Free The Toff and the Deadly Priest by John Creasey

don’t know what injoyment means,” said a man from the door, in a loud voice.
    All six people turned abruptly, to see a giant standing in the doorway, almost filling it. His shoulders were enormous and his chest deep and powerful, and he held his knuckly hands in front of him. He was remarkably ugly, and the most astonishing thing about him was the likeness of his face to a cow’s. His forehead, although broad, receded. He seemed to have no chin, and his lips were very full and wide.
    â€œI don’t think you were invited,” said Kemp, after a pregnant pause.
    â€œYou don’t, doncher? ‘Hi don’t think you was hinvited!” mimicked Billy the Bull, with a vast grin – and a shrill burst of laughter came from behind him, the first indication that he was not alone. “Why’n’t yer go ’ome, Kemp?”
    After a moment’s hesitation, Kemp advanced towards the man. Rollison and the others watched – Rollison was inwardly smiling, and the three men and the woman obviously anxious.
    â€œI don’t know who you are,” Kemp said, clearly, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if you know who wrecked the hall. Do you?”
    â€œSupposin’ I do?” growled Billy the Bull.
    â€œIf I thought you did it,” said Kemp, softly, “I’d smash your silly face in!”
    Stupefaction reigned among the church workers, and astonishment showed on Billy the Bull’s bovine countenance.
    The silence was broken by a piping voice from behind Billy. A man who did not come up to his shoulder, and was thin, bald-headed and dressed in a dirty sweater with a polo collar in spite of the heat, pushed his way in to stand by Billy.
    â€œI wouldn’t let him git away wiv’ that, Billy. I wouldn’t let no one say he’d bash my face in!”
    Billy the Bull licked his lips.
    â€œTake that back!” There was menace in his manner.
    â€œIf you haven’t the guts to admit that you helped to smash this place up, you’re not worth wasting time on,” said Kemp. “If you did, I’ll—”
    â€œâ€™It him, Billy!” urged the little man, indignantly.
    â€œI don’t fight hinfants,” declared Billy, scowling. “But I wouldn’t mind knocking the grin orf yer face, parson. Talk, that’s all you’re good for. Standin’ up in the poolpit an’ shouting yer marf orf – that’s all yer can do. ‘Please Gawd, make me an’ all me flock good lickle boys an’ gels,’” continued Billy, in a fair imitation of the worst type of clerical drawl. “Please Gawd—”
    Kemp said quietly: “Don’t say that again.”
    Billy broke off, looking at the curate in surprise. Kemp had gone pale, and his fists were clenched.
    It was the little man who broke the silence again, piping: “Strewth! Have yer gorn sorft, Billy? ‘It ‘im.”
    â€œI don’t like knockin’ hinfants about,” repeated Billy. Something in Kemp’s expression had stopped him, and he was obviously on edge. It was Rollison’s cue, and he moved forward.
    â€œYou do a bit of boxing, Billy, don’t you?”
    â€œA bit!” squeaked the little man. “Why there ain’t a man in London can stand a round against ‘im!”
    â€œI can use me mits,” declared Billy the Bull, on safer ground. “But this apology fer a parson only shoots ‘is mouth orf, that’s all. Cissy-boy!” he added. “You ought to be back ‘ome, wiv’ yer muvver!”
    â€œI’ll fight you anywhere you like, under the Queensberry Rules,” Kemp said, tense-voiced.
    â€œCoo, ‘ear that?” squeaked the little man, dancing up and down. ‘”E’s ‘eard o’ Lord Queensb’ry. Coo!
    Ain’t ‘e a proper little man! Why yer don’t know wot fightin’ is!”
    â€œDon’t be rash,”