mind. A degree of instability.”
“He’s suffered an incalculable tragedy.”
“And now must deal with the rest of his life. The dead are gone.” We sat in silence as the carriage rattled towards the docks. Eventually, he took my hand. “I have a confession. I’m glad the séance did not go on.”
“Why?” I asked. “I knew something was bothering you. You were looking at me in a way I haven’t seen you do in years.”
His head was lowered, but his eyes lifted up to mine. “I thought you might want to try to speak to Philip.”
“Oh, Colin.” I pulled his head onto my lap, combed through his hair with my fingers. “Whatever would make you—”
“I know you must still think of him.”
“Yes, but not like that.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s foolish.”
I bent over and kissed his head. “Not at all,” I said. “We’ve reconciled with each other’s pasts, but can’t expect that they won’t occasionally creep up on us. But you must remember, all that matters now is they served to bring us together.”
We slept far later than we had planned the following morning, scrambling to prepare to leave for the archaeological site to which Benjamin was attached, barely having time for breakfast.
“I do think it’s a pity the site’s not farther away,” I said as we rode, side by side, on horses Colin had arranged for us. “I should have liked for us to spend the night in a tent.”
“If you recall, our original plans for this excursion included you waiting in town until I determined whether the site was safe.”
“Which you did last night. I saw the reply to your wire sitting on the breakfast table.”
“Touché,” he said. “According to the director of the excavations, there’s been no trouble for some time.”
“You’ll make me positively lackadaisical if you insist on protecting me without my even knowing it,” I said.
“But you do know it. You’re clever enough that there’s no need to alert you. You’ll find out on your own.” He pointed to a dot on the horizon. “It’s there. Only about fifteen minutes more. Why don’t you tell me what else you’ve learned from Ceyden’s book of poetry?”
“Reason has no way to say / its love. Only love opens / that secret. / If you want / to be more alive, love / is the truest health.”
He smiled. “I meant her marginalia.”
“I’m making my way through it. Forgive me the occasional distraction.”
He stopped, and I did the same so he could lean over and kiss me. The sun hung high above us, but the air was cool and sweet, the wind bending the fields of wildflowers that surrounded us. Red poppies and vibrant hyacinths and a host of others I did not recognize—yellows and whites and bright oranges. “You know I never doubt you,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I said last night.”
“No more of that,” I said, kissing him back, flooded with a desire to never see anything change between us. “But I do fear we’re losing our focus. Come.” I urged my horse forward, quickly pulling away from him until he raced to catch me. At such a pace, we arrived at the site in short order, my excitement palpable. Although I’d seen innumerable ruins during my time in Greece, I’d not had the opportunity to visit an active dig and speak to the excavators. I hoped that once our business was finished, we would have time for an academic discussion.
Dr. Cartwright greeted us the moment we’d entered the camp, ushered us into chairs set up under a large square of canvas held up by tall poles, and offered us tea.
“We do manage to be civilized, even in the wilderness,” he said.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Colin said. “I’m hoping you can tell us about the troubles Benjamin St. Clare has had here.”
“Sporadically over the last several months he appeared to be the target of snipers—you see the hills around us.” He motioned to the mounds, littered with boulders. “Shots would come from them, seemingly out of nowhere. They were never close enough to put him in harm’s way. More of a threat than anything, I thought.”
“And you’ve no idea why he would be singled out in such a manner?” I asked.
“Not in the least.”
“Has anything been stolen from the site?” Colin asked.
“No. Nothing. We haven’t suffered from that sort of misfortune here—largely because Roman baths are not the sort of sites where one is likely to find trinkets of value. Gold, of course, is what people want.”
“So there’s been no disruption of your work aside from the attempted attacks on Benjamin?” I asked.
“None at all. I can’t begin to imagine how stressed the poor boy must be—and now with the terrible news about his sister. So sad.”
“I understand that he was not here when the messenger came,” I said. “How were you able to get in touch with him? It couldn’t have been easy, but I’m sure he very much appreciated the effort.”
“Much though I wish I could take credit, I’m afraid I can’t,” Dr. Cartwright said. “He’d left us the week before to pursue other interests. This life isn’t for everyone.”
“Left permanently?” I asked.
“Oh yes. I don’t think the decision was an easy one, but I had the impression there was a lady involved and that he was planning to get married. Given his family history, I couldn’t fault him for wanting to embark on a more traditional path.”
“Have you heard from him since the murder?” Colin asked.
“No. We’ve all sent condolences to his father. I’m sure he’ll respond when he’s ready.”
“Have you any idea as to the identity of his fiancée?” I asked. “We had no idea he was engaged.”
“I think it was quite secret. Perhaps her family didn’t approve. One never can tell with these situations. But I’m sorry, I’ve no idea who she was.”
“Was he close to any of his colleagues?” Colin shielded his eyes from the sun that was making its way under the edge of the canvas roof.
“We’re a collegial group, as you might expect given the proximity in which we live and work. You’re certainly welcome to chat with any of the boys—I know they’ll offer any assistance they can. If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you.”
While the information we gleaned from Benjamin’s compatriots did not complete our picture of the man, it was not without use. He was, evidently, a meticulous excavator with infinite patience who was never daunted by a task.
“I never saw him frustrated,” a young Englishman fresh out of Oxford told us. “His dedication inspired me. He considered nothing impossible. Which is, I suppose, why it didn’t much surprise me that he fell in love with an unattainable woman.”
“Unattainable how?” I asked.
“He never elaborated. Held his private life close, didn’t much talk about it, and when he did, never gave details.”
“Do you think she was married?”
“I assumed, naturally, that she was attached to someone else.”
“But he thought they were going to be together?” I asked.
“I can’t say that with any conviction, Lady Emily,” he said. “All I know—as did the rest of us—was that he’d decided to take a new direction in his life and returned to Constantinople.”
“He told you he would be living in the city?”
“No, I believe it was only to be a stopover. He didn’t intend to stay in Turkey.”
“Did he speak of returning to England?” I asked.
“No. He never made mention of that. Said something about France once—some small village in the south. But I don’t know that he intended to live there. Surely his father could fill you in on the details? I thought they’d patched things up after their latest falling-out.”
