Tadfield. A small meeting room in Tadfield Manor. Crowley and Aziraphale are seated at a conference table. The demon is dressed in his Mafioso Banker suit and Patek Phillippe watch. Aziraphale is looking serenely dapper in his lavender mist suit and gold velvet bowtie. Mary Hodges escorts Mr. Pickersgill into the room, then exits and closes the door.
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crowley. Or is that indeed your name?
My name indeed. But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game.
I see you are a man of wealth and taste.
You have courtesy, Mr. Pickersgill. But sympathy?
Sinners can be saints. If they have means of some restraint.
The vicar gazes at Aziraphale, who appears to be somewhat mystified by this conversational gambit. The angel turns to Crowley, who is gazing upon him with a smile of pure love.
Ah. I understand. Please, be seated, Mr. Pickersgill. You need not fear Crowley. Nor me.
Must I take that upon faith?
Crowley murmurs:
Oh no. You're not a man to do that, now are you.
Alas, you are correct, Mr. Crowley. Insisting that trust must be verified is what earned me my position here.
Sidelined to a slowly withering congregation in a small village, with a decrepit church.
My wife was deathly ill, Mr. Crowley.
I know.
You have researched my history?
Oh yes. An amazing record. My money is on your having a light heart. But what we are here to discuss with you today is the fate of the parish hall.
Yes. The bishop has informed me of the church's decision to sell the property to a developer. I had hoped you would be able to prevent such an outcome, Mr. Crowley.
No need to feel disappointed, Mr. Pickersgill. That developer is me. During my real estate investigations of Tadfield Manor, I discovered that your vicarage was, historically, in the gift of the manor. I suggested to the bishop that restoring this connection to Tadfield Manor would provide a source of funds to maintain the parish.
I don't understand, Mr. Crowley.
Mr. Pickersgill, St. Cecil's revenue is barely sufficient to keep the church building in repair. It is unlikely in the extreme that your parishioners would be able to service a bond to rebuild the parish hall. A two million pound project is not something to be financed through bake sales and holiday festivals. Especially when St. Cecil's congregation is aging and diminishing.
I am of course painfully aware of that, Mr. Crowley.
Quite. So is your bishop. He and his superiors were already susceptible to the idea of getting rid of the property to a developer. I merely presented them with ownership by Tadfield Enterprises as an offer they could not refuse. We negotiated an acceptable and prompt sale.
The vicar is silent and thoughtful for some moments.
You researched more life histories than mine, Mr. Crowley?
Oh yes. The records my employer keeps are quite specific for certain categories. Very useful when presenting a moral argument.
Crowley reflects how Legion had surreptitiously managed to get access to Dagon's files for Pickersgill's superiors. They were far more interesting reading than the vicar's.
My my. I must say, Mr. Crowley, that assistance for St. Cecil's from such a source is not something I would ever have expected. Not in a million years.
I do of course expect a small favor in return.
The vicar laughs.
My soul is indeed a small sprat. Hardly seems worth such effort.
Oh, don't worry about that. Hell is stuffed with souls. Faustian bargains were never my realm of expertise. Your soul is safe from me. What I want is permission to place a small computer within the bounds of St. Cecil's church.