“We want you to tell us the places you know on the East Coast where there are cliffs, and where several sets of steps run down to the beach.”
He thought for a bit. “What kind of steps do you mean, sir? There are plenty of places with roads cut down through the cliffs, and most roads have a step or two in them. Or do you mean regular staircases—all steps, so to speak?”
Sir Arthur looked towards me. “We mean regular staircases,” I said.
He reflected a minute or two. “I don’t know that I can think of any. Wait a second. There’s a place in Norfolk—Brattlesham—beside a golf-course, where there are a couple of staircases, to let the gentlemen get a lost ball.”
“That’s not it,” I said.
“Then there are plenty of Marine Parades, if that’s what you mean. Every seaside resort has them.”
I shook my head. “It’s got to be more retired than that,” I said.
“Well, gentlemen, I can’t think of anywhere else. Of course, there’s the Ruff—”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The big chalk headland in Kent, close to Bradgate. It’s got a lot of villas on the top, and some of the houses have staircases down to a private beach. It’s a very high-toned sort of place, and the residents there like to keep by themselves.”