Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

“Why?” I snickered. “Was she really a queen?”

“Funny you should ask.” He took a long sip of beer before continuing. “In this case, the word quean is old Scots dialect, meaning a pretty young girl. But there were rumors, frantically quashed, naturally, that Robbie Burns had a sizzling affair with Princess Augusta Sophia, the daughter of George the Third.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Doesn’t it just,” he said wryly. “According to some accounts, the princess spent the season in Edinburgh in 1785, then returned to London and, shortly thereafter, gave birth to a son.”

“Okay, wait, jet lag must be catching up to me.” I took a sip of beer as though it would help me concentrate. “Are you seriously talking about George the Third, The Madness of King George George? That George?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’re saying his daughter had an affair with Robert Burns?”

“So it would seem.”

I thought about it, then nodded. “So what’s the problem?”

“What’s the-” he shouted, then hushed himself. “We’re talking about Robert Burns, for God’s sake. They called him Rab the Ranter. He was a poor farmer and a troublemaker, and he appealed to the same class of people. He wrote a poem called ‘The Fornicator.’ Another he devoted ‘To a Louse.’ He would’ve been booted out of Holyrood on his ass.”

I waited for his rant to finish, then said, “So you’re saying he didn’t have an affair with the princess?”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m saying he did and the news was squelched at the highest levels of power.”

I squinted at him. “I admit I’m a little slow today, but are you implying that the monarchy frowned on the bad boy of Scotland diddling the pure English rose?”

He laughed. “Exactly. It’s highly titillating stuff.”

“Especially in that time.” I sat back. “The English must’ve hated that rumor.”

“Oh, indeed, because they made sure there was never a whisper of controversy.”

“Really?” I turned the book in my hand. “Well, that’s fun, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way to put it.” He pointed to the book. “I’ll guarantee they won’t be happy to know this book is still in circulation.”

“But that’s silly. Who cares?”

He sat back with his pint. “Ah, my naive Yankee love.”

“You’re saying they would care?”

“Most greatly.”

“Two hundred years later? Why?”

“It’s a stain on the monarchy. If nothing else, it’s bad PR.”

“Well, I understand that,” I said, nodding. “So you think they hushed it up? Paid Burns to stay away?”

“At the very least.”

“And at the most?”

He ran his finger dramatically across his neck.

I slapped his knee. “That’s ridiculous.” I opened the book, felt the paper. The pub was too dark to study it closely, so I couldn’t conclude much. And before I got too wrapped up in the book and the history, I had to remind myself that Kyle had been known to flirt with the truth in more than just his love life. He could flatter and cajole and twist the truth if it meant making an extra buck in bookselling, as well. I wanted more information before I would agree to work on the book.

“So who’s ‘they’?” I asked finally.

He folded his arms across his chest. “My guess would be Queen Charlotte, George’s wife. History has it that she watched those princesses like a mother hen.”

“So God forbid one of her darlings might bring home a scruffy Scottish lad who called himself a poet.”

“Exactly.”

“And this book…”

“Could blow the lid open.”

I sighed. “And you figured I’m always up for bringing shame and embarrassment to the British royal family.”

“It’s what makes you my favorite girl.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Look, Kyle, I don’t know squat about Robert Burns or the history of that era. I can help you authenticate the book itself, verify that it’s a genuine Cathcart, maybe even find a way to validate the inscription. But you’re on your own as far as the content goes.”

“I thought as much.” He downed the last of his pint, took the book from me and studied it. “I just wanted you to be aware of what you’re getting yourself into if you agree to help me with this project.”

I rubbed my forehead, trying to brush away the fuzzies from my brain. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “There may be some people who would rather the book weren’t authenticated.”

I leaned back to look at him more carefully. “You’re saying they wouldn’t want the specific mythology of the book to be known.”

“ Exactement ,” he said in a perfect French accent, then signaled the barmaid over to order another round.

“None for me,” I said.

“You’re sure?” Kyle asked.

“Absolutely.” When the barmaid left, I wrapped the book back in the tissue paper and slipped it into my purse. “I guess I should ask how much trouble I could get into over this book.”

His mouth curved in a frown. “I hope you won’t live to regret that question.”

“I was kidding,” I said, “but you’re not. What is it?”

He waved off my concern but I knew him, knew he was hiding something.

“What are you not telling me?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “I suppose there is a bit more to the story.”

I sat back with a thud. “You’re killing me.”

“Yes, well, this is where it gets a bit sticky.”

“Sticky?” All sorts of alarms went off in my foggy brain. “Okay, spill it.”

Kyle avoided eye contact by grabbing my hand and playing with my fingers. “I was thinking of presenting a paper on the book this week.”

“That’s cool.” I nodded encouragingly. “I’ll try to be there.”

The barmaid brought his pint and he took it eagerly. After a long drink, he said, “I’m not doing it.”

“But this would make an awesome presentation.”

“I thought so, too,” he said. “But it seems someone disagrees.”

“Who?”

“I’ve no idea. But since I first mentioned the book, I’ve received a number of strange phone calls and several poison-pen letters.”

“Poison-pen letters? How weird.”

“Yes, quite.” He glanced anxiously around the pub. “Some are fairly brutal, in fact. You might even say life threatening.”

“Oh, my God.” I grabbed hold of his fidgety hands. “Did you show them to the police?”

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “I threw them away.”

“Kyle!”

He held up his hand to stop me from saying more. “I know it was stupid, but I figured it was all a sick joke.” He chuckled without mirth. “But then yesterday…” He shook his head.

The fact that he’d actually bothered to call the police was alarming in and of itself. “What, Kyle? What happened yesterday?”

His smile was nearly apologetic. “Seems someone tried to kill me.”

“That’s not one bit funny.”

“Tell me about it,” Kyle muttered.

I rubbed his arm consolingly, hoping to get him to spill the whole story. Kyle had a tendency to dole out information in bits and pieces, as control freaks often did. I could relate. “What happened?”

He breathed in deeply, as though the extra air might give him courage. “I was crossing the street in front of the hotel. There was no traffic, and suddenly this car gunned its engine and aimed straight for me. I barely made it back to the sidewalk when the driver veered the car right at me. I knew I was a dead man. But then he swerved back and took off.”

“I don’t suppose you could see who was driving.”

“No.” Frustrated, he raked his hand through his hair.