As she hesitated, a sound of whispering came suddenly clear, and then ceased to be whispering as someone spoke angrily aloud. Tracy drew back beneath the shadow of an arch, dismayed. The presence of others here seemed somehow less innocent than her own. The words were in Turkish. She could make out only that there seemed to be a man and a woman, and that they were arguing heatedly, their voices distorted and strained. The arguers must have been two or more rooms away, and Tracy started warily back along the course by which she had come, seeking the opening to the big main salon. Upon its threshold she paused, hesitating to step into the open where light from empty windows on the water would touch her clearly. As she paused, the man’s voice rose above the other, speaking a name sharply. “Hubbard,” he said and rushed on in Turkish, enclosing her name in words that had a menacing ring.
Her own name spoken in this atmosphere of angry conspiracy was terrifying. All the warnings of Anabel’s letter swept back. Wanting only to escape unseen, Tracy started heedlessly across the floor, forgetting the rotting wood underfoot. As she stepped down hard, a board cracked, throwing her sharply to her knees. She could feel the scrape of splintered wood across one shin, the smarting of pain.
The noise of her fall betrayed her. Immediately the voices stilled. There was a breathless pause, followed by the sound of running feet, the hurried sounds of flight. She could not see them go, but they must have fled through another door and into the garden, rushing away in the gathering darkness. A guilty flight, it seemed, and she was glad they had gone without approaching her.
She gave her attention to her own predicament and pulled herself out of the hole into which she had fallen. She was examining her torn stocking, feeling gingerly of her skinned leg when a sound nearby made her look up sharply.
There was a fourth person there in the ruins. A man stood silhouetted against water and fading sky. There was something ominous about the motionless way in which he stood looking at her, faceless with his back to the light. He had made no sound when the others had fled, and she wondered if he had been there all along, spying upon them. She could only stand where she was, waiting for him to move, to speak. He broke the silence by addressing her in Turkish and coming toward her. She saw then that it was Ahmet. She did not trust or like this soft-spoken, silent man, but at least he was not a stranger. The hand she had touched to her leg was sticky with blood, and she held it out for him to see.
“I’ve hurt myself,” she said. “Can you help me?”
He understood the gesture at least and came at once to assist her, moving with quiet assurance. “Come, please, hanimefendi,” he said, and she limped out of the house and toward the gate, leaning upon his arm. As they walked slowly along the road, he muttered to himself in his own language. Since all Turkish sounded explosive to Tracy’s unaccustomed ears, she could not tell whether he was commiserating over her injury, or complaining because she had interrupted the meeting of two he seemed to have been watching.
They had gone only a little way when a man appeared walking toward them. He moved at the pace of an evening stroller and, as she drew near, Tracy saw that it was Murat Erim. Ahmet greeted him, gesturing toward Tracy’s bleeding leg.
“You have hurt yourself?” Dr. Erim said, hurrying to her in quick concern.
She explained that she had come for a walk and had been unable to resist exploring the ruined palace. It had been foolish of her to trust the floors, and of course she had fallen. As they walked back, he questioned Ahmet in Turkish and the man answered at considerable length. Before he had finished, Dr. Erim broke in upon his words, directing him to hurry on to the house.
“We will have warm water and bandages waiting,” he said when Ahmet had gone off at a trot. “My sister is well versed in dealing with such injuries. Do not concern yourself. It is fortunate that Ahmet followed you, feeling that you might lose your way in a strange place. I had wondered at finding our side gate unlocked. It is where you came through, is it not?”
She had a sudden feeling that he might be dissembling, that he was abroad for some private reason of his own and was testing her in some way.
“It is where I came through,” she admitted, and did not explain that the gate had been opened by someone ahead of her.
The houseman had apparently said nothing of the two who had taken flight, and Tracy did not contradict his account.
At the house Dr. Erim took her to Sylvana’s rooms. Mrs. Erim had been working in the laboratory, but she left her perfume distilling to come upstairs. When she saw Tracy’s scraped and bleeding leg, she sent Ahmet at once to find Nursel. Evidently Dr. Erim did not use his medical training in such matters and, when he saw that she was in good hands, he went away.
When Nursel came, bringing her first-aid kit, the wound was duly bathed and bandaged. Sylvana asked questions of her, but again Tracy kept her own counsel. She had happened upon some sort of hornets’ nest and it seemed wiser to say nothing until she was sure of her ground. The fright she had felt over hearing the angry mention of her own name lingered. Her knowledge that two people whose identity she did not know had been discussing her heatedly under strange circumstances was no more reassuring than was the fact that Ahmet had been surreptitiously observing them.
When the bandaging was done, Sylvana Erim herself accompanied her to her room, gave her tablets for the pain, and suggested that she go to bed at once. It would not be necessary to get up for dinner—the meal would be brought to her. From now on, said Sylvana, Miss Hubbard must remember not to run about in unknown places after dark.
When Mrs. Erim had gone, Tracy got ready for bed. Now that she was alone, anxiety swept back again. The fact that she had blundered unheedingly upon that clandestine meeting seemed to remove a little of the safety of her incognito. They could not know who she was, but if she stumbled upon some secret and gave cause for concern, her way might be all the more difficult in this house. Besides, what was their interest in her that her name should have been mentioned? Had it something to do with her working for Miles Radburn?
Just before she got into bed, she remembered the scarf in her coat pocket and brought it out. It was of finely woven silk, with stripes of dark plum color that alternated with cream and ran its entire length. The pattern had a faintly familiar look, but she could not remember where she might have seen it. She could not recall that Nursel or Sylvana had worn such a scarf since she had been here.
Sylvana’s medication began to relax her, making her drowsy. She lay down on the bed without turning off the light and thrust the scarf beneath her pillow, too groggy now to puzzle about it. The tablets took quick effect and she fell soundly asleep.
She must have slept for two or three hours before Nursel tapped on her door and came in, followed by Halide with a tray. Tracy wanted only to wave the food away and go back to sleep, but Nursel insisted that she have something to eat. She supervised the matter of getting Tracy up against her pillows as if she were a helpless invalid, and set the bed table across her knees. Then she dismissed Halide and drew up a chair beside the bed.
“Now,” she said pleasantly, “while you refresh yourself, you must tell me all that happened when you were injured. There is something strange here. I have said nothing to Sylvana or to my brother, but I do not think you have told them all the truth.”
Tracy drank hot broth and found that the fog was clearing a little. With Nursel she felt less cautious and tongue-tied, and since the girl saw through her evasion, as the others had not seemed to, she gave her an account of exactly what had happened. There had been a man and a woman in the ruined palace, both engaged in angry discussion. And Ahmet had been there too, apparently watching them unseen.
Nursel listened intently, her slender hands clasped about her knees, a look of concern in her huge dark eyes.
“I do not know what Ahmet Effendi could be doing—watching someone away from the house. This does not seem like him. He is not a good-tempered man, but he is very loyal.”
“Why don’t you ask him and
find out?” Tracy said.
Nursel shrugged. “One might as well ask the Egyptian obelisk in Istanbul. Ahmet Effendi does not talk if he does not wish to talk. But I suppose it is his own affair if he wishes to spy on persons outside of this house.”
“What if those two were someone from this house?” Tracy asked.
“Why do you think that?”
“I have no way of knowing,” Tracy admitted. “But I heard someone mention my name. It was as though they were arguing about me in some way.”
“About you?” Nursel echoed. “But this is very strange. You are sure it was your name you heard spoken?”
“I’m sure,” said Tracy. She reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the scarf. “This is something I found when I went into the ruin.”
The Turkish girl looked at the scarf as though it were alive and dangerous. “Please,” she said in some agitation, “it is better if you do not tell this story to anyone. Not even to my brother. It will be better if you forget all this, if you know nothing about it.”
“Then you know whose scarf this is? You know what this might mean?” Tracy asked bluntly.
Nursel’s agitation seemed to increase. Her eyes were luminous with something like fear. “No, no, no—I know nothing! It is only that these matters are of no concern to you. Soon you will go home to New York, Miss Hubbard, and that will be for the best. This is not your affair.”
Tracy wanted to say. “It is my affair. Whatever is going on here is my affair—because I am Anabel’s sister.” But she could not risk going that far with this girl whom she knew so slightly, for all that she had been Anabel’s friend.
As if to conceal her agitation, Nursel rose and went to the balcony doors, opened them slightly, and stood looking out across the water. When she spoke again the course of her words took a surprising turn.
“Why did you go to this place—the palace ruins? What drew you there?”
“Why—nothing special,” Tracy said. “I went for a walk and I stumbled on the gate by chance. I was curious and went inside—that’s all.”
Nursel nodded thoughtfully. “It is strange, but Mrs. Radburn, who was also an American, loved this place. Often when she was unhappy she went there alone. Sometimes I accompanied her, when I thought she should not be by herself.”
Tracy lay back against her pillow, her eyes closed. She had no taste for the food on the tray. Was Nursel making some deliberate connection between her and Anabel? But that wasn’t possible. No one had known of Anabel’s sister. Nursel turned back to the room with a slight gesture, as if dismissing the whole affair. Tracy opened her eyes and spoke cautiously, watching the other girl, trusting her not at all.
“This morning,” she said, “Mrs. Erim showed me the portrait of Anabel in Mr. Radburn’s bedroom. The face in the picture seemed so lovely. Was she like that—Mrs. Radburn?”
Nursel returned to her chair beside the bed. “She was like that—and not like. Often she had the charming quality of a child. She wanted always to be gay and lighthearted. She wanted to be the heroine of her own little plays. Yet she was married to him—so dark and heavy and serious. Oh, I could tell you stories about the year they lived here! Have you seen the fortress on the other side of the water in the direction of Istanbul?”
“I noticed the towers this morning,” Tracy said.
“That is Rumeli Hisar. A very famous place in Turkish history. It was built to guard the Bosporus from the invaders, though its purpose failed. There is a similar fortress on this side, but smaller and not so interesting. One time we took Anabel to Rumeli Hisar for a picnic—all of us. My brother and Sylvana, even Miles. That was one of her wild, gay days. Something reckless would get into her when she would be like—like a knife.”
“What do you mean—like a knife?”
Nursel turned back to the room. “Very sharp and cutting in her ways. She could hurt without thinking. Perhaps more like a sword than a knife, with the ring of steel about her. Yes—that is it! Like a blade hidden by folds of silk, ready to cut when one least expected it. That day at the fortress she wanted to go to the very heights. Miles forbade her. He said she had no head for high places. But Anabel told him she could fly to the top if she chose, and she proved it by running up those long flights of steps that lead through the garden inside. We sat watching her and I was frightened. I cried out that someone should go after her, and Murat started the climb, but Miles stopped him. He said to let her go or she’d never get it out of her system. Perhaps he wanted her dead even then. It was a day in the springtime and the pink Judas trees were in bloom along the Bosporus. There is one that grows on a hillside outside the enclosure of the fortress walls. Anabel said she must see it from the very highest place. So she went up there, running like a gazelle, never looking back, never looking down. From the notch in the wall she could see the tree and she called to us that it was beautiful, enchanting, we must all come up there to see it.”
The story thread broke off, and Tracy heard the emotion in Nursel’s voice as she lowered her dark head.
“Never have I had an American friend, except when I was young and went to the American girls’ school at Arnavütkoy across the Bosporus. That was where I learned to speak English. My friend was a girl of my own age whose father was an American naval officer. But she was not like Anabel. No one else could be like Anabel.”
No one else could be like Anabel, Tracy thought, and closed her eyes briefly. No one else had the wonder and excitement that had been Anabel’s, or her extreme attraction for danger.
“How did she get down from the wall that day?” she asked.
“It was a dreadful time. I will never forget. She turned to call us to come and see the view from the opening in the wall. And when she turned she was forced to look down. The wall is high and narrow at that place, and there was a moment that caught at my heart. I thought she would fall before our very eyes.
“Miles saw what had happened and he shouted to her to lean back against the wall and wait there for him. He started up at once, but she did not wait. She wavered toward the steps and stumbled part way down the first level before she fainted there on a narrow ledge. It was only by good fortune that she did not roll over the edge. He reached her and brought her down from the heights. I could almost admire him then. He was strong and sure and he carried her all the way to safety before she wakened and began to struggle. Then I did not like him for long!”
Her words had a sudden ring of spite in them as she continued.
“When Anabel recovered she was hysterical—weeping, terrified. Miles slapped her across one cheek. Brutally, cruelly. Never, never will I forgive him for that blow. Or for his actions—not only that day, but later.”
One of Tracy’s unpredictable and independent voices suddenly sounded in her mind. She had listened in dismay and she could have wept for Anabel, who was frail and fragile and never one to pit her strength against heights. Yet perhaps her sister had asked for stern treatment. What else could Miles have done, once he got her down, but shock her out of her hysterical state with a good slap?
“Did she quiet after he slapped her?” she asked Nursel.
The dark eyes widened in surprise, as if the other girl had expected indignation. “But of course. She wept afterwards—more softly. She was terrified of him, as she had every right to be—though I did not know this at the time. I did not know how much he wanted her dead.”
The voice of justice was insistent, even though Tracy would have liked to shut it out. She was, after all, on Anabel’s side. But the voice would not be still.
“It doesn’t seem as though a man who wanted his wife dead would hang her portrait on the wall of his bedroom where he must look at it every day.”
“Ah, but that is most easy to understand,” Nursel objected. “What do you call it—the bed of thorns, the hair shirt of your Christian martyrs? He has a need to punish himself for what he has done. He is not without conscience, for all his wickedness. Part of the penalty he pays is to be unable to pa
int again. He will pay forever—but never enough. Never enough to bring Anabel back to life.”
Nursel covered her face with her hands and was still. On one finger a star sapphire winked in the lamplight.
Again Tracy longed to say, “Anabel was my sister. If you were her friend, be my friend too. Help me to find the truth.” But she did not dare. Though Nursel seemed increasingly frank, the time had not yet come. It was better to wait and be wise.
Nursel took her hands from before her face abruptly. Her eyes were sorrowful and there was a lingering tinge of fear, but there was no wetness on her cheeks.
“Give me the scarf,” she said, suddenly urgent.
Tracy had thrust it beneath her pillow and she did not reach for it. “You do know who it belongs to. Why do you want it?”
“It is not wise for you to keep it,” Nursel said obliquely. “It is possible that you might do great injury to the innocent if you tell others all that happened today. If you give me the scarf, it will be replaced where it belongs and no one will be the wiser.”
Tracy hesitated, then made up her mind. “I’ll give it to you. But not now. I’ll give it to you before I leave for home.”
Nursel was not satisfied, but she made a small despairing gesture. “You do not understand. Never mind. You are not finishing your dinner. I have disturbed you with my talk. Sylvana will be displeased if you do not eat everything. Come—the lamb is delicious.”
Tracy wrinkled her nose. “I’m not hungry. Please take it away.”
As Nursel rose to lift the tray from the bed table, someone knocked on the door and Miles’s voice said, “May I come in?”
For an instant Nursel looked startled. Then she smiled at Tracy. “It is a new day in Turkey. Sometimes I hear my grandmother’s voice and I forget. Will you speak to Mr. Radburn?”
She did not want to, but she could hardly refuse. “All right,” she said grudgingly.
Nursel opened the door and the white cat flicked around Miles’s legs and leaped into its corner chair. He ignored the animal and came to stand at the foot of Tracy’s bed.
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