by Tim Symonds
***
The day arrived. I checked my watch against the chronopher one final time. A noisy Beeston-Humber Landaulette deposited me at Victoria Station. I was looking forward to the days aboard HMS Dreadnought, during which I might be able to write up a case or two. The choice would be difficult. In the meantime I joined a long queue at W.H. Smith’s to purchase a supply of reading for the journey to Gibraltar.
Half an hour later I settled opposite Holmes into the comfortable First Class carriage aboard The Jewel of the Weald. I was extremely flustered due to an uncomfortable encounter with a clergyman. I have often related how my former comrade changed his colours as readily as the chameleon. Clerics were his speciality - in A Scandal In Bohemia Holmes disguised himself as a simple Nonconformist preacher in his effort to outwit the remarkable adventuress Irene Adler. I wrote at the time:
‘His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity... It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary...’
When I hurried across Victoria station towards our carriage with my bundles and the day’s Globe, Pall Mall, and St. James’s I came across the identical apparition of the Nonconformist preacher with the identical sympathetic smile and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity.
I recalled Holmes saying ‘It is the first quality of a criminal investigator that he should see through a disguise’.
I determined to unmask my friend there and then, only to find myself obliged to pay a loitering street Arab sixpence to retrieve a genuine prelate’s hat and stick from the railway track to which had I dispatched them, yelling out ‘You can’t fool me thrice, sir!’.
On the dot of 11 o’clock, and much to my relief, the engine driver pulled the air whistle. Doors slammed. Steam was applied to the reciprocating pistons, giving life to the 4-4-0 wheels. With a deafening noise the monster began to hurl itself forward. A helpful Mr. Paul Smith at Thomas Cook’s had told us the journey would last one hundred and four hours. Our first meal would be aboard the Dover-Boulogne ferry. Beyond lay Paris and Madrid. Then Algeciras and the steamer to Gibraltar.
I leaned towards Holmes, mischievously intending to enquire whether he’d remembered to bring his Legion of Honour Grand Croix to impress the Sultan, but was met with one of Holmes’s most remarkable characteristics, the power to throw his brain out of action. With the unusual remark ‘Watson, I’ve had quite enough of Petrarch for one day’, my old friend snatched a pair of black night-spectacles from a pocket sewed inside his cavernous coat and popped them on his nose. He stretched out his long, thin legs, loosened his cravat, and lay as dead.
The train gathered speed, clacking its way across the Thames. Victoria Station fell back. I turned my attention to the outside world. St. Paul’s Cathedral came into view, 365 feet high. A cloud-burst earlier that morning had washed the smoke and dust out of the air so that even at a distance the gilt cross sparkled in the sunshine. Spires, dwarfed by the dome, stood out with unnatural clarity.
I surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the events of the day, I tossed them to one side and stared at my sleeping friend. Next to Holmes lay a long cherry-wood pipe and his favourite clay pipe, a box of vestas, and a pouch with Grosvenor tobacco mixture (at eightpence an ounce). He had opted for a rare Poshteen Long Coat. He had worn it last in our encounter with the ruthless Empire Loyalists of the Kipling League and their President, David Siviter, in The Case of the Dead Boer at Scotney Castle some two years earlier. No-one would accuse Holmes of foppishness. The bulky piece with its many flaps and pockets was accompanied by a regrettable common-or-garden ear-flapped travelling cap showing signs of savage attack by moths, no respecters of ancient relics.
Beside me was a heavily-sealed document ‘for the attention of Commander Hewitt’ delivered to the train and passed to me by Holmes with the words ‘Do oblige me when you have time’. The succinct address ‘Bankside’ indicated it had been written by Mycroft Holmes in the privacy of the Diogenes Club.
I lit a lunkah and began to read.
‘Dear Sherlock, by now you will be boarding the express train to Dover, engaged in a task as important as any you have undertaken. Your destination Constantinople - often referred to as ‘Stamboul’ - has been called empress of the world, a city of beauty and tragedy, where a man’s ancestry is proclaimed by the colour of his trousers - Turks red, Greeks black, Jews blue, Armenians violet. Turkey is more an Asiatic power than a European one.
‘First, a cautionary word on wearing naval officers’ uniforms. The Civil Service is in the throes of drawing up a new Convention regarding the status of wartime spies. Ch.11, Article 29 will state a person is considered a spy who acts clandestinely or on false pretences, infiltrates enemy lines with the intention of acquiring intelligence and communicating it to the belligerent during times of war. You should, therefore, be aware that if war breaks out during your stay in Turkey, and the Ottomans are on the other side, you will be executed. Now you know of this risk no-one will hold it against you or Dr. Watson if you spend a pleasant hour or two at Dover Castle followed by a six-course dinner courtesy of His Majesty on the next train back to Victoria. Otherwise read on.
‘The Sultan is a bottomless pit of falsehood and fraud who will fulfil nothing except under force or the proximate use of force. The East is, and ever was from times immemorial, the land of the most striking contradictions. Venice in its darkest days was light and freedom compared to the cesspool of vice, decay and blood which is the Stamboul of today. Across the Ottoman Empire provinces which were once rich and fertile have returned to nearly the desolation of the desert, in parts a howling wilderness.
‘Europe waits with bated breath for Ottoman rule to collapse. St. Petersburg and Vienna bide their time like crows on a fence post. Berlin maintains a ship anchored for months at a time in the harbour at Stamboul full of political and commercial spies masquerading as archaeologists and engineering geographers. We have good reason to believe the Kaiser signed a secret military convention with the Sultan when Abd-ul-Hamid hosted him in Constantinople eight years ago. If war breaks out between Germany and England, we will find the Turk on the other side. Why should this be of concern to London? Because when the Sick Man does collapse England must have her share of the spoils. Our power extends to the boundaries of even the farthest ocean. In Kipling’s words, England holds Dominion over palm and pine. Our world-empire is an octopus with gigantic feelers stretching out over the habitable globe. Many economies including China and Siam are under our control.’
The letter went on,
‘The Foreign Secretary is not the most sensitive barometer by which to read tendencies in foreign policy. His attention is fixed too hard on France, a corrupt and traditional enemy which to my mind remains of interest but no longer consequence. England herself is in urgent need of a Metternich, a Talleyrand, a blood-and-iron Bismarck, which Sir Edward is not. History may show the King’s recent Entente with Paris was England’s first blundering step to war with Germany. There is not enough dissimulation in Grey for a politician. Rather, he is an unpretending Englishman of country tastes, simple in word and thought, good at fishing and learned in sparrows. Perhaps I’m being unfair - there is in great affairs so much less in the minds of the chief actors than in the minds of the event. In emergencies we discover we are the puppets of the past which, of a sudden, pulls the unseen wires and determines the action.’
I resented Mycroft’s mild contempt for Sir Edward’s ‘country tastes’. The Foreign Secretary was a man after my own heart.
A chilling analysis unfolded.
‘When the next crisis comes we shall find the war-chariots’ reins not in Whitehall but Wilhelmstraße. There is a good deal of gunpowder lying about in Berlin waiting for a spark, its ruler keen to settle differences sword in han
d. The mischief-makers’ time is coming, ohne Hast, aber ohne Rast - without haste, but without rest. The gifts of patience, forbearance and tact may be invaluable for the conduct of delicate negotiations but Germany is not a wilting lily. She is a walnut which it will require a hammer to crack. Grey will be powerless to prevent the shipwreck which is now inevitable It only takes one to make a quarrel; it needs two to preserve the peace.’
The above is expressed in the deepest confidence that it will find a place in your and Dr. Watson’s minds and not an inch further. This was followed by the cautionary words, ‘I need not remind you, dear brother, I have a comfortable chair here in Whitehall. With time and usage it has taken on the curvature of my back (and rump) and I hope to remain in it for many moons to come. After you have fully absorbed its content burn this document.’
‘Burn this document’was heavily underlined.
The last of London was now behind us. We were puffing towards the forbidding bulwark of the White Cliffs and, beyond, the English Channel and France. I put Mycroft’s letter away and pulled my tin box from the rack, riffling through case-notes yet to see the light of day.
I smoothed out the pages and spread them on the seat beside me.
***
Days and nights passed. We rattled through France at forty miles an hour aboard a succession of wind-splitting ‘pig-nosed’ trains. A hundred hamlets passed by in a blur. Restaurant cars serving hearty food and fine wines ameliorated the long evenings. I picked up and put down and picked up The Best Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and Diary of an Idle Woman in Constantinople. I alternated staring out of the carriage windows with seizing the chance when Holmes dozed to continue my transcriptions. Finally we were within shot of Algeciras. Beyond lay Gibraltar. Soon we would be sailing through the Mediterranean into the Aegean Sea.
Hundreds of miles into our journey, irrevocably committed to our new adventure, I returned to the final paragraph of Mycroft’s letter.
‘I think Sir Edward and I have covered the politics enough. You will be received by the Sultan at Yildiz Palace in your guise as naval emissaries acting on requests from the Royal Botanical Gardens and the Zoological Society Gardens. You will not be shown the Sultan’s Harem, the Harem-i Hümâyûn. English feet have stamped their mark on much of the world, Whymper’s on the peak of the Matterhorn, Speke’s at the source of the Nile, but along with the North Pole and the summit of Everest the Harem remains among the few places on earth no English (or American) foot has yet trod.’
We Board HMS Dreadnought
I awoke next morning to find Holmes changing into the Commander’s uniform and pulling on his boots. I flung myself into the Surgeon Lieutenant’s dress uniform. The train slowed and came to a halt at our final station, Algeciras. I jumped out. Across the bay we could see the rock of Gibraltar towering above the sea.
A porter unloaded our luggage and placed it alongside us in a cab to the harbour. Holmes murmured, ‘Watson, I understand old Army habits die hard but if you are to pass as a naval officer you must rid yourself of the custom of placing a handkerchief in your sleeve. It might well be remarked upon by the crew.’
The paddle-steamer Elvira was waiting to take us across the water to the spanking new Edward VII Dock. To reinforce our subterfuge we made a point of going at once to inspect the pile of Wardian cases delivered to the dockside ahead of us. The sealed glass protected plants imported from faraway regions. Several cases were filled with plants personally requested by the Sultan from the Royal Botanical Gardens - bulbs of an exotic lily discovered in the I’Chang gorges of the Yangtze River in 1881, cushion plants with their origins in the Peruvian Andes, and the gigantic Victoria regia lily, brought to England from the shallow waters of a river in British Guiana.
The mighty HMS Dreadnought, built at a cost of £1,783,883, was to become the defining artefact of the Age. Colourful flags flew from her masts and sternpost. Before boarding the battleship we collected a package of letters forwarded to us care of Messrs. Cox & Co’s correspondent bank in Gibraltar. One letter was directed at Holmes from his brother, the other to me from the Congo. I retained considerable loyalty to Cox’s. The Bank served me well in India and during a short stint in the barrier-colony of Burma.
With the letters in our pockets we went aboard and were shown to our cabins. I unpacked and opened Pretorius’s letter. It had passed mine in transit, probably at one or other end of the Suez Canal. He was anticipating my arrival with a keen interest, and that of my ‘magic box’ (the medicine chest).
I put the document down with a heavy heart. Our plans would now have to take their place on the back-burner.
Well before dawn a Yeoman boarded with the final telegraphs from the Signal Tower. Dreadnought cast off her moorings and slowly swung away from land. I stared out of the porthole. Even in the dark, a large patriotic crowd gathered along the dock to watch the impressive sight. The great vessel gathered speed. She cast off the tugs and we steamed away as though on a course for the Caribbean. At our back lay the Mediterranean, formed where Africa crashes against Eurasia, a million square miles of sea of a shape and clime almost perfect for the development of civilization. Out of sight of land we would make an about turn, steam through the Pillars of Hercules and run as secretly as possible to the shores of Stamboul, 2,101 nautical miles distant.
***
Dinners aboard were remarkably friendly affairs. The pudding served, Commodore Bacon would give orders no-one was to enter the Wardroom without his express permission unless war was declared. The first night he raised a glass and addressed Holmes and me with ‘I advise you to snatch whatever sleep you can. We shall be steaming at 21 knots, testing the new Parsons turbines to the limit, big guns and torpedoes too. There’ll be long range battle practices, short range battle practices, night battle practices and several advanced day battle practices - firing in indirect mode through smoke screens. We’ll also be testing whether our torpedoes can hit a target at 4,000 yards.’
He planned at least one experimental practice, to explore Dreadnought’s ability to keep on target during a radical turn. ‘Nevertheless, gentlemen, despite all the action we should have time for the occasional glass of port and conversation.’
The Commodore looked across at Holmes and me. In a lowered voice he said, ‘Only the officers around this table know who you are. The crew have been told you’re visiting Anatolia and East Thrace to purchase exotic birds for the Zoological Society of London and rare plants for the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew. The large pile of Wardian cases has impressed them no end. I think it best from now on if we become accustomed to using your pseudonyms. Once we’ve coaled and my men go ashore it’s not unknown for them to take a Mastika or a Raki or two - banana raki, mustard raki, pomegranate raki, aniseed raki - or other tongue-loosening concoctions. Everyone aboard has arrived within the last couple of months or so from other ships of the line. I suggest you stay entirely non-committal if asked where and on which ships you’ve served, in case you give yourselves away.’
Thus eight days passed with tranquil intervals between the uproar of the great guns and torpedo-firing. I spent hours with the binoculars purchased for the Congo trip staring at passing islands wreathed in the legends of noble Hector, brave Achilles and cunning Ulysses.
On the last evening during drinks in the Mess a signal was brought in by a Petty Officer and handed to the Commodore who took us to one side.
‘The Sultan of Turkey will come aboard soon after we set anchor. I’ll have to lay on a bit of pomp and ceremony and a display of uniforms. I take it you would like to meet the Khan of Khans and his party? If you come to the Gun-deck we’ll introduce you...’
Almost rudely, Holmes interrupted.
‘Thank you no, Commodore. The Lieutenant and I intend to go ashore at precisely that moment if you’ll make the arrangements.’
Without further explanation, Holmes said his goodnights
and strode away.
Perplexed, I hurried after him.
‘Holmes, I thought our aim was to meet the Sultan. Why are we passing up such a golden opportunity?’
He waved a ciphered telegram at me.
‘Neither the Sultan nor we should wish to meet amid the throng of international Press and a hundred cameras. Besides, Mycroft’s agent has arranged a transport to take us to the Palace as soon as we can get ashore.’
***
The constellation Draco was still visible in the night sky when we dropped anchor. Across the Sea of Marmara I could see a thousand sparkling lights. Stamboul, the arm of the peninsular, was now within range of our immense guns. Like the ashes of a phoenix, the Scott Eccles affair would have to lie awaiting rebirth as a fully-fledged Sherlock Holmes manifesto. The material was unusually extensive. I sat on the bunk staring at it. I supposed I could break the chronicle into two parts. There was a knock on the cabin door. It was a steward returning my freshly-ironed Surgeon Lieutenant’s naval dress suit. The sword too had been polished and was returned with its scabbard.
As the sun rose, dark shapes around us suddenly became comprehensible. I climbed up to the Gun-deck. Our battleship was surrounded by the largest single assembly of warships I had ever seen. When we crept past the island of Malta by night, a Royal Navy squadron must have sailed out of Grand Harbour and fallen in behind us, accompanying us for the last fifteen hundred miles, unseen, swift and unlit. I counted 10 first-class battleships silhouetted against the pink sky, plus frigates, torpedo boat destroyers and various despatch vessels and depot ships and the great bulks of two armoured cruisers of 9800 tons, HMS Lancaster and HMS Suffolk, castles of steel with fourteen six-inch guns and four-inch armour plate.