Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [24]
The sounds of the child’s breathing were horribly familiar and Clay’s heart sank as he dropped down onto one knee and examined him. The skin was so pale that it seemed almost transparent, the flesh molding the bones so that the cheeks were deep hollows. His shirt was stained with blood, and as Clay placed a hand on his forehead, the frail body was racked by a spasm of violent coughing that was followed by a sudden rush of blood from the mouth.
Behind him the woman sobbed, as he gently sponged the blood away with a cloth. When the boy’s face was clean, Clay opened his bag and took out a small bottle of laudanum. He asked for a cup of water, and after a moment, Joanna handed one to him.
Clay poured several drops of the laudanum into the water, raised the boy’s head and made him drink the mixture. Then he got to his feet and turned, his face grave. “He should sleep for several hours without waking. How many times has he emitted blood?”
“Only God knows, sir,” the woman replied. “He cannot eat, and at night his whole body breaks out in a great sweat. Even when his father and I take him into bed to warm him, he still shivers.”
She dissolved into tears and Clay patted her gently on the shoulder. “Try not to worry too much. He’ll sleep quietly tonight, I promise you. I’ll call in again tomorrow.”
Her face worked convulsively. “But we can’t pay you, sir. God help us but we’ve no money.”
Clay shook his head quickly. “My services won’t cost you a cent.” Before she could reply, he pulled open the door and went outside, too full to speak.
Joanna appeared at his shoulder, her face grave. “Can you do anything?”
He shook his head. “It’s one of the most advanced cases of consumption I’ve ever seen. How the boy managed to survive this long, I’ll never know. If he lives another twenty-four hours, I’ll be surprised. If there’s any pity for suffering humanity in this universe, he’ll not wake from that drugged sleep.”
“It is God’s will,” Father Costello said quietly.
Clay swung into the saddle and gathered the reins in his right hand. “It depends how you look at it, Father. I prefer to think that the boy never stood a chance from the day he was conceived, because he was born in a pigsty and raised in conditions I would consider inadequate for my horse.”
He turned to Joanna, his face hard. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you here. What I need at the moment is a drink. I’ll see you tonight.” He quickly moved away before she could reply and cantered up the street to Cohan’s public house.
He had his drink and then another, and as he rode back to Claremont half an hour later, the memory of the child’s wasted face had temporarily lost its clarity.
4
It was a fine warm evening, but rather oppressive, and there was more than a touch of thunder in the air as the coach turned in through the great iron gates and moved rapidly along the broad carriageway toward Drumore House.
Clay leaned out of the window and examined the place with interest. It was a late Georgian mansion surrounded by superb ornamental gardens, and already the windows were a blaze of lights. As Joshua halted the coach exactly at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front entrance, two footmen hurried forward and one of them opened the coach door for Clay to step down.
He paused in the portico to look out over the grounds toward the road. The sky was as yellow as brass, and beyond the black mass of the trees, smoke ascended in a straight line from the chimney of the lodge. It was almost like stepping back into another world, a world of comfort and gracious living that had died with the war, and he sighed and passed through into a wide hall.
A footman took his hat and cloak, and Clay handed his invitation to a tall, greying butler, who examined it impassively and bowed. “Sir George is waiting for you in the conservatory, Colonel Fitzgerald. This way, sir.