Duval cut out a small section of a newspaper and stared at it for five minutes. Before carefully folding it and putting it in the drawer of his desk, he wrote on the clipping:
“Surrey Advertiser, 19th November 1967, page 7.”
French Police Draw Blank
French police in Bordeaux have discounted the reports of a recent sighting of Miss Marda Stewart, 23, the missing Guildford employee of Phillips’ Wine Company. Miss Stewart was last seen in Guildford on 7 October 1967. She is believed to have travelled to France the following day. Two recent reports of her in the Bordeaux region have been checked by police and discounted.
A spokesman for the Surrey police, Superintendent Terence Dawkins, said, “We are maintaining our search for Miss Stewart, but we believe she is more likely to be found in France. Hence our close co-operation with the French authorities, who are continuing to follow up leads on the Continent.”
Marda had also been busy writing, trying hard to connect with the world outside her cell:
Dearest Jenny,
This is my third letter to you. Still imprisoned here. I shall try to escape by talking about our everyday life. Such thoughts keep me sane.
I don’t know what the people at work must think. I suppose that Michelle-who always wanted to go on the French trips-has replaced me. I suppose the police have been on to you. What did you say I wonder? Did they take you to my flat in Shere?
What has happened to my flat? Has Dad kept up the rent for me? And all my records? Do you have them, especially the Kinks LP, the one we always used to play. I wish I could hear it now. I told you all about Him in my previous letters, so I’d better bring you up to date on Events.
I’m not so cold any more. He lets me have a heater and usually gives me enough paraffin-Parrafin (spelling?)-OK heating oil-to keep it going. And although I’ve lost a lot of weight I’m not hungry all the time. I told you about the rat. He’s come back once or twice, but he seems as afraid of me as I am of him. But I still have my little store of food, perhaps it can keep me going for a few days if something happens to him-Him, not the rat. I can tell the difference! What if the police find him and he doesn’t talk? What if they lock him up?
I hate him. He is so frightening. Michael, I told you his name, his surname is Duval. He is Father Michael but I call him Michael. I am trying really hard to be his friend so he doesn’t kill me, like he did the others. Oh, Jenny, I so want to live-there’s so much I want to do. Just one hour-even half an hour-to be with you, going shopping or to the theatre in Guildford. Just one drink in the King’s Head.
Sometimes I don’t hate him as much. I have learned a lot. Mainly about religion. In some ways I hate God for letting me be here, being imprisoned by one of His priests. Perhaps he is not a real priest, after all, but he certainly knows a lot about religion. And I have learned about history. Every now and then I think I am in a crazy university, but I could walk out of a university and just go back to work and enjoy my life with you, and my other friends. And my family. I wish you could tell them that I love them so much. I could even hug my brother and tell him I love him too. I have never told him that.
Have you seen Jim at all? I promised to ring him back. Of course I couldn’t. If only I could tell him that I wasn’t ignoring him.
Oh! My poor parents. If only they could know that I’m not dead. Not yet. Not by a long way. I try to keep fit by press-ups and running on the spot. I suppose I must look awful but I don’t know because I haven’t looked in a mirror. I have had to give up smoking, which is one “plus,” I suppose. I’ve asked him for some ciggies, especially my own brand. I’d love a puff before going to bed. I never go to sleep straightaway. I’m either too cold or hungry or sometimes just too frightened. I have dreams-bad dreams- about seeing Denise’s body. Well, skeleton. It’s in the next cell to mine. There are five skeletons, I think, all within a few feet of me. It’s creepy. More than creepy, as you can imagine. Could you really imagine my situation? I am afraid to write how I really feel, to give in to total despair.
I am trying to be brave. I remember some of the mountaineering things we tried and how I failed some of the courses. I think I could do all that now. Sometimes I think I can be brave but then I get floods, yes floods, of fear. I cry until my body aches. I have even thought of trying to kill myself, but I don’t know how. Then I say NO! I will come through this! Talking to you helps, you know.
At other times I feel OK. Like he needs me. If he needs me, he won’t kill me. Am I right? Even when I am so scared I try to look happy, just so that he likes talking to me. I have to act, but he seems to know when I’m acting. He is clever; perhaps cunning is a better word.
There are times when he is almost nice. I almost feel sorry for him. Like if I was free I would help him. I couldn’t really, of course, because he has killed all those girls.
I wish I knew what to do. I have thought of trying to hit him hard and make a run for the door, but he is a big man. Looks athletic, although I would think he is about 45. He’s got strong hands. I don’t think I could get the better of him.
I felt better starting this letter. Now I feel it’s pretty useless. But thanks anyway. I look forward to seeing you soon.
Always your very, very best friend,
All my love,
Marda
PS. I still would like to go to Portugal with you for Christmas. I hope you haven’t given away my ticket!
PPS. Reading this letter for the twentieth time makes life sound so superficial. I want to do the ordinary things, but most of all I want to see the sun, feel rain on my face, hold someone’s hand, run for just a few yards, to live for a few minutes without fear, to tell my Mum how I adore her, to put my arms around my brother, to hear my father’s voice. It is these little things that really really count. Please remember that.
Marda wiped her tears on one of the two towels that Duval had given her. She carefully folded the letter as small as it would go, then standing on the bench, she pushed it into the air vent.
“Useless mail box,” she said aloud. She suddenly remembered a joke from her childhood: “What’s the difference between a post box and an elephant’s bum?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a silly Mickey Mouse voice. “What is the difference?”
“You don’t know? Well, I wouldn’t send you to post a letter!”
She laughed hysterically, and then burst into tears again. Shaking, she pretended to light a cigarette, and thought that in the films tough guys smoked and didn’t cry. She felt that her life now was just like some terrible B-movie, except she couldn’t walk out in the middle of it. She coughed from the imagined smoke and that stopped the tears, but not the pain in her head. She’d had a bad cold for about a week; although he had brought her some aspirins, they didn’t help. She did not beg to be taken upstairs. That wouldn’t have worked, but she told him that nearly two months of no fresh air was driving her mad. “If only I could see the sky!” she said.
She worried about her health, as she had not menstruated since her incarceration. Perhaps my body is going haywire, she told herself.
Then she began irrationally to fear that somehow he had made her pregnant; that maybe she had been drugged again. She developed a brooding fear that she had been impregnated by the Devil, that some dark beast lurked in her womb, even though her weight loss told her that this was impossible. She hadn’t even thought about sex since her capture, so perhaps part of her was closing down for the duration. She wondered whether it would be temporary; she prayed that her ability to bear children was not being taken away by the monster upstairs.
The next morning he knocked on her door before unlocking it.
“How are we this morning?” he asked cheerfully.
“I feel awful, Michael. My headache’s getting worse,” she said, her voice racked with self-pity. “Can I please just walk around in fresher air outside in the corridor? And I don’t want to see any more rooms, I promise. I won’t try to escape. You can see I’m too weak.” She was sitting limply on her bench.
He came in and helped her up, the first time he had touched her since he had captured her. She looked at him in surprise, and he drew back his hand, as if he had suffered an electric shock.
“No, Michael. Don’t be afraid of touching me,” she said reassuringly. “I appreciate your trying to help me up. May I walk a little outside the room?”
He gestured towards the open door. “The cellar door is locked, but I will permit you to walk up and down to give your legs a bit of exercise, and the air is a little fresher out there because the main door has been open for a while.”
She hesitantly stepped through the door into the corridor, and walked gently up and down with childlike pleasure, despite her cold. She didn’t speak for a few minutes, then she said abruptly, “What is the weather like outside? Raining I expect.”
“No, it’s dry, but very windy.”
“Has there been snow at all? Are we into November yet?”
“It’s actually the fifth of December.”
She stopped walking, and her pale face seemed to sag into total lifelessness. “I’ve been here since the seventh of October,” she said in disbelief. “That’s nearly two months. I had no idea it was that long…I must have lost track completely. I should have kept a calendar from the start, but I was sort of lost for those first few weeks, wasn’t I?”
He gave her a look bordering on kindness: “You were a bit.”
“But I am better now?” She spoke as though she were a little child.
“Yes, and we get on better,” he said in an avuncular fashion.
“You’re not, not going to kill me?”
“No, I never had any intention of doing you any harm, as I told you. You are my pupil.”
Marda thought she would quit while she was still ahead. She changed the subject: “What’s that big crucifix for?”
“That came from my first church in East Anglia. They were renovating the place, and I was the only one who wanted it. I’ve had it for twenty-odd years. Sentimental foolishness, really.”
That was one of the first signs of sentiment he had confessed to, she realised.
“But why put it in the cellar?”
“No room upstairs, and I had intended this to be a holy place. But it hasn’t…worked out. It’s become like a graveyard. Well, until you came. So, let’s make sure you get well and we can proceed with your seminars, so you can come upstairs out of this draughty place, at least for our teaching sessions. I must admit I get a bit uncomfortable down here, too.” He seemed to be assessing how much he could show of himself.
He assumed again the role of kind uncle. “But all in good time. All right, you get back to bed-I know it’s still early-but if you feel weak, may I suggest a drop of corn spirit with a little milk, honey and lemon? A good old remedy for a cold.”
She nodded. “Thank you, that would be nice. Even nicer-although not conventional medicine-would be some Gitanes. Just one?” she said with an exaggerated wheedling tone.
Duval said nothing as he led her back to her cell, closing the door without locking it.
Marda sat on the bed and pulled the blankets over her clothing. She became more alert. He’s left the door unlocked and the light on, she thought. For the first time. And he touched me. He’s either going soft or he’s fattening me up…for something awful. She heard him unlock the main door to the cellar and come down the stairs.
After knocking on the door, he came in with a steaming glass of medicine.
“Here, sip this. I’ll turn up your heater. I’ve also brought you something different to read. My opus. It’s called Anchoress of Shere. I call it an ‘interpretative history.’ I’ve researched the basic facts extensively, although some of the documentary evidence is scanty. This is real history, founded on real truth. I think I have taught you enough for you be able to appreciate what I’ve been trying to do.”
He paused; then, with a gloss of modesty in his tone, he said, “Great literature, they say, is the clever orchestration of platitudes. I hope I’ve avoided some of the platitudes even if I’ve been playing on a one-string fiddle. So few good books are written nowadays, because those who can write rarely know anything. I don’t really know how to write, but I do know the most important thing is man’s, or in this case woman’s, relationship with God.”
Duval appeared embarrassed by his explanation. His arms seemed disinclined to obey his own words, as though giving her his book was impossible. Reluctantly he offered her the text, and she politely received it with both hands. Duval would not let go of the manuscript until he had finished speaking. Later, in the utter darkness, when Marda was reflecting on this contrary behaviour, she thought it was like Dracula being forced to open up his coffin in daylight. Duval and the book were almost one.
A few minutes later, he returned to the cell.
“To me, writing has perhaps been a lonely substitute for conversation,” he said confessionally. “Talking to you means a lot to me, so I would like you to read my work and say what you think about it. I won’t be too hurt if you say you don’t like it. It’s not finished yet. I have to add the conclusion, and even the rest needs a lot of editing. The typing isn’t perfect, either… I’m being too defensive, I know, but you are the first person I’ve shown it to. I hope you are well enough to read it…Take your time.”
He looked at her face. He rarely looked straight into her eyes, but this time he did.
She smiled to give him more confidence. “I’ll make time, Michael.”
“Yes, I suppose you have lots of time. I’m sorry to have to detain you.”
She saw this as a psychological breakthrough, even though he locked the door on the way out.
It was ten o’clock in the morning when she started to read. She had seen his watch; normally it was covered by his shirt or jacket. Perhaps that, too, was a concession.
He was obviously pleased with her progress when he came back at two o’clock-he announced the time-carrying a tray with a large cooked meal in a scrubbed wooden bowl. He also gave her a pack of Gitanes, for which she thanked him profusely. Duval made some small talk, but avoided asking her opinion before he left. She ate her meal, smoked two cigarettes and continued with her reading.
Later, he brought her coffee, and this time he couldn’t contain his curiosity: “How far have you got with it? You don’t have to read it in one go, but I’m pleased that it’s held your interest for so long. Well, my child?”
Marda had been planning her response. She had been terrified by the story. Despite her rapid religious training she had not understood all its meaning, but it told her much about his state of mind and revealed even more about his plans for her. Although she was heartened by Christine’s escape, Duval’s ideal of spiritual fulfilment through life incarceration within a wall chilled her already cold and pained body.
She had practised over and over what she would say. A bad response could be dangerous, she knew. She realised what his writing meant to him. It was more than an obsession: he was acting out a deadly fantasy.
She did her very best to smile, a simulation of deep contentment. “It’s fascinating, Michael. Truly.” She realised that the “truly” was too quick, too desperate, too gushing. “No, I have to be a little careful because I haven’t finished it yet. I am up to the bit where Christine meets the bishop in Guildford…I didn’t know that it used to be called Guldenford…Please let me finish the book. I will have some questions because I don’t understand everything, and I do want to understand it all.”
She tried to be convincing. Marda had a naturally kind disposition, but it was extremely hard for her to applaud a prospectus for her own premature burial in stone.
Duval’s face beamed with pleasure. “No, don’t rush it. I value your opinion. There is no one else I would show it to.”
Marda was cautious now: “Did you show this to your other…guests?”
“Good Lord, no. I told you, you are special. And to be honest I have rewritten a lot since you’ve been here. Since I met you the first time in Shere, I’ve done a great deal of work on it. If it’s ever published…of course I don’t know if it’s good enough. Sometimes I think it’s too personal to publish. Too important. I don’t know much about publishers, agents…all that London business…but, yes, if it is ever published, I would like to dedicate it to you. With your blessing.”
Marda often found it hard to follow her captor’s logic, but she recovered quickly from this surprise. “Michael, no one has ever asked whether they could dedicate a book to me before. I don’t know what to say.”
Now Duval had become the child of their relationship. “Well, I’m jumping the gun a bit. You’ll have to finish reading the draft there. I mean you don’t have to, but if you would, then I have to polish up the whole thing. You know, then get it looked over by a proper editor, et cetera, et cetera.”
Marda sensed the power reversal again. He seemed like a schoolboy, her captive for the moment, but she had learned how volatile he could be. She was afraid of uttering a fatally incorrect phrase. “Michael, please let me finish your”-she almost said “masterpiece” but wisely refrained-“book. I want to see what happens next.”
That was the correct reply.
“I’ll leave the main door open and your grille a little way open, if it’s not too cold, then you can shout if you want some coffee or something. How is your cold?”
She couldn’t resist a cliche: “A day in bed with a good book is what I needed.” She attempted a wan smile.
He was not generally susceptible to flattery, except about his book. He was well on his way to believing himself to be an author.
“Thank you for your support. I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said enthusiastically.
Marda returned to the hardships of the Middle Ages; they helped her forget a little of her own suffering.
February 1333
Simon was not quite as tall as the woman he had loved all his young life. Broad-shouldered and very strong, he worked hard in the fields as well as long hours on his delicate task of making clothes. Christine had shunned him, told him to forget, but he could not. His father had warned him: “Ne’er go within three arrow-shots of the carpenter’s home,” but Simon could not help his feelings. He called upon William the Carpenter from time to time.
William was fashioning two benches for Simon’s cottage in exchange for some woven fustian.
“’Tis good to labour in oak; they be the monarchs of the forest,” said William.
Simon did not reply, but then said, “Is she in goodly health, Master William?”
William sighed heavily. “Aye, the many months in the world, despite the trial, have granted some rosiness to her cheeks, just as when she was a girl in the fields. Done her well, indeed. I doubt that she would have lived, being alone in the wall, if the death of her sister were brought to her there.”
“I am well pleased at those tidings, sir, but I wish her rude health would allow her to speak with me.”
“So still she denies you, Simon?”
“Aye. She will not speak to me; she just prayed aloud over my pleas. Then she began to act like a mummer, as if I were not there-that be some weeks ago.” Simon spoke with infinite sadness.
William put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “You know she cannot speak of earthly matters with you. Her rule is strict: she can speak to her family, but briefly, about her daily needs-all else is to be spiritual. She means not to hurt you. I know she does it to make you forget. It is some years since we did make preparations for the nuptials, so ’tis time you married another, though I would gladly have taken thee as my son.”
Simon walked towards the open fire and stared into the flames. He was lost in thoughts which William did not interrupt. When finally he spoke again Simon’s voice was tinged with a slight tremor: “I did tell my heart that once my Christine had left the cell, she would not go back. Her leaving gave me hope again, the hope that I had buried for two years.”
“Simon, I have told you this oftentimes: you must not tarry. You are a handsome lad, the wish of many a maiden in this parish. Go: take another. With my blessing.”
“Sir, I cannot. While Christine lives, I cannot.” Simon’s face was full of emotion.
“This is foolishness,” said William. “Life is short and hard; you need sons and daughters to care for you when strength departs from your limbs. And if you do not heed me, then for your own sake take yourself away: you are a craftsman, and strong to labour. Escape this demesne or seek permission of our new lord, if you must.”
“My father who did not become my father, you have seen into my thoughts. I shall take my love away. Perhaps in foreign lands, I can forget your daughter, sir.”