Chapter Eight

Join over 4 million Americans who start their day with 1440 – your daily digest for unbiased, fact-centric news. From politics to sports, we cover it all by analyzing over 100 sources. Our concise, 5-minute read lands in your inbox each morning at no cost. Experience news without the noise; let 1440 help you make up your own mind. Sign up now and invite your friends and family to be part of the informed.

Subscribe to 1440 today.

Stay tuned for an exciting opportunity to win premium subscriptions and more. Details forthcoming in the July newsletter (7/1).

Note: If you need to find previous chapters, they are always available here: www.motae.mkrumsey.com. And I’ve attached text-only files of chapter 8. These are only for your own reading pleasure. Please share the journey via the referral program.

Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

(Note: I’ve created a post with all previous chapter summaries.)

Isabelle and Mrs. Darling dine with new companions, the Macons, and discover that a noted journalist is on board: Ulysses Aitkin, the author of the article found in Beechcraft’s suite.

Isabelle meets with Tess who realizes that the scrap of fabric (found by the victim’s bed) was deliberately cut, not torn. Isabelle confronts Mrs. Darling about her relationship with Beechcraft’s secretary, and the woman breaks down.

When she’d recovered her self-control, Mrs. Darling said, “I grew up with Paul Notti, and you must believe me — he could not have committed murder.”

Isabelle ignored the instruction. “You knew his employer, too, didn’t you?”

She snorted. “I was certain he would remember my face that first night despite the veil, but Julius Beechcraft is too self-involved to notice his companions — at least not beyond their potential usefulness.”

“He didn’t recognize your name either.”

“I now use my mother’s maiden name.” Her lips puckered tight at the memory. “It seemed prudent after Beechcraft ruined Armstrong.”

Armstrong — that was the man mentioned in the article. “You were related to the local squire?”

“Married to him.”

Isabelle’s head hurt, overfull with sharp-edged and partial pieces of information. “Start at the beginning, please.”

“I’m forty-six years old. That’s a lot of time to cover.”

Isabelle crossed her arms and stared until Mrs. Darling pushed herself to her feet. 

The shadows made room for her silhouette as she cut across to the window. “I was born in Edgemonton, as was Paul. A grocer’s son, he grew up in the village proper. My father was Mr. Armstrong’s steward and raised me on the neighboring estate. We were friends.” She lingered over the last word.

Isabelle wished she could see more of Mrs. Darling’s expression. The woman gazed at the sky, her face a starlit crescent moon. 

“But Paul craved a bigger life than his family and found a position with a textile mill Beechcraft possessed in India. I believe we shared a silly, romantic notion that he might return for me, but…” She paused, editing her words, choosing, “Life intervened. I left the neighborhood for several months and gave up youthful fancies. When I returned, I caught Mr. Armstrong’s attention. He was a kind man who wanted to do my father a good turn. He also hoped for an heir.”

“So you married.”

Mrs. Darling nodded. “Our union was expedient, and the world considered the match a coup on my part, but I learned to value my husband. By the day of his death, I cared greatly for him.” She looked at Isabelle and gave an unexpected smile.

(The girl’s thoughts decorated her face, full of disdain and disbelief. Mrs. Darling thought about explaining the panoply of loves and relationships available to a woman, but some lessons resist lecture.)

“You had no children, though?”

The question killed her wry twinkle. “Shortly before our marriage, I suffered a…medical reverse that made the joyful event unlikely. But my husband never blamed me. He should have. I’d kept certain details to myself.” She snorted. “Maybe he judged us even. His fields had also dried up. We were neither as fertile as advertised.” 

A quarter beat stretched into a whole note of silence.

Mrs. Darling took a breath. “The real trouble began when Beechcraft — and Paul — returned from India for good. By that time, he’d become Beechcraft’s personal secretary. As for Mr. Armstrong, his lands no longer supported the estate. It broke his heart, but my husband started searching for a buyer. A nearby waterway and the extent of his holdings made them attractive despite the lack of productive farmland, and Beechcraft became interested. Mr. Armstrong was initially disposed to sell to him.”

“He chose otherwise?” 

“They progressed so far as to draw up papers when Mr. Armstrong visited an old friend of his, a man who sold his property to Beechcraft years prior. My husband, God rest his soul, always maintained that the estate should serve the people rather than vice versa, and he wanted to see how the locals prospered under Beechcraft’s management.”

“Ah.” Isabelle thought of the article detailing Edgemonton’s oppression.

“He pulled out of the deal, and Beechcraft reacted with anger.” 

“What did he do?”

Mrs. Darling spun to face her. “He started by spreading a rumor that Mr. Armstrong tried to cheat him and blocking his attempts to find other purchasers. Then he targeted the few investments Mr. Armstrong had in the market. When my husband still resisted, he went after me.” She dropped her eyes. 

“What do you mean?”

“Through his connection to Paul, the man knew of a youthful indiscretion.” She raised an arm in anticipation of the obvious question. “No, I will not elaborate.” She hurried on with the story. “Before we could respond, Mr. Armstrong caught ill. He was broke and despondent, and the flu carried him off. After his death, Beechcraft picked up the lands from his creditors for a fraction of their value. I was left to make my way as a genteel widow of little means.” 

Beechcraft’s infamy was well-established, but society shouldered some of the blame. The world frequently left women to ‘make their way’ while closing most paths. Isabelle cleared her throat. “What about Mr. Notti? Didn’t he object to his employer’s treatment of you?” 

She turned back to the glass with a shrug. “I imagine he did, but he couldn’t stop it. Paul had good reasons to continue working for Beechcraft. I’ve never blamed him.”

“Did you know that Mr. Notti and Beechcraft would travel with us?”

“No. It had been years since we last met.” Mrs. Darling stayed at the window, the dim light obscuring a blush.

“And then someone murdered Beechcraft.”

“Not Paul.” She whirled. “And not me. I admit it’s an unfortunate coincidence, but I’m far from the only person who hated the man.” Narrowing her eyes, she set the newspaper clipping on Isabelle’s desk. “You have yet to explain how this came into your possession.” 

“It was among your friend’s belongings. I picked the lock and searched all of Beechcraft’s suite, including his secretary’s room.”

Her chaperone stared.

Isabelle didn’t give her time to form a response. “I also looked in your cabin. I need to show you something.”

“Isabelle!”

“It’s for your own good.”

It took more persuasion, but Mrs. Darling eventually waved her through the connecting door. 

She tripped on the way to the wardrobe. The porter had pulled the bed from the wall, transforming the room for the night. 

“What are you doing?”

She ignored Mrs. Darling and again located her gray dress in her closet. She crouched and faced the chaperone.

Emotions battled for control of the woman’s face, micro-expressions twitching and disappearing at the speed of thought. 

Isabelle felt inside her pocket for the piece of fabric and placed it against the dress, filling the hole in the hem. “I found this in Mr. Beechcraft’s room.”

Mrs. Darling sagged into the room’s chair. Her figure was generous, and the wood creaked with the sudden weight. “I don’t understand. I didn’t…”

“Look.” Isabelle removed and replaced the scrap a few times. “I showed this to a friend who pointed out that fabric doesn’t tear this neatly. Someone cut this piece from the hem.”

“But why?” Mrs. Darling was not a shrill woman, but near-hysteria sharpened her voice.

Isabelle rose and sat on her chaperone’s bed. Their knees almost touched. “My best guess? A person who knows your history with Beechcraft is attempting to frame you.

Mrs. Darling gaped. Then she laughed. She cackled, amusement threaded with incredulity and tangled with despair. 

Ears hot, she waited for her chaperone to recover.

Mrs. Darling shook her head, trying to shake the idea. “That’s absurd.”

“Absurd and untrue are not synonyms.” 

“This is something out of a nightmare.” Mrs. Darling rose in agitation, brushing against Isabelle. 

She scooted back further onto the bed and began to pull her legs against her chest, but this would place her boots on the sheets. Bemused, Mrs. Darling watched as she removed her shoes.

She hugged her shins, stockinged toes grazing the bedspread, and rested her chin on her knees. “You’re not in immediate danger. I discovered the bit of fabric.”

Mrs. Darling winced. “Yes, about that, please…don’t. There could be consequences — and not just social ones. Your guardian may have engaged me to safeguard your respectability, but I’d also prefer you survive the voyage.”

Isabelle ignored this sensible advice. “Edward never hired a chaperone before. Then, suddenly, I got a letter warning me of your arrival. But he didn’t hire you. Someone contacted you on his behalf. Do you know who?”

“No. The note was unsigned and type-printed, but on Beechcraft Express’s official stationery. It stated that a mutual acquaintance had recommended me and provided a London post office address for my reply. When I accepted, I received my fare.” 

Isabelle squeezed her legs harder. “Do you have the letter?”

“Just the ticket.” She pushed over to the half-desk and opened a drawer, withdrawing an ornate piece of paper with her name, Isabelle’s name, the ship, the fare class, and the dates. 

Isabelle craned her neck to peer into the compartment. There was only one other document, the leaflet distributed by the Rosefield protesters at the station. “I didn’t see you take that.”

“I’m sympathetic to their cause.”

“As am I, but I don’t think you should possess anti-Beechcraft propaganda right now.”

Mrs. Darling stiffened, then thrust the piece of paper at her charge. She dropped back into her chair and collapsed forward, head in her hands.

Balancing on her tailbone, Isabelle tapped the leaflet against her shins.

Mrs. Darling’s presence onboard during Beechcraft’s death could be a coincidence, but someone had seized upon it awfully fast. There was also the newspaper clipping. Why would Beechcraft keep the old, unflattering article? More likely, it had been placed. But why? By whom? Besides the industrialist, his secretary, and Mrs. Darling, its writer, Ulysses Aitkin, was on board. Did he travel with samples of his work?

Isabelle often kept late hours, working on projects until dawn sent tendrils through the window, so her yawn caught her off guard.

“You’re exhausted.” Her charge’s fatigue restored Mrs. Darling’s sense of duty. “There’s nothing you can do. Better for us both to get some rest.”

She was too tense to sleep but said, “I suppose.”

“Perhaps this will all be clearer in the morning.”

“Maybe,” Isabelle said to be kind. They wished each other good night, and she took the pamphlet on the Rosefield disaster with her. 

Before preparing for bed, Isabelle sat, staring at the printed sheet. 

Hold Beechcraft Accountable!

The recent conviction of Lord Codsware over the toxic waste dumped in his tenants’ river is only a start. Beechcraft’s greed led him to neglect the safety of his workers. Besides toiling in hazardous conditions, they were forced to produce and test a new dirigible engine before it underwent a proper review process. Beechcraft fired his chief engineer, Alastair Dunlap, but the man continues to protest that the magnate took unapproved shortcuts in production and altered his original plan.

Twenty-five men and women died in Rosefield, and at least as many suffered debilitating injuries.

Stand up for the victims of Rosefield. Write to your MP and demand that the proper officials add Beechcraft to the schedule for the newly created Court of Business Affairs.  

Isabelle couldn’t argue with Mrs. Darling’s assertion. Beechcraft had enough enemies to clog the streets of London — they had done so, interfering with traffic in front of the air station. But which enemy could have killed him?

That’s it for this chapter! See you next week.

If you’re enjoying the story, share it with your friends to earn nifty rewards.