The Silkworm

“Yes he did, gutless bastard that he was,” said Fancourt, apparently unconscious of any lack of taste. “Like a lot of soi-disant mavericks, Quine was an envious, terminally competitive creature who craved adulation. He was terrified that he was going to be ostracized after Ellie died. Of course,” said Fancourt, with unmistakable pleasure, “it happened anyway. Owen had benefited from a lot of reflected glory, being part of a triumvirate with Joe and me. When Joe died and I cut him adrift, he was seen for what he was: a man with a dirty imagination and an interesting style who had barely an idea that wasn’t pornographic. Some authors,” said Fancourt, “have only one good book in them. That was Owen. He shot his bolt—an expression he would have approved of—with Hobart’s Sin. Everything after that was pointless rehashes.”

“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: