The House At Sea’s End

Walking back through the graves, some lovingly tended, some overgrown with ivy and softened by moss, Judy finds: ‘Sydney Austin, born 1880, died 1961’. ‘Thomas William Burgess, born 1890, died 1971’. ‘Ronald Caffrey, born 1901, died 1996’. The boss was right; they’re all here. They’re just all dead.

Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, thinks Nelson as he dials the number for Wentworth and Thenet, Solicitors. Whitcliffe has grudgingly agreed to the autopsy, saying that he’ll speak to other family members. He then stalked out of the station, speaking to no-one. Nelson takes advantage of his absence to find out about Archie’s will. Wentworth, when Nelson finally gets hold of him, is wary. Only when Nelson points out that the will’s contents will be in the public domain once it has cleared probate, does the lawyer relent.

The will is simple. Archie’s money is divided equally between his grandchildren, including Whitcliffe. It’s not much but Nelson assumes that, whatever money Archie once had, it has long since disappeared to pay the bills at the Greenfields Care Home. The only other bequests are a writing case to Hugh Anselm and a hundred pounds and some detective books to Maria.

There is also a rather unexpected message for Whitcliffe: ‘Gerald, I’m so proud of you and I know you’ll do the right thing. Please take care of Maria and George.’ George? This must be Maria’s son, the one Archie used to buy presents for. But why didn’t Archie take care of George himself, instead of asking his grandson to do it? Nelson can’t exactly imagine Whitcliffe in the role of caring uncle to George. And why did Archie care so much in the first place? Maybe he saw Maria as a surrogate granddaughter but, then again, he was hardly short of grandchildren.

When was the will written? Two years ago, says Wentworth. Archie was not to know that Hugh would predecease him by a matter of weeks. Archie mentioned corresponding with Hugh some years ago – was this correspondence more significant than it seemed, important enough to be marked by a memento? Nelson has made an appointment to see Hugh Anselm’s niece, his closest relative. He doesn’t expect much. According to Kevin Fitzherbert, the niece, Joyce Reynolds, visited maybe twice in ten years. Nevertheless, she has inherited all of her uncle’s effects (including, presumably, the writing case) and so it may be worth talking to her. There’s always a chance that an avid letter writer like Hugh Anselm may have a journal or an unpublished novel somewhere.

He is thinking about letter writing and Countdown and crossword puzzles when his phone rings.

‘Nelson,’ he barks.

‘Jack Hastings here,’ answers another, equally authoritative voice. ‘Are you aware that there’s a Kraut journalist hanging round my daughter?’

Nelson wonders whether to affect surprise and force Hastings to tell him about Dieter Eckhart and his suspicions, but in the end he settles for faint distaste at such shockingly un-PC language. ‘I’ve spoken to a German military historian called Dieter Eckhart,’ he says.

‘That’s the fellow. Turned up at my house, if you please. An Englishman’s home is his castle, I told him.’

Nelson ponders how much Hastings loves this phrase. He uses it in almost every TV interview (Nelson has looked them up) and it is, presumably, why he still insists on living in the fortress-like house on the cliff. Delusions of grandeur.

‘I sent him away with a flea in his ear,’ Hastings continues. ‘Then I find out he’s been pestering Clara.’

‘Pestering’ is not how Nelson would describe the distinctly mutual snuggling on Ruth’s sofa, but it’s hardly worth mentioning this now. Instead, he says, ‘Why did Eckhart want to speak to you?’

For the first time, Hastings sounds discomfited. ‘He had some ridiculous theory about those bodies found under the cliff. Thought they were German, or some such nonsense.’

Time to stir Hastings up a little, thinks Nelson. ‘Our forensic tests show that the bodies were very possibly of German origin,’ he says.

There is a silence. ‘What?’ says Hastings.

‘Mineral analysis shows that the six bodies found in Broughton were of possible German origin,’ repeats Nelson patiently. ‘And we believe we know their identities.’

‘You do?’

‘Dieter Eckhart has been researching the disappearance of six German commandos in September 1940. I assume that’s why he came to you.’

‘What the hell’s it got to do with me?’

‘Your father was in charge of the Home Guard at that time.’

There is another silence and then Hastings says, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Look, I’m more than happy to help with any police enquiry but my mother’s old and she’s not very strong. Something like this could upset her, make her ill. And Clara, well, she’s sensitive…’

Nelson remembers the blonde girl bouncing into the sitting room at Sea’s End House. Sensitive is not the word he’d use.

‘We’ll be very low key,’ he assures Hastings. ‘But I’ll need to speak to you again.’

‘Understood,’ says Hastings, sounding subdued.

‘One more thing, Mr Hastings. Does the name Hugh Anselm mean anything to you?’

‘Hugh Anselm? No I don’t think so.’

‘Your mother mentioned a Hugh, one of the other young men in the troop. That was Hugh Anselm.’

‘Very possibly, but what’s he got to do with anything?’

‘I think he may have been murdered,’ says Nelson.

CHAPTER 16

‘I did my best,’ says Joyce Reynolds, ‘but I’ve got my own family, you see.’

‘It must be difficult,’ says Judy sympathetically, ‘looking after an elderly relative.’

Joyce Reynolds relaxes and looks saintly, though, as Judy and Nelson both know, her only contact with Hugh Anselm, her elderly uncle, was a yearly Christmas card and those two visits to the sheltered housing estate. Two in more than ten years.

‘Was he lonely?’ Nelson had asked Kevin Fitzherbert.

‘Lonely?’ Fitzgerald smiled, rather sadly. ‘Sure and we’re all lonely here. Hughie coped with it better than most. He had his books, his crossword, his letters. He hadn’t shut the world out.’

‘Your uncle sounds an interesting man,’ says Nelson, accepting a second biscuit. Joyce Reynolds had not wanted the police to visit but, now they’re here, she’s determined to put on a good show. She is a stout woman in her late fifties, wearing a ruffled blouse over black velvet trousers. She has obviously dressed up for them, thinks Judy, though she’s sure it’s lost on Nelson. Joyce Reynolds is the daughter of Stephen Anselm, Hugh’s elder brother, who died in 1984. Joyce herself has three children and two grandchildren. She shows them the photos.

Judy looks at the pictures with interest. All those brides with frothing dresses and trailing veils. All those hats, all those smiles. She tries, and fails, to imagine her own wedding photos. The dress, tried on last week, is undeniably lovely, the problem is the person inside the dress. Judy doesn’t suffer from unduly low self esteem; she’s certain that, with the help of hairdressers and a vat of make-up, she’ll look pretty enough, it’s just… the expression. How on earth is she going to manage that dewy smile, that look of mingled sentiment and rapture, when all the time she’s just counting the minutes until it’s all over and she can put on her old jeans and watch Top Gear? Still, she mustn’t think about that now. She’s a police officer, conducting an investigation. Clough would love to be here, putting his oar in, being all boys together with the boss, but it’s her call because she’s good at interviews. She’d better get on with it.

‘Sergeant Johnson’s getting married soon,’ says Nelson suddenly.

Judy glares at him. She knows what he’s doing, of course. Softening a potentially hostile witness with some personal details, the human touch, trying to empathise (a word Nelson usually hates). It’s probably a good move but it doesn’t stop Judy wishing Nelson would fall into a fiery hell-hole and be tortured by sadistic demons.

The witness, though, is definitely softened. ‘Are you?’ Joyce turns to Judy with what appears to be genuine interest. ‘When?’

‘In May. At St Joseph’s.’

‘The Catholic church?’