The Secrets Of Mead

by Michaela James

  “I look forward to tasting it. The reason for my visit is to inquire why you haven’t stopped by the station. I believe you received an invitation last week.”

  Tracy Abbott Rigg forced a girlish giggle. “Please forgive me. You can’t even begin to imagine how terribly busy I’ve been lately.”

  “Judging from your garden party, may I presume you’re on close terms with many Mead residents?”

  Hands outstretched, Tracy exclaimed, “Oh yes; I love them all dearly. Such sweet, simple people.”

  Craig was more than grateful for the arrival of tea and Victoria sponge. This woman was too much. He wished Sydney was here to witness the excruciating hilarity of it all.

  “How well did you know Jude Ryland?”

  Lady Abbott Rigg appeared to be giving the question serious thought. “Not very well. Barely at all, actually. You see; I still retain my doctor in London. Country doctors are a bit behind the times don’t you think?”

  “I understand your husband frequents Mead Surgery.”

  Tracy began fidgeting with her embroidered serviette. “Lord Abbott Rigg has been seeing Doctor Atwell for years. I see no reason to alter his routine. Besides, the train journey to London is too much for him.”

  “I’m sure it is. So, apart from perhaps seeing Doctor Ryland in passing, the two of you had little to no interaction?”

  “That’s exactly right, Detective Monroe.”

  “I believe he attended one of your garden parties.”

  Sighing heavily, Tracy said, “Sadly, I’m so busy making sure all my guests are enjoying themselves, I have no real time to interact.”

  Hoping his face showed a resemblance of sympathy, Craig asked, “And you never had the opportunity to chat at The Dying Duck?”

  “The Dying Duck,” Tracy repeated. “Surely you don’t imagine I patronize that musty old place. When I socialize, it’s always at an upscale wine bar in London.”

  “Naturally,” Craig responded.

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. Policemen work so hard, and you make so little money for it.”

  “You are so right, Lady Abbott Rigg. I believe you’re no stranger to hard work yourself.”

  Holding her cup midway between the table and her mouth, Lady Abbott Rigg responded, “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Only that before you married Lord Abbott Rigg, you were an employee of Reeves department store. Working in retail is no walk in the park I understand. Long hours on your feet, demanding, picky customers.”

  Hands shaking slightly, Tracy returned the cup to its saucer. “Yes, quite. However, that was such a long time ago; I really can’t remember.”

  Craig, enjoying his cake more and more, took another bite and then wiping powdered sugar from his lips stated, “Five years to be exact. I wouldn’t imagine five years is long enough to forget how your feet ached at the end of the day.”

  “What is your point exactly, Detective? Did you and Sydney Bennett have a good laugh at my expense? Yes, that’s where I met my husband, yes, he’s older than me. Do you two have nothing better to talk about? I imagine you’re attracted to her. Well, get in line with the mayor and … well, just don’t get your hopes up.”

  Craig swallowed a piece of sponge cake and, despite having no comparison, decided it was inferior to Molly’s. Why did Sydney come up in every conversation? And why did it feel like a knife to his heart, despite barely knowing the girl?

  “You were about to say, Doctor Ryland?” Craig offered.

  Turning the gold bangles on her left wrist, Tracy replied in a small voice, “Maybe.”

  “I assure you there has been no talk or laughing done at your expense. I do not discuss my work outside of the station, Lady Abbott Rigg. Your past is relevant to my investigation. I’m aware you met Lord Abbott Rigg four years ago, but I have to question why you came to Mead six years ago?”

  Tracy Abbott Rigg sat in silence, numerous gold bangles still the focus of her attention.

  “Why get a train from London to the tiny village of Mead, to then call on a man you barely know?”

  At length, dark-green eyes narrowed, Tracy said, “That, Detective, is none of your business.”

  “In fact, it is my business,” Craig replied. “Overworked, underpaid policemen take a special interest in residents with restraining orders.”

  A barrage of insults was then thrown in Craig’s direction. Tracy’s words, like a flat stone skipping across the water, made little impression on him. What did pique his curiosity was how, in anger, Lady Abbott Rigg’s voice sounded so very different. Different and identical to one of the voices he’d heard on Doctor Ryland’s compact disc.

  29

  The Olde Oxford Eatery

  “I confess I was surprised to hear from you. I thought I’d crossed the line at our last meeting.”

  Andrew Beauchamp turned his mouth down. “Some things are hard to hear. You’ve never held your punches, but that’s not to say I don’t value your opinion.”

  “What I said … what I insinuated. I’m sorry if it hurt you.”

  Pushing his half-eaten plate to one side, Andrew replied, “You told me I needed help. You see me for who I am. Unfortunately, I’m a monster.”

  “You are not a monster. You’ve worked hard to push those demons down.”

  At length, Andrew admitted, “They reappeared a few months ago. I’d maintained control for years, then lost it at a party held in my honor.”

  “A few drinks under your belt?” Harriett enquired.

  “That and encouragement from my fellow revelers.”

  “Was she young?”

  Andrew looked towards a firepit located in the center of the restaurant. “They always are. But, I did take your advice. I met with a psychiatrist.”

  “That’s good,” Harriett said. “Did he or she help you?”

  “I think my diagnosis was pretty standard. Lack of experience during adolescence was a contributing factor. I’m scared of women but feel some level of confidence around girls.”

  “I didn’t know you at school,” Harriett conceded. “But certainly, you were too focused on your studies to date in college.”

  “I went to an all-boys school. You observed a young man hell-bent on getting his law degree in record time. In truth, I was as much a deviant as a scholar.”

  “I don’t know what inner struggles you had during our time at University. But I do know you went on to become a respected barrister and Judge.”

  “I had some triumphs while wearing the wig. Sadly, my sordid personal life took away any real feeling of accomplishment.”

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” Harriett replied soothingly.

  “I appreciate you meeting with me today. I needed to see a friendly face. You are the only person, or I should say friend, who knows my dark side. Well, you and that expensive psychiatrist.”

  “This relapse you mentioned. It was after seeing your pricey shrink?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid his assertions of my need to feel powerful and dominant over younger women didn't help me that night.”

  “I’m no expert,” Harriett said, “but I imagine like any addict, you can’t be around what … what tempts you.”

  “It was my prime objective in moving to Mead,” Andrew said. “The few homes it encompasses are so expensive I figured my only neighbors would be aging retirees like myself.”

  “Do you mind me asking,” Harriet began tentatively, “the girl in question … is she okay?”

  Andrew began folding his serviette. “I believe so. I was very drunk. We all were. But, there’s a problem with who she is.”

  “Who is she?” Harriet asked.

  “She’s the daughter of a friend of mine. He and I have bowled together for years. I and others at the party had no idea. She was a dancer from, we assumed, one of those entertainment agencies. It was only after repeated visits to the village surgery that she was recognized as a local girl.”

  “Did she tell her father?”


  Andrew shook his head. “If she had, I think we’d know by now. It’s been over six months. Honestly, I don’t believe it will ever go any further. But … I wasn’t the only grabby old man at this party. A prominent Mead resident would rather his actions didn't become public knowledge.”

  “But as you say, it’s been months and no retribution.”

  “The man who recognized the girl warned us she appeared to have a close relationship with a local doctor. Not long after this warning, the doctor died.”

  “Of natural causes?”

  Andrew raised greying brows. “Mead’s new detective believes it was murder.”

  “And you think this girl and the doctor’s death are connected?”

  “That I don’t know. All I do know is, Detective Monroe is asking lots of questions. And it appears neither the prominent Mead resident or the girl’s father are happy about it.”

  “This Monroe guy, has he questioned you?”

  Andrew shook his head. “No, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Observing throws of commuters walking past the restaurant window, Andrew replied, “Stay one step ahead of him.”

  30

  Mead Surgery

  “You’re certainly asking a lot of questions. I wish poor Jude had left a suicide note and spared us all this nonsense.”

  Craig stared at Lloyd Atwell for a good thirty seconds. “I fail to see how he could have done that considering he didn’t commit suicide.”

  “You’re still barking up that tree, are you?” Lloyd asked while shuffling papers on his desk.

  “Yes, and I imagine I’ll be barking up it until I find out who murdered Jude Ryland.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect me of killing my friend and colleague?”

  “Friend?” Craig retorted. “You haven’t been able to tell me anything about the man.”

  Lloyd Atwell sunk back into his chair. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why did you let him take the blame for Nigel Fellows?”

  Lloyds face drained of color. “You’re going back decades. What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Please just answer the question, Doctor Atwell.”

  “I’ll answer it when you tell me what relevance it has.”

  “Your wife told me Jude had serious money issues due to his malpractice suits. Was he rightfully liable, or were you?”

  “I signed off on the prescription. Jude merely handed it to Molly Fellows. However, neither of us were to blame. That drug was perfectly legal. I should have shouldered the responsibility; I was weak and drowning in debt. I knew a malpractice suit would finish me.”

  “Did the court rule in the Fellows’ favor?” Craig asked.

  Lloyd shook his head. “No, that was never going to happen. But win or lose, it costs a small fortune to defend yourself, and then your insurance premiums shoot through the roof.” Lloyd stared out the window for a few moments before asking, “Do you know how much it costs to color hair these days, Detective Monroe?”

  Craig looked at the thinning gray hair atop Lloyd’s head.

  “I can’t say I do, no.”

  Still staring out at lush green meadows, Lloyd said, “Every three weeks, my wife takes the train to London. She travels first class of course. Then she takes a taxi to Kensington for her appointment with a flamboyant man named Pierre. Margaret’s convinced true happiness is found only when four varying shades of blond are expertly applied to your hair. To have one's nails done after seeing Pierre would be too much, far too tiring. So, every two weeks she takes that same train back to London. No one can be expected to shop London’s finest stores with nails that aren’t completely dry. So yes, right again, that’s another trip, once a month, to London.”

  Turning to face Craig the doctor inquired, “Are you getting the general idea, Detective Monroe?”

  Craig sighed. “Yes, I get it, Doctor Atwell. You have an expensive wife; I believe, high maintenance is the term. Is this the reason you gave Jude when he asked why he was being fed to the wolves?”

  “Jude forgave me many years ago. He was a better doctor than me and a better man. My wife is expecting me to retire any day now; she wants to move to Monte Carlo. Can you imagine, Monte Carlo? Jude loaned me money year after year. No interest, no penalties, just an honest-to-goodness loan. About five years ago, I had a stroke of bad luck. I’d made an investment, bought some shares in a company. It was a sure thing. All my friends agreed and …”

  Lloyd mumbled a few more words Craig couldn’t hear, but imagined were too embarrassing for the doctor to say out loud.

  “Jude Ryland helped you with that too?”

  Closing his eyes for a moment, Lloyd replied, “My debt to him was huge at this point. He finally got tough with me. We came to an agreement; I would sign my half of the practice over to him. I would receive a base salary, and every other penny we made would be his. It was extremely generous of him. We’re a small surgery; we didn’t make millions by any means.”

  “And Mrs. Atwell knows nothing of this?”

  “Correct, Detective. There were a few times I came close to telling her. Moments when I detected some empathy, but as I said, I’m a weak man. I will, however, get around to it one of these days.”

  Craig pocketed his notebook. “Perhaps not. Jude Ryland is dead. Maybe your procrastination has paid off.”

  Lloyd Atwell glanced fleetingly at the detective, before turning his chair to face the window and hills beyond.

  31

  Mead Stables

  “Syd, I can’t put this detective off much longer. He thinks we’re meeting tomorrow. I’ll text him first thing and make up some excuse, but you know I’ll have to show my face eventually.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry to ask this of you; it's not fair. Tighten your grip on those reigns a little.”

  The solicitor laughed. “I’ve been watching too many westerns.”

  “I have a western saddle you can try if you’d like. But I think we should master the english one first.”

  Pete patted the horse’s neck. “Who would have thought I’d be learning to ride in my fifties!”

  Checking the girth, Syd said, “This is the very horse Jude rode. He was late into the saddle too. Took to it like a duck to water. We had some of our best conversations while riding.”

  “Have I said how sorry I am?”

  “You have, Pete, and I appreciate it. I’m fine, or at least, I will be.”

  Pete watched Syd effortlessly mount her horse. “What can you tell me about Craig Monroe?”

  “A really nice guy,” Syd said without hesitation. “Just wish he didn’t want to know stuff I can’t tell him.”

  “I love the simplicity of that statement.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Syd responded, “I think he’s struggling with how slowly things move around here. He’s probably used to forensic teams and a coroner on speed dial.”

  “Plus, I would imagine the residents of Mead haven’t been making his life easy.”

  “Gosh no. Their secrets were safe with old D I Simpson. Craig’s got an uphill battle getting this lot to talk.”

  “Do you think he’s up to the task?” Pete asked as his horse walked obediently next to Syd’s mare.

  “I’m hoping not,” Syd replied. “Because I’m hiding the biggest secret of all.”

  32

  Saint Andrew’s Church

  Warm sun on their backs, Craig, and his dog strolled through the heart of Mead. Reaching a steep incline, their saunter became more of a trek.

  The pavement was narrow, barely affording two people room to walk alongside each other. Craig kept Sir Lancelot close to the low stone wall while allowing his canine to set their pace. At length, after enjoying the patchwork quilt effect of field upon field, they approached a wide gate fronting a tree-lined path. Impatient to reach their destination, dog and owner mastered the walkway with long determined strides. Vivid sunshine found them again, surrounde
d by a myriad of headstones. Another walkway, this one bordered with rose bushes, led up to the church entrance. Closer inspection of the stately building revealed a blue and gold clock on the face of the tower. Craig guessed the steeple, at one with low hanging clouds, was around eighteen feet high. Reaching the double doors, Craig grasped the iron, ring-shaped handle.

  “Are you seeking Sanctuary?”

  Heart thumping, Craig turned to find a tall man dressed in black, smiling amusedly at him.

  Sir Lancelot, un-phased, had, unlike his owner, seen the stranger approaching.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” the man offered. “That’s a Sanctuary handle. By grasping and holding onto it until the local priest arrived, a fugitive could demand sanctuary from the church. His pursuers were prevented by law from dragging him away. However, from that moment on, the fugitive belonged to the church.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Craig responded.

  Extending his hand, the man said, “Welcome to Saint Andrew's. I’m George, the parish vicar.”

  Craig introduced himself to which the vicar exclaimed, “Ah yes, the new police detective. I’ve heard all about you.”

  “I imagine my reviews weren’t glowing.”

  “They were mixed,” the vicar replied casually. “But more good than bad. Go ahead,” he added, nodding towards the handle. “Allow me to show you our village church.”

  Smiling, Craig informed the vicar, “Carol from Mead News and Food directed me this way for the scenery. She was right, the views from here are breathtaking.”

  “Ah yes, Carol enjoys a good hike. Don’t be disheartened by your current rating, Craig. It takes a while before a tight-knit village like Mead accepts a newcomer. Give them some time, and you’ll be unanimously loved.”

  “In my line of work, Vicar, you’re very rarely unanimously loved.”

  George lifted his hands resignedly before asking, “How do you like Saint Andrews?”

  Craig’s eyes were instantly drawn to a circular stained-glass window framing the small altar. Strong afternoon sun conjured shards of multicolored light. They bounced rhythmically, almost joyfully, upon every surface touched. Forcing his gaze to the ornately carved pews and choir stall, he replied honestly, “It’s beautiful.”