Chapter Twelve

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Isabelle watches Reimund play shuffleboard with the journalist Ulysses Aitkin. Their opponents are a pair of older women. Afterward, Isabelle interrogates Aitkin and discovers several important things:

Aitkin spotted Alastair Dunlap — the Rosefield engineer blamed for the tragedy — aboard. He was wearing the ship’s livery, suggesting he is now employed by the Aerial Express.

They said goodbye to the others, Reimund assuring his partner he would watch the clock. 

Mrs. Almeida beamed at them. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Miss Easton opened her mouth, but Reimund spoke first. He wiggled his eyebrows and moved his index finger between the two women. “No flirting now.”

The retired schoolmarm turned red while her companion chuckled. He placed Isabelle’s hand on his elbow. With a wink at the ladies, he gestured with his other arm. “Lead the way.” 

They weaved through the shuffleboard onlookers. The baron paused his conversation with a weatherbeaten stranger to smile at them, but Mrs. Darling no longer accompanied him. Isabelle wondered if they were already eliminated.

She led Reimund off the balcony and into a nearby corridor of second-class compartments.

Mrs. Jones emerged from one, holding a silver tray of empty dishes as if she were a maid. The remnants of more than one meal balanced atop the platter — a bowl cradled cups, perching on a stack of plates and saucers.  

“Mrs. Jones?” Reimund’s voice. 

The American stumbled, giving everyone an exciting moment as the china rocked, debating whether to fall to the floor. (The cups were in favor of travel, but the plates kept them in check.) She looked their way and broke into a warm smile. “Why, if it isn’t my two young friends. Don’t tell me you’ve already lost your matches. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t win the whole thing.”

“Our studious empress is too serious to waste her time. She forced me to find another partner.”

They stopped a few feet from the open door. Dr. Chakraborty peered around the American obstruction from within the cabin. His eyebrows raised at the sight of Isabelle. When Mrs. Jones sailed out of the room, he shuffled along in her wake. 

“Do you know the good doctor? My poor hands were acting up, and I visited the infirmary for a salve to help with the inflammation. When he mentioned an ailing passenger, I insisted on sharing my late husband’s secret recipe for ginger tea. Never have you met a man with such a weak stomach. It was a trial to accompany him in a carriage, and boats were out of the question. He called on a number of specialists, and a petite gentleman from China suggested ginger tea with a dash of pepper.” Mrs. Jones turned to face the wall, deftly shifting the tray to keep its contents in place as she lowered it beside the door. “I’ll leave that for the staff to handle.” 

Dr. Chakraborty looked at Isabelle as if manners prevented him from conveying his dubious appreciation for Mrs. Jones’s aid.

“Now, doctor, let us discuss quinsy. Do you combine lemon with your castor oil? I’ve never tried the remedy myself — I’m blessedly hale — but I hear it works wonders.” She gave a jaunty wave, tugging Dr. Chakraborty in the opposite direction via a tight grip at his elbow. As the distance increased, her voice faded until they could no longer hear her monologue about Mr. Jones’s various ailments.

Isabelle and Reimund walked outside. The weather was shivery, and clouds hung like saturated sponges, leaking over their heads. 

“Poor Dr. Chakraborty.” Isabelle wished she could have reassured him that Mrs. Jones was harmless. Interfering, yes, but well-intentioned.

“Our American friend is a force.” Reimund caressed the damp handrail with a leisurely gesture. 

The two weren’t the only individuals to promenade. Several strollers shuddered on the lower deck. Either the spitting sky acted as a dour filter, or circumstances had turned the passengers sullen. One lady spoke to her companion and received a snapping reply that made her rear back like a startled horse. 

Reimund asked, “What did the captain speak to your chaperone about this morning?” 

Isabelle hadn’t considered that he might wish to interrogate her. She thought about stonewalling, but the secrets she knew were beyond keeping. Miro was aware of Mrs. Darling’s past. Besides, she intended to get his perspective on the dirigible’s inhabitants’ tangled connections to Beechcraft and the late-night visitors to his suite.

“I believe that someone is trying to frame Mrs. Darling for the murder.”

Reimund stilled, eyes intent. If he were a cat, his tail would have lashed. 

Isabelle told him about the childhood romance between Mrs. Darling and Beechcraft’s secretary, her marriage to the local squire, and the victim’s decision to ruin them to gain Mr. Armstrong’s estate.

He let out a whistling “oh.” “That doesn’t look good for Mr. Notti or your chaperone.”

“No.” She struggled to find the right words. “But it might seem too bad.  I think the actual murderer knows the complicated history and is using it to incriminate Mrs. Darling. They told the captain about her past and left a scrap from her dress and an article about her hometown in Beechcraft’s suite.”

He focused on the first object. “What makes you believe the garment didn’t tear? Shipboard gossip suggests the crime was a violent one. It would be easy to step on a hem or catch a small hole on something.”

“The cut was too perfect, the edges clean where the culprit sliced it from the excess fabric in the hem.” 

“Where was it?”

“Underneath a corner of the bed.” 

“But not expertly hidden?” 

“No.”

Reimund tipped his head to one side. “That also suggests the fabric was planted. I was in that room. Other than a few faint stains, it was spotless. The maids scrubbed the place.”

She caught his point. “They would have noticed and removed it as trash. Someone placed it after the cleaning.” She compressed her lips hard enough to turn them white.

“Does anyone know you have the fabric?”

“Only Mrs. Darling.”

“What about her friend, the secretary?”

A shrug. “She might have told him.”

He folded his fingers in and wrapped his knuckles against the metal. “You realize he’s the most likely culprit? He had both access to Beechcraft and information about your chaperone.”

The iron was cold in her grip, and Isabelle relaxed her hands, stretching them against the railing. “Maybe. What about everything else though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who brought Mr. Aitkin on board? Was it Alastair Dunlap? Neither gentleman had much cause to love the victim.”

“I suppose that’s true.” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. 

Isabelle looked at Reimund. Irritating man. His glossy blond hair was as smooth as ever, defying the moisture and wind. She scraped frizzy tendrils away from her eyes. “There’s also the matter of his safe. What was in it? Beechcraft’s status as a blackmailer is pretty well established.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Back to my cousin, are we?”

“You tell me.” 

“Heinrich couldn’t hurt anyone.” He turned to face her. “I’ll never forget the summer he grew a kitchen herb garden. The rabbits got to it, so he placed short stakes around the plants. When he checked on it next, he found one of them limping. He fretted over the matter for hours and decided they could have the darn thing. He removed the sticks, and that was the end of the experiment.”

She itched to critique his logic. A man could be susceptible to the appeal of bunnies but not businessmen. Instead, she said, “You’re very loyal to him.”

“Yes.”

(Reimund always alluded to his past in flippant jokes, but guilt over his earlier observations lingered. The topic of the Huxleys’ research hurt Isabelle, and he felt compelled to bleed for her. A few drops, at least.)

“Heinrich is my father’s cousin. I resulted from a long-term affair between the Graf and his mistress, an opera singer.  Before my birth, my mother returned to Ireland, where she died in labor, giving me into the care of her father and sisters. I spent my early childhood there until the Graf claimed me around my eighth birthday.” Reimund stretched, rounding out his back as he held onto the railing with both hands. “I’ve always suspected Heinrich influenced the decision.”

When the pause dragged, Isabelle asked, “Do you still have contact with your mother’s family?”

“I visit them occasionally, and we correspond on holidays. They are a very religious clan, continually warning me off my wayward mother’s path.”

“I take it they don’t approve of your career?” She clarified. “As a polo player.”

“Ah…would we call it a career? It seems not to meet the criteria.”

“A passion?”

He laughed, the sound rough. “Corrosion, no. Polo is something I can do. There aren’t many of those.”

Isabelle pressed her arm against his. Worried that her words would stop his, she said nothing.

“For various reasons…” He snuck a peek at Isabelle but didn’t elaborate, repeating, “For various reasons, my father found me a great disappointment. I wasn’t beaten often, but I lived in terror of my father’s words. Those of my legitimate siblings, too.” His mouth twisted. It was a poor facsimile of a smile.

“Switches aren’t the only way a parent can leave scars.”

“I repaid him with constant mischief. If it hadn’t been for Heinrich’s intervention, he would have enlisted me in the Prussian military as soon as I reached fourteen. My cousin saw something in me — and, perhaps, regretted his role in persuading my father to assert his rights. When he offered to house me, sparing my father the embarrassment I caused, both the Graf and I were eager to accept. Heinrich saved my life.”

The moment of intimacy left them both shy as they gazed past the railing, neither one moving to break the connection between their arms.

Isabelle saw a burly gentleman walk onto the second-class deck. She’d seen him before, this fellow with the unusual silver charms in his hair. They shimmered in the gloom.

She caught her breath. “That man.”

Reimund shook off his private thoughts. “What man?” 

Isabelle pointed. “I haven’t yet told you…Last night, I overheard people searching in Beechcraft’s rooms.”

“What were they looking for?”

“I’m not sure, but they didn’t seem to find it. The important thing is that I saw them, though not well. I had crept out onto the window walk to peer inside.”

Reimund coughed.

“I could make out several shadowy figures.” She pointed below and hissed, “I think he was one of the men. Something in his hair shone in the moonlight…just like those charms would.”

“Corrosion. Isabelle, do you know who that is?”

She tensed, shaking her head no.

“That’s Hugo Black. And if anyone had a good reason to kill Julius Beechcraft, it’s the Black family.”

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

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