“Don’t be absurd,” I said. “Honeymoons go on for months and months. Besides, haven’t you read
“An entirely different circumstance, my dear.”
“Quite.” I could not help but smile.
“I cannot help but consider things differently now,” Margaret said. “I wouldn’t want my honeymoon interrupted as yours has been—”
“No one wants to contend with murder.”
“Obviously. But you do enjoy it, Em—not the murder part, but the rest. You’ve gotten to cavort about Constantinople with more freedom than anyone since Lady Mary What’s-her-name. Some days I think you thrive on it, but lately it seems to be taking a toll.”
“I’m just worried about Ivy. It’s nothing else. This is how I want my life to be, Margaret. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want to do this work. It’s important to me.”
“I’m afraid I’m becoming a hopeless romantic,” she said. “It’s rather disgusting.”
“You really do want to hole up at Oxford, don’t you?”
“I think I do,” she said.
“You don’t think it will become claustrophobic?”
“No. Have you any idea how much Ovid I have left to translate? And then there’s Virgil. That is the work I need. This trip has made me realize that I want Mr. Michaels by my side all the time. Gallivanting about isn’t much fun without him.”
“I would hope not,” I said. “Otherwise what would be the point in marrying him? I miss Colin dreadfully every moment I’m not with him.” As we came closer to the European shore, Topkapı looming above us until we’d passed it after turning into the Golden Horn, my nerves took firm hold of me, my heart pounding in my chest. From the dock, it did not take long to reach Sir Richard’s—we took a carriage, wanting to get to him as quickly as possible.
Miss Evans greeted us at the door. “He’s feeling much better today,” she said. “Has been receiving visitors. Even came downstairs.”
“Did he?”
“For a while,” she said. “But he started to get tired and went back up. Still, an improvement.”
“I fear that we’ll only make it worse.” I left Margaret to explain to her and found my way to Sir Richard, propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, a copy of Jules Verne’s
“Lady Emily, it is good to see you, but I’m afraid Miss Evans should not have let you come up. I’m not so well as I was earlier.” His voice slurred and his head bobbed. “Even the coff ee Sutcliffe brought up to me didn’t help. Of course it was as bad as that I get at the embassy. Too bitter. Expect better at home.”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” I said. “And wouldn’t have were the matter not of the greatest urgency.”
“What has happened?” He sat up straighter. “Is it my son?”
“I’m afraid so. Colin has found him—don’t worry, he’s safe.”
“Thank heavens. Where was he?”
“Ephesus. They’re on their way back now.”
“This is joyous news,” he said. “I cannot begin—”
“No, please. Wait. He’s admitted to Colin that he was responsible for...” I hesitated.
“Not for Ceyden?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not possible. My son would never. . .” His voice faltered, then failed altogether. His head nodded forward, then dropped back against the pillows. I thought at first he was stricken with grief, but then his jaw went slack and his mouth hung open.
“Sir Richard?... Sir Richard?”
He did not respond. He was breathing—I could see that—but he was not conscious. I pulled the bell cord, then ran to the hallway, shouting for Margaret. The ensuing chaos should have woken the dead, as Miss Evans came into the room and gave a shriek, horrifying and inhuman.
“Has he gone? Have we lost him? Oh, it’s too, too dreadful!” she said.
Margaret appeared almost at once and, proving she had not lost her ability to keep her wits about her, did the reasonable thing. She sent for the doctor, who arrived in short order.
“It’s more chloral hydrate,” he said, coming to meet us in the corridor outside Sir Richard’s room after examining his patient.
“He couldn’t possibly have taken anything,” Miss Evans said. “I’ve followed your orders to the letter. He’s had no access to it.”
“While I do not doubt your sincerity, madam, I know of what I speak. The man has taken an overdose. Not enough to kill him—but his breathing is dangerously shallow. I will do what I can.”
“Will he survive?” I asked.
“I cannot say.”
“Whom did he see today?” I asked, turning to Miss Evans.
“Oh, all kinds of people. Half the staff of the embassy called on him.”
“The coffee,” I said. “It was the coffee.”
“What—”
I did not linger to hear the rest of her sentence but rushed back into the room, grabbed the cup from the nightstand, and brought it to the doctor.
“You’ll find it in here,” I said. “Mr. Sutcliffe brought it up to him, correct?”
“Yes,” Miss Evans said. “I poured it for him myself. But you can’t think—”
The physician sniffed at the contents of the cup, then dipped a finger in it and cautiously touched the tip to his tongue. “That’s chloral hydrate.”
“Do excuse us,” I said, taking Margaret by the arm and dragging her down the steps as fast as I could, nearly tripping on my skirts. I slid across the marble floor as I tried to stop when we’d reached the front door.
“I take it we’re going to the embassy?” Margaret asked, grinning.
“I do love not having to explain things to you,” I said.
We were there in almost no time, breathing hard as the ambassador came to us in the hall—for our arrival was not without commotion.
“Lady Emily, Miss Seward, are you quite well? Do sit down. Let me get you some tea at once,” he said, ushering us into his office.
“I have news,” I said.
“Yes, I’ve heard from your husband. I’m terribly sorry that—”
“No, Sir William, it’s all wrong,” I said. “All of it. Sir Richard has been poisoned and—”
“What?”
“I need to speak to Mr. Sutcliffe at once.”
“He’s not here. He left yesterday on holiday—he’s going to Rome.”
“No, I don’t think he is,” I said. “Could you please let me search his office?” I explained to him what had happened at Sir Richard’s.
“I can’t imagine that this dreadful conjecture of yours is true,” Sir William said. “And even if it were, would he be foolish enough to leave evidence at the embassy?”
“I think Mr. Sutcliffe was dosing him here,” I said. “Please let us look.”
“I suppose there’s no harm, but it seems a useless endeavor,” Sir William said.
He brought us to the records room on the ground floor of the building and opened the door to a small office. A quick search ensued, but to no avail, which disappointed but did not surprise me. “Do you think there’s any way we could get permission—a warrant, whatever the appropriate thing would be—to search his home?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” Sir William said. “Sir Richard has had difficulties for some time now. And people with troubles like that are, well... I’m sorry, Lady Emily. I let you look in Sutcliffe’s office only because you’re so very enthusiastic about your detecting, and I do appreciate what you’ve been doing. But a lady such as yourself couldn’t begin to comprehend the lengths to which those afflicted with this sort of madness will go to satisfy their cravings.
