The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  I seek the past.

  14

  At nine o’clock, Mariana went to meet Fred at the Eagle.

  The Eagle was the oldest pub in Cambridge, as popular now as it had been in the 1600s. It was a collection of small, interconnecting wood-paneled rooms. It was lit by candlelight, and smelled of roast lamb, rosemary, and beer.

  The main room was known as the RAF bar. Several pillars held up the uneven ceiling, which was covered with graffiti from World War II. As Mariana waited at the bar, she became conscious of the messages from dead men above her head. British and American pilots used pens, candles, and cigarette lighters to inscribe their names and squadron numbers on the ceiling, and they scribbled drawings—like cartoons of naked women in lipstick.

  Mariana got the attention of the baby-faced barman, wearing a green-and-black-checked shirt. He smiled as he removed a steaming tray of glasses from a dishwasher. “What can I get you, love?”

  “A glass of sauvignon blanc, please.”

  “Coming up.”

  He poured her a glass of white. Mariana paid for it, then looked for somewhere to sit.

  There were young couples everywhere, holding hands and having romantic conversations. She refused to let herself look at the corner table, where she and Sebastian always used to sit.

  She checked her watch. Ten minutes past nine.

  Fred was late—perhaps he wasn’t coming. She felt hopeful at the thought. She would wait ten minutes, then go.

  She gave in and glanced at the corner table. It was empty. And she went over and sat down.

  She sat there, stroking the cracks in the wooden table with her fingertips, just like she used to. Sitting here, sipping the cold wine and shutting her eyes, listening to the timeless sound of chatter and laughter all around, she could imagine herself transported back into the past—as long she kept her eyes shut, she could be there, nineteen years old, waiting for Sebastian to appear in his white T-shirt and his faded blue jeans with the rip across the knee.

  “Hello,” he said.

  But it was the wrong voice—not Sebastian’s—and Mariana felt a split second of confusion before she opened her eyes. And the spell was broken.

  The voice belonged to Fred, who was holding a pint of Guinness and grinning at her. His eyes were bright and he looked flushed.

  “Sorry to be late. My supervision ran over, so I cycled as fast as I could. I collided with a lamppost.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right. The lamppost got the worst of it. May I?”

  Mariana nodded, and he sat down—in Sebastian’s chair. For a second Mariana thought about asking if they could move to another table. But she stopped herself. How did Clarissa put it? She had to stop looking over her shoulder. She had to focus on the present.

  Fred grinned. He produced a small packet of nuts from his pocket. He offered them to Mariana. She shook her head.

  He tossed a couple of cashews into his mouth and crunched on them, keeping his eyes on Mariana. There was an awkward pause, as she waited for him to say something. She was feeling annoyed with herself. What was she doing here with this earnest young man? What a stupid idea it was. She decided to be uncharacteristically blunt. After all, she had nothing to lose.

  “Listen,” she said. “Nothing is going to happen between us. You understand? Ever.”

  Fred choked on a cashew nut, and started coughing. He gulped some beer and managed to catch his breath. “Sorry,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I—I wasn’t expecting that. Message received. You’re out of my league, obviously.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Mariana shook her head. “That’s not it.”

  “Then why?”

  She shrugged, uncomfortable. “A million reasons.”

  “Name one.”

  “You’re much too young for me.”

  “What?” Fred’s face colored. He looked indignant and embarrassed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Not that young—I’m nearly twenty-nine.”

  Mariana laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why? How old are you?”

  “Old enough not to round my age up. I’m thirty-six.”

  “So what?” Fred shrugged. “Age doesn’t matter. Not when you feel—how you feel.” He glanced at her. “You know, when I first saw you, on the train, I had the strongest premonition that, one day, I would ask you to marry me. And you would say yes.”

  “Well, you were wrong.”

  “Why? Are you … married?”

  “Yes—no, I mean—”

  “Don’t tell me he left you? What an idiot.”

  “Yes, I think so frequently.” Mariana sighed, then spoke quickly to get it over with. “He—died. About a year ago. It’s hard—to talk about.”

  “I’m sorry.” Fred looked crestfallen. He didn’t speak for a moment. “I feel stupid now.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

  Mariana felt so tired, suddenly, and frustrated with herself. She drained her wine. “I should go.”

  “No, not yet. I’ve not told you what I think about the murder. About Conrad. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Well?”

  Fred looked at her with a sly, sidelong glance. “I think they’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Have they? What makes you say that?”

  “I’ve met Conrad. I know him. He’s no murderer.”

  Mariana nodded. “Zoe doesn’t think so either. But the police do.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. I’ve half a mind to try and solve it myself. I like solving puzzles. I have that kind of brain.” Fred smiled at her. “How about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “You and me,” Fred said with a grin. “Teaming up? Solving it together?”

  Mariana thought for a second. She could probably use his help, and she wavered—but she knew she’d regret it. She shook her head.

  “I don’t think so, but thanks.”

  “Well, let me know you if you change your mind.” He took out a pen from his pocket and scrawled his phone number on the back of the beer mat. He handed it to her. “Here. If you need anything—anything at all—call me.”

  “Thanks—but I’m not staying long.”

  “You keep saying that, but you’re still here.” Fred grinned. “I have a good feeling about you, Mariana. A hunch. I’m a big believer in hunches.”

  * * *

  As they left the pub, Fred chatted happily to Mariana. “You’re from Greece, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I grew up in Athens.”

  “Ah, Athens is a lot of fun. I love Greece. Have you been to many islands?”

  “A few of them.”

  “How about Naxos?”

  Mariana froze. She stood there awkwardly on the street, suddenly unable to look at him.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Naxos? I went last year. I’m a big swimmer—well, diving, mainly—and it’s great for that. Have you been? You should really—”

  “I have to go.”

  Mariana turned away before Fred could see the tears in her eyes, and she kept walking off without looking back.

  “Oh,” she heard him say. He sounded a little shocked. “Okay, then. I’ll see you later—”

  Mariana didn’t reply. It’s just a coincidence, she told herself. It doesn’t mean anything—forget it, it’s nothing. Nothing.

  She tried to banish the mention of the island from her mind, and kept walking.

  15

  As she left Fred, Mariana hurried back to the college.

  It was getting colder in the evening now, and there was a slight chill in the air. Mist was spreading above the river—up ahead, the street disappeared in a cloudy haze, the mist hovering like thick smoke over the ground.

  Mariana soon became aware she was being followed.

  The same set of footsteps had been behind her soon after she left the Eagle. It was a heavy tread, a man’
s tread; forceful, hard-soled boots repetitively hitting the cobbles, echoing along the deserted street—and a little way behind her. It was hard to judge just how near the footsteps were, not without turning around. She summoned her courage, and glanced over her shoulder.

  There was no one there—not as far as she could see, which wasn’t far. Clouds of mist enveloped the street, swallowing it.

  Mariana kept going. She turned a corner.

  A few seconds later, the footsteps followed her.

  She sped up. So did the footsteps.

  She looked over her shoulder—and this time, she saw someone.

  The shadow of a man, not far behind her. He was walking away from the streetlight, against the wall, keeping in the dark.

  Mariana could feel her heart beating fast. She looked around for an escape—and she saw a man and a woman, on the other side of the street, walking arm in arm. She quickly stepped off the curb and walked across the road toward them.

  But just as she reached the pavement, they went up some steps to a front door, unlocked it, and disappeared inside.

  Mariana kept walking, listening for footsteps. And glancing over her shoulder, there he was—a man wearing dark clothing, his face in shadow—crossing the misty street after her.

  Mariana glanced at a narrow alleyway to her left. She made a sudden decision, and turned down the alley. Without looking back, she broke into a run.

  She ran along the alley, all the way down to the river. The wooden bridge lay ahead of her. She kept going and hurried over it—across the water, to the other side.

  It was darker here, down by the water, with no streetlamps to illuminate the gloom. The mist was thicker, feeling cold and wet against her skin, and it smelled icy, like snow.

  Mariana carefully bent back some branches of a tree. Then she stepped around it and hid behind it. She held on to the trunk, feeling its smooth wet bark, and tried to be as still and silent as possible. She tried to slow her breathing down, and quiet it.

  And she watched, and waited.

  Sure enough, a few seconds later, she glimpsed him—or his shadow—sneak over the bridge and onto the bank.

  She lost sight of him, but could still hear his footsteps, on softer ground now, on earth—prowling around, barely a few feet away.

  And then, silence. No sound at all. She held her breath.

  Where was he? Where did he go?

  She waited for what seemed an interminable time, just to make sure. Had he gone? It seemed he had.

  She cautiously emerged from behind the tree. It took her a few seconds to find her bearings. Then she realized—the river was there in front of her, gleaming in the darkness. All she had to do was follow it.

  She hurried along the riverbank, all the way to the back entrance of St. Christopher’s. There, she crossed the stone bridge—and went up to the big wooden gate in the brick wall.

  She reached out, gripped the cold brass ring, and pulled. The gate didn’t move. It was locked.

  Mariana hesitated, unsure what to do—then … she heard footsteps.

  The same urgent footsteps. The same man.

  And he was getting closer.

  Mariana looked around—but couldn’t see anything—just clouds of mist disappearing into the dark shadows.

  But she could hear him approaching, crossing the bridge toward her.

  She tried the gate again—but it wouldn’t budge. She was trapped. She could feel herself starting to panic.

  “Who is it?” she called into the darkness. “Who’s there?”

  There was no reply. Just footsteps getting closer, closer—

  Mariana opened her mouth to cry out—

  Then, suddenly, on her left, a little farther along, there was a creaking sound. A small gate opened in the wall. It was partly hidden by a bush, and Mariana hadn’t registered it before. It was a third of the size of the main gate, and made of plain, unvarnished wood. The beam of a torch shone from it, out into the darkness. It shone onto her face, blinding her.

  “Everything all right, miss?”

  She recognized Morris’s voice at once, and felt instantly relieved. He moved the light out of her eyes, and she saw him stand up straight, having stooped down to pass through the low gate. Morris was dressed in a black overcoat and black gloves. He peered at her.

  “Are you all right?” he said. “Just doing my rounds. The back gate is locked at ten o’clock, you should know that.”

  “I forgot. Yes—I’m fine.”

  He shone the torch around the bridge. Mariana followed the light anxiously with her eyes. No sign of anyone.

  She listened. Silence. No footsteps.

  He had gone.

  “Can you let me in?” she said, glancing back at Morris.

  “Certainly. Go in this way.” He gestured at the small gate behind him. “I often use it as a shortcut. Go along the passage and you’ll come out in Main Court.”

  “Thank you,” Mariana said. “I’m so grateful.”

  “Not at all, miss.”

  She walked past him, up to the open gate. She bowed her head and stooped slightly, and went inside. The ancient brick passage was very dark and smelled of damp. The gate shut behind her. She heard Morris lock it.

  Mariana cautiously made her away along the passage, thinking about what had happened. She had a moment of doubt—had someone really been following her? If so, who? Or was she just being paranoid?

  In any case, she was relieved to be back in St. Christopher’s.

  * * *

  She emerged into an oak-paneled corridor, part of the building that housed the buttery in Main Court. She was about to exit through the main doorway—when she glanced back. And she stopped.

  There were a series of portraits hanging along the dimly lit passage. At the end of the passage, one portrait caught her eye. It occupied a wall to itself. Mariana stared at it. It was a face she recognized.

  She blinked a few times, unsure she was seeing correctly—and then she slowly approached it, like a woman in a trance.

  She reached it and stood there, her face level with the face in the painting. She stared at it. Yes, it was him.

  It was Tennyson.

  But it wasn’t Tennyson as an old man, with white hair and a long beard, as in other paintings that Mariana had seen. This was Alfred Tennyson as a young man. Just a boy, really.

  He couldn’t have been more than twenty-nine when it was painted. He looked even younger. But it was unmistakably him.

  He had one of the handsomest faces Mariana had ever seen. And seeing him here, close up, his beauty quite took her breath away. He had a strong angular jaw, sensuous lips, and dark, tousled shoulder-length hair. For a moment she was reminded of Edward Fosca, but she banished him from her mind. For one thing, the eyes were quite different. Fosca’s eyes were dark, and Tennyson’s were light blue, watery blue.

  Hallam had probably been dead around seven years when this was painted, meaning Tennyson had another long decade ahead of him before In Memoriam was finally completed. Another ten years of grief.

  And yet—this wasn’t a face ravished by despair. There was surprisingly little, if any, detectable emotion in this face. No sadness, no hint of melancholia. There was stillness, and glacial beauty. But little else.

  Why?

  It was, Mariana thought, squinting at the picture, as if Tennyson were looking at something … something in the near distance.

  Yes, she thought—his pale blue eyes appeared to be staring at something just out of sight, something off to one side, behind Mariana’s head.

  What was he looking at?

  She walked away from the painting feeling rather disappointed—as if she had been personally let down by Tennyson. She didn’t know what she had hoped to find in his eyes—a little comfort, perhaps?—solace or strength; even heartbreak would have been preferable.

  But not nothing.

  She banished the portrait from her mind. She hurried back to her room.

  Outside her door, somethi
ng was waiting for her.

  A black envelope on the floor.

  Mariana picked it up and opened it. Inside, there was a piece of notepaper, folded in half. She unfolded it and read it.

  It was a handwritten message in black ink, in elegant, slanted writing:

  Dear Mariana,

  I hope you are well. I was wondering if you might care to join me for a little chat tomorrow morning? How about ten o’clock in the Fellows’ Garden?

  Yours,

  Edward Fosca

  16

  If I’d been born in Ancient Greece, there would have been numerous bad omens and horoscopes predicting disaster at my birth. Eclipses, blazing comets, and doom-laden portents—

  As it was, there was nothing—and in fact, my birth was characterized by an absence of event. My father, the man who would warp my life and make me into this monster, wasn’t even present. He was playing a game of cards with some of the farmhands, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey into the night.

  If I try to picture my mother—if I squint—I can just about see her, hazy and out of focus—my beautiful mother, just a girl at nineteen, in a private room in the hospital. She can hear the sound of nurses talking and laughing at the end of the corridor. She is alone, but this is not a problem. Alone, she can find a level of peace—she can think her thoughts without fear of attack. She’s looking forward to her baby, she realizes, because babies don’t talk.

  She knows her husband wants a son—but secretly she prays it’s a girl. If it’s a boy, he’ll grow into a man.

  And men are not to be trusted.

  She’s relieved when the contractions resume. They are a distraction from thinking. She prefers to focus on the physical: the breathing, the counting—the searing pain that wipes all thoughts from her mind, like chalk scrubbed from a blackboard. Then she gives into it, the agony, and loses herself—

  Until, at dawn, I was born.

  To my mother’s dismay, I was not a girl. When my father heard the news, that he had a boy, he was elated. Farmers, like kings, have need of many sons. I was his first.