The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  Zoe turned abruptly to Mariana. “I have to go—I’m meeting some friends for a drink. Do you want to come?”

  Mariana shook her head. “I said I’d pop in to see Clarissa. I’ll find you later.”

  Zoe nodded, and started walking off.

  Mariana turned back to where Fosca had been—but to her surprise, he had already gone, striding away across the courtyard.

  There was just a lingering trace of cigarette smoke where he had been standing, twisting and turning before it vanished in the air.

  19

  “Tell me about Professor Fosca,” said Mariana.

  Clarissa gave her a curious look as she poured amber-colored tea from a silver teapot into two delicate china cups. She handed Mariana the cup and saucer.

  “Professor Fosca? What makes you ask about him?”

  Mariana decided it might be best not to go into detail. “No reason,” she said. “Zoe mentioned him.”

  Clarissa shrugged. “I don’t know him terribly well—he’s only been with us a couple of years. First-class mind. American. Did his doctorate under Robertson at Harvard.”

  She sat down opposite Mariana, in the faded lime-green armchair by the window. She smiled at Mariana fondly. Professor Clarissa Miller was in her late seventies, with an ageless face hidden under a mop of messy gray hair. She was wearing a white silk shirt and a tweed skirt, with a loose-knit green cardigan that was probably considerably older than most of her students.

  Clarissa had been Mariana’s director of studies when she was a student. Most of the teaching at St. Christopher’s was done on a one-to-one basis, between fellow and student, usually taking place in the fellow’s rooms. At any time after midday, or even earlier, at the discretion of the fellow concerned, alcohol was invariably served—an excellent Beaujolais, in Clarissa’s case, brought up from the labyrinthine wine cellars beneath college—providing an education in drinking as well as literature.

  It also meant that tutorials took on a more personal flavor, and lines between teacher and pupil became blurred—confidences were given, and intimacies exchanged. Clarissa had been touched, and perhaps intrigued, by this lonely motherless Greek girl. She kept a maternal eye on Mariana during her time at St. Christopher’s. And for her part, Mariana was inspired by Clarissa—not just by the professor’s remarkable academic achievements in a field dominated by men, but also by her knowledge, and enthusiasm for imparting that knowledge. And Clarissa’s patience and kindness—and occasional irascibility—meant Mariana retained much more from her than from any other tutor she encountered.

  They stayed in touch after Mariana graduated, through occasional notes and postcards, until one day an unexpected email came from Clarissa, announcing that against all odds she had joined the internet age. She sent Mariana a beautiful and heartfelt email after Sebastian died, which Mariana found so moving, she saved and reread it several times.

  “I hear Professor Fosca taught Tara?” Mariana said.

  Clarissa nodded. “That’s right, yes, he did. Poor girl … I know he was quite concerned about her.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yes, he said Tara was barely scraping through, academically. She was quite troubled, he said.” She sighed, and shook her head. “Terrible business. Terrible.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Mariana sipped some tea, and watched Clarissa pack her pipe with tobacco. It was a handsome thing, made of dark cherrywood.

  Pipe smoking was a habit Clarissa had picked up from her late husband. Her rooms smelled of smoke and spicy, pungent pipe tobacco; over the years, the odor had seeped into the walls, into the paper in the books, into Clarissa herself. It was overpowering at times, and Mariana knew that students in the past had objected to Clarissa smoking during supervisions—until Clarissa was eventually forced to comply with changing health-and-safety standards and no longer allowed to inflict her habit on her students.

  But Mariana didn’t mind; in fact, sitting here now, she realized how much she’d missed this smell. On the rare occasions she encountered a pipe being smoked in the outside world, she would immediately feel reassured, associating the smelly, dark, billowing smoke with wisdom and learning—and kindness.

  Clarissa lit the pipe and puffed away on it, disappearing behind clouds of smoke. “It’s a struggle to make sense of it,” she said. “I feel quite at a loss, you know. It reminds me what sheltered lives we live here in the cloister—naive, perhaps even willfully ignorant of the horrors of the outside world.”

  Privately, Mariana agreed. Reading about life was no preparation for living it; she had learned this the hard way. But she didn’t say so. She just nodded.

  “Such violence is horrifying. It’s hard for anyone to comprehend.”

  Clarissa pointed the pipe at Mariana. She often used her pipe as a prop, sending tobacco flying and leaving blackened holes on the rugs where burning embers had landed. “The Greeks had a word for it, you know. For that kind of anger.”

  Mariana was intrigued. “Did they?”

  “Menis. There’s no real equivalent in English. You remember, Homer begins The Iliad with ‘μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος’—‘Sing to me, O goddess, of the menis of Achilles.’”

  “Ah. What does it mean, exactly?”

  Clarissa mused for a second. “I suppose the closest translation is a kind of uncontrollable anger—terrifying rage—a frenzy.”

  Mariana nodded. “A frenzy, yes … It was frenzied.”

  Clarissa placed the pipe in a small silver ashtray. She gave Mariana a small smile. “I’m so glad you’re here, my dear. You’ll be such a help.”

  “I’m only staying tonight—I’m just here for Zoe.”

  Clarissa looked disappointed. “Is that all?”

  “Well, I have to get back to London. I have my patients—”

  “Of course, but…” Clarissa shrugged. “Might you not consider staying a few days? For the sake of the college?”

  “I don’t see how I can help. I’m a psychotherapist, not a detective.”

  “I’m aware of that. You’re a psychotherapist who specializes in groups … And what is this if not a group concern?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You were also a student at St. Christopher’s—which gives you a level of insight and understanding which the police, however well-intentioned, simply do not possess.”

  Mariana shook her head. She felt a little annoyed at once again being put on the spot. “I’m not a criminologist. This really isn’t my field.”

  Clarissa looked disappointed, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she watched Mariana for a moment. She spoke in a softer tone.

  “Forgive me, my dear. It occurs to me I’ve not once asked you how it feels.”

  “What?”

  “Being here—without Sebastian.”

  This was the first reference Clarissa had made to him. Mariana was a little thrown by it. She didn’t know what to say.

  “I don’t know how it feels.”

  “It must be odd?”

  Mariana nodded. “‘Odd’ is a good word.”

  “It was odd for me, after Timmy died. He was always there—and then, suddenly, he wasn’t. I kept expecting him to jump out from behind a column and surprise me … I still do.”

  Clarissa had been married to Professor Timothy Miller for thirty years. Two famous Cambridge eccentrics, they were often seen charging around town together, books under their arms, with uncombed hair, wearing occasional odd socks, deep in conversation. One of the happiest couples Mariana had ever encountered, until Timmy died ten years ago.

  “It will get easier,” Clarissa said.

  “Will it?”

  “It’s important to keep looking ahead. You mustn’t forever look back, over your shoulder. Think about the future.”

  Mariana shook her head. “To be honest, I can’t really see a future … I can’t see much. It’s all…” She searched for the words. Then she remembered: “Behind a veil. Wh
ere’s that from? ‘Behind the veil, behind the veil—’”

  “Tennyson.” Clarissa spoke without hesitation. “In Memoriam—stanza fifty-six, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Mariana smiled. Most fellows had an encyclopedia for a brain; Clarissa had an entire library. The professor closed her eyes and proceeded to recite it from memory.

  “‘O life as futile, then, as frail! / O for thy voice to soothe and bless! / What hope of answer, or redress? / Behind the veil, behind the veil…’”

  Mariana nodded sadly. “Yes … Yes, that’s it.”

  “Rather underrated these days, I’m afraid, Tennyson.” Clarissa smiled, and then glanced at her watch. “If you’re staying tonight, we must find you a room. Let me call the porter’s lodge.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Wait a moment.”

  The old woman heaved herself to her feet, and went to the bookcase. She ran her finger along the spines until she located a book. She pulled it off the shelf, and pressed it into Mariana’s hands.

  “Here. I found this such a source of solace after Timmy died.”

  It was a slim black leather-bound volume. IN MEMORIAM A.H.H. by Alfred Tennyson was embossed on the cover in faded gold lettering.

  Clarissa gave Mariana a firm look. “Read it.”

  20

  Mr. Morris found Mariana a room. He was the head porter.

  Mariana was surprised to meet him at the porter’s lodge. She remembered old Mr. Morris well: he was an elderly, avuncular man, popular around college, famously lenient with undergraduates.

  But this Mr. Morris was young, under thirty, tall and powerfully built. He had a strong jaw and dark brown hair, parted on one side and slicked down. He was dressed in a dark suit, a blue-and-green college tie, and black bowler hat.

  He smiled at Mariana’s look of surprise.

  “You look like you were expecting someone else, miss.”

  Mariana nodded, embarrassed. “I was, actually—Mr. Morris—”

  “He was my grandpa. He passed away a few years ago.”

  “Oh, I see, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t worry. Happens all the time—I’m a pale copy, so the other porters often remind me.” He winked and tipped his hat. “This way, miss. Follow me.”

  His polite, formal manners seemed to belong to a different age, Mariana thought. A better one, perhaps.

  He insisted on carrying her bag, despite her protestations. “That’s the way we do things, here. You know that. St. Christopher’s is one place where time stands still.”

  He smiled at her. He seemed entirely at ease, with an air of total assurance, very much lord of his domain—which was true of all college porters, in Mariana’s experience, and rightly so: without them to run the college on a day-to-day basis, everything would quickly fall apart.

  Mariana followed Morris to a room in Gabriel Court. It was the same courtyard where she had lived as a student in her final year. She glanced at her old staircase as they passed it—at the stone steps she and Sebastian had run up and down a million times.

  She followed Morris to the corner of the courtyard—to an octagonal turret built from slabs of weathered, stained granite; it housed a staircase leading to the college guest rooms. They went inside, and up the oak-paneled circular stairs—up to the second floor.

  Morris unlocked a door, opened it, and gave Mariana the key.

  “There you go, miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked in and looked around. It was a small room—with a bay window, a fireplace, and a four-poster oak bed with twisted barley-sugar bedposts. The bed had a heavy chintz canopy and curtains all the way around. It looked a little suffocating, she thought.

  “It’s one of the nicer rooms we have available for old students,” said Morris. “A little on the small side, perhaps.” He placed Mariana’s bag on the floor by the bed. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  “Thank you, you’re very kind.”

  They hadn’t discussed the murder, but she felt she needed to acknowledge it in some way—mainly because it was constantly in her thoughts.

  “It’s a terrible thing that’s happened.”

  Morris nodded. “Isn’t it?”

  “It must be extremely upsetting for everyone in college.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m glad my old grandpa didn’t live to see it. Would have finished him off.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Tara?” Morris shook his head. “Only by reputation. She was … well-known, let’s say. Her and her friends.”

  “Her friends?”

  “That’s right. Quite a … provocative group of young women.”

  “‘Provocative’? That’s an interesting choice of word.”

  “Is it, miss?”

  He was being deliberately coy, and Mariana wondered why.

  “What do you mean by it?”

  Morris smiled. “Just that they’re a little … boisterous, if you take my meaning. We had to keep a firm eye on them, and their parties. I had to shut them down a few times. All sorts of goings-on.”

  “I see.”

  It was hard to read his expression. Mariana wondered what lay beneath his good manners and genial demeanor. What was he really thinking?

  Morris smiled. “If you’re curious about Tara, I’d talk to a bedder. They always seem to know what’s going on in college. All the gossip.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, thank you.”

  “If that’s all, miss, I’ll leave you in peace. Good night.”

  Morris walked to the door and slipped out. He closed it silently behind him.

  Mariana was alone at last—after a long and exhausting day. She sat on the bed, drained.

  She looked at her watch. Nine o’clock. She should just go to bed—but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She was too agitated, too upset.

  And then, as she unpacked her overnight bag, she found the slim volume of poetry Clarissa had given her.

  In Memoriam.

  She sat on the bed and opened it. The years had dehydrated the pages, warping and stiffening them, leaving ripples and waves. She cracked open the book and stroked the rough pages with her fingertips.

  What had Clarissa said about it? That she would have a different perspective on it now. Why? Because of Sebastian?

  Mariana remembered reading the poem as a student. Like most people, she was put off by its immense length. It was over three thousand lines long, and she’d felt a huge sense of achievement just to have got through it. She didn’t respond to it at the time—but she was younger then, happy and in love, and in no need of sad poetry.

  In the introduction by an old scholar, Mariana read that Alfred Tennyson had an unhappy childhood—the “black blood” of the Tennysons was infamous. His father was a drunk and a drug addict, and violently abusive—Tennyson’s siblings suffered from depression and mental illness, and were either institutionalized or committed suicide. Alfred fled home at the age of eighteen. And like Mariana, he stumbled into a world of freedom and beauty in Cambridge. And he also found love. Whether the relationship between Arthur Henry Hallam and Tennyson was sexual or not, it was obviously deeply romantic: from the day they met, at the end of their first year, they spent every waking moment together. They were often seen walking hand in hand—until, a few years later, in 1833 … Hallam suddenly died from an aneurysm.

  It was arguable that Tennyson never fully recovered from the loss of Hallam. Depressed, disheveled, unwashed, Tennyson gave in to his grief. He fell apart. For the next seventeen years, he grieved, writing only scraps of poetry—lines, verses, elegies—all of it about Hallam. Finally, these verses were collected together as one enormous poem. It was published as In Memoriam A.H.H. and quickly recognized as one of the greatest poems ever written in the English language.

  Mariana perched on the bed and began to read. She soon discovered how painfully authentic and familiar his voice sounded—she had the strange, out-of-body sensation this was her voice, not Te
nnyson’s; that he was articulating her inexpressible feelings for her: “I sometimes hold it half a sin / To put in words the grief I feel; / For words, like Nature, half reveal / And half conceal the Soul within.” Just like Mariana, a year after Hallam’s death, Tennyson made the trip back to Cambridge. He walked the same streets he had walked with Hallam; he found it “felt the same, but not the same”—he stood outside Hallam’s room, seeing “another name was on the door.”

  And then Mariana stumbled on those lines that had become so famous they passed into the English language itself—coming across them here, buried among so much other verse, they retained their ability to sneak up behind her, take her by surprise, and leave her breathless:

  I hold it true, whate’er befall;

  I feel it when I sorrow most;

  ’Tis better to have loved and lost

  Than never to have loved at all …

  Mariana’s eyes filled with tears. She lowered the book and looked out of the window. But it was dark outside, and her face was reflected back at her. She stared at herself as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Where now? she thought. Where are you going?

  What are you doing?

  Zoe was right—she was running away. But where? Back to London? Back to that haunted house in Primrose Hill? It was no longer a home—just a hole for her to hide in.

  Zoe needed her here, whether she admitted it or not; Mariana simply couldn’t abandon her—that was out of the question.

  She suddenly remembered what Zoe had said outside the chapel—that Sebastian would tell Mariana to stay. Zoe was right.

  Sebastian would want Mariana to stand her ground, and fight.

  Well, then?

  Her mind went back to Professor Fosca’s performance in the courtyard. Perhaps “performance” was a good word. Was there something a little too polished about his delivery, a little rehearsed? Even so, he had an alibi. And unless he had persuaded his students to lie for him, which seemed unlikely, he must be innocent …

  And yet—?

  Something didn’t add up. Something didn’t make sense.