Leyla tries to hush her sister. “My dear sister, please don’t excite yourself. Allah is the only witness.” Trying to change the subject, she turns to Sybil.
“You remind me of a governess we had in the palace long ago, may Allah rest her soul. You have the same pale eyes.”
“Hannah Simmons?” Sybil feels her skin prickling with excitement.
“Yes, that was her name. Did you know her?” Leyla leans closer to Sybil. “You seem too young.”
“My mother did. Please tell me about Hannah.”
“A calm girl, sweet as honey lokum.” Leyla looks around the room. “What else is there to tell? Asma Sultan, you must remember her.”
Asma Sultan thinks a moment, then answers, “No, regrettably I do not. Though, of course, we all know what happened to her.”
Perihan looks at her mother in surprise and seems about to speak, then thinks better of it.
Leyla also appears surprised. “But she was a governess in your house.”
“We have many servants,” Asma Sultan snaps irritably.
Perihan adds in a conciliatory tone, “She wasn’t very memorable. I’m sure her death is the only reason we can remember her at all.”
“I thought her quite pleasant,” Shukriye chimes in. “I often saw her at the women’s gatherings and at the hamam. She had charge of the young girls. I once tried to give her some satin cloth, but she seemed content to dress like a colorless sparrow. Poor woman. She seemed uninterested in even the simplest embroidery or jewelry.”
“Just that silver necklace she always wore,” Leyla adds. “Do you remember it, Shukriye? The only time she ever took it off was to sleep and at the baths. I was surprised that she took it off even then, since she insisted on wearing a chemise. Perhaps she had a disability?” She looks at Sybil inquiringly. “I never understood why she hid her body in the bath. It’s ridiculous. We’re all women. What is there to hide?”
Sybil can think of no response that wouldn’t offend her hosts. On the lowest physical surface, what Leyla says makes logical sense, but it takes no account of higher, more civilized notions of modesty. She smiles nervously.
“Why didn’t she take the necklace off? Was it something special?” asks Shukriye.
“I don’t think so. Just a round silver bauble,” Leyla says dismissively.
Sybil speaks up. She wants to defend Hannah from these women’s disparaging judgment. “I think it was probably quite a valuable piece. At least, it seems to have been made at the palace.”
“Why do you think that? I don’t remember anything particular about it,” asks Leyla curiously. “Of course, it was all such a long time ago.”
“It has a tughra inside,” Sybil says brightly, relieved at not having to defend British modesty and proud that she has something to contribute to the conversation.
Leyla draws her breath in sharply. “What? Where would a foreign girl get such a thing? You must be mistaken.”
“No, really. I saw it myself.”
Leyla looks at Asma Sultan. “It must have been a gift from someone in the harem.”
“I’m not in the habit of giving valuable gifts to servants,” Asma Sultan answers with mild reproach.
“Sybil Hanoum,” Perihan asks, “did you say you saw it? I thought the police would have taken it.”
The women’s heads all turn to Sybil.
“The young Englishwoman-Mary Dixon-who was killed last month had it around her neck. You’ve heard of her death, surely.” Turning to Perihan, she adds, “She was your governess, I believe.”
“Mary Hanoum,” Perihan mutters. “An odd woman, but I wished her no ill. May Allah have mercy on her soul.” To Sybil, “I never saw her wear such a necklace.”
“How do you know it’s the same one Hannah had?” Leyla asks.
Sybil explains about the box. “It’s also special because it has Chinese writing in it.”
“Chinese?” the women exclaim.
“Then it must be something from outside the country,” Perihan suggests. “Maybe the sultan’s seal was added later.”
Leyla agrees. “Our food in the palace is served on porcelain brought from China.”
“And aren’t those enormous vases in the reception rooms from China?” Shukriye adds. “I remember almost knocking one over as a child.”
“Didn’t your mother have a collection of Chinese art?” Leyla asks Asma Sultan.
Asma Sultan doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she asks Sybil, “How do you know it’s Chinese?”
“My cousin Bernie is visiting here. He’s a scholar of Asia. That is, he’s writing a book on relations between your empire and the East. Anyway, he was able to read it. It’s part of a poem.”
“A poem,” Asma Sultan repeats knowingly. “Of course. It was probably a gift to Hannah from her lover. But how did this woman Mary come to have it?”
“Hannah had a lover?” Sybil tries to hide her excitement.
“Someone she met on her day off. She was allowed to leave the palace once a week, but Arif Agha kept an eye on her.”
“Arif Agha?”
“One of the eunuchs. Every week, Hannah got into a carriage with the same driver and didn’t come back until early the next morning. Arif Agha asked her where she went, but all he could get out of her was, ‘To visit a friend.’ He tried to have her followed, but that incompetent fellow couldn’t manage it. And then it was too late.”
“Did Arif Agha describe the driver?” Sybil asks.
Asma Sultan thinks about this. “He said the driver was scruffily dressed, not in livery as one might expect if she were visiting a home in good society. But such families would have sent an escort. Anyway, Arif Agha told all this to the police.” Then she mutters to herself, “That fox-tongued fool always talked too much.”
“Is Arif Agha here?” Sybil thinks Kamil might wish to speak with him.
“He retired. His incompetence lost him our trust.”
“And his venality,” adds Perihan.
“It was stupid of the girl to get into a carriage unaccompanied,” Asma Sultan observes. “Anything could happen.”
“And clearly did.” Perihan completes her mother’s sentence in a satisfied voice.
“Was the driver a Turk?” Sybil asks.
Asma Sultan sighs deeply, unable to hide her annoyance at the continued questioning. “I don’t think so. According to Arif Agha, the man had Arab hair the color of sand. Perhaps a Kurd. Their hair is curly like that, but they are usually darker. One of the minorities? But which one?” She throws up her hands in mock despair. “How is one to tell?” After a moment, she adds darkly, “If you toy with a snake, it will bite you.”
Perihan asks Sybil, a bit sharply, “Why do you want to know this?”
Leyla intercedes. “Of course, she was one of your people,” she tells Sybil kindly. “It’s natural that you should want to know as much as possible about her.”
“Her killer was never found,” Sybil adds.
“Under a rock, no doubt, among others of his kind.” Asma Sultan shrugs.
“Do you think it’s of any importance now?” Shukriye asks.
“I don’t know. I’m helping Kamil Pasha, the magistrate investigating Mary Dixon’s murder. He seems to think there’s some connection between the two deaths.” She turns to Asma Sultan. “Did you say your mother had a collection of Chinese art? My cousin would be most interested to take a look at it, I mean, if that’s permitted. And I’ll be sure to tell Kamil Pasha about it.” She says his title proudly, as if it already belongs to her, relishing the heft of it on her tongue. “He’s coming to dine with us the day after tomorrow.”
“My mother has passed away,” Asma Sultan replies stiffly.
Sybil is mortified. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t know. Health to your head.”
“It was a long time ago.” Asma Sultan rises to her feet. “Now it is time for us to leave.”