rug aside from the trapdoor and strained at the bolts. Because of the suction of the water that had drained through, he had great difficulty in lifting it.
When he did, two startled eyes peered out of the gloom.
No sound came from the mouth below the eyes; eyes which showed the horror that silenced the tongue.
“Marda Stewart?”
A faint “yes” came from the lips.
“Give me your hand,” he said gently.
“No, get my brother out of here first,” she whispered, struggling to find the strength to speak. “He’s still alive… just.”
Gould carefully helped them both out of the tomb.
XVII. The Crucifixion
Marda did not remember much of the immediate frenzy that followed Gould’s phone call to the police and ambulance service, when blue uniforms and white coats filled the kitchen. She did remember being carried into an ambulance, placed alongside her brother, and something being injected into her arm. She had been starved and tortured for months, she had been traumatised by Duval’s attempted crucifixion of her brother, and she had just endured a lengthy immersion in icy water. No wonder, for the moment, Marda’s physical reserves were utterly depleted. The ambulance was warm and safe; lulled by the unaccustomed comfort, she drifted into sleep.
An hour after her deliverance she was wheeled on a mobile stretcher into the casualty department of the Royal Surrey County Hospital, by which time she was feeling reasonably alert again. Marda had been too long a helpless victim. Duval had not only been the lord of her life and death, but also the lord of the manner of death. Despite the months of agonising pretence and her ploys to appease or manipulate him, there had been little ambiguity in the relationship, merely a crude juxtaposition of the powerful and the powerless. Her life had depended on him alone. She had had to be grateful to this single embodiment of her fate for everything that happened to her- food and water and light-and, more importantly, for the things that did not happen to her. And yet her spirit had not been broken. The hardest steel had reinforced her will when she had finally confronted Duval, physically and psychologically. No more would she be dictated to. She had been transformed by her terrible ordeal; from now on, no matter how unconventional she might appear, she would choose her own path. Her body, showing obvious signs of maltreatment, had temporarily been subdued, but her will, her mental stamina, was not only undiminished but eager to continue the battle against her tormentor. With an acute stab of fear in the depths of her stomach, she sensed that it was not all over yet.
As the nurses prepared to move her into the starched white sheets of a bed, she said, “Where’s my brother? I need to see him now.”
The staff were used to the truculent behaviour of patients suffering from shock. A nurse, younger than Marda, said gently, “He’s in intensive care. Don’t worry, we’ll look after him. Please let me help you into bed; the doctors want to have a good look at you. We’ve heard what a horrible time you’ve had and…”
Marda very calmly interrupted her, “I would like to borrow some clothes, please. A dressing-gown or something. I absolutely insist on seeing my brother.”
The young nurse recognised the patient’s determination and went to fetch the ward sister, leaving Marda to sit on the bed, swaddled once again in a blanket. She was even more resolved to break the cycle of her victimisation.
Despite the sister’s remonstrations and the duty doctor’s best efforts, Marda absolutely refused to be admitted formally to the hospital, even though she submitted to a brief medical examination. Legally, she could not be kept against her will. And she did not have to be told that she was malnourished. She showered in the hospital, and was loaned some clothes and shoes by a concerned nurse. In the nurses’ staff room, over a steaming cup of tea, she gave an initial briefing to a very considerate detective inspector.
The briefing was interrupted by a tumultuous welcome from her father and mother when they arrived; they embraced Marda in a tight scrum of intense relief and passionate endearments. Marda enfolded them both, not ever, ever wanting to let them go, while all three cried, talked and kissed at the same time. It was her parents who finally persuaded the doctors to let them see Mark.
They peered through an inspection window in the intensive care unit, and saw that Mark was fitted with a phalanx of tubes and suspended bottles.
A specialist spoke in a soft, assuring tone: “He’s very weak at the moment, but he’s a fit young man and I believe he will pull through. The best thing you can do is to let us get on with it. If you’d like to sit in the waiting room, I should be able to update you in an hour or so.”
For an hour the Stewart family talked intensely about their experiences, although Marda felt she could not disclose the full extent of her horrific ordeal to her parents, anxious as they were about her and even more distracted by Mark’s condition.
Finally, they were told by the specialist that Mark was expected, all things being equal, to make a full recovery.
The jubilation was disturbed by the detective inspector, who apologised for his intervention: “Miss Stewart, I really am sorry to press you at this sensitive time, but we are obviously very anxious to catch Duval. The doctors say I can talk to you, and, if you feel well enough, I would like a few words in private, if possible.”
Marda drank more tea in a quiet corner of the staff room, where she was joined by Professor Gould, who had also been debriefed by the police; she showed obvious pleasure at the American’s arrival.
Marda did not want to argue with her parents, who would surely try to insist that she stay in hospital. She asked the inspector, “Is it safe to return to my flat, if my parents are told to meet me there?”
The policeman tried briefly to persuade her to stay in hospital, but she was adamant. Eventually he said, “I will send one of my officers to your flat, and ask your parents to join you there. We have set up an operations room in Shere police station, so the village will be very safe.”
Gould, who had said very little, spoke directly to the inspector: “If Marda is so insistent on checking herself out of this hospital, may I presume to escort her back to Shere?”
The inspector excused himself to speak to one of his uniformed subordinates.
He soon returned and said, slightly begrudgingly, “OK, Professor Gould, I’ll get a key from Mr. Stewart, and arrange for the parents to go there later, when they are sure Captain Stewart’s on the mend. But please go to Shere directly. We don’t want to lose Marda again. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Inspector, and thank you,” said Gould.
So Marda was released from hospital on the understanding that she would undergo further police interviews and medical examinations later, and she returned with Gould to Shere. For the moment she had done all she could for her brother, but now she wanted to know what had happened to Duval. And she wanted revenge.
It was eight o’clock in the evening as Professor Irvine Gould drove Marda Stewart back to Shere from the hospital in Guildford.
“You really should have stayed in for twenty-four hours’ observation, Marda,” the American said with deep concern.
“Freedom is enough, Professor,” she replied forcefully, as she savoured the lights, the people, the smell of newness in the hired car. “Freedom is enough for the moment.”
“Are you sure you want to go back to your apartment? It’ll be cold. And, even with a police guard there, Duval is still on the loose.”
“No offence, Professor, I appreciate your concern, I really do,” she said, touching his arm, “but I’ve had enough of being told what to do and when. I’ve been living like a robot for too long. I know where I have to go first…Take me back, please, to Duval’s house.”
“Where?” Gould was astonished. “Why there of all places?” He slowed the car instinctively. Like most men, he found it almost impossible to concentrate on two important matters at once.
“There are things I must collect before the police ransack the place.”
