Pilgrim [antikvár]

In the early morning hours of Wednesday, the iyth of April, 1912, a man called Pilgrim walked bare-footed into the garden of his home in London at number 18 Cheyne Walk. He was dressed much the same as any man of his station might have been at this hour: white pyjamas and a blue silk robe. Royal blue, deep pockets, rolled collar. His unslippered feet were cold. Not that it mattered. In minutes, nothing would matter.The grass was thick with dew, and seeing iteven in the meagre spill of light from the housePilgrim muttered green as if the word had only just occurred to him.A dog barked, possibly far away as the King's Road. From the south, beyond the river, there was the sound of farm carts making their way to Covent Garden. Beside him, a dovecote hummed and fluttered in the dark.Aleaffell.Pilgrim made his way across the grass to a maple tree three storeys high, though its height could not be told in the dark. In one hand he carried the silken cord from his dressing-gownin the other, a Sheraton chair of carefully measured dimensions. Just so talljust so deep and just so wide.In spite of his age, Pilgrim got up on the chair and climbed with the energy of someone who had spent his life in trees. He did not look down. There was nothing there he wanted to see.He correcdy knotted the cord and threw it over a substantial branch.An owl passed. lts wings creaked. Otherwise, there was silence.Pilgrim looked up at the stars and leapt.It was 4:00 a.m.The chair feil sideways.