Chapter Thirteen

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Isabelle and Reimund go for a walk, running into Mrs. Jones and the ship’s doctor who are coming out of a second-class cabin with an ill passenger. When out on the deck, they exchange confidences. Reimund asserts that Heinrich is a good man who saved him as a boy (intervening with a harsh father). In return, Isabelle tells him about Mrs. Darling’s past, the planted evidence, and the late night visitors to Beechcraft’s room the night before.

Suddenly, she recognizes a passenger on the lower deck. His hair glints with the same distinct charms she spied through Beechcraft’s window in the moonlight. Reimund is stunned. He knows the man’s identity. The stranger is Hugo Black, and (per Reimund), the Black family has a very good motive for wanting Beechcraft dead.

Isabelle stared down at the man’s back. The stranger mirrored their position, gazing over the railing from the second-class deck. He seemed tense, but that meant nothing. This had not been a relaxing voyage. The longer she looked, the more certain she grew. This was the man she’d seen in the group searching Beechcraft’s room, his hair’s silver charms distinguishing him from the other shadowy figures.

“Hugo Black…” She couldn’t place the name. “Who is he?”

Reimund’s eyes rounded, his face turning boyish with excitement. He gestured toward the gentleman.

Her gaze flicked heavenward. “Thank you, I gathered that much. Are you acquainted with him? Why would he kill Julius Beechcraft?”

“He was the ringmaster and leader of the Black family circus.”

Isabelle had heard of the famous act. When Hugo and his wife Marie arrived in London, they’d revolutionized the folksy circuses traveling through the countryside. They did away with freak-show spectacles and cheap tricks, replacing them with death-defying stunts. The acrobatic cast became known as the “Black family” — though most weren’t blood relations — and jaded members of society flocked to Covent Garden. They arrived with a sneer and left with their jaws hanging open.

(As a boy of eleven, Reimund deliberately missed his coach in Dublin while traveling to visit his Irish relatives. The Black family had a limited engagement in the city, and he’d secretly saved to buy a seat. Neither his father nor his maternal grandfather thought it wise to risk the child’s moral health with theatricals, not when he might have inherited a susceptibility to their wickedness. After all, his mother was an opera-singer. The Black’s performance had been everything the boy hoped, and the act of defiance helped him hold his head higher. There was something transcendent about the human body — or voice — pushed to its limits.)

Isabelle frowned. “But what’s the Beechcraft connection?”

Despite their isolation, Reimund murmured, forcing her to lean closer. “I don’t know the complete story, but Beechcraft became their patron for the circus’s final years. In the summer, he pulled them out of London and established them in Brighton. Their fame helped him popularize a new travel: packages for families counting their pennies and young professionals with just enough money to take a two-day vacation to the seaside. Everything was included — dirigible or train fare, lodging, and the show.”

The wind gusted, the blast pausing his narration and sending an older couple scurrying inside for warmth. Even Isabelle and Reimund staggered. Feet set wide, only Mr. Black ignored the gale. The surge of air ruffled his hair but left him otherwise untouched. 

When Isabelle disregarded his hopeful glance toward the door, he continued, “The Black family’s problems started when they entered his employ. Beechcraft cared no more for his performers’ safety than for his workers’. The troupe’s conditions were dreadful. His wife Marie fell during one show, shattering her leg, and another member nearly died.”

She realized she’d seen Mr. Black yesterday afternoon as well. He’d been on deck, walking with a petite woman who limped beside him. “How did you learn all this?”

“After the Rosefield crisis, a journalist put out a series about Beechcraft’s abuses. He included their tale.”

“Who was the writer? Was it Mr. Ulysses Aitkin, your shuffleboard partner?”

“Might be.” Reimund studied his hands where they gripped the brass bar. “I didn’t read the piece myself. A London friend mentioned it.”

Isabelle cursed unsympathetic victims, twisty mysteries, and surplus motives. Was she the only person aboard without a vendetta against Julius Beechcraft? What next? Had he shut down Miss Easton’s school? Colonized Mrs. Almeida’s home in Brazil? Killed Mrs. Jones’s husband? 

The weight of their stare hit Hugo Black. He turned, and Isabelle felt an irrational panic he could hear their conversation through the wind’s hum. The distance erased details, but she thought his eyes narrowed. In any event, he ignored his spies in favor of greeting a new arrival.

It was Mr. Notti, and she stifled a gasp. The voyage had wrought a drastic change in his appearance. Her first sight of the secretary had shown a man with physical traits hinting of Mediterranean heritage but a bearing as British as Sunday roast. His lush mustache had crowned a stiff upper lip, and he dressed as if calling attention to oneself were a capital crime.

Now, his facial hair could use a comb, and a sloppily tucked shirt peeked from beneath his waistcoat. His gait was heavy, reluctant even. When he reached Black, he clutched the rail with one hand and leaned back, maximizing the space between their torsos.

Isabelle wished the sky would quiet, letting her listen in on the exchange. Black’s expression was disgusted, his raised arm accusatory. Notti said little in response. At last, Black stormed away, leaving the secretary to stare at the empty clouds, spine bowed.

Reimund’s eyes were troubled. “I wonder what that was about.”

“As do I.” Her chest tightened, and she leaned closer to him. While his presence scratched at her nerves, she also found it comforting.

“Come along.”

Reimund arched a brow but followed. She led him to Tess’s office. 

Isabelle tapped on a window. Her friend looked through a curved scope that extended through the roof of her cabin and let her see in all directions. Tess held up a finger without raising her head, scribbling in her log. When she turned, her expression warmed, growing mischievous as she registered Remand’s presence. 

The navigator grabbed a heavy shawl and exited her booth. “You’ve brought another acquaintance to meet me.” A surge of wind made them tighten their triangle, huddling next to the wall. She scanned Reimund from head to toe. “He doesn’t seem like he’d blush nearly so pretty as Pippa.”

He huffed. “Unfair. My rose-and-cream complexion is the envy of many young ladies.”

“I believe you, but you’re not to my personal taste. So, Isabelle, who is this Adonis?”

He didn’t let her answer and swept into an elaborate bow. “My name is Reimund.” He omitted his surname and connections.

She mirrored the gesture, bending even lower. “Tess.”

Isabelle cleared her throat, needing to take control of the situation. 

“We haven’t forgotten you, my dear debutante.” 

“I’m so glad, René.”

Tess’s eyes gleamed at the exchange. Isabelle wished her own splotchy embarrassment could be described as pretty. “I need a favor.”

The playfulness disappeared into a brisk demeanor. “Does this have anything to do with our conversation last night? Did you speak to your chaperone about the fabric? I know the captain spoke to her this morning.”

“I did, but this isn’t about that. Well, at least not directly. Did Miro really hire Alastair Dunlap?”

Tess sighed, head drooping in a nod. “It was stupid of him. There was no way to keep it secret forever. I don’t care what Miss Beechcraft told him — Dunlap’s presence was always going to cause issues with Beechcraft.”

“I want to talk to him.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

She gaped at her friend. “What? Why?” 

“I won’t help you interrogate that poor man. He’s suffered enough because of Julius Beechcraft, and there will be plenty more awkward questions once we reach Venice.” Tess narrowed her eyes. “The captain told you not to snoop.” 

“I’m worried about him. Mrs. Darling, too, now.” 

Tess’s tight grip on her shawl suggested similar anxiety, but she said, “Between you and the captain, he can better defend himself.”

“Not against slander.”

This was an effective argument. Even if Miro escaped formal accusation, society would seize upon him as a scapegoat. People would also jump at the opportunity to gossip about Mrs. Darling, ruining the life she’d constructed under the name. For the sake of the innocent, they needed to arrive in Venice with a suspect so neatly packaged for the authorities that it prevented whispers altogether. Tess might not fancy Isabelle in the role of detective, but no one else had volunteered.

Tess chewed on her cuticles. She asked Reimund, “You’ll stay with her?” 

“I promise to haul her away if necessary — for either her sake or the engineer’s.”

Isabelle tugged at her necklace. “Why does everyone think I need a chaperone?” 

“Have you considered it could be dangerous to wander around poking at people after a murder?” Tess turned to Reimund. “Keep her out of trouble.”

“I doubt that’s possible, but I promise to dive in after her.”

The smell of oil and hot metal filled the engine room. Enormous brass gears rotated with hypnotic precision, while pipes snaked across the ceiling, hissing steam. Men bustled below them, busy at various tasks, few of which Isabelle could identify.

The crew noticed their odd group, but the loud machinery swallowed their reactions to the trio’s intrusion. Tess knocked on the window of a small room built into the space. A balding man looked up from his desk.

Alastair Dunlap blinked and adjusted his eyeglasses, shoving them up a red nose. The frames had the often-repaired appearance of spectacles that suffered their owner’s abuse on a regular basis. They’d been dropped, sat upon, and left in dusty corners. He indicated the door in permission, and Tess pushed it open. He stood.

Tess spoke from the doorway. “Mr. Dunlap, I have here a couple of mechanical enthusiasts who would like a brief tour of your domain. Is now a good time?” 

The untruth irritated Isabelle, who needed to find a way into her questions. She preferred the direct approach. While she could pick locked doors, locked people were trickier. 

Dunlap gazed at his papers, hesitating. 

Tess added, “Did I mention? This is Lady Isabelle and her friend.”

Robbed of any choice in the matter, he wiped his hands against the sides of his trousers. “It would be my honor.”

“Wonderful. I need to return to my duties, but I trust you will take good care of them.” Tess left with a smile. 

Searching for a way to start the conversation, Isabelle realized Pippa had given her a genuine excuse to talk to the engineer. “Mr. Dunlap, my closest friend, is a budding inventor. She insisted I find an opportunity to look at the new dirigible engine.”

The engineer’s rabbitlike face relaxed. “Certainly, my lady.” His long acquaintance with Julia Beechcraft had inured him to the idea of female scientists.

Reimund made a ridiculous, fluttery motion with his fingers. “You must promise to use words of one syllable.”

“Of course, sir. Please tell me if I lose you.” Dunlap pointed toward the corner of the room, which held the boiler, and they traipsed after him. 

The engineer’s explanation ranged from condescending — “when you add heat to water, it creates steam, just like a teakettle!” — to hyper-technical — “we adjusted the algorithm governing the stabilizers to account for h altitude and its relative wind velocity v.”

He indicated a series of dials and levers. “Miss Beechcraft’s latest design makes better use of precision maneuvering to leverage air currents and reduce the burden on the engine. We can now travel longer distances with larger loads.”

“Like a sailboat,” Reimund said. 

The engineer beamed approval. “Very good.”

“But is it safe to cede control to the wind at these heights?”

“Don’t worry, sir. The ship’s redundancy measures ensure smooth passage. Even if the external stabilizers went haywire, we could manage the situation from in there.” He pointed to a second internal room. Unlike the engineer’s office with its large windows, the compartment’s metal walls were solid.

“Could we peek inside?”

“I’m sorry, no. In fact, few crew members may enter. Only the captain and I have the keys.” He shifted his weight. “Did you have questions about the mechanics?”

Isabelle raised a finger, pantomiming a sudden thought. “Dunlap…I’ve heard that name.”

Reimund rolled his eyes behind the engineer’s back. 

“You’re the engineer who made all those headlines over the Rosefield incident, aren’t you?”

Alastair Dunlap stopped breathing. He still reminded Isabelle of a frightened rabbit, but a feral quality entered his demeanor. 

Reimund lifted his hands and said, “Forgive us. We spoke to Ulysses Aitkin, another passenger. He insists you were blameless in the tragedy.”

The engineer relaxed enough to exhale, a hard whoosh.

Isabelle took up the theme. “In fact, Mr. Aitkin believes you’re responsible for his fare, that you invited him aboard.”

“I…what?”

Isabelle shrugged. “He suggested you might want to clear your name. You know he’s sympathetic. Maybe you thought he could convince Beechcraft to take some responsibility.”

“I’m not sure which is more preposterous — that I have the funds to gamble on such a long shot or that I’m naïve enough to think such a plan would work.”

“It wasn’t you?”

“No...”

Isabelle distrusted his visible hesitation. It mirrored her own “sudden inspiration.” 

“I did not provide for Aitkin’s presence, but I may know who did.”

“Who?”

“Miss Julia Beechcraft believed her father blamed me for his mismanagement. She helped me attain this job. I doubt she’d expect any dramatic confession, but everyone knew Mr. Aitkin desired a personal interview. She may have taken the initiative, even if the chance was long.” 

“Why not sign her name to the note?” Isabelle asked. 

“I don’t know that she sent it! But she could want to conceal her role from Beechcraft.” Mr. Dunlap frowned. “Or perhaps the man’s secretary, Mr. Notti, issued the invitation. I’m not sure why he’d take an interest, but he maneuvered another person on board this voyage. He procured a position for her: chaperone to a young lady passenger.”

Reimund and Isabelle exchanged a look.

When asked, Mrs. Darling claimed the job offer came from Beechcraft Express, the transportation subsidiary of Beechcraft Enterprises. She was surprised to find the pair — her old nemesis and old friend — here in the clouds. If Dunlap spoke the truth, either she’d fibbed or Notti had manipulated her from the shadows. To provide a convenient suspect?

This time, the engineer’s pause was sly. “I suppose that must be you, my lady.”

“Why would Mr. Notti arrange the woman’s employment?”

“Well…” He spread his hands. “The two are sweethearts.”

“You seem well informed.” Too well informed. Maybe they all lied.

“I was one of Beechcraft’s most trusted employees for years. I used to consider Mr. Notti a friend.” He leaned away from them as if caught by the magnetic pull of his office.

There was no clean segue to her final question. “Where were you the night before last, when the murderer killed Beechcraft?”

Reimund choked on air while Dunlap withdrew with a haughty sniff. “I was right here, my lady. If the captain doesn’t believe me, he may check the logs.” 

He left unsaid that she had no such rights or authority. His low bow put a period on the conversation. As they exited, he scurried back to his office. 

Isabelle wondered if Mr. Notti was part of the group searching Beechcraft’s rooms last night. The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Unless the man slept like the proverbial dead, it strained credibility to believe that he snored through, first, his employer’s murder and, second, the activities of people prowling outside his door. Both woke her, and she was farther from the action.

Reimund said, “I need to return to the atrium.”

It took Isabelle a moment to remember the ongoing shuffleboard tournament. It seemed banal beside the ship’s deadlier games. “Yes, you don’t want to miss your next match.”

“Can I trust you to head to your quarters? Or are you off to accuse someone else of murder? I wouldn’t suggest confronting Hugo Black. The man could crush you with one hand.” 

Isabelle returned a level gaze. “I don’t intend to do any such thing. Not that you have a say in the matter.” 

She needed to speak to her chaperone again.

She entered her room and rapped on the connection. There were the sounds of a scuffle. Isabelle twisted the doorknob. It was unlocked. Mrs. Darling had grown lax since discovering her charge’s more criminal talents. 

She flung the door wide to see Mr. Notti in position to strangle Mrs. Darling, hands on either side of her neck.

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

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