A Most Diabolical Plot by Tim Symonds

Author:Tim Symonds
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sherlock, sherlock holmes, mystery, murder mystery, crime, british crime, detective fiction, classic, sherlock holmes fiction, short stories
ISBN: 9781787054059
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2018-12-10T00:00:00+00:00

The End

© Tim Symonds and Lesley Abdela 2018

The Mystery of the Missing Artefacts

by Tim Symonds

August 1916

A dungeon under the Dolmabahçe Palace, Constantinople

I stared up at the patch of blue sky visible through a tiny grille high up on the wall. I was a prisoner-of-war in Constantinople, left to rot in a dank cell under the magnificent State Rooms of Sultan Mehmed V Reşâd. My only distraction was a much-thumbed copy of Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent. Near-permanent pangs of hunger endlessly recalled a fine meal I enjoyed with my old friend Sherlock Holmes at London’s famous Grand Cigar Divan restaurant some years earlier. What I would now give for such a repast, I reflected unhappily. Every detail came to mind: the Chef walking imposingly alongside the lesser mortal propelling a silver dinner wagon. Holmes ordering slices of beef carved from a large joint, I the smoked salmon, a signature dish of the establishment. For dessert, we decided upon the famous treacle sponge with a dressing of Madagascan vanilla custard. And a Trichinopoly cigar to top it off.

I should explain how twists and turns of fate had brought me to my present state. I shall not go into exhaustive detail. Suffice it to say that at the start of the war against the German Kaiser and his Ottoman ally I volunteered to rejoin my old Regiment. The Army Medical Corps assigned me to the 6th (Poona) Division of the British Indian Army which had captured the town of Kut-al-Amara a hundred miles south of Baghdad, in the heart of Mesopotamia. I had hardly taken up my post when the Sultan retaliated by ordering his troops to besiege us.

Five desperate months left us entirely without food or potable water. Our Commanding Officer surrendered. The victors separated British Field Officers from Indian Other Ranks and transported us to various camps across the Ottoman Empire. I found myself delivered to the very palace where ten years earlier the previous ruler, Sultan Abd-ul-Hamid II, received Sherlock Holmes and me as honoured guests.[1] Now I was confined to a dungeon under the two hundred and eighty five rooms, forty-six halls, six hamams, and sixty-eight toilets of the magnificent building of the Yildiz Palace. It was clear from the despairing cries of my fellow captives that I was to be left in squalor and near-starvation until the Grim Reaper came to take me to a Life Beyond.

The heavy door of my cell swung open. Rather than the surly Turkish warder bringing a once-daily bowl of watery grey soup, a visitor from the outside world stood there. We stared at each other. I judged him to be an American from the three-button jacket with long rolling lapels and shoulders free of padding. The four-button cuffs and military high-waisted effect reflected the influence of the American serviceman’s uniform on civilian fashion.

The visitor spoke first. “Captain Watson M.D., I presume?” he asked cordially. He had a New England accent.

“At your service,” I said warily, getting to my feet. I was embarrassed by the tattered state of my British Indian Army uniform and topee.

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