Tears of Pearl

Chapter 11

“She is absolutely marvelous,” Margaret said, pacing in front of Colin, puffing on a cigar, glee filling every bit of her voice. “I’ve never seen anything so wonderful in my life. Is everyone in the harem like this? I’m nearly ready to sell myself to the sultan.”

“Yıldız is a different world from Topkapı,” I said. “If you’re going to be a concubine, you want it to be the height of the empire, when you’ve risen to power over thousands of others and are the political ally and most trusted confidante of the sultan—”

“Who never wears his silver-soled shoes when he thinks he might see you, because he doesn’t want to scare you off.”

“Stop.” Colin, amusement in his eyes, his cheeks tight with repressed laughter, clipped the end of a cigar. “You’re both diverting in ways I could never have imagined, but we must maintain some sense of focus here. Bezime essentially lives in exile. She’s got no power. The sultan did not give her a position in his harem, remember? She does not get to decide which eunuchs are sent to his palace.”

“She’s very clever,” I said. “I agree she’s without direct power, but she may have orchestrated the situation.”

“How? Abdül Hamit was very clear with me on this point: Bezime has no contact with anyone who, for lack of a better word, matters in his court. She may seem an impressive figure—and I’ve no doubt she once was one. But that day has long since passed.”

“So she’s scorned,” I said. “And hell hath no—”

“Yes, yes, fury, I know my Shakespeare. But you cannot plan assassinations, train spies, or have them assigned if you’ve no power.”

“You can, however, take advantage of circumstances. Not having been responsible for getting Jemal to Yıldız doesn’t preclude her from using him as a spy.”

“True enough,” Colin said.

“What do you make of her claims about Murat?” Margaret asked.

“I’ve spent loads of time combing through everything at Çırağan,” he said. “There’s an unquestionable mood of discontent in the palace, but it does not come from him or his harem. There are a handful of men who, if Murat were still sultan, would undoubtedly be his aides—his former vizier, for one. They’re not happy.”

“Would they enlist the aid of one of the sultan’s concubines?” I asked.

“In theory, they might,” he said, lighting a cigar and handing it to me.

“But do you think Ceyden?” The tobacco tasted rich, all nuts and moss and spice and oak.

“It would surprise me,” he said.

Margaret paced. “Why would he choose Ceyden? How would anyone at Çırağan know of her existence?”

“They wouldn’t,” I said. “Someone with status would have had to refer her.”

“Bezime could have done that,” Colin said. “Still, I’m not sure. I’m afraid she’s trying to manipulate you.”

“I would think that she, more than anyone we’ve spoken to in either palace, would want to know the truth about Ceyden’s death,” I said. “She’s the only person who seems to have felt anything approaching real affection for her.”

“Is there a solution to the crime that would harm her?” Colin asked. “Is she protecting someone?”

I swirled the whiskey in my glass. “I don’t know. But your idea that she’s manipulating us is striking. What if it’s for the most simple of reasons?” I asked. “What if it’s nothing more than her trying to seem once again important?”

“An excellent hypothesis, my dear,” Colin said. “Keep it near you as you continue your work. You’ll find that people are often not complicated in the least.”

Every inch of my body hummed; never had I known such delight. To be sitting with the man I loved, engaged in a lively discussion of our work—work in which he considered me an equal—my dear friend at my side. There are moments when all in life seems right and good.

Meg stepped into the room and announced Sir Richard, who followed close behind her. He looked a mess, fatigue darkening the already deep circles under his eyes. Margaret leapt up and poured him a whiskey after Colin had introduced her and she’d offered him her condolences for Ceyden.

“I have heard so much about you,” she said, handing him the glass. “Your life fascinates me. What stories of adventure you must have.”

“Adventures that didn’t turn out well in the end,” he said.

“I understand, and I’m terribly sorry about that,” Margaret said. “But do you ever consider the good parts now that the bad can’t be changed?”

Sir Richard froze, looking at her, and I all but cringed for him, wishing there were something I could do to change the subject, reverse her words, anything. But my angst was unnecessary. He smiled.

“A wise question, young lady,” he said, his words almost slurred. I wondered if he’d been drinking before he came to us. “And I’m afraid my answer is no, although it shouldn’t be. I thank you for pointing out this shortcoming.”

“You can’t stay forever mired in sadness,” Margaret said. “At some point, you have to let yourself live again.”

“It seems I’m not doing a particularly good job of that.”

“Has something happened?” Colin asked. “Forgive me. You don’t look well.”

Sir Richard thanked him, shot a questioning look in Margaret’s direction. She stood up at once.

“Will you excuse me?” she asked. “I’ve been away far too long. Miss Evans will be beside herself with worry, and if I don’t hurry, I won’t have time to dress for dinner. Lovely to meet you, Sir Richard. I do hope that when I see you next, you’ll share a story about your travels.”

And she was off, winking at me on her way out of the room.

“There’s been another incident with papers from the embassy,” Sir Richard said, rubbing his forehead. “More missing. Papers that were in my charge.”

“Sensitive in nature?” Colin asked.

“More so than those taken on the train, but nothing of vital import.”

“From where were they stolen?” I asked. “Your home or the embassy itself?”

“That’s the odd part—I’m convinced beyond all doubt that I had not removed them from my offices in the embassy. But they’re gone, and there’s been no security breach.”

“Who can access your offices?” Colin asked.

“The door’s never locked. What’s awkward now is that this, being the second time it’s happened, is placing me in a bit of jeopardy. I was reprimanded rather severely and fear that I may lose my position.”

“Does the ambassador think you are stealing documents?” Colin asked. “Is he accusing you of espionage?”

“Nothing so iniquitous. He’s afraid I’ve grown old and forgetful and incompetent. I admit that I have not been entirely myself of late—”

“Which is completely understandable in your circumstances. You’re dealing with enormous stresses,” I said. His eyes were clouded, his face gray.

“But Sir William took no disciplinarian action?” Concern crinkled around Colin’s eyes.

“Not officially. But as ambassador he will not tolerate another mishap.”

“Who would be doing this to you?” I asked.

“I very much appreciate, Lady Emily,” he said, “the fact that you do not question my mental stability.”

“Of course I don’t.” I didn’t, did I? He’d been through a terrible tragedy; no one could recover from that immediately. “Have you any suspects?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Are you quite certain there were no other problems at the embassy? No one else is missing anything?” Colin asked.

“No. I made loud and outraged demands that everything be gone over—I was all but accused of mania for having reacted so severely. A search was conducted, and nothing was out of place.”

“To what did the papers pertain?”

“Employment issues. Notices of staff reassignment, that sort of thing, which often include comments on performance. London had shipped an enormous batch to us some months back, mainly addenda to files, records of things going far back, to be added to what we have. It was a terrible backlog. Should have all been forwarded ages ago. Poor Sutcliffe was swamped organizing it all.”

“Had anyone received bad reviews?” I asked.

“Not bad enough to merit stealing the notes. And doing so wouldn’t accomplish anything regardless—it’s not as if it would change the person’s position. The authors of the reports wouldn’t have altered their opinions.”

“True enough,” Colin said. “Although if they were old, it might be the sort of thing no one would miss if they were to disappear.”

“I go back to my original thought when you were robbed on the train,” I said. “Someone is deliberately targeting you, and I’m convinced that all of these events—the robberies, the attacks on Benjamin, and Ceyden’s murder—are connected.”

“We can’t discount the possibility.” Colin stood up and crossed his arms. “There’s a party tonight, given by the wife of the consul. We’d not planned to attend, but I think it would be beneficial to do so. I’d like to talk to your colleagues away from their offices.”

“I am deeply indebted to you for your assistance,” Sir Richard said, closing his eyes. “I don’t know how I shall ever repay you.”

“Seeing you through all this to a point where you can, as Margaret said, remember the good will be payment enough,” I said.

“Just promise me, Lady Emily, that you especially will be careful. I couldn’t live with myself if I brought harm, even indirectly, to another person.”

Colin had sent a message to the consul’s wife—she replied at once, saying she was delighted we could join her. Instead of dinner and dancing, she’d decided to stage a séance. And so, after a light supper (during which Colin expertly gathered as much information as possible about the trouble at the embassy), we retired to her sitting room, where a medium called Madame Skorlosky, a Russian, sat at a special table she’d brought for the occasion. She called us to join her, and we each took a seat, mine between Mr. Sutcliffe and Sir William.

The ambassador leaned over to me. “Do you believe in this rot, Lady Emily?”

“I’ve never given it serious consideration,” I said. “I will confess to being fascinated, however.” Mr. Sutcliffe tugged at his collar, shifting in his chair. “What about you, Mr. Sutcliffe? Have you great hopes for this experience?”

“I do, actually. I’ve not attended a séance before, but have wanted to for years.”

Colin, sitting across the table, was watching me the way he did when I first met him, his eyes never leaving mine. I smiled at him, feeling myself blush, wishing we were home. He did not return the smile, only stared.

Madame Skorlosky rose from her chair. “We will now begin. I ask that you all close your eyes and focus, sending from your thoughts any hints of doubt or confusion. The spirits will be with us tonight. I can sense them already.” I could hear her blowing out the candles on the table. Everyone was still and silent. “Place your hands flat on the table. Concentrate, and you may now open your eyes.”

We all did, finding ourselves in a room now shrouded in darkness. Next to me, Mr. Sutcliffe was breathing hard. I could see nothing save a vague hint of white shirt trembling against black.

“Are you all right?” I whispered, leaning close to him.

“I—I will be fine,” he said. I could hear him move his hands off the table. He wrapped his arms around himself.

“As we begin our journey—” Madame Skorlosky’s rich tones filled the room with a pleasantly eerie chill, but my neighbor was anything but enchanted. All at once, he stood up, knocking over his chair and sending the table rocking.

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please, someone strike a lamp.”

There was a general commotion as he grew more and more upset, pleading for light. He was crashing about now, unable to see, slamming into furniture. I cringed at the sound of shattering porcelain, remembering a lovely vase that had graced an end table at the far side of the room. A match flashed, and Colin lit first the candles on the table and then a lamp, which he carried with him as he went for our friend, who had retreated to a corner, where he was crouched, trembling uncontrollably.

The party broke up soon thereafter, an uneasy feeling settling over the room. Colin took Mr. Sutcliffe home, then returned for me, finding those of us left drinking tea and barely talking. The scene had been a disturbing one.

“He’s embarrassed more than you can imagine,” he told me as we set off for our own house. “His son, who died of typhoid when he was four, had always been afraid of the dark. The fever caused some sort of hallucination, and he thought, as he lay dying, that no one would bring even a candle to him. Sutcliffe lit twelve lamps, but the boy couldn’t see any of them. He was hysterical—crying and thrashing about—and remained so until his last breath. Ever since then, Sutcliffe has faced nothing but demons of his own in the dark.”

“I can’t imagine anything more dreadful. To be unable to soothe his own child at such a moment.”

“He’d come tonight hoping to contact his family and didn’t realize the room would be dark.”

“Such awful pain,” I said. “Poor man. How does one come to terms with such torment?”

“I don’t know that it’s possible. It... forgive me, Emily, if I sound harsh. But it suggests a weakness of the mind. A degree of instability.”

“He’s suffered an incalculable tragedy.”

“And now must deal with the rest of his life. The dead are gone.” We sat in silence as the carriage rattled towards the docks. Eventually, he took my hand. “I have a confession. I’m glad the séance did not go on.”

“Why?” I asked. “I knew something was bothering you. You were looking at me in a way I haven’t seen you do in years.”

His head was lowered, but his eyes lifted up to mine. “I thought you might want to try to speak to Philip.”

“Oh, Colin.” I pulled his head onto my lap, combed through his hair with my fingers. “Whatever would make you—”

“I know you must still think of him.”

“Yes, but not like that.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s foolish.”

I bent over and kissed his head. “Not at all,” I said. “We’ve reconciled with each other’s pasts, but can’t expect that they won’t occasionally creep up on us. But you must remember, all that matters now is they served to bring us together.”

We slept far later than we had planned the following morning, scrambling to prepare to leave for the archaeological site to which Benjamin was attached, barely having time for breakfast.

“I do think it’s a pity the site’s not farther away,” I said as we rode, side by side, on horses Colin had arranged for us. “I should have liked for us to spend the night in a tent.”

“If you recall, our original plans for this excursion included you waiting in town until I determined whether the site was safe.”

“Which you did last night. I saw the reply to your wire sitting on the breakfast table.”

“Touché,” he said. “According to the director of the excavations, there’s been no trouble for some time.”

“You’ll make me positively lackadaisical if you insist on protecting me without my even knowing it,” I said.

“But you do know it. You’re clever enough that there’s no need to alert you. You’ll find out on your own.” He pointed to a dot on the horizon. “It’s there. Only about fifteen minutes more. Why don’t you tell me what else you’ve learned from Ceyden’s book of poetry?”

“Reason has no way to say / its love. Only love opens / that secret. / If you want / to be more alive, love / is the truest health.”

He smiled. “I meant her marginalia.”

“I’m making my way through it. Forgive me the occasional distraction.”

He stopped, and I did the same so he could lean over and kiss me. The sun hung high above us, but the air was cool and sweet, the wind bending the fields of wildflowers that surrounded us. Red poppies and vibrant hyacinths and a host of others I did not recognize—yellows and whites and bright oranges. “You know I never doubt you,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

“No more of that,” I said, kissing him back, flooded with a desire to never see anything change between us. “But I do fear we’re losing our focus. Come.” I urged my horse forward, quickly pulling away from him until he raced to catch me. At such a pace, we arrived at the site in short order, my excitement palpable. Although I’d seen innumerable ruins during my time in Greece, I’d not had the opportunity to visit an active dig and speak to the excavators. I hoped that once our business was finished, we would have time for an academic discussion.

Dr. Cartwright greeted us the moment we’d entered the camp, ushered us into chairs set up under a large square of canvas held up by tall poles, and offered us tea.

“We do manage to be civilized, even in the wilderness,” he said.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Colin said. “I’m hoping you can tell us about the troubles Benjamin St. Clare has had here.”

“Sporadically over the last several months he appeared to be the target of snipers—you see the hills around us.” He motioned to the mounds, littered with boulders. “Shots would come from them, seemingly out of nowhere. They were never close enough to put him in harm’s way. More of a threat than anything, I thought.”

“And you’ve no idea why he would be singled out in such a manner?” I asked.

“Not in the least.”

“Has anything been stolen from the site?” Colin asked.

“No. Nothing. We haven’t suffered from that sort of misfortune here—largely because Roman baths are not the sort of sites where one is likely to find trinkets of value. Gold, of course, is what people want.”

“So there’s been no disruption of your work aside from the attempted attacks on Benjamin?” I asked.

“None at all. I can’t begin to imagine how stressed the poor boy must be—and now with the terrible news about his sister. So sad.”

“I understand that he was not here when the messenger came,” I said. “How were you able to get in touch with him? It couldn’t have been easy, but I’m sure he very much appreciated the effort.”

“Much though I wish I could take credit, I’m afraid I can’t,” Dr. Cartwright said. “He’d left us the week before to pursue other interests. This life isn’t for everyone.”

“Left permanently?” I asked.

“Oh yes. I don’t think the decision was an easy one, but I had the impression there was a lady involved and that he was planning to get married. Given his family history, I couldn’t fault him for wanting to embark on a more traditional path.”

“Have you heard from him since the murder?” Colin asked.

“No. We’ve all sent condolences to his father. I’m sure he’ll respond when he’s ready.”

“Have you any idea as to the identity of his fiancée?” I asked. “We had no idea he was engaged.”

“I think it was quite secret. Perhaps her family didn’t approve. One never can tell with these situations. But I’m sorry, I’ve no idea who she was.”

“Was he close to any of his colleagues?” Colin shielded his eyes from the sun that was making its way under the edge of the canvas roof.

“We’re a collegial group, as you might expect given the proximity in which we live and work. You’re certainly welcome to chat with any of the boys—I know they’ll offer any assistance they can. If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you.”

While the information we gleaned from Benjamin’s compatriots did not complete our picture of the man, it was not without use. He was, evidently, a meticulous excavator with infinite patience who was never daunted by a task.

“I never saw him frustrated,” a young Englishman fresh out of Oxford told us. “His dedication inspired me. He considered nothing impossible. Which is, I suppose, why it didn’t much surprise me that he fell in love with an unattainable woman.”

“Unattainable how?” I asked.

“He never elaborated. Held his private life close, didn’t much talk about it, and when he did, never gave details.”

“Do you think she was married?”

“I assumed, naturally, that she was attached to someone else.”

“But he thought they were going to be together?” I asked.

“I can’t say that with any conviction, Lady Emily,” he said. “All I know—as did the rest of us—was that he’d decided to take a new direction in his life and returned to Constantinople.”

“He told you he would be living in the city?”

“No, I believe it was only to be a stopover. He didn’t intend to stay in Turkey.”

“Did he speak of returning to England?” I asked.

“No. He never made mention of that. Said something about France once—some small village in the south. But I don’t know that he intended to live there. Surely his father could fill you in on the details? I thought they’d patched things up after their latest falling-out.”

“We weren’t aware there had been a problem,” Colin said.

“From what I’ve seen, there had always been problems. He was tense whenever his father visited, and they inevitably descended into argument.”

“Do you know about what?” I asked.

“Benjamin’s choice to work here. Not here specifically. I suppose it would have been the same at any site. Sir Richard would have preferred that his son pursue something more civilized—or simply live the life of a gentleman. He did everything he could to put him off archaeology. I know the attacks worried him, but on some level, I think Sir Richard welcomed them. Benjamin never got hurt, but they went a long way to shattering his nerves. And now he’s moving on.” He shrugged. “So you can well imagine it did not surprise me to see them getting along better after Benjamin had decided to leave.”

“So his father knew of this plan?”

“I thought so. Sir Richard’s last visit ended more cordially than usual. I drew what I thought to be the obvious conclusion.”

After thanking him for his help, I turned to my husband. “What now?”

“You spend the rest of the day perusing the ruins,” he said. “You’ve earned a little amusement. I’m going to the village. There’s no doubt I’ll find our sniper there.”

He returned hours later, his face tanned, eyes flashing. I’d persuaded Dr. Cartwright to put me to work after he’d given me a thorough tour of the site and was bent over a pile of dirt, sifting it through a strainer. I stood to wave to Colin as he rode towards me.

“I don’t think archaeology is for me,” I said, placing the strainer on the ground. “I’m afraid I haven’t the patience for it. Did you have any luck?”

“I did. I talked to a man whose son had been hired by an elderly Englishman to shoot at a man at Cartwright’s dig but never hit him. He was emphatic about it, apparently—said if Benjamin was hurt, there’d be no pay.”

“Did he give you any further description?”

“Only that he was tall.”

“Like Sir Richard,” I said with a sigh. “This is not moving in the direction I hoped it would.”