Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“Why are you here?” My spine felt like rubber. Something in her eyes—a fierce determination—frightened me.

“I have private business.”

“Regarding Bezime?” I asked.

“She was my rival,” she said. “And Abdül Hamit could have elevated her at any time. No one’s position in the harem is ever secure. I spied on her, she spied on me.”

“What did you learn?”

Perestu lowered herself elegantly onto a divan, placing her trim arms on the top of the backrest. “Bezime did not like losing her power, her influence. So she opened avenues of communication that should have stayed closed.”

“Do you refer to Murat’s vizier?” I asked.

“The sultan has already taken care of him, so it is no longer relevant. My son is indebted to your husband for discovering the unrest.”

I cringed at the thought of what must have been done to the man, traitorous or not. “That is not what brings you here,” I said. “What is your business?”

“It is none of your concern.”

I went through the catalog of conversations I’d had with her, searching for a time when she’d been less than candid. As I did this, I realized she’d been, in general, direct with me with one exception. “Why were you so upset at finding your ring amongst Ceyden’s stash of jewels?” I asked.

“Because I had given it, years ago, to someone I thought would forever treasure it.”

“But there’s no reason to think that person gave it away to Ceyden. Much though I hate to speak ill of the dead, it’s clear that Ceyden stole it all.”

“Ceyden could not have stolen my ring. It was no longer in the harem.”

“Who had it?”

“I thought perhaps Bezime managed to get it, and I can’t think of anything that would pain me more.”

“You gave it to someone you loved?” Margaret asked.

“I have known no love or affection since my husband died,” Perestu said. “But I was fond of a man after that. Someone I saw on rare state occasions. We became friends, in the most appropriate fashion—never acknowledging the weight of our stares. I would never have involved myself with him. We shared much in common; both understood loss all too well. When the friendship became too difficult, too painful, we parted, and I gave him the ring to remember me by.”

“Is this man still in Constantinople?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You must tell us who he is,” I said.

“No, Lady Emily. There is nothing I must do. Perhaps you do not understand my rank.”

“There must be some connection—”

“It is impossible. The only explanation is that he lost the ring or it was stolen from him and somehow wound up in the hands of that trollop,” she said. “I reacted the way I did when I saw it because it hurt me to know that my friend no longer had it.”

“Don’t you want to speak to him? To find out how he came to lose it?” Margaret asked.

“If he wanted me to know, he would have sought me out and told me. Sent me a letter. As he did not, I can only conclude the subject is as painful for him as it is for me. And I have no desire to further pursue it.”

“But—”

“Was there something in particular you were hoping to find here, Lady Emily? I’ve been through it all and saw nothing that struck my interest. I burned Bezime’s diaries, of course. It would not do to have the sanctity of her most private thoughts violated.”

“You burned them?” The air rushed out of my lungs.

“It is what we do for one another,” she said. “For all that I feared and disliked her, we both lived in the harem, and were, for a period, friends. We come from the same world, and I will not see her dishonored in death.”

There was nothing left for us at Topkapı. I searched every inch of the valide’s apartments to no avail. Not that this was a surprise. Done, Margaret and I trudged to the embassy, where I’d agreed, in Colin’s absence, to make regular reports as to the status of my investigation. The ambassador ushered me into his walnut-paneled office that looked straight out of a London club. I sat in an overstuffed leather chair that was too hard to be comfortable and accepted a cup of tea.

“First Flush Darjeeling,” he said. “Arrived today. Perk of the job. My colleagues keep me well stocked in foreign delights.”

“It’s delicious,” I said, hardly tasting it, the hot liquid burning my throat.

“I am pleased that your husband has gone after young St. Clare. Terrible scandal, this. Don’t know how much of it we’ll be able to bury.”

“I wish I had more to tell you today,” I said. “I spoke with Perestu and searched Bezime’s rooms, but found nothing further of interest.”

“I do appreciate your agreeing to these little meetings. It’s a bit unusual...” He hesitated. “We don’t ordinarily have ladies involved in such things.”

“I understand, Sir William. If there’s nothing further, I think I shall return home.”

“Nothing else here. I shouldn’t worry too much about any of it. Hargreaves will find the boy and this will all be wrapped up soon enough. You might focus on sightseeing. I fear you’ve not seen enough of Constantinople.”

I thanked him and stepped into the hall, where Margaret, who’d been waiting for me, was talking to Mr. Sutcliffe.

“I was just saying to Miss Seward how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re well?”

“I am, thank you. A spot of trouble with one of the families I’m working with—the mother turned out very unworthy indeed.”

“Unworthy?” I asked.

“Her daughter fell ill with influenza, and she refused to send her son to the country as I suggested to keep him well.”

“Did he get sick?” Margaret asked.

“He did and he died, and it’s his mother’s fault. I can afford no tolerance for such people.” He frowned, shook his head. “Is there anything I can do to help Benjamin?”

“I wish I knew what any of us could do.”

“Is there any chance he’s innocent?” His eyes were so full of eager hope—bright and clear.

“I believe so, but I can’t yet prove it.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to?”

“The truth always comes out in the end.”

“Have you told his father anything encouraging?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I want to wait until I have something of substance to share with him.”

“Is he at home?” Mr. Sutcliffe asked.

“He is,” Margaret said. “We’ve left him in the care of friends.”

“Perhaps I will call on him. He undoubtedly needs the support, and I feel awful I’ve not been around more. Things have been terribly busy here; another belated load of records has come in and overwhelmed me. But that’s no reason to let down a friend in need.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate a visit,” I said.

“No one understands his loss better than I,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go to him.”

My nausea returned almost as soon as we’d left the embassy, and I’d decided to go home, hoping that rest would restore my health. I was exhausted, the trek from one palace to the next and then to the embassy taking every ounce of my energy. I found no respite in sleep, suffering a painful night, plagued with vivid dreams of the most awful sorts of destruction. They came in flashes—no narrative connection. I saw Colin falling, heard terrible screams in a dark room, and could not escape water pressing down on me, heavier than lead, but not reaching my mouth or keeping me from being able to breathe, simply crushing me.

So I was far from restored when I set off for Pera the next morning. Margaret had sent a message saying that Miss Evans, concerned about Sir Richard, had moved their things to his house so that they could stay there and she might keep a closer eye on him. I set off as soon as I’d refused breakfast—not even the thick yogurt that usually settled my stomach looked appealing—and braced myself for what I knew would be an unpleasant trip across the Bosphorus.

“I’m afraid he’s not well at all,” the doctor said moments after I’d arrived at the St. Clare house. “He’s suffering from terrible tremors and has started to hallucinate.”

“Have you any idea what’s causing it?” I asked, my head beginning to hurt again. “It must be more than worry for his son.”

“I’m afraid so, Lady Emily. I can’t be certain, but if pressed, I’d guess that he’s become dependent on chloral hydrate—he’s exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal, including severe gastritis. I’m very concerned.”

“What can be done?”

“If my diagnosis is correct, I should be able to treat him. I assume that since he’s been under the care of Miss Evans, he’s not had the opportunity to take the drug.”

“I would imagine not. Did you find a supply of it?”

“I’ve not looked, but I can’t imagine what else is causing this. It also explains the erratic behavior he’s exhibited over the past weeks.”

“Is there anything more we can do to assist you?” I asked.

“No. I shall continue to check on him daily and will keep you abreast of his condition.”

I thanked him and rang for Sir Richard’s valet. “Where does your master keep his medicines?”

“Everything’s in his dressing room,” the man replied. “Would you like me to show you?”

I spent more than an hour with the valet and Margaret, searching the house. None of us found even a trace of chloral hydrate. I crossed the street to the embassy, asked for and was granted permission to search his office. Again, no chloral hydrate. This absolute lack of physical evidence told me one thing: Sir Richard was not a man addicted to a drug; he was a man being poisoned. I needed evidence, and I needed to determine if what was happening to Sir Richard was separate from the murders in Constantinople.

I rushed to the embassy and straight into the ambassador’s office, hardly waiting for him to answer my knock. “Is there any way to get a message to my husband?” I asked. “I’ve information he needs.”

“I have not had word from him—and I’m certain he’d be in touch with you before me.”

“Unless he had news of Benjamin,” I said. “He would inform you first of that.”

“Have you uncovered something new?” Sir William asked.

“I’m quite certain now that this case is far more complicated than we’d initially believed. We need to revisit everything that’s happened from the moment Sir Richard collapsed on the Orient Express.”

“I of course offer you whatever services in the embassy’s power. But I don’t see how his collapsing during dinner on a train relates to two murders in Constantinople.”

“These crimes are not about Benjamin. They’re about his father. Would it be possible for me to look through his service files?”

“What do you hope to find?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Something that links all these events together.”

“You’re unlikely to find that in his employment record.”

“If I’m wrong, I’ve wasted nothing but my own time,” I said. “Please, Sir William?”

“It’s an irregular request, Lady Emily. Those files are confidential. The clearance your husband obtained for you did not extend to this sort of thing. He, on the other hand, would be allowed access. Perhaps when he returns...”

“I fear that may be too late.”

“It’s the best I can do,” he said. “Unless you’d like me to look through them for you? I could alert you if I noticed anything glaring.”

“No,” I said, the skin on my neck beginning to crawl as I started to question his sincerity. I shook off the feeling; he was being honest. Why would I be given access to sensitive information? Nonetheless, something tugged at me, made me balk at his offer, as if he might remove and destroy something crucial from the file. “That won’t be necessary. I wouldn’t know what to tell you to look for. It’s undoubtedly a foolish idea.”

“If you change your mind—”

“Thank you,” I said. “I shan’t bother you again with such a silly request.”

I stepped through the embassy door, greeted by a sublime spring day, the air heavier than in winter but fresh and breezy, not a hint of the oppressive humidity that would come with summer. I went up the hill, in the direction of Yıldız, where I planned to meet Roxelana, but before I’d walked more than a few blocks, I turned east towards the Bosphorus. Following the path along it would require scaling the hill again, but I could not resist the beauty I knew awaited me. The wind blew stronger near the strait, gulls riding currents of air, bobbing between the boats crowding the water. The sun burned on my face, and I pulled down the brim of my hat to better shield it, a gesture that caught me entirely off guard.