A Dark Dividing by Sarah Rayne

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,