A Dead Man in Istanbul

by Michael Pearce

  ‘I take it that you have already taken steps?’

  ‘Ahmet is in custody,’ said Mukhtar.

  ‘And Prince Selim? And Mr Cubuklu? Not to mention Prince Hafiz?’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Seymour.

  ‘It is not quite so simple,’ said Mukhtar. ‘Who will believe the word of a dancing boy against the word of a Prince? Or a Councillor?’

  ‘So they will escape scot-free?’ said Lady Cunningham. ‘I must say, I find that unacceptable.’

  ‘Naturally I shall do my best,’ said Mukhtar unhappily. ‘But I am just a terjiman.’

  Lady Cunningham was lost in thought.

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact, have some contacts in court circles here,’ she said. ‘My old friend, Bebek, for instance. Perhaps . . .’

  ‘Bebek?’ said Seymour.

  ‘This unfortunate attack on your nephew’s boatman?’ Bebek Effendi sighed. ‘Over-zealous subordinates, I’m afraid. Of course, he would have come to no harm. The intention was just to frighten him off. I won’t conceal, my dear Lady Cunningham, that some of us have an interest in Prince Selim. An imperfect instrument, I agree, and perhaps our interest is waning. But he seemed the best hope among the potential successors and so it seemed advisable to protect him. Naturally, our protection would not have extended so far as to try to cover up murder. And certainly not the murder of your nephew, Lady Cunningham, which I deeply regret. All we had in mind was concealing Prince Selim’s interest in what seemed to us the bizarre episode of your nephew’s attempt to swim the Dardanelles.’

  They were sitting in one of the inner rooms of the Palace; Lady Cunningham on a low divan, Bebek on a chair beside her, and Seymour and Mukhtar on low stools.

  ‘Not his killing?’ said Seymour.

  ‘Killing? Of course not! How could you think such a thing?’

  Lady Cunningham’s face, however, was cold.

  ‘And does your protection extend to him now?’ she said.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I would regard that as very unsatisfactory,’ said Lady Cunningham.

  ‘Our interest in him has certainly waned,’ said Bebek. ‘We no longer think – I believe I can say this – that he is the man to fulfil our hopes. We shall be looking elsewhere. Is not that punishment enough?’

  ‘No,’ said Lady Cunningham.

  Bebek sighed.

  ‘I understand how you feel, my dear Lady Cunningham. And if it were left to me he would now be at the bottom of the Bosphorus in a sack. As used to happen in the days of the Sultan’s predecessors. Or in the days of his devoted servants, the so useful Fleshmakers. But in these degenerate modern days we have to proceed more circumspectly. Make use of courts of law and such things, where, unfortunately, one can never be sure that the right result will be obtained. Particularly in the case of a member of the Sultan’s family. And so, my dear Lady, we have to express our disapproval in other ways. But I can assure you, the disappointment of his hopes will be a severe blow to him.’

  Not severe enough, Lady Cunningham clearly felt.

  ‘I reserve my position,’ she said.

  ‘Bebek Effendi,’ said Seymour, ‘I wonder if you could explain one thing to me: does Mr Cubuklu share your views on the Fleshmakers?’

  ‘He certainly pines for the good old days,’ said Bebek.

  ‘I wondered about the saz string, you see. Why did he choose that way particularly for her to die?’

  ‘He has always been a conservative man,’ said Bebek.

  The thought, though, had put something else into his head.

  ‘I would not wish to equate the loss of your nephew, Lady Cunningham, with the loss of someone such as Miss Kassim, but, with your extravagant passion for justice, you may feel that Mr Cubuklu is getting less than his due deserts. I think I can promise you that his days at court are numbered: and that he will in future pursue his enthusiasm for the old through the contemplation of rocks in the stony wastes of Outer Anatolia.’

  Seymour decided to spend the evening pursuing Felicity.

  Lady Cunningham, unusually silent, retired to her room, deep in thought.

  She emerged the next morning her usual self.

  ‘I have decided,’ she announced at breakfast, ‘that I shall go on safari in Africa, and I have invited Prince Selim, as a former friend of Peter, to come with me.’

  ‘Is this a good idea, Aunt Syb?’ said Felicity uneasily.

  ‘Certainly, my dear. I am an expert shot.’

  ‘Well, Seymour,’ said the Ambassador, ‘I suppose this means that you will be leaving us?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

  ‘A pity. I do feel that the shearwater on that part of the coast need studying.’

  ‘Absolutely right, sir!’ said Chalmers eagerly. ‘In fact, I was rather intending to take an interest in the birds myself. I was hoping, sir, that you would share some of your great knowledge with me.’

  ‘Glad to, Chalmers, glad to,’ said the Old Man, much gratified.

  ‘Now, how was it that they nested, sir? On one leg, was it?’

  ‘Well, nice to have met you, Seymour,’ said Ponsonby, shaking hands. ‘I gather from Lady Cunningham that you know Rupert.’

  ‘Rupert?’

  ‘A nephew of hers. Works in the Foreign Office.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes. A little.’

  ‘I daresay that means we may be seeing more of you.’

  ‘Why don’t you pop over for the weekend sometime, old boy?’ said Rice-Cholmondely. ‘The Oriental Express is very handy. Goes direct to Istanbul. And then we could go to the theatre.’

  ‘Do you think they need an Arabic interpreter in White-chapel?’ asked Felicity, lying beside him.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Seymour, ‘but, the way things are going, they probably will.’

  Mukhtar said that he was being transferred to a more central post in Istanbul. He was leaving Gelibolu: Gallipoli, as it became known to the world four years later, in 1915, when Chalmers’ mad visions were translated into reality and the Dardanelles became an Armageddon; and the real Fleshmakers took over.