The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  “What—do you mean?”

  Mariana knew what Zoe meant. She needed her to spell it out, just the same.

  “Another stabbing,” Zoe said. “They found another body.”

  Part Three

  The perfect plot, accordingly, must have a single, and not (as some tell us) a double issue; the change in the hero’s fortunes must be not from misery to happiness, but on the contrary from happiness to misery; and the cause of it must lie not in any depravity, but in some great error on his part.

  —ARISTOTLE, Poetics

  1

  The body had been found in a field, on the edge of Paradise. It was medieval common land, for which farmers had ancient grazing rights, and a farmer, putting his herd of cows out to graze that morning, had made the grisly discovery.

  Mariana was anxious about getting there as soon as possible. Despite Zoe’s furious protestations, Mariana refused to allow her to accompany her. She was determined to shield Zoe from as much unpleasantness as possible. And this was bound to be unpleasant.

  Instead, she set off with Fred. He used the map on his phone to guide them to the field.

  As they walked along the river, past the colleges and meadows, Mariana breathed in the smell of grass and earth and the trees—and was transported back to that first autumn, all those years ago, when she had arrived in England, having exchanged the humid heat of Greece for the charcoal skies and wet grass of East Anglia.

  Since then, the English countryside had never lost its thrill for Mariana—until today. Today she felt no thrill, just a sick sense of dread. These fields and meadows she loved, these pathways she’d walked with Sebastian, were forever tainted. No longer synonymous with love and happiness—from now on, they would only ever mean blood and death.

  They walked mainly in silence. After about twenty minutes, Fred pointed up ahead. “There it is.”

  In front of them lay a field. At the entry to the field was a line of vehicles—police cars, news vans—parked behind one another along the dirt track. Mariana and Fred walked past the cars until they reached the police cordon, where several officers were keeping the press at bay. There was also a small crowd of onlookers.

  Mariana glanced at the onlookers, and suddenly remembered the ghoulish crowd that had gathered on the beach to watch as Sebastian’s body was dragged from the water. She remembered those faces—expressions of concern masking prurient excitement. God, she’d hated them—and now, seeing the same expressions here, she felt sick.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  But Fred didn’t move. He looked a little uncertain. “Where are we going?”

  Mariana pointed past the police cordon. “That way.”

  “How are we going to get in? They’ll see us.”

  Mariana looked around. “How about you go over and distract them—give me the chance to slip past?”

  “Sure. I can do that.”

  “You don’t mind not coming?”

  Fred shook his head. He didn’t meet her eye. “To be honest, I’m a bit squeamish about blood—bodies and things. I’d rather wait here.”

  “Okay. I won’t be long.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You too,” she said.

  He took a moment to summon up his nerve. Then he walked over to the police officers. He started talking to them, asking them questions—and Mariana seized her chance.

  She went up to the cordon, lifted it up, and ducked underneath.

  Then she straightened up and kept going—but only took a few steps before she heard a voice.

  “Hey! What are you doing?”

  Mariana turned around. A police officer was charging toward her.

  “Stop. Who are you?”

  Before Mariana could reply, they were interrupted by Julian. He emerged from a forensic tent, and waved at the officer. “It’s all right. She’s with me. She’s a colleague.”

  The police officer gave Mariana a mistrustful look, but stepped aside. Mariana watched him depart and she turned to Julian. “Thanks.”

  Julian smiled. “Not easily discouraged, are you? I like that. Let’s hope we don’t bump into the inspector.” He winked at her. “Do you want to have a look? The pathologist’s an old friend of mine.”

  They walked to the tent. The pathologist was standing in front of it, texting on his phone. He was a man in his forties, tall, completely bald, with piercing blue eyes.

  “Kuba,” said Julian, “I’ve brought a colleague, if that’s okay.”

  “By all means.” Kuba glanced at Mariana. He spoke with a slight Polish accent. “I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight. Worse than last time.”

  He gestured around the back of the tent with his gloved hand. Mariana took a deep breath and walked around.

  And there it was.

  It was the most horrible thing Mariana had ever seen. She felt afraid to look at it. It didn’t seem real.

  The body of a young woman, or the remains of one, was stretched out in the grass. The torso was slashed beyond recognition—all that was left was a mixture of blood and guts, mud and earth. The head was untouched, and the eyes were open, seeing and unseeing—in this gaze, a path led to oblivion.

  Mariana kept staring at the eyes, unable to look away; transfixed by this Medusa’s look—eyes that had the power to petrify even after death …

  A line from The Duchess of Malfi flashed into her mind—“Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle—she died young.”

  She did die young. Too young. She was only twenty. It was her birthday next week—she was organizing a party.

  Mariana knew this because she recognized her at once.

  It was Veronica.

  2

  Mariana started walking away from the body.

  She felt physically sick. She had to put some distance between herself and what she had seen. She wanted to get away, but she knew there was no running away—it was a sight that would haunt her for the rest of her days. The blood, the head, those gaping eyes—

  Stop it, she thought. Stop thinking.

  She kept walking until she reached a rickety wooden fence, forming a boundary between this field and the next. It felt unsteady and liable to collapse; she leaned against it—flimsy support, but better than nothing.

  “You all right?”

  Julian appeared at her side. He gave her a concerned look.

  Mariana nodded. She realized her eyes were full of tears. She brushed them away, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”

  “When you’ve seen as many crime scenes as I have, you get used to it. For what it’s worth, I think you’re brave.”

  Mariana shook her head. “I’m not, not at all.”

  “And you were right about Conrad Ellis. He was in custody at the time of the murder, so that lets him off the hook…” Julian glanced at Kuba as he approached them. “Unless you don’t think they were killed by the same person?”

  Kuba shook his head, pulling out a vape from his pocket. “No, it’s the same guy. Same MO—I counted twenty-two stab wounds.” He took a drag and exhaled clouds of vapor.

  Mariana peered at him. “There was something in her hand. What was it?”

  “Ah. You noticed that? A pinecone.”

  “I thought so. How odd.”

  Julian glanced at her. “Why do you say that?”

  Mariana shrugged. “Just there aren’t any pine trees around here.” She thought for a second. “I’m wondering if there’s an inventory of everything found with Tara’s body?”

  “Funny you say that,” Kuba said. “The same thing occurred to me—so I checked. And there was also a pinecone found with Tara’s body.”

  “A pinecone?” said Julian. “How interesting. It must mean something to him … But what, I wonder?”

  As he said that, Mariana suddenly remembered one of the slides Professor Fosca had showed in his lecture on Eleusis: a marble relief of a pinecone.

  Yes, she thought. It does mean something.

  Julian was looking around, frustrate
d. He shook his head. “How does he do it? Kills them in the open air—then vanishes, covered in blood, leaving no witnesses, no murder weapon, no discernible evidence … nothing.”

  “Just a glimpse into hell,” said Kuba. “But you’re wrong about the blood. He wouldn’t necessarily be covered in blood. After all, the stabbing takes place postmortem.”

  “What?” Mariana stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly that. He cut their throats first.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes.” Kuba nodded. “In both cases, the cause of death was a deep incision—severing the tissues all the way to the bone in the neck. Death must have been instantaneous. Judging by the depth of the wound … I suspect he struck from behind. If I may?”

  He stepped behind Julian, and elegantly demonstrated—using his vape as a knife. Mariana winced as he mimed slashing Julian’s throat.

  “You see? The arterial spray goes forward. Then, laying the body on the ground, during the stabbing, the blood just trickles downward, into the earth. So he might have no blood on him at all.”

  Mariana shook her head. “But—that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s not—a frenzy. That’s not losing control, that’s not rage—”

  Kuba shook his head. “No. The opposite. He’s very calm, in control—like he’s performing a kind of dance. It’s very precise. It’s … rytualistyczny…” He searched for the word in English. “Ritualistic…? Is that correct?”

  “Ritualistic?”

  Mariana stared at him—as a series of images flashed through her mind: Edward Fosca onstage, lecturing about religious rites; the postcard in Tara’s room, with an Ancient Greek oracle demanding sacrifice; and—at the back of her mind—the indelible memory of a bright blue sky, with a burning sun and a ruined temple dedicated to a vengeful goddess.

  There was something—something she needed to think about. But before she could press Kuba further, there was a voice behind her.

  “What’s going on here?”

  They all turned around. Chief Inspector Sangha was standing there. He did not look happy.

  3

  “What’s she doing here?” said Sangha, frowning.

  Julian stepped forward. “Mariana’s with me. I thought she might have some insight—and she’s been extremely helpful.”

  Sangha unscrewed the lid from his flask, balanced it precariously on the fence post, and poured some tea. He looked tired, Mariana thought—she didn’t envy him his job. His investigation had just doubled in size, and he’d lost his only suspect. She was hesitant to make things worse, but had no choice.

  “Chief Inspector,” she said, “are you aware the victim is Veronica Drake? She was a student at St. Christopher’s.”

  The inspector stared at her with a slight look of dismay. “Are you sure?”

  Mariana nodded. “And are you also aware Professor Fosca taught both victims? They were both part of his special group.”

  “What special group?”

  “I really think you should ask him about it.”

  Inspector Sangha drained his tea before responding. “I see. Any more tips, Mariana?”

  Mariana didn’t like his tone, but she smiled politely. “That’s it for the moment.”

  Sangha poured the dregs from the cup onto the ground. He shook the lid and screwed it back on.

  “I have already asked you once not to intrude on my investigation. So let me put it like this. If I catch you trespassing on another crime scene, I will arrest you myself. Okay?”

  Mariana opened her mouth to reply. But Julian responded first.

  “Sorry. Won’t happen again. Come on, Mariana.”

  He guided a reluctant Mariana away from the others, back toward the police cordon.

  “I’m afraid Sangha’s got it in for you,” Julian said. “If I were you, I’d keep out of his way. His bite is infinitely worse than his bark.” He winked at her. “Don’t worry—I’ll keep you informed about any developments.”

  “Thanks. I’m grateful.”

  Julian smiled. “Where are you staying? They’re putting me up at a hotel by the station.”

  “I’m staying in college.”

  “Very nice. Fancy a drink tonight? We can catch up?”

  Mariana shook her head. “No—I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Oh, why not?” Julian flashed a smile at her—but then he followed her gaze … And he saw she was looking at Fred, waving at her from the other side of the cordon.

  “Ah.” Julian frowned. “I see you already have plans.”

  “What?” Mariana shook her head. “No. He’s just a friend—of Zoe’s.”

  “Sure.” Julian gave her a disbelieving smile. “No worries. I’ll be seeing you, Mariana.”

  Julian looked a little annoyed. He turned and walked away.

  Mariana was also feeling annoyed—with herself. She ducked under the cordon and walked back toward Fred. She felt increasingly angry. Why tell that stupid lie about Fred being Zoe’s friend? Mariana wasn’t guilty of anything; she had nothing to hide—so why lie?

  Unless, of course, she wasn’t being honest with herself about her feelings for Fred. Was that possible? If so, it was a deeply unnerving thought.

  What else was she lying to herself about?

  4

  When the news broke that a second student from St. Christopher’s College had been murdered—and that she was the daughter of a U.S. senator—the story made headlines around the world.

  Senator Drake boarded the next available flight from Washington with his wife, pursued by the U.S. media and followed by the rest of the world’s press, which descended on St. Christopher’s in a matter of hours.

  It reminded Mariana of a medieval siege. Invading hordes of journalists and cameramen held back by a flimsy barrier, several uniformed police officers, and a few college porters; Mr. Morris was at the forefront, sleeves rolled up, ready to defend the college with his fists.

  A sprawling media camp was set up on the cobbles outside the main gate, and it spread all the way to King’s Parade, where lines of satellite vans were parked. A special press tent was set up by the river, where Senator Drake and his wife gave a television interview, making an emotional appeal for any information that might lead to the capture of their daughter’s killer.

  At Senator Drake’s request, Scotland Yard became involved. Extra police officers were sent up from London—and they erected blockades, made house-to-house calls, and patrolled the streets.

  The knowledge they were now dealing with a serial killer meant the whole city was on alert. And in the meantime, Conrad Ellis was released, and all charges dropped.

  A nervous, edgy energy was in the air. A monster with a knife was among them, unseen, prowling the streets, apparently able to strike and then melt away invisibly into the darkness … His invisibility made him into something more than human, something supernatural: a creature born from myth, a phantom.

  Except Mariana knew he wasn’t a phantom, or a monster. He was just a man, and he didn’t merit being mythologized; he didn’t deserve it.

  He deserved only—if she could summon it in her heart—pity and fear. The very qualities, according to Aristotle, that constituted catharsis in tragedy. Well, Mariana didn’t know enough about this madman to access pity.

  But she did feel fear.

  5

  My mother often said she didn’t want it for me, this life.

  She’d tell me that, one day, we would leave, she and I. But it wouldn’t be easy.

  I don’t have an education, she’d say. I left school at fifteen. Promise me you won’t do the same. You need to be educated—that’s how to make money. That’s how to survive, how to be safe.

  I’ve never forgotten that. More than anything, I wanted to be safe.

  Even now, I still don’t feel safe.

  My father was a dangerous man, that’s why. After a steady flow of whiskeys, a small flame would
appear in his eyes. He’d become increasingly argumentative. Avoiding his anger was a minefield.

  I was better at it than my mother—better at keeping things steady, staying several steps ahead, keeping the conversation on safe ground, guessing where it was going—outmaneuvering him, if necessary—guiding him away from any subjects that might incur his wrath. Sooner or later, my mother would always fail. Either accidentally—or deliberately, through masochism—she’d say something, do something, disagree with him, criticize him, serve him something he didn’t like.

  His eyes would glint. His lower lip would droop. He’d bare his teeth. Too late, she’d realize he was in a rage. A table would then be overthrown, a glass smashed. I’d watch, helpless to defend or protect her, as she ran to the bedroom in search of refuge.

  She’d frantically try to lock the door … but too late—he’d bash it open, and then, then—

  I don’t understand.

  Why didn’t she leave? Why didn’t she pack our bags and spirit me away in the night? We could have left together. But she didn’t make that choice. Why not? Was she too scared? Or did she not want to admit that her family was right—that she’d made a terrible mistake and was running home, tail between her legs?

  Or was she in denial, clinging to a hope that things would magically improve? Perhaps that was it. After all, she was highly skilled at ignoring what she didn’t want to see—and was staring her in the face.

  I learned to do that too.

  I also learned, from a young age, that I did not walk on the ground—but on a narrow network of invisible ropes, suspended above the earth. I had to navigate them carefully, trying not to slip or fall. Certain aspects of my personality were offensive, it seemed. I had terrible secrets to hide—even I didn’t know what they were.

  My father knew, though. He knew my sins.

  And he punished me accordingly.

  He’d carry me upstairs. He’d take me into the bathroom and lock the door—