The Secrets Of Mead

by Michaela James

  “Let’s start with the voicemail. You warned Jude Ryland to keep his mouth shut, or he’d be out of a job.”

  Reginald Abbott Rigg straightened the crease of his trouser leg. “Sounds awfully vague, doesn’t it?”

  “It did until I made the connection between Jude, Rachel and yourself. You assumed, correctly I believe; Jude was the sole person Rachel confided in regarding her ordeal at Andrew Beauchamp’s party.”

  Reginald’s mouth stretched into an unpleasant smile. “Your rationale is, I killed Jude to silence him, and now what; I need to kill Rachel too?”

  “It does sound a little Godfatherish doesn’t it,” Craig conceded. “But then so does blackmailing Angie to keep quiet and pressuring the local coroner to conceal autopsy results.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lord Abbott Rigg responded defiantly.

  “Well, then we can only hope Rachel going public with the assault she endured in your home, jolts your memory.”

  “Now you listen to me,” Lord Abbott Rigg spat. “l hired a dancer for Andrew’s birthday party; that is all. We had no idea who she was. I hadn’t seen Norman’s daughter since she was in knee socks. How was I supposed to know this scantily dressed, heavily made-up young woman was the Bell girl?”

  “So, what you and your friends did that night would have been fine, had she not been the daughter of your lawn bowls buddy?”

  “What my friends and I did,” Lord Abbott Rigg echoed mockingly, “is none of your business. It was a private party where drinks were served, and people had a good time. A dancer was hired with the agreement she would entertain us. I paid good money for that entertainment, and I got my monies worth.”

  Unable to look at the man, Craig turned his eyes towards the golf course.

  “Does my honesty offend you, Detective Monroe?”

  Eyes still trained on the fifth hole, Craig asked, “Does that honesty extend to the night Jude died?”

  “I went to his house with the intention of scaring him off this Rachel nonsense,” Reginald Abbott Rigg admitted. “He was obstinate and rude. Had the nerve to question what kind of husband I was to Tracy. I informed the upstart my wife had everything she could want and more than she deserved. Then he practically pushed me out the door saying he was expecting an important visitor.”

  “Is that when you called Lloyd Atwell?”

  “I thought maybe he could talk some sense into that idiot,” Reginald replied. “What good would come of dredging up that night?”

  “And Norman Bell?”

  “What about him?” Reginald asked.

  “He’s no longer on your lawn bowls team,” Craig replied casually.

  Lord Abbott Rigg shrugged his shoulders. “My guess is, the man’s suspicious of our desire he rule Jude’s death a suicide. As for his daughter. I believe that’s more embarrassing for Norman than it is for us.”

  “Us?” Craig enquired.

  Laughing, Reginald said, “You don’t really believe I’m going to hand you a list of people?”

  “I think I’m aware of the main players.”

  Paling slightly, Reginald asked, “And what do you intend to do with this awareness?”

  Craig stood. “Enjoy your golf game, Lord Abbott Rigg.”

  56

  Mead House

  “Are we alone?” Craig enquired.

  “Yes, Margaret’s in London having her nails done.”

  Nodding, Craig said, “I’d like to know the real reason you visited Jude on the night of his death.”

  Motioning for Craig to sit down, Lloyd began, “I went to ask him, to beg him, to sit tight on some information he had regarding a party here in Mead.”

  “A party you attended?”

  “Regrettably, yes. When Reginald Abbott Rigg puts out an invitation, you accept.”

  “And when he asks you to lie, coerce and cover, you do that too?” Craig enquired.

  Lloyd clasped shaking hands together. “You do realize he owns half this village. The town hall, the golf, and bowls club. All bought and paid for by him.”

  “Mead Surgery?” Craig enquired.

  “It was small and basic,” Lloyd replied. “Reginald put a lot of money into it. We have people traveling from Harrington for our updated equipment.”

  “You feel indebted to the man?”

  Lloyd sighed. “From your perspective, I must appear indebted to everyone.”

  “The difference being,” Craig said, “Jude gave you an honest loan. Lord Abbott Rigg, on the other hand, appears to exert some misguided allegiance from his neighbors.”

  “I can’t speak for others,” Lloyd responded. “But I find him to be a very persuasive man.”

  “What can you tell me about Rachel Bell.”

  “I’ve known her since she was a young girl,” Lloyd replied. “Like many teenagers, she stopped accompanying her parents around the village. Effectively dropping off the radar.”

  “Until you saw her at Andrew Beauchamp’s birthday celebration?”

  “You have to understand,” Lloyd said in lowered tones, “I was not a part of what happened. I had … well; I had fallen asleep by that point.”

  “Passed out?” Craig asked, brows raised.

  “Reginald serves a very strong drink,” Lloyd explained, his face coloring.

  “Did you see Rachel during the party?” Craig asked impatiently.

  “Only after the fact. I came around to loud cheering and went to see what was going on.”

  “The cheering was coming from a different room?” Craig asked.

  “Yes. They were in the Billiards room. I opened the door and immediately turned and walked out.”

  “Did you recognize Rachel?” Craig asked.

  “She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. A couple of weeks later, she walked into the surgery, and I knew.”

  Eyes narrowed, Craig said, “You were the one to tell Lord Abbott Rigg.”

  “Yes. Jude received many calls from her after that initial appointment. I suspected she had shared events of the party. I warned Reginald there could be trouble ahead for him.”

  “Just for him?” Craig asked.

  “I told you. I turned right around. I had no part in it.”

  “But you didn’t stop it.”

  Lloyd lowered his head. “It would have been the end of my career.”

  “And when you requested Jude’s silence, was he sympathetic to this act of self-preservation?”

  “He passed no judgment on my actions. Just reminded me of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “And with that reminder came assurance of Jude’s secrecy. Why then, after I presume you related this news to him, would Lord Abbott Rigg require Jude’s death to be ruled a suicide?”

  “I don’t have an answer to that,” Lloyd admitted. “If I were to guess, it’s because Reginald likes a quiet life. For the last thirty years, Mead has been a sleepy little village. Your predecessors were mindful to keep it that way. As I’m sure you’re aware, a murder investigation doesn’t please anyone, least of all Reginald Abbott Rigg.”

  “The Attestation I took upon becoming a police officer held no mention of pleasing people. But there were words like integrity, impartiality, and respect for all people.”

  Nodding, Lloyd admitted, “You may be one of the few people in Mead, Jude could have related to.”

  57

  The Old Mead Police House

  “My apologies for our last meeting,” Norman Bell said. “There was no excuse for my rudeness towards you.”

  “I understand how much stress you’ve been under recently,” Craig replied.

  Norman eased himself into a chair. “Rachel’s disappearance has put such a strain on my marriage. When Marcia and I aren’t avoiding each other, we’re playing the blame game. I have a propensity to bottle things up. I don’t like outsiders knowing my business. Marcia, on the other hand, finds solace in sharing her pain with others. We were both in the dark regarding our daughter’s proble
ms. When I learned she’d been spending a great deal of time with Jude … well, I’m sure you can understand the conclusions I jumped to.”

  “Certainly, I can,” Craig replied. “Are you able to tell me why you removed yourself from Meadbowls?”

  Norman closed his eyes momentarily. “I’m sorry for that too. Storming off like a child when you asked me a perfectly reasonable question. It’s just well; I’m not entirely sure yet. It’s a feeling more than a fact, but I suspect the men I’ve bowled with for years, are hiding something from me.” Looking around Craig’s office, Norman added, “The good news is, Rachel and my wife are talking again. Who knows, we may have our daughter back before long. Now, onto Jude. I can tell you there are no signs of any force to the neck or jaw area. The blood tests reveal a high amount of cyanide ingested.”

  “Which brings us back to a laced drink. Do you have a more accurate time of death?”

  Norman tapped his notebook. “Early hours of the morning. Maybe around four thirty.”

  “That would explain the compact disc. Jude had it set on a six-hour loop. It was still playing when Caroline found his body but had stopped by the time I arrived.”

  “Are we back to square one?” Norman enquired.

  “Not entirely. Molly saw someone leave Jude’s home around the timeline you’ve given me. I suspect my investigation has been leading me to this person all along.”

  “That sounds cryptic,” Norman replied.

  Craig raised dark brows. “If it’s the person I think it is, this revelation will shake up the village of Mead, like nothing before.”

  58

  The Vicarage

  Craig and Sir Lancelot found the vicar, on hands and knees, pulling up dandelions in his front garden.

  Standing, George brushed dirt off his hands. “I didn’t expect to see you until Mass this Sunday.”

  “I’m Catholic.”

  George chuckled. “So are at least a dozen other Mead residents. I’m guessing; like you, they find that seven-mile drive to the village of Harrington a little much on a Sunday.”

  Pulling an I’m hurt face Craig responded, “Surely, I’m far too new a resident to be written off as lapsed.”

  “I am merely suggesting,” the vicar replied genially, “if the Catholic church is too far away, then give mine a try. We do worship the same God, you know.”

  Smiling and scowling at the same time, Craig said, “I’ll give it serious consideration.”

  Patting him on the shoulder, George said, “You want to know more about the past, don’t you my friend?”

  “I think I’m at that point.”

  The vicar turned and studied Craig for a moment. “I’d be surprised if you’re there yet. But I’ll help you as much as I can. Come, I want to show you something first.”

  Craig and Sir Lancelot followed as the vicar led them towards a tall wooden gate. One turn of a tarnished brass knob revealed the lushest garden Craig had ever seen.

  “So many trees,” Craig exclaimed.

  George smiled. “Peaches and nectarines, if you can believe it!”

  Eyes scanning the high and all-encompassing stone wall, Craig said, “They’re protected from the elements.”

  “Correct. No wind or frost touches this fruit.” Nodding towards his feet, the vicar added, “I have to net these cherries, or the birds eat them all.”

  Enticed by a medieval shaped stone archway, Craig slowly made his way down the garden.

  “It leads to the wedding garden,” George informed his guest. “Have a seat there, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Lowering his head to walk through the arch, Craig looked up to see creeping ivy dominating the walls it clung to. A bronze angel, head bowed, and hands clasped in prayer stood sentinel. Honeysuckle and primroses gently pushed against her robe. Equal in height, if not in majesty, a rose entwined gazebo concluded a narrow gravel pathway. A myriad of wildflowers bordered the wedding walk. Adjacent to their untamed beauty sat four neat rows of high-backed wooden chairs.

  “What do you think of Saint Andrews’ wedding garden?” George called out, a glass of lemonade in each hand.

  “I think it’s breathtaking,” Craig replied.

  “You know what that says about you?”

  “I’m scared to ask,” Craig admitted.

  “It implies you’re a romantic who thinks about the beauty of matrimony.”

  Playfully choking on his lemonade, Craig said, “Please don’t ever repeat those words to another living soul.”

  Laughing, the vicar took a seat before nodding towards the wall. “Do you know what you’d find if you pulled away some of this creeping ivy?”

  Craig thought for a moment. “Are there carvings on the stonework?”

  “Good guess. No, behind this ivy are openings in the stonework. That’s a hollow wall. You can light a fire inside it to provide additional heat to protect the fruit growing against it. Isn’t that wild? I’ve never attempted it, but may just have to before I die.”

  The garden’s serenity coupled with fresh lemonade and afternoon sun almost had Craig forgetting the reason for his visit. Turning to face the vicar he asked, “I’d be grateful to hear what you know about the elusive clinic.”

  The vicar slowly nodded his head. “This is not the right location. Let’s go inside.” Standing and patting Sir Lancelot, he added, “I have an old, grouchy Jack Russell. Will he be an issue for your poodle?”

  Craig looked down at his dog. “Sir Lancelot will greet him with polite indifference.”

  George’s living room, in contrast to the bright summer day, was dark and cool. Slivers of light through lead-paned windows were then challenged by thick velvet curtains. An overweight Jack Russell commandeered the only rug atop a hardwood floor.

  Craig and George sat in silence a while. Methodical ticking from a clock had only to compete with an odd snort or whistle from the aged dog sleeping beneath it.

  At length, George asked, “Where would you like me to start?”

  “Do you know why the clinic was shut down? Grace and Edward mentioned unethical management.”

  George massaged the very small area of skin between his brows. “I confess I knew nothing about these fertility clinics until thirty years ago. Now I’m somewhat of an expert. For you to understand why it was shut down, I need to tell you how they operate.”

  Nodding, Craig reached for his notepad, and the Vicar began, “Let’s say you want to donate your sperm. Firstly, you need to be doing it for the right reasons.”

  “But they do get paid?”

  “I think the right donor gets paid quite well.”

  “Who is the right donor?” Craig enquired.

  “I’ll get to that.”

  Deciding to keep quiet and listen, Craig reached for his lemonade.

  “So here you are,” George said, arms outstretched, “a caring citizen offering to assist in procreation. After an interview to establish your reasons for becoming a donor, you provide the clinic with photo identification. Then you give a sperm sample which will be analyzed for quality. This sample will be frozen and then thawed to ensure it can survive the freezing process. If it does, you’ll be invited back for a second visit. A blood sample will be taken and used for sexual health screening. If you’re successful here, more extensive blood work is carried out to check for diseases. Sail through this with flying colors, and you’re invited back for a physical examination and review of your medical history.”

  Smiling at Craig’s look of astonishment, the vicar continued, “We’re not done yet. You’re subsequently required to visit the clinic twice a week and produce samples. The sperm is then frozen and quarantined for six months. Once all the final results are received, the sperm will be added to the donor bank catalog. Now, enter the women wanting the sperm. Instead of browsing through a catalog in search of a new outfit, they’re shopping for a man to father their child. How tall are you Craig?”

  Caught off guard, Craig had to think for a second. “I’m um, six
one.”

  “Ideal. Your hair is dark brown, and you have an athletic build, also ideal. What color are your eyes?”

  “They’re brown,” Craig replied.

  George scrunched up his features. “You were almost the perfect donor.”

  “The women flipping through this catalog are looking for tall men with dark hair and blue eyes?” Craig enquired.

  Shaking his head, the vicar replied, “Surprisingly, not blue, but green.”

  Craig dramatically sank back into his chair. “Wow!”

  “What part surprises you the most, Detective?”

  “All of it, if I’m honest. The extensive screening the clinic does, and the amount of time asked of the men. Not to mention how hard it must be to find enough, so-called, perfect donors.”

  Craig and Sir Lancelot were equally startled when the vicar clapped his hands together.

  “Exactly, Craig. Exactly!” Talking faster and moving his hands more, George continued, “Now imagine you’re running this clinic, sperm bank, whatever you want to call it. You’re spending a great deal of money on all this screening to get one single entry for your catalog. To make matters worse, you’re not getting the desired donors coming through your door. Enter stage left, your son returning from college. As luck would have it, he’s six feet two, athletic, has dark hair, and you guessed it, green eyes. Bingo! Your golden goose just strolled into town for the summer holidays. He’s everything these women are looking for, and he’s right here. Why not, who are you hurting? He’s a college student who could use the money, it’s a win, win. Initially, he balks at the suggestion. But when you tell him all the students are doing it, and he’s helping half a dozen women fulfill their dreams, he comes around to the idea.”

  Staring at the vicar, Craig said, “But it wasn’t half a dozen women, was it George?”

  Suddenly very still, the vicar replied, “Far from it, Craig. Far from it.”

  59

  The River Walk

  Up early after a restless night, Craig impulsively left a voicemail for Sydney. It stated a tall, dark stranger, carrying a pink cardboard box, would be lurking at the village entrance to River Ray. He confided this man had no respect for Saturday morning lay-ins and would be there promptly at eight.