Legacy Of Terror

somewhat frail-” she began.
    “He isn't, believe me,” Matherly said. “That old goat will probably last longer than I will-and he was butler here when I was barely able to walk! But, if it suits you better, you can help him. My sons are out this morning, or I would have one of them help you. Paul is home, my dead wife's brother, and he might be willing to offer a hand.”
    “I'm sure I'll manage.”
    “I am also sure,” he said. He tore a check out of the book on his desk, one which he had filled out in expectation of her arrival. “I imagine you'll be rather low on funds. I've written out four weeks pay in advance to help you get started. A hundred a week, plus room and board, as agreed.”
    She accepted the check, thanked him, folded it and put it in the flat, utilitarian purse she carried.
    “Now,” Lee Matherly said, rising, smiling perfunctorily, “shall we go see your patient?”
    “I'm looking forward to meeting him,” Elaine said.
    “You must understand that he is not the man he was. The stroke took quite a toll.” The expression on his handsome face said that his father's illness had also taken a heavy toll on Lee Matherly.
    At the top of the stairs, they entered the first room on the right. It was, Elaine thought, more like a study than a bedroom. The walls and ceiling were paneled in rich, dark wood that smelled ever so slightly of lemon polish. Two walls contained built-in bookcases which were stuffed full of cloth-bound volumes. A mammoth desk was the main piece of furniture, dominating even the hospital bed along the far wall. A globe stood by the desk on a brass stand. Two easy chairs were positioned so that one might sit in them and drink brandy and talk, just like in the movies or novels by Conan Doyle. Beside the bed was another chair: a wheelchair.
    As they entered, the old man in the bed turned his head towards them and watched them with bright, blue eyes as clear as his son's.
    “Father, this is Elaine Sherred, the girl I told you about. She'll be your nurse from now on.”
    The old man did not smile, nor speak. The right side of his face was drawn tight, as if he were grimacing, while the other half appeared normal. There were other signs of the stroke. His right arm was drawn up, cradled against his chest, strangely twisted. His leg, beneath the thin sheet, appeared normal, though it most likely was not, judging from the wheelchair. Perhaps the entire right side of his body was paralyzed.
    “His medicines are kept here,” Lee said, taking her to a cabinet beside the bed. “Glycerine pills for his angina if it should act up. And if they don't relieve the pain well enough-we've a dozen ampoules of morphine here-and here, the syringe and alcohol and gauze. It will be your duty to keep Dr. Reece aware of our supply and to be certain we never run low on anything that Father might require.”
    “I understand,” she said.
    Matherly seemed to forget about her as he approached the bed. He leaned over and kissed the old man on the cheek, the ruined cheek. Old Jacob Matherly smiled now-a distorted and ugly expression on his ruined face-and took his son's hand.
    “I'm sure you'll like Miss Sherred, Father.”
    The old man did not take his eyes from his son's face. He nodded affirmatively.
    “Good enough,” Lee said. “Then I'll leave you two to get acquainted.” He walked to the door, turned. “I'll see, Miss Sherred, that your bags are moved. I'm sure Paul will help Jerry with the chore. Your room is at the end of the hall, on the right. Dinner is at seven this evening. You will be able to meet the rest of the household then.” And he was gone.
    “He's a good boy,” Jacob said.
    His voice startled her. For one thing, she had supposed that he was unable to speak, since he had been so quiet up till this moment. For another, his voice was weak, whispered, the croak of a frog who parroted English. It sent a chill through her for reasons she could not define.
    “He's very efficient,” she said.
    “And he… loves his father,” the old man added.
    She stood beside his bed, looking down at him, aware that he had once been as formidable a man as Lee, though illness had wasted him now.
    She said, wearing a professional smile that was not completely automatic, for she liked this old man already, “I could see that he does.”
    “He does well with the restaurants.”
    “More than one?” she asked.
    “Four,” he said. “And three of them… are the best in the city.”
    “I'll have to try them out,” she said.
    He took her