The Map of Chaos by Félix J. Palma Page B

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.
    â€œNaturally, 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.
    â€œBut 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