Groggily, I tried to focus on my surroundings to try and ascertain my precise location. It seemed to be a dark and rather dank cellar of some sort, which did not help me to pinpoint my whereabouts at all. London was full of such cellars – indeed, I was fairly certain that any new building had to have a dark and rather dank cellar installed, just on the off-chance that the inhabitants required a suitably atmospheric setting for any kidnappings, sacrifices, or for any sinister serial killers to lurk in whilst waiting for scantily-clad maidens to venture down to investigate a noise in the night.

By Britannica’s bustubles, my head hurt, I thought.

I tried to raise a hand to my injured noggin, but quickly discovered that my hands were in fact tied behind me. Fan-bloody-tastic, I thought. I sank back in the chair to which I was strapped, and surmised my situation: I was injured, tied to a chair, in a dark and rather dank cellar. How might this day get any worse, I pondered.

“I see you’re awake at last,” came the all-too familiar tones of that smug conjurer, Cornelius Quaint. Instantly my heart sank into my boots, and tried to hang itself with my boot-laces.

“It would appear so,” I replied, twisting my neck slightly to see the bounder bound to a chair behind me. “Either that, or the after-life is failing to live up to my expectations in quite a spectacular fashion.”

“I’m here too,” cried Botter, from somewhere else in the darkness.

“Me too, bosses!” echoed Butter.

“Well, what a delightful party we shall all have, I am sure,” I groaned.

“Now come on, Ouranos…let us not despair yet!” Quaint said brightly, but not brightly enough to penetrate the gloom of the cellar, or indeed the dark mood I now found myself in.

“Oh, you can be quiet,” I snapped. “‘Tis all your fault that we find ourselves in this particular pickle!”

“My fault? How do you work that out, Likely?” Quaint snapped. “You were doing your thing – whatever that may be – whilst I was doing mine. How could I possibly be at fault for your incompetence?”

“My incompetence? Ha! It was no doubt your bumbling about which alerted the guards to our presence, and which resulted in my capture. Had I been working alone, I dare say I’d have wrapped this whole sorry affair up by now!”

“No doubt you’re used to ‘working alone’, Likely! I mean, self-congratulation doesn’t seem to be one of your failing points!” Quaint reflexed. “Why don’t you shelve your obvious distemper to one side and focus on how we’re going to get out of this fix? After all, is this Silas Surprise chap not one of your foes? I don’t know about you, but when one of my rogues gallery is trying to off me, I usually respond with extreme prejudice!”

“All I can say is that your rogue’s gallery must be terribly inept to have not yet succeeded in offing an oafish buffoon like yourself!” I responded. “Naturally, I find myself facing a far superior breed of villain, sir! Mr. Silas Surprise is a ruthless, cunning and merciless devil – not at all like the namby-pamby nit-wits who you find yourself up against, sir!”

As if being cued by an unseen, giant-sized celestial director, the adversary in question entered through a door at the end of the room, grinning that devilish grin of his as he strode up to us.

“Ah, gentlemen!” Silas Surprise beamed, sweeping his cape aside for added theatricality. “So glad you could be here to witness my grandest illusion yet! Naturally, I have secured you the very best seats in the house, ha-ha!”

“Namby-pamby?” roared Quaint. “How OLD are you, Ouranos? Who says ‘namby-pamby’ anymore? And whilst we’re on the subject of my rogues gallery, do you know the kind of foes that I usually face? They’re mass-murderers! Monsters, all! The type of folk that would make your skin crawl, let me tell you! Not show-boating petty criminals who stoke pedestrian plots to off the Queen, let me assure you! You wouldn’t last two seconds against the likes of the Hades Consortium.”

“I hope you are sitting comfortably, gentlemen,” Silas continued, unperturbed by Quaint’s barbed critique of his plan. “For soon, you shall be rather more UNcomfortable, I’m afraid to say! Hahahaha!”

“I shall grant you, Mr. Quaint, that this particular scheme is really rather obvious, and terribly uninspired. But this rather poor effort is not demonstrative of the more terrifying and downright horrific ploys I usually encounter! You know not of real danger until you have found yourself locked in battle with a small army of murderous prostitutes, let me tell you!”

“T-terribly uninspired?” spluttered Silas. “Now listen here…”

“Murderous prostitutes?” laughed Quaint. “Is that before or after you’ve sampled their wares, Likely?”

“I mean, this took the best part of a year and a half to plan, you know…” Silas continued.

“Oh, laugh away, sir! But I can only imagine that you have enough trouble dealing with women in the day-to-day, let alone when they are firing pistols in your direction! You would doubtlessly soil yourself, and seek comfort in the arms of your little Eskimo chum, there.”

“Inuit,” piped Butter, reminding the room that he was still there.

“You seek to question my success with women, Likley?” asked Quaint. “Need I remind you that we’re sitting on death’s doorstep here?” Quaint gestured to Silas Surprise. “I’m right, aren’t I? You seek to do us harm?”

“Absolutely,” chimed Surprise.

“That’s what I thought,” Quaint said. “And you’re content to question my triumphs with the opposite sex, Likely? What are you thinking? There’s more at stake here, you know!”

“Ha! Your pathetic attempt to change the subject is as good as an admission of your abject failure with women, Quaint! Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Surprise?” I said, craning my neck round to see the evil trickster.

“Well, it is hard to gauge, having only just met the fellow, but it does seem like it has proven rather a thorny issue for….wait a moment! What on EARTH am I doing?” Silas snapped. “I am not here to get embroiled in your infernal squabbling! I am here to bid you all goodbye, for soon you shall be BLOWN to pieces, along with this very palace, and everyone in it! Ha!”

There was a momentary pause.

“But I’m right though, aren’t I?” I asked.

“Gah!”

Quaint frowned. “Sorry, but did you just say ‘blown to pieces’? So that stage I investigated earlier WAS rigged to explode after all! And did you also just say ‘this very palace’? So we’re underneath Buckingham Palace, I take it?”

Silas Surprise grinned. “Well, this makes a nice change. Someone who likes to keep up with current events.”

“I try to keep abreast of things,” Quaint said. “Don’t bother, Likely!”

“Don’t bother what?” I asked the conjurer, appalled.

“You were about to make a smutty comment about my keeping abreast.”

“I was?”

“You deny it?”

I clamped my lips shut, forming them into a tight grin.

Quaint scowled. “I thought so.” He looked around our situation, assaying the predicament that we found ourselves in. I was way ahead of the grey-haired clod, of course, but I wasn’t about to let on to Cornelius cocking Quaint. “So…I take it that considering our confinement, you seek to destroy the palace and us with it, Surprise?”

“Impressive, sir,” said Silas Surprise. “Whomever you are.”

“Cornelius Quaint, circus leader and conjurer extraordinaire.”

“A conjurer eh? Much like myself.”

“I’m nothing like you…which is why I take such umbrage with a fraudster, sir!”

“You’re both equally fraudulent, if you ask me,” I muttered, less than impressed with the fact that I now found myself in the company of two wretched tricksters.

“No-one did ask you, you pompous, puffed-up poppinjay!” Quaint rejoined.

“Con Artist!”

“Fop!”

“Charlatan!”

“Scoundrel!”

“SILENCE!” bellowed Silas. “I think I have had quite enough of this childlike bickering! Beside which, I am due on stage about now, ready for my spectaular show! Stick around, gentleman – I do believe that the grand finale will quite literally raise the roof! Hahahaha!” the conjurer chuckled, sweeping off back through the door.

“Well, this is just dandy, is it not?” I sighed. “I never thought I’d go out like this, tied up next to an old man.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” said Quaint. “I’m trying to think…”

“Um, my lord, if I might just suggest something…” Botter interjected.

“No, no you may not, Botter. I’d rather not have your inane drivel being the last words I e’er hear ‘pon this earth,” I retorted.

“Uh, boss? We can help!” Buttter added.

“Really, Butter?” asked Quaint. “And how do you propose to do that, I wonder?”

“Well…we could untie you, first of all!” Butter said. Quaint and I looked up, to see both Botter and Butter standing beside us, completely free of their ropes.

“How in the name of Beelzebub’s ball-sack did you do that?” I exclaimed.

“We…we sort of just worked together and untied each other’s ropes,” Botter explained.

“We make for good team, yes?” Butter added, triumphantly.

“Well, don’t stand around grinning at us like a couple of disfigured bookends – untie us!” I ordered. “We have a conjurer to catch!”

*****

MEANWHILE, outside the palace, Silas Surprise had commenced his show, entertaining the assembled crowd with a variety of simple tricks and illusions. The audience clapped and gasped as Silas worked through his act, quite unaware that they were mere moments away from seeing the magician blow up Buckingham Palace and all inside.

“And now,” Silas beamed, striding up to a large, tall cabinet. “I shall attempt to conjure up a woman from THIN AIR, right before your very eyes!” The crowd mumbled and muttered in disbelief. “Behold this ordinary, wooden cabinet,” Silas continued, patting the side of the box. “You shall notice that it is completely normal, completely solid and – most importantly, completely empty!” Silas exclaimed, throwing open the cabinet’s door. “But now, using all the powers at my disposal, I shall make a woman appear inside it!” He closed the door again, and moved to the front of the stage. He stood silently, looking out onto the crowd, and then thrust his arms up into the air, and then slowly pulled his arms down in front of his chest, fists tightly clenched, as if dragging an invisible force down from the sky.

“Oh, dark forces, hear me now!” Silas cried, closing his eyes tightly. “Bring forth a woman from the ether, and place her inside this box, pass her through wood and touch not the locks!” His eyes sprang open and he spun around, thrusting his arms out at the cabinet. “KAZZAM!” he yelled, for added effect.

The crowd fell silent as Silas walked up to the cabinet. He paced up and down outside of it, milking every drop of suspense from the spectacle, before stopping in front of the door. He placed a hand on the handle and faced the audience once more.

“Ladies and gentle-men, I present to you….A MIRACLE!” he cried, flinging open the door. The crowd gasped, paused, and then fell into uproarious laughter. Silas’ expression changed to one of sheer bemusement, and he turned around to look inside the box himself.

“What on earth?” shrieked Silas. His female assistant was in the cabinet, as doubtlessly planned, but she was locked in a passionate embrace with yours truly, which Silas clearly had not planned at all. “LIKELY? What are you doing inside my assistant’s box?”

“I haven’t got that far yet, sir,” I grinned, causing the delightful assistant to chuckle excitedly.

“Get out! Get out of there!” screamed Silas, stepping backwards in horror. “You’re ruining the show!”

“I rather think the show was ruined by your parade of petty parlour tricks,” said a stern voice behind Silas. Silas spun round, to find himself face-to-face with Cornelius Quaint.

“You!” Silas observed, quite correctly. “How did you both get free?”

“Magic,” Quaint winked.

“Pah! Magic? I doubt a mere circus conjurer knows the true meaning of the word!” spat Silas.

“Really?” Quiant said, raising an eyebrow. “Then pray tell, how is it that I have your wallet here?” he grinned, waving the magician’s money-purse in front of his bemused face. The audience guffawed and applauded.

“Gah! How did you?…” Silas spluttered, snatching back his wallet. “All that demonstrates is your pick-pocketing skills, I’m afraid. There is no magic there….but what is this…here?” Silas continued, reaching behind Quaint’s ear and drawing out a shiny shilling to more applause. “Oh-ho!”

“That might impress children at a birthday party, but that sort of trickery does not impress me, Mr. Surprise,” Quaint sniffed. “But I appreciate your effort nonetheless. Here, let me reward your attempt!” smiled Quaint, producing a small bouquet of flowers from seemingly nowhere and presenting them to the cad.

“Pathetic!” growled Silas, taking the flowers and then with a snap of his fingers, he set them alight. Quaint responded by throwing a silk handkerchief over the blazing bouquet, and whipping it away to reveal an unharmed dove sitting in Silas’ hands. Silas gritted his teeth, and then with a final flick of the wrist, seemingly transformed the bird into a pistol, which he pointed in Quaint’s direction, to further wild applause from the crowd, quite unaware that they were paying witness to what could have been a possible murder.

“Right! Enough of these shenanigans!” barked Silas, waving the gun about menacingly. “I think it’s time I moved my grand finale up the bill, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?” he smirked, as he strode over to a small table on the stage, draped with a black cloth. Silas whipped the cloth away to reveal a detonator, which he caressed lovingly. “Ladies and gentlemen, I now give you my greatest, most elaborate illusion yet! Prepare to watch in AWE as I make Buckingham Palace DISAPPEAR!”

“Don’t do it, Silas,” warned Quaint.

“The show must go on,” grinned Silas, and with that, he pushed down on the plunger.

And then, there was a huge explosion.

But it was not Buckingham Palace that found itself going up in flames. Instead, we all watched as Silas’ very own caravan blew to smithereens nearby, flaming wreckage tumbling out of the sky like fiery confetti.

“What…what the-?” stammered Silas as he watched his trailer’s charred remains settle on the ground.

“Surprise, Surprise!” I beamed, having managed to tear myself away from the ravishing assistant to come and taunt my old foe.

“What…what have you done, you bastard?” growled Silas.

“Now now, you know as well as anyone that a showman never reveals his secrets,” I winked.

“You…you shall pay for this, Likely!” snarled Silas, raising his pistol up at me. But, before he could pull the trigger, Quaint appeared behind him and swiftly pinned the cove’s arms to his side using a string of multi-coloured handkerchiefs, much to the delight of a nearby police-officer.

“I may not be much of a magician, Mr. Surprise,” I said slowly, as the villain struggled to break free of Quaint’s strong grip. “But I have one trick you may like!” And with that, I lashed out with a strong uppercut to the fiend’s jaw, knocking him out cold. “Ta-daaa!” I sang. “I magically transformed you from a conscious man, to an unconscious man. Remarkable, I know…..no? Not going to say anything? How terribly rude.”

Cornelius Quaint released his hold on the comatose conjurer, leaving Silas Surprise to duly slump to the ground, to a rousing round of applause form the assembled spectators. Quaint and I exchanged a quick smile, and then moved to the centre of the stage where we bowed gracefully to our appreciative audience.

*****

“YOU HAVEN’T seen the last of me!” bellowed a reawakened Silas Surprise, as he was roughly bundled into the back of an awaiting police wagon. “Do you really think metal bars can hold the greatest conjurer the world has ever seen? I’ll be back, Likely….I’ll be baaaaack!” he screamed, as the wagon’s doors were shut behind him.

“Well, that will be something to look forward to,” remarked Quaint, as we watched the carriage rattle off down the road. “You had better be careful, I may not be around to save you next time, Ouranos.”

I smiled. “As loath as I am to admit it, I have to say we did work rather well, there.” I mused.

“I suppose we did make for quite a good pairing…in the end,” Quaint nodded.

“Mmmm,” I paused. “But let us try and never meet again, eh?”

“My thoughts exactly,” grinned Quaint. “Come, Butter – it is time we got back to the circus!”

“Okay, boss,” said Quaint’s Eskimo associate. “Though we do good, yes?”

“We did indeed, yes. I was worried for a moment that you wouldn’t get the explosives into position in time…but you came through, my Inuit friend, as you always do!” he grinned, slapping his friend heartily on the back.

“I trust my work was to your satisfaction, milord?” asked Botter hopefully.

“I’d have preferred you to have been in the explosion, but you can’t win them all, you wretched arse-pipe,” I replied.

“Very good milord,” Botter nodded.

“Well, good-day to you, gentlemen,” Quaint said, proffering his hand for me to shake. I regarded the hand with caution, and then decided to shake it.

“And toodle-pip to you two, as well. I wish you and your fellow circus freaks the very best!”

“And I hope you do not suffer too badly from the terrible syphilis you shall no doubt contract at some point,” Quaint chuckled, before withdrawing his hand. As he did so, I noticed that the crafty conjurer had left a playing card in my own hand.

“What’s this?” I asked, turning the card over.

“It’s for you. I have a fortune-teller at the circus – Madame Destine. She told to me a rather puzzling prediction a few days ago, before any of this business began…I was utterly confounded by it, but now I think it makes sense…and I do believe it was meant for you, Ouranos. Perhaps you can make sense of it, eh?”

I read the words scrawled on the card. “‘The probable lord is more than likely‘.” I lowered the card. “What in the name of sodomy does that mean?”

“No idea,” said Quaint. “But Destine’s predictions always end up making perfect sense at some point. At any rate, we must be going. Good day, Likely, Good day, Mr Botter.”

I grunted farewell in response, still distracted by the mysterious words on the playing card, as the duo disappeared off into the busy London streets.

“What do you think all that means then, milord?” asked Botter.

“I swear I have not got the effing foggiest,” I shrugged. “But ne’er mind all that mumbo-jumbo, anyway!” I brightened, shoving the card into a pocket. “Now, where’s that assistant gone? I wished to show her a vanishing trick of my very own…”

– Lord Likely.

His lordship and Mr. Fanton would like to thank Mr. Craske for joining them in chronicling this most astonishing of adventures. It has truly been a most thrilling and delightful experience! Huzzah for Mr. Craske, we say!

Darren Craske is the author of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles amongst other things, and lives in Hampshire with his wife and two children. His first published work was ‘The Equivoque Principle’ now followed by its sequel, ‘The Eleventh Plague’. His website can be found at www.darrencraske.com and he is on twitter as@DarrenCraske.

‘The Eleventh Plague’ (book 2 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) – is released in paperback by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollins on March 4th 2010 and can be bought (amongst other fine retailers) here, and  ‘The Equivoque Principle’ (book 1 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) can be bought here.

As well as a little sneaky peeky at ‘The Eleventh Plague’ – ‘The Equivoque Principle’ is being offered as a FREE downloadfor a limited time via this link and also on Kindle via this link.

“I BEG your pardon?” I spluttered in disbelief. “What did you say?”

“That is your name, is it not?” the conjurer smiled as he straightened his tie, and smoothed down his grey locks. “Lord Ouranos Likely?”

I eyed the man suspiciously, trying to fathom what sort of confounded trickery he was deploying, but his countenance gave away nothing. His was the very epitome of the poker face; to whit, I very much desired to bash it in with a poker.

“Not necessarily,” I bluffed. “It is a secret I shall carry to my grave!”

“I know it,” piped up Botter, rather unhelpfully.

“It is no use trying to bluff me, sir,” the magician replied, slowly circling me. “As a master of my trade, there is much that I am aware of. if there’s one thing that I excel at, it’s being able to know all there is to know about my audience. Your true name screams out to me from every one of your pores, and is etched firmly into your very aura.” He stopped short in front of my face, and paused. “Not to mention the label sewn into the collar of your coat.”

“Pah, I knew it!” I spat. “Mindless trickery.”

“Trickery?” The cove ground his teeth upon my words. “I hate that term. It’s one step shy of fraud, and I am no fraud, Likely!”

“Well, congratulations on being able to read, sir. Yes, my first name is Ouranos, and a very fine, and noble name it is too. It comes from the name of one of the Greek Gods, you know? Fathered the Titans, so I’m told.”

“I know my Greek mythology,” the conjurer beamed. “He was also castrated by one of his sons, was he not?”

I was taking an even deeper disliking to this blaggard with every word he spoke. “And so what is your name, sir? ‘Reginald, the Reader of Labels?’ ‘Orlov the Observant’? ‘Samuel, the Stater of the Bloody Obvious?’”

“Pick a card,” said the man, flourishing a deck of cards before me. I hesitated, then decided to humour the trickster, and drew a card out from near the bottom of the deck. “Thank you,” the fellow nodded. “And what does it say on that card?”

I turned the card over and read the words upon it. “Cornelius Quaint, proprietor,Dr. Marvello’s Travelling Circus.”

“At your service,” Quaint bowed.

“Very good,” I said, distinctly unimpressed at this overly-elaborate answer to a perfectly simple question.

“And this is Butter,” Quaint continued.

“Botter,” I replied.

“No, Butter.”

“No, Botter. Heavens, your powers are fading, you old buffoon. I know the name of my own man-servant, thank you very much.

“Ah! I see,” Quaint replied, chuckling to himself. “I was referring to the name of deputy,” he said, motioning toward the little Eskimo fellow hovering behind him. “This is Butter.”

“Oh, I see. And why do you call him that? Easily spread, is he?” I smirked.

“I would have thought that someone with an accomplice called ‘Botter’ is hardly in a position to make lewd aspersions,” Quaint smirked. God, how I hated him and his instance on having the last word, and a salient point.

“Well, marvellous,” I exclaimed. “So now we all know one another, let us be on our separate ways and ne’er talk of this again…”

Cornelius Quaint stepped into my path. “Where are you off to? Is that it? Just throw a punch, doff your hat and take your leave? Aren’t you even a little bit curious as to why I went to the bother of setting you free?”

“Not really. Maybe you just wished to show-off some more, I do not know, nor do I care.”

“I relieved you of your incarceration not as an act of charity, Likely…I believe we may have a common foe,” Quaint intoned, his face darkening. “This Silas Surprise chap…I suspect him of foul play, and I also suspect that you fear the same. What do you know of him?”

“I know that he can pack out the largest theatre in the land, and not have to travel about from city to city like some sort of gypsy,” I quipped. Quaint’s face failed to register any signs of displeasure. Those dark eyes of his remained fixed on me, unblinking. “Oh, very well!” I relented. “Silas Surprise is an absolute arse-belch of the highest order. I have seen him kill men with playing cards, resurrect the dead, and even attempt to saw me in half without the use of trickery.”

“I’m warming to him already,” Quaint muttered.

I ignored the magician’s mumblings, and carried on. “I believed that I had taken care of this cove before, and that he would trouble no one further. But now, like a guff into the wind, he has returned, to spread his foul stench across the land. And that being the case, I’d wager my man-servant’s lungs on the fact that he is up to no good whatsoever.”

Quaint had listened attentively throughout my exposition, and nodded sharply as I finished. “Then it is as I feared. I knew there was something awry about him, and his ludicrous claims that he could make Buckingham Palace ‘disappear’. It is decided, then! We should set aside our differences and -”

“…team-up and try to outwit the fiend, Quaint?” I interjected triumphantly. “Of course, we could join forces, provided you could keep up with me. You’re not exactly as fresh as a goose, if you get my meaning.’

“I don’t like it, but I get it,” retorted the steely-eyed conjurer. “But I rather think it’s you and your manservant that will have a job keeping up with me!”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever seen my manservant in action,” said I, my retort as quick as a whip. “In full effect it really is quite something to behold.”

Botter giggled excitedly. “Oh! Thank you, sir!”

“Shut your cakehole, Botter, I wasn’t referring to you,” I told the loathsome cretin, putting him right back in his place. “Well then, taking into consideration what both our parties know – and because I don’t want you to slow me down – why don’t we go our separate ways, with you and your squire returning to the stage outside Buckingham Palace, whilst Botter and I begin the search for Silas Surprise himself?’

If only the conjurer’s skills extended to seeing within my mind, he might have witnessed several cogs working away. But then again, considering some of ribald stuff that’s in my mind, perhaps he might have been otherwise engaged, the voyeuristic bounder! He looked like he could do with a good thrill. “What do you say, Mr Quaint?” I watched his expression intently. He was a conjurer, after all. His eyes always spun a different coloured yarn than his mouth.

“I say you’ve got yourself a deal, Likely,” Quaint replied, thrusting out his hand. “And whichever of us gets to Silas first takes him down. May the best man win!”

Cornelius Quaint, although clearly an able man, had played right into my corner and it had just had a fresh lick of paint. “Oh, I intend to,” I chuckled to myself. “Botter! Say goodbye to the nice gentlemen, I’ve got a madman to catch!”

“Don’t you mean I’ve got a madman to catch?” tested Quaint. “Butter! With me!”

*****

Penned by Mr. A.D Fanton & Mr. Darren Craske.

The sun had barely squeezed out its first rays into the morning sky, when I found myself once again embroiled in a titanic struggle with another rogue. Crashing through the doors of a building located on Park Lane, this fellow and I crashed to the floor, limbs flailing, my cane striking the bounder about the shoulder blades in an effort to secure my release from his filthy grasp. Finally, the fellow relented, and disentangled himself from me. He adjusted his neck-tie and pointed a large, meaty finger at my noble form.

“You are officially banned from these premises!” he snapped. “You shall never darken these doors again!”

“I fail to see what the problem is, sir,” I replied, raising myself up on my elbows. “’Tis a gentleman’s, and I was merely relieving myself as was my need.”

“It is a gentleman’s CLUB!” cried the man, emphasising his point by pointing to a sign that read ‘Strong Fellows’ Gentleman’s Club’.

“Well, if that is the case, why on earth do you have that large urinal in there?”

“THAT is an ornamental fountain, you clod!” the man yelled. “My word, we shall probably have to have it destroyed, now.”

“Pfffft,” I snorted, hurling a small, empty bottle of whisky at the retreating man’s back as he returned inside the building, only for the bottle to shatter harmlessly upon the steps. I sighed and collapsed back onto the street, staring up at the sky. It had been almost a month since my last astonishing adventure, and I was missing the thrill of a good mystery. Certainly, I had pumped my way through a parade of pretty paramours in the interim, and drunk my weight in liquor ev’ry night, but adventure was always my favourite mistress, and it was a long time since I had been deep within her.

“Milord!” exclaimed my man-servant, his face hovering into view above me. “What are you doing down there?”

“Being in a state of complete horizontality,” I replied in my most matter-of-fact-tone. “Now stop asking such ridiculous bloody questions, and help me up.”

“Pee-yoo!” Botter gasped as he helped me to my feet. “If I may say so, milord, you smell like someone has vomited in a brewery.”

“You are very astute sometimes, Botter,” I responded, swaying uneasily on my feet. “I did so not but two hours ago. Furthermore, no, you may not say that.” I added, twatting my servant about the head with my cane for his insolence.

Botter rubbed his sore head gingerly. “Milord, I do hate to see you like this! You must do something!”

“Ah, Botter, you feeble-minded fool! Were it so simple! I need an adventure! I need mystery! I need EXCITEMENT! Without all this, I fear my brain stagnates.”

“Stagnates?” mused Botter as he retrieved my topper from the floor and dusted it down. “With all the alcohol you have been knocking back, I’d have thought your brain would have been perfectly pickled by now.”

“Oh, very droll!” I snapped, grabbing my hat from my man-servant’s grubby mitts. “I am at a loss, Botter. I just do not know what to do.”

“Why don’t you go and see a magic act?” cried Botter, pointing to a poster he had just espied.

“Magicians are arse-pipes, Botter. A bunch of poncified poltroons, disguising mediocre trickery as spectacular feat. I hate them all!”

“But milord, I think you’ll be rather interested in this particular show….”

“Botter,” I sighed, teetering along to where my man-servant now stood. “How many times must I tell you, I am not in the mood for – BY THE KRACKEN’S KNACKER-SACK!” I exclaimed, as my eyes fell upon the poster in question. For this was certainly no ordinary magic-show, but a show featuring the crazed conjurer Silas Surprise.

“Egad!” I said as I continued to read. “I thought I had put an end to his twisted trickery long ago!”

“It’d seem not, milord,” Botter nodded. “He has returned, and furthermore, it seems he plans to make Buckingham Palace disappear!”

“Utter scrotum!” I snorted. “I’ll wager my own skeleton that he is up to no good! And naturally, it shall be up to me to stop him! We shall have to go to the Palace forthwith” I slapped Botter heartily on the back. “Ha-ha! I can feel the adrenalin pumping through my veins already!”

“I am surprised there is any room in them, with all the alcohol – “

Another sharp blow ensured that Botter never reached the end of that particular witticism, and we set off upon a fresh, new adventure – quite unaware that Mr. Silas Surprise’s audacious illusion was also attracting attention elsewhere…

*****

PLATFORM 9 in London’s Grosvenor Park railway station was typically abuzz with all manner of odd behaviour. Chinese acrobatic twins bounced about the place like rubber balls, garishly-attired clowns rehearsed a slapstick routine involving a ferret and a wooden mallet, and a gargantuan strongman lifted a young female knife-thrower high into the air as if she was a rag doll. This was a normal day for Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus, but it was about to become bizarrely abnormal – even by the circus’s standards.

Master conjurer and circus proprietor, Cornelius Quaint, had seen many a spectacle in his fifty-plus years (many of which were of his making) but this day he was promised a spectacle like no other, if the poster for the forthcoming event at Buckingham Palace was to be believed.

“Have you seen this twaddle, Butter?” he growled at his Inuit squire, busily buffing the conjurer’s shoes. “This buffoon must either be clinically insane, a misguided fool, or a liar!”

Butter glanced up to see the poster that his employer referred to, and his narrow eyes scanned left to right. “This magician Silas Surprise is to make Buckingham Place disappear, yes?”

“Point of fact, Butter – this magician Silas Surprise is to make Buckingham Palace disappear, no,” corrected Quaint. “If he’s a magician then I’m a flipping Lord – which I can assure you, I am most certainly not! Pompous bunch of time-wasting fluffs, the lot of them. No, my Inuit friend, this deserves my attention. Not just out of professional curiosity but my own brand of decidedly unprofessional curiosity. Are my shoes done?”

Butter presented the brown leather brogues proudly. “Shiny shiny, boss, yes?”

“Exemplary as always, Butter,” complimented Quaint. “Now, get your coat on. We’re off to the palace to see exactly what this Silas buffoon has got to say for himself!”

Butter hovered on his heels by the door to Quaint’s office. “Boss, a thought sudden to strike my mind…this magician…we go see because we do not believe his claims, yes? And…not of in case he does perform this miracle and you are jealous?”

Quaint’s six-foot plus frame towered over the diminutive Inuit. “Jealous? Butter, do my ears deceive me? You actually believe that I’m…jealous? How dare you, I’m a professional illusionist and one of the best in the business – might I add – which is how I happen to know for a fact that making the palace disappear is impossible!”

“As opposed to impossible that you perform every day?” asked Butter.

“That’s totally different, Butter!” spat Quaint. “What I do is a stagecraft, whereas this…this is tantamount to fraud! Now stop dragging your heels. I’ve got an entire carcass of bones to pick with Mr Silas Surprise, and no one is going to stand in my way!”

*****

“I AM well aware that I am standing in your way!” I barked at the police-officer precluding me from gaining entry into Buckingham Palace. “And I shall not move until you let me pass! I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, and I am a close acquaintance of Her Majesty! I have reason to believe that she is in great danger, so – “

“So you keep saying, sir,” the officer replied, scratching his nose. “But I don’t know what you think Her Majesty has to fear from a magician, I’m sure! Think she’ll get a playing card in the eye, do ya? Perhaps she might find herself cougin’ up a string of coloured ‘ankerchiefs, eh?”

“Oooh, I like that trick, I do,” piped up his equally cretinous colleague. “It’s amazing, and ever so pretty.”

“Look, just contact Inspector Spunkleford and he’ll – “

“Listen, sir – we ‘ave quadrupled the police presence ‘ere to-day, and we’ve got the Queen’s own Guard on high alert. This conjurin’ chap won’t be able to release so much as a dove in her majesty’s direction without us bein’ all over ‘im. I assure you, nothing can go wrong!”

“But! –“

“Sir! If you continue to make a scene we’ll have to take you into custody. Now move along, there’s a good fellah.”

I was scarlet with rage, but realised that to continue arguing with these fat-headed idiots would be a waste of my precious voice. Instead, I turned sharply on my heels, and strode back through the gathering crowd who were slowly filling assembling outside the palace in readiness for Silas’ big show.

“Absolute tit-bags!” I raged as I returned to my spot beside Botter. “They’re impossible! Impossible! I shall need a more cunning ruse to gain entry to the palace, I fear…”

“Hmmm?” said Botter, distractedly, watching the small stage that had been set up outside of the gates with considerable interest.

“You glorified gonad!” I spat. “You aren’t even paying attention, are you?”

“I was just watching the stage, milord…there’s a couple of chaps there who seem – “

“I do not give a flea’s piss-hole what is going on there! May I remind you that we are NOT here to gawk at some accursed conjuror’s stupid set-pieces! Now hand me my cane and my gloves, I believe I have formulated quite the plan…”

“You aren’t going to walk back up there and clobber the police-officers are you, milord?”

“No, Botter! Ha! The very notion!” I chuckled, taking my cane from my man-servants hands. “I am going to RUN back up there and clobber the police officers!”

*****

“BOSS, I might you ask a question,” said the Inuit squire, peering over at the ensuing kerfuffle by Buckingham Palace’s gates.

Cornelius Quaint was on his knees at the base of the stage where Silas Surprise was to perform his illusion, his keen eyes searching the apparatus for anything out of the ordinary. “Might you, Butter? Fire away then.”

“You say we must investigate stage for trickery, yes?” asked Butter. “You say Silas Surprise plans some sort of ruse, and is impossible for him to make palace disappear.”

“Indeed so,” answered Quaint, ever mindful of Butter’s loose affiliation with the English language. “And your question is?”

“Why you say the Queen smell fishy?”

“Keep your voice down, Butter, you’ll have me hung!” roared Quaint. “I said nothing of the sort! I said there was something fishy about this Silas chap, and I feared the Queen’s life was in danger! I have it on very good authority that Her Majesty’s personal hygiene is beyond reproach. Just do what you’re supposed to do, and make sure those policemen don’t see what I’m up to!”

Butter went up on tip-toes to get a better look at the ensuing fracas. “I do not think that to be a problem anymore, boss.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”

“They seem busy with someone else causing trouble,” Butter replied.

“What someone else?” snapped Quaint, scrabbling to his feet. “The man’s a lunatic! A well-dressed one, if the truth be told – but a lunatic nonetheless. Why the devil is he on that policeman’s back, thrashing him with a stick like a demented jockey? Let’s take a closer look.”

They had not taken but one footstep when they heard the lunatic’s tirade.

“But you don’t understand!” yelled he. “Her Majesty is in great peril!”

“That man seems most sure of that,” pondered Quaint. “Can it be that he’s got his own suspicions about Silas Surprise? In which case, he just became interesting. Come, Butter, we must speak with that man at once! Perhaps he’s not as much of a lunatic as I thought.”

“Too late, boss!” cried Butter. “Look! Police lock him in their wagon!”

“Then we’d better go and unlock him, hadn’t we?”

“But how, boss?” asked Butter. “Man is prisoned in iron cage, and policeman guards wagon! No way to rescue him. Is impossible!”

Quaint winked. “You forget, my Inuit friend…impossible is what I do best.”

Butter slapped his forehead. “Silly me.”

“Constable Pike, isn’t it?” Quaint snatched hold of the young policeman’s hand, seemingly doing his best to separate it from the wrist. “How’s your mother getting on these days? That nasty old thing with her hip any better?”

The constable looked up, checking the vicinity from where this broad-shouldered, silver-curled man had obviously just fallen from. “The name’s Mitchum, sir. Don’t know any Pike. And me mam’s hip’s still giving her gip, yeah. Now, if you wouldn’t mind moving along, there’s been enough trouble at this shindig as it is.”

“Not at all, Constable Mitchum,” said Quaint, striding away swiftly to rejoin Butter, a triumphant grin on his face. He lifted up a long, silver chain with a key attached. “This should give our friend back his liberty…and then he can answer a few of my questions!”

“How you get key, boss?” asked Butter, keenly. “Magic, I presume?”

“Of a sort practiced by many an urchin down Langdon Lane,” replied Quaint. “Now, all we need to do is wait for the good constable to move on. Now, Butter! Move!”

Keeping as low to the ground as he could, Quaint sprinted up to the police wagon’s rear. His gut instinct was buzzing like a wasp in a jam jar, and something told him that the prisoner was important if he wanted to prevent a tragedy. He tore back the canvas flap, and hastily unlocked the heavy iron door to the cage, ready to interrogate the wagon’s occupant – who clearly had other ideas about the matter, if his striking punch to Quaint’s jaw was any indication.

*****

“HA-HA! Chinned the bugger!” I cried triumphantly as the figure fell to the floor. “That shall teach you to lay your grubby fingers upon my noble form, and – oh!” I stopped as I looked at the well-dressed, grey-haired figure lying on the ground beside the wagon. “Hmmm, you don’t look much like a police-officer, I must say.”

“That would be because I am not one, you ignorant fool!” the man snarled, as he was helped to his feet by a small chap who seemed to be dressed in preparation of a sudden Arctic snap, or something. “I am, in fact a conjurer, sir!”

My fist flashed out and caught the bounder on the chin again, knocking him to the floor once more.

“What on EARTH was that for?” he spat.

“I think I may actually hate conjurers more than police-officers,” I replied, as Botter helped me down out of the police-wagon. “Both dress in the most absurd manner, both make shocking use of handcuffs, and both are prone to wild acts of deception. But conjurers are just so much -” I was silenced by the tall man lashing out with his own fist, sending me spinning into the back of the wagon.

“One thing you need to learn about a conjurer is they always have something up their sleeve!” growled the man, straightening up to his full six-feet of height.

“Oh, really?” said I, wiping a drop of blood from my lip. “Well, I’d wager that you also have something up your trousers, too,” I smirked, before delivering a swift boot to the conjurer’s crotch. ‘Twas a cheap shot, but worth doing, I felt, especially as I watched the cove double over in pain.

“I…I think these gentlemen were trying to help you, milord,” Botter said as I turned away from my fallen foe.

“Nonsense, Botter! The man’s a damned magician! Never trust them, you know. Probably out to steal my wallet or something.”

“It’s no doubt full of I.O.U’s from all the dirty-arsed whores in the East End of London,’ the cad retorted upon me, his fist not only brushing against yours truly’s face, but making an almighty mess of it too.

The next physical object to strike my person was my cane in my posterior as I fell upon it, the hooked end threatening to tear me a new one.

“I do not hide the fact that I make frequent use of harlots, sir,” I rose to my feet and winced slightly at the pain in my backside, whilst addressing the other pain in my backside. “Whereas I dare say the only ladies you have handled come printed on playing cards.” And with that, I cracked the bounder around the head with my cane, sending him hurtling backwards once more.

In an untoward fashion, he kicked back like a mule, sending his trajectory in my personable direction. Fists out in front, as well (the cad). Both of them connected with my chest, sending my lungs screaming for air, and then it was my turn to hurtle backwards. But I had witnessed his little trick, and I too kicked back against the wall. My interpretation of the move was slightly less synchronized with the wall’s vicinity than his though, and I unded up on my (already painful from the cane near miss) posterior.

The fiend towered over me.

“I know everything there is to know about you, Likely, and I have to say, I don’t like what I hear,” said the conjuring cadster. “You womanize and philander your way across this city like a fly seeking a turd to perch on. You squander your inheritance likes it’s going out of fashion…on nothing more than booze, birds and bacon butties! You drink like a fish, and you indulge yourself in what you in the minority refers to as ‘Astonishing Adventures‘? Really? Astonishing? They’re semi-amusing at best, and highly derivative it has to be said. If you want to truly have an ‘astonishing adventure’ then I suggest you to join me on one of my little exploits one day. Now they’re truly astonishing, let me tell you.”

“Oh,” I replied, heaving myself back up, my bones crying out in protest. “So…you HAVE heard of me then? Well, I cannot say that I am surprised, sir. I AM really rather important and well-known throughout the Empire, you know. So if that was supposed to be some sort of mystical mind-reading trick in a futile attempt to impress or awe me, then I am afraid it was all for naught. It seems you know nothing of me that millions of people do not already know.”

“Oh, really?” the magician replied, his black as coal eyes glinting with hitherto unrevealed knowledge. “I beg to differ…Ouranos.”

– To Be Furthered…

His lordship and Mr. Fanton would like to thank Mr. Craske for joining them in chronicling this most astonishing of adventures. Huzzah!

Darren Craske is the author of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles amongst other things, and lives in Hampshire with his wife and two children. His first published work was ‘The Equivoque Principle’ to be followed by its sequel, ‘The Eleventh Plague’ on March 4th, 2010. His website can be found at www.darrencraske.com and he is on twitter as @DarrenCraske.

‘The Eleventh Plague’ (book 2 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) – is released in paperback by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollins on March 4th 2010 and can be bought (amongst other fine retailers) here, and  ‘The Equivoque Principle’ (book 1 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) can be bought here.

As well as a little sneaky peeky at ‘The Eleventh Plague’ – ‘The Equivoque Principle’ is being offered as a FREE download for a limited time via this link and also on Kindle via this link.