The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (72 page)

“That was quick thinking indeed, Holmes,” I marvelled.

“Well, perhaps I had yet a further advantage. As you know I have always felt that we had not heard the last of Rachel Howells. My mind was, I suspect, ready to accept a hypothesis into which she would fit. Incidentally, Watson,” he continued, changing the subject yet again, “King Charles’s head was still firm on his shoulders when this portrait was struck off. Perhaps it is as well that with the jewels in the Hurlstone crypt we did not find also the several Royal cranium that the crown once encircled.”

“That would have been a sensation indeed!” I responded.

“A sensation, yes, but it might have resulted in others accompanying us on our transatlantic adventure: the eccentric Mr Dick, and Boz himself, were ever fascinated by the events of Charles’s execution! They would certainly wish to see the conclusion of this business. And very good company their shades might prove! However the appearance of Watson and Holmes accompanied by two ethereal companions might prove an experience for which these worthy Canadians are not yet prepared! By the way, Watson,” he added as we turned to leave, “should you decide to write an account of this somewhat cerebral affair, you might consider giving Mr Garrison Bolt an opportunity to participate. I do not believe you will find him as churlish as on the last occasion – or that he will relegate your account to delayed publication at a cut rate price in a Christmas annual!”

The Adventure of the Bulgarian Diplomat

Zakaria Erzinçlioglu

1901 also saw the cases of “The Priory School” and “Thor Bridge”, whilst 1902 introduced us to “Shoscombe Old Place”, “The Three Garridebs” and “The Illustrious Client”. The year 1903 brings us to one of those great puzzles. “The Blanched Soldier” is a case recounted by Holmes himself, not Watson. Holmes was clearly in a begrudging mood when he wrote the case notes because he was rather vindictive about Watson having deserted him for a wife. It would seem that sometime towards the end of 1902 or early 1903 Watson married again, and Holmes felt rebuffed and neglected. In truth, however, Watson had not neglected Holmes. He was there all the time. Holmes just chose to write him completely out of the story of “The Blanched Soldier” by way of rather childish spite occasioned by Watson’s marriage some years later when Holmes wrote up the notes.

During the course of the case Holmes mentioned that he had an urgent commission for the Sultan of Turkey that had to be dealt with. Thanks to the researches of Dr Zakaria Erzinçlioglu, the eminent pathologist, who had access to certain papers in his home country, it has been possible to bring together the full facts of “The Adventure of the Bulgarian Diplomat”, and vindicate Watson’s position once and for all. Holmes may have had one of the greatest brains we have ever witnessed, but at times he could be a cantankerous and awkward individual.

By the early years of the new century the extraordinary powers of Mr Sherlock Holmes had been put to many a severe test and his successes had brought him fame throughout the continent of Europe. Although many of those cases gave my friend great opportunities to demonstrate those deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable successes, yet no case involved a greater array of bizarre personalities and in none would the consequences, in the event of my friend’s failure, have been more horrific than in the case I am about to lay before the public for the first time. For reasons that will become clear to the reader of this narrative, it is only now possible to reveal the full facts of what must be considered one of the crowning points of my friend’s career.

It was on a cold and bitter evening in January, 1903, that my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes and I returned from a bracing walk to the rooms at Baker Street. We ascended the staircase in silence, for we were both frozen to the marrow, and a moment later were glad to find ourselves standing in front of a roaring fire in Holmes’s large and untidy room. We stood rubbing our hands before the grate and soon the warm blood was coursing through our veins. Holmes took one of his empty pipes and placed it between his teeth, then flung himself into the basket chair and picked up a large envelope that had been lying open on the table at his elbow. He removed the large, folded sheet of paper from its envelope and, spreading it out on his knee, began to read it quietly to himself with a frown of concentration on his face. As he did so, I could not help studying the envelope, which Holmes had replaced upon the table. It was of a cream colour and uncommonly large, but its most extraordinary feature was the design emblazoned across it. This was like a large and extremely intricate treble clef mark in gold, the body of the mark being made up of fine lines running back and forth along its length.

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, who had been watching me furtively. “What do you make of it?”

“I must say it is a most unusual envelope, Holmes, but I confess that I can infer nothing of interest from it,” I replied.

Holmes rose from his seat and handed me the letter. “It arrived by special courier this morning. You know my methods, Watson. Apply them.”

I took the letter in one hand and the envelope in the other and started my examination. First, I looked closely at the envelope with its singular design. Following my friend’s methods I took up his magnifying lens from the table and examined the design minutely. I then sniffed at the envelope, as I have seen Holmes do on occasion. I then unfolded the letter and read aloud the contents:

Dear Mr Holmes,

I am commanded by my Sovereign to request your advice on a matter of extreme sensitivity. It is impossible for me to enter into the details of the problem in this letter, nor is it advisable for me to identify myself in writing. I will take the liberty of calling at your rooms this evening at 8 o’clock to acquaint you with the case. Your esteemed brother Mycroft is already fully conversant with the relevant facts.

“A case from a royal client!” I cried, “My dear Holmes, I congratulate you.” Holmes waved a deprecating hand. “Pray continue with your examination,” he said.

I sat down and turned the letter over and over in my hands, examining it from every angle. I cudgelled my brains in an attempt to come to some inference about the significance of the letter or the character of the writer, but, try as I may, I could not arrive at any profound conclusion upon the subject. Nevertheless, I was determined to show Holmes that I was not totally devoid of ideas on the matter.

“It would seem clear from the high quality of the paper and the envelope,” I said, with some importance, “and from the fact that he is writing on behalf of his sovereign that your correspondent is a man of high position. I would also say that he is a foreigner, judging by the peculiar symbol on the envelope and by the fact that he refers to ‘my Sovereign’. An Englishman would have written ‘the King’. Also, the use of the word ‘esteemed’ in such a context strikes me as being distinctly un-English. I can find no further clues to the identity of the man.”

Sherlock Holmes sat silently with his elbows on the arms of the chair and his chin resting on his clasped hands, eyeing me closely. At length he spoke.

“Quite right, Watson, quite right. The man is a foreigner of distinction and I will confess that I have not been able to arrive at many much deeper conclusions myself.”

I felt a glow of satisfaction as he rose and crossed to the mantelpiece, where he rested his elbow and turned to face me.

“Indeed, Watson, apart from the obvious facts that the author is an old – I might say,
very
old – Turkish nobleman, who does not smoke, who has only recently arrived in this country, who is very highly educated, even by the general standards of modern diplomats, who is particularly well trusted by the Sultan of Turkey and who is of exceptionally robust health for a man of his age, there is little else that I can deduce. When I add that he has a smudge of ink on the little finger of his right hand, that he spent some considerable time composing his short letter, that he has a beard, that his hair is of an almost pure white, that he is a man of austere, almost Spartan, habits and that he is an old soldier who has seen action in many military campaigns, I will admit that my limited stock of knowledge about our correspondent is exhausted.”

“I must say that your stock of knowledge is better described as exhaustive,” I said with some asperity, for I was nettled by-this display of omniscience, “since I do not admit that such a wealth of information can be considered limited by any accurate observer.”

“Excellent, Watson!” he replied with a chuckle, “Touché! A most opposite response!” He came over to where I sat, took up the letter and envelope and seated himself again in the basket chair. Somewhat mollified, I asked him how he arrived at his remarkable conclusions about the letter-writer through a mere examination of the letter and envelope.

“That the man is a Turk and a nobleman is evident from the fact that the envelope bears the sign of the Tugra, which is the personal emblem of the Sultan of Turkey,” said Holmes, “No commoner or foreigner could possibly have been entrusted with such stationery. That he is a very old man can be deduced from the nature of his handwriting. He does not smoke because, being a Turk, if he had been a smoker he would have smoked Turkish tobacco, which has a distinctive aroma that would have clung, however faintly, to his writing materials. I have an especially sensitive nose and yet I can detect no hint of a tobacco aroma on either the letter or the envelope. He is very highly educated because he wrote the letter in English in his own hand; if the letter had been written by a scribe the writing would undoubtedly have been that of a much younger man. In general, modern diplomats speak and write French for diplomatic purposes. This man wrote his letter in English – and quite acceptable English at that, Watson – which shows that he speaks at least two languages other than his own, since, being a diplomat, it is certain that he speaks French – he would not have gone far in his career if he didn’t. He has only recently arrived in this country because, as we have seen, he has written his letter on the Sultan’s own stationery and not on the usual stationery of the Turkish Embassy, which would have identified itself as such. It seems clear that our man is on a special mission from Turkey and is acting in an almost independent capacity from the officials at the embassy. Had he been in this country for some time he would hardly have written on special letter-paper from the embassy in Belgravia, which is where the courier came from. Also, the fact that he effectively states that he is on a mission for the Sultan means that he has just arrived, since he is unlikely to lie idle for any length of time before conducting the Sultan’s business.

“As to his being a particularly trustworthy courtier, this is manifest from his age. The urgent tone of the letter tells us that the matter is of some importance and yet the Sultan did not choose a younger and more energetic man for the task. The fact that he sent an aged man across Europe must mean that he is particularly reliable and trustworthy. He is of exceptionally robust health because, not only was he capable of making such a journey at his age with apparent ease, but also because he is venturing out on a night like this soon after his arrival in this country. The ink-stained finger I infer from the very slight smudge on the letter ‘y’ in ‘liberty’, which can only have been made by the little finger of the right hand when the writer crossed the ‘t’. A number of hairs were caught in the fold of the paper, which suggests that the man had a beard at which he must have tugged while writing, which in turn suggests that he took some time over the composition of the letter, possibly because he was uncertain about how much he wanted to commit to paper. The hairs are of an almost pure white. Have I convinced you, Watson?”

“Your deductions are certainly very plausible,” I replied cautiously, “but what about the Spartan habits and the military career?”

“It is well-known that upper-class Turks, and, indeed, the members of the ruling classes of our continental neighbours, are in the habit of anointing themselves with fragrant perfumes. You know what these foreigners are like, Watson! However, my sensitive nose was unable to detect any such fragrance on the envelope or enclosure. That, taken together with our man’s robust old age and the fact that he does not smoke, suggests that he is of Spartan habits. At least, the probability lies in that direction. As for the military career, you will perceive this smaller design to one side of the main emblem on the envelope. This is the military version of the Tugra, which is used by the Sultan only when dealing with his most senior generals. Will it pass, Watson?”

I had opened my mouth to reply, when the sound of horses’ hooves was heard in the street outside. Holmes sat up. “It is almost eight o’clock, Watson, and our visitor has arrived.” He rose and crossed to the window, when I heard the door downstairs open and close. A slow, deliberate tread could be heard on the stairs. It is a curious thing, but I was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding, such as I had never before experienced during any of Holmes’ cases. The exotic source of the problem, the hint of international intrigue and the distance travelled by our, as yet nameless, visitor for the purpose of meeting my friend, all conspired to give me an irrational feeling of unease. I stood up, facing the door, uncertain what to expect, in spite of Holmes’s confident conclusions regarding the appearance and character of our Turkish client.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” said Sherlock Holmes.

Many persons of singular appearance and bizarre background have passed through the door of the room in Baker Street. And yet the apparition that now entered was by far the most grotesque of all those who came to seek the advice of Mr Sherlock Holmes; whatever I had expected, it was not the figure that now stood before us. I venture to say that even Holmes himself was taken by surprise, although he showed no sign of it. For the visitor who came from so far afield resembled nothing more than a mediaeval monk. His ‘habit’ was of good quality cloth, but there was no belt or rope round the waist, and the man’s head and face were completely obscured under a huge cowl. Incongruously, the right hand held a black cane. A moment later the effect was abruptly transformed, when our visitor lifted his hands and threw back his hood over his shoulders, revealing the ruddy face of an old man with a luxurious white beard and moustache, neither of which bore any trace of the yellowing that comes from years of smoking. He was a man of at least eighty years old, yet still hale and hearty, of average height and build and on his head he wore a round astrakhan hat, which he now removed.