Give The Devil His Due

by H G White

  Give The Devil His Due

  by

  H G White

  Copyright © H G White 2011

  All rights reserved.

  H G White has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be indentified as the author of this work.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, recording, photocopying, mechanical, electronic or otherwise, without the written prior consent of the author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All names and characters other than those clearly in the public domain are creations of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Book cover by escapetodesign.com

  Edited by shipshape-editors@hotmail.com

  Contents

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  London, 1789

  The evening’s downpour had not just brought a chill to the London air; it had managed to exacerbate the odours that Edward De Villiers now found himself wanting to avoid. His carriage weaved its way through the streets. Like so many before, the wheels sliced and agitated the newly-hydrated thoroughfare’s selection of things unsavoury: decaying carcasses, rotting vegetable matter, human and animal faeces, all exuding their reek unsparingly. With the carriage giving scant protection, the stench was overwhelming, even for one with a nose as robust as De Villiers'.

  Seated next to De Villiers, James Moncourt, by comparison considerably less affluent. The two men had enjoyed a long association. Moncourt, during their more youthful days, had made amorous advances towards De Villiers, but to no avail. In spite of this rejection, they had remained lifelong friends, Moncourt always the subordinate.

  ‘There has been no word from Steadman?’ muttered De Villiers.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then one can only deduce that the game shall go ahead as arranged.’

  ‘Indeed, I have never known that rook not to appear when an opportunity to make hay presents itself.’

  Both men were due to meet John Steadman, renowned professional gambler; suspected by many to be a cardsharp, although as yet unproven. Steadman, already having bettered De Villiers on several occasions, and emboldened by the prospect of another conquest, would no doubt relish the chance of meeting his old adversary.

  As the coach came to an abrupt halt, the sounds of an aggressive disturbance could be heard.

  ‘What is the reason for our stopping?’ De Villiers asked the coachman.

  ‘There is a gang pressing men up ahead sir.’

  De Villiers adjusted the window curtain in a perfunctory manner, elevating his head slightly backward, the movement accentuating his social class. He peered through the window.

  About fifty yards further on, and to the left a group of thugs had gathered, armed with cutlasses, clubs and other implements of intimidation and brutality. A body of about half a dozen men, already cuffed and tied, were lined up facing a nearby wall. One man, who unwisely had decided to show resistance, was now enduring the most savage of beatings in front of the street bystanders, mainly made up of women and children.

  No able-bodied man with even the most limited powers of reasoning would stand around waiting for the same fate to befall him as that being visited upon the poor unfortunates, now shackled by the roadside. A miserable life and probable death on the high seas lay ahead of them, and all in the king’s name.

  ‘Take another route,’ De Villiers ordered. The coachman responded immediately. ‘I cannot afford to have my man pressed, James.’

  The press gangs would show no mercy in their pursuit of suitable candidates. A gentleman’s manservant was every bit as much fair game as the lowly man on the street who had no master.

  With consummate ease, the driver manoeuvred the horses and carriage, quickly heading off in a different direction, his relief at the order undoubted. De Villiers checked his pocket watch. ‘We are going to be late.’

  ‘He will wait. He wants this more than you do.’

  ‘I doubt that very much. If I had my way, poverty and despair would become perennial visitors to his being, no quarter given.’

  De Villiers’ loathing of Steadman had become a fixation. During their previous meetings, Steadman had not only beaten De Villiers emphatically, but had humiliated him in front of ‘the Quality’. Enduring such embarrassment with his peers close at hand had firmly planted the seeds of revenge.

  Edward De Villiers and James Moncourt arrived at Picard’s – a gaming house situated just off the Strand. De Villiers had brought with him a substantial amount of stake money – categorical evidence of the aristocrat’s determination to crush his most hated rival.

  The unforeseen diversion had made them late, but that did not matter. Steadman was not present. A master of his craft and not averse to gamesmanship, he would appear when he was good and ready. In the same way that he played his cards, the gambler could manipulate opponents that entered his world even before a hand was dealt, and those who entered Steadman’s world did so at their own risk, usually with catastrophic results.

  By the time Steadman eventually appeared, Edward De Villiers had become anxious. He’d been served drinks by a pretty young hostess in Picard's employ. The alcohol had begun to take effect, numbing his concentration. A changed man from the confident soul that had entered Picard's club an hour or so earlier; any psychological advantage that may have been gained was ebbing away rapidly. De Villiers’ game plan was in tatters, although perhaps he was not in a position to realise it.

  ***

  After upwards of a dozen hands, with ever increasing stakes across the baize, De Villiers and Steadman now faced each other – a battlefield from which there could only be one victor.

  Like his father before him, Edward De Villiers suffered from a peculiar mannerism. In times of great stress or uncertainty, he would sneeze in the most animated of actions. It was almost as if his entire body were under some sort of involuntary violent attack. To the onlooker it was most bizarre, for it would only happen the once.

  As the evening wore on, De Villiers had lost everything he'd brought with him. Now, more determined than ever, his resolve fortified by the club’s hospitality, he would see things out to the last.

  With the promissory note placed in front of De Villiers, Picard poured on the hot wax in readiness for him to cast an impression using his seal ring. This would leave no doubt as to the note's authenticity in the event the debt had to be honoured were he to lose. As De Villiers moved his ring finger towards the wax he sneezed. Steadman was taken aback by the ferocity of the emission.

  Against Moncourt's advice, De Villiers had offered his trading company as a gu
arantee for his wager – a considerable enterprise by any measure. If Steadman won, the loss would ruin Edward. But on this night Edward De Villiers could not lose. He had one of those rare hands that all gamblers dream about.

  De Villiers had the advantage of ‘playing open’ – he knew what his cards were. Steadman had been ‘playing blind’ and so only had to chance half the amount of De Villiers’ stake. Steadman had ‘paid to see’; De Villiers would have to show his cards. As he lay down the cards one by one, each ace facing up from the table, De Villiers savoured the moment, watching Steadman trying to maintain his stone-face expression, doing his best to conceal the dread that such a hand would give rise to. Moncourt looked on, observing the man’s discomfort, allowing himself a wry smile. It was now Steadman's turn to show his hand. He turned over the first card: the three of clubs, the second: the three of spades. De Villiers’ heart was now beginning to pound. Steadman, wishing he wouldn't have to show the last card, slowly forced himself.

  As he pinched the corner with his thumb and index finger, he first looked at the card and then turned it over on to its back, revealing the face side. Moncourt had a sharp intake of breath – clearly audible due to his clenched teeth. De Villiers’ disbelief at what he was seeing was soon confirmed by his contorted features. Glaring up at him from the table was the three of diamonds. Together, the cards provided Steadman with an invincible combination.

  To gamble such an extraordinary amount without having seen what he had been dealt, and then to produce the only combination that could not be beaten was outrageous. Only a madman or a fool would wager on such an outcome … or perhaps someone who knew what his cards were, even before they had been revealed.

  That was it! De Villiers, convinced he had been wronged by Steadman, steeled himself. ‘There are foul methods at play here sir.’

  Steadman was having none of it. ‘The game was fair, and well you know, De Villiers.’

  ‘I think not. You, sir, are a liar and a cheat of the first order. Picard, give me the note, I wish to retract it.’

  ‘I'm afraid I cannot do that Edward. The pot has been won legitimately; I bore witness.’

  Moncourt interjected, coming to his friend’s aid. ‘Picard, the man's a rogue. I have never seen such brazen, underhand dealing. What are the odds of those cards falling?’

  ‘I know not of odds James. I do know that Mr Steadman has played in accordance with all house rules.’

  After the initial shock of seeing the prial, Steadman was starting to enjoy himself. He stared at De Villiers and grinned. Incandescent with rage, and unable to accept defeat, De Villiers did not know how to respond. Suddenly he lunged at Steadman, the violent movement overturning the table in the process. Both Picard and Moncourt were now trying to restrain Edward De Villiers. The young serving wench looked on, frightened.

  Picard snapped quickly, ‘Take him away James; it's not good for custom. The game is over.’

  Moncourt could see it was futile to argue. With difficulty he ushered his friend to the door, then to the street outside. As De Villiers began to regain his composure, Moncourt reflected on what had transpired within. De Villiers steadfastly refused to believe anything other than skulduggery had taken place. He was even starting to wonder if Picard had had a hand in the evening's events.

  De Villiers thought for a moment. ‘By God he will not benefit from such treachery. Mark my words James, by the night’s end, that document will be in my possession and our friend will see a reward for his efforts the like of which he could never imagine.’

  ‘And what of Picard?’

  ‘I shall deal with our friend Picard on the morrow.’

  Moncourt looked at De Villiers. In his eyes he could see that nothing but total vengeance was going to placate his friend.

  ***

  It was near three in the morning when John Steadman left Picard’s gaming house. After having beaten De Villiers, Steadman was feeling more than a little pleased, and decided to treat himself to some female company. Why not? He felt he'd earned it. A win of this magnitude was something to be kept quiet. There were villains roaming the streets of London that would cut your throat as soon as look at you for a couple of guineas, let alone the amount Steadman had upon his person.

  Not far from the Thames, in a little side street, was Searing’s Tavern. It was in one of the tavern’s rooms that Steadman could enjoy the pleasures of the flesh for which he now yearned. As he walked down Arundel Street, he did not notice two cloaked figures step out from the shadows and quietly follow him. Without warning, a loud sneeze alerted Steadman to someone's presence. In an instant, he felt his arms grabbed from behind and pulled up towards the small of his back. Suddenly, the sting of a blade, hot against his throat. As the sustained pressure of the cutting edge began to draw blood, a voice whispered to him, ‘Do I have your attention sir?’

  Steadman was the worse for drink but sobering rapidly. Trying to conceal his fear with a dagger against his neck compared to that of bluffing during a hand of brag was a feat Steadman could not accomplish. Steadman sensed in a heartbeat that De Villiers was a man swollen with hate, bent on revenge. Fearing for his life, he nodded.

  ‘Good. Is there something you would like to tell me?’

  Moncourt was becoming irritated. Holding Steadman's arms while De Villiers made a meal of the moment was not what he had agreed to. ‘For pity's sake Edward, make haste about your business.’

  Just as De Villiers was about to speak, a noise could be heard further up the street.

  ‘Quickly Edward, someone is coming.’ Moncourt's tone conveyed the situation’s urgency. Steadman, seeing this as his opportunity to break free, decided to struggle and tried to wrench his arms from Moncourt's hold. His balance faltered, his weight shifted towards the knife. The blade, razor sharp, split Steadman's neck open. Even though very sudden, the sensation felt to De Villiers somewhat similar to slicing a grape skin. It was an instance when time stood still and a heightened sense of awareness prevailed. With so much bodyweight the momentum did not stop and the knife went deeper, severing Steadman's jugular a fraction of a second later. Steadman slumped to the floor, gurgling as dark liquid pulsed out of his neck.

  Moncourt could sense De Villiers’ shock. De Villiers had planned to obtain the note by intimidation and a reasonable amount of violence, but not murder! That was something else entirely.

  ‘Go Edward. Get to the carriage, I'll follow you.’ Moncourt urged De Villiers to run to where the coachman had been instructed to wait.

  De Villiers was no longer thinking logically. Thank goodness for James; his old friend would help him in his time of need. In a state of blind panic, he'd dropped the dagger, still flustered by the possibility of witnesses to the crime. He looked up, the silhouetted figures that had disturbed his castigation of Steadman had stopped, but were now beginning to walk once again towards the crime scene.

  ‘Go Edward, I implore you, and take the knife. I will get rid of Steadman.’

  The dagger, its beautiful curved blade and ivory handle with the De Villiers’ family crest engraved upon the steel, was something Edward could not afford to abandon. If he did not retrieve it, he might as well leave his personal calling card, and swing from the gallows at Tyburn as a result.

  De Villiers bent down, picked up the weapon, sheathed it and hurried away to where the coachman awaited. Moncourt calmly pulled Steadman's cloak over the gambler’s head in order to avoid the blood which was still pulsing out, now at longer intervals with each weakening heartbeat. Grabbing his wrists, Moncourt dragged Steadman backwards, boots rasping against the cobbles. In less than a minute, Moncourt had the body by the stone wall that separated dry land from the Thames. He was now at the top of the stairs that led down to the landing by the water’s edge. Moncourt pulled the corpse down the stairs and on to the landing. With high tide fast approaching, the dead man would soon be gone.

  There was one final act to perform before Moncourt could drop the body on to the riverbank below and ex
it the scene. He looked up, making sure no one was watching. With deft movement, Moncourt slipped his hand into the inner pocket of Steadman's jacket and took what he wanted. Seconds later, James Moncourt was back up the stairs and had disappeared into the city's darkness.

  Chapter 1

  South Wales, Late 1990s

  My father once told me: ‘There are two things that never change in life.

  (1) There's no such thing as a free lunch and

  (2) Underneath every ponytail there's an arsehole.’

  Well, it was Thursday afternoon and I'd already had my lunch: lasagne. It had cost me £2.99 from Tesco's Superstore. So he was right about that one.

  Standing in my garden, next to the fence, I was talking to my neighbour. I'd been living next door to Dave Forester for almost seven months. According to Dave, he was a ‘bond dealer’, moving big money about.

  Joan, one of my mother's friends, swore she had seen Dave working behind the counter of her local post office. So maybe Dave was dealing in bonds (even if they were only premium bonds).

  Over the last couple of weeks he’d started to wear his hair tied back. My father never told me whether it was the size of the ponytail or the duration that the owner had worn it that determined the degree of ‘arseholiness’. I’d decided that as Dave had not yet proved or disproved my dad's theory, he would be on probation.

  For the past few days we'd been enjoying an Indian summer. The temperature was sweltering. I’d mown the lawn – and a good job too, because if I’d had to carry on in the heat, my tongue might have caught on the spinning blade, it was hanging out that far. Time for some refreshment.

  ‘Do you fancy a cold one Dave?’

  ‘Yeah, tidy.’

  Nipping into the house I checked the fridge. As luck would have it, there were three, and they were cold. I grabbed a couple, took them outside and handed one to Dave.