Terry Pratchett owns. I just fangirl.
"Mister Teatime, I wish to speak with you," the professor said calmly, peering at Jonathan over half-moon spectacles.
"It is in regard to the results of your latest examination. I'm afraid it was most unsatisfactory. Once again, I must rate you below satisfactory."
"Sir." Not a question, not an apology, merely an acknowledgement.
"You lack elegance. I believe we have spoken of this before, have we not? In the matter of Sir Nathan? And of Baron Hanford before that, I believe. I suggest that, if you wish to ever graduate, you learn elegance. We are not common murderers, Mister Teatime. We are Assassins. We provide a service, and part of that service is a neatly inhumed victim, with minimal casualties sustained in the inhumation. We do not poison a house's water supply just to kill one person, and we most certainly do not garrote a man with his own stockings!"
"I was improvising, sir."
Professor Willfrette sighed. "That will be all."
"Thank you sir. Always happy to be corrected." Teatime bowed and left.
The next morning, Professor Willfrette was found inhumed in his bed. It had been done, as some would say, with elegance.