Authors: Félix J. Palma
“How is it possible that the thing scares me even now?” the doctor admitted suddenly, breaking the silence.
He rose to his feet and, doubtless emboldened by drink, shuffled over to the disguise with a penguin-like gait.
“Be careful, Russell; take a silver teaspoon with you just in case!” yelled Price, waving his in the air.
The doctor dismissed the butcher's advice with a drunken flourish that sent him tottering toward the animal hide.
“Look out!” shouted Sinclair, leaping from his chair like a nursemaid watching over her wards at play in the park, his mechanical eye emitting a buzz of alarm.
The captain planned to take the disguise back to London, to the Chamber of Marvels in the basement of the Natural History Museum. This was where the Special Branch stored evidence from cases passed on to them because they defied man's reason. He wanted the skin, which he saw as an important part of their division's history, to reach the museum in one piece. When he saw the doctor regain his balance with no other consequence than the hilarity of the onlookers, his face relaxed and he smiled benevolently, although, since he was already on his feet, he decided to go over to the costume himself. Chief Constable Dombey instantly followed suit, as did Price and Harris. Doctor Russell then launched into a scientific exposition of the methods used to create that handiwork, while the others, including Sinclair, felt obliged to nod diligently as the quack continued to show off his knowledge.
And while that impromptu conference was taking place around the disguise, back at the table Clayton finally plucked up the courage to look straight at the countess, from whom he was separated by a generous expanse of solid oak. Throughout all the weeks of his investigation, whenever he and the countess were together, whether in a room full of people or in a garden maze, Clayton's eyes would invariably end up meeting hers, those eyes that seemed to have been waiting for him forever, and whose mystery had begun to haunt his nights. For the inspector, who prided himself on his ability to read a man's thoughts from the way he knotted his tie, was utterly incapable of deciphering her gaze, which might have been expressing gentle adoration, the cruelest disdain, or even some unimaginable private hell. Perhaps all of those at once. And it was in those same eyes that Clayton was drowning now as he admired the countess, and she allowed herself to be admired as always with a smile, enveloping him in her dark, bewitching beauty, which transformed the voices of the other guests into a nonsensical babble, the dining hall into a hazy backdrop, and the entire universe into a distant, possibly imaginary place.
Clayton had never seen Valerie look as magnificent as she did that evening, or as painfully fragile. She was dressed in black and silver: her dazzlingly pale neck rose out of a velvet bodice that emphasized her proud breasts and matched her long calfskin gloves; her silver skirt fell in billowing folds that revealed a constellation of tiny diamonds. Seeing her seated there, illuminated by the shimmering candles, Clayton could not help thinking that, regardless of her indeterminate age, she resembled more than ever a girl queen, childish and capricious, cruel only by birthright. Realizing he was clutching his glass more firmly than usual, and fearing he might break it or do something even more stupid, like leaping onto the table and sprinting frantically toward the countess, swept along on the current of his confused desire, Clayton averted his gaze, and the room regained its movement, its sounds, its stubborn solidity.
“The fact is, the more I look at it, the more I admire it,” he heard the doctor say. “A truly splendid piece of work, gentlemen. Look at this. The hide is perfectly tanned and uncommonly soft.” He leaned forward and sniffed one of the feet. “I'd say it was preserved using a mixture of arsenic and chalk, like in the old days.”
The butcher, to whom Doctor Russell's explanations were beginning to sound like a lullaby, nodded and gave a deep sigh.
“That's all very well, Doctor, but I can't help wondering how a fellow like Hollister could make a costume like this and, more to the point, why he killed those three people. Alas, due to his tragic demise he will never be able to answer these questions. However,” he said, turning to Clayton, “you promised us you would, Inspector, and I think we are all so anxious to know.”
“With pleasure, gentlemen.” Clayton grinned, aware that the moment he had been waiting for throughout the meal had finally arrived.
He stood up from the table, avoiding the countess's gaze, and gave a cursory glance at his audience, which was standing in front of the costume as if posing for a group photograph, a look of intense expectation on their faces.
“Well, I assume you want me to begin with the first question: How could someone as unsophisticated as Hollister produce this outstanding piece of taxidermy? There is a very simple answer to that, gentlemen: through books. As you know, once we discovered Hollister was the werewolf, Captain Sinclair and I searched his shack, where we found books on taxidermy, bestiaries containing images of werewolves, and a variety of substances and tools used in taxidermy. But why would anyone go to such lengths to commit a murder when there are many easier ways of doing it?” Clayton clasped his hands behind his back, pursing his lips ruefully, as if to say he didn't know the answer to that either. Captain Sinclair smiled to himself at his subordinate's weakness for theatrical pauses. “Let us consider for a moment what we know about Hollister's character. Before he threw himself into the ravine, all of you considered him a harmless clodhopper, with just enough brains to resent the unlucky hand life had dealt himâsomething he used to complain about whenever he drank: he was forced to quit school because his parents died when he was still a boy, leaving only a mound of debt and a few acres of stony soil he would struggle to grow anything on. He was also an extremely good-looking young lad, although alas none of the ladies he courted, all of them of noble birth, deigned to show any interest in him. Apparently a poor wretch like him was aiming too high. Now, let us take a closer look at his victims: What did Anderson, Perry, and Dalton have in common?” Clayton observed his audience with a grin. “Their land was adjacent to Hollister's but, unlike his, theirs was fertile. Thus my inquiries led me in that direction. And so I discovered that Hollister, in his eagerness to make money, had attempted to purchase their lands, but that his neighbors had never agreed to sell. Indeed, two of them, to whom Hollister's father had owed money, even threatened to seize his property if he didn't pay up. That must have been when the lad, at the end of his tether, cooked up his plan. A brilliant plan, in my view: he would kill his stupid neighbors in a manner that would not only divert suspicion from himself but would also compel the dead men's families to sell their land quickly and at a reduced price. Why? Because it was cursed. Because a terrible monster had begun prowling there, exacting a life at each full moon. But turning into a werewolf was beyond his capabilities, and so he resorted to using a costume, which, in order not to arouse suspicion, he was forced to make himself. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how poor, honest Tom Hollister became the werewolf of Blackmoor.”
There was an awed silence. Even Sinclair, who was familiar with Clayton's exposition, seemed delighted by his performance. Satisfied with the outcome, Clayton looked straight at the countess and thought he glimpsed a fresh sparkle in her eyes.
“Brilliant, Inspector Clayton.” She smiled. “An exposition as intelligent as it was entertaining. I have no doubt that a bright future awaits you at Scotland Yard.”
Clayton acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow, preferring not to say anything that might break the spell of the unanimous admiration he had conjured around him, and wondered whether he hadn't at last managed to impress the countess. He had never been confronted by a woman like her before and was ignorant of the basic rules of refined courtship: after all, he was no more than a humble policeman, perhaps too lowly for her, or too young, or too unsophisticated, doubtless too much in love. He was not even sure whether it was possible to seduce a woman like Valerie de Bompard with his intellect, or what she might want from a man like him. A night of passion, a moment's amusement, a respite from loneliness, or perhaps an eccentric noblewoman's mere whim? He was hoping for a great deal more. But it was pointless to surmise. Very soon, the expectations Valerie de Bompard had been sowing in the air around him would either become a reality or would vanish forever. Because the case had been solved, they had caught the werewolf, and the next day their carriage would depart for London . . . although perhaps with only one detective on board. Everything would depend on what happened once the dinner was over.
Clayton would have been happy to remain trapped in that instant for all eternity, his gaze intertwined with that of the countess and glimpsing in her smile the promise of a happiness he had never believed existed, but at that very moment the servants, who had doubtless been waiting outside the door for him to finish his speech, burst into the room carrying trays piled high with cakes, fruit, cheese, and bottles of liqueur. The inspector tried to conceal his irritation as he watched the guests heading for their places, more excited by the prodigious array of desserts than by Clayton's brilliant deductions, which moments before they had so passionately applauded. Accepting that he had been defeated by a pile of cakes, the inspector walked back to his seat with an ironic smile. As he passed the countess's portrait, he could not help glancing at it with a look of frustration. But no sooner had Clayton clasped the back of his chair than something deep inside made him turn toward the portrait once more. He took two strides and found himself standing before the canvas, indifferent to whether his sudden interest might puzzle the countess or the other guests. Suddenly, the rest of the world had disappeared beneath a veil of fog. All that remained was him and the painting, which had produced a stab of anxiety he found impossible to explain.
As the flurry of plates and glasses continued behind him, he strove to examine every inch of the canvas, which showed Valerie de Bompard in all her majestic beauty, standing beside a large table piled with neat stacks of books and papers. The day they had arrived at the castle, Captain Sinclair had praised the portrait to the skies, and afterward the countess had informed them it was the work of her late husband, the count de Bompard, a man of many talents, one of which, it seemed, was painting. In fact, the countess had posed for the portrait in her husband's study, and now Clayton could make out in the background, purposefully made hazy by the artist, a vast library whose uppermost reaches vanished into the odd-looking shadows that enveloped the ceiling. Thick, exquisitely bound volumes lined the shelves, alongside an array of objects that Clayton scarcely recognized save for one or two. There was a gilt telescope, a collection of flasks, bottles, and funnels arranged in order of size, an enormous armillary sphere, and . . . It took him a few moments to take in what was next to the sphere. When he did, an icy fear ran though his body like snake venom, while in his brain the whisperings of comprehension began to grow louder and louder.
The servants left the dining hall and Clayton returned to his seat, fearful his knees might buckle under him. What he had just discovered in the painting had turned his solution of the case upside down, and he could only watch in astonishment as the elements began to reconfigure. Clayton leaned back in his chair, each new puzzle piece like a stabbing pain in his entrails. When at last it was complete, he had to acknowledge with a mixture of surprise and dismay that this new configuration made more sense than the last one. His amazement nearly spilled forth in the form of a hysterical laugh, but he managed to contain himself. He took a long sip of brandy, followed by several deep breaths. The liquor calmed him somewhat. He must not give way, he told himself. He had to regain his composure, assimilate the discovery he had just made, and act accordingly.
Fortunately, the guests were still engaged in a trivial conversation about how delicious the meal had been, allowing Clayton to emerge gradually from the stupor into which the revelation had plunged him. He discreetly wiped the beads of sweat from his brow, and even managed to recover his smile, as he pretended to follow the conversation while avoiding everyone's gaze, in particular that of the countess. When Valerie had first shown him the Count de Bompard's painting, Clayton's eyes had focused on her image. The countess eclipsed everything around her, as she did in real life. But now he had seen all the details. The details . . . they were what decided the outcome of an investigation, even if as in this case it was something as ludicrous as a circle of mice holding hands and dancing.
“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 imaginedâ” 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.