Chapter 25
Of all the ways Saffron had contemplated exploring Turkey, she hadn’t once thought she might do so for the first time in such a rushed manner, and alongside not her fiancé, but Christopher Banks.
But, as Alexander himself had said just a few days previously, if Saffron couldn’t be out with him, better it was Banks.
Who was better suited to navigating the backstreets of Smyrna than a man not only fluent in any language commonly spoken in the city, but a large man with whom no one was likely to make trouble?
They’d left the agora only a few minutes after Banks had explained Yusef ?a?ri had been dismissed by the Turkish foreman of the site just one day after the graffitied stone was removed from the market stall at Saffron’s behest, which in turn was a mere handful of days before Martin had fallen ill.
Her stomach churned as she considered the impact of her decision to ask the locals to dig that rock out.
Yes, it had been an incredible discovery for not only Banks, who would get the credit, but for the whole dig.
But it had also cost Mr. ?a?ri his position.
She knew next to nothing about any of the local diggers, but she had to imagine the job was a good one, what with the extra money Dr. Henry insisted the Turks pay them to safeguard the site.
Her and Martin forcing the locals who’d helped them into secrecy had put their jobs at risk, and if Mr. ?a?ri had taken his dismissal hard, he might have taken it out on Martin.
Banks had gotten Mr. ?a?ri’s address from the dig site’s foreman, and they’d taken a carriage to a neighborhood Banks called Tenekeciler.
“Tinsmith,” he said over the clatter of hooves on the uneven street as they climbed slightly higher in the city. “This area is known for it.”
The neighborhood certainly had the smell of metalworking; the tang of it grew heavier in the air with every roll of the carriage wheels.
But perhaps it was the lingering smell of the fire of 1922, for the street they traveled looked to be parallel to the line of destruction.
Viewing the damage, even years removed, gave Saffron the same uneasy feeling she’d had in the still war-torn French countryside a year ago.
A weighty stone of grief and guilt gathered in her stomach.
Their mission was a grim one, which only made the feeling worse as the carriage came to a stop outside a humble building of wood and stone.
“Wait here, if you don’t mind,” Banks told her with the sort of politeness men often paired with orders they were confident would be followed.
“I do mind, actually,” Saffron said, and stood.
“Miss Everleigh …” Banks grimaced. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but it is, frankly, not appropriate for you to come to the house of a man—”
“I have heard quite a bit about what is appropriate or not for myself and various men lately,” she said acidly. “The fact of the matter is that Martin Neill is dead, and I doubt adhering to cultural mores will help me find justice for him.”
Rather than bristle at her sharp words, Banks smiled sadly.
“I agree. But as is oft quoted, ‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.’ We will not get answers if we offend those from whom we need them. Not to mention your concern Mr. ?a?ri might be responsible for Neill’s death.
Surely if he took issue with Neill, he would feel the same way about you …
?” He left off delicately, and Saffron found herself chagrined that he was right, and right in such a diplomatic way.
“Very well,” she grumbled, and was left sitting in the carriage.
It lasted only a moment, for Banks came out of the dwelling nearly immediately with a look of discontent to match Saffron’s mood.
“He’s not here,” he said, hopping into the carriage. “His daughter-in-law gave me directions.” He rattled off instructions to the driver, and they set off back the way they came.
An hour later, they had traveled much farther than Saffron would have contemplated without a plan, passing out of Smyrna and down a sparsely populated road along the southern coast. Alexander would have noted her absence a while ago, and with Clark’s record of mischief-making, Alexander probably thought he’d trapped her in another ruin.
As the town came into view, Saffron’s mind turned to the task at hand. They’d nearly arrived, and they were going to ask questions of a suspect. She had to make the most of it.
Banks held another brief consultation with the driver, and he settled back into his seat to tell Saffron, “The driver says we’re not far now, but it turns out that the place ?a?ri’s daughter sent us is a thermal spring.”
Saffron blinked. “Oh.”
“I thought it was the name of the town,” he said, pinching the space between his brows. “Do you think I could bribe you into never mentioning my pitiful misunderstanding of basic Turkish to anyone?”
“Considering I know about four words of the language, I’m in no position to complain.”
The town had a worn look to it, with streets of hard-packed dirt, sporadic buildings of various sizes and materials, and the sort of scrubby vegetation that, though she knew it was endemic to the area, looked weather-beaten to her eyes.
There were a number of people who gave the impression of going about their usual business with no care for the foreigners that’d just arrived, rather like country folk back home unimpressed by new arrivals.
The driver stopped their carriage outside one of the low buildings with a red tile roof, set into the side of a low mountain covered in dark green brush.
“This is it.” Banks’s boots raised a little cloud of dust about his feet as he hopped out of the carriage.
“This is a traditional bathhouse, then?” It looked nothing like the many domed bathhouses she’d seen illustrations of in her travel books, but just like all the other nondescript buildings.
“Er, yes.”
She strove to keep the petulance from her voice. “I suppose I have to just stay here and wait for you.”
Banks eyed her uncertainly. “Well, you certainly can’t come into the men’s section of the hammam and search out ?a?ri, can you?”
Saffron didn’t bother hiding the resignation in her voice this time. “No, I suppose I can’t.”
He gave her a brief, apologetic smile, said, “Back in a tick,” and hurried into the bathhouse.
She knew she ought to just sit back down in the carriage, but she was unwilling to return to its hard bench after such a long, bumpy ride. She could manage a brief stretch of her legs without finding too much trouble.
A brief stretch of her legs turned into a painful hobble when the path she’d elected to follow proved too treacherous.
She’d intended only to follow the road long enough to observe a cluster of late-blooming oleander just before the bend, but the rattle of a cart coming around the corner startled her, and she’d turned too quickly on her weak ankle.
Each step back toward the bathhouse felt like whatever parts had recently been repaired were being painfully plucked and strained, and she could still only make out what she thought was the distant red roof of the bathhouse.
She swiped at the sweat gathering under her hat along her brow. A fine pickle she’d put herself into. “Let’s wander away from my companion and translator, and my ride back to Smyrna on an injured ankle. Yes, a marvelous idea.”
A female voice called out from behind her, making her jump again. She hurriedly hobbled to the side of the path to get out of the way of the approaching party.
The voice grew closer, speaking in rapid Turkish that cut off when the woman caught up with Saffron.
She was a short woman maybe ten years Saffron’s senior, her burgeoning belly announcing her before she herself came into Saffron’s view.
The woman frowned at her, looking between her face and the foot Saffron kept off the ground.
She spoke again, and this time Saffron caught a word she understood, the word for help.
Grimacing, Saffron shook her head and pointed to her ankle. If only Banks could materialize to help her explain! “It’s only my ankle,” she said slowly, hoping the woman had some English. “I’m just going back to my carriage at the hammam.”
The pregnant woman’s expression cleared immediately. “Hammam, evet, evet!” She took Saffron’s arm in hers and began walking down the path toward the bathhouse.
She felt quite awkward, being hauled along by a much shorter stranger, but she couldn’t risk upsetting their balance, with her ankle twinging and her new companion’s advanced stage of pregnancy, so Saffron walked along with the woman.
She wore a loose kaftan, belted over her belly, and a colorful scarf draped casually around her shoulders.
Her skin was tanned olive, rather like Alexander’s, and her eyes were green, sparkling with amusement when she caught Saffron looking down at her.
She said something, rubbed her belly with her free hand, and then gestured toward the bathhouse.
The woman guided her to the side of the building facing the mountain, rather than the door facing the street that Banks had entered. An elderly woman sat in the foyer within, smoking a pipe.
The two women greeted each other with obvious pleasure.
There were exclamations and kisses on cheeks.
After the warm exchange, the pregnant woman explained that she’d come across Saffron on the path, plain from the way she gestured at Saffron and then down to her ankle.
The older woman tutted, looked Saffron up and down, tutted again, then swept her arm toward a door.
Saffron was taken by the arm again by the pregnant woman, and Saffron faced only a brief battle between practicality and curiosity.
Would she really deny herself the opportunity to explore a Turkish bathhouse—and furthermore, would she really turn down these women’s hospitality?