Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“You don’t look surprised.”

“Well, I figured it was, what with the sultan’s signature-unless it’s a forgery.”

“I don’t think so. I showed it to the head craftsman, and he identified it as the work of a particular silversmith at Dolmabahche Palace.”

Bernie stares at Kamil. “And did he tell you who he made it for?”

Kamil returns his look. “No. He was found dead the day after I asked to meet with him. They said his heart gave out.”

Kamil gets up and walks over to the fountain. He stares at it, as if he has forgotten what it is for. “His family says he didn’t suffer from a weak heart.” He turns to Bernie. “But I suppose it’s possible.”

Bernie leans forward, elbows on knees, head propped in his hands. “Kamil, old buddy,” he mumbles, “You’d better watch your back.”

“What am I watching for?”

“You don’t think it’s too much of a coincidence that the old man dies just when you announce you want to meet him?”

“Of course I think it’s suspicious. I don’t believe in coincidence. Someone in the palace doesn’t want me to know who had that pendant made,” he adds thoughtfully. “It must be a powerful person to orchestrate these deaths and someone with a powerful motive to risk so much. The grand vizier? A minister? Perhaps the sultan himself?”

“Covering their tracks.”

“Yes.” He sighs and turns to Bernie. “The palace is out of my jurisdiction. You’re right that anyone looking in that direction is in danger. If I were wiser, I would leave the question of Hannah alone.” He thinks with greater sympathy of Ferhat Bey and his pauper’s pension.

“Then why don’t you?” Bernie suggests.

“Because I’m required to solve the case of Mary Dixon’s death. The Minister of Justice Nizam Pasha seems to have taken a particular interest in my progress in this case. Perhaps he has come under pressure from the British. I don’t know. Anyway, the evidence suggests that the key to Mary’s death lies in deciphering Hannah’s.

Bernie turns suddenly to Kamil and asks, “How did this Michel fellow happen to be at Ismail Hodja’s place just in time to arrest Hamza? It’s pretty far out of the way.”

“I don’t know,” Kamil admits. “I imagine he had information through his informants.”

Dearest Maitlin,

I was so happy to receive a telegram from you this morning. Please don’t think me ungrateful for your advice, after having importuned you for it in so many of my own missives. I am aware of the difficulties posed by becoming wife to a Mohammedan, as you put it. In my letters, I’ve tried to paint a fuller picture of society here in order to relieve your mind. Kamil is British trained and a thoroughly modern gentleman. He is charming and commands such a high standing in society-he is a pasha after all-that I’m sure he will win over even old Lady Bartlethwaite, who is surely the hardest nut to crack in Essex. Truly, there is no cause for distress, only the greatest happiness for my future. Surely this is the future, and the adventure, dear sister, that you have always wished for me.

I have little to tell you, as I’ve stayed close to home recently. Kamil has gotten it into his head that the palace women are dangerous and has asked me not to visit them anymore. He thinks this only because he has never been inside the imperial harems. There is a great deal of intrigue, but they are all schemes by women trying to position themselves ahead of other women in the palace hierarchy. I don’t see how that has anything to do with me. I am only another woman to tea, an entertainment that can be mined for information about the outside world. Really, they are more bored than dangerous, and, if dangerous, only to themselves.

Nevertheless, I was touched by Kamil’s concern, which I take to be just another sign of his affection. In any case, I stay out of mischief by keeping busy with embassy affairs. Father has left more and more of the daily running of things in my hands, which is not always welcome, but does help to pass the time. A new embassy secretary has been appointed, but won’t come out for another month. I’m worried about Father, Maitlin. I haven’t been as honest with you as I should about the situation. Can you imagine-I have to coax him to bathe. He sleeps in his office now, rather than in the Residence, so his staff has set aside another room where he can receive visitors. I know you think I should ask the embassy staff to file a report suggesting he retire, but that isn’t my place. They are beginning to talk, but the thing is that when he is at work, Father still cuts a good figure. He reads his reports, makes decisions, even gives speeches, although he doesn’t travel much anymore. Some would simply say he works too hard, but I worry that there is more to it, and I am at a loss to think of a solution. If he were to return to England, Maitlin, I think he would die. There is also the selfish matter that I wish to remain here, and I can’t see how that is possible if father is forced to leave. Kamil has not yet proposed the obvious solution. Until he does, I do what I can to make a go of things at the embassy.

I desperately need a diversion. Bernie has returned to his quarters at college to work on his book. A messenger came early this morning with an invitation-really more of a summons-from Asma Sultan to visit her at her summer place in Tarabya. That’s the lovely, wooded area on the northern Bosphorus where Turkish society goes to escape the summer heat. The embassy has a summer villa nearby, but it’s under repair, so I haven’t had much opportunity to get away. Surely Kamil can’t complain about my spending a pleasant afternoon with a starchy matron at her summer villa. It’s to be very informal, the messenger said, and Asma Sultan will send a coach for me.

I’d better stop writing now and get ready. I remember it being quite a long way, although I haven’t been there in years, so perhaps I exaggerate. It can’t be that far if I am invited to come and go in one day. I must make sure to be back in time for dinner, as Kamil is dining with us tonight. I’ll write more when I return. I’ll pay special attention to everything so I can give you a full accounting.

Returning from Beyazit, Kamil encounters a crowd on the Karakoy end of the Galata Bridge. He calls to a group of young gendarmes and asks them what is going on.

“Bey, a criminal has been staked.”

Kamil grimaces. He despises the old custom of impaling the head of a criminal in a public area, ostensibly as a lesson to the people that this is their fate if they stray from the path. These days, criminals are hung from lampposts, for the same effect. Under the present sultan, however, death sentences have usually been commuted. There have been no executions for some time. He worries what the foreign community will think when they see this, as of course they will. This time, the stake has been placed right at the base of the hill leading to Pera. The Karakoy side of the bridge is within the jurisdiction of his court, yet he knows nothing about anyone being sentenced to death. Perhaps it was a matter decided by the provincial Court of Inquiry. But even that court must have its death sentences ratified by the grand vizier, acting for the sultan. Either way, he should have been informed. Kamil spurs his horse onto the bridge.

The gendarmes keep ahead of him, pushing people back. When he reaches the far end of the bridge, he is directly before the stake. A sign hangs at its base: Traitor. The head has not been cleanly separated from the body, a hasty and unprofessional execution. The man must have just been killed. The tissue still appears soft. The tip of the man’s tongue protrudes from a beard stiff with dried blood. Soft black curls fall forward over the unnaturally inclined forehead. Kamil looks more closely at the blood-caked face. Hamza’s eyes are wide open as if in surprise.