The Victorian Villains Megapack (16 page)

The man of general dealings was balancing his books when Greer arrived, but at the announcement of his uncle’s death he dropped everything. He was not noticeably stricken with grief, unless a sudden seizure of his hat and a roaring aloud for a cab might be considered as indications of affliction; for in truth Paul Cater knew well that it was a case in which much might depend on being first at Bermondsey Wall. The worthy Greer had scarce got the news out before he found himself standing in the street while Cater was giving directions to a cabman. “Here—you come in too,” said Cater, and Greer was bustled into the cab.

It was plainly a situation in which half-crowns should not be too reluctantly parted with. So Paul Cater produced one and presented it. Cater was a strong-faced man of fifty odd, with a tight-drawn mouth that proclaimed everywhere a tight fist; so that the unaccustomed passing over of a tip was a noticeably awkward and unspontaneous performance, and Greer pocketed the money with little more acknowledgment than a growl.

“Do you know where he put the will?” asked Paul Cater with a keen glance.

“Will?” answered Greer, looking him blankly in the face—the gaze of one eye passing over Cater’s shoulder and that of the other seeming to seek his boots. “Will? P’raps ’e never made one.”

“Didn’t he?”

“That ’ud mean, lawfully, as the property would come to you an’ Mr. Flint—’arves. Bern’ all personal property. So I’d think.” And Greer’s composite gaze blankly persisted.

“But how do you know whether he made a Will or not?”

“’Ow do I know? Ah, well, p’raps I dunno. It’s only fancy like. I jist put it to you—that’s all. It ’ud be divided atween the two of you.” Then, after a long pause, he added: “But lor! It ’ud be a pretty fine thing for you if he did leave a will, and willed it all to you, wouldn’t it? Mighty fine thing! An’ it ’ud be a mighty fine thing for Mr. Flint if there was a will leaving it all to him, wouldn’t it? Pretty fine thing!”

Cater said nothing, but watched Greer’s face sharply. Greer’s face, with its greasy features and its irresponsible squint, was as expressive as a brick. They travelled some distance in silence. Then Greer said musingly, “Ah, a will like that ’ud be a mighty fine thing! What ’ud you be disposed to give for it now?”

“Give for it? What do you mean?
If
there’s a will there’s an end to it. Why should I give anything for it?”

“Jist so—jist so,” replied Greer, with a complacent wave of the hand. “Why should you? No reason at all, unless you couldn’t find it without givin’ something.”

“See here, now,” said Cater sharply, “let us understand this. Do you mean that there is a will, and you know that it is hidden, and where it is?”

Greer’s squint remained impenetrable. “Hidden? Lor!—’ow should I know if it was hidden? I was a-puttin’ of a case to you.”

“Because,” Cater went on, disregarding the reply, “if that’s the case, the sooner you out with the information the better it’ll be for you. Because there are ways of making people give up information of that sort for nothing.”

“Yes—o’ course,” replied the imperturbable Greer. “O’ course there is. An’ quite right too. Ah, it’s a fine thing is the lawr—a mighty fine thing!”

The cab rattled over the stones of Bermondsey Wall, and the two alighted at the door through which old Jerry Cater was soon to come feet first. Sinclair was back, much disturbed and anxious. At sight of Paul Cater the poor fellow, weak and broken-spirited, left the house as quietly as he might. For years of grinding habit had inured him to the belief that in reality old Cater had treated him rather well, and now he feared the probable action of the heirs.

“Who was that?” asked Paul Cater of Greer. “Wasn’t it the clerk that owed my uncle the money?”

Greer nodded.

“Then he’s not to come here again—do you hear? I’ll take charge of the books and things. As to the debt—well, I’ll see about that after. And now look here.” Paul Cater stood before Greer and spoke with decision. “About that will, now. Bring it.”

Greer was not to be bluffed. “Where from?” he asked innocently.

“Will you stand there and tell me you don’t know where it is?”

“Maybe I’d best stand here and tell you what pays me best.”

“Pay yon? How much more do you want? Bring me that will, or I’ll have you in gaol for stealing it!”

“Lor!” answered Greer composedly, conscious of holding another trump as well as the will. “Why, if there was anybody as knowed where the will was, and you talked to him as woilent as that ‘ere, why, you’d frighten him so much he’d as likely as not go out and get a price from your cousin, Mr. Flint. Whatever was in the will it might pay him to get hold of it.”

At this moment there came a furious knocking at the front door. “Why,” Greer continued, “I bet that’s him. It can’t be nobody else—I bet the doctor’s told him, or summat.”

They were on the first-floor landing, and Greer peeped from a broken-shuttered window that looked on the street. “Yes,” he said, “that’s Mr. Flint sure enough. Now, Mr. Paul Cater, business. Do you want to see that will before I let Mr. Flint in?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Cater furiously, catching at his arm. “Quick—where is it?”

“I want twenty pound.”

“Twenty pound! You’re mad! What for?”

“All right, if I’m mad, I’ll go an’ let Mr. Flint in.”

The knocking was repeated, louder and longer.

“No,” cried Cater, getting in his way. “You know you mustn’t conceal a will—that’s law. Give it up.”

“What’s the law that says I must give it up to you, ‘stead of yer cousin? If there’s a will it may say anythin’—in yer favour or out of it. If there ain’t, you’ll git ‘alf. The will might give you more, or it might give you less, or it might give you nothink. Twenty pound for first look at it ‘fore Flint comes in, and do what you like with it ‘fore he knows anythink about it.”

Again the knocking came at the door, this time supplemented by kicks.

“But I don’t carry twenty pound about with me!” protested Cater, waving his fists. “Give me the will and come to my office for the money tomorrow!”

“No tick for this sort of job,” answered Greer decisively. “Sorry I can’t oblige you—I’m goin’ down to the front door.” And he made as though to go.

“Well, look here!” said Cater desperately, pulling out his pocket-book. “I’ve got a note or two, I think—”

“’Ow much?” asked Greer, calmly laying hold of the pocket-book. “Two at least. Two fivers. Well, ril let it go at that. Give us hold.” He took the notes, and pulled out the will from his pocket. Flint, outside, battered the door once more.

“Why,” exclaimed Cater as he glanced over the sheet, “I’m sole executor and I get the lot! Who are these witnesses?”

“Oh, they’re all right. Longshore hands just hereabout. You’ll get ’em any day at the ‘Ship and Anchor.’”

Cater put the will in his breast-pocket. “You’d best get out o’ this, my man,” he said. “You’ve had me for ten pound, and the further you get from me the safer you’ll be.”

“What?” said Greer with a chuckle. “Not even grateful! Shockin’!” He took his way downstairs, and Cater followed. At the door Flint, a counterpart of Cater, except that his dress was more slovenly, stood ragefully.

“Ah, cousin,” said Cater, standing on the threshold and preventing his entrance, “this is a very sad loss!”

“Sad loss!” Flint replied with disgust. “A lot you think of the loss—as much as I do, I reckon. I want to come in.”

“Then you sha’n’t!” Cater replied, with a prompt change of manner. “You shan’t! I’m sole executor, and I’ve got the will in my pocket.” He pulled it out sufficiently far to show the end of the paper, and then returned it. “As executor I’m in charge of the property, and responsible. It’s vested in me till the will’s put into effect. That’s law. And it’s a bad thing for anybody to interfere with an executor. That’s law too.”

Flint was angry, but cautious. “Well,” he said, “you’re uncommon high, with your will and your executor’s law and your ‘sad loss,’ I must say. What’s your game?”

For answer Cater began to shut the door.

“Just you look out!” cried Flint. “You haven’t heard the last of this! You may be executor or it may be a lie. You may have the will or you may not; anyway I know better than to run the risk of putting myself in the wrong now. But I’ll watch you, and I’ll watch this house, and I’ll be about when the will comes to be proved! And if that ain’t done quick, I’ll apply for administration myself, and see the thing through!”

III

Samuel Greer sheered off as the cousinly interview ended, well satisfied with himself. Ten pounds was a fortune to him, and he meant having a good deal more. He did nothing further till the following morning, when he presented himself at the shop of Jarvis Flint.

“Good mornin’, Mr. Flint,” said Samuel Greer, grinning and squinting affably. “I couldn’t help noticin’ as you had a few words yesterday with Mr. Cater after the sad loss.”

“Well?”

“It ’appens as I’ve seen the will as Mr. Cater was talkin’ of, an’ I thought p’raps it ’ud save you makin’ mistakes if I told you of it.”

“What about it?” Jarvis Flint was not disposed to accept Greer altogether on trust.

“Well it
do
seem a scandalous thing, certainly, but what Mr. Cater said was right. He
do
take the personal property, subjick to debts, an’ he do take the freehold prim’ses. An’ he is the ’xecutor.”

“Was the will witnessed?”

“Yes—two waterside chaps well know’d thereabouts.”

“Was it made by a lawyer?”

“No—all in the lamented corpse’s ’and-writin’.”

“Umph!” Flint maintained his hard stare in Greer’s face. “Anything else?”

“Well, no, Mr. Flint, sir, p’raps not. But I wonder if there might be sich a thing as a codicil?”

“Is there?”

“Oh, I was a-wonderin’, that’s all. It might make a deal o’ difference in the will, mightn’t it? And p’raps Mr. Cater mightn’t know anythink about the codicil.”

“What do you mean? Is there a codicil?”

“Well, reely, Mr. Flint,” answered Greer with a deprecatory grin—“reely it ain’t business to give information for nothink, is it?”

“Business or not, if you know anything you’ll find you’ll have to tell it. I’m not going to let Cater have it all his own way, if he is executor. My lawyer’ll be on the job before you’re a day older, my man, and you won’t find it pay to keep things too quiet.”

“But it can’t pay worse than to give information for nothink,” persisted Greer. “Come, now, Mr. Flint, s’pose (I don’t say there is, mind—I only say
s’pose
)—s’pose there
was
a codicil, and s’pose that codicil meant a matter of a few thousand pound in your pocket. And s’pose some person could tell you where to put your hand on that codicil, what might you be disposed to pay that person?”

“Bring me the codicil,” answered Flint, “and if it’s all right I’ll give you—well, say five shillings.”

Greer grinned again and shook his head. “No, reely, Mr. Flint,” he said, “we can’t do business on terms like them. Fifty pound down in my hand now, and it’s done. Fifty ’ud be dirt cheap. And the longer you are a-considerin’—well, you know, Mr. Cater might get hold of it, and then, why, s’pose it got burnt and never ’eard of agen?”

Flint glared with round eyes. “You get out!” he said. “Go on! Fifty pound, indeed! Fifty pound, without my knowing whether you’re telling lies or not! Out you go! I know what to do now, my man!”

Greer grinned once more, and slouched out. He had not expected to bring Flint to terms at once. Of course the man would drive him away at first, and, having got scent of the existence of the codicil, and supposing it to be somewhere concealed about the old house at Bermondsey Wall, he would set his lawyer to warn his cousin that the thing was known, and that he, as executor, would be held responsible for it. But the trump card, the codicil itself, was carefully stowed in the lining of Greer’s hat, and Cater knew nothing about it. Presently Flint, finding Cater obdurate, would approach the wily Greer again, and then he could be squeezed. Meanwhile the hat-lining was as safe a place as any in which to keep the paper. Perhaps Flint might take a fancy to have him waylaid at night and searched, in which case a pocket would be an unsafe repository.

Flint, on his part, was in good spirits. Plainly there
was
a codicil, favourable to himself. Certainly he meant neither to pay Greer for discovering it—at any rate no such sum as fifty pounds—nor to abate a jot of his rights. Flint had a running contract with a shady solicitor, named Lugg, in accordance with which Lugg received a yearly payment and transacted all his legal business—consisting chiefly of writing threatening letters to unfortunate debtors. Also, as I think I have mentioned, Dorrington was working for him at the time, and working at very cheap rates. Flint resolved, to begin with, to set Dorrington and Lugg to work. But first Dorrington—who, as a matter of fact, was in Flint’s back office during the interview with Greer. Thus it was that in an hour or two Dorrington found himself in active pursuit of Samuel Greer, with instructions to watch him closely, to make him drunk if possible, and to get at his knowledge of the codicil by any means conceivable.

IV

On the morning of the day after his talk with Flint, Samuel Greer ruminated doubtfully on the advisability of calling on the ship-store dealer again, or waiting in dignified silence till Flint should approach him. As he ruminated he rubbed his chin, and so rubbing it found it very stubbly. He resolved on the luxury of a penny shave, and, as he walked the street, kept his eyes open for a shop where the operation was performed at that price. Mr. Flint, at any rate, could wait till his chin was smooth. Presently, in a turning by Abbey Street, Bermondsey, he came on just such a barber’s shop as he wanted. Within, two men were being shaved already, and another waiting; and Greer felt himself especially fortunate in that three more followed at his heels. He was ahead of their turns, anyhow. So he waited patiently.

The man whose turn was immediately before his own did not appear to be altogether sober. A hiccough shook him from time to time; he grinned with a dull glance at a comic paper held upside down in his hand, and when he went to take his turn at a chair his walk was unsteady. The barber had to use his skill to avoid cutting him, and he opened his mouth to make remarks at awkward times. Then Greer’s turn came at the other chair, and when his shave was half completed he saw the unsteady customer rise, pay his penny, and go out.