Free The Ghost Fields by Elly Griffiths Page B

Looks like we’ve stumbled on the family graveyard.’
    Ruth brushes lichen away from one of the smaller crosses. ‘Ralph Blackstock, RIP. Also his beloved wife. I see she doesn’t even get a namecheck.’
    â€˜There don’t seem to be any new graves,’ says Nelson. ‘It’s probably not consecrated any more.’
    â€˜And no signs of recent digging,’ says Ruth, looking aroundher. In fact the slope, with its grey shapes rising up out of the grass, looks like it hasn’t been visited for centuries. She doesn’t think she has ever seen a lonelier place.
    Nelson is evidently thinking the same thing. ‘I wouldn’t like to be buried here,’ he says. ‘It’s miles from anywhere.’
    â€˜What do you need near you when you’re dead?’ says Ruth. ‘It’s not as if you’re going to be popping to the corner shop for milk.’
    â€˜You know what I mean,’ says Nelson. ‘It’s bloody bleak.’
    In fact the view is stunning. Beyond them lie the marshes, miles of flat grey grassland, interspersed with glimmering streams. In the distance is the sea, a line of darker grey against the sky. As they watch, a flock of geese fly overhead in a perfect v-shape.
    â€˜Of course, all this would have been under the sea once,’ says Ruth. ‘You can tell by the chalk.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ asks Nelson.
    â€˜Chalk is formed by marine deposits. All landscapes with chalky soil were under the sea once.’ She stops because Nelson is looking at her oddly. ‘What’s the matter? I’m talking about millions of years ago.’
    Nelson shakes his head. ‘It’s nothing. I’m just thinking about something Old George said. He’s the granddad. He said that his mother hated this place because she thought nothing good would ever come of living on land that should really be at the bottom of the sea. She used to say that the sea wanted the land back.’
    Ruth looks out over the grey-green landscape. It might just be her imagination but she thinks that she can hear the sea.It has a roaring, urgent sound. She imagines the waves swallowing up the marshes and the grazing land, rising higher and higher until they cover the stone crosses and the garden wall and finally the house itself.
    â€˜She thought she could hear sea sprites singing at night,’ says Nelson.
    Ruth looks at him out of the corner of her eye. She is relieved to see that he’s smiling.
    â€˜We must introduce her to Cathbad.’
    â€˜She died years ago,’ says Nelson with an involuntary glance at the looming graves. ‘Come on, let’s go round the other side of the house.’
    The inland side of the house boasts a barn, some outhouses—all derelict, a tree with a rope swing and an area fenced off by a low iron railing. Nelson hurdles this and, with rather more difficulty, Ruth follows. She sees immediately that they are in another graveyard, only this time the stones are small and regular in size.
    She squats down to read the engraved letters. ‘Blue, beloved friend. Rosie, never forgotten. Patch, faithful companion.’
    She looks up at Nelson. ‘It’s a pet’s burial ground.’ She feels her eyes filling with tears. She can’t bear to think what will happen when Flint dies.
    â€˜Jesus,’ says Nelson. ‘More money than sense, these people.’
    Ruth turns away to avoid one of Nelson’s lectures on profligate people (usually southerners) who spend money on their pets while there are children starving. As she does so, she notices something.
    â€˜Nelson. Look over there.’
    One corner of the graveyard is undulating like a bedspread with a sleeping body underneath. The soil has been disturbed and the turf is bare in places.
    â€˜Something’s been dug up here,’ she says.
    â€˜Either that,’ says Nelson, ‘or they’ve just buried a bloody big