She turned herself onto her back, bunching the soft pillows behind her head, and looked up at the bright flowers sprinkled across the ceiling. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the damaged shelf and clutched the pendant more tightly still. From now on, she would not let it out of her sight. But something about the shelf bothered her and she got up to look. Sure enough, the small square she had replaced in its niche had gone and the shallow dip lay exposed. Someone had taken the chip of wood. Had they known to look for something when they disturbed the shelf? Or was it simply its unsightliness that had drawn their attention? Now the crystal bowls had a new home, the damaged wood was evident.
But suspicion made her go to the dressing chest and open the drawers. One by one, she looked into them and knew without a doubt they had been searched. For what? For the pendant? Was it Naz who fancied this expensive piece of jewellery? The girl had been in the room this morning, clearing the breakfast tray and making the bed. But how would she have known about the necklace?
Alice sat down at the desk to think, then noticed the linen wrapped package. She took it up and peeled back the cloth. Nestled inside were pens and paper, a book, several handkerchiefs and one or two watercolours. They were the items she was to collect – they were Lydia’s – but there was too much missing. It was completely out of character that her sister had not left a stitch of clothing. Lydia’s mode of travel was amazing to behold, careless and idiosyncratic, and Alice had always been sure to pack for them both since they were children. And after she had finished and gone downstairs, she remembered, Lydia would always sneak into the bedroom and put a small treat into her sister’s suitcase to say thank you – a few sweets when she was little, a new handkerchief or stockings as she grew older.
Near to tears, Alice looked at the small collection again. The palace could have sent these few possessions to London; they were hardly worth an expensive trip. Then she picked up each item and held it to her cheek, trying to feel Lydia close, but there was nothing she could hold on to. Her eyes closed at the stab of pain; it was a while before she could think rationally again.
Then an idea began to emerge, vague in form. Lydia had worn the pendant every day in the weeks before she left for Turkey and no doubt had worn it daily once she arrived. People here would be accustomed to the necklace as part of her dress, and if there had been foul play – she was more certain of it than ever, otherwise how had Lydia remembered every morsel of clothing and swept all into her valise? It could only be that others had swept for her, those unknown figures behind her abduction. So there had been foul play, and whoever had come for her sister must have expected to see the necklace on her person. Or expect to find it somewhere in her room. It was obvious she could not have been wearing the pendant when they arrived, but equally obvious they had not found it when they cleared the room of her possessions. They would realise then that the necklace was missing, and a missing necklace was dangerous.
Dangerous, because if it were found by anyone who knew Lydia well, as it had been by Alice this morning, it would raise an immediate alert. That person would know Lydia would never simply abandon her jewellery and would suspect immediately she had not left willingly. Whoever was behind her sister’s disappearance had needed the necklace, had no doubt searched this room many times without success. Until today, when the damaged shelf had suggested the pendant had at last been found but must instantly be recovered for its damning evidence. So, someone had searched again. But why was she imagining a vague ‘someone’? It was almost certainly Naz who had searched, on orders from above. The mystery was now a little less mysterious, but a good deal more distressing.
* * *
It had been four long days since she had met Ismet Kaya in the courtyard, almost a week since she had waved goodbye to Cicely, and she was no further forward. She stayed curled in bed for a long time, then stretched her limbs along the length of the divan in a vain effort to relax. The guilt at having misled those she loved was ever present and made greater by the fact that her deception so far lacked any discernible gain. In a week’s time she would have to pack her suitcase for the journey home, since she dared not stay longer than her supposed holiday. She had made no formal arrangement to meet Cissie’s friend in Venice, merely writing to Julia that she would contact her when she reached the city, counting on the woman forgetting she had ever been asked to entertain her friend’s niece. If not, and she had raised the alarm, the Verinders might already have set in motion the kind of search that would spoil any chance of Alice getting to the truth. She could only cross her fingers that it wasn’t so and breathe deeply.
But surely Ismet must contact her soon. She felt foolish to have placed all her hopes in this one man, but what other did she have? She had tried and failed to discover anything of Lydia in the haremlik. The women were always eager to talk, but their sociability underwent a subtle change if ever she introduced her sister into the conversation. It was not that they stopped talking, or turned away from her, but that their words no longer sounded their own. It was as though they had learned a speech and any mention of Lydia produced the same few sentences: her sister had been a most pleasant young woman, they had liked her a lot and she had worked hard with Sultan Selim’s daughters, who had been very attached to her. It was sad for the girls that she had decided to leave – Sultan Selim had ruled against a new governess after losing one so prematurely, and the children were no longer progressing with their English studies.
Last night, she had made one last attempt to break the wall of silence, and deliberately found a seat next to Sevda. She had encouraged the girl to talk of the things she enjoyed doing most and Sevda had mentioned the fine sewing in which she was engaged.
‘I am embroidering a new counterpane for my bed,’ she said. ‘See here.’ And she had jumped up and gone to one of the cupboards that lined the walls of the women’s meeting room. When the bedcover was unrolled, Alice stared in amazement. Its edges were scalloped in deepest red, each embroidered arc exactly the same size and hue. Blue and green tendrils weaved their way around the perimeter and in the centre of the counterpane, half-finished, a profusion of flowers, golden-centred and with petals of deep red and even deeper blue.
‘Have you done all this yourself?’ The girl nodded. ‘It is so very beautiful. What a fine needlewoman you are!’
Sevda smiled proudly. ‘I learn for many years, that is why I do not make so many mistakes now. For Miss Lydia, it was more difficult.’
Alice’s ears pricked up. At last a mention of Lydia. ‘You say my sister sewed? I can hardly believe it.’
Sevda was laughing. ‘But yes, I was teaching her. Very slowly. She was making a small purse for me, but all the time her fingers were pricked. She had embroidered the sides and the top, but if she was skilful enough she would embroider my name, too.’
‘Why would she do that if you were not a friend?’ When the girl stayed silent, Alice repeated, ‘I believe you told me you were not particular friends?’
‘The purse was practice for Miss Lydia, that is all.’
‘Do you have it with you? I would love to see my sister’s handiwork. I can’t remember a time when she ever held a needle at home.’
A shadow passed across the girl’s face. ‘Miss Lydia took the embroidery with her. She had not finished it.’
‘She could have left the purse and you could have finished it.’
‘She wished to do that herself – then she will send it to me.’
‘Only if she can.’ Alice had decided on recklessness; she had nothing to lose.
Small creases appeared on Sevda’s brow. ‘But why would she not send it?’
‘She might be unable to – if, for instance, she was a prisoner somewhere.’
The women’s chatter quietened and the one or two who sat nearby looked at Alice in astonishment. She felt Sevda’s figure beside her grow rigid.
’I do not understand,’ the girl said.
‘It’s not difficult, Sevda. My sister disappeared without a word. N
o one here – apparently – knows where she is. So, it is at least worth considering that Miss Lydia has been kidnapped.’
She kept her voice quietly even, but the chatter had ceased entirely now and Sevda’s hand had flown to her mouth. ‘You must not think such a dreadful thing. Miss Lydia is safe.’
‘Then prove it by telling me where she is.’ It was a bold challenge and she hoped desperately it would be met.
The girl’s beautiful eyes were suddenly expressionless. ‘I do not know. We do not know.’ There was the smallest pause and then she asked, ‘May I bring you more tea, Miss Alice?’
* * *
Over days, the unchanging litany with which the women had met her questions stirred an anger in Alice that she hadn’t expected. Last night had been her final attempt to break through their secrecy, but she saw now that continuing to search for the truth was pointless and she began to avoid the chamber where the women met. Instead, she walked in the garden. She knew her way to the harem entrance now and followed the route that days ago Sevda had indicated, through the small opening at the corner of the colonnade and into an oasis of green. The garden seemed almost abandoned, a tangle of briars and grey sage, and here and there a Judas tree, soon to burst into flower, its royal purple, she imagined, vivid against the dark green of its surroundings.
Every day she penetrated further into the garden, finding it sheltered, though the weather remained cool and wet. Shrubs of myrtle and boxwood protected her from the breeze that blew from the Bosphorus and two days ago she had crossed a small wooden bridge to find a tumbledown pavilion on the other side of the stream. A kind of summerhouse, she had decided. Rough wood pillars supported a latticed roof and beneath was a floor of brushed earth with a long wooden seat filling the rear. She thought the shelter must have been built many years ago, since a tree had grown its gnarled trunk around the entire length of one of the pillars. It was soothing to sit beneath the lattice and listen to the ripple of water flowing along the blue tiled channels, built by hands long dead.
But today her nerves were wound tight and she stayed only a short time. She was plagued by the thought that she would never hear from Ismet, that he had only been offering comfort when he suggested they talk. That, in fact, he had nothing to say. She had always thought it unlikely he could help, so why was she persisting in the fiction that meeting him mattered? It might be there was nothing to find, that she was clutching at scraps. Perhaps she had jumped to conclusions about Lydia’s disappearance and her sister was happy and well, but for some unknown reason had decided not to contact her family. Perhaps, as Harry suggested, she had forgotten the pendant in a rush to leave. Lydia was impetuous – Alice knew that to her cost. Her sister could have decided on the spur of the moment to pack and go.
But in her deepest heart, she did not believe it. There was a frightening mystery here and she was the only person who would or could solve it. I have to act, she thought. Now. She could not pass one more day waiting for a message that might not come.
She had been wrapped in thought while she retraced her path through the garden and was surprised to find herself already back in the third courtyard, standing a few steps from the new library. An idea came fully formed into her mind. It was so obvious she couldn’t imagine why she had not thought of it before. If Ismet would not come to her, she would go to Ismet. Harry Frome would know his address – they had been colleagues, perhaps friends at one time – and Harry was close by. She turned towards the beautiful building, its marble pediment silhouetted against the morning’s vivid blue sky. A bird was drinking from the fluted bowl of the fountain that sat beneath the building’s central arch. He was balanced precariously on the rim of the bowl, while the bright sun flashed a halo of red and gold around his small body, its rays bouncing and refracting off the brilliant tiles.
For a moment she stood watching the bird, thinking what she would say to Harry. He was unlikely to have heard from Ismet when she had not, but he would know where the man lived. She felt awkward, a single woman asking for a young man’s address, especially from someone with whom she had little acquaintance and who clearly considered her claim of kidnapping bizarre. She had seen Harry only once since her visit to the library that first day. He had been talking with another European in the harem courtyard, a Frenchman, she thought, from the words that reached her, but he had turned without seeing her. Still, she must do it and do it now.
After the bright sunshine, the shadowed depths of the library rendered her blind for an instant. But then her eyes focused and she saw him standing by an open bookcase with a large leather-bound book in his hands, reverently turning its pages, his brow knitted in concentration. He looked up when he realised he had a visitor and smiled.
‘Look at this, Alice. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ He almost stroked the illustrated plates of what appeared a luxuriously produced volume. ‘It has been given to the library. Paul Boucher – have you met him yet? No? He hinted the other day that we might be lucky, and here it is. Somehow he has prevailed on the owner to donate it.’
‘I’m glad. It looks beautiful. Is Monsieur Boucher here?’ It would be impossible for her to broach the subject if he were.
‘No, no. He has an office in the administrative wing. Why do you ask?’
‘I hoped to find you alone. I was wondering if you had heard from Ismet,’ she said cautiously.
‘I doubt that I would. He left here under a cloud and we haven’t spoken since. I take it you have had no message.’
‘I have heard nothing.’
She looked crestfallen and he replaced the book on its allotted shelf and came towards her. ‘If he promised to contact you, he will. Whatever else Ismet may be, and we have had our differences, I have always found him a man of his word. But you shouldn’t put too much hope in what he has to say.’
He was trying to prepare her for disappointment, she knew; it was only what she feared herself.
‘I’m sure he is an honourable man, but I cannot wait much longer. I am here in the palace on sufferance – Fatma Hanim made that plain when I first arrived. And in a week, I will have to leave for home. I must do something.’ He looked questioningly at her. ‘I have decided to go to his house,’ she said bluntly.
‘Alice, consider! You cannot do that.’
‘I think I can. I think I must. You will know where he lives. Please tell me.’
‘I know where he used to live.’ He moved closer and took hold of her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. ‘You must understand how things are. Ismet is under grave suspicion, watched from morning to night. He cannot live at home. If I am not mistaken, he is forced to sleep under a different roof most nights. It would be a bad mistake to visit his old address.’
‘You think I will be watched?’
‘Precisely. Ismet is an enemy of the empire, and if you go to his house, you will be seen as an enemy, too.’
‘Then what can I do?’
‘You must wait. Somehow, he will get word to you. He will say where and when it is safe to meet.’ The words were soothing, but his expression said clearly that he thought such a dangerous encounter had little point.
‘I am sure you’re right, but I’m finding it very difficult to wait.’
‘Then you need some distraction. A little sightseeing maybe? The city is rich in treasures.’
She sighed. ‘It’s true there are sights I would love to see. I have been reading my copy of Murray, and I know it’s the way the Valide Sultan expects me to use my time here.’
If the woman’s spies were keeping watch, a visit to the Hagia Sophia mosque might be just the thing. ‘I was wondering if I should visit the Hagia Sophia,’ she said aloud. ‘Last night I was reading a description. The mosque sounds amazing.’
Harry nodded enthusiastically. ‘It most definitely is.’
Chapter Ten
‘What is amazing? Do tell me, Harry.’
A woman had appeared on the threshold, silhouetted against the winter sunshine that poured through the o
pen door. She was dark-haired and elegantly dressed in what Alice took to be the latest Parisian fashion. A tall man hovered at her shoulder, bearded and muscular. He wore traditional Turkish clothing and Alice noticed that his right hand constantly fidgeted with the broad leather sash wrapped around his waist. She thought she caught the glint of steel.
‘The Hagia Sophia,’ Harry answered. ‘But I don’t believe you know Miss Verinder, Elise.’
The woman looked at her then and Alice thought she detected the ghost of pain in her face, though she might have imagined it. These days she was so tense her mind prompted the most foolish thoughts.
‘Alice is Miss Lydia Verinder’s sister,’ Harry said smoothly.
‘Enchanté, mademoiselle. How good to meet you.’ This was the woman in the letter, the woman Lydia had met on the train. ‘Alice, this is Madame Elise Boucher.’
The two women shook hands, but when Elise spoke again, it was only to Harry. ‘I am looking for Paul. He is not at home and I cannot find him in the palace. His father wishes to speak to him.’
‘I’m afraid he is not here. You have tried his office?’
‘Naturally, I went there first.’ There was a new agitation in her voice. ‘His father wishes to speak to him,’ she repeated, ‘urgently.’
Harry spread his hands and began to make polite apologies for his unhelpfulness, but Alice had questions that needed an answer and politeness would have to wait. He looked surprised at her lack of grace, but she was determined to seize her chance.
‘You must have known my sister well, Madame Boucher. I recall a letter she wrote, telling me how she met you and your husband on the journey here.’
‘Yes. We met very briefly. We ate together one evening.’ The woman’s voice had grown colder.
‘But I imagine you met again in the palace. As fellow Europeans?’
‘No, no. Our acquaintance was of the slightest.’
‘So, you did not know my sister?’
A Tale of Two Sisters Page 8
