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The Silkworm

“Oh yeah,” said Strike, with a wry remembrance of the animosity he had recently encountered from the force, but delighted that Chard had played so conveniently into his hands. “I’ve got great contacts at the Met. Your movements don’t seem to be giving them any cause for concern,” he said, with faint emphasis on the personal pronoun.

The provocative, slippery phrasing had its full effect.

“The police have looked into my movements?”

Chard spoke like a frightened boy, unable to muster even a pretense of self-protective sangfroid.

“Well, you know, everyone depicted in Bombyx Mori was bound to come in for scrutiny from the police,” said Strike casually, sipping his tea, “and everything you people did after the fifth, when Quine walked out on his wife, taking the book with him, will be of interest to them.”

And to Strike’s great satisfaction, Chard began at once to review his own movements aloud, apparently for his own reassurance.

“Well, I didn’t know anything about the book at all until the seventh,” he said, staring at his bound-up foot again. “I was down here when Jerry called me…I headed straight back up to London—Manny drove me. I spent the night at home, Manny and Nenita can confirm that…on the Monday I met with my lawyers at the office, talked to Jerry…I was at a dinner party that night—close friends in Notting Hill—and again Manny drove me home…I turned in early on Tuesday because on Wednesday morning I was going to New York. I was there until the thirteenth…home all day the fourteenth…on the fifteenth…”

Chard’s mumbling deteriorated into silence. Perhaps he had realized that there was not the slightest need for him to explain himself to Strike. The darting look he gave the detective was suddenly cagey. Chard had wanted to buy an ally; Strike could tell that he had suddenly awoken to the double-edged nature of such a relationship. Strike was not worried. He had gained more from the interview than he had expected; to be unhired now would cost him only money.

Manny came padding back across the floor.

“You want lunch?” he asked Chard curtly.

“In five minutes,” Chard said, with a smile. “I must say good-bye to Mr. Strike first.”

Manny stalked away on rubber-soled shoes.

“He’s sulking,” Chard told Strike, with an uncomfortable half-laugh. “They don’t like it down here. They prefer London.”

He retrieved his crutches from the floor and pushed himself back up into a standing position. Strike, with more effort, imitated him.

“And how is—er—Mrs. Quine?” Chard said, with an air of belatedly ticking off the proprieties as they swung, like strange three-legged animals, back towards the front door. “Big redheaded woman, yes?”

“No,” said Strike. “Thin. Graying hair.”

“Oh,” said Chard, without much interest. “I met someone else.”

Strike paused beside the swing doors that led to the kitchen. Chard halted too, looking aggrieved.

“I’m afraid I need to get on, Mr. Strike—”

“So do I,” said Strike pleasantly, “but I don’t think my assistant would thank me for leaving her behind.”

Chard had evidently forgotten the existence of Robin, whom he had so peremptorily dismissed.

“Oh, yes, of course—Manny! Nenita!”

“She’s in the bathroom,” said the stocky woman, emerging from the kitchen holding the linen bag containing Robin’s shoes.

The wait passed in a faintly uncomfortable silence. At last Robin appeared, her expression stony, and slipped her feet back into her shoes.

The cold air bit their warm faces as the front door swung open while Strike shook hands with Chard. Robin moved directly to the car and climbed into the driver’s seat without speaking to anyone.

Manny reappeared in his thick coat.

“I’ll come down with you,” he told Strike. “To check the gates.”

“They can buzz the house if they’re stuck, Manny,” said Chard, but the young man paid no attention, clambering into the car as before.

The three of them rode in silence back down the black-and-white drive, through the falling snow. Manny pressed the remote control he had brought with him and the gates slid open without difficulty.

“Thanks,” said Strike, turning to look at him in the backseat. “’Fraid you’ve got a cold walk back.”

Manny sniffed, got out of the car and slammed the door. Robin had just shifted into first gear when Manny appeared at Strike’s window. She applied the brake.

“Yeah?” said Strike, winding the window down.

“I didn’t push him,” said Manny fiercely.

“Sorry?”

“Down the stairs,” said Manny. “I didn’t push him. He’s lying.”

Strike and Robin stared at him.

“You believe me?”

“Yeah,” said Strike.

“OK then,” said Manny, nodding at them. “OK.”

He turned and walked, slipping a little in his rubber-soled shoes, back up to the house.