“It’s seventeenth century. We’ve tried to keep it in its original state.”
“You’ve done a great job, Vicar.”
“Please call me, George,” the vicar urged as they walked back outside.
“May I ask you, George, how long you’ve been vicar to the village of Mead?”
Eyebrows coming together to form a solid line of woolliness, George replied, “Now there you go, asking difficult questions. Let me see, come this November; it will be thirty-three years.” Nodding towards the adjacent field, he added, “They’ll be putting me out to pasture with those cows before too long.”
Craig, George, and Sir Lancelot ambled through the cemetery. Turning to the vicar, Craig asked, “Would you be able to shed light on something that occurred in this village thirty years ago?”
George stopped to pick up a discarded sweet wrapper. “I’m not going to pretend I have no idea what you’re referring to. But I must ask, is it relevant to your investigation?”
Caught off guard, Craig said, “I don’t see how it can be, and yet I think it is.”
“Beneath these headstones lie some exceptional people and some very good people. There are no bad souls lying here in God’s little acre. Only God is perfect, Craig. The rest of us just stumble through this life doing the best we can.”
Watching Sir Lancelot thoroughly sniff a small shrub, Craig said, “I respect the loyalty you have to your flock. But I’m sure you understand, in my profession, I have to dig and probe. My job is to find out why Jude is dead. If I have to go back thirty years to discover that, I will. It would be nice to learn the truth from someone such as yourself and not, perhaps, from a person with malicious intent.”
“Touché my friend. How about we make a deal? If uncovering events from long ago become a necessity to solve your case, then I’ll tell you all I know.”
Craig smiled. “Sounds fair to me.”
Walking back down the tree-lined path, he heard the vicar call out, “Our Sunday service starts at ten!”
Waving his hand in the air, Craig kept walking.
33
The Old Mead Police House
Dramatically flinging herself into a chair, Cynthia exhaled before saying, “I presume you dragged me here for some good news.”
“Good news?” Craig asked, brows raised.
“That our dear departed doctor left me something.”
“It may be a good while until Jude Ryland’s will is read. Did you and he discuss its contents?”
“Yeah right,” Cynthia replied with a snort. “We didn’t discuss anything.”
Craig looked down at his notepad. “The last time we talked, our visit was cut short. I believe you remembered an urgently required pedicure appointment.”
Cynthia flashed a fake smile. “I gave you a list of people who wanted him dead, wasn’t that sufficient?”
“Your thoughts on who hated Jude enough to kill him may not stand up in court, Cynthia.”
Receiving an, I’m bored expression, Craig continued, “What were you and Lady Abbott Rigg arguing about on the day of the garden party?”
Expecting sultry filled silence, Craig was surprised to hear, “I was telling her to stay away from Jude.”
“You believe something was going on between Jude and Lady Abbott Rigg?”
“I saw her, leaving his house the night before the garden party.”
Straightening, Craig said, “Jude Ryland’s door is completely hidden from the road.”
“I do know that, Detective.”
Craig rephrased, “How were you able to see Tracy Abbott Rigg leave Jude’s home?”
Devoid of embarrassment, Cynthia replied, “Because I was hiding out in his guest house.”
“Hiding out?”
Cynthia waved her hand in the air. “Spying, stalking, whatever you want to call it.”
“Dare I ask why you were in a house that doesn’t belong to you?”
Struggling to unwrap gum, with long acrylic nails, Cynthia replied, “Like most Mead residents, Jude never locked a door. I had a perfect view of his drive from the landing window in the guest house.”
“Why the need to spy, Cynthia?”
“It’s a waste of time telling you. I’ve seen you two together. You’re as blind as the rest of them.”
“You’ve lost me,” Craig admitted.
“I was spying on precious Syd. The perfect woman who skips around the village delivering babies and pleasing everyone.”
“So, this was common practice? You were watching for Sydney, but on the night in question, you saw Tracy Abbott Rigg?”
“That’s right.”
“Help me out here, Cynthia. All you’d be able to see was Sydney coming and going. Were you simply curious as to the frequency of her visits?”
“I don’t know, maybe there was nothing good on TV," Cynthia replied with exasperation. “I’m telling you, that girl is not what she seems. She’s up to something, and if it kills me, I’m going to find out what it is.”
Pushing back the distracting thoughts Sydney’s name frequently evoked, Craig asked, “Did you see anyone else on Jude’s drive that evening?”
“I wondered when we’d get to that,” Cynthia said with a smug smile. “Did I just become your best friend, Detective Monroe?”
34
The Village Green
Rounding the corner onto Mead Lane, a standard poodle at his side, Craig paused to take in what lay before him. At least twenty gazebo type tents graced the village green. Overnight, the lush vacant area had been transformed into a bustling, musical filled world of days gone by. Crossing the road, Craig obligingly paid the fifty pence entrance fee.
Bending his knees until eye level with Sir Lancelot, Craig proclaimed, “We’re going to visit every one of these tents, my friend.”
A familiar voice behind him said, “I think he understood every word.”
Turning, Craig looked up into the beautiful face of Sydney Bennett. “It’s his first fete, and he’s naturally quite excited.”
“Let’s ensure it’s a memorable experience for him,” Sydney said with a smile. “Now tell me, are you in need of a pig?”
Straight-faced, Craig answered, “Isn’t everyone?”
Sydney clasped her hands together. “Then the livestock tent is our first stop.”
Fifteen minutes later, Craig surmised, aided by Sydney’s giggles, his guess for the little pig’s weight was way off. Turning to look at the pig again as they left the tent, he said, “You have an unfair advantage.”
“I do?” Sydney questioned, brows raised.
“You weigh newborn babies.”
“You’re likening that pig to a newborn?”
“Absolutely,” Craig replied seriously. “My nephew looked just like that when he was a baby!”
Sydney’s laughter abruptly ended when they reached the next tent. Placing a hand on Craig’s upper arm, she voiced dramatically, “The fortune teller. Do you dare?”
Lowering his sunglasses, Craig asked, “You’re not serious?”
“This one will make you a believer; I kid you not!” Sydney whispered.
Frowning, Craig enquired, “What about you?”
Her voice resuming its normal inflection, Sydney replied, “I went last year; it's the same lady. You go on in. Sir Lancelot and I will meet you in the tea tent.”
“Fine,” Craig mumbled resignedly. “But I must warn you; this dog has no off switch when it comes to scones.”
Giggling, Sydney bounced off towards the large tent in the center of the green. Sir Lancelot, happily, trotting by her side.
Committing the heartwarming scene to memory, Craig turned and entered the tent.
Tentatively stepping forward, allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Craig came upon a giant of a man. With a voice to match his stature, he asked, “Do you come seeking knowledge?”
Trying not to laugh, Craig replied, “Err, yes, yes I do.”
The man pointed to an aging woode
n sign hanging on the front of a table. It read, five pounds a reading.
Craig couldn’t help himself. “Five pounds, really?”
Expressionless, the giant replied, “The money will be refunded if you are not fully satisfied.”
Despite being tempted to voice this probability, Craig handed over a five-pound note.
Extending a muscular arm, the man said, “Madam Vunello will see you now.”
Almost choking on the aroma of incense, Craig approached a small round table. The seated woman, a black lace scarf concealing her face, motioned towards the vacant chair. With only a small bejeweled lamp casting soft illumination, Craig was hard pushed to ascertain her age.
“What knowledge do you seek young man?” the veiled woman enquired.
Disconcerted, having expected cards or a crystal ball, the detective replied, “Um … future events.”
“Many are intrigued by what the future holds. But Madam Vunello senses you are more interested in the past.”
Craig attempted, but failed, to see the woman’s features beneath her scarf. He imagined Madam Vunello may be a Mead resident, well aware of his investigation.
Deciding to play along, Craig asked, “Can you tell me what happened here thirty years ago?”
The fortune teller, bony fingers, tightly clasping a red and gold shawl around her shoulders said, “Truth is unyielding. Are you sturdy enough to accept veracity?”
“I believe I am,” Craig replied.
The woman’s head, akin to a stringless puppet, dropped to her chest. Craig waited patiently, but at length pondered whether she’d fallen asleep. About to get up and exit the tent, Craig stilled when Madam Vunello said, “A young man trusted an older woman. The woman was greedy. The young man knew not what he did. Many were hurt and are still suffering. It is a sin that has no end. Generations to come will suffer.”
An unbidden chill running up his spine, Craig enquired, “Was the young man, Jude Ryland?”
Lifting her head, the woman replied, “Madam Vunello does not concern herself with names.”
When more silence indicated his time was up, Craig stood to leave. Turning towards the exit, he heard the woman say, “The dark hair and green eyes will uncover the secret.”
A massive hand on his back convinced Craig more questions would not be tolerated. Nodding his thanks to the unusual pair, he returned to sunshine and relative normalcy.
Sir Lancelot, equipped with telltale crumbs in his mustache, was the first to greet Craig when he entered the tea tent.
“He was hungry,” Sydney said in response to Craig’s raised eyebrows.
Smiling, Craig looked towards an empty cup. “More tea?”
“Tell me all,” Sydney said when Craig returned to their table with a fresh pot and two treacle tarts.
“Five pounds for Madame Vanoopoo or whatever her name is!” Craig complained.
“Oh, don’t be such an old grouch. Tell me she didn’t amaze you.”
“She didn’t amaze me.”
Sydney wrinkled her small nose. “Really? She amazed me.”
Offering her a treacle tart, Craig responded, “I’m sure she lives in a neighboring village and knows a fair bit about Mead. She may well have seen us outside the tent together or chatting at the Duck.”
“She mentioned me?” Sydney enquired eagerly.
“I presumed she meant you, but when I think about it, she didn’t say if the person was male or female. Just that they had dark hair and green eyes.”
Sydney looked down at her hands. “That does sound vague. Sorry, you wasted five pounds.”
“Nonsense, it was fun.”
“Here comes David,” Sydney announced.
When the young man approached their table, she asked, “How long until you dance?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Taking in David’s attire, Craig said, “Dancing.”
“Morris Dancing,” Sydney informed him. “It dates to the fifteenth century.”
Craig smiled at his young assistant. “That’s fabulous.” Turning to Sydney, he muttered, “I am familiar with Morris Dancing.”
David stood a little straighter. “Thank you, Sir. I’ve been part of the Morris club since I was twelve.”
“Fabulous,” Craig said again. Receiving a subtle nudge from Sydney, he added, “We’ll see you there.”
Petting Sir Lancelot, David offered, “You’ll recognize another dancer. Norman Bell, the Coroner.”
Watching David leave the refreshment tent, Craig said, “No wonder Norman’s perpetually unavailable. He’s too busy dancing.” When this earned him a disapproving look from Sydney, he countered, “Forgive me, but I am a hardened Manchester Police Detective. You have to allow it may be a little strange to see the Coroner and my assistant running around in long socks, waving handkerchiefs in the air.”
Stifling a smile, Sydney said, “We’ve got just enough time to hit the tombola before it starts.”
After winning a box of Milk Tray chocolates, they took their seats for the dance. Ten minutes in, Craig conceded to Sydney it was a wonderful English tradition. Clapping at the final hanky flourish, he resisted asking the coroner for an update.
Maintaining her role as tour guide, Sydney led the detective and his dog into a preserve tent. “See those jars over there?”
“The lemon curd?” Craig enquired.
Sydney gave him a sweet smile. “I made those.”
Turning to the lady behind the makeshift counter, Craig said, “I’ll take all six jars of lemon curd please.”
Playfully pushing his arm, Sydney asked, “Are you crazy?”
“It’s my favorite,” Craig replied. “Lemon curd on toast … heaven!”
Leaving the tent with procured provisions, they stopped mid-stride upon hearing Sydney’s name over a loudspeaker. Jumping up and down, she exclaimed, “I’ve won that perfect little pig.”
Although tempted to ask what Sydney could possibly want with a – not little for long – pig, Craig, for the third time in ten minutes, said, “Fabulous!”
Excitedly pulling Craig and, along with him, Sir Lancelot towards her new pet, Sydney gushed, “I think I’ll call him Sam.”
Craig wondered what the villagers would think, seeing his hand, be it fleetingly, clasped in Sydney’s. He didn’t care. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun.
Mike, from The Dying Duck, saw their approach and said into the microphone, “Here she is! The beautiful Miss Bennett is now the proud owner of one very cute pig.”
Cradling the little creature like a baby, Sydney, surrounded by onlookers, posed for photographs.
Craig, capturing the moment on his phone camera, observed Lady Abbott Rigg pushing her way through the crowd. Stopping in front of Sydney, she began stroking the pig’s soft head.
Sydney politely asked her how she was.
“I’m okay I guess,” Tracy Abbott Rigg replied. “I really wanted this pig, but I never win anything. I told them to name their price, but they said that’s not how it works. Pretty stupid of them, I think. He’s so sweet; I'd have paid anything.”
Sydney looked down at the little pig. Hands grasped around a barrel-shaped belly; she handed him to Tracy Abbott Rigg. “He’s yours. I like the name Sam, but you can call him whatever you like.”
Tracy’s eyes grew wide. “You mean it? I can have him?”
Sydney nodded. “Yes.”
Holding the pig tightly, Tracy began digging around in her handbag. “How much do you want for him?”
“Nothing, he’s a gift.”
Both hands now free to give the pig a more comfortable hold, Tracy said, “I’ll take really good care of him.”
“I know you will.” Turning to Craig, Sydney added, “Let’s go try our luck at winning that massive fruit cake.”
Halfway to the baked goods tent, Craig said, “That was an extremely kind thing you did back there.”
Sydney shrugged. “She really wanted him.”
“I�
�m pretty sure you did too.”
Sydney nodded her head slowly. “I feel sorry for her; I think she’s had it tougher than me.”
35
The Haven
“The quiet driving you crazy yet?”
“No, I love it,” Craig replied honestly.
“There goes my bet. And I gave you a good month more than most.”
Craig laughed. “Why am I not surprised wagers were placed.”
“So, what do you do all day. Count the cows strolling by?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I’m investigating a murder?” Craig asked his friend and former colleague.
“Murder?” Henry repeated. “And we’re not talking about a fox in a hen coop?”
“Ha, Ha. One of the two village doctors was poisoned ten days after I arrived.”
“Damn! Doesn’t the place only have about one hundred residents?”
“One hundred and three when I arrived,” Craig replied. “And it’s still one hundred and three. We lost a doctor and gained a baby.”
“What’s your hunch?” Henry asked. “A transient?”
Picking up the phone and moving it and the conversation into the kitchen, Craig replied, “I don’t think so. I believe the killer is a Mead resident.”
“Domestic?” Henry inquired.
Craig sighed. “I think it may be a little more complicated than that. I can’t begin to describe how different these folks are, Henry. I instill no fear in them. It’s more like I’m a nuisance. An inconvenience they want to swat away.”
“And here me and the lads were thinking it was all cricket and Pimm’s on the green.”
“It’s an incredible lifestyle,” Craig said while placing Sir Lancelot’s food bowl on the ground. “I just wish I could have eased in a little slower.”
Henry laughed. “Not have to say, Hello, I’m Craig, did you do away with the good doctor?”
Moving back into his living room, Craig replied, “Exactly. I’m concerned, even long after this murder’s solved, no one will like me.”
The Secrets Of Mead Page 8
