Murder at the Inn Read online

  Turpin shot Thomas Morris at Epping Forest in Essex in 1737 but was later hanged for horse stealing, not murder. (Courtesy of Wellcome Library, London)

  Turpin fled first to Long Sutton in Lincolnshire and then to Yorkshire, stealing horses and selling them on. He initially based himself at the Ferry Inn at Brough, on the Humber, which still exists today. Posing as John Palmer, Turpin managed to make himself a respected member of the community, though William Harris, the innkeeper at the Ferry, was clearly suspicious of his activities and would later give evidence about his guest’s mysterious trips south to bring back horses. Then Turpin made a silly mistake. On 2 October 1738, after going on a hunting trip with some local gentry, a tipsy Turpin shot a man’s prize cock in the street and threatened to shoot another man who reprimanded him. The incident was reported to the local justices, and when Turpin refused to put up bail he was taken into custody. Some accounts have the arrest happening at The Green Dragon in Welton. Still unaware of his true identity, the authorities ordered that Palmer be taken to the House of Correction in Beverley until the matter could be settled. He was accompanied by a single parish constable and his stolen horse was stabled at the Blue Bell Inn, since rebuilt as the Beverley Arms Hotel.

  Making enquiries into how the well-dressed but seemingly penniless Palmer actually made a living, the justices discovered that he was already wanted in nearby Lincolnshire for sheep stealing and horse theft. Turpin was taken to prison in York. Languishing in his cell, he wrote a letter, under the name of Palmer, to his brother-in-law back in the village of Hempstead, asking him to vouch for his character. However, the relative refused to pay for the postage and the letter was returned to James Smith, the man who ran the local post office. He also happened to be Turpin’s former schoolmaster and now recognised his handwriting. Travelling to York, he identified Palmer as Turpin, who was soon put on trial. On 22 March 1739 he was convicted on two charges of horse theft, which was, until 1832, a capital offence. He was not tried for the earlier murder of Morris.

  If much of Turpin’s real-life exploits had, in truth, been rather tawdry, he nevertheless displayed a swagger on his way to the gallows that befitted his future reputation for glamour. After buying new clothes and shoes, he bowed to crowds from an open cart on his way to the scaffold where he happily chatted to his executioner. He then ‘threw himself off the ladder and expired in about five minutes’.

  Those captivated by the legend of Turpin might want to investigate pubs with a shakier claim to a link with the criminal. The seventeenth-century Anchor in Shepperton, Surrey, is certainly old enough, and here an eighteenth-century pistol which bore the inscription ‘Dick’s Friend’ is said to have been found in the rafters during renovation work. Whether Turpin really was here or at The Spaniards Inn at Hampstead, The Rose and Crown in Enfield, The London Apprentice at Isleworth, The George at Buckden or The Bell at Stilton is probably impossible to prove or disprove. Yet after a couple of ales at any of these historic hostelries it’s easy to imagine yourself in Turpin’s world, as you relax in the kind of surroundings with which he would have been familiar.

  LOCATIONS: Blue Boar, No. 5 Castlegate, York, North Yorkshire, YO1 9RN, 01904 593209; Three Houses Inn, No. 379 Barnsley Rd, Wakefield, West Yorkshire, WF2 6HW, www.thethreehouses.co.uk; Bluebell Inn, High Street, Hempstead, Saffron Walden, CB10 2PD, 01799 599199, www.thebluebellinn.co.uk; White Hart, No. 191 Drury Lane, London, WC2B 5QD, 020 7242 2317, www.whitehartdrurylane.co.uk; O’Neill’s, No. 762 High Road, London E11 3AW, 020 8536 4039, www.oneills.co.uk/leytonstone; Ferry Inn, Station Rd, Brough, North Humberside HUI5 1DY, 01482 667340; The Green Dragon, Welton, HU15 1NB, 01482 666700, www.greendragonpubwelton.co.uk; The Beverley Arms Hotel, No. 25 North Bar Within, Beverley, East Riding of Yorkshire, HU17 8DD, 01482 869241, thebeverleyarms.co.uk‎

  BOOZY BOOTLEGGERS ON THE RAMPAGE, 1735–49

  Oak and Ivy, Hawkhurst, Kent; The Star and Eagle Hotel, Goudhurst, Kent; The Mermaid Inn and Olde Bell, Rye, Sussex

  Today the eighteenth-century era of smuggling conjures up a world of daring moonlight deeds where loveable rogues manage to outwit customs officers in thrilling adventures. The reality of the time was that many smugglers were determined villains, prepared to commit bloody murder at the drop of a hat. One group of brutal bootleggers, called the Hawkhurst Gang, were as ruthless and dangerous as any modern criminal organisation, and exercised a vice-like grip on the local communities in which they operated. This eighteenth-century mafia-style outfit, which at the height of its strength could count on the support of 500 armed men, was not unique. But the Hawkhurst Gang would become notable for the sheer audacity with which it operated and the level of violence that its members were prepared to dish out.

  First referred to as the ‘Holkhourst Genge’ in 1735, the outfit was originally based in Hawkhurst, Kent. Within a few years its tentacles had spread from Kent to Dorset. The gang’s leaders revelled in nicknames like ‘Blacktooth’ and ‘Poison’, and many of their operations were seriously large-scale affairs, involving large boats called cutters and up to 500 pack horses to transport goods inland.

  Scores of taverns and inns were inextricably linked to the activities of the gang, who used them as hideouts and bases from which to conduct their activities or simply as places to water their horses and receive refreshment. Sometimes the landlords and landladies were in league with the smugglers at other times they co-operated with them under duress. According to an account from an ostler at the George inn at Lydd, Kent, up to forty of the gang would lodge there for three or four days waiting for a cutter which was carrying their goods to come in. In 1745, displaying their self-confidence, some of the gang rode through the Sussex town of Lewes brandishing their pistols before stopping off for a drink at an alehouse called the White Horse, where they proceeded to complain about the service.

  The Oak and Ivy alehouse in Hawkhurst was used as the gang’s headquarters, but members were also regulars at the Star and Eagle in Goudhurst as well as The Mermaid Inn at Rye, a historic half-timbered inn dating back to 1420. Inside it retains the dark, wood-panelled rooms in which visitors can imagine the gang openly congregating. They kept their loaded pistols on the tables in case of trouble. Legend has it that there was a tunnel between the Mermaid and another nearby inn called the Olde Bell in case of raids by customs officers. However, such was the strength of the Hawkhurst Gang that the authorities could rarely summon up the manpower or indeed the will to intervene. When they did, bloodshed inevitably ensued. In 1740, for example, revenue officer Thomas Carswell and a party of soldiers seized some smuggled tea and were on their way to Hastings when they were attacked by members of the gang, fuelled by brandy. Carswell was killed.

  There were some setbacks for the gang. While many people resented paying taxes on goods and didn’t really see the smugglers as criminals, others became incensed by the increasing arrogance and brutality of those involved. In April 1747, a local militia was formed in Goudhurst to defend the town against threats from the gang. In a confrontation between the two groups, some of the smugglers were killed. Yet, in August of the same year, the inhabitants of Rye were terrorised by the Hawkhurst Gang who fired off their guns in front of the Red Lion and then carried off an innocent young man called James Marshall. He was never seen again.

  It wasn’t just rum and brandy that were included in the smugglers’ booty; the gang also smuggled tea, which was heavily taxed, across the Channel. When a boat carrying some of the gang’s contraband tea was intercepted and stored at the Customs House in Poole, Dorset, a group of thirty angry members had the gall to try and wrestle it back. At 2 a.m. on 8 October 1747 they smashed their way into the building with crowbars and hammers and managed to recover the whole consignment.

  It was following this incident that some of the most violent episodes in the gang’s history occurred. One of those who had taken part in the raid on the Customs House, John Diamond, gave a bag of tea to a shoemaker friend called Daniel Chater while celebrating in Fordingbri
dge, Hampshire. Shortly afterwards, Diamond was captured in Chichester and the fact of his relationship with Chater became known to the authorities. In February 1748, Chater was summoned to Sussex to identify Diamond, and a customs officer called William Galley was given the job of getting him there. However, en route the pair were spotted at a pub in Rowlands Castle, Hampshire, called The White Hart. The landlady, Elizabeth Payne, whose sons were smugglers, kept the duo occupied with rum while members of the gang were alerted. They took the pair to another alehouse called The Red Lion at Rake, West Sussex. Then, having horsewhipped Galley to the point of unconsciousness, they buried him alive. Deciding that Chater was now too much of a risk, they threw the unfortunate man down a well and proceeded to drop large stones on top of him to make sure he was dead. In another incident, a particularly vicious gang member called Jeremiah Curtis led an interrogation of farm labourer Richard Hawkins at a former inn called the Dog and Partridge at Slindon Common, West Sussex. Hawkins was suspected of stealing two bags of tea. He was whipped and beaten before his lifeless body was callously dumped in a pond.

  A print showing members of the Hawkhurst Gang murdering Daniel Chater. (Courtesy of Wellcome Library, London)

  These murders were the final straw for the government. A crackdown on the gang was led by the Duke of Richmond. The gang’s first leader, Arthur Gray, was hanged at Tyburn in April 1948. The next leader, Thomas Kingsmill, didn’t last long – going to the gallows a year later. By 1750, there had been thirty-five executions of prominent gang members, their bodies exhibited in gibbets across southern counties. Ten more convicted smugglers expired in jail. One of the men responsible for the murder of Galley and Chater, William Jackson, died of a heart attack the night before he was due to be executed. By 1751, the Hawkhurst Gang’s reign of terror was effectively brought to an end.

  LOCATIONS: Oak and Ivy, Rye Road, Hawkhurst, Kent, TN18 5DB, 01580 753293, www.theoakandivy.co.uk; The Mermaid Inn, Mermaid Street, Rye, East Sussex, TN31 7EY, 01797 223065, www.mermaidinn.com; Ye Olde Bell, No. 33 The Mint, Rye, East Sussex, TN31 7EN, www.yeoldebellrye.co.uk; Star and Eagle Hotel, High Street, Goudhurst, Kent TN17 1AL, 01580 211512, www.starandeagle.com

  MURDERED WITH A ‘LOVE POTION’, 1751

  Little Angel, Remenham, Berkshire

  As she gazed over the bridge from the alehouse that she ran at Henley-on-Thames, on the Berkshire side of the river, landlady Mary Davis was presented with a curious spectacle. She saw a woman she recognised, Mary Blandy, hurrying across the bridge towards her. Not far behind came a simmering mob hurling insults.

  At the later trial that would see Blandy accused of murder, Mrs Davis recalled how she immediately went to ask Mary what was the matter and where she was going. Mary told her that the body of her father, who had just died, was about to be opened up for a post-mortem in the family home and that she could not bear to be in the house. Knowing her slightly, and fearing for her safety, Mrs Davis invited Mary to go into her pub, which was called the Angel. The reason that Mary had attracted such vitriol from the pursuing crowd was that many of the townsfolk were already convinced that she was responsible for poisoning her own father.

  Mary had been born in 1720 into a middle class family, the only child of Anne and Francis, a well-to-do lawyer and town clerk. When she came of age, Francis let it be known that there was a £10,000 dowry waiting for the man who would marry her. Unsurprisingly this brought a number of suitors and, as it turned out, one particular prize rogue.

  The Little Angel, Henley-on-Thames, where murderess Mary Blandy ordered a pint of wine. (Courtesy of The Little Angel)

  Captain William Henry Cranstoun, the son of a Scottish peer, had met Mary in 1746 whilst he was recruiting soldiers in the district. She was 26 years old; he was some twenty years older. But, since he was from ‘good’ aristocratic stock, the Blandys felt that Cranstoun was an ideal match for their daughter and he became their house guest. Some time later, however, they made a shocking discovery. Cranstoun was still married, having wed a woman called Anne Murray in Scotland. The couple even had two children. Cranstoun attempted to have his first marriage annulled, but to no avail. And Francis soon banned Mary from having anything to do with the scoundrel, let alone marry him. Cranstoun went back to Scotland.

  Yet he was not going to give up on Mary, or her dowry, that easily. In spring 1751, he sent Mary some powders. According to Mary he had claimed that they were meant as a ‘love potion’ that would miraculously change her father’s mind about the union. By this time, Mary’s mother had already died. And over the next few weeks, Mary dutifully started administering them to her father’s food and drink.

  As Mary almost certainly knew, there was no love potion. The powders were, in fact, arsenic and unsurprisingly Francis Blandy soon became seriously ill, as did some of his servants who had eaten his leftovers. When doctors were called they soon realised what was afoot, the servants having revealed that they had seen Mary adding the powders to the food. She was told by one physician that she might be accused of murder if he died. The careless Mary was then also seen trying to burn the powders, as well as letters she had been sent by Cranstoun.

  On 14 August 1751, Francis died. But not before, it was alleged, Mary had begged his forgiveness, which he, amazingly, had given. Understanding that he had been poisoned, but clearly believing that Cranstoun was solely to blame, he said, ‘Poor lovesick girl, what will not a woman do for the man she loves.’

  By the time of her father’s death, Mary had already been placed under house arrest. But the next morning, finding the door unguarded, she had managed to slip out for a walk and then came to find herself outside the Angel, today known as The Little Angel. Gossip about what was going on at the Blandys’ was already rife and, once she was spotted out, angry locals followed her, venting their fury.

  Astonishingly, once inside the Angel, with the door shut against the mob, Mary calmly ordered a ‘pint of wine and toast’. Presently she turned to a customer called Mr Lane and said to him, ‘Sir, you look like a gentleman – what do you think they will do to me?’ He replied that if she were guilty she would suffer according to the law. Mary was then said to have stamped her foot on the ground and, presumably referring to Cranstoun, exclaimed, ‘Oh that damned villain!’ She then paused before saying, ‘But why do I blame him? I am more to blame myself, for it was I gave it him and know the consequence.’

  Mary was soon escorted home. The next day an inquest found that she should indeed face trial for murder. The petite, middle class spinster was then taken to Oxford jail where she became something of a celebrity. Despite being clamped in leg irons, she was fed well and even allowed to take tea with guests. Mary had been allowed to take a trunk full of clothes with her, and a servant called Mrs Dean even stayed with her in the prison.

  Mary Blandy, who was accused of poisoning her own father. (Courtesy of Wellcome Library, London)

  There are many excuses used by murderers for their crimes. But at her trial for parricide, held on 3 March 1752, Mary maintained that she had not known what the powders she was giving her father actually were, with the implication that Cranstoun alone was to blame. He was certainly equally culpable. But the idea that a mature, well-educated woman such as Mary was naïve enough to think that she was administering some kind of potion rather than poison is fanciful. And the jury in the case thought so too, swiftly passing a verdict of guilty. On 6 April 1752 Mary was hanged outside Oxford Castle gaol in front of a huge crowd. Despite her guilt, there was no doubting that she went to her death with humility. Mounting the scaffold, she asked her executioners, ‘Gentlemen don’t hang me high, for the sake of decency.’ Mary then covered her own face with a handkerchief before the hangman did his work. The politician Horace Walpole commented, ‘Miss Blandy died with a coolness of courage that is astounding.’

  When Blandy went to the gallows in 1752 she pleaded, ‘Don’t hang me high, for the sake of decency.’ (Courtesy of Wellcome Library, London)

  Meanwhile, the much les
s brave Cranstoun had fled to France, escaping the authorities. But there was some justice when he promptly died himself, apparently in agony, later the same year. After her execution Mary’s body was brought back to Henley and buried next to her father at the parish church. But her ghost is still said to haunt the Little Angel – where she runs upstairs and slams doors.

  LOCATIONS: The Little Angel, Remenham Lane, Henley-on-Thames, Berkshire, RG9 2LS, 01491 411008, www.thelittleangel.co.uk

  FROM GEORGIAN DRAMAS TO VICTORIAN SCANDALS 1800S

  THE CHILLING CASE OF TOM OTTER, 1805

  The Sun Inn, Saxilby, Lincolnshire

  There is a legend that when the battered body of Mary Kirkham was found in a ditch it was taken to the nearby Sun Inn at Saxilby, Lincolnshire, a pub which stands amid the windswept fens beside the Fosdyke Canal. As the corpse was carried into the hostelry some of her blood spilled on to the steps. According to the tale, in the years that followed the bloodstains refused to disappear however much the steps were scrubbed. But rather than Mary’s ghost it is the spectre of her murderer, Tom Otter, who is still said to lurk at the pub.

  Otter was a stout, handsome 28-year-old labourer from Treswell, Nottinghamshire, who worked on the region’s rivers and dykes. He met 24-year-old Mary from North Hykeham, Lincolnshire, while he was working in Lincoln and the pair began an affair. Soon Mary fell pregnant with her lover’s child and named Otter as the father. When this fact became known to the authorities Otter was told he must marry Mary or potentially face imprisonment. At this stage, Otter appears to have kept secret the fact that he was already married to another woman, with a child, from Southwell, Nottinghamshire, and agreed to the marriage. Otter was using the surname Temporel – his mother’s maiden name – perhaps to cover the fact that he already had another wife.