him.’
‘What?’ squawked Peach, more of a bystander in this conversation.
‘Perhaps the testicles would be a much safer bet then, my dear,’ said Quaint. ‘There’ll be a lot less blood, and at least there’s a one in three chance of hitting something painful.’ Quaint tapped the landlord on his shoulder, and the man leapt in fear. ‘I notice you aren’t a married man, Mr Peach. Not planning on having children then? That’s probably for the best.’
Peach’s skin was now so pale that it was practically transparent.
‘All right, all right, man!’ he said, slamming his hands on the table, petrified to the point of collapse. ‘I don’t owe Hawkspear nothing. Just call her off, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know, I swear!’
‘Splendid,’ smiled Quaint. ‘You see how reasonable you can be with the correct level of motivation, Mr Peach?’ He rocked back in his chair and linked his fingers together, delighted with his powers of persuasion. ‘Do tell me all—and leave out not one
scrap
of detail.’
CHAPTER X
The Messenger
I T WAS CLOSE to midnight, and Westminster Abbey’s annexe building was empty apart from a few priests and theology students scurrying about like minnows in a stream. Skirting from one place to the next, the students—known in the sanctum as ‘alumno’—were electric with something akin to gossip. There was a murmur on the wind—Bishop Courtney was in residence. Staying within the lush, ornate apartment situated in the west wing of the church away from prying eyes and spying ears, the Bishop was virtually a celebrity, and every one of the students wished to meet the man, him being one of Her Majesty’s most trusted advisors.
Behind the varnished oak doors on the top floor of the annexe building, Bishop Courtney scoured through the reams of paperwork upon his cluttered desk. He scooped up a golden goblet with chubby fingers, and poured the contents down his gullet. There was a gentle knock on the door and the golden knob turned slowly, as the door inched open. The Bishop checked the ornamental carriage clock on the vast fireplace and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A young student priest was stood pensively in the doorway.
‘Yes, what is it, alumno?’ snapped Bishop Courtney, turning his portly mass around to face the door. ‘I thought I ordered not to be disturbed!’
‘Sorry, your Grace, but a Reverend Fox is in the reception hall requesting an audience with you. Shall I permit him entrance?’ the young priest asked, cowering as if he were pleading for his life.
‘Reverend Fox?’ asked the Bishop. He scowled into his goblet of wine curiously, and then his eyes suddenly sparked wide open, as if he had just been startled by gunfire. ‘Ah! Reverend Fox, you say? Well, by all means, show him in, boy.’
‘Very good, my Lord,’ said the alumno, bowing his head.
A few moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in black priestly robes and a white dog collar entered the residence, and closed the door firmly behind him.
‘Evening, Bishop,’ snapped a heavily disguised Mr Reynolds. As well as bogus priestly garb, the man also wore a wicked grin across his gaunt face. ‘Burning the midnight oil, I see?’
Bishop Courtney didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I thought I told you that you were only to use the Fox identity if there was an emergency, Mr Reynolds. So what news is about to ruin my night?’ he asked, nervously twisting his large ruby ring around his finger.
‘You’re more right than you know, Bishop.’ Mr Reynolds’s face stiffened, as he approached the large fireplace. ‘Not long ago I received a message from my eyes and ears in Crawditch. It seems that Arthur Peach, the landlord of The Black Sheep, has recently received a visit from Cornelius Quaint.’
The Bishop raised an eyebrow. ‘Quaint? The conjuror you mentioned?’ he said. ‘And so what? I don’t expect to be disturbed for trivialities, man. You came all the way to
‘What?’ squawked Peach, more of a bystander in this conversation.
‘Perhaps the testicles would be a much safer bet then, my dear,’ said Quaint. ‘There’ll be a lot less blood, and at least there’s a one in three chance of hitting something painful.’ Quaint tapped the landlord on his shoulder, and the man leapt in fear. ‘I notice you aren’t a married man, Mr Peach. Not planning on having children then? That’s probably for the best.’
Peach’s skin was now so pale that it was practically transparent.
‘All right, all right, man!’ he said, slamming his hands on the table, petrified to the point of collapse. ‘I don’t owe Hawkspear nothing. Just call her off, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know, I swear!’
‘Splendid,’ smiled Quaint. ‘You see how reasonable you can be with the correct level of motivation, Mr Peach?’ He rocked back in his chair and linked his fingers together, delighted with his powers of persuasion. ‘Do tell me all—and leave out not one
scrap
of detail.’
CHAPTER X
The Messenger
I T WAS CLOSE to midnight, and Westminster Abbey’s annexe building was empty apart from a few priests and theology students scurrying about like minnows in a stream. Skirting from one place to the next, the students—known in the sanctum as ‘alumno’—were electric with something akin to gossip. There was a murmur on the wind—Bishop Courtney was in residence. Staying within the lush, ornate apartment situated in the west wing of the church away from prying eyes and spying ears, the Bishop was virtually a celebrity, and every one of the students wished to meet the man, him being one of Her Majesty’s most trusted advisors.
Behind the varnished oak doors on the top floor of the annexe building, Bishop Courtney scoured through the reams of paperwork upon his cluttered desk. He scooped up a golden goblet with chubby fingers, and poured the contents down his gullet. There was a gentle knock on the door and the golden knob turned slowly, as the door inched open. The Bishop checked the ornamental carriage clock on the vast fireplace and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A young student priest was stood pensively in the doorway.
‘Yes, what is it, alumno?’ snapped Bishop Courtney, turning his portly mass around to face the door. ‘I thought I ordered not to be disturbed!’
‘Sorry, your Grace, but a Reverend Fox is in the reception hall requesting an audience with you. Shall I permit him entrance?’ the young priest asked, cowering as if he were pleading for his life.
‘Reverend Fox?’ asked the Bishop. He scowled into his goblet of wine curiously, and then his eyes suddenly sparked wide open, as if he had just been startled by gunfire. ‘Ah! Reverend Fox, you say? Well, by all means, show him in, boy.’
‘Very good, my Lord,’ said the alumno, bowing his head.
A few moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in black priestly robes and a white dog collar entered the residence, and closed the door firmly behind him.
‘Evening, Bishop,’ snapped a heavily disguised Mr Reynolds. As well as bogus priestly garb, the man also wore a wicked grin across his gaunt face. ‘Burning the midnight oil, I see?’
Bishop Courtney didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I thought I told you that you were only to use the Fox identity if there was an emergency, Mr Reynolds. So what news is about to ruin my night?’ he asked, nervously twisting his large ruby ring around his finger.
‘You’re more right than you know, Bishop.’ Mr Reynolds’s face stiffened, as he approached the large fireplace. ‘Not long ago I received a message from my eyes and ears in Crawditch. It seems that Arthur Peach, the landlord of The Black Sheep, has recently received a visit from Cornelius Quaint.’
The Bishop raised an eyebrow. ‘Quaint? The conjuror you mentioned?’ he said. ‘And so what? I don’t expect to be disturbed for trivialities, man. You came all the way to
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