The Map of Time Collection, page 137
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 toward 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.
“Armand gave me everything, Inspector. Everything except deliverance from my curse. That was impossible, even for him. He was content to share my terrible, dark secret: he was my friend, my companion, and my fears became his own. Others like me have been less fortunate . . . But one day Armand had to go away. He didn’t say where or why, he only swore that it was his duty and begged me not to ask questions. I obeyed him, as always. And after that, I was left alone. Alone to face the truth of what I am. And when the thirst came upon me, all the promises I had made to my husband before his departure meant nothing. You cannot possibly imagine what it feels like to be me, Inspector, the indescribable torment of being alive. Nor can you imagine the dreadful loneliness that devours me in this world to which I do not belong, which considers me accursed . . . Do you think I don’t want to die? Every day I wish I were dead with all my heart . . . But I promised Armand I wouldn’t kill myself, that I would stand firm, that I would find a way of living with my curse. And I assure you I tried. Oh, yes, I tried with all my might, but I failed . . . At first, I endeavored to survive by killing livestock and small animals, as you deduced, but I soon realized that wouldn’t fend off my craving for long, and that very soon I would have to track down the sustenance I really needed . . .”
Clayton looked at her impassively, saying nothing.
“It would all be a lot simpler if I were just wearing a belt made of wolf hide, wouldn’t it? Because I would only have to burn it. Unfortunately, what changes me into what I am is also part of me.” The countess tried to make light of the situation. “But I promise you, that isn’t the real me. No, that isn’t me. Believe me when I tell you that each of those deaths weighs on my conscience.”
“Assuming you have one,” Clayton muttered.
The countess smiled weakly.
“But the thing I shall never forgive myself for is failing the man who gave me everything,” she went on, ignoring the inspector’s remark, “the man who considered me beautiful, despite knowing what I was, who made me feel, not like a monster, but like a worthwhile being—the most worthwhile being in the entire universe . . .” Her voice faltered and her eyes filled with tears. “And you remind me so much of him . . . The first time I saw you, I felt I was looking into my husband’s eyes anew . . .” She edged toward Clayton, reaching out a hand to touch his face. The inspector could feel the scorching heat from the fire on his back, and yet the countess’s fingers burned more than the flames themselves. With neither the strength nor the will to resist, Clayton let her run them over his cheek in an ardent caress, scarcely brushing his lips before withdrawing her hand. “You have the eyes of an old man, Inspector, eyes that view the world from somewhere remote and unassailable, that endeavor to understand it whilst remaining outside of it. And yet . . .” The countess moved her face closer to Clayton’s, who could smell the salty aroma of her tear-stained skin. “Your lips are made for love.”
Clayton gripped her wrist, restraining her.
“Don’t even try,” he warned. “You cannot prevent me from doing what I have to do. I am going to arrest you, Countess. It’s my duty. I shall deliver you to Scotland Yard handcuffed, in chains if necessary . . . and may God save your soul,” he murmured, giving an impression of coldness that belied his true feelings. “I shan’t deny that I feel a sense of horror at your tragic fate. Our scientists will strip off your splendid clothes, strap you naked to a chair, and examine you as if you were an animal. They won’t stop until they discover what sort of monster lives inside you, and afterward they will lock you in a cage for the rest of your life.”
The countess simply smiled at him, the way a man would smile when recalling the stories that frightened him as a child. It was then Clayton saw, from close up, that the countess’s eyes were not totally black: a fine ring of gold, like a solar eclipse, encircled her irises.
“What you said earlier is true,” he heard her say, her lips within kissing distance of his. “I manipulated you. I used my smiles to cloud your thinking. But all the time I was dazzling you . . . I was also falling in love with you.”
“You’re lying,” Clayton said between gritted teeth.
The countess pulled an amused face, as if he were joking.
“Do you know why you love me, Clayton? You love me because you don’t understand me, because I am a riddle to you. I intrigue you, I trouble you, I keep you awake at night, and I take away your appetite. You want to solve the puzzle I present you because that is the most powerful form of possession there is. And I confess that for the first time in my life I feel the same way,” she said, her breath quickening. “It’s true, from the moment I saw you I felt the need to discover what lay behind your eyes . . . Believe it or not, I fell in love with you, Clayton. But I forced myself to struggle against those feelings that were growing stronger and stronger. I am a monster and cannot permit myself the luxury of falling in love. But I don’t want to struggle any longer, Inspector. Not now. I, too, deserve to know at least once in my life what it feels like to love. So, I am begging you, Inspector, let’s forget who we are just for tonight and give way to our desire. I promise you that tomorrow we will go back to being a Scotland Yard inspector and his prisoner . . . But the night is still young.”
As she spoke, Clayton felt her hot breath on his face, he smelled the sweet fragrance of her hair, and he noticed the blood pulsing fiercely in her slender wrist, still firmly clasped in his hand. And, perhaps because at that point it was his only way of resisting, Clayton squeezed that part of her as hard as he could, hoping to cause her pain, to hear her fragile bones snap in his grip. The countess groaned, but that didn’t stop her. Her smoldering lips slid across his cheek toward his mouth.
“I only want to know what it is to love, before the day dawns and everything comes to an end . . . ,” she whispered to him before her lips melted in his.
Clayton slowly released the countess’s wrist, opening his fingers almost without realizing it, like a tree letting the fruit it has been cradling for months fall to the ground. For a few seconds his arm hung in the air, orphaned, purposeless, until at last the countess flung her arms around him. After a moment’s hesitation, Clayton clasped her by the waist with a fervor he had never imagined he could feel. A mysterious, powerful desire raged through him like a fire, searing his veins and setting his reason alight, threatening to rip open his body from the inside, to blow him up like a keg of dynamite. And in his urgency to smother that fire, Clayton pressed his body hard against hers, as though he hoped to break through the frontiers of her flesh and plunge headlong into the muddy depths of her soul. He knew he wanted to possess her, to put an end to the sudden hunger overwhelming him. The countess pulled her mouth away from his and Clayton felt her run her lips excitedly over his neck, nipping him with her teeth. Incapable of thinking rationally, Clayton pushed her from him, ready to throw her down on the rug and make her his, take her roughly until he had extinguished the flames of desire burning him up. At that moment, their eyes met, and the inspector was jolted out of himself. The countess’s gaze wasn’t what he had expected. A cold, calm light flickered in her eyes, belying the abandon of her body.
