Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

He said little to the police, but he did not return to the White Horse, despite a storm that chased away the interlude of sun. Clutching his umbrella against the wind and lashing rain, he walked to the old rectory. He had just a few days left in England, and he had his excuse to see Duval, to discover the priest’s reactions to his “French” article, and ask whether Mark had visited again.

Finally and slowly, the professor realised that Duval, Marda and her brother were fusing into a related tragedy. His brilliant mind, like many of his kind, had missed the obvious, but he was still not sure. As he rang and rang the bell, the whining of the dog inside the house reinforced his concern. The clergyman’s car was in the drive-if Duval had gone out on foot for an extended period, he would probably have taken the dog.

“Where the heck is Duval?” he said to himself.

Gould went around the back of the house and found the kitchen door very slightly ajar. He knocked, waited and knocked again.

“Father Duval…Michael…Are you there?”

No reply.

He waited for two minutes.

Minutes that meant life and death in the cellar below. By pressing her head against the inside of the trapdoor, Marda could keep her nose above water, but it was far more difficult to keep Mark’s slumped head in the same position.

Professor Gould waited another thirty seconds.

Then he did a very un-English thing: he walked into the kitchen.

It was deserted except for the dog, who gave him a very cursory greeting then dashed outside. In the gloom of the late winter afternoon, Gould could see a strange mess of paper on the kitchen table. Pages from his article lay strewn on the floor.

He called out quietly, and then noticed that the floor of the kitchen was wet-a part of the floor in the corner was under an inch or so of water. The movement of the water had pushed a rug to one side. He saw a trapdoor and a sense of foreboding welled up inside him.

Obviously there had been some accident. He should go for the police, for Gould was the most law-abiding of men.

He shouted, “Father Duval!”

He heard a muffled response-somewhere. Then a banging from beneath the kitchen. He pulled the sodden rug aside from the trapdoor and strained at the bolts. Because of the suction of the water that had drained through, he had great difficulty in lifting it.

When he did, two startled eyes peered out of the gloom.

No sound came from the mouth below the eyes; eyes which showed the horror that silenced the tongue.

“Marda Stewart?”

A faint “yes” came from the lips.

“Give me your hand,” he said gently.

“No, get my brother out of here first,” she whispered, struggling to find the strength to speak. “He’s still alive… just.”

Gould carefully helped them both out of the tomb.

Marda did not remember much of the immediate frenzy that followed Gould’s phone call to the police and ambulance service, when blue uniforms and white coats filled the kitchen. She did remember being carried into an ambulance, placed alongside her brother, and something being injected into her arm. She had been starved and tortured for months, she had been traumatised by Duval’s attempted crucifixion of her brother, and she had just endured a lengthy immersion in icy water. No wonder, for the moment, Marda’s physical reserves were utterly depleted. The ambulance was warm and safe; lulled by the unaccustomed comfort, she drifted into sleep.

An hour after her deliverance she was wheeled on a mobile stretcher into the casualty department of the Royal Surrey County Hospital, by which time she was feeling reasonably alert again. Marda had been too long a helpless victim. Duval had not only been the lord of her life and death, but also the lord of the manner of death. Despite the months of agonising pretence and her ploys to appease or manipulate him, there had been little ambiguity in the relationship, merely a crude juxtaposition of the powerful and the powerless. Her life had depended on him alone. She had had to be grateful to this single embodiment of her fate for everything that happened to her-food and water and light-and, more importantly, for the things that did not happen to her. And yet her spirit had not been broken. The hardest steel had reinforced her will when she had finally confronted Duval, physically and psychologically. No more would she be dictated to. She had been transformed by her terrible ordeal; from now on, no matter how unconventional she might appear, she would choose her own path. Her body, showing obvious signs of maltreatment, had temporarily been subdued, but her will, her mental stamina, was not only undiminished but eager to continue the battle against her tormentor. With an acute stab of fear in the depths of her stomach, she sensed that it was not all over yet.

As the nurses prepared to move her into the starched white sheets of a bed, she said, “Where’s my brother? I need to see him now.”

The staff were used to the truculent behaviour of patients suffering from shock. A nurse, younger than Marda, said gently, “He’s in intensive care. Don’t worry, we’ll look after him. Please let me help you into bed; the doctors want to have a good look at you. We’ve heard what a horrible time you’ve had and…”

Marda very calmly interrupted her, “I would like to borrow some clothes, please. A dressing-gown or something. I absolutely insist on seeing my brother.”

The young nurse recognised the patient’s determination and went to fetch the ward sister, leaving Marda to sit on the bed, swaddled once again in a blanket. She was even more resolved to break the cycle of her victimisation.

Despite the sister’s remonstrations and the duty doctor’s best efforts, Marda absolutely refused to be admitted formally to the hospital, even though she submitted to a brief medical examination. Legally, she could not be kept against her will. And she did not have to be told that she was malnourished. She showered in the hospital, and was loaned some clothes and shoes by a concerned nurse. In the nurses’ staff room, over a steaming cup of tea, she gave an initial briefing to a very considerate detective inspector.

The briefing was interrupted by a tumultuous welcome from her father and mother when they arrived; they embraced Marda in a tight scrum of intense relief and passionate endearments. Marda enfolded them both, not ever, ever wanting to let them go, while all three cried, talked and kissed at the same time. It was her parents who finally persuaded the doctors to let them see Mark.

They peered through an inspection window in the intensive care unit, and saw that Mark was fitted with a phalanx of tubes and suspended bottles.

A specialist spoke in a soft, assuring tone: “He’s very weak at the moment, but he’s a fit young man and I believe he will pull through. The best thing you can do is to let us get on with it. If you’d like to sit in the waiting room, I should be able to update you in an hour or so.”

For an hour the Stewart family talked intensely about their experiences, although Marda felt she could not disclose the full extent of her horrific ordeal to her parents, anxious as they were about her and even more distracted by Mark’s condition.

Finally, they were told by the specialist that Mark was expected, all things being equal, to make a full recovery.

The jubilation was disturbed by the detective inspector, who apologised for his intervention: “Miss Stewart, I really am sorry to press you at this sensitive time, but we are obviously very anxious to catch Duval. The doctors say I can talk to you, and, if you feel well enough, I would like a few words in private, if possible.”

Marda drank more tea in a quiet corner of the staff room, where she was joined by Professor Gould, who had also been debriefed by the police; she showed obvious pleasure at the American’s arrival.