The Moonlit Murders: A historical mystery page-turner (A Fen Churche Mystery Book 3)

and Fen could see that it was already becoming, even in the dull twilight, a place where passengers could pass the time with games or by milling around to escape the confines of their cabins. In this case, those gathered were looking over the wooden-topped steel wall of the deck to see what was happening on the quayside below.
Fen found a spot that wasn’t too busy and peered over the edge of the deck herself. She could see snaking lines of uniformed soldiers waiting patiently to board. That was the old adage about being in the army, that it was long periods of excruciating boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Or ‘hurry up and wait’, as Arthur used to say when he needed to be back before curfew. ‘That’s the blindingly stupid thing about all of this,’ he’d add. ‘Busting a gut to get back, only to have to go through the same old, same old the next day too.’
Fen thought about this as she watched the well-trained, or perhaps just exhausted, men of the British Army patiently wait to be ticked off the steward’s clipboard. How many moments of sheer terror had they all been through? Fen thought and then hoped, for their sakes, that they’d enjoyed some boredom too.
‘What ho!’ James tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Hello, James,’ Fen replied, not nearly as chirpily.
‘Penny for them?’ James tapped his finger to his forehead and Fen laughed. Her thoughts weren’t worth even that and she told him so. ‘It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?’ he added, joining her in leaning over the side of the deck and watching the men file in.
‘At least they’re on their way home.’ Fen didn’t want to cry, but thinking about Arthur had brought her awfully close to it and the sting in her eye of the salt in the sea breeze wasn’t helping matters either.
‘Are you glad to be going home?’ James turned to face her and Fen quickly wiped the corner of one eye with the edge of her neck scarf.
‘Oh yes, rather.’ She knew her voice sounded a little false, a bit too much forced jollity. ‘Kitty’s awfully desperate to catch up, and I miss Ma and Pa. It’s been yonks since I’ve seen them and I haven’t heard anything from my brother, though to be fair it would have been desperately hard for him to reach me, what with all these French adventures we’ve had. Rather hoping there’s a deliciously long letter waiting for me at Mrs B’s or Ma’s kitchen table.’
‘North Africa?’ James asked, and Fen nodded.
‘Until ’43, then Italy with the Eighth Army.’ They’d briefly spoken about her brother over supper one night and she’d told him all she knew of Andrew’s manoeuvres. He was a captain, like James, and as far as Fen knew was safe and heading home as she was.
‘He should be demobbed by now. Making his way back to England like me. Perhaps he’s even on this boat?’ She tried a laugh, but suddenly it seemed like the enormity of the task of finding someone among all the khaki-clad passengers would be proper needle-in-haystack stuff. It was very unlikely that he was on board, but the notion bugged her and she found it hard to draw her eye away from the mass of moss-green men on the quayside and decks below.
‘How’s your cabin?’ James asked her, sensing the time was right for a change of subject.
‘Tip-top. Private washing facilities…’ Fen raised an eyebrow and James laughed. ‘If you can call a basin and tap a washing facility. Yours?’
‘Hazard I might trump you with my bath and bidet then…’ James paused. ‘Though I reckon you’re the sort to not mind a day or two without a wash.’ He winked at her.
‘How rude!’ Fen elbowed him in the ribs. They had become used to saying those two words to each other and Fen was grateful for James’s silly sense of humour; more than once over the last few weeks, he had brought her back from the doldrums with a funny look or whispered joke. ‘In any case, you’re right. I don’t plan on bathing at all – we’ll be in Southampton before we know it, and then it’s only a short train ride back up towards Midhurst. Mrs B’s expecting me for a night so I can see Kitty and Dil, if she hasn’t left for secretarial college yet. A bath, and no doubt a large cup of steaming tea, will be forced on me upon entry, I bet!’
‘You’re lucky to have such good friends, Fen.’
‘I know I am.’ She leaned over and squeezed his arm. James blushed slightly, but he covered it up by rubbing his forehead and declaring that it was finally raining.
‘We better get inside quick, else you’ll need more than that French beret to keep you dry.’ He held his hand out to feel the first few drops of rain. ‘Come on.’
For a ship that had been requisitioned by both the French and German armies during the war, scuttled and then brought back into service – twice – and was already twenty years old to boot, well, for all of that the De Grasse wasn’t doing too badly. A very quick post-war spruce-up had left the ship looking reasonably smart, and as Fen and James walked along the promenade deck towards the dining rooms and saloon bar, she could see an arrow pointing the way to a swimming pool and an auditorium, while white markings that appeared on the wooden boards beneath her feet every so often suggested the decks could also be used for games such as shuffleboard and quoits.
Fen pointed out which porthole she thought was hers to James and he mentioned that his cabin, on the deck above, had a direct view over the sea with no fewer than three portholes.
‘How the other half live!’ Fen nudged him in the ribs and only got away without receiving one in return as they’d found their way to the grand saloon.
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