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

‘Well, if that’s the case, miss, then yes, of course, if you think he was responsible for a theft from your good self.’

‘I do, Dodman, I do.’ Fen touched his arm and saw the blush flow up from his neck to his rounded cheeks. She knew she was appealing to his anti-German, and perhaps pro-Fen, feelings and felt guilty doing so, but needs must. ‘I would so appreciate two minutes to check that he didn’t pick it up from the floor if I dropped it at that moment. You see, he did give me the most terrible shock.’

‘I can imagine, miss, a nice young lady like you would be horrified to come across a brute like that.’ Dodman had started to move towards the German’s cabin and Fen knew her ploy had worked. She hated taking advantage of someone’s weakness, but she had to get in that cabin.

A few moments later and Dodman had turned his key in the cabin’s lock. ‘In you go, miss,’ he said. ‘I will be out here though, so don’t be long in case I get called away and have to lock you in!’ He gave a nervous laugh at this, but Fen took his point. He was putting his job on the line to defy the captain and help her, and she owed it to him not to dally.

She gave him a quick smile and cheeky salute and slipped into the cabin. It was dark, with the curtains drawn, as they must have been when the German left his cabin for the last time.

Was he lured out? Or had he gone adventuring after dark as the only time he could risk not being seen? Although he was seen, of course… Fen pondered these things as she switched on the electric light, not wanting to open the curtains in case someone saw her nosing around.

The cabin was as well and chintzily appointed as her own and, much like hers, had a small Formica-topped table opposite the bed, and a basin and mirror next to it. As in her own cabin, a separate WC completed the facilities. Fen took it all in with a sweep of the room.

What caught her eye was a pile of papers on the table, weighted down as if to protect them from a strong breeze by a compact German to English dictionary. Fen picked it up and, almost without thinking, popped it in her trouser pocket. The paperwork underneath was interesting, mostly forms it seemed, the sort you’d fill out at customs. Fen flicked through it and let out an involuntary gasp when she discovered Albert’s real name.

‘Ernst Fischer…’ she whispered. ‘So that’s who you are. We can stop calling you Albert the Albatross now.’

Beneath the forms were drawings and schematics, a project he was working on, perhaps? They made no sense to her, but she spotted the name of the institution from which they came, the Peenemünde Institute, and below them some certificates of employment from a company called Schwarzkopf. Those names meant nothing to Fen, but she mouthed them a couple of times to help her remember them to tell James, who might know more about German science institutes.

A gentle cough from outside the cabin door informed Fen that her two minutes were almost up. She looked again at the paperwork and on a final flick-through saw something that made her heart skip a beat. Below a form on American Embassy-headed paper, no less, that seemed to be ensuring Fischer’s safe passage and new life in America, she found a note, written on De Grasse-headed paper. It was in German, and as her knowledge of the language wasn’t good enough to translate right away, she hurriedly folded the note and slipped it into her pocket alongside the dictionary.

But the paper she saw that shocked her the most, the one that sent a shiver down her spine, was a blueprint covered in technical drawings. The design’s conical nose and flared stabilising fins meant that even a casual observer like herself couldn’t mistake what it was. A rocket. And one with a chillingly simple name pencilled on to the top of the blueprint: V-2.

36

Fen thanked Dodman, who locked up the cabin door behind her and scurried away without asking her if she had found her precious pen or not. Fen was sure that Dodman had never once believed her story, but it would have given him plausible deniability, and that was the point. She wondered what the steward must think of her, rummaging through a dead man’s papers. That he was a rocket scientist was now firmly evidenced. And one who was being welcomed to America.

‘But why?’ Fen asked James once she’d found him in the café terrace, with a steaming pot of coffee in front of him.

‘Where did you say the paperwork was from?’ James asked, pouring her a cup, which Fen gratefully received.

‘Peenemünde, an institute there, I think, and also a company called Schwarzkopf.’ Fen closed her eyes, trying to remember exactly what she had seen. ‘There were blueprints there too. Probably very valuable ones if they got into the wrong hands, though you could argue it’s the wrong hands from which they’re coming. They were for something very rocket-shaped called a V-2.’

‘Vergeltungswaffe.’ James shook his head.

Fen pulled out the German dictionary she’d pocketed from the cabin, but James translated for her before she could look it up.

‘It means retribution. The V-2s were being designed in Peenemünde and tested in the Baltic. Their aim was to develop a long-range missile that could hit Allied targets without the need for endangering pilots’ lives in bombing raids.’

‘Gosh.’ Fen let it sink in for a moment. ‘How do you know all this?’

James coughed and mumbled about things being on a ‘need-to-know basis’ and ‘listening stations’ and Fen shook her head and lightly covered her ears.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t need to know, but it’s interesting. And Schwarzkopf? Did you ever come across that name?’

‘Yes, in fact that was something we