The Abyssinian Proof: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  “I’m not saying anything,” Amida said, folding his arms.

  “Then we’ll arrest you for murder.”

  “What? I had nothing to do with that.”

  “We think otherwise,” Omar said pleasantly. “You can talk now or you can come with me and talk later. You’ll need bigger shoes, though.”

  Amida clearly understood the reference. Beating the bottom of the feet made them swell, sometimes permanently. “Alright. Alright. This man wanted the reliquary, so I took it. I gave it to him. He paid me. That’s all.”

  Kamil felt his pulse rise. A crack in Amida’s defenses. Much as he hated to admit it, Omar was right. The bastinado worked. “You stole it,” Saba corrected him.

  “It was going to be mine anyway. It’s not stealing when it’s your property.”

  “It belongs to the community,” Saba insisted. “It belongs to the world. You have no rights over it.”

  “What’s this man’s name?” Kamil asked.

  “I don’t know. I gave it to his go-between.”

  “What’s this go-between’s name?”

  “How would I know? He always contacted me.”

  Kamil let the lie go. What he wanted right now was an explanation for Malik’s death.

  Kamil lifted the Abyssinian cross. “Did you take this?”

  “He’s the only one besides me and Mother who knows where it’s kept,” Saba confirmed.

  “So maybe you took it,” Amida suggested. “Malik knew where it was too. Maybe he borrowed it and took it to the mosque for some kind of ritual.”

  “How did you know it was in the mosque, Amida?” Kamil asked softly.

  Amida was flustered. “It was just a guess.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Saba exclaimed. “Uncle Malik would never take the scepter out and carry it around town. It’s a sacred object. It has to stay here.”

  “I went to ask Malik about it and I left it in the mosque by mistake. So what? I’d have had it back in the box by Friday service. No one would have noticed it was missing.”

  Kamil lifted the scepter. “Malik was killed with this.”

  There was a shocked silence, then all eyes turned to Amida.

  “You killed Uncle Malik?” Saba asked, aghast. “Why?”

  “I didn’t kill Malik,” he cried out. “I would never do that. He was my uncle.”

  Balkis tried to stand, but fell back onto the divan. Her face was a deathly white and she was breathing with difficulty. Saba brought her mother some water, then sat beside her, holding her arm.

  “I believe you, Amida,” Kamil said.

  Amida looked at him in surprise.

  “We can help each other, but I need you to tell me the whole story. What happened the night Malik was killed?”

  “Otherwise we arrest you for theft and murder,” Omar interjected pleasantly.

  Amida got up and began to pace, arms folded protectively across his chest, his jaw working compulsively. When he walked toward the door, Omar blocked his way.

  “Just make sure no one’s out there,” Amida appealed.

  Omar shrugged and stepped outside. He came back a few moments later and nodded. “No djinns, no demons.”

  “He’ll kill me if he finds out.”

  “Who?”

  “I told you, I don’t know,” Amida said in an anguished voice. “They call him Kubalou. The man you asked me about, Remzi, is his go-between. I sold the reliquary through him to Kubalou, but then Remzi came back and told me it was empty and accused me of trying to cheat his master. They made me go with them to the Tobacco Works that night, but I swear I had nothing to do with killing those policemen. That was Remzi. He did this too.” He pushed up his sleeve and thrust out his arm.

  The raw edges of the wound were in the shape of an M. Kamil was certain now that it stood for Magnus.

  “Remzi told me this was a message from Kubalou, although I think he says that to cover up his own crimes. He’s a vicious son of a bitch.” Amida’s eyes found the door. He looked hunted. “I didn’t know there was supposed to be anything inside the reliquary. Saba’s right. I overheard them talking and Malik referred to it as the Proof of God. Kubalou wanted it for an English buyer.”

  “You fool,” Saba said softly.

  “If I don’t get him the real Proof of God now, I’ll end up like…” Amida leaned his forehead against the wall.

  “Who?” Omar inquired impassively.

  Amida shifted and looked nervously at his mother. “He knew some things about me.”

  “That you lie with boys?” Saba suggested.

  Omar raised his eyebrows in amusement. Kamil glanced at Balkis, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was staring straight ahead as if she had nothing to do with the conversation.

  Amida stared angrily at Saba.

  “There are no secrets in a village.” She became subdued, as if realizing what she had said.

  “Was that your boyfriend we found in the graveyard this morning behind the Fatih Mosque?” Omar asked.

  Amida nodded miserably.

  “Bilal?” Saba exclaimed. “Bilal is dead?” Kamil thought he heard a note of compassion. He remembered the polite, dark-skinned boy who had served him whisky at Amida’s house.

  “Yes.” Amida’s voice broke.

  “You saw the body?” Omar stepped to the door and glanced outside.

  “Bilal left me a note to meet him there at the first ezan, that he had something important to show me.” Amida’s voice was strained. “I thought it was odd. I see him every day and he could have shown me anytime. But I went anyway and when I got there, I found him dead.”

  “How did you know the note was from him?”

  “I recognized his hand. Or…I thought I did.”

  “So someone happened to find him alone in the graveyard, waiting for you, and decided to rob him?”

  “No,” Amida groaned. “No, I don’t think that’s what it was. I saw his back.” He held out his wounded arm. “It was the same.”

  Kamil could see him struggling for control and, despite his outrage at Amida’s despicable behavior, he felt sorry for the young man. Omar hadn’t seen the joyous smile on Bilal’s face before he noticed Kamil coming through Amida’s door. Bilal and Amida had been close, and Amida was grieving. Just as others might be grieving now over Elif, Kamil reminded himself, if they hadn’t managed to escape from the tunnel.

  “You think this is Kubalou sending you his calling card?”

  “That bastard Remzi killed him.”

  “That must upset you.”

  Amida shrugged, but the skin around his mouth twitched. “He helped me at the monastery.” He turned to Balkis. “You have no idea what goes on there. The monks…Bilal took my place so I wouldn’t have to.” He couldn’t continue. “I owed him better than this. I promised I’d take him to Paris,” he sobbed.

  The room was silent as they absorbed what Amida had revealed. Kamil couldn’t imagine the dapper Owen killing and maiming anyone, and wondered whether he was aware of the brutality engaged in by his hirelings. Still, Owen must have had a sense of what Remzi was capable of, and Kamil had witnessed the veiled threats Owen had made to Amida beneath the Galata Tower.

  Kamil gave Amida’s reserve a last push. “Tell us what happened the night of Malik’s murder,” he prompted.

  Amida stood with his back to the wall, away from the window. His eyes flitted about the room as if his tormentor might appear at any moment.

  “Remzi told me Kubalou wanted him to search Malik’s house for the Proof of God, so I thought of a ruse to get Malik out that night. I unlocked the mosque door and then went to Malik and told him there was a thief in the building. I left the scepter there to make the story believable and to keep him occupied working out how it had gotton there. I thought he’d take it back to the village and that would give us at least an hour to search his house. I waited for Remzi, but no one showed up, so I left.”

  “You didn’t think to go and look for Uncle Malik?” Saba dema
nded.

  “I didn’t know anything would happen,” Amida answered in a subdued voice.

  Saba sat on the divan beside her mother, her expression hard. Balkis was hunched over. Kamil thought she looked broken. What must it feel like for a mother to discover her son was involved in murdering her own brother?

  “Why did you take Malik’s pin, then?” Kamil asked.

  Amida didn’t answer.

  “Did you go back to the mosque?”

  “Yes,” Amida whispered.

  “You didn’t look inside?”

  “It was dark. I thought Malik had gone to return the scepter.”

  “And forgotten to lock the door? Was your uncle usually that forgetful?”

  “No.” He looked at Kamil with a strangled expression.

  “The pin?” Kamil asked again. “Did you go into Malik’s house again?”

  “I was worried about him.”

  They waited. No one looked at Amida.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Kamil asked softly. The stupid boy, unable to face what he had done. Whatever compassion Kamil had had for Amida was gone.

  “Malik wasn’t there, so I took some things to make it look like it was a robbery.”

  Saba walked up to her brother and slapped him on the face. “You didn’t even check to see if he was still alive, you bastard.”

  Amida dropped to his knees before Balkis. “Mother, you believe me, don’t you? I swear to you, I didn’t kill him. Why would I do that?” He began to cry in small, sharp gasps. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Balkis nodded and let her hand rest in his hair, too exhausted to respond.

  Kamil turned in disgust and left. Omar hesitated, then followed.

  When they were outside, Omar asked, “Aren’t we going to arrest him?”

  “He’s more use to us as a decoy right now.” Kamil responded. “We need a hare to attract the hound.”

  WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD, they hurried toward Amida’s cottage. Omar led him into the bedroom and flung his arms out. “Want to guess?”

  “No.”

  Omar walked over to the wall beside the bed and gave it a push. A panel swung aside revealing crumbling stone stairs leading down into darkness. Kamil grabbed a lamp and stepped inside.

  Their feet crunched on debris. Unlike the others, this tunnel was dry. Instead of damp and mold, dust and the fetid smell of rat droppings clogged their noses and mouths. It felt airless and very hot. Kamil began to sweat. Omar tramped ahead, just inside the circle of light, treading on his own shadow. After about thirty minutes, they came to a wall of rubble that blocked the tunnel, the wall in which Ali had been entombed on the other side.

  Kamil stopped, but Omar kept walking, right up to the wall, and began to haul the stones down, one after another. After a moment, Kamil joined him. They worked until they had excavated a hole big enough to crawl through. On the other side was utter darkness.

  32

  THE MESSENGER WAS waiting for them at Fatih station. The note was from Battles, asking Kamil to come immediately to the Customs House at Karaköy. Abdullah had taken the initiative to send a messenger to look for him. Perhaps he had underestimated Abdullah, Kamil thought, as he washed the grime from his face and hands.

  A visibly distraught Battles met Kamil and Omar at the door to the customs building. He led them around a crowd of disembarking passengers, past scarlet-coated British guards, to a dock where a large black and red steamer was being loaded. A line of smoke trickled upward from its fat chimney.

  Battles took them down into the hold, which was piled high with sacks and bundles. These were bound with thick twine, the ends of which were encased in fragments of lead into which had been impressed the official seal. Several large trunks stood open, their seals broken. The air was dank and musty. Oil lamps hung from the low ceiling, their flames burning fitfully, as if gasping for air.

  “He’s been using the diplomatic pouch to send whole trunkloads back to England,” Battles exclaimed, drawing his hand across his streaks of hair and setting them adrift. “He’s been doing it for months. Delivered them right to the docks and told the staff it was official embassy post. He had the seals, so no one questioned him. Take a look at this.” He led them to one of the open trunks. It was crammed with objects hastily flung together, a tangle of religious objects, jewelry, and coins.

  “Where the devil did he get all this stuff?” Battles huffed. “If you hadn’t asked me to look into Owen’s shipments, we’d never have caught on.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating forehead. “How did you know?”

  Kamil was busy examining the contents of the hold and didn’t answer.

  On two of the chests, Kamil found tags with the address: Mr. Lionel Rettingate, 58 Smythe Street, Kensington. He called Omar over to show him. “Scotland Yard will love this. Here’s the proof they need to shut down the other end of this business.” The seal was impressed with the initials VR. Did Lionel Rettingate have a brother? Kamil checked the other trunks, then the sacks. All the seals had the initials VR on them, regardless of address.

  “Whose initials are these?” he asked Battles.

  Battles looked shocked. “Victoria Regina, of course,” he spluttered. “Queen Victoria.”

  “Naturally.” Feeling slightly foolish, Kamil leaned into the first trunk addressed to Rettingate and went through the contents more carefully, then did the same with the second. Omar busied himself with slicing open the sacks, ignoring Battles’s distress. Kamil thought Omar was enjoying himself.

  After a few minutes, Kamil plucked out a diamond-studded chalice and held it up for Omar to see. “Fatih Mosque,” he announced with enormous satisfaction.

  Omar unclasped a box and unwrapped the small bundle inside. He called Kamil over and handed him a tiny icon, an exquisitely painted Madonna and child.

  “With a little patience, the egg on the ground becomes a bird in the sky,” Omar remarked with satisfaction.

  Kamil felt elated. This discovery would do more to quell the unrest in the streets than the entire Ottoman army. He wrapped the icon carefully and put it back in its box.

  They returned to their search.

  “Hold on a moment, what’s this?” Kamil pulled something from a trunk, a misshapen silver object with niello engraving. It was Malik’s stolen reliquary.

  He and Omar grinned at each other.

  “Hail to the Queen,” Kamil declared, but quietly so Battles didn’t hear.

  33

  BALKIS SHIVERED UNDER the covers despite her fever. Saba sat beside her and pressed her hand against her mother’s forehead. “You’re very hot, Mama,” she said worriedly. “Gudit is making you some apple and rosewater compote.”

  “Gudit,” Balkis whispered. “Tell her.”

  “Tell her what, Mama?” Gudit had found Balkis the day before lying on the divan and bleeding from a deep cut in her wrist. The midwife claimed her mother had tried to kill herself, but Saba didn’t believe her. She couldn’t imagine her mother, who had so much strength of will, turning her back on them just when they needed her. It must have been an accident. The top-heavy monstrance must have fallen onto the divan, and her mother must have reached up to ward it off and gouged herself. The cut itself wasn’t deep enough to be life-threatening and Saba could think of no other explanation. She had found the monstrance on the floor, one of its tines broken and bloody, the others bent. She had kicked it vengefully, then thrown it into the storeroom.

  Saba sat for a moment, frowning, then sent for the old servant and told him to fetch Courtidis. Her mother was shaking uncontrollably and an unpleasant odor clung to her. Saba sent another servant to heat some water.

  Balkis twisted back and forth on the divan and muttered, “Container of the unbearable, hail Mary, I can’t bear it, I can’t bear your message, I can’t…”

  The servant arrived with the bowl of hot water, along with washcloths, a towel, and some gauze. Saba sent her away, then locked the door and made sure there were no drafts. She fe
lt embarrassed at what she was about to do, for she had never seen her mother naked.

  “I’m going to bathe you, Mama.” Her mother had quieted. She lay with her eyes closed, breathing erratically. Saba wondered if she had fallen asleep. She took the bandage off her mother’s wrist and carefully washed the torn flesh, then wrapped on fresh gauze, securing it with a strip of cloth. Next she lifted the quilt and laid it aside. The smell was stronger. She quickly peeled off her mother’s caftan and chemise. The fetid stench hit her like a blow and she jerked her head away.

  When she turned back, she froze. Her mother’s body below the waist was a ruin. Balkis turned slightly and her legs opened enough for Saba to see that she had been horribly mutilated. Instead of the natural contours of a body, there was only a scar. It was infected and inflamed.

  Saba was speechless. When her mother began to moan, Saba pulled herself together and focused on washing Balkis quickly so she wouldn’t catch a chill. She dipped the cloth in warm water and began her task, starting with her mother’s forehead and working down the sagging folds of gray skin until she came to her legs. Consumed equally by pity and disgust, Saba cleaned away the pus that seamed the scar.

  She had just finished dressing Balkis in a clean chemise, when there was a peremptory knock at the door. Saba quickly covered her mother with a clean quilt and unlocked the door.

  Gudit hurried in, carrying a dish with a lid. “The compote,” she explained. “The apples will break her fever. Why was the door locked?”

  “She’s delirious.”

  Gudit put the dish down and went to Balkis’s side. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “You’ve changed her clothes.”

  “I washed her,” Saba said. Gudit knew. She was the one who usually helped her mother with her toilette. “I saw. What happened to her?”

  Gudit gave her a sly look. “That’s not for you to know.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Saba shouted. “She’s my mother.”