‘The Sword of Osman has been stolen!’
‘The Sword of Osman, Holmes?’ I responded, biting a lip.
‘Tut! What is that?’
‘The sword of state used during the coronation ceremony of every sultan,’ he replied, throwing me another serious glance. ‘The sword is named after Osman the First, founder of the Ottoman Dynasty many centuries ago.’
He read further. Another glance was thrown in my direction. ‘Watson, this theft could endanger the Sultanate itself. Clearly it is designed to bring about the collapse of their Empire. Sultan Mehmed V Reshad is the very person we need to woo the Ottomans away from Berlin.’
He looked back at the telegram but continued offering asides gained from his readings on the Ottomans. ‘The girding of the sword of Osman is a vital ceremony which must take place within two weeks of a Sultan’s accession to the throne. The practice started when Osman was girt with the sword of Islam by his mentor and father-in-law Sheik Edebali.’
I listened in growing admiration at my friend’s knowledge and ingenuity as he continued. ‘The fact the emblem by which a Sultan is enthroned consists of a sword is highly symbolic. It shows the office with which he is invested is first and foremost that of a warrior.’
‘My Heavens, Holmes,’ I retorted in insincere amazement. Was this the purest Oscar Wilde or the topsy-turvy world of Gilbert and Sullivan? ‘This is a very serious matter. When does the son of Sultan Abdülmecid wish us to start hunting for the dastardly criminals who have nabbed this sword?’
‘At once, Watson, at once. He invites us to catch the first ship to Constantinople.’
He paused briefly. ‘The Asturias should leave Southampton in one week’s time. She can take us to Smyrna via Civita Vecchia, Malta and Alexandria. From Smyrna we can take a line direct to Constantinople.’
I listened in wonderment at how far his imagination had stretched in putting together so bizarre a tale to console and entertain his guest. When would that stern and eager face break into confessional laughter?
‘And does the Sultan offer us a reward?’ I managed.
He looked back at the telegram. ‘He does. Should we succeed in regaining the Sword our reward will be a belt of diamonds and gold. After our arrival at Karaköy we are ordered to take the carriage to the Topkapi and go immediately to meet a bimbashi waiting for us at the Chamber of Petitions, known by the locals as the Arz Odası, behind the Gate of Felicity. Watson, are you with me on this venture?’
‘Holmes,’ I nodded vigorously, offering a fine smile. ‘I am at your shoulder. A belt of diamonds and gold, you say? I trust for such an occasion you will choose again the Poshteen Long Coat and wear your Order of Saint Stanislaus - and your gold watch? For my part, I shall bring my glossy topper with a new side-feather and collect my service revolver and fifty rounds from Mrs. Hudson’s. You can never be too heavily armed for Ottomans. I shall meet you aboard the Asturias in Southampton Water in six days’ time. Can Mrs. Keppell let the Sultan know we shall require First Class cabins?’
At this we turned and re-entered the farmhouse living-room to partake of Mrs. Keppell’s tea. Through that early-Summer night Holmes and I sat together, once more in perfect amity, and doubly strengthened. He pulled at more than one of his favourite pipes. At one point, in a meditative tone, Holmes said, ‘You know I feel quite sorry for the Prussian in the coming war - there has never been a race of conquerors and killers more savage and resourceful than you English.’
He spoke as though in sympathy and tradition he held England at arm’s length, as if his Celtic origins trumped upbringing and country of birth.
He continued, ‘And you, Watson, in particular, when roused by the fiery speech of some Army colonel or at my behest or that of friends, you are the apotheosis of an Englishman, redolent of all his virtues, vices, inconsistencies and compassion. When I watch you gaze across this Weald I know you would give your life to defend it.’
I flushed up with pleasure at my companion’s words.
That midnight, after a lengthy walk with torches in his woods and fields, we returned to the house where I struck a match on my boot and put it to the fire laid earlier by Mrs. Keppell to ward off the country damp. We watched the ancient hearth blaze up as heartily as in our days in Baker Street, though from the abundant oak, the Weed of Sussex, rather than sea-coal. Together we put together these words as an Addendum to accompany at no extra cost each copy of what a publisher should still call Sherlock Holmes and The Dead Boer at Scotney Castle. In that quiet, low-beamed room in deepest Sussex, I jotted down copious notes which somewhat later, after smoothing and modelling and paring-away, would surely become a chronicle selling in the many hundreds of copies in dozens of countries.
Over time, Holmes would publish his learned bibliography titled The Polyphonic Motets of Lassus and a collection of bee-farming manuals, including two small blue volumes, the alliterative The Hibernation Habits of the Hive and the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen and the best-seller, Bees Foraging on Distant Landscapes, illustrated in his own hand. In it he deduces how the genus Apis communicates sources of forage to each other, indicating by a prancing figure of eight the compass bearing and distance, an opus which has gained widespread respect among bee-farmers in New Hebrides and China.
Our friendship restored and the addendum completed, on the next evening I sat with him in the little summer house he himself had built in an open space on his farm, partially shaded by the branches of a Symonds apple-tree sent to him nine years before by an admirer in New Zealand. We perched on two corn-chests with Tallulah stretched between us, while Mrs. Keppell, specially commissioned for the occasion, served us a repast, filling while not extravagant. She surprised me by laying before us two bowls, one containing very shiny black tea and the other scented green, bought from a newly-established shop in Lewes. It was a rare Holmes who drank tea, yet we each imbibed the contents of two cups of the black.
On the morrow, a quick hansom drawn by a dapple-grey cob took me to Lewes. The carriage rocked and swayed as I laughed uncontrollably at Holmes’ kindly effort to cheer me up - like Sindbad we would go on a wondrous voyage, to Constantinople to meet the bimbashi awaiting us at the Chamber of Petitions, tasked with the recovery of the stolen Sword of Osman indeed!
As it was, two weeks later, a powerful windstorm in the Bay of Biscay behind us, Holmes and I sat with the worried Sultan and his advisers in his palace by the wide and beautiful Bosphorus Strait, once more before a table laden with plates of Imam Bayildi followed by Ottoman sweets. A visit to Seraglio Point ensued. From its heights we had a most excellent view to the shores of Scutari, the Sea of Marmara and the Isles of Princes. From where we stood with shining eyes the minarets of the fabled city mingled with sea and shore, light and shade, the softness and the Eastern charm was unequalled anywhere else in the whole world.
We stood transfixed at this Oriental vista. Not far away lay Bulgaria where the knyaz Ferdinand had just declared himself Tsar. That too is a story I itch to publish. There never was nor ever will be a Royal Highness as complex and cunning as Ferdinand Maximilian Karl Leopold Maria of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha-Koháry.
Post-Script
A notice dated 14 June 1904 appeared on an inside page of the Kent & Sussex Courier headed ‘Open Verdict Coroner Rules’. It read, ‘The Kent Coroner has returned an open verdict following the death of a man late last month. A post-mortem was not conducted. The uncovered body whose identity remains unknown was found partly submerged in a wagon pond on the Scotney Castle Estate, near Lamberhurst.’