THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

so unfit, especially as Trace has bounded up the hill like a gazelle and is now punching numbers into her iPhone.
    ‘Cool,’ says Ted, indicating the phone.
    ‘It’s useful for work,’ says Trace defensively.
    Ruth, who has never felt the need to have anything more than the most basic mobile phone, looks at her sceptically.Though you wouldn’t know it to look at her, Trace comes from a very wealthy Norwich family. Most archaeologists’ salaries don’t run to iPhones.
    However, it seems that even the newest technology is not proof against Broughton Sea’s End.
    ‘Not a flicker,’ says Trace disgustedly.
    ‘Someone’s coming,’ says Ruth. A man in a waxed jacket is walking purposefully towards them. Two depressed-looking spaniels run at his heels.
    ‘Take cover,’ mutters Ted.
    But the natives, it seems, are friendly.
    ‘Can I help?’ says the man. ‘It’s impossible to get a signal here. It really is the land that time forgot.’ He manages to say this as if he is rather proud of the fact.
    ‘We’re archaeologists,’ says Trace importantly. ‘We need to make an urgent phone call.’
    Ruth can almost see the thought bubble rising from the man’s head: how can anything to do with archaeology possibly be urgent? Aren’t archaeologists to do with the past – long-dead bodies, ancient artefacts, dusty museums? How can they be standing on his driveway, sea-splattered and panting, talking about urgent phone calls? But whatever the thought bubble says, the speech bubble is polite to a fault. ‘You’re very welcome to use the phone in the house,’ he says. ‘Follow me.’
    Silently they follow him towards the house. The spaniels trot obediently behind them. Close up, Sea’s End House looks more gothic than ever, with grey stone walls, tiny mullioned windows, and a studded oak door more suited to a castle. When this last is pushed open, they enter a vasthall panelled in oak. A stained-glass window reflects pools of green and gold onto the parquet floor and a stag’s head stares morosely down at them. Ruth is reminded of a public school (which is surprising as she went to a plate-glass comprehensive). She can almost smell the school lunch – cabbage and overcooked lamb.
    ‘Some place you’ve got here,’ says Ted.
    The man smiles rather sardonically and leads them through a door hidden in the panelling, along a stone corridor and into a cavernous kitchen. The servants’ quarters, thinks Ruth.
    She also thinks that she should be the one to make the phone call but Trace grabs the receiver leaving her and Ted facing their new friend across a kitchen table that would comfortably seat twenty.
    ‘Let me introduce myself. Jack Hastings.’
    Jack Hastings? The name rattles around in Ruth’s head as she shakes its owner’s hand. She is sure she has seen him before. Is he an actor? Someone from the university? The man who does the weather reports on Look East?
    Thank God for Ted who always says what he’s thinking. ‘You’re the MP bloke aren’t you?’
    ‘MEP,’ corrects Hastings smiling.
    ‘I saw you on TV protesting about the French.’
    Hastings smiles. He has a charming smile, which is presumably why he uses it so often. ‘Well, the English have been protesting about the French for centuries. It’s part of a grand tradition.’
    Ruth suspects that Hastings enjoys being part of a grand tradition. He’s a good-looking man of about sixty, sandy hairedand slightly less than medium height. He compensates for his small stature by standing very straight; he is the most upright man she has ever seen, thinks Ruth, noting his chin tilted upwards, his weight on the balls of his toes. He bounces slightly as he faces them across the kitchen, eyebrows raised and even his hair seeming to stand slightly on end.
    In the background, Ruth can hear Trace saying ‘I’ll ask her’ and can’t help feeling slightly smug. She takes the phone and tells the coroner that, in her opinion, the bones are probably less than a hundred years old. No, they’re in no immediate danger from the tide; yes, the police have been informed. The coroner says that he will issue a permit and excavation work can start on Monday.
    When she puts the phone down, Trace and Ted are sitting at the table and Hastings is making tea. Ted grins but Trace avoids meeting her eye.
    ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Hastings is saying pleasantly.
    ‘Ruth. Dr Ruth Galloway.’
    ‘Tea, Dr Galloway?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Milk and