The House At Sea’s End

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?’