Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

Kamil stands and walks to her chair.

“Sybil Hanoum.” He gently takes the bundle from her hands and replaces it with another clean handkerchief drawn from his pocket. Her slim, tapered fingers twine themselves in the fine linen and she dabs her eyes. Kamil never uses handkerchiefs for their intended purpose, a disgusting Frankish practice, but has found many other uses for a handy square of clean cloth.

“I’m sorry, Kamil Pasha.”

Kamil sits again and looks at her expectantly.

“It must be Mary Dixon.”

“Who is that, my dear?” the ambassador asks.

“You remember her, don’t you, Father? Mary is governess for Sultan Abdulaziz’s granddaughter, Perihan.”

“Abdulaziz, yes. Neurotic fellow. Committed suicide. Couldn’t take it when those reformists deposed him. Pushed him right over the edge. Must be hard when you’ve been all-powerful for fifteen years, and then, suddenly, nothing. Asked his mother for a pair of scissors to trim his beard. Used them to open his veins instead.” He regards the palm of his hand, then turns it over and stares at the back. “Nothing left. Just a suite of rooms in some hand-me-down palace.”

He looks up at Kamil, showing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “Been a decade now. 1876, wasn’t it? June, I remember. Seemed an odd thing to do on such a warm day. Nice chap, dash it all.” He moves the piece of paper before him to the corner of the desk, then looks puzzled, as if he has lost something.

“Didn’t go much better for his replacement, eh?” he continues. “That Murad fellow, a tippler, from what I hear. Wasn’t sultan long enough for me to meet him. Had a nervous breakdown after only three months. Seems to be an occupational hazard.” He whinnies a laugh. “Can’t imagine why these reformists keep trying to put him back on the throne. Congenial fellow, I hear. Maybe that’s why.”

Kamil avoids meeting the blue eyes that are seeking his. Critical as he is of his own government, he feels offended by the ambassador’s disrespectful commentary.

He is startled by Sybil’s cheerful voice. “Wouldn’t you like some tea, Kamil Pasha?”

My Dearest Maitlin,

I hope that this letter finds you well and in good health and spirits. I have received no letters from you for several weeks. Much as I am aware of the vagaries that beset a missive on the long journey between Essex and Stamboul, nevertheless the lack of news from you, dearest sister, has worried me. I hope and pray that you, Richard, and my darling nephews Dickie and Nate are well. I picture you all sitting in the garden over tea and cakes, or sprinting across the lawn in one of those lively and contentious games of badminton we played as children. As always, the indomitable Maitlin wins.

The heat has been oppressive, with not the slightest breeze to relieve us. The hot days have unleashed a series of calamitous events that have kept us all alert. The most grievous is that Mary Dixon has been murdered. Mary was a governess in the imperial household. I’m sure I mentioned her in one of my earlier letters. She arrived here a year or so ago. I didn’t know her well-she kept mostly to herself-but it is still a shock. It appears that she drowned, an awful tragedy, and so like the drowning death of that other governess, Hannah Simmons, eight years ago. Hannah’s murderer was never found and the police superintendent’s head rolled over it (given that this is the Orient, I need add that I am speaking figuratively).

His replacement is a keenly intelligent man named Kamil Pasha. His father also is a pasha, a kind of lord, who used to be governor of Istanbul. Kamil Pasha isn’t a policeman, but a magistrate in the new judicial system the Turks set up a few years ago, inspired by our European model. He trained at Cambridge University, if you can imagine. In any case, I think we are in much better hands this time with regard to finding Mary’s murderer. The old superintendent was quite a curmudgeon. He came by to see Mother once after I had arrived. An unpleasant man with a misshapen fez, as if it had been crushed in a fight and he couldn’t afford to replace it. By contrast, Kamil Pasha is quite personable.

Poor Mary. Just over a month ago, she joined us for the first garden party of the year. It was a lovely night with one of those full moons that fills the horizon. I remember seeing her in the garden, chatting with the other guests. She was one of those brittle little blondes whose bones seem always about to snap. I gather that some men find that sort of fragility attractive, even though she wore her hair short in a rather shocking and unfeminine style. She was laughing so gaily, it breaks my heart to think of it. I thought at the time that I should sit with her and gently explain the mores of Ottoman society so that she wasn’t tempted to transgress them.

Madam Rossini, the Italian ambassador’s wasp-tongued wife, came over and informed me quite tartly that Mary and one of the Turkish journalists, Hamza Efendi, appeared to be quarreling, as if I could do anything about it. I told her my impression was that they were simply having a lively conversation, probably about politics. Mary had quite definite opinions and seemed to take great pleasure in being provocative. Is it not remarkable that anger and joy should be so alike as to be indistinguishable? Whichever it was, I would have recommended moderation. At least then one knows what is what. But that advice is too late for poor Mary. I am not, of course, suggesting that she provoked her own murder, my dear. Only that she was of immoderate temperament.

Cousin Bernie sends fond greetings. I’m so happy to have had his company these few months, though I selfishly wish for more. He comes often to dine with us and his witty conversation is a blessing, as it draws father out. But with the exception of the opera, I rarely can persuade Bernie to accompany me anywhere. He spends all his time researching his new book on Ottoman relations with the Far East. Pera is a hive of social activity and it would be nice to have an escort, but it seems I will have to content myself with Madam Rossini and her brood. In any case, Bernie said to let you and Richard know that, despite some setbacks, he is pushing ahead with his project and hopes to have it done before the year is out.

Has your work at the clinic found more acceptance among the doctors, now that you have demonstrated your skill during the last epidemic? I suppose their reluctance to give you more challenging cases can be attributed as much to their suspicion of the French, in whose hospitals you trained, as to their conviction that our sex has limited talents. Still, my dear, you must persevere. Doctoring has always been your goal, and you have suffered much to attain the skills, even if denied the formal acknowledgement of a title. You must set an example so that other women see it can be done. I do so admire you. Would that my talents and courage were a fraction of yours.

I do what is within with my humble abilities to help Father. When I think what a child I was when I came to Stamboul! You should know that Father has requested again that his duty here be extended. He expresses absolutely no interest in going home to England. He is to be ambassador for at least another year. I admit to being saddened that neither he nor I have had the opportunity to get to know Dickie and Nate. By the time we return, they’ll be grown men! But I see no alternative. I must remain by his side until he is strong enough to return. At the moment, he rarely leaves his library except to attend to his official duties. When these include traveling to another part of the empire, he becomes particularly anxious, driving the servants mad by having them check and recheck his baggage and papers. So you see, he is still unwell. I take it as an indication of the depth of his love for Mother that he has taken her death so badly for so long. Here, at least, his duties keep his mind occupied, for there is much going on that requires the attention of the British ambassador.