The Anchoress of Shere, page 26
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.
XV. The Final Chapter
“A daring rescue attempt. Failed, I’m afraid, but our latter-day Sherlock Holmes might have his Dr. Watson.”
Marda screamed with the full force of her lungs at the sound of Duval’s cold and controlled voice echoing down the corridor.
“Quite a family reunion, Marda,” he said, slightly out of breath. “I’ve never had two members of the same family as guests in my little establishment. In fact it’s also the first time I’ve had a male guest. How interesting.”
“You’ve killed him, you bloody maniac!” Marda heard herself shouting.
“Language. Language, young lady,” said Duval with deadly calm. “There’s no need to shout. It will be bread and water for you again. Christine will not like this. She hath taken unto…”
“What have you done to him? I heard you drag him into the next cell. Is Mark all right?” Marda lowered her voice a little.
“I think he will wake up with a nasty headache.” Duval displayed the hint of a mad grin as he peered into her cell.
“How could you? He was just trying to help. He was being a good brother…a good Christian, caring for his sister. I don’t think you know what a Christian is, let alone a good one.”
“Of course I do,” the priest intoned sanctimoniously. “It was a Christian act of charity to accommodate your brother next to you, and he has Denise of course for company. I have buried the rest of my guests, as you requested. If your brother hadn’t so rudely interrupted us, I would have interred poor Denise as well. Now she will have to wait.”
Duval, standing almost triumphantly in the corridor, clasped his hands together, then stretched them back, making his joints click. She had never seen him do that before.
“Marda, we’re fast approaching decision time,” he said portentously. “Some of the recent events indicate that I should be away for a while-let things settle down for a year or two. The bishop has urged me to get a move on, and, for once, I might agree with him. A nice long holiday in South America is becoming more and more attractive.”
“Will you let us both out of this place?” Marda whispered.
“How can I? I might have trusted you, but your brother would never have understood my vocation. If only he hadn’t been so nosy.”
Marda tried to cover all the angles: “Couldn’t you leave us some food, and then contact someone to let us out when you’re safely in South America?”
He stroked the stubble on his chin, as if he were musing on a major philosophical issue. “Perhaps.”
“Couldn’t you put me in with my brother so that I can see if he’s alive?”
“Ah, three in a cell would be a little uncomfortable, don’t you think?”
“No, no, I don’t mind. I would give anything just to hold him. Would you see if he needs anything? Please, for me?”
“He can stay where he is. I don’t think he wants any help. I shall leave you two to your own devices for a while.”
The grille clicked back into place, plunging Marda back into darkness and utter misery.
