The Silkworm

This section of The Silkworm establishes the central mystery and character tensions that will define the novel. The narrative begins with Leonora Quine’s visit to Cormoran Strike’s office, as Leonora seeks help in locating her missing husband, the eccentric and provocative novelist Owen Quine. What initially appears to be a simple case of a man running away from his life quickly takes on deeper implications as Strike learns of Quine’s contentious relationships in the publishing world and his dramatic personal life. Most crucially, Strike learns of Quine’s unpublished manuscript Bombyx Mori, a grotesque allegorical novel that may have provoked violent retaliation. The entire premise hinges on the possibility that fiction has not only reflected reality but triggered it, recasting the detective’s role as one who must read as much as investigate. The idea of Identity and Performance takes on literal form in these opening chapters, as Strike must distinguish who people are from the roles they play in both life and literature.

A major narrative device introduced in these early chapters is the fictional manuscript Bombyx Mori. Although Strike does not obtain the actual text until later, it is revealed early on that the manuscript satirizes and exposes figures in Quine’s life. This is an example of metafiction—fiction that self-consciously reflects on its own narrative structure or comments on the nature of storytelling itself. This metafictional layer sets up one of the novel’s key ideas: truth veiled in fiction, which falls within the theme of Identity and Performance. By embedding a book within a book, Galbraith invites the reader to treat the investigation not only as a murder mystery but as an interpretive puzzle. Bombyx Mori becomes a tool for commentary on authorship, revenge, and reputation, where fiction serves as both allegory and ammunition. It’s also a narrative strategy that allows Galbraith to show Quine’s point of view through the symbolic avatars he creates in Bombyx Mori. Each grotesque figure represents how Quine sees, or wants to expose, the people in his life, revealing his private resentments, insecurities, and artistic delusions. This technique allows Galbraith to explore the flaws of the characters in a vividly hyperbolic way. The manuscript also mirrors the novel itself: Just as Bombyx Mori contains hidden meanings about its subjects, The Silkworm invites the reader to decode the human dramas behind the whodunit. Fiction, in this world, is both mask and confession.

Strike evolves as a character, and plot points from the previous novel in the series are alluded to as a marker of his growth. Having gained fame from solving the Lula Landry case (the plot of The Cuckoo’s Calling), he is besieged by new clients, many of whom are bored rich people who want to work with a famous investigator. His rejection of these lucrative cases in favor of Leonora’s, despite no evidence that she can pay, demonstrates his enduring commitment to principle over profit. It also reveals his need to prove himself on his own terms—an instinct that is accentuated by his newfound fame. This moral thread becomes one of the book’s ethical anchors: Strike chooses difficult, less glamorous work because it matters more. His physical discomfort, as well as his emotional detachment from society’s elite, makes him an unlikely hero in a world of superficiality. This contrast is further sharpened by the novel’s exploration of Ego and Vanity as a Destructive Force, particularly in a literary culture where reputations are built on spectacle, provocation, and cruelty.

In contrast to Strike’s newfound popularity, Robin Ellacott struggles in the novel’s opening chapters. She has a growing desire to be taken seriously in the investigative world, and her frustrations with Strike’s unwillingness to give her more responsibility begin to surface. She is also frustrated from managing the dynamic between Strike and her fiancé, who is portrayed as a shallow and mostly cruel character. Even before meeting, the men share a disdain for each other, and Ellacott continuously tries to manage their emotional reactions to each other. For example, she does not tell Matthew she is inviting Strike to their wedding and struggles to tell Strike that the wedding date is set. The tension between Strike and Matthew often reads as territorial, and Strike’s private admission of romantic feelings for Ellacott, though quickly suppressed, lays the groundwork for the unresolved attraction that simmers through the series. This dynamic reveals a common element of Galbraith’s writing; women often become the emotional crutch for the men around them. This subplot reveals another central theme of the novel: Gender and Power. Robin’s desire to step fully into her professional identity is constantly challenged by men who underestimate or attempt to manage her, forcing her to perform emotional labor just to maintain peace.

Another crucial element introduced early is the juxtaposition between artistic ambition and personal morality. The publishing world Strike begins to investigate is full of big personalities, many of whom have deeply enmeshed relationships with one another. The drama surrounding Quine’s work, particularly Bombyx Mori, suggests that the line between literary character assassination and real-life vendetta is razor thin. These chapters set up the idea that fiction can be used as a weapon. This suggests a chilling subtext: Those who control narrative control power. The allegorical violence in Bombyx Mori anticipates the actual violence to come, blurring the line between imagined cruelty and enacted harm. Galbraith introduces several key suspects in the opening chapters, mostly through scenes in which Strike interviews them. Each of these figures emerges with a mixture of suspicious behavior and potential motive. Already, the cast resembles a theatrical ensemble—each person is both suspect and symbol. The mystery builds not only through evidence but through the psychological tension of masks slowly slipping.

This section presents a portrait of Owen Quine as a deliberately provocative and deeply insecure man. Through Strike’s early interviews—first with Leonora, then with Christian Fisher and Elizabeth Tassel—it becomes clear that Quine’s final manuscript was not just satirical but potentially libelous. Fisher describes the book as grotesque and brilliant, while Tassel dismisses it as narcissistic, revealing how divided Quine’s circle is on his talent. Kathryn Kent, upon encountering Strike, lashes out in a dramatic display that underscores Quine’s destructive personal life. Her blog posts, too, hint at betrayal and humiliation. Strike begins to suspect that Quine’s self-image as a transgressive genius has alienated nearly everyone close to him. The fact that he dressed in a cape and feathered trilby for his author photo, an affectation described in Chapter 6, adds to the sense that he views himself as a tortured artist worthy of mythologizing. These traits give Strike pause as to whether his disappearance is a stunt or the result of foul play. This psychological profiling of Quine by Strike becomes a central thread of the mystery, especially as Strike begins to suspect that Quine’s self-image and artistic ego might have led him into dangerous territory. The early chapters expose him as a man whose cruelty exceeds his talent. The manuscript may be his masterwork, but it’s also his self-authored downfall. His fixation on provocation and prestige offers a pointed example of Ego and Vanity as a Destructive Force.

The social and cultural contrast between Leonora and the literary figures is established in the opening chapters. Leonora is portrayed as plain, loyal, and limited in her understanding of the literary world. Her dialogue is written in a working-class vernacular, and she often expresses a level of disinterest in her husband’s life that Strike finds notable. She is sincere and devoted to her daughter, Orlando, who has a developmental disability, but she is often portrayed as expressing frustration toward her. Leonora’s belief in her husband’s innocence and vulnerability contrasts with the literary elite’s belief in his vindictiveness. Her lack of emotional or verbal artifice makes her appear suspicious in a world obsessed with performance, but her authenticity anchors the book morally, suggesting that dignity can exist outside the spotlight.

Stylistically, the opening chapters portray the world of Strike as a grim, winter version of London. The streets are rain-slicked, the pubs are dark and full of character, and the smells of the city are vividly described. Strike’s physical discomfort from his amputated leg is a recurring sensory anchor. In Chapter 2, for instance, he climbs the stairs to his attic apartment in visible pain, collapsing onto his bed and rubbing his leg, a moment that reinforces his physical vulnerability and frames the city itself as something to be endured. These rounded details provide a contrast to the increasingly fantastical nature of the case. Galbraith grounds the high-stakes literary satire in the textured, everyday grime of London—a city as wounded and layered as the people who inhabit it. The sensory world of the novel keeps the reader rooted in realism, even as the plot drifts toward the grotesque.

By the end of Chapter 10, the stakes have escalated. Strike realizes that the contents of Bombyx Mori may not just be a source of embarrassment; they may be a motive for violence. The mystery transforms from a possible publicity stunt into something darker and more sinister. These early chapters carefully lay the groundwork for a layered investigation involving both the real-world circumstances and the symbolism found within Bombyx Mori. The reader is asked to become a kind of detective too, sifting through narrative masks, symbolic codes, and emotional half-truths. In this way, the book becomes not just a crime story, but a study in how language can obscure or expose the truth, especially when filtered through identity and performance.