Pay the Devil (v5) (10 page)

He was still suffering from the effects of those first few terrible blows, and when they were two or three hundred yards outside the village and screened by trees, he stopped and was violently sick.

After a moment, he looked up with a tired grin. “I feel much better for that.”

“All you need is a lie-down, Colonel,” Kevin assured him.

“Later perhaps,” Clay said. “But not now. I’ve got a call to make first. It’s time I told Sir George Hamilton exactly what I thought of him.”

“You might do better to sleep it off,” Kevin Rogan said warningly.

Clay shook his head. “No, I prefer to go when I’m in the mood. Besides, there’s the matter of the Cooneys’ rent to take care of. I intend to pay their arrears.”

“But it isn’t the money he’s after, Colonel,” Kevin Rogan said. “It’s their land and cottage he wants for some purpose of his own, otherwise he’d have allowed them to go on, month after month, binding themselves to him body and soul.”

“He’ll take the money if I have to ram it down his throat,” Clay said grimly.

Kevin Rogan sighed. “I can see you’re set on it, Colonel. I wish I could come with you, but it’s essential I get home as soon as possible. I’ve important business on tonight.”

Clay leaned across and shook hands with him. “You’ve helped me enough for one day. Tell your father I’ll drop by tomorrow morning to have a look at that thigh of his.” He turned Pegeen off the road and up through the trees before the other could reply.

Once on top of the moor, he broke into a gallop and the wind began to revive him. He skirted the village and entered the grounds of Drumore House through a gap in the wall near the stables and cantered round to the front.

The old butler who opened the door was too well-trained to show any surprise at the condition of Clay’s face. He asked him to wait a moment and disappeared. After a little while, he returned and led the way along the passage to the conservatory. This time, however, he opened a door on the right and showed Clay into a small comfortably furnished study. “Sir George will be with you in a little while, Colonel,” he said. “May I get you a drink?”

Clay shook his head and the butler withdrew. Clay sat down in a wing-backed chair by the door and closed his eyes. The door had been left slightly ajar and he became aware of voices. Steps approached, and as they stopped outside, the butler said, “Now mind your manners when Sir George speaks to you, my man.”

Clay turned his head and peered through the crack. A small, rat-faced man in a shabby tweed suit stood humbly, hat in hands, as the butler opened the door into the conservatory for him. As they disappeared inside, Clay leaned back, a frown on his face. Somewhere, he had seen the man before. He had a memory for faces and this was one not easily forgotten—and then he remembered. That first night in Cohan’s Bar. The little man had been one of those listening to Dennis boast of the holdup on the Galway Road.

There was something strange here, surely. Clay peered out through the crack again in time to see the butler return on his own and disappear in the direction of the buttery. For a moment, Clay hesitated, and then he stepped across the passage and gently opened the opposite door.

The moist heat of the conservatory enveloped him as he moved inside and he could hear voices. He turned to the left and tiptoed along a smaller path which ran parallel to the main one. A moment later, he was cautiously viewing Sir George Hamilton and his visitor from behind a screen of vines.

“Get on with it, O’Brian,” Sir George said. “What have you managed to find out?”

“Oh, something good, your honor. Something special,” O’Brian told him.

“It had better be. God knows I’m paying you enough,” Sir George said acidly.

“It’ll do ye no good to try and keep a watch on the Rogans, because they’ve got guards out on the approaches to Hidden Valley,” O’Brian said. “But just before midnight, they’re picking up a cargo from a Galway fishing boat. What it is, I don’t know, but something special. Arms, I think.”

“It would be difficult to catch them at it,” Sir George mused. “Their sentries would see us crossing that last half-mile of moor to the cliffs. If the cargo is as important as you say, they’ll take extra care.”

“I’ve thought of that, your honor,” O’Brian said. “They’ve arranged to carry the stuff by pony to Drumore Woods and transfer it to carts there.”

Sir George gave an exclamation of triumph.

“By God, what a place for an ambush. There’s only one path through the woods. We can box them in.” He turned away, eyes glittering, fingers interlacing nervously. “This will be a hanging offense. A hanging offense.” He tugged on a cord which disappeared through the foliage above his head, and somewhere in the distance, Clay heard a bell ring.

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. “You’ve had quite a day.”

They mounted the stairs, Joanna following, and went into his bedroom. As Joshua peeled the coat from his master’s tired body, Clay examined his face in the mirror, but suddenly a mist seemed to form there and then his vision blurred and he fell across the bed.

Joanna cried out in alarm, “Oh, God, he’s hurt,” and leaned anxiously across him.

Joshua lifted his master’s legs up onto the bed and pulled off his boots. “I’ve seen him do this before, Miss Hamilton. Keel over after a period of intense stress. The colonel’s like a thorough-bred—kind of highly strung.”

“As if I need to be told that,” she said, and Clay smiled and allowed the darkness to flow over him.

He awakened to night and moonlight streaming in through the window with ghostly fingers. For a little while, he lay there, something nagging away at the back of his mind, and then he remembered and threw back the bedclothes.

The lamp stood on the dresser and he found a match and lit it. There was a dull ache somewhere behind his eyes, his ribs were sore and there was no feeling at all in his left cheek, the one Burke had split to the bone. He touched it gingerly with a finger and winced. There was a purple patch in the pit of his stomach, blue bruises in various other places and a graze on his chin.

As he examined them, they all began to hurt and he grinned and started to dress. The immediate problem was to warn the Rogans of the intended ambush, but how? If he simply rode across to Hidden Valley and told them in person or sent Joshua with a message, it would be taken as a declaration of allegiance—an open one at that. No, it would never do. He stamped on the floor hard with his booted foot and pulled his shirt over his head.

After a moment, the door opened and Joshua entered. He said patiently, “Now Colonel, you should be in bed.”

“Has Miss Hamilton gone? What time is it?”

Joshua consulted his watch. “A little after nine.”

“Then I haven’t got much time. I know this will distress you, Joshua, but I’m afraid Captain Swing must ride again.”

He opened the trunk and took out his cavalry greatcoat and explained the situation hurriedly as he dressed. “And you think one of the Rogan boys will still be on guard where you saw the other one?” Joshua asked, when he had finished.

Clay knotted the scarf about his neck and pulled the brim of the hat down over his eyes. “I certainly hope so. If not, I’ll have to think of something else.”

They went downstairs and saddled Pegeen between them, and a moment later, he moved out of the yard into the dark shadows of the trees.

The moors were quiet and deserted, the only sound the lonely sighing of the wind through the heather, and clouds obscured the moon. When he was near to Hidden Valley, he turned off the track and approached from another direction, Pegeen’s hooves quiet on the damp turf.

He left her tethered to a bush in a small valley by a runnel of water and climbed up its side, entering the clump of trees in which Dennis Rogan had been hiding. He went forward cautiously and after a moment heard a slight cough, and the wind carried with it the rich animal smell of a horse.

Clay paused behind a beech tree and drew his Colt. As he did so, clouds moved and a shaft of moonlight pierced the trees and fell upon the face of Marteen Rogan, who was sitting on a fallen log, a horse tethered beside him.

The horse raised its head and whinnied a warning. Clay stepped forward, Colt raised threateningly as Marteen turned. The boy’s jaw went slack. “Jesus help us, it’s Captain Swing,” he said in a whisper.

“Right first time, Marteen,” Clay said lightly, in an Irish accent. “Now turn your back like a good lad and no harm will come to you.”

The boy did as he was told and raised his hands. “God save us, Captain, but aren’t we on the same side?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Clay told him. “But I’ve no time for idle chatter. Your brother Kevin and his friends have a rendezvous in Drumore Woods, I understand. Tell him Sir George Hamilton and his men intend to be there. Tell him also to be careful how he opens his mouth in future in the hearing of a small man called O’Brian who frequents Cohan’s pub.”

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 clothes. She turned toward him, face strained and anxious and, pulling her into his arms, he held her close for a moment. “Clay, something terrible has happened,” she said.

He nodded. “I know, Joshua was in the village. He’s just told me all about it. What’s happened to Kevin Rogan? If your uncle allows any harm to come to him, I’ll see him answer for it, if it’s the last thing I do on top of earth.”

“But there’s no question of anything like that,” she said. “He intends to take Kevin into Galway himself. He said the trial would be a mere formality. With the kind of evidence he’ll be able to present, Kevin will hang.”

“That’s probably exactly what
will
happen” Clay said. “Has there been any news from Shaun Rogan?”

She nodded. “That’s one of the reasons I came to see you. My uncle forbade me to leave the house, so I had to saddle my horse myself and slip out the back way through the orchards. I met Burke’s housekeeper on her way down from his cottage. Apparently, Burke was out all night and decided to spend the day in bed. About an hour ago, Shaun Rogan arrived on horseback with his three younger sons and carried him away at gun-point. They gave her a message for my uncle. If Kevin isn’t returned to them by six o’clock, Burke will hang.”

“Saddle Pegeen for me,” Clay said to Joshua. “It’s the sort of thing I would have expected from Shaun Rogan, but how he managed to seat a horse I’ll never know.”

“What do you intend to do?” she said.

He shrugged. “The first step is obviously to see Shaun Rogan to ask him to stay his hand until I can speak to your uncle. I’d like you to come with me. They seem to hold you in some respect.”

“Your difficulty won’t be in handling the Rogans,” she said, “But in making my uncle see sense.”

He tried to sound reassuring and squeezed her shoulders as they went outside to the horse. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

It was raining heavily as they crossed the moor, but he paid little heed to it. He was busy with his own thoughts, searching desperately for some solution to a problem that seemed to have only one answer—two men kicking on the end of a rope. If Shaun Rogan and his family were allowed to take the law into their own hands, they were finished. The cavalry would be called in to root them out of their valley once and for all.

As they passed the clump of trees near the head of the valley, Dennis Rogan rode out to join them on a roan mare, a shotgun crooked in one arm. “Is your father below?” Clay asked.

“That he is, Colonel,” Dennis told him. “He was hoping for a word with you. I think Marteen was to ride over, but they’ll be busy trying to fix my father’s leg at the moment.”

“The damned fool,” Clay said. “I told him to keep out of the saddle.”

Dennis nodded to Joanna and moved back into the trees, and they descended the path and galloped past the paddock into the yard. As they dismounted, the door opened and Cathal ran out and helped Joanna to the ground. Clay unstrapped his saddlebags and walked up the steps into the house without a word.

Shaun Rogan was sprawled in the chair by the fire, his foot supported on a stool and his trouser leg had been slit to the waist. His wife leaned over him, trying to stem a steady ooze of blood that trickled down into a basin. Burke was trussed to a chair in one corner, ropes twisted cruelly round his limbs so that he could not move. His eyes gleamed when he saw Clay, but he said nothing.

Clay opened his saddlebags and dropped down onto one knee beside Big Shaun. “I thought I told you to stay off this leg?”

“There was work to be done,” Rogan boomed. “Important work.” His face twisted with pain and he reached for the whiskey bottle.

Several of the stitches had burst and Clay took out a needle and thread and started to repair the damage. As he worked, he said, “I’m sorry to hear about Kevin, but you’re not helping him by taking the action you have.”

“Let’s talk sense, Colonel,” Shaun Rogan said. “Once they get my lad to Galway Gaol, he’s a dead man. Hamilton’s men will tell their version of things and no one else who was in the pub will have the guts to say anything different.” He shook his head and said deliberately, “I’ve made my decision. If Kevin isn’t back here by six, I’ll hang that scut Burke. I’ll place the noose around his neck myself. No one else need bear the blame, but me.”

Burke laughed harshly. “If you think Sir George will count me a fair exchange for your son, Rogan, you must think again. The fact that you intend to hang me will suit him very well. Afterwards, he’ll have the pleasure of seeing you all kick air.”

“He’s right, Mr. Rogan,” Joanna put in desperately. “I know my uncle and the way his mind works. By hanging Burke, you’ll be playing right into his hands.”

As Clay knotted the bandage into place, Shaun Rogan shook his head. “I’ll not stand by and see my son hanging for killing a man in self-defense. Varley drew on him, there was nothing else Kevin could have done.” He emptied the bottle and placed it deliberately down upon the floor. “I’ll not go back on what I’ve said. If Kevin isn’t here by six o’clock, Burke hangs.”

Clay got to his feet and slung his saddlebags over his shoulder. “You owe me a favor, Big Shaun and you can repay it easily. I’m going to Hamilton to see what can be done. I want you to promise me you won’t make a move before midnight.”

There was a strained silence, and Mrs. Rogan crossed quickly to her husband and placed a wrinkled hand timidly on his shoulders. “Trust the colonel, Shaun. He’s proved a true friend.”

Shaun Rogan still hesitated, and Clay said impatiently, “For God’s sake, make up your mind as to what you really want. Your son returned to you in one piece or Burke hanging lifeless at the end of a rope. It’s not much of an exchange.”

Big Shaun slammed a hand against the arm of his chair. “By God, Colonel, it isn’t. I’ll wait till midnight, but no later.”

Joanna sobbed with relief and Clay turned and smiled briefly at her. “I’d like you to stay here, just to make sure Big Shaun knows what time it is.”

She nodded, eyes dark in a white face. “Of course, Clay, if you want me to.”

He moved closer and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’ll manage something.” He turned away from the new hope which sparked in her eyes, and went outside to Pegeen.

Once on top of the moor, he gave the mare her head and galloped through the rain, his mind concentrated on the conflict ahead. Already a plan was forming in his head and yet he had to meet Sir George Hamilton first to see if things could be handled sensibly.

He came down from the moor through the gap in the wall and cantered across the grass. As he passed the stables at the rear, he saw that a carriage was being got ready and that at least a dozen men were saddling their horses.

He dismounted at the foot of the steps and went up to the front door. As he raised his hand to the bell-chain, the door was opened by the butler. At the same moment, a hand pulled him out of the way and Sir George Hamilton appeared.

When he spoke, his voice was icy. “You are no longer welcome in my house, Colonel Fitzgerald.”

“And I have no wish to be here,” Clay said. “
But
there’s something much more important to discuss. Are you aware that the Rogans hold your man Burke and intend to hang him if Kevin Rogan is not with them by six o’clock?”

“I have already been informed of the situation,” Sir George said. “Naturally, I’m extremely sorry about Burke, but under the circumstances, there is nothing to be done. It’s much more important to the peace of the county that a notorious malcontent like Kevin Rogan should be safely lodged in gaol. I intend to escort him to Galway myself within the hour. Afterwards, I hope to return with sufficient help to root his damned family out of Hidden Valley once and for all.”

Clay almost lost control. “You wanted something like this to happen, didn’t you? If they hang Burke, you’ll be able to see the rest of them laid by the heels.”

“Exactly!” Sir George said, and something unholy glowed deep in his eyes. “I’ll see them under the sod, every one of them, if it’s the last thing I do.”

For a moment, Clay gazed into insane eyes, and then he turned and went down the steps to Pegeen. As he swung into the saddle, he heard Sir George say to the butler, “If that man ever puts foot on my land again, set the dogs on him. Do you understand?” The door closed and Clay cantered away across the grass.

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.