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.