The Resurrection Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  The weeper was a portly, middle-aged man wearing a well-cut black broadcloth suit. His face was hidden behind long-fingered, well-manicured hands. Some of his hair was gray, some only grizzled; he seemed to have an unreasonable amount of it. Sarah surmised that the apparent surplus must be a beard. His shoulders were heaving with the sobs that he was beyond trying to suppress.

  On the weeper’s arm rested a glove. Any glove would have been unusual on a hot summer’s day in an era where such once-indispensable niceties as women’s hats and gloves had gone the way of flannel petticoats and ruffled corset covers; this would have been no ordinary glove in any weather. It was black kid with white kid inserts between the fingers, it made Sarah think of a pair that Marlene Dietrich had worn as Shanghai Lili in a rerun she’d once seen at the old Brattle Theater.

  To the glove was attached an arm, and to the arm a striking brunette ageing gracefully into dowagerhood. She was dressed, like many of the other mourners, in outmoded finery; but she wore hers with a flair: the black redingote with the white revers, the slim-fitting black skirt, the black cartwheel straw chapeau set almost vertically on one side of her sleekly coiffed head. The hand on the arm, should anybody other than Sarah notice it, would probably be taken as a gesture of wifely solicitude. With a gesture of wifely solicitude and a softly murmured “don’t faint,” Sarah passed her mirror on to Max.

  Max Bittersohn was not the fainting type. He only allowed his lips a momentary upward quirk and his head the merest hint of a nod, then passed the mirror back to Sarah. She understood perfectly, up to a point. Yes, the sobber was Bartolo Arbalest. But why was he sobbing? How had he and Lydia Ouspenska got past all those clipboards? Where was their bodyguard? Sarah had already been wondering about Goudge. She’d flipped the mirror this way and that as much as she decently could, she’d scanned the other pews. As far as she could tell, he was nowhere in the church.

  Another conundrum to add to the list. Sarah supposed the Resurrection Man must be here because Anora had invited him. Surely not solely on the strength of his having repaired her elephant candlesticks? Why would the widow have drawn the line at so many older acquaintances yet show favor to someone she’d met so recently and knew so slightly?

  Old women did get silly about younger men sometimes, Sarah supposed Arbalest might look young to Anora. But Anora just wasn’t that sort of person. She must genuinely have loved George to have stuck by him the way she had for so many years; she’d had plenty of men in and out of her house, she’d never shown the slightest inclination to be more than affable toward any of them.

  The simplest explanation, and most probably the right one, was that Bartolo Arbalest had approached George not as an old buffer to be humored and put up with for the sake of politeness, but as a sensible man who’d had intelligent things to say on a subject of mutual interest. That must have meant a great deal to Anora. However, it would hardly explain why Arbalest was putting on such an exhibition now.

  He couldn’t imagine it was the proper thing to do, not in this crowd. But he wasn’t one of this crowd. Among the more avant-garde, stiff upper lips were no longer in fashion; men were now permitted to cry if they felt like it. Maybe Arbalest was just moving with the times and letting it all hang out. After the many deaths he’d had to deal with among his former employees and clients, the many funerals he must have been forced to attend, the appalling murder of a recently acquired customer might have been more than the Resurrection Man could handle.

  Jesse had borne up better than Sarah had expected, but she was beginning to wonder how much longer he’d last. She was grateful when the rector pronounced the benediction and the organist started the postlude. Anora and Dolph came back up the aisle, both of them decently composed, looking neither to left nor to right. Cook and Phyllis were behind them, being escorted by Mary Kelling and Dr. Harnett. The ushers were monitoring the pews, letting the mourners out row by row. People were moving along rather quickly, evidently Anora had elected not to linger in the vestibule and receive condolences she didn’t feel up to accepting.

  She wasn’t outside on the steps either, she must have got Dolph to shepherd her straight into the undertaker’s limousine. By the time Sarah, Max, and Jesse were liberated from their pew, some of those who planned to escort George on his final ride were already getting into their cars and lining up for the cortège to the cemetery.

  Boadicea Kelling wasn’t going. She’d written her note of condolence, she’d shown her respect by attending the service, she’d done all that was reasonable and could not be expected to waste gasoline on unnecessary junketings. Sarah marveled a bit as to how anybody could refer to a graveside visit as a junket, but she could understand why Aunt Bodie preferred to give it a miss. Aside from duty already done and the inherent grimness of the last rite, Bodie was aware that her 1946 Daimler was not the most fuel-efficient of conveyances, and she still had to drive it all the way back to Wenham. She said the proper things to Sarah and Max, then turned to Jesse, who’d been standing back, maintaining a low profile.

  “How do you do, young man? Since my niece has not seen fit to present you to me, permit me to introduce myself. I am Boadicea Kelling.”

  “But Aunt Bodie, you’ve met him lots of times,” Sarah protested. “This is Lionel’s eldest son, Jesse.”

  “Nonsense, Sarah. Lionel’s sons are barbarians. This chap has been a model of deportment all through that unnecessarily lengthy service. His hair is neatly trimmed, he is appropriately and even becomingly dressed. I can only assume that his appearance and behavior are part of a masquerade abetted by certain persons who ought to have known better.”

  She glared at Max, who was quietly enjoying himself. Sarah started to remonstrate but Boadicea fixed her with another glare and went on. “One realizes, young man, that this must be a ruse to gain you entrance to a private funeral to which is most regrettably attached a taint of sensationalism. Are you or are you not a member of the press?”

  Boadicea Kelling put the same degree of misapprobation on the word “press” as she might have done on “leper colony” or “Democratic Party.” Jesse faced up to her unflinchingly.

  “I’m not a member of the press and I gained entrance because Sarah told the cops I was her nephew. I’m sorry you don’t believe me, Aunt Bodie. If you’ll wait till my parents come home, I can show you my birth certificate and make Lionel take a blood test.”

  “Aha! Now you sound like yourself. Very well, Jesse, I apologize for my lack of perspicacity. By way of exculpation, I might remind you that I am a practical-minded person and cannot reasonably be expected to recognize a miracle at first glance.”

  “That’s okay, Aunt Bodie, we all make mistakes. Can I help you out to your car?”

  “Don’t push it, young man.”

  But Boadicea Kelling shook hands quite pleasantly with Jesse before she bade them farewell and proceeded with purposeful stride but no unseemly haste out into the parking lot.

  17

  JESSE LOOKED AFTER HIS departing relative with his mouth hanging open in a manner that would have evoked Boadicea’s reproof if she’d happened to look back. Fortunately for the good impression he’d made, she didn’t. “How do you like that?” he said when he could get his voice under control. “Was she trying to be funny, Sarah?”

  “Never. Aunt Bodie doesn’t believe in fun. You handled her beautifully, Jesse. And now you know how useful protective coloration can be.”

  “What’s protective coloration?”

  “Blending in with your surroundings. That suit serves the same purpose as a tiger’s stripes or the speckled feathers on a bird. Camouflage, if you prefer. Brooks can tell you all about that. There he is now with Theonia, trying to spot us. Nip over and say we’ll meet them at the car, will you? Don’t bother coming back, we’ll be right along. Max, can you see what’s happened to Lydia and Mr. Arbalest? They sneaked out while Bodie was introducing herself to Jesse. Goudge was waiting for them in his uniform, looking quite smashing, I have to say. W
e ought to talk with them, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so, Kätzele. What should we talk about?”

  “Oh, anything. I’d like to know why Mr. Arbalest was crying. I’d also like to know how he and Lydia got in. Darling, don’t you find it a trifle odd that he and three of his artisans are here? Anora must have invited them, or they’d never have got through all those security checks, but why? We discussed the guest list fairly thoroughly on the phone, at least I thought we did. I even made some of the calls for her. Darn it, what does this man want?”

  One of the undertaker’s assistants was walking toward them, naturally he addressed Max instead of Sarah. “Excuse me, sir, but if you’re going to the cemetery, could you please bring your car around and line up with the rest as quickly as possible? Mrs. Protheroe is anxious to get started.”

  “Yes, sure,” said Max. “Ready, Sarah?”

  Sarah was ready. “I can see why Anora wants to get it over with, the poor thing must be aching to get her shoes off and lie down for a while. But everybody will flock back to the house afterward and heaven knows when they’ll clear out.”

  Sarah remembered another funeral when people had stayed and stayed until she’d thought she’d go mad. Leila Lackridge had been one of them. Here she came now, driving Edgar Merton’s car. Edgar was cowering in the passenger seat beside her, sweating for his paint work. Leila was the kind of terrible driver who was always getting into scrapes and blaming everybody else for her own ineptitude.

  “Couldn’t Anora have told them not to come?”

  “Of course she couldn’t. This is the way it’s always been done, and Anora wouldn’t want George to be slighted. Isn’t it odd, Max, how we fuss about what dead people would have wanted? Do you suppose they actually know?”

  “There’s only one way to find out, kid. Look out!” He pulled her out of the way just in time to avoid a knockdown. “Who the hell is that maniac?”

  “Leila Lackridge. How could you ever have forgotten her?”

  “Perseverance and positive thinking. What’s she doing here? I thought she’d left town.”

  “She must have come back for the funeral. She’s one of Anora’s old crowd, she couldn’t be left out.”

  “She could if I were running this show.”

  “That’s not very flattering, I must say. If it hadn’t been for Leila and Harry Lackridge, you might never have met me. Worse still, I might never have met you.”

  “Baloney. Some enchanted evening you’d have seen a stranger across a crowded delicatessen and pop would have gone the weasel. Here they are, full crew aboard. Sorry to keep you waiting, shipmates. God, I’ll be glad when I can walk like a mensch.”

  “You will, Max dear,” Theonia cooed. “I saw you in my tea leaves this morning, clear as crystal.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t some other guy?”

  “My dear sir, are you impugning my professional ability? Kindly reflect on to whom you are speaking. Brooks darling, aren’t you going to call this cad to task?”

  “Not at the moment, Theonia. Remind me to issue a formal challenge when I’ve got us clear of this confounded parking lot, assuming that I ever succeed in doing so. Jesse, you can be my second, Max can have Charles. What do you say, Max, pistols for two and bagels for one at dawn? Or would you prefer bean shooters at twenty paces? I used to shoot a mean bean before I got old and dignified.”

  “Not bean shooters,” said Max firmly. “Those things are dangerous. I’ve got a wife and kid to think of.”

  “Cream puffs, then?”

  “It’s not nice to waste food,” Jesse put in virtuously.

  “Who’s going to waste them?” said Max. “My leg may be bumming, but there’s nothing the matter with the old wing. We’ll both wear catchers’ mitts. Ah, the hell with it, how about if I just apologize? Theonia, is it okay if we put the groveling on hold until I’ve recovered full use of my right knee?”

  “Oh yes, quite all right. I shall expect a first-class grovel at your earliest convenience, however.”

  “I don’t suppose you happen to have any occult information on how early my convenience might be?”

  “Not at the moment, I’m afraid. The time of my next forecast will have to depend on whether Anora’s cook uses tea bags. Speaking of which, I could certainly use a cup of tea right now. Couldn’t you, Sarah?”

  “I’d love it. Why do you suppose funerals always make one start thinking about food?”

  “Just to prove that one still can eat, perhaps. With that thought in mind, I took the precaution of packing a few little sandwiches and some celery sticks. Anyone for a nibble? Sarah? Jesse, take what you want and pass the rest to those two fire-breathing ruffians in the front seat.”

  One way and another, they beguiled the tedious crawl. When they were about halfway to the cemetery the rain that had been threatening all morning began to fall, not very hard and not altogether to the displeasure of everyone present. As Jesse observed, the longer the rain, the shorter the service. Max considered that remark less than elevating, he switched on the car radio to station XBIL just in time to catch one of Nehemiah Billingsgate’s little homilies. They thus arrived at the graveside in a collectively elevated state of mind, though Jesse’s elevation might have been due in some part to the fact that he’d got the lion’s share of Theonia’s excellent sandwiches.

  Here, as at the church, the law was on the alert. A pair of uniformed policemen had been guarding the cemetery gates and a couple more were here inside, keeping the funeral cortège under strict control. As Brooks pulled over to the verge and parked the car, one of the undertaker’s assistants bustled up with an armload of black umbrellas. Max and Brooks were donning their trench coats and hats in traditional private-eye fashion. Sarah had her white silk raincoat and Theonia her elegant bumbershoot with the goose-head handle. Max took a couple, of the proffered umbrellas anyway, one on general principles and one for Jesse, since Charles had somehow neglected to include a raincoat in his protégé’s new wardrobe. Equipped to brave the elements, they walked across the by now somewhat spongy greensward to where people were gathering, where the handsome gray coffin sat, banked by many flowers, above a carpet of Astroturf that covered a new-dug grave.

  Old hand at funerals that she was, Sarah didn’t hesitate to lead her little band as close as she could to where Anora was standing. She’d have liked to give Anora a kiss, but the rector was talking to the widow and it would have been awkward. Dolph was still on the job, protecting his charge with one of the black umbrellas; Mary oozed away from his side and came over to say hello.

  As usual, she looked just right for the occasion in a blue raincoat the color of her eyes and a little blue hat protected by a clear plastic hood. The hat was a valuable antique; Mary had bought it when her mother was still alive, she’d worn it on her first date with Dolph. She’d never find another hat like this one, naturally she took excellent care of it. She greeted her favorite in-laws affectionately but not exuberantly, as the occasion demanded, and shook hands with Jesse as if she was honestly glad to see him.

  Overwhelmed by all this affability where he was accustomed to wary looks and instinctive shyings-away, Jesse offered Mary the courtesy of his umbrella. She smiled up at the gangling youth as only Mary could, tucked a hand under his elbow, and composed herself to wait for the opening words of the final rites.

  The rector spoke. Sarah cried a little, as she’d known she would. Max made her take hold of the umbrella so that he’d have an arm free to put around her. He still needed the other hand for his cane, standing here in the damp couldn’t be doing his leg any good. Sarah hoped for his sake as well as for Anora that the final rites would be over before this storm got much worse.

  The wind was picking up, the bouquets were getting a bit of a tumbling, the head undertaker himself slipped over to retrieve a basket of pink and red carnations that was on the verge of tipping over. Somebody’s umbrella blew inside out, somebody else’s got away and had to be chased; Theonia
was having a tug-of-war with hers. The sky was growing blacker and blacker, off in the distance lightning bolts flashed. After longish pauses, low growls of thunder could be heard above the rector’s voice. Brooks would be counting the number of seconds between flash and growl, calculating how fast the storm must be traveling. The rector was cutting it short, consigning George’s earthly remains to their last resting place, wishing the real George bon voyage on the long path that he must tread alone, though of course those weren’t the words he used.

  Now the rain was really driving. The undertaker’s assistants, all of them suddenly wearing black slickers and waterproof black-plastic hat protectors, were collecting the black umbrellas and hustling mourners into their cars. The poor policemen were getting their uniforms soaked, they hadn’t come prepared for a deluge. Sarah still wished there’d been time to give her old friend a hug and a kiss, that would have to wait till they got to the house.

  Dolph was trying to steer Anora along toward the first of the black limousines. The widow wasn’t letting herself be rushed, she was standing alone beside the casket, giving the blanket of red roses over it a final pat, sending her last caress to her beloved. Phyllis and Cook were being hustled into the second limousine, though hustling Cook was no mean feat. The yellow-faced man who looked like a weeping bloodhound was getting in with them, Max Bittersohn was intrigued.

  “I’ll be damned. See that, Sarah? Nie must be going back to the house. How come the VIP treatment, I wonder?”

  “Maybe they’re just going to let him off somewhere,” said Sarah. “There goes Leila, dragging poor Edgar along like a sack of potatoes. She’ll try to beat every light between here and Chestnut Hill so she can be first at the bar. Charles had better have a pitcher of martinis mixed and waiting or she’ll throw a fit.”