The Moonlit Door

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Can you please help me, I’m lost,’ she said.

  ‘Good gracious. Come in. What’s happened to you?’

  ‘Our mothers took us out for a picnic but I ran away and now I don’t know where I am. Yours was the only light on so I knocked.’

  And with that the wretched child burst into a veritable flood of unattractive tears and screwed her face up so that she resembled a small pig in extremis.

  Olivia – not used to children – thought wildly and decided to be tough.

  ‘Now do stop crying and tell me where you live. If you give me your phone number I’ll ring your parents and then they can come and fetch you.’

  The child looked up, her eyes like saucers behind her spectacles.

  ‘I’ve only got a mummy.’

  ‘Well, give me her number then.’

  ‘Daddy ran off with a tarty blonde,’ the girl rambled on, undeterred. ‘She was his PA and Mummy said that she was in every sense of the word.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ answered Olivia, somewhat nonplussed.

  ‘I’ve met her,’ the monologue continued. ‘She’s got long fair hair to her shoulders and she flicks her head about every few minutes to move it. Her name is Scarlett. Can I have a biscuit, please?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes.’ Olivia dived into the small kitchen and produced a packet of shortbread. The child took one, said, ‘Thank you,’ and fell silent while she chewed.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Debbie Richards. My Mummy is Mrs Richards.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that. Now tell me your telephone number like a good girl.’

  ‘I think it’s 515677.’

  Olivia dialled the number and a voice with a slight Estuary accent answered.

  ‘Mrs Richards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got your little girl here. I’m afraid she got lost but she’s perfectly safe. Can you come and fetch her or would you like me to bring her back?’

  ‘I thought she was doing a sleepover at Belle’s.’

  In desperation Olivia thrust the phone at Debbie and commanded, ‘Speak to your mother.’

  ‘Hello, Mummy. I ran away from Belle because she kept telling me ghost stories and I got frightened.’

  Olivia could hear the voice at the other end distinctly.

  ‘Why did you do a thing like that? You’ll have them all worried sick. Where are you now?’

  Olivia mouthed, ‘Speckled Wood,’ and Debbie repeated it.

  ‘Well, you can jolly well stay there while I phone Mrs Wyatt. Then I’ll come for you and you can go straight to bed. You’re a very, very naughty girl. Where exactly are you?’

  Olivia took the phone from Debbie. ‘My name is Olivia Beauchamp and I live at Starlight Cottage, Tinkers Lane, Speckled Wood. Have you got a satnav?’

  Of course Mummy had, so the postcode was duly given. Meanwhile Debbie was stolidly eating her way through the shortbread and looking most unattractive with her nose starting to run. Olivia made a silent vow never, but never, to have children.

  Eventually Mrs Richards turned up looking frazzled, so much so that the violinist found herself offering the woman a glass of wine.

  ‘Oh, yes, please. It’s been ever so kind of you to take her in. I don’t know what’s got into Debbie recently. I mean Isabelle is her best friend and Debbie is used to her telling stories. Why she should get frightened, I just can’t think.’

  ‘Apparently they were ghostly and Debbie panicked. I must admit I don’t like the creepy ones much even though they hold a certain fascination.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t go for them myself. Prefer romantic trash. I’ve got a Kindle, have you?’

  ‘No, I prefer the feel of a book.’

  In the background they could hear Debbie start to cry again.

  ‘Oh, Mummy, it was so horrible.’

  ‘Yes, Debbie, I’m sure it was. Now shut up and let me finish my wine in peace.’

  Half an hour later they were still there and Olivia was wondering how late Dominic was going to be. But eventually a rather pink-cheeked Mrs Richards bundled the pallid Debbie into their car and drove off into the night. Olivia stood on her doorstep and breathed in the beauties of a May evening with the sun just going down behind the stark outline of the Victorian orphanage, now standing empty and spectral against the crimson sky. She was just going back in when she heard a distant voice singing and smiled to herself.

  Over the quiet hills

  Slowly the shadows fall;

  Far down the echoing vale

  Birds softly call;

  Slowly the golden sun

  Sinks in the dreaming west;

  Bird songs at eventide

  Call me, call me to rest.

  Olivia had never heard Giles sing like that, in such a beautiful, light baritone. She leaned her head against the doorpost and felt her heart rate speed up at the sound of a distant car approaching. And suddenly she wanted to play. Dashing into the house she picked up her violin, tucked it beneath her chin and played ‘Bird Song at Eventide’ to welcome Dominic home.

  FOURTEEN

  It should have been a relatively peaceful night. There was a good-sized police presence in Lakehurst and the surrounding area and several plain-clothes officers watching the pubs and being unobtrusive. But for all the reassurance, Nick simply could not get off to sleep. William had been in an agitated mood until eventually the vicar had shouted, ‘Shut up, William, or I’ll exorcize you.’ This had brought peace at last but despite the quiet Nick had still been unable to rest. Was it the beautiful Queen Guinevere – or Patsy Quinn in everyday life – that was unnerving him? But he had spoken to her on the phone that evening and she had promised to come to Lakehurst next weekend so he had been in touch with her, though she had sounded a bit flippant at the other end, he had to admit. Yet the fact was that, despite everything, Nick could not sleep.

  He got up, put on his dressing gown and went downstairs to make himself a cup of herbal tea. Then he switched on the television and stared at the screen. It was a horror film, with a frightened girl fleeing through the deserted streets of pre-war Berlin, pursued by something unseen, which threw an enormous shadow before it. Nick watched for a few minutes before saying ‘Rubbish’ over-loudly and switching the film off. He sat, sipping his tea, listening to the silence but not before he had been to the front door and, unlocking it, looked out.

  Lakehurst High Street was deserted. Nothing moved, and yet somehow Nick could have sworn that he was not alone, that some other creature was out and about, doing mischief. It was an uncomfortable feeling and eventually, tea drunk and mug washed, Nick took a sleeping pill before returning to his lonely bed, on which, obviously having crept in during his absence, Radetsky now slept.

  The first shards of daylight came at about five and every bird in Christendom gave throat, a great hymn to greet the dawn. The policeman who had taken over the shift guarding the site where the fair had been held, drew in a breath at the rosiness of it all, loving the sound that the feathered flock were making and thinking wryly over the number of times he had cursed them when they had woken him up at dawning. He started his slow perambulation round the area, looking carefully for something, anything in fact, to relieve the slight feeling of tension that had suddenly gripped him. And then he saw it. In the field beyond this one, supported by a garden spade, stood a very small scarecrow, a hat pulled down over its eyes, a pair of wellington-booted feet sticking out, and a trickle of blood drying on the front of its nightdress. PC Coppice shouted, ‘Oh shit,’ and started to run towards it.

  It was even worse than it looked from a distance. When he pulled the hat off he could see that the child’s head had been staved in by a blunt instrument and that she had peed herself with fright. PC Coppice took a few steps away and threw up before collecting himself and using his radio to call help.

  They were there within minutes and Sergeant Mark Potter, who had spent the night at the Great House and had risen at dawn and was showing a night’s growth o
f ebony beard on his chin, was the first near the corpse.

  ‘Did you touch anything?’ he asked Scott Coppice.

  ‘Yes, sir, I pulled off the hat. The face was completely hidden and I had to have a look.’

  Mark nodded. ‘No, that’s fine. We can identify your prints. Poor little bugger. What tortured mind could do this to a child? There must be some sadistic madman on the loose.’

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘How old would you say the child was?’

  ‘About ten. And who could persuade her to come out into the field at night?’

  ‘If we knew that we’d be halfway to solving the crime.’

  In due course and as quickly as they could manage, the rest of the team appeared. Inspector Tennant looked very slightly ruffled. He had shaved, but his tie was a little askew and his suit had obviously been put on in some haste. Potter, glancing at him surreptitiously, gave a hidden smile. He sincerely wished that this Olivia affair would resolve into something more permanent. It was high time his boss settled down again – this time with a happier outcome, let it be hoped.

  The doctor looked horror-struck for a moment before putting her professional face on.

  ‘Is this the work of the other killer?’ Tennant asked.

  ‘I should think so. This poor child was beaten to death with that spade which is holding her up. I’d say this was the work of a juvenile hater.’

  ‘Agreed. And there’s something horribly ritualistic about the two deaths. That wretched little boy being struck by an arrow and now this poor tot made to resemble a scarecrow. Frankly, it’s sick.’

  Potter met his eye. ‘Do you think this could be connected with Mr Grimm, sir?’

  ‘Do you mean the morris dancers or the Devil himself?’

  ‘Possibly both.’

  ‘Let’s get Mr O’Hare in for questioning. Oh, and while we’re at it, that other archer, Reg Marney.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Very possibly, yes.’

  The doctor, with assistance, lifted the corpse down and the spade was bagged up immediately. Looking at the little girl lying on the ground, Tennant was struck by the pathos of the scene. The doctor had lifted the child’s nightdress, displaying that she was naked beneath and that her bare feet had been shoved into the wellies.

  ‘Looks as if she was got out of bed by someone or other,’ he remarked.

  ‘It must have been somebody she knew.’

  ‘Or someone she was afraid of.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  ‘This is a deep case, Mark, and I’ve got a nasty feeling that we’ve got to solve it quickly.’

  ‘You think the killer might strike again?’

  ‘I feel pretty certain that they will.’

  And with those words of warning the inspector left the doctor to continue her work.

  Olivia was up and drinking a coffee when there came a loud and persistent knocking on her door. Now what? she thought, and rather reluctantly went to open it.

  Mrs Richards was standing there looking like a phantom, her mascara – left over from the night before – streaking her powder white face, her lips pale and bloodless.

  Olivia gaped and said, ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Debbie,’ the woman panted. ‘Is she with you?’

  ‘No,’ Olivia exclaimed in some surprise. ‘I haven’t seen her since last night. Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘She’s not in her bed, she’s not in the house, she’s not anywhere around. She’s run away and I just thought she might have come to you.’ She looked piteous. ‘May I come in for a moment?’

  ‘But of course,’ said Olivia, standing aside. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. I feel wrung out with worry.’

  And she leant on the kitchen table and cried as if she would never stop. Olivia poured out a cup and sat down opposite her, wondering what she could do. She had Dominic’s mobile number but he had asked please not to ring him unless it were a dire emergency. Looking at the shuddering wreck sitting opposite her, she decided that this was.

  He answered crisply, in a professional voice. ‘Tennant.’

  ‘I know that you told me not to ring you on this number but something has come up.

  It’s about that child that called on me last night, Debbie Richards. Her mother’s here and the girl has gone missing. I just thought I ought to let you know.’

  ‘Can you describe her, please?’

  ‘She’s about ten. Fair hair, blue eyes.’

  ‘Height?’ Dominic’s voice cut across.

  ‘About three feet, I should imagine. You know, the usual size for kids that age.’

  There was a pause at the other end and then Tennant said, ‘Olivia, see if you can persuade Mrs Richards to go with you to Lewes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a body going to the mortuary there now.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Olivia exclaimed and Mrs Richards looked up.

  ‘Do it if you can, darling. I’ll send a police car in the next thirty minutes.’ He rang off.

  Olivia slipped the mobile into her dressing gown pocket, thinking that this must be exactly what being a policeman’s partner would be like. Could she stand it? Would it fit in with her highly disciplined life as a leading solo violinist? The answer was a slightly edgy yes, provided that the policeman was Dominic Tennant.

  Mrs Richard looked at her blearily over the rim of her coffee mug.

  ‘Was that anything important?’

  ‘Yes, I think it was. They want you to go to Lewes.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know and that’s the honest truth. Maybe Debbie has been taken there.’

  Mrs Richards shot to her feet. ‘Oh my God, I must go to her now. Is she all right? Did they say?’

  ‘No, not a word. They said they would send a police car and that I was to accompany you.’

  The poor woman went completely white, like ivory. ‘Why? What for? Do you think it is bad news?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Olivia answered desperately. ‘But whatever it is, we’ll face it together.’

  Mrs Richards wept afresh and Olivia took the opportunity of rushing upstairs and hastily getting dressed. By the time she returned the police car was pulling up outside and she helped the trembling woman get in.

  To describe the rest of the drive as hellish would not be an exaggeration. Susan Richards collapsed and lay in Olivia’s lap, weeping dismally. But when she saw the word ‘Mortuary’ discreetly hidden in the doorway, she went berserk and a doctor had to be called to give her a calming injection. Dominic finally turned up, and took over the entire situation.

  ‘Mrs Richards, try to be calm. I do realize it is a horrible thing we are asking you to do but be a brave girl.’

  ‘But what is it you want?’ she asked, bewildered but calmer as the injection began to take effect.

  ‘I want you to come and identify a body. It is that of a small girl who at the moment is without a name.’

  She clutched him by the lapels. ‘Is it Debbie?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said to Olivia, clutching her hand.

  Looking down at the little person, cleaned up, the top of her head hidden, wearing a small white robe that was clearly mortuary property, Olivia felt no sense of shock, for the child merely looked as if she were sleeping. In fact, an enormous sense of peace emanated from her.

  Susan Richards said in a very quiet voice, ‘Yes, that’s my Debbie.’

  ‘I’m going to ask a policewoman to come home with you and stay,’ Tennant said quietly. ‘It will be company for you in the house and she can help you with all the little chores.’ Then he added, ‘Did Debbie remain at home last night or did she go on a sleepover?’

  ‘I should say she didn’t! I was punishing her for running away. She went straight to bed when we returned home.’ Her face became glacial. ‘Does that mea
n that she left the house when it was dark?’

  ‘That, or somebody came and took her.’

  ‘But how could that have happened? I would have heard an intruder.’

  Dominic was being ultra gentle. ‘Nothing is very clear at the moment. But later today my boys will come and look over your premises and see if anything is revealed. But in the meanwhile, Mrs Richards, I would suggest that you go home with WPC Monica Jones and go straight to bed with a nice hot drink. Nothing can ever express how terrible you must be feeling at the moment but I assure you that in time the pain will ease.’

  Olivia looked at him rather helplessly. ‘I got a lift in a police car here so I’ll need one back. My own car is at home.’

  ‘I’ll get one of the PCs to drive you back. Mrs Richards, we’ll want to have a good look at your car.’

  Oh God, thought Olivia, it could play an important part in the story. Suppose somebody drove poor Debbie to the field last night. She sat down rather suddenly.

  ‘Come back to the station and I’ll fix everything up,’ he said, and Olivia wished that they were somewhere other than the grimmest place in the world, the city mortuary.

  Quarter of an hour later they went off in a little procession, Olivia arriving first because it was the least far to go. But once in her house she paced restlessly, not even able to play her violin, her mind too full of terrible thoughts. In the end she rang the vicar and asked if she could meet him at the Great House.

  ‘I’d be delighted. Olivia, what’s wrong? Your voice sounds odd.’

  ‘Then you haven’t heard the news. That poor child Debbie Richards was murdered last night, not far from that little boy. Oh God, Nick, I went with her mother this morning and saw her in the mortuary. It was really ghastly.’

  ‘Come out now. I was supposed to meet the churchwarden, but I’ll cancel it. I’ll see you in half an hour.’

  She was leaving the house as Giles came into her line of vision, carrying a lamb under his arm. He looked every inch the countryman, with his leather boots and tweed waistcoat and his sporty cap pulled down over one eye. But he caught her mood with a look and hurried towards her, the lamb wailing like a lost child.