A Dead Man in Istanbul (3 page)

‘Deservedly,’ said Rice-Cholmondely enthusiastically.

‘And in a way it was Cunningham who did that. He came to us with some material one day and said, “Why don’t you use this?” We took one look at it and said, “No, thanks.” It was political, you see, and we didn’t touch that sort of thing. Too dangerous. “Oh, go on,” he said. “It will start people talking.”

‘Too bloody true. And the first people who started talking were the police. They were round in a flash. Rudi managed to bribe them but he said, “No more of that, my dears.” But then he found people actually missed it so we sort of slid it back in again. “There you are, darlings,” Cunningham said. “Made your fortune for you.”

‘Well, not for us. For Rudi, more like. But I didn’t like it. I began to have a funny feeling round the back of my neck. “Anyway,” I said, “that sort of stuff is cabaret. We’re theatre.” “Cabaret
is
theatre,” he said. “Maybe,” I said, “but it’s low theatre.” “Darling, I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but, as theatre goes, you are not, I’m afraid, very high.” Well, it was rude of him but he did have a point. And it was nice to feel a bit established and not to be always packing our bags and moving on.’

‘What sort of stuff did he get you to put on?’ asked Seymour curiously.

‘That sketch about the army was one of his.’

‘I didn’t quite understand that,’ said Seymour.

‘Well, I don’t understand it, either. But quite a few people seemed to. Rudi for one, and he didn’t like it one bit. “I can bribe the police,” he said, “but I can’t bribe the army. Or, at least, not that part of it.” But then the Palace said they wanted it kept in. Actually, it’s my belief that Cunningham had agreed it with them from the start.’

‘What happened to the Palace sketch?’ asked Rice-Cholmondely sleepily. ‘I rather liked that.’

‘They wanted that
out
. And Rudi wasn’t going to argue because I think he was beginning to have a funny feeling around his neck, too.’ She looked at Seymour. ‘Cunningham wrote that piece, too.’

Seymour had been puzzling at something. He had been trying to relate her to the actors he had seen on the stage. But they had all seemed male. Seeing her now in the box he realized how he had make the mistake. She was dressed as a man, for the last piece as a soldier. Close to, however, even Seymour could tell the difference.

‘I’m surprised,’ he said. ‘I thought they didn’t allow women on the stage. You know, this being a Muslim country.’

‘Oh, they don’t!’

‘Then –’

‘Rudi denies we are women. When the police come round.’

‘But –’

‘He puts on a great act when they try to inspect us. We’re decent young men, he cries. Do they think that young men have no modesty? Just because they themselves have no modesty? Of course, the crowd – and he always makes sure there is a crowd of onlookers – loves this. “Pederasts!” they shout at the police. “Sodomites!” And, of course, only three of us are women. The others start taking down their trousers, and the police get all hot and bothered and go away until the next time.

‘Of course, everybody knows. But it adds to our attraction. It gives them an extra
frisson
when they see us dressed up as men and pretending to be men. The ambiguity excites them. They’re a bit like that here, you know. But then, it’s nothing new. Think of Shakespeare’s time – all those boy actors dressing up as girls. Boys,’ she added, ‘are very popular here, too.’

‘Talking of boys,’ said Rice-Cholmondely, ‘I see that Ahmet’s not here tonight.’

‘I think he’s with Selim.’

A waiter came up to the box and said something to her. She stood up.

‘I’ve got to get backstage,’ she said. ‘I’m on again in five minutes. But it’s just a short piece this time. I’m free afterwards. Would you like to come round?’ she said to Seymour. ‘Then you can come home with me. Cunningham always used to.’

‘Seymour,’ said Rice-Cholmondely, ‘I think perhaps we should be getting back to our landau.’

‘Tomorrow night, perhaps?’ suggested Seymour. ‘I’d like to talk to you about Cunningham.’

‘I can think of more interesting things to talk about,’ said Lalagé.

When they got back to the landau Ibrahim, of course, was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a small boy asleep underneath the carriage. Rice-Cholmondely stirred him with his foot.

The boy leaped up.

‘Effendi! I fetch. One minute!’

Rather more than one minute later Ibrahim appeared, buttoning his trousers.

‘Effendi, a thousand apologies! I have been visiting my sister.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Rice-Cholmondely, sceptically.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Seymour was up bright and early the next morning and presented himself at the Embassy, eager to get on with his enquiries.

The first person he wanted to talk to was the porter who had accompanied Cunningham by boat in his swim across the Dardanelles and who appeared to be, so far as Seymour could tell, the only actual eyewitness.

Here, however, he ran at once into difficulties. Arabic and Turkish were not among Seymour’s languages and English, it seemed, was not one of the porter’s. Seymour had thought that Ponsonby, or perhaps Rice-Cholmondely, might interpret for him. He learned, though, that there was a protocol in these things, as in most things to do with the Embassy. Interpreting was the preserve of the Chief Dragoman.

The Chief Dragoman was a short, alert, grey-haired man in a red fez and splendid gilt, Jewish, possibly, or perhaps Syrian, or maybe Armenian, or, most probably, a mixture of all these; not obviously Turkish, anyway.

‘I fix,’ he said confidently.

The porter was the reverse of confident. He was an elderly turbaned Arab in a white gown and bare feet, at which he looked for most of the interview.

‘This, Mohammed,’ introduced the Dragoman. ‘Salaam, Mohammed!’ He turned to Seymour. ‘I say, “Hi, Mohammed!”’

‘Hi!’ said Seymour.

The Dragoman said something in Arabic.

‘I say, “Mohammed, what the hell you do in boat? You porter, not sailor!”’

Mohammed muttered something.

‘Cunningham Effendi ask,’ translated the Dragoman.

‘Why did he ask Mohammed and not a proper boatman?’

‘I ask.’

Mohammed shrugged.

‘He not know,’ said the Dragoman. ‘But I know. He see Mohammed sitting on his ass and think, This layabout do nothing, why not row boat? That right, yes, Mohammed?’

Mohammed nodded vigorously.

Seymour let it pass.

The Chief Dragoman continued happily, without waiting for Seymour.

‘Now, Mohammed, you in boat, yes? With flag, yes? Where you get flag?’

Mohammed muttered something.

‘He take from Embassy. Mohammed, this bad. You got permission? You got chitty? No? Effendi, this man steal Embassy property.’

Seymour decided it was time to assert himself.

‘Never mind about the flag,’ he said. ‘Listen, Mohammed, I want you to tell me exactly what happened when Cunningham Effendi swam across. And let’s get one thing clear from the start: which way did he swim?’

‘Which way swim?’ said the impressible Dragoman, astonished. ‘For Christ’s sake, everyone know that! You think he go for dip or something? No, Effendi, he swim across Straits. Like Milord.’

‘Milord?’

‘Milord Byron.’

‘No, not like Lord Byron.’

‘Not?’

‘He swam the other way. From Sestos to Abydos. Not from Abydos to Sestos.’

‘What the hell these places?’

‘Maybe they’re not called that now,’ conceded Seymour.

‘Abidé,’ said Mohammed.

‘Right. Thank you, Mohammed. Abidé, not Abydos. He swam across
to
Abidé. Yes?’

Mohammed nodded his head.

‘Not the other way? Okay. Now tell me what happened.’

Mohammed made swimming motions.

‘He swim,’ said the Chief Dragoman.

‘Right, yes. I’ve got that.’

Mohammed carried on swimming.

‘Long way. Cunningham Effendi tired. Puff, puff!’ said the Dragoman dramatically.

Mohammed shook his head.

‘Too much drink!’ said the Dragoman sternly. ‘Cunningham Effendi near drown.’

Mohammed shook his head vigorously.

The Dragoman broke into a fit of gasping.

Mohammed shook his head even more vigorously.

‘Swim, swim!’ said the Dragoman desperately.

Mohammed nodded.

‘Last bit!’ said the Dragoman, straining every muscle.

‘This is what I want to know about.’

‘Nearly there!’ The Dragoman floundered anguishedly towards the shore.

‘And then?’

He struggled to his feet.

‘Yes? And then?’

‘Plop!’ said the Dragoman, and fell in a heap on the ground.

‘Just a minute, just a minute. Let
him
speak. Did he actually
see
this?’

Mohammed shook his head in denial.

‘
Not
see?’ said the Chief Dragoman disbelievingly.

Mohammed shook his head again, and then made strenuous rowing motions. He looked at Seymour, then touched him on the back. Then he made the rowing motions even more vigorously.

‘Ah, I’ve got it! He didn’t see because he was, of course, rowing backwards.’

‘He row
backwards
? This man lunatic?’

‘No, no . . .’ Seymour demonstrated. ‘That’s the way you row. This way!’

Mohammed nodded.

‘Then how he see where going?’

Seymour, and Mohammed, looked over their shoulders.

‘Well, I buggered!’ said the Chief Dragoman.

‘So you weren’t actually watching at the moment when Cunningham Effendi was shot?’

Mohammed shook his head. Then he touched his ears.

‘Ah, you weren’t looking, but you heard the shot?’

Mohammed affected to start. Then he looked round. Then he fell back with a gasp, covering his eyes.

This was dramatic but not informative. Seymour tried again.

After much pantomiming he established that Cunningham had been just emerging from the water. Standing, anyway. He had fallen down at the edge of the water. Mohammed had leaped from his boat, caught hold of him and dragged him up on to the beach; after which, it appeared from his description, he had first collapsed over him in grief and then delivered a funeral oration.

Chapter Three

The Ambassador was holding a letter in his hand.

‘Ridiculous!’ he fumed. ‘Absolutely ridiculous! Are they trying to create an international incident? Or are they just so stupid that they’re creating one without even trying? What is H.M. Government going to say to this? Absurd! That’s what they’ll say, and this morning I am going round to the Porte to say it first.’

He looked at the letter again.

‘Absurd!’ he said angrily. ‘Spying! Just what is there on the peninsula to spy on, I would like to know? It’s bare rock. Bare rock and sand and a handful of villages. Fortifications? To the best of my knowledge the only fortification on the peninsula is the castle at Gelibolu and that was built by Mehmet the Conqueror in the fourteenth century and has been in ruins ever since! Fortifications? Spying? Absurd! What would he have been spying
on
? What
could
he have been spying on? There’s nothing there. And yet that’s what they say he was doing. When he was shot.’

‘Cunningham?’

‘Yes.’

‘They actually admit it?’

‘Admit what?’

‘That they shot him.’

‘No, no, they don’t say anything about that. Or – wait a minute. Yes, they do. They deny that they, or any subject of the Sultan, had anything to do with it. No, no, the letter is just a formal protest. About what Cunningham was doing
when
he was shot. “Breach of diplomatic privilege.” “An unfriendly act.” “Illegitimate activity.” What nonsense!’

He put the letter down on his desk.

‘They shoot one of my staff. And then they have the nerve to write to me and complain! They wish to lodge a formal protest, they say. Just wait till I tell H.M. Government and they’ll register a protest, all right. With warships!’

He looked at the letter again, disbelievingly.

‘Spying? One of my staff? Ridiculous!’

He picked the letter up and waved it under Seymour’s nose.

‘And they say he’s done it before! That he does it repeatedly!’

‘Swim the Straits?’ said Seymour, surprised.

‘No, no. Apparently he sails up and down scrutinizing the cliffs. And, of course, he’s been using binoculars. How else is he going to see them, I’d like to know?’

‘See . . .?’

‘The birds.’

‘Birds!’

‘Shearwater. Splendid place for observing them, the Dardanelles. They congregate there. In their thousands. Not just the Dardanelles, of course; you also see them in the Bosphorus and in the Sea of Marmara. But the point about the Dardanelles is that there you can observe them in flight. And that’s very interesting, Seymour, because they fly very low down, right at the surface of the water, their legs practically touching it. Fascinating! So no wonder Cunningham was studying them.’

‘That’s what he was doing, was he?’

‘Well, of course. What else would he have been doing?’

‘While he was sailing up and down?’

‘Well, he wouldn’t be doing it while he was swimming, would he?’

‘“Up and down” suggests that he did it quite a lot.’

‘Well, yes. He was probably
very
interested in them. I’m very interested myself. Do you know, Seymour, that although they are pelagic birds they lay their eggs on the land? Well, I suppose they would have to, wouldn’t they? I mean, they couldn’t lay them on the sea. But the thing is, you see, they only lay a single egg. A white one. And they lay it underground. Isn’t that remarkable?’

‘Er, yes. Astonishing!’

‘So of course Cunningham was looking closely. And through binoculars. It would be easy to miss, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘But of course there would be thousands of them, so you’d stand a good chance.’

‘Well, yes. Yes. I suppose so. Of course it could give rise to suspicion, couldn’t it? I mean, it’s not something the average Turk would understand.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. There are some good ornithologists among the Turks.’

‘And Cunningham – was he an ornithologist?’

‘I don’t know about that. I don’t think I’d go as far as that. A general interest, I would say. I remember talking to him once about the shearwater and he listened most attentively.’

‘Oh, good. And – and he was a keen sailor?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, either. I think it was rather that he was keen on Felicity Singleton-Mainwaring. And she certainly is a keen sailor. I expect it was her boat.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Felicity. ‘Are they really saying that? Well, it’s true we have been sailing up and down there a lot recently. “Come on, Felicity: make yourself useful for once!” he said. Well, I didn’t mind. I
like
sailing. And it’s nice to have a bit of company. And Peter is all right as company. At least, he
can
be all right as company when he gives his mind to it.

‘But it wasn’t just once, it was every afternoon. “I can’t,” I said. “I’m playing tennis with Daphne.” “No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re coming for a sail with me.” Daphne was very cross. “You let him order you around like a little dog,” she said. “I
like
sailing,” I said. “You like tennis, too,” she said. “And you promised!” But I don’t think it was that, really, I think she was a teeny bit jealous. You see, she fancies Peter herself. They had a tiny bit of a fling once.

‘Well, I thought I could see a brilliant way of solving everything. “Why don’t you come with us in the boat?” I said to Daphne. But she flew into a temper. “Listen,” she said, “I want to play tennis. We’ve
booked
to play tennis. And, anyway, I don’t want to go sailing with that man, I don’t want to go
anywhere
with that man!” And he said, “Oh, God! Not
two
of you!”

‘“That’s not very nice of you,” I said. “After all, it’s my boat.” “So it is,” he said, “and I can’t go without it. And you, unfortunately.”

‘“I promised,” I said. “But aren’t you promised to me, too, darling Felicity, for ever and ever? At least, I thought that’s what you told me one drunken evening. Well, a promise is a promise, Felicity, and you’ve got to stand by it. And mine was first. So you’re coming with me. Now where is this bloody boat?”

‘Well, I didn’t mind once. But every afternoon! “I’ve got something better to do with my life,” I said. “No, you haven’t, Felicity. Not if you really think about it. And it’s not every afternoon. It’s every afternoon for a bit. Then you can go and play tennis with Daphne. Anyway, you’re always telling me you like sailing.”

‘“Can’t we go and sail somewhere else? The Bosphorus, for instance? I’m sure you’d like that.” “No, I wouldn’t,” he said. “It’s got to be the bleeding, boring Dardanelles. So take me in close so that I can get a better look.”

‘What was he looking at? Well, I don’t know, I couldn’t see anything there much to look at myself. Birds?
Birds
!
Are
there any birds there? I thought shearwater stayed out at sea. Birds? There were a couple of women there who were sunbathing, but . . .

‘No, it was just up and down. And always the same side. Not the one he put me down on.

‘Yes, he put me down. On the other side of the Straits. So that he could swim across to me. “You are my beacon, my lighthouse, Felicity. You are my Hero and I am going to swim across to you just as Leander did. There! Doesn’t that make you feel good? Well, it ought to. You will feel yourself part of legend, my beautiful, beautiful Felicity, one of the most romantic legends in the world. You, Felicity! My beautiful Felicity. It’s like Romeo and Juliet or Antony and Cleopatra, and you are half of it. Christ, what are you complaining about? Any other girl would jump at the chance. Any girl who was halfway decently romantic and didn’t care more for her boat than her man –”

‘“Hey!” I said. “What are you doing? That’s my boat!” “I’m just borrowing it for a bit,” he said. “You stand there until I get back.” “But you don’t know how to sail!” I said. “I’ll work it out,” he said. “Don’t make such a fuss of things, Felicity.” “But it’s my boat!” “And it will be brought back to you very shortly. Christ, how do we put this bloody thing into reverse?”

‘“But I thought you were going to swim? Like Leander?” “Listen, you dimwit, I
am
going to swim. I am going to swim right across the Straits to you, my Hero, who will be standing here, on the rocks, waiting for me.” “Yes, but if you swim across, the boat will be on the other side, and we’ll both be on this side, and then how will we get home?”

‘“My beautiful, brainless Felicity, this is just a rehearsal. I’m just going to sail the boat across so that I can get an idea of what it would be like. And then I’m going to come back here, in the boat, and pick you up, and we can sail back home together; unless I change my mind and sail home by myself leaving you here frying on the rock.”

‘“Why can’t I come with you? I could sail the boat and you could look –” “I need to think, darling. And I can’t think with you prattling away. So you stay here out of harm’s way. Anyway, that’s more realistic. This is where you’ll be when we do it properly.”

‘“Hey!” I said. “Wait a minute –”’

But the boat had already gone.

‘Yes, he did bring it back. Safely. Although he did have some trouble bringing it in. “But you are right, Felicity, about the boat and the side. I shall need two boats. At least. One to accompany me across so that one of those daft cargo vessels doesn’t run me down, and one to put you there for me to swim across to.”

‘No, I didn’t actually do it in the end. Only in the rehearsal. So that he could see it in his mind, he said. On reflection, he said, he could see there was more to it than he had thought. I was rather sorry. I’d thought myself into it and rather liked the idea of being Hero. You know, his swimming across to me. Of course I know he didn’t care tuppence for me really, but all the same . . .’

They were a rum lot, thought Seymour, from the Ambassador down. Even Felicity.
Could
she be as bovine as she appeared? Well, yes, Seymour was afraid, on the basis of his brief acquaintance with her, she could. A nice, healthy girl from the shires, one of those upper-class girls who kept a pony and lived for horses and hadn’t an idea in her head. But what was a nice healthy girl from the shires doing here? On her own? Without her horses? She wasn’t a member of the Embassy staff, although she was known to all of them. What did she do in life?

‘Felicity? Oh, she just floats around,’ said Ponsonby.

But what had led her to float around in Istanbul? Cunningham? She was, Ponsonby had said, a sort of cousin of his. Had she had, as Felicity herself might have said, a teeny bit of a crush on him? Probably. But how deep had the crush been? From the way she had spoken, she seemed to lead a self-sufficient life here, independent of him; and Seymour had an uneasy suspicion that in Felicity’s mind no great distinction was made between a man and a horse.

So what was she doing here? Single women, in those days, did not normally go off and live by themselves, and certainly not alone by themselves in Istanbul.

Maybe it was different in the upper class.

And then, what about Cunningham? He was a bit of a rum one, too, even more so if anything. The way he had spoken to her! But maybe that was the way the upper class spoke to its cousins.

What the hell was a man like Cunningham doing writing scripts for a seedy theatre company? ‘He was in the Footlights, old man,’ said Ponsonby, as if that were sufficient explanation. Footlights? Seymour was mystified. ‘Cambridge Footlights,’ Ponsonby had expanded. Seymour was even more mystified.

Something to do with Cambridge University, obviously. (Everything in this Embassy seemed to have something to do with Cambridge.) And to do with the stage. But what had the Embassy to do with the theatre? A means of influencing opinion, as Lalagé had suggested? But – was that the way embassies normally went about influencing public opinion? A rum way of going on.

About one thing, though, he thought he was less mystified, and that was what Cunningham had been up to when he was sailing up and down looking at the Gelibolu cliffs: spying, despite what the Old Man had said. There could be no other explanation: could there?

But then, how did this swimming the Straits fit in? Spying from a boat, yes, he could see that; but . . . swimming? Across the Dardanelles? If you were trying to spy on the land the other side, wasn’t that, well, an odd way of going about it?

Rum, he thought: decidedly rum.

And, if you were trying to spy, amateur. That was the thought that was in his mind when he returned to the Embassy. It was four o’clock and they were serving tea out on the terrace. Tea. Of course, they drank tea in the police station at Whitechapel, although Seymour himself didn’t. But it wasn’t quite tea like this. In the police station they grabbed a mug and put it on the desk and got on with their work. Here it was a social occasion. Everyone congregated out there, among the roses. Servants went round serving it, a rather superior blend, in fragile, beautiful teacups. People chatted idly; about tennis, music, mutual acquaintances. Certainly not about politics or diplomacy or work. It was rather pleasant out there after the heat of the day, getting the first touch of the evening breeze. Relaxed. Gracious.

Not fraught and puritanical and hectic and driven, all the things that Seymour normally associated with work, but civilized, gracious. Gracious, yes: but also, he came back to it, amateur. The life of the gentleman before the Flood. Seymour, unfortunately, was part of the Flood.

It was a thought which was reinforced by an encounter he had with someone he had not seen before, a trim, erect, bushy-moustached man in a smart white suit. He was talking to Ponsonby.

‘Oh, hello, Seymour,’ said Ponsonby, with a certain relief. ‘Can I introduce you? This is Chalmers. Our military attaché. I was just telling him about the Old Man’s visit to the Porte this morning.’

Seymour knew now that ‘Porte’ didn’t mean ‘port’, as with ships. But nor did it mean ‘door’ or ‘gate’, as in French for. It was Diplomatic Familiar for the Sublime Porte, which was, as far as diplomacy was concerned, the Ottoman Empire’s seat of government.

‘Oh, yes?’ he said. ‘How did it go?’

‘Deuce,’ said Ponsonby. ‘Forty-all. We made our protest, they made theirs.’