And finally...

Well folks, 'The Enthusiastic Amateur' has reached it's dramatic conclusion...

You can still enter a competition to win a free ebook copy of the new Cornelius Quaint adventure 'The Lazarus Curse' and maybe more by answering this question: In which country is 'The Lazarus Curse' set?

Then visit Quaint's Facebook page, where you will see the answer in code, along with the cipher that you need to answer it.

Once you have used the Cornelius Cipher to decode the message, simply Follow @CorneliusQuaint on Twitter and send him a Tweet or Direct Message including the hashtag #LazarusCurse and your answer.

 

The winner shall be announced next week.

Godspeed and good luck friends.

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter Five

Part Two.

     A short time later, Quentin Claremont drew back the large doors of the warehouse expecting to see a Cornelius Quaint-shaped object dead at the bottom of the glass tank.

     He was to be disappointed, and not a little bit confused.

     ‘That can’t be…’ he whispered, taking a step inside.

     Hearing a strange sound beneath his feet, he looked down to see a small puddle of water. And then another, and then another, leading all the way to the tank. He scowled at the puddles, certain that they had not been there earlier. And then the penny dropped. They weren’t puddles, they were footprints. And they were not leading to the tank, but leading from it. Claremont was transfixed with the prints, following them like a hound with a scent, to a shadowed corner of the warehouse. With his feet glued firmly to the spot, he craned his neck, trying to peer through the gloom. A fist flew out of the shadows and struck his nose. Seeing stars, he staggered back and collapsed onto his backside on the cold stone floor.

     Cornelius Quaint, his clothes sopping wet and sealed tight against his bones, stepped out of the darkness and towered over him.

     ‘Bravo, Mr Quaint,’ said Claremont. A trickle of blood ran from his nostril into his mouth and onto his lips. ‘You managed to get free.’

     ‘From your inescapable death-trap, you mean?’ said Quaint. ‘Obviously.’

     ‘And now I suppose you’re g-g-going to k-k-kill me?’

     ‘Ordinarily, I would certainly consider it,’ replied Quaint. ‘But I think I can come up with something a bit more creative than that.’

     ‘You…you mean you’re not going to kill me?’ asked Claremont.

     ‘Not me personally, no,’ said Quaint. ‘Your little stunt here tonight has given me an idea. If I recall the words in your invitation correctly, you said that you saw nothing in my stage-act, and I quote: “above the level of an enthusiastic amateur”. Ring any bells?’

     Quentin Claremont squirmed. ‘Are you sure I said that?’

     ‘Do you want me to jog your memory?’ Quaint tensed his fists.

     ‘No! No, I believe you!’

     ‘And all of this,’ Quaint pointed over to the glass tank full of water, ‘was designed to see if I could live up to my boasts. But you see, that’s where you went wrong.’

     ‘Wrong?’ asked Claremont. ‘Wrong how?’

     Quaint bared his teeth. ‘They’re not boasts. I really am as good as I say I am.’

     ‘Evidently so,’ whimpered Claremont. ‘And I’m pleased that you were able to pass my little test. I wasn’t really going to let you drown, you know. That’s why I’m here, you see? I came back to set you free! It was all just a little joke between professional showmen, nothing more.’

     Quaint snatched hold Claremont’s jacket. ‘A joke? It’s a bit more than that! But you’re right. We are both showmen, and that’s why I’m going to show you a little professional courtesy. If you’re such a damn good magician I’m going to give you a chance to prove it in front of an audience that’s far more unforgiving than I am. Get up.’

     Claremont winced as he was dragged to his feet. ‘But…where are we going?’

     ‘Why, Quentin, you should be excited!’ cheered Quaint. ‘I’m taking you to the circus.’

*

     That evening, Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus was open for business as usual once more. Just off-stage, Quaint and Prometheus watched as Quentin Claremont performed his magic act in front of a crowded audience. Quaint had wound up them all up beforehand, telling them that never before would they witness conjuring skills such as the ones that Claremont was about to perform. That he was truly the most original showman in the land, and that his performance would leave them speechless. As he breezed off-stage after building up a level of anticipation that he knew full well would not be met, Quaint had whispered into Claremont’s ear:

     ‘One word of advice, Quentin…be spectacular…or what my strongman is going to do to you after the show will be the least of your problems. Prometheus will only break your kneecaps…that audience will rip you to shreds.’

     And true enough, that was exactly what the audience did – verbally, if not physically. Quentin Claremont’s so-called ‘magic act’ comprised of performing the sublimely obvious and the frequently overused. Doves disappearing from under silver platters, bunches of flowers appearing out of thin air, he even stooped as low as to perform the never-ending handkerchief trick. The audience had seen enough, and then the heckling began in earnest. Grown men, old women, even the children were joining in. When Claremont refused to budge, the audience resorted to throwing bits of food and rubbish at him. A shoe came flying from the crowd at one point and smacked him in the head. He was visibly shaken and ever so pale. All his bravado, all his boasts and all his threats were absent now. He was a broken man.

     ‘It’s getting worse.’ Quaint groaned as he peered around the curtain. ‘Another minute and they’ll be up out of their seats baying for his blood. I almost feel sorry for him.’

     Prometheus frowned. ‘Sorry? Didn’t he try to kill you?’

     ‘Well, yes…but I’m used to that,’ replied Quaint, offhandedly. ‘At least he went to all the trouble of setting up the tank, the manacles, the chains and the straitjacket. Not many that have tried to kill me over the years have been that thorough, let me tell you.’

     Prometheus shook his head. ‘You amaze me sometimes, boss. Do you know that?’

     Quaint grinned. ‘I amaze everyone, Prom. It’s my job, remember?’

 THE END

     Although we have come to the end of this particular tale, folks,  there are plenty more Quaint adventures in the pipeline, including the final part in the first arc, The Romulus Equation due out one way or another very soon. It’s been fun having you guys around these past few weeks and I shall miss your company, so do keep in touch via the Cornelius Quaint Facebook page or by tweeting @CorneliusQuaint, or failing that, you can always tweet: @DarrenCraske or email him at corneliusquaint@hotmail.com.

     A great big thank you to all those who read along, entered the weekly quiz, tweeted and re-tweeted, allowed me hijack their blogs to help push the release of The Lazarus Curse, or those who just read the first few chapters and then lost interest – each and every one of you has earned my sincerest thanks.

     Don’t forget there’s still one last chance to win a very special Cornelius Quaint prize bonanza if you answer the question over on the Cornelius Quaint Facebook page right now! Keep an eye on @CorneliusQuaint’s tweets on Friday 23^rd March to see if YOU madam! or even YOU sir! are the lucky winner.

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter Five

Part One:

     ‘Sod it,’ Quaint said, thrusting his arms above his head.

     He felt the cold metal in his equally-as-cold fingers and gripped onto it as tightly as he could. With the chain secured, the first part of his plan was complete. Unfortunately, as was seemingly always the way, this bit of good luck had a bit of bad luck nipping at its heels, and he heard a loud crack above his head. He looked up at the large dark shape bearing down on him. The wooden post crashed down into the water, missing him by inches. Had he not managed to push against the glass just in time, he would have joined the wooden post as it sank to the bottom of the tank.

     As he swallowed water, he grabbed hold of the chain and pulled. The shattered wooden post breached the surface of the water and he was half-tempted to unchain it and use it as a flotation aid, but he quickly thought of a much better use for it. He weighed the wooden post in his hands. It was sodden and very heavy, and with the added load of the chain attached, he really didn’t know if he had the strength to pull off his plan.

     But that had never stopped him before.

     Slowly at first, but gathering speed and momentum, he began to swing the wooden post by its chain above his head. Around and around it went in a blur – until he let it fly. He tugged firmly on the chain and it went slack. Cursing, he tried once more, swirling the chain like a lasso and then sending it flying, hoping that it would snag onto something that would support his weight. Using the chain and post like a rope and hook was the only possible way of getting out of the tank, so it was such a shame that his plan wasn’t working. He tried it a third time, but again the wooden post went crashing into the empty dockland warehouse and came back loose. Quaint was suddenly reminded where he was and what the sign outside had said. The building was currently available for lease. That was just typical. He was in possibly the only warehouse on the entire length of the Thames that was completely empty.

     Quentin Claremont had chosen the location of his trap wisely.

     Undaunted, Quaint pressed his face up against the stained glass of the tank and peered into darkness. At first he saw nothing, but then he slowly lifted his gaze. Directly above his head were thick rafters, criss-crossing the roof. He gathered his nerves together with his strength. The throw would be tricky. Were he not submerged in deep water, he might easily be able to swing the chain up – but things were as they were and it was a bit late in the game to be a sore loser. Swinging the chain around and around above his head, with one mighty throw he launched the chain up into the air.

     He watched it loop itself over the wooden beam. He watched it snap taut and then swing back around for another pass. He watched it lock into place, wrapping around itself. And then he tested the strength with a strong tug. It would hold, he hoped. It would have to hold, for it was the only beam within range of his throw and if that broke…well, Quaint was just about optimistic enough not to worry about that eventuality.

     Some people say that laughter is a tonic, and Quaint could well agree, for as he gripped hold of the chain and pulled himself up and out of the tank he felt his spirits lift, his confidence grow, and an immeasurable desire to do Quentin Claremont some serious harm once he got his hands on him. He was already looking forward to it.

This is it, folks!

We’re almost at the end!

But in the meantime, Cornelius needs YOU to help him answer this week’s teaser so head to the Cornelius Quaint Facebook page and Twitter for more information and a chance to win a free copy of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure, The Lazarus Curse!

Decipher the Cornelius Code...

This weeks chapter of 'The Enthusiastic Amateur' has reached it's cliffhanger ending and now only YOU can help to save Cornelius Quaint.

All you need to do is answer this question: Which Greek god ruled the Underworld?

Then visit Quaint's Facebook page, where you will see the answer in code, along with the cipher that you need to answer it.

Once you have used the Cornelius Cipher to decode the message, simply Follow @CorneliusQuaint on Twitter and send him a Tweet or Direct Message including the hashtag #LazarusCurse and your answer.

This week's prize will be a free ebook edition

of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure

'The Lazarus Curse'.

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter Four

Part Two.  

   Once the straitjacket was free of his broad shoulders, Quaint pushed it down past his waist and kicked it off. He did it just in time too, because the material had become so heavy from the water, it would have been only a few more moments before it dragged him down and as it went, it would have put extra tension on the chain. Quaint was almost relieved to feel the tug on his back. Even with all his twisting and turning to shed the straitjacket, his luck (and the wooden post) still held. But for how long? He still had to figure out how he was supposed to escape from the tank. The walls were far too slippery and there was no way to get a grip on it. If he wanted his plan to work out as he hoped, the chain was vital. Everything had to be carefully considered – which was highly irritating, for the conjuror rarely considered anything, and even when he did, he never did it carefully. All he could focus on was the fact that Quentin Claremont’s plan – just like the seams on the straitjacket – was to become undone…

     What more was it going to take? he wondered. After all he had achieved, surely he had proved Quentin Claremont wrong. Surely he had proved that he was a capable conjuror. Surely he had proved that he wasn’t going down without a fight - or quietly, for that matter. Even though it burned his throat and spent much needed air from his lungs, he roared with anger. Like a maddened beast – which actually was not far off the mark – he howled and spat and cursed and screamed himself hoarse.

     Had the architect of Quaint’s predicament been able to see the conjuror’s rage, perhaps he might even have agreed with the man. Perhaps he had proven himself worthy. But Quentin Claremont was still absent, choosing to celebrate his victory elsewhere. Exactly where that was, Quaint was only too eager to find out.

     Twisting himself around awkwardly, he could feel the chain. He could even see it out of the corner of his eye, but as he reached around he just couldn’t get to it. Every action caused the wood to complain. A carefully considered approach was doing him no favours. He needed to play to his strengths and do something stupid, going against all the caution he had paid so far. If he was going to survive he needed to take a risk, but what he was planning carried the biggest risk of all…

Will Cornelius Quaint’s risk pay off?

Come right back here on Monday 19^th March 2012 to find out!!!

But in the meantime, Cornelius needs YOU to help him answer this week’s teaser so head to the Cornelius Quaint Facebook page and Twitter for more information and a chance to win a free copy of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure, The Lazarus Curse!

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter Four

Part One.   

    Beneath the surface of the water, Quaint could see a large distended shape near his waist, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was a trapped bubble of air – which meant only one thing: (well, actually it meant two things, the first being) - if there was air inside the confines of the straitjacket, it also meant that there must be a hole (and the second being that if he could isolate the location of the hole, there was a slim chance that he might be able to make it bigger…). In earnest, he began his search. Bracing himself against the walls of the tank, Quaint pushed the material to its limits, and then he felt something give! With every breath burning his lungs, he shifted his shoulders out of the jacket like a snake shedding its skin. The sound of splintering wood made him immediately remember the post’s precarious condition and he froze. If it split, it would crash down on top of him and with his arms still constricted, there would be no way to shield himself. Time to rectify that, he thought. He pushed through the material with his numbed fingers, probing for the straps. He managed to loosen first one buckle, and then the other. But once his arms were free, they immediately sunk down into the water. Being constricted against his body for so long, they had lost vital blood circulation and they felt as if their mass had increased tenfold.

     Quaint’s body was fighting against him and he tasted water. It wasn’t fresh, no doubt taken directly from the Thames outside. He weighed the possibility of contracting who knew what sort of diseases, and there was an argument for him dying of cholera or typhoid before he drowned. That thought cheered him up a bit. Dying was one thing, but drowning was not on his list of ways that he wanted to go. It took too long. Too much time to think – too much time to list his sins, of which it had to be said, there were many. But his misspent childhood was far from his mind, it was his misspent adulthood that he cared about. He swallowed another mouthful of foul water as the weight of the straitjacket around his ankles began to sink, threatening to take the rest of him with it. It was taking all his strength to keep his feet up. It felt as if a pair of unseen hands had hold of his ankles and they were dragging him down, deeper into hell itself…

The Enthusiastic Amateur will continue right here on Wednesday 14^th March 2012!!!

In the meantime, please check out the Cornelius Quaint Facebook page and Twitter for more information.

Decipher the Cornelius Code...

This weeks chapter of 'The Enthusiastic Amateur' has reached it's cliffhanger ending and now only YOU can help to save Cornelius Quaint.

All you need to do is answer this question: For how may years did Queen Victoria reign over Great Britain?

Then visit Quaint's Facebook page, where you will see the answer in code, along with the cipher that you need to answer it.

Once you have used the Cornelius Cipher to decode the message, simply Follow @CorneliusQuaint on Twitter and send him a Tweet or Direct Message including the hashtag #LazarusCurse and your answer.

This week's prize will be a free ebook edition

of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure

'The Lazarus Curse'.

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter Three

Part Two.

       But no, not quite.

     Claremont was nothing like him. What sort of showman goes to all the trouble of making an inescapable death-trap and then doesn’t stick around to take his bow? A bloody stupid one was only one of the possible answers. A careless one was another. Whatever sort of man Quentin Claremont was, he wasn’t even in Quaint’s league.

     And that sudden recognition was the only fuel that the conjuror needed. Although the tank was far taller than him, its width was just over half his height. Quaint trod water to the side of the tank, careful not to put any strain on the chain attached to his back as if he was a hunk of beef in an abattoir. One excessive tug might be all it took to snap the wooden post. Pressing his shoulders up against the glass and his feet against the opposite side, he slowly moved one foot up at a time. The straitjacket’s weight was phenomenal, as if he had a ball and chain attached to each ankle. It sent icy daggers up his calf muscles. As he rose higher, his body began to level out at the top of the tank, soaking yet more of the material that drank water more thirstily than a sponge. Quaint immediately felt an intense pressure on his chest. Taking a shallow breath, he looked up at the chain. Now that he was buoyant (more or less) there was a small amount of slack to it. But was it enough? He was rarely the praying type, but he found himself muttering skyward nonetheless. Not exactly a prayer, more of a casual request for a favour.

     With his shoulders pressing against one side of the glass tank, and his feet pushing against the other, there was just enough slack for him to move his hands safely without increasing the tension and shattering the wooden post supporting the chain. He was banking a lot of hope on that chain – he needed it to escape the final layer of the trap. But first things first, he told himself, let’s just concentrate on one miracle at a time, shall we?

 Will Cornelius manage to survive?

Find out right here on Monday 12th 2012 !!!

To help Cornelius escape head on over to his Facebook page for a chance to win a free copy of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure, The Lazarus Curse!

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter Three

Part One.

     Just then, Quaint felt something slip through his fingers.

     The tightness of the straitjacket meant that it hadn’t fallen very far, and he snatched it up and rolled it around in his palm. It was the iron pin from the manacles! Miraculously, he had done it! And then, without lingering on his success, he was reminded that he still had a long way to go. He peered through the glass of the tank. Quentin Claremont was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had assumed that his victory was a foregone conclusion. Silly, Quaint thought, very silly. Only a fool underestimated their opponent, and he was far more than merely an opponent. He was even far more than merely a conjuror. Magic was only his talent and the circus only his occupation.

     What made him a man capable of miracles was everything else in-between.

    One layer of the puzzle was complete, now onto the next. He needed to get out of the straitjacket before it got much wetter. He could already feel the water seeping in, chilling him to the bone. His lungs pleaded with him for a full intake of breath, but he knew that once he inhaled, the wet material would cling to his skin like tar. He twisted himself around, looking up the length of the chain. As he did so, he watched the wooden post budge a little. Claremont was telling the truth. The wood had been sawed at least halfway through. It wouldn’t take much for it to break, which made getting out of the straitjacket even harder. It was a feat in itself getting out of one under normal conditions, let alone ones where the odds of death were astronomical. In the old days he’d been able to forcibly dislocate his shoulder and manoeuvre his way free, but in the old days he wasn’t as old as he was now, and there was no guarantee that he’d be able to get the shoulder back in. Besides, it was incredibly painful. In some ways, he was better off dying. Every avenue of escape seemed to be a dead end – quite literally – and Quaint wondered if this was the way that he would die; murdered by a fellow conjuror. Not on the orders of a villainous and shadowy organisation, or at the hands of a psychotic Frenchman, nor even by a deadly plague – but a showman, a man just like he was…

The Enthusiastic Amateur will continue right here on Wednesday 29^th February 2012!!!

In the meantime, please check out the Cornelius Quaint Facebook page and Twitter for more information.

Decipher the Cornelius code...

This weeks chapter of 'The Enthusiastic Amateur' has reached it's cliffhanger ending and now only YOU can help to save Cornelius Quaint.

All you need to do is answer this question: What was the name of the street where Sherlock Holmes lived?


Then visit Quaint's Facebook page, where you will see the answer in code, along with the cipher that you need to answer it.

Once you have used the Cornelius Cipher to decode the message, simply Follow @CorneliusQuaint on Twitter and send him a Tweet or Direct Message including the hashtag #LazarusCurse and your answer.

This week's prize will be a free ebook edition

of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure

'The Lazarus Curse'.

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter Two

  Part Two.

     Pick.

     Pick.

     Pick?

     The word gained buoyancy in Quaint’s mind and he clung onto it, whilst simultaneously trying to avoid any allegories that alluded to drowning: one of the foremost things on his mind. All right, Cornelius, he told himself: focus on the manacles. Rallying his concentration (arguably the weakest aspect of his character) into an alliance with his train of thought (one of his strongest aspects when called for), Quaint gathered all the information he could about the manacles binding his wrists.

     Even though his fingertips were numb from the cold, he felt the edges of the iron cuffs, tracing their path. Standard police issue, if he wasn’t mistaken. Mayhew’s Foundry, based out of Scotland. He could tell by the imprint of the letter ‘M’ stamped onto the iron. He knew Mayhew’s well – an occasion in his past had led him to be placed in them by London’s constabulary (mistaken identity, he swore blind). But he shook that memory from his head. It wasn’t his past he was interested in; it was the future – more specifically, the distinct possibility of a lack of one. Now, what was it about Mayhew’s cuffs? No, they weren’t standard police issue. Not anymore, he corrected himself as he recalled something that he’d heard recently. Something about a faulty batch some months back. Mayhew’s had maintained the Metropolitan Police contract almost since its inception, but there had been a few recent escapes from custody, which led to an immediate cancellation of the supply. It turned out that the metal pin joining the manacles together could be easily pushed out with the right tool, freeing the captive and making the cuffs nothing more than tarnished jewellery. The cancellation of the contract ended up flooding London’s backstreet markets with iron by the bucket-load, snatched up at bargain prices by the blacksmiths. A pair of Mayhew’s could be bought for a handful of pennies. But none of that mattered. It was the central pin that Quaint was looking for.

     He found it, and pressed it with all his strength. It was a good thing that his extremities were so numb; he didn’t feel the pain - but he would surely feel it later once he’d thawed out, he told himself. And then he smiled. If he was thinking about the future, it meant that he was just about confident enough to pull this off. But taking into account that he had always shared a somewhat fractious relationship with luck at the best of times, what were the odds that these manacles were made by Mayhew’s? That was the real question.

     In his fifty-plus years he had witnessed his fair share of luck, and the majority had been of the bad variety. He rarely lingered overlong on those memories, choosing to fill his life with as many good ones as he could find, hoping they would address the balance. But he was deluding himself. Bad luck always won out over good, at least where Cornelius Quaint was concerned. During the trade-off of bad for good, inevitably some good memories had drifted from his grasp. Beyond his ability to recall in any detail, but notable by their absence collectively, like a single dark cloud in an otherwise cloudless sky. It was as if his mind had reached its full capacity, and in order to accommodate new memories, he would have to sacrifice some of his old ones. The only problem was that he had no choice which ones were to be lost, and the longer that he lived, the more room he had to make within his cluttered mind. Childhood friends, the name of the street where he grew up, the housekeepers and maids – he could recall none of them anymore. He was facing certain death, wondering if his life would pass before his eyes. He certainly hoped not. Over the past few years so much of his past had slipped through his fingers that he swore it would never happen again…

Will Cornelius manage to survive?

Find out right here on Monday 5th 2012 !!!

To help Cornelius escape head on over to his Facebook page for a chance to win a free copy of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure, The Lazarus Curse!

The next step...

Tomorrow will see the conclusion to this week's chapter of 'The Enthusiastic Amateur'. This part of the exclusive new story will finish on a cliffhanger and Quaint's life will hang in the balance. And only YOU can help to save him.

All you need to do after reading the story here is visit Quaint's Facebook page, where you will see a question, as well as a code that needs to be deciphered in order to answer it.


Once you have used the Cornelius Cipher to decode the message, simply Follow @CorneliusQuaint on Twitter and send him a Tweet or Direct Message including the hashtag #LazarusCurse and your answer.

This week's prize will be a free ebook edition

of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure

'The Lazarus Curse'.

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter Two

     Part One.

     Quaint had never actually timed how long he could hold his breath for; he had grown out of escaping from chains and tanks of water. Holding one’s breath was a trick for younger men, and it had been twenty years at least since he’d tried it. He only had one resort: no matter what Quentin Claremont had said about escape being impossible, he had to find a way to prove him wrong. After all, his life depended on it. He was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, not for the first time in his life, but at least this death came with options. That was new. Not necessarily any better, but new nonetheless. If he did nothing, the weight of the straitjacket would slowly drag him down into the water and if he hadn’t freed himself by then he would drown, and if he struggled too much trying to free himself, the post supporting the chain would snap and he would drown. How he would have dearly loved a third option, and preferably one that didn’t involve him drowning, but none sprang to mind.

     Quaint glared at the image of Claremont’s face through the glass tank, as warped and indistinct as the man himself. He didn’t know him either by name or reputation. In fact, he’d never even heard of him before, nor any of the other magicians he had mentioned. Either that meant that Claremont wasn’t quite as professional as he claimed to be, or that Quaint rarely kept abreast of his competitors. The answer, as things turned out, was a little bit of both.

     This trap was built upon layers, and he knew that in order to escape, the solution to this type of problem was always to release one’s self from each layer in sequence.

     The manacles first, then the straitjacket to free up his arms and stop him sinking like a lead weight to the bottom of the tank. It was unlikely that the wooden post would hold his weight, so freeing the chain would be the next objective. Getting out of the tank would pose a problem though. Its sides were taller than him at full stretch, and they would need to be at least a half inch thick to be able to hold such a volume of water. Because of the pressure, there was no guarantee that he would be able to break the glass, and even if he could, he had nothing to break it with.

     With his escape from the tank included as an overall objective, Quaint now had plenty of hurdles to mount - and here he was without a clue how to achieve any one of them. If only he could take care of the manacles then at least he might have a chance, but with no other options presenting themselves, it wasn’t as if he could take his pick…

The Enthusiastic Amateur will continue right here on Wednesday 29^th February 2012!!!

In the meantime, please check out the Cornelius Quaint Facebook page and Twitter for more information.

What happens next?

This week's chapter of 'The Enthusiastic Amateur' has reached it's cliffhanger ending and now only YOU can help to save him.

All you need to do is answer this question: In which country was Houdini born?


Then visit Quaint's Facebook page, where you will see the answer in code, along with the cipher that you need to answer it.

Once you have used the Cornelius Cipher to decode the message, simply Follow @CorneliusQuaint on Twitter and send him a Tweet or Direct Message including the hashtag #LazarusCurse and your answer.

This week's prize will be a free ebook edition

of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure

'The Lazarus Curse'.

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter One

Part Two.

   Quaint awoke (with a cracking headache) an undefined lapse of time later and surveyed his predicament. And what a predicament it was! One perilous situation was bad enough, but he seemed to be saddled with at least four of them.

     He could feel cold metal pinching the skin around both wrists.

1.     Manacles

Something was hooked to his back.

2.     Chain

His whole body was constricted.

3.     Straitjacket

His chest was freezing cold.

4. Ice

And it was also very wet.

5. Correction: Water

     Furthermore his vision was blurred, and at first he put it down to the fact that he’d been clobbered on the back of the head, but as he blinked the blur away he realised that he was looking through glass covered with green mould, it was as if he inside a gigantic fish tank in desperate need of a clean. Taking all individual factors into consideration and totalling them up into a reasonable summary of his situation, Quaint concluded that he was bound by manacles with his arms behind his back and a straitjacket was clamping said arms firmly in place whilst he was suspended by a chain and up to his waist in a massive glass tank full of freezing cold water.

     On the whole, things looked bleak.

     He didn’t ponder how exactly he had got into this sticky situation; the only thing that mattered was getting out of it. Thankfully, he had studied escapology under one of the best in the business and little things like manacles, chains, straitjackets and tanks of freezing cold water were of no consequence. Using skills perfected over decades of application, Quaint waited for the manacles to slip free of his wrists.

     And he waited.

     And he waited for a bit more.

     And then he began cursing, his voice echoing off the walls of the glass tank as he demanded to know why the iron was not obeying his commands. And then a thought struck him. There was only one reason why he was unable to free himself. Only someone with the required degree of skill could possibly have secured him in a position from which there was no escape.

     ‘Sorry to keep you hanging around, Mr Quaint,’ called a voice from down below. Quaint recognised it immediately – after all, it had been heckling him all night. It was the thin man with the clipped moustache from the front row. ‘Thank you for coming. I know you’re probably a very busy man. No doubt you’ve already taken stock of your situation and come to the conclusion that escape is impossible?’

     ‘In my experience, impossible is all relative,’ said Quaint. ‘So you must be Quentin Claremont, I presume?’

     ‘The very same,’ said Claremont, with a bow. ‘Do you like my little contraption? I thought seeing as you were gracious enough to accept my invite, it was only polite of me to orchestrate a worthy test of your abilities. As I said, I’m in the conjuring trade myself…and as I also said, it is impossible to escape from my trap.’

     ‘We’ll see,’ muttered Quaint. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of effort just to prove a point, I’ll say that for you.’

     ‘Actually, Mr Quaint, the only point I intend to prove is your death.’

     ‘Better men than you have tried,’ Quaint said, truthfully. ‘So, what do you want?’

     ‘Want?’ enquired Claremont. ‘Why, I would have thought that was perfectly obvious! Despite what I said in my note, I do actually rate you as a performer – and that’s the reason why you’re here. No doubt you heard about Hans Aberguise, the German conjuror? Ah, such a terrible tragedy. Someone tampered with his guillotine before his act, and he ended up with his head in a basket. Shame. And what about Monsieur Claude de Corsair? He used to be one of the finest sword-swallowers in France before someone coated his tools of the trade with black pepper. One fatal sneeze later and he ended up shoving a blade right through his brain. He’s dead now too, of course.’

     Quaint rolled his eyes. ‘Look, whilst this is all very fascinating, is it going to take much longer? It’s just that I’d sort of like to jump straight to the point where I bust out of this trap and then get to work on busting you.’

     Claremont permitted a sly smile to grace his thin lips. ‘The point is, Mr Quaint, that I’ve been trying to make my mark on the conjuring circuit, yet have found myself faced with plenty of competition…and so now I’m eliminating it…one by one.’

     Quaint struggled against the manacles, feeling the rough edges cut into his flesh.

     ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ taunted Claremont. ‘It will only speed things up…and by ‘things’ I really mean ‘your imminent and inevitable death’.’ The thin man took a glance up the length of the chain that was attached to Quaint’s back. ‘You see that post that the chain is fixed to? It’s been sawed through, so too much wriggling about on your part and it’ll snap, which would be bad news for you seeing as it’s the only thing keeping you from sinking. Additionally, the material that your straitjacket is manufactured from has a tremendous capacity to soak up water. In other words, the longer you hang there, the heavier you’re going to get. It looks like how much time you’ve got left to live depends entirely on how long you can hold your breath. Goodbye, Mr Quaint. I hope you die with dignity.’

     Quentin Claremont pulled a lever attached to the wooden post and the chain began to move, slowly dipping Cornelius Quaint deeper into the water…

Will Cornelius manage to survive?

Find out right here on Monday 27^th February 2012 !!!

To help Cornelius escape head on over to his Facebook page for a chance to win a free copy of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure, The Lazarus Curse!

The rules of engagement...

Tomorrow will see the conclusion to this week's chapter of 'The Enthusiastic Amateur'. This part of the exclusive new story will finish on a cliffhanger and Quaint's life will hang in the balance. And only YOU can help to save him.


All you need to do after reading the story here is visit Quaint's Facebook page, where you will see a question, as well as a code that needs to be deciphered in order to answer it.


Once you have used the Cornelius Cipher to decode the message, simply Follow @CorneliusQuaint on Twitter and send him a Tweet or Direct Message including the hashtag #LazarusCurse and your answer.

This week's prize will be a free ebook edition

of the latest Cornelius Quaint adventure

'The Lazarus Curse'.

The Enthusiastic Amateur: Chapter One

Part One.

Whenever he stepped off-stage after a performance, conjuror and circus proprietor Cornelius Quaint always felt a tinge of pride. It wasn’t just the audience’s astonished faces or their gasps of wonder - it was the knowledge that he’d managed to fool every single one of them. Whether it was dazzling card tricks or amazing feats of escapology, it was a pleasure that he readily indulged himself in. Yet on this particular night, and after this particular performance, there seemed to be at least one member of the audience that was neither dazzled nor amazed.  Quaint peered through the curtains at a thin man with a clipped moustache in the front row.

     ‘Someone should go out there and teach him some manners!’ he said to the circus strongman Prometheus; a titan in more than just a name, for he towered at least a foot and a half above Quaint’s six feet. ‘Someone like you, I mean.’

     The strongman’s brush-bristle beard twitched as he spoke: ‘Ah, Cornelius, don’t pay him any mind. What does he know, eh? He’s just one bloke out of hundreds.’

     ‘Sometimes one is all it takes.’ Quaint tore off his top hat and dragged his fingers through his silver-white curls. ‘It’s not that I begrudge him his opinion, of course.’

     ‘Heaven forbid,’ said Prometheus.

     ‘But when his opinion happens to be blatantly wrong, I feel obliged to knock him about the head a few times! Did you hear what he was saying? That any fool with a mirror and a trap door could do what I did? That I’ve got so many cards up my sleeves it’s a wonder I can fit my arms in my coat? That even a blind man wouldn’t be fooled by my sleight of hand? You know me, Prom, I’m not an unreasonable man.’

     ‘Hardly ever in my experience,’ said Prometheus, which was plentiful.

     ‘When a paying customer has a legitimate cause for complaint, I’m perfectly willing to accommodate, but when a buffoon like that heckles throughout my entire act, I don’t care what his complaint is, there’s no excuse for being rude!’

     ‘And it’d make you feel better if I roughed him up a little, would it?’

     ‘Much!’ said Quaint, halting the strongman’s stride. ‘But we won’t stoop to violence, my capacious friend – even though you do it so well. No, I’ve got a better idea. Tell the clowns to make a bee-line for him. I want him soaked to the bone and thoroughly miserable…and then we’ll see how chatty he is!’

*

     Always willing to do their employer’s bidding (especially when it involved the humiliation of an obnoxious snot) the two circus clowns targeted the thin man with the clipped moustache – who no doubt not only reconsidered his earlier criticisms after he’d been pelted with eggs and covered in sawdust, but also his decision to sit in the front row. Despite this, that night Cornelius Quaint slept with an unburdened conscience, and was mildly surprised to find a note slid under the door to his caravan the following morning.

      “Dear Mister Quaint,

Upon hearing that you claimed to be one of the finest conjurors in all of Europe, my curiosity led me to attend your performance this evening. I happen to be in the trade myself and professionally speaking, I saw nothing in your act above the level of an enthusiastic amateur. If you would like an opportunity to see if you are capable of living up to your boasts, meet me at St Mercer’s docks along the Thames at noon.

     Quentin Claremont (conjuror par excellence).”

     Quaint’s first thought was to discard the letter and think no more about it. If this Claremont fellow believed for one moment that he was going to accept the invitation, he was a misguided fool. But Quaint’s second thought was that his stage-craft had been called into question, and for that nothing would give him more pleasure than wiping the smug grin off Quentin Claremont’s face.

     At ten minutes to midday, Quaint arrived at St Mercer’s docks. Making his way to a warehouse lit with a roaring brazier outside, he spotted a large painted sign. The warehouse was currently available for lease. With his curiosity duly piqued, he pulled open the warehouse doors and stepped inside.

     Of course, had he not thought harder about the letter’s content, and had he not allowed his ire to be stoked so easily, and had he not let his pride get the better of him, perhaps he might have avoided the striking blow to the back of his skull…

What fate awaits Cornelius when he wakes up?

Will he wake up at all?

Find out here on Wednesday 22^nd February 2012 !!!

In the meantime, please follow Cornelius on Twitter @CorneliusQuaint and check out Quaint's Facebook page for more information.