Free Pay the Devil (v5) by Jack Higgins Page B

me.”
    “I have met those who wouldn’t,” Clay told him.
    “The Rogans?” Sir George frowned slightly. “A violent and troublemaking family, notorious throughout the county. The constabulary have been trying to lay them by the heels for years. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll prosecute over this affair on the Galway Road.”
    Clay shook his head. “The whole thing turned out to be nothing more than a boyish prank. Full restitution has been made and there’s an end to it.”
    “Might I ask why you were visiting the Rogans this morning?” Sir George said.
    Some inner caution made Clay reply, “I was merely out for a ride. I arrived at the head of the valley in time to see your men using Mrs. Rogan and one of her sons rather harshly. Naturally, I intervened.”
    “But these people are savages.”
    Clay started to protest, and Sir George raised a hand to silence him. “No, let me tell you a story and then judge for yourself.”
    He sat down in one of the chairs and poured another glass of sherry, his face perfectly calm. “Fifteen years ago, we were going through just such a period as this. Several landowners had been murdered and no man seemed to be safe. I prided myself I had always been fair and honest with my own tenants, and because of that, disregarded the threats on my life made in several letters I received.”
    “Who were those letters from?” Clay asked.
    Sir George opened a drawer in the table, and taking out a folded sheet of paper, passed it across. “That’s an example of the sort of thing I mean. It was found pinned to the front door the other morning.”
    The message was short and to the point and inscribed in neat block letters.
YOUR TURN WILL COME SOON. LOOK FOR ME. CAPTAIN SWING.
    “Who is this Captain Swing?” Clay said, handing it back.
    Sir George permitted himself a contemptuous smile. “There is no such individual, Colonel. They amuse themselves with their secret societies and romantic names. Captain Swing, Captain Moonlight—such names are used by every disaffected rogue who feels like writing a threatening letter to his landlord.”
    “Presumably during the previous trouble, these threats were put into action,” Clay said.
    Sir George nodded. “My wife and I had been visiting some friends. Rather foolishly as it turned out, we rode home alone together in a gig. It was a fine summer evening and as I drove, she chatted to me about some improvements she intended to make in the garden.”
    He seemed to find some difficulty in speaking, and for a moment there was a pause while Clay waited, guessing what was to come.
    Sir George emptied his glass and placed it carefully upon the table. “The assassin was lying in wait in a small wood on the hillside above the bridge, a mile along the Galway Road from the main gates. He only fired once and the bullet, which was intended for me, killed my wife instantly.”
    Clay sighed and said softly, “So violence breeds violence.”
    “Perhaps it does,” Sir George said. “But you must surely see my point of view, Colonel? The risk that his shot might miss me and kill my wife must have been obvious to the assassin, and yet he took it. Can you really expect me to have any feeling other than hate for these people, after such a deed?”
    Clay shook his head. “No, it’s perfectly understandable, but perhaps a more enlightened attitude on the part of the landlords as a whole would go a long way toward stamping out this sort of thing. I visited a dying boy, riddled with consumption this morning. He lives in one of your cottages in the village. I’ve never seen such a pest-hole. How can you expect people who live in such conditions to be anything other than violent and lawless?”
    “But the standards one would apply in England cannot be applied here. These people are animals.” An expression of disbelief appeared on Clay’s face, and Sir George went on, “I’ll tell you another true story and you can judge for yourself. Two years ago, a