Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

Prompted by Gould, who was rapidly becoming her psychological mentor, his decency substituted for the evil of Duval, Marda briefed the police on her months in captivity; the professor insisted that she stay in the comfort of the hotel room rather than go to Shere police station. She would sign a full written statement the next day, once the doctors had given their agreement that she was fit enough. Meanwhile, the police needed some leads for their manhunt.

Marda tried to remain calm at the centre of this maelstrom. She did not cry, although she would, long and hard; but later, after it was all over, and with friends rather than strangers. After the initial police interview, everyone was asked to leave the room while a local doctor gave her a second, more detailed, check-up. Fifteen minutes later they all trooped back into the professor’s room.

“Rather run down and undernourished, but I’m sure she will be fine in a few weeks.” The doctor meant, but did not say, physically fine.

Marda smoked too many cigarettes and drank pints of orange juice, interspersed with cups of tea and visits to the bathroom every ten minutes.

The outpouring of her experiences was not only a necessary police procedure, but also a useful psychological catharsis. Gould was always at her side as a prompter or comforter, until Superintendent Woodward arrived and asked to speak to him.

Leaving a policewoman with Marda, they went downstairs to the emptying bar to talk. The landlord, thrilled that the White Horse had become the centre of a manhunt, offered them tea.

After brief preliminaries, the police officer said, “We’ve got a full alert out for Duval, and at first light we’ll comb the woods for him. His car has been towed to the police station. He won’t get far. We had a sighting of a second car in the vicinity of the old rectory and it was registered to the car pool at the cathedral in Guildford. He might have sought help there. If so, we’ll get him straight away.”

The superintendent realised he had said too much: the Church connection could become sensitive.

“You’d better catch him fast, Superintendent. He’s killed five or six women, and almost finished off poor Mark. And Mark’s a bloody good bloke.” Gould threw in another of his favourite English expressions. “The hospital expects him to pull through, thank heavens, probably because he’s in good shape thanks to his army training. You know that Duval tried to crucify him?”

“That is utterly bizarre, although I must say that I find Catholicism generally rather…er, medieval,” said the policeman, scratching his head nervously.

“Well, it’s hardly anything to do with modern Catholicism, of course. But, historically, it’s not entirely bizarre.”

The superintendent looked at the American as though he were an alien.

“It ties in with my own research. It is my field,” the professor said defensively. “A few medieval mystics actually believed they could eat of the flesh and blood of a crucified man, albeit preferably a holy man or woman. To put it crudely, just an extreme and perverted form of holy communion. Some devil-worshippers, and indeed some Christians, attached significance to such acts. That could explain it.” The professor noticed the disbelieving look on the policeman’s face, and added a caveat: “ Perhaps -it’s only a theory.”

“Sounds a very unsavoury practice to me, Professor. Not normally the sort of crime we’re used to around here. You’ll be talking about flying witches next.” He took his leave, adding, “The sooner we get this unholy priest under lock and key the better. Goodnight.”

The unholy priest was hiding near the spot where his last victim had taken up his observation post a little more than a week before. The rest of the world would undoubtedly have defined Duval as mad, but insanity takes many forms and the deviant priest was still very capable of avoiding capture, not least because he possessed the extra cunning of the hunted.

The priest had to make his final arrangements before leaving the country. The traumatic recent events had shocked him into a semblance of rational introspection and an ability to question his own sanity. Standing in the darkness of the woods, a cold logic penetrated his brain. Regrets started to swamp him, not moral regrets, but frustration with his own behaviour. If only he hadn’t drunk so much and then nearly choked in his kitchen. He cursed himself for falling into a hole he had dug himself.

“May all the demons in Hell be forever damned for leading me into such utter folly,” he said aloud.

He unscrambled his brain for an answer: psychologically, he had taken too long to recover from his beating. That was it. How could he know that his own disciple would turn on him? Who could have anticipated such betrayal? Her strength had been amazing, and her anger. The ungrateful witch.

And Gould’s deceitful article had shaken his whole being, undermining a lifetime of work. But it was foolish to succumb to Gould’s lies. He would recover and prove the American to be a forger and a charlatan. Yes, God would give him a second chance to finish his work.

The Almighty was on Duval’s side; he had proof of that. God had saved him: stopped him choking to death, and sent the bishop’s curate to the house to discover him lying in the half-finished grave and pull him out. Yes, that was a resurrection.

The curate, concerned for Duval’s mental and physical health, had driven him back to the episcopal palace in Guildford. But Templeton, incandescent with rage at the priest’s filthy and drunken condition, had simply locked him in a bedroom to sober up. He had been left there for over a day, his only visitor the bishop’s secretary bringing him tea and unbuttered toast.

“His Grace does not wish to see you today,” the man said. “He feels that a period of contemplation would be beneficial to you”-further evidence, as if Duval needed it, that the bishop was not God’s man and did not understand the priest’s holy calling.

“His Grace is going on a retreat,” the secretary continued. “He has left you these written instructions concerning the travel arrangements and other details regarding your posting in Bolivia.” With that he left the room, locking the door carefully behind him.

Duval sat stunned for a while, chewing on the unappetising dry toast. Late that evening he finally gathered his wits together and clambered out through the window of the locked room. And the bishop would get the car back, and the transistor radio he borrowed. It wasn’t theft.

Time had been lost, though. Duval estimated he had been away from his house for around forty-eight hours. Thanks to the bishop’s desire to banish him to South America, he had his escape route organised, but first he needed to get back into his house. He heard the initial news reports of the police cordoning his home on the radio he had “borrowed” from the bishop. He knew the place would be swarming with police, poking around in the cellar, digging up the garden; at first light they would start sweeping the woods. But the last thing they would expect him to do would be to go back to his own house.

Bishop Templeton was a seriously troubled man, but he knew where he would find solace. It had worked before: a day or two of isolation in a small monastery on the edge of Dartmoor. The abbot was an old friend. The bishop could pray, walk, and think there. He told his secretary to cancel all appointments for the next forty-eight hours.

The bishop departed for Dartmoor just two hours before the police arrived at his palace. Templeton drove himself, because he wanted to think, not engage in polite small talk with his driver. He brooded on Duval. God, he had tried to help the man, but he had been kicked in the teeth. The bishop blamed himself. He had been too indulgent. Too kind. His own reputation would be called into question if Duval were involved in any further scandals. The image of the Catholic Church had to be preserved at all costs; two thousands years of history had to be cherished. Human imperfection, he knew, would always threaten Rome’s ideals. But Duval would soon be in South America, and no longer his responsibility. The bishop smiled, and started to look foward to his retreat.