Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [67]
When he entered Drumore, an uncanny silence reigned. An old woman crossed the street hurriedly, pausing only to give him a frightened glance over one shoulder and then a door closed behind her and he heard a bolt rammed firmly into place.
As he drew abreast of Cohan’s pub, a familiar voice called to him and Joshua came out of the stable yard, a crude bandage wrapped around his head. “Am I glad to see you, Colonel.”
Clay grinned down at him. “It’s been a hectic day so far for both of us. How’s your head?”
Joshua managed a wry smile. “It aches some, but I’ll survive.”
“You’d better fill me in on what’s been happening here,” Clay said, dismounting. “Where is everybody?”
“They’ve all gone to Drumore House, Colonel,” Joshua said. “Kevin Rogan called a meeting right here in the center of the village. He told them how Sir George Hamilton had shot his brother in the back in cold blood.”
“That’s true enough,” Clay said. “I saw it happen. Where is the boy now?”
“He died, Colonel, just after his father brought him into the village in his trap,” Joshua said. “Mr. Rogan’s up at the church with him now.”
“But where’s Father Costello?” Clay demanded. “Where was he when all this was going on?”
“There was bad trouble here,” Joshua said. “Some of Sir George’s men arrived and tried to impose a curfew. The mob turned on them, dragged some from their horses. We seemed to be all set for a lynching, when Father Costello arrived. He got three of the men into his house and wouldn’t let anybody touch them. The others got away. He’s there now.”
Clay considered the situation for a moment, brows knit, and then he swung into the saddle. “I’m going up to the church to see Shaun Rogan. Wait for me at Father Costello’s house.”
He turned Pegeen away, cantered along the muddy street and dismounted outside the tiny church. It was quiet and peaceful as he moved along the path between the ancient, moss-covered gravestones. One of the great oak doors stood slightly open. He removed his hat and stepped inside.
The peace and the quiet of that place enveloped him, and suddenly he felt very tired, drained of all his strength. The light in the church was very dim, and down by the altar, candles flickered and the image of the Holy Mother seemed to float out of the darkness, bathed in a soft white light.
The smell of the incense was overpowering and he felt giddy and light-headed. He stretched out a hand in the darkness and felt the cold roughness of a pillar in front of him. It brought him back to reality and he walked quietly along the stone-flagged aisle, spurs jingling softly, to where Shaun Rogan knelt in prayer beside the open coffin.
There were no visible signs of violence. They had laid the boy in the coffin still dressed in the clothes he had worn that day, hands crossed on his breast, and his pale face seemed very young.
Clay touched Shaun Rogan gently on the shoulder and the old man looked up at him. He had aged immeasurably since their last meeting. The flesh seemed to hang in folds from his face and his blue eyes were glazed with pain. When he stood up, he sagged at the shoulders, and his feet dragged as they walked away from the altar toward the door.
The sky was darkening and thunder rumbled in the distance. Shaun Rogan carefully placed his hat on his head and said in a dead voice, “I’m glad you managed to get away from them, Colonel. You’ll be needing help to leave the country.”
“I understand Kevin is leading an attack on Drumore House,” Clay said. “You must use your influence to prevent it taking place. If we hurry, we’ll still be in time.”
Shaun Rogan stared at him blankly. “With one of my sons lying dead in there, murdered in cold blood for the world to see, you want me to stop it?”
“Sir George sent a messenger to Galway this morning,” Clay told him. “He’s asked for the cavalry to turn out. I’m afraid there will