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Authors: Elly Griffiths
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then,’ says Hastings politely.
Ruth is interested to note that this time Hastings leads them into a baronial sitting room where vast sofas lie marooned on acres of parquet. Presumably archaeologists deserve the kitchen, but the police count as guests.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ asks Hastings, shrugging off his coat. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Keep out the cold?’
‘I’m driving,’ says Nelson. ‘Coffee would be grand.’
Ruth would love ‘something stronger’ but she feels surethat Nelson would disapprove. Not only will she be driving later but she is also going to be operating a heavy baby. ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ she says.
She wonders if Hastings will ring a bell and summon discreetly uniformed staff but he trundles off by himself, accompanied by the spaniel. Ruth and Nelson sit alone, facing a monstrous fireplace built of stones so vast that they could be rejects from Stonehenge. The room has large sash windows which rattle in the wind and French doors opening onto a stone terrace. Beyond the terrace is the sea, iron grey, flecked with white. There’s no fire lit in the massive iron grate and Ruth finds herself shivering.
‘Upper class buggers don’t feel the cold,’ says Nelson, noticing.
‘I must be distinctly lower class then,’ says Ruth.
‘No, you’re middle,’ says Nelson seriously. ‘I’m lower.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘You went to university.’
‘That doesn’t make you middle class.’
‘It does in my book. My daughter, now, she’s well on her way to being middle class.’
‘Is she at university? What’s she studying?’
‘Marine biology. At Plymouth.’
Ruth does not quite know how to reply to this but luckily the door creaks open and Hastings enters, carrying a tray. He is accompanied, Ruth is surprised to see, by an elderly woman bearing a coffee pot.
‘Let me introduce my mother, Irene,’ says Hastings, putting the tray on a rather ugly brass trolley. ‘She’s in charge of all the tea- and coffee-making round here.’
Certainly Irene seems to take an immense proprietorial interest in making sure that they have all the coffee, milk, sugar, sweeteners that they require. Ruth is quite exhausted by the end of it. She expects Irene to fade away once the drinks are served but the old lady settles into a chair by the window and reaches for a sewing basket placed nearby.
‘Mother loves her knitting’ is Hastings’ only explanation.
‘Mr Hastings,’ says Nelson. ‘I believe you know about the discovery made under the cliffs here?’
‘The four skeletons,’ says Hastings, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Yes.’
‘Six skeletons, in point of fact.’
‘Six?’
‘In confidence,’ says Nelson, noting how much Hastings seems to enjoy these words, ‘the archaeologists think the bodies were probably buried between fifty and seventy years ago. I believe your family has lived in this area for many years. I wondered whether you could remember hearing of any incident in the war. You’d be too young yourself, of course,’ he adds hastily.
Hastings smiles. ‘I’m sixty-five. Born in 1944.’
‘Ever hear of anything strange happening? Any disappearances? In the war perhaps.’
Hastings throws a quick glance at his mother, knitting by the window. A row of plants sits on the window ledge, some in pots, others in more eccentric containers – soup bowls, hats, what looks like a riding helmet.
‘I was only one when the war ended, Detective Inspector,’ says Hastings. ‘My dad was the captain of the Home Guard.’
Ruth has an immediate picture of
Dad’s Army
, of CaptainMainwaring and the other one, the butcher, shouting, ‘Don’t panic!’ She starts to smile but then, listening to the wind whistling through the windows, she thinks: I wouldn’t have liked to live here in the war.
Nelson asks tactfully, ‘Is your father … still … ?’
‘No. He died in 1989.’
‘Is there anyone else still alive who remembers that
Ruth is interested to note that this time Hastings leads them into a baronial sitting room where vast sofas lie marooned on acres of parquet. Presumably archaeologists deserve the kitchen, but the police count as guests.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ asks Hastings, shrugging off his coat. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Keep out the cold?’
‘I’m driving,’ says Nelson. ‘Coffee would be grand.’
Ruth would love ‘something stronger’ but she feels surethat Nelson would disapprove. Not only will she be driving later but she is also going to be operating a heavy baby. ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ she says.
She wonders if Hastings will ring a bell and summon discreetly uniformed staff but he trundles off by himself, accompanied by the spaniel. Ruth and Nelson sit alone, facing a monstrous fireplace built of stones so vast that they could be rejects from Stonehenge. The room has large sash windows which rattle in the wind and French doors opening onto a stone terrace. Beyond the terrace is the sea, iron grey, flecked with white. There’s no fire lit in the massive iron grate and Ruth finds herself shivering.
‘Upper class buggers don’t feel the cold,’ says Nelson, noticing.
‘I must be distinctly lower class then,’ says Ruth.
‘No, you’re middle,’ says Nelson seriously. ‘I’m lower.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘You went to university.’
‘That doesn’t make you middle class.’
‘It does in my book. My daughter, now, she’s well on her way to being middle class.’
‘Is she at university? What’s she studying?’
‘Marine biology. At Plymouth.’
Ruth does not quite know how to reply to this but luckily the door creaks open and Hastings enters, carrying a tray. He is accompanied, Ruth is surprised to see, by an elderly woman bearing a coffee pot.
‘Let me introduce my mother, Irene,’ says Hastings, putting the tray on a rather ugly brass trolley. ‘She’s in charge of all the tea- and coffee-making round here.’
Certainly Irene seems to take an immense proprietorial interest in making sure that they have all the coffee, milk, sugar, sweeteners that they require. Ruth is quite exhausted by the end of it. She expects Irene to fade away once the drinks are served but the old lady settles into a chair by the window and reaches for a sewing basket placed nearby.
‘Mother loves her knitting’ is Hastings’ only explanation.
‘Mr Hastings,’ says Nelson. ‘I believe you know about the discovery made under the cliffs here?’
‘The four skeletons,’ says Hastings, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Yes.’
‘Six skeletons, in point of fact.’
‘Six?’
‘In confidence,’ says Nelson, noting how much Hastings seems to enjoy these words, ‘the archaeologists think the bodies were probably buried between fifty and seventy years ago. I believe your family has lived in this area for many years. I wondered whether you could remember hearing of any incident in the war. You’d be too young yourself, of course,’ he adds hastily.
Hastings smiles. ‘I’m sixty-five. Born in 1944.’
‘Ever hear of anything strange happening? Any disappearances? In the war perhaps.’
Hastings throws a quick glance at his mother, knitting by the window. A row of plants sits on the window ledge, some in pots, others in more eccentric containers – soup bowls, hats, what looks like a riding helmet.
‘I was only one when the war ended, Detective Inspector,’ says Hastings. ‘My dad was the captain of the Home Guard.’
Ruth has an immediate picture of
Dad’s Army
, of CaptainMainwaring and the other one, the butcher, shouting, ‘Don’t panic!’ She starts to smile but then, listening to the wind whistling through the windows, she thinks: I wouldn’t have liked to live here in the war.
Nelson asks tactfully, ‘Is your father … still … ?’
‘No. He died in 1989.’
‘Is there anyone else still alive who remembers that
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