Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“Yes, I suppose so, but indiscretion does not make a young man a murderer. It was a long time ago, when he was a crazy-blooded youth”-he smiles at Kamil-“as I believe we all were at some point. I don’t believe he had anything to do with the killing of those unfortunate women.”

“Why did he come here last night?”

“He wanted to see my niece. And to ask me for some small service, which, unfortunately, I was unable to grant him.”

Kamil waits, but the hodja does not elaborate.

The arrest report stated Hamza had threatened Ismail Hodja. Kamil asks, “Did your refusal make him angry?”

“Hamza’s anger is directed at himself and against those who love him. We hate those who have seen us weak, magistrate bey. Our deepest rage is reserved for those who have seen us shamed and vulnerable and who responded with generosity. To be the object of a person’s generosity is, in some basic way, to be humiliated. My brother-in-law treated his sister’s son like his own, gave him a home, supported his education, helped him find a government position. What you might not know is that, without his uncle’s help, Hamza would have had no life at all. His father had squandered his future before Hamza ever had a chance to claim it. Unfortunately, the fruit does not fall far from the tree.”

“His father was kadi of Aleppo, I believe.”

“Yes, a wealthy and powerful man, but a man with expensive habits and a pragmatic sense of loyalty. Hamza’s father acted as liaison between a few of our Arab subjects and the French who hoped to wrest the province of Syria away from the empire. That was in the time of Sultan Abdulaziz, may his memory be blessed. When the plans were discovered, Hamza’s father was ruined. He was accused of embezzling money from the treasury to finance a revolt, although it’s possible he did it to pay his own debts. He was stripped of his position.”

“Was he exiled?”

“In a sense. He was forbidden ever to return to the capital.”

“Did Hamza know the reasons for his father’s banishment?” Kamil beckons the servant to relight his pipe.

“He was studying in France at the time. When he returned to Aleppo, apparently he found his father sitting on a chair in the middle of an empty apartment. The creditors had taken their konak and even their furniture. His father refused to speak or eat, just sat staring at the wall. Hamza tried to rouse him, told him about Paris, his plans for a career. He promised to take care of the family’s expenses, but his father never even looked at him.” Ismail Hodja pauses to take another draught from his narghile. He exhales a thin stream of smoke.

“My brother-in-law learned all this in a letter from his sister,” he continues. “After seeing the letter, I was inclined to view Hamza’s behavior with more compassion. I am also certain that he meant Jaanan no harm. Quite the contrary.” He frowns and shakes his head. “I tried to tell my niece this, but I’m not sure she is convinced. She has had more than her share of disappointments.”

“I’m glad no greater harm has come to her.”

“I was inclined to think badly of Hamza when I learned it was he who took her to Galata. She never spoke of it until recently. She thought I knew, since Hamza had promised her he would tell me where she was. He never did. Last night, he told me he had been in hiding since then, fearing for his life, and so was unable to keep his promise to tell me. He said his driver had been killed.” He looks up at Kamil. “Is it the same man Jemal saw?”

“Yes. It must be. A man called Shimshek Devora. Jaanan Hanoum was held in his mother’s house. Shimshek was killed that same week. Supposedly in an accident.”

“May he rest in Allah’s care.”

They are silent for a few moments, their thoughts tangled in skeins of smoke. Birds squabble outside the window.

Finally, Ismail Hodja continues. “I’ve come to believe since then that Hamza was telling the truth. My brother-in-law-Jaanan’s father-thinks it’s possible that Amin Efendi was planning to abduct Jaanan from his home, with the connivance of…well, that is a matter for my brother-in-law. It would satisfy Amin Efendi’s desire for revenge against the family and, if he could force the marriage, his need for money. So you see, Hamza, in his own misguided way, was trying to protect my niece. As for those unfortunate Englishwomen, my heart refuses to accept that he would harm them. Indeed, given what happened to his sister, I would have expected him to be kind toward women.”

“What happened to his sister?”

“Ah, that poor girl. As the penniless daughter of a traitor, she was unable to contract a marriage. Who would bring her into their family and risk official displeasure? She was quite attractive, I understand, and many good families had inquired about a possible match when her father was still kadi. She had her heart set on one particular young man, so she refused the others. Her father doted on her and didn’t insist, but he disapproved of the man she preferred because he was merely a merchant, although quite wealthy. After the disaster, even that family withdrew their suit. She threw herself into the moat of Aleppo’s citadel when it was swollen with rainwater and drowned.”

Ismail Hodja takes another long draw from his mouthpiece and lets the smoke dissipate before continuing. His shoulders slump with exhaustion.

“I can’t tell you, my dear magistrate efendi, what any of this has to do with the deaths of these young Englishwomen. It is true that after his sister’s passing, Hamza became harder. But that is a long way from a man capable of killing. For murder you need powerful meat-hatred, greed, jealousy, or ambition-not the thin gruel of self-hate.

Kamil waits on a stool under the giant plane tree in Beyazit Square that a poet once called the Tree of Idleness. Behind him stretch the outer wall of the War Ministry and the domes of Beyazit Mosque, its courtyard garden visible through the stone portal. The square hums with traffic, vendors of sherbet and baked simits crying out their wares, porters hissing their way through the crowd, trotting horses, carts, and children dodging one another.

Kamil spies Bernie’s red hair approaching amid a sea of turbans and fezzes.

“Howdy. Been waiting long?”

“Not long. It’s good to see you. Please sit. Would you like some refreshment?”

“Sorry. Afraid I have to decline. I can’t stomach the tea here or the coffee. Both thick as tar. I don’t know how you drink so much of it. No offense.”

“None taken. They are quite strong.”

“Maybe we could just walk around a bit. I don’t know this area very well.”

“Have you seen the booksellers’ market? There’s a good place to eat lunch nearby.”

Kamil leads the way through the throng to a gate beside the mosque.

“This is the Gate of the Spoonmakers.” To Bernie’s questioning look, he shrugs. “I have no idea why.”

They enter a quiet, sun-dappled courtyard. Each tiny shop around the yard is stacked to the ceiling with books and manuscripts. A few apprentices hurry past carrying packages to be delivered to customers at their homes. In the center is another plane tree, under it a bench next to a small fountain. Bernie lowers himself onto the bench and spreads his arms across the back, embracing the old vine-draped buildings. “Keyif,” he mutters contentedly.

Kamil holds a tinned cup chained to the fountain under the stream of water and takes a draught.

“You should try this water. It’s from a spring.”

Bernie points to the ancient stone portal at the far end of the courtyard. “And what’s that gate called?”