Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [10]
Joshua leaned out of the window. “What have we stopped for, Colonel?”
Clay shook rain from his hat and replaced it on his head. “Remembering Burke’s account of the state of things at Claremont, a bottle of brandy might come in very useful before the night is out. Have you any money handy?”
Joshua fumbled inside his left sleeve and finally extracted a leather purse, which he passed across. Clay opened it and took out a sovereign. “This should be enough to buy the place up, from the looks of it,” he said, giving Joshua his purse back. “I’ll only be a moment.”
The door opened easily at his touch and he stepped inside, closing it behind him. The place was thick with smoke and illuminated by two oil lamps which swung from one of the blackened beams supporting the ceiling. A turf fire smoldered across the room and eight or nine men crowded round the bar, listening attentively to a tall youth of twenty or so, whose handsome and rather effeminate face was topped by a shock of yellow hair.
For the moment, Clay remained unnoticed and he stayed with his back to the door and listened.
“And what happened then, Dennis?” a voice demanded.
Dennis leaned against the bar, face flushed, a glass of whiskey in one hand. “It’s for a good cause, me fine gentleman, says I, and if you’re honest with me, you’ll come to no harm. His face was the color of whey and his hand was shaking that much, he dropped his purse in the mud.”
A young boy of fifteen or sixteen was standing beside him and he said excitedly, “Show them the watch, Dennis. Show them the watch.”
“In good time, Marteen,” Dennis said. He emptied his glass and placed it ostentatiously down on the bar. Someone immediately filled it and Dennis slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out Clay’s hunter.
He held it up by the chain so that it sparkled in the lamplight, and an excited murmur went up from his audience. “Would you look at the elegance of it,” someone said.
Clay moved forward slowly and stood at the edge of the group. The first person to see him was Marteen and his blue eyes widened in astonishment. Men started to turn and Clay pushed his way through them until he faced Dennis. “My watch, I think,” he said calmly.
There was a sudden silence. For several moments, Dennis stared stupidly at Clay, and then he seemed to recover his poise. “And what the hell would ye be meaning by that?”
Clay gazed slowly around the room. The faces were hard and unfriendly; some stupid, others with a glimmering of intelligence. Then he noticed the man who leaned negligently against the wall at the far end of the bar. He was tall and powerful, great shoulders swelling beneath his frieze coat.
His hair was the same color as Dennis’s, but there the resemblance ended. There was nothing weak in this man’s face, only strength and intelligence. He picked up his glass and sipped a little whiskey and there was a smile on his lips. He gazed into Clay’s eyes and it was as if they knew each other.
Clay turned back to Dennis and said patiently, “The money isn’t important, but the watch was my father’s.”
No one moved. Dennis scowled suddenly, as if realizing his reputation was at stake, and thrust the watch back into his pocket. He picked up his shotgun, which was leaning against the bar, and rammed the barrel into Clay’s chest. “I’ll give ye five seconds to get out, me bucko,” he said. “Five seconds and no more.”
Clay gazed steadily into that weak, reckless face, then turned abruptly and walked to the door. As he reached it, Dennis said, “Would ye look now? He’s messed his breeches for the second time this day.” For a moment Clay hesitated, and then as laughter swelled behind him, he opened the door and passed outside.
He pushed Joshua roughly out of the way and dragged a carpetbag out onto the coach step and opened it. He was not angry and yet his hands shook slightly and there was a familiar, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“What is it,