Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“I don’t think so. Just a round silver bauble,” Leyla says dismissively.

Sybil speaks up. She wants to defend Hannah from these women’s disparaging judgment. “I think it was probably quite a valuable piece. At least, it seems to have been made at the palace.”

“Why do you think that? I don’t remember anything particular about it,” asks Leyla curiously. “Of course, it was all such a long time ago.”

“It has a tughra inside,” Sybil says brightly, relieved at not having to defend British modesty and proud that she has something to contribute to the conversation.

Leyla draws her breath in sharply. “What? Where would a foreign girl get such a thing? You must be mistaken.”

“No, really. I saw it myself.”

Leyla looks at Asma Sultan. “It must have been a gift from someone in the harem.”

“I’m not in the habit of giving valuable gifts to servants,” Asma Sultan answers with mild reproach.

“Sybil Hanoum,” Perihan asks, “did you say you saw it? I thought the police would have taken it.”

The women’s heads all turn to Sybil.

“The young Englishwoman-Mary Dixon-who was killed last month had it around her neck. You’ve heard of her death, surely.” Turning to Perihan, she adds, “She was your governess, I believe.”

“Mary Hanoum,” Perihan mutters. “An odd woman, but I wished her no ill. May Allah have mercy on her soul.” To Sybil, “I never saw her wear such a necklace.”

“How do you know it’s the same one Hannah had?” Leyla asks.

Sybil explains about the box. “It’s also special because it has Chinese writing in it.”

“Chinese?” the women exclaim.

“Then it must be something from outside the country,” Perihan suggests. “Maybe the sultan’s seal was added later.”

Leyla agrees. “Our food in the palace is served on porcelain brought from China.”

“And aren’t those enormous vases in the reception rooms from China?” Shukriye adds. “I remember almost knocking one over as a child.”

“Didn’t your mother have a collection of Chinese art?” Leyla asks Asma Sultan.

Asma Sultan doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she asks Sybil, “How do you know it’s Chinese?”

“My cousin Bernie is visiting here. He’s a scholar of Asia. That is, he’s writing a book on relations between your empire and the East. Anyway, he was able to read it. It’s part of a poem.”

“A poem,” Asma Sultan repeats knowingly. “Of course. It was probably a gift to Hannah from her lover. But how did this woman Mary come to have it?”

“Hannah had a lover?” Sybil tries to hide her excitement.

“Someone she met on her day off. She was allowed to leave the palace once a week, but Arif Agha kept an eye on her.”

“Arif Agha?”

“One of the eunuchs. Every week, Hannah got into a carriage with the same driver and didn’t come back until early the next morning. Arif Agha asked her where she went, but all he could get out of her was, ‘To visit a friend.’ He tried to have her followed, but that incompetent fellow couldn’t manage it. And then it was too late.”

“Did Arif Agha describe the driver?” Sybil asks.

Asma Sultan thinks about this. “He said the driver was scruffily dressed, not in livery as one might expect if she were visiting a home in good society. But such families would have sent an escort. Anyway, Arif Agha told all this to the police.” Then she mutters to herself, “That fox-tongued fool always talked too much.”

“Is Arif Agha here?” Sybil thinks Kamil might wish to speak with him.

“He retired. His incompetence lost him our trust.”

“And his venality,” adds Perihan.

“It was stupid of the girl to get into a carriage unaccompanied,” Asma Sultan observes. “Anything could happen.”

“And clearly did.” Perihan completes her mother’s sentence in a satisfied voice.

“Was the driver a Turk?” Sybil asks.

Asma Sultan sighs deeply, unable to hide her annoyance at the continued questioning. “I don’t think so. According to Arif Agha, the man had Arab hair the color of sand. Perhaps a Kurd. Their hair is curly like that, but they are usually darker. One of the minorities? But which one?” She throws up her hands in mock despair. “How is one to tell?” After a moment, she adds darkly, “If you toy with a snake, it will bite you.”

Perihan asks Sybil, a bit sharply, “Why do you want to know this?”

Leyla intercedes. “Of course, she was one of your people,” she tells Sybil kindly. “It’s natural that you should want to know as much as possible about her.”

“Her killer was never found,” Sybil adds.

“Under a rock, no doubt, among others of his kind.” Asma Sultan shrugs.

“Do you think it’s of any importance now?” Shukriye asks.

“I don’t know. I’m helping Kamil Pasha, the magistrate investigating Mary Dixon’s murder. He seems to think there’s some connection between the two deaths.” She turns to Asma Sultan. “Did you say your mother had a collection of Chinese art? My cousin would be most interested to take a look at it, I mean, if that’s permitted. And I’ll be sure to tell Kamil Pasha about it.” She says his title proudly, as if it already belongs to her, relishing the heft of it on her tongue. “He’s coming to dine with us the day after tomorrow.”

“My mother has passed away,” Asma Sultan replies stiffly.

Sybil is mortified. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t know. Health to your head.”

“It was a long time ago.” Asma Sultan rises to her feet. “Now it is time for us to leave.”

Shamed by her gaffe, Sybil watches as Asma Sultan, ignoring Leyla’s protestations, walks to the door and raps on it. It is opened immediately by her eunuch. She waits while Perihan kisses her hostess on both cheeks in farewell. Sybil feels Asma Sultan’s eyes on her, but when she turns, Asma Sultan is gone.

It was early in the day. The lane leading to Chamyeri Village was still cool beneath the pines and I shivered in my light feradje. The air was lush with the smell of pine. I tasted salt on my tongue.

“It’s been nearly a year. Why should I be banished any longer? There’s no one to talk to here and nothing to do,” I added petulantly.

I did not mention Mary. Violet did not like her, as she had not liked Hamza, my only two friends. I had scolded her for withholding Mary’s messages. If Violet had not been a servant, I would have suspected her of jealousy. It was true that I no longer enjoyed her company as much as in the past when I had no friends of my own. It was true that I had outgrown her touch. The last time she came in the night wanting to share my quilt, I told her we were no longer children who could tumble about unconcerned like the kangal dog’s new puppies. She sat on the edge of the quilt, sullen, her mouth downturned. I noticed the deepening lines beside her mouth and between her eyes. I reached, out of habit and concern, to smooth them away. She caught my hand and nestled her cheek in my palm. When I tried to withdraw it, she caught the edge of my hand between her teeth and shook it, for all the world like a kangal, before releasing me and slipping out of the room. I stared at the indentations left by her teeth in my flesh, wanting to laugh, but also curiously afraid, as if a violent current had disarranged the air.

She was dear to me nonetheless, as she ought to have known. We were always together, except when Mary fetched me for our excursions. During the coldest months, snow-blocked roads had ended our meetings. The boat that delivered our coal also brought letters from Mary early that winter. But I had not seen or heard from her in months, even though the roads were now open. She had written that she had some business to see to and would come to me as soon as she could. But I no longer wished to circle the shallows waiting, and decided to throw myself back into the current of life.