by David Pirie
‘Certainly not the most reticent, but on the whole I believe he was fastidious enough about his facts to be reliable. This afternoon I will consult a gazetteer and with any luck we will narrow our choice considerably.’
To my surprise that night the Doctor was late for our appointed dinner in the hotel dining room, but I did not think he would wish me to wait and sat down to my chop, wondering where he could be. As I ate, I reflected that the day’s developments were surely a good deal more dismal than the Doctor admitted. Half a place name is not a very positive way in which to begin a manhunt.
I had almost finished my meat when I became aware of a commotion at the door of the dining room. There were some raised voices and a few waiters rushed over and then a tall figure strode out of the scrum in my direction. As people scattered in his path, I could see it was the Doctor but he was wearing a jacket several sizes two big and a tie slung round his collar like a piece of string. Such clothes would have made any other man look like a music-hall clown but the Doctor’s eagle-like features and bright eyes created an overall effect that was sinister rather than comic.
However, he smiled heartily as he sat down and summoned the bemused waiter. ‘I am afraid, Doyle, I was so caught up in various matters I quite forgot to put on a jacket, but as you see I have now borrowed one from a friendly porter so they were forced to admit me.’ And he broke off to order what he saw on my plate and a quart of beer. ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘I quite neglected to eat and drink, but I must do so now for we are leaving tomorrow and the east coast it is too.’
‘So did you trace the name that begins South?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Our talkative friend was quite right on that. What he told me was extremely useful, indeed I went back late this afternoon and the clerk confirmed my location. I will explain all that in due course. It is trifling enough and I believe our man has now moved a few miles down the coast but certainly he is nowhere that will take him back to America.’ The Doctor’s beer was brought to him in a foaming tankard.
‘And now, Doyle,’ he said solemnly after he had taken a long draught, ‘are you an admirer of ghost stories?’
‘I do not see the relevance.’
‘But you will. I have some ghostly reading for you tonight so I suggest you order coffee. You will surely know the horrific legend in question, but you may not know it in its entirety. Nor that now it seems to have come true.’ The food had arrived and he cut a large slice of chop. ‘Though I would not disguise the fact that the legend has helped me, I regard these new developments as a matter of great concern to us.’
Of course I had seen the Doctor like this before often enough when a case suddenly advances. His mind would trip from one aspect to the next, teasing, questioning, ignoring logical sequences and connections. But since this was not just an ordinary case, I felt it was unfair of him to indulge in such mystification. ‘I only wish you would tell me what you are talking about,’ I said with some exasperation.
‘And I will,’ he said, ignoring my tone. ‘You must have heard the simpler versions of the tale, it is one of England’s oldest. And many a child has been kept awake by the “wylde Decembere hunt” at midnight, with torches through the woods, the desperate struggle by the pool, the curse and the howling man who was driven mad within hours, not to mention all the subsequent deaths.’
A memory was beginning to stir in me.
‘Yes, he said, observing this. ‘I mean the story of the witch of Dunwich Heath.’
PART THREE:
THE LEGEND AND THE VANISHING
THE WYLDE HUNT AT DUNWICH
Later, in my room, as I read the book he had given me, I reflected that Bell had somewhat exaggerated the fame of the Dunwich legend. England has many ghost stories, while Scotland and Wales may well have even more. Most, like the witch of Dunwich, are located in distant corners of the kingdom, and can hardly compare in popularity with the ghosts of the Tower of London or Berkeley Square.
Yet the violent witch hunt across Dunwich Heath all those years ago has been widely related, partly because of the vividness of its setting and also the violence of its conclusion. Dunwich itself feeds such legends, situated as it is on the windy easternmost tip of England, where the sea has made spectacular inroads. I first read of the ‘wylde hunt’ and its aftermath in my schooldays, but then it is true I took a great interest in such weird stories and I have encountered many who never heard of it.
The plain circumstances are easily told, though why the Doctor should have seized on it now must come later. One freezing December night in 1690, a ferocious chase took place in the woods and marshes around the Suffolk town of Dunwich, a place already haunted by the all-conquering sea, which had buried so much of it and given rise to the story of ‘the city under the sea’. The chase climaxed on the heath directly to the south of the place. Many of the pursuers were on horseback carrying torches and they were hunting Mary Goddard, a woman who had long been under suspicion of witchcraft. The woman was no pauper, indeed she was relatively wealthy, but she was an outsider who had a reputation for great ferocity and it was claimed she had bitten off the finger of a nearby farmer who left the town rather than confront her again.
The main charges against her remain unspecified but some versions of the story talk of a rune and of the fact she had drawn strange figures on a paper she had passed to others, which brought them harm. By December of 1690 such accusations had become widespread and some weeks before Christmas a deputation went to Mary Goddard’s house. There are many excellent sources who chronicle what happened next. Mary Goddard was described as a mad divell in a poysonous rage who refused to be taken away. When they persisted, she fled on foot into the dense woodland behind the town that borders the heath. She must have run with great speed and skill because in all the descriptions by witnesses it is reported that, for hours, no trace of her was seen.
Indeed the search would probably have been abandoned except that one of the riders, a young man called George Crome who had wandered away from the others, was found unconscious with a deep gash on his forehead. Subsequently he died. Of course the wound could easily have been accidental, for the wood was so thick that riding in it at all was bound to be hazardous. But fear drove the men to fury, the search continued and soon one of those at the flank caught a glimpse of a shadow moving through the thickest part of the trees where the horses could hardly penetrate. It was Mary Goddard who had been drinking from a spring which evidently only she knew, another source of grievance. And now the hunt became more vengeful. Matthew Snell, one of the great chroniclers of these events, writes:
The riders were all in a great rage, and the whole wood rung with the utterance of oaths. Two ran their mounts so fast they were unseated, with bones broken. And much of screaming was hear’d now and the other mounts circl’d round and men ran into the thickets. And then at last a cry went up for they had seen the wytch flee out on to the heath.
Now, again, for a time she was lost to them, but at last they caught sight of her beside an old quarry pool of standing water, known then as Faler’s Pool after an old and worthy cavalier who had used the pool while hiding in the wood from Cromwell’s men forty years before. She was standing on the edge of the water, her face shining with hatred, daring the men to come forward. According to the record, the men were frightened and nobody wished to take up her challenge.
And there was, Matthew Snell wrote, something so direful in her countenance, that it made them fearful and perplex’d. Nor was she herself trembling but her face was shining whyte. Indeed she was more firm of purpose than at any time.
It even seemed she might have got away, for it was later discovered she was carrying enough gold to make her welcome elsewhere. But in answer to an appeal from the magistrate, who I had noticed even when I read this as a child did not venture towards her himself, William Bowker, a wool trader, stepped forward and went to her. Bowker said he would not draw his sword on her but she must come with him back to the assizes.
; There is some confusion about what happened as he approached her. Some say she fixed him with a look, others that she had some small sharp instrument. What all agree is that she made a movement with her fingers as if she was anointing him upon his forehead. Bowker flinched and then fell back, evidently hurt. Seeing this, three or four men came forward at once, and the witch turned and cursed them all. She rejoiced in the death of Crome in the wood and told them, according to Snell, that she would herself return so all would knowe what it is to drown. And all the rest would slide into the sea. Then she ran into the dark water, which was in places quite deep and perhaps the weight of her gold dragged her down but she vanished from sight.
Bowker was not among the men who returned to the town that night. Realising he was not of their number, they called for him throughout the wood but heard nothing. Later a great howling was heard and a figure was seen by a passing carter. Bowker was all but naked in the moonlight and screaming in a way that made it clear his mind had given way. Next day they searched and, though the witch’s body was recovered, no sign of Bowker was ever found. It was assumed that either he had gone over the cliff and been swept away by the sea or he had drowned himself in the deepest recesses of the pool.
That was the substance of the legend of Dunwich Heath and there was little more in the Suffolk Companion Bell had purchased at a bookstall near our hotel than I recalled from the more sensational version of the story I read as a schoolboy. Here, as before, the story ends with the warning that there have been further (usually unspecified) sightings of the poor howling figure of William Bowker over the years and that such sightings always portend a death. The book also points out how Dunwich continues to crumble into the sea. And how the bells of its vanished churches can be heard tolling through the waves on a stormy night. By now the last church on the cliff and most of its graves were gone. This could be put down to the curse, but of course the process was already well under way when Mary Goddard uttered it.
It was, I reflected after putting down the book, a good enough yarn as such things go, but what possible relevance it might have to our quest I was at a loss to see. Indeed, though I had once relished all the thrilling aspects of the tale, now that I was older I found it more troubling. For in many respects the narrative seemed little more than a graphic illustration of men exercising their taste for cruelty. The Dunwich affair, it is true, had some peculiarly vivid witnesses but it was still characterised by the savagery of the mob. And reading it again now I found myself wondering if the only truly courageous person in the whole saga was not Mary Goddard herself, especially if she had been the victim of malicious gossip. Though William Bowker, who at the end had tried to behave honourably, also seemed to deserve some credit.
Fortunately, Bell had not left me to ponder the thing on its own or I would probably have gone and banged on his door in frustration even though he had specifically asked me not to disturb him. He had also provided an article in that morning’s paper to be read after I had reacquainted myself with the legend. And I turned to that now.
I am sorry to say it only increased my irritation. The reader may wonder at this. Had not the Doctor so often directed my attention to various fanciful pieces of data and then proved them relevant? Of course I reminded myself of that now. But it is one thing to recall such a fact in theory and quite another to recall it amidst all the thwarted hopes and delays and problems of an investigation. Also it must be remembered there were occasions where Bell had been wrong, including one I have alluded to. Since I felt the consequences of that particular mistake every day, perhaps it may be considered understandable that I frequently questioned his more bizarre assertions.
Moreover, the news article he had given me tonight was not, as I had expected, a report of some major crime. It was, in fact, a humorous item, concerning a disappearance which was widely regarded as a hoax. Indeed I seemed to recall seeing some mention of it in a newspaper earlier in the week and not even bothering to read the rest.
A Gentleman’s Prank? the article was headed. It was brief, it was given no due prominence and the tone was whimsical throughout. It seemed that a London man called Oliver Jefford, who had something of a reputation as a rake and a joker, and who was the son of the late distinguished lawyer Sir Thomas Jefford, had recently inherited some property in Dunwich, including a house near to the witch’s pool, traditionally known as The Glebe. Jefford had long held authorial ambitions, which were unfulfilled, and he had recently turned his attention to the legend, announcing that he had little belief in the witch and defied her curse but hoped she might help him advance his cause as an author. This was taken to be the precursor of some trick, for Jefford was notorious for such things. When last seen, the man had been in a state of some intoxication in the Ship public house in Dunwich but he sobered up and set off for his dwelling. Next day, the first of December, a local farmer searching for a lost pig glimpsed him walking the woodland path to his house with two others whom he did not properly see.
The following morning, some bloody marks were found in his house, blood that the local farmer and others were certain belonged to a slaughtered animal. There was no sign of Jefford and the place was otherwise empty, for one of the man’s many eccentricities was that he liked to live without staff, cutting the figure of the Bohemian artist.
A few newspapers, the article said, had fallen for this feeble attempt at sensation which was surely designed to advance Jefford’s career as a writer. But most had not. The general conclusion advanced by many, including friends who were thought to know his intentions, was that he had returned to the lights of London. And the authorities were unconvinced there was anything to be investigated.
I tossed the thing aside, for it was obvious I needed some more education on the matter before I could make up my mind about any of it and lay down to sleep. I found myself thinking not of these new events or of Jefford but of Dunwich itself. I had never been there but the idea of a town crumbling into the sea from eroding cliffs often haunted me. Had not Poe himself commemorated in it in his ‘City in the Sea’.
No rays from holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently
Suddenly I tensed as I lay there, for the words had reminded me of something. What was it Cream had said? It was while he was lecturing me, taunting me with questions about himself. He wanted to know if I thought he was mad and then had launched into a tirade about England’s corruption. I saw his face leaning over me, his eyes sparkling, his mouth taut. I struggled to recall the exact words. ‘Your country here is rotten, it is eroding before your eyes, eaten by the sea. Why there are places literally collapsing into the water. A fine symbol of the corruption of England’s soul.’
I had no idea whether the Doctor had taken this into account. But I for one was absolutely sure it could not be coincidence. Cream must have been thinking of Dunwich. It was the only place that truly fitted the description. In that moment all my scepticism vanished. I did not sleep well, I was imagining that last church on the cliff with its graveyard slowly crumbling grave by grave, as all the bones and decayed flesh scattered into the North Sea. And I seemed to hear Cream’s soft voice singing a strange discordant song which echoed the destruction.
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF OLIVER JEFFORD
Later, when we had seated ourselves in the corner of the Great Eastern railway compartment bound for Ipswich, the Doctor apologised for giving me such a small and uninteresting newspaper clipping about the disappearance. ‘The more sensational stories have rather better information to offer even if they are interweaved with nonsense,’ he said as he arranged his coat comfortably over his knees. ‘That is generally the case but I wished to go through them again myself. You must read them in a moment, but first I will tell you what happned to me yesterday.’
He leant forward to itemise his research. ‘It did not take me long to establish that there are fifty-five English place names
prefixed by the word South. However, as you would expect, few are on the east coast. The only ones that suggest themselves are South Shields in Northumberland, Southleigh in Lincolnshire, South Walsham in Norfolk, Southwold in Suffolk and Southend in Essex, not a large group and some of them are little more than hamlets without an inn. Of course the clerk might have been mistaken that the place is on the coast at all and, if that was the case, our task became nearly impossible. But I recalled our quarry’s telegram to the Morlands and those odd words about your fictitious convalescence ‘by the sea’. There was, as you and I agreed, no reason for the lie to take this form and I concluded it must have been the first thing that came into his head. Therefore it is certainly possible he was already thinking about a town by the sea.’
‘On the whole,’ he went on, ‘I therefore tended to believe the clerk, who from his conversation seems a man of particular, if limited, observational skills. Moreover, the place had to be more than a hamlet for the man said he had heard of it, even if he did not know it well. That, I think, narrows it down to South Shields, Southwold and Southend. Already I could have gone back there and asked him, but then I recalled Cream’s words to you about coastal erosion. The most spectacular coastal erosion in England is just along the shore at Dunwich and my inclination for Southwold and Dunwich was now becoming very strong. Then yesterday afternoon I suddenly recalled reading of the disappearance of Jefford in that town. At once I went out and bought all the newspapers and some of them, as you will see, were of great interest. Amidst much nonsense, which was to be expected, I discovered facts that immediately convinced me there must be a connection. I returned to my clerk and mentioned Southend. He shook his head. I then plumped for Southwold and he recalled it at once. It was the place. And even better, he was able to supply an inn. He is sure it was the Harbour Inn, for that turns out to be the reason he felt confident the town was on the coast.’