The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(18)
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 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.”