Chapter Two: The Gas Pipes of the Hartford Estate

Sir Harold Chesterhill breaks the news of the Mr. Pendleton-Smythe's demise to his dear cousin all whilst being quite aroused by the events...

Chapter Two: The Gas Pipes of the Hartford Estate

As such, Magistrate Templeton made arrangements with the a local bluejacket whom had been working the rivers since His Majesty’s Kingdom began civilizing the dark continent.  He was advanced in years with a beard which stretched to his pubis and he chose to not have a single stitch of cloth on his body and his withered anatomy emitted a myriad of unpleasant odours likely from the syphilis the locals tended to share with British sailors.  We had since dressed in our finest regalia as we planned to visit the plantation of His Lordship Preston Hartford, whom was the cousin of the late Pendleton-Smythe.

We three discussed the best way to break the news to his dear family member that he had shed is mortal coil whilst being, quite literally, neck deep in a particularly ferocious native.  He had spilled his seed prior to his evacuation from this world, so there was at least that bit of good news to report.  Magistrate Templeton confessed to a particularly neurotic episode during his encounter; old habits die hard apparently, and he had strangled one of the more fragile of the natives.  We concluded that I, Sir Harold Chesterhill of Hereford, would break the news to the cousin.

The boat tugged down the river and we shot at a party of villagers washing their loin cloths in the estuary.  Unfortunately, I was only able to blow the foot off the slowest of the group and there wasn’t enough viscera to make a proper mount for my trophy room.  The trip to Kairouan in French Tunisia was long and arduous with only a handful of maidservants to receive my advances, but eventually we did arrive on a rather humid evening.

Preston Hartford was very welcoming to his estate.  Charles Betherford suggested that we have dinner post-haste as the horse whipping we had given the boatman had famished us.  Mr. Hartford, whom I had feared spent far too long in French Tunisia was a gracious host during the course of the meal, but he did inquire about his cousin, the late Pendleton-Smythe.  I delayed the topic by raising from my chair and distributing a proper wallop on his house servants for serving pheasant without gooseberry sauce.  After a most stimulating meal, his best man brought forth several bottles of dry sherry and a tin of Peruvian flake to enjoy after improving our constitutions.

I took a long draw from my pipe; the silence and smoke was thick enough to cut with the backbone of a Frenchman.  Finally, I confessed to our most esteemed host the ultimate demise of his cousin.  After my tale, we waited, whet with anticipation.  Hartford too, took a long draw from his pipe.  ‘Spilled his seed and voided his bowels you say?’  I nodded in confirmation.  As he was growing quite irritated, he inquired as to why we did not collect the seed on our hand cloths and rush it to the nearest British colony and implant it in the first female we could.  The question was fair but in our dilapidated states, we did not think of his fortune and who would inherit it.

With that Mr. Hartford ushered us out of the room so that he may reflect on the day’s events over an ether serviette, but the look on his face was a dark one.  During the night’s slumber, I was awoken by the sound of rifle shot.  Running with open robe, I gazed into the hallway and saw Mr. Hartford shooting in the bed chamber of the esteemed Magistrate Templeton.  The event caused the five or so maidservants of relaxed dishabille to flee from his chamber.  The potbellied Magistrate escaped amongst the flock and Hartford took another attempt killing one of the maidservants where she lay.

The smoke settled in the manor, and Mr. Hartford stood motionless alone; the house staff knew better than to stand between a British gentleman and his revenge.  The Magistrate, Mr. Betherford, and I had leapt from the balcony, in various states of formality.  As we dashed across his estate grounds, Hartford shouted from the broken window that he would have revenge for not upholding the lineage of his dear and robust cousin, may he forever enforce adoration within the Church of England.