The House At Sea’s End

CHAPTER 20

‘Remind me what we’re doing here again, boss?’

Nelson and Judy are climbing the steps to the church of St Barnabas at Broughton Sea’s End. It’s a bitterly cold morning and the gravestones are covered with a fine layer of frost. The weather forecasters are talking about snow. In late March! What a county, thinks Nelson, forgetting that Blackpool hardly enjoys a Caribbean climate. He thinks of Norfolk as existing in a vacuum, entirely separate from the rest of England. Come to think of it, that’s how most of the locals see it too.

Judy is standing looking up at a huge evergreen tree whose branches cover almost the entire graveyard. In its shade the frost is even thicker.

‘We’re here,’ says Nelson, rubbing his hands together, ‘because the vicar has copies of the parish magazine going back to the year dot.’

‘Sounds wild.’

‘Wild or not, I want to find out what was happening in this village during the war. I’m convinced that Operation Lucifer is the key to this whole case.’

‘Don’t say that name out loud,’ hisses Judy.

Nelson laughs. ‘Not getting superstitious in your old age are you?’

But there is, nevertheless, something spooky about the silent graveyard. The way the stones stick up as if something below the earth is stirring, the way the dark tree spreads its branches, the way the church door is bolted shut.

A figure appears from behind one of the largest stones. Judy screams.

‘Forgive me if I startled you.’ The figure resolves itself into a tall, white-haired man wearing clerical clothes. Nelson gives Judy a disgusted look.

‘Father Tom Weston.’ The man extends his hand.

‘DCI Nelson.’ Nelson shakes hands briskly. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Johnson. It’s good of you to meet us.’

‘Not at all. I’m delighted that someone wants to look in the archives. There’s not enough interest in local history.’

He takes out a medieval-looking key.

‘Do you always keep the church locked?’ asks Judy.

‘Have to, I’m afraid. We’ve got some very valuable things in here – candlesticks, brasses, and so on – and I don’t live on site. I’ve got three other parishes to look after.’

It is almost as cold inside the church as out. Judy blows on her hands to warm them and her breath billows like incense. The air smells of stone and damp and flower stalks. Someone has evidently been arranging the flowers because a magnificent display of lilies and ferns stands at the altar steps. Judy thinks of the red roses on Buster Hastings’ grave. She must remember to see if they’re still there.

As they cross the church, their feet echo on the stone flags. Passing the altar, Judy bobs instinctively. Nelson gives her a sardonic glance, correctly identifying Catholic Genuflecting Syndrome. Judy scowls.

Tom Weston leads them past wooden pews with embroidered kneelers, past a garish collage of Noah’s Ark (the work of the Sunday School apparently) and through a door at the back of the church. This is obviously behind-the-scenes. There are piles of hymn books, a broken lectern, mops, buckets and one of those vacuum cleaners with a smiley face. ‘Henry,’ says Father Tom. ‘I couldn’t live without Henry.’

‘Do you do the cleaning yourself?’ asks Nelson.

‘I have to sometimes. Good cleaners are hard to find.’

He does everything himself, they find out. He cleans, polishes, makes cakes for the Women’s Institute, even runs the mother-and-baby group. There’s a man who cuts the grass in the graveyard but that’s it.

‘Are you married?’ asks Nelson. He assumed that vicars have wives that run their parishes for them. It’s one of the advantages of being a protestant.

‘I’m a widower,’ says Tom Weston, opening a cupboard at the back of the room. ‘Daphne died five years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. It gets easier. At least I know she’s in a better place.’

Faith must be handy sometimes, thinks Nelson, bending over the box of dusty magazines. His own vague Catholicism would never survive a real test – like something happening to Michelle or one of his daughters. He resists a temptation to cross himself to ward off this dreadful thought. Reflex action, like Johnson curtseying at the altar. How cross she’d been when he noticed.

The magazines are actually quite well-ordered, arranged in boxes according to year. Nelson starts on 1940, while Judy looks at 1939. Nelson is convinced that the Germans must have come ashore in the early years of the war, when the invasion scare was at its height.

‘I’ll go and make some coffee,’ says Father Tom. ‘There’s a gas ring at the back here.’

Nelson watches the vicar blow dust from an ancient jar of instant coffee. There’s instant milk too. Ruth would have a fit. She only likes poncy coffee in tiny cups.

Judy settles down on the floor to leaf through copies of the Broughton and Rockham Parish News.

‘There’s a recipe here for squirrel pie.’

‘Very popular during the war,’ says the vicar from the back of the room. ‘Some of the old country folk still cook squirrel.’

‘How long have you been in this parish?’ asks Nelson.

‘Since 1952. The year before the great flood.’ He makes it sound like Noah’s flood. Perhaps the Sunday School will make a collage of it.

‘Flood?’ echoes Nelson.

‘Yes. Terrible affair. Constant rain, the seas rose, rivers burst their banks. We had boats sailing down the High Street at Broughton. Five people died.’

‘I’ve heard about the flood,’ says Judy. ‘It was supposed to happen again wasn’t it?’

‘In 2006,’ agrees Father Tom. ‘I remember them testing out the sirens. It brought it all back. We had a prayer cycle in all the Norfolk churches. And the flood never came.’

‘I thought that was because 2006 was a particularly hot summer,’ says Judy. Father Tom appears not to hear this.

‘I should be retired by now,’ he says, placing two steaming mugs on a packing case marked ‘Palms’. ‘But vicars are thin on the ground these days.’

‘Do you remember hearing stories about the war years in Broughton?’ asks Nelson, putting aside a magazine that seems to consist only of recipes for powdered egg.

‘Some stories,’ says the vicar carefully. ‘They’re close around these parts, don’t talk much to outsiders.’ He laughs. ‘And after fifty odd years I’m still an outsider.’

‘“Sea’s End House commandeered by the army,”’ reads Nelson. ‘“Buster Hastings, Captain of the Local Defence Volunteers, confirmed that his house was to be used for secret war work.” Do you know what all that was about? The Local Defence Volunteers, they became the Home Guard, right?’

‘That’s right. Buster Hastings was in charge of the Home Guard. A bit of a martinet by all accounts. I’m not sure about the secret war work but I think I remember hearing that the house was used for surveillance, watching the sea. The lighthouse was in use then, of course, and they had a system of warning lights. And, of course, there was the listening post at Beeston Bump.’

‘Beeston Bump?’ Judy tries, not very successfully, to stifle a giggle.

‘Great name, isn’t it?’ Father Tom smiles, showing long yellow teeth. ‘It’s a hill outside Sheringham. It’s where the Y station was, the listening post. Beautiful spot. We have open air church services there at Easter.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ says Nelson. ‘How well do you know the Hastings family?’

‘Quite well,’ says Tom Weston, taking a sip of coffee. Nelson tries his; it’s quite disgusting. ‘Buster wasn’t much of a churchgoer but his wife Irene was a stalwart of the parish for years. She still does the flowers.’ Judy stores this nugget away.

‘What about Jack Hastings?’ asks Nelson.

‘He always supports our fundraisers. We need a new roof for the tower. It leaks dreadfully. We’ve been collecting for years but we’re no nearer to reaching our total. Oh well, God doesn’t give up easily. Jack doesn’t come to services much, but his wife Stella is a regular communicant. She’s a good woman.’

Nelson senses that this is high praise from Father Tom. It seems that Hastings men delegated churchgoing to their wives.

‘What about Archie Whitcliffe?’ he asks. ‘Did you know him?’

‘Archie?’ Father Tom’s face softens. ‘A grand old chap. He used to be one of the bellringers here. When we could still use the belfry, that is. I was sad to hear that he’d been taken.’

Been taken. It seems an odd phrase to use, even for a vicar.

‘How did you know?’ asked Nelson.

‘His grandson rang me. Wanted me to conduct the funeral, but I understand that there’s been some sort of delay.’

His eyes move from Nelson to Judy, who is still reading about wartime dances and keeping a pig in your back garden. Despite his years, and Father Tom must be at least eighty, his gaze is remarkably shrewd.

‘Yes,’ says Nelson straightening up. ‘Can we take the rest of these magazines away with us?’

In the churchyard, Judy remembers to check Buster Hastings’ grave. The roses have gone but now there is a bunch of spring flowers, tied in a straw bow. Clearly someone in the village still remembers the martinet with affection. Nelson and Father Tom have stopped in front of the war memorial. Nelson scans the names; many from the First World War, fewer from the second. One of the latter names, Geoffrey Austin, rings a slight bell. Didn’t one of the Home Guard have a son who was killed at Dunkirk?

‘I’m campaigning to have a new name added,’ says Father Tom. ‘One of the local boys who died in Afghanistan. The War Graves Commission isn’t keen but I think we’ll win through in the end.’

Nelson does not doubt Father Tom’s ability to defeat the War Graves Commission. He has a feeling that Father Tom, like God, does not give up easily.

Judy comments on the tree, whose dark branches still make her feel slightly uneasy.

‘It’s a yew,’ says Father Tom. ‘They’re traditionally found in graveyards. This one has been here for hundreds of years, since medieval times.’

‘Why are they found in graveyards?’ asks Judy, wrapping her coat around her. The sun is higher now but it’s still very cold.

‘They’re evergreens, linked to immortality. There’s an old superstition that at midnight, the witching hour you know, the yew provides a kind of conduit for the dead to rise.’

Complete bollocks, thinks Nelson. But where has he heard that phrase recently? The witching hour?

‘The yew’s a sacred tree for druids,’ Father Tom is saying. ‘If you know of any druids, that is.’ He laughs heartily.

‘We know one,’ says Nelson.

They walk back to the car park in silence, each carrying a box of magazines. Nelson is thinking of Operation Lucifer, the sea in flames. There is nothing in the dull parish newsletters to suggest anything so terrifying or so memorable. According to the Broughton and Rockham Parish News the war years had been one long round of dances and rabbit shows (Flesh and Fur Fancy: Beat the Nazis by eating coney pie). But something had happened in this quiet village and Archie’s last word had been ‘Lucifer’. He really must have a good look through Hugh Anselm’s papers.

Judy, for no reason at all, is thinking about Cathbad and yew trees.

They have come in Judy’s car because Nelson’s is in for its MOT. Judy, in the face of much teasing, drives a four-by-four, a flashy jeep with wheels like a tractor. As Nelson climbs into the passenger seat, he says, ‘This car’s too big for you.’

‘It suits me fine.’

‘What does Darren drive?’

‘A Ford Ka.’

Nelson grunts as if his worst fears have been confirmed.

They drive along the coast road, Nelson trying not to tell Judy when to change gear (in fact, she’s a far better driver than he is).

‘Johnson!’

‘What?’ Judy brakes.

‘Let’s go to Sheringham. Have a look at this listening post thing.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I just want to have a look at it.’

As Judy does a U-turn she considers that the boss is getting really hung up on this war business. It’s true that whoever killed Archie Whitcliffe and Hugh Anselm (not to mention Dieter Eckhart) probably knew about Operation Lucifer but, in Judy’s personal opinion, the truth must lie closer to home and to the present day. Don’t overcomplicate; that’s what Nelson himself usually says.

Beeston Bump turns out to be a long walk. A stunning one too, if you like that sort of thing, which Nelson doesn’t. But Judy enjoys striding over the short, aromatic grass, the wide blue sky above and the sea thundering away below. It’s a long haul, though, and they’re both panting by the time they reach the top. The view, as Father Tom promised, is spectacular. The flat plains of Norfolk lie behind them, they can even see the church tower at Broughton and Sea’s End House perched on the end of its promontory. In front of them is the sea, calm and clear.

All that remains of the listening post is an octagonal concrete base. Hard to imagine a building here, on this exposed point. A tower, Stella Hastings had said. Nelson looks out over the sea, sparkling innocently in the sun. How crowded it must have been seventy years ago – German E-boats, tankers stuffed full of petrol ready to ignite, Captain Hastings and his crew patrolling in their little dinghy. And, of course, the six Germans who died at Broughton Sea’s End. What happened to their boat, he wonders. Father Tom had shown them a map of the East Norfolk coast. It was studded with little crosses. ‘What are these?’ Nelson had asked. ‘Shipwrecks,’ answered Father Tom. ‘The coast is full of them. It’s treacherous, this coastline, lots of dangerous rocks, shallow sandbanks. That’s why we had the sea light at Broughton. You can’t land a boat on some beaches because of all the submerged wrecks.’ So, even under the sea, it’s crowded.

His phone rings. Ruth.

‘What is it?’

‘I think I’ve come up with something.’ She sounds excited. ‘Can you come over?’

Nelson glances at Judy who is gazing rather dreamily out to sea. Probably thinking about her fiancé.

‘Okay. I’ve got Johnson with me. We’ll be over in half an hour.’

Ruth meets them at the door. To Nelson’s secret delight, she’s holding Kate.

‘Hi, baby,’ says Judy. ‘Hey, she smiled at me!’

That was at me, thinks Nelson.

Ruth takes them into her sitting room which is as untidy as ever and where, now, Kate’s toys and blankets and baby gym jostle for space with Ruth’s books and papers and old coffee cups. Spread out on the table are a selection of murder mysteries. Skulls, daggers and spectral hounds grin up at them.

‘I bought them from Amazon,’ says Ruth. ‘They’re the books on Archie’s list. The ones he left to Maria.’

‘Why did you buy them?’ asks Nelson, watching surreptitiously as Kate rolls on the floor under her baby gym. Shouldn’t she be crawling by now? He can’t remember any of the milestones though Michelle has them all recorded in albums, complete with first teeth and locks of baby hair.

‘I wanted to see if I could crack the code. I thought it would be easier if I had the actual books.’

‘What code?’ asks Judy.

‘Well, you remember the order Archie told Maria to read the books in? I think it was a code. I think he was trying to send her a message.’

‘Have you worked it out?’ asks Judy, her eyes round.

‘I think so.’ Ruth arranged the books on the table as if she is laying out Patience – or a magic trick. Judy leans forward, interested. Nelson wrenches his eyes away from Kate.

‘Look. First I tried putting the books in the order Archie said. That puts Evil Under the Sun first. But then there are four twos in a row. It doesn’t make sense. So then I thought: what if it’s the third word?’

‘What do you mean?’ asks Judy.

‘Well, the third word of the first title is Truth.’ Ruth shuffles the books. ‘The second word of the second title is Lies.’

‘Truth and Lies,’ says Nelson. ‘That’s deep.’

Ruth glares at him. ‘The second word of the third title is Under.’

‘I get it!’ says Judy. ‘Truth Lies Under.’

‘Yes! The second word of the fourth title is Fourth.’

‘Truth Lies Under Fourth,’ says Nelson. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘The second word of the fifth title is Step. The third word of the sixth is Of. The first word of the seventh is Sea. The second of the eighth title is Light. Truth Lies Under Fourth Step Of Sea Light.’

There is a silence. Under the baby gym, Kate coos and chortles. Flint climbs onto the table and sits on the Sherlock Holmes book, purring loudly.

‘What’s a sea light?’ asks Judy

Nelson hears Father Tom’s voice, echoing in the dusty back room. It’s treacherous, this coastline, lots of dangerous rocks, shallow sandbanks. That’s why we had the sea light at Broughton.

‘The lighthouse,’ he says. ‘It means the lighthouse. Under the fourth step of the lighthouse.’