Chapter 27
Inspector Polat returned to the dig site the next morning, arriving at dawn alongside the crew.
Word of his presence had spread quickly the previous day, though it seemed there was no consensus about what, exactly, he was investigating. There were two popular theories: the artifacts that had gone missing, and foul play with Martin Neill’s death.
Alexander overheard both ideas being discussed while the men went about their work. Rumors flew that anything from simple stones from the agora’s arches to Clark’s gold necklace had been stolen.
“Already been sold,” he heard, as well as, “They want to nail the burglar before we heave ho and it’s gone forever.”
Alexander was curious what Polat had been asking the crew members to inspire such ideas. It was plain from the questions he’d asked Alexander and Saffron that the reason for his presence was Martin Neill’s death.
A number of people asked Alexander directly about Neill’s death.
The same people who’d shrugged it off as unfortunate suddenly wanted to know all the details of his illness, and the same people who’d taunted him with the rumors of his fiancée dallying with the dead man were now looking at him sideways.
“They’ll be watching what they say to you now,” Banks muttered to him as they entered the stone structure where the crew kept the more valuable tools at the end of the day. “Don’t want to provoke you now they think you might have bumped off Neill.”
“No one thinks I killed Neill.”
Banks sighed, setting delicate brushes into their box. “No, no one thinks you killed Neill.”
Alexander’s hands tightened around a chisel. Closing the lid with a snap, Banks shot him a meaningful look.
“They seriously believe Saffron killed him?” Alexander asked him.
“I don’t know how serious they are, but they’re certainly saying it. Even the assistants think she had a particular interest in Martin Neill. And I doubt you need to look far to discover the origin of that particular idea.”
“Polat has barely been on-site for twenty-four hours.” He pushed a hand through his hair, wrinkling his nose at the grit he found clinging to it. “I’d hoped the work would be interesting enough to keep people too busy to talk this much.”
“ ‘See how great a forest a little fire kindles! And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity,’ ” Banks said blandly. “I hate to say it, but the kindling is even drier and more plentiful here, my friend.”
A maid woke Saffron early the next morning asking if she would receive Inspector Polat in the dining room.
Saffron agreed, of course, and dressed swiftly, nerves making her hands tremble as she recalled the way the Turkish inspector had snapped during their first meeting.
One minute, he’d been intent but reasonable, and the next, threatening to arrest Dr. Henry after the slightest provocation.
He was a touchy man, and experience told her she must tread carefully.
Very few men liked being handed information and being told what it meant, and she had to do just that.
The inspector had not approached her the previous day as he continued his questioning of the crew, and she had to ensure he was aware of all the facts about Martin’s death.
The maid led her to the smaller dining room where Saffron and Alexander had dined with the team leaders and the officials. She knocked softly and Saffron entered when Polat called out.
“Ah, Miss Everleigh,” he said with a tilt of his lips that caused his mustache to quirk to the left. “Please, be seated. I have called for refreshments.”
Saffron sat at the table, unsure if she should trust this gracious attitude.
They sat in awkward silence, Polat watching her with a polite little smile, and Saffron, in turn, trying to make out why he didn’t speak. It reminded her of Detective Inspector Green and his strategic silences when he’d questioned her about Mrs. Henry’s poisoning.
“Oh,” she murmured as realization flicked on like a light bulb.
Polat raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Heat flushed her face. “I beg your pardon,” she mumbled, feeling foolish. He was intentionally making her uncomfortable.
The maid entered with a cart of tea. It was a very proper tea cart, though the tea pots were stacked atop one another in the fashion the Turks called caydanlik and the cups were the tulip-shaped glass variety with facets around the base.
Polat waited until the young woman left before standing and walking to the tea cart.
He raised a tea glass to inspect in the morning light pouring across over the polished tabletop.
Rainbows scattered before him with every turn of the glass.
“It must be odd, being in a new country. Many new traditions.” He set the glass down and poured dark tea from the top pot of the caydanlik.
He lifted it to his nose and smelled it, his mustache twitching, then poured hot water from the larger base pot to dilute the brew to a rich shade of honey.
Saffron accepted the cup, as well as a lump of sugar which he deposited onto the little disk of a saucer. The sunlight caught in the steam wafting from the cup, so thick it looked as if a candle had just been snuffed out.
Polat poured another glass of tea. “Our nation is very new. We have many old ways that are put aside. You have heard of alafranga, perhaps?”
“No, I haven’t,” she replied, sipping the tea. It was scalding hot and bitter.
“It is the ways of your people.” Polat sat across from her. “Europeans. Many think we should do away with the alaturca and take up your ways, instead.” He blew steam from the top of his tea, green eyes somber on her as if awaiting her response. She kept her face politely neutral.
“Me?” He set his glass down without drinking it. “I am proud of my people, where we come from. The wisdom of Allah is in our rules of behavior. Respect for our elders, our betters. Caring for the stranger, the poor, the weak. These laws are protection.
“For example, women are not permitted to be in the company of a man not of their family,” he said easily.
“This is not permitted. Haram, we call it.” He nodded at the closed door.
“It is understood that as a police officer, it is sometimes necessary, but we see there are evils when a man and woman are together unaccompanied.”
This was said in a suggestive manner, not as though Polat meant something inappropriate, but that he was coming around to bringing up something he thought was.
“A man was seen leaving your room on Sunday,” Polat said, confirming her guess. “A man with dark hair.”
Heat stung her face. “My fiancé has dark hair, Inspector.”
He didn’t reply. She had to explain it, then.
“Mr. Ashton came to my room when he returned with the crew from Kadifekale. He wanted to learn if my injury had improved. I’m sure you have heard from others that my ankle was injured when a piece of the castle fell near me during our visit to Kadifekale. ”
Polat grunted.
She didn’t want to say it, but it had to be said because it might be important to Polat’s investigation. “Mr. Neill did come to my door that evening to inquire as to the condition of my ankle. We spoke only a few words before he went away again. He didn’t come inside. He was merely being polite.”
Her throat tightened at the words. Martin had been polite, and sweet, and kind. How dreadful was it that he was dead. Murdered.
She opened her mouth to begin sharing what she had learned, as she ought to have done before he lectured her on his culture’s correct behavior.
“The others in your group think you and the dead man were having a love affair,” Polat said.
“We were not,” she said firmly. “I am engaged to Mr. Ashton.”
“Yet there are several who said they have seen you and the dead man be …” He looked back down at his notes. “Cozy. This word can mean many things but I believe it means close together. Private, maybe.”
More heat burned in her, humiliation and anger. “It means Martin Neill and I worked closely together at the dig site,” she said sharply. “My fiancé assigned us to work together. He would hardly have done so if he had a concern over my loyalty.”
Satisfaction gleamed in Polat’s green eyes. “This disturbs you. Why?”
Exasperated, Saffron shot back, “Because it is ridiculous. I was not having an affair with Martin Neill.”
“Why is it ridiculous?”
It was ridiculous for him to ask why the notion was ridiculous, but she saw how her temper had been roused.
She’d intended to be useful, not fall into the trap of being considered a hysterical woman.
With a tight leash on her temper, she explained, “I was not having an affair with Martin Neill. That is a nasty rumor, and this line of thinking will not help find out what really happened to Martin. I have information for you, some observations from his peers and some insights that you might be not yet be aware of.” She explained the discovery Clark had claimed for himself and the night Martin had left the hotel.
Alexander had confirmed Martin had not been among the assistants smoking the water pipe at the han in the marketplace.
She decided leave out her adventure to the hammam to clear Yusef ?a?ri of suspicion.
Polat did not respond, leaving her unsure if she ought to continue.
He looked at her for a long, uncomfortable moment before nodding. “I see. I have been told by your superiors that you were to engage in some …” He paused, and flipped back through his notebook. “Chemistry, yes? You have chemicals for what purpose?”
Alarm trilled down her spine. He had ignored her information and jumped straight to a question which could only suggest an accusation. “Yes,” she replied stiffly. “I have a set of chemicals for the analysis of plants found in the agora’s storerooms.”
“Where is it?”
“It is in my hotel room.”
His green eyes sharpened. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Saffron said, dreading his impending assumption. “When I was injured, I asked Mr. Ashton to bring it to me so I could do my work from the hotel, since I was to rest my ankle.”
“I see. I would like to see this set,” he said, standing.
Saffron led the inspector out of the room and up the stairs. Clark and his friends were milling around just inside the open doors of the dining room, and his eyes glittered when their eyes met.
Just as they reached the first floor’s landing, Mrs. Demirel emerged from her room. A thought leapt into Saffron’s mind, and she called to her.
“Mrs. Demirel,” she said, “would you be kind enough to accompany Inspector Polat and myself to my bedroom? The inspector informs me that it is not appropriate for us to be alone in each other’s company.”
Mrs. Demirel’s eyes flicked nervously between them.
“Er, why, yes, Miss Everleigh. It is, er, wise, to have a chaperone, is it not?” In a voice that was meant to be a whisper but clearly was not, she added, “It might have saved you from a good deal of trouble, had Mr. Ashton thought to provide you one, don’t you think? ”
Any feelings of relief at having a witness to her room’s search soured at that comment. “Indeed,” she muttered.
She unlocked her room and let the inspector and Mrs. Demirel inside.
He surveyed the room for a moment, taking in the curtains stirring in the breeze, the neatly made bed and tidy desk. “The chemicals?”
Saffron withdrew the case from the desk drawer and stepped back for Polat to examine it. He undid the leather strap securing the case from the loop and flipped the lid up. “There are some glasses broken.”
“What?”
She took a step forward to look inside, but he held up a hand. “Do not touch.”
She did manage to look, however, and saw there were at least two cracked vials. Polat held one up, exposing how the chemicals had leaked, darkening the leather base. Her stomach turned. “I don’t know how that happened. I checked it all over just a few days ago, and everything was intact.”
“I see.” Polat looked around the room with new interest and nodded. “I will search the rest of the room now.”
Saffron flinched. Mrs. Demirel reached a hand out to her with a noise of distress.
“Is that quite necessary, Inspector? Surely …” She bit her lip, then visibly stiffened her spine.
“My husband is the liaison between the expedition team and the government. I believe he will have some things to say about this, as I’m sure will Hayrettin efendi.
And there are …” She wavered. “I am sure there must be some laws about property searches. One must have a warrant in England. I think it must be the same here.”
Polat glared at her. “Where is your husband, then?”
“I will take you to him,” Mrs. Demirel said firmly.
The inspector stomped to the door, and swung around to point a finger at Saffron. “You give your key to me. No one will enter this room until I allow.”
He marched from the room. Mrs. Demirel gave Saffron’s arm a brief, reassuring squeeze. “It will be all right, dear. Mr. Demirel will sort it all out, I’m sure.”
Saffron followed them out and watched as Inspector Polat locked the door and pocketed the key, willing that to be true, though she couldn’t quite make herself believe it.