The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  “Well, they did. They asked him a lot. And me too. Happy now?”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth. That I was with Professor Fosca when Veronica was killed on Wednesday night—I had a class with him all evening. Okay?”

  “And he didn’t leave? Not even to have a cigarette?”

  “Not even a cigarette.”

  Serena gave Mariana a cold look, and was distracted by a text message on her phone. She read it and stood up.

  “I have to go.”

  “Wait.” Mariana lowered her voice. “Serena. I want you to be very careful, okay?”

  “Oh, fuck off.” Serena grabbed her bag and walked out.

  Mariana sighed. Zoe sat on Serena’s empty bar stool.

  “That didn’t go well.”

  “No.” Mariana shook her head. “It didn’t.”

  “Now what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Zoe shrugged. “If Professor Fosca was with Serena when Veronica was killed, he couldn’t have done it.”

  “Unless Serena is lying.”

  “You really think she’d lie for him? Twice?” Zoe gave her a dubious look and shrugged. “I don’t know, Mariana…”

  “What?”

  Zoe evaded her gaze. She didn’t speak for a moment. “It’s the way you are about him—it’s weird.”

  “What do you mean, weird?”

  “The professor has an alibi for both murders—and you still won’t let it go. Is this about him—or you?”

  “Me?” Mariana couldn’t believe her ears. She could feel her cheeks coloring with indignation. “What are you talking about?”

  Zoe shook her head. “Forget it.”

  “If there’s something you want to say to me—just say it.”

  “There’s no point. I know the more I try and talk you out of this thing about Professor Fosca, the more you’ll dig your heels in. You’re so stubborn.”

  “I’m not stubborn.”

  Zoe laughed. “Sebastian used to say you were the most stubborn person he ever met.”

  “He never said that to me.”

  “Well, he said it to me.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here, Zoe. I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. What thing with Fosca?”

  “You tell me.”

  “What? I’m not attracted to him—if that’s what you’re suggesting!”

  She was aware her voice was raised; a couple of students across the bar heard her and looked over. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she and Zoe were teetering on the edge of an argument. Mariana was feeling irrationally angry. Why was that?

  They stared at each other a moment.

  Zoe backed down first. “Forget it,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I’m talking crap.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  Zoe checked her watch. “I have to go. I’ve got a class on Paradise Lost.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “See you for dinner?”

  “Oh…” Mariana hesitated. “I can’t. I—I’m seeing—”

  She didn’t want to tell Zoe about her dinner plans with Professor Fosca—not now; Zoe would read all kinds of things into it that weren’t there.

  “I—I’m seeing a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “No one you know, an old college friend. You should go, you’ll be late.”

  Zoe nodded. She gave Mariana a quick peck on the cheek. Mariana squeezed her arm. “Zoe. You be careful too. All right?”

  “Don’t get into any cars with strange men, you mean?”

  “Don’t be silly. I mean it.”

  “I can take care of myself, Mariana. I’m not afraid.”

  It was that note of bravado in Zoe’s voice that concerned Mariana the most.

  10

  After Zoe left, Mariana sat at the bar for a while, nursing the wine in her glass. She kept going over their conversation in her head.

  What if Zoe was right? What if Fosca was innocent?

  Fosca had an alibi for both murders, and yet, despite this, Mariana had woven a web of suspicion around him, simply by grabbing at a few strands of—what, exactly? Not even facts, nothing that concrete. Small things: that fearful look in Zoe’s eyes, the fact he taught Tara and Veronica Greek tragedy, and the fact Mariana was convinced Fosca had sent those postcards.

  And her intuition told her that whoever had sent the postcards to these girls also killed them. While that might seem an irrational leap, even delusional, to a man like Chief Inspector Sangha, for a therapist like Mariana, her intuition was often all she had to go on. Although it seemed incredible—that a professor at this university would murder his students, so horribly, so publicly, and hope to get away with it.

  And yet … if she was right …

  Then Fosca had got away with it.

  But what if she was wrong?

  Mariana needed to think clearly—but she couldn’t think. Her head was cloudy, and it wasn’t the wine. She was feeling overwhelmed, and increasingly unsure of herself. So what now? She had no idea what her next move should be.

  Calm down, she thought. If I were working with a patient and feeling like this—so out of my depth—what would I do?

  The answer came to her immediately. She would ask for help, of course. She would get some supervision.

  That wasn’t a bad idea.

  Seeing her supervisor could only help. And getting out of here—going to London, escaping this college and its poisonous atmosphere, if only for a few hours—it would be an immense relief.

  Yes, she thought. That’s what I’ll do—I’ll call Ruth, and see her in London tomorrow.

  But first, she had an appointment tonight, here in Cambridge.

  At eight o’clock she had dinner—with Edward Fosca.

  11

  At eight o’clock, Mariana made her way to Fosca’s rooms.

  She stared at the large, imposing door. Professor Edward Fosca was painted in white calligraphic writing on a black plaque by the door.

  She could hear classical music coming from inside. She knocked. No reply.

  She knocked again, louder. No response for a moment, and then—

  “It’s open,” said a distant voice. “Come on up.”

  Mariana took a breath, steadied herself—and opened the door. She was greeted by an elm staircase: old, narrow, and uneven in places where the wood had warped. She had to watch her step as she climbed up.

  The music was louder now. It was Latin, a religious aria or a psalm set to music. She had heard it before, somewhere, but couldn’t quite place where. It was beautiful but ominous, with pulsating strings like a heartbeat, ironically mimicking Mariana’s own anxious heartbeat as she ascended the stairs.

  At the top, the door was ajar. She went inside. The first thing she saw was a large cross hanging in the hallway. It was beautiful—made of dark wood, ornate, Gothic, intricately carved—but its sheer size made it intimidating, and Mariana hurried past it.

  She entered the living room. It was hard to see; the only light was from the half-melted, misshapen candles dotted around. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the stygian gloom, thick with burning incense; its black smoke further diffusing the light from the candles, making it harder to see.

  It was a large room, with windows overlooking the courtyard. Several doors led off to other rooms. The walls were covered with paintings, and shelves were crammed with books. The wallpaper was dark green and black, a repeating pattern of leaves and foliage with an unsettling effect—it reminded Mariana of being in a jungle.

  There were sculptures and ornaments arranged on the mantelpiece and the tables: a human skull glowing in the gloom, and a small statue of Pan—shaggy-haired, clutching a wineskin, with the legs, horns, and tail of a goat. And next to it, a pinecone.

  Suddenly, Mariana was sure she was being observed—she felt eyes on the back of her neck. She turned around.

  Edward Fosca was standing the
re. She hadn’t heard him enter. Had he been in the shadows the whole time, watching her?

  “Good evening,” he said.

  His dark eyes and white teeth glinted in the candlelight, and his tousled hair was falling around his shoulders. He was wearing a black dinner jacket, crisp white shirt, and black bow tie. He looked extremely handsome, Mariana thought—and immediately felt angry with herself for thinking it.

  “I didn’t realize we were going to high table,” she said.

  “We’re not.”

  “But you’re dressed—”

  “Ah.” Fosca glanced at his clothes, and smiled. “I don’t often have the opportunity to dine with such a beautiful woman. I thought I’d dress for the occasion. Let me get you a drink.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he pulled an open bottle of champagne from the silver ice bucket. He refilled his own glass, then poured one for Mariana. He handed it to her.

  “Thank you.”

  Edward Fosca stood there for a moment, watching her, his dark eyes appraising her.

  “To us,” he said.

  Mariana didn’t echo the toast. She raised the glass to her lips and sipped the champagne. It was bubbly and dry, refreshing. It tasted good, and hopefully would settle her nerves. She took another sip.

  There was a knock on the door downstairs. Fosca smiled. “Ah. That will be Greg.”

  “Greg?”

  “From the buttery.”

  There was a flurry of footsteps—and Gregory, a nimbly footed, lithe waiter in waistcoat and tie, appeared with a hot-box in one hand and cold-box in the other. He smiled at Mariana.

  “Evening, miss.” He glanced at the professor. “Should I—?”

  “Absolutely.” Fosca nodded. “Go ahead. Set it up. I’ll serve us.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He disappeared into the dining room. Mariana gave Fosca a quizzical look. He smiled.

  “I wanted us to have more privacy than Hall could afford. But I’m not much of a chef—so I persuaded the buttery to bring Hall to us.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “By means of a very large tip. I won’t flatter you by telling you how much.”

  “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Professor.”

  “Please call me Edward. And it’s a pleasure, Mariana.”

  He smiled and stared at her in silence. Mariana felt a little uncomfortable, and looked away. Her eyes drifted to the coffee table … and the pinecone.

  “What’s that?”

  Fosca followed her gaze. “The pinecone, you mean? Nothing, just reminds me of home. Why?”

  “I seem to remember a slide of a pinecone, in your lecture on Eleusis.”

  Fosca nodded. “Yes, indeed. That’s right. Each initiate into the cult was presented with a pinecone on entry.”

  “I see. Why a pinecone?”

  “Well, it’s not really about the pinecone itself. It’s what it symbolizes.”

  “Which is?”

  He smiled and stared at her for a moment. “It’s the seed—the seed inside the cone. The seed inside us—the spirit within the body. It’s about opening your mind to that. A commitment to looking inside and finding your soul.”

  Fosca picked up the pinecone. He presented it to her.

  “I offer this to you. It’s yours.”

  “No, thank you.” Mariana shook her head. “I don’t want it.”

  She said that more sharply than she intended.

  “I see.”

  Fosca gave her an amused smile. He replaced the pinecone on the table. There was a pause. A moment later, Greg emerged.

  “All done, sir. And the pudding is in the fridge.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good night.” He nodded at Mariana and left the room. Mariana heard him descending the steps and closing the door.

  They were alone.

  There was a pause, a tension between them as they stared at each other. Mariana, at any rate, felt it; she didn’t know what Fosca was feeling—what lay beneath that cool, charming manner of his. He was almost impossible to read.

  He gestured into the next room.

  “Shall we?”

  12

  In the dark, wood-paneled dining room, the long table was covered with a white linen tablecloth. Tall candles burned in silver candlesticks. And a bottle of red wine had been decanted and was sitting on the sideboard.

  Behind the table, out through the window, the oak tree that grew in the center of the courtyard was visible against a darkening sky; stars were twinkling through the branches. In any other situation, thought Mariana, eating in this beautiful old room would be incredibly romantic. But not now.

  “Sit down,” Fosca said.

  Mariana went to the table. Two places had been set opposite each other. She sat, and Fosca walked to the sideboard, where the food had been laid out—a leg of lamb, roast potatoes, and a green salad.

  “Smells good,” he said. “Trust me—this will be much better than if I attempted to cook something myself. I’ve a fairly sophisticated palate, but I’m pretty basic in the kitchen. Only the usual pasta recipes taught by an Italian mother to her son.”

  He smiled at Mariana and picked up a large carving knife. It glinted in the candlelight. She watched as he quickly and deftly used the knife to carve the lamb.

  “You’re Italian?” she said.

  Fosca nodded. “Second generation. My grandparents came over on the boat from Sicily.”

  “You grew up in New York?”

  “Not really. New York State. A farm, in the middle of nowhere.”

  Fosca served Mariana with several slices of lamb, a few potatoes, and some salad. He prepared a similar plate for himself.

  “And you grew up in Athens?”

  “I did.” She nodded. “Just outside.”

  “How exotic. I’m jealous.”

  Mariana smiled. “I could say the same about a farm in New York.”

  “Not if you went there. It was a dump. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out.” His smile faded as he said this, and he looked quite different somehow. Harder, and older. He placed the plate in front of her. Then he took his own plate to the other side of the table and sat down. “I like it rare. I hope that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Bon appétit.”

  Mariana looked at the plate in front of her. The slices of razor-thin lamb were so rare, so raw, that a shiny red puddle of blood was oozing out and spreading across the white china plate. She felt sick looking at it.

  “Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me, Mariana. As I said in the Fellows’ Garden—you intrigue me. It’s always intriguing when someone takes an interest in me. And you’ve certainly done that.” He chuckled. “This evening is my opportunity to return the favor.”

  Mariana picked up her fork. But she couldn’t bring herself to eat the meat. Instead, she focused on the potatoes and salad, moving the green leaves away from the expanding pool of blood.

  She could feel Fosca’s eyes on her. How chilly his gaze was—like a basilisk.

  “You’ve not tried the lamb. Won’t you?”

  Mariana nodded. She cut up a little piece of meat and slipped a red sliver into her mouth. It tasted wet, metallic, of blood. It took all her effort to chew and swallow it.

  Fosca smiled. “Good.”

  Mariana reached for her glass. She washed away the taste of blood with the remains of her champagne.

  Noticing her glass was empty, Fosca stood up. “Let’s have some wine, shall we?”

  He went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of dark red Bordeaux. He returned and handed a glass to Mariana. She brought the wine to her lips, and drank. It was earthy, gravelly, and full-bodied. She was already feeling the effects of the champagne on an empty stomach; she should stop drinking, or she’d soon be drunk. But she didn’t stop.

  Fosca sat down again, watching her, smiling. “Tell me about your husband.”

  Mariana shook her head. No.


  He looked surprised. “No? Why not?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Not even his name?”

  Mariana spoke in a low voice. “Sebastian.”

  And somehow, just by uttering his name, she conjured him up for a second—her guardian angel—and she felt safer, calmer; and Sebastian whispered in her ear, Don’t be scared, love, stand up for yourself. Don’t be afraid—

  She decided to take his advice. Mariana looked up and met Fosca’s gaze without blinking. “Tell me about yourself, Professor.”

  “Edward. What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me about your childhood.”

  “My childhood?”

  “What was your mother like? Were you fond of her?”

  Fosca laughed. “My mother? Are you going to psychoanalyze me over dinner?”

  Mariana said, “I’m just curious. I wonder what else she taught you besides pasta recipes?”

  Fosca shook his head. “My mother taught me very little, unfortunately. How about you? What was your mother like?”

  “I never knew my mother.”

  “Ah.” Fosca nodded. “I don’t think I really knew mine either.”

  He appraised Mariana for a moment, thinking. She could see his mind turning—he had a truly brilliant mind, she thought. Sharp as a knife. She’d have to be careful. She adopted a casual tone. “Was it a happy childhood?”

  “I can see you’re determined to make this into a therapy session.”

  “Not a therapy session—just a conversation.”

  “Conversations go both ways, Mariana.”

  Fosca smiled, and waited. Seeing she had no choice, she rose to the challenge.

  “I didn’t have a particularly happy childhood,” she said. “Sometimes, perhaps. I loved my father very much, but…”

  “But what…?”

  Mariana shrugged. “There was too much death.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Fosca slowly nodded. “Yes, I can see it in your eyes. There’s a great sadness there. You know, you remind me of a Tennysonian heroine—Mariana of the Moated Grange: ‘He cometh not,’ she said. ‘I am aweary, aweary. I would that I were dead.’”