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

double doors were on swing hinges but looked like they could be bolted closed by secure fastenings at ground level when needed. Like the rest of the ship, these external doors were made of steel, with small porthole-style windows in them.
‘Shall we?’ Fen asked, as she pushed one open.
‘Excuse me,’ a quiet voice said from the other side of the now open door. It was unmistakably American and when Fen turned around, she saw the younger lady she’d spied when she’d been watching the commotion over in the first-class waiting area.
‘Awfully sorry,’ Fen moved out of her way.
‘No, no, my fault,’ the American said, and the two women laughed.
‘Only the fairer sex could make getting in and out of an open doorway into a comedy of manners,’ James said as he opened it wider so Fen could move aside for the American. ‘Miss Miller-Wright, is it?’ James gave a small bow of his head and Fen assumed he’d picked up on her name during their time in the first-class waiting area.
‘Yes, Eloise.’
‘I’m James Lancaster and this is my friend Miss Churche.’
‘Fen, please. Miss Churche sounds like an aged aunt, or someone out of an Austen novel,’ Fen said, holding her hand out to Eloise, who smiled as she took it and gave it a light squeeze rather than a shake.
‘Miller-Wright is an awful gobful too,’ she winked and smiled. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you both, but please do excuse me. I do have an “aged aunt”, as you say, and she’s expecting me in her cabin.’
‘Time – and aunts – wait for no man,’ James mused.
‘Or, in this case, woman.’ Eloise raised her eyebrows and Fen understood what she meant. Older relatives, perhaps with the purse strings tightly held, could sometimes be quite demanding.
‘Very nice to have met you.’ Fen nodded and Eloise moved past them and walked elegantly down the deck to the cabins. ‘She looked terribly smart,’ Fen said as they found a table in the saloon. ‘But then Americans often do, don’t they? No rationing for them, though I suppose Miss Miller-Wright, Eloise that is, must have been in France during the war, as I don’t imagine she would have travelled here and back since VE Day. Which reminds me, I was looking on with interest at the hullabaloo being caused on the quayside by the lady who must be her aunt; what was all that about?’
‘The case of the missing jewels… “we are cursed, we are cursed!”’ James raised his eyebrows and threw his hands into the air in mock horror, then capitulated and let Fen in on what had been happening before they’d boarded. ‘Or rather a missing jewel case. Her aunt – a Mrs Archer, I think – lost sight of one of her cases for a brief moment. All very storm-in-a-teacup-type stuff and the stewards found it almost straight away. Turned out Eloise had hidden it behind some other cases as she thought it would be safer out of sight. Cartier red is rather noticeable.’
‘Cartier, gosh. Any idea what was in it?’ Fen had thought it must be something terribly precious to have elicited such an uproar from the older woman.
‘More carats than you can shake a stick at, apparently. Anyway, sun’s past the yardarm. Fancy a snifter?’ James asked, and set off towards the bar.
‘Why not,’ agreed Fen, straightening her silk neck scarf in an effort to match the elegance of Eloise Miller-Wright and noticing other passengers gradually filling up the tables and ordering drinks. ‘When in Rome…’

8
The saloon bar on the De Grasse was a triumph of art deco design. It had obviously been remodelled in the 1930s and, despite its hard use during the war, was still glorious in its interior decoration. Glass wall panels were set in geometric shapes and coloured in reds and yellows, and the smoky-glass-topped tables were complemented by plushly upholstered bucket chairs. Around the edge of the room there were upholstered booths in horseshoe shapes around tables; perfect spots, Fen realised as she noticed other passengers sitting around them looking out towards the rest of the bar, for people watching.
The bar itself, where James was ordering a sherry for her and a whisky for himself, was made of ornately carved wood and, like that of a Parisian bistro, had mirrors behind it, each one fronted by shelves of spirits bottles, their own coloured glass adding an extra dimension to the kaleidoscopic decoration.
Fen smiled politely at the other passengers who were milling around. Some of them were obviously on their own personal reconnaissance missions, popping their heads around the glass doors that led from the grand staircase passageway to check out the lay of the land, while others were settling in with drinks before it would be necessary for the smarter passengers to change for dinner.
Fen found a free table across from the bar and sat herself down. As she waited for James, she caught sight of herself in one of the mirrored walls of the saloon and took the opportunity to check that her curls were in place and not frizzed beyond all control by the salty sea air that enveloped the ship’s decks. She was about to pout at herself to check her lipstick too, when she saw reflected in the mirror Spencer McNeal and his partner Genie. She turned to face them but instead saw James arriving with their drinks.
‘Your very good health.’ James raised his glass to Fen while passing her the small schooner of sherry. She took it and raised it in a toast to him, then took a sip. The sherry was nutty and quite delicious and reminded her of the really good stuff her father kept in his study.
‘And to you, James. Thank you for this.’ She looked around her. ‘Here’s to high society on the high seas.’
James laughed. ‘You just wait, there were some interesting types in the first-class waiting room.’
‘Waiting “hut” more like. Still, at least you had one. I was sharing a spot under some stretched