The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  She finished lamely, and didn’t hold out much hope that Elsie would take the bait. She was right.

  Elsie pursed her lips. “I don’t need a therapist, dear. Nothing wrong with my head, thank you very much.”

  “I didn’t mean that—it’s for my own benefit, really. It’s—I’m conducting some research.”

  “Well, I really don’t have the time—”

  “It won’t take long. Perhaps I can buy you a cup of tea? A slice of cake?”

  At the mention of cake, a glint appeared in Elsie’s eye. Her manner softened. She shrugged, and took a drag of her cigarette.

  “Very well. We’ll have to be quick. I’ve another staircase to do before lunch.”

  Elsie stubbed out her cigarette on the cobbles, then pulled off her apron and thrust it at another bedder, who took it wordlessly.

  Then she walked over to Mariana.

  “Follow me, dear,” she said. “I know the best spot.”

  Elsie marched off. Mariana followed, and the moment her back was turned, she could hear the other women whispering to one another furiously.

  5

  Mariana followed Elsie along King’s Parade. They passed Market Square, with its green and white marquees and stalls selling flowers, books, and clothes; and the Senate House, gleaming white behind shiny black railings. They walked past the fudge shop—and from its open doors flooded out an overwhelmingly sweet smell of sugar and hot fudge.

  Elsie stopped outside the red-and-white awning of the Copper Kettle. “This is my local,” she said.

  Mariana nodded. She remembered the tearoom from her student days. “After you.”

  She followed Elsie inside. It was busy with a mix of students and tourists, all talking in different languages.

  Elsie went straight up to the glass counter with all the cakes. She perused the selection of brownies, chocolate cake, coconut slices, apple pie, and lemon meringue. “I shouldn’t, really,” she said. “Well … perhaps just one.”

  She turned to the elderly, white-haired waitress behind the counter. “A slice of the chocolate cake. And a pot of English breakfast.” She nodded at Mariana. “She’s paying.”

  Mariana ordered some tea, and they sat down at a table by the window.

  There was a pause. Mariana smiled. “I’m wondering if you know my niece, Zoe? She was Tara’s friend.”

  Elsie grunted. She didn’t look impressed. “Oh, she’s your niece, is she? Yes, I look after her. Quite the little madam, she is.”

  “Zoe? What do you mean?”

  “She’s been very rude to me—on several occasions.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry to hear that. That doesn’t sound like her. I’ll have a word with her.”

  “Do, dear.”

  There was a moment’s awkwardness.

  They were interrupted by the appearance of a waitress—young, pretty, Eastern European—bearing tea and cake. Elsie’s face brightened considerably.

  “Paulina. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Elsie. You?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Her eyes widened and a tremor of mock emotion crept into her voice. “One of Elsie’s little ones got butchered—cut to bits by the river.”

  “Yes, yes, I heard. I’m sorry.”

  “Mind you watch how you go now. It’s not safe—a pretty girl like you, outdoors at night.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good.” Elsie smiled and watched the waitress walk away. Then she turned her attention to the cake, which she attacked with relish. “Not bad,” she said between bites. There were traces of chocolate around her mouth. “Fancy some?”

  Mariana shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  The cake did the trick, improving Elsie’s mood. She watched Mariana thoughtfully as she chewed. “Now, dear,” she said, “I hope you don’t expect me to believe any of that nonsense about psychotherapy. Research, indeed.”

  “You’re very perceptive, Elsie.”

  Elsie chuckled and dropped a sugar cube into her tea. “Elsie doesn’t miss much.”

  Elsie had rather a disconcerting habit of referring to herself in the third person. She gave Mariana a piercing look. “Come on then—what’s this really about?”

  “I just want to ask you some questions about Tara…” She adopted a confidential tone. “You were close to Tara, weren’t you?”

  Elsie gave her a slightly wary look. “Who told you that? Zoe?”

  “No—I just presumed that, as her bedder, you saw a lot of her. I was very fond of my bedder.”

  “Were you, dear? That’s nice.”

  “Well, it’s such an important service you provide … I’m not sure you’re always appreciated.”

  Elsie nodded with enthusiasm. “You’re right about that. People think being a bedder is just a matter of wiping down a few surfaces and emptying the odd bin. But the little ones are away from home for the first time—they can’t be left to fend for themselves—they need looking after.” She smiled sweetly. “It’s Elsie who looks after them. It’s Elsie who checks on them every day—and wakes them up every morning—or finds them dead, if they’ve hanged themselves in the night.”

  Mariana hesitated, taken aback. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “The day she died, of course … I’ll never forget it. I saw the poor girl walk to her death.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was in the courtyard, waiting for a couple of the other ladies—we always get the bus home together. And I saw Tara leave her room. She looked awfully upset. I waved to her and called to her—but she didn’t hear me for some reason. I saw her walk off—and she never came back…”

  “What time was that? Do you remember?”

  “Quarter to eight exactly. I remember it because I was checking my watch—we were in danger of missing the bus.” Elsie tutted. “Not that it’s ever on time anymore.”

  Mariana poured Elsie some more tea from the pot.

  “You know, I was wondering about her friends. What’s your impression of them?”

  Elsie raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean them, do you?”

  “‘Them’?”

  Elsie smiled, but didn’t reply. Mariana went on, cautiously.

  “When I spoke to Conrad, he called them ‘witches.’”

  “Did he, indeed?” Elsie chuckled. “‘Bitches’ is more like it, dear.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  Elsie shrugged. “They weren’t her friends, not really. Tara hated them. Your niece was the only one who was nice to her.”

  “And the others?”

  “Oh, they bullied her, poor love. Used to cry on my shoulder about it, she did. ‘You’re my only friend, Elsie,’ she’d say. ‘I love you so, Elsie.’”

  Elsie wiped away an imaginary tear. Mariana felt nauseated: this performance was as sickly sweet as the chocolate cake Elsie had just devoured—and Mariana didn’t believe a word of it. Elsie was either a fantasist or just an old-fashioned liar. In either case, Mariana was feeling increasingly uncomfortable in her company. Nonetheless, she persevered.

  “Why did they bully Tara? I don’t understand.”

  “They were jealous, weren’t they? Because she was so beautiful.”

  “I see … I wonder if there might be more to it than that…”

  “Well—you’d best ask Zoe about that, hadn’t you?”

  “Zoe?” Mariana was taken aback. “What do you mean? What’s Zoe got to do with it?”

  Elsie gave her a cryptic smile in response. “Now, that’s a question, isn’t it, dear?”

  She didn’t elaborate further. Mariana felt annoyed. “And what about Professor Fosca?”

  “What about him?”

  “Conrad said he had a crush on Tara.”

  Elsie looked unimpressed and unsurprised. “The professor’s a man, isn’t he?—like all the rest.”

  “Meaning?”

  Elsie sniffed but didn’t comment. Mariana had the sense that the conversation was
coming to an end, and to probe any further would only be met with stony disapproval. So, as casually as she could, she slipped in the real reason she had brought Elsie here and bribed her with flattery and cake.

  “Elsie. Do you think … I might see Tara’s room?”

  “Her room?” Elsie looked as if she were going to refuse. But then she shrugged. “Can’t do any harm, I suppose. The police have been all over it—I was going to give it a good clean tomorrow … Tell you what. Let me finish this cuppa, and we can walk over together.”

  Mariana smiled, pleased. “Thank you, Elsie.”

  6

  Elsie unlocked the door to Tara’s room. She went inside and turned on the light. Mariana followed her.

  It was like any other teenager’s bedroom, messier than most. The police had gone through her things invisibly—it felt as if Tara had just stepped out and might return any second. There was still a trace of her perfume in the air and the musky scent of marijuana clinging to the furnishings.

  Mariana didn’t know what she was looking for. She was searching for something that the police had missed—but what? They had taken away all the devices Zoe had been pinning her hopes on to provide some kind of clue—Tara’s computer, phone, and iPad were all missing. Her clothes remained, in the wardrobe and strewn over the armchair, in piles on the floor—expensive clothes treated like rags. Books were similarly disrespected, discarded mid-read, open on the floor, spines cracked.

  “Was she always this messy?”

  “Oh, yes, dear.” Elsie tutted and gave an indulgent chuckle. “Hopeless. I don’t know what she would have done without me to look after her.”

  Elsie sat on the bed. She had apparently taken Mariana into her confidence. And her conversation was no longer guarded; quite the contrary.

  “Her parents are boxing up her things today,” she said. “I offered to do it. Save them the bother. They didn’t want me to, for some reason. No pleasing some people. I’m not surprised. I know what Tara thought of them. She told me. That Lady Hampton is a right stuck-up bitch—and no lady, let me tell you that. As for her husband…”

  Mariana was only half listening, wishing Elsie would go away so she could focus. She went over to a small dressing table. She looked at it. There was a mirror with some photos stuck in the edges of the frame. One of the photographs was of Tara and her parents. Tara was incredibly beautiful, luminously so. She had long red hair, and exquisite features—the face of a Greek goddess.

  Mariana considered the rest of the objects on the dressing table. A couple of perfume bottles, some makeup, and a hairbrush. She looked at the hairbrush. A strand of red hair was caught in it.

  “She had lovely hair,” said Elsie, watching her. “I used to brush it for her. She loved me doing that.”

  Mariana smiled politely. She picked up a small soft toy—a fluffy rabbit that was propped up against the mirror. Unlike Zoe’s old Zebra, battered and beaten up from years of abuse, this toy looked strangely new—almost untouched.

  Elsie quickly solved the mystery.

  “I bought her that. She was so lonely when she first got here. Needed something soft to cuddle. So I got her the bunny.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “Elsie’s all heart. I got her the hot-water bottle too. It gets awfully cold in here at night. That blanket they give them is no use—thin as cardboard.” She yawned, looking a little bored. “Do you think you’ll be much longer, dear? Only I really ought to be getting on. I’ve another staircase to do.”

  “I don’t want to keep you. Perhaps … perhaps I could let myself out in a few minutes?”

  Elsie deliberated for a second. “All right. I’ll pop out and have a ciggie and get back to work. Pull the door closed when you leave.”

  “Thanks.”

  Elsie left the room, shutting the door behind her. Mariana let out a sigh. Thank God for that. She looked around. She hadn’t found it yet, whatever it was she was seeking. She hoped she would recognize it when she saw it. Some kind of clue—an insight into Tara’s state of mind. Something that would help Mariana understand—but what was it?

  She went over to the chest of drawers. She opened each drawer, examining the contents. A depressing, morbid task. It felt surgical, as if she were cutting open Tara’s body and picking through her internal organs. Mariana looked through all her most intimate possessions—her underwear, makeup, hair products, passport, driver’s license, credit cards, childhood photographs, snapshots of herself as a baby, little reminders and notes she had written to herself, old shopping receipts, loose tampons, empty cocaine vials, loose tobacco, and traces of marijuana.

  It was strange; Tara had vanished, just like Sebastian—leaving all her things behind. After we die, Mariana thought, all that remains of us is a mystery; and our possessions, of course, to be picked over by strangers.

  She decided to give up. Whatever she was looking for wasn’t here. Perhaps it had never existed in the first place. She closed the last drawer, and went to leave the room.

  Then, as she reached the door, something made her stop … and turn back. She glanced around the room one more time.

  Her eyes rested on the corkboard on the wall above the desk. Notices, flyers, postcards, a couple of photos stuck into it.

  One of the postcards was an image Mariana knew: a painting by Titian—Tarquin and Lucretia. Mariana stopped. She looked at it more closely.

  Lucretia was in her bedroom, on the bed, naked and defenseless; Tarquin was standing above her—raising a dagger that was glinting in the light, and poised to strike. It was beautiful, but deeply unsettling.

  Mariana pulled the postcard away from the board. She turned it over.

  There, on the back, was a handwritten quotation in black ink. Four lines, in Ancient Greek:

  ἓν δὲ πᾶσι γνῶμα ταὐτὸν ἐμπρέπει:

  σφάξαι κελεύουσίν με παρθένον κόρῃ

  Δήμητρος, ἥτις ἐστὶ πατρὸς εὐγενοῦς,

  τροπαῖά τ᾽ ἐχθρῶν καὶ πόλει σωτήριαν.

  Mariana stared at it, puzzled.

  7

  Mariana found Clarissa sitting in her armchair by the window, pipe in hand, surrounded by clouds of smoke, correcting a pile of papers on her lap.

  “May I have a word?” said Mariana, hovering by the door.

  “Oh, Mariana? Are you still here? Come in, come in.” Clarissa waved her into the room. “Sit.”

  “I’m not interrupting?”

  “Anything that takes me away from marking undergraduate essays is a truly welcome reprieve.” Clarissa smiled and put down the papers. She gave Mariana a curious look as she sat on the sofa. “You’ve decided to stay?”

  “Just for a few days. Zoe needs me.”

  “Good. Very good. I’m so pleased.” Clarissa relit her pipe and puffed away for a moment. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Mariana reached into her pocket and pulled out the postcard. She handed it to Clarissa. “I found this in Tara’s room. I was wondering what you make of it.”

  Clarissa glanced at the picture for a moment, then turned it over. She raised an eyebrow and read the quotation out. “ἓν δὲ πᾶσι γνῶμα ταὐτὸν ἐμπρέπει: / σφάξαι κελεύουσίν με παρθένον κόρῃ / Δήμητρος, ἥτις ἐστὶ πατρὸς εὐγενοῦς, / τροπαῖά τ᾽ ἐχθρῶν καὶ πόλει σωτήριαν.”

  “What is it?” asked Mariana. “Do you recognize it?”

  “I think … it’s Euripides. The Children of Heracles, if I’m not mistaken. You’re familiar with it?”

  Mariana felt a flicker of shame that she’d never even heard of the play, let alone read it. “Remind me?”

  “It’s set in Athens,” Clarissa said, reaching for her pipe. “King Demophon is preparing for war, to protect the city against the Mycenaeans.” She wedged the pipe in the corner of her mouth, struck a match, and relit it.
She spoke between puffs. “Demophon consults the oracle … to find out his chances of success … The quotation comes from that part of the play.”

  “I see.”

  “Does that help you?”

  “Not really.”

  “No?” Clarissa waved away a cloud of smoke. “Where’s your difficulty?”

  Mariana smiled at the question. Sometimes Clarissa’s brilliance made her a bit obtuse. “My Ancient Greek is a little rusty, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah … yes. Of course, forgive me—” Clarissa glanced at the postcard, and translated it. “Roughly speaking, it says … ‘The oracles agree: in order to defeat the enemy and save the city … a maiden must be sacrificed—a maiden of noble birth—’”

  Mariana blinked in surprise. “Noble birth? It says that?”

  Clarissa nodded. “The daughter of πατρὸς εὐγενοῦς—a nobleman … must be sacrificed to κόρῃ Δήμητρος…”

  “‘Δήμητρος’?”

  “The goddess Demeter. And ‘κόρῃ,’ of course, means—”

  “‘Daughter.’”

  “That’s right.” Clarissa nodded. “A noble maiden must be sacrificed to the daughter of Demeter—to Persephone, that is.”

  Mariana felt her heart beating fast. It’s just a coincidence, she thought. It doesn’t mean anything.

  Clarissa gave her the postcard with a smile. “Persephone was rather a vengeful goddess, as I’m sure you know.”

  Mariana didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded.

  Clarissa peered at her. “Are you all right, my dear? You look a little—”

  “I’m fine … it’s just—”

  For a second she considered trying to explain her feelings to Clarissa. But what could she say? That she had a superstitious fantasy this vengeful goddess had a hand in her husband’s death? How could she possibly say that out loud without sounding completely insane? Instead, she shrugged, and said, “It’s a little ironic, that’s all.”