Chapter 35
Saffron woke to pain twisting her insides. In the hazy place between dreaming and full wakefulness, awareness of it crept into her mind like a twining Pueraria montana vine, and she woke with a start.
She pressed a hand to her aching belly, the other pressed to her mouth. Fear rose up within her like bile. Was she going to be sick?
When she stood, intending to go for the door to ask for help, a distinct warm rush informed her that she was not poisoned, but in a deeply uncomfortable conundrum.
Her courses. She’d forgotten. Perfectly normal and perfectly inconvenient, considering she’d already used the supplies she’d tucked in her handbag before she’d left to get married.
Now she was stuck in a Turkish jail, for heaven’s sake!
Depending on who was on duty, she’d have to figure out a way to explain she needed supplies. That would be humiliating beyond belief.
The jingle of keys and footsteps indicated she would get her chance without having to call for anyone. She just prayed it was someone who spoke English.
She ought to have added another caveat, she thought as Polat appeared in the doorway. Anyone who spoke English but him.
“Come,” he said gruffly, not looking at her.
“I must use the necessary,” she told him.
He shot her a disgusted look. “Later. Come, they are waiting for you.”
She didn’t move. “Inspector, this is a matter of urgency.” He looked as if he would argue, so she told him what the matter was.
He visibly recoiled, muttering under his breath, but led her to the police station’s lavatory.
She was incredibly lucky they had one; she’d had to run across the street from the agora’s site to an old, shuttered bathhouse when she’d needed to relieve herself, and she could only imagine the sort of commotion that would cause when she was under arrest.
In the privacy of the lavatory, Saffron did her best to manage the situation.
She would still have to further address it with Polat if she was to get the needed supplies, but it could wait until she discovered who was waiting for her.
She hoped it was Alexander. He hadn’t returned yesterday, which she hoped indicated he’d been pursuing some way of helping her.
She didn’t relish the thought of asking him to go out in search of menstrual supplies, but he was her husband.
It would have been nice for them to actually get to the married bit before she sent him on embarrassing errands, though.
Her heart fell when she saw it was not Alexander waiting for her in the little room Polat used as an interrogation room, but an older man she’d never seen before. He was quite tall and lean, with a heavily lined face that spoke to Western origin and iron-gray hair. A lawyer, perhaps?
He nodded solemnly to her and sat when she did at the little table. “Mrs. Ashton,” he began.
Her stomach fluttered unexpectedly at being addressed by her married name. It was the first time she’d heard someone who wasn’t a police officer say it. “Yes?”
“I am Harold Feldman, the secretary to Sir Randolph Waverly, the consul general in Smyrna,” he said.
Saffron soon learned that not only had Alexander been to see Sir Randolph, but so had Mr. Demirel and the Henrys.
His secretary wanted to know the details of the case to communicate to Sir Randolph before he would make a decision about whether or not Saffron could be moved to the consulate while the case was being sorted out.
Hope rose within her as she related everything with as much care and detail as she could, especially in regards to Clark and his behavior toward her.
She was sure Polat wouldn’t include anything about his attempts to discredit and sabotage her, and she wanted to give Mr. Feldman and the consul general every opportunity to see that the rumors upon which her arrest had been predicated were all lies made up by Clark.
Mr. Feldman left her to telephone Sir Randolph, and Saffron was left in the interrogation room, almost queasy with anticipation.
Her pains had worsened, and she was growing desperate for a meal, her supplies, and a hot bath.
She didn’t know if she’d get any of those at the consulate, but she had to imagine they were more likely to be helpful than Polat.
She glanced at the door, which Feldman had left open, and flinched when she saw Polat standing there, watching her.
He said nothing, only looked at her with those piercing green eyes like he expected her to do something.
She stared back at him, caught between wanting to confront him as to how he could think she was guilty of murder based on so little evidence, and the desire to appear non-threatening, so that he might change his mind.
Mr. Feldman returned a minute later, a small smile on his lips as he told Polat that Sir Randolph had decided Saffron would be moved to the British consulate. He invited her, most graciously, to follow him out of the interrogation room and into the motorcar he had parked outside.
Polat said nothing, but his face steadily reddened, and by the time Saffron stepped into the back seat of the posh black motorcar, he looked ready to explode.
He watched them drive away, and Saffron couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a mistake in leaving the police station.
If she’d learned anything about Polat the last few days, it was that he valued control and respect.
Both had been violated by the consul general sweeping Saffron away from him.
The inspector didn’t seem like the sort of man to take that lightly, and she dreaded what he might do in response.
Saffron had taken not two steps into her new “jail cell” before she’d decided it was worth Inspector Polat’s potential revenge to spend the rest of her imprisonment in the British consulate.
Her cell was a bedroom, and the only sign it was anything other than that was the fact that she was to be locked inside of it at all times.
Her windows had bars on them, which, from her experience at the hotel, was not unusual.
It meant she could open the windows, anyway.
After two days and nights in the airless back room of the police station, it was a privilege she would have traded away quite a lot of freedoms for.
Her request for some of her things was denied by Sir Randolph through Mr. Feldman when she asked, citing that her room and belongings were still being investigated, and neither man was married, so there were no other women living at the consulate apart from a few servants.
When she explained with painstaking vagueness that she required certain hygienic items, Mr. Feldman’s solemn expression didn’t waver.
“It will be seen to,” he told her, and then left her alone in her locked bedroom.
Hot water for a cat wash and breakfast was delivered a short while later, both deeply appreciated.
The maid who delivered them, supervised by none other than Mr. Feldman, also passed her a bundle which turned out to be undyed cotton rags.
Saffron thanked her sincerely; she hadn’t used plain rags since she was newly initiated into womanhood, but anything was better than her utter lack.
A few hours later, a knock came at the door—it was Mr. Feldman, announcing she had guests.
“I’m allowed to have guests?” she asked him with a smile she couldn’t help.
“Visitors, then, and only within reason,” he answered in his unruffled manner. “And with supervision. I will remain with you during any visits you might have.”
Saffron wondered at this; surely the secretary of the consul general had better things to do than accompany a would-be murderer. Things must be slow for them.
He returned a moment later with two people, and Saffron did her best to not appear disappointed. “Mrs. Henry, Mrs. Demirel, thank you for coming.”
“It seemed most expedient,” Mrs. Henry said, and she took only a few steps into the room before she shot Mr. Feldman a wry look. “May I greet Mrs. Ashton, or …?”
He inclined his head with the faintest hint of a smile.
Mrs. Henry grinned at him, then planted a kiss on Saffron’s cheeks. “How are you, my dear? Holding up? No, don’t answer. Clearly, this is a miserable business.”
“Oh, most certainly,” added Mrs. Demirel, coming forward. She looked as tired as Saffron, with bags under her eyes. “We’ve been doing just everything we can do resolve this.”
“Thank you,” Saffron said. Her eyes fell to the satchel Mrs. Henry carried. “Will I appear totally ungrateful if I …?”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Henry said. “It’s all been searched already. We’ll just pop outside, then when you’re settled we can have a little chat.”
Everyone shuffled out of the room, and Saffron quickly changed into the clean frock Mrs. Henry had brought for her. And, bless her, she had included a hairbrush and several other comforts. They were not hers, but she appreciated Mrs. Henry’s sacrifice in giving her some of her things.
“We were so concerned when the telephone call came that you were being moved here,” Mrs. Demirel said when they came back into the room. “For Mr. Ashton had already left for the dig site, and we didn’t want to rummage through your things—”
“I doubt that inspector would have allowed us to take anything from your room, anyway,” Mrs. Henry said darkly.
Mrs. Demirel blinked rapidly, then nodded.
“Of course, of course. Here I was, worrying about Mr. Ashton going through your things, when I’d forgotten your room isn’t to be bothered at all!
They’ve taken away your things and locked up the rest, haven’t they?
” She went on without waiting for Saffron’s response.
“It’s so dreadful everything must be searched.
I suppose you haven’t heard the police are searching the rest of the expedition crew’s hotel rooms.” With a too-loud whisper, she added, “You know, for the artifacts.”