Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [48]
He moved back along the path. A moment later, the door opened and the butler came in. Clay waited until he had joined Sir George and the informer, and then he opened the door and stepped out into the passage. It was quiet and deserted and he returned to the study and closed the door.
A few minutes later, Sir George came in. The smile faded from his lips as he saw the condition of Clay’s face. “God bless my soul, Colonel, what’s happened?”
Clay smiled calmly. “I’ve just given your man Burke the thrashing of his life.”
Sir George frowned. “You’d oblige me by stating the facts.”
“Gladly!” Clay told him. “I was attending the confinement of a Mrs. Cooney, a tenant of yours, I understand. Burke marched in with two armed men at the most critical moment of the delivery and announced that he had come to evict the family for nonpayment of rent. Did you give him the order?”
“Naturally, Colonel,” Sir George said tranquilly. “This is, after all, my property.” He shook his head. “If Burke was insolent I shall punish him, for he must learn to keep his place, but don’t waste your sympathy on such wretched creatures as the Cooneys. The husband is a lying, idle vagabond who never did a decent day’s work in his life. That’s why I had him dismissed.”
“And what happens to the wife?” Clay demanded, “Not to mention the child. If I’m informed correctly, this wouldn’t be the first time you forced a family out in such circumstances. Wasn’t there a woman who died in a ditch on the road to Galway, giving birth to her child? I believe my uncle and you had a difference of opinion on the matter.”
“By God, sir, you go too far!” Sir George said, his face darkening.
“We’ve wasted enough time in talk,” Clay told him. “I’ve come to pay the arrears in rent, plus what is due for another six months. It should at least assure the poor wretches a breathing space.”
“But I don’t want your money, Colonel Fitzgerald,” Sir George told him coldly. “I want what is due to me to come from the Cooneys—no one else.”
Clay frowned in puzzlement for a moment, and then, recalling Kevin Rogan’s words, a great light dawned. It was as if he had never seen the man before. “Why, you actually want to see those poor devils out on the road. That’s what you really want—not the money.”
Sir George Hamilton’s face turned purple and his eyes glittered. “After what they did to my wife, Colonel, I feel I am entitled to treat these savages in any way I choose.”
Clay laughed harshly. “The bullet which was meant for you carried sweet release for your wife, Hamilton. You gave her hell on earth for years. You don’t hate those poor devils because of her—it’s that loathsome, filthy thing which flowers in your body and the taste of it in your mouth, which you hate. You’re frightened, my friend—frightened to die, and there isn’t one single, solitary soul who’ll stand at your grave-side and do anything but spit.”
Sir George opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to choke, and clawed at his stiff white collar with one hand. He tore it away convulsively and lurched to the sink. Clay stood and listened to him choking for a moment, with no pity in his heart, and then turned and walked away.
He was tired when he rode into the courtyard at Claremont, more tired than he had been in a long time. A horse was tethered by the door, and as he dismounted, Joanna emerged, followed by Joshua. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried to death.”
“Having a word with your uncle,” he told her, as he went into the kitchen. “I’m afraid we won’t be on speaking terms from now on.”
He swayed slightly and caught hold of the edge of the table, and Joshua steadied him with one hand and gently led him across to the stair door. “It’s bed for you, Colonel,” he said, concern in his voice.