The Resurrection Man by Charlotte MacLeod Read Free Book Online

Dubrec. Laer is a woodcarver, Dubrec is a Jacques of all trades and a master of several. He gets the jobs nobody else is equipped to handle, such as repairing old porcelain and objets d’art; particularly the smaller, more delicate pieces that are the most easily broken.”
    “I should think those would make up a large proportion of your business,” said Theonia.
    “You’re quite right, Mrs. Kelling, they do. They’re the atelier’s next-biggest source of revenue, after paintings and prints. Last on the list, but by no means inconsiderable, is antique woodwork. Most of these jobs come through antique dealers and auction houses. The atelier doesn’t actually take in large pieces and refinish them, this would be quite outside the scope of Mr. Arbalest’s operation as it’s presently conducted. Laer does things like carving a new wing for an early German angel, matching a broken chair leg, or creating a new pediment for a vandalized highboy.”
    “But doesn’t restoring an antique lessen its value?” asked Theonia.
    “That depends on the condition. Some pieces arrive literally in fragments. Putting what’s left back together and recreating the missing parts makes the piece usable; a restoration is at least more desirable than a blatant copy. If it’s a damaged altar, a carved balustrade, or something of that sort, Laer occasionally goes out to see what needs to be done. He makes sketches, takes photographs, perhaps pulls out the damaged section either to repair or to replicate, then returns to the studio and gets to work. Finally he goes back out to remove any broken parts that remain and fit in the replacements.”
    “And you go along to guard him.”
    “Always. I hold the ladder and hand up the glue pot or chisel in a properly subservient manner, thus impressing on the client what a privilege it is to have so preeminent an artisan plugging up his wormholes. It’s always taken as an act of faith that our client will in turn point out the restored portions to his own clients, assuming he plans to resell.”
    “But it’s not included in the contract that you stick around to make sure he does?” said Max. “What are Laer and Dubrec like?”
    “I’d say they’re the most normal members, relatively speaking, of our latter-day Schildersbent . Neither is a young man. Laer’s a widower with a grown son and daughter, both of whom fortunately live abroad. There’s no estrangement, they write back and forth every month or so and telephone on major holidays, but they don’t show any urge to visit, which I don’t suppose Mr. Arbalest would let them do anyway. I believe Dubrec was married at one time, but he doesn’t talk about it.”
    “Another silent type?”
    “Oh dear, no. I’d rank him third in loquacity to Mr. Arbalest and Madame Ouspenska when the group are having one of their round-robin fireside chats, which of course don’t happen by the fireside at this time of year. Anyway, it’s only a gas log. Sorry, I’m digressing. And I do apologize for having taken up so much of your time, but I don’t often get a chance to chat with colleagues, if I may be so bold as to call you so.”
    “Sure, go right ahead.” Max stood up and reached for his cane. “Drop in again when you’re over this way, Goudge, there’s usually somebody around. By the way, our secret operative mentioned having seen a vaguely Asian-looking guy doing aerobic exercises out in the alley behind Arbalest’s house. He wouldn’t have been one of your Schilders, by any chance? Longish black hair showing a little gray? Dressed in a bright-red winter-weight jogging suit?”
    Goudge let his lip curl just ever so. “You did mention that your chap’s an actor, as I recall. I suspect what he actually saw was somebody’s wash twisting in the breeze. We’re near the river, you know. There’s a woman in the basement apartment on the other side of the alley who has a habit of putting strangely assorted garments out to dry on one of