Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“Well, I’m not sure one could call the fact that she wasn’t a virgin remarkable,” Ferhat Bey chortles. “After all, she was a Frank, and you know how their women are.” He settles himself back and puffs with satisfaction on his water pipe.

Kamil smiles wanly, refusing to be drawn in.

“Anything else?” he repeats.

The superintendent stirs restlessly. He doesn’t know what this young upstart is after.

“Nothing else. Unless you’re interested in rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“There was some talk that she was having an affair with a Turk, a journalist.”

“Was she?”

“How would I know? No one had any real information, and there are hundreds of journalists these days, far too many, if you ask me.”

“How did you make the connection to the palace?”

Ferhat Bey winces.

“There was a witness,” he admits grudgingly.

Kamil is surprised. He hadn’t heard there was a witness.

“To the murder?”

“No, to the abduction. Except that apparently she went willingly. One of the eunuchs said a carriage picked her up by the back gate. And it wasn’t the first time. She always went alone, always with the same disreputable-looking driver. The eunuch planned to tell her employer to fire her for lack of-what did he call it? — moral fitness. That was before she turned up dead.” He squeezes out a wheezing laugh.

“Whose eunuch?”

Ferhat Bey is agitated. He has let himself slip. He hadn’t meant to let Kamil know about the eunuch.

“He belonged to Asma Sultan’s household in the harem,” he admits reluctantly.

“Asma Sultan?” Kamil tries to remember where else he has heard the name recently.

“Sultan Abdulaziz’s daughter, may he rest in peace. She’s married to Ali Arslan Pasha.”

The grand vizier’s wife. Sybil in the snow. He sees her, cheeks red, traveling in the sleigh with her mother to Ali Arslan Pasha’s harem.

“But there were a lot of other women in that harem,” Ferhat Bey continues.

“Other high-status women?”

“The pasha didn’t have the same appetite as his father-in-law. Or else his wife made sure he kept his sword in his scabbard.” Ferhat Bey wheezes a laugh. “So no concubines, just Asma Sultan and his daughter, Perihan Hanoum. The rest were servants, like the English-woman. Although Asma Sultan’s relations came and went so often they might as well have been living there. They all knew the governess,” he adds.

“Who else visited?”

“Her nieces Leyla and Shukriye were there a lot. Shukriye Hanoum was engaged to that sot Prince Ziya, who was killed with his pants down in Paris.”

Kamil tries to keep his irritation in check. He had never met Prince Ziya, but knew enough of his reputation as a thoughtful man and supporter of just causes to have a great deal of respect for him. He had never believed the rumor that Ziya died in a brothel.

“So what is the link between the palace and the murder?” Kamil asks. The old superintendent had implied there was a link. He is certain he hadn’t misheard.

“That’s the link. Asma Sultan’s hawk-eyed eunuch. Go ask him yourself. Be sure to bring a large gift.” He sniggers. Asma Sultan, her eunuch, and the woman Hannah were pawns in a game played by giants. He has just put this young upstart on the game board. Still, he shouldn’t have brought Asma Sultan’s name into it. He doesn’t want any more trouble than he already has.

“You never found the carriage or the driver?”

“No.”

The superintendent knows his reputation as a failure. He could explain that he was forced to take early retirement and leave this case unsolved. But trading his reputation for the truth might very well lose him more than his position. His notes on the case had been incomplete for this very reason.

Kamil asks, “What about the household at Chamyeri? What did they tell you?”

“Nothing. No one claimed to have seen anything. Other than that hysterical goose of a Frenchwoman. She found the body, ran to the house, packed her things, and was ready to go even before we arrived. She didn’t even speak our language, so we had the young girl, Ismail Hodja’s niece, translate for us.”

“What was the Frenchwoman doing back by the pond?”

Ferhat Bey thinks a few moments. “Well, she said she had been taking a walk. I suppose that’s reasonable.”

“Was she in the habit of walking there? If I remember correctly, the pond is quite secluded, in the forest.”

“Who knows the minds of women?” Ferhat Bey answers in an exasperated tone. “They walk in the woods. Maybe she had a lovers’ tiff and wanted some privacy to lick her wounds.”

“Did she have a lover?”

The superintendent has reached the end of his patience. Clearly, the man has no imagination, he decides.

“How should I know? I can’t very well ask a young girl to ask the woman if she has a lover, can I? And she’d never admit to it if she did. What difference does it make anyway? We had a witness. It had nothing to do with that household.” He decides to stop before his tongue slips further along the path he has already negligently directed the young man toward.

The light filtering in the window has become tepid and wan. Outside, the rain has stopped and a chill night wind has begun to blow. The room has begun to fill with men who have closed their shop doors and look forward to their moment of comfort before they walk through the dark streets to their homes. Their breaths have condensed on the windows in a ragged tongue of moisture.

Ferhat Bey mutters that it is time for him to leave and rises shakily to his feet. Kamil thanks him for his kindness and assistance and offers to help him home. The old man growls and waves him off.

“I don’t live far. I’ll walk.”

He hobbles into the courtyard. Kamil stays behind to pay the owner. When he emerges, the superintendent is gone. Kamil shrugs, wraps his cloak closer about him, and passes through the great stone gate into the street beyond.

As soon as Kamil is out of sight, Ferhat Bey emerges from the shadows at the back of the courtyard. He stands for a while, squinting against the wind, as if waiting to see if Kamil will return, then goes back into the coffeehouse.

Kamil and Sybil sit opposite each other in the reception room. He is eager to talk and has refused the inevitable offer of tea. He avoids looking at Sybil and keeps his mind resolutely on the purpose of his visit. To his relief, Sybil is dressed demurely in a china-blue gown.

“Sybil Hanoum, you said you were here when Hannah Simmons was killed.”

“I thought you were looking into Mary’s death. Is there some connection?”

“I don’t know. There may not be, but I’d like to be sure. I spoke yesterday with the police superintendent that handled the case. Perhaps you might remember something more.”

Sybil looks thoughtful, then says slowly, apologetically, “Perhaps I wrongly disparaged the police. Mother couldn’t find out very much either. Hannah was last seen in the harem nursery, reading to the children.”

“Did you know her?”

“She must have come ’round the embassy, but I don’t remember ever meeting her.”

“Who was her employer?”

“Mother said she was hired by Asma Sultan. But there are usually other women in the harem too.”

“Do you know who else?”

“No, but I can try to find out. I’ll send a note to Asma Sultan and ask to call on her.”

“There’s no need for you to do that,” Kamil says quickly. “I’d rather you didn’t. I mean, I don’t know what is involved, or who. It could be dangerous.”

“You can’t talk to the women, so maybe I can find out something useful. I’ll only go for tea, not to put my head on the block,” she jokes.