‘You’ve not tried the lamb. Won’t you?’

Mariana nodded. She cut up a little piece of meat and slipped a red sliver into her mouth. It tasted wet, metallic, of blood. It took all her effort to chew and swallow it.

Fosca smiled. ‘Good.’

Mariana reached for her glass. She washed away the taste of blood with the remains of her champagne.

Noticing her glass was empty, Fosca stood up. ‘Let’s have some wine, shall we?’

He went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of dark red Bordeaux. He returned and handed a glass to Mariana. She brought the wine to her lips, and drank. It was earthy, gravelly, and full-bodied. She was already feeling the effects of the champagne on an empty stomach; she should stop drinking, or she’d soon be drunk. But she didn’t stop.

Fosca sat down again, watching her, smiling. ‘Tell me about your husband.’

Mariana shook her head. No.

He looked surprised. ‘No? Why not?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Not even his name?’

Mariana spoke in a low voice. ‘Sebastian.’

And somehow, just by uttering his name, she conjured him up for a second – her guardian angel – and she felt safer, calmer; and Sebastian whispered in her ear, Don’t be scared, love, stand up for yourself. Don’t be afraid— She decided to take his advice. Mariana looked up and met Fosca’s gaze without blinking. ‘Tell me about yourself, Professor.’

‘Edward. What would you like to know?’

‘Tell me about your childhood.’

‘My childhood?’

‘What was your mother like? Were you fond of her?’

Fosca laughed. ‘My mother? Are you going to psychoanalyse me over dinner?’

Mariana said, ‘I’m just curious. I wonder what else she taught you besides pasta recipes?’

Fosca shook his head. ‘My mother taught me very little, unfortunately. How about you? What was your mother like?’

‘I never knew my mother.’

‘Ah.’ Fosca nodded. ‘I don’t think I really knew mine either.’

He appraised Mariana for a moment, thinking. She could see his mind turning – he had a truly brilliant mind, she thought. Sharp as a knife. She’d have to be careful. She adopted a casual tone. ‘Was it a happy childhood?’

‘I can see you’re determined to make this into a therapy session.’

‘Not a therapy session – just a conversation.’

‘Conversations go both ways, Mariana.’

Fosca smiled, and waited. Seeing she had no choice, she rose to the challenge.

‘I didn’t have a particularly happy childhood,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, perhaps. I loved my father very much, but …’

‘But what …?’

Mariana shrugged. ‘There was too much death.’

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Fosca slowly nodded. ‘Yes, I can see it in your eyes. There’s a great sadness there. You know, you remind me of a Tennysonian heroine – Mariana in the Moated Grange: “He cometh not,” she said. “I am aweary, aweary. I would that I were dead.”’

He smiled. Mariana looked away, feeling exposed and irritated. She reached for her wine. She drained the glass. Then she faced him.

‘Your turn, Professor.’

‘Very well.’ Fosca sipped some wine. ‘Was I a happy child?’ He shook his head. ‘No. I was not.’

‘Why was that?’

He didn’t reply immediately. He got up, and went to fetch the wine. He refilled Mariana’s glass as he spoke.

‘Truthfully? My father was a very violent man. I lived in fear for my life, and my mother’s life. I watched him brutalise my mother on many occasions.’

Mariana wasn’t expecting such a frank admission. And certainly, the words had the ring of truth, and yet they were entirely disconnected from any emotion. It was as if he felt nothing.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That’s terrible.’

He shrugged. He didn’t reply for a moment. He sat down again. ‘You have a way of getting things out of people, Mariana. You’re a good therapist, I can tell. Despite my intention not to reveal myself to you, you have ended up getting me on your couch.’ He smiled. ‘Therapeutically speaking.’

Mariana hesitated. ‘Have you ever been married?’

Fosca laughed. ‘That’s following a train of thought. Are we moving from the couch to bed?’ He smiled and drank some more wine. ‘I have not been married, no. I never met the right woman.’ He stared at her. ‘Not yet.’

Mariana didn’t reply. He kept staring. His gaze was heavy, intense, lingering. She felt like a rabbit in headlights. She thought of the word Zoe used – ‘dazzling’. Finally, unable to bear it, she looked away, which seemed to amuse him.

‘You’re a beautiful woman,’ she heard him say, ‘but you have more than beauty. You have a certain quality – a stillness. Like the stillness in the depths of the ocean, far beneath the waves, where nothing moves. Very still … and very sad.’

Mariana didn’t say anything. She didn’t like where this was going – she sensed she was losing the upper hand, if she’d ever had it. She was also a little drunk, and unprepared for Fosca’s sudden switch from romance to murder.

‘This morning,’ he said, ‘I received a visit from Chief Inspector Sangha. He wanted to know where I was when Veronica was murdered.’

He looked at Mariana, perhaps hoping for a reaction. She didn’t give him one. ‘And what did you say?’

‘The truth. That I was giving a private tutorial to Serena in my rooms. I suggested he check with her if he didn’t believe me.’

‘I see.’

‘The inspector asked me a lot of questions – the last of which was about you. You know what he asked?’

Mariana shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’

‘He wondered why you were so prejudiced against me. What I had done to deserve it.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said I had no idea – but that I would ask you.’ He smiled. ‘So I’m asking you. What’s going on, Mariana? You’ve been orchestrating a campaign against me since Tara’s murder. What if I told you I’m an innocent man? I’d love to oblige and be your scapegoat, but—’

‘You’re not my scapegoat.’

‘No? An outsider – a blue-collar American in the elitist world of English academia? I stick out like a sore thumb.’

‘Hardly.’ Mariana shook her head. ‘I’d say you fit in extremely well.’

‘Well, naturally I’ve done my best to blend in, but the bottom line is that although the English may be infinitely more subtle than Americans in their xenophobia, I will always be a foreigner – and therefore viewed with suspicion.’ He fixed his eyes on Mariana intensely. ‘As are you – you don’t belong here either.’

‘We’re not talking about me.’

‘Oh, but we are – we’re one and the same.’

She frowned. ‘We’re not. Not at all.’

‘Oh, Mariana.’ He laughed. ‘You don’t seriously believe I’m murdering my students? It’s absurd. That’s not to say a few don’t deserve it.’ He laughed again – and his laugh sent a shiver down Mariana’s spine.

She stared at him – feeling she had just glimpsed who he really was: callous, sadistic, entirely uncaring. She was getting into dangerous territory, she knew, but the wine had made her bold and reckless, and she might never get this chance again. She chose her words carefully.

‘I’d like to know, then, exactly what kind of person you think killed them?’

Fosca looked at her, as if he were surprised by the question. But he nodded. ‘I’ve given it some thought, as it happens.’

‘I’m sure you have.’

‘And,’ he said, ‘the first thing that strikes me is that it’s religious in nature. That’s clear. He’s a spiritual man. In his eyes, anyway.’

Mariana remembered the cross in his hallway. Like you, she thought.

Fosca sipped some wine and went on. ‘The killings are not just random attacks. I don’t think the police have worked that out yet. The murders are a sacrificial act.’

Mariana looked up sharply. ‘A sacrificial act?’

‘That’s right – it’s a ritual – of rebirth and resurrection.’

‘I don’t see any resurrection here. Just death.’

‘It depends entirely on how you look at it.’ He smiled. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. He’s a showman. He loves to perform.’

Like you, she thought.

‘The murders remind me of a Jacobean tragedy,’ he said. ‘Violence and horror – to shock and entertain.’

‘Entertain?’

‘Theatrically speaking.’

He smiled. And Mariana was filled with a sudden desire to get as far away from him as possible. She pushed away her plate. ‘I’m finished.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want any more?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve had enough.’

13

Professor Fosca suggested they have coffee and dessert in the sitting room, and Mariana reluctantly followed him into the next room. He gestured at the large dark sofa by the fireplace. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

Mariana felt unwilling to sit next to him and be that close to him – it made her feel unsafe, somehow. And a thought occurred to her – if she felt this uneasy being alone with him, how might an eighteen-year-old girl feel?

She shook her head. ‘I’m tired. I think I’ll skip dessert.’

‘Don’t go, not yet. Let me make some coffee.’