There is a strange story told of Littlecote Manor, a glorious old Tudor
mansion that lies not far from the pleasant little Berkshire town of
Hungerford. This, in Elizabeth’s time, was the ancestral home of the
Darrells; but “Wild Darrell,” the last of them to hold it, had to
sacrifice the place to save his wicked life. At least so the old tales
tell.
This grim story begins with the awakening at dead of night of the
village nurse at Shefford, some seven miles away from Littlecote.
Masked messengers bade her come at once to a waiting coach to tend a
lady “not far away.” She was to ask no questions, she was told, and she
must submit to be blindfolded until she reached her destination. But
to compensate her for this strange treatment a heavy purse of gold was
offered. The nurse, torn between emotions of fear and greed, accepted;
and the coach set off.
After a long drive through the winter night, the lumbering vehicle at
last came to a halt. The blindfolded nurse was led up a great staircase
and, when her bandages were removed, she found herself in a richly
furnished bedroom where lay a masked lady in a huge four-post bed.
The nurse had no idea where she was, but her natural curiosity had
caused her to make whatever mental notes she could. For one thing she
counted the steps leading to the bedroom; for another she managed,
while going about her work, to clip off a small piece of a heavy
curtain which screened the window of the room. But of this later.
In due course there came a new born baby into the world. But fearful
as the nurse had been at the mystery of the whole affair, she was
terrified at what followed, for when the child was but a few hours
old there came to the bedroom a man of ferocious manner, whose face,
like those of all with whom she had come in contact, was masked, and
snatching the child from the mother’s arms, barbarously killed it.
The nurse, in her horror, swooned; and when she regained consciousness
she was being carried from a coach at the door of her own cottage.
Before she could recover her wits the coach had gone, and she was left
unable to decide whether the whole affair was some horrid dream, or
whether she had really witnessed the terrible scene which had burnt
itself into her memory.
But the discovery in her hand of the promised reward proved to her that
it was no dream.
For some months the nurse kept her own counsel, fearful perhaps that
should she speak she would lose the big reward which she had received.
But at last, falling ill, and thinking herself about to die, she made
a full confession. Enquiries were made, and the woman taken at last to
Littlecote, where she identified the very room in which the crime had
been committed. As final proof the piece of curtain she had taken with
her was found to fit a hole in one of the curtains of the room.
“Wild Darrell,” they say, was arrested and brought to trial; but he
managed to save his life by bribery, giving his whole estate to the
judge who tried him in order to secure acquittal. But he did not live
long after the trial. Still remaining in the neighbourhood, he gave
himself up to the wildest debauchery in an endeavour to escape from the
ghost of the murdered infant. Riding about the downs one night, they
tell, the wraith of the child suddenly appeared in his path. His horse
reared back in fright and threw its rider. The next morning they found
him where he had fallen, with his neck broken.
They say “Wild Darrell” still rides the country-side of nights, and
that a baby’s ghost for many years haunted an oak panelled room in
Littlecote Manor. But you must please yourself whether to believe this
or not.
At any rate Littlecote looks the sort of stately, romantic house that
should be haunted. It lies in the peaceful Kennet valley, close by that
stream so famous for its trout.
A mile or two away rise the fine open Marlborough Downs with their many
relics of ancient civilization. Three or four miles to the westward and
you are in glorious Savernake Forest with its silent glades and its
world famous avenues. Hungerford itself is a quiet, tidy little market
town, little known to the tourist, yet a wonderfully convenient centre
for visiting the country that surrounds it. Gallows-crowned Inkpen
Beacon is but a few miles off, a hill that misses being a mountain by
only forty odd feet.
This is a magnificent country for the fisherman and the pedestrian; its
hill tops are as lonely as the Welsh mountain summits, its leafy woods
as unfrequented as an Alpine forest. Yet you may reach Hungerford in
under a couple of hours from London; see Littlecote, the scene of “Wild
Darrell’s” terrible action, wander over the hills, and return to Town
between breakfast time and dinner on a summer’s day.
[Illustration: _The Haunted Room at Littlecote._]
[Illustration: Several monks gathered outdoors, one singing and the
others singing other parts or listening.]