The ambassador cranes his neck and with the tips of his fingers slides the handkerchief nearer. He picks up the gold bracelet to test its weight.
“Nice piece of workmanship.” He replaces the bracelet carefully on the cloth and touches the bent enameled cross with the tip of one bony finger.
“Where is the inscription?”
“Inside the silver pendant.”
The ambassador picks up the small round ball of silver, opens it, and peers into the two halves.
“Can’t see a thing.” He returns the pendant to the handkerchief. “What does it say?
“Sultan Abdulaziz’s tughra is on one side and a design or an ideogram of some kind is on the other.”
“Interesting. Any idea what it all means?”
“No, sir. Do you recognize these?”
“What? No. What do I know about ladies’ jewelry? I’ll tell you who will know. My daughter. Not much for jewelry herself. Like her mother that way.” The ambassador stops for a moment, his face still except for the nervous fluttering of his eyelids. “Just like her mother.”
Kamil is embarrassed. One never speaks openly to a stranger of one’s family. It is almost as if the ambassador has pulled his wife into the room naked.
“She’s all that’s left to me now.” The ambassador shakes his head slowly, his hand toying absently with the pendant.
Kamil searches for the correct words of condolence, but English is so frustratingly devoid of formulaic responses. In Turkish, he would know exactly what to say. In Persian. In Arabic. What does it say about the Franks, that the language for every important event in life has to be invented anew each time?
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Ambassador.” It seems a feather-light phrase to Kamil. The Turkish formula, “Health to your head,” seems more caring and immediate, but he isn’t sure how to translate it.
The ambassador waves his fingers in Kamil’s direction, then reaches for the brocade bellpull on the wall behind his chair. A moment later, the butler steps in. Kamil wonders whether he has been listening at the door.
“Sir?” “Please ask Miss Sybil to join us.”
SOME MINUTES LATER, with the sound of silk rubbing against silk, a plump young woman enters and stands by the door. She is wearing a lace-edged indigo gown. A single teardrop pearl, suspended on a gold chain, rests at the base of her throat, matching the pearls at her ears. Her light brown hair is caught in a halo around her head. Her face is round, with small features, a plain face given grace by a dreaminess that animates her mouth and wide-set violet eyes. She reminds Kamil of the sturdy but perfectly proportioned Gymnadenia orchid common in forests around the city. Its sepals curve downward and with the petals form a shy pink hood that releases an intense perfume.
The young woman’s brightness is shaded by sadness, perhaps resignation. She moves with the comfortable efficiency of a treasured servant.
“Yes, Father. You asked for me?”
Kamil stands hurriedly and bows. Her father waves her over.
“Sybil, my dear. This is Magistrate Kamil Pasha. He says someone was found. Well, it’s rather awkward. I’ll let the magistrate explain.” His eyes drift to the papers on his desk.
Sybil turns to Kamil with a questioning look. She reaches only to his shoulder. Her curious violet eyes regard him earnestly.
“Madam.” He bows deeply. “Please sit.”
She sets herself down primly onto the chair opposite him. The ambassador has begun to read his dispatches.
“What is it that you wish to know?” Her voice is soft but lilting, like water in a stream.
Kamil feels awkward. He is not used to speaking of such things to ladies. He hesitates. What should he say to cushion the effect?
She tilts her head and says encouragingly, “Please, just tell me what the problem is. Who was found?”
“We found a woman, dead.” He looks up quickly to see the effect of this on the ambassador’s daughter. She is pale but composed. He continues, “We think she may be a foreign subject. I have been given charge of the matter because it is possible that she was murdered. At the moment we are trying to identify her.”
“What makes you think she was murdered?”
“She drowned, which, in itself, is not unusual, given the powerful undertow in the Bosphorus. But she was drugged.”
“Drugged? With what, may I ask?”
“We believe she ingested belladonna. I think you call it deadly nightshade.”
“I see. Belladonna,” she muses. “Does that not make one drowsy?”
“Not drowsy, but, in sufficient quantity, paralyzed. In such a state, a person could drown even in a puddle.”
“How awful. The poor woman. What else can you tell me about her? What was she wearing?”
“She was found without…” Kamil pauses, wondering how to continue.
“Without clothing?” The young woman’s face flushes pink.
“She was found in the Bosphorus within hours of her death. It’s possible that the currents are responsible for her state, but it’s unlikely.”
“Why would that be outside the realm of possibility? You said yourself there are powerful currents.”
Kamil considers how to put this. “European women’s clothing is not easily disarranged.”
The ambassador’s startled face rises momentarily from his papers.
Sybil’s eyes flash with amusement. Then she says softly, “How terribly sad. You say she was young?”
“Yes, in her twenties. Small, slim, blonde hair. Some jewelry was found with her.” He reaches for the handkerchief still on the ambassador’s desk. “Would you permit me?”
“Yes, I’ll look at them.” Her skin has gone the color of parchment, revealing a scattering of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose. She leans over to take the bundle from Kamil. Her hands are plump, dimpled at the knuckles. Her fingers taper to tiny oval fingernails translucent as seashells. She places the bundle in her lap and unwraps it.
“Poor woman,” she murmurs as she strokes each item in turn. She picks up the cross, her face creasing into a frown.
“What is it?” Kamil asks eagerly.
“I’ve seen this, but I can’t remember where. At an evening function of some sort, probably at one of the embassies.” She looks up. “Can you tell me anything more about her?”
“Only that her hair was cut rather short and that she had a large mole on her right shoulder.”
“Yes, of course!” Her face crumples. “Oh, how simply awful.”
Kamil feels a thrill. She knows who it is.
The ambassador looks up at her, then over at Kamil, his face disapproving. He sighs heavily, “I say, Sybil, dear.” He remains in his chair, his fingers compulsively smoothing the paper before him.
Kamil stands and walks to her chair.
“Sybil Hanoum.” He gently takes the bundle from her hands and replaces it with another clean handkerchief drawn from his pocket. Her slim, tapered fingers twine themselves in the fine linen and she dabs her eyes. Kamil never uses handkerchiefs for their intended purpose, a disgusting Frankish practice, but has found many other uses for a handy square of clean cloth.
“I’m sorry, Kamil Pasha.”
Kamil sits again and looks at her expectantly.
“It must be Mary Dixon.”
“Who is that, my dear?” the ambassador asks.
“You remember her, don’t you, Father? Mary is governess for Sultan Abdulaziz’s granddaughter, Perihan.”
“Abdulaziz, yes. Neurotic fellow. Committed suicide. Couldn’t take it when those reformists deposed him. Pushed him right over the edge. Must be hard when you’ve been all-powerful for fifteen years, and then, suddenly, nothing. Asked his mother for a pair of scissors to trim his beard. Used them to open his veins instead.” He regards the palm of his hand, then turns it over and stares at the back. “Nothing left. Just a suite of rooms in some hand-me-down palace.”
He looks up at Kamil, showing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “Been a decade now. 1876, wasn’t it? June, I remember. Seemed an odd thing to do on such a warm day. Nice chap, dash it all.” He moves the piece of paper before him to the corner of the desk, then looks puzzled, as if he has lost something.