Murder Most Theatrical: Chapter 8 – George Bartlett Takes A Beating!
As George Bartlett watched the rump of his old horse move from side to side as it pulled George’s gypsy caravan slowly along the old bridal way toward Great Malvern, he was again struck by the way a little bit of good luck often saved him from what seemed like a surfeit of bad luck, which was invariably (no, always, in George’s case) brought on by a surfeit of alcohol, which yesterday (a Thursday) had manifested itself in the form of a great deal of Herefordshire cider, which had, as ever, made the five foot four inch tall, seven stone in weight, and sixty-four years in age, George Asquith Bartlett, think himself, yet again, capable of persuading another man’s wife, and a mother of two grown children, to perform an act of riotous, sinful copulation within the smelly confines of his rather sordid, costume strewn, old caravan that had once belonged to his fire-eating grandfather, Titus Ezekiel Bartlett, who had always kept the perambulatory device spotless. And to try and persuade a woman to take part in such a sinful and riotous act might be considered by some to be fair enough, if the woman in question is willing and over twenty-one, but if she’s not (willing that is, and this particular woman was well over twenty-one), and the act of persuading takes place in front of the woman’s farm labouring husband, and in the crowded public bar of the Three Horse Shoes in a small Herefordshire village that shall remain nameless, and where most of the men are built like brick privies, including the woman’s husband, well then you might be considered, like George, to have bad judgement. And George’s bad judgement – when it came to such persuasion – was well known (although not by George), which is okay – as far as okay goes – as long as it’s no more than a verbal request so to speak, but when the aforementioned sixty-four year old starts to remove his trousers and grubby undergarments right there in the bar, at the same time attempting to remove the woman’s skirts and bloomers – as well as singing the last verse of a rather lewd song he’d once performed in front of a very drunk Prince of Wales – there was no other course left open to the affronted woman’s husband but to bring his much used and much battered pewter tankard (once emptied) hard down upon the much used and battered old head of said George Asquith Bartlett.
” Mornin’, George, fancy a mug of tea?”
” Thanks, Harry.”
Constable Harry Hughes, of the Herefordshire Constabulary, a man in his late fifties with a bald head, large walrus moustache, and beer mug handle ears, poured the severely overhung and bloodied George a steaming mug of very dark and very sweet tea.
” I’ve fed and harnessed your horse, George, and loaded up the van, and if you’ll take my advice I reckon you should scarper before Rosie’s old man comes a calling with his two sons, who I hear are due home on leave this afternoon.”
” Leave?”
” They joined the army last year, George, crack shots both of ‘em.”
” Is Rosie or her old man pressing charges?”
” No. I reminded him we’re still looking for the bloke who stole the Colonel’s horse, and that if he caused any trouble I’d have to come knocking on his door.”
” Thanks, Harry.”
” Right, now finish your tea and be on your way.”
” I will. Thanks, Harry.”
” You’ll do it once too often.”
” I know. How’s the missus?”
” She’s fine, made you some pork pies she has.”
” Thank her for me.”
” I will. Oh, I’ve got a telegram for you. Forgot all about it.”
” A telegram for me?”
” It’s got your name on it.”
” How the hell did they know I was here.”
” Tried every police station in the country I shouldn’t wonder.”
” Do you reckon…”
” I don’t know do I. Here, open the bloody thing.”
George looks at the envelope and reads.
” ‘George Asquith Bartlett – Actor’.”
” I never knew you was called Asquith?”
” I’m not really. I made it up when I joined the profession; thought it sounded rather splendid.”
” Splendid ain’t the word I’d use. And I suppose you’re talking about the acting profession?”
” Indeed.”
” Indeed. Now will you open it and read it out loud so’s I can tell the missus.”
George tears open the envelope.
” It’s from Littleton.”
” The only Littleton I knows farms five hundred acres down long mile way, some sheep, but mainly arable…”
” No, Sir Augustus Littleton, the theatrical producer. He’s at the new theatre in Stratford.”
George reads to himself.
” Good lord.”
” What?”
” He wants me to join him in Stratford for a new play. Two of my old pals, Jacob Samuelson and Henry Donaldson have already agreed. It’ll be like old times.”
I bet it will, thought Constable Hughes.
Two days later George Asquith Bartlett, his caravan and windy old horse stopped at the top of Bordon Hill and surveyed the town of Stratford-upon-Avon laid out before them, with Holy Trinity Church and the new Shakespeare Memorial Theatre the two most noticeable landmarks.
George didn’t notice the glint of sunlight off the lens of a telescope at the top of the theatre’s tower.
” He’s on his way into town, Sir.”
” Good, keep and eye on him, Parker,” shouted Inspector Swann from below as he lit a pipe of Turkish tobacco before making his way along Southern Lane to have a word with the vicar.
To Be Continued…
