The Secrets Of Mead

by Michaela James

  “Suspicious!” Andrew’s drinking companion echoed. “That man suspects every damn person in this village. Can’t you send him packing and give us someone a little more docile?”

  “In the middle of a murder investigation and with no cause. You don’t think that would raise some eyebrows?”

  Irritated by Andrew’s reasoning, the man stated, “Norman is going to have to come up with something. He needs to say he was wrong about the cyanide, rule Jude’s death as a heart attack.”

  Draining his glass, Andrew replied, “It’s too late. We asked him to stall, not lie for us.”

  “So, we’ll ask him now.”

  Wishing he wasn’t -figuratively- in bed with the man, Andrew replied, “We have to tread carefully. If Norman ever finds out why we wanted Jude dead, our lives are pretty much over.”

  44

  The Old Mead Police House

  “Sir, I’d like you to meet, Mrs. Bell.”

  Standing up from behind his desk, Craig came around and shook the woman’s hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Bell.”

  “Please call me, Marcia,” the woman urged.

  An awkward silence followed before David said, “I owe you an apology, Sir.”

  Craig looked expectantly at his assistant.

  “Can we sit down?” David asked.

  Despite his confusion as to how the coroner’s wife could be connected with David’s apology; Craig obligingly took a seat.

  “The day of Jude’s death or I should say the day his body was discovered,” David began, “Caroline mentioned hearing voices on that cd. I believe she only heard a small section, but the part she relayed to me was a story I’m familiar with.”

  Intrigued, Craig silently waited to hear more.

  “It was my voice she heard,” Marcia Bell said. “From the snippet, David relayed to me; it was a message I left Jude over a month ago. He was a very private man. Very personable while at work, but after hours he tended not to answer his door or phone. I didn’t want to be overheard in the surgery so had little choice but to leave him a voicemail. I can only presume he transferred it to the cd you found.”

  As Marcia continued talking, Craig became confident he recognized her voice. “You talked about a woman choosing Jude Ryland over you.”

  Marcia exhaled. “My daughter.”

  Astounded at how one man could affect so many lives, Craig said, “Tell me about your daughter and Jude Ryland.”

  “Rachel, my daughter, was, is such a gentle, sweet soul. I think she just reached that age when … well like all teenage girls; she pushed the boundaries a little.”

  “Did pushing those boundaries include seeing an older man?” Craig enquired gently.

  Tears filled the middle-aged woman’s eyes. “I’m not sure, Detective Monroe. Norman certainly deemed that to be the case, but I was never convinced.” Turning to David, Marcia asked, “Did you believe it?”

  David shook his head. “Nothing was going on between Jude and Rachel.”

  Squeezing David’s arm, Marcia continued, “She told me Jude was helping her. That he was the only person, who understood what she was going through. I confess I didn’t believe her. I wanted to, but I didn’t understand it. I’m her mother; she can tell me anything. How could a man she barely knew comfort her more than me?” Sniffing back tears, Marcia added, “I’m sorry, I assured David I could do this without crying.”

  Handing her a box of tissues, Craig asked, “Do you remember when Rachel began chatting with Jude Ryland?”

  “It was about six months ago. Right around her eighteenth birthday. Rachel had always loved parties, but when I suggested we go all out for her eighteenth; she gave me a flat no.”

  “From what I’ve heard,” Craig said, “Jude Ryland socialized with just one person this past year. I wonder where and how he and Rachel struck up this friendship.”

  “I said that to her,” Marcia responded. “I asked her why she wanted to throw herself at a man who only had eyes for Syd Bennett. I shouldn’t have said it. I was just so worried, and she wasn’t telling me anything. I thought maybe if I pushed her, she’d …”

  “I understand,” Craig replied, pulling a tissue from the box and handing it to Marcia. “Sometimes in retaliation, people will give us information we couldn’t otherwise obtain. What can you tell me about her friends, was she heading to University perhaps?”

  “Oh yes,” Margaret responded brightly. “Rachel has a place at London College of Fashion. She was working hard to help her Dad and me with the high cost of renting a flat.”

  “She had a job?” Craig enquired.

  “Just babysitting for local families. But she made surprisingly good money.”

  Reaching for a pen, Craig asked, “Which families?”

  “Carol from News and Food. Her daughter’s a single mother and often deposits the grandkids at the shop’s door. It was fine before Carol’s husband died, but now Ralph’s gone, and the kids are into everything, it’s too much for her. Then there was Angie from the salon. Her girls must be around thirteen now. Angie was seeing some chap from Harrington and would be gone until the wee hours. Norman and I didn’t like Rachel out so late, but at least we knew where she was.”

  Returning pad and pen to the table, Craig said, “I’d like to speak with your daughter.”

  Tears sprang, once again, to Marcia’s eyes. “I don’t know where she is. She’s been missing for over a month.”

  45

  Mead House

  Margaret allowed Craig entry into her home. “I’ve been expecting a visit from you.”

  Nodding, Craig said, “I thought it best we have this discussion in private.”

  “Yes, Lloyd does seem conveniently delicate these days, doesn’t he?”

  “I have more questions for your husband, Margaret. I just feel seeing you individually might be preferable.”

  “Oh, come now, Detective. You’re telling me that little charade in your office wasn’t tactical. Do you enjoy seeing marriages disintegrate right in front of your eyes?”

  Ignoring the question, Craig asked, “May I sit down?”

  Margaret motioned toward the sofa. “Tea?”

  “No, thank you. I just require some honesty. I feel you’ve been leading me down a merry path, and I’m beginning to lose my patience.”

  Sitting, Margaret appeared to be forcing her features into a look of bewilderment.

  “I know you were blackmailing Jude. What I require you to tell me now, is what you were blackmailing him with.”

  “Lloyd’s mother, Rita, is from South Africa,” Margaret, inhaling deeply, began. “Back in the early nineteen-nineties things got shaky in that part of the world. She decided to move her savings to the Isle of Man. About ten years after that, with the continuing violence, she followed her money. All was well until she had a fall at the beginning of the year. Lloyd and I went to check on her. She lived in a small coastal town. Nice enough, but quite backward. There was just the one hair salon if you can believe it. Anyway, Rita wanted her hair set. She was somewhat frail so Lloyd, and I accompanied her. The stylist was a frightful looking woman with red hair and garish makeup. As I was paying for Rita’s hair, I spotted a small framed photo next to the cash register. I pointed to it and asked the stylist if she was related to the man in the photo. She turned as white as a sheet and said, you’re not South African? I told her I was from England, then I pointed to the photo and asked her again, are you related to that man? Snatching up the frame, she said, no, before disappearing into the back room.”

  “It was a photograph of Jude,” Craig offered.

  “Yes. A good deal younger, but most definitely Jude.”

  Craig scratched his head. “Presumably this woman was Jude’s mother, but I’m not understanding the blackmail aspect.”

  “Aren’t you aware?” Margaret quipped, “Claudette Ryland’s a criminal.”

  Not wanting to give Mrs. Atwell the satisfaction of knowing she’d shocked him, Craig casually asked, “What kind
of criminal?”

  “I’m not one hundred percent certain,” Margaret admitted. “Lloyd and I moved here about three years after it happened.”

  “It?” Craig enquired.

  “Some sort of malpractice suit or something,” Margaret responded with a wave of her hand.

  “Malpractice suits are usually settled. You believe criminal charges were filed against her?”

  Seemingly irritated by questions she didn’t know the answer to, Margaret replied, “You’ll have to ask someone who lived here during that time. All I know is, she’s a criminal, and she fled the country.”

  Nodding, Craig looked down at his pad before saying, “On the night of Jude’s death. Did you talk about discovering his mother’s whereabouts?”

  Head tilted back and eyes closed for a moment, Margaret said, “It was so frustrating. I’d sent him countless letters and messages. Is a brief response too much to ask? The disdain he treated me with was unforgivable. Don’t I deserve some respect for being the wife of his partner and senior partner at that? I was going to be heard and if that meant charging into his home, then so be it.”

  When Margaret stopped to draw breath, Craig asked, “What did he say?”

  “He laughed.”

  Craig leaned in towards her. “Jude’s mother drowned in the Irish Sea six months ago.”

  “Well that’s opportune,” Margaret replied haughtily. “But then what he said doesn’t make much sense.”

  “What was that?”

  “He said he wasn’t his mother’s keeper any more than she’d been his.”

  “Did you get the sense it was the last time you’d see Jude?"

  Margaret thought for a moment. “Not really. Although he did return all the letters I’d sent.”

  “The letters threatening to expose his mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “One last question. Do you believe your husband visited Jude that night to discuss a patient?”

  A strange smile spread across Margaret's face. “I don’t believe that any more than you do, Detective Monroe.”

  46

  Mead Manes

  “Hello lovey, are you needing a trim?”

  “Thank you, no. I think I’m good for another few weeks. I was hoping we could have a little chat.”

  Angie looked down at her appointment book. “I have a cut and color at four. That gives us just over fifteen minutes.”

  Craig motioned towards two matching sofas.

  Fidgeting with the tie of her apron, Angie came from behind the gold and glass counter.

  Sitting in the small waiting area, Craig said, “Tell me about Rachel.”

  Her eyes darting from the salon door and back to Craig, Angie replied, “Sweet girl. Used to babysit for me.”

  Taking a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket, Craig said, “While you were out with a gentleman named …?”

  “That would have been um, let me think, that must have been Tony, yes it was Tony.”

  Pen poised, Craig asked, “And Tony’s surname?”

  Her face coloring, Angie replied, “Why do you need his surname?”

  “So, he can collaborate your story.”

  “I don’t understand,” Angie stammered.

  Craig placed his pad and pen on a magazine covered side table. “Marcia Bell permitted me access to her daughter’s room yesterday. I found a substantial amount of cash hidden in her wardrobe.

  I’m curious as to how a few babysitting jobs could prove so lucrative. I spoke with Carol from News and Food this morning. Rachel helped watch her grandchildren. For the few hours after school before their mother picked them up, Rachel would earn between fifteen and twenty pounds. Were you paying her five times this amount?”

  “She wanted to make money for Uni,” Angie stammered. “She didn’t want to share a flat with a ton of other people.”

  “And you knew how to help her achieve this?”

  “We were just talking,” Angie explained. “She really was babysitting for me. After I got home one night, we sat and had a coffee together. Rachel mentioned her need to make serious money. She had no idea; I don’t believe, of my connections.”

  “Connections to drugs?” Craig enquired.

  “No, nothing like that. When I was in beauty school, I met some girls, who made money on the side. Nothing heavy, just a little dancing at parties.”

  “And when you say dancing, you mean stripping?”

  “No, not necessarily,” Angie argued. “Just a bustier or something sexy like that.”

  “And you know this from personal experience?”

  Looking down at her hands, Angie replied, “It got me through beauty school and gave me the down payment on this salon. I haven’t done it since I had kids.”

  “Now you simply encourage young girls to do it?”

  “I mentioned it to her, that’s all. She became super interested. Asked me more and more about it. I told her it’s not for everyone, but she was insistent. I got her a few parties, and she did very well. She’s a pretty girl with a good figure; she made great money.”

  Narrowing dark-brown eyes, Craig asked, “Why did Rachel run away?”

  “It was that last party. I don’t know what happened, but the poor girl wasn’t the same after that.”

  Retrieving his pen, Craig asked, “Who was the party for?”

  Rubbing her hands together, Angie implored, “Please don’t ask me that. If I give you names, they’ll tell my girls what I used to do.”

  47

  The English Rose

  “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”

  Grace smiled. “You don’t need an appointment. The only time Edward and I can’t be sociable is when we’re serving breakfast.”

  “Grace is exactly right,” Edward said while opening French style doors. “Dishes and bed linens can wait, and we welcome an excuse to put them off.”

  Craig breathed in the smell of grass, roses and what he guessed was bacon from the kitchen behind him. Grace motioned towards a chair on the patio. “Did you enjoy the fete, Craig?”

  “Very much. In fact, that’s partly the reason I wanted to chat with you again today.”

  Leaning forward Grace put her hands together. “That sounds intriguing.”

  Edward, seemingly only gone for an instant, returned with a tray of tea and flapjacks. “What can we tell you about our village fete?”

  “I think I’m good with the fete. It was something said to me by the fortune teller.”

  “Now I’m really curious,” Grace admitted.

  Craig smiled. “She was a little odd, but I guess that’s normal for fortune tellers. I was struggling not to laugh at the nonsense of it all, but then I confess she did get my attention. Madam Vunello suggested I was more interested in the past than the future. So, I asked her what she knew about the village of Mead thirty years ago.”

  Grace and Edward stayed silent as Craig reached for a flapjack. Holding it in the air, he said, “Grace, you had mentioned having to go back thirty years if I wanted to solve this mystery.”

  Grace looked at her husband before saying, “Let me add a year to that and talk about a woman who arrived here thirty-one years ago. She was somewhat of a culture shock to us village folk. Her hair and nails were the exact same shade of red. The clothes she wore during the day were what I’d consider to be evening party attire. What I’m trying to say is, the woman was glamorous, but it was out of place for life in the country. As you can imagine, the residents of Mead didn’t welcome her with open arms. Although I’m not certain it would have made much difference if they had. One got the feeling she hadn’t come here to make friends. She bought the Old Mill House, with cash mind you, just beyond Saint Andrews church, and went to work on starting her own clinic. We were all curious as to what type of clinic it was. Daniel Cartwright was our village doctor. Mead probably had eighty residents back then. We had little need for another surgery. Edward and I asked. Molly, Carol and Ruth, we all asked, what type of clinic are
you opening? Not one of us got a straight answer. It took months to get it up and running. No locals were hired for the conversion of the barn. We believe her construction crew came from London. When it did open, there was no sign on the door, no listing in the phone book, nothing. We only knew it was in operation because the women who visited the clinic often stayed here at the Rose.”

  “Grace mentioned she was glamorous,” Edward interjected, “She was also abrupt and ruthless. She’d walk into Sean’s pharmacy, clear every packet of cotton wool off the shelves and then refuse to pay sticker price. She’d act similarly with Carol in the village shop.”

  “You said she converted the Old Mill House,” Craig enquired, “the same mill house that’s now half destroyed by fire?”

  Edward nodded. “The very same.”

  “Did this woman have a husband or children?”

  “If they existed, we never saw them,” Grace said.

  “Do you know how long the clinic was in operation?”

  “Two years,” Grace replied. “The story was; she was heavily in debt. However, it was the Warnock Report that closed her down.”

  Craig frowned. “Isn’t there a famous Philosopher named Warnock?”

  “That’s the one,” Edward said. “Mary Warnock.”

  “Sorry, I need to back up a bit. What type of clinic was this?”

  Edward glanced at his wife. “They called it a fertility clinic in the papers. We’re pretty sure it was a sperm bank.”

  Eyes wide, Craig repeated, “A sperm bank?”

  Perfectly in sync, Grace and Edward nodded in affirmation.

  “Here in the tiny village of Mead?” Craig continued.

  Grace smiled. “Right here in Mead.”

  Craig sipped his tea. “Mead does seem an unlikely setting. But aside from that, aren't sperm banks common practice?"

  “I’m sure they are now and even thirty years ago, in big cities,” Grace replied. “In nineteen eighty-two the government started to regulate how these clinics operated. In this case, the scandal wasn’t the clinic itself, but the unethical way it was managed.”