by Tim Symonds
The Sultan pointed at the Dolma Baghchech Palace below.
‘I shall purchase several of your 12-inch guns and put them above Yildiz. I moved up here because that palace was within range of the guns of even a third-rate Naval Power.’
An ever-lengthening line of supplicants and diplomats had developed outside the kiosk. We were on the point of being dismissed. The Sultan switched to English, less fluent than his French but perfectly acceptable.
‘Mr. Holmes, may I ask how you pointed me out from my look-alikes with such certainty? Both are as identical to me as it’s possible for one man to be to another.’
A smile flickered across my comrade’s face.
‘There were two clues which would have been conspicuous to anyone with even elementary powers of observation. They are so obvious I hardly dare point them out.’
The Sultan’s curiosity intensified.
‘What were they?’ he asked.
Holmes waved at me.
‘I’m sure my friend Dr. Watson...’
‘Carry on, Holmes,’ I said hurriedly, not having the slightest idea.
My comrade pointed at the bejewelled hubbly-bubbly.
‘First, sir, your water-pipe.’
The Sultan looked askance.
‘But I can assure you, Mr. Holmes, the three were made by the same hands and are absolutely identical.’
‘Certainly the crystal bowls and pipes,’ Holmes agreed.
‘Then what gave me away?’ our host pursued.
‘The mouthpieces. The mouthpiece you have in your hand is made from amber and set with precious stones, gold and enamels. Only the true Sultan would use it. Perhaps to avoid the spread of consumption your aide-de-camp ordered the imposters to bring their own. They are by no means men of your immense wealth. Theirs were made of simple clay.’
The Sultan laughed. ‘Now that you explain it... I promise next time no-one shall catch me so easily. And the second clue?’
‘You wear the archer’s ring.’
I too had noted the ring on his thumb sparkling in the late-morning light flooding through the window. Unlike Holmes I had not realised it followed the tradition that even while a Sultan smells a rose he is symbolically ever-prepared for battle.
‘I have further advice if you wish to keep your identity secret in any similar test,’ Holmes continued.
‘And what is that?’ the Sultan demanded.
‘Cut off your ears and those of the other ‘sultans’.’
The Sultan looked shocked.
Holmes continued, ‘In London Dr. Watson and I were shown a painting of three remarkably powerful people deep in conversation. One was our late Queen Victoria, another the late French Emperor Napoleon, and the third...’
Our host’s face lit up.
‘...the third was my father, Sultan Abdul Mejid,’ he interjected. ‘I know that painting well. I presented it to Her Late Majesty when I visited Balmoral Castle.’
‘Then you’ll recall in the painting your father was standing sideways on, looking to the observer’s right?’
‘That’s correct,’ came the puzzled reply.
I adopted a knowing smile as though privy to Holmes’s secret but in reality I was as baffled as our host.
‘You will also recall your father wore his fez above his ears...?’ Holmes carried on.
‘Of course!’ the Sultan tittered. ‘You would not wear a fez down over the ears.’
‘Nor your turban, sir,’ Holmes pursued.
‘As you say. So?’
‘A further question first... you call Sultan Abdul Mejid your father, by which you mean he was your biological father rather than simply a father to you?’
‘He was my natural father, yes,’ came the reply.
He paused warily. Then, jokingly, ‘Unless you have information to the contrary, Mr. Holmes!’
‘I do not, sir.’ Holmes smiled. ‘Indeed, the opposite. Your ears are identical in almost every respect to those of the sultan in the painting. Through the ear the authenticity of the descent can be clearly observed. I’ve written two monographs on the subject. We know there are a number of inherited likenesses - eye colour, freckles, the shape of the chin. The shape of the ear is also passed down - whether oval, round, rectangular or triangular, and perhaps length and width.’
Our audience had come to an end. Next we would meet the Head Gardener to discuss plants to take back to England in the pile of Wardian cases.
‘I should particularly like you to visit the Star Chalet Kiosk to see Kaiser Wilhelm II’s Ceremonial Room,’ the Sultan said. ‘Much of the furniture was made by my own hands. The Head Gardener will arrange a guide to take you there.’
The Second Black Eunuch closed the door of the Mabeyn Pavilion firmly behind us. With the Sultan’s permission to wander unaccompanied, we were by ourselves in the quietude of the Royal Garden, the gaggle of noisy white-fronted geese around our feet. Male and female golden orioles fluttered in the surrounding trees.
I blinked to adjust my eyes to the brilliant overhead sun. Holmes touched my arm.
‘Over there, in the shade’ he murmured. ‘I think she has a request to make. It’s clear she wants to avoid prying eyes.’
It was the Sultan’s thirteenth wife, Saliha Naciye. Hardly more than the outline of her face was visible, small and delicate.
Her words came in a whisper.
‘Might I trouble you to draw a little nearer?’
Wasting no time, she said, ‘Today. The Tuesday bazaar. There’s a Daughter of Abraham by the name of Chiarezza. She will be wearing a lace-trimmed dress beneath a black çarşaf. You would have no difficulty identifying her.’
‘And what should we do when we find her, madam?’ Holmes asked in a low voice, both he and I pretending a great interest in the watch-tower on the wooded slopes above Yildiz.
A nosegay was thrust out of the shadows.
‘I beg you to give this to Chiarezza with my compliments. She will know who sent it. We women are like song-birds in a cage, seldom able to leave Yildiz, never able to speak to outsiders. Yet, you see,’ she added with a sudden tinkle of laugh, ‘we like to be remembered by the outside world.’
I reached for the posy. Saliha Naciye paused as though looking around for watchful eyes and added, ‘Chiarezza sells trinkets and ribbons and lace to the seraglio. And she tells us news of those scandals which keep us amused in our isolation. Please take every precaution not to be followed. It would be bad for her. She’d be sent away.’
***
We came to the Third Gate, our place of rendezvous. The Head Gardener - the Bostanci başi - stood by an ancient granite column in gardens overlooking the Marmara Sea. He was surrounded by empty cages and Wardian boxes awaiting their cargo of birds and rare plants culled from the deserts and mountains of the Turkish Empire. I presented him with my copy of Hooker’s On the Vegetation of the Galapagos Archipelago and waved an admiring hand at the perfectly-kept formal arrangements of blossoming plants around us. I asked how many men he had at his disposal. He replied ‘Two thousand pairs of hands and eyes’.
‘Two thousand pairs of hands and eyes!’ I repeated in wonder.
He explained the powers of the Bostanci başi extended far beyond the supply of flowers to the rooms. The Head Gardener commanded a corps of the Sultan’s bodyguards. His responsibilities included watchmen and guards at the gates and in the grounds, porters, grooms and bargemen. Under his direction, delinquent officials were interrogated and executed.
‘I look after the flowers and fruits,’ he explained, smiling broadly, ‘and it’s also my job to prune the court of its bad apples.’
A guard arrived to take us to the Star Chalet Kiosk, the Yıldız Şale Köşkü. The 60-room imperial palace of wood and stone was intended as a residence for visiting
royalty and heads of state. Kaiser Wilhelm II’s Ceremonial Room was known as the Mother-of-Pearl Salon from the nacre covering much of its surface.
We stepped into yet another wonderland - nine richly decorated rooms with silk carpets on inlaid wood floors, Bohemian crystal chandeliers and Italian marble fireplaces. Here at the heart of the Turkish Empire the style and taste of the last of the Napoleons reigned in the heavy gilt mouldings of the mirror frames and window cornices. Except for ourselves there was no-one else in the entire edifice. The reception room was a vast space with the largest silk Hereke carpet in existence, hand woven by sixty weavers. Shelmerdine told me later that somewhere in its 500 square yards there was one tiny fault, just a knot of white intruding into the ground of another colour, a deliberate mistake to deflect the malice and envy of the Evil Eye - ‘the emptier of palaces and the filler of graves’ - which was otherwise bound to fall on any object of perfection.
With our ceremonial duties over and the horticultural credibility of our mission reinforced, Holmes proposed we deliver the nosegay. We would return in the early evening to view the Sword of Osman. I reflected on the number of watchful pairs of eyes at every part of the Palace. Precisely as the Sultan claimed, it seemed inconceivable a plotter could gain access to the heart of the complex where the magnificent weapon was stored.
***
We arrived at the bazaar and sent word of our presence to the Jewess Chiarezza. We were quickly approached by a middle-aged woman. Strong, dark eyebrows shaded hard, bird-like eyes. She was dressed exactly as the Sultan’s wife had described, a long loose robe covering her clothing except the sleeves on the lower part of her arm. I explained we were from England and with as gallant a gesture as I could muster handed her the nosegay, whispering its origin. The Jewess took it with a smile of recognition, twisting the posy round and round. Quickly the smile faded. She gave a supernatural shiver. Her hand went to her throat, touching a necklace of beads with the same concentric pattern of dark blue, light blue, white, then again dark blue circles as on the prows of Mediterranean boats in the harbour, safeguarding them from bad luck.
A second later she recovered her poise and broke into a voluble welcome. We were led into the interior as though in triumphal march, past tanks of water and fire-pumps and sellers of mastic and antimony, and shelves of roots, dyes, seeds and sandalwood. Her stall was piled high with richly trimmed opera cloaks, exchanged or purchased second-hand, she told us, from the ladies of the harem. Assuming we were in search of souvenirs for our wives or mistresses, our hostess offered us pins for head ornaments called Titrek or Zenberekli, depicting tulips, roses, violets, birds, butterflies and bees. She pointed at box upon box of tea gowns, slippers and the finest hosiery sent by the Orient Express or brought by steamer from Marseilles.
‘This is the latest merchandise from Paris,’ she explained. ‘French bodices and tight hip-skirts are replacing gauze chemisettes and sagging Turkish trousers in the harems of wealth Turkish signors. Very popular with Englishmen too,’ she added coquettishly.
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.