Chapter 45
If Alexander hadn’t met the agent driving the truck and assured himself of his allegiance to Nick and the government, he’d have assumed the fellow was trying to kill them.
He took another turn that felt far too sharp, causing the crate in which Alexander sat to slide ominously to the left.
There was only the metal railing of the truck’s shallow bed to prevent Alexander from toppling off the truck and likely down a rocky hill in the middle of the Turkish countryside.
His crate wasn’t tied down properly, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to push aside the lid when the time came.
Nick’s crate, on the other side of the one containing the third-century graffitied stone, wasn’t secured either.
This was perhaps why Saffron had said she didn’t like the plan to trap more of the network of smugglers, though she couldn’t have known he’d end up crouching in a wooden crate, packed in with wood shavings like he, too, was an antiquity that might tempt Bey into unwise action.
The expedition crew was unhappy with Nick’s plan as well, though they only knew that the spectacular find of the graffitied stone was going to be transported to Istanbul that very afternoon, ostensibly to be put into place at a museum immediately.
Many grumbles and protests had been sounded, not the least of which from Dr. Henry, who’d railed against Mr. Assam and Mr. Hayrettin’s orders that the rock be loaded up and sent away.
Alexander had considered advocating for informing Dr. Henry of the ploy, but only for the moment it took him to realize if Dr. Henry didn’t put up an enormous fuss about it, it would be suspicious.
He’d heard Dr. Henry complaining the entire time the rock was loaded into the crate, and the crate into the truck between his crate and Nick’s.
They’d already been inside for nearly thirty minutes at that point to ensure no one who might have been watching the dig site would suspect there were two armed men loaded up to confront whoever tried to intercept the artifact.
Clark didn’t know, for example. He’d been instructed to pass word to Bey of an incredibly valuable artifact being moved that very day, and to convince him it would be an excellent opportunity to steal it on the road from Smyrna.
Nick had assured Alexander that the moment his agents confirmed the truck had left the city, Clark would be placed under arrest and handed over to the Turks to be prosecuted for theft of their antiquities, and to confess to starting the rumors about Saffron’s affair with Martin Neill.
Just like Clark, Christopher Banks did not know that while the real artifact was being taken away, it was only temporary.
“Absolutely not,” he’d told the driver, Mr. Assam, Mr. Hayrettin, and anyone else within earshot. “Absolutely not! This is invaluable. It is not going to be put into a crate where it’ll be bumped around until the markings are so damaged we cannot read them!”
It had taken over an hour for him to be shunted out of the way long enough to get the stone into the crate, and only after he’d imposed himself as the one to wrap it in layers of cotton first.
“And I’m going,” Banks then declared. “I want to meet the people taking charge of it.”
No matter how many times he was deterred, Banks stubbornly insisted, to the point where Mr. Hayrettin lost his patience and exclaimed, “Very well! Very well! If it will make you get out of the way so the artifact may leave!”
Alexander was quite glad, after sweating within the wood shavings for nearly an hour and a half by then, that no one thought it odd that cool-headed Mr. Hayrettin was so agitated as to shout at one of his country’s esteemed guests.
They’d been bumping along in relative peace—save for the hair-raising turns—up the road leading north through the plains between craggy hills. In the stuffy heat of the crate, it was tempting to tilt the lid to get a bit of a breeze, but if they were being followed, he couldn’t reveal himself.
Over the noise of the engine, Alexander thought he heard shouting. It grew louder until he was certain it was not his imagination, and at that moment the truck jerked to the side, which sent the crates slamming against each other. Then the truck began to slow.
Alexander shifted, getting his feet under himself again and planting one hand on the lid. This had to be it, Bey’s men come to steal the artifact.
Voices grew louder, and a moment later, the engine died down, leaving them in silence. But only for a moment. The voices were growing nearer, speaking in rapid Turkish.
He exhaled slowly as his grip on his pistol tightened.
When the creak and crack of the crate at his side sounded, he shoved aside the lid, pushed himself to his feet and out into the blindingly bright light of midday.
“There must be some mistake,” Saffron said quietly, her face burning. “I know I was detained for several days, but—”
Mr. Koray’s expression looked agonized, plainly unsure what to do with his guest who, last he’d heard, had been under arrest for the murder of another guest.
“Can’t you put me back in the room I was in before?
” she asked, and she could hear the edge of hysteria creeping into her voice.
Nick had instructed Kadriye’s uncle to deliver Saffron to the hotel well after the crew left for the dig site.
With Mr. Demirel drawn away by the operation at the dig site, he’d deemed it the safest place for her until the operation was concluded, hopefully with several people in handcuffs.
She could hole up in her room until everything was settled; no one would expect her to be at the hotel, of all places, after fleeing the consulate.
Saffron needed to get her head on straight for the impending conversations with Inspector Polat and Nick’s agents, and getting a moment of peace to rest and possibly bathe beforehand would help.
If she only had a room to do those things in—any room.
“Saffron?” Mrs. Henry’s voice came from behind her.
Saffron turned, face still hot with embarrassment. “Mrs. Henry, hello, I’ve just been released and it seems they no longer have my room—”
Mrs. Henry embraced her gently but firmly and offered her a reassuring smile before speaking to Mr. Koray in the haughty voice Saffron was more accustomed to.
“Miss Everleigh was recently made Mrs. Ashton when she married her fiancé just a few days ago. I believe Mr. Ashton has already requested new accommodation.”
Abashed, Mr. Koray offered Saffron a new room key as he apologized profusely, not quite meeting her eye.
Saffron didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this, so she merely accepted the key and followed Mrs. Henry upstairs. It was surreal to be walking through the quiet hotel; she could hardly believe that murder, smuggling, and violence had been her world for the last week.
“Does this mean they’ve caught whoever killed Mr. Neill?” Mrs. Henry asked.
She was hopeful they would catch Mr. Demirel in short order, but nothing was certain yet.
Nick’s instructions had included Demirel being present to send off the graffitied stone, but she had no way of knowing if he’d actually gone to the agora.
“I’m afraid I can’t say. I’m sorry, Mrs. Henry, I think I need to lay down. I’m feeling rather overwhelmed.”
“I quite understand. But where is Mr. Ashton? Did they not inform him you were to be let go?”
“I thought I would surprise him,” Saffron lied with a weak smile.
Mrs. Henry cast her a mischievous look as Saffron unlocked her door. “Best of luck then, my dear. Shall I request supper be sent up for the two of you this evening?”
Surely her face could not grow any more red. “That would be lovely.”
Mrs. Henry departed with a knowing smile, and Saffron closed the door.
She was in Alexander’s room. Her room. Their room.
Giddy laughter burbled out of her, swiftly transforming into a choked sob.
She sank into the chair just next to the door and tried to rally.
There was no cause for tears, not anymore.
She was nearly in the clear. She needed to buck up, prepare to finish all this dreadful business.
And then she could laugh and cry all she liked from the safety of Alexander’s arms.
Her stomach did an odd sort of flip. She’d waited a very long time to share everything, including a bed, with Alexander, and now it was time, she was overwhelmed by the suddenness of it.
Anxiety weighted by something like sadness, or possibly regret, wrapped around her at the lack of fanfare their marriage had thus far incurred.
She was surprised by the feeling considering she’d more or less put off the wedding planning.
But that was the wedding, and this was the marriage. She’d wanted the marriage. Hadn’t she?
She was all twisted up inside, and she decided to blame it on the extraordinary circumstances. No one could have anticipated an accusation of murder precipitating a hasty wedding, and she refused to let Clark or Polat or anyone else ruin anything else.
She looked about for her luggage, since Alexander had apparently had her things moved here, and spotted two notes left on the dressing table.
One looked to be a telegraph—perhaps one of her family members responding to Alexander’s report of her arrest—and the other was a note in a woman’s hand.
Intrigued, she picked it up. It had no address or stamp, merely Alexander’s name in a slanting, feminine handwriting.
Not feeling the least guilty about it, she opened it and read.
Dear Mr. Ashton,
I am sorry but I am leaving Smyrna this morning.
I don’t know what you told the police or anyone else about my involvement with Martin Neill, but I have received threatening notes and can no longer remain in the city.
I will not give you the address of my next accommodation, in case someone truly means me harm, but please communicate to the police I know absolutely nothing more about poor Martin or his unfortunate death.
I wish you the best and pray justice may find whoever is responsible.
Sincerely,
Corsianna Moore
Saffron stared at the note so long her eyes burned.
Corsianna Moore was the young lady Martin had met on the ship.
Alexander had spoken with her about Martin, but he’d learned nothing useful.
Why had someone threatened her into leaving the city?
Even now they knew everything about Clark, Bey, and Demirel’s smuggling, she’d found no indication that Martin had known anything about it. What could Miss Moore possibly know?
And furthermore, what did she say to Alexander that suggested she did know something important? And who had overheard her? Nobody knew Miss Moore had been at the hotel to see Alexander—
Except Mrs. Demirel. He’d run into her in the hall. She could have seen Corsianna Moore speaking with Alexander.
Saffron teetered on the edge of what felt like understanding, but couldn’t quite take the leap into it.
Mrs. Demirel … Well, Saffron simply couldn’t believe she was involved in her husband’s misdeeds.
She was obsessed with her children. She wouldn’t risk their futures for a piece of profit that carried the risk of being imprisoned so far away.
And what would Mrs. Demirel even do to assist her husband in smuggling artifacts?
She was an insubstantial little woman who was rarely at the dig site, did not speak more than pleasantries to the officials, and she wasn’t familiar with the antiquities or the language or …
But that wasn’t right. Mrs. Demirel had told her what Dr. Yenmeck had said about Martin’s condition, but Saffron had seen the doctor leaving Martin’s room without a translator.
She’d acted so strangely when Mrs. Henry suggested she knew what the Turkish officials had been saying.
She’d known Kadriye’s secret to the perfect bite of Turkish dumplings, and eaten the more adventurous local foods with relish though she claimed to never eat them.
Indeed, she’d acted just like Kadriye had acted with Nick, Bagshott, and Alexander when she’d served them their meal last night; she’d been demure and hadn’t looked any of them in the eye, though Saffron had watched the girl shout at a man threatening her with a gun.
Saffron had thought Mrs. Demirel too meek to look at any of the local men in the eye, but was that merely the alaturca way of doing things, as Inspector Polat had tried to explain to her?
It was logical Mrs. Demirel would have learned some of these things in the course of a marriage to a Turk, but it was strange, then, that she made so much of feeling out of place and overwhelmed here.
Saffron blinked several times when she realized she’d been staring at Miss Moore’s note again. Mrs. Demirel might be hiding familiarity with the language and customs. And she’d known Miss Moore had been to see Alexander, possibly overheard them.
Mrs. Demirel given Martin the eye drops laced with colchicine, a happenstance Saffron had explained away by assigning blame to Mr. Demirel. But what if it had been purposeful? What if Mrs. Demirel had intentionally poisoned Martin?