The Abyssinian Proof

32

The messenger was waiting for them at Fatih station. The note was from Battles, asking Kamil to come immediately to the Customs House at Karaköy. Abdullah had taken the initiative to send a messenger to look for him. Perhaps he had underestimated Abdullah, Kamil thought, as he washed the grime from his face and hands.

A visibly distraught Battles met Kamil and Omar at the door to the customs building. He led them around a crowd of disembarking passengers, past scarlet-coated British guards, to a dock where a large black and red steamer was being loaded. A line of smoke trickled upward from its fat chimney.

Battles took them down into the hold, which was piled high with sacks and bundles. These were bound with thick twine, the ends of which were encased in fragments of lead into which had been impressed the official seal. Several large trunks stood open, their seals broken. The air was dank and musty. Oil lamps hung from the low ceiling, their flames burning fitfully, as if gasping for air.

“He’s been using the diplomatic pouch to send whole trunkloads back to England,” Battles exclaimed, drawing his hand across his streaks of hair and setting them adrift. “He’s been doing it for months. Delivered them right to the docks and told the staff it was official embassy post. He had the seals, so no one questioned him. Take a look at this.” He led them to one of the open trunks. It was crammed with objects hastily flung together, a tangle of religious objects, jewelry, and coins.

“Where the devil did he get all this stuff?” Battles huffed. “If you hadn’t asked me to look into Owen’s shipments, we’d never have caught on.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating forehead. “How did you know?”

Kamil was busy examining the contents of the hold and didn’t answer.

On two of the chests, Kamil found tags with the address: Mr. Lionel Rettingate, 58 Smythe Street, Kensington. He called Omar over to show him. “Scotland Yard will love this. Here’s the proof they need to shut down the other end of this business.” The seal was impressed with the initials VR. Did Lionel Rettingate have a brother? Kamil checked the other trunks, then the sacks. All the seals had the initials VR on them, regardless of address.

“Whose initials are these?” he asked Battles.

Battles looked shocked. “Victoria Regina, of course,” he spluttered. “Queen Victoria.”

“Naturally.” Feeling slightly foolish, Kamil leaned into the first trunk addressed to Rettingate and went through the contents more carefully, then did the same with the second. Omar busied himself with slicing open the sacks, ignoring Battles’s distress. Kamil thought Omar was enjoying himself.

After a few minutes, Kamil plucked out a diamond-studded chalice and held it up for Omar to see. “Fatih Mosque,” he announced with enormous satisfaction.

Omar unclasped a box and unwrapped the small bundle inside. He called Kamil over and handed him a tiny icon, an exquisitely painted Madonna and child.

“With a little patience, the egg on the ground becomes a bird in the sky,” Omar remarked with satisfaction.

Kamil felt elated. This discovery would do more to quell the unrest in the streets than the entire Ottoman army. He wrapped the icon carefully and put it back in its box.

They returned to their search.

“Hold on a moment, what’s this?” Kamil pulled something from a trunk, a misshapen silver object with niello engraving. It was Malik’s stolen reliquary.

He and Omar grinned at each other.

“Hail to the Queen,” Kamil declared, but quietly so Battles didn’t hear.