Tears of Pearl

Chapter 2

Constantinople was like an exotic dream full of spice and music and beauty—the scent of cardamom blew through the streets like a fresh wind—but at the same time, it had a distinct and surprising European feel. The cobbled streets, winding at seemingly random angles through the city, teemed with gentlemen, as many wearing top hats as were in dark red fezzes. Stray cats darted in front of us with alarming frequency, slinking confidently in search of their next meal, while brazen shopkeepers called out, inviting us into stores brimming with Eastern treasures. Noise filled every inch of the air: seagulls crying, carts clattering, voices arguing in foreign tongues.

Before us, the choppy silver blue waters of the Golden Horn—the estuary slicing through the European section of the city—stood mere paces from the station. Boats tied too close knocked together down the length of battered docks, only the larger vessels meriting the space to stay safely untouched. One among them waited for us, but I did not pause to identify it, heading instead for the Galata Bridge, making my way through the crush of carriages in the road, Colin’s hand firm on my arm. We paused to pay the toll—a pittance—and walked until we reached the midpoint of the pontoon-supported structure.

“I like being able to see two continents,” I said, watching Colin as his eyes swept the Asian shore far across the Bosphorus from us. “It gives an intrinsic satisfaction I’ve not before experienced.”

“Seraglio Point, on the European side.” Colin nodded towards the shore from which we’d come. “The spires of Topkapı Palace are there”—he pointed—“and farther this way, the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya.” The minarets of the holy buildings jutted into the crisp sky with mathematical precision, rising from the crowds of smaller stone structures. Gulls circled and dove, careening around the minarets and then pausing to coast on the air, as if catching their breath before darting off again. Trees surrounded the palace, its far-off buildings the only break in a sea of green.

“Topkapı looks marvelous, even from a distance,” I said. “Perhaps I shall be kidnapped and given to the sultan and live out the rest of my years there.” A few paces from me, a fisherman pulled up his line and dropped his flopping catch into an already full bucket. All around us, men were doing the same, and the air fell heavy with the oily, salty scent of their bounty.

“He should be so lucky.” Our eyes met and lingered, and the most pleasant sort of warmth pulsed through me. “But you wouldn’t be—the court is no longer at Topkapı. There’s a new palace.”

“I could stand here all day,” I said. To our north, the neighborhoods of Pera stretched to the hills, and the Galata Tower, the last remnant of a fourteenth-century fort, stood tall above tier after tier of creamy rose-and-white houses.

“I’ve other plans for you.” After bestowing upon me a deliciously discreet kiss that in an instant promised untold delights, Colin led me back to the docks, and in short order we had climbed aboard a small caïque rowed by two sturdy men. They moved with a grace I would not have expected from persons so muscular, pulling through water rough enough to make me wish for the stability of a large ship. As the Golden Horn opened to the wide expanse of the Bosphorus, I began to feel queasy bouncing up and down on erratic waves.

Houses packed the Asian shore as tightly as the European, but as we traveled north, they grew larger—yalıs, mansions built as summer homes for the city’s elite. Some were spectacular, others in distressing states of disrepair, but all came right to the edge of the water, which lapped against terraces perfect for watching the light change as the sun set. Colin had rented one for us that was a vision of romantic perfection: bright white with a peaked red roof and elaborately delicate gingerbread trimwork on the myriad windows, pillars, and balconies gracing the eighteenth-century façade. I stepped, unsteady, off the boat, the fatigue of travel exacerbated by the rough crossing. Nonetheless, I was ready to explore the interior.

The rooms were leagues more refined and elegant than my villa in Greece and entirely different from the sort of luxury I was used to in England. Overstuffed pillows sheathed in silk covered low sofas, and the carpets were soft and spectacular, Anatolian, with designs of leaves and hyacinths twined together, their colors blending beneath an almost translucent sheen. Even pieces that at home would have been fashioned from simple wood were full of exquisite detail: every table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ebony. An exotic retreat, full of delicious comforts. We collapsed, exhausted, and slept scandalously late the next morning.

“Mail at breakfast?” I asked, watching Meg hand Colin a stack of ivory envelopes as I dropped into a chair on our balcony. “It’s as if we’re still in England.”

“Far from it,” Colin said. I followed his gaze out to the water, where the sun danced across the Bosphorus. Scores of boats glided with breezy ease, showing no hint of the dangerous currents that had wreaked havoc on my stomach the previous day.

“Hmmm. I suppose you’re right.” As if the view were not enough to convince me, trays of decidedly un-English breakfast foods covered the table: thick yogurt drizzled with honey, pomegranate seeds, sliced fruits I did not recognize, sesame-seed-covered pastries filled with cheese and spinach. I cracked the shell of a hard-cooked egg and sprinkled salt over it. “What shall we do today?”

“Sir Richard has written to invite us to the palace this evening. Apparently the sultan is an opera fan. There’s to be a production of La Traviata at his private theater. A Western score, perhaps, but dare I hope the possibility of being one of only a handful of European ladies to meet His Eminence and seeing the interior of Yıldız Palace might be enough to entice you?”

Entice me it did, and before the sun had set, we had made our way across the Bosphorus to the theater. Newly built for the sultan, it was gorgeous, though disappointingly European. European, that is, if one ignored the elaborately carved wooden screens that shielded members of the harem from the view of the rest of the audience. But if a person were to focus solely on the rich velvet curtain and ornately gilded boxes, it would be easy to imagine oneself at Covent Garden. Until, that is, the last act, when strains of Verdi succumbed to something wholly out of place.

“What on earth is this?” I leaned forward.

“Is it Gilbert and Sullivan?” Colin asked as the composer’s tender notes were replaced by a melody far too cheerful for La Traviata. In tonight’s production, Violetta did not die in her lover’s arms after a heartbreaking separation and lengthy illness. Instead, her consumption vanished the moment she drank a potion handily supplied by an obliging physician. “Do you think anyone’s told Verdi?”

“It’s The Mikado.” I leaned close and kept my voice low, breathing in the faint scent of tobacco lingering on his jacket as I tried to ignore a tremor in my core that was dangerously close to erupting in loud laughter.

“Of course. I recognize the song: ‘Here’s a how-de-do!’ Appalling. They’ve usurped Verdi.” Violetta, Alfredo, and this brilliant and mysterious man of science who had made their joy possible joined their voices in an ebullient trio, Mr. Gilbert’s lyrics replaced with ones appropriate to the new and theoretically improved scene.

“Only think what we might accomplish had we access to this sort of miracle cure,” I whispered, flipping my opera glasses closed.

Sir Richard, seated in the row behind us, leaned forward. “The sultan has no patience for unhappy endings. And when one who is the absolute ruler of an empire—a man claiming both secular and spiritual control over people who, technically, are little more than his slaves—has no patience for something, it is forbidden.”

I bit back laughter and glanced across the spectacular theater to the royal box, where Abdül Hamit II sat, nodding, an enormous smile on his face. Next to him was Perestu, the valide sultan—the sultan’s mother—the most powerful woman in the empire. Her petite body still showed signs of the beauty she’d possessed in her youth, and although many of the women in the harem were said to have adopted a Westernized sort of dress, Perestu clung to traditional outfits that were at once elegant and, to European eyes, exotic. Tonight she wore a long, slender dress fashioned from green silk, heavily embroidered with gold thread, wide sleeves hanging over her wrists to her fingertips, a short-sleeved, sheer black robe covering the gown. Her long dark hair hung in two braids down her back, and on her head sat a headdress, reminiscent of a small fez, draped in muslin, an enormous ruby pinned to its front. Rings graced each of the fingers on her henna-painted hands. Her regal bearing surpassed any I’d seen before. Behind the royal pair, four menacing guards stood against the back wall, their thick arms crossed, no hint of amusement on their faces.

“ ‘Here’s a pretty mess! / In a month, or less, / I must die without a wedding! / Let the bitter tears I’m shedding / Witness my distress,’ ” Colin sang under his breath as the applause faded after the curtain fell. “The proper words are much better.”

“Agreed,” I said, slipping my arm through his and dropping my head onto his shoulder as we made our way out of the theater. “I prefer Violetta’s untimely demise to this happy ending.”

“Bloody unromantic of you.”

“I’m a beast, you know,” I said.

“It’s why I married you.” We’d stepped outside, falling behind the sultan and his entourage. The night was warm for spring, the air heavy with humidity and the sweet scent of flowers. Above us, stars dangled, so dazzling bright that I felt certain they could compete with the moon. “Now, if we can just slip away before—”

A ragged, sharp cry pierced the night, and in an instant silence fell over the gay crowd on the theater steps. The garden around us seemed darker, and the stars lost all their brightness. The screaming continued, but now it was accompanied by the sound of slippers on gravel, and I turned to see a beautiful young woman, dark hair streaming behind her in a tangled mess, running towards us.

“Come! Help! Please!” she cried, pausing only long enough to speak, then running again. Before she had covered more than a few yards, two of the sultan’s muscular guards stopped her. She struggled against them, and words that I could not hear were exchanged. Abdül Hamit stepped forward, and she flung herself onto the ground in front of him, all but grabbing his feet as the valide sultan watched. He muttered something, and the girl stood, shaking, not looking directly at him. His words appeared to soothe her, but before she could respond, a circle of guards surrounded him and the group disappeared into the night.

“Need to keep the sultan safe if there’s trouble,” came Sir Richard’s voice from behind me. “He grows more paranoid with each passing day. There’s no one in the empire he’s not having watched.”

“Should that make me feel safe or threatened?” I asked. Perestu had remained behind, taking the girl firmly by the arm and ordering the remaining guards to give her space as we all started down a path lit by a series of gilded torches. They obeyed at once. Colin dropped my arm and went towards them, catching up with a few long strides. I started to follow him, but Sir Richard stopped me.

“What do you think you’re doing? If there’s danger, we must get you back to your house at once.”

“I can’t imagine I’m in the slightest danger here,” I said. “There are guards everywhere.” I set off after Colin as quickly as my evening shoes would allow, frowning when a heel caught in the gravel and my ankle twisted fiercely. All the while I was fighting a stitch in my side caused, no doubt, by my tightly laced corset. I’d expected clothing to be an impediment to honeymoon bliss, but not like this.

Sir Richard caught up to me almost at once and gripped my wrist, a handful of sullen-looking men wearing fezzes trailing behind us. “I won’t let you go alone,” he said. “She’s from the harem. One of the concubines.” I strained to get a better look at the woman, ignoring the pain in my ankle, but she was too far ahead.

“How do you know?”

“It was obvious from her exchange with the sultan. She—” He stopped. We’d reached a small garden. Bright red bougainvillea cascaded from tall stone walls, and an elaborate fountain, carved in the shape of a fish, stood in the center of a smooth marble pavement. The pulse of falling water, soft but insistent, bounced off the walls and warded off the silence that descended upon us as we all froze, horrified at the sight before us.

A body was splayed on the ground, facedown, red gold hair shimmering in the torches’ dancing light, a ghastly contrast to the inhuman stillness of the form. My throat burned and my stomach clenched, the sweet smell of the flowers now cloying. The valide sultan, who was standing next to the woman who’d brought us to this scene, took her hand and led her away, back towards the palace. No doubt she imagined the girl had seen enough. Colin bent down and brushed the hair away from the injured woman’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

As he did this, Sir Richard came forward, unsteady on his feet. He knelt next to the body, his breath ragged, and pushed Colin out of the way.

“Sir Richard?” I followed and put a hand on his shoulder; he was trembling.

“No,” he said. “No. It’s not possible. It’s not—” He gathered up her hair, twisting it gently off her neck, revealing alabaster white skin and a striking tattoo: a grid like that used to play noughts and crosses, but set at an angle with three letters beneath it. “Ceyden, my dear girl. No,” he cried out, his voice sharp with pain.

He gingerly turned over the body and studied the girl’s face, her deep blue eyes staring blankly at the night sky, a thin purple bruise spanning her throat. All emotion fell from his face, wrinkles smoothed, his skin blanched, as he cradled her lifeless head in his arms.

His voice broke and shattered. “She is the daughter who was stolen from me twenty years ago.”

Sir Richard’s response to this horrific scene scared me. He raged at those around him, unwilling to let anyone touch his daughter. Despite his thin frame, he pushed off the guards, who stood, awkward, casting uncertain glances at the growing crowd in the courtyard. Colin was speaking to the man in charge, and nearly everyone who’d been in the theater was now pushing into the garden, agitated murmurs and whispers dull replacements for the soothing sound of the fountain. A man in evening dress, his tie askew, hair rumpled, stepped forward and crossed to the largest of the guards.

“May I offer any assistance? I am an old friend.” He faced Sir Richard, taking him by the shoulders and giving a soft shake. “I know your pain all too well. Lashing out will not help right now.”

“How could I have so failed her?” Sir Richard said, shrugging him off and turning back to his daughter. He stood only for a moment before he collapsed, sobbing, over her body. I knelt beside him, knowing there were no words that could offer meaningful comfort. The guards began to clear out the area, demanding that everyone save the grieving father leave. I asked if I could stay with him, as did his friend—who introduced himself to me.

“Theodore Sutcliffe,” he said, keeping his voice low as Sir Richard answered whatever questions the guards were asking. “I’ve known the old boy for years—we’re both at the embassy.”

“How lucky for him to find a friend near at such a moment,” I said. “Are you close?”

“We’ve both lost children.”

“I’m sorry. I—” I stumbled over the words, not sure how to deal with yet more tragedy. Colin interrupted before I was able to offer my condolences.

“Take him to the house,” he said. “They’re going to need to examine the body—I don’t want him to witness that. I’ll be along as soon as it’s finished.”

“Of course,” I said. “Mr. Sutcliffe, would you come with us? It might comfort him to have you there as well.”

“I shall be with him at every step. He won’t be alone in his sad journey.”

When we arrived at the yalı, I plied Sir Richard with hot orange blossom water—white coffee, a beverage the cook who came with the house insisted was a panacea—while Mr. Sutcliffe sat beside him, a quiet partner in sorrow.

“I wish I could offer you port,” I said, pouring another cup of the pale, steaming liquid. Port was my own preferred beverage. I’d first tried it merely to make a point. After dinner, ladies were supposed to be herded out of the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to their liquor, cigars, and, most important, conversation deemed inappropriate for the gentle ears of the fairer sex. Knowing full well this was just the sort of talk I’d love to hear, I’d decided, while in mourning for Philip, to refuse to be exiled to the drawing room at a dinner party of my own. The discourse on that occasion was sadly limited, as my male guests were, on the whole, stunned, but the port seduced me at once. And gradually, the gentlemen of my acquaintance came to accept my eccentricity and welcomed me for the after-dinner ritual.

“I assure you, it makes no difference, Lady Emily,” Sir Richard said. “The choice of beverage at such a moment is wholly irrelevant. Everything is useless now.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “It was too late for you to have done anything.”

“Had I only known she was here!”

“You couldn’t have,” his friend said. “The sultan himself wouldn’t have known who she was. After all these years, there probably wasn’t anything English left in her.”

“She was my daughter, Theodore.”

“I did not mean to offend. Only to say that even those close to her most likely had no idea of her heritage.”

“They should have known! I had everyone in the empire on alert to find her.”

“She was kidnapped, Richard,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “Undoubtedly her assailants waited until the furor had died down to... sell her.”

“It’s barbaric, all of it,” I said, relieved to see Colin enter the room and save me from saying more on the subject. He nodded to me and shook our guests’ hands.

“I’ve been to the embassy and arranged for a message to be sent to your son at once,” he said, sitting across from Sir Richard. “He’s sure to come as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you.” The older man placed the glass teacup on its bronze saucer. “Has there been an arrest?” Ottoman justice was swift. Even before we’d left the grounds of the palace, one of the eunuch guards from the harem had been fingered as the most likely suspect in the murder.

“I’m afraid so,” Colin said. “He was standing sentry by her room—”

“She wasn’t killed anywhere near her room,” I said.

“Quite right.” He refused the cup of white coffee I offered him. “But that doesn’t seem to factor into the charges against him. He was responsible for her safety. She’s dead, and everyone seems to agree it’s his fault.”

“But is there any evidence?” I asked.

“None,” Colin replied.

“He’ll be executed,” Sir Richard said. “And the brute who murdered my daughter will never be brought to justice.”

“Now, now,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “The guard may well be guilty. Don’t leap to conclusions. She shouldn’t have been able to leave the harem, correct? Who let her out? Possibly the same person who killed her?”

“Sir Richard, are you quite certain it’s Ceyden?” I hated asking the question; my skin felt stinging hot. “You haven’t seen her since she was a child, and it’s possible that—”

“There can be no doubt. All these years I’ve been here, in the same city, and never knew she was so close.” He closed his eyes, rubbed a hand hard over them.

“Maybe it wasn’t her,” I said. “It’s possible that—”

“No. It was Ceyden. When she’d fallen ill during our travels, Assia begged me to have her tattooed. It’s common Berber practice, the medicinal use of tattoos. Half black magic, half ancient doctoring, I suppose. In the end, I decided it wouldn’t hurt. Never was able to deny Assia anything. So I got her ink and needles and she did it herself.”

“And you saw that tattoo tonight?” I asked.

“Yes. There’s no doubt. Because when Assia had finished, I was so taken with the steadiness of her hand that I told her to add her initials, as if she were signing a painting. She didn’t want to, but I convinced her. It was there, on her neck: ASC. There can be no mistake.” He clasped his hands together, pulled them apart, rubbed his palms, then started again. “I need her murderer to be brought to justice, Hargreaves. Can I rely on you to help me?”

“I’ve already sought permission from our government and don’t doubt that I’ll receive it.”

“Justice in such a case must be achieved at any cost. There is no crime more reprehensible than one that causes a person to lose his child,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “But will the sultan allow foreign intervention?”

“We should be able to persuade him to allow us at least a brief investigation,” Colin said. “The girl was, after all, half English.”

“I will have to count on you, Hargreaves,” Sir Richard said.

“There’s only one obstacle that I foresee,” Colin said. “There’s no chance I’ll be allowed to interview anyone in the harem. I’ll need the assistance of a lady.”

“What luck you have,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I believe you’re well acquainted with someone quite capable of undertaking the task.”

He smiled. “You’d be working in an official capacity, Emily. No running about doing whatever you wish. And I’ll have to get approval—”

“Your wife is an investigator as well?” Mr. Sutcliffe’s eyebrows shot upward.

“She’s solved three murders,” Colin said. His words were true, but I’d not before acted on behalf of the government. I’d only helped friends—and myself—in dire times when there was no other option. My stomach flipped, excitement competing with nerves for my attention. After the work I’d done in Vienna the previous winter, he’d spoken to his superiors at Buckingham Palace about me, and they’d agreed that my skills might prove useful to the government in the future—but only if I was partnering with my husband, and only if the job could not be done in the absence of feminine assistance. I’m quite certain they were convinced no such circumstance would ever come to pass.

“I’m not sure that I approve. Not that I doubt your talents, Lady Emily, but I cannot ask that you endanger yourself.” The creases on Sir Richard’s brow deepened. “But I suppose I have no choice but to graciously accept any assistance you can offer. I’ve now lost my daughter twice. I cannot let this insult go unpunished.”

3 April 1892

Darnley House, Kent

My Dearest Emily,

I hope this letter finds you lost in the throes of connubial bliss. It was such a delight to see you and Colin—without question the best diversion I’ve had in months. Would that you’d been able to stay longer! I do, though, completely understand your desire to remove yourself from your parents’ house, and I cannot be stern with you for having abandoned me. In fact, after the service you provided Robert and me in Vienna, I could hardly be stern with you on any subject. I’m not precisely sure what etiquette demands as the proper thanks for rescuing one’s husband from prison and a charge of murder. Have you any suggestions?

I still can hardly believe Robert was ever suspected of such a crime—how anyone could think my dear husband would kill his own mentor is utterly beyond my comprehension. It was terrifying to see how quickly those around him abandoned him. If you hadn’t been willing to pursue the investigation with such vigor, I’m quite certain I’d be swathed in mourning.

I must confess that at present it feels as if I’ll never be able to leave your parents. Robert’s business still keeps him in town, and your mother refuses to let me return alone to our estate. I appreciate her generous concern, but must admit that confinement with her is like being violently tamed by an unstoppable force of nature. I do fear for you, Emily, when your own time comes. There’s not enough paper in England for me to list all she’s doing to ensure I have a boy, but I can tell you that I’m quite tired of having beef broth forced on me six times a day.

Every corridor and nook in this house reminds me of the pleasant days you and I spent together as children. Just this morning I pried open that loose board in the solarium floor—the one we begged the butler not to have fixed—and found the box we’d hidden there long ago. Do you remember? In it there’s a copy of Candide, a badly written statement pertaining to the outrage we felt at not being allowed to pursue employment as pirates, and a splendid collection of small rocks. All things considered, I do believe we’ve done well to abandon our thoughts of pirating.

Give Colin my best, and implore him to take care of you. I don’t want to hear any stories of you being embroiled in intrigue while you’re away.

I am, your most devoted friend, etc.,

Ivy Brandon