“Why would you say that?”
“Because you look worried,” I said. “Did she know you wanted to leave the harem?”
“No one knows that.”
“Even Jemal?”
This gave her pause. “Of course not.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “What else was in Ceyden’s room? You said trinkets?”
“Yes. Some lovely jewelry that apparently did not belong to her.”
All the color drained from her face; her lips were almost blue. “Whose was it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
“I—I—I cannot discuss this any longer.” She stood, walked a few paces, turned back to face me. “Some secrets are too dangerous to play with.”
Following this conversation, I sought out Jemal. Much to my relief, he was back at Y?ld?z, so I would not have to make my way across town yet again. We sat in another courtyard—this one on the opposite side of the grounds to the one in which I’d met Roxelana—full of roses not yet in bloom and lilacs whose scent filled the air with sugar.
“We cannot be overheard here,” Jemal said, standing close to me, directly in front of the tall fountain at the center of the garden.
“Water, yes,” I said. “It reminds me of Topkap?.”
“I am to talk to you. So says the sultan.” He pursed his full lips. “I do not like it.”
“Why not?”
“You do not understand our way of life.”
“I understand very well that two women have been murdered on palace grounds and am confident that no one’s way of life views such events as acceptable. I’m most interested in your relationship with Roxelana—”
“Relationship?” I could see a mask fall over his eyes. “An odd choice of word.”
“I can’t say I agree,” I said. “I think you’re closely connected to her in ways that might cause trouble for you with the sultan.”
He drew in a deep breath, held it, then turned away from me. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can help you with today, Lady Emily. I will inform the sultan that I am, of course, full of regret not to have been of more use.”
“Don’t do this.”
“You know nothing.”
“What about Bezime? Do you want no justice for her? Isn’t she the one who arranged for you to come back here? Wasn’t she your champion?” I didn’t want him to walk away and hoped that any or all of my hurried questions would cause him to stop. I was not so lucky, however. He stared at me before going, shaking his head.
“No good will come of the path you are on.”
His words stung me, so well mimicking Bezime’s. I walked past the sultan’s workshop as I made my way out of the palace grounds. He was inside—I could hear the sound of his plane through the window—but I did not pause to speak to him, instead continuing on and contemplating his position. When not angry, Abdül Hamit was gracious, exceedingly polite, cultured, Western, and enlightened when it came to education, particularly for women. He loved music, wrote poetry, and had even penned an opera of his own. How did one reconcile all that with his multiple wives and concubines and slaves and mutilated guards?
There was a certain amount of wisdom in what Jemal had said. I did not understand this sort of life. And although I did not doubt my ability to solve the murders, I wondered what my ignorance and naïveté led me to overlook. It was essential that I recognize the limitations I carried with me. With this in mind, once back at the yal? I sat down again with the letters I’d found on Bezime’s body, imagining that I was the concubine who had received them. That I was a woman in love with a man forbidden to me, someone who by loving me put himself in danger—who could neither address nor sign his declarations. Reading them this way made them far less romantic than they’d appeared at first glance. The tenderness was heartbreaking, the yearning hurt my soul.
When I’d finished, I carefully folded them and put them in a small compartment in one of my trunks. To leave thoughts so intimate out in the open was wrong, and I already knew all I needed to about them. Someone, most likely Benjamin, had written them to Ceyden. Whoever in the harem discovered their dalliance—too flighty a word for the depth of emotion it was clear they shared—put a stop to it by silencing the disobedient concubine. And at the moment, one person struck me as the most likely candidate: a eunuch with too much information and a grand sense of importance.
18
“I need your absolute candor, Benjamin,” I said, once again sitting across from him in Ali’s restaurant near the Spice Bazaar, this time hearty plates of skender kebabs in front of us. I swirled a bite of chicken in thick yogurt sauce as I spoke. “The complications of your situation have become more clear to me, and I want to help you. I understand how dreadful all this is, particularly after learning what I have since Bezime’s death. She had the letters.”
“What letters?” Every inch of his body sagged.
“The ones you wrote. The love letters.”
“No. It’s not possible.”
“She raised Ceyden. They were in close contact. Perhaps she gave them to her for safekeeping,” I said.
“There is no proof of any of this. None.” He ripped off a piece of bread and slogged it, all false nonchalance, through the sauce on his plate.
“But you don’t deny it?” I asked. “There’s no need to protect her anymore, Benjamin.”
“I never—”
“You did not know who she was. How could you ever have suspected the truth?”
“The truth? What do you know about the truth?”
“No one can fault you,” I said. “But it’s critical now that we press forward and find the person responsible for her death. Jemal delivered the letters for you, did he not?”
He closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“And you met him when the boat capsized?”
“Yes.” His rough voice trembled.
“How did you persuade him—”
“I bribed him, Lady Emily. I paid dearly for it—not only in money, let me assure you. My conscience has suff ered no small amount.”
“All that jewelry. Was it to finance your escape?”
“It would have helped.”
“I need you to help me to better understand what was going on. Everyone says—forgive me if this is cruel—that Ceyden was desperate to earn the sultan’s favor. There are rumblings of political unrest, rumors that Murat is planning a coup. Was Ceyden attempting to get close to him to forward some sort of plot? Or was she merely doing whatever she could to cover her true intentions? To ensure that no one would suspect her of plotting to flee the harem?”
“I don’t know anything about politics,” he said.
“Do you know how she got the jewelry?”
“Ceyden?” he asked. “She stole it.”
“I’m sorry. I know this is painful. The fact that she’s your sister—”
He stared at me, eyes steady but lacking focus. “You have no idea.”
“We will find justice.”
“I don’t see the point. All I want is to go as far away from here as I can.”
“Are you still planning to leave?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t abandon my father, can I?”
“He doesn’t seem well.”
“He isn’t, and I don’t see him getting better unless we remove ourselves from Constantinople. There’s nothing left for him here but more misery.”
“You don’t think he’ll be reinstated at the embassy?” I asked.
“Have you spoken to him lately? He’s barely coherent and can hardly keep on his feet. He’s coming completely apart.”
“Where would you go? Italy?”
“Italy?” His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “No. Wouldn’t want to go there. France, maybe. But my father belongs in England.”
“I thought—” I stopped, going over the conversation we’d had on our previous visit to Ali’s, certain he had told me he’d taken a position on a
dig in Italy. We’d discussed his interest in all things Roman. “France. Yes. I have a dear friend in Paris—I should put you in touch with her.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I would appreciate that. But not quite yet. I don’t want to alarm him. It’s not going to be easy to persuade him to leave, especially after he buried my sister here. Better that I have everything arranged and present it as a fait accompli.”
“How long do you think that will take?” I asked.
His expression changed, his eyes lightening, the color returning to his face—but there was a hint of effort in it, a strain in his features, as if he were pushing too hard. “No hurry, I suppose. Much though I’d like to go at once, I’d be sure to regret not setting everything up carefully. Are you still hungry? Ali’s baklava is incomparable.”
_______
Benjamin had not exaggerated about the baklava, and I so indulged myself that I was unable to down even a single cup of tea when I met Margaret on the terrace at Misseri’s that afternoon.
“I do wish I could meet the sultan,” Margaret said, slathering butter on a scone. “The master of the seraglio. A figure who has fueled the romantic dreams of untold Western gentlemen for thousands of years.”
“Well. Not Abdül Hamit himself,” I said. “He can’t be more than fifty or so.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“I do. I just wish he were willing to fuel the romantic—or, rather, religious—dreams of one of his concubines.”
“But Roxelana refuses to marry, correct?”
“Yes. She wants us to help her escape.”
“Is such a thing possible?” Margaret asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “If it is, it’s full of risk. She can’t walk out of the palace—we’d have to bribe guards who most likely would turn on us.”
“What about helping her slip away when she’s away from the palace? I saw a group of concubines picnicking along the Golden Horn,” Margaret said.
“How many guards were with them?” I asked.
“More than I could count.”
“Colin would not like any of this,” I said. “And it would be difficult, to say the least. If she were to go on an excursion and in some legitimate way be separated from the group—I don’t know how—if she could get out of the building—”
“She could climb out a window,” Margaret said.
“And change into a common dress and common veil,” I said. “But as soon as the guards realized she was gone, they would tear the city apart looking for her.”
“And she would be caught.”
My mind was zooming. “Which is why,” I said, grinning, “she would walk, slowly, to the nearest tea shop and sit there, unfazed by any commotion, reading a novel. They’d never notice her.”
“You’re brilliant, you know,” Margaret said. “We have to find a way to do it.”
“But this sort of thing simply cannot be organized by someone with ties to our government—and my decision to work with Colin has put you firmly in that camp.” I frowned. “I don’t need a diplomatic incident during my first assignment.”
“Which is why we would have to be extremely careful.”
“You’re a terrible influence.”
“The worst. But it would be possible to pull it off—and think of the accomplishment, Emily—to free a woman enslaved to satisfy the base needs of a man who treats her with no honor.”
“The risk is enormous. What if they executed her if she was caught? And what would happen to Colin? And us?”
“I do wish there were a simpler way,” Margaret said. “She’s being stubborn. You could satisfy your obligation to both her and the Crown if you were able to arrange a suitable marriage. It would be easy enough for her to leave that situation on her own—even if all she did was demand a divorce, which I’m told is not unheard of here.”
“I’d merely move her from one master to another,” I said. “Would you have me do the same to you?”
“No, but—”
“But what? Should she suffer for having been born in a different society? And what are we, morally, if we don’t intervene? How can I willingly stand aside when I see someone forced to live with injustice and the fear of mortal sin?”
“Her quality of life is far better than that enjoyed by most of the population of England,” Margaret said. “I know that doesn’t make it right, but—”
“So she doesn’t deserve help? Because her circumstances come with certain measures of comfort? How can I ask to be treated as my husband’s equal, to be valued as fully as a gentleman in our own society, if I let my fellow women be used in a most abominable fashion?”
“Truth is, the harem doesn’t sound half-bad,” Margaret said. “But if Roxelana doesn’t want it, she shouldn’t be forced to stay.”
“No. She shouldn’t.” I rubbed my forehead. “We must find a way, Margaret. To leave her there makes us complicit with her captors. We’re worse than them, in fact, if we do nothing in the face of a situation we know to be wrong.”
19
Two days later I went to Y?ld?z, the skeleton of a plot in hand. Roxelana fell to the ground in front of my feet, her head buried in her hands, joyful prayers flowing from her lips, when I told her what Margaret and I were scheming.
“You understand how risky this will be?” I asked, pulling her to an upright position before sitting on the bench in front of a fountain. I silently praised the Ottomans for being so good at placing running water everywhere to avert eavesdroppers. Before this trip, I had never considered how useful this could be and wondered now if perhaps I should adopt the practice in our country estate.
“There’s no fate that could be worse to me than staying here and risking my immortal soul,” she said. “ ‘Three things are necessary for the salvation of man: to know what he ought to believe; to know what he ought to desire; and to know what he ought to do.’ ”
“This isn’t romantic nonsense. We don’t sit back after the curtain falls and have a good cry before going home to a snug bed.”
“I know perfectly well what is at stake. No punishment on earth could compete with what I might suff er for all eternity.” Her religious fervor was certainly focused.
“Assisting you is not a decision I make lightly,” I said. “I don’t trust you entirely, Roxelana. I don’t believe for a second that you’ve been candid with me.”
“I have told you everything I can.”
“I’m not convinced. But I shall help you regardless because on principle I don’t believe that it’s right to enslave anyone. It’s barbaric.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I cannot begin to express my gratitude. You’ve no idea what it is like for me in here. I have to hide even my prayers.”
“I’m so sorry. Sorry that you’ve been subjected to any of it.” I met her eyes. “I do hope, though, that if there is anything else you can tell me about Ceyden’s death, you will not hesitate. I’m working to get you your freedom. Don’t deny the same to an innocent man.”
“There’s still no evidence against the guard? No one’s come forward as a witness?”
“No.”
“Then he’ll be released. Even if there’s a trial.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Please, do the right thing. If there’s something you know, you must tell me.”
“There’s nothing more. I wish there were.”
“As do I.” I didn’t believe her, but knew no way to force the truth from her. She was scared and weak and deserving of my help despite her imperfections. “How difficult is it for you to arrange an outing in town?”
“It’s not the slightest trouble.”
“How often do such excursions take place?” I asked.
“Every week or so.”
“When the time comes, don’t plan one yourself. Go at someone else’s suggestion, and alert me to the details as early as possible. I’ll arrange everything from there.”
“You will find suitable clothing for me?”
“Lady Emily Hargreaves?” The voice, full of force, came from the entrance to the courtyard. “The sultan has summoned you. You will come at once.”
Roxelana shot me a look full of panic and gripped my hand so hard, I feared it would be crushed. “It’s the k?zlar aas?,” she said. “The chief black eunuch. Nothing good can be happening. I should have already run.”
“Don’t panic. He can’t possibly know what we’re discussing.”
“How did he know we were here?”
“There are only so many places to look, dear,” I said. “Hold your head up and try to look bored. I’ll go to him. You’ve no need to be involved.”
“And you, Roxelana. Perestu wants you immediately.”
Stricken, she stood, holding my hand as we followed the k?zlar aas?, as imposing a figure as a eunuch could be—tall, with elegant bearing and proud features—towards the palace, splitting off when we reached the entrance to the harem. The sultan, apparently, was waiting for me in a public section of Y?ld?z. We made our way through long, narrow corridors, made claustrophobic by their ornate decoration: enormous porcelain urns on one side, rows of giant crystal candelabras on the other, stretching from the floor almost to the ceiling, their heavy bases reaching almost to the edge of the runner in the center of the hall. After passing through a pair of inlaid doors, we reached a reception room that might have been found in any aristocratic residence in Western Europe. Heavy curtains hung from tall windows, silk covered the walls, and the furniture was perfectly ordinary. Velvet-covered settees stood along side chairs with gilded arms, and in the center of the chamber was a round sofa, in the center of which was another huge candelabra. It was on this sofa that Abdül Hamit was sitting.
“I bear no good news,” he said. “But felt you should be informed at once. Ceyden’s murderer has been identified. I’ve ordered his arrest and expect him to be taken into custody within the hour.”
“Who is it? How—”
“An Englishman. Benjamin St. Clare, the son of a man I have entertained here—a man you know.”
“Yes, Sir Richard.” I could hardly speak. “I’m more than stunned. What led you to this conclusion?”
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