‘In Bombyx Mori, your late wife—’
‘—is called “Effigy”.’
‘Which is a coincidence,’ said Strike.
‘Obviously,’ said Fancourt.
‘Because you couldn’t yet have known that Quine had called her “Effigy” on the seventh.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Quine’s mistress got a copy of the manuscript fed through her letter box right after he disappeared,’ said Strike. ‘You didn’t get sent an early copy, by any chance?’
The ensuing pause became over-long. Strike felt the fragile thread that he had managed to spin between them snap. It did not matter. He had saved this question for last.
‘No,’ said Fancourt. ‘I didn’t.’
He pulled out his wallet. His declared intention of picking Strike’s brains for a character in his next novel seemed, not at all to Strike’s regret, forgotten. Strike pulled out some cash, but Fancourt held up a hand and said, with unmistakable offensiveness: ‘No, no, allow me. Your press coverage makes much of the fact that you have known better times. In fact, it puts me in mind of Ben Jonson: “I am a poor gentleman, a soldier; one that, in the better state of my fortunes, scorned so mean a refuge”.’
‘Really?’ said Strike pleasantly, returning his cash to his pocket. ‘I’m put more in mind of
sicine subrepsti mi, atque intestina pururens
ei misero eripuisti omnia nostra bona?
Eripuisti, eheu, nostrae crudele uenenum
Uitae, eheu nostrae pestis amicitiae.’
He looked unsmilingly upon Fancourt’s astonishment. The writer rallied quickly.
‘Ovid?’
‘Catullus,’ said Strike, heaving himself off the low pouffe with the aid of the table. ‘Translates roughly:
So that’s how you crept up on me, an acid eating away
My guts, stole from me everything I most treasure?
Yes, alas, stole: grim poison in my blood
The plague, alas, of the friendship we once had.
‘Well, I expect we’ll see each other around,’ said Strike pleasantly.
He limped off towards the stairs, Fancourt’s eyes upon his back.