The Map of Chaos

by Félix J Palma

  “A few last words before you leave, Professor?” asked Murray, amused.

  Charles scowled and tilted his head slightly, as though leaning against the gun that was about to kill him.

  “W-When you don’t know where you are going, one path is as good as any other,” he replied.

  Wells swiftly placed a hand over his wife’s eyes, and everything went dark. Jane didn’t see what happened; she only heard a blast, followed by the muffled thud of a body hitting the ground. Then silence. A few seconds later, cracks appeared in the darkness as Wells moved his fingers away from her eyes, and Jane saw Murray gazing impassively at Dodgson’s outstretched body while the redhead stood over him, holding a gun with a wisp of smoke rising from it.

  “My God, Bertie . . . ,” she sobbed, burying her head in her husband’s chest.

  Murray turned to the couple.

  “I have to confess, Mr. Wells, I wasn’t expecting to find you here, accompanied by your wife, and”—he looked at Newton, who had started to bark ferociously—“your pet dog, so I’m afraid there is no part for you in my little play. But as I’m sure you’ll understand, I can’t let you live. And after I’ve killed you, I shall throw your bodies into the hole. As you said yourself, a magic hole is the perfect place to dispose of the evidence of a crime.”

  “Damn you, Murray,” Wells hissed in disgust as he held on to Jane tightly. “I hope your Albatross sinks under your vast weight and crashes, preferably into the Church’s Holy See.”

  Murray gave a loud guffaw, then signaled to the thug whose weapon was trained on Wells.

  “Go ahead, Tom. It doesn’t need to look like suicide, so you can shoot them anywhere. Oh, and kill that damned mutt while you’re at it.”

  The young man answering to the name of Tom looked at the picturesque trio he was supposed to execute. He decided to start with the man. He cocked his pistol, extended his arm, and aimed at Wells’s head. But Wells did not flinch. Rather than beg for mercy, close his eyes, lower his head, or improvise some last words, he stared straight at the youth. And for a split second the two men looked at each other in silence. Wells’s bravery seemed to take the lad by surprise, or perhaps he was laughing to himself at this stupid display of courage, but in any event he delayed pulling the trigger. Wells guessed that, despite all his experience, the killer had never had to shoot someone who showed such dignity when helpless, moreover with the addition of a sobbing wife in his arms and a faithful hound at his feet. Realizing that the time it would take for the lad to pull the trigger was the only time he had in which to act, he wheeled round, grabbing Jane by the arm and pulling her toward the hole. If they were going to go through it, better alive than dead.

  “Jump, Jane, jump!” he cried, shielding her body with his as they bridged the short distance between them and the hole Dodgson had managed to tunnel into the air.

  Wells feared he would receive a bullet in his back at any moment, but as he lunged forward and his body started to go through the hole, he knew the killer would not have time to shoot. Newton followed them, leaping through just as the orifice folded in on itself with a deafening roar. Then what could have been a gust of cosmic wind swept through the room, accompanied by a flash of white light that blinded the three men left behind.

  After the thunderous explosion, a heavy silence fell. Murray blinked a few times and finally saw that the hole had vanished. All that was left of it were a few strands of mist hovering above the metal stand. It took several moments for him to realize he no longer had anything to trade in, and that he would never be the savior of mankind.

  It seemed History wasn’t going to happen the way he had imagined either.

  • • •

  “IT SEEMED HISTORY WASN’T going to happen the way he had imagined either,” Jane read. It was a good way to end a chapter, she reflected with a satisfied smile before blowing on the paper to dry the ink. Leaning back in her chair, she observed with delight the freshly cut roses on her desk. She had picked them from the rosebush that very morning as the sky chose the colors of dawn and the cold night air still lingered on their petals.

  At that moment, Wells tiptoed into her study with his habitual reverence, as though afraid his manly presence might disrupt the delicate feminine atmosphere floating in the room. He spent a few moments contemplating the charming orderliness around him, whose enchantment was so alien to him, and his eyes flashed as he caught sight of the scribbled pages on his wife’s desk.

  “What are you writing, my dear?” he asked with feigned nonchalance.

  Ever since his wife had told him she wanted to turn one of their unoccupied rooms into a study, Wells had resolved to spend part of his extremely limited and valuable time trying to find out what his wife was doing in there. Direct questioning had failed, because she merely replied with a shrug. Joshing hadn’t worked either. “Are you drawing pictures of animals in there?” he had once asked, but Jane hadn’t laughed the way she usually did when he said such things. Her silence was tomb-like, and since torture was not an option, Wells had been forced to resort to surprise incursions. Thus he had discovered that Jane went into her study to write, which wasn’t much of a discovery, as he could almost have worked it out without having to go in there. She was hardly likely to use the room for breeding rabbits, practicing devil worship, or dancing naked. Besides, she had half jokingly threatened him with it. Now all he had to do was find out what she was writing.

  “Oh, nothing of any interest,” Jane replied, quickly hiding the sheets of paper in her desk drawer, the lock of which Wells had unsuccessfully tried to force open. “I’ll let you read it once it’s finished.”

  Once it’s finished . . . That meant nothing. What if it was never finished? What if for some reason she decided not to finish it? What if the world came to an end first? If it did, he would never know what Jane had been doing during the three or four hours she spent in her study every day. Was she writing a diary? Or perhaps a recipe book? But why be so cagey about a recipe book?

  “One of the things I most hate in life is couples who keep secrets from each other,” Wells said, being deliberately dramatic.

  “I thought what you most hated was the fact that no one has invented an electric razor yet,” Jane chuckled. She went on talking to him as she took his arm and led him toward the door, trying not to give the impression she was getting rid of him. “But don’t be such a grouch. What does it matter what I write? Your work is the important thing, Bertie, so stop wasting your time spying on me and get writing.”

  “At least you know what I’m writing,” he grumbled. “I let you see everything I do, whereas you’re . . .”

  “. . . an unfathomable mystery to you, and you can’t bear it, I know. I already explained it to you once: this is the only way of keeping your interest in me alive. I have to stop you from deciphering me, dear. Because if you understood everything about me, you would soon tire of me and start looking for other mysteries, and your crowning work, your true masterpiece, would never be written . . . So go back to your study and leave me with my trivial entertainments. They’re not important. They aren’t even as good as your earlier stories.”

  “Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?” Wells retorted, surprised rather than annoyed at suddenly finding himself on the other side of the door. “But I suppose you’re right, as always. I should get back to my work and—”

  “Splendid, dear.”

  Jane gave her husband a parting wink and withdrew into her sanctuary. After shrugging, Wells went down to the ground floor, where he hid away in his study. Ensconced in his chair, he glanced wearily around him. Despite having placed all his books and knickknacks on the shelves as carefully as Jane, his room only gave off an atmosphere of sterile sedateness. However much he changed things round, the room never felt warm. Wells sighed and contemplated the sheaf of blank pages before him. He proposed to record on them all his hard-earned wisdom, everything he had seen. And who could tell: perhaps that knowledge might change the fate o
f the world, although Wells couldn’t help wondering how much he was driven by altruism and how much by vanity. He reached for his pen, ready to begin his “crowning’ work, as Jane had called it, while the sounds from the street and the neighboring park seeped in through his window, noises from a world that went by immersed in the smug satisfaction of believing itself unique . . .

  PART ONE

  1

  THERE WAS NOTHING INSPECTOR CORNELIUS Clayton would have liked more than for the dinner Valerie de Bompard had organized in honor of the successful outcome of his first case to end in a sudden attack of indigestion on the part of all her guests, himself excluded, the sooner for him to remain alone with the beautiful countess. And why should such a thing not happen? he mused, raising his fork mechanically to his mouth. After all, such unfortunate incidents fell within the bounds of the possible, especially since the castle cook already had experience in these matters, having three months earlier almost poisoned the entire domestic staff by serving them rotten food. However, the guests were already well into their second course and none of them showed signs of feeling the slightest bit queasy. And so Clayton resigned himself to having to endure the wretched dinner to the very end, telling himself he might find it more bearable if he forgot about the countess momentarily and simply enjoyed the praise lavished on him by the other guests. Did he not fully deserve it? Naturally: he was there as assistant to the legendary Captain Angus Sinclair, head of the mysterious Special Branch at Scotland Yard, but it had been his ingenious plan, and not the vain prestige of his superior, that had finally freed the town of Blackmoor from the terrible curse that had been hanging over it for months.

  They had been assigned to the case after the first human remains were discovered, so brutally savaged that even the London press had printed the story. The grisly murders had begun to take place at each full moon, a few days after the cook had nearly poisoned the servants at the castle. Hitherto, the bloodthirsty fiend had been content to disembowel a few cows and sheep, as well as an occasional forest creature. But the beast’s ferocity, previously unseen in any known predator, caused the inhabitants of Blackmoor to live in fear of the terrible day when it would finally decide to feast on human flesh. Perhaps that explained why Valerie de Bompard had found it so difficult to engage replacements while her own staff was convalescing. The majority of youngsters in the village had declined the offer, not only because the countess did not pay as promptly as one might expect of such a wealthy lady, but because the thought of working in the castle buried deep within the forest terrified them. Clayton could only sympathize when confronted for the first time with that sinister mass of stones that seemed to have been transported there from some infernal nightmare.

  But he soon discovered that the inside of the castle was more daunting still. The dining hall, for example, was a gloomy chamber with lofty ceilings so immense that the fire in the hearth, above which hung a portrait of the countess, could scarcely warm it. In that imitation crypt, lined with tapestries and dusty coats of arms, the vast oak table not only made the guests feel somewhat isolated but forced them to project their voices like tenors on a stage. Clayton studied the four men whose unremarkable biographies could have been written on the back of a playing card: the stout Chief Constable Dombey, the cadaverous Father Harris, the prim Doctor Russell, and the corpulent town butcher, a Mr. Price, who had led the packs of hounds through the forests of Blackmoor. The day Inspector Clayton and Captain Sinclair had arrived from London to take charge of the case, none of these men had made them feel welcome, and yet now, three weeks later, they seemed anxious to help them forget this by smothering them with praise. Clayton glanced toward the end of the interminable table, to where the only person whose admiration he really wanted was sitting. The Countess de Bompard was studying him, an amused expression on her face. Did she consider him arrogant for accepting their praise with such disdain? Ought he to appear indifferent to his own exploits? How was he to know? He always felt terribly vulnerable when exposed to the countess’s scrutiny, like a soldier forced during a surprise attack to leave his tent without his full armor.

  Clayton glanced at his boss, who was sitting beside him, hoping to find some clue in his demeanor, but Captain Sinclair was busily devouring his roast beef, apparently oblivious to the conversation. Only occasionally would he shake his head distractedly, a stray lock falling across the sinister lens on his right eye, which gave off a reddish glow. It appeared that the veteran inspector had decided to remain in the background, abandoning Clayton to his fate. Clayton couldn’t help cursing him for maintaining this stubborn silence now, when throughout their investigation he had talked endlessly, airing his wisdom and experience at every opportunity and adopting a new muddled theory each time a fresh aspect of the case arose. The worst moment of all had been when the captain gave Clayton advice on romantic matters, giving rise to a scene of paternal solicitude the inspector found excruciatingly embarrassing. All the more so because Captain Sinclair, who was incapable of plain speaking, had employed so many metaphors and euphemisms that the two men had ended their conversation without ever knowing what the devil they had been talking about.

  “In a nutshell: young as you are,” Chief Constable Dombey was summing up, “you have a remarkable mind, Inspector Clayton. I doubt that anyone sitting at this table would disagree with that. Although, I admit that, to begin with, your methods seemed to me, er . . . somewhat impetuous,” he declared, smiling at Clayton with exaggerated politeness.

  The inspector instantly returned his smile, only too aware that the chief constable was unable to resist ending his speech on a critical note, making it clear to everyone present that although these two gentlemen from London had succeeded in solving the case, they had done so only by resorting to unorthodox methods, which he considered beneath him.

  “I understand that my actions might have appeared impetuous to you, Chief Constable,” Clayton said good-naturedly. “In fact, that was precisely the impression I wished to give our adversary. However, everything I did was the outcome of deep reflection and the most painstaking deductive reasoning, for which I am indebted to my mentor, Captain Sinclair here. He deserves all the credit,” Clayton added with false modesty, bowing slightly to his superior, who nodded indulgently.

  “Why, I understood that from the outset!” Doctor Russell hastened to declare. “It is with good reason that a doctor uses science on a daily basis in the pursuit of his work. Unlike the chief constable here, I didn’t allow your youth and apparent inexperience to put me off, Inspector Clayton. I know a scientific mind when I see one.”

  The chief constable gave a loud guffaw, causing his enormous belly to wobble.

  “Who are you trying to fool, Russell!” he protested, jabbing his fork at him. “Your scientific approach consisted in systematically suspecting all the townsfolk, including old Mrs. Sproles, who is nigh on a hundred and confined to a wheelchair.”

  The doctor was about to respond when the butcher piped up.

  “Since you’re mentioning everyone else’s failings, Chief Constable, you might recall your own and apologize for having so readily cast aspersions on others.”

  “I assure you, had you owned a cat instead of that enormous hound, I would never have—”

  But before the chief constable could finish, the countess spoke up from the far end of the table. Everyone turned toward her in amazement, for Valerie de Bompard’s tinkling voice had risen above theirs with the delicacy of a dove amid a flock of crows.

  “Gentlemen, we are all understandably exhausted after recent events.” She had a hint of a French accent that gave her words a charming lightness. “However, Inspector Clayton is our honored guest, and I am afraid we risk making his head spin with our petty squabbling. You will notice, Inspector,” she addressed Clayton with an almost childlike zeal, “that I say ‘our,’ for despite having arrived in this country as a foreigner only a short time ago I already feel I am English. Not for nothing have the good people of Blackmoor clasped
me to their bosom as if they had known me since birth.” Despite the countess’s friendly tone, her mocking words fell upon the gathering like a cold, unpleasant rain. “Which is why I should like to thank you once more, on behalf of everyone here, for what you have done for us, for our beloved Blackmoor.”

  She raised her glass between slender fingers, so daintily that it looked as if she had willed it to levitate. The others instantly followed suit. “Gentlemen, these have been evil and terrible times for all. For two years now, we have been living in fear, at the mercy of a bloodthirsty beast,” she went on in a theatrical tone like a storyteller before an audience of children, “but, thanks to Inspector Clayton’s formidable mind, the nightmare is finally over, and the evil creature has been defeated. I don’t believe anyone here will ever forget the night of the fifth of February 1888, when the inspector freed us from our curse. And now, for God’s sake, gentlemen”—her mischievous grin twinkled irreverently behind her raised glass—“let us once and for all drink a toast to Cornelius Clayton, the brave young man who hunted down the werewolf of Blackmoor!”

  Since they were too far away from one another to clink glasses, they all raised their champagne flutes in the air. Clayton nodded graciously at the countess’s words and forced himself to smile with a mixture of smugness and humility. The chief constable promptly proposed another toast, this time in honor of their hostess, and it was Valerie de Bompard’s turn to lower her gaze with that shy expression that always made Clayton’s heart miss a beat. It might be worth pointing out at this juncture that the inspector did not consider himself an expert with the ladies—quite the opposite, though he did pride himself on knowing enough about human behavior to be able to claim with some authority that Valerie de Bompard had nothing in common with the rest of the female race, or indeed with humanity as a whole. Every one of her gestures was a fathomless mystery to him. The shy expression with which she had greeted the chief constable’s toast, for example, reminded him less of the decorous behavior of a lady in society than the deceptive calm of the Venus flytrap before it ensnares the wretched insect alighting on its leaves.