The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  “No.” Julian shook his head. “Not yet. Soon, hopefully. The sooner, the better, quite frankly. It was horribly violent.”

  “Do you think she knew him?”

  Julian nodded. “It seems likely. We usually reserve that level of anger for our nearest and dearest, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly.” Mariana mulled it over.

  “Ten to one it’s her boyfriend.”

  “I don’t think she had a boyfriend.”

  Julian checked his watch. “I’ve got to meet the chief inspector now, but you know, I’d be happy to discuss this further … perhaps over a drink?” He smiled. “Good to see you, Mariana. It’s been years. We should catch up—”

  But Mariana was already walking away. “Sorry, Julian—I have to find my niece.”

  13

  Zoe’s room was in Eros Court—one of the smaller courtyards, consisting of student accommodations built around a rectangular lawn.

  In the center of the lawn stood a discolored statue of Eros clutching a bow and arrow. Centuries of rain and rust had aged him considerably, turning him from a cherub into a small, old green man.

  All the way around the courtyard, various staircases led off to the student rooms. A tall gray stone turret stood in each corner. As Mariana approached one of the turrets, she glanced up at the third-floor window and saw Zoe sitting there.

  Zoe hadn’t seen her, and Mariana stood there, watching her for a moment. The arched windows were latticed, with diamond-shaped panes of glass set in lead; the small panes broke up Zoe’s image, fracturing it into a jigsaw of diamond shapes—and, for a second, Mariana assembled another image from the jigsaw: not a twenty-year-old woman but a girl of six, silly and sweet, red-faced, with pigtails.

  Mariana felt such concern and affection for that little girl. Poor little Zoe—she had been through so much; Mariana dreaded having to hurt her further and break this terrible news. She shook her head, stopped procrastinating, and hurried into the turret.

  She climbed the old, circular, warped wooden staircase up to Zoe’s room. The door was ajar, so she went inside.

  It was a cozy little room—a little messy at present, with clothes strewn on the armchairs and dirty cups in the sink. There was a writing desk, a small fireplace, and a cushioned seat in the bay window, where Zoe was sitting, surrounded by books.

  When she saw Mariana, she let out a little cry. She leaped up and threw herself into Mariana’s arms.

  “You came. I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Of course I came.”

  Mariana tried to take a step backward, but Zoe wouldn’t let go, and Mariana had no choice but to submit to the hug. She felt its warmth, its affection. It was so unfamiliar to be touched like this. She realized how happy she was to see Zoe. She felt quite emotional, suddenly.

  After Sebastian, Zoe had always been Mariana’s favorite human being. She went to boarding school in England, and so Mariana and Sebastian had unofficially adopted her—Zoe had a bedroom in the little yellow house, and would stay over with them over half-term and during holidays. She was educated in England because her father had been English; Zoe, in fact, was only a quarter Greek. She had her father’s fair coloring and his blue eyes—so it didn’t particularly show, this quarter Greekness; Mariana used to wonder how and if it would one day manifest itself—that’s if it hadn’t been smothered by the great wet blanket of an English private school education.

  Zoe eventually released Mariana from the hug. And, gently as she could, Mariana broke the news about Tara’s body being identified.

  Zoe stared at her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she took in the news. Mariana pulled her back into her arms. Zoe clung to her as she wept.

  “It’s okay,” Mariana whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  She slowly guided Zoe to the bed and sat her down. When Zoe managed to stop sobbing, Mariana made them some tea. She washed out a couple of mugs in the small sink, and boiled the kettle.

  All the time, Zoe sat upright in bed, her knees up against her chest, staring into space, not bothering to wipe away the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She was clutching her ancient soft toy—a battered black-and-white-striped zebra. Zebra had one eye missing and was falling apart at the seams—having been Zoe’s companion since she was a baby, and suffering much abuse and receiving much love. Zoe held on to him now, squeezing him tight, rocking back and forth.

  Mariana placed the steaming mug of sweet tea on the cluttered coffee table. She watched Zoe with concern. The truth was Zoe had suffered badly from depression as a teenager. She had frequent fits of crying, punctuated by low, flat, emotionless moods, too depressed even to cry—which Mariana found harder to deal with than the tears. It was difficult to reach Zoe during those years, although her problems were hardly surprising, given the traumatic loss of her parents at such a young age.

  Zoe had been staying with them during that half-term, one April, when they received the phone call that would change her life forever. Sebastian answered the phone, and had to tell Zoe that her parents, Mariana’s sister and her husband, had been killed in a car crash. Zoe broke down, and Sebastian reached out and held her close. From then on, he and Mariana had doted on Zoe, probably a little too much—but having lost her own mother, Mariana felt determined to provide Zoe with everything she herself had longed for at a young age: maternal love, warmth, affection. It went both ways, of course—she felt Zoe gave back as much love as she received.

  Eventually, to their relief, bit by bit, Zoe managed to turn the corner on her grief—as she grew older, she suffered from depression less; she was able to apply herself at school, finishing her adolescence in much better shape than she had started it. But Mariana and Sebastian both had been worried how Zoe would cope with the social pressures of university—so when she made a close friend in Tara, they were relieved. And later on, after Sebastian died, Mariana was grateful Zoe had a best friend to lean on. Mariana didn’t have one; she had just lost him.

  But now, this new loss of Tara—the horrific loss of a good friend—how would it affect Zoe? That remained to be seen.

  “Zoe, here, drink some tea. It’s for the shock.”

  No response.

  “Zoe?”

  Zoe suddenly seemed to hear her. She looked up at Mariana with glassy eyes, filled with tears.

  “It’s my fault,” she whispered. “It’s all my fault she’s dead.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s not true—”

  “It is true. Listen to me. You don’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  Mariana sat on the edge of the bed, and waited for Zoe to go on.

  “It’s my fault, Mariana. I should have done something—that night—after I saw Tara—I should have told someone—I should have phoned the police. Then she might still be alive…”

  “The police? Why?”

  Zoe didn’t reply. Mariana frowned.

  “What did Tara say to you? You said—she sounded crazy?”

  Zoe’s eyes welled up with tears. She rocked back and forth in morose silence. Mariana knew the best approach was simply to be present, and patient, and let Zoe unburden herself in her own time. But there was no time. She spoke in a low voice, reassuring but firm.

  “What did she say to you, Zoe?”

  “I shouldn’t have told you. Tara made me swear not to tell anyone.”

  “I understand—you don’t want to betray her confidence. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  Zoe stared at her. As Mariana looked into her face, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide, she saw the eyes of a child: a little girl, scared, bursting with a secret she didn’t want to keep but was too afraid to tell.

  Then, eventually, Zoe gave in:

  “The night before last, Tara came and found me in my room. She was a real mess. She was high on something, I don’t know what. She was really upset … And she said—she was afraid…”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “She sai
d—someone was going to kill her.”

  Mariana stared at Zoe for a second. “Go on.”

  “She made me promise not to tell anyone—she said if I said anything, and he found out, he’d kill her.”

  “‘He’? Who was she talking about? Did she say who threatened to kill her?”

  Zoe nodded, but didn’t answer.

  Mariana repeated the question. “Who was it, Zoe?”

  Zoe shook her head, unsure. “She sounded so crazy—”

  “It doesn’t matter, just tell me.”

  “She said—it was one of the tutors here. A professor.”

  Mariana blinked, taken aback. “Here, at St. Christopher’s?”

  Zoe nodded. “Yes.”

  “I see. What’s his name?”

  Zoe paused. She spoke in a low voice.

  “Edward Fosca.”

  14

  Just under an hour later, Zoe was repeating her story to Chief Inspector Sadhu Sangha.

  The inspector had commandeered the dean’s office. It was a spacious room overlooking Main Court. On one wall, there was a beautifully carved mahogany bookcase and a leather-bound collection of books. The other walls were covered with portraits of past deans—watching the police officers with undisguised suspicion.

  Chief Inspector Sangha sat behind the large desk. He opened the flask he carried with him, and poured himself a cup of tea. He was in his early fifties, with dark eyes and a short-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, smartly dressed in a gray blazer and tie. As he was a Sikh, he was wearing a turban, in eye-catching royal blue. He was a commanding, powerful presence, but had a nervous energy about him—a lean and hungry look—forever tapping his foot or drumming his fingers.

  To Mariana he seemed faintly irritable. He gave her the impression that he wasn’t paying full attention to what Zoe was saying. He didn’t seem particularly interested. He’s not taking her seriously, thought Mariana.

  But she was wrong. He was taking her seriously. He put down his tea, and fixed his large dark eyes on Zoe.

  “And what did you think—when she told you this?” he said. “Did you believe her?”

  “I don’t know…” Zoe said. “She was a mess, you know, she was high. But she was always high, so…” Zoe shrugged, and thought about it for a second. “I mean, it sounded so weird…”

  “Did she say why Professor Fosca had threatened to kill her?”

  Zoe looked a little uncomfortable. “She said they were sleeping together. And they had a fight or something … and she threatened to tell the college and get him fired. And he said, if she did…”

  “He’d kill her?”

  Zoe nodded. She looked relieved to have got it off her chest. “That’s right.”

  The inspector seemed to mull this over for a moment. Then he abruptly stood up.

  “I’m going to talk to Professor Fosca. Wait here, will you? And, Zoe—we’ll need you to make a statement.”

  He left the room, and in his absence, Zoe repeated her story to a junior officer, who wrote it down. Mariana waited uneasily, wondering what was going on.

  A long hour passed. And then Inspector Sangha returned. He sat down again.

  “Professor Fosca was most cooperative,” he said. “I’ve taken a statement from him—and he says that, at the time of Tara’s death—at ten P.M.—he was finishing a class in his rooms. It went from eight until ten P.M., and was attended by six students. He gave me their names. We’ve spoken to two of them so far, and they both corroborate his story.” The inspector gave Zoe a thoughtful look. “As a result, I am not charging the professor with any crime, and I feel perfectly satisfied that—despite what Tara may have said—he is not responsible for her death.”

  “I see,” said Zoe in a whisper.

  Zoe kept her gaze down, staring at her lap. Mariana thought she looked worried.

  “I’m wondering what you can tell me about Conrad Ellis?” said the inspector. “He’s not a student here—he lives in town, I believe. He was Tara’s boyfriend?”

  Zoe shook her head. “He wasn’t her boyfriend. They hung out, that’s all.”

  “I see.” The inspector consulted his notes. “It seems he has two prior convictions—for drug dealing, and for aggravated assault…” He glanced at Zoe. “And his neighbors heard them having violent arguments on several occasions.”

  Zoe shrugged. “He’s a mess, like she was … but—he’d never hurt her, if that’s what you mean. He’s not like that. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Hmm. He sounds lovely.” The inspector didn’t look convinced. He drained his tea, then screwed the lid back onto the flask.

  Case closed, Mariana thought.

  “You know, Inspector,” she said, indignant on Zoe’s behalf, “I do think you ought to listen to her.”

  “Excuse me?” Inspector Sangha blinked. He looked surprised to hear Mariana speak. “Remind me,” he said, “who are you again?”

  “I’m Zoe’s aunt, and guardian. And—if necessary—her advocate.”

  Inspector Sangha seemed faintly amused by this. “Your niece seems perfectly capable of being her own advocate, as far as I can tell.”

  “Well, Zoe is a good judge of character. She always has been. If she knows Conrad—and thinks he is innocent—you should take her seriously.”

  The inspector’s smile faded. “When I interview him, I’ll form my own opinion—if you don’t mind. Just so we’re clear, I’m in charge here, and I don’t respond well to being told what to do—”

  “I’m not telling you what to—”

  “Or to being interrupted. So I would strongly suggest that you keep out of my way—and out of my investigation. Understood?”

  Mariana was about to argue back—but restrained herself. She forced a smile.

  “Perfectly,” she said.

  15

  After leaving the dean’s office, Zoe and Mariana walked through the colonnade at the end of the courtyard—a series of twelve marble columns, which supported the library above. The columns were very old and discolored, with cracks running through them like veins. They cast long shadows on the floor, plunging the women into occasional darkness as they wandered between them.

  Mariana put her arm around Zoe. “Darling, are you all right?” she said.

  Zoe shrugged. “I—I don’t know.”

  “Do you think, perhaps, Tara was lying to you?”

  Zoe looked pained. “I don’t know. I—”

  Zoe suddenly froze and stopped walking. From nowhere, stepping out from behind a column—a man had appeared in front of them.

  He stood there, blocking their path. He stared at her.

  “Hello, Zoe.”

  “Professor Fosca,” Zoe said, with a slight intake of breath.

  “How are you? Are you okay? I can’t believe this has happened. I’m in shock.”

  He had an American accent, Mariana noticed, with a soft, lilting cadence to his speech—ever-so-slightly Anglicized around the edges.

  “You poor thing,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Zoe. You must be absolutely devastated—”

  He spoke in an impassioned tone, and seemed genuinely distressed. He reached out to her—and Zoe made a slight, involuntary movement backward. Mariana noticed it, and so did the professor. He gave Zoe an awkward look.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’ll tell you exactly what I told the inspector. It’s important you hear this from me—right now.”

  Fosca ignored Mariana, addressing himself solely to Zoe. And Mariana studied him as he spoke. He was younger than she’d expected, and considerably more handsome. He was in his early forties, tall, with an athletic build. He had strong cheekbones and striking dark eyes. Everything about him was dark—his black eyes, his beard, his clothes. His long black hair was tied up in a messy knot at the back of his head. And he was wearing a black academic gown, an untucked shirt, and a loose tie. There was something charismatic, even Byronic, about the whole effect.

  “The truth is,” he said, “I probably handled it badly. I
’m sure you can vouch for this, Zoe—but Tara was barely coping, academically. In fact she was failing abysmally, despite my repeated efforts to get her to improve her attendance record and complete the coursework. And she left me with no choice. I had a very frank chat with her. I said that I didn’t know if drugs were involved, or if it was relationship problems, but she hadn’t done enough to progress this year. I told her she had to resit the entirety of last year. It was either that, or send her down.”

  He gave a weary shake of the head. “And when I told Tara this, she became quite hysterical. She said her father would kill her. She begged me to change my mind. I said it was out of the question. And then her attitude changed. She became quite aggressive. She threatened me. She said she would ruin my career and get me fired.” He sighed. “It seems this is what she attempted. Everything she said to you—these sexual allegations—it’s an obvious attempt to damage my reputation.”

  He lowered his voice. “I would never have sex with any of my students—it would be the most gross betrayal of trust, and an abuse of power. As you know, I was extremely fond of Tara. That’s why hearing she made this accusation is so hurtful.”

  Despite herself, Mariana found Fosca entirely convincing. There was nothing remotely in his manner to suggest he was lying. Everything he said had the ring of truth. Tara had often spoken about her father in fearful terms, and Zoe had reported, from her visit to their estate in Scotland, that Tara’s father had been a strict host—even draconian. Mariana could well imagine his reaction to Tara failing the year. She could also imagine that the prospect of telling him might make Tara hysterical—and desperate.

  Mariana glanced at Zoe to see how she was taking it. It was hard to tell. Zoe was clearly tense, and staring at the stone floor with a look of embarrassment.

  “I hope that clears it up,” Fosca said. “What’s important now is we help the police catch whoever did this. I have suggested they investigate Conrad Ellis, that man Tara was involved with. By all accounts, he’s a nasty piece of work.”