The Moonlit Door Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Deryn Lake From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Recent Titles by Deryn Lake from Severn House

  The Reverend Nick Lawrence Mysteries

  THE MILLS OF GOD

  DEAD ON CUE

  THE MOONLIT DOOR

  The Apothecary John Rawlings Mysteries

  DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID

  DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST

  DEATH ON THE ROCKS

  THE MOONLIT DOOR

  A Nick Lawrence Mystery

  Deryn Lake

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2014

  in Great Britain and 2015 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and

  the USA 2015 by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Deryn Lake

  The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Lake, Deryn author.

  The moonlit door.

  1. Lawrence, Nick (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Vicars, Parochial–England–Sussex–Fiction.

  3. Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 4. Renaissance fairs–

  Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8437-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-563-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-611-3 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  This book is in memory of three very dear people who all died within the same dreadful fortnight. Freddie Hodgson, wit, sophisticate, brilliant writer and friend; Jane Ray, one of the most beautiful women I have ever known, whose goodness to me was immeasurable; and Jackie Sellick, a kind, sweet woman from the old village days, who tied the most splendid bows I have ever seen. None of them will ever be forgotten.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks and love are due to my third grandson, Fintan (Fin) Carroll, who sat with me on a sunny day in the garden and worked out the entire plot of The Moonlit Door (originally called Mr Grimm’s Men). His notes were with me throughout the entire writing process. Thanks, too, to grandsons one and two, Henry and Elliot, who cheerfully turn up and with one swift movement put right whatever is going wrong with my mad computer. And last, but by no means least, my only granddaughter, Amelia, who does exactly the same but twice as fast.

  ONE

  It was an ancient and attractive custom, one enjoyed by music-lovers and the stout-hearted but detested by those who were trying to get ‘a decent night’s kip’, as Jack Boggis, the local misery, put it. The Vicar of Lakehurst, representative of the Church of England in a quaint and sometimes malicious village set in the heart of rural Sussex, had thought of restoring the tradition, and had been getting mixed reactions ever since.

  It was all about a celebration of May. In years gone by, on May morning the choir had climbed up to the top of the church tower and raised their voices in song as dawn had lightened the skies. Now is the month of Maying, When merry lads are playing Fa la la la, et cetera. In fact, the lyrics were full of double entendres and rudery, much loved in the sixteenth century and ever afterwards. The original had been composed by Thomas Morley in 1595 and was the most famous of the English balletts – or madrigals. But despite the fact that it was all about sex, it was sung with much sincerity by as august a body as the choir of Magdalen College in Oxford from the roof of the Great Tower. But in Lakehurst people were not so keen.

  ‘Can’t get a wink of sleep after six,’ Jack Boggis had proclaimed in the Great House, banging his pint of beer down on the table to emphasize his words. ‘All that caterwauling from the church. Why can’t they just sing at services like they used to?’

  ‘It’s a celebration of May, Jack.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot of socialist nonsense to me. They’ll be rolling tanks down the High Street next and we’ll all have to cheer the Great Leader.’

  He had expected a laugh but instead was met with a somewhat stony silence. The major, a relative newcomer to the village, having bought a house just outside with rolling countryside for a view, some three years earlier, cleared his throat and shuffled his newspaper. His wife, an attractive woman in midlife, concentrated fiercely on doing a crossword with an irritable little twitch of her head. Jack guffawed.

  ‘I say that May Day was invented by the left-wingers. Whoever heard of it before Stalin?’

  The major put down his paper and gave Jack a steely look.

  ‘I hate to correct you, old boy, but it is a celebration as old as time. It’s all to do with fertility rights. That song you object to so violently actually refers to it. The line about “barley break” is the ancient equivalent of a roll in the hay.’

  Jack stared. ‘Do you mean that the vicar allows them to sing filth from the church tower?’

  ‘That filth, as you call it, is sung by children in Salt Lake City.’

  ‘Well, they’re American,’ Jack retorted, and raised his newspaper.

  Melissa Wyatt, the major’s wife, kicked her husband gently under the table.

  ‘What an old bore,’ she whispered. The major merely smiled and nodded. ‘Anything interesting in the paper?’ she asked at conversational level.

  ‘Not much. Another soldier killed in Afghanistan. Somebody or other punched someone else in the Big Brother House. Usual stuff. How’s your drink? I’m going to have another.’

  ‘I’ll just go to the garden and check that Belle isn’t making a nuisance of herself, then yes, please.’

  She stood up and her husband saw her go out by a side door. When she had gone he sighed a little and picked up his paper but the gesture was rather to hide his face than to read. Much as he loved his granddaughter, Isabelle, he could not help but wonder t
hat just as he had retired from the army and bought a new home in Lakehurst, there should have been that dreadful accident. An accident involving an articulated lorry and three other cars on that horrible A21.

  That his son Michael should have been wiped out, that his pretty wife Chloe should have died a few hours later, was almost too much to bear. But it was the miraculous escape of their infant daughter that had altered Major Hugh Wyatt’s life for ever. For from that moment he and Melissa had had to face the responsibilities of parenthood once more. Not that they would have done anything differently, of course. But it was just that they had reached the stage in their lives when things should have been calmer, when they could have enjoyed their new home in Lakehurst in peace and tranquillity. Yet it was not to be. Their only other son, Ralph, was newly married and was moving from place to place, a soldier like his father. There was nobody to take on the responsibility of Isabelle but her grandparents.

  Standing on the steps looking down into the Great House’s garden, Melissa smiled just a fraction sadly. Below her she could see Belle playing on the swings, yellow bunches flying as she called out, ‘Push me harder. Push me harder.’ Her playmate, another ten-year-old called Debbie, was valiantly trying to obey but struggling somewhat. They both looked up as Melissa called out, ‘Are you all right, darling? Can I get you another Coke?’

  ‘Yes, please, Mummy. And some crisps.’

  Melissa sighed inwardly. Crisps were not allowed so close to Sunday lunch and she knew that Belle would squeal in protest. But looking at the primrose head she felt a surge of protective love, and weakened.

  ‘All right, darling. But just this once. And you’re not to eat them all. Share them with Debbie.’

  ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  And Belle looked away and continued to swing.

  Melissa went back inside to find her husband in conversation with the vicar of Lakehurst, a delightful young man, in Melissa’s opinion, who never tried to ram religion down people’s throats but somehow by his very charm managed to involve them in church activities.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Wyatt,’ he said, and shook hands enthusiastically.

  Melissa smiled and transformed herself momentarily into the beauty she had once been. A rather hawk-like face was softened by the large blue eyes and the gentle curve of her lips. She looked pretty and worldly simultaneously.

  ‘Hello, Mr Lawrence,’ she answered formally.

  ‘I do wish you’d call me Nick,’ said the vicar. ‘After all, you’ve been in the village three years now.’

  ‘Is it really that long? I still feel like a newcomer.’

  Nick grinned over his glass. ‘So do I.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘It’s a tradition with the older generation. They think of you as a foreigner unless you’ve been born here.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid the foreigners are growing in number,’ put in the major. ‘The place is turning into part of the commuter belt.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ came from behind Boggis’s newspaper.

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ whispered Melissa. ‘You can tell by his accent that he’s pure Yorkshire.’

  Nick peered into the depths of his glass, his eyes catching something of the light thrown by the beer. Then he winked, a look which slightly disturbed Melissa.

  ‘He’s been in this pub so long he thinks he owns it,’ he murmured.

  Hugh Wyatt looked shocked and amused.

  ‘That was a very unvicarish thing to say, if I may make so bold.’

  Nick laughed. ‘I quite agree,’ he said.

  He was an intriguing young man, Melissa thought, aged about thirty, with a squarish face and a lock of tawny hair that fell forward when he was talking seriously, somehow ruining the effect of his words. His eyes were clear and had a tendency to change colour slightly. His lips, though hardly virginal, had yet to find the impact of true love. He looked likeable, which, indeed, he was. Melissa smiled, enjoying his company.

  Her husband, Hugh, was very much like the new generation of retired majors; keen-eyed, tight-jawed and various other clichés that suited his type. But behind that facade there was an intelligence and a quick wit. Melissa had fallen for those together with his charismatic smile and general charm.

  He stood up. ‘I’ll just go and check Belle,’ he said.

  Watching him go out, bearing a bottle of Coke and a packet of crisps, Melissa gave a half smile. The vicar, somewhat to her surprise, caught her mood.

  ‘It must be a great responsibility for you, bringing up a grandchild.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Yes, it is. Of course, we wouldn’t be without her. I mean, it is enormous fun having her around. It is just that …’

  ‘Bringing up any child must mean a certain sacrifice of freedom.’

  ‘We were looking forward to a bit of peace after army life.’ Melissa shot Nick a quick glance. ‘No, that sounds awful. I didn’t mean it like that. Isabelle has brought us both a great deal of joy.’

  The vicar smiled. ‘I’m sure she has. She wouldn’t like to come along to Sunday school by any chance?’

  Melissa smiled. ‘I can ask her.’

  He grinned, and Melissa wondered why he wasn’t married. Why somebody hadn’t snapped him up years ago.

  Hugh returned. ‘Couldn’t find the little wretch anywhere.’

  Melissa looked alarmed. ‘Is she missing?’

  ‘No, I located her in the end. She was hiding in the bushes with Debbie.’

  ‘Where was Johnnie?’

  ‘Oh, he’d run off somewhere or other.’

  ‘How like a man.’

  ‘Now, now.’

  Nick stood up. ‘Well, I must be off. It’s been so nice chatting to you.’

  ‘Going to put your feet up?’ asked Hugh.

  ‘No, I’ve got to drive out to Fulke Castle and see Sir Rufus Beaudegrave.’

  ‘Lucky old you. Mixing with the A-list, eh? I took Belle to the castle on a visit. She was very taken with the weapons they had on display.’

  ‘Typical,’ Nick answered. ‘No, this isn’t a social call. Sir Rufus has offered us a field when Lakehurst puts on its annual fête. I’m just going to finalize the details.’

  ‘Is this the medieval thing I read about in the parish news?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ the vicar answered cheerily as he made for the door.

  ‘Waste of bloody parish money,’ came from behind Boggis’s copy of the Sunday Telegraph. ‘Lot of people running about in fancy dress. Who do they think they are?’

  ‘Perhaps they are enjoying themselves,’ Nick muttered as he made his way out.

  Despite his early start on the church tower, lustily singing ‘Now is the Month of Maying’, followed by Sunday communion, May Day falling on a Sunday, Nick felt in a buoyant mood and set off for Fulke Castle still humming the tune aloud. The fact that eighteen months ago there had been a murder there, a rather ghastly one – that is, if the taking of someone’s life maliciously by another could be considered anything other than horrible – it failed to subdue Nick’s sunshine mood. Fulke Castle had seen many deaths within its walls during its nine hundred plus years and therefore nobody considered the addition of one more as anything particularly significant.

  As he drove along, Nick considered the extraordinary four years since he had been granted the parish of Lakehurst. Despite the grim times that he and the rest of the population had been subjected to – and some of the times had indeed been particularly unpleasant – he had fallen in love with the village, with its fair share of eccentric inhabitants, with the local people, even with the resident grumblers. Thinking of them as a multitude, Nick thought that they represented the whole human race in miniature.

  The drive to Fulke Castle always inspired him by its beauty. Everywhere the countryside had burst into life with the spell of sunshine which had bathed it recently. Unlike last May 1st, Nick considered, when the choir had huddled in raincoats, grey-faced beneath umbrellas, while the lantern-jawed choirmaster had b
raved the downpour in a slouch hat from which a drip of water had descended at regular intervals. It had been a ghastly experience, particularly as Mrs Ely, amply built, had slipped on the descent and twisted her ankle. But today was different. The sun god in all its glory glittered high in the heavens and all was well with the world below.

  Crossing the moat, Nick pulled up in the small car park and observed the castle for a moment before getting out. It rose in dramatic beauty, its other self reflected in the water that lapped at its feet. Like all buildings of a great age, various owners had added wings in their own particular style. Nick looked at medieval battlements, a Tudor dining hall – currently full of people moving slowly around with headsets on – delicate Georgian rooms, also lively, and finally the solid grandeur of the Victorian wing, where the family dwelt and which was not open to visitors. Getting out of the car and breathing in the fresh air, Nick made his way to the somewhat unimposing black front door which stood hidden round one of the corners. It was opened with a burst of laughter, and Nick smiled at Ekaterina, Sir Rufus’s mistress, who had to all intents and purposes taken up residence with him. Officially she lived in London but she only went to her flat in Chelsea when she visited the theatre or went shopping. She was the incredibly wealthy and beautiful – but also, as it happened, incredibly nice as well – daughter of a late Russian oligarch.

  ‘Come in, come in, my dear Nicholas. I spied you through the peephole.’ And she indicated a Victorian copy of an arrow slit in the wall above. ‘Rufus is doing his duty with the visitors – he does so occasionally. What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘A very small and very weak tonic and gin. I’m serious. I’ve just had a pint in the Great House.’

  She ushered him into the sitting room, a lovely place, Nick thought, with the Victorian heaviness gone, the only allusion to it being a chaise longue and a large plant in a burnished copper pot. Welcoming armchairs stood on either side of the fireplace, which today was covered by a William Morris inspired screen, while huge windows stretched down to the level of the moat itself, their shutters drawn back and partially hidden by floor-length red curtains.