MYSTERIOUS ROOMS.
A jolly place, said he, in days of old;
But something ails it now--the spot is curst.
WORDSWORTH.
A peculiar feature of many old country houses is the so-called
"strange room," around which the atmosphere of mystery has long clung.
In certain cases, such rooms have gained an unenviable notoriety from
having been the scene, in days gone by, of some tragic occurrence, the
memory of which has survived in the local legend, or tradition. The
existence, too, of such rooms has supplied the novelist with the most
valuable material for the construction of those plots in which the
mysterious element holds a prominent place. Historical romance, again,
with its tales of adventure, has invested numerous rooms with a grim
aspect, and caused the imagination to conjure up all manner of weird
and unearthly fancies concerning them. Walpole, for instance, writing
of Berkeley Castle, says: "The room shown for the murder of Edward
II., and the shrieks of an agonising king, I verily believe to be
genuine. It is a dismal chamber, almost at the top of the house, quite
detached, and to be approached only by a kind of footbridge, and from
that descends a large flight of steps that terminates on strong gates,
exactly a situation for a _corps de garde_." And speaking of Edward's
imprisonment here, may be mentioned the pathetic story told by Sir
Richard Baker, in his usual odd, circumstantial manner: "When Edward
II. was taken by order of his Queen and carried to Berkeley Castle, to
the end that he should not be known, they shaved his head and beard,
and that in a most beastly manner; for they took him from his horse
and set him upon a hillock, and then, taking puddle water out of a
ditch thereby, they went to wash him, his barber telling him that the
cold water must serve for this time; whereat the miserable king,
looking sternly upon him, said that whether they would or no he would
have warm water to wash him, and therewithal, to make good his word,
he presently shed forth a shower of tears. Never was king turned out
of a kingdom in such a manner." And there can be no doubt that many of
the rooms which have attracted notice on account of their
architectural peculiarities, were purposely designed for concealment
in times of political commotion. Of the numerous stories told of the
mysterious death of Lord Lovel, one informs us[19] how, on the
demolition of a very old house--formerly the patrimony of the
Lovel's--about a century ago, there was found in a small chamber, so
secret that the farmer who inhabited the house knew it not, the
remains of an immured being, and such remnants of barrels and jars as
appeared to justify the idea of that chamber having been used as a
place of refuge for the lord of the mansion; and that after consuming
the stores which he had provided in case of a disastrous event, he
died unknown even to his servants and tenants. But the circumstances
attending Lord Lovell's death have always been matter of conjecture,
and in the "Annals of England," another version of the story is
given:[20] "Lord Lovel is believed to have escaped from the field, and
to have lived for a while in concealment at Minster Lovel,
Oxfordshire, but at length to have been starved to death through the
neglect or treachery of an attendant."
At Broughton Castle there is a curiously designed room, which, at one
time or another, has attracted considerable attention. According to
Lord Nugent, in his "Memorials of Hampden," this room is "so
contrived, by being surrounded by thick stone walls, and casemated,
that no sound from within can be heard. The chamber appears to have
been built about the time of King John, and is reported, on very
doubtful grounds of tradition, to have been the room used for the
sittings of the Puritans." And, he adds: "It seems an odd fancy,
although a very prevailing one, to suppose that wise men, employed in
capital matters of state, must needs choose the most mysterious and
suspicious retirements for consultation, instead of the safer and less
remarkable expedient of a walk in the open fields." It was probably in
this room that the secret meetings of Hampden and his confederates
were held, which Anthony à Wood thus describes: "Several years before
the Civil War began, Lord Sage, being looked upon as the godfather of
that party, had meetings of them in his house at Broughton, where was
a room and passage thereunto, which his servants were prohibited to
come near. And when they were of a complete number, there would be a
great noise and talkings heard among them, to the admiration of those
that lived in the house, yet never could they discern their lord's
companions."
Amongst other secret rooms which have their historical associations,
are those at Hendlip Hall, near Worcester. This famous residence--which
has scarcely a room that is not provided with some means of escape--is
commonly reported to have been built by John Abingdon in the reign of
Queen Elizabeth, this personage having been a zealous partisan of Mary
Queen of Scots. It was here also, under the care of Mr. and Mrs.
Abingdon, that Father Garnet was concealed for several weeks in the
winter of 1605-6, but who eventually paid the penalty of his guilty
knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot. A hollow in the wall of Mrs.
Abingdon's bedroom was covered up, and there was a narrow crevice into
which a reed was laid, so that soup and wine could be passed by her
into the recess, without the fact being noticed from any other room.
But the Government, suspecting that some of the Gunpowder Conspirators
were concealed at Hendlip Hall, sent Sir Henry Bromley, of Holt Castle,
a justice of the peace, with the most minute orders, which are very
funny: "In the search," says the document, "first observe the parlour
where they use to dine and sup; in the last part of that parlour it is
conceived there is some vault, which to discover, you must take care to
draw down the wainscot, whereby the entry into the vault may be
discovered. The lower parts of the house must be tried with a broach,
by putting the same into the ground some foot or two, to try whether
there may be perceived some timber, which if there be, there must be
some vault underneath it. For the upper rooms you must observe whether
they be more in breadth than the lower rooms, and look in which places
the rooms must be enlarged, by pulling out some boards you may discover
some vaults. Also, if it appear that there be some corners to the
chimneys, and the same boarded, if the boards be taken away there will
appear some secret place. If the walls seem to be thick and covered
with wainscot, being tried with a gimlet, if it strike not the wall but
go through, some suspicion is to be had thereof. If there be any
double loft, some two or three feet, one above another, in such places
any person may be harboured privately. Also, if there be a loft towards
the roof of the house, in which there appears no entrance out of any
other place or lodging, it must of necessity be opened and looked into,
for these be ordinary places of hovering (hiding)."
The house was searched from garret to cellar without any discovery
being made, and Mrs. Abingdon, feigning to be angry with the
searchers, shut herself up in her bedroom day and night, eating and
drinking there, by which means through the secret tube she fed Father
Garnet and another Jesuit father. But after a protracted search of ten
days, these two men surrendered themselves, pressed, it is said, "for
the need of air rather than food, for marmalade and other sweetmeats
were found in their den, and they had warm and nutritive drinks passed
to them by the reed through the chimney," as already described. This
historic mansion, it may be added, on account of its elevated
position, was capitally adapted as a place of concealment, for "it
afforded the means of keeping a watchful look-out for the approach of
the emissaries of the law, or of persons by whom it might have been
dangerous for any skulking priest to be seen, supposing his reverence
to have gone forth for an hour to take the air."
Another important instance of a strange room is that existing at
Ingatestone Hall, in Essex, which was, in years gone by, a summer
residence belonging to the Abbey of Barking. It came with the estate
into possession of the family of Petre in the reign of Henry VIII.,
and continued to be occupied as their family seat until the latter
half of the last century. In the south-east corner of a small room
attached to what was probably the host's bedroom, there was discovered
some years ago a mysterious hiding place--fourteen feet long, two feet
broad, and ten feet high. On some floor-boards being removed, a hole
or trap door--about two feet square--was found, with a twelve-foot
ladder, to descend into the room below, the floor of which was
composed of nine inches of dry sand. This, on being examined, brought
to light a few bones which, it has been suggested, are the remains of
food supplied to some unfortunate occupant during confinement. But the
existence of this secret room must, it is said, have been familiar to
the heads of the family for several generations, evidence of this
circumstance being afforded by a packing case which was found in this
hidden retreat, and upon which was the following direction: "For the
Right Honble the Lady Petre, at Ingatestone Hall, in Essex." The wood,
also, was in a decayed state, and the writing in an antiquated style,
which is only what might be expected considering that the Petre family
left Ingatestone Hall between the years 1770 and 1780.
There are numerous rooms of this curious description which, it must be
remembered, were, in many cases, the outcome of religious intolerance
in the sixteenth century, and early in the seventeenth, when the
celebration of Mass in this country was forbidden. Hence those families
that persisted in adhering to the Roman Catholic faith oftentimes kept
a priest, who celebrated it in a room--opening whence was a secret one,
to which in case of emergency he could retreat. Evelyn in his _Diary_,
speaking of Ham House, at Weybridge, belonging to the Duke of Norfolk,
as having some of these secret rooms, writes: "My lord, leading me
about the house, made no scruple of showing me all the hiding places
for Popish priests, and where they said Masse, for he was no bigoted
papist." The old Manor House at Dinsdale-upon-Tees has a secret room,
which is very cleverly situated at the top of the staircase, to which
access is gained from above. The compartment is not very large, and is
between two bedrooms, and alongside of the fireplace of one of them.
"It would be a very snug place when the fire was lighted," writes a
correspondent of "Notes and Queries," "and very secure, as it is
necessary to enter the cockloft by a trap door at the extreme end of
the building, and then crawl along under the roof into the hiding-place
by a second trap-door." Among further instances of these curious relics
of the past may be mentioned Armscott Manor, two or three miles distant
from Shipston-on-Stour. According to a local tradition, George Fox at
one time lived here. In a passage at the top of the house is the
entrance to a secret room, which receives light from a small window in
one of the gables, and in this room George Fox is said to have been
concealed during the period he was persecuted by the county
magistrates.
But sometimes such rooms furthered the designs of those who abetted
and connived at deeds that would not bear the light, and Southey
records an anecdote which is a good illustration of the bad uses to
which they were probably often put: "At Bishop's Middleham, a man died
with the reputation of a water drinker; and it was discovered that he
had killed himself by secret drunkenness. There was a Roman Catholic
hiding place, the entrance to which was from his bedroom. He converted
it into a cellar, and the quantity of brandy which he had consumed was
ascertained." Indeed, it is impossible to say to what ends these
secret rooms were occasionally devoted; and there is little doubt but
that they were the scenes of many of those thrilling stories upon
which many of our local traditions have been founded.
Political refugees, too, were not infrequently secreted in these
hiding places, and in the Manor House, Trent, near Sherborne, there is
a strangely constructed chamber, entered from one of the upper rooms
through a sliding panel in the oak wainscoting, in which tradition
tells us Charles II. lay concealed for a fortnight on his escape to
the coast, after the battle of Worcester. And Boscobel House, which
also afforded Charles II. a safe retreat, has two secret chambers; and
there are indications which point to the former existence of a third.
The hiding place in which the King was hidden is situated in the
squire's bedroom. It appears there was formerly a sliding panel in the
wainscot, near the fireplace, which, when opened, gave access to a
closet, the false floor of which still admits of a person taking up
his position in this secret nook. The wainscoting, too, which
concealed the movable panel in the bedroom was originally covered with
tapestry, with which the room was hung. A curious story is told of
Street Place, an old house, a mile and a half north of Plumpton, in
the neighbourhood of Lewes, which dates from the time of James I., and
was the seat of the Dobells. Behind the great chimney-piece of the
hall was a deep recess, used for purposes of concealment; and it is
said that one day a cavalier horseman, hotly pursued by some troopers,
broke into the hall, spurred his horse into the recess, and
disappeared for ever.
Bistmorton Court, an old moated manor house in the Malvern district,
has a cunningly contrived secret room, which is opened by means of a
spring, and this hidden nook is commonly reported to have played an
important part in the War of the Roses, when numerous persons were
concealed there at this troublous period. And a curious discovery was
made some years ago at Danby Hall, in Wensleydale, Yorkshire, when, on
a small secret room being brought to light, it was found to contain
arms and saddlery for a troop of forty or fifty horse. It is generally
supposed that these weapons had been hidden away in readiness for the
Jacobite rising of 1715 or 1745.
In certain cases it would appear that, for some reason or other, the
hiding place has been specially kept a secret among members of the
family. In the north of England there is Netherall, near Maryport,
Cumberland, the seat of the old family of Senhouse. In this old
mansion there is said to be a veritable secret room, its exact
position in the house being known but to two persons--the heir-at-law
and the family solicitor. It is affirmed that never has the secret of
this hidden room been revealed to more than two living persons at a
time. This mysterious room has no window, and, despite every endeavour
to discover it, has successfully defied the ingenuity of even visitors
staying in the house. This Netherall tradition is very similar to the
celebrated one connected with Glamis Castle, the seat of Lord
Strathmore, only in the latter case the secret room possesses a
window, which, nevertheless, has not led to its identification. It is
known as the "secret room" of the castle, and, although every other
part of the castle has been satisfactorily explored, the search for
this famous room has been in vain. None are supposed to be acquainted
with its locality save Lord Strathmore, his heir, and the factor of
the estate, who are bound not to reveal it unless to their successors
in the secret. Many weird stories have clustered round this remarkable
room; one legend connected with which has been thus described:
The castle now again behold,
Then mark yon lofty turret bold,
Which frowns above the western wing,
Its grim walls darkly shadowing.
There is a room within that tower
No mortal dare approach; the power
Of an avenging God is there.
Dread--awfully display'd--beware!
And enter not that dreadful room,
Else yours may be a fearful doom.
According to one legendary romance--founded on an incident which is
said to have occurred during one of the carousals of the Earl of
Crawford, otherwise styled "Earl Beardie" or the "Tiger Earl"--there
was many years ago a grand "meet" at Glamis, as the result of which
many a noble deer lay dead upon the hill, and many a grizzly boar dyed
with his heart's blood the rivers of the plain. As the day drew to its
close, "the wearied huntsmen, with their fair attendants, returned,
'midst the sounds of martial music and the low whispered roundelays of
the ladies, victorious to the castle." In the old baronial dining hall
was spread a sumptuous and savoury feast, at which "venison and
reeking game, rich smoked ham and savoury roe, flanked by the wild
boar's head, and viands and pasties without name, blent profusely on
the hospitable board, while jewelled and capacious goblets, filled
with ruby wine, were lavishly handed round to the admiring guests."
At the completion of the banquet, the minstrel strung his ancient
harp, and soon the company tripped lightly on the oaken floor, till
the rafters rang with the merry sounds of their midnight revelry. For
three days and nights the hunt and the feast continued, and as, at
last, the revelries drew to a close, still four dark chieftains
remained in the inner chamber of the castle, "and sang, and drank, and
shouted, right merrilie. The day broke, yet louder rang the wassail
roar; the goblets were over and over again replenished, and the
terrible oaths and ribald songs continued, and the dice rattled, and
the revelry became louder still, till the many walls of the old castle
shook and reverberated with the awful sounds of debauchery, blasphemy,
and crime."
"At length their wild, ungovernable frenzy reached its climax. They
had drunk until their eyes had grown dim, and their hands could
scarcely hold the hellish dice, when, driven by expiring fury, with
fiendish glee, they defiantly gnashed their teeth and cursed the God
of heaven! Then, with returning strength, and exhausting its last and
fitful energies in still louder imprecations and more fearful yells,
they deliberately and with unanimous voice consigned their guilty
souls to the nethermost hell! Fatal words! In a bright, broad sheet of
lurid and sulphurous flame the Prince of Darkness appeared in their
midst, and struck--not the shaft of death, but the vitality of eternal
life--and there to this day in that dreaded room they sit, transfixed
in all their hideous expression of ghastly terror and dismay--doomed
to drink the wine cup and throw the dice till the dawning of the Great
Judgment Day."[21]
Another explanation of the mystery is that during one of the feuds
between the Lindsays and the Ogilvies, a number of the latter Clan,
flying from their enemies, came to Glamis Castle, and begged
hospitality of the owner. He admitted them, and on the plea of hiding
them, he secured them all in this room, and then left them to starve.
Their bones, it is averred, lie there to this day, the sight of which,
it has been stated, so appalled the late Lord Strathmore on entering
the room, that he had it walled up. Some assert that, owing to some
hereditary curse, like those described in a previous chapter, at
certain intervals a kind of vampire is born into the family of the
Strathmore Lyons, and that as no one would like to destroy this
monstrosity, it is kept concealed till its term of life is run. But,
whatever the mystery may be, such rooms, like the locked chamber of
Blue Beard, are not open to vulgar gaze, a circumstance which has
naturally perpetuated the curiosity attached to them. The reputation,
too, which Glamis Castle has long had for possessing so strange a room
has led to a host of the most gruesome stories being circulated in
connection with it, many of which from time to time have appeared in
print. According to one account,[22] "a lady, very well known in
London society, an artistic and social celebrity, went to stay at
Glamis Castle for the first time. She was allotted very handsome
apartments just on the point of junction between the new
buildings--perhaps a hundred or two hundred years old--and the very
ancient part of the castle. The rooms were handsomely furnished; no
grim tapestry swung to and fro, all was smooth, easy, and modern, and
the guest retired to bed without a thought of the mysteries of Glamis.
In the morning she appeared at the breakfast table cheerful and
self-possessed, and, to the inquiry how she had slept, replied, "Well,
thanks, very well, up to four o'clock in the morning. But your
Scottish carpenters seem to come to work very early. I suppose they
are putting up their scaffolding quickly, though, for they are quiet
now."
Her remarks were followed by a dead silence, and, to her surprise, she
noticed that the faces of the family party were very pale. But, she
was asked, as she valued the friendship of all there, never to speak
on that subject again, there had been no carpenters at Glamis for
months past. The lady, it seems, had not the remotest idea that the
hammering she had heard was connected with any story, and had no
notion of there being some mystery connected with the noise until
enlightened on the matter at the breakfast table.
At Rushen Castle, Isle of Man, there is said to be a room which has
never been opened in the memory of man. Various explanations have been
assigned to account for this circumstance, one being that the old
place was once inhabited by giants, who were dislodged by Merlin, and
such as were not driven away remain spellbound beneath the castle.
Waldron, in his "Description of the Isle of Man," has given a curious
tradition respecting this strange room, in which the supernatural
element holds a prominent place, and which is a good sample of other
stories of the same kind: "They say there are a great many fine
apartments underground, exceeding in magnificence any of the upper
rooms. Several men, of more than ordinary courage have, in former
times, ventured down to explore the secrets of this subterranean
dwelling-place, but as none of them ever returned to give an account
of what they saw, the passages to it were kept continually shut that
no more might suffer by their temerity. But about fifty years since, a
person of uncommon courage obtained permission to explore the dark
abode. He went down, and returned by the help of a clue of packthread,
and made this report: 'That after having passed through a great number
of vaults he came into a long narrow place, along which having
travelled, as far as he could guess, for the space of a mile, he saw a
little gleam of light. Reaching at last the end of this lane of
darkness, he perceived a very large and magnificent house, illuminated
with a great many candles, whence proceeded the light just mentioned.
After knocking at the door three times, it was opened by a servant,
who asked him what he wanted. "I would go as far as I can," he
replied; "be so kind as to direct me, for I see no passage but the
dark cavern through which I came hither." The servant directed him to
go through the house, and led him through a long entrance passage and
out at the back door. After walking a considerable distance, he saw
another house, more magnificent than the former, where he saw through
the open windows lamps burning in every room. He was about to knock,
but looking in at the window of a low parlour, he saw in the middle of
the room a large table of black marble, on which lay extended a
monster of at least fourteen feet long, and ten round the body, with a
sword beside him. He therefore deemed it prudent to make his way back
to the first house where the servant reconducted him, and informed him
that if he had knocked at the second door he never would have
returned. He then took his leave, and once more ascended to the light
of the sun.'"
But, leaving rooms of this supernatural kind, we may allude to those
which have acquired a strange notoriety from certain peculiarities of
a somewhat gruesome character; and, with tales of horror attached to
their guilty walls, it is not surprising that many rooms in our old
country houses have long been said to be troubled with mysterious
noises, and to have an uncanny aspect. Wye Coller Hall, near Colne,
which was long the seat of the Cunliffes of Billington, had a room
which the timid long avoided. Once a year, it is said, a spectre
horseman visits this house and makes his way up the broad oaken
staircase into a certain room, from whence "dreadful screams, as from
a woman, are heard, which soon subside into groans." The story goes
that one of the Cunliffes murdered his wife in that room, and that the
spectre horseman is the ghost of the murderer, who is doomed to pay an
annual visit to the house of his victim, who is said to have predicted
the extinction of the family, which has literally been fulfilled. This
strange visitor is always attired in the costume of the early Stuart
period, and the trappings of his horse are of a most uncouth
description; the evening of his arrival being generally wild and
tempestuous.
At Creslow Manor House, Buckinghamshire, there is another mysterious
room which, although furnished as a bedroom, is very rarely used, for
it cannot be entered, even in the daytime, without trepidation and
awe. According to common report, this room, which is situated in the
most ancient portion of the building, is haunted by the restless
spirit of a lady, long since deceased. What the antecedent history of
this uncomfortable room really is no one seems to know, although it is
generally agreed that in the distant past it must have been the silent
witness of some tragic occurrence.
But Littlecote House, the ancient seat of the Darrells, is renowned,
writes Lord Macaulay, "not more on account of its venerable
architecture and furniture, than on account of a horrible and
mysterious crime which was perpetrated there in the days of the
Tudors." One of the bedchambers, which is said to have been the scene
of a terrible murder, contains a bedstead with blue furniture, which
time has made dingy and threadbare. In the bottom of one of the bed
curtains is shown a strange place where a small piece has been cut out
and sewn in again--a circumstance which served to identify the scene
of a remarkable story, in connection with which, however, there are
several discrepancies. According to one account, when Littlecote was
in possession of its founders--the Darrells--a midwife of high repute
dwelt in the neighbourhood, who, on returning home from a professional
visit at a late hour of the night, had gone to rest only to be
disturbed by one who desired to have her immediate help, little
anticipating the terrible night's adventure in store for her, and
which shall be told in her own words:
"As soon as she had unfastened the door, a hand was thrust in which
struck down the candle, and at the same time pulled her into the road.
The person who had used these abrupt means desired her to tie a
handkerchief over her head and not wait for a hat, and, leading her to
a stile where there was a horse saddled, with a pillion on its back,
he desired her to seat herself, and then, mounting, they set off at a
brisk trot. After travelling for an hour and a half, they entered a
paved court, or yard, and her conductor, lifting her off her horse,
led her into the house, and thus addressed her: 'You must now suffer
me to put this cap and bandage over your eyes, which will allow you to
breathe and speak, but not to see. Keep up your presence of mind; it
will be wanted. No harm will happen to you.' Then, taking her into a
chamber, he added, 'Now you are in a room with a lady in labour.
Perform your office well, and you shall be amply rewarded; but if you
attempt to remove the bandage from your eyes, take the reward of your
rashness."
Shortly afterwards a male child was born, and as soon as this crisis
was over the woman received a glass of wine, and was told to prepare
to return home, but in the interval she contrived to cut off a small
piece of the bed curtain--an act which was supposed sufficient
evidence to fix the mysterious transaction as having happened at
Littlecote. According to Sir Walter Scott, the bandage was first put
over the woman's eyes on her leaving her own house that she might be
unable to tell which way she travelled, and was only removed when she
was led into the mysterious bedchamber, where, besides the lady in
labour, there was a man of a "haughty and ferocious" aspect. As soon
as the child was born, adds Scott, he demanded the midwife to give it
him, and, hurrying across the room, threw it on the back of a fire
that was blazing in the chimney, in spite of the piteous entreaties of
the mother. Suspicion eventually fell on Darrell, whose house was
identified by the midwife, and he was tried for murder at Salisbury,
"but, by corrupting his judge, Sir John Popham, he escaped the
sentence of the law, only to die a violent death by a fall from his
horse." This tale of horror, it may be added, has been carefully
examined, and there is little doubt but that in its main and most
prominent features it is true, the bedstead with a piece of the
curtain cut out identifying the spot as the scene of the tragic
act.[23]
With this strange story Sir Walter Scott compares a similar one which
was current at Edinburgh during his childhood. About the beginning of
the eighteenth century, when "the large castles of the Scottish
nobles, and even the secluded hotels, like those of the French
_noblesse_, which they possessed in Edinburgh, were sometimes the
scenes of mysterious transactions, a divine of singular sanctity was
called up at midnight to pray with a person at the point of death." He
was put into a sedan chair, and after being transported to a remote
part of the town, he was blindfolded--an act which was enforced by a
cocked pistol. After many turns and windings the chair was carried
upstairs into a lodging, where his eyes were uncovered, and he was
introduced into a bedroom, where he found a lady, newly delivered of
an infant.
He was commanded by his attendants to say such prayers by her bedside
as were suitable for a dying person. On remonstrating, and observing
that her safe delivery warranted better hopes, he was sternly
commanded to do as he had been ordered, and with difficulty he
collected his thoughts sufficiently to perform the task imposed on
him. He was then again hurried into the chair, but as they conducted
him downstairs he heard the report of a pistol. He was safely
conducted home, a purse of gold was found upon him, but he was warned
that the least allusion to this transaction would cost him his life.
He betook himself to rest, and after a deep sleep he was awakened by
his servant, with the dismal news that a fire of uncommon fury had
broken out in the house of ****, near the head of the Canongate, and
that it was totally consumed, with the shocking addition that the
daughter of the proprietor, a young lady eminent for beauty and
accomplishments had perished in the flames.
The clergyman had his suspicions; he was timid; the family was of the
first distinction; above all, the deed was done, and could not be
amended. Time wore away, but he became unhappy at being the solitary
depository of this fearful mystery, and, mentioning it to some of his
brethren, the anecdote acquired a sort of publicity. The divine,
however, had long been dead, and the story in some degree forgotten,
when a fire broke out again on the very same spot where the house of
**** had formerly stood, and which was now occupied by buildings of an
inferior description. When the flames were at their height, the tumult
was suddenly suspended by an unexpected apparition. A beautiful
female, in a nightdress, extremely rich, but at least half a century
old, appeared in the very midst of the fire, and uttered these words
in her vernacular idiom: "Anes burned, twice burned; the third time
I'll scare you all." The belief in this apparition was formerly so
strong that on a fire breaking out and seeming to approach the fatal
spot, there was a good deal of anxiety manifested lest the apparition
should make good her denunciation.
But family romance contains many such tales of horror, and one told of
Sir Richard Baker, surnamed "Bloody Baker," is a match even for Blue
Beard's locked chamber. After spending some years abroad in
consequence of a duel, he returned to his old home at Cranbrook, in
Kent; he only brought with him a foreign servant, and these two lived
alone. Very soon strange stories began to be whispered of unearthly
shrieks having been frequently heard at nightfall to issue from his
house, and of persons who were missed and never heard of again. But it
never occurred to anyone to connect incidents of this kind with Sir
Richard Baker, until, one day, he formed an apparent attachment to a
young lady in the neighbourhood, who always wore a great number of
jewels. He had often pressed her to call and see his house, and,
happening to be near it, she determined to surprise him with a visit.
Her companion tried to dissuade her from doing so, but she would not
be turned from her purpose. They knocked at the door, but receiving no
answer determined to enter. At the head of the staircase hung a
parrot, which, on their passing, cried out:
"Peapot, pretty lady, be not too bold,
Or your red blood will soon run cold."
And the blood of the adventurous women did "run cold" when on opening
one of the room doors they found it nearly full of the bodies of
murdered persons, chiefly women. And when, too, on looking out of the
window they saw "Bloody Baker" and his servant bringing in the body of
a lady, paralysed with fear they concealed themselves in a recess
under the staircase, and, as the murderers with their ghastly burden
passed by, the hand of the murdered lady hung in the baluster of the
stairs, which, on Baker chopping it off with an oath, fell into the
lap of one of the concealed ladies. They quickly made their escape
with the dead hand, on one of the fingers of which was a ring.
Reaching home, they told the story, and in proof of it displayed the
ring. Families in the neighbourhood who had lost friends or relatives
mysteriously were told of this "blood chamber of horrors," and it was
arranged to ask Baker to a party, apparently in a friendly manner, but
to have constables concealed ready to take him into custody. He
accepted the invitation, and then the lady, pretending it was a dream,
told him all she had seen.
"Fair lady," said he, "dreams are nothing; they are but fables."
"They may be fables," she replied, "but is this a fable?" And she
produced the hand and ring, upon which the constables appeared on the
scene, and took Baker into custody. The tradition adds that he was
found guilty, and was burnt, notwithstanding that Queen Mary tried to
save him on account of his holding the Roman Catholic religion.[24]
This tradition, of course, must not be taken too seriously; the red
hand in the armorial bearings having led, it has been suggested, to
the supposition of some sanguinary business in the records of the
family. Among the monuments in Cranbrook Church, Kent, there is one
erected to Sir Richard Baker--the gauntlet, red gloves, helmet, and
spurs, having been suspended over the tomb. On one occasion, a visitor
being attracted by the colour of the gloves, was accosted by an old
woman, who remarked, "Aye, Miss, those are Bloody Baker's gloves;
their red colour comes from the blood he shed." But the red hand is
only the Ulster badge of baronetcy, and there is scarcely a family
bearing it of which some tale of murder and punishment has not been
told.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Andrew's "History of Great Britain," 1794-5.
[20] Oxford, 1857.
[21] "Scenes and Legends of the Vale of Strathmore." J. Cargill
Guthrie, 1875.
[22] "All the Year Round," 1880.
[23] See "Wilts Archæological Magazine," vols. i.-x.
[24] See "Notes and Queries," 1st S., I., p. 67.