The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  And it would begin.

  If I picture him now, that frightened little boy—do I feel an ache of sorrow? A pang of empathy? He’s just a kid, guilty of none of my crimes—he’s terrified, he’s in pain. Do I experience a second of compassion? Do I feel for his plight, and all he went through?

  No. I don’t.

  I banish all pity from my heart.

  I don’t deserve it.

  6

  Veronica was last seen alive leaving a rehearsal of The Duchess of Malfi at the ADC—the Amateur Dramatic Club—Theatre at six o’clock. Then, she apparently disappeared into thin air—until her body was found the next day.

  How was this possible?

  How did her killer emerge from nowhere, abduct her in broad daylight, leave no witnesses and no trace? Mariana could draw only one conclusion: Veronica went with him willingly. She went to her death quietly and cooperatively—because she knew and trusted the man who took her there.

  The next morning, Mariana decided to have a look at where Veronica was last seen. So she made her way to the ADC Theatre on Park Street.

  The theater was originally an old coaching inn, converted in the 1850s. The logo was in black letters painted above the entrance.

  A large board displayed a poster for the upcoming production, The Duchess of Malfi, which Mariana presumed would now not take place—not with Veronica playing the Duchess.

  She went up to the main door. She tried it. It was locked. There were no lights on in the foyer.

  She thought a moment. Then she turned and walked around the corner, to the side of the building. Two large black wrought iron gates enclosed a courtyard, which once housed the stables. Mariana tried the gate—and it was unlocked. It swung open easily. So she went inside the courtyard.

  The stage door was there. She walked over and tried it, but it was locked.

  She was frustrated and about to give up—when she thought of something. She looked at the fire escape. A spiral staircase, leading up to the theater bar on the floor above.

  When Mariana was a student, the ADC bar had been famous for staying open late. She and Sebastian would sometimes go for last orders on a Saturday night, dancing and drunkenly kissing in the bar.

  She started climbing the steps, going round and round until she reached the top—where she was confronted with the emergency exit.

  Without holding out much hope, Mariana reached out and pulled the handle. To her surprise, the door opened.

  She hesitated. And went inside.

  7

  The ADC bar was an old-fashioned theater bar—it had velvet-covered bar stools, and smelled of beer and old cigarette smoke.

  The lights were off. It was gloomy, shadowy, and Mariana was distracted for a moment—by a couple of ghosts kissing by the bar.

  And then a loud bang made her jump.

  Another bang. The whole building seemed to shake with it.

  Mariana decided to investigate. It was coming from downstairs. She left the bar and went farther into the building. Trying to be as quiet as possible, she descended the central staircase.

  Another bang.

  It seemed to be coming from the auditorium itself. She waited at the bottom of the stairs and listened. But there was silence.

  She crept over to the auditorium doors. She opened them slightly and looked inside.

  The auditorium seemed empty. The set for The Duchess of Malfi was onstage—a nightmarish impression of a prison in the German Expressionist style, with slanted walls and bars stretched into distorted angles.

  And onstage was a young man.

  He was shirtless, and his torso was dripping with sweat. He seemed to be intent on demolishing the entire set with a hammer. There was a violence to his actions that was quite alarming.

  Mariana cautiously made her way down the aisle, passing row after row of empty red seats, until she reached the stage.

  He didn’t notice her until she was standing just beneath him. He was about six feet tall, with short black hair and a week’s worth of stubble. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, but it was not a youthful nor a friendly face.

  “Who are you?” he said, glaring at her.

  Mariana decided to lie. “I’m—a psychotherapist—I’m working with the police.”

  “Uh-huh. They were just here.”

  “Right.” Mariana thought she recognized his accent. “Are you Greek?”

  “Why?” He looked at her with a new interest. “Are you?”

  Funny that, her split-second instinct to lie. For some reason, she didn’t want him knowing anything about her. But she’d get more out of him if she expressed some kind of kinship. “Half,” she said with a small smile. Then, in Greek, she said, “I grew up in Athens.”

  He looked pleased to hear this. He seemed to calm down, and his anger cooled slightly. “And I’m from Thessaloniki. A pleasure to meet you.” He smiled, baring his teeth; they were sharp, razor-like. “Let me help you up.”

  Then, with a sudden, violent movement, he reached down and pulled her up with ease, placing her on the stage. She landed unsteadily on her feet. “Thanks.”

  “I’m Nikos. Nikos Kouris. And your name?”

  “Mariana. You’re a student?”

  “Yes.” Nikos nodded. “I’m responsible for this.” He gestured at the ruined set around him. “I’m the director. You’re looking at the destruction of my theatrical ambitions.” He gave a hollow laugh. “The performance has been canceled.”

  “Because of Veronica?”

  Nikos scowled. “I had an agent coming up from London to see it. I worked all summer, planning it. And it’s for nothing…”

  He pulled down part of the wall with ferocity—it landed with a thud that made the floor shake.

  Mariana watched him closely. Everything about him seemed to vibrate with anger; a barely restrained rage, as if he might fly off the handle at any second, lash out indiscriminately—and strike her down instead of the set. He rather frightened her.

  “I was wondering,” she said, “if I might ask you about Veronica?”

  “What about her?”

  “I’m curious about when you last saw her?”

  “The dress rehearsal. I gave her some critical notes. She didn’t like them. She was rather a mediocre actor, if you want the truth. Not nearly as talented as she thought she was.”

  “I see. What was her mood like?”

  “After I gave her the notes? Not good.” He smiled, baring his teeth.

  “What time did she leave? Do you remember?”

  “Around six, I’d say.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No.” Nikos shook his head. “But I think she was going to meet the professor.” He turned his attention to stacking up some chairs.

  Mariana watched him, her heart beating faster. She sounded a little breathless when she spoke.

  “The professor?”

  “Yeah.” Nikos shrugged. “Can’t remember his name. He came to watch the dress rehearsal.”

  “What did he look like? Can you describe him?”

  Nikos thought for a second. “Tall. Beard. American.” He glanced at his watch. “What else do you need to know? Because I’m busy.”

  “That’s all, thanks. But can I have a look in the dressing room? Did Veronica leave anything here, do you know?”

  “I don’t think so. The police took everything. There wasn’t much.”

  “I’d still like to see. If that’s okay.”

  “Go ahead.” He pointed into the wings. “Down the stairs, on the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nikos stared at her for a second, as if contemplating something. But he didn’t speak. Mariana hurried into the wings.

  It was dark, and it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. Something made her look back over her shoulder, back at the stage—and she saw Nikos’s face, contorted with rage, as he ripped apart the set. He hates not getting his own way, she thought. There was real anger in that young
man; she was glad to get away from him.

  She turned and hurried down the narrow steps, to the belly of the theater—into the dressing room.

  The dressing room was rather a cramped space, shared by all the actors. Rails of costumes competed for space with wigs, makeup, props, books, and dressing tables. She looked at all the clutter—there was no way of telling what had belonged to Veronica.

  Mariana doubted she’d find anything useful here. And yet …

  She looked at the dressing tables. Each had an individual mirror—and the mirrors were decorated with hearts and kisses and good-luck messages scrawled in lipstick. There were some cards and photographs tucked into the mirror frames.

  One postcard immediately caught Mariana’s eye. It didn’t look like any of the others.

  She looked at it closely. It was a religious picture—the ikon of a saint. The saint was beautiful, with long blond hair … like Veronica. A silver dagger was sticking out of her neck. Even more disturbing, she was holding a tray with two human eyeballs on it.

  Mariana felt sick looking at it. Her hand trembled as she reached out. She pulled the postcard from the mirror frame. She turned it over.

  And there—as before—was a handwritten quotation, in Ancient Greek:

  ἴδεσθε τὰν Ἰλίου

  καὶ Φρυγῶν ἑλέπτολιν

  στείχουσαν, ἐπὶ κάρα στέφη

  βαλουμέναν χερνίβων τε παγάς,

  βωμόν γε δαίμονος θεᾶς

  ῥανίσιν αἱματορρύτοις

  χρανοῦσαν εὐφυῆ τε σώματος δέρην

  σφαγεῖσαν.

  8

  After the second murder, there was a stunned, lifeless atmosphere in St. Christopher’s.

  It felt as if a kind of pestilence, a plague, were spreading through the college—as in a Greek myth, the sickness that destroyed Thebes; an invisible airborne poison drifting through the courtyards—and these ancient walls, once a refuge from the outside world, no longer offered any protection.

  Despite the dean’s protestations and assurances of safety, parents were removing their children in increasing numbers. Mariana didn’t blame them; nor did she blame the students for wanting to leave. Part of her wished she could scoop up Zoe and take her away to London. But she knew better than to suggest it: it was taken for granted now that Zoe was staying—and so was Mariana.

  Veronica’s murder in particular had hit Zoe hard. The fact it upset her so much astonished Zoe herself. She said she felt like a hypocrite.

  “I mean, I didn’t even like Veronica—I don’t know why I can’t stop crying.”

  Mariana suspected that Zoe was using Veronica’s death as a means of expressing some of her grief for Tara, grief that had been too overwhelming and frightening for her to face. So these tears were a good thing, a healthy thing, and she told Zoe so as she held her, sitting on the bed, rocking back and forth as Zoe wept.

  “It’s okay, darling. It’s okay. You’ll feel better, just let it out.”

  And finally, Zoe’s tears subsided. Then Mariana insisted on taking Zoe out for some lunch; she’d barely eaten anything in the past twenty-four hours. And Zoe, red-eyed and weary, agreed. On the way to Hall, they bumped into Clarissa, who suggested they join her at high table.

  High table was the part of the dining hall that was reserved exclusively for the fellows and their guests. It was situated at one end of the large hall, on a raised, stagelike dais beneath portraits of past masters on the oak-paneled walls. At the other end of the hall, there was a buffet for the students, operated by the buttery staff, smartly dressed in waistcoats and bow ties. The undergraduates all sat at long tables along the length of the hall.

  There weren’t many students in Hall. Mariana couldn’t help but look at the students who were there, talking in low voices with anxious faces while they picked at their food. None of them looked in much better shape than Zoe.

  Zoe and Mariana sat with Clarissa at the far end of high table, away from the other fellows. Clarissa studied the menu with interest. Despite these awful events, her appetite remained undiminished. “I’m going to plump for the pheasant,” she said. “And then … perhaps pears poached in wine. Or the sticky toffee pudding.”

  Mariana nodded. “How about you, Zoe?”

  Zoe shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  Clarissa gave her a concerned look. “You must eat something, my dear … You’re not looking well. You need some food to keep your strength up.”

  “How about the poached salmon and vegetables?” said Mariana. “Okay?”

  Zoe shrugged. “Okay.”

  The waiter came and took their order, and then Mariana showed them the postcard she had found at the ADC Theatre.

  Clarissa took the postcard, closely studying the picture. “Ah. St. Lucy, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “St. Lucy?”

  “You’re not familiar with her? I suppose she’s a little obscure, as saints go. A martyr during Diocletian’s scourge of Christians—around 300 AD. Her eyes were gouged out before she was stabbed to death.”

  “Poor Lucy.”

  “Quite. Hence patron saint of the blind. She’s usually depicted like this, carrying her eyes on a platter.” Clarissa turned the postcard over. Her lips moved silently as she read the lines in Greek under her breath. “Well,” she said, “this time, it’s from Iphigenia in Aulis, by Euripides.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s about Iphigenia being led to her death.” Clarissa took a gulp of wine, and translated it: “‘Behold the maiden … with garlands in her hair, and holy water sprinkled upon her … walking to the sacrificial altar of the unspeakable goddess—which will flow with blood’—‘αἱματορρύτοις’ is the word in Greek—‘as her beautiful neck is severed.’”

  Mariana felt sick. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Not very appetizing, I grant you.” Clarissa handed the postcard back to Mariana.

  Mariana glanced at Zoe. “What do you think? Do you think Fosca might have sent it?”

  “Professor Fosca?” said Clarissa, with a startled look, as Zoe studied the postcard. “You’re not suggesting—you don’t think that the professor—”

  “Fosca has a group of favorite students. Did you know that, Clarissa?” Mariana glanced at Zoe for a second. “They meet privately—secretly. He calls them the Maidens.”

  “The Maidens?” said Clarissa. “First I’ve heard of it. A play on the Apostles, perhaps?”

  “The Apostles?”

  “Tennyson’s secret literary society—where he met Hallam.”

  Mariana stared at her. It took her a second to find her voice. She nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “Of course, the Apostles were all male. Presumably the membership of the Maidens is female?”

  “Exactly. And Tara and Veronica were both members. Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence? Zoe? What do you think?”

  Zoe looked uncomfortable. But she nodded, glancing at Clarissa. “To be honest, I think this is the kind of thing he’d do. Sending a postcard like this.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The professor is old-fashioned like that—sending postcards, I mean. He often sends handwritten notes. And last term, he gave a lecture on the importance of the letter as an art form … I know that doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Doesn’t it?” said Mariana. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Clarissa tapped the postcard. “What do you think this means? I don’t—I don’t understand what its purpose is.”

  “It means … it’s a game. Announcing his intention like this—it’s a challenge—and he’s enjoying it.” She chose her words carefully. “And there’s something else … that he might not even be conscious of. There is a reason he chose these quotations; they mean something to him.”

  “In what sense?”

  “I don’t know.” Mariana shook her
head. “I don’t understand—and we need to understand. That’s the only way we’ll stop him.”

  “And by ‘him,’ you mean Edward Fosca?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Clarissa looked extremely disturbed by this. She shook her head but didn’t comment further. Mariana silently contemplated the postcard in front of her.

  Then their food arrived, and Clarissa tucked into her lunch, and Mariana turned her attention to Zoe, making sure she got a little food in her.

  Edward Fosca was not mentioned again during the meal. But he remained in Mariana’s thoughts—hanging there, in the shadows, like a bat in her head.

  9

  After lunch, Mariana and Zoe went to the college bar for a drink.

  The bar was distinctly quieter than usual. Only a handful of students were there, drinking. Mariana noticed Serena sitting by herself. She didn’t notice them.

  Zoe ordered a couple of glasses of wine, while Mariana made her way to the end of the bar—where Serena was perched on a stool, finishing a gin and tonic, and texting on her phone.

  “Hello,” said Mariana.

  Serena looked up, and went back to her phone without responding.

  “How are you, Serena?”

  No response. Mariana glanced at Zoe for help, and Zoe mimed drinking. Mariana nodded.

  “Can I get you another drink?”

  Serena shook her head. “No. I have to go soon.”

  Mariana smiled. “Your secret admirer?”

  This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Serena turned on Mariana with surprising ferocity.

  “What the fuck is your problem?”

  “What?”

  “What have you got against Professor Fosca? It’s like you’re obsessed or something. What did you tell the police about him?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But Mariana was secretly relieved that Chief Inspector Sangha had taken her seriously enough to question Fosca.

  “I didn’t accuse him of anything,” she said. “I just suggested they ask him some questions.”