Sherlock Holmes and The Sword of Osman

We Meet The Mysterious Ornithologist

We paid off the carriage at the North Entrance to the Zoo. The pair of dappled greys clopped away. A polite young man greeted us. He led us past the Winter Cranes House and the Kangaroo Paddock and across the canal bridge. The tunnel took us under the Outer Circle. A light wind gusted between the cages as we approached the Stork & Ostrich House, where our guide left us.

Inside the building a zoo keeper was addressing a group of children. He singled out a stork.

‘The Abdim’s Stork is also known as the White-bellied Stork,’ he told them. ‘The name commemorates the Turkish Governor of Wadi Halfa in Sudan, Bey El-Arnaut Abdim. Note the grey legs and bill and red knees and feet. At 29 inches it’s the smallest species of stork, and weighs just over 2lbs.’

‘Just like that boy Howie,’ one of the girls whispered loudly. The other girls tittered.

The guide continued.

‘The White-bellied Stork is distributed in open habitats from Ethiopia south to South Africa. It prefers locusts, caterpillars and other large insects although the bird will also eat small reptiles, amphibians, mice, crabs and eggs. By contrast with another stork, the Shoebill, this species is welcomed and protected by local African belief as a harbinger of rain and good luck. In the breeding season it develops red facial skin in front of the eye and blue skin near the bill.’

Another schoolgirl whispered ‘Just like Jimmy Webster’ and again the gaggle tittered.

My impatience was growing. It was my intention to spend just the half-hour and then to leave Holmes and the mysterious visitor to discuss matters ornithological while I wended my way to the Army & Navy stores to purchase my tropical outfit and a new camera. For the latter I had arranged for a demonstration of the Lizars 1/4 Plate Challenge Model E.

My plan to get to the Army & Navy stores before closing-time was in jeopardy. I was consulting my watch ostentatiously for Holmes’s benefit when a man in his mid-forties entered the Stork & Ostrich House. He wore a grey mackintosh buttoned to the neck, grey gloves and a fawn-coloured fedora with a light blue band around the crown. I judged the hat had been made by Teresio Borsalini. The front of the brim was snapped down as though to ward off the sharper rays of the sun.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, removing a glove and offering a hand, ‘my apologies for keeping you waiting.’

He gazed at Holmes.

‘We have not met before, sir, but I am conversant with your appearance from the society pages. I am very grateful to you for coming such a long way. And to you too, Dr. Watson.’

‘For my part,’ I returned, ‘I am now on my way. I merely came...’

Before I could mention my destination and reason for visiting the Army & Navy Stores, Holmes intervened.

‘Don’t dream of going, Watson. I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my memory.’

He turned to our visitor with an odd stare.

‘I understand you are compiling a work of ornithology, sir, hence your interest in a certain bird spotted on my bee-farm.’

‘Exactly so,’ our visitor nodded, with an evasive smile. ‘My interest in birds is long standing.’

‘The title of your book?’ I asked politely.

‘The publisher suggests The Charm of Birds, though I ask you to be patient. It may not make an appearance in the book-shops for some years yet.’

Holmes gestured towards the inmates in the cages.

‘Storks and ostriches are not especially mellifluous songsters. And on names, sir, you clearly intend to maintain your advantage over...’

As he spoke these words, my comrade gave a start of recognition.

‘Why, of course! Sir Edward! Shall we dispense with the pretence of the search for the wayward marsh tit. Could you explain precisely why you inveigled me here?’

I threw Holmes a startled look. Why was he calling our visitor ‘Sir Edward’?

The man’s response was immediate. He reached up to undo the top buttons of his coat. A black lounge jacket peeped through the open neck, followed by an edge of black waistcoat. The folds of a black cambric cravat were held together by a silver stick pin with a plain jet centre.

‘Mr. Holmes, you must forgive the charade,’ he replied. ‘Yes, you are the rara avis I had in mind. I asked to meet here inside the Zoological Gardens because I adjudged the location the least likely for anyone from the newspapers to catch sight of us together and only half-an-hour by carriage from where I am myself caged. I shall come to the point at once. Mr. Holmes, you and Dr. Watson...’ and here he offered me a courteous inclination of his head, ‘...could be pivotal in investigating a matter which could cause cataclysms right across Europe and raise great difficulties for our overseas Empire too.’

He halted, giving Holmes an enquiring, almost comical look. ‘May I ask how you divined my identity?’

‘My dear sir,’ Holmes replied, ‘you seem well-acquainted with my methods. I’m sure you can answer your own query.’

‘I cannot. You made a deduction, but how?’

‘The very palpable effort to cover something up,’ came the breezy response. ‘It was not so much the mackintosh itself but the fact it was buttoned up. We are experiencing remarkable warmth so early in summer. It was my supposition you might be determined to hide some particular fact or condition behind your outer garb which made me look for a clue elsewhere.’

‘Elsewhere?’ our confederate exclaimed, squinting down at his half-boots. ‘This footwear doesn’t seem exceptional for a stroll around the Zoological Gardens.’

‘Not downwards, Sir Edward. Upwards,’ Holmes responded, smiling. ‘The first clue was revealed by the very hat you thought would help hide your identity.’

Overcome with curiosity I intervened, ‘What of the fedora? It’s a very fine...’

‘Not so much the fedora, Watson.’

‘Then?’

‘The petersham band around the crown.’

Holmes motioned at the light blue ribbon.

‘It’s been placed hastily. See how it doesn’t sit right. Also there’s a slight difference in the nap of the crown resulting from an earlier presence, a tight band about two inches in width attached by those remaining black threads. Only the deepest mourning would call for such a wide crape band. Then when Sir Edward unbuttoned his coat it was confirmed the period of mourning has not yet ended.’

‘Of course!’ I burst out. ‘Sir Edward Grey, the Foreign Secretary!’

‘Precisely,’ Holmes affirmed. ‘Not wishing to be identified on his way here, almost certainly Sir Edward scrummaged around in the House of Commons and came across a boater belonging to a Cambridge graduate from which he filched the band, intending to replace it on the fedora with the black crape on his return to the House.’

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.

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.

‘There is a strong belief in the Evil Eye. The blue eye of the Frank (their term for all Europeans) is considered especially malign and sinister. What they will make of the colour of your eyes, Sherlock, I dare not think. As to the customs of the Turk, do not cross your feet at mealtimes, it is disrespectful to the table. Do not praise any item for as often as not it will be pressed into your hand - but not from generosity. Your praise has brought the Evil Eye upon it. It would bring bad luck to the owner if it were kept. Therefore you might make an exception to the rule and fulsomely admire a few Chinese vases and some Longquan celadon bowls, the spoils of centuries-long exchanges of gifts between Chinese emperors and Ottoman sultans. A few top class Chinese artefacts would sit well in the interior of the Diogenes Club. Ditto the Galata Bridge. An extra bridge across the Thames at The Temple would make access to the premises much easier for our legal fraternity (especially in their cups).’

The mention of the Diogenes made me smile. I recalled Holmes’s description of his brother’s favourite haven: ‘There are many men in London who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger’s Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion.’

There was no danger I would be invited to apply for membership - or accept if the offer were made.

I returned to the Mycroft letter.

‘Cuisine: for centuries the Spice Routes from Asia have been under the complete control of the Sultanate. Carts rumble daily into the Palace, loaded with conserves of almonds, pistachios, ginger, hazelnuts, orange-peel, aloes, coffee, and of course Rahat Lokum forged from the pulp of white grapes or mulberries. The demands of Yildiz are voracious - butter from Moldavia via the Black Sea, great quantities of plums, dates and prunes shipped in from Egypt. Honeys are brought from Rumania and Hungary. The purest comes from the Isle of Crete and is reserved for the Sultan himself. Turkish delicacies make even Dr. Watson’s favourite Sussex Puddle puddings or the roast meats at Simpson’s Grand Divan Tavern seem as bland and commonplace as brown Windsor soup and boiled plaice. For the best Rahat Lokum you should certainly visit Hadji Bekir’s Lumps of Delight factory, a small room near the Galata Bridge head. And of course you must sample the Turkish milk desserts - the muhallebi.

‘May I ask you to do me a favour and go to the Spice Market. Please bring back a few packages of saffron and my favourite Kofte Bahari - a mix of coriander, black pepper, cloves, bay leaves and wild thyme.’

That evening I took a late walk to the day-and-night Post Office on the ground floor of Morley’s Hotel at Charing Cross to post my letter to Pretorius.