by Tim Symonds
***
A familiar voice said, ‘My dear fellow, wake up.’
I opened my eyes. Holmes in his favourite dressing-gown stood in the doorway. The Mystery of the Ocean Star lay on the cabin floor at my side.
‘What can I do for you, Holmes,’ I asked, retrieving the book.
‘I’m sorry to wake you at this ungodly hour,’ he continued, keeping his voice low, ‘but I have a question of the utmost importance. I need your help.’
‘Whatever you say, Holmes,’ I replied.
‘You recall our meeting with the Chief Armourer’s widow...at the cemetery. Can you remind me at which moment she switched to speaking French?’
I stared at my comrade. In an exasperated tone I said, ‘Look, I greatly appreciate your faith in my memory...’
Holmes’s hand shot up, silencing me. His expression was grim.
‘It’s a simple question, my friend. It requires no prologue. I would appreciate a simple answer. The exact wording, if you have it. Then you may return to your dreams, or,’ he pointed at the book by my side, ‘your tales of daring-do aboard the Ocean Star.’
I reached for my notebook and flicked to the pages covering our visit to the cemetery.
‘I have it here. She pointed towards her husband’s grave and said, ‘Those men, those men who were carrying him. I have seen some of them before. They’ve been at our house. They visited three nights in a row. I saw their faces, except the man in charge. He wore a hood’.’
I lowered the notebook.
‘Well done, Watson,’ Holmes rejoined. ‘I knew I could rely on you, just like the old days. And then?’
‘She looked up at Shelmerdine and said ‘Comme lui’.’
‘You too are sure she said ‘Comme lui’?’
‘As I say, I have her words written here,’ I replied, re-opening the notebook.
‘Not ‘Comme vous’?’
I gave him a steely glare.
He asked, ‘And then?’
‘As I recall, our interpreter addressed her in French with ‘Perhaps Allah will grant you a son from your last night with your husband - that is, if you escape with your head intact’.’
‘‘...that is, if you escape with your head intact’,’ Holmes repeated. ‘Yes, he said that, didn’t he. Thank you, Watson, that’s all I need to think about for the moment.’
I called after him, ‘I suppose you’re not going to explain why you needed to come past midnight to ask me what the poor woman said in French?’
‘Your powers of deduction sharpen with the years!’ came the rejoinder through the closing door. And he was gone.
***
Shelmerdine forwarded our request for an audience with the Sultan. The response was immediate. Within the hour we were back at Yildiz, bringing the replica sword with us. Once more our dragoman dropped away at the gate.
Abd-ul-Hamid reclined on a couch like the opening scene of a Savoy opera. The Short Magazine Lee Enfield rifle lay against the wall, a box of smokeless cartridges next to it. As soon as the slaves with the censers had once again perfumed the air and made their exit, I handed the Sultan the sword still in its scabbard.
He seized it, thanking us profusely, and looking up at us eagerly, asked, ‘Well, Messieurs, have you discovered who stole it, who is plotting against me?’
‘We can tell you who took it,’ Holmes replied solemnly. ‘With Your Highness’s permission I will lay an account of the case before you in its due order.’
‘Well?’
‘It began, as you know, with the rumour the great Sword of Osman would be stolen.’
Holmes paused dramatically.
‘The rumour was fulfilled. The Sword was taken,’ he added gravely.
The Sultan’s coffee-cup halted in mid-air.
In a mix of French and English he said, ‘Evidement, Mr. Holmes, that was the moment even I realised something was up. But I presume by your presence you are going to éclairer everything.’
‘The Sword’s disappearance posed certain questions,’ Holmes continued, unperturbed. ‘Who stole the Sword of Osman - and when? And what were their motives in doing so?’
Get on with it, Holmes, I muttered under my breath. Our work is done. Sell the lovely young Saliha Naciye down the river if you must. The sooner we steam away from this monstrous place the better.
The Sultan drew the sword from the scabbard and held it aloft like King Arthur wielding Excalibur.
‘My good sir, we know the answer to when! The apparition stole it only hours before Mehmed was killed. As to motive it’s clear. It was to be used by the plotters to overthrow me, what else? The question is ‘who?’ - who stole it!’
‘Yes - and no,’ Holmes replied enigmatically. ‘Yes, there are conspirators intent on using the Sword of Osman to overthrow you but the person we caught with the sword you hold in your hand had another purpose in mind.’
‘That being?’ came the Sultan’s enquiry.
‘The intention of safeguarding your throne.’
‘Explain.’
‘You are the best-guarded sovereign in the world,’ my comrade resumed. ‘High walls surround you. Every inch of this vast Palace is under supervision. It’s an enclosed world, fiercely guarded. Each division has its own commander famous both for his loyalty and zeal. The only passage of entry to the sword was through two consecutive pairs of doors, one brass and one of iron, each with several of the most secure locks. Each night the keys are handed to the Chief Black Eunuch seated beside you. Given the Head Gardener’s extra two thousand pairs of eyes, it’s impossible for an outsider to remove the sword.’
‘So it was someone within Yildiz! An insider!’ the Sultan shouted. ‘Name him! I shall have him executed. At once. Before sunset. In front of you. You shall denounce him before the Grand Vizier, then my Chief Black Eunuch here will strangle him.’
He paused.
‘And eviscerate him.’
He stopped again.
‘Better still,’ he resumed, ‘he’ll be humiliated in the streets of my Capital for three days. Then we’ll gruesomely hang him and behead him and display his head at the gate where all traitors’ heads end up.’
I listened aghast. I felt if I stamped hard, the ground beneath the Palace would burst and we would tumble through into some horrible abyss.
‘Then,’ he continued triumphantly, as the piece-de-resistance struck him, ‘we’ll fire his severed head from a cannon right over your big ship.’
He made a beckoning movement for Holmes to continue, saying ‘But first, we have a saying, ‘you shall need to kill your tiger before you arrange where the skin is to be hung up’.’
‘In case it makes a difference to the way you kill the person,’ Holmes returned, ‘the one who removed that sword from its place of rest is not a man.’
A bewildered expression crept across our host’s face.
‘Not a man? A boy? Not one of my sons, why I shall chop...’
‘Not a son, no. Nor any other boy.’
‘One of my eunuchs?’
‘Not a eunuch, Your Highness.’
The Sultan half-rose to his feet.
‘Alors?’
‘It was a woman.’
‘A woman?’ the Sultan exclaimed incredulously, his eyes belying the disbelieving smile. ‘What woman?’
Holmes pointed out of the window.
‘Saliha Naciye.’
Abd-ul-Hamid’s eyes widened. For a moment our host’s gaze shifted from Holmes to me. He leant forward to gain a better view of his wife standing in the exquisite garden. Suddenly he clasped his hands to his ribs. He broke into unrestrained laughter. Tears of mirth fell from his eyes.
Holmes joined in the laughter. I had absolutely no idea what Holmes was up to but if the others wer
e guffawing then I would too.
‘Excellente! Excellente, Monsieur!’ the Sultan spluttered. ‘You had me convinced the case was solved but I see you’re merely joking!’
‘I do not joke, Your Highness, not for a moment,’ Holmes replied. ‘You ask who spirited away the sword you hold in your hand and I tell you it was your thirteenth wife.’
‘Explain,’ the Sultan ordered.
‘Your wife knew of the arrival of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson when it was revealed to the world by a newspaper. When we left Your Sublimity’s presence she was waiting for us in the garden. She thrust a posy in our hands as though in welcome.’
‘And?’
‘The posy contained a coded message. I was able to decipher the code. Dr. Watson and I were to go to the Head Nurse’s quarters at an arranged time. We did so. Saliha Naciye was there. A magnificent sword was tucked inside the golden cradle where Your Highness spent the first weeks of life. Logically I jumped to the conclusion your wife must have organised a conspiracy to depose you. I presumed Your Imperial Highness would be replaced on the throne with her son Mehmed Abid. She would make herself Queen Regent, the Sultan Valide, a second Kösem Sultan, the most powerful woman in the Empire.’
‘Careful, Holmes,’ I muttered.
‘But Saliha Naciye is not guilty of treason,’ my comrade continued. ‘Far from it. Her actions have saved your throne. Dr. Watson and I questioned her. We realised from her testimony she’d taken the latest rumours of a plot against Your Highness very seriously, and that it involved the theft of the Sword of Osman. She had no idea who the conspirators were but they could strike at any moment. She would pre-empt them by taking charge of the sword herself. Her plan was to hide it until the plotters fell back in disarray, unable to get hold of the one symbol of Ottoman authority which could guarantee them success. She took the sword and hid it in the cradle in the Royal Nursery where no man dare go.’
‘She told me nothing about this,’ the Sultan shouted. ‘Why didn’t she bring her suspicions to me right at the start?’
‘You would accuse her of crying wolf. She feared you’d pay no heed.’
Holmes paused with theatrical effect.
‘But when she looked at the sword before placing it in the cradle everything changed. She noticed something strange.’
‘Something strange?’ the Sultan asked eagerly.
‘Something odd about the weapon.’
‘Tell me!’ our host ordered.
‘The gold cartouche.’
‘What about it?’
‘It contained no inscriptions.’
‘Which means what?’ the Sultan pursued, frowning. ‘I myself have never inspect...’
‘It’s a forgery.’
‘A forgery!’
‘The sword you hold, Your Highness, is a forgery,’ my comrade repeated. ‘Of the most exquisite workmanship, the equal of the original in temper and flexibility. The point of the blade on your finger when you balance it would be within half an inch of the Sword of Osman itself. The real sword had already been stolen. Saliha Naciye realised there was one man in the Palace who must be at the centre of such a web of intrigue. Someone who held a position of great esteem in Your Majesty’s eyes.’
For a moment the eyes of the ruler flickered towards his impassive Chief Black Eunuch.
‘Someone,’ Holmes went on, looking hard at the Sultan, ‘who could spirit away the real sword and replace it with a fake. Someone you would not for a moment believe would engage in a plot against your life.’
‘Again I ask - demand to know - who is this person?’
‘And in turn I ask you!’ Holmes parried. ‘Any of the ninety jewellery artisans in your service might have crafted the hilt from gold and precious stones but only one swordsmith on God’s good earth could wield hammer and tongs to fashion so beautiful a blade. Who could smith such a blade? So malevolent a blade. A skill every swordsmith in Bursa, Damascus and Derbent would give their eye-teeth to possess.’
My comrade repeated, ‘Ask yourself, Your Highness, who might that be?’
The Sultan cried out despairingly, ‘Only my Chief Armourer. Only Mehmed!’
‘Only Mehmed,’ my comrade affirmed.
The Sultan remained still for a long time. At last he ordered Holmes to elaborate. I listened in amazement to Holmes’s almost entirely fictional account of our discoveries, that Saliha Naciye’s suspicions were sparked when the Chief Armourer’s wife Zehra came to see her. Zehra told her how strangers had conferred with Mehmed three nights in a row. Zehra feared they were leading her husband astray. The men talked until dawn when they melted away. She was able to catch only one phrase when she brought them refreshments - ‘The Sword of Osman’. After that she was forbidden further entry.
‘Deeply worried for Your Highness’s safety, Saliha Naciye worked out a way she could remove the sword until it was safe to return it to its niche.’
‘Impossible!’ Abd-ul-Hamid exclaimed. ‘There she lies to you. The guards would never let a woman get anywhere near it, not even a wife of a Sultan.’
‘Impossible for a woman,’ Holmes replied, ‘but not impossible for a spectral being. If you look for the ghillie suit you will find it missing. If you search your wife’s quarters you may find a tin of phosphorous paint. Saliha Naciye hid the sword in the safest place she knew. When it was safe to do so she took out the sword to admire its beauty, the golden dragon-head forming the grip, the hilt, and so on.’
Holmes paused.
‘So far so good,’ he continued, ‘until she noticed the cartouche was blank. It lacked the inscriptions. It was like a beautiful body waiting for its eyes, for a Prometheus to give it the touch of life. Saliha Naciye had seen photographs of the sword from the time of your coronation. This could not be the true Sword of Osman. When the conspirators read of my arrival they must have rushed to remove the true sword earlier than planned. They replaced it with the incomplete blade you hold in your hand. Saliha Naciye asked herself, who could forge a blade of such accuracy and beauty? Only one man. The Chief Armourer himself. Mehmed was in on the plot against you. He had worked cloak-and-dagger on an exact replica to delay a chance discovery of the theft.’
‘A forgery?’ the Sultan kept repeating, staring at the weapon in his hand.
Amazement and disbelief vied for control of his facial muscles. He turned to look out of the window.
‘And she detected it?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Holmes confirmed. ‘A forgery so exact in every detail that without the closest scrutiny anyone could believe it was the Sword of Osman. The final detail could be added within a day, even hours. The plot could be sprung at any moment. Saliha Naciye decided on a desperate course of action. The Armourer should die. That very night.’
‘My Chief Armourer Mehmed!’ the Sultan repeated sadly. ‘And she organised his death?’ he added disbelievingly.
Holmes nodded.
‘The plan was brilliant. She told Zehra she would swear to you Mehmed was only leading the conspirators on, that the Armourer’s true intention was discover the full extent of the plot before revealing their names to you. Therefore he would be forgiven. Zehra would be rewarded for her loyalty to His Imperial Highness. But in truth, because Mehmed was complicit in the plot, Saliha Naciye needed his death to stop the conspiracy in its tracks. She set Zehra a condition.’
‘A condition?’ the Sultan repeated.
‘A quid pro quo. Your wife told Zehra to try again for a son - immediately. She must fetch her husband from the Palace. Zehra was told the Chief Astrologer divined that same night as especially favourable. In time the son would succeed her husband and serve the Sultanate as a great swordsmith. Saliha Naciye supplied a powder, assuring her it was an aphrodisiac.’
‘Instead it was...?’
‘The deadly poison Monkshood. W
hich the unsuspecting Zehra sprinkled on her husband’s dinner. He died.’
‘And the genuine sword, where is it?’
Holmes described how the conspirators infiltrated the mourners at the cemetery.
‘There may have been more to their attendance than reverence for the departed,’ Holmes replied. ‘I suggest you put a guard on the cemetery immediately. Raise the grave-slab. Examine the weapons interred alongside Mehmed’s corpse.’
‘And if it isn’t there?’ the Sultan asked anxiously. ‘It could mean the end of my...’
‘If the sword is not there,’ my comrade interrupted, ‘commission your finest engraver to etch the sacred inscriptions into the sword in your hand. I have a photograph he can use. From then on you can tell the world only a facsimile has been stolen. The real sword was stored elsewhere. No-one in the world would be able to tell the one sword from the other, not even the Sharif of Konya.’
We took our leave. Outside in the garden my comrade murmured, ‘Pity the unfortunate engraver who completes the forger’s task. Soon they’ll be lighting corpse candles around his grave. Once his work is done the Chief Black Eunuch will silence him forever.’
Our trek to the Palace gates was cut short by a servant calling after us in halting English. The Emperor of all Azerbaijan, of the Maghreb, of the province of Serbia, of all Albania, required a word with Dr. Watson. Would I please return?
I re-entered the room to find the Grand Chamberlain standing at the Sultan’s side.
‘Dr. Watson, I want to congratulate you on your chronicles,’ the Sultan began, pointing at The Return of Sherlock Holmes in the Chamberlain’s hands. ‘One adventure in particular. We came to it last night.’
Pleased, I asked, ‘Which case is that?’
‘The second one. The Norwood Builder. ’
My heart began to thump.
‘Thank you, Your Sublimity,’ I stammered. ‘What did you find of particular...?’
The Sultan looked at me with a peculiar expression, but whether one of ire or amusement I couldn’t fathom.