The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(19)
The remark elicited a few chuckles, which Clayton ignored, leaning back in his seat, his gaze still locked with that of the countess. There was no question but that the inspector’s manner had aroused her curiosity. No sooner had the laughter subsided than she turned to Sinclair.
“I couldn’t agree more, Captain. The Evil One . . . I refuse to believe that men shun their natural goodness and the word of God for a creature like that billy goat that presides over witches’ covens. In fact, I have always resisted the idea that everything is exactly as it is depicted in folk tales. That is why I find your work so intriguing: it must be fascinating to investigate monsters and discover what lies behind them, the genuine truth about myths, their legitimate fantastical nature. Talk to us, Captain, tell us about your work.”
“Er . . . I’m afraid that’s impossible, Countess,” Sinclair apologized, slightly startled. “Our work demands confidentiality and—”
“Oh, don’t be so coy, Captain! This isn’t a convention of sage old druids; we’re in Blackmoor! Go on, make an exception, please,” the countess implored, pouting flirtatiously. “I’m sure we’d all love to know about the workings of your remarkable division: Do you use new, revolutionary techniques, or on the contrary do you go out armed with crucifixes, holy water, and stakes carved from ash wood when you hunt down vampires? They say such creatures can turn themselves into bats or even mist.”
“And can’t set foot on consecrated ground,” added the vicar.
“And have certain deformities, such as a protruding tailbone,” interjected the doctor.
“And that they are born with the mother’s placenta wrapped around their heads, like a turban,” said the chief constable. Everyone burst out laughing.
When the guffaws had abated, the countess went on, contemplating the captain mischievously.
“Are all those things true, Captain? Personally, I find it hard to believe such creatures can be warded off with garlic, or that they have forked tongues,” she said, poking the tip of hers suggestively between her lips.
“Well”—Sinclair cleared his throat, trying to hide his unease—“I’m afraid to say, Countess, that most of those things are no more than superstitions.”
Everyone stared at the captain, expecting him to elaborate on that interesting topic. Sinclair gave a resigned sigh and sat up in his seat. Realizing that his superior was going to inflict on those poor people the same speech he had given him when he had joined the department, Clayton settled back in his own chair, silently thanking the captain for prolonging that interminable dinner. All of a sudden, he didn’t want it to end: what awaited him afterward no longer seemed so enticing. He hoped the captain would go on talking until the next day, or the next month, to give him enough time to order his thoughts and decide what to do. For the moment, the only thing he knew for sure was that he had no intention of sharing his discovery with Sinclair. He wanted to interrogate the countess alone, so that she would be able to answer all the questions bubbling inside his head, even if the majority of them bore no relation to the case.
“As you know, gentlemen, our department is responsible for looking into the supernatural, everything that is beyond man’s comprehension,” Clayton heard the captain explain as he ran his fingers over his dragon-shaped lapel pin. “Alas, as on this occasion, most of our investigations turn out to be hoaxes. This is something Inspector Clayton is starting to learn, isn’t it, my boy?” Clayton felt obliged to nod in agreement. “But even the cases we can only explain by resorting to the fantastical show us that the supernatural rarely coincides with popular folklore. Werewolves are a perfect example. They first appeared in Greek mythology, but it wasn’t until the Middle Ages that stories about werewolves began to proliferate. Our files contain a cutting from a German gazette dating back to . . .” Sinclair frowned, trying to recall the date.
“Fifteen eighty-nine,” Clayton said wearily.
“Yes, precisely, fifteen eighty-nine. And it gives an account of children whose guts were ripped out by a supposed werewolf in the town of Bedburg. It is the oldest account we have, but by no means the only one. There are countless such stories. Hundreds, nay, thousands of cases that have only helped the werewolf myth grow. And yet myths are simply facts that have been filtered through the popular imagination, which has a tendency toward theatrical, nauseating romanticism that ends up distorting reality until it becomes unrecognizable. Thanks to those myths, and to penny dreadfuls like Wagner the Wer-Wolf or Hugues the Wer-Wolf, most people today think of werewolves as wretched creatures who at each full moon are transformed into wolves against their will and, overwhelmed by a terrible bloodlust, are driven to kill indiscriminately. Among the many other foolish notions, the power to turn into a werewolf is said to be obtained from drinking rainwater accumulating in wolf tracks, or from wearing a belt made from wolf hide, or from being bitten by another werewolf. Since you can verify the fallacy of the first two for yourselves, allow me to demonstrate the impossibility of the third by means of a simple calculation: if werewolves, like vampires, turned all their victims into creatures like themselves by biting them, before long the entire world’s population would cease to be human. Reason allows us to refute the other fascinating traits with which folklore has endowed those creatures. The moon’s influence, for example, is an idea that originates in the myths of southern France. I am sure you will all agree that running through a forest during a full moon is much easier than in the darkest night, making it likely that the first time a murderer was branded as a werewolf, it was for the sake of mere convenience. In any event, we have known about the moon’s influence since ancient times; its effect on the tide, the weather, men’s mood, and, er . . .”