“Do you see those two men, Doctor?”
An unlikely pair were emerging from the hotel lobby. The first - short, stout, and moustachioed - wore the uniform of the Imperial General Staff. The other was a dour civilian: stooped, grey-bearded, and cadaverously thin, like a malign incarnation of the Emperor. They were deep in conversation and too far away to notice us.
“The general,” my friend muttered, “is Count Waldersee, deputy chief to old von Moltke. The evil-looking fellow is Herr Puttkamer, Minister of the Interior. Both - as you recall Her Majesty informing us - are members of Crown Prince William’s faction. What do you suppose they were doing at our missing surgeon’s hideaway?”
“Taking a late luncheon, Holmes?”
He shot me a disgusted look. “This is not the time for pawky humour, Watson. A change of tactics is in order. You will see von Bergmann and - if necessary - drag him to the palace. I shall follow those two gentlemen to learn whither they are bound.”
Without further parley, we undertook our missions. I entered the hotel and enquired of the idle desk clerk whether “Herr Professor Doktor von Bergmann” might be on the premises. His answer (which my knowledge of German sufficed to comprehend) was that the Professor had reserved a room. After my request for its number yielded but a smirk and shrug, the transfer of a golden mark secured the information. I trotted up the stairs (the old-fashioned S_____ L_____ being unequipped with elevators) and soon was pounding on von Bergmann’s door.
Inside, there was a muffled curse, followed by the protest “Nicht noch einmal!”[74] Next came a squeak of bedsprings, and heavy steps advanced. A slurred voice queried, “Wer ist da?”
“It is John Watson, Professor,” I called loudly. “His Majesty’s breathing is obstructed, and Sir Morell would like your help in fitting a new canula. He asks for you to come at once!”
I heard a noise between a grunt and groan. After a pause, von Bergmann opened the door just wide enough to answer me, hulking to block my view into the room. Red-faced and dishevelled, he wore no coat or waistcoat, only a wrinkled shirt half-fastened over his considerable paunch.
“Ja ja, Watson,” he muttered, breathing brandy fumes into my face. “I know of this already. I shall be going soon.”
“You received Mackenzie’s message?” I exclaimed. “Why in Heaven’s name did you not leave at once?”
“I am in the middle of a consultation,” answered the Professor, before his pretence of dignity was shattered by a giggle from inside the room. For an awful moment, we stood staring at each other. Then the renowned surgeon gathered himself and told me quietly: “Tell Mackenzie I shall collect my colleague Bramann and arrive within the hour. Natürlich, Herr Doktor, I shall value your discretion in this matter.”
Too astonished by such dereliction to reply, I turned blindly for the stairway. As I descended, I passed the royal courier, who saluted as he hastened towards von Bergmann’s room.[75]
Contrary to his promise, von Bergmann had not come to Charlottenburg an hour later. Nor, to my dismay, had Sherlock Holmes. Upon my own arrival, our friend Hovell had quietly re-admitted me to the Emperor’s suite, while Mackenzie and his instrument-maker, Herr Windler, were busy completing the new canula. The specialist was less than welcoming initially, but both men heard my circumspect account of the condition of their German colleague with horrified concern.
“Drunk, you say?” cried Hovell. “My God, Sir Morell, we cannot allow him access to His Majesty!”
“I may not have the power to prevent it,” Mackenzie countered. “The Emperor, on his accession, appointed von Bergmann one of his medical attendants, in part to calm the ravings of the reptile press against myself.[76] Count Radolinski has repeatedly urged me to work harmoniously with the Professor, whom, he says, is greatly trusted by the official classes. There must be no ground for complaint against me, Hovell, for any violation of the decencies of professional intercourse.
“Besides,” he added doubtfully, “I cannot imagine that any physician would attend upon a patient while the worse for drink. If Professor von Bergmann still feels himself intoxicated, he will surely place the consultation in the hands of his assistant Bramann.”
It was five o’clock before the missing surgeon joined us, appearing without Dr. Bramann or any explanation for his absence. The Professor was immaculately dressed and seemed in full possession of his faculties, if perhaps a little flurried. His British rival had begun to welcome him when Sherlock Holmes burst in upon us.
“Sir Morell,” my friend announced dramatically, “this man must not be admitted to your consultation! I have every reason to believe that he intends to harm the Emperor.”
Von Bergmann blanched, then reddened, turning a furious gaze upon the interloper. “Wer ist dieser Mann?”
“You know my identity quite well,” said Holmes, “having learned it from Prince Bismarck’s minions. Unless, of course, you are too inebriated to remember! Tell me, why was your assistant left sitting in your carriage?”
Recovering his English, the offended Teuton appealed to his professional colleague. “Mackenzie, it is an outrage! Throw this Schweinhund out, or I shall have him arrested. I am a Privy Councillor!”
Sir Morell seemed hardly less irate. “Mr. Holmes,” he snapped, “I have suffered all the interference from you that I intend to tolerate! Professor von Bergmann is here under His Imperial Majesty’s authority. This is a medical consultation, sir, in which you have no standing. Leave us at once, or I shall summon the Gardes du Corps and have you forcibly removed!”
To my surprise, my friend accepted his dismissal with a growl of weary resignation. While Mackenzie tried to soothe his angry colleague, Holmes took me aside and told me grimly: “Well, Watson, I expected nothing else. You must be my eyes and ears inside the sickroom. I doubt that you can stop that blind fool’s folly; but watch von Bergmann’s every move, and - as Haydn’s noble anthem puts it - ‘erhalte den Kaiser!’[77] I shall be in the hallway, within ear-shot, when the crisis comes.”
I nodded and turned back to the doctors, who were gathering up assorted canulae prior to entering the Emperor’s room. It was with trepidation that I followed; but Sir Morell seemed not to notice, and the German surgeon remained silent after one quick, anxious glance. As we went through the door, he seemed to stagger slightly.
Inside, we found His Majesty (who had insisted on arising in the afternoon) seated at his desk, quietly engaged in correspondence. Although he showed no obvious distress, I noted cyanosis in the cheeks and lips, and his open coat revealed the muscles of the neck involved in respiration. His breathing was far harsher and more audible than it had been the night before.
“Mein Gott!” von Bergmann cried, “The man is suffocating!” Rushing forward, he urged the startled sovereign to stand, moved his chair beneath the window, and directed Frederick to resume his seat. Snatching a canula from Mackenzie’s hands, the surgeon gestured for his rival to stand behind His Majesty and support his head. The canula he had chosen was not, I saw, equipped with a protective pilot, leaving its knifelike metal edge unguarded. Quickly, von Bergmann undid the bandage holding the existing tube in place, removed the latter, and stood swaying for a moment. Then, with far more force than needed, he plunged the canula he held into the Emperor’s throat.
Our patient gasped in pain and half-rose in his chair, but no air came through the tube. When it was withdrawn, he began coughing furiously as a thick stream of blood gushed from the wound. Undeterred, the German surgeon picked up a second canula, cut off its covering sponge, and attempted to insert it. Again no air came through, and again the Emperor coughed and copiously bled after von Bergmann had given up the task. At that point, Sir Morell could restrain himself no longer.
“For Heaven’s sake, Professor, you are making a false passage! You have missed the windpipe and are ploughing through soft tissues of the throat!”
; “Unsinn,” growled von Bergmann mulishly. “The cancerous granulations inside the opening are blocking entry to the trachea. I must try to remove them.” Whereupon - to our consternation - he thrust his unwashed finger deep into the wound, and on removing it failed for a third time to insert the canula. It was Frederick III who finally ended his own torment.
“Nicht mehr,” he wheezed, using a blood-soaked hand to cover the tracheotomy and sound what little of his voice remained to him. Even as he was overcome by another fit of coughing, the Emperor pushed his Privy Councillor aside. Von Bergmann collapsed onto the floor and lay there, groaning, until Hovell and I lifted him into a chair. “Bramann,” the drunken surgeon moaned, “bring Dr. Bramann.”[78]
“I shall summon him at once,” said Sherlock Holmes. He stood in the doorway, regarding the gory scene before him with horror and disgust. “My God, Watson,” he bitterly exclaimed, “could not the three of you together thwart this butchery?” I flushed with shame, for I had failed His Majesty, and - far worse than that - had failed my friend.
Hours later, the four of us sat despondently in Sir Morell’s consulting-room, holding what might easily have been a literal post-mortem. Holmes had quickly returned with Dr. Bramann. Although shocked by the condition of his patient, the junior German surgeon had readily inserted a new canula and restored the Emperor’s breathing. With a brusque word of apology, he took the stupefied von Bergmann and departed. His Majesty continued to cough and bleed for two hours afterwards, but he had largely recovered by the time that he retired to bed.
Now, as we shared a restorative decanter, which all of us quite badly needed, the laryngologist addressed my friend remorsefully.
“Mr. Holmes, I owe you a profound mea culpa. I would never have dreamed that any surgeon could so unconscionably violate his Hippocratic Oath. Indeed, I still cannot believe the Professor’s harmful actions were intentional. His random stabbing must have resulted from a loss of dexterity brought on by his inebriation.”
“What amazes me,” Hovell interjected, “is that von Bergmann - who, as we know, is Europe’s foremost proponent of anti-septic surgery - should have neglected to wash his hands, at least, before introducing his finger into the tracheal wound.[79] Such forgetfulness is surely evidence of the disorder of his wits.”
Sherlock Holmes smiled sceptically at the doctors’ efforts to redeem their colleague.
“Alas, gentlemen, however disordered the Professor’s wits, I do not accept that simple drunkenness explains his conduct. I am sure it was indeed intentional, although inebriation - no doubt the product of a guilty conscience - lessened its effects. In that, if in nothing else, His Majesty was fortunate.”
“But what could have possessed von Bergmann to do so mad a thing?” mused Hovell. “I had always understood him to be a friend and supporter of the Emperor.”
“Who knows?” In keeping with his Vernet ancestry, my friend essayed a shrug. “Perhaps blackmail, to which a man of the Professor’s habits must always be exposed. In any case, his motives are irrelevant. What matters is that His Majesty must be protected from any further danger from the man.”
“Of that there is no question, Mr. Holmes,” Mackenzie answered stoutly. “His Majesty has expressly informed me that he wishes to endure no further consultations with his Privy Councillor. And I have respectfully assured him that I can no longer accept the honour of attending him if that gentleman is ever permitted to touch his throat again.”[80]
Afterward, when the two of us discussed the day’s events before retiring, I asked how Holmes had been so sure that von Bergmann planned to harm his royal master. The detective sighed ruefully as he extinguished his cigar.
“Well, Watson, I had hoped to tell this story to Mackenzie when it might have done some good. By now, any account of my sad blundering is no more than a cautionary tale for my biographer.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Simply that you overestimate my powers, Doctor, a fact seldom more evident than it was today. I made an elementary error that might have cost His Majesty his life.
“To my surprise,” he recounted (ignoring my look of disbelief), “Waldersee and Puttkamer continued strolling up the Friedrich-Strasse when I followed them from the hotel. They stopped at a tobacco shop, so it was nearly half an hour before they regressed to Unter den Linden. There they parted company. The old man hailed a cab travelling in the direction of the Wilhelm-Strasse; I therefore surmised that he was reporting to the Chancellery. General Waldersee remained afoot. He turned right, towards Crown Prince William’s palace, which is exactly where I expected him to go. And yet I shadowed him, Watson, wasting another quarter-hour in the process. Only when he entered the building did I take my own cab to the Chancellery, contrive a pretext for my visit, and confirm that Herr Puttkamer had signed the log of visitors. I was further delayed when my cab departing from the city broke a wheel. Hence - as you witnessed - I arrived at Charlottenburg too late to forestall von Bergmann, or to explain myself to those who might have prevented his attack upon the Emperor.”
“I fail to see what else you could have done. You could not follow both of them.”
“No, but Waldersee is known to be William’s military advisor and confidant. If he was suborning Frederick’s surgeon, it could only be at the behest of the Crown Prince. Puttkamer was the variable factor. Given his poor relationship with Bismarck, I could not be sure that he was acting on the Chancellor’s behalf. It was he, if anyone, I should have followed. Yet, it was a pointless exercise to follow them at all! Were I indeed the ideal reasoner whom you depict, their very presence at the Hôtel S_____ L_____ should have led me to the obvious conclusion.”
There was no consoling the detective when he fell short of his own standards of deduction. I could but rail against the murderous plot we had uncovered against a noble monarch, whose chief minister and heir ought to have been the strongest bulwarks of his throne. My complaints, however futile, at least assisted in my friend’s recovery by awakening his cynical amusement. Sherlock Holmes agreed entirely with Lord Acton’s dictum concerning the corrupting tendencies of power.
Later, as I lay still wakeful in my bed, I recalled our conversation with the Empress Victoria, whom Holmes and I had met in a corridor while making our way to the post-mortem with Mackenzie. The lady had greeted us with a radiant smile.
“Gentlemen, I have just come from His Majesty’s apartments. He is ever so much better, thanks to Sir Morell, despite von Bergmann’s bungling. And he had such splendid news! Prince Bismarck, at long last, has settled nine million marks upon my daughters and myself, as our share of the late Emperor’s estate.[81] Now all of us will be financially secure throughout my widowhood, whatever my son may wish to do in future!”
Her Majesty nodded graciously and proceeded down the hallway, leaving the two of us without a word to say. Yet, one who overheard her aria of thanks did not, as was his wont, neglect to comment. Emerging from his hiding-place behind the staircase, the Hof-Marschall said sadly:
“Herr Holmes, whatever you may think of me, I do feel sorry for that woman. But she should not smile so much in public. It does her harm, for one cannot help thinking that she does not feel. That is not true, even though it often seems so. Only when she is alone does she give way to grief.”[82]
We bowed to Count Radolinski and continued to the meeting. Of all our strange encounters on that fatal day, these two were perhaps the most incongruous.
68 Mackenzie also used “A Fatal Day” as the title for his account of April 12, 1888 (p. 143ff). No doubt Watson borrowed it deliberately.
69 Dr. Hermann Krause (1848–1921) had impressed Mackenzie at a medical congress held in Copenhagen in 1884. In Frederick the Noble, he praised the young laryngologist “as a practical physician in the highest terms. ... His careful clinical observations, his conscientious anxiety to do the best for his patient,
his gentleness in the sickroom, formed a remarkable contrast to some of his German colleagues. ... (p. 226). Krause’s Jewish birth made him a target of the anti-Semitic Berlin press. Dr. August Wegner had been Frederick and Victoria’s personal physician since the princess had arrived in Prussia in 1858. Although he often attended consultations between the British and German doctors in 1887–1888, as a general practitioner he did not play a major role in Frederick’s treatment.
70 In Frederick the Noble, Mackenzie used similar words to justify his decision to call in won Bergmann. However, this time he added: “It is no exaggeration to say that these hastily scribbled lines proved to be the death-warrant of the Emperor” (p. 145).
71 According to Merriam-Webster, “belly to the ground,” “full speed,” or “flat out” (https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/ventre%20%C3%A0%20terre). Stevenson employs the phrase in his account of the events of April 12 (p. 120).
72 The independent European news service The Local (https://www.thelocal.de/20111026/38451) states that it was not Alexander Graham Bell in 1876, but a young German named Johann Philipp Reis in 1861, who transmitted the first telephone message. Instead of “Watson [no relation] come here,” the historic first transmission was: “The horse does not eat cucumber salad.” Because it was unable to function as a two-way device, with callers able both to listen and to speak, Reis’s machine was outclassed by Bell’s. By 1881, the City of Berlin had one of the world’s first telephone networks, “comprising 48 members who used a hand crank for dialing.” In Case of Emperor Frederick III (p. 79), von Bergmann refers to receiving two telephone calls at his home on the afternoon of April 12, although he was not there to answer them. Incidentally, the first use of “telephone” as a verb dates from 1878 (Dictionary. com).
73 The great detective’s opinion of horses was likewise noted in the 2011 film Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/sherlock_holmes_a_game_of_shadows/quotes/).
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