Read Online Sherlock Holmes and The Sword of Osman by Tim Symonds - Free Book Online

the air but the Sultan survived. Since then he has become morbidly suspicious. He buries himself in his Palace, in the company of soothsayers, astrologers, courtiers and police informers. He appears in public as seldom as possible, and always heavily guarded by soldiers.’
    Shelmerdine pointed down a side-street at an assembly of parked vehicles identical to London’s Metropolitan Police wagons.
    â€˜Those are everywhere, ready to make mass arrests if the people riot.’
    We were now high up on the slope.
    â€˜I may not be a medical man, Dr. Watson,’ the dragoman pursued, turning to me, ‘but I’m not the only person to say God’s Promise on Earth is sick in mind and body, obsessed with one idea, that of preserving his throne and his life. Wherever the Sultan sits he has advance notice of anyone coming in. Mirrors hang at every angle of the room. Every room has its cage of parrots which screech at the sight of strangers. Every door is lined with steel. He goes to bed only after the woman who shares his bed has searched every cranny for a hidden bomb. In knowledge of your own English Gunpowder Treason Plot he never sits in a room above a dungeon. Abd-ul-Hamid even keeps his own submarine down near the Dolma Baghchech Pier. When a fit of fear or superstition strikes the Commander of the Faithful and Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe, he hastens to the pier and stays the night submerged in his submarine a few miles out in the Sea of Marmara. He did so two days ago when news arrived from the Black Sea that a flock of purple-and-white hoopoes appeared at the very time the North Star was in alignment with the moon.’
    Our guide pulled another photograph from his pocket. This time it was a fading picture of a submarine. He pointed at the waters below.
    â€˜Your English submarine down there is to be a replacement for this vessel, the Nordenfelt 11.’
    Like the earlier enlargement of the Sword of Osman, the photograph was in sharp focus.
    â€˜Who took these?’ I heard Holmes ask.
    Shelmerdine pointed at himself.
    â€˜I did.’
    Our interpreter resumed, ‘As he grows older the Sultan’s private horrors also grow, not least a horror of darkness. By night tortoises with oil lamps attached to their shells creep among the beds of flowers. The Great Lord is so terrified by the stillness that armed guards have to tramp ceaselessly up and down outside his bed-room. If eunuch or guard encounters the Sultan, they must shake his hand in a particular way, with a twist or crack of the fingers. Without that secret signal he’s likely to pull out an automatic and kill them on the spot.’
    Shelmerdine told us about a diver trying to reach a wreck just off Seraglio Point who signalled violently to be drawn back up. Once safely ashore the man explained in a voice quaking with terror he’d found himself among a great number of sacks on the bottom of the sea. Each contained the body of a woman standing upright, her hair swaying to and fro in the current.
    We were approaching the Palace. Shelmerdine lowered his voice.
    â€˜Abd-ul-Hamid fritters away his days in intrigue. He bribes everyone he considers a likely enemy - soldiers, hodjas, imams. Dancing Dervishes. Softas. At least, he thinks he’s bribing them. The money and jewels seldom reach their targets. They mostly remain in the pockets of the two chief Palace eunuchs.’
    Our interpreter bent his head to look out of the carriage window. The first of the Imperial gates loomed, the fine portico flanked by sixteen columns of Bulgarian syenite. The bright muskets of a dozen sentinels rustled in salute as we drew near.
    â€˜The Great Khan is particularly sensitive right now. This month we’ve had an eclipse of the Moon, the flight of a shooting star, flashes of lightning, thunder as deafening as a battleship’s biggest guns. Last week street dogs howled during the morning Ezan, the Islamic call to