“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 Hargre
aves. 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?raan 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?”
“You speak as if you have an idea as to the identity of the guilty party,” I said.
“Ideas, perhaps, but ideas are nothing but ephemeral.”
“I did not expect my purpose to be a welcome one. I accept your assistance most gratefully. I promise I will not fail you.”
“Of course you won’t,” she said. “I read your chart.”
“My chart?”
“Know you nothing of astrology?”
“. . . so she told me that I’m an Aries. Impulsive, bold, ruled by the planet Mars.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Colin said, raising his eyebrows, skepticism radiating from every inch of his face.
“Competitive—but you know that already.” I took a fig from a bowl on the table and popped it in my mouth.
“All too well.”
“I was thinking,” I began, looking over the Bosphorus shining below us. “Perhaps we should have another bet. Bezime says it’s impossible for you to solve this case. That all the keys lie in the harem.”
“That may be. But we’ll be sharing our information. I may put the story together before you. I’ve more experience.”
“What did you learn today?” I asked.
“I spent the bulk of the afternoon at Ç?raan Palace—where the sultan’s brother is imprisoned. Nice digs, that,” he said. “Far from a hotbed of political discontent, but there are several individuals who’ve aroused my suspicions.”
“Who? What are they doing?”
“I’ve little to go on yet—primarily instinct. They’re all men who lost power when Murat was deposed.”
“I trust your instincts,” I said. “Bezime suspects trouble is brewing there.”
“I shan’t dismiss her thoughts without further investigation. And you’re quite right to trust my instincts. They will help me reach a solution before you.”
“I don’t think you will,” I said.
“And?” His eyes narrowed.
“And if I’m right, I want you to swim the Bosphorus for me.”
“Swim the Bosphorus? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s romantic.” I picked up another fig. “Think of Hero and Leander. He crossed the sea every night to be with her.”
“And drowned. After which Hero, if I remember correctly, flung herself off a tower to her own painful death.”
“So you don’t think you’re a good enough swimmer?” I asked, a wicked smile creeping onto my face.
“I’m an excellent swimmer.”
“Which is why you should swim the Bosphorus for me. I’ll cheer you on from our balcony and receive you with open arms. Leander himself will never have had such a welcome.”
Now he smiled, his dark eyes full of heat. “If you determine the identity of Ceyden’s murderer before I do.”
“Yes.”
“And if you lose?” he asked.
“I don’t ever lose our bets,” I said.
“I shan’t dignify that with a reply. What do I get if you lose?”
“You don’t have to swim the Bosphorus.”
“Not enough,” he said. “If I win, you shall come to me dressed in Turkish robes and treat me like a sultan. Feed me peeled grapes. That sort of thing.”
I laughed. “The harem is not at all what you think.”
“Then I shall look forward to the disappointment to be found in victory,” he said.
“What sort of robes, exactly?” I asked.
“I’ll have to give the subject proper consideration. Diaphanous would be nice. Perhaps your new friend Bezime can guide you. I’d rather like to see you with a veil, if only so I can remove it.”
“Pity you’re making this a bet,” I said. “I didn’t have any plans for this evening.”
4
“You are going to have to behave yourself. Do you understand?” Colin asked the next morning as he drained a glass of strong Turkish coffee before we started for the yal?’s dock. “No impulsive decisions, no walking into dangerous situations. The prime minister himself has approved your involvement in this case. You must remember at all times that you are working for the government.”
“You’ve told me a thousand times,” I said. “Am I so weak-minded that you think I’ll require two thousand?”
“Of course not. I do wish . . .” He sighed, holding open the French doors that led to the terrace. “Eventually we may have to consider a way for you to protect yourself.”
“Perhaps I need a pistol. A sword would be too heavy to drag about and particularly inconvenient when one is wearing e
vening dress.”
“I’m not joking, Emily. You’re very clever, and up to now have done an astonishing job relying on your wits alone. But there may come a time you need something more.”
“A pistol.” I must confess I rather liked the idea. “Maybe a Derringer?”
“How do you know about Derringers?” he asked.
“I read.”
“It’s not a bad idea.”
“Can we get one here?” I asked.
“Probably, but you’d need to be trained before you could carry it. It would be more of a danger to you than a protection until you’re fully competent using it.”
“I’m sure I could learn.”
“I shall teach you when we get back home,” he said. “I’m something of an expert marksman.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said, feeling my brow crease. “What other fascinating secrets are you hiding from me?”
“None that I can recall at present. For now, though, you’ll have to be doubly diligent. Take no chances.”
We’d reached the edge of the water, and I gripped his hand hard as I stepped into the vessel rocking violently before us, disappointed that my romantic notions of cruising the Bosphorus were being dashed on a daily basis by rough water that, so far as I was concerned, ought not to have troubled my stomach. Once we’d disembarked, it was into a carriage to take us the rest of the way through Pera, the section of Constantinople that housed not only the majority of foreign embassies and consulates, but also the Europeans who worked in them. Despite the preponderance of Western dress and more than one façade that looked straight out of London’s Mayfair, the neighborhood did not lack flourishes of the exotic, from elaborately carved wooden buildings to veiled ladies ducking in and out of alleys.
Sir Richard’s house, with its tall, Empire edifice, was a neoclassical vision, situated on the corner of a street near the British embassy. We were ushered inside by an English butler and served tea almost before we’d taken our seats in a drawing room furnished to showcase the eclectic mix of objects one would expect to find in the home of an international traveler. Serene-looking Isis, queen of the Egyptian gods, her arms outstretched, supported the cherry table on which a silver tea service was laid, and the heads of sphinxes decorated the chairs surrounding it.
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