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

the look of it had not been pressed into service for some months, even as the autumn shadows were lengthening. On a varnished oak sideboard, a sumptuous buffet had been laid out, as yet untouched as they awaited the return of Dr Stewart from her afternoon surgery.

'This has always been called the morning room,' Elizabeth was explaining, 'from long before our time here, although goodness knows why, because it actually catches the afternoon sun.'

'It's a lovely room,' Maggie said, 'and with such a beautiful view over the lake. Sorry, loch, I keep forgetting. And sorry again, I know it sounds like lock the way I say it.' By mentally adding around thirty years to Flora's thirty-two, she worked out that Elizabeth McLeod must be well into her sixties, but she certainly didn't look it, and the same went for Dr McLeod too. They were a good-looking couple and these superb genes had been combined then passed down to their beautiful daughter intact.

'Aye, you Sassenachs,' Angus McLeod said, in a kindly tone, 'but I hear from your accent you're a Yorkshire lass, so that's an honorary Scot in my book.'

'I'm indeed honoured,' she said, laughing. 'But I've spent the last two years working with Jimmy and his brother, so I feel as if I'm half-Scottish now anyway.'

'Yes, well they're from Glasgow, so the least said about that the better,' Angus teased. It seemed to Maggie that Jimmy's assessment was correct. Relations were thawing in the McLeod family. And then she saw him glance at his watch.

'Flora's a bit late, isn't she? Her last appointment was at half-past four so she should be here by now.'

'Paperwork dear I expect.' Maggie caught the glance between husband and wife, wondering if this soirée had been engineered by the McLeods in the hope of effecting a reconciliation, with their daughter a reluctant participant.

'Aye, that'll be it,' Angus said. 'Let's all have a wee sherry whilst we're waiting, shall we?'

But when three quarters of an hour had passed and there was still no sign of Flora, the atmosphere began to change, and the concern, at first mild, became more elevated.

'She's not answering her phone,' Elizabeth said, 'and I've tried the surgery switchboard and I'm just getting the answerphone.'

'Ach, it'll be fine,' Angus said, but there was no disguising the concern in his voice. And as Maggie's mind drifted back to the murder and the funeral and everything to do with the death of Elspeth Macallan, suddenly the mist cleared and it was all falling into place. Everything.She thought about the text message, and she thought about the quiet location of the little Fulham restaurant and she thought about the look Flora had given Kirsty Macallan. And she thought about something that Elspeth had said to her.They had their own stupid language. Kirsty, Flora and Morag, making up silly words for everything. It was pathetic.

'Something's wrong,' she said, her voice clipped and urgent. 'Something's badly wrong. Where would she go Elizabeth? Where did they go when they were kids? Flora and Morag and the Macallans?'

But Jimmy was already on the move. 'The boathouse. Elizabeth, will you call the police and the coastguard, and Angus, can you go and get your wee boat ready, quick as you can.'

◆◆◆

He was conscious that Maggie was trailing way behind him, but there was no time to worry about that now. There was only one thing on his mind. He had to get to her before brooding Loch More worked its malevolent destiny, its merciless currents racing and swirling, intent on swallowing any defenceless craft that was stupid enough to venture out on its waters. It only took two minutes to reach the boathouse, where his darkest fear was confirmed. Tinytanic was gone.

'Shit.' He ran to the edge of the little cobbled beach, scanning the loch, his eyes squinting against the glare of the low sun. Shit, shit. It had to be out there somewhere, but where? For a moment, he studied the water lapping against the edge and in an instant he had made the computation. The tide was on the turn and soon anything caught in that race would be dragged out to the Atlantic at a rate of knots. He had five or ten minutes at the most to save her.

He became aware that Maggie had arrived at his side.

'The boat's gone, hasn't it?' she said, her voice anxious. 'Can you see anything?'

'No, but it's got to be out there somewhere.'

'There,' she said suddenly. 'Look, can you see it? It's hard to spot with the sun in our eyes. Straight ahead.'

And he could just about make it out, the tiny boat bobbing around like a cork, miraculously still afloat but low in the water. Dangerously low. He estimated it was around three to four hundred metres away and he remembered back to his army days and that survival training course they'd sent him on, and that chart they'd splashed up on the screen in the warm Glencoe classroom. Survival times in cold water. But these waters, warmed by the Gulf Stream, although bloody cold, rarely got below freezing, so he'd have fifteen minutes at least and probably more. Not that these technicalities were going to influence his decision one bit.

'I'm going in,' he said, tearing off his shoes. 'Keep me in your line of sight if you can, in case the coastguard turns up.'

'But what about the currents?' Maggie said anxiously. 'You said it wasn't safe.'

He knew it wasn't safe, of course he knew, but what else could he do? And he was a strong swimmer, his broad shoulders capable of powering him one hundred metres in close to a minute. In a warm swimming pool, that was. Out here, it would be quite different, lucky if he could do the same distance in under three. But he had no choice.

As he plunged in, the icy coldness took his breath away, but he was ready for that and soon he was into his stride, his arms and legs synchronised