A Tale of Two Sisters

by Merryn Allingham

  She had barely finished speaking when a loud rumbling filled the air. Then a belch of steam, a triumphant whistle, and a bull-shaped engine chugged past them on the railway track running nearby. They stood and watched as the train made its way into Sirkeci station.

  ‘The Orient Express,’ he remarked. ‘Which reminds me – when is it exactly you must return home?’

  She was about to answer when a figure emerged from the crowd, a man running at speed and scattering people to the right and left as he scythed a path through. He missed hitting Alice by a whisker, but then she felt a sharp pain cut across her hand. She grabbed hold of her bag and clung to it tightly. The man tugged but then must have thought better of it and sped off again, the crowd closing behind him and hiding him from view. Alice looked down and saw the handle of her bag had been severed in two and there was blood dripping through her fingers.

  ‘Alice, are you all right?’ Harry staggered to his feet. He had been pushed to the ground by the onslaught.

  Her face had turned a sickly white and she swayed towards him. He grabbed her with both hands and held her in a firm grasp until a little colour had returned to her cheeks. Then he delved into his pocket and brought out a white square of handkerchief.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ she protested, as she saw what he meant to do.

  ‘It’s far from all right. Give me your hand.’ Meekly she held out the bloodstained fingers and with the greatest care he bound them with the piece of linen.

  ‘I must find you a seat and then I’ll fetch a carriage.’

  ‘Please, no. I can walk. We are not far from the palace gates.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded. ‘But, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. It was a tumble, that’s all.’ He bent down and flicked the dust from the hem of her dress. ‘I am so sorry you should have suffered such an attack.’

  ‘I thought you said theft hardly exists here.’ She was still trembling, still clutching the bag hard against her heart.

  ‘It doesn’t – usually. I’ve never known such a thing.’

  That said it all. Usually. But this wasn’t usual, wasn’t a usual theft. She had been targeted quite deliberately, her handbag the object. The man had cut the handle, meaning to scoop the bag as it fell. Her injury had been accidental and her hold too tight for him to steal it. But what did she carry that was so precious he would risk draconian punishment? A guidebook, a notepad, a pen, and a little money. In other words, nothing worth such a risk. But what might have been there? She put her good hand to her chest and felt the pendant, invisible beneath the woollen dress, but lying securely against her skin. The certainty was dawning on her that the theft had been another attempt to regain the pendant. She wondered how many more there would be.

  ‘You’re sure you are well enough to walk?’ Harry was looking concerned.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m just a little shaken.’

  ‘We should get back to Topkapi immediately. Whatever else, you will be safe there.’

  She was not as certain as he, but for the moment she would say nothing. She needed time to consider. Perhaps she had jumped too quickly to the conclusion that someone in authority at the palace had decided the jewel was dangerous evidence and needed to be retrieved. The Sultan’s mother had been in her mind as chief suspect. But what if these attempts to regain the necklace had nothing to do with the palace, and its inhabitants had as little knowledge as she of Lydia’s fate? It would explain their infuriating silence.

  Today another name had come into the frame. Whatever Harry said, Alice was certain that Elise Boucher had been desperately unwilling to talk to her. Why would she have been so reluctant if there was no connection between the Bouchers and Lydia? It was clear the woman was scared of something or somebody. Valentin Boucher? Harry had hinted that Boucher senior was suspected of bad deeds, but no proof had been found. Were the attempts on the pendant another instance of his ability to make evidence disappear? The thought made her feel a great deal worse.

  They passed beneath the dispassionate gaze of the soldiers stationed at the palace gates and made for the harem entrance. The walk across the two courtyards was a fair distance and, though she leaned on Harry’s arm, her legs felt weak and insubstantial. The sooner she reached her room, the better.

  But when he said goodbye, she found a new strength. He reached out and took both her hands in his, cradling the damaged fingers. ‘I have enjoyed our afternoon. It’s one I’ll remember with pleasure, though I am sorry it has ended badly. But I count myself fortunate to have had such a delightful companion.’

  The look in his eyes seemed to say a good deal more than his words and brought a flush to her cheeks. But that was her heart talking. Her head told her differently. She was reading too much into a single glance and it was unlikely he admired her greatly. He was an attractive man, though there was an edge to him that could make her feel uncomfortable. But she liked the way his hair curled at his nape despite all his efforts to tame it, the way his eyes could change in an instant from cool grey to smoky warmth. What had she to offer in return? Her personality was modest and in no way compensated for a mundane appearance. Harry Frome was simply being a gentleman, as he had from the moment they’d first met.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye then,’ she said, a little nervously. ‘Until Ismet contacts me.’

  He gave a small sigh. ‘Until Ismet contacts you.’

  Chapter Twelve

  LYDIA

  Constantinople, August 1905

  As soon as lessons finished for the day, Lydia left for the meeting. She was pleased with the way her pupils had progressed these last two weeks – they had read an English fairy tale that morning, Cinderella, almost without help, and this afternoon had been busy writing their own stories. Their obvious enjoyment in creating something of their own had given her an idea; there had been a performance in the harem last night of a traditional shadow play and her pupils had sat entranced as the single puppet master had voiced all the characters, accompanied only by a tambourine. She had promised that if one of the tales they had written today showed particular flair, she would turn it into a play for them to perform in front of their elders. The announcement had caused a flurry of excitement and the girls had tumbled out of the schoolroom door chattering loudly.

  Ismet had told her the meeting would start around six o’clock in the evening, but she chose to leave the palace early to allay any suspicion of where she was going. Over the last few weeks, the guards had seen her leave for the small local market and return with a handful of small parcels. Now, bag in hand, a covering of lace on her head, she passed through the gates with a smile for the bored sentries, hoping they would assume she was once more engaged in shopping.

  She intended only to while away the time in wandering the market stalls; there was always something of interest to see or discover. Huge displays of spices – chilli, saffron, muskot, red pepper, green pepper – and shops filled with brightly coloured ceramic bowls, large brass cooking pots and beautifully woven cushions and carpets and kilims. And every type of fruit and vegetable, many of which Lydia had never seen before. She bought a small bag of figs – her favourite – and beneath the covering veil surreptitiously nibbled at them as she walked.

  As soon as her watch showed half past five, she left the market by a side street and was lucky to find a carriage almost immediately. When she gave the driver the address Ismet had written, a doubtful expression crossed his face, but he still accepted the fare. It was well he did. The carriage wended a path through a maze of old lanes and narrow streets where houses on either side met almost overhead. For a while the sun was blotted from view and the alleyways turned into tunnels. She would never have found her way on foot and was relieved when they emerged into the light again and drew up outside a boarded building, its bright paint now a faded orange. An old man was seated outside the house opposite and the beguiling smell of sun-cured tobacco filled the air.

  She was still too early, but after s
he paid off the driver, she walked to the door and gave it a tentative push. Ismet had arrived early, too, and rushed forward to take her hands in a warm clasp.

  ‘Miss Lydia. You came.’ She smiled at him. He really was a most handsome man. ‘And you are dressed for the occasion, I see. Thank you.’

  She had worn a pair of silk trousers and a long gauze overdress which, despite its flowing nature, showed her figure to advantage. She had thought the ensemble fetching and a good deal cooler than the heavy cotton dresses she had brought to Turkey, with their yards of bunched and swagged material. She could get used to dressing in this fashion.

  ‘I would not know you from a Turkish lady,’ Ismet was saying. ‘Except for those blue, blue eyes. They are quite beautiful.’

  She flushed slightly, surprised at the lavish compliment, and he hastened to find her a seat. ‘This will be all right?’ Anxiously, he held aloft a large cushion. ‘I am afraid there are no chairs.’

  She plumped herself down and gave him another warm smile. She was still enjoying the compliment. ‘This is perfect, thank you.’

  The door opened and several other young men trooped in, none of them, she noted, as attractive as Ismet. When they caught sight of her, they came to a halt, glaring at him and waiting, Lydia presumed, for an explanation.

  ‘This is Miss Lydia Verinder.’ He spoke in English and she was sure that was deliberate. ‘Miss Verinder is governess to Sultan Selim’s daughters and she is here to help us.’

  She wasn’t sure about that. She had been interested by Ismet’s talk of democracy and had come to the meeting to learn more, but she could not remember ever promising help. In any case, how could a woman aid any kind of political cause here? Female protest was fiercely punished in London and would be doubly so in Constantinople.

  ‘This is Abdullah.’ Ismet began to introduce his fellows. ‘And these are Malik, Tahir and Cezmi.’ The men bowed to her unsmilingly.

  ‘And this’ – the door had banged opened and a much younger man, not much older than a boy, Lydia thought, burst into the room – ‘is Latif.’

  Unlike his elders, Latif appeared pleased to welcome a woman to their meeting and looked at her in open admiration. Abdullah muttered something in Turkish and Ismet reluctantly translated. ‘My companions are concerned that as you work for the palace…’ He paused, deciding, it seemed, how best to phrase the unpalatable. ‘You might not be an objective observer.’

  ‘A spy?’ she challenged. Despite Ismet’s diplomacy, she was furious at the suggestion. ‘You may tell your companions that I am no spy. I am well acquainted with political protest myself. I have a personal stake in wanting to see all men and women free – and equal – in whatever society they live.’

  Ismet did not bother to translate. It seemed the men had understood her message, or at least its tone, and there were no further mutterings. But she had not yet finished. ‘I am surprised to find that I am the only woman present.’ Ismet spoke a few words in Turkish; she hoped whatever he’d said had discomfited them.

  ‘No good for women,’ Latif said.

  ‘As I am sure you understand,’ Ismet added swiftly.

  ‘But you are fighting for a woman’s right to vote, I hope, as much as a man’s?’

  There was an uncomfortable shuffling among the men. ‘Naturally,’ her friend said smoothly. ‘We cannot pick and choose to whom we give freedom.’

  She had to be content, though she was unsure of their commitment. She had only to think how long women in Britain had waited, were still waiting, for the right to decide their own future, to know that Latif was right in what he said. It was no good for women. Small steps, she told herself, small steps.

  Ismet unwound himself from his cushion and spread his arms wide. She took this as a signal that the meeting was about to begin. He looked directly at her as he spoke. ‘First, I must explain to you, Lydia, what our group wishes to achieve.’

  When she nodded, he launched himself into a plea that was as reasoned as it was impassioned. ‘You may not know, but there have been many attempts to reform the monarchy in this country. Since Abdülhamid assumed leadership of the empire, though, he has reversed every liberal reform gained in earlier years. He is known in Europe as the “red sultan” for his brutality in Armenia, but here in Turkey his Grand Vizier controls an elaborate system of spies to ensure that power is monopolised and opposition crushed.’

  He paused and drank from the small glass beside him. Lydia looked across at the seated men, their backs straight, their figures attentive. They had not moved a muscle while Ismet spoke and were waiting for him to continue.

  ‘He claims it is to hold the empire together, but since he has been Sultan, Ottoman power has declined. The more autocratic his rule, the more the empire will shrink. Those countries he still controls believe his rule is as bad as any by a foreign power. They want to be heard; they want freedom. Yet so far, he has refused all demands for political change. We want to force him to restore the constitution and call together a parliament. A new constitution will free citizens. It will modernise the state, make it stronger, and allow it to hold its own against outside powers.’

  ‘And how do you think to do that when the Sultan is obviously minded to refuse such a proposal?’ It seemed to Lydia a hopeless case.

  ‘Corruption – or rather proof of corruption. If we can show that his ministers and cronies are corrupt to the point of treason, he will want to be on the right side of history. He will dismiss them and call a parliament.’

  She was doubtful. She knew little of how the Court functioned, but it seemed too idealistic to be true. Autocratic rulers were most often corrupt themselves, so why would they be persuaded to dismiss their underlings for the very same crime? But she said none of this and asked instead, ‘How can you prove corruption?’

  ‘Ah!’ Ismet smiled. ‘This is where we believe that you can help.’

  She was astonished. ‘You think I can help root out corruption in the Court?’ The suggestion was so ridiculous she could have laughed aloud.

  But Ismet was not deterred. ‘The most corrupt man in Constantinople, the man with the ear of the Sultan, the one who has persuaded him against every democratic proposal, is Valentin Boucher.’

  ‘The man who built the library?’ She had almost forgotten her initial enthusiasm for this powerful person. Scatterbrained, she chided herself, but the journey on the Orient Express now seemed a distant memory and her new life in the haremlik far more important.

  ‘Yes, the man who built the library and who has made many other charitable bequests. But all of them false.’ The other men nodded in unison.

  ‘He is nothing but a thief,’ Ismet continued. ‘He thieves from the people and thieves from the Sultan, too. The library is a sop, a pat on the head, to say to the ruler that all is well. But it is not.’

  ‘How do you know such things about him?’

  ‘It’s not difficult. Talk to those with whom he has had dealings and over time a pattern emerges. He trades his influence. He demands payment in exchange for awarding contracts. Or he uses his power to allow people to bypass laws or ignore rules, and that can cause distress and sometimes danger to those it affects. He will even take money from a person who wishes to harm another and make sure that the harm is done.’

  ‘He sounds a most unpleasant man.’

  ‘He is more than unpleasant, Lydia. He is venal through and through. When he is given government money to spend, which happens often since the Sultan has faith in him, he allocates the grant to those who offer him most money for it, so that only part of those funds go where they should. And sometimes he takes all the money and no one sees a lira of it.’

  ‘Embezzlement?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘Exactly. This is how the man has grown so rich he can almost outspend the Sultan himself.’

  ‘And you want to expose his corruption. But does the Sultan not realise the true nature of the man? Surely he must.’

  ‘Of course, he knows Boucher grows rich
, but he chooses to close his eyes. It suits him to do so. We want the proof that will mean he can no longer do that.’

  She was still doubtful. If the Court operated on a system of bribes, she could not imagine any proof, no matter how incendiary, making a difference.

  ‘There is also the matter,’ Ismet said slowly, ‘of murder.’

  She gasped. ‘You are saying this Valentin Boucher has killed a man?’

  ‘Many men. Not with his own hands, naturally. They must never be dirtied. But on his orders, certainly. The men who have died are those who refused to pay him bribes or threatened to take him to court. It is still possible to have your grievance aired here before a judge. Those poor men never got that far. They lie in unmarked graves, but their names are known to us. If we can find the evidence of Boucher’s dealings with them and connect it to their deaths, the Sultan – even such a one as Abdülhamid – cannot remain indifferent.’

  It was a lot to take in and Lydia sat silent for some time while the men talked among themselves.

  ‘You said your group is part of a movement called the Young Turks,’ she said at last, speaking directly to Ismet. ‘Is this what the movement is seeking to do, to root out corruption wherever it is found?’

  ‘Our members have greater aims even than that. Abdullah will tell you. He was part of a conspiracy against Abdülhamid twenty years ago, initiated by the students at the Imperial Medical Academy. Abdullah is a doctor and escaped. But when the plot was uncovered, many of its leaders fled abroad. They live in exile, in Paris, and have formed the CUP to prepare the groundwork for revolution. Though maybe revolution is the wrong word. I should say they are working towards orderly reform.’

  ‘Have you thought of joining them in Paris?’ It was a seemingly innocent question, but she thought it a test of how committed he and his fellows were.

  ‘Our hearts are with them, but our lives are here. We are a small group, as you can see. One of many other groups in the city, but we are pledged to do our best to bring about a change of government. And this is one way we can help. Boucher means butcher, you know, and so he is. A dark, evil force from a foreign land that distorts the Court and all its doings. What action we can take is small when compared with the grand sweep of history. That will be for our exiled comrades when they take power. But it is our contribution – the only one we can make. So, will you help?’