The Minotaur

The Minotaur

4.5 8
by Barbara Vine

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A nurse caring for a brilliant and wealthy psychiatric patient comes face to face with the man’s family’s dark secrets
Nurse Kerstin Kvist knows something is wrong when she moves into Lydstep Old Hall to care for John, the mentally afflicted patriarch of the wealthy Cosway family. Beneath the ivy-covered and crumbling roof, nothing seems quite

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A nurse caring for a brilliant and wealthy psychiatric patient comes face to face with the man’s family’s dark secrets
Nurse Kerstin Kvist knows something is wrong when she moves into Lydstep Old Hall to care for John, the mentally afflicted patriarch of the wealthy Cosway family. Beneath the ivy-covered and crumbling roof, nothing seems quite right. For instance, why is John Cosway taking powerful drugs that don’t fit his diagnosis of schizophrenia? Then, as Kerstin struggles to figure out her place in this odd and unsettling household, a stranger moves in nearby and changes everything for her and for the Cosways. With the intellectual nuance and fine dry wit characteristic of Rendell/Vine thrillers, The Minotaur is a masterful whodunit, rife with thrilling twists of plot.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
British master Vine (aka Ruth Rendell) explores life among the Cosways, a country gentry clan that makes the Wuthering Heights crowd look wholesome. Kerstin Kvist, a young Swedish nurse, takes a job at Lydstep Old Hall caring for John Cosway, a mathematical prodigy now labeled by his family as schizophrenic. In addition to John, there are four obsessive sisters ruled by their scarecrow-like matriarch. Gradually, Kerstin suspects that John is being drugged so that his mother and sisters can remain in their estate under the terms of a disputed trust. Vine creates a family and village, Windrose, so vivid you're tempted to book a B and B and investigate things yourself. Some scenes involving John's behavior-his fits and his family's reactions-seem abrupt to the point of being bizarre, but Vine is describing a man hijacked from rationality, through a narrator whose first language isn't English. When murder finally happens, it's simultaneously shocking yet inevitable. Though less elegantly written than 2002's The Blood Doctor, this delivers a more palpable, and thus satisfying, crime. (Mar.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Once again writing as Vine (The Blood Doctor), acclaimed mystery writer Ruth Rendell hones in on the mysteries of the psyche. In this novel, set in the late 1960s, an autistic man, a dysfunctional family, and an innocent young woman become entangled in a web of deceit. Swedish nursing student Kerstin Kvist comes to Essex, England, to care for 39-year-old John Cosway, who is being heavily sedated for a mental illness he doesn't actually have. John's mother and sisters live with him on a drafty estate at the mercy of a trust. Naturally inquisitive, Kerstin wants to explore the bizarre, labyrinthine library built on the estate but ends up coming across secrets best left hidden. When John quits his medication (with Kerstin's approval), it means trouble for all involved. A layered, intriguing tale with odd, almost caricatured characters and subtle twists, Vine's latest book rambles a bit toward an ending that's not particularly suspenseful. Still, fans will want to read it. For most public libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 11/15/05.]-Rebecca Vnuk, River Forest P.L., IL Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
In Ruth Rendell's 12th thriller under the Vine byline (The Blood Doctor, 2002, etc.), a Swedish nurse, in order to be near her lover in London, takes a post in Essex only to find that love is in dangerously short supply at Lydstep Old Hall. Iron-willed widow Julia Cosway maintains that her son John doesn't really need a nurse, only a minder to keep an eye on him, especially during the afternoon walks he craves. But both she and her old friend Dr. Selwyn Lombard, who's been following the case for 30 years, are serenely confident that John is mad, presumably schizophrenic. Kerstin Kvist, arriving like a Charlotte Bronte heroine one autumn afternoon in the late 1960s to take John in hand, soon sees that his main problem is the steady diet of tranquilizers his mother is feeding him. Instead of confronting Mrs. Cosway, however, she finds herself slipping into the routine of the Cosway daughters. She accepts countless cups of tea from Ida, congratulates Winifred on her engagement to the local rector, becomes an unwilling confidante to Ella, keeps her own counsel about wealthy, widowed Zorah and watches both Ella and Winifred fall in love with newly arrived artist Felix Dunsford, who may be even more selfish than they are. The more Kerstin learns about the Cosways, in fact, the more sympathetic she is to John, who's condemned to be regarded as a monstrous minotaur within the labyrinth of Lydstep's locked library, and the more like minotaurs she finds the whole sick crew that surrounds him in breathtakingly hypocritical solicitude. The combustible family-"dysfunctional before the word was invented"-is the perfect setup for Vine's trademark long-deferred violence. Using the conventions of aVictorian pastiche, Vine presents as satisfying a family of monsters as you're likely to find. It's like watching a house of cards collapse in exquisite slow-motion.
From the Publisher
“One of the most remarkable novelists of her generation.” —People“It is not just her command of language, characterization and plotting that makes her a master, but the authority of her unflinching moral vision.”–Newsday “The Minotaur, oozing with menace and malice, is a superb piece of work. It deserves to win lots of prizes”–The Evening Standard “The best mystery writer in the English-speaking world.” —Time“My dream writer. Her crime studies are subtle, mysterious affairs that never turn out quite the way you anticipate. Her characters have secret, often ugly depths that make them strangers with uncomfortably familiar features. And her prose style, so intricate in design and supple in execution, has the disquieting intimacy of an alien touch in the dark.” —Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review“Surely one of the greatest novelists presently at work in our language.” —Scott Turow“Those who haven’t read her books have missed something unique and wonderful.” —Tony Hillerman“Barbara Vine has transcended her genre by her remarkable imaginative power to explore and illuminate the dark corners of the human psyche.” —P. D. James“Unequivocally the most brilliant mystery writer of our time. She magnificently triumphs in a style that is uniquely hers and mesmerizing.” —Patricia Cornwell“Her clear, shapely prose casts the mesmerizing spell of the confessional.” —The New Yorker“One of the finest practitioners of her craft in the English-speaking world.” —The New York Times Book Review

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The Minotaur

By Ruth Rendell


Copyright © 2005 Kingsmarkham Enterprises, Ltd.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-1504-3



We are thin on the ground, we women cartoonists; it's still thought of as a man's job, and there are even fewer of my sort who aren't English and never went to art school. Over the close-on thirty years that I have been contributing a couple of cartoons to each issue of a weekly news magazine, I have drawn Harold Wilson and Willy Brandt, Mao Zedong and Margaret Thatcher (hundreds of times), John Major, Neil Kinnock, David Beckham, and Tony Blair (nearly sixty times). People say I can catch a likeness with a few strokes and squiggles; they know who it's supposed to be before they read the caption or the balloon coming out of a character's mouth. But I was no child artist prodigy, I don't remember learning anything about art at school and for years all I ever drew was a Dog Growing for my small niece and nephew.

I'll tell you about the Dog Growing because you may want to make one for your own children. You take a sheet of paper; a letter-sized sheet, cut vertically in half, will do very well. Then you fold it in half again and fold the folded-over piece back on itself to make an inch-wide pleat. Flatten it out again and draw a dog across the folds. It's best to make it a dachshund or a basset hound because it should have a long stretch of body between forelegs and hindlegs. Then refold your paper into its pleat. The dog now has a short body but when the child opens the pleat the dog grows into a dachshund. Of course, when you get practiced at it, you can make a Giraffe's Neck Growing or a TurkeyGrowing into an Ostrich. Children love it and that was all I ever drew all through my teens and when I was at university.

I was going to be a nurse and then I was going to teach English. I never considered drawing as a career because you can't make a living out of a Dog Growing. It was in the late sixties when I came to England, fresh from the University of Lund and my English degree and with a fairly humble nursing qualification. I had a job lined up and a place to live, but my real motive in coming was to renew my love affair with Mark Douglas.

We had met at Lund, but when he graduated he had to go home and all his letters urged me to follow him. Get a job in London, get a room. Everyone in London, he wrote, lives in a bedsitter. I did the next best thing and got a job in Essex, near the main line from Liverpool Street to Norwich. The family who was employing me was called Cosway, and the house they lived in, Lydstep Old Hall. I had never in my life seen anything like that house.

It was very large yet it hardly looked like a house at all, more a great bush or huge piece of topiary work. When I first saw it in June it was entirely covered, from end to end and from foundation to the line of the roof, in intensely green Virginia creeper. I could see it was oblong and that its roof was almost flat but if there were architectural features such as balconies, railings, recessed columns, stonework, none showed through the mass of glossy green. Windows alone peeped out of this leafy wrapping. It was a rather windy day and, because the breeze set all the hundreds of thousands of leaves shivering, there was an illusion that the house itself moved, shrank, expanded, and subsided again.

"Be like living inside a tree," said the taxi man as I was paying him. "You'd think all that stuff would damage the brickwork. I wouldn't fancy it. Friends of yours, are they?" "Not yet," I said.

Lydstep Old Hall was the first thing I ever drew. Apart from Dogs Growing, that is. I drew it that night, from memory as I was inside the house, and that is how I have drawn everything ever since.

Mark's sister-in-law Isabel Croft got me the job. She had been at school with the youngest Cosway girl.

"Zorah won't be living at home any longer," she said when I asked her to tell me about the family. "I don't really know who will. Ida, certainly. She housekeeps for them. Her other two sisters I never knew well. They may have married or gone to live elsewhere. The house actually belongs to John."

"The one I'm to have charge of? He's schizophrenic, is that right?"

"I don't know," she said. "'Charge' is rather a strange word to use."

"Mrs. Cosway's," I said, "not mine."

"I never heard a name for what's wrong with John," Isabel said. "It rather puzzles me—but there, I expect Mrs. Cosway knows what she's talking about. There's a trust to administer the estate. It's a strange business, something to do with the way Mr. Cosway left things in his will. I don't suppose you want to know the details. His marriage had gone wrong, I think, and he and Mrs. Cosway hardly spoke to each other in his last years. Mrs. Cosway was always nice to me, but she is rather a difficult woman. Well, you'll see. The house is very big, but they keep some of the rooms shut up."

I asked her what she was going to say about being puzzled. She hadn't finished her sentence.

"I was going to say I wouldn't have thought John needed looking after. You've been a nurse and he didn't need a nurse when I knew him. Of course he sometimes behaved strangely, but he never did any harm. But I don't really know."

There were so many things she didn't say. Most of them she simply knew nothing about. The Cosways were good at keeping things hidden—from other people and one another.

In the novels of the nineteenth century which I had read while studying English, girls taking posts in country families are always met at the nearest station by some old retainer with a pony and trap. No such offer had been made to me. The Cosways had neither retainer nor pony and the one car they possessed was used by Ella Cosway to go to work. I took a taxi. There were always taxis outside Colchester station and still are for all I know.

The route it followed has been much built up since then and the old road has become a three-lane highway We drove along winding lanes, some of them narrow, for part of the way following the valley of the River Colne, passing the gates of several great houses. I had read a little about the architecture of Essex and knew that the county lacked building stone. Wood, brick, chalk, and flint were the materials used and another material called pudding stone, oblong and rounded pebbles of flint, much used in the construction of churches and of some walls. But the most important material of all was timber and I gazed out of the taxi window, happy to see the information I had read of confirmed in mansions and farmhouses built of tiny Tudor bricks with weatherboarding and half-timbering. Of course it aroused my expectations of what the house I was going to would be like, for Isabel had never described it. It might have a moat, as some did, part of its roof might be thatched, its windows mullioned and its woodwork bare and unstained. And then there was the maze.

"In the grounds, do you mean?" I'd said to her. "Made of hedges?"

But she only laughed and said, "You'll see."

My excited anticipation made me ask the driver how much farther it was, and when he said two miles, I had to restrain myself from telling him to hurry up. We bypassed the village but no matter where you were within five miles of Windrose you could hardly fail to see the church, All Saints, its tall rose-red tower a landmark which drew and held your eyes. The Great Red Tower of Windrose, people called it, and some said the name of the village came from its color. Lydstep Old Hall was about half a mile farther on, at the top of a long hill. We approached it along a cart track which the taxi man called a "drive" and which had been graveled over where it opened out and the house was reached. There was no sign of a maze in this part of the grounds, only grass and ancient oak trees and holly.

The front door, of weathered oak, was of course set back, a rectangular hole deep in the green canopy. Now they were close to my eyes, I saw how large each shiny leaf was and, when one brushed my face, felt how cool it was to the touch. You can sometimes only tell an artificial houseplant from a real one by touching its leaves, and then there's no doubt. The imitation one feels stiff and dead while the real seems to breathe and yield under your fingers. The leaf that touched my cheek was like that.

I rang the bell and a woman came to the door. You may have seen her picture in the papers and on the television, though there weren't many of these and it was so long ago.

None of the photographs of family members were good likenesses. The drawing I made of her was nearer, though perhaps it's vain of me to say so. At first I thought she must be an employee. She looked about fifty and wore one of those crossover overalls, the staple of sitcom dailies.

She held out her hand and said, "I am Ida Cosway. How do you do?"

The hand she gave me was hard and callused, red and work-damaged.

"Kerstin Kvist," I said and followed her into the hallway, humping my two suitcases.

No description of the inside of that house appeared in the papers and I shan't describe it now. Later on I will give some idea of how it was. I shall just say now that this hallway was the oldest part, an ancient vestige of a house which may have dated back to before Tudor times and which Ella Cosway told me had stood on this spot when the Battle of Agincourt was fought. The fine timbering I hoped to see showed on the plastered walls and low ceiling and there was some carving, vague shapes of roses and shields, half-obliterated by time and wear. Facing the front door was a great inglenook fireplace of red and black bricks.

Ida asked me if I had eaten and, when I said I had, offered me a cup of tea. Swedes drink far more coffee than tea, but I accepted because I disliked the thought of being shown to my room before I had made my situation and the terms under which I was prepared to work here clear to her (in case her mother had kept them to herself) and found out a little more about this family. She took my cases from me and placed them side by side at the foot of the staircase, rather a mean staircase for such a large house with such a noble hallway, its treads covered in linoleum and its wooden banister rail attached to the bare wall by metal struts. We went down a passage into the kitchen, very large and reasonably well appointed, but the height of its ceiling, all the pots and pans and a lantern hanging from a big black iron contraption the shape of a drying rack, made me think of a film I had seen set in the eighteenth century where food was prepared in just such a place. There were a table and a number of assorted chairs, armchairs as well as the upright kind, and a sofa covered in a blue check blanket.

"Do sit down," Ida said in her lifeless voice. "You must be tired from your journey."

"Not really," I said. "I should like to go out for a walk later."

"Goodness," she said. The monotonous tone she invariably spoke in made it unclear whether this was uttered in admiration for my hardihood or dismay at my folly. "Sugar?"

"No, thank you," and I added hastily, "and no milk either."

I had stopped her just in time. The habit of putting milk into an infusion of leaves has always struck me as bizarre. I watched with relief as she passed me a large saucerless mug of neat brown tea, clear as the water of the Colne was in those days.

"Are your mother and your brother at home?" I asked her.

"Mother is out with John." I nodded, though the day was gray and the wind rising all the time. "He insists on going out and she doesn't care for him to go alone." She managed to smile at me, a smile that aged her by sending wrinkles up her cheeks and around her eyes. "I expect that will be one of your jobs. They'll soon be back."

"Perhaps you'll tell me something of what I'll be expected to do for him. Your mother's letters said very little."

"What excellent English you speak," she said. "Really, I didn't expect it."

"All Swedes speak English." This was an exaggeration, though most do. "They wouldn't get very far if they didn't. You were telling me about your brother."

"Yes," she said. "John, yes."

I sensed she disliked the idea and was trying to avoid it, but lacked the cunning or conversational skills to do so. In the ensuing silence, I drank my tea and studied her. She was a tall woman, as tall as I am, and I, to use the system then used in England, am five feet nine. The drawing I did of her four or five weeks later shows a fine-boned face as rough and neglected as her hands, and gray-threaded hair as dull as her dark brown tweed skirt. Perhaps my cartoonist's habit of exaggerating a subject's outstanding feature came into play here, for I doubt if Ida can have been as round-shouldered as she is in my sketch. Whether I rendered the tension that seemed to grip her, I can't tell. It intensified as I pressed her to tell me more about her brother, though I tried to speak gently.

She spoke more rapidly, as if anxious to say what had to be said as fast as possible, so that pleasanter things could be discussed. "He was quite normal as a little boy. Later on he began to get—strange. My mother has her own theories as to what started it off and so does our doctor, Dr. Lombard. He treats John. He needs constant care—well, watching."

"I'm very sorry. Your mother takes care of him?"

"She and I," Ida said, "and now you. Now she's getting old—well, of course, she is old—it is becoming too much for her to do single-handed. My sisters and I help, but they both have jobs. It was John himself who wanted you—well, wanted someone, and of course what John wants John gets." Her dry laugh had an unpleasant sound, halfway between a cough and a gasp. I was later to learn that Mrs. Cosway and her other daughters also laughed like that, as if laughter itself was a discreet substitute for a bitter comment. "Though not as much as he used to," she said.

I had no idea what she meant.

"You said you would stay a year, I think. There won't be a great deal for you to do. And you needn't look like that"—I wasn't aware I was looking anything but interested—"there's nothing distasteful. Anyway, you've been a nurse. He can feed himself and the—the other thing, you know." She meant his excretory processes and what nurses call the waterworks, but the effort at clumsy euphemism made her blush. "You won't find it arduous. Really, it's more like babysitting, only the baby is a grown man."

She seemed to be considering whether to say more, then impulsively said, "There's madness in the family." The expression was old-fashioned then if not yet politically incorrect, but she repeated it. "Yes, madness in the family." When people say this, phrasing it in various ways, they always sound pleased about this particular genetic inheritance. Cancer or arthritis "in the family" is spoken of quite differently. "My great-grandfather was strange," she said. "He went completely insane, and his son was eccentric, to say the least."

She compressed her lips and I could tell she was feeling she had said too much. "Perhaps I could see my room now," I said.

"Of course."

We went upstairs. The passage was wide, more like a gallery, and with framed engravings on the walls. Ida showed me into a room facing the front. "This room," she said, putting the suitcase she was carrying for me on the bed, "was intended for my brother. It has its own bathroom, you see. My father was alive then and he had it put in. John didn't like it. He twice let the bath overflow and water came down through the ceiling. He doesn't like showers either—well, he doesn't much like upstairs, so now he sleeps in a room off the hall. I told you he always gets what he wants. But it's dreadful to be mad, isn't it?"

"It's very sad," I said sincerely. "I feel for you all."

"Do you?" she said wistfully, as if little sympathy for their lot had come from anyone else.

"That's nice of you."

Because I like to have things straight, with everyone knowing what everyone else is doing, I asked if it would be all right for me to take a look around downstairs before I went out. At first she seemed taken aback but she rallied. "Of course. Turn right out of your room and you'll find the back stairs. They are nearer."

For a moment I was unsure if this was her rather clumsy way of telling me that now I was in the position of a servant, I must use the back stairs just as I must use the back door. But when I knew her better I understood that it was quite otherwise. She was just awkward. She had been cut off from ordinary social usage by a sheltered and reclusive life.


Excerpted from The Minotaur by Ruth Rendell. Copyright © 2005 Kingsmarkham Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Meet the Author

Edgar Award–winning author Ruth Rendell (b. 1930) has written more than seventy books that have sold more than 20 million copies worldwide. A fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (London), she is the recipient of the Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Crime Writers’ Association. Rendell’s award-winning novels include A Demon in My View (1976), A Dark-Adapted Eye (1987), and King Solomon’s Carpet (1991). Her popular crime stories featuring Chief Inspector Reginald Wexford were adapted into a long-running British television series (1987–2000) starring George Baker.

Edgar Award–winning author Ruth Rendell (b. 1930) has written more than seventy books and sold more than twenty million copies worldwide. A fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (London), she is the recipient of the Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Crime Writers’ Association. Rendell’s award-winning novels include A Demon in My View (1976), A Dark-Adapted Eye (1987), and King Solomon’s Carpet (1991). Her popular crime stories featuring Chief Inspector Reginald Wexford were adapted into a long-running British television series (1987–2000) starring George Baker.

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Minotaur 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
JessLucy More than 1 year ago
I've been reading Barbara Vine for a dozen years and she's still one of my favorite authors. She combines flawless writing with dramatic and disturbing plotlines that keep a reader absolutely captivated! One of the few mystery writers that can still suprise and deliver that perfect, satisfying conclusion. She's brilliant! I would recommend any of her books, as well as anything by her alias, Ruth Rendell (especially the more recent ones), as well as Acid Row, the Devil's Feather, and the Shape of Snakes by Minette Walters. You may also like the Jack Reacher series by Lee Child and the Travis McGee series by John D. MacDonald.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Ruth (Barbara Vine) writes so well. There is no overwriting here, it is just perfect. She creates colorful, imaginative characters and settings and entangles them with murder and vice. I was so enthralled with this book I read it in just a few days, I simply couldn't put it down.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
More bizarre characters, all broken in some way, along with a creepy country house, with a seemingly "disturbed' patient who's barred from using the library draws you in quickly. This is more psychological than mystery but with no OMG moment at the end of the book. Still, you ponder the events at the end.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
Having read Ruth Rendall's work, I was pleasantly surprised by this book. I thought the development of each character was adequate, and kept expecting some bizarre, twisted ending to explain John and the rest of the family's pecularities. Instead,the ending is satisfying and believable. I think I prefer Barbara Vine's work to that of her alter-ego Ruth Rendall.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
In his cave hidden from view
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was a truly outstanding book. Set in the English countryside, it tells of a family whose five women's lives are dominated by both the mother and the adult son. The mother is an elderly horror of a woman who has subdued nearly all her daughters' spirits, and the son is mentally disabled. Entering this mix is the narrator, a young Swedish woman hired to be a companion to the son. It doesn't take her long to 1) sense that something is amiss in this ancient wreck of a home, and 2) start being as cowed by the old woman as the rest of the group is. A handsome artist newly arrived to the village becomes the catalyst for tragedy. Ms. Vine's characterization and flowing narrative style are spot-on. When the author writes as Ruth Rendell, her novels have the same train-wreck-in-the-making quality, but with the addition of a dark and depressing aftertaste. As Barbara Vine, the first quality is there, but the second is not, which I can't help but prefer.