Sherlock Holmes and The Sword of Osman (7 page)

On the other side of the stall, open boxes by the dozen were filled with a dizzying collection of articles of ivory, glass, mother-of-pearl, horn, and metals. Many contained charms against the Evil Eye. A gold ring with masonic device and a watch by Barraud of London had found their way here.

My eye was drawn to a large box filled to the brim with ropes of pearls and rings of every description, some encrusted with precious rubies and emeralds, others with semi-precious carnelian, amethyst and jade.

The Jewess followed my glance. She held out the box.

‘How about these for your wives, gentlemen? They are genuine rings discarded by His Imperial Majesty, the Sultan.'

I explained that I was now a widower and the naval commander at my side was wedded more to the oceans of the world than to the better half of humanity.

A solitary ring made of bronze in sharp contrast to the rose-shaped diamond rings caught my attention. I recognised the style from my days in the Far East. The box attached to the bezel could hold perfume or medicines or powdered remains associated with saints. In India such accoutrements were part of the holy relic trade. I wasn't surprised to see it here, in a city known for its religious fervours. To ward off pestilence every second Stambouli wore a waterproof talisman containing the ninety-nine names of God.

I picked through the rings sadly. If my wife Mary had been alive still, I would have purchased eight of the finest, one for each of her fingers. I recall to this day the moment I set eyes on her when she arrived at our Baker Street lodgings to seek Holmes's help over her father's mysterious disappearance. We married in 1887. She was just seven-and-twenty. Seven years later she was dead. I dated events in my life before or after my marriage to her - like BC or AD on the Julian and Gregorian calendars. I still carried her dance card in my pocket, now hardly legible, my initials on every waltz.

Holmes and I were wending our way out of the bazaar when I made a sudden decision. I caught my companion by the arm.

‘Do you mind if I keep you waiting a moment? There's something I think I'll purchase from the Jewess.'

Tucked away at my premises in London was a lock of Mary's blonde hair. I would purchase the reliquary ring and put the lock in it and one of the six pearls from a chaplet of the Agra Treasure she left to me in her Will. The ring would become her shrine, in memory of a time, short and ultimately agonising, when I achieved all the happiness a man can hope for on this earth.

‘Not at all,' Holmes replied amiably. ‘What is it you...?'

But I was on my way.

I arrived to find the stall deserted. The woman who had been standing there only moments before had gone. A man from a nearby stall came over. He indicated he could help, if I wished to purchase something.

I thanked him and looked down at the overflowing box of rings. I fumbled though the layers of jewellery but my search was fruitless. The box-ring was no longer there.

Holmes was waiting for me with an enquiring smile.

‘Did you get what you wanted?' he enquired in a companionable manner.

‘No,' I replied.

‘What had you in mind?' he pursued.

Holmes had many virtues but sentiment was not among them.

I lied, ‘Nothing of great importance. The gold watch by Barraud caught my eye. Chiarezza must have sold it the minute we left.'

‘Didn't you ask her?'

‘No.'

‘May I ask why?'

‘By the time I got there she had gone.'

The Sword Of Osman

It was time to inspect the Sword of Osman. A man wearing a Selimi cap and brocade jacket over velvet trousers and the ubiquitous blue beads at his Adam's Apple was waiting for us. It was Mehmed the Chief Armourer, the Jebeji-bashi. Despite his advancing years the shoulders were burly and the swing of his arm athletic. It was not necessary to study his hands to know he engaged in heavy work.

The Jebeji-bashi led us in silence towards the well-guarded hall where the sword of state was kept between inaugurations. On our way we were shown the copy of the Koran which Osman was reading when he was killed, then a stone cauldron which once belonged to Abraham, followed by a footprint of the Prophet, bottles of Zemzem water, and a handkerchief belonging to Joseph.

The alcove containing the sword was reached through a pair of doors of solid brass, followed by a second pair of iron. Each had formidable hand-forged locks. The Jebeji-bashi bade us halt. We had been warned no ‘Ferenghi' would be permitted to approach the sword too close lest his eyes had a desecrating effect. Carefully the Chief Armourer unwrapped the forty silken coverings in which the sword was stored. Suddenly his body stiffened. He turned swiftly. Fear shone in his eyes. His hands clutched the talismanic beads at his throat.

He screamed, ‘The
marid
! The sword has been spirited away by the
marid
!'

In a strangulated croak he described the marid, a luminous misshapen demon ‘from the beginning of the world...with a soul as distorted as its body', an animated corpse which had begun to stalk the Palace corridors, causing the guards to flee from their posts in terror.

‘Go and inform your Master about the sword,' Holmes ordered. ‘Tell His Imperial Majesty we shall seek an audience as soon as we have information to pass to him.'

We stared down at the empty wrappings.

Holmes said, ‘Well, Watson, we are in the midst of a very remarkable enquiry. An effulgent revenant which steals swords is hardly an everyday occurrence, even in Stamboul. What next?'

‘Indeed,' I replied, ‘what next?' thinking about the shaken man who had stood before us.

***

I awoke early the following morning to a crew member hammering at my cabin door. The Sultan wanted us back at Yildiz. At once. Under threat of torture the Sword's guards had admitted fleeing from their posts in fear when a supernatural being, its body aglow, appeared before them. The panic spread to the Sultan himself. He had immediately dispatched the elegant Imperial caique with its retinue of rowers to collect us. We abandoned our plans to leave the battleship in the relative anonymity of the modest cutter
Haroony
.

Ashore the satin-lined coupé of the deceased Sultan Valide awaited us, the bodywork alive with gold, the curtains closed. Six horses pulled our picturesque equipage up the slope. We clanged along the already-familiar narrow lanes of tinsmiths, candle-makers and sellers of cooked sheep's heads. The driver eschewed the vast public gate by which we had entered Yildiz the first time, choosing instead the second outer gate. Our opulent vehicle eased in incongruously between a line of service carts bringing in lengthy tree logs for the fires.

Inside the Palace walls we were met by the gargantuan figure of the Kizlar Agha, the Chief Black Eunuch. We knew the Kizlar Agha involved himself in almost every palace intrigue and could gain power over the Sultan and many of the viziers, ministers or other court officials. He was dressed in a pelisse of green material with long sleeves nearly reaching the ground, trimmed with sable and other rare furs. Shelmerdine had gone into considerable detail over what he termed the Sultan's ‘prime minister'. The eunuch, Head of the Virgins, with the dignity of three tails, controlled the harem and a perfect net of spies in the Black Eunuchs. He led us through the oppressive silence of rooms where no-one dared speak above a soft murmur.

We came into Abd-ul-Hamid's presence. The Kizlar Agha advanced, bending his immense body almost double in loop upon loop of low salaams, like a great bloated sea-monster raising itself from the ocean deep. But it was Abd-ul-Hamid who captured my attention. He crouched in an enormous golden arm-chair. The black eyes fixed themselves upon us with from under their heavy lids with an expression of the most dreadful terror. The pink, filbert-shaped nails of one of the autocrat's hands played nervously with the amber beads of a
tesbieh
. The other hand kept uneasily and restlessly beating up and down, a movement of which I had no doubt he was quite unconscious. The signs of mental distraction convinced me the germ of insanity was seeping out, a trait he and members of his House were reputed to inherit from their ancestor Sultan Ibrahim.

The Sultan sprang to his feet, almost pulling us across to the cascade fountain where the noise of the falling water would cover our conversation from prying ears.

‘Now my enemies are closing in,' he blazed. ‘Your presence here has unlocked Pandora's box! I should never have agreed to Sir Edward's request. Yesterday the theft of the Sword of Osman - and now more terrible news. My Chief Armourer Mehmed, the man you met yesterday, the finest sword-maker in the Empire, is dead. You presence has caused this - now you must save me from them! The Jebeji-bashi is dead!' he repeated mournfully. ‘I shall miss Mehmed. There was not his equal as armourer in the entire world. His swords develop a vampire's hunger. Once drawn, every blade he forged has to draw blood before it can be returned to its scabbard.'

‘What was the cause of the Chief Armourer's death?' I asked with professional interest.

‘His wife,' our host shrieked. ‘He died from his wife. At the plotters' behest she summoned her husband home to kill him. I've ordered her arrest. She will confess all. The executioners' guild has seventy-seven instruments of torture. Better still, my Chief Black Eunuch has a special punishment for women.'

The Sultan scurried back to the golden arm-chair.

‘Remind me,' he called out to Kizlar Agha, ‘what do we call it?'

‘The Spider.'

‘Ah, yes, the Spider,' the Sultan repeated. ‘It's an instrument he chains to a wall. Eight red-hot iron claws sink into the woman's breasts. When she's yanked away from the wall, her breasts are ripped off. They stay behind in the claws.'

He giggled.

‘-like a spider that's eating its prey, you see!'

He thrust a telegram at me.

‘Read!' he commanded with swelling indignation. ‘Read!'

The telegram had been dispatched from Greece. Oddly it was in English, the text succinct. It ordered the Sultan to abdicate ‘in favour of your son Prince Mehmed Abid or you too will suffer your Chief Armourer's lot'.

It set a deadline, the seventh of September.

I passed the telegram to Holmes who read it silently.

The Sultan's voice rose to a shriek.

‘An ultimatum, Messieurs! The whole world speculates on my future. This is proof! Incontrovertible proof! A treasonous plot hatched like murderous hens by those wretched officers garrisoned in Salonika, men I provided with every advantage. I hear the mutinous officers have even selected a villa where I'm to live out the remainder of my days. A villa!'

He thrust his hands into a pile of telegrams at his side.

‘Look! Look at these! Despatched from all over my Empire assuring me of my peoples' love and respect. Salonika is not a city! It's populated only by Jews, Greeks, Bulgarians, followers of Shabbetai Zevi, Gipsies. Each of these groups keeps well away from each other as though fearing a contagion.'

Holmes and I stood silent.

‘That date, Mr. Holmes,' the Sultan flared, his breathing harsh, ‘that date - the date the traitors have chosen - is the thirtieth anniversary of my accession. Telegrams will be received here at Yildiz from every corner of my Empire, even from that city of vipery Salonika, congratulating me on my rule, while this...' - he reached out and snatched the telegram back and shook it savagely - ‘this orders me to pack or meet my doom on that very same day.'

A sudden piteous look overtook the bravado.

‘Their key to success lies in the Sword of Osman. The Sword is their malediction. Unless it's returned within days - nay hours - I shall be caught like a rat in a trap. I'm certain the cooks and scullions and carpenters and electricians - even my gardeners - are preparing to flee.'

Speaking as though the man was not at his side, the Sultan went on, ‘Even my Chief Black Eunuch will open the doors of the Palace to the assassins to avoid having the noose placed around his neck.'

‘Sir,' I intervened, deeply attentive to Sir Edward Grey's wish to keep this creature on his throne, ‘you seem to know who these conspirators are, where they live, how they communicate. Why haven't you long since accepted the counsel of your advisers - and the admonitions of your thirteenth wife - and rounded up these scallywags? Why haven't you already put them on trial?'

The distraught figure before us cried with some bitterness, ‘And perhaps bring about the very events I fear most?'

He made a grotesque attempt at a smile.

‘I am like the hen who is asked by the cook, “Dear fowl, would you like to be served up with a sweet sauce or a sour sauce - which do you prefer?” In either case I will be throttled, cooked and eaten.'

His voice dropped to a rasping whisper. ‘They plan to kill me just as they killed my uncle, the late Sultan Abdülaziz. They said the Sultan killed himself! At the Old Seraglio. Can you believe it? Why should a sultan kill himself? When the holy men prepared the body for the tomb they saw a tiny mark above the heart. It could only have been the wound of a stiletto.'

Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘When I'm murdered they'll put my brother Reshad on the throne as their puppet. He'll do whatever they say.'

He gave us a despairing look.

‘Before you sits a man who doesn't know which way to turn. It was my misfortune to come on the stage of history at a time the Empire was bankrupt and could not defend itself against its many enemies. What is life? It's a seed blown hither and thither, sometimes multiplying itself and dying in the act. We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Worse than a shadow - misery. In the face of aggression from without and sabotage from within, I wage as valiant a battle as I can and must, to preserve what remains of this once mighty Empire.'

With a ghastly gesture, as though dangling from a noose, he added, ‘You see before you a man who is at present five feet six inches in your measurement. As a boy I prayed to the ninety-nine names of Allah to let me grow up to be five feet nine at least. One should beware what one asks of the All-Compassionate, the All-Merciful. Soon He may grant me my wish. Have you seen the corpses hanging beneath Galata Bridge, how they elongate?'

From his trembling lips came loud, vaporous laughter.

‘I ordered my physician to measure the cadavers before and after. A man of my size who dies by the noose lengthens at least three of your inches. My boyhood prayer will come true.'

A slight signal from the Chief Black Eunuch indicated it was time to leave. At the door I glanced back. God's shadow on the Universe, the ruler of vast and mysterious dominions stretching from the Caucasus to the Persian Gulf, the Danube to the Nile, sat sessile, shrivelled, as catatonic as the mummy of Ramses the Second.

The Sultan caught my look. A slight smile flickered briefly around his lips. His melancholy voice followed us out into the garden: ‘Dr. Watson, if word comes I'm to be deposed, they will find me reading your chronicles while their tread grows ever nearer. I shall start on
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
tonight.'

In our carriage Holmes declared, as though to himself, ‘Dear me! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! I can see only two things for certain at present. The sword goes missing. In Pera the Chief Armourer dies...'

He looked at me. His eyebrows tightened.

‘Mehmed meets a violent death during the very hours we know a drama was being enacted in the Palace. Why?'

‘Chance, Holmes, surely?' I protested. ‘Aren't you reading too much into...'

‘You suggest the Chief Armourer's murder so soon after the sword disappeared was mere coincidence? The odds against would be enormous.'

He turned to stare back at Yildiz.

‘Clever idea, death, isn't it, Watson?' he mused. ‘I wonder who came up with it?'

Back aboard the battleship Holmes and I separated to dress for dinner. As we parted he said, ‘We must pay a visit to a cemetery.'

‘A cemetery?' I queried, perplexed. ‘Any cemetery?'

‘The cemetery where the Chief Armourer is to be buried. We need to investigate the circumstances of his death. Our dragoman will have to tell us where and when the funeral is to take place.'

***

At dinner my comrade was particularly preoccupied, almost aloof, despite the cheery conversation around the table. The meal came to an end. We lit our pipes. The suggestion was made to play a few agreeable hands of Bull.

‘Surgeon Lieutenant Learson,' the Commodore observed from the head of the immense mahogany table, ‘one advantage of putting into port here is fresh fruit from the Fethiye market.'

His hands were grasping a large bowl piled high with cherries, apricots, pomegranates, lemons, unripe plums, grapes and figs. He gave the bowl a push towards me. It started on its journey down the polished surface, turning slowly, a carousel of purple, yellow, blue, green and red pennants. I saw Holmes's head jerk forward. He was staring as though hypnotised by the bowl sliding towards us. He flung his napkin on the table and sprang to his feet.

In a voice of thunder my comrade exclaimed, ‘Watson, we have been the stupidest fellows in Europe!'

The Commodore and his sea-captains gaped as Holmes strode towards the Wardroom door beckoning me to accompany him. He turned back to address the bewildered company.