Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

Yet another example of how returns from the grave can be quite awkward appeared in the London “Sunday Dispatch,” September 22, 1907:

The return of a man after an inquest had been held on his supposed body and after his relatives had drawn his insurance money has had a strange sequel at the Westminster Coroner's Court. Then the "dead” man appeared in person to prove that the six persons who identified the body made an extraordinary blunder.

On April 27 the body of a man, apparently about sixty years of age, who had lost his left eye, was taken from the Thames, and on April 20 an engineer named John Steer, of Cannon-road, Bromley, Kent, attended at the mortuary, with a number of his relatives, declared that the dead man was Arthur Albert Steer, aged fifty-seven, a labourer of Bromley. Steer, they said, had only one eye. 

At the inquest the evidence of identification was accepted, and the friends of Arthur Albert Steer drew his insurance money, went into mourning, and buried the body. 

A few weeks later, however, the "dead” man appeared at his son's house, and in order to set right the matter of registration of the death the identifying witness attended before the coroner to prove that he had made a mistake. 

Addressing John Steer, the son, the coroner said: “I will now read what you said at the inquest: 

“I have seen the body in the mortuary, not for the first time today, but yesterday as well.  I identify it as that of my father, Arthur Albert Steer. My brothers and sisters are also satisfied as to his identity. My father had lost the sight of his left eye, and he had had a piece of bone removed from over the same eye.  I have no doubt at all about the identity.” 

The Witness: “I find the only mistake all made was that father had lost his right eye, and that the drowned man's left one was missing.” 

How many of you saw the body besides yourself?  “Six, sir.”

How did you come to make such a mistake?--We did not make a mistake, only about the eye, sir. (Laughter.) 

But you made another little mistake, as it was not your father at all?--I am very sorry I did make a mistake, sir. (Laughter.) Are you?--Well, I am glad about it. The man had a scar under the eye, and a tooth was gone from the front, and it was the same with father. 

Did you draw the insurance money?--Yes, sir, and I paid it back again.

The coroner said all he could do was to rectify the entry on the certificate of death, and say that the identification was a mistake, the body being that of an unknown man.

As far as I can tell, the dead doppelganger was never identified, but I’m assuming that Arthur Steer was very glad it was not him after all.

The Weird Death of Joan Norkot

Sir John Maynard (d. 1690) had a long and distinguished career as a lawyer, serjeant-at-arms, and Member of Parliament.  Shortly after his death, discovered among his papers was his account of an unusually eerie and puzzling murder case from Hereford, England, in 1629.  The manuscript evidently languished in obscurity until it was eventually published in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for July 1851.  It reads like one of the more supernatural-tinged episodes of “Midsomer Murders,” but with an unsatisfactorily enigmatic ending.  Joan Norkot’s death may have been officially “Case Closed,” but it could hardly be called “Case Resolved.”

I write the evidence which was given, which I and many others heard, and I write it exactly according to what was deposed at the Trial at the Bar in the King's Bench. Johan Norkot, the wife of Arthur Norkot, being murdered, the question arose how she came by her death. The coroner's inquest on view of the body and deposition of Mary Norkot, John Okeman and Agnes, his wife, inclined to find Joan Norkot felo de se: for they (i.e. the witnesses before mentioned) informed the coroner and the jury that she was found dead in the bed and her throat cut, the knife sticking in the floor of the room; that the night before she was so found she went to bed with her child (now plaintiff in this appeal), her husband being absent, and that no other person after such time as she was gone to bed came into the house, the examinants lying in the outer room, and they must needs have seen if any stranger had come in. Whereupon the jury gave up to the coroner their verdict that she was felo de se. But afterwards upon rumour in the neighbourhood, and the observation of divers circumstances that manifested she did not, nor according to these circumstances, possibly could, murder herself, thereupon the jury, whose verdict was not drawn into form by the coroner, desired the coroner that the body which was buried might be taken up out of the grave, which the coroner assented to, and thirty days after her death she was taken up, in the presence of the jury and a great number of the people, whereupon the jury changed their verdict. The persons being tried at Hertford Assizes were acquitted, but so much against the evidence that the judge (Harvy) let fall his opinion that it were better an appeal were brought than so foul a murder should escape unpunished.

Anno, paschæ termino, quarto Caroli, [In the year, at the end of Easter, of the fourth year of Charles] they were tried on the appeal which was brought by the young child against his father, the grandfather and aunt, and her husband Okeman. And because the evidence was so strange I took exact and particular notes of it, which was as followeth, of the matters above mentioned and related, an ancient and grave person, the minister of the parish where the fact was committed, being sworn to give evidence according to custom, deposed, that the body being taken out of the grave thirty days after the party's death and lying on the grave and the four defendants present, they were required each of them to touch the dead body. O.'s wife fell on her knees and prayed God to show token of their innocency, or to some such purpose, but her very words I forget. The appellers did touch the dead body, whereupon the brow of the dead, which was all a livid or carrion colour (that was the verbal expression in the terms of the witness) began to have a dew or gentle sweat, which reached down in drops on the face, and the brow turned and changed to a lively and fresh colour, and the dead opened one of her eyes and shut it again, and this opening the eye was done three several times. She likewise thrust out the ring or marriage finger three times and pulled it in again, and the finger dropt blood from it on the grass.

Hyde (Nicholas), Chief Justice, seeming to doubt the evidence, asked the witness : "Who saw this beside yourself?"

Witness: "I cannot swear that others saw it; but, my lord," said he, “I believe the whole company saw it, and if it had been thought a doubt, proof would have been made of it, and many would have attested with me."

Then the witness observing some admiration in the auditors, he spoke further,

"My lord, I am minister of the parish, long knew all the parties, but never had any occasion of displeasure against any of them, nor had to do with them, or they with me, but as their minister. The thing was wonderful to me, but I have no interest in the matter, but am called upon to testify the truth and that I have done."

This witness was a reverend person as I guess about seventy years of age. His testimony was delivered gravely and temperately, but to the good admiration of the auditor. Whereupon, applying himself to the Lord Chief Justice, he said, "My lord, my brother here present is minister of the next parish adjacent, and I am assured saw all done as I have affirmed," whereupon that person was also sworn to give evidence, and he deposed the same in every point, viz., the sweat of the brow, the changes of its colour, the opening of the eye, the thrice motion of the finger and drawing it in again; only the first witness deposed that a man dipped his finger in the blood to examine it, and swore he believed it was real blood. I conferred afterwards with Sir Edmund Vowel, barrister at law, and others who concurred in this observation, and for myself, if I were upon my oath, can depose that these depositions, especially of the first witness, are truly here reported in substance.

The other evidence was given against the prisoners, viz., against the grandmother of the plaintiff and against Okeman and his wife, that they lay in the next room to the dead person that night, and that none came into the house till they found her dead next morning, therefore if she did not murther herself, they must be the murtherers, and to that end further proof was made. First she lay in a composed manner in her bed, the bed cloaths nothing at all disturbed, and her child by her in the bed. Secondly, her throat was cut from ear to ear and her neck broken, and if she first cut her throat, she could not break her neck in the bed, nor e contra. Thirdly, there was no blood in the bed, saving that there was a tincture of blood upon the bolster whereupon her head lay, but no other substance of blood at all. Fourthly, from the bed's head on there was a stream of blood on the floor, till it ponded on the bending of the floor to a very great quantity and there was also another stream of blood on the floor at the bed's feet, which ponded also on the floor to another great quantity but no other communication of blood on either of these places, the one from the other, neither upon the bed, so that she bled in two places severely, and it was deposed that turning up the matte of the bed, there were clotes of congealed blood in the straw of the matte underneath. Fifthly, the bloody knife in the morning was found clinging in the floor a good distance from the bed, but the point of the knife as it stuck in the floor was towards the bed and the haft towards the door. Sixthly, lastly, there was the brand of a thumb and four fingers of a left hand on the dead person's left hand.

Hyde, Chief Justice: "How can you know the print of a left hand from the print of a right hand in such a case?"

Witness: "My lord, it is hard to describe it, but if it please the honourable judge (i.e. the judge sitting on the bench beside the Chief Justice) to put his left hand on your left hand, you cannot possibly place your right hand in the same posture."

It being done, and appearing so, the defendants had time to make their defence, but gave no evidence to that purpose.

The jury departing from the bar and returning, acquitted Okeman and found the other three guilty; who, being severally demanded why judgment should not be pronounced, sayd nothing, but each of them said, "I did not do it." "I did not do it." Judgment was made and the grandmother and the husband executed, but the aunt had the privilege to be spared execution, being with child. I enquired if they confessed anything at execution, but did not as I was told.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

The Strange Company staffers are enjoying a snow day!

Watch out for those bloodsucking vampire vines!

Some new evidence about Easter Island.

Marmalade and the medieval House of Commons.

A "lost city" may have been found.

Tragedy on a training ship.

A diplomat's wife turns dressmaker.

The 1685 "Argyll Rising."

A thousand years of English in one blog post.

The link between breathing and memory.

When UFO hunters stopped America from getting nuked.

A brief history of the "women's page" in newspapers.

The Ice King of Boston.

Human writing is older than we thought.

Fashionable funeral flowers.

The mystery of the million-year-old skulls.

A newly discovered petroglyph complex.

Michelangelo, reluctant painter.

A financier's wandering cat.

Some impressive Iron Age surgery.

A con man turns to murder.

A Tudor scapegoat.

Us: "Why is ice slippery?"  Scientists: "Dunno."

A dinosaur's violent end.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at the peculiar death of a 17th century woman.  In the meantime, here's Gordon Lightfoot.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

So, who doesn’t love stories about evil phantom cats?  The “Buffalo News,” January 25, 1897:

A special to the Cleveland Plain Dealer from Toledo, O., says: Additional details from the bewitched community of Richfield Center were brought to this city today by Henry Niemen, which fully corroborate the strange story told by A.M. Miller yesterday. Whatever the cause, the whole town, or at least the larger German element in the village, is as thoroughly stampeded as a drove of wild cattle. 

Miller, although in what seemed nearly a dying condition himself, came to Toledo last night to take some relatives to nurse his stricken family, which consists of his wife and four sons. They, together with 20 other families, feel that they have been bewitched and unless help can be given them in some manner there will be many human deaths, just as cattle have already wasted away and died.

Before Miller's relatives accompanied him last night they visited a priest, who in all seriousness gave them rules for exorcising and "laying" the evil spirit, just as would have been done 200 years ago. None of the elements is missing from the story, according to the accounts given by Miller and Niemen. The community is haunted by a demon cat and the sick aver, in all honesty, that the visits of the cat precede the demoniacal possession. This cat has been hunted in every manner, for it is believed that its death would result in the death of the witch.

A peculiarity of the disease is the fact that many of the sick cannot remain in their rooms. They have made their beds in the kitchen and living rooms, while one man, named Woolson, moved his entire family to the barn in the hope of escaping this symptom. This was to no avail, as the dreaded cat still followed them, and the Woolson family returned in despair to the house, where they are all extremely ill. Cattle affected give bloody milk, which has long been recognized as an infallible "witch sign." Another sign that is not wanting is the "wreathing" of feathers.

Miller says that his wife has burned over 10 pounds, in the hope of breaking the spell. The feathers wreathed themselves in hard shapes, and one man reported the same phenomenon in the case of a bundle of shavings that he had brought to the house from the barn. It is thought that the water in the locality is bad, which would account for the fact that both people and cattle are affected. The sick, however, do not show typhoid symptoms, but simply waste away, and after once affected the sick show an utter indifference whether they get well or die. The strange part of the case is the fact that this trouble has been going on for over a month without attracting outside attention.

Richfield Center is 22 miles from Toledo and not on any railroad. The inclement weather here has prevented any investigators from undertaking the long ride to the town today.

I was unable to find how--or if--this curious state of affairs was resolved.  That cat might still be prowling the neighborhood, for all I know.

The Vanished Gold of Gippsland

Martin Weiberg, 1880

Every now and then during my wanderings through the historical weeds, I come across a story where I think, “What a movie this would make!”  The following tale of devious thefts, daring escapes, and hidden treasure is a prime example.

In 1877, the Australian ship “Avoca” had among its cargo 5,000 gold sovereigns.  The ship’s carpenter, a Norwegian named Martin Weiberg, learned of the enticing proximity of this small fortune, and began to dream a dream.  His plan was ridiculously simple:  he had a duplicate key made for the chest where the gold was kept, and when nobody was watching, he opened the box and replaced the loot with metal bolts.  He then resealed the chest so expertly that it appeared untouched.  

Of course, once the chest arrived at its destination in Ceylon, it became instantly obvious that someone had been up to no good.  The police, naturally, centered their investigations around the crew of the “Avoca,” but were unable to find anything that would lead them to the culprit.  Weiberg continued quietly performing his duties aboard the ship as if he was as innocent as a babe in the cradle.  Fortunately for him, it was right at this time that the legendary Aussie bad guy Ned Kelly shot dead three policemen.  The hunt for the desperado naturally distracted authorities from the relatively minor crime of missing gold.  Five months after the theft, Weiberg--who had by now married--left his ship to settle on the Tarwin River, South Gippsland, for what he hoped would be a long and gold-filled future.

Weiberg must have been a bit too careless about how he spent his ill-gotten wealth, because some unknown person evidently suggested to the police that they pay the Norwegian a visit.  When detectives headed for Weiberg’s home, they bumped into their quarry on a nearby road.  When he was searched, a number of gold sovereigns were found in his pockets, thus causing Weiberg one of life’s embarrassing moments.  After throwing the carpenter in jail, officers conducted a search of his home.  They eventually found over 1300 coins, all cleverly hidden in various places.

While Weiberg was in custody, he was interrogated about his accomplices.  It was assumed that one man could not have carried off such a large stash of gold.  He eventually named the first officer of the “Avoca” as his confederate, but an investigation managed to clear the man.  Weiberg then volunteered to show police where he had buried a container full of gold, but while leading them to the alleged spot, he managed to escape.  Weiberg hid out in the bush for five months, after which he acquired an accomplice to help him move enough gold to Melbourne to buy a boat, which he hoped to use to flee Australia for good.  However, before this plan could come to fruition, he was recaptured in May 1879, and sentenced to five years hard labor.  Meanwhile, the police had no success in finding the remaining sovereigns.  Only one man knew where the gold was hidden, and he wasn’t talking.

After Weiberg was released from prison, he and his brother bought a yacht, which he moored in Gippsland’s Waratah Bay.  While there, he went ashore in a skiff to visit his family, who lived in the area.  More importantly, it was assumed that he went to get his hands on some of his hidden gold.  While returning to his yacht, Weiberg was caught in a sudden squall which capsized his little boat.  

Although it was presumed that Weiberg had drowned, his body was never recovered, which led to some highly entertaining speculation about what might have really happened to our elusive carpenter.  Did he fake his own death in order to get the authorities off his back once and for all?  Mysterious lights were seen on the normally uninhabited Glennie Group islands, causing locals to speculate that Weiberg was hiding out there.  Some reports claimed that he had been spotted in various European cities.  Or was he the proprietor of a hotel in Sweden?  Did he, against all odds, manage to get away with a fortune in gold?

Sometime around 1890, a skeleton was found at Waratah Bay, with part of the skull missing.  Was this the missing Weiberg?  Did he let the world think he had drowned, only to be murdered by some accomplice?  Nobody knows.

Twenty years after this unidentified skeleton turned up, a stash of 75 gold coins was found in an old tree.  All in all, despite the diligent efforts of treasure-hunters, to date, only about 1800 of the stolen sovereigns have been recovered.  Most people believe the rest are still concealed somewhere in the Gippsland area, just waiting to be uncovered by some lucky person with a metal detector.

Or--if you want to take the more romantic view--did Martin Weiberg’s crime pay big for him, in the end?

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to the Link Dump!  Our host for this week is "Jimmy on the veranda," 1890.

I don't know anything more about Jimmy, but I like him.

The graffiti of Pompeii.

The woman who tried to assassinate George III.

In which we learn that South American chickens are weird.

The possible secret tunnels under the Giza pyramids.

The oldest known pieces of sewn clothing.

The evolving meanings of the word "cool."

Some skin care tips for your next trip to Antarctica.

The plot to kill Trotsky.

Don't look now, but scientists are sniffing mummies.  To each their own.

The Case of the Missing Megaflood.

Why you might not want to attend a Neolithic party.

"Death" is a more complex process than we thought.

The birth of an 18th century ghost.

The restoration of a gunboat.

Some heroic cats from the past.

Fashionable tombstones on the cheap!

A wealthy Iron Age woman's burial.

The Parliament of Bats.

The murky origins of "Yankee Doodle."

The Regency elite sure liked snuff.

A teenager's unsolved disappearance.  Officially "unsolved," at least.  It seems pretty clear what happened to the poor girl.

Thomas Jefferson, fossil hunter.

A murderous end to an ice skating party.

Unusual love stories from old newspapers.

The life of Geoffrey Chaucer's granddaughter.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll hunt for some missing gold.  In the meantime, I don't recall ever playing the Beach Boys on this blog, so here you go.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

It’s not every day that you encounter a ghost who is headless and has “remarkable eyes.”  The “Richmond [Indiana] Item,” December 12, 1912:

A ghost which has appeared frequently is striking terror into the hearts of the girls and women and the more timid of the men working nights at the Starr Piano factory. The phantom has made his appearance for the past week between the hours of 6 and 8 when the employees are going about their work.

The spirit has been seen several times in the lighter parts of the shop and on approach of any one it flees to some darker parts of the factory which are then idle. There are several descriptions as to the dress and size of the spirit. Those most alarmed credited the ghost with being very tall, without arms and having an unusually small head, in which are two remarkable eyes, which throw off a light comparable to that given by pocket-flash lights. Another employee, who has seen the spirit on different nights, says that the phantom each time was dressed in white and is without arms or head and his description of the eyes tallies with that given by others. On one of his visits the ghost met a reception from one of the watchmen.  The watchman saw his white form in the doorway leading to a covered bridge between two of the buildings. Drawing his revolver, he proceeded to the door, only to see the ghost moving at an astonishing rate of speed across the bridge. The watchman fired twice at the retreating figure and then went forward to see if any damage had been done. The ghost was not to be found but the bullets were found embedded in the side of the bridge. 

The ghost has been seen in various parts of the shop but mostly in the vicinity of the covered bridge leading across the street from one building to the other and in the door of the engine room.

The employees have leagued together and are determined to get the phantom.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any follow-up stories about this unusual spook.

The Church of Evil

Joan Forman was a member of the Society for Psychical Research who spent much of her life researching and writing about the stranger side of life.  (Her best-known book is probably “The Mask of Time,” an examination of the “time-slip” phenomenon.)  Her 1974 book “Haunted East Anglia” included her personal story of the time she and a friend encountered a force that was undefinable, yet clearly malevolent.

In January 1971, Forman moved from Lincolnshire to Norfolk.  Her busy schedule had left her little time to explore her new surroundings, so when her friend Mary came by for a visit that October, the two women decided to go on a brief road trip, with no particular destination in mind.  They drove the quiet roads west of Norwich until they encountered what appeared to be a perfectly charming village.  (Forman discreetly left the place unnamed in her book.)  It was like something from a picture postcard: quaint cottages, a pretty village green, and a fine old church.  They parked near the green and set out on foot to examine the place.

On closer inspection, both women soon sensed something “off” about the village.  The cottages which had looked so appealing from a distance proved to be oddly empty and seemingly neglected.  The streets were deserted.  They sought to escape the brooding atmosphere by entering the church.

As soon as they entered the church, the pair began to feel that things were going from bad to worse.  Forman wrote, “At first, all I felt was a sense of dampness and cold, then I recognised it as something more.  There was an oppressive quality in the atmosphere, and whatever the oppression was, grew as the seconds ticked by.

“I glanced at Mary.  She had ceased looking at pews and floor inscriptions and was standing stock still in the middle of the nave, a frown of concentration on her face.  Our eyes caught and flicked away.

“She said:  ‘It’s not very pleasant in here, is it?’  It was far from pleasant, and was getting less so every minute.”

The women walked towards the chancel, hoping the ominous atmosphere would dissipate.  Instead, standing in the chancel changed the “sensation of oppression” to “one of active and evil hostility.”

Mary couldn’t take it any longer.  She ran down the aisle and out of the church.  However, Forman’s curiosity managed to overcome her fear.  She continued to stand there, wondering what might happen next.  She sensed that with Mary gone, “the full force of the concentration seemed focused on me.  It was quite impossible to stay in the place, and I hurried out after my friend.”

When they were both outside the church, Mary asked her if she had any idea about what had just happened, but, not knowing anything about the history of the village or the church, Forman could not offer any explanation.  “All we knew was that we had experienced some malevolent force.  The fact that it was a church apparently made no difference to its power.”

The badly-rattled women just wanted to get away from the village as quickly as possible.  However, when they reached their car, they got a new shock: the automobile was covered with “a rash of green spots or dropping, the liquid being of a sticky, glutinous substance.

“Had it been red, one would have concluded it was blood.  The drops ran down the windscreen and windows and were fairly resistant to my attempts to wipe them off.”  They had never seen a substance at all like it.

Although Forman’s research into the village failed to give her any insight into what they had encountered, Mary had a simple, if disquieting, answer. 

“I think it’s witchcraft,” she told Forman.  “The county has a reputation for it.”

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

The Strange Company team wishes you a happy Valentine's Day!

The use of drugs in ancient Egypt.

The diary of an 1870s Manhattan schoolboy.

An intercontinental junk.

The original meaning of "spinster."

How the British Empire changed food consumption.

A new theory about how the Great Pyramid was built.

A 5,300 year old drill.

A look at "Vinegar Valentines."

Hannibal Lecter, antihero.   (Some years ago, while idly channel-surfing, I came across the middle of "Silence of the Lambs."  Within about two minutes, I saw something--I thankfully forget what--that caused me to shriek and quickly change the station.  If there is a Hell, it probably plays that film 24/7.)

When coffee was illegal.

Yet another marriage ends in murder.

Ancient Roman medicine may have included...things you wouldn't expect to pick up at the Walmart pharmacy.

A poisonous bakery.

Some fatal Valentines.

A possible link between space weather and earthquakes.

Chinese civilization may be older than we thought.

Paging Graham Hancock!

Some mysterious deaths in Bulgaria.

The Red Lipstick Murder.

A reworked portrait of Anne Boleyn.

Reconstructing the faces of famous composers.

The mystery of an abandoned Welsh village.

The hidden tunnels of Venus.

What (might) have inspired "Wuthering Heights."

The presidents who had notable non-presidential careers.

The little that we know about Shakespeare's wife.

Tragedy at Wolf Creek.

That's it for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll visit a very sinister village.  In the meantime, here's a bit of '60s pop.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

As proof that some actors never know when to go off stage, I present this story from the “Hamilton County Times,” July 12, 1906:

Los Angeles--A more uncanny visitor than death, whose silent entrance of its portals there is not a day that fails to record, has appeared at the county hospital, according to inmates. 

This weird apparition is not the rider of the pale horse, who is welcome, but a ghost, which is terrible--the ghost of a man who died there months ago--Lawrence Hanley, the actor; Lawrence Hanley in the wraith-garb of the spirit world enacting the role of Hamlet at midnight in the darkness of the corridor upon which opened the room where he died August 28 last; Lawrence Hanley smoking a cigarette and leaning with one arm raised upon thin air and with his feet crossed, saying, "Yes, I'll have another, thanks!" 

The doctors and the nurses laugh or pooh-pooh when they hear these reports, but doctors and nurses are of unsuperstitious fiber; they believe in scalpels and saws and such obviously material things, and if a ghost should appear to one he might call it a wreath of smoke, a shaft of moonlight or some other easily explicable thing.

The nurse who was with Lawrence Hanley when he died, H.S. Rea Don, when interviewed, refused to discuss the alleged spectral manifestation. Mr. Rea Don glared when he was asked if he had not chased the luminous phantom up and down the hall with a club to drive it from the building.

Those to whom the specter is said to have appeared are Willis H. Hoes, Frank Hartwell and Charles C. Morell. They tell substantially the same story, which was related by each without collaboration with the other. It seems especially strange that such a story should be told of Lawrence Hanley.

He knew more about ghosts, perhaps, than any other patient who ever died there, for his long and brilliant stage career acquainted him intimately with Shakespeare's ghostly company. As "Hamlet" and "Macbeth" he had held communion with avenging spirits; in the first year of his acting he had even impersonated Banquo's ghost and that of the Danish king. But the persons  mentioned gave him a part more ghastly than any of these, the eighth act in the human drama. Lawrence Hanley's death was itself as tragic as that of any character he portrayed, for he died miserably, the wreck of a man once fired with genius. 

Hanley's ghost is said to have appeared a month after his death.  A luminous, pearly vapor having the form of a man emerged from the southwest room on the lower floor. It was an opalescent apparition; it wore a stiff straw hat set jauntily, a light suit and carried a cane. It floated down the long corridor with the semblance of a stride--the tread of the actor upon the boards--and wailed in a voice itself the ghost of the vocal: "To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day," and so on to the end. He was Hamlet mournfully reciting "To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream." All of the great characters of his past he enacted. 

He strode quickly forward, they say, made as if to draw a sword, leaned his chin upon his hand and mused, beetling his brows until his eyes glowed with greater intensity, threw back his head and laughed, and then bowed and disappeared. The last time these men saw the spirit it was in a bibulous vein. It stood long at a bar of its fancy and tossed down unseen glasses of nothing until its wraith form began to stagger. It sang a song of revelry, then stopped short, straightened up and said: "I must go home." 

Hospital authorities do not attempt to account for the weird stories which have circulated, except to say that they must have emanated from the distorted fancy of some insane patients. 

The Abduction of Nefertiri Trader

I don’t usually write about recent crimes--it feels like prying, somehow.  I also rarely cover cases where it seems indisputable that the victim was kidnapped, simply because there’s usually not much to say about it.  However, the following mystery is so peculiar--not to mention creepy as all hell--that I have made an exception to both those rules.  Besides, it’s a case that hasn’t gotten nearly as much attention as it deserves.

33-year-old Nefertiri Trader lived with her three children in New Castle, Delaware, where she worked in the housekeeping department at Christiana Hospital.  From the little that was reported, she was an outgoing, energetic person who was generally liked.  Around 3:30 a.m. on June 30, 2014, Trader, who was on medical leave from her job (the nature of her illness was not made public) went to a nearby 7-11.  The clerk knew Trader by sight, as she often visited the store, although he didn’t recall her ever coming by at such an odd hour.  She bought a pack of cigarettes, a loaf of bread, and two cups of coffee.

She never made it into her home.  At 4 a.m., a neighbor of hers heard some sort of commotion outside.  When he looked out a window, he saw a man dragging a woman he later identified as Trader to a car, where she was placed in the back seat.  The neighbor assumed she was merely being taken to the hospital, so he shrugged off the incident and went back to sleep.  The car is believed to be Trader’s own vehicle, (a 2000 silver Acura RL with the license plate 404893) as it disappeared with her.  Nefertiri’s 17-year-old son also heard noises, but by the time he went out to the front porch, he saw nothing.  

It was not until about 4:30 on the following afternoon that Nefertiri’s family, concerned that they were unable to contact her, phoned police.  When officers arrived some two hours later, they found in the front yard a loaf of bread that had been stepped on.  On the front porch were the rest of Trader’s purchases from the night before.  There was also an unopened condom.  Trader’s flip-flops were by the front door. 

Unfortunately, that appears to be all anyone knows about Trader’s disappearance.  The police investigation failed to find any suspects, or any indication where the unfortunate woman was taken.  Her car was also never seen again.

There is one possible clue regarding Trader’s abduction.  In February 2014, Trader was drinking at a bar called Club Rebel with a man named Radee Prince.  The two were sitting in her car outside the club when five or six men pulled Prince out of the car and beat him up.  Trader later told police that she didn’t see much of the attack, and could not identify the men responsible.  Prince believed that one Jason Baul hired these men to assault him. 

Although Prince told police he “had no idea” if Trader played any role in his beating, the fact that an unknown man kidnapped her a few months after the incident is, to say the least, intriguing.  However, I have found no indication that police pursued that angle.  If Prince--who was convicted in 2020 of gunning down five people, including Baul, killing three of them--had any notion about what had happened to Nefertiri, he kept that to himself.

As usually happens in unsolved crime cases, there are a lot of unanswered questions.  Why did Trader go to 7-11 at such an unusual hour?  Why did she buy two cups of coffee?  Was she expecting to meet someone?

This was probably not a random abduction.  Trader was most likely kidnapped by someone who knew when she left the house, and when she would return.  But who could that have been?  And considering that her assailant used Trader’s car to take her away, how did this person arrive at her home?  (No strange cars were found in her neighborhood.)

There is yet another thing that puzzles me:  If I approached my front door, only to have someone suddenly appear and drag me back to the car, I would shriek loud enough to wake the dead.  I bet you would, too. But although Trader’s neighbor and her son heard noises, neither mentioned hearing any screams.  This suggests that Trader’s abductor was someone she knew, and someone she did not initially see as any serious threat.

The abduction of Nefertiri Trader is one of those crimes that, given dogged police work and a bit of luck, should have been solved.  Perhaps, it still can be.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

Come in from the cold!

Photos of a vanished London.

The long bond between humans and dogs.

The dangers of wooden derelicts.

News flash:  Medieval people drank water.

A medieval tiger mom.

The stories of WWII war brides.

How the days of the week got their names.

The latest research into near-death experiences.

A story of canine survival in Antarctica.

The (unpleasant) last moments of a dinosaur.

All I can say is, people get themselves into the damnedest situations.

Skeletons as merchandise.

When Afghanistan was a "crossroad of the ancient world."

The 100th anniversary of the Harlem Globetrotters.

A woman's journey to the gallows.

"Wilful murder" in an Oxford college.

The busy career of an early Tudor-era figure.

New evidence about Easter Island.

"Ghost rockets" in Scandinavia.

A murder that probably wasn't.

Bumblebees and Morse Code.

Possible evidence for Biblical giants.

The lavish grave of a Neolithic teenager who was killed by a bear.

So now scientists are studying roadkill.

A "farmhouse of horror."

The life of George Sand.

That's a wrap for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at a kidnapping/missing persons case.  In the meantime, here's some 17th century dance music.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

This quirky little tale appeared in the “Grass Valley Union,” March 11, 1914:

BLOOMINGTON (Ill.), March 10.-- The mystery of the "House of Mystery" at Chrisman, Ill., is still unsolved after seventeen years. It is now the resort of bats and owls and rapidly going to decay. It was in 1896 that the "House of Mystery" was erected. Without any previous announcement one spring morning, a gang of workmen from some outside point arrived in Chrisman.

Simultaneously came carloads of building material. Upon a large lot on the main street of the town there was speedily erected the structure that was to create so much gossip in succeeding years. The townspeople quizzed the workmen concerning the ownership of the house, but learned nothing. All engaged were sworn to secrecy, and none broke faith.

The progress of the structure was watched with curious interest. It was surmised that some well-to-do bachelor of the town was preparing a home for a prospective bride, but all such pleaded "Not guilty." Decorators and furnishers followed upon the heels of the carpenters, plasterers and painters. The house was fitted up luxuriously and with every up-to-date convenience. It was now felt that the mystery would soon be solved. The dining room was a marvel of luxury, with carved table and chairs and a buffet filled with expensive china.

The parlor was equipped with expensive rugs, a grand piano and silk upholstered furniture. The library and bedrooms corresponded in magnificence with the other rooms. The sleeping apartments varied in magnificence with the other rooms. The sleeping apartments varied in color and furnishings, from the palest blue and birdseye maple to rich green tones and heavy walnut. After the final touch of the outfitters and decorators the house was closed.

Time passed and no one appeared. No blushing bride and happy bridegroom. There were no developments of any kind. Weeks, months and years slipped by and the mystery deepened. Six years ago an Incendiary set fire to the house and before the flames were extinguished the kitchen was badly damaged.

A few days later workmen appeared from some neighboring city, repaired the damage and went their way. Although plied with queries by the residents, no one would furnish any information calculated to clear up the mystery. About that time a municipal electric lighting plant was installed in Chrisman and electricians wired the "mysterious house."

In 1919, various newspapers carried another brief story about the house, indicating that the riddle of who built it and why it stood empty for so many years had yet to be solved.  As far as I can tell, the “House of Mystery” remained just that.

The Ghost of Armit Island

Armit Island is a tiny, largely undeveloped island in Whitsundays, Queensland, Australia.  Accessible only by boat, Armit has a wild beauty that makes it a popular visit for the more adventurous and self-sufficient campers and bird watchers.  However, what has earned Armit a place on this blog is something entirely different: a very sad and lonely ghost.

Sometime around 1890, a man named Heron, obviously wishing to see civilization in his rear-view mirror, leased Armit from the Queensland government, and built himself a little hut on the island.  Heron was a great collector of plants, which he used to start an orchard on the island’s western aspect.  One day, some yachtsmen anchored off Armit, and one of them went to Heron’s hut for a chat.  The visitor was greatly impressed by the silence and isolation of the place, and he asked Heron if he didn’t find it oppressively lonely living by himself.

“Oh, no,” Heron replied casually.  “A sailor keeps me company.”

The bemused yachtsman, who had seen no other signs of human habitation on the island, tried to get more information, but the hermit suddenly clammed up and refused to say any more about the matter.  Other visitors to the island heard Heron mention this mysterious “sailor,” but they too were unable to get him to provide further details.

The explanation for Heron’s enigmatic remarks was finally discovered by one Captain Gorringe, who was raising sheep on nearby Lindeman Island.  On one occasion, Gorringe spent a week camping on Armit.  Like the other visitors, Gorringe was told of Heron’s sailor friend, but, not being a terribly inquisitive man, he asked no questions.  However, when after several days this sailor failed to make an appearance, the captain couldn’t help but ask about him.

Heron matter-of-factly explained that soon after his arrival on the island, one night he was awakened by some noise, and left his hut to investigate.  As he went outside, he was shocked to hear an agonized scream coming from the slopes of the island.  He then saw the figure of a man dressed in the clothing of an 18th century sailor emerge from the brush and walk to the water’s edge.  Heron called out to the man, but received no response.  He was stunned to see the sailor walk into the water…and disappear.

After that, Heron often watched the same scene play out: the horrible cry, the march to the water’s edge, the vanishing into the ocean.  Heron told Gorringe that he assumed this was the ghost of a crew member of a long-ago ship who had come to a tragic end on Armit.

Heron was not the only visitor to Armit to see the sailor.  One night in 1908, one Charles Anderson anchored his cutter off the island.  Happening to look towards the beach, he saw a figure walking through the trees to the water’s edge.  Anderson later said that “there was something about it which immediately convinced me that it was not the figure of a living man.  It did not walk so much as float a few inches above the sand.  The phantom came and went so quickly that I did not have time to examine it properly, but my impression was that the sailor clothes on the ghostly figure were those of the seventeenth century.”

In 1938, a Queensland author named Frank Reid visited Armit with a group of fishermen.  After fishing for some hours, the men made camp on the western beach.  After a late dinner, the party relaxed on the sand, talking and smoking.  This peaceful scene was rudely interrupted by the sound of a “shriek of horror” coming from the woods.  It was like nothing they had ever heard before.

When the dreadful cry was not repeated, one of the men dismissed it as the sound of some strange bird, and the group began to settle in for the night.  Then, Reid saw an apparition emerging from the nearby trees.  It was of a man dressed like a “sailor of Nelson’s days.”  The figure stared straight ahead, ignoring the fishermen.  Silently, eerily, the sailor glided across the beach and into the water.

I do not know of any more recent sightings of the spectre--every haunting, no matter how persistent, seems to have an expiration date.  However, if you are ever on Armit Island, and you hear a heartrending scream, don’t be frightened.  It is just a spirit, doomed to endlessly march into the sea…

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

Feel free to use the Strange Company HQ skating rink.

Watch out for those exploding trees!

What the hell was the Ark of the Covenant?

The claim that the Great Pyramid may be even older than mainstream archaeologists say.

Gossip columns in the Regency Era.

The 1870 Battle of Havana.

The castle of 100 ghosts.

How seashells are created.

A mysterious medicinal wood.

Scientists are pondering about talking dogs.

Syphilis has been around a lot longer than we thought.

A "jolly mute."

A forgotten Japanese racetrack.

A Duchess' daring escapes.

Stone tools from 160,000 years ago.

How Richard Burton--the one who wasn't an actor--faked his way through the Hajj.  So I suppose he was an actor of sorts, too.

Yet another marriage ends with poison.

The oldest known rock art.

The rise and fall of a cat island.

Meeting immortal tramps.

The problem of falling cats.

The study of boredom.

Some Mystery Fires in India.

How Elizabethans kept warm.

The tragedy of a professional boxer.

The researchers who are communicating with horses.

A heroine who walked.  A lot.

The inventor of the first television.

The first electric chair execution.

A man's literal identity crisis.

We may have misnamed Halley's Comet.

Goethe and the amber ant.

The "Holy Grail" of shipwrecks.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll meet a particularly troubled ghost.  In the meantime, let's go Down Under!

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

…Well, perhaps not the worst, but certainly something you wouldn’t want in the neighborhood.  The “Rutland Daily Herald,” September 7, 1874:

From New Martinsville. West Virginia, comes the latest ghost story. If we may credit the account given by the Wheeling Intelligencer, there lives, 25 miles up Fishing Creek, and about 20 miles from Burton, one Henry Nolan, A wealthy and altogether respectable gentleman. Mr. Nolan has a son John, 18 years of age. He is a bright, intelligent boy, and has always, until lately, been in good health and spirits. Early last spring, however, he began to be troubled in a manner unaccountable to his parents, who at first thought he had lost his reason. He was followed, he said, continually when in the house, by an old gray-headed man. He could see this man plainly, but no one else could.

John's parents, becoming alarmed, sent him away from home, and he remained some time, experiencing no annoyance while absent. His friends, thinking his mind sound and health restored, sent for bim, and he returned, but to have his every step dogged in the same mysterious manner. Now, the affair took a different turn, and stones began to be hurled at him by this old but invisible man. If John was in the house the stones would fall from the roof; likewise, if he was in any of the outbuildings. If he was in the yard or fields--in fact, in any place out-doors--they would fall around and upon him, but never hurt him.

These stones varied in size from the dimensions of a pullet's egg to those of a human fist. They could be seen coming through the air, but from whose hand John alone could tell. He could always plainly see the old man hurling them at him. Things went on in this way for some time, John steadily and rapidly failing in health and strength, till in July, when he again left home, and, as before, was not troubled during his absence.

He was to return on Sunday, the 20th of the month, and now some of the friends and neighbors are determined to ferret out and expose the whole business. Accordingly, on Saturday, four men armed themselves and went to the house. Early Sunday morning, before John was up (he was never in any way disturbed while asleep), they surrounded the building, first being careful that within their circuit no one was concealed. Scarcely had John arisen when the stones began falling almost in a shower on the roof. Looking up into the air, the party could see them dropping like rain, but whence they came, or by what power impelled, was a complete mystery. Of one fact all were assured--they were thrown by no one within a long distance of the house. After breakfast John came out, and the stones fell thick and fast around him, now apparently coming from a field near the house. John could distinctly see his old assailant in the field, so, with rifles cocked, the men moved in that direction.

The boy described the ghost as sitting in a small bunch of briar bushes--the very one whence the bombardment proceeded. The patch was instantly surrounded, rushed upon with clubs and stones, and John saw the old man enter another. This was in its turn surrounded, but with the same effect. Sometimes after coming from a patch the old man would enter another a few feet away, and sometimes dash across the field. All Sunday, the search went on, but without success.

On Monday, however, while the storming party were running from briar heap to briar heap, their victim became suddenly visible to all. He was dressed in blue trousers and a shirt of fine-looking material. He was hatless, but his long, white flowing beard and hair hung in profusion around his shoulders and over his breast. His face was pale, his eyes clear and sharp, and black as night. He was ordered to surrender, but did not deign to stir.

The men then closed upon him, but he darted off like a deer. Meanwhile the stones continued to rattle down, though propelled by some other power than the arm of the phantom. John started in pursuit, running with such swiftness that he kept close by the old man's side, while the rest of the party were left far behind. Again the strange being entered a thicket of briars and became invisible to all except the boy. As soon as he was driven from that hiding place he entered another and so the chase went on.

Once more during the day he appeared in full sight, and at this time, as he spurned all attempts to make him surrender, it was decided to shoot him. One of the men took deliberate aim with his rifle and fired. The spirit, unhurt, bounded off. Another pursuer fired, but in vain. The two men prepared to reload their rifles, but upon neither of them was a lock, both having fallen off.

For two days this hunt proceeded, without satisfactory results. On Tuesday, however, a smoke was observed to rise from every bush whence the stones came, Another singular circumstance was connected with this, namely, that an Indian hen, a bird found every where in that part of the country, was seen to rise from each bush and fly to another, the volley seeming to follow in the wake of her flight. No conclusion having been arrived at with regard to this mystery, the investigation is abandoned. John, now weak and emaciated, wasted away to a shadow of his former self, has been sent away from home, and had not, up to the time the report was written, returned. The story, incredible as it may seem, comes to the Intelligencer supported by the names of citizens well known in the neighborhood where the events are alleged to have occurred.

A Shooting in Portencross

Mary Gunn

Northbank Cottage was a pleasant little home in Portencross, Scotland, on the Ayrshire coast.  Northbank was a fairly remote place, but surrounded by picturesque beauty, which would have made it a desirable location for anyone who did not fear loneliness.

In May 1913, a family trio moved into the cottage:  Sixty year old retired farmer/evangelist Alexander MacLaren, his wife Jessie, and Mrs. MacLaren’s forty-nine year old sister Mary Speir Gunn.  Mary was arguably the most notable member of the household: She had worked as a telephone operator, at a time when that was a highly unusual profession, particularly for a woman, and in her youth, was so pretty that she was known as the “Beauty of Beith.” She was still considered a very attractive woman.  The little family had a sterling reputation, and seemed quite fond of each other.

On the evening of October 18, the household had their tea, and then settled down around the fireplace in the parlor.  It was a peaceful scene: the two women knitted while Alexander read aloud from a book by W.W. Jacobs, Mary’s favorite author.  They did not bother to draw the blinds in the room, as it was a rainy night and their isolated location ensured they rarely got passers-by.

Alexander’s reading was abruptly interrupted by a frightening noise: a combination of a blast and the sound of glass shattering in the window opposite Mary.  A barrage of gunshots filled the room.  Mary suddenly clutched her chest and cried, “Oh, Alex, I’m shot!”  She dropped to the floor.  Jessie dashed to the other side of the room, with her husband yelling at her to drop to the floor.  It was only then that Alexander realized that one of the shots had shattered his left index finger.  The shots stopped, followed by an eerie silence.

Alexander ran out of the house, but the shooter had disappeared into the darkness.  After a futile search around the cottage, he ran for Portencross, which was about half a mile away.  The first house he reached was of a farmer named Alexander Murray.  He dashed into the house shouting, “Come down!  Come down!  We are all shot!”  Murray and his wife came out onto the landing to find MacLaren standing in the hall, hysterical and bleeding from his hand.  MacLaren screamed at them, “I’m shot, my wife’s shot, and Miss Gunn’s shot!”  He turned and ran back out into the night.

Murray went to the house of the local Laird, where he learned that MacLaren had just been there, after which the Laird--who had one of the very few houses in the area with a telephone--called police.

When officers, accompanied by a doctor, arrived at Northbank, they found Jessie standing in a daze, blood streaming from her back.  The doctor instantly saw that Mary was dead.  She had been shot three times, with one of the bullets piercing her heart.  The doctor led Jessie to bed, and extracted a bullet from her back.  He did not consider the wound to be life-threatening.  Outside the shattered window, police were able to make out several pairs of footprints, as well as a bullet.

At first, police evidently believed Alexander was either the intended victim, or the perpetrator.  However, the footprints found outside the window did not match his boots, and it was soon determined that his shotgun could not have been the murder weapon.  Investigators next assumed that this had been a botched robbery attempt--except, what burglar would fill a room with bullets, and then leave?  A personal motivation made little sense, either.  The three victims lived quiet, inoffensive lives, with no known enemies.  With little to go on other than unidentifiable footprints in the mud and a few bullets, the police were stymied.  They followed a number of leads about the inevitable “mysterious strangers” seen in the area at the time of the murder, but those all went nowhere.  The murder of Mary Gunn began to drift towards the “cold case” file.

"Daily Mirror," October 22, 1913, via Newspapers.com

There was one curious footnote to this particularly odd shooting.  One year after Mary’s murder, Elizabeth Gibson, who ran a Portencross boarding-house with her husband Andrew, sued Alexander MacLaren for slander.  The suit stated that MacLaren “falsely and calumniously made statements to the effect that she had participated in or had guilty knowledge of the murder of the defendant’s sister-in-law, Miss Mary Gunn, at Portencross on October 18th last year.”  The report went on to state that as a result of MacLaren’s statements, “an estrangement has resulted between herself and her husband, and her business has suffered very seriously.”

The trial was scheduled to begin on March 19, 1915, but before those proceedings could begin, Mrs. Gibson suddenly and mysteriously dropped the action, meaning she had to pay all the costs for the case, not to mention losing her hope of getting damages from MacLaren.

That proved to be the last official word on the Portencross Mystery.  As it seems virtually impossible that the murder will ever be satisfactorily “solved,” all we can do is speculate using the few clues available.  Jack House, who devoted a chapter to the case in his book “Murder Not Proven,” suggested that the murderer was Alexander MacLaren.  House theorized that Alexander, maddened by a hidden passion for his fetching sister-in-law, secretly bought a heavy revolver and snuck out of the cottage on the fatal night with the intention of murdering his inconvenient wife.  However, in his excitement, he accidentally killed the wrong woman.  As for why Jessie MacLaren did not turn her husband in, House proposed that the shock of the event caused her to have amnesia.

While we certainly live in a world where anything is possible, I personally find House’s lurid scenario to be unconvincing.  Stephen Brown’s 2018 book, “Who Killed Mary Gunn” offered a more plausible “solution.”  Seizing upon Elizabeth Gibson’s aborted slander suit, Brown speculated that Andrew Gibson was having a secret love affair with Mary Gunn, leading to Andrew’s jealous wife taking violent steps to eliminate her rival.  Brown thought it was likely that Mrs. Gibson dropped her lawsuit after it was privately pointed out to her that suing someone for calling her a murderer when she really was a murderer could lead to unpleasant consequences.

Unfortunately, Brown’s theory is too loaded with “what-ifs” to be the “last word” on the case. Also, neither “solution” to the murder addresses what I find most puzzling: The remarkably messy and slapdash manner of the shooting.  It did not appear to be the action of an assassin with a particular target in mind.  Rather, it looks like someone just stood outside the window randomly spraying the room with bullets.  The fact that Mary was fatally wounded seems to have been a case of appalling bad luck rather than a deliberate “hit job.”  This led me to consider a variation of Brown’s theory:  Perhaps Andrew Gibson had an interest in Mary that was completely unrequited, but deep enough to cause his wife a good deal of resentment.  Perhaps, in her anxiety to cool her husband’s passion, Elizabeth Gibson picked up a gun and went to the MacLaren cottage not to murder anyone, but just to put enough of a scare into the family to drive them far away from Portencross--and Andrew.  Unfortunately for everyone concerned, Elizabeth proved to be a more lethal marksman than she intended.  Or, for all we know, nobody has stumbled across the true solution to the case.

Northbank Cottage is still standing, the last surviving witness to the murder.  What a pity its walls cannot talk.