“Lady Emily, it is good to see you, but I’m afraid Miss Evans should not have let you come up. I’m not so well as I was earlier.” His voice slurred and his head bobbed. “Even the coff ee Sutcliffe brought up to me didn’t help. Of course it was as bad as that I get at the embassy. Too bitter. Expect better at home.”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” I said. “And wouldn’t have were the matter not of the greatest urgency.”

“What has happened?” He sat up straighter. “Is it my son?”

“I’m afraid so. Colin has found him—don’t worry, he’s safe.”

“Thank heavens. Where was he?”

“Ephesus. They’re on their way back now.”

“This is joyous news,” he said. “I cannot begin—”

“No, please. Wait. He’s admitted to Colin that he was responsible for...” I hesitated.

“Not for Ceyden?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not possible. My son would never. . .” His voice faltered, then failed altogether. His head nodded forward, then dropped back against the pillows. I thought at first he was stricken with grief, but then his jaw went slack and his mouth hung open.

“Sir Richard?... Sir Richard?”

He did not respond. He was breathing—I could see that—but he was not conscious. I pulled the bell cord, then ran to the hallway, shouting for Margaret. The ensuing chaos should have woken the dead, as Miss Evans came into the room and gave a shriek, horrifying and inhuman.

“Has he gone? Have we lost him? Oh, it’s too, too dreadful!” she said.

Margaret appeared almost at once and, proving she had not lost her ability to keep her wits about her, did the reasonable thing. She sent for the doctor, who arrived in short order.

“It’s more chloral hydrate,” he said, coming to meet us in the corridor outside Sir Richard’s room after examining his patient.

“He couldn’t possibly have taken anything,” Miss Evans said. “I’ve followed your orders to the letter. He’s had no access to it.”

“While I do not doubt your sincerity, madam, I know of what I speak. The man has taken an overdose. Not enough to kill him—but his breathing is dangerously shallow. I will do what I can.”

“Will he survive?” I asked.

“I cannot say.”

“Whom did he see today?” I asked, turning to Miss Evans.

“Oh, all kinds of people. Half the staff of the embassy called on him.”

“The coffee,” I said. “It was the coffee.”

“What—”

I did not linger to hear the rest of her sentence but rushed back into the room, grabbed the cup from the nightstand, and brought it to the doctor.

“You’ll find it in here,” I said. “Mr. Sutcliffe brought it up to him, correct?”

“Yes,” Miss Evans said. “I poured it for him myself. But you can’t think—”

The physician sniffed at the contents of the cup, then dipped a finger in it and cautiously touched the tip to his tongue. “That’s chloral hydrate.”

“Do excuse us,” I said, taking Margaret by the arm and dragging her down the steps as fast as I could, nearly tripping on my skirts. I slid across the marble floor as I tried to stop when we’d reached the front door.

“I take it we’re going to the embassy?” Margaret asked, grinning.

“I do love not having to explain things to you,” I said.

We were there in almost no time, breathing hard as the ambassador came to us in the hall—for our arrival was not without commotion.

“Lady Emily, Miss Seward, are you quite well? Do sit down. Let me get you some tea at once,” he said, ushering us into his office.

“I have news,” I said.

“Yes, I’ve heard from your husband. I’m terribly sorry that—”

“No, Sir William, it’s all wrong,” I said. “All of it. Sir Richard has been poisoned and—”

“What?”

“I need to speak to Mr. Sutcliffe at once.”

“He’s not here. He left yesterday on holiday—he’s going to Rome.”

“No, I don’t think he is,” I said. “Could you please let me search his office?” I explained to him what had happened at Sir Richard’s.

“I can’t imagine that this dreadful conjecture of yours is true,” Sir William said. “And even if it were, would he be foolish enough to leave evidence at the embassy?”

“I think Mr. Sutcliffe was dosing him here,” I said. “Please let us look.”

“I suppose there’s no harm, but it seems a useless endeavor,” Sir William said.

He brought us to the records room on the ground floor of the building and opened the door to a small office. A quick search ensued, but to no avail, which disappointed but did not surprise me. “Do you think there’s any way we could get permission—a warrant, whatever the appropriate thing would be—to search his home?” I asked.

“Absolutely not,” Sir William said. “Sir Richard has had difficulties for some time now. And people with troubles like that are, well... I’m sorry, Lady Emily. I let you look in Sutcliffe’s office only because you’re so very enthusiastic about your detecting, and I do appreciate what you’ve been doing. But a lady such as yourself couldn’t begin to comprehend the lengths to which those afflicted with this sort of madness will go to satisfy their cravings. It brings to mind opium houses and the like. I understand your desire to find someone other than Sir Richard to blame for these problems. It is admirable that you revolt at the thought of an English gentleman destroying himself, but in this case, it’s precisely what is happening.”

“There’s more,” I said. “I’ve discovered a connection between Benjamin and someone else in the harem—not Ceyden. I think we’re mistaken altogether about what—”

He held up his hand. “Please, Lady Emily. I understand how upsetting all this must be to a person of such delicate sensibilities. But the truth is now known. There’s nothing further to be said.”

“But who killed Jemal?” I asked. “If Benjamin’s in Ephesus, he couldn’t have done it.”

“He could have gone there immediately afterwards.”

“He wouldn’t have had time. Please, Sir William, let me look into this further. Will you at least tell me more about Mr. Sutcliffe?”

“I’m sorry, Lady Emily, there’s nothing more to be done. If, as you say, Benjamin was not involved in Jemal’s murder, then the entire matter’s of no concern to the embassy.”

“Of no concern?” I asked. “How can you say that?”

“We became involved in Ceyden’s case because she was the daughter of an Englishman. Jemal’s death will be investigated by the Ottomans, as it should be.”

“I think, though, that Mr. Sutcliffe—”

“No, Lady Emily. You’re wrong. There’s nothing further to be done. I thank you for the services you provided your country—I’ve no doubt you did thorough and excellent work. The sultan himself has spoken highly of you. But now the business is done.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he had already stood and opened the door. Margaret rose to her feet and waited for me, urgency in her eyes. Feeling defeated, I followed her out of the room and then the building.

“This is a disaster,” I said.

“What can we do?” Margaret asked. “Do you believe that Mr. Sutcliffe is on his way to Rome?”

“Not for a second.”

“But, Emily, you know that Benjamin is guilty.”

“Probably,” I said. “But I’m slightly less convinced of that fact than I was an hour ago. I want to get into his house. I suspect we may find the chloral hydrate there.”


Mr. Sutcliffe’s butler, a sullen man with no sense of humor, assured us that his master had left on holiday, with plans to go to Rome.

“I’m so sorry to have missed him,” I said. “Could I leave a note?”

“Of course, madam.” He held out his hand.

“Oh,” I said, frowning. “I’ll need paper.”

“Follow me.” With no enthusiasm, he took us into a small, bright sitting room at the front of the house. “You’ll find paper on the table.”

I pulled out the chair in front of a delicate ladies’ desk, picked up a piece of paper, flipped open the inkwell, and dipped the pen, flashing Margaret a look I hoped she would interpret correctly. She sighed heavily and lowered herself onto the nearest chair.

“Would it be possible for us to have something to drink? The walk here completely exhausted me,” she said. And just like that, we had the room to ourselves.

“I want to get into his study,” I said. “It’s the most likely place for him to have hidden something.”

“Where is it?” Margaret asked.

“Two doors farther down the hall. It’s where he showed me the box that was supposed to house the ring.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, I will. You pretend to be ill. If I’m caught, I’ll say I was looking for help.”

I ducked into the hall after satisfying myself that there was no one in the corridor, walking on the balls of my feet so that my heels would not click on the hard floor. I laid one palm flat on the door and slowly turned the knob with the other, opening it just a crack, then looking behind me, making sure I was still alone. As confident as I could be with trembling legs, I pushed further, until I could see into the room.

Mr. Sutcliffe was sitting at his desk.

“Lady Emily!” He leapt to his feet.

“Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry,” I said. “I was leaving a note for you and Margaret fainted. We’ve been walking too much today. I was looking for someone to—”

“How dreadful. Did you ring for help?”

“I—I wasn’t even thinking. Just ran out, hoping to—I’m not even making sense.” I met his eyes and for the first time saw depths of coldness in them. “Will you please help me?”

He stood there, staring for long enough to terrify me. With no time to evaluate options, I did the only thing that sprang to mind: I forced myself to cry. The effort was not entirely successful, but a well-placed handkerchief can hide many things, the absence of tears only one of them.