Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [50]
The boy seemed bereft of speech and Clay pushed him toward his horse. “Up with you, lad. You’ll have to ride fast if you want to foil Sir George.”
“God bless ye, Captain,” Marteen said, and swung into the saddle. A moment later, he moved out of the trees and galloped away into the night.
Clay holstered his Colt and returned to Pegeen. He climbed wearily into the saddle and started back toward Claremont. All at once, he was tired again. It had been a long day, but at least it had ended satisfactorily.
Joshua was waiting anxiously. Clay dismounted and, leaving Joshua to unsaddle Pegeen, went up to his bedroom and undressed. He got into bed and lay staring up at the ceiling. After a while, Joshua came up with a hot toddy and refused to go until the last drop had been drunk.
After Joshua had blown out the lamp and departed, Clay lay staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, thinking about Drumore Woods and wondering what was happening there at that very moment.
It was only long afterwards that he heard how Burke and his men had waited in the woods through the cold night until, when the first grey light of dawn seeped through the trees, Burke sent a man to scout the path, who returned with a piece of paper he had found pinned to a tree at the edge of the wood.
It carried the simple message COMPLIMENTS OF CAPTAIN SWING, written in Cathal Rogan’s neat, scholarly hand, but what Burke said when he read it, or Sir George, was not recorded.
9
Clay awakened from a deep, dreamless sleep. His face was stiff and there was a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, but otherwise he felt fine. Whatever Joshua had put in the toddy had certainly done the trick.
He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his hunter, seeing with surprise that it was almost three o’clock. He had slept for at least fourteen hours. He got to his feet and padded across to the window.
Clouds hung threateningly over the fields, rain dripped from the gutters, and when he looked out into the courtyard, there were brown leaves crawling across the ground and the first bare branches were visible. He started to dress quickly. As he pulled on his boots, the door opened and Joshua entered carrying a jug of hot coffee and a cup on a tray.
“I heard you get out of bed, Colonel,” he said, pouring the coffee. “How do you feel?
“A lot better than I’ve got a right to expect,” Clay told him. He sipped some of the coffee. “That tastes good.”
He put down the cup and started to button his shirt. It was then he noticed the grave expression on Joshua’s face. “What’s wrong? Anything happened?”
Joshua sighed heavily. “I’m so afraid so, Colonel. I went down to the village just before noon to buy some supplies at the store. There was a killing in Cohan’s Bar.”
Rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers in the silence, and Clay said, soft, “Do you know who it was?”
Joshua nodded. “A man called Varley, one of Sir George Hamilton’s men. Apparently he was the one who knifed Shaun Rogan in that fight the other night.”
“Who killed him?” Clay asked tonelessly.
“Kevin Rogan,” Joshua replied. “He was having a drink in the bar with his brother Dennis. According to Cohan, Varley and some of his friends came in and a fight started. Varley drew a pistol, but Kevin Rogan kicked it out of his hand and brained him with a chair.”
“What happened then?” Clay asked.
“Dennis Rogan escaped through the rear entrance. I saw him gallop away. His brother was unconscious when he was carried out. They strapped him across a horse and rode off to Drumore House. Looked all set for a hanging to me, Colonel.”
“It’s a bad business,” Clay said. “Even if Rogan gets a fair trial, he won’t stand a chance against the kind of hand Sir George Hamilton can deal.”
He reached for his coat, as hooves clattered across the cobbles of the courtyard. Joshua went to the window. “It’s Miss Hamilton.”
Clay hurried downstairs, and when he entered the kitchen, she was standing by the fire, steam rising from her damp