There was a postscript:
‘In addition to the gifts for the Sultan the Commodore of HMS Dreadnought will arrange for delivery of a specially-bound copy of The Return of Sherlock Holmes to His Imperial Majesty with our own Imperial Majesty’s compliments.’
I returned the pages to the envelope. The grandfather clock in my waiting room struck the half-hour. A locum could attend to the remaining patients. I set off for George Street for a first appointment with the military tailors.
On my arrival at Gieves a wave of nostalgia washed through me. Nothing had changed since I visited the warren of stairs and rooms years before, an Army surgeon at Netley. Ahead of me at the time lay a stint in the blistering heat of the North-West Frontier, a succession of punitive expeditions against offending Pathans, the Second Anglo-Afghan War, my disabling wound from a Jezail bullet at the Battle of Maiwand, enteric fever, and a final return to Portsmouth jetty on the Orontes.
An elderly tailor approached. He stopped a few feet away and looked me over carefully, one finger to his mouth. A pair of cutting scissors dangled from a thumb. After a moment he put the scissors down and frowned at the appointment card.
‘Surgeon Lieutenant Samuel Learson,’ he said slowly. He looked back up at me. ‘Learson,’ he repeated. He shook his head. ‘Sir, thick neck, that strongly built man square jaw of yours, length of inside leg, and dropping seven and a half pounds off your weight... if the name Learson was not clearly written here I’d swear you were the young medical officer who came here in ‘79. A John something...ah! Watson, I recall.’
Twenty minutes later he said, ‘Did you know that when Stanley greeted Livingstone he found the Scottish Congregationalist wearing a blue Gieves Consular hat?’ - the very tale he’d told when fitting me out for India twenty-seven years earlier.
Five days and two fittings later the naval uniforms together with the ceremonial swords and two greatcoats were delivered to my premises by a smart coach. The outfits also included a pea coat each - short double-breasted jacket made of coarse wool with six brass buttons inscribed with anchors. I tried on the dress uniform. The trousers were tight, with side pockets and fob pocket on the jacket. On Mycroft’s instructions Gieves had supplied swords dating back to the reign of the late Great Queen when we might first have attained officer rank. The blades were about 30 inches in length, with a slight curve. A good amount of gilt remained to the hilts.
I turned to the working dress. Holmes as Commander had three gold cuff bands with white between them. Mine as a Naval Surgeon had two gold cuff bands separated by the Surgeon’s red distinction stripe. Neither uniform bore the executive curl, the small loop on the top rim of cuff lace or shoulder tab. This insignia would, have put us in the chain of command over the ship or crew, giving us an authority and visibility we didn’t wish for. The absence of the curl would help explain the lack of knowledge expected of an experienced seaman officer while not precluding us from holding the King’s Commission.
To an Army man the etiquette of the Senior Service was deeply confusing. I was going to need guidance in the matter of protocol. A private note from the Commodore of HMS Dreadnought supplied it:
‘Dear Dr. Watson, I and my crew look forward to your arrival aboard. Officially we are to conduct running trials and test our main guns and anti-torpedo boat defensive armament en route to the West Indies. As far as the world is concerned that’s where we shall be going, but (as you know) both the Secretary of State for War and the Foreign Secretary are alarmed at the intensification of interest from the Kaiser into Ottoman affairs. German hegemony of any sort in the Near East could seriously impair our ability to use those sea routes in times of war, including access to the Suez Canal. Therefore, rather than sailing to the West Indies we shall steam in the greatest secrecy from Gibraltar to Turkey in record time - aided by the fact the seawater flow from Gib is eastward in the Strait’s surface waters. We shall plan our arrival in Constantinople just before dawn to make greater impact on the Diplomatic community in Pera when it takes its first yawn of the day and glances out of the window. Only the Sultan himself will be informed of the exact time of our arrival.
‘By now Gieves will have made your uniforms, both working dress and full dress according to regulations, including sword knots etc. Uniforms should be worn except when engaged in activities such as sport for which uniform would be inappropriate. Meetings with the Sultan or Grand Vizier will merit full dress (don’t forget the swords).
‘In your instance, as a Surgeon Lieutenant, you should learn the different style of salute. Naval surgeons do not stand for the loyal toast. Also, although Royal Navy medical officers are qualified doctors, they do not use the Dr. prefix.’
The letter was signed Reginald Bacon.
A few days later, a brevet-major from the India 2nd Battalion by the name of Crum, formerly of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps, visited me with a package. Crum was a fine old soldier who had seen much of the world. Among the gifts for the Sultan was a most unusual sniper rifle, a modified, lengthened Short Magazine Lee Enfield produced by Parker Hale in the heart of Birmingham’s Gun Quarter. It came with a dozen boxes of cartridges and a state-of-the-art Karl Kahles Telorar rifle scope. The package had been specially put together by the leading ballistician, Sir Charles Ross, 9th Baronet, owner of vast estates in Scotland. A note said the rounds had been engineered to achieve a muzzle velocity of over 2800 feet per second. Accompanying the rifle was a rubberised ghillie suit, a cloth garment covered in loose strips of burlap designed to resemble leaves and twigs. When manufactured correctly, the suit moved in the wind in the same way as the surrounding foliage.
Our departure was imminent. Holmes and I had already decided to use the pseudonyms we employed abroad once before: Holmes would return to being Naval Commander George Archibald Hewitt, the name of England’s foremost forger. I would be Surgeon Lieutenant Samuel Learson, the country’s most notorious safe-breaker.
Mycroft Holmes had taken charge of our arrangements. He wrote, ‘Dear Dr. Watson, on the day and hour arranged, you will find a motor car brougham waiting at the kerb to take you to the station in time for the Continental Express. It will be driven by a jarvey with a heavy black cloak tipped at the collar with red. Allow time for the journey. The carriage will take you twenty minutes in the wrong direction to throw off any ill-wishers. The second first-class train carriage from the front is reserved for you and Sherlock. I enclose an albumen print by the Abdullah Frères of the Imperial Yıldız palace and the Hamidiye Mosque. At Sherlock’s request, your dragoman will have a photographic enlargement of the sword at the ready on your arrival.’
The day arrived. I checked my watch against the chronopher one final time. A noisy Beeston-Humber Landaulette deposited me at Victoria Station. I was looking forward to the days aboard HMS Dreadnought, during which I might be able to write up a case or two. The choice would be difficult. In the meantime I joined a long queue at W.H. Smith’s to purchase a supply of reading for the journey to Gibraltar.
Half an hour later I settled opposite Holmes into the comfortable First Class carriage aboard The Jewel of the Weald. I was extremely flustered due to an uncomfortable encounter with a clergyman. I have often related how my former comrade changed his colours as readily as the chameleon. Clerics were his speciality - in A Scandal In Bohemia Holmes disguised himself as a simple Nonconformist preacher in his effort to outwit the remarkable adventuress Irene Adler. I wrote at the time: