Sherlock Holmes and The Sword of Osman by Tim Symonds

your wives, gentlemen? They are genuine rings discarded by His Imperial Majesty, the Sultan.’
    I explained that I was now a widower and the naval commander at my side was wedded more to the oceans of the world than to the better half of humanity.
    A solitary ring made of bronze in sharp contrast to the rose-shaped diamond rings caught my attention. I recognised the style from my days in the Far East. The box attached to the bezel could hold perfume or medicines or powdered remains associated with saints. In India such accoutrements were part of the holy relic trade. I wasn’t surprised to see it here, in a city known for its religious fervours. To ward off pestilence every second Stambouli wore a waterproof talisman containing the ninety-nine names of God.
    I picked through the rings sadly. If my wife Mary had been alive still, I would have purchased eight of the finest, one for each of her fingers. I recall to this day the moment I set eyes on her when she arrived at our Baker Street lodgings to seek Holmes’s help over her father’s mysterious disappearance. We married in 1887. She was just seven-and-twenty. Seven years later she was dead. I dated events in my life before or after my marriage to her - like BC or AD on the Julian and Gregorian calendars. I still carried her dance card in my pocket, now hardly legible, my initials on every waltz.
    Holmes and I were wending our way out of the bazaar when I made a sudden decision. I caught my companion by the arm.
    â€˜Do you mind if I keep you waiting a moment? There’s something I think I’ll purchase from the Jewess.’
    Tucked away at my premises in London was a lock of Mary’s blonde hair. I would purchase the reliquary ring and put the lock in it and one of the six pearls from a chaplet of the Agra Treasure she left to me in her Will. The ring would become her shrine, in memory of a time, short and ultimately agonising, when I achieved all the happiness a man can hope for on this earth.
    â€˜Not at all,’ Holmes replied amiably. ‘What is it you...?’
    But I was on my way.
    I arrived to find the stall deserted. The woman who had been standing there only moments before had gone. A man from a nearby stall came over. He indicated he could help, if I wished to purchase something.
    I thanked him and looked down at the overflowing box of rings. I fumbled though the layers of jewellery but my search was fruitless. The box-ring was no longer there.
    Holmes was waiting for me with an enquiring smile.
    â€˜Did you get what you wanted?’ he enquired in a companionable manner.
    â€˜No,’ I replied.
    â€˜What had you in mind?’ he pursued.
    Holmes had many virtues but sentiment was not among them.
    I lied, ‘Nothing of great importance. The gold watch by Barraud caught my eye. Chiarezza must have sold it the minute we left.’
    â€˜Didn’t you ask her?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜May I ask why?’
    â€˜By the time I got there she had gone.’

The Sword Of Osman
    It was time to inspect the Sword of Osman. A man wearing a Selimi cap and brocade jacket over velvet trousers and the ubiquitous blue beads at his Adam’s Apple was waiting for us. It was Mehmed the Chief Armourer, the Jebeji-bashi. Despite his advancing years the shoulders were burly and the swing of his arm athletic. It was not necessary to study his hands to know he engaged in heavy work.
    The Jebeji-bashi led us in silence towards the well-guarded hall where the sword of state was kept between inaugurations. On our way we were shown the copy of the Koran which Osman was reading when he was killed, then a stone cauldron which once belonged to Abraham, followed by a footprint of the Prophet, bottles of Zemzem water, and a handkerchief belonging to Joseph.
    The alcove containing the sword was reached through a pair of doors of solid brass, followed by a second pair of iron. Each had formidable hand-forged locks. The Jebeji-bashi bade