The Sultan's seal

13

Kamil and Sybil sit opposite each other in the reception room. He is eager to talk and has refused the inevitable offer of tea. He avoids looking at Sybil and keeps his mind resolutely on the purpose of his visit. To his relief, Sybil is dressed demurely in a china-blue gown.

“Sybil Hanoum, you said you were here when Hannah Simmons was killed.”

“I thought you were looking into Mary’s death. Is there some connection?”

“I don’t know. There may not be, but I’d like to be sure. I spoke yesterday with the police superintendent that handled the case. Perhaps you might remember something more.”

Sybil looks thoughtful, then says slowly, apologetically, “Perhaps I wrongly disparaged the police. Mother couldn’t find out very much either. Hannah was last seen in the harem nursery, reading to the children.”

“Did you know her?”

“She must have come ’round the embassy, but I don’t remember ever meeting her.”

“Who was her employer?”

“Mother said she was hired by Asma Sultan. But there are usually other women in the harem too.”

“Do you know who else?”

“No, but I can try to find out. I’ll send a note to Asma Sultan and ask to call on her.”

“There’s no need for you to do that,” Kamil says quickly. “I’d rather you didn’t. I mean, I don’t know what is involved, or who. It could be dangerous.”

“You can’t talk to the women, so maybe I can find out something useful. I’ll only go for tea, not to put my head on the block,” she jokes.

Kamil doesn’t smile.

They sit silently for a few moments, each lost in thought.

“Poor Hannah,” Sybil says finally. “Mother wrote a letter to Hannah’s parents in Bournemouth, explaining as delicately as she could what had happened to their daughter, but never received an answer. We buried her in the English cemetery in Haidar Pasha.”

“It is terribly sad,” he says awkwardly. “So you know nothing about Hannah Hanoum’s family?”

“We were able to learn nothing at all. Except for a few people’s memory of her, it’s as if she never existed.” Sybil turns her face away.

Kamil dismisses an impulse to take Sybil’s hand and comfort her.

“She must have family somewhere that remembers her,” he reassures her. “And she did have a memorable life, at least while she was among us. After all, it’s not every day that a young Englishwoman comes to Istanbul to work for the royal family. Surely there were good things in her life that made it worth living. That served her better than someone’s memory of her after she was gone.”

“I suppose you’re right. I wonder what happened to her belongings. I remember they were sent here to the embassy. I doubt Father would know. He doesn’t concern himself with that sort of thing. Mother would have dealt with it. There’s a room off the kitchen where she stored odd things. Why don’t we look there?” Sybil straightens in her chair and gives him a small smile, cheered by the prospect of a common task.

The kitchen maid stands by the door, mouth open, as Kamil and Sybil pull out endless jars of preserved peaches and jams that had been stacked at the front of the shelves in the storage room, obscuring a variety of neatly arranged objects: an old marble mantel clock surmounted by a gold eagle; three dented copper bowls with worn tinning; a box of silver spoons; and, at the back of the lowest shelf, a suitcase tied shut with string. Attached to the handle is a neat label addressed in a spidery hand: “Hannah Simmons, d. 1878. Belongings. Unable to forward.”

Kamil carries the suitcase to the kitchen table. Sybil gestures for the maid to leave.

“Let’s see what’s in it.” Sybil pulls the case toward her and begins to worry the string. Kamil takes a short, horn-handled knife from his jacket pocket. He slices the string, opens the suitcase, and gently lifts its contents onto the table: two plain dresses, a pair of lace-up shoes, a chased-silver brush set, a pair of embroidered Turkish slippers, and some documents.

“The remnants of a life,” Sybil muses sadly. “So little.”

Kamil runs his fingers around the edge of the suitcase’s lining. He finds an opening and tugs at it, revealing a small velvet box inside a hollow space behind the lock. Kamil pulls the box out and lays it on the table. He stands abruptly and goes to a large clay jar in the corner of the room, removes the lid, and dips in the tinned copper cup attached by a chain. When he has drunk his fill, he replaces the lid and returns to the table.

Kamil pries the latch back with his thumbnail and swings the lid open. Inside is a padded nest of blue silk, a round indentation in its center. Kamil reaches into his pocket and brings out the pendant found around Mary Dixon’s neck. He settles it gently into the impression. It is a perfect fit, as he knew it would be.