The Moonlit Door

by Deryn Lake

  It was during the night that Nick noticed a small drop of blood on his duvet and realized that the cat had crept up and was sleeping on his bed. At that moment William, who had been particularly active that night, gave a loud knock on his bedroom door as if to alert him to trouble.

  ‘Thanks, Bill,’ Nick shouted jestingly.

  Then he saw that Radetsky’s ear was cut, not jaggedly but a neat nick. Investigating it, the vicar thought it was not bad enough for the vet but could certainly do with some antiseptic. Putting on his dressing gown and slippers, he called the cat downstairs.

  As he bathed the ear with lint and a weak mixture of Dettol and water, he was concentrating on his pet. But his thoughts kept slipping sideways to his other one, his pet girl, the adorable Patsy. She hadn’t spent the night and Nick hadn’t pushed for it, not from any sense of morality but because he preferred to wait until she was good and ready – or perhaps bad and ready might have been a more apt phrase. He was happy knowing that she was interested in him – very – and waited with a delicious thrill of excitement to see what joys the future would hold. Meanwhile he had done all that he could for the cat and decided to head back to bed, letting Radetsky join him for a special treat. But though he dropped off to sleep again he had bad dreams.

  He stood outside a large oak door, bathed in moonlight, the moonlit door. He knocked on it and it swung open slowly to reveal a vivid pastoral scene. There was a gaily painted maypole and children in rustic clothes dancing merrily round it, their ribbons weaving and plaiting into a sparkling display of colour. And then he looked again and saw that little Billy was standing on a stool in the centre, pushing and thrashing to keep the coloured strips away but slowly becoming enmeshed. Nick tried to run forward to help him but found that he could not move, only stand and stare, an impotent and helpless spectator in that brilliantly moonlit scene.

  The maypole faded away and now he was alone in that colourless light. He was walking down a frightening lane, with tall hedges fencing him in on either side. Ahead of him, he could hear Dickie Donkin singing:

  Only make believe I love you

  Only make believe that you love me

  Others find peace of mind in pretending

  Couldn’t you? Couldn’t I? Couldn’t we?

  It was as if he knew about the burgeoning love affair between Nick and Patsy and was either making fun of or approving it.

  Make believe our lips are blending

  In a phantom kiss or two or three

  Might as well make believe I love you

  For to tell the truth, I do.

  And then Daft Dickie began to scream in genuine terror and the sound was still ringing in Nick’s ears when he woke up, dripping with sweat, and decided that there would be no more sleep for him this night.

  It was the job that Dominic Tennant hated the most. The interviewing of a subject that he felt fairly sure was innocent and who, to make matters far, far worse, was not only terrified but autistic into the bargain. The psychiatrist was present and so was a very kindly police constable, who was comfortably built and had a genuine smile. Tennant forced a grin on to his face.

  ‘Well, Dickie, how are you today?’

  No answer.

  The psychiatrist, Peter Holland, had a try. ‘We’re not here to hurt you, Dickie. Be sure of that. We’re only here to ask a few questions and then we can let you go.’

  No answer but a swivel of the head and a furtive glance at Holland.

  Tennant’s turn again. ‘If you could just nod your head, Dickie, to show us that you understand.’

  The policewoman said gently, ‘My mum always told me to nod my head because it was polite.’

  Dickie gave a faint nod.

  ‘Breakthrough,’ said Tennant under his breath. Aloud he added, ‘Well done, Dickie, you just nod and shake your head at us. All right?’

  No response at all.

  Tennant cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to talk about the night of the murder, if I may. You were in the woods, Dickie, we know that, but afterwards, when everyone had gone away, the moon came out very brightly and you wandered over and saw that Billy was attached to the maypole. Is that correct?’

  There was a massive shaking of the head and then quite unexpectedly Dickie burst into a great paroxysm of weeping. He bent his arms to his knees and seemed to roll himself into a ball of misery. Throughout this he sobbed violently and stamped his feet and sighed and moaned.

  Tennant looked at the psychiatrist, who shook his head. The interview was terminated. Tennant shut off the recorder and nodded at the police constable to take Dickie back to the cells. Then he turned to his friend and said, ‘What the hell do I do now?’

  Holland said, in his beautiful calm voice, ‘Why don’t you let him go, Dominic? Can’t he stay in someone’s garden hut or something? There must be a kindly person who would keep an eye on him for a few days. And leave him plenty of things to draw and paint with. Let him paint what he can’t say. I think you’ll find that far more productive than caging him up here. Besides, you’d have to arrest him tomorrow or let him go. You don’t think he did those murders, do you?’

  Tennant shook his head. ‘I think he’s capable of murder, if that’s what you’re asking. There was all that funny business years ago. But these sadistic attacks on children don’t seem to be his scene somehow.’

  ‘Then take my tip, let him go and let him paint what he wants to show you.’

  ‘Are you sure he will?’

  ‘You never know where you are with autistic people, but as he seems to like drawing, there’s as good a chance as any.’

  Once back in his room, Tennant put through a call to Giles, and was pleased with the result. An hour later a relieved Dickie Donkin was being driven up to the sheep farmer’s place where he had been offered the loan of a garden shed, some blankets, and an old outdoor loo next door. Indeed, he was so happy that he burst into song, which Tennant found oddly pleasing.

  I’ll sing thee songs of Araby

  And tales of fair Cashmere

  Wild tales to cheat thee of a sigh

  Or charm thee to a tear

  And dreams of delight shall on thee break

  And rainbow visions rise

  And all my soul shall strive to wake

  Sweet wonder in thine eyes.

  ‘Was that one of your Granny’s tunes?’ asked Tennant, and was rewarded with a happy smile.

  Potter was talking to Tennant in the Lakehurst incident room. He was describing the high jinks in the woods and the public copulation, and couldn’t resist a grin as he did so.

  ‘Should we do anything about it, sir?’

  ‘There were no underage children involved, were there?’

  ‘It was a bit hard to tell with all those masks on but judging by the bodies, I’d say not.’

  ‘Then let them play. What harm can they do? They go to the woods so it’s not being done in full public gaze. I’d advise an eye is kept on them, however.’

  ‘So who’s going to do that?’

  ‘You, perhaps?’

  ‘As if I haven’t got enough to do.’

  ‘Then tell our constables to have a go. And keep it on a rota. We don’t want any of them getting addicted and trying to join in.’

  ‘Why is that idea faintly disgusting?’

  ‘Because you’re a prude,’ said Tennant, and guffawed loudly.

  Fractionally cross, Potter went to his computer and typed vigorously, leaving Tennant to muse over how far they had got. The answer was, not far enough. And he was just gloomily surveying the scene when his mobile went off. It was WPC Monica Jones.

  ‘Sir, can you come over to Susan Richards’ house? We had a break-in last night. I didn’t catch the bastard who did it but I gave them a run for their money.’

  ‘Why didn’t you send for backup at the time?’

  ‘I did. I got two WPCs who had all their work cut out trying to calm a screaming hysterical woman and her wretched little son. I went chasing after him.’


  Ten minutes later Tennant was talking to Monica in person.

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘Well, I was sleeping in the guest room, which is at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. About one o’clock I was woken up by a faint scratching sound and I realized that it was somebody at the back door. I crept down the stairs and saw that somebody had got a string on the door key and was trying to pull it under the door.’

  ‘Is there a gap?’

  ‘A very small one. I doubt that they would have managed it. Be that as it may, I stood there in silence and suddenly flung the door open wide. But he must have heard me because they were taking off across the garden like a blasted greyhound. I followed them but it was useless. They must have been trained to run because whoever it was, positively fled.’

  ‘You said “he” when you described them earlier. What makes you think it was a man?’

  ‘I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.’

  Tennant was silent for a long time, then finally said, ‘What visitors came to the house yesterday?’

  ‘Several people, all women coming to pay their sympathies.’

  ‘Did any of them have children with them?’

  ‘Several. Why?’

  ‘Because that trick of putting the string on the key must have been done from inside. You think about it. There’s no hand small enough to squeeze through a crack and loop it on.’

  ‘You’re right. In that case, do you think it was Jonathan himself?’

  ‘No, because it wasn’t him you chased through the garden. He was howling inside the house.’

  Monica’s greyish eyes looked confused. ‘It’s like a kid’s trick and there must have been a good few children here trying to cheer Johnnie up.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘I’ll have to go into my notebook and see exactly who called.’

  ‘While you’re doing that I think I’ll follow your tracks from last night and see if I can spot anything.’

  ‘OK, Guv,’ and she smiled at him and went back into the house.

  Tennant went out into the garden and in broad daylight searched the path that Monica must have taken last night. All he could think of as he retraced her steps was that the miscreant must have been small. His mind ran over the small people they had questioned: Reg Varney, the archer, Miss Dunkley the teacher – sounded like a game of Happy Families, he thought absently – Mrs Richards, the dead child’s mother. Dominic came to an abrupt halt as he saw the place where the miscreant had run through the hedge. No point going any further than that. He could see the trail leading away to the road where it would become lost. Making a mental note that he must have a long chat with Miss Dunkley, the inspector turned back to the house. And was just about to go back in when he spotted something lying on the ground. It was a broken piece of string, looking trodden on and dirty, like a dead worm, abandoned on the ground. To one end of it was fastened an elastic band. In an instant Tennant saw through it. It had led from the door key, still in the lock, then some young kid had attached it to its wrist. But the scheme had gone horribly wrong and the string had snapped of its own accord. It had been abandoned and thrown away, there and then.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Monica Jones.

  ‘Only this.’

  She took it from him and examined it.

  ‘So that is how the little devil was going to get the key out.’

  ‘In their dreams. Any string would snap with that amount of pressure on it.’

  ‘I’d better stay awake all night. It looks to me as if these ruddy kids are all in collusion.’

  Tennant went in and knocked gently on Mrs Richards’ door. She was holding a glass of martini and looked decidedly sloshed.

  ‘Looks as if you had quite a party this morning,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Well, a drink never harmed anyone, I say.’

  ‘But it’s going to be the bloody waking up that I dread,’ she answered, a slur in her voice. ‘I’ll feel like hell again – and then it will begin all over again, each day a little more ghastly than the last. To know that I have lost my little girl and that she will never be coming back …’ She sloshed some more martini into her glass and drank it down in one gulp. ‘Would you like one, Inspector?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m on duty. Do you mind if I have the briefest chat with Jonathan?’

  ‘No, where is he?’

  ‘Watching television.’

  ‘Help yourself. You’ll probably terrify the life out of him, but what the hell.’

  Jonathan was watching an old film with John Wayne, looking somewhat overweight, wearing a Stetson and holding forth about cattle drives. The little boy was looking at it with a glazed expression, clearly not taking in a word.

  ‘Hello, Johnnie,’ said Tennant quietly.

  He might as well have screamed, for the child leapt with fright and almost immediately started to weep. The door opened and WPC Jones appeared and stood silently in the entrance.

  ‘How are things going?’ the inspector asked. For answer Johnnie threw himself on the floor and wept into the carpet. Monica Jones marched forward and picked him up again.

  ‘Now, Johnnie, darling, do stop it. The inspector’s here to ask a few questions, that’s all. He’s trying to catch that nasty person who killed Bobby and Debbie – and I’m sure you’d like to help.’

  The child went red in the face and beat against Monica Jones’s admirable chest with miniature flying fists.

  ‘Kill me,’ he screamed. ‘Kill me.’

  ‘Who’s going to kill you?’ the inspector shouted over the mayhem.

  ‘I can’t tell,’ sobbed the wretched child and proceeded to have hysterics.

  His mother wove into the room. ‘What’s all this racket? Johnnie, stop it. D’you hear me?’ and she gave her son a stinging blow across the face. Though the inspector and the WPC watched in horror, it had the desired effect. He became very quiet and very still, obviously in a state of shock. There was an awkward silence, then eventually the inspector spoke.

  ‘I’ll come back another time,’ he said. ‘If I were you I would ring the doctors’ surgery, Mrs Richards. The boy needs medical attention, in my opinion. Something has frightened him out of his wits.’

  Susan Richards, awash with martini, scarlet in the face, rivulets of tears of despair, said, ‘I wish I were dead and that it was over.’

  Monica crossed over to her and took her in her arms. ‘Now, we’ll have no more of this. You may have lost a daughter but you still have a son, a terrified little boy, who you must love and care for and cherish despite all your grief.’

  Dominic Tennant, thinking that the policewoman was ripe for promotion, quietly crept away.

  NINETEEN

  Daft Dickie was happy for two weeks. During the light hours he painted like a man possessed, pouring out all his anger at the world, every detail that he had seen of the murder, the demon sitting on his chest and how he had thrown it off, the plucking of the arrow out of the strange lump that he had thought to be a chrysalis. Everything that had ever happened to him with one notable exception. He had never and would never paint the death of his stepfather. Other than that, he painted everything that came into his head. And when he got bored with those little stories, he painted the view from Giles’s sheep fields, the lambs frisking, the flowers, the trees, even a portrait of Giles himself.

  He painted very much in the style of van Gogh, striking colours and faces that you feel you know. He was a primitive of the best kind and yet had never had a painting lesson in his life. But while the mood was upon him he would sit before an easel with brushes and a palette that Giles had managed to rustle up from a local artist who had unfortunately died of booze, and daub away for days. Giles usually invited him in to share the farmhouse supper, then they would sup ale and sing songs of the old days until it was time for Dickie to shamble off to his hut.

  But one day when the sheep farmer went looking for his convivial guest, he had gone. Just like a shadow, he had sli
pped out one night and not returned. After pondering the fact for most of the morning, Giles had put through a call to Inspector Tennant, who had said, ‘I’ll pop up and see you, Giles, when I’ve got a spare minute.’

  Because all hell had broken out in Lewes. They had received an email from another constabulary telling them of a local coven which had used children in their rituals, one of whom had subsequently died. Even though this had taken place some years ago it was still a lead that needed following up. He and Potter had found themselves heading for Exeter at a time when they could well have done with staying at home. Nothing at all had broken in the murder case near Lakehurst, and despite looking through endless reports, diligent house-to-house enquiries, and a great deal of questioning, the inspector and Potter were almost at exactly the same point as when they started making enquiries.

  It had been a fortnight now and much had changed. Olivia had left for her flat in Chiswick as she was now rehearsing in the mornings at a studio in London, and though she had offered the cottage to Tennant, he had refused and returned to his own apartment in Lewes. And then Superintendent Miller had received personal information about the coven in Devon, and Potter was hitting the motorway faster than a dose of Epsom salts.

  ‘I don’t think I can manage this twice in one day, sir.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to. I’ve booked us rooms for the night in Sidmouth in one of those glorious hotels along the front. They’re Victorian and some of them are still run on the same lines. A gong is struck for dinner and five minutes before it one can hear the elderly residents rustling behind their doors waiting for the sound.’

  ‘You don’t mean it.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  ‘At the first beat of the gong bedroom doors fly open and they make a dash, knocking each other aside with Zimmer frames and walking sticks to be first in the dining room.’

  ‘Have they got selected tables?’

  ‘Oh, yes, the residents have. The guests are put by the window where they can see the sea.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound a bit like you, Dominic.’