Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

The smell of mildew filled the air, and I couldn’t understand how anyone had managed to live in that cramped little room. My feet stuck to the moldy straw on the floor as Liam explained that the straw was used to soak up the moisture that seeped from the walls and low ceiling.

Fabulous. I was beginning to feel trapped, and was wondering if I was courageous enough to make my way back out to the street by myself, when Helen screamed.

I jumped. The shrill sound echoed off the thick walls and reverberated in my ears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing her arm.

But she couldn’t stop screaming, so I shook her. Then another woman screamed.

“What the hell is wrong?” I shouted, then followed the direction of Helen’s gaze. Liam’s flashlight beam rested on the mannequin lying in the straw by the hearth.

But it wasn’t a mannequin. I recognized the man’s elegant gray cashmere jacket and the sweep of dark hair.

It was Kyle McVee. His head lay in a puddle of dark liquid, and I had no doubt it was blood. He was dead.

I let out my own piercing scream. The flashlight went off and the room was plunged into blackness.

The room erupted into a chaotic mass of confused wails and more screaming. I felt sick and knew I might pass out if I didn’t escape, so I scrambled in the direction of the doorway and almost slipped on the slick straw. Someone in the crowd pushed me forward and I protested loudly.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Keep going.”

“I’m going.” I managed to find the narrow door and stumbled back along the passage toward the outside. The pounding footsteps and screaming behind me made me fear I’d be trampled at any second.

Liam called out, “Don’t panic.” His flashlight was back on and that helped marginally. He held it high and I could make out the little room we’d come through earlier. I hit my head going through the low doorway, but didn’t care as I recognized the same dank passageway we’d gone through before and knew it led to the outer door.

I wrenched the door open and stepped outside onto the narrow step of the close, where I gratefully sucked in clean air. As more of the group made it outside, I moved up the steps to allow room.

“Ah, this is good timing,” a man said from several steps above me.

I turned and gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Derek said, coming closer and brushing my hair away from my face. “You don’t look happy, darling. Ghost tour too much for you?”

“You’re kidding,” I said, staring at him in disbelief.

“I never kid,” he said soberly.

“How did you find me?” I whispered.

He might’ve answered. It didn’t matter. I was so relieved to see him, I launched myself into his arms.

“That’s more like it,” Derek said as he caught me, then had to struggle to keep his balance on the treacherously steep stairs. “Hell, woman.”

It took him a moment to realize I was sobbing.

“There, now,” he soothed as he moved to lean against the wall. We clutched each other tightly for a moment before I was able to speak.

“It’s Kyle,” I said, and my eyes overflowed with tears again.

“What’s Kyle?”

“He… he’s dead. I know it. There… there’s a lot of blood.” I pointed to the door. “In there.”

“Wait.” He pulled back. “What’re you saying? There’s a dead body in there?”

I nodded.

“Christ,” he muttered as he pulled out his cell phone to call the police.

I listened as he greeted the person who answered the phone as if they were old friends. I supposed criminal investigator types stuck together. I still didn’t know what Derek was doing here in Scotland, skulking around in Mary King’s Close, but this wasn’t the time to ask. Instead, I rubbed my arms and stared at the open doorway that led into that stifling servants’ quarters.

Derek finished the phone call and put his arm around me. “Tell me again who this person was.”

“An old friend,” I said. “I just saw him earlier today. We went to the pub and… and…”

“A friend?” Derek repeated, pulling me closer.

“Yes,” I muttered, sniffling into his worn leather bomber jacket. I hated feeling safe in his arms, knowing he was a scoundrel and a cheat. I should’ve pushed him away, but damn it, did he always have to smell so good?

It didn’t matter how wonderful he smelled or felt, or how perfect his timing might be. He was involved with someone else, someone with a baby who looked just like him. He had a family. So what the hell was I doing clinging to him like a lovelorn leech?

I pulled back finally, desperate to catch my breath, stop crying and shape up. And focus. Someone had killed Kyle McVee, and other than the killer, I might’ve been the last person to talk to him. I needed to figure out my next move.

“Thank you for the use of your jacket,” I said, self-consciously wiping teardrops off the smooth leather.

“Always a pleasure,” he said. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

“No,” I said irritably, knowing I’d come close to it. “How did you find me?”

“The hotel concierge was quite helpful. He made your reservations.”

“Oh, good.” I frowned. “But what are you doing in Scotland?”

“Can I get some help here?” Liam called.

“Helen!” I cried, as Liam and another man struggled to keep a sobbing Helen standing upright.

Derek moved forward and grabbed one of Helen’s arms and helped her up a few steps, then got her to sit down on the cold stone stairs. I sat next to her and put my arm around her. She burst into loud tears and threw herself against me.

Derek, meanwhile, corralled everyone in the tour group and warned them to stay close by until the police arrived. Most sat on the stairs of the close, but some stood leaning against either side of the tenement walls. No one questioned Derek’s authority. He sounded very much like the British Royal Navy commander I knew he used to be.

He took Liam aside and assigned him the job of watching the group to make sure nobody left the area. Liam nodded briskly, exceedingly flattered to be of service. Derek took the young man’s flashlight and disappeared back inside the building.

Sirens filled the night air. I continued to try to comfort Helen, but she wouldn’t be calmed down. She was bent over, her head practically in my lap. Every few seconds she moaned and her body shook in agony. All I could do was rub her back and feel helpless.

“Helen, the police are going to be here in a minute,” I said. “You should try to sit up.”

She groaned but managed to pull herself into a sitting position, then leaned heavily against me and rocked.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God.”

Kyle was my old beau and I’d loved him once upon a time. I still did, I guess, and I’d like to think he loved me, too, in his own way. We’d spent a warm, comfortable hour that afternoon talking and reminiscing. He’d shared his troubles and asked for my help and I’d agreed without question or condition.

But there was no way I could’ve reacted to his death with the same intensity of emotion that Helen was showing. Did that make me a cold person? Had the two previous murder victims I’d seen up close inured me to violent death?

I didn’t think so. Something else was going on here.

“Helen, were you close to Kyle?” I asked quietly.

She sniffled and rubbed her nose, then whispered, “I can’t tell you.”

I stared at her. What the hell?

The sirens were close enough that I put my hands over my ears to block the noise. The police cars stopped at the top of the stairway leading to Mary King’s Close. Car doors slammed and boots thudded downstairs, just as Derek reappeared and stepped outside.