Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“If we go to the house first, you’re not likely to see much of the city today.” He pulled me close, his arm around my waist.

“I cannot tolerate that,” I said, a delightful flash of heat shooting from toes to fingertips. I straightened my hat—a jaunty little thing, devoid of the ornamentation favored by many of my peers. So far as I was concerned, stuffed birds had no place in the world of fashion. I was too eager in making the adjustment, and the tip of my hat pin jabbed into my scalp, causing me to jump, knocking into a gentleman walking behind me.

“Oh, Sir Richard, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see you.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention, either.” A gruff edge cut through his already rough voice.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Yes, actually. It appears I’ve been robbed. Nothing serious, just unsettling.”

“What happened?” Colin stepped closer to me and began a methodical study of the area around us.

“I’ve no idea. When I was gathering my belongings to leave the train, I realized a sheaf of papers I was bringing from London to the embassy is gone.”

“What sort of papers?” I asked.

Sir Richard narrowed his eyes, seeming to appraise my competence as I asked the question. “Standard diplomatic fare. Nothing of pressing confidentiality. More of a nuisance and embarrassment to lose them than anything else.”

“Do you have any idea when they went missing?” I asked.

“Not at all,” Sir Richard said. “I didn’t need to deal with them during the trip and never pulled them out. It could have happened anytime.”

“Who had access to your compartment?” I asked. “We should question the stewards at once and try to locate the physician who treated you. We know he was there.”

“I assure you, there’s no need, Lady Emily—”

I interrupted him. “Every possibility must be considered.”

“Have you reported this to the local police?” Colin asked.

“No,” Sir Richard said, shielding his eyes from the sun. “It’s entirely unnecessary. This may be nothing more than a prank.”

“I can’t see that making any sense.” I shook my head, harder than I ought to have, sending my already maligned hat off-kilter. “And if that were the case, wouldn’t you have some idea who would do such a thing? Did you have any colleagues on the train? Did anyone even know you had the papers?”

“No. I saw none of my colleagues. But I’m a diplomat. It’s reasonable to assume I’d be carrying papers. Someone—a Turk, perhaps—who’s less than pleased with Britain could have done it to make a point.”

“An awfully oblique point,” I said, frowning. “We’d be happy to assist you—”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” he said. “As I said on the train, I know well your husband’s reputation, but I assure you this is nothing more than an aggravating inconvenience and quite out of the sphere of his interest. I do, however, hope to be in touch soon with an invitation to something I think you’ll both enjoy.”

I watched, dissatisfied, as he walked away from us. “We are going back to the train, aren’t we?” Sir Richard might refuse to investigate, but I could not do the same. My experience, while limited, had given me a taste for detecting.

Colin gave a short laugh. “This is not in the least what I want from a honeymoon, but I know you must be pacified.”

“Yes, I must.” I looped my arm through his and led him to the platform. He flashed some sort of identification, and within a short while we had conducted a quick but thorough interrogation of stewards and lingering passengers. Our efforts, however, were in vain: no suspicious characters, no overlooked clues, and certainly no breathless confession.

“I can’t escape the feeling we’ve missed something,” I said when, finished, we crossed back through the station.

“It’s possible.” Colin took my hand. “But there’s no harm done, Emily. He might have mislaid the papers himself. There was no sign of forced entry into his compartment.”

“He could have forgotten to lock the door.”

“He’s too competent to have done that.”

“Doesn’t it make you wonder about the chloral hydrate?” I asked. “Perhaps someone dosed his wine, knowing the subsequent commotion would provide an opportunity to snatch the papers.”

“I understand the suspicion, my dear, but why would anyone go to so much trouble to take something that, by all accounts, is of no particular value?”

“Perhaps the papers were not the goal,” I continued. “Perhaps harming Sir Richard was, and the theft was meant to set the investigation on the wrong course. We may be dealing with a matter entirely personal, not professional.”

“We, my dear, are not at present dealing with any matter whatsoever other than enjoying our wedding trip.”

“I just—”

“No, Emily. Let this go. Come. The Golden Horn awaits you.”

Constantinople was like an exotic dream full of spice and music and beauty—the scent of cardamom blew through the streets like a fresh wind—but at the same time, it had a distinct and surprising European feel. The cobbled streets, winding at seemingly random angles through the city, teemed with gentlemen, as many wearing top hats as were in dark red fezzes. Stray cats darted in front of us with alarming frequency, slinking confidently in search of their next meal, while brazen shopkeepers called out, inviting us into stores brimming with Eastern treasures. Noise filled every inch of the air: seagulls crying, carts clattering, voices arguing in foreign tongues.

Before us, the choppy silver blue waters of the Golden Horn—the estuary slicing through the European section of the city—stood mere paces from the station. Boats tied too close knocked together down the length of battered docks, only the larger vessels meriting the space to stay safely untouched. One among them waited for us, but I did not pause to identify it, heading instead for the Galata Bridge, making my way through the crush of carriages in the road, Colin’s hand firm on my arm. We paused to pay the toll—a pittance—and walked until we reached the midpoint of the pontoon-supported structure.

“I like being able to see two continents,” I said, watching Colin as his eyes swept the Asian shore far across the Bosphorus from us. “It gives an intrinsic satisfaction I’ve not before experienced.”

“Seraglio Point, on the European side.” Colin nodded towards the shore from which we’d come. “The spires of Topkapı Palace are there”—he pointed—“and farther this way, the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya.” The minarets of the holy buildings jutted into the crisp sky with mathematical precision, rising from the crowds of smaller stone structures. Gulls circled and dove, careening around the minarets and then pausing to coast on the air, as if catching their breath before darting off again. Trees surrounded the palace, its far-off buildings the only break in a sea of green.

“Topkapı looks marvelous, even from a distance,” I said. “Perhaps I shall be kidnapped and given to the sultan and live out the rest of my years there.” A few paces from me, a fisherman pulled up his line and dropped his flopping catch into an already full bucket. All around us, men were doing the same, and the air fell heavy with the oily, salty scent of their bounty.

“He should be so lucky.” Our eyes met and lingered, and the most pleasant sort of warmth pulsed through me. “But you wouldn’t be—the court is no longer at Topkapı. There’s a new palace.”

“I could stand here all day,” I said. To our north, the neighborhoods of Pera stretched to the hills, and the Galata Tower, the last remnant of a fourteenth-century fort, stood tall above tier after tier of creamy rose-and-white houses.

“I’ve other plans for you.” After bestowing upon me a deliciously discreet kiss that in an instant promised untold delights, Colin led me back to the docks, and in short order we had climbed aboard a small caïque rowed by two sturdy men. They moved with a grace I would not have expected from persons so muscular, pulling through water rough enough to make me wish for the stability of a large ship. As the Golden Horn opened to the wide expanse of the Bosphorus, I began to feel queasy bouncing up and down on erratic waves.

Houses packed the Asian shore as tightly as the European, but as we traveled north, they grew larger—yalıs, mansions built as summer homes for the city’s elite. Some were spectacular, others in distressing states of disrepair, but all came right to the edge of the water, which lapped against terraces perfect for watching the light change as the sun set. Colin had rented one for us that was a vision of romantic perfection: bright white with a peaked red roof and elaborately delicate gingerbread trimwork on the myriad windows, pillars, and balconies gracing the eighteenth-century façade. I stepped, unsteady, off the boat, the fatigue of travel exacerbated by the rough crossing. Nonetheless, I was ready to explore the interior.

The rooms were leagues more refined and elegant than my villa in Greece and entirely different from the sort of luxury I was used to in England. Overstuffed pillows sheathed in silk covered low sofas, and the carpets were soft and spectacular, Anatolian, with designs of leaves and hyacinths twined together, their colors blending beneath an almost translucent sheen. Even pieces that at home would have been fashioned from simple wood were full of exquisite detail: every table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ebony. An exotic retreat, full of delicious comforts. We collapsed, exhausted, and slept scandalously late the next morning.

“Mail at breakfast?” I asked, watching Meg hand Colin a stack of ivory envelopes as I dropped into a chair on our balcony. “It’s as if we’re still in England.”