The Anchoress of Shere

Duval’s face lit up. “Self-branding! Very interesting, Irv. I have never heard of that.”

Gould asked the priest to cite evidence for his assertion that some anchorites habitually drank their own urine. He argued that there were only a few indirect non-clerical references to such practices. “Seems to be going a bit far, old boy,” Gould said in deliberately mock-English fashion.

“Not at all, Irv. Even Gandhi, a regular imbiber of his own urine, quoted the example of the English mystics.”

The hotel dining room was now almost empty, a condition perhaps not unrelated to the outre dinner conversation of the two enthusiasts, whose historical passion had increased the volume of their debate. Their conversation eclipsed their own meal, which was not discussed except for a few words about Duval’s vegetarianism.

The evening drew to a close with a port. The priest decided that the occasion had turned out better than he had expected. Gould’s private opinion was that the priest was a harmless and eccentric, if overenthusiastic, medievalist, although he could readily understand another scholar’s passion for the period. Finally, they discussed Duval’s research on the Anchoress of Shere, but Gould sensed that the priest was being deliberately cagey. After all, the kind of interpretative history in which Duval was engaged was not recognised by academia.

Gould explained that he was busy writing a paper on English anchoresses of the period, and hinted that he had discovered some new information about Christine Carpenter. Duval, although intrigued, was too proud to admit that the American might know more than he did on his specialist subject, but it was enough for both men to agree to meet again.

Shaking hands to say goodbye, the professor asked whether Duval would look at the almost-completed draft of his paper on Christine.

“I’ll look forward to that,” said the priest. Duval, however, was not looking forward at all to anyone contradicting his personal vision of Christine. He very much doubted whether the American would be able to add anything new to his long obsession, and he could not have tolerated any changes to his vision of the anchoress.

On the drive home, Duval thought of Marda. She would not change his vision of Christine. She would be made to fit what he already knew…over the following weeks and months and perhaps years.

The American medievalist took up lodgings in the White Horse, close to St. James’s church. Gould mentioned these arrangements to Duval, who immediately confined his pub visits to the William IV, up in the woods, away from prying foreigners.

In the evenings, amid the relaxed atmosphere of the White Horse bar, the American got to know a number of villagers by name as well as one or two commercial travellers who sometimes stayed in a nearby guesthouse. It was in the bar that the professor bumped into an earnest, strong-looking man in his mid-twenties. The earnest young man and the American soon realised that they were both making it their business to get to know the area; in their own way both men were searchers. After three or four evenings the two outsiders became drinking companions.

The well-built young man with the slightly affected upper-class accent had only recently become a “regular.” In the last few weeks he had visited the bar nearly every night for supper, because it was a convenient watering- hole around the corner from his flat-although it wasn’t really his. He dressed in regulation mufti for an army officer: cavalry twill trousers, check shirt and a sports jacket.

Captain Mark Stewart had taken special leave from his regiment in Germany. His commanding officer had been very understanding: “Do what you have to do,” the “old man” had told him. And he would, since Mark Stewart was not the sort of person to give up. He had insisted, for example, that he and his father should keep up the rent on Marda’s flat. He would use it as a base to find out where she was because he would never accept that Marda was dead…not until he found her body.

There were less than two years between the siblings, but he regretted that they had not been closer. He had gone off to Sandhurst when he was eighteen, and had spent most of the last five years away from Britain in Cyprus, Hong Kong and Belize, the ragged bits of empire that clung to a country which seemed to be shrinking as fast as that infamous pound in Harold Wilson’s pocket.

In Shere, the army officer had gone out of his way to court the locals. His charm helped, especially with the younger women. The Guildford police, however, had been politely non-committal. “We have missing persons all over the place, sir. They often pop up in the most unexpected places. We’re doing our best,” the sergeant at the police headquarters had told him. Annoying variations on the same theme he had heard about a dozen times.

The officers in the tiny Shere police station were more sympathetic, however. Constable Ben McGregor was a fifty-eight-year-old Scot who looked older. He was popular in the village for his friendliness, but his distracted manner prompted some to suggest that his retirement would be a minor blessing. Still, there was little crime in Shere, and McGregor’s friends put that down to a shrewd nosiness that was disguised by his vagueness. McGregor promised the army officer that he would “look into it.” He did, and while his seniors in Guildford brushed the case aside, the constable not only sniffed around the Tillingbourne valley, but also in his own-slow-time started to check on the records of women who had gone missing in Surrey. McGregor found his task almost impossible, however: the records were in a hopeless mess. Nonetheless, he would keep at it, but time was short and his intuition and long experience might be more effective, he decided. He was an honest plodder in the best traditions of the Surrey police.

Marda’s parents had started to badger the police three days after they last heard from her. She had always rung them just before and after her trips to France, and they were expecting her to arrive at their house with the new car she was so excited about. When they heard nothing, her parents contacted Jenny, her friend in Guildford, and then her employers. Finally, they rang the police in Shere. A week after Marda’s disappearance a detective came to their Woking home, asked questions and took away two recent photographs. Marda’s friends were questioned, but nobody had any information. It was two weeks before the Stewarts phoned West Berlin, where their son was on temporary attachment as liaison officer with the Americans. Captain Stewart immediately sought special compassionate leave.

He had now spent over a month searching in Shere and Guildford. He had used up most of his savings in expenses and to pay for printing leaflets displaying Marda’s photograph. His father had contributed a reward of? 5,000 for any information leading to her discovery. At first Mark Stewart called at the police stations in Shere or Guildford almost every day, but it was down to every few days now. The police were becoming mildly irritated with his amateur sleuthing, although they didn’t display much emotion beyond, at times, polite exasperation.

Mark Stewart did not swallow the police theory that Marda had unexpectedy gone to France and disappeared there. He’d spent a week in Bordeaux and talked to Marda’s former boyfriend, as well as her colleagues in the wine trade, but had found nothing. He knew Marda better: she would have phoned home before going abroad. He was convinced she was in England, probably in Surrey.

The only lead anyone had found was the possible identification by a bus driver, who remembered her pretty face from various trips but couldn’t pinpoint when he had last seen her. Marda’s Guildford friend, Jenny, had provided very little information except to list their haunts in the town. Mark had spent about half his time in Guildford, but he had a gut feeling, born of the cavalryman’s overweening self-confidence, that Shere itself was a better target for his search. He had called at nearly every house in the village and at the surrounding farms, but nobody had any idea of Marda’s whereabouts. A few, especially in the shops, recognised her photograph. And one or two loyal customers in the White Horse also remembered the attractive young woman. Since the pub was also the centre of village gossip, Stewart reconciled himself to spending most evenings there.

The officer had little in common with the locals, so he was pleased to bump into the companionable, if slightly offbeat, American.

Deep in the cellar, Marda applied herself to her studies. Intellectual pursuits meant light, food and something to occupy her mind; anything was better than the hunger, the cold and the empty darkness. Even talking to him was better than nothingness; even his conversation was better than being alone, thinking of the ghosts of those who had been tormented in the other cells.

Marda retreated more and more into herself. Often she thought she was becoming insane, laughing loudly, then immediately crying with rage and fear. After a bout of utter misery, Marda was sometimes surprised by the