Amulets and Alibis: A Historical Mystery Romance in 1920s Egypt by Tracy Higley

Author:Tracy Higley [Higley, Tracy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stonewater Books
Published: 2026-03-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dance music still drifted down from the salon, providing auditory cover, but the ship’s gentle rocking against the Nile current created an unsettling sensation, as if the vessel itself objected to my illicit search.

It almost seemed pointless to search Lord Ashford’s cabin, but I ducked in anyway, and found my fourth confirmation, though his amulet was casually tossed into a silver dish alongside cufflinks and collar studs, as if Brotherhood membership was merely another fashionable accessory. His approach to conspiracy appeared as cavalier as his attitude toward everything else.

Fraulein Becker’s cabin was my next destination. I slipped down the corridor, needing to pass my own cabin, Quinn’s, and then Mullen’s stateroom. Mullen was no collector, and his concerns about the auction certainly ruled him out, so I wouldn’t need to take the time there.

The orchestra above had transitioned to a waltz. Was Quinn dancing with someone else or would he also retire early, perhaps even to knock on my cabin door?

I hadn’t told Quinn about tonight’s search, and had to admit it was because I wanted to prove—perhaps to him, certainly to myself—that I could conduct this investigation independently. My academic reputation had always been questioned, my achievements attributed to wealth or connections. If I could unravel this conspiracy through my own efforts, perhaps I could finally silence the voice in my head that whispered the same doubts as my critics.

I reached Mullen’s door, midway down the corridor.

Strange. It was ajar.

A chill ran across me, raising the hair on my arms. Mullen hadn’t been at the dance, had he?

I stepped into the cabin. The room felt unusually cool compared to the warm corridor.

Was he asleep here in the darkness?

But then I saw him.

Mullen lay sprawled beside his writing desk, looking for all the world as if he were sleeping.

Documents were scattered across the floor around him in an almost perfect circular pattern, suggesting he had spun as he fell. Provenance certificates bearing Egyptian Museum stamps and British Museum verification codes formed a paper halo around his body.

I crouched beside him with the same care I’d use examining a delicate artifact, though my hands shook as I checked for vital signs I knew I wouldn’t find. My knees locked in place, refusing commands to retreat while my lungs seemed to forget their purpose.

His skin was still warm. Whatever had happened here was recent. Probably within the last hour while I’d been waltzing with Quinn and exchanging witty repartee about archaeological methodology.

I pulled back his collar with the tip of my pencil, revealing the side of his neck. There—a tiny puncture mark, barely visible in the lamplight, the stark white of his collar contrasting sharply with the darkening bruise around the wound. The same detail we’d found on Faraj.

Two murders, two needle marks. This wasn’t random violence or crimes of opportunity. Someone aboard this ship possessed the knowledge or equipment or charm to incapacitate victims before delivering the fatal dose, ensuring no struggle, no defensive wounds, no chance for the victim to cry out.

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