The Moonlit Door

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Ah, it reminds me of my ignoble youth when I used to sprint down the stairs, past the disorderly crocodile, and be the first in.’

  ‘How very unkind.’

  ‘It was. But then I was only sixteen years old and on a cycling holiday. We stayed in Sidmouth three glorious days. Put the whole episode down to a ghoulish sense of fun.’

  ‘I don’t think I will look at you in quite the same way again, Inspector.’

  As luck would have it the interview in Exeter was relatively short. The bare facts were that there was a dark coven functioning in an out-of-the-way hamlet called Combe St Mary, who had kidnapped local children and then subjected them to horrifying ordeals. One of the children had died of fright and the police had moved in and broken the ring up and the chief wizard had gone down for a good stretch, as had several other of the gang members. It was similar in a way but not quite near enough to the Lakehurst situation, thought Potter, recalling the bouncing bottoms and dangling doodahs. That had just been an excuse for public sex. The Devon crew had had much nastier intentions. Tennant and Potter had come away with a great deal of paper, effusive thanks but little else. Then they had made their way to the Seymour Hotel.

  It was very much as Potter had expected, its exterior painted a liverish yellow, with a weary sign reading ‘Seymour Hot’, the rest having blown down in some storm or other. There was a clanking old lift with doors that one had to pull across, which eventually deposited the two policemen on the third floor. Tennant had a sea view, which completely made up for the room’s somewhat bare essentials, but Potter was at the back, overlooking a car park and a line of miserable waste bins overflowing with detritus the seagulls were attacking with cries of jubilation.

  They deliberately walked down before the gong when it came to dinner time and had the amusing experience of hearing the patrons trembling with excitement as gong time drew near. But as the charge to dine was declared and the multitude made for the stairs, Tennant took his sergeant firmly by the elbow and propelled him out of the building and along the seafront to another hotel where they had a reasonably decent meal. It was still light when they came out – they ate early in Sidmouth – and the sea was completely calm, meeting the sky with an almost invisible line.

  ‘God, the air’s like wine,’ said Potter, taking large breaths in.

  ‘Let’s go for a bit of a walk. Do us good.’

  They walked along the front to the very end of the promenade, beyond which more cottages were built on a slight incline. They ascended the small hill and then the inspector stopped dead in front of an attractive period building.

  ‘Well, I never knew that,’ he said.

  Staring, Potter read a small blue plaque. ‘Constance Kent was born and lived here,’ he read aloud. ‘That’s the child murderer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I just can’t imagine her coming into the world in such beautiful surroundings. You would think it would wash the soul clean for all eternity.’

  ‘Instead she stabbed her four-year-old half-brother, cut his throat and threw him into the shit in the privy.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Tennant turned to face Potter. ‘Do you think people are born with an evil streak? Or do you think it develops because they had a raw deal along the way?’

  ‘Both, sir.’

  ‘Then you truly believe that Constance Kent and all the other individuals like her have some inner perversion that makes them enjoy inflicting pain?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’ Potter shivered. ‘Come on, Dominic, it’s getting chilly. Let’s go and have a drink.’

  ‘Race you to The Marine. Last one in buys the drinks.’

  And they set off like a couple of school kids heading for the ice cream parlour.

  School had resumed and Miss Dunkley was delighted to have something to take the children’s minds off the recent murders. His name was Byron Wheeler and he was hardly the most prepossessing child one could imagine. He was overweight, not very tall, but his redeeming features were his eyes and hair. Both were dark and vivid. His father had started in house clearance but in that amazing East End way had turned himself into an antique dealer and eventually a celebrity who appeared on Antiques For All. He had loads of money, as the saying went, and had just bought himself a house near Lakehurst, complete with swimming pool and an outdoor bar. His name was Tommy Wheeler and his nickname, Wheeler the Dealer.

  Byron was greeted with a certain amount of suspicion but when one of the boys had called him a poof, he had flattened the accuser with a swipe of his knuckles. After this incident he was treated with caution and respect. But his chubby personality had won the heart of little Miss Goldilocks, Isabelle Wyatt herself, and he was duly invited to tea.

  Byron’s mother, a skinny blonde who wore a great deal of make-up and kept her figure by only eating courgettes, had lectured him on how to behave.

  ‘Don’t just grab a cake, Byron, wait until one is offered and then say, “I think I have a little room left,” and take it nicely.’

  ‘How do you do that, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Between your thumb and your first finger. Or something. Ask your dad.’

  But Tommy had just laughed and said, ‘Be yourself, son. They’re only asking you ’cos I’m on the telly.’

  So with his head full of these rather mixed messages, Byron had been driven by his mother in a white people carrier with blacked-out windows. Melissa had come out to meet him, glad with all her heart that her granddaughter had at last stopped weeping hysterically and asked a child to tea. She was somewhat taken aback as Byron’s stocky form emerged from the ostentatious transport in which he had been conveyed. Much to her consternation, he bowed, then stuck his hand out and said, ‘How do you do, my lady?’

  Melissa smiled at him. ‘Hello, Byron, how are you?’

  ‘I am very well, thank you,’ he answered in an Eliza Doolittle-elocuted voice.

  Isabelle came up, her golden hair swinging behind her. At a short distance followed Hugh, his expression thoughtful.

  ‘How kind of you to let me come,’ said Byron, bowing.

  Hugh smiled. ‘The pleasure is mine, Byron. And you can just be yourself here. We don’t expect anything in the way of highfalutin talk.’

  Byron smiled faintly. ‘Oh, I see.’ But he didn’t.

  He and Isabelle romped off into the depths of the garden. Hugh, watching them, said, ‘She seems to have quite recovered from that horrible business with Billy.’

  ‘Yes, poor little girl. It really affected her badly. And the murder of Debbie practically destroyed her.’

  ‘I think you were the one who suffered most, my darling.’

  ‘Hugh, who do you think was responsible for those sadistic deaths?’

  ‘My money would be on that devil worshipper, O’Hare. Either him or that little archery guy, Reg Marney.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because they are the only two who fit the bill. Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a silly thought of mine. Come on, let’s go and make tea for Belle’s new friend. What do you think of him, by the way?’

  ‘I thought he was terribly sweet. Trying desperately hard to be refined.’

  ‘He’s just a poor little blighter that will be sent for elocution lessons when all he wants to do is what suits him, talk Cockney.’

  ‘Like his father. He’s Tommy Wheeler.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, Hugh, he’s one of the experts on Antiques For All. He’s got a great personality, the original East Ender. You’re always asleep behind your newspaper by the time he comes on.’

  ‘That’s not the show with that awful woman presenter, is it?’

  ‘Yes. Thinks the sun shines out of her bottom. I can’t stand her but I do love it when they discover that the jug that some old couple have been using to keep flowers in is actually twelfth-century Ming.’

  Hugh laughed and gave her a playful smack on the behind and they went into
the house arm in arm.

  O’Hare and Marney were working on a rather wonderful car which belonged to the Russian princess who lived up in the castle with Sir Rufus Beaudegrave. They had never been told formally that she was a princess but they knew a class act when they saw one and had drawn their own conclusions. The car had been hoisted up on a lift and the two men were jointly examining its braking system.

  ‘Wish I could fix this so that she broke down in the woods and got drawn into a coven meeting,’ said Reg, smacking his lips.

  ‘I’ve told you a thousand times that it’s too dangerous to meet at the moment. I know that one of those policemen saw us. He looked straight at me.’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted to join in.’

  ‘Some hopes. Anyway, the place is still crawling with ’em. And it won’t stop till they’ve caught whoever did it. Do you hear me, Reg?’

  Marney rose to his full five foot two inches. ‘Are you pointing the finger?’

  ‘Those crimes have got your handprints all over them. The low arrow shot, your love of little children. Come on, Reg, you did them. Admit it.’

  Reg slanted his eyes. ‘I was thinking just the same about you, Chris. Why don’t you tell me the truth? I know what you look at on your computer.’

  O’Hare suddenly picked up a wrench. ‘Don’t you dare say those things aloud. One more word out of you and you’ll get this over your head.’

  ‘All right, all right, keep your shirt on. I know you’re constantly on the lookout for children of Mr Grimm, Chris. Let’s leave it like that, shall we?’

  For answer Chris picked him up by the scruff of his neck and shook the little man violently.

  ‘Not another word, d’you hear? What I know, I know. And it’s best left like that.’

  Reg was gasping for breath as he settled himself back on to his feet. At that moment he hated the Devil’s man with every bone in his small body. But it was a good job in the garage and life was hard. Best to bide his time and wait until something better came along. And if Chris were mad enough to try and conjure up the Devil and his minions, then so be it. He would keep his mouth closed.

  The case was going cold, Tennant felt sure of it. And yet he had a nagging feeling that the answer lay there just below the surface, if only he had the ability to pull it to the forefront of his brain. On an impulse he parked his car in the High Street and knocked on the door of the vicarage. Nick answered, looking just as a young vicar in a rural community should look: fresh-faced and keen, yet with the sorrows and mysteries of the whole locality thrust upon him.

  ‘Inspector Tennant – Dominic – how very nice to see you. Come in, come in.’

  The policeman walked into Nick’s living room to see Radetsky, the cat, lying on the sofa looking at the world from a mournful eye.

  ‘Hello, what’s up with your moggie? He looks miserable.’

  ‘Yes, he’s on antibiotics. I had to take him to the vet’s. He had a cut in his ear which went septic. Must have caught it on something.’

  ‘Poor pussy.’ Tennant gave him a tentative tickle. ‘Well, how are you, Nick? It’s been quite a while since we spoke.’

  ‘Oh, I’m jogging along, you know. But I wish this wretched case could draw to a conclusion. It’s upset a lot of people in the village.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Nobody wants it as much as I do.’

  ‘Are you any further on?’

  ‘Not really.’ Tennant accepted the glass of gin and tonic that Nick was offering him. ‘But I have a strange feeling that it’s all connected with devil worship. There’s so much of it goes on in rural Sussex. Mr Grimm casts a long shadow.’

  The vicar pulled a face. ‘I know. And it’s my duty to fight it to the bitter end. I feel sometimes that it is a battle I can’t win.’

  ‘Oh come, Nick, don’t say that. It’s part of the old Christian ethic that good will triumph over evil.’

  ‘But when you’re on the front line it doesn’t always feel that way.’

  Tennant sipped his gin and said, ‘I see you as St George, carrying your flaming sword and standing before the moonlit door to repel all evildoers.’

  Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Are you misquoting de la Mare to annoy me?’

  Tennant shook his head. ‘One of our greatest poets and one who is sadly overlooked, I fear. “The Listeners” is my favourite poem of all time.’

  ‘What I love about it was that it was never explained, not even by the author. I mean, what is it about?’

  ‘“Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller, knocking on the moonlit door,’ quoted Tennant. He shook his head. ‘I think it just tells the story of a creepy old house bathed in moonlight, and somebody from their past comes as he says he would, but everybody he once knew has died.’

  ‘Yes, that’s about it in my opinion too.’

  ‘Then I propose a toast. To the late, great Walter de la Mare.’

  They clinked glasses and solemnly drank.

  ‘You know we’re a couple of idiots quoting poetry at each other when I’ve got the most awful couple of murders to solve. And you seem to be fighting off some takeover bid by the devil worshippers.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the only way to lift our spirits,’ Nick answered gloomily.

  ‘I take it from your general disposition that you have not seen Miss Quinn lately.’

  Nick’s features lifted. ‘Do you know, I have seen her and quite honestly I’ve really fallen for her. I just wish she were more available to court. That sounds old-fashioned, doesn’t it? But then I suppose I’m just an old-fashioned chap. I would take her out to dinner and buy her flowers and dance the night away if she only lived nearer.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Her parents are divorced and her mother lives in Budleigh Salterton. Her father pushed off and lives in Croynge or Penge or Windge East. The only hope is her grandmother who, thankfully, lives in the village.’

  ‘But Patsy’s tour can’t last forever. I mean, she only came fifth in that contest.’

  ‘I know,’ Nick answered miserably, ‘but she’ll always be a singer.’

  ‘Get a grip, Vicar. Nowadays women invariably have a profession. Tell me, are your intentions matrimonial?’

  ‘They may well lean in that direction, yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear it. Whether she’ll want you is an entirely different matter, of course. But if I were you, Nick, I would go and sweet-talk her granny, be kind to the old dear and take her little gifts. It certainly can’t do any harm if it doesn’t do any good.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Nick. ‘I shall start tomorrow. And I’ll probably end up by marrying the grandmother instead.’

  ‘Quite likely,’ answered Tennant, and they both laughed.

  Byron wasn’t enjoying his tea with Isabelle one little bit. She had dared him to swim in their swimming pool – which lay at the very far end of the garden – and stared at him when he had refused.

  ‘But I ’aven’t brought my trunks. I can’t swim in me pants.’

  ‘Yes, you can, sissy. I can go in in my knickers. I don’t think you can swim.’

  ‘I can so. My dad says I’m a very good swimmer.’

  But Belle had persisted and in the end the boy, rather ashamed because he had little rolls of fat about his person, had stripped to his underpants and dived in. He was, as his father had claimed, an excellent swimmer. Doing a long, leisurely crawl up and down the length of the pool and producing just a small rivulet of crystal drops, not great waves of heaving water like the creatures in goggles who scare old ladies at the baths in health clubs.

  Isabelle jumped in but she could only do the breast stroke and felt puny in comparison with the rippling motion of Byron.

  ‘Who taught you to swim like that?’ she asked pettishly, as Byron came to a stop beside her.

  ‘I’ve had lessons since I was five. Me and Dad belong to a posh health club and I was taught there.’

  ‘You’re a show-off, that’s what you are, Byron Wheeler.
’

  ‘I’m not, honest. I’ve just been taught right.’

  Belle let out a shriek of rather nasty laughter. In fact, it made Byron – who was not the most imaginative of children – go cold.

  ‘Well, go on swimming. Show me how it’s done. I’ll go and watch you.’

  Obediently, for Byron was really a nice little boy who did what he was told, he started to swim again He did the crawl superbly, just to show her, head under the water, coming up to take a puff, until he suddenly realized that it was getting dark and the next thing he knew was that the pool cover was unrolling on top of him. Frantically he swam towards the light but she was too quick for him. She had unrolled the whole top and he was trapped beneath. He couldn’t even get his head up to shout and Byron realized that he was dying.

  And then he heard a voice, loud and authoritative. ‘Isabelle, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Where’s Byron?’

  ‘Oh, he’s gone home, Daddy. Wasn’t it rude of him?’

  Byron feebly raised an arm and the top must have rippled slightly because he heard the major shout, ‘He’s under there. Go and fetch your mother. I’ll deal with you later.’ And the major started heaving on the wheel with every ounce of his power.

  Melissa came running and the two of them hauled with all their strength but Byron had lost consciousness by the time the cover was off and it was only because the major had brought soldiers back from the brink of death that the child was still alive when they took him into the ambulance.

  ‘Oh God, Hugh, could that have been an accident?’

  ‘No,’ he answered shortly, ‘no it couldn’t. Isabelle must have done it for a prank. But that is the kindest way of looking at it. I’m going to have words with that young lady. Where is she?’

  ‘In her room. I sent her upstairs.’

  But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere in the house. And to make matters worse the cat, Samba, who had spent most of his time in his basket since returning from surgery at the vets, was missing too.

  Hugh had sat quietly, just for a few minutes, gathering his strength as if he were donning army uniform. Then he said, ‘I’m going to find her, Melissa.’

  ‘I’m coming with you, darling.’