Jenny White - The Abyssinian Proof

Saba sat closer and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. When he didn’t react, she left it there.

“I wish I had a chance to explain things before she passed away. I can’t bear the thought that she died thinking I was responsible for Malik’s murder.”

Saba said nothing. He was responsible, she thought, but her anger had leached away under the onslaught of sorrow. There was room only for one measure in every cup, she mused, and hers was filled with grief. There would be no room for anger until she had drunk this cup dry.

She went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and gave it to him. He stared at the glass in his hand, but didn’t drink. His shoulders heaved. She took the glass from him and laid a hand on his arm. There would be time for recriminations later.

Omar jumped up from sleep, fully alert. Avi was pulling at his arm. “Chief, Chief. The Frank is at the village. He followed Amida from the jail and then he left and came back again with two men.”

Omar was immensely relieved to see Avi. “Alright. Calm down and tell me what you saw.”

Mimoza had been asleep on a mattress in the corner. She sat up and asked drowsily, “Where’s the fire, husband?”

“Right here,” Omar retorted. “Where else would it be? Don’t worry, I’m not going to see my mistress. She’s still asleep. Like you should be.”

“Avi.” She blushed to see that the boy had overheard. “What are you doing up so late? It must be midnight.” When she saw Omar and Avi turn to leave, she jumped up and tried to block their way. “He’s a child, Omar. Not a policeman.”

“Worry about me. I’m the policeman.” Omar kissed her on the cheek and pushed past.

A carriage waited in the lane. Omar leaned down and asked Avi, “How did you get the driver to bring a beggar boy across Fatih in the middle of the night?”

Avi pulled out his sack of coins, which had shrunk considerably. “I went to the station first, but they said you had gone home.”

“Good boy. Now I need you to go get the magistrate.” He gave the driver directions and told him to hurry. This mission would keep Avi out of harm’s way.

As soon as the carriage had pulled away, Omar ran for his horse. They had waited at the station all evening for Amida’s signal or Avi’s return. Finally, Kamil had suggested they each go home, in case Avi had gone there instead. Omar had left instructions at the station to inform him at once if the fox sketch or Avi arrived.

One mistake after another. Most of all, Omar berated himself for falling asleep before Avi had returned safely. Allah was right not to have entrusted a son to him. If he went to the station now to fetch his men, Owen might slip away before they reached Sunken Village. He cursed. He should have sent Avi to the station first. He decided to go to Sunken Village and keep an eye on Owen until Kamil arrived. He’d stick to Owen like a nit.

When he got there, Omar tied up his horse, ran down the stairs into Sunken Village, and, keeping his back against the wall, moved slowly toward Amida’s cottage. He crept up to the windows. The curtains were drawn and he couldn’t hear any voices. He checked the other cottages and Balkis’s house. There was no sound or movement, as if this were a normal chilly autumn night and everyone was asleep.

Suddenly the sounds of a piano drifted from Amida’s cottage.

Omar found an open window to a back room and climbed over the sill. The door of the room was ajar, and he saw a light and heard voices that he guessed were coming from the direction of the sitting room. Pressing his back against the wall, he edged toward the light. He heard footsteps approaching in the corridor. Just as someone pushed open the door, Omar disappeared into the wall.

Kamil galloped through the black, deserted streets of the city over the back of Pera hill, past the cemetery, and down to the Old Bridge. Avi had said three men, so Kamil had taken Yakup with him. They were both armed with revolvers. Avi had strenuously objected to being left behind.

They clattered across the Old Bridge, through Oun Kapanou Square, and down Djoubalou Boulevard. Finally, the enormous shadow of the Sultan Selim Mosque rose before them. Kamil and Yakup jumped off their horses and ran down the stairs into the open cistern.

It had taken them over half an hour to reach Sunken Village. Add to that the time it had taken Avi to get to Beshiktash, and Kamil reckoned Omar had already been in Sunken Village for an hour. He hoped the police chief had taken reinforcements, but knowing Omar, he had barreled in like a bear after honey. He supposed he might have done the same. It was their only chance to arrest Owen, and neither of them wanted to let him slip away. For a moment, he pictured a satisfied Omar with three criminals all trussed and ready to be carted to jail. No, he thought, three men were too much even for Omar to handle by himself.

The village was still and dark, the central square deserted. There was no sign of Omar. Kamil and Yakup split up and made a circuit, keeping close to the walls, then converged on Amida’s cottage.

Kamil froze. From the curtained windows he heard the strains of a sonata, perfectly executed. Not Amida. Owen.

Kamil told Yakup to wait outside the front door, then crept around the side of the house. He found the open window, climbed in, and felt his way through the room. Light seeped under the inner door. He pushed it open slowly and peered out. He was in a corridor leading to the sitting room. Cautiously, he edged his way forward until he could see into the room beyond.

The room was brightly lit by Amida’s Venetian lamps, two of which stood beside each other on a table by the sofa, as if someone had needed extra light there. Owen was sitting at the piano. Behind him was a man Kamil had never seen before, idly flipping a deck of playing cards. He didn’t see a third man, or Amida, or Omar. Kamil’s eyes were drawn to the floor, where a leg protruded from behind the sofa.

Suddenly his head exploded with pain and he dropped to his knees. His vision was blurred, but he recognized Remzi standing over him, cudgel in hand.

The piano playing ceased. “Kamil,” Owen called out, his voice betraying his surprise. “Is that you?” He got up and came toward him. “What the blazes are you doing here?” He reached down his hand to help Kamil up.

Kamil struggled to stand on his own. He pressed a hand to his head and it came away bloodied. He felt nauseous, but his vision gradually cleared. Remzi had disappeared. Behind Owen stood a tall, powerfully built man with ginger hair, who was wearing a suit too small for his massive shoulders. He had sharp, wary eyes in a blunt face and the revolver in his hand was pointed at Kamil.

Owen turned and frowned at the man. “Put that away.” To Kamil, he explained, “This is my associate Ben. He acts as my bodyguard. You can’t be too careful in this part of the city, especially at night.”

Kamil waited.

“Why don’t we go somewhere you can wash up?” Owen suggested, blocking Kamil’s view of the body behind the sofa.

“No, thanks.” Kamil had no intention of confronting Remzi, who was somewhere behind him. To reach the front door he’d have to get past Ben, who was eyeing him intently. His weapon was still in his hand, although it was no longer pointed at Kamil. Still, Kamil could sense Ben was aware of his every move.

Owen and Kamil stood facing each other. Through his blinding headache, Kamil regarded the tall, lanky Englishman’s face, his pale eyes, patrician nose, and ever-present smile. Kamil thought Owen looked momentarily lost.

Owen’s smile grew wider. “What’s the use,” he said lightly. “You’re always one step ahead of me, Kamil.” He settled back on the piano stool and reached for a glass and a bottle on a nearby table. “The Ardbeg is almost gone, I’m afraid, but there’s a drab left. The beggar has good taste in whisky, at least.” He poured some of the amber liquid and reached the glass out to Kamil. “This’ll help.”