‘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 cancelled.’

‘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 theatre – 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 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 icon of a saint. The saint was beautiful, with long blond hair … like Veronica. A silver dagger was sticking out of her neck. Even more disturbingly, 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:

?δεσθε τ?ν ?λ?ου

κα? Φρυγ?ν ?λ?πτολιν

στε?χουσαν, ?π? κ?ρα στ?φη

βαλουμ?ναν χερν?βων τε παγ??,

βωμ?ν γε δα?μονο? θε??

?αν?σιν α?ματορρ?τοι?

χρανο?σαν ε?φυ? τε σ?ματο? δ?ρην

σφαγε?σαν.

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-panelled 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?’