Tears of Pearl (20 page)

“I’m of course happy to try,” I said.

“The first is something that I’ve debated taking to the sultan, but if it’s possible to eliminate the threat without aggravating him, the outcome would be preferable for everyone involved.”

“What is it?”

“There are rumors that someone is trying to flee the harem.”

My breath caught in my throat, and I willed myself to freeze, wishing I could channel Perestu’s grace. “How could such a thing be possible?”

“It isn’t,” she said. “It will be stopped, and the offenders will be punished in the most severe ways.”

“How severe?”

“That is for the sultan to decide. But I can assure you he would show little mercy.”

“Have you any idea who is forming the plot?”

“Not the slightest,” she said. “You’ve spoken with some of the girls and have become closer to a familiar figure here than any foreigner has in the past. I do not ask you to betray a confidence, only that you let it be known that you’ve heard the rumors and have reason to think what’s being planned is a bad idea—that might be enough to stop the ingrate organizing this offense.”

The emotions pummeling me at this moment were as thoroughly unpleasant as any I knew: guilt, embarrassment, anxiety, fear. Not a litany of favorites. I considered what to say, what to do: Should I warn Roxelana and cancel our plans? Force her to continue to live in a circumstance so abhorrent to a woman of her faith?

I realized I’d been quiet too long. “I shall do what I can,” I said, confused and conflicted. “What is the other matter?”

“I want to know how my friend came to lose my ring.” Her voice was soft, quivering.

“Whom did you give it to?” I asked.

“Mr. Theodore Sutcliffe,” she said. “He’s compassionate, full of sympathy. A man whose soul has been so deeply touched with grief that he’s capable of emotions that terrify most of us.”

“I know him,” I said.

“I assumed as much. Do you think you could find out what happened to my ring?”

“Of course,” I said. “That’s no trouble at all.”

“Thank you, Lady Emily. You are more capable than I first thought. I admire your strength.”

19 April 1892

Darnley House, Kent

My darling Emily,

I’ve been doing nothing of late but reading, and have devoured all the books you’d hidden in your dressing room—I told Robert to look for them, remembering it had been an old habit of yours to spirit the raciest volumes off to safety there. Your mother was, as I need hardly tell you, out of her mind when she saw them.
Madame Bovary
near drove her to swoon. The only thing that saved the poor book from the fire was my own dear husband insisting it was an especial favorite of his. A statement you know cannot possibly be true, but a testament to his love for me. He saw the comfort the novel brought and could not bear to see it taken away.

Other than that, I’m consumed with weakness and more exhausted than I would have thought possible. The doctor is so kind, but tells me nothing of substance, and Robert, try though he may, cannot hide his fear. I pray all his suffering will be erased by the sight of an heir, and that I shall survive to see him.

Apologies for a bleak letter. I’m so very scared—terrified, Emily. I couldn’t bear to let anyone but you know that. I’ve never felt so bad in my life—physically or emotionally. Forgive me, my friend, for so burdening you with my troubles. I’ve nowhere else to turn, as the only thing that could make my plight worse is knowing that I’ve caused Robert more worry.

I send you all my love and miss you very, very much.

I am, your most devoted friend,

Ivy

23

I could not stop the tears as I read Ivy’s letter and was consumed with panic at the thought of what she still had to face. How desperately I needed Colin’s support. I wished there were some way I could contact him, prayed that he would return soon. Loneliness filled every corner of our
yal?,
and I had no intention of coming out of our room. I curled up on the bed in a ball around his pillow, breathing in the scent of him lingering on its surface.

My throat burned from sobbing, and when I’d cried so much that no more tears would come, I forced myself up and rang for Meg. There was nothing more I could do for Ivy from here. The best course of action was to focus on my work, finish it as efficiently as possible, and return to England. I only hoped that Colin would be back soon.

Meg fawned over me, pressed a cool cloth to my swollen eyes, refusing to let me dress until I approached something she considered presentable. She went about her work in a fashion much gentler than her usual manner, insulting my scalp with not a single hairpin.

Once dressed, I set off for Pera. The Bosphorus, as if sensing my dire condition, played sweet as well, its waters as placid as I’d seen them since arriving in Turkey. Upon docking, I took a carriage to the embassy, too tired and heartsick to walk, and shortly was admitted to Mr. Sutcliffe’s office.

“What a surprise to see you, Lady Emily. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come on a strange errand,” I said. “Perestu asked me to do it on her behalf.”

“The valide sultan?” He tugged at his shirtsleeves, adjusting his cufflinks.

“I understand that you shared a close friendship. She speaks very highly of you.”

“She is an excellent woman.”

“I do not doubt it,” I said. “She told me that, years ago, she gave to you a ring as a token of her friendship. Strangely enough, that same ring has turned up in the harem—in the possession of Sir Richard’s daughter.”

“Impossible,” he said. “I keep it under lock and key in my house.”

“You can imagine how upset she was to see it—at first she feared that you might have given it away—”

“I would never,” he said.

“Of course not. But I’m sure you can imagine she was devastated to see the ring back in the harem.”

“I—I—” He stammered but formed no coherent words. “The ring is in my house,” he said, tugging again at his sleeves, this time so hard that I feared for his cufflinks. “Follow me there now. I will show you.”

It took us fewer than ten minutes to reach his residence, and he marched into his study with me tailing behind, barely able to keep up with him. He pulled down a wooden box from a high shelf on a bookcase and placed it on his desk. “It’s in here,” he said, pulling out a set of keys from his jacket, fumbling until he found the right one. He placed one hand on the side of the box and was about to push the key into the lock when the top sprang open.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I know it was locked. I can’t bear to even look. Please. Will you?”

Inside, resting on a blue velvet lining, were an engraved silver christening mug, a piece of faded ribbon that looked as if it might have once been pink, and an ivory comb. I held out the container to him. “There’s no ring.”

“This cannot be,” he said. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Do you have any ideas? Who knew you had it?”

“I—I—” His voice choked. “I can’t bring myself to even say it.”

“You must, Mr. Sutcliffe.”

“I showed it to Benjamin. We were talking one day—he was remembering his sister. How they used to play. I told him about my children and showed him these souvenirs I keep. The ring was in the box as well.”

“But why would he take it?”

“He must have needed money for his elopement. Why didn’t he ask me?” He pressed the palm of his hand hard against his forehead. “I suppose I wouldn’t have given it to him. And he didn’t know me well enough to ask.”

“We don’t know that Benjamin took it,” I said. “What of your staff?”

“They’ve all been with me for years.”

This, of course, meant very little, but I saw no reason to mention it at the time. He was clearly distraught. Regardless of the identity of our thief, I could at least put to rest Perestu’s fears that her friend had knowingly abandoned her gift.

“There’s no question that Colin will locate Benjamin. And when he does, we’ll be able to ascertain whether he took the ring.”

“He took it.”

“We must remember, Mr. Sutcliffe, that he has not been proven guilty.”

“You suspect someone else?”

“I’m only saying we should not leap to conclusions.”

“I will ask that you forgive me, Lady Emily, but I cannot think of him as anything but a thief and worse.”

“What’s obvious is not always right,” I said. “Real life is not as simple as the sultan’s operas. Like the performance of
La Traviata
we saw at Y?ld?z.”

“Ended neatly, to be sure, but so much tragedy,” he said. “And I can’t stand more tragedy. Truth is, I much prefer something more lighthearted, with a happy ending. Particularly when I consider what we all faced when we left the theater.”

I stood quiet, stunned, and then took my leave from him, wondering how he could have forgotten the end of the opera. I could picture him in the courtyard with the rest of us, standing over Ceyden’s body. But if he’d been in the theater, he wouldn’t have thought the show had been a tragedy. I began to wonder if I needed to think in another direction entirely.

“What does the doctor say?” I asked when I returned from Mr. Sutcliffe’s, my head spinning. “Is he progressing as expected?”

Sir Richard’s health had been improving, but he was not yet well enough to leave his bed. Miss Evans had given the cook urgent suggestions as to appropriate recipes to help him regain his strength—again reminding me of my mother—and was convinced they would make all the difference in his recovery.

“Yes,” Miss Evans said. “He stopped taking the drug so suddenly, it was a terrible shock to his system.”

“If he was deliberately taking it, I cannot understand why it’s impossible for us to locate the bottle,” I said.

“He must have hidden it somewhere,” Miss Evans said.

“But why? It’s a common enough sleeping aid. His servants wouldn’t have thought anything of him keeping a bottle around. It doesn’t make sense.” I stood up, unable to keep still. “I’m going back to the embassy to look through his office again.”

Margaret threw on a hat and started for the door with me. “Any more from Ivy?” she asked. I told her about the latest letter.

“Oh, Em, don’t you just want to go home?” she asked. “There’s no shame in it, you know.”

“I think I shall, when Colin returns.” The pain of missing him had moved from dull to sharp, more of a stab than an ache. Wanting only to move forward, I opened the door to let us out of the house. On the step was a young Englishman, out of breath, his face bright red and covered in sweat.

“Lady Emily, the ambassador sends me with urgent news. I’m afraid there’s been another murder at Y?ld?z, and . . . well . . . that Mr. St. Clare was involved yet again.”

I did not wait to hear another word. We hailed the first available carriage, paying triple to motivate the driver to rush. Once through the palace gates, we were admitted to the harem, where there was none of the usual clamor of voices and laughter. Perestu received us in a small salon in her apartments, her face drawn, no spark in her eyes.

“It is good of you to come. We’ve suffered more tragedy today.”

“Who? What happened?” I asked.

“Jemal. The same as the others, with a bowstring.”

“And because the method has not changed, Mr. St. Clare is suspected again?” Margaret asked.

“We are not so unsophisticated. The guards searched Jemal’s room and discovered a bundle of letters—written to him by Mr. St. Clare.”

“May I see them?” I asked.

“If you wish, but there’s no need. They prove that Jemal was letting him into the palace to meet with a concubine—Ceyden, obviously. And that he was accepting regular payments for granting the privilege.”

“And there’s no question they were written by Benjamin?” I asked.

“None. The first is signed—it came shortly after Mr. St. Clare had assisted in rescuing the ladies whose boat capsized in the Bosphorus. The handwriting on the others is a perfect match.”

This was disheartening, and I could feel myself taking it harder than perhaps was reasonable. Too many troubling thoughts tugging at already fraught emotions; never before had I felt so scattered. I hardly knew Benjamin, had no reason to take more than a professional interest in his situation, yet coming to a point where his guilt seemed inevitable stung me, and not only because it would prove my instinct wrong. A wave of nausea hit me, and I clung to the arms of my chair to steel myself against it, unaccountably feeling as if I were about to burst into tears.

“Where was the body found?” I asked, my voice strong despite my spinning head.

“In one of the gardens. I’ll have someone take you.”

There wasn’t much to see. I searched the area—not looking at the body, which had already been covered with a makeshift shroud—and then went to the eunuch’s room. Beyond the letters, there was nothing of interest. The ordinary possessions of a man. As for his correspondence with Benjamin, there could be no question of the relationship between them. Jemal was taking bribes.

“What do you think?” Margaret asked, whispering as we walked through the palace gates, headed to the docks on the Bosphorus.

“There’s still no absolute proof, of course, but . . .” The water’s beauty eluded me entirely. “I’m afraid it doesn’t bode well.”

“Motive?”

“He could have killed Ceyden because she’d decided not to run away with him, and Jemal because he’d decided to stop accepting bribes.”

“Poor Sir Richard.”

“Although . . .” I stopped walking. “Why, if Ceyden was already dead, would he need continued access to the harem?”

“Maybe it wasn’t a question of bribes,” Margaret said. “What if Jemal had threatened to blackmail him?”

“Jemal had already given evidence against him. Killing him would have made little difference at this point. And why, if Benjamin fled after suspecting he’d be arrested, would he have returned to Constantinople?”

“Jemal might have had further proof—something more solid.”

“And tested Benjamin by coming forward with just a bit of it first?” I considered the possibility. “Maybe. But it doesn’t sit right, somehow.”

“What, then?”

“What if Benjamin wasn’t in love with Ceyden?”