handkerchiefs, of course, could not be expected to last so long, nor stockings. Simple and serviceable underclothes such as he found couldlast perhaps three or four years. Ties are for forever.
Forever. Why had this word occurred and recurred in his mind this day? Forever. Forever. Not last week. Not yesterday. But only today: forever.
Well…
He gazed again at the woman’s face in the silver frame. She had the look of another age and style—of twenty, even thirty years ago, before the century turned. And who was she in mourning for—a dead child—her husband? Perhaps herself?
In the bathroom, Kessler was collecting Pilgrim’s discarded clothing and preparing it for the laundry.
“Funny,” he said to Jung as he came out to the bed and began to sort through the pile, “how the clothes thrown off by a suicide seem somehow to be soiled. I dressed him this morning and I know that every bit of this was freshly laundered when he put it on. While my fingers know it is clean, some instinct tells me it is not.”
“That’s what you call an atavistic reaction, Kessler,” Jung said. “Same as any child—even a baby—would know a viper is dangerous. But Mister Pilgrim has not committed suicide. He is still alive.”
“Yes, well…” said Kessler. “Them as tries and fails will try again. That’s my experience of it, anyway. Yours, too, Doctor—I should think.”
“Yes. I admit it. Mister Pilgrim will more than likely try again.”
Kessler held Pilgrim’s discarded shirt in front of him, stretching its cream-coloured arms to the limit. Wings.
“Not a small man, is he.”
“No. He certainly towers over me. Let me see that, would you.”
Jung put his hand out and Kessler passed him the shirt. “It is what they call Egyptian cotton,” he said. “Soft as a baby’s kiss.”
Jung held it up to his nose.
Kessler said: “if I might say so, sir, that seems a funny sort of thing to do. To smell another man’s shirt.”
“Lemons,” said Jung. “It smells of lemons. Lemons and something else…”
He threw the shirt back to Kessler, who tested its scent and said: “lemons. Yes. He wears a sort of toilet water. Pats it on his cheeks when I’ve shaved him. You’ll find it in the bathroom.”
Jung went through the door and found the bottle above the sink on a marble shelf. It had a round glass stopper. Its label was grey and written in English.
Penhaligon’s of London, he read. By Appointment to His Majesty, King Edward VII, Perfumers.
And underneath, in scroll-like print, he deciphered: Blenheim Bouquet.
Jung removed the stopper and sniffed. Lemons. Oranges. Limes and moss. And perhaps a touch of rosemary…
“There was a woman here this morning,” he said. “In the reception room with Doctor Furtwängler…” He tipped the bottle and wet his finger end with the contents. “Would you happen to know who she was?”
“That would be Lady Quartermaine,” said Kessler.“I recognized her motor car. She brought Mister Pilgrim from London yesterday.”
Jung reappeared in the doorway.
Kessler was standing beside the armoire, hanging up the tweed jacket. There was a clothes brush in his hand.
“Quartermaine, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then she must wear it, too—this scent. I could smell it on Doctor Furtwängler when he came into the hall.”
Kessler turned from the armoire with a shocked expression on his face. “I don’t know what you’re saying, sir. The notion is inconceivable.” He gave the jacket a final swipe with the brush and closed the door.
“No, no, no,” said Jung, and laughed. “I’m not suggesting they embraced. Nothing of the kind. It is just that I have the nose of a bloodhound. Lady Quarter-maine must have shaken Furtwängler’s hand. I could smell it on his fingers.”
“Well. That certainly is a talent, sir. I’m amazed.”
“Do you know where Lady Quartermaine might be staying?”
“At the Hôtel Baur au Lac, sir. I heard it being
Forever. Why had this word occurred and recurred in his mind this day? Forever. Forever. Not last week. Not yesterday. But only today: forever.
Well…
He gazed again at the woman’s face in the silver frame. She had the look of another age and style—of twenty, even thirty years ago, before the century turned. And who was she in mourning for—a dead child—her husband? Perhaps herself?
In the bathroom, Kessler was collecting Pilgrim’s discarded clothing and preparing it for the laundry.
“Funny,” he said to Jung as he came out to the bed and began to sort through the pile, “how the clothes thrown off by a suicide seem somehow to be soiled. I dressed him this morning and I know that every bit of this was freshly laundered when he put it on. While my fingers know it is clean, some instinct tells me it is not.”
“That’s what you call an atavistic reaction, Kessler,” Jung said. “Same as any child—even a baby—would know a viper is dangerous. But Mister Pilgrim has not committed suicide. He is still alive.”
“Yes, well…” said Kessler. “Them as tries and fails will try again. That’s my experience of it, anyway. Yours, too, Doctor—I should think.”
“Yes. I admit it. Mister Pilgrim will more than likely try again.”
Kessler held Pilgrim’s discarded shirt in front of him, stretching its cream-coloured arms to the limit. Wings.
“Not a small man, is he.”
“No. He certainly towers over me. Let me see that, would you.”
Jung put his hand out and Kessler passed him the shirt. “It is what they call Egyptian cotton,” he said. “Soft as a baby’s kiss.”
Jung held it up to his nose.
Kessler said: “if I might say so, sir, that seems a funny sort of thing to do. To smell another man’s shirt.”
“Lemons,” said Jung. “It smells of lemons. Lemons and something else…”
He threw the shirt back to Kessler, who tested its scent and said: “lemons. Yes. He wears a sort of toilet water. Pats it on his cheeks when I’ve shaved him. You’ll find it in the bathroom.”
Jung went through the door and found the bottle above the sink on a marble shelf. It had a round glass stopper. Its label was grey and written in English.
Penhaligon’s of London, he read. By Appointment to His Majesty, King Edward VII, Perfumers.
And underneath, in scroll-like print, he deciphered: Blenheim Bouquet.
Jung removed the stopper and sniffed. Lemons. Oranges. Limes and moss. And perhaps a touch of rosemary…
“There was a woman here this morning,” he said. “In the reception room with Doctor Furtwängler…” He tipped the bottle and wet his finger end with the contents. “Would you happen to know who she was?”
“That would be Lady Quartermaine,” said Kessler.“I recognized her motor car. She brought Mister Pilgrim from London yesterday.”
Jung reappeared in the doorway.
Kessler was standing beside the armoire, hanging up the tweed jacket. There was a clothes brush in his hand.
“Quartermaine, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then she must wear it, too—this scent. I could smell it on Doctor Furtwängler when he came into the hall.”
Kessler turned from the armoire with a shocked expression on his face. “I don’t know what you’re saying, sir. The notion is inconceivable.” He gave the jacket a final swipe with the brush and closed the door.
“No, no, no,” said Jung, and laughed. “I’m not suggesting they embraced. Nothing of the kind. It is just that I have the nose of a bloodhound. Lady Quarter-maine must have shaken Furtwängler’s hand. I could smell it on his fingers.”
“Well. That certainly is a talent, sir. I’m amazed.”
“Do you know where Lady Quartermaine might be staying?”
“At the Hôtel Baur au Lac, sir. I heard it being
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