The Silkworm

“I need somebody I can trust,” said Chard without waiting for Strike’s answer. “Someone outside the company.”

One darting glance at Strike and he fixed his eyes safely on his Alfred Wallis again.

“I think,” said Chard, “I may be the only person who’s realized that Owen Quine did not work alone. He had an accomplice.”

“An accomplice?” Strike repeated at last, as Chard seemed to expect a response.

“Yes,” said Chard fervently. “Oh yes. You see, the style of Bombyx Mori is Owen’s, but somebody else was in on it. Someone helped him.”

Chard’s sallow skin had flushed. He gripped and fondled the handle of one of the crutches beside him.

“The police will be interested, I think, if this can be proven?” said Chard, managing to look Strike full in the face. “If Owen was murdered because of what was written in Bombyx Mori, wouldn’t an accomplice be culpable?”

“Culpable?” repeated Strike. “You think this accomplice persuaded Quine to insert material in the book in the hope that a third party would retaliate murderously?”

“I…well, I’m not sure,” said Chard, frowning. “He might not have expected that to happen, precisely—but he certainly intended to wreak havoc.”

His knuckles were whitening as they tightened on the handle of his crutch.

“What makes you think Quine had help?” asked Strike.

“Owen couldn’t have known some of the things that are insinuated in Bombyx Mori unless he’d been fed information,” said Chard, now staring at the side of his stone angel.

“I think the police’s main interest in an accomplice,” said Strike slowly, “would be because he or she might have a lead on the killer.”

It was the truth, but it was also a way of reminding Chard that a man had died in grotesque circumstances. The identity of the murderer did not seem of pressing interest to Chard.

“Do you think so?” asked Chard with a faint frown.

“Yeah,” said Strike, “I do. And they’d be interested in an accomplice if they were able to shed light on some of the more oblique passages in the book. One of the theories the police are bound to be following is that someone killed Quine to stop him revealing something that he had hinted at in Bombyx Mori.”

Daniel Chard was staring at Strike with an arrested expression.

“Yes. I hadn’t…Yes.”

To Strike’s surprise, the publisher pulled himself up on his crutches and began to move a few paces backwards and forwards, swinging on his crutches in a parodic version of those first tentative physiotherapy exercises Strike had been given, years previously, at Selly Oak Hospital. Strike saw now that he was a fit man, that biceps rippled beneath the silk sleeves.

“The killer, then—” Chard began, and then “What?” he snapped suddenly, staring over Strike’s shoulder.

Robin had reemerged from the kitchen, a much healthier color.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pausing, unnerved.

“This is confidential,” said Chard. “No, I’m sorry. Could you return to the kitchen, please?”

“I—all right,” said Robin, taken aback and, Strike could tell, offended. She threw him a look, expecting him to say something, but he was silent.

When the swing doors had closed behind Robin, Chard said angrily:

“Now I’ve lost my train of thought. Entirely lost—”

“You were saying something about the killer.”

“Yes. Yes,” said Chard manically, resuming his backwards and forwards motion, swinging on his crutches. “The killer, then, if they knew about the accomplice, might want to target him too? And perhaps that’s occurred to him,” said Chard, more to himself than to Strike, his eyes on his expensive floorboards. “Perhaps that accounts…Yes.”

The small window in the wall nearest Strike showed only the dark face of the wood close by the house; white flecks falling dreamily against the black.

“Disloyalty,” said Chard suddenly, “cuts at me like nothing else.”

He stopped his agitated thumping up and down and turned to face the detective.

“If,” he said, “I told you who I suspect to have helped Owen, and asked you to bring me proof, would you feel obliged to pass that information to the police?”

It was a delicate question, thought Strike, running a hand absently over his chin, imperfectly shaved in the haste of leaving that morning.

“If you’re asking me to establish the truth of your suspicions…” said Strike slowly.

“Yes,” said Chard. “Yes, I am. I would like to be sure.”

“Then no, I don’t think I’d need to tell the police what I’m up to. But if I uncovered the fact that there was an accomplice and it looked like they might have killed Quine—or knew who had done it—I’d obviously consider myself duty-bound to inform the police.”

Chard lowered himself back onto one of the large leather cubes, dropping his crutches with a clatter on the floor.

“Damn,” he said, his displeasure echoing off the many hard surfaces around them as he leaned over to check that he had not dented the varnished wood.

“You know I’ve also been engaged by Quine’s wife to try and find out who killed him?” Strike asked.