“Not until I work on my squinting. Ever thought of carrying a sword? Maybe a cane?”
“That’s more … your look. Goes with the suits.”
“You know, you’ve never asked me about that. My suits.”
“Should I? You’ve never asked about my stunningly modern hijab.”
Fatma smirked, enjoying the brief reprieve. “We’d better get on to work. There’s probably already a stack for us to go through.”
“Another day hunting down sightings of al-Jahiz,” Hadia sighed. “I’m beginning to suspect that brass and the city administrators just want to keep things quiet until the king’s peace summit. They’re thinking if we don’t go disturbing the wasp’s nest, maybe it’ll stay hidden.”
“You’re not so wrong.”
“Wouldn’t mind a turn with that ash-ghul, though.”
Fatma arched an eyebrow. “Ash-ghul?”
“It’s what I’m going with. Can’t we go talk to that Moustafa again?”
“For him to go on for about the tenth time about the wonders of al-Jahiz? I don’t think he has any real connection to the imposter. He’s just being used.”
“This imposter,” Hadia said. “He’s good at that. Using people. What he was saying Sunday night, about how things are. He wasn’t lying. He was just twisting it, picking at all our raw places. He knew how to turn that crowd against us, and how we’d react.”
Fatma shared the concern. Whoever this imposter was, he’d studied this city. As well as he’d studied al-Jahiz. He wasn’t going to just go away like brass and the administrators hoped. He had a plan. And they needed to figure it out.
A knock came at the door. Fatma moved to open it, finding of all things a courier eunuch. It did its usual greetings and verification, handing her a message before running off. Didn’t anyone just make phone calls anymore? She opened the note, surprised to find it printed in English.
“It’s an invitation,” she read. “From Alexander Worthington. He’s agreed to an interview. I think we just got a chance to find some real clues.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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,” A
bigail 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, particular
ly 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.
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