Robert Galbraith - The Silkworm

“Didn’t you say you thought Bombyx Mori was ‘a maniac’s masterpiece’?”

“You read that, did you?” said Fancourt, with vaguely flattered surprise. “Well, so it is, a true literary curiosity. I never denied that Owen could write, you know, it was just that he was never able to dredge up anything profound or interesting to write about. It’s a surprisingly common phenomenon. But with Bombyx Mori he found his subject at last, didn’t he? Everybody hates me, everyone’s against me, I’m a genius and nobody can see it. The result is grotesque and comic, it reeks of bitterness and self-pity, but it has an undeniable fascination. And the language,” said Fancourt, with the most enthusiasm he had so far brought to the discussion, “is admirable. Some passages are among the best things he ever wrote.”

“This is all very useful,” said Strike.

Fancourt seemed amused.

“How?”

“I’ve got a feeling that Bombyx Mori ’s central to this case.”

“‘Case’?” repeated Fancourt, smiling. There was a short pause. “Are you seriously telling me that you still think the killer of Owen Quine is at large?”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Strike.

“Then,” said Fancourt, smiling still more broadly, “wouldn’t it be more useful to analyze the writings of the killer rather than the victim?”

“Maybe,” said Strike, “but we don’t know whether the killer writes.”

“Oh, nearly everyone does these days,” said Fancourt. “The whole world’s writing novels, but nobody’s reading them.”

“I’m sure people would read Bombyx Mori , especially if you did an introduction,” said Strike.

“I think you’re right,” said Fancourt, smiling more broadly.

“When exactly did you read the book for the first time?”

“It would have been…let me see…”

Fancourt appeared to do a mental calculation.

“Not until the, ah, middle of the week after Quine delivered it,” said Fancourt. “Dan Chard called me, told me that Quine was trying to suggest that I had written the parody of Ellie’s book, and tried to persuade me to join him in legal action against Quine. I refused.”

“Did Chard read any of it out to you?”

“No,” said Fancourt, smiling again. “Frightened he might lose his star acquisition, you see. No, he simply outlined the allegation that Quine had made and offered me the services of his lawyers.”

“When was this telephone call?”

“On the evening of the…seventh, it must have been,” said Fancourt. “The Sunday night.”

“The same day you filmed an interview about your new novel,” said Strike.

“You’re very well-informed,” said Fancourt, his eyes narrowing.

“I watched the program.”

“You know,” said Fancourt, with a needle-prick of malice, “you don’t have the appearance of a man who enjoys arts programs.”

“I never said I enjoyed them,” said Strike and was unsurprised to note that Fancourt appeared to enjoy his retort. “But I did notice that you misspoke when you said your first wife’s name on camera.”

Fancourt said nothing, but merely watched Strike over his wineglass.

“You said ‘Eff’ then corrected yourself, and said ‘Ellie,’” said Strike.

“Well, as you say—I misspoke. It can happen to the most articulate of us.”

“In Bombyx Mori , your late wife—”

“—is called ‘Effigy.’”

“Which is a coincidence,” said Strike.

“Obviously,” said Fancourt.

“Because you couldn’t yet have known that Quine had called her ‘Effigy’ on the seventh.”

“Obviously not.”

“Quine’s mistress got a copy of the manuscript fed through her letter box right after he disappeared,” said Strike. “You didn’t get sent an early copy, by any chance?”

The ensuing pause became overlong. Strike felt the fragile thread that he had managed to spin between them snap. It did not matter. He had saved this question for last.

“No,” said Fancourt. “I didn’t.”

He pulled out his wallet. His declared intention of picking Strike’s brains for a character in his next novel seemed, not at all to Strike’s regret, forgotten. Strike pulled out some cash, but Fancourt held up a hand and said, with unmistakable offensiveness:

“No, no, allow me. Your press coverage makes much of the fact that you have known better times. In fact, it puts me in mind of Ben Jonson: ‘I am a poor gentleman, a soldier; one that, in the better state of my fortunes, scorned so mean a refuge.’”

“Really?” said Strike pleasantly, returning his cash to his pocket. “I’m put more in mind of

“sicine subrepsti mi, atque intestina pururens

ei misero eripuisti omnia nostra bona?

Eripuisti, eheu, nostrae crudele uenenum

Uitae, eheu nostrae pestis amicitiae.”

He looked unsmilingly upon Fancourt’s astonishment. The writer rallied quickly.

“Ovid?”

“Catullus,” said Strike, heaving himself off the low pouffe with the aid of the table. “Translates roughly:

“So that’s how you crept up on me, an acid eating away

My guts, stole from me everything I most treasure?

Yes, alas, stole: grim poison in my blood

The plague, alas, of the friendship we once had.

“Well, I expect we’ll see each other around,” said Strike pleasantly.

He limped off towards the stairs, Fancourt’s eyes upon his back.

All his allies and friends rush into troops

Like raging torrents.

Thomas Dekker, The Noble Spanish Soldier

Strike sat for a long time on the sofa in his kitchen-sitting room that night, barely hearing the rumble of the traffic on Charing Cross Road and the occasional muffled shouts of more early Christmas partygoers. He had removed his prosthesis; it was comfortable sitting there in his boxers, the end of his injured leg free of pressure, the throbbing of his knee deadened by another double dose of painkillers. Unfinished pasta congealed on the plate beside him on the sofa, the sky beyond his small window achieved the dark blue velvet depth of true night, and Strike did not move, though wide awake.

It felt like a very long time since he had seen the picture of Charlotte in her wedding dress. He had not given her another thought all day. Was this the start of true healing? She had married Jago Ross and he was alone, mulling the complexities of an elaborate murder in the dim light of his chilly attic flat. Perhaps each of them was, at last, where they really belonged.

On the table in front of him in the clear plastic evidence bag, still half wrapped in the photocopied cover of Upon the Wicked Rocks , sat the dark gray typewriter cassette that he had taken from Orlando. He had been staring at it for what seemed like half an hour at least, feeling like a child on Christmas morning confronted by a mysterious, inviting package, the largest under the tree. And yet he ought not to look, or touch, lest he interfere with whatever forensic evidence might be gleaned from the tape. Any suspicion of tampering…

He checked his watch. He had promised himself not to make the call until half past nine. There were children to be wrestled into bed, a wife to placate after another long day on the job. Strike wanted time to explain fully…

But his patience had limits. Getting up with some difficulty, he took the keys to his office and moved laboriously downstairs, clutching the handrail, hopping and occasionally sitting down. Ten minutes later he reentered his flat and returned to the still-warm spot on the sofa carrying his penknife and wearing another pair of the latex gloves he had earlier given to Robin.