WHO IS EDMUND GRAY?
Athelstan laughed on the first hearing of the thing--it was on the
Tuesday evening, the day after the discovery, and George was dining with
him. He laughed both loud and long and with some of the old bitterness.
'So the notes were in the safe all along, were they? Who put them there?
"I," says old Checkley, "with my pretty fingers--I put them there."'
'As soon as this other business is over, the Chief must tell your
mother, Athelstan. It ought to come from him. I shall say nothing to
Elsie just yet. She shall learn that you are home again, and that your
name is clear again, at the same moment.'
'I confess that I should be pleased to make them all confess that their
suspicions were hasty and unfounded. At the same time I did wrong to go
away; I ought to have stuck to my post. As for this other business, one
thinks with something like satisfaction of the wise old lawyer losing
forty thousand pounds. It made him sit up, did it? For such a man to sit
up indicates the presence of deep emotion. Lost forty thousand pounds!
And he who holds so strongly to the sanctity of Property! Forty thousand
pounds!'
'Well; but we shall recover the certificates, or get new ones in their
place.'
'I suppose so. Shares can't be lost or stolen, really--can they?
Meantime, there may be difficulty, and you must try to find the forger.
Has it yet occurred to you that Checkley is the only man who has had
control of the letters and access at all times to the office?'
'It has.'
'Checkley is not exactly a fox: he is a jackal: therefore he does
somebody's dirty work for him at a wage. That is the way with the
jackal, you know. Eight years ago he tried to make a little pile by a
little forgery--he did not commit the forgery, I am sure--but he did the
jackal; only he forgot that notes are numbered: so when he remembered
that, he put them back. Now, his friend the forger, who is no doubt a
begging-letter writer, has devised an elaborate scheme for getting hold
of shares--ignorant that they are of no value.'
'Well, he has drawn the dividends for four months.'
'That is something, you see; but he hoped to get hold of thirty-eight
thousand pounds. It is the same hand at work, you infer from the
writing. You are quite sure of that?'
'There can be no doubt of it. How could two different hands present
exactly the same curious singularities?'
'And all the letters, cheques, and transfers for the same person. What
is his name?'
'One Edmund Gray, resident at 22 South Square, Gray's Inn.'
'No. 22? Oh! that is where Freddy Carstone lives. Do you know anything
about the _nomme_ Edmund Gray?'
'I have been in search of information about him. He is described by the
landlord of the rooms and by his laundress as an elderly gentleman.'
'Elderly. Checkley is elderly.'
'Yes, I thought of Checkley, of course. But somehow the indications
don't fit. My informants speak of a gentleman. Nobody at his kindliest
and most benevolent mood could possibly call Checkley a gentleman.'
'The word gentleman,' said Athelstan, 'is elastic. It stretches with the
employer or the consumer of it. It is like the word truth to a
politician. It varies from man to man. You cannot lay down any
definition of the word gentleman. Do you know nothing more about him?'
'A little. He has held this set of Chambers for nine years, and he pays
his rent regularly before the day it falls due. Also I called upon him
the other day when his laundress was at work and wrote a note to him at
his table. The room is full of Socialist books and pamphlets. He is
therefore, presumably, a Socialist leader.'
'I know all their leaders,' said Athelstan the Journalist.
'I've made the acquaintance of most for business purposes. I've had to
read up the Socialist Literature and to make the acquaintance of their
chiefs. There is no Edmund Gray among them. Stay--there is a Socialist
letter in the _Times_ of to-day--surely---- Waiter'--they were dining at
the club where Athelstan was a temporary member--'let me have the
_Times_ of to-day. Yes, I thought so. Here is a letter from the
Socialist point of view, signed by Edmund Gray--and--and yes--look
here--it is most curious--with the same address--22 South Square--a long
letter, in small print, and put in the supplement; but it's there. See;
signed "Edmund Gray." What do you think of that, for impudence in a
forger?'
George read the letter through carefully. It was a whole column long;
and it was in advocacy of Socialism pure and simple. One was surprised
that the editor had allowed it to appear. Probably he was influenced by
the tone of it, which was generous, cheerful, and optimistic. There was
not the slightest ring of bitterness about it. 'We who look,' it said,
'for the coming disappearance of Property, not by violence and
revolution, but by a rapid process of decay and wasting away, regard the
present position of the holders of Property with the greatest
satisfaction. Everywhere there are encouraging signs. Money which
formerly obtained five per cent. now yields no more than half that rate.
Shares which were formerly paying ten, twelve, and twenty per cent. are
now falling steadily. Companies started every day in the despairing hope
of the old great gains, fail and are wound up. Land, which the old wars
forced up to an extraordinary value, has now sunk so enormously that
many landlords have lost three-fourths and even more of their income.
All those enterprises which require the employment of many hands--as
docks, railways, printing-houses, manufactories of all kinds--are
rapidly falling into the condition of being able to pay no dividend at
all, because the pay of the men and the maintenance of the plant absorb
all. When that point is reached, the whole capital--the
millions--embarked in these enterprises will be lost for ever. The stock
cannot be sold because it produces nothing: it has vanished. In other
words, sir, what I desire to point out to your readers is that while you
are discussing or denouncing Socialism, the one condition which makes
Socialism possible and necessary is actually coming upon the
world--namely, the destruction of capital. Why have not men in all ages
combined to work for themselves? Because capital has prevented them.
When there is no capital left to employ them, to bully them, to make
laws against their combinations, or to bribe them, they will then have
to work with and for themselves or starve. The thing will be forced upon
them. Work will be a necessity for everybody: there will be no more a
privileged class: all who work will be paid at equal rates for their
work: those who refuse to work will be suffered to starve.'
The letter went on to give illustrations of the enormous losses in
capital during the last fifteen years, when the shrinkage began. It
concluded: 'For my own part, I confess that the prospect of the future
fills me with satisfaction. No more young men idle, middle-aged men
pampered, and old men looking back to a wasted life: nobody trying to
save, because the future of the old, the widows, the children, the
decayed, and the helpless, will be a charge upon the strong and the
young--that is, upon the juvenes, the workers of the State. No more
robbery: no more unproductive classes. Do not think that there will be
no more men of science and of learning. These, too, will be considered
workers. Or no more poets, dramatists, artists, novelists. These, too,
will be considered workers. And do not fear the coming of that time. It
is stealing upon us as surely, as certainly, as the decay of the powers
in old age. Doubt not that when it comes we shall have become well
prepared for it. Those of us who are old may lament that we shall not
live to see the day when the last shred of property is cast into the
common hoard. Those of us who are young have all the more reason to
rejoice in their youth, because they may live to see the Great Day of
Humanity dawn at last.--EDMUND GRAY, 22 South Square, Gray's Inn.'
'You have read this?' asked George.
'Yes; I read it this morning before I knew the significance of the
signature. Letter of a dreamer. He sees what might happen, and thinks
that it will happen. Capital is too strong yet.'
'Is this the letter of a forger, a conspirator--a thief?'
'It does not strike me in that light. Yet many great thieves are most
amiable in their private lives. There is no reason why this dreamer of
dreams should not be also a forger and a thief. Still, the case would be
remarkable, I admit.'
'Can there be two Edmund Grays--father and son?'
'Can there be a clerk to Edmund Gray, imprudently using his master's
name, and ready to open any letter that may come? Consider--Clerk is a
friend of old Checkley. Clerk invents the scheme. Checkley does his
share. However, we can easily find out something more about the man,
because my old friend, Freddy Carstone, has Chambers on the same floor.
We will walk over after dinner, and if Freddy happens to be sober--he
is about this time pleasantly, not stupidly, drunk, as a rule--he will
tell us what he knows about his neighbour.'
'I ought to see Elsie this evening, but this is more important.'
'Much more. Send her a telegram. Waiter, we will take coffee here. So.
You have got the conduct of the case in your own hands. What has
Checkley got?'
'Nothing. I believe he is jealous of me. I don't know why. But it does
not matter what an old man like that thinks.'
'Even an old man can strike a match and light a fire. Checkley is a
malignant old man. He is quite capable of charging you with the job. I
wonder he hasn't done it by this time. Remember my case, old man.'
Athelstan's face darkened at the recollection. 'Dirt sticks sometimes.
Look at me. I am smirched all over.'
'His manner was very odd this morning--insolent and strange. He began to
talk mysteriously of the ingratitude of the forger.'
'Why he's actually going to do it! Don't you see--he means that you are
the forger?'
'Oh! does he? Very well, Athelstan'--George finished his coffee and got
up--'the sooner we find out this mystery of this Edmund Gray the better.
Let us seek your tipsy Scholar.'
They walked from Piccadilly to Holborn, turning the thing over and
making a dozen surmises. Edmund Gray, twins: Edmund Gray, father and
son--father wanting to destroy property, a Socialist; son wanting to
steal property, individualist: Edmund Gray cousins--one the mild
philosopher, rejoicing in the decay of wealth; the other a bandit,
robber and conspirator: Edmund Gray, father and daughter--the young lady
of the advanced type, who has not only thrown over her religion but her
morals also: Edmund Gray, master and clerk: Edmund Gray under domination
of a villain: there was in every situation a noble chance for the
imagination. George showed a capacity unsuspected: he should have been a
novelist. The hypothesis was always beautiful and admirable: but it
wanted one thing--_vraisemblance_: one felt, even while advancing and
defending one, that it was impossible.
They turned into the gateway of the Inn and walked down the passage into
the Square. 'Look!' Athelstan caught his companion by the wrist. 'Who is
that?'
'Checkley himself. He is coming out of No 22!'
'Yes, out of 22. What is he doing there? Eh? What has he been doing
there?'
It was Checkley. The old man walking feebly, with bent head, came out
from the entrance of No. 22 and turned northward into Field Court. They
waited, watching him, until he left the Square. 'What is he doing
there?' asked George again. 'Come. Edmund Gray must be at home. Let us
go up.'
They found the outer door shut. They knocked with their sticks: there
was no answer.
'What was he doing here?' asked Athelstan.
The Scholar's door stood open. The Scholar himself was for once
perfectly sober, and welcomed them joyously and boisterously.
'We are here on business, Freddy,' said Athelstan.
'You are here to sit and talk and drink whisky-and-soda till midnight,
till two o'clock in the morning. It is not until two in the morning that
you can get the full flavour of the Inn. It is like a college then,
monastic, shut off from the world, peaceful----'
'Business first, then. You know your neighbour, Mr. Edmund Gray?'
'Certainly. We exchange the compliments of the season and the news of
the weather when we meet on the stairs. He has been in here, but not
often. A man who drinks nothing is your true damper. That, believe me,
and no other, was the veritable skeleton at the Feast.'
'Our business concerns your neighbour, Mr. Edmund Gray. We want you to
tell us what you know about him.'
'Go on, then. Question, and I will answer, if I can.'
'Does Mr. Edmund Gray live at these Chambers?'
'No. He may sometimes sleep in them, but I should say not often. He
calls at irregular intervals. Sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in
the morning, sometimes not for several weeks together. He is most
uncertain.'
'Do many people call upon him?'
'No one ever calls upon him.'
'Does he keep clerks? Does he carry on an extensive correspondence?'
'I have never heard the postman knock at his door.'
'Has he a son or a brother or a partner or anything?'
'I don't know. He may have these hindrances, but they are not apparent.'
'What is his occupation or trade?'
'He is a Socialist. He is athirst for the destruction of property.
Meantime, I believe, he lives on his own. Perhaps his will be spared to
the last. He is an old gentleman of pleasant manners and of benevolent
aspect. The old women beg of him; the children ask him the time; the
people who have lost their way apply to him. He dreams all the time: he
lives in a world impossible. Oh! quite impossible. Why, in a world all
Socialist, I myself should be impossible. They wouldn't have me. My old
friend told me the other day that I should not be tolerated. They would
kill me. All because I do no work--or next to none.'
George looked at Athelstan. 'We are farther off than ever,' he said.
'Mr. Edmund Gray believes that the Kingdom of Heaven is a kind of hive
where everybody has got to work with enormous zeal, and where nobody
owns anything. Also he thinks that it is close at hand, which makes him
a very happy old gentleman.'
'This can't be Checkley,' said George.
'It would seem not,' Athelstan replied. 'Did you ever see another old
man up here--we saw him coming out just now--one Checkley, a lawyer's
clerk?'
'No; not up here. There is an elderly person--a Party--of the name, who
uses the parlour of the _Salutation_, where I myself sometimes--one must
relax--Porson loved a tavern; so did Johnson--I myself, I say, sometimes
forget that I used to belong to the Combination room, and sit with
Checkley and his companions. But I do not think he is a friend of Mr.
Gray. As well call the Verger the friend of the Bishop. Mr. Gray is a
gentleman and a scholar; he is a man of generous instincts and culture.
He _could_ not be a friend of the man Checkley.'
'Yet we saw Checkley coming out of this very staircase.'
* * * * *
They talked of other things. They talked till midnight; when they came
away the Scholar was at his best: one more glass--which he took after
they left--would have turned the best into the worst.
'We are as far off as before,' said George.
'No--we are so much the nearer that we know who Edmund Gray is not. He
is not Checkley. He has no clerks. He has no visitors. He comes seldom.
George, this looks to me suspicious. We met Checkley stealing out of the
door. Why does Edmund Gray keep these Chambers? No business done there:
no letters brought there: no callers: the man does not live there. The
Socialism may be--must be--a blind. Why does the man keep on these
Chambers?'
* * * * *
Meantime at the _Salutation_ the usual company was assembled. 'I fear,'
said the barrister, 'that we shall not have our friend the Scholar here
this evening. As I came down the stairs I saw him through his door
receiving two gentlemen--young gentlemen. He will display his wonted
hospitality upon them this evening instead.' He sighed, and called for
the glass of old and mild mixed, which was all he could afford. Had the
Scholar been with them, certainly there would have been a nobler and a
costlier glass. He took up the morning paper and began to read it.
The conversation went on slowly and with jerks. A dull conversation: a
conversation of men without ideas: a day-before-yesterday conversation:
the slow exchange of short, solid sentences taken from the paper, or
overheard and adopted. We sometimes praise the old tavern life, and we
regret the tavern talk. We need not: it was dull, gross, ignorant, and
flat: it was commonplace and conventional: because it was so dull, the
men were fain to sing songs and to propose sentiments, and to drink more
than was good for them. Why and when do men drink more than is good for
them? First, when and because things are desperately dull: there is
nothing to interest them: give them animation, thoughts, amusements, and
they will not begin to drink. When they have begun, they will go on.
When they have arrived at a certain stage, let them drink as fast as
they can, and so get out of the way, because they will never mend, and
they only cumber the earth. Here is, you see, a complete solution--a
short solution--of the whole drink question. It will not be accepted,
because people like a long solution--a three-column solution.
The barrister lifted his head. 'There is a letter here,' he said,
interrupting the ex-M.P., who was clearing the way for what he called an
argument by an introduction in the usual form. 'While on the one hand,
gentlemen,' he was saying, 'I am free to confess----'
'There is a letter here,' he repeated in a louder voice. The barrister
was now old, but he could still assume at times the masterful manner of
counsel before the Court, 'which should be read. It is a letter on
Socialism.'
'Ugh!' said the money-lender. 'Socialism! They want to destroy Property.
Socialism! Don't tell me, sir.'
'It is a dream of what might be--a noble--a generous letter.' He looked
round him. In their dull and fishy eyes there was no gleam or sparkle of
response. 'I forgot,' he said; 'you cannot be interested in such a
letter.--I beg your pardon, sir.' He bowed with great courtesy to the
ex-M.P. 'I interrupted your valuable observations. We shall listen, I am
sure, with--the--greatest----' He buried his head in the paper again.
The legislator began again. 'As I was a-saying, gentlemen, when I was
interrupted, on the subject of education and the ratepayers, being a
ratepayer myself, as we all are, and having our taxes to pay, which is
the only advantage we ever get from being a ratepayer, while on the one
hand I am free to confess----'
'Why!' the barrister interrupted once again, 'this letter is from a man
on our staircase, No. 22'--Checkley started--'an acquaintance of mine,
if I can call him so, and of our friend the Scholar. A very able man,
now somewhat in years. By name Edmund Gray.'
'What?' said Checkley, 'Edmund Gray? You know Edmund Gray?'
'Certainly. I have known him this nine years. Ever since he has been in
the Inn.'
'W-w-what sort of a man is he?' Checkley stammered in his eagerness.
'A very good sort of a man. Why do you ask?'
'I want to know--for his advantage--oh! yes--yes--for his own
advantage.'
'Yes.' The barrister retreated to his paper. 'Oh, yes,' he added. 'Quite
so.'
'For his great personal advantage,' Checkley repeated.--'Robert, I think
the gentleman would take a tumbler, if you will bring it--hot,
Robert--strong--with lemon and sugar--a large rummer, Robert.'
The ancient barrister's head behind the paper was observed to tremble.
Robert returned with his rummer, the glass spoon tinkling an invitation.
Dinner had been but a sorry affair that day--a stop-gap--insufficient in
bulk; the tempted man felt a yearning that could not be resisted. He
stretched out his hand and took the glass and tasted it. Then turning to
Checkley:
'You have purchased my speech, sir. You were asking me about Mr. Edmund
Gray. What do you wish to know?'
'Everything--his business--his private life--anything.'
'As for his business, he has none; he is a gentleman living on his
means--like myself; but his means are larger than my own: he has a
residence elsewhere--I don't know where; he uses his Chambers but
little: he has a collection of books there, and he keeps them for
purposes of study.'
'Does he call there every day?'
'No. Only at irregular times. Sometimes not for many weeks together.'
'Has he got any friends?'
'I should say that he has no friends at all--at least none that come to
the Inn. I have never heard or seen anyone in his room. A quiet man. No
slammer. An excellent man to have on the staircase. No trampler; doesn't
tramp up and down like an elephant. Isn't brought home drunk.'
'What does he look like?'
'He is a man advanced in years--perhaps seventy--a good-looking
man--very cheerful countenance: tall and well set up still--wears a long
frock coat. And that I believe is all I know about him.'
'That's all you've got to tell me, is it?'
'That is all, Mr. Checkley. Except that he has written a very remarkable
letter to the _Times_ of this morning.'
'Well, sir, if that is all, it isn't much for your rum-and-water, let me
tell you.'
The barrister rose and poured the half-glass that remained into the
cinders. 'Then let me drink no more than my information was worth,' he
said; and at the sight of so much magnanimity the broad earth trembled
and Mr. Checkley sat aghast.
The ex-statesman cleared his throat and began again. 'After the third
interruption, gentlemen, I may hope for a hearing. While, therefore, on
the one hand----'