Chapter Twenty-Five

Head straight to the final chapter of MotAE or check out these four free reads! Lots of homecoming woes, scholarly endeavors, and tasty food are ready for you.

Note: If you need to find previous chapters, they are always available here: www.motae.mkrumsey.com

Also, I’ve attached files for readers who’d prefer to download to an Ereader or print. These are only for your own reading pleasure. Please share the journey via the referral program.

Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Isabelle recovers in the infirmary after her adventure until she and Mrs. Darling attend Dunlap’s interrogation in the brig.

Dunlap confesses to murdering Beechcraft, blackmailing Notti, and sabotaging the ship. He wanted to prevent Julia and the others from discovering his true role in the Rosefield disaster. Beechcraft had used Dunlap’s gambling debts to pressure him into helping stage an accident designed to break up nascent union activity.

Isabelle checks on Tess, who is laid up in bed with a broken leg, and they exchange stories of the storm. Later, Reimund visits her in her room, and the two share a tender moment and some more kisses. 

The Aerial Express arrives in Venice.

Julius Beechcraft’s influence extended beyond his native England, and that authority outlasted him. The Venetian authorities — summoned by one of the Aerial Express’s shuttles — bustled all the involved parties off to governmental headquarters as soon as they disembarked. 

Their trawling also caught several trash fish in the net, and Mrs. Macon couldn’t decide whether to protest the inconvenience or savor the chance to get an account to distribute back home. 

First, Isabelle recited her story to Venetian functionaries. Then, she repeated it to Italian soldiers. After these initial narratives, she popped between the two, answering the same questions and occasional new ones about the other team’s responses.  

Italy’s recent unification had created resentment, suspicion, and fragile egos. The haughty Venetians remembered their history as an empire, chafing at their status as just another Italian province, and the local civil servants inhabited the imposing center of the building. Ornate frescoes depicted blindfolded Justice and other allegories, while priceless artifacts decorated every spare corner. The nationals made up for their comparatively utilitarian wing with personnel, crowding the space with harried soldiers. 

It was as well that neither could claim Dunlap’s trial and execution. That dubious honor went to England, but the Italians argued over every element of his confinement and transit while exhausted passengers slumped in hard chairs.

At least, both sets of interrogators kept the party fed. Like all international powers, Italy hd committed its share of great crimes through the ages, but no true member of the nation would let innocent guests go hungry. They never apologized for keeping the travelers so long but fell over themselves with regret that conditions didn’t allow for a hot meal. The passengers settled for two often replenished cold buffets. Mr. Macon seemed disappointed when the authorities released them near midnight.

The group trudged en masse to the gondolas procured by someone at Beechcraft Enterprises. As they moved from the cultural center of the city to the financial district, the night drowsed with Tuesday laziness. Lamps cast glowing specters along the water, benevolently haunting their passage.

They reached the Beechcraft Palazzo, and Julia stared at the ornate facade, shoulders slumping as she surveyed her domain.

The luxurious suites should have awed the company — the late magnate designed them to intimidate prospective business associates — but fatigue snuffed out the flickers of admiration. Even Mrs. Darling managed only, “Well,” before collapsing on the nearest plush surface. This was a sitting-room couch, and Isabelle prodded her as she stumbled to her bedroom. 

(The poke roused Mrs. Darling only for a second. She slept in place, dreaming of happier times spent with Paul Notti, a cruel kindness that forced her to relive his death on waking.)

Isabelle dozed until ten, when they dressed and joined Captain Miro, Reimund, and the baron outside the offices next door. Beechcraft Enterprises owned both buildings, keeping one as a residence and using the other for administrative functions.

Hugo Black met them at the step, nodded silent welcome, and guided them through the building, their footsteps tapping on the polished wood. The steady rhythm broke when the baron stopped to gape at the paintings. Old World masters adorned the walls at regular intervals, the collection united more by outrageous expense than personal taste.

A soft hum of activity drifted down from the higher floors where employees went about their work. The main floor was Beechcraft’s domain, and Julia joined them in a parlor that boasted shelves of books and intricate dirigible models. Marie Black trailed her employer. A mild smile made the onetime acrobat seem younger.

Their host gestured for her guests to gather around an odd-looking coffee table. It bore steaming pots and bomboloni, doughnuts filled with vanilla and chocolate cream. Brass gears jointed the table’s legs, and a side lever allowed one to raise it to desk height. Like the Blacks, Captain Miro remained standing despite Julia’s invitation, not comfortable relaxing in his employer’s presence.

A clock showed the atmospheric pressure as well as the hour, and on its next soft tick, Mrs. Hampton joined them. She sailed into the room in a sedate dress of mourning purple. She sat without being asked, and Hugo shut the wide double doors behind her.

Julia’s voice cut through her guests’ murmurs. “Thank you all for coming. Each of you has a claim on me and the Beechcraft Estate. However, too many urgent affairs press, and you must excuse me for being brief.” She tapped the pile of documents she carried. “Let’s begin with the simple arrangements. Lady Isabelle, what are your plans? Do you return to London or continue on to Constantinople? Either way, the fleet is at your disposal. We have ships to both heading out late this afternoon.”

“Constantinople, thank you.”

“Very well. I shall alert the staff of the Peregrine Express. I presume Mrs. Darling will travel with you.” She examined the chaperone, who nodded, eyes riveted on Julia’s face. 

With this matter settled, Julia addressed the actress. “And you, Mrs. Hampton? You are welcome to stay in Venice as long as you prefer.”

Mrs. Hampton toyed with her lace collar. “I think not.”

“Home to England then? I imagine you wish to attend Dunlap’s trial when it arrives.”

“Not that either. No one needs me to testify, and it’s enough to know he will hang.” She reconsidered. “Well, not enough — but nothing would be.”

“How can I best assist you?”

“I wouldn’t mind passage to France. I believe I’ll start the next chapter of my life in the Pyrenees.” Mrs. Hampton shrugged. “After that, who knows? I have adequate funds to live on, and England holds little appeal these days.”

(Mrs. Hampton wanted space and mountain air for a time but would settle some place warmer. Perhaps she’d establish an artists’ retreat or a home for wayward young women. After a life spent in the margins, she preferred the company of similarly headstrong ladies.)  

Julia offered her private vessel for the journey and moved on with her list. She angled herself toward Baron Hoffman.

“Baron, I never understood your arrangement with my father.” At his apprehension, she added, “Nor do I wish to pry. However, you should receive a fair return for my father’s profits off your fields and innovations. It will take me a few days to master the books and determine what we owe to various quarters, but you have a large sum of money coming your way.”

Reimund grinned, and the baron’s posture eased. His lips moved in a silent prayer or exclamation.

For the first time, Julia sounded unsure. “I understand if you prefer to separate yourself from Beechcraft Enterprises, but I hope to conduct business on fair terms.”

The baron gave a gracious nod.

(He started to catalog the various repairs and improvements that genteel poverty deferred. The roof. He would begin with the roof. It was impossible to have a pleasant luncheon when the ceiling drizzled.)

Coming to the end of her list, Julia turned to Captain Miro. “Captain, the Aerial Express will need substantial work before she’s airworthy. Would you be willing to consider a promotion to a post in London?”

He didn’t pretend to weigh the idea. “Thank you, but no, ma’am. I hardly recognize myself if I’m not flying.”

(Miro tried life on the ground once. There’d been a woman, of course, who inspired crazy ideas, and Miro spent a full year playing house. Until the day she sized him up, fists on hips, and begged him to leave before his unhappiness led to mutual hatred.)

“We shall restore the flagship to your able hands then.” With that, Julia Beechcraft rose with a clap. “I must go, but please take your time. And remember that I am in your debt.” She held each person’s eyes for a moment. “Redeem it as you will.”

Julia offered them one last tired smile before departing for her next item of business, the Blacks at her heels. Mrs. Darling stared at the heiress until the door closed behind the trio.

Isabelle gave her chaperone an exasperated look. “Are you truly not going to say anything?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Mrs. Darling twisted her cup, tracing the pale blue pattern.

Isabelle ignored the rebuff. “Did you know that Julia Beechcraft is colorblind? It is a rare complaint for a woman. It requires the condition to be present in the family of both parents.”

The cup missed the doily on Mrs. Darling’s first attempt to set it down. “How interesting.” She repositioned the drink.

“But there is nothing you want to discuss with her before we leave?”

“Isabelle, that young lady just lost the only father she’s known. She has an empire to govern and some complicated feelings to sort through. I beg you not to air any other notions that might disturb her.” Mrs. Darling used the word “beg,” but there was no supplication in her tone. On this subject, Mrs. Darling retained the right of command, and Isabelle nodded.

If the others wondered at the cryptic exchange, they possessed the manners not to mention anything. 

Mrs. Hampton was the next to depart. Before Isabelle could stop her, the older woman knelt to claim her hands. “My lady, as a mother, please let me say that yours would be proud if she could see you today. I am sorry she cannot.”

Flustered, she thanked Mrs. Hampton, who squeezed her hands and stood, her grace that of a woman used to curtsying as her fans applauded. 

After the actress left, Isabelle contemplated absent parents and lost children. She hadn’t thought about redeeming the Huxleys’ legacy in days, a surprise that would usually inspire guilt. Today, she felt content. She’d unmasked a murderer, helped clear the innocent, and possibly even saved them all with her makeshift repairs to the stabilizers.

Her emotions toward all people named Huxley, including herself, were complicated, but, at least for the moment, she was pleased with people named Isabelle.

This sentiment didn’t make sense. Maybe…maybe that was all right.

Reimund and the captain were deep in conversation when Isabelle began to fidget from inactivity. They grew silent as she approached.

She hugged Captain Miro, heedless of the public setting. He promised they would see one another soon, and she made plans to meet Reimund at a cafe.

Walking back to their quarters, Isabelle returned to the subject. “I’m right, though, aren’t I? It would explain some oddities between you, Mr. Notti, and the late Mr. Beechcraft. I assume the papers he wanted to protect had something to do with her adoption.”

Mrs. Darling sighed. “Yes.”

“How did…” Isabelle wasn’t sure how to phrase the question so that it didn’t sound like an accusation or a request for an anatomy lesson. 

The lady answered anyway. “I wrote to Paul when I discovered myself pregnant. I presume he told his employer.”

“Why did you marry Mr. Armstrong instead? Why give her up?”

“Timing. Slow postal service. Anxiety that I should be ruined.” 

Isabelle detested anyone who considered human beings ruinable. People weren’t overripe fruit or oil portraits left out in the rain. 

“Will you ever tell her?”

Mrs. Darling’s eyes slid sideways. “Not today. Maybe never. It is my decision to make, Isabelle.”

They took several steps before the girl replied. “She would want to know. I would in her place.”

“I promise to keep that in mind.”

If Mrs. Darling sounded dismissive, Isabelle might have pushed, but she didn’t.

The cafe exuded an old-world charm with wrought-iron tables and chairs scattered across the cobbled courtyard. Small pots of fresh flowers marked the center of each table, and a striped awning provided shade from the gentle sun.

The patrons were in no rush to return to their days, though most didn’t bother to take a seat, transacting their business over a large counter. The Venetians lingered, falling into musical conversation as they leaned against the nearest surfaces. A handful of pigeons cooed next to the canals, and one grunted in alarm as a water bicycle passed nearby, sprinkling the bird.

The ladies arrived first, but Mrs. Darling sat elsewhere, electing to chaperone from a distance. 

Espresso was a rare treat in England. Isabelle sipped. It flooded her senses, drowning the rest of the world. She emerged from her ecstasy to see Reimund approaching, his gaze wolfish.

He ordered tea, and they fell into an unhurried silence, their conversation taking its time to arrive.

“What’s next for you and your cousin?”

“Heinrich is dizzy with plans for the estate and business. With new funds, he can put several of his theories into production.”

“And you? Do his plans involve you?”

“In fact, I had a thought about how I’d like to spend my life.” 

Reimund glanced away, and Isabelle tried to wait out this apparent fit of shyness. She failed. “Yes? What was it?”

“Well, I enjoy traveling, and I’m good with my hands. Objects don’t slip around inside my mind when I touch them.” 

The phrase scratched at her. “What do you mean by that? Do other things slip around?”

Reimund’s tea arrived, and he poured, hyper-focusing on the act, his gaze impossible to catch. “I’ve always struggled with letters and numbers.”

His nonchalance was paper-thin. “Is that the source of your father’s…attitude toward you?”

“Yes.”

Isabelle knew her next words mattered, and she wished someone more capable could script them. “You understand that’s his stupidity at work, not yours?”

Reimund shot a quicksilver smile at her. “Well, I talked to Captain Miro about finding employment on a ship, maybe even becoming an aeronaut. He agreed the profession would suit me.”

“I agree. An airborne career would be perfect for you.”

“I’m glad you approve. I decided to use Miss Beechcraft’s guilt for a head start. I will accompany Captain Miro when he leaves Venice, working on the Aerial Express.”

“That’s wonderful. The captain make sa fine mentor.” It was Isabelle’s turn to be diffident. She wasn’t sure how much of Reimund’s interest to ascribe to breezy charm and limited company. She said, “I often travel aboard the ship. I suppose we shall run into one another.”

His eyes laughed at her. “Yes, Isabelle. I look forward to it.” 

He reached across the table, palm up. She gave him her hand, curling it into his. They sat there. The world continued at its usual pace, but their corner of it was peaceful and still, independent of the bustling port.

The Peregrine Express poised at the end of the dock, ready to take flight for Constantinople. At the rail, Isabelle said goodbye to the maze of movement and color below. She smiled down at a boy pointing up at the ship as he tugged on his mother’s hand. He returned her wave with frantic exuberance.

The engine roared, and the grand vessel rose from its moorings.

As they took flight, Isabelle contemplated the future. For once, she thought of more than her work. She would solve the mysteries of the aether — not just for her mother and father but for herself. But there were other priorities, too: friendship and adventure and romance.

Her parents’ absence would always haunt her, but Isabelle was alive.

Perhaps it was time she took advantage of that fact.

That’s the story! Remember, you can still share it with your friends to earn nifty rewards.

Murder on the Aerial Express will come out as a full novel in early 2026. It will include a few new/expanded scenes that I didn’t have time to add to the weekly sends, and I’ll make those scenes available online, too.

Stay tuned for the monthly newsletter to learn what’s next — and what to expect from Pippa’s story, which is on deck!