Chapter 32 #2
Alexander hoped so, too, though he wasn’t sure what he could do if he returned to the jail and found Saffron’s quarters had not been improved.
He would write to Lord Easting and explain it all, even if it meant more trouble in the long run.
“Did Dr. Henry ever run into this sort of situation before? Not murder, but foreign police investigating a member of the crew?”
Mrs. Henry’s carefully penciled eyebrows lifted.
“You assume much if you think Lawrence has told me anything whatsoever of his travels.” She lent him a sly smile.
“But yes, he has had a number of interactions with foreign authorities. One usually does, when one works in the artifact business. My husband learned early in his career that one is invited to dig up more artifacts if one does not break local laws, nor steal what one digs up. One wouldn’t expect such prudence from the man, I know, but on this, he has a surprisingly firmly set moral compass.
” She tapped ash into the tarnished metal bowl sitting on the coarse surface of the table.
“It’s one reason why the missing coins and such bother him so much.
He’s never had something go missing from a dig before.
Rather wounds his pride. Not to mention any funny business will upset his ambitions for that new department at the university. ”
“Artifacts have gone missing?” Mrs. Demirel asked timidly.
Mrs. Henry nodded. “And I think it’s a terrible shame Lawrence told Mr. Demirel only after poor Mr. Neill’s death.
I’ve reminded him that keeping secrets will make him look complicit, but also garnering the support of the government and the local workers might be essential in discovering what’s become of the missing items.
“Having been aware of his peers and their—frankly—amateur methods of getting items out of the countries to which they rightly belong, Lawrence thought he’d devised a rather sound scheme for making sure nothing accidentally leaves the country.
Your team’s materials are not hundreds of years old, save for Miss Everleigh’s, and those are already being co-managed by that professor from the University of Istanbul.
I suppose Lawrence felt he had little reason explain to you and your team that all the crew packs up for home will be thoroughly scrutinized. ”
“You believe the artifacts will be disposed of before we leave,” Alexander said, guessing what Mrs. Henry had left unsaid.
Mrs. Demirel looked between them, a frown forming. “But why wait until Mr. Neill’s death to tell the locals? Does Dr. Henry think his death is related to the missing objects?”
Smoke snaked out of Mrs. Henry’s lips on a sigh.
“I couldn’t say. But I would hazard a guess he realized that when Dr. Yenmeck reported to the police Martin Neill’s death was not natural, any investigating would likely uncover that artifacts had gone missing.
He didn’t want to be seen as deceiving our hosts. ”
Alexander had been wondering why the police got involved with Martin Neill’s death, but having seen all Neill’s paperwork, including his medical report that indicated he was perfectly healthy before they set sail, he supposed he ought to have concluded the doctor had reported it as a suspicious death.
Neill being a part of a government-sponsored expedition from a friendly foreign land would certainly make the locals want everything to be squared neatly away.
And Dr. Henry admitting things had gone missing certainly upped the stakes further.
No wonder Inspector Polat had asked questions about both mysteries.
It made sense, but it inspired new questions: Was Martin Neill killed because he knew something about the artifacts? And if so, did that mean Alexander had to discover what had happened to them in order to prove Saffron’s innocence?
Some hours later, Alexander was pacing his room.
He’d returned to the hotel to check for messages—he’d had none—and lingered there waiting for Demirel.
The older man hadn’t returned until after dinner, much to Alexander’s frustration.
He’d missed his chance to see Saffron that afternoon, for he’d wanted to return to her with news.
But Demirel came back without anything more promising than an assurance he’d done all he could with Sir Randolph, and all they could do was wait for legal counsel to arrive from Istanbul.
Alexander paused when a knock sounded at his door. A breathless hotel footman stood outside, a slip of paper in his hand.
“Message for you, sir,” the man said, eyes round. “From the British embassy.”
He accepted the paper and closed the door. Holding his breath, he held up the message. It read:
Message received. Midnight, blue Molfiada.
Alexander stared down at the telegram in his shaking right hand. It was an odd message, as if someone had misheard every other word of a telephone caller. The note was dated that day, the tenth of October, 1924.
It was ten in the evening now. He had no idea if the message meant midnight tonight, but he had no option but to try to decipher what “Molfiada” meant. His Turkish-English dictionary held no answers, so he dressed in his working clothes, laced his dusty boots, and left his room.