Martin Edwards - The Serpent Pool

‘She had three months at George Saffell’s estate agency, eighteen months before her death.’

‘All right, let me see.’

Hannah stretched out a hand for the sheet. But the name that caught her eye first wasn’t Saffell’s, but that of Stuart Wagg’s law firm. Bethany Friend had spent a fortnight there, the summer before her death in the Serpent Pool.

When Marc was not out buying books or manning a stall at a book fair, he took his lunch in the cafe. Lately he’d fallen into the habit of sharing a table with Cassie, but when he emerged from his office at one o’clock, there was no sign of her. He gobbled a sandwich, and after making good his escape from Mrs Beveridge, he wandered over to the till for a word with Zoe, a student who helped out on half-days during her vacation. She was a diminutive, chatty nineteen-year-old who reminded Marc of a small, inquisitive bird.

‘Cassie asked me to tell you she’d gone out for a walk.’

‘In this weather?’

‘Yeah, exactly.’ Small brown eyes peered at him through the thick lenses of her spectacles. ‘Said she needed some air. If you ask me, she’s upset.’

‘What about?’

‘Some man, is my guess.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Partner,’ Zoe corrected him. ‘Least, I suppose it’s him.’

‘I’ll have a word with her.’

‘Be careful.’

He stared. ‘What do you mean?’

Zoe enjoyed pretending to be discreet. ‘Not for me to say.’

‘Come on, we’ve known each other a long time.’ It was true: her parents lived in Staveley and had been customers since the shop opened. When he’d first met Zoe, she’d been a tongue-tied schoolgirl. ‘You can be frank with me.’

‘Hey, Marc, Cassie’s sweet, OK? But I don’t know much about her life, and my guess is, we get on better that way. If you ask me, she’s…um…a complicated person. Better not to get involved.’

He didn’t know what to say. Zoe liked Hannah; had she worked out that he was attracted to Cassie? He’d done his best to conceal it, even from himself.

‘Thanks for the advice.’

The moment he was out of her sight, he pulled his coat off the hook and opened the back door.

Cassie hadn’t gone far. A bridle path ran close to the beck, curving past spiky trees in the direction of the village. She’d found a bench half a mile from the shop and was looking out towards the whitened slopes on which half a dozen kids were tobogganing. Again she didn’t look up until he sat down next to her.

‘Zoe told me you’d set off for a walk.’

‘I didn’t mean you to chase after me.’

‘I’m concerned, that’s all. You’re obviously upset. You can tell me it is none of my business…’

‘It is none of your business,’ she retorted. He started to get up, but she laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Sorry, that’s rude. I do appreciate your kindness, Marc. I try not to let personal stuff get in the way of work, but it isn’t easy sometimes.’

‘I’d be glad to help, if I can.’

She groaned. ‘I might as well spill the beans. My boyfriend and I have had a huge row. I think it may be over between us.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She was on the brink of tears. Anxiety welled inside him as he realised he didn’t know how to play this. Zoe might be right. His life was messy enough.

But he felt her leaning into him.

Even in the cold winter air, he smelt a musky perfume on Cassie’s skin. He closed his eyes, remembering the text.

Running late. Traffic. Daniel .

In his head, he heard Mrs Beveridge’s confident advice: Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb .

He turned to Cassie, but felt her body shift on the bench. As he opened his eyes, she was scrambling to her feet.

‘My lunch break’s over. We mustn’t leave Zoe on her own too long.’

‘In case there’s a rush?’

‘You never know.’ Her smile was unnaturally bright. ‘Race you back to the shop?’

Wanda Saffell’s letterpress business occupied a squat, whitewashed building in a quiet side street. She’d called it Stock Ghyll Press after the beck that ran down to the centre of Ambleside, flowing beneath that photographer’s Mecca, Bridge House, on its way to the Rothay. Once, the ghyll had powered the town’s bobbin mills, but the cotton trade they served was long gone, and the mills had either fallen down or metamorphosed into holiday lets.

A signboard hung over a window display of half a dozen finely bound books, a couple opened to show off the woodcut engravings. In pride of place was a slim volume bearing the author’s name in intricate lettering.

Nathan Clare .

The door creaked open. Wanda Saffell stood in the doorway and looked Hannah up and down. A minute scrutiny, as if she were checking a page proof for typographical errors.

‘I saw you from upstairs, inspecting my books.’

‘They are beautiful.’

OK, it was soft soap, to get the interview off on the right foot. But it was also true.

‘Your partner loves them. Oh yes, only this week, he agreed to take half a dozen copies of Nathan’s book. He probably mentioned it?’

No, he bloody hadn’t. Hannah choked back a groan of irritation and Wanda Saffell raised her eyebrows. Elegantly, as she seemed to do everything. She’d even drenched Arlo Denstone with a smooth movement of the hand that held the wine-filled glass. Today she wasn’t dressed up for a party at a rich man’s mansion, but still she managed to make a sweatshirt and jeans look chic. Yet there was a jarring note, a pungent fragrance that clung to her. Sharp and almost metallic, it seemed oddly familiar, though Hannah couldn’t put a name to it.

‘I have heard about you from Marc.’

‘And I saw you at Stuart Wagg’s party, even though we weren’t introduced.’

‘I can’t claim it was my finest hour.’

Hannah waited.

‘Needless to say, I was pissed out of my brain. Lucky for me that your chums in Traffic didn’t catch me while I was driving to Crag Gill. I’d hate to think what my breath test reading might be.’ Her smile showed pointed incisors. It didn’t touch her cool blue eyes. ‘Naturally, I would be forced to deny everything if there were witnesses to this conversation.’

‘You were obviously unhappy that night.’

Wanda rested her hands on her hips. ‘My husband died rather horribly a few weeks earlier, Chief Inspector. Mightn’t that explain it? Now, this weather is too cold for me to stand here without a coat. I’m sure you don’t usually conduct your interviews on doorsteps like a tabloid reporter. Come in, before we both catch our deaths.’

She led Hannah into a narrow passageway. This was where she’d insisted on meeting, and at first, Hannah was disappointed. Since her early days as a DC, she’d preferred to interview people in their home environment whenever possible. After the normal working day, preferably, when they might be more relaxed, perhaps off guard. While you talked, you could learn so much about someone from scanning their shelves, weighing up their tastes in decor, the books and music they liked to surround themselves with. But then, Wanda had shared the house with the late lamented George, and it probably still said more about the deceased than his widow. There might be more clues here.

‘Do you know much about letterpress?’ Wanda asked over her shoulder.

‘Next to nothing, I’m afraid.’

‘Marc’s interested, as you know.’

She didn’t, actually. Even after all these years.

Wanda halted outside a door and threw it open. It gave on to a large room, with three different printing presses, and a table covered in sheets of paper with engravings. The far wall was lined with cabinets. One, left open, was crammed from top to bottom with chunks of type.