The Winter Thief

24

The meager afternoon light barely lit the parlor where Mrs. Swyndon sat on the sofa, clutching a glass of whiskey. She was dressed in a floral gown that seemed oddly out of season. Her hair was swept up into two gray wings held back with combs.

“We have good news about your husband, Mrs. Swyndon,” Kamil said.

“Yes, one of your men told me.”

Kamil and Omar exchanged a puzzled look. “Who?” Kamil asked.

“The man from the police,” Mrs. Swyndon said, outraged. “Don’t you know your own people? Is this some kind of joke you play on foreigners?”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Kamil said in a tone of voice he used for calming skittish horses. “We’re glad that you received the good news.”

“Would you please describe the man who was here?” Omar added.

Mollified, she reached for a decanter and refilled her glass. She held the whiskey out to them, but Kamil and Omar declined. “You’re Muslims, of course. I forgot.” She got up and went to the window, looking down at the silver waters of the Bosphorus. “What a lovely view. I’ll be sorry to leave it.”

Omar repeated the question.

“Oh, yes, I’m so sorry. He was tall, with dark hair. His face was pockmarked. And he had one of those sharp little beards and a mustache.” She laughed. “Well, except for the pockmarks, that about describes the entire male population of Istanbul, doesn’t it?”

“May I speak with your nanny, Bridget?” Kamil asked.

“The nanny, whatever for? Anyway”-she waved her glass-“the girl’s gone off her head for some reason. The native maid gave her a potion to calm her down. As soon as she’s well enough, she’ll be on the next boat to England. My sister warned me about engaging a cripple, and now not only is there no one to watch Alberta, but the staff have to take care of the nanny as well.”

“What do you mean by ‘off her head’?”

“The cook found her curled inside the cupboard, her arms full of blood. Seems she’d been cutting at herself with a kitchen knife. Nothing deep, just enough to get our attention. As if we didn’t pay her enough attention. Can you imagine? I mean, she’s a servant. It’s pathetic.” She refilled her glass. “Frightened Alberta half to death. She was screaming like a banshee.”

“I’d like to see Bridget nonetheless.” Kamil struggled to keep his rising annoyance from his voice. He saw Omar glance at him with what he guessed was amusement.

“She’s not speaking. Probably ashamed at all the trouble she’s caused.” She led Kamil and Omar down a corridor to a room at the back of the house. Kamil was glad to leave the claustrophobic atmosphere of the parlor, but the sight of the nanny’s room infuriated him further. A water stain spread across the ceiling and part of one wall, and the yellow paint was peeling. The wardrobe was missing a door, and the girl’s paltry bits of clothing were on display. Still, someone had covered Bridget with a brightly stitched quilt. The girl’s bandaged arm lay on top of it. Her face was white and clammy, and her eyes twitched beneath the closed lids.

“She’s feverish,” Kamil said. “Have you sent for a physician?”

“The Turkish maid sent for one of the local healers.” Kamil saw Mrs. Swyndon’s hand stroke the cover admiringly, an acquisitive look in her eye.

“Madame”-Kamil turned on her-“a local healer will write a Quranic verse on a piece of paper, throw it in a glass, and have the patient drink the inky water. I really think you should send for someone competent.”

“What I do is none of your business,” Mrs. Swyndon retorted, and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Relief swept through Kamil. He had rarely taken such a dislike to anyone.

“Someone cared enough to do a good job of wrapping the wounds,” Omar noted, his tone excluding Bridget’s mistress.

“Let’s take a look.” They unwound the bandage just enough to see the even shallow cuts on the inside of her forearm, one above the other like a ladder.

“She didn’t do that herself,” Omar decided. “By the third cut she wouldn’t have had the control.”

Just then a Turkish maid entered the room and, seeing the loose bandage, sternly asked what they were doing.

They identified themselves. “Do you know how this happened?” Kamil asked.

“Someone did that to the poor girl. No one believes me, but I’m glad they called the police finally.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “There’s a crazy person with a knife on the loose, cutting women.”

“How do you know she didn’t do it herself?”

“Well, she couldn’t have, could she? The cuts are as neat as if a tailor made them. And the child saw someone, although no one believes her either. It’s as if we’re all cabbages with no eyes or brains in our heads.”

“Alberta? What did she see?”

“She says ‘a black man.’ There was a visitor earlier today who had black hair, but I don’t know who it was she saw.”

“Can I talk to her?”

The woman hesitated, plucking at her embroidered cotton headscarf. “I’m not sure Madam would approve, but…come with me. Don’t tell her, though?”

“Don’t worry.” Omar smiled at the kind peasant woman. “Was it you who called the healer?”

She spit, “Those people call themselves healers. A lot of mumbo jumbo. I called the midwife, who knows what to do about fevers.”

Omar’s smile broadened.

Kamil knelt beside the bed and stroked the little girl’s forehead with the tip of his finger. “Wake up, Alberta,” he said. Asleep, the girl looked like a cherub. When the long-lashed eyes fluttered open, he smiled and said, “Remember me? We met yesterday. I’m Bridget’s friend.” He waited until Alberta nodded. “Can you tell me what happened to her?”

The child’s eyes grew wide and frightened.

“Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you.” Kamil hoped that was true.

“He hurt her,” Alberta whimpered.

“Who did?”

“The black man.”

“What did he look like?”

“He had a black beard. He asked me about Sosi, but I didn’t say anything.” The last turned into a wail. “Bridget told me not to say, and I didn’t. It’s not my fault.”

“Of course it isn’t. None of this is your fault.” Kamil stroked her hair until she calmed down. “What was he wearing?”

“Black clothes. He hurt Bridget,” she whispered.

“What did he do to Bridget?”

Alberta turned her head away and mumbled, “Cut her. With a knife.”

The maid sat on the bed and took the girl in her arms.

“I was afraid,” Alberta insisted, “but I didn’t tell.”

“You’re a brave girl, Albie,” Kamil said softly, and kissed her sweet-smelling hair. Anger built inside him, blackening the horizon like a storm.