The Moonlit Door

by Deryn Lake

  He didn’t know why he’d said it, it had slipped out of his mouth because he was thinking it so hard, and he most certainly hadn’t wished to poke fun at whatever mighty power was out there, but to his great relief there was a heartfelt ‘amen’ from the small congregation.

  ‘Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer,’ Nick added, before he stood up and saw that the mainly elderly and truly religious people who made up the congregation were all nodding or smiling. In fact, there wasn’t one wrinkled brow to be seen. But by the time it got to the family service at 11 a.m., Nick knew that the whole village had heard.

  For a start the church was fuller than normal. Second, the congregation looked miserable and some had indeed been weeping; others were curious with the round-eyed robin look that hoped they could garner further information. Walking up the centre aisle, the cross being carried before him, Nick decided to cut his sermon, which had been on the subject of spreading joy, and speak instead of the tragedy that had occurred in their midst. Well aware that Patsy Quinn, looking colourful in a violet dress and matching gladiator sandals, was smiling at him, sitting in the third pew from the front, he suddenly realized that Olivia, too, was in church. She was near the back and was quite alone, the dashing inspector no doubt fully occupied with the tragic case. Silently, Nick sighed, thinking what a mixed bag life was – from the genuine happiness of the people who had been at yesterday’s Medieval Fair, to the lonely and terrifying death of a small boy in the dark hours after midnight. He found that he was silently asking the question, who could have committed such a gross misdeed against such a tiny, quivering member of the human race?

  Hugh Wyatt sat late in his kitchen that night, staring into the depths of a glass of Scotch but not drinking from it, a little habit he had grown into whilst serving in – and surviving – Afghanistan. On the floor, dopey in its cat basket, was the feline Samba, a bandage round the stump of what had once been its tail. Hugh lowered a long finger into the basket and gave the cat an affectionate tickle on the head. Despite his somewhat stoical exterior he was warm-hearted and affectionate and felt that he was being physically racked – that ancient form of torture so beloved of the Tudors – whenever he saw one of his beautiful soldiers maimed beyond human recognition. Hugh was quite straight sexually but to him there was beauty in all forms of human life, and he loathed to see any work of nature hurt or destroyed. Thus, even the attack on his cat – which surely could not have been an accident – had hurt him to the heart.

  He was too sensitive for army life but had joined the ranks and gone to Sandhurst to please his father – and grandfather – who had both been high-ranking professional soldiers. And once in, he had accepted it and done the best he could. Yet, though he had strictly abided by the code of conduct, doing his duty and being popular with the men, his heart had been elsewhere, deep in the heart of the countryside, mucking around in his garden and keeping pets.

  At last Hugh reached for his glass of Scotch and sipped slowly. The fire was burning low and as a log slipped, making a gentle spluttering sound, there was a creak on the stairs. Instantly Hugh was wide awake, his hand instinctively reaching for the poker. He crept to the kitchen door and opened it silently and infinitesimally, putting his eye to the crack.

  Isabelle was creeping down the stairs and just for a second Hugh watched her. She had a jumper on over her pyjama top, though her feet were completely bare, not even slippers on. He wondered what plan she had in her little head.

  ‘Hello, Windflower. Where are you going?’

  She gave a violent start and burst into tears immediately. ‘Oh, Daddy, I was going to check that Samba was still in his basket. That he hadn’t wandered outside again.’

  He picked her up and carried her into the kitchen. ‘No, darling, he’s safe in his basket. Look, there he is. Fast asleep.’

  She wept violently into his shirt. ‘Oh, Daddy, thank goodness. Promise me that you will look after him.’

  ‘You know I will, darling. I’ll look after you all.’ Had she heard about the murder, he wondered, and quickly ran through her movements this day. She had been out to play with her friends Debbie and Johnnie, son and daughter of an extremely wealthy family who, frankly, Hugh didn’t like at all.

  ‘Did you have a good time when you were out?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, why was that?’

  ‘Because Debbie had heard her mother talking on the phone and she said that a little boy was shot with an arrow. Daddy, who were they talking about?’

  A savage chasm yawned at Hugh’s feet. Should he tell his ten-year-old granddaughter and lead her one step further into the harsh realities of brutal life? But he couldn’t protect her forever.

  ‘It was Billy,’ he said. ‘Your school friend.’

  Sitting on his knee as she was, she turned her eyes up to him. He would never forget that look, so innocent, so innocuous, yet with all the knowledge of the world deep down in the depths.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she cried and started to weep once more.

  Hugh suddenly longed for a Scotch and holding tightly to Belle, he leaned to the kitchen table and poured himself another small shot.

  ‘I think it was somebody who likes killing,’ she said wisely.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it was a person who enjoys watching things die.’

  ‘Oh, Belle, that is not a very nice thing to say.’

  Intellectually, Hugh agreed with her but he did not like to hear it coming from the mouth of somebody so young.

  ‘I think we should talk about something else, Windflower.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we should.’

  ‘I think it’s a witch, don’t you, Daddy?’

  ‘Like a Disney character, with warts and a long nose?’

  Belle considered. ‘No, I think she is probably young and beautiful and deceives people.’

  Hugh smiled to himself. ‘You’ve been reading too many fairy stories. Come on, little one, back to bed with you.’

  ‘Suppose she comes in the night to get us.’

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’ll send her flying.’

  But though he had tucked Belle in with many reassurances, Hugh went round the house and checked that everything was locked up tightly before he retired for the night.

  TWELVE

  Patsy Quinn was a girl full of surprises, for she exhibited a very serious side to her nature when she was interviewed by Inspector Tennant at the vicarage. He and Potter were making it the last call of the day before returning to their respective homes on Sunday evening.

  Nick had conducted a thoughtful evensong which Patsy – looking stunning in a red maxi dress – had attended, drawing many inquisitive eyes towards her. Afterwards they had walked back to the vicarage, causing an even greater sensation, and were just settling down for a drink or two and a jolly chit-chat when the knocker on the front door had gone. Nick had inwardly cursed but had gone to answer it in his usual cheery manner.

  ‘Good evening, Vicar. Sorry this is such a late hour to call but we wondered if we could have a brief word with you.’

  ‘Inspector Tennant – or may I call you Dominic after all this time? Do come in. I have a friend here but you don’t mind that?’

  The inspector hesitated in the doorway. ‘I apologize if this is inconvenient. We can always come back another time.’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Please come in.’

  They walked into the living room and Sergeant Potter’s eyes nearly fell out of his head to see Patsy Quinn of Britain’s Got Stars fame, sitting on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, neat as you please. She smiled at him and said, ‘Good evening.’ He made a noise as if something were stuck in his throat.

  ‘Is it too late to offer you a drink?’ said Nick hospitably.

  ‘I’ll have one but Mark has reached his limit, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, well. Are you staying locally?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tennant replied, and did not elaborate.<
br />
  ‘I suppose you’ve come to see me about that horrible business at the fair?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you both to account for your movements last night.’ A humorous smile twitched at Tennant’s lips and he added, ‘Unfortunate phraseology, that.’

  Miss Quinn burst into a rumbustious laugh and the vicar’s face went slightly red. Tennant thought that he had hit on something and felt sorry for Nick. Potter just grinned.

  ‘Miss Quinn, if you would like to go first.’

  ‘Certainly. I came to Lakehurst to open the Medieval Fair because my grandmother comes from the village and I came fifth in a contest on television. Can’t think why. Could have been because the other singers were so hopeless. Anyway, my granny is Mrs Platt and she lives in the High Street in Yeoman’s Cottage. I spent the night with her and had breakfast with her. That’s all I’ve got to say really, except that the vicar and I are new friends and I spent last evening with him in the Great House.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Quinn. Do you often come to the village?’

  ‘Not very. I don’t visit Granny nearly enough. But I’m on tour most of the time. Not very grand, I’m afraid. Places like The Co-op Club in Salford.’

  ‘I see,’ Tennant answered gravely, though he was longing to laugh and enjoy the company and not be on duty.

  Potter, who had not taken his eyes off Patsy since he had entered the room, asked, ‘Don’t you ever come locally to sing?’

  ‘Yes. I do gigs in Hastings and Lewes.’

  ‘What about Eastbourne?’

  ‘Only in the folk club.’

  Tennant cleared his throat. ‘This is only a formality, Nick, but can you account for yourself last night?’

  ‘Well, I walked Miss Quinn back to Yeoman’s, then I came home, watched a bit of TV, then went to bed. I didn’t hear about the murder till this morning. The congregation were buzzing with it, even at the early service.’

  Tennant nodded. ‘I can tell you it was the most gruesome sight I have ever seen, and I’ve witnessed a few, believe me. Whoever did it is very, very sick.’

  ‘I can’t quite imagine it. Was the poor little boy tied to the maypole?’

  ‘In a way. There must have been several people in on it because they had danced around with ribbons and bound him to the maypole with those. It looked like a small, colourful chrysalis.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to the team we employed, Mr Grimm’s Men?’

  ‘Yes. Not all of them, but the leader. A very strange fellow with platinum blond hair. A bit of a devil, I thought.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Nick seriously. ‘Mr Grimm is a Sussex term for Old Nick, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t realize that. Thanks for the information. He had such strange eyes.’

  ‘Sounds like Rosemary’s Baby,’ Patsy put in.

  ‘You’re too young to have seen that, surely.’

  ‘Nonsense. My grandmother has a DVD of it. Scares me stiff.’

  It was at that moment, quite nonsensically, that Nick decided he really liked Patsy Quinn.

  ‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ she said to Inspector Tennant. ‘Unless you instruct me to do otherwise,’ she added with a cheeky grin.

  ‘As long as you can give the sergeant a list of your forwarding addresses.’

  ‘I hope you said that with a smile,’ she answered.

  ‘I never smile,’ he replied with just the merest flutter of a wink.

  Daft Dickie Donkin had wandered his way into Speckled Wood, feeling down in spirits – of both kinds. No alcohol had passed his lips since lunchtime when the landlord of The White Hart had brought him a pint of cider, provided he sat outside on the benches. He – the landlord – had been particularly morose, and Dickie knew the reason why. A little boy, a small innocent, had been inside that cocoon and someone had killed him with an arrow. Had ended that blameless life for no reason that the tramp could possibly think of. He wanted to sing a song to the poor spirit just in case it was hovering near and started very quietly, gathering sound as he went along.

  Oranges and lemons,

  Say the bells of St Clement’s.

  You owe me five farthings,

  Say the bells of St Martin’s.

  When will you pay me?

  Say the bells of Old Bailey.

  When I grow rich,

  Say the bells of Shoreditch.

  When will that be?

  Say the bells of Stepney.

  I do not know,

  Says the great bell of Bow.

  Here comes a candle to light you to bed,

  And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!

  Not realizing that one or two people were now staring at him, Dickie thought to himself that a chopper had come to chop off that poor child’s head, except that it had been an arrow in reality. And then reality slipped and he sat quite still while a tiny cinema played a film in his brain. He saw the whole murder, exactly how it was done and who did it. The only thing was he couldn’t identify the people because they were all as small as ants in his mental picture. Everything was reduced to an eighth of its normal size.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked a female voice.

  Dickie came back to reality slowly but said nothing.

  ‘I said are you all right? Can I get you anything?’

  Dickie pulled at his grizzled forelock, as he’d been trained to do years ago, when memories had been sweet and his grandmother had sung. Slowly he nodded his head.

  ‘Yus, please,’ came from his tongue, softly and haltingly.

  ‘What would you like?’ The little nurse’s face was kindly and round.

  Dickie pointed at his empty cider glass and nodded his head.

  ‘Oh, really!’ said the little woman. ‘I meant an aspirin or something.’

  Dickie laughed and turned the nod into a shake. ‘No, thank ’ee.’

  She walked away and Daft Dickie Donkin was seized with a laughing fit until a couple of gigantic men came and threw him out by the scruff of his neck. Dickie straightened what was left of his old jacket and marched down the lane with dignity. He had no idea where he was going but preferred it to being manhandled by two big louts.

  Evening was coming and the shadow of the trees hung over the pathway like ghostly fingers. Dickie began to think of where he would spend the night. Outdoors didn’t seem quite so appealing with a murderer wandering on the loose. In Dickie’s mind rose a picture of a nice, comfortable barn, filled with sweet-smelling hay and he set up the hill towards Speckled Wood, where there were the riding stables and a sheep farm. And other pleasant places that might offer him a night’s hospitality. But the sound of a car approaching made him leap back amongst the trees to where he could watch unseen.

  There was a small cottage nestling in a pretty garden and it occurred to Dickie dimly that it must have the most beautiful views which swept down over the countryside to where, surely, there was a glimpse of the sea. It also occurred to him that it might have a tool shed just big enough for a man to get a good night’s kip in. But that idea was put on hold as two men got out of the car which pulled up outside.

  ‘Are you going to stay here during the investigation, sir?’

  Tennant shook his head. ‘Only sometimes. But it’s a bit easier now that we’ve got an incident room in the school. Anyway, can you pick me up in the morning? Eight thirty?’

  ‘I might be a few minutes late.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be ready when you arrive.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Potter paused, his hand on the door. ‘I’m glad you’ve found somebody as nice as Olivia.’

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ answered Tennant, and knocked gently on the front door.

  Dickie watched him go inside and the car drive away, then he stood quietly, trying to concentrate. He had been afraid of policemen for what seemed like most of his life. They had handled him a bit roughly during that other business, which now came back into his mind with great clarity. He had enjoyed doin
g it, cutting his stepfather’s throat from ear to ear. But he could never hurt anyone else, particularly not a small child. The thought brought tears to his eyes and he stood silently weeping, standing alone in the fading light. Then he heard footsteps behind him and, wheeling round, saw a farmer approaching, a broken gun over his arm, a jolly spaniel walking beside him.

  ‘Evening,’ said the farmer, and continued on his way, walking right past Dickie, the very picture of nonchalance.

  The tramp suddenly needed to make contact, to be with another human being on this first night after that terrible murder.

  ‘Guv,’ he called out.

  The other turned, held out his hand. ‘Giles Fielding,’ he said, his Sussex accent light and pleasing to the ear. ‘I know who you are,’ he continued. ‘Seen you around for years. You’re Dickie Donkin, aren’t you? My gran used to know yours.’

  Tears coursed down Daft Dickie’s weather-beaten cheeks at the mention of his grandmother.

  ‘Come on now, don’t take on. I know there are some nasty people about, what with that murder down at the fair and all. But you can sleep in one of my sheds tonight if that would make you feel any better.’

  Dickie nodded enthusiastically and walked along in silence, still weeping.

  ‘Now stop that crying. I’ve got some nice beer on the go and if you can dry up I’ll give you a glass. How would that be?’

  Dickie nodded again and loped along beside Giles’s sauntering gait, making their way up to the top of the hill where Giles’s sheep farm was situated, close to the riding stables once owned by the late Cheryl Hamilton-Harty and now inherited by a second cousin who had turned the place into a proper business-like establishment. And where, sometimes in the very early morning, Giles would sense the presence of her dead husband, the German aristocrat, Michael Mauser.

  Night fell over the village of Lakehurst and its neighbouring fields. During the previous hours of darkness some evil soul had forced Billy Needham to stand in front of the maypole on a box – or something similar – and had deliberately taken aim at him and killed him with an arrow. Then the murderer and his or her acolyte had danced round and round the body until it had been entirely covered by the gaudy ribbons which celebrated the merry month of May. It had been a most cruel and sadistic crime, one which one could hardly bear to think about. Yet that was precisely what many of the inhabitants were doing. Inspector Tennant, sleeping happily beside that great violinist, Olivia Beauchamp, woke and gazed at the ceiling and started to think of the horror he had witnessed that day. The Reverend Nicholas Lawrence, awoken by his dear old ghost, William, lay wide-eyed and thought about the general goodness of people brought together by grief. Major Hugh Wyatt was asleep but dreaming of the horrors of war and seeing men blown to smithereens in front of him. And mothers and fathers throughout Lakehurst smiled at their children and locked up their premises with extra care.