Chapter 25 #2
The answer was an easy no. In the next room, a line of baskets sat along a long wooden bench that spanned the wall.
Even if Saffron hadn’t seen the clothing within the baskets, the fact her guide started stripping the moment the door closed would have informed Saffron that this was a changing room.
Her guidebooks had explained this was a traditional practice, and indeed, it was expected for bathers at the hammam to go about completely naked.
Reading information and experiencing its reality were two different things, however. The notion of going about starkers in front of strangers, even female ones, was bizarre.
The pregnant woman had shed her kaftan, scarf, belt, and a plain tunic before she noticed Saffron was sitting on the wooden bench with only her boots off—a relief, with her ankle aching again.
She smiled placatingly at Saffron and motioned down her body, then pointed to the basket. She gave instruction in Turkish, slowly. Then she mimed something about Saffron’s trousers.
It was unfortunate that today, of all days, she wore the jodhpurs she usually donned when visiting the dig site, for out of all her wardrobe, it was certainly the least convenient for dealing with her ankle.
If she’d been in a dress or skirt, she might have just hiked it up and let her ankle soak in the hot water, the mineral scent of which permeated the whole building.
As it was, she truly didn’t have a choice but to strip down to her camiknicks.
“May I keep my lingerie on?” Saffron asked when the rest of her clothes were folded neatly in a basket.
The woman brightened. “Lingerie,” she repeated, giving the word its native French pronunciation. “Vous parlez francais, madame?”
Saffron did speak French, poorly, but it made the next hour go much more smoothly, for none of the women they found within the baths spoke English, but many had a few words or more of French.
The pregnant woman, Bahar, was nearly fluent, and so she became Saffron’s guide through the process of a proper Turkish bath.
She was scrubbed and massaged as Bahar led her through three rooms, each warmer than the last, until they emerged into the largest, hottest room.
The bathhouse was constructed of plain stone and dark wood, humble compared to the stunning illustrations of the most famous bathhouses in Turkey from her guidebook, but this room was quite striking.
The ceiling was pierced by white dots of light set into a geometrical pattern.
A massive stone surface was set about knee-height in the center of the round room, on which sat a number of women atop thin, wet cloths.
A few more women were massaging those who sat on the bench.
This was where Bahar led Saffron, and as soon as she was settled on the stone top—it was shockingly, delightfully warm—Bahar gave instructions to an attendant to massage her ankle.
“Oh, I don’t know—” Saffron broke off as her foot was yanked into the lap of the attendant. Her protestations fell away as some sort of magic was massaged into her ankle, and the pain, already lessened by her soak in the hot mineral waters, was rubbed away.
Bahar nodded with satisfaction from her seat at Saffron’s side. “Bien, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui,” she said weakly, unable to stay worried when the attendant knew just how to soothe the ache of her ankle.
In the humid dimness, scented by chalky water and the rose soap with which the attendants scrubbed their patrons, and filled with the soft susurrations of feminine conversation and water, she could almost imagine there was no mysterious poison, no inspector full of suspicion.
No dead friend for whom she sought justice.
That thought took the savor from the experience.
Ten minutes later, most of which was spent thanking Bahar for the rescue and attempting to pay the modest fee for her bath but being gently but firmly rebuffed by no less than four different people, Saffron was pink-faced and dressed outside of the bathhouse in air that felt bone-dry and chilled by comparison.
She’d just climbed into the carriage, eager to rest her ankle—it was significantly better, but she had no wish to aggravate it again—when Banks emerged from the building.
His face was flushed, his auburn hair damp, and he walked with a languor she likely would have shared had her ankle not hurt.
“Did you find Mr. ?a?ri?” she asked as he climbed into the carriage alongside her.
After a brief direction to the driver, who’d looked to be napping when Saffron had come back, Banks turned to her with a half-smile. “Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”
“The bad news,” she said without consideration.
“The good and bad news are one and the same,” Banks said.
Their driver prodded his animals, and the carriage leaped into motion.
“Our quarry was there, and willing to talk. He was dismissed from the dig, but it was because he was injured. He strained some previous injury pulling the stone from the stall’s floor and came here for a soak in the waters to ease it. ”
“So, he wasn’t dismissed as a result of our subterfuge,” Saffron said, “and therefore it is unlikely he held anything against Martin Neill, at least so much that he might have wanted to poison him.”
“He had no particular memory of poor Mr. Neill other than he was there when you requested the stone be moved, and, to be honest, I don’t think he minded leaving the dig. I don’t think he’s responsible for Neill’s death.”
They fell into silence. Saffron was unsure if she should be relieved or disappointed her theory had been proven incorrect; it would have been a neat solution to offer up to Inspector Polat, and, as poor a person as it made her for thinking so, one that would not have implicated any of the expedition crew.
Now the only suspects she had were the ones she worked alongside daily and those with whom she shared lodgings.