Elly Griffiths - House at Seas End

THE HOUSE AT SEAS END

Also by Elly Griffiths

The Crossing Places
The Janus Stone

Elly Griffiths

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by

Quercus
21 Bloomsbury Square
London
WC1A 2NS

Copyright 2011 by Elly Griffiths
Map copyright Raymond Turvey

The moral right of Elly Griffiths to be
identified as the author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any
information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available
from the British Library

ISBN (HB) 978 1 84916 367 5
ISBN (TPB) 978 1 84916 368 2

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, organizations, places and events are
either the product of the authors imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Typeset by Ellipsis Books Limited, Glasgow

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc.

For Gabriella, who also avoided Halloween.

November

Two people, a man and a woman, are walking along a hospital corridor. It is obvious that they have been here before. The womans face is soft, remembering; the man looks wary, holding back slightly at the entrance to the ward. Indeed, the list of restrictions printed on the door looks enough to frighten anyone. No flowers, no phones, no children under eight, no coughers or sneezers. The woman points at the phone sign (a firmly crossed out silhouette of a rather dated-looking phone) but the man just shrugs. The woman smiles, as if she is used to getting this sort of response from him.

They press a buzzer and are admitted.

Three beds in, they stop. A brown-haired woman is sitting up in bed holding a baby. She is not feeding it, she is just looking at it, staring, as if she is trying to memorise every feature. The visiting woman, who is blonde and attractive, swoops down and kisses the new mother. Then she bends over the baby, brushing it with her hair. The baby opens opaque dark eyes but doesnt cry. The man hovers in the background and the blonde woman gestures for him to come closer. He doesnt kiss mother or baby but he says something which makes both women laugh indulgently.

The babys sex is easy to guess: the bed is surrounded by pink cards and rosettes, even a slightly deflated balloon announcing Its a girl. The baby herself, though, is dressed in navy blue as if the mother is taking an early stand against such stereotyping. The blonde woman holds the baby, who stares at her with those dark, solemn eyes. The brown-haired woman looks at the man, and looks away again quickly.

When visiting time is over, the blonde woman leaves presents and kisses and one last caress of the babys head. The man stands at the foot of the bed, pawing the ground slightly as if impatient to be off. The mother smiles, cradling her baby in an ageless gesture of serene maternity.

At the door, the blonde woman turns and waves. The man has already left.

But five minutes later he is back, alone, walking fast, almost running. He comes to a halt by the bed. Wordlessly, the woman puts the baby into his arms. She is crying, though the baby is still silent.

She looks like you, she whispers.

March

The tide is out. In the early evening light, the sands stretch into the distance, bands of yellow and grey and gold. The water in the rock pools reflects a pale blue sky. Three men and a woman walk slowly over the beach, occasionally stooping and looking intently at the ground, taking samples and photographs. One of the men holds something that looks rather like a staff, which he plants into the sand at regular intervals. They pass a lighthouse marooned on a rock, its jaunty red and white paint peeling, and a beach where a recent rock fall means that they have to wade in the sea, splashing through the shallow water. Now the coastline has transformed into a series of little coves which appear to have been eaten out of the soft, sandstone cliff. Their progress slows when they have to clamber over rocks slippery with seaweed and the remains of old sea walls. One of the men falls into the water and the other men laugh, the sound echoing in the still evening air. The woman trudges on ahead, not looking back.

Eventually they reach a spot where the cliff juts out into the sea, forming a bleak headland. The land curves away sharply, leaving a v-shaped inlet where the tide seems to be moving particularly fast. White-topped waves race towards jagged rocks and the seagulls are calling wildly. High up, on the furthest point of the cliff, is a grey stone house, faintly gothic in style, with battlements and a curved tower facing out to sea. A Union Jack is flying from the tower.

Seas End House, says one of the men, stopping to rest his back.

Doesnt that MP live there? asks another.

The woman has stopped at the far side of the bay and is looking across at the house. The battlements are dark grey, almost black, in the fading light.

Jack Hastings, she says. Hes an MEP.

Although the woman is the youngest of the four and has a distinctly alternative look purple spiky hair, piercings and an army surplus jacket the others seem to treat her with respect. Now one of the men says, almost pleadingly, Dont you think we should knock off, Trace?

The man holding the staff, a bald giant known as Irish Ted, adds, Theres a good pub here. The Seas End.

The other men stifle smiles. Ted is famous for knowing every pub in Norfolk, no mean feat in a county reputed to have a pub for every day of the year.

Lets just walk this beach, says Trace, getting out a camera. We can take some GPS readings.

Erosions bad here, says Ted. Ive been reading about it. Seas End House has been declared unsafe. Jack Hastings is in a right old two and eight. Keeps ranting on about an Englishmans home being his castle.

They all look up at the grey house on the cliff. The curved wall of the tower is only two or three feet from the precipice. The remains of a fence hang crazily in midair.

There was a whole garden at the back of the house once. Summer house, the lot, says Craig, one of the men. My granddad used to do the gardening.

Beach has silted up too, says Trace. That big storm in February has shifted a lot of stone.

They all look towards the narrow beach. Below the cliffs, banks of pebbles form a shelf which then falls steeply into the sea. Its an inhospitable place, hard to imagine families picnicking here, children with buckets and spades, sun-bathing adults.

Looks like a cliff fall, says Ted.

Maybe, says Trace. Lets get some readings anyway.

She leads the way along the beach, keeping to the edge of the cliff. A sloping path leads from Seas End House down to the sea and fishing boats are moored higher up, above the tide line, but the sea is coming in fast.

Theres no way off the beach this side, says the man whose grandfather was a gardener. We dont want to get cut off.

Its shallow enough, says Trace. We can wade.