Free The Ghost Fields (Ruth Galloway) by Elly Griffiths

Dad. He said she was really dishy when she was young. She came over in the sixties, with a miniskirt and an open-top car. I think Dad was quite smitten.’
    Cassandra laughs. ‘God, I hope she’s not still wearing miniskirts. We want to come over well in the film, after all.’
    ‘I’m sure you will,’ says Chaz. And he means it.
     
    At the back of Blackstock Hall, the land falls gently away towards the sea. The main entrance to the house is obviously here because a proper tarmacked drive leads up to the back door, which is the stable type with the top part open. There’s a kitchen garden too, with raised beds and a small greenhouse. Everything looks pretty wild and gone to seed but, Ruth reflects, that probably because it’s autumn. She’s hardly an expert on gardening. As they walk past the rows of giant cabbages (who knew they grew so big?), Ruth casts an eye over the soil. It has been turned fairly recently, no doubt about that, but isn’t that what you would expect in a garden? Then again, Ruth once found a body buried in a vegetable patch. She stops and looks at the earth. The topsoil seems to be mostly clay, clumpy and wet after the rain, but underneath there’s some chalk – she can see white flakes in the compost heap. A skeleton might be well preserved in this environment, if it wasn’t buried too deeply.
    ‘What are you doing, Ruth?’ calls Nelson from the gate. ‘Planning on making cabbage soup?’
    ‘I’m analysing the soil,’ says Ruth with dignity. She spent several weeks on the cabbage soup diet. Never again.
    Through the gate there are a few stunted apple trees, bent almost double by the wind. But to their right is something that makes Ruth and Nelson look at each other. It’s a large stone cross, not visible from the house because it is situated in a slight dip. As they approach, they see that there are other crosses and headstones lower down the slope. The stone is almost the same colour as the grass, which makes the markers look as if they have grown there, strange hunched trees perhaps, or distorted rock formations.
    Nelson has reached the biggest cross. Because of its position it seems to loom unnaturally large against the sky, like one of those optical illusion pictures beloved of tourists, where a person can hold up the Tower of Pisa. But here the effect is sinister, the massive crucifix seeming to overshadow Nelson, stretching its arms towards him. It’s all Ruth can do not to call out.
    ‘Admiral Nathaniel Blackstock, 1789–1850,’ Nelson is reading. ‘Safe in harbour. 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.’
    ‘There don’t seem to be any new graves,’ says Nelson. ‘It’s probably not consecrated any more.’
    ‘And no signs of recent digging,’ says Ruth, looking around her. 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.’
    ‘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.’
    ‘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.
    ‘Of course, all this would have been under the sea once,’ says Ruth. ‘You can tell by the chalk.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘Chalk is formed by marine deposits. All landscapes with chalky soil were under the sea once.’ She stops because