by H G White
Phil suddenly pointed at Peach. ‘Blackmail.’
‘Bingo! Thank you Philip, I'm glad someone's been paying attention.’
I thought for a moment. ‘You said the two were associates. If they were very close friends, who's to say De Villiers didn't just give him half the company for his friendship and support when the investigation and trial was going on?’
‘I don't think so. You must remember these were not nice people we're talking about here. De Villiers was a greedy, ruthless businessman. OK, they were educated together, but when it came to their adult lives, Moncourt was always the subordinate. I'm sure De Villiers would have been quite happy for that to continue.
‘While I could believe someone might make a gift to a friend who’d helped him out, I don't believe that it would go as far as giving half his company away, especially a company as valuable as De Villiers’.’
‘So what did he trade in?’ Phil asked.
‘Virtually anything he could, but a substantial part of the business was slavery and sugar. Bristol was the port of choice for the slavery side of things while the more exotic cargoes were imported and exported in and out of London.‘
‘If he was wealthy, what sort of money are we talking?’
‘It's difficult to say, but put it this way – De Villiers-Moncourt still exists and, from what I can gather, the eighteenth century was when the bulk of the fortune was made. The company is quite diverse in its holdings. All assets including property … it's valued at a little under £500 million.’
‘You say a little under?’
‘About 7 mil, so £493 million if you're being picky.’
‘That's a lot of slaves!’
‘It's a lot of sugar and other stuff too.’
‘What we, in this room, need to focus on is this. Imagine that note still exists, what would it be worth today?’
‘It would be worth bugger all to me because my name's not on it.’ I said.
‘That's not strictly true.’
‘What? You're telling me my name is on it?’ I realised what a stupid question it was as soon as it came out of my mouth.
Peach frowned. ‘No, you plonker. I'm saying the note could be of value to you.’
‘How do you work that one out then?’
‘Let’s suppose we were in possession of the note and were able to contact Steadman's heirs. What do you think it would be worth to them?’
Neil answered. ‘Plenty, perhaps the whole £493 million?’
‘Right, so whoever had the note would have the power to make Steadman's descendants very rich indeed and probably be able to negotiate a nice little finder's fee into the bargain. Say ten per cent of the court award obtained.’
‘Does it still exist then?’ Phil asked.
‘I have to say I'm convinced it does.’
Phil wasn’t convinced. ‘Nah, I don’t buy that. De Villiers would insist on having the note in return for the half-share of the company?’
‘He might have tried, but my guess is that Moncourt was calling the shots. Think about it. For however long Moncourt held that note he would always have power over De Villiers, and De Villiers would have to comply. He had no choice.’
‘Why did he blackmail for a half-share? Why not the whole lot?’
‘De Villiers was in effect the company. He ran it. Moncourt would not have the expertise or contacts in order to take over. There were contracts in De Villiers’ name that had to be honoured. Without De Villiers that would be impossible. Moncourt would have difficulty keeping the money coming in at the rate that De Villiers could. Moncourt was also reputed to be lazy.
‘From De Villiers’ viewpoint, it would serve no purpose to hand the whole company over and start up on his own again. De Villiers would be of a mind that if Moncourt had the note, he could always walk back into De Villiers’ life at any point and make the same demands.
‘Edward De Villiers couldn't risk having Moncourt killed. He would have expected Moncourt to have measures in place so that, in the event of his untimely or suspicious death, the note would be made public. Consequently it was – or should I say is – a very powerful piece of paper.’
‘Where is it then?’ Neil asked.
‘Now that's the big question. I have a hunch where it might be, but it’s only an educated guess, albeit a pretty good one.’
Phil had doubts. ‘So, assuming we could get our hands on this note, how would you propose we persuade all of Steadman's heirs to give us ne'er-do-wells fifty million quid?’
‘When I said heirs, what I should have really said is “heir”. There is only one.’
Suddenly this was very interesting. To get agreement from a room full of people would probably be impossible; to get one person to agree was very possible indeed.
‘What I propose is this – a signed contract between him and the four of us – that on receipt of the court award a ten per cent finder's fee is to be deposited equally into four accounts held in each of our names.
‘I could draw up the agreement. I'm sure Neil could use his sales skills and get Mr Steadman to sign. He has everything to gain and nothing to lose.’
‘Apart from £50 million,’ Phil added.
‘No. It has to be explained to him clearly that without us there is no fortune. I told you, I believe that the note still exists. Something I also believe is that De Villiers’ descendants aren't aware of it.’
I was curious. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Will, come on. One secret you wouldn't want to pass on to your kids on your death bed is ... Before I die, there's this IOU that my business partner has been blackmailing me with for all these years. Try and make it your life’s work to get it back, children. Oh, and by the way, the IOU belongs to a bloke I murdered!’
‘What about Moncourt’s heirs then?’
‘Moncourt has none. He never married.’
‘What about relatives?’
‘Yes he had a few. Very distant though. Maybe it was guilt about the whole murder and blackmail thing but he didn't leave them a penny. He left his half of the company in trust. His shares, the capital part of his fortune, can't be sold or touched in any way. Most of the share income that’s earned goes directly towards the upkeep of his country estate in Staffordshire – which incidentally is open to the public. The rest goes to different charities.’
Phil spoke. ‘Great, so the gang of four are going to liberate the much-needed funds of some very worthwhile charities and in doing so deprive somebody of a life-saving operation or something similar.’
Peach disagreed. ‘Don't go all moral on me Phil. First, there aren't any charities like that in this equation. Second, those that are have been enjoying money, and a lot of it, that isn't theirs for well over two hundred years. Not discounting that there are quite a few fat cats in the mix, paying themselves ridiculous amounts in salary under the guise that they're doing good, when in fact the majority of good they're doing is for themselves, and this has been going on almost since the day Moncourt died. Third, don't overlook that the other half of the fortune is still in the hands of the De Villiers family.
‘And finally, the most important thing we must not forget about this whole shooting match is that none of this money belongs to any of these people. The only rightful heir is Peter Steadman!’
‘Providing the note exists,’ I added.
‘Trust me Will. The note exists; I'd stake my life on it.’
The whole debate had been getting very charged. It was surprising how quickly we’d all been energised with this story. Peach broke off from the tale for a moment and started to get some plates out.
‘Food's ready. Pour some more wine please Mr Simms.’ Phil dutifully obliged. The beef Wellington looked superb. Peachy was wasted in the archive business. He should’ve opened a restaurant. He could’ve made a lot of hungry people very happy indeed.
We continued to discuss the complexities of the scenario.
‘Out of curiosity, how did you come to hear about all of t
his Peach?’ I asked.
‘When I worked in records at the Old Bailey, an elderly gent by the name of Arthur Etherington, who’d been there aeons, brought it to my attention. Arthur and I were clearing part of the repository to make way for new computers of all things. He gave me this and quite a number of other ancient cases to read. He always said if he was having difficulty sleeping he’d use them as his bedtime stories. I got hooked by this particular bedtime story for obvious reasons.
Although my job working at the Bailey only lasted six months, when the time came for me to leave I decided the De Villiers–Steadman saga was something I wanted to carry on investigating. Joining the staff of the British Archives put me in a great position to be able to, so three and a half years on, and plenty of research to boot, here we are.’
‘Have you told Arthur about your theory?’ Neil asked.
‘Sadly, it's too late for me to do that. Arthur died nearly eighteen months ago.’
Phil took over the questioning. ‘So let's assume the note's out there somewhere. What exactly do you have in mind then Peach?’
‘First things first. As I said earlier, we would have to gain Peter Steadman's trust and with it, his agreement in writing. Without that, there would be no point in even considering this whole venture.
‘Also, utmost secrecy would have to be the order of the day. If word of the note's existence got out, it would very likely trigger a search-and-destroy mission by the De Villiers clan, not to mention the beneficiaries of the Moncourt Estate who would also have plenty to lose. So when I say utmost secrecy it means we don't discuss this with anyone other than ourselves. Agreed?’
‘AGREED!’
Chapter 11
So, with a new and exciting episode ahead of us the discussion continued. Neil had something to say at this point. ‘I'm just playing devil's advocate here, but consider this – if you had the note, you could always blackmail De Villiers. You'd probably end up with a darn sight more than fifty mil!’
Peach disagreed. ‘No, that's not a road we should go down. It could be highly dangerous. Don't forget the kind of bread we’re talking about. Extorting money out of people who’ve got megabucks is bound to end in violence with us on the receiving end, not to mention the possibility of long stretches in jail for all involved. Besides, twelve and half million each is more than adequate, wouldn't you say?’
‘That would be twelve and half after tax, would it Peach?’ Phil was a man who knew what he wanted. Come to that he knew what Neil and I wanted too.
‘Yes Phil.’ We all nodded, confirming our approval.
Peach continued. ‘If we do things the way I suggest, our fee can be legit. Don't get me wrong; this is not going to be a walk in the park. We’re going to have to break the law, but the risks will be calculated, and at the end of the day we know we are righting a wrong that has been perpetuated for years and created from murder.’
‘You say break the law Peach. What, exactly, do you mean?’
‘At the very least there's going to be some serious theft involved.’
Fuck me! We'd come to London as three friends looking for a quiet weekend and a few drinks with an old mate. We'd be going home as the Great Train Robbers! Maybe we'd be spending Saturday buying stockings to wear over our heads.
We carried on eating. Experiencing an excitement unlike any other I'd known, I looked at Phil; by the expression on his face he was feeling something similar. Neil on the other hand had a sense of trepidation about him. I guessed it was the fact that he'd already been inside. He must’ve been thinking that just as he'd turned the corner in his life, the last thing he needed right now was to become a non-paying guest of Her Majesty, courtesy of the underworld’s newly appointed Super-criminal Mastermind – Trevor Peachy Kozen and his Caper of the Century.
Something crossed my mind. ‘Peach, let's say we get the go-ahead from Peter Steadman. Has it occurred to you that there might be the possibility that he has some clue or idea about the definite location of the note? Maybe he's got some old family stuff in his attic?’
Peach shook his head. ‘I very much doubt it. Having done a fair amount of homework on Peter Steadman, it’s highly unlikely. Steadman lives in a three-bedroom detached on a new housing estate. He's very Joe Average. We'd be looking for material that's the best part of three hundred years old. In my experience, stockpiling ancient family heirlooms is usually an indulgence of the wealthy, mainly because down the years rich people were the only ones who had big houses and the necessary space to keep such things.
‘Think carefully; can anyone of you three, or your parents come to that, produce anything belonging to an ancestor of yours dating back two hundred and fifty years-plus? I’ll bet the answer’s no.’
He was right. We all had blank faces.
‘Doing my job has taught me that normal everyday people rarely have anything going back further than four generations. We can of course ask him, but only after we've got a signed agreement. Reason being … if he thinks we don't know what we're looking for or where to find it he might not sign. Does that make sense to you all?’
It made perfect sense. I could see Peachy had indeed done his homework.
‘OK then, as we all agree, I suggest that I try to arrange a meeting between us and Steadman for one evening this week. As soon as I can sort it out, I'll give you a call. Initially, I'll approach him by phone. I'll be as ambiguous as I can without sounding too cloak-and-dagger. I don't want him doing any digging before we've had a chance to make our pitch. I'll also get a contract drawn up. It may be that when we meet, he agrees there and then, in which case, if we've got the paperwork with us we can get the signature – happy days. If not we'll just have to keep our fingers crossed and hope he reasons in our favour.’
Peach raised his goblet. We raised ours, clinked glasses and smiled at each other. More deliberation followed. After a while, Peachy cleared the table and went to his cabin. He came back with three thick, and I mean thick, identical bundles of papers. He gave one to each of us.
‘Here’s some required reading for you all. Enjoy.’
Peachy could indeed back up his story with meticulously conducted research. He had everything from copies of birth certificates to company reports, old, as in ‘Olde’, newspaper and magazine clippings giving details about Edward De Villiers and James Moncourt. There were articles relating to Charles De Villiers, the current chairman of De Villiers-Moncourt.
He also had a substantial amount of paperwork on Peter Steadman and his family. It wouldn't have surprised me if Trev had been posing as a refuse collector going through Steadman's rubbish. If ever made redundant I'm sure he could have started his own private detective agency without any problem at all.
We sat up reading and talking till the early hours, guided through this paper trail by the archivist. Many of the document copies that were complex and of a legal nature needed explaining, but Peachy was patient with both Neil and me. Phil on the other hand seemed to take it all in his stride. He had very good retention of facts and his mind was always analytical and logical. He was a scientist; he was an anorak! By the time we all crashed out, it had gone 3 a.m. I had reached information-overload and slept like a brick.
***
The next morning was taken up by Peach giving us a guided tour around the archives. We met the Headmistress. She was incredibly attractive for an older woman. She had her hair up and wore glasses, but you could see she had a haughty aloofness about her and there definitely was a bit of sexual chemistry between Peach and this woman. He was a dark horse.
I wondered about their relationship and whether at his request she was spanking him senseless when the archives shut for the day. I was tempted to ask Peach but decided against it. Our guided tour concluded, we decided to visit a local café for some sustenance.
Oddly, apart from a brief chat over breakfast, we hadn't talked about our new-found project. There seemed to be an understanding between us not to discuss it in public places. As we ate lunch; Neil said
he wanted to cut the weekend short and travel back that evening.
I tried to change his mind. ‘Why now Neil? We've only just got here. Peach is going to take us out tonight.’ He was indeed. What Peach had in mind was a gig at an Irish pub close by, followed by an all-you-can-eat for ten quid Indian buffet at The Emperor of Kilburn.
‘I'm worried about takings. If I'm going to lose more time during the week, coming back up here, perhaps it's best I go home now to make up for it.’
‘Look, one night isn't going to kill you. Why don't we take the middle ground? We can leave in the morning and be back by lunchtime. Then, if you fancy, do an afternoon and evening shift to make up for the time you've lost.’
Neil thought about it. ‘Okay then, you've twisted my arm.’
This was an absolute falsehood. I hadn't twisted his arm or any other protuberance belonging to him for that matter. ‘You know it's the smart move Neil.’
It did indeed prove to be the smart move. We had a cracking night. The band was one of those outfits that had 'strange' Celtic instruments that nobody knew the name of. And to cap it all, they played more 'fiddly-diddly-dee' music than you could shake a ‘strange’ Celtic instrument at.
By the time we left The Thirsty Leprechaun, we weren't thirsty. I had the Guinness sweats oozing out of virtually every pore, and my ears were ringing with ultra-high frequency. We exited the hostelry and gratefully breathed in some cool night air, as the fiddlers and penny-whistlers inside were still going at it loud and strong.
Phil, with his personal space now liberated and encompassing a large section of the pavement, decided he would be a clever bastard and show us how an Irish jig is danced. He was doing all this heel-and-toe stuff, continually shouting ‘Michael Flatteley, kiss my arse!’ as he jumped up and down while criss-crossing his ankles at what seemed (through our drunken haze) a ridiculously fast speed.
A small but appreciative crowd started to gather, mainly consisting of kebab-eaters and other undecided where-to-go-next Saturday night people. The rhythmic clapping of the Phil-istines increased in tempo. Phil, spurred on by his audience’s enthusiasm and trying desperately to keep up with the clapping frenzy, lost concentration for a split second. The ankles clashed, the Gaelic body was now out of balance, begorrah! Phil landed on his chin, falling like a sack of shit; his bottom lip split open by his lower teeth being forced upwards to meet the top row.
