Tears of Pearl

“Yes. The poor creature was still inside in the morning, and the staff have adopted it.”

“Well, it does make for a good story. I must tell you what happened at Yıldız this morning.” We were walking quickly, and I struggled to breathe evenly as I recounted my conversation with Perestu.

“What a shame that she burned the journals,” said Margaret. “Do you think she would testify?”

“I could not say. When faced with the truth of what he’s done—”

“Are we even sure what that is?” she asked.

“Yes, we are. He poisoned Sir Richard, sabotaged his career, possibly made threats of violence against his son—”

“We can’t prove that last.”

“That will undoubtedly be the most simple part of all this. Colin can go back to the village and pay enough to get the full truth.”

“Fair enough,” Margaret said, walking faster. I could not match her pace—I was feeling more winded than I should, and it was all I could do to keep from letting her gain too much distance ahead of me.

“He must have been following Benjamin—I’m convinced Jemal alerted him to the planned escape.”

“He might have even witnessed the murder.”

“And then taken the evidence to give to the proper person when the proper moment arose,” I said. “He wanted to be sure Benjamin was held accountable.” I stopped, dead in the center of the street. Margaret had to pull me out of the way of a delivery cart.

“Emily! Pay attention.”

“I didn’t see it before,” I said. “But now I do. Remember, she spoke—”

“They’re already inside,” Margaret interrupted, looking at the line of carriages in front of the building. “Hurry.”

She hurried towards her station while I turned into the Grand Bazaar, taking a table at the café we had chosen and ordering tea and baklava. Ideas blazed through my head, but I kept settling on a single one: Benjamin hadn’t killed Ceyden. Sutcliffe had. The scenario played out easily enough. He’d followed Benjamin, watched Roxelana flee screaming. Ceyden may have heard him, called out for help, seen him—and he’d killed her to keep her silent. Not only to ensure no one knew he’d been in the harem, but because he knew he could frame his nemesis’s son for the murder.

I admitted to myself, as I crunched another bite of baklava, that the story was as yet incomplete. But another few days of work and I’d have uncovered the rest. Bezime was a threat because she knew about the chloral hydrate. She could have asked Sutcliffe about it. And Jemal—he’d been both dispensable and dangerous. I thought it very likely he’d witnessed Ceyden’s murder.

A slim glint of satisfaction passed through me, which led me to be filled immediately with concern. This was always the most dangerous stage—the part when you begin to map out the solution but don’t know enough to see the holes that leave you vulnerable. I checked the watch on my lapel—newly purchased to replace the one stolen from the yalı—and tore a piece of paper from the small notebook I carried in my reticule. On it, I wrote everything I knew, suspected, or felt was reasonable conjecture pertaining to the case. Then, moving on to a second sheet, I put down the unreasonable conjectures of which I was fond as well as a full detailing of our plans for Roxelana, cringing at the thought of my husband reading this.

I asked my waiter if it was possible to get an envelope and within a few moments had in my hands a set of smooth linen stationery. After sealing my missive, I addressed it to Colin in care of the embassy, and my enterprising server found a boy to deliver it almost before I’d asked. Having taken this precaution, I felt better protected. Not in the classic sense. I had no desire to see Colin swoop in and fix any of this; I wanted to do that myself. But it was as if I’d bought insurance against needing him—he’d know where to find me, what to do if something went wrong. Undoubtedly, I’d require his assistance only if it was impossible for him to offer it.

Satisfied, I finished my tea and looked again at my watch. My stomach churned; too much time had passed. Roxelana should have been here by now. I looked around, growing more nervous with each passing second, wondering if she could somehow have been confused by the maze of the bazaar’s streets. I wanted to search for her but knew better than to leave my post. What would she do if she arrived and I was gone?

But after another half hour, I saw little choice. I paid my bill, deciding to go to the mosque, where I would find Margaret. I hoped more than anything that Roxelana had not been caught—that she hadn’t come because it was too risky, because she wasn’t able to get the privacy required for her escape. As I walked, I began repeating, barely under my breath, a simple prayer.

“Lady Emily Hargreaves?” The small voice came from behind me, and I turned to see a boy, no more than nine years old. “Are you Lady Emily Hargreaves?”

“I am,” I said.

“This is for you.” He handed me an envelope made from thick, creamy paper and disappeared into the crowd around me. With shaking hands, I tore it open, almost afraid to read.

My dear Lady Emily, the game is up. You’ve gone too far and I’ve had to take actions I did not wish to. I have Roxelana. She will be alive for thirty more minutes unless you present yourself to me in exchange for her. She is easily frightened, not at all like my own brave girl who complained not once during the final hours of her illness, and I find myself already tired of her crying. How would you like me to silence her? I am at the Basilica Cistern, the Yerebatan Sarayı . You will have to figure out how to get there. Just be sure to come quickly and to come alone. If there’s anyone else with you, it will end badly for us all.

I felt short of breath, and my throat ached as I gulped for air. I was not foolish enough to believe I could pull this off alone—it was worse than any situation I could have imagined. I’d thought any danger Roxelana faced would come from the sultan. There was little time to consider options, so I took the first reasonable one that sprang to mind. I asked my waiter to point me to the police—he located an officer patrolling the bazaar and stopped him at once. Not wanting to waste even a moment, I pressed the note—which was obviously from Mr. Sutcliffe—into the man’s hand and explained as efficiently as possible that he must send help and get word to the British embassy at once.

He looked at me as if I were insane, and I could not pause long enough to convince him otherwise. Instead, I ran to the nearest exit, hired the first carriage I saw, and made my way to the cistern. It was only because I’d read so extensively about the city that I was even aware of it, finding it described in the travel memoirs of an Italian gentleman. Near the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya, it had been built in Roman times to bring water to the city, and families living above it still used it—taking its water from well-like openings in their basements.

Having no time to collect De Amicis’s book from the yalı, I had to rely on my memory. He’d described coming to the cistern through the garden of a nearby house. I’d reached the neighborhood and knew I was in the right general vicinity, but it was not apparent which house’s garden contained the entrance —so I could do nothing but knock on doors and hope someone could help me. On my third attempt, a veiled woman answered. She did not speak much English, but I kept repeating “Yerebatan Sarayı ” over and over, and at last she nodded and pointed me to the house across from hers. I raced there, only to find no one home.

I made my way around the building, hoping to find a way into the garden, through which I could reach the cistern, and my heart soared when I saw a green door, in dire need of new paint, in the wall. I pushed it open and rushed through it. Across from me was a stone arch, below which were steep stone steps, slick with water and moss, descending deep into darkness. Pleased that I had not bothered to empty out my reticule after last night’s adventure at the embassy, I pulled out the candle and matches I still had with me and lit them before making my way with great care down the stairs.

Every nerve in my body was shaking when I reached the closed door at the bottom. I opened it and stepped into an enormous domed underground chamber, its vaulted ceiling supported by arches above row after row of columns, hundreds of them. Water filled the room below the wooden platform on which I stood—and my candle reflected green in it, the color eerie, almost unholy. There was no sound but that of water dripping from the roof, pinging into the pool below, echoing relentlessly.

No sound, that is, until the door shut behind me, and I heard the unmistakable click of a bar latch snapping into place. I turned around, wanting to test it at once, only to find my fear all too real. The lock had fastened; I could not get out. Panic rose through me as the darkness of the space enveloped me, but there was nothing to do but move on.