Authors: Tasha Alexander
It was not until the last shards of colored light were fading from the sky that my husband appeared. He squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek but did not sit down, his face all tense muscles, his mouth tight. I looked up at him, afraid, as he spoke.
“Bezime is dead.”
We went to Topkap? at once. The trip across the Golden Horn was short, and the boat dropped us right at the palace docks. Inside the gates, all was quiet, as if nothing had happened, until we reached the entrance to the harem, where Colin handed Margaret and me off to Jemal. Colin could not accompany us but would interview the palace guards, search the outer courtyards, question servants and anyone who might have seen or heard something unusual.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said to Jemal, numbness temporarily replaced with surprise. “Has your assignment been changed again?”
“Not permanently,” he said. “A brief mission only.”
I thought I might crawl out of my skin. “Did you kill her?”
“Don’t be absurd. What century do you think it is?”
“I heard the sultan say he would deal with her later.”
“And now he’ll never have the chance. More’s the pity.”
I wondered about the bowstrings and revisited the possibility that Jemal had not received one but was instead the person responsible for sending them. If that was the case, who was to get the one he’d shown to Benjamin?
The silence was oppressive as we came closer to the valide sultan’s apartments, but Jemal did not take us into the rooms, instead continuing to walk until we’d reached the Courtyard of the Favorites. Bright moonlight bounced off the white plaster walls of the wood-trimmed building that contained apartments occupied by sultans long ago. The rows of wooden shutters were tightly closed, and the only sound apart from our steps on the cold stone floor was that of water pouring into the pool that edged one side of the courtyard.
Sprawled beneath the elegant oval arches of the path running along the sultan’s rooms was Bezime’s body, surrounded by a ring of guards and a handful of silent women. The color drained from Margaret’s face in an instant, and unable to offer much in the way of consolation, I took her shaking hand in mine as we approached the group. Violent death—the thin, reddish purple bruise on her neck identified it as such—offered those looking at the body no reassurance, no hint that a soul had found peaceful rest.
“How was it done?” I asked.
One of the guards bent down next to her and lifted a familiar object from the ground: a white, silken bowstring. I closed my eyes, tried to control my breath, knowing there was nothing that would still my heartbeat. “Did anyone witness the attack?”
Of course no one had. Nor had anyone seen or heard anything remotely suspicious. I questioned everyone present—Margaret by my side, unable to speak—but did not expect answers full of enlightenment. Could I doubt, even for a moment, that Bezime’s death had been sanctioned at the highest levels? Part of me wanted to run from the palace, not stopping until I’d found Colin and was safely ensconced in a compartment on the
Orient Express
. But at the same time, I felt the slight beginnings of a sensation I’d not known in many months: the unmistakable titillation that held firm its place next to the deepest fears.
Forcing myself to focus, I struggled to find anything of significance. After combing every inch of the courtyard and finding it devoid of anything that could be construed as evidence, I asked Jemal if I could question the other women in the palace. He did not object. Margaret hovered behind me, her hand pressed hard over her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Emily,” she said as we waited for him to begin sending them in to speak to us. “I’m all but useless. I had no idea this would be so difficult.”
“It’s appalling. There’s no other word. But if we are to find justice for Ceyden—and now Bezime as well—we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of mourning right now. Push aside what you’ve seen as best you can and help me. When we get home, we can collapse.”
Jemal stood over us as we questioned the girls. Not surprisingly, no one admitted to seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary. And none of them met my eyes during the interviews. That futile exercise complete, I turned back to the eunuch.
“Where are the police? Have they already been through?”
“No. This is a simple harem matter. No use troubling the police.”
“So it’s an ordinary day in the harem when someone is murdered?” I asked. “Come, Jemal, I’m not so naïve. This was an execution, was it not?”
“You’ve been reading too many books, Lady Emily.”
“Is there no interest in finding out who killed her?” I asked. Margaret, still quiet, was methodically tugging at her gloves.
“The sultan will come here tomorrow, and the killer will confess,” Jemal said.
“What assignment were you sent here to do?”
“It is not for your ears.”
“Where was your loyalty? To Bezime or Perestu?”
He laughed. “You believe those to be the options?”
“Then tell me who has your allegiance,” I said.
“The sultan, of course. Do you not understand who he is? That he rules all of us?”
“Of course I do, Jemal, but I find I no longer believe anything you say.” Our search had yielded nothing of interest, leaving only one thing to be done. “Has someone searched the body for clues?”
“Was it not obvious how she died?” he asked.
“Not to determine the manner of death, but to see if she had with her anything of interest. May I look for myself?”
We returned to the site of the murder, and with great effort, I forced myself to go through Bezime’s clothing. It sickened me to disturb her ill-used body, but I had no choice in the matter and began my search. She had no pockets, no jewelry with hidden compartments, and had dropped nothing near where she fell, at least nothing that remained. I expected her skin to have lost its warmth but was surprised and horrified by its almost inhuman smoothness. She was like a polished stone, and I fought back tears as I patted her sleeves and bodice until I felt something strange against her abdomen. With trembling fingers, I opened the front of her gown; she’d been dressed for bed. There, stitched to her camisole, was a slim pouch. I pulled an embroidery scissors from my reticule, cut the seam, and removed the superfluous fabric. Inside were five folded sheets of papers—letters.
“What have you found?” Jemal asked. “Hand it over, please.”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“You will give them to me now,” he said.
“No. I will read them myself and determine whether they are pertinent to the case. And as there’s nothing more to be done here tonight, I’m going home to mourn Bezime. Will you please keep me abreast of funeral arrangements?”
“Stunned. I’m stunned,” I said, stacking the letters in a neat pile next to Ceyden’s book of poetry. “I expected them to be from Murat’s vizier.”
We had returned to the
yal?,
and much though I wanted to collapse and weep, I pushed myself to work instead, not wanting to miss a detail that might lead us to capture the man who had killed Bezime and, no doubt, Ceyden.
“Who, then?” Colin asked.
“They were all written in English—perfect English—in the handwriting of a gentleman. And Ceyden’s notes refer to events cited in the letters.”
“Benjamin?” Margaret asked.
“I did confirm with him this afternoon that he was involved in the rescue of concubines following a boating accident in the Bosphorus,” Colin said. “I’ve not had the chance to update you.”
“Did he admit to falling in love with one of them?” I asked. “Or say anything that gives a clue as to the identity of his lover?”
“No, nor did he admit to noticing that Ceyden was among the girls he helped.”
“He’s trying to hide it, of course,” I said. “He’s mortified that he didn’t know it was his sister.”
“That’s possible. Margaret?” My friend was sitting, arms wrapped tight around her, her face gray. “Are you all right?”
“It’s cold out here, isn’t it?” she asked.
The night had grown chilly, and the air off the water biting. I rang for a servant, and within moments we had steaming cups of
salep,
a thick, white drink made from the dried tubers of orchids that reminded me of tapioca.
Margaret looked as if she were suffering from shock. Colin draped a soft blanket over her shoulders and asked her if she wanted to go to bed; we had plenty of room for her. She declined, insisting that she wanted to sit with us.
“I will manage to make myself useful,” she said.
“What do we have?” Colin asked. “Perestu’s reaction to finding her ring in Ceyden’s room. Notes in Ceyden’s hand and letters possibly—most likely—in Benjamin’s.”
“And what of Sir Richard?” I asked. “Am I really to believe that all the strange happenings around him are coincidental?”
“I’m afraid we’re beginning to diverge here, Emily.” Colin warmed his hands around his glass. “It’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe that Sir Richard’s troubles—minus those connected with Ceyden’s death—are due to anything but his own mental decline.”
“How can you say that? He has lost his daughter,” I said.
“Don’t forget the attacks on Benjamin,” Colin said. “Perhaps he did order them. We may be dealing with a man losing his grip on reality.”
I slept only sporadically that night, dreaming of Bezime, waking up sweat-soaked and gasping for air, clinging to Colin. Sadness I had expected, along with fear and horror. But the anxiety consuming me was unlike anything I’d previously experienced—for it came with a feeling of dread that shouted to me, putting me on notice that Bezime had been right, that I was on a bad path, and that a terrible outcome was inevitable.
Not wanting to wake up my husband, I buried my sobs in my pillow, trying to lie as still as I could. Realizing sleep was not going to come, I slipped out of bed and into the hallway. I would go downstairs and read where the light would not disturb Colin. Before I’d reached the sitting room, however, I heard a rustling noise at the end of the corridor. I froze, listening. The
yal?
was not laid out like a typical European house, and my dressing room was not connected to the bedroom but attached to the
hamam-
like marble bath on the ground floor. The noise was coming from there.
I debated my options, distracted only by the sound of my heart leaping out of my chest. My knees trembled, my stomach churned, and sweat dripped down the back of my neck. Moonlight filled the hall, and something sparkled on the floor—glass from a shattered window. I heard the
swoosh
of wood against wood as drawers opened, more rustling, then dull steps. I looked back to the stairs, wondering if I could reach them before whoever was inside found me. There was nowhere to hide, and I was not about to confront a stranger in my house. Holding my breath, I gathered the skirt of my nightgown in my hand and sprinted back upstairs, praying I’d been quiet enough.
Colin woke at once and stormed out of the room without hesitating. He called for me to come down only a few moments later. Our intruder was gone, and with him all my jewelry, the lock on its case forced open. We sent for the police at once. They were apologetic and embarrassed and assured us the city was generally safe, but admitted the chances of recovering any of the stolen goods or the culprit were slim at best.
I was unnerved, more so than my husband, who ushered me back to bed and held me until he fell asleep. I’d been the victim of theft before and knew well how vulnerable the experience would leave me. This was another most unwelcome distraction for a honeymoon. I wanted it all to stop; to have a moment of peace. Feelings of fear and violation kept me awake the remainder of the night, leaving me with nothing to do but pray for respite, repeating my silent words over and over until they were met by the sound of the muezzin singing the morning’s first call to prayer.
14 April 1892
Darnley House, Kent
My dear daughter,
I write not to alarm you, but to keep you informed on the topic regarding which I am certain you are keenly interested. The physician saw Ivy today, and is concerned by her lack of strength—particularly as she seems to be growing weaker with each passing day. I pray that she will manage and come through this as well as possible.
This is something about which we must speak plainly, as it is a part of life that cannot be avoided. At present, there is no need for you to think of coming here—I know from Colin’s wire to Robert that you were considering it. I will, of course, send you word at once if the situation grows more serious.
Do all you can to enjoy your wedding trip. It won’t be long until you’re going through a confinement of your own. And as you are as obstinate and stubborn a person as I have known, there is no question that you will sail through it with an ease that borders on indecent.
I am, your loving and devoted mother,
C. Bromley
The terse calm of my mother’s letter did nothing to relieve the anxiety that had poured over me after the robbery. If anything, it brought back every fear I’d known since childhood of the subject at hand, and I felt as if I’d been slammed against the steel door of a vault. Inside, of course, unable to unlock it. Colin and I had taken two days of rest—he’d hoped it would calm my nerves. We’d picnicked on the Asian shore, explored the most beautiful mosques in the city, and hired a boat to take us all the way up the Bosphorus to the Black Sea.
My mental condition may have improved, but physically it was becoming more difficult to ignore that something was changing in my body. Dizziness had become my frequent companion, and I’d begun to notice other symptoms as well. All of my maladies might just as easily be explained as the effects of the stress under which I was operating, and I had no evidence that could give me solid confirmation. It was maddening not to be able to know the cause.
“Are you certain you’re ready to get back to it?” Colin asked. He was to call on Sir Richard—whose state of mind had not improved in the least—after walking me to Y?ld?z. We’d spent the morning wandering the gardens at Topkap?, then gone to the Blue Mosque, and were now making our way across the Hippodrome, where an ancient Egyptian obelisk rose from the site where Romans had raced their chariots. “I don’t want you to push yourself.”
“It’s time,” I said. “Though I shall mourn the loss of my jewelry forever. I’m only glad they didn’t take my ring.” I fingered the band he’d given me when I’d accepted his proposal. Formed in the shape of a reef knot, it was an ancient piece, from the Minoans on Crete, gold inlaid with lapis lazuli. I treasured it more than all the diamonds and precious gems in both our families.
“The only benefit was getting two days of you all to myself. In the previous week I’d spent more time with Margaret than you.”
“Should I be jealous?” I sneaked a sideways glance at him, warming at the sight of his smile.
“Exceedingly. She has proposed that we all run away together and live as nomads. Convinced me that I’d look rather well in the robes of a Bedouin. And, if I recall correctly, you’ve something of a propensity for men in such attire.” It was almost a year ago that an exceedingly charming thief dressed in such an outfit had drugged me. The incident left me embarrassed but unharmed, the recipient of a hazy sort of illicit kiss whose occurrence I’d never admitted to my husband.
“That you would,” I said, feeling an automatic lightness as we began to flirt. “It’s something we ought to make use of after you swim the Bosphorus for me.”
“I’ll swim the Bosphorus, scale the house, climb through your bedroom window, throw you over my shoulder, and take you away to my camp.”
“You’ll need to stow the robes on the terrace. They wouldn’t achieve the proper effect if they were wet.”
“Excellent point.”
“I’m glad you’ve come to terms with the fact that you’re going to lose our bet,” I said. “It speaks highly of your masculine security.”
“Darling girl, I’m humoring you. You’ll be the one in robes—diaphanous, remember?”
“I don’t see why one ought to exclude the other. Can’t you kidnap me regardless of the outcome of our wager?”
“Look how quickly you back down!” he said. “Just a moment ago you were brimming with certainty at the prospect of victory. Now you’re making contingency plans?”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll win. That goes without saying. But now that I’ve got the image of you as a Bedouin in my head, I’ll do whatever I must to ensure the vision becomes reality.”
“I haven’t seen so real a smile on your face in days,” he said. “I’ve missed it.”
“I propose a second wedding trip when we’ve finished here. Three months, at least, somewhere no one will find us and where there’s no possibility of being embroiled in any sort of intrigue beyond that necessary when searching for Bedouin robes in a Western country.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“Surprise me,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I trust you implicitly.”
It had grown later than I’d expected, so we hired a carriage to take us to the docks. My enterprising husband took advantage of the quiet surroundings, and as the door was closed, he distracted me in a most pleasant fashion, thoroughly improving my state of mind, at least superficially. But on occasion, a superficial boost can carry over into something deeper, and in this case, it gave me the confidence to tackle the remaining tasks at hand. We parted company in Pera, heading for our separate appointments.
Roxelana was waiting for me in a courtyard landscaped in the style of an English garden: Rows of neatly trimmed boxwoods lined gravel paths, bright flowers peeking out at intervals. We sat on a stone bench, side by side, in silence. I’d hoped that by waiting for her to speak, she might be persuaded to divulge some pertinent secret. It might have seemed a reasonable strategy, but it accomplished nothing.
“I’m glad to see you,” I said.
“Have I any hope of being freed from this purgatory?”
“Can we talk candidly?” I asked. I’d hoped to discuss Ceyden before turning to this topic, but there was some merit to be had in addressing her concerns first.
“I hope so. ‘Reason in man is rather like God in the world.’ ”
“Aquinas, I assume?” I asked; she nodded. “You may not like what I have to say. I’ve given this no inconsiderable amount of thought, and your options for leaving are limited. If you’re unwilling to consider marrying someone the sultan deems suitable—”
“I will not consider it,” she said.
“I respect your position. But it leaves us only with incredibly risky alternatives.”
“I want to escape.” She was leaning so close to me, I could feel her breath on my cheek.
“If you’re caught—”
“I know perfectly well what will happen if I’m caught. You think I have not considered this? All earthly punishment pales in the face of damnation.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “But you must not think of this lightly. And before we can discuss it further, we must address another topic. I understand that someone from the harem was meeting with an Englishman in the palace gardens. Do you know anything about this?”
“An Englishman wouldn’t be allowed to speak to anyone from the harem,” she said, her ivory skin losing its creamy warmth.
“I suspect that Jemal was instrumental in arranging the meetings.”
“He would never allow a man in.”
“You’re wrong, Roxelana,” I said. “He did. I’ve the letters to prove it. I can see you know something. Whom are you trying to protect?”
“No one.” She looked at me. “There is no one in the harem I would care to protect.”
“This is serious,” I said. “Two people are dead. What if the murderer acts again?”
“Surely you don’t think the same person killed Bezime and Ceyden?”
“I think it’s extremely likely,” I said.
“It’s impossible. No one has access to both harems.”
“Jemal does.”
“Jemal is not a killer,” she said.
“You’re certain of that?”
“He’s as corrupt as anyone, but he’d never harm any of us.”
“Corrupt how?”
“Oh, nothing serious. He’s always willing to help us if we ask—bring books, sweets, organize entertainments.”
“Is any of that forbidden?”
“No, but he has ways of expediting things. If, that is, you make it worth his while.”
“He takes bribes?”
She shrugged. “Why not? It’s tedious here. Ennui has a funny effect on people. We learn to make our own intrigues so as not to go mad from boredom.”
“What sorts of intrigues?” I asked.
“Nothing pertinent in the ways you’d like. It’s all trivial. Trivial, but diverting. I’m not going to detail it for you—that would be nothing more than idle gossip.”
The way she set her jaw suggested it wasn’t all trivial. I changed the direction of my questions. “Tell me again about the night you found Ceyden’s body. I want to know every detail.”
“You already know. I had gone outside for a walk—it was a beautiful evening. The courtyard in which she was murdered has always been a favorite of mine. I say the rosary there every night I can. I’d gone straight there and nearly tripped over her. It was horrible.”
“Did you hear anything on your approach?”
“Nothing at all.”
“No one talking? No sound of footsteps or someone running?”
“I remember vividly being struck by how quiet it was.”
“Did you touch her body?”
“Of course not!”
“Not even to make sure she wasn’t alive?”
“No. Should I have? I was scared out of my mind and ran for help without even thinking.”
I thought back to the scene as it was when Colin and I arrived. Ceyden’s body was facedown, and given the atmosphere in which we found it—alerted by Roxelana’s screams—I admit that I assumed she was dead. But had I come upon her in quiet peace, I would have thought she’d fainted or fallen ill and would have turned her over to see.
Roxelana shifted her jaw. “At any rate, that hideous bruise on her neck was wholly unnatural. I knew something was wrong at once.”
And now I knew she was lying. Misremembering, perhaps, but I did not believe that. No one could have seen the bruises without first turning her over, and Perestu had taken Roxelana away before Sir Richard touched the body. Ceyden’s long hair was covering her neck until her father swept it out of the way, and even then, there were no visible marks there. The bulk of the bruises were on the front and sides.
“Have you heard what Perestu and I found in Ceyden’s room?” I asked.
“You were in her room?” Now she came alive. Her shoulders pushed back, hands clenched into fists, pupils constricted.
“That surprises you?”
“I hadn’t given it any thought.” She closed her eyes, mashed her lips together. “Was there anything of interest there?”
“As a matter of fact, there was. Do you mean to tell me there’s been no gossip about this in the harem?”
“Everyone had already been through her room—no sense letting her clothes go to waste.”
“There was a lot of clothing still there.” I studied her face. “I think you’d like me to believe you’re callous about her death. But the truth is, it’s frightened you. Why is that?”
“What did you find?”
“Notes. Trinkets.”
“What kinds of notes?” she asked.
“I’m sure you could tell me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you look worried,” I said. “Did she know you wanted to leave the harem?”
“No one knows that.”
“Even Jemal?”
This gave her pause. “Of course not.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “What else was in Ceyden’s room? You said trinkets?”
“Yes. Some lovely jewelry that apparently did not belong to her.”
All the color drained from her face; her lips were almost blue. “Whose was it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
“I—I—I cannot discuss this any longer.” She stood, walked a few paces, turned back to face me. “Some secrets are too dangerous to play with.”
Following this conversation, I sought out Jemal. Much to my relief, he was back at Y?ld?z, so I would not have to make my way across town yet again. We sat in another courtyard—this one on the opposite side of the grounds to the one in which I’d met Roxelana—full of roses not yet in bloom and lilacs whose scent filled the air with sugar.
“We cannot be overheard here,” Jemal said, standing close to me, directly in front of the tall fountain at the center of the garden.
“Water, yes,” I said. “It reminds me of Topkap?.”
“I am to talk to you. So says the sultan.” He pursed his full lips. “I do not like it.”
“Why not?”
“You do not understand our way of life.”
“I understand very well that two women have been murdered on palace grounds and am confident that no one’s way of life views such events as acceptable. I’m most interested in your relationship with Roxelana—”
“Relationship?” I could see a mask fall over his eyes. “An odd choice of word.”
“I can’t say I agree,” I said. “I think you’re closely connected to her in ways that might cause trouble for you with the sultan.”
He drew in a deep breath, held it, then turned away from me. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can help you with today, Lady Emily. I will inform the sultan that I am, of course, full of regret not to have been of more use.”
“Don’t do this.”
“You know nothing.”
“What about Bezime? Do you want no justice for her? Isn’t she the one who arranged for you to come back here? Wasn’t she your champion?” I didn’t want him to walk away and hoped that any or all of my hurried questions would cause him to stop. I was not so lucky, however. He stared at me before going, shaking his head.
“No good will come of the path you are on.”
His words stung me, so well mimicking Bezime’s. I walked past the sultan’s workshop as I made my way out of the palace grounds. He was inside—I could hear the sound of his plane through the window—but I did not pause to speak to him, instead continuing on and contemplating his position. When not angry, Abdül Hamit was gracious, exceedingly polite, cultured, Western, and enlightened when it came to education, particularly for women. He loved music, wrote poetry, and had even penned an opera of his own. How did one reconcile all that with his multiple wives and concubines and slaves and mutilated guards?
There was a certain amount of wisdom in what Jemal had said. I did not understand this sort of life. And although I did not doubt my ability to solve the murders, I wondered what my ignorance and naïveté led me to overlook. It was essential that I recognize the limitations I carried with me. With this in mind, once back at the
yal?
I sat down again with the letters I’d found on Bezime’s body, imagining that I was the concubine who had received them. That I was a woman in love with a man forbidden to me, someone who by loving me put himself in danger—who could neither address nor sign his declarations. Reading them this way made them far less romantic than they’d appeared at first glance. The tenderness was heartbreaking, the yearning hurt my soul.
When I’d finished, I carefully folded them and put them in a small compartment in one of my trunks. To leave thoughts so intimate out in the open was wrong, and I already knew all I needed to about them. Someone, most likely Benjamin, had written them to Ceyden. Whoever in the harem discovered their dalliance—too flighty a word for the depth of emotion it was clear they shared—put a stop to it by silencing the disobedient concubine. And at the moment, one person struck me as the most likely candidate: a eunuch with too much information and a grand sense of importance.