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“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, the tone of the angel’s voice making him raise his head immediately from the copy of Punch that he was reading (well, looking at the cartoons and laughing, strictly speaking). “What mischief have you been making.”
“Me?” said Crowley, manufacturing a hurt tone by instinct. “Nothing. I am a blameless creature, much maligned. What you on about, anyway?”
“I do feel it unwise to deny culpability before one is acquainted with what it is one is accused of. It really does compromise one’s credibility, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, looking amused. He passed his copy of The Strand over to Crowley, having folded it at the article in question.
“Tell me this does not have your signature all over it.”
Crowley narrowed his eyes as he took-in the headline.
“Oh that. Yeah, that was me.”
“What on earth were you thinking?”
“Look, it wasn’t my idea. They were cross with their mothers so they summoned me.”
“They what? But they are just little girls! I am going to make some tea, and you can tell me the whole sorry tale.”
“Yeah, I want whisky in mine if you’re going to get all censorious on me.”
“Very well, but it won’t be my best Scotch, you barbarian.”
Aziraphale, returning with the tray of tea, placed it on one of his occasional tables and sat heavily in his chair.
“Right. The shenanigans in Cottingley, tell me all about it.”
He looked at Crowley, eyes shining, a half smile on his face, and the demon realised in a moment that the angel, far from disapproving of his actions, was looking at him admiringly, preparing to be entertained.
“So you didn’t expect anyone but the family to get involved?” Aziraphale, pink in the face from laughing, was wiping tears from his eyes as Crowley finished up his story.
“Nah. As I said, they were just angry because Elsie’s mum had clipped her round the ear for lying when she was just trying to tell a story they had been writing together, and Frances was sent to bed early, so they got the summoning book from one of their granddad’s study, and when I appeared they just wanted to play a trick on their families.”
“I see,” Aziraphale replaced his handkerchief in one of the pockets of his hairy tweed suit and beamed at Crowley.
Crowley, encouraged, continued.
“Nobody was more surprised than me when the word got out—sighting of fairies in rural Yorkshire—and before I knew it, the press was there. Then old Arthur turned up. It was hilarious. You should have seen the look on his face.”
“Deceiving people is wrong, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, but Crowley could tell that his heart wasn’t in it.
“That’s the thing, they didn’t, not really. The people who came wanted to believe. The girls were being kind not disabusing them of the truth. It was obvious the photos were fake. There was a bloody great hat pin in one of them for a start..."