Martin Edwards - The Serpent Pool

The doorbell jangled, and he looked over his shoulder in surprise.

A woman wearing a hooded raincoat stepped into the shop. She dropped a zipped shopping bag onto the floor, pushed back the sleet-spattered hood, and gave him an Arctic smile.

‘If you buy me a coffee, I promise not to throw it all over you.’

Marc exhaled.

‘Afternoon, Wanda.’

When Mrs Beveridge brought their drinks and a plate of scones, she hung around, trying to engage Wanda Saffell in conversation. But Wanda didn’t do small talk, and eventually, the cafeteria manager admitted defeat and retired to the kitchen.

Wanda watched her retreating back. ‘You must miss Leigh.’

Marc frowned, but said nothing. Wanda was so bloody provocative. His fling with Leigh was long in the past, long before they’d worked together. He didn’t like people getting the wrong idea about their relationship. It was purely professional.

‘Thought you might like to see my latest production.’ She unzipped the bag and produced a thin red slip case. ‘Of course, I’m hoping that you would be prepared to stock it.’

She slid a little book out of the slip case. It was bound in papyrus and stitched with raffia.

‘ Voila !’

Marc had seldom seen Wanda Saffell show pleasure — her natural expression was chilly disapproval. She must be proud of what she had done. Picking up the book between forefinger and thumb, he considered the title page.

‘ Pulses of Light ?’

‘You don’t recognise the quotation?’

He shook his head.

‘Thomas De Quincey, talking about Dorothy Wordsworth. He was talking about her energy, the way she illuminated the scene. He had the hots for her, all right. Poor woman, not pretty, but full of pent-up passion. After William married, she lost her mind. Anyway, in these verses, the poet imagines himself as De Quincey, setting about the seduction of Dorothy.’

‘And does he succeed?’

She smiled. ‘You bet. It’s a pure lust thing. No hearts and flowers. Not a daffodil in sight. Read the poems, and you’ll find an explanation for Dorothy’s mental breakdown that has nothing to do with her brother. It’s very dark and disturbing. No prizes for guessing why he couldn’t find a London publisher. But I adore his work.’

Marc stared at the author’s name.

‘Nathan Clare?’

‘I wondered if you’d put a few copies on the counter.’

‘Well…’

‘Sale or return, of course, I expect nothing else. Trade terms. I have a poster, too, if you wouldn’t mind?’

Marc flicked through the pages. The poems were interspersed with woodcuts. The images fell just short of pornographic. Splayed limbs, convoluted couplings. He read a stanza of ‘Taking You Beyond’.

‘Strong stuff.’

‘Like I said. But Nathan has a fierce talent.’

He touched the binding. ‘Never mind what’s inside the book. You’ve created something beautiful.’

‘Would you judge a book by its cover?’

‘A lot of people do precisely that.’

‘I wanted to create a binding that was…counterintuitive.’

Marc opened the book again and stared at a picture of a reinvented Dorothy, pleasuring her devilish lover with ferocious energy.

‘I’ll take half a dozen.’

‘You’re a star.’ Wanda hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, I owe you an apology. I almost crashed into your car on New Year’s Eve.’

‘High risk,’ he murmured. ‘Hannah was driving.’

‘The detective chief inspector.’ Wanda sipped her drink. ‘I should have been more careful, but I wasn’t in the best frame of mind.’

‘So, I gathered.’

‘God knows why I showed up. Stuart Wagg said he didn’t like to think of my being alone at the turn of the year. Told me I couldn’t hide away for ever. I should never have listened. He only wanted me there as a prize exhibit. The widow of his dead rival.’

‘Rival?’

‘In book collecting.’ She considered him. ‘What did you think I meant?’

‘Of course.’

‘He and George competed for years, you must have made a pretty penny out of them both.’

‘George was a wonderful customer. I miss him.’

‘I bet you do.’ She didn’t say she missed her husband too. ‘At least I got something out of that fucking party. I enjoyed drenching Arlo Denstone.’

‘What was all that about?’

She waved the question away. ‘Never mind, it’s history.’

‘But…’

‘I’m not sure it was worth the buzz it gave me. Denstone offered to let Nathan give a poetry reading during the De Quincey Festival. Maybe he’ll change his mind now, though I hope he won’t bear a grudge. It would help to sell a few more copies.’ Her expression was rueful. ‘Thanks for taking the books.’

‘I’ll put them in my next catalogue.’ Marc savoured the raspberry jam he’d smeared on the scone. ‘My turn to apologise. I meant to attend George’s funeral, but at the last minute, something cropped up.’

This wasn’t true. He hated funerals. Any form of unhappiness depressed him, and the thought of standing by a graveside on a dank and dismal day had been too much to bear. So he’d decided not to go and salved his conscience by sending a handsome cheque in favour of the charity Wanda had chosen for donations in George’s memory. From her raised eyebrows, he could tell that she’d seen through his lie, but it didn’t matter a jot. She had other things on her mind.

‘I’m no good at playing the grieving widow. It’s no secret that George and I had…drifted apart. So of course, the tongues are wagging.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘People wonder if I started that fire. Or hired someone to do it for me.’

‘Nobody could imagine-’

‘Of course they can. Sometimes I feel as though I’m the talk of the Lakes. And making a fool of myself at the party didn’t help.’

‘Perhaps the fire was an accident.’

‘It was no accident, and suicide doesn’t make sense. George would never kill himself, trust me. Let alone in that horrible way. He was a baby, like most men. Terrified of pain, he must have suffered agony. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Besides, he’d never destroy his precious collection. He loved books more than anything. Including me.’

Mrs Beveridge emerged from the kitchen. ‘All right if I close up in five minutes?’

It felt like a reprieve. Marc sprang up. ‘We’ll get out of your way.’

Wanda Saffell rose to her feet. ‘I’d better go. Thank you for listening.’

Good manners almost prompted him to murmur, Any time . But Mrs Beveridge started putting chairs upside down on top of the tables around them, and before he could say a word, Wanda strode out of the shop and into the shower of sleet.

Back in his office, he fiddled with entries for his next catalogue, checking prices on the net, tinkering with images of dust jackets on his computer screen to make sure all the detail was visible. Digital photography made it easier to describe books accurately to prospective purchasers, and keep complaints down to a minimum. Not that he ever had many complaints. He loved books too much to want to lie about them.

The door opened. Cassie had got out of the habit of knocking.

‘Shall I leave it to you to lock up?’

He logged off and said, ‘I’ll be ready in five minutes. We can leave together.’

‘Would you mind dropping me off at the bus stop? My poor little car is in for repair. It started making unhappy noises over the holiday, so I took it in this morning and it won’t be ready until tomorrow.’

‘I’ll give you a lift home, if you like.’

‘I don’t want to take you out of your way.’

He was sure she’d hoped he would make the offer. Though unsure whether that was because she liked his company, or because she didn’t want to hang around in the dark, waiting for a bus. If one ever came — services had been slashed up and down the county. No wonder the roads choked with cars and lorries.