Tears of Pearl lem-4

by Tasha Alexander

  “Mr. Sutcliffe,” she said. “You are like a vision of an angel.”

  “I... well, yes. Thank you, Miss Seward.”

  “I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” I said. “I know you’re off to Rome and in the midst of the last-minute rush. We picked a terrible time to call. For all practical purposes, you’re already gone.” I almost felt sorry for him. It was embarrassing to have been caught claiming not to be home, although everyone does it to avoid unwelcome callers. My sympathy was more than limited, however, as first, I strongly suspected Mr. Sutcliffe of murder, and second, I did not like to include myself in any list of unwanted visitors.

  “Yes. Apologies. Had I known I would have two charming ladies calling, I should not have said I wasn’t at home,” he said.

  “Especially if you knew one was about to faint,” Margaret said, picking herself up off the floor.

  “The subject we came to discuss is not urgent. It can wait until you return from your trip,” I said.

  “Will you be in Constantinople that long?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of leaving without seeing you again,” I said. I had moved close to the door and then realized I was about to make an exit that lacked even a shred of grace. “Will you dine with us your first night back? I’d so love to hear about your trip.”

  “It would be my pleasure. And I must insist that you allow me to call my carriage for you. We can’t have Miss Seward walking any further today.”

  Margaret, theatrically serious, looked at him with wide eyes. “I cannot thank you enough. You have rescued me today without making me feel even the slightest tinge of embarrassment. How ever will I make it up to you?”

  “I would be distressed if you felt even the slightest need to try,” he said.

  And with that, we left, both of us silent until we’d exited the carriage at the docks.

  Chapter 25

  “That was a debacle,” I said, stretching out across the foot of Margaret’s bed. Instead of returning to the yalı—and intent as I was on getting some much-needed privacy—we had gone to my friend’s suite at Misseri’s after checking in with Miss Evans. Sir Richard had awakened and was doing much better. The doctor had assured us he was in no danger and would make a full recovery.

  Margaret and I made our exit as quickly as possible. Back at the hotel, we had dinner sent to the room, and following long baths, we both pulled on nightgowns, poured glasses of port, and sat on the balcony outside her bedroom, watching the city’s lights below us.

  “Thank heavens you were prescient enough to think of having me faint,” Margaret said. “If you hadn’t suggested I be on guard before you left the room, you would have come in to find me rummaging through the drawers of that desk.”

  I sipped the tawny liquid, loving the warmth it sent through me. “That would have been a disaster. But I’m worried. He’s on to us.”

  “ ‘On to us’? What does that even mean? We don’t know what we’re doing, do we?” She laughed. “For all that it was a debacle, it was awfully fun. You’ve very nearly convinced me to reconsider the benefits of detecting.”

  “Tired of the settled life before you’ve even started?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Whatever will Mr. Michaels say?”

  “I’m afraid even to consider it,” she said. “I had such a lovely letter from him today. He’s taken to writing in Latin, which is a great improvement. His words flow much better, and he less frequently relies on academic phrases to persuade me to believe the depth and breadth of his passionate admiration for me.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “No, I’m not! I love him more than anything, but the man is an awful writer. It’s tragic, really.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be keeping him from getting his heart’s desire,” I said.

  “Well, perfection would be boring. And I don’t mind being better at something than he is.”

  “So you write good love letters?”

  “The best,” she said.

  “Show me.”

  “Never.” Her grin was two shades from evil and made me laugh. “What about Colin?” she asked. “How are his letters?”

  “Every delicious thing,” I said. More laughter; the space around us was warm with it. I wondered how many more nights we would have like this. So much changed after marriage. But, no, it was not marriage that concerned me. It was my old fear, taking me back to that December night so long ago, when my aunt had died.

  “You’ve grown dull,” Margaret said. “What is it?”

  “Ivy. I’m scared for her.”

  “I am, too. We all know well what can happen. But we can’t let it paralyze us.”

  “You’re right, of course. I just never thought it would be so hard.” I swirled the port in my glass and pressed my lips together, feeling the early sting of tears. “Everyone else seems to be able to reconcile herself with the risk. I don’t know why I can’t.”

  “Does there have to be a reason?”

  “I suppose not. But if there were, I might be able to understand and then overcome it.”

  “You’re so strong, you’d never have a problem.”

  “Maybe.” I smiled. “I would like to give Colin an heir. It would bring him great joy.”

  “Of course it would. And you as well.”

  “Yes.” My face was growing hot. “It would.”

  She took my hand. “Whatever happens, I shall be there with you. You won’t be alone, and you won’t have to pretend to be anything other than terrified.”

  “Thank you, Margaret. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  We embraced, finished our port, began to strategize, and by morning had a more than reasonable plan as to how we could learn more about Mr. Sutcliffe.

  The sun hit our more than reasonable plan with a harsh and unforgiving light, but we were undaunted. Phase one would be simple enough; it was the second half that could prove tricky. We started by making the rounds in Pera, calling at the home of every British ex-pat we could think of. Thankfully, as the daughter of an earl, my rank enabled us to do this without introductions.

  “In fact,” I said, ringing the bell at our fifth house, “my mother would say this is my social obligation. A lady of rank, she always tells me, has a responsibility to call on those around her. To not do so is rude.”

  “We can’t have that,” Margaret said.

  In the space of a few hours—exhausting hours that left us overfull of tea and biscuits—we learned that Mr. Sutcliffe’s career had taken him to Vienna (his first post, where he served with the gentleman who was now one of the top aides to the consul here in Turkey), Canada, Portugal, and the West Indies. But it wasn’t until we met with a Mrs. Hooper-Ferris that we stumbled upon anything of use.

  “Oh, the West Indies were awful!” We’d spent a pleasant half hour with our hostess, the wife of one of the embassy’s top officials. “We were there at the same time as the Sutcliffes—terrible epidemic of typhoid—people were dropping everywhere. It’s when he lost his entire family, but I’m sure you knew that already,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d heard that. Terrible.”

  “Terrible tragedy. His wife—Cate—beautiful girl. And so young. They had two children, a boy and a girl. Must have been six and four years old, if I remember. All gone in the space of twenty-four hours.”

  “How dreadful,” Margaret said. “The poor man.”

  “It marked him forever, beyond the way you’d expect grief to. To make matters worse, he’d balked at the assignment in the first place—had asked to stay... well, I can’t remember where he’d been before. Didn’t want to take his children because he knew all too well the islands were rife with fever. But there’s no arguing these things. You go where you’re told to go.”

  “Is it never possible to request a change?” I asked.

  “You can, of course, request anything. But it’s unusual for it to come to fruition. I believe he’d lined up a colleague who had agreed to switch with him,
but then there was some change in plans. I don’t recall the details.”

  “It’s terribly sad,” I said.

  “That it is. But of course it did spur all his charity work—good, that. Although I have heard said that he’s more than a little obsessed with it all. Thinks he knows better than anyone what it means to be a decent father.”

  “Understandable, I suppose,” Margaret said. “How did you find the West Indies? I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.”

  “Hideously hot,” she said. “Unbearable mosquitoes. I’d say do all in your power to keep as far away as possible.”

  “How disappointing,” I said. “I’ve always had such a dreamy vision of the islands.”

  “Don’t mistake me,” Mrs. Hooper-Ferris said. “From behind a good mosquito net, it’s a lovely, lovely place.”

  By four o’clock, I was certain of two things: It would be too soon if I ever saw another biscuit, and the loss of Mr. Sutcliffe’s family was connected to all that was swirling around Sir Richard.

  “We need to find out more about his request to get a different assignment,” I said. “But I’m afraid the ambassador won’t be of any help.”

  “Do you know anyone else in the diplomatic service we could contact?” Margaret asked.

  “No.”

  “What about Jeremy?” she asked. Jeremy Sheffield, Duke of Bain-bridge, was my childhood friend who had declared his love for me last winter in Vienna. “He can be useful when he wants to be.”

  “More than useful,” I said. “But I hate to trouble him, given the circumstances.”

  “I think he’d adore rescuing you while you’re on your honeymoon.”

  “That’s exactly the problem,” I said. “I wonder if my father could help?”

  “It’s worth trying,” Margaret said.

  “I can send him a wire, but it would be days before he’d be able to learn anything. He’s not in London.” We were winding back through the streets of Pera, stepping carefully over uneven cobbles.

  “Could we just confront Mr. Sutcliffe?”

  “Of course, but I want some proof—something substantial. If he finds out we’re on to him, he may run,” I said. “I have an unorthodox suggestion.”

  “My favorite kind,” Margaret said. “I think I’m beginning to get my nerve back.”

  “You’ll need it if you’re to agree to this scheme. I wouldn’t suggest it if I could think of any other option—preferably a more reasonable one—but I can’t seem to do that. How do you feel about calling on the ambassador?”

  “You said he won’t help.”

  “He’s not going to realize that he is,” I said. “First, though, we have to find a shop. I need to buy candles.”

  Two hours later, I was hiding in a broom closet in the British embassy, having slipped away while Margaret and I were ostensibly waiting to speak to Sir William. An earnest clerk led us to a small reception room. We spent a quarter of an hour discussing elephants with a gentleman newly arrived from India, who was hoping this posting would be as exciting as his last, but once he’d been summoned away, we were alone, and I dashed to the first reasonable hiding place I could find.

  So far as closets go, this was not an uncomfortable one. It was neither overly crowded nor musty smelling. I had crammed myself into the far back, sunk to the floor, and sat there, wishing I’d had the sense to remove my corset before this endeavor, until all the ambient noise had disappeared from the corridor. Despite my attempts to stretch my legs, both were cramped, and returning to my feet was prickly painful. I managed, then fumbled in the dark to open the door. Once in the hall, I pulled from my reticule one of the candles and matches I’d purchased and soon had enough light to keep me from tripping over any ill-placed furniture.

  I made my way to the records room, figuring it as the most likely spot to find employment files. I pulled open drawer after drawer in the cabinets that filled it, eventually reaching the one I sought and flipping through folders until I saw the two names I needed. My heart racing, I took them both, held them to my chest, and started towards a table where I could read them. But before I could spread them on the surface, I heard a terrible crash on the other side of the door.

  For a moment I was frozen, forgetting even to breathe. Then sense returned to me, and I blew out my candle, snuffing the glowing ember of wick with my fingers to stop its swirling smoke. Now unable to see, I dropped to the floor and scooted under the table, terrified. Nothing happened. I started counting seconds, to see how much time was passing, but could hardly keep track of the numbers. All I wanted was to get out as quickly as possible. I strained to listen but heard no further sound, and decided to get up. As soon as I had, however, I heard a second noise—not so loud as the first—followed by a hollow thump.

  Not being foolish enough to open the door and see what was there, undoubtedly ready to confront me—I was having visions of Mr. Sutcliffe with a sword, not that that would make the slightest bit of sense—I knew it was time to take sudden and decisive action. Not hesitating, I crossed the room as quickly as I could in the dark, unwilling to risk relighting my candle, and pushed open the first window I reached. I had not planned to leave with the files, but at this point, saw no other option. Hiking up my heavy skirts, I sat on the ledge, flung my legs over, and hopped to the ground.

  Once there, I stayed close to the building, not wanting the guards to see me skulking around. I knew there’d be no avoiding them eventually but had come up with what I considered a better than average strategy for dealing with them.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, hugging the files close to my chest, my arms wrapped tight around me as I walked down the path to the gate. “The grounds are so beautiful, even in the moonlight, I simply couldn’t tear myself away.”

  “You—when—” the younger of the soldiers stuttered incomprehensibly.

  “I assume Miss Seward left ages ago. Was she with Sir William, did you see?”

  “No, madam, I believe he left alone.”

  “Very good, then. I’ll catch up with her now. Thank you, and have a lovely evening.” I breezed past them, a brilliant smile on my face, and looked for the carriage I knew Margaret would have waiting for me at the end of the block. She opened the door as soon as she saw me coming.

  “I’ve been beside myself,” she said. “It’s more awful than you can imagine sitting here and having no idea what’s going on.”

  “I can assure you it was nothing but invigorating excitement inside.” I handed her the files as I stepped into the coach and told her what had happened.

  “Do you think someone’s in there?” she asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “And wasn’t about to find out. I wish I hadn’t had to remove anything, but I had no choice.”

  We returned to Misseri’s, where we could peruse our purloined letters at our leisure.

  “Port,” Margaret said, handing me a glass. “Cigar.”

  I lit it, but the smell turned my stomach. “I can’t,” I said, snuffing it out in the crystal ashtray on the table.

  “Are you ill?”

  “Let’s hope.” I looked at the folders in front of me. “Which would you prefer? Mr. Sutcliffe or Sir Richard?”

  “Sutcliffe, please. I want to be the one who finds whatever it is we’re looking for.”

  “Go forth and conquer.” I pushed the file to her and opened Sir Richard’s. It was dull reading, but that came as no surprise. Records of his assignments, comments about his performance, letters praising his skills and efficiency and dedication from a series of well-heeled ambassadors filled the folder, but nothing suggested any connection between him and Mr. Sutcliffe.

  “Anything of note?” I asked Margaret, filling her glass with more port.

  “So far just a letter about this West Indies business,” she said. “Terrible. He was granted an extended leave after the funerals, but served out the rest of his tour there. Other than that, though, a remarkably uninteresting record. No sign of troubl
e yet, however.”

  “All right. Let’s compare their postings. Were they ever together?” A quick assessment showed us they had crossed paths in Vienna—on that first assignment of Mr. Sutcliffe’s. “Mrs. Hooper-Ferris mentioned that he’d tried to arrange something with a colleague, someone who’d agreed to switch with him. I’d bet anything the colleague was Sir Richard.”

  “Is there reference to such a thing in his file?”

  I flipped through the pages, skimming as I went. “There’s this—when he requested assignment in Constantinople, it was noted that he had never before asked for a specific post.”

  “Does that signify?” Margaret asked.

  “Only if Mr. Sutcliffe thought he’d asked for the West Indies.” I closed Sir Richard’s file. “May I?”

  “Of course.” Margaret leaned back in her chair, blowing rings of smoke. “I have to admit I liked feigning swooning better than going through papers. My dedication is suspect at best.”

  “I love you regardless,” I said, and kept reading. “Here, here it is. A letter he wrote asking to be allowed to have a colleague, Mr. Richard St. Clare—pre-knighthood—be assigned to the West Indies in his place. ‘Mr. St. Clare has assured me he would happily take this post and has already submitted the appropriate paperwork to arrange the details.’ ”

  “But he never did?”

  “It seems not.” I took a long breath, rubbed my forehead, and went back to Sir Richard’s file. “Yes... Yes. This is enough, Margaret, it’s enough. Look.” She stood beside me, reading over my shoulder. “The page here that says he never made any such requests was stamped as received here only six months ago.”