Chapter 39
Alexander put to work the single greatest antidote to any ailment he knew: tea. He and the girl sat down in the parlor with glasses of strong tea as he explained Martin’s sudden illness.
“I see,” she said, doing her best not to cry again. “I don’t mean to be such a watering pot, it’s only … I knew Martin for such a short time, but he was such a lovely person. I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I understood you’d received word he was ill.” Saffron had mentioned Martin’s request to send word to a girl he’d met, and this had to be her. Corsianna Moore, she’d mumbled when Alexander had offered her his own name.
Miss Moore shook her head. “I didn’t know.
When he didn’t come to meet me …” Her cheeks colored.
“Well, I got tired of wondering why he didn’t come back.
We’d had so many wonderful conversations.
My mother said I was foolish to chase after a young man off on an adventure, but …
” She shrugged helplessly. “I liked him.”
“I’m glad you did come,” Alexander said gently. “The circumstances surrounding Mr. Neill’s illness and death are being investigated as murder. You said you’d seen him here, in Smyrna?”
Miss Moore blanched. “M-Martin was murdered?”
Alexander nodded. “The police believe he was poisoned.”
She shot to her feet, looking around in a panic. She began to say something, but stopped, blinking. She sank slowly back into her chair. “I beg your pardon, I … It’s just a shock, you know. Poisoned?”
He nodded solemnly.
“Martin and I met for tea the other night. He …” She bit her lip.
“He wanted to see me after we left the ship, while my parents and I were still in the city. We met at a tea house after dinner one evening. I snuck away, you see. My stepfather doesn’t approve of me going out into the city on my own, even though I lived here when I was a child.
” She was still trembling but smiled slightly at her admission.
“But that was the day after the ship arrived in Smyrna. Martin told me he would meet me at the han again a few days later, but he didn’t come.
I knew what hotel he was staying in, and this was my first chance to get away again.
I expected to leave him an angry note.” Her tight voice shrank with the effort to keep from tears.
That was where Martin Neill had disappeared to their first night in Smyrna; he must have gone to see Miss Moore.
It was therefore unlikely his location that evening would be useful in discovering how he’d been poisoned; if she was tearful over his death after seeking him out, it was unlikely Miss Moore had poisoned Neill herself.
Alexander gave her a moment to dab at her eyes and take a sip of tea before he ventured, “Did Mr. Neill tell you anything about the expedition? Any troubles he was having with anyone?”
She shook her head. “He was so terribly excited to be working at the agora, Mr. Ashton.” She pronounced ‘agora’ the same way the Turks did.
“I’m afraid the police might want to ask you a few questions about Mr. Neill—”
Miss Moore shook her head, sending her red-blond hair flying, and gasped, “No, no, Mr. Ashton. They can’t! My mother would be furious!”
Alexander didn’t know how to reply to that. He certainly couldn’t make the girl talk to the police, but it wasn’t as if her information would be very helpful.
She rose to leave, and when he asked if he might call on her to ask her further questions, she bit her lip again, looking deeply unsettled at the notion.
“I do want to help, Mr. Ashton, I do. If you came, that would be all right. But the police … My mother had poor experiences with the police here in the past. My father … Well, I couldn’t put her through that all again.
You might send a note, and we could arrange to meet somewhere.
I’m staying at the Sa?lik Hotel for another week before we leave for Antalya.
” She gave him a wan smile. “We’re going to all my mother’s favorite places.
She was just remarried, and this is a bit of a honeymoon.
How mortifying, to bring along her grown daughter.
But I couldn’t resist. I wanted to see this place again. ”
Alexander thanked her, and she left. Alexander returned to his room for a fresh handkerchief before he left for the agora, but was waylaid by Mrs. Demirel on the stairs.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Ashton! Whatever are you doing here? I ought to have invited you to take tea with Mr. Demirel and myself. How terribly thoughtless of me. My husband hasn’t been well enough to leave the room yesterday or today, I’m afraid.
His allergies are playing havoc with his sinuses.
Though I doubt he has anything meaningful to contribute to dear Miss Everleigh’s defense, which I imagine is at the forefront of your mind,” she added in a loud whisper. “Are you going to see her now?”
“Not now, but perhaps before dinner, on the way back from the agora.”
“I’ll go to see her at lunch,” she said brightly. “Take her a few more clothes, I think, and sit with her. It must be terribly lonely, being held in a room all by herself.”
“Thank you,” Alexander said, meaning it. “I know she appreciated your company the other day, when the maid brought the food. It drives Saffron wild, being cooped up with no way of helping with the investigation.”
Mrs. Demirel gave him a strained smile, as if the idea of helping an investigation was mortifying. “Oh, indeed.”
Alexander took his leave soon after. With the question of Martin Neill’s disappearance answered, he turned his thoughts back to the other questions left unanswered. And at the moment, they all centered on one man.
Alexander was in a taxi to the agora when he spotted the red-banded straw hat Clark wore among the crowd of pedestrians on the street just a quarter mile from the dig site.
Instinct had him shoving coins into the driver’s hand and jumping out of the taxi.
The hot weight of the sun settled on his shoulders, the smells of the kemeralti closing around him like curtains. Alexander hastened to spot Clark, and that distinctive hat caught his eye quickly.
His quarry moved with the crowd deeper into the market.
It was just before noon, and on a Friday, it was just before the locals quit work for their Sabbath and the crew members returned to the hotel for their administrative work.
He couldn’t imagine why Clark felt like going for a walk just then, but he was going to find out.
It turned out it was not a long walk. Soon they were immersed in the kemeralti, with all its bustle and brightly colored awnings, the call to prayer growing louder with every step.
The streets were so heavily draped that when Clark disappeared behind an open wrought iron gate and Alexander made to follow, he was shocked to find himself confronted by a steep set of stone stairs bright with sunlight rather than a passageway or market stall.
When Alexander climbed the stairs, he was in a courtyard filled with the throaty song of the call to prayer.
He squinted up at a tall tower eclipsing the sun, and yes, sure enough, he was in front of a mosque.
Four simple, ruddy stone columns supported white arches of a portico sheltering a steady stream of Turks as they deposited their shoes and stepped under the elaborate script engraved over the open double doors.
It was a sign of how overtired Alexander was that he simply stood there, gaping at the mosque while the sun heated his head like a pot on a stove, for a full thirty seconds before he realized Clark must have gone inside, for he was certainly the only Englishman in the courtyard.
Should he go inside to see if Clark had suddenly found faith in the Muslim religion—doubtful—or simply leave him to whatever cultural exploration he might be pursuing? Something told him the reason Clark was here had nothing to do with faith or culture.
More faithful were climbing the stairs to the mosque; many were damp about the neck and arms, perhaps having washed before they entered the courtyard. More shoes were deposited on either side of the doors. A pair of boys darted here and there to straighten them.
The crowd thinned. The last plaintive note of the caller’s voice drifted away on a hot wind. The two boys scurried into the double doors, out of which rolled a loud, deep voice.
He’d go inside, Alexander decided, and see if Clark was inside. It’d put his relentless suspicions to rest, at least for a little while.
Just as he reached one of the portico’s columns, one of the shoe boys slipped back out through the double doors.
The youth moved quickly, efficiently stepping across dozens of shoes to the far corner of the portico.
Peering around the column, Alexander watched the boy kneel next to a pair of tall, dusty boots, the only ones among the shoes lining the floor.
They had to be Clark’s. The boy’s back blocked what exactly was so interesting about Clark’s footwear, but he was there for just a moment before standing and retreating inside.
There was no thought in what Alexander did next; he was hopping over a dozen worn leather slippers and dusty oxfords the moment the boy had disappeared into the mosque’s dim interior.
The smell was fantastically unpleasant, made slightly more bearable by the smoky, woody scent of incense drifting from the open doors.
Clark’s boots were no exception, but Alexander could ignore their odor to see what the young man had been doing.
It was disappointing to find there was absolutely nothing worthy of attention about the boots.
The deep brown leather was dusty from the agora, but clearly well-maintained.
The soles had recently been replaced and were exceptionally thick, even for a pair of work boots.
He set the boot back down on the ground, glaring at it. Couldn’t it have been as simple as looking inside and discovering a note or something obvious?