room we shared.
Still troubled, I stopped my teacher as he made for his room.
‘Sir, a moment?’ I said softly.
‘Yes, Bess—’ He cut himself off. ‘By God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?’
‘I saw . . . I mean, Elsie and I . . . we saw something, in the Fourth Courtyard, something horrible—’
‘What did you see?’
I swallowed deeply. ‘We saw—’
‘ Make way for the Sultan! ’ a voice boomed from the hallway outside our rooms before the vestibule door was thrown open and four palace guards rushed inside. Striding in after them were, first, the Grand Vizier, and then Sultan Suleiman himself.
Mr Ascham and I stood with straight backs as though we were soldiers on parade. Mr Giles and Elsie emerged from their rooms, startled.
The Sultan spoke simply and directly.
‘There has been a murder in my palace. The visiting Cardinal Farnese. His body has been desecrated. The palace gates have been locked and patrolled since the banquet began, so the killer remains within these walls. I want him found.
‘You’—the Sultan stepped in front of my teacher—‘Mr Roger Ascham. I am advised by Michelangelo that you have distinguished yourself on several occasions in the unravelling of unusual crimes: a theft in Rome and a series of foul murders in England.’
‘I have, Your Majesty.’
‘You use logic as a tool, Michelangelo says.’
‘I did on those occasions.’
‘Does logic apply to the acts of madmen?’
‘It did in the Cumberland matter. A certain kind of woman harmed the killer as a child and so as an adult he attacked women of a similar kind.’
The Sultan gazed at Mr Ascham for a long moment, appraising him, taking this in.
‘A riddle for you, then,’ he said. ‘A test of your logical approach. A murderer is on the loose. The city lives in fear. The peasants in the slums think he kills men, women and children indiscriminately, but in truth he has killed two old mullahs, six young boys and three girls in their teens. His victims are always stabbed many times and once dead, the killer flays their cheeks and jawbones. Who is he and why does he do these things?’
My teacher returned the Sultan’s gaze. He thought for a good while before answering, and when at last he spoke, he did so slowly and in a most measured tone.
‘I would guess—from these very few facts you have given me—that your killer is a young man, perhaps sixteen years of age or thereabouts, and he has a facial deformity of some kind, a harelip or a tic. I would further posit that he is an idiot or of feeble mind or perhaps simply insane, but at the least he is a person of considerably low intellect.’
I listened in amazed silence. I couldn’t fathom how my teacher could deduce such specific things from so brief a postulation.
But he wasn’t finished.
He went on: ‘I draw these conclusions largely from the descriptions of the victims you have given me, for in purely logical terms, the nature of the victim can tell us something about the nature of the killer. Your killer sought solace from the two mullahs, but they told him he was an abomination, the spawn of Satan, that his deformity was an outward sign of inner impurity. In a frustrated rage, he killed them, stabbing them many times.’
‘Interesting. How do you know he is a young man?’ the Sultan asked.
‘Because of his other victims. You say he killed six boys,’ Mr Ascham said, ‘which means he killed more boys than he did any other group. I’m guessing the dead boys teased him about his disfigurement. Boys are cowards: they do not taunt full-grown adults or youths a lot older than they are, hence my guess that he is about sixteen. Similarly, the girls probably rejected his advances or tittered at his ugliness, and again, in an idiot’s rage, he slaughtered them.’
‘This is all based on your premise that he has a deformity,’ the Sultan said. ‘How do you know for certain that this is the case?’
‘The skinning of the
Still troubled, I stopped my teacher as he made for his room.
‘Sir, a moment?’ I said softly.
‘Yes, Bess—’ He cut himself off. ‘By God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?’
‘I saw . . . I mean, Elsie and I . . . we saw something, in the Fourth Courtyard, something horrible—’
‘What did you see?’
I swallowed deeply. ‘We saw—’
‘ Make way for the Sultan! ’ a voice boomed from the hallway outside our rooms before the vestibule door was thrown open and four palace guards rushed inside. Striding in after them were, first, the Grand Vizier, and then Sultan Suleiman himself.
Mr Ascham and I stood with straight backs as though we were soldiers on parade. Mr Giles and Elsie emerged from their rooms, startled.
The Sultan spoke simply and directly.
‘There has been a murder in my palace. The visiting Cardinal Farnese. His body has been desecrated. The palace gates have been locked and patrolled since the banquet began, so the killer remains within these walls. I want him found.
‘You’—the Sultan stepped in front of my teacher—‘Mr Roger Ascham. I am advised by Michelangelo that you have distinguished yourself on several occasions in the unravelling of unusual crimes: a theft in Rome and a series of foul murders in England.’
‘I have, Your Majesty.’
‘You use logic as a tool, Michelangelo says.’
‘I did on those occasions.’
‘Does logic apply to the acts of madmen?’
‘It did in the Cumberland matter. A certain kind of woman harmed the killer as a child and so as an adult he attacked women of a similar kind.’
The Sultan gazed at Mr Ascham for a long moment, appraising him, taking this in.
‘A riddle for you, then,’ he said. ‘A test of your logical approach. A murderer is on the loose. The city lives in fear. The peasants in the slums think he kills men, women and children indiscriminately, but in truth he has killed two old mullahs, six young boys and three girls in their teens. His victims are always stabbed many times and once dead, the killer flays their cheeks and jawbones. Who is he and why does he do these things?’
My teacher returned the Sultan’s gaze. He thought for a good while before answering, and when at last he spoke, he did so slowly and in a most measured tone.
‘I would guess—from these very few facts you have given me—that your killer is a young man, perhaps sixteen years of age or thereabouts, and he has a facial deformity of some kind, a harelip or a tic. I would further posit that he is an idiot or of feeble mind or perhaps simply insane, but at the least he is a person of considerably low intellect.’
I listened in amazed silence. I couldn’t fathom how my teacher could deduce such specific things from so brief a postulation.
But he wasn’t finished.
He went on: ‘I draw these conclusions largely from the descriptions of the victims you have given me, for in purely logical terms, the nature of the victim can tell us something about the nature of the killer. Your killer sought solace from the two mullahs, but they told him he was an abomination, the spawn of Satan, that his deformity was an outward sign of inner impurity. In a frustrated rage, he killed them, stabbing them many times.’
‘Interesting. How do you know he is a young man?’ the Sultan asked.
‘Because of his other victims. You say he killed six boys,’ Mr Ascham said, ‘which means he killed more boys than he did any other group. I’m guessing the dead boys teased him about his disfigurement. Boys are cowards: they do not taunt full-grown adults or youths a lot older than they are, hence my guess that he is about sixteen. Similarly, the girls probably rejected his advances or tittered at his ugliness, and again, in an idiot’s rage, he slaughtered them.’
‘This is all based on your premise that he has a deformity,’ the Sultan said. ‘How do you know for certain that this is the case?’
‘The skinning of the
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