Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

He realizes there had been no opportune moment to ask Sybil about Mary Dixon.

This is Kamil’s third visit to the British Embassy and he is still not inured to the paintings on the reception room wall. He has elected not to bother the ambassador with any further questions; it is Sybil who generally answers them in any case. He wishes to ask her about women’s activities, he tells himself. The door opens and he rises, expecting the butler to lead him to another area of the cavernous embassy.

Instead, it is Sybil herself, in a gown embroidered with blue flowers. Emerging from the lace collar, her throat has the same round solidity of the woman in the painting behind him.

“Hello, Kamil Pasha. What a pleasure to see you again so soon.”

“It was a lovely evening, Sybil Hanoum. Thank you.” Kamil tries but fails to stop himself from looking into her eyes. “It’s good of you to see me again.”

Sybil lowers her lashes, although Kamil can still feel the weight of her gaze. She holds out her hand toward a comfortable chair near the fire. “Please sit.”

Kamil realizes with some distaste that they are to remain in this most inappropriate room.

He sits, his back to the painting, but remains distracted by the thought that Sybil, who has settled herself in the chair opposite him, will have to look directly at it while they speak.

She doesn’t seem to notice the painting, but sits smiling, her eyes on his face. Her face is slightly flushed. “Can I offer you some tea?”

“Yes, that would be most agreeable. Thank you.”

Neither looks directly at the other.

She stands and tugs at the bellpull on the wall behind the settee. Above the lace collar, the back of her neck rises white and smooth until it is lost in a widening arrow of brown hair. Her hips swell beneath the gown. Kamil looks at his hands and forces himself to think of Mary Dixon, dead, a body, a cipher. That is what he has come for-an answer.

Sybil settles herself back into her chair.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your call, Kamil Pasha? I imagine it must be something quite urgent.”

“I wanted to speak with you about my investigation into Mary Dixon’s death. Perhaps you have some insight where I have none.”

Pleased, Sybil leans imperceptibly forward. “Whatever I can do to help.”

The lack of demurral and false modesty pleases Kamil. The maid pushes in a trolley of tea and ginger cakes. She pours the tea and leaves.

It soon emerges that Sybil has little to add to what is already known about Mary Dixon. She had been in Istanbul for just over a year. Her position had been arranged by a member of the board of trustees of Robert College in response to a letter from her minister attesting to her good character. She traveled to Paris and was given instructions and papers by someone attached to the Ottoman Embassy there. A week later, she took a coach to Venice and a steamer from there to Stamboul. She had complained to Sybil about having to share a compartment with three other women for the fourday trip. She was met at the landing by a closed coach that took her directly to the women’s quarters in Dolmabahche Palace.

“She came here several times to deal with visa matters. At first she was quite mocking of her new environment and so put out about her accommodations, one would think she was coming as a guest rather than as a governess. She said the girl who showed her to her room…” Sybil hesitates, but decides that in a murder investigation, she has no right to let modesty censor her account. “She said the girl was dressed in nothing more than, as she put it, knickers and a wrap.” Kamil swallows a laugh. Sybil blushes, then hurries on. “And she complained that her room was completely unfurnished. She was horrified when she realized they expected her to sleep on a mattress that they brought out of the cupboards at night and to eat, as she put it, on the floor.”

“It must be a great change for someone used to beds and tables and chairs.”

“I thought it a bit unreasonable in someone coming out here to work. Surely she should have expected the experience to be different. Or else, why would she have come?”

“I’m sure she was paid well.”

“I suppose she must have been, although, of course, we never spoke of that sort of thing.”

“How did she get on with her employer?”

“Perihan Hanoum? Mary didn’t seem to like her. She said she was haughty and unreasonable.”

“You know Perihan Hanoum?”

“No, but I met her mother, Asma Sultan, many years ago.”

“The wife of Ali Arslan Pasha, the grand vizier?”

Sybil nods. “It was the winter of 1878. I remember because it was snowing. A young Englishwoman, Hannah Simmons, had been killed that summer. She was employed as a governess and Mother was visiting the royal harems to see if she could find out anything. The police seemed to have thrown up their hands.” She looks up at Kamil, smiling sadly. “You didn’t know my mother. She was very determined.” She pauses. “It’s such a sad story, but, you know, what I remember best is that we rode there on a sleigh. Isn’t that awful of me?”

“You were very young then.”

“Fifteen.” Sybil smiles shyly.

An image of Sybil in the snow comes unbidden to Kamil’s mind. “It’s commendable of you and your mother to do so much.”

Brushing off the praise, Sybil responds, “It’s not right to be nostalgic when another young woman has been killed.

Kamil ponders a moment. “Do you know anything specific that Mary Dixon disliked about her employer? Did they ever argue?”

“She never mentioned anything specific. I wonder, in retrospect, whether Mary liked anyone. It’s improper to speak ill of the dead, I know, but she seemed so disaffected. The only time I saw her happy-although I suppose animated is a better word-was at the soirees she attended at the Residence. She attracted quite a bit of attention with her short hair and bold manner.”

“What kind of attention?”

“Men. Men seemed to be drawn to her.”

Kamil smiles. “Anyone in particular?”

“Not that I know of. Well, she did have a rather lively discussion with a young Turkish journalist, Hamza Efendi, not long before she…passed away. But I don’t think it meant anything,” she added briskly. “Just a conversation. I only mention it because other people noticed.”

“She seems to have taken you into her confidence.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I think she needed someone to complain to, but we never had a real conversation. We spoke only a handful of times and I remember feeling quite put off by her reticence. That is, well, I shouldn’t think such black thoughts, but it did occur to me at the time that perhaps she sought me out simply to gain invitations to the Residence.”

“Do you know if she had any friends?”

“I didn’t see her very often.” Sybil pauses. “But I do remember that one evening last autumn she spent quite some time chatting with a young Turkish woman. I wondered about it at the time. It seemed as if they knew each other well.”

“Do you remember the young lady’s name?”

“I think it was Jaanan Hanoum, the daughter of an official, I believe, at the Foreign Ministry.”

“The niece of the scholar Ismail Hodja?”

“Yes, that sounds right. I believe someone mentioned that he was a relation. I suppose it’s possible that Mary met her before at one of our soirees. Jaanan Hanoum sometimes came with her father. I just never noticed them together before.”

Kamil leans forward, pondering this further link to Chamyeri.

Sybil looks down, her fingers entwined in her lap. “Oh, dear, you must think me quite wicked for being so critical, when the poor woman is no longer here to defend herself.”