Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“If Allah wills it. Let him go, please, Jemal.”

Jemal gives Hamza’s arms one more twist before he lets them fall.

As Hamza reaches the door, Ismail Hodja calls to him, “Hamza, my son. How is your mother? You had a sister, did you not?”

Hamza pivots and leaps for Ismail Hodja’s throat, Jemal right behind him. The two wrestle on the floor, upending the table and scattering sheets of paper. Unperturbed, Ismail Hodja gazes sadly at the blackness pressing in against the window. China cups and other small objects clatter to the floor. The glass narghile tips over, releasing water into the carpet.

“Don’t you dare mention my sister,” roars Hamza, struggling against Jemal’s grip. “She will be your last victim. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Allah is merciful, my son. May the poison in your veins be cleansed now. Examine your true motives in this. I know you are a good man.” He bows his head. “Selam aleikhum. Peace be upon you.”

Jemal wrestles Hamza to his feet and pushes him out the door. As soon as they are out of sight of Ismail Hodja, Jemal kicks Hamza so that he falls to the ground. With one motion, Jemal lifts him and throws him over his shoulder. He carries him to the gate and drops him stomach first onto Hamza’s horse tethered there, frees the reins, and slaps the animal’s rump. When the horse has disappeared down the dark road, Jemal returns to the house, stopping in the kitchen to fetch a glass of water for Ismail Hodja before returning to the study. He was the one who had found Hamza’s letter on the doorstep. He makes it his business to know about anything that might endanger his master. He does not believe in the peaceful draining of venom.

Hamza curses as he struggles to right himself in the saddle. The anesthetic of anger is rapidly giving way to pain as memories of his lost family mingle with the realization that Jaanan too is now lost to him. I will find her in Paris, he thinks, and explain everything. But he knows it will be difficult, if not impossible, to regain her trust. He halts and remounts properly. With determination, he spurs his horse onto the moonless road and turns south toward the city. What did she have to do with Mary Dixon? he wonders, glancing anxiously back at the screen of trees behind which Hannah too had abandoned him.

Suddenly the horse stops short. Someone is pulling on the bridle. Hamza hears a lightly accented voice.

“I thought you a better rider than this, Hamza Efendi. You were sitting on the horse backwards. Let me help you. Ah, I see you have righted yourself. No matter.”

Strong hands pull Hamza from the saddle. He lands off balance, but with both feet on the ground. The dust he kicks up makes him cough. Hamza can make out only the shape of the man, black against black. He is short and stocky. Hamza twists and attempts to leap away, but the man moves quickly. A blade glints briefly like a firefly. In less than a heartbeat, it is at Hamza’s throat.

“You’ll come with me,” says the figure.

“Who are you?” Hamza’s eyes dart toward the forest, but he cannot run. The blade stings his throat and every breath causes it to intrude farther. He tries to calm his breathing. When he dares, he clears his throat.

“You have something to say?” The knife moves away infinitesimally. Hamza can’t feel the blade, but knows it is still there.

“Who are you? What do you want with me? I have little money, but you can have it.”

The shadow man laughs as if at a very good joke.

“You can take the horse too,” adds Hamza nervously. There is something very familiar about the man, but Hamza cannot place it. He jerks away but the blade finds him again.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know why you’re back.”

The man whistles shrilly and a carriage approaches. The shadows of three men wrestle Hamza inside.

Kamil accepts the long chubuk pipe Ismail Hodja’s servant has filled with fragrant tobacco, draws up his legs, and leans back against the divan cushions in the hodja’s study. The morning ride was brisk and Kamil is glad of the warmth between his lips. The hodja is smoking a narghile, the long cord looped once around his arm, amber mouthpiece in his slender fingers. The servant checks the coal atop the rose-colored glass flask. As Ismail Hodja draws from the mouthpiece, the coal glows beneath the tobacco, its smoke bubbling down through the cooling liquid and along the tube to the hodja’s mouth. His face beneath the turban is calm, but his eyes are troubled and red-rimmed with exhaustion.

“Have you learned anything, Magistrate Kamil?” he asks softly. “The police last night told me only that they arrested Hamza and wished me to make a complaint about his violent behavior.” His eyes rest on the hole in the door. “I declined, of course.” He adds angrily, “I can’t imagine how they could presume to know what goes on in my house.”

“I visited Hamza in jail on my way here this morning,” Kamil says. “The police are accusing him of murdering the two Englishwomen.”

“What? That’s preposterous.”

“Hamza admits he betrayed your hospitality last night, but denies having anything to do with the murders. I must admit his arrest was a surprise to me. The police say they have evidence that Hamza met Hannah Simmons in your garden pavilion on the night she was killed.” He looks at Ismail Hodja curiously from under his eyebrows, respectfully avoiding eye contact.

Ismail Hodja looks surprised. “When my niece was a child, Hamza used to come to Chamyeri to tutor her and then spent the night in the men’s quarters. I banned him from my house after my groom Jemal saw him sneak out one night and bring a woman into the pavilion.”

“You didn’t tell the police this?”

“I never spoke of it to anyone.”

“Did your groom identify the woman?”

“No. You may ask him if you like. It was in the months before that poor young woman was found dead. Jemal said he didn’t see the woman up close, but thought she might be foreign by her dress. I remember because he was worried it might have been my niece’s governess. But we had her room checked, and she was asleep.” He puffs on the narghile. “I suppose it could have been Hannah Simmons.”

Ismail Hodja’s narghile has gone out. He gestures to the servant, who fetches a fresh piece of coal in his tongs and places it on the flask.

When the servant has withdrawn to the far side of the room, Ismail Hodja continues in an urgent voice. “There is no proof that Hamza did this crime. I know Hamza well, and I do not believe him to be capable of it.”

“Did Jemal see a carriage?”

“Yes, and the driver. He was parked outside the gate by the road. Jemal went to ask him who he was waiting for and apparently received an insolent answer.” He smiles fondly. “Jemal does not suffer insults lightly.”

Kamil’s pulse races. “What color was his hair?”

“I don’t believe Jemal said. We can ask him. A great deal of time has passed, but since we were so concerned about the matter at the time, it’s possible he might remember.”

“You said you had banned Hamza from Chamyeri some time before Hannah’s death.”

“Yes, but there is something I must tell you. I had a long talk with my niece before she left for Paris. She admitted to me that Hamza flouted my ban and continued to come here to see her. He had a secret call, like a nightingale, to tell her when he was in the pavilion. She was a child at the time and they were very close. She said when he came, they used to sit in the pavilion reading and playing games.”

“So it’s possible that he continued to use the pavilion at night for his trysts.”