The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(20)
“Certain female complaints,” Clayton suggested.
“Indeed, certain female complaints. And so, if werewolves did exist, the effects of the moon on their behavior would undoubtedly be the least fantastical aspect of their nature.” Sinclair paused and then turned to the doctor with an ironical smile. “As for silver bullets being an infallible weapon against werewolves, Doctor Russell, I’m afraid that is something that, for the moment, only you and a handful of others know about. Perhaps one day it will become just another indisputable characteristic of those creatures. For that to happen it would suffice for authors to decide to use it in their novels. Although, frankly, the idea is so outlandish I doubt they ever will.”
“So, are you saying werewolves don’t exist?” asked Price, a man who preferred simple, definite conclusions.
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Price,” replied Sinclair, adding to the butcher’s puzzlement. “I wouldn’t presume to claim that something doesn’t exist simply because I haven’t seen it. All I’m saying is that if they did exist, they would bear little resemblance to the ridiculous creatures myths have turned them into,” he concluded, pointing to the costume adorning the corner of the dining hall.
Of course not, thought Clayton, glancing at the woman seated at the head of the table.
And with that the conversation soon lapsed into a series of humdrum commentaries. Finally, the countess, encouraged by the inebriated Doctor Russell’s raptures over each of the dishes served, summoned Mrs. Pickerton from the kitchen so that they might all congratulate her in person. The woman accepted their compliments with relief, saying she had been concerned the guests might have found some of her food bland, because a few months earlier a thief had raided the castle pantry, making off with several sacks of salt, which still had not been replaced. Everyone had to assure her heartily, almost swearing on Father Harris’s Bible, that they had noticed no such lack, to the greater credit of her skills as a cook.
When Mrs. Pickerton had left the way she came, Clayton began thinking to himself. The salt had gone missing . . . This last tidbit came as an unexpected gift, which he duly registered. Now there was no doubt in his mind that he had solved the case. Until then, he had held on to the faint hope that he might be mistaken, but that hope had evaporated. He almost had the impression that everyone there could hear his heart breaking, like a walnut crushed under someone’s boot.
2
AS THEY WERE SAYING FAREWELL, Clayton had the awkward knowledge that he did not deserve the guests’ parting congratulations, while alongside him Sinclair accepted them with evident satisfaction. Clayton couldn’t help contemplating him forlornly: the poor captain had no idea their case was only just beginning. When the guests had finally departed, the countess and the two inspectors, slightly inhibited by the sudden silence, were left standing in the castle’s vast entrance hall, at the foot of a magnificent marble staircase.
“Well, I think it’s about time for bed,” the captain announced. “We have an early start in the morning. The dinner was splendid, Countess, and so is your kindness for offering us your hospitality for so many days.”
“It has been my pleasure, Captain,” replied Valerie de Bompard, smiling genially. “Two of the most intelligent men in the land staying under my roof! I assure you I’m unlikely ever to forget it.”
She stretched out one of her gloved hands, upon which the captain planted an exaggeratedly chaste kiss. Then she offered it to Clayton, but the inspector made no attempt to kiss it. He simply stood motionless, like a man suckled by wolves who knows nothing of how to behave, watching silently as her hand hovered in the air.
“You go on ahead, Captain,” he said at last, looking straight at the countess. “It has been an eventful evening, and I am far too excited to go to sleep. Perhaps the countess would agree to have a nightcap with me.”
The countess’s hesitation was fleeting. She instantly gave a sly grin.
“Why, of course, Inspector. I have a superb bottle of port that I keep for special occasions.”
“This is undoubtedly one of them,” replied Clayton, gazing at her even more intently.
Sinclair was obliged to clear his throat in an attempt to break the spell.
“Er . . . in that case, I’ll say good night,” he said. “We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow, and . . .”
Sensing their lack of interest, Sinclair left his sentence unfinished. He began slowly ascending the staircase, like an actor reluctant to leave the stage in the middle of a crucial scene. The countess finally looked away from Clayton and, with a loud swish of silk, made her way back to the dining hall. The inspector followed, but had scarcely advanced two steps when the captain’s voice held him back.
“Inspector Clayton . . .”
Clayton looked toward the top of the stairs, where the captain’s burly, imposing frame was scrutinizing him through the semidarkness, only faintly illuminated by the candelabra in the entrance hall.
“What is it, Captain?”
Sinclair peered at him in silence for a few moments, the red glow from his artificial eye intermittently lighting up his face, as if his thoughts were made up of light and blood. Had he guessed there was something amiss?
“You’ve done a fine job, my boy,” he grunted at last. “A fine job . . .” And, turning around, he went off to his room.