Kamil Pasha: The Sultan's Seal Part 8

"Whatever is most important to know. Where the body was found, who you spoke with, what they said. The condition of the body," he adds carefully.

"The body? She was dead, that's all. Face up in the pond. We thought she had drowned, but the surgeon pressed on her chest and found there was no water in her lungs. She had been strangled. You could see the mark on her neck. Knife-sharp, but not a knife. A very thin, strong cord."

"Silk?"

Ferhat Bey grins. "Yes, a silk cord. No other cord would leave that kind of mark." Everyone knows that is the method preferred by the royals. He is no better match for them than I was, despite his fancy new t.i.tle.

"Was she a virgin?"

Ferhat Bey is somewhat taken aback by Kamil's straightforward way of bringing up a most delicate subject, even among men. It would be quite different if they were drinking buddies or school friends, then they could discuss such obscene things freely. But they are colleagues and he is an elder. He deliberates briefly whether this is disrespectful or not, but concludes that Kamil is simply socially inept. Not uncommon among spoiled children of the elite, he thinks. That will make him all the more susceptible to the rot at the palace, he thinks with satisfaction.

"No."

"Another similarity." Kamil pauses. "Was anything else remarkable about the body, other than this and the cord line at her neck?"

"Well, I'm not sure one could call the fact that she wasn't a virgin remarkable," Ferhat Bey chortles. "After all, she was a Frank, and you know how their women are." He settles himself back and puffs with satisfaction on his water pipe.

Kamil smiles wanly, refusing to be drawn in.

"Anything else?" he repeats.

The superintendent stirs restlessly. He doesn't know what this young upstart is after.

"Nothing else. Unless you're interested in rumors."

"What rumors?"

"There was some talk that she was having an affair with a Turk, a journalist."

"Was she?"

"How would I know? No one had any real information, and there are hundreds of journalists these days, far too many, if you ask me."

"How did you make the connection to the palace?"

Ferhat Bey winces.

"There was a witness," he admits grudgingly.

Kamil is surprised. He hadn't heard there was a witness.

"To the murder?"

"No, to the abduction. Except that apparently she went willingly. One of the eunuchs said a carriage picked her up by the back gate. And it wasn't the first time. She always went alone, always with the same disreputable-looking driver. The eunuch planned to tell her employer to fire her for lack of-what did he call it?-moral fitness. That was before she turned up dead." He squeezes out a wheezing laugh.

"Whose eunuch?"

Ferhat Bey is agitated. He has let himself slip. He hadn't meant to let Kamil know about the eunuch.

"He belonged to Asma Sultan's household in the harem," he admits reluctantly.

"Asma Sultan?" Kamil tries to remember where else he has heard the name recently.

"Sultan Abdulaziz's daughter, may he rest in peace. She's married to Ali Arslan Pasha."

The grand vizier's wife. Sybil in the snow. He sees her, cheeks red, traveling in the sleigh with her mother to Ali Arslan Pasha's harem.

"But there were a lot of other women in that harem," Ferhat Bey continues.

"Other high-status women?"

"The pasha didn't have the same appet.i.te as his father-in-law. Or else his wife made sure he kept his sword in his scabbard." Ferhat Bey wheezes a laugh. "So no concubines, just Asma Sultan and his daughter, Perihan Hanoum. The rest were servants, like the English-woman. Although Asma Sultan's relations came and went so often they might as well have been living there. They all knew the governess," he adds.

"Who else visited?"

"Her nieces Leyla and Shukriye were there a lot. Shukriye Hanoum was engaged to that sot Prince Ziya, who was killed with his pants down in Paris."

Kamil tries to keep his irritation in check. He had never met Prince Ziya, but knew enough of his reputation as a thoughtful man and supporter of just causes to have a great deal of respect for him. He had never believed the rumor that Ziya died in a brothel.

"So what is the link between the palace and the murder?" Kamil asks. The old superintendent had implied there was a link. He is certain he hadn't misheard.

"That's the link. Asma Sultan's hawk-eyed eunuch. Go ask him yourself. Be sure to bring a large gift." He sn.i.g.g.e.rs. Asma Sultan, her eunuch, and the woman Hannah were p.a.w.ns in a game played by giants. He has just put this young upstart on the game board. Still, he shouldn't have brought Asma Sultan's name into it. He doesn't want any more trouble than he already has.

"You never found the carriage or the driver?"

"No."

The superintendent knows his reputation as a failure. He could explain that he was forced to take early retirement and leave this case unsolved. But trading his reputation for the truth might very well lose him more than his position. His notes on the case had been incomplete for this very reason.

Kamil asks, "What about the household at Chamyeri? What did they tell you?"

"Nothing. No one claimed to have seen anything. Other than that hysterical goose of a Frenchwoman. She found the body, ran to the house, packed her things, and was ready to go even before we arrived. She didn't even speak our language, so we had the young girl, Ismail Hodja's niece, translate for us."

"What was the Frenchwoman doing back by the pond?"

Ferhat Bey thinks a few moments. "Well, she said she had been taking a walk. I suppose that's reasonable."

"Was she in the habit of walking there? If I remember correctly, the pond is quite secluded, in the forest."

"Who knows the minds of women?" Ferhat Bey answers in an exasperated tone. "They walk in the woods. Maybe she had a lovers' tiff and wanted some privacy to lick her wounds."

"Did she have a lover?"

The superintendent has reached the end of his patience. Clearly, the man has no imagination, he decides.

"How should I know? I can't very well ask a young girl to ask the woman if she has a lover, can I? And she'd never admit to it if she did. What difference does it make anyway? We had a witness. It had nothing to do with that household." He decides to stop before his tongue slips further along the path he has already negligently directed the young man toward.

The light filtering in the window has become tepid and wan. Outside, the rain has stopped and a chill night wind has begun to blow. The room has begun to fill with men who have closed their shop doors and look forward to their moment of comfort before they walk through the dark streets to their homes. Their breaths have condensed on the windows in a ragged tongue of moisture.

Ferhat Bey mutters that it is time for him to leave and rises shakily to his feet. Kamil thanks him for his kindness and a.s.sistance and offers to help him home. The old man growls and waves him off.

"I don't live far. I'll walk."

He hobbles into the courtyard. Kamil stays behind to pay the owner. When he emerges, the superintendent is gone. Kamil shrugs, wraps his cloak closer about him, and pa.s.ses through the great stone gate into the street beyond.

As soon as Kamil is out of sight, Ferhat Bey emerges from the shadows at the back of the courtyard. He stands for a while, squinting against the wind, as if waiting to see if Kamil will return, then goes back into the coffeehouse.

13.

A Perfect Fit Kamil and Sybil sit opposite each other in the reception room. He is eager to talk and has refused the inevitable offer of tea. He avoids looking at Sybil and keeps his mind resolutely on the purpose of his visit. To his relief, Sybil is dressed demurely in a china-blue gown.

"Sybil Hanoum, you said you were here when Hannah Simmons was killed."

"I thought you were looking into Mary's death. Is there some connection?"

"I don't know. There may not be, but I'd like to be sure. I spoke yesterday with the police superintendent that handled the case. Perhaps you might remember something more."

Sybil looks thoughtful, then says slowly, apologetically, "Perhaps I wrongly disparaged the police. Mother couldn't find out very much either. Hannah was last seen in the harem nursery, reading to the children."

"Did you know her?"

"She must have come 'round the emba.s.sy, but I don't remember ever meeting her."

"Who was her employer?"

"Mother said she was hired by Asma Sultan. But there are usually other women in the harem too."

"Do you know who else?"

"No, but I can try to find out. I'll send a note to Asma Sultan and ask to call on her."

"There's no need for you to do that," Kamil says quickly. "I'd rather you didn't. I mean, I don't know what is involved, or who. It could be dangerous."

"You can't talk to the women, so maybe I can find out something useful. I'll only go for tea, not to put my head on the block," she jokes.

Kamil doesn't smile.

They sit silently for a few moments, each lost in thought.

"Poor Hannah," Sybil says finally. "Mother wrote a letter to Hannah's parents in Bournemouth, explaining as delicately as she could what had happened to their daughter, but never received an answer. We buried her in the English cemetery in Haidar Pasha."

"It is terribly sad," he says awkwardly. "So you know nothing about Hannah Hanoum's family?"

"We were able to learn nothing at all. Except for a few people's memory of her, it's as if she never existed." Sybil turns her face away.

Kamil dismisses an impulse to take Sybil's hand and comfort her.

"She must have family somewhere that remembers her," he rea.s.sures her. "And she did have a memorable life, at least while she was among us. After all, it's not every day that a young Englishwoman comes to Istanbul to work for the royal family. Surely there were good things in her life that made it worth living. That served her better than someone's memory of her after she was gone."

"I suppose you're right. I wonder what happened to her belongings. I remember they were sent here to the emba.s.sy. I doubt Father would know. He doesn't concern himself with that sort of thing. Mother would have dealt with it. There's a room off the kitchen where she stored odd things. Why don't we look there?" Sybil straightens in her chair and gives him a small smile, cheered by the prospect of a common task.

THE KITCHEN MAID stands by the door, mouth open, as Kamil and Sybil pull out endless jars of preserved peaches and jams that had been stacked at the front of the shelves in the storage room, obscuring a variety of neatly arranged objects: an old marble mantel clock surmounted by a gold eagle; three dented copper bowls with worn tinning; a box of silver spoons; and, at the back of the lowest shelf, a suitcase tied shut with string. Attached to the handle is a neat label addressed in a spidery hand: "Hannah Simmons, d. 1878. Belongings. Unable to forward."

Kamil carries the suitcase to the kitchen table. Sybil gestures for the maid to leave.

"Let's see what's in it." Sybil pulls the case toward her and begins to worry the string. Kamil takes a short, horn-handled knife from his jacket pocket. He slices the string, opens the suitcase, and gently lifts its contents onto the table: two plain dresses, a pair of lace-up shoes, a chased-silver brush set, a pair of embroidered Turkish slippers, and some doc.u.ments.

"The remnants of a life," Sybil muses sadly. "So little."

Kamil runs his fingers around the edge of the suitcase's lining. He finds an opening and tugs at it, revealing a small velvet box inside a hollow s.p.a.ce behind the lock. Kamil pulls the box out and lays it on the table. He stands abruptly and goes to a large clay jar in the corner of the room, removes the lid, and dips in the tinned copper cup attached by a chain. When he has drunk his fill, he replaces the lid and returns to the table.

Kamil pries the latch back with his thumbnail and swings the lid open. Inside is a padded nest of blue silk, a round indentation in its center. Kamil reaches into his pocket and brings out the pendant found around Mary Dixon's neck. He settles it gently into the impression. It is a perfect fit, as he knew it would be.

14.

Blood At the entrance to the grand vizier's villa waits a eunuch. He is wearing a spotless white robe that makes a startling contrast to his blue-black skin. His face is smooth and rounded as an aubergine, but his limbs seem stretched, longer than one might expect for his size. Into the broad sash that binds his substantial middle is tucked a flywhisk at a rakish angle, like an ornament or egret feathers on a turban. As Sybil climbs from the carriage, he bows deeply, sweeping his hand against his mouth, then his forehead, in a grand gesture of obeisance. There is a haughtiness about him too. His eyes always rest on a spot above Sybil's head. He takes no notice of the British regimental lieutenant in scarlet coat saluting Sybil with a white-gloved hand, then leading the remainder of her armed escort toward the guardhouse. The eunuch never speaks. When he guides Sybil through the ma.s.sive marble doors, the palms of his hand flash yellow, like fish turning.

Sybil trails the eunuch through rooms of rich furnis.h.i.+ngs and enormous fine carpets. Oil paintings and framed Quranic inscriptions are hung high up near the ceiling. She can see her reflection in the mirrored walls-a white wraith gliding behind a black eunuch, two ghosts in the halls of empire.

At a door carved with gilded swags of roses, the eunuch gives her yellow slippers embroidered with flowers made of tiny colorful crystals. But the women who receive her beyond the door are dressed in European fas.h.i.+on, Oriental only in the surfeit of gold and silver thread and embroidery covering every surface. They are encased from top to bottom in jewels, like Faberge eggs. They sit stiffly in upholstered armchairs, held upright by their corsets. Some have silk scarves draped rakishly over their hair, pinned by diamond brooches.

What, oh, what have we wrought, Sybil thinks dejectedly, if this is what the world has learned from us?

Asma Sultan rises and walks toward Sybil, hands spread in greeting. Her face is round and pleasant, with a b.u.t.ton nose and small eyes. An undistinguished face, the kind one sees but doesn't remember seeing, sipping afternoon tea in a hotel lobby or handing tuppence to a grandchild. Delicate white skin hangs loose along her cheeks and below her chin. The eyes that look her guest over, however, are sharp as flint.

"My family is honored by your presence at my grandson's circ.u.mcision."

"I'm happy to be here, Your Highness." Sybil can't remember whether she should bow or curtsy, does both, and stumbles in the unaccustomed slippers.

Large windows frame the blue expanse of the Bosphorus. A French door stands open. The scent of jasmine drifts in from the terrace. The room is flooded with light.

"May I introduce Sybil Hanoum, daughter of our ill.u.s.trious English amba.s.sador," the hostess announces in slightly accented French.