Elizabeth was not yet there but had booked under her name. Strike was shown to a table for two beside a pebble-set and whitewashed wall. Rustic wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling; a rowing boat was suspended over the bar. Across the opposite wall were jaunty orange leather booths. From force of habit, Strike ordered a pint, enjoying the light, bright Mediterranean charm of his surroundings, watching the snow drifting past the windows.
The agent arrived not long afterwards. He tried to stand as she approached the table but fell back down again quickly. Elizabeth did not seem to notice.
She looked as though she had lost weight since he had last seen her; the well-cut black suit, the scarlet lipstick and the steel-grey bob did not lend her dash today, but looked like a badly chosen disguise. Her face was yellowish and seemed to sag.
How are you?' he asked.
How do you think I am?' she croaked rudely. What?' she snapped at a hovering waiter. Oh. Water. Still.'
She picked up her menu with an air of having given away too much and Strike could tell that any expression of pity or concern would be unwelcome.
Just soup,' she told the waiter when he returned for their order.
I appreciate you seeing me again,' Strike said when the waiter had departed.
Well, God knows Leonora needs all the help she can get,' said Elizabeth.
Why do you say that?'
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him.
Don't pretend to be stupid. She told me she insisted on being brought to Scotland Yard to see you, right after she got the news about Owen.'
Yeah, she did.'
And how did she think that would look? The police probably expected her to collapse in a heap and all sh-she wants to do is see her detective friend.'
She suppressed a cough with difficulty.
I don't think Leonora gives any thought to the impression she makes on other people,' said Strike.
N-no, well, you're right there. She's never been the brightest.'
Strike wondered what impression Elizabeth Tassel thought she made on the world; whether she realised how little she was liked. She allowed the cough that she had been trying to suppress free expression and he waited for the loud, seal-like barks to pass before asking:
You think she should have faked some grief?'
I don't say it's fake,' snapped Elizabeth. I'm sure she is upset in her own limited way. I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt to play the grieving widow a bit more. It's what people expect.'
I suppose you've talked to the police?'
Of course. We've been through the row in the River Café, over and over the reason I didn't read the damn book properly. And they wanted to know my movements after I last saw Owen. Specifically, the three days after I saw him.'
She glared interrogatively at Strike, whose expression remained impassive.
I take it they think he died within three days of our argument?'
I've no idea,' lied Strike. What did you tell them about your movements?'
That I went straight home after Owen stormed out on me, got up at six next morning, took a taxi to Paddington and went to stay with Dorcus.'
One of your writers, I think you said?'
Yes, Dorcus Pengelly, she-'
Elizabeth noticed Strike's small grin and, for the first time in their acquaintance, her face relaxed into a fleeting smile.
It's her real name, if you can believe it, not a pseudonym. She writes pornography dressed up as historical romance. Owen was very sniffy about her books, but he'd have killed for her sales. They go,' said Elizabeth, like hot cakes.'
When did you get back from Dorcus's?'
Late Monday afternoon. It was supposed to be a nice long weekend, but nice,' said Elizabeth tensely, thanks to Bombyx Mori, it was not.
I live alone,' she continued. I can't prove I went home, that I didn't murder Owen as soon as I got back to London. I certainly felt like doing it … '
She drank more water and continued:
The police were mostly interested in the book. They seem to think it's given a lot of people a motive.'
It was her first overt attempt to get information out of him.
It looked like a lot of people at first,' said Strike, but if they've got the time of death right and Quine died within three days of your row in the River Café, the number of suspects will be fairly limited.'
How so?' asked Elizabeth sharply, and he was reminded of one of his most scathing tutors at Oxford, who used this two-word question like a giant needle to puncture ill-founded theorising.
Can't give you that information, I'm afraid,' Strike replied pleasantly. Mustn't prejudice the police case.'
Her pallid skin, across the small table, was large-pored and coarse-grained, the olive-dark eyes watchful.
They asked me,' she said, to whom I had shown the manuscript during the few days I had it before sending it to Jerry and Christian – answer: nobody. And they asked me with whom Owen discusses his manuscripts while he's writing them. I don't know why that was,' she said, her black eyes still fixed on Strike's. Do they think somebody egged him on?'
I don't know,' Strike lied again. Does he discuss the books he's working on?'
He might have confided bits in Jerry Waldegrave. He barely deigned to tell me his titles.'
Really? He never asked your advice? Did you say you'd studied English at Oxford-?'
I took a first,' she said angrily, but that counted for less than nothing with Owen, who incidentally was thrown off his course at Loughborough or some such place, and never got a degree at all. Yes, and Michael once kindly told Owen that I'd been "lamentably derivative" as a writer back when we were students, and Owen never forgot it.' The memory of the old slight had given a purple tinge to her yellowish skin. Owen shared Michael's prejudice about women in literature. Neither of them minded women praising their work, of c-course-' She coughed into her napkin and emerged red-faced and angry. Owen was a bigger glutton for praise than any author I've ever met, and they are most of them insatiable.'
Their food arrived: tomato and basil soup for Elizabeth and cod and chips for Strike.
You told me when we last met,' said Strike, having swallowed his first large mouthful, that there came a point when you had to choose between Fancourt and Quine. Why did you choose Quine?'
She was blowing on a spoonful of soup and seemed to give her answer serious consideration before speaking.
I felt – at that time – that he was more sinned against than sinning.'
Did this have something to do with the parody somebody wrote of Fancourt's wife's novel?'
"Somebody" didn't write it,' she said quietly. Owen did.'
Do you know that for sure?'
He showed it to me before he sent it to the magazine. I'm afraid,' Elizabeth met Strike's gaze with cold defiance, it made me laugh. It was painfully accurate and very funny. Owen was always a good literary mimic.'
But then Fancourt's wife killed herself.'
Which was a tragedy, of course,' said Elizabeth, without noticeable emotion, although nobody could have reasonably expected it. Frankly, anybody who's going to kill themselves because of a bad review has no business writing a novel in the first place. But naturally enough, Michael was livid with Owen and I think the more so because Owen got cold feet and denied authorship once he heard about Elspeth's suicide. It was, perhaps, a surprisingly cowardly attitude for a man who liked to be thought of as fearless and lawless.
Michael wanted me to drop Owen as a client. I refused. Michael hasn't spoken to me since.'
Was Quine making more money for you than Fancourt at the time?' Strike asked.
Good God, no,' she said. It wasn't to my pecuniary advantage to stick with Owen.'
Then why-?'
I've just told you,' she said impatiently. I believe in freedom of speech, up to and including upsetting people. Anyway, days after Elspeth killed herself, Leonora gave birth to premature twins. Something went badly wrong at the birth; the boy died and Orlando is … I take it you've met her by now?'
As he nodded, Strike's dream of the other night came back to him suddenly: the baby that Charlotte had given birth to, but that she would not let him see …
Brain damaged,' Elizabeth went on. So Owen was going through his own personal tragedy at the time, and unlike Michael, he hadn't b-brought any of it on h-himself-'
Coughing again, she caught Strike's look of faint surprise and made an impatient staying gesture with her hand, indicating that she would explain when the fit had passed. Finally, after another sip of water, she croaked:
Michael only encouraged Elspeth to write to keep her out of his hair while he worked. They had nothing in common. He married her because he's terminally touchy about being lower middle class. She was an earl's daughter who thought marrying Michael would mean non-stop literary parties and sparkling, intellectual chat. She didn't realise she'd be alone most of the time while Michael worked. She was,' said Elizabeth with disdain, a woman of few resources.
But she got excited at the idea of being a writer. Have you any idea,' said the agent harshly, how many people think they can write? You cannot imagine the crap I am sent, day in, day out. Elspeth's novel would have been rejected out of hand under normal circumstances, it was so pretentious and silly, but they weren't normal circumstances. Having encouraged her to produce the damn thing, Michael didn't have the balls to tell her it was awful. He gave it to his publisher and they took it to keep Michael happy. It had been out a week when the parody appeared.'
Quine implies in Bombyx Mori that Fancourt really wrote the parody,' said Strike.
I know he does – and I wouldn't want to provoke Michael Fancourt,' she added in an apparent aside that begged to be heard.