The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(24)
“But everything changed the night Hollister threw himself into the ravine. When news reached the castle that we were trying to retrieve the body of the so-called werewolf, whose mysterious nature would soon be revealed, you instantly realized that, unable to believe that an ignorant peasant could have produced such an elaborate outfit, we would naturally suspect the existence of an accomplice. And so, while we were attempting to retrieve the body, you hurried over to Hollister’s shack, where you planted the necessary evidence to prove he had acted alone. However, the habits we learn in childhood are stronger than the most powerful survival instinct, and you couldn’t help arranging everything neatly. It was that neatness I noticed this evening in Armand’s painting. That scrupulous, almost fanatical orderliness of the sage who loves his instruments and his books. The same love he undoubtedly sought to instill in his pupil. That was your mistake, Countess. Although, if it’s any consolation,” Clayton added scornfully, “I expect the count would have been proud of you . . . at least in that respect.”
During the inspector’s brief summary, Valerie de Bompard’s haughty expression had given way to a look of animal intensity, and a terror bordering on madness.
“I doubt it,” she replied. “It was a stupid mistake. And Armand despised stupid mistakes.”
“And yet he made the stupidest mistake of all. He fell in love with you,” said the inspector. “As did I.”
Silence descended on the room once more. The countess was staring at Clayton intently. She looked like a panther caught in a snare, beautifully furious, bathed in the light of the stars. Everything about her posture screamed out that no hunter deserved to trap such a splendid specimen.
“You succeeded in making me so eager to impress you,” Clayton said at last, “to win your admiration, that I stopped listening to the voice inside me crying out each time something wasn’t right. You succeeded in making me care only about the moment when I would stand before you like a hero. You succeeded in making me approach this textbook case as if I were blind and deaf, ignoring all the details, or the numerous coincidences. Because of you, for the first time in my whole career I was no longer guided by my fierce urge to solve a mystery, but rather by the desire to see a flicker of emotion in your eyes that I could fully understand. But tonight the scales have fallen from my eyes. I have seen you for what you are.”
Valerie de Bompard said nothing. She walked over to the mahogany table and with trembling hands poured herself another glass of port. Then, tilting her graceful neck back sharply, she drained it in one go. She remained lost for a few moments in the maze of her thoughts before slamming the glass down on the table, tearing off her gloves, and flinging them at Clayton’s feet. The inspector could see that her hands were covered in scars, red blotches, and hideous welts, and although he had already guessed as much, he could not help feeling a strange pang in his chest. He looked at the countess and felt his head start to spin. The Countess de Bompard smiled bravely, attempting to muster her usual mocking disdain, but the tears were trickling down her cheeks.
“Congratulations, Inspector Clayton. As you can see, you have indeed solved the case this time. And you should be doubly satisfied, because, unlike Hollister, I am the real thing.”
The inspector gazed at her sorrowfully.
“What are you, Valerie?” he almost whispered.
“Do you really want me to tell you? Are you sure you are ready to hear the answer?”
“Almost certainly not,” sighed Clayton. “But I still need to know.”
“Very well, then, I shall tell you a story, a beautiful story. A story of damnation and salvation. The story of my life. And perhaps, after hearing it, you will be able to answer that question yourself.”
She began speaking softly, like someone reciting a lesson well learned, or an ancient, unforgotten prayer.
“One fine day, a French nobleman was leading a hunt in the forest surrounding his castle, when his horse suddenly bridled, almost trampling a dirty, disheveled girl who was wandering through the woods, muttering to herself in a foreign tongue. The Count de Bompard and his men assumed she had been abandoned by the band of Gypsies who had set up camp in the area during the previous week. Seeing that her skin was covered in sores and she was severely malnourished, they decided to take her with them back to the castle. I was that girl, Inspector. When I mentioned just now that Armand had found a feral child, it was no flight of fancy. By the time my health had been restored, the count had grown fond of me and decided to keep me with him, under his protection, as his ward. I have few recollections from my first months at the castle and none from the preceding years. I have no idea how I came to be in that forest, or whether I am in fact the daughter of Gypsies. I simply don’t remember. I had no life before Armand and would have had none after had he not decided my fate, for I would never have survived in that forest, or become what I am today.”
She fell silent for a few moments, as though searching for the right words with which to begin the next chapter of her story, the one for which Clayton was possibly unprepared.
“Armand gave me everything, Inspector. Everything except deliverance from my curse. That was impossible, even for him. He was content to share my terrible, dark secret: he was my friend, my companion, and my fears became his own. Others like me have been less fortunate . . . But one day Armand had to go away. He didn’t say where or why, he only swore that it was his duty and begged me not to ask questions. I obeyed him, as always. And after that, I was left alone. Alone to face the truth of what I am. And when the thirst came upon me, all the promises I had made to my husband before his departure meant nothing. You cannot possibly imagine what it feels like to be me, Inspector, the indescribable torment of being alive. Nor can you imagine the dreadful loneliness that devours me in this world to which I do not belong, which considers me accursed . . . Do you think I don’t want to die? Every day I wish I were dead with all my heart . . . But I promised Armand I wouldn’t kill myself, that I would stand firm, that I would find a way of living with my curse. And I assure you I tried. Oh, yes, I tried with all my might, but I failed . . . At first, I endeavored to survive by killing livestock and small animals, as you deduced, but I soon realized that wouldn’t fend off my craving for long, and that very soon I would have to track down the sustenance I really needed . . .”