Chapter Nine

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Mrs. Darling tells her story. After a youthful romance with Paul Notti (Beechcraft’s secretary) and a medical event, she married the local squire, Mr. Armstrong. The estate dried up, and Beechcraft acquired it, forcing Armstrong to sell by ruining the man’s finances and reputation and then blackmailing his wife over a youthful indiscretion. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Darling adopted her mother’s maiden name.

Isabelle tells her chaperone that someone may be framing her, displaying the fabric cut from her dress. When she leaves the room, she takes with her a pamphlet Mrs. Darling accepted from the protesters that demands Beechcraft be held accountable for the Rosefield disaster. Bad working conditions and dangerous shortcuts resulted in a factory explosion that killed 25 people and wounded more.

Isabelle visited the washroom to handle pre-sleep necessities and nearly fell asleep in a copper bathtub. She wondered how long it would take for the staff to find passengers dozing behind the oriental modesty screens. It must have happened. Her limp hand dropped onto the button to summon the towel cart, and its mechanical purr roused her enough to retrieve monogrammed linens and leave the lavender-scented water.

On her way back, she found Reimund lounging against the wall with the ease of a man who could linger in passageways as readily as in destinations. She didn’t understand it. There were too many places to go for her to luxuriate in the in-betweens.

“If it isn’t Her Royal Spyness.” 

Isabelle reached for words, but her exhausted brain rambled. She cursed traveling murderers, alchemical difficulties, and her inability to trust the Venetian police. Would they prioritize truth and justice over politics and expediency? There was no room on the list for irritating, attractive boys.

Reimund’s smirk faded into concern. “Are you all right?”

She waved a hand. “Fine, Robin. What are you doing up this late?”

“It’s not quite nine in the evening.” 

That wasn’t possible. Too much had happened.

He cocked his head and reached toward her, stopping short. “You have a certain look when thinking hard. Your eyes lose focus, and your left brow twitches. It makes me think you’re battling an army of invisible foes in there.” He completed the gesture with a feather-light touch of her temple.

The nearness and unexpected warmth caught her off guard. “There’s no challenge in fighting the visible ones.”

A breathy chuckle. “Isabelle, if you require an ally, call on me. I may not be your smartest acquaintance, but I have a peasant’s broad back, perfect for shouldering burdens.”

(Reimund wasn’t a peasant, not exactly, but there was enough truth in his self-deprecation that he almost flinched, the way people do when discovering that private pieces of themselves are exposed.)

Maybe it was his changed mood that overwhelmed her defenses. Maybe the shock of hearing her proper name. With a sigh, she let go of any lingering anger over being made a fool. “I appreciate that…Reimund.”

He bent in a mock bow. “Goodnight, my lady of lofty thoughts.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Goodnight, René.” 

Back in her room, she looked at her alchemy equipment, glum. It was still early, but she was stupid with fatigue. She gave in and tucked herself in bed.

Tired as she was, Isabelle expected the usual insomnia. Instead, sleep mugged her, knocking her on the head and stealing consciousness before she could resist.

For the second night in a row, she woke to unfamiliar noises from next door. A death cry didn’t yank her from her dreams — thank heavens — but the sounds of movement and murmurs prodded her. She opened her eyes when she heard a small thud and eased from the sheets.

Determined to eavesdrop, she crept toward the connecting wall. Pressing her ear to the wood failed. The window caught her eye, and she slid its glass up. 

The damp chill shocked her senses. Her warm bed beckoned, but she couldn’t let go of this temporary bout of lunacy. 

She crawled up on the desk and exited onto the narrow ledge that cleaners used while the craft was in dock. Her foot skidded on the slippery walkway, and she looked down, swallowing hard. She reminded herself that she would only fall to the deck if she tripped. The height might be enough to bruise or break a bone, but the impression of a blue-black expanse ready to swallow her was just that, an impression, a fancy born of anxiety and perspective.

Isabelle clutched the railing and advanced, stopping before the next suite to crouch under the sill. Her entire body sank below the handrail, which triggered a wave of vertigo. It passed, and she raised enough to peek inside. Nothing. A dark bedroom. Nor could she hear through the glass, not with the wind in her ears.

Isabelle nudged the window. It resisted. She unfixed her fingers from the metal rail one by one to shove at the sash with both hands. It was unlocked, lifting several inches in a silent glide. She touched the safety bar behind her, making sure it hadn’t disappeared, and lowered herself back down. Her head was still near the opening, but the stance offered partial concealment in case the trespassers came into view.

It occurred to Isabelle that she wasn’t in any position — moral or physical — to point fingers for trespassing.

The tones were hushed.

“Are we sure it’s empty?” said a woman. 

“You saw it for yourself.” 

Isabelle couldn’t trace the second speaker’s accent, but the deep voice undulated with non-English music. 

A new character, male. “It has to be there.” Panic shredded the end of his words.

“You know I’ll stand by you, regardless.” The woman.

The accented man murmured. Isabelle lost the beginning of his sentence, but it ended in a grumble. “…not she should.” 

A beat passed.

One of the three said, “We should go.”

A fresh voice replied, female this time, with the same foreign lilt. “Do you want me to lock it?”

The initial woman. “Yes.”

Silence except for the sound of footsteps moving away from Isabelle, toward the door and hallway. She shrank from the window as the figures came into partial view. She couldn’t see much of the four intruders, but moonlight glinted oddly at the back of one man’s head. His hair was long, secured at the nape and punctuated by the eerie light.

Isabelle waited to be sure no one returned. Back in her bedroom, she pulled the sash shut against the cold, careful to secure the locks.

She shook off the damp nightdress, too shaky and tired to put it away, and pulled her robe de chambre from the hook next to the bed, wrapping it tight around her. She crawled under the blankets, seeking the abandoned heat.

Did others struggle to differentiate between confusion and fear? If the unknown made her anxious, was there one?

Isabelle was in the middle of a dream where Reimund attacked her — sometimes with a feather duster, sometimes with a knife — when a knock saved her. She lay the pillow she was clutching as a shield to one side. A glance at the clock revealed she had slept until half-past eight, and she flung off the covers. 

She heard Captain Miro’s low voice outside her chaperone’s room. “Mrs. Darling? May I speak with you for a moment?”

Her robe still around her from the night before, Isabelle opened her door to peek. She beat Mrs. Darling by a nanosecond.

The woman looked as rumpled as her charge when she appeared, the dark circles under her eyes hollowing her plump features. “Yes?”

(Less playful villains had haunted the chaperone’s dreams.)

“Mrs. Darling, if you wouldn’t mind joining me in my office, I’d like a word.” He diverted his gaze down the hall. “Er…you may, of course, make yourself presentable first.”

Heedless of propriety, she swung the door wide. “We will be with you in a moment.”

“That’s quite all right, Isabelle. I prefer to speak to Mrs. Darling alone.”

(He wondered if he could keep the child separate from her chaperone. No. It was too much to hope the lady could temper her behavior, but the unjustified interference would only provoke Isabelle to greater mischief.) 

Mrs. Darling forestalled Isabelle’s protest. To the captain, she said, “Please give me a moment.” She closed her door.

Isabelle glared at Miro, but he refused to meet her expression as he studied the wood-paneled ceiling with great concentration. “Coward,” she whispered.

He rumbled and sighed before dropping his dark eyes to hers. “I promise to return her in one piece.” 

A bark of laughter yanked her attention down the hall. Reimund grinned at the sight of her dressing gown. She lifted her chin and ignored him as she withdrew.

Isabelle opened the connecting door without ceremony. Mrs. Darling startled, falling back on the bed, her front-lacing corset still undone over her chemise. “Isabelle!”

“Sorry. Will you be all right?”

Mrs. Darling dipped her head yes. “I think it’s better to know what he wants.” 

Isabelle conceded the point. She dressed as she waited for her chaperone to return, hovering by her jewelry box to stroke the many charms and attachments, even those she never wore. The oldest pieces — the brushes designed to sweep desert sand off antiquities, the cracked watch case, the small silver scissors — belonged to her mother. So had the large pendant, though Isabelle replaced the chain years ago. 

She wondered if Lady Huxley understood the folly of their final expedition. Her parents knew enough to refuse her request to accompany them, and her mother gave her the chatelaine the day before they left. At seven, Isabelle loved to play with her mother’s tools.

A voice blared from the overhead box. “Ladies and gentlemen,” it intoned. “Because of the unfortunate demise of Mr. Julius Beechcraft, we won’t proceed to Constantinople as scheduled. Instead, we shall alight in Venice, halfway to our final destination.”

Tess had warned Isabelle of the changing flight plan the day before, but other passengers exclaimed at the news, their voices echoing in the hallways.

“The company will reimburse you for your fares or find you passage on another ship to Constantinople. We apologize for the disarrangement of your traveling schedule. When our porters come by to speak to you each, please, tell them which you prefer to allow for smooth disembarkation.”

The announcement over, a hummingbird tapping, light but frantic, sounded at the door. Isabelle opened it to find an ashen Mrs. Darling and stepped to one side. The woman stumbled into the room and collapsed to sit on the bed.

“What happened?”

“The captain never said so, but I think he believes I killed Beechcraft.” Mrs. Darling’s breath raced toward hyperventilation. “He wanted to know about my husband’s dealings with the man.”

Isabelle frowned. How had he learned of the connection? The woman had gone to great lengths to conceal her history, even changing her name to avoid its taint.

“Captain Miro understands good motives don’t always make good murderers.”

“Perhaps.” She sounded dubious. “He warned me that the Venetians will most likely hold me while they sort out the affair.” Her fingers dug into the down coverlet on either side of her lap. “I don’t know what to do.”

If Mrs. Darling killed Julius Beechcraft, she’d missed her calling. Her performance of the overwhelmed innocent was more convincing than anything on the West End stages.

Feeling unequal to the situation, Isabelle channeled Pippa. “My dearest friend tells me no one should tackle problems before breakfast. Let’s start there.”

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

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