The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  She maintained eye contact with Fosca as she said this, aware of the rising anger in her voice and doing her best to control it. Fosca stared back at her coolly, a smile on his face. She went on, trying to stay calm.

  “I realized I was looking at the murders the wrong way around. This wasn’t the work of a madman, a psychopathic killer driven by uncontrollable rage—it was just meant to look that way. These girls were murdered methodically and rationally. The only intended victim was Tara.”

  “And why do you think that?” said Edward Fosca, speaking for the first time.

  Mariana looked him in the eyes. “Because Tara was your lover. And then something happened—she discovered you were sleeping with the others?—and threatened to expose you—and then what? You’d lose your job, and this elitist academic world that you cherish; you’d lose your reputation—you couldn’t let that happen. You threatened to kill Tara. And you then carried out that threat. Unfortunately for you, she told Zoe first … And Zoe told me.”

  Fosca stared at her. His dark eyes glinted in the light like black ice. “That’s your theory, is it?”

  “Yes.” Mariana held his gaze. “That’s my theory. Along with the others, Veronica and Serena gave you an alibi—they were all sufficiently under your spell to do so—but then what? Did they change their minds—or threaten to? Or did you just want to make sure they never would?”

  No one answered this question. There was just silence.

  The chief inspector didn’t say anything; he poured himself some tea. The dean was staring at Mariana with astonishment, clearly unable to believe his ears. Julian wouldn’t meet her eye, and made a pretense of looking through his notes.

  Edward Fosca spoke first. He addressed Chief Inspector Sangha.

  “Obviously, I deny this. All of it. And I’m happy to answer any questions you may have. But first, Inspector—do I need a lawyer?”

  The inspector held up his hand. “I don’t think we’re quite there yet, Professor. If you’ll just wait a second.” Sangha fixed his eyes on Mariana. “Do you have any evidence at all to back up these accusations?”

  Mariana nodded her head. “Yes—these postcards.”

  “Ah. The famous postcards.” Sangha looked down at the postcards in front of him. He picked them up and shuffled them slowly, dealing them like cards.

  “If I understand correctly,” he said, “you believe they were sent to each victim before the murder, as a kind of calling card? Announcing his intention to kill?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And now that you have received one—presumably you are in imminent danger? Why do you think he has chosen you as a victim?”

  Mariana shrugged. “I think—I’ve become a threat to him. I got too close. I got inside his head.”

  She didn’t look at Fosca; she didn’t trust herself to retain her composure.

  “You know, Mariana,” she heard Fosca say, “anyone can copy out a Greek quotation from a book. You don’t need a Harvard degree.”

  “I’m aware of that, Professor. But when I was in your room, I found the same quotation underlined in your own copy of Euripides. Is that just a coincidence?”

  Fosca laughed. “If we were to go to my room right now—and take any book off the shelf—you’ll see I underline practically everything.” He went on before she could speak. “And do you honestly believe, if I killed those girls, I would send them postcards quoting texts that I teach them? Do you think I would be that stupid?”

  Mariana shook her head. “It’s not stupid—you didn’t think these messages would be understood, or even noticed by the police, or anyone else. It was your private joke—at the girls’ expense. That’s what made me sure it was you. Psychologically, it’s just the kind of thing you would do.”

  Inspector Sangha responded before Fosca could speak. “Fortunately for Professor Fosca, he was seen in college, at the exact time of Serena’s murder—at midnight.”

  “Who saw him?”

  The inspector went to pour more tea, but realized the flask was empty. He frowned. “Morris. The head porter. He encountered the professor smoking outside his room, and they spoke for several minutes.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “Mariana—”

  “Listen to me—”

  Before Sangha could stop her, Mariana told him she suspected Morris was blackmailing Fosca—that she had followed him, and seen him and Serena together.

  The chief inspector seemed mildly stunned. He leaned forward and stared at her.

  “You saw them—in the graveyard? I think you’d better tell me exactly what you’ve been up to.”

  So she did, going into more detail, and to her dismay, the more the conversation moved away from Edward Fosca, the more the inspector seemed excited about Morris as a suspect.

  Julian agreed. “That explains how the killer could move around invisibly. Who goes unnoticed around college? Who don’t we see? A man in a uniform—a man with a perfect right to be there. A porter.”

  “Exactly.” The chief inspector thought for a moment. Then he beckoned over one of the junior officers and told him to bring in Morris for questioning.

  Mariana was about to intervene, even though she knew there would be little point. But then, Julian smiled at her. He spoke.

  “Listen, Mariana. I’m on your side—so don’t get upset about what I’m going to say.”

  “What?”

  “To be honest, I noticed it as soon as I saw you here in Cambridge. It struck me straightaway, that you seemed a little strange—a little paranoid.”

  Mariana couldn’t help but laugh. “What?”

  “I know it’s hard to hear—but it’s obvious you’re suffering from persecutory feelings. You’re unwell, Mariana. You need help. And I’d like to help you … if you’ll let me—”

  “Fuck you, Julian.”

  The inspector banged his flask on the desk. “That’s enough!”

  There was silence. Chief Inspector Sangha spoke firmly. “Mariana. You’ve repeatedly tested my patience. You’ve made totally unsubstantiated accusations against Professor Fosca—not to mention physically assaulting him. He’s perfectly within his rights to press charges.”

  She tried to interrupt, but Sangha kept talking. “No, enough—you need to listen to me now. I want you gone by tomorrow morning. Away from this college and Professor Fosca—away from this investigation—away from me. Or I will have you arrested and charged with obstructing justice. Is that clear? Listen to Julian, okay? See your doctor. Get some help.”

  Mariana opened her mouth—and choked back a scream, a howl of frustration. She swallowed her anger, and sat in silence. There was no point in arguing further. She lowered her head, indignant but defeated.

  She had lost.

  Part Five

  The spring is wound up tight. It will uncoil of itself. That is what is so convenient in tragedy. The least little turn of the wrist will do the job.

  —JEAN ANOUILH, Antigone

  1

  An hour later, in order to avoid the press, a police car was driven around the back of the college, by the gate, which opened onto a narrow street. Mariana stood among various students and members of staff who gathered to watch as Morris was arrested, handcuffed, and led to the car. Some of the porters booed and jeered at him as he went by. Morris’s face colored slightly, but he didn’t react. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his eyes low.

  At the last minute, Morris looked up—and Mariana followed his eyes … to the window—where Edward Fosca was standing.

  Fosca was watching the proceedings with a small smile on his face. He’s laughing at us, Mariana thought.

  And as he made eye contact with Morris, a brief spasm of rage flashed across Morris’s face.

  Then the police officer pulled off his bowler hat—and Morris was bundled into the police car. Mariana watched it drive off, taking him away—and the gate was closed.

  Mariana looked up again at Fosca’s window.

  But he had gone.
/>
  “Thank God,” she heard the dean say. “At last, it’s over.”

  He was wrong, of course. It was far from over.

  * * *

  Almost immediately, the weather changed. As if responding to events in college, summer, having held on for so long, finally withdrew. A chilly wind hissed through the courtyards. It started spitting rain, and in the distance, a thunderstorm could be heard rumbling.

  Mariana and Zoe were having a drink with Clarissa in the Fellows’ Parlor—a common room for the fellows. This afternoon, it was deserted apart from the three women.

  It was a large, shadowy room, furnished with ancient leather armchairs and couches, mahogany writing desks, and tables laden with newspapers and journals. It smelled smoky, of wood and ash from the fireplaces. Outside, the wind was rattling the windowpanes, and the rain was tapping on the glass. It was chilly enough for Clarissa to request a small fire be lit.

  The three women sat in low armchairs, around the fire, drinking whiskey. Mariana swirled the whiskey around in her glass, watching the amber liquid glow in the firelight. She felt comforted being here, cocooned by the fire with Clarissa and Zoe. This small group gave her strength—and courage. She needed courage now; they all did.

  Zoe had come from a class at the English Faculty. Possibly her last class, said Clarissa; there was talk of an imminent closure of the college, pending a police investigation.

  Zoe had been caught in the rain; as she dried herself by the fire, Mariana told them what had happened—and about her confrontation with Edward Fosca. When she finished, Zoe spoke in a low voice.

  “That was a mistake. Confronting him like that … Now he knows you know.”

  Mariana glanced at Zoe. “I thought you said he was innocent?”

  Zoe met her gaze and shook her head. “I changed my mind.”

  Clarissa looked from one to the other. “You’re quite sure, both of you, then, that he is guilty? One doesn’t want to believe it.”

  “I know,” said Mariana. “But I believe it.”

  “So do I,” said Zoe.

  Clarissa didn’t reply. She reached for the decanter and refilled her glass. Mariana noticed her hand was trembling.

  “What do we do now?” said Zoe. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Mariana shook her head. “Let him arrest me, I don’t care. I’m not going back to London.”

  Clarissa looked astonished. “What? Why on earth not?”

  “I can’t run away. Not anymore. I’ve been running since Sebastian died. I need to stay—I need to face this, whatever it is. I’m not afraid.” The phrase sounded unfamiliar on her tongue. Mariana tried it again. “I’m not afraid.”

  Clarissa tutted. “That’s the whiskey talking.”

  “Perhaps.” Mariana smiled. “Dutch courage is better than none.” She turned to Zoe. “We keep going. That’s what we do. We keep going—and we catch him.”

  “How? We need some proof.”

  “Yes.”

  Zoe hesitated. “What about the murder weapon?”

  Something about the way she said this made Mariana look at her. “You mean the knife?”

  Zoe nodded. “They’ve not found it yet, have they? I think—I know where it is.”

  Mariana stared at her. “How do you know that?”

  Zoe avoided her eye for a second. She kept looking away at the fire—a furtive, guilty gesture that Mariana recognized from childhood.

  “Zoe?”

  “It’s a long story, Mariana.”

  “Now’s a good time for it. Don’t you think?” She lowered her voice. “You know, when I saw the Maidens, they told me something, Zoe … They told me that you were part of the group.”

  Zoe’s eyes widened. She shook her head. “That’s not true.”

  “Zoe, don’t lie—”

  “I’m not! I only went once.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me?” said Mariana.

  “I don’t know.” Zoe shook her head. “I was afraid. I felt so ashamed … I wanted to tell you for so long, but I…”

  She fell silent. Mariana reached out and touched her hand. “Tell me now. Tell us both.”

  Zoe’s lip trembled a little, and she nodded. She began to speak, and Mariana steeled herself—

  And the very first thing Zoe said made Mariana’s blood run cold.

  “I suppose,” Zoe said, “it begins with Demeter—and Persephone.” She glanced at Mariana. “You know them, right?”

  It took Mariana a second to find her voice.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I know them.”

  2

  Zoe drained her drink. She placed it on the mantelpiece. The fire was smoking slightly, and gray-white smoke swirled around her.

  Mariana watched Zoe, with the red-and-gold flames dancing beneath her, and Mariana had a funny campfire-like feeling, as if she were about to be told a ghost story … Which in a way, she was.

  Zoe began telling the story, tentatively at first, bit by bit, that Professor Fosca was so fond of—the secret rites at Eleusis to honor Persephone: rites that took you on a journey from life to death and back again.

  The professor knew the secret, he said—and he shared it with a few special students.

  “He made me swear an oath of secrecy. I couldn’t talk about what happened with anyone. I know it was weird, but—I was flattered that he thought I was special enough—clever enough. And I was curious too. And then … it was my turn to be initiated into the Maidens … He told me to meet him at the folly, at midnight, for the ceremony.”

  “The folly?”

  “You know—it’s by the river, near Paradise.”

  Mariana nodded. “Go on.”

  “Just before twelve, Carla and Diya met me at the boathouse, and escorted me—on the river, in a punt.”

  “A punt, why?”

  “It’s the easiest way to get there from here—the path is overgrown with brambles.” She paused for a moment. “The others were there when I arrived. Veronica and Serena were standing by the entrance to the folly. They were wearing masks—meant to be Persephone and Demeter.”

  “Good God,” said Clarissa, letting out an involuntary groan of disbelief. She quickly gestured at Zoe to continue.

  “Lillian led me into the folly—the professor was waiting there. He put a blindfold on me, and then—I drank the kykeon—which he said was just barley water. But he was lying. Tara told me later it was spiked with GHB—he used to buy it from Conrad.”

  Mariana was feeling unbearably tense—she didn’t want to hear anymore. But she knew she had no choice. “Go on.”

  “And then,” Zoe said, “he whispered in my ear … that I would die tonight—and be reborn at dawn. And he took out a knife, and he touched my throat with it.”

  “He did that?” said Mariana.

  “He didn’t cut me or anything—he said it was just a ritual sacrifice. Then he took off my blindfold … And that’s when I saw where he put the knife … He slid it into a gap in the wall—between two stone slabs.”

  Zoe shut her eyes for a second. “After that, it’s hard to remember. My legs were like jelly, like I was melting … And we left the folly. We were in the trees … in the woodland. Some of the girls were dancing naked … the others were in the river, swimming—but I—I didn’t want to take my clothes off…” She shook her head. “I don’t remember exactly. But I lost them, somehow—and I was alone, and high—and scared—and … he was there.”

  “Edward Fosca?”

  “That’s right.” Zoe seemed unwilling to say his name. “I tried to speak but couldn’t. He kept—kissing me … touching me—saying he loved me. His eyes were wild … I remember his eyes—they were crazy. I tried to get away … But I couldn’t. And then—Tara appeared, and they started kissing—and somehow, I managed to get away—I ran through the trees—I kept running…” She lowered her head, and fell silent for a moment. “I kept running … I got away.”

  Mariana prompted her. “W
hat happened then, Zoe?”

  Zoe shrugged. “Nothing. I never spoke to the girls about it again—apart from Tara.”

  “And Professor Fosca?”

  “He acted as if it never happened. So I—tried to pretend it hadn’t.” She shrugged. “But then Tara found me that night in my room … She told me he had threatened to kill her. I’d never seen Tara so scared—she was terrified.”

  Clarissa spoke in a low voice. “Dear girl, you should have alerted the college. You should have told someone. You should have come to me.”

  “Would you have believed me, Clarissa? It’s such a crazy story—it’s my word against his.”

  Mariana nodded, feeling close to tears. She wanted to reach out and pull Zoe into a hug and hold her.

  But first, there was something she had to know.

  “Zoe—why now? Why are you telling us this now?”

  Zoe didn’t speak for a moment. She went over to the armchair where her jacket was hanging, drying by the fire. She reached into the pocket.

  She pulled out a slightly damp, rain-speckled postcard.

  Zoe dropped it in Mariana’s lap.

  “Because I got one too.”

  3

  Mariana stared at the postcard in her lap.

  The image was from a murky rococo painting—Iphigenia naked on a bed, with Agamemnon creeping up behind her, brandishing a knife. On the back, there was an inscription in Ancient Greek. Mariana didn’t bother to get Clarissa to translate. There was no point.