Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“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 Yıldız, 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 Topkapı.”

“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 yalı 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.

“I need your absolute candor, Benjamin,” I said, once again sitting across from him in Ali’s restaurant near the Spice Bazaar, this time hearty plates of skender kebabs in front of us. I swirled a bite of chicken in thick yogurt sauce as I spoke. “The complications of your situation have become more clear to me, and I want to help you. I understand how dreadful all this is, particularly after learning what I have since Bezime’s death. She had the letters.”

“What letters?” Every inch of his body sagged.

“The ones you wrote. The love letters.”

“No. It’s not possible.”

“She raised Ceyden. They were in close contact. Perhaps she gave them to her for safekeeping,” I said.

“There is no proof of any of this. None.” He ripped off a piece of bread and slogged it, all false nonchalance, through the sauce on his plate.

“But you don’t deny it?” I asked. “There’s no need to protect her anymore, Benjamin.”

“I never—”

“You did not know who she was. How could you ever have suspected the truth?”

“The truth? What do you know about the truth?”

“No one can fault you,” I said. “But it’s critical now that we press forward and find the person responsible for her death. Jemal delivered the letters for you, did he not?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“And you met him when the boat capsized?”

“Yes.” His rough voice trembled.

“How did you persuade him—”

“I bribed him, Lady Emily. I paid dearly for it—not only in money, let me assure you. My conscience has suff ered no small amount.”

“All that jewelry. Was it to finance your escape?”

“It would have helped.”

“I need you to help me to better understand what was going on. Everyone says—forgive me if this is cruel—that Ceyden was desperate to earn the sultan’s favor. There are rumblings of political unrest, rumors that Murat is planning a coup. Was Ceyden attempting to get close to him to forward some sort of plot? Or was she merely doing whatever she could to cover her true intentions? To ensure that no one would suspect her of plotting to flee the harem?”

“I don’t know anything about politics,” he said.

“Do you know how she got the jewelry?”

“Ceyden?” he asked. “She stole it.”

“I’m sorry. I know this is painful. The fact that she’s your sister—”

He stared at me, eyes steady but lacking focus. “You have no idea.”

“We will find justice.”

“I don’t see the point. All I want is to go as far away from here as I can.”

“Are you still planning to leave?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t abandon my father, can I?”

“He doesn’t seem well.”

“He isn’t, and I don’t see him getting better unless we remove ourselves from Constantinople. There’s nothing left for him here but more misery.”

“You don’t think he’ll be reinstated at the embassy?” I asked.

“Have you spoken to him lately? He’s barely coherent and can hardly keep on his feet. He’s coming completely apart.”

“Where would you go? Italy?”

“Italy?” His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “No. Wouldn’t want to go there. France, maybe. But my father belongs in England.”

“I thought—” I stopped, going over the conversation we’d had on our previous visit to Ali’s, certain he had told me he’d taken a position on a dig in Italy. We’d discussed his interest in all things Roman. “France. Yes. I have a dear friend in Paris—I should put you in touch with her.”