Chapter Eleven

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

People eat breakfast, plan to play shuffleboard, and discuss colorblind acquaintances. Isabelle makes a huge alchemical breakthrough, realizing that she needs to add salt to the equation. Reimund collects her from her room (to head to the shuffleboard tournament) and realizes that her project is (among other things) an attempt to redeem her parents’ legacy as scholars. It was a disparaged expedition to find an ancient aetheric battery that led to their deaths.

The grand atrium straddled the passenger decks, long staircases unfurling on either side of the balcony-lined chamber. Matches had yet to begin, but the staff had rolled the rugs against the walls to reveal two sets of shuffleboard markings. A permanent court occupied the game room, but a steward inscribed these years earlier when Captain Miro suggested a tournament.

Tess had taught her to play — mostly to separate her from her pocket money. Pride-stung, Isabelle practiced pushing the weighted discs down their narrow alley until she won as often as she lost.

(The captain had considered forbidding his youngest crew member from gambling with the scion of one of England’s oldest houses, then thought better of it. What did he know of feminine friendship rituals? Instead, he watched with a bemused smile as the girls jostled their way into each other’s hearts.) 

Passengers hovered about the courts, taking turns to practice, and spectators swarmed the rails of the balcony. The audience gossiped and cheered at random intervals. 

Beside one court, the baron instructed Mrs. Darling on the basics of the game. He smiled at Reimund and Isabelle without pausing his lesson. She nodded in return and spotted a shock of crimson hair behind the duo. The disorderly mop perched atop a tall, sharp-eyed gentleman. He was a tufted reed of a fellow, lacking fat and muscle, and triumph spiked through her as she recognized the author from his jacket cover.

Isabelle turned to her companion. “Have you found a partner for the tournament?”

Reimund touched her arm, which tingled. “Not yet, my queen.” He pointed at the porter compiling a list at a central table. “I thought to ask the staff to pair me. Unless you have reconsidered my invitation?”

“No. I think you should invite the red-haired gentleman with the glasses.” She inclined her head in the direction and tried a coquettish smile.

Slit-eyed, Reimund said, “Stop that. You look nauseated.”

She scowled to cover her embarrassment.

“That’s better. Why should I speak to that individual?”

“I’d like to meet him.”

He mouthed a second “why,” but native tact killed the sound. “Very well. I’m not sure what your scheme is, but I’ll play along.” With a tiny bow, Reimund left to approach his assignment. 

“My lady.”

The voice came from over her shoulder, and Isabelle whirled, pleased to see Dr. Chakraborty carrying his black bag. 

He stroked his neat beard. “I suppose I must forgive you for not coming to see me yesterday. Events kept me busy — they kept us both busy, from what I hear.” His mock frown covered genuine concern.

A nearby matron distracted her from replying. The woman clucked at the sight of the doctor and stage-whispered to a friend. “Well, I hope no one falls ill on this voyage. Surely, they can’t expect travelers to trust our delicate constitutions to a savage.” She fluttered her fingers, fanning herself.

Isabelle tried to incinerate the bigot with her eyes. 

(Mrs. Darling also heard the small-minded woman. She planned to introduce her to Mrs. Macon, inflicting the company of each lady on the other, but hid her inner smirk, politely attending to the baron.) 

The doctor cleared his throat. “It does not bother me.” The doctor’s voice was gentle, sympathetic even, and that irritated Isabelle further.

“It should bother you,” she muttered.

“Oh? Is it yours to decide when I take offense?” He forestalled an embarrassed apology. “Let us rather wish the woman good health so that she and I may avoid one another.”

For the first time, she sent a charitable thought toward the dead magnate. Intense practicality and the influence of his daughter made him more broad-minded than most. His company employed qualified people of all nations, colors, and creeds. Captain Miro had been lucky to have an employer who didn’t mind his Moorish roots, and Tess — a half-Chinese woman — would never find a position equal to her merit outside Beechcraft Enterprises.

“Do you intend to compete in this tournament? I should warn the porter to handicap you.”

“Not today.” She watched Reimund laugh with Ulysses Aitkin and charm the redhead into an awkward smile. 

Dr. Chakraborty followed her gaze to its object. He frowned. “Be careful, Lady Isabelle. I hate to repeat gossip, but the German baron was no friend of Julius Beechcraft. I’m sure your young gentleman and his cousin are safe company, but someone killed Beechcraft. A little prudence never hurt.”

Caught between the impulse to deny that Reimund was her young gentleman and to ask if the doctor knew the specifics of the enmity between Baron Hoffman and Beechcraft, Isabelle lost her chance to do either. 

“Please excuse me. One passenger is ill, and I must check in on her. Not everyone takes to flight with your avian ease.” He paused, face stern. “Promise me you’ll stop involving yourself in dangerous affairs.”

Isabelle chose her words. “I will try not to stumble upon any more corpses.”

No fool, Dr. Chakraborty understood the value of such narrow promises, but there was little he could do. He left with a shake of the head.

The scent of fresh-baked pastries and coffee wafted from a refreshment table, and Isabelle’s stomach groused at her. She checked the large brass clock in the center of the balcony. It was after noon. No wonder she felt peckish. She chose an almond-speckled cake and used a napkin to cover her mouth as she devoured it.

Reimund returned, bringing his new partner with him. He introduced the man with a flourish of the wrist. “May I present Mr. Ulysses Aitkin, an experienced journalist and novice shuffleboard player?”

Isabelle didn’t wait for Reimund to introduce her. Who knew what he would call her? “Mr. Aitkin, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Isabelle Huxley.”

He cocked his head. “Huxley, as in —”

Reimund interrupted. “Yes, I can see you recognize the surname. Indeed, our fair companion is no ordinary young lady but a noblewoman, a lady with a capital L.”

Aitkin bit his tongue and accepted the rebuff, which saved her from needing to discuss “Huxley’s folly” twice in one day.

“My friend, we must register.” Reimund guided Aitkin to the crew member collecting names. 

Touched by the rescue, Isabelle watched them walk away.

The men drew a spot in the first round, set to play against a pair of older women who conversed with the fast intimacy that travelers sometimes develop. They made an unlikely couple. Miss Easton was a stern-faced, retired schoolmarm from a village near Manchester, and Mrs. Almeida hailed from Brazil, her voice ringing loud and musical. The latter wore a fuchsia gown that seemed even brighter against her partner’s faded brown. 

Reimund eyed the bistro set reserved for the contestants and tracked down an extra chair for Isabelle. He took charge of the introductions. The ladies accepted Isabelle’s presence, though Miss Easton cast her a teacherly glare warning against nonsense. 

Mrs. Almeida stepped up to take her shot. An exaggerated hourglass figure required her to maneuver around her immense bosom as she positioned her rake. With a deep breath, she pushed the puck. 

It moved two feet.

Miss Easton let out a disdainful “ha.”

“Good try, madam.” Mr. Aitkin smiled, timid. “I’d recommend a little more force.” 

“Don’t be missish about it, Almeida.” On her turn, Miss Easton showed proper determination, sending her shot far past the court. The gathered onlookers scattered with a chorus of squeaks and ohs. 

Mrs. Almeida laughed with full-throated glee. Miss Easton glowered, but a glint of amusement betrayed the expression.

As the ladies took their second turn, Isabelle studied Ulysses Aitkin. His carroty locks had as much difficulty as her own in choosing a direction, and she felt a surge of empathy regarding the trials of unruly hair. She tapped the table to call his attention and said, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Aitkin. I’m familiar with your work.”

His gloomy face brightened. “How kind of you to say, Lady Isabelle. May I ask — have you read my pieces for the Tribune or my fiction?”

“Both. I admire your determination to illuminate the plight of the laboring classes.”

Beside the man, Reimund stared at Isabelle, jaw twitching in suppressed amusement at this naked flattery.

“Thank you, my lady, but others have done as much and more.” With an apologetic bob of the head, he stood to take his turn. 

“Buttering him up before the interrogation?” Reimund asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Please, Isabelle. I know you doubt my intelligence, but I assume you had an agenda in suggesting I partner with him.” 

The echo of earlier self-deprecation struck her as hollow, glib. It took Isabelle too long to reply. He raised his eyes to hers, and they held the gaze.

Miss Easton harrumphed. She was closer than expected. “Less flirting, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Keep your mind on the game, if you please. It is your turn.”

Isabelle stammered while Reimund leaped to his feet. “My dear Miss Easton, you ask too much. How am I supposed to concentrate when in the company of three such lovely ladies?” 

“Much less flirting.”

He winked at the older woman and stepped up to the court. 

“What a pretty boy.” Mrs. Almeida beamed in approval. Following her gaze, Isabelle saw Reimund, his posture easy, muscles contracting with effortless power. Mrs. Almeida waggled her eyebrows, and Isabelle’s cheeks flamed. She fidgeted with the small knife dangling from her necklace, flipping it open and closed. The Brazilian woman cackled.

“Almeida, you’re as bad as the children,” Miss Easton said.

The next time Isabelle could speak to Mr. Aitkin, she said, “You’ve been a harsh critic of Beechcraft Enterprises.” 

He retreated an inch. “Yes. That is true. However, I believe Miss Julia Beechcraft’s stewardship will benefit her employees.”

“How so?”  

“I interviewed many after the Rosefield incident — people of all stations. Many insisted she had nothing to do with the disaster, and one man related her failed attempt to introduce welfare programs directed at the employees.”

On the court, Miss Easton landed her disc within the appointed spaces for the first time. Mrs. Almeida gasped and clapped her hands together.

“Well done, Miss Easton,” Mr. Aitkin called and stood to take his last turn.

The game reached its inevitable end. Mrs. Almeida cursed in Portuguese, and Reimund feigned speechless delight, picking up Isabelle in a hug and spinning her once around. She yipped in surprise.

“Much, much less flirting,” Miss Eaton said.

There was a long break before the men would play their next match, so the group took a table on the balcony overlooking the excitement. Reimund left to find a porter who could bring them lemonade, and Isabelle asked the others what brought them aboard the Aerial Express.

Miss Easton folded her hands on the table. “I always wanted to take a grand tour. After years of frugality, I decided to indulge myself this once.”

Mrs. Almeida patted her new friend’s hand. “The Lord delivered me into Miss Easton’s life so that I may persuade her to cultivate this strain of self-indulgence. I adore travel and now must visit her charming village before I return across the ocean.” 

Miss Easton did not hide her alarm. 

“After, you will come to Brasil and see my country.”

“And you, Mr. Aitkin, does business or pleasure take you to Constantinople?” Isabelle asked.

The journalist frowned. “I fear the project that brought me on board is no longer possible. However, my editor will welcome a first-hand account of Julius Beechcraft’s last voyage, which should make up for the loss.” 

“What project?”

Aitkin hesitated, but the three women waited him out. He sighed. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, not now. I received an anonymous note from a person who told me Julius Beechcraft would be on this trip. They provided me with a full fare and suggested this was my opportunity to interview him.” Aitkin plucked a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his eyeglasses, and cleaned them. “I still don’t know whether they intended to arrange a meeting or meant me to take the man by surprise.” 

“How sneaky,” Miss Easton said. “Why was it so important that you speak to Beechcraft?”

“The official story about the Rosefield disaster never satisfied me. Simple negligence should not have caused so much damage. I also wonder at the location of the accident.” Aitkin’s lips disappeared into a tight white line. “Few people remember Rosefield was the site of an attempt to organize the factory workers.”

“Thomas Jones,” Miss Easton supplied.

“Yes.”

Isabelle recognized the name. Thomas Jones played an outsized role in the coverage of the Rosefield dead, in part because he was Ulysses Aitkin’s friend.

Miss Eason remembered the connection as well. Her face softened. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The others followed with noises of sympathy. 

“Jones was a good man. After gaining a position managing one of the factory’s floors, he suggested to his workers that they unionize, which was, to say the least, unusual. I’ve never been able to discover whether Beechcraft knew about those first, tentative meetings, but the site of the explosion was convenient for him.”

Mrs. Almeida’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, not specifically. Beechcraft never fired Thomas, which suggests that he was ignorant of my friend’s participation. But I’ve always wondered...” Aitkin trailed off and shrugged. “Perhaps spite interfered with the necessary precautions.”

Isabelle returned to the topic of the reporter’s benefactor. “You don’t know who sent you the note?”

Aitkin grew cagy. “That’s not what I said. I said the note was anonymous.”

Isabelle leaned forward. “But you have a theory about its writer?”

“Yes.” Under the women’s intense gazes, Aitkin turtled into himself, shrinking the distance between his head and his torso. 

“Who was it?” Mrs. Almeida demanded.

He wriggled. “If Beechcraft were still alive, I’d feel obligated to protect the man.”

Miss Easton rapped on the linen-covered wood. “Stop dragging it out.”

Aitkin raised a hand, palm out. “I saw Alastair Dunlap in passing yesterday. He was wearing the ship’s livery.”

Isabelle leaned closer, discomfiting the man. “Dunlap? As in the Rosefield engineer?”

“Yes. I interviewed him multiple times. He knew my mind about the affair. There might be issues on which he hoped I’d pressure his former employer.” He cocked his head. “Rather, his current employer. I confess my surprise that he found a position — even such a reduced one — in Beechcraft Enterprises.”

She stopped listening. The captain had hired Rosefield’s scapegoat over Beechcraft’s objection, causing the conflict between them.

Reimund returned, followed by an automated tea cart bearing lemonade and shortbread. An urn-like device headed the contraption, swiveling as it moved through the crowd to track Reimund’s movements. He reached their party and sat, setting a small control box on the table next to his chair. The trolley rolled up and stopped in front of the controls. 

“Now, my blue-blooded belle, tell me, what did I miss?” 

“Less flirting, more serving of lemonade,” Miss Easton insisted.

Mrs. Almeida said, “Mr. Aitkin has been telling us the most fascinating story.” She repeated the tale.

“I’m disappointed to lose my interview, but I can’t regret Beechcraft’s passing.” Aitkin studied his hands. “Few will mourn him. Indeed, I would be unsurprised to learn that several people rest easier now that the unscrupulous devil is gone. In my research, I found hints of blackmail.”

Reimund stilled mid-pour.

“Don’t be stingy.” Miss Easton tapped her half-filled glass, and Reimund flashed her an apologetic grin and topped off the lemonade. 

Isabelle decided it was her turn to deflect uncomfortable topics. “Please pass me some shortbread, Rhett?”

Reimund raised an eyebrow at her, but complied.

Mrs. Almeida murmured to Miss Easton. “I thought his name was Reimund.” 

“Flirting” was the disgusted response.

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

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