The Serpent Pool Read Online Free PDF Page A

wife, the first died young of breast cancer. They married four or five years ago. She was a divorcee who shared his love of books.’
    ‘Another collector?’
    ‘No, she runs a small printing press as a hobby, publishes an occasional limited edition. Funded by George, but I get the impression they led separate lives.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said vaguely.
    ‘They hadn’t split up?’
    ‘Don’t think so. I kept my nose out.’
    Having aroused her curiosity, he’d failed to satisfy it. Typical man.
    ‘The boathouse was gutted long before they brought the fire under control. It stood at the end of a track through woodland, and the alarm wasn’t raised until someone on the other side of Ullswater saw the place engulfed in flames. So Forensics didn’t have a lot to go on. There wasn’t much left of your customer, let alone all those books you sold him.’
    Marc flinched in the passenger seat, and for once she thought it wasn’t on account of her driving. He didn’t lack imagination – how could he, a man who loved books so much? – and it didn’t do to dwell on the agonies that Saffell must have suffered. Even a few seconds before the final loss of consciousness must seem like an eternity while you burnt to death.
    ‘But they found traces of accelerant. Petrol.’
    Marc groaned. ‘He may have kept fuel for a boat.’
    ‘Yeah, but there are signs that his wrists and ankles were tied.’
    This was confidential, but Marc wouldn’t shoot his mouth off. He knew when to be discreet.
    ‘Jesus.’ He shivered. ‘Murder, then.’
    ‘Looks like it.’
    ‘Who would want to kill someone as harmless as George Saffell?’
    ‘Is anyone truly harmless?’
    ‘That’s a bit profound, Hannah, don’t you think? He was a quiet sort, nothing like the stereotype of a brash estate agent. Old George wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
    ‘Even so. He must have had an enemy.’
    ‘I can’t believe it.’
    Hannah swore as a car raced up behind them, its full beam dazzling in her rear-view mirror. It overtook them before a bend, cutting back in so sharply that she had to jam her foot down on the brake. She had the impression of a sports car, low and sleek. Tyres squealing, it disappeared into the darkness.
    ‘Stupid bastard.’
    Marc clicked his tongue.
    ‘Someone’s worried about arriving late for the party.’
    ‘For God’s sake. For all he cared, we could have crashed.’
    ‘What makes you think the driver’s a man?’ He seemed about to add something, but changed his mind. ‘Anyway, we survived. And here we are.’
    Hannah pulled up in front of a long, narrow driveway that reached through an avenue of dark trees. The gates were open and the lights on top of the brick pillars shone bright. She peered at the house name, carved on a sign made of slate.
    ‘Crag Gill.’
    ‘Named after Miss Thornton’s house in The Picts and the Martyrs ,’ Marc said, as if that explained everything.
    The title of the book stirred a memory.
    ‘Arthur Ransome? The Swallows and Amazons man?’
    ‘Spot on. Stuart has catholic tastes, but he’s especially fond of children’s classics. He has every Ransome in first edition. Mind you, the stuff Ransome wrote for adults is even rarer.’
    ‘I didn’t realise he wrote for adults.’
    ‘Believe me, his study of Oscar Wilde is fabulously rare in dust wrapper. Lord Alfred Douglas sued him for libel, and even though Ransome won the case, the controversial bits were censored from the later editions. Then there was his book on Russian folklore. You know he married Trotsky’s secretary?’
    It sounded wildly improbable, but Marc loved showing off the extraordinary range of trivia he’d accumulated about books and bookmen. She decided to give the answer he hoped for.
    ‘You’re kidding.’
    ‘It’s true, I swear it.’ He enjoyed the idea of startling her – perhaps because she was a sceptical police officer. ‘A dealer I know reckons that Ransome personally