The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(17)
“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 him—something 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.