I’ve cat’s eyes.”

He crouched as if to spring, then turned and poked Holmes in the chest with his forefinger. “No bugger got up to mischief here last night. I’ll swear to that on any bunch of Bibles you care to muster.”

“The gas men,” Churchill persisted. “The wrong ‘uns.”

“That was Saturday night,” the watchman said sulkily. “Three blokes come on a gas company cart and dug that hole. They said they was mending the gas pipe. I told ‘em, there’s no use you digging in the alley; there ain’t no gas pipe in the Gardens else I’d have me hut connected. The pipes is all in Pall Mall. I saw the new ones laid in ‘79.”

He leered at Holmes. “I didn’t like the look of the beggars, so I got the bobby over from Waterloo Place, but they was already gone.”

He sauntered off towards Pall Mall, whistling.

“Bah,” said Holmes.

I pulled out a packet of sweets from my pocket. “Have a humbug, Holmes.”

We left Churchill squatting on a bollard at the entrance to the alley writing his notes, and followed Inspector Lestrade along Pall Mall past the Reform Club and into the lobby of the Travellers Club next door. An elderly, heavily bearded man in an embroidered Indian coat and turban stood by the porter’s desk. His left hand was bandaged. Standing with him was a pale man wearing evening clothes.

“Ah,” said Lestrade. “This is Mr Kanji - is that right, sir?”

“I am plain Kanji,” said the Indian man, bowing. “The honorific is superfluous.”

Lestrade introduced us to Kanji and to the manager of the club.

“The Committee will have to be informed,” said the manager wringing his hands. “I have no choice in the matter.”

“Show me the scene of the crime,” said Holmes.

A Bow is Sufficient

We left Kanji in the lobby with the manager and followed Lestrade up the grand staircase of the Travellers Club, past the first-floor Library, and on to the bedroom floor.

A pageboy stood guard before the closed door of a corner room.

“The Yard did not hear of the theft until early this morning, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade as he opened the door. “The owner of the jewels was out carousing with his fellow princes until three. He came back and found that Kanji fellow unconscious on the floor.”

Lestrade ushered us into a large room, well lit by a wide, arched window. A four-poster bed stood in the middle of the room, and an ornate dressing table was set against the opposite wall. A roll-top desk stood in the corner by the window. An open door led to a small dressing room furnished with a tall cupboard, and then to a private bathroom and lavatory.

An open jewel case lay on the floor just outside the dressing room door. Beside it was a small patch of what looked like dried blood.

“The thieves fiddled the lock on the bedroom door - a simple domestic lock - and found the jewel case on a shelf in that dressing room,” said Lestrade. “There are several other jewel cases there, but they were empty as the jewels are with their owner.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I understand that the gentleman wears them on his person.”

Holmes knelt beside the stain on the carpet and stared at it for some moments. He cocked his head to one side and whipped out his magnifying glass.

“Old Kanji heard something,” Lestrade continued. “He came from his bedroom next door. He says he thought his master was back from the party, and he wanted to know whether he required anything. He was knocked unconscious without seeing his assailants. He’s wearing a bandage under the turban, and he has a bruise on his hand.”

Lestrade checked his pocket watch. “The night man sent for a constable. I arrived forty-three minutes ago. I interviewed the Club staff. You know how it is Mr Holmes, there’s a bribed servant at the back of most cases like this. Some staff are foreigners, sir, Italians and the like. I have them under guard awaiting further interrogation through an interpreter. I have no doubt that the blackguards who coshed Mr Kanji were let in by confederates. They didn’t come through the front door; the night porter is an ex-Thames Division police sergeant and absolutely reliable. We were about to check the back of the building for signs of forced entry when we saw you on the roof, and I found the body.”

He turned to me. “What were you doing on the roof of the Carlton Club, Doctor?”

Holmes leapt to his feet. “Have you moved anything, Lestrade? Has anyone else been in the room since the incident was reported?”

“Just me and the Club manager. We touched nothing.”

“Interesting,” said Holmes. “Inspector, may I draw your attention to the indentations in the carpet, the dust and to the positions of the stain and the jewel box.” He held out his magnifying glass. Lestrade and I knelt and examined the carpet most carefully.

“Do you mean this tiny dent, Holmes?” I asked, looking along the plush of the carpet against the light. “There’s a sort of pock that a walking stick might make.”

“There are three times three, exactly aligned. Come, let us examine the roof.”

The pageboy led us through an unmarked door and up a narrow service staircase lined with pipes and tubes.

We passed out of a small door and onto the roof of the Travellers Club. I followed Holmes to the edge of the building and watched as he hunted along the balustrade, sometimes stopping and examining the stonework through his lens. He looked into the well between the Travellers and the Reform.

“Any more bodies, old chap?” I asked.

“No. It is not much of a gap, although the Reform is higher as you see. They crossed easily with the ladders, even in the dark. There are traces of green paint and sliver scrapes here and here.”

Lestrade shook his head in puzzlement. “Ladders, Mr Holmes? Are you connecting that body with the robbery? How did they cross Carlton Gardens? It is thirty feet if it’s an inch. How were they not seen?”

“In the dark, Inspector? They sabotaged the gaslights on both sides of Pall Mall; we saw them at it. Anyway, nobody ever looks up.”

“Don’t look down; nobody looks up,” I said with a grin. “What a fount of aphorisms you are this morning, Holmes.”

“The thieves popped out onto the roof of Colonel Delacy’s flat,” said Holmes, ignoring my quip. “They used a short ladder to gain access to the roof of the Carlton Club. They carried the longer ladder, or ladders with them. That suggests a larger gang than the three we saw last night, the ladder sections would be cumbersome and heavy. They crossed Carlton Gardens from the roof of the Carlton Club, then they came over the roof of the Reform and into the Travellers. It seems a tortuous method of entry, but it was effective.”

“If you discount the loss of one of their gang,” I said. “I suppose he missed his footing. My goodness, lecture trips to America and rooftop trapezes. The stolen jewels must be valuable.”

Holmes stood with one foot on the balustrade. He tapped a finger against his lips and stared across the Park. “Or important or both. I have a strange feeling that something else is afoot.”

Lestrade looked at him in puzzlement. “Mr Holmes -”

“Well, Inspector,” said Holmes over-riding him. “I must meet the victim.”

We trooped downstairs. Kanji waited at the door of the Library on the first floor. Lestrade excused himself and clattered down the stairs and out of the Club.

“Under the present egregious circumstances,” said Kanji as he nodded for the pageboy to open the door, “a bow from the waist will be sufficient.”

The Library was a fine, large room, bright in the light from tall windows. The walls and pillars between the bookshelves were white and gilt. A Greek frieze ran around the cornice of the central bay. A young man in a brocaded frock coat and pale-yellow turban sat in a leather chair in front of a richly carved fireplace. No other club members were in the room. He stood and faced us.

“Your Highness, Thakore Sahib,” Kanji intoned, bowing deeply. “May I present Doctor John Watson and Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

He turned to us. “Gentlemen, I have the honour to present His Highness Sir Bhagwatsinhji, Knight Commander of the Most Eminent Order of the Indian Empire, LL. D., Thakore of Gondal.”

Kanji bowed again even more deeply.

The young prince, I guessed him to be in his early twenties, wore a thick walrus moustache, but no beard. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark bags under them; he was clearly unwell, or under considerable strain. He smiled and held out his hand. I followed Holmes’ lead and shook hands in the English manner.

He sat and indicated places on the sofa opposite his chair. Kanji stood behind him and to the side.

“Coffee?” asked Thakore Bhagwatsinhji in a high, nervous voice. Kanji instructed the page to bring cups and a fresh brew.

“The LL. D. from Edinburgh is honorary and new,” the Thakore said, “as is the knighthood and KCIE. I value the doctorate of law the more because Samuel Johnson was LL. D. He earned his, coming up from obscurity. The Scots do not think much of Doctor Johnson. At school, he was my hero. I visited Litchfield, not without a slight sense of disappointment, but his house near Fleet Street is full of his spirit.”

Holmes leaned forward impatiently. “Inspector Lestrade has requested that I act in this case as consulting detective,” he said. “I understand that Your Highness has suffered a material loss.”

“Yes, it is a frightful business. I suppose we should have placed the jewels in the Club safe, but it seemed disrespectful or even sacrilegious, and it would have been inconvenient as I wear them often. The loss was not just material: the emeralds have spiritual significance. I thought it best to keep them in their box in my room.”

“Alas, Thakore Sahib, that was my poor advice,” said Kanji, shaking his head.

“It was my decision, Kanji,” said the Thakore, smiling back at him. He turned to Holmes. “My senior adviser has little faith in banks, or in steamships, or gas, or anything Western. He particularly detests Edinburgh, although the university was kind enough to give me an honorary degree. Do you know Edinburgh at all, gentlemen?”

“As a matter of fact -” I said.

Holmes overbore me. “Did you recently receive a tin of Fortnum’s Jubilee Dundee cake?”

The Thakore, Kanji and I looked at Holmes in astonishment.

“From Her Gracious Majesty, yes,” the Thakore answered. “We all did - I mean the other princes here for the Jubilee: Jaswantsinhji of Limdi and Waghji of Morvi, for example. I actually received two, one earlier in the year and one last Wednesday: an oversight, I expect. My companions, Limdi and Morvi, and I had a couple of slices each of my cake with sherry before we went out last night.”

“The cake was tampered with,” said Holmes. “A soporific was added: an opiate probably.”

I blinked at Holmes.

“Ah, an opiate,” said Bhagwatsinhji, nodding. “Opium has roborative properties. That explains our drowsiness over dinner. Our English companions thought that we were drunk, and they were quietly censorious. Well, then, opium. There is little danger of long-term effect or harm: opiates are benign, unless abused.”

“Do you have a medical training, sir?” I asked.

“A little. I intend to complete my medical degree at Edinburgh.”

“That’s a fine ambition,” I said. “If I -”

“The emeralds, Your Highness,” Holmes said sharply. “Can you describe them? What is their value?”

“Under normal circumstances, this would be a storm in a teacup. The necklace stolen was composed of inferior emeralds, full of flaws. There are fourteen stones, each the size of, let me think, your waistcoat buttons, Doctor. They are strung on a gold chain that hangs around my neck: the neck of the Thakore of Gondal. The stones are fragile. I dropped the necklace on a marble floor when I was a boy and cracked one. Do you remember Kanji?”

“Vividly, Your Highness.”

“How would we value the emeralds?” the Thakore asked his adviser.

“A half-crore of rupees, Sahib, or less.”

Bhagwatsinhji shrugged. “The monetary loss is not significant; the value of the emeralds is their symbolic significance. There is a history behind these stones.”

“Might we hear it?” I asked.

The Tiger’s Spring

Thakore Bhagwatsinhji smiled and began what was almost a recitation.

“Devobhai, one of my ancestors, incurred the dislike of the consort of the then-chief of Gondal, his nephew. She poisoned the Prince’s ear with venom about his uncle and eventually Devobhai was obliged to leave the court with his family and make his fortune elsewhere. He decided to settle in Jam. A part of his journey lay through a jungle. He halted in the shade one afternoon to give rest and fodder to his horses and bullocks.

“He was chatting with his friends and followers, and smoking his pipe, when a force under Maharajah Fateh Singh appeared. They were returning from a tribute-collecting expedition. The greater part of the cavalcade had marched past when a panic arose in the rear. A huge tiger had issued from his place of concealment and pounced upon one of the horses. Alarm and confusion prevailed.

“Devobhai instantly grasped his opportunity. After providing for the safety of the ladies, he armed himself, mounted his horse and hastened to where the Maharajah’s elephant stood. Devobhai’s bearing (and some say his handsome upturned whiskers) attracted the Maharajah’s notice. Devobhai craved permission to slay the tiger.

“Fateh Singh said that he would kill the tiger himself rather than jeopardise the life of a noble-looking man like Devobhai. Ah here is coffee.”

A waiter placed a tray of coffee and cake on one of the Library tables under the anxious supervision of the club manager. The Thakore gestured for his adviser to take up the story as we helped ourselves. I decided against having cake.

“Devobhai’s reply to the Maharajah was simple,” said Kanji. “When water and milk are boiled together, water boils first and then the other.”

He looked at Holmes and at me. I nodded sagely, not understanding the aphorism at all.

“When you have a dog,” said Holmes. “Why bark yourself?”

Kanji gave him a venomous look; Bhagwatsinhji burst into peals of laughter.

“I’ve not heard the saying glossed in quite that fashion,” he said. “That is exactly the meaning. Well, Devobhai prayed to his tutelary goddess, Ashapuri the hope-fulfiller, and quickly proceeded to where the tiger rended his victim. The beast, on seeing him approach, crouched to spring at his throat. Devobhai hurled his javelin with such force that it entered the animal’s brain and laid him dead on the ground. The feat, performed with the quickness of lightning, was witnessed by the Maharajah, who, in admiration of it, alighted from his elephant, patted Devobhai on the back, and put his emerald necklace around the warrior’s neck.”

“Ah,” I said. “And those are the missing jewels.”

“Indeed, Doctor” said Bhagwatsinhji, sadly. “But that is not the end of the story. The Maharajah enquired where Devobhai was going. He explained his circumstances, and he was offered a lucrative post at court. Devobhai declined. However, when pressed to accept a favour, he requested that the annual tribute due from Gondal might be remitted.”

“Shrewd,” said Holmes with a smile.

“What a brave and resourceful fellow,” I said. “And generous, asking for a boon for the state that had thrown him out.”

“It was not as unselfish a request as it at first appears, was it, Kanji?” said Bhagwatsinhji.

“It was not, Thakore Sahib,” said Kanji with a thin smile. “Devobhai Sahib had visited an astrologer before leaving Gondal. He had been assured that one day he would mount the gadi -”

“Throne,” said the Thakore.

“- and rule Gondal. On the death of his nephew and despite some machinations in the zenana -”

“Women’s quarters.”

“- he was proclaimed chief of Gondal. The emerald necklace became his symbol of authority.”

Holmes stood. “Perhaps Your Highness might care to view the remains of what we conjecture might have been one of the gang who stole the jewels?”

Kanji excused himself and retired upstairs. I followed Holmes and Bhagwatsinhji down the stairs to the Club lobby. Holmes darted to the porter’s desk. The porter gave him a sheet of paper that he scanned for a moment. He re-joined us at the door.

“The thing is, Mr Holmes,” said Bhagwatsinhji. “I have to wear the jewels to Buckingham Palace three days from now, the day of the Procession and Thanksgiving Service at Westminster Abbey. I am invited to a reception and supper with the Queen, followed by a ball. I attend Miss Adele Murray, of the Perthshire Murrays.”

The young man smoothed his moustache in a most indecorous manner.

“And from the domestic point of view, I must bring them back to Gondal in August, or all sorts of trouble will ensue.”

“Do you have a photograph of the stolen gems?” asked Holmes.

“Yes. I must have several - with me wearing them, I mean.”

“Do you have a court photographer, or are they studio portraits?

“I travel as a gentleman, Mr Holmes, with as few encumbrances as possible. Apart from Kanji and his people, only a dozen or perhaps a score of personal servants attend me: cooks, valets and so on.”

The Thakore lowered his voice as we passed through the lobby. “That Scotland Yard chap, Mr Lestrade, suggested that a society of Italian banditi might be behind the business. He contends that the Carbonari have suborned the Travellers Club staff.”

Holmes led the way back to Carlton Gardens. The alley was more crowded than when we had left it. Lestrade and a uniformed inspector talked with Colonel Delacy. Mycroft and Mr Melas watched the coroner examine the corpse. Churchill sat on his bollard munching an apple.

Holmes excused himself and joined his brother at the trench.

“What do you think of Edinburgh, Doctor?” the Thakore asked.

“Edinburgh is a fine school, Your Highness. Do you intend to specialise in a particular area? Tropical medicine, perhaps?”

“Oh no, I will practise general medicine. I intend to build a great hospital, and then railways, roads and schools: schools for girls as well as boys. I see no reason why, in ten years or so, Gondal should not be a model, modern state. I have a plan for abolishing taxes altogether, once the railways start to earn enough.”

The young man’s enthusiasm was affecting.

“There is another reason that makes this loss a bitter blow,” said Bhagwatsinhji in a low tone. “It is a matter of some delicacy. I should not really speak of it in case I bring on more bad karma.”

His whisper was just audible over the noise of traffic on Pall Mall and Inspector Lestrade’s loud bray.

“My little Gondal may receive a certain elevation, an increase in eminence - in rank. With that increased status I could bear down opposition and push through my railways.”

His voice came down to a low murmur. “Imagine, Doctor, eleven guns. You may think that I am dreadfully full of myself to dream of such an augmentation.”

He blinked earnestly at me.

“If I come back from London a knight, and KCIE, that is well. However, if I cable my guard to meet me as I step out of my carriage, not with the meagre nine-gun salute of the thakore of a third-class state, but with eleven guns of a maharajah of the first class! The effect would be felt in every quarter of Kathiawar, in Gujarat, in the Bombay Presidency itself! Major Perkins, Gondal’s political adviser, would get his longed-for promotion, and an honour. A promotion and a gong might render his memsahib less uncongenial. Your women can be just as awkward as our zenana, Doctor. Our women plot for their children, yours plot for honours for their husbands.”

He laughed, then grew serious. “In our world - and it is not so small, Doctor, I rule a hundred and thirty-thousand people - in our world, status is everything. I mean to drag my state up by its bootstraps, and I need to stand at a higher elevation to get a firm grip, if you follow my imperfect metaphor. Although I make light of it in front of Kanji, this loss of the blessed emeralds is a terrible setback.”

“You are sure of Kanji?” I asked.

“I have not the slightest doubt that Kanji would fling himself in front of a bullet aimed at my breast with the greatest loyalty - I mean Kanji, not the bullet. Oh dear, I would have been beaten for such a sentence at Rajkumar College. Mr Hapley, who taught us English and Physical Culture, was handy with the cane.”

“Can you think of anyone who would wish Your Highness ill?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said cheerfully, recovering his good humour with youthful exuberance. “Dozens and dozens, no hundreds or even thousands, ha, ha. The Muslims hate me for favouring the Hindus. If I do something for the Muslims, the Hindus hate me. I have an auntie who would cheerfully slit my throat for building a school for girls. The local healers cast spells against me when I talk of hospitals. The bullock cart drivers rip up my railway lines and curse me.”

He grinned.

“I am short of many things in my small state, Doctor, but I have a plethora of enemies.”

A hansom cab halted in Pall Mall at the mouth of the alley.

“Ah, here is Limdi,” said the Thakore.

An Indian dressed in a similarly rich style to the Thakore, jumped out and strode up to Bhagwatsinhji. He had a full beard and a moustache tightly curled into points at each end in the Continental fashion.

“I say, hard lines, old chap,” he cried twirling his moustache. “Have they cleaned you out? If you need the res Augusta, I can let you have a draft on the Delhi and London.”

Bhagwatsinhji smiled and shook his head. “Let me introduce His Highness Thakore Sahib Sir Jaswantsinhji Fatehsinhji of the state of Limdi,” he said. “Doctor Watson.”

I shook hands with the prince in the English manner. He was, I thought, in his late twenties or early thirties.

“They took that old green necklace - the emeralds,” said Bhagwatsinhji. “Kanji surprised them and saw them off, the devils.”

“It must be vexing,” the older prince replied. “I stuffed my jewels straight into the hotel safe when I heard the news.”

“How did Your Highness learn of the robbery?” I asked softly.

Jaswantsinhji turned and regarded me. “You must be one of the famous Scotland Yard detectives whose exploits fill the penny illustrated papers.”

He made a remark to Bhagwatsinhji in one of the Indian languages that I did not catch. I have no doubt that it was disparaging. Bhagwatsinhji had the grace to ignore it. His friend was not as easy to like as the young Thakore of Gondal.

Jaswantsinhji grinned. “Am I under suspicion, sir? I admit everything: I stole the jewels and spent the night gloating over them and dreaming seditious thoughts against the Queen-Empress.”

“I am not a colleague of Inspector Lestrade,” I said stiffly. “I am a doctor.”

“I sent messages early this morning,” said Kanji hurrying from the Travellers Club. “I thought that the other Highnesses should be on their guard. I also telegraphed to Major Ross and Major Perkins.

“They struck when I was with Jaswantsinhji and Ross and Perkins,” said Bhagwatsinhji. “They are our political advisers. Major Perkins was in a tricky mood last evening. He wanted to make a night of it, or at least he did not want to go home. Knowing the memsahib, I do not blame him. We dined, and then played cards till late.”

“We third-class states out in Gujarat and Kathiawar get mostly old Reptonians as political agents,” said the older prince. “Reliable chaps who look over our shoulders and ensure that we do not spend too much on dancing girls.” He laughed. “Gondal scooped the pot with his Major Perkins. He not only attended Eton, he was a member of the secret society of Apostles at King’s College. His charming lady wife makes a point of letting everyone know.”

Kanji led the princes back towards the Travellers Club.

“One last question, Your Highness,” I called. Bhagwatsinhji turned.

“You mentioned that you wore the emeralds often, but not last night. Was there any reason for that?”

Kanji gave me a furious look and turned away. The young Thakore looked at his toes.

“Major Perkins wanted to visit a gaming house, Doctor. We gambled. It was not appropriate.”

I nodded. “I see. Thank you.”

The princes entered the Club, and I joined Holmes and Mycroft in the alley.

“I say, Doctor,” said Churchill, jumping off his bollard. “Did you notice Colonel Delacy’s carpet? Madame Melas did a wonderful job.”