A Dark Dividing (11 page)

‘Does it matter anyway,’ said Joe slowly, ‘if the operation isn’t done?’

The afternoon sunshine had been streaming into Mel’s hospital room, and Joe’s arrival had pulled her abruptly out of a warm drowsiness. She did not, for a moment, take in the meaning of what he had said.

‘I don’t think they want to do it absolutely at once. Mr Brannan says the surgical team will probably prefer the twins to be about six months old because—’

‘I meant,’ said Joe a touch impatiently, ‘does it matter if it isn’t done at all?’

This time the words did get through. Mel stared at him, and thought, Surely he doesn’t mean he’s against the separation? Oh God, I think it’s just what he does mean. After a moment she said, as temperately as she could, ‘But we can’t let them grow up as they are. They won’t be able to—well, go to an ordinary school for instance. Or if they do, they’ll be pointed out as—as freaks. And they won’t be able to have boyfriends or get married—’ And that’s what you want, she thought suddenly, looking at him in horror. You want to keep them in a sort of hothouse, because that’ll get you sympathy. Poor Joe Anderson, what a tragedy, but isn’t he brave and selfless, devoting his life to those poor girls… This is all about helping you to win the by-election, you selfish monster? thought Mel. My God, I’ll have to find a way of talking you out of this! Joe was explaining that to start with they would buy a larger house. ‘Somewhere with a bit more privacy for the twins. I think we can afford it, especially now it’s almost settled that Faraday’s applying for the Chiltern Hundreds. Everyone says I’ll stroll through the by-election.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ said Mel, automatically responding to her cue. ‘But look here, the twins must have the operation as soon as possible! Of course they must!’

‘I don’t say that in the future—’ He was using his I-am-a-reasonable-man, and-this-is-a-reasonable-argu -ment voice, but Mel heard the steely note beneath. She sought for an argument to use against him—something that would not antagonize him, something that would flatter him—but found nothing.

‘I don’t want to be embarrassing about this,’ Joe was saying very solemnly, ‘but it’s a religious thing, Mel. I’ve thought very deeply about it. I’ve been hoping you’d understand.’

Impossible to say that the only religious convictions Joe had were bound up with his own egotistical ambitions. Pointless to lose one’s temper or even show any emotion at all. Mel said carefully, ‘But the operation wouldn’t be contrary to any kind of religious ruling, would it? Martin Brannan says it’s quite a straightforward procedure. The risk’s very small indeed. I think we should trust him.’

Joe’s eyes snapped with annoyance for a moment. He said, ‘I don’t know why you can’t see that Brannan is a—a publicity-seeking ladder-climbing philanderer. You’ve only got to look at his record with females!’

‘I don’t care if he’s keeping an entire harem!’ said Mel, sharply, and then realized this had come out too aggressively. Damn. She sought for something to say that would smooth things over, but Joe was already standing up, preparing to leave. He did not want to tire her so soon after the birth, he said solicitously. And he knew she was finding this upsetting, so they would discuss it another time. But Mel should remember that he was perfectly capable of looking after his family. No matter what happened, the twins would always have every care, every luxury. They would have a splendid life.

Except, thought Mel, the ordinary normal life that they ought to have. She lay back on the pillow, her mind working.

Between 1898 and 1915 the house in Bloomsbury had been owned by someone called Philip Fleury. Harry had obtained this information with surprising ease, receiving a reply from the Land Registry Office within a week. Fleury, whoever he had been, had apparently sold the house shortly after the outbreak of WWI to one of the smaller War Office departments. This might have been due to patriotism, or it might have been due to the house having been requisitioned. It might even be that the owner had simply wanted to get the hell out of London before the Zeppelins turned up.

And then in the mid nineteen-twenties Angelica’s faceless property company had acquired the house, since which time it had presumably had a series of tenants.

The Land Registry search had given Philip Fleury’s former residence as Oxfordshire, which might mean anything, but had stated his profession to be a writer. A writer. One of Angelica’s earnest young men with soft shirts and brooding eyes? Harry did not think it would have been possible to live in Bloomsbury and be a writer and not be part of the intellectual set of the era to some extent. The Fabian Society and the Pre-Raphaelites. Ruskin and Millais and Aubrey Beardsley, and various Movements, and idealism in all its different guises. Had Philip Fleury been part of all that? What sort of writer had he been? Poems? Novels? Twee little articles about Free Love or rebellious leaflets calling for a League of Nations to be set up? Whatever he had written, this was surely the sort of stuff Simone had been wanting to find. How likely was it that any of Fleury’s work had survived? Not very likely at all, but still—

Harry left the
Bellman
offices early and once in his own flat flipped the computer on and requested it to search its spider-filaments for Philip Fleury’s name. He could have made the search at the
Bellman
but he felt oddly protective about it. Sure you aren’t just scared of being exposed as a hopeless romantic? demanded his mind. Oh shut up.

There were a couple of genealogical sites with Americans trying to trace their antecedents and proudly mentioning Huguenot ancestry, but there were no Fleurys that would fit even remotely with the man who had lived in Bloomsbury. Harry had not really expected there would be. But if Fleury had written books—

He began to work through the listings of antiquarian bookshops. More of them had websites than he had expected; clearly sellers of rare and out-of-print books were moving out of the mustinesses of the Dickensian era and into the world of modern technology. He went doggedly through the lists of their stocks.

It took a long time. It took him through most of the evening, with a break to phone out for pizza and then to eat the pizza, and it took him through half a bottle of single malt whisky as well. In fact he was starting to think that he would have to give up and take to the streets of Hay-on-Wye or tramp up and down Charing Cross Road, when the name suddenly came up. Philip Fleury. Harry’s heart leapt with anticipation. Found him! He had the absurd compulsion to grab the printed name on the monitor in case it vanished into the chancy, nebulous ether of cyberspace.

There was only one book listed—
The Ivory Gate
—but there was a note describing Philip Fleury as a prominent member of the Bloomsbury set, and a close friend of many notables including Henry James, Rebecca West and Aubrey Beardsley. There followed a catalogue reference number for the book, a publication date of 1916 (this edition), and a brief note advising all inquirers that the book’s condition was moderately good although there was some foxing. The price was £95.

Ninety-five pounds. For pity’s sake, thought Harry, it’s hardly a first folio Shakespeare, or a Byron autograph.

And then he saw that against the price was a further note. ‘Flyleaf inscription. Believed to be by author.’

The bookshop appeared to be situated somewhere near to the Welsh border, just outside Oswestry. Harry would not have cared if it had been situated on the farthest reaches of Katmandu or in the middle of the Barents Sea. He had to have Philip Fleury’s book. He had no idea if it was because he wanted it for himself, or if he wanted to be able to present it to Simone in the manner of Lancelot putting the Grail into Guinevere’s hands, but whatever it was the compulsion said to grip certain people at auctions or in casinos or on race-tracks seized him by the throat.

He completed the Order Form on the bookshop’s page, typing his credit card number into the appropriate box for payment and then pressed ‘Submit’. Then he sent another email to the bookshop confirming the order and explaining that it was extremely important that he buy this book for primary research. If it had not been half past eleven at night he would have phoned them as well. As it was, he rang them at five minutes past nine the next morning to make sure they had received his order and his email, and that they would send him the book at once. Yes, it was important. Yes, of course he would pay for Special Delivery or Courier Service or any damn thing they liked. Oh—could they tell him the actual words of the flyleaf inscription?

There was an agonizing wait, and then the voice at the other end said, ‘Yes, I can tell you. It says, “For C, and for Viola and Sorrel. Floy”.’

‘Floy?’

‘Yes.’

‘You said author’s inscription,’ said Harry accusingly.

‘I can’t help that, this is what’s in our catalogue. We can’t guarantee that it is the author, of course.’

‘I thought his name was Fleury. Philip Fleury.’

‘It is,’ said the voice, this time a touch huffily. ‘But if your name was Philip Fleury, don’t you think you might accept a soubriquet of Floy? A proliferation of ffs and lls, isn’t it?’

Harry considered this and found it reasonable. ‘Do you know where the book came from? I mean, is there any provenance?’

‘No. It’s quite old stock. I’ve been here for twelve years and it was here when I came. But it’ll more than likely be from around these parts. A house-contents sale. A private library. We do quite a lot of those—well, we used to. Most of the big houses around here are gone now or turned into council offices or posh restaurants.’ The Welsh lilt that had been just discernible earlier came a bit more strongly. ‘The publishers are listed as Longmans Green & Co if that’s any help.’

It was not really much help at all, although Harry had a vague idea that this was a now-defunct, but once-prestigious publishing house.

‘So there’s no indication whatsoever as to where the book came from?’

‘None at all,’ said the voice. ‘I told you, the stock’s quite old. Did you say you’d pay the extra three pounds ninety-five for twenty-four-hour delivery, Mr Fitzglen?’

E
VEN IN HER very wildest moments Mel had not thought that Joe would talk to the reporters who had gathered outside the hospital after the twins’ birth. She had not thought for a second that he would make a statement to them without consulting her.

But incredibly, there it was on the late evening news just as Roz Raffan came in with a mug of hot milk and the offer of a sleeping pill.

‘I thought you were in theatre tonight. Are you moonlighting, or do you double as drinks-server?’ said Mel, who had been starting to feel sleepy but who was pleased to see the familiar face. It had been nice to strike up this small friendship with Martin Brannan’s theatre nurse.

‘I thought I’d look in to say goodnight before I go off duty. They were putting the drinks out in the ward kitchen so I said I’d bring yours in. You don’t mind, do you? You’re our celebrity, Mrs Anderson.’

‘It’s the twins who’re the celebrities, not me. And I wish you’d call me Mel. Am I meant to drink that revolting stuff?’

‘Not if you don’t want to. I can pour it down the sink if you like. Is that the evening news just coming on?’