They reached the Worthington estate by mid-morning. The sprawling mansion was more arresting by day as the automated carriage pulled up along the driving path. Several cars were already parked, with well-dressed drivers who lolled about—men accustomed to long waits between jobs.
“We should have talked to him a week ago,” Hadia grumbled, following Fatma out.
“Worthington name has its advantages.”
“Wonder why he decided to meet with us?”
“Can’t say. But the invitation is just for us—not the police. Talking to Aasim makes it look like there’s some criminal mischief. Talking to us—”
“—just makes it look a bit spooky,” Hadia finished.
Fatma eyed her sideways. Siti was such a bad influence.
When they knocked on the door, they were greeted by a man with the bearing of someone who worked for the wealthy. The day steward, it turned out. They were ushered across the large parlor, passing through a bulbous pointed archway.
“This place looks like something from stories I used to read,” Hadia whispered, eyeing the patterned rugs and mashrabiya latticework. “With spoiled princes and enchanted storks.”
“Might get to meet at least one of those.”
The day steward stopped at the library doors, bidding them enter. There were no windows, and a hanging gas lamp lit up the room. But what made Fatma blink were the people.
The stocky man with golden hair, she recalled, was Victor; the dark-haired one, Percival. They wore full-length black kaftans with red tarbooshes. Seated on the modish moss-green divan were three women, each dressed in a black sebleh and wrapped in a milaya lef. Their faces were hidden behind matching bur’a, though their heads were strangely uncovered.
“Agent Fatma,” one called in a familiar voice. Abigail Worthington. The red hair should have been a giveaway, and her still-bandaged left hand. She held an open book in her right—titled in English Mysterious Tales of the Djinn and Orient. One page bore a scantily clad veiled woman, arms up in distress at a menacing djinn with fire emanating from his mouth.
“Aass-a-lamoo Ah-lake-um!” she greeted.
Fatma winced. How did anyone speak Arabic that badly? “And unto you peace,” she replied, in English. “Abigail, this is Agent Hadia. My partner at the Ministry.”
Abigail’s blue-green eyes widened above the bur’a. “Partner? How splendid! Good morning to you, Agent Hadia. As I’ve told Agent Fatma, simply Abbie is fine.”
“Good morning, Abbie,” Hadia replied.
“Oh! Your English is as remarkable as Agent Fatma’s! Is that accent … American?”
“I spent some time there.”
Abigail let out an astonished breath. “Another woman at your Ministry. And well traveled! I was just relating with Bethany and Darlene how advanced your country has become for women—practically leaving us English behind! We’re all féministes, you know. Hardly Pankhursts by any means. But we are fellow travelers in the sisterhood.”
Bethany and Darlene, Fatma recalled, putting names to the brown-haired women flanking Abigail. The Edginton sisters. Their hazel eyes carried that same appraising measure, like cats sizing up a rival.
Victor guffawed. He was drinking again, sipping from a crystal glass. “Give women the vote in England, and soon they’ll have us in the dresses and them in the suits.” He gestured a meaty hand to his gallabiyah and then to Fatma’s attire, before flashing a toothy smile. “No offense meant. Just a bit of English humor.”
“Poor humor,” Percival murmured, burying his moustache in his own drink.
Abigail’s eyes fixed sharp on Victor, and the man turned crimson, downing his glass hurriedly and going into a coughing fit.
“I’m sorry,” Abigail apologized. “Victor inherited the famed Fitzroy tongue. Whole family is forever tripping after their own words. You might recall the more refined Percival Montgomery. Percival, be a dear and help poor Victor. He might choke to death the way he’s going on.” The smaller man sighed, delivering hard slaps to his friend’s back. “Victor’s just sour because he’s not used to the garment.”
Fatma couldn’t resist the question. “Is there a reason for your … garments?”
Abigail blinked. “I thought it obvious. We’re in mourning. My father’s funeral was yesterday. He was so in love with your land, we wanted to honor him by taking on native dress. We’ve even adopted mourning veils.”
“Mourning veils?” Hadia asked.
Abigail pulled down the bur’a, confused. “Isn’t that what they’re for?”
“You mean we don’t have to wear these?” Darlene Edginton asked, ripping hers off.
“Thank God!” her sister followed. “How do you even breathe?”
Hadia stared open-mouthed. Fatma headed things off with a question. “We’ve come at the invitation of your brother?”
Abigail nodded. “Alexander’s upstairs. I’ll take you.” She stood, wrapping the milaya lef awkwardly over one arm before turning to her friends. “Go easy on the scotch. We’ve a long day ahead.”
She led them from the library and down the hall. As they walked, a faint clanging came to Fatma’s ears, conjuring images of a hammer striking metal. She remembered hearing it on her last visit. She’d thought her mind was playing tricks, but it was clearer now. Then it was gone. Maybe there were workers on the premises?
“Have you read this book, Agent Fatma?” Abigail asked. She held up the text she still carried. “It’s written by one of England’s foremost Orientalists. With stories of djinn and magic and the like. Quite informative!”
Fatma glanced to the book, remembering its sensational content. It looked like utter nonsense. Most of these “Orientalists” thought their bad translations and wrongheaded takes might help them better understand the changes sweeping the world. It seemed reading from actual Eastern scholars was beneath them.
“From what I’ve heard,” Abigail went on, her tone darkening, “that dreadful man in the gold mask I encountered has been causing mischief all through Cairo. There was a riot of some sort? And he’s calling himself after that Soudanese fellow.”
“Al-Jahiz,” Fatma affirmed as they began climbing the absurdly long set of stairs. “Is your hand better?”
Abigail flinched at mention of her bandaged appendage. “The doctors say I’ve sprained it with my clumsiness. May take weeks to heal.” Her tone shifted. “The papers claim this man killed my father. And all those poor people.”
“He’s confessed to it,” Fatma confirmed.
Abigail stopped, leaning against the railing and swaying as if she might faint. She caught herself, shaking her head at their concerns. When she spoke again, her voice was strained. “Why would he do this? What did my father do to him?”
“We don’t know,” Fatma answered truthfully. “We’re hoping your brother might be able to help.” She paused before making her next statement. “You told us your brother was overseas, the night of your father’s murder. But he was here in Cairo.”
Abigail’s blue-green eyes glazed in confusion. “Alexander arrived the next day. True enough, he was already en route to Cairo, unbeknownst to me. But he wasn’t here. Not that night. I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
Fatma searched her face. “Perhaps we are. Thank you.” They resumed their walk, and Hadia shared a critical glance. So much for needling a different story from the woman.
“This man in the gold mask,” Abigail said shakily. “Do you think he might return here? To come after my brother and me?”
“It’s possible,” Fatma conceded. “We don’t know his motive. If you’d like, we can see about having the Giza police provide a guard for your estate.”
“Yes. That’s a splendid idea. I’ll bring it up to Alexander.”
She fell into idle chatter, pointing out the ornamentations of the house. It turned out the estate had been the hunting lodge of the old basha, sold to Alistair Worthington back in 1898.
“That’s around the same time the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz was founded,” Hadia noted.
“Four years after my mother passed away,” Abigail replied. “I was seven when she died. Alexander was ten and remembers things better than me. He says it was her death that drew my father’s interest in al-Jahiz. Father believed that had England taken the mystic arts more seriously, my mother could have been saved from the consumption that claimed her. He bought this lodge and had it refashioned toward that goal. He liked the view.” She gestured with her book to a window, where the pyramids loomed.
“Is that where he got the design for his brotherhood?” Fatma asked. “The six-pointed star. Two interlocking pyramids.” She sketched the symbol with her fingers.
“Clever of you to notice. He claimed it came to him in a vision. That it held some great meaning that evaded him. Together we would stare at it, hoping to puzzle it out.”
“But you weren’t a member of his organization?”
Abigail let out a light laugh. “Heavens no. My father didn’t take the term ‘Brotherhood’ lightly. He might talk to his daughter of his explorations while thumbing through old books. But the Brotherhood was for men. Though in the end, I understand he allowed a native woman to take part. My brother fears his mind was slipping.”
“Your brother, however, was a member,” Hadia said.
“At Father’s insistence.” There was an awkward pause. “Alexander and Father didn’t see eye to eye on such things. After acquiring the estate Father was often here in Egypt—half the year at times. Alexander went off to boarding school at a military academy. I was left with nursemaids and tutors back in England. But Father started sending for me to spend time with him as he built his brotherhood and hunted after relics. When he moved here permanently, I stayed a year or two off and on. He confided in me about his quest, as if I were Mother. I even helped read through his strange books and manuscripts. It’s why I’m so well acquainted with the native culture.”
Not acquainted enough, Fatma thought. She held her tongue, though she wasn’t certain how many more times she could stomach the word “native.” They reached the top of the stairs, turning left.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t the same for poor Alexander,” Abigail continued. “He only visited infrequently. Egypt’s still all a foreign place to him. And he never took to Father’s society. I’m sure he only joined to receive his inheritance. But look at me going on about my brother’s business. I’m certain he can speak for himself.”
She led them to the place Fatma had visited previously—the ritual room of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz. The wood doors that hung off their hinges had been removed altogether, leaving an open stone archway. The smell of burning flesh was scrubbed away, replaced with the lingering fumes of disinfectant. With its rounded water-blue walls of flowering gold and green patterns, rows of curving arches, and honeycombed muqarnas, the space exuded tranquility—belying the horrors of a few nights past. Perhaps the only reminder was the white banner at the room’s rear: star, crescent, sword, and fiery serpent. Beneath, at a black half-moon table with one high-backed chair like a king’s throne, sat a solitary figure. Unlike the men downstairs, he wore a black suit with a white starched collar. He bowed his head, scribbling on a sheet, and only looked up when they’d come to stand right before him.
Alexander Worthington wasn’t precisely what Fatma had expected. She thought to find someone with the common Edwardian look: a trimmed moustache and a clean-cut visage. This man had long pale gold hair that fell to his shoulders. And a beard—just short of unruly. With his pointed nose and angular features, she imagined he favored a younger Lord Worthington. When his sister moved to stand beside him the resemblance was unmistakable.
“Alexander, these are the agents from the Ministry you requested to speak with,” Abigail introduced with a smile. “Agent Fatma and Agent Hadia.”
Alexander’s blue eyes roamed slowly to his sister. He removed a brown cigar held between his lips, resting it in an ashtray fashioned like a turbaned figure holding a dish. “That you requested I speak with,” he remarked in refined English.
Abigail flushed. “And you agreed it was a good idea. Please, Alexander, don’t be rude.”
Her brother sighed, before turning to a large book on the table—bound in brown leather and with yellow parchment. He tucked in his pen as a marker, then closed it, before looking up. His eyebrows rose as if only truly noticing the two women for the first time. He didn’t get up, though Fatma estimated he’d be considered tall. She filed that observation away.
“You two are from what ministry, exactly?”
Fatma showed her badge. “Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities.”
His lips pursed into a smirk. “I’d expect this country to have such a thing. And run by women no less. How can I be of assistance to you?”
Fatma kept her smile as slight as possible. “We’d like to talk about your father’s death.”
His blue eyes turned hard. “Have you come to tell me you’ve arrested the murderer?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’m uncertain what we have to talk about. Your papers say he’s running about your city with reckless abandon. Some Mohammedan fanatic astounding the crowds with tricks? I’d think you’d be out there hunting him down, not taking up my time.”
Fatma compressed her lips. It turned out that Alexander Worthington, despite his looks, was precisely what she had expected after all. Hadia stepped into the breach.
“We know you’ve just buried your father and are still in mourning. We don’t mean to take up your time. But any information you can offer would be helpful.”
Alexander studied her appraisingly. “Your English. It’s almost American.”
“Agent Hadia spent time in the States,” Abigail added. She had taken to standing behind the table, holding her book close.
“I’ve visited the States,” Alexander said. “A country still in need of taming, particularly in the west, where the native tribes are again giving trouble. But the Americans, I believe, have the right idea of how to succeed in this age, with these untoward occurrences that have led to so many uprisings. England would be wise to follow, if she’s ever to regain her footing. Chasing after primitivism will do us no good.”
“Alexander has been serving with the colonial armies in the East Indies,” Abigail put in. “Commanding a whole regiment! He’s even been made an officer! Can you believe such a thing? Going around with a rifle and sword!” she added with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve taken up a bit of fencing myself.”
“A captain.” Her brother folded his arms self-importantly. “I wouldn’t compare the delicacy of a lady’s fencing with our work in India—trying to aid Britain in holding on to what’s left of her raj.”
Which wasn’t much, Fatma recalled. India had its own djinn, and even older magic that was said to flow with the Ganges itself. Open rebellion had reduced the British to just a few garrisoned cities—all that was left of the onetime jewel of an empire. Score one for “primitivism.”
“Alexander’s made quite a few daring exploits,” his sister fawned. “And with his long hair and beard, come back to us something of a nabob!”
Her brother scoffed, but puffed out his chest, stroking the pale gold hair on his chin. “I studied the natives of India. Hunted tigers at their side. Their ways are backward, certainly, but something of the long hair carries a wild nobility I imagine was held in my own English forebears. Therefore, I believe you mistaken, sister. I’ve gone more Saxon than nabob.” He turned to address Fatma. “So then, what is it the two of you want to know?”
“The man in the gold mask,” she said. “He’s admitted to your father’s murder. He’s also an imposter who claims to be al-Jahiz. We believe there’s a connection.”
“Because of my father’s … peculiar habits.”
“Anything you might tell us about the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz?”
Alexander rubbed his temples with his hand. “My sister has probably told you of my father’s fanaticism with that Soudanese magician. Our mother’s death broke his mind. His little order spent a great deal of money, time, and effort seeking ‘the wisdom of the ancients.’” The last came with biting sarcasm.
“Doesn’t sound like you believed in your father’s mission,” Hadia assessed.
“I’m not a man of superstition. I understand that sorcery and cavorting with unnatural creatures is germane to the Oriental cultures. But rationality is the only means to true progress. In the West, we look forward. My father, on the other hand, was seduced by these backward-looking notions of the East.” He held up a placating hand. “No offense to you and yours, of course.”
“None taken,” Fatma replied evenly. “But you were a member, of his ‘little order.’”
Alexander’s face went taut as he played with a band of silver on his pinkie finger. Fatma recognized it right away—the signet ring bearing the Worthington seal, last worn by his father.
“I was a boy of ten when my mother died. I watched my father slowly descend into his madness. All along, I played the part of a dutiful son. Went off to school. Served for crown and country, became learned in the ways of business, and everything necessary to take control of the Worthington name. But for my father that wasn’t enough. He insisted I join in his delusions, making me promise to dedicate myself to finding the secrets of the heavens and the like.”
He took a stilling breath, as if trying to hold back his anger.
“So I submitted to his request. Then I got as far away from him and his madness as I could. I ended up in India, because in England I was tired of hearing whispers of the crazed Alistair Worthington. The men he kept about him called him ‘the old man.’ My father found it endearing; I think they believed he’d gone senile. Now I return to find him murdered. I buried him yesterday, and I couldn’t even look into his face, because there was nothing but charred remains. So yes, I was a member of his brotherhood. But I never did more beyond stating so for his benefit. Because I knew it would one day be his ruin.”
Beside him, Abigail Worthington wept silently, clutching her book and using the bur’a to wipe her tears. Her brother looked to her, his voice not rising but cold. “Now you cry. Did you shed tears when he was making a mockery of our family name back home? Or spending our money on his meaningless ventures and building this ridiculous place”—he gestured about the room—“that would only serve as his tomb?” His sister cried harder, and he sighed lengthily.
“My sister is given to tears, but I can’t spare them. Do you see this?” He placed a hand atop the book on the desk. “A ledger of my father’s businesses in the past sixteen months. I’ve been trying to make sense of bizarre transactions he or his hangers-on were making with the company—selling off some industries, investing recklessly in others, large sums of money simply gone. An entire shipment of Worthington steel—enough to construct a building—vanished! I came up here, hoping that in his treasured sanctum I might find some enlightenment. You see, I’m left to get my family’s affairs in order—while my sister spends time playing dress-up with that lot of sycophants downstairs.”
“They are my friends.” She tried to sound firm, but it only came out as a petulant sob.
“They’re your friends as long as you fly them to Egypt and put them up in fancy villas about the city.” He shook his head. “Fitzroys, Montgomerys, Edgintons. All recent money. They latch onto my sister and the Worthington name. More hangers-on at the trough. I swear, you’re as bad as Father.”
Fatma coughed. She wasn’t here for a family squabble. “Is there anything else you can tell us about your father’s brotherhood?”
Alexander gave her a flat look. “That they’re all dead.”
“What about enemies? Someone who might want to do it harm?”
“A Mohammedan who took my father too seriously, it seems. Are we finished here?”
“Almost.” Fatma met his irritated glare. “We’re trying to clear up some discrepancy on your arrival into Cairo. You say you got here the day after your father’s murder.”
“That’s seems apparent.”
“We’ve heard claims you were here that night.”
“Whoever told you so is obviously wrong.”
“So you’re saying you weren’t here that night? You weren’t the one who asked the newspapers to quiet news of your father’s murder?”
This made him frown. “What? Where did you hear such a thing?”
“I’m sorry,” Fatma told him. “I can’t speak on an ongoing case.”
They stared at each other for a moment before he threw up his hands. “I can assure you I arrived in the city when I said I did. Check my travel documents if you’d like.”
“And why did you come back?” Fatma pressed. “Right now? All the way from India?”
He frowned. “If you must pry into my personal business, I received a letter from my father requesting my presence. He didn’t write often. So I obliged his request.”
“The dutiful son. Are you the new Lord Worthington now?”
He gave a wry expression. “My father was the third son of a duke, hence a lord. The title he takes with him to the grave. All I’m left with is the Worthington name, which I must now rehabilitate.”
“You could be the English Bey—the son of a basha,” Hadia put in, her tone sarcastic.
“I think I’ve had enough of Oriental decadence,” he replied flatly.
Fatma thought she’d had enough of him. “Are you going to stay in Cairo?”
“Only as long as it takes to put my father’s business in order and sell this monstrosity of an estate. He loved this country so much he insisted on being buried in it—like the great conqueror Alexander of old, his will claimed. Well, not this Alexander. I plan on returning to England. My sister will be coming with me. Where she can find better uses of her time than frivolities with her so-called friends.” Abigail looked as if she wanted to protest but swallowed the words.
“And your father’s collection of relics?”
“Worthless heirlooms,” he answered sourly. “Before I sell the estate, I’m going to have this room demolished. They can go with it. When I return to England, I want all memory of this brotherhood business put behind us. Anything more, agent? Perhaps you could spare some time to find out which local has pilfered an entire steel shipment? Maybe one of your Forty Leopard hooligans. I hear they’ve fallen in with this crazed Mohammedan.”
“I’ll pass it on to the police,” Fatma replied. She tapped the tip of her bowler. “Thank you for your help. We’ll get back to you should we have more questions.”
He gave a weary wave of acknowledgment, bowing his head and reopening the ledger—not even watching them go. Abigail led them out and downstairs in silence back to the parlor. When they’d arrived, she turned to them apologetically.
“I know my brother probably wasn’t very helpful. But I so do want to help you find my father’s murderer.” She opened up her book and, to their surprise, pulled out another book. Thin and bound in black leather, it was small enough to fit in one’s palm. Fatma accepted it, opening to the first page. Handwritten words in English read: The Vizier’s Account.
“It’s a notation book of some sort,” Abigail explained. “I found it here in the house. It belonged to a man who worked close with my father—Archibald Portendorf. If you want to know more about the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz, perhaps it might be useful?”
“April 14, 1904. Procured for TOM, one scrap of tunic claimed to have belonged to al-Jahiz, £2,900,” Hadia read aloud as they rode the automated carriage back to Cairo. Her fingers flipped to another part of the journal. “December 1906. Procured for TOM, pages reputed to have come from a Koran touched by al-Jahiz, £5,600.” She turned the small book about, displaying its contents. “I don’t think Alexander Worthington was exaggerating about his father’s spending. There’s years of information in here.”
Sitting opposite, Fatma scanned the page. Handwritten English script wasn’t her forte. Some things she could make out, but it was slow going. Luckily Hadia seemed at ease with it. She remembered the name Archibald Portendorf listed among the murdered members of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz. He’d been one of those at the table with Worthington. She distinctly recalled his charred hand clutching a kerchief marked with the letter G. His wife, it turned out—Georgiana. She wondered what his last thoughts of her had been as he died.
“This is more than a ledger,” Hadia said, flipping through the small book. “He jotted down notes alongside his expenses. Here’s one: ‘September 13, 1911. Wired to that young idiot WD £200 emergency funding for latest venture. Claims to have encountered sand trap. Pity it didn’t swallow him.’ Exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point.”
Fatma looked down a small list naming members of the Brotherhood. They’d been using it to decipher the journal’s coding. TOM had stumped them until they remembered Lord Worthington’s nickname and reasoned it out in English: The Old Man. “Wesley Dalton,” she said. “He’s the only WD.”
“Nearly every mention of him comes with a biting comment,” Hadia noted. “Doesn’t seem Archibald liked him very much.”
“Wesley Dalton was the corpse whose head was on … backward,” Fatma remarked.
Hadia’s eyebrows rose. “I guess he had a way with people. Look here.” She pointed at the journal. “Beside a lot of these entries is written the word ‘archivist’ followed by ‘Siwa,’ in parentheses. Maybe he had to visit there? With an archivist?”
Siwa was an oasis town in the far west of Egypt. Fairly remote—some nine hours’ travel by the faster airships, and only if they weren’t stopping to fuel. “That’s a long way. How many times is it mentioned?”
“Often. Especially the more expensive purchases. Why go to some archivist in Siwa, though, for”—Hadia stopped to read—“a sebhah rumored used by al-Jahiz to perform dhikr? I don’t recall al-Jahiz being in Siwa.”
Neither did Fatma. This wasn’t making sense.
“You have that look on your face,” Hadia observed. “The frustrated one.”
“I was hoping we’d come away with some leads. Instead we get puzzles. Not to mention we still can’t nail down basic facts—like when precisely Alexander Worthington arrived in Cairo.”
The clear contradiction between his and Madame Nabila’s account had taken up much of their discussion since leaving the estate. One of the two was clearly wrong or lying. The documentation was in Alexander’s favor. But it seemed an odd mistake on Madame Nabila’s part. And why would she lie?
“This is interesting,” Hadia murmured. “The last entry. It’s dated November 6.”
“The day of the murders. What does it say?”
“November 6, 1912. After two weeks of haggling, procured for TOM from the list, the reputed sword of al-Jahiz, for agreed upon price, £50,000. Archivist (Siwa).” Hadia gasped. “That’s a lot of money! Do you think it’s the same one the imposter has?”
Fatma shifted uneasily, reliving that singing sword skewering Siti. “What else?”
“There’s a long notation: ‘Encountered difficulty gaining the item in Red Street. Inquired on discovery of second wire transfer to archivist (Siwa) for £50,000 from AW.’” Hadia raised her head quizzically. “Alistair Worthington?”
“No. He’s TOM. AW is someone else.”
“You’re not thinking…?”
“Alexander Worthington! Keep reading!”
“‘Informed Siwa that I was the only one authorized to speak for TOM. Became erratic and unhinged. Has left me shaken. Will suggest to TOM no further transfers to archivist (Siwa) until matter sorted. Will not support his habit, even if he holds the list over us.’ Exclamation point.”
Hadia stopped. “It seems there were two transfers to the same archivist in Siwa for £50,000. One was on the night of Alistair Worthington’s death—for a sword. The other transfer was two weeks earlier, from AW. Perhaps Alexander. But for what? And what’s this business about a list or Red Street? I thought the money was wired to Siwa?”
Fatma shook her head slowly as understanding set in. “Red Street. He means Red Road. The artisan district. Siwa isn’t a place. It’s the name of the archivist. A djinn.” Not wasting another moment, she shouted a new set of directions for the carriage, holding to the inside railings as it banked hard to the left and set out for Al Darb al-Ahmar.