The Snake Stone: A Novel

Palewski took a deep breath. “But he had nothing of value on him, either, except the little book. And it’s not worth all that much.”

“He didn’t necessarily possess what he was selling. Or not yet.”

“Very well. But why break his cover and go to see Millingen?” Palewski unfolded himself from the chair and went to the door.

“Marta! Brandy!”

He stood by the door, listening. Then he came back and flopped back into his chair.

“I said you were thinking like a Pole, Yashim, but don’t overdo it. Have one of these,” he added as Marta brought the tray into the room. “Thank you, Marta.”

Marta smiled and poured two glasses of brandy. When the door closed Yashim said: “The Hetira is a society devoted to the restoration of the Greek empire: that’s the Great Idea. But restoration means healing, too. Restoring to health.”

Palewski pulled a face. “A society of doctors?”

“Millingen was at Missilonghi for the cause, wasn’t he? We know Stephanitzes was, and he was the only Greek among them. Bruno worked for Byron: he followed the poet. Meyer edited the Chronica Hellenica. Perhaps he believed in the Great Idea, or perhaps he simply hoped for reward when the kingdom established itself.”

“That fits,” Palewski said. “Damn it, Yashim. English doctors don’t go around murdering people like that.”

“I couldn’t say,” Yashim remarked. “But Lefevre also visited another man before he was killed. Mavrogordato.”

“That’s it!” Palewski slapped his thigh. “The Greek banker, ship-owner, whatever. He knew where to find Lefevre that night—you’d booked him a passage on one of his ships. These bankers are doing quite all right, don’t want to rock the boat. Lefevre comes in, babbling about the relics, and Mavrogordato panics. He uses his wealth and influence to have the whole thing discreetly taken care of.”

Yashim sighed. “I wouldn’t call any of those murders discreet. If Mavrogordato wanted Lefevre killed, why did his wife call me in to dig around? Mavrogordato doesn’t sneeze without his wife’s permission. He wouldn’t organize a string of murders on his own. She might. But then she wouldn’t have called me in.”

“Confound it, Yash. Why in the name of God did she call you in?”

“Exactly. Why was she so interested in Lefevre?” Yashim put his fingertips together. “Something about him confused her.”

“Confused her?”

“I don’t think that Lefevre came babbling to her husband about relics. Mavrogordato could have told her if he had. There was something about Lefevre that she wanted to know—something Mavrogordato couldn’t tell her. Not because he wouldn’t—he’d tell her everything he knew. No secrets.”

“Out with it, Yashim.”

Yashim smiled. “I don’t have the answer, my friend. At least, not yet.”

“But you have an idea?”

Yashim nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Yes, I do have an idea.”

Compston gave a huge snort and rolled sideways off his chair, onto the floor.

He sat up blearily, rubbing his head.

“I—I wasn’t asleep,” he mumbled automatically.

95

THE valide leans forward. Some things, she says to herself, do not change: they must not. I did not believe it, when I was young. I fought the old women: I scandalized them. But I see it clearly now: this is my role.

She watches for a deviation. She can remember her last visit; she compares it with this.

Now he drinks the pure water from the cup, and now he dips his bread in a plate of salt, to show his brotherhood.

The watermen cross their arms flat against their chests.

They bow to the new recruit. There are spots of color on his cheeks.

The sou naziry, the chief of the watermen’s guild, raises his hands. “Water is life.”

“Water is life,” the new recruit answers in a firm voice.

“It is the blessing of the spirit.”

“And the spirit is with God,” he answers.

“Be He blessed, the Merciful, the Creator.”

“And may His blessings fall upon us, as the rain.”

The sou naziry steps forward and places his hands on the other man’s shoulders. He kisses him three times.