“No, I prefer intelligent men. Like Armand,” she went on in a gentler voice. “Or you.”
She tilted her head back slightly, studying Clayton through narrowed eyes, and an ethereal smile played on her lips as she gauged the effect of her words on him. Clayton tried to prevent any emotion from registering on his face. After a few moments’ silence, the countess gave a derisive smile, as though she found his efforts to resist her amusing. So hypnotic was her gaze that the inspector had to remind himself that no matter how much he wanted to taste her lips, she was not what she seemed, and their encounter could not end pleasantly. He stepped away from Valerie and walked over to the portrait hanging over the white marble mantelpiece, underneath which two plush armchairs languished. Staring at the ironical smile with which the countess surveyed the world from the canvas, he told himself it was time for the game to commence.
“Tell me about him. Tell me about Armand.”
The countess gave a soft laugh behind him.
“About Armand? Why, Inspector, I assure you, you have much to learn about the art of seduction. Asking a woman to tell you about another man is hardly appropriate.”
“I’m not sure I agree, Countess. Nothing defines a woman better than the men who have loved her. So tell me about him,” he demanded with deliberate brusqueness. “He painted this portrait, didn’t he?”
There was a silence, during which Clayton could imagine the bewilderment on the countess’s face. After a few moments, her voice rang out.
“Very well, Inspector, if you insist, I shall tell you about him. Armand was a man in a class of his own! Honorable and wise, extremely wise. I suppose intellectual pride was his only weakness, if you can consider it as such. He loved to paint me . . .” Clayton heard a sorrowful sigh. “He did my portrait many times. He used to say I had an unworldly beauty, and he was the humble chronicler whose sacred task was to preserve it for posterity.” The inspector heard her take a few steps forward until she was standing beside him. “However, this portrait is particularly dear to me, because he painted it days before . . . well, you already know about his tragic end.” Valerie’s words caught in her throat, as if she were on the verge of tears.
“It was painted in his study, wasn’t it?” Clayton asked, insensitive to her pain.
“Yes, that was where he did all his research.”
Clayton pursed his lips with a mixture of anger and sorrow as he recalled his surprise at discovering a haven of secret knowledge in Tom Hollister’s humble, dilapidated abode, amid the rats and piles of refuse. The man had spent a long time poring over the numerous manuals on taxidermy neatly lining the shelves in order of size and even color. These stood next to endless rows of substances in jars and some alarming-looking implements: skull scrapers, pincers, colored powders, cotton-wool balls, containers filled with glass eyes, like macabre sweets . . . All meticulously arranged, to the millimeter, composing a cocoon of harmony amid the confusion that reigned in the shack.
“What were the count’s areas of expertise?”
“Everything,” the countess replied with evident pride, increasingly intrigued by the inspector’s sudden interest. “All areas of knowledge and art. He was a brilliant scholar and a scientist far ahead of his time. Centuries ago he would doubtless have been burned at the stake, but fortunately we live in a different age. Nowadays, those who are different or superior merely have to endure envy and slander,” she concluded.
“Did you love him?” the inspector asked, still not looking at her.
The countess hesitated.
“I felt a profound admiration for him. And I was deeply grateful for—”
“But did you love him?” Clayton repeated abruptly.
Valerie de Bompard remained silent for a few moments.
“I could tell you to mind your own business, Inspector,” she replied softly but firmly.
“You could. But all I want to know is whether you are capable of love,” he replied, mimicking her tone as he turned to face her.
“I didn’t love him, Inspector. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love others.” The countess smiled, her small white teeth glistening like precious pearls. “You must understand that the relationship between Armand and me was never that of a normal couple.”
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do.” She laughed. “I was terribly young when I met Armand, Inspector. You might say that I was a feral child, without a shred of education, who lived in darkness, and that Armand kindled in me the flame of knowledge. He educated me, not simply to be a young lady, but to be an equal, like a man. He taught me everything I know, including, when the time was right, about love and pleasure. For, according to Armand de Bompard, if someone hasn’t experienced love and pleasure, they cannot aspire to true knowledge. And so I don’t know whether he married me because he was in love with me or simply because he couldn’t imagine my education being complete without the mastery of love, the highest of the arts. But the fact is, he completed his masterpiece by making me his wife. And you ask me if I loved him? Why, I’m not even sure he loved me!” The countess bit her lower lip and looked defiantly at Clayton. “No, I don’t suppose I loved him. But perhaps what we had was greater than love.”
A silence ensued, which they both allowed to continue as they regarded each other intently.
“Well, I’ve told you about Armand,” the countess said at last. “If your theory is correct, you should know me better now than you did five minutes ago. So, tell me, Inspector, who am I?”
“I’d gladly give any part of my anatomy if it helped me to discover who exactly you are, Countess.”
She laughed sarcastically.
“Well, I shan’t ask that much of you, Inspector. But no more talk of the past. Or of Armand. Tonight we are celebrating,” she said, recovering some of her vivacity. Realizing her glass was empty, she went back to the table to refill it. “You don’t know how grateful I am to you for having caught that idiot Hollister. He always seemed to perpetrate his crimes whenever I threw a ball. It was becoming something of a habit for the chief constable’s men to burst in and silence the orchestra, loudly informing their superior of bloodied corpses and spilled entrails. Can you imagine anything more tasteless? Despite all one’s efforts to look beautiful and make a grand entrance that enchants one’s guests, such interruptions are enough to ruin any ball. It’s hard to continue enjoying oneself after something like that. You were at the last one, so you could see for yourself.” She sashayed back over to Clayton. “Although, I must confess, my real regret when Hollister interrupted my party by killing dear Mr. Dalton was that he did so just at the moment you appeared to have plucked up the courage to ask me to dance. What a pity. Still, at least you used that courage to catch the killer and solve the case.”
The countess contemplated him, waiting for his response. Clayton lifted his glass and emptied it in one go, steeling himself for what he was about to say, which was very different from what she was expecting.
“No, Countess, you are mistaken: I solved the case only this evening. And it was Armand who gave me the clue.”
She looked at him, amused.
“What do you mean?”
Clayton stepped away from the countess with a sigh and motioned to the portrait with his chin.
“Third shelf on the right. You can’t see it unless you look hard, but I have a bad habit of noticing the details.”
The countess glanced at him uneasily. He motioned toward the portrait again, inviting her to examine it more closely, and she finally obeyed, approaching the fireplace more dazed than intrigued.
“Next to the armillary sphere. What do you see?”
The countess looked at the spot in the painting where Clayton had pointed.
“Three mice dancing in a circle.”
The inspector nodded dolefully.
“Quite so. Three stuffed mice, whose charming pose reveals the extraordinary skill of the taxidermist.”
She said nothing, still not turning towar
d him. Clayton realized she was trying to retrace the chain of his thoughts since he had noticed the mice, to see where it led. Only, of course, it was not simply the accursed mice.
“They’re scarcely visible, aren’t they? I’ll wager it’s the first time you’ve noticed them. And yet they are there. They have always been there. Brown mice, standing upright on their little feet . . . As adorable as they are incriminating.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you are insinuating, Inspector,” she said evasively, turning to face him.
“Really? You needn’t worry, I can explain it to you step by step.” Clayton gave a wry smile. “Do you recall the explanation I gave over dinner? Well, now forget about it. You’ll find this one much better. After hearing it I’m sure you’ll have no doubt about the great future I have ahead of me at Scotland Yard.” She remained silent. “Good, let’s start with the day we first met,” Clayton went on. “Do you remember the hat you wore? You don’t? I do. Unfortunately, I never forget anything. It had a wide brim and was adorned with butterflies and a little brown dormouse. I also remember that when Captain Sinclair remarked on how exquisite it was, you told him it had been sent over from America. Something about your reply troubled me. I’ve always had a wide range of interests, and I happen to know a little about zoology. I am scarcely more than an amateur, but I couldn’t help noticing that the butterflies on your hat were of the monarch variety, which are typically found in the United States.” Clayton clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing in circles around the point where he had launched into his speech, with a look of concentration on his face, as though suddenly he had forgotten the countess, the room, and even himself and were sweeping through the passageways of his own mind, where his thoughts hung in neat rows, like the wash on a line. “However, the Muscardinus avellanarius, or common dormouse, is native to the British Isles. And that was what bothered me. I didn’t give it much importance at the time: I assumed that in a fit of originality you had asked your milliner to revamp the hat by placing an English rodent alongside some American butterflies. But now I know you can’t afford to employ a milliner, because during our inquiries we discovered the difficulties you are having in inheriting your husband’s French estate due to the ongoing investigation of his disappearance. Which means you must have done it yourself . . . And this evening those little mice told me it couldn’t have been very difficult, because you were initiated into the art of taxidermy by a great teacher . . .”
Clayton gestured toward the portrait above the fireplace.
“Naturally, you also created that disguise that so impressed the doctor,” he said, pointing to the werewolf costume. “You did so, unless I’m mistaken, a little over three months ago, and that explains the disappearance of the salt from the castle pantries. You used that to tan the hides. I have no need to search the cellars to deduce that your laboratory is down there, close enough to the servants’ quarters for them to be overcome by the fumes from the arsenic and other noxious substances you were obliged to use. You had a mask for protection, but I’ll wager you suffered burns to your skin, or perhaps you stained your fingers with some indelible substance, which is why you always wear gloves. But let’s not digress. What drove you to make the costume? The answer is simple. Until then, for whatever reason, you had been content to kill domestic animals and a few head of cattle. But you knew that diet wouldn’t be sufficient and you would soon have to start murdering your neighbors. Fearing those deaths would eventually incriminate you—which is doubtless what happened in France, forcing you to flee the country—it occurred to you to create a fake werewolf, a monstrous beast capable of inflicting on its victims the terrible wounds you yourself would cause. Tom Hollister, the greedy, strapping young lad who had supplied you with the hides, seemed perfect for the part. Seducing him must have been child’s play, persuading him to confess his disappointments and desires to you, and then coming up with a plan you devised whereby he could get his hands on the land he coveted. For it was you, not poor Tom Hollister, who conceived the plan I described earlier as brilliant. Hollister was merely your puppet. Doubtless you offered to kill his neighbors as proof of your boundless love, convincing him you would both have the perfect alibi if he appeared in the forest wearing the werewolf costume on the evenings when you threw your balls.” Clayton shook his head in disbelief, as though he himself was astonished at the ease with which all the pieces fitted together. “Balls that always coincided with a full moon, and which, on the pretext of making a grand entrance, you always arrived at late, after you had committed your bloody crimes, probably slipping back into the castle through one of its many secret passageways. Thus, when the latest murder was announced, you only had to look horrified like the others, surrounded by witnesses that included the town authorities and, at your last ball, two Scotland Yard inspectors.
“But everything changed the night Hollister threw himself into the ravine. When news reached the castle that we were trying to retrieve the body of the so-called werewolf, whose mysterious nature would soon be revealed, you instantly realized that, unable to believe that an ignorant peasant could have produced such an elaborate outfit, we would naturally suspect the existence of an accomplice. And so, while we were attempting to retrieve the body, you hurried over to Hollister’s shack, where you planted the necessary evidence to prove he had acted alone. However, the habits we learn in childhood are stronger than the most powerful survival instinct, and you couldn’t help arranging everything neatly. It was that neatness I noticed this evening in Armand’s painting. That scrupulous, almost fanatical orderliness of the sage who loves his instruments and his books. The same love he undoubtedly sought to instill in his pupil. That was your mistake, Countess. Although, if it’s any consolation,” Clayton added scornfully, “I expect the count would have been proud of you . . . at least in that respect.”
During the inspector’s brief summary, Valerie de Bompard’s haughty expression had given way to a look of animal intensity, and a terror bordering on madness.
“I doubt it,” she replied. “It was a stupid mistake. And Armand despised stupid mistakes.”
“And yet he made the stupidest mistake of all. He fell in love with you,” said the inspector. “As did I.”
Silence descended on the room once more. The countess was staring at Clayton intently. She looked like a panther caught in a snare, beautifully furious, bathed in the light of the stars. Everything about her posture screamed out that no hunter deserved to trap such a splendid specimen.
“You succeeded in making me so eager to impress you,” Clayton said at last, “to win your admiration, that I stopped listening to the voice inside me crying out each time something wasn’t right. You succeeded in making me care only about the moment when I would stand before you like a hero. You succeeded in making me approach this textbook case as if I were blind and deaf, ignoring all the details, or the numerous coincidences. Because of you, for the first time in my whole career I was no longer guided by my fierce urge to solve a mystery, but rather by the desire to see a flicker of emotion in your eyes that I could fully understand. But tonight the scales have fallen from my eyes. I have seen you for what you are.”
Valerie de Bompard said nothing. She walked over to the mahogany table and with trembling hands poured herself another glass of port. Then, tilting her graceful neck back sharply, she drained it in one go. She remained lost for a few moments in the maze of her thoughts before slamming the glass down on the table, tearing off her gloves, and flinging them at Clayton’s feet. The inspector could see that her hands were covered in scars, red blotches, and hideous welts, and although he had already guessed as much, he could not help feeling a strange pang in his chest. He looked at the countess and felt his head start to spin. The Countess de Bompard smiled bravely, attempting to muster her usual mocking disdain, but the tears were trickling down her cheeks.
“Congratulations, Inspector Clayton. As you can see, you have indeed solved the case this time. And you should
be doubly satisfied, because, unlike Hollister, I am the real thing.”
The inspector gazed at her sorrowfully.
“What are you, Valerie?” he almost whispered.
“Do you really want me to tell you? Are you sure you are ready to hear the answer?”
“Almost certainly not,” sighed Clayton. “But I still need to know.”
“Very well, then, I shall tell you a story, a beautiful story. A story of damnation and salvation. The story of my life. And perhaps, after hearing it, you will be able to answer that question yourself.”
She began speaking softly, like someone reciting a lesson well learned, or an ancient, unforgotten prayer.
“One fine day, a French nobleman was leading a hunt in the forest surrounding his castle, when his horse suddenly bridled, almost trampling a dirty, disheveled girl who was wandering through the woods, muttering to herself in a foreign tongue. The Count de Bompard and his men assumed she had been abandoned by the band of Gypsies who had set up camp in the area during the previous week. Seeing that her skin was covered in sores and she was severely malnourished, they decided to take her with them back to the castle. I was that girl, Inspector. When I mentioned just now that Armand had found a feral child, it was no flight of fancy. By the time my health had been restored, the count had grown fond of me and decided to keep me with him, under his protection, as his ward. I have few recollections from my first months at the castle and none from the preceding years. I have no idea how I came to be in that forest, or whether I am in fact the daughter of Gypsies. I simply don’t remember. I had no life before Armand and would have had none after had he not decided my fate, for I would never have survived in that forest, or become what I am today.”
She fell silent for a few moments, as though searching for the right words with which to begin the next chapter of her story, the one for which Clayton was possibly unprepared.
The Map of Chaos Page 8