“Peace be upon you … Steward Hamza, is it?” Fatma greeted.
“And upon you peace, daughter,” the older man returned uncertainly. “How may I help?”
“Is Alexander Worthington in the residence?” Aasim asked.
Hamza took in the inspector’s uniform. “Master and mistress are in the upstairs rooms.”
Aasim motioned at his men, who pushed past the steward. They took up places in the parlor while the rest of them followed. “Could you fetch Master Worthington for us?”
More a demand than a question. The night steward bowed slightly. “Of course, inspector.” He turned to go but Fatma stopped him.
“Fetch them both,” she said. Then more gently. “Uncle, are there others in the house?”
“Myself, a cook, some of the evening staff.”
“When you’re done, gather them and leave. Get as far away from here as you can.”
To the old man’s credit, he didn’t question her or look to Aasim for confirmation. When he disappeared down a corridor, she took in the wide rectangular parlor, with its antique silver Mamluke lamps, Safavid murals, and star-tiled floor. Walking to one side, she stopped near the set of swords she’d noticed her first day. Their rounded pommels sported black tassels dangling from hilts in decorated silver trim sitting above iron cross-guards. She pulled one halfway from its leather scabbard. A straight double-edged blade. Kept sharpened by the looks of it. She could just make out inscriptions from the Qu’ran etched onto the surface. Hadia watched her curiously. Before either could speak, their hosts arrived.
Alexander Worthington strode from one of the bulbous pointed archways. He sported gray pants and vest, beneath a dark evening jacket. Fatma noted the silk blue neckwear with feathered patterns that garnished his high-collared white shirt. A cravat. She’d often wondered if she could pull off one of those.
Beside him walked Abigail Worthington, as elegantly garbed. She wore one of the more modish Parisian-Cairene gowns: black and gold silk, beads and lace, worked into masterful floral patterns that mimicked henna on skin. A necklace of black and ruby sapphires hung just above her square neckline, with matching earrings and wrist pieces—even about her still bandaged hand. With those dark red tresses piled into high elaborate curls, she and her brother looked the same height side by side.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Alexander demanded without the bother of a greeting. His face looked as annoyed as when they’d first met, framed by a length of pale gold hair. “Hamza tells me there are police wagons on the estate?”
“Alexander Worthington.” Aasim stepped forward, holding up the writ. “I am Inspector Aasim Sharif with the Cairo police here to deliver a warrant for your arrest.” Aasim’s English was poor, at best. But he got that line across well enough because Alexander looked as if he’d been slapped. He opened his mouth dumbly, and his eyes roamed over the assembled faces until landing on Fatma.
“The warrant is for your father’s murder,” she said, answering his questioning look. “And twenty-three others, including members of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz and two Egyptian citizens.”
Abigail’s loud gasp echoed through the parlor, a hand clutching her chest as her mouth gulped for air. She looked ready to faint.
“Is this some kind of a joke?” Alexander glared, incredulous. “A sick gag? Where you barge into my home and accuse me of murdering my own father?”
“Yes.” Abigail let out a nervous laugh. “This is some bit of native humor. They’re having sport with you, Alexander.”
“Hardly sport,” Fatma continued. “Inciting a riot, committing a terrorist attack on an Egyptian civil institution, endangering the life of the king. It’s all in there.” She gestured to the writ. “We made one in English to look over if you’d like.” Aasim held out the paper, and Alexander snatched it out of his hand, reading furiously. Fatma watched him, her eyes meeting Abigail, who still seemed in shock.
“What nonsense!” Alexander thundered. “These charges are one and the same for this miscreant running about your city claiming to be the Soudanese mystic! The very one who my sister encountered, who as I understand has admitted to my father’s murder!”
“Who is also you,” Aasim got out in stilted English.
Alexander practically sputtered. “Me? You believe that madman is me? Do I look like some black-skinned turbaned Mohammedan? Are you people blind?”
“The imposter uses a disguise,” Fatma said. “An illusion of illicit and stolen magic.” Her hand fished into one pocket, pulling out the lock of pale gold hair. “I cut this off him the night of the king’s summit. Not very common among ‘black-skinned turbaned Mohammedans.’”
Alexander stared and a hand absently went up to touch his own hair. Realizing what he was doing, he lowered it and shook the writ angrily. “Is this what passes for justice in this country of superstition and charlatanry? My father is murdered, then I am accused of his crime? What follows now? Some grand extortion for money, I must assume?” His voice grew louder, and he shook as he spoke. “You are mistaken if you think I will pay any bribery! I’ll have my solicitors ring the English embassy at once! You won’t get away with this … this … outrage! I’ll see every last one of you jailed before the night’s done!”
Abigail put out her hands pleadingly—one for them and one for her brother, whose face was steadily turning a violent shade of purple. “This has to be some mistake. I’m sure Alexander can explain … that.” She motioned at the lock of hair. “You can, can’t you?” Her blue-green eyes regarded him with clear uncertainty.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded. “You believe them?”
“Of course not! I’m sure you have a good answer.” She put a hand to
