The laryngologist’s glare of indignation subsided into guilt. “His Majesty was most insistent, Doctor. His congestion, chills, and sudden rise in fever did not begin until after his return.”
“Once more, Sir Morell,” said Sherlock Holmes, “I must ask you for a definitive statement of the Emperor’s prognosis.”
“Most unfavourable, Mr. Holmes. The wound to His Majesty’s throat has mortified into an abscess. Even if it bursts and he survives the immediate crisis, the injury itself is permanent, and his current symptoms are unlikely to abate. Gentlemen, I fear it is a fatal complication that will almost certainly lead to chronic infection and further gangrenous destruction of the trachea. There is no doubt whatever that von Bergmann’s attack upon the Emperor has, at the very least, shortened His Majesty’s life. It is no longer a question of years or months, but of weeks - perhaps only days.”
“Thank you, Sir Morell,” cried Holmes, with scarcely veiled irony, “for so unequivocal a statement. And now, Watson and I must say farewell. Please extend our good wishes to His Majesty, and our warm regards to your invaluable assistant, Mr. Hovell.”
“He will be sorry to have missed you,” Mackenzie answered coolly. “Not liking to leave my patient in a crisis, I sent Hovell to the capital an hour ago to report to Dr. Reid. I wish you both a safe journey back to London.”
He did not offer his hand; nor did Holmes and I extend our own. With a civil nod, Sir Morell Mackenzie turned away and re-entered the Emperor’s bedchamber. It was our last meeting with that eminent physician.
After departing the imperial quarters, Sherlock Holmes and I returned to our rooms to pack up our belongings. We were assisted in the endeavour by our valets, who miraculously had reappeared, silent and obsequious as ever. It was past eight o’clock by the time we made our way into the palace’s imposing entrance hall, where, four nights before, we had been so flamboyantly welcomed by Count Radolinski. Of him there was no sign. Instead, we were met by Major Kessel, the senior military attaché, who - after favouring us with a formal bow and heel-click - handed Sherlock Holmes a telegram. It was the reply from London. Having inspected the envelope, Holmes gave the German officer a steely glare.
“This has been opened, Major.”
“Not by my hand, sir!” The attaché drew himself up as though preparing to issue or repel a challenge.
“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” my friend replied. “May I crave your indulgence to read the thing myself in private?”
“Natürlich, Herr Holmes. But please be swift. When you have finished, I am to escort you and the Herr Doktor to His Highness Prince Bismarck. He is awaiting you in the drawing room behind that door.”
“Is he, indeed?” marvelled the detective. “Well, Gott sei Dank! At long last, Herr Doktor, we have been granted audience!”
After Kessel had withdrawn discreetly to a corner, Holmes read through the communiqué, his face darkening in proportion to his progress. Finally, with a snort of absolute disgust, he crumpled the thing into a ball and tossed it to me.
“Put that in your notebook, Watson, as our mission’s official seal of failure! Myc - that is, my correspondent in Whitehall - writes that the government has instructed us not to oppose our ignominious eviction. We are to tuck our tails between our legs and meekly flee to London!”
“But why?” Taking Holmes’ arm, I propelled him through the palace doors into the courtyard, where we could confer beyond the Major’s hearing.
“Oh, no doubt it all makes perfect sense to the official mind! The Prime Minister has decided that the true nature of von Bergmann’s attack upon the Emperor is not to be disclosed. He was advised that with Frederick’s death inevitable, and perhaps imminent (Hovell, you remember, telegraphed as much to Reid), revealing the truth would embitter Anglo-German relations to no purpose, complicating the Queen’s visit to Charlottenburg and possibly endangering the Empress after the accession of her son. Therefore, the heir and Chancellor’s attempt at murder will be swept beneath the carpet, and Her Britannic Majesty’s son-in-law dies unavenged!”
Having vented his spleen, my friend assented to re-entering the Schloss, where we were at once confronted by the anxious Major Kessel. He led us, without further ado, into the presence of Germany’s Iron Chancellor.
I had, of course, seen many photographs of Prince Bismarck, most often scowling ferociously under a spiked helmet. The scowl and heavy moustache were still evident; but without his helmet, and in a rumpled uniform, the aging Chancellor was revealed as a fat and bald old man, leaning heavily upon his cane and looking every one of his seventy-three years. When we entered, he was admiring a painting of the lovely Queen Louise, who appeared to be offering her beauty to Napoleon I. I found it an odd subject for her grandson’s drawing room.[95]
Then Prince Bismarck turned to greet us, and the signs of his physical decay became irrelevant. Above their pouches, the deeply-set brown eyes were still as hard as agates, bespeaking the survival of both remarkable intelligence and inflexible, unbroken will. It was obvious to both of us that inwardly, at least, Otto von Bismarck had lost very little to the years.
He offered us what might have been intended as a genial smile. “Guten Abend, meine Herren! Tonight I deputise for Crown Prince Wilhelm. He had hoped to meet the well-known Sherlock Holmes before the two of you left Germany, having already made the acquaintance of Herr Doktor Watson.” After an amused glance in my direction, the Chancellor directed his remarks to Holmes.
“Unfortunately, it seems that a more important matter has detained him. It may be just as well, Herr Holmes. The young prince is an inveterate talker, and I should not like for you two gentlemen to miss your train!”
My friend returned Bismarck’s ironic chuckle. “There would be little point, in any case, in our remaining longer. The goals of our mission have been substantially fulfilled, in spite of your best efforts to impede them.”
“Pray do not be impertinent, Herr Holmes,” the Chancellor growled, “for it does not become you. You likewise are a young man still, and therefore you have much to learn. Jawohl, you have done well in your mission to Charlottenburg! You have drawn the right conclusions and identified the true men, the scoundrels, and the fools. But I am too old a fox to be caught by a young hound, for all his eagerness! It has not been difficult to stay a trick or two ahead of you. Even so, I have been impressed by the accuracy and thoroughness of your reports to Whitehall, which Grandmamma will surely find as entertaining as I did before she visits here. If I may so observe, sir, your talents are wasted on those ‘petty puzzles of the police-court,’ as I believe they have been called.”
I saw Holmes blanch at this remark, although at the time I had no understanding why.[96] Although obviously shaken, he complimented Prince Bismarck in turn upon the deviousness and dedication of his minions. “They serve Your Highness with a skill and loyalty that would be more honourably reserved for their Emperor, whose reign you have now brought prematurely to a close.”
The Iron Chancellor’s weathered face assumed a look of sorrow. “Indeed, Herr Holmes, I fear our noble Kaiser Friedrich must soon lay down his heavy burden. It is a tragedy, for had he only married wisely he would have been in all respects a worthy man. Regrettably, his wife - whose will, alas, is so much stronger than his own - has never accepted that Germany is not England, and will never be. Neither she nor her husband understood that only blood and iron could build the German Empire! Such was the verdict of 1848. History, meine Herren, is written by the victors[97], but not necessarily by them all. In our case, history will record that Otto von Bismarck was the founder of the German Empire. ‘Fritz and Vicky’ will quite soon be forgotten. As I have said, it is no doubt a pity. Yet, a man who could not rule his wife - or even speak! - was hardly fit to rule an empire.”[98]
“What of a man who may go mad at any moment?” My friend responded sharply. He took from his coat pocket Erich
sen’s report on the lurking danger of insanity behind Crown Prince William’s ear infections. The Chancellor accepted and began to read the document, albeit with the demeanour of a man humouring a fool.
“Ja, ja,” he grumbled, “we knew of this already. Herbert provided such a report last December.[99] This evil malady - should it occur - will be dealt with at the necessary time, as were all the other misfortunes that have plagued the Crown Prince since his birth. If there should be a fatal outcome, then Prince Heinrich will make an admirable regent for his little nephew. A whole, man, at least, and less erratic than his elder brother. I was saddened when the other two boys died so young. One thing that must be said for your queen’s daughter: she made a fine brood mare!”
At that point, I could tolerate this ogre’s callousness no longer. “You go too far, sir! As you have admitted, you are speaking of the daughter of my Queen!” Bismarck gave me a mocking smile before turning back to my companion, who placed a reassuring hand upon my arm.
“Herr Holmes,” sighed the Iron Chancellor, “I know full well that Crown Prince Wilhelm’s accession poses risks. While no longer a boy, he retains all the impetuosity of youth. He cannot hold his tongue, and he allows himself to be swayed by flatterers. More dangerously still, the young lord wants a war with Russia! He would draw his sword tomorrow if he could. Unless Wilhelm can learn self-control, as Kaiser he could lead the Reich into a general European war - without even realising or wanting it.[100] Assuredly, he will require much direction, but I am long accustomed to providing it. Under my tutelage, there will be no liberal experiments in the reign of Wilhelm II, just as there were none in the reign of Wilhelm I. Instead, the German Empire will continue to be governed under my policy of ‘Blood and Iron!’”
“And what will be the empire’s fate, Prince Bismarck,” Holmes enquired softly, “if the new Kaiser should disdain your tutelage, or fail to mature sufficiently before your time as Chancellor is done?”
The cynical smile faded from the old man’s lips, and he regarded my friend with a look of deep foreboding. “If that contingency occurs, Herr Holmes, then woe to my poor grandchildren! If that contingency occurs, Kaiser Wilhelm II will become the nemesis of history!”[101]
We left the Schloss to find the street outside it filled with ordinary Germans. All had travelled there, by carriage, tram, or foot, to keep a solemn vigil for their stricken Kaiser Friedrich. Meanwhile, in a secluded corner of the courtyard, the Heir-Apparent was talking urgently with the commander of his father’s guard. Keeping to the shadows beneath the palace wall, Holmes and I stealthily approached and hid ourselves behind a stand of shrubbery.
“The moment you hear of the Kaiser’s death,” the Crown Prince was saying, “occupy the Schloss and let no one in or out, without exception. Search every room until you find my parents’ private papers. I want them seized before my mother can arrange to have them sent to England.”[102]
Clicking his heels, the commandant saluted. As William went on to issue further orders, the crowd beyond the palisade began to stir. I heard glad cries of “Unser Fritz!” followed by a curse from the Crown Prince. Turning, we saw Frederick III standing in the half-lit window of his bedroom, the smaller figure of his wife beside him. Dressed in a beautiful white uniform, erect and dignified as always, the dying Emperor raised a hand to his people in benediction and farewell.
“Come, Watson,” muttered Sherlock Holmes. Stepping from our hiding place, we bowed to the venerable couple in the window; then Holmes shot a brief, contemptuous glance at the man who would succeed his father all too soon. We passed the palace gates, saluted by the Gardes du Corps, and made our way unnoticed through several hundred anxious Germans. As we crossed the cobblestones and turned our backs upon Charlottenburg, I heard the crowd begin to cheer.
94 Again, see Mackenzie, pp. 153–154. Although the absess did eventually burst, enabling Frederick to survive the crisis, fever and a purulent discharge through his canula continued for the brief remainder of his life. They were followed (as Sir Morell predicted) by gangrenous destruction of the trachea, perforation of the esophagus, the absorption of food into the Emperor’s lungs, and death from pneumonia on June 15, 1888. During the autopsy, both Mackenzie and Hovell noticed a large cavity in the throat left by von Bergmann’s “false passage” and the resulting absess. See Frederick the Noble, pp. 182–185, and Case of Emperor Frederick III, pp. 90–94.
95 There are several depictions of Queen Louise’s meeting with Napoleon I at Tilsit, after Prussia’s defeat in 1806–1807. Perhaps the best known is by the French artist Nicolas Gosse (1787–1878). Although said to have arrayed herself in gold for the encounter, the beautiful Louise did not (as Watson implies) sacrifice her honor. The Corsican Tyrant assured his wife (!) that “it would cost me too dearly to play the gallant.” Despite his voracious sexual appetite, Napoleon preferred to conquer provinces instead of queens. For one account of the meeting, see “Arrayed in Gold”: http://arrayedingold.blogspot.com/2011/08/napoleons-beautiful-enemy-louise-of.html.
96 The cause of Holmes’ discomfort was that this gibe originated with his brother Mycroft, showing that the Germans were aware of the reclusive analyst who would soon become, at times, “the British government.” Although Watson recorded Mycroft’s banter in “The Bruce-Partington Plans,” a case from 1895, the senior Holmes may have employed it from the time his younger brother first took up detective work.
97 This adage is usually attributed to Winston Churchill, who employed it in his books and speeches. (See, for example, the article “History as written by the victor” from The Telegraph (November 2, 2018): https://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/3626376/History-as-written-by-the-victor.html. Nevertheless, though not known as a writer, Bismarck participated victoriously in enough history to make such a remark himself.
98 The Chancellor must have repeated this remark to his even more unpleasant son. “At [Frederick III’s] funeral, the Prince of Wales was deeply shocked when ... Herbert [Bismarck] referred to Frederick as an ‘incubus’ and added coldly that ‘an Emperor who could not talk was unfit to reign.’” (Virginia Cowles, Gay Monarch: The Life and Pleasures of Edward VII. New York: Perennial Library, Harper & Row, 1965 [1956], pp. 138–139).
99 Herbert Bismarck’s information had come from the Grand Duke of Baden. A French historian and friend of the Grand Duke confided to him that none other than Sir Morell Mackenzie believed that Prince William was afflicted with cancer of the ear. Herbert, his father’s Foreign Secretary, planned a trip to London and suggested asking Lord Salisbury to interrogate the Queen. He thought the British would deal honestly upon a question so critical to German interests. In the event, the Foreign Secretary’s trip was canceled, and even John Röhl is uncertain whether an inquiry actually took place (pp. 317–318). Herbert may also have consulted his friend Felix Semon, who, around the time of William II’s accession to the throne, wrote his own memorandum on the possible mental effects of the Kaiser’s ear infections (Röhl, p. 319).
100 On pages 741 and 758, Röhl cites other occasions on which Bismarck expressed similar forebodings concerning Crown Prince William.
101 Once again, Bismarck’s dire prophesy has been attributed to another source. Frederick von Holstein, éminence grise of the German foreign office, wrote in his diary for May 15, 1888 that William II “would be ‘the nemesis of world history.’” (Röhl, p. 825). Quite possibly, Holstein heard the Chancellor make such a remark and recorded it in his diary as his own. In any case, before another 75 years of history had passed, the Kaiser would acquire several rivals for the title.
102 Hannah Pakula also records this scene on p. 481. In essence, the night of April 14 provided Crown Prince William with a dress-rehearsal for his father’s death on June 15. “As soon as it was known that the Emperor Frederick was dying, a cordon of soldiers was secretly drawn round Friedrichsk
ron [Frederick’s palace in Berlin], so that no documents might be removed without the knowledge of the new Emperor.” (Ponsonby, p. 318). “Wilhelm II, garbed in the full-dress uniform of the Hussars, saber at the ready, apparently conducted the search of his mother’s room himself. ...” (Pakula, p. 490).
Epilogue
Although the weeks that followed our return to London were extremely busy, we continued to monitor events in Germany reported in the British press. Against all expectations, Frederick III survived his latest crisis, and the Queen’s visit to Charlottenburg took place as planned near the end of April. Her Majesty accepted a bouquet of forget-me-nots from her son-in-law; delivered sound, if unwelcome, advice to her daughter; reviewed the imperial guard with her grandson William; and, just prior to her departure, held a private interview with the Iron Chancellor. It was agreed between them that Princess Viktoria would not marry the former ruler of Bulgaria.[103]
The Emperor’s reprieve was brief. On the first of June, when Frederick left Schloss Charlottenburg by yacht for his palace in Berlin, thousands of his subjects lined the banks of the Spree to honour him. Five days later, his doctors published a bulletin stating that His Majesty’s health was so satisfactory that further reports would be issued only if there was a need. On June fifteenth, the Emperor died.[104] “Delusional to the end!” was my friend’s comment, referring to Mackenzie. He was no less disgruntled, over the next few days, by William II’s accession proclamation (which contained no mention of his father); by the Dowager Empress’s quick exile from Berlin[105]; and by the German doctors’ highly polemical account of Frederick’s illness, published in July.[106]
Afterwards, events upon the Continent receded in our minds. During the month of August, Sherlock Holmes was much distracted by the gruesome murders in Whitechapel, as I was by the sudden death of my brother Henry, which required an unexpected voyage to America. When I returned to Baker Street in mid-September, Holmes and I were soon involved in new investigations, among them the case of the Greek interpreter. It was then that I met my friend’s elder brother. Although I privately deduced that Mycroft (the mysterious “M”) was the detective’s contact in Whitehall, my friend continued to withhold the true nature of his sibling’s service to the British government.
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