“Let me guess. Margaret sits on the committee.”
“It’s a big farce,” Sydney explained. “Margaret is assistant chair, but the whole thing is unnecessary and ineffectual. It took me two years to sell them on the coat drive. There are families in Harrington living below the poverty line. Most Mead residents are completely out of touch with life beyond this village. We could do so much more if we came together, but the committee members block me at every turn.”
“Who else is on the committee?”
“Lloyd Atwell, Norman Bell, Reginald Abbott Rigg and Ruth from the post office takes the minutes.”
“Aside from Lloyd,” Craig enquired, “did Jude have a friendship with any of these committee members?”
Thinking for a moment, Sydney replied, “He had no time for Margaret. I couldn’t say with Norman. Ruth, he tolerated like the rest of us. Judge Beauchamp and Lord Abbott Rigg are a little more complex. About six months ago his opinion of them altered. I don’t believe there was ever a real friendship; they had little in common, but there was a certain level of respect.”
“But he lost that respect?”
Frowning, Sydney replied, “He never said why, but I remember sensing he’d gone off them.”
“Would it surprise you to hear the residents of Mead believe Jude took his own life?”
A plump scampi halfway to her mouth, Sydney responded, “No, not at all.”
“May I ask why?”
“Most of Mead’s residents didn’t understand Jude. Until this last year, he barely left the house. He didn’t attend the infamous garden party, didn’t travel to London for dinner and a musical. Was rarely seen in the pub and apart from a hello in passing, only engaged in conversation with his patients.”
“Until this last year?” Craig asked tentatively.
“I’m sure you’ve heard,” Sydney replied with a knowing smile. “Jude and I spent a lot of time together. I convinced him to get out a little more. However, I’m guessing we didn’t do it enough for the villagers to cease seeing him as some enigma.”
“Prior to this last year,” Craig enquired, “Cynthia wasn’t able to convince Jude to do the same?”
“Cynthia’s relationship with Jude,” Sydney replied with a wrinkle of her nose, “was more of a behind closed doors type thing.”
“Would it be fair to assume Cynthia was jealous of you and Jude Ryland?”
“I think that’s a fair assumption, Detective.”
“One last question. I know you have to get back to the surgery. Do you believe someone in this village capable of killing Jude Ryland?”
Spearing her last piece of fried scampi, Sydney replied, “I do.”
21
Meadow Cottage
“Please tell me you’re kidding; you have to be kidding.”
Syd stopped pacing. “Have we reached the stage we find humor in our situation?”
“How did you find out?”
“A letter arrived this morning.”
Twisting the caps off two beers, Mark stated, “I thought we were the only ones.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“I mean, in the village,” Mark said.
Raising her beer bottle in the air, Syd proclaimed, “And then there were three!”
Mark, head drooping, fell into a chair.
Forcing positivity into her voice, Syd reminded him, “We both did what we came here to do. Who cares how many more there are.”
“You’re right. I guess I’m just astonished. Such a tiny village, I thought we’d be safe from this. And the person, Syd, I’ll need some time to get over that one.”
“You and me both.”
“What are we going to do about this new detective?” Mark asked seriously.
“Do?” Syd enquired.
“He’s a digger, Syd. Knew that after one conversation with the man.”
Taking a hefty gulp of her drink. Syd stared out towards the bluebell field.
“I see how it is. You like him, so we do nothing.”
Turning to face the mayor, Syd said, “There’s nothing we can do, and his digging won’t uncover our secrets.”
“And you know that how?”
“I don’t know it for a fact. But, as I said, our mission’s almost accomplished. If he uncovers stuff, so be it.”
“Forgive me if I don’t want us to be exposed before we’re good and ready,” Mark said.
“Number three may take that choice right out of our hands anyway.”
Mark pulled a face. “Number three’s a liability for sure. Seriously, I’m in shock. You had to have been too when you read the name.”
Syd started laughing and then found she really couldn’t stop. Mark relaxed into his chair and watched her. Smiling, he remembered how much he loved that laugh, and how long it had been since he last heard it.
22
Mead Manes
“You should have come here before now, lovey.”
Craig smiled politely as the stylist placed a plastic cloak over his shoulders. “But I didn’t need a haircut until today.”
“Nonsense,” the lady retorted. “With this mane, you could visit me once a week. What I’m telling you lovey, is you come to the salon for your information. I hear you’ve been asking questions all around the village. I could have saved you a lot of time and energy. Plus, I can make you look even more handsome than you already are.”
Craig blushed. “Thank you, Miss …”
Reaching for her scissors, the lady said, “Angela Thorne, but everyone calls me Angie. Just a trim all over, my love?”
“Yes please.”
Angie, the scissors appearing to become an extension of her hand, stated, “I hear you had lunch with Syd yesterday. She’s a beauty, and that’s for sure.”
An unbidden pang at hearing her name; Craig asked, “Do you know her well?”
“Yes, everyone knows Syd. She’s delivered a fair few babies in this village. A lovely girl, through and through. She has her secrets mind, but then you’ll find all the residents of Mead do.”
Craig took a deep breath. “I hear she and Jude Ryland were good friends.”
Angie placed the scissors in her apron pocket. “Odd coupling, I always thought. But yes, they were thick as thieves this last year.”
“Why would you think it an odd coupling? Irrespective of the age gap, they were simply a good-looking, accomplished couple.”
“I guess,” Angie conceded. “I did suspect they found each other irresistibly interesting. Thoroughly absorbed in conversation whenever I saw them.”
Craig stared unseeingly at the mirror. Why did that bother him? It shouldn’t bother him. Needing to change the subject, he said, “Forgive me Angie, but I don’t find Mead's residents appearing too broken up about the doctor’s death.”
Pulling her fingers through his hair, Angie responded, “You have to keep something in mind, Detective. When you live in the country, you see the circle of life very clearly. The weak die, and the strong survive. We accept it, but that doesn’t make us unfeeling to it.”
“You believe Jude Ryland was weak?”
Her eyes darting from Craig’s reflection to the top of his head, Angie replied, “Where women were concerned, I think he was, yes.”
“You suspect the doctor took his life over … what … a love lost?”
“I think Jude was unusually fragile in matters of the heart. There were too many women vying for his attention. I imagine it all became too much.”
“A problem many men would relish,” Craig suggested.
Rubbing something that smelled of mint between her hands, Angie replied, “Jude wasn’t like other men. Now the missy who’s bleached her hair so much it’s turned to candy floss; she didn’t help matters.”
Craig made an educated guess. “Cynthia Stone?”
Gel was applied to Craig’s head with some force. “That’s the one. What Jude ever saw in her, I’ll never know. I think she must have worn him down. If that girl wants somet
hing, she’ll fight tooth and nail until she gets it.”
Craig nodded his understanding before asking, “Did you cut Jude’s hair?”
Resting her hands on the detective’s shoulders, Angie smiled broadly. “I did. Old Phil was the village barber for three decades. After he died, there was no one to keep his shop going. The men of Mead started driving to a barber in Harrington. It was Syd who convinced Jude; I was quite capable of giving him a man’s haircut. Once I was cutting his hair, some of Mead’s old fuddy duddy’s started coming around. Who wants to drive half an hour to Harrington when I’m right here?”
Craig was about to ask which fuddy duddy’s she was referring to when the salon door opened. Three chattering young girls seated themselves in the waiting area. Observing her work in the mirror, Angie said, “You’re done, and you have that devil-may-care look women go wild for.”
Craig cringed as the three girls began giggling. Nodding towards the girls, Angie explained, “Two of these little monsters are mine, and the third might as well be.”
Ten minutes after the detective left the salon, another customer entered.
“Are you certain they can’t hear what we’re saying?” the new arrival asked.
“They have no interest in our conversation. If you hadn’t requested a haircut, we could have had this conversation elsewhere.”
“You should ask your kids to leave.”
Attempting to suppress her anger, Angie said, “They always come here straight after school. If I asked them to leave it would only pique their curiosity. This way, you’re just getting a haircut, and I’m chatting to you as I do all my clients.”
“What did you tell the detective?”
“Exactly what you told me to tell him. Jude was weak and had serious relationship issues. And I have little doubt the man took his own life.”
“I hope for your sake; you were convincing,” the customer said through clenched teeth. “I would hate for your daughters to find out what kind of person their mother really is.”
Angie stood back from the chair. Her voice trembling, she said, “You’re done. No charge.”
23
Lilac Cottage
“Is Nige at the Hatter with Mum?” Laura enquired.
Stan smiled. “No love, your brother’s cooking for the golfers today.”
Cradling her coffee cup, Laura said, “He was pretty upset about Jude Ryland. I’m kinda in shock myself.”
“Nigel told you?” Stan asked.
“Yes. I called Mum right after I hung up with him, but she refused to talk about it. I got the feeling … I know it’s crazy, but you don’t think …?”
Stan got up and walked into the kitchen. “No, I don’t.”
“Dad, she hated the man, you know she did.”
“Your mother doesn’t hate anyone. She was hurt, that’s all.”
“Oh, is that all,” Laura replied, her voice rising. “Jennifer and I were there, remember. We went to school in dirty clothes; we had cereal for dinner every night. Mum was a crumpled, sobbing mess.”
Stan returned to the lounge with a plate of chocolate tiffin. “I think you’re exaggerating. Your Mum grieved for a while but soon snapped out of it.”
“And by snapping out of it you mean the sadness turned to anger?”
“It was a long time ago,” Stan reasoned. “Why bring it up now?”
“Because the man’s dead. David told Nige it was murder. We both know Mum talked about killing Jude.”
Stan shook his head. “She was venting. Whose side are you on, Laura?”
“Side?” Laura echoed. “I’m on the side chosen for me. Surprise, your almost fifty-year-old mother is having a baby. Isn’t that exciting. No one said, by the way, Jennifer’s ballet lessons will end, and you’ll be thrown off the swim team for lack of attendance.”
“I had no idea you felt such resentment,” Stan admitted.
Laura fought back tears. “I get that Nige was an unexpected baby and Mum was sick during her pregnancy. What I can’t get past, what I can’t forgive, is the neglect Jennifer and I endured when the little fella arrived. He was a gorgeous baby boy. Why did Mum and you, have to make it all so friggin’ horrific?”
“We didn’t make it horrific. You talk of what you and Jennifer endured. How about what your brother endured.”
“I’m not a parent,” Laura acknowledged. “I imagine seeing your young child undergo numerous operations is heartbreaking. But every procedure Nige had made his life better. He was happy and getting healthier by the day. Why did we never celebrate that? Why did we choose to be victims?”
Stan looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry we let you down.”
Laura came and sat next to her father. “Nige was the best thing to happen to the Fellows. Jennifer and I love him so much. We love you and Mum too.”
“But you had a shitty childhood?” Stan asked.
Laura shrugged her shoulders. “Mum was angry, and you were busy. We managed. We’re fine.”
“So fine your sister doesn’t visit,” Stan said.
“She’ll come around. Jennifer’s worried about your health, and now she’s worried Mum’s …”
“A murderer,” Stan interjected.
Meeting her father’s eyes, Laura asked, “Does she have an alibi?”
24
The Dying Duck
“How was that lasagna, Detective Monroe?”
Craig looked up from his notepad to see the landlord’s weather-worn face.
Assuring Mike, The Dying Duck’s fare was consistently fabulous, Craig asked if he could spare him a few minutes.
“You bet,” Mike said jovially. “I’ll grab us some coffee and be right back.”
“How long have you lived in Mead?” Craig asked upon the landlord’s return.
“Going on twenty years. My wife’s sister owns the English Rose, so we came to be closer to her. They’re twins and only truly happy when within three miles of each other. The pub was half this size when I bought it. The Regal Swan it was back then. Such a sappy name, I changed it to something more my style.”
Craig glanced over his shoulder, towards the solid oak bar. At each end, suspended halfway between the counter and exposed beams, hung a stuffed duck, head down, little legs in the air.
“You have a style all of your own, Mike.”
The landlord shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t take yourself too seriously, that’s my motto.”
“Was Jude Ryland a serious type?” Craig enquired.
“A deep thinker I believe, but according to my wife, had a good sense of humor. Sue was very fond of Jude. She had such terrible aches in her joints; poor girl could barely get out of bed in the morning. Jude told her to lay off the cakes and biscuits, and sure as you like, she was better in a month.”
Craig, forcing himself to be patient, enquired, “The extra weight was a strain?”
“No, Sue, as much as she likes sweets, is very slim. There’s something she can’t handle in shop bought goodies. It was sitting between her joints and hurting like the devil. Ryland asked questions, probed into his patient’s eating habits.”
“So, a good doctor,” Craig said. “Would you also categorize him as a good man?”
“I don’t frequent Mead surgery. Sue’s forever telling me to get a checkup, have my eyes tested and the like. My thinking is, you visit a doctor, and they’ll find something wrong with you. I figure if I’ve lived this long without issue, no point in them interfering with me now.” Taking a sip of his coffee, Mike continued, “What I’m not explaining too well is, if you weren’t a patient of Doctor Ryland’s, you didn’t know Doctor Ryland.”
“He didn’t frequent this pub?”
“Barely at all until recently,” Mike replied. “When he did venture out, he was very quiet. Certainly not one for small talk.”
“Except when he was with Sydney Bennett,” Craig suggested.
Mike smiled. “The doctor became a different man when in Syd’s company. The transformation was
incredible.”
“Without knowing him personally, would you agree his friendship with Sydney may imply he was a good man?”
“Most certainly,” Mike said. “And regardless of the defamatory comments I’ve heard against him, Sue and Syd’s word is good enough for me.”
“Who made these comments?”
Mike pulled a face. “I led myself right into that one, didn’t I? Now let me think. The most recent I heard was regarding a young woman. I can’t remember who said it, there was a huddle of guys drinking. It was something about Jude seducing a young woman and isolating her from family and friends.”
Brows raised, Craig said, “A heavy accusation. Can you recall any other comments?”
“One more comes to mind. Definitely following heavy consumption. I overheard a man saying he was going to make Jude pay for all the pain and suffering he’d caused.”
“While you’re unable to pinpoint who made these allegations,” Craig said with a knowing smile. “Can I assume they came from regular patrons of The Dying Duck?”
“They did,” Mike conceded.
“Do you imagine any of your customers capable of murder?”
“Nah, they were just blowing off steam.”
“You think Ryland took his own life?” Craig enquired.
Mike looked down into his empty cup. “Sue and I were talking about that very thing over breakfast this morning. I would say, no, until I think of the alternative. If you tell me, he was either killed or took his own life; I’d have to go with suicide.”
“May I ask why?”
“Norman says there was no forced entry, nothing taken,” Mike began. “So, you’re looking at people who knew him. Someone Jude allowed into his home. Two decades I’ve lived here. This village is small enough. I know all its residents. There’s not one of them equal to murder.”
As Craig failed to suppress a smile, Mike acknowledged, “I hear you. No one ever really knows what’s in another person’s head. I just … well, I hope I’m not wrong.”
The Secrets Of Mead Page 5
