Tears of Pearl (23 page)

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.”

“Why the delay?”

“Who knows? Perhaps it was misfiled, or never sent from wherever he was posted when he applied to come here. The point is that Mr. Sutcliffe is the one to whom it would have gone to be filed—he’s the one who would have stamped it. And when he did, if he read it, he’d know that Sir Richard never tried to help him avoid the West Indies.”

“And hence, let his family die from typhoid.”

“Which to a man thoroughly devastated by loss—so grieved that he never remarried and became fixated on others suffering a similar loss—might be sufficient to inspire him to seek revenge.”

“So he poisons Sir Richard?” Margaret asked.

“But doesn’t kill him—makes him look incompetent to the point he loses his job. And he hires thugs to harass his son.”

“But Ceyden?”

“I don’t know yet how or if she fits. Can you doubt he’d find it sweet revenge to kill the daughter of the man he holds responsible for the deaths of his own children?”

“We don’t know that’s what he’s thinking,” Margaret said.

“Agreed,” I said. “But it’s decent conjecture. And suppose he killed Jemal—the man who knew of Benjamin’s dealings at the harem. He might have been bribing Jemal as well and decided it was time to make sure he’d keep quiet about something.”

“Is this enough evidence to take to the ambassador?” Margaret asked.

“It should be sufficient to at least get his attention and persuade him that the matter requires further investigation. It shows Mr. Sutcliffe had a powerful motive. Now we need to find some evidence of him possessing chloral hydrate—and more about his friendship with Bezime. Let’s not forget she liked to play at being a physician.”

26

As it was too late to confront Bezime herself, I had to settle for talking to the only person left who might have the answers I sought. Perestu started pacing almost as soon as I asked my first question. The lines in her forehead deepened, and her brown eyes clouded. “I don’t know how to answer you,” she said. “I have not had contact with your Mr. Sutcliffe in months. I told you that before.”

“What was his relationship with Bezime?”

She closed her eyes. “How could I possibly know that?”

“You read her diaries, didn’t you?” I asked. “You must have. How could you have resisted? Didn’t you want to know what her relationship with him was?”

She did not answer.

“He loved you. I’ve no doubt of that. You should have seen his reaction when he realized your ring was gone.” I hated the knowledge that he’d been putting on an act, but I had no reason to doubt his feelings for Perestu and even less reason to want to see her more hurt.

She turned, tears hanging heavy in her eyes. “You must not speak of love between us. There was none.”

“Friendship, then. Whatever you want to call it. He cared for you. Any woman in your situation would have read those diaries.”

“He came to her frequently, but I do not think they were lovers,” she said.

“Did she say anything about discussing Ceyden with him?”

“Nothing at all.”

This was unfortunate, but far from a shock. “What can you tell me about the loss of his family? I know it affected him deeply.”

“Of course it did. You’ve no idea—what it is to lose a child. Two children. And his wife. He loved her.”

“I know.”

“And to then have found out that a man he called his friend lied about the one thing that might have prevented all of it. . . .”

She paused, and I dared not even breathe. But when she didn’t continue, I had to say something. “It might have been a mistake, you know. Sir Richard could have filed the request and all those years later it could have been lost.”

“You know the story?” She smiled, a slim, halfhearted effort. “That makes me feel less like I’m betraying him.”

“I don’t know the details, but I’m not convinced it was anything more than a misunderstanding.”

“No, that’s not possible. When he saw the paper, he confronted Sir Richard, who admitted everything. He apologized, but what good was that? Said that he couldn’t leave at the time because he was following some new lead as to where his daughter might have been. It all amounted to nothing, of course, and poor Theodore lost everything.”

“Sir Richard knows all this?” I asked.

“Yes. There can be no doubt. The last time I saw Theodore was when he came to me immediately following their conversation. I’d never seen him so upset, so . . . ragged.”

“And it was that day that you broke off your friendship?”

“Yes. The timing was appalling, I admit. But something in him scared me that day—the intensity of his hurt, his anger. And I knew that I was in danger of getting too drawn in to him. I didn’t want that, so I cut it off.”

“That takes no small measure of strength,” I said.

“Not nearly as much as it should have,” she said. “I’d been pulling away for months without him even knowing. Otherwise I couldn’t have done it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It must have been terribly painful. I would never broach such a subject if I didn’t think it of critical importance. What did Bezime write about Mr. Sutcliffe?”

“She knew of his anger, that was clear, and it concerned her. He wasn’t sleeping well—nightmares. He had suffered from them for years. She gave him something to help him, but didn’t think he was taking it, as he never seemed to her more rested.” Tears choked her voice. “I wish I could have given him something solid like that—something that might actually have helped.”

I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a very tall cliff, about to plummet to an unthinkable and inane ending if I did not choose my words with absolute precision. I walked over and stood in front of her, placing my hands on her shoulders. “The sort of friendship you gave him was far more substantial than some sort of medicine it sounds like he never even took.”

“Yes, but she gave him more every time he called. She must have had reason to think it was important.”

I tried to sound as casual as possible. “Do you remember what it was?”

“Some sleeping aid . . . chlor . . . chloral . . .”

“Chloral hydrate?”

“Yes,” she said. “That was it.”

“Not the best choice, I’d say. Highly addictive and can have dreadful side effects.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Far better that he have a friend who understands him,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. “It brings some measure of comfort.”

“He doesn’t have to be lost to you altogether, does he?” I asked.

“Yes. There’s no other way. I will not let myself fall in love again, especially in such impossible circumstances.”

I could not argue with the wisdom of that.

I rushed from the palace to meet Margaret, who had taken care of arranging the final details for Roxelana’s rescue. The time had come at last to pull off our plan. Excitement and fear surged through me, my nerves thin, and I prayed we were doing the right thing in the right way. I could not let myself think of the fallout that would come should our plans be exposed. We’d been careful, and I was confident her escape would be successful. Hubris is a dangerous companion.

“You’ll find this amusing,” Margaret said as we raced to the Nuruosmaniye Mosque. “A friend called on Medusa yesterday, all full of ex-pat gossip. Apparently, the night of your adventure in the embassy one of the stray cats that lurk about the city got in through an open window and knocked over a vase.”

“That was the crash that terrified me?” I laughed.

“Yes. The poor creature was still inside in the morning, and the staff have adopted it.”

“Well, it does make for a good story. I must tell you what happened at Y?ld?z this morning.” We were walking quickly, and I struggled to breathe evenly as I recounted my conversation with Perestu.

“What a shame that she burned the journals,” said Margaret. “Do you think she would testify?”

“I could not say. When faced with the truth of what he’s done—”

“Are we even sure what that is?” she asked.

“Yes, we are. He poisoned Sir Richard, sabotaged his career, possibly made threats of violence against his son—”

“We can’t prove that last.”

“That will undoubtedly be the most simple part of all this. Colin can go back to the village and pay enough to get the full truth.”

“Fair enough,” Margaret said, walking faster. I could not match her pace—I was feeling more winded than I should, and it was all I could do to keep from letting her gain too much distance ahead of me.

“He must have been following Benjamin—I’m convinced Jemal alerted him to the planned escape.”

“He might have even witnessed the murder.”

“And then taken the evidence to give to the proper person when the proper moment arose,” I said. “He wanted to be sure Benjamin was held accountable.” I stopped, dead in the center of the street. Margaret had to pull me out of the way of a delivery cart.

“Emily! Pay attention.”

“I didn’t see it before,” I said. “But now I do. Remember, she spoke—”

“They’re already inside,” Margaret interrupted, looking at the line of carriages in front of the building. “Hurry.”

She hurried towards her station while I turned into the Grand Bazaar, taking a table at the café we had chosen and ordering tea and baklava. Ideas blazed through my head, but I kept settling on a single one: Benjamin hadn’t killed Ceyden. Sutcliffe had. The scenario played out easily enough. He’d followed Benjamin, watched Roxelana flee screaming. Ceyden may have heard him, called out for help, seen him—and he’d killed her to keep her silent. Not only to ensure no one knew he’d been in the harem, but because he knew he could frame his nemesis’s son for the murder.

I admitted to myself, as I crunched another bite of baklava, that the story was as yet incomplete. But another few days of work and I’d have uncovered the rest. Bezime was a threat because she knew about the chloral hydrate. She could have asked Sutcliffe about it. And Jemal—he’d been both dispensable and dangerous. I thought it very likely he’d witnessed Ceyden’s murder.

A slim glint of satisfaction passed through me, which led me to be filled immediately with concern. This was always the most dangerous stage—the part when you begin to map out the solution but don’t know enough to see the holes that leave you vulnerable. I checked the watch on my lapel—newly purchased to replace the one stolen from the
yal?
—and tore a piece of paper from the small notebook I carried in my reticule. On it, I wrote everything I knew, suspected, or felt was reasonable conjecture pertaining to the case. Then, moving on to a second sheet, I put down the unreasonable conjectures of which I was fond as well as a full detailing of our plans for Roxelana, cringing at the thought of my husband reading this.

I asked my waiter if it was possible to get an envelope and within a few moments had in my hands a set of smooth linen stationery. After sealing my missive, I addressed it to Colin in care of the embassy, and my enterprising server found a boy to deliver it almost before I’d asked. Having taken this precaution, I felt better protected. Not in the classic sense. I had no desire to see Colin swoop in and fix any of this; I wanted to do that myself. But it was as if I’d bought insurance against needing him—he’d know where to find me, what to do if something went wrong. Undoubtedly, I’d require his assistance only if it was impossible for him to offer it.

Satisfied, I finished my tea and looked again at my watch. My stomach churned; too much time had passed. Roxelana should have been here by now. I looked around, growing more nervous with each passing second, wondering if she could somehow have been confused by the maze of the bazaar’s streets. I wanted to search for her but knew better than to leave my post. What would she do if she arrived and I was gone?

But after another half hour, I saw little choice. I paid my bill, deciding to go to the mosque, where I would find Margaret. I hoped more than anything that Roxelana had not been caught—that she hadn’t come because it was too risky, because she wasn’t able to get the privacy required for her escape. As I walked, I began repeating, barely under my breath, a simple prayer.

“Lady Emily Hargreaves?” The small voice came from behind me, and I turned to see a boy, no more than nine years old. “Are you Lady Emily Hargreaves?”

“I am,” I said.

“This is for you.” He handed me an envelope made from thick, creamy paper and disappeared into the crowd around me. With shaking hands, I tore it open, almost afraid to read.

My dear Lady Emily, the game is up. You’ve gone too far and I’ve had to take actions I did not wish to. I have Roxelana. She will be alive for thirty more minutes unless you present yourself to me in exchange for her. She is easily frightened, not at all like my own brave girl who complained not once during the final hours of her illness, and I find myself already tired of her crying. How would you like me to silence her?

I am at the Basilica Cistern, the Yerebatan Saray?. You will have to figure out how to get there. Just be sure to come quickly and to come alone. If there’s anyone else with you, it will end badly for us all.

I felt short of breath, and my throat ached as I gulped for air. I was not foolish enough to believe I could pull this off alone—it was worse than any situation I could have imagined. I’d thought any danger Roxelana faced would come from the sultan. There was little time to consider options, so I took the first reasonable one that sprang to mind. I asked my waiter to point me to the police—he located an officer patrolling the bazaar and stopped him at once. Not wanting to waste even a moment, I pressed the note—which was obviously from Mr. Sutcliffe—into the man’s hand and explained as efficiently as possible that he must send help and get word to the British embassy at once.

He looked at me as if I were insane, and I could not pause long enough to convince him otherwise. Instead, I ran to the nearest exit, hired the first carriage I saw, and made my way to the cistern. It was only because I’d read so extensively about the city that I was even aware of it, finding it described in the travel memoirs of an Italian gentleman. Near the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya, it had been built in Roman times to bring water to the city, and families living above it still used it—taking its water from well-like openings in their basements.

Having no time to collect De Amicis’s book from the
yal?
, I had to rely on my memory. He’d described coming to the cistern through the garden of a nearby house. I’d reached the neighborhood and knew I was in the right general vicinity, but it was not apparent which house’s garden contained the entrance—so I could do nothing but knock on doors and hope someone could help me. On my third attempt, a veiled woman answered. She did not speak much English, but I kept repeating “Yerebatan Saray?” over and over, and at last she nodded and pointed me to the house across from hers. I raced there, only to find no one home.

I made my way around the building, hoping to find a way into the garden, through which I could reach the cistern, and my heart soared when I saw a green door, in dire need of new paint, in the wall. I pushed it open and rushed through it. Across from me was a stone arch, below which were steep stone steps, slick with water and moss, descending deep into darkness. Pleased that I had not bothered to empty out my reticule after last night’s adventure at the embassy, I pulled out the candle and matches I still had with me and lit them before making my way with great care down the stairs.

Every nerve in my body was shaking when I reached the closed door at the bottom. I opened it and stepped into an enormous domed underground chamber, its vaulted ceiling supported by arches above row after row of columns, hundreds of them. Water filled the room below the wooden platform on which I stood—and my candle reflected green in it, the color eerie, almost unholy. There was no sound but that of water dripping from the roof, pinging into the pool below, echoing relentlessly.