The Ghost Fields by Elly Griffiths Page B

you.
    â€˜No,’ says Cathbad. ‘But if you combine Judy’s age withthe number of the month when the baby was conceived, the resulting number is even.’
    Ruth knows better than to challenge the absolute scientific veracity of this. She opens the door, thinking that a cup of tea with Cathbad is always good value—even if it isn’t an intimate rendezvous with Frank.
    Flint, Ruth’s cat, is standing at the top of the stairs looking accusing. He wasn’t expecting her back until six (Ruth always tells him the exact time) but he manages to convey the impression that she is late and he is starving.
    â€˜Hallo, Flint,’ says Cathbad, who believes that he has a psychic connection with the cat. ‘How are you?’
    â€˜What would you do if he answered you?’ says Ruth.
    â€˜He is answering me,’ says Cathbad. Flint is certainly communicating something, rubbing himself around Cathbad’s legs and purring loudly. Ruth tries not to think that they’re talking about her.
    â€˜Where’s Thing?’ she asks. Cathbad is the owner of a mad but extremely friendly bull terrier. Not that he would put it like that, of course. ‘We can’t own our fellow creatures,’ he once said as Thing dragged him along the beach, ‘we’re just permitted to share their space.’
    â€˜With Judy. She’s off work today.’
    â€˜How’s she feeling? You get so tired in the last few months. And she’s got Michael to look after.’ Michael, Judy’s son, is three. He has two fathers: Cathbad, his biological father, and Darren, Judy’s ex-husband.
    â€˜She is tired, of course,’ says Cathbad. ‘I make her infusionsevery night and I burn ginger roots to prevent sickness. Michael’s no trouble. He’s an old soul.’
    Ruth smiles. She is very fond of Michael. ‘Is he excited about the new baby? I’m envious. Kate would love a brother or sister.’
    â€˜She can share this baby,’ says Cathbad. ‘Families are just modern constructs, after all. We’re all children of the Great Creator.’
    Ruth, who knows just how far Cathbad has gone to secure his own bourgeois family unit, says thank you very much. Then she goes into the kitchen to make the tea. Flint follows anxiously.
    When Ruth comes back into the sitting room, Cathbad is standing by the bookcase examining a paperback copy of Ruth’s book,
The Tomb of the Raven King.
    â€˜I enjoyed this,’ he says. ‘Is there going to be a sequel?’
    â€˜I’ve got a contract for another one,’ says Ruth, ‘but I haven’t started it yet.’ This is one of her favourite worries when she wakes in the middle of the night. Her editor, Javier, has requested a synopsis by the end of October. The problem is that Ruth can’t think what to write about.
The Tomb of the Raven King
had a real story and—rare for archaeology—a proper ending. Where can she find another buried king? If only she’d been one of the team who discovered Richard III’s body under a car park in Leicester.
    â€˜Why not write about the dead pilot?’ says Cathbad, when she confides this dilemma.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ said Ruth, thinking of Blackstock Hall andthe family graves, the mist floating in from the sea. ‘It’s all a bit complicated.’
    â€˜Hazel says that the land is cursed,’ says Cathbad as if he is relaying the weather forecast. ‘Devil’s Hollow and the land around Blackstock Hall.’
    â€˜Did he say why?’ asks Ruth, offering Cathbad a biscuit and taking one herself.
    â€˜Legend has it that the Devil was building a dam at Old Hunstanton,’ says Cathbad. ‘He took the soil from Devil’s Hollow, hence the name.’
    â€˜Why does the Devil always do that?’ says Ruth. ‘He’s a shockingly bad digger. I wouldn’t have him on one of my