The Moonlit Murders: A historical mystery page-turner (A Fen Churche Mystery Book 3) by Fliss Chester (best ereader for pc .txt) 📗

one of the shelves in her cupboard. ‘Oh, that’s a point.’ She remembered that she had the most wonderfully long string of pearls with her and fished them out of the velvet pouch they were in for safekeeping. A Victorian cameo brooch of her grandmother’s was in there with them and although Fen took it out for a moment and rubbed it tenderly with her thumb, she decided against wearing it, as it really wouldn’t have gone with the bright pattern on the dress.

The pearls though… they would look wonderful doubled, or even tripled, up and worn like a choker around her neck. Fen did just that and then fished back into the pouch for the cameo brooch. She suddenly realised the reason for it having a vertical pin on the back, rather than a more normal horizontal one, as she pinned it over the triple row of pearls at her throat.

Fen arched her neck as she looked at herself in the mirror, pleased with what she saw. From the neck up anyway, she thought as she compared her tamed curls and smart necklace to the aged day dress and simple pumps – the only shoes she had with her that were vaguely suitable. ‘Duchess up top, dowdy down below.’ Fen shrugged and found her smartest cardigan to pull on to keep the chill off her on the short walk from her cabin to the dining room.

‘Fen, over here!’ James waved at her from a corner of the dining room.

Fen pulled her cardigan around her, and tried to elongate her neck so that hopefully the other very smart diners would notice her pearls rather than her not-quite-smart enough dress and shoes.

‘Good spot, James,’ she greeted him as he pulled a chair out for her at the table.

The dining room was a splendid place, with upholstered chairs as comfortable as any settee she’d ever sat on, and the fabric was richly crushed velvet with a damask pattern on it in shades of gold and rust red. The tables were a mix of large round ones for six or eight diners, and a scattering of square and rectangular ones for those eating in smaller groups.

All the tables were draped in near-floor-length white tablecloths, and they glittered with silver cutlery and sparklingly clean crystal glassware. The whole room was centred around a fountain, from the top tier of which a light shone, illuminating the ceiling and causing the grand chandelier above it, replete with its own hundreds of bulbs, to sparkle even more.

‘Pretty plush, isn’t it?’ James pushed the chair in for her as she sat down. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but I rather spoke for you and accepted these places at the captain’s table.’

Fen felt a flush come over her. Blimey, the captain’s table! Thank heavens for the pearls!

‘How wonderful,’ she managed, and was glad when a waiter appeared from over her left shoulder and filled up one of the five glasses in front of her with water.

Five glasses… she thought as she took a long sip of the water and delved into the furthest reaches of her memory to when her mother had taught her how to behave at a formal dinner.

She had just started counting the tines on the forks in order to work out whether there was to be a fish course, when James greeted another couple of passengers.

Fen looked up and, with some trepidation, realised that they were to be joined tonight by the fur-wearing, order-barking aged aunt herself and, luckily, her much more friendly niece, Eloise.

‘Good evening,’ the older woman peered down her nose at Fen and then smiled more warmly at the captain and another well-dressed man who Fen thought might be something to do with the ship due to his smart mess dress uniform, as they joined them at the table.

‘Hello,’ Fen leaned over and caught Eloise’s attention.

‘Hello there,’ she replied and raised her eyebrows, indicating that conversation may be limited by the proximity of her aunt.

James interrupted this little exchange and introduced Fen to the grand, older lady. ‘Mrs Archer, may I introduce you to my good friend Miss Fenella Churche,’ James said with the confidence of someone who had obviously grown up being introduced to people in polite society.

Fen bowed her head, as she was unable to get to her feet due to the heavy chair, and she wouldn’t have dared to offer a handshake across the delicate crystalware on the table.

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ the older woman spoke, her voice low but sure of itself.

Fen wasn’t surprised that she was American, too, being the aunt of Eloise, but she was slightly intrigued by the fact that up close – or as close as you could get to someone across a six-foot round table – she didn’t look as draconian as Fen had imagined. There were lines around her lips and eyes, and her skin was soft and powdery.

If her face looked its age, her hair certainly didn’t; it was piled up in an impressive Edwardian-style pompadour, the sort that looked like the hair was pulled up to cover a round cushion on top of a lady’s head. The thought of the fearsome Mrs Archer having a pillow on her head made Fen chuckle to herself.

Still, scary she may not be, but she seemed less than interested in Fen, and much more interested, or perhaps aghast, at who else was joining them at the captain’s table. Voices had hushed so all that could be heard was the gentle chords of the grand piano playing in the corner of the dining room as Genie and Spencer McNeal made their entrance from the saloon bar.

‘Told you he was famous,’ James whispered to Fen, then waved over to the approaching Spencer.

‘I’m not sure it’s him they’re all looking at,’ Fen replied, once she’d seen what Genie had changed into for dinner. She had replaced her simple white skirt suit and teal-coloured boa with a full-length dress of shimmering sequins that had a neckline which plunged almost as low as