Author's Note: A long chapter, sorry. But you'll soon see why. CW for self-harm and gore. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy solving this much of the mystery.
The poem referenced is "To Helen", by Edgar Allan Poe.
A Serpent's Tooth
"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!" - William Shakespeare (King Lear)
Chapter One
The gate swings open as Strike's BMW approaches. He follows the circular driveway to see a black Jaguar sedan, so parks behind it. As he approaches the front door, an unfamiliar man exits; he's well dressed in a tailored slate-grey suit and carrying a black leather holdall. He doesn't speak, merely nods a hello before getting into the Jag and driving away at a sedate pace.
Within seconds of Strike ringing the doorbell, it opens to an attractive middle-aged woman, who is neatly and conservatively dressed in a black skirt suit. She smiles on seeing him and gestures that he should enter, as she says, "Mr. Strike. Please, come in."
Given his purpose today, it's hardly surprising that the woman's large, round eyes make Strike think of his mother. But he pushes Leda to the back of his mind—he needs to maintain focus—and enters, saying only, "Thank you." The air in the foyer is slightly cloying, probably due to the huge bouquet of predominantly white flowers on a stand against one wall; his eyes and nose identify peace lilies, roses and gardenias. Now that he's stopped smoking, his sense of taste and smell have already improved. Right now, he regrets that fact.
The woman has shut the heavy door with a soft thud, and says, "May I take your coat? Sir Randolph shouldn't be long."
In fact, he has barely handed over his coat when Old Man Whittaker appears, his haggard appearance making Strike think that "Ancient" should be added to the nickname. Sir Randolph dismisses the woman with a ghost of a smile and, "Thank you, Maureen." When the men are alone, he says, "I saw you at the trial, of course. But did we ever actually meet before today?"
Strike shrugs and says, "Depends whether you count me being restrained by two mates while I bellowed after your retreating form that your grandson is a murderer."
The former diplomat doesn't laugh, though his smile appears genuine, and then he comments, "I heard you were funny." Without another word, he walks through a nearby door, which Strike assumes is an invitation to follow. It's a study, a nice one too; the walls lined with books, and the floor covered with what looks like a genuine antique Persian rug. His host sits down behind an equally weathered teak desk—so large it wouldn't fit in Strike's office—even as an expansive gesture offers a choice of three chairs. He chooses the one closest to the desk and the window, so he can see the door and the old man's face, because he doesn't yet know how this is going to play out. The air is close in here too and, now that he's away from the bouquet, Strike is sure he can detect a scent familiar to anyone who has endured an extended stay in hospital. He's wondering if the cadaverous visage before him is due to illness rather than age, when he's asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Never one for games, Strike is even less indulgent today, so he accuses, "You know why I'm here, or you never would have agreed to see me."
Sir Randolph acknowledges the point with a subtle nod, and says, "Still, the burden of proof lies with the accuser, not the accused. That much has always been true."
He expected at least some resistance and, truth be told, that arrogant streak within enjoys laying out his reasoning. "Fair enough. I was chatting with someone recently about...did you know Charlie Campbell?"
"I know the family. I'm sorry, m'boy. I heard you two were close."
"Thank you, sir." Genuinely surprised and moved by this small consideration, Strike momentarily loses his place, but soon continues, "If you know that much, then I'm sure you also know she wasn't a well woman. I suspect that at least from adolescence, she lived with an undiagnosed mental disorder, probably a few. Her father tried, of course, to get her professional help, just like he tried with her mother, who was also never properly diagnosed and largely untreated by anything other than illicit drugs and alcohol. And I was telling my friend how incredibly seductive it is to be offered love by someone who otherwise hates all the world, to be the one real thing in the life of someone who is barely in touch with reality. There were times, over the many years we tried to make it work, when I genuinely became afraid what I might do for Charlotte, if she but asked. Though, looking back, I don't think even such a...pervasive love can fundamentally alter our true self. My friends never understood, never could understand, that for the longest time I not only loved Charlotte but found it impossible not to, no matter what she did. But you understand, don't you, sir?"
"Yes. I understand." A trembling breath precedes the sonorous rendition, "Thy beauty is to me like those Nicéan barks of yore, that gently, o'er a perfumed sea, the weary, way-worn wanderer bore to his own native shore."
Recognising the poem, Strike is surprised and grateful for this cooperation, and continues, "Like I said, I was trying to help my friend understand, and then I suddenly saw what I had failed to see. Sir, where is your wife?"
Not a flicker of surprise disturbs the only man's craggy features, confirming Strike's suspicions, and Sir Randolph takes a deep breath before revealing, "Ovarian cancer, a particularly insidious form of an insidious disease."
Fuck. This explains the undertones of sickness in the air, and the dark, hollow eyes studying him. Strike is remembering how quickly Joan was taken by the same disease, and immediately feels like an arsehole for his arrogant opening speech, but won't be swayed from his course, so limits his compassion to, "I'm sorry, sir. I hadn't heard."
Sir Randolph's smile is replete with sorrow, and he says, "No. We're a very private family. Go on with your story, m'boy. The truth can't hurt her now."
Rapidly losing his appetite for the entire process, Strike nevertheless complies, "She has schizophrenia, like your daughter, Patricia?"
"More correctly, Pattie had schizophrenia like her mother, but yes."
The "had" doesn't faze Strike, as he'd learned last night about Patricia's long-ago suicide. There are still gaps in his theory, though he remains certain of one thing, "And she killed my mother."
Even though he'd chosen his seat with care, and acknowledged at least the possibility of violence, he's still wholly unprepared to be staring down the barrel of a revolver. He tenses, ready to fight for his life, and Sir Randolph drawls, "Not a muscle. I and the gun may be old, but we're both well-maintained." When Strike forces himself to relax, considering his options, one is discounted with, "Maureen has left by now, and the nurse upstairs won't hear your call. Tending Helen is an unfortunately tedious chore nowadays, so the gal is always listening to music through those...are they earbuds?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you. So, go on with your theory." Confused, Strike looks at the gun, and Sir Randolph says, "I have no intention of killing you, though I will shoot you if you move. The earbuds ensured that she didn't notice me swap out Helen's pain meds for a fatal cocktail of drugs, despite my aging hands trembling so much that the vials rattled together. Don't get old, as my father said to me on his deathbed at the age of ninety." After several seconds of this standoff, he says, "No questions?"
It seems unlikely that the man would kill Strike for trying to save his wife, but he might well shoot to wound, if it means his ailing wife avoiding a trial, so he keeps himself ready to move as he says, "Uh, yes; Whitt...your grandson, Jeffrey, says that you once locked him in a shed for three days, after he was expelled from school."
Shaking his head, Sir Randolph says, "That boy. It was three hours, not days. And I didn't lock him in; that was Helen. Sometimes, she'd sense when the voices were coming for her, so she got him to safety, and called me." The profound sadness in his eyes makes Strike want to weep, when he continues, "She was pregnant again. It shouldn't have happened. The doctors had told us it was risky, physically and mentally. But, as you say, such a love is incredibly seductive, so I granted her this wish, despite knowing the dangers. When she called me that day, I raced home, to find my wife unconscious in a pool of blood, and a lifeless foetus on the bed next to her. Helen had performed a caesarean on herself, believing that a demon resided within. It was only after I'd seen her off in an ambulance that I was able to go looking for Jeffrey, who was screaming bloody murder from the padlocked workshop. By the time I could free him, he was so distressed that he didn't even notice the blood on me, and fled to a friend's place." With a shrug, he concludes, "When they dispatched him home a few days later, it was evident that he'd assumed I had slammed and locked the shed door, so I let him. I don't think he ever forgave me."
Strike's gulp is audible in the silence that follows, and he needs to clear his throat before saying, "I'm so sorry."
"Another thing my father used to say: it is what it is. And, truth be told, Jeffrey was already a lost cause by then. I saw no signs that he inherited the family malady, but he had his own problems and gleefully sank into degeneracy from an early age, though I observed cowardice as his dominant trait. I've not seen him for many years. Did your paths ever cross again?"
The man seems entirely unafraid of the truth, so Strike doesn't hesitate long to reveal, "About five years ago. He was a crack addict and small-time drug dealer, part-time roadie for an unknown band, and pimping out a barely legal-aged girl who I sincerely hope has come to her senses and left him by now. I offered her the chance, but she chose him."
Sir Randolph snorts a laugh and says, "Yes, Jeffrey was always able to seduce women, as you unfortunately know. Why did you think he killed Leda?"
Strike's jaw clenches, evidence of his unwillingness to answer, but truth deserves truth. "Because I hated him, and let that hatred cloud my judgement."
"Not very logical of you, Sherlock...or are you Watson nowadays?"
More afraid now than when the revolver materialised, Strike accuses, "You've been keeping tabs on me."
"Of course. I've expected this visit, though by my reckoning you're a couple of decades late."
Strike huffs a laugh and says, "In my defence, I put it all behind me after your grandson was cleared. I only decided ten days ago to perhaps look at it again. Sir, did you bug my partner's apartment?"
For a fraction of a second, there is something like fear or guilt in the man's eyes, but it's gone by the time he says, "No. I know nothing of that. And I needn't go to such efforts to follow your career. You're a 'rising meteor', I'm told, though I wasn't aware they do rise."
Sounds like Culpepper's writing. "But you know...or suspect who did it." He can see that he's right, and asks, "Someone who works for you?"
Sir Randolph stares him down, asking, "If you only started looking into it recently, how did you arrive at Helen so quickly? You'd considered her at the time?"
"No. And I only started looking at her last night, when I realised that Lady Whittaker was what I hadn't been seeing. She was never there; not at the trial, and rarely at public functions where you were often photographed. There's barely even a photo of her online, but I found an old one, which was exactly what I needed, as it turns out. When I showed it to a friend, more of a brother, he recognised her immediately. She was just crazy enough to fit in with my mum's friends, so he hardly noticed her at the time."
"Is this the same friend, the one with the scar and tattoos, who made a scene at the trial and looked like he might dismember Jeffrey giving one minute alone with him?"
Strike smiles at the description, saying only, "Yes, that's him."
"For the first year after that, I had Jeffrey followed, because I feared you or that man might take your revenge."
"Believe me, that wouldn't have stopped Shanker. It was his moral code that kept him from doing the deed; in his mind it was my personal business, so he'd need my permission to proceed."
"And you'd never give it." When Strike merely nods, Sir Randolph sighs and says, "It's a pity, m'boy, that we never got to know each other. The older I get, the less I'm able to tolerate the company of other men with equanimity, but I have a feeling we could pass hours in each other's company and not notice the passage of time."
With a pointed glance at the revolver, Strike quips, "Like this, sir?"
He smiles at the heavy sarcasm in Strike's tone, and says, "Perhaps not quite like this. So, you...guessed that it was Helen?"
Noting the absence of equivocation, Strike wonders if they're nearing the end of their conversation. He's more convinced than ever that he's not in mortal danger, and he shifts a fraction in readiness. "Not exactly guessing, more...did you ever play Tetris, sir?" When this is met with an emphatic shake of the head, he glances around the room, and spots the ornate chess set. "Chess?"
"It's not decoration."
"Then you've had a game where you saw five or even ten moves ahead?"
"Chess masters think up to twenty moves ahead. The best game I ever had, on that very board, I saw fourteen moves."
"Would you call that guessing?"
When he sees the light of comprehension in the old man's eyes, he accepts that they possibly could have become friends, if things had been different. "So, not guessing, but suddenly seeing all the pieces move into their rightful position, all the way up to the conclusion?"
Strike gestures to the gun, saying, "To checkmate." Licking his lips, he dares, "Might we dispense with it now, sir?"
"Not yet. Have you no more questions?"
"Why was Lady Whittaker in that squat, sir? And why weren't you?"
"Ah. Yes. I'd long since ceased funding Jeffrey's dissolute lifestyle, so he bypassed me and contacted his mother, like the naughty child he used to be. Though often apparently well for years at a time, Helen had already been ill for decades, so she had only limited access to our bank accounts. But that still amounted to quite a bit of money. She must have persuaded Jeffrey that the best way to get his hands on it was to meet with her. I doubt he'd have bothered otherwise."
"But he could have come to her."
Sir Randolph smiles and says, "Yes, I think we'd have been friends. I'm sure you know, better than most, that unwell does not mean stupid. Helen must have insisted on seeing where he was living, and sneaked out to visit him after I left for work, because she knew I'd keep her from her goal."
His final theory confirmed, Strike declares, "She wanted the baby."
"Yes. I'm sorry, Cormoran, I truly am. I'd lost contact with Jeffrey, so didn't know precisely where he was living, and arrived too late to stop Helen, who had almost attained her medical degree when her illness manifested itself, so easily knew enough to painlessly administer a fatal dose of heroin. I don't imagine it's much comfort that your mother didn't suffer."
"No, it's not. You cleaned up the scene, forensically, I mean. That place was a pigsty."
"Someone capable cleaned up on my behalf. I just got my wife out of there. I wasn't thinking straight; it was actually quite a wrench when Jeffrey was arrested for the crime, given that I knew he hadn't done it. But it soon became evident that Helen had ensured he couldn't be implicated."
Strike is again that devastated young man, raging at the injustice of it all. "Did you at least ask her why my mother had to die?" Horrified to feel tears forming, he grits his teeth until the urge passes, and then continues, "Leda Strike never deliberately hurt another living creature in her entire life." He loses his battle, and a few tears fall, to be dashed away in the same moment. Only then does he notice that both hands are clenched in fists, so he forces them to relax.
In a gentle tone, Sir Randolph informs him, "There was no sane reason, m'boy. Helen wanted a child, and had ensured, by her own hand, that she could never again give birth. Ill as she was, she still must have known that adoption wasn't a possibility. I wouldn't have permitted it anyway. I'm afraid that your dear mother was the one thing standing between her and her family, at least in Helen's mind."
Strike wasn't sure what he'd feel by this stage of his plan, but a vast, chasmal emptiness isn't it. Casting around for something to vent his rage on, he sees nothing that might help. The hollowed-out man before him might already be dead, if not for the gun in his hand where it rests on the desk, and Lady Whittaker must surely be dead herself by now. And then more Tetris blocks fall; the poe-faced stranger outside, with what Strike now realises was a medical bag, the woman in black, the flowers, the smell of decay, the fact that every window is closed on this mild day and, perhaps most telling, the fact that Sir Randolph has only spoken of his wife in the past tense. "I wouldn't have thought you superstitious, sir."
For the first time, Sir Randolph looks surprised, and shakes his head, saying, "Sorry?"
"Closing the windows when there's a death in the house; that's an old superstition."
"Ah. My housekeeper is the one who's superstitious. She was quite reluctant to leave me alone in the house with Helen, while I wait for the funeral director, so I assured her you're here to keep me company. I was uncomfortable lying to her, but even if I'm wrong about the afterlife, it will be forgiven."
"Lady Whittaker died before I arrived, didn't she?"
With only a hint of a smile, as if he can't summon that much energy, Sir Randolph reveals, "Helen died in the early hours of this morning, though the official time will be listed as just before you arrived. I had no hand in her death, though I was witness to her passing. I've not believed in any god for a very long time, but it somehow seemed like divine intervention when you called this morning, seeking an interview. I truly am sorry for your loss, and genuinely grateful for this opportunity to finally meet you."
Now confused, Strike gestures to the revolver, asking, "Then why...?"
As if remembering that it's in his hand, Sir Randolph says, "This?" Placing it on the desk, he explains, "It's not even loaded. You're free to go. Call the police or not; I'm past caring now Helen is gone."
Worried that he's yet again missing something, Strike slowly stands, but nothing happens. Fear prickling at the back of his neck, he takes a cautious step towards the door, but hears nothing behind him. He turns then, to see Sir Randolph studying him with half-lidded eyes, so motionless that he might have died in his chair. And then Strike once more sees what he has been failing to see. "You didn't accept my invitation to answer my questions. I was here to answer yours; you wanted to find out how much I know. But about what?"
After a rattling breath, Sir Randolph merely says, "We're done, m'boy. Go, follow your conscience. I'm sure you'll do the right thing."
Glancing all around him, not seeing anything except the clues that led him here, Strike eventually asks, dread raising the hairs on his forearms, "Sir, where's your great-grandson? Where's Switch?"
Both men then look at the revolver, but Strike is already in motion, and is able to snatch it out of the old man's hand before he can get his finger to the trigger. Shaking from too much adrenalin, he confirms that the weapon is loaded, and is rectifying that when his brain processes the fact that Sir Randolph's arm had been tightly bent when they struggled. Panting slightly, as his body calms down, he gasps, "I knew you weren't a killer."
Apparently resigned to his fate, Sir Randolph admits, "I'd argue that suicide counts. But, no, I cannot imagine taking another's life. I intended to, for Helen, just as I described it to you. But it seems that, as you say, not even a great love can make us become something we're not, and I couldn't go through with it."
With the distinct impression that the man's apparent rambling is a ploy to distract him, Strike merely repeats, "Where's Switch?"
In a voice suddenly resonant with strength, Sir Randolph says, "Son, you're asking me to betray my heir."
Thrown for a moment by how much the old man then reminds him of Robin—that same quite determination—Strike searches his memory for leverage to get the answers he needs. When that fails, he tries to imagine how he'd feel if Charlotte had killed someone. She didn't have schizophrenia, but neither did she ever feel constrained by rules or laws, and more than once made Strike complicit in her crimes. Sinking into the guilt he felt on finding out that the car she'd lent him was stolen, he attempts, "You owe me."
And he's surprised the man a second time, but Sir Randolph recovers quickly, reaching to open the top drawer of his desk. On seeing Strike tense, he smiles and slows his movements, soon revealing a manila folder—bearing "Cormoran B. Strike" in an elegant hand—that he places on the desk, saying, "Of course, you wouldn't have received this until after the police had found my body. But you might as well have it now."
Stowing the revolver and loose ammunition in his pockets, and keeping an eye on his antagonist, Strike opens the folder, to find a detailed psych report on an adolescent Jeffrey Randolph Whittaker, and Sir Randolph explains, "Schizotypal personality disorder with underlying paranoid and narcissistic features, antisocial personality disorder and histrionic personality disorder. I never told him the results, not to protect him from the truth, but because I was certain he'd be pleased to have so much in common with Charles Manson. He was a very needy child, which suited Helen. I'm not proud of it, but I was content to let her play mother and father to him."
Another blocks falls into line, and Strike realises, "Patricia wasn't yours."
"No. Whenever Helen's illness had hold of her, one of the symptoms was promiscuity." Strike is thinking of Charlotte when he hears, "She tried to claim the baby was mine, but the dates didn't add up. Still, I did my best by her descendants, though I never felt a close bond with any of them, and have to accept at least part of the blame for that."
His head literally hurting from the toll he's asking of his brain, Strike muses, "You're giving me this much because you feel guilty, but not about your grandson; he doesn't care enough to seek me out. This is about my half-brother." Finally meeting the shrewd eyes studying him, he concludes, "You're saying that Switch is like his father?"
Sir Randolph slowly blinks three times before he speaks, and then admits, "Only smarter—too smart to permit an evaluation—and possibly obsessed with you."
Baffled, Strike shakes his head, saying, "Why? I never even knew him. He was still an infant when I left." This time his mind's-eye (or ear) supplies the sound-effect of a Tetris block falling into place, and he continues, "He blames me for something? But you saved him and raised him. Why the fuck would he blame me for anything?"
"If you ever meet, and I sincerely hope you don't, you can ask him. I only learned of his obsession after he left for Oxford. Helen was missing him, so she forced the lock on his bedroom, and started going through his things. I was ushering her out of there when I spotted the dossier of photos; you, your partner, colleagues, friends and other family. And I knew that he'd stolen it from me. When you returned to London and opened your agency, I became afraid that you would come for Helen, so I had you monitored for a time. Or course, I never got your call, so I stopped worrying and stored all the information in my safe. It's a good one, from the days when we were still permitted to bring some sensitive materials home. But my great-grandson...electronic devices bow down before him as if he's their god. It seems Leda knew when she named him Switch. I'd assumed he'd pursue something in that field, but he said, 'What could they possibly teach me, GG?' Did I mention that he called me that?"
Glad for the old man to keep talking, Strike doesn't venture his theory on his half-brother's name, merely replying, "No, sir."
"It wasn't intended as a term of endearment. At Helen's request, and like his father before him, he was raised to believe we were his parents. Of course, he was furious when he discovered the deception, but his fury never manifests in the histrionics favoured by his forebears. Instead, he thereafter called me GG, for Great Grandfather. He tried similar with Helen, but she wouldn't stand for it, so he started using her given name, which she didn't like but tolerated." After another heavy sigh, he continues. "Anyway, I presume Switch has more information about you securely stored online. But I wouldn't know how to access it. When I confronted him about the dossier, he hung up on me, and hasn't answered my calls since."
Realising something else, that he has a unique chance to gather information, Strike asks, "How are you feeling, sir?"
Sir Randolph smiles, and says, "Wouldn't be much point killing myself now, would there, m'boy? You've already winkled more out of me than I intended. His room is upstairs, first on the left. But I'd advise you show restraint and let the police search it first."
"You won't harm yourself if I leave you?"
Another smile, and he asks, "With what, my letter opener?"
In fact, the antique letter opener on his desk looks like it could do the job, and their might be another weapon in the house. And Strike is tired. So he sits down and dials Wardle's number, even as he says, "You know what? It can wait."