The Secrets Of Mead

by Michaela James

  Craig returned to the reception area.

  Looking up from his pad, David said, “I think I have enough information from Miss Hicks. Would you like me to contact the coroner, Sir?”

  “That would be most helpful,” Craig said. Wide-eyed, he watched his assistant retrieve a coat and car keys from behind the counter. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “The coroner doesn’t own a phone, Sir. Says they’re an ungodly invasion into one’s private time. He bowls every Monday afternoon. I’ll find Mr. Bell at the club and ask him to stop by the station when he’s done.”

  Aware his mouth was hanging open, Craig nodded before muttering, “Only if he’s not too busy.”

  Five minutes into his drive, David observed the smoothly cut bowling green. The coroner’s ball had just rolled impressively close to the jack.

  David kept driving.

  11

  Mead Surgery

  Throwing his door open, Lloyd Atwell snapped, “Is somebody going to answer the damn phone?”

  Syd wanted to suggest he do it, but instead, exiting her office said, “I’ll hang at the desk until my next patient arrives.”

  “Where is Caroline, she’s been gone over an hour?” Lloyd enquired.

  Horrifyingly aware of how long it had been, Syd replied, “She went to Jude’s house.”

  Lloyd Atwell’s face drained of its normal redness. As Syd picked up the phone, he turned and walked back into his office. Two minutes later, Syd hung up the receiver and knocked on Lloyd’s closed door.

  If Syd’s world hadn’t just crumbled, she might have noticed Lloyd’s strange posture. He was tense, almost poised for the news. If Syd hadn’t, at that moment, realized how much Jude meant to her, she may have detected Lloyd appeared ready to bolt from the surgery.

  But fear had its sharp-pointed fangs clasped around her heart. To feel the extent of the news, to accept its reality, would make her heart convulse. Movement might encourage the fangs to sink in, to take a firmer hold. And that pain may prove impossible to escape from.

  Lloyd became a blurred object. He was irrelevant to this new world she found herself in. A world without Jude meant a world without purpose. It meant everything was wasted, empty and pointless.

  Syd stood in the doorway and somehow managed to say words that made no sense. “Jude is dead.”

  The former rigidness visibly left Lloyd Atwell’s body as, head lowered, he sunk back into his chair.

  A voice, seemingly detached from Syd’s body, continued, “Caroline’s at the police station. I’m on my way over there.”

  Lloyd Atwell, motionless, said nothing.

  12

  Tudor Lodge

  Upon reaching Doctor Ryland’s residence, Craig Monroe was struck by how large a house it was for one person. Taking in the majesty of the half-timbered Tudor, he eased his fingers into latex gloves. Pushing on the partially open door, Craig’s nostrils were flooded with the aroma of wax polish and old leather. Feet sinking into an oriental rug, he entered the wood-paneled foyer.

  Passing a billiard and media room, Craig was about to enter the library when something caught his eye. Written, in bright-red lipstick, above a marble sink in a narrow cloakroom, were the words, NO ONE CONSIDERS THE CHILDREN.

  Craig scanned the mirror with his flashlight. Under the L and D in children, he discovered a perfect print of the ulnar side of a hand. Lifting and labeling the impression, he then penciled a reminder in his notebook, palm prints from all Mead residents.

  Walking into the library, Craig found Jude Ryland, sitting, exactly as Caroline had described.

  Approaching the body, he placed his briefcase on the floor and proceeded to take photographs from every angle.

  Craig dusted down the desk and, not expecting an answer, asked, “Where do you keep your sound system, Doctor Ryland? Caroline mentioned hearing women’s voices, and from what she related, it was no audiobook.”

  Fingerprint kit in hand, Craig walked around the perimeter of the room. After opening seven beautifully crafted mahogany cabinets, Craig was forced to think outside the box. Emitting a low whistle of appreciation, he found the system hidden behind a wood panel to the right of the fireplace. Holding a compact disc by its outer edge, he bagged and labeled it, ‘Voices.’

  Upon recovering prints from what felt like the hundredth doorknob, Craig heard a male voice call out, “Hello.”

  “I’m in the billiard room,” Craig replied.

  A heavy-set man with red hair and a similarly colored bushy mustache strode into the room. “Young David said you required my services.” Introductions were made and then Norman Bell, observing the brush in Craig’s left hand, asked, “Surely you don’t suspect foul play?”

  “There’s something not right here. But you're the expert. I’ll await your professional opinion.”

  Throwing a conspiratorial look over his shoulder, Norman replied, “Mead’s lucky to have you. I don’t like to talk out of school, but the DI before you was a lazy old sod.”

  Craig laughed. “How long have you been Mead’s Coroner?”

  Norman straightened his shoulders. “These last thirty years. Great village, just a great village. Now, let’s take a look at this body.”

  Leading Norman into the library, Craig said, “I’ll leave you to it while I check the grounds and the doctor’s car.”

  Norman didn’t respond. His left hand fumbled in an oversized bag for a pad and pen, while his right hand held an eye loupe up to Jude’s mouth.

  Craig re-entered the house to find Norman, perched on a high back chair, just feet from the home’s front door. Looking toward the library, the detective enquired, “How did the poor doctor die?”

  The coroner, eyes fixed on his notepad, replied, “Cyanide!”

  The implications of the word washed over Craig like a tidal wave. Yes, Mead was a small village, but how could he handle a murder investigation single-handedly? David was a nice lad, but to call him inexperienced was putting it mildly.

  Fifteen minutes later, detective and coroner, each silenced by their thoughts, lifted the body of Jude Ryland onto a gurney. As Norman pulled a crisp white sheet over Jude’s face, Craig asked, “What’s your estimate for time of death?”

  Leafing back a couple of pages in his notebook, Norman replied, “Between ten pm Saturday and six am Sunday.”

  Staring at the now shapeless body, Craig said, “The eve of the garden party.”

  “Ah yes, the Abbott Riggs’ yearly event. My wife and I normally attend, but she had a dreadful headache, and I was loathed to leave her alone.”

  Craig nodded his understanding before the two men carefully carried the body outside and placed it in the coroner’s van.

  Smoothing down his mustache, Norman said, “I’ll give you a shout when I have conclusive results.”

  “Cyanide!” Craig exclaimed. “Can’t say I saw that too often in Manchester.”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever seen it in Mead. It was a pleasure meeting you, Detective Monroe. I’m sorry it was under these circumstances. Suicide is such a tragic thing.”

  Eyebrows raised, Craig asked, “Suicide?”

  The coroner gave a sympathetic smile. “You’re not in the big city now, Detective. We don’t have murderers walking around the village of Mead.”

  Visibly thrown, all the detective could manage was, “Right.”

  Mind racing, he watched Norman Bell maneuver his van down the winding drive.

  Continuing his search of the extensive grounds, Craig navigated a winding, rhododendron-lined pathway. What appeared to be a small guesthouse stood at its conclusion.

  Finding the arched wooden door unlocked, he routinely announced his entry.

  A musty smell in the air suggested the home was rarely occupied. Taking a narrow staircase to the second floor, Craig came upon two bedrooms sharing a blue and white tiled bathroom between them. The beds were neatly made; the wardrobes empty and only towels and toilet paper were on hand. Returning to the lower level, he fo
und a sitting room leading to a small, functional kitchen. A thorough search of the tiny home revealed no more than a wad of well-chewed pink bubble gum. Placing it in an evidence bag, Craig said to himself, “Well, there we have it. Doctor Ryland’s murderer is a gum-smacking twelve-year-old.”

  13

  The Firs

  “I heard about poor Jude,” Mrs. Bell stated while pouring her husband his customary, just got home, glass of port.

  Downing the drink in one, Norman responded, “If that jumped-up new detective comes calling, you don’t know anything about anything.”

  Marcia Bell pulled a face and mumbled, “I don’t know anything about anything.”

  “That’s right, you stupid woman,” Norman barked. “I’m sure you’ve already been peeking around the curtains every time he walks by. You need to be close-lipped, you hear me. It’s bad enough you couldn’t keep your trap shut around every single resident of Mead. This chap’s not going to offer you tea and sympathy. You should have seen him today, dusting door knobs and checking under rugs like he’s bleedin’ Sherlock Holmes.”

  “And by every single resident, you mean the five or so friends I chose to discuss our daughter’s disappearance with?” Breathing hard, Marcia continued, “How about we go to The Dying Duck right now? How about we ask all those men propping up the bar how many times you threatened to kill Jude? I can keep close-lipped, but can they?”

  Norman, still standing, stared down into his empty glass. “I was angry and worried. It was just silly talk. My friends know I would never have carried through with it.”

  “Then why are you bothered by the thoroughness of our new detective?”

  “I am not bothered. It’s just irritating to see him ponce about looking for clues. DI Simpson may have been lazy, but at least he wasn’t pretentious.”

  “Lazy,” Marcia repeated. “The man was perpetually drunk and ineffective.”

  Norman shrugged his shoulders. “He was an authoritative presence. That’s all a village this size needs.”

  “Is that right? Then why did it take so long to fix Mead’s graffiti problem?”

  “That was simply a teenage Cynthia acting out for attention. Hardly a police matter.”

  Tears instantly stung Marcia’s eyes. “Such empathy and understanding for other teenage girls. What a shame your own daughter received none of it.”

  Norman turned away from his wife and stared out the bay window. “If Detective Craig Monroe comes calling, you know nothing.”

  14

  The Old Mead Police House

  “David, we need to ascertain who visited Jude on the night of his death.”

  Craig’s young assistant looked down at the stack of papers in front of him. “This list we’re working on with the palm prints and stuff … Norman Bell says … well, you don’t think the doctor could have taken his own life?”

  “Norman Bell says what?” Craig enquired.

  “I overheard him in the pub last night. He said if this new detective wants to chase his tail investigating a murder that didn’t happen, who was he to stop you?” Looking directly at his boss, David added, “But you don’t believe Jude could have taken his own life?”

  “I’m sure he could have. I just don’t think he did.”

  “Is that like a gut instinct, seasoned detective thing?”

  Laughing, Craig responded, “It’s more like a, why couldn’t I find an empty cyanide container in the house, type thing.”

  “Plus, there was no note, right?”

  “True,” Craig replied. “But it’s a common misconception all suicide victims leave a note. Most, in fact, don’t.”

  Looking slightly disappointed with this revelation, David turned his attention to the list. “So far I’ve got fifteen cooperating and six showing serious resistance.”

  Scowling, Craig enquired, “Who are the six?”

  “Molly said she has a tea shop to run. Lloyd Atwell gave me a flat, no. Mark Stone said he’s busy doing mayor stuff. Lady Abbott Rigg told me, not to be impertinent. Margaret Atwell said, she’d never heard anything more ridiculous. Cynthia told me, of course, her prints are all over the house and not to bother her while she’s grieving.”

  Craig’s chin dropped to his chest as his assistant calmly continued, “As for Lord Abbott Rigg, his nurse would like us to come to the house and take the prints. He said Lord Abbott Rigg only leaves home for golf and bowls.”

  Wondering if he was on candid camera, Craig said, “Let’s start with Molly. Does this tea shop ever close?”

  15

  The Mad Hatter

  Craig had never seen so many teapots in one small area. There must have been twenty Mad Hatters, at least ten Alice’s and countless rabbits. Some teapots displayed the entire cast of Alice in Wonderland.

  Taking a seat at a corner table by the window, he watched a fatigued-looking waitress shuffle towards him. “What can I get you?” she enquired. “I make the best scones in this entire county.”

  Craig closed the menu. “Scones sound fantastic and a pot of tea please.”

  Appearing to look at him for the first time, the waitress said, “You're new to Mead, aren't you?”

  “Yes, I am. My name's Craig.”

  Accepting his outstretched hand, the waitress said, “Molly.” Narrowing wide-set eyes, she continued, “May I presume you're a God-fearing man?”

  Craig reined in a smile. “Yes, I believe I am.”

  Taking the unneeded menu and holding it close to her chest, Molly proclaimed, “Goodness knows, we don’t need any more heathens in this village.”

  Turning, before Craig had a chance to respond, she made her way to the kitchen.

  Five minutes later, a handsome young man with an uneven gait, placed picture perfect scones in front of Craig. When he hastily disappeared behind the same swing style door Molly had used, the detective found himself alone. Scones eaten with pleasure and teapot drained; he wondered if either of them would ever reappear. About to call out towards the kitchen, he observed Molly walk towards the tea shop’s entrance. Turning the open sign on the door to face inwards, she assured him, “This isn’t for you dear. You take your time.”

  “Would you mind if I asked you a question?” Craig enquired.

  Turning with a smile, the woman said, “Oh, bless you, dear, I haven’t shared my scone recipe, not this last twenty years.”

  Craig nodded, again struggling to stop the corners of his mouth from turning up. “They were wonderful, but that wasn’t my question. I'm Mead’s new police detective. I’m investigating the death of Jude Ryland.”

  Molly walked closer to Craig’s table. “I heard he took his own life. Why do you need to ask questions if no one else was involved?”

  “May I ask who told you the doctor had taken his own life?”

  As if Craig had said nothing at all, the woman continued, “Is it normal for the police to ask questions when some sad, poor soul exits this world?”

  “Was he a sad, poor soul?”

  “That he was.”

  Crinkling his brow, Craig said, “He was a successful doctor in the prime of his life. He lived in a spectacular home in a beautiful village. I wouldn’t imagine these facts typically evoke sympathy.”

  Molly’s eyes darted to Craig’s face for a fleeting moment before settling on the window behind him. “If you've done really bad stuff in your life, I mean unthinkable things, then how could you ever be happy?”

  “Would you mind explaining what you mean by bad stuff and unthinkable things?”

  Snatching the tray as if she believed Craig may fight her for it, Molly replied, “I'm not at all sure dear; it’s just what I'd heard.”

  With newfound speed, she returned to the kitchen.

  Placing a ten-pound note on the table, Craig called out, “Please stop by the station this week. I only need five minutes of your time. We’re taking prints from all Mead’s residents. Just standard procedure.”

  Receiving no reply, but certain his invitation ha
d been heard, Craig left the Mad Hatter.

  16

  Mead Village Hall

  “Do you think I should tell that sexy new detective what I found?”

  Anna’s attention diverted from her bingo card to Lizzie. “The cufflinks?”

  Lizzie stamped at her card as the caller said, “A duck and a flea.”

  Anna looked at her friend’s card and scowled. “I have twenty-two and twenty- four.”

  “But you needed twenty-three.”

  Anna sighed. “Why do I even come to these things with you? I never win.”

  “Because it raises money for Mead’s girl scouts and what else are we going to do on a Wednesday evening?”

  “Dancing Queen,” announced the caller.

  “I have it; I have it,” Anna squealed, stamping the number seventeen on her card.

  Looking down the long wooden table, Anna regarded five other women. Fairly certain they were all hard of hearing she said, “You’d never seen them before the day of the garden party?”

  Lizzie cursed under her breath as Ruth from the Post Office shouted, “Bingo!”

  Turning to Anna, she whispered, “That woman gets on my last nerve.”

  “She’s lonely,” Anna reasoned. “When she leaves that post office, there’s no one at home to talk to.”

  Lizzie pulled a face. “I guess. Anyway, correct, they have JR engraved on them. Never seen them before and then there they are, on her dressing table the day of the garden party.”

  Anna, looking astonished, contributed, “What about Molly calling half an hour before the garden party. I swear she’s never missed a day of work before. Lady Abbott Rigg pays her London prices for that food. Molly would tell me it was her best gig of the year; it’s so unlike her to not just soldier on even if she were under the weather.”