“Imagine how long it must have taken Hollister to make that costume,” Price was saying, “to hunt down enough wolves, and to stitch their pelts together alone at home! And all that without arousing the slightest suspicion! A terrifying thought, isn’t it? I knew the lad quite well. He used to help me sometimes in the shop, and we’d often have a chat. All the same, I’d never have imagined—” He broke off in mid-sentence and shrugged.
Everyone nodded, sharing in the butcher’s bewilderment, except Clayton, who, struggling to overcome his fear, was looking straight at the countess, anticipating her response. Valerie de Bompard, who was nodding like the others in a gesture of regret, caught the inspector’s eye and as always held his gaze unflinchingly, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. Clayton knew he must first decide how to act on the information he had just stumbled across, then try to work out a plan before the end of the dinner. But, confronted with the countess’s smile, he couldn’t prevent a feeling of anger from welling up inside him. I have no doubt a bright future awaits you at Scotland Yard, she had said to him, and the same words that had gladdened him before became like shards of glass piercing his heart. He felt his blood begin to boil.
“People are never what they seem,” he heard himself say as though it were someone else’s voice, his gaze still fixed on the countess. “We all have our secrets, and yet we’re always surprised when we discover that other people do, too. Wouldn’t you agree, Countess?”
Valerie was still smiling, but Clayton thought he perceived a glint of confusion in her eyes. Not fear—not yet. That would come later.
“Naturally, Inspector, we all have a hidden side we don’t show others,” she replied, making her crystal glass sing as she ran her finger round it swiftly but delicately. “However, if you’ll allow me to make a distinction, there is a world of difference between the almost obligatory lies we all tell to protect our privacy and possessing the dual personality of a murderer.”
Clayton nodded, as did the other guests, but he made sure the countess noticed the sardonic veneer to his look.
“In any event, there is something diabolical about the zeal with which Hollister embarked on the study of taxidermy,” the vicar said, wandering off the subject, his cheeks ruddy from the alcohol. “All that sinister knowledge hidden away in his house: jars filled with strange, noxious substances, books on alchemy, medieval treatises . . . It brings to mind tales of witches and pacts with the devil. Even though the explanation for those dreadful murders has turned out to be human, I can’t help seeing the mark of the Evil One imprinted on young Hollister’s actions.”
“The devil? Oh, come now, Father!” the chief constable spluttered, alarmed nonetheless.
“Unfortunately, Father Harris,” Captain Sinclair interjected in a loud, clear voice, “I’m afraid that the hand of the Evil One in this matter is too far-fetched even for our jurisdiction.”
The remark elicited a few chuckles, which Clayton ignored, leaning back in his seat, his gaze still locked with that of the countess. There was no question but that the inspector’s manner had aroused her curiosity. No sooner had the laughter subsided than she turned to Sinclair.
“I couldn’t agree more, Captain. The Evil One . . . I refuse to believe that men shun their natural goodness and the word of God for a creature like that billy goat that presides over witches’ covens. In fact, I have always resisted the idea that everything is exactly as it is depicted in folk tales. That is why I find your work so intriguing: it must be fascinating to investigate monsters and discover what lies behind them, the genuine truth about myths, their legitimate fantastical nature. Talk to us, Captain, tell us about your work.”
“Er . . . I’m afraid that’s impossible, Countess,” Sinclair apologized, slightly startled. “Our work demands confidentiality and—”
“Oh, don’t be so coy, Captain! This isn’t a convention of sage old druids; we’re in Blackmoor! Go on, make an exception, please,” the countess implored, pouting flirtatiously. “I’m sure we’d all love to know about the workings of your remarkable division: Do you use new, revolutionary techniques, or on the contrary do you go out armed with crucifixes, holy water, and stakes carved from ash wood when you hunt down vampires? They say such creatures can turn themselves into bats or even mist.”
“And can’t set foot on consecrated ground,” added the vicar.
“And have certain deformities, such as a protruding tailbone,” interjected the doctor.
“And that they are born with the mother’s placenta wrapped around their heads, like a turban,” said the chief constable. Everyone burst out laughing.
When the guffaws had abated, the countess went on, contemplating the captain mischievously.
“Are all those things true, Captain? Personally, I find it hard to believe such creatures can be warded off with garlic, or that they have forked tongues,” she said, poking the tip of hers suggestively between her lips.
“Well”—Sinclair cleared his throat, trying to hide his unease—“I’m afraid to say, Countess, that most of those things are no more than superstitions.”
Everyone stared at the captain, expecting him to elaborate on that interesting topic. Sinclair gave a resigned sigh and sat up in his seat. Realizing that his superior was going to inflict on those poor people the same speech he had given him when he had joined the department, Clayton settled back in his own chair, silently thanking the captain for prolonging that interminable dinner. All of a sudden, he didn’t want it to end: what awaited him afterward no longer seemed so enticing. He hoped the captain would go on talking until the next day, or the next month, to give him enough time to order his thoughts and decide what to do. For the moment, the only thing he knew for sure was that he had no intention of sharing his discovery with Sinclair. He wanted to interrogate the countess alone, so that she would be able to answer all the questions bubbling inside his head, even if the majority of them bore no relation to the case.
“As you know, gentlemen, our department is responsible for looking into the supernatural, everything that is beyond man’s comprehension,” Clayton heard the captain explain as he ran his fingers over his dragon-shaped lapel pin. “Alas, as on this occasion, most of our investigations turn out to be hoaxes. This is something Inspector Clayton is starting to learn, isn’t it, my boy?” Clayton felt obliged to nod in agreement. “But even the cases we can only explain by resorting to the fantastical show us that the supernatural rarely coincides with popular folklore. Werewolves are a perfect example. They first appeared in Greek mythology, but it wasn’t until the Middle Ages that stories about werewolves began to proliferate. Our files contain a cutting from a German gazette dating back to . . .” Sinclair frowned, trying to recall the date.
“Fifteen eighty-nine,” Clayton said wearily.
“Yes, precisely, fifteen eighty-nine. And it gives an account of children whose guts were ripped out by a supposed werewolf in the town of Bedburg. It is the oldest account we have, but by no means the only one. There are countless such stories. Hundreds, nay, thousands of cases that have only helped the werewolf myth grow. And yet myths are simply facts that have been filtered through the popular imagination, which has a tendency toward theatrical, nauseating romanticism that ends up distorting reality until it becomes unrecognizable. Thanks to those myths, and to penny dreadfuls like Wagner the Wer-Wolf or Hugues the Wer-Wolf, most people today think of werewolves as wretched creatures who at each full moon are transformed into wolves against their will and, overwhelmed by a terrible bloodlust, are driven to kill indiscriminately. Among the many other foolish notions, the power to turn into a werewolf is said to be obtained from drinking rainwater accumulating in wolf tracks, or from wearing a belt made from wolf hide, or from being bitten by another werewolf. Since you can verify the fallacy of the first two for yourselves, allow me to demonstrate the impossibility of the third by means of a simple calculation: if werewolves, like vampires, turned all their victims into creatures like themselves by biting them, b
efore long the entire world’s population would cease to be human. Reason allows us to refute the other fascinating traits with which folklore has endowed those creatures. The moon’s influence, for example, is an idea that originates in the myths of southern France. I am sure you will all agree that running through a forest during a full moon is much easier than in the darkest night, making it likely that the first time a murderer was branded as a werewolf, it was for the sake of mere convenience. In any event, we have known about the moon’s influence since ancient times; its effect on the tide, the weather, men’s mood, and, er . . .”
“Certain female complaints,” Clayton suggested.
“Indeed, certain female complaints. And so, if werewolves did exist, the effects of the moon on their behavior would undoubtedly be the least fantastical aspect of their nature.” Sinclair paused and then turned to the doctor with an ironical smile. “As for silver bullets being an infallible weapon against werewolves, Doctor Russell, I’m afraid that is something that, for the moment, only you and a handful of others know about. Perhaps one day it will become just another indisputable characteristic of those creatures. For that to happen it would suffice for authors to decide to use it in their novels. Although, frankly, the idea is so outlandish I doubt they ever will.”
“So, are you saying werewolves don’t exist?” asked Price, a man who preferred simple, definite conclusions.
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Price,” replied Sinclair, adding to the butcher’s puzzlement. “I wouldn’t presume to claim that something doesn’t exist simply because I haven’t seen it. All I’m saying is that if they did exist, they would bear little resemblance to the ridiculous creatures myths have turned them into,” he concluded, pointing to the costume adorning the corner of the dining hall.
Of course not, thought Clayton, glancing at the woman seated at the head of the table.
And with that the conversation soon lapsed into a series of humdrum commentaries. Finally, the countess, encouraged by the inebriated Doctor Russell’s raptures over each of the dishes served, summoned Mrs. Pickerton from the kitchen so that they might all congratulate her in person. The woman accepted their compliments with relief, saying she had been concerned the guests might have found some of her food bland, because a few months earlier a thief had raided the castle pantry, making off with several sacks of salt, which still had not been replaced. Everyone had to assure her heartily, almost swearing on Father Harris’s Bible, that they had noticed no such lack, to the greater credit of her skills as a cook.
When Mrs. Pickerton had left the way she came, Clayton began thinking to himself. The salt had gone missing . . . This last tidbit came as an unexpected gift, which he duly registered. Now there was no doubt in his mind that he had solved the case. Until then, he had held on to the faint hope that he might be mistaken, but that hope had evaporated. He almost had the impression that everyone there could hear his heart breaking, like a walnut crushed under someone’s boot.
2
AS THEY WERE SAYING FAREWELL, Clayton had the awkward knowledge that he did not deserve the guests’ parting congratulations, while alongside him Sinclair accepted them with evident satisfaction. Clayton couldn’t help contemplating him forlornly: the poor captain had no idea their case was only just beginning. When the guests had finally departed, the countess and the two inspectors, slightly inhibited by the sudden silence, were left standing in the castle’s vast entrance hall, at the foot of a magnificent marble staircase.
“Well, I think it’s about time for bed,” the captain announced. “We have an early start in the morning. The dinner was splendid, Countess, and so is your kindness for offering us your hospitality for so many days.”
“It has been my pleasure, Captain,” replied Valerie de Bompard, smiling genially. “Two of the most intelligent men in the land staying under my roof! I assure you I’m unlikely ever to forget it.”
She stretched out one of her gloved hands, upon which the captain planted an exaggeratedly chaste kiss. Then she offered it to Clayton, but the inspector made no attempt to kiss it. He simply stood motionless, like a man suckled by wolves who knows nothing of how to behave, watching silently as her hand hovered in the air.
“You go on ahead, Captain,” he said at last, looking straight at the countess. “It has been an eventful evening, and I am far too excited to go to sleep. Perhaps the countess would agree to have a nightcap with me.”
The countess’s hesitation was fleeting. She instantly gave a sly grin.
“Why, of course, Inspector. I have a superb bottle of port that I keep for special occasions.”
“This is undoubtedly one of them,” replied Clayton, gazing at her even more intently.
Sinclair was obliged to clear his throat in an attempt to break the spell.
“Er . . . in that case, I’ll say good night,” he said. “We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow, and . . .”
Sensing their lack of interest, Sinclair left his sentence unfinished. He began slowly ascending the staircase, like an actor reluctant to leave the stage in the middle of a crucial scene. The countess finally looked away from Clayton and, with a loud swish of silk, made her way back to the dining hall. The inspector followed, but had scarcely advanced two steps when the captain’s voice held him back.
“Inspector Clayton . . .”
Clayton looked toward the top of the stairs, where the captain’s burly, imposing frame was scrutinizing him through the semidarkness, only faintly illuminated by the candelabra in the entrance hall.
“What is it, Captain?”
Sinclair peered at him in silence for a few moments, the red glow from his artificial eye intermittently lighting up his face, as if his thoughts were made up of light and blood. Had he guessed there was something amiss?
“You’ve done a fine job, my boy,” he grunted at last. “A fine job . . .” And, turning around, he went off to his room.
Not without a sense of relief, Clayton remained gazing up the staircase until the captain disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. He recalled the captain’s advice on affairs of the heart offered to him in recent days under the assumption that it was all nothing more than a harmless flirtation. But the captain hadn’t the slightest inkling of what was really about to happen in the dining hall, no more than the countess herself in all likelihood—or, if he was honest, than Clayton himself. There was no telling what direction the conversation would take once he showed his hand. He might even need his gun, he told himself, and quickly felt one of his jacket pockets to make sure it was there. Heaving a sigh, he approached the dining hall, bumping into one of the maids, who had just finished clearing the dessert things away. Valerie de Bompard was standing in front of a small mahogany table, pouring two glasses of port. The fire in the hearth played over the thousand sparkles on her dress, casting a golden glow over her arms and back and transforming the decanted liquid into gold.
“Inspector Clayton!” she exclaimed in her mocking French accent. “For a moment I was afraid you had been refused permission to stay up late and were on your way upstairs, clutching your nanny’s skirts.”
Clayton went over to the countess, whose eyes met his as she handed him one of the glasses. The inspector felt himself once more teetering on the edge of the dark, fathomless abyss of her gaze, and for the umpteenth time it occurred to him that it was not only the perfect combination of Valerie de Bompard’s features and proportions that made her beautiful but something much more profound and difficult to describe. She was incredibly beautiful because she had decided to be so, because that was her desire. And Clayton was convinced that nothing in the world could stand in the way of anything she desired. Taking the glass, he returned her smile with a casually sophisticated air.
“My nanny’s skirts . . .” He grinned at the image of Sinclair squeezed into a governess’s outfit. “I confess that anyone who ordered me to bed dressed in a gown as lovely as yours I would be hard put not to obey. You look stunning this evening, Countess.”
“Is that the only compliment you can think of?” she chuckled. “Frankly, I was expecting something more from a man of your exquisite intellect. And besides, you shouldn’t try to flirt with me, Inspector. I’m a dangerous woman. I thought you’d realized that by now.”
“Why ever would I think that?”
She clinked her glass against his and then took a sip.
“Oh, come now, Inspector, there’s no need to pretend with me!”
“I . . .” Clayton swallowed.
“I find it hard to believe you haven’t heard the gossip circulating about me in the town!” she exclaimed. “The Countess de Bompard, that Frenchwoman with a murky past! A fortune hunter who married the old Count de Bompard for his money and position and who, when he disappeared under mysterious circumstances, fled her native France to avoid the scandal and the dreadful rumors that began to assail her! I’m sure you heard all that and more during the course of your investigation.”
“You are well acquainted with your neighbors’ opinion of you,” Clayton simply replied.
“And don’t you think them cruel? I was nothing but a poor widow wanting to mourn in peace. But I soon realized that would be impossible: evil tongues have wings, and my undeserved notoriety followed me here . . . Damn it! The moment I arrived in this godforsaken place to take possession of the count’s English castle, the first thing all the women did was lock up their husbands . . . As if I could possibly be interested in any of those yokels!”
Clayton had to admit he had never heard any woman curse others in quite the same way. Possibly some of the women of ill repute in the London slums, but certainly no lady. After this charming display of vulgarity, the countess took another sip from her glass and seemed to calm down.
The Map of Chaos Page 7