The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Copyright © 2020 by J.K. Rowling Cover design by Duncan Spilling, © Little, Brown Book Group LTD 2020 Cover photography: Getty Images (clock); Stephen Mulcahey (figures); Shutterstock (cobblestones, puddle and birds) Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc. Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Mulholland Books / Little, Brown and Company Hachette Book Group 1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104 mulhollandbooks.com twitter.com/mulhollandbooks facebook.com/mulhollandbooks First ebook edition: September 2020 Published simultaneously in Great Britain by Sphere Mulholland Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Mulholland Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher. The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591. All illustrations by the author. Permission credits appear at the back of this book. ISBN 978-0-316-49896-8 LCCN 2020940678 E3-20200807-JV-NF-ORI Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Epigraph Part One Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Part Two Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Part Three Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Part Four Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Part Five Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Part Six Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Part Seven Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Acknowledgments Discover More Credits About the Author Also by Robert Galbraith Praise for Robert Galbraith Praise for "Lethal White To Barbara Murray, social worker, WEA worker, teacher, wife, mother, grandmother, demon bridge player and world’s best mother-in-law Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more. Tap here to learn more. There they her sought, and euery where inquired, Where they might tydings get of her estate; Yet found they none. But by what haplesse fate, Or hard misfortune she was thence conuayd, And stolne away from her beloued mate, Were long to tell… Edmund Spenser The Faerie Queene For, if it were not so, there would be something disappearing into nothing, which is mathematically absurd. Aleister Crowley The Book of Thoth PART ONE Then came the iolly Sommer… Edmund Spenser The Faerie Queene 1 And such was he, of whom I haue to tell, The champion of true Iustice, Artegall… Edmund Spenser The Faerie Queene “You’re a Cornishman, born and bred,” said Dave Polworth irritably. “‘Strike’ isn’t even your proper name. By rights, you’re a Nancarrow. You’re not going to sit here and say you’d call yourself English?” The Victory Inn was so crowded on this warm August evening that drinkers had spilled outside onto the broad stone steps which led down to the bay. Polworth and Strike were sitting at a table in the corner, having a few pints to celebrate Polworth’s thirty-ninth birthday. Cornish nationalism had been under discussion for twenty minutes, and to Strike it felt much longer. “Would I call myself English?” he mused aloud. “No, I’d probably say British.” “Fuck off,” said Polworth, his quick temper rising. “You wouldn’t. You’re just trying to wind me up.” The two friends were physical opposites. Polworth was short and spare as a jockey, weathered and prematurely lined, his sunburned scalp visible through his thinning hair. His T-shirt was crumpled, as though he had pulled it off the floor or out of a washing basket, and his jeans were ripped. On his left forearm was tattooed the black and white cross of St. Piran; on his right hand was a deep scar, souvenir of a close encounter with a shark. His friend Strike resembled an out-of-condition boxer, which in fact he was; a large man, well over six feet tall, with a slightly crooked nose, his dense dark hair curly. He bore no tattoos and, in spite of the perpetual shadow of the heavy beard, carried about him that well-pressed and fundamentally clean-cut air that suggested ex-police or ex-military. “You were born here,” Polworth persisted. “So you’re Cornish.” “Trouble is, by that standard, you’re a Brummie.” “Fuck off!” yelped Polworth again, genuinely stung. “I’ve been here since I was two months old and my mum’s a Trevelyan. It’s identity—what you feel here,” and Polworth thumped his chest over his heart. “My mum’s family goes back centuries in Cornwall—” “Yeah, well, blood and soil’s never been my—” “Did you hear about the last survey they done?” said Polworth, talking over Strike. “‘What’s your ethnic origin?’ they asked, and half —half—ticked ‘Cornish’ instead of ‘English.’ Massive increase.” “Great,” said Strike. “What next? Boxes for Dumnones and Romans?” “Keep using that patronizing fucking tone,” said Polworth, “and see where it gets you. You’ve been in London too fucking long, boy… There’s nothing wrong with being proud of where you came from. Nothing wrong with communities wanting some power back from Westminster. The Scots are gonna lead the way, next year. You watch. When they get independence, that’ll be the trigger. Celtic peoples right across the country are going to make their move.” “Want another one?” he added, gesturing toward Strike’s empty pint glass. Strike had come out to the pub craving a respite from tension and worry, not to be harangued about Cornish politics. Polworth’s allegiance to Mebyon Kernow, the nationalist party he’d joined at sixteen, appeared to have gained a greater hold over him in the year or so since they had last seen each other. Dave usually made Strike laugh like almost nobody else, but he brooked no jokes upon Cornish independence, a subject that for
