Authors: Tasha Alexander
No sound, that is, until the door shut behind me, and I heard the unmistakable click of a bar latch snapping into place. I turned around, wanting to test it at once, only to find my fear all too real. The lock had fastened; I could not get out. Panic rose through me as the darkness of the space enveloped me, but there was nothing to do but move on.
I took a step forward, testing the wooden planks over the water before putting my whole weight on them, wondering at what point I’d face Sutcliffe. Was he behind a column? Waiting for me just beyond the light of my candle? I was sweating despite the coolness of the space and had to force my feet forward.
“I did say thirty minutes, did I not, Lady Emily?”
His voiced bounced around me; I could not tell where he stood.
“You’re using up all your time. Might want to hurry.”
And then I heard a muffled sob that fueled me to move forward with greater speed. “Let her go,” I said. “You can well see that I’m here and alone.”
“This is not a time for you to be making demands,” he said.
I bit back the reply on my lips and continued walking, trying to determine where Roxelana was. “What is it you want from me?” I asked.
“You should have left things alone,” he said. “There was no reason to interfere. All those deaths after Ceyden’s are on your conscience.”
“I have not killed anyone.”
“They would all be alive still if it weren’t for you.”
I wanted to keep him talking, to distract him while I came up with a viable strategy. “I know you killed Ceyden,” I said, wanting to test my suspicion.
“It doesn’t matter what I did so long as St. Clare thinks it was him.”
“You did kill her.”
He laughed. “I never dared hope my revenge would be so complete. The boy made it easy.”
“Roxelana?” I asked. “Where are you? Are you next to him?”
More muffled sobs, with a greater urgency this time. “Quiet!” he said.
I heard footsteps. He was on the walkway, not in the water. I looked over the edge of the path, gauging the depth. Fish darted, startled by the light, and their reaction inspired me. I could see clearly the bottom of the green pool, not more than three feet below the surface. I broke the top third off my candle and then tilted it so that the wax pooled on the wooden rail next to me, until there was enough to hold the luminary upright. Sticking it hard into the middle of the melted mass, I held it in place until the wax had cooled. I backed away, wanting to distance myself from the light. Then, hiking up my skirts to my knees, I ducked beneath the rail and stepped into the water as quietly as possible and stood, perfectly still.
“Are you waiting for me to come to you?” he asked. The light from his torch—much stronger than that thrown by my candle—bounced between walls and water as he spun around, looking for me. Moving in silence, careful not to splash in the water, I walked away from the door across the open expanse of the pool, keeping far from the space illuminated around him.
Every time I reached a column I would pause, resting against it, wishing I could slow my heart, that my legs would stop shaking. And then I would continue on, moving in a wide half circle until I’d come almost close enough to see him from behind.
“I am not amused, Lady Emily,” he said, still watching for me. “I can kill her now. Come to me at once.”
A metallic clicking told me he was readying a gun. My breath was coming too fast now, my eyes stinging from the sweat dripping down my brow. I could not let Roxelana die. A few more steps and I could see her. He’d been holding her by the arm but had to let go to pull the pistol out from his belt, keeping the torch held high, looking all the while in the direction of my candle.
I knew better than to think I could get the gun from him. There had to be another way. As I watched my candle’s flame in the distance, it came to me. Stepping back, I crouched behind a column, the base of which was a hideous head of Medusa, inverted so as to be upside down. I reached under my skirt and pulled off one of my petticoats, holding it under the water to flood every fiber of the cotton. Bundling it up into a loose but heavy ball, I wrapped it in my skirts and again moved towards them.
I somehow needed to will my arms to stop trembling, lest my plan be ruined altogether, but I seemed wholly incapable of controlling them. I held my breath, for it was too ragged and too loud as I continued to move towards them, away from my candle, disturbing the water as little as possible.
And then I waited. The stub of my candle did not take long to burn out, but it seemed like hours before its light was gone.
“What have you done?” he asked. “Blown out your candle? Do you forget I have something better?”
I resumed my journey through the water. Terror struck with full potential once I’d reached the flickering circle lit by his torch. He was holding it in his left hand, his right firm on the pistol pointed not towards Roxelana, but where he thought I was standing. I could see now that the columns were not identical. Some were Corinthian, some Doric, and one not far from me was covered with carvings that looked like tears.
“I’ve grown tired of your games,” he said. He raised the gun to the ceiling and fired. Roxelana screamed as the shot ricocheted, but it hit nothing of consequence. Acting out of pure instinct, I knew this was the moment and flung my soaking petticoat onto the flame of the torch. The water doused it at once, and we all stood in absolute darkness.
“Roxelana, run!” I said, silently thanking whoever had decided petticoats should have enough yardage in them to give them a serious heft when wet. “Follow the railing and get to the door.”
I’d figure out some way to unlock the door when I reached it. I heard scrambling feet—it sounded as if she tripped but managed to right herself and set off. Mr. Sutcliffe, however, was still. Not wanting to go near him, I tried as best I could to retrace the way I’d come, no easy feat in an underground room devoid of all light.
“What have you done?” His breathing was hard, irregular, too fast, his voice quivering as he spoke. “Light your candle again. At once.”
I kept moving, hoping I was headed for the door, hoping that the police in the bazaar had taken my direction seriously and that soon we’d have reinforcements. And then, despite myself and despite the hideous circumstances, I almost laughed, realizing that if Colin were there, he’d be bent on rescuing me, and this made me all the more determined to escape on my own.
Roxelana was moving, her steps steady but not fast, but Sutcliffe had still not summoned whatever it would take to make himself move. A whimper escaped from his lips, his fear and panic palpable. I prayed he would not be able to conquer it.
“You must light the candle. Please!” He was shouting now, desperate. “I can’t stand it—you must help me.”
And then I heard a terrible sound. A match. I turned to see the quick flash of brightness. He tried to light the torch, but it was too wet, and he struck a second match and started walking.
“I will kill you,” he said. “You should not have done this to me.”
I had somehow wound my way back to the boardwalk, my hand, which I’d held out in front of me, rubbed against a post of the rail, a splinter sliced into my palm. Undaunted, I continued on, using the rail as a guide. The second match burned out, and he lit a third.
“I can’t open it!” Roxelana had reached the door and was banging on it, her voice full of tears. “Help me, Emily!”
We were so close now. If I could get to the door, I could figure out some way to open the latch. I moved more quickly, then slowed my pace, not wanting to give him audible clues as to where I was. I wished Roxelana would stop pounding on the door but could do nothing about it. I was nearly to her.
The dim match light died, and I braced for him to strike another, but he didn’t. “Light your candle! You do not understand what you are doing to me. Light it!”
He was crying now—heaving sobs—and I let myself move more quickly. No sooner had I started than he began shooting. He was aiming at the ceiling again, trying to frighten us. Great chunks of plaster or rock or something crashed into the water, setting Roxelana screaming again. I pulled myself out of the water, held both sides of the railing in my hands, and ran as fast as I could.
“Emily! Please! Help me!”
I did not mean to reply, but the words came out almost before I realized it. “I’m coming!”
My voice bounced through the chamber, but the echo didn’t confuse him enough. The direction of his bullets was more pointed now, and I dropped to my knees, determined to crawl the rest of the way, a dull pain in my side as I pulled myself along on my elbows. It was only when my corset, already damp, started to grow warm that I realized he’d hit me. The wound itself did not hurt much, but I felt woozy at once, scared and sick. Rescue no longer seemed a dreadful proposition.
I had no choice but to keep moving, and now it seemed that he had regained some nerve. I could hear his heavy footsteps, far behind me on the turn-filled walkway. He was screaming, knocking against the rails, even fell into the water once with a great splash. This spurred me on as a flash of heat coursed through me, and I began to wonder how badly I was hurt. I put my hand to my abdomen, feeling blood, tears streaming from my eyes as I realized that whatever my condition, as Bezime called it, had been, it certainly wouldn’t be any longer. And just then, I knew with certainty that I did welcome it, that I could manage to conquer my fears. But the chance was gone. All I wanted was to stop, to lie down, to sleep, to ignore Roxelana’s voice, which sounded farther and farther away.
I kept crawling.
When I reached the door, I could hardly stand, not only because I was weak, but because I was shaking so violently. Roxelana pulled me to my feet, and together we began wiggling the latch of the door. I could tell by touch that the mechanism was the same as that on the barn door of my father’s estate in Kent. It was a type that, in theory, could be opened from the inside but in fact stuck easily and was almost impossible to manage. As a girl, I’d become an expert at undoing it from both inside and out—spending more time than my mother liked in the barn with my horses. The memory overwhelmed me, dizziness with it, and I nearly lost my entire train of thought until Roxelana shook me. I remembered where I was and tried again and again but was unable to generate the right force at the right angle on the lock.
And then Mr. Sutcliffe’s steps grew heavier, his cries more savage. He could not have been more than thirty feet from us. Summoning every bit of strength I had, I jammed the latch as hard as I could and felt the door give. Roxelana and I tumbled out of it, slamming it hard behind us, cramming the latch hard into the locked position but knowing that if we could force it, he would be able to as well.
“Find something heavy,” I said, doubled over in pain, trying to drag myself up the slippery steps. “Block the door with it.”
“I don’t see anything. I don’t know what to do. I can’t—” Roxelana’s face was ashen, her eyes sunken.
“One of the stones from the edge around the stairs,” I said.
“I don’t want to hit you.”
“You won’t,” I said. “I’ll keep moving.”
“Let me help you first,” she said.
“No, it will take too long. Push it over.”
She stood behind one of the rectangular blocks stacked in haphazard fashion on either side of the top of the stairwell, serving as a sort of barrier to keep people from dropping down the steps from the side. She strained against it, and it moved, only slightly.
I could hear Mr. Sutcliffe fiddling with the latch, clawing at the door. “Let me out! Please! Please!” His voice broke into sobs.
“He’s here. You must hurry.”
She pushed again, harder, I think. I could no longer see her. My vision had become hazy. But I heard her groaning and then heard the scraping sound of rock, followed by a crash, followed by sobs.
“Is it in front of the door?” I asked, the words almost impossible to form.
It sounded as if her answer were yes, but the only thing I heard with clarity was fingernails digging into wood.
POST OFFICE TELEGRAPH
May 2, 1892
Handed in at: Canterbury at 1:37 PM
Received here at: 12:13 PM
TO: Mr. C. Hargreaves
c/o British Embassy Constantinople
Mrs. Brandon having great difficulties. Send prayers and prepare my daughter in case things turn worse. Will update at regular intervals.
Bromley
Forgetting flowers is the easiest thing in the world. They’re there, in the background, and you almost don’t notice at all until you start paying attention, cataloging the colors, gauging the sweetness of their fragrances. I loved irises, their grape scent filling the garden in spring, and roses, of course, climbing over walls and trellises. It had been such a pleasant night’s sleep, full of blooming fields and sparkling sunshine. Warmth radiating from me, I reached for Colin, wanting to pull him to me.
My arm, however, felt only cool sheets, rumpled blankets. I started to turn on my side, to see if he’d already awakened, but was stopped by a shooting pain that sent a cry from my lips, which I realized, as I woke further, were cracked and dry.
“Colin?” My eyes were so heavy that it was hard to open them, but as soon as I spoke, I heard sounds all around me. Footsteps, sharp breaths, rustling skirts.
“My dear girl.” His voice was like liquid heaven, and I felt his weight next to me now. I turned my head and forced open my eyes.
“You look dreadful,” I said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “When’s the last time you shaved? I won’t have you with a beard. I simply won’t.”
He laughed—relief and nerves—and kissed me on the forehead. “My dear girl.” It was all he could say, apparently, and he kept repeating it.
We weren’t alone. Margaret was on my other side. “Good heavens,” I said. “Is it a party? What have I missed?”
And then I started to remember. I felt the heavy bandage on my abdomen under my nightgown and started to cry. “Did they catch him?”
“They did.” Colin wiped my tears with his hands. “You set everything up without a flaw. The police arrived within ten minutes of your losing consciousness. Roxelana was tending to your wound.”
“How did Sutcliffe get her?” I asked.
“I never even saw her,” Margaret said. “He must have been waiting outside the window. He followed us because he was suspicious that you were on to him, and as soon as he saw us stationed near the mosque and then saw the caravan with the concubines, he knew what we were planning. You were right that he’d been tailing Benjamin. He’d arranged for the shootings at the dig to make Sir Richard worry—he wanted to drive him crazy. And from following Benjamin, he knew all about Roxelana.”
“Is she—” I could hardly bear to think what must have happened to her.
“The sultan has forgiven her, but will not allow her to leave the harem,” Colin said.
“And Benjamin? He didn’t kill—”
“I know,” he said. “He did try to strangle her, but she wasn’t dead when he fled from the palace. He twisted his ankle making his escape and invented the bandit attack to explain it. He’s not having an easy time with any of this.”
“It’s all so awful. He must be heartbroken to lose Roxelana as well.”
“He is, but I think he considers it a fitting punishment.” He brushed the hair off my forehead. “You did it, darling. Sutcliffe confessed to everything. Ceyden, Bezime, Jemal—your speculation about him finishing Ceyden was dead on. Being able to frame Benjamin for the murder brought an extra measure of revenge, though at a price—Jemal demanded additional payment for implicating him to the sultan. Sutcliffe was willing to part with the money, but decided Jemal had proven too demanding to be trusted any further.”
“And so he killed him,” I said.
“Yes. He spared no detail when he spoke to the police. You so terrified him by locking him in the dark, he was like a wounded child when they removed him.”
“Sir Richard?” I asked.
“Will be reinstated at the embassy as soon as he regains his health. And, yes, Sutcliffe was slipping the chloral hydrate into his coffee every day at the embassy.”
“What about the train?”
“Sutcliffe was two cars away from us.”
“And Murat?”
“The former vizier has been charged with treason, and I got him to admit his messenger’s death was not suicide.”
I wanted to sit up, but the pain stabbed again as I tried. I fell back on my pillows, then opened my eyes and looked to the far side of the room. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“The doctor’s kept you sedated for more than a week,” Colin said.
“And what of Ivy?” I asked. “Has she had her baby?” I couldn’t breathe as I looked at them. They’d both gone gray and were staring at the floor, their silence thick like tar.
“Would you excuse us?” Colin said, and I wanted to tear at his arms and beg Margaret to stay, if only to stop him from telling me—to give me even another hour of ignorance. When the door had closed, he took my face in his hands and leaned in to kiss my lips. “So much has happened.”
“I don’t even want to know,” I said, sobs choking me, tears stinging my ragged lips, as pain cut through my abdomen. “Don’t tell me. I won’t let you. I don’t want to know.”
“Darling.” He kissed the tears, wiped my face. “You’ve been through so much. It’s not what you think. Ivy is fine. She has a daughter who is healthy as anything. The birth was extremely difficult, and we all feared for her. But she came through all right.”
I wanted to slap him. “Why, then, would you set me up like this? Have I not been through enough? I thought she was dead. I—”
He took my hand. “Things have not turned out quite so well for us.”
The sinking feeling returned to my stomach, and I knew what he was going to say. “I wasn’t sure,” I said, more tears coming. “I would have told you if I were. But it was too early—”
“I know, darling. The doctor said as much.”
“I’m so sorry. I would never have—”
“Stop,” he said. “You had no choice. He was going to kill her. It was necessary danger.” His eyes were heavy with sadness, red-rimmed.
“I just wish—”
“Don’t.” He kissed my eyelids. “You must rest now.”
“When I’m well, I’m sure we can—”
Now he squeezed my hand, hard. “Maybe. Your injuries have made it so that it’s not clear . . .” His voice faltered, and I felt my heart shredding into pieces. “My dear girl, I’m just so glad you’re all right. You’ve no idea what I’ve been through. I can’t lose you. Ever.”
I laid my palms against his rough cheeks. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” he said. “What we do is dangerous.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“You wouldn’t be you if you stopped,” he said. “And I wouldn’t adore you the way I do if you were anything less.”
I closed my eyes—it was so hard to keep them open—thinking how fortunate I was to have him, a man who saw me for who I was and loved me without questioning any of it. And then I remembered his words and considered that I might never be able to give him an heir. Panic and fear flooded me at an intensity at least a hundred times greater than that I’d felt when I was trapped with Mr. Sutcliffe.
“Don’t,” he said. “I see exactly what you’re doing to yourself and won’t stand for it. We’ll face it when the time comes—if the time comes. It’s not the worst adversity there could be. We have each other, Emily. Isn’t it greedy to want more?”
“Maybe I’m greedy.” My voice was raw.
“Forgive yourself for that,” he said. “When you’re well enough to travel, I’m going to take you away to somewhere safe and prove to you beyond doubt that you, my dear girl, are everything to me. But in the meantime . . .” His voice trailed off and he kissed me, his tongue coaxing my lips apart.
“Yes?” I asked when he pulled back.
He stood and picked me up, cradling me in his arms, and stepped to the balcony, where he gently set me in a chair. Ducking back into the bedroom, he grabbed a blanket and tucked it around my shoulder, then my knees, then under my feet.
“There is a boat downstairs waiting to take me to the European shore. It’s been there from the moment I knew I’d lost our bet. Prepare yourself, darling wife. I am about to swim the Bosphorus for you.”