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

Fen thought about it for a bit. ‘Well, Dodman, the steward on our corridor, likened him to an albatross.’ She stopped as James coughed, having let some gammon go down the wrong way.

‘Carry on,’ he implored, once he’d cleared his throat with a swig from his wine glass.

‘So let’s call him Albert. Albert the albatross.’ Fen felt better now he had some sort of identity.

‘Well, Albert or not, I had a look through the list,’ James told Fen between mouthfuls. The food in the dining room was astonishingly good and plentiful, bearing in mind the rationing that had gone on during the war and was still rife in Britain. It occurred to her that, if the folk of Southampton had known what a floating larder the De Grasse was, they might not have let it leave the port in peace, let alone with the fanfare and marching band that it had received.

She put these thoughts to one side and chewed on her own piece of cod in a very nice Mornay sauce. Once she’d swallowed, she replied to James.

‘Did you manage to tick any names off? You know, actual putting a face to a name type of thing?’

‘A few, yes. I introduced myself to some of the chaps. I mean, it’s only the male names we need worry about, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so, though a pseudonym could be anything really. But I agree, the men are probably the best place to start. And as we know he was travelling in second class with me, we can possibly eliminate names in first class,’ Fen concluded.

‘And we don’t have names for those in third class anyway,’ James acknowledged.

‘Dodman told me that there were one hundred passengers in second and I think fifty in first class,’ Fen recollected.

‘That ties in with the list,’ said James. ‘Anyway, some of the chaps I spoke to must think I’m the most sociable dandy on board. I managed to play a frame of snooker with two brothers, the Etheringtons, have a drink with a family called the Smiths, talk politics with a…’ James looked down at a piece of paper he was holding, ‘Mr Kowalczyk, who, to be fair, might not be altogether capitalist enough for American tastes.’

‘Red?’

‘And then some.’

Fen furrowed her brow. ‘Could he have killed Albert? Reprisal, I mean, as it sounds like your Mr Kowalcyzk is Polish or Hungarian maybe? If he’s Polish, then if he found out Albert was on board…’

‘We’re assuming the victim had something to do with the Nazi administration?’ James raised the question. ‘Not just some common or garden German citizen leaving Europe for a new life?’

‘Something about the way that flag was wrapped around him and the knife then holding it in place makes me think it’s a symbol – you know, a message.’ Fen stabbed some green beans with her fork as if imitating the murder. ‘Thinking about it, he must have been killed first, then wrapped in the flag and then stabbed again. I mean, you wouldn’t happily let someone wrap you up in a swastika and stand idly by as they then pushed you into a lifeboat and stabbed you.’ She popped the beans in her mouth. Lunch really was good today.

‘I take your point,’ James agreed. ‘I’ll go and talk Marxist theories to Kowalczyk again. He owes me a drink anyway.’

‘Good work on ruling out some of those names though.’ Fen reached down and brought her own copy of the passenger list out of her handbag. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked before opening it out on the table, realising that it was terribly rude to do so mid-meal.

James nodded his blessing and she smoothed it open, then riffled about in her bag for a pen.

‘So, we have Etherington times two, the Smiths, Kowalczyk…’ She carefully crossed out names as she found them. ‘And, of course, Genie and Spencer, Eloise and Mrs A.’ Criss-cross the pen went. ‘I spoke to a rather nice young man called Lawson when Eloise and I were exploring the ship, he must be the Philip Lawson Esq here on the list. Off to drive a motorcar across the States, which sounded jolly fun. And I think Genie mentioned a George Cook the other night as he was drinking with Spencer in the bar.’

‘Quite a few left to go though.’ James tapped the tabletop with his finger before picking up his knife and fork again and using them to spear the last piece of gammon on his plate and pile it high with mustard and peas before eating it.

‘Yes… Killinghurst, Wracker-Nayman, Green, a whole family of Cheesemans… I suppose we can eliminate families as he’s on his own and I’m sure Mr and Mrs Cheeseman would notice if the passenger list suddenly birthed them another child. Couples, too, for that matter.’ Fen put a line through all the names that looked like that sort of thing. ‘Getting there now.’

They carried on eating in companionable silence until Fen purposely raised her pen again. She turned the passenger list over and on the back of the leaflet, where there was an inch or two of white space, she started clearly printing a few words down in a grid.

She couldn’t help but think the words all had some bearing on the murder but also wondered if the motive might be revenge… why else target Albert? And the flag, that ghastly symbol. It had to be a message, didn’t it? And could it perhaps have come from Le Havre, via the handsome, but definitely anti-German, First Officer Bisset?

She showed the small grid to James, who nodded sagely, but, like her, had little else he could add at this point.

Fen had barely finished her cod when a steward arrived at their table and whispered discreetly that a certain Mrs Archer requested her company in the first-class saloon.

‘Trouble?’ James asked, scooping up the last of his peas with his fork.

‘I do hope not,’ Fen sighed. ‘Better and go and see what she wants though. Can I tempt