The Foreign Secretary turned to look at me. ‘Dr. Watson, you don’t look convinced of the gravity of this mission. If there is a conspiracy and if it succeeds and the Sultanate collapses, the consequences could be cataclysmic. A mad quarrel would break out over the spoils. Among the powers of Europe Germany is best placed to rummage among the debris for advantage. She would gain direct access to the Euphrates. She would seize control of the Shatt El Arab. Even the heartlands of Islam would become hers. England’s overland routes to India, vital to our control of the sub-Continent, would be endangered.’
‘Why not give some small nod to the Kaiser’s aspirations, Sir Edward?’ I asked. ‘Why not accommodate the wretched fellow? Let him have a few African colonies, some islands in the Pacific - and the commercial advantages you mention, a railway to Bagdad perhaps. The Times reports the Kaiser craves Agadir. Why not let him have it?’
‘I’m asked that almost daily by “the German Party” in the House,’ came the wry reply. ‘His Majesty’s Government has no strong objection to seeing the black, white and red flag flying over a few extra colonies in Africa, nor any special reason to deny the Kaiser a railway to Bagdad or a presence in the Pacific, if only that were enough. But as to Agadir becoming a German port - you of all people should not tolerate a division of German destroyers on the flank of our sea routes to India.’
He turned to look steadily at my comrade.
‘A lot depends on you, Mr. Holmes,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Despite our scruples, we must sup with the Ottoman Devil, maintain the status quo for a while longer until the consequences for our Empire of a collapse of his Empire become clearer. All England should wish you well.’
Sir Edward waved at the horse-trap.
‘Gentlemen, I’d offer you a ride to your next destination were I not in heavy demand at the House of Commons.’
With a further nod, he clambered into the carriage and gave a signal to the horse. Holmes called out, ‘A request, Sir Edward - can you get a photographic enlargement of the sword to me? And a translation of the inscriptions?’
Sir Edward’s free arm stretched upward in assent. The trap and painting clattered away along Albert Road at a good pace and rounded a bend. The Dark Continent with its great herds of elephants, the odd-toed ungulates on the Luangwa, the Tsavo man-eating lions, hippos on the Shire River, dust, blood, haunted baobab trees, Pygmies, sleeping sickness, malaria, snail fever, the smell of camp-fires long extinguished, all would have to wait.
Ahead of us lay a vast Mussulman dynastic Empire more than six centuries old. As a youth I had been entranced by oriental paintings in the National Gallery, in particular an oil of the massed beauty of the Harem women, a scene to rival the pages of the Thousand Nights And A Night, the silk and satin of the dresses sparkling with jewellery, the lines of black eunuchs, a sultan in scarlet robes edged with sable, a diamond-studded dagger at his waist. Instead of natives hiding in impenetrable bamboo there would be minarets amid gigantic black-green cypresses, bazaars, dervishes in sugar-coned hats, men in pumpkin-shaped turbans like giant white tomatoes and pashas staring out over the deep blue Sea of the Golden Horn wearing fezzes bright as poppy fields. At least my new camera and a magnificent new pair of powerful Ross 12X military binoculars would be of use anywhere.
The following day Holmes forwarded a letter from his brother Mycroft to my Chambers. It began, ‘Dear Sherlock, I am delighted to hear the Foreign Secretary has engaged you on the Ottoman case. Your time will not be misspent. This is more than a chivalric emprise. England as the Gouvernante of the Levant has her obligations and interests to protect. The great trade routes of east and west, Peking, Samarkand, Kieff, Zanzibar, Vienna, all converge upon Constantinople. On your arrival in the heart of the Ottoman Empire you will find intrigue, counter-intrigue, lies, deceit, cupidity and malicious gossip. Every quarter of the city is honeycombed with foreign agents, some political, many economic. They and counter-agents are numerous as cockroaches, all spying on each other. All have washed up in Constantinople seeking concessions - telegraphs, railways, bridges, banks. Some are friendly towards Britain, some are certainly not.
‘A dragoman by the name of Eric Shelmerdine will be waiting for you at the Vinegar Sellers’ wharf when you step ashore. He is Levantine or Armenian, I’m not clear which. Useful name, Eric. Eric to the English, Éric to the French, Erich to the Kaiser’s men, Erik to the Hungarians. He purports to be a correspondent for the Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung and Pesti Naplo but the majority of his pay comes from the treasuries of half a dozen Powers - one being England. He is acquainted with the hubble-bubble pipe servants of every Pasha in Pera. In no time the telegraph wires buzz and their masters’ plots and plans are transmitted to us days in advance of (and far more truthful than) official reports.
‘There are two contending groups who might wish to steal the Sword of Osman, and bring about Sultan Abd-ul-Hamid’s overthrow. One is based in Salonika, initiated eight years ago by students at the Imperial Medical Academy. They call themselves “The Young Turks” (the ‘Young’ is a misnomer) and are led by a gentleman bearing the name Bahaeddin Shakir.’
Our adventure began to seem real.
‘Their rival group is the League of Private Initiative and Decentralization, led by a prince in exile by the name of Sabahedrinne. His headquarters are in Paris, in a girls’ school (the headmistress occupies the room next door). The communications network is a cubbyhole for a telephone operator, the chancellery a single typist, and yet...and yet... it is not beyond fantastic that from such lowly beginnings either enterprise could overthrow the world’s strongest dictatorship.’
This was followed by a not-especially-complimentary description of the Ottoman Sultan. ‘Abd-ul-Hamid II is a paragon of Oriental intriguers and dissimulators, less a bejewelled arachnid than a poisonous plant which cannot move to escape his predators. He is like the woody vine Aristolochia whose leaves are eaten by the larvae of swallowtail butterflies, thus making themselves unpalatable to their own predators. In earlier times a ruler of the Ottoman Empire would buckle on a sword and lead his troops into the fray. No longer. The ruler of a great empire sits in his Palace trembling like an aspen. There was a time Abd-ul-Hamid frequented the cafés on the Bosphorus incognito, with no fear the coffee would be poisoned. Now, the most elaborate precautions are taken with his food. Meals are cooked in kitchens with iron doors and barred windows and brought to him by officials in gold-embroidered uniforms wheeling a trolley containing the Imperial Dinner service. Each dish must be tasted by the Guardian of the Sultan’s Health and Life who, it’s said, tests it more on cats and dogs than himself. Abd-ul-Hamid prefers a humble stuffed marrow and cucumber to the elaborate concoctions his Greek chef can prepare. The taste of poison in such simple fare would be immediate.
‘Amusante? It may pay to bear in mind there is only one punishment in his code. Death by strangulation or death by drowning, tied in a sack at the end of a grapnel and hurled into the Bosphorus, often after days or weeks of the most unbearable torture.’
As to the Sultan’s paranoia, ‘Year on year there’s a steady growth in the number of his spies, known as djournals. Greeks, Hebrews, Armenians, Syrians and Levantines alike, they are thought to total as many as the foreign spies and sympathizers infesting Petersburg - more than 20,000. Almost every shop and nargile café in Stamboul is run by them. Almost every customer is a djournal too. We joke that when two Jews get together they build three synagogues. In popular belief, if three Turkish subjects are seen together one at least is certain to be a spy. Whenever you see two perfectly respectable men conversing they will instantly cease conversation if a third person draws near.