Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

His voice broke and shattered. “She is the daughter who was stolen from me twenty years ago.”

Sir Richard’s response to this horrific scene scared me. He raged at those around him, unwilling to let anyone touch his daughter. Despite his thin frame, he pushed off the guards, who stood, awkward, casting uncertain glances at the growing crowd in the courtyard. Colin was speaking to the man in charge, and nearly everyone who’d been in the theater was now pushing into the garden, agitated murmurs and whispers dull replacements for the soothing sound of the fountain. A man in evening dress, his tie askew, hair rumpled, stepped forward and crossed to the largest of the guards.

“May I offer any assistance? I am an old friend.” He faced Sir Richard, taking him by the shoulders and giving a soft shake. “I know your pain all too well. Lashing out will not help right now.”

“How could I have so failed her?” Sir Richard said, shrugging him off and turning back to his daughter. He stood only for a moment before he collapsed, sobbing, over her body. I knelt beside him, knowing there were no words that could offer meaningful comfort. The guards began to clear out the area, demanding that everyone save the grieving father leave. I asked if I could stay with him, as did his friend—who introduced himself to me.

“Theodore Sutcliffe,” he said, keeping his voice low as Sir Richard answered whatever questions the guards were asking. “I’ve known the old boy for years—we’re both at the embassy.”

“How lucky for him to find a friend near at such a moment,” I said. “Are you close?”

“We’ve both lost children.”

“I’m sorry. I—” I stumbled over the words, not sure how to deal with yet more tragedy. Colin interrupted before I was able to offer my condolences.

“Take him to the house,” he said. “They’re going to need to examine the body—I don’t want him to witness that. I’ll be along as soon as it’s finished.”

“Of course,” I said. “Mr. Sutcliffe, would you come with us? It might comfort him to have you there as well.”

“I shall be with him at every step. He won’t be alone in his sad journey.”

When we arrived at the yalı , I plied Sir Richard with hot orange blossom water—white coffee, a beverage the cook who came with the house insisted was a panacea—while Mr. Sutcliffe sat beside him, a quiet partner in sorrow.

“I wish I could offer you port,” I said, pouring another cup of the pale, steaming liquid. Port was my own preferred beverage. I’d first tried it merely to make a point. After dinner, ladies were supposed to be herded out of the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to their liquor, cigars, and, most important, conversation deemed inappropriate for the gentle ears of the fairer sex. Knowing full well this was just the sort of talk I’d love to hear, I’d decided, while in mourning for Philip, to refuse to be exiled to the drawing room at a dinner party of my own. The discourse on that occasion was sadly limited, as my male guests were, on the whole, stunned, but the port seduced me at once. And gradually, the gentlemen of my acquaintance came to accept my eccentricity and welcomed me for the after-dinner ritual.

“I assure you, it makes no difference, Lady Emily,” Sir Richard said. “The choice of beverage at such a moment is wholly irrelevant. Everything is useless now.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “It was too late for you to have done anything.”

“Had I only known she was here!”

“You couldn’t have,” his friend said. “The sultan himself wouldn’t have known who she was. After all these years, there probably wasn’t anything English left in her.”

“She was my daughter, Theodore.”

“I did not mean to offend. Only to say that even those close to her most likely had no idea of her heritage.”

“They should have known! I had everyone in the empire on alert to find her.”

“She was kidnapped, Richard,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “Undoubtedly her assailants waited until the furor had died down to... sell her.”

“It’s barbaric, all of it,” I said, relieved to see Colin enter the room and save me from saying more on the subject. He nodded to me and shook our guests’ hands.

“I’ve been to the embassy and arranged for a message to be sent to your son at once,” he said, sitting across from Sir Richard. “He’s sure to come as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you.” The older man placed the glass teacup on its bronze saucer. “Has there been an arrest?” Ottoman justice was swift. Even before we’d left the grounds of the palace, one of the eunuch guards from the harem had been fingered as the most likely suspect in the murder.

“I’m afraid so,” Colin said. “He was standing sentry by her room—”

“She wasn’t killed anywhere near her room,” I said.

“Quite right.” He refused the cup of white coffee I offered him. “But that doesn’t seem to factor into the charges against him. He was responsible for her safety. She’s dead, and everyone seems to agree it’s his fault.”

“But is there any evidence?” I asked.

“None,” Colin replied.

“He’ll be executed,” Sir Richard said. “And the brute who murdered my daughter will never be brought to justice.”

“Now, now,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “The guard may well be guilty. Don’t leap to conclusions. She shouldn’t have been able to leave the harem, correct? Who let her out? Possibly the same person who killed her?”

“Sir Richard, are you quite certain it’s Ceyden?” I hated asking the question; my skin felt stinging hot. “You haven’t seen her since she was a child, and it’s possible that—”

“There can be no doubt. All these years I’ve been here, in the same city, and never knew she was so close.” He closed his eyes, rubbed a hand hard over them.

“Maybe it wasn’t her,” I said. “It’s possible that—”

“No. It was Ceyden. When she’d fallen ill during our travels, Assia begged me to have her tattooed. It’s common Berber practice, the medicinal use of tattoos. Half black magic, half ancient doctoring, I suppose. In the end, I decided it wouldn’t hurt. Never was able to deny Assia anything. So I got her ink and needles and she did it herself.”

“And you saw that tattoo tonight?” I asked.

“Yes. There’s no doubt. Because when Assia had finished, I was so taken with the steadiness of her hand that I told her to add her initials, as if she were signing a painting. She didn’t want to, but I convinced her. It was there, on her neck: ASC. There can be no mistake.” He clasped his hands together, pulled them apart, rubbed his palms, then started again. “I need her murderer to be brought to justice, Hargreaves. Can I rely on you to help me?”

“I’ve already sought permission from our government and don’t doubt that I’ll receive it.”

“Justice in such a case must be achieved at any cost. There is no crime more reprehensible than one that causes a person to lose his child,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “But will the sultan allow foreign intervention?”

“We should be able to persuade him to allow us at least a brief investigation,” Colin said. “The girl was, after all, half English.”

“I will have to count on you, Hargreaves,” Sir Richard said.

“There’s only one obstacle that I foresee,” Colin said. “There’s no chance I’ll be allowed to interview anyone in the harem. I’ll need the assistance of a lady.”

“What luck you have,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I believe you’re well acquainted with someone quite capable of undertaking the task.”

He smiled. “You’d be working in an official capacity, Emily. No running about doing whatever you wish. And I’ll have to get approval—”