“Now, now,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “The guard may well be guilty. Don’t leap to conclusions. She shouldn’t have been able to leave the harem, correct? Who let her out? Possibly the same person who killed her?”

“Sir Richard, are you quite certain it’s Ceyden?” I hated asking the question; my skin felt stinging hot. “You haven’t seen her since she was a child, and it’s possible that—”

“There can be no doubt. All these years I’ve been here, in the same city, and never knew she was so close.” He closed his eyes, rubbed a hand hard over them.

“Maybe it wasn’t her,” I said. “It’s possible that—”

“No. It was Ceyden. When she’d fallen ill during our travels, Assia begged me to have her tattooed. It’s common Berber practice, the medicinal use of tattoos. Half black magic, half ancient doctoring, I suppose. In the end, I decided it wouldn’t hurt. Never was able to deny Assia anything. So I got her ink and needles and she did it herself.”

“And you saw that tattoo tonight?” I asked.

“Yes. There’s no doubt. Because when Assia had finished, I was so taken with the steadiness of her hand that I told her to add her initials, as if she were signing a painting. She didn’t want to, but I convinced her. It was there, on her neck: ASC. There can be no mistake.” He clasped his hands together, pulled them apart, rubbed his palms, then started again. “I need her murderer to be brought to justice, Hargreaves. Can I rely on you to help me?”

“I’ve already sought permission from our government and don’t doubt that I’ll receive it.”

“Justice in such a case must be achieved at any cost. There is no crime more reprehensible than one that causes a person to lose his child,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “But will the sultan allow foreign intervention?”

“We should be able to persuade him to allow us at least a brief investigation,” Colin said. “The girl was, after all, half English.”