THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

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 theY 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?’
    In the churchyard, Judy remembers to check Buster Hastings’ grave. The roses have gone but now there is a bunch of spring flowers, tied in a straw bow. Clearly someone in the village still remembers the martinet with affection. Nelson and Father Tom have stopped in front of the war memorial. Nelson scans the names; many from the First World War, fewer from the second. One of the latter names, Geoffrey Austin, rings a slight bell. Didn’t one of the Home Guard have a son who was killed at Dunkirk?
    ‘I’m campaigning to have a new name added,’ says Father Tom. ‘One of the local boys who died in Afghanistan. The War Graves Commission isn’t keen but I think we’ll win through in the end.’
    Nelson does not doubt Father Tom’s ability to defeat the War Graves Commission. He has a feeling that Father Tom, like God, does not give up easily.
    Judy comments on the tree, whose dark branches still make her feel slightly uneasy.
    ‘It’s a yew,’ says Father Tom. ‘They’re traditionally found in graveyards. This one has been here for hundreds of years, since medieval times.’
    ‘Why are they found in graveyards?’ asks Judy, wrapping her coat around her. The sun is higher now but it’s still very cold.
    ‘They’re evergreens, linked to immortality. There’s an old superstition that at midnight, the witching hour you know, the yew provides a kind of conduit for the dead to rise.’
    Complete bollocks, thinks Nelson. But where has he heard that phrase recently?
The witching hour?
    ‘The yew’s a sacred tree for druids,’ Father Tom