longer seemed a dreadful proposition.
I had no choice but to keep moving, and now it seemed that he had regained some nerve. I could hear his heavy footsteps, far behind me on the turn-filled walkway. He was screaming, knocking against the rails, even fell into the water once with a great splash. This spurred me on as a flash of heat coursed through me, and I began to wonder how badly I was hurt. I put my hand to my abdomen, feeling blood, tears streaming from my eyes as I realized that whatever my condition, as Bezime called it, had been, it certainly wouldn’t be any longer. And just then, I knew with certainty that I did welcome it, that I could manage to conquer my fears. But the chance was gone. All I wanted was to stop, to lie down, to sleep, to ignore Roxelana’s voice, which sounded farther and farther away.
I kept crawling.
When I reached the door, I could hardly stand, not only because I was weak, but because I was shaking so violently. Roxelana pulled me to my feet, and together we began wiggling the latch of the door. I could tell by touch that the mechanism was the same as that on the barn door of my father’s estate in Kent. It was a type that, in theory, could be opened from the inside but in fact stuck easily and was almost impossible to manage. As a girl, I’d become an expert at undoing it from both inside and out—spending more time than my mother liked in the barn with my horses. The memory overwhelmed me, dizziness with it, and I nearly lost my entire train of thought until Roxelana shook me. I remembered where I was and tried again and again but was unable to generate the right force at the right angle on the lock.
And then Mr. Sutcliffe’s steps grew heavier, his cries more savage. He could not have been more than thirty feet from us. Summoning every bit of strength I had, I jammed the latch as hard as I could and felt the door give. Roxelana and I tumbled out of it, slamming it hard behind us, cramming the latch hard into the locked position but knowing that if we could force it, he would be able to as well.
“Find something heavy,” I said, doubled over in pain, trying to drag myself up the slippery steps. “Block the door with it.”
“I don’t see anything. I don’t know what to do. I can’t—” Roxelana’s face was ashen, her eyes sunken.
“One of the stones from the edge around the stairs,” I said.
“I don’t want to hit you.”
“You won’t,” I said. “I’ll keep moving.”
“Let me help you first,” she said.
“No, it will take too long. Push it over.”
She stood behind one of the rectangular blocks stacked in haphazard fashion on either side of the top of the stairwell, serving as a sort of barrier to keep people from dropping down the steps from the side. She strained against it, and it moved, only slightly.
I could hear Mr. Sutcliffe fiddling with the latch, clawing at the door. “Let me out! Please! Please!” His voice broke into sobs.
“He’s here. You must hurry.”
She pushed again, harder, I think. I could no longer see her. My vision had become hazy. But I heard her groaning and then heard the scraping sound of rock, followed by a crash, followed by sobs.
“Is it in front of the door?” I asked, the words almost impossible to form.
It sounded as if her answer were yes, but the only thing I heard with clarity was fingernails digging into wood.
POST OFFICE TELEGRAPH
May 2, 1892
Handed in at: Canterbury at 1:37 PM
Received here at: 12:13 PM
TO: Mr. C. Hargreaves
c/o British Embassy Constantinople
Bromley
Chapter 27
Forgetting flowers is the easiest thing in the world. They’re there, in the background, and you almost don’t notice at all until you start paying attention, cataloging the colors, gauging the sweetness of their fragrances. I loved irises, their grape scent filling the garden in spring, and roses, of course, climbing over walls and trellises. It had been such a pleasant night’s sleep, full of blooming fields and sparkling sunshine. Warmth radiating from me, I reached for Colin, wanting to pull him to me.
My arm, however, felt only cool sheets, rumpled blankets. I started to turn on my side, to see if he’d already awakened, but was stopped by a shooting pain that sent a cry from my lips, which I realized, as I woke further, were cracked and dry.
“Colin?” My eyes were so heavy that it was hard to open them, but as soon as I spoke, I heard sounds all around me. Footsteps, sharp breaths, rustling skirts.
“My dear girl.” His voice was like liquid heaven, and I felt his weight next to me now. I turned my head and forced open my eyes.
“You look dreadful,” I said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “When’s the last time you shaved? I won’t have you with a beard. I simply won’t.”
He laughed—relief and nerves—and kissed me on the forehead. “My dear girl.” It was all he could say, apparently, and he kept repeating it.
We weren’t alone. Margaret was on my other side. “Good heavens,” I said. “Is it a party? What have I missed?”
And then I started to remember. I felt the heavy bandage on my abdomen under my nightgown and started to cry. “Did they catch him?”
“They did.” Colin wiped my tears with his hands. “You set everything up without a flaw. The police arrived within ten minutes of your losing consciousness. Roxelana was tending to your wound.”
“How did Sutcliffe get her?” I asked.
“I never even saw her,” Margaret said. “He must have been waiting outside the window. He followed us because he was suspicious that you were on to him, and as soon as he saw us stationed near the mosque and then saw the caravan with the concubines, he knew what we were planning. You were right that he’d been tailing Benjamin. He’d arranged for the shootings at the dig to make Sir Richard worry—he wanted to drive him crazy. And from following Benjamin, he knew all about Roxelana.”
“Is she—” I could hardly bear to think what must have happened to her.
“The sultan has forgiven her, but will not allow her to leave the harem,” Colin said.
“And Benjamin? He didn’t kill—”
“I know,” he said. “He did try to strangle her, but she wasn’t dead when he fled from the palace. He twisted his ankle making his escape and invented the bandit attack to explain it. He’s not having an easy time with any of this.”
“It’s all so awful. He must be heartbroken to lose Roxelana as well.”
“He is, but I think he considers it a fitting punishment.” He brushed the hair off my forehead. “You did it, darling. Sutcliffe confessed to everything. Ceyden, Bezime, Jemal—your speculation about him finishing Ceyden was dead on. Being able to frame Benjamin for the murder brought an extra measure of revenge, though at a price— Jemal demanded additional payment for implicating him to the sultan. Sutcliffe was willing to part with the money, but decided Jemal had proven too demanding to be trusted any further.”
“And so he killed him,” I said.
“Yes. He spared no detail when he spoke to the police. You so terrified him by locking him in the dark, he was like a wounded child when they removed him.”
