‘A simple kiosk would suffice.’
As though taking the possibility of his overthrow seriously, he calculated on his fingers.
‘I could cut down the number of dependents. I would only need half a dozen concubines, a dozen or so eunuchs and perhaps twenty servants. Three or four kadins. And a couple of princes. And,’ pointing, ‘my angora cats. That would do. I’d be satisfied. I’d be relieved.’
‘In that case why doesn’t Your Imperial Majesty renounce the throne?’ I asked. ‘You are rich beyond most men’s dreams. You speak several languages. You have a young son, Mehmed Abid. A Regency could be established...’
The Sultan seemed scandalised at the suggestion.
‘I fear the consequences for my Empire,’ came the answer, his voice shaking with emotion. ‘I’m the oak which shades my peoples. You think a wall of iron as solid as the earth itself separates civilization from barbarism, some law of Nature dictates that where-ever civilization impinges upon barbarism, barbarism must give way?’
His eyes strayed to the window.
‘If I abdicate they will strip me of everything. Only my name would remain. You are blessed over me in at least one respect, Dr. Watson. When you release your shadow you go to your rest. You are an intermezzo. Like the Salamander, your tail may wriggle for a while, then all is done. Within a century your gravestone will be unreadable. Lichen will rewrite your name and alter the date of your birth and death. In one or two hundred years the passer-by will glance at your gravestone and not know whether you died in 1881 or 1931. A sultan is an opera seria. What I do will remain a matter of discussion and examination until the last intake of breath of the Ottoman Empire. According to the philosopher Ibn Khaldun, empires have lifespans like humans. They come and go like periodic comets. Empires are born, grow, reach maturity. Then they decline and die. Your Empire has reached maturity. Your feathers are ruffled only by minor ‘isms’ - secularism and socialism, suffragism, anti-vivisectionism, spiritualism and vegetarianism. My Empire is on the point of death, like an exploding star. Soon all our pomp will be one with Nineveh and Tyre. Revolutionaries hiding in Salonika are spreading out to propagate their doctrines as far as the barracks of Syria. Even telegraph operators with their eyeshades, Morse-code, and a deep knowledge of my affairs are disloyal to me to a man.’
My host beckoned me to approach him. His hands smelt of costly white eau de toilette.
‘Dr. Watson, your chronicles have pushed your comrade to the apex of his profession. You are fidus Achates to his Aeneas. The name of Sherlock Holmes is known all over Europe, all over Russia. All across America. Without you he would hardly have gained the public’s attention outside Baker Street. Certainly his name would not be known in every street in Stamboul. Whenever your chronicles are read to me I wonder, ‘What if I had chosen my fate?’ What if I hadn’t become a Sultan, what would I most wish I had been?’
‘And the answer?’
‘The world’s greatest consulting detective, no less.’
I turned to go. The Sultan’s deep voice restrained me.
‘Dr. Watson, before you leave I want you to accept a memento of your visit.’
He leaned over the edge of the sofa and pulled an ornate chest to the fore. At the touch of a hidden lever the lid sprang open to reveal a treasure of jewels, emerald necklaces and flower brooches made of exquisite blue and white diamonds. Rich purple of the amethyst vied for the sunlight with the gentler fire of rubies, deep-red sapphires and hundreds, perhaps thousands of flawless diamonds - maroon, green, deep blue, cushion-shaped from the Golconda mines of India, as wondrous as those I set eyes on once a long time before, at the Court of Sher Ali Khan.
‘In happy remembrance of your visit to my country I beg you to dip your hands into this chest,’ came the Sultan’s beguiling voice. ‘Take whatever you can grasp! I know your pen is influential all over the world. I am represented abroad as a despotic and cruel ruler. I’m certain you will write of me kindly, even if the Turkish historians discredit my reputation. I beg you to put my rule to the Western world in the proper light.’
I cast around for diplomatic words to escape my deep embarrassment.
‘Your Majesty,’ I stammered, ‘I cannot possibly accept such a... Why...Sir Edward would absolutely forbid me to...’
The Sultan’s hand rose abruptly. He kicked the lid of the box shut and reached inside his coat.
‘Then you must not refuse this gift,’ he continued, ‘or (at which he gave a loud laugh)...or you will insult me. Then the Commodore might have to fish you out of the Marmara Sea!’
Still chuckling, he withdrew the gold and ivory automatic.
He went on, ‘I understand you have a fine collection of such weapons. The Prince Regnant of Bulgaria gave you a Philadelphia Baby Derringer, did he not?’
Tapping me playfully on the arm, he continued, ‘No doubt Foxy told you it was the very pistol John Wilkes Booth used in his assassination of President Abraham Lincoln on the night of April 14, 1865?’
‘Yes, that is certainly what he told me.’
‘He gave me one too!’ responded the Sultan, ‘telling me the same story.’
We broke into helpless guffaws.
‘Dr. Watson,’ he resumed, handing the pistol to me, ‘you must not refuse me. This pistol deserves a good home. It’s caused the death of at least five would-be assassins by my very own hand. It could be useful to you one day too.’
Shelmerdine’s description of Abd-ul-Hamid’s enthusiasm for lawnmowers, cigarette lighters and musical boxes flashed into my mind. I replied, ‘Your Highness, I shall accept your gracious gift on one condition, that on behalf of Sherlock Holmes, England and myself, you will accept these very powerful Ross military binoculars.’
I grabbed the pair of prismatic binoculars from around my neck and held them out.
I had scrambled out of an awkward place. The Sultan’s eyes lit up. With an expression of appreciation he grasped the strap and pulled it over his head.
Our exchange of gifts completed, my host clambered to his feet. As he led me towards the doorway he pointed at the remarkable pistol now in my pocket.
‘I absolutely hate putting anyone to death but it is important that a ruler does so once in a while.’
The thought clearly cheered him. He wiggled a forefinger.
‘Therefore,’ he continued, ‘every once in a while my trigger-finger gets itchy.’
His expression changed. He pressed my arm in a cold, dank grasp.
‘When you return to England, please give my good wishes to the King. Our paths intersect in many ways. He may rule over more than 50 million Muhammadans in India but I am their spiritual overlord. Tell him I want to deepen my friendship with England. England asks nothing of me and I have nothing to fear of her.’
Given the implied threat to encourage our Indian subjects to revolt, I asked, did the Sultan mean a cordial exchange of letters or a fully-fledged agreement such as the King had signed with France two years before?
‘An Entente!’ he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. ‘Yes. Certainly. That would be good. An Entente Cordiale.’
He reflected for a moment.
‘Though perhaps not quite such an open one. More discreet. More surreptitious. We could get Foxy Ferdinand to word it. He’s a master of the politique de bascule.’
There was another pause, then, ‘Dr. Watson, it would benefit me greatly if England signed such an agreement. I could fend off the Young Turks with all their slavish admiration of the Kaiser.’
A crafty expression was drifting across the Sultan’s face. Unaware Sir Edward Grey was well apprised of his pact with the Kaiser he continued, ‘We could sign a secret military convention, a secret annexe. Guarantee the integrity of our territories if either of us is attacked. You will tell His Imperial Majesty what we have discussed?’ he asked eagerly.