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underclothes—a sleeveless vest and a pair of drawers. He felt a seam and dragged at it, loosening the cloth from the soft flesh that spilled over it.
    From his belt Yashim drew a small knife, took hold of the triangle of cloth in his left hand, and slid the blade beneath it, working from the man’s neck along the top of his shoulder. The cloth parted easily.
    As he worked to undress the corpse, he gagged: once he went back to the door and leaned against it, sweat prickling his eyes, to draw breath. The monk stood with his back to the doorway; only the mullah regarded him sorrowfully, the corners of his mouth firmly turned down in sympathy for Yashim’s plight. Yashim held up a hand to tell him to wait a little longer.
    As he was cutting away the cloth along the man’s ribs, the arm rolled slowly back. Yashim stared for a few moments, frowning.
    When it was done, he came out into the sunshine and felt instantly nauseated, the heat seeming to suck at his stomach, so that he heaved and retched.
    The monk brought a basin and a clean cloth. Yashim scrubbed his hands.
    “As far as I can tell, he was a Christian,” he said finally. He rinsed the knife and polished it hard on the cloth, until it gleamed, and stuck it back into his belt. “Fair-haired, uncircumcised. Not more than forty—maybe a lot younger. Fit, too. A big man.”
    The concern on the mullah’s face faded slightly. “I am happy to accept your judgment, Yashim efendi. At prayers, I can tell the believers, and the hubbub will die down.” He turned to the monk. “I am glad, for all our sakes.”
    At the gate Brother Palamedes peered through the peephole.
    “There are still some men outside, mullah.”
    “I will speak to them, then.” Mullah Dede stepped out into the sunshine.
    “I’ll trouble you for a drink of water,” Yashim said.
    In the kitchens, lit by high windows, the monks were preparing the evening meal. They looked at Yashim curiously, but said nothing. Brother Palamedes fetched him a beaker and filled it from a jug with a long spout.
    Yashim accepted the beaker, then hesitated. “Not the same well?”
    The monk shook his head, unsmiling. “This is from the inner well, efendi.”
    Yashim drank. “There is one thing I do not understand, Brother Palamedes. May we speak, privately?”
    The monk hesitated. “I can take you to my cell, efendi.”
    The cells were built in two rows facing a narrow, sunless courtyard: as soon as he saw them Yashim recalled the apartments set aside for eunuchs in the imperial harem. Brother Palamedes’s cell contained a narrow bed, a desk, and a wooden stool. On the desk lay a thick book bound in cracked leather, with a flimsy notebook beside it. Beside the notebook lay a quill pen. A bottle of ink stood at the far corner of the desk, beside an earthenware jug and an empty glass. On the wall above the bed hung a crucifix mounted on wood, with a small plaque beneath it. There was nothing written on the plaque. The tiled floor glowed a dusky pink, worn into hollows by the passage of feet over many centuries.
    “Who was he?”
    The monk spread his hands. “Then xero.” I do not know.
    “An utter stranger.”
    “We live a secluded life, Yashim efendi, but of course this island is our home. The dead man is not a priest, nor a monk. He is not a Muslim or a Jew, as you have established. We know of no one of the faith—I mean, our faith—missing on the island, or indeed on any of the islands.”
    “How did you bring him out of the well?”
    “We made a sling of canvas. Brother Andrew guided the man’s body into the sling, and then we drew him up. And we put him where he is now.”
    “Someone examined the body?”
    Brother Palamedes puffed out his cheeks. “Examined? We could see he was dead.”
    “We?”
    “Brother Andrew and I laid the body on the floor.”
    “And since then? Who else has seen the body?”
    “I’m not sure what you mean, efendi. We sent to the governor, that’s all. We haven’t had a