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

‘Yes, it is rather, not that I’ve ever been in a submarine, but I can imagine how it must have been chasing down those U-boats.’ She shuddered. ‘Anyway, Dodman, epaulettes like yours, do they come off the uniform easily?’

‘What a strange question, miss. I must say, I was not expecting that.’ He laughed. ‘I was expecting some sort of query about gross tonnage of the ship or the history of the French Line or something else to do with that German fella, but no, epaulettes… Right, well. Yes and no. Rule of thumb, the more expensive the uniform, the more easily it can be played about with, if you see what I mean. What you don’t want to do, you see, miss, is spend a pretty penny on your dinner dress as a junior officer, only to have to buy another one if you’re lucky enough to go up the ranks quick smart. You’d be lining the pockets of your tailor! So the epaulettes can come off easy enough on dinner dress and service dress unforms. But these shirts we normal stewards wear, well, they’re more affordable and you can buy a bunch at your rank from the naval stores easy enough. Why do you ask?’

Fen paused, wondering, as much as she liked this affable young man, whether she should trust him with the fruits of her investigation yet. She decided, as he pointed out another possible hazard to her in the form of a puddle of rusty water, that she could trust him. ‘I found one in the dead girl’s cabin and I’m pretty sure it’s not hers, or Spencer’s either, for that matter, although I will show it to him.’

‘Blimey, well there’s a thing.’ Dodman took off his cap and wiped his brow as they walked. It was warm down here in the bowels of the ship and Fen realised that they must be getting closer to the massive furnaces that powered the vast boat through the icy waters of the Atlantic.

‘Yes, and I wondered where, or who, it might have come from,’ Fen didn’t need to add ‘as it looks like one of you naval chaps’, as her inference was clear.

Dodman surprised her with what he said next though.

‘Of course, it could have come from a costume. There’s plenty of them in the auditorium, and I did show Miss Higginbottom round the place on Mr Bisset’s orders. She asked me if there was any chance that she and Mr McNeal could put on a show – practise, as it were, for auditions on Broadway. I let her in, as these keys open all the doors you see, miss, and left her to it. There’s a big hamper in there, large as a hot-air balloon basket it is, filled with costumes.’ He looked back at her. ‘Now, not saying she took one of them, but I do know that before the war, we had a nice stock of naval uniforms in there for the performances our on-board troupe used to do of HMS Pinafore. Lovely they were, cracking entertainment. Anyway, here we are, miss, down in the brig. Mr McNeal will see you now, as it were.’

Dodman’s chatter ended as he unbolted a large metal door, then he turned the wheel attached to it to release the seal. These wheels featured on all the doors down at this level and Fen knew they were designed to save the ship from flooding, in case a torpedo hit or a leak sprung. Needless to say, they did just as good a job at keeping murder suspects in one spot and she was soon face to face with a listless and ashen-faced Spencer McNeal.

Stubble dirtied his face and his tie was loosened to show his Adam’s apple. It was very warm and airless down here and Fen wondered if he was getting enough oxygen through all those sealed doors; perhaps Dodman was of the same idea, as he kept the door open and waited outside for Fen.

‘Spencer,’ Fen started and then paused, not knowing really what to say. She couldn’t help it, but seeing him look so dishevelled and with barely any colour to him, despite the warmth of the cell, she felt sorry for him. Had he killed his beautiful, young fiancée? Looking at him now, she’d say not, but then remorse can come after a violent act, and if ever there was a textbook study for how to look remorseful, he was sitting in front of her. Still, Fen had to say something, so she offered him her condolences. ‘Genie will be so missed by us all.’

‘And not by me?’ Spencer raised his head for the first time since Fen had walked in and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘No, of course not.’ Fen was put on the back foot by his challenging stare. And it didn’t help that she always felt awkward when it came to trying to comfort grieving people; reactions like Spencer’s just cemented in her mind how truly awful she was at it. Perhaps she would need to be more forthright and dispense of the niceties, too. ‘Did you kill her though?’

‘Why would I do that?’ His eyes, which had been boring into her, seemed less focused now, as if he were struggling to concentrate on what she, and he himself, was saying. ‘I loved her.’

‘Sometimes we hurt the people we love.’ It was the accusation, in another form, but Fen hoped the more gentle turn of phrase might elicit some more information from him.

‘We do, we do. And she did.’ Spencer leaned back against the hard metal of the cell wall.

‘She did? What do you mean?’ Fen wasn’t about to accept that Genie’s death was in any way her fault, but Spencer’s words did intrigue her.

‘Everyone thinks she’s the lucky one, a girl from a small town in the north of England, a nobody, who’s snared Radio City Music Hall star Spencer McNeal,’ he waved his hand in