‘She did,’ I agreed. ‘So?’
‘That bouquet, the one she begged us to deliver, naturally you noticed the sequence of flowers was entirely different from the one you’ve just described. Yet she couldn’t have plucked fresh flowers and settled their arrangement in so short a time.’
Flustered, I asked, ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, my friend,’ he returned darkly, ‘it wasn’t just a simple tussie-mussie. She prepared the bouquet ahead of our arrival.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘To transmit a message. Unknowingly we delivered a secret message. One which may have been pivotal in this matter.’
‘A message slipped into the nosegay?’ I exclaimed. ‘Who’d ever have thought...?’
‘...that she’d risk writing a note? No-one. She didn’t. Any one of the Palace retinue could have intercepted us before we left Yildiz.’
‘If it wasn’t a note tucked in the nosegay how else could she have sent it through us?’
‘The flowers were the message, how else! It could equally well have been a trug of fruit such as we saw on the Commodore’s table. Baron Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall published Sur Le Langage des Fleurs over a hundred years ago. He described a secret language known to the Greek and Armenian women with the same access to the harems as the Jewess Chiarezza.’
‘Holmes,’ I said dismissively, ‘even so, the Sultan’s wife could merely have been asking for the latest hat from Paris.’
‘Then why the urgency?’ came the rejoinder. ‘Why should she approach two strangers to smuggle a posy out of Yildiz if it concerned only a hat?’
‘Then what?’ I asked.
Holmes shook his head.
‘As yet I’ve no idea.’
We Meet The Chief Armourer’s Widow
Our message to Shelmerdine was met with a swift reply.
‘The Chief Armourer is to be buried tomorrow. He’ll be interred at the Eyüp Sultan Mosque near the tomb of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari where the Sancak-i Şerif, the banner of the Prophet, is kept. It’s on the western reaches of the Golden Horn. Come ashore at 8am.’
The dragoman awaited us a slight distance from the jetty, seated on a cart decorated with high wooden arches hung with thick red woollen tassels. Two large oxen with the lustrous eyes of Brahma the Creator turned to watch us as we approached. Shelmerdine stayed hidden behind the cart’s drapes.
‘Cover up your uniforms with these,’ he ordered.
He threw each of us a pair of trousers known as şalvar and an outer cloak reaching to the ankles, with a cowl and long sleeves. Aboard the cart I saw we were now attired in exactly the same clothing as the dragoman. With a sombre look, he thrust a copy of the Journal de Constantinople into my hand. Shelmerdine had pencilled a translation of the headline in the margin. On the front page beneath a large advertisement in English for tinned Nestlé condensed milk (‘Protect your baby against cholera’) were the dramatic words ‘His Majesty’s Life in Peril? Who Are These Men? Could they be British Assassins?’ followed by ‘Skills of a Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson of Baker Street Required’.
The centre-piece was a large photograph taken on the morning Dreadnought dropped anchor. In the foreground, the Imperial barge was heading towards our battleship. A large arrow superimposed on the photo pointed past the barge to two people in naval uniforms clambering awkwardly into the Haroony. We were highlighted by a circle around us.
Shelmerdine handed me a typed translation of the article.
It read, ‘Who are these men? They were transported to our shores aboard the great new British battleship. At first sight they appear to be British Naval Officers. They wear the dress uniform of the British Royal Navy. That’s obvious to all. But reliable sources tell us discrepancies show them to be imposters. Look at their Ceremonial Swords. See how each sword rests in its scabbard. How can this be? The British Navy officer always carries his sword. Our special correspondent checked with the Naval Attaché in Pera. Whenever getting on or off a barge a genuine officer in the Royal Navy would employ the ‘Senior Officer’s Carry’ favoured by members of the British Royal Family.’
I sensed Shelmerdine studying our reactions as I read on.
‘Once on our soil these “Naval officers” were observed entering the Yildiz Palace. Why was this pair sneaking their way into the Palace? If they wanted to meet His Imperial Majesty Abd-ul-Hamid II they could have stayed aboard the battleship. The two men claim they are here to collect rare plants for a botanical garden. If so, why do they return to their battleship each night - why not take rooms where all the English milords stay, at the convenient Hotel d’Angleterre? We must question, are they truly here to pluck examples of the Giant Lobelia to take to Windsor Castle for His Majesty King Edward VII? Or are they ‘scouting’ the Palace for a convenient spot to carry out an assassination at the orders of the British Government? No doubt the pair has received instruction from the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew on which of Turkey’s 82 poisonous plants they should select for their evil purposes.’
Finally, pointedly, ‘This correspondent believes it would take the skills of the London poisons specialist Sherlock Holmes and his medical colleague Dr. Watson to carry out such a “pretty little plot”.’
Almost as soon as our feet touched Ottoman soil someone had exposed our identities. There wouldn’t be a carter, shop-boy, apprentice tanner collecting dog-dung from the streets or cabman in the whole of Stamboul who didn’t know of our presence and believe we were intent on assassination.
I asked, ‘If His Imperial Majesty has control over everything the newspapers publish, why did he permit this?’
‘It was distributed while the Chief Censor was aboard the battleship,’ came the reply. ‘No doubt someone’s knuckles will be rapped.’
A few minutes later the carriage took us over a rise. Ahead I could see a patch of open land filled with grave-slabs. The high walls were crowded in by the wooden buildings on every side. I looked at Shelmerdine.
‘Is that our cemetery?’
He shook his head.
‘Beit kvarot - the Jewish cemetery. See how the graves lie feet to the south-east... towards Jerusalem,’ he explained.
He stretched an arm towards a small stone hut in a far corner.
‘That isn’t used much these days but in olden times that’s where the corpses were circumcised.’
‘Corpses circumcised!’ I blurted.
‘During the time of the Spanish Inquisition many Jews never got circumcised until they were dead,’ Shelmerdine replied, ‘in case while they were alive they had to deny their Hebrew origins. That carried on for a very long time.’
Cemeteries are places where people can linger without gathering suspicion. It would verge on bad manners - an intrusion into another’s private deliberations - to pay more than passing attention to anyone else. We felt sufficiently anonymous in the overdress, the monk-like hoods pulled down over our foreheads.
Imperial princes and Ottoman grandees had paid handsomely to make the fashionable part of the cemetery their final home, attracted by the Eyüp Sultan Mosque and its funerary kiosks built by Mehmet the Conqueror. The cheaper graves were located further up the slope or on the periphery.
On the facade of the mosque charming little houses provided refuge to birds, protection from storms, rain, mud and the burning sun. A stand of plane trees reminiscent of Regent’s Park shaded the outer courtyard. Their branches supported nests of grey herons. ‘Graveyard’ cypress trees, some as ancient as the mosque itself, stood as guardians over the silent tombs. Beggars were doing a trade in wax vestas and lemons or a few nails. A small boy with black crape on his sleeve offered narcissi and religious trinkets for sale. Around the mosque several open graves were awaiting occupation.