The Sultan's Seal (23 page)

Suddenly the horse stops short. Someone is pulling on the bridle. Hamza hears a lightly accented voice.

“I thought you a better rider than this, Hamza Efendi. You were sitting on the horse backwards. Let me help you. Ah, I see you have righted yourself. No matter.”

Strong hands pull Hamza from the saddle. He lands off balance, but with both feet on the ground. The dust he kicks up makes him cough. Hamza can make out only the shape of the man, black against black. He is short and stocky. Hamza twists and attempts to leap away, but the man moves quickly. A blade glints briefly like a firefly. In less than a heartbeat, it is at Hamza’s throat.

“You’ll come with me,” says the figure.

“Who are you?” Hamza’s eyes dart toward the forest, but he cannot run. The blade stings his throat and every breath causes it to intrude farther. He tries to calm his breathing. When he dares, he clears his throat.

“You have something to say?” The knife moves away infinitesimally. Hamza can’t feel the blade, but knows it is still there.

“Who are you? What do you want with me? I have little money, but you can have it.”

The shadow man laughs as if at a very good joke.

“You can take the horse too,” adds Hamza nervously. There is something very familiar about the man, but Hamza cannot place it. He jerks away but the blade finds him again.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know why you’re back.”

The man whistles shrilly and a carriage approaches. The shadows of three men wrestle Hamza inside.

K
amil accepts the long chubuk pipe Ismail Hodja’s servant has filled with fragrant tobacco, draws up his legs, and leans back against the divan cushions in the hodja’s study. The morning ride was brisk and Kamil is glad of the warmth between his lips. The hodja is smoking a narghile, the long cord looped once around his arm, amber mouthpiece in his slender fingers. The servant checks the coal atop the rose-colored glass flask. As Ismail Hodja draws from the mouthpiece, the coal glows beneath the tobacco, its smoke bubbling down through the cooling liquid and along the tube to the hodja’s mouth. His face beneath the turban is calm, but his eyes are troubled and red-rimmed with exhaustion.

“Have you learned anything, Magistrate Kamil?” he asks softly. “The police last night told me only that they arrested Hamza and wished me to make a complaint about his violent behavior.” His eyes rest on the hole in the door. “I declined, of course.” He adds angrily, “I can’t imagine how they could presume to know what goes on in my house.”

“I visited Hamza in jail on my way here this morning,” Kamil says. “The police are accusing him of murdering the two Englishwomen.”

“What? That’s preposterous.”

“Hamza admits he betrayed your hospitality last night, but denies having anything to do with the murders. I must admit his arrest was a surprise to me. The police say they have evidence that Hamza met Hannah Simmons in your garden pavilion on the night she was killed.” He looks at Ismail Hodja curiously from under his eyebrows, respectfully avoiding eye contact.

Ismail Hodja looks surprised. “When my niece was a child, Hamza used to come to Chamyeri to tutor her and then spent the night in the men’s quarters. I banned him from my house after my groom Jemal saw him sneak out one night and bring a woman into the pavilion.”

“You didn’t tell the police this?”

“I never spoke of it to anyone.”

“Did your groom identify the woman?”

“No. You may ask him if you like. It was in the months before that poor young woman was found dead. Jemal said he didn’t see the woman up close, but thought she might be foreign by her dress. I remember because he was worried it might have been my niece’s governess. But we had her room checked, and she was asleep.” He puffs on the narghile. “I suppose it could have been Hannah Simmons.”

Ismail Hodja’s narghile has gone out. He gestures to the servant, who fetches a fresh piece of coal in his tongs and places it on the flask.

When the servant has withdrawn to the far side of the room, Ismail Hodja continues in an urgent voice. “There is no proof that Hamza did this crime. I know Hamza well, and I do not believe him to be capable of it.”

“Did Jemal see a carriage?”

“Yes, and the driver. He was parked outside the gate by the road. Jemal went to ask him who he was waiting for and apparently received an insolent answer.” He smiles fondly. “Jemal does not suffer insults lightly.”

Kamil’s pulse races. “What color was his hair?”

“I don’t believe Jemal said. We can ask him. A great deal of time has passed, but since we were so concerned about the matter at the time, it’s possible he might remember.”

“You said you had banned Hamza from Chamyeri some time before Hannah’s death.”

“Yes, but there is something I must tell you. I had a long talk with my niece before she left for Paris. She admitted to me that Hamza flouted my ban and continued to come here to see her. He had a secret call, like a nightingale, to tell her when he was in the pavilion. She was a child at the time and they were very close. She said when he came, they used to sit in the pavilion reading and playing games.”

“So it’s possible that he continued to use the pavilion at night for his trysts.”

“Yes, I suppose so, but indiscretion does not make a young man a murderer. It was a long time ago, when he was a crazy-blooded youth”—he smiles at Kamil—“as I believe we all were at some point. I don’t believe he had anything to do with the killing of those unfortunate women.”

“Why did he come here last night?”

“He wanted to see my niece. And to ask me for some small service, which, unfortunately, I was unable to grant him.”

Kamil waits, but the hodja does not elaborate.

The arrest report stated Hamza had threatened Ismail Hodja. Kamil asks, “Did your refusal make him angry?”

“Hamza’s anger is directed at himself and against those who love him. We hate those who have seen us weak, magistrate bey. Our deepest rage is reserved for those who have seen us shamed and vulnerable and who responded with generosity. To be the object of a person’s generosity is, in some basic way, to be humiliated. My brother-in-law treated his sister’s son like his own, gave him a home, supported his education, helped him find a government position. What you might not know is that, without his uncle’s help, Hamza would have had no life at all. His father had squandered his future before Hamza ever had a chance to claim it. Unfortunately, the fruit does not fall far from the tree.”

“His father was kadi of Aleppo, I believe.”

“Yes, a wealthy and powerful man, but a man with expensive habits and a pragmatic sense of loyalty. Hamza’s father acted as liaison between a few of our Arab subjects and the French who hoped to wrest the province of Syria away from the empire. That was in the time of Sultan Abdulaziz, may his memory be blessed. When the plans were discovered, Hamza’s father was ruined. He was accused of embezzling money from the treasury to finance a revolt, although it’s possible he did it to pay his own debts. He was stripped of his position.”

“Was he exiled?”

“In a sense. He was forbidden ever to return to the capital.”

“Did Hamza know the reasons for his father’s banishment?” Kamil beckons the servant to relight his pipe.

“He was studying in France at the time. When he returned to Aleppo, apparently he found his father sitting on a chair in the middle of an empty apartment. The creditors had taken their konak and even their furniture. His father refused to speak or eat, just sat staring at the wall. Hamza tried to rouse him, told him about Paris, his plans for a career. He promised to take care of the family’s expenses, but his father never even looked at him.” Ismail Hodja pauses to take another draught from his narghile. He exhales a thin stream of smoke.

“My brother-in-law learned all this in a letter from his sister,” he continues. “After seeing the letter, I was inclined to view Hamza’s behavior with more compassion. I am also certain that he meant Jaanan no harm. Quite the contrary.” He frowns and shakes his head. “I tried to tell my niece this, but I’m not sure she is convinced. She has had more than her share of disappointments.”

“I’m glad no greater harm has come to her.”

“I was inclined to think badly of Hamza when I learned it was he who took her to Galata. She never spoke of it until recently. She thought I knew, since Hamza had promised her he would tell me where she was. He never did. Last night, he told me he had been in hiding since then, fearing for his life, and so was unable to keep his promise to tell me. He said his driver had been killed.” He looks up at Kamil. “Is it the same man Jemal saw?”

“Yes. It must be. A man called Shimshek Devora. Jaanan Hanoum was held in his mother’s house. Shimshek was killed that same week. Supposedly in an accident.”

“May he rest in Allah’s care.”

They are silent for a few moments, their thoughts tangled in skeins of smoke. Birds squabble outside the window.

Finally, Ismail Hodja continues. “I’ve come to believe since then that Hamza was telling the truth. My brother-in-law—Jaanan’s father—thinks it’s possible that Amin Efendi was planning to abduct Jaanan from his home, with the connivance of…well, that is a matter for my brother-in-law. It would satisfy Amin Efendi’s desire for revenge against the family and, if he could force the marriage, his need for money. So you see, Hamza, in his own misguided way, was trying to protect my niece. As for those unfortunate Englishwomen, my heart refuses to accept that he would harm them. Indeed, given what happened to his sister, I would have expected him to be kind toward women.”

“What happened to his sister?”

“Ah, that poor girl. As the penniless daughter of a traitor, she was unable to contract a marriage. Who would bring her into their family and risk official displeasure? She was quite attractive, I understand, and many good families had inquired about a possible match when her father was still kadi. She had her heart set on one particular young man, so she refused the others. Her father doted on her and didn’t insist, but he disapproved of the man she preferred because he was merely a merchant, although quite wealthy. After the disaster, even that family withdrew their suit. She threw herself into the moat of Aleppo’s citadel when it was swollen with rainwater and drowned.”

Ismail Hodja takes another long draw from his mouthpiece and lets the smoke dissipate before continuing. His shoulders slump with exhaustion.

“I can’t tell you, my dear magistrate efendi, what any of this has to do with the deaths of these young Englishwomen. It is true that after his sister’s passing, Hamza became harder. But that is a long way from a man capable of killing. For murder you need powerful meat—hatred, greed, jealousy, or ambition—not the thin gruel of self-hate.

K
amil waits on a stool under the giant plane tree in Beyazit Square that a poet once called the Tree of Idleness. Behind him stretch the outer wall of the War Ministry and the domes of Beyazit Mosque, its courtyard garden visible through the stone portal. The square hums with traffic, vendors of sherbet and baked simits crying out their wares, porters hissing their way through the crowd, trotting horses, carts, and children dodging one another.

Kamil spies Bernie’s red hair approaching amid a sea of turbans and fezzes.

“Howdy. Been waiting long?”

“Not long. It’s good to see you. Please sit. Would you like some refreshment?”

“Sorry. Afraid I have to decline. I can’t stomach the tea here or the coffee. Both thick as tar. I don’t know how you drink so much of it. No offense.”

“None taken. They are quite strong.”

“Maybe we could just walk around a bit. I don’t know this area very well.”

“Have you seen the booksellers’ market? There’s a good place to eat lunch nearby.”

Kamil leads the way through the throng to a gate beside the mosque.

“This is the Gate of the Spoonmakers.” To Bernie’s questioning look, he shrugs. “I have no idea why.”

They enter a quiet, sun-dappled courtyard. Each tiny shop around the yard is stacked to the ceiling with books and manuscripts. A few apprentices hurry past carrying packages to be delivered to customers at their homes. In the center is another plane tree, under it a bench next to a small fountain. Bernie lowers himself onto the bench and spreads his arms across the back, embracing the old vine-draped buildings. “Keyif,” he mutters contentedly.

Kamil holds a tinned cup chained to the fountain under the stream of water and takes a draught.

“You should try this water. It’s from a spring.”

Bernie points to the ancient stone portal at the far end of the courtyard. “And what’s that gate called?”

“What? Oh, the Gate of the Engravers.”

“Of course.”

Cup still in hand, Kamil frowns in the direction of the gate.

“You look like you’ve got a swarm of termites under your vest today, Kamil, ol’ chum.”

Despite himself, Kamil laughs. “That’s disgusting.”

“Well, it’s true. Something isn’t sitting well with you. Not well at all. Might help talkin’ about it.”

“There’s too much happening, Bernie, and I’m not sure what to think about it all.”

“Like what?” Bernie moves his arm to make room for Kamil on the bench.

“There’s been an arrest.”

“You mean for Mary’s murder? That’s great. Who’s the scoundrel?”

“And Hannah’s murder too.”

“You’re joking?” Bernie sits up and turns to look at Kamil.

“No, no, I’m not.” He notices that blood has darkened Bernie’s face so it looks burned by the sun. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, sure. Dying of curiosity. Who did they arrest?”

“Hamza, the journalist. My associate, Michel Sevy, happened to be nearby when Hamza broke into the home of Ismail Hodja last night and threatened him. Apparently, Hamza confessed.”

“Michel Sevy,” Bernie repeats slowly, then asks, “What did Hamza confess to?”

“When I spoke with him this morning, he denied everything, but on my way back from Chamyeri, I stopped at my office and heard that he has admitted to killing both Hannah and Mary. I don’t understand it. I’m going to visit him again this afternoon. I want to hear it from his own mouth. I suppose there’s some logic to it,” he muses. “At the end of almost every thread of inquiry there seems to be Chamyeri, but I suppose they could also lead to Hamza.”

“What’s the connection?”

“No proof other than the confession. That’s the problem. Just coincidences. Hamza is a distant relation of Ismail Hodja. Some years ago, he appears to have used the hodja’s garden pavilion at night to meet a foreign woman. This went on around the time Hannah Simmons’s body was found.”

“You think it was Hannah he was meeting?”

“The driver was the same man who picked her up every week.”

“Admirable detective work.”

“Thanks, but I owe some of that information to Sybil Hanoum.”

“Wait a minute. Sybil? What does Sybil have to do with any of this?”

“She decided to investigate on her own. It’s my fault. I suppose I encouraged her at the beginning. She was so eager to help, and I thought she might pick up some information from the women. I can’t speak with them myself, of course. I didn’t think there was any harm in it.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Sybil. I thought she was just paying social calls.”

“From the descriptions, I think the driver was a young Jewish man named Shimshek Devora. He had distinctive hair, tightly coiled like Arab hair, but light in color. A chauffeur by profession.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. He was killed. Fell under a carriage. Apparently an accident, but Hamza seems to think otherwise. There’s one other link between Hamza and Chamyeri, but I don’t know what to make of it. A few months ago, Hamza abducted Ismail Hodja’s niece and held her in Shimshek Devora’s mother’s apartment. He told her a story about protecting her from…well, that’s immaterial. I think he meant the girl no harm.”

Bernie raises his eyebrows skeptically. “He abducted her for her own good?”

Kamil smiles indulgently. “As you know, Oriental motives are often inscrutable. In any case, Michel and I found her with some help from his mother who lives in the same neighborhood, but Hamza escaped. In fact, I didn’t know it was Hamza until this morning when the hodja told me. When we found the girl, he ran off and we never saw his face.”

“His mother?” Bernie mutters.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. What else?”

“This Shimshek was involved—together with Hamza, as we now know—in some kind of business dealings, but we never discovered what. He died while the girl was being held.”

Bernie gets up from the bench and stands by the fountain, staring at the trickle of water from the metal pipe. He reaches down to give the spigot another twist. The water continues to flow. He turns around to face Kamil. Arms folded protectively across his chest, he appears vulnerable, a boy in an elongated body.

“This Shimshek. Where did he live?”

“Galata, the Jewish quarter. Why?”

“Just curious.”

Kamil looks closely at Bernie. “Did you know him?”

Bernie frowns and doesn’t answer right away.

“I heard the name somewhere, but can’t remember where. If it comes to me, I’ll let you know. So this Shimshek used to pick Hannah up and took her to the pavilion in the hodja’s garden to meet Hamza.”

“The pavilion is only a short distance from the pond. Hamza could easily have strangled Hannah, thrown the body in, then driven off.”

“But Hamza hasn’t spilled any details about the murders yet?”

“Not that I know. Right after Hannah’s death, Hamza went to Paris for several years. I suppose now we know why.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

Kamil takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. He had political reasons for leaving too. I’m sure the secret police had him in their sight. He was rumored to be a radical and he wrote inflammatory articles for a reformist journal.”

“But why would he have killed Hannah?”

“That’s what disturbs me. I can’t think of a motive.” He crosses his legs and takes out a cigarette, then looks up without lighting it. “Perhaps Hannah was pregnant. It’s not in the police report, but it’s possible.”

“Sounds a bit far-fetched, if you ask me. Which you haven’t.” Bernie shakes his head no to Kamil’s offered cigarette.

Kamil puts his own cigarette back, slips the silver cigarette case into his pocket, and takes out his beads. “It’s not unheard-of. He doesn’t seem the kind to want to settle down.”

“I’d think it would make Hannah want to kill him, not the other way around.”

They share a chuckle.

“Maybe she was angry enough to spill all his beans on him. After all, she was employed by the palace. If he was wanted as a radical, she could have turned him in with just a word to the right person.”

“Spill
the
beans, pardner,
the
beans.”

“Okay, spill
the
beans on Hamza. It’s an odd image. What kind of beans? And why spill them? Why not throw them?”

Bernie mimics a sigh of exasperation. “I don’t know. If Hannah was pregnant, it doesn’t make sense that she would turn the father of her child in to the police. What about Mary? Why do you think he killed her?”

“I don’t. But the police claim he confessed to it. Perhaps he was her lover, too. Why do people kill? Revenge? Maybe both women spurned him.”

Bernie sits down on the bench beside Kamil. “I’ll take one of those after all,” gesturing toward Kamil’s jacket pocket. Kamil fishes out his cigarette case and, snapping it open, offers it to Bernie. They sit for several minutes, Bernie quietly smoking and Kamil lost in thought, amber beads slipping like sand through his fingers.

“There’s still the unexplained matter of the pendant.” Kamil breaks the silence. “With the Chinese inscription.” He looks curiously at Bernie. “It doesn’t fit any of the motives. Both Hannah and Mary had it. I suppose Hamza might have given it first to one, then the other as a gift. Perhaps taken it from Hannah when he killed her.”

“A gruesome thought.”

“It’s an odd gift, though. How did he get it? I’m sure it was made in the palace.”

Bernie doesn’t answer. He stares unseeing at the fountain.

“You don’t look surprised.”

“Well, I figured it was, what with the sultan’s signature—unless it’s a forgery.”

“I don’t think so. I showed it to the head craftsman, and he identified it as the work of a particular silversmith at Dolmabahche Palace.”

Bernie stares at Kamil. “And did he tell you who he made it for?”

Kamil returns his look. “No. He was found dead the day after I asked to meet with him. They said his heart gave out.”

Kamil gets up and walks over to the fountain. He stares at it, as if he has forgotten what it is for. “His family says he didn’t suffer from a weak heart.” He turns to Bernie. “But I suppose it’s possible.”

Bernie leans forward, elbows on knees, head propped in his hands. “Kamil, old buddy,” he mumbles, “You’d better watch your back.”

“What am I watching for?”

“You don’t think it’s too much of a coincidence that the old man dies just when you announce you want to meet him?”

“Of course I think it’s suspicious. I don’t believe in coincidence. Someone in the palace doesn’t want me to know who had that pendant made,” he adds thoughtfully. “It must be a powerful person to orchestrate these deaths and someone with a powerful motive to risk so much. The grand vizier? A minister? Perhaps the sultan himself?”

“Covering their tracks.”

“Yes.” He sighs and turns to Bernie. “The palace is out of my jurisdiction. You’re right that anyone looking in that direction is in danger. If I were wiser, I would leave the question of Hannah alone.” He thinks with greater sympathy of Ferhat Bey and his pauper’s pension.

“Then why don’t you?” Bernie suggests.

“Because I’m required to solve the case of Mary Dixon’s death. The Minister of Justice Nizam Pasha seems to have taken a particular interest in my progress in this case. Perhaps he has come under pressure from the British. I don’t know. Anyway, the evidence suggests that the key to Mary’s death lies in deciphering Hannah’s.

Bernie turns suddenly to Kamil and asks, “How did this Michel fellow happen to be at Ismail Hodja’s place just in time to arrest Hamza? It’s pretty far out of the way.”

“I don’t know,” Kamil admits. “I imagine he had information through his informants.”