The Secrets Of Mead

by Michaela James

  “So, the government shut it down that year?” Craig enquired.

  Grace wrinkled her nose in thought. “I want to say nineteen eighty-three.”

  Adding hot water to the teapot, Edward said, “The government appointed a committee led by Mary Warnock to look into the sale of human sperm and embryos. I’m guessing the only reason Mead’s clinic lasted another year was because it was hard to find.”

  Craig leaned back in his chair. “So, this woman left in a hurry. Could she have left something behind in that Old Mill House? Something worth coming back for?”

  “You’re connecting her with the fire?” Grace asked.

  “It’s a stretch,” Craig admitted.

  “If you’ve managed without, whatever it is, for thirty years, why worry now?” Edward said.

  Craig placed his cup on the table. “Perhaps it became important others didn’t see it.”

  Edward, brows raised, and hands outstretched said, “Hence the fire.”

  Offering Edward, a smile, Craig said, “I imagine a sperm bank was quite a shock to Mead's residents. But I’m not getting the connection between it and Jude Ryland’s death.”

  “Craig,” Grace began apologetically. “I hope you can appreciate there are parts of this story we don’t know enough about or feel we have the right to tell.”

  “I can,” Craig replied slowly.

  “Would you like to hear about the young women who visited the clinic?” Edward hastily enquired.

  Hoping it held some relevance, Craig said, “Absolutely.”

  “A fair few girls came and went, and we barely saw them. There were only a couple who came into the living room of an evening or stayed for breakfast in the morning. The young lady Grace and I remember, the girl we’ll never forget, went by the name Ashley. I say went by, because the majority of these women carried an air of secrecy. They talked about traveling from London where, we assumed, there were plenty of fertility clinics.

  Ashley was a beautiful young woman. She reminded Grace and me of a delicate china doll. While showing the young lady to her room, we extended an invitation to join us for high tea, served on the back patio at four. We had little expectation of seeing her, but to our surprise; there she was strolling around the garden. She told us about her handsome, charming husband and what a powerful, respected family he belonged to. It was over thirty years ago, and yet I can remember it like it was yesterday. Ashley said her husband was unable to father a child. Apparently, it was very important to his family he provide a male heir. Ashley told us, after giving it great thought; the couple came up with the idea of her discreetly visiting a sperm bank. They agreed the identity of the child’s father would be their little secret. The next morning at breakfast, before she left for the clinic, I asked her … I shouldn’t have asked her.”

  Edward lowered his head.

  Reaching over and touching his arm, Grace said, “Edward simply asked Ashley, what she would do if she had a girl. Would she keep trying for a boy? Well, the poor girl just crumpled right in front of us. Through tears that wouldn’t end, she told us her husband had no idea what she was planning. It had been a whirlwind courtship, no doubt by design on his part. Ashley cleaned homes by day and waited tables by night. One evening a strikingly good-looking man came into the restaurant with a group of friends. Ashley was assigned to their table, and this charismatic man made no secret of his attraction to her. He came in the following night and every night for the following two weeks. Then a month went by with no contact at all. She assumed he’d met someone else or lost interest in her. Exactly six weeks after their first encounter, a limo pulls up as she’s about to enter the restaurant and start her shift. Mr. Smooth steps out with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a marriage license in the other. Her hand in his, they walk into the restaurant where he proceeds to tell Ashley’s boss she no longer works for him.”

  Grace paused, and Edward continued with the story.

  “The man was rich, and they did marry. But he was also an abusive alcoholic. His wealth was conditional. Ashley giving birth to a son was evidently necessary to appease his parents and maintain his allowance. Each month that went by and Ashley wasn’t pregnant, made him angrier and more violent.”

  “Why didn’t she leave him? Run and never look back?”

  “We couldn’t help ourselves,” Edward admitted. “We asked that very question. Ashley said she loved him and when a baby boy came into their lives, all would be wonderful.”

  Craig moved to the edge of his seat and looking from Edward to Grace asked, “Is she okay? Did she have a son?”

  Grace, tears threatening, replied, “We have no idea. She left us that morning, and we haven’t seen her since. We tell ourselves she’s fine. We picture Ashley’s, now, grown-up son protecting her from harm.”

  In no mood for more questions, Craig thanked his hosts and made the short walk back to the station

  48

  The Old Mead Police House

  David slid his badge and keys across the counter. “I respectfully hand in my notice, Sir.”

  Craig looked up from a stack of crime scene photos. “Is this what you want, or what you feel you have to do?”

  “I’ve let you down,” David responded. “I withheld information and warned a potential suspect.”

  “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed,” Craig replied, “despite understanding your motives. In this profession, you can’t let sentiment cloud your judgment. I know it’s easier said than done. More than once, I’ve had sympathy for a murder suspect. Understood their justification in what they did. However, the minute we allow empathy to preside over the law, we’re doomed.”

  “I understand, Sir, and I’m very sorry.”

  Craig came around from behind his desk. Picking up the badge and keys, he held them out towards David. “How about we chalk it down to a learning experience and move on with our investigation.”

  Smiling broadly, David replied, “Yes, Sir and thank you.”

  “How long have you known Rachel?” Craig asked his young assistant.

  “We were at school together from the age of five, so around thirteen years.”

  “Does the dancing for money thing surprise you?” Craig enquired.

  “Yes and no. Marcia Bell is a very attentive mum, but I think she’s too full on. Rachel had so many after-school activities it was ridiculous. One night ballet, another violin practice. Then there was swimming, tennis and horse jumping. You name it, Rachel did it, and always with her mum looking on. I think Rachel felt smothered by and sort of rebelled.”

  Nodding, Craig said, “I need details of that last party. I’m going to have another crack at Angie, but I have to speak with Rachel.”

  “We’re still in contact, Sir. I think I might be able to persuade her to talk with you.”

  “That would be most helpful. Now, where are we with the palm prints?”

  Without needing to consult his notes, David reported. “No matches yet.”

  “Are all the samples in?” Craig asked.

  “All but Lady Abbott Rigg’s.”

  “You have Lord Abbott Rigg’s?” Craig enquired.

  “Yes, Sir. I stopped by the manor house yesterday. I would have got Lady Abbott Riggs too, but she was having a riding lesson.”

  “Lord Abbott Rigg can’t handle the short drive here,” Craig said with sarcasm. “But manages quite well with golf, bowls and social visits.”

  “Him calling on Doctor Ryland does seem out of character,” David agreed. “He has friends in the village, but they tend to meet him at the golf club or come to the manor house.”

  “And yet,” Craig pointed out, “he deemed to visit Jude, who isn’t even his doctor, on the night he died.”

  “Could he have gone there looking for his wife?” David asked.

  Tapping a forefinger against his chin, Craig replied, “Possibly. I’ll add that to my list of questions for the, very busy, Lady of the Manor.”

  49

  The Manor
House

  Craig was led through the house and into the back garden. The rosy-cheeked young woman motioned towards the reclining figure of Lady Abbott Rigg.

  Moving large sunglasses to the edge of her nose, Tracy declared, “I’m beginning to think you have a thing for me, Detective.”

  Smiling and pointing to a matching wicker chair, Craig asked, “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  Sitting, Craig said without preamble, “I’ll need you to stop by the station today, Lady Abbott Rigg. I really can’t wait any longer for those palm prints.”

  “You already have them,” Tracy replied.

  Craig frowned. “We do? David was fairly certain; yours are the only ones we’re waiting on.”

  “My print is on the mirror in Doctor Ryland’s bathroom.”

  “I see,” Craig replied slowly.

  Tracy focused her eyes on a large oak tree. “How didn’t he recognize me? Every time I bumped into him at the surgery, I was sure it would be the day. He’d look past the hair color, past the fake posh accent and know it was me.”

  “The girl who showed up at his door six years prior?” Craig enquired.

  Nodding, Tracy began, “My parents told me they adopted me when I was a baby. Apparently, Dad had Klinefelter syndrome, which made him sterile. When I turned eighteen, I informed them I was going to track down my birth parents. That’s when the truth came out. Mum was my biological mother, but they had no idea who my father was. I can’t even begin to tell you how betrayed I felt by the lie. Mum’s excuse was that she didn’t want me feeling more for her than I did my dad. Have you ever heard such crap? As you can imagine, the conversations from then on weren’t pretty. I think the final straw for my so-called father, was me calling mum a cheap old tart. He threw me out, and I haven’t seen them since. It took nine years before I tracked down my real father.”

  In a low voice, Craig said, “Jude Ryland.”

  “The very same. I marched up to his front door, screamed and shouted, called him every name in the book, you know the kind of thing.”

  “Then he filed for a restraining order,” Craig responded with a grimace.

  “Yes, the very next day. He had no idea who I was.”

  “And you went back to London?”

  Lifting a hand in the air, Tracy replied, “I’d blown it. I was an angry girl who grew into an even angrier woman. If, I had maybe called him on the phone, or written him a letter. Oh no, good old Tracy Paulsen has to walk into Mead with guns blazing!”

  “How long was it until you saw him again?” Craig enquired.

  “Three years. I was working at Reeves department store and overheard this old gentleman talking to one of the sales girls about Mead. I think it was Wendy, no, no it was Justine. Anyway, I persuaded her to let me wait on him, and I’d split the commission. She didn’t take too much convincing; poor old Reggie takes his time deciding on a suit. My initial interest was his connection to Mead, but when I learned of his wife’s death and how wealthy he was, my interest, shall we say, grew.”

  “And in the three years you’ve lived here, Jude never recognized you as the girl who prompted his restraining order?”

  “No, and I realized he was never going to. I figured I’d just wait for the perfect time to talk with him. He was somewhat reclusive, so it proved tricky.”

  “You did call him?” Craig asked.

  “Yes, not that long ago. I’d had a tough day and was feeling sorry for myself. I called and left this long pathetic message about my disappointing childhood, and how much he’d hurt me. He called the next day and invited me to come chat with him.”

  “Did it go well? Did you get the answers you were looking for?”

  Tracy forced a smile. “Did I run into Jude’s arms and say, I love you, Daddy?”

  Ignoring this comment, Craig asked, “This was on the night of Jude’s death. The night before the garden party?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that was the first time you and Jude had a proper conversation.”

  “First and last,” Tracy confirmed. “Can you believe that stupid Cynthia woman accused me of sleeping with him?”

  Craig shook his head. “Are you willing to share with me, what you and Jude discussed?”

  “We just talked about me. He said he was sorry for how things had turned out. That he’d been young and foolish.”

  “But you were still angry enough to write on Jude’s mirror.”

  “I did that before our chat. When I arrived, Jude was talking with some guy.”

  Hastily reaching for his pen and notepad, Craig asked, “Did you recognize the man?”

  “Never saw him. Jude answered the door, was super apologetic about having an unexpected caller and then led me into a small sort of sitting room. I was too nervous to sit, so roamed about a little.”

  “And that’s when you wrote the message in the cloakroom?”

  “Yep. I’d barely got back to the sitting room when Jude came looking for me.”

  “After he’d seen his unexpected visitor out?” Craig asked.

  “Yes. I don’t think the man was ready to leave, but Jude was certainly keen to see him on his way.”

  Pen, once again at the ready, Craig asked, “You heard something?”

  Tracy nodded. “The sitting room was just off Jude’s foyer. The guy was kind of agitated and wanting assurance from Jude.”

  “Assurance of what?” Craig enquired.

  “I’m not sure. Something about staying away from a girl.”

  Craig looked up from his pad. “Could the voice have belonged to Mayor Mark Stone.”

  “No way,” Tracy replied quickly. “I know Mark Stone’s voice. This was a Mead voice.”

  “A Mead voice?” Craig repeated, brows raised.

  “We have posh people in London,” Tracy explained, “but it’s a whole different sort of posh in the country. I can’t explain it; it’s just different.”

  Craig smiled. “I think I know what you mean. Did you hear Jude’s response to this request?”

  “I think he was embarrassed about me overhearing. He just mumbled about understanding how the man felt.”

  “You mentioned most of the conversation focused on Jude’s interest in you. Did you ever get the sense he was saying goodbye?"

  Narrowing tear-stung eyes, Tracy replied, “He did give me some cufflinks he’d worn when he graduated from medical school. Then he said something odd, but I guess not that odd. He said he hoped I’d leave Reggie and find a little place of my own.”

  “He suggested you end your marriage?” Craig enquired.

  Tracy exhaled. “It was odd advice coming from a virtual stranger, but he’s not the first person horrified by the age difference between Reggie and me.”

  “Natural fatherly concern?”

  Tears brimming, Tracy replied, “May have been.”

  “How’s Sam doing?” Craig asked, effectively lightening the mood.

  “He’s fantastic. Twice the size he was at the fete. He and Freckles became instant friends; she’s very protective of him.”

  “Freckles is your cow?”

  “Yes. She’s a Jersey. You know they’ve been purebred for almost six centuries.”

  Leaning back slightly onto the soft padding of his chair, Craig stated, “If I didn’t know better, I would swear you were born and raised in the country.”

  Tracy returned her focus to the old oak tree. “I came here for Jude. I don’t know what I expected to happen. But now, nothing can happen. I never imagined I wouldn’t have time. Why didn’t I approach him sooner? Why did I wait so damn long?”

  “You were understandably hesitant,” Craig soothed. “It hadn’t gone well the first time, and you had no guarantee it would be any better on your second attempt.”

  Her bottom lip quivering, Tracy replied, “That’s true.”

  “But …” Craig continued, “you did talk, and it did go well.”

  “Yes,” Tracy conceded softly.

  Walking
from the Manor House, Craig decided he liked Tracy Abbott Rigg considerably more than he had forty-five minutes prior.

  50

  Tavern on the River

  “This is very pleasant,” Craig exclaimed as he and Molly positioned their legs beneath a picnic style table.

  “I wanted to get out of Mead,” Molly confided. “And this is one of my favorite rivers.”

  Twisting on his seat to observe the sedately flowing, water, Craig asked, “Is this the river Ray?”

  “Yes. I have great admiration for rivers, Detective. They don’t hold back. They have no fear. Ray here is bold enough to become one with the second longest river in the UK.”

  “The Thames,” Craig said while wondering where this geography lesson was leading.

  Nodding, Molly said wistfully, “You have to respect the determination of a river. It’s ability to keep moving, keep persevering no matter what obstacles are in its way.”

  After watching a flock of ducks expertly land on the water’s smooth surface, Craig twisted back to face Molly. “Is everything okay?”

  “That day in the Hatter, when you asked me about Jude. Do you remember what I told you?”

  Taking a moment to think back, Craig replied, “You said he’d done unthinkable things.”

  “Some people, people like me, hide behind their faith. It’s our shield when the waters are turbulent, and it’s our sword when we feel threatened. We treat excerpts from the Bible as we would a piece of clay. We shape and manipulate them into something self-serving.” Her voice becoming low and hoarse, Molly continued, “Why did I judge him when it’s so clearly written, do not Judge, and you will not be judged.”

  “I didn’t know Jude,” Craig admitted, “and I’m just now getting to know you better. But if I were to guess, I’d say the doctor understood where your anger came from.”

  “I’d kept my son and him apart for so many years. Then Nigel walks in that night after chatting with Jude. All he said was, Mum, he’s a good man. I don’t know if it was the simplicity of the words, or because Nigel said them, but it was like an epiphany. I went straight over there.”