“I suppose I must take your word for that! The assurances of a mere housebreaker.” Dr. Millingen sneered. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain what does interest you before I turn you over to the watch.”
“Of course, forgive me. I came here on account of your coin collection.”
“My coins? The devil you did.”
Yashim spread his hands in a calming gesture. “I admit that I have no particular interest in coins. But I am intrigued by the collecting process, Dr. Millingen. Your method of acquiring specimens. Malakian, for instance—you described him as an excellent source.”
Millingen put his hat on the desk and picked up the box. “What of it?”
“Malakian is here in Istanbul. Athens might be a better place to look, if your specialty is the coinage of the Morean despots. I imagine that hoards of these coins are discovered there, buried in the ground or hidden in old buildings, or whatever. Is that so?”
“It happens,” Millingen said. He glanced at the label on the box, and set it down slowly. “Mostly in my dreams.”
“I wondered—your Athenian friend, who sends you coins? You said he was a doctor. Perhaps you were at Missilonghi together?”
“I have made no secret of my presence at Missilonghi, Yashim efendi. Dr. Stephanitzes was a colleague.”
“Of course. Now he writes books. He’s a firm advocate of what the Greeks call the Great Idea, isn’t he? I was curious about your correspondence.”
“Well, well. I wasn’t aware that even in Turkey curiosity was a warrant for entering a man’s house and rifling his private papers.” Dr. Millingen’s expression hardened. “I suppose you will tell me what conclusions you were able to draw?”
“Very few—I merely confirmed some ideas of mine. That, for example, the traffic between you and Dr. Stephanitzes was not all one way. In return for his coins, you were able to put him in the way of expanding his own collection.”
“I see. Well, go on.”
Yashim reached forward and opened the lid of the box of papers.
“Here, in his most recent letter, Dr. Stephanitzes refers to a former member of the collectors’ club. You’ve mentioned him surfacing in Istanbul with a potentially devastating offer. Stephanitzes remembers him leaving the club without paying his dues.”
“That’s correct,” Millingen said. “Ours is a very small world.”
“Yes, isn’t it? Yashim said pleasantly. “Dr. Stephanitzes confesses to being highly interested in the former club member’s offer. A late Byzantine hoard—no, forgive me, the very last Byzantine hoard. But I expect you remember all that.
“He urges you to inspect the hoard personally. I’d say your Dr. Stephanitzes is a skeptic: he doesn’t seem to trust the ex-member very far. But if the hoard proves to be genuine, he thinks that it could be exchanged for a considerable collection of valuable Greek coinage.”
“But what of that, Yashim efendi?” Dr. Millingen took a pipe from the rack on his desk. He opened a drawer and scrabbled with his fingers for the tobacco. “It strikes me that you have had a very dull afternoon here. You, after all, are not a collector. What would you know of our curious passions? You’d be surprised by the jealousies and satisfactions we experience in our little world. The intensity of our feelings. Even the level of our mutual mistrust.”
He sat down and tamped the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Malakian—through your good offices—completed the set for me. I was elated for a day or two. But now? Rather depressed. I think I shall donate the collection to the British Museum.”
Yashim cocked his head. “I’d rather you explained about Lefèvre’s hoard,” he said.
Dr. Millingen leaned back in his chair and gave a chuckle. “Well, well.” He sucked on his unlit pipe. “You’ve guessed, then. I did see the unfortunate Dr. Lefèvre. And yes, we discussed a hoard. Unfortunately I was never able to inspect it, as my friend advised, so I don’t suppose we will ever really know what it was he was offering to exchange. Poor fellow. He had so many irons in the fire.”
“Another buyer, maybe?”
“Yes, that, too.”
Yashim frowned. “But you and Stephanitzes, you could trump all buyers, couldn’t you? If you wanted what he offered badly enough.”
Millingen hesitated. “You are forgetting, Yashim efendi, that Lefèvre was only offering an idea. A promise, if you will. Why would I trust him?”
“Because he’d been your friend.”
“Lefèvre my friend? I never knew Lefèvre.”
Yashim shrugged. “Strictly speaking, no. But you did know Meyer. The Swiss doctor at Missilonghi. You shared a cause.”
He expected Millingen to jump, but the Englishman merely reached for a match and frowned. “Meyer?” He struck the match and it flared between his fingers. “He was a Savoyard, in fact.”
“A Savoyard?”
“French Swiss. Swiss when it suits, and French when it doesn’t.” He paused to light his pipe. “We shared a cause, as you say. It seemed a cause to fight for, when I was young.”
“And now?”
Millingen tossed the match into the grate and put his hand around the bowl of his pipe. “I don’t know if you heard what happened at Missilonghi, Yashim efendi. The daily bombardments. The daily toll of disease. All the world knows Byron came to Missilonghi and died, and half of them think he was leading a cavalry charge at the time, with Suliotes in scarves and fustanellas brandishing pistols at his side. They think he was glorious because he was a poet, and that his death was glorious. But it wasn’t so. Missilonghi was just a trap, and Byron died just like most of them died, of fever, or cramp, or dysentery, or cholera. Sometimes people died when a shell landed on them in the street, out of the blue. Good for a doctor, eh? Plenty of cases to puzzle over. Plenty of widows and orphaned children to doctor and send to their graves. And that, my friend, was our revolutionary war.”
Millingen clamped the pipe between his teeth and stood up.
“I told you before, I don’t like postmortems. And I said why, too. I doctor to the living, not the dead. It’s my job to preserve life.”
Yashim nodded. What Millingen said sounded true. It also sounded like a speech.
“I was wondering about Meyer.”
Millingen scowled. “I see. What about him?”
“Well, if Byron disliked him, I suppose he didn’t attend the poet—as a doctor, I mean.”
“No.”
“So he was lucky, in that sense.” Yashim sounded embarrassed.
Millingen’s scowl darkened. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing, I mean—but after all, the poet died. In spite of—everything. Everything you could do.”
“For God’s sake!” Millingen swore, in English. “You think we killed Byron? Rubbish! Cuppings. Purges. We took out pints of blood—all by the book. Don’t think Meyer could have done any better!” Millingen’s tone was incredulous; spots of color had appeared on his cheeks.
“No, forgive me.” Yashim put out his hands in a soothing gesture. “I only meant—I’d heard—how Meyer was lost, when the rest of you got away. You joined the breakout, and it worked. The lucky two thousand. It must have been a scene of dreadful confusion. A crowd of terrified people, groping their way through the Turkish lines in the dark. Losing each other. Unable to raise their voices. People taking different routes into the hills. Is that how it was?”
Millingen’s lips were tight. “Something like that.”
“Yet Meyer stayed behind. Trying—and failing—to protect his wife, perhaps.”
Millingen flexed his fingers. He was breathing hard.
“He had a wife to think of, didn’t he?” Yashim said.
Millingen rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and when he opened them again, they looked pink and tired. “Maybe Missilonghi ended just as you say. Meyer wasn’t in the breakout—that much is true. But he didn’t stay behind, either.”