The previous months had been even tougher for Marda, but they had been a time of joy and peace compared with her suffering after Christmas Eve. She had ventured all when she had thrown herself at her captor; she had ended up degrading herself and risking her life. It was a conscious strategy, not a drunken whim, although the alcohol had made it a little easier. Realising that he was utterly repressed, she had hoped somehow to distract him, to find a way out, perhaps from the bathroom. She had prayed that someone might call. She knew more than enough about his character to realise that playing the sexual card to a psychotic misogynist was extremely dangerous, but she had wanted to create a smokescreen to confuse him while she sought a means of escape. She had not really planned to kill him; that had come to her in extremis, when her self-abasement into public nudity had forced her to accept the final option, to kill or be killed. Marda had fallen back on the last resort of a young female: sexual allure. And it had failed. He was more monster than man, she realised finally. She had gambled all and lost.
In one way she was relieved, because he hadn’t raped her nor, almost as bad, made love to her with her apparent consent. She didn’t know whether she could have gone through with it. If he was undressed and also off-guard, she had been fully prepared to bolt out of the house without any clothes on. That wouldn’t have mattered as long as she was out of the prison. The windows would have been closed, perhaps secured, and the doors certainly locked; yet it was an opportunity for freedom which she had lost.
For the first few hours she sat in her cell trying to keep warm with her blankets bound tightly around her. Her new dress and habit had been left in the kitchen. Luckily he had left her with some heating oil, and she managed to fill up the paraffin stove in the dark. She was careful not to spill any of the precious fluid. She had some warmth, maybe enough for six to eight hours, depending on how low she kept the flame, and she had half a bottle of water. She was full from her meal, but she had no extra food, so she tried to stop herself vomiting up the meal after the trauma of the evening; she needed that food inside her. Marda retched, but did not vomit. She tried to control her breathing; she swallowed some water, which helped. She knew he would starve her again, although she tried not to think of what else he would do. The least was that he would probably sulk for a few days, but she would survive somehow. Eventually, she would find a way of escaping, even if it meant killing him.
Had he realised, somehow, somewhere in his subconscious, that she was edging him towards the knife? She was terrified of this because sometimes she thought he could read her mind.
For two days she sat in the dark. She rationed her cigarettes to one every four hours, or what she guessed was four hours. She did the same with her water and heat. The light was off so she lived inside her mind. What else could she do? Either submit totally to the life he wanted her to lead, some crazed notion of being a hermit, or defy him completely. She had endured so much, but she felt her mind was still robust, although she knew she was not strong enough to overcome him physically-even if she could catch him unawares. If she had reached the knife, could she have plunged it into his back? After two days in the cold and dark she knew the answer was “yes.” She thought of the morality of being a murderer, too, but she would have killed in self-defence, under massive provocation. He did it to innocent people because he was deranged. She asked herself yet again if she was descending into the depths of insanity, and she wondered what had made him so crazy. Or was he always like that? Was he born mad, had he suffered some tragedy? Or had religion turned his brain?
She hummed the anthem of her times, “We shall overcome,” to herself; “Yes, I will survive, at any cost,” she kept saying to herself. She would keep up her mental and physical strength, and she would find a loophole in his defence. Then she would kill him if she had to. But what if he just left her to rot? No matter what, she would try once more to be friendly and interesting to him, but first he had to come down to the cellar.
She always knew when he was in the house because she would hear the bath water running every few hours.
On the third day, she was frantic with cold and hunger. She tried banging on the door, but she knew that the sound did not carry up through the stone floor, nor through the thick wooden cellar door. She would have to wait for him, or death.
On the fourth day, eventually, he came with bread and water. In a weak voice she managed some questions and apologies, but he said nothing. Four or five hours later he came back with coffee and oil for the heater, but he refused to respond to her at all. The coffee was grittier than usual, and the taste was a little more tart; she had learned that he was a creature of habit, so she wondered why he had changed his brand.
She was sleeping badly but she felt very tired, and thought that she might get a good night’s-or was it day’s-sleep. Just as she nodded off, there was a slight tap on the door. It woke her up, and she said, “Come in.”
The tapping continued for a while, and she shouted more loudly for Duval to enter. The door opened slowly, and she saw a thin arm, carrying a candle, move timidly around the edge of the door.
A frail figure of a woman, dressed in a rough white woollen dress, entered the room very slowly, as though she were sleepwalking. Marda was too astounded to speak. The woman, or rather the girl, probably in her mid-twenties, once pretty but now haggard, with a face lined as if by years of pain, did not speak; she just stared at Marda.
Marda shifted along her bed and gestured to the girl to sit down, but the stranger just stood. Eventually, she knelt as if in prayer and finally broke the silence. Her voice was thin, distant, weak: “You are Marda of Shere.”
Marda struggled to speak. “Yes…but who are you?”
“I am also from Shere, and my given name is Christine.”
Marda tried to think quickly. Was this zombie a survivor from Duval’s earlier guest list? Was she completely insane?
“Why are you here? How long have you been in this prison? Is there a way out? How have you survived, and where…?”
The visitor did not appear to grasp the urgency or intent of the flood of questions. “This has been my sole abode for many years, and I do not choose to leave. God has selected this place for me, and you are also a chosen one.”
Marda wanted to tell her to get lost, but instead she heard unbidden words spring from her own mouth: “God may be consciously experienced, but He remains incomprehensible, and my path is to search for His light, even though I may not attain the divine ecstasy.”
The visitor slowly rose from her kneeling position and leaned over as if to kiss Marda, but a few inches from her face the girl whispered in Marda’s ear, “Beware the lion of pride and the bear of sloth.”
Marda heard herself say in reply, “I have sinned with my pride and laziness in the search for the light, but I will repent.”
“Remember, my sister in Christ,” said the visitor, “you may suffer a state of utter dereliction by God, but you must understand that abandonment comes before attainment of that cloud of knowing.” And she turned towards the open door.
A part of Marda wanted to say, “If you got in here, how the hell do you get out?” But her speech would not match her thoughts. Instead her mouth said, “Will I see you again soon?”
The figure did not answer, but walked soundlessly out of the cell. Marda’s brain told her body to run through the open door, to follow her, to find a way out, to discover if there were some hidden exit, but her body refused to obey the commands of her brain, and the door slammed shut.
Despite the astounding experience, Marda inexplicably fell asleep; when she awoke in complete darkness, she did not know which dimension she was in, whether she was alive or dead, asleep or dreaming. She recalled the visit vividly. Had it been a more than usually realistic dream? Or had it actually happened? Was she now certifiably insane, or the victim of another of Duval’s sinister chemistry experiments? She could hardly ask his advice on the matter.
A few hours later her tormentor arrived. Even if she had wanted to broach the sensitive question of the unscheduled visitor to her maximum-security establishment, it was clear that Duval was still refusing to speak. He did, however, leave more substantial food, and a big bottle of water. He also left the light on for a few hours. This carried on for days.
Finally he came with food and a voice. “I hope you have learned a good lesson,” he said cruelly.
Marda was too afraid to risk saying the wrong thing, and it was not the time to raise questions about her perception of reality, so she waited. She was becoming an expert at waiting.
“You’re not ugly, but you will not be able to use sexual blandishments on me.”
“May I speak, Michael?” she asked meekly.
“Of course.”
“I apologise if I upset you. It was the drink and the sense of freedom. Please forgive me. I had meant to please you, not upset you. Please can we continue the lessons?”
In a harsh voice he said, “I shall bring you food and heat and leave the light on. Use this opportunity to read your Bible and pray for forgiveness from our Lord.”
“I will. I will. May I have my clothes back? At least my habit.”
“It is ironic-is it not? — that you should ask for a habit, not a worldly dress. Perhaps it is more than just the cold. I hope so. I shall come back with some more heating oil. It is very cold in here, I must admit.”
“Thank you,” she said with real sincerity.
Ten minutes later he came back with two large containers of oil. “This should keep you warm for a week,” he said in his best distant manner. “When the room is really warm, I’ll come back with more food and new books.”
“Thank you very much.”
He also emptied her portable toilet.
About two hours later he returned. After days of darkness and loneliness she felt as though she were on a crowded aircraft. Her spirits lifted after he had brought in a tray of food, until she saw him produce the handcuffs from his pocket. She tried to sound sweet and lively, but not too pushy: “Are you taking me upstairs again? Please, I would love to get out of here for a while. And will you give me back something to wear, please?”
“Perhaps later. Please handcuff yourself to the end of your bench,” he said with cold politeness.
“Why, Michael? I can’t go anywhere.”
She did not want to argue because she wanted the food. She took the cuffs and clicked the lever shut across the loop and the other metal circle around her left wrist, while trying to hold the blankets covering her naked body.
Duval leaned forward and pulled the blanket off her.
“Please don’t, Michael,” she said, trembling with fear.
He stared at her naked form. “You were throwing yourself at me last week,” he spluttered with outrage. “Now you pretend to be modest.”
She huddled into a ball, trying to cover her nakedness.
“So the coy young thing now.”
“Please. I offered myself to you before. When I was… drunk. But I offered, please don’t take me against my will.”
“I promise I will not touch you, except to take hold of your leg here.”
As he said this, he produced another set of cuffs from his jacket pocket.
“Please don’t, Michael.” Fear made her raise her voice, which she was trying to keep calm to avoid angering him further.
Chained as she was, she tried to pull her legs up, but he forced them down and cuffed her right ankle to the loop at the bottom of her bench. Now she was spread-eagled, facing outwards on her bench, with just her right hand to cover her naked body.
“What do you want to do?” she cried almost hysterically.
“Nothing. I want to look at you.”
He stared at her for a few minutes while she tried to stop herself crying. She wanted to shout that he was a lunatic, a filthy, perverted bastard, but she was hardly in a position to risk anything that would trigger him into an uncontrollable frenzy.
“I have some information about a member of your family.”
She was astounded. “Really? My family, but how? What?”
“I will tell you if you do something for me.”
“Do what?” she said, unable to mask the suspicion in her voice.
“I have some holy water, mixed with body oil, which I want you to rub over yourself. And I want to watch you do it.”
She looked hard into his eyes, to try to read him, but it was no good. He did not, however, try to escape her gaze as he usually did. Marda said, “I will put oil on myself, if you give me some news of my family. What could you know about them?”
“I have met someone who is apparently your brother.”
Marda squealed in delight. “My brother?”
“Captain Stewart, I believe. Strong-looking chap, in his mid- to late twenties.”
“Yes, yes. That’s him!”
“He gave me this.”
Her tormentor showed the leaflet to the frightened girl.
“Oh, Mark. Mark. What did he say to you? What did you say to him?”
“I will tell you if you’ll oblige by letting me watch you rub this ointment on to yourself. It is harmless. It is based on the gimmicks they sell in Lourdes, more water than oil. I have added a few perfumed plants from the Hurtwood. Smell it.”
Opening the bottle, he put it under her nose. He poured a little into his hand, and rubbed it vigorously over his face.
“Observe, it’s not caustic soda. I am not a sadist. But I need to see you do this. I want to show you that I do not find you unattractive. And you are safer, let us say, restrained by steel rather than by my religious vows or your sexual guiles. Do this for me, and I will tell you as much as I can about your brother and his Sherlock Holmes play-acting.”
Reluctantly Marda took the bottle, while Duval sat and watched her.
With her free hand, she poured a little on to her arms and legs, then rubbed the mixture into her skin, while he lit up his pipe, broke the dead match in two and put it back inside the matchbox.
Marda used his annoying habit as an excuse to stop. “Please don’t stop,” he insisted. “I want you to rub it all over yourself…to rub it into your breasts and thighs.” He sounded like a doctor telling a patient how to take a prescription.
“Please don’t make me do this,” she said, as tears teased the corners of her eyes. “So far you have tried to teach me uplifting things, about the Bible, about life, civilisation, history. This is degrading, just not like you.”
His anger had abated somewhat, and the schoolmaster voice began to take over: “I tried to instruct you in spiritual matters, but I see you are addicted to the ways of the flesh. So be it. I no longer respect you in the way I did before.”
Marda wondered whether he was a repressed homosexual, or perhaps he was just massively repressed, full stop: what normal male would have reacted so aggressively to her naked form? Now he had revealed himself as a voyeur. Whatever was wrong with him, she was terrified of the repercussions of the traumatic dinner.
To Duval, Marda was now far less like Christine. He tended to be ultra-deferential with the few women he met whom he deemed his intellectual or social superiors. With women he regarded as inferiors, his sadism grew more pronounced. He had abandoned the almost masochistic worship of Marda as Christine; now he was beginning to despise his young prisoner as a fallen woman, not worthy of his religious dedication.
Marda pleaded, “Please don’t hurt me or starve me like the others, please don’t.”
“I won’t if you do precisely what I say,” he said. “Please continue rubbing in the oil.”
She did so for a few more minutes, embarrassed, and in silence; a silence interrupted only by the sound of Duval sucking on his pipe. Her goosepimples grew hard with cold and fear.
“That is enough,” he ordered.
He gave her back the blankets.
“I have one more request,” he said, as he pulled out a pair of scissors from his jacket pocket. Marda was now really frightened.
“Don’t be afraid. I would like to cut a small lock from your hair.”
Marda’s memory raced back to the scene of Christine’s mother cutting a lock from the hair of the dead Margaret.
“Please don’t scalp me, just take a small piece if you really have to.”
“Thank you.” He leaned over, cut a small section of her hair and put it into his top pocket.
“Now let me unlock the cuffs.”
Marda was suddenly reminded of her dentist. He is so clinical, she thought. He’s like a medical specialist explaining his methods to a nervous patient.
He undid her right foot first. She thought of striking him with her right hand as he bent over her ankle, but she could do little while her left hand was cuffed. Having unlocked the other handcuff, he moved back quickly to face her.
“Please tell me more about my brother,” she pleaded.
“He was staying in your flat, I understand. He has spent the last two months looking for you.”
“Where am I?”
“You are not much more than a mile from your flat, just outside Shere.”
A look of amazement came over her face.
“He came here to give me this leaflet and to ask if I had seen you. The leaflets are all over Shere. Of course, I had to lie…unfortunately. He left quite satisfied. I understand that after two months of fruitless search he has left the village. He has gone back to his regiment in Germany, or so I’m told.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Village tittle-tattle, and I’ve seen one or two articles in the local rag. Constable McGregor, our local protector, sometimes chats to me when I am out walking Bobby. Quite a little chatterbox is our PC McGregor. And too nosy for his own good, I’m afraid. Rather irritating Scotsman, but he is a useful source of information. And, of course, my brief meeting with that fine young man, your brother, was also interesting. But everybody has given up. They will not find you, Marda, so if I were you I would try to behave myself. I have a short time to decide whether to leave this place and go to South America or stay here, but I cannot just let you go. That would be too dangerous.”
Marda felt bile rise in her throat, but anger made her speak: “You have lied to me all along!”
“Be reasonable,” he said smirking. “I know you must think me a little mad, but I am not mad enough to let you just walk out of here.”
“But you promised you wouldn’t hurt me, or leave me to die of hunger.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, but decisions must be made soon, and you can help me make them by doing exactly what I ask of you. Today is a good start. It is the fifth of January, the beginning of a new year. Let’s both make some firm resolutions to improve our lives. You seem a little more comfortable down here now.” There was no sarcasm in his voice. “I shall take my leave and, if I may, I shall keep what remains of the ‘holy’”-he deployed his habit of physically apostrophising words with his fingers-“oil. I would like to see you use it again, perhaps a little more adventurously next time.”
He locked the door and left the light on, while Marda read and re-read the leaflet he had left.
Duval bathed in cold water and scourged himself with a scrubbing brush as penance for his act of voyeurism. Cleansed, he returned to his writing. His new appreciation of Marda, or rather his depreciation, gave him some fresh ideas. Initially, he had been concerned with Christine’s visions during her re-enclosure. This original text would form a major part of his conclusion, but perhaps Christine might have been more rigorous in her self-mortification, especially when she returned to her cell. He decided to rework some passages of his history.
To help his work, he mixed a potion of fly agaric. Although highly lethal in its natural state, if the mushroom is dried and ground, and carefully measured, it can be added to honey and water to form a mind-expanding drug. Duval was cautious with himself in these experiments, but he had laced the drinks of all his guests and was satisfied that the mushroom was safe, and indeed rather interesting, in small doses. He swallowed the potion and sat in front of his typewriter.
The first thing the visitor saw was the wall painting. St. Christopher was always placed opposite the main door of a church, because it was believed that whosoever looked upon a figure of the saint would be free from sudden death that day, and this would allow time for the sinner to repent. The visitor marvelled at the varied blues of the sea, and the crimson sails of the ships that St. Christopher was towing in his mighty hands. Even the painted eyes of the saint appeared to take on a kaleidoscope of colour and form, while the air around the painting curved and buckled under the weight of the visible atoms.
And the sounds were magnified: the visitor could hear insects hopping in the nave, and the birds sang so loudly outside the church that every syllable echoed in his brain. Every sound was comprehensible, too: the birds were arguing about food, the locations of their nests, and even warning of the stranger who had just walked into the church.
The visitor floated through a bewitching landscape of sound and colour, warmth and peace and light; the whole world was in harmony with his movements. The tall stranger moved towards the cell and passed through the stones and sat on the bench. The woman was not startled by his presence.
She spoke calmly: “Where are you from, dressed in that strange garb?”
“I am from a different place and time,” he replied gently.
“From Heaven?” Christine asked.
“Neither Heaven nor Hell.”
“From purgatory, then?” she asked sweetly.
“From six hundred years in the future, from the twentieth century, a place which might appear like Hell to you, sweet Christine.”
She did not ask how he knew her name, but knelt and kissed Father Duval’s hand.
The priest stopped typing, and read the words on the white page. He smiled and thought, “My vision, my pure vision of Christine, but not for others to read. Sweet indulgence, but not my history.”
He looked at his crucifix, and acknowledged the need for penance. The penance for pride: first to kneel and kiss the ground, then to stare at dead men’s-or in this case, dead women’s-bones to remind the sinner of the transience of mortal life. He made his way into the cellar to visit Denise. Yes, she had been proud, and defiant, too. She had fought back, and rammed a full container of paraffin against his hand. He lost a part of his finger-caught in a car door, he had told the doctor in casualty. That was his penance then. But he had made her suffer for the injury to his hand, and for hiding notes, portions of a diary. Yes, he had thought Denise was coming to believe in him, but she had been lying all along. She had hated him, even boasted of injuring him, she had not wanted to learn, and his patience had reached its final limit. He looked upon her skeleton and wondered where her soul had gone.
He returned to his study, ready to continue with his project, to complete the life of Christine Carpenter. The effects of the potion had almost worn off and he could become a serious writer again.
March 1334
Despite Father Peter’s protestations, Christine embarked upon a rigorous course of self-denial for the sin of abandoning her calling. Besides four extra hours of prayer on her knees every day, she requested herbs to purge her stomach, bloated after months of decadent living, although in truth she was still too thin. And she asked to be leeched-Father Peter prevented this. The anchoress took to scourging herself, and wearing the hair shirt which was reluctantly granted to her, while all the time she prayed for proof positive of a stigmata. When, after months of prayer and self-denial, it did not come, she begged to be branded on the cheek with a hot iron in the shape of the Cross. Father Peter grew angry, and worried, because he feared that her devotion was turning into mania.
William tried to dissuade her from extreme devotions: “The body cannot suffer the demands of thy spirit. Please eat and rest and do not scourge thyself.”
She said, almost petulantly, “My punishments are naught compared with those inflicted on our Saviour.”
“Aye, child, but you must not presume to be too much like Christ.”
“No, father, I wish to be near Christ in every way.”
William could not overcome his daughter’s stubborn resolve, but to his great concern and anger there was one who could reach out to her: Mistress Anna de Kempis. Her fantastic passions were now welcomed by the anchoress of Shere. Anna secretly brought her purgatives and the hedgehog belt which Father Peter had refused.
Writing this section excited Duval. Some of these ideas, he thought, could be adapted for Marda: perhaps, for example, some cuts on her palms, a stigmata as it were. The vision of her blood dripping slowly into his mouth made him shudder. Branding on the cheek, suggested by the garrulous American, was a new concept to Duval, but one worth considering. He would thank the professor next time he saw him. Yes, he was sorry that he had been so curt with the man the last time they had spoken.
Eight miles away, Professor Irvine Gould was reading The Times while waiting outside Bishop Templeton’s office. The bishop’s assistant made him a cup of tea.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, professor,” he said. “The bishop’s meeting is running late. He’ll be with you in a few minutes, I’m sure.”
A few minutes later the bishop did arrive. “Terribly sorry, Professor.” Gould still marvelled at how often the Brits said “sorry.” “Held up in a meeting…Ah, good, you have some tea. Do bring it with you…”
The American was led into a sumptuous book-lined study with a large and expensive free-standing globe set in a mahogany frame. It was more like the study of the president of an Ivy League university, too spoiled by oil-rich alumni, a little too decadent for the workplace of a man of the cloth. Gould thought that it might have suited the Vatican, but in Guildford it looked out of place.
“Please sit down, Professor.” The bishop talked with practised bonhomie. “I was so pleased to receive your letter. Glad to meet someone who is a fellow student of church architecture. I must apologise-I haven’t read your paper in its entirety, the one you very kindly sent me-on late Gothic experiments in-what was it again?”
“Cathedrals in southern England, Bishop.”
“Ah, yes, but I will read it as soon as I can. Now, what can I do for you?”
The professor explained that he wanted access to certain medieval church records that dealt with monastic orders in Guildford.
“Yes, yes, no problem there.” The professor noticed the cleric’s nasal delivery. “If we have what you want you can look through them. I’ll get in touch with our archivist as soon as we finish our chat.” A short chat was implied. “By the way, what do you think of Gibberd’s design?”
The bishop was clearly in no mood for extended small talk, but the professor responded to his comments on the new Catholic cathedral recently consecrated in Liverpool: “If I may say so, Bishop, it looks like a UFO.”
“Precisely my view. Although I think we should be a little adventurous from time to time, I’m afraid I do prefer classical form. Mind you, I hope I am progressive in matters of theology.”
The American felt he could proceed: “I worry about new church architecture. Churches aren’t looking like churches any more. Some resemble gyms; others are like spaceships or hangars or theatres in the round. I worry this might be a portent of a kind of cultural collapse. It’s important to recognise that in matters of religion, especially Catholicism, based as they are on faith and obedience, form really is substance. Life will imitate art, if you like. What a thing appears to be, it is. It doesn’t look like a church, therefore it isn’t a church, therefore we don’t go there to worship God.”
“Are you suggesting, Professor, that there is a direct correlation between ecclesiastical modernism and religious dysfunction?”
“I sure am, Bishop. Apses and chancels and vestries, the norm for fifteen hundred years, are succumbing to bizarre notions of modernity and so-called relevance. Even existing churches are being deformed-when they’re not turned into markets or theatres or bingo halls. Cathedrals are ransacked by modern-day architectural barbarians. Pulpits and altars are smashed. It’s as though Cromwell’s thugs are doing a grand tour of Britain, and America is worse.”
The bishop had started to fidget, and Gould made a gesture to leave, wondering whether his brief burst of intellectual debate was considered “bad form.” As he got up from his seat, however, the American remembered something else he wanted to ask about: “I don’t know if you’re acquainted with a priest I know, Father Michael Duval?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I’ve met him once to talk about my research on anchorites, and I wanted him to see my draft on a local anchoress before I leave. I did phone and, er, he was a little bit off, actually…” He smiled as he said the last phrase because it sounded so English to him.
“Yes, Duval is one of my people. Difficult fellow at times, very bright of course; too bright for his parishioners sometimes, but he’s going away to South America very soon. Probably preoccupied with moving. Sorry about that.”
Gould ticked off another “sorry” on his mental list while they shook hands.
“If there’s anything you need, just get in touch with my secretary,” said the bishop without much conviction. “He will introduce you to the archivist. I’ll give him a ring now to clear the way. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”
The professor knew a bum’s rush when he was given one. “Thank you, Bishop. Thank you very much.” And he added a final anglicism-“Cheerio.”
The bishop was angry. Sitting back, he lit one of his favourite Cuban cigars and ruminated on the second piece of disquieting information he had received about Duval that day. One of his curates lived in Albury, a few miles from Shere, and Bishop Templeton had asked him to keep an eye on Duval. The curate reported that Duval was furiously busy building some kind of swimming pool in the garden or perhaps burying an elephant.
Anyway, that’s what Constable McGregor had told the curate.
“Burying rubbish, I expect,” the curate told the apparently uncurious policeman. “He’s going to move to South America. Getting rid of old stuff probably. Or maybe doing up the garden to help sell the house.”
The bishop instructed the curate to keep things quiet, as Duval was getting a bit odd, you know, tapping the side of his forehead as he said it. A couple of years out in the wilds of South America would probably do him a lot of good.
The bishop would make sure that Duval was out of his hair just as soon as possible. One day it might be Cardinal Templeton. No lunatic obsessed with mystics was going to sully his reputation.
Captain Mark Stewart was certainly risking his reputation. He didn’t catch the plane to West Germany; his final trip to the police station had confirmed his hunch about Duval. During a long farewell chat, PC McGregor rambled on about all sorts of village trivia, mentioning en passant that it was an odd time of year to be digging a rockery at the old rectory. Mark appeared to let it pass. He logged this in his mind but would have not acted upon it if-crucially-he had not noticed French cigarettes on sale in the village shop where, just before leaving the village, he popped in to buy his own brand.
“Don’t often see Gitanes,” he had observed casually to the shopkeeper.
“No, Mr. Duval ordered some and I got a few spare. Must be fashionable or something. Smells like old rope to me. Nobody else bothers with them now that your sister’s not here…oh, I’m sorry.”
Mark felt like kicking himself for not asking about the cigarette brand the first time. “Not good form for an intelligence officer,” he said to himself as he left the shop.
My colonel will go ape, Mark thought. I’ll ring him on Monday to explain. Explain what? That I’m sitting in some wood with my army poncho on, soaking wet, freezing my bollocks off, doing an “OP” on some vicar who’s digging a duck pond in his back garden. My head’s throbbing from a boozy farewell to Irv. I didn’t get on that plane and I didn’t tell Irv I wasn’t going. Been too bloody long in Berlin-that’s my problem.
He remembered his old intelligence instructor: “Need-to-know principle. Vital to security, sah! Don’t you ever forget, Captain Stewart, sah!” He could hardly forget, could he? He’d been hanging upside down over a bucket of shit at the time in a mock interrogation which seemed real enough, even now.
Mark moved out of Marda’s flat and booked into a guesthouse five miles away. After parking his car on the far side of Hoe Lane woods, he walked across country to the rear of Duval’s house, the former rectory. Fortunately, there was a small hillock, sprinkled with Scots pines, giving a reasonable view of the place. He put his thermals on, but even these and his hip flask did little to keep out the January cold. He had learned his field craft in the Brecon Beacons, although it was never as brass-monkeys as this.
Mark sat there through the whole day, but the only movement, apart from the dog running around the garden, was Duval digging for about twenty-five minutes at dawn. Funny time and season to dig. If he was the villain, this wasn’t good, Mark reckoned. The officer needed all his training to control the fear that his sister was already dead. Fear paralysed action, he knew all too well. He had to block out emotions and concentrate on logic, a plan of action. If it was a grave Duval was preparing, Mark would have to move soon, but he couldn’t just burst into the house. He would have to wait until the bastard went out. He reasoned that Duval might walk the dog or go to the shop or do some bloody thing.
The dog kept dashing into the garden and sniffing around the area where Duval had been digging. At midday the animal spent some time retrieving a large bone, which he carried into the house.
Nothing at all happened for the rest of the afternoon, nothing except endless rain and sleet. The colder he became, the more Mark began to wonder whether he was wasting his time.
Ten hours of sitting in the rain finally brought its reward. Despite the very poor light, shortly after four o’clock, using his army binoculars, Mark saw movement in the front garden. He heard the dog bark before he realised that Duval was following the animal through the front gate. He waited a few minutes, hoping that it wasn’t just a chance for the dog to crap. No, the animal had a garden for that, so it must be a proper walk. Mark had a safety margin of, at most, perhaps ten minutes. He had to go for it.
Pulling his balaclava over his head, he stood up, aching all over, and realised how out of condition he was. Not risking a torch, he scrambled through the bushes, wet branches whipping at him. He scaled the six-foot wall and found himself next to a big ditch at the rear of the house. “Looks a bit big for a grave,” he muttered. He was slightly consoled by that.
He dashed around to the front garden and peered through the hedge to see if anybody was coming up the lane. Not much traffic likely in a narrow lane with no exit. He held his breath and listened hard: nothing except the distant revving of a car engine. Mark ran around the rear and tried the back door. Locked, of course. All the windows were closed. He went carefully to the front door and tried that, just in case.
“OK, a bit of breaking and entering is called for here,” he said to himself.
He found a large stone near the front path and then returned to the back.
This must be the kitchen. Why didn’t the bugger leave me some lights on?
Averting his face, he whacked the window with the stone. The wind swallowed some of the sound. He cleared away the glass with hands protected by thick sheepskin gloves, and then fiddled with the handle; it was locked. Putting his torch in his mouth, he hacked away at the wood around the window lock with his commando knife until it gave way. He got the window open and pitched himself into the open space.
The torch showed him the way down, via a wide pine shelf, on to the lino floor. There was little point in stealth, as he was hardly a cat burglar. It was more like a Special Air Service assault, and he had failed the SAS selection course, he reminded himself. So let’s do better this time.
He hadn’t expected the internal doors to be locked, but they were. What’s the priest hiding in here?
He thought of shouting to see if Marda was there, but, no, he would “recce” the house just in case somebody was around. Duval was reputed to live alone, but he would check. They would have to be deaf or dead not to have heard the window breaking, but there was a strong wind…
Pulling a short crowbar out of his belt, he jemmied the kitchen door open- it gave way fairly easily. In the hall a grandfather clock chimed.
This is like something out of Hitchcock, Mark thought. Must remember to be careful if there’s a shower.
After examining all the rooms on the lower floor, he carefully tiptoed up the stairs to explore the bedrooms, then the bathroom downstairs; Duval didn’t have a shower.
Right, there’s no bastard in. I’ll check all the rooms downstairs again, then take a quick look around any outhouses and have a shufti at that big hole in the garden.
The captain snooped around the ground floor again, finding nothing unusual. Reluctantly, he made his way back to the kitchen to get out through the broken window. As he stepped across the floor his footsteps produced a slightly hollow sound near the stove.
A bloody cellar!
He whipped away a large mat to discover the inset handle of a trapdoor. There were two inlaid bolts; he shifted them open. He pulled the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. There was a lock in the trapdoor with a keyhole. Using all his weight he jemmied the heavy door open, tugged it upright and flicked the torch around to find a light. Nobody would see the light from outside. He found the switch and the light revealed a cellar with a large crucifix at one end and six doors.
Mark’s heartbeat raced even faster.
Fuck, this could be it.
“Marda! Marda! Marda!” he shouted.
Her grille was closed, but she could hear the shouts.
“Mark!” she screamed, banging on the door with all her strength. Her heart pounded with massive expectation.
Mark’s brain almost leapt through his skull.
“Marda. Oh, God. I’ll get you out.” He ran to the door where the pounding was coming from and opened the grille from the outside. He shone the torch in to see the ghostly, tear-streaked face of his sister; a face suddenly transformed by excitement, relief, and the passionate joy of having survived. Now she would be safe.
“Mark. Thank God! Thank God! Get me out of here. Please get me out,” she gasped in a frenzy of exhilaration.
“You’ll be all right. You’ll be all right,” he kept repeating. “Are you OK?” It was a stupid question.
He thrust his arms through the grille opening and grasped Marda’s hands. She leaned to kiss him on the cheek.
“Get me out of here, Mark. Now. Now. Please. I can’t rot in here for another minute. Please…Where is that fucking maniac priest?” she screamed at him.
“Out walking his dog, but stop worrying about him. You’re safe now.” The captain tried to jemmy the door open, but the lock was too strong. The raised edge of the doorframe prevented effective leverage.
“Do you know where the keys are kept?” he said, trying to sound as if he was in total control while his heart was banging like a bass drum.
“I don’t know. Hell, I don’t know, but get me out of here. Please.”
“I’ll go back into the kitchen and see if I can find the keys, or something bigger to force this door open.”
“Don’t leave me, Mark.”
“Back in a second, Modge.” Marda hadn’t heard her childhood nickname for years.
Mark raced back along the short corridor and clambered up the stairs. Just as his head came up through the trapdoor, instant and massive pain jettisoned him into oblivion.
Duval had swung a vicious blow with a large lead candleholder. It crashed into the captain’s right temple and Mark flopped down the stairs and collapsed inert into a mangled heap.