The Silkworm

“Orlando!” called Leonora from inside the house. “What are you doing?”

She came stumping down the hall behind her daughter, gaunt and white-faced in an ancient navy blue dress with its hem hanging down.

“Oh,” she said, “it’s you. Come in.”

As he stepped over the threshold, Strike smiled at the policeman, who glared back.

“What’s your name?” Orlando asked Strike as the front door closed behind them.

“Cormoran,” he said.

“That’s a funny name.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Strike and something made him add, “I was named after a giant.”

“That’s funny,” said Orlando, swaying.

“Go in,” said Leonora curtly, pointing Strike towards the kitchen. “I need the loo. Be with you in a mo.”

Strike proceeded down the narrow hallway. The door of the study was closed and, he suspected, still locked.

On reaching the kitchen he discovered to his surprise that he was not the only visitor. Jerry Waldegrave, the editor from Roper Chard, was sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a bunch of flowers in somber purples and blues, his pale face anxious. A second bunch of flowers, still in its cellophane, protruded from a sink half filled with dirty crockery. Supermarket bags of food sat unpacked on the sides.

“Hi,” said Waldegrave, scrambling to his feet and blinking earnestly at Strike through his horn-rimmed glasses. Evidently he did not recognize the detective from their previous meeting on the dark roof garden because he asked, as he held out his hand, “Are you family?”

“Family friend,” said Strike as they shook hands.

“Terrible thing,” said Waldegrave. “Had to come and see if I could do anything. She’s been in the bathroom ever since I arrived.”

“Right,” said Strike.

Waldegrave resumed his seat. Orlando edged crabwise into the dark kitchen, cuddling her furry orangutan. A very long minute passed while Orlando, clearly the most at ease, unabashedly stared at both of them.

“You’ve got nice hair,” she announced at last to Jerry Waldegrave. “It’s like a hairstack.”

“I suppose it is,” said Waldegrave and he smiled at her. She edged out again.

Another brief silence followed, during which Waldegrave fidgeted with the flowers, his eyes darting around the kitchen.

“Can’t believe it,” he said at last.

They heard the loud flushing of a toilet upstairs, a thumping on the stairs, and Leonora returned with Orlando at her heels.

“Sorry,” she said to the two men. “I’m a bit upset.”

It was obvious that she was referring to her stomach.

“Look, Leonora,” said Jerry Waldegrave in an agony of awkwardness, getting to his feet, “I don’t want to intrude when you’ve got your friend here—”

“Him? He’s not a friend, he’s a detective,” said Leonora.

“Sorry?”

Strike remembered that Waldegrave was deaf in one ear.

“He’s called a name like a giant,” said Orlando.

“He’s a detective,” said Leonora loudly, over her daughter.

“Oh,” said Waldegrave, taken aback. “I didn’t—why—?”

“Cos I need one,” said Leonora shortly. “The police think I done it to Owen.”

There was a silence. Waldegrave’s discomfort was palpable.

“My daddy died,” Orlando informed the room. Her gaze was direct and eager, seeking a reaction. Strike, who felt that something was required of one of them, said:

“I know. It’s very sad.”

“Edna said it was sad,” replied Orlando, as though she had hoped for something more original, and she slid out of the room again.

“Sit down,” Leonora invited the two men. “They for me?” she added, indicating the flowers in Waldegrave’s hand.

“Yes,” he said, fumbling a little as he handed them over but remaining on his feet. “Look, Leonora, I don’t want to take up any of your time just now, you must be so busy with—with arrangements and—”

“They won’t let me have his body,” said Leonora with devastating honesty, “so I can’t make no arrangements yet.”

“Oh, and there’s a card,” said Waldegrave desperately, feeling in his pockets. “Here…well, if there’s anything we can do, Leonora, anything—”

“Can’t see what anyone can do,” said Leonora shortly, taking the envelope he proffered. She sat down at the table where Strike had already pulled up a chair, glad to take the weight off his leg.

“Well, I think I’ll be off, leave you to it,” said Waldegrave. “Listen, Leonora, I hate to ask at a time like this, but Bombyx Mori…have you got a copy here?”

“No,” she said. “Owen took it with him.”

“I’m so sorry, but it would help us if…could I have a look and see if any of it’s been left behind?”

She peered up at him through those huge, outdated glasses.

“Police’ve taken anything he left,” she said. “They went through the study like a dose of salts yesterday. Locked it up and taken the key—I can’t even go in there myself now.”

“Oh, well, if the police need…no,” said Waldegrave, “fair enough. No, I’ll see myself out, don’t get up.”

He walked up the hall and they heard the front door close behind him.

“Dunno why he came,” said Leonora sullenly. “Make him feel like he’s done something nice, I suppose.”

She opened the card he had given her. There was a watercolor of violets on the front. Inside were many signatures.