might not be on it. I could have missed a few people. I’ll find the house on the OS map I’m using,” said Mark, with a renewed interest in the conversation.
“Well, I hope he’s more polite to you than he was to me.”
“Anyway, have you eaten, Irv? No? OK, let’s see what grub is on offer.”
The next day Mark went to Guildford to see Jenny. He enjoyed her company, and not just because she was such a good friend of his sister and somebody who could guide him around the town. Under different circumstances, she could have been special to him. Jenny was obviously extremely distressed by the mystery of her friend’s disappearance, and she recognised Mark’s angst hidden beneath the officer’s bluster. Intuitively, they leaned on each other for mutual comfort. Mark opened up about his feelings in a way that he had never done before, and he learned much about himself and about his sister. He wanted so much to share his feelings with Marda, and was tempted to sublimate his emotional frustrations in a more practical way with Jenny.
One evening as he left her flat she held him, chastely, in an almost sisterly fashion, and said, “If you love Marda enough, and I think you do, and if you are determined enough, and I am sure you are, you will find her. I believe that with my whole heart.”
Mark thanked her and kissed her gently on the cheek. Jenny’s support meant a lot.
His search, however, was more important than his habitual philandering. Mark felt good about that-not much had come between him and his sex drive before. But his loneliness and fear about his sister were forgotten one evening when a quiet meal with Jenny was transformed into hours of gentle but intense sex. He had never needed to lose himself like this before. Previously, he had treated women in the same way he planned his military exercises: tactics, surprise, mobility, feints, and even aggression if necessary; women were prizes to be seized. Being with Jenny was so different that he almost cried after they made love. The loss of Marda, and Jenny’s empathy, accelerated his maturity: he understood consciously for the first time that tenderness had nothing to do with any kind of victory. Jenny’s comforting embrace and Professor Gould’s company in the pub were the few bright spots on a black landscape for Mark Stewart.
Two days after the chat with Gould, Mark decided to visit Hillside. There was a small cottage a quarter of a mile away which had been empty when he had last called. He went back there, and then walked over to the priest’s home.
Mark opened the rusty gate and climbed up the stone steps to the front door. The house had a run-down feel, weeds were running riot in the garden. It looked rather uninhabited, except there were curtains, which were drawn. The professor had told him someone lived there, however, so Mark knocked on the door; then he noticed a bell and tried that. He rang again and waited.
He could hear a shuffle inside. Sounds like an old man, he thought. Eventually, after hearing two locks click, the door opened a foot. A much younger, bigger man than the army officer had expected peered out of the gap.
“What do you want?” the man asked brusquely.
“Er, I’m sorry to disturb you. Are you Father Duval?”
“Yes, what do you want?”
“My name is Captain Mark Stewart. I am looking for a missing woman…”
Even before Mark produced a leaflet, he thought he noticed an odd shift in the priest’s eyes. The officer had been involved in a number of interrogation courses in Berlin, and, despite his bluff cavalryman’s manner, he didn’t miss much. He recorded it all mentally.
“Have you ever seen this woman, please? She lived in Shere.”
Duval’s manner changed a little. He opened the door a few inches wider, and he was a touch more polite. Mark noted the nuances.
After Duval had looked at the leaflet for a few seconds, he said, “No, I’m sorry. I’ve not seen her.”
“Thank you for your time. May I leave a leaflet with you? If you do hear or see anything, please contact any of the numbers listed…There is a reward.”
Mark had said the same phrases a thousand times. Too late, he realised it was inappropriate to say this to a Catholic priest, so he covered his awkwardness by adding: “Not that you would be motivated by money, sir, but perhaps you would mention it to your parishioners.”
“Yes, of course.” Duval was a little taken aback; not many people knew of his religious vocation in Shere, but the priest managed a smile. “And Merry Christmas to you,” he added. Mark thanked him and took his leave. The door closed quickly behind him.
As he walked slowly down the steps Mark decided that he would visit Duval again. He stopped by the gate, spending deliberately long seconds lighting a cigarette in hands cupped against the wind, his eyes taking in every detail of the house. As he walked back to the village he wondered whether his desperation was making him look for villains in the wrong places, seeing even priestly academics as suspects. But he had to act on any lead, any clue, anything at all. He thought Duval was lying. It was in his eyes. But a Catholic priest? Mark started to worry about his own mental state. Maybe he was going over the top because he had given himself just one more week in Shere. He had to return to his regiment soon: he couldn’t test his commanding officer’s patience too much.
That night in the White Horse, after he had recounted the day’s events, Mark asked the professor to tell him more about the reclusive priest. The officer realised that, in intelligence terms, he was breaking cover, but he had always relied upon his instincts, not manuals of fieldcraft. Gould was a good man, he knew. Mark had always liked the openness of Americans, at least those he had met in professional life. And he needed a mate to talk to-he was surprised how much he missed the camaraderie of the officers’ mess.
“Tell me about this priest of yours,” Mark said bluntly.
“Can’t say much more than what I’ve already told you. He’s had one or two undistinguished articles in the
“But why do you think he’s so unfriendly towards you? If there are so few specialists why isn’t he interested in another one?”
“Could be rivalry. Local historians get very protective about their patches. And academic historians specialise in back-stabbing and being bitchy. They argue about university politics like crazy because usually the stakes are so low. And we all get paid zilch so we’re mostly bitter and twisted old so-and-sos. But he’s also a priest. They can be crabby, especially having to do without women.”
That last sentence tripped a switch in Mark’s clouded, unhappy mind.
“A man without a woman, living in a secluded place. It’s a recipe for mischief. Look at the navy…”
The American laughed. “Hell, don’t jump to dopey conclusions, Mark. He may be an oddball, but why should you connect him with your sister? I did notice that he’s a pipe-smoker who breaks his matches in two and puts them back in the box. Supposed to be a sign of suppressed aggression. But that’s not a hanging offence, Mark. You can’t run around accusing priests of…whatever.”
The professor didn’t want to say murder, although that’s what he meant.
“I am convinced she’s still alive, and I intend to find her. I may be clutching at straws, but if this mysterious Duval character has anything to hide, I’ll find it.”
Gould looked at him warily. “Forget it, Mark. I told you, I’ve met him, and he’s an innocuous medieval buff. A priest, remember.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’m just frustrated about going back with bugger all. C’mon. It’s Christmas. Let’s have another drink.”
Mark went off to buy a round. He didn’t want to annoy his new friend by pressing him on the priest, but a seed had been planted and now it was germinating. Impulsively, he asked the barman if he knew Father Duval.
“Well, lots of people come in ’ere, not sure if I know him, but you could try in the Prince of Wales up the road.”
Mark bought the man a drink and tried again. The drink obviously helped.
“I’m not sure of his name,” said the barman, “but there is a fellow who comes in sometimes with his dog. It’s said he’s a Catholic priest, but he don’t wear his religious gear in here. Sits by there,” he said, pointing, “and has a
