“Two,” he said, staring at me instead of his pieces. “I’d wager we’ve the worst luck ever.”
“Try your bishop to b3,” I said. “I’m of the opinion that you should refrain from entering into any more bets at present. You’re already going to be swimming the Bosphorus.”
“Funny you bring that up. I was just speaking to a seamstress yesterday about diaphanous robes for you.”
“What a shame I won’t get to wear them.”
He knocked over black’s king. “At least you’re good at chess.”
“I do appreciate the compliment,” I said. “Anything new on Sir Richard this morning?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid. He’s being recalled to England.”
“His behavior since we first met him has deteriorated more than I would have thought possible.”
“He’s under no insignificant amount of stress,” Colin said, then shook his head. “We’ve gone over this too many times.”
“I know. I keep hoping there’s some other answer. Do you think he will ever recover?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“And what about Benjamin?” I asked.
“Have you given any thought to the possibility that he was at Yıldız the night of the murder?”
“No. He didn’t kill his sister.”
“You believe his alibi?”
“I think there are many times a person would be hard-pressed to prove where he’d been at a given moment,” I said.
“What do you think happened to Ceyden?”
“Are you inviting me to speculate?”
“I am.” He smiled and set up the chess pieces again.
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I don’t want to,” I said. “I’ve no idea where we’re headed at the moment. None of it fits yet.”
“When has that ever stopped you?”
“Never until now.”
“You, my dear, may just turn out to be a first-rate investigator.”
“You mean I’m not one already?” I asked. “I’m crushed.”
“Don’t be. I’ve got something for you.” He handed me a sheath of papers. “I’ve compiled all I have pertaining to the situation at Çırağan. It’s not enormously compelling, but if you put it all to the sultan properly, you might convince him to allow you back into Yıldız. I’ve got our vizier friend to admit that he was corresponding with Bezime, though he insists it was for nothing more than medical advice.”
“If that’s so, why did his messenger commit suicide?” I asked, reading through the papers while listening to him. “I shall confront Bezime at once. I’m not pleased she’s withheld this from me.”
“I still believe Murat is blameless, so do not let the sultan believe otherwise.”
“You don’t want to take this to him yourself? It’s your work.”
“I trust you to handle it.”
I leaned across the table and kissed him, then pulled away. “Thank you. I shall ask for an audience with him immediately,” I said. “I would never have thought it possible to adore someone as much as I do you. Are you real?”
“I certainly hope so,” he said. “If not, I’ll have a terrible time appreciating you in your diaphanous robes.”
Colin and I left the yalı together, later than we’d planned, neither of us willing to pass up what turned out to be an inspired interlude of not working. The mere thought of diaphanous robes has an extraordinary effect on gentlemen, but I think we may be forgiven the distraction. It was, after all, our honeymoon, and we weren’t too dreadfully late. My husband was off to the embassy, and I to Topkapı to confront Bezime about her correspondent from Murat’s camp. I was eager to see her reaction to Colin’s evidence. We parted company when the boat dropped me at the palace dock, and I waved to him as he pulled away towards Pera, across the Golden Horn. When I arrived in Bezime’s quarters, I was caught in a whirlwind of chaos. The sultan was coming to Topkapı, and the former valide was preparing to meet him.
“There’s a matter of no small importance that we must discuss,” I said, watching as a maid draped her in a gold satin dress woven with silver thread. A second servant came forward to fasten a heavy necklace of emeralds.
“This is not the time,” she said.
“It concerns the sultan.” I told her what Colin had learned at Çırağan, expecting her to show some measure of concern. Instead, she threw back her head and laughed.
“This is insignificant. Yes, this former vizier or whatever he was wanted my assistance, but I never offered him anything beyond a salve to treat an eye infection.”
“Do you have his letters?”
“I burned them.”
“Can you prove you never encouraged him?”
“I don’t need to. He’s accomplished nothing, and regardless, the sultan would never doubt me.”
“Do you think, perhaps, you’re overconfident?” I asked.
“Never. Come with me. You shall see.”
“You should be careful about this, Bezime. The sultan is paranoid, by all accounts, and if he suspects, even for a moment, that you’ve been in contact with someone connected to Murat who—”
“I’ve done nothing wrong and hence have no need for fear.”
“Did you tell him the former vizier is trying to hatch a plot?”
“He does not need to know everything when I know it.”
I was not as sure of this as she appeared to be, and I struggled to follow her through the halls of the palace—she was walking so fast, I could barely keep up—passing through the harem gates and into a broad courtyard in which stood Arz Odas?, the Audience Hall, where Abdül Hamit was to meet with a group of foreign diplomats. The building had been restored after a fire nearly forty years ago, but now its white walls gleamed. More than twenty columns supported the flat roof that stretched over a splendid porch on three sides. We climbed to the entrance, passed a fountain next to the door, and stepped inside.
The walls were simple, white and without ornamentation, but the ceiling was painted in gold and green. Most magnificent, however, was the enormous gold canopy over a throne that did not resemble a chair—it was more like an enormous couch, large enough and deep enough to be a bed. Hundreds of years earlier, those who entered this room hoped their words would please the sultan. If they didn’t, his guards might execute them on the spot. Although this was no longer a concern, nerves twinged through me.
The sultan was standing in a corner of the room, talking to an adviser, his back to us. Bezime hardly paused before gliding over to him and prostrating herself before him.
“Stand up,” he said, a half-smile on his face.
“My son,” she said, standing, stretching her arms to embrace him. “You know I will always consider you that.”
A terse nod sent the adviser scurrying away. “What are you scheming now?”
“When have you known me to scheme?”
“Is there a time when you’re not scheming?”
Her laughter echoed through the chamber. “You are too hard on me. I’ve brought you a friend whom you have been persuaded to treat with disdain.”
His eyes passed over me with no hint of interest. “Lady Emily is treated precisely as she deserves.”
“I understand your feelings, Your Majesty,” I said. “And I did not come here expecting to see you. I’d planned to set an appointment at Yıldız.”
“But instead you interrupt my time with Bezime.”
“It is urgent,” Bezime said. “And concerns Murat.”
He winced. “What is it?”
I paused, thinking Bezime would want to tell him, but she did not speak. “My husband is confident the former sultan is perfectly content with his situation. My husband has, however, confirmed that an associate of his is in the process of attempting to stir up trouble.”
“How so?” He crossed his arms and peered at me, his eyes all intensity.
“I can give you this—it details all he’s learned.” I passed the papers to him, thankful I’d brought them to sh
ow Bezime. “But Bezime can tell you better than anyone his approach.”
“Bezime?” His muscles tensed, and he spun on a heel, facing her and then taking a step closer. “You know something of this?”
“He’d written to me, prodding to test my loyalties.” She shrugged. “I disregarded him.”
“And you did not tell me?” His voice shook.
“It was irrelevant. I have read your chart. You have nothing to fear from him.”
He slapped his hand against the wall next to her. “That is not a decision for you to make. I should have been informed at once.”
“Forgive me. It is not always easy to reach you.”
“It would be in this sort of situation.”
“I need it to be all the time,” she said.
“Please,” I interrupted. “What’s important now is that we ensure that no one else in the harem—here or at Yıldız—has received letters from him.”
“It is all irrelevant,” the sultan said. “He will be arrested at once.”
I shuddered at the thought of the man’s fate. “But you need to know if there’s anyone else with whom you should be concerned.”
“I could—” Bezime started, but the sultan stopped her at once.
“I will deal with you later,” he said. “Leave us now.” Without the slightest hint of worry on her face, she bowed and retreated from the room.
“I do apologize for springing all this on you,” I said. “I had wanted to reach you through the proper channels.”
He nodded. “I have, perhaps, acted in haste when banning you from Yıldız. I sometimes let others have too much influence on me.”
“It was Perestu, wasn’t it? She was upset at my finding the jewelry.”
“I don’t know what troubled her and don’t suppose it matters now. Do you think I am safe?”
“I do, and my husband agrees. I hope you know that if we felt you were in the slightest danger, we would alert you at once.” I remembered Bezime’s story about them coming for her son and better understood the paranoia of the man standing before me. He was at once supremely powerful and grotesquely vulnerable.
“I expect nothing less.”
“I do think, however, that if you allowed me to return to Yıldız, I could determine fairly quickly whether this man had contacted any of the concubines there.”
“He will tell his captors after he’s arrested.”
“How can you believe him?”
“They are persuasive men and settle for nothing short of the truth.”
I hoped I hadn’t visibly cringed. “But Ceyden. What if there is a network of connections in the harem? What if he does resist your men? Is it wise to depend entirely on the confessions of one man?”
“No, Lady Emily, it is not.” He stood, watching me, silent for so long that I started to fidget. “You may return to Yıldız, but only so long as it pleases me. And you are not to foster the traitorous wishes of any of the concubines. Roxelana will not leave the harem. Is that understood?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“And if Perestu asks that you walk away from certain questions, you are to respect her.”
I wanted to protest but bit back the words. I was in, and for now that would have to be enough.
“You look happier than I’ve seen you in I don’t know how long,” Margaret said. She was waiting for me on the terrace at the restaurant in Misseri’s, where we planned to have tea with Colin. “Where have you been?”
“I, my dear, have triumphed,” I said, recounting for her my conversation with the sultan.
“Wonderful! That’s fantastic, Emily.”
“I must admit to being rather pleased,” I said, pouring milk into my tea. “I wonder what’s keeping Colin? He should have been here by now.”
“Do you think something’s wrong?”
“No, he’s undoubtedly detained questioning someone.”
I didn’t begin to worry until we’d finished our tea and talked the afternoon away. As the sun started to set, I grew anxious and went to the hotel desk to see if he’d sent a message that had somehow not made it up to us on the terrace. There was nothing, of course, but when I returned, Margaret had ordered for me a glass of port.
“Dare we speculate?” she asked.
“There’s no point,” I said. “Any fiction we write would undoubtedly be worse than reality. It will not serve to make us feel better.”
It was not until the last shards of colored light were fading from the sky that my husband appeared. He squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek but did not sit down, his face all tense muscles, his mouth tight. I looked up at him, afraid, as he spoke.
“Bezime is dead.”
Chapter 16
We went to Topkapı at once. The trip across the Golden Horn was short, and the boat dropped us right at the palace docks. Inside the gates, all was quiet, as if nothing had happened, until we reached the entrance to the harem, where Colin handed Margaret and me off to Jemal. Colin could not accompany us but would interview the palace guards, search the outer courtyards, question servants and anyone who might have seen or heard something unusual.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said to Jemal, numbness temporarily replaced with surprise. “Has your assignment been changed again?”
“Not permanently,” he said. “A brief mission only.”
I thought I might crawl out of my skin. “Did you kill her?”
“Don’t be absurd. What century do you think it is?”
“I heard the sultan say he would deal with her later.”
“And now he’ll never have the chance. More’s the pity.”
I wondered about the bowstrings and revisited the possibility that Jemal had not received one but was instead the person responsible for sending them. If that was the case, who was to get the one he’d shown to Benjamin?
The silence was oppressive as we came closer to the valide sultan’s apartments, but Jemal did not take us into the rooms, instead continuing to walk until we’d reached the Courtyard of the Favorites. Bright moonlight bounced off the white plaster walls of the wood-trimmed building that contained apartments occupied by sultans long ago. The rows of wooden shutters were tightly closed, and the only sound apart from our steps on the cold stone floor was that of water pouring into the pool that edged one side of the courtyard.
Sprawled beneath the elegant oval arches of the path running along the sultan’s rooms was Bezime’s body, surrounded by a ring of guards and a handful of silent women. The color drained from Margaret’s face in an instant, and unable to offer much in the way of consolation, I took her shaking hand in mine as we approached the group. Violent death—the thin, reddish purple bruise on her neck identified it as such—offered those looking at the body no reassurance, no hint that a soul had found peaceful rest.
“How was it done?” I asked.
One of the guards bent down next to her and lifted a familiar object from the ground: a white, silken bowstring. I closed my eyes, tried to control my breath, knowing there was nothing that would still my heartbeat. “Did anyone witness the attack?”
Of course no one had. Nor had anyone seen or heard anything remotely suspicious. I questioned everyone present—Margaret by my side, unable to speak—but did not expect answers full of enlightenment. Could I doubt, even for a moment, that Bezime’s death had been sanctioned at the highest levels? Part of me wanted to run from the palace, not stopping until I’d found Colin and was safely ensconced in a compartment on the Orient Express. But at the same time, I felt the slight beginnings of a sensation I’d not known in many months: the unmistakable titillation that held firm its place next to the deepest fears.
Forcing myself to focus, I struggled to find anything of significance. After combing every inch of the courtyard and finding it devoid of anything that could be construed as evidence, I asked Jemal if I could question the other women in the palace. He did not object. Margaret hovered behind me, her hand pressed hard over her mouth.
“It’s appalling. There’s no other word. But if we are to find justice for Ceyden—and now Bezime as well—we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of mourning right now. Push aside what you’ve seen as best you can and help me. When we get home, we can collapse.”
Jemal stood over us as we questioned the girls. Not surprisingly, no one admitted to seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary. And none of them met my eyes during the interviews. That futile exercise complete, I turned back to the eunuch.
“Where are the police? Have they already been through?”
“No. This is a simple harem matter. No use troubling the police.”
“So it’s an ordinary day in the harem when someone is murdered?” I asked. “Come, Jemal, I’m not so naïve. This was an execution, was it not?”
“You’ve been reading too many books, Lady Emily.”
“Is there no interest in finding out who killed her?” I asked. Margaret, still quiet, was methodically tugging at her gloves.
“The sultan will come here tomorrow, and the killer will confess,” Jemal said.
“What assignment were you sent here to do?”
“It is not for your ears.”
“Where was your loyalty? To Bezime or Perestu?”
He laughed. “You believe those to be the options?”
“Then tell me who has your allegiance,” I said.
“The sultan, of course. Do you not understand who he is? That he rules all of us?”
“Of course I do, Jemal, but I find I no longer believe anything you say.” Our search had yielded nothing of interest, leaving only one thing to be done. “Has someone searched the body for clues?”
“Was it not obvious how she died?” he asked.
“Not to determine the manner of death, but to see if she had with her anything of interest. May I look for myself?”
We returned to the site of the murder, and with great effort, I forced myself to go through Bezime’s clothing. It sickened me to disturb her ill-used body, but I had no choice in the matter and began my search. She had no pockets, no jewelry with hidden compartments, and had dropped nothing near where she fell, at least nothing that remained. I expected her skin to have lost its warmth but was surprised and horrified by its almost inhuman smoothness. She was like a polished stone, and I fought back tears as I patted her sleeves and bodice until I felt something strange against her abdomen. With trembling fingers, I opened the front of her gown; she’d been dressed for bed. There, stitched to her camisole, was a slim pouch. I pulled an embroidery scissors from my reticule, cut the seam, and removed the superfluous fabric. Inside were five folded sheets of papers—letters.
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