Before we dive in, I’d like to introduce you to the referral program. Tell your friends about Murder on the Aerial Express, and get them to sign up with your unique referral link. You’ll earn fun extras, including an exclusive short story flipbook featuring Isabelle and Pippa. You can even get a free upgrade to a premium subscription.
On to the main event!
Julius Beechcraft had been murdered. His body lay in bed, but there was no mistaking the pose for peaceful sleep.
While most of Isabelle’s mind screamed wordlessly, part of it marveled at the human heart’s determination, which pumped hard near the end, splattering the man’s surroundings.
A magnetic horror pulled her into the victim’s cabin. Everything about the suite was excessive and expensive, from the private bar stocked with showy bottles of liquor to the oversized furniture to the plush fabrics that softened her footfalls. Only part of Beechcraft’s lodgings was displayed, the parlor and the open bedroom to one side. Connecting doors hinted at a lavish sprawl of other rooms with distinct purposes, a complete enclave within the ship.
Isabelle reached the main seating area, a leather sofa and chairs around a carved coffee table, and the perspective let her see more of the body. There were also two living people present, but she ignored them.
Isabelle reminded herself that Julius Beechcraft was unpleasant, even nasty. After the tragedy at Rosefield, he’d let his chief engineer, Alastair Dunlap, shoulder most of the blame before purging him from the company. But everyone knew whose greed drove Dunlap’s shortcuts. It didn’t help Beechcraft’s reputation when his daughter resigned in the aftermath, heartsick and (some said) guilt-sick.
If the industrialist showed repentance or grief, it might have dulled the public outrage. But his published comments treated England’s lost sons — and a few daughters — as lost machinery, equivalent to the property destroyed in the explosion. He’d only discharged Dunlap when pressured by his peers. He could ignore the massed voices, but upper-class disapproval threatened his bottom line.
Beechcraft’s power was gone. His torn body was vulnerable, and his eyes were empty, not cruel.
Isabelle’s stomach turned. She’d seen other corpses. When she was a child, one of the Huxleys’ local employees fell into a hidden cavern. One moment, he was marking an irregularity on his crude map — the next, falling through the desert floor.
She’d never seen the aftermath of a murder. Was it only fancy that differentiated the two? The bodies were equally broken.
Isabelle instructed herself not to be feeble. She forced her brain to process the facts of the scene rather than its stories, cataloging its contents.
The body of Julius Beechcraft. His bedsheets and torso rent by something sharp. Evidently killed between last night’s dinner and this morning.
His bedding. Torn, tangled, and stiff with blood.
His finger. Separated from his body by at least a foot of bloody cloth. Thoroughly disgusting and a reason to regret her keen eyesight.
A maid. Dressed in the uniform worn by the Aerial Express’s employees. Crouched against the wall. Whimpering. Breath erratic.
A man. The one she’d seen outside the suite’s connecting room last night. Dressed neither in uniform nor in the expensive attire of a first-class passenger. Silent and gaping. An open door behind him led into a tiny bedroom.
A tray of coffee and toast. Set haphazardly on a small breakfast table. All the tray’s items disarranged. Coffee spilled.
Blood. Sprayed from the dying body. Brown where it had dried. Some deep spots of red present near/on the man. Drips and smudges tracked to the back of the room and the entrance.
Isabelle looked for a weapon but didn’t see one. A sound behind her sent her whirling back to face the door. Mrs. Darling sagged against the door frame.
One semi-hysterical chaperone.
The shriek yanked Beechcraft’s man from his stupor. Mrs. Darling dragged her eyes from the corpse to meet his. They stared at one another. The moment lingered as the two held their gaze.
The maid hiccuped.
Mrs. Darling broke from her trance and drew in a deep breath. “Isabelle, this is no place for you — for either of us. We should retreat to our quarters.”
“Shouldn’t we inform Captain Miro?”
Before the chaperone could answer, the maid hiccuped again, rising from her crouch. She stared at Mrs. Darling — no, at the open door behind her. Mrs. Darling stepped to one side as the maid tensed. The exit clear, she fled the room. Cries and footsteps filled the corridor.
A touch of humor leavened Mrs. Darling’s voice. “I imagine everyone aboard the ship will know about the matter in moments.” She nodded toward the door. “My chief concern is your welfare.”
There was nothing she could do here, and the panicked part of Isabelle’s brain reasserted itself. She controlled the impulse to run, trying for a dignified retreat.
“Wait.”
Isabelle halted and glanced over her shoulder at the man, but he wasn’t speaking to her.
He stepped forward with his arm outstretched. The movement brought him even with the coffee table, and Isabelle saw a piece of paper spread against the walnut wood.
An old, faded newspaper clipping. All but the last word of its title — “Edgemonton” — concealed under a leather paperweight.
Behind her, Mrs. Darling shied from the approaching man.
“My god, Lynette. You can’t possibly…” Whether or not she could, he couldn’t put words to the thought. His extended arm dropped, hitting his leg with a soft clap.
Mrs. Darling — Lynette? — winced. “I don’t…not now.” She again gestured for Isabelle to exit.
Now reluctant, she walked through the door, continuing to stare backward at the gentleman. The last image she saw before her chaperone nudged her through the frame was the man registering the newspaper. He went still before bursting into motion to shove the paperweight aside and scoop up the periodical.
Most of the cabin doors were open when they returned to the corridor. The commotion drew the passengers to the edges of their rooms, where they yelled excited questions at one another.
Reimund Fitzwilliam stepped into the hall. He didn’t notice Isabelle’s presence. If he had, he might have concealed the savage glee in his eyes.
Isabelle fell into a chair by her desk. Mrs. Darling pulled the chain to summon a porter, then took the other seat. They waited in silence. Isabelle didn’t want to start a conversation destined to be interrupted, and Mrs. Darling seemed barely aware of her company.
When the man arrived, his underreaction to news of the murder proved the story had spread.
He expressed sympathy for their ordeal and inquired if they would like breakfast brought to them. “I expect the captain will wish to speak to you.”
“Is that necessary?” Mrs. Darling’s fingers created pleats where they dug into her skirts.
He nodded and repeated his request for breakfast orders. Isabelle asked for shakshouka, Mrs. Darling for bread and fruit.
After he left, Isabelle licked her lips. Before she could ask about the strange moment between her and Beechcraft’s employee, Mrs. Darling said, “I’d like to lie down for a few minutes, but I don’t want to abandon you, Isabelle. Is there any chance you, too, need to rest?” She smiled, the expression wobbly. “Such a shock might tire even the strongest young lady.”
Isabelle studied her pale face. She wanted to press for answers now, but Mrs. Darling swayed as if she might not survive an interrogation. If the woman had fled, she could have bullied her way forward. The genuine concern undid her.
Rust all inconvenient dramas, cryptic exchanges, and bothersome sympathy.
Isabelle could wait until after breakfast. “I wouldn’t mind a moment to compose myself.”
(Thoughts tumbled round her brain like maddened acrobats, but Mrs. Darling recognized Isabelle’s white lie as consideration. It endeared her, adding to her emotional turmoil.)
The older woman disappeared into the neighboring compartment, and Isabelle stared out the glass, her skin clammy. She could make out distant aircraft and tiny ships below, brown and white blobs cutting across the infinite blue of waves and sky. They seemed fragile, brave.
Her faint reflection in the window overlaid the scene — brunette curls, pointy features, and bare green tunic. She still needed to don her chatelaine for the day and rubbed her chest.
Isabelle rose and removed her jewelry case from the wardrobe. Her fingers roamed the contents, some ornamental, some functional, some well-worn, some seldom taken from their velvet home. Most of the pieces were attachments, but not all. The box also cradled ear bobs from Sir Edward that she wore to flatter her guardian when requesting a favor, her father’s silver tie pin with the Turkish eye, and a pair of gold bangles with black enamel tracery.
She left the watch and knife in their usual spots on her chatelaine. She added a pen and Pippa’s fire-starter before attaching her room key with spare wire.
Thus prepared for the day, Isabelle slid an alchemy notebook out from the stack of papers and books on her desk. She needed to repeat yesterday’s experiment as soon as possible, but her thoughts spiraled as the symbols, numbers, and words swirled together.
She wanted her colleague to succeed — she did — and renewable energy was a worthwhile aim, regardless. But ambition and its selfish desires intruded. Oddly enough, the puzzles of murder and her strange chaperone felt cleaner, and she lost herself in idle speculation about both.
A crackle sounded from the odd-looking box on the wall. Isabelle jumped, but it was only the airship’s announcement system. The device was one of Julia Beechcraft’s additions. While with the company, she wasted no time adapting Mr. Bell’s loudspeaker to the needs of a large dirigible.
“Ladies and gentlemen, due to unforeseen circumstances, we must ask you to remain inside your cabins for the next hour. If you have not yet breakfasted, please summon a porter to bring food. We thank you for your cooperation and will inform you when you may resume movement about the ship.”
Another crackle, and the disembodied voice cut out. A new knock and fresh voice replaced it, coming from the corridor. “My lady, it is Captain Miro.”
Isabelle rose and opened the door. If her friend looked tired yesterday, he was now half-dead, parts of his skin gone to ash. He mustered enough energy to glare at her. “I hear you barged into Beechcraft’s suite.”
“I didn’t know someone had murdered him. Come in.”
He started to, but hesitated. “Should Mrs. Darling join us?”
Resentment spiked in her blood. Captain Miro was an old friend, family even. It was Mrs. Darling’s existence that created any air of impropriety. If one had a chaperone, then surely one should be chaperoned.
Isabelle crossed her arms. “No.”
He squinted at her and sighed, using the doorstop to keep the door open a sliver. He fell into the other chair. “All right, Isabelle. Tell me everything.”
She recounted the events of the past hour, listing the details she had noticed in Beechcraft’s suite. Thinking she’d earned a little reciprocation, she asked, “Has Dr. Chakraborty seen him yet?”
Miro nodded. “He examined the body. He could tell us nothing except that the murderer removed Beechcraft’s finger before death.” A glance at Isabelle, and he changed the subject. “Then he reminded us to leave the ill passenger alone. Apparently, they have the worst case of airsickness he’s seen.”
Isabelle’s lip curled. The motion of airships never disturbed her stomach, but she loathed vomiting almost as much as she hated crying in public. And that wasn’t the most disgusting part of the conversation. “I saw the finger. Why would someone cut it off?”
Miro avoided her gaze. “Who knows?”
“Torture?”
He conceded. “Probably.”
“Who discovered Beechcraft?”
“The maid. He had a standing order to have breakfast set before he woke. You saw no signs of anyone other than her and the secretary?”
“No.” Isabelle paused — a little dramatically, but she forgave herself the indulgence. It had been a dramatic day. “But speaking of the man, I think my chaperone knows Beechcraft’s secretary.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Why?”
“He called her by her Christian name.” There had also been a heaviness stretching between them, an invisible weight of history and awareness.
Miro glanced toward the other room. “Interesting.”
“I thought so.”
“Anything else I should know?”
Nothing Isabelle could add. “What were you arguing about with Beechcraft?” She didn’t allow him to lie about quarreling. “I overheard you yelling, but I couldn’t make out most of the words.”
“Corrosion.” Miro sagged in the chair and rubbed a rough hand over his eyes. “I wonder who else witnessed the conversation.”
She traced the scar stretching around the knuckle of her left pinkie. She’d gotten that one at eight years old, an acid burn from an experiment involving hydrochloride. “You can trust me.”
“It isn’t…” He trailed off and gave in. “Beechcraft learned about a new employee onboard and objected. I told him his own daughter asked me to give the man a place, but that only made him angrier.”
“Did he insist you get rid of the person?” There was a slight shuffle from the corridor, and they both glanced at the open door.
“More than that. He meant to send us both packing when we reached Constantinople.”
“Corrosion.” The timing was terrible.
Miro sagged. One of his enormous hands went to his forehead, fingers spreading to massage both eyebrows. “The authorities will never believe I didn’t kill him.”
“But you didn’t.” Isabelle could imagine Miro killing someone in a fair fight, but creeping into a sleeping man’s room and stabbing him? No.
“It won’t matter.”
“Because of your race?” The subject made her timid, but honest was more important than delicate.
Miro dropped his coal-black hands into his lap and studied them. “It doesn’t help the situation.”
(When Captain Miro was a young man — and captain of nothing, not even himself most days — he left his native Spain to see the world. The corollary was that the world saw him. Too pragmatic to deal in hypotheticals and too loyal to regret his heritage, he never complained. But every so often, in a private corner of his soul, he grew wistful. What would it be like to pass through life with the same rusty invisibility he saw — so to speak — all around him?)
He snorted. “I also had the key to all the rooms. And a motive. It’s an easy tale to construct, don’t you think? Beechcraft dismissed his captain, and the disgruntled employee took revenge on his boss.”
Isabelle shifted in her chair. “I won’t tell anyone about the argument.” As his spine stiffened, she regretted the offer.
“Oh, yes, you will. You will not lie to the constables.” He gentled his voice. “Isabelle, I refuse for you to get any more tangled up in this affair. Be good. For me, if not yourself. Between this morning’s events and the weather, I have enough worries.” “Understood?”
He held her gaze until she nodded. She did understand. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t help if an opportunity presented itself.
Miro rose. “Besides, other people know of our disagreement.” He lingered in the doorway, scanning the hall, before turning back to her. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve had quite a scare.”
She waved a dismissive hand at the subject of her well-being. “You aren’t the only person with reason to dislike Beechcraft. He made a lot of enemies. We had a hard time getting to the Aerial Express to board — there were so many protesters about.” Could one of them sneak onto the ship? Isabelle didn’t raise the possibility. She doubted the captain would dismiss a breach of security.
“That’s true. Many hated the man.” He brushed the doorstop to one side with his foot. “Now, I need to speak with your chaperone. You forget about all this. Work on your studies.”
Isabelle experienced a rare impulse to hug the captain, but he was gone before she could stand. Her door shut, and she heard him knock at Mrs. Darling’s cabin.
She considered following his instructions. Maybe she would have, if not under a cloud of academic envy and frustration. Instead, she sidled over to the connecting door. She dropped to her knees and pressed her ear to the keyhole.
The captain apologized for disturbing the chaperone after the morning’s ordeal. He wasted little time getting to the point.
Mrs. Darling’s responses were polite but cautious. She confirmed Isabelle’s story about hearing a commotion and following the noise to Beechcraft’s room.
“I gather you and Beechcraft’s secretary — what is his name? — know each other.”
A pause. “I’m not surprised Isabelle noticed that. His name is Paul Notti. Yes, we grew up together. I was surprised to run into him yesterday.”
“It’s always nice to meet an old friend.”
Mrs. Darling agreed it was.
(Inwardly, she thought how inconvenient long-standing connections could be.)
“You haven’t seen him more recently? Do you no longer live close?”
“To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Notti still lives in Edgemonton, where Beechcraft has — had — his estate. I reside in London with my employer. She graciously relinquished my companionship so I may shepherd Lady Isabelle to Constantinople.”
Edgemonton. Isabelle suppressed a startled noise at the name of the town from the faded newspaper clipping.
“Yes, how did you learn Sir Edward was looking for an escort?”
“What do you mean? Someone from Beechcraft Enterprises contacted me.”
The silence stretched, and Isabelle wished she could see their expressions.
A tap at the other door to her room stopped her breath. She rose and walked across her room, steps light, to answer it.
The same porter from before smiled at her over a covered tray.
Her breakfast had arrived.
Just a reminder. You can upgrade your subscription for 40% off through the end of May! That’s only $11.99 for more than twenty weeks of a visually engaging, interactive digital reading experience.
Or take the plunge and join me in first class.
See you next week!
For personal use only:
