“Mr. Cater,” he said, “I believe you are sole executor of the will of your uncle, Mr. Jeremiah Cater, who lived in this house.” Cater assented.
“That will is one extremely favourable to yourself. In fact, by it you become not only sole executor, but practically sole legatee.”
“Well?”
“I am here as a man of business and as a man of the world to give you certain information. There is a codicil to that will.”
Cater started. Then he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as though he knew better.
“There is a codicil,” Dorrington went on, imperturbably, “executed in strict form, all in the handwriting of the testator, and dated nine months later than the will. That codicil benefits your cousin, Mr. Jarvis Flint, to the extent of ten thousand pounds. To put it in another way, it deprives you of ten thousand pounds.”
Cater felt uneasy, but he did his best to maintain a contemptuous appearance. “You’re rushing ahead pretty fast,” he said, “talking about the terms of this codicil, as you call it. What I want to know is, where is it?”
“That,” replied Dorrington, smilingly, “is a question very easily answered. The codicil is in my pocket.” He tapped his coat as he spoke.
Paid Cater started again, and now he was plainly discomposed. “Very well,” he said, with some bravado, “if you’ve got it you can show it to me, I suppose.”
“Nothing easier,” Dorrington responded affably. He stepped to the fireplace and took the poker. “You won’t mind my holding the poker while you inspect the paper, will yon?” he asked politely. “The fact is, the codicil is of such a nature that I fear a man of your sharp business instincts might be tempted to destroy it, there being no other witness present, unless you had the assurance (which I now give you) that if you as much as touch it I shall stun you with the poker. There is the codicil, which you may read with your hands behind you.” He spread the paper out on the table, and Cater bent eagerly and read it, growing paler as his eye travelled down the sheet.
Before raising his eyes, however, he collected himself, and as he stood up he said, with affected contempt, “I don’t care a brass farthing for this thing! It’s a forgery on the face of it.”
“Dear me!” answered Dorrington placidly, recovering the paper and folding it up; “that’s very disappointing to hear. I must take it round to Mr. Flint and see if that is his opinion.”
“No, you mustn’t!” exclaimed Cater, desperately. “You say that’s a genuine document. Very well. I’m still executor, and you are bound to give it to me.”
“Precisely,” Dorrington replied sweetly. “But in the strict interests of justice I think Mr. Flint, as the person interested, ought to have a look at it first, in case any accident should happen to it in your hands. Don’t you?”
Cater knew he was in a corner, and his face betrayed it.
“Come,” said Dorrington in a more businesslike tone. “Here is the case in a nutshell. It is my business, just as it is yours, to get as much as I can for nothing. In pursuance of that business I quietly got hold of this codicil. Nobody but yourself knows I have it, and as to how I got it you needn’t ask, for I sha’n’t tell you. Here is the document, and it is worth ten thousand pounds to either of two people, yourself and Mr. Flint, your worthy cousin. I am prepared to sell it at a very great sacrifice — to sell it dirt cheap, in fact, and I give you the privilege of first refusal, for which you ought to be grateful. One thousand pounds is the price, and that gives you a profit of nine thousand pounds when you have destroyed the codicil — a noble profit of nine hundred per cent, at a stroke! Come, is it a bargain?”
“What?” ejaculated Cater, astounded. “A thousand pounds?”
“One thousand pounds exactly,” replied Dorrington complacently, “and a penny for the receipt stamp — if you want a receipt.”
“Oh,” said Cater, “you’re mad. A thousand pounds! Why, it’s absurd!”
“Think so?” remarked Dorrington, reaching for his hat. “Then I must see if Mr. Flint agrees with you, that’s all. He’s a man of business, and I never heard of his refusing a certain nine hundred per cent, profit yet. Good-day!”
“No, stop!” yelled the desperate Cater. “Don’t go. Don’t be unreasonable now — say five hundred and I’ll write you a cheque.”
“Won’t do,” answered Dorrington, shaking his head. “A thousand is the price, and not a penny less. And not by cheque, mind. I understand all moves of that sort. Notes or gold. I wonder at a smart man like yourself expecting me to be so green.”
“But I haven’t the money here.”
“Very likely not. Where’s your bank? We’ll go there and get it.”
Cater, between his avarice and his fears, was at his wits’ end. “Don’t be so hard on me, Mr. Dorrington,” he whined. “I’m not a rich man, I assure you. You’ll ruin me!”
“Ruin you? What do you mean? I give you ten thousand pounds for one thousand and you say I ruin you! Really, it seems too ridiculously cheap. If you don’t settle quickly, Mr. Cater, I shall raise my terms, I warn you!”
So it came about that Dorrington and Cater took cab together for a branch bank in Pimlico, whence Dorrington emerged with one thousand pounds in notes and gold, stowed carefully about his person, and Cater with the codicil to his uncle’s will, which half an hour later he had safely burnt.
VI
SO much for the first half of Dorrington’s operation. For the second half he made no immediate hurry. If he had been aware of Samuel Greer’s movements and Lugg’s little plot he might have hurried, but as it was he busied himself in setting up on a more respectable scale by help of his newly-acquired money. But he did not long delay. He had the attested copy of the codicil, which would be as good as the original if properly backed with evidence in a court of law. The astute Cater, wise in his own conceit, just as was his equally astute cousin Flint, had clean overlooked the possibility of such a trick as this. And now all Dorrington had to do was to sell the copy for one more thousand pounds to Jarvis Flint.
It was on the morning of old Jerry Cater’s funeral that he made his way to Deptford to do this, and he chuckled as he reflected on the probable surprise of Flint, who doubtless wondered what had become of his sweated inquiry agent, when confronted with his offer. But when he arrived at the ship-store shop he found that Flint was out, so he resolved to call again in the evening.
At that moment Jarvis Flint, Samuel Greer, and Lugg the lawyer were at the house in Bermondsey Wall attacking Paul Cater. Greer, foreseeing probable defiance by Cater from a window, had led the party in by the wharf door and so had taken Cater by surprise. Cater was in a suit of decent black, as befitted the occasion, and he received the news of the existence of a copy of the codicil he had destroyed with equal fury and apprehension.
“What do you mean?” he demanded. “What do you mean? I’m not to be bluffed like this! You talk about a codicil — where is it? Where is it, eh?”
“My dear sir,” said Lugg peaceably — he was a small, snuffy man— “we are not here to make disturbances or quarrels, or breaches of the peace; we are here on a strictly business errand, and I assure you it will be for your best interests if you listen quietly to what we have to say. Ahem! It seems that Mr. Samuel Greer here has frequently seen the codicil—”
“Greer’s a rascal — a thief — a scoundrel!” cried the irate Cater, shaking his fist in the thick of Greer’s squint. “He swindled me out of ten pounds! He—”
“Really, Mr. Cater,” Lugg interposed, “you do no good by such outbursts, and you prevent my putting the case before you. As I was saying, Mr. Greer has frequently seen the codicil, and saw it, indeed, on the very day of the late Mr. Cater’s decease. You may not have come across it, and, indeed, there may be some temporary difficulty in finding the original. But fortunately Mr. Greer took notes of the contents and of the witnesses’ names, and from those notes I have been able to draw up this statement, which Mr. Greer is prepared to subscribe to, by affidavit o
r declaration, if by any chance you may be unable to produce the original codicil.”
Cater, seeing his thousand pounds to Dorrington going for nothing, and now confronted with the fear of losing ten thousand pounds more, could scarce speak for rage. “Greer’s a liar, I tell you!” he spluttered out. “A liar, a thief, a scoundrel! His word — his affidavit — his oath — anything of his — isn’t worth a straw!”
“That, my dear sir,” Lugg proceeded equably, “is a thing that may remain for the probate court, and possibly a jury, to decide upon. In the meantime permit me to suggest that it will be better for all parties — cheaper in fact — if this matter be settled out of court. I think, if you will give the matter a little calm and unbiassed thought, you will admit that the balance of strength is altogether with our case. Would you like to look at the statement? Its effect, you will see, is, roughly speaking, to give my client a legacy of say about ten thousand pounds in value. The witnesses are easily produced, and really, I must say, for my part, if Mr. Greer, who has nothing to gain or lose either way, is prepared to take the serious responsibility of swearing a declaration—”
“I don’t believe he will!” cried Cater, catching at the straw. “I don’t believe he will. Mind, Greer,” he went on, “there’s penal servitude for perjury!”
“Yes,” Greer answered, speaking for the first time, with a squint and a chuckle, “so there is. And for stealin’ an’ suppressin’ dockyments, I’m told. I’m ready to make that ‘ere declaration.”
“I don’t believe he is!” Cater said, with an attempt to affect indifference. “And anyhow, I needn’t take any notice of it till he does.”
“Well,” said Lugg accommodatingly, “there need be no difficulty or delay about that. The declaration’s all written out, and I’m a commissioner to administer oaths. I think that’s a Bible I see on the shelf there, isn’t it?” He stepped across to where the old Bible had lain since Greer flung it there, just before Jerry Cater’s death. He took the book down and opened it at the title-page. “Yes,” he said, “a Bible; and now — why — what? what?”
Mr. Lugg stood suddenly still and stared at the fly-leaf. Then he said quietly, “Let me see, it was on Monday last that Mr. Cater died, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“Late in the afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Then, gentlemen, you must please prepare yourselves for a surprise. Mr. Cater evidently made another will, revoking all previous wills and codicils, on the very day of his death. And here it is!” He extended the Bible before him, and it was plain to see that the fly-leaf was covered with the weak, straggling handwriting of old Jerry Cater — a little weaker and a little more straggling than that in the other will, but unmistakably his.
Flint stared, perplexed and bewildered, Greer scratched his head and squinted blankly at the lawyer. Paul Cater passed his hand across his forehead and seized a tuft of hair over one temple as though he would pull it out. The only book in the house that he had not opened or looked at during his stay was the Bible.
“The thing is very short,” Lugg went on, inclining the writing to the light.
“‘This is the last will and testament of me, Jeremiah Cater, of Cater’s Wharf. I give and bequeath the whole of the estate and property of which I may die possessed, whether real or personal, entirely and absolutely to — to—’
“what is the name? Oh yes —
“‘to Henry Sinclair, my clerk—’”
“What?” yelled Cater and Flint in chorus, each rising and clutching at the Bible. “Not Sinclair! No! Let me see!”
“I think, gentlemen,” said the solicitor, putting their hands aside, “that you will get the information quickest by listening while I read.
“‘ — to Henry Sinclair, my clerk. And I appoint the said Henry Sinclair my sole executor. And I wish it to be known that I do this, not only by way of reward to an honest servant, and to recompense him for his loss in loan transactions with me, but also to mark my sense of the neglect of my two nephews. And I revoke all former wills and codicils.’
“Then follows date and signature and the signatures of witnesses — both apparently men of imperfect education.”
“But you’re mad — it’s impossible!” exclaimed Cater, the first to find his tongue. “He couldn’t have made a will then — he was too weak. Greer knows he couldn’t.”
Greer, who understood better than anybody else present the allusion in the will to the nephews’ neglect, coughed dubiously, and said, “Well, he did get up while I was out. An’ when I got back he had the Bible beside him, an’ he seemed pretty well knocked up with something. An’ the winder was wide open — I expect he opened it to holler out as well as he could to some chaps on the wharf or somewhere to come up by the wharf door and do the witnessing. An’ now I think of it I expect he sent me out a-purpose in case — well, in case if I knowed I might get up to summat with the will. He told me not to hurry. An’ I expect he about used himself up with the writin’ an’ the hollerin’ an’ the cold air an’ what not.”
Cater and Flint, greatly abashed, exchanged a rapid glance. Then Cater, with a preliminary cough, said hesitatingly, “Well now, Mr. Lugg, let us consider this. It seems quite evident to me — and no doubt it will to you, as my cousin’s solicitor — it seems quite evident to me that my poor uncle could not have been in a sound state of mind when he made this very ridiculous will. Quite apart from all questions of genuineness, I’ve no doubt that a court would set it aside. And in view of that it would be very cruel to allow this poor man Sinclair to suppose himself to be entitled to a great deal of money, only to find himself disappointed and ruined after all. You’ll agree with that, I’m sure. So I think it will be best for all parties if we keep this thing to ourselves, and just tear out that fly-leaf and burn it, to save trouble. And on my part I shall be glad to admit the copy of the codicil you have produced, and no doubt my cousin and I will be prepared to pay you a fee which will compensate you for any loss of business in actions — eh?”
Mr. Lugg was tempted, but he was no fool. Here was Samuel Greer at his elbow knowing everything, and without a doubt, no matter how well bribed, always ready to make more money by betraying the arrangement to Sinclair. And that would mean inevitable ruin to Lugg himself, and probably a dose of gaol. So he shook his head virtuously and said, “I couldn’t think of anything of the sort, Mr. Cater, not for an instant. I am a solicitor, and I have my strict duties. It is my duty immediately to place this will in the hands of Mr. Henry Sinclair, as sole executor. I wish you a good-day, gentlemen.”
And so it was that old Jerry Cater’s money came at last to Sinclair. And the result was a joyful one, not only for Sinclair and his wife, but also for a number of poor debtors whose “paper” was part of the property. For Sinclair knew the plight of these wretches by personal experience, and was merciful, as neither Flint nor Paul Cater would have been. The two witnesses to the Bible will turned out to be bargemen. They had been mightily surprised to be hailed from Jerry Cater’s window by the old man himself, already looking like a corpse. They had come up, however, at his request, and had witnessed the will, though neither knew anything of its contents. But they were ready to testify that it was written in a Bible, that they saw Cater sign it, and that the attesting signatures were theirs. They had helped the old man back into bed, and next day they heard that he was dead.
As for Dorrington, he had a thousand pounds to set him up in a gentlemanly line of business and villainy. Ignorant of what had happened, he attempted to tap Flint for another thousand pounds as he had designed, but was met with revilings and an explanation. Seeing that the game was finished, Dorrington laughed at both the cousins and turned his attention to his next case.
And old Jerry Cater’s funeral was attended, as nobody would have expected, by two very genuine mourners — Paul Cater and Jarvis Flint. But they mourned, not the old man, but his lost fortune, and Paul Cater also mourned a sum of one thousand and ten pounds of his own. They h
ad followed Lugg to the door when he walked off with the Bible in hope to persuade him, but he saw a wealthy client in prospect in Mr. Henry Sinclair, and would not allow his virtue to be shaken.
Samuel Greer walked away from the old house in moody case. Plainly there were no more pickings available from old Jerry Cater’s wills and codicils. As he trudged by St. Saviour’s Dock he was suddenly confronted by a large navvy with a black eye. The navvy stooped and inspected a peacock’s feather-eye that adorned the band of the hat Greer was wearing. Then he calmly grabbed and inspected the hat itself, inside and outside. “Why, blow me if this ain’t my ‘at!” said the navvy. “Take that, ye dirty squintin’ thief! And that too! And that!”
THE END
THE GREEN EYE OF GOONA
OR, THE GREEN DIAMOND
CONTENTS
THE FIRST MAGNUM
MR. NORIE’S MAGNUM
MR. CLIFTON’S MAGNUM
THE STEWARD’S MAGNUM — AND ANOTHER
MR. POOLEY’S MAGNUM
A BOX OF ODDMENTS
MR. SMITH’S MAGNUMS
THE GREEN EYE
The first edition
THE FIRST MAGNUM
THE year 1902 drew to a close, and Delhi was swarming thrice its common size in preparation for the Great Durbar, whereat the accession of the first English Emperor of India was to be proclaimed. Northward, beyond the historic Ridge, a new and an even more wonderful Delhi had sprung up in the course of weeks; At Delhi of ten thousand tents, with more than thirty miles of streets between them; a city that it would take a man seven or eight hours of continuous smart marching to walk round.
For weeks the tramp of elephants and horses had filled the air day by day, and had rarely ceased at night. The camps of the native princes lay in carefully-planned order, and the comings and goings of the princes themselves — emulous, proud, jealous in trifles — were announced punctiliously by the proper number of guns, from twenty-one downward, the envied and eagerly-sought salute that grades Indian princes by absolute mathematical scale.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 207