Free Design for Murder by Roy Lewis

solid red-stoned building with mullioned windows in the main street, overlooking the nineteenth-century marketplace. He had never had dealings with this particular firm of lawyers but from the confident style of their offices the partnership would seem to be a relatively flourishing one. A bit of commercial work, perhaps, but more likely relying upon business undertaken for some of the landed gentry in Northumberland. Estate management could be lucrative enough, as he knew from the period he had worked for his wife. Ex-wife, he grimaced. He pushed open the door and announced himself to thereceptionist. A few minutes later he found himself in an office on the first floor, overlooking the narrow gateway to the city walls. The wooden flooring creaked and groaned, proudly proclaiming its age.
    Mr Strudmore was short, plump, middle-aged, self-satisfied and friendly. He was dressed in a tweed suit of some longevity as though to announce his country leanings; a somewhat flamboyant bow-tie demonstrated his confidence. His moustache was grey, neatly trimmed and contrasting in colour to the bushy red hair that sprouted above his ears. Red, fading to an odd kind of orange. Bottled youth.
    He rose from behind his desk, advanced upon Eric and extended a fleshy, damp hand. ‘Mr Ward. We’ve not met previously, but you’ve been pointed out to me at Law Society dinners. You used to represent and act for Morcomb estates.’
    ‘I did. Some years ago.’
    Strudmore bounced on his heels reflectively, in a curious rocking motion. ‘Ah, yes … I’ve met your … ah … ex-wife, of course, on estate matters. But now you’re here looking after the interests of Miss Owen.’
    ‘Sharon has asked me to represent her, that’s right,’ Eric agreed.
    Strudmore waved Eric to a chair and sat down himself, behind a polished desk. In front of him was a thick pile of documents, the file cover tied with pink string. He smiled. ‘I’ll be more than a little relieved to hand these papers over to you at long last. It’s been a long-running business, the Chivers Trust.’
    Eric nodded in agreement. ‘Miss Owen had more or less suggested that was so.’
    ‘Goes back three generations,’ Strudmore mused, ‘and itgave rise to certain complications. Unfortunately, we weren’t involved in the matter immediately, and certain mistakes were made by the previous solicitors, papers lost, that sort of thing. It was my father who sorted it out sensibly,’ he added, ‘when the matter was handed over to us at last. By Mr Peter Chivers.’
    ‘I’m not at all familiar with the details of the case,’ Eric admitted.
    ‘Ah, well, perhaps I should fill you in a little before you sign for the papers,’ Strudmore replied, putting the tips of his chubby fingers together. ‘A coffee, while we talk?’
    Eric nodded, then waited while Strudmore phoned down to his secretary. ‘Now then, where was I?’ Strudmore said, smiling. ‘Ah, yes, the Chivers Trust.’
    Eric leaned back in his chair. He had the feeling that though he would have been able to work out the details for himself by a perusal of the files, Strudmore was anxious to tell him all about it. Perhaps he had little else to do.
    ‘Now, let me see,’ Strudmore said, putting his head back on his leather chair and staring at the ceiling, ‘I’ll indulge myself, if you don’t mind, by recalling the details without reference to the files. A good procedure, I believe, testing the memory. Don’t you agree? In legal matters a good memory is important, recalling details. Yes. Right, as I recall, the trust was originally set up by one George Chivers, bypassing the interests of his son and daughter, whom he provided for separately. But let’s start at the beginning.’
    Eric thought that would have been the beginning. He sat back in resignation and awaited the arrival of the coffee.
    ‘From what I’ve been able to ascertain, not being in possession of all the facts, George was an interesting, somewhat