“About time you got back!” someone snapped.
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
