Tears of Pearl

by Tasha Alexander

  “Is this man still in Constantinople?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You must tell us who he is,” I said.

  “No, Lady Emily. There is nothing I must do. Perhaps you do not understand my rank.”

  “There must be some connection—”

  “It is impossible. The only explanation is that he lost the ring or it was stolen from him and somehow wound up in the hands of that trollop,” she said. “I reacted the way I did when I saw it because it hurt me to know that my friend no longer had it.”

  “Don’t you want to speak to him? To find out how he came to lose it?” Margaret asked.

  “If he wanted me to know, he would have sought me out and told me. Sent me a letter. As he did not, I can only conclude the subject is as painful for him as it is for me. And I have no desire to further pursue it.”

  “But—”

  “Was there something in particular you were hoping to find here, Lady Emily? I’ve been through it all and saw nothing that struck my interest. I burned Bezime’s diaries, of course. It would not do to have the sanctity of her most private thoughts violated.”

  “You burned them?” The air rushed out of my lungs.

  “It is what we do for one another,” she said. “For all that I feared and disliked her, we both lived in the harem, and were, for a period, friends. We come from the same world, and I will not see her dishonored in death.”

  There was nothing left for us at Topkap?. I searched every inch of the valide’s apartments to no avail. Not that this was a surprise. Done, Margaret and I trudged to the embassy, where I’d agreed, in Colin’s absence, to make regular reports as to the status of my investigation. The ambassador ushered me into his walnut-paneled office that looked straight out of a London club. I sat in an overstuffed leather chair that was too hard to be comfortable and accepted a cup of tea.

  “First Flush Darjeeling,” he said. “Arrived today. Perk of the job. My colleagues keep me well stocked in foreign delights.”

  “It’s delicious,” I said, hardly tasting it, the hot liquid burning my throat.

  “I am pleased that your husband has gone after young St. Clare. Terrible scandal, this. Don’t know how much of it we’ll be able to bury.”

  “I wish I had more to tell you today,” I said. “I spoke with Perestu and searched Bezime’s rooms, but found nothing further of interest.”

  “I do appreciate your agreeing to these little meetings. It’s a bit unusual. . . .” He hesitated. “We don’t ordinarily have ladies involved in such things.”

  “I understand, Sir William. If there’s nothing further, I think I shall return home.”

  “Nothing else here. I shouldn’t worry too much about any of it. Hargreaves will find the boy and this will all be wrapped up soon enough. You might focus on sightseeing. I fear you’ve not seen enough of Constantinople.”

  I thanked him and stepped into the hall, where Margaret, who’d been waiting for me, was talking to Mr. Sutcliffe.

  “I was just saying to Miss Seward how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’re well?”

  “I am, thank you. A spot of trouble with one of the families I’m working with—the mother turned out very unworthy indeed.”

  “Unworthy?” I asked.

  “Her daughter fell ill with influenza, and she refused to send her son to the country as I suggested to keep him well.”

  “Did he get sick?” Margaret asked.

  “He did and he died, and it’s his mother’s fault. I can afford no tolerance for such people.” He frowned, shook his head. “Is there anything I can do to help Benjamin?”

  “I wish I knew what any of us could do.”

  “Is there any chance he’s innocent?” His eyes were so full of eager hope—bright and clear.

  “I believe so, but I can’t yet prove it.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to?”

  “The truth always comes out in the end.”

  “Have you told his father anything encouraging?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I want to wait until I have something of substance to share with him.”

  “Is he at home?” Mr. Sutcliffe asked.

  “He is,” Margaret said. “We’ve left him in the care of friends.”

  “Perhaps I will call on him. He undoubtedly needs the support, and I feel awful I’ve not been around more. Things have been terribly busy here; another belated load of records has come in and overwhelmed me. But that’s no reason to let down a friend in need.”

  “I’m sure he would appreciate a visit,” I said.

  “No one understands his loss better than I,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go to him.”

  22

  My nausea returned almost as soon as we’d left the embassy, and I’d decided to go home, hoping that rest would restore my health. I was exhausted, the trek from one palace to the next and then to the embassy taking every ounce of my energy. I found no respite in sleep, suffering a painful night, plagued with vivid dreams of the most awful sorts of destruction. They came in flashes—no narrative connection. I saw Colin falling, heard terrible screams in a dark room, and could not escape water pressing down on me, heavier than lead, but not reaching my mouth or keeping me from being able to breathe, simply crushing me.

  So I was far from restored when I set off for Pera the next morning. Margaret had sent a message saying that Miss Evans, concerned about Sir Richard, had moved their things to his house so that they could stay there and she might keep a closer eye on him. I set off as soon as I’d refused breakfast—not even the thick yogurt that usually settled my stomach looked appealing—and braced myself for what I knew would be an unpleasant trip across the Bosphorus.

  “I’m afraid he’s not well at all,” the doctor said moments after I’d arrived at the St. Clare house. “He’s suffering from terrible tremors and has started to hallucinate.”

  “Have you any idea what’s causing it?” I asked, my head beginning to hurt again. “It must be more than worry for his son.”

  “I’m afraid so, Lady Emily. I can’t be certain, but if pressed, I’d guess that he’s become dependent on chloral hydrate—he’s exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal, including severe gastritis. I’m very concerned.”

  “What can be done?”

  “If my diagnosis is correct, I should be able to treat him. I assume that since he’s been under the care of Miss Evans, he’s not had the opportunity to take the drug.”

  “I would imagine not. Did you find a supply of it?”

  “I’ve not looked, but I can’t imagine what else is causing this. It also explains the erratic behavior he’s exhibited over the past weeks.”

  “Is there anything more we can do to assist you?” I asked.

  “No. I shall continue to check on him daily and will keep you abreast of his condition.”

  I thanked him and rang for Sir Richard’s valet. “Where does your master keep his medicines?”

  “Everything’s in his dressing room,” the man replied. “Would you like me to show you?”

  I spent more than an hour with the valet and Margaret, searching the house. None of us found even a trace of chloral hydrate. I crossed the street to the embassy, asked for and was granted permission to search his office. Again, no chloral hydrate. This absolute lack of physical evidence told me one thing: Sir Richard was not a man addicted to a drug; he was a man being poisoned. I needed evidence, and I needed to determine if what was happening to Sir Richard was separate from the murders in Constantinople.

  I rushed to the embassy and straight into the ambassador’s office, hardly waiting for him to answer my knock. “Is there any way to get a message to my husband?” I asked. “I’ve information he needs.”

  “I have not had word from him—and I’m certain he’d be in touch with you before me.”

  “Unless he had news of Benjamin,” I said. “He would inform you first of
that.”

  “Have you uncovered something new?” Sir William asked.

  “I’m quite certain now that this case is far more complicated than we’d initially believed. We need to revisit everything that’s happened from the moment Sir Richard collapsed on the Orient Express.”

  “I of course offer you whatever services in the embassy’s power. But I don’t see how his collapsing during dinner on a train relates to two murders in Constantinople.”

  “These crimes are not about Benjamin. They’re about his father. Would it be possible for me to look through his service files?”

  “What do you hope to find?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. Something that links all these events together.”

  “You’re unlikely to find that in his employment record.”

  “If I’m wrong, I’ve wasted nothing but my own time,” I said. “Please, Sir William?”

  “It’s an irregular request, Lady Emily. Those files are confidential. The clearance your husband obtained for you did not extend to this sort of thing. He, on the other hand, would be allowed access. Perhaps when he returns . . .”

  “I fear that may be too late.”

  “It’s the best I can do,” he said. “Unless you’d like me to look through them for you? I could alert you if I noticed anything glaring.”

  “No,” I said, the skin on my neck beginning to crawl as I started to question his sincerity. I shook off the feeling; he was being honest. Why would I be given access to sensitive information? Nonetheless, something tugged at me, made me balk at his offer, as if he might remove and destroy something crucial from the file. “That won’t be necessary. I wouldn’t know what to tell you to look for. It’s undoubtedly a foolish idea.”

  “If you change your mind—”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I shan’t bother you again with such a silly request.”

  I stepped through the embassy door, greeted by a sublime spring day, the air heavier than in winter but fresh and breezy, not a hint of the oppressive humidity that would come with summer. I went up the hill, in the direction of Y?ld?z, where I planned to meet Roxelana, but before I’d walked more than a few blocks, I turned east towards the Bosphorus. Following the path along it would require scaling the hill again, but I could not resist the beauty I knew awaited me. The wind blew stronger near the strait, gulls riding currents of air, bobbing between the boats crowding the water. The sun burned on my face, and I pulled down the brim of my hat to better shield it, a gesture that caught me entirely off guard.

  It made me feel like my mother. My mother, who would have scolded me without mercy at finding me in the sun without a parasol. I ground my teeth and sighed, keeping my eyes open only so that I would not trip as I was walking. Had I unwittingly entered a new stage in my life? Unwitting was perhaps not the correct word, as I’d known marriage would inevitably lead to it. But the reality—if reality it was—struck me hard. I was short of breath by the time I reached the gates of the palace and grateful for the glass of cold, tart cherry juice Roxelana offered me when I met her in a sitting room in the harem.

  “I would be more comfortable if we discussed this somewhere private,” she said, glancing in the direction of the other women, gathered in small groups scattered around the large chamber, which, like the rest of Y?ld?z, was furnished in Western European mode. The concubines might have been debutantes chatting at a garden party in London. So much for the exotic.

  “It’s important now that no one thinks we’re skulking off to talk alone,” I said. “We can’t aff ord to draw any attention to ourselves.”

  “I understand, but it makes me nervous.”

  “So you’ve opportunity for an excursion?” I asked.

  “Tuesday. A group is going into the city to shop at the Grand Bazaar.”

  Visions of opportunity flew through my head. The chaos of the bazaar would make it simpler than I could have hoped for Roxelana to vanish. “This is perfect. The bazaar—”

  “I won’t be in the bazaar itself. We go to the sultan’s private section of the Nuruosmaniye Mosque, next to the bazaar. The merchants give their goods to the eunuchs, who in turn show them to us.”

  “Will there be opportunity to escape from the building?” I asked.

  “There must be,” she said. “But I’ve never before had occasion to consider it.”

  “I shall go look this afternoon and come back to you tomorrow. Do not tell anyone of this—not even Jemal.”

  “I promise.” Her eyes were dark, serious. “Is it true they’ve arrested the man who killed Ceyden?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “A suspect is being apprehended, but he’d fled before the police came for him.”

  “There—there are rumors it is an Englishman.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Will they find him?”

  “My husband’s looking for him, and Colin never fails. He’ll be found, don’t worry.”

  “I’ve heard it said they seek the wrong man. Do you think—” She stopped, looked out the window, then back at me with a smile that could have charmed Alexander into handing Greece over to the Persians. “I’m excited about Tuesday,” she said, her voice louder now. “I’m told we shall see fabric more beautiful than any made in history. I want at least four new dresses.”

  My reconnaissance at Nuruosmaniye was fruitful. I was able, by pressing the right amount of money into the right hands, to be admitted to the sultan’s lodge, pleading that an enthusiastic tourist not be denied the pleasure of seeing the space. A partition had been set up to shield the ladies of the harem, behind which, Roxelana had told me, they would be measured for their dresses. Wooden grilles covered the windows, and I had to determine whether they could be opened with ease. The caretaker who’d let me in was staying close to me, his eyes darting to the door every time he heard a noise, as if he feared Abdül Hamit would come in unannounced and find me violating his room.

  I slipped into the ladies’ section and fell to my knees, hoping that if he thought I were praying, he would leave me in peace. He stood at the opening of the screen, watching me; perhaps my effort was not sincere enough. I closed my eyes, pressed my hands together, and murmured an “Our Father” under my breath. Even without looking, I could feel he was still there. I tried to summon the focused energy I’d felt in the Blue Mosque, not believing it would come, surprised when it did. All of my fears, my worries, were so close to my skin that it took almost nothing to coax them to surface. I remembered the sounds of my dear aunt’s dying cries, then imagined Ivy’s voice replacing hers, then mine. I pictured Colin standing over me, his face fading, and tears streamed down my cheeks.

  I looked up, and as I met the caretaker’s eyes, he turned his back, blushing to his fingertips, then walked away from where I knelt and stood sentry in the main doorway to the building, his back to the interior. Fortunate and desired though this outcome was, I found that I could not readily cast away the emotions I’d summoned. Sinking farther down, dropping my head onto my clasped hands, I prayed as I had before, this time not undercutting my bargain: me for Ivy.

  Finished—and shaking—I struggled to my feet and went to the windows, inspecting the grilles. They were held in place with latches, like shutters. Checking over my shoulder to ensure I was not being watched, I opened one. A simple task. Even the hinges, smooth-moving and silent, cooperated. Shooting another glance behind me, I tried to open the window. This took more effort, and I nearly lost my balance trying to push the sash, but eventually I managed. The drop to the ground was not terribly far and would set a person in a gallery that led from outside to the mosque.

  I closed the window, but not fully, leaving enough room for me to slip my hand in and open it from outside. It was not the best plan, but I saw no other immediate way to escape the building. We would have to consider ways to improve upon it—distractions or something. I wished Colin were not gone. His suggestions would be invaluable, and he would be able to look at this space and see six safe but hidde
n routes to safety. Then I remembered that he would not approve of any of this in the least, and a sinking, twisting feeling in my stomach told me I would have to do this on my own and apologize after it was done.

  After taking a careful study of the rest of the room, I thanked the caretaker, pressed another coin into his hand, and walked the perimeter of the building until I reached the part-open window. Margaret was tall enough that she’d be able to reach it without problem. I planned to give Roxelana a set of simple clothes and a veil that she could hide under her skirts, switching into them when she was supposed to be dressing after her measurements had been taken. She would wear traditional Turkish clothes to the mosque—garments that would not require assistance to put back on—and take them with her when she went, so that as the eunuchs searched for her, they would be looking for someone in the wrong outfit.

  Once outside, she would have to make her way down the ramp that led to the building. The main risk she would take was being seen dropping from the window. The area outside was not crowded like the mosque’s main courtyard, but another diversion here would be helpful. If she could reach the Grand Bazaar without being noticed, she would have her freedom.

  Cataloging ideas about how we could draw attention away from the building, I walked to meet Margaret, who was waiting for me outside the courtyard—we’d thought we’d make too much of an impression if we both went into the sultan’s lodge—and keeping her away meant she stood no chance of being recognized should I call on her to organize a distraction.

  “Do we have a viable strategy?” she asked, leaning against a stone wall.

  “The beginnings of one,” I said. “You will be instrumental in pulling it off.”

  “I like that kind of plan.” We walked towards the Grand Bazaar, crossing through its entranceway and into the labyrinthine streets of stalls. “How will you get her out of the city?”

  “I’ll hire a coach—closed—to meet us. We’ll figure out the best place. First, though, let’s decide where she should sit and wait for things to calm down.” Within minutes, we’d found a stall that sold baklava and tea. The chairs and tables set up in front were filled with both men and women, so it seemed as appropriate as any other spot. “I’ll wait for her here.”