The Sultan's Seal by Jenny White Page B

Dixon. She had been in Istanbul for just over a year. Her position had been arranged by a member of the board of trustees of Robert College in response to a letter from her minister attesting to her good character. She traveled to Paris and was given instructions and papers by someone attached to the Ottoman Embassy there. A week later, she took a coach to Venice and a steamer from there to Stamboul. She had complained to Sybil about having to share a compartment with three other women for the fourday trip. She was met at the landing by a closed coach that took her directly to the women’s quarters in Dolmabahche Palace.
    “She came here several times to deal with visa matters. At first she was quite mocking of her new environment and so put out about her accommodations, one would think she was coming as a guest rather than as a governess. She said the girl who showed her to her room…” Sybil hesitates, but decides that in a murder investigation, she has no right to let modesty censor her account. “She said the girl was dressed in nothing more than, as she put it, knickers and a wrap.” Kamil swallows a laugh. Sybil blushes, then hurries on. “And she complained that her room was completely unfurnished. She was horrified when she realized they expected her to sleep on a mattress that they brought out of the cupboards at night and to eat, as she put it, on the floor.”
    “It must be a great change for someone used to beds and tables and chairs.”
    “I thought it a bit unreasonable in someone coming out here to work. Surely she should have expected the experience to be different. Or else, why would she have come?”
    “I’m sure she was paid well.”
    “I suppose she must have been, although, of course, we never spoke of that sort of thing.”
    “How did she get on with her employer?”
    “Perihan Hanoum? Mary didn’t seem to like her. She said she was haughty and unreasonable.”
    “You know Perihan Hanoum?”
    “No, but I met her mother, Asma Sultan, many years ago.”
    “The wife of Ali Arslan Pasha, the grand vizier?”
    Sybil nods. “It was the winter of 1878. I remember because it was snowing. A young Englishwoman, Hannah Simmons, had been killed that summer. She was employed as a governess and Mother was visiting the royal harems to see if she could find out anything. The police seemed to have thrown up their hands.” She looks up at Kamil, smiling sadly. “You didn’t know my mother. She was very determined.” She pauses. “It’s such a sad story, but, you know, what I remember best is that we rode there on a sleigh. Isn’t that awful of me?”
    “You were very young then.”
    “Fifteen.” Sybil smiles shyly.
    An image of Sybil in the snow comes unbidden to Kamil’s mind. “It’s commendable of you and your mother to do so much.”
    Brushing off the praise, Sybil responds, “It’s not right to be nostalgic when another young woman has been killed.
    Kamil ponders a moment. “Do you know anything specific that Mary Dixon disliked about her employer? Did they ever argue?”
    “She never mentioned anything specific. I wonder, in retrospect, whether Mary liked anyone. It’s improper to speak ill of the dead, I know, but she seemed so disaffected. The only time I saw her happy—although I suppose animated is a better word—was at the soirees she attended at the Residence. She attracted quite a bit of attention with her short hair and bold manner.”
    “What kind of attention?”
    “Men. Men seemed to be drawn to her.”
    Kamil smiles. “Anyone in particular?”
    “Not that I know of. Well, she did have a rather lively discussion with a young Turkish journalist, Hamza Efendi, not long before she…passed away. But I don’t think it meant anything,” she added briskly. “Just a conversation. I only mention it because other people noticed.”
    “She seems to have taken you into her confidence.”
    “Oh, no. Not at all. I think she needed someone to complain to, but we never had