Free Pay the Devil (v5) by Jack Higgins

treated.”
    “But the slaves were worth money,” she told him. “There lies the difference.”
    She reined in outside a cottage on the outskirts of the village and Clay dismounted and helped her to the ground. As he unstrapped his bag, the door opened and a priest emerged.
    He was a small-boned, fragile man in his sixties, with a shock of grey hair falling untidily over his brow. His face was lined and careworn, but the eyes which turned toward Clay were blue and sparkling and full of faith.
    “This is Colonel Fitzgerald,” Joanna said. “Colonel, Father Costello.”
    The priest smiled and shook hands, his grip firm. “Your uncle and I were great friends, Colonel, and I knew your father, but that was many years ago. I’m glad you’ve come.”
    He went back into the cottage and Clay and Joanna followed him. It was almost an exact replica of the other one, the walls beaded with moisture and the room half-filled with acrid smoke from the turf fire. Chickens roosted in the rafters and a goat was tethered to the wall.
    In one corner was a large bed covered with a tattered counterpane, in another a straw palliasse upon the floor. The boy was lying upon it, a filthy blanket over him, and a woman sat upon a small stool beside him.
    The sounds of the child’s breathing were horribly familiar and Clay’s heart sank as he dropped down onto one knee and examined him. The skin was so pale that it seemed almost transparent, the flesh molding the bones so that the cheeks were deep hollows. His shirt was stained with blood, and as Clay placed a hand on his forehead, the frail body was racked by a spasm of violent coughing that was followed by a sudden rush of blood from the mouth.
    Behind him the woman sobbed, as he gently sponged the blood away with a cloth. When the boy’s face was clean, Clay opened his bag and took out a small bottle of laudanum. He asked for a cup of water, and after a moment, Joanna handed one to him.
    Clay poured several drops of the laudanum into the water, raised the boy’s head and made him drink the mixture. Then he got to his feet and turned, his face grave. “He should sleep for several hours without waking. How many times has he emitted blood?”
    “Only God knows, sir,” the woman replied. “He cannot eat, and at night his whole body breaks out in a great sweat. Even when his father and I take him into bed to warm him, he still shivers.”
    She dissolved into tears and Clay patted her gently on the shoulder. “Try not to worry too much. He’ll sleep quietly tonight, I promise you. I’ll call in again tomorrow.”
    Her face worked convulsively. “But we can’t pay you, sir. God help us but we’ve no money.”
    Clay shook his head quickly. “My services won’t cost you a cent.” Before she could reply, he pulled open the door and went outside, too full to speak.
    Joanna appeared at his shoulder, her face grave. “Can you do anything?”
    He shook his head. “It’s one of the most advanced cases of consumption I’ve ever seen. How the boy managed to survive this long, I’ll never know. If he lives another twenty-four hours, I’ll be surprised. If there’s any pity for suffering humanity in this universe, he’ll not wake from that drugged sleep.”
    “It is God’s will,” Father Costello said quietly.
    Clay swung into the saddle and gathered the reins in his right hand. “It depends how you look at it, Father. I prefer to think that the boy never stood a chance from the day he was conceived, because he was born in a pigsty and raised in conditions I would consider inadequate for my horse.”
    He turned to Joanna, his face hard. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you here. What I need at the moment is a drink. I’ll see you tonight.” He quickly moved away before she could reply and cantered up the street to Cohan’s public house.
    He had his drink and then another, and as he rode back to Claremont half an hour later, the memory of the child’s wasted face had