Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

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.

“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.

Professor Gould had spent the rest of Friday and part of Saturday in the municipal archives. He had unearthed some useful information, but he couldn’t concentrate because he kept thinking of Mark Stewart, his new army friend. He would ring him in Germany on Monday because Mark had said he would be back at the base then. The captain would be interested to hear that Duval was going to South America. The professor also considered visiting the elusive priest again, as he had only a few more weeks left of his sabbatical. He was convinced that his friend Mark had been barking up the wrong tree. Actually he was barking mad, to use another one of his favourite Anglicisms, to think that Duval was some kind of kidnapper. He would tell his friend about South America, but he was also concerned with his own research interests.