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 22nd
February 2012 !!!
In the meantime, please follow Cornelius on Twitter @CorneliusQuaint and check out Quaint's Facebook page for more information.
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