The Resurrection Man (22 page)

The shrimp was delicious. She was hungrier than she’d realized, she finished the first roll and took another. She might as well wait here for the water to boil. If she went back to the gathering she’d surely get sidetracked talking to somebody and Cook might not wake up in time to rescue the kettle. Besides, Sarah could use a few minutes’ quiet time to herself.

How very odd to learn that Marcus Nie had been wont to pick mushrooms with her father. How much odder to discover that he had been George Protheroe’s godchild, though why she should feel it so was more than she could explain. Sarah supposed it was just that she herself had never known George except as a member of the familiar circle which had included her own parents and other Kelling connections. She’d thought of the Protheroes more or less as family; it was disconcerting to be made to realize that, all these years, a couple she’d thought she’d known inside out had had so many other facets to their lives.

The small revelation about her father’s having known Marcus Nie was less of a jolt. Walter Kelling had been active in the Mycological Society for years, Sarah couldn’t recall his ever having evinced that same sense of blood brotherhood toward fellow mushroom enthusiasts as her Uncle Jeremy did toward his Comrades of the Convivial Codfish. Anybody who was interested and had the time could be a mycologist; membership in the Codfish came only by inheritance, and grudgingly at that.

Walter Kelling had been a courteous man but not a particularly gregarious one, except with certain handpicked members of his own family and a few old friends. His best friend had been his distant cousin Alexander; he’d chosen Alexander as his daughter’s legal guardian and thus, by a strange chain of events, elected him her first husband. Thank God that father hadn’t been best friends with Marcus Nie, Sarah thought a bit wildly. What would have become of her then?

The fact that Walter Kelling had never so much as mentioned Nie’s name in his daughter’s hearing was not surprising. Neither of her parents had gone in for idle gossip, at least not when their lone chick was around. The two had traveled a good deal. Once Walter’s wife had learned she wasn’t going to live long, she’d been determined to do all the things on her agenda while she still could; staying home to tend a young daughter was not one of them. Walter Kelling hadn’t believed in sending his child to school, Sarah had often been left in the care of a governess or parked with relatives.

Mrs. Kelling completed her agenda when Sarah was twelve and the widower decided his daughter was old enough to take over the housekeeping. His late wife’s illness had been costly, Sarah was to manage with a part-time cook-housemaid and a twice-a-week cleaner while Walter worked at the Atheneum on his Kelling family history or pursued his other interests, all of them respectable, none greatly to the taste of a girl just entering into her teens.

Visits to the Protheroes with her parents had been among Sarah’s earliest treats. For her the main attraction had been Cook and her big gray cat. Percival had been a placid creature, fat like everybody else in the house except Phyllis, quite willing to be lugged around but too heavy to lug for long, readier to curl up with Sarah in the wicker chair in which Cook was gently snoring right now and to be fed bits of whatever dainty Cook had given Sarah to eat. Food at Walter Kelling’s house had tended to be pretty much on the high-minded side, Sarah had relished the goodies she’d got here. She was glad enough to have this brief time alone with her memories.

Then the kettle boiled and duty called. Sarah knew where to find the lapsang souchong: in the ancient black-tin caddy with the half-rubbed-off golden dragons, where Cook had always kept it. She spooned loose leaves into the warmed kitchen pot, a big Brown Betty with a nick in its spout. She remembered the nick from her earliest days, not much had changed around here. Once the tea had got strong enough but not too strong, she’d have to strain it into the good porcelain pot that was waiting on the tray. Anora didn’t hold with putting the leaves directly into the good pot and adding more boiling water as the pot got emptied, the tea got weaker and each cupful had to be strained separately. Her way meant a perfect cupful every time.

But nobody got any tea leaves to read. A person could always let the strainer slip, Sarah thought with a shade of the old rebelliousness. No, one couldn’t. Cook would find the leaves in the cup when she went to do the washing up, and think she was losing her grip. That would be a sad recompense for all the times Sarah had been let cuddle Percival. She poured herself a cup from the old Brown Betty and was seriously considering a third finger roll when Theonia came into the kitchen.

“Ah, here you are, Sarah. Anora was wondering about the tea.”

“It’s just ready. Want a cup before I strain it?”

“Why not? Pour me one, I’ll take in the tray and come back for the pot.”

“No, I’ll carry the tray, it’s high time I showed my face again. What’s going out there?”

“Oh, talk. I’ve been chatting with Lydia Ouspenska mostly. She’s feeling a trifle out of her element.”

Theonia herself had adjusted so well to the Kelling ambience that some of the less-collected relatives had come to think of her as a cousin in the third, fourth, or possibly fifth degree; she would never have been so rude as to disillusion them. Anyway, there was always the possibility that it might be true, since her shy young mother had not been bold enough to ask her father what his last name was during their brief but fruitful relationship.

The decibel level in the drawing room was pretty high by now, Leila Lackridge’s shrill whine was hardly audible over the general chatter. Lydia Ouspenska wasn’t out of her element any more, she was giving Dr. Harnett a lecture on Byzantine icons in a rich assortment of languages ranging from Polish to Hippie. Lydia had been a trifle on the elderly side to have rated as a flower child but that hadn’t stopped her from embracing the counterculture of the sixties, nor from continuing to hold the torch alight long after most of her erstwhile comrades had either fried their brains with assorted hallucinogens or retired from the scene to become stockbrokers. Her new persona was better adapted to the current ambience, the men in particular were finding her captivating. Lydia might even have been able to charm George Protheroe into staying awake. What a pity they’d never get to know.

Anora was looking better than she had at the funeral, she’d finished her one highball and was having a cup of Sarah’s tea. Mariposa kept bringing her things to eat, people were going over to chat with her. It was a blessing, Sarah thought, that the day was so warm. A fire in the fireplace without George lurking in the inglenook for a chance to tell somebody his bear story would have put a damper on the agreeable party this was turning out to be.

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.”

C
HARLES 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!”