The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(26)
“I can’t let you arrest me, Inspector,” he heard her say, as if her voice were reaching him from far away. “Armand de Bompard’s finest creation cannot end up in a dirty cage. Nor can I destroy you, my beloved Cornelius, because I love you as I’ve never loved anyone before. So there is only one thing for me to do . . . Forgive me, I beg you.”
Clayton reacted swiftly, but he was unable to dodge the blow. He only succeeded in preventing the poker, which the countess had taken from the hearth while they had been kissing, from hitting him square on the head. Reeling, he tried to grab her to stop his fall, but only managed to slide his hands languidly over the countess’s hips before sinking to his knees and slowly toppling over, in an almost absurdly voluptuous manner, onto the rug where seconds before he had wanted to take her.
3
FORTUNATELY, THE VIOLENT BLOW HAD not been hard enough to plunge his mind into the fog of unconsciousness, and, sprawled on the floor, Clayton could hear the countess’s footsteps as she fled the dining room and the subsequent tapping sound in the hallway, like a tune interspersed with silences, as she walked across the rugs. His head throbbing, still too befuddled to order his body to stand up, the inspector heard her leave the castle, and in his imagination saw her descending the castle steps, holding up her skirts, running away from it, plunging into the forest that lapped at its doors like a sinister ocean. He realized if he didn’t go after her immediately, he would never catch her. With a supreme effort of will he rolled over painfully and, placing his hands on the floor, began to heave himself up. A violent wave of nausea forced him to remain on his hands and knees for a few seconds, head lolling between his shoulders, as though bowing to some ancient idol. At last Clayton managed to stand and, propping himself up on the furniture as he went along, left the dining hall.
The yawning castle door exhaled the ghostly breath of night. Clayton strode through it, his resolve growing as the cold air cleared his head. He was surprised to find the countess’s shoes and jewelry strewn haphazardly over the steps. Apparently she had cast them off as she ran. If this was part of some erotic game, Clayton found it almost unbearable. He took one of the lanterns illuminating the bottom of the steps and plunged into the forest, following the tracks left on the ground by the countess’s bare feet.
He walked on for a while, guided by her footsteps. He was shivering with cold, and yet his head was burning, especially in the spot where the countess had aimed her treacherous blow, which was throbbing painfully. From time to time, his vision became blurred and he had to lean against a tree while he tried to focus again. Then he resumed the chase, jaw firmly clenched as he sharpened his senses as best he could, listening for the slightest sound coming from the forest. Like the bow of a violin, the wind drew languid whispers from the branches of the trees. The darkness crowded in on him, as if trying to smother him. Suddenly, on the ground, Clayton made out what looked like a black puddle reflecting the starry sky. Holding the lantern aloft, he discovered the countess’s glittering dress lying among the dead leaves. Kneeling, he clasped it in his hand reverentially. The exquisite robe still exuded the countess’s warm fragrance, but it was torn in several places as though she had ripped it off clumsily. Clayton rose to his feet and cast a bewildered look around as the cold grip of fear began to settle over him.
He continued walking, trying not to panic. After a while, he noticed the countess’s footprints had begun taking on a strange shape and the distances between them were growing longer. At first he thought he had lost the trail, but advancing a few yards he stumbled upon it again, only to lose sight of it once more. In spite of this, he pressed on, guided by instinct more than anything else. Now and then, he would come across a lone footprint in the middle of the path, a footprint that no longer seemed human, or a tree with its branches broken. All this brought fresh doubts to Clayton’s mind, but he resisted the temptation to speculate in order to stay sane as long as he could. All of a sudden he recognized the path the countess was taking. He himself had followed it with a few men from the town two nights before . . . It led to the ravine where Tom Hollister had plunged to his death.
He couldn’t help seeing himself once more leading that group of townsfolk through the impenetrable darkness of the forest, heady with the excitement of the chase and the fantastical idea that they were pursuing a genuine werewolf. But things had changed. Now he was tramping alone through that accursed forest, feeling terribly naked, surrounded by menacing trees that seemed to conspire against him. With an overwhelming sense of regret he realized that the world he knew had vanished forever. The enormity of his loss almost took his breath away. He carried on along the path like a sleepwalker, knowing it would never lead him to where he wanted to go: to the past, to the reassuring, rational past, precisely to the day when the legendary Captain Sinclair had invited him to join the Special Branch, so that he could turn him down, inform him that he wasn’t the slightest bit interested, that he preferred to carry on living in the bland but comforting universe whose workings he understood so well and where supernatural beings never escaped the pages of bestiaries. For there was always a risk you might fall in love with one of them. Now it was too late for that, he reflected forlornly. There was nothing for it but to follow Valerie de Bompard’s tracks and perform his role in the insane performance it was his destiny to take part in.
With his free hand, Clayton had unwittingly begun stroking the key that hung round his neck, nervously fingering the two tiny wings of the angel that adorned it. The key opened the Chamber of Marvels in the basement of the Natural History Museum, and since it had been entrusted to him less than a month before, Clayton had come to see it as a sort of lucky charm, a symbol of that supernatural world hidden in one of reality’s folds, toward which he seemed to be heading that night. But now he was convinced that the knowledge awaiting him was something for which he considered himself ill prepared, knowledge capable of destroying a man forever.