Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Dying Emperor

by Thomas A. Turley

  “The Case of the Dying Emperor”

  Part One of

  Sherlock Holmes

  and the

  Crowned Heads of Europe

  Thomas A. Turley

  First edition published in 2018

  © Copyright 2018

  Thomas A Turley

  The right of Thomas A Turley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent those of MX Publishing.

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  Chapter 1: Important Visitors

  With the horrors of the Great War still fresh in our memories, it seems strange to recall that Great Britain’s relations with Imperial Germany were not always marked by mutual antipathy. Indeed, for much of my lifetime, our traditional European enemies were France and Russia; with the new German Empire, we shared both a common racial heritage and close dynastic ties. The events I shall narrate fatefully transformed that relationship, beginning a quarter-century of rivalry and tension that eventually would lead to war. Naturally, there were many other causes of the breach, but those I shall leave to the historians. In a symbolic sense, the change occurred with the untimely passing of one German Emperor, Frederick III, and his succession by another whose name would become anathema in our new century. This was, of course, “The Kaiser,” William II, who led his empire to destruction and engulfed all Europe in its ruin.

  The case was also a beginning for my friend Sherlock Holmes, initiating an anti-German espionage campaign that would occupy him, intermittently, until the very night the war began.[1] Unmasking the plot behind William’s premature accession was the first of Holmes’ diplomatic missions in which I was permitted to take part. For almost forty years, my notes on this case have languished in my tin despatch box. However, with Sir Frederick Ponsonby’s recent publication of the Empress Frederick’s letters,[2] the time at last seems right to set down the full story, although I shall withhold it from the public for many years to come.

  By the time this tale is published, no one will remember, as I do, the splendid impression made by Crown Prince Frederick, our late Queen’s son-in-law, in the procession of thirty-two mounted princes that escorted Her Majesty to Westminster Abbey during the Golden Jubilee. One newspaper described the German Heir-Apparent as “a golden, bearded Charlemagne,” uniformed in white beneath a silver breastplate, with his nation’s eagle on his helm.[3] On that June day in 1887, few of us in the admiring London throng would realise that even as he rode, the gallant horseman was already stricken with a dread disease that would kill him in a twelvemonth.

  During the autumn, I followed Frederick’s case with interest, for both the British and the German press continued to report it in remarkable detail. Much ink was spilt over an ongoing dispute between the Crown Prince’s German doctors and the eminent British laryngologist Morell Mackenzie,[4] called in at the supposed insistence of Frederick’s wife Victoria, daughter of our Queen. In May, before the royal couple’s trip to London, Dr. Mackenzie had refused to certify the Crown Prince’s ailment as cancer, thereby preventing a dangerous operation that his German doctors insisted was the only cure. After months of apparent improvement, Frederick’s health abruptly worsened in November, while visiting the Mediterranean resort San Remo. This time, the diagnosis of laryngeal cancer was confirmed. Thus began a macabre race between Germany’s ninety-year-old Emperor, William I[5], and his son and heir-apparent to see who would die first.

  At about that stage, I ceased taking notice of the matter. My young wife Constance, whom I had met in San Francisco and married just a year before, had never thrived amid the dank and filthy fogs of London. In November and December, her health declined even more precipitously than Crown Prince Frederick’s, although - like him - she had vainly sought relief at various resorts and spas. Four days after Christmas, I lost her to diphtheria.[6] Abandoning my practice, I returned to Baker Street, where Holmes and Mrs. Hudson showed every kindness and did their utmost to save me from despair. Gradually, settling back into my old routines began to mitigate my grief, especially when I rejoined my friend in our detective partnership. The Birlstone murder, which occurred just after my return, was but the first in a series of exciting cases that carried us through the early months of 1888.

  On the morning of the eighth of April, I was late arising, for we had spent the previous afternoon, and most of the evening, involved in that strange affair in Norbury.[7] I came downstairs to find Holmes lounging in his dressing gown, having finished his share of the ample repast prepared for us by Mrs. Hudson. As I approached the table, he snatched away a letter lying on its corner, but not before I saw that it was signed with the initial “M.”

  “Merely a note from one of the clerks in Whitehall, Watson,” he assured me. “I’ve rung for another pot of coffee, but do hurry with your breakfast. We are expecting important visitors at half past nine.”

  “Rather early for important visitors,” I grumbled. “Is it an important case?”

  My friend was saved from replying by our landlady’s arrival with the promised pot, which she delivered with a glance that mildly reproved me for my tardiness. Only when she had departed did I receive an answer to my query.

  “Yes, I believe that you will find it so. We might dress with a bit more care than usual. The person whom these emissaries represent is of indisputable importance.” I was intrigued that the usually cavalier consultant - who had denied his aid to Cabinet ministers and even shown the King of Serbia his back - should for once be taking special pains. By now, I knew better than to question him further, but at nine twenty-eight we were dressed to the nines and waiting in our places for Mrs. Hudson’s knock.

  Precisely two minutes later, that knock sounded, and the good lady announced our visitors with less than her usual aplomb. “Sir Henry Ponsonby,”[8] she quavered, “and Sir William Jenner.”[9] Holmes and I both rose. In my case, it was with astonishment, for these gentlemen were, respectively, the private secretary and physician-in-ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.

  They looked an oddly matched pair: the ex-soldier tall, bearded, and patrician; the eminent physician squat, bald, and almost toad-like. As befitted his military training, it was Ponsonby who took the lead, responding to Holmes’ introduction of me by offering his hand.

  “I’m told you were wounded at Maiwand, Major Watson,”[10] he said warmly, “while fighting with the Berkshires. I regret your loss to the service, although Mr. Holmes must find such a man invaluable in his own work for the Crown.”

  Holmes cleared his throat meaningfully as I stammered a reply. “It is a little early to discuss that work, Sir Henry,” he suggested, waving our visitors to the settee before taking the armchair across fro
m them. I occupied the basket chair beside him, rather than my usual seat before the hearth. “Perhaps you gentleman might begin by explaining how Watson and I may be of service to the Crown today.”

  General Ponsonby’s face showed briefly that he was unaccustomed to instruction, at least from anyone other than the Queen. However, his equanimity remained unruffled, and he nodded to my friend with no hint of condescension.

  “Quite so, Mr. Holmes. I must first apprise you both that this visit is purely unofficial, as are any actions on your part that may arise from it. Naturally, Her Majesty’s ministers have been informed, but government itself plays no part in the matter. We are not acting for the Queen in her capacity as monarch, but (if I may so express it) simply in her position as a mother. Of course, you will already have heard this from-”

  “From the clerk in Whitehall who notified me you were coming,” my friend broke in quickly. “Indeed I have, though I am sadly confused as to Her Majesty’s intentions. This proceeding strikes me as irregular from a constitutional perspective.”

  “Perhaps, sir.” This time, the Queen’s private secretary regarded Holmes severely. “But it is hardly my place - and certainly not yours - to criticise Her Majesty’s intentions or proceedings.”

  With a snort of disgust, my friend sprang from his chair and glared down from our window on the denizens of Baker Street. It was fully half a minute before he turned back to reply. “And yet, Sir Henry,” he insisted, “once Watson and I are in Berlin, it is we who must answer to men who could misapprehend Her Majesty’s intentions. You may blithely send us off as ‘unofficial emissaries.’ Prince Bismarck may regard us as no more than spies.”

  At this point, old Sir William Jenner, who had watched the developing acrimony through half-closed eyes, came to my relief. “For God’s sake, Ponsonby,” he growled. “Would one of you please explain to Dr. Watson what this is all about? The poor man’s bewildered.”

  His intervention stilled the troubled waters. Both disputants gave a shamefaced laugh, and my friend resumed his seat. “My apologies, Doctor,” said the General. “Let us start from the beginning. What do you know of Germany’s new emperor?”

  “From what I’ve read in the medical reports, his reign will be a short one,” I replied. “Cancer of the larynx is a terrible disease.”

  “You’ve followed the case closely, then?” asked Jenner, now fully awake for the first time.

  “Not for several months. The last thing I recall reading, other than the newspapers, was Sir Morell Mackenzie’s defence of his actions in The British Medical Journal.”[11]

  “That was in mid-December. Mackenzie was writing - damned imprudently, in my opinion - to answer the ill-informed and virulent attacks he’d been receiving in the Berlin press. As you know, he and von Bergmann, the leading German surgeon, have been at odds over Frederick’s treatment from the first.”

  “Ah,” said Sherlock Holmes. “When doctors quarrel, the outlook for the patient is indeed gloomy![12] Is Sir Morell Mackenzie a contentious man?”

  Jenner shifted restlessly, as though reluctant to reply. “Mackenzie’s eminence in laryngology,” he emphasised, “is universally acknowledged. As a surgeon, he exhibits remarkable deftness and manipulative skill. Also - unlike too many of us - he takes a kindly interest in his patients and seems to inspire them with great trust. As a colleague, however...” He turned to Sir Henry for support.

  “There is no question,” Ponsonby assured us, “of Sir Morell behaving other than honourably and straightforwardly in Germany. However, events have shown that he is perhaps a little indiscreet, a bit too oversensitive, and - yes - inclined to be polemical.”

  “In short,” said Holmes, “you consider his judgement unequal to his skill.”[13]

  “I believe that puts it fairly. He is in a difficult position for a doctor, due to his patient’s extraordinary eminence and the international rivalries involved. We had no idea last May that Mackenzie’s participation in the Crown Prince’s treatment would set off an Anglo-German press war. Yet, his reputation was already such that Her Majesty hesitated to despatch him.”

  “Did the Crown Princess not insist upon it?” I enquired. “I recall the Berlin papers attributing the responsibility to her.”

  “No, Doctor, that is one of many calumnies heaped upon the daughter of our Queen. It is asserted that she distrusts German physicians owing to Prince William’s injury at birth, which sadly resulted in a withered arm. But that charge is as baseless as the other. In fact, it was Chancellor Bismarck who ordered Frederick’s doctors to find the best laryngologist available, and they called in Mackenzie. The Crown Princess did not write to her mother until the following day.”[14]

  “But was Dr. Mackenzie the best choice?” asked Sherlock Holmes. “As I understand the matter, he disputed the original cancer diagnosis and opposed the operations recommended by the German doctors, both in May and in November. With the result that the Emperor is now a dying man.”

  Again, Sir William Jenner showed discomfort. “The course of events was not that simple, Mr. Holmes. In May, Mackenzie could find no conclusive evidence of cancer. Indeed, its presence remained unconfirmed in five tissue samples later removed from Frederick’s larynx, the last as recently as January. Those microscopic evaluations were conducted by Professor Virchow, the greatest pathologist now living.[15] Even the Germans admit that it has been a baffling case. But the operation they proposed in November - complete excision of the larynx - would have been far more likely to kill their patient than to cure him. Its survival rate is very low, and even if successful it would have left Frederick in no fit condition to rule Germany.”[16]

  “The Crown Prince himself rejected that option, Mr. Holmes,” put in Sir Henry Ponsonby. “He did agree to undergo a tracheotomy, in order to assist his breathing, when the cancer was sufficiently advanced. That procedure was performed in February, a month before Frederick ascended to the throne. Alas, his condition since that time has continued to deteriorate.”

  “Then what can be the purpose of our journey?” wondered Holmes. “It appears that His Imperial Majesty has passed beyond whatever aid we can provide.”

  “Regrettably, sir, that may be so,” Ponsonby admitted, “but you and Dr. Watson may still be of service to your Queen.”

  “How?” my friend demanded, with a gesture of ill-suppressed impatience.

  “Later this month, Her Majesty, who has been on holiday in Florence, proposes to visit the Emperor and Empress before returning home. Given the state of Anglo-German relations, her plans have aroused great uneasiness in both London and Berlin. Unfortunately, even the Prime Minister cannot dissuade her. We should like you gentlemen, therefore, to precede the Queen to Germany, in order to assess the situation in Charlottenburg before her arrival.”

  “‘Unofficial emissaries,’ Watson, as my Whitehall correspondent put it.”

  “For Major Watson, a better analogy might be ‘reconnaissance by skirmishers,’” the General laughed. All three men, to my dismay, gazed at me expectantly.

  “I doubt, Sir Henry, that I would pass muster as a diplomatic skirmisher.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Sir William Jenner, “but you are a doctor. And at this juncture, a doctor’s arrival at the palace will seem more natural than a diplomat’s.”

  “But how can I possibly assist? The most renowned specialists from both countries are already in attendance.”

  “No special expertise is needed, Doctor,” Jenner answered, “only your impressions as a qualified observer. Even now, for example, the Empress writes to her mother as though Frederick may recover, or at worst have months or even years before him. Is her attitude mere wishful thinking? Is Sir Morell misleading her? Or do the medical facts justify her confidence?”

  “Will Watson and I have access to His Majesty?” Holmes queried.

  “Mackenzie is in charge of
the case, and usually he sees the Emperor apart from his German colleagues. He has agreed - reluctantly - to cooperate in your investigation.”

  “It is imperative, gentlemen,” urged Sir Henry Ponsonby, “that we fully understand the Emperor’s condition. The future course of Great Britain’s relations with the German Empire will depend on his prognosis.”

  My friend groaned in response to this pronouncement. Rising from his chair, he took from the mantelpiece a box of fine Havanas he had procured for the occasion. The General and I accepted one; Jenner declined; and Holmes replaced the box after choosing a cigar himself. Once the three of us were smoking peaceably, the detective made his reply to Ponsonby.

  “Does it truly matter, Sir Henry, who sits on the German throne?” He waved his cigar dismissively. “Bismarck has held the power in Berlin for a quarter of a century. He has dominated all Europe for a decade. Whether the Emperor Frederick lives or dies, are those facts likely to be altered?”

  “Her Majesty believes so, Mr. Holmes. She has always regarded her son-in-law as the best hope of liberalising Germany. In the early years of his marriage, Frederick spent much time in England; he sincerely admires our institutions. Although old Emperor William never allowed him a political role, as Crown Prince he spoke publicly against the Iron Chancellor’s militarism, anti-Semitism, and restrictions on freedom of the press. We understand that Frederick wrote an edict, prior to his accession, that would limit the powers of the emperor and chancellor. If effected, it would transform the empire into a constitutional monarchy on British lines.”

  “But this decree has not been published?”

  “Not as yet. The Emperor’s accession manifesto mentioned no immediate changes, and he sent a conciliatory letter inviting Bismarck to remain in office.[17] Their relations are superficially correct, and until recently each man seemed content to bide his time.”

  “The question is, how much time have they?” rumbled Sir William Jenner. “Frederick has a mortal illness. The Chancellor is ailing and just turned seventy-three.”