Free Stranger by the Lake by Jennifer Wilde Page B

dine at eight. The corridors were dark and gloomy, but I was prepared for that. I knew my way about now and certainly didn’t intend to go traipsing into the east wing. Still, I wished I had had the foresight to leave few lamps scattered about along the way. The lack of electricity might be romantic, but it hardly helped relieve the gloom. The light of my lamp flickered on the walls, making dancing gold and black patterns, and I had to restrain a shudder as I passed the east wing. I walked rapidly, my high heels tripping along on the carpet, the dancing shadows following me as I turned down the main hall and reached the head of the staircase.
    I heard someone knocking on the front door as I went downstairs, and turning down the landing I saw the nurse, Mildred, opening the door for a man. Tall white candles burned in half a dozen candelabra, illuminating the hall with a bright golden light. The man stepped inside and Mildred closed the door behind him. Poor thing, she was wearing an unfortunate dress of blue-gray velvet, the nap worn and shiny, the cut impossibly old-fashioned. Her. mousy brown hair was worn in an untidy bun, a gold barrette clipped on as an afterthought. Her pathetic attempt at elegance only emphasized her ugliness, and I found it rather touching. With her slumped shoulders and clumpy black shoes she looked like something out of an old horror film.
    â€œAnd how’s the patient today?” the man asked.
    â€œI don’t know, ” Mildred whined. “She won’t let me do for her. I tried to make her take her pills, but——”
    â€œI’ll talk to her,” he said pleasantly, smiling warmly. “And who is this?” he added as I walked towards them.
    â€œSusan Marlow,” I said. “Agatha’s niece. You must be Dr. Matthews.”
    I set my oil lamp down on a table. The man nodded, still smiling.
    â€œRight,” he said, extending his hand. He gave my hand a firm, hearty shake, and I could feel the energy and vitality of the man as he squeezed. Mildred shuffled away, disappearing into one of the rooms, leaving the two of us together.
    â€œAgatha told me you were coming,” he said, “although I didn’t expect you so soon. I hope now that you’re here you’ll help us keep her in line.”
    â€œIs my aunt really ill?” I inquired.
    â€œNo, not seriously—nothing to be alarmed about. She just needs to slow down a bit, needs to get more rest, take her vitamins. The flu left her rather weaker than she imagines, and she insists on charging about like a sergeant major on maneuvers. I hoped Mildred would be able to subdue her somewhat, but——” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you’ll be more successful.”
    â€œI’ll certainly try,” I replied.
    Dr. Paul Matthews was in his early forties, one of those ruddy, robust men who was a walking advertisement for his profession. Quite tall, he was solidly built, with broad shoulders and a large frame. His features were rough-hewn: square jaw, wide, rather sensuous mouth, large nose, and heavy brows over dark brown eyes. Deeply tanned, his face was lined and stamped with character, and his hair was golden-bronze, more red than brown, very thick and wavy. He was the kind of man who immediately inspires confidence, who exudes strength and purpose. Dressed in a formal black suit with a poorly knotted black bow tie above a gleaming white shirtfront, he looked rather uncomfortable. I imagined he would feel more at home in stout boots and an old tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows.
    â€œI must say,” he remarked, “your photographs hardly do you justice.”
    â€œYou’ve seen photographs of me?”
    â€œOn the dust jackets of your books,” he explained. “Agatha has given me copies of all of them—which I’ve read, incidentally, and enjoyed enormously. You’re remarkably talented, Miss Marlow, as well