The Moonlit Door

by Deryn Lake

  Potter spoke up. ‘We’re not questioning that at all, Mr …?’

  ‘Just call me Ned.’

  ‘Not Kelly, by any chance?’ quipped Tennant.

  Ned peered at him, saw that the inspector was smiling and grinned himself. ‘Now he was a naughty boy. But he’s regarded as something of a Robin Hood in Oz. All I can recall of him is an ancient film with Mick Jagger wearing a bucket on his head. It was a sight that haunts me.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. But, that apart, we are here to ask some questions about Billy. You know who we’re talking about?’

  ‘Yes, poor little bastard. Billy Needham. He was just dumped here, you know. Which shows the contrast in different people. His parents were killed in a car accident and his uncle, a total wanker in my opinion, just dumped him on us, paid the fee and motored off. He sends a cheque every term and never shows up. Now Billy’s school friend, young Belle, had just the same bad luck but her grandparents have given her a wonderful home and spoil the kid rotten. Life’s a bitch.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tennant reflectively. ‘It certainly can be. Now, Ned, did you spend last night here or was it your time off?’

  ‘No, I was here. I was on duty till eleven, which means I sat at the night desk at the bottom of the stairs. Then Rob Berry came to do the late shift and I went out for a walk.’

  There was an unspoken quickening of interest.

  ‘Where did you go exactly?’ asked Potter, who had been writing in his notebook throughout the conversation and now gave Ned a glance which was meant to be nonchalant but instead was steely, making the Australian think that the young man still had a lot to learn from his boss.

  ‘Just out to get a breath of air and have a fag.’

  ‘In which direction did you walk?’

  ‘To the left. Towards the fields.’

  ‘Did you see anybody?’

  ‘Yes, I did as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘First, a girl I didn’t recognize, except that she was in fancy dress.’

  Tennant sat forward. ‘What sort of girl? Can you describe her? It would be helpful.’

  ‘To be honest with you, I barely did more than glance at her. But I thought it well odd that she should be out walking on her own dressed like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ said Potter.

  ‘Sort of elfin style. A long, flowing dress made of some light colour. Like a kind of hippie.’

  ‘Was she tall or short, fat or thin, fair or dark?’

  Ned looked at them reproachfully. ‘Look, fellas, I only walked past the girl. I didn’t stop and talk to her. I just got an impression as she went by. I’m sorry if I’m being difficult but that is truly all there was to it.’

  Tennant leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry, Ned. If you do remember anything further please ring me on this number.’ He passed a card. ‘Now, was there anybody else?’

  ‘Yeah, Chris O’Hare. All got up like a dish of fish in his morris man’s outfit. Gave me quite a start actually because he was standing stock-still. I thought for a minute that it was a scarecrow until he spoke to me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much. Asked if I had been to the fair and what I thought of it. I said no, I was planning to go today.’

  ‘Are you sure it was O’Hare? I mean they all look very alike, especially with that black make-up on.’

  ‘Yes, it was him all right. I recognized his voice.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Ned. I take it that you saw no one else?’

  ‘No, that was enough for one night. After that I turned round, came home and went straight to bed.’

  Outside, in the car, Tennant said, ‘I wonder who the woman was.’

  ‘Got anyone in mind?’

  ‘No. Nearly all the women at the fair – including Olivia – made an effort and dressed up. There were tons of females in flowing frocks around.’

  Potter looked puzzled. ‘Well, we’ll have to wait on that one.’

  ‘At the moment I’m more interested in Mr O’Hare.’

  ‘Sounds a bit of a weirdo to me.’

  ‘They all are. All of his troop. The scariest bunch of morris men I ever set my eyes on.’

  Dickie Donkin had had a bad fright because the young policeman had stopped him and asked him what he was doing. He had made no answer but had just stood with his body in a poor little imitation of being at attention.

  ‘It’s all right, mate. I’m not going to hurt you. What were you doing hanging round here? This is a police cordoned-off area, you know.’

  Dickie had hung his head but made no answer. The constable had peered at him closely.

  ‘All right. I’ll let you off this time but you’d better scarper. Vamoose. Go and find some other woods to hang about in.’

  Dickie’s arm had come up in a semblance of a salute then he had turned and sped off in the direction of Foxfield.

  The constable had smiled to himself. He had a cousin who was born autistic and the signs were all too familiar to him. Having watched Dickie’s retreating form, he had continued his steady tour of the woods.

  ‘Poor catkin,’ said Belle, her tears flowing freely down her pale cheeks. ‘Poor little catkin.’

  Melissa was busying herself around the Aga, making an apple pie which Hugh was very partial to. She had placed Samba’s basket close by so that he could feel the warmth and Belle was getting in the way every time she opened the door.

  ‘Darling, do you have to sit quite so close?’ she remonstrated.

  ‘Oh, Mummy!’ The face turned towards Melissa was one of tragic reproof. ‘I’m only trying to comfort my poor cat. How could someone do a terrible thing like that to her?’

  ‘Darling, he might have been run over by a car. We don’t know that it was a person.’

  ‘But the vet said—’

  ‘The vet said it looked more like a cut but he couldn’t say what the actual cause was.’

  ‘Can I see the stump?’

  ‘No, you can not. The vet has amputated the tail and bound the remainder up. You are not to touch it, do you hear me?’

  For answer Belle rose to her feet and stalked out of the kitchen, tears pouring freely. Melissa gave a loud sigh. If that had been one of her own two boys she would have shouted at them to go into the garden and do something useful, but Belle was different. She was a girl, she had an adorable face, and above all she was sensitive. Melissa fought down an impulse to run after her grandchild and comfort her. But one had to show authority sometimes, she told herself. Instead she continued to busy herself in the kitchen, tripping over the small stool which was not in its usual place. She picked it up and as she did so there was a strong aroma of bleach. She supposed that Hugh must have spilled something on it and set about cleaning it up. Then she thought of poor Samba and suspected that he had perhaps bled on it.

  When Hugh had returned from Afghanistan, sickened by the killing and mutilation of his gallant and youthful soldiers, he had got a part-time job doing other people’s gardens. The number of widowed ladies and elegant divorcees who employed him spoke for itself. But Melissa never doubted for one minute that Hugh loved her and her alone. Meanwhile he cheerfully pulled up weeds and pruned roses and was out of the house for several hours a day. Melissa thought that their way of life was to be highly recommended and with a smile on her lips arranged some flowers in a vase, then picked up a magazine. The telephone ringing broke her cheerful mood. It was a man’s voice, light and well-spoken.

  ‘Hello, could I speak to Major Wyatt, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s out at the moment. Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Tennant. I’m from the Sussex Police.’

  Melissa’s knees buckled. The memory of how she had been informed of the ghastly crash, of which Isabelle had been the sole survivor, dropped over her like a black hood. She felt her way to a chair and crumpled into it. The man spoke again.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she gasped.r />
  ‘You’re clearly not. Just hang on a second or two and I’ll come to see you. My car is very close to your house.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ Melissa’s voice sounded like somebody else’s. ‘Has there been an accident?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Tennant was being ultra urbane. ‘It’s just about a school friend of your granddaughter’s. That’s all.’ He rang off before she could ask another question.

  Despite the early hour Melissa went to the sideboard and poured herself a weak gin and tonic.

  By the time she had consumed it and was contemplating a refill, Tennant was knocking on the front door. She contemplated him instead. A good-looking man of about forty, with twinkly green eyes and rather long curly hair. He was holding his identification badge, at which she stared blankly.

  ‘May I come in, Mrs Wyatt?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry if my phone call upset you. It’s not bad news as far as you are concerned. It’s about Billy Needham, a school friend of your granddaughter. I’m sorry to say that the poor child was murdered last night.’

  ‘Oh, how horrible,’ said Melissa, going white as a cloud. ‘Where did this happen?’

  ‘At the fairground, after everyone had gone home.’

  The door swung open at this point and Isabelle stood in the entrance. ‘Oh, Mummy,’ she said pathetically, and bolted into Melissa’s arms, burying her face in her grandmother’s shoulder, her small body heaving.

  Tennant, who was not terribly good with children, wished that Potter was with him, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He had the horrid feeling that he was watching a play and rather wished that he hadn’t called.

  Over Belle’s head Melissa gave him a meaningful look, adult to adult as it were, and Tennant rose from his chair.

  ‘Perhaps I had better come back at a more convenient time.’

  ‘No, no. Please stay. I’m sure Belle will be calmer soon.’

  The child, weeping profusely, muttered something in her grandmother’s ear and Melissa hurriedly took her out of the room, presumably into the downstairs loo, from which direction came juvenile retching sounds. Tennant scribbled a note on the back of his card. ‘Will return at a better time. Do ring me,’ and made a hasty exit through the front door and into the safety of his car.

  ELEVEN

  Having caught up with Potter, who had been allotted the unenviable task of informing Miss Dunkley, Billy’s teacher, of his death, Tennant and his sergeant made their way to The White Hart at Foxfield, partly because they were in need of a drink and partly because they had been advised that Chris O’Hare made a regular evening visit.

  ‘Miss Dunkley was in an awful state,’ stated Mark, drinking a St Clements without any relish at all.

  ‘Why in particular?’

  ‘She adored the boy, used to take him to the cinema and on outings. She was like an adoptive mother to him.’

  ‘No chance of the relationship turning sour? Of the child doing something which might have driven her to murder?’

  ‘Highly unlikely. She was genuinely distraught, as far as I could see.’

  ‘As was young Isabelle. The wretched child was throwing up.’

  ‘Not over you?’

  ‘Perish the thought. Her grandmother removed her just in time.’

  Potter grinned. ‘I wonder how you would have felt if it had been your child.’

  For the very first time, Tennant had a mental picture of himself as a family man surrounded by two or three small people for whom he was responsible because Olivia was away on tour. He quite liked the idea.

  ‘I suppose I would have coped.’

  Potter actually laughed. ‘I can’t see it somehow, Boss.’

  Tennant let it pass but the seed of an idea had been planted. At that moment the pub door opened and a man came in with such strange but striking looks that both policemen turned their heads to stare at him. His hair was so blond that it was almost white.

  ‘Looks like Boris Johnson,’ said Potter under his breath.

  Tennant guffawed loudly and the man looked directly at him with a pair of glittering eyes that were set in his face on a slant, giving him a slightly faun-like appearance. If Dominic Tennant had been anyone other than the character he was, he would have worried about the man being quite capable of coming up and punching him. He stood up.

  ‘Chris O’Hare?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re looking at him,’ the other man replied with a sneer in his voice, and turned to the bar, saying loudly, ‘A pint of Guinness, please.’

  ‘That your usual tipple?’ Tennant asked pleasantly, joining O’Hare at the bar.

  The other raised a laconic eyebrow. ‘Yes. Any objections?’

  ‘You don’t have an Irish accent.’

  O’Hare looked down his nose. ‘My great times three grandmother was burnt at the stake in Ireland for witchcraft. Her son fled to Sussex before they accused him as well.’

  ‘I thought witches were hanged.’

  ‘Not by a mob baying for blood. They’d build a fire and chuck you on it soon as look at you.’

  ‘It all sounds very bloodthirsty.’

  ‘It was, you can believe me. But why are you so interested? Are you a cop?’

  Tennant produced his I.D. ‘Yes. Why didn’t you leave the fair after it ended yesterday?’

  ‘I did if you must know. I went to the Great House and tried to chat up Patsy Quinn but I couldn’t get a word in. The vicar and his cronies surrounded her all the evening. I’ve never seen a randy clergyman before. It was quite interesting, I can tell you.’

  ‘So what did you do when your attentions were ignored?’

  ‘I found someone else to talk to.’

  ‘And might I have her name, please.’

  ‘You could if I knew it. She called herself Skye but that was obviously a lie. She wasn’t a Skye sort of person.’

  Potter, who had left his chair and joined them at the bar, said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her voice was too cut-glass. She came from somewhere posh.’

  ‘And did you spend the night with this top-drawer maiden?’

  ‘I tried it on but no chance.’

  ‘So that was what you were doing standing still while a nymph in a flowing dress walked away from you?’

  Chris O’Hare looked startled. ‘You’re very well informed.’

  ‘We’re detectives,’ said Potter with a smug smile.

  ‘And I possess my ancestor’s ancient powers, you know. Don’t push me too far or I’ll lay a curse on you,’ O’Hare answered.

  ‘Did you lay a curse on Billy Needham last night? Is that what killed him?’ Tennant asked, looking serious.

  ‘I heard the child was dead later this morning. But I can assure you, Inspector, that my coven does not threaten children.’

  ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘I run a garage outside Lakehurst. I open on Sunday mornings to sell petrol. The first person in was Mrs Ivy Bagshot. She was buzzing with the news.’

  ‘Of course. She was one of the stallholders. About six of them saw the maypole and sent for the police.’

  ‘It’s a village, Inspector. The grapevine throbs constantly. Without it they would die of boredom.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr O’Hare. We are setting up an incident room in the local school. I wonder if you would mind coming in tomorrow and making a statement.’

  ‘No, I’ll do that. I have nothing to hide.’

  And with that the devilish man with the impossible hair turned to the bar.

  The Vicar of Lakehurst had had an almost impossible day. Waking, flushed with the success of the fair and with the thought of Patsy Quinn accompanying her grandmother to church, he had whistled round the house and had picked up the phone with a cheery, ‘Good morning. Lakehurst Vicarage.’ The voice at the other end had been like plunging into a pail of icy water.

  ‘Oh, Vicar, Vicar. The fair has been cancelled in the most horrible circumstances.’

 
‘What? Why, Mrs Bagshot?’

  ‘Oh Father Nick, it’s too horrible …’ And there was the sound of muffled sobs and a great deal of nose-blowing from the other end before the receiver went down.

  Nick thought for a minute before dialling the number of somebody sensible, his old Polish friend, Dr Rudniski. As it was Sunday Nick guessed that he would be off duty but on call, so phoned even though the hour was depressingly early.

  Kasper said his name in a wide-awake voice.

  ‘My dear chap,’ said Nick, thoroughly apologetic. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘About the murder? Yes, indeed I have. Jane – the doctor – has just come off shift and came round for a quick coffee and a catch-up.’

  ‘Well, who’s been murdered?’

  ‘A small boy. The police haven’t identified him yet but rumour has it that it’s Billy Needham. You might have seen him when you went to the school?’

  ‘Yes, I have seen him. I know who you mean. Sorry, Kasper, I must go.’

  Nick hung up abruptly as a vision of the sad face of Billy Needham danced before him. He remembered the lost look in the child’s eyes, his lock of fair hair that fell over his brow, the fact that he was the butt of the children’s cruel jokes.

  ‘Poor little soul,’ said the vicar, and found himself on his knees praying that the child who had so very little in life might have been better received on the other side of living – wherever that might be. How long he stayed like that he was not sure but a glance at his wristwatch told him that it was time for early service and he rushed across the road and into the vestry.

  In the inexplicable way that villages have – Nick was still trying to work out quite how it was done – there was a tangible air of suppressed gloom. There were few people present at this initial service, held at 8.30, but even though it was too early in the day for any real evidence, the villagers already knew that the police were up at the field and that something terrible had happened there. In fact, one of the women in the congregation, Mrs Lynch, had been a stallholder and was also a member of the WI. It was really not that difficult to make the connection.

  Nick decided to include some prayers for the occasion.

  ‘Oh Lord, we beg that the soul of the recently departed be received into the company of the saints – and that somewhere there might be a little game for him to play.’