Chapter Twenty-Four

Four years in the making. One event that will change everything.

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Julia realizes that Dunlap has sabotaged the stabilizers. She gets up to fix the problem, but a sudden lurch of the ship sends her into a table, knocking her unconscious.

With no one else available to help, Isabelle and Reimund decide to try repairing the controls. Isabelle understands the basic principles in play — though she also knows how far beyond her basic engineering skills this is. She collects some supplies from her room. At the last moment, she adds her aether-hydrogen salt from the earlier experiment. 

The two make their way across the deck to Tess’s office, which is right beside the damaged stabilizers. Dunlap blew up the stairs leading to the Isabelle uses her chemistry skills to repair holes in the stabilizer core, shredding her hands in the process. The controls are slow to respond, and she tosses in her new compound to give it a jolt.

Control is reestablished over the Aerial Express, and Isabelle passes out.

Isabelle woke and struggled to orient herself. She wasn’t in her stateroom. Nor was she lying in the wreckage on deck.

In the infirmary, warm sunlight signaled the storm’s conclusion, but the room bore evidence of its passage. New scratches gouged the furniture, and empty spaces punctuated rows of supplies. Despite the best attempts of the crew to shove things back into place, the space still felt askew.

Isabelle noted Dr. Chakraborty’s ahem. She was so swaddled in the sickbed she couldn’t turn. 

The doctor positioned his rueful face to be visible. “Hello, Isabelle.”

She tried to say, “Doc.” A dry croak emerged instead.

He poured a glass from the pitcher near the cot. She shook her head at his offer to help her sit, pushing up on her elbows and scooting back against the headboard. She reached for the water but stopped, staring at her wrapped hands. Dr. Chakraborty had done a thorough job. The skin under the balls of fabric didn’t hurt. She didn’t remember taking painkillers, but the fuzzy separateness in her skull pointed to a strong draught of laudanum.

The doctor raised the glass to her lips. She gulped, tilting the cup with a press of chin to drain the water. 

“My hands?” She articulated the words in slow, clear syllables.

“I don’t suppose you’ve done permanent injury to the nerves. As for the appearance, well, I suppose that is what gloves are for.”

Isabelle flinched. She reminded herself that she valued her hands for their capability, not their aesthetics. “What about Mr. Dunlap? Did he escape?”

“No, Hugo stopped him. The murderer is being held in the brig where he belongs.” Dr. Chakraborty’s lips curved in harsh satisfaction. 

Good.

“I gather you are responsible for our safe delivery through the storm.” The word storm hesitated on his tongue, an acknowledgment that of the manmade portion of recent turmoil.

“We got lucky,” Isabelle admitted.

“For the sake of all aboard, allow me to thank you.” He squinted at her. “However, on my own behalf, I beg you never to do anything that dangerous again. You have a long and extraordinary life ahead of you. It would break my heart if you cut it short.”

Isabelle appreciated the sentiment but thought the caution misplaced. She, too, would have died without a little insanity and a lot of good fortune. “How is Tess?”

“Healing in her room. Her leg doesn’t require constant care. Just a bad break.”

She scowled. “Why am I not in my cabin?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Let that teach you to avoid activities that leave you unconscious.”

A soft gasp came from the doorway. Mrs. Darling looked more composed — and clean — than when last seen. After her release from the brig, she must have tended to her appearance.

“You’re awake.” The chaperone hurried to the cot, and Dr. Chakraborty ceded his place.

Mrs. Darling regarded her charge with awed approval. The expression made Isabelle itch — though that might have been the drugs. She pulled up a chair. “How do you feel?”

“Mostly tired.”

“No wonder.” Mrs. Darling shook her head. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Not necessary.”

The conversation continued in this vein. Mrs. Darling thrust her gratitude at Isabelle, who deflected it. The fencing match only ended when Julia Beechcraft arrived, announcing herself with a gentle knock. A bandage peeked out from under a red velvet fez, and her gait betrayed stiff muscles.

Mrs. Darling and the heiress-inventor met one another for the first time. Julia introduced herself, and the chaperone stared, just managing to reply with her name. The outside corners of Julia’s eyes crinkled downward. Acknowledgment of her previous eagerness to blame the other woman? 

Isabelle fancied she caught something like hunger in Mrs. Darling’s gaze, but her addled brain lost this thread before it spun into a conclusion. 

(Mrs. Darling had not taken painkillers, but she was equally off balance. This was not a meeting she ever wanted, and she tried to keep from loading the event with inappropriate meanings.)

When prodded, Dr. Chakraborty delivered a full medical report. More or less satisfied of Isabelle’s health, Julia turned to the ladies. “I would leave you to rest in peace —”

“As you should.” Dr. Chakraborty’s chin rose.

Julia raised her hands in a show of innocence. “I come with an offer, not an order. The captain and I have a free moment and intend to interview Alastair. As one of the injured parties, Mrs. Darling has the right to attend, and I won’t exclude you, my lady, for fear of the lengths you might go to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Good.” Isabelle rolled halfway out of bed, far enough to spot the tattered hem of her shift. “Please give me a few minutes to dress myself.”

Mrs. Darling cast a dubious glance at Isabelle’s mummified hands. “I shall act as lady’s maid, and then we will join you.”

Despite almost killing them all, Alastair Dunlap made a disappointing villain. The engineer sagged in his chair, his features guilt-bleached of defiance. Every so often, bitterness flared, but the emotion lacked energy. It was sour milk added to weak English tea.

They arrived. The group included Julia, Hugo Black, and Captain Miro, who frowned at Isabelle’s wrapped hands. The chaperone braced herself as they entered her recent prison.

Six people made a crowd. Lacking other options, Isabelle and Mrs. Darling perched on the narrow cot, on the far side of the room from Dunlap. 

Everyone showed signs of their misadventures. Red scratches crawled up Hugo’s forearms and neck. The captain seemed unhurt, but an occasional tremor betrayed his exhaustion, and he frowned at Isabelle’s wrapped hands. 

Unlike the others, Dunlap hadn’t changed his torn clothes. They scented the air with soot, copper, and stale sweat. A sling cradled his left arm, and iodine stained one cheek.

Julia met their eyes and nodded. “Now that we’re all here, time for some answers, Alastair. Let’s start with this: why did you kill my father?”

A shaft of sunlight from the only window made a spotlight. “You know why.”

“No. I don’t. I assume you wanted to obscure your mistake at Rosefield, but...” She spread her arms. “All this? I would have continued to support you and your family. Did you fear the new courts? The ultimate responsibility for the error would rest on Beechcraft shoulders.”

Dunlap squeezed his eyes shut. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

“Pardon?”

He opened them. “Rosefield. It wasn’t a mistake.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The explosion wasn’t a mistake. Thomas Jones’s death wasn’t a mistake, nor was the location of the damage.”

The room dropped into absolute silence.

Dunlap studied a knothole in the floorboards. “You’re aware I drank after my son’s passing. I also began to gamble, too. I grew reckless in my grief, racking up debts to unsavory people. Your father interceded for me and paid them off. In return, he demanded I spy for him. He sent me to meet with several of his competitors, pretending to seek alternate employment. I didn’t learn anything revelatory, but our conversations gave your father a measure of insight into their plans. And that should have been the end of it.”

“What happened at Rosefield?” Julia’s voice was small, child-like.

“I got into trouble again, worse than before. The owner of the gaming hell threatened serious injury, first to me, then to my wife. I came to your father, but...” Dunlap swallowed and fiddled with a hole in his pant leg. “He insisted on more than information to save me a second time.”

He paused, but no one hurried him. Perhaps, like Isabelle, part of them didn’t want to listen to what came next.

“At Rosefield, Thomas Jones came close to organizing a large section of the workers. He wanted to form a union. It was unheard of for a supervisor to serve as their advocate, but the man was an idealist.” Dunlap pulled his gaze up to meet Julia’s. “You never appreciated the full extent of your father’s union-breaking activities. He maintained certain unsavory fellows in his employ, men he used for intimidation and other such enterprises. He also managed your onsite visits with care.”

Julia whispered. “I shoulder some of the blame. I suspected his practices weren’t above board, but I contented myself with willing to hide in my lab.”

Dunlap twitched his shoulders and let his head fall forward. “Before he’d intercede with my creditors, Beechcraft demanded I rig an explosion. He wanted the disaster to look like an industrial accident, taking out Jones and his strongest supporters. He also insisted on insurance. By now, you know a little about the types of papers he kept in that blighted safe, damning information to use against individuals. Your father made me write a full confession of my sins — all of them, from the debts to the prior malfeasances to my involvement in Rosefield. That way, if I discovered a conscience, he would send the paper to my wife.” 

His voice broke. “By that time, I was continually drunk, too sodden to protest when he turned my perceived carelessness into the cause of the tragedy. He fired me but accepted that you assisted my family monetarily. He probably would have done so himself if you hadn’t.”

“But when he discovered your presence on this ship, he dismissed us both,” Miro protested.

“Beechcraft money was one thing, Beechcraft employment another. This position would have led to new publicity for me — and, therefore, Rosefield. I saw no way out save his death. I couldn’t let you have those papers. I just...couldn’t.”

Dunlap’s confession pressed on the room. Isabelle considered Mrs. Hampton, whose daughter had been murdered after all. 

Julia sagged against the desk, holding herself up. Hugo stepped closer, but she inched back, unable to bear contact.

To Isabelle’s surprise, Mrs. Darling found her tongue first. “And Paul?”

A shake of the head. “He uncovered nothing of Rosefield. Beechcraft made him privy to some of his misdeeds but not others. I do regret his death, but I needed him. He was the only one with access to your father and the safe around the clock. After that, he returned to his room.” Dunlap’s gaze drifted toward Hugo’s feet. “I don’t have Marie’s safecracking skills, so I extracted the combination by…other means.”

By torturing Beechcraft, cutting off his finger.

The captain asked, “How did you persuade him to help you?”

For the first time, Dunlap appeared to consider his words. So far, his confession had the ring of truth — penance even — difficult to articulate but clear. Next to Isabelle, Mrs. Darling froze. 

He exhaled. “Initially, I used the same leverage Beechcraft did to control him, but I will let the man’s secrets die with him. Later, I discovered his relationship with Mrs. Armstrong — or, rather, Mrs. Darling.” He addressed her. “You had a known motive to harm Beechcraft, and so I maneuvered you aboard to give me a second handle on Paul.”

“How?” Miro crossed his arms.

Dunlap inclined his head toward Isabelle. “The lady’s voyages are marked on the calendar pinned to the wall in your office, captain. It wasn’t difficult to contact her guardian on behalf of the ship and suggest a chaperone. When he accepted, I sent an offer of employment to the woman. When Paul seemed to waver, I…encouraged you to examine Mrs. Darling. I wanted to underscore her vulnerability — I didn’t expect Paul to kill himself.” The pleading note vanished. “Fortunately, I found him and intercepted his confession.”

Captain Miro’s silky accent hissed. “And my ship? Why did you attack the Aerial Express?”

Dunlap shot air through his nostrils. “Because the lady...” he dragged out the word... “broke into my room and stumbled on Paul’s confession and other correspondence. I tossed the contents of the safe overboard but dumped his final letter in my own wastebasket.”

Isabelle met Dunlap’s glare head-on, and he deflated.

“I disabled the stabilizers and planned to slip away in a shuttle during the chaos. My goal was only to escape.” The engineer spread his hands. “Hugo caught me before I could do so.”

Isabelle used her elbow to knock and wondered if Tess could answer her door. She detected thumps and muttered swear words before her friend appeared, holding the door open with one shoulder as she balanced against the side of the frame.

The young navigator’s irritated brow smoothed, and she hopped back to let Isabelle enter. Tess tumbled into an unmade bed, resting her leg above a stack of pillows. Isabelle sat at Tess’s desk. Her eyes snagged on a new trinket, a small jade dog standing guard over a few letters. She blinked. That was Pippa’s handwriting on the top — she was sure of it. 

“Did you truly fix the stabilizers?” 

Isabelle made a waffling gesture with her hand. “Not really. They probably need to be replaced entirely.”

“Even so, it’s impressive.” Tess was equal parts admiration and envy.

They discussed recent events, Tess filling in her own adventure. Dunlap had appeared outside her office during the storm, odd but she didn’t have the time to engage him. Then an explosion sent her and her instruments flying. A table tipped, pinning her leg and breaking the bone. After that, she tried her best to stay on course but was at a positional disadvantage in her battle with the rudder. 

Tess said, “I swear, I assumed you were a ghost when your face appeared outside the glass.”

“Too nearly.”

Before Isabelle broached the subject of their not-quite-a-fight, Tess asked, “And have you mended fences with your German beau?” 

She stopped herself from arguing that Reimund was neither hers nor a beau — it would have been disingenuous. “Yes. Before the storm arrived. Without his help, I never would have managed.”

Their visit ended when both ladies tired. Isabelle left Tess to her bed and went to crawl into her own.

A noise outside her door. Isabelle looked up, eager for distraction. One could do very little without using their hands. She couldn’t even read a book unless she wanted to try turning pages with her teeth, and she wasn’t that desperate yet. Not quite.

“Isabelle?” 

Her skin prickled at Reimund’s voice. She rose from her sprawl on the bed, indifferent to the wrinkles in her bedding or attire, and opened the door — a complicated process involving forearms and full-body twists.

He appeared different after the storm — quieter, more earnest. Perhaps, she thought, every person had multiple selves, all of them true. Some unlocked by tension, others by exhaustion, and others by who knows what else.

Isabelle said nothing as he crossed the threshold. They wandered to her bed and sat, several feet between them, breathing, the background noise of the Aerial Express a steady hum.

The moment broke, and nerves returned as their mutual awareness changed.

Isabelle fidgeted on the soft mattress. Reimund tucked his chin and turned to study her.

“What you did... It was remarkable. I owe you — we all owe you — our lives.”

Her cheeks warmed. “I couldn’t have done it alone.” She reached to fiddle with her chatelaine but wasn’t wearing it.

Their eyes dialogued, a give and take of appreciation that resulted in mirror smiles.

Reimund rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m still trying to credit that this business is over.” 

Isabelle caught herself staring at his mouth and cleared her throat. “Is anyone else aware of your cousin’s secret?”

“Yes, but no one that would use his preferences against him — at least, not to my knowledge. My father knows his nature, but for all his faults, he’d never betray his family to the authorities. He’d take it as an injury to his honor. Nor would he want the scandal.”

“Damning with faint praise,” Isabelle muttered.

Reimund’s eyes wandered the room. “My father has reasons for his treatment of me.”

“I don’t care. They’re not good enough.” She held up one mummy-wrapped hand to stop his protest. “I may not understand everything about the matter, but any man should be proud to claim you. Even if you do pretend to be a society dribble.”

“Maybe you bring the best out of me.”

She sniffed. “Well, if all you need is someone awkward and judgmental to impress…I’m sure you can find ample supply back home.”

“Don’t do that. You’re an exceptional woman, Lady Isabelle Huxley, and not just because of your brilliance and ambition. You are also excessively brave, surprisingly kind, and passionately loyal.”

“I don’t know about —”

He reached over and touched her cheek, asking permission.

Isabelle’s breath hitched, and her world reoriented around his gravitational pull.

They sank into one another, their lips touching, slipping against one another’s as they interlocked, separated, and returned. Reimund’s hand slid from to the back of her head, and his grip tightened. Her mouth opened, and she tasted his tongue. Her heart banged against her ribs.

No, that wasn’t her heart. The knocking sound came again, and the two froze.

“Isabelle, may I come in?”

It was Mrs. Darling.

As they separated, Isabelle considered the possibility that her guardian understood more than she’d credited when he procured a chaperone for her.

Corrosion and corsets.

The dirigible descended, entering the bustling aerial port. Tall towers rose from the waterfront, and their sleek metallic forms contrasted the city’s ancient stone buildings. Venice’s gondolas glided beneath the platforms and wove through the canals. Tiny figures became visible as the seconds passed. Merchants hawked their wares, passengers disembarked, and workers moved about the station.

Isabelle stood alone at the rail. She breathed in the scent of sea salt and engine grease. Was that a hint of saffron?

Everyone aboard heaved a sigh of gratitude as the dirigible limped forward. Its once-pristine hull bore dents, scratches, and even a few scorch marks. The rubble of Tess’s staircase no longer covered the deck. A ladder served as a temporary solution, leading up to the jagged-edged platform. Captain Miro had performed Tess’s duties while she recuperated. He didn’t trust anyone other than the young navigator with the ship in such poor condition.

Julia Beechcraft stepped up beside Isabelle. The two women watched the intricate ballet of automated cranes as the Aerial Express maneuvered into docking position. Julia seemed more resolute than relieved, determined to assume her father’s duties.

The gangway descended, and they prepared to disembark.

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

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