“No one?” Henry asked in a tone Craig knew from old.
“Her name’s Sydney,” Craig elaborated, “and she’s ridiculously beautiful.”
“Is she a suspect?”
“Practically everyone in this damn village is a suspect.”
“I presume this doctor was a nasty piece of work.”
“I don’t think so,” Craig replied. “I suspect foul play from half of Mead’s residents because their attitude to my inquiries is so odd. I feel like I’m in one of those old Agatha Christie movies where numerous people did the deed.”
“Or,” Henry suggested, “numerous people know who did it and are protecting the murderer.”
“Possible,” Craig conceded. “Except they don’t seem to like each other enough to do that.”
“A good run on the M6 and I can be with you in four hours. Just say the word.”
Smiling at the phone sitting on his coffee table, Craig replied, “I appreciate that, Henry. I’ll stay in touch.”
Ending the call, he walked into his study. An easel-style chalkboard and compact disc player were the only unpacked items in the room.
Craig paced while listening to the disc retrieved from Jude Ryland’s library. Fifteen minutes later, he picked up a piece of chalk and drew two thick lines under a name in his long list of suspects.
36
The Dying Duck
“I didn’t mention your little transgression to the new detective.”
Sue removed the last pint glass from the dishwasher. “I don’t care if you did. It was a decade ago. Monroe would merely view you for the petty-minded man you are.”
Clenching his jaw, Mike said, “You always choose to see the worst in me. I was very honest. I told Craig the man had helped you, and you were fond of him.”
“That’s great. So why bring it up now, an hour before opening? Why insist on calling it a transgression? I’m not a child.”
Mike pulled a face. “You acted like one around Jude.”
“Our youngest had just left for college. I was feeling … I was feeling lost and alone.”
“Despite having your husband feet away,” Mike reasoned.
“You were completely preoccupied with the expansion of this pub. Fighting with the contractors and obsessing over the cost of it all.”
“Don’t most women complain to their friends? Have a girls’ night out and trash their spouses. Not my wife. When Sue feels neglected, she sleeps with the local doctor.”
“For the last time, I did not sleep with Jude Ryland.”
“Then why did you go to his house that night?”
“We’ve been over this countless times,” Sue replied. “He’d been kind and caring with my health issues. I wasn’t coping well with the empty nest thing and …”
“You went there with the intention of having sex?” Mike interjected.
“No. I … I don’t know what I wanted. I’d been depressed; I wasn’t myself.”
“I get that, Sue. Big, bad Mike was ignoring you, and the debonair doctor made you feel young again.”
“It was nothing like that,” Sue argued. “Jude had no idea where my emotions were heading. He was professional, always. Like I told you ten years ago, it was all me. I had imagined something that wasn’t there. At that moment, maybe I wanted it to be there … I don’t know.”
Tearing open a large packet of salted peanuts, Mike said, “I wish it hadn’t happened.”
“We can’t erase the past, much as we’d like to sometimes. I made a complete fool of myself that night. I’ve tried to explain it, and I’ve apologized. Not sure what else you want from me, Mike.”
“The truth would be nice.”
Sue reached for a stack of coasters. “You won’t accept the truth. You want to hear your own twisted version of it. I think you wish I had slept with Jude. That way you could have hated the man. It would have been so much simpler.”
“You’re wrong on two counts there,” Mike replied. “There’s nothing simple about what happened that night, and I did hate Jude Ryland.”
Hands shaking, Sue placed four coasters on each table. “Did you hate Jude enough to kill him?”
37
The Old Mead Police House
“I appreciate you both taking the time to chat with me,” Craig began politely.
Margaret Atwell shifted in her seat. “Did we have a choice?”
Shooting his wife, a venomous glance, Lloyd Atwell asked, “What can we help you with, Detective?”
“You both went to Jude Ryland’s house on the night of his death, and I would like to know why.”
Lloyd looked at his wife. “Why were you there?”
Margaret, staring straight ahead, said nothing.
“I don’t know for certain,” Craig said, “but my guess is, your wife’s visit was connected to a recording I came across.”
Red-faced, Margaret, asked, “What recording?”
“The one of you blackmailing, Jude Ryland,” Craig replied casually.
Lloyd closed his eyes. “Margaret, you didn’t?”
“It appears,” Craig explained, “Jude Ryland made a practice of transferring his voicemails onto a compact disc.”
“Why would he do that?” Lloyd enquired.
“With Jude dead, we’ll never know,” Craig replied patiently. “He had an impressive audio setup in his library.”
“Who on earth wants to listen to common old telephone messages in surround sound?” Margaret stated with disdain.
“I can assure you, Mrs. Atwell; Doctor Ryland’s messages are far from ordinary. But we’re getting off subject; please tell me what took you to Jude’s house that night?”
“There were details to be discussed regarding the transfer of his share in the practice.”
“You’re claiming a transaction had been agreed upon?” Craig enquired.
“Transfer, transaction?” Lloyd repeated bemusedly.
His eyes still focused on Margaret, Craig said, “Would it be more accurate to say you visited his home to voice your demands in person?”
“I wasn’t demanding anything. Jude was aware of what he needed to do. I merely encouraged him in the right direction.”
Craig forced a half smile. “That’s a very dressed-up description for blackmail if ever I heard one.”
Shaking his head, Lloyd Atwell asked his wife, “What on earth were you blackmailing him about? We owed him money.”
“What nonsense, we didn’t owe him a penny.”
“Margaret, we’re broke; we have nothing.”
“You stupid old fool, we have a thriving medical Surgery.”
Lowering his head, Lloyd responded, “It’s all his. Jude owned it all, and I owed him a great deal of money.”
“Jude was the one hurting the Surgery,” Margaret replied through clenched teeth. “He was the one with the malpractice suits.”
“There were only two suits. Neither one had any grounds. Jude was a good doctor and knew how to manage his money. I tried to keep up with your incessant spending, but I was fighting a losing battle. I made bad investments and played too much poker. You’re right; I am an old fool.”
“What were you blackmailing him with, Mrs. Atwell?” Craig enquired.
Margaret looked down at her nails. “I’m sure I can’t remember.”
Craig turned his attention to Lloyd. “And you Doctor Atwell, do you remember what prompted your visit to Jude that night?”
Rubbing at his forehead with a shaking hand, Lloyd replied, “I had to discuss a patient’s diagnosis with him. There was some urgency that couldn’t wait until Monday.”
Margaret stared at her husband.
“May we leave now?” Lloyd asked. “I’m feeling dreadfully tired.”
Craig nodded. “I’ll need to talk with you both again soon.”
Margaret exited Craig’s office at great speed. Lloyd, shoulders slumped followed a good distance behind.
“Were they cooperative?” David asked when Craig joined him at
the counter.
“Not in the slightest. But they didn’t dispute visiting Jude’s home on the night of his death. I only had Cynthia’s word they were there, which often turns into he said, she said.”
“Their prints don’t match the one found on Jude’s mirror.”
“Right,” Craig agreed, “but it doesn’t follow the writer of that message and the killer are one and the same.”
“What’s next, Sir?”
“If Cynthia gave us an honest account of who she saw that night, a casual onlooker would assume Jude had been hosting an open house.”
“Do you think she saw everyone?”
Craig shook his head. “She was in his guest house for just over two hours. Until Norman Bell gives us an update on the time of death, we have a pretty large window.”
“Did Cynthia’s list of who she believes may have killed Jude, match the list of who she saw that night?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Craig began. “Add Cynthia’s list and her sightings to the one Mayor Stone gave me, and we have a cluster of names appearing too frequently to ignore.”
“But this is just their opinion,” David pointed out. “They were married. Perhaps they’re trying to frame someone.”
“It’s possible, and I would give that more consideration if it weren’t for the voices on the compact disc. If accurate, Cynthia’s sightings on Jude’s driveway prove opportunity. The recorded voices give me the motive.”
“And the means?” David enquired.
“That part still bothers me,” Craig replied with a wrinkled brow. “There was no evidence of a struggle or a blow to the head. How did the murderer get that cyanide down Jude’s throat?”
“In the movies, they slip it in a drink.”
“They do,” Craig said with a smile, “but I found no evidence of a glass or any vessel having contained poison.”
“The murderer could have brought a bottle of booze and glasses with him?”
“But wouldn’t that seem odd to Jude?” Craig reasoned. “Who brings their own glasses to someone else’s home?”
“Then they just brought a bottle, used Jude’s glasses and took the lot with them when they left,” David declared, hands outstretched.
“It was dark,” Craig contributed. “They were hidden from the road. Easy enough to place items in your car and dispose of them later.”
“We need to find that glass,” David stated seriously.
“What I need right now,” Craig said, “is some communication from our resident coroner.”
“I’ll go by the bowls club again and see if he’s there,” David volunteered. “I just missed him last time. I checked his home too. Mrs. Bell said he never tells her where he’s going.”
“A regular free spirit, isn’t he?” Craig responded with a sigh.
38
The Vicarage
George chuckled while reading the recently received email from Julie Dixon. Not only had she given him the date and time of the baptism, but she’d instructed him on what he must say.
George’s beloved housekeeper entered the room.
“Do you know the meaning of your name, Maude?” George asked.
Unphased by the question, Maude responded, “I can tell you it’s Irish, but the meaning; you've got me.”
“What do you think about the name Chalmers Archibald?”
Placing a tray down, Maude replied, “Mead’s new addition. Syd says he’s very cute. Did you hear; Julie put a notice in the post office window saying no visitors were permitted until Chalmers was ten days old?”
Laughing, the vicar responded, “I can believe it.” Pointing to his computer, he added, “I have instructions to closely observe all the baptism guests as they approach the church. If I witness coughing, sneezing or a general look of un-wellness, they must be refused entry and sent home.”
Picking up her cup of tea, Maude contributed, “Carol from News and Food said she’s been ordered to stock a specific line of baby products.” Handing George a blueberry muffin, Maude added, “So no sick guests. What other instructions do you have?”
George smiled. “All must be made aware, Julie and Simon Dixon took exceptional care in choosing their son’s name. And how sorely disappointed they are by the lack of solid English names being utilized these days. I must then explain to, a no doubt enthralled audience, that Chalmers denotes lord of the household and Archibald, bold prince.”
Maude enjoyed a fit of giggles until she realized George, now standing, was transfixed by the window beyond her chair.
“George are you okay?”
“Fire!”
Turning, Maude saw the old Mill House, no more than six hundred feet away, was engulfed in flames. Seemingly unable to tear his gaze from the window, George reached down for his desk phone.
Maude, hand on heart, listened as the vicar talked with the emergency operator. He hurriedly gave the fire’s location and its proximity to other structures. George then confessed to not knowing if any people were inside the long-abandoned Mill House.
Clumsily returning the handset to its cradle, George joined Maude at the window, and in silence they stood, mesmerized by the scene in front of them.
A shrill ring startled them both.
“That was Grace,” George explained to his housekeeper, after concluding the conversation. “She and Ed saw the smoke; Ed’s alerting the retained firefighters as we speak. They should be here within minutes.”
Maude gave him a weak smile. “I should have remembered. My nephew, Nigel, worked on that old fire truck for months. They’ll be able to control it until the Sandbridge crew get here.”
“I know two of the volunteers are Ed and your Nigel, who else is involved?”
“The Mayor, Mike from the Duck and young David from the police station.”
No sooner had Maude named the small group who made up the Mead Retained Firefighters, when the sound of their bell sirens could be heard.
Running outside, they were just in time to see the thirty-six-year-old fire engine roar by.
39
The Haven
Walking into his study, Craig pressed play on his, until very recently, little used compact disc player.
The, now regrettably, familiar voice of Margaret Atwell was first in the queue.
“I know you’re there, Jude. One of these days you’re going to have to pick up the phone and talk with me. Please don’t imagine I’m still attracted to you. That was a serious error of judgment on my part. I mistakenly imagined you were a man who enjoyed a woman with class. A woman who knew how to please a man. As soon as I saw those young tarts hanging from your arm, I realized what a time waster you’ve been for me. But, enough of what you’ve missed, now let’s get down to business. Mead Surgery belongs to Lloyd, and I don’t feel you deserve half of it. I know where she is, and I’m more than willing to tell the authorities. I presume you’d rather that didn’t happen. You’ve ignored all my communications thus far, please don’t assume I’m bluffing and ignore me any longer.”
The second voice belonged to Tracy Abbott Rigg. Its message was less accusatory than Margaret’s but just as cryptic. The third voice remained a mystery to Craig. The fourth he knew but, despite struggling with the timeline, couldn’t bring himself to hear again. Pressing the skip button, he concentrated on the fifth voice.
“I know doctors have ethics, and you probably promised her your silence, but I’m begging you to include me in whatever you two share. Why you, Doctor Ryland? Why did she choose you over me? Please help me understand what’s going on. Please help me find her.”
It sounded like a woman in her mid-fifties, but Craig couldn’t be sure. During his time on the Manchester force, they’d brought in a group of illegal phone sex operators. The ringleader, a man in his sixties, had been passing himself off as a sixteen-year-old girl.
The next voice in queue shouted from start to end. Apart from knowing it was male, Craig found it impossible to identify. The seventh caller’s voice also belonge
d to a man. It too was filled with anger but in a more controlled, clenched teeth way. Again, Craig was struggling with whom it belonged to. The eighth voice belonged to Molly Fellows. Judging from the slurring of her words she’d called after a few drinks one night. She accused Jude of ruining her life. Of stealing her chance to have a healthy son and then blatantly living the good life while she suffered.
The room fell silent. Craig sat in thought until a gentle nudge from Sir Lancelot reminded him it was time for dinner. Fifteen minutes later, dog and owner made their way from kitchen to living room. Stopping in the hallway, Craig turned towards the study. What on earth? He’d left the compact disc playing. After a seriously prolonged silence, another voice had begun talking. Depositing his plate in the living room, Craig rushed back to his study. It was a man’s voice and a voice he knew well.
40
Oak Park
“Didn’t David tell you I left my prints?” Mark inquired.
“Yes, he did and thank you,” Craig said. “I’m calling about something else. Could we meet?”
“I’m too busy to stop by the station. Any chance you can come to me?”
“No problem. I can be at your place in ten minutes.”
“I’m not at the house,” Mark informed the detective. “I’m doing something rather exciting today. I’ve been working on it for some time. Mead is finally going to have its own Cricket Club. You know that tiny little lane to the left, just before you get to the English Rose?”
Craig thought hard. “I think I know the one. Didn’t know there was anything down there.”
Mark laughed. “Well, there is now. I’ll be here all day, stop by whenever you like.”
Eager to meet with the man, Craig began walking towards the English Rose. Just as Mark had indicated, a narrow hedge-lined path curved to the left just feet before you reached the bed and breakfast. Thick and unruly branches prevented Craig from seeing more than ten yards ahead. Musty-smelling darkness gave way to beautiful sunshine when he rounded the corner. Feeling like an oasis after the damp and claustrophobic lane, Craig beheld a dark green field encompassed by towering oak trees.
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