The Silkworm

This section deepens the central mystery and brings the narrative into darker territory with the discovery of Owen Quine’s mutilated corpse. The symbolism of Bombyx Mori becomes literal, as Strike finds Quine’s body in a deserted house, posed in an exact recreation of the manuscript’s death scene. This revelation shifts the novel from a missing person investigation to a murder case, raising the stakes for both the characters and the reader. It also literalizes the novel’s central discussion that fiction can become a weapon, and that authorship carries the potential not only to reveal truth but to destroy lives.

In these chapters, Galbraith continues to build on the idea that Bombyx Mori was not just controversial literature but a carefully laid minefield, each character representing a real-life figure with recognizable flaws exaggerated for satirical effect. The method of murder points toward a killer with intimate knowledge of the text, possibly someone close to Quine or involved in its creation or distribution. This metafictional parallel influences the book’s structure; Strike must interpret an invented narrative to uncover the truth behind a real crime. The act of close reading becomes a detective method, emphasizing that understanding language—its codes, metaphors, and omissions—is a form of power. This also builds on the novel’s theme of Identity and Performance, as Strike begins to piece together who is playing which part in the grotesque drama Quine has written.

This section also continues to explore the moral ambiguity of the publishing world. The potential suspects are revealed to be enmeshed in a web of long-standing professional resentments and personal betrayals. Michael Fancourt’s backstory becomes increasingly important: His wife died by suicide years ago after being humiliated by a piece of writing believed to have been written by Quine. Though Fancourt denies involvement with Bombyx Mori, his veiled contempt for Quine and guardedness around the events of the past make him a person of interest. Fancourt, like many others in this circle, is both wounded and weaponized by ego. The novel continues to emphasize Ego and Vanity as a Destructive Force, particularly in a literary culture where success is built on cruelty disguised as genius.

The novel’s literary suspects function not only as red herrings but as distorted mirrors of Quine himself—writers defined less by talent than by unresolved grievances. Chard, Waldegrave, and Fancourt are all steeped in self-mythology, each clinging to a vision of their importance that is threatened by Bombyx Mori. In a genre where motive often comes down to love or money, The Silkworm insists that reputation, especially literary reputation, is its own high-stakes economy. This creates a subculture where cruelty becomes currency, and where old betrayals, real or imagined, fester beneath public roles. These writers are consumed by the politics of writing, creating a world in which self-narration becomes survival.

Fancourt in particular exemplifies the blurred boundary between artistic genius and moral evasion. He speaks in abstractions and literary theories, but his personal life suggests a man deeply implicated in the same performance-based cruelty that he claims to detest. His posture of cultivated aloofness masks rage and unresolved guilt. In many ways, Fancourt is a more polished version of Quine: equally egotistical, more talented, and socially smarter about when to hide his claws. Galbraith draws these parallels not just to deepen the mystery, but to suggest that the line between author and manipulator is often one of tone, not substance.

Galbraith continues to use Strike’s interviews to introduce character studies that function as moral portraits. Jerry Waldegrave, for example, is a tragic figure: He experiences addiction, and his life and marriage have unraveled. He is both victim and perpetrator within the world of Bombyx Mori, and his reaction to Quine’s death is one of guilt and despair. Elizabeth Tassel, meanwhile, emerges as a woman whose physical illness mirrors the decay of the literary ideals she once championed. Her bitterness and pride suggest potential motive, but also a sense of wasted potential that lends her complexity. Each of these characters performs a version of themselves to survive, and their performances hide both vulnerability and motive. These dynamics reinforce the theme of Identity and Performance as central to both the mystery and the emotional stakes of the novel.

One of the novel’s core dynamics, the relationship between Ellacott and Strike, continues to evolve. Ellacott’s interest in becoming a professional investigator intensifies, and her resentment toward Strike’s reluctance to fully involve her becomes more explicit. Their relationship is increasingly marked by subtle power struggles. Her personal life also becomes more fraught: Ellacott’s fiancé, Matthew, expresses growing hostility toward her job, culminating in a confrontation that exposes his insecurity and disdain for Strike. This subplot introduces a broader discussion of personal autonomy and gender dynamics; Ellacott’s desire to define her own identity contrasts with Matthew’s traditional expectations. These tensions are framed through the lens of Gender and Power, with Ellacott caught between men who want to define her worth by her emotional availability, not her professional capacity. She is increasingly burdened by the emotional labor of smoothing tensions she did not create.

Strike and Ellacott’s partnership also sharpens in this section, positioning them as emotionally mismatched foils. Where Strike avoids intimacy, Ellacott quietly craves recognition—not romance, necessarily, but real partnership. When Strike is injured or dismissive, she masks her disappointment behind duty; when he relents, even slightly, she lights up. Their dynamic echoes the theme of Identity and Performance, with Ellacott forced to perform composure to avoid being sidelined. Meanwhile, Strike performs detachment to maintain control. The slow burn of their emotional stalemate adds tension to the narrative, suggesting that even as they chase the truth about Quine, they are circling truths about themselves they’re not ready to face.

More of Strike’s personal life is revealed in these chapters, primarily through thoughts about his ex-fiancé Charlotte, who continues to mentally haunt him through occasional texts and media appearances. Charlotte becomes a symbol of the kind of emotional manipulation Strike has grown weary of, and any time thoughts of her arise, he becomes distracted from the case. His memories of her also influence his interactions with Nina, with whom he has a short relationship. Although he finds Nina very attractive and fun, he resists giving her any indication that he is interested in a relationship. Whenever they are together, he tends to focus on her flaws more than what he finds likable about her. Strike’s aloofness reflects his broader resistance to emotional vulnerability, even as he demands honesty from those he investigates. His emotional restraint becomes part of his identity performance, one that masks loneliness, just as others’ masks hide insecurity or rage.

The police investigation becomes another focal point in this section. Strike’s respect for the Metropolitan Police is complicated by his frustration with their narrow focus on Leonora Quine as the primary suspect. Leonora’s arrest marks a pivotal moment in the plot and a low point for Strike. He is convinced of her innocence but lacks hard evidence to exonerate her. The system’s failure to look beyond surface-level motives like marital frustration, financial hardship, and Leonora’s odd demeanor become a critique of institutional blind spots. Strike’s protectiveness toward Leonora becomes one of the few clearly humanizing aspects of his character; though often cold, gruff, and emotionally avoidant, he is deeply unsettled by the way she is misjudged and mistreated. Here, Galbraith underlines the dangers of surface-level readings, both of people and of texts, and suggests that the truth often lies beneath layers of discomfort or unconventional expression. This instinct to defend the socially sidelined mirrors Strike’s conflicted feelings about Ellacott, another woman constantly underestimated, forced to perform stability while carrying others’ emotional weight. Though he rarely expresses affection outright, his loyalty to misfits like Leonora and Robin hints at a personal ethic rooted in gendered empathy, however inarticulate or distorted it may be.

Leonora becomes a more developed character in this section. She is portrayed as somewhat simple-minded, and primarily dedicated to taking care of her daughter. As a character, Orlando primarily functions as a narrative background presence, typically shown distracting Leonora from her conversations with other adults. Although their relationship is described as close, Leonora resents her daughter and does not take her seriously; Orlando makes seemingly offhanded comments, like saying that Elizabeth Tassel was in Quine’s office shortly before his disappearance. Leonora dismisses these comments, but Strike takes note of them, foreshadowing Tassel’s role in Quine’s murder. Leonora’s flat affect and social awkwardness are misinterpreted as guilt, further exposing how Identity and Performance shape who is seen as credible, trustworthy, or suspicious. In a world where perception equals power, Leonora’s refusal or inability to perform emotion leaves her vulnerable to judgment.

Galbraith continues to paint London in grim, claustrophobic tones, from crowded commuter trains to cluttered dark offices. Pungent smells, masses of people, and miserable weather often surround characters as they move through the streets. The physical world mirrors the psychological claustrophobia of the case. The city becomes an extension of the book’s moral ecosystem, brimming with secrets, shadows, and decay. This reinforces the idea that violence in The Silkworm is not random but embedded in the environments, egos, and performances that surround every character.