Fatma looked to the other man in the room, whose broad frame filled up a black waistcoat and white shirt partly unbuttoned—tie loosened. His head was topped by a halo of golden curls that formed generous sideburns.
“You just leave us locked up and guarded by your gendarmes?” he spouted in refined English. His waving arms sloshed about the contents in a drinking glass.
“Lay off, Victor,” his companion sounded nasally. “Everyone’s on edge already.” The bigger man seemed set to the retort, but Abigail Worthington spoke up.
“Percy’s right.” Her melodic voice came hoarsely. “It won’t do any good to yell at these people. They can’t change what’s happened.” She lifted her head to set puffy red eyes on them, confusion passing across her face as she took in Fatma’s suit. That was better than the other women. The two stood gawping, trading whispers behind their hands. When Abigail spoke again, it was in Arabic. “Sorry. Brandy. Victor. He drink. Much. Make stupid.”
Fatma winced. Aasim hadn’t exaggerated. The woman’s Arabic was an assault on her ears. Deciding to save them all, she replied in English. “It’s fine, Miss Worthington. You’ve had a trying night. May I offer my condolences.”
Abigail’s blue-green eyes widened at Fatma anew. So did her companions’. The two whisperers stopped talking altogether. “You speak English! And with the most delightful accent! Though I can’t quite place it. How splendid!” She wiped tears from her cheek. “Thank you. And please, just Abbie.”
“Abbie, then,” Fatma agreed. “I’m Agent Fatma, with the Egyptian Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities.”
“An agent,” Abigail mouthed in awe. “First your country grants women the vote, now I learn they let you be police officers!”
“The Ministry aren’t police. I work with Inspector Aasim on matters dealing with the … unordinary. I’m afraid your father’s death falls under that heading.”
Abigail’s face turned grim, and she pressed her lips tight. “They haven’t let me in to see…” She swallowed. “I understand, there was a fire?”
“Yes, but more than that.” Fatma delicately explained the state of the bodies.
“My God!” Victor cried out. He downed his brandy. “Murder! Sorcery, then?”
“What else could it be?” Abigail whispered. “Poor Father. I hope he didn’t suffer.” She looked on the verge of weeping again, but pressed a hand against an orange sash at her waist and spoke levelly. “How can I help, agent?”
“Inspector Aasim says you came across someone?”
Abigail shivered visibly. “Yes. I’d just come home. The house was strangely quiet when I entered. I hadn’t made it out of the parlor before he arrived. A man, in black robes.”
Fatma jotted down the information on a notepad. “Not one of your servants?”
Abigail shook her head.
“Could you describe him?”
The woman’s expression turned awkward. “Not exactly. He wore a mask of some kind.” She touched her own face, as if imagining it there. “Gold. With markings. I remember he was tall. So very tall! And his eyes. I’ve never seen such intense eyes!”
“Did he do that?” Fatma indicated her bandaged hand.
Abigail’s cheeks colored. “No. I … well, you see, I fainted. Dead away at seeing that horrid man. Silly goose that I am, I landed on my own hand. Percy’s been a dear to wrap it up.”
“I’ve done what I can,” the thin man said, standing.
“Can you tell us anything else about this man in a gold mask?” Fatma pressed.
Abigail shook her head regretfully. “I was passed out until Hamza found me.”
“Wish I’d been here,” Victor said hotly. “I’d have shown the masked devil a thing or two!” He downed another glass and turned to Fatma. “I want to know what you and this inspector are doing to apprehend this criminal. Shouldn’t you be out hunting him?”
Fatma regarded him flatly. There was always one like this. “I didn’t get your full name?”
He stuck out a square chin. “Victor Fitzroy.” As if it should mean something.
“Forgive my manners,” Abigail interceded. “These are my friends. The hotheaded one is Victor. My play physician is Percival Montgomery.” The dark-haired man smirked behind a small but thick moustache. “And this is Bethany and Darlene Edginton, my erstwhile partners in mischief.” The two women nodded, though the haughtiness in their hazel eyes remained. Sisters. Fatma could see it now—the same upturned noses, sand-brown hair, and pinched, drawn faces.
“We all made our way back after Abbie rang us,” Percival said. “Poor old man Worthington. May his soul rest in peace.”
Abigail sobbed, dabbing her eyes.
“Just a few more questions. Did your father have any enemies?”
“Enemies? Who would possibly want to harm my father?”
“Maybe someone in his employ? A business rival?”
Abigail shook her head. “I suppose such a dreadful thing is possible. Though I don’t know much about my father’s business. Alexander is the one with a head for such things.”
“Alexander?”
“My brother. He manages our family’s business affairs. He’s overseas.”
Fatma wrote hurriedly. “One last thing. Do you know anything about what your father was doing tonight? Who all the people were with him?”
“A secret brotherhood,” she replied. “One of my father’s eccentricities.”
“Any reason to think this brotherhood might have enemies?”
“I can’t imagine why. It’s fuddy old men wearing silly hats over drinks and cigars. Who could take them seriously enough to want to kill them?”
Fatma wanted to point out that someone may have done just that. But she folded away her pad. “Thank you. May the remainder of your father be lived in your life.”
“Please do all you can to bring this murderer to justice, agent,” Abigail said, her glistening eyes pleading. “My father deserved more.”
Fatma nodded, and she and Aasim took their leave. Outside, he gave her an impressed look. “Your English is as sharp as your suit. I only caught half of all that. Learn anything?”
“Other than some masked man? Not much.”
“Well, we’ll have to go with what we have. We’ve sent word to this Alexander. Assume he’ll be arriving in the next few days. By then, this will be all over the dailies.” He shook his head. “The paperwork will be unbearable.”
“Paperwork is part of the modern world. I’ll start looking in the morning. Have your people send me the forensics report. I’ll check back when—”
She stopped abruptly as someone rounded a corner, almost running into them. The young policeman. He held a cup, trying and failing to not spill its contents. His face registered surprise at seeing her, then relief at finding Aasim.
“Inspector! Your coffee?” He offered up a cup that looked half-full. Aasim accepted with a flat look.
“Agent Fatma,” the policeman greeted, more polite than before. “Looking for you as well. There’s someone to see you.” He turned. “She was following right behind. I hope I didn’t—ah, there she is now!”
Fatma looked to find another figure darting around the corner. A young woman, wearing a black coat and long dark skirts that swished as she moved. At seeing them, her face lit up from within a sky-blue hijab.
“Good evening,” she greeted, catching her breath. She took in Aasim before turning to Fatma. “Agent Fatma, I managed to catch you. Praise God!”
Fatma looked her over uncertainly. “I’m not sure we’ve met…?”
“Ah! Where’s my head?” The woman began fishing about in a tan leather bag slung over a shoulder. After an awkward while, she retrieved something quite unexpected. A silver badge bearing her likeness and the words EGYPTIAN MINISTRY OF ALCHEMY, ENCHANTMENTS, AND SUPERNATURAL ENTITIES.
“I’m Agent Hadia,” she said. “Your new partner.”
Fatma thought she could almost hear Aasim’s moustache twi
tch at the words.
CHAPTER FOUR
The boilerplate eunuch at the Abyssinian coffee shop set down two white porcelain cups before leaving in a whir of spinning gears. Fatma took her own, a strong floral Ethiopian blend, which was fast edging out the more traditional Turkish varieties in the city. She took a sip. Just right—one spoon of coffee, one of sugar, with just enough foam. The shop was more a café than a traditional ahwa, boasting modern amenities and a modern clientele. It also stayed open all night, and she came here often at the end of a shift to unwind.
At least, that was the usual routine.
Fatma rested her cup to sift through the papers in the folder in front of her. She’d shared an awkward and silent ride from Giza looking them over—at least three times. Either that, or be forced to actually have a conversation. Now, she spoke aloud as she read. “Hadia Abdel Hafez. Twenty-four years old. Born into a middle-class family in Alexandria. Studied comparative theological alchemy at university there. Graduated top of your class.” She paused, looking up. “Spent two years teaching at the Egyptian College for Girls in America?”
Hadia, who sat with hands wrapped around her cup of black mint tea, perked up beneath her coat—looking relieved to finally be talking. Fatma had almost forgotten what the Ministry’s uniforms for women looked like, since she’d long opted out of wearing one. There was also that sky-blue headscarf that so blatantly stood out. Patterned or colored hijabs were still frowned upon by more traditional or rural Egyptians, even here in Cairo. She obviously wanted it known she was a thoroughly modern woman. “I thought the queen’s mission might let me put my degree to good use,” she answered.
Fatma arched an eyebrow. “They’re not too fond of alchemy in America.”
“The mission is in New York—Harlem. Worked with immigrants in Brooklyn too—Roma, Sicilians, Jews. All people suspected of bringing in ‘foreign customs.’” She wrinkled a bold nose in distaste.
No need to explain. America’s anti-magic edicts were infamous. “Returned to Egypt and accepted into the Ministry Academy on your first attempt. Graduated in the 1912 class and was assigned to the Alexandria office. But now you’re here. In Cairo. As my … partner.” Fatma closed the folder, sliding it back across the table. “Not every day a new partner arrives, at a crime scene, carrying her résumé.”
Spots of color bloomed on Hadia’s beige cheeks, and her fingers fidgeted around the folder’s edges. “Director Amir intended we meet tomorrow. But I was already up late at the Ministry when I got word of the case. So I took a carriage over and decided to introduce myself. And maybe now, thinking about it, that wasn’t the best idea…”
Fatma let her trail into silence. The Ministry had been pushing for agents to take on partners. She’d managed to wriggle her way out of it. Everyone knew she worked alone. Amir certainly did. Likely he’d planned to spring this on her tomorrow, once everything was official.
“Agent Hadia.” The woman perked up, her dark brown eyes at attention. “I think there’s been some mistake. I didn’t request a partner. Nothing personal, I just work alone. I’m sure they can pair you with someone else. There’s an investigator in the Alexandria office—Agent Samia. One of the first women in the Ministry. I’ll put in a letter if you like.” There. She even managed a sympathetic face. No need to be cruel.
Hadia stared, mulling something before setting her tea down. “I was told you might not take to having a partner right away. I was given an assignment with Agent Samia on graduation. Turned it down. Told her I wanted to work with you.”
Fatma stopped mid-sip. “You turned down working with Agent Samia? To her face?” Agent Samia was one of the most imposing women she’d ever met. You just didn’t say no to her.
“She wished me God’s good fortune. And here I am.”
“But why work with me? I don’t have anywhere near Samia’s experience.”
Hadia looked incredulous. “Why work with the youngest agent to graduate from the academy—at twenty? Who was assigned to the Cairo office? Who made it to special investigator in just two years? Whose cases are now required reading at the academy?”
Fatma grunted. This was what notoriety got you.
“I thought you’d like to know that I didn’t waste my trip to the Worthington estate tonight.” Hadia pulled out another folder, opening and setting it on the table. Fatma’s eyes rounded. Sketches of the crime scene!
“How did you—?”
“I have a cousin on the force.” She grinned, showing off a slight overbite.
Fatma leaned forward, flipping through the sheets. Aasim would have sent her information on all this by tomorrow. But he was particularly stingy about his sketches.
“Never seen burns like these,” Hadia remarked. “Some kind of alchemical agent?”
“Too controlled,” Fatma muttered. “There’s magic at work.”
“I thought this was interesting.” Hadia lifted one sketch out. It was of the woman. Her fingers traced the broad collar and earrings. “This was an idolater, wasn’t it?”
Fatma looked up, eyes narrowing. Good catch. The arrival of djinn and magic pouring back into the world had impacted people’s faiths in strange ways. It was inevitable a few would go seeking Egypt’s oldest religions, whose memory was etched into the very landscape.
“What do you know about them?” Fatma asked.
“More than the police. I don’t think they’ve caught on yet.”
Not yet. Aasim and his people believed the adherents of the old religions a small group of heretics. They wouldn’t be looking for them at the mansion of a British lord.
“From the banner,” Hadia went on, “Lord Worthington looks to have been in some kind of cult. Maybe the idolater was their priestess. There was a man with his head turned backward. Some kind of sacrifice? I’ve heard—”
Fatma closed the folder, cutting her off. “First thing they should have taught you at the academy is not to take rumors you hear on the streets as fact. I haven’t had any cases of ‘idolaters’ twisting people’s heads about. So maybe we wait until we have some evidence before starting up about human sacrifices.”
Hadia’s face colored. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking aloud.”
Fatma reached into her jacket for her pocket watch. Already past two. She stood up. “It’s late, Agent Hadia. Not a proper time to think clearly. Let’s get some sleep and pick up on this in the morning.” And, hopefully, get you reassigned.
“Of course.” She gathered up her things and stood in turn. “I’m honored to be working with you, Agent Fatma.” And the two parted ways.
* * *
Fatma could have taken a carriage. But the walk home from the coffee shop wasn’t far. Besides, she needed to clear her head. She wasn’t certain why Hadia’s words had been so irksome. She’d heard similar things a thousand times. It was why she didn’t mention it to Aasim. Maybe she was smarting at being assigned a partner without a say in the matter.
Or maybe you’re taking out your weariness on some starry-eyed recruit. Bully. She could hear her mother’s chiding: “Well, look at the big investigator. Her face is to the ground.”
Fatma turned the corner to her building: a twelve-story high-rise of tan stone, with Neo-Pharaonic columns along the sides and rounded like a turret in the front. Outside broad black doors worked with gold stood an older man with receding graying hair. At seeing him, she smoothed the annoyance from her face. Every apartment in downtown Cairo had its own bewab—porters, doormen, and general watchers of all things. This one had no problem offering unsolicited advice, and could read faces with uncanny accuracy.
“Uncle Mahmoud,” she greeted, walking up with taps of her cane.
The man fixed her with a look that could have come from the sphinx. His sharp eyes seemed to weigh and judge her on a scale, before his red-brown face broke into a smile.
“Captain,” he replied, using the nickname he’d given her—on account of the suits. His Sa’idi accent didn’t hold a hint of Cairene. With that
long gallabiyah and sandals he could have stepped right out of her village. “Wallahi, the Ministry is keeping you out later and later these past nights.”
“It comes with the job, Uncle.”
The bewab shook his head. “And you don’t even come home to sleep in the afternoon like a civilized person, always going like one of those trams.” He gestured at the network of cables that crossed the city’s skyline. “Wallahi, that’s no good for the circulation!”
She wanted to ask when it was he slept—given he seemed to be out here at all times. But that was rude. Instead, she tapped her chest and bowed in thanks. “I’ll take the advice.”
That appeared to satisfy him, and he opened the doors. “See? You listen to an old man like me. Some arrive here and forget all decency, wallahi. But you are a good Sa’idi, with proper manners. In our head and heart, we must always remember we are Sa’idi. Wake up healthy.” She returned the same and walked into the lobby, ignoring her letter box and stepping into a lift.
“Ninth floor,” she commanded a waiting boilerplate eunuch. Leaning back, she felt the day’s toll take hold as they rose. By the time she got out, she was trudging along and thinking fondly of her bed.
Opening her apartment door, she found the inside dark. By memory, she hung her bowler on a wall hook by a leafy plant. Fumbling, she searched for the lever to the gas lamp. The building owner had been promising to move to alchemical lighting, or even electricity. But so far, she hadn’t seen any work started, despite the small fortune she paid for the place. A few quick pumps lit up the dim space—enough to at least see.
“Ramses?” She thrust her cane into a rack. Where was that cat? Mahmoud came in to feed him and would have said if he’d gone missing. She unbuttoned her jacket. “Ramses? I know it’s late, but don’t be angry.”
“Oh?” a voice purred. “And what does Ramses get when you find him?”
Fatma tensed, spinning on her heels and reaching instinctively for the janbiya at her waist—only to find the blade wasn’t there. Damn. Her other hand clutched at her service pistol, still nestled in the holster. She got it halfway out before stopping dead at the sight before her.
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