The Moonlit Door

by Deryn Lake

  With a sudden surge of the accordion and a roll of drums, Mr Grimm’s Men stepped forward, their black tattercoats whirling in the sunshine of that glorious day as they began to dance a set which involved meeting in the centre and crossing to the end. The hobby horse – a new member as far as Nick could tell – stood at the side, moving its head occasionally to match the dancers’ movements. It had a vicious-looking jaw and a set of big teeth which could frighten anybody if it should decide to chase them. Which is precisely what it did once the dance was finished, heading for Araminta Beaudegrave, who had stepped out of her stall the better to see. It was trying to drag her under its swirling skirts, which she was resisting as best she could.

  Nick hesitated, not sure whether to go to her rescue or not. He took a few steps forward and a voice breathed in his ear, ‘You leave Old Oss be, Vicar. He’s only doing what comes naturally.’

  He turned round. One of the black-faced dancers was standing beside him but who it was he could not be certain. And then he saw the glinting eyes behind the dark make-up and knew.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr O’Hare, but I don’t see what is natural about frightening a girl out of her wits.’

  ‘It’s part of the maying ritual, Father. He’s trying to take her under his skirts. Get it?’

  ‘Yes, I do. But it’s not right without her consent.’

  Chris O’Hare gave a deep, low chuckle. ‘Who knows whether she has consented or not? She must be eighteen or thereabouts. A full grown woman.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough.’

  And Nick strode forward but not as fast as Sir Rufus, who suddenly shouted in a voice fit to rally the dead, ‘Leave her, Old Oss. She’s not interested.’

  The hobby horse spun round and stared at the speaker, then it snapped its horrible teeth and ran to the other side of the field where it stood pawing the ground. Nick had to laugh despite all the tension. Whoever was working it certainly knew just how a horse would behave. Meanwhile Araminta was acting in a grown-up manner and strolled nonchalantly back to her stall. Nick saw Iolanthe whisper something in her sister’s ear and Araminta nod her head and giggle.

  ‘Can you tell me how long I am supposed to stay?’ asked Patsy Quinn, who had just emerged from the fortune teller’s tent with a certain smile on her face.

  ‘Why? Do you have another engagement?’

  Patsy shook her head.

  ‘You see, I was hoping that you – and your grandmother, of course,’ Nick said hastily, ‘might come back to the vicarage for a drink. Or a cup of tea. Or whatever you’d like,’ he added lamely.

  Patsy regarded him with a long, all-encompassing stare. Then she slowly put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Do you know, I would rather like that,’ she said.

  Hidden by the trees, Daft Dickie was dancing a one-man morris.

  Ha, ha, ha, you and me,

  Little brown jug, don’t I love thee!

  ‘Now we fight with sticks,’ he said to his non-existent partner, and he snapped off an old dead branch and whirled it over his head.

  He sang lustily, his voice ringing out:

  When I go toiling on the farm

  I take the little jug under my arm;

  Place it under a shady tree,

  Little brown jug, ’tis you and me.

  At this he leapt into activity once more and danced furiously round the forest clearing.

  ‘What was that sound?’ asked Patsy, cupping her ear.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ answered Mrs Platt.

  ‘I thought I heard somebody singing.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll probably be Daft Dickie, our local tramp. Don’t worry about him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  Before Patsy could answer him, Mr Grimm’s Men went into a loud overhead battle, beating sticks together with much hilarity.

  They certainly could dance, thought Nick, watching them narrowly. Knees high, booted feet pointing, they were masters of the craft. They ended the number by throwing their sticks high with a shout of ‘Catch’, which they proceeded to do, not one man failing.

  ‘They’re very good,’ said Patsy admiringly.

  ‘Did you know that Mr Grimm is an old Sussex term for the Devil?’

  Patsy smiled. ‘How quaint.’

  ‘I suppose so. I always thought it a bit sinister.’

  ‘Well, you’re a vicar.’

  ‘I don’t see that that makes any difference.’

  ‘Oh, but it does,’ answered Patsy with much sincerity.

  It was time for the archery display and literally dozens of people charged forward hoping to participate, Patsy Quinn included. Thus the vicar was left with Mrs Platt and was trying to make conversation when he saw Olivia coming down the path, her lovely smile beaming and her arms outstretched.

  ‘Nick,’ she called. ‘Oh, how wonderful to see you.’

  The next second she had thrown herself at him, knocking his panama flying, and kissing him roundly on the cheek. Over her shoulder he saw the man she was with and nearly dropped her as a result. It was Inspector Dominic Tennant, smiling with just the hint of a wink. Nick rapidly changed his mind about the Croatian pianist!

  Dominic drew level and shook hands.

  ‘Well,’ said Nick truthfully, ‘I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you investigating anything?’

  Dominic gave his pixie grin. ‘No, just doing a little socializing. The fact is, despite its gory past, I like Lakehurst. Am I too late for the archery?’

  ‘No, they’re just starting. It’s at the far end.’

  ‘Right. Forgive me, darling,’ and he dropped a swift kiss on Olivia’s cheek.

  A curtain which had been slowly lifting in the vicar’s mind shot up to its full height.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘So he won, did he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Olivia, giving him a sideways glance.

  ‘Oh, a few years ago there was quite a gang of us … But you won’t want to know about that. May I introduce you to Mrs Platt?’

  ‘Of course, you’re the violinist. Do you know I have a recording of you playing the Tchaikovsky? It makes me cry.’

  From the butts came a shout as somebody scored a bullseye.

  ‘Well, I’m going to the tea tent. Will you join me, Miss Beauchamp?’

  ‘Will it be very rude if I say no? I would like to have a look at the various stalls and things first.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Platt, and swept away graciously.

  Nick said, ‘May I show you around?’

  ‘Of course. Though I demand privacy in the fortune teller’s tent.’

  ‘Ah, another one.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Nick laughed, and told her all about Patsy Quinn and how she had ruined all his preconceived ideas of how a pop star should look and behave.

  Olivia just nodded and Nick saw that she wasn’t really paying attention, her eyes fixed on the amateur archers where the inspector was just testing the tensity of the bow.

  In the forest Daft Dickie had climbed up to the bottom branch of a big oak tree to get a better sighting of unfolding events. He had thoroughly enjoyed the morris men and had afterwards ascended the tree to get a bird’s-eye view of the arrows which arced through the air in a vivid display that made him – though only momentarily – want to be one of the longbowmen. When the kids took over he laughed loudly at that, thinking them a raggedy bunch of snotty-nosed varmints. But then had come the turn of the adults and he had particularly admired one girl in particular. Squinting at her hard he had realized that she was Queen Guinevere of storybook fame and a strange feeling possessed him, a sensation that was absolutely foreign to his nature. Just for a moment he wondered if he was Prince Lancelot – or whatever his name was – and then he became too interested in the arrows to think about it any more.

  Yet that night, when he had made himself a den beneath the hedge, he thought of her, of the golden glow about her, of the way she had looked when she turned her
head to speak to the longbowman who was showing her how to pull the string, of the lovely bones of her face. For no reason that he understood, Daft Dickie began to cry, tears trickling through the dirt on his sad, weather-beaten cheeks. Then he remembered that he had a tin of cider in his pocket so he straightened his back and sang a farewell to the forest:

  ’Tis you that makes me friends and foes,

  ’Tis you that makes me wear old clothes,

  But seeing you’re so near my nose,

  Tip her up and down she goes.

  Then he drank the contents and settled down to a night’s sleep in the hedgerows.

  SEVEN

  ‘As it was the night of the fair, the Great House was packed with visitors as well as the regulars. Jack Boggis was looking extremely pained as some sightseer had taken ‘his’ chair and he was forced to sit elsewhere. To add insult to injury a passing customer had accidentally tipped a beer mug in the direction of his newspaper, leaving the Daily Telegraph, in a sodden condition. The greatest affront of all was that absolutely nobody was taking any notice of him.

  Father Nick had stayed until the fair closed, somewhat amused by and definitely enjoying the company of Patsy Quinn. He had received the mildest form of tingling pleasure whenever Miss Quinn was asked for her autograph, and had gone on to wonder how many of the viewing public watched Britain’s Got Stars. A lot, it would seem.

  Having discreetly got rid of Grandma, Patsy had insisted on going to the Great House where she had been mobbed by a horde of eighteen to twenty-five-year-olds clamouring for her signature. Nick had received many appraising glances as he was obviously escorting her. Kasper had bounded up enthusiastically.

  ‘Good evening, Nick. I was at the fair but couldn’t catch up with you. Who is the glamorous Queen Guinevere?’

  ‘Patsy Quinn.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. She apparently was a runner-up on a television talent show. But she’s actually delightful. I’ll introduce you when she stops signing.’

  ‘It must have been a popular show.’

  ‘Indeed it must.’

  The door opened and Major Hugh Wyatt squeezed his way in. He caught the vicar’s eye.

  ‘Evening, Father Nick. That was a damned good event you organized today. I thought it went awfully well.’

  ‘Hello, Major. I saw you scoring bullseyes in the archery contest. Couldn’t reach you for a chat, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Did you see Belle dancing round the maypole?’

  ‘She was the little blonde one with her hair flying out, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Absolutely. Melissa was so proud.’

  ‘I’m sure. I thought all the children were very good. Miss Dunkley must be a dedicated teacher.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I believe she is. Belle doesn’t like her but then she doesn’t like being told what to do. A very strong-minded young lady is my granddaughter.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Major?’

  ‘That’s very kind. I’ll have half a bitter, please.’

  Kasper spoke. ‘How is Belle these days?’

  ‘Very well. She doesn’t really get ill. She’s a remarkable child.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Tell me, who is the beautiful young lady that the vicar has been squiring round all day?’

  ‘Apparently it is a Miss Patsy Quinn. I think she won a contest on television, or at least she was runner-up.’

  ‘I came fifth, actually,’ said a voice behind them, and both men turned to see Miss Quinn in all her resplendent loveliness, standing behind them. She held out her hand to them both. ‘My connection with Lakehurst is that my grandmother lives here and I don’t think the organizing committee could find anyone better to open the fair.’

  They both began apologizing and Kasper said in his best Polish way, ‘They could not have found anyone more beautiful if they had scoured the country.’

  Miss Quinn laughed. ‘Oh, you silken-tongued flatterer.’

  At that moment the major’s mobile bleeped and he withdrew it from his pocket and stepped outside. Nick returned.

  ‘Where’s the major?’

  ‘His mobile just bleeped.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Kasper said, rather too casually, ‘Have you seen anything of Olivia?’

  Nick could not help it, he simply couldn’t, but the love of a good gossip rose within him.

  ‘I saw her at the fair today – and guess who she was with.’

  Kasper looked blank. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘The Inspector. Dominic Tennant.’

  ‘Good God. So he won.’

  ‘Looks like it, yes.’

  Patsy interrupted. ‘Are you talking about Olivia Beauchamp? I know she lives somewhere near here.’

  ‘She has a weekend cottage up at Speckled Wood.’

  ‘I think one could say that about someone who has truly arrived.’

  Before anyone could utter a word about this fascinating point, the major came back in, looking slightly pale.

  ‘I’m sorry, everyone, I’ll have to go. Apparently the cat has had a bad accident and Melissa needs the car to take him to the vet’s.’

  ‘What’s the matter, do you know?’

  ‘He must have caught his tail in something and he’s bleeding profusely and the tail is hanging on by a thread.’

  ‘Oh, go now,’ said Patsy, with sympathy.

  ‘What a terrible thing to happen,’ said Nick, and absently downed the major’s bitter in practically one swallow.

  As soon as the car turned into the drive Melissa was out of the house carrying a cat basket.

  ‘Oh, Hugh, thank God you’re back. Poor Samba. I think he’s dying.’

  ‘I’ll take you to Malcolm’s surgery now. Where’s Belle?’

  ‘Oh, I called in Mrs Betts. She’s sitting with her.’

  ‘Good.’

  The wheels screeched as Hugh turned the car rapidly in the drive and they set off for Lakehurst village where the vet had a practice in the High Street. An hour later it was all over. The unconscious Samba – minus a tail, the wound stitched and the blood flow stemmed – was back in the basket and they were heading for Wisteria Lodge, Melissa weeping quietly with relief, the major grim-faced.

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. It looked as if it had been cut to me. He must have caught it on something outdoors. Thank God I found him or he would have bled to death.’

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘Collapsed in the garden. Oh, darling, it was like a murder. He was covered in blood, poor thing.’

  ‘How did Belle take it?’

  ‘Oh, she wept and howled. She seemed terribly upset. What with her and the cat, I hardly knew which way to turn.’

  Hugh removed a hand from the wheel and covered one of Melissa’s. ‘Don’t worry any more, darling. I’m back now.’

  She gave him a loving squeeze in return. ‘It’s not just poor Samba, there was something else as well.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That damned old fortune teller at the fair.’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me you went to her.’

  ‘Yes, I did. While you were in the beer tent.’

  ‘Well, what did she say?’

  ‘She actually told me about the cat and said somebody was going to hurt it.’

  ‘Good heavens! Did she say who?’

  ‘No. But she said we must be very careful. That there was somebody evil who hung round us, who wished us no good.’

  Hugh slowed the car and parked it at the roadside. ‘You didn’t actually believe all that rubbish?’

  ‘I tried not to – but she was so accurate about the poor cat.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’

  ‘No, but she kept warning me to be on the lookout. Oh, Hugh.’

  And Melissa, such a cool blonde who rarely gave displays of emotion, burst into tears. Hugh sat in silence, looking at her. He loved the very bones of her, had shared such sorrow and anguish with this attr
active, kind woman that he had to control his own emotions not to cry as well. He knew, of course he did, that these fortune teller people just said anything to please at these country fairs, but nonetheless it was – odd. Why should she mention the cat, of all things?

  He turned to Melissa and said gently, ‘I think we’d better be getting back. Poor old Samba will be coming round soon and I’m sure he’d rather be at home than in the back of the car.’

  Melissa turned to him and said, ‘I really do love you, Hugh. You’re so sweet.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely, and turned the keys in the ignition.

  Returning to the vicarage much later that evening, Nick Lawrence – minus Miss Patsy Quinn, who had decided to spend the night at her grandmother’s – felt tired yet tremendously happy. The day had been a triumph in every way. From Mr Grimm’s Men to the little children whizzing round the maypole, everyone had aimed to please. The archery contest had been a triumph – and a naughty smile appeared at Nick’s mouth as he recalled Inspector Tennant shooting arrows for all he was worth. So the police officer had made a move in Olivia’s direction which had obviously been successful. A few days ago Nick might had felt a tinge of envy but the revelation of Miss Quinn’s charm had changed all that. He had arranged to see her in church tomorrow morning and was very content with that.

  Radetsky came through the cat flap and Nick suddenly remembered Hugh’s tale of an injured cat. He looked at his watch and saw that it was too late to ring and enquire but wrote a note to himself to do so in the morning. Above his head William, his resident ghost, strode across the landing and Nick smiled to himself. All was well. But the minute he had that thought a nasty picture crossed his mind. He saw a cat lying injured and bleeding, its great eyes open and staring at the sky, and for no reason at all he felt a definite shiver of apprehension.

  EIGHT

  As had happened to him a few times before, Daft Dickie Donkin woke in the moonlight to feel something sitting on his chest. Yet even before he opened his eyes he knew that this was heavier than the usual rat or squirrel, a bigger creature, more like a dog fox or a full-grown badger. With great cunning – or so it seemed to him – he punched whatever it was hard and raised his eyelids simultaneously. There was a squeal and Dickie looked briefly into the face of a demon before the creature ran into the depths of the woods, letting out a high pitched yelp as it went. Dickie slowly staggered to his feet, muzzy with sleep and too much cider. By now the yelps had grown faint and pursuit did not seem like a promising prospect. Instead Dickie decided to walk through the woods and get the smell of its earthy familiarity.