Shelmerdine pointed down a side-street at an assembly of parked vehicles identical to London’s Metropolitan Police wagons.
‘Those are everywhere, ready to make mass arrests if the people riot.’
We were now high up on the slope.
‘I may not be a medical man, Dr. Watson,’ the dragoman pursued, turning to me, ‘but I’m not the only person to say God’s Promise on Earth is sick in mind and body, obsessed with one idea, that of preserving his throne and his life. Wherever the Sultan sits he has advance notice of anyone coming in. Mirrors hang at every angle of the room. Every room has its cage of parrots which screech at the sight of strangers. Every door is lined with steel. He goes to bed only after the woman who shares his bed has searched every cranny for a hidden bomb. In knowledge of your own English Gunpowder Treason Plot he never sits in a room above a dungeon. Abd-ul-Hamid even keeps his own submarine down near the Dolma Baghchech Pier. When a fit of fear or superstition strikes the Commander of the Faithful and Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe, he hastens to the pier and stays the night submerged in his submarine a few miles out in the Sea of Marmara. He did so two days ago when news arrived from the Black Sea that a flock of purple-and-white hoopoes appeared at the very time the North Star was in alignment with the moon.’
Our guide pulled another photograph from his pocket. This time it was a fading picture of a submarine. He pointed at the waters below.
‘Your English submarine down there is to be a replacement for this vessel, the Nordenfelt 11.’
Like the earlier enlargement of the Sword of Osman, the photograph was in sharp focus.
‘Who took these?’ I heard Holmes ask.
Shelmerdine pointed at himself.
‘I did.’
Our interpreter resumed, ‘As he grows older the Sultan’s private horrors also grow, not least a horror of darkness. By night tortoises with oil lamps attached to their shells creep among the beds of flowers. The Great Lord is so terrified by the stillness that armed guards have to tramp ceaselessly up and down outside his bed-room. If eunuch or guard encounters the Sultan, they must shake his hand in a particular way, with a twist or crack of the fingers. Without that secret signal he’s likely to pull out an automatic and kill them on the spot.’
Shelmerdine told us about a diver trying to reach a wreck just off Seraglio Point who signalled violently to be drawn back up. Once safely ashore the man explained in a voice quaking with terror he’d found himself among a great number of sacks on the bottom of the sea. Each contained the body of a woman standing upright, her hair swaying to and fro in the current.
We were approaching the Palace. Shelmerdine lowered his voice.
‘Abd-ul-Hamid fritters away his days in intrigue. He bribes everyone he considers a likely enemy - soldiers, hodjas, imams. Dancing Dervishes. Softas. At least, he thinks he’s bribing them. The money and jewels seldom reach their targets. They mostly remain in the pockets of the two chief Palace eunuchs.’
Our interpreter bent his head to look out of the carriage window. The first of the Imperial gates loomed, the fine portico flanked by sixteen columns of Bulgarian syenite. The bright muskets of a dozen sentinels rustled in salute as we drew near.
‘The Great Khan is particularly sensitive right now. This month we’ve had an eclipse of the Moon, the flight of a shooting star, flashes of lightning, thunder as deafening as a battleship’s biggest guns. Last week street dogs howled during the morning Ezan, the Islamic call to worship. To Ottomans these are omens spelling the death of someone of great importance. Abd-ul-Hamid fears it could be his.’
Our dragoman opened the carriage door and stepped out.
‘Here I shall bid you adieu. You will find the Second Black Eunuch waiting for you just inside the gate. His name is Nadir Aga.’
‘And the First Black Eunuch?’ I called out.
‘That’s Djafer Aga, a pasha of three peacock tails. You saw him on the Imperial barge.’
He leaned in at the now-open window.
‘Abd-ul-Hamid likes to be called “His Sublimity”. Doesn’t come easily to Englishmen’s lips, does it! A last word. If there’s any truth in the rumour about the sword my guess would be the conspirators are members of the Committee of Union and Progress. Half the Keepers of the Imperial nightingales and parrots, the pipe-cleaners and coffee-makers, the sword-bearers and stirrup-holders are in the pay of the CUP. Even barbers who have no other function than to trim the Sultan’s beard, every hair of which is reverentially preserved. If their leader Bahaeddin Shakir gains possession of the sword they could move against His Sublimity within days.’
He paused, looking hard at us.
‘If that were to happen the CUP will throw their lot in with Berlin not London. You, sir...’ at this he stared at Sherlock Holmes, ‘...may well be the Padishah’s last hope.’
I leaned from the carriage window and dropped a few piastres into his hand as though we had hired him for the hour. With a loud As-salamu alaykum he turned away from the carriage. Holmes called after him, ‘And you, sir, your religion?’
The answer came back in a whisper.
‘I was born into the Mother Church of Christendom but,’ and his voice dropped even lower, ‘whichever suits the circumstance.’
At this he was gone, curiously diaphanous amid the cluster of flower-sellers, barbers and perfumers who importuned visitors from each side of the great gate.
We stepped out of the carriage.
We Meet The Khan Of Khans
Inside the great gate we were approached by the Second Black Eunuch, Nadir Aga. He led us towards our destination, the elaborately decorated Mabeyn Pavilion, the most important building of the Palace. Columns of porphyry, white-mottled verd-antique and stones stood in the most unlikely places surmounted with capitals appropriated from the fallen churches and tombs of Constantine and his descendants.
Holmes whispered, ‘Watson, I’ll be most obliged if you’ll fix in your mind each detail of our journey through the Palace. It may come in useful.’
We padded behind the Second Black Eunuch, along corridors and up and down hidden stairways, through rooms with walls decorated with flintlock holster pistols. Kapıcı (doorkeepers) at every entrance hurriedly performed their duties as we approached. We passed through workshops manufacturing heavy silks with exotic names to match - kemha, kadife, çatma - lighter silks such as taffeta and seraser, a precious silk fabric woven with threads of gold and silver. In the gathering heat it felt a long walk to our destination. We glimpsed fretted fountains and gilded kiosks, scarlet, blue, yellow, brilliant lilac and mauve mingling in the wildest ways, the love of colour quite Indian. On we strode, past shade trees, bowers with ivy and wisterias, and lion statues, water pouring like near-silent roars from their mouths. I inhaled the soft perfume of honeysuckles and jessamines wafting from nearby parterres.
The Second Black Eunuch’s pace slowed. We were nearing the Mabeyn Pavilion. Uncertain which of us was which, he addressed us together.
‘Milords, the Sultan has provided a test. Mr. Holmes must prove beyond doubt he is the real Sherlock Holmes, Europe’s greatest detective, and not a look-alike bent on His Imperial Majesty’s destruction. It will be better for you both if Mr. Holmes passes the test by making the correct choice.’
We stepped through the Pavilion doorway like Alice following the White Rabbit. A window like a balcony jutted into the Royal Garden. A drugget covered the centre of the waxed oak floor. Four fair slaves moved around the room perfuming the air. The walls were arrayed with landscape paintings, interspersed by tiles put together to make whole murals of calligraphy. In a wall niche stood a painted grey pottery figure of an official of the Northern Wei Dynasty, brought from faraway Cathay, hands hidden within the sleeves rested atop a sheathed sword.