Old Jerry Cater was plainly not long for this world. Ailing for months, he at length gave in and took to his bed. Greer watched him anxiously and greedily, for it was his design, when his master went at last, to get what he could for himself. More than once during his illness old Cater had sent Greer to fetch his nephews. Greer had departed on these errands, but never got farther than the next street. He hung about a reasonable time — perhaps in the “Ship and Anchor,” if funds permitted — and then returned to say that the nephews could not come just yet. Old Cater had quarrelled with his nephews, as he had with everybody else, some time before, and Greer was resolved, if he could, to prevent any meeting now, for that would mean that the nephews would take possession of the place, and he would lose his chance of convenient larceny when the end came. So it was that neither nephew knew of old Jerry Cater’s shaky condition.
Before long, finding that the old miser could not leave his bed — indeed he could scarcely turn in it — Greer took courage, in Sinclair’s absence, to poke about the place in search of concealed sovereigns. He had no great time for this, because Jerry Cater seemed to have taken a great desire for his company, whether for the sake of his attendance or to keep him out of mischief was not clear. At any rate Greer found no concealed sovereigns, nor anything better than might be sold for a few pence at the rag-shop. Until one day, when old Cater was taking alternate fits of restlessness and sleep, Greer ventured to take down a dusty old pickle-jar from the top shelf in the cupboard of his master’s bedroom. Cater was dozing at the moment, and Greer, tilting the jar toward the light, saw within a few doubled papers, very dusty. He snatched the papers out, stuffed them into his pocket, replaced the jar, and closed the cupboard door hastily. The door made some little noise, and old Cater turned and woke, and presently he made a shift to sit up in bed, while Greer scratched his head as innocently as he could, and directed his divergent eyes to parts of the room as distant from the cupboard as possible.
“Sam’l Greer,” said old Cater in a feeble voice, while his lower jaw waggled and twitched, “Sam’l Greer, I think I’ll ‘ave some beef-tea.” He groped tremulously under his pillow, turning his back to Greer, who tip-toed and glared variously over his master’s shoulders. He saw nothing, however, though he heard the chink of money. Old Cater turned, with a shilling in his shaking hand. “Git ‘alf a pound o’ shin o’ beef,” he said, “an’ go to Green’s for it at the other end o’ Grange Road, d’ye hear? It’s — it’s a penny a pound cheaper there than it is anywhere nearer, and — and I ain’t in so much of a ‘urry for it, so the distance don’t matter. Go ‘long.” And old Jerry Cater subsided in a fit of coughing.
Greer needed no second bidding. He was anxious to take a peep at the papers he had secreted. Sinclair was out collecting, or trying to collect, but Greer did not stop to examine his prize before he had banged the street door behind him, lest Cater, listening above, should wonder what detained him. But in a convenient courtyard a hundred yards away he drew out the papers and inspected them eagerly. First, there was the policy of insurance of the house and premises. Then there was a bundle of receipts for the yearly insurance premiums. And then — there was old Jerry Cater’s will.
There were two foolscap sheets, written all in Jerry Cater’s own straggling handwriting. Greer hastily scanned the sheets, and his dirty face grew longer and his squint intensified as he turned over the second sheet, found nothing behind it, and stuffed the papers back in his pocket. For it was plain that not a penny of old Jerry Cater’s money was for his faithful servant, Samuel Greer.
“Ungrateful ole waga-bone!” mused the faithful servant as he went his way. “Not a blessed ‘a’peny; not a ‘a’peny! An’ them ‘as don’t want it gets it, o’ course. That’s always the way — it’s like a-greasing’ of a fat pig. I shall ‘ave to get what I can while I can, that’s all.” And so ruminating he pursued his way to the butcher’s in Grange Road.
Once more on his way there, and twice on his way back, Samuel Greer stepped into retired places to look at those papers again, and at each inspection he grew more thoughtful. There might be money in it yet. Come, he must think it over.
The front door being shut, and Sinclair probably not yet returned, he entered the house by a way familiar to the inmates — a latched door giving on to the wharf. The clock told him that he had been gone nearly an hour, but Sinclair was still absent. When he entered old Cater’s room upstairs he found a great change. The old man lay in a state of collapse, choking with a cough that exhausted him; and for this there seemed little wonder, for the window was open, and the room was full of the cold air from the river.
“Wot jer bin openin’ the winder for?” asked Greer in astonishment. “It’s enough to give ye yer death.” He shut it and returned to the bedside. But though he offered his master the change from the shilling the old man seemed not to see it nor to hear his voice.
“Well, if you won’t — don’t,” observed Greer with some alacrity, pocketing the coppers. “But I’ll bet he’ll remember right enough presently.”
“D’y’ear,” he added, bending over the bed, “I’ve got the beef. Shall I bile it now?”
But old Jerry Cater’s eyes still saw nothing and he heard not, though his shrunken chest and shoulders heaved with the last shudders of the cough that had exhausted him. So Greer stepped lightly to the cupboard and restored the fire policy and the receipts to the pickle-jar. He kept the will.
Greer made preparations for cooking the beef, and as he did so he encountered another phenomenon. “Well, he have bin a goin’ of it!” said Greer. “Blow me if he ain’t bin readin’ the Bible now!”
A large, ancient, worn old Bible, in a rough calf-skin cover, lay on a chair by old Cater’s hand. It had probably been the family Bible of the Caters for generations back, for certainly old Jerry Cater would never have bought such a thing. For many years it had accumulated dust on a distant shelf among certain out-of-date account-books, but Greer had never heard of its being noticed before. “Peels he goin’, that’s about it,” Greer mused as he pitched the Bible back on the shelf to make room for his utensils. “But I shouldn’t ha’ thought ‘e’d take it sentimental like that — readin’ the Bible an’ lettin’ in the free air of ‘eaven to make ‘im cough ‘isself blind.”
The beef-tea was set simmering, and still old Cater lay impotent. The fit of prostration was longer than any that had preceded it, and presently Greer thought it might be well to call the doctor. Call him he did accordingly (the surgery was hard by), and the doctor came. Jerry Cater revived a little, sufficiently to recognise the doctor, but it was his last effort. He lived another hour and a half. Greer kept the change and had the beef-tea as well. The doctor gave his opinion that the old man had risen in delirium and had expended his last strength in moving about the room and opening the window.
II
SAMUEL GREER found somewhere near two pounds in silver in the small canvas bag under the dead man’s pillow. No more money, however, rewarded his hasty search about the bedroom, and when Sinclair returned Greer set off to carry the news to Paul Cater, the dead man’s nephew.
The respectable Greer had considered well the matter of the will, and saw his way, he fancied, at least to a few pounds by way of compensation for his loss of employment and the ungrateful forgetfulness of his late employer. The two sheets comprised, in fact, not a simple will merely, but a will and a codicil, each on one of the sheets, the codicil being a year or two more recent than the will. Nobody apparently knew anything of these papers, and it struck Greer that it was now in his power to prevent anybody learning, unless an interested party were disposed to pay for the disclosure. That was why he now took his way toward the establishment of Paul Cater, for the will made Paul Cater not only sole executor, but practically sole legatee. Wherefore Greer carefully separated the will from the codicil, intending the will alone for sale to Paul Cater. Because, indeed, the codicil very considerably modified it, and might form the subject of independent commerce.<
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Paul Cater made a less miserly show than had been the wont of his uncle. His house was in a street in Pimlico, the ground-floor front room of which was made into an office, with a wire blind carrying his name in gilt letters. Perhaps it was that Paul Cater carried his covetousness to a greater refinement than his uncle had done, seeing that a decent appearance is a commercial advantage by itself, bringing a greater profit than miserly habits could save.
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 to-morrow!”
“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.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 205