“Perestu all but chucked me out of the harem after she identified her ring.”
“What will you do next?”
We stood near the stone rail that ran the circumference of the gallery all the way around the building. I looked across the gilded screens shielding the ladies’ area. The painted designs beneath them mimicked the pattern on the window arches and ceiling, bursts of geometric flowers in blue against a burnt gold background. The beauty was breathtaking, but it troubled me to think that the women were all confined to the space, isolated from everything going on around them. Another beautiful cage. As I thought about it, however, I considered my own society. We women might be allowed to sit wherever we wanted in church, but we had no more clout than our Ottoman counterparts. Our segregation was merely less visible.
“There are any number of ways Ceyden could have got those objects. What if she was blackmailing their owners?”
“That would explain Perestu’s actions. Have you any proof?”
I grinned. “Not a shred, my dear boy. If blackmail is the explanation, she must have known something horrifying enough to induce her cohorts to part with their treasures.”
“I don’t think I like the theory, Emily,” he said, turning away from the rail and leaning his back against it. “What purpose would getting jewelry serve? She had access to whatever she wanted and didn’t need money.”
“Unless she was planning to escape.”
“Escape? When she was doing everything she could to gain the sultan’s favor?”
“I admit freely there are holes in the hypothesis. However...” I stepped towards him and rested my hand on the cool marble post that held a tall candelabra above the rail. “What if she knew something about the sultan himself? Suppose she was blackmailing him, and suppose he was tired of it and had someone kill her?”
“He’s the sultan—she’s essentially his slave,” he said. “She’d have nothing on him worthy of blackmail.”
“Had I even an inkling of the deficits in your imagination, I would never have married you. I feel entirely misled.”
“My deepest apologies. How awful for you.”
“I shan’t ever recover,” I said.
“I would hope not.” His eyes danced. “I expect you to be despondent for at least six months.”
“If you weren’t such a beast, you’d have the decency to make a vain attempt at consolation,” I said.
He lifted my chin and kissed me, one hand around my waist, the other on my face.
“We are in a church!” I said.
“A mosque. Was my effort not enough? Are you not consoled?”
I studied his face and suppressed a smile. “It was admirable, I suppose.”
“Admirable?”
I shrugged. “I was trying to be generous. Given our surroundings, I can only assume you are operating with great restraint.”
“You’re kindness itself.” He stepped back, warmth radiating from his smile. “So, blackmailing the sultan?”
“I convinced Perestu to let me take the book of poetry from Ceyden’s desk and am hoping the marginalia turns out to be more than an analysis of the poems.”
“Blackmail records? Unlikely that she’d leave something so sensitive out in the open.”
“They may have been coded somehow. At any rate, they appeared to be written in Greek.” I watched a group of men, bent over in prayer, kneel on the floor below us.
He smiled at me. “Anything else to report?”
“At the moment, I find myself suddenly more interested in telling you about the hamam.”
“Perhaps you made me wait too long,” he said. “I might have other plans.”
“Unlikely in the extreme,” I said, meeting his eyes and pulling him towards me. “And at any rate, I’m confident I can convince you there’s nowhere you’d rather be.”
“I can be awfully stubborn.”
“Not as stubborn as I am,” I said.
He tipped his head back and laughter spilled out of him. “Truer words I have never heard.”
I am pleased to report that when we did at last return home, he did not prove stubborn in the least.
The next morning, I headed across the Bosphorus to Stamboul—the old section of the city, a peninsula jutting into the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus—hoping to see Bezime at Topkapı. Meg had sliced a piece of gingerroot for me, expressing veiled concern at having seen me return home ill day after day and telling me that chewing it would prevent seasickness. Lovely though the gesture was, it had little effect on the overwhelming nausea that hit the moment I stepped into the boat and felt the waves churning beneath me. By the time the crossing was over, I was sweating and cold at the same time, my stomach lurching every time I drew breath.
“My dear Lady Emily, please let me assist you!” Mr. Sutcliffe called to me from the far end of the palace dock. He reached the boat in a few short strides and gripped my arm, steadying me as I rose to my feet. “Are you quite all right?”
I doubled over and was sick all over the wooden planks, then sank to my knees, tears stinging my eyes as mortification burned my cheeks.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I’m—it’s just seasickness. I can’t believe it’s affecting me so severely.”
He passed me a handkerchief. “Come. Let’s get you inside.”
“I did not expect to see you here,” I said, accepting his arm to help me up.
“I was calling on an old friend.” We’d reached the gates of the palace, where Mr. Sutcliffe explained to the guard that I was ill and expected by Bezime. The sentry admitted us at once, shouting to a colleague to alert the former valide sultan before taking us to a place I could rest.
We crossed the marble pavement of a terrace surrounding a large rectangular pool, in whose center stood a square fountain, its tiered stone sides cut in a lacy pattern. In front of us was open space with sweeping views of the Golden Horn, broken only by a small pavilion with a golden peaked roof, a single bench under it, perpendicular to the Baghdad Pavilion, which Mr. Sutcliffe informed me had, in the past, served as a library. After passing under a series of tall arches, decorated with blue and burgundy paint that complemented the colored stone, we entered the Revan Kiosk, a small and utterly charming building. Blue floral tiles lined the walls to the ceiling at least twenty feet above, light streaming through stained-glass windows at the halfway point as well as from openings in the domed roof. I dropped onto the usual low red divan tucked under windows, these shuttered with wood panels inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell.
“Shall I send for your husband?” Mr. Sutcliffe asked.
“No, thank you, I’ll be fine. I’m already better just from being on steady ground.” A servant appeared with apple tea, but its sweetness made me cringe and I abandoned it on the table in front of me. I inhaled until my lungs hurt, blew the breath out slowly. “I’d no idea how I would suffer for insisting on taking a house across the Bosphorus. I had such romantic visions of crossing the water every day.”
“You’re not the first to have been defeated by its currents.” He sat at the opposite end of the sofa, brushing its bright silk with his hands. “Are you quite sure you don’t want me to send for your husband? I know what a comfort family can be in times of difficulty.”
“You’re very kind, thank you, and right as well,” I said.
“Nothing more important than taking care of those you love. It’s something I’m afraid I was never able to do well enough.”
“I’ve no doubt you did as much as any man could.”
“I could not live with myself if I did not agree.” His eyes glinted as if he might cry, but instead he smiled. “The color’s come back to your face, so it seems the worst is over. We shan’t need to disturb Hargreaves.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I wouldn’t want to alarm him.”
“Very good. You look much better now,” he said. “I’m glad to have run into you. I was planning to call on you later today, and this sav
es me the trip. I have something I’m afraid may prove to be evidence in Ceyden’s murder.”
“Afraid is a strange choice of word.”
“It points in a most unwelcome direction, which is why I didn’t bring it up earlier. But I kept thinking of what Hargreaves said about physical evidence, and, well...” His voice trailed off, and he looked at the ground. “I don’t like to cause unnecessary trouble.”
“Justice sometimes requires trouble,” I said. “But it’s important to uncover the truth.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a glittering object. “I found this that night after the opera in the courtyard where Ceyden was killed.”
“It’s beautiful.” I fingered the object he’d handed me, a golden Byzantine cross, three inches long, hanging from a broken gold chain.
“It belongs to Benjamin St. Clare. I was with him the day he bought it.”
“Why didn’t you give this to the guards?” I asked.
“I—I suppose I should have, but I was scared.”
“It’s surely not the only cross of its kind in Constantinople, and even if it does belong to Benjamin, it’s entirely possible he lost it weeks before the murder. He could have been invited to the opera on a different night and dropped it then. After all, it’s not as if we’ve a witness who saw him at the palace.”
“Quite right. No witness. Still, take it with you and ask your husband his opinion—I don’t like having it in my possession. There’s something else as well. I had gone to visit him at the dig the day before Ceyden’s death—I’ve always been fond of the boy. Reminds me of my own son, I suppose. It was an unplanned trip, he didn’t know I was coming, and it turned out he was not there. His compatriots said he had business in Constantinople and was visiting his father. Which, of course, he was not.”
“He told us he came to Constantinople as soon as he’d heard the news. My husband sent a message to him at the dig.”
“And the messenger reported back to the embassy that he was unable to deliver his epistle in person, as the man to whom it was addressed was not in camp.”
“Does Sir Richard know this?” I asked.
“No. It is fortunate that I was the one who spoke to the messenger, and I’ve kept all of this to myself. I saw no reason to alarm him in case I’m misinterpreting what I’ve seen. He’s shouldering so much at present—I’ve no desire to increase his burden.”
“Of course not. But if—”
“He’s always said he would support me, offered me every kindness. I will do anything I can to protect him. This is why I was concerned when I learned there would be a wider investigation. I do hope that if you find—”
He stopped speaking when light spilled into the room as the door opened. “Ah! Emily! You don’t look sick in the least!” Bezime glided into the room and took my hands in hers. “It is quite another thing, I think.”
“Seasickness,” I said. “It breaks my heart that the Bosphorus doesn’t agree with me.”
“Yes, I imagine it would.” She turned to my companion. “I did not expect to see you again so soon, Mr. Sutcliffe.”
He’d leapt to his feet the moment she entered and now bowed to her. “It is a pleasure, m’lady.”
“Of course it is. Why have you returned to me?”
“I saw Lady Emily ill on the dock and brought her—”
“I see. Thank you for your kind services. They are much, much appreciated.”
Mr. Sutcliffe turned red at her abrupt dismissal but otherwise maintained his composure. “I shall leave you to your conversation.”
“I do appreciate it,” she said.
“And I am indebted to you for your assistance, Mr. Sutcliffe,” I said. Another bow, and he exited the pavilion.
“He is a kind man,” Bezime said. “But troubled. He lost his family to disease years ago and is still plagued by nightmares. I worry for him. He does not sleep well.”
“It’s very sad,” I said. “He told me he’d lost a child, but I was unaware of the details.”
“Two children, during some dreadful epidemic. His wife, too, all a very long time ago. This sort of wound, though, does not heal well. I still mourn my own son.”
“The sultan, Abdül Aziz?”
“Yes,” she said. “I will never forget when they took the throne from him. The minister of war came to the palace to drag him away. I fought that dreadful man off—scratched his face, pushed him to the ground—but there was no stopping him. He took my son and imprisoned him.”
“I had no idea your son was deposed.”
“Yes. And he died not long after. Cut his wrists with a scissors I’d given him to trim his beard.”
“I don’t even know what to say. I’m so terribly sorry.”
“It was my fault. I killed him.”
“No, no. Of course not. You couldn’t have—”
She stopped me and placed a cold hand on mine. “Enough of this. I tell you only so you know I am familiar with the pain shared by both Mr. Sutcliffe and Ceyden’s father. There is no grief worse than that from losing a child.”
“I can only imagine,” I said.
“Yes, for now. You, Emily, blame your troubles on the Bosphorus?”
“Seasickness is—”
“You are not seasick. You are with child.”
“I... well... it may be, but I—”
“I am already certain. Your own confirmation will come soon enough. But it is most disturbing to me. Nothing good will come from this situation.”
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“I have read your charts, chanted for you, done all that I can to see your future. You are not on the right path.”
I hardly knew how to react. I was stunned that she would say such a thing, horrified she would address so delicate a subject with someone she knew only slightly, and I was more than a little scared, for she seemed to know definitively the answer to a question I’d been afraid even to pose. “I don’t think you should—”
“No, of course you do not. You are unused to people speaking directly about this topic, and the terror in your eyes would be readable even to a fool. Does your husband know of your condition?”
“I don’t know that I even have a condition,” I said. “There have been some signs, but—”
“There can be no doubt. I have much experience in these matters.”
“I’d prefer not to discuss it. I’m here to talk about Ceyden.”
“I have no interest in that subject today.”
“Then it seems I have wasted a trip.” I rose from the sofa.
“You will go from me now, but when you want to come back, it will be too late,” she said. “Think carefully, Emily, before you cross through those doors. I have looked into the future.”
“I don’t believe in any of this. You can’t possibly know—”
“I know what the future holds at this moment. The choices you make from now on may change your course, but you must walk with trepidation and make no mistakes if you’re to have any chance at escaping your current fate.”
I stood up, stormed across the room, but could not quite bring myself to leave. I turned back towards her. “Why would you tell me something like this?”
“I like you, Emily. You deserve the warning.”
Chapter 9
Rather than wait for my husband on the steps of the Archaeological Museum, as we’d planned, I paced the perimeter of the first courtyard at Topkapı, looking for him on the path that led to the museum. Bezime’s words had sickened me. My temples throbbed, my stomach would not stop twisting around itself, and my mind was full of fear. I saw Colin as he walked through the gate, arms crossed, tension in every calculated step he took. He called out when he caught sight of me and waved, but as I reached out for his hand when he stood before me, his eyes flashed a combination of concern and anger.
“Did you omit anything when you told me what happened at Yıldız yesterday?”
“No, of course not,” I said. “You’re awfully
accusatory.”
“I can’t say I much liked receiving a visit from the British consul telling me that you and I have been banned from there.”
“From Yıldız?”
“Yes.”
“Heavens,” I said, rolling my eyes and starting for the museum’s steps. The neoclassical building had opened not more than a year earlier, and although it was not so large as the British Museum, I’d looked forward to viewing the collection from the moment I’d read about it on the train. “If I’ve given that much insult, I’d certainly like to have known at the time I was doing it. I might have rather enjoyed it.”
“This isn’t amusing, Emily. Did you promise to help someone escape from the harem?”
“I—how—” I closed my eyes, sighed hard. “I didn’t say I would help her escape.”
“But you spoke to the sultan about it?”
“I asked him in general terms if he would consider arranging a marriage for her.”
“And this is why you were removed with such force? Why you had bruises on your arms?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And you con ve niently neglected telling me that particular detail,” he said. “How could you think broaching such a topic to the sultan would be appropriate?”
“She’s living like a slave.”
“And a loveless marriage would be an improvement?”
“I don’t know. She’s converted to Christianity, Colin, and is living in a state of mortal sin. She’s embraced the work of St. Thomas Aquinas.”
“Aquinas? The same who said, ‘Drink to the point of hilarity’?”
“It’s not a joke. She’s very serious about her faith and is tortured at not being able to walk away from sin.”
“I cannot believe this.” He turned away from me, walked towards the museum entrance, put his hand on the door, then turned back. “This is not some diversion. We’ve been granted access—unprecedented access, I might add—to the sultan and his harem because both the British and Ottoman governments want to avoid an embarrassing diplomatic situation. You don’t have the right to take advantage of that to forward your own interests.”
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