“The one thing we know for certain,” he said, “is that this is Lord Alistair Worthington.” He lifted the dead man’s hand. Fitted onto the smallest blackened finger was a large silver signet ring. The engraving on its flat front was a crest: a shield with a rearing griffin, capped by a knight’s head and an armored arm wielding a sword. Beneath was a singular scripted W.
“This is the Alistair Worthington?”
“The English Basha himself,” Aasim replied.
Fatma was familiar with the moniker, as she was the Worthington name. The Englishman who helped broker the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty, and granted special rights by Egypt’s new government. His money and influence had maintained peace, secured trade, and built up Giza.
“The English Basha, found murdered,” she corrected.
Aasim grimaced. “I was hoping you’d tell me this was just a spell gone wrong.”
Fatma shook her head. “I saw those doors. Someone forced their way in here.” She studied the bodies. “Sent everyone running to the back. The one with the broken neck—maybe he got brave. Tried to fight. The rest, all burned alive.”
Aasim nodded. He’d likely come to same conclusion but was hoping for an easy out.
“Murder. You have any idea how much paperwork this is going to be?”
“Did the English Basha have any enemies?” Fatma asked, ignoring the question.
“Rich people always have enemies. Usually, that’s how they became rich.”
“Wasn’t he supposed to be helping in the king’s peace summit?”
“You mean the one to stop Europeans from launching a fresh crusade against each other? You’re thinking this might be related?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. Why commit a massacre on this scale just to murder one man? No, whoever did this, the time and place was intentional. This scene was meant for everyone to see—like a gory painting. She looked back to the hanging banner. At the very bottom was stitched Quærite veritatem. Seek Truth, if she was translating the Latin right.
“One more thing,” Aasim said. He bent to pull a sheet from a crumpled body on the floor. Burned like the rest, but one thing was different—this victim wore a close-fitting white dress that reached to the ankles. “The only woman in the room,” the inspector remarked.
More than that. A broad collar of colorful stones circled her neck hanging down to her chest. A wesekh—jewelry fallen out of fashion some two thousand years past. She knelt to eye gold earrings peeking beneath a wig of black braids: carvings of a woman with outstretched wings.
“Any more like this?” Fatma asked. “I mean, in … costume?”
Aasim pulled the sheet from another body. This one a man, with the spotted hide of a cheetah slung over his shoulders. And she’d thought this night couldn’t get more bizarre.
“Must have been some party,” Aasim mused.
A very odd one. Her gaze flickered to another body, where a hand protruded from the white covering—as if trying to reach back into the world. She peered closer. A kerchief with a lavender G stitched in cursive was clutched between his charred fingers.
“You think this might be necromancers?” Aasim asked. His moustache gave a nervous twitch. “Maybe an attempt at making ghuls gone wrong?” The man blamed necromancers for everything. Let him tell it, masters of the undead lurked behind every crime. And he hated ghuls. Then again, who didn’t?
“Unlikely,” she answered. “Making ghuls doesn’t include turning corpses combustible.” The very thought of fiery ghuls sent Aasim’s moustache into spasms. “Besides, I didn’t see any takwin under the spectral lens.” Necromancers used a corruption of the alchemical substance to make ghuls. The sorcery she’d seen was something else. “Any witnesses? The night steward?”
Aasim shook his head. “It seems when Lord Worthington has these gatherings he dismisses his human staff. The night steward arrived after the festivities. That left only them.” He motioned to a row of boilerplate eunuchs that stood unmoving, even as people worked around them. Reports claimed some machine-men had achieved sentience—a phenomenon that baffled the Ministry. Didn’t seem to be the case here.
“There is someone, however,” Aasim continued. “Lord Worthington’s daughter.”
Fatma turned to him sharply. “Daughter? Why didn’t you mention her before?”
The inspector held up his hands. “She’s been recovering. I’ll take you to her.” They walked from the room and descended the lengthy stairs. “Abigail Delenor Worthington. Seems she arrived home after all this. The night steward found her in the parlor, unconscious. Says she had a run-in with a mysterious character. Maybe a survivor. Or the perpetrator. But it’s better if she explained it. Just, whatever you do, don’t let her speak to you in Arabic.”
“She speaks Arabic?” Fatma asked.
“Not at all. Only she doesn’t seem to know that. We’ve had the night steward translating. But you might do better.”
At the bottom of the stairs they turned down a corridor that ended where two policemen stood guarding a set of doors. At seeing Aasim they pulled them open to allow passage. The room was the clash of architecture that defined the rest of the house. But instead of fine rugs or swords, there were books. Endless books, fitted onto wooden shelves. A library. The books were broken by framed paintings in vivid Orientalist style, many displaying crumbling edifices with noble fellahin or sultans in garish dress. Others were salacious, where barely clothed alabaster women lounged about, waited upon by dark-skinned servants.
There were five people gathered—not counting a boilerplate eunuch with a tray of crystal bottles. Four stood around a modish moss-green Turkish divan with long curving silver legs. It looked made for lounging, but now held a woman who sat propped against a pile of cerulean pillows with mustard tassels. Dressed in a cream gown, she looked in her mid-twenties, slender and long-necked, with dark red tresses
