Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [65]
Joanna poised for flight, alarm on her face, and then she recognized Clay and came straight into his arms. “I heard the shooting,” she said.
The middle-aged woman interrupted in tones of indignation. “It won’t do, Mr. Burke. I can’t control her. She forced the key from me.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Ferguson,” Burke told her. “You can go.” He turned to Joanna. “The key, if you please, Miss Hamilton.”
She hesitated and then handed it across, before looking up at Clay anxiously. “What’s been happening?”
Before Clay could reply, Burke took her firmly by one arm and pushed her back into her room, then he closed the door and locked it. Dropping the key into his pocket, he turned to Clay with a sardonic smile. “And now you, Colonel.”
They moved along the corridor and mounted the stairs to the room on the third floor. Clay sat on the bed and listened to the lock click into place and his heart seemed to turn to stone. What hope was there for him now? What hope at all?
He spent the next hour standing at the window, looking down toward the village, wondering how seriously Dennis Rogan had been wounded. He was the only doctor for miles and his presence could mean the difference between life or death for the lad. He turned away from the window, and the door opened.
Two of Burke’s men entered and hustled him out into the corridor. As they pushed him along in front of them, he listened to their conversation. “I don’t like it,” one of them said. “I don’t like it one little bit. There isn’t a bloody servant left in the house.”
“Burke knows what he’s doing,” the other replied, trying to sound confident. “We’ll be all right.”
They both seemed so nervous and edgy that Clay took heart. They reached the head of the stairs, but instead of going down to the hall, they crossed the landing and turned into another corridor, pausing outside a door. One of the men opened it and the other pushed Clay roughly inside.
Sir George Hamilton lay on a great bed and Burke stood over him, a glass of water in his hand. The agent turned and his face was devoid of expression. “A chance to exercise your calling, Colonel. Sir George has had some kind of an attack.”
Clay shrugged. “I’ve nothing with me, no drugs, no instruments. However, I’ll take a look at him if you insist.”
“I do!” Burke assured him. As Clay moved forward, the agent spoke to the two guards. “Henderson, you join the others down below. You guard this door, Clark.”
The door closed behind them as Clay leaned over Sir George. His shirtfront was stained with foul-smelling blood and his collar had been loosened. As Clay touched him, the eyes opened and Sir George stared up at him, blankly, and then a light seemed to flicker on and his lips moved. “Take your damned hands off me.”
Clay straightened and turned to Burke. “There’s nothing I can do. Your master is suffering from an incurable disease. He’s had these attacks before. Leave him for a couple of hours and he’ll be fit to walk again.”
“For how long?” Burke said softly.
Clay shrugged. “That’s impossible to say. I think another such attack will kill him.”
Burke frowned, and then he went and opened the door and called in the guard who stood there. “Take the colonel back to his room, Clark.”
Clay moved outside and passed along the corridor, Clark at his heels. They walked across the landing and, below, he saw two men lounging by the front door. One of them glanced up and, seeing him, made some ribald comment to his companion.
Clay slowed as he came to Joanna’s door and Clark prodded him in the back with the barrel of the shotgun and said roughly, “Keep moving.”
Clay pivoted neatly, brushing the barrel aside with his wounded arm, and slammed his right fist into the man’s exposed neck. Clark staggered against the wall with a groan and slid to the floor.
Clay stood well away from the door and stamped at it with his right foot. After several attempts, the lock gave and the door swung back