Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [53]
He had expected little from the interview and had discovered nothing new except that Sir George was unbalanced, which was something he had suspected from the first. Probably the knowledge of his disease and eventual death had preyed on the man’s mind. Out of his despair had grown the need to vent his rage and fear on someone else. The Rogans fitted the bill to perfection.
There remained only one course of action, and Clay smiled sardonically as he rode into the stables at Claremont. What was it Morgan used to say? “In war, always make your first move something so audacious, the enemy would never expect it in a thousand years. After that, play the cards as they fall.”
Morgan had lived by his maxim with some success, but he had also died by it, Clay reflected grimly, as he went into the kitchen and dropped his saddlebags on the table. Joshua turned from the stove, sleeves rolled up. “Just in time for a meal, Colonel.”
“I’ve got to go straight out again,” Clay told him. “But I could eat something quick and drink a cup of coffee.”
He went up to his room and took off his coat. Then he opened the trunk and pulled out the grey cavalry greatcoat. As he buttoned it to his neck, thunder echoed menacingly in the distance and the sky darkened. The rain increased with a sudden rush, and he nodded in satisfaction. It suited his plans perfectly. He belted the black holster around his waist and remembered that the Colt was in his bag downstairs. As he placed the felt campaign hat on his head and faced the mirror, the figure that stared out at him assumed an identity of its own and he shivered slightly and turned and left the room.
Joshua had the coffee and food waiting for him on the table and Clay took the Colt from his bag and checked its action. As he gulped down the coffee, he explained the situation and Joshua’s face turned grave. “I don’t like it, Colonel. I don’t like it one little bit. They’ll be expecting trouble.”
“I don’t think so,” Clay said. “The Rogans are holding Burke. What else can they do?”
“It’s beginning to get too dangerous, Colonel,” Joshua said. “This time someone will get suspicious about you for sure.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Clay admitted. “And there’s a certain element of risk, but I must take the chance.” He finished his coffee and slapped Joshua on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. To tell you the truth, I’m almost beginning to enjoy myself. Old habits die hard.”
Joshua nodded soberly. “That’s exactly what’s bothering me, Colonel. You think twice about each move you make and then think again.” He was standing in the doorway, face grave and troubled, as Clay rode out of the stables through the heavy rain and moved up through the trees to the moor.
The solution was to be found somewhere along the route to Galway, that much was obvious, and the nearer to Drumore, the better. He galloped through the heavy rain, following the track he had taken on the night he had ridden to Kileen to deal with Marley, but as he turned down through the trees to join the Galway Road, he was still no nearer an answer.
It was shortly after six o’clock as he skirted Kileen, moving through the woods that filled the valley, one hand up to ward off the wet branches that whipped against his face. When he was well beyond the village, he turned back onto the road, and a few moments later, came to a stone bridge that spanned a brawling torrent of water.
At some time, the center of the bridge had been swept away by heavy flooding and a temporary repair had been made with stout planks. Already the swollen, foam-flecked stream was lapping through the cracks, and as Clay dismounted and went forward to examine them, a plan began to form in his mind.
Kileen was perhaps a quarter of a mile away and he turned into the trees and rode back toward the village. He recalled