18 
Crumholtz, Sutclyff, Stonehaugh, & Crumholtz

The storm about to engulf southwest England was born on winds slanting down from Scandinavia. Its northeast rains therefore hit Exeter a few minutes before arriving at the westernmost portions of Devon. And they hit suddenly and with fury.

The expensively dressed man hurrying along the walkway of Exeter’s High Street glanced up, silently cursing whatever gods were responsible for such things, and pulled his overcoat more tightly around his neck. He had been caught unsuspecting without an umbrella on his way from his hotel, and his shoulders and feet were nearly drenched. Unfortunately, the hotel was farther behind him than his destination was ahead, and he had no choice but to continue. He quickened his pace to an awkward run.

A long minute later he sloshed his way under a faded green awning, paused briefly to compose himself and catch his breath, then entered the door ahead of him.

“Good morning,” he said to the secretary who greeted him. “I have an appointment with Mr. Crumholtz.”

“Yes . . . Mr. Rutherford, is it?” she replied. “Mr. Crumholtz is expecting you. I will tell him you are here.”

She rose and disappeared into an inner office while Gifford Rutherford moved about uneasily on his cold feet, hoping the activity would keep him from freezing to death.

She reemerged a few minutes later. “This way please, Mr. Rutherford,” she said as she led him into the lawyer’s office, introduced him to her employer, then left the two men alone.

“I have been conducting some investigations for a period of several years,” began Gifford when he was seated.

“Investigations . . . of what nature?” inquired Bradbury Crumholtz.

“Dealing with an ancient family property about which there are some ambiguities of title,” replied Gifford. “It is, I believe, an estate with which you are familiar, as your firm has executed several wills and deeds for certain of its principals.”

“What do you know about my firm’s transactions?”

“As I said, I have been conducting an investigation of my own—a thorough investigation,” added Gifford, and the emphasis was not lost on Mr. Crumholtz. “That is why I am here—because I know you have had dealings in the affair. My own solicitor felt that your services would be invaluable, and that the necessary documents would carry more force coming from your office. It may be that you possess, or are in a position to obtain, the necessary information to right the wrongs done to my family once and for all.”

Crumholtz listened without betraying his annoyance at the fellow’s manner. From the cut of his suit, even wet, and his speech, he knew his visitor came from London and was wealthy—no doubt influential too. But already he didn’t like him.

“The estate is that known as Heathersleigh,” continued Gifford. “As I am sure you know, it lies northwest of here just outside the village of Milverscombe.”

Crumholtz nodded. “And?” he intoned slowly. “What is it exactly you want me to do?”

“It is simple, really,” replied Gifford. “I want you to initiate legal proceedings against Jocelyn Rutherford, the current resident of Heathersleigh Hall. She is, though this fact is of no consequence in the case, the widow of the late Charles Rutherford, who was my cousin.”

“What kind of proceedings?” asked Crumholtz.

“Putting forth my legal claim to the Heathersleigh estate,” replied Gifford, now shoving several sheets he had removed from inside his coat across the desk in front of the solicitor.

Crumholtz eyed the papers carefully, letting no twitch or expression betray his suspicions. A gnawing caution in the pit of his stomach told him to tread lightly with this man.

The office grew quiet. Crumholtz picked up the papers and pretended to review them. In truth, his mind was racing as he quickly tried to marshal what he knew about the estate in his brain, connecting various pieces from out of his memory. Suddenly he recalled the old McFee woman. She was connected to Heathersleigh as well.

“I will look into it, Mr. Rutherford,” he said after a moment, “though it may take a little time. These things always do. Though I am not at the current time a specific agent representing the present owner, there may be conflict-of-interest issues to be resolved. Where may I contact you?”

Gifford reached forward and handed him his card.

“I will make it worth your while,” said Gifford.

Crumholtz nodded. “And I may . . . keep these papers?” he said.

“Of course,” said Gifford, rising. “They are duplicates.”

Gifford departed and the solicitor remained seated another minute or two, continuing to turn the matter over in his mind.

Then he rose, walked to his safe, opened it, and thoughtfully removed the documents, including the sealed envelopes, that had been entrusted to the firm for safekeeping. He sat down at his desk again, spreading both new papers and old out in front of him.

What can it all mean? he puzzled to himself. And who is this new London Rutherford?