Chapter Eighteen

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Isabelle speaks to Julia Beechcraft. The heiress admits to conspiring to hide aboard the ship in order to avoid an awkward confrontation with her estranged father. 

After Julia leaves to inform the captain of Notti’s death, Isabelle has a conversation with Mrs. Jones — who is actually Mrs. Hampton, a British actress. Mrs. Hampton explains that her daughter died at Rosefield. Her desire for revenge led her to meet up with her old friends, the Blacks, who introduced her to Julia. She also reveals that all four of them were traveling on this voyage in order to enact some scheme of Julia’s, but the captain enters before she can elaborate. 

Isabelle returns to her room. She makes notes about the murder, identifying the suspects’ connections and oddities.

Dawn came, its meager sunlight resentful, unwilling to fight through the clouds. Isabelle understood the desire to hide from the world, but she refused to indulge in such cowardly sluggishness. 

She sat up and stared at the notes on the desk. Her alchemy set, locked tight, rested beside them.

Yesterday should have been a triumph. She’d convinced the aether to bond to hydrogen. 

Instead…she clasped her knees through the blanket and sank her face into the created pouch.

At last, she rolled out of her cozy bed, coming to stand in front of the mirror. It did not inspire confidence. Last night, she’d tumbled into the sheets in defiance of routine or hygiene. Pins poked out of a collapsed bun, and she wore a rumpled shift in place of a nightshirt. She blinked her hooded eyes, trying to open them further.

Isabelle cursed sallow skin tones, heiress-led cabals, and Mr. Notti, who had killed himself and left her with the awful responsibility of telling the woman who loved him.

Before exiting her room, she armored herself in a nice blue dress and equipped her chatelaine with an extra knife and a whistle. She found a young maid and asked where to find the brig. The girl seemed startled to discover that there was a brig, so she kept asking until one of the older staff members directed her to Mrs. Darling’s prison.

A tired employee slouched on a stool facing the locked room. At Isabelle’s approach, his gaze sharpened, and he shifted his belly to access the keys on his belt. The captain must have warned him of her intentions. He lumbered to his feet and opened the door, clearing his throat to announce her with phlegmy fanfare. 

Isabelle entered and the bolt slid home behind her.

The brig was nicer than feared. It had been an office once, and the floor showed scratches where the crew rearranged furniture, and a massive desk still dominated the space, larger than the bed shoved into a corner. Bars stretched over the window jamb with the awkwardness of a later addition.

Mrs. Darling huddled on top of the bedsheets. She needed a change of clothing and a hairbrush, both of which Isabelle packed for her, but she seemed indifferent to her physical condition.

“Isabelle?” Hope darted across the chaperone’s face and survived for heart-stabbing seconds. 

She stalled, tugging the chair from its desk. 

Optimism faded into nervous expectation. “What’s happened?”

Isabelle dragged the heavy item to a spot near the bed. She sat, palms flat on her thighs. “I have bad news. Your friend, Mr. Notti, has passed.”

“How? What? When? What?” Mrs. Darling cycled through one-word questions, never giving Isabelle a chance to answer. They were hollow-voiced, Frankenstein questions, the result of electricity rather than thought.

Isabelle summed up the tragedy. “Mr. Notti was discovered last night. It appears he committed suicide, ingesting something toxic. He left only a signed note with the words I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Darling blinked, her mind again present behind her eyes. “He wouldn’t. Not Paul.”

“He did.”

“Why?”

She hesitated, but she’d want the details if their situations were reversed. “There’s some speculation he was overcome with guilt over Julius Beechcraft’s murder.” 

“No—”

“Haven’t you wondered how he could have slept through the violent death of his employer in the same suite?”

“Paul wouldn’t,” Mrs. Darling repeated.

Isabelle wished she could offer some comfort. The situation didn’t look good, though. The circumstances of Paul Notti’s death would intensify the scrutiny her chaperone received in Venice. 

They sat in silence until she realized that Mrs. Darling wanted the space to cry unseen.

A quick survey of the breakfast area revealed eight diners, including Reimund Fitzwilliam. He sprawled in his seat and watched her entrance, biting into his toast with a snap that belied his insouciance. 

The Macons were also present. Isabelle greeted the couple. Mr. Macon never took his attention from his plate while his wife returned a frosty inclination of the head. She started to claim an empty table, her back to Reimund, but the sound of her name interrupted her. She balanced, caught mid-squat over the chair, and looked over her shoulder.

He rose and gestured to the seat across from him. “Please join me. I promise not to bite.” 

(Reimund’s German accent increased in proportion to his irritation. When at ease, his tone settled into an Irish lilt. His voice now trotted through sentences, a Prussian thoroughbred in dressage.)

Isabelle grabbed the server’s eye to redirect the incoming tea and coffee and went to fetch breakfast, using the lever to lower the tray overhead and heaping food on her plate. When she caught herself scooping sauteed mushrooms, which she despised, she realized she was delaying. She returned the tray to its place, watching it ascend. An aproned man in the adjoining compartment up top popped out and cast a practiced look at the dishes while he slipped fresh croissants into a basket. 

Isabelle took her seat and poured a large cup of coffee. She gulped the elixir, scalding her tongue.

Reimund tapped the table. “I told my cousin about our conversation, and he instructed me to apologize for my fit of temper. He has decided to trust your discretion.” 

Isabelle tore her croissant in two and spread strawberry jam on one half. “Well?”

“What?”

“Do you intend to apologize?”

“Right. I’m sorry.”

Isabelle returned the untasted pastry to her plate. “I forgive you.”

“There’s nothing you want to say in turn?”

She took a huge bite of the croissant to give herself time to choose words. Its outermost layers shattered into crumbs. 

Eyes delighted, Reimund gestured to her chest. “You spilled.”

She dabbed at the bodice. Her napkin was inadequate for the task. At least, a high neckline had prevented the flaky pastry from sending bits into her unmentionables. “I also apologize. I didn’t want to dismiss your judgment or threaten your cousin’s safety, only to understand his history with Beechcraft.”

“Is everything clear now?”

“As corroded iron. Opaque with light shining through the occasional hole.”

At his prodding, she related the previous evening’s adventures. Twice, she reminded him to quiet his exclamations of shock. Nothing would be improved by Mrs. Macon overhearing their conversation and peddling it about the ship. 

Reimund whistled. “So Julia Beechcraft is onboard and plotting with the Black family and Mrs. Jones…Mrs. Jones, who is not Mrs. Jones at all. That may be the craziest part of this drama.”

“I know. I need to talk to her again. She was about to explain their plan when the captain interrupted our conversation.” She took a sip of coffee. “If I don’t start getting some answers, I might begin my own murderous rampage.”

Isabelle regretted the flippancy, but he laughed.

“We can’t have that, my Angry Aristocrat.”

Reimund insisted on accompanying her to visit Mrs. Jones/Hampton.

Isabelle accepted, grateful for his escort. The Aerial Express was stockpiling murders like coal. She had a realistic view of her abilities, which did not include a proclivity for thumping people when necessary. Men had their uses.

On their way to Mrs. Hampton’s cabin, they spotted Julia Beechcraft, head bent in conversation with Dr. Chakraborty. Isabelle nudged Reimund and mouthed the woman’s name. When he stared, she nudged him again. 

The doctor tried to smile at her, but gravity held his mouth down at the corners. She and Julia exchanged wary nods as they passed.

At Mrs. Hampton’s door, she glanced left, expecting to see the pair’s retreating backs. Instead, she caught Julia studying her. She said something to Dr. Chakraborty and resumed their march down the corridor. 

Isabelle breathed easier as the scrutiny vanished.

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

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