The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(125)
“‘I don’t understand, sir.’
“‘You need an open mind, Inspector Clayton. Do you possess such a thing?’
“I hesitated for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then I nodded vigorously; I had never stopped to think about it, but until someone told me otherwise, I had an open mind. Captain Sinclair nodded with satisfaction.
“‘Let’s see if it is true!’ he declared with theatrical enthusiasm, even as he extracted a newspaper clipping from his file and placed it before me on the table. ‘Read this carefully and tell me what conclusions you draw from it, no matter how far-fetched. What do you think the man died of?’
“The clipping dated from two years before and announced the death of a vagrant. His body had been discovered in a heap on the outskirts of the city, his face half chewed off by stray dogs, but the causes of his death were a mystery: the autopsy had revealed nothing. The journalist writing the article must have been a timid soul, for he ended by stating that the crime had been committed on the night of a full moon, and that in the sand around the body, the victim had desperately traced several crosses, as though trying to ward off the devil. After carefully rereading it several times, I relayed to the captain the various causes of death that had occurred to me. Considering that no one with enough strength to chase a dog away would allow himself to be killed by it, I told him, and since dogs rarely attack living humans, the man had probably been poisoned then dragged there, and his murderer had for some reason traced those crosses before fleeing the scene. I also suggested it might have been an accidental death that someone was trying to cover up, and a few other explanations of a similar nature that occurred to me.’
“‘Is that all?’ asked Captain Sinclair, exaggerating his disappointment. ‘I asked for all the possibilities, no matter how far-fetched.’
“I grinned impishly and replied, ‘I also think it could have been a werewolf that killed and mauled the vagrant at the refuse heap, not the dogs. It happened during a full moon, which is when they change. And while the creature was stalking him like a two-legged wolf, the victim drew crosses around himself in an attempt to send the creature back to the Hell from whence it came.’
“Captain Sinclair asked once more, in the same disappointed tone, ‘Is that all?’
“‘No, that’s not all,’ I replied with a grin. ‘It could have been the work of a vampire, given the crime was committed at night, and this would also explain why the victim drew the crosses in the sand. Or perhaps it was a vampire imitating a werewolf, pointing the finger at his age-old adversary, with whom from time immemorial he has been vying to take over the planet. That is all, Captain. Did I get it right?’
“‘You aren’t ready to know yet.’ He leaned back in his chair and studied me with cold curiosity. ‘But tell me: are you interested in joining a division where these could be the answers, where the impossible is sometimes the only solution? Those in my division place no limits on our imagination; we carry on searching beyond the point where normal minds would give up.’
“I looked at him, not knowing what to say, and was relieved when Sinclair told me I could have a few days to think about it, also warning me that everything we had discussed in that office must be considered top secret, and that if my answer was no, I would do well to forget that the conversation had ever taken place. That was the first warning he gave me, but not the last, nor was it the most astonishing. He then handed me a note containing the address of the Special Branch, where I was to report the following week if I decided to accept his offer. I left and went home. But I only needed one sleepless night to realize that however hard I tried I would never be able to forget our conversation. In fact, from the moment I stepped through that office door, I was doomed. I was young, ambitious, and full of myself, and now I was aware that others had access to information to which the rest of us mortals were not privy. I couldn’t go on living without wanting to know it, too. I didn’t wait a week. The following morning, I went to the address printed on the note and asked to be shown to Captain Sinclair’s office, where apparently he was expecting me. And there I sealed my fate forever.”
Clayton concluded his tale with a pained smile and waited for Wells to respond.
“Congratulations on believing in werewolves and vampires,” the author said in an almost pitying voice.
“Oh, no, Mr. Wells, you’re wrong: I didn’t believe in them. I merely told the captain what he wanted to hear. No, the young man I was then didn’t believe in vampires or in werewolves. But that fellow headed a group of special inspectors, the cream of the Scotland Yard crop. Whatever they did, I wanted to be part of it, for the thought of continuing to solve murders and apprehend common criminals no longer appealed to me. I would have told him the vagrant was killed by an elf, if necessary.” Clayton gave a bitter smile. “But that was twelve years ago, Mr. Wells, twelve years. And now I can only affirm that I believe in more things than I would like.”
“Oh, really? Do vampires exist, for instance?” Wells took the opportunity to ask.
Clayton gazed at him with a smile on his lips, like an adult enjoying a child’s curiosity.
“This house belonged to one,” Clayton avowed, watching with amusement as Wells raised his eyebrows. Then he added with a grin, “Or so the man in question believed. His name was Lord Railsberg, and he suffered from a pigmentation disease that made his skin turn red when exposed to the sun. He was also allergic to garlic and even had an enlarged sacrum, all known traits of the vampire, according to fables and novels. As you well know, the works of Polidori, Preskett Prest, Sheridan Le Fanu, and in particular Stoker’s bestselling novel popularized the vampire myth to the point where anyone possessing these traits can think he is one. Lord Railsberg built this house and lived here with a group of acolytes who, like him, fled the light. They ventured aboveground only to abduct women, whom they callously slaughtered so they could drink and even bathe in their blood, as the Hungarian countess Elisabeth Báthory was rumored to have done. When we tracked down his lair, the place was piled with corpses and people sleeping in coffins, but I assure you none of the so-called vampires was able to escape prison by changing into a bat. So I can’t affirm the existence of vampires, but if they do exist, I expect they have more in common with the abject beasts of Slavic legend than the suave aristocrats portrayed by novelists.”