His eyes sparkled.
‘One wonders how many other subterfuges and copy-cat crimes your little tales have triggered in our inventive species?’
‘And the real sword?’ I asked.
‘I’d hazard a guess the real Sword of Osman is already in the hands of conspirators. The CUP perhaps. Maybe Prince Sabahedrinne. Who controls these plotters may remain a mystery but I shall make a suggestion to the Sultan which will throw them into disarray.’
I knew better than to ask Holmes to reveal any more at this stage
Holmes Makes An Unexpected Deduction
Holmes had always needed seclusion and solitude while he weighed every particle of evidence. After dinner he went straight to his cabin. I too returned to mine. My mind was a jumble. To the gentle rocking of Dreadnought at anchor I turned for escape to the opening pages of Clark Russell’s The Mystery of the Ocean Star.
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’.’