Tears of Pearl

“I can’t escape the feeling we’ve missed something,” I said when, finished, we crossed back through the station.

“It’s possible.” Colin took my hand. “But there’s no harm done, Emily. He might have mislaid the papers himself. There was no sign of forced entry into his compartment.”

“He could have forgotten to lock the door.”

“He’s too competent to have done that.”

“Doesn’t it make you wonder about the chloral hydrate?” I asked. “Perhaps someone dosed his wine, knowing the subsequent commotion would provide an opportunity to snatch the papers.”

“I understand the suspicion, my dear, but why would anyone go to so much trouble to take something that, by all accounts, is of no particular value?”

“Perhaps the papers were not the goal,” I continued. “Perhaps harming Sir Richard was, and the theft was meant to set the investigation on the wrong course. We may be dealing with a matter entirely personal, not professional.”

“We, my dear, are not at present dealing with any matter whatsoever other than enjoying our wedding trip.”

“I just—”

“No, Emily. Let this go. Come. The Golden Horn awaits you.”

Chapter 2

Constantinople was like an exotic dream full of spice and music and beauty—the scent of cardamom blew through the streets like a fresh wind—but at the same time, it had a distinct and surprising European feel. The cobbled streets, winding at seemingly random angles through the city, teemed with gentlemen, as many wearing top hats as were in dark red fezzes. Stray cats darted in front of us with alarming frequency, slinking confidently in search of their next meal, while brazen shopkeepers called out, inviting us into stores brimming with Eastern treasures. Noise filled every inch of the air: seagulls crying, carts clattering, voices arguing in foreign tongues.

Before us, the choppy silver blue waters of the Golden Horn—the estuary slicing through the European section of the city—stood mere paces from the station. Boats tied too close knocked together down the length of battered docks, only the larger vessels meriting the space to stay safely untouched. One among them waited for us, but I did not pause to identify it, heading instead for the Galata Bridge, making my way through the crush of carriages in the road, Colin’s hand firm on my arm. We paused to pay the toll—a pittance—and walked until we reached the midpoint of the pontoon-supported structure.

“I like being able to see two continents,” I said, watching Colin as his eyes swept the Asian shore far across the Bosphorus from us. “It gives an intrinsic satisfaction I’ve not before experienced.”

“Seraglio Point, on the European side.” Colin nodded towards the shore from which we’d come. “The spires of Topkapı Palace are there”—he pointed—“and farther this way, the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya.” The minarets of the holy buildings jutted into the crisp sky with mathematical precision, rising from the crowds of smaller stone structures. Gulls circled and dove, careening around the minarets and then pausing to coast on the air, as if catching their breath before darting off again. Trees surrounded the palace, its far-off buildings the only break in a sea of green.

“Topkapı looks marvelous, even from a distance,” I said. “Perhaps I shall be kidnapped and given to the sultan and live out the rest of my years there.” A few paces from me, a fisherman pulled up his line and dropped his flopping catch into an already full bucket. All around us, men were doing the same, and the air fell heavy with the oily, salty scent of their bounty.

“He should be so lucky.” Our eyes met and lingered, and the most pleasant sort of warmth pulsed through me. “But you wouldn’t be—the court is no longer at Topkapı. There’s a new palace.”

“I could stand here all day,” I said. To our north, the neighborhoods of Pera stretched to the hills, and the Galata Tower, the last remnant of a fourteenth-century fort, stood tall above tier after tier of creamy rose-and- white houses.

“I’ve other plans for you.” After bestowing upon me a deliciously discreet kiss that in an instant promised untold delights, Colin led me back to the docks, and in short order we had climbed aboard a small caïque rowed by two sturdy men. They moved with a grace I would not have expected from persons so muscular, pulling through water rough enough to make me wish for the stability of a large ship. As the Golden Horn opened to the wide expanse of the Bosphorus, I began to feel queasy bouncing up and down on erratic waves.

Houses packed the Asian shore as tightly as the European, but as we traveled north, they grew larger— yalıs, mansions built as summer homes for the city’s elite. Some were spectacular, others in distressing states of disrepair, but all came right to the edge of the water, which lapped against terraces perfect for watching the light change as the sun set. Colin had rented one for us that was a vision of romantic perfection: bright white with a peaked red roof and elaborately delicate gingerbread trimwork on the myriad windows, pillars, and balconies gracing the eighteenth-century façade. I stepped, unsteady, off the boat, the fatigue of travel exacerbated by the rough crossing. Nonetheless, I was ready to explore the interior.

The rooms were leagues more refined and elegant than my villa in Greece and entirely different from the sort of luxury I was used to in England. Overstuffed pillows sheathed in silk covered low sofas, and the carpets were soft and spectacular, Anatolian, with designs of leaves and hyacinths twined together, their colors blending beneath an almost translucent sheen. Even pieces that at home would have been fashioned from simple wood were full of exquisite detail: every table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ebony. An exotic retreat, full of delicious comforts. We collapsed, exhausted, and slept scandalously late the next morning.

“Mail at breakfast?” I asked, watching Meg hand Colin a stack of ivory envelopes as I dropped into a chair on our balcony. “It’s as if we’re still in England.”

“Far from it,” Colin said. I followed his gaze out to the water, where the sun danced across the Bosphorus. Scores of boats glided with breezy ease, showing no hint of the dangerous currents that had wreaked havoc on my stomach the previous day.

“Hmmm. I suppose you’re right.” As if the view were not enough to convince me, trays of decidedly un- English breakfast foods covered the table: thick yogurt drizzled with honey, pomegranate seeds, sliced fruits I did not recognize, sesame-seed-covered pastries filled with cheese and spinach. I cracked the shell of a hard-cooked egg and sprinkled salt over it. “What shall we do today?”

“Sir Richard has written to invite us to the palace this evening. Apparently the sultan is an opera fan. There’s to be a production of La Traviata at his private theater. A Western score, perhaps, but dare I hope the possibility of being one of only a handful of European ladies to meet His Eminence and seeing the interior of Yıldız Palace might be enough to entice you?”

Entice me it did, and before the sun had set, we had made our way across the Bosphorus to the theater. Newly built for the sultan, it was gorgeous, though disappointingly European. European, that is, if one ignored the elaborately carved wooden screens that shielded members of the harem from the view of the rest of the audience. But if a person were to focus solely on the rich velvet curtain and ornately gilded boxes, it would be easy to imagine oneself at Covent Garden. Until, that is, the last act, when strains of Verdi succumbed to something wholly out of place.

“What on earth is this?” I leaned forward.

“Is it Gilbert and Sullivan?” Colin asked as the composer’s tender notes were replaced by a melody far too cheerful for La Traviata. In tonight’s production, Violetta did not die in her lover’s arms after a heartbreaking separation and lengthy illness. Instead, her consumption vanished the moment she drank a potion handily supplied by an obliging physician. “Do you think anyone’s told Verdi?”

“It’s The Mikado.” I leaned close and kept my voice low, breathing in the faint scent of tobacco lingering on his jacket as I tried to ignore a tremor in my core that was dangerously close to erupting in loud laughter.

“Of course. I recognize the song: ‘Here’s a how-de-do!’ Appalling. They’ve usurped Verdi.” Violetta, Alfredo, and this brilliant and mysterious man of science who had made their joy possible joined their voices in an ebullient trio, Mr. Gilbert’s lyrics replaced with ones appropriate to the new and theoretically improved scene.