Tears of Pearl (3 page)

“May I offer any assistance? I am an old friend.” He faced Sir Richard, taking him by the shoulders and giving a soft shake. “I know your pain all too well. Lashing out will not help right now.”

“How could I have so failed her?” Sir Richard said, shrugging him off and turning back to his daughter. He stood only for a moment before he collapsed, sobbing, over her body. I knelt beside him, knowing there were no words that could offer meaningful comfort. The guards began to clear out the area, demanding that everyone save the grieving father leave. I asked if I could stay with him, as did his friend—who introduced himself to me.

“Theodore Sutcliffe,” he said, keeping his voice low as Sir Richard answered whatever questions the guards were asking. “I’ve known the old boy for years—we’re both at the embassy.”

“How lucky for him to find a friend near at such a moment,” I said. “Are you close?”

“We’ve both lost children.”

“I’m sorry. I—” I stumbled over the words, not sure how to deal with yet more tragedy. Colin interrupted before I was able to offer my condolences.

“Take him to the house,” he said. “They’re going to need to examine the body—I don’t want him to witness that. I’ll be along as soon as it’s finished.”

“Of course,” I said. “Mr. Sutcliffe, would you come with us? It might comfort him to have you there as well.”

“I shall be with him at every step. He won’t be alone in his sad journey.”

When we arrived at the
yal?
, I plied Sir Richard with hot orange blossom water—white coffee, a beverage the cook who came with the house insisted was a panacea—while Mr. Sutcliffe sat beside him, a quiet partner in sorrow.

“I wish I could offer you port,” I said, pouring another cup of the pale, steaming liquid. Port was my own preferred beverage. I’d first tried it merely to make a point. After dinner, ladies were supposed to be herded out of the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to their liquor, cigars, and, most important, conversation deemed inappropriate for the gentle ears of the fairer sex. Knowing full well this was just the sort of talk I’d love to hear, I’d decided, while in mourning for Philip, to refuse to be exiled to the drawing room at a dinner party of my own. The discourse on that occasion was sadly limited, as my male guests were, on the whole, stunned, but the port seduced me at once. And gradually, the gentlemen of my acquaintance came to accept my eccentricity and welcomed me for the after-dinner ritual.

“I assure you, it makes no difference, Lady Emily,” Sir Richard said. “The choice of beverage at such a moment is wholly irrelevant. Everything is useless now.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “It was too late for you to have done anything.”

“Had I only known she was here!”

“You couldn’t have,” his friend said. “The sultan himself wouldn’t have known who she was. After all these years, there probably wasn’t anything English left in her.”

“She was my daughter, Theodore.”

“I did not mean to offend. Only to say that even those close to her most likely had no idea of her heritage.”

“They should have known! I had everyone in the empire on alert to find her.”

“She was kidnapped, Richard,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “Undoubtedly her assailants waited until the furor had died down to . . . sell her.”

“It’s barbaric, all of it,” I said, relieved to see Colin enter the room and save me from saying more on the subject. He nodded to me and shook our guests’ hands.

“I’ve been to the embassy and arranged for a message to be sent to your son at once,” he said, sitting across from Sir Richard. “He’s sure to come as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you.” The older man placed the glass teacup on its bronze saucer. “Has there been an arrest?” Ottoman justice was swift. Even before we’d left the grounds of the palace, one of the eunuch guards from the harem had been fingered as the most likely suspect in the murder.

“I’m afraid so,” Colin said. “He was standing sentry by her room—”

“She wasn’t killed anywhere near her room,” I said.

“Quite right.” He refused the cup of white coffee I offered him. “But that doesn’t seem to factor into the charges against him. He was responsible for her safety. She’s dead, and everyone seems to agree it’s his fault.”

“But is there any evidence?” I asked.

“None,” Colin replied.

“He’ll be executed,” Sir Richard said. “And the brute who murdered my daughter will never be brought to justice.”

“Now, now,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “The guard may well be guilty. Don’t leap to conclusions. She shouldn’t have been able to leave the harem, correct? Who let her out? Possibly the same person who killed her?”

“Sir Richard, are you quite certain it’s Ceyden?” I hated asking the question; my skin felt stinging hot. “You haven’t seen her since she was a child, and it’s possible that—”

“There can be no doubt. All these years I’ve been here, in the same city, and never knew she was so close.” He closed his eyes, rubbed a hand hard over them.

“Maybe it wasn’t her,” I said. “It’s possible that—”

“No. It was Ceyden. When she’d fallen ill during our travels, Assia begged me to have her tattooed. It’s common Berber practice, the medicinal use of tattoos. Half black magic, half ancient doctoring, I suppose. In the end, I decided it wouldn’t hurt. Never was able to deny Assia anything. So I got her ink and needles and she did it herself.”

“And you saw that tattoo tonight?” I asked.

“Yes. There’s no doubt. Because when Assia had finished, I was so taken with the steadiness of her hand that I told her to add her initials, as if she were signing a painting. She didn’t want to, but I convinced her. It was there, on her neck: ASC. There can be no mistake.” He clasped his hands together, pulled them apart, rubbed his palms, then started again. “I need her murderer to be brought to justice, Hargreaves. Can I rely on you to help me?”

“I’ve already sought permission from our government and don’t doubt that I’ll receive it.”

“Justice in such a case must be achieved at any cost. There is no crime more reprehensible than one that causes a person to lose his child,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “But will the sultan allow foreign intervention?”

“We should be able to persuade him to allow us at least a brief investigation,” Colin said. “The girl was, after all, half English.”

“I will have to count on you, Hargreaves,” Sir Richard said.

“There’s only one obstacle that I foresee,” Colin said. “There’s no chance I’ll be allowed to interview anyone in the harem. I’ll need the assistance of a lady.”

“What luck you have,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I believe you’re well acquainted with someone quite capable of undertaking the task.”

He smiled. “You’d be working in an official capacity, Emily. No running about doing whatever you wish. And I’ll have to get approval—”

“Your wife is an investigator as well?” Mr. Sutcliffe’s eyebrows shot upward.

“She’s solved three murders,” Colin said. His words were true, but I’d not before acted on behalf of the government. I’d only helped friends—and myself—in dire times when there was no other option. My stomach flipped, excitement competing with nerves for my attention. After the work I’d done in Vienna the previous winter, he’d spoken to his superiors at Buckingham Palace about me, and they’d agreed that my skills might prove useful to the government in the future—but only if I was partnering with my husband, and only if the job could not be done in the absence of feminine assistance. I’m quite certain they were convinced no such circumstance would ever come to pass.

“I’m not sure that I approve. Not that I doubt your talents, Lady Emily, but I cannot ask that you endanger yourself.” The creases on Sir Richard’s brow deepened. “But I suppose I have no choice but to graciously accept any assistance you can offer. I’ve now lost my daughter twice. I cannot let this insult go unpunished.”

3 April 1892

Darnley House, Kent

My Dearest Emily,

I hope this letter finds you lost in the throes of connubial bliss. It was such a delight to see you and Colin—without question the best diversion I’ve had in months. Would that you’d been able to stay longer! I do, though, completely understand your desire to remove yourself from your parents’ house, and I cannot be stern with you for having abandoned me. In fact, after the service you provided Robert and me in Vienna, I could hardly be stern with you on any subject. I’m not precisely sure what etiquette demands as the proper thanks for rescuing one’s husband from prison and a charge of murder. Have you any suggestions?

I still can hardly believe Robert was ever suspected of such a crime—how anyone could think my dear husband would kill his own mentor is utterly beyond my comprehension. It was terrifying to see how quickly those around him abandoned him. If you hadn’t been willing to pursue the investigation with such vigor, I’m quite certain I’d be swathed in mourning.

I must confess that at present it feels as if I’ll never be able to leave your parents. Robert’s business still keeps him in town, and your mother refuses to let me return alone to our estate. I appreciate her generous concern, but must admit that confinement with her is like being violently tamed by an unstoppable force of nature. I do fear for you, Emily, when your own time comes. There’s not enough paper in England for me to list all she’s doing to ensure I have a boy, but I can tell you that I’m quite tired of having beef broth forced on me six times a day.

Every corridor and nook in this house reminds me of the pleasant days you and I spent together as children. Just this morning I pried open that loose board in the solarium floor—the one we begged the butler not to have fixed—and found the box we’d hidden there long ago. Do you remember? In it there’s a copy of
Candide,
a badly written statement pertaining to the outrage we felt at not being allowed to pursue employment as pirates, and a splendid collection of small rocks. All things considered, I do believe we’ve done well to abandon our thoughts of pirating.

Give Colin my best, and implore him to take care of you. I don’t want to hear any stories of you being embroiled in intrigue while you’re away.

3

“Madam?” Meg opened our bedroom door a few inches after knocking. “An urgent message has come for you from the palace.”

I pulled myself away from the perfect comfort of Colin’s arms and sat up. The room was dark—tightly fit shutters keeping out the sun—and our silk quilted duvet and cotton blankets a perfect pool of soft warmth. The furniture, neither particularly Western nor Eastern, had simple, pleasing lines, and there were niches, lined with flower-painted tiles, cut out from the wall for candles on either side of the low mahogany bed. “The queen? Come in, Meg.”

“No, madam. Not Buckingham Palace. Top—Top—Oh, I don’t know that I could ever figure out how to say it.” She shrugged and handed me an envelope heavy with the scent of lavender.

“Topkap? Saray?.” I leaned back as Colin raised a mountain of bright silk-covered pillows against the headboard. “A place undoubtedly full of exotic treasures, Meg. I’d love to see it, and you would, too.”

“Oh, madam, I’m not sure I’d want to go there. There’s a harem, you know. I might never come out.”

“I shan’t let the sultan claim you, Meg,” Colin said. “Without you here, Emily might force me to do her hair.”

“Thank you, sir.” Meg blushed, not looking at him, still embarrassed at finding him in my room. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No. We’ll be down for breakfast in another hour or so,” Colin said. She dipped a curtsy and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

“That long?” I kissed him. “What if I’m hungry before then?”

“I’ll try to keep you distracted.”

“You’d better.” I opened the envelope. “I can’t imagine the sultan using fragranced paper.”

“I can’t imagine the sultan writing to a European woman.”

“He’s very cultured,” I said. “And more Western than I’d expected. Surely you don’t doubt I could charm him?”

“Quite the contrary. But though he may be cultured, he’s a difficult man. Extremely paranoid—won’t allow electricity in the city because when someone explained to him how it works, he mistook ‘dynamo’ for ‘dynamite.’ ”

“Perhaps he’s overwhelmed. He is, after all, ruling an empire in an advanced state of decay—a situation that’s growing worse faster than expected. People accustomed to being in a position of strength often assume it will last. I often wonder about our own empire.”

“Britain is not in a state of decay at the moment,” he said. “But our way of life is a precarious one that must be protected with vigilance if we don’t want it to slip away. All of Europe will be affected if Turkey becomes more unstable—instability has a way of being contagious.”

“So we’re witnessing the decline and fall of the Ottomans?”

“Due in large part to the excessive and obscene spending of Abdül Hamit’s predecessors. They’ve done more palace building than prudent this century—and that went a long way to bankrupting the empire.”

“Why would anyone with Topkap? Saray? at his disposal want another palace? I’ve never heard such exotic descriptions of a place.”

“It’s ordinary to anyone who lives in it, I’d imagine.”

“Not to the concubines when they first arrive and are prepared to meet the sultan. Only think how awestruck they must be to find themselves ensconced in such luxury.”

“Your imagination is running quite wild, Emily. At any rate, the sultan now lives at Y?ld?z, not Topkap?.”

I unfolded the paper I was holding. The letter was written in a confident, elegant hand. “This is from someone called Bezime. She says she’s Abdül Aziz’s mother. Who is Abdül Aziz?”

“He was sultan before Abdül Hamit’s brother, Murat.” Colin sat up, propping his pillows behind him. “And a master of excess, particularly after he visited Europe. I believe he had twenty-five hundred in his harem.”

“Twenty-five hundred?” I asked.

“The number does include both slaves and eunuchs as well as the concubines, wives, and children. Murat followed him to the throne but ruled for only three months or so. He was mentally unstable, completely unfit to rule an empire, a raging alcoholic. So he was deposed, and Abdül Hamit the Second succeeded him and agreed to a constitutional monarchy. The Year of Three Sultans, they called it.”

“When was this?” I asked, kissing his fingers as he spoke.

“1876. You’re distracting me.”

“Good,” I said. “But a constitution? There’s no parliament here, is there?”

“Not anymore. Abdül Hamit dissolved it years ago.”

“What became of Murat? Nothing pleasant, I imagine.”

“His brother let him live—although he did announce Murat’s death in the papers. He’s imprisoned in a palace somewhere in the city.”

“Is he still ill?”

“Perhaps Bezime can enlighten you on that point. I’ve not the slightest idea.”

“She writes to invite me to visit her at Topkap? Saray?.”

“Which is the old palace. Where discarded harem girls go to do whatever it is they do after they’re discarded.”

“It must be a dreadful life. Tedious.” I sat up straight and turned to the window, my bare feet dangling off the edge of the bed.

“Tell me you’re not thinking of opening the shutters,” Colin said, scowling as I crossed the room. I flung them aside without answering him and pushed the tall windows out, a gush of watery air filling the room.

“It’s a glorious day,” I said. “Don’t be so lazy.”

“Lazy? No, my dear. Never lazy.” He sprang up, swooped me off my feet, and dropped me back on the bed. “Stroke of genius, actually, letting in the light. I much prefer being able to see you.”

I smiled. Breakfast would be more than late.

Within moments of arriving at the palace—the huge outer courtyard of which contained the Imperial Mint, the newly completed Archaeological Museum, and a bakery from whose windows wafted the most delicious yeasty smell of fresh bread—I decided that should I ever be discarded, I would be quite content to find this the site of my banishment, although I did momentarily reconsider this position as a guard led me past the Executioner’s Fountain. I paused in front of it, imagining the men who, over hundreds of years, had washed in it their bloody hands and swords after public beheadings.

We reached the end of the courtyard’s path and Topkap? Saray?’s Gate of Salutations—a tall structure with two pointed towers the likes of which I would have expected to find on a medieval European castle. My guide led me along a diagonal path, lined on both sides by tall, carefully shaped trees, through a second courtyard to the entrance of the harem, where he remanded me to the care of a tall, dark-skinned eunuch, the only sort of man other than the sultan who would ever be admitted to the harem.

“If you would follow me.” He bobbed his head in what might be construed as a bow of sorts but did not meet my eyes. The rich voice with which he spoke was not at all what I’d expected, nothing like the stories I’d heard of the castrati, whose angelic sopranos had charmed all of Italy during the Baroque age. Although he sounded like an ordinary man, there was no trace of whiskers on his perfectly smooth face. “Her Highness has been waiting for you.”

“It took me longer to get here than I expected,” I said, moving more quickly to match his pace, my heels catching in the spaces between the smooth black and white pebbles formed as a mosaic to look like directional arrows down the center of an otherwise cobbled pavement.

“You should never be late when the valide sultan has summoned you.”

I was not quite late, but I thought it best to restrain myself from pointing this out. “Valide sultan? I thought Perestu was valide sultan?”

He turned to look at me. “She is. But here it is Bezime who matters. It is unfortunate she lost her official position.”

“Unfortunate, perhaps, but inevitable,” I said. “Every sultan has his own mother.”

“Abdül Hamit’s mother died when he was young. Both Perestu and Bezime cared for him when he was a boy. This so-called inevitability was in fact a matter of choice.”

“You speak very freely,” I said, shocked to hear a servant give opinions—particularly opinions about the royal household—to a stranger.

“I am a favorite of many in the court, Bezime included, and have nothing to fear, no reason to hold my tongue.” He stopped walking and faced me directly. “You are not used to educated slaves who wield their own power.”

The flash in his black eyes made me suspect he was trying to shock me. Instead of registering the slightest surprise, I squared my shoulders and straightened my back. “No, I’m not. We don’t have slaves of any sort in England. And I admire very much that you are educated.”

“Everyone in the harem is educated.”

“You mean the women?” I asked.

“Yes. Of course. You’ll not find more cultured ladies anywhere. You think the sultan would want to surround himself with ignorant fools?”

“Many men have done worse.” We were walking again, inside now, along a stone corridor that led through doorways above which hung passages painted in Arabic—I presumed from the Koran—gold paint on a green background. After passing through another outdoor courtyard, this one surrounded by buildings painted pink, we entered a small room whose every square inch was covered with tiles painted in blues and greens. “What is your name?” I asked as he paused to pull open a heavy wooden door, rich wood carved in a bold pattern of squares and rectangles.

“Jemal Kaan.”

“I’m pleased to meet you.”

He turned down the corners of his mouth and did not look at me. “Bezime is waiting.”

The room into which we stepped had an enormously tall ceiling, domed at the top, with murals painted on the walls, landscapes that were leagues more Western than the rest of the tiled rooms I’d seen. Standing in the center of the square chamber was a table, inlaid, as were the cabinets built into the walls, with mother-of-pearl. Behind the table sat a woman, silver hair flowing down her back, the lines that etched her face somehow lending elegance to her appearance. She leaned forward on her elbows, then dropped back, puffing all the while on a long pipe.

“You’ve not seen a woman smoke a
çubuk
?” she asked, expertly blowing rings as she exhaled, fingering the pipe with hands whose long nails were dyed a rose color.

“I’ve never seen a
çubuk
,” I said, sitting across from her, almost envious of the gorgeous gown she wore, a concoction of sky blue silk and tulle cinched at her tiny waist, puffed sleeves bursting from the fitted bodice. Only her hair kept her from looking like a perfect Western fashion plate.

“So you are Emily Hargreaves.
Lady
Emily Hargreaves?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “And you are Bezime?”

She ignored my question. “I am not one to waste time on things lacking significance. You know of the murder that occurred last night?”

“Yes. I was there when—”

“Ceyden and I were close. I knew her when she first came to the harem. She was difficult then. Wouldn’t speak to anyone.”

“I can well imagine that. She must have been terrified. To have been stolen—”

“Sultans, Emily”—my name sounded exotic on her tongue, “
Aimahlee
”—“do not steal women. Yes, she was taken from her family and sold into slavery. But the noble Ottoman who bought her did her no harm. She wasn’t well. He had her cared for, and when she was healthy, he gave her to the sultan as a gift. It is a great compliment for a girl.”

“To be forced to live as a slave?” I asked.

“Do I look to you like a slave?” She narrowed her eyes and held up her arms, the heavy gold bangles on her wrists clanging together. “I have more freedom than my English counterparts.”

I smiled. “You’ll find I’m no proponent of the restrictions placed on my fellow Englishwomen. I’m well aware of the limitations of my society.”

“I did not come to the harem as a child. I worked in a
hamam
—a bath—in the city. Mahmut—he was the sultan then, Mahmut the Second—saw me carrying linen from a laundry across the street. My beauty enchanted him.” She drew deeply on her
çubuk
. “And I was brought to the harem, where I became his favorite, and I gave him a son. And when that son was made sultan, I was valide sultan, the most powerful woman in the empire.” She leaned forward again. “Tell me, Emily Hargreaves, can an English girl, working for a living, aspire to someday marry the Prince of Wales and give birth to a future king?”

I pressed my lips together hard. “No. She could not.”

“The lack of enlightenment in your country is unfortunate. I cannot see how women bother to live when they have no hope of advancing their positions.”

“There’s a certain amount of advancement possible, it’s simply that—”

Before I could finish, she dismissed my statement with a wave of her hand. “What they can hope for is insignificant. And the loss of hope . . .” She turned away, then looked back at me, meeting my eyes. “There is nothing worse than the loss of hope.”

“You’re right.” My skin prickled discomfort. “Why did you send for me? Because of Ceyden?”

“Yes. I am told that your husband will investigate the murder. But he will find no solutions outside of the harem.”

“And he cannot come into the harem. We’re well aware of that. It’s why he sought—and received—permission for me to—”

She laughed. “Do you think, Emily, that I do not already know everything you do? You are to be set upon us, asking questions. That is not why I have summoned you here.”

“Then why?”

“I have decided to offer you my allegiance. My support. Without which you will flail and accomplish nothing. Did you even know I was here? That this graveyard for the previous sultans’ women existed?”

“No. I confess I did not.”

“And do you know that Murat, the sultan’s cast-aside brother, has a harem of his own at Ç?ra
an Saray?, the palace that is his prison on the shores of the Bosphorus? And that the dealings of the women in both these locations must be considered if we are to find and punish the person who ended Ceyden’s life?”