The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(23)
The countess contemplated him, waiting for his response. Clayton lifted his glass and emptied it in one go, steeling himself for what he was about to say, which was very different from what she was expecting.
“No, Countess, you are mistaken: I solved the case only this evening. And it was Armand who gave me the clue.”
She looked at him, amused.
“What do you mean?”
Clayton stepped away from the countess with a sigh and motioned to the portrait with his chin.
“Third shelf on the right. You can’t see it unless you look hard, but I have a bad habit of noticing the details.”
The countess glanced at him uneasily. He motioned toward the portrait again, inviting her to examine it more closely, and she finally obeyed, approaching the fireplace more dazed than intrigued.
“Next to the armillary sphere. What do you see?”
The countess looked at the spot in the painting where Clayton had pointed.
“Three mice dancing in a circle.”
The inspector nodded dolefully.
“Quite so. Three stuffed mice, whose charming pose reveals the extraordinary skill of the taxidermist.”
She said nothing, still not turning toward him. Clayton realized she was trying to retrace the chain of his thoughts since he had noticed the mice, to see where it led. Only, of course, it was not simply the accursed mice.
“They’re scarcely visible, aren’t they? I’ll wager it’s the first time you’ve noticed them. And yet they are there. They have always been there. Brown mice, standing upright on their little feet . . . As adorable as they are incriminating.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you are insinuating, Inspector,” she said evasively, turning to face him.
“Really? You needn’t worry, I can explain it to you step by step.” Clayton gave a wry smile. “Do you recall the explanation I gave over dinner? Well, now forget about it. You’ll find this one much better. After hearing it I’m sure you’ll have no doubt about the great future I have ahead of me at Scotland Yard.” She remained silent. “Good, let’s start with the day we first met,” Clayton went on. “Do you remember the hat you wore? You don’t? I do. Unfortunately, I never forget anything. It had a wide brim and was adorned with butterflies and a little brown dormouse. I also remember that when Captain Sinclair remarked on how exquisite it was, you told him it had been sent over from America. Something about your reply troubled me. I’ve always had a wide range of interests, and I happen to know a little about zoology. I am scarcely more than an amateur, but I couldn’t help noticing that the butterflies on your hat were of the monarch variety, which are typically found in the United States.” Clayton clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing in circles around the point where he had launched into his speech, with a look of concentration on his face, as though suddenly he had forgotten the countess, the room, and even himself and were sweeping through the passageways of his own mind, where his thoughts hung in neat rows, like the wash on a line. “However, the Muscardinus avellanarius, or common dormouse, is native to the British Isles. And that was what bothered me. I didn’t give it much importance at the time: I assumed that in a fit of originality you had asked your milliner to revamp the hat by placing an English rodent alongside some American butterflies. But now I know you can’t afford to employ a milliner, because during our inquiries we discovered the difficulties you are having in inheriting your husband’s French estate due to the ongoing investigation of his disappearance. Which means you must have done it yourself . . . And this evening those little mice told me it couldn’t have been very difficult, because you were initiated into the art of taxidermy by a great teacher . . .”
Clayton gestured toward the portrait above the fireplace.
“Naturally, you also created that disguise that so impressed the doctor,” he said, pointing to the werewolf costume. “You did so, unless I’m mistaken, a little over three months ago, and that explains the disappearance of the salt from the castle pantries. You used that to tan the hides. I have no need to search the cellars to deduce that your laboratory is down there, close enough to the servants’ quarters for them to be overcome by the fumes from the arsenic and other noxious substances you were obliged to use. You had a mask for protection, but I’ll wager you suffered burns to your skin, or perhaps you stained your fingers with some indelible substance, which is why you always wear gloves. But let’s not digress. What drove you to make the costume? The answer is simple. Until then, for whatever reason, you had been content to kill domestic animals and a few head of cattle. But you knew that diet wouldn’t be sufficient and you would soon have to start murdering your neighbors. Fearing those deaths would eventually incriminate you—which is doubtless what happened in France, forcing you to flee the country—it occurred to you to create a fake werewolf, a monstrous beast capable of inflicting on its victims the terrible wounds you yourself would cause. Tom Hollister, the greedy, strapping young lad who had supplied you with the hides, seemed perfect for the part. Seducing him must have been child’s play, persuading him to confess his disappointments and desires to you, and then coming up with a plan you devised whereby he could get his hands on the land he coveted. For it was you, not poor Tom Hollister, who conceived the plan I described earlier as brilliant. Hollister was merely your puppet. Doubtless you offered to kill his neighbors as proof of your boundless love, convincing him you would both have the perfect alibi if he appeared in the forest wearing the werewolf costume on the evenings when you threw your balls.” Clayton shook his head in disbelief, as though he himself was astonished at the ease with which all the pieces fitted together. “Balls that always coincided with a full moon, and which, on the pretext of making a grand entrance, you always arrived at late, after you had committed your bloody crimes, probably slipping back into the castle through one of its many secret passageways. Thus, when the latest murder was announced, you only had to look horrified like the others, surrounded by witnesses that included the town authorities and, at your last ball, two Scotland Yard inspectors.