The local Inquisition records clearly stated that Christine was interrogated on two occasions in the small French fortress of Saint Sardos, after she had taken refuge in the English territory of Agenais. The English wars over Gascony meant that, in this period, parts of France were sometimes English and at other times controlled by the French king.
The record of Christine’s interrogation detailed, in exquisite Latin, that she was thirty-eight and a widow who had borne two children. There was a reference to her former husband being a seaman from the Cinque ports. He was not named, but the document stated that he was also a former native of Shere. The French Catholic authorities seemed to have been more concerned with the possibility of her being an English spy rather than with her probable status as an ex-communicant. She had been briefly accused by her Inquisitors of being a renegade Cathar, but the heresy line had not been pursued. She had been held, possibly tortured-there was an obscure reference to “pressure”-and finally released after six months. That was it. Probably she had then returned to an English stronghold such as Bordeaux, where she may have rejoined her children.
It was amazing, Gould thought, how details of the fourteenth century could be updated in the twentieth; that was the magic of historical research. He saw himself as an academic detective: provided you had the patience and the languages, medieval records were a goldmine of clues. So many had survived for hundreds of years, but it was tragic that equally as many had been destroyed by the savagery of the Second World War. How could original manuscripts from the Dark Ages be destroyed by the new dark age of Nazism and now, worse, suffer possible total destruction by nuclear warfare?
Professor Gould shook himself out of his intellectual reverie and decided he needed a drink. He walked down from his bedroom to enjoy a real citadel of English culture: the bar of the White Horse.
Marda kept shouting to her brother through the closed grille. She didn’t know if he could hear her, or whether he was alive or dead, but she shouted till she was hoarse. She sat in the dark swathed in her blankets, wondering whether she was better off or not. Her brother had momentarily given her massive hope, but now perhaps he was dead. The madman was probably going to kill them both, but his fear of tactility suggested to her that he would not murder them physically with his own hands. He would wait and let them starve. That was his way of doing things. But it would take time, and he was running out of that. If Mark knew where she was, presumably so did others, and they would come soon. The lunatic would try to escape from Shere. There were so many questions, and only Mark could answer them.
After two or three hours she heard a muffled thump on a door. She rushed to her door and banged hard. Another thump came back. He was alive!
She tried to prise the grille open a little. She had tried before, but now she somehow summoned extra strength. She attempted to force it open using her pen. It moved just a little and she shouted, “Can you hear me, Mark?”
“Just about.” The hoarse shout clearly emanated from a pain-racked body.
“Are you badly hurt?” Marda asked.
“A blinding headache and a bad gash on my head, but I’ll live.”
“I can’t really hear you.”
“I am shouting. I’m OK. I’m sorry I messed up, but I promise I’ll get you out.”
“Does anyone else know you are here?”
“Not exactly, but there’s an American-an a-mer-i-can,” he enunciated each syllable, “called Professor Gould. I’ve told him about my suspicions. He’s staying at the White Horse.”
In her agitated state, Marda threw all caution to the wind. Duval might have been eavesdropping, but she had to find out as much as possible from her brother. “Will the American do anything?”
“I doubt it. I told him I was going back to Germany, but he does know I suspect that maniac. How long have you been here? Since you went missing?”
Marda tried to tell him as much as possible in short shouted sentences. They talked-despite the difficulties-till both their throats were aching with pain. She told him what she knew about the other girls and about the bishop’s pressures on Duval.
“What will we do if he comes back?” she asked.
“I’ll throttle the evil bastard as soon as I get my hands on him,” Mark said, expressing an aggression which belied his predicament.
“That’s why he’ll leave us to rot for a few days. He sulks. And he’s probably afraid of you…like all bullies. I can only pray…”
“Did you say ‘pray’?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gone all religious down here?”
Marda hesitated, not because her tormentor might be listening, but because she was examining her soul. “Maybe… No, I hate religion now. I can only
From what he had heard through the open trap door, Duval very much doubted that.
***
Professor Gould did not contact the police. He had no reason to do so, but he did call again at Duval’s house on the Monday following his meeting with the bishop. There was no reply, but he left a note.
Dear Father Duval
I’m sorry I keep missing you. I am returning to the USA in the next week or so and need urgently to speak to you regarding your research on the Anchoress of Shere. I have new information on her life outside Shere. Believe she left her cell a second time or more likely was not re-enclosed, despite the papal indulgence. Died in France. Please contact me at the White Horse (room 3) where I am staying. Look forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours sincerely,
Irvine M. Gould
Duval heard Gould ring his doorbell, and observed him from behind the curtain in the main bedroom. When he had read the note, angrily he crumpled it up.
He had been prepared to talk to the professor if the note had been civil. But bloody Yanks, know-all bastards who know nothing, another invention to get a free conference trip or promotion. Just like the bishop, more interested in position than in truth. He refused absolutely to believe that Christine had not died in her cell. He was, however, severely discomfited by the note, especially after his recent dramas. His quiet life was becoming too disrupted by outsiders-he would have to get rid of them, clear up all the mess and get out for a while.
He rang the bishop, who was unavailable, and left a message with his secretary to explain that he would follow the bishop’s “advice” as soon as possible. He was now eager to undertake the challenge of a new ministry in South America, he said.
He had to sell his car, perhaps arrange to rent out his house, perhaps not. He didn’t need the money, and tenants might dig around in the garden. Yes, he must finish his bit of landscaping, and he didn’t care that the garden centre thought it was a bad idea to create a rockery and pond in January. It would have to be landscaped before he left, and he would have to do it all himself, just in case. Then there was the dog. He didn’t want to give Bobby away; maybe somebody would offer him a good home, but he would prefer to take the animal with him. He was mentally preparing for his departure; he must make a start on his Spanish. And he had had very little time to do the final edit on his book. On top of all that, Constable McGregor had become more inquisitive than was healthy. The usual innocuous chat, Duval thought, had turned into slightly pointed questions about his garden, and the policeman had asked whether a Captain Stewart had called on him. It was getting too hectic, and pressure made Duval more aggressive.
With all this rush he put his problems in the cellar at the back of his mind. After three days, however, he decided he had better attend to them. It was quiet when he climbed down the stairs with some food and water. He walked past the new inmate and knocked on Marda’s door. He didn’t hear anything as he put on her light and looked through the grille.
She was lying on the bed asleep or dazed. He was wary.
“Christine, wake up. I have some food for you. I’m sorry I haven’t been down for a while, but I’ve been busy.”
She stirred when the light went on.
