Tears of Pearl

He drew in a deep breath, held it, then turned away from me. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can help you with today, Lady Emily. I will inform the sultan that I am, of course, full of regret not to have been of more use.”

“Don’t do this.”

“You know nothing.”

“What about Bezime? Do you want no justice for her? Isn’t she the one who arranged for you to come back here? Wasn’t she your champion?” I didn’t want him to walk away and hoped that any or all of my hurried questions would cause him to stop. I was not so lucky, however. He stared at me before going, shaking his head.

“No good will come of the path you are on.”

His words stung me, so well mimicking Bezime’s. I walked past the sultan’s workshop as I made my way out of the palace grounds. He was inside—I could hear the sound of his plane through the window—but I did not pause to speak to him, instead continuing on and contemplating his position. When not angry, Abdül Hamit was gracious, exceedingly polite, cultured, Western, and enlightened when it came to education, particularly for women. He loved music, wrote poetry, and had even penned an opera of his own. How did one reconcile all that with his multiple wives and concubines and slaves and mutilated guards?

There was a certain amount of wisdom in what Jemal had said. I did not understand this sort of life. And although I did not doubt my ability to solve the murders, I wondered what my ignorance and naïveté led me to overlook. It was essential that I recognize the limitations I carried with me. With this in mind, once back at the yalı I sat down again with the letters I’d found on Bezime’s body, imagining that I was the concubine who had received them. That I was a woman in love with a man forbidden to me, someone who by loving me put himself in danger—who could neither address nor sign his declarations. Reading them this way made them far less romantic than they’d appeared at first glance. The tenderness was heartbreaking, the yearning hurt my soul.

When I’d finished, I carefully folded them and put them in a small compartment in one of my trunks. To leave thoughts so intimate out in the open was wrong, and I already knew all I needed to about them. Someone, most likely Benjamin, had written them to Ceyden. Whoever in the harem discovered their dalliance—too flighty a word for the depth of emotion it was clear they shared—put a stop to it by silencing the disobedient concubine. And at the moment, one person struck me as the most likely candidate: a eunuch with too much information and a grand sense of importance.

Chapter 18

“I need your absolute candor, Benjamin,” I said, once again sitting across from him in Ali’s restaurant near the Spice Bazaar, this time hearty plates of skender kebabs in front of us. I swirled a bite of chicken in thick yogurt sauce as I spoke. “The complications of your situation have become more clear to me, and I want to help you. I understand how dreadful all this is, particularly after learning what I have since Bezime’s death. She had the letters.”

“What letters?” Every inch of his body sagged.

“The ones you wrote. The love letters.”

“No. It’s not possible.”

“She raised Ceyden. They were in close contact. Perhaps she gave them to her for safekeeping,” I said.

“There is no proof of any of this. None.” He ripped off a piece of bread and slogged it, all false nonchalance, through the sauce on his plate.

“But you don’t deny it?” I asked. “There’s no need to protect her anymore, Benjamin.”

“I never—”

“You did not know who she was. How could you ever have suspected the truth?”

“The truth? What do you know about the truth?”

“No one can fault you,” I said. “But it’s critical now that we press forward and find the person responsible for her death. Jemal delivered the letters for you, did he not?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“And you met him when the boat capsized?”

“Yes.” His rough voice trembled.

“How did you persuade him—”

“I bribed him, Lady Emily. I paid dearly for it—not only in money, let me assure you. My conscience has suff ered no small amount.”

“All that jewelry. Was it to finance your escape?”

“It would have helped.”

“I need you to help me to better understand what was going on. Everyone says—forgive me if this is cruel— that Ceyden was desperate to earn the sultan’s favor. There are rumblings of political unrest, rumors that Murat is planning a coup. Was Ceyden attempting to get close to him to forward some sort of plot? Or was she merely doing whatever she could to cover her true intentions? To ensure that no one would suspect her of plotting to flee the harem?”

“I don’t know anything about politics,” he said.

“Do you know how she got the jewelry?”

“Ceyden?” he asked. “She stole it.”

“I’m sorry. I know this is painful. The fact that she’s your sister—”

He stared at me, eyes steady but lacking focus. “You have no idea.”

“We will find justice.”

“I don’t see the point. All I want is to go as far away from here as I can.”

“Are you still planning to leave?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t abandon my father, can I?”

“He doesn’t seem well.”

“He isn’t, and I don’t see him getting better unless we remove ourselves from Constantinople. There’s nothing left for him here but more misery.”

“You don’t think he’ll be reinstated at the embassy?” I asked.

“Have you spoken to him lately? He’s barely coherent and can hardly keep on his feet. He’s coming completely apart.”

“Where would you go? Italy?”

“Italy?” His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “No. Wouldn’t want to go there. France, maybe. But my father belongs in England.”

“I thought—” I stopped, going over the conversation we’d had on our previous visit to Ali’s, certain he had told me he’d taken a position on a dig in Italy. We’d discussed his interest in all things Roman. “France. Yes. I have a dear friend in Paris—I should put you in touch with her.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I would appreciate that. But not quite yet. I don’t want to alarm him. It’s not going to be easy to persuade him to leave, especially after he buried my sister here. Better that I have everything arranged and present it as a fait accompli.”

“How long do you think that will take?” I asked.

His expression changed, his eyes lightening, the color returning to his face—but there was a hint of effort in it, a strain in his features, as if he were pushing too hard. “No hurry, I suppose. Much though I’d like to go at once, I’d be sure to regret not setting everything up carefully. Are you still hungry? Ali’s baklava is incomparable.”

Benjamin had not exaggerated about the baklava, and I so indulged myself that I was unable to down even a single cup of tea when I met Margaret on the terrace at Misseri’s that afternoon.

“I do wish I could meet the sultan,” Margaret said, slathering butter on a scone. “The master of the seraglio. A figure who has fueled the romantic dreams of untold Western gentlemen for thousands of years.”

“Well. Not Abdül Hamit himself,” I said. “He can’t be more than fifty or so.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”