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

them, the big liners stacked up awaiting their passengers, great whales of boats ready to scoop up Jonahs and ferry them home.
‘This way then, I guess.’ She pointed towards the great ships and James nodded.
‘There might be a crêpe stand by the pier,’ James said rather hopefully, his thoughts back on his stomach again.
Fen picked up her suitcase and followed James as he set off along the road. She couldn’t help but think of the families and businesses that would have thrived here before the bombs had destroyed their homes and shops. War had been a perilous time indeed, and although she’d lost the love of her life, she counted her blessings that her family, her dear Mama and Papa, and her friends in West Sussex, Mrs B, Kitty and Dilys, were all safe.
It was a matter of days now before she would be with them all again. That thought helped her trudge the length of the desolate road that led to the port; helped her hold back the tears as she passed stone cairns that acted as makeshift grave markers and helped her keep up with James as his long strides took him towards the ships, towards home.

3
Much to Fen, and James’s, relief, the docks were much more bustling than the bombed-out town. Small launches and barges ferried uniformed soldiers to various piers and the larger ships that were anchored a little way out. Prefab cabins like that of the bus station had sprung up around the quayside, some acting as temporary ticket offices and military sorting stations, others serving as makeshift shops and tea rooms.
It reminded Fen of the NAAFI stores her brother, Andrew, had written to her about. NAAFI stood for the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes and was shorthand for stores where you could boost your rations with a bar of chocolate or lay your hands on an extra pair of warm, woollen socks.
James seemed at home in the mix of soldiers and civilians and found a way through the general melee to where a welcoming-looking Nissen hut was home to a rather delicious smell and, more than that, the food that went with it.
‘Looks like we’re in luck, Fen,’ he said as he tipped his hat to the waiter who was standing proprietarily at the door.
A few words in French, and a few coins to boot, secured them a small table in the corner of the building next to the window, which was steamed up from the constant boiling of the tea urn and thirty or so diners squeezed in together around Formica tables.
Fen reached up and opened the top flap of the window next to them, then loosened her scarf and shrugged off her old trench coat. She had been worried that the makeshift building, with its terribly thin walls, might be cold inside, what with winter’s chill now firmly in the air, but the brisk walk from the bus stop, and the steamy air in the café, was enough to keep her toasty warm.
‘Two teas please, monsieur.’ James raised a hand to catch the waiter’s attention and Fen noticed the Frenchman shake his head as he wrote the order down on a small pad.
‘He must be bored to the back teeth of serving English tea,’ Fen remarked, looking around at the number of thick white china teacups and saucers on the tables. ‘I suppose it’s all the soldiers and ex-pats want though, isn’t it?’
‘We could have made his day and ordered black coffee and a shot of cognac,’ James paused and chuckled to himself, ‘though I should imagine we’d be on the hundredth use of the coffee grounds, if that’s what they even are.’
Fen smiled at him and nodded in agreement. Yes, James was certainly in a much better mood and Fen was pleased to see it. Arthur had asked her to keep an eye on him, and she had been happy to accept his last request, even if at times James’s sullen moods had troubled her.
She’d found out in a letter from her friend Kitty, who had done some digging in the local library, that James was actually a member of the British aristocracy. This was something Fen would have struggled to believe when she’d first met him, due to his grubby farm clothes, unkempt sandy mop of hair and general ill-mannered behaviour. But he was the heir to his late father’s estate, having lost both his parents in the London Blitz and his older brother, Oliver, in Dunkirk. James Lancaster was now the Viscount Selham, and Fen wondered if even he hadn’t quite come to terms with it all himself.
She looked around the room at the other customers. Most were Allied soldiers, and of them most were British, the dull khaki of their uniforms creating a swamp-like colour in this already tropically steamy café.
Standing out from the dark green wool, however, was a blaze of bright colour. A woman in her mid-twenties was sitting at a table with a man, not in uniform but in a pale blue suit, his hair Brylcreemed into a super smooth slick. She was dressed in what looked like a white jacket and matching pencil skirt. Fen spotted the most marvellous teal-coloured feather boa around the young woman’s shoulders and its gaiety of colour among the dullness of the khaki around it reminded Fen of the time she caught sight of a kingfisher against the murk of a riverbank, and it made her smile.
It also made her snap open the catch of her own handbag and pull out her little compact mirror. Fen wasn’t a vain woman, but she did live her life by the maxim that it was ‘nice to look nice’ and she didn’t like to miss an opportunity to check that her red lipstick was just so and her long chestnut hair was still, as far as possible, neatly curled in its victory-roll style.
‘Careful, you’ll catch some junior officer’s eye if you look too fancy,’ James joked as a steaming cup