We emerged, blinking, from the dim depths, our journey shortened by half an hour at the least, depending upon the thickness of the foot traffic on the main access road to the district.
I turned right, and we made our way up a street that was more a stairway than a thoroughfare to an opening in the tightly-packed buildings that led to an open courtyard, paved in dusty pink tiles. On one side, flower stands and jewelry carts crowded cheek-by-jowl. On the other, an English-style inn board depicting a bloody head wearing a Russian military cap swung above an open doorway from which enticing odors of roasting meats, fresh-baked pastries, and Turkish coffee wafted forth.
So did a pair of English ladies, dressed all in frilled white. They canted their heads toward each other, discussing the advisability of buying trinkets from the assembled merchants who, as the ladies paused, pressed forward with examples of their wares held up in eager hands. A babble of low French and aristocratic English burst forth as the ladies’ great-coated escort thrust the importunate vendors aside and ushered the ladies out onto the Grande Rue.
The merchants’ eyes turned to Josiah and me, but either my disinterested avoidance or Josiah’s glare had them returning to their stalls without bothering to try for a sale. We stepped into the deliciously aromatic interior of The Russian’s Cap seyhane.
The faint music of pipes greeted us, and I gazed in disbelief at the gleaming white tablecloths adorning an array of small tables situated in discreet clusters around the brilliantly painted room.
I had never been inside a seyhane that looked like this. The seyhanes airmen haunted tended to smell of sour ale and piss rather than honey and grilled peppers. They were loud and dark and grubby, not bright and filled with the tinkle of refined feminine laughter. And they were crammed with men in uniforms and Turkish garb made of hard-wearing, rough wool and canvas, not dotted with women and men wearing silk and fine gabardine.
What did it mean that Captain Rollins had spent some his last moments on earth here, in a tourist destination?
“Welcome, sir, madam. Would you care for a table?” The polite English words were spoken with such an extreme Turkish accent I would have had an easier time understanding them if they had been spoken in Turkish, even given my limited vocabulary in the language.
I turned to the man, a rounded individual of medium height and age with very black hair and a drooping mustache that hid his top lip and a good portion of his chin. His colorful, embroidered tunic clashed with the aggressively European table settings, but went well with the rest of the décor in the room. The gold braiding on his red fez echoed the curving patterns painted on the walls, down to the paste gems winking from the centers of the many-arched designs.
“Yes, thank you,” Josiah said before I could refuse.
I glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. We had limited free time in which to investigate and could ill afford to waste any.
He returned my look with a level stare. “I am thoroughly tired of badly scrambled eggs on stale toast. And since our investigation has led us to a spot where I can indulge my desire to experience the local cuisine, I have no intention of passing up the opportunity.”
“You make a valid point, sir,” I replied. Indeed, my heart was not the only part of my anatomy that missed Henry McDonnell. My stomach made an unfortunate rumbling sound as a new wave of aromas swept past, trailing in the wake of a platter of roasted lamb carried by what appeared to be the red-fezzed host’s son, to judge by the similarities of face and dress, on his way to a party of black-suited gentlemen speaking Armenian in the far corner.
“I believe the quality may be better than most of what you’d find closer to the airfield,” I said. The price would be higher, as well. Calculating the worth of the coins in the little purse on my wrist, I hoped Josiah intended to pick up the tab as a business operating expense.
The man seated us in the back, close to the kitchens. I suppose Josiah’s uniform marked us as not quite up to the standard of the establishment’s usual clientele. Or perhaps I was being overly sensitive. The place was bustling, after all.
Before our host could scurry off, I lay a gloved hand on his arm. “Excuse me, sir. Would you happen to remember an older English gentleman who came in rather late in the evening twelve days ago?”
Josiah shook his head fractionally. “Hush, Everley. The man is busy,” he murmured.
“Madam,” our host replied, bowing in an oily and ingratiating manner—and not coincidentally, sliding out from under my restraining hand. “Many English gentlemen come in late in the evenings. My seyhane is blessed with great success.”
He backed up a step and almost escaped before I could tease the meaning out of his heavy accent. “Wait! He would have been wearing a uniform like this one,” I said, gesturing to Josiah’s blue and green.
The man knew something; I could tell by the way his eyes flicked away to the surrounding tables and back.
Josiah took out a pound note, set it on the table and said, “Could you bring us tea, if you please?”
I sucked in a sharp breath. A whole pound was too much, even taking into account a hefty bribe for the information. If Josiah continued to throw money around like this, Winged Goods was in terrible trouble.
Besides, why come all the way to Constantinople just to eat English food? “Not tea. Coffee, made in the Turkish fashion. And some izgara kofte, if it’s good today.” My stomach grumbled at the scent of grilled meat and onions filling the air.
Our host hesitated, and then, mind made up, his hand snaked out to snatch the one-pound note from the table. “My kofte is always good, madam, as it was twelve nights ago when the English captain came in and sat at this very table. I have heard he had some difficulty later that night.”
Some difficulty! I would say death rated a little higher than some difficulty! “He was mur…” I began, going stiff with the effort to remain seated and not give in to the impulse to grab this silly little man and shake him until he told us all he knew.
“Any difficulty Captain Rollins experienced,” Josiah cut in, “was in no way connected with this establishment, I am certain.”
The man glanced between us, weighing my obvious distress against Josiah’s iron-cold composure. I suppose he dismissed my emotional reaction as typical for a female, and, therefore, to be discounted, as he addressed all further remarks to Josiah.
“As you say, sir.” His extreme accent softened until I could barely hear the hint of Turkey underneath the plummy tones of Oxford. “I’m also certain the fair-haired English gentleman he met here had nothing to do with the captain’s misfortune.”
“What gentleman? Did you recognize him?” I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table. The crisp white linen crumpled under my fingers.
The host in his overly ornate fez did not so much as glance in my direction.
When Josiah gave a discreet nod, the man answered, “I did not know the gentleman, but he struck me as a wealthy young man, accustomed to travel, as he did not hesitate to order the local delicacies.”
“Can you give us a description? Did you overhear any of the conversation? How long were they together? Did they leave in company?” My questions tumbled out, almost without my conscious volition. At last I had found someone able to add to the meager store of facts I had collected.
Our host’s face clouded with unease, and he shifted his weight backward as if preparing to flee.
Josiah gave me a slight frown and set his booted foot firmly upon mine, hidden beneath the table linens and my flowing skirts.
I jumped at the sudden pain in my instep, and bit my lips closed to prevent my over-eagerness from frightening the man away. Flushing, I tore my gaze from our host’s face.
I knew better than to attempt a direct interrogation in an establishment such as this. In any establishment where I was not well known, in fact, not simply the expensive, upper crust ones. My emotions were in such an upheaval, however, logic, or even sense, felt unreachable.
“Any information yo
u feel comfortable imparting will be appreciated.” Josiah turned a calm smile upon the man.
The man settled, although he came no closer, ready to hurry off to tend to his other, better-behaved, guests. “I did not serve them myself, sir, but I did note the gentlemen appeared to know each other, although they were perhaps not as friendly as could be hoped. In fact, they conducted what appeared to be a heated debate. They exchanged some small token, like a coin, whereupon the captain left in great haste and in a foul humor. The other gentleman stayed behind for a few minutes and was joined by another man. Turkish, not English, and not of the sort that normally frequents my establishment. They spoke as well, and the Englishman gave the other a considerable sum of money, and the man—not the fair-haired Englishman—left several minutes before the other.
“And now I’ll bring you your coffee and kofte, sir and madam.” He bobbed his head in a truncated bow and escaped into the kitchens at my back.
“What are you about, Everley?” Josiah hissed under his breath. “I could have gotten much more out of the man if you’d kept silent and let me handle the conversation.”
The accusation rankled, but I could not deny its veracity. “I am sorry, sir. I suppose my emotions are more engaged today than I had anticipated. Still, we got some information. We know Captain Rollins met an Englishman with pale hair, who is young and well-travelled and who has been in Turkey long enough to make the necessary connections to hire a man to kill your father.”
“And so he may be one of the legion of young men roaming the Continent on an extended Grand Tour.”
I fell silent as a slight woman—a girl, really—wearing traditional voluminous trousers and embroidered tunic delivered our meal. My mouth watered as the aroma of the peppers and onions rose from the steaming platter of spiced meatballs. “Perhaps,” I said as the girl departed and Josiah took his first hesitant bite, “we can connect this mysterious Englishman to one of the other clues.”
Josiah chewed thoughtfully, his expression changing to one of pleased surprise at the taste of the exotic dish. “What other clues do we have beyond rumors of a missing button and note?”
My shoulders went tight and my appetite fled. How could he doubt me now, after finding the information about the Russian’s Cap had been correct?
Josiah glanced over at me and flushed. “My apologies, Miss Everley. That did not come out as I had intended. I meant to say, we have only your memories of the night to go on, and with your distress over the captain’s death, you may have forgotten or misremembered something.”
“On the contrary, sir. The situation had a remarkably focusing affect upon my senses. I can recall with perfect clarity every moment of that night from the instant I found his body. I remember the heat, the smell, the way his throat looked, his cravat slashed and soaked with his blood—”
I heard Josiah suck in a harsh breath, but the memory of that night held me tightly in its grasp, and I could not break free. “I saw the gleam of bone where by some chance of fate or nature the gore missed one bit of vertebrae. I remember searching his pockets and finding his money, his pocket watch, the note about this seyhane, and that mysterious brass button with its strange design and the odd, crusty stain on its back.”
Josiah’s hand shot over the table, gripping my shoulder. “Wait. What stain?” he said.
“The one on the button. I thought it might have been blood, but it was too old and dry to have been from Captain Rollins.”
“A bloody uniform button? Why did you not think to tell me this before?”
“I thought you already knew, since you took my notes! Besides, you forbade me from pursuing my investigations. I was not about to ask if you had read them all.”
Josiah let go of my shoulder and sat back, his posture relaxing, although not his expression. “I did read them—all that I had, at any rate. Old blood. Symbolic of bad blood, perhaps?”
“I suppose it might be that if the substance was, in fact, blood, although I can’t imagine anyone being stupid enough to leave such a blatant clue. Perhaps the assassins were supposed to retrieve it, but neglected to carry out the order. Or perhaps the button was supposed to mean something to Captain Rollins’ family. To you.”
“Unfortunately, it does not. Assassins,” Josiah said, as if tasting the word to assess how its particular flavor blended with what he already knew.
“They can be found, sir, and hired, if you know where to look. Which begs the question, what casual holiday-maker would know where to look?”
“No casual holiday-maker would,” Josiah replied, suddenly remembering the existence of the kofte, and resuming his meal. I tried to emulate him, but the subject matter was too fraught with emotion to allow me much appetite. “Which means the Englishman he met with—if we are assuming that man is responsible for ordering my father’s death—was more than a mere tourist.”
I nodded. “The odds are good an Englishman in Constantinople who is not simply touring the Continent is connected with either the government or shipping.”
Josiah gave a grunt of agreement, sounding so like his father I had to stare down at my plate for several moments while I fought back a wave of melancholy.
“So maybe his death and our recent sabotage are due to the diplomatic dispatches Winged Goods transports,” he said, studiously failing to notice my lapse in composure.
I sipped the strong Turkish coffee to clear my voice. “Or, the sabotage is an attempt to complete the task Captain Rollins’ murder began.”
Josiah’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting, Miss Everley?”
“Someone appears determined to cause Winged Goods trouble. I cannot help but wonder if that someone desires the demise of the company, or, perhaps, the demise of Captain Rollins’ remaining family. You will need to keep a sharp eye about you, sir. Do not go about alone.” I let out a hard breath in frustration. “I wish I knew if other ships in the fleet are experiencing difficulties as well.”
“I will send out telegrams as soon as we return to the airfield,” Josiah said. “Finish your… What did you call this stuff, Miss Everley?”
“Kofte, sir.”
“Ah. Finish your kofte, Miss Everley. I feel the need to return to my ship.”
We ate with unseemly haste, judging by the scandalized expression on our host’s face.
Some small, petty part of me wanted to attribute Josiah’s eagerness to return to the airfield to cowardice—an attempt to preserve his own life. But from what I’d seen of the man, I imagine he worried more about the safety of his ship and crew. Henry’s death had hit him hard, nearly as hard as it had me. Nearly as hard as his father’s death had hit both of us. He had known the man a matter of days, and yet Henry had been under his command. His responsibility. Josiah took his position as captain and owner seriously.
If I did not stay vigilant, I would begin to respect the man, almost as much as I respected his father.
Perhaps I already did.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I guided Josiah back through the courtyard into the teeming street, where the parasols of diplomats’ wives and daughters vied for space with the awnings of rug sellers and flower shops. Turkish, German, Italian, and French language filled the air. Hamals, the local porters, trudged up the narrow, steep streets, the packs on their backs large enough to force us to flatten ourselves against the store fronts as they passed.
Josiah’s eyes darted from side to side, taking in the exotic colors and shapes, nostrils flaring as we passed a perfumery breathing out an atmosphere of musk and roses to lure in those with enough money to purchase their rare concoctions.
I had intended to go back by way of the underground tram, the same way we had come. However, observing Josiah’s obvious fascination with Constantinople’s attractions, I decided to forgo the pleasure of admiring once more the efficiency of the engines that powered the funicular.
I could entrust the safety of the ship to the ground crew for the small space of time it would take to walk down to Gala
ta Bridge in order to show Josiah a bit of the city. Captain Rollins had been dead for two weeks; Henry, three days. Surely half an hour more or less would make little difference in the investigation.
I would take the responsibility for Josiah’s safety upon myself. No other crewmember would die on my watch, I vowed.
I slowed my steps, not exactly to a stroll, but to a pace that blended better with that of the rest of the citizenry thronging the avenues. We passed a cart smelling of pastries, and Josiah’s head whipped around like a hound’s that had scented a fox.
“Baklava,” I said. “And nightingale’s nests. These have pistachios in them, a little different from what you find in Greece.”
“I have never been to Greece, either,” Josiah said. “Our two-hour refueling stop hardly qualifies.”
I turned back to the cart, digging in the beaded purse dangling from my wrist to find a few para coins.
“Miss Everley!” he protested. “I will buy my own comestibles.”
“You have no Turkish money. I do.” I ignored his pained look. “Besides, you paid for dinner.” I set to dickering in French with the robed gentleman at the cart.
I imagined the argument Josiah wished to have with me. I was a woman! No woman of his acquaintance would stoop to paying for a man’s portion of hospitality. The man paid, and that was the end of the matter.
I snorted. A man paid because women were not, in Josiah’s world, permitted the security of being able to provide for themselves. Then again, even in Josiah’s restricted world, women always paid in the end, simply not in the currency with which Josiah was familiar.
Maman was proof of that.
With my mood soured, I slapped a sticky square of pastry, dripping with butter and sweet, rose-scented syrup, into Josiah’s hand. “Here. Now you will be able to compare the varieties.”
He frowned at my snappishness, but he ate the pastry. I tugged him into motion, my boot heels clicking against the paving stones a little more sharply than before.
Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic Page 18