The Silkworm

“How come Michael Fancourt’s been able to block the sale all these years?”

“It’s something to do with how it was left to ’em by that bloke Joe. Something about how it was to be used. I dunno. You’d have to ask Liz, she knows all about it.”

“When was the last time Owen was there, do you know?”

“Years ago,” she said. “I dunno. Years.”

“I want more paper to draw,” Orlando announced.

“I haven’t got any more,” said Leonora. “It’s all in Daddy’s study. Use the back of this.”

She seized a circular from the cluttered work surface and pushed it across the table to Orlando, but her daughter shoved it away and left the kitchen at a languid walk, the orangutan swinging from her neck. Almost at once they heard her trying to force the door of the study.

“Orlando, no!” barked Leonora, jumping up and hurrying into the hall. Strike took advantage of her absence to lean back and pour away most of his milky tea into the sink; it spattered down the bouquet clinging traitorously to the cellophane.

“No, Dodo. You can’t do that. No. We’re not allowed—we’re not allowed, get off it—”

A high-pitched wail and then a loud thudding proclaimed Orlando’s flight upstairs. Leonora reappeared in the kitchen with a flushed face.

“I’ll be paying for that all day now,” she said. “She’s unsettled. Don’t like the police here.”

She yawned nervously.

“Have you slept?” Strike asked.

“Not much. Cos I keep thinking, Who? Who’d do it to him? He upsets people, I know that,” she said distractedly, “but that’s just how he is. Temperamental. He gets angry over little things. He’s always been like that, he don’t mean anything by it. Who’d kill him for that?

“Michael Fancourt must still have a key to the house,” she went on, twisting her fingers together as she jumped subject. “I thought that last night when I couldn’t sleep. I know Michael Fancourt don’t like him, but that’s ages ago. Anyway, Owen never did that thing Michael said he did. He never wrote it. But Michael Fancourt wouldn’t kill Owen.” She looked up at Strike with clear eyes as innocent as her daughter’s. “He’s rich, isn’t he? Famous…he wouldn’t.”

Strike had always marveled at the strange sanctity conferred upon celebrities by the public, even while the newspapers denigrated, hunted or hounded them. No matter how many famous people were convicted of rape or murder, still the belief persisted, almost pagan in its intensity: not him. It couldn’t be him. He’s famous.

“And that bloody Chard,” burst out Leonora, “sending Owen threatening letters. Owen never liked him. And then he signs the card and says if there’s anything he can do…where’s that card?”

The card with the picture of violets had vanished from the table.

“She’s got it,” said Leonora, flushing angrily. “She’s taken it.” And so loudly that it made Strike jump she bellowed “DODO!” at the ceiling.

It was the irrational anger of a person in the first raw stages of grief and, like her upset stomach, revealed just how she was suffering beneath the surly surface.

“DODO!” shouted Leonora again. “What have I told you about taking things that don’t belong—?”

Orlando reappeared with startling suddenness in the kitchen, still cuddling her orangutan. She must have crept back down without them hearing, as quiet as a cat.

“You took my card!” said Leonora angrily. “What have I told you about taking things that don’t belong to you? Where is it?”

“I like the flowers,” said Orlando, producing the glossy but now crumpled card, which her mother snatched from her.

“It’s mine,” she told her daughter. “See,” she went on, addressing Strike and pointing to the longest handwritten message, which was in precise copperplate: “‘Do let me know if there is anything you need. Daniel Chard.’ Bloody hypocrite.”

“Daddy didn’t like Dannulchar,” said Orlando. “He told me.”

“He’s a bloody hypocrite, I know that,” said Leonora, who was squinting at the other signatures.

“He give me a paintbrush,” said Orlando, “after he touched me.”

There was a short, pregnant silence. Leonora looked up at her. Strike had frozen with his mug halfway to his lips.

“What?”

“I didn’t like him touching me.”

“What are you talking about? Who touched you?”

“At Daddy’s work.”

“Don’t talk so silly,” said her mother.

“When Daddy took me and I saw—”

“He took her in a month ago or more, because I had a doctor’s appointment,” Leonora told Strike, flustered, on edge. “I don’t know what she’s on about.”

“…and I saw the pictures for books that they put on, all colored,” said Leonora, “an’ Dannulchar did touch—”

“You don’t even know who Daniel Chard is,” said Leonora.

“He’s got no hair,” said Orlando. “And after Daddy took me to see the lady an’ I gave her my best picture. She had nice hair.”

“What lady? What are you talking—?”

“When Dannulchar touched me,” said Orlando loudly. “He touched me and I shouted and after he gave me a paintbrush.”

“You don’t want to go round saying things like that,” said Leonora and her strained voice cracked. “Aren’t we in enough— Don’t be stupid, Orlando.”