Breathing in the smell of newly mowed grass, he caught sight of two teenage boys applying a layer of varnish to a wooden sign. To his left sat Mark Stone, holding court with a group of young children. Craig watched, as the mayor, waving his arms around theatrically, pointed to different parts of the field.
Mark turned from his transfixed audience. “Detective Monroe, welcome to Mead’s Cricket Club.”
The young athletes’ eyes now on him, Craig said, “It’s the best cricket club I’ve ever seen.”
Turning back to the children, Mark asked, “What are you waiting for? Go practice.”
Chatting excitedly, they filed into the clubhouse. Then, with bats and wickets in hand, ran out onto the field.
Observing them assemble stumps and bails, Mark said, “This is a great day, Craig. These kids have been making do on the village green for too long. I’m both coach and team captain. With no sleep and no holidays, I figure I can manage to mayor and have an award-winning team. Do you play?”
“Not since I was very small. I presume you do.”
Mark stood and stretched. “It’s been a while for me too. I’m looking forward to getting back into it with these rascals. Come in and check out the clubhouse. You want some lemonade?”
Ascending three wide steps onto a shaded porch, Craig replied, “I’d love some.”
The two men sat side by side on a wooden bench watching eight young children play cricket. It was a good ten minutes before Craig spoke.
“I had a very interesting chat with Cynthia yesterday.”
Mark snorted. “Interesting and Cynthia, not sure I’ve ever heard those two words in the same sentence.”
“You two don’t like each other at all, do you?”
“I don’t dislike Cynthia. To be honest, I have zero feelings for her. I try to focus my energy on more positive things, like these children, for example.”
“If that’s the case, why did it bother you so much when she dated Jude Ryland after your divorce?”
Laughing, Mark said, “Date! That’s such a beautiful, old-fashioned word, Craig. Is that what you do in Manchester? Because you see, here in the country, we just jump into bed with each other.”
Practicing patience, Craig said, “Okay Mark, why did the fact Cynthia slept with Jude, bother you?”
“It didn’t bother me; it was just so predictable, so transparent, so disappointing.”
Nodding, Craig enquired, “You knew it was just to hurt you, to make you jealous?”
Looking up at a small plane, flying overhead Mark said, “I rushed into the marriage because I was emotionally damaged by the end of my last one. I was in such a fog of misery; I thought this was what I needed to bring me out of it. However, all it did was compound the reality of what I’d lost. Poor Cynthia’s best attempt at being a friend and lover was not even close to what I’d shared with my first wife. Truthfully, she never stood a chance because I never afforded her one. I’m to blame for her actions, but I confess I’m tired of her now and wish she’d just go away.”
“To quote Cynthia, she says she saw other men before Jude, and they didn’t seem to bother you. Yet when you saw her with the doctor, it bothered you tremendously.”
Mark stood and gathered the glasses. “What can I say, I never liked the man. More lemonade?”
Craig shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me you visited Jude Ryland’s home on the night of his death?”
Not taking his eyes off the cricket game, Mark replied, “Figured I looked guilty enough already.”
“Would you mind telling me what the two of you discussed?”
“I don’t mind at all. I was asking the good doctor to stay away from Syd.”
Craig willed himself to stay calm, but his insides were silently screaming. He wanted to punch Mark; he wanted to yell out, why Sydney? Why did it always come back to Sydney? His throat suddenly dry despite the lemonade, he enquired, “You were asking Jude to stay away from Sydney, not Cynthia?”
Mark looked at Craig as if he’d just crawled out from under a rock. “Jude hadn’t given Cynthia the time of day in over a year. Why would I be asking him to stay away from her?”
“Forgive me if I have a little trouble keeping up. You were married to Cynthia, and you don’t like Jude; I get that. Why did his spending time with Sydney bother you?”
Mark descended the wooden stairs. “Because I love her, and I knew she’d get hurt.”
41
Mead Surgery
Mark had marched off towards the children without a backward glance. Craig sat for a while in an attempt to regain some composure. Confident his legs would hold up, he left the sun and deep green grass for the musty path back to the village center.
Despite knowing he should go home and calm down, despite knowing a good detective never acts on his emotions; Craig headed for Mead Surgery.
Caroline greeted him with a smile.
“Hello Detective Monroe, do you have an appointment?”
Craig looked past her to the room at the end of the corridor. “I’d like to speak with Sydney if she’s available.”
Caroline scanned the appointment book. “She’s just finishing up with Mrs. Dixon.”
Sitting down on a fabric-covered chair, Craig reached for a town and country magazine. “I’ll wait, thank you, Caroline.”
Minutes later, Sydney, accompanied by a lady and baby, walked towards him.
“Detective Monroe,” Sydney began, “this is Mrs. Dixon and her perfect son, Chalmers.”
Catching a discreet wink, Craig said, “He is perfect. You must be so proud.”
Beaming, Julie said that she was and then thanking Sydney, put Chalmers in his pram and left the surgery.
“You are so bad.”
Sydney smiled. “And you were so good. I do love a man who knows how to play along.”
Craig caught himself before euphoria, which was the presence of Sydney, engulfed him. “Do you have time to talk?”
“Sure, let’s grab something naughty from the bakery and go to the duck pond.”
Craig stood in silence while Sydney oohed and ahhed over their choices of baked goods. An hour ago, he would have loved every minute of this; an hour ago he didn’t know she had once been Mayor Mark Stone’s wife. As they walked the short distance to the duck pond, Sydney chatted about Mrs. Dixon and baby Chalmers. Reaching the oval-shaped pond, she pronounced, “This is the perfect bench to duck watch.”
Depositing the already grease soaked cake box between them, they sat in silence for a few minutes.
“Three mallards and ooh a bufflehead,” Sydney exclaimed as four ducks swam past them. Holding the pink box towards Craig, she continued, “You see those lovely lilac-colored flowers, they’re water mint. When crushed, you get this incredible peppermint smell, great …”
“Sydney!”
“Yes.”
“Would you consider us friends?”
Blushing slightly, Sydney replied, “Most definitely.”
“Then why do others continually blindside me. Why can’t I learn things about you from you?”
Looking down at a large black bird, edging closer in the hopes of food, Sydney replied, “I’m not sure why you feel you have to learn anything.”
Shaking his head, Craig asked, “What am I to you? Some bumbling detective who gets on everyone’s nerves? Are you all laughing behind my back because I know nothing and no one’s talking? From our first meeting, I’ve hoped for friendship. Dammit, I even hoped for more than a friendship. What a complete idiot I’ve been.”
Grabbing his hand, Sydney said, “Let’s stroll.”
Leaving the milk and pastries on the bench, they walked towards the wooded area behind the lake.
“What is it you’ve learned?”
“How many secrets do you have, Sydney? You tell me, what could I have learned?”
“The connection between Mark and me,” Sydney replied in a soft voice.
“The mysterious first wife Cynthia’s obsessed with.
The woman who made it impossible for the mayor of Mead to care about anyone else. It’s you Sydney; here you are, together again in the tiny village of Mead. No wonder Cynthia went out of her mind.”
Craig pulled his head back. “But Cynthia doesn’t know you’re the wife Mark rebounded from.”
“No one does,” Sydney replied, biting her lower lip. “I’m surprised Mark told you.”
“He didn’t. I figured it out. Yay for Detective Monroe. He can’t find a murderer in one tiny village, but he’s great with love triangles.”
“Can we stop walking?” Sydney asked in a small voice.
Craig willingly rested beside Sydney atop a mossy mound in front of a large old oak tree. Sitting too close to look at each other, they stared ahead as a squirrel darted up the trunk of a neighboring tree.
“Why all the secrets? Please help me understand why nothing is as it seems in the village of Mead.”
Sydney pulled at the moist plant beneath her. “Well I’m sure after chatting with Cynthia; you can understand why I don’t want her to know.”
“Yes, I can understand that.”
“Mark and I were married for two years. We were very in love, very happy. Then we discovered we couldn’t have children, and it destroyed us.”
Offering his sympathies, Craig added, “But Mark didn’t marry Cynthia in the hopes of having children.”
“Goodness no, Mark never wanted children with Cynthia.”
“I’m still confused,” Craig admitted.
“You should be, it’s confusing to me too. When Mark and I received the devastating news, we both knew our marriage was over, but we didn’t want it to be. I had to be the one to leave. Within three months, the papers were signed. I handed in my notice at the Royal Brompton Hospital, and then began my new life here in Mead.”
Leaning back against the large knobbly trunk, Craig enquired, “Mark followed you here?”
“Yes. About a year after our divorce. He had a great job in London working as an aide for an MP. He gave it all up and arrived in Mead looking lost and alone. I was furious with him at first. We had agreed to make new lives for ourselves. Then, here we are in the same tiny village where everyone knows each other’s business. He fell into a deep depression and didn’t leave his house for weeks on end. Then Will Brentwood retired; Mark applied for the position, and he began to thrive as Mayor of Mead.”
Stretching, Craig asked, “Would you mind if we go back to our bench by the pond? I’m getting a numb bum!”
Giggling, Sydney responded, “Me too.”
Holding his hand out to help Sydney stand, Craig said, “Enter Cynthia stage left?”
“You got it. To be fair to her, I believe once Cynthia got to know Mark, she truly loved him.”
Reaching the duck pond, they found the baked goods were beginning to wilt in the late-afternoon sun, and the ice-cold milk was now just slightly cold.
“Still tastes great,” Sydney professed over a mouthful of millionaire bar. Craig followed suit and bit into his lemon slice. Without talking, they worked their way through the pink box, drank the, almost cold, milk and gazed at the shimmering surface of the pond.
The sun, resembling a massive egg yolk, sat perched above one of Mead’s lush green hills.
“It’s getting late, and you’re chilled,” Craig cautioned.
Turning onto Mead Lane, Sydney said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been more open with you. I hope to rectify that one day soon. It’s just with you being a detective and your investigation; It's so … well; it's just complicated.”
“I confess I don’t understand why it’s complicated. I do appreciate it’s a sensitive subject. Would you permit me one more question that really isn’t any of my business?”
“Okay,” Sydney replied tentatively.
Bracing himself, Craig asked, “Are you still in love with Mark Stone?”
Sydney’s eyes focused on the protruding pub sign. A staggering duck, eyes bulging, clasped a wing to its skinny throat.
“No. But I’ll always want him in my life.”
Nodding, Craig asked, “May I walk you home?”
“Thanks, but I want to check on Nigel.”
Hand still raised in a goodbye gesture, Craig stood and stared at the closed pub door. Accompanied by a familiar smell of chips and beer, he turned towards home.
42
Thames River Pub
“You sounded panicked on the phone. Are you and Dad okay?”
“Yes, sweetheart, we’re fine. I wanted to meet in person because, well, some stuff from the past has reared its ugly head.”
Michelle raised blond eyebrows. “What stuff?”
“Jude Ryland,” Sue replied.
“That was yonks ago. Has Dad not forgiven you yet?”
“Have you?” Sue enquired.
Michelle smiled. “I’ll admit it was a shock, but I’m sure it was for you too.”
“Except you were young and single. Not a married woman having some sort of bizarre midlife.”
“Mum, I think you’ve beaten yourself up enough over this. It’s ancient history. I can barely remember what the man looked like. Has our friend settled down yet? Last I heard, he was quite serious about a maternity nurse.”
Sue looked over her daughter’s shoulder towards the river. “Jude Ryland’s dead.”
“What?” Michelle exclaimed loud enough to draw attention from neighboring tables.
“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone,” Sue explained. “Your father would … well, you know.”
“You’ve had to show indifference towards his death,” Michelle said. “How … I mean was Jude ill?”
“No. Mead’s new detective believes he was murdered.”
“Murdered,” Michelle repeated in a whisper. “By whom?”
“No one knows,” Sue replied.
Straightening with the tablecloth edge, Michelle said, “I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen him in nine years, but I always imagined we’d meet again. He was a great guy. I was crazy in love with him for a short while.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Sue replied seriously.
“London, after the protective confines of Mead, was pretty scary,” Michelle admitted. “I’d been home for the weekend and bumped into Jude at Harrington train station. He was on his way to a seminar in Claridge’s. We shared a compartment and it, well it just felt so comfortable being around him.”
“You could have told me. I’d have understood the attraction.” Sue pulled a face. “Plus, you’d have saved your old mother severe humiliation.”
“He was a little bit of home if that makes sense. He understood my fears and insecurities regarding Uni. He mentioned some tough times at boarding school but was more of a listener than a talker.”
Seeing her mother reach for a tissue, Michelle added, “Sorry Mum. I’m preaching to the choir.”
Sue pressed fingers firmly beneath her eyes. “When I spoke with Jude, I felt my worries were the most important thing he’d ever heard. He seemed to tune everything else out and focus solely on me.”
“An eavesdropper would swear we were describing a player,” Michelle said over a chuckle. “Or in Dad’s speak, a smooth-talking lady’s man. I’ve interacted with enough men this last decade to know Jude was one of a kind. He was like an exclusive club you had to request admittance to. Some forced their way in, bypassed the background check and endless forms. But they never experienced the real value the club afforded worthy members.”
Slowly nodding her head, Sue said, “Detective Monroe stopped by the duck to ask some questions about Jude. I believe your Dad said little more than I’d seen the doctor regarding my joint issues and was fond of the man.”
“All true,” Michelle returned.
“Detective Monroe got the jovial, easy going landlord. The following day I got the paranoid, I’m never going to be over it, husband. It was the standard, how could you, why did you, until he said something quite shocking. He admitted to hating Jude. When I asked him if h
e hated him enough to kill him, he said, without a doubt.”
“You don’t think … no, he couldn’t have.”
“I don’t know how, but I think your Dad knows what happened that night.”
“All that happened that night,” Michelle said soothingly, “was you found me at Jude’s home. You didn’t know I was seeing the man and thought I was in London. It had been a tough day, and you needed to chat with the doctor. End of story.”
Sue squeezed her daughter’s hand. “I suspect your Dad’s assumption is that my attempts to seduce Jude were thwarted. If he does know about you and Jude, he may have believed the doctor was trying to steal all the women from his life.”
“I had a brief fling with an older man,” Michelle responded. “That’s the only scandalous part. Dad was a bear during the pub remodel. No one could stand to be around him. You sought comfort and understanding. I don’t believe, whether you’d found me there or not, anything inappropriate would have occurred between you and Jude.”
Tears reappearing, Sue whispered, “Thank you, darling.”
“You’ve been an incredible Mum to me, Glenn and Tom. You’re human, and you make mistakes. Dad needs to get over it. Please tell me you don’t suspect he killed Jude.”
Sue shook her head. “I’m sure he didn’t. I think it’s more the fact that Jude’s death has brought up old secrets we’d rather had stayed buried.”
43
Mead Golf Club
“This has gone on long enough. Why isn’t Norman doing more to put an end to it?”
Judge Beauchamp stirred his Bloody Mary. “He says he’s doing his best. Stalling on conclusive results from the autopsy and maintaining his distance.”
“Why did he have to blab about the cyanide?”
Andrew Beauchamp inwardly sighed. How many times did the man need to hear the same reply? “Because he knew Monroe was no fool. If he’d missed something so obvious, the detective would have been suspicious.”
The Secrets Of Mead Page 10