He sat down and tamped the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Malakian—through your good offices— completed the set for me. I was elated for a day or two. But now? Rather depressed. I think I shall donate the collection to the British Museum.”
Yashim cocked his head. “I’d rather you explained about Lefevre’s hoard,” he said.
Dr. Millingen leaned back in his chair and gave a chuckle. “Well, well.” He sucked on his unlit pipe. “You’ve guessed, then. I did see the unfortunate Dr. Lefevre. And yes, we discussed a hoard. Unfortunately I was never able to inspect it, as my friend advised, so I don’t suppose we will ever really know what it was he was offering to exchange. Poor fellow. He had so many irons in the fire.”
“Another buyer, maybe?”
“Yes, that, too.”
Yashim frowned. “But you and Stephanitzes, you could trump all buyers, couldn’t you? If you wanted what he offered badly enough.”
Millingen hesitated. “You are forgetting, Yashim efendi, that Lefevre was only offering an idea. A promise, if you will. Why would I trust him?”
“Because he’d been your friend.”
“Lefevre my friend? I never knew Lefevre.”
Yashim shrugged. “Strictly speaking, no. But you did know Meyer. The Swiss doctor at Missilonghi. You shared a cause.”
He expected Millingen to jump, but the Englishman merely reached for a match and frowned. “Meyer?” He struck the match and it flared between his fingers. “He was a Savoyard, in fact.”
“A Savoyard?”
“French Swiss. Swiss when it suits, and French when it doesn’t.” He paused to light his pipe. “We shared a cause, as you say. It seemed a cause to fight for, when I was young.”
“And now?”
Millingen tossed the match into the grate and put his hand around the bowl of his pipe. “I don’t know if you heard what happened at Missilonghi, Yashim efendi. The daily bombardments. The daily toll of disease. All the world knows Byron came to Missilonghi and died, and half of them think he was leading a cavalry charge at the time, with Suliotes in scarves and fustanellas brandishing pistols at his side. They think he was glorious because he was a poet, and that his death was glorious. But it wasn’t so. Missilonghi was just a trap, and Byron died just like most of them died, of fever, or cramp, or dysentery, or cholera. Sometimes people died when a shell landed on them in the street, out of the blue. Good for a doctor, eh? Plenty of cases to puzzle over. Plenty of widows and orphaned children to doctor and send to their graves. And that, my friend, was our revolutionary war.”
Millingen clamped the pipe between his teeth and stood up.
“I told you before, I don’t like postmortems. And I said why, too. I doctor to the living, not the dead. It’s my job to preserve life.”
Yashim nodded. What Millingen said sounded true. It also sounded like a speech.
“I was wondering about Meyer.”
Millingen scowled. “I see. What about him?”
“Well, if Byron disliked him, I suppose he didn’t attend the poet—as a doctor, I mean.”
“No.”
“So he was lucky, in that sense.” Yashim sounded embarrassed.
Millingen’s scowl darkened. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing, I mean—but after all, the poet died. In spite of—everything. Everything you could do.”
“For God’s sake!” Millingen swore, in English. “You think we killed Byron? Rubbish! Cuppings. Purges. We took out pints of blood—all by the book. Don’t think Meyer could have done any better!” Millingen’s tone was incredulous; spots of color had appeared on his cheeks.
“No, forgive me.” Yashim put out his hands in a soothing gesture. “I only meant—I’d heard—how Meyer was lost, when the rest of you got away. You joined the breakout, and it worked. The lucky two thousand. It must have been a scene of dreadful confusion. A crowd of terrified people, groping their way through the Turkish lines in the dark. Losing each other. Unable to raise their voices. People taking different routes into the hills. Is that how it was?”
Millingen’s lips were tight. “Something like that.”
“Yet Meyer stayed behind. Trying—and failing—to protect his wife, perhaps.”
Millingen flexed his fingers. He was breathing hard.
“He had a wife to think of, didn’t he?” Yashim said.
Millingen rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and when he opened them again, they looked pink and tired. “Maybe Missilonghi ended just as you say. Meyer wasn’t in the breakout—that much is true. But he didn’t stay behind, either.”
Yashim looked puzzled. “But then—”
“He’d already gone.” Millingen tinkled the fire irons with the toe of his boot. “The breakout was our only hope, but everyone knew how risky it was. Ten thousand people, trying to escape through the enemy lines. In a body, all together, some of us stood a chance.”
“But Meyer?”
“Didn’t wait to find out. He cleared off the night before we’d planned to escape. I don’t know that I blame him
