“A pistol.” I must confess I rather liked the idea. “Maybe a Derringer?”

“How do you know about Derringers?” he asked.

“I read.”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“Can we get one here?” I asked.

“Probably, but you’d need to be trained before you could carry it. It would be more of a danger to you than a protection until you’re fully competent using it.”

“I’m sure I could learn.”

“I shall teach you when we get back home,” he said. “I’m something of an expert marksman.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, feeling my brow crease. “What other fascinating secrets are you hiding from me?”

“None that I can recall at present. For now, though, you’ll have to be doubly diligent. Take no chances.”

We’d reached the edge of the water, and I gripped his hand hard as I stepped into the vessel rocking violently before us, disappointed that my romantic notions of cruising the Bosphorus were being dashed on a daily basis by rough water that, so far as I was concerned, ought not to have troubled my stomach. Once we’d disembarked, it was into a carriage to take us the rest of the way through Pera, the section of Constantinople that housed not only the majority of foreign embassies and consulates, but also the Europeans who worked in them. Despite the preponderance of Western dress and more than one façade that looked straight out of London’s Mayfair, the neighborhood did not lack flourishes of the exotic, from elaborately carved wooden buildings to veiled ladies ducking in and out of alleys.

Sir Richard’s house, with its tall, Empire edifice, was a neoclassical vision, situated on the corner of a street near the British embassy. We were ushered inside by an English butler and served tea almost before we’d taken our seats in a drawing room furnished to showcase the eclectic mix of objects one would expect to find in the home of an international traveler. Serene-looking Isis, queen of the Egyptian gods, her arms outstretched, supported the cherry table on which a silver tea service was laid, and the heads of sphinxes decorated the chairs surrounding it.

“I’m having difficulty finalizing my daughter’s funeral arrangements,” Sir Richard said, his voice rough and tired. “Part of me wants to bring her to England, where, if I’d kept her in the first place, she’d still be alive. Sadly, though, that’s a mistake it’s far too late to correct. My initial—” He stopped speaking as the door swung open and a young man, his clothes encrusted with dried mud and his hair positively wild, staggered into the room, cringing as he put weight on his right foot. “Benjamin!” Sir Richard crossed the room and took him by the shoulders.

“Forgive me, Father,” Benjamin said, his breath ragged. “I came as quickly as I could when I—I heard about Ceyden.”

“What happened to you? You’re a mess. Didn’t you hire a special train?”

“The site’s not far enough from here to require a train, Father. I rode.”

“You shouldn’t—”

Benjamin interrupted his father. “You’re right, this time. I shouldn’t have ridden alone. Bandits set on me. I managed to break away from them but did not escape entirely unscathed.” He sat—collapsed, really—on a chair and motioned to his leg. “My ankle’s giving me more than a little trouble.”

“I’ll send for the doctor at once,” Sir Richard said.

“There’s no need. If I rest—”

“No.” Sir Richard pulled a heavily embroidered bell cord and dispatched the servant who appeared in short order to fetch a physician. “You will be treated by someone who knows the science of his profession.”

The darkness that crossed Benjamin’s face suggested he was far from agreement with his father, but he said nothing further on the topic, instead turning his red-rimmed gray eyes to Colin and me. “Who are your guests?” Sir Richard made speedy introductions that included our credentials as investigators while I poured a cup of tea for his son, who accepted it, dropped in three cubes of sugar, and stirred with a tiny silver spoon.

“Do you really think you can find my sister’s murderer?” he asked, his face three shades paler than the porcelain cup in his hand.

“We’ll do everything possible,” Colin said. “And I have great hopes that we’ll succeed. After all, we’re dealing with a limited number of possible suspects. The killer has to be someone with access to the palace.”

“Or someone wily enough to find his way in,” Sir Richard said.

“No one could do that,” Benjamin said, his words spilling on top of one another. “Yıldız is a veritable fortress. The walls are higher than those of prisons in England. We should not be careening in wild directions. Surely no one can doubt the murderer”—he seemed to choke on the word—“was someone from the harem. It may be that the right man is already in custody.”

“There’s no need for you to be thinking of any of this,” Sir Richard said. “I want you focused only on recovering from this attack. You’re safe now. I shan’t let you come to any harm.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” His father did not answer but pulled Colin towards a window, where they stood, heads bent together in earnest discussion.

I, however, could not help but smile at Benjamin’s response. His words were old friends to my own lips, and I felt an immediate kinship with him. “I’ve no doubt of it,” I said with a soft smile. “I’m so sorry about your sister.”

“Thank you,” he said, scooting his chair closer to mine. “My father takes overprotective to new heights.” He kept his voice low.

“It’s natural for a parent to worry about a child. But I understand how stifling it can be.”

“He was bad before—and his friend Mr. Sutcliffe had been making it worse for as long as I can remember. They’re both obsessed with having lost children.”

“It’s easy to sympathize,” I said.

“I suppose so, but you cannot prevent every bad thing. Sutcliffe at least had begun to back off—he finally was accepting me as an adult and even went so far as to speak to my father about supporting my decision to work at the dig.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, wincing as he moved his long legs. He’d inherited his father’s height. “But now that Ceyden’s dead, I’m wondering if I should put my father’s mind at ease—go back to England. If only I could convince him to come with me.”

“Would he leave?” I asked.

“Probably not. Especially when he’s bent on getting justice for Ceyden.” Tears hung heavy in his eyes. “There’s no point in it, really. She’s gone. There’s no consolation to be found. I only wish—so desperately—that we’d known she was here.”

“I know how difficult all this is,” I said. “But I’ve no doubt that seeing your sister’s killer in custody will bring more relief than you can imagine.”

“Yes. Justice must be served.” Benjamin looked at the ceiling, blinking to stop his tears. “I suppose there is no other way.”

Colin and Sir Richard stepped back towards us and sat down. “Do you think...” I paused, studying the older man. “Could this in any way be connected to the theft of your papers on the train?”

“I can’t dream up any relation between the two,” Sir Richard said. “Especially as no one in Constantinople would have known Ceyden’s true identity.”

“Something in it all doesn’t feel right. Your papers are stolen, your daughter murdered, your son attacked. All, coincidentally, in the space of a handful of days?” I was scrunching my forehead with such intensity, a pain had started between my eyebrows. “I’m finding it increasingly hard to believe that you took an incorrect dose of your sleeping draught. What if someone tried to poison you?”

“What is all this?” Benjamin asked.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” his father said, then turned to me. “I measured my chloral hydrate incorrectly and embarrassed myself at dinner on the train from Paris. I’d taken the dose before dinner and imagine the wine with the meal—wine that, if I remember correctly, tasted terrible—heightened the effect. That’s all. What should be concerning us all right now is the fact that my son has been attacked.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the men who jumped you?” Colin asked.

Benjamin shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”

“Was this the first time such a thing has happened?” I asked.

“No.” Benjamin’s voice was measured, even. “The site has suffered its share of raids.”

“I thought those troubles had stopped.” The firm edge in Sir Richard’s voice cut through the room, and his son looked at the floor as if he’d never seen something more fascinating than the soft carpet that covered it. “Benjamin!”

“Sir?”

“You have assured me repeatedly that you are in no danger working there.” He pushed up hard on the arms of his chair and stood, towering over his son.

“It’s as safe as anywhere—”

“That is not acceptable. Not when you’ve been the target so many times.”

Colin stepped between them. “Target?”

“He’s exaggerating,” Benjamin said, standing. “The doctor will undoubtedly be here soon, and if it’s not too much to ask, I’d prefer to speak to him in private. Excuse me.” He hobbled as he walked, pushing away his father’s outstretched arm and slamming the door behind him.

“What’s this all about?” I asked.

“It was a few months ago,” Sir Richard said. “There were a string of attacks at the excavation. Bandits. Appeared initially to be nothing out of the ordinary. But they never stole anything—never did anything to vandalize the site. Just hid up in the hills with their guns, aiming at no one but my son.”

“You’re quite certain?” I shot a pointed look at my husband. “It sounds like we should visit the camp.”