Chapter Five

Previously on Murder on the Aerial Express: Isabelle worries that Captain Miro will be blamed for murdering Beechcraft. She visits her friend Tess, the navigator, who has her own worries — a bad storm approaches, and the ship will need to set down a few days early in Venice. Her alchemy experiment goes poorly, and Reimund invites her to join a game of cards.

Isabelle took in the assembled card players. They were the same people who had dined together the previous night.

Even the dead man felt present. Beechcraft surrounded them with his airship and haunted them with his ghost. The baron studied the table’s emerald fabric, and Mrs. Darling pulled herself from deep thoughts to offer her charge an apologetic smile.  

“What is the game?” Isabelle asked, taking the empty seat.

“Loo, my gracious gentlewoman.” Reimund savored the phrase’s g’s and l’s.

Isabelle stole the paper and pen in front of Mrs. Darling. She ignored the woman’s raised eyebrows and shoved the writing materials at Reimund. “Why don’t you keep score? Make yourself useful for a change.”

He stared at the pad. Isabelle grew defensive as the moment stretched. She was only trying to match his teasing. At last, he drummed his fingers on the table and smiled, not at her but at Mrs. Jones. “How tiresome. I’d rather be charming than useful.”

Mrs. Jones laughed, eyes twinkling. “My dear boy, I suspect you struggle to turn off the charm.”

“I didn’t mind keeping the tally,” Mrs. Darling murmured.

Baron Hoffman shifted in his chair. “Probably for the best. That will save us the difficulty of trying to decipher my young cousin’s handwriting.”

Isabelle flushed.

Reimund made a show of confiding in Mrs. Jones. “It is a great tragedy that I wasn’t born to wealthy idleness. I excel in doing nothing. I’ve perfected the art form.”

“Perhaps you might become a tea taster or ballroom instructor. How do you pass the time currently?”

Isabelle envied the American’s ease. 

(Mrs. Jones envied Isabelle’s discomfort. She remembered the first thrills of attraction.)

“With even less purpose. I play polo in a gentleman’s league. It pays a small stipend and keeps me occupied.” He swiped the deck from the center of the table. “To prevent you all from deeming me completely worthless, I shall deal the first round.” He shuffled. The cards arced through his hands, slotting together in precise alternation.

He passed out hands, and Isabelle peeked at hers before turning her gaze on the others present. Most of them betrayed little, though the baron hummed a morose tune. She met Mrs. Jones’s eyes, which also scanned the players. The woman winked.

Aware of her cards’ limitations, Isabelle played conservatively, building a stronger hand for the upcoming rounds.

Mrs. Jones asked, “Do we know any more about this morning’s tragedy?” She laid down a ten of clubs.

The baron said, “I’m not sure that tragedy is the right word.” He regretted the sentence, shutting his mouth with a click of teeth. 

Mrs. Darling’s grip tightened. She unconsciously tilted her hand. The move forced Isabelle to lean close to Reimund to avoid seeing it.

Reimund grinned. “Are you trying to get a look at my cards?”

She sniffed. Anyone could see that Isabelle was doing her best not to cheat.

Mrs. Jones ignored the byplay. “What would be a better word than tragedy?”

Hoffman admitted, “I was thinking of karma.”

No one argued. Mrs. Jones turned to Isabelle. “You’ve traveled with Captain Miro before. Tell me, are his flights usually so eventful?”

“No.” Isabelle took her turn.

“I hear this was to be the captain’s last flight. I wonder how Beechcraft’s death changes that arrangement.”

“What do you mean?” Reimund asked.

Mrs. Jones lowered her voice to a confiding whisper. “While taking a stroll last night, I overheard Beechcraft arguing with the captain. Apparently, the dead man planned to end Miro’s contract.”

Back stiff, Isabelle said, “Captain Miro is one of the most honorable people I know.”

Hoffman offered a reassuring smile. “I’m sure he is.”

The speed of play picked up. Isabelle struggled to understand Reimund’s game. He lacked her memory for previous hands — and made bizarre mistakes — but he read his opponents’ minds with frightening skill.

The game drew to an end, and Isabelle revealed the ace of spades. Ready to gloat shamelessly, she lifted her chin at Reimund, challenging him to beat it.

“I think she has you, my boy,” Hoffman said.

“So little faith, cousin?” Reimund tossed the Joker on top of Isabelle’s card and smirked.

The table broke into laughter.

Isabelle stared at the trump. Her obvious dismay intensified the others’ amusement.

“Don’t scowl, my cunning contessa. You came closer to beating me than anyone has in months.” He started gathering the cards. “But I have a knack for card games. Like most of my skills, it’s useless but makes me a welcome guest.”

The baron said, “I hope you realize you never need to sing for your supper in our house.”

The small curve of his lips almost made Reimund look sweet. “I know.”

Hoffman cleared his throat, turning the sentimental moment into a jest. “Breakfast, on the other hand, requires at least a hum, and if you want lunch…You know the rules. One pirate shanty or an Irish jig.”

Pulled from the trance in which she’d spent the game, Mrs. Darling snorted. Her eyes widened, and she covered her nose. “Excuse me.”

Mrs. Jones patted the lady’s arm. “Not at all, my dear. I, too, was overcome with the image of young Reimund here performing a jig.”

A little sly, Mrs. Darling said, “For me, it was the shanty.”

As the group broke apart, Mrs. Jones pulled Isabelle aside. “A word, my lady?”

Isabelle joined her at a window. “Please call me Isabelle.“

Mrs. Jones cast her eyes sidelong. “Not Your Supreme Majesty?”

Isabelle growled.

“Or my incandescent incarnation of innocence?”

“I may murder that man before we reach port.” Isabelle winced as her words hung in the air. Not the time to joke about such things.

Mrs. Jones sobered. “I didn’t mean any offense to your friend, the captain.”

“I know.” In some ways, that made it worse. The widow’s words reflected the questions and assumptions that would be commonplace.

They watched the clouds play and fellow travelers walk along the deck. Isabelle spotted Mrs. Darling, who had stepped outside following the game. She wore a hunted expression.

A moment later, Beechcraft’s secretary, Mr. Notti, strode toward her. He stopped to converse. Mrs. Darling responded, but her eyes darted every which way. The secretary’s nostrils flared at one comment.

Beside Isabelle, Mrs. Jones frowned. She, too, focused on the pair before taking her leave with a murmur about having a lie-down.

Outside the window, Notti reached for Mrs. Darling’s hand. She flinched.

Something — maybe more than one something — was off about that relationship.

After the game, Isabelle considered returning to her room, but it still bore the scorched scent of failure — literal and metaphoric. As a budding alchemist, she often wished for a less sensitive nose. 

She bargained with herself, fetching the limp-paged journal with the article on aether-hydrogen bonds and heading to her favorite reading spot. 

Few passengers used or even noticed the alcove just off the main corridor of first-class cabins. Almost hidden, the corner contained only one chair and a reading light. Isabelle sank into the leather. It had the ideal amount of stuffing. One could melt into it without fearing the furniture would swallow their bottom and make it difficult to stand. 

Reaching up to turn on the light, she paused at the sound of hushed voices. She recognized them as belonging to Baron Hoffman and Reimund. 

She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but their intensity would inspire a saint’s curiosity. 

“…you’re safe. Even free.”

“Hush. Not here. You know better.” 

“I don’t see —”

The baron interrupted. “It’s still a crime. And as long as those papers are out there…”

“Do you think the captain killed him?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

Their footsteps continued until they were no longer within hearing distance.

Isabelle tried to read — she really did — but fear made her imagination bolt. Captain Miro…escorted from the ship by faceless men… Tess dismissed from a post for which no one else would hire a twenty-year-old girl… Miro behind bars, waiting for the hangman… Or did the Venetians use the newer method of electrocution?… Isabelle left without one of her few friends and safe havens… 

Perhaps, if she’d been more accustomed to daydreams or daymares, she could have compartmentalized the images. The pressure built until she felt she might explode.

Isabelle cursed ominous whispers, a lazy society, and her inability to trust anyone to investigate the matter.

She returned to her room long enough to exchange her reading material for a small metal tin that tinkled as she added it to her necklace. She exited and walked one door over, stopping in front of Beechcraft’s suite. 

Isabelle glanced in each direction. Shadows pooled in the corners of the empty hall like inkblots. She pressed her ear against the smooth oak. She’d just seen the secretary out on the deck, talking to Mrs. Darling, but there could be other staff inside.

Corrosion, she hoped they had removed the body. She felt ghoulish enough as she opened the silver cylinder on her chatelaine and removed a set of thin, flexible wires. 

A lady occasionally needed to supplement her school curriculum. After arriving at the school, Isabelle realized the standard laboratory hours were inadequate and blackmailed a young thief into teaching her to pick locks. Both parties learned valuable lessons. That lawbreaker would never again underestimate gently bred females.

She inhaled and let out the breath, calming her heart and steadying her hands. Her teacher’s instructions buzzed in her brain as she manipulated the lock. It clicked open, and she replaced the picks. She slipped inside, her dress swishing along the doorjamb.

Isabelle closed the door and faced the suite. To her relief, the body was gone, as were the gore-soaked sheets. A coppery hint lingered in the air, but carbolic acid sliced through it. Faint marks on the floor suggested the need for further scrubbing.

A two-dimensional Beechcraft glared at Isabelle from his portrait across the room. She avoided his accusing gaze and, remembering the secretary’s shock at the newspaper clipping that morning, crossed to the coffee table. She bit back a frustrated cry — why had she expected to find it? The maid probably disposed of the scrap of paper during her duties.

She next tried the windows, which were locked, but a window walk hung beneath them, creating an external pathway between rooms, including hers and the owner’s.

Frowning, she paced Beechcraft’s lair, not sure what to look for. Besides the combined bedroom and living area, the suite held an office, a small dining parlor for formal entertaining, and the secretary’s quarters. A large closet and washroom completed the floor plan.

Isabelle peered inside the closet. Something was amiss, and she tried to pinpoint her sense of wrongness. The rug. Everything aboard the Aerial Express was meticulous, exact. The small floor covering should be in the exact center of the room. She crouched and tugged it several inches closer to her, setting it back in place.

A small stain appeared, the same rust-colored discoloration in the main chamber. Her eyes moved past it to a portable safe tucked low against the far wall. Isabelle crawled to it and yanked at the handle. It didn’t budge, and her skills did not extend to safe-cracking.

She stood. The rest of the closet held Beechcraft’s expensive garments. Three-piece suits nestled beside silk shirts and cashmere overwear. Several items had notes pinned to them, either descriptive or instructive. A patterned waistcoat was “Rust red.” A brocade tie: “Olive.” A pair of trousers: “Not to be paired with anything green.” The writer had underlined this last one at a later date, in a different color ink.

The owner traveled with his secretary, but not a valet. Perhaps he was colorblind, relying on his absent dresser’s orders.

Isabelle left the man’s clothing and padded through the bedroom, grateful for the plush floor coverings cushioning her footfalls. She was about to step into the parlor area when she saw the door handle twist across the room. Her heart leaped into her throat, and every nerve ending fired.

“It’ll only take a second.” The voice was female with a nasal whine.

No time to think. Isabelle retreated into the bedroom and slipped under the bed. The bed skirts tried to cling to her bottom, and she fluffed them away. Lying on her stomach, she was so focused on the danger that she didn’t notice the discomfort. The sharp edges of her favorite accessory dug into her chest and stomach.

The door swung open.

“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t fetch it yourself.” Another woman, this one older.

“As if you would want to spend time in this horror alone.” The younger one click-clacked away from Isabelle and toward Beechcraft’s office.

An unpleasant bray of laughter. “Less of a horror now with its demon slayed.” The speaker moved in the opposite direction of her friend, and her boots stopped a yard from the bed, close enough that Isabelle could see the hole in one toe.

“That isn’t fair,” the other woman called. “Beechcraft never gave us girls any trouble when we came to clean.”

“You’re lucky. Age neutered him. Have you found your promise ring?”

Footsteps returning. “On the desk where I left it.”

“You should get that beau of yours to buy you a chain to hold it while you work. Otherwise, you’ll lose it. Or else ruin it with cleaning products.” The woman’s boots pivoted toward her friend.

“He could never afford it. What did you mean about Beechcraft?”

A heavy sigh. “Let the dead bury the dead.”

“Too late. You can’t say something like that and not explain.”

Despite her desperation for them to leave, Isabelle agreed, adding her silent prayers to the maid’s entreaties.

“Fine. He ruined a friend of mine once, a long time ago. She took her life, and I learned to be grateful for my ugly face. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

Aghast silence. And then, “That’s dreadful.”

“Yes. I always wondered about that daughter of his.” She walked away from Isabelle’s hiding place.

“Miss Julia?” A protest. “She’s so kind when she travels with us.”

“I didn’t claim otherwise. But I have suspicions about her origins — whose natural child she is.”

“I thought Beechcraft adopted her from a poor but worthy family.”

“That’s the story, anyway.”

The maids departed.

Isabelle worked to release the tension from her frozen muscles, but it took her a full minute to relax enough to move. She crept out from her hiding spot, fighting the conviction that the women would return any second. Just in case, she rolled out the side farthest from the door.

That is how she discovered the scrap of gray fabric between the nightstand and the bed. She picked it up to study the color more closely. With a gasp, Isabelle tucked it into a pocket.

The urge to flee the suite right then was strong, but she gritted her teeth, determined to finish what she’d begun. She continued across the parlor and into Beechcraft’s study.

The room was glorious, an enviable space of windows and books. She paused by the desk, eyes lingering over the marble caddy’s display of pens and paper. It was meticulous enough to satisfy even her. The drawers contained supplies and a stack of letters tied with frayed ribbon. A childish scrawl covered the top piece of paper. The writer whined about her nurse. The terrible woman wanted her to play with dolls rather than the train set her father gave for Christmas.   

In the bottom drawer, Isabelle’s fingers brushed against an old ledger missing its leather spine. She handled it gently, setting it on the desk and holding the cover in place as she turned the pages. Shorthand filled a quarter of the book. It would take days and much more context to decipher, but she leafed through, hoping something would leap from the pages and announce its importance.

While some names were scrawled in full, other entries used cryptic abbreviations or symbols. One — a large H struck through with a chevron — likely referred to the baron. It concerned a shipment of lignite.

Her eyes landed on a peculiar entry. The name meant nothing to her, but beside it, scribbled in the margins, were several notations: “Needs 67-72 Fe, MG-dist.” “DealX. Find replacement,” and “D.A.” That last one — “D.A.” — reappeared multiple times throughout the book. Other common entries included “LTR,” “BB,” and “INF.” Beside one line about Baron Hoffman was “LTR.” 

Isabelle started to replace the ledger, but stopped and flipped to the first page. The date represented was 4.18.61. The most recent 3.2.89, not two weeks ago. She would expect Beechcraft to go through dozens of business ledgers in that span of time. He used this one regularly, but not frequently.

With a mental shrug, she restored the book to its place. Nothing else spoke to her, so she left the office through the second door. It led to a tiny room outfitted with a dining set and sideboard. A key rested in the cupboard’s lock. Isabelle opened it and found linens and silver engraved with the Beechcraft crest.

There was an exit to the corridor here, but she returned the way she came. The final room belonged to Mr. Notti, and she couldn’t leave before peeking at the secretary’s domain.

Beechcraft’s rooms surrounded his employee’s compartment. Even the closet and bath were larger, and poor lighting further shrank the space. A skylight lit the interior chamber, but not well. It was under the dirigible’s balloon.

Isabelle bumped against the furniture as she spun. There was only a daybed, stool, and table, but the pieces crowded the space. She doubted a person could open both doors — to the corridor and to Beechcraft’s living area — at once.

She spied the missing newspaper face-down on the table. It seemed four or five years old. The reverse showed an ad for steam-powered bicycles and part of an article about a contested appointment for the local House of Commons seat. She flipped it over.

The Price of Progress: Julius Beechcraft’s Iron Grip Strangles the Village of Edgemonton

By Ulysses Aitkin

In the relentless march of progress, industrialist Julius Beechcraft has ground the once-picturesque village of Edgemonton beneath his iron heel. After acquiring the neighboring estate, he wasted no time in developing the area. Concerned parties wonder about the cost of the rapid growth made possible by steam technology, and all want to know: will anything sate the tycoon’s hunger for expansion, or is the once-idyllic British countryside destined to become a smoky, grim wasteland dotted with factories?

One would forgive traveling Edgemonton natives for not recognizing their homes upon returning. Soot chokes the azure skies and dulls the emerald hills. The village cowers in the shadow of Beechcraft’s factory.

Stripped of their livelihoods, many villagers have had to toil in the belly of the beast that led to their downfall. Beechcraft’s predatory practices include partial payment of employees in credit, drawing them to the new company store and canteen. More than one interviewee expressed dismay and surprise at Squire Armstrong’s decision to sell, and at a ruinously low price. (More on page 8)

Isabelle folded the piece of paper and added it to her pocket. She didn’t understand its importance yet, but she worried the paper would disappear altogether. 

She rifled through the rest of the secretary’s belongings. Besides three modest sets of clothing in grays and browns, she turned up a miniature portrait, a large bottle of sleeping draughts, some writing paper, and a recent letter of family gossip from his sister.

The tiny painting interested her. If the blond woman depicted wasn’t a younger Mrs. Darling, she must be a near relation.

Isabelle returned to Beechcraft’s entrance and put her eye to the peephole. No one stood immediately outside. She cracked it open to peek. She could only see in one direction, but that was enough. 

Reimund Fitzwilliam stood at the door to his cabin. His room was to the right of Beechcraft’s suite as Isabelle’s was to the left, positioning him to witness her attempted exit.

His jaw dropped as their eyes met.  

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