I had failed to recognise the Foreign Secretary, so utterly out of context in the Zoological Society Gardens and buttoned to the hilt. I recollected a newsreel portraying Sir Edward along a stretch of river, catching trout on the dry-fly. Without apparent effort the line went out straight as an arrow, as light as thistledown, fisherman, line, rod, cast and fly all in unison. His face was regularly caricatured by Spy for Vanity Fair and pictured in the newspapers, especially so the previous February with the announcement of his bereavement. His wife Dorothy had been thrown from a carriage while driving near their Fallodon estate and died three days later.
‘My deepest condolences for your loss, sir,’ I said.
The next moment, as though feeling guilty at concealing the signs of mourning, Grey drew off a glove and exposed on the third finger a plain jet ring with a surround of hair set in crystal.
‘A lock of her hair,’ he explained, tapping the ring with a sad look. ‘I carry everywhere a letter I’d half-written on the morning of the accident. I shall hand it to her when she and I are reunited in the Hereafter.’
‘Sir,’ I offered, ‘the effect on your work, though it cannot be weighed or defined, must needs be very great.’
He looked at me appreciatively.
‘As you would know personally, Dr. Watson. Your wife passed away at a similar age, I believe. I shared with Dorothy all my mind, all my happiness, all my pursuits. There are times when I get to my feet in the House of Commons and stare out at the faces of the Opposition, or sense scorn among those at my back or side on the Government benches... only quarter in jest I beg a kindly Providence to lose me my seat. I could retire from public life without reproach. Nevertheless I had to carry on. It was she who begged me to seek re-election to Parliament but I tell you, gentlemen, I’d far rather catch a three-pound trout on the Itchen than make a highly successful speech in the House.’
Sir Edward motioned towards a path.
‘Perhaps we can retire to a quieter part of the Zoo.’
As we walked he went on gravely, ‘I owe you a complete explanation. I presume I can speak in the utmost confidence?’
‘Certainly you may!’ I assured him energetically. ‘Why, Holmes and I have kept confidences of the most sensitive nature - for example, when a certain member of one of the highest, noblest, most exalted families in England, His Grace...’
Holmes broke in swiftly.
‘What my good friend Watson means is that you have our guarantee that nothing which passes between us...’
‘...of course I have,’ Grey broke in. ‘This won’t be the first matter of State brought to your attention involving the safety and wellbeing of nations. It’s said you hold the honour of half the British peerage in your keeping and know that the other half has no honour to lose. I’m well apprised of the invaluable assistance you gave England in another matter in which the security of our country was compromised. Dr. Watson...’ again he bowed slightly in my direction, ‘...titled the case The Adventure of the Naval Treaty. The matter to hand is of an importance at least the equal, and one might say the long-term consequences greater.’
‘Sir Edward, you say this is a matter of State,’ Holmes pressed. ‘Why do you wish to engage my small talent rather than that of Scotland Yard or the hundreds of diplomats at your disposal?’
Sir Edward pointed to the North exit. ‘I have a trap outside. If you’ll follow me, there is something I’d like to show you.’
By now I was late for my appointment at the Army & Navy Stores but my curiosity was growing by the minute. We were with a man in whose palm lay every lever controlling the Empire’s foreign policy. What in heaven’s name could he wish to talk to Holmes about?
Sir Edward was some ten paces ahead when we reached the horse trap tucked in the shade of a great plane tree. He reached into the cab and with considerable difficulty brought out a large flat object, oblong and thin. The cloth fell away to reveal an oil-painting of three grandly-attired figures in a formal pose. I recognised two of them without difficulty, the late Great Queen as a young woman and next to her a pompous Emperor Napoleon III. They stared across the canvas at the third figure. The man wore a fez with a long black tassel and an imposing uniform with brilliant decorations. He was stretching out a magnificent sword for them to inspect.
I pointed at the exotic figure and said, ‘Has the matter to do with this person? If so, he is...?’
‘The Ottoman Sultan Abdul Mejid, long deceased. He is the father of Sultan Abd-ul-Hamid II, the current ruler of the Turkish Empire,’ came the reply. ‘It’s not the man himself who concerns us, rather the weapon in his hand. I ask you to examine it closely.’
Holmes drew a silver and chrome magnifying glass from a pocket. He examined the sword in minute detail. Without explanation, Holmes transferred his scrutiny from the sword to the Sultan’s features. Eventually he stepped back and replaced the glass in a pocket.
It was my turn. The sword appeared to be about four feet long and some four inches in width at the cross-guard. It bore a resemblance to the traditional Indian talwars with steel hilts and gold koftgari decoration I was accustomed to in the Indian subcontinent. On the Ottoman sword a gold cartouche was picked out in the centre of the blade at the start of a series of thin grooves. The hilt was of a black stone, the cross-bar decorated in relief in gold and black niello with a large emerald at the centre. A golden dragon-head formed the grip.
Grey resumed.
‘This sword of state is called the Sword of Osman - after the founder of the Ottoman Dynasty. It’s worn only at the investiture of a new sultan. In this painting the artist decided to depict the former sultan with the sword in his hand as a symbol of power, though in fact between inaugurations it never leaves Yildiz Palace where it’s guarded behind heavy locked doors twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Why should this weapon be of any interest to His Britannic Majesty’s Government?’ Holmes asked.
‘Rumours are doing the rounds of a plot to steal it,’ the Foreign Secretary replied. ‘His Majesty’s Government believes the matter must be taken very seriously.’
I frowned. The fate of an ancient sword hardly merited Holmes’s journey from Sussex to London, or even from my medical practice just a mile or so away.
‘Why would any such theft matter to England?’ I pursued.
‘Dr. Watson, I can assure you I wouldn’t easily enter on a subterfuge to get Mr. Holmes to meet me here today if it were not of the utmost importance. He who holds the sword of state holds the key to power over the entire Turkish Empire. Its loss could mean the fall of the Sultan. If Abd-ul-Hamid falls, the ghost universe which is the present Ottoman Empire could totter and collapse like a house of cards.’
I fell silent, waiting for Holmes to respond. I judged the matter of little consequence, at most a quarrel among faraway peoples about whom we knew scarcely anything - and what we did know we didn’t like.
For a moment Holmes appeared too absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate answer. Then to my dismay my comrade replied in the affirmative.
‘Well, Sir Edward, we shall gladly accept the commission - on the grounds of all expenses being reimbursed by your Government. I believe my friend Dr. Watson would enjoy a week or two in Constantinople.’
England’s Foreign Secretary gave a sigh of relief.
‘You’ll be fully reimbursed and more,’ he replied. ‘Incidentally, Mr. Holmes, it was your brother Mycroft who brought this matter to the attention of the Government. As you know, he sits at the nerve-centre of the Empire.’
The elder by seven years, Mycroft Holmes held an important if ill-defined position in His Majesty’s Government. He dwelt in the self-contained world of Whitehall, his office almost equidistant from the War Department, the Foreign Office, Treasury and the Admiralty. His reach as puppet-master was immense.