Tears of Pearl

Chapter 16

We went to Topkapı at once. The trip across the Golden Horn was short, and the boat dropped us right at the palace docks. Inside the gates, all was quiet, as if nothing had happened, until we reached the entrance to the harem, where Colin handed Margaret and me off to Jemal. Colin could not accompany us but would interview the palace guards, search the outer courtyards, question servants and anyone who might have seen or heard something unusual.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said to Jemal, numbness temporarily replaced with surprise. “Has your assignment been changed again?”

“Not permanently,” he said. “A brief mission only.”

I thought I might crawl out of my skin. “Did you kill her?”

“Don’t be absurd. What century do you think it is?”

“I heard the sultan say he would deal with her later.”

“And now he’ll never have the chance. More’s the pity.”

I wondered about the bowstrings and revisited the possibility that Jemal had not received one but was instead the person responsible for sending them. If that was the case, who was to get the one he’d shown to Benjamin?

The silence was oppressive as we came closer to the valide sultan’s apartments, but Jemal did not take us into the rooms, instead continuing to walk until we’d reached the Courtyard of the Favorites. Bright moonlight bounced off the white plaster walls of the wood-trimmed building that contained apartments occupied by sultans long ago. The rows of wooden shutters were tightly closed, and the only sound apart from our steps on the cold stone floor was that of water pouring into the pool that edged one side of the courtyard.

Sprawled beneath the elegant oval arches of the path running along the sultan’s rooms was Bezime’s body, surrounded by a ring of guards and a handful of silent women. The color drained from Margaret’s face in an instant, and unable to offer much in the way of consolation, I took her shaking hand in mine as we approached the group. Violent death—the thin, reddish purple bruise on her neck identified it as such—offered those looking at the body no reassurance, no hint that a soul had found peaceful rest.

“How was it done?” I asked.

One of the guards bent down next to her and lifted a familiar object from the ground: a white, silken bowstring. I closed my eyes, tried to control my breath, knowing there was nothing that would still my heartbeat. “Did anyone witness the attack?”

Of course no one had. Nor had anyone seen or heard anything remotely suspicious. I questioned everyone present—Margaret by my side, unable to speak—but did not expect answers full of enlightenment. Could I doubt, even for a moment, that Bezime’s death had been sanctioned at the highest levels? Part of me wanted to run from the palace, not stopping until I’d found Colin and was safely ensconced in a compartment on the Orient Express. But at the same time, I felt the slight beginnings of a sensation I’d not known in many months: the unmistakable titillation that held firm its place next to the deepest fears.

Forcing myself to focus, I struggled to find anything of significance. After combing every inch of the courtyard and finding it devoid of anything that could be construed as evidence, I asked Jemal if I could question the other women in the palace. He did not object. Margaret hovered behind me, her hand pressed hard over her mouth.

“I’m sorry, Emily,” she said as we waited for him to begin sending them in to speak to us. “I’m all but useless. I had no idea this would be so difficult.”

“It’s appalling. There’s no other word. But if we are to find justice for Ceyden—and now Bezime as well—we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of mourning right now. Push aside what you’ve seen as best you can and help me. When we get home, we can collapse.”

Jemal stood over us as we questioned the girls. Not surprisingly, no one admitted to seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary. And none of them met my eyes during the interviews. That futile exercise complete, I turned back to the eunuch.

“Where are the police? Have they already been through?”

“No. This is a simple harem matter. No use troubling the police.”

“So it’s an ordinary day in the harem when someone is murdered?” I asked. “Come, Jemal, I’m not so naïve. This was an execution, was it not?”

“You’ve been reading too many books, Lady Emily.”

“Is there no interest in finding out who killed her?” I asked. Margaret, still quiet, was methodically tugging at her gloves.

“The sultan will come here tomorrow, and the killer will confess,” Jemal said.

“What assignment were you sent here to do?”

“It is not for your ears.”

“Where was your loyalty? To Bezime or Perestu?”

He laughed. “You believe those to be the options?”

“Then tell me who has your allegiance,” I said.

“The sultan, of course. Do you not understand who he is? That he rules all of us?”

“Of course I do, Jemal, but I find I no longer believe anything you say.” Our search had yielded nothing of interest, leaving only one thing to be done. “Has someone searched the body for clues?”

“Was it not obvious how she died?” he asked.

“Not to determine the manner of death, but to see if she had with her anything of interest. May I look for myself?”

We returned to the site of the murder, and with great effort, I forced myself to go through Bezime’s clothing. It sickened me to disturb her ill-used body, but I had no choice in the matter and began my search. She had no pockets, no jewelry with hidden compartments, and had dropped nothing near where she fell, at least nothing that remained. I expected her skin to have lost its warmth but was surprised and horrified by its almost inhuman smoothness. She was like a polished stone, and I fought back tears as I patted her sleeves and bodice until I felt something strange against her abdomen. With trembling fingers, I opened the front of her gown; she’d been dressed for bed. There, stitched to her camisole, was a slim pouch. I pulled an embroidery scissors from my reticule, cut the seam, and removed the superfluous fabric. Inside were five folded sheets of papers—letters.

“What have you found?” Jemal asked. “Hand it over, please.”

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“You will give them to me now,” he said.

“No. I will read them myself and determine whether they are pertinent to the case. And as there’s nothing more to be done here tonight, I’m going home to mourn Bezime. Will you please keep me abreast of funeral arrangements?”

“Stunned. I’m stunned,” I said, stacking the letters in a neat pile next to Ceyden’s book of poetry. “I expected them to be from Murat’s vizier.”

We had returned to the yalı, and much though I wanted to collapse and weep, I pushed myself to work instead, not wanting to miss a detail that might lead us to capture the man who had killed Bezime and, no doubt, Ceyden.

“Who, then?” Colin asked.

“They were all written in English—perfect English—in the handwriting of a gentleman. And Ceyden’s notes refer to events cited in the letters.”

“Benjamin?” Margaret asked.

“I did confirm with him this afternoon that he was involved in the rescue of concubines following a boating accident in the Bosphorus,” Colin said. “I’ve not had the chance to update you.”

“Did he admit to falling in love with one of them?” I asked. “Or say anything that gives a clue as to the identity of his lover?”

“No, nor did he admit to noticing that Ceyden was among the girls he helped.”

“He’s trying to hide it, of course,” I said. “He’s mortified that he didn’t know it was his sister.”

“That’s possible. Margaret?” My friend was sitting, arms wrapped tight around her, her face gray. “Are you all right?”

“It’s cold out here, isn’t it?” she asked.

The night had grown chilly, and the air off the water biting. I rang for a servant, and within moments we had steaming cups of salep, a thick, white drink made from the dried tubers of orchids that reminded me of tapioca.

Margaret looked as if she were suffering from shock. Colin draped a soft blanket over her shoulders and asked her if she wanted to go to bed; we had plenty of room for her. She declined, insisting that she wanted to sit with us.

“I will manage to make myself useful,” she said.

“What do we have?” Colin asked. “Perestu’s reaction to finding her ring in Ceyden’s room. Notes in Ceyden’s hand and letters possibly—most likely—in Benjamin’s.”

“And what of Sir Richard?” I asked. “Am I really to believe that all the strange happenings around him are coincidental?”

“I’m afraid we’re beginning to diverge here, Emily.” Colin warmed his hands around his glass. “It’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe that Sir Richard’s troubles—minus those connected with Ceyden’s death—are due to anything but his own mental decline.”

“How can you say that? He has lost his daughter,” I said.

“Don’t forget the attacks on Benjamin,” Colin said. “Perhaps he did order them. We may be dealing with a man losing his grip on reality.”

I slept only sporadically that night, dreaming of Bezime, waking up sweat-soaked and gasping for air, clinging to Colin. Sadness I had expected, along with fear and horror. But the anxiety consuming me was unlike anything I’d previously experienced—for it came with a feeling of dread that shouted to me, putting me on notice that Bezime had been right, that I was on a bad path, and that a terrible outcome was inevitable.

Not wanting to wake up my husband, I buried my sobs in my pillow, trying to lie as still as I could. Realizing sleep was not going to come, I slipped out of bed and into the hallway. I would go downstairs and read where the light would not disturb Colin. Before I’d reached the sitting room, however, I heard a rustling noise at the end of the corridor. I froze, listening. The yalı was not laid out like a typical European house, and my dressing room was not connected to the bedroom but attached to the hamam-like marble bath on the ground floor. The noise was coming from there.

I debated my options, distracted only by the sound of my heart leaping out of my chest. My knees trembled, my stomach churned, and sweat dripped down the back of my neck. Moonlight filled the hall, and something sparkled on the floor—glass from a shattered window. I heard the swoosh of wood against wood as drawers opened, more rustling, then dull steps. I looked back to the stairs, wondering if I could reach them before whoever was inside found me. There was nowhere to hide, and I was not about to confront a stranger in my house. Holding my breath, I gathered the skirt of my nightgown in my hand and sprinted back upstairs, praying I’d been quiet enough.

Colin woke at once and stormed out of the room without hesitating. He called for me to come down only a few moments later. Our intruder was gone, and with him all my jewelry, the lock on its case forced open. We sent for the police at once. They were apologetic and embarrassed and assured us the city was generally safe, but admitted the chances of recovering any of the stolen goods or the culprit were slim at best.

I was unnerved, more so than my husband, who ushered me back to bed and held me until he fell asleep. I’d been the victim of theft before and knew well how vulnerable the experience would leave me. This was another most unwelcome distraction for a honeymoon. I wanted it all to stop; to have a moment of peace. Feelings of fear and violation kept me awake the remainder of the night, leaving me with nothing to do but pray for respite, repeating my silent words over and over until they were met by the sound of the muezzin singing the morning’s first call to prayer.

14 April 1892

Darnley House, Kent

My dear daughter,

I write not to alarm you, but to keep you informed on the topic regarding which I am certain you are keenly interested. The physician saw Ivy today, and is concerned by her lack of strength—particularly as she seems to be growing weaker with each passing day. I pray that she will manage and come through this as well as possible.

This is something about which we must speak plainly, as it is a part of life that cannot be avoided. At present, there is no need for you to think of coming here—I know from Colin’s wire to Robert that you were considering it. I will, of course, send you word at once if the situation grows more serious.

Do all you can to enjoy your wedding trip. It won’t be long until you’re going through a confinement of your own. And as you are as obstinate and stubborn a person as I have known, there is no question that you will sail through it with an ease that borders on indecent.

I am, your loving and devoted mother,

C. Bromley