Pilgrim (2 page)

When Doctor Hammond arrived, it was Mrs Matheson, the cook, who admitted him. She had been forced to assume “door duty” since Forster was otherwise engaged. By this time, Pilgrim’s body had been brought into the house and laid out on his bed.

Greene explained the circumstances and described his previous experience with Pilgrim, saying that he was nervous of declaring death without the confirmation of a colleague. After a brief examination of the body, Hammond agreed that Pilgrim was indeed dead.
Dead,
as he said to Greene,
as any man can be.

Having said so, he added his signature to the death certificate.

One half-hour later, Pilgrim’s heart began to beat—and shortly thereafter, he started to breathe again.

This, then, was the man Sybil Quartermaine had
brought to the Burghölzli Clinic—a determined suicide who, by all appearances, was unable to die.

Having travelled by train via Paris and Strasbourg, Pilgrim and his escorts had arrived in Zürich on a clouded, windy day with squalls of snow in the air. A silver Daimler and driver had been hired to meet them. Phoebe Peebles, who was Lady Quartermaine’s personal maid, and Forster, Pilgrim’s valet-butler, had ridden with their employers as far as the Clinic, and were then driven on to the Hôtel Baur au Lac—at that time, Zürich’s most prestigious haven for foreigners.

Forster and Phoebe Peebles were at a loss, riding alone in the silver Daimler, to know quite how to behave—beyond maintaining their personal dignity.

There they were, seated in the rear of Her Lady-ship’s motor car without the benefit of protocol. Had the hired chauffeur become
their
chauffeur? Or were they all servants together on a single level?

Forster assumed, as the senior employee, that he had precedence. A valet-butler is, after all, the head of whatever household he belongs to, so long as the master has not deliberately established someone above him. On the other hand, now deprived of Mister Pilgrim’s presence, Forster had to acknowledge that he was riding in Lady Quartermaine’s motor car, not Mister Pilgrim’s—and then what?

The chauffeur, being a hireling, was duty-bound only to the person who happened to be employing him at the moment—in this case, Lady Quartermaine. It was all very difficult. Forster wondered if money
should be offered—in the way it would be offered to servants in a house one had been visiting with one’s master.

No, he decided. It was not his business. He would leave it all to Lady Quartermaine.

“Do you expect to end up along with Mister Pilgrim in the Clinic—taking care of him there?” Phoebe asked.

“I should think,” said Forster.

“I shouldn’t want a life in a place where people have mental disturbances,” said Phoebe. “Heaven knows what happens there. All them crazies…”

“They are not crazies,” said Forster. “They are ill. And their consignment to the Clinic is to make them well—same as if they had the consumption and went to Davos.”

Forster said this with overriding authority and Phoebe, never having heard of Davos, was suitably intimidated.

“I suppose so,” she said. “But, still…”

“You have journeyed thus far with Mister Pilgrim without complaint, Miss Peebles,” Forster said, rather pompously. “On the train, did you feel for one moment endangered by his behaviour?”

“No.”

“Then please consider that as your answer. I would happily follow him anywhere in order to continue my service to him.”

“Yes, Mister Forster.”

“Here we are, then. The Hôtel Baur au Lac.”

The Daimler, enshrouded in snow, had pulled to a
stop beneath a wide and impressive portico. The chauffeur got out and opened the rear door nearest Phoebe.

“What do I do?” she said to Forster.

“Get down,” he told her. “Swing your legs to the right and get down.”

Phoebe meekly swung her feet to the ground and stood to one side. Forster followed and greeted the concierge who had come to meet them—along with two young men in uniform who offered the protection of umbrellas—which provided no protection at all, since the snow was blowing up from the ground on every side.

Forster said: “we are of Lady Quartermaine’s party. I believe you are expecting us.”

“But of course, Mister Forster,” said the concierge, beaming. “If you will please follow me.”

As they turned towards the steps, Phoebe Peebles leaned closer to Forster and whispered: “crikey! He even knows who you are. I mean, he even knows your
name
!”

Forster removed his bowler hat and banged it against his thigh. “Of course he does,” he said. “It’s his job.”

3

Shortly after their coffee had been consumed—Pilgrim having been taken to his quarters—Lady Quarter-maine joined Doctor Furtwängler in his office.

“How long had you thought of staying?” he asked, once his guest was seated.

“Until you feel it is safe for me to leave,” she told him. “I don’t care how long it takes. I am his closest friend. He has no family. I wish to stay with him until he makes the turn towards recovery.”

“It may be some time, Lady Quartermaine. We can guarantee nothing here.”

“That’s not what matters. What matters is that he’s in the best of hands.”

Doctor Furtwängler was standing by one of three tall windows, and beyond him, Lady Quartermaine could see that what had seemed an everyday alpine fall of snow had in fact become a blizzard.

“Will your motor car return for you? If not, we can…”

“No, no. But thank you, it will come when I have called.”

Furtwängler sat down opposite Lady Quartermaine, the wide expanse of his desk between them. It was a pleasant, dark-beamed room with recessed windows and shelves of medical books and journals, leather chairs and sofa, brass lamps with green glass shades and flowered drapes with a Chinese motif—flowers intertwined with bamboo fronds, and distant vistas of smoky hills and misted trees.

Lady Quartermaine had shed her overcoat and could now be seen in a lamplit blue, high-waisted gown with a violet-coloured overlay of lace. Her eyes were a mixture of both these colours, though now, her pupils were so enlarged her eyes seemed almost entirely black. She was toying with her gloves, laid out in her lap like pets she might have brought to soothe
her. The veils of her wide-brimmed hat had been drawn aside and rested against her hair, giving the appearance of smoke.

“Aren’t you going to ask me some questions? It’s getting late. I want my tub and dinner.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course. Forgive me.”

Doctor Furtwängler took up his pen and drew a large pad of paper towards him. “To begin,” he said, “can you tell a little something of yourself. It would be helpful.”

“My husband is the fifteenth Marquis of Quarter-maine. His first name is Harry. There’s an
e
at the end of Quartermaine. Too many ignorant people drop the
e
. They don’t understand the French connection. Nine centuries ago, we came to England from that quarter of France known as Maine. I say
we
—but of course, I mean my husband’s ancestors.”

“Of course.”

“I was born Sybil Copland. My father was Cyril Copland—Lord Copland, who sat in the Lords longer than any of his contemporaries. He died at the age of ninety-nine when I was twelve. He fathered me in his eighty-sixth year—something of a record, I believe.”

“More than a record—phenomenal!”

Watching him write all this down, Sybil said: “your English is very good, Doctor Furtwängler. Are you Swiss or German? Which?”

“Austrian, as a matter of fact, but I took my medical degrees in Edinburgh.”

Sybil smiled. “That explains the very slight burr I detect. How charming.”

“I was very fond of Scotland. And of England. I am a hiking enthusiast, Lady Quartermaine. During my holidays between semesters, I walked in the Lake District, Wiltshire and Cambridgeshire. Wonderful. You are familiar with these areas?”

“Very much so, yes. All my brothers and my husband attended King’s College at Cambridge. The countryside is a very heaven.”

“And Mister Pilgrim?”

“He took his education at Oxford. Magdalen College. I pity him.” She smiled.

“Pity him?”

“Yes. In England we call such a comment
ironic,
Doctor. I meant it only as a joke. In an amused way, the students at one university tend to think of the students at any other as being under-privileged.”

“I see.” Furtwängler looked down at his notes. “And Mister Pilgrim—he is an art historian.”

“Yes. Which is one of the bonds between us. My brother Symes was also an art historian.”

“Was?”

“Yes. He…” Her gaze drifted.

Furtwängler watched her.

“You need not tell me.”

“No, no. I will. It’s just…” She closed her eyes and fumbled with one of her gloves until it lay against her cheek, in the way that a sympathetic friend might have done with her hand. “He committed suicide and now, with Mister Pilgrim’s attempt, it seems that Symes has come back to haunt me.”

She opened her eyes and laid the glove beside its
mate, fishing afterwards for a handkerchief in her handbag. Doing this, she regained her composure and spoke efficiently.

“Symes Copland was my younger brother. He had only just turned thirty when he died. That was in 1901. September. He had been involved with creating the Tate Gallery, you see. It had only just opened its doors. The strain of his efforts…he loved it so. He was almost too devoted. Enslaved, you might say. But who could tell? He was too damned good at hiding his emotions.” She paused. “Forgive me, but his death still makes me angry. Such a sad, unnecessary waste.”

“Clearly, he meant a great deal to you.”

“Yes. As children, we were inseparable. The proximity of our ages, I suppose. I felt like his guardian. And then, somehow, I failed him.”

“No one’s suicide is anyone else’s fault, Lady Quart ermaine.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

“Nonetheless, you must try to be reconciled to it. It was his life to take. You did not kill him. He killed himself.”

“Yes.” Sybil looked away.

“Were Mister Pilgrim and your brother colleagues?”

“No. Symes was an expert in the field of late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century art exclusively. Pilgrim…Mister Pilgrim’s range is wider.”

“I see. And his name, Lady Quartermaine? Why have we been given no first name?”

“He maintains he hasn’t got one.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. And however strange that might be, it is something I have learned to accept without question. There is much I know about him. There is also much I do not know.”

“Did you meet him through your brother?”

“No. We were friends already, from earlier, younger times.”

“Have you children, Lady Quartermaine?”

“Yes. I have five. Two young men, two young women and a girl.”

There was a pause. Sybil Quartermaine looked up.

“You are staring at me, Herr Doktor.”

“Yes. Forgive me.”

“Why? For what reason?”

Furtwängler glanced down at the page before him.

“In my eyes,” he said, “you do not appear to be old enough to have young men as sons—young women as daughters.”

“Is that all!” She laughed. “I don’t mind telling you in the least. I’m forty-four years old. My eldest child is twenty. Surely that’s not too amazing. His name is David and—I must be frank—I don’t really care for him.” She blinked. “My goodness—why did I tell you that?”

“You are under a good deal of strain, Lady Quartermaine. Things slip out, unintended, under such conditions.”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“Has Mister Pilgrim other friends besides yourself?”

“Some. Yes. A few. And many, many acquaintances—one or two of them relatively close. Most of them men.”

“I see.”

There was another pause.

“Well? What else?”

“Did he specifically ask for you, after the suicide attempt?”

“No. I had been there the night before and was concerned. He had seemed distracted—lost in some way. Vague. And more than vague—he was unable to converse coherently. Not like one who is drunk—not like that at all—but someone who had lost the thread of his own words even as he spoke them. It occurred to me that he might have suffered a mild stroke. It was like that. And then, instead of saying good night in the usual fashion, with kisses on either cheek—he took my hand and held it very tight and said
goodbye
. Not like him at all. So I went round early. As you will see in the physicians’ reports I’ve provided, before I arrived he had been declared dead. But—also before I arrived—he had begun to show signs of life and the physicians involved were called back. They were still there with him, so I simply waited.”

“And…?”

“And stayed with him all that week. In fact, I went home only to pack my things and collect my maid in order to make this journey.”

Silence. Furtwängler made a careful adjustment to the pattern of objects on his desk.

“Lady Quartermaine…” He leaned forward above his notes. “There is something I must make clear at the outset.”

Sybil watched him, impassive.

“After our initial telephone conversation, I did indeed speak with…” He glanced down at the papers before him. “Doctor Greene, I believe?”

Sybil nodded.

“And so I am aware of the apparently extraordinary nature of Mister Pilgrim’s recovery from the trauma of his attempted suicide. My mandate, however, is not to investigate the circumstances of that attempt nor of the physical recovery from it. The sole purposes of any work to be done by me or by any of my colleagues shall be to determine, first,
why
he has wished to end his life—and second,
how
to reawaken his willingness to live. No.” He raised his hand, as if to forestall any comment. “How to reawaken his
will
to live.”

Sybil waited only a moment before speaking. “Have no fear, Doctor Furtwängler. That is precisely why I have chosen to bring Mister Pilgrim to the Burghölzli. To reawaken his will to live.”

“Excellent.” He leaned back. “Now. You say you were concerned about his erratic behaviour the night before. Does this mean you had experienced such behaviour before?”