The Last Train From Preston – a Swann and Parker Christmas Story

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Murder Most Theatrical: Swann and Parker Stratford Mystery – Chapter 18: The Actors Gather

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Murder Most Theatrical: A Swann and Parker Stratford Mystery – Chapter 17, Love, Death and Cream Cakes

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Murder Most Theatrical: Chapter 16 – Shipwrecked

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Murder Most Theatrical: Chapter 15 – The Charge of the Light Brigade

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Murder Most Theatrical: Chapter 14 – The Turf Fraud Scandal

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Murder Most Theatrical: Chapter 13 – Inspector Swann and Sergeant Parker

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Murder Most Theatrical: A Swann & Parker Stratford Mystery – Chapter 12

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Murder Most Theatrical: A Swann and Parker Stratford Mystery – Chapter 11

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Murder Most Theatrical: Chapter 10 – Breakfast With The Donaldsons

As an invigorated Augustus Littleton made love to the delectable Jess for the second,
or was it the third time (making the breakfasters below in the dining room of the
Shakespeare Hotel wonder if Stratford was experiencing a minor earthquake),
and George Bartlett was sipping his mug of strong sweet tea in his police cell
in Herefordshire, the forty-eight year old Henry Donaldson - second only to Littleton
in England's theatrical affections - was sitting wrapped in a vivid green
silk dressing gown having breakfast with his charming wife, Dorothea, who
was becoming rather irritable at the way her husband had reacted to the letter
received that very morning.

“But does it really matter that much, my dear?” asked the thirty-eight year
 old Dorothea as she took another sip of her sweet dark coffee.

“Matter? But of course it bloody matters, woman!”

“ Please do not call me 'woman', I am your wife, Henry, and it is wholly
 unacceptable for the servants to hear you speak to me in such a fashion.”

Henry blows his wife a kiss through his bushy, marmaladed beard.

“ I apologise, my little sparrow, but it is unheard of for an artiste of my standing...”

“ Artistes of our standing, my dear. I have been engaged too, remember.”

“ Of course, my delightful, oh so talented, goose. Artistes of our standing,
 having to make their own way to the station? Unheard of,bloody unheard of!”

“ Yes, my dear. But surely Cyril can drive us to the station in the
 carriage, can he not?”

 “ Well, yes, Cyril can, Cyril will bloody well have to, but it ain't the point.”

 “ I really don't see what we can do about it, my dear?”

 “ Make a bloody fuss is what we'll do, my charming, beautiful, little peacock.”

 “ But we leave in three days, don't see what we can do.”

 “ Not here, my dove, but when we get there. Wherever there is?”

 “ Stratford-upon-Avon, my dear.”

 “ Ain't never heard of it.”

 “ Of course you have. It's where Mr Shakespeare was born.”

 “ Who, my little swan?”

 “ Henry, you are incorrigible.”

 “ No, my little skylark, English through and through.”

The Donaldson's home was a newly built stone mansion (with the fashionable towers
and turrets of the period) that looked out across the vast sand dunes
of Royal Birkdale to the wild Irish Sea beyond, where the Fleetwood fishing
fleet passed twice a day in their red-sailed brilliance. It was the kind of home
that Henry Donaldson had always dreamed of owning. The trouble was it was
only a dream, with Henry renting the property for £150 a year from an
absentee landlord who seemed to spend most of his time in the West Indies making
a fortune from sugar. Henry didn't have any real problems about renting
such a home - apart from finding the money every month - but his darling wife
would have been mortified had she realised that she and her famous husband did
not own the house, as he said they did. Henry's only hope now was that the
season at Stratford (and this would mark a return to the stage for the actor
whose Richard III had been the toast of Australia), and the other, more lucrative,
plans that Littleton had hinted at in a separate letter, might improve his
fortunes to such an extent that he could actually buy the house so
that Dorothea might not find out that yet another huge chunk of her money
had been squandered on a hare-brain scheme to build a bridge from North Wales
to Dublin, which,to Henry, had seemed rather a good idea at the time.
Ah, well, ever forward, ever forward, as they say in Birmingham.

Henry Donaldson - son of a back yard brewer who'd invested wisely in the early
development of Blackpool - started his career running the long Crystal Bar
at  'Uncle Tom's Cabin', a ramshackle place of popular entertainment
on the northern cliffs of Blackpool. Soon he was organising small music hall shows
that often included dramatic excerpts from the world of literature and drama, which
quickly gave Henry 'a born actor' (according to a young woman he'd once taken
advantage of on the beach one night), the chance to take a more dramatically
active part in the performances. After a few weeks, and with the help of a local
printer who owed him money, he was promoting himself as
'Blackpool's Greatest Thespian', which, if you'd been there was no hollow boast,
although his somewhat eccentric performances of Mr Micawber and the Prince of Denmark
often got mixed up if he'd had too many drinks beforehand, but which, nonetheless,
became the enthusiastic talk of the Blackpool drinking and theatre going
classes, which, in those days were one and the same thing.

“ Read the letter again would you, Henry?”

“ Certainly, my white breasted, darting little house martin.”

 “ Henry, please! The servants.”

Henry once more unfolded the letter, wiped off several dollops of marmalade
with the sleeve of his dressing-gown, and, standing in the manner of King Lear
addressing his rebellious daughters, read:

My Dear Henry & Dorothea,

As you will be aware I shall be producing a new, and wholly original,
dramatic work at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in
Stratford-upon-Avon, which will become the hit of 1882, and far beyond.

Naturally, my dears, the production will be as naught without you both.
Rehearsals will start in five days time, which I realise is rather short
notice - although I understand you are both enjoying something of a well
earned rest at the moment - but would ask, if you are able to accept
what I can assure you will be parts that will live in the memory of the
theatre going public for generations, to please contact me by return so
that I can make reservations for the best suite at the Shakespeare Hotel.

Details of the play, which at this stage I prefer to keep a secret,
will be revealed to you during a welcoming dinner.

Remuneration, if I may be bold enough to write of such trifling
details, will be £400 per month for yourself, Henry, and £300 a month
for you, Dorothea. I shall consider your acceptance of the parts as
acceptance of the fee.

It is hoped the play will tour extensively after Stratford, perhaps
even including North America.

I believe it will be a rewarding experience for us all.

Yours most sincerely,

Littleton

“ We must accept, Henry. We have been away from our public for far too long.”

“ Yes, my dear. Damned good money too. But he should have arranged transport
 to the bloody station.”

“ Oh, Henry, don't start again. And the money is not important, you know that.
 It is the prestige, my dear.”

“ You are quite right, my goose. I shall tell Cyril to send a telegram forthwith.
 After which perhaps you might indulge your adoring husband?”

“ Only if you promise to be very good and behave yourself when we reach Stratford?”

“ Good behaviour is my middle name, is it not, my downy owl?”

“ Yes, my dear. Who am I to be today, Goneral, or Cordelia?”

“ You choose, you choose.”

To Be Continued...