Chapter Seventeen

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

After Isabelle enters the owner’s suite to find Mrs. Jones and Notti, Hugo Black knocks her out with ether. Upon her recovery, she discovers Mrs. Jones and a stranger who is introduced as Miss Turner. The ladies assert that they wished to join Mr. Notti for a nightcap, but he had killed himself when they arrived, leaving behind a brief suicide note that read only “I’m sorry.”

Throughout the encounter, Mrs. Jones acts peculiarly, and her American accent is gone. As for Miss Turner, Isabelle recognizes her at the end of the chapter. It is Julia Beechcraft, the daughter and heir of the murder victim, in disguise.

Note: In Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express, Poirot makes notes about the ensemble. Isabelle does the same in chapter seventeen — partly because of the serial publication style. I will also post her notes separately for anyone who needs a refresher on who’s who.

Julia Beechcraft, the daughter of Julius Beechcraft, was here. Julia, the presumed heir of the murder victim, was on board the flying crime scene. 

Storm clouds smothered starlight and moonbeams before they reached the airship, and shadows smudged the heiress-inventor’s features, making them more like the face in Pippa’s newspaper lithograph. Though physically present, Julia looked faded and ink-blotched.  

Mrs. Jones laughed, her amusement tired but real. “Oh, come, Julia. You would need to identify yourself once we reached Venice. It’s time to stop hiding in your room.”

The confirmation came through gritted teeth. “Fine. Yes, I am Julia Beechcraft.” She brought her hands together in a sarcastic clap. “Well done.”

Isabelle asked, “Why the deception? Why travel under an assumed name? This is your family’s dirigible line.”

“My father and I were estranged.”

“To the point where Beechcraft Express would deny you passage?” She shifted weight onto one foot, fists rising to her hips.

Julia sighed. “No.” She collapsed back into her chair. “You must understand. My father and I…we were close once. Nobody expected the wifeless man to adopt a baby, but an acquaintance told him about a young lady’s difficulties.” 

The word difficulties twisted Julia’s mouth. It would be difficult to think of oneself as a difficulty.

“My father wanted an heir. He’d hoped the baby would be a boy, but for all his faults, he didn’t let the disappointment of a girl put him off the adoption. He was a very lonely man. As a child, I worshipped him, and he delighted in me. He treated me as he would a son who wore dresses.”

(Julia pushed against the tide of memory, resenting the predicament that kept her from mourning. She couldn’t dive into the past while drowning in the present.)  

She went on. “As I grew, I developed a scientific bent. Mechanics interested me more than business, which saddened him. Still, he decided my passion could be useful to the company.”

“But you left Beechcraft Enterprises.”

“Yes, we’d been fighting over the management of his empire for some time. He welcomed my technological innovations but refused to try any of the reforms I envisioned. He called me naïve and idealistic. I called him greedy and cruel. Rosefield was the last straw.” 

Julia turned to where Mrs. Jones sat, but the lady didn’t react.

“I couldn’t stay after that, and he took my ‘betrayal’ poorly.”

“So you hold your father responsible for the disaster.” At the woman’s nod, Isabelle asked, “Is that why you helped Alastair Dunlap find a position on this ship?” 

Julia cocked her head. “How did you —” She cut herself off with a swipe of her hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter. Yes. I worked side by side with Alastair for years and looked up to him as my mentor before that. I’m also fond of his wife and…” Her voice broke. “They’ve experienced enough misfortune for several lifetimes. He needed a job, so I found one.” 

“And he could help conceal your presence onboard.”

“As did Paul and Dr. Chakraborty.” Julia noticed the wrinkle that flickered across Isabelle’s forehead. “Chakraborty used to be our family doctor before taking a position with the dirigible line. He’s a kind man and sympathetic to my desire to avoid my father. He put it about that the occupant of my room suffered from airsickness and should not be disturbed.”

“Why not take a different ship if you wished to sidestep an awkward encounter?”

A shrug. “This was the most convenient passage.”

Isabelle sensed the futility of pushing for a less evasive answer. Instead, she said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and hated herself — just a little — for the formulaic phrase. She wondered how many times she’d heard it after the Huxley’s deaths.

Julia rose, using both armrests for support, and stepped forward. “Now, as you suggested, I should announce myself to the crew. And tell the captain of Paul’s death.” She trooped past Isabelle and out the door.

After the exit of her…friend?…Mrs. Jones took pity on the girl. “If you like, you may ask me your questions, my lady.” She sat straighter in her chair.

Isabelle dropped back onto the sofa. “Who are you? Why this…pretense?”

In perfect Queen’s English, she said, “I am Margaret Hampton.” She paused as if waiting for recognition. When it didn’t come, her mouth pursed in self-mockery. “At one point, I was quite a celebrated actress, but I suppose you would have been an infant. In my heyday, I came into contact with Julius Beechcraft several times. He did business with a patron of mine, my daughter’s father, and we met enough that I thought it best to disguise myself.” Again, the deprecating quirk of the lips. “Age has changed me from the woman he knew, but I added to the alteration. I created Mrs. Jones, the silly American.”

Isabelle pinched the bridge of her nose. “You said that your daughter died in the Rosefield explosion?”

“Yes.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hampton repeated. “To my relief, my girl never wanted to follow in my footsteps. Her father paid for an education at one of those new schools that teach clerical skills to young women. He also helped my Annie find a position at the Rosefield factory.”

“I thought the blast contained to a section of the floor. I never heard of office workers being harmed.”

“Annie should have been safe, but I’ve learned that chance is a nasty tart. It often betrays should have been. My daughter wasn’t in her office at the time of the explosion. I assume she was visiting Thomas, the foreman courting her. The explosion killed both of them.”

Isabelle felt sensitive to names this evening. “Thomas Jones?” 

“The same.”

Jones was Ulysses Aitkin’s friend, the person trying to organize Beechcraft’s laborers despite his position in management.

Mrs. Hampton continued her story. “After Rosefield, I needed more than a public protest or some legal slap on the wrist. Instead, my anger led me to search out others with reason to despise the man. I remembered my old friends from the London theater scene, Hugo and Marie Black, who would commiserate with me.”

“But you didn’t stop with mutual sympathy.”

“No.” She snorted. “And if Julius Beechcraft had died months rather than days ago, I’d consider myself the most likely candidate for his murder. I won’t deny I wanted the man dead.”

Isabelle fiddled with her necklace, flipping the lid of Pippa’s lighter open and closed with a snap. She returned her hands to her lap. “What changed?”

“The Blacks suggested we approach Julia. They knew her well from their time in Beechcraft’s employment. I would bet that Marie introduced us to save me from the gallows. It’s harder to kill a person when you like his daughter, even if the filial relationship is complicated.”

“What happened then?”

“Julia wanted to remove her father from his position at the head of Beechcraft Enterprises. She felt it a moral obligation. Our meeting prompted her to take action, and she involved the rest of us in her scheme.” Mrs. Hampton snorted. “For all the good it did. Months of planning only for the man to die the night before.” 

“What scheme? What did you intend?”

The actress’s bosom swelled with a breath. She leaned forward, and Isabelle instinctively mirrored the position. 

The door to the suite swung wide. The corridor’s light backlit Captain Miro, and his jaw dropped in stunned anger at Isabelle’s presence. She winced.

Mindful of their company, the captain constrained himself, glowering at Isabelle before focusing on the body near his feet. The sight of the dead secretary deflated him. Sad confusion took the place of indignation. Isabelle’s oldest friend looked old. She realized she didn’t know his age or birthday. That was wrong. She should ask him. At another time.

Mrs. Hampton stood. “Captain.” 

Isabelle couldn’t tell whether Miro noticed the crisp airiness of “Mrs. Jones’s” voice, the absence of the flat American a’s.

He said, “Miss Julia told me you and she found him like this.” 

“Indeed.” Mrs. Hampton repeated the story of the two ladies seeking Mr. Notti for an evening drink, pushing through open doors, and discovering his death. 

Captain Miro floundered in this Wonderland madness. His mustache quivered as he opened and closed his mouth, trying to order his questions. He tackled the easiest first, returning his attention to Isabelle. “And you? How did you come to be involved?” 

“I wanted to inform Mr. Notti of Miss Darling’s predicament. The two are... were... close. When I came here, the door was ajar.”

“And you let yourself in?” 

“No! It fell open when I tapped on it.”

“I see. Very well, Isabelle, but your participation ends here. I suppose you will need to tell Mrs. Darling of her friend’s death. Tomorrow, not tonight. Please return to your cabin.”

Isabelle rose — in protest, not obedience — but Captain Miro pinned her with his stare. His command affected her less than the plea in his eyes. She straightened her skirts and exited, avoiding Mr. Notti in measured, respectful steps.

Isabelle rested her elbows on the desk and stared out her window. The washer’s walkway would be slick tonight. Even so, she considered crawling onto it to spy on the action next door. But too many people bustled about the scene, all on high alert. 

Instead, she opened a drawer and removed several pieces of stationery embossed with the Beechcraft emblem. Her brain refused to keep her thoughts in order, so she’d have to rely on paper. 

Isabelle sketched three columns, heading them: Name, Connections, Curiosities. 

First, she wrote the name Paul Notti in careful strokes. Her pen lingered too long on the final ‘i’ dot, and it bloomed to the size of another letter. After that, her hand flew across the page, moving up and down as she backtracked to add details she overlooked in the initial pass. The side of her pinky turned inky blue. At last, she stopped, pen hovering inches from the paper, out of ideas — at least for now. She laid the utensil to one side and read her notes.

Isabelle slumped back in the chair as a wave of claustrophobia washed over her. The huge Aerial Express felt too small this evening.

Not even bothering to brush her teeth, she slipped out of her clothes and curled up in bed. Her mind took pity on her and dissolved into dreamless nothing.

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

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