Sherlock Holmes and The Sword of Osman Read Online Free Page B

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜ 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.
    â€˜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