Return of Dr Maguire. Judy Campbell

because it’s a Sunday and the place is empty, I’ll bet!’

      He laughed out loud and Christa blinked. He didn’t seem a whit worried by her threat to call the police or her accusation—in fact, he looked totally relaxed, in charge of the situation, no sign of being intimidated. She glared at him, looking him straight in the eye, and he stared impudently back at her, making fun of her. The cheeky bastard!

      She shouldn’t have looked at his eyes—massive error! She was taken aback by their compelling shade of deep, clear blue, fringed with black lashes and...well, they were incredibly unusual...even sexy—which, of course, was nothing to do with the situation whatsoever, she thought irritably.

      The man had a tall, spare figure, dressed in faded shorts and a ripped shirt, revealing a muscled torso. He could have got a job playing the lead in a James Bond movie or doing ads for some exotic men’s shaving lotion, reflected Christa... And for a split nanosecond she felt an unexpected flutter of excitement somewhere in the region of her stomach.

      It took her unawares, made her cross because after her experience with Colin Maitland, she was off all men for a very long time, wasn’t she? She crushed the desolate, empty feeling that seemed to be a reflex action whenever she thought of that unmitigated rat, and told herself to stop reacting like a teenager being turned on by some celebrity just because the man in front of her was reasonably good looking.

      She cleared her throat and said sternly, ‘If you’re not pinching lead, who gave you permission to look at the guttering—if that’s what you were doing?’

      ‘I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission—I own the house.’

      She stared at him witheringly. ‘You own the house? Don’t be ridiculous! How can it belong to you? Dr Maguire only died three weeks ago and probate can’t have been granted yet.’

      He said quietly and without apparent emotion, ‘Isobel Maguire was my mother. She left me Ardenleigh in her will.’

      ‘Oh, my God...’ Christa’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with embarrassment. ‘I’m really sorry—I didn’t realise...’ Her voice faltered, and she gazed at him in a stunned way. So this was the mysterious son, Lachlan, that Isobel had rarely mentioned, and who, as far as she was aware, had never visited his mother...

      ‘Perhaps you should make sure of your facts before making accusations,’ the man suggested coldly, an edge of sarcasm to his voice.

      ‘I had no idea who you were. If you’d let us know you were coming I wouldn’t have leaped to conclusions when I saw you with a handkerchief over your face on the roof,’ she protested, slightly stung that he was putting all the blame on her for not knowing who he was. ‘We’ve had such a spate of burglaries I thought you were yet another thief.’

      He nodded rather wearily, pushing his spikily cut thick hair back from his forehead. ‘The handkerchief was to protect my lungs from the showers of dirt I was disturbing—but, yes, I guess you’re right. I should have told the practice I was coming. It’s all been a bit of a rush.’

      Her tone softened. ‘We knew Isobel had a son, but we had no idea where you lived...’

      ‘I flew in from Australia on Friday and came up from Heathrow yesterday. I stayed in a pub last night, but tonight I’ll stay here if there’s a habitable room.’

      ‘You couldn’t make it to her funeral?’

      ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘It was too late by the time I was contacted by her solicitor—I didn’t even know she’d died until a few days ago.’

      Christa bit her lip. How could she have been so tactless? It was shocking that no one had known how to find him to tell him about his mother. He must feel terrible about that.

      ‘I’m so sorry...’ she repeated, and her voice trailed off, but the man had turned his attention back to the building. Christa looked at him more closely. Now she knew who he was, she saw the family resemblance to his mother, who had also been tall and with those clear blue eyes. There was no doubt he had inherited the good looks that ran in the Maguire family.

      The man looked sadly at the vast untidy lawn, the dense undergrowth beneath the trees at the end of the garden. ‘Everywhere looks very neglected... When I was young the garden was always immaculate, and that little copse well managed. I guess my mother had no interest in the place.’

      ‘She was too busy,’ said Christa defensively. ‘Isobel’s work meant everything to her—and being on her own, of course, it can’t have been easy, having to look after everything.’

      ‘I don’t suppose it was easy, but frankly it looks as if it’s falling down. I can’t believe she left it in such a state...’

      ‘I know she kept meaning to have things done. There never seemed to be time...’

      ‘A great pity,’ observed the man with some asperity.

      He didn’t seem to have much sympathy for his mother, reflected Christa, even though Isobel had been alone and had worked so damned hard that it had probably contributed to her death. There was something rather...well, callous about his attitude.

      ‘It may have been that latterly she wasn’t feeling very well and hadn’t the energy to turn to domestic matters,’ suggested Christa rather coldly.

      Lachlan nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘But just look at the state of those windows and woodwork... I used to escape through that window when I was a kid and was about to get a belting for something I’d done—I think it would fall out now if I opened it!’ He turned and held out his hand, saying briskly, ‘Anyway, it’s about time we introduced ourselves. I’m Lachlan Maguire...and you are...?’

      ‘I’m Christa Lennox, and I am...or rather was...your mother’s colleague, her junior partner in the practice.’

      The expression on Lachlan’s face changed subtly from pleasant to wary, the blue eyes widening slightly. He repeated tersely, ‘Christa Lennox? You worked with my mother?’

      ‘Why, yes...’ Christa looked at Lachlan, puzzled. ‘Is there something wrong?’

      ‘No...no, of course not.’ Then he added casually after a pause, ‘I used to know a man called Angus Lennox—are you a relation, by any chance?’

      A look of wry amusement flickered across Christa’s face. ‘Ah...the black sheep of the family...wicked Uncle Angus,’ she remarked. ‘How did you know him?’

      Lachlan idly kicked a stone away from his foot. ‘Oh...he used to come to the house sometimes...’ He looked up at Christa, a spark of curiosity in those clear blue eyes. ‘And do you know what he did to deserve that reputation?’

      Christa shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know all the details and it’s a tragic story. I know that he left his wife and child and my father was so outraged by his behaviour he wouldn’t speak about him, then Angus was killed in a car crash—a long time ago now.’

      Lachlan nodded sombrely. ‘I remember that happening...as you say, it was a long time ago.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, enough about your wicked uncle—tell me how you came to work with my mother.’

      ‘My own mother was ill some years ago and I was desperate to get a job here as my father had died, and Isobel offered me one. I loved your mother very much—she was a sweet woman and was extremely kind to me over so many things...’ Christa’s voice faltered slightly and she swallowed hard. ‘I was devastated when Isobel collapsed and died so suddenly—I couldn’t believe it. It’ll be very difficult to find someone to replace her—we shall all miss her so much.’

      Lachlan took a rag out of his pocket and wiping his filthy hands remarked, ‘You won’t have to look far if I take on this place.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      For the first time a fleeting look of sadness crossed Lachlan’s strong features. ‘My mother left me a letter—you will have known from the post-mortem