I pulled my magnifying glass out of my tool pack and carefully checked the smooth fore-edge for telltale signs of mismatched paper. I checked the squares, that place inside the cover where the pastedowns met the leather turn-ins, for odd glue markings that might indicate twenty-first- rather than eighteenth-century binding. Then I leafed through the text block, spread the signatures and flicked the open threads with my thumbnail. I also studied the title page, looking for signs of forgery. I couldn’t find anything suspicious.
This book was a genuine Cathcart; I knew it in my heart and could feel it in my hands as I ran my fingers over the elaborately gilded cover and raised bands of the spine. It was exquisite, right down to Cathcart’s clever inset flyleaf with the thin band of gold leaf running under the edge where paper met leather. The book was small, maybe six inches by four, and one inch thick. It could be tucked into a pocket. A dear bitty thing, as Abraham, my old mentor, would’ve said. He tended to be gruff except when it came to books.
I studied the sentiment and signature on the white flyleaf page across from the title. Had Robert Burns truly signed it? I could go to the library and find examples of his signature, but actual confirmation would have to be done by someone with far more expertise than I had.
As I packed my briefcase with books and notes and tools, a tingle of excitement tickled my shoulders. Yes, I was a book geek. I couldn’t help it. I knew the Burns book would get everyone in the workshop psyched up and asking questions and spouting theories that would create lots of buzz throughout the book fair. And at the risk of sounding like a crass capitalist, buzz meant business. I did love a good buzz.
The conference room designated for my presentation was surprisingly comfortable and inviting, with dark paneled walls and warm beige carpeting. Brown glazed art deco-style lamps hung from the ceiling, and matching sconces decorated the walls.
I’d expected the workshop to be attended by both book lovers and professional buyers curious about the problem of forgery inherent in the new-age world of fine-book collecting. I just hadn’t expected a standing-room-only crowd.
I picked out Mom and Dad and Robin in one of the back rows and waved to them. Robin caught my eye, then turned her gaze toward the side wall. I followed her direction and was disconcerted by the presence of Angus MacLeod standing next to Derek. I looked back at Robin, who wore a smug grin. Rats. I would have to wait a full hour to find out what that grin meant.
I tried to ignore the cop as I showed examples of books that had been passed off as rare and antiquarian. My methods for proving fraud occasionally brought laughs and some groans. Many rare-book purchases are now transacted online, so it’s easier than ever to defraud an unsuspecting buyer. Occasionally it was as simple as retouching a photograph of a book, but the most common method of fraud was when the seller glued an aged facsimile of a copyright page over the existing page to give the illusion that the book was decades older than it was.
I held up a sturdy, clothbound copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men and told everyone they could come up after the workshop was over and study it.
“This was the subject of a criminal case I testified in, and when the case was over, I was able to buy the book.”
I opened it and held up the front inside cover for the group. “If you study it up close, you’ll notice extra little globs of glue along the boards.”
I spread the covers open so that a gap appeared between the spine and the sewn and glued signatures. As I continued to bend back the covers, I heard a few gasps in the audience at my treatment of the book.
“It’s okay,” I said, giving them all a wide smile. “I’m a professional.”
Some chuckles erupted, fortunately. In a book-loving crowd, breaking the spine of a book could get you drawn and quartered.
“Okay, you’ll notice when you look through this gap that the signatures are sewn unevenly.” I wandered up the center aisle, pointing out the defects as I spoke. “It’s amazing that the defrauders actually went to the trouble to take the book apart and sew the fake pages in with the other pages, but didn’t bother to even them out or check that the shade and thickness of the paper were anywhere similar to the original. Conceptually, I suppose they were pretty clever. But in reality, they needed a more professional bookbinder to carry it off. I don’t mean to brag, but I would’ve done a far better job.”
That line always got a laugh.
Finally, I brought out what I hoped would be the pièce de résistance, the Robert Burns poetry book. For a brief moment, I recalled the excitement in Kyle’s eyes when he’d first shown me the book. Maybe I shouldn’t have included it in my talk this afternoon, but I had a feeling Kyle would’ve approved and enjoyed it. Then I smiled for the audience and explained that this was the type of book that might create quite a stir in the bookselling community. The book itself was exceptional, and the story behind it was sensational.
“Now, it’s undoubtedly an original Cathcart binding and very rare,” I said. “But here’s how a criminal-oh, let’s call him an overenthusiastic businessman-might boost his income. First of all, Love Poems to a Flaxen’d Quean is thought to contain poems written by Robert Burns, but never before seen anywhere in Great Britain.”
A murmur rumbled through the crowd and I knew I had them.
“So you might be willing to spend more to get your hands on this book, right?” I asked.
Several in the crowd nodded eagerly.
“And what better way to pull a fast one on a Scottish book lover than to combine never-before-seen poems from a beloved poet with a compelling legend that includes star-crossed lovers, a secret baby and a powerful monarchy bent on destroying the evidence of their love? And by evidence, I mean this very book.”
The murmuring grew to comments and gasps and a few laughs as people got into the story. I looked over the crowd and spotted a frown on the detective inspector’s face while Derek was giving me his piercing, narrow-eyed look.
Was he reacting to the crowd or to my story? I hesitated, but then plunged ahead. “The question is, is the story true? Or did the seller, looking for a way to jack up the price, spin an alluring tale of a king’s daughter giving birth to a child of the Scottish-”
“Stop!”
The crowd turned to see who had yelled, but Perry McDougall was already stalking toward me, his fisted hand raised up in angry protest.
Before anyone could stop him, before I even had a chance to react, he grabbed the book from me and shouted, “You’ll not besmirch the monarchy, ye Yankee bitch!”
Chapter 8
Without a thought to my personal safety, I snatched the book back from Perry and ran for the door-and crashed straight into the substantial chest of Angus MacLeod. He threw his arms around me instinctively, a protective gesture against Perry, who lurched to a stop right behind me.
“Give me the book,” Perry demanded.
“No,” I shouted back, my fervor muffled somewhat by MacLeod’s wool jacket.
“You haven’t the right to-”
“Enough!” MacLeod bellowed, and the entire room fell silent. The man had a way of controlling a crowd; I’ll give him that. With a snap of his fingers, he gestured to one of his men to take hold of Perry, who struggled briefly but then walked away, all dignified and huffy, with the cops following close behind him. Only then did MacLeod let me loose. But not for long.
“You’ll come with me now, Miss Wainwright.”
“When do we get to see the fake book?” a lady piped up in the front row.
I tried to shake off the adrenaline rush as I composed myself and turned to the audience. “I’ll try to post information on the bulletin board with the time and place I’ll be showing the books I discussed today. Thank you all for coming.”
The room burst into enthusiastic applause and I wanted to take my bows, but MacLeod had other ideas. His meaty hand clutched my arm as he led me out of the room.