The Map of Chaos by Félix J. Palma Page A

sure the countess noticed the sardonic veneer to his look.
    â€œIn any event, there is something diabolical about the zeal with which Hollister embarked on the study of taxidermy,” the vicar said, wandering off the subject, his cheeks ruddy from the alcohol. “All that sinister knowledge hidden away in his house: jars filled with strange, noxious substances, books on alchemy, medieval treatises . . . It brings to mind tales of witches and pacts with the devil. Even though the explanation for those dreadful murders has turned out to be human, I can’t help seeing the mark of the Evil One imprinted on young Hollister’s actions.”
    â€œThe devil? Oh, come now, Father!” the chief constable spluttered, alarmed nonetheless.
    â€œUnfortunately, Father Harris,” Captain Sinclair interjected in a loud, clear voice, “I’m afraid that the hand of the Evil One in this matter is too far-fetched even for our jurisdiction.”
    The remark elicited a few chuckles, which Clayton ignored, leaning back in his seat, his gaze still locked with that of the countess. There was no question but that the inspector’s manner had aroused her curiosity. No sooner had the laughter subsided than she turned to Sinclair.
    â€œI couldn’t agree more, Captain. The Evil One . . . I refuse to believe that men shun their natural goodness and the word of God for a creature like that billy goat that presides over witches’ covens. In fact, I have always resisted the idea that everything is exactly as it is depicted in folk tales. That is why I find your work so intriguing: it must be fascinating to investigate monsters and discover what lies behind them, the genuine truth about myths, their legitimate fantastical nature. Talk to us, Captain, tell us about your work.”
    â€œEr . . . I’m afraid that’s impossible, Countess,” Sinclair apologized, slightly startled. “Our work demands confidentiality and—”
    â€œOh, don’t be so coy, Captain! This isn’t a convention of sage old druids; we’re in Blackmoor! Go on, make an exception, please,” the countess implored, pouting flirtatiously. “I’m sure we’d all love to know about the workings of your remarkable division: Do you use new, revolutionary techniques, or on the contrary do you go out armed with crucifixes, holy water, and stakes carved from ash wood when you hunt down vampires? They say such creatures can turn themselves into bats or even mist.”
    â€œAnd can’t set foot on consecrated ground,” added the vicar.
    â€œAnd have certain deformities, such as a protruding tailbone,” interjected the doctor.
    â€œAnd that they are born with the mother’s placenta wrapped around their heads, like a turban,” said the chief constable. Everyone burst out laughing.
    When the guffaws had abated, the countess went on, contemplating the captain mischievously.
    â€œAre all those things true, Captain? Personally, I find it hard to believe such creatures can be warded off with garlic, or that they have forked tongues,” she said, poking the tip of hers suggestively between her lips.
    â€œWell”—Sinclair cleared his throat, trying to hide his unease—“I’m afraid to say, Countess, that most of those things are no more than superstitions.”
    Everyone stared at the captain, expecting him to elaborate on that interesting topic. Sinclair gave a resigned sigh and sat up in his seat. Realizing that his superior was going to inflict on those poor people the same speech he had given him when he had joined the department, Clayton settled back in his own chair, silently thanking the captain for prolonging that interminable dinner. All of a sudden, he didn’t want it to end: what awaited him afterward no longer seemed so enticing. He hoped the captain would go on talking until the next day, or the next month, to give him