THE
SECRETS
OF
MEAD
AN ENGLISH VILLAGE MYSTERY
MICHAELA JAMES
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Michaela James
MichaelaJamesBooks.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9828409-4-8
Published 2019 by LW Media Group Ltd
LWMediaCo.com
Printed in the United States of America
201905261443
Cover image acknowledgments:
Helen Hotson, Shutterstock.com Contributor (upper front)
Masson, Shutterstock.com Contributor (lower front)
Dedication
For Michelle Farren
When another soul becomes beautifully entwined with yours. When they give you endless joy, kindness, and loyalty – surely that’s more than a friendship. It’s a love story!
PROLOGUE
A determined wind howled and whistled its way through the narrow streets of Mead. Pulling his coat collar up, Doctor Ryland took one last look at his local, then began the short walk home. The aging pub sign creaked and grated behind him. Despite hearing it move in the wind often, tonight it sounded eerie, almost intentionally sinister.
Consumed with thoughts of what lay ahead, Jude Ryland reached his driveway with little knowledge of how he’d arrived there. Looking across the road to Glenn’s dairy farm, he imagined it was mere hours before Martin and his sons rose to milk the cows. Why, in all these years, had he never taken a stroll down that lane and introduced himself? Sighing, Jude considered adding opportunities missed to his list of regrets, was akin to the proverbial straw on the camel’s back.
Keeping to the routine he’d maintained for the last six months, Ryland turned on the sound system upon entering his library. Leaning back into a leather chair, he closed his eyes and focused on the familiar voices echoing through the room.
It was his penance, and it was his comfort. Every word spoken had become intricately etched into his soul. Every accusation lay heavy as a water-soaked towel across his heart.
Tonight, the words hung in the air longer. They were more intimate, unequivocally raw. Jude Ryland could only attribute this new sensation to a singular fact.
Tonight, the owner of one of these voices was coming to kill him.
1
Meadow Cottage
With a shaking hand, the mayor of Mead navigated the lock on his oak front door. The sun, oblivious to his discomposure, began its ascent over the adjacent bluebell field. Greeting the dawn was commonplace for Mark Stone. A good night’s sleep had eluded him for years. Life’s realities played out too clearly when he closed his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, sitting in his sunroom, Mark watched his favorite color show unfold. But, the purple becoming blue, then purple again, held no magic for him this morning. His thoughts kept returning to the look he’d seen in the man’s eyes.
He shouldn’t have gone there. It wasn’t the right time.
The confrontation had been meticulously planned. Akin to an artist applying more pigment to a seemingly completed canvas, Mark had honed and appended his speech. Every word spoken was to be stated factually without emotion. The charges laid before the accused would be indisputable, leaving no margin for rebuttals or excuses.
Unobstructed sunlight filled the room. It’s sleep-inducing warmth prompting Mark to relax into amply padded cushions.
Eyelids at half-mast, he reminded himself of three things. Vengeance may be overrated. But he’d laid his demons to rest, a new life began today.
2
Lilac Cottage
“I don’t know why you work so hard for that awful woman every year. You have more than enough on your plate with the Hatter.”
Her face half hidden in shadows, Molly studied her husband. His labored breathing prevailed over the gentle hum of a nearby purifier. A bedside lamp, in need of dusting, illuminated a sagging jawline and kind eyes.
Closing the bedroom door and moving to the bed, Molly sat and removed her shoes.
“I’m painfully aware of that, Stan. However, as the Lord saw fit to give us emphysema and a handicapped child; I have to make money where I can.”
An exasperated sigh escaped Stan’s aching chest. “For Pete’s sake, will you stop bringing God into this.” Throwing an arm towards an oxygen tank, he added, “My three packs a day earned me that prize. Prenatal anti-nausea pills caused Nigel’s issues.”
This argument was as familiar to Molly and Stan as the wedding bands adorning their fingers these last forty years. The disagreement left no carnage in its wake. Rather a sense of weariness at its unvarying content.
For the first time in eighteen years, Molly let her husband have the last word. Stan, feeling more unease than satisfaction, asked, “You alright, Molly?”
“Yes, Stan. I’m fine.”
Reaching over and touching his wife’s arm, Stan said, “I’ll get dressed and help you load the scones and sandwiches into the van.”
“I haven’t made any.”
Stan frowned. “What are you talking about; you’ve been gone all night.”
Rarely at a loss for words, Molly looked down at her feet.
“Molly,” Stan said her name in the form of a question.
“There was just some business I needed to take care of. Please don’t press me to tell you more than that.”
Stan came around the bed and sat next to his wife. Placing his hand over hers, he asked, “Were you with me all night if anyone should ask?”
Molly slowly nodded her head.
3
The Manor House
When the pulling of drapes cast sunshine across the room, Tracy Abbott Rigg made no effort to hide her displeasure.
Perhaps somewhat intentionally, clinking of china followed, as Lizzie placed a teacup and saucer on the bedside table.
Taking in her employer’s disheveled appearance, Lizzie said, “Lady Abbott Rigg, you didn’t take your eyelashes off last night. You’ll want fresh ones for the party. Would you like me to help you with them?”
Gingerly lifting a hand to her right eye and blinking a couple of times, Tracy replied, “These will be fine, Lizzie. I’m much more concerned with Lord Abbott Rigg. I want you to make sure he looks the picture of health today. Put a little blush on his cheeks. I’m so sick and tired of people in this village saying I don’t take care of him. I take exceptional care of him. Gossiping old fools, I hate them all.”
“Yes, Lady Abbott Rigg,” Lizzie replied. “They’ll be here in two hours.”
“Two hours!” Tracy repeated with a screech. “What are you waiting for? Get going; I want everything perfect for our wonderful guests.”
Tracy, watching Lizzie run from the bedroom, realigned herself into a semi-upright position. Sipping tea, she replayed the previous night’s events. All would be fine; she assured herself. She’d waited years, and now finally achieved what she came to do. No one could argue she had every right.
4
Mead House
The fact Lloyd Atwell was not yet fully awake, didn’t deter him from feeling acutely irritated. The source of this irritation came from his wife’s electric toothbrush. Why, the doctor redundantly asked himself, did she have to sit at her dressing table and wake him with incessant whirring?
“Can’t you brush your teeth over the sink like a normal person?” Lloyd voiced out loud.
Standing, Margare
t Atwell slowly made her way to the adjacent bathroom. Spitting out toothpaste, she shouted back to her husband, “Can’t you stop after two glasses of wine, like a normal person?”
Lloyd sat up and reached for his glasses.
“What time does this thing start?”
Returning to her dressing table, Margaret began applying thick cream to her neck and jawline. “Too soon for that hangover of yours, I’d imagine.”
“I don’t have a hangover,” Lloyd retorted.
“You were out all night drinking. I’m pretty sure you have a hangover.”
Raising bushy gray eyebrows, Lloyd said, “I fail to see how you’d know my state of inebriation, considering I was home before you.”
Red-faced, Margaret, replied, “That’s complete nonsense; I must have fallen asleep in the sewing room.”
“No, you didn’t. I checked every room in the house.”
Rubbing a pink tinted cream on her face with great gusto, Margaret stated, “I don’t believe you.”
Lloyd, walking into the bathroom and shutting the door, muttered, “You never do.”
Forcing her feet into navy pumps, Margaret said, “Jude Ryland is not getting half of a surgery you built up from nothing.”
Toothbrush in hand, Lloyd Atwell stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Turning and opening the door, he asked, “Why did you say that?”
“Say what?” Margaret replied with feigned casualness.
“We weren’t discussing Jude. Why did you bring up his name?”
Margaret directed her attention to a large ornate jewelry box.
“I believe I’ve been bringing up his name for over a decade now. How many times have I told you to consult a solicitor?”
“How many times do I need to tell you, we have no grounds?”
Holding a pair of gold earrings up toward the light, Margaret asked, “Do you have a law degree now?”
Lloyd was about to come back with an equally cutting response but thought better of it. There were roughly four occasions a year when they attended a function as a couple. Sadly, today was one of them.
5
The Manor House
All Mead residents, Lady Tracy Abbot Rigg deemed important, were invited to her garden party. To say she didn’t fit in among her fellow villagers would be an understatement. Tracy was astute enough to assume this disapproval stemmed from the fact she’d married a considerably older man for his money.
Outwardly, she shrugged off their sentiments as inconsequential. In truth, Tracy wanted to fit in. As time passed, it became more integral to her happiness. But as yet, she’d not come across a handbook explaining how to achieve this lofty goal. She hoped, though there was little evidence to support it, her annual garden parties were a step in the right direction.
Guests were now arriving in earnest. Tracy had instructed her staff to occupy them with alcohol until the food made an appearance. How, Tracy marveled, could Molly suddenly be ill on the one day she needed her? It was unforgivable considering she paid the batty woman handsomely for a few pies and sandwiches.
****
Pulling up to the Manor house, Syd, scanned the crescent driveway for Jude’s Porsche. An identical car, owned by Mead’s mayor, was also conspicuously absent. The mayor’s lateness wasn’t a huge surprise, Mark liked to make an entrance. It was, however, out of character for Jude. Doctor Ryland liked to arrive promptly and leave early. Maybe he just couldn’t stomach it this year? Syd considered. But surely, he wouldn’t expect her to endure it without him. Glancing up at the impressive four-story home, Syd took a deep breath and entered through the side gate. A good proportion of Mead’s residents stood chatting on the well-maintained lawn. Syd pondered, as she did every year, why so many, including herself, felt the need to attend.
Lady Abbot Rigg, kissing the air on both sides of Syd's face, handed her a drink before tottering off to greet Judge Beauchamp. Stepping from the tiled patio onto the soft, thick grass, Syd felt the warm midday sun engulf her. Looking over to the bar, routinely set up under the gazebo, she spotted a miserable looking Doctor Atwell. His wife, Margaret, wearing an Ascot style hat, appeared to be chastising him through clenched teeth.
Syd refocused her gaze beyond the bar. Half a dozen young children were playing cricket, and watching them, was Lord Abbot Rigg. Propped up on a lawn chair, a plaid blanket over his knees, he waved a frail hand in the air after each good play.
Syd imagined the elderly man took great pleasure from the children’s joy and exuberance. But why, she wondered, did he have to be positioned so far from adult company?
About to head his way and say hello, Syd heard a familiar voice call her name. Turning, she found Caroline, a friend, and colleague, sitting alone at a table set for eight. Overstated beckoning convinced Syd, her friend’s present need for company overrode Lord Abbott Rigg’s.
Half an hour later, concluding light-hearted critique of fellow guest’s outfits, Syd released a dramatic sigh.
“I wonder what’s taking the food? We’ll all be too drunk to stand if we keep guzzling Pimm’s and not so much as a sausage roll to go with it.”
Caroline giggled. “It’s because Molly’s sick and now poor Anna has to cook everything.”
“Molly’s never sick,” Syd said with narrowed eyes. “And even if she were, she’d cook anyway.”
“Anna doesn’t believe it either. She said Molly sounded really weird on the phone.”
“Maybe we should go offer our help,” Syd suggested.
Un-listening, Caroline shifted in her chair. “Look, that hot new detective just arrived. I know he’s a decade older than me, but damn he’s sexy.”
Hastily averting her eyes from the undeniably handsome man, Syd imparted, “Looks like any other guy to me. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”
Eyes fixed on the detective; Caroline spoke from behind a big smile, “Well, Miss-no-man-excites-me; he's heading our way.”
“Ladies, would you mind if I joined you?” the detective inquired politely.
“Please do,” Caroline replied, “but I’m off to help make sandwiches before we all starve to death.”
Throwing Syd a mischievous grin, Caroline set off towards the house.
“Does that young lady work for our hostess?” the oblivious detective asked.
“No, Caroline is the receptionist at Mead surgery. She shares a cottage with Anna, who cooks and cleans for the Abbott Riggs.”
Sitting down, the detective said, “Thank you. It may take me a little while to get everyone straight. You’re Sydney; I believe we’ve bumped into each other a couple of times at the pub.”
“Yes,” Syd replied, adding, “I can help you with the whole who’s who of Mead if you like. I think I know everyone except the mystery resident in Primrose Cottage. Today is a perfect opportunity; I would estimate eighty percent of the village comes to this garden party each year.”
“That would be most beneficial, thank you. Let’s see, what can you tell me about this couple arriving now?”
Syd leaned forward to get the detective’s viewpoint. “Edward and Grace Clark. Two of Mead’s longest residents. They own the English Rose.”
“Is that another pub?”
“No, there’s only one pub in the village, and you found it! The English Rose is a bed and breakfast.”
Smiling, the detective lowered his sunglasses and looked over towards the house again. “What about this lady?”
“That lady is Cynthia Stone.”
“I’m sensing she’s not your favorite person.”
Syd leaned back in her chair. “Your detective skills are finely tuned, even when off duty.”
Seeing the man’s face color, Syd made a mental note to reign in her sarcasm.
“Do they have trollops where you’re from, Detective?”
“I believe so, and please call me Craig.”
“And where are you from, Craig?”
“I was born and raised in Oxford but have spent most of the la
st decade working in Manchester.” With a straight face he continued, “So the lady who just arrived is a trollop?”
“Exactly. Now, who else do we have? Well, of course, the man under the tree is Lord Abbott Rigg. Has anyone actually talked to him this year? He could be dead you know. Tracy may be storing him in the freezer and simply defrosting him before each garden party.”
Craig laughed. “Sydney, you are an awful girl. I saw someone chatting with him not five minutes ago.”
“You do realize you’re the only person in this entire village who calls me Sydney?”
“Syd is a boy’s name,” Craig said with a frown. “I much prefer Sydney.”
The food, greeted with relief and appreciation, arrived an hour later. Lifting a pork pie up towards Craig, Syd proclaimed, “It’s the same nosh every year. Finger sandwiches, sausage rolls, and these little artery cloggers.” Syd found the last egg and cress under a pile of cheese sandwiches. “I confess, I have no problem with her assuming we have the palate of a ten-year-old. I love this comfort food!”
Taking one of the passed over cheese sandwiches, Craig said, “I'm guessing our hostess hasn't always lived in the manner to which she’s now accustomed!”
“Gosh no! She worked at Reeves in; you guessed it, the men's department.”
Intrigued, Craig asked, “She met Lord Abbott Rigg in a clothes store?”
Syd nodded. “About a year after his wife died. He used to buy all his clothes from a tailor in Harrington. Then, for whatever reason, he began shopping in London. Lady Abbot Rigg, or just Tracy as she was back then, put on her padded bra, measured his inseam and the next thing you know; she's lady of the bleeding manor.”
Craig, almost choking on a piece of chutney, declared, “Sydney you are priceless. I need to spend more time with you.”
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