Tears of Pearl

Chapter 26

As it was too late to confront Bezime herself, I had to settle for talking to the only person left who might have the answers I sought. Perestu started pacing almost as soon as I asked my first question. The lines in her forehead deepened, and her brown eyes clouded. “I don’t know how to answer you,” she said. “I have not had contact with your Mr. Sutcliffe in months. I told you that before.”

“What was his relationship with Bezime?”

She closed her eyes. “How could I possibly know that?”

“You read her diaries, didn’t you?” I asked. “You must have. How could you have resisted? Didn’t you want to know what her relationship with him was?”

She did not answer.

“He loved you. I’ve no doubt of that. You should have seen his reaction when he realized your ring was gone.” I hated the knowledge that he’d been putting on an act, but I had no reason to doubt his feelings for Perestu and even less reason to want to see her more hurt.

She turned, tears hanging heavy in her eyes. “You must not speak of love between us. There was none.”

“Friendship, then. Whatever you want to call it. He cared for you. Any woman in your situation would have read those diaries.”

“He came to her frequently, but I do not think they were lovers,” she said.

“Did she say anything about discussing Ceyden with him?”

“Nothing at all.”

This was unfortunate, but far from a shock. “What can you tell me about the loss of his family? I know it affected him deeply.”

“Of course it did. You’ve no idea—what it is to lose a child. Two children. And his wife. He loved her.”

“I know.”

“And to then have found out that a man he called his friend lied about the one thing that might have prevented all of it...”

She paused, and I dared not even breathe. But when she didn’t continue, I had to say something. “It might have been a mistake, you know. Sir Richard could have filed the request and all those years later it could have been lost.”

“You know the story?” She smiled, a slim, halfhearted effort. “That makes me feel less like I’m betraying him.”

“I don’t know the details, but I’m not convinced it was anything more than a misunderstanding.”

“No, that’s not possible. When he saw the paper, he confronted Sir Richard, who admitted everything. He apologized, but what good was that? Said that he couldn’t leave at the time because he was following some new lead as to where his daughter might have been. It all amounted to nothing, of course, and poor Theodore lost everything.”

“Sir Richard knows all this?” I asked.

“Yes. There can be no doubt. The last time I saw Theodore was when he came to me immediately following their conversation. I’d never seen him so upset, so... ragged.”

“And it was that day that you broke off your friendship?”

“Yes. The timing was appalling, I admit. But something in him scared me that day—the intensity of his hurt, his anger. And I knew that I was in danger of getting too drawn in to him. I didn’t want that, so I cut it off.”

“That takes no small measure of strength,” I said.

“Not nearly as much as it should have,” she said. “I’d been pulling away for months without him even knowing. Otherwise I couldn’t have done it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It must have been terribly painful. I would never broach such a subject if I didn’t think it of critical importance. What did Bezime write about Mr. Sutcliffe?”

“She knew of his anger, that was clear, and it concerned her. He wasn’t sleeping well—nightmares. He had suffered from them for years. She gave him something to help him, but didn’t think he was taking it, as he never seemed to her more rested.” Tears choked her voice. “I wish I could have given him something solid like that—something that might actually have helped.”

I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a very tall cliff, about to plummet to an unthinkable and inane ending if I did not choose my words with absolute precision. I walked over and stood in front of her, placing my hands on her shoulders. “The sort of friendship you gave him was far more substantial than some sort of medicine it sounds like he never even took.”

“Yes, but she gave him more every time he called. She must have had reason to think it was important.”

I tried to sound as casual as possible. “Do you remember what it was?”

“Some sleeping aid... chlor... chloral...”

“Chloral hydrate?”

“Yes,” she said. “That was it.”

“Not the best choice, I’d say. Highly addictive and can have dreadful side effects.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Far better that he have a friend who understands him,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. “It brings some measure of comfort.”

“He doesn’t have to be lost to you altogether, does he?” I asked.

“Yes. There’s no other way. I will not let myself fall in love again, especially in such impossible circumstances.”

I could not argue with the wisdom of that.

I rushed from the palace to meet Margaret, who had taken care of arranging the final details for Roxelana’s rescue. The time had come at last to pull off our plan. Excitement and fear surged through me, my nerves thin, and I prayed we were doing the right thing in the right way. I could not let myself think of the fallout that would come should our plans be exposed. We’d been careful, and I was confident her escape would be successful. Hubris is a dangerous companion.

“You’ll find this amusing,” Margaret said as we raced to the Nuruosmaniye Mosque. “A friend called on Medusa yesterday, all full of ex-pat gossip. Apparently, the night of your adventure in the embassy one of the stray cats that lurk about the city got in through an open window and knocked over a vase.”

“That was the crash that terrified me?” I laughed.

“Yes. The poor creature was still inside in the morning, and the staff have adopted it.”

“Well, it does make for a good story. I must tell you what happened at Yıldız this morning.” We were walking quickly, and I struggled to breathe evenly as I recounted my conversation with Perestu.

“What a shame that she burned the journals,” said Margaret. “Do you think she would testify?”

“I could not say. When faced with the truth of what he’s done—”

“Are we even sure what that is?” she asked.

“Yes, we are. He poisoned Sir Richard, sabotaged his career, possibly made threats of violence against his son—”

“We can’t prove that last.”

“That will undoubtedly be the most simple part of all this. Colin can go back to the village and pay enough to get the full truth.”

“Fair enough,” Margaret said, walking faster. I could not match her pace—I was feeling more winded than I should, and it was all I could do to keep from letting her gain too much distance ahead of me.

“He must have been following Benjamin—I’m convinced Jemal alerted him to the planned escape.”

“He might have even witnessed the murder.”

“And then taken the evidence to give to the proper person when the proper moment arose,” I said. “He wanted to be sure Benjamin was held accountable.” I stopped, dead in the center of the street. Margaret had to pull me out of the way of a delivery cart.

“Emily! Pay attention.”

“I didn’t see it before,” I said. “But now I do. Remember, she spoke—”

“They’re already inside,” Margaret interrupted, looking at the line of carriages in front of the building. “Hurry.”

She hurried towards her station while I turned into the Grand Bazaar, taking a table at the café we had chosen and ordering tea and baklava. Ideas blazed through my head, but I kept settling on a single one: Benjamin hadn’t killed Ceyden. Sutcliffe had. The scenario played out easily enough. He’d followed Benjamin, watched Roxelana flee screaming. Ceyden may have heard him, called out for help, seen him—and he’d killed her to keep her silent. Not only to ensure no one knew he’d been in the harem, but because he knew he could frame his nemesis’s son for the murder.

I admitted to myself, as I crunched another bite of baklava, that the story was as yet incomplete. But another few days of work and I’d have uncovered the rest. Bezime was a threat because she knew about the chloral hydrate. She could have asked Sutcliffe about it. And Jemal—he’d been both dispensable and dangerous. I thought it very likely he’d witnessed Ceyden’s murder.

A slim glint of satisfaction passed through me, which led me to be filled immediately with concern. This was always the most dangerous stage—the part when you begin to map out the solution but don’t know enough to see the holes that leave you vulnerable. I checked the watch on my lapel—newly purchased to replace the one stolen from the yalı—and tore a piece of paper from the small notebook I carried in my reticule. On it, I wrote everything I knew, suspected, or felt was reasonable conjecture pertaining to the case. Then, moving on to a second sheet, I put down the unreasonable conjectures of which I was fond as well as a full detailing of our plans for Roxelana, cringing at the thought of my husband reading this.

I asked my waiter if it was possible to get an envelope and within a few moments had in my hands a set of smooth linen stationery. After sealing my missive, I addressed it to Colin in care of the embassy, and my enterprising server found a boy to deliver it almost before I’d asked. Having taken this precaution, I felt better protected. Not in the classic sense. I had no desire to see Colin swoop in and fix any of this; I wanted to do that myself. But it was as if I’d bought insurance against needing him—he’d know where to find me, what to do if something went wrong. Undoubtedly, I’d require his assistance only if it was impossible for him to offer it.

Satisfied, I finished my tea and looked again at my watch. My stomach churned; too much time had passed. Roxelana should have been here by now. I looked around, growing more nervous with each passing second, wondering if she could somehow have been confused by the maze of the bazaar’s streets. I wanted to search for her but knew better than to leave my post. What would she do if she arrived and I was gone?

But after another half hour, I saw little choice. I paid my bill, deciding to go to the mosque, where I would find Margaret. I hoped more than anything that Roxelana had not been caught—that she hadn’t come because it was too risky, because she wasn’t able to get the privacy required for her escape. As I walked, I began repeating, barely under my breath, a simple prayer.

“Lady Emily Hargreaves?” The small voice came from behind me, and I turned to see a boy, no more than nine years old. “Are you Lady Emily Hargreaves?”

“I am,” I said.

“This is for you.” He handed me an envelope made from thick, creamy paper and disappeared into the crowd around me. With shaking hands, I tore it open, almost afraid to read.

My dear Lady Emily, the game is up. You’ve gone too far and I’ve had to take actions I did not wish to. I have Roxelana. She will be alive for thirty more minutes unless you present yourself to me in exchange for her. She is easily frightened, not at all like my own brave girl who complained not once during the final hours of her illness, and I find myself already tired of her crying. How would you like me to silence her? I am at the Basilica Cistern, the Yerebatan Sarayı . You will have to figure out how to get there. Just be sure to come quickly and to come alone. If there’s anyone else with you, it will end badly for us all.

I felt short of breath, and my throat ached as I gulped for air. I was not foolish enough to believe I could pull this off alone—it was worse than any situation I could have imagined. I’d thought any danger Roxelana faced would come from the sultan. There was little time to consider options, so I took the first reasonable one that sprang to mind. I asked my waiter to point me to the police—he located an officer patrolling the bazaar and stopped him at once. Not wanting to waste even a moment, I pressed the note—which was obviously from Mr. Sutcliffe—into the man’s hand and explained as efficiently as possible that he must send help and get word to the British embassy at once.

He looked at me as if I were insane, and I could not pause long enough to convince him otherwise. Instead, I ran to the nearest exit, hired the first carriage I saw, and made my way to the cistern. It was only because I’d read so extensively about the city that I was even aware of it, finding it described in the travel memoirs of an Italian gentleman. Near the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya, it had been built in Roman times to bring water to the city, and families living above it still used it—taking its water from well-like openings in their basements.

Having no time to collect De Amicis’s book from the yalı, I had to rely on my memory. He’d described coming to the cistern through the garden of a nearby house. I’d reached the neighborhood and knew I was in the right general vicinity, but it was not apparent which house’s garden contained the entrance—so I could do nothing but knock on doors and hope someone could help me. On my third attempt, a veiled woman answered. She did not speak much English, but I kept repeating “Yerebatan Sarayı ” over and over, and at last she nodded and pointed me to the house across from hers. I raced there, only to find no one home.

I made my way around the building, hoping to find a way into the garden, through which I could reach the cistern, and my heart soared when I saw a green door, in dire need of new paint, in the wall. I pushed it open and rushed through it. Across from me was a stone arch, below which were steep stone steps, slick with water and moss, descending deep into darkness. Pleased that I had not bothered to empty out my reticule after last night’s adventure at the embassy, I pulled out the candle and matches I still had with me and lit them before making my way with great care down the stairs.

Every nerve in my body was shaking when I reached the closed door at the bottom. I opened it and stepped into an enormous domed underground chamber, its vaulted ceiling supported by arches above row after row of columns, hundreds of them. Water filled the room below the wooden platform on which I stood—and my candle reflected green in it, the color eerie, almost unholy. There was no sound but that of water dripping from the roof, pinging into the pool below, echoing relentlessly.

No sound, that is, until the door shut behind me, and I heard the unmistakable click of a bar latch snapping into place. I turned around, wanting to test it at once, only to find my fear all too real. The lock had fastened; I could not get out. Panic rose through me as the darkness of the space enveloped me, but there was nothing to do but move on.

I took a step forward, testing the wooden planks over the water before putting my whole weight on them, wondering at what point I’d face Sutcliffe. Was he behind a column? Waiting for me just beyond the light of my candle? I was sweating despite the coolness of the space and had to force my feet forward.

“I did say thirty minutes, did I not, Lady Emily?”

His voiced bounced around me; I could not tell where he stood.

“You’re using up all your time. Might want to hurry.”

And then I heard a muffled sob that fueled me to move forward with greater speed. “Let her go,” I said. “You can well see that I’m here and alone.”

“This is not a time for you to be making demands,” he said.

I bit back the reply on my lips and continued walking, trying to determine where Roxelana was. “What is it you want from me?” I asked.

“You should have left things alone,” he said. “There was no reason to interfere. All those deaths after Ceyden’s are on your conscience.”

“I have not killed anyone.”

“They would all be alive still if it weren’t for you.”

I wanted to keep him talking, to distract him while I came up with a viable strategy. “I know you killed Ceyden,” I said, wanting to test my suspicion.

“It doesn’t matter what I did so long as St. Clare thinks it was him.”

“You did kill her.”

He laughed. “I never dared hope my revenge would be so complete. The boy made it easy.”

“Roxelana?” I asked. “Where are you? Are you next to him?”

More muffled sobs, with a greater urgency this time. “Quiet!” he said.

I heard footsteps. He was on the walkway, not in the water. I looked over the edge of the path, gauging the depth. Fish darted, startled by the light, and their reaction inspired me. I could see clearly the bottom of the green pool, not more than three feet below the surface. I broke the top third off my candle and then tilted it so that the wax pooled on the wooden rail next to me, until there was enough to hold the luminary upright. Sticking it hard into the middle of the melted mass, I held it in place until the wax had cooled. I backed away, wanting to distance myself from the light. Then, hiking up my skirts to my knees, I ducked beneath the rail and stepped into the water as quietly as possible and stood, perfectly still.

“Are you waiting for me to come to you?” he asked. The light from his torch—much stronger than that thrown by my candle—bounced between walls and water as he spun around, looking for me. Moving in silence, careful not to splash in the water, I walked away from the door across the open expanse of the pool, keeping far from the space illuminated around him.

Every time I reached a column I would pause, resting against it, wishing I could slow my heart, that my legs would stop shaking. And then I would continue on, moving in a wide half circle until I’d come almost close enough to see him from behind.

“I am not amused, Lady Emily,” he said, still watching for me. “I can kill her now. Come to me at once.”

A metallic clicking told me he was readying a gun. My breath was coming too fast now, my eyes stinging from the sweat dripping down my brow. I could not let Roxelana die. A few more steps and I could see her. He’d been holding her by the arm but had to let go to pull the pistol out from his belt, keeping the torch held high, looking all the while in the direction of my candle.

I knew better than to think I could get the gun from him. There had to be another way. As I watched my candle’s flame in the distance, it came to me. Stepping back, I crouched behind a column, the base of which was a hideous head of Medusa, inverted so as to be upside down. I reached under my skirt and pulled off one of my petticoats, holding it under the water to flood every fiber of the cotton. Bundling it up into a loose but heavy ball, I wrapped it in my skirts and again moved towards them.

I somehow needed to will my arms to stop trembling, lest my plan be ruined altogether, but I seemed wholly incapable of controlling them. I held my breath, for it was too ragged and too loud as I continued to move towards them, away from my candle, disturbing the water as little as possible.

And then I waited. The stub of my candle did not take long to burn out, but it seemed like hours before its light was gone.

“What have you done?” he asked. “Blown out your candle? Do you forget I have something better?”

I resumed my journey through the water. Terror struck with full potential once I’d reached the flickering circle lit by his torch. He was holding it in his left hand, his right firm on the pistol pointed not towards Roxelana, but where he thought I was standing. I could see now that the columns were not identical. Some were Corinthian, some Doric, and one not far from me was covered with carvings that looked like tears.

“I’ve grown tired of your games,” he said. He raised the gun to the ceiling and fired. Roxelana screamed as the shot ricocheted, but it hit nothing of consequence. Acting out of pure instinct, I knew this was the moment and flung my soaking petticoat onto the flame of the torch. The water doused it at once, and we all stood in absolute darkness.

“Roxelana, run!” I said, silently thanking whoever had decided petticoats should have enough yardage in them to give them a serious heft when wet. “Follow the railing and get to the door.”

I’d figure out some way to unlock the door when I reached it. I heard scrambling feet—it sounded as if she tripped but managed to right herself and set off. Mr. Sutcliffe, however, was still. Not wanting to go near him, I tried as best I could to retrace the way I’d come, no easy feat in an underground room devoid of all light.

“What have you done?” His breathing was hard, irregular, too fast, his voice quivering as he spoke. “Light your candle again. At once.”

I kept moving, hoping I was headed for the door, hoping that the police in the bazaar had taken my direction seriously and that soon we’d have reinforcements. And then, despite myself and despite the hideous circumstances, I almost laughed, realizing that if Colin were there, he’d be bent on rescuing me, and this made me all the more determined to escape on my own.

Roxelana was moving, her steps steady but not fast, but Sutcliffe had still not summoned whatever it would take to make himself move. A whimper escaped from his lips, his fear and panic palpable. I prayed he would not be able to conquer it.

“You must light the candle. Please!” He was shouting now, desperate. “I can’t stand it—you must help me.”

And then I heard a terrible sound. A match. I turned to see the quick flash of brightness. He tried to light the torch, but it was too wet, and he struck a second match and started walking.

“I will kill you,” he said. “You should not have done this to me.”

I had somehow wound my way back to the boardwalk, my hand, which I’d held out in front of me, rubbed against a post of the rail, a splinter sliced into my palm. Undaunted, I continued on, using the rail as a guide. The second match burned out, and he lit a third.

“I can’t open it!” Roxelana had reached the door and was banging on it, her voice full of tears. “Help me, Emily!”

We were so close now. If I could get to the door, I could figure out some way to open the latch. I moved more quickly, then slowed my pace, not wanting to give him audible clues as to where I was. I wished Roxelana would stop pounding on the door but could do nothing about it. I was nearly to her.

The dim match light died, and I braced for him to strike another, but he didn’t. “Light your candle! You do not understand what you are doing to me. Light it!”

He was crying now—heaving sobs—and I let myself move more quickly. No sooner had I started than he began shooting. He was aiming at the ceiling again, trying to frighten us. Great chunks of plaster or rock or something crashed into the water, setting Roxelana screaming again. I pulled myself out of the water, held both sides of the railing in my hands, and ran as fast as I could.

“Emily! Please! Help me!”

I did not mean to reply, but the words came out almost before I realized it. “I’m coming!”

My voice bounced through the chamber, but the echo didn’t confuse him enough. The direction of his bullets was more pointed now, and I dropped to my knees, determined to crawl the rest of the way, a dull pain in my side as I pulled myself along on my elbows. It was only when my corset, already damp, started to grow warm that I realized he’d hit me. The wound itself did not hurt much, but I felt woozy at once, scared and sick. Rescue no longer seemed a dreadful proposition.

I had no choice but to keep moving, and now it seemed that he had regained some nerve. I could hear his heavy footsteps, far behind me on the turn-filled walkway. He was screaming, knocking against the rails, even fell into the water once with a great splash. This spurred me on as a flash of heat coursed through me, and I began to wonder how badly I was hurt. I put my hand to my abdomen, feeling blood, tears streaming from my eyes as I realized that whatever my condition, as Bezime called it, had been, it certainly wouldn’t be any longer. And just then, I knew with certainty that I did welcome it, that I could manage to conquer my fears. But the chance was gone. All I wanted was to stop, to lie down, to sleep, to ignore Roxelana’s voice, which sounded farther and farther away.

I kept crawling.

When I reached the door, I could hardly stand, not only because I was weak, but because I was shaking so violently. Roxelana pulled me to my feet, and together we began wiggling the latch of the door. I could tell by touch that the mechanism was the same as that on the barn door of my father’s estate in Kent. It was a type that, in theory, could be opened from the inside but in fact stuck easily and was almost impossible to manage. As a girl, I’d become an expert at undoing it from both inside and out—spending more time than my mother liked in the barn with my horses. The memory overwhelmed me, dizziness with it, and I nearly lost my entire train of thought until Roxelana shook me. I remembered where I was and tried again and again but was unable to generate the right force at the right angle on the lock.

And then Mr. Sutcliffe’s steps grew heavier, his cries more savage. He could not have been more than thirty feet from us. Summoning every bit of strength I had, I jammed the latch as hard as I could and felt the door give. Roxelana and I tumbled out of it, slamming it hard behind us, cramming the latch hard into the locked position but knowing that if we could force it, he would be able to as well.

“Find something heavy,” I said, doubled over in pain, trying to drag myself up the slippery steps. “Block the door with it.”

“I don’t see anything. I don’t know what to do. I can’t—” Roxelana’s face was ashen, her eyes sunken.

“One of the stones from the edge around the stairs,” I said.

“I don’t want to hit you.”

“You won’t,” I said. “I’ll keep moving.”

“Let me help you first,” she said.

“No, it will take too long. Push it over.”

She stood behind one of the rectangular blocks stacked in haphazard fashion on either side of the top of the stairwell, serving as a sort of barrier to keep people from dropping down the steps from the side. She strained against it, and it moved, only slightly.

I could hear Mr. Sutcliffe fiddling with the latch, clawing at the door. “Let me out! Please! Please!” His voice broke into sobs.

“He’s here. You must hurry.”

She pushed again, harder, I think. I could no longer see her. My vision had become hazy. But I heard her groaning and then heard the scraping sound of rock, followed by a crash, followed by sobs.

“Is it in front of the door?” I asked, the words almost impossible to form.

It sounded as if her answer were yes, but the only thing I heard with clarity was fingernails digging into wood.

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPH

May 2, 1892

Handed in at: Canterbury at 1:37 PM

Received here at: 12:13 PM

TO: Mr. C. Hargreaves

c/o British Embassy Constantinople

Mrs. Brandon having great difficulties. Send prayers and prepare my daughter in case things turn worse. Will update at regular intervals.

Bromley