“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head and fluttered his hands. “It’s not your fault, my dear. I don’t understand books, nor do I care to. Except for their monetary value, of course. Perhaps I should’ve been a banker, as Kyle always said.” He laughed without humor. “I don’t belong here. I should probably go home, just as I’d planned, but that woman… well, I’ve said enough.”
“I’ll let you go then,” I said, then remembered one more thing. “I wonder if I can have your permission to use the book in my workshop tomorrow?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said with a slight shrug. “You don’t plan to rip it apart or some such thing, do you?”
I chuckled. “Absolutely not.”
“Then you have my blessing.”
Given the events of the last twenty-four hours, I had to admit I was relieved to find that the Burns book was still securely tucked away inside the hotel safe. Retrieving it, I hurried to my room, where I opened a bottle of water and sat at the desk to study my workshop notes, adjusting parts of it to accommodate the new addition. Love Poems to a Flaxen’d Quean.
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 turnins, 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.