Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [26]
The message was short and to the point and inscribed in neat block letters.
YOUR TURN WILL COME SOON. LOOK FOR ME. CAPTAIN SWING.
“Who is this Captain Swing?” Clay said, handing it back.
Sir George permitted himself a contemptuous smile. “There is no such individual, Colonel. They amuse themselves with their secret societies and romantic names. Captain Swing, Captain Moonlight—such names are used by every disaffected rogue who feels like writing a threatening letter to his landlord.”
“Presumably during the previous trouble, these threats were put into action,” Clay said.
Sir George nodded. “My wife and I had been visiting some friends. Rather foolishly as it turned out, we rode home alone together in a gig. It was a fine summer evening and as I drove, she chatted to me about some improvements she intended to make in the garden.”
He seemed to find some difficulty in speaking, and for a moment there was a pause while Clay waited, guessing what was to come.
Sir George emptied his glass and placed it carefully upon the table. “The assassin was lying in wait in a small wood on the hillside above the bridge, a mile along the Galway Road from the main gates. He only fired once and the bullet, which was intended for me, killed my wife instantly.”
Clay sighed and said softly, “So violence breeds violence.”
“Perhaps it does,” Sir George said. “But you must surely see my point of view, Colonel? The risk that his shot might miss me and kill my wife must have been obvious to the assassin, and yet he took it. Can you really expect me to have any feeling other than hate for these people, after such a deed?”
Clay shook his head. “No, it’s perfectly understandable, but perhaps a more enlightened attitude on the part of the landlords as a whole would go a long way toward stamping out this sort of thing. I visited a dying boy, riddled with consumption this morning. He lives in one of your cottages in the village. I’ve never seen such a pest-hole. How can you expect people who live in such conditions to be anything other than violent and lawless?”
“But the standards one would apply in England cannot be applied here. These people are animals.” An expression of disbelief appeared on Clay’s face, and Sir George went on, “I’ll tell you another true story and you can judge for yourself. Two years ago, a young Englishman— Lord Craig—was left an estate near here. When he arrived to examine the property, he was disgusted to find that most of the peasantry lived in one-roomed cottages without chimneys or any kind of sanitation. He spent a great deal of money in having a model village constructed, and after his tenants had moved into the new cottages, he had the old ones pulled down.”
“What happened then?” Clay asked.
“Within a month, a deputation waited upon him to ask him to have the chimney shafts blocked up. They complained at the loss of heat. When Lord Craig visited the cottages in connection with this request, he discovered to his horror, that his tenants were indulging in all their old habits. Sharing the living quarters with livestock and poultry and using a bucket in the corner of the room in preference to the privies at the end of the garden.”
“What did he do about it?” Clay said.
Sir George smiled thinly. “He sold the estate to me and returned to England a sadder but wiser man.”
“But these things take time,” Clay said.
Sir George shook his head. “I can see that only experience will teach you. You’ll find out for yourself before you have been here for three months.”
“I’m not even sure I shall stay that long,” Clay told him.
Sir George raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You don’t intend to make your home here, then?”
Clay shook his head. “For me, this is merely a sentimental journey I couldn’t resist taking.”
“Then I trust you will bear in mind my offer for your property. I think you’ll find it more than a fair one.”
Before Clay could reply, Sir George’s face was racked