‘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,
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.
‘No problem. Kendal isn’t much of a detour.’
‘OK, thanks. Five minutes?’
As the door closed behind him, his spine tingled. Not that he meant to misbehave, of course. Nothing was further from his mind.
‘Fancy a quick drink?’ Marc asked.
He felt Cassie’s gaze, warm on his cheeks, but kept his eyes locked on the dark road ahead. A small, stone- built pub stood a couple of hundred yards further on. An isolated place, in the middle of fields and woodland, catering for the local farm workers. Litter always seemed to blow across the tiny car park, and he’d never been tempted to stop there for a drink. It was long odds against his bumping into anyone he knew. Besides, neither he nor Cassie had anything to hide; it wasn’t as if they were up to no good.
‘Don’t you have to be getting home?’
‘Half an hour won’t hurt.’
‘I suppose your partner works long hours.’
