The Moonlit Murders: A historical mystery page-turner (A Fen Churche Mystery Book 3) by Fliss Chester (web based ebook reader TXT) 📕

guess you’re glad you’re not one of us Yanks,’ he grinned at her, and Fen noticed for the first time how unnaturally white his teeth were. Before she could think of what to say, he carried on, ‘Else your folks might have named you Grand Central instead!’

His joke was met with a tinkling laugh from Genie, who let it carry on for maybe a moment longer than it warranted. Spencer seemed to bask in her attention, though, and quipped a few more one-liners, ensuring Genie was totally captivated as the waiting area filled up with more people. They were mostly officers of the lower ranks, but officers nonetheless. No wonder Spencer was so keen to keep his partner’s eyes firmly on him only, as some of the chaps were really rather dashing.

Fen had only seen Arthur in uniform a few times and she thought back to that first night when they’d met at a dance in the local inn, The Spread Eagle, in Midhurst. She’d been surrounded by a sea of khaki that evening, and although she would never have put herself down as the type of girl who would go weak at the knees at the sight of insignia, she had thought her Arthur rather handsome in his uniform that night. But maybe it was just because he was Arthur…

Still, she did think that despite his movie-star looks, and not merely because of the colour of his suit, Spencer did pale in comparison to the dapper-looking officers.

Fen was happily eavesdropping on Genie and Spencer’s conversation when a cry went up from the direction of the first-class waiting area. Fen craned her neck to see past the group of soldiers standing between her and the rope, but didn’t want to stand up and make it look like she was being too nosy.

A second shout really got her attention, though, and she couldn’t help but jump up to see what all the fuss was about. She couldn’t make out much beyond a few shouts and what sounded like an increasingly irate female voice. What made the hairs stand up on the back of Fen’s neck was when that same voice, in a tone as chilled as the icebergs that haunted the North Atlantic, cut through the squall-like dockside wind, saying, ‘Cursed! We are cursed!’

5

A moment later and the fuss had died down, but by this time the group of soldiers had shifted and Fen could now easily see the aftermath of the situation. It was the incredibly smart older woman in the fur, who was standing over the pile of cases, calling porters across, while herself trying feebly to move some of the larger pieces out of the way.

Fen strained her ears to hear what was being said and caught a few words.

‘One thing after another!… Missing now… on your head be it, young man… a king’s ransom is what it is…’

Fen watched as the woman moved various cases to one side or another, pushing them with a walking cane, while also using it to point out the heavier cases she wanted moving by the porters. The younger woman stayed by her side and nudged aside a few of the smaller cases.

Eventually the quarry was found, or at least Fen assumed it had been, as she saw the older woman point at something deep within the pile and nod, while the younger woman nodded too, and that seemed to be an end to it all. Fen hoped that James might have been able to overhear more than her and would be ready for a gossip when they met up later on board.

There must be something behind the mention of a curse, thought Fen, and she shivered as the wind blew through the harbour.

What she’d give now to be in her old Women’s Land Army kit of sensible dungarees, a warm jumper and a pair of Mrs B’s knitted socks! Whoever thought it was right and proper for women to travel in skirts had obviously never sat on their suitcase in the shadow of a vast ocean liner with the wind lashing at their ankles.

To keep her mind off the cold, Fen let her attention wander to the other passengers who were gradually filling up the waiting area. As she’d noticed before, they were mainly soldiers of the lower officer ranks, lieutenants and NCOs, but among them were civilians, too. Genie and Spencer of course, who were now deep in conversation, but also some women and children and family groups, and the odd businessman as well.

She was about to get up from her suitcase and fish around in it for The Count of Monte Cristo when she spied an entrepreneurial chap with a small table in front of him, positioned between the ropes that separated the second- and third-class holding areas. On the table were books and what looked like newspapers and periodicals.

Fen was given a promise by Genie that she’d keep an eye on her suitcase and then walked over to where the hawker was casually calling out the names of the magazines and journals he had to sell.

‘Les journals! Get your newspapers here. Press! Press! Time Magazine, Le Figaro, Daily Sketch, The Times of London.’

‘Any chance of a Daily Telegraph?’ Fen asked politely, having waited for him to finish his advertising call.

The newspaper seller was French but spoke English perfectly well. ‘I have the Telegraph, bien sûr, of course.’ He bent down and Fen saw that he had a few suitcases, much like her own, under the table. ‘Here you go, mademoiselle, the Daily Telegraph.’

‘Thank you… ah.’ Fen had taken the paper from him but a headline had caught her eye. Germany Capitulates! The King And Premier To Broadcast. ‘Excuse me, sir, but this paper is about five months old, is it really the most recent copy you have?’

‘Only a few centimes for you, mademoiselle.’

Fen frowned. She didn’t particularly need to read through a paper from back in the spring, however wonderful the news within it had been. Kitty had made sure that