“I am deeply indebted to you for your assistance,” Sir Richard said, closing his eyes. “I don’t know how I shall ever repay you.”
“Seeing you through all this to a point where you can, as Margaret said, remember the good will be payment enough,” I said.
“Just promise me, Lady Emily, that you especially will be careful. I couldn’t live with myself if I brought harm, even indirectly, to another person.”
_______
Colin had sent a message to the consul’s wife—she replied at once, saying she was delighted we could join her. Instead of dinner and dancing, she’d decided to stage a séance. And so, after a light supper (during which Colin expertly gathered as much information as possible about the trouble at the embassy), we retired to her sitting room, where a medium called Madame Skorlosky, a Russian, sat at a special table she’d brought for the occasion. She called us to join her, and we each took a seat, mine between Mr. Sutcliffe and Sir William.
The ambassador leaned over to me. “Do you believe in this rot, Lady Emily?”
“I’ve never given it serious consideration,” I said. “I will confess to being fascinated, however.” Mr. Sutcliffe tugged at his collar, shifting in his chair. “What about you, Mr. Sutcliffe? Have you great hopes for this experience?”
“I do, actually. I’ve not attended a séance before, but have wanted to for years.”
Colin, sitting across the table, was watching me the way he did when I first met him, his eyes never leaving mine. I smiled at him, feeling myself blush, wishing we were home. He did not return the smile, only stared.
Madame Skorlosky rose from her chair. “We will now begin. I ask that you all close your eyes and focus, sending from your thoughts any hints of doubt or confusion. The spirits will be with us tonight. I can sense them already.” I could hear her blowing out the candles on the table. Everyone was still and silent. “Place your hands flat on the table. Concentrate, and you may now open your eyes.”
We all did, finding ourselves in a room now shrouded in darkness. Next to me, Mr. Sutcliffe was breathing hard. I could see nothing save a vague hint of white shirt trembling against black.
“Are you all right?” I whispered, leaning close to him.
“I—I will be fine,” he said. I could hear him move his hands off the table. He wrapped his arms around himself.
“As we begin our journey—” Madame Skorlosky’s rich tones filled the room with a pleasantly eerie chill, but my neighbor was anything but enchanted. All at once, he stood up, knocking over his chair and sending the table rocking.
“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please, someone strike a lamp.”
There was a general commotion as he grew more and more upset, pleading for light. He was crashing about now, unable to see, slamming into furniture. I cringed at the sound of shattering porcelain, remembering a lovely vase that had graced an end table at the far side of the room. A match flashed, and Colin lit first the candles on the table and then a lamp, which he carried with him as he went for our friend, who had retreated to a corner, where he was crouched, trembling uncontrollably.
The party broke up soon thereafter, an uneasy feeling settling over the room. Colin took Mr. Sutcliffe home, then returned for me, finding those of us left drinking tea and barely talking. The scene had been a disturbing one.
“He’s embarrassed more than you can imagine,” he told me as we set off for our own house. “His son, who died of typhoid when he was four, had always been afraid of the dark. The fever caused some sort of hallucination, and he thought, as he lay dying, that no one would bring even a candle to him. Sutcliffe lit twelve lamps, but the boy couldn’t see any of them. He was hysterical—crying and thrashing about—and remained so until his last breath. Ever since then, Sutcliffe has faced nothing but demons of his own in the dark.”
“I can’t imagine anything more dreadful. To be unable to soothe his own child at such a moment.”
“He’d come tonight hoping to contact his family and didn’t realize the room would be dark.”
“Such awful pain,” I said. “Poor man. How does one come to terms with such torment?”
“I don’t know that it’s possible. It . . . forgive me, Emily, if I sound harsh. But it suggests a weakness of the mind. A degree of instability.”
“He’s suffered an incalculable tragedy.”
“And now must deal with the rest of his life. The dead are gone.” We sat in silence as the carriage rattled towards the docks. Eventually, he took my hand. “I have a confession. I’m glad the séance did not go on.”
“Why?” I asked. “I knew something was bothering you. You were looking at me in a way I haven’t seen you do in years.”
His head was lowered, but his eyes lifted up to mine. “I thought you might want to try to speak to Philip.”
“Oh, Colin.” I pulled his head onto my lap, combed through his hair with my fingers. “Whatever would make you—”
“I know you must still think of him.”
“Yes, but not like that.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s foolish.”
I bent over and kissed his head. “Not at all,” I said. “We’ve reconciled with each other’s pasts, but can’t expect that they won’t occasionally creep up on us. But you must remember, all that matters now is they served to bring us together.”
_______
We slept far later than we had planned the following morning, scrambling to prepare to leave for the archaeological site to which Benjamin was attached, barely having time for breakfast.
“I do think it’s a pity the site’s not farther away,” I said as we rode, side by side, on horses Colin had arranged for us. “I should have liked for us to spend the night in a tent.”
“If you recall, our original plans for this excursion included you waiting in town until I determined whether the site was safe.”
“Which you did last night. I saw the reply to your wire sitting on the breakfast table.”
“Touché,” he said. “According to the director of the excavations, there’s been no trouble for some time.”
“You’ll make me positively lackadaisical if you insist on protecting me without my even knowing it,” I said.
“But you do know it. You’re clever enough that there’s no need to alert you. You’ll find out on your own.” He pointed to a dot on the horizon. “It’s there. Only about fifteen minutes more. Why don’t you tell me what else you’ve learned from Ceyden’s book of poetry?”
“Reason has no way to say / its love. Only love opens / that secret. / If you want / to be more alive, love / is the truest health.”
He smiled. “I meant her marginalia.”
“I’m making my way through it. Forgive me the occasional distraction.”
He stopped, and I did the same so he could lean over and kiss me. The sun hung high above us, but the air was cool and sweet, the wind bending the fields of wildflowers that surrounded us. Red poppies and vibrant hyacinths and a host of others I did not recognize—yellows and whites and bright oranges. “You know I never doubt you,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I said last night.”
“No more of that,” I said, kissing him back, flooded with a desire to never see anything change between us. “But I do fear we’re losing our focus. Come.” I urged my horse forward, quickly pulling away from him until he raced to catch me. At such a pace, we arrived at the site in short order, my excitement palpable. Although I’d seen innumerable ruins during my time in Greece, I’d not had the opportunity to visit an active dig and speak to the excavators. I hoped that once our business was finished, we would have time for an academic discussion.
Dr. Cartwright greeted us the moment we’d entered the camp, ushered us into chairs set up under a large square of canvas held up by tall poles, and offered us tea.
“We do manage to be civilized, even in the wilderness,” he said.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Colin said. “I’m hoping you ca
n tell us about the troubles Benjamin St. Clare has had here.”
“Sporadically over the last several months he appeared to be the target of snipers—you see the hills around us.” He motioned to the mounds, littered with boulders. “Shots would come from them, seemingly out of nowhere. They were never close enough to put him in harm’s way. More of a threat than anything, I thought.”
“And you’ve no idea why he would be singled out in such a manner?” I asked.
“Not in the least.”
“Has anything been stolen from the site?” Colin asked.
“No. Nothing. We haven’t suffered from that sort of misfortune here—largely because Roman baths are not the sort of sites where one is likely to find trinkets of value. Gold, of course, is what people want.”
“So there’s been no disruption of your work aside from the attempted attacks on Benjamin?” I asked.
“None at all. I can’t begin to imagine how stressed the poor boy must be—and now with the terrible news about his sister. So sad.”
“I understand that he was not here when the messenger came,” I said. “How were you able to get in touch with him? It couldn’t have been easy, but I’m sure he very much appreciated the effort.”
“Much though I wish I could take credit, I’m afraid I can’t,” Dr. Cartwright said. “He’d left us the week before to pursue other interests. This life isn’t for everyone.”
“Left permanently?” I asked.
“Oh yes. I don’t think the decision was an easy one, but I had the impression there was a lady involved and that he was planning to get married. Given his family history, I couldn’t fault him for wanting to embark on a more traditional path.”
“Have you heard from him since the murder?” Colin asked.
“No. We’ve all sent condolences to his father. I’m sure he’ll respond when he’s ready.”
“Have you any idea as to the identity of his fiancée?” I asked. “We had no idea he was engaged.”
“I think it was quite secret. Perhaps her family didn’t approve. One never can tell with these situations. But I’m sorry, I’ve no idea who she was.”
“Was he close to any of his colleagues?” Colin shielded his eyes from the sun that was making its way under the edge of the canvas roof.
“We’re a collegial group, as you might expect given the proximity in which we live and work. You’re certainly welcome to chat with any of the boys—I know they’ll offer any assistance they can. If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you.”
While the information we gleaned from Benjamin’s compatriots did not complete our picture of the man, it was not without use. He was, evidently, a meticulous excavator with infinite patience who was never daunted by a task.
“I never saw him frustrated,” a young Englishman fresh out of Oxford told us. “His dedication inspired me. He considered nothing impossible. Which is, I suppose, why it didn’t much surprise me that he fell in love with an unattainable woman.”
“Unattainable how?” I asked.
“He never elaborated. Held his private life close, didn’t much talk about it, and when he did, never gave details.”
“Do you think she was married?”
“I assumed, naturally, that she was attached to someone else.”
“But he thought they were going to be together?” I asked.
“I can’t say that with any conviction, Lady Emily,” he said. “All I know—as did the rest of us—was that he’d decided to take a new direction in his life and returned to Constantinople.”
“He told you he would be living in the city?”
“No, I believe it was only to be a stopover. He didn’t intend to stay in Turkey.”
“Did he speak of returning to England?” I asked.
“No. He never made mention of that. Said something about France once—some small village in the south. But I don’t know that he intended to live there. Surely his father could fill you in on the details? I thought they’d patched things up after their latest falling-out.”
“We weren’t aware there had been a problem,” Colin said.
“From what I’ve seen, there had always been problems. He was tense whenever his father visited, and they inevitably descended into argument.”
“Do you know about what?” I asked.
“Benjamin’s choice to work here. Not here specifically. I suppose it would have been the same at any site. Sir Richard would have preferred that his son pursue something more civilized—or simply live the life of a gentleman. He did everything he could to put him off archaeology. I know the attacks worried him, but on some level, I think Sir Richard welcomed them. Benjamin never got hurt, but they went a long way to shattering his nerves. And now he’s moving on.” He shrugged. “So you can well imagine it did not surprise me to see them getting along better after Benjamin had decided to leave.”
“So his father knew of this plan?”
“I thought so. Sir Richard’s last visit ended more cordially than usual. I drew what I thought to be the obvious conclusion.”
After thanking him for his help, I turned to my husband. “What now?”
“You spend the rest of the day perusing the ruins,” he said. “You’ve earned a little amusement. I’m going to the village. There’s no doubt I’ll find our sniper there.”
He returned hours later, his face tanned, eyes flashing. I’d persuaded Dr. Cartwright to put me to work after he’d given me a thorough tour of the site and was bent over a pile of dirt, sifting it through a strainer. I stood to wave to Colin as he rode towards me.
“I don’t think archaeology is for me,” I said, placing the strainer on the ground. “I’m afraid I haven’t the patience for it. Did you have any luck?”
“I did. I talked to a man whose son had been hired by an elderly Englishman to shoot at a man at Cartwright’s dig but never hit him. He was emphatic about it, apparently—said if Benjamin was hurt, there’d be no pay.”
“Did he give you any further description?”
“Only that he was tall.”
“Like Sir Richard,” I said with a sigh. “This is not moving in the direction I hoped it would.”
12
The next morning, my husband set off for the embassy and I for the St. Clares’ house in Pera, where I planned to speak with Benjamin. I knew all too well the pressures that could be exerted by parents with strong opinions and hoped that I might be able to get him to open up to me. Colin and I crossed the Bosphorus together, sitting side by side in our small boat, the European shore opening up in front of us.
“You’re turning green,” he said. “I’d no idea you were so prone to seasickness.”
“It comes as a complete surprise to me as well.”
“I wonder—” He stopped.
“What?”
“No, it’s silly.”
“I don’t know that I like you stopping and starting with me,” I said. “We’ve always spoken freely to each other, have we not?”
“Forgive me. Yes, of course we have. But there are some subjects best left alone by . . .” He laughed, shook his head. “I’m a man, after all, and that guarantees there will be certain topics with which I will never be entirely comfortable.”
I knew, of course, with absolute precision to what he was referring, and I cursed my nausea, feeling ambivalent about the entire situation. I stared into his eyes, debating confessing to him my fears, my suspicions. Something dark tugged inside me, reminding me of what I stood to lose by telling him too soon. Not only my independence and his support of my work, but I would also risk disappointing him. Regardless of Bezime’s ridiculous insistence of her certainty on the matter, I did not know if I was with child. Part of me longed to share with him my thoughts, but while he would be excited—that was clear by the way he was looking at me, eyes bright as he shot me a crooked smile—my own reaction would not be so simple. And that was bound to disappoint him.
“Heavens! I shall do all I can to avoid the topic for as lon
g as possible,” I said, removing my gaze from his and focusing on the horizon. “Did you ever think I would so easily fall prey to something as diabolically simple as seasickness?”
“I confess I didn’t.”
“Nor did I. I’ve decided it’s a punishment for past hubris. I’ve been too confident in my abilities, physical and otherwise.”
“So you’re quite sure it’s seasickness?”
I gave him my brightest smile, my heart breaking just a little at the deception. “Unless the cook has been poisoning my food,” I said. “How are you feeling? Dizzy? Hint of queasiness hitting you?”
“I’ve never been better.” He was watching me with an intensity that all but made me squirm.
“The food must be safe, then. And you are the picture of health, as always,” I said. “Since you’re so smug and superior, why don’t you take a practice swim right now? We’re halfway to the European shore. It would be good training for your inevitable fate.”
He smiled. “You’re glowing beneath the green, do you know that?”
Benjamin greeted me with warmth, and when I’d explained what I wished to discuss with him, he begged to leave the house, not trusting his father’s servants to resist the temptation of eavesdropping on the prodigal son. Delighted at the prospect of seeing another part of the city, I agreed at once, asking only that we go on foot—the day was a glorious one, the air full of the green, floral scent of spring but not having lost entirely the final hint of winter’s crispness. We made our way to the Golden Horn, crossed the Galata Bridge, and proceeded to the Spice Bazaar.
Fashioned from long, tan bricks and with three moderate-size domes on the roof, the bazaar was located across the street from the bridge, next to a mosque. The plaza in front of the holy building was so full of pigeons, I thought for a moment I was back in London at St. Paul’s, at least until I began to listen to the voices around me. I’d been in the city long enough to distinguish Turkish from Arabic and heard two women speaking French as they passed me. What was most amazing, however, was the number of languages I could not recognize, and I wanted them to be all things exotic: Berber dialects, Farsi, or some ancient, nearly dead tongue.
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