The Ardmore Inheritance by Rob Wyllie (reading the story of the .txt) 📕

Maggie gave an inward grimace at the thought of more food, but still managed to shoot the kindly woman a smile.

'Thanks, that sounds absolutely perfect. And the doctor's?'

'We've still got a wee surgery here in the village. Doctor McLeod and his daughter. They're very good.'

Doctor McLeod and his daughter. Dr Flora Stewart. That was assuming she was still using her married name. Now all she had to do was make up an ailment and book an appointment.

Having given a good account of herself in the battle with her breakfast, she refilled her coffee cup and spent a leisurely ten minutes admiring the view, before completing the check-out formalities. She had decided to postpone her visit to the outdoor store until after her meeting, and since it was a lovely morning she resolved to walk the three quarters of a mile to Mrs Macallan's home.

The cottage was on the main road, if it could be called that given the sparsity of traffic, and was designed in what she thought was called Scottish baronial style. Clearly a former gatehouse or lodge, it was constructed in stone with an impressive covered porch and a fairy-castle turret. It guarded a set of ancient-looking wrought-iron gates, secured by a rusty chain and padlock which suggested that this had not been the principle entrance to Ardmore House for many years. To her surprise, she found the front door slightly ajar, and was just about to call out when an overweight labrador squeezed out through the gap and gave a muted woof, which Maggie took to be a friendly greeting. The dog snuggled up against her leg and gave another bark, just as the door was opened.

'Hello, you must be Miss Bainbridge I take it? Don't mind Flossie, she's very friendly.'

Alison Macallan was approaching fifty, but looked older, her hair greying and unkempt, her face bereft of makeup. She was dressed in salmon jogging bottoms which had clearly seen better days, and a shapeless cream Arran pullover. But despite her unprepossessing appearance, Maggie could see that under the surface an attractive woman was struggling to break out. But that's what it did to you, the killer combination of tragedy and despair, when fear of the future stalked your every waking moment and stopped you from sleeping too. She remembered it only too well, and when she was at her lowest, she wouldn't have dared look in the mirror. But maybe their shared experience might help the mission.

'Maggie. Please, it's Maggie. I hope you're still ok with this Alison?' She bloody hoped she was, because she couldn't very easily nip back another day.

'No no, it's fine,' Alison said, although the tone was guarded. 'Come through.' She led Maggie through a tiny kitchen into a dark sitting room, furnished with two floral-pattern armchairs that, like the Arran pullover, could count their best years behind them. A pile of magazines was strewn across a small coffee table, upon which stood in addition to the reading matter, a bottle of supermarket own-label vodka, three-quarters empty, and a solitary glass. She gave Maggie a wry smile.

'It's from last night, honestly. I know I shouldn't, but I find it helps.'

'No need to explain Alison,' Maggie said, as she took her seat. 'Been there, done that. A dozen bottles of cheap chardonnay a week was my average, and that was just when I was trying to cut it back. You see, my husband and his lover were murdered in front of my little son, and he was only six at the time. And she was raped too.'

'Good god,' Alison said, looking aghast. 'I'm sorry.' For a moment Maggie wondered whether she had been right to tell her, but she knew she had to, if she wanted to have any chance of building a bond with this woman.

'No, I'm sorry too, I didn't mean to upset you. I only shared this because my story's so so similar to yours. The fact was, my husband Phillip was a pig, but it was still a great shock when he died.' In truth, and to her eternal shame, she had felt nothing when he had died, but there was likely to be little profit in sharing this with Alison Macallan.

'Yes my husband turned out to be a pig too,' she said. 'Worst than that, a complete bastard. But I loved him once. And yes, it was still a shock when he died, especially in the circumstances. I assume you know all about it?'

Maggie doubted if there was a person in the country that didn't know about the Ardmore shootings.

'Yes, of course, it was never off the news was it? Such an awful thing, a man killing his own son. So yes, I can totally understand it must have been utterly devastating to you Alison. Unimaginably so.'

But then she had to ask the question that the entire nation had been asking these past six months.

'Do you know why Alison? Why he did it?'

She shook her head sadly. 'Of course I've asked myself that again and again, but I don't, not really. I know that Roderick found Peter incredibly frustrating, and there were always arguments. Both of them had been drinking that evening and all I can imagine is that their emotions boiled over.'

Maggie gave her an inquisitive look. 'You say arguments? What did they typically argue about, if you don't mind me asking?'

Alison shrugged. 'I don't mind. The running of the estate, mainly. Obviously Roderick could not give much attention to the day-to-day affairs when he was in the Navy, so he handed that job over to Peter quite a few years ago. And it was doing extremely well financially, I know that. But they often had disagreements about how it should be run. As I said, there were lots of arguments. Especially after Roderick retired, when he had time on his hands.'

'I can understand that, generally speaking,' Maggie said, 'but