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

of tea was placed in front of him.
Fen rolled her eyes at him and removed her handbag from the table as her own teacup was put down.
James asked the waiter what food was available and, with not much choice, they both went for cheese on toast, although the waiter did give it the fancier French name of croque-monsieur.
‘It reminds me of Dilys, who was lodged at Mrs B’s during the war, too,’ Fen said, hoping James had forgotten his teasing. ‘She was from the Welsh valleys and sometimes, Sunday nights in particular, she’d make us all Welsh rarebit. Kitty couldn’t get it into her head that it wasn’t called Welsh rabbit, and kept wondering when Dil would produce the bunny from the grill.’
James grinned and nodded. ‘I always thought it was Welsh rabbit, too.’
‘I say,’ Fen changed the subject again. ‘Who do you think those two are over there?’ She gestured towards the young woman with the boa and her companion. ‘They look like movie stars compared to the rest of us.’
James turned and looked, but timed it badly so that he was caught in the act by the chap in the pale blue suit.
‘Mind your own business, buddy-o,’ the slick-haired man called over in an American accent and James politely waved a hand and turned back to Fen.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered, and then started giggling as she saw a red blush gradually cover his face. ‘Rather landed you in it then.’
James shook his head and laughed. ‘I see what you mean though; those two stick out more than a peacock in a henhouse.’
‘Two very beautifully turned-out peacocks.’ Fen could only be drawn away from staring at the beautiful feather boa when their cheese on toasts arrived, suspiciously quickly.
As feared, they definitely weren’t a patch on the croque-monsieurs of the Parisian cafés, neither were they anything as tasty as Dilys’s Welsh rarebit, laced with mustard and made with a slosh of beer in the melted cheese, but Fen and James were hungry, so they cut eagerly into the rubbery tops of the cheese-coated toast and slurped their tea.
As they ate, it was easy enough to pick up on conversations on nearby tables and it wasn’t long before Fen’s ear caught the American accent of the man in the pale blue suit. He was telling some other poor soul off for looking at ‘his doll’, which Fen assumed must mean the glamorous girl in the boa.
She stole another glance over to them. Whoever the girl was, it wasn’t just her boa or tight white skirt suit that was attracting all the attention. She had a beautiful face and light, golden curls that tumbled down and nestled in the feathers of the boa.
Chewing on the crust of her piece of toast, Fen noticed that the other woman’s lips were perfectly rouged, a Cupid’s bow neatly pencilled in and the rest filled in with a real pillar-box red. I wonder what shade that is? Fen thought to herself, touching her own lips with the edge of a paper napkin, hoping the grease and crumbs from her plate weren’t transferring themselves to her chin.
The pretty woman with the man in the pale suit wasn’t eating; she merely sipped from her own steaming cup of tea while her companion continued to tongue-lash any man who looked in her direction.
It wasn’t as if she was actively making eyes at the young soldiers around her, but Fen realised that, herself aside, this beautiful young woman was quite possibly the only female, save nurses and refugees of course, that many of these brave boys had seen in a long time. A sight for some very sore eyes perhaps. And although Fen herself was a few years older than the glamorous girl in the boa, she wasn’t being ignored either. She couldn’t fail but notice several pairs of those sore eyes linger on her, however, there was something about James’s calm presence next to her that meant she wasn’t such a target.
‘All done?’ James asked, checking his watch. ‘It’s almost three now. I reckon once we’ve been through the ticket hut and had all our paperwork stamped and double-stamped, it’ll be embarkation time.’
‘Wonderful.’ Fen dabbed the paper napkin to her lips again and then picked up her handbag and checked her appearance in her compact mirror once more.
‘What an adorable compact,’ the voice in her ear made her jump.
Fen had been fishing around for her favourite Revlon red lipstick, but turned to see the girl in the boa standing over her. Before she could answer, or introduce herself, the young woman was beckoned away by her ever-conscientious gentleman friend. Fen watched them leave and wondered who they were.
She clicked her compact shut and looked at it with fresh eyes. It was rather lovely, a present from her mother, and her heart beat a little quicker knowing that she was on her way home.

4
‘Mademoiselle, this way please,’ the clerk called Fen over and she picked up her case.
James gave her a cheery ‘see you soon’ sort of wave as he headed over to the first-class passengers’ waiting area. To say there was a vast difference in the waiting zones, or enclosures as they felt like, would be to exaggerate. As far as Fen could see, it was only the people themselves that one could play ‘spot the difference’ with.
The areas were roped off from each other, but each one took up a large space on the quayside. Fen noticed that although there must be significantly fewer first-class passengers, they still had as large a waiting zone as her second-class one and, in turn, the third-class and steerage passengers were all expected to fit in areas of the same size, although there were vastly more of them waiting to board.
Nothing changes, Fen thought, remembering the carriages on the train that had brought them from Paris to Rouen. James had insisted in that instance on paying for her to go first class, as the second-class carriages, although the same length and as