The Victorian Villains Megapack

by Arthur Morrison

  “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 percent, 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 or 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 Si
nclair! 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 had 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!”

  About THE ADVENTURES OF ROMNEY PRINGLE, by R. Austin Freeman and John J. Pitcairn

  All stories first published in Cassell’s Magazine, 1902-1903

  ORIGINAL PREFACE

  In the course of the present year there died suddenly at Sandwich a gentleman who had only a short time previously taken up his residence in one of the curious old red-brick houses which, surrounded by large gardens, sleepily nestle in the shade of its venerable towers. He was reputed wealthy, his name given as Romney, being popularly supposed to denote ancestral, if not actual, connection with the town and district of that name on the South Coast. A man of highly-cultured tastes and of rare and varied information, he led a very retired life, divided between his books, the cataloguing of a valuable collection of antique gems, and cycle-rides into the surrounding country—for he was an ardent cyclist. A chance meeting on the Sandwich Flats, whereon he had lost his way one misty evening, was the commencement of a close friendship with the present writers, who, on Mr. Romney’s demise soon after, were found to be designated his literary executors. A series of MS. stories, apparently intended for publication, furnished the sole explanation of this somewhat surprising provision. Whether, as might be imagined from their intimate record of the chief actor’s career, they were derived from the notes of actual experience, or whether they were simply the result of imagination, they are here presented exactly as left by the author.

  Romney Pringle in THE ASSYRIAN REJUVENATOR

  As six o’clock struck the procession of the un-dined began to stream beneath the electric arcade which graces the entrance to Cristiani’s. The doors swung unceasingly; the mirrors no longer reflected a mere squadron of tables and erect serviettes; a hum of conversation now mingled with the clatter of knives and the popping of corks; and the brisk scurry of waiters’ slippers replaced the stillness of the afternoon.

  Although the restaurant had been crowded some time before he arrived, Mr. Romney Pringle had secured his favourite seat opposite the feminine print after Gainsborough, and in the intervals of feeding listened to a selection from Mascagni through a convenient electrophone, price sixpence in the slot. It was a warm night for the time of year, a muggy spell having succeeded a week of biting north-east wind, and as the evening wore on the atmosphere grew somewhat oppressive, more particularly to those who had dined well. Its effects were not very visible on Pringle, whose complexion (a small port-wine mark on his right cheek its only blemish) was of that fairness which imparts to its fortunate possessor the air of youth until long past forty; especially in a man who shaves clean, and habitually goes to bed before two in the morning.

  As the smoke from Pringle’s havana wreathed upwards to an extractor, his eye fell, not for the first time, upon a diner at the next table. He was elderly, probably on the wrong side of sixty, but with his erect figure might easily
have claimed a few years’ grace, while the retired soldier spoke in his scrupulous neatness, and in the trim of a carefully tended moustache. He had finished his dinner some little time, but remained seated, studying a letter with an intentness more due to its subject than to its length, which Pringle could see was by no means excessive. At last, with a gesture almost equally compounded of weariness and disgust, he rose and was helped into his overcoat by a waiter, who held the door for him in the obsequious manner of his kind.

  The languid attention which Pringle at first bestowed on his neighbour had by this time given place to a deeper interest, and as the swing-doors closed behind the old gentleman, he scarcely repressed a start, when he saw lying beneath the vacant table the identical letter which had received such careful study. His first impulse was to run after the old gentleman and restore the paper, but by this time he had disappeared, and the waiter being also invisible, Pringle sat down and read:

  The Assyrian Rejuvenator Co.,

  82, Barbican, E.C.

  April 5th

  Dear Sir—

  We regret to hear of the failure of the “Rejuvenator” in your hands. This is possibly due to your not having followed the directions for its use sufficiently closely, but I must point out that we do not guarantee its infallible success. As it is an expensive preparation, we do not admit the justice of your contention that our charges are exorbitant. In any case we cannot entertain your request to return the whole or any part of the fees. Should you act upon your threat to take proceedings for the recovery of the same, we must hold your good self responsible for any publicity which may follow your trial of the preparation.