He gave a weary wave of acknowledgment, bowing his head and reopening the ledger—not even watching them go. Abigail led them out and downstairs in silence back to the parlor. When they’d arrived, she turned to them apologetically.
“I know my brother probably wasn’t very helpful. But I so do want to help you find my father’s murderer.” She opened up her book and, to their surprise, pulled out another book. Thin and bound in black leather, it was small enough to fit in one’s palm. Fatma accepted it, opening to the first page. Handwritten words in English read: The Vizier’s Account.
“It’s a notation book of some sort,” Abigail explained. “I found it here in the house. It belonged to a man who worked close with my father—Archibald Portendorf. If you want to know more about the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz, perhaps it might be useful?”
“April 14, 1904. Procured for TOM, one scrap of tunic claimed to have belonged to al-Jahiz, £2,900,” Hadia read aloud as they rode the automated carriage back to Cairo. Her fingers flipped to another part of the journal. “December 1906. Procured for TOM, pages reputed to have come from a Koran touched by al-Jahiz, £5,600.” She turned the small book about, displaying its contents. “I don’t think Alexander Worthington was exaggerating about his father’s spending. There’s years of information in here.”
Sitting opposite, Fatma scanned the page. Handwritten English script wasn’t her forte. Some things she could make out, but it was slow going. Luckily Hadia seemed at ease with it. She remembered the name Archibald Portendorf listed among the murdered members of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz. He’d been one of those at the table with Worthington. She distinctly recalled his charred hand clutching a kerchief marked with the letter G. His wife, it turned out—Georgiana. She wondered what his last thoughts of her had been as he died.
“This is more than a ledger,” Hadia said, flipping through the small book. “He jotted down notes alongside his expenses. Here’s one: ‘September 13, 1911. Wired to that young idiot WD £200 emergency funding for latest venture. Claims to have encountered sand trap. Pity it didn’t swallow him.’ Exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point.”
Fatma looked down a small list naming members of the Brotherhood. They’d been using it to decipher the journal’s coding. TOM had stumped them until they remembered Lord Worthington’s nickname and reasoned it out in English: The Old Man. “Wesley Dalton,” she said. “He’s the only WD.”
“Nearly every mention of him comes with a biting comment,” Hadia noted. “Doesn’t seem Archibald liked him very much.”
“Wesley Dalton was the corpse whose head was on … backward,” Fatma remarked.
Hadia’s eyebrows rose. “I guess he had a way with people. Look here.” She pointed at the journal. “Beside a lot of these entries is written the word ‘archivist’ followed by ‘Siwa,’ in parentheses. Maybe he had to visit there? With an archivist?”
Siwa was an oasis town in the far west of Egypt. Fairly remote—some nine hours’ travel by the faster airships, and only if they weren’t stopping to fuel. “That’s a long way. How many times is it mentioned?”
“Often. Especially the more expensive purchases. Why go to some archivist in Siwa, though, for”—Hadia stopped to read—“a sebhah rumored used by al-Jahiz to perform dhikr? I don’t recall al-Jahiz being in Siwa.”
Neither did Fatma. This wasn’t making sense.
“You have that look on your face,” Hadia observed. “The frustrated one.”
“I was hoping we’d come away with some leads. Instead we get puzzles. Not to mention we still can’t nail down basic facts—like when precisely Alexander Worthington arrived in Cairo.”
The clear contradiction between his and Madame Nabila’s account had taken up much of their discussion since leaving the estate. One of the two was clearly wrong or lying. The documentation was in Alexander’s favor. But it seemed an odd mistake on Madame Nabila’s part. And why would she lie?
“This is interesting,” Hadia murmured. “The last entry. It’s dated November 6.”
“The day of the murders. What does it say?”
“November 6, 1912. After two weeks of haggling, procured for TOM from the list, the reputed sword of al-Jahiz, for agreed upon price, £50,000. Archivist (Siwa).” Hadia gasped. “That’s a lot of money! Do you think it’s the same one the imposter has?”
Fatma shifted uneasily, reliving that singing sword skewering Siti. “What else?”
“There’s a long notation: ‘Encountered difficulty gaining the item in Red Street. Inquired on discovery of second wire transfer to archivist (Siwa) for £50,000 from AW.’” Hadia raised her head quizzically. “Alistair Worthington?”
“No. He’s TOM. AW is someone else.”
“You’re not thinking…?”
“Alexander Worthington! Keep reading!”
“‘Informed Siwa that I was the only one authorized to speak for TOM. Became erratic and unhinged. Has left me shaken. Will suggest to TOM no further transfers to archivist (Siwa) until matter sorted. Will not support his habit, even if he holds the list over us.’ Exclamation point.”
Hadia stopped. “It seems there were two transfers to the same archivist in Siwa for £50,000. One was on the night of Alistair Worthington’s death—for a sword. The other transfer was two weeks earlier, from AW. Perhaps Alexander. But for what? And what’s this business about a list or Red Street? I thought the money was wired to Siwa?”
Fatma shook her head slowly as understanding set in. “Red Street. He means Red Road. The artisan district. Siwa isn’t a place. It’s the name of the archivist. A djinn.” Not wasting another moment, she shouted a new set of directions for the carriage, holding to the inside railings as it banked hard to the left and set out for Al Darb al-Ahmar.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Red Road was dotted with buildings, monuments, and masjid dating to the Fatimids and as recent as the Ottomans. The famed artisan district was a labyrinth of winding alleys lined with endless shops, where craftspeople preserved techniques passed down through the ages.
Fatma and Hadia hurried past thread-dyeing houses where women huddled over large stone baths, drawing out
