Tears of Pearl (11 page)

11

“She is absolutely marvelous,” Margaret said, pacing in front of Colin, puffing on a cigar, glee filling every bit of her voice. “I’ve never seen anything so wonderful in my life. Is everyone in the harem like this? I’m nearly ready to sell myself to the sultan.”

“Y?ld?z is a diff erent world from Topkap?,” I said. “If you’re going to be a concubine, you want it to be the height of the empire, when you’ve risen to power over thousands of others and are the politicalally and most trusted confidante of the sultan—”

“Who never wears his silver-soled shoes when he thinks he might see you, because he doesn’t want to scare you off.”

“Stop.” Colin, amusement in his eyes, his cheeks tight with repressed laughter, clipped the end of a cigar. “You’re both diverting in ways I could never have imagined, but we must maintain some sense of focus here. Bezime essentially lives in exile. She’s got no power. The sultan did not give her a position in his harem, remember? She does not get to decide which eunuchs are sent to his palace.”

“She’s very clever,” I said. “I agree she’s without direct power, but she may have orchestrated the situation.”

“How? Abdül Hamit was very clear with me on this point: Bezime has no contact with anyone who, for lack of a better word,
matters
in his court. She may seem an impressive figure—and I’ve no doubt she once was one. But that day has long since passed.”

“So she’s scorned,” I said. “And hell hath no—”

“Yes, yes, fury, I know my Shakespeare. But you cannot plan assassinations, train spies, or have them assigned if you’ve no power.”

“You can, however, take advantage of circumstances. Not having been responsible for getting Jemal to Y?ld?z doesn’t preclude her from using him as a spy.”

“True enough,” Colin said.

“What do you make of her claims about Murat?” Margaret asked.

“I’ve spent loads of time combing through everything at Ç?ra
an,” he said. “There’s an unquestionable mood of discontent in the palace, but it does not come from him or his harem. There are a handful of men who, if Murat were still sultan, would undoubtedly be his aides—his former vizier, for one. They’re not happy.”

“Would they enlist the aid of one of the sultan’s concubines?” I asked.

“In theory, they might,” he said, lighting a cigar and handing it to me.

“But do you think Ceyden?” The tobacco tasted rich, all nuts and moss and spice and oak.

“It would surprise me,” he said.

Margaret paced. “Why would he choose Ceyden? How would anyone at Ç?ra
an know of her existence?”

“They wouldn’t,” I said. “Someone with status would have had to refer her.”

“Bezime could have done that,” Colin said. “Still, I’m not sure. I’m afraid she’s trying to manipulate you.”

“I would think that she, more than anyone we’ve spoken to in either palace, would want to know the truth about Ceyden’s death,” I said. “She’s the only person who seems to have felt anything approaching real affection for her.”

“Is there a solution to the crime that would harm her?” Colin asked. “Is she protecting someone?”

I swirled the whiskey in my glass. “I don’t know. But your idea that she’s manipulating us is striking. What if it’s for the most simple of reasons?” I asked. “What if it’s nothing more than her trying to seem once again important?”

“An excellent hypothesis, my dear,” Colin said. “Keep it near you as you continue your work. You’ll find that people are often not complicated in the least.”

Every inch of my body hummed; never had I known such delight. To be sitting with the man I loved, engaged in a lively discussion of our work—work in which he considered me an equal—my dear friend at my side. There are moments when all in life seems right and good.

Meg stepped into the room and announced Sir Richard, who followed close behind her. He looked a mess, fatigue darkening the already deep circles under his eyes. Margaret leapt up and poured him a whiskey after Colin had introduced her and she’d offered him her condolences for Ceyden.

“I have heard so much about you,” she said, handing him the glass. “Your life fascinates me. What stories of adventure you must have.”

“Adventures that didn’t turn out well in the end,” he said.

“I understand, and I’m terribly sorry about that,” Margaret said. “But do you ever consider the good parts now that the bad can’t be changed?”

Sir Richard froze, looking at her, and I all but cringed for him, wishing there were something I could do to change the subject, reverse her words, anything. But my angst was unnecessary. He smiled.

“A wise question, young lady,” he said, his words almost slurred. I wondered if he’d been drinking before he came to us. “And I’m afraid my answer is no, although it shouldn’t be. I thank you for pointing out this shortcoming.”

“You can’t stay forever mired in sadness,” Margaret said. “At some point, you have to let yourself live again.”

“It seems I’m not doing a particularly good job of that.”

“Has something happened?” Colin asked. “Forgive me. You don’t look well.”

Sir Richard thanked him, shot a questioning look in Margaret’s direction. She stood up at once.

“Will you excuse me?” she asked. “I’ve been away far too long. Miss Evans will be beside herself with worry, and if I don’t hurry, I won’t have time to dress for dinner. Lovely to meet you, Sir Richard. I do hope that when I see you next, you’ll share a story about your travels.”

And she was off, winking at me on her way out of the room.

“There’s been another incident with papers from the embassy,” Sir Richard said, rubbing his forehead. “More missing. Papers that were in my charge.”

“Sensitive in nature?” Colin asked.

“More so than those taken on the train, but nothing of vital import.”

“From where were they stolen?” I asked. “Your home or the embassy itself?”

“That’s the odd part—I’m convinced beyond all doubt that I had not removed them from my offices in the embassy. But they’re gone, and there’s been no security breach.”

“Who can access your offices?” Colin asked.

“The door’s never locked. What’s awkward now is that this, being the second time it’s happened, is placing me in a bit of jeopardy. I was reprimanded rather severely and fear that I may lose my position.”

“Does the ambassador think you are stealing documents?” Colin asked. “Is he accusing you of espionage?”

“Nothing so iniquitous. He’s afraid I’ve grown old and forgetful and incompetent. I admit that I have not been entirely myself of late—”

“Which is completely understandable in your circumstances. You’re dealing with enormous stresses,” I said. His eyes were clouded, his face gray.

“But Sir William took no disciplinarian action?” Concern crinkled around Colin’s eyes.

“Not officially. But as ambassador he will not tolerate another mishap.”

“Who would be doing this to you?” I asked.

“I very much appreciate, Lady Emily,” he said, “the fact that you do not question my mental stability.”

“Of course I don’t.” I didn’t, did I? He’d been through a terrible tragedy; no one could recover from that immediately. “Have you any suspects?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Are you quite certain there were no other problems at the embassy? No one else is missing anything?” Colin asked.

“No. I made loud and outraged demands that everything be gone over—I was all but accused of mania for having reacted so severely. A search was conducted, and nothing was out of place.”

“To what did the papers pertain?”

“Employment issues. Notices of staff reassignment, that sort of thing, which often include comments on performance. London had shipped an enormous batch to us some months back, mainly addenda to files, records of things going far back, to be added to what we have. It was a terrible backlog. Should have all been forwarded ages ago. Poor Sutcliffe was swamped organizing it all.”

“Had anyone received bad reviews?” I asked.

“Not bad enough to merit stealing the notes. And doing so wouldn’t accomplish anything regardless—it’s not as if it would change the person’s position. The authors of the reports wouldn’t have altered their opinions.”

“True enough,” Colin said. “Although if they were old, it might be the sort of thing no one would miss if they were to disappear.”

“I go back to my original thought when you were robbed on the train,” I said. “Someone is deliberately targeting you, and I’m convinced that all of these events—the robberies, the attacks on Benjamin, and Ceyden’s murder—are connected.”

“We can’t discount the possibility.” Colin stood up and crossed his arms. “There’s a party tonight, given by the wife of the consul. We’d not planned to attend, but I think it would be beneficial to do so. I’d like to talk to your colleagues away from their offices.”

“I am deeply indebted to you for your assistance,” Sir Richard said, closing his eyes. “I don’t know how I shall ever repay you.”

“Seeing you through all this to a point where you can, as Margaret said, remember the good will be payment enough,” I said.

“Just promise me, Lady Emily, that you especially will be careful. I couldn’t live with myself if I brought harm, even indirectly, to another person.”

_______

Colin had sent a message to the consul’s wife—she replied at once, saying she was delighted we could join her. Instead of dinner and dancing, she’d decided to stage a séance. And so, after a light supper (during which Colin expertly gathered as much information as possible about the trouble at the embassy), we retired to her sitting room, where a medium called Madame Skorlosky, a Russian, sat at a special table she’d brought for the occasion. She called us to join her, and we each took a seat, mine between Mr. Sutcliffe and Sir William.

The ambassador leaned over to me. “Do you believe in this rot, Lady Emily?”

“I’ve never given it serious consideration,” I said. “I will confess to being fascinated, however.” Mr. Sutcliffe tugged at his collar, shifting in his chair. “What about you, Mr. Sutcliffe? Have you great hopes for this experience?”

“I do, actually. I’ve not attended a séance before, but have wanted to for years.”

Colin, sitting across the table, was watching me the way he did when I first met him, his eyes never leaving mine. I smiled at him, feeling myself blush, wishing we were home. He did not return the smile, only stared.

Madame Skorlosky rose from her chair. “We will now begin. I ask that you all close your eyes and focus, sending from your thoughts any hints of doubt or confusion. The spirits will be with us tonight. I can sense them already.” I could hear her blowing out the candles on the table. Everyone was still and silent. “Place your hands flat on the table. Concentrate, and you may now open your eyes.”

We all did, finding ourselves in a room now shrouded in darkness. Next to me, Mr. Sutcliffe was breathing hard. I could see nothing save a vague hint of white shirt trembling against black.

“Are you all right?” I whispered, leaning close to him.

“I—I will be fine,” he said. I could hear him move his hands off the table. He wrapped his arms around himself.

“As we begin our journey—” Madame Skorlosky’s rich tones filled the room with a pleasantly eerie chill, but my neighbor was anything but enchanted. All at once, he stood up, knocking over his chair and sending the table rocking.

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please, someone strike a lamp.”

There was a general commotion as he grew more and more upset, pleading for light. He was crashing about now, unable to see, slamming into furniture. I cringed at the sound of shattering porcelain, remembering a lovely vase that had graced an end table at the far side of the room. A match flashed, and Colin lit first the candles on the table and then a lamp, which he carried with him as he went for our friend, who had retreated to a corner, where he was crouched, trembling uncontrollably.

The party broke up soon thereafter, an uneasy feeling settling over the room. Colin took Mr. Sutcliffe home, then returned for me, finding those of us left drinking tea and barely talking. The scene had been a disturbing one.

“He’s embarrassed more than you can imagine,” he told me as we set off for our own house. “His son, who died of typhoid when he was four, had always been afraid of the dark. The fever caused some sort of hallucination, and he thought, as he lay dying, that no one would bring even a candle to him. Sutcliffe lit twelve lamps, but the boy couldn’t see any of them. He was hysterical—crying and thrashing about—and remained so until his last breath. Ever since then, Sutcliffe has faced nothing but demons of his own in the dark.”