Authors: Roy Lewis
Escapades. There had been a certain relish in the manner in which Strudmore had used the word. Eric had the feeling that Strudmore would have liked to know more about George Chivers and his dashing, possibly raffish existence.
‘George had married quite early in life, perhaps because of the war and the feeling that all could be over very quickly. Many young people did, I understand.
Carpe diem
, you know, seize the day.’ Strudmore squinted at Eric, a hint of lasciviousness in his smirk. ‘Or maybe it was just animal passion. Anyway, he married Flora Denton in 1939. Their first child, Peter, was born in 1941. A second child, a daughter called Anne – that’s Miss Owen’s mother – was born a year later. Quite how much the children saw of their father during the war is difficult to ascertain; certainly, once the war was concluded George seems to have been very much the absentee husband. You will see from the files that by 1947 he was living and working in Scotland, in Edinburgh and Glasgow. There’s nothing in the papers to suggest a formal separation or a marital breakdown, but it’s clear that Flora saw little of her husband over the following years, and the children, who were in due course sent to boarding schools, lacked the guidance of a male parent in
their lives.’
There was a tap on the door; a young woman with fashionably tousled hair and knowing eyes came in with the coffee. Strudmore smiled at her in a benign fashion and with an old-world courtesy personally handed Eric his coffee. As the young woman left with the empty tray, Strudmore’s glance lingered almost hungrily over her swaying hips. He was silent for a little while as he sipped his coffee, then laid the cup down on his desk.
‘Now, where was I? Ah, yes, Scotland. As I explained earlier there is some mystery about what George was up to in the north after the war but as far as I can make out it was something to do with the Ministry of Defence. But no matter. None of this is strictly relevant, hey?’ Strudmore giggled. ‘Just background matters. What is clear is that his business interests continued to flourish and by the time the children reached their majority there was certainly no shortage of money and Flora was living in some style here in Alnwick. You probably won’t know the building, but it’s quite a handsome Victorian mansion just off the A1 …’ Strudmore paused, frowned slightly, picked up his coffee cup and raised it to his lips. ‘She was still there in 1971 when some sort of argument arose, tore at the family. I don’t know whether it occurred because of George’s natural inclinations, or perhaps it was a result of marital breakdown, it’s not clear, and it’s all a private matter hushed up by the family anyway, but it seems George had been keeping a mistress in Glasgow. George was fifty years old by then, and his, ah, companion was at most about twenty, or twenty-two. Thereabouts. There was a flurry of letters, it would seem, because the girl – Sally Chalmers, I believe she was called – may have been in some financial difficulty. I’m not sure what it was all about because correspondence originally in
the file had been weeded, at the insistence of Mrs Flora Chivers, I believe.’
Eric shifted in his chair. He suspected all this might have nothing to do with the trust; it was merely the prurient inquisitiveness of an ageing lawyer.
Strudmore put the tips of his fingers together and stared again at the ceiling. ‘In a spare hour I once caused a check to be made of the local press at the time. Just as a matter of curiosity. I can’t be sure it was the same person, but it seems there was a prison sentence involved. It was a sad business, really, because George died in 1973 and little more is heard of the unfortunate Sally Chalmers.’
‘You say, “unfortunate”?’
Strudmore nodded. ‘George Chivers was a wealthy man. He had made a will in 1958. It seems, however, that he never effected any changes to the will to take account of his liaison with Miss Chalmers.’
‘I see.’
Strudmore appeared slightly disturbed and shook his head. ‘Yes. Used and cast aside, I fear. Way of the world. Originally, there was a letter in the file, written by Miss Chalmers. I can’t imagine what it was about. There is a reply, a sort of final letter that tells us little. You will see it for yourself. But the rest, I’m afraid it was the supporting correspondence ensuing that was later weeded out.’ Strudmore’s glance wavered and dropped from the ceiling, and in a slightly flustered tone, as though he realized he had been wandering, went on, ‘However, I’m rambling. All this is strictly speaking nothing to do with Miss Owen and the trust fund.’
Eric sipped his coffee, relieved that perhaps they were now approaching the core of the matter.
‘After the death of George Chivers, most of his money
went to his widow Flora, with legacies to the two children Peter and Anne. George’s son Peter took over the running of the family business but soon began to diversify into property development. He displayed a business acumen which was certainly the equal of his father’s. When his mother Flora passed on, her estate was divided equally between Peter and his sister Anne. However, a large part of the estate had already been tied up in a family trust, set up by George in favour of his grandchildren, and while Peter was by now running his own property business successfully, trouble arose because of the activities of Anne’s husband.’
Eric was getting a little lost. ‘Peter’s sister Anne had married?’
Strudmore nodded. ‘The daughter of George Chivers, Anne, married a solicitor. James Owen.’
‘That would be Sharon’s father.’
‘Correct,’ Strudmore enunciated primly. He eyed Eric carefully for a few moments. ‘It would have been better, in my view, if the trust had been handled independently of family, but that did not happen. James Owen, whose own legal practice had never been particularly flourishing, took it upon himself to administer the Chivers Trust personally. Possibly at the suggestion of his wife Anne. Not a good idea. I fear he was not very … shall we say, efficient.’
There was something in his tone that suggested more than lack of efficiency. ‘How do you mean?’ Eric asked, his curiosity at last being aroused.
‘You’ll be aware, naturally, that in any trust business of any consequence there are restrictions relating to the use of investments … wider range and narrower range. Investments were made by James Owen. But when James Owen died suddenly of a heart attack three years ago it was discovered that he had paid little regard to these legal
restrictions. As a consequence, quite a lot of money would seem to have been dissipated. Which brings us to the crux of the problem.’
‘Family dispute,’ Eric sighed, and finished his coffee.
Strudmore nodded. ‘My own take on the situation is that the two siblings, Peter and Anne, had never been particularly close. Perhaps because of their upbringing, with their father always away from home. Or Flora’s … rather cool character, perhaps? Who can tell? However, the families were not really in touch with each other, quite distant even though they both lived in the north. Peter ran his property development business and his daughter Coleen was in due course made a board member.’
‘Coleen would be a granddaughter of George Chivers, and therefore a beneficiary under the trust,’ Eric suggested.
‘That is correct, Mr Ward.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Peter Chivers’ marriage.’
‘Ah, but of course.’ Strudmore seemed briefly disorientated, disturbed in his narrative. ‘Yes, Peter Chivers married, but his wife died in childbirth. The daughter, Coleen Chivers, was born in 1973. Father and daughter were close; he trained her into the business. From the correspondence, and the instructions she has given to her legal representatives in the matter of the trust, she seems to be a hard, aggressive businesswoman.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I take no sides in this quarrel, of course.’
‘The quarrel,’ Eric prompted him. ‘It relates to the proceeds of the trust?’
‘Precisely. Coleen Chivers is now managing director of a successful property development company and one would think that she would hardly bother with such matters but she has shown a persistent interest in the … ah … black hole that appeared in trust fund moneys as a result of the
depredations of James Owen.’
Perhaps the word had slipped out. Previously, Strudmore had spoken only of inefficiency. ‘Depredations?’ Eric asked carefully.
Strudmore sniffed, then wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Well, yes, I’m afraid it was not simply a matter of inefficiency, but wrongdoing, I regret to say. Mr Owen had made certain drawings on the funds, to his own benefit.’
‘At the same time his daughter Sharon, a beneficiary under the trust, was becoming a lawyer herself,’ Eric mused.
Strudmore was silent for a little while. Thoughtfully, he said, ‘Miss Owen is carving a successful career for herself at the bar. I think she comes out of all this as the only
clear-sighted
and sensible person in the whole business. The trust is to be wound up, she and her cousin Coleen Chivers are the sole beneficiaries, but while Miss Chivers has insisted on demanding her full rights Miss Owen has kept her distance. Leaving matters to her lawyers. You, now.’ Strudmore shrugged, caressing his chubby lips with careful fingers. ‘The parties haven’t even met: Miss Chivers wanted action but no contact.’
‘But issues have now been largely resolved?’ Eric asked.
‘Preliminary agreements have been drafted,’ Strudmore replied, nodding. ‘I would have wished that Miss Owen might have fought more strenuously for her own interests, but she has been insistent on agreeing compromises which, I must say, favour her cousin quite strongly.’
Eric could guess at Sharon’s feelings: if the discrepancies had been due to her father’s failings she would not have wanted to enter into bitter disputes with her cousin.
‘So,’ Strudmore said, tapping the files in front of him, ‘I think we can safely say that all is now more or less sorted out. I have prepared the drafts; if you would like to take over
these files, I am happy to let you wind up the trust proper. I’ve taken the liberty of adding my own charges in these papers, and I must admit I’m relieved to see the end of the whole business. It’s always unpleasant when families fall out.’
‘Though lucrative for lawyers,’ Eric added.
‘Quite so.’ Strudmore flushed. ‘Though you will see that our charges have been reasonable, in view of the time and energy we have had to devote to this affair.’
Time, perhaps, but Eric doubted whether the chubby little partner in Strudmore and Evans would have devoted much energy to the issues. He rose, extending his hand to Strudmore. ‘Good. I’ll take up no more of your time. And I’m sure your charges are more than reasonable.’
Strudmore rose also, shook Eric’s hand, picked up the files and presented them to him. ‘And even after our charges,’ he tried to joke, ‘you will see that Miss Owen will receive a considerable amount of money under the trust.’
Though her cousin Coleen Chivers would get her hands on a lot more, Eric guessed.
Eric did not see Sharon that evening: she had been called away to a hearing at the Court of Appeal in London. He spent the evening at his apartment going through the trust files. It was more or less as Strudmore had explained. As a beneficiary under the Chivers Trust, Sharon would receive a considerable amount of money even though it amounted to only one third of the total. The hard-headed property developer Coleen Chivers had certainly pressed her case. With some justification, Eric was forced to admit. Sharon’s father had been most indiscreet with some of the investments he had made on behalf of the trust, and there were certainly discrepancies in some of the liquid funds,
discrepancies that could have caused him to be struck off the roll of solicitors had they come to light before his premature death. Eric could understand why Sharon would not want to argue too much over the splitting of the money: she would feel strongly about her father’s weakness. It would be a matter of honour for her to repair the damage.
There was a brief hearing in the magistrates court to attend the following morning, after which Eric dawdled over a coffee at The Slug and Lettuce on the Quayside before presenting himself at the office again. He held a brief consultation with his two assistant solicitors concerning the immigration briefs that had come in from the Home Office and reached agreement over some of the files that were crying out for attention. He spent the rest of the morning with two clients before having a sandwich at his desk.
Susie buzzed him at three in the afternoon. ‘Mr Fraser is here. Are you ready to see him now?’
‘Fraser?’ For a moment Eric was puzzled, then he muttered under his breath. The man he had taken for a journalist, who had spoken briefly to him at the end of Conroy’s trial. He sighed. ‘Yes, you can send him in, Susie.’
Some moments later the man who had introduced himself as Tony Fraser entered the room.
He was still clad in the worn leather jacket and jeans and his shirt collar was still grubby. He held out his hand: his handshake was limp, the skin soft as a woman’s. He was smiling but the smile did not reach his eyes. There was something about the man Eric did not like though he was unable to pin down what it was. It might have been the air of failure that hung around the man, the feeling of disappointment that seemed ingrained in the sagging line of his jaw, the insincerity of the smile. Fraser sat down. Eric
decided to dispense with the usual courtesies, and make the interview as brief as possible.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Fraser?’
Tony Fraser’s glance flickered around the room. ‘I was very impressed, Mr Ward, by Miss Owen’s handling of the case against Raymond Conroy. But, of course, she would have been well briefed by you.’
Eric remained silent.
Fraser licked dry lips. He coughed nervously. ‘Perhaps I should explain. It’s a few years ago that I decided to follow a career as a journalist. It’s a tougher game than I expected, but I’ve persisted and things aren’t going too badly at the moment.’
‘Which newspaper are you with?’ Eric asked.
There was a short silence, a hesitation as Fraser’s glance flicked away from Eric and looked around the room again. ‘Well, I’m sort of freelance, in that I’m not in full employment with any one newspaper, but I’ve had pieces in the
Metro
, and occasional articles in the
Shields Gazette
….’