The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [251]
“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.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he said, looking at my friend, “Permit me to introduce myself; I am Orman Pasha, personal emissary of His Imperial Majesty the Sultan and formerly Commander of the Ottoman Armies in Europe.” He came across the room and shook hands with Holmes.
“This is my friend, Dr Watson, who has assisted me in many of my cases,” said Holmes.
“Ah, Dr Watson, the chronicler,” said our guest, with a smile, as he shook hands with me.
“Pray remove your cloak and have a seat beside the fire,” said Holmes. The old man took off his extraordinary cloak-habit and I was astonished to find that he was wearing full dress uniform, complete with golden epaulets and a maximum of gold lace per square inch on his chest. He sat down slowly on the chair indicated by Holmes and turned his