The Ardmore Inheritance

the woods at the same time. Two-thirds of not very much at all.
He'd noticed during his on-line surveys that the floodlight which illuminated the gate area was aligned with a bias to the rightmost gate post, a bit of sloppiness on the part of the installation guys that he meant to exploit. As he reached the entrance to the driveway, he took a quick glance round, then sprinted to the other side of the road, staying out of range of the gate's proximity sensor. A few steps took him past the opening, allowing him then to re-cross the road so that he was standing alongside the left-hand gate post, noticing at the same time that the gates had, as he expected and hoped, been left open. If everyone was safely tucked up in bed, it was unlikely that they would notice the light coming on in any case, but he didn't intend to risk that. Crouching down, he crept forward, keeping his shoulder tight against the post, and then edged alongside the open gate. In, no problem. Now his eyes were adjusting to the moonlight and he could see the old house looming ahead, shadowy and imposing against a dark-navy sky. He'd done a bit of research and found it had been built in the eighteen-eighties by Sir Archibald Macallan, a prominent Glasgow shipbuilding magnate, and had been one of the first houses in Scotland to be equipped with both electricity and hot and cold running water. He'd also read that the guy was a right bastard, treating his workers like shit and with a reputation for cheating his suppliers out of their due. But it hadn't stopped him getting a knighthood and amassing a fortune, most of which disappeared after the second world war when competition from overseas crushed the Clydeside yards, with their arcane trade-union demarcations and prehistoric equipment, out of existence. The Ardmore Estate was about all that survived, passed down the male line until it came into the possession of the current Laird, Sir Archie's great-great-great grandson Roderick. His pal, the Commodore.
Underfoot, the driveway was tarmaced and smooth, obviously well-maintained and a pointer to the piles of cash that the estate must be raking in from their hunting and fishing operations. Nice, but he wouldn't have swapped his business for theirs. Too much like hard work for a start, and besides, he couldn't see how anyone could shoot one of these magnificent antlered beasts without wanting to puke. It was about a two-minute walk to the front door, where the drive opened out into a large gravelled forecourt. Three cars were parked neatly end-on facing the house, suggesting that all the residents were present and accounted for. A ten-year old Discovery, which he knew was the Commodore's. A battered long-wheelbase Land Rover, which looked like the typical estate hack, probably the wheels of Peter Macallan, the son who ran the estate on a day-to-day basis. And then the transport of one of the Poxy twins, as the tabloids had disrespectfully named them, a top-of-the-range hot hatchback, courtesy of a marketing deal they had cut with the German manufacturers. Sleek black metallic he recalled from the pictures he'd seen on their Instagram, although it was impossible to make out in the semi-darkness. Matching motors with matching personalised number plates. Naturally. He assumed one of the cars would have been left back in London, the twins travelling up together to what they called their Highland retreat. At least he hoped that was the case, so as to give his mission a reasonable chance of success.
But of course he wasn't going in the front door, that was far too risky, even with his bravado. Instead he'd identified a ramshackle porch on the south side of the house, which an old photograph of the place he'd found on the web revealed as constructed in timber with a corrugated tin roof. He'd sketched out an internal plan of the house based on his on-line surveillance and although he couldn't be sure, he figured the porch led into a boot room or something of that sort, directly adjacent to the large farmhouse-style kitchen. Its door might be locked or it might not be, but he didn't expect it to present much of an obstacle to his bunch of skeleton keys if it was. Which left only the bloody dog to worry about.
He'd caught it on camera a day or two earlier, lounging in the kitchen in its bed-basket whilst chewing a bone, an ancient golden retriever or labrador, seriously overweight and very definitely looking as if it was not long for this earth. That was his hope anyway. He'd brought some doggy treats and some chocolate buttons too, proper milk chocolate ones which he knew they loved but weren't supposed to eat. Hopefully they would do the trick, but if it didn't and it started sounding off, he'd just have to leg it and have a re-think. But he was an optimist and of course he was a polymath, wasn't he, so how hard would it be to calm some old moth-eaten mutt? Pretty soon he was going to find out.
Skirting round the edge of the forecourt, he took care to give the house a wide berth in case he triggered any security lights, creeping along the lawned verge to avoid his steps crunching on the gravel beneath his feet. Reaching the south wall he spotted the porch, still just about standing, and even in the moonlight he could tell it hadn't changed much from that old photo. He tiptoed across the wide path that he guessed ran all the way round the house, and slipped under the rickety roof. Fumbling in an inside pocket, he withdrew a powerful LED torch and shone it towards the panelled door which guarded the entrance to the house. At first sight it looked sturdy and appeared to be secured by twin mortice locks, which would have presented a worthy challenge to his lock-picking skills- if