Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“Because I had given it, years ago, to someone I thought would forever treasure it.”

“But there’s no reason to think that person gave it away to Ceyden. Much though I hate to speak ill of the dead, it’s clear that Ceyden stole it all.”

“Ceyden could not have stolen my ring. It was no longer in the harem.”

“Who had it?”

“I thought perhaps Bezime managed to get it, and I can’t think of anything that would pain me more.”

“You gave it to someone you loved?” Margaret asked.

“I have known no love or affection since my husband died,” Perestu said. “But I was fond of a man after that. Someone I saw on rare state occasions. We became friends, in the most appropriate fashion—never acknowledging the weight of our stares. I would never have involved myself with him. We shared much in common; both understood loss all too well. When the friendship became too difficult, too painful, we parted, and I gave him the ring to remember me by.”

“Is this man still in Constantinople?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You must tell us who he is,” I said.

“No, Lady Emily. There is nothing I must do. Perhaps you do not understand my rank.”

“There must be some connection—”

“It is impossible. The only explanation is that he lost the ring or it was stolen from him and somehow wound up in the hands of that trollop,” she said. “I reacted the way I did when I saw it because it hurt me to know that my friend no longer had it.”

“Don’t you want to speak to him? To find out how he came to lose it?” Margaret asked.

“If he wanted me to know, he would have sought me out and told me. Sent me a letter. As he did not, I can only conclude the subject is as painful for him as it is for me. And I have no desire to further pursue it.”

“But—”

“Was there something in particular you were hoping to find here, Lady Emily? I’ve been through it all and saw nothing that struck my interest. I burned Bezime’s diaries, of course. It would not do to have the sanctity of her most private thoughts violated.”

“You burned them?” The air rushed out of my lungs.

“It is what we do for one another,” she said. “For all that I feared and disliked her, we both lived in the harem, and were, for a period, friends. We come from the same world, and I will not see her dishonored in death.”

There was nothing left for us at Topkapı. I searched every inch of the valide’s apartments to no avail. Not that this was a surprise. Done, Margaret and I trudged to the embassy, where I’d agreed, in Colin’s absence, to make regular reports as to the status of my investigation. The ambassador ushered me into his walnut-paneled office that looked straight out of a London club. I sat in an overstuffed leather chair that was too hard to be comfortable and accepted a cup of tea.

“First Flush Darjeeling,” he said. “Arrived today. Perk of the job. My colleagues keep me well stocked in foreign delights.”

“It’s delicious,” I said, hardly tasting it, the hot liquid burning my throat.

“I am pleased that your husband has gone after young St. Clare. Terrible scandal, this. Don’t know how much of it we’ll be able to bury.”

“I wish I had more to tell you today,” I said. “I spoke with Perestu and searched Bezime’s rooms, but found nothing further of interest.”

“I do appreciate your agreeing to these little meetings. It’s a bit unusual...” He hesitated. “We don’t ordinarily have ladies involved in such things.”

“I understand, Sir William. If there’s nothing further, I think I shall return home.”

“Nothing else here. I shouldn’t worry too much about any of it. Hargreaves will find the boy and this will all be wrapped up soon enough. You might focus on sightseeing. I fear you’ve not seen enough of Constantinople.”

I thanked him and stepped into the hall, where Margaret, who’d been waiting for me, was talking to Mr. Sutcliffe.

“I was just saying to Miss Seward how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re well?”

“I am, thank you. A spot of trouble with one of the families I’m working with—the mother turned out very unworthy indeed.”

“Unworthy?” I asked.

“Her daughter fell ill with influenza, and she refused to send her son to the country as I suggested to keep him well.”

“Did he get sick?” Margaret asked.

“He did and he died, and it’s his mother’s fault. I can afford no tolerance for such people.” He frowned, shook his head. “Is there anything I can do to help Benjamin?”

“I wish I knew what any of us could do.”

“Is there any chance he’s innocent?” His eyes were so full of eager hope—bright and clear.

“I believe so, but I can’t yet prove it.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to?”

“The truth always comes out in the end.”

“Have you told his father anything encouraging?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I want to wait until I have something of substance to share with him.”

“Is he at home?” Mr. Sutcliffe asked.

“He is,” Margaret said. “We’ve left him in the care of friends.”

“Perhaps I will call on him. He undoubtedly needs the support, and I feel awful I’ve not been around more. Things have been terribly busy here; another belated load of records has come in and overwhelmed me. But that’s no reason to let down a friend in need.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate a visit,” I said.

“No one understands his loss better than I,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go to him.”

My nausea returned almost as soon as we’d left the embassy, and I’d decided to go home, hoping that rest would restore my health. I was exhausted, the trek from one palace to the next and then to the embassy taking every ounce of my energy. I found no respite in sleep, suffering a painful night, plagued with vivid dreams of the most awful sorts of destruction. They came in flashes—no narrative connection. I saw Colin falling, heard terrible screams in a dark room, and could not escape water pressing down on me, heavier than lead, but not reaching my mouth or keeping me from being able to breathe, simply crushing me.

So I was far from restored when I set off for Pera the next morning. Margaret had sent a message saying that Miss Evans, concerned about Sir Richard, had moved their things to his house so that they could stay there and she might keep a closer eye on him. I set off as soon as I’d refused breakfast—not even the thick yogurt that usually settled my stomach looked appealing—and braced myself for what I knew would be an unpleasant trip across the Bosphorus.

“I’m afraid he’s not well at all,” the doctor said moments after I’d arrived at the St. Clare house. “He’s suffering from terrible tremors and has started to hallucinate.”

“Have you any idea what’s causing it?” I asked, my head beginning to hurt again. “It must be more than worry for his son.”

“I’m afraid so, Lady Emily. I can’t be certain, but if pressed, I’d guess that he’s become dependent on chloral hydrate—he’s exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal, including severe gastritis. I’m very concerned.”

“What can be done?”

“If my diagnosis is correct, I should be able to treat him. I assume that since he’s been under the care of Miss Evans, he’s not had the opportunity to take the drug.”

“I would imagine not. Did you find a supply of it?”

“I’ve not looked, but I can’t imagine what else is causing this. It also explains the erratic behavior he’s exhibited over the past weeks.”