“I didn’t say that.” She grinned. “But she liked books and she wasn’t supposed to be in Jamie’s library. It might have been a temptation she couldn’t resist. Want to come down and help me? If you do, I’ll meet you in the library in ten minutes.” She turned and ran down the steps.

He was in the library, going through books, when she entered the library ten minutes later. He looked up. “I had to put my money where my mouth was. But I’m warning you that it looks like these books have never been touched.”

“Maybe they haven’t. But if we see any that appear to have even a little wear, we should pay attention to them. It might mean that Fiona was thumbing her nose at Jamie.”

He shrugged. “I’ll do what I can. Where are you going to start?”

She gazed around the huge room. All the books appeared pristine. “I’m not certain…” She made a decision. “There are a few rows on transportation over there. I’ll see if I can find anything on trains since Fiona clearly had an interest.”

“Good luck.”

She knew immediately that she’d need luck as she started to go through the books. They were all expensive, antique tomes, but they were stiff, and she had to be careful of the bindings. It wasn’t until she reached the row on the second shelf that concerned the trains that she noticed anything different. In the middle of the third book—The History of the Oystermouth Steam Railway—she saw something peculiar. “What the hell…”

Rodland looked up. “What?”

Jane was carefully separating two pages that had been glued together in the center of the book. “Hush, I’m trying to concentrate and not cause these pages to fall apart. Old…so old.”

Rodland was beside her. “Can I help?”

She shook her head. “It’s a letter and there’s no way I can remove it without damaging it. The ink is faded, and I can barely make it out. I’ll have to take time and do it slowly, carefully.”

“You can’t make out any of the words?”

Jane was squinting but she shook her head. “I don’t think I—” She broke off and suddenly smiled. “Except the signature. It’s very bold.” She met his eyes. “He signed it. All my love, Farrell.”

He chuckled. “I told you they were lovers. Farrell MacClaren. The artist who painted her portrait.”

“We can’t be sure they were lovers until I manage to read this letter.”

“You’re quibbling. Anything else?”