The Serpent Pool by Martin Edwards Page B

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 toapologise. 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