The Secrets Of Mead

by Michaela James

  Moving to sit on the top stair of the clubhouse, Mark said, “I’m sorry about yesterday, Craig. I know I came across as flippant and well, cold, I guess.”

  Craig gave a half smile. “No need to apologize. I’m finding Cynthia a little exasperating myself.”

  “I appreciate your understanding. Why do we jump into marriage with so little thought? Cynthia was a warm body when I needed one. Why couldn’t I see that was all it was and move on? Oh no, I had to marry the poor woman and make us both miserable.”

  “I think you’ve beaten yourself up enough. Cynthia might have been this way even if you hadn’t married.”

  “True,” Mark agreed. “If you’re a pain in the arse, you’re a pain in the arse.”

  Nodding, Craig said, “I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Sure,” Mark replied quickly.

  “With the understanding, it was Cynthia that said it …”

  “Is it true, Syd and I aren’t over each other,” Mark interjected.

  Craig shook his head. “I have a murder to solve, and here I am acting like a damn schoolboy.”

  Mark placed his hand on Craig’s arm. “It’s okay, mate. Stay here; I’ve got some beers in the clubhouse.”

  Craig accepted a bottle with thanks. “Should I just back off now and hold onto what little dignity I have remaining?”

  “Can we get to your question after I tell you a little story?” Mark inquired.

  “Of course,” Craig replied.

  Taking a hefty gulp of beer, Mark began. “I’m the son of a wealthy man and a beautiful woman. I spent the first ten years of my life in one of the most affluent areas of London. Then, when my father had gambled and drank away all the money, we moved to a run-down little place in Lewisham. My mum did her best to make it a home, and when it was just the two of us, it did feel like one.”

  Mark turned his head towards the forest area that bordered the cricket grounds. “I won’t bore you with all the details. My father was a drunk who killed my mother when I was twelve years old.”

  Closing his eyes, Craig said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “My father disappeared that same night, and I was farmed off to live with his wealthy parents. They sent me to all the best boarding schools and tolerated me during the holidays. I'm not sure what they found more offensive. The fact I was a reminder of their worthless son or a product of a woman they never liked. Neither one had any merit. I looked nothing like their son, and my mother was the sweetest woman in the world. I never saw my father again; he died of liver failure the year I graduated from law school. I was grateful to my grandparents for the education they gave me, but that was all. I made some good friends in college and enjoyed my chosen profession. But … you could never have convinced me life was a gift to cherish. Then I met Syd, and, forgive the corniness, was suddenly alive. Every minute not at work was spent in her company. Every dream was shared and planned. If you’d told me back then, the two of us wouldn’t grow old together; I’d have thought you quite stupid.”

  Mark looked down at his empty bottle of beer.

  “Your question was whether we’re not over each other. I’ve come to the critical point in this story. Would you mind if Syd joined us for the final chapter?”

  Feeling nervous but intrigued, Craig shook his head.

  Breathing deeply, Mark dialed Syd’s number.

  Returning the phone to his pocket, he said, “Syd’s repeatedly reminded me this is my story to tell. She’s relieved you’re finally hearing it. Let’s go; she's about to have lunch at the Duck.”

  63

  The Dying Duck

  Nearing the pub, Mark stopped walking and turned to Craig. “I want you to know; I will always love Syd.”

  “I understand.”

  Mark slapped Craig’s shoulder. “I think you’re a strong enough man to handle it, Detective Monroe.”

  Sydney, pale and fragile-seeming, stood chatting with Sue at the bar. Sliding three pint glasses towards them, the landlady took their order.

  Locating a quiet corner table, Mark said, “I’ve told Craig about my good old dad.”

  Squeezing his hand, Sydney asked, “Did you tell him why you met with Jude on the night he died?”

  Lowering his head, Mark mumbled, “I think I told him I was asking the good doctor to stay away from you.”

  When Sydney exhaled, Mark looked at Craig. “It was partly true, but Ryland was actually the one who requested to see me. He’d been encouraged by Syd, I believe.”

  “Your story was not mine to tell him, any more than it is mine to tell Craig,” Sydney responded patiently.

  Hands outstretched, Mark said, “My story is your story, and your story is my story.”

  Sydney bit her lower lip. “You told Craig about your mum?”

  Eyes glazing over, Mark slowly nodded his head.

  Touching his hand again, she said, “Yours is a different story.”

  Mark waited until Sue deposited fried scampi and chips in front of them. “Syd had discovered an abnormality that could pose a risk for our children. She suggested I have my blood work checked just to be safe. I assured her the only things I’d inherited were good looks from my mother and the propensity for drink from my father. But I never said no to Syd, so I had the blood drawn. Two weeks later, we get an invite to chat with our doctor. I remember his words exactly. He said I urge you, most strongly, to refrain from having children.”

  Mark began pushing his chips around the plate.

  “They discovered, Mark, like me,” Sydney volunteered, “was a carrier for a very serious disease called Tay-Sachs. If one of your parents is a carrier, then you become a carrier. If both parents carry the defective gene, there’s a twenty-five percent chance your child will develop the disease and die by the age of five. My mother tested negative as a carrier, so we knew it must be from my father’s side. Sadly, Mark’s parents were no longer with us.”

  Mark let out a low hollow laugh. “I need another drink, who’s with me?”

  Taking a couple of hasty swigs, Craig handed his glass to Mark. Sydney and Craig sat in silence until Mark returned, a pint of beer in each hand. “I had no idea which of my parents carried the gene but what did it matter. I was a carrier and an only child, as was Syd. We didn’t need to precaution any siblings; we just had to deal with our own reality.”

  “I understand the news must have been devastating,” Craig offered. “But was it not possible to adopt or just be a family of two. You said you were very happy together.”

  Mark ran hands through his hair. “Now we come to that final chapter. Soon after finding out we couldn’t have children together, Syd and I discovered we were brother and sister.”

  Craig’s breath caught in his throat. Air filled lungs seemed suddenly unable to find release. He looked at Sydney. She was staring down at her plate; tears slowly rolling over perfect cheekbones.

  “Can you imagine?” Mark asked, “what that felt like? An average man lives for approximately twenty-seven thousand days. How many days in that lifetime would you envision hearing something that shocking? In three short days, I learned the monster who tortured and murdered my mother, was not my father. The cold and unfeeling couple, who never spoke a kind word to me, were not my grandparents. The gorgeous woman I married was my sister and like me, the carrier of a deadly disease.”

  Sydney, eyes still downcast, said, “We tried to get past it. We told ourselves nothing had changed. This wasn’t our fault, as long as we didn’t have children, who were we hurting. But the truth was; everything had changed, including us.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Mark said, “I’m sure I don’t need to point this out, but Syd’s dealing with it a little better than me.”

  “I had far less to absorb than Mark. I knew my father was a sperm donor with a number. It had always been Mum and me. Growing up, did I wish I had a dad like other kids, of course, but it didn’t ruin my life. Mark lived in fear of his father. He hated to go to school and leave his mother unprotect
ed.”

  “I was halfway home before the end of school bell stopped chiming. Then one day I ran into the house …”

  Sydney grabbed Mark’s arm. “Please don’t. Truly, I can’t bear it.”

  Craig sat very still; the knot having reappeared in his throat.

  Mark picked up Sydney’s hand and gently kissed it. Looking at Craig, he said, “We were both, obviously, horrified to learn we had the same father. Syd wanted to find him and confront him. I wanted to find him and kill him.”

  64

  The Vicarage

  “Thank you for coming, Craig. There’s something I feel I must share with you. Is the investigation going well?”

  Craig sat opposite the vicar. “It’s been unusual, to say the least. I've had little to zero assistance from the lab or the coroner. Jude's solicitor has been perpetually unavailable. And the residents of Mead have been playing fast and loose with the truth.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” George said sympathetically.

  “It’s getting easier,” Craig admitted. “They’re beginning to open up, and the honesty is … well, unexpected and raw.”

  The vicar nodded his understanding. “Secrets are like the roots of a tree. They’re beneath the ground, buried and hidden from view. However, many roots find their way to the surface. Soil is displaced as they search for water and nutrients. When soil moves, what is sitting on it moves too. If these roots get too entangled, too out of hand, sometimes the only solution is to cut the tree down.”

  Craig smiled. “Am I the lumberjack in this metaphor, George?”

  “I think you might be. Now tell me more about your findings.”

  “Sydney mentioned something at the Abbott Rigg’s garden party. Until recently, I’d given it no more thought. She said, apart from a mystery resident in Primrose Cottage, she knew all Mead's residents. Molly, in the eleventh hour, informed me she'd seen an older woman leaving Jude’s home. Add all this to the remaining unidentified voice on the compact disc, and we may have our suspect.”

  “Can you tell me what this voice on the disc said?” George enquired.

  Squinting in concentration, Craig said, “Something about Jude letting her down. Being weak like all men and not understanding the importance of what she’d accomplished.”

  George stood and, to his Jack Russell’s irritation, began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “Not long after Jude’s death, I began getting strange phone calls. The caller recited the words spoken upon entering a Catholic confessional. I’d explain I’m a vicar, not a priest. The caller, a woman, routinely became agitated before disconnecting the line.”

  “You believe your caller and my mystery voice are connected?” Craig enquired.

  “I do.”

  “But if all the woman said was, bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Craig reasoned, “I’m not seeing a parallel.”

  George returned to his seat. “I have a secret of my own, Detective Monroe. As you’re aware, the Catholic church has been in existence longer than the church of England. Starting around Elizabeth the first’s reign, it became illegal for two hundred and thirty-two years. During that time, Catholic churches became the property of the Church of England. Saint Andrews is one such church. Few people are wise to this fact. You can imagine my surprise when a late-night stranger comes to my door demanding I take her to the priest hole.”

  “The priest hole,” Craig repeated bemusedly.

  Leaning forward in his chair, George explained, “Never underestimate the preeminence of faith. Despite the risk of execution, Catholics built secret chapels on their top floors and small chambers to hide the priests who said Mass.”

  “I remember learning about priest holes at school,” Craig contributed. “They were well hidden.”

  “Absolutely,” George returned. “So well, in fact, I was unaware one existed in this house.”

  Craig looked over his shoulder. “You have one?”

  “My late-night visitor enlightened me. She’d played in this house as a child.”

  “Did she come here to reminisce?” Craig enquired.

  “Oh no,” George returned. “It was most certainly a utilitarian visit. This woman had an urgent need to hide some papers. There were three large boxes piled high. She placed them in the priest hole, swore me to secrecy and left.”

  “How long were these papers hidden in your home?”

  “Thirty years,” George replied. “I’d forgotten they were here.”

  “What prompted your memory?” Craig asked.

  “The woman from thirty years ago and the voice on the phone. They’re one and the same.”

  Craig’s eyes widened. “The woman who arrived in the middle of the night thirty-odd years ago called you right after Jude’s death.”

  George nodded. “Wanting to confess something.”

  “It has to be the woman living in Primrose Cottage,” Craig deduced. “The one Molly saw leaving Jude’s home and the voice I heard on the compact disc.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “But who is she?” Craig questioned out loud.

  “Claudette Ryland,” George replied. “Jude’s mother.”

  Craig stared at the vicar. “That’s not possible. Jude’s mother died.”

  “That’s what I thought too,” George admitted. “But I believe she’s very much alive.”

  “The papers?” Craig asked hurriedly. “May I see them?”

  George shook his head. “I checked the first time she called. Yellowed and curling but still there, beneath the stairs. The following week they were gone.”

  “She took them?” Craig asked incredulously. “How?”

  “I don’t lock my front door. She could have entered unseen while Maude, and I were in church.”

  “Did you look in the boxes?” Craig enquired. “Do you remember seeing anything suspicious looking?”

  George smiled. “A lack of inquisitiveness is a great quality in a vicar.”

  “The fire!” Craig exclaimed. “She was burning the papers.”

  “I agree,” George said. “The timing fits.”

  Craig looked over to what remained of the old barn. “If it is Claudette Ryland. She killed her own son.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more,” George said in hushed tones.

  Craig focused this attention on the vicar. “More?”

  “I received another call this morning. Claudette Ryland is going to kill again.”

  65

  The Timbers

  “Well, look who it is,” Sydney proclaimed. “I was wondering how long it would be until you showed up.”

  Ginger fur somewhat tattered, Nancy the cat wound her way through Sydney’s legs.

  “He’s on the couch. Go find him.” Turning the heat down on a pot of soup, she joined the happily reunited felines in her living room. Sydney cautioned the snuggling cats, “We’ll need to stay hidden if Cynthia comes calling.”

  Hearing strange popping sounds, Sydney returned to the kitchen. “What the …?”

  The gas flame was at maximum heat beneath the small pot of soup. Hot liquid wildly splattering across the stove top. Arm outstretched, Sydney hastily turned it off. Retrieving a dishcloth from the sink, she noticed a reflection in her kitchen window. A scream had fully formed by the time Sydney turned to face the intruder.

  “I’m not a ghost if that’s what you imagine,” Claudette Ryland stated. “Surely you’re not scared of your dear old grandmother.”

  “What … what do you want?” Sydney stammered.

  Revealing large nicotine-stained teeth, Claudette replied, “A warmer welcome would be nice.”

  Forcing herself to breathe, Sydney responded, “Why are you here?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Claudette retorted. “Why did you have to come to Mead? Why did you have to meddle in things that don’t concern you? Your mother chose to visit my clinic. She, like most women, wanted a tall, dark, handsome, college-educated man. That’s exactly what s
he got. I helped countless women escape the confinement of wedlock. I was the solution to an age long dilemma. How many women feel pressured into marriage because their biological clock is ticking? Don’t you think it’s time we lifted ourselves out of the dark ages, Miss Bennett?”

  “Your mindset in opening the clinic wasn’t in dispute,” Sydney replied. “How you operated, how you mistreated your son, that’s what I and many others find deplorable.”

  Claudette leaned forward, her fingers tightly clasped around the table edge. “I treated my son like a king while empowering women to go it alone. This is a new age. Jude, like me, believed we'd earned the right to have it all. Children are a gift but why should women endure a sweaty man mauling them half to death to receive said gift?”

  “I’m sorry if mauling and enduring are things you’ve experienced, Sydney responded. “But you can’t assume all women feel the same.”

  “Of course, they feel the same,” Claudette said with agitation. “I know because they came to me in droves. Their desire was clear. No more picking up men’s dirty socks and stroking fragile egos until merciful death did them part. It’s the twenty-first century, Miss Bennett. We don’t have to suffer the way our mothers and grandmothers did before us.”

  “You believe your clinic offered an escape from suffering. I wonder how you would define watching a young child die from an incurable disease?”

  Claudette waved her hand dismissively. “When a prize stud produces numerous healthy foals, do you complain if one isn’t grand national material?”

  “A stallion’s blood is tested for disease before it’s considered for breeding, Mrs. Ryland.”

  “You and that other man. That was a fluke. What were the odds of you two meeting? It won’t happen again.”

  “You don’t know that,” Sydney argued. “How could you know that?”

  Retrieving a wicker basket from the floor, Claudette replied, “I’m very sorry that happened. I didn’t come here to argue. I’m heading back to the Isle of Man, but didn’t want to leave without seeing you.”