Tears of Pearl

by Tasha Alexander

  “Terribly,” she said. “When I met Benjamin, the world opened before me. I never lived before the day he pulled me from the waters of the Bosphorus. He paid Jemal to deliver letters to me, and when we could stand that no longer, he paid more for Jemal to sneak him into the palace so we could see each other.”

  “And Ceyden discovered this?”

  “Yes. I caught her in my room. She told me a pretty story about coming to me for advice—flattered me. I fell for it until later that night when I realized all the letters Benjamin had written me were gone.”

  “She took them?”

  “Yes, and she admitted it when I confronted her. Said she’d given them to a friend who would hold them for her, someone who wasn’t in the palace. That she would use them against me.”

  “But the jewelry?” I asked. “You were planning to use it to finance your escape?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you get Perestu’s ring?”

  “I had nothing of Perestu’s.”

  “It was a large sapphire in a round bezel encrusted with diamonds.”

  “I do remember it. Jemal gave it to me. He told me it had been a gift to him from a friend.”

  This gave me pause, but I could not stop to think. “Why would Ceyden take your jewelry? I’d think she wouldn’t do something to hinder you.”

  “She stole it the day I was planning to leave,” Roxelana said. “I’d sewn everything into a gown—that’s what you found—thinking I could wear it and arouse no suspicion. But when I went to get dressed that evening, it was gone. I was in tears when I went to meet Benjamin, unsure if we’d be able to carry out our plan. She followed me that night, stood in the shadows as we spoke. We didn’t know how we could go without the jewels, and that’s what she counted on. She stepped forward and laughed at us. Said that she’d taken them in case I slipped out too easily—she didn’t want to miss her opportunity to catch us in the act. And then she started to call for a guard . . .”

  “And Benjamin stopped her,” I said, a terrible weight descending onto me.

  “Yes.” Her voice hid her sob. “He was afraid that if we were caught together, I would be executed. He panicked.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He—he lunged at her throat and strangled her. She fell to the ground, and I told him to run, which he did. Once I thought enough time had passed for him to be well away, I went for the guards. She wasn’t dead then, you know. She spoke to me after he left—” Now her tears could not be stopped.

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “That the sultan would never want me again. She must have died when I was on my way to get help.” She held her head up high. “I suppose you won’t help me now.”

  “What of your Aquinas?” I asked.

  “ ‘Love takes up where knowledge leaves off,’ ” she said.

  I met her eyes. “I gave you my word. This is all unspeakably awful, but does not change the fact that I don’t agree with the way you are being forced to live. Our plans will not change.” What I did not say was that I could not abandon her because I feared what might happen should she still be in the harem when the full truth of the situation was revealed.

  _______

  When we’d returned to the yal?, Margaret went straight for the decanter and filled two glasses with port. Before she’d crossed the room to hand me one, Meg came in with a small envelope.

  “A wire for you, madam.”

  My stomach clenched, fearing bad news from England, but the words surprised me less than their author would have expected. I looked up, meeting Margaret’s eyes, reading her concern. “No, it’s not Ivy,” I said. “It’s from Colin. He’s found Benjamin at Ephesus.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Margaret said. “More or less.”

  “He’s made a full confession. He admitted to killing his sister. They’ll be in Constantinople within three days, sooner if he can hire a boat.” I felt ill. “We must go to his father. I don’t want someone from the embassy breaking this news.”

  Of all the unpleasant trips I’d taken across the Bosphorus in the past weeks, this was by far the worst. I looked at Seraglio Point, far off in the distance, hazy in the sun, and rehearsed what I would say, knowing there was no magic to it, no particular set of words that would lessen the blow. Margaret took my hand in hers.

  “I never thought this trip could have turned out so badly,” she said, a forced brightness in her voice. “Do you think, perhaps, it’s a sign that I’m to marry Mr. Michaels as quickly as possible and settle into an ordinary life?”

  “You’re beginning to worry me,” I said. “That’s at least the second time you’ve made such a comment.”

  “Do you ever wonder if we’re too set on being independent and fierce?”

  “Are you joking? Is this meant to distract me?”

  “Well, yes, it’s meant to distract,” she said.

  “But not to be a joke?”

  “No.” Now her gaze moved in the direction of Seraglio Point. “Forgive me, Emily. Are you happy? I know you adore Colin and don’t doubt for an instant that you have found the man for whom you were designed. But this is your wedding trip . . . It’s bad enough that I invaded your privacy—and I hope you’ll forgive me for that—”

  “Don’t be absurd,” I said. “Honeymoons go on for months and months. Besides, haven’t you read Can You Forgive Her? Didn’t Glencora keep Alice close to her for most of her wedding trip?”

  “An entirely different circumstance, my dear.”

  “Quite.” I could not help but smile.

  “I cannot help but consider things differently now,” Margaret said. “I wouldn’t want my honeymoon interrupted as yours has been—”

  “No one wants to contend with murder.”

  “Obviously. But you do enjoy it, Em—not the murder part, but the rest. You’ve gotten to cavort about Constantinople with more freedom than anyone since Lady Mary What’s-her-name. Some days I think you thrive on it, but lately it seems to be taking a toll.”

  “I’m just worried about Ivy. It’s nothing else. This is how I want my life to be, Margaret. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want to do this work. It’s important to me.”

  “I’m afraid I’m becoming a hopeless romantic,” she said. “It’s rather disgusting.”

  “You really do want to hole up at Oxford, don’t you?”

  “I think I do,” she said.

  “You don’t think it will become claustrophobic?”

  “No. Have you any idea how much Ovid I have left to translate? And then there’s Virgil. That is the work I need. This trip has made me realize that I want Mr. Michaels by my side all the time. Gallivanting about isn’t much fun without him.”

  “I would hope not,” I said. “Otherwise what would be the point in marrying him? I miss Colin dreadfully every moment I’m not with him.” As we came closer to the European shore, Topkap? looming above us until we’d passed it after turning into the Golden Horn, my nerves took firm hold of me, my heart pounding in my chest. From the dock, it did not take long to reach Sir Richard’s—we took a carriage, wanting to get to him as quickly as possible.

  Miss Evans greeted us at the door. “He’s feeling much better today,” she said. “Has been receiving visitors. Even came downstairs.”

  “Did he?”

  “For a while,” she said. “But he started to get tired and went back up. Still, an improvement.”

  “I fear that we’ll only make it worse.” I left Margaret to explain to her and found my way to Sir Richard, propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, a copy of Jules Verne’s From the Earth to the Moon beside him.

  “Lady Emily, it is good to see you, but I’m afraid Miss Evans should not have let you come up. I’m not so well as I was earlier.” His voice slurred and his head bobbed. “Even the coff ee Sutcliffe brought up to me didn’t help. Of course it was as bad as that I get at the embassy. Too bitter. Expect better at home.”

  “I’m so sorry to dis
turb you,” I said. “And wouldn’t have were the matter not of the greatest urgency.”

  “What has happened?” He sat up straighter. “Is it my son?”

  “I’m afraid so. Colin has found him—don’t worry, he’s safe.”

  “Thank heavens. Where was he?”

  “Ephesus. They’re on their way back now.”

  “This is joyous news,” he said. “I cannot begin—”

  “No, please. Wait. He’s admitted to Colin that he was responsible for . . .” I hesitated.

  “Not for Ceyden?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not possible. My son would never. . .” His voice faltered, then failed altogether. His head nodded forward, then dropped back against the pillows. I thought at first he was stricken with grief, but then his jaw went slack and his mouth hung open.

  “Sir Richard? . . . Sir Richard?”

  He did not respond. He was breathing—I could see that—but he was not conscious. I pulled the bell cord, then ran to the hallway, shouting for Margaret. The ensuing chaos should have woken the dead, as Miss Evans came into the room and gave a shriek, horrifying and inhuman.

  “Has he gone? Have we lost him? Oh, it’s too, too dreadful!” she said.

  Margaret appeared almost at once and, proving she had not lost her ability to keep her wits about her, did the reasonable thing. She sent for the doctor, who arrived in short order.

  “It’s more chloral hydrate,” he said, coming to meet us in the corridor outside Sir Richard’s room after examining his patient.

  “He couldn’t possibly have taken anything,” Miss Evans said. “I’ve followed your orders to the letter. He’s had no access to it.”

  “While I do not doubt your sincerity, madam, I know of what I speak. The man has taken an overdose. Not enough to kill him—but his breathing is dangerously shallow. I will do what I can.”

  “Will he survive?” I asked.

  “I cannot say.”

  “Whom did he see today?” I asked, turning to Miss Evans.

  “Oh, all kinds of people. Half the staff of the embassy called on him.”

  “The coffee,” I said. “It was the coffee.”

  “What—”

  I did not linger to hear the rest of her sentence but rushed back into the room, grabbed the cup from the nightstand, and brought it to the doctor.

  “You’ll find it in here,” I said. “Mr. Sutcliffe brought it up to him, correct?”

  “Yes,” Miss Evans said. “I poured it for him myself. But you can’t think—”

  The physician sniffed at the contents of the cup, then dipped a finger in it and cautiously touched the tip to his tongue. “That’s chloral hydrate.”

  “Do excuse us,” I said, taking Margaret by the arm and dragging her down the steps as fast as I could, nearly tripping on my skirts. I slid across the marble floor as I tried to stop when we’d reached the front door.

  “I take it we’re going to the embassy?” Margaret asked, grinning.

  “I do love not having to explain things to you,” I said.

  We were there in almost no time, breathing hard as the ambassador came to us in the hall—for our arrival was not without commotion.

  “Lady Emily, Miss Seward, are you quite well? Do sit down. Let me get you some tea at once,” he said, ushering us into his office.

  “I have news,” I said.

  “Yes, I’ve heard from your husband. I’m terribly sorry that—”

  “No, Sir William, it’s all wrong,” I said. “All of it. Sir Richard has been poisoned and—”

  “What?”

  “I need to speak to Mr. Sutcliffe at once.”

  “He’s not here. He left yesterday on holiday—he’s going to Rome.”

  “No, I don’t think he is,” I said. “Could you please let me search his office?” I explained to him what had happened at Sir Richard’s.

  “I can’t imagine that this dreadful conjecture of yours is true,” Sir William said. “And even if it were, would he be foolish enough to leave evidence at the embassy?”

  “I think Mr. Sutcliffe was dosing him here,” I said. “Please let us look.”

  “I suppose there’s no harm, but it seems a useless endeavor,” Sir William said.

  He brought us to the records room on the ground floor of the building and opened the door to a small office. A quick search ensued, but to no avail, which disappointed but did not surprise me. “Do you think there’s any way we could get permission—a warrant, whatever the appropriate thing would be—to search his home?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Sir William said. “Sir Richard has had difficulties for some time now. And people with troubles like that are, well . . . I’m sorry, Lady Emily. I let you look in Sutcliffe’s office only because you’re so very enthusiastic about your detecting, and I do appreciate what you’ve been doing. But a lady such as yourself couldn’t begin to comprehend the lengths to which those afflicted with this sort of madness will go to satisfy their cravings. It brings to mind opium houses and the like. I understand your desire to find someone other than Sir Richard to blame for these problems. It is admirable that you revolt at the thought of an English gentleman destroying himself, but in this case, it’s precisely what is happening.”

  “There’s more,” I said. “I’ve discovered a connection between Benjamin and someone else in the harem—not Ceyden. I think we’re mistaken altogether about what—”

  He held up his hand. “Please, Lady Emily. I understand how upsetting all this must be to a person of such delicate sensibilities. But the truth is now known. There’s nothing further to be said.”

  “But who killed Jemal?” I asked. “If Benjamin’s in Ephesus, he couldn’t have done it.”

  “He could have gone there immediately afterwards.”

  “He wouldn’t have had time. Please, Sir William, let me look into this further. Will you at least tell me more about Mr. Sutcliffe?”

  “I’m sorry, Lady Emily, there’s nothing more to be done. If, as you say, Benjamin was not involved in Jemal’s murder, then the entire matter’s of no concern to the embassy.”

  “Of no concern?” I asked. “How can you say that?”

  “We became involved in Ceyden’s case because she was the daughter of an Englishman. Jemal’s death will be investigated by the Ottomans, as it should be.”

  “I think, though, that Mr. Sutcliffe—”

  “No, Lady Emily. You’re wrong. There’s nothing further to be done. I thank you for the services you provided your country—I’ve no doubt you did thorough and excellent work. The sultan himself has spoken highly of you. But now the business is done.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he had already stood and opened the door. Margaret rose to her feet and waited for me, urgency in her eyes. Feeling defeated, I followed her out of the room and then the building.

  “This is a disaster,” I said.

  “What can we do?” Margaret asked. “Do you believe that Mr. Sutcliffe is on his way to Rome?”

  “Not for a second.”

  “But, Emily, you know that Benjamin is guilty.”

  “Probably,” I said. “But I’m slightly less convinced of that fact than I was an hour ago. I want to get into his house. I suspect we may find the chloral hydrate there.”

  Mr. Sutcliffe’s butler, a sullen man with no sense of humor, assured us that his master had left on holiday, with plans to go to Rome.

  “I’m so sorry to have missed him,” I said. “Could I leave a note?”

  “Of course, madam.” He held out his hand.

  “Oh,” I said, frowning. “I’ll need paper.”

  “Follow me.” With no enthusiasm, he took us into a small, bright sitting room at the front of the house. “You’ll find paper on the table.”

  I pulled out the chair in front of a delicate ladies’ desk, picked up a piece of paper, flipped open the inkwell, and dipped the pen, flashing Margaret a look I hoped she would interpret cor
rectly. She sighed heavily and lowered herself onto the nearest chair.

  “Would it be possible for us to have something to drink? The walk here completely exhausted me,” she said. And just like that, we had the room to ourselves.

  “I want to get into his study,” I said. “It’s the most likely place for him to have hidden something.”

  “Where is it?” Margaret asked.

  “Two doors farther down the hall. It’s where he showed me the box that was supposed to house the ring.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “No, I will. You pretend to be ill. If I’m caught, I’ll say I was looking for help.”

  I ducked into the hall after satisfying myself that there was no one in the corridor, walking on the balls of my feet so that my heels would not click on the hard floor. I laid one palm flat on the door and slowly turned the knob with the other, opening it just a crack, then looking behind me, making sure I was still alone. As confident as I could be with trembling legs, I pushed further, until I could see into the room.

  Mr. Sutcliffe was sitting at his desk.

  “Lady Emily!” He leapt to his feet.

  “Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry,” I said. “I was leaving a note for you and Margaret fainted. We’ve been walking too much today. I was looking for someone to—”

  “How dreadful. Did you ring for help?”

  “I—I wasn’t even thinking. Just ran out, hoping to—I’m not even making sense.” I met his eyes and for the first time saw depths of coldness in them. “Will you please help me?”

  He stood there, staring for long enough to terrify me. With no time to evaluate options, I did the only thing that sprang to mind: I forced myself to cry. The effort was not entirely successful, but a well-placed handkerchief can hide many things, the absence of tears only one of them.

  “She wanted to take a carriage, and I insisted . . . I love to walk, you know—it’s all my fault—”

  “There, now, she’ll be fine.”

  He put a hand on my back and guided me to the sitting room, where, to her credit, Margaret was sprawled out, half on her chair, half on the floor. To anyone with experience, it was clear her pose was far too elegant to be authentic, but there are moments in which artistry cannot be resisted. Mr. Sutcliffe pulled a bell cord, and the butler appeared almost at once. As soon as he saw Margaret, he stepped out again and returned with a bottle of smelling salts that he handed to his master. She flinched admirably when he placed them beneath her nose—although that would not have required much acting—opened her eyes, and looked at our host.