‘My Chief Armourer Mehmed!’ the Sultan repeated sadly. ‘And she organised his death?’ he added disbelievingly.
Holmes nodded.
‘The plan was brilliant. She told Zehra she would swear to you Mehmed was only leading the conspirators on, that the Armourer’s true intention was discover the full extent of the plot before revealing their names to you. Therefore he would be forgiven. Zehra would be rewarded for her loyalty to His Imperial Highness. But in truth, because Mehmed was complicit in the plot, Saliha Naciye needed his death to stop the conspiracy in its tracks. She set Zehra a condition.’
‘A condition?’ the Sultan repeated.
‘A quid pro quo. Your wife told Zehra to try again for a son - immediately. She must fetch her husband from the Palace. Zehra was told the Chief Astrologer divined that same night as especially favourable. In time the son would succeed her husband and serve the Sultanate as a great swordsmith. Saliha Naciye supplied a powder, assuring her it was an aphrodisiac.’
‘Instead it was...?’
‘The deadly poison Monkshood. Which the unsuspecting Zehra sprinkled on her husband’s dinner. He died.’
‘And the genuine sword, where is it?’
Holmes described how the conspirators infiltrated the mourners at the cemetery.
‘There may have been more to their attendance than reverence for the departed,’ Holmes replied. ‘I suggest you put a guard on the cemetery immediately. Raise the grave-slab. Examine the weapons interred alongside Mehmed’s corpse.’
‘And if it isn’t there?’ the Sultan asked anxiously. ‘It could mean the end of my...’
‘If the sword is not there,’ my comrade interrupted, ‘commission your finest engraver to etch the sacred inscriptions into the sword in your hand. I have a photograph he can use. From then on you can tell the world only a facsimile has been stolen. The real sword was stored elsewhere. No-one in the world would be able to tell the one sword from the other, not even the Sharif of Konya.’
We took our leave. Outside in the garden my comrade murmured, ‘Pity the unfortunate engraver who completes the forger’s task. Soon they’ll be lighting corpse candles around his grave. Once his work is done the Chief Black Eunuch will silence him forever.’
Our trek to the Palace gates was cut short by a servant calling after us in halting English. The Emperor of all Azerbaijan, of the Maghreb, of the province of Serbia, of all Albania, required a word with Dr. Watson. Would I please return?
I re-entered the room to find the Grand Chamberlain standing at the Sultan’s side.
‘Dr. Watson, I want to congratulate you on your chronicles,’ the Sultan began, pointing at The Return of Sherlock Holmes in the Chamberlain’s hands. ‘One adventure in particular. We came to it last night.’
Pleased, I asked, ‘Which case is that?’
‘The second one. The Norwood Builder. ’
My heart began to thump.
‘Thank you, Your Sublimity,’ I stammered. ‘What did you find of particular...?’
The Sultan looked at me with a peculiar expression, but whether one of ire or amusement I couldn’t fathom.
‘I found one part of singular interest, quite ingenious,’ he murmured, signalling the Chamberlain.
The Chamberlain removed the elaborate book-mark and began to read aloud.
‘‘In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw,’ said Holmes. ‘I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing the witness I require. Thank you very much. I believe you have some matches in your pocket Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask you all to accompany me to the top landing’.’
Silently I mouthed the words as he continued: ‘‘As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran outside three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation, and derision chasing each other across his features. Holmes stood before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.
‘Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of water? Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on either side. Now I think that we are all ready.’
Lestrade’s face had begun to grow red and angry. ‘I don’t know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ said he. ‘If you know anything, you can surely say it without all this tomfoolery.’
‘I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason for everything I do. Might I ask you, Watson, to open that window, and then to put a match to the edge of the straw?’
I did so, and driven by the draught a coil of grey smoke swirled down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.
‘Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade. Might I ask you all to join in the cry of ‘Fire!’? Now then; one, two, three -’
‘Fire!’ we all yelled.
‘Thank you. I will trouble you once again.’
‘Fire!’
‘Just once more, gentlemen, and all together.’
‘Fire!’
The shout must have rung over Norwood.
It had hardly died away when a door flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the end of the corridor. A little, wizened man darted out of it, like a rabbit out of its burrow.
‘Capital!’ said Holmes, calmly. ‘Watson, a bucket of water over the straw. That will do!’’
The Chamberlain lowered the book.
‘‘...driven by the draught a coil of grey smoke swirled down the corridor,’ the Sultan repeated. ‘‘Fire!’ we all yelled’.’
The Sultan sighed. ‘Wonderful trick. I must try it myself next time I want to flush out my enemies.’
We Pay Chiarezza Another Visit and Say Goodbye To Our Dragoman
Holmes was standing at the Palace gate next to a line of letter-writers each seated in front of eight to ten little porcelain saucers containing black and red ink. He took my arm impatiently, declaiming, ‘We have unfinished business. At the very least we must alert the Jewess.’
Within minutes we were aboard a cab on our way to the Tuesday Bazaar at Salipazari. The approach was lined with row upon row of stalls selling yellow boots bunched together like exotic fruits. On arrival our naval uniforms provided us with anonymity. We blended well with the military uniforms all around us. Stiff-backed Rittmeisters of the Breslau Cuirassiers from the S.S. Grosser Kurfürst and what appeared to be the entire British Navy sauntered around in twos and threes, saluting us and each other. Several were purchasing fine embroidered Brusa brocades, damasks, silks, and satins imported by Greeks, Jews and Armenians from Venice and Lyons.
‘There she is,’ I said.
We walked towards her. On sighting us Chiarezza pointed at her wares and called out, ‘Gentlemen, how can I be of help?’
Her welcoming smile dimmed when she noted Holmes’s grim visage.
‘Madam, we apprehended the Sultan’s thirteenth wife with the sword of state in her possession,’ my comrade informed her with deliberate inaccuracy. ‘We are here to tell you your life is in great danger.’
Chiarezza paled.
She said, ‘I shall start packing my goods. If Saliha Naciye is to die I have no future here. By tonight I shall be gone.’
I intervened.
‘Why would you risk your own life to assist the Sultan’s wife in a plot against her husband?’
An angry gleam came in her black eyes.
‘My people have had ill-usage at the hands of fortune. All we wanted was for the Sultan to sell land in Palestine to the Jews. More than 1200 years ago Sultan Omar prophesised Palestine would be returned to the Jews ‘forty-two moons hence’. That time is now.’