**The Inheritance**
The old, spacious flat buzzed with unusual activity. The doorbell jangled time and again, and each chime ushered in another relative. This time, it was a stout man in an expensive suit, his jacket straining over his protruding belly.
A pale, plain woman shot him a sour smile, while another man rose from the sofa and strode forward to meet him.
“Walter! Didn’t think you’d come,” the man said, shaking his hand. “Sit down, tell me—how’s life?”
The woman huffed and shifted to the far end of the sofa, making room for the brothers.
*”This is Harold’s wife? After all the birds he’s chased, he ends up with… her?”* Walter couldn’t find the right word.
The bell jangled once more. All three turned their heads toward the door. The last awaited guest had arrived. A tall man in black trousers and a navy-blue jumper stepped in, the crisp white shirt beneath stark against the dark fabric.
Benedict greeted them curtly, glanced around, and settled into a battered armchair in the opposite corner.
*”Look at Benedict, all dapper now,”* Walter mused. Recognisable, though thirty years had passed. So here they were—three brothers, three heirs, gathered like crows over carrion. Walter had hoped no one else would turn up, least of all Benedict.
The summons had been clear: *”Come bid farewell to Aunt Margaret.”* The address was included, just in case they’d forgotten.
Walter had long since moved away—a good job, a house, a car, two daughters, one already a grandmother herself. Truth be told, he didn’t need Aunt Margaret’s inheritance. He’d come out of curiosity.
The flat had seemed vast in his childhood, full of shadowy corners, towering clocks, and cumbersome furniture.
When their father fell from scaffolding at a construction site, their mother withered with grief. How could she raise three boys alone? Harold, the youngest, wasn’t even five. Life had been hard. Then, one day, their mother’s elder brother arrived—a man they’d never heard of—offering to take the two oldest boys, just until she recovered.
He and his wife were childless. *She’ll come for them,* he’d said, pressing money into her hand before leaving with the children. But grief drove her to drink, and soon she was gone.
Aunt Margaret was stern and cold. She fed them, clothed them, tried to love them. Walter saw his chance and seized it, currying favour with his uncle and aunt. Benedict, though—he withdrew, refusing to play family. After school, he left, unlike Walter, who went to university. Returned to their parents’ old flat, took a job, studied by correspondence. Their uncle sent money once, but Benedict returned it with a note: *”I don’t need it.”*
Walter married in his final year and moved to his in-laws’ place in Brighton. Harold grew up wild—the black sheep of the family, as they say.
*”The flat needs work, but it’ll sell well. And the furniture—solid, antique, from the sixties. That Bohemian crystal in the cabinet. There must be savings too, unless they were lost in the Thatcher years…”* Walter snapped out of his musings.
He kept glancing at Benedict, who sat motionless, legs crossed. Harold murmured to his wife, eyeing his brothers. *”Benedict, the outcast. Harold’ll squander his share…”* Walter felt he alone deserved Margaret’s inheritance.
A pretty girl had let them in—likely Margaret’s carer. No sooner had Walter thought it than a wheelchair entered the room. Perched atop it, a frail old woman slumped forward, her legs shrouded in a thick quilt.
The girl positioned the chair so Margaret could see them all. Against the withered figure, she looked even lovelier. For the brothers, the sight of their aunt—alive—was a shock.
Walter tried to reckon her age. Well past eighty. Why had he assumed she was dead? The telegram said *”bid farewell to Margaret Elizabeth.”* He’d taken it to mean a funeral.
He studied her—the wrinkled, liver-spotted face, wild grey hair like wire, arthritic hands resting on the armrests. Time had spared nothing of the proud, elegant woman he remembered.
“Margaret is glad to see you all,” the girl said brightly.
“At her request, I found you and brought you here. Apologies if the telegram was unclear. She wanted to settle things—no fights over the will later.”
“So our wishes will be considered?” Walter perked up.
“Not quite. Tea, anyone?” She turned to Harold’s wife.
“And you are?” Walter cut in.
“This is Violet, my granddaughter,” came Margaret’s rasping voice.
Walter stared, then shifted his gaze to Benedict, who remained unreadable. Harold fidgeted.
*”Harold’s daughter? Another heir. Bloody inconvenient. Proof of relation needed,”* Walter thought, watching Violet’s retreating back.
Once alone with their aunt, the brothers waited.
“Thank you for coming,” she wheezed. “Thought I was dead, didn’t you? Came for the will, not for me. Well, each gets what he deserves. Just don’t bicker at my grave when you don’t like it.”
“Is there anything worth bickering over?” Walter asked.
“You’ve changed. Benedict—glad you came, though you never liked me. Harold’s still the rake he always was.”
“Old, but not senile.” Her head drooped; her eyes closed. Walter thought she’d drifted off. The brothers exchanged glances.
Violet returned, calling them to tea. Harold bolted to the kitchen like a man reprieved. Benedict and Walter stayed put.
“You never made peace?” Margaret asked suddenly.
“Never quite managed,” Walter answered for both.
“Grown stout, I see. That waistcoat might split. Living well, then? Why not bring your wife?”
“Busy woman—headmistress,” Walter boasted. “Two daughters, both married. One’s made me a granddad.”
“Brothers ought to stick together. You’re all I have. Well—and Violet. The flat goes to her. Don’t glare, Walter. She cared for me ten years. Kept me alive. You? Not a card, not a visit. I tried to be your mother. Failed. Benedict, I understand—but you, Walter?”
Walter flushed, speechless.
“There’s the country house. Sturdy, plenty of land. Remember how you loved it, Benedict? And the ‘78 Bentley in the garage. Mint condition.”
“None of you will go empty-handed,” she grinned, revealing yellowed but intact teeth. A shiver ran down Walter’s spine. *”Still alive, still with her own teeth. Witch.”*
“Violet!” Margaret called.
The girl appeared instantly.
“Tired. Bed,” Margaret mumbled.
Only then did Walter notice the electric light, the darkness outside. The towering grandfather clock read five to ten. He’d thought only two hours had passed. Time had slipped away like a cat’s tongue lapping cream.
Violet wheeled Margaret out.
“I thought she was dead. Came for a funeral—and she’s alive,” Walter muttered.
Benedict said nothing.
“Well, if she’s announced the will, she *has* to die now, right?” Walter joked. Benedict didn’t smile.
Violet showed the guests to their rooms. Harold had already left for a hotel.
Walter lay awake, listening. Footsteps, sighs, murmurs. Twice he rose, peering into the dark hallway. Empty. A draught whispered.
Dawn stole in before sleep did. He woke late. Silence. No steps, no breaths. *”Nerves. Shouldn’t have come.”* He sighed, donned yesterday’s shirt—he hated that—and headed to the kitchen. The table was set. Coffee steamed. His stomach growled.
*”Did Violet make this? She’s not bad. Too young for me, though. And married…”* He sipped his coffee.
The doorbell rang. A portly doctor in a white coat entered, Violet trailing.
“Is Margaret all right?” Walter asked, ignored. He followed, but Violet blocked him.
“You can’t go in.” The door shut in his face.
Harold’s room was empty. *”What the devil’s going on?”* He cornered the doctor in the hall.
“Leaving so soon? How is she?”
“Died last night,” the doctor said, adjusting his glasses.
“Why?”
“Old age.”
“Granny didn’t want the morgue. Dr. Whitmore’s handled it. Funeral’s tomorrow,” Violet said. Only then did Walter notice her red eyes.
“You mean she’ll *lie here* until then?” His voice rose. “That’s bloody grotesque.”
“A hotel room, if you prefer…”
“Do. I won’t stay another minute.”
“Don’t leave town. The will’s to be read after.” Walter waved her off.
He checked into a nearby hotel. Next day,The following week, as Violet wandered through the empty flat, tracing the ghost of Margaret’s presence, she realised that no inheritance could replace the quiet love of those ten years, nor mend the fractures between the men who had come and gone like shadows in the wake of greed.
