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‘Well,’ she said, ‘who wouldn’t be impressed? It was a spectacular display.’
‘It was. Turkey is very proud of its heritage.’
Another message. Another thinly veiled warning? She was sure of it.
And for a moment she toyed with the idea of telling him about her intrepid forebear, whose diary and bracelet she’d found, and who’d ventured to Turkey all those years ago, inspired by the adventures of trail-blazing women like Jane Digby who’d gone before in following their heart rather than settling into the constraints and expectations of English society.
But would he even believe her? Doubtful, given the way he appeared too willing to want to believe the worst of her.
He already thought she was a thief. If she told him now about the bracelet, and it did turn out to be anything other than a cheap copy, then he’d only ask where she’d stolen it from. And given it was old, even if it was a cheap copy back then, it was bound to be worth something now, even as a collector’s item.
She might as well save herself the grief.
Besides, why should she bare her all when he had his own secrets? He already knew more about her than most people did, courtesy of of the fact he’d been there when she’d been interviewed by the polis. But what did she really know about him? Nothing. So why should she tell him any more about herself?
So she simply said, ‘Turkey has every right to be proud of its heritage.’ And smiled. Let him build a case against her out of that.
And when he’d turned, stony faced, away, as if she hadn’t given him what he’d been hoping for, she asked the question she’d been meaning to ever since their visit to the old man and had forgotten in the excitement of today’s adventures. ‘Tell me about Mehmet.’
His head swung back around. ‘What about him?’
‘Who is he?’
‘An old friend. Why?’
‘Just curious. How old is he, do you know?’
Alongside her Kadar shrugged. ‘At least, ninety. Probably closer to ninety-five.’
‘How do you know him? Through your family?’
He looked out of his window. ‘No.’
‘Then—’
He turned back. ‘What is this?’
‘I’m just making conversation. What was the Pavilion of the Moon he mentioned? I haven’t read about that anywhere.’
‘You’re not making conversation. You’re prying.’
‘So, I’m curious. Or is being curious a crime here, too?’
He gave an impatient flick of his head and she pushed herself deeper into the plush leather of her seat. He could keep his damned secrets if they were that special. She turned her attention out of the window and watched the late afternoon traffic jostling for position on the busy highway, the coloured street lights making patterns on the slick roads.
‘You heard today about the sultans and the harem of the Ottoman empire.’
She looked around, surprised. ‘Yes.’
‘When the empire came to an end in the early twentieth century, and the Sultan exiled, palace life, as it had been for centuries, came to an end. The women and the men were freed from service.
‘Mehmet’s mother was one of the women of the palace, from the harem. His adopted father, one of the Sultan’s vizier’s. His many years of service meant he could buy a house and they set up home together, two displaced souls in a world that had moved on. In addition, there was a small palace he had been gifted for his faithful service previously.’
‘The Pavilion of the Moon.’
Kadar nodded and stretched out his arm along the back of the seat, his fingers draping over her shoulder, his thumb making lazy sweeps of her arm. She was sure he had not a clue he was doing it. ‘It was a folly constructed by an earlier sultan, some say as an escape from the hothouse atmosphere of palace life here. A place to be more normal.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, a sultan could never live a normal life. It is Mehmet’s to use until his death, though it was always to be returned to the state. Already there are steps under way to turn it into a museum, and then you will see it listed on your tourist trails.’
Amber wondered. Mehmet was more than just an old man. He was a link joining the present to the past. But something niggled.
‘You said Mehmet’s father adopted him?’
‘Yes. He was already an old man when the empire crumbled, but he could not have had children of his own anyway. He was a eunuch, of course.’
‘Oh.’
His fingers stilled. ‘Does that shock you?’
