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-coloured 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 grey 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 flavour, 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 odour 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 realised 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 wilfully 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 “μ?νιν ?ειδε θε? Πηλη??δεω ?χιλ?ο?” – “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 specialises 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. Where’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