HAUNTED INNS
Why is it that haunted inns are so scarce and difficult to find? We have
sought for them far and wide. During thirty years of wanderings among the
old inns, we have retired for the night full oft into blackened oak-lined
chambers with secret sliding panels in the walls, or traps in the ceiling,
that offered golden opportunities for any ghost of enterprise; rooms where
heavy tie-beams and dark recesses cast eerie shadows in the moonlight;
vast churchlike dormitories with springy floors which if one jumped out of
bed caused the door incontinently to unlatch and open in a distinctly
ghostlike manner. But no supernatural visitor has ever favoured us. In
vain we have tried the experiment of sleeping in bedchambers which the
great ones of the earth have made memorable, from Queen Elizabeth to Dick
Turpin. No cavalier knight has ever tried to unburden his conscience to
us, no spectral dame has come to moan and wring her hands with grief, no
clanking chains on the stairs, merely the peaceful dreamless sleep of the
proverbial top.
The learned in occult lore tell us that the astral body must follow the
habits of the departed to whom it once belonged. It would therefore prefer
private dwellings to the inns which it merely occupied for a night or two.
Ghosts with a grievance would find more congenial occupation in annoying
surviving relatives rather than the passing traveller who is not
interested in their concerns. Well-informed and intelligent spectres, of
course (unless they had some private end in view), steer clear of inns
altogether. At the baronial hall, the ghost is a cherished petted
heirloom; the innkeeper regards him as a nuisance, driving away the more
timid class of customers, and in case of trouble might call in the parson
to exorcise him with bell, book and candle. Then, again, in the halcyon
days for the spooks, say a hundred years ago, the traveller generally
drank deeply to the good of the house. The spectral vision fell flat when
tested on an individual well inoculated with spirit of a more material
nature. In face of all these discouragements, the ghosts, as a rule, left
hotels and taverns unmolested.
One exception is to be found at the _Ostrich_ at Colnbrook, a beautiful
old Elizabethan coaching inn, retaining near the middle of its long
half-timbered and gabled front, above the yard gate, the platform by which
“the quality” embarked on the coach. It is an ideal place for a ghost to
take sanctuary, with many corridors and low-ceilinged chambers, all lined
through with carved chestnut panelling and twisted pilasters. There is a
Queen’s room, said to have been used by Queen Elizabeth while awaiting the
repair of her coach which had lost a wheel crossing the ford. Over the
mantelpiece is her coat of arms. But chiefest of all is the Blue Chamber,
sacred to the memory of Dick Turpin. This ubiquitous villain, so tradition
states, once leaped from the first floor window and escaped into the
street when pressed by the authorities.[15]
The ghost is also associated with the Blue Chamber. His name in the flesh
was Thomas Cole, and his story is told in a very rare work of Jacobean
date, published by Thowe, of Reading.
Once upon a time in the reign of Henry I, the _Ostrich_ was already a
flourishing inn kept by a man and his wife who were secretly robbers and
murderers. When a guest of substance came along and was considered a
suitable victim, the husband would remark aloud: “Wife, I know of a fat
pig if you want one!” and she would answer, “Well, put him into the pigsty
till to-morrow.” Then the visitor was put into the Blue Chamber above the
kitchen. Underneath the bed there was a trap-door, so arranged that by
pulling out two iron pins in the kitchen below the whole fell down, and
plunged the unfortunate man into an immense iron brewing-vat filled with
boiling water. The dead body was then thrown into the Colne which flows
just behind the house. If other travellers asked for the murdered man in
the morning, they were told that he had saddled his horse and ridden away
before dawn. As a matter of fact, the horse had been saddled and taken
away to a barn, some distance off, where the innkeeper cropped and branded
it in such a manner that recognition was impossible.
Thomas Cole was a Reading clothier, rich and thrifty. He was in the habit
of riding to London, and sleeping at the _Ostrich_ on his return
journey, when he usually carried a considerable sum of money, the proceeds
of his sales. For a long time Cole had been marked out for the cauldron as
he usually travelled alone. After the manner of most sixteenth-century
legends--Arden of Faversham, for example--the murderers were on several
occasions balked of their prey at the last moment when the guest had been
shown into the Blue Chamber. Once it was his friends, Gray of Gloucester
and William of Worcester, who also traded with cloth in London, and
arrived unexpectedly late at night. Another time a tavern dispute kept the
house in commotion; a third time a rumour came that his friend Thomas à
Beckett’s house in Chepe was on fire, and he returned to town. On another
visit he was so ill that a nurse must needs watch by his bedside.
[Illustration: The “Clothiers’ Arms,” Stroud]
But at last the opportunity came. Poor Thomas was full of forebodings of
some impending calamity all the evening. He dictated his will to the
landlord, disposing of his wealth, half to his only daughter, half to his
wife. His goodness failed to move the hearts of the greedy couple, and
that night the bolts were withdrawn and he was scalded to death.
When the innkeeper had disposed of the body in the river, he found that
the merchant’s horse had broken loose and wandered out into the street,
where he was lost for the time being.
Next day, Cole’s family, who were expecting his return, were alarmed at
his non-appearance. They sent his servants to make inquiries at the inn.
The horse was found on the road. The servants were not satisfied with the
explanations given them, and appealed to the authorities. On hearing this,
the innkeeper lost courage and fled secretly away; but his wife was
apprehended and confessed the truth. It appeared that sixty persons had
been done away with by means of the falling floor. Both the murderers
eventually suffered the extreme penalties of the law of that period.
On the credit of the above story the ghost of Thomas Cole enjoyed for
centuries a magnificent notoriety, strutting proudly at midnight along the
corridors and terrifying any unfortunate occupant of the Blue Chamber out
of his wits. But the historical critic has found him out. There was no
cloth trade either in Reading, Gloucester, or Worcester, when Henry I was
king, nor was Thomas à Beckett a friend of his, nor did the Blue Chamber
itself exist, indeed there were no beds invented for ages afterwards.
Colnbrook is not so called because “Cole was in the Brook” as was
pretended, nor did the river Colne receive that name because Cole was in
it. If the shade of Mr. Cole has not fled away altogether, it takes care
to hide its diminished head in some dark corner or cupboard. For at least
ten years this detected impostor has not shown himself in the Blue
Chamber. As a matter of fact, the _Ostrich_ was a hospice founded by Milo
Crispin about 1130, and given in trust to the Benedictines at Abingdon.
About two hundred years ago the owners of the _Hind’s Head_ at Bracknell
tried to emulate the exploits of their rivals at Colnbrook. One winter’s
night a stout-hearted farmer was benighted there and spent a merry evening
round the fire with some jovial companions. At last a serving-maid showed
him up to his chamber. In a scared whisper she warned him that he had
taken refuge with a band of villains. By the side of the bedstead was a
trap-door leading into a deep well. He threw the bed down the trap-door
and escaped by the window. Then he roused the neighbourhood. The gang of
ruffians were captured and all executed at Reading. In the well were found
the bones of all their victims.
The _Hind’s Head_ is a pleasant little inn, with a fine old garden, and we
have slept in the haunted room--slept the sleep of the just undisturbed by
visitors of any kind. But we have hopes of the _Hind’s Head_, for the
present occupier is a man of taste, who believes that behind the modern
wainscot ingle-nooks and other treasures of the old time are waiting to be
unveiled. The trap-door and the well are to be seen _in situ_, and perhaps
when the old-fashioned appearance of the interior is restored, the ghosts
may be induced to return.
On the western end of Exmoor there is an old inn, the _Acland Arms_, which
supernatural visitants have rendered uninhabitable. It lies deserted and
melancholy, with its ruined porch and the broken walls of its weed-choked
garden. The wraith of Farmer Mole haunts its precincts. He was returning
from South Molton market one dark night on a horse laden with sacks of
lime. Many years afterwards horse and man were dug out of the bog close
by, into which they must have wandered in the mist and become engulfed.
For the tale of the “Hand of Glory” we are indebted to Mrs. Katherine
Macquoid, and will let it be told in her own words, with only a few
abbreviations.[16]
The _Spital Inn_ on Stanmore in Yorkshire, was, in the year 1797, a long
narrow building kept by one George Alderson. Its lower storey was used as
stabling, for the stage-coaches changed horses at the inn; the upper part
was reached by a flight of ten or twelve steps leading up from the road to
a stout oaken door, and the windows, deeply recessed in the thick walls,
were strongly barred with iron.
One stormy October night, while the rain swept pitilessly against the
windows and the fierce gusts made the casements rattle, George Alderson
and his son sat over the crackling log fire and talked of their gains at
Broughton Hill Fair; these gains, representing a large sum of money, being
safely stowed away in a cupboard in the landlord’s bedroom. A knock at the
door interrupted them.
“Open t’ door, lass,” said Alderson. “Ah wadna keep a dog out sik a neet
as this.”
“Eh! best slacken t’ chain, lass,” said the more cautious landlady.
The girl went to the door, but when she saw that the visitor was an old
woman, she bade her come in. There entered a bent figure dressed in a
long cloak and hood; this last was drawn over her face and, as she walked
feebly to the armchair which Alderson pushed forward, the rain streamed
from her clothing and made a pool on the oaken floor. She shivered
violently but refused to take off her cloak and have it dried. She also
refused the offer of food or a bed. She said she was on her way to the
south, and must start as soon as there was daylight. All she needed was a
rest beside the fire.
The innkeeper and his wife were well used to wayfarers; they soon said
“Good-night,” and went to bed; so did their son. Bella, the maid, was left
alone with the shivering old woman, who gave but surly answers to her
advances, and the girl fancied that the voice, though low, was not a
woman’s. Presently the wayfarer stretched out her feet to warm them, and
Bella’s quick eyes saw under the hem of the skirt that the stranger wore
horseman’s gaiters. The girl felt uneasy, and instead of going to bed, she
resolved to stay up and watch.
[Illustration: The “Greyhound” Inn, Stroud]
Presently Bella lay down on a long settle beyond the range of the
firelight and watched the stranger while she pretended to fall asleep.
All at once the figure in the chair stirred, raised its head and listened;
then it rose slowly to its feet, no longer bent but tall and powerful
looking; it stood listening for some time. There was no sound but Bella’s
heavy breathing, and the wind and rain beating on the windows. Then the
woman took from the folds of her cloak a brown withered human hand; next
she produced a candle, lit it from the fire, and placed it in the hand.
Bella’s heart beat so fast that she could hardly keep up the regular deep
breathing of pretended sleep; but now she saw the stranger coming towards
her with this ghastly chandelier, and she closed her lids tightly. She
felt that the woman was bending over her, and that the light was passed
slowly before her eyes, while these words were muttered in the strong
masculine voice that had first roused her suspicions:
“Let those who rest more deeply sleep;
Let those awake their vigils keep.”
The light moved away, and through her eyelashes Bella saw that the woman’s
back was turned to her, and that she was placing the hand in the middle of
the long oak table, while she muttered this rhyme:
“O Hand of Glory, shed thy light;
Direct us to our spoil to-night.”
Then she moved a few steps away and undrew the window curtains. Coming
back to the latter she said:
“Flash out thy light, O skeleton hand,
And guide the feet of our trusty band.”
At once the light shot up a bright vivid gleam, and the woman walked to
the door; she took down the bar, drew back the bolts, unfastened the
chain, and Bella felt a keen blast of cold night air rush in as the door
was flung open. She kept her eyes closed, however, for the woman at that
moment looked at her, and then drawing something from her gown, she blew a
long shrill whistle; she then went out at the door and down a few of the
steps, stopped and whistled again, but the next moment a vigorous push
sent her spinning down the steps on to the road below. The door was
closed, barred and bolted, and Bella almost flew to her master’s bedroom
and tried to wake him. In vain, he and his wife slept on, while their
snores sounded loudly through the house. The girl felt frantic.
She then tried to rouse young Alderson, but he slept as if in a trance.
Now a fierce battery on the door and cries below the windows told that
the band had arrived.
A new thought came to Bella. She ran back to the kitchen. There was the
Hand of Glory, still burning with a wonderful light. The girl caught up a
cup of milk that stood on the table, dashed it on the flame and
extinguished it. In one moment, as it seemed to her, she heard footsteps
coming from the bedrooms, and George Alderson and his son rushed into the
room with firearms in their hands. As soon as the robbers heard the
landlord’s voice bidding them depart, they summoned him to open the door,
and produce his valuables. Meanwhile young Alderson had opened the window,
and for answer he fired his blunderbuss down among the men below.
There was a groan--a fall--then a pause, and, as it seemed to the
besieged, a sort of discussion. Then a voice called out, “Give up the Hand
of Glory, and we will not harm you.”
For answer young Alderson fired again and the party drew off. Seemingly
they had trusted entirely to the Hand of Glory, or else they feared a long
resistance, for no further attack was made. The withered hand remained in
the possession of the Aldersons for sixteen years after.
This story, concludes Mrs. Macquoid, was told to my informant, Mr.
Atkinson, by Bella herself when she was an old woman.
[Illustration: The Ship, Wingham]