The Resurrection Man (23 page)

“He was also the husband of a loyal, devoted, and extremely sensible woman.” Sarah had no objection to hearing George Protheroe’s praises sung, but fair was fair.

Amadée was not at all put out by her reminder. “Ah yes, one sees that Anora is the soul of goodness, a pearl among womankind. Always George spoke of his beloved wife with respect and affection of the utmost. She will be astonished but, one hopes, not desolated.”

“I can’t imagine anything that would desolate Anora for long, Mr. Dubrec. Then George meant the letter for her?”

“There is, I know, no child of her body. Has the dear lady no brother? No sister? Even perhaps a niece or nephew?”

“No, she was an only child, all her relatives are long gone. George had family, as you must of course know, but that’s not quite the same, is it? Anyway, I’m sure Anora will want to be alone when she reads George’s letter. Did you bring it with you?”

“But of course. The time had come for me to fulfill my final mission to my dear friend. Was I to be forgetful of the solemn charge he had laid upon me in what he then deemed to be his hour of extremity? One sees that you too, Madame Bittersohn, are despite your youth and beauty a woman of sense and compassion. Is it that you would have the great goodness to advise me?”

“If I can, surely. What is it you want to know, Monsieur Dubrec?”

“It is simply that I am in doubt as to at what time I should present George’s letter to our respected Anora. I am, as I mentioned, a guest in this house; therefore I have a choice of opportunities. Would it be less shocking to her, do you think, if I were to approach her later today, after these others are gone and we two are alone together? Or should I delay my mission until tomorrow at breakfast, when she has had time to rest from her ordeal of today?”

Sarah could imagine how much rest Anora would be getting. “As to her resting, I doubt whether Anora will get much of that, unless Dr. Harnett’s given her something to take. It might be just as well for you to give her the letter as soon as the other guests leave. If she chooses not to read it until later, that will be her decision. Do you have it with you at the moment?”

“But no, that would not be convenient. The envelope is large and bulky, you understand, fastened with string around two little cardboard buttons and also sealed with glue, not something to put in one’s pocket. I have naturally concealed the envelope in a safe place until the moment of revelation shall be at hand.”

“I see. How long are you planning to stay?”

“Only until tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock, when I shall be picked up in a limousine commanded by my son Jacques and driven to the airport. Jacques would prefer to accompany me back to Arizona, you understand, for his filial piety knows no bounds; but his sense of duty to Bartolo keeps him here.”

Sarah thought Jacques might also consider his duty to his aged parent. “Then you’ll be making that long trip all by yourself?” she asked rather sharply.

“Indeed, no. Two of my grandsons accompanied me to Boston. They would not intrude on Madame Protheroe’s grief but have elected instead to remain with a friend from their college days and see the sights. It is arranged that we shall meet at the airport. These are sons of my son from my second marriage, not sons of Jacques. He was from my first marriage, he and his sainted sister, Erminie, who was an artisan even more magnificent than Jacques, may her beloved soul rest in peace. Erminie’s terrible death was a tragedy of the utmost, it killed her dear mother. But of our own sufferings I must not speak when here in the house of my old friend George is already so deep a mourning.

This was stretching it a bit, Sarah thought. By now any grief most of those present might feel for George Protheroe had to be pretty well numbed. A detached observer would have concluded that the party was going strong, as funeral gatherings so often do. Jacques Dubrec did not appear to be bowed down by weight of woe at having to miss the trip home with his father, he was heading back this way with a fresh glass of wine in each hand and possibly a couple more down his gullet.

Max was over by the bay window, in the Stymphalian clutches of Leila Lackridge. It would be humane to rescue him, and prudent to pass him the word about Mr. Dubrec’s mysterious mission. Marcus Nie had Anora to himself at the moment; he was sitting on a footstool at her motherly knee, not exactly laying his head in her lap but giving the impression that he’d rather like to. Bartolo Arbalest had temporarily lost Lydia Ouspenska to Dr. Harnett, she was ogling him over her wineglass as only Lydia could ogle. And he was loving it, the old rascal.

Bartolo was wandering around by himself studying various bibelots with an expert’s eye, perhaps hoping to pick up another commission from Anora. He drifted through the door and out into the hall. Sarah half expected Carnaby Goudge to slide out after him, but the bodyguard seemed not to be present. Where was Goudge, anyway?

Not everybody who’d gone to the grave had come back to the house. The room was not exactly full, but with so much overstuffed furniture, so many little tables full of bric-a-brac, and upward of thirty people milling about, it was not easy to keep the guests sorted out. Clothing didn’t help; except for a few like Theonia and Lydia Ouspenska they were a fairly nondescript lot. At least half a dozen men and a couple of the women had on those ubiquitous navy-blue blazer jackets, all pretty much alike except for the buttons.

Here at least was variety. Sets of blazer buttons were rather an in thing these days, a suitable gift for the relative who owned a blazer and perhaps had shed a few of the original buttons with the passage of time. Some buttons were of brass decorated with anchors, racing sculls, catboats, schooners; one even had square-riggers under full sail, which must have been quite a job to get on to so confined an area as a jacket button. Perhaps there were only dinghies on the sleeve buttons, Sarah didn’t feel it would be polite to ask. A stout man whose name she couldn’t recall had scrimshawed bone buttons with whaling scenes on them, a thin one had pewter with windmills. Brooks Kelling’s were the handsomest of all: antique silver with a flock of merganser ducks swimming in neat rows down over his manly chest and flat turn. Theonia had tried for crested grebes but had not been able to find any. Apparently grebes had not yet made the fashion scene.

Looking around the big, dim room, Sarah spied four navy-blue blazers huddled over behind the huge grand piano at which George, in his younger and less totally inert days, had sometimes whanged out a few bars of “Chopsticks.” Two of the quartet were tallish and thinnish, she assumed that Carnaby Goudge must be one of that pair. They seemed to be engaged in earnest discussion; she had a nasty hunch that they might be planning to break out into “The Whiffenpoof Song” or “Fight Fiercely, Harvard,” though she hoped for Anora’s sake they wouldn’t. Naturally the sun had come poking out as soon as everybody had scurried in out of the rain and Anora had ordered the blinds two-thirds drawn to keep out the heat, so Sarah couldn’t see the men’s faces well enough to make sure, not that it mattered much.

Jacques Dubrec was steering his old father toward the door. Perhaps they intended to join Bartolo Arbalest on his prowls. More probably, Sarah thought, they were going to deal with the consequences of all that wine. It mightn’t be a bad idea to have a word with Cook about strong coffee and another with Charles about weaker drinks before she went to rescue Max from Leila.

Of course Sarah didn’t succeed in just darting in and out of the kitchen. She had to spend a few minutes sympathizing with Cook about her years of devoted service to her late master’s stomach, with particular reference to the pork roast on the eve of his dreadful demise, and mollifying Phyllis, whose nose was out of joint because Mariposa was doing all the work. What with one thing and another, Sarah was gone perhaps ten minutes. By the time she got back to the drawing room, Max had succeeded in breaking away from Leila unaided and was talking to Jacques Dubrec.

Amadée was not with his son, Sarah surmised he’d gone to lie down. That lengthy funeral service, the drive to the cemetery, the standing in the rain at the grave, then a roomful of strangers and a skinful of Chardonnay must have been almost too much for a nonagenarian to handle, particularly one with a long flight coming up tomorrow and a secret mission to perform tonight. Whatever could George Protheroe have put in that letter?

That he’d have been able to keep anything a secret from Anora all these years seemed incredible. Perhaps he’d only wanted to express a young husband’s love and gratitude to the wife he’d then thought might soon become his widow. What with that devastating fever and the narcolepsy that had plagued him afterward, George had probably forgotten he’d ever written the letter. How touching that Amadée Dubrec had nevertheless stayed faithful to his trust over all these years, through his own joys and sorrows. Sarah began to feel weepy again; she did the sensible thing and went to see if there were any shrimp rolls left.

By this time most of the guests, mourners no more, had eaten all they wanted. Not so Jesse Kelling, he was still stoking up from those lean days out at Ireson’s Landing. Oddly enough he’d found a kindred soul in Lydia Ouspenska. The two of them had the buffet all to themselves; they were standing there pigging out in grand style, talking a mile a minute with their mouths full.

Sarah wondered whether the fact that Bartolo Arbalest was no longer in the room had anything to do with Lydia’s reversion to her old habits. No, not quite a reversion; this time Lydia wasn’t bundling up whatever she couldn’t eat in one of her hostess’s napkins to take home for future reference. Anyway, she and the boy were having a lovely time together. Jesse appeared to be pouring out his heart about something, maybe about the girl he hadn’t taken to the slumber party, maybe about virginity in general. Lydia might be a trifle rusty on virginity but her general expertise on male-female relationships was certainly far broader than Sarah Kelling Bittersohn’s. They’d eaten all the shrimp rolls, there was nothing to keep her here; Sarah eased herself away and went over to see how Max was bearing up.

Jacques Dubrec was an amusing fellow in his quiet way. He and Max were having a fine time trying to decide how a minimalist painting could be achieved with the smallest possible amount of effort. They asked Sarah’s opinion.

“Obviously,” she replied, “the most minimal thing you could do would be to forget the whole business. I had such an interesting chat with your father, Mr. Dubrec. Is he resting now?”

“Oh no, papa never rests. Or claims he doesn’t. He’ll be back in a while, he wants to be able to make a full report on the funeral to his old friend George when they meet in the sweet by-and-by. It’s very good of Mrs. Protheroe to put him up.”

“I’m sure she considers it a privilege and wishes he could stay longer,” Sarah replied. “He’s leaving tomorrow, your father tells me. I understand you’re sending a limousine to pick him up.”

Dubrec shrugged. “That’s the least I can do. I don’t have a car of my own, I haven’t driven since my sister—but you don’t want to hear about that. So when are you planning to start redesigning the atelier, Mr.—I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name the other day.”

“Just call me Max, everybody else does. What’s up, Sarah? Are you trying to tell me it’s time for us to leave?”

“I’m just wondering how much longer Anora’s going to hold together. Perhaps if you were to go and round up Theonia and Brooks, some of the others would take the hint and start moving. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Dubrec, I didn’t mean you. Naturally you’ll want more time with your father if he’s going home tomorrow. It’s just that Anora’s been through such a terrible time these past few days, as you can well imagine. She’s pretty well at the end of her rope, though she’d be the last person to admit it. A quiet visit with old friends like you and your father and Mr. Nie, instead of all these people talking at once, would be far more of a comfort to her. Once the party breaks up, I’ll stay on just long enough to help Charles and Mariposa pick up the pieces, then we’ll clear out and you three can have Anora to yourselves. Is Mr. Nie going to drive you back to Boston?”

Jacques Dubrec shook his head. “I have no idea whether Marcus even owns a car. I never in the world expected to see him here. Marcus doesn’t talk, you know.”

“Actually I didn’t know,” Sarah replied. “My parents were friends of the Protheroes’. I’ve known them all my life and they never once mentioned that George had a godchild. Anora seems fond of Marcus, as she calls him, and he of her.”

“Well, I’m glad to know Marcus has got somebody,” said Dubrec. “He’s not a bad guy, does his work well enough and never bothers anybody else. We have one kook in the atelier who thinks he has to be the life of the party, he never shuts up from morning till night.”

“Doesn’t that get awfully wearing?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I just tune him out. Coming from a big family, you learn to do that, specially when you have kids of your own.”

“You must miss your children.”

“Sometimes I do. But you know how it is, they grow up and have lives of their own, they don’t need me any more. We talk on the phone fairly often, and write back and forth. The grandkids draw me pictures.” His smile was a bit rueful. “But Bartolo has a nice setup here and I really don’t mind helping out. He’s had such a ghastly time of—oops, forget I said that, will you? I must have had one too many.”

“There’s hot coffee in the urn over there, if you’d like some.”

“I guess I’d better. Nice talking to you, Mrs.—”

“Sarah, please. Perhaps we’ll meet again before too long.”

“That would be great. Well, then—”

F
EW PEOPLE WOULD HAVE
had the insensate gall to interrupt a social gathering the way Leila Lackridge did. She’d left the drawing room only a minute or so ago, Sarah vaguely recalled having seen her go. Now Leila was back, standing in the exact center of the big double doorway, not having to shout. Her ordinary speaking voice was penetrating enough to carry into every corner.

“Anora, I hate to put a damper on the proceedings, but I do think you ought to know that that old Frenchman who’s been lushing it up for the past two hours is lying on the hall floor with his head bashed in. Brains all over the place. Phyllis, go fetch a mop.”