smallhobbit

Title: The Cursed Jewels of Mehmed II
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Rating: PG
Length: 1,040
Summary: Even someone vaguely connected with the jewels seems to feel the curse.
 

How it began is hard to say.  How it might have ended, I still shudder to think about.  But suffice to say I lived to tell this tale.

I suppose the story initially began with Mehmed II and the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople, but that is probably not of great interest to my readers.  The jewels had a colourful history and resurfaced in England maybe six or seven years ago, only to vanish almost as soon as they appeared. 

 They were next heard of five years later, when they were at the centre of a robbery which resulted in the death of both the householder and his eldest son.  Holmes was consulted by Scotland Yard and he began to make enquiries, but it appeared that those involved had fled to the continent, taking the jewels with them.

Holmes was not convinced that this was the case, and continued to make enquiries during the following months, apparently without much success.   At the time of my misadventure, he had started investigating a different thread, of which he had some hope.  How close he had come to the truth rapidly became apparent to all.

I was walking back to Baker Street, having completed my visits to my patients, when a cab stopped beside me.  Two men jumped out, one holding a pad impregnated with chloroform over my face, before they hauled me into the cab.

I woke to find I was lying on a bed and my hands and feet tied together.  Turning my head, I saw I was in a small room; the only other furniture being a wooden chair.  I was facing a curtainless window, but all I could see through it was the sky, so I concluded I must be at the top of the building.

I had not been awake long, when two men came into the room.

One of them said, “We need Holmes to keep away for the next few days.  So to ensure his compliance you’re going to write to him and tell him you’re staying with us.  I’m sure he’ll understand what that means.  Now, I’ve very kindly written the letter on your behalf, all I need you to do is sign and date it.  And don’t try anything clever with disguising your signature, it would be as well for you if he recognises it.”

The other man untied me, and I sat up.  My signature was a little shaky, but still recognisable.  However, my brain was still befuddled from the chloroform and I had difficulty instantly recalling the date.

“Get on with it,” the second man said.

“Bit fuzzy are we,” the first man sneered.  “It’s the twelfth of March.”

I wrote the date and added the right year.

They left again, having retied my wrists.  I heard them lock the door.

I lay still and tried to decide what to do.  One thing I was sure of.  While I would remain safe as a hostage as long as I was useful to these men, they would soon kill me once that phase was over. 

A few hours passed, during which I saw no more of my captors.  From what I had heard from their receding footsteps after they had left me, I estimated I was on the third floor.  I had realised my wrists hadn’t been properly retied, so after wriggling them around for a while I managed to release them, after which I untied my ankles.  I remained on the bed in case there was anyone on the floor below who would be alerted if they heard my footsteps.

Suddenly, I became aware of a commotion somewhere downstairs.  I readied myself to attack whoever came through the door, but no-one appeared.  And then I realised that they had set fire to the house, for there was the unmistakable smell of burning and smoke started to seep under the door.

It would be impossible for me to force the door open quickly, it seemed very solid, and even if I could I did not know what I would be faced with on the other side.  The only other option was the window.

I opened the window and pulled myself half through, realising as I did so that I was just below the roof.  I balanced on the window sill, and with one hand on a drainpipe, sought to pull myself up by the guttering.  The guttering creaked but did not give way and I began to haul myself up. 

Then I heard a voice above me.  “Dr Watson, give me your hand!”

I reached up and grasped the hand of Inspector Hopkins.  With his assistance and with much scrabbling on my part, I reached the roof, and laid there, panting. 

“We cannot stay,” Hopkins said urgently.

Fortunately, the slope of the roof was not great, and we managed to make our way along to the end of the terrace, where the fire brigade had put up a ladder.  I half climbed, half fell down the ladder and would have collapsed when I reached the ground if two strong constables hadn’t caught me and helped me over to where Holmes was waiting.

“How are you?” he asked me anxiously.

I sat on a low wall and waved a hand to indicate I was still trying to recover my breath.  “I’ve been better,” I said eventually.  “But I’ll do.  Did you catch them?  How did you know where to come?”

“All in good time,” Holmes replied.  “I fear the principal birds may have flown the coop, but they have not escaped my wider net yet.  I shall explain all when we are back in Baker Street and you have a brandy inside you.”

A constable came over and said there was a cab ready to take us home.  He offered me his arm, but I waved him away.  However, as I wobbled slightly as I stood up, he ignored my gesture, and assisted me to the cab. 

I looked out of the cab window and said to Holmes, “I had hoped to have a word with Hopkins.”

“He will be joining us for a brandy later,” Holmes replied.

“Good, for I have much to thank him for.”

“As do I, dear boy, as do I.”