Bartolo Arbalest was all over his weeps, he was fine-tuning his savoir-faire on some of the ladies from Anora’s bridge club. Sarah had wondered how Max and Brooks would be able to preserve their incognitos with Jacques Dubrec and Marcus Nie in the room; she needn’t have bothered. Instead of trying to dodge the men from the atelier they were deliberately pursuing the acquaintance.
Max was listening intently to the old man who had in fact turned out to be Dubrec père. Dubrec fils was nodding, smiling, getting a word in when he could, enjoying his father’s success in this unfamiliar milieu. Brooks and Marcus Nie were off by themselves in a corner, Nie was sipping from what looked to Sarah like a glassful of straight whiskey with one lone ice cube floating in it. She had a suspicion that this wasn’t his first, his yellow complexion had by now changed to a somewhat less unattractive burnt orange. Anyway, the drink was having a tonic effect, Nie was talking quite eagerly about something or other. Brooks was looking ever so impressed, guileful rogue that he was.
Young Jesse had managed to wheedle a highball out of Charles. Soda water and lime with a dash of vodka, most likely. He was sticking to Jacques Dubrec like a burr to a pant leg, Sarah realized this must be her own doing. She’d scribbled that note about keeping an eye on the Dubrecs mainly to give Jesse something to occupy his mind and keep him from annoying Aunt Bodie. He must think the pair still needed watching. Perhaps he was right, Max was certainly in no hurry to leave them alone.
Edgar Merton had managed for the moment to break away from Lydia. He was heading her way, lamenting that he hadn’t seen her in ages and wondering what she’d been doing with herself.
“Sarah, you’re looking lovely as always. Anora told me you’d remarried, I was hoping I might have the pleasure of meeting your husband. Is he here?”
There was nothing Sarah could do after that except to lead Edgar over to Max and make the introduction, nothing Max could do but be polite to Edgar. Dubrec the younger seized the opportunity to get himself a fresh drink and see what the buffet had to offer, his father seemed not at all loath to turn his attention to Sarah.
Even though the old man had told her he’d lived in America for many years, he spoke with such a heavy French accent that Sarah would have found it a strain to listen, had she not been so intrigued by what he was saying. Long ago when the world was young, he had worked for the Protheroes. He and George had traveled the Orient together, George to buy objects of art and beauty to be taken back to Boston and sold through the family firm, Amadée Dubrec to use his expertise in telling him what was worthy of purchase and what was not. George had held in admiration Amadée’s superior knowledge of craftsmanship, Amadée had held in reverence George’s magnificent ability to haggle. Always George was courteous, never had he raised his voice, never had he tried to beat the purveyor down below an honest price, equally never had he paid one sou more than the true value of the merchandise. To watch George Protheroe closing a deal had been an experience comparable to seeing Pavlova dance or hearing the great Bernhardt recite the immortal lines of Racine or Corneille. And then there would have been on the other end the profit, always the profit, never once a mistaken purchase; George had known by instinct what would please the market. Madame Bittersohn could take it from Amadée Dubrec, George Protheroe had been a great man.
But then had struck the tragedy. In India, while on the trail of rarities even more exotic than usual, George had been stricken by a terrible disease. It had been Amadée who had walked beside his friend’s palanquin to the railroad, Amadée who had flagged down the train and bribed the conductor to provide a private compartment where George could rest, Amadée who had found on the train by a miracle a doctor who had given George treatment and got him to hospital, Amadée who had sat by George’s bedside until the crisis at last had passed, Amadée who had sent cablegrams to George’s family, Amadée who had sailed with George aboard the steamer that brought him home, Amadée who had visited him faithfully during his long and never-completed convalescence. Amadée took no credit to himself, George would have done the same for him.
When George’s father had garnered his final profit and it had become plain that George’s infirmity had rendered him unable to carry on the family business, Amadée had received a handsome percentage of the sale price. There had also been a gold watch, with engraving. Mr. Dubrec pulled it out, a handsome hunter, and showed her the engraving on the inside cover: “To Amadée Dubrec in recognition of his inestimable services from his grateful friend George Protheroe.”
Sarah felt tears coming, “That’s wonderful, Mr. Dubrec. I’m glad you told me. Had you seen George recently?”
“Alas, no, not for many years. You see, I too have suffered from my time in the Orient, though with me it has taken the form of severe rheumatic pains. With my what you might call ‘severance pay’ I removed myself, my wife, and my then infant son to Arizona. In that more salubrious climate we throve and prospered, but never did I lose touch with my old friend; although of late years, one must understand, communication has been mostly by carte de Noël. Upon hearing from my son by long-distance telephone of the macabre demise of my dear friend, I at once telephoned his widow to say that I was coming, which was to her a great solace. She offered at once the hospitality of her home, in which I was of old so frequent a visitor. So I boarded an airplane, me, at ninety-one years, and here I am. It was necessary that I attend, for it is I and I alone who know the secret.”
19
CHARLES AND MARIPOSA HAD been taking good care of the old man, maybe a little too good, perhaps he’d had more wine than he could comfortably handle. Sarah couldn’t tell whether she’d heard him right or whether he was talking through his hat. George Protheroe with a lifelong secret? One that his own wife hadn’t known about?
Amadée Dubrec’s answer to Sarah’s unspoken question was an emphatically Gallic shrug and a moue that would have come across loud and clear in any language. Something, then, that George had been most particular to keep Anora from finding out.
Well, that was possible. George had been young when he and Amadée had traveled the Orient together, rich and reasonably good-looking, judging from the portrait Anora had had painted of him from some of his early photographs. Had some captivating Madama Butterfly or her Tamil equivalent once fluttered into George’s life and out again? What difference could that make now? Anora was too old to care, too generous to begrudge, too sensible to be jealous. She might even have a few secrets of her own tucked away. Most people did if they’d lived any sort of life at all.
Sarah felt no great urge to pry into George Protheroe’s past, but the elder Dubrec was clearly expecting her to say something. It would be cruel not to oblige him. “A secret?” she replied with the right degree of courteous interest, “then you must have been very close friends indeed.”
“Of the closest! It was myself and no other who brought George the pen and the paper to the hospital in his brown Morocco portfolio that had been for so long his companion on our travels and in which he had kept his records of purchase and expense and his diary, ma foi, for he was a careful man and trusted nothing to memory. And it was to me that George entrusted on his hospital bed, which we then thought would be his deathbed, that which he had written, bit by bit when his faltering strength would permit, in an envelope to be opened only when he had passed through the gates of heaven to be welcomed by the holy angels, of which there can be no doubt. Who could have thought then that George would survive to a great age? I tell you, that man was a Titan!”
“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 f
or 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 narcol
epsy 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.
The Resurrection Man Page 18
