suggested that it was the body of a man in his late fifties or early sixties. Too old, probably, for Duval, but even the sergeant at McGregor’s own station was not sure.
“I’m sorry, Super,” he said, his voice strained. “I’ve never seen old McGregor with no clothes on, and the face is unrecognisable. There are no rings an’ all, but he’s missing and it could be him.”
The body was not positively identified until two hours later. The official alert was renewed, and the sweep of the woods was begun. It had given Duval, however, that extra margin of time. He had used it well: at that very moment, Father Duval was contentedly smoking his pipe on board a small fishing boat en route to Ireland.
The professor walked back to Marda’s flat, alongside the Tillingbourne. The weeping willows, bent in anguish, matched his mood. He did not want to inflict more pain on the Stewarts, so he explained that the police would bring further news shortly.
When, a few minutes later, the superintendent told the assembled Stewart family that the dead man was a policeman who had been guarding Duval’s house, Marda and the professor stared at each other. There was a profound intensity and understanding in that look.
“Why did he go back to the house?” Marda’s father asked.
“It’s amazing how many murderers are drawn back to the scene of their crimes, even when it’s highly dangerous to return,” the superintendent said confidently.
“No, Superintendent.” Marda’s voice sounded suddenly very tired. “He was looking for a book, one he has worked on for years.”
Marda said no more. She knew intuitively that Duval had found his book. A glance at Gould told him not to say anything, not to alarm her parents any more than was necessary; the news that Duval was still loose on a murderous spree was more than enough. Marda wondered whether her long isolation had honed some sixth sense.
“Since I clearly know so little of the psychology of the man,” said the superintendent, barely disguising his emotions, “may I ask why-
Gould felt Marda had answered enough police questions already. “He was obsessed by the Anchoress of Shere, Superintendent. It was his consuming passion. I suppose he will burn in hell.”
“
“Maybe because Marda stood up to him,” said Gould, tentatively. “Perhaps I played a part, a small one. I uncovered some new data on your Anchoress of Shere. Maybe it finally got to be too much for him. Perhaps the enormity of his crimes affected his conscience, if he had one. I suppose in all senses of the word the game was up.”
“It’s a strange game you historians play,” the superintendent said brusquely.
The phone rang for the superintendent and the room started to buzz with police jargon.
Sensing Gould’s hurt at the policeman’s probably unintended slight, Marda walked over to him and sat on the arm of his chair. She touched his hand gently.
“I haven’t thanked you properly for helping me…and my brother.
“I should be comforting you, Marda,” Gould said, looking up at her. “I would like to. When all the police stuff is sorted out, when you’ve spent some time with your folks, when your brother’s out of hospital…when you’ve done some grieving for yourself, I guess…would you visit me in the States? I live in a lovely historical part of Georgetown.”
“Yes, I’d like that. Later, I’ll need to talk things through, to try to understand what’s happened to me, and inside me. I know I can talk to you.”
“And when you’re all talked out, no more medieval history, OK?”
“No more history, Professor Irvine Gould. No more history. When I’ve recovered I’ll look forward to the future.”
She squeezed his hand. He responded with the sensitive strength of both his scholar’s soft hands. Marda appreciated a gentle, tactile man. That touch was to prevent Marda hating men and God, and would be her resurrection. After so long in a tomb it was, for her, the most important gesture on earth.
XVIII. The Redemption
Sand lizards scurried from walkers who trespassed on their territory, while at night foxes scavenged among the litter discarded by careless picnickers. The Hurtwood, however, no longer beckoned to Marda, despite the enticingly warm summer of 1968. She had said farewell to Shere forever, but Christine’s ghost remained with her. Perhaps one day, in the hereafter, the shades of both women would together heed the summons of St. James’s church as the bells tolled the Grandsire carillon.
But for now bells meant death; Marda attended the funerals of all her five prison companions. She tried to console the families of the other women, but telling them the whole truth would hurt them, and her, too much. It was enough that the bodies had been recovered and identified, and that the families could begin to grieve, knowing that their loved ones had been properly laid to rest. That was far better than spending a whole life not knowing what had happened to a daughter or a sister. Marda also attended the memorial service for Constable McGregor, and silently thanked him for trying to help her.
After so much sadness, Marda needed time to become herself again. True, she had regained her former weight, and her high cheekbones had lost their gauntness. Her lips were plump once more, and the rosy colour had long since returned to her face. She needed more time, however, for healing the woman inside. Her employers granted her extended leave to recover at her family home, while her job was kept open. She restarted in September, almost a year after her ordeal had begun.
The regiment put on a good show for the returning hero. Captain Mark Stewart was unable to resume active duty for a year, but he could manage a desk job in the interim. Marda had helped him through his convalescence, and now they were as close as any brother and sister could be. Marda had indeed found a new strength in her imprisonment, not least the strength to love unreservedly, unselfishly. She dissuaded Mark from waging a one-man crusade to find Duval, but Superintendent Woodward was true to his word; he never gave up. Despite his efforts, though, an intensive international police search continued to draw a blank. Woodward also tried to trace Duval through his attachment to Catholicism, but the impenetrable labyrinth of the Church was too complex.
Marda spent a lot of time with Jenny, who persuaded her to contact Gerard. The Frenchman did visit the Stewart family home in Woking, but Marda and Gerard had become strangers. They promised to meet regularly for lunch in Bordeaux, but that promise fizzled out into occasional and desultory chats over coffee.
Every day during her recuperation she played in the garden with Bobby, her new and faithful friend; the dog followed her every step. He, too, seemed reluctant to be alone again.
Professor Gould rang her regularly and wrote long amusing letters. She grew to like him more and more.
When a package arrived with an American stamp in mid-June, she rushed to open it. It contained a book entitled “Christine Carpenter: The Anchoress of Shere.”
Her blood turned to ice as she began to read the covering letter.
Dear Marda
In the final analysis, the core of the Christian message is forgiveness. You don’t need a Church for this, because you of all people should know that you can speak to God directly. The springs of sanctity and sadism come from the same source, and I may have inadvertently erred towards the latter. So I have asked God and my confessor to forgive the hurt I have done you, and your brother, and my other guests, but still I hope you learned something from me. And from Christine.
Perhaps you should take your American to France. Get him to re-check those bogus documents on which he bases the false claims of Christine’s alleged sojourn in San Sardos.
I retain little from my time in Shere except my unpublished book, a copy of which I enclose. I realise that it can never, should never, be published. It is perhaps too tragic, like the love story of Tristan and Isolde, but Christine
