Ghost Stories of an Antiquary
any marks of violence did not at the moment appear; but the window was
open.
One of the men went to fetch the parson, and then by his directions
rode on to give notice to the coroner. Mr Crome himself went as quick
as he might to the Hall, and was shown to the room where the dead man
lay. He has left some notes among his papers which show how genuine a
respect and sorrow was felt for Sir Matthew, and there is also this
passage, which I transcribe for the sake of the light it throws upon
the course of events, and also upon the common beliefs of the time:
“There was not any the least Trace of an Entrance having been forc’d to
the Chamber: but the Casement stood open, as my poor Friend would
always have it in this Season. He had his Evening Drink of small Ale in
a silver vessel of about a pint measure, and tonight had not drunk it
out. This Drink was examined by the Physician from Bury, a Mr Hodgkins,
who could not, however, as he afterwards declar’d upon his Oath, before
the Coroner’s quest, discover that any matter of a venomous kind was
present in it. For, as was natural, in the great Swelling and Blackness
of the Corpse, there was talk made among the Neighbours of Poyson. The
Body was very much Disorder’d as it laid in the Bed, being twisted
after so extream a sort as gave too probable Conjecture that my worthy
Friend and Patron had expir’d in great Pain and Agony. And what is as
yet unexplain’d, and to myself the Argument of some Horrid and Artfull
Designe in the Perpetrators of this Barbarous Murther, was this, that
the Women which were entrusted with the laying-out of the Corpse and
washing it, being both sad Persons and very well Respected in their
Mournfull Profession, came to me in a great Pain and Distress both of
Mind and Body, saying, what was indeed confirmed upon the first View,
that they had no sooner touch’d the Breast of the Corpse with their
naked Hands than they were sensible of a more than ordinary violent
Smart and Acheing in their Palms, which, with their whole Forearms, in
no long time swell’d so immoderately, the Pain still continuing, that,
as afterwards proved, during many weeks they were forc’d to lay by the
exercise of their Calling; and yet no mark seen on the Skin.
“Upon hearing this, I sent for the Physician, who was still in the
House, and we made as carefull a Proof as we were able by the Help of a
small Magnifying Lens of Crystal of the condition of the Skinn on this
Part of the Body: but could not detect with the Instrument we had any
Matter of Importance beyond a couple of small Punctures or Pricks,
which we then concluded were the Spotts by which the Poyson might be
introduced, remembering that Ring of _Pope Borgia_, with other known
Specimens of the Horrid Art of the Italian Poysoners of the last age.
“So much is to be said of the Symptoms seen on the Corpse. As to what I
am to add, it is meerly my own Experiment, and to be left to Posterity
to judge whether there be anything of Value therein. There was on the
Table by the Beddside a Bible of the small size, in which my
Friend—punctuall as in Matters of less Moment, so in this more weighty
one—used nightly, and upon his First Rising, to read a sett Portion.
And I taking it up—not without a Tear duly paid to him wich from the
Study of this poorer Adumbration was now pass’d to the contemplation of
its great Originall—it came into my Thoughts, as at such moments of
Helplessness we are prone to catch at any the least Glimmer that makes
promise of Light, to make trial of that old and by many accounted
Superstitious Practice of drawing the _Sortes;_ of which a Principall
Instance, in the case of his late Sacred Majesty the Blessed Martyr
King _Charles_ and my Lord _Falkland_, was now much talked of. I must
needs admit that by my Trial not much Assistance was afforded me: yet,
as the Cause and Origin of these Dreadfull Events may hereafter be
search’d out, I set down the Results, in the case it may be found that
they pointed the true Quarter of the Mischief to a quicker Intelligence
than my own.
“I made, then, three trials, opening the Book and placing my Finger
upon certain Words: which gave in the first these words, from Luke
xiii. 7, _Cut it down_; in the second, Isaiah xiii. 20, _It shall never
be inhabited_; and upon the third Experiment, Job xxxix. 30, _Her young
ones also suck up blood_.”
This is all that need be quoted from Mr Crome’s papers. Sir Matthew
Fell was duly coffined and laid into the earth, and his funeral sermon,
preached by Mr Crome on the following Sunday, has been printed under
the title of “The Unsearchable Way; or, England’s Danger and the
Malicious Dealings of Antichrist”, it being the Vicar’s view, as well
as that most commonly held in the neighbourhood, that the Squire was
the victim of a recrudescence of the Popish Plot.
His son, Sir Matthew the second, succeeded to the title and estates.
And so ends the first act of the Castringham tragedy. It is to be
mentioned, though the fact is not surprising, that the new Baronet did
not occupy the room in which his father had died. Nor, indeed, was it
slept in by anyone but an occasional visitor during the whole of his
occupation. He died in 1735, and I do not find that anything particular
marked his reign, save a curiously constant mortality among his cattle
and live-stock in general, which showed a tendency to increase slightly
as time went on.
Those who are interested in the details will find a statistical account
in a letter to the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ of 1772, which draws the
facts from the Baronet’s own papers. He put an end to it at last by a
very simple expedient, that of shutting up all his beasts in sheds at
night, and keeping no sheep in his park. For he had noticed that
nothing was ever attacked that spent the night indoors. After that the
disorder confined itself to wild birds, and beasts of chase. But as we
have no good account of the symptoms, and as all-night watching was
quite unproductive of any clue, I do not dwell on what the Suffolk
farmers called the “Castringham sickness”.
The second Sir Matthew died in 1735, as I said, and was duly succeeded
by his son, Sir Richard. It was in his time that the great family pew
was built out on the north side of the parish church. So large were the
Squire’s ideas that several of the graves on that unhallowed side of
the building had to be disturbed to satisfy his requirements. Among
them was that of Mrs Mothersole, the position of which was accurately
known, thanks to a note on a plan of the church and yard, both made by
Mr Crome.
A certain amount of interest was excited in the village when it was
known that the famous witch, who was still remembered by a few, was to
be exhumed. And the feeling of surprise, and indeed disquiet, was very
strong when it was found that, though her coffin was fairly sound and
unbroken, there was no trace whatever inside it of body, bones, or
dust. Indeed, it is a curious phenomenon, for at the time of her
burying no such things were dreamt of as resurrection-men, and it is
difficult to conceive any rational motive for stealing a body otherwise
than for the uses of the dissecting-room.
The incident revived for a time all the stories of witch-trials and of
the exploits of the witches, dormant for forty years, and Sir Richard’s
orders that the coffin should be burnt were thought by a good many to
be rather foolhardy, though they were duly carried out.
Sir Richard was a pestilent innovator, it is certain. Before his time
the Hall had been a fine block of the mellowest red brick; but Sir
Richard had travelled in Italy and become infected with the Italian
taste, and, having more money than his predecessors, he determined to
leave an Italian palace where he had found an English house. So stucco
and ashlar masked the brick; some indifferent Roman marbles were
planted about in the entrance-hall and gardens; a reproduction of the
Sibyl’s temple at Tivoli was erected on the opposite bank of the mere;
and Castringham took on an entirely new, and, I must say, a less
engaging, aspect. But it was much admired, and served as a model to a
good many of the neighbouring gentry in after-years.
One morning (it was in 1754) Sir Richard woke after a night of
discomfort. It had been windy, and his chimney had smoked persistently,
and yet it was so cold that he must keep up a fire. Also something had
so rattled about the window that no man could get a moment’s peace.
Further, there was the prospect of several guests of position arriving
in the course of the day, who would expect sport of some kind, and the
inroads of the distemper (which continued among his game) had been
lately so serious that he was afraid for his reputation as a
game-preserver. But what really touched him most nearly was the other
matter of his sleepless night. He could certainly not sleep in that
room again.
That was the chief subject of his meditations at breakfast, and after
it he began a systematic examination of the rooms to see which would
suit his notions best. It was long before he found one. This had a
window with an eastern aspect and that with a northern; this door the
servants would be always passing, and he did not like the bedstead in
that. No, he must have a room with a western look-out, so that the sun
could not wake him early, and it must be out of the way of the business
of the house. The housekeeper was at the end of her resources.
“Well, Sir Richard,” she said, “you know that there is but the one room
like that in the house.”
“Which may that be?” said Sir Richard.
“And that is Sir Matthew’s—the West Chamber.”
“Well, put me in there, for there I’ll lie tonight,” said her master.
“Which way is it? Here, to be sure;” and he hurried off.
“Oh, Sir Richard, but no one has slept there these forty years. The air
has hardly been changed since Sir Matthew died there.”
Thus she spoke, and rustled after him.
“Come, open the door, Mrs Chiddock. I’ll see the chamber, at least.”
So it was opened, and, indeed, the smell was very close and earthy. Sir
Richard crossed to the window, and, impatiently, as was his wont, threw
the shutters back, and flung open the casement. For this end of the
house was one which the alterations had barely touched, grown up as it
was with the great ash-tree, and being otherwise concealed from view.
“Air it, Mrs Chiddock, all today, and move my bed-furniture in in the
afternoon. Put the Bishop of Kilmore in my old room.”
“Pray, Sir Richard,” said a new voice, breaking in on this speech,
“might I have the favour of a moment’s interview?”
Sir Richard turned round and saw a man in black in the doorway, who
bowed.
“I must ask your indulgence for this intrusion, Sir Richard. You will,
perhaps, hardly remember me. My name is William Crome, and my
grandfather was Vicar here in your grandfather’s time.”
“Well, sir,” said Sir Richard, “the name of Crome is always a passport
to Castringham. I am glad to renew a friendship of two generations”
standing. In what can I serve you? for your hour of calling—and, if I
do not mistake you, your bearing—shows you to be in some haste.”
“That is no more than the truth, sir. I am riding from Norwich to Bury
St Edmunds with what haste I can make, and I have called in on my way
to leave with you some papers which we have but just come upon in
looking over what my grandfather left at his death. It is thought you
may find some matters of family interest in them.”
“You are mighty obliging, Mr Crome, and, if you will be so good as to
follow me to the parlour, and drink a glass of wine, we will take a
first look at these same papers together. And you, Mrs Chiddock, as I
said, be about airing this chamber…. Yes, it is here my grandfather
died…. Yes, the tree, perhaps, does make the place a little dampish….