“She came here several times to deal with visa matters. At first she was quite mocking of her new environment and so put out about her accommodations, one would think she was coming as a guest rather than as a governess. She said the girl who showed her to her room…” Sybil hesitates, but decides that in a murder investigation, she has no right to let modesty censor her account. “She said the girl was dressed in nothing more than, as she put it, knickers and a wrap.” Kamil swallows a laugh. Sybil blushes, then hurries on. “And she complained that her room was completely unfurnished. She was horrified when she realized they expected her to sleep on a mattress that they brought out of the cupboards at night and to eat, as she put it, on the floor.”
“It must be a great change for someone used to beds and tables and chairs.”
“I thought it a bit unreasonable in someone coming out here to work. Surely she should have expected the experience to be different. Or else, why would she have come?”
“I’m sure she was paid well.”
“I suppose she must have been, although, of course, we never spoke of that sort of thing.”
“How did she get on with her employer?”
“Perihan Hanoum? Mary didn’t seem to like her. She said she was haughty and unreasonable.”
“You know Perihan Hanoum?”
“No, but I met her mother, Asma Sultan, many years ago.”
“The wife of Ali Arslan Pasha, the grand vizier?”
Sybil nods. “It was the winter of 1878. I remember because it was snowing. A young Englishwoman, Hannah Simmons, had been killed that summer. She was employed as a governess and Mother was visiting the royal harems to see if she could find out anything. The police seemed to have thrown up their hands.” She looks up at Kamil, smiling sadly. “You didn’t know my mother. She was very determined.” She pauses. “It’s such a sad story, but, you know, what I remember best is that we rode there on a sleigh. Isn’t that awful of me?”
“You were very young then.”
“Fifteen.” Sybil smiles shyly.
An image of Sybil in the snow comes unbidden to Kamil’s mind. “It’s commendable of you and your mother to do so much.”
Brushing off the praise, Sybil responds, “It’s not right to be nostalgic when another young woman has been killed.
Kamil ponders a moment. “Do you know anything specific that Mary Dixon disliked about her employer? Did they ever argue?”
“She never mentioned anything specific. I wonder, in retrospect, whether Mary liked anyone. It’s improper to speak ill of the dead, I know, but she seemed so disaffected. The only time I saw her happy-although I suppose animated is a better word-was at the soirees she attended at the Residence. She attracted quite a bit of attention with her short hair and bold manner.”
“What kind of attention?”
“Men. Men seemed to be drawn to her.”
Kamil smiles. “Anyone in particular?”
“Not that I know of. Well, she did have a rather lively discussion with a young Turkish journalist, Hamza Efendi, not long before she…passed away. But I don’t think it meant anything,” she added briskly. “Just a conversation. I only mention it because other people noticed.”
“She seems to have taken you into her confidence.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I think she needed someone to complain to, but we never had a real conversation. We spoke only a handful of times and I remember feeling quite put off by her reticence. That is, well, I shouldn’t think such black thoughts, but it did occur to me at the time that perhaps she sought me out simply to gain invitations to the Residence.”
“Do you know if she had any friends?”
“I didn’t see her very often.” Sybil pauses. “But I do remember that one evening last autumn she spent quite some time chatting with a young Turkish woman. I wondered about it at the time. It seemed as if they knew each other well.”
“Do you remember the young lady’s name?”
“I think it was Jaanan Hanoum, the daughter of an official, I believe, at the Foreign Ministry.”
“The niece of the scholar Ismail Hodja?”
“Yes, that sounds right. I believe someone mentioned that he was a relation. I suppose it’s possible that Mary met her before at one of our soirees. Jaanan Hanoum sometimes came with her father. I just never noticed them together before.”
Kamil leans forward, pondering this further link to Chamyeri.
Sybil looks down, her fingers entwined in her lap. “Oh, dear, you must think me quite wicked for being so critical, when the poor woman is no longer here to defend herself.”
“Not at all, Sybil Hanoum. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
She doesn’t look up.
“Please don’t worry yourself. You’re mistaken to think you are somehow unjust to Miss Dixon’s memory by telling me what you know of her. On the contrary, you are helping me sort out what I believe you English call a ‘fine kettle of fish.’”
Sybil laughs. “Your English really is remarkable.” Then, turning serious violet eyes on Kamil, still sitting with his back to the offending paintings, she ventures, “Could I entice you to stay for lunch?”
“I would be honored.”
Sybil calls the maid to give instructions, then, to Kamil’s great relief, leads the way out of the reception room.
“From whom did you inherit your discerning palate, then?”
A servant in a pressed black suit stands just inside the French doors, far enough away that he cannot hear their conversation, although Kamil sees the young man’s head straining their way. They sit on the patio, cooled by breezes from the Golden Horn.
“From my grandmother. Since my parents were abroad so much, my sister, Maitlin, and I lived with my grandmother in Essex. Nana was quite a bon vivant. She had the most fabulous dinner parties with coq au vin, flans, these delicate almond fingers…I can almost taste them now. You know, she hired a French cook for her kitchen. It was quite a radical thing to do, since the French were-and still are-quite unpopular. In fact, some of her kitchen staff quit because they refused to work under a “Frenchie.” But the cook, Monsieur Menard, was such an unassuming person that the staff eventually accepted him. His passion was cooking and he produced the most remarkable meals. Other people served stodgy English fare, but Nana’s dinners were always interesting. Not all of her guests approved, of course.” She laughs, exposing tiny round teeth. “I remember one particular lamb chop that was so tender that I can still, to this day, taste the bubble of flavor that burst in my mouth when I took the first bite.”
Sybil stops abruptly and leans forward, embarrassed. “You must think me trivial to be obsessing over a lamb chop when you are here on a matter of murder.”
“One’s past is never trivial. Your description made me think of the house I grew up in, my mother’s house in Bahchekoy. I still live there.” Sybil’s vivid account of her grandmother’s house has pulled him into a conspiracy of memories from which he doesn’t have the will or the desire to disentangle himself.
“My father was governor of Istanbul, and he was also responsible for the police and the gendarmes, so he was busy much of the time. Even when he was at home, we rarely saw him. The governor’s palace was enormous, with so many rooms always crowded with servants and guests and people coming to petition my father or pay social visits to my mother as the governor’s wife. I think it was all a bit too much for her. So when we were still quite young, she moved my sister and me to her childhood home. It’s a lovely villa, surrounded by gardens. You can see the Bosphorus from the gardens. And instead of your Monsieur Menard, we have Fatma and Karanfil,” he adds with a smile.