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

they had had all the papers on VE Day, even the Mid-Sussex Herald, which had been doing its own reporting on the celebrations in Midhurst and Petworth.
Fen was about to hand the paper back to the vendor with her apologies for wasting his time, when a thought struck her. She flipped it over and, to her relief, old as the newspaper was, the cryptic crossword on the back page was unmarked. Any previous owner of this paper hadn’t chosen to do it, and even though some recent headlines from home would have been welcome, a fresh and untouched crossword was even more so.
She found the necessary coins in her purse and handed them over to the grateful vendor and turned to leave, her eyes already scanning the clues. Not a moment later a bump to her shoulder brought her back to reality with a jolt.
‘Entschuldigung, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh,’ Fen looked up in astonishment. Had he just spoken in German? He was a round-faced man in his mid-to-late fifties, Fen guessed, and almost completely bald except for a few wisps of blond hair above his ears. He had round glasses on, which were so thick in the lens that his pale blue eyes seemed abnormally large.
‘Forgive me.’ He gave a slight bow to Fen and it wasn’t lost on her that perhaps he spoke not only for himself but for his whole nation.
He turned away from her and spoke a few words of French to the newspaper vendor, who either hadn’t spotted his German accent or didn’t care – centimes were centimes, whoever’s purse they came from.
Fen backed away from the German man, not sure what her feelings were towards him. He had done nothing himself to harm her or her loved ones, she assumed, and yet his countrymen had been responsible for so much pain and suffering over the last few years. She stared, unable to take her eyes off him.
Who was he? The question thundered around her head as she watched him efficiently and politely complete his transaction with the newspaper vendor. Had she misheard? Maybe she’d imagined it all and he hadn’t said something in German at all?
She shook her head as if it were her ears’ fault, and then folded the paper and slipped it under her arm as she wrapped her coat more firmly around her. She would do well to remember, she told herself, that not all Germans were Nazis and, however much she couldn’t forgive their cruelty, this man may have been persecuted by those in power, too. But there had been a look about him as he calmly bought his newspaper, one she couldn’t put her finger on, a look that reminded her of the old farm cat at Mrs B’s who sedately licked his lips and cleaned his ears as half a mouse lay under a paw.
Fen was caught up in her thoughts as she walked back towards Genie, Spencer and her suitcase. A loud and sudden hooooonk from the ship’s horn made her jump, and after that noise the atmosphere in the waiting areas seemed to change from mild forbearance at the wait to a more charged and impatient feeling.
‘When are they gonna let us on this darn boat? Reckon it’s manned by rookies?’ Spencer said to no one in particular, while Genie floofed her boa around her shoulders and gave a dramatic shiver before chiming out a few notes.
‘La, la, la, la, laaaaa. Oh this cold and wet will ruin my vocal cords.’ Genie pulled on Spencer’s sleeve, but he brushed her off as he saw one of the De Grasse’s crew enter the waiting area.
‘Ahoy there,’ he shouted over to the official in the uniform of the French Line, but the man with a clipboard and a rather wonderful handlebar moustache didn’t look up. Instead, he started calling out names and Fen saw her fellow passengers pick up cases and form an orderly queue in front of him. A large gangplank had been lowered from the deck of the ship and she noticed that similar ones had been placed along the quayside at each of the waiting areas.
Fen stood up and patted down the creases in her old trench coat. She made sure her long chestnut curls weren’t tucked into her collar and adjusted the red beret that she’d found in Paris.
‘Not quite as smart as those ladies in first class,’ she murmured to herself as she reached into her handbag to pull out her compact. Before she could find it, however, she heard her name being called. ‘Here! C’est moi!’ she responded, waving to the man with the marvellous moustache, who duly checked her name off the sheet.
She moved to the back of the queue and looked over to where the first-class passengers were already boarding. She caught sight of James walking up the gangplank, his old duffel kitbag slung over his shoulder and his newer suitcase grasped in one hand. Behind him, a few other men, seemingly travelling alone, followed, and then she saw the porters passing the items of luggage that belonged to the smart-looking lady in the fur to each other, a chain of them needed to get all of the cases on board.
As Fen herself inched forward in her own queue, she watched as the two first-class women, such glamorous ladies, boarded the ship, and she made a mental note to ask James if he’d found out anything about them and their apparent curse.
Behind her in the queue now she saw Genie – she hadn’t caught her surname – and Spencer McNeal, him carrying the suitcases as she wrapped her feather boa tighter around her neck and gave a dramatic shudder. Behind them, more passengers lined up, each one responding to their name and finally Fen saw, just as she was edging forward towards the gangplank, the man who’d bumped into her at the newspaper stand.
He must have let his guard down when he apologised to me, she thought to herself, noticing that no one