The Secrets Of Mead

by Michaela James

  An hour and a half later, dressed in a tee-shirt and skinny jeans, Sydney approached her covert caller. “If the message had mentioned a beautiful standard poodle, I’d have known it was you and stayed in bed.”

  Craig dramatically clutched his heart.

  “Oh, that hurts.”

  Laughing, Sydney looked at the box in his right hand. “Show me what you’ve got, and I might not turn around.”

  “Nope. We have to walk and talk first.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Sydney said, “The word around Mead, is you know who killed Jude Ryland.”

  “I have a hunch, nothing more.”

  After waving to a couple of elderly men fishing from their boat, Sydney asked, “Are you able to share your hunch?”

  “Not long after Jude’s death,” Craig began, “Grace mentioned I might need to go back thirty years. The vicar alluded to it too. Even the fortune teller mentioned the past.”

  “I told you she was good,” Sydney exclaimed.

  Craig dropped his shoulders. “I didn’t want to admit you were right.”

  Smiling, Sydney said, “Let’s stop and take a break on this bank.”

  Sitting at the water’s edge, Craig continued, “Margaret met a woman on the Isle of Man she believed to be Jude’s mother. I suspect this is the same woman who opened a clinic here in Mead, just over thirty years ago.”

  “I knew there was something going on between Jude and Margaret,” Sydney shared. “When I questioned him about it, all he’d say was the woman disliked him. He’d embarrassed her, unwittingly, at the village Christmas party two years prior. I don’t know if it was the mulled wine or the season, but Margaret made a very public play for Jude. He resisted her advances and, truthfully, it was more akin to fighting off an octopus. Margaret was all lips and hands. She stormed off home and seemingly never forgave him.”

  “Did Lloyd witness this spectacle?” Craig enquired.

  “Yes, but he’s used to it. The previous year Margaret attempted to seduce Andrew Beauchamp. Sadly, for her, the judge likes his women a little younger.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Craig admitted.

  “That’s not too surprising. It’s a secret long buried. When Cynthia got into trouble for, I think graffiti, Judge Beauchamp had her perform community hours. I wasn’t a Mead resident at the time but apparently, her required hours all took place in Beauchamp’s home.”

  Paling with thoughts of Rachel, Craig extended the pink box towards Sydney. “Tell me about your mother.”

  Sydney smiled. “Mum lives in London with three cats. In about five years, she retires from the Royal London Hospital.”

  Swallowing a good size bite of his sultana laden scone, Craig asked, “Your mum’s a doctor?”

  “An ER nurse,” Sydney replied. “She’s worked at the same hospital for over thirty years. I don’t know how she’s done it, but it’s been a lifelong calling. Many nurses can’t last five years in ER, but my mother’s tougher than most.”

  “And your dad … I mean did you have …?”

  Licking sugar from a couple of her fingers, Sydney responded, “I didn’t have one. Mum never wanted to get married. She always said she was busy enough taking care of people who really needed taking care of. The thought of someone else needing her attention wasn’t appealing. Needless to say, I was raised to be very independent. At eight years old, I was cooking and doing my own laundry.”

  “Did your mum tell you about the clinic?”

  Finishing her last bite of doughnut Sydney replied, “Oh yes. Mum explained how she wanted a child, but not a husband. She told me about the sperm donor. She was very matter of fact about it.”

  “Did you look for your father?”

  Standing, Sydney brushed grass from her legs. “Please don’t think me ungrateful for the goodies, but I could really use a cup of tea right now.”

  Grabbing Sir Lancelot’s lead, Craig professed, “I’m so sorry. Hatter or Duck?”

  “Neither. It’s high time you saw my home.”

  Eyes crinkling with pleasure, Craig said, “I’d love to.”

  The detective and his dog followed Sydney down a narrow side street. Craig motioned towards riding stables nestled behind three unique cottages. “Should I learn, if I want to fit in?”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” Sydney returned with a chuckle. “I’ll teach you. My sweet mare, Biscuit, is the perfect starter horse.”

  Offering his thanks, Craig then asked, “Which is your home?”

  “The Tudor,” Sydney replied proudly.

  Below a steeply pitched roof and large chimney, black timber beams shone in the early morning sun. “It’s beautiful,” Craig exclaimed.

  “It’s four hundred years old. The walls are wattle and daub, and the beams cut by hand and coated with tar.”

  Seeing Craig’s look of bewilderment, Sydney elaborated, “Wattle is woven lattice of wooden strips, and the daub is the coating. That’s made up of wet soil, clay, and sand, then, add a little straw to bind it all together.”

  “A labor of love for the builder,” Craig suggested.

  “No question. Wattle and daub has been done for six thousand years now. They use lime wash to get this wonderful white. You can always tell if the beams were hand cut, only machine-made beams are even.” Reaching into the pocket of her jeans and producing a large brass key, Sydney added, “Come on in.”

  Craig lowered his head through the arched front door. “People were shorter four hundred years ago.”

  “True. Have a seat, and I’ll make tea and get Sir Lancelot some water.” Walking into her kitchen, she continued, “I had to replace all the plumbing, heating, and wiring, but other than that, it’s as it was.”

  Craig looked around the cozy living room. Diamond-shaped lead paned glass allowed just enough light to view photos atop the mantle. “Did you deliver all these babies?” he voiced towards the kitchen.

  “Yes, and I can tell you the weight of each one.”

  Laughing, Craig turned his attention to a large tapestry hanging on the white plaster wall.

  Placing the tea tray on a carved wooden chest, Sydney stood beside him. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? You can imagine how cold houses were before central heating. These tapestries added insulation as well as beauty.”

  Taking in the intricate detail, Craig asked, “Did it come with the cottage?”

  “Yes. The previous owner moved out two years before I bought the place. According to the estate agent, the elderly lady wanted this left with the home.”

  Moving to the intimate seating area, Sydney handed Craig, a cup of tea. “To answer your earlier question, no, I didn’t look for my dad. I was too busy with nursing school and living my life. Even later as my world became less hectic, it wasn’t something I considered worth my time.”

  Craig’s response was delayed due to the entrance of a small white cat. Sir Lancelot lifted his head, watched the feline for a moment or two, then resumed his position on the stone floor.

  “Does anything rattle this dog?” Sydney asked with a smile.

  “He doesn’t like to wait for his dinner,” Craig replied seriously.

  “This is Oliver,” Sydney explained as the cat effortlessly pounced onto her lap.

  “What made you change your mind?” Craig asked once Oliver was settled.

  “I had seen many issues occur during pregnancy because women weren’t aware of their medical history. Usually simple things like a blood type reacting negatively to the child’s. I wanted to be proactive; I wanted everything organized and controlled from the beginning. Little did I know, the results from that simple blood test would ensure the end of any control I thought I had.”

  “The medical history you learned of, was from your father’s side?”

  Leaning her head back, Sydney breathed deeply. “I wanted to know why the carrier of such a serious disease would donate his sperm.”

  “And you tracked him down?”

  “I did,” Sydney replied. “Jude Ryla
nd. A family doctor in a tiny village called Mead.”

  60

  Timber Cottage

  Craig and Sydney sat in silence. At length, Sydney asked, “You’d guessed Jude was my dad?”

  “Very recently, I began to suspect it.”

  “I hated the man when I came to Mead,” Sydney explained. “I was consumed with thoughts of how I’d punish him. I confess the hate dissipated pretty rapidly. I had expected this arrogant, selfish being. Jude was anything but. The dedication he gave his patients was remarkable. I settled into village life and almost forget my reason for moving here. Mark’s unexpected arrival reminded me. His pain and inability to move forward encouraged me to confront Jude. It was quite a disappointing encounter. I had gone over this exposure so many times in my mind. What I’d say, how he’d respond. Then I come to find Jude didn’t even know his own medical history.”

  “But there’s extensive testing done on these donors …”

  “It never happened,” Sydney interjected. “He didn’t undergo a single screening.”

  Craig’s jaw dropped as George’s words swam around inside his head, He’s right here. Why not, who are you hurting?

  His voice mimicking the slow churning of his brain, Craig said, “He was never tested.”

  “No, he was never tested,” Sydney repeated. “Because his mother owned the clinic.”

  “Claudette Ryland,” Craig voiced dramatically.

  Sydney nodded. “Rules and regulations were all in place, but there was no one policing them. Here she is with a great long list of women all wanting the same man. I would imagine Claudette didn’t have a ton of athletic, dark-haired, green-eyed men walking through the door wanting to donate sperm.”

  “She used Jude,” Craig suggested gravely.

  “I believe, used is exactly the right word here. Jude was young and naïve. Claudette concealed so much from him. She lied about the type of clinic it was. Obviously, he knew he was donating sperm, but his mother told him it was for a family desperate to have a child. Then she’d fabricate some tale about the parents’ inability to reach the clinic in time. The sperm was now too old, and she’d need more. All the while, she was freezing his sperm and using it for countless women. Jude went back to college at the end of summer and never gave it another thought.”

  “Until decades later when you came to Mead?”

  Sydney, tears falling onto her sleeping cat, nodded.

  Feeling awkward, wanting to hold her, wanting to stop with the questions but also wanting to know more, Craig said, “I’m so sorry. Would you like me to leave? I hate upsetting you like this.”

  Giving him a small smile, Sydney responded, “You have been so patient, and I’ve lied to you by omission. I hope you can forgive me and understand why I didn’t come forward with this information sooner.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Craig replied honestly. “It just meant more time spent with you, which pleased me greatly.”

  “That’s very gracious of you. I wasn’t doing it for sport. Jude’s lawyer and I are working on trusts, suits, settlements; you name it. Some are very time sensitive. I had to keep mum on all things Jude, until I received the okay from Pete Redman.”

  “That explains why not for love or money have I been able to pin that solicitor down.” Pausing for a moment, Craig continued, “You asked me earlier if I knew who killed Jude Ryland. Do you know?”

  Tears now cascading with force, Sydney replied, “We all killed him.”

  Standing, Craig said, “I’m going to make you another cup of tea.”

  Narrowly missing a hanging circular pot rack, Craig filled the kettle. Returning to the living room with two steaming cups, he said, “Tell me about Tracy. How was the jumping lesson?”

  “Yes, Lady Abbott Rigg is my half-sister. Isn’t life ironic, Detective Monroe?”

  “How long have you known?” Craig enquired.

  “I knew of Tracy from our London days. I had a friend who worked with her at Reeves. When she moved to Mead, I assumed it was because she’d caught herself a rich husband. I had no idea her motive was the same as mine. I received a letter from Jude’s solicitor a couple of days before the fete. Jude only found out about Tracy the night he died. He must have called Pete the minute she left his house.”

  His mobile phone ringing, Craig apologized, explaining it was the station calling. Sydney watched as the detective raised his eyebrows, suppressed a smile and then assured David he was on his way. Ending the call, Craig relayed, “Cynthia’s reported a stolen cat. She believes Mayor Stone broke into her house and absconded with her cat, Nancy.”

  Sydney shook her head. “The cat belongs to Mark. Cynthia took her when they divorced. I thought Mark was letting it go, but maybe not.”

  Standing, Craig said, “Apparently, she’s on her way over to Mark’s house to confront him. Thank you so much for the tea and conversation.”

  “Would you mind if I tagged along?” Sydney asked, draining her teacup.

  Craig, in no mood to deny Sydney anything, replied, “Sure, why not.”

  61

  Meadow Cottage

  Craig, Sydney and Sir Lancelot approached the bluebell field preceding the mayor’s home.

  Before the cottage came into sight, they heard, “I know you have her. I’ve called the police. She’s mine; you hand her over this second.”

  Rounding the corner, they saw Cynthia; her face pushed up against the mudroom window. “Open this door, now.”

  Craig and Sydney jumped when a voice behind them calmly said, “That’s tough to do when I’m over here.”

  Turning to find Mark, looking tanned and relaxed in his cricket gear, Sydney declared, “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  Laughing, Mark responded, “Sorry Syd.” Lifting his chin towards the cottage, he added, “Brace yourselves.”

  Cynthia, looking quite deranged, was marching towards them.

  Preempting a tirade, Craig said, “You reported your cat missing.”

  “Not missing. Stolen,” Cynthia retorted.

  Nonchalantly walking past the irate woman, Mark said, “I don’t have Nancy. You can come in and see for yourself if you wish.”

  Cricket bat resting on his left shoulder, Mark unlocked the front door.

  Cynthia pushed past him before darting off to search the house.

  Returning to the porch, Mark looked over at Craig and Sydney. “Can that poodle sniff out a cat? Come on in and join the party.” Halfway through a bottle of beer, he motioned them to join him in the kitchen. “Wait until you see the team we’re getting together. Those kids will be ready to compete in no time. Drink?”

  Sydney and Craig declined the offer with thanks.

  “Who does this cat legally belong to?” Craig asked.

  Opening his second beer, Mark replied, “Oliver.”

  “Mark and I adopted them from a rescue shelter years ago,” Sydney explained. “We were looking for one kitten but left with two cats.”

  “They were the saddest looking creatures you’ve ever seen,” Mark contributed. “The ginger had her right front paw firmly over the white cat’s back. There was no separating them. We had just seen the musical Oliver Twist about two weeks earlier. It seemed fitting to call them Nancy and Oliver because Nancy protected Oliver to her death. We promised never to separate them, but then we promised each other a lot back then, didn’t we Syd?”

  “Oh my God!”

  Mark, Sydney, and Craig all turned to find Cynthia had entered the kitchen unnoticed.

  “Oh my God!” she repeated, eyes blazing in Sydney’s direction. “It’s you. You’re the ex-wife. What an idiot I’ve been.”

  In a small voice, Sydney responded, “No one knew, Cynthia.”

  Mark raised his almost empty beer bottle. “They do now. All the secrets of Mead are soon to be revealed.”

  Ignoring Mark, Cynthia kept her focus on Sydney. “He followed you here to Mead. You dumped him, and he followed you here. He’s not over you, you know t
hat don’t you? What am I saying, of course, you do. You’ve made a career of stealing from me. First Mark and then Jude.”

  Leaving Sydney to struggle with a response, Cynthia turned her attention to Mark. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Syd? Why the big secret?”

  Looking bored, Mark responded, “Would it have made any difference who my ex-wife was?”

  “Yes, it bloody would have Mark. Did you two meet secretly? Were you sleeping with her all this time?”

  “I think I could have done all of the above whether she lived in Mead or not.”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Craig ordered. “The cat isn’t here. I will file a report and, in the meantime, Cynthia; I'd like you to stay away from Mark Stone’s residence.”

  “You’ll file a report,” Cynthia mimicked. “I do hope that won’t infringe on your time with Miss Bennett. You’re a fool, Detective. Can’t you see it’s not over between these two?”

  Little was said as Craig, Sydney and Sir Lancelot walked back into the village. Parting when the road home veered in opposite directions, they rather formally said their goodbyes.

  62

  Oak Park

  Craig’s hunch he’d find the mayor at his new cricket club proved accurate. Mark was on the ground kneeling over a large wooden box. Not wanting to startle him, Craig called out, “Good morning, Mayor Stone.”

  Pushing hair from his eyes, Mark said, “Check this out. There must be twenty bats in here. They’re pretty old, but solid and in good nick.”

  Craig lifted one of the cricket bats from the box and ran his hand along the smoothly finished wood.

  “Very nice, where’d you get them?”

  Standing, Mark responded, “Lloyd Atwell. He played at college level and has volunteered his time to help coach the kids.”

  Placing the bat back in the box, Craig said, “That’s wonderful.”