Pay the Devil

‘In good time, Marteen,’ Dennis said. He emptied his glass and placed it ostentatiously down on the bar. Someone immediately filled it and Dennis slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out Clay’s hunter.

He held it up by the chain so that it sparkled in the lamplight, and an excited murmur went up from his audience. ‘Would you look at the elegance of it,’ someone said.

Clay moved forward slowly and stood at the edge of the group. The first person to see him was Marteen and his blue eyes widened in astonishment. Men started to turn and Clay pushed his way through them until he faced Dennis. ‘My watch, I think,’ he said calmly.

There was a sudden silence. For several moments, Dennis stared stupidly at Clay, and then he seemed to recover his poise. ‘And what the hell would ye be meaning by that?’

Clay gazed slowly around the room. The faces were hard and unfriendly; some stupid, others with a glimmering of intelligence. Then he noticed the man who leaned negligently against the wall at the far end of the bar. He was tall and powerful, great shoulders swelling beneath his frieze coat.

His hair was the same colour as Dennis’s, but there the resemblance ended. There was nothing weak in this man’s face, only strength and intelligence. He picked up his glass and sipped a little whiskey and there was a smile on his lips. He gazed into Clay’s eyes and it was as if they knew each other.

Clay turned back to Dennis and said patiently, ‘The money isn’t important, but the watch was my father’s.’

No one moved. Dennis scowled suddenly, as if realizing his reputation was at stake, and thrust the watch back into his pocket. He picked up his shotgun, which was leaning against the bar, and rammed the barrel into Clay’s chest. ‘I’ll give ye five seconds to get out, me bucko,’ he said. ‘Five seconds and no more.’

Clay gazed steadily into that weak, reckless face, then turned abruptly and walked to the door. As he reached it, Dennis said, ‘Would ye look now? He’s messed his breeches for the second time this day.’ For a moment Clay hesitated, and then as laughter swelled behind him, he opened the door and passed outside.

He pushed Joshua roughly out of the way and dragged a carpet bag out onto the coach step and opened it. He was not angry and yet his hands shook slightly and there was a familiar, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach.

‘What is it, Colonel?’ Joshua demanded in alarm.

Clay ignored him. He found what he wanted at the bottom of the bag, his Dragoon Colt, the gun which had been his sidearm ever since his escape from the Illinois State Penitentiary with General Morgan in ’63.

He hefted the weapon expertly in his right hand and then walked quickly to the pub door and opened it again. Laughter swelled to the ceiling as Dennis further embellished his story, and for the moment, Clay was again unobserved.

A stone whiskey bottle stood on the bar near Dennis’s elbow some twelve feet away. It was not a difficult shot. Clay levelled his weapon and pulled the trigger. The bottle exploded into pieces like a bomb, showering the men with whiskey and scattering them across the room.

Dennis’s face had turned sickly-yellow in the lamplight and his eyes were round and staring. His tongue flickered across dry lips as he frantically looked for assistance. No one moved and there was fear on every face, except for the tall man who still leaned against the wall at the end of the bar, but now his smile had gone and he held his right hand inside his coat.

Clay’s face was a smooth mask, inscrutable and yet in some way terrible. He moved forward and touched Dennis gently under the chin with the cold barrel of the Colt. ‘My watch!’ he said tonelessly.

The youth’s face seemed to crumple into pieces and he produced the watch and purse and placed them on the bar top with shaking hands. ‘God save us, sir, but it was only a joke,’ he said. ‘No harm was intended. No harm at all.’

For a moment longer, Clay gazed fixedly at him, and somewhere a voice said in a half-whisper, ‘Would ye look at the Devil’s face on him.’

Sweat stood on Dennis’s brow in great drops and there was utter fear in his eyes. Then Clay turned away, slipping the Colt into his pocket. The youth lurched to a nearby chair and collapsed into it, covering his face with his hands.

The publican, a large red-faced man, faced Clay across the bar and wiped his hands nervously on his soiled apron. ‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ he asked.

‘Presumably you deliver liquor to local residents?’ Clay said.

‘I do indeed, sir,’ the publican assured him. ‘I supply Sir George Hamilton himself.’ He produced a dirty piece of paper and moistened a stub of pencil with his tongue. ‘What would ye like, sir?’

Clay pocketed his watch and purse and gave his order in a calm, flat voice, as if nothing had happened. ‘And I’ll take a bottle of brandy with me,’ he added.

The publican pushed the bottle across and Clay picked it up and started to move away. ‘By what name, sir, and where shall I deliver it?’ the publican demanded.

For the first time, a smile appeared on Clay’s face. ‘I was forgetting. Claremont House – Colonel Clay Fitzgerald.’

He turned away as an excited buzz of conversation broke out and, opening the door, went outside.

Joshua was standing by the open door of the coach and an expression of relief appeared on his face. ‘I was watching through the window, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Next to your father, you’re the most cold-blooded man I ever did meet.’

Clay handed him the brandy and pushed him back into the coach. ‘I’ve got my watch back, which is more than I anticipated. All I want now is a meal and a fire. Whatever else we find at Claremont House, I hope we’ll be able to supply those things between us.’

As he moved to step up to the driver’s seat, the door opened behind him and closed again. Clay turned slowly, his hand sliding into his pocket. The tall man was facing him and he held up a hand and smiled. ‘No trouble, Colonel. I only came to thank you for not killing my brother.’

Clay took a quick step forward and brushed back the man’s unbuttoned coat, revealing the butt of a pistol sticking out of his waistband. ‘I noticed where you had your hand,’ he said wryly.

The other nodded. ‘Sure, and I saw that you’d noticed.’

Clay shrugged. ‘He was in no danger. I’m not in the habit of killing boys. A whipping would be more in his line.’

‘When his father hears of this day’s work, he’ll get that and perhaps more,’ the big man said. He held out his hand and Clay took it. ‘Kevin Rogan, Colonel. I knew your uncle well.’

Clay’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Would you be kin to Shaun Rogan – Big Shaun, as I believe they call him?’

Kevin Rogan smiled. ‘My father – why do you ask?’

‘I met a friend of his in New York,’ Clay told him. ‘A man called O’Hara – James O’Hara. He gave me a package for him. If Dennis had stolen it, I wonder what your father would have said to that.’

A strange smile appeared on Rogan’s face. ‘You’ll be doubly welcome if you visit us with news of James O’Hara, Colonel. There’s a track starts at the back of Claremont House. Follow it three miles over the moor and you’ll come to Hidden Valley. Rogan soil, every foot of it bought and paid for.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ Clay said. ‘Tell your father to look for me.’

He pulled himself up into the driver’s seat and slapped the weary horse lightly with the reins. It started to move forward into the gathering dusk. As they turned past the tiny church at the end of the street, he glanced over his shoulder. Kevin Rogan waved at him and then opened the door and went back inside.

2 (#ulink_e8fed7cb-8015-5448-ab7b-a31367128c4d)

The house loomed unexpectedly out of the night, a dark mass beyond a low wall, and Clay turned the coach in between stone pillars from which the iron gates had long since disappeared.

The drive circled the house and ended in a large, walled courtyard where Clay brought the coach to a halt. It was then that he received his first surprise. Light showed through the mullioned windows, reaching out into the rain and shining upon the wet flagstones.

He jumped down to the ground and Joshua climbed out of the coach and joined him. ‘What do you make of it, Colonel?’

Clay shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say, but we can soon find out.’

The door opened to his touch and he entered into what was obviously the kitchen. Beams supported the low ceiling and logs blazed in the great stone fireplace, casting shadows across the room. Clay went and warmed his hands, a slight frown on his face.

Joshua busied himself with lighting an oil lamp, one of two which stood upon the table. As it filled the room with soft light, he gave a sudden exclamation. ‘Look at this, Colonel.’

Clay moved across to the table, as Joshua removed a white linen cloth revealing a loaf of bread, eggs, a side of ham and a pitcher of milk. A small sheet of blue notepaper carried the words welcome to claremont in neat, angular handwriting.

Clay studied the message for a moment. ‘No name,’ Joshua said, stating the obvious. ‘Now wouldn’t you call that a strange thing?’

Clay raised the sheet of notepaper to his nostrils and inhaled the fragrance of lavender. His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I thought it looked like a woman’s writing.’

‘But who is she?’ Joshua demanded.