The Anchoress of Shere

worse.”

The bishop had started to fidget, and Gould made a gesture to leave, wondering whether his brief burst of intellectual debate was considered “bad form.” As he got up from his seat, however, the American remembered something else he wanted to ask about: “I don’t know if you’re acquainted with a priest I know, Father Michael Duval?”

“Indeed I am.”

“I’ve met him once to talk about my research on anchorites, and I wanted him to see my draft on a local anchoress before I leave. I did phone and, er, he was a little bit off, actually…” He smiled as he said the last phrase because it sounded so English to him.

“Yes, Duval is one of my people. Difficult fellow at times, very bright of course; too bright for his parishioners sometimes, but he’s going away to South America very soon. Probably preoccupied with moving. Sorry about that.”

Gould ticked off another “sorry” on his mental list while they shook hands.

“If there’s anything you need, just get in touch with my secretary,” said the bishop without much conviction. “He will introduce you to the archivist. I’ll give him a ring now to clear the way. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”

The professor knew a bum’s rush when he was given one. “Thank you, Bishop. Thank you very much.” And he added a final anglicism-“Cheerio.”

The bishop was angry. Sitting back, he lit one of his favourite Cuban cigars and ruminated on the second piece of disquieting information he had received about Duval that day. One of his curates lived in Albury, a few miles from Shere, and Bishop Templeton had asked him to keep an eye on Duval. The curate reported that Duval was furiously busy building some kind of swimming pool in the garden or perhaps burying an elephant.

Anyway, that’s what Constable McGregor had told the curate.

“Burying rubbish, I expect,” the curate told the apparently uncurious policeman. “He’s going to move to South America. Getting rid of old stuff probably. Or maybe doing up the garden to help sell the house.”

The bishop instructed the curate to keep things quiet, as Duval was getting a bit odd, you know, tapping the side of his forehead as he said it. A couple of years out in the wilds of South America would probably do him a lot of good.

The bishop would make sure that Duval was out of his hair just as soon as possible. One day it might be Cardinal Templeton. No lunatic obsessed with mystics was going to sully his reputation.

Captain Mark Stewart was certainly risking his reputation. He didn’t catch the plane to West Germany; his final trip to the police station had confirmed his hunch about Duval. During a long farewell chat, PC McGregor rambled on about all sorts of village trivia, mentioning en passant that it was an odd time of year to be digging a rockery at the old rectory. Mark appeared to let it pass. He logged this in his mind but would have not acted upon it if-crucially-he had not noticed French cigarettes on sale in the village shop where, just before leaving the village, he popped in to buy his own brand.

“Don’t often see Gitanes,” he had observed casually to the shopkeeper.

“No, Mr. Duval ordered some and I got a few spare. Must be fashionable or something. Smells like old rope to me. Nobody else bothers with them now that your sister’s not here…oh, I’m sorry.”

Mark felt like kicking himself for not asking about the cigarette brand the first time. “Not good form for an intelligence officer,” he said to himself as he left the shop.

My colonel will go ape, Mark thought. I’ll ring him on Monday to explain. Explain what? That I’m sitting in some wood with my army poncho on, soaking wet, freezing my bollocks off, doing an “OP” on some vicar who’s digging a duck pond in his back garden. My head’s throbbing from a boozy farewell to Irv. I didn’t get on that plane and I didn’t tell Irv I wasn’t going. Been too bloody long in Berlin-that’s my problem.

He remembered his old intelligence instructor: “Need-to-know principle. Vital to security, sah! Don’t you ever forget, Captain Stewart, sah!” He could hardly forget, could he? He’d been hanging upside down over a bucket of shit at the time in a mock interrogation which seemed real enough, even now.

Mark moved out of Marda’s flat and booked into a guesthouse five miles away. After parking his car on the far side of Hoe Lane woods, he walked across country to the rear of Duval’s house, the former rectory. Fortunately, there was a small hillock, sprinkled with Scots pines, giving a reasonable view of the place. He put his thermals on, but even these and his hip flask did little to keep out the January cold. He had learned his field craft in the Brecon Beacons, although it was never as brass-monkeys as this.

Mark sat there through the whole day, but the only movement, apart from the dog running around the garden, was Duval digging for about twenty-five minutes at dawn. Funny time and season to dig. If he was the villain, this wasn’t good, Mark reckoned. The officer needed all his training to control the fear that his sister was already dead. Fear paralysed action, he knew all too well. He had to block out emotions and concentrate on logic, a plan of action. If it was a grave Duval was preparing, Mark would have to move soon, but he couldn’t just burst into the house. He would have to wait until the bastard went out. He reasoned that Duval might walk the dog or go to the shop or do some bloody thing.

The dog kept dashing into the garden and sniffing around the area where Duval had been digging. At midday the animal spent some time retrieving a large bone, which he carried into the house.

Nothing at all happened for the rest of the afternoon, nothing except endless rain and sleet. The colder he became, the more Mark began to wonder whether he was wasting his time.

Ten hours of sitting in the rain finally brought its reward. Despite the very poor light, shortly after four o’clock, using his army binoculars, Mark saw movement in the front garden. He heard the dog bark before he realised that Duval was following the animal through the front gate. He waited a few minutes, hoping that it wasn’t just a chance for the dog to crap. No, the animal had a garden for that, so it must be a proper walk. Mark had a safety margin of, at most, perhaps ten minutes. He had to go for it.

Pulling his balaclava over his head, he stood up, aching all over, and realised how out of condition he was. Not risking a torch, he scrambled through the bushes, wet branches whipping at him. He scaled the six-foot wall and found himself next to a big ditch at the rear of the house. “Looks a bit big for a grave,” he muttered. He was slightly consoled by that.

He dashed around to the front garden and peered through the hedge to see if anybody was coming up the lane. Not much traffic likely in a narrow lane with no exit. He held his breath and listened hard: nothing except the distant revving of a car engine. Mark ran around the rear and tried the back door. Locked, of course. All the windows were closed. He went carefully to the front door and tried that, just in case.

“OK, a bit of breaking and entering is called for here,” he said to himself.

He found a large stone near the front path and then returned to the back.

This must be the kitchen. Why didn’t the bugger leave me some lights on?

Averting his face, he whacked the window with the stone. The wind swallowed some of the sound. He cleared away the glass with hands protected by thick sheepskin gloves, and then fiddled with the handle; it was locked. Putting his torch in his mouth, he hacked away at the wood around the window lock with his commando knife until it gave way. He got the window open and pitched himself into the open space.

The torch showed him the way down, via a wide pine shelf, on to the lino floor. There was little point in stealth, as he was hardly a cat burglar. It was more like a Special Air Service assault, and he had failed the SAS selection course, he reminded himself. So let’s do better this time.

He hadn’t expected the internal doors to be locked, but they were. What’s the priest hiding in here?

He thought of shouting to see if Marda was there, but, no, he would “recce” the house just in case somebody was around. Duval was reputed to live alone, but he would check. They would have to be deaf or dead not to have heard the window breaking, but there was a strong wind…

Pulling a short crowbar out of his belt, he jemmied the kitchen door open- it gave way fairly easily. In the hall a grandfather clock chimed.

This is like something out of Hitchcock, Mark thought. Must remember to be careful if there’s a shower.

After examining all the rooms on the lower floor, he carefully tiptoed up the stairs to explore the bedrooms,