Chapter Fourteen

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Reimund tells Isabelle about the Black family circus, led by Hugo and his wife Marie. After Beechcraft became their patron, they suffered from neglected safety measures and lower pay than expected. The arrangement came to an end when Marie shattered her leg and another troupe member nearly died. They parted on bad terms.

Isabelle takes Reimund to meet Tess (briefly) and demands Tess introduce them to Alastair Dunlap, the Rosefield scapegoat and current head engineer of the Aerial Express. 

When speaking to Dunlap, Isabelle asks if he sent Aitken’s (the journalist) cryptic invitation. He denies it and mentions that Mr. Notti, Beechcraft’s secretary, might be responsible. After all (per Dunlap), he maneuvered to get his sweetheart (Mrs. Darling) on the voyage. He also claims that he was in the engine room at the time of the murder. 

Isabelle and Reimund part, and she heads to her quarters, determined to confront Mrs. Darling about her relationship with Notti. She barges through the unlocked connecting door and finds Mr. Notti attacking Mrs. Darling.

At the sight of Mr. Notti attacking Mrs. Darling, Isabelle didn’t hesitate. 

Later, she would be equally proud and ashamed of this.

The folding knife on her chatelaine was better suited to shaving blocks of minerals than combat, but she unhooked it anyway. She advanced, and the secretary slid off his victim.

The stuttering Mr. Notti raised his hands in supplication. He was now on the far side of Mrs. Darling, who scrambled away from him. Her chaperone squeaked, “Isabelle, wait.” 

Flooding adrenaline distorted the words, but she paused, trying to find an angle where she could use the knife on the man without harming the woman. 

“Isabelle.” This time, Mrs. Darling hissed the word. 

Various details asserted themselves. The secretary’s hands had been on either side of Mrs. Darling’s neck, but had he been choking her? Isabelle took in the rumpled pair — the shared guilt staining their faces... the alarm widening their eyes... the annoyance tightening her chaperone’s lips... their embarrassment as they smoothed their shirts.

Oh.

She froze, her arm still raised in a pre-stabbing motion. The three figures stared at each other in complete mortification. No one knew what to say.

“Isabelle.” Mrs. Darling tried to meet her eyes, but her stare fixed wide, somewhere to the right. “This is my friend, Mr. Notti.” She flapped a hand in Isabelle’s direction. “My charge, Lady Isabelle Huxley.” 

They nodded without looking at one another.

“My lady, I am so…I should never…” Mrs. Darling gave up, sagging down onto the couch and burying her head in her hands. “This is a nightmare.”

Caught between indignation and the urge to apologize, Isabelle reattached her pocket knife to the chatelaine. 

(At this point, the chaperone came up with her own trio of curses focused on the three people present for this humiliation. Her lover, who demanded silent comfort after weeks of strange behavior he wouldn’t explain. Herself, who gave in despite reservations about the place and time. And her charge, whose only crime was not knocking. Who rushed to her defense. Who…corrosion…who refused to provide a convenient target for Mrs. Darling’s anger, leaving it to puff into self-reproach.)

Mr. Notti rested a hand on her back. The way he said “Darling”… the word was an endearment, not the adopted surname.

The cramped quarters intensified all that was awkward in this encounter. Her tone exquisitely polite, Isabelle asked, “Would you two please attend me in my room?” 

Mrs. Darling nodded.

She retreated. Neither open nor closed seemed appropriate, so she left the door cracked. Isabelle sat on the corner of the bed and waited, trying to figure out what to do with her hands. 

The lovers appeared within moments. All three struggled to find the right thing to say or do. The space filled with half-formed syllables and fractured movements. At last, Mrs. Darling and Mr. Notti lowered themselves into chairs. Their expressions reminded her of abashed schoolchildren. She would have laughed at the absurdity if her mind had room for amusement.

“I don’t know what to say,” Mrs. Darling admitted. 

Isabelle bit the inside of her mouth. “Was anything you said true?” 

“Yes.” Her eyes finally met Isabelle’s. “Almost everything. I lied only about my current relationship with Paul. We’ve been in touch for a year, and I knew he would be aboard.” 

“I told you not to accept the job.” 

Mr. Notti’s mutter restored Mrs. Darling’s spirit. “And I told you that wasn’t your choice to make. This trip was my one opportunity for adventure.” She lifted her chin. “You have seen the world. My employer once took me to Scotland for a month, but that’s the farthest I’ve traveled.”

Isabelle asked Mr. Notti, “You tried to dissuade Mrs. Darling from taking this job?”

He nodded. “Given our presence — mine and Beechcraft’s — I thought it was too dangerous, that he would recognize Lynette and discover our relationship.”

“I won’t deny that I panicked when we dined with the man.” A sense of irony warmed her expression. “But he was so self-involved, I doubt I needed the veil. I could have stared him in the face, and he wouldn’t have been able to place mine.”

“Why keep your romance a secret?” The cloudy day limited the incoming sunlight, and Isabelle hadn’t turned on a lamp, making it difficult to see their expressions. “You are two unmarried adults. Why not openly enjoy each other’s company? You could even wed if you wished.”

Mr. Notti traced the rug’s edge with his toe. “It was important that Beechcraft never hear of our connection. He resents — resented — Mrs. Darling and feared—”

“Paul, no.”

He swallowed whatever he was going to say, settling on, “Beechcraft was a petty man with extensive influence.”

Old disappointments sharpened Mrs. Darling’s smile. “The forms of employment open to me rely on a faultless reputation. I already changed my name once to escape Beechcraft’s slurs.” 

“The situation was hopeless.”

Isabelle examined Mr. Notti, staring at him until he shifted in his seat. He was neither fat nor thin, and the years had softened the shape of his face. She supposed the man was attractive enough for a gentleman of his age, but he was so ordinary she couldn’t imagine him as an evil mastermind. He seemed more like a victim.

“If it wasn’t you, who recommended Mrs. Darling for this position?”

He twitched. “I don’t know.” 

Mrs. Darling asked, “Could it have been…?”

“No.” 

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

Mr. Notti clarified. “Miss Julia.” To Mrs. Darling, he said. “If someone approached her with the idea, she might do you a good turn — she often tried to mitigate Beechcraft’s damage. But Miss Julia never would have brought you aboard — not for this trip.”

Isabelle frowned. “Why not this trip?” 

He blinked at her. “I…well…because of her father’s presence.” He looked out the window at the clouds. 

She lost her patience.

(While her instructors complained of Isabelle’s lack of patience, it wasn’t fair to say she had none. If the average person had a cup’s worth, she had, at least, a spoonful. But anyone who’s ever tried to walk across a room holding an ordinary spoon filled with water knows it to be challenging. No wonder that hers often spilled en route, before she could put it to use.)

“Did you kill your employer?” Not letting him recover from his gasp, she said, “Why did you remove the article about Edmonton from Beechcraft’s suite? Did you also place it there?”

Suspicion dawned in Mr. Notti’s eyes and rose to noontime certainty. “Are you the person who stole the paper from my room?”

Isabelle crossed her arms. “I asked first.” 

Mrs. Darling ended the stalemate with a clap. “Enough. No, Isabelle, he didn’t plant the newspaper clipping. He doesn’t know why it was there.”

Mr. Notti dug his toe deeper into the rug. 

“And yes, Paul, the lady broke into Beechcraft’s suite. She took the article and a bit of my dress she found in Beechcraft’s bedroom.”

His head snapped up. “Your dress? What are you talking about?” 

“I didn’t want to alarm you. Isabelle discovered a scrap of fabric clipped from my hem and placed near the scene of the murder.”

Color drained from the secretary’s Mediterranean complexion. “That’s not…”

When he trailed off, Isabelle tested a hypothesis. “I assumed one of your friends left it there.”

“My friends?”

“Yes, such as Hugo Black.” At his recoil, Isabelle pressed her advantage. “Didn’t you let him into your employer’s suite last night? I know he was there looking for something.”

Eyes bulging, Mr. Notti stammered, “How…”

Mrs. Darling glanced between them. “Paul, what is she talking about?” 

“I can’t…” He scrubbed at his brow. “I apologize, but I can’t do this right now. I should return to my duties. Miss Julia will need things in order when she assumes her father’s position.” 

“Please, Paul.” The words were gentle. 

“I am so sorry, my love.” He stood and stooped to kiss Mrs. Darling on the forehead. She shifted, unwilling to permit the intimacy in front of an audience. He swallowed.

At the door, he turned to make a courtly bow. “My lady.”

“Mr. Notti.” Isabelle didn’t rise. “We will talk further.” 

He compressed his lips into a taut line, then left.

Mrs. Darling pushed to her feet. “I beg you, Isabelle. No more for the moment. I need to rest before dinner.” Not waiting for a response, she swept into her room, locking the door with a firm click.

Isabelle lay half on the bed, boots dangling. She studied the planks of the ceiling and the ropes holding the overhead storage in place. A strand of hair had fallen across her lips. She blew at it, but it rose and resettled, so she tugged it to the side.

She thought of Beechcraft’s murder. The pieces of the mystery refused to form a coherent picture. They scattered through her brain like tile fragments. Worse, she couldn’t distinguish between parts of the mosaic and stray debris.

Mr. Notti’s fear of his employer reminded Isabelle of the dead magnate’s power over people such as Baron Hoffman. She’d overheard mention of a crime, hadn’t she? She was no longer sure. And Reimund mentioned letters. Maybe Hoffman passed along sensitive information, spying against his country. The unification of Germany was little more than twenty years past.

For the first time since childhood, Isabelle dozed during the day, her brain seeking refuge.

She woke half an hour later, feet prickling with pins and needles. Rolling off the bed, she paused in front of the mirror. She patted her hair into place (more or less) and tugged at her skirts. Her chatelaine had tangled on a vest button, and she unwound it. There was nothing to be done for her too-sharp features or frizzy mane. When she caught herself frowning at her alchemy-scarred hands — usually a source of perverse pride — she shook her head in self-disgust.

Isabelle stalked from her room and encountered Reimund standing in front of his open door. She scowled at him as if he were to blame for her momentary vanity. 

His smile was uncertain. “My Majestic Moonbeam?”

She wasn’t sure why she was annoyed with him, only that she was. A new thought tugged her off course. “You’re early.”

“I apologize for disappointing you. Mr. Aitkin and I were defeated — trounced, actually — by a husband and wife from Derbyshire. We are out of the tournament. The crew intends to hold the championship match tomorrow if you want to see it.”

She shook her head.

Reimund hesitated, toying with the doorknob. “Would you like to come inside? I doubt your chaperone would approve, but I won’t tell tales.” He pushed the door wide and gestured for her to precede him.

Isabelle’s inexplicable sense of injury faded.

Unmoored from the anger, she explored Reimund’s cabin. It was almost identical to her own quarters, with the same mahogany paneling, versatile furnishings, and plush coverings. The background similarity highlighted the differences. A coat hung over the back of a desk chair, and the woodsy scent of male vanity products lingered in the air. A notebook lay facedown on the bed. Was that a sketchbook? Did Reimund draw? 

Isabelle retrieved the pad, ignoring the sudden rigidity of Reimund’s shoulders, and flipped it over in her hands to see her face. 

Except the picture was prettier. The lines flattered her, smoothing out her harsher angles. 

On the other hand, her unruly hair didn’t conceal demon horns. The gout of flame spraying from her mouth likewise seemed an artistic license.

She flushed, but the portrait’s malice was just so cheerful. They smiled at one another. A new tension bloomed in the lingering silence. Isabelle turned away and plopped herself into a chair.

He laughed. “Please have a seat.” He followed his advice, bottom hovering over the bed, but stopped himself with a wince. Beds were dangerous things. He moved to the other side of the room and leaned against the wardrobe.

Isabelle blurted, “Was it treason? Did your cousin betray his government?”

“What?!” The cabinet doors shook as his body popped off it. He stared at her in confusion.

(Reimund was also concerned. So far, he’d found the Lady Isabelle to be eccentric. Lunatic was new.)

Her blush deepened. Was it too much to ask that she have one conversation with this man that didn’t include near-death by mortification? 

“Baron Hoffman... the letters… did they contain evidence of conspiracy or espionage?”

“No! Rusty hell, no. Why would you think such a thing?”

Isabelle threw her hands up. “I don’t know! What other correspondence requires such secrecy?”

He fell back against the furniture with a small thump. “The letters… they were romantic.” He gave her a severe frown. “I tell you only so you won’t barge into my cousin’s cabin and accuse him of plotting to assassinate the Imperial Chancellor.”

She wrinkled her nose. What kind of affair would give Beechcraft the leverage he craved? She supposed Hoffman might want to safeguard a lady’s reputation — but he was unwed. Why not marry the woman? Perhaps she was already married?

Unless…what if she wasn’t a lady at all? It’s a crime, the baron said. Love between men was illegal in Germany — England, too. A stupid, evil law, but a law all the same.

Her eyes must have shown her thoughts.

“Corrosion.” Reimund slashed the air with his hand, decapitating an invisible antagonist. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

“I won’t —” Isabelle didn’t get the sentence out before Reimund crossed the room, steps heavy, and paused before the door.

He took a deep breath before opening it. “This isn’t a game or a scientific experiment, my lady.” Icicles barbed her title. “Lives are at stake. Please leave.”

She hesitated, equal parts guilty and angry.

When she left, her silence damned the fragile bond that had grown between them. It snapped as the door slammed behind her.

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

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