The Red Staircase

‘Delighted,’ murmured Madame, extending a soft hand. Her fingers seemed to melt into mine as I took them, and to give no palpable pressure back. Her expression was friendly enough, although I judged she was not a lady who ever allowed strong emotions to show. Perhaps she felt none. She turned to Ariadne. ‘I believe you are going into the country soon?’

‘Quite soon,’ said Ariadne.

‘We shall meet then,’ said Madame Titov decisively. ‘Because I am going to the country too.’ She held out her hand to meet me. This time I noticed a very faint response to my own pressure. ‘Goodbye till we meet again, Miss Rose Gowrie.’

I felt as though I had been inspected and approved. I was annoyed with myself for being pleased, and yet I was pleased. Quiet-mannered as Madame Titov was, I felt I valued her good opinion.

As Madame Titov walked away, she passed close to where the tall monk was still standing. He must have been watching us all the time we talked. He took a step towards her, a broad smile beginning on his face; I thought he meant to speak to her. If so, she gave him no chance. Not for a second did her progress falter. Instead, she seemed to walk faster, and as she hurried on, her skirt gave an angry jerk, as if she had pulled it aside. Ariadne too was flustered. I could see she wanted to draw me away from what she seemed to regard as this man of God’s dangerous vicinity. But he was already approaching.

‘Good afternoon, Father Gregory.’

He raised his hand. ‘Bless you, child.’ He had a peasant’s voice, but it had rich tones. He held out his hand to her, she took it reluctantly, then dropped it almost at once, but never for a moment did Ariadne take her eyes off his face. Then he turned towards me, holding out his hand again and smiling at me with his pale, bright eyes. He stank. ‘He looks like a fox and he smells like a fox,’ I thought; but I took his hand. I found his touch unpleasant, damp with sweat on this hot day, and withdrew my hand, sorry that I had removed my glove.

‘Bless you, my child,’ he said, staring at me. ‘You have the face of a saint.’ Bright and compelling, his eyes held my own, and it was with an effort that I withdrew my gaze. To my surprise, something had passed between us; I couldn’t put a name to what I had seen, but a communication of some sort had occurred. Then I knew what it was. I had recognized a quality in him and he had responded. It was like two metals striking against each other and each giving out the same note.

He knew too, and his eyes burned fiercely. ‘May I see your hands?’

Reluctantly, almost against my will, but certainly unable not to do so, I held them out, fingers extended. Tenderly, he turned the right one over, putting palm uppermost. ‘Yes, there, at the base of the thumb, there is the mark. The mark of the healer.’

‘I see nothing.’ I stared at my hand.

‘It is enough.’

I wanted to turn my hand over, but for the moment I couldn’t do it.

‘Come along, Miss Gowrie,’ said Edward Lacey in a friendly but formidable fashion. ‘Ariadne is anxious to get home. Goodbye, Father.’ He turned to Peter. ‘Hurry up there.’

Why, he’s jealous, I thought, absolutely jealous of Ariadne. He must be the sort of man who showed possessiveness towards any woman in whom he took an interest, even me. It was sad, because I had begun to like him. ‘The charlatan,’ he muttered.

But we are all charlatans,’ said Peter. Aren’t we?’

The next morning, although I looked expectantly for Laure, she was nowhere to be seen. Apparently her promise – or threat – to talk to me and explain her vague warnings of danger had not been important enough to keep her from her favourite habit of disappearing.

I gave Ariadne her English lesson as usual. We were reading The Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I would have chosen something simpler and livelier, but Dolly had said she wanted Ariadne to understand English poetry. Judging by her yawns, Ariadne was already very bored.

‘You can close the Tennyson now,’ I said. ‘We’ll start on Pride and Prejudice. Sit up, though.’

‘Oh, good. I fear I am not a poetic person.’ Ariadne straightened her back. ‘What is Pride and Prejudice about?’

I hesitated, wondering how to sum up the subtle complexities of the plot. ‘Oh, several families living in a country village: two girls, Jane and Elizabeth, the eldest of a family of girls; a clergyman, a landowner, two love affairs and an elopement.’

‘Sounds like Russia,’ said Ariadne, yawning again. ‘As long as it’s not boring.’

‘It’s a very amusing book.’

‘Delightful. The novels I read with Mademoiselle Laure were so dull. Goodness, they bored me! All about beautiful girls of noble birth thinking virtuous thoughts. Not like any of the girls I knew at school.’ She giggled.

‘Did you go to school?’ I was surprised.

‘Oh, yes. I had one year at the Smolny Institute, that’s the Imperial School for girls from the nobility. But I left,’ said Ariadne. ‘Back to poor Mademoiselle Laure.’

‘She was here then?’

‘She’s been here all the time. I can’t even remember when she came. When I was in the nursery, I think.’ Yawns overcame her again.

‘Have you seen Mademoiselle Laure this morning?’

‘No.’ Ariadne paused in mid-yawn. She sounded surprised I should ask. ‘But then one never does. One never notices her. She does it on purpose, of course. Years and years ago when she was just starting out in the world, some preceptress said to her: “Laure, always stay in the background.” And so she does. But it gives her pleasure. Of a kind.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think it does. And how sad that is, poor Mademoiselle. And you are a very clever girl to have noticed it.’ And I looked at my pupil with some respect for her acuteness.

‘Sad?’ Ariadne laughed. ‘She likes power, does Mademoiselle, I’ve noticed that also.’

At that moment there was a scream, then a short pause, followed by the sound of running feet. Ariadne and I looked at each other. I went to the door.

One of the maidservants was standing outside, sobbing; her face was white and she was wet from her throat to her waist. She clung to the banister, swaying.

‘What is it?’ I hurried to her. Immediately she leant against me, resting her head on my shoulder, murmuring something.

‘Make her speak,’ urged Ariadne.

The girl whispered something to me. I became aware that other servants were hurryng up, but all my attention was concentrated on the girl. I had caught her whisper and thought I knew what she was trying to say. ‘Speak up,’ I said urgently. ‘Repeat what you said about Mademoiselle Laure. You must speak clearly. I can’t hear.’

The girl raised her head from my shoulder and said something that only I could hear, and I only with difficulty.

‘What does she say?’ cried Ariadne.

‘What is it? What’s the girl crying about?’ The elderly woman who was the housekeeper had appeared. Mechanically, I handed the weeping maidservant over to her. I felt sick.

‘She says that Mademoiselle Laure is lying upstairs, dead.’

The girl gave an hysterical wail as if to confirm what I had said. ‘Dear God,’ said the housekeeper, and crossed herself. ‘Be quiet, girl.’

‘She’s mad. It can’t be so,’ declared Ariadne. ‘Mademoiselle can’t be dead.’

‘I’m sure she is,’ I said. I was already mounting the stairs.

‘Come back!’ wailed Ariadne.

‘Get help,’ I said. ‘Order two of the servants to come with me. No – ’ as Ariadne made a move. ‘Don’t come yourself. Go to tell your mother. And then send for a doctor.’ Resolutely I mounted the stairs.

The door to Laure’s room stood open. The curtains were drawn and the blinds were down, but enough light was seeping through to see by. In the middle of the room, surrounded by a nest of towels, was a flat tin bath. In it lay the figure of Laure, her head falling backwards with her dark hair streaming to the floor; I could see her features foreshortened and distorted.

I walked over to one window, wrenched the curtains back and drew up the blind. Then I looked again in the full light.

She was lying in a bath of water, wearing a white shift. The water seemed stained with blood. The shift was unbuttoned and I could see her small breasts. Instinctively, I leant forward and buttoned it.

I knelt by the bath. ‘Oh, Laure, Laure, what have you done?’ I could see that she had cut her wrists to the bone and then let her life-blood drain out in the warm water. I could see the knife on my right as I knelt facing her. She had let it drop on a towel. ‘Why did you do it?’