by Jenny White
“What happened to his sister?”
“Ah, that poor girl. As the penniless daughter of a traitor, she was unable to contract a marriage. Who would bring her into their family and risk official displeasure? She was quite attractive, I understand, and many good families had inquired about a possible match when her father was still kadi. She had her heart set on one particular young man, so she refused the others. Her father doted on her and didn’t insist, but he disapproved of the man she preferred because he was merely a merchant, although quite wealthy. After the disaster, even that family withdrew their suit. She threw herself into the moat of Aleppo’s citadel when it was swollen with rainwater and drowned.”
Ismail Hodja takes another long draw from his mouthpiece and lets the smoke dissipate before continuing. His shoulders slump with exhaustion.
“I can’t tell you, my dear magistrate efendi, what any of this has to do with the deaths of these young Englishwomen. It is true that after his sister’s passing, Hamza became harder. But that is a long way from a man capable of killing. For murder you need powerful meat—hatred, greed, jealousy, or ambition—not the thin gruel of self-hate.
39
The Gate of the Spoonmakers
Kamil waits on a stool under the giant plane tree in Beyazit Square that a poet once called the Tree of Idleness. Behind him stretch the outer wall of the War Ministry and the domes of Beyazit Mosque, its courtyard garden visible through the stone portal. The square hums with traffic, vendors of sherbet and baked simits crying out their wares, porters hissing their way through the crowd, trotting horses, carts, and children dodging one another.
Kamil spies Bernie’s red hair approaching amid a sea of turbans and fezzes.
“Howdy. Been waiting long?”
“Not long. It’s good to see you. Please sit. Would you like some refreshment?”
“Sorry. Afraid I have to decline. I can’t stomach the tea here or the coffee. Both thick as tar. I don’t know how you drink so much of it. No offense.”
“None taken. They are quite strong.”
“Maybe we could just walk around a bit. I don’t know this area very well.”
“Have you seen the booksellers’ market? There’s a good place to eat lunch nearby.”
Kamil leads the way through the throng to a gate beside the mosque.
“This is the Gate of the Spoonmakers.” To Bernie’s questioning look, he shrugs. “I have no idea why.”
They enter a quiet, sun-dappled courtyard. Each tiny shop around the yard is stacked to the ceiling with books and manuscripts. A few apprentices hurry past carrying packages to be delivered to customers at their homes. In the center is another plane tree, under it a bench next to a small fountain. Bernie lowers himself onto the bench and spreads his arms across the back, embracing the old vine-draped buildings. “Keyif,” he mutters contentedly.
Kamil holds a tinned cup chained to the fountain under the stream of water and takes a draught.
“You should try this water. It’s from a spring.”
Bernie points to the ancient stone portal at the far end of the courtyard. “And what’s that gate called?”
“What? Oh, the Gate of the Engravers.”
“Of course.”
Cup still in hand, Kamil frowns in the direction of the gate.
“You look like you’ve got a swarm of termites under your vest today, Kamil, ol’ chum.”
Despite himself, Kamil laughs. “That’s disgusting.”
“Well, it’s true. Something isn’t sitting well with you. Not well at all. Might help talkin’ about it.”
“There’s too much happening, Bernie, and I’m not sure what to think about it all.”
“Like what?” Bernie moves his arm to make room for Kamil on the bench.
“There’s been an arrest.”
“You mean for Mary’s murder? That’s great. Who’s the scoundrel?”
“And Hannah’s murder too.”
“You’re joking?” Bernie sits up and turns to look at Kamil.
“No, no, I’m not.” He notices that blood has darkened Bernie’s face so it looks burned by the sun. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sure. Dying of curiosity. Who did they arrest?”
“Hamza, the journalist. My associate, Michel Sevy, happened to be nearby when Hamza broke into the home of Ismail Hodja last night and threatened him. Apparently, Hamza confessed.”
“Michel Sevy,” Bernie repeats slowly, then asks, “What did Hamza confess to?”
“When I spoke with him this morning, he denied everything, but on my way back from Chamyeri, I stopped at my office and heard that he has admitted to killing both Hannah and Mary. I don’t understand it. I’m going to visit him again this afternoon. I want to hear it from his own mouth. I suppose there’s some logic to it,” he muses. “At the end of almost every thread of inquiry there seems to be Chamyeri, but I suppose they could also lead to Hamza.”
“What’s the connection?”
“No proof other than the confession. That’s the problem. Just coincidences. Hamza is a distant relation of Ismail Hodja. Some years ago, he appears to have used the hodja’s garden pavilion at night to meet a foreign woman. This went on around the time Hannah Simmons’s body was found.”
“You think it was Hannah he was meeting?”
“The driver was the same man who picked her up every week.”
“Admirable detective work.”
“Thanks, but I owe some of that information to Sybil Hanoum.”
“Wait a minute. Sybil? What does Sybil have to do with any of this?”
“She decided to investigate on her own. It’s my fault. I suppose I encouraged her at the beginning. She was so eager to help, and I thought she might pick up some information from the women. I can’t speak with them myself, of course. I didn’t think there was any harm in it.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Sybil. I thought she was just paying social calls.”
“From the descriptions, I think the driver was a young Jewish man named Shimshek Devora. He had distinctive hair, tightly coiled like Arab hair, but light in color. A chauffeur by profession.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No. He was killed. Fell under a carriage. Apparently an accident, but Hamza seems to think otherwise. There’s one other link between Hamza and Chamyeri, but I don’t know what to make of it. A few months ago, Hamza abducted Ismail Hodja’s niece and held her in Shimshek Devora’s mother’s apartment. He told her a story about protecting her from…well, that’s immaterial. I think he meant the girl no harm.”
Bernie raises his eyebrows skeptically. “He abducted her for her own good?”
Kamil smiles indulgently. “As you know, Oriental motives are often inscrutable. In any case, Michel and I found her with some help from his mother who lives in the same neighborhood, but Hamza escaped. In fact, I didn’t know it was Hamza until this morning when the hodja told me. When we found the girl, he ran off and we never saw his face.”
“His mother?” Bernie mutters.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. What else?”
“This Shimshek was involved—together with Hamza, as we now know—in some kind of business dealings, but we never discovered what. He died while the girl was being held.”
Bernie gets up from the bench and stands by the fountain, staring at the trickle of water from the metal pipe. He reaches down to give the spigot another twist. The water continues to flow. He turns around to face Kamil. Arms folded protectively across his chest, he appears vulnerable, a boy in an elongated body.
“This Shimshek. Where did he live?”
“Galata, the Jewish quarter. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Kamil looks closely at Bernie. “Did you know him?”
Bernie frowns and doesn’t answer right away.
“I heard the name somewhere, but can’t remember where. If it comes to me, I’ll let you know. So this Shimshek used to pick Hannah up and to
ok her to the pavilion in the hodja’s garden to meet Hamza.”
“The pavilion is only a short distance from the pond. Hamza could easily have strangled Hannah, thrown the body in, then driven off.”
“But Hamza hasn’t spilled any details about the murders yet?”
“Not that I know. Right after Hannah’s death, Hamza went to Paris for several years. I suppose now we know why.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
Kamil takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. He had political reasons for leaving too. I’m sure the secret police had him in their sight. He was rumored to be a radical and he wrote inflammatory articles for a reformist journal.”
“But why would he have killed Hannah?”
“That’s what disturbs me. I can’t think of a motive.” He crosses his legs and takes out a cigarette, then looks up without lighting it. “Perhaps Hannah was pregnant. It’s not in the police report, but it’s possible.”
“Sounds a bit far-fetched, if you ask me. Which you haven’t.” Bernie shakes his head no to Kamil’s offered cigarette.
Kamil puts his own cigarette back, slips the silver cigarette case into his pocket, and takes out his beads. “It’s not unheard-of. He doesn’t seem the kind to want to settle down.”
“I’d think it would make Hannah want to kill him, not the other way around.”
They share a chuckle.
“Maybe she was angry enough to spill all his beans on him. After all, she was employed by the palace. If he was wanted as a radical, she could have turned him in with just a word to the right person.”
“Spill the beans, pardner, the beans.”
“Okay, spill the beans on Hamza. It’s an odd image. What kind of beans? And why spill them? Why not throw them?”
Bernie mimics a sigh of exasperation. “I don’t know. If Hannah was pregnant, it doesn’t make sense that she would turn the father of her child in to the police. What about Mary? Why do you think he killed her?”
“I don’t. But the police claim he confessed to it. Perhaps he was her lover, too. Why do people kill? Revenge? Maybe both women spurned him.”
Bernie sits down on the bench beside Kamil. “I’ll take one of those after all,” gesturing toward Kamil’s jacket pocket. Kamil fishes out his cigarette case and, snapping it open, offers it to Bernie. They sit for several minutes, Bernie quietly smoking and Kamil lost in thought, amber beads slipping like sand through his fingers.
“There’s still the unexplained matter of the pendant.” Kamil breaks the silence. “With the Chinese inscription.” He looks curiously at Bernie. “It doesn’t fit any of the motives. Both Hannah and Mary had it. I suppose Hamza might have given it first to one, then the other as a gift. Perhaps taken it from Hannah when he killed her.”
“A gruesome thought.”
“It’s an odd gift, though. How did he get it? I’m sure it was made in the palace.”
Bernie doesn’t answer. He stares unseeing at the fountain.
“You don’t look surprised.”
“Well, I figured it was, what with the sultan’s signature—unless it’s a forgery.”
“I don’t think so. I showed it to the head craftsman, and he identified it as the work of a particular silversmith at Dolmabahche Palace.”
Bernie stares at Kamil. “And did he tell you who he made it for?”
Kamil returns his look. “No. He was found dead the day after I asked to meet with him. They said his heart gave out.”
Kamil gets up and walks over to the fountain. He stares at it, as if he has forgotten what it is for. “His family says he didn’t suffer from a weak heart.” He turns to Bernie. “But I suppose it’s possible.”
Bernie leans forward, elbows on knees, head propped in his hands. “Kamil, old buddy,” he mumbles, “You’d better watch your back.”
“What am I watching for?”
“You don’t think it’s too much of a coincidence that the old man dies just when you announce you want to meet him?”
“Of course I think it’s suspicious. I don’t believe in coincidence. Someone in the palace doesn’t want me to know who had that pendant made,” he adds thoughtfully. “It must be a powerful person to orchestrate these deaths and someone with a powerful motive to risk so much. The grand vizier? A minister? Perhaps the sultan himself?”
“Covering their tracks.”
“Yes.” He sighs and turns to Bernie. “The palace is out of my jurisdiction. You’re right that anyone looking in that direction is in danger. If I were wiser, I would leave the question of Hannah alone.” He thinks with greater sympathy of Ferhat Bey and his pauper’s pension.
“Then why don’t you?” Bernie suggests.
“Because I’m required to solve the case of Mary Dixon’s death. The Minister of Justice Nizam Pasha seems to have taken a particular interest in my progress in this case. Perhaps he has come under pressure from the British. I don’t know. Anyway, the evidence suggests that the key to Mary’s death lies in deciphering Hannah’s.
Bernie turns suddenly to Kamil and asks, “How did this Michel fellow happen to be at Ismail Hodja’s place just in time to arrest Hamza? It’s pretty far out of the way.”
“I don’t know,” Kamil admits. “I imagine he had information through his informants.”
40
July 17, 1886
Dearest Maitlin,
I was so happy to receive a telegram from you this morning. Please don’t think me ungrateful for your advice, after having importuned you for it in so many of my own missives. I am aware of the difficulties posed by becoming wife to a Mohammedan, as you put it. In my letters, I’ve tried to paint a fuller picture of society here in order to relieve your mind. Kamil is British trained and a thoroughly modern gentleman. He is charming and commands such a high standing in society—he is a pasha after all—that I’m sure he will win over even old Lady Bartlethwaite, who is surely the hardest nut to crack in Essex. Truly, there is no cause for distress, only the greatest happiness for my future. Surely this is the future, and the adventure, dear sister, that you have always wished for me.
I have little to tell you, as I’ve stayed close to home recently. Kamil has gotten it into his head that the palace women are dangerous and has asked me not to visit them anymore. He thinks this only because he has never been inside the imperial harems. There is a great deal of intrigue, but they are all schemes by women trying to position themselves ahead of other women in the palace hierarchy. I don’t see how that has anything to do with me. I am only another woman to tea, an entertainment that can be mined for information about the outside world. Really, they are more bored than dangerous, and, if dangerous, only to themselves.
Nevertheless, I was touched by Kamil’s concern, which I take to be just another sign of his affection. In any case, I stay out of mischief by keeping busy with embassy affairs. Father has left more and more of the daily running of things in my hands, which is not always welcome, but does help to pass the time. A new embassy secretary has been appointed, but won’t come out for another month. I’m worried about Father, Maitlin. I haven’t been as honest with you as I should about the situation. Can you imagine—I have to coax him to bathe. He sleeps in his office now, rather than in the Residence, so his staff has set aside another room where he can receive visitors. I know you think I should ask the embassy staff to file a report suggesting he retire, but that isn’t my place. They are beginning to talk, but the thing is that when he is at work, Father still cuts a good figure. He reads his reports, makes decisions, even gives speeches, although he doesn’t travel much anymore. Some would simply say he works too hard, but I worry that there is more to it, and I am at a loss to think of a solution. If he were to return to England, Maitlin, I think he would die. There is also the selfish matter that I wish to remain here, and I can’t see how that is possible if father is forced to leave. Kamil has not yet proposed the obvious solution. Until he does, I do what I can to make a go of things at the embassy.
I d
esperately need a diversion. Bernie has returned to his quarters at college to work on his book. A messenger came early this morning with an invitation—really more of a summons—from Asma Sultan to visit her at her summer place in Tarabya. That’s the lovely, wooded area on the northern Bosphorus where Turkish society goes to escape the summer heat. The embassy has a summer villa nearby, but it’s under repair, so I haven’t had much opportunity to get away. Surely Kamil can’t complain about my spending a pleasant afternoon with a starchy matron at her summer villa. It’s to be very informal, the messenger said, and Asma Sultan will send a coach for me.
I’d better stop writing now and get ready. I remember it being quite a long way, although I haven’t been there in years, so perhaps I exaggerate. It can’t be that far if I am invited to come and go in one day. I must make sure to be back in time for dinner, as Kamil is dining with us tonight. I’ll write more when I return. I’ll pay special attention to everything so I can give you a full accounting.
41
Beautiful Machinery
Returning from Beyazit, Kamil encounters a crowd on the Karakoy end of the Galata Bridge. He calls to a group of young gendarmes and asks them what is going on.
“Bey, a criminal has been staked.”
Kamil grimaces. He despises the old custom of impaling the head of a criminal in a public area, ostensibly as a lesson to the people that this is their fate if they stray from the path. These days, criminals are hung from lampposts, for the same effect. Under the present sultan, however, death sentences have usually been commuted. There have been no executions for some time. He worries what the foreign community will think when they see this, as of course they will. This time, the stake has been placed right at the base of the hill leading to Pera. The Karakoy side of the bridge is within the jurisdiction of his court, yet he knows nothing about anyone being sentenced to death. Perhaps it was a matter decided by the provincial Court of Inquiry. But even that court must have its death sentences ratified by the grand vizier, acting for the sultan. Either way, he should have been informed. Kamil spurs his horse onto the bridge.
