The Anchoress of Shere

to be ready: “Mortal sin kills the soul by depriving it of sanctifying grace, which is the supernatural life of the soul.”

Marda did not want to ponder on mortal sins like murder and possibly get lost in a blind alley where she would have to confront him. “And of course a venial sin is an offence,” she said, “which does not kill the soul, yet displeases God and often leads to mortal sin…”

She looked up at him. “You have told me a lot about the soul, Michael.”

She tried to use his name often; it bred a familiarity, a touch of friendship. You don’t kill your friends, Marda thought. Did the others try to be friends, too? Or were they all too “difficult,” as he put it? Was she less brave than the rest or simply wiser? Or nicer? She kept wondering.

“If the soul’s immortal, Michael, how can sin kill it?”

He answered the question, not very satisfactorily thought Marda, but she wouldn’t dare say so. He also tried to explain that the invisible part of the human being, the soul, was not restrained by Einstein’s laws of space and time. But he did respond eagerly and in depth, so Marda assumed that it was a good question. The longer the answer, the better the question was her rule of thumb. She had learned that without going to university.

He asked her to define “hope”; then she was asked to explain “prayer.”

Marda replied quickly. “Prayer is the raising up of the mind and heart to God…is that right?”

Duval sucked on his pipe and nodded.

Marda was sincere in wanting to learn all about prayer. There was no dissimulation here. Duval seemed to know most of the time if she was acting, so she was always trying to play double bluff, and therefore sometimes not even admitting things to herself in his presence.

“Good, good. Now the Ten Commandments.”

Marda rattled them off. She slowed on “Honour thy father and thy mother” but only slightly, and then only marginally speeded up on “Thou shalt not kill.” She was learning as much about diplomacy as theology.

“Are you saying grace before your food?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. She risked direct lies occasionally.

“Another aspect of the Christian’s daily exercise, then. How should you begin your day?”

She scratched her ribs and wondered if she had lice, but no emotion showed in her reply: “I should begin the day by making the sign of the Cross as I wake up in the morning and by saying some kind of short prayer, for example, ‘O my God, I offer my heart and soul to You.’”

Duval seemed pleased. “You are learning quickly. In a few weeks we can get you to confirmation stage, and then on to taking part in Holy Communion. I will also explain penance and absolution.”

“Michael, speaking as someone who knew so little about religion, I am grateful for”-she was going to say “your time,” but she stopped herself-“for your patience, but may I ask what level I am supposed to reach?” She wanted to say something about the fact that, to her knowledge, there had never been a female Pope, but that would certainly have come into his definition of facetiousness.

“I will explain more later. Perhaps first I will show you some of the history I am writing. Not quite yet. It needs some editing, but it is the story of a woman’s purification, and I hope it will make things clearer.”

Marda didn’t push him.

In these “seminars,” as he called them, he soon dispensed with the handcuffs. Initially he locked the door behind him and watched her carefully, but as the weeks passed, and she made no attempt to escape, he grew more relaxed. There had been no “removal of privileges” for at least ten days. He seems to like me, she thought.

Marda’s cell was tolerably warm. She had light for up to twelve hours a day, and an extra towel. Her little library had extended beyond the Bible and Lives of the Saints-she had enjoyed particularly a history of the Crusades and a book of religious poetry. In the dismal dark world she inhabited, Hopkins’s “Glory be to God for dappled things” took on a very special meaning, of hope for light, literally, in the future. She desperately wanted to get out, of course, and above all to reassure her family, but somehow she didn’t think Duval intended to kill her. She tried to find out what he really wanted from her. Was he simply trying to convert her? Secure one good Catholic conversion before he died or…What if something did happen to him? If he were knocked over by the proverbial bus or had a heart attack? No one would find her. She would starve.

She started trying to keep a little store of food at the end of the bench, but one night she awoke to find a scratching sound next to her ear. Instinctively covering her face with her hand, she felt the brush of damp fur across her arm as something scuttled off her bed.

Marda screamed. She hated rats.

She wondered whether someone, in years to come, would find her, dead, with a rat sitting on her skeleton.

Marda tried to brush aside such terrifyingly negative thoughts; she would think constructively. Yes, she would find its hole, and block it when she had some light, but she would keep her little food store. She would make a small bag and hang it from one of the grilles of the air vent when it was dark, then hide it each morning. She didn’t want him to have the slightest suspicion of her plan.

Plan? I should be thinking of a plan to get out, she said to herself.

She estimated that in a few days-maybe, maybe, please-he would allow her to go upstairs, but first she would ask if she could walk in the corridor. Meanwhile, she did some press-ups on the bench during the long dark hours, to tire herself because she was sleeping so badly. She fretted about her physical deterioration.

She had asked Duval for a mirror to see what she looked like, to see how pale she was.

“Such vanity is entirely unnecessary,” he had said dismissively.

“Will you tell me then how I look, after so long down here?”

He had said she looked just fine. But what else could he say?

X. The Good Book

Duval cut out a small section of a newspaper and stared at it for five minutes. Before carefully folding it and putting it in the drawer of his desk, he wrote on the clipping:

“Surrey Advertiser, 19th November 1967, page 7.”

French Police Draw Blank

French police in Bordeaux have discounted the reports of a recent sighting of Miss Marda Stewart, 23, the missing Guildford employee of Phillips’ Wine Company. Miss Stewart was last seen in Guildford on 7 October 1967. She is believed to have travelled to France the following day. Two recent reports of her in the Bordeaux region have been checked by police and discounted.

A spokesman for the Surrey police, Superintendent Terence Dawkins, said, “We are maintaining our search for Miss Stewart, but we believe she is more likely to be found in France. Hence our close co-operation with the French authorities, who are continuing to follow up leads on the Continent.”

Marda had also been busy writing, trying hard to connect with the world outside her cell:

Dearest Jenny,

This is my third letter to you. Still imprisoned here. I shall try to escape by talking about our everyday life. Such thoughts keep me sane.

I don’t know what the people at work must think. I suppose that Michelle-who always wanted to go on the French trips-has replaced me. I suppose the police have been on to you. What did you say I wonder? Did they take you to my flat in Shere?

What has happened to my flat? Has Dad kept up the rent for me? And all my records? Do you have them, especially the Kinks LP, the one we always used to play. I wish I could hear it now. I told you all about Him in my previous letters, so I’d better bring you up to date on Events.

I’m not so cold any more. He lets me have a heater and usually gives me enough paraffin-Parrafin (spelling?)-OK heating oil-to keep it going. And although I’ve lost a lot of weight I’m not hungry all the time. I told you about the rat. He’s come back once or twice, but he seems as afraid of me as I am of him. But I still have my little store of food, perhaps it can keep me going for a few days if something happens to him-Him, not the rat. I can tell the difference! What if the police find him and he doesn’t talk? What if they lock him up?