“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
