The visitor, a lean man in a heavy coat, took a moment to process the words, but then smiled and started forward, hand out to shake. “Actually, I’m here for--”
The clerk set down his birdwatching book, clearly very annoyed. “The magistrate isn’t in, and I’ve no idea when he’s due back. Any complaints will have to be held until such time as he’s…” He trailed off at the sight of the lean man unfolding a paper and holding it out. “What’s this?”
“My surgical license,” said the man. “Dr Craft’s the name. From King’s College, down in—”
“I’m not in any pain,” said the clerk, suspiciously.
Dr Craft laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m doing this all wrong. I’m not here to offer my services to you. I was rather hoping you might be able to help me.”
The clerk’s suspicions were immediately amplified. “Help you how?”
“Well, you see, I run a course—a new course, as it happens—down south in Kingston—”