Chapter Twenty-One

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Reimund and Isabelle talk to Julia Beechcraft. She claims that her father would never have disinherited her and points out that she would hardly need a convoluted plan if she wanted to access (and kill) Beechcraft. She could simply return home.  

She doesn’t know where the missing papers are. Many people knew Beechcraft traveled with a safe. Among her co-conspirators, Dunlap is most anxious to track down the safe’s contents. He says they hold proof of his innocence in the Rosefield disaster, a final document on which he never signed off. Julia admits that she believed Dunlap to blame, largely due to his distraction after the death of his only child. 

Isabelle and Reimund leave, and she determines to search Dunlap’s room. If he lied about Rosefield, he would have reason to get rid of Beechcraft’s documents. Reimund (reluctantly) agrees to distract Dunlap, keeping him in the engineering room, while Isabelle searches.

Isabelle could find Alastair Dunlap’s room. She’d visited his predecessor, Tess’s cousin, often enough.

While she walked, she considered everything she knew about the engineer. It wasn’t much. Pippa would have known more — due to Dunlap’s connection to her idol, Julia Beechcraft — but Isabelle’s usual interests lay elsewhere. The man had lost a child before the Rosefield disaster, a fact that sparked suspicion as well as sympathy. Had tragedy led the grieving father into negligence? 

Then the question became: what if Beechcraft’s papers didn’t clear the man? If they contained the proof Dunlap claimed, their continued absence must frustrate him. But what if the opposite were true? Beechcraft committed many sins while alive. That didn’t make him responsible for everything bad that happened.

Isabelle reached the passageway to the staff rooms, clutching her chatelaine to her chest so its tools wouldn’t clink. No plush rugs cushioned this section of the ship, and she kept her footfalls soft, trying to think of a more flattering verb than “skulking” until a misstep tapped her heel against the floor with a click. At this point, she gave up the brainstorming, accepting her status as “skulker” and resolving to skulk better.

Noises of conversation drifted from an intersecting corridor, sending her into an open laundry room. She dared not shut the door. Scooting around it, she pressed her back to the wall and stared at the window across from her. The inset glass belonged to an exit that connected workers to the network of walkways and platforms surrounding the ship.

She watched the clouds shudder and admit a faint streak of light. Her worry turned toward the oncoming storm. Tess was tenser than she’d ever seen the navigator, and Isabelle cursed the elements, the murderer in their midst, and the unfortunate coincidence of the two, which offended her sense of order. Really, a person ought to be allowed to tackle one threat at a time.

Two men passed her hiding spot. They didn’t seem concerned as they chatted about plans for the upcoming shore leave in Constantinople. Once safe, Isabelle added to her catalog of well-intentioned crimes. She stole a laundry cart and imagined ducking over the massive heap of linens — or even jumping inside them.

She pushed the contraption into the hall and enjoyed a momentary sense of security, of having a shield to interpose between her and the world, before regretting her decision. A sticky wheel sent her zigzagging and doubled the noise of her progress. 

But the universe threw her a little good luck to sweeten all the bad and cleared her path.

She arrived at Dunlap’s room, near the end of the corridor. She placed the cart to the right of the entry and crouched behind, eye-level with the knob. Her heart raced, but recent practice made her fingers deft and sure. The tumblers fell into place, and the lock yielded with a snick. Staying low, she half-crawled inside, letting the door close.

Isabelle stood and scanned the room with a disgusted shimmy of her nose. Dunlap was lucky that rank came with privileges. Like Tess, he roomed alone. No co-occupant would tolerate the mess. Soiled clothes draped here and balled there. Empty bottles of spirits lay on the floor like massacred soldiers, and the air held the musk of a man not disciplined about personal hygiene.

She started in the nearest corner, poking at discarded shirts and trousers. A pile of undergarments threatened to trip her, and she nudged it with the toe of her boot. Unwilling to touch the man’s intimates, she dismantled the heap with her feet. Nothing rattled or rustled. Good enough. She kicked the cloth back into place. The scene wasn’t as she’d found it, but who could tell?

Her search of the bedside table and wardrobe yielded no clues, and she eyed the wooden desk. On its surface, tools dark with rust or oil smudged a stack of blueprints. The top drawer was locked. Promising. Isabelle again withdrew her picks. 

When the drawer still stuck, she yanked and wiggled until the mess inside un-jammed to reveal office supplies, a hammer and wrench, a black ball that looked sticky, and a stash of papers. Leaving everything else in place, she leafed through the pages. Her hope flagged with each irrelevant document — an almost-finished letter to his wife, a manifest for screws (size 3a), and an academic journal folded in thirds — until she came to the letters near the bottom. 

The crimson-edged stationery caught her eye. So did the handwriting. She recognized both. 

Isabelle dropped into the middle of a conversation between the engineer and Paul Notti. The exchange was incomplete, since she only possessed half the messages. The first dated from two months ago. 

***

January 14, 1893

London

Alastair,

I repeat my earlier answer. I don’t understand what flaw you perceive in my character that makes you think I would be amenable to such a scheme. My current role in Miss Julia’s plans affords me enough qualms. 

No, I will not help you. However, I honor our onetime friendship and will give you a chance to come to your senses. I attribute their temporary loss to your long grief and well-earned anger. I accept my portion of the latter. I too blamed you for the Rosefield disaster. In addition to dethroning Beechcraft, I look forward to helping you find proof of your innocence. I owe you that. 

Write to me again. I am eager to receive word of your readiness to follow Miss Julia’s instructions and proceed no further with your own plan.

Sincerely,

Paul

***

January 22, 1893

Edgemonton

Alastair, 

Please. Let go of this thirst for vengeance. Do so for your wife if not for your own sake. Better to hope for a brighter future instead of dwelling in the past.

Paul

***

February 2nd, 1893

Edgemonton

Alastair,

Yes, I am courting Mrs. Darling, though I’m not sure how you learned of the relationship. We’ve concealed this matter from our employers. I fear Beechcraft’s petty sadism as well as other dangers. 

I can wait no longer. This is your last chance to change course. If I don’t hear from you by the end of next week, I have no choice but to inform Miss Julia of our exchanges.

Paul

***

February 8th, 1893

Edgemonton

Alastair,

How do I know you are telling the truth?

Paul

***

February 12th, 1893

London

You win. I am yours to command but will never forgive you.

To my despair, I could not dissuade Lynette from accepting the anonymous offer you extended. Not without disclosing matters that would break her heart. 

Paul

***

It was the final letter in the series, but Isabelle discovered one last communique in the trash bin. A wadded sheet of stationery peeked from beneath orange-rind scraps. This was the longest message but the shortest piece of paper, the bottom of the page carefully torn away.

There was no header.

***

Darling, 

Never doubt that I loved you, for that was the greatest and most constant truth of my life. I hate that my death will cause you pain. But I would rather you feel it all at once than wait unknown months for me to fill a hangman’s noose. 

I deserve such an end, but neither you nor my family does. The last few weeks have been unrelenting purgatory, and I am ready to take my final exit. 

How could I have killed a man — even that man? A less honest person might protest. I didn’t wield the knife, but I did drug Mr. Beechcraft into a pliant stupor, and I admitted the murderer with full knowledge of his intentions. I also packed a set of Alastair’s clothing in my luggage for him to don after the bloody crime.

As you must now guess, Alastair killed Julius Beechcraft. He wished to conceal his culpability in Rosefield and — I assume — other disasters and wanted to make the evidence disappear. Those papers are gone, as are the others from the safe. I watched him throw everything overboard. In fact, I insisted that he get rid of them. Alastair had already proved himself untrustworthy, blackmailing me with his knowledge of one document in particular. 

You may rest easy. Beechcraft can do you no harm from beyond the grave. 

While my sins are heavy, I would never have helped frame you for our crimes. Alastair contrived your presence as extra insurance against betrayal. He then endangered your freedom in an attempt to shift focus away from himself or anyone connected to Miss Julia.

Now I can most easily free you with the truth. Show this letter to any who dares suggest that you had anything to do with my transgressions.

I will wait for you in the hereafter, my love. Sometimes I think my life has been made of waiting. Why should my death be any different?

Be strong, darling, and know that, for all the pain that I have caused you —

The torn edge of the page told its own story. 

Isabelle didn’t need to read the last line. She’d seen it the night before.

I’m sorry,

Paul

Before Isabelle could brood over her discoveries, she perceived voices outside the room. She wasn’t sure what Dunlap would do to her — no, that was an optimistic lie. She had at least one idea.

“... other suggestions for where to look?” Even muffled, Reimund sounded frantic. 

“As I have told you multiple times, I do not.” A huff of exasperation. “Now that it appears Paul killed Beechcraft, I’d start with the man’s room.” 

Isabelle’s brain blanked into white noise as she scanned for hiding places. The wardrobe? Under the desk? She would only trap herself. 

Reimund got louder. “Your employer asked you to speak with me. Be sure that I will report your refusal to cooperate.”

“I talked! I have nothing to say. Besides, Julia’s note said the lady wanted to interview me. Where is she? Why are you hounding me?” The door rattled with the weight of a body leaning. “This is my room. Get out of my way!”

“What’s your interest in Lady Isabelle?” Reimund laced her name with insinuations. 

“What…I don’t…What?”

The drawer was still ajar. There was no time to lock it, but Isabelle replaced the papers and shoved it closed as quietly as possible. She held the letter found in the trash bin and headed to the porthole above Dunlap’s bunk. It was smaller than the expansive picture window in her room, but she would fit. Probably. The sash swung wide with a soul-searing creak. 

She stepped onto the unmade bed and looked out. The walkway seemed tiny. It must be the same size as its fellows, but no deck lay beneath, just stormy sky.

Reimund continued to project his voice. “You seem over-interested in the young lady’s whereabouts. And you a married man!”

“I wouldn’t…what?” 

No time for fear or wisdom. Isabelle stretched her arms through the window, clutching the letter in one hand as the wind tore at her fingers. Wiggling, she got her head and shoulders through. She spotted her destination several windows to the right where the bridge connected to a square platform in front of a door. Her chatelaine scraped and dug into her chest as she pushed through to her waist and hips. Half-dangling in the aether, she made rash promises to God, vowing never to do anything this foolish again.

“I have a mind to report you to Captain Miro!”

“You’re insane.” 

It was hard to hear the exchange now.

“…fine... young lady.”

“... drinking?” 

Isabelle hefted her body all the way onto the swaying plank of wood. She shut the window with her forearm and heard Dunlap enter his room in a forceful burst, banging the door against the wall.

She squatted below the porthole. She clutched the rail with her free hand and wished it were a solid parapet rather than a thin bar of iron. The dizzy sensation intensified when she closed her eyes, so she studied the varnish on the side of the dirigible, refusing to look down.

Each of the next fifteen minutes lasted a year. Isabelle couldn’t bring herself to crawl forward. She convinced herself to take a quick peek. The engineer’s back was to her, and she seized the chance to creep along the platform. Her eyes played tricks in the gloom. The walkway dilated and contracted as twenty feet became inches became miles became the road to hell.

For all her terror, it didn’t occur to her that the door might be locked. It wasn’t, and she realized her luck as she tumbled inside with a gasp. The idea of trying to use her picks while the ship swayed and the wind roared…it was horrifying.

A hysterical giggle escaped her lips. She was back in the laundry room. Too bad she didn’t have the cart. Someone else would have to fetch it from outside Dunlap’s chamber. 

The hinges of the interior door squeaked behind her. Her chest seized with such violence that she required several seconds to convince herself she wasn’t dying.

Reimund stood in the entrance, backlit by the corridor’s glow. He sighed with relief.

Isabelle gaped. “How…?”

He came into the room. “The cart. You weren’t in your cabin, and I saw the laundry room when walking with Dunlap. I took a chance and checked here.”

“Oh.” Isabelle nodded. She thought about explaining that she never intended to revisit this room, and their reunion was complete serendipity, but those were long words of three or more syllables. Instead, she said, “Good.”

His eyes scraped her from top to bottom, and he raised a hand without touching her, almost like a benediction. He was trembling, or she was shivering, or both. She came closer. The proximity forced her to tilt her head back. 

There was a lot to be said for a man who would follow you into laundry rooms and murderers’ lairs. Not that Isabelle could say anything at the moment.

Reimund stepped away. A buried, primeval part of Isabelle growled, and she reached out to grab his shirt. 

He stilled. Then, he was tugging, and she was falling, only she didn’t fall at all. His lips discovered hers, and it was nothing like kissing Pippa’s brother’s friend. Her mouth slipped open, sliding against his as they exchanged breath like secrets. His body anchored hers. Corrosion knew she needed an anchor just then. She felt safe and not safe and…

and she knew who had murdered Julius Beechcraft.

They released one another and stared for a long moment. She waved the piece of paper as their half-sentences interlaced. 

“We should —”

“So it was —”

“I need —”

“Of course.”

It was time to hand Captain Miro the damning letter and tell him all she’d learned. Isabelle had important alchemical work to do. 

And boys to kiss.

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

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