He's forgotten the milk,' said Chard, scrutinising the tray. Do you take milk?'
Yeah,' said Strike.
Chard sighed, but instead of pressing the brass plate on the floor he struggled back onto his one sound foot and his crutches, and swung off towards the kitchen, leaving Strike staring thoughtfully after him.
Those who worked with him found Daniel Chard peculiar, although Nina had described him as shrewd. His uncontrolled rages about Bombyx Mori had sounded to Strike like the reaction of an over-sensitive man of questionable judgement. He remembered the slight sense of embarrassment emanating from the crowd as Chard mumbled his speech at the anniversary party. An odd man, hard to read …
Strike's eyes drifted upwards. Snow was falling gently onto the clear roof high above the marble angel. The glass must be heated in some way, to prevent the snow settling, Strike concluded. And the memory of Quine, eviscerated and trussed, burned and rotting beneath a great vaulted window returned to him. Like Robin, he suddenly found the high glass ceiling of Tithebarn House unpleasantly reminiscent.
Chard re-emerged from the kitchen and swung back across the floor on his crutches, a small jug of milk held precariously in his hand.
You'll be wondering why I asked you to come here,' said Chard finally, when he had sat back down and each of them held his tea at last. Strike arranged his features to look receptive.
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 realised 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 re-emerged from the kitchen, a much healthier colour.
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.
I had heard something of the sort,' said Chard, still examining his teak floorboards for damage. That won't interfere with this line of enquiry, though?'
His self-absorption was remarkable, Strike thought. He remembered Chard's copperplate writing on the card with the painting of violets: Do let me know if there is anything you need. Perhaps his secretary had dictated it to him.
Would you like to tell me who the alleged collaborator is?' asked Strike.
This is extremely painful,' mumbled Chard, his eyes flitting from Alfred Wallis to the stone angel and up to the spiral stairs.
Strike said nothing.
It's Jerry Waldegrave,' said Chard, glancing at Strike and away again. And I'll tell you why I suspect – how I know.
His behaviour has been strange for weeks. I first noticed it when he telephoned me about Bombyx Mori, to tell me what Quine had done. There was no embarrassment, no apology.'
Would you have expected Waldegrave to apologise for something Quine had written?'
The question seemed to surprise Chard.
Well – Owen was one of Jerry's authors, so yes, I would have expected some regret that Owen had depicted me in that – in that way.'
And Strike's unruly imagination again showed him the naked Phallus Impudicus standing over the body of a dead young man emitting supernatural light.
Are you and Waldegrave on bad terms?' he asked.
I've shown Jerry Waldegrave a lot of forbearance, a considerable forbearance,' said Chard, ignoring the direct question. I kept him on full pay while he went to a treatment facility a year ago. Perhaps he feels hard done by,' said Chard, but I've been on his side, yes, on occasions when many another man, a more prudent man, might have remained neutral. Jerry's personal misfortunes are not of my making. There is resentment. Yes, I would say that there is definite resentment, however unjustified.'
Resentment about what?' asked Strike.
Jerry isn't fond of Michael Fancourt,' mumbled Chard, his eyes on the flames in the wood-burner. Michael had a – a flirtation, a long time ago, with Fenella, Jerry's wife. And as it happens, I actually warned Michael off, because of my friendship with Jerry. Yes!' said Chard, nodding, deeply impressed by the memory of his own actions. I told Michael it was unkind and unwise, even in his state of … because Michael had lost his first wife, you see, not very long before.
Michael didn't appreciate my unsolicited advice. He took offence; he took off for a different publisher. The board was very unhappy,' said Chard. It's taken us twenty-odd years to lure Michael back.
But after all this time,' Chard said, his bald pate merely one more reflective surface among the glass, polished wood and steel, Jerry can hardly expect his personal animosities to govern company policy. Ever since Michael agreed to come back to Roper Chard, Jerry has made it his business to – to undermine me, subtly, in a hundred little ways.
What I believe happened is this,' said Chard, glancing from time to time at Strike, as though to gauge his reaction. Jerry took Owen into his confidence about Michael's deal, which we were trying to keep under wraps. Owen had, of course, been an enemy of Fancourt's for a quarter of a century. Owen and Jerry decided to concoct this … this dreadful book, in which Michael and I are subjected to – to disgusting calumnies as a way of drawing attention away from Michael's arrival and as an act of revenge on both of us, on the company, on anyone else they cared to denigrate.