Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

“Since I clearly know so little of the psychology of the man,” said the superintendent, barely disguising his emotions, “may I ask why- why- he would have killed my officer in this horrific way, and in a church of all places?”

Gould felt Marda had answered enough police questions already. “He was obsessed by the Anchoress of Shere, Superintendent. It was his consuming passion. I suppose he will burn in hell.”

“ After we catch him, Professor. And we will . He’s killed one of my men, and I won’t stop looking for him.” The policeman paused to manage his anger. “But it’s odd that he remained such a cold and calculating criminal for so long, but now seems to have gone berserk.”

“Maybe because Marda stood up to him,” said Gould, tentatively. “Perhaps I played a part, a small one. I uncovered some new data on your Anchoress of Shere. Maybe it finally got to be too much for him. Perhaps the enormity of his crimes affected his conscience, if he had one. I suppose in all senses of the word the game was up.”

“It’s a strange game you historians play,” the superintendent said brusquely.

The phone rang for the superintendent and the room started to buzz with police jargon.

Sensing Gould’s hurt at the policeman’s probably unintended slight, Marda walked over to him and sat on the arm of his chair. She touched his hand gently.

“I haven’t thanked you properly for helping me…and my brother. I don’t lump all you history nuts together, I promise.”

“I should be comforting you, Marda,” Gould said, looking up at her. “I would like to. When all the police stuff is sorted out, when you’ve spent some time with your folks, when your brother’s out of hospital…when you’ve done some grieving for yourself, I guess…would you visit me in the States? I live in a lovely historical part of Georgetown.”

“Yes, I’d like that. Later, I’ll need to talk things through, to try to understand what’s happened to me, and inside me. I know I can talk to you.”

“And when you’re all talked out, no more medieval history, OK?”

“No more history, Professor Irvine Gould. No more history. When I’ve recovered I’ll look forward to the future.”

She squeezed his hand. He responded with the sensitive strength of both his scholar’s soft hands. Marda appreciated a gentle, tactile man. That touch was to prevent Marda hating men and God, and would be her resurrection. After so long in a tomb it was, for her, the most important gesture on earth.

Sand lizards scurried from walkers who trespassed on their territory, while at night foxes scavenged among the litter discarded by careless picnickers. The Hurtwood, however, no longer beckoned to Marda, despite the enticingly warm summer of 1968. She had said farewell to Shere forever, but Christine’s ghost remained with her. Perhaps one day, in the hereafter, the shades of both women would together heed the summons of St. James’s church as the bells tolled the Grandsire carillon.

But for now bells meant death; Marda attended the funerals of all her five prison companions. She tried to console the families of the other women, but telling them the whole truth would hurt them, and her, too much. It was enough that the bodies had been recovered and identified, and that the families could begin to grieve, knowing that their loved ones had been properly laid to rest. That was far better than spending a whole life not knowing what had happened to a daughter or a sister. Marda also attended the memorial service for Constable McGregor, and silently thanked him for trying to help her.

After so much sadness, Marda needed time to become herself again. True, she had regained her former weight, and her high cheekbones had lost their gauntness. Her lips were plump once more, and the rosy colour had long since returned to her face. She needed more time, however, for healing the woman inside. Her employers granted her extended leave to recover at her family home, while her job was kept open. She restarted in September, almost a year after her ordeal had begun.

The regiment put on a good show for the returning hero. Captain Mark Stewart was unable to resume active duty for a year, but he could manage a desk job in the interim. Marda had helped him through his convalescence, and now they were as close as any brother and sister could be. Marda had indeed found a new strength in her imprisonment, not least the strength to love unreservedly, unselfishly. She dissuaded Mark from waging a one-man crusade to find Duval, but Superintendent Woodward was true to his word; he never gave up. Despite his efforts, though, an intensive international police search continued to draw a blank. Woodward also tried to trace Duval through his attachment to Catholicism, but the impenetrable labyrinth of the Church was too complex.

Marda spent a lot of time with Jenny, who persuaded her to contact Gerard. The Frenchman did visit the Stewart family home in Woking, but Marda and Gerard had become strangers. They promised to meet regularly for lunch in Bordeaux, but that promise fizzled out into occasional and desultory chats over coffee.

Every day during her recuperation she played in the garden with Bobby, her new and faithful friend; the dog followed her every step. He, too, seemed reluctant to be alone again.

Professor Gould rang her regularly and wrote long amusing letters. She grew to like him more and more.

When a package arrived with an American stamp in mid-June, she rushed to open it. It contained a book entitled “Christine Carpenter: The Anchoress of Shere.”

Her blood turned to ice as she began to read the covering letter.

Dear Marda

In the final analysis, the core of the Christian message is forgiveness. You don’t need a Church for this, because you of all people should know that you can speak to God directly. The springs of sanctity and sadism come from the same source, and I may have inadvertently erred towards the latter. So I have asked God and my confessor to forgive the hurt I have done you, and your brother, and my other guests, but still I hope you learned something from me. And from Christine.

Perhaps you should take your American to France. Get him to re-check those bogus documents on which he bases the false claims of Christine’s alleged sojourn in San Sardos.

I retain little from my time in Shere except my unpublished book, a copy of which I enclose. I realise that it can never, should never, be published. It is perhaps too tragic, like the love story of Tristan and Isolde, but Christine and I are separated by over 600 years. It was impossible, but I did my best to recreate her and her vision. I chose you to do that. You failed me in this, but perhaps it was a noble failure.

I am fortunate in being a member of the universal Church. I did not take up my posting in Bolivia, and I will have left America before you receive this letter. There is much more to see of this world before I go to the next, whether Heaven or Hell. Who knows?

Christian love,

Michael Duval.

PS. Please look after Bobby. One day I may come back for him.

I received that letter thirty years ago. Whether it was a hoax or genuine I cannot know for sure, although the police questioned its authenticity. In my opinion, it may well have been genuine because of its peculiar tone. That Duval should have information about my new life was unsettling, and I wondered to what sort of international network he had access. Nevertheless, I tried to put it all behind me, and I am very pleased to say that I never saw him again. Although Duval was never caught, like Lord Lucan he became a famous untried murderer. Lucan killed one person; Duval was infamous as a serial killer, although serial killing has become more commonplace today.