Chapter 14: A Morning Visitor

It is my regular habit to enjoy a slow start to the day but on this particular occasion I had woken to a delightful day and decided to take an early breakfast. I had taken myself into the morning room where Helena (now gradually becoming accommodated to her role) served me breakfast, poured my coffee and laid the day's newspaper close to hand. Breakfast was a simple affair and I was soon able to sit back so as to digest both the meal and the latest news.

As has become the case recently, the news was all of the Aegean campaign. On the front page there was an account of the Navy's engagements off Kos and the fight against insurgents in the Mani. One article on an inside page caught my eye however. "My Escape from Ottoman Hell" was the headline stretched over a picture of an obese Pasha sitting smugly cross-legged, sucking on a hookah while surrounded by semi-clad and veiled women. The article related how the Pasha, apparently the corrupt governor of a province of western Anatolia, had accumulated the Empire's largest harem since the days of Suleiman the Magnificent and now had over 250 women in his thrall. Couched in the usual sensationalist language that can be expected in our daily press, the piece provided an entertaining selection of lurid details about life in the Pasha's palace in Izmir and succeeded in portraying the Pasha as a veritable demon in human form with tastes so depraved that it was astonishing to any normal man that he could even manage to sit up. The article concluded with an account of how the women of the harem had risen up against the Pasha's oppression and had conspired in his assassination, leaving his naked body to be found, dripping with blood from a slit throat, in his bath.

I wasn't sure how much, if any, of the article to believe. I was about to turn the page when something drew my attention back to the picture of the Pasha's harem. One of the figures seemed curiously familiar. I reached for the magnifying glass that I keep to hand on my desk. Over on the far right of the picture, one woman, as scantily clad as the rest but with her face momentarily exposed as she adjusted her veil, stared out at the photographer. It was, I was certain, Amelia Knight. What a coincidence, I thought, that Miss Knight should appear on the scene and that the Pasha should suddenly experience a revolt in his harem.

It was only moments later that I was disturbed by a ring on my door bell. Such an event before ten o'clock in the morning is not a common occurrence. I rarely have to concern myself with business affairs – apart, of course, from seeing to the priorities of my residents – before luncheon.

Nevertheless it seemed I was to be disturbed. Helena answered the door. (In retrospect this now seems to have been a most foolish allocation of duties for her) She was, by now, well on the road to completing her studies and was spending time providing the services of house maid. This had been a challenge when first mooted, seen by her as inappropriate for a princess. However I had prevailed and with judicious use of the plug to ensure her compliance she now functioned quite successfully in the menial role.

There were a few exchanged words at the doorstep and Helena appeared in the room. "It's a gypsy pedlar, Sir," she said. "I have told her we're not interested but she insists she has to speak to the gentleman of the house. I'm sorry, Sir, I..."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. Behind Helena, a ragamuffin woman had appeared brandishing the most enormous knife. Thinking as quickly as I could, I grabbed Helena and threw her to one side as the woman, staring straight at me with coal black eyes, silently lifted her skirt and pulled a second, even longer, weapon from a scabbard strapped to the inside of her thigh. As she squared up to me, pointing the weapons towards me, I looked around the room in vain for some sort of shield or other means of defence. Helena – her hands held to her mouth – looked on silently in horror.

A moment later my problem was solved. A further figure appeared behind the gypsy. A thin cord snaked out around the woman's neck and tightened. She fell back, dropped her weapons and grasped at the ligature choking her. The newcomer, a woman in a long cloak, wrestled our attacker to the floor, gripped her wrists and, releasing the cord from her neck, used it to bind the gypsy's hands behind her back. She kicked the gypsy's knives clear and pushed her captive to one side before turning towards me and dropping the hood of her cape. I recognised our saviour at once.

"Good morning, Miss Knight," I said. "What an opportune moment to call. I had no idea that you were even in London."