The House At Sea’s End

‘We’ll go in my car,’ says Nelson. ‘It’s bigger and heavier. And it’s got a wider wheelbase.’

Words like ‘wider wheelbase’ mean nothing to Ruth, but she takes in the fact that Nelson is offering to drive her home. Back to Kate. With only the briefest of farewells to Jack Hastings, they run across the white lawn to Nelson’s Mercedes. The snow seeps into Ruth’s trainers and, within seconds, she is freezing. Nelson sweeps the snow off the windscreen and gets in to start the engine. Thank God for German cars. Maybe the ill-fated captain was right and they did win the war.

Ruth leans forward in her seat, willing the car to negotiate the snowy drive. The wheels spin and Nelson swears but they move forward slowly, the soft snow hissing under the wheels.

‘Should have chains on really,’ says Nelson. ‘But at least it’s not icy yet.’

When they reach the road Ruth starts to breathe more easily, but as they near the main road they see that something is wrong. There are flashing lights, a man in a reflective jacket barring the way.

‘Police,’ says Nelson. He gets out of the car. After a brief discussion in which Ruth can see the reflective jacket shrugging obsequiously, Nelson comes back to the window.

‘Road’s blocked,’ he says. ‘Lorry’s jack-knifed.’

‘Oh no.’ Ruth is rigid with horror. ‘What shall we do?’

‘There’s no route cross-country,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to go back to Sea’s End House.’

‘What about Kate?’ Ruth’s voice wobbles.

‘She’ll be fine, love. Clara’s with her. And I’ll get you home if I can. I’ll phone for reinforcements. Get a chopper if necessary. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ Ruth manages a watery smile.

Jack and Stella are all concern. They usher Ruth into the kitchen while Nelson makes his phone calls. Irene, of course, makes them tea with bone china cups and saucers. At Stella’s suggestion, Ruth rings Clara. The girl’s cheerful voice is a distinct comfort.

‘What a pain. That road is a nightmare. But don’t worry, Ruth. I can kip down on your sofa. I’ve made up Kate’s milk and she looks a bit sleepy.’

‘Is Tatjana back yet?’

‘No. But it’s pretty wild outside, maybe she’s stuck in town.’

‘Maybe. I’ll get home as soon as I can.’

‘Okay. But don’t worry. Really.’

Ruth clicks off the phone feeling better but still hyper-ventilating slightly. It’s as if there’s still an umbilical cord attaching her to Kate. She can go away from her baby for short stretches of time, but after a few hours she starts to panic. It’s bad enough at the end of a working day, racing through the King’s Lynn streets, desperate to press her face against Kate’s and inhale her lovely baby smell. But now, stuck miles away from her, Ruth feels as if she will snap clean in two, so strong is the invisible pull of her daughter.

Nelson returns. ‘Snow’s started again. We can’t get the chopper out in conditions like this.’ Ruth thought he’d been joking about the helicopter. ‘We’ll have to sit it out for a bit, love.’

Love. It’s the second time he’s called her that.

‘You must be our guests,’ says Stella Hastings. ‘We’ll have a nice supper and I’ll make up the spare room for you, Inspector. Ruth, you won’t mind having Clara’s room?’

‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘But the snow might stop soon.’

Hastings comes back into the room with snow on his peaked cap. ‘Not much chance of that, I’m afraid. It’s pretty heavy now. I walked up to the coast road and the lorry’s stuck fast. I knew something like this would happen one day. I’ve warned the council time and time again.’

It’s a strange, surreal evening. Despite further assurances from Clara (Kate is sleeping, she’s fine, they’re both fine), Ruth still feels tense and twitchy. She also can’t forget the events of the day – the boat trip, the discovery of the buried box and, finally, the film itself. All through dinner – polished dining table, flickering candles, acres of silver and china – she keeps seeing Hugh Anselm’s face, hearing his voice, the voice of a precocious teenager. The story I have to tell is an unedifying one… there was a difference of opinion… to my everlasting shame, I acquiesced. But his story was not a teenager’s story. This was a man who had to face a terrible choice and bear an intolerable burden of guilt – all before he was twenty. What had the rest of Hugh Anselm’s life been like, she wonders? Why did he decide, in the end, to break the oath? Why had he written to Dieter Eckhart? Dieter, who is now dead.

Yet Jack Hastings, who has just heard that his father murdered five men in cold blood, seems unaffected. Earlier, in the study, he had looked a broken man. Now he is every inch the genial host, pouring wine, telling amusing anecdotes about his family. His mother, Irene, smiles vaguely in the shadows. What does she know? What does she suspect?