The Flathers Tragedy

In the beginning of the year 1925, you probably could not have found a more charming couple in all of England than 32-year-old Arthur Valentine Flathers, a traveling salesman for a firm of cloth merchants, and his 26-year-old wife Hilda Nancy. The Bradford pair, who had been married nearly four years, were well-to-do, by all accounts deeply, sweetly in love with each other, and, to make their happiness complete, Mrs. Flathers was expecting their first child within a few days. The tall, good-looking Mr. Flathers was an excellent and highly successful employee who seemed to be liked by all. Mrs. Flathers was extremely pretty, level-headed, and amiable, "just that type of girl who would have made any good man a good wife," as a friend put it. Everyone from their friends to their household servant described them both as cheerful and utterly content with their lot. Several months before, Mrs. Flathers had been very sick with kidney trouble, and her husband was known to be extremely concerned by this, but she seemed to have recovered nicely. This bout of illness was the closest thing anyone knew of any shadow on their lives.

On January 4, this apparent real-life fairy tale came to a most shocking end.

On that day, the couple was scheduled to visit the house of a friend, Mrs. Eva Ludman, at about 6:30 pm. Their maid, Emmy Grove, later recalled that she last saw Mr. Flathers at about 1:30 pm. He was with his wife in the dining-room, and all seemed completely normal. ("He was always very jolly," she added.) Miss Grove left the bungalow at about 3 pm to enjoy her afternoon and evening off. Shortly before nine, while Grove was at the home of a friend, she received a call from Mrs. Ludman, asking Grove to check on things at the Flathers bungalow. They had never shown up at her home, and her phone calls to them were unanswered. The maid returned to a silent house. She was horrified beyond words to find the body of Mrs. Flathers in the parlor, lying near the fireplace. She was covered in blood from five bullet wounds to her head and body. A particularly macabre touch was provided by a handkerchief that had been tied tightly around her throat--evidently after she had already been shot. This was a case not just of murder, but savage, hateful overkill. A couple passing by the bungalow at about 8:30 heard noises that sounded to them like small explosions, but they apparently did not think much of it at the time. Police assumed that what they had heard were the shots which killed Nancy Flathers. The murder weapon was never found. After their bungalow was burglarized about a year before, Mr. Flathers told friends he had purchased a revolver so that his wife could protect herself when he was away on business, but this gun, if he still owned it, never turned up either, leaving it unknown if it was the same gun that killed Mrs. Flathers. (For what it's worth, Emmy Grove testified that she had never seen a gun in the house.)

The dead woman's husband was nowhere to be found. His whereabouts were not discovered until early the following morning, when his body was discovered on a railway a few miles from his home. His corpse had been frightfully mutilated by being run over by a train. The coroner was unable to say if his death was the result of an accident while he was crossing the tracks, suicide, or even murder. His inquest jury returned an open verdict.

Yorkshire Post, January 21, 1925. Via British Newspaper Archive

Everyone was at a complete loss to say how such a sudden, violent catastrophe struck the lives of these two people. Was Mrs. Flathers shot by an intruder while her husband was out, and then, when Mr. Flathers returned to discover her body, was he so unhinged with shock and grief that he ran out to kill himself? Working against this theory was the fact that apart from the shooting, the house was completely undisturbed, with no signs of robbery or forced entry. There seemed to be absolutely no personal motive anyone in the world could have had to harm either of these inoffensive and highly likable people.

As utterly bizarre as it seemed, the only way the police could explain these two gruesome deaths was to surmise that Arthur Flathers had shot his wife and then fled the carnage to kill himself. But why on earth would he do such a thing? No one ever saw the pair as much as quarrel. While admittedly it is often difficult to know what a couple's life is like behind closed doors, there seemed to be no doubt at all in anyone's mind that the two were profoundly devoted to each other. The only possible theory friends could offer was that Arthur, consumed with worry about his wife's uncertain health and upcoming delivery, in a moment of madness dealt with fears of losing his beloved wife by killing her, and then ending his own life.

This is, to say the least, one of the most extraordinary motives for a murder/suicide that has ever been offered. It would be natural for a loving husband to be concerned when his wife is about to go through childbirth for the first time, but dealing with these worries by pumping her full of bullets would certainly be an unusual coping mechanism. Unless Arthur Flathers was some sort of closet lunatic, a suburban Jekyll and Hyde, this supposition seems impossible to credit. Besides, at the time of her death Mrs. Flathers was in a greatly improved condition, and Mr. Flathers told friends that his concerns about her were greatly relieved. At her inquest, her doctor testified that he saw no reason why she should not have had a perfectly normal delivery.

Could this marriage have been too good to be true? Did this picture of a blissfully happy pair of lovers mask some sort of dark, deeply buried problems? Or did this seemingly idyllic couple attract an undetected enemy vicious and depraved enough to slaughter them both?

It should be noted that at Nancy Flathers’ inquest (which returned a verdict of “willful murder by a person or persons unknown,”) the coroner referred to “innumerable rumours making suggestions one way and another” regarding the double tragedy, and that investigation found “no foundation whatever for them...It is an abominable shame that people should commence stating things which they have stated in this case without any foundation whatever for them." He added that “there ought to be some law to punish people for spreading false reports either regarding people living or dead.” It is now anyone's guess if he was referring to the “murder/suicide” theory related above, or some other gossip of the sort that inevitably surrounds a puzzling crime.  It is also now impossible to say if these "innumerable rumours" furnished some sort of actual clue to what had happened.

The now long-forgotten deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Flanders remain a particularly disturbing little mystery.

Weekend Link Dump

Strange Company hopes all Americans are enjoying this Fourth of July holiday.

These cats (and dogs) certainly are.

On to the red, white, and blue links:

So, what the hell are these?  We'll never know for sure.

What the hell is the truth about the Smithsonian and giant skeletons?

What the hell killed off the passenger pigeons?

What the hell happened to Amelia Earhart?  Here's a new theory.

Watch out for those man-eating sand dunes!

Watch out for those inflammable crinolines!

Gaily bedight
A gallant knight
In sunshine and in shadow
Had journeyed long
Singing a song
In search of...Saguenay?

Thomas Berwick's early 19th century essay on the Cat.

The hollow earth: because if you're going to be wrong, you may as well be fantastically wrong.

I've long suspected that a gin & tonic with a dash of bitters is the elixir of life.  Turns out I was pretty close to the mark.

Some previously unknown photographs depicting life in London's East End.

When Crazy Cat Ladies turn serial killer.

Disproving Darwin.  Who knew coral reefs were such a touchy subject?

The French restaurant where World War I was on the menu.

Discovering our on/off switch.

Because, believe it or not, this blog loves Team Dog as well as Team Cat:  A delightful look at the Shoreditch Dog Show.

Arsenic wafers, electric undergarments, expanding mustaches, and electric oil.  Take a guess:  1890s shopping spree or medieval torture session?

Henry Wainwright and the world's worst cab ride.

What it was like to be poor in 19th century France.

The rise and fall of the powdered wig.

Uncovering Isabella de Medici.

The mystery murder victim of Allison Hill.

Night of the Moving Dead.

Remembering the three people who died away from planet Earth.

Criminal geniuses of the week, Facebook edition.

This week's beauty tips:  Rosemary and brandy buried in horse dung, burnt cork, and distilled "polipode of the oak."  Plus a bonus glamour shot of an 18th century belle sitting on the toilet.

Hey, don't look at me like that; I'm just the humble link-compiler.

Wicked William Goes to War.

As supreme proof of just how strange our little world is:  The first American to learn of Stalin's death was Johnny Cash.

The kind of thing that happens when you open mysterious underground boxes.

The kind of thing that happens when you try to survive being hanged.

Let's end this linkapalooza with the Quote of the Week: "Man has gone out to explore other worlds and other civilizations without having explored his own labyrinth of dark passages and secret chambers, and without finding what lies behind doorways that he himself has sealed."

And finally, to celebrate the holiday, here's a little John Philip Sousa. Because, damn it, marching bands are cool.



See you on Monday, when I'll be looking at the long-forgotten but highly mysterious end of a young married couple.  Was it a case of...double murder?  Murder/suicide?  And why did these deaths happen at all?  No one knows.

Newspaper Clipping(s) of the Independence Day

Our American Fourth of July has been, throughout our history, a peculiarly gruesome holiday. In years past, the newspapers would exhibit, with a positively ghoulish relish, long lists of casualties across the country, usually resulting from using fireworks with more exuberance than expertise.

Being the sensitive, kindly soul that I am, naturally, while reading these Starred and Striped tragedies, my first thought was, "Blog post!"

Behold, a selection of Independence Day events, Strange Company style:

The "Bryan [TX] Morning Eagle" for July 7, 1907, really got into the spirit of the thing, with no less than three tributes to the recent holiday:

Pittsburg, July 5.--All records for fatalities following the celebration of Independence day were broken this year. Up to 10 o'clock Friday fifteen violent deaths were reported to coroner's office, while the number of injured is three-score. This list of dead, which were compiled from cases reported at the coroner's office and morgues from Wednesday night until Friday morning, includes two alleged murders and one suicide, besides numerous accidental deaths. It is said many of the injured will die.

New York, July 5.--Distressed by the noises of the Fourth of July celebration Mrs. Johanna Everett, a widow, hanged herself from a bedpost in her home at Jersey City. Mrs. Everett suffered from ill health and she complained she could not stand the noise of exploding fireworks.

St. Joseph, Mo., July 5.--Theresa Goodman, aged seven, died in convulsions caused by Fourth of July explosions. She was in a weakened condition as the result of diphtheria, from which she was recovering. The discharge of blank cartridges near a window threw her into convulsions.

This story from the "San Francisco Call" of July 17, 1910 had a happier ending, just leaving the victims sadder and hopefully wiser:

G.M. Cohn was among those who autoed to Reno to witness the tussle between the hopes of the black and white races on the Fourth. Cohn drove his White gasoline car and had a trip replete with unusually interesting experiences. One of these came near being a tragedy, but good fortune and great presence of mind on the part of "Bill" Young converted it into laughable comedy.

On the way to Reno, Cohn and party encountered James Terry, a lumberman of Sacramento and Redding, at Tallac. Terry had chartered a barge and Cohn was persuaded by him to ferry his machine, along with three others, across Tallac lake to Tahoe City on it. The system proved so satisfactory that the four car owners on the way back from Reno all met at Tahoe City, according to prearranged plans to again utilize the barge. In the meantime some members of the party had deserted and in their places several seafaring gentlemen had been welcomed.

According to Cohn it was the Sierra grandeur appealing to their sentiment that enthused all members of the several parties with patriotism.

All four cars were loaded down at Truckee with fireworks and it was decided to advise the inhabitants of Tallac of the barge's approach through a monster display. This was begun somewhere midway across the lake. A few sky rockets opened up activity and then Cohn, to add to the variety of the occasion, started a pin wheel. The sparks flew fast and wild and several settled directly in the tonneau of Cohn's car, where a major part of the explosives were stored. In a moment there was a great burst of flame and sky rockets, pin wheels, Roman candles and every other known make of fireworks were mixing in a grand melee of hisses and sparks.

The seafaring gentlemen, who had theretofore refused to be enthused by the patriotic demonstrations, were cuddled up in sleep in the several cars. The grand finale to the fireworks display, however, awakened them rudely. The northern lights had never shown them anything to equal this fourth of July outburst and consequently all were soon making a wild scramble for safety. One made a wild leap, completely clearing the barge, and landed with a splash in the lake. Two others plunged head foremost through the glass front of the car while the others fled terrified to the remotest corners of the barge.

It was here that "Bill" Young came to the rescue, marshaled the forces and with an extensive experience in fire extinguishing to rely upon soon had the flames under control. But for the damaged upholstering of the tonneau the car was but little the worse off for the experience.

More patriotic mayhem was reported in the "Bendigo Advertiser," August 15, 1908:

New York, 3rd July. A terrible explosion of fireworks, which brought instant death to six young men and one boy, and fearful injuries to a score of others, ushered in America's great national celebration of the Fourth of July. To-morrow is the one day of the year when all Americans go patriotically insane. They spend hundreds of thousands of pounds on pyrotechnic displays, and each year the Fourth of July list of fatalities exceeds the carnage of a first-class battle.

A large firework store in Cleveland (Ohio) was crowded at noon to-day by youthful purchasers, when a number of rockets exploded, setting fire to the entire contents of the shop. A scene of indescribable horror ensued, customers and shop assistants making one wild rush amid a thousand whizzing squibs, roman candles, and catherine wheels in the effort to escape. Many reached the lift in safety: others fled downstairs and reached the street, to find the building a roaring furnace.

But scores were left behind, and so intense was the panic that before the firemen spread their nets people began to jump to the pavements from the second story windows. Outside an immense concourse of frantic parents quickly gathered, impeding the efforts of the brigade, who only after considerable delay succeeded in placing their ladders. Five firemen were seriously injured by the bursting of fireworks. When the conflagration was extinguished seven bodies were discovered in the ruins.

From the London "Evening Telegraph" for July 7, 1909:

New York, Tuesday. Details of further Fourth of July accidents have been received. In Camden, New Jersey, the saddest of the tragedies occurred. A woman and a baby in her arms were killed, the top of a boy's head was blown off, and a man was probably mortally wounded by the explosion of a cannon at a fireworks display attended by 5000 people. Mrs. Anna Hebel, of Camden, and her six weeks-old child were the two killed; Chas. Mullion (17) is the boy fatally injured; and George Hauser, who fired the cannon, was badly hurt. The cannon shooting had been planned as a surprise. It was a three-pounder, with a barrel three feet long and a bore of three inches, and it had been loaded with three pounds of gunpowder. It stood in a roped-off space in front of the crowd, and Mrs. Hebel sat, with hundreds of others, just behind the rope. Mullion sat behind her, and Hauser was standing front of it. Everybody was watching the ascent of the fire balloon when the cannon burst. It threw pieces of iron weighing a pound for half-a-mile. The fete was arranged under the auspices of the Camden Association of Patriots and Loyal Friends of Enterprise.

The practice of firing guns into the air on July 4th, so beloved of celebratory imbeciles, apparently caused this rather puzzling tragedy. From the "Royal Cornwall Gazette" for August 23, 1878:

A very sad tragedy occurred at Avondale, Ohio, on the 4th of July. The Cincinnati Gazette says : — The sad death of Miss Lida Hutton has cast a gloom over the entire village, where she was beloved and respected. She lived with her widowed sister, Mrs. Wells, on Glenwood Avenue, in a handsome cottage at the end of the road. The fourth had been spent pleasantly at home, in a quiet way. About 7 o'clock in the evening Mrs. Wells started with Miss Hutton to go over to Mr. Kellogg's to see the fireworks. As they got to their front door Miss Hutton suggested that it was yet early and they had better sit down until it got darker. Accordingly they sat down on the front porch, Miss Hutton, taking a rocking chair, sat facing Mrs. Wells. Suddenly Miss Hutton threw up her arms and said, "I'm struck!" With that she lowered both arms and commenced to unfasten her dress at the neck. When Mrs. Wells saw her attempt to unfasten her dress she screamed and caught Miss Hutton, supposing she was attacked with heart disease or something of the kind. Many of the neighbours came in and offered their assistance. They removed the body upstairs and laid it on a bed. One of the ladies who had helped to carry it discovered blood on her hand and on examination the wound was found. The ball entered near the shoulder on the back and passed diagonally through to the other side, cutting in its way the heart. There had been several shots fired in the neighbourhood just before the fatal accident, but several persons in the immediate vicinity say that for some moments before Miss Hutton was shot no report was heard, nor, in fact, was the one that killed her heard. The porch stands back some seventy-five feet from the road, and in front of the house is a large lawn. No one was in the immediate vicinity, and the only theory is that the fatal shot came from a rifle in the hands of some reckless person, at present unknown.— New York Herald.

The "San Francisco Call" for June 28, 1904, did a good deal of tutting about it all:

Philadelphia. June 27.--Dr. Benjamin Lee, secretary of the Board of Health, has sent to the authorities of every town in the State statistics intended as a warning against the use of the toy pistol.

It is asserted that on the last Fourth of July there were sacrificed "on the altar of a lawless and spurious patriotism" a greater number of victims than have been slain in any of the battles in the Far East or than were drowned or burned in the Slocum tragedy in the harbor of New York.

The total number of casualties in the United States on July 4, 1903, was 4249.

More holiday cheer from the "Aberdeen Journal," July 6, 1927:

New York, Tuesday. Hundreds of thousands who deserted New York for the country over the Fourth of July Holiday, began arriving this morning by train and motor car from all parts of the country. The usual number of casualties are reported a result fireworks, and altogether nearly persons, mostly children, have died in consequence of burns and other injuries directly traceable to ubiquitous fire-crackers. More than a hundred were injured in Washington alone, while at Milwaukee 1200 persons were arrested by the police for violation of the city regulations governing the use of fireworks. In the forest reserve near Des Plaines, Illinois, a premature explosion of a rocket set off a huge pile of fireworks, and some children were injured by being trampled upon in the general stampede to flee from the rain of fire. At the Westchester Baltimore Country Club, near New York, where nearly 600 people were dining on the Terrace, a large box of fireworks under one of the tables suddenly went off, and the hissing rockets and spluttering crackers, which flew in all directions among the assembled diners, provided a distinctly original contribution to the evening's amusement.

Fireworks aren't the only danger. On the Fourth of July, not even hot-air balloons are safe. From the "Illustrated Police News," July 16, 1892:

A balloon ascent which took place at Boston in connection with the festivities on the occasion of Independence Day had a fatal termination, two persons being killed outright and a third seriously injured. The balloon, after ascending to a considerable altitude, rapidly went in the direction of the sea, whereupon Mr. Rogers, who was in charge, attempted to open the valve. In doing so, however, he made a rent in the silk, thus permitting the gas to escape, and causing the balloon to descend with terrific velocity. It finally struck the water, and collapsed. Mr. Rogers was almost instantly killed, and sank immediately, and his assistant, Mr. Fenton, was so badly injured that he died before he could be conveyed to the city by a tug, which happened to be in the vicinity when the balloon fell. Mr. Goldsmith, a reporter, sustained a severe shock and inhaled a quantity of gas, and is now in hospital. The other passengers were rescued by the tug.

via British Newspaper Archive

From "Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper," July 13, 1890:

Saginaw, Michigan. Saturday.-The Kinney hotel in this city was set on fire yesterday during the firework display of the fourth of July celebration., A package of fire-crackers exploded in the bedroom occupied by James Henham, 28 years old, a guest, who had registered as coming from Montreal. The fire spread so rapidly that Henham was burned to death, and four other persons who were in adjoining rooms were severely injured while escaping from the flames. The loss is estimated at over thirty-five thousand dollars.

Of course, some people don't need fireworks to be a menace to everyone around them. Some do it with the ordinary methods appropriate for any day of the year. From the "San Francisco Call" for July 6, 1902:

Catlettsburg, Ky., July 5.--Jesse Rule, a retired merchant of this city, was stabbed and killed at a Fourth of July celebration here yesterday. Frederick Burnhett has been arrested, charged with the murder.

Even my beloved felines can't resist getting into the blood-soaked spirit of the thing. Here's a quite dreadful anecdote from the "Sacred Heart Review," July 7, 1918:

OUR FUTURE MEN AND WOMEN.
A SAD STORY.
July 6, 1918. Dear Uncle Jack: Here is a true bird-story that I wrote. It was our cat that brought in the robin, and my brother and I spent a lot of time trying to bring it around. If you print the story, it may keep some bad boy from stoning trees to bring down nests. Very respectfully yours, Margaret E. B----. Please don't give my name or where I live because some one might kill Melba—our cat.

Uncle Jack is much pleased to print Margaret's story, but he does not think that any bad boys read this page. It will do us all good, big and little, to read about these kind bird friends that Margaret and her brother know. Many thanks, little niece, and write again to Uncle Jack.

A Fourth of July Tragedy.
It was after supper. Joseph and I were in the dining room just by ourselves, when Melba ran in with the dearest little robin in her mouth. Melba is our cat, and we call her Melba because she has such a pleasant purr. But she is perfectly horrid about birds, and has had her eye on the nest in the big maple ever since it was built there. She didn't get a chance at them in the daytime, and we kept her in evenings, except on the Fourth. Joseph said it was a mean way for her to keep such a day.

He took her by the back of the neck and she let Robbie go. He squawked a bit and trembled something dreadful, but Joseph put Melba in the cellar, and after a while the little fellow seemed to be better. He couldn't fly though, so we fixed a little bed for him, on the window-sill next the screen. The next morning he could hop along the sill, and after a while we heard great twittering, and there on the chimney next house was the mother robin, chirping and looking everywhere. Robbie got close to the screen and chirped back, and his mother flew down to the tree, looked him all over, and went away. In a few minutes she came back with the father bird and a white moth in her mouth for Robbie. If we drew the screen, he would fall to the ground, so we put him in Patsy's cage and took out the screen. Patsy was our canary. He's dead. We thought the mother would feed him through the bars, and she tried, but got afraid of folks, and went away again. The next time she had a grey moth, and at last she brought a worm. Still, she couldn't get it in the cage; and though we brought worms and other things, poor Robbie wouldn't eat. I guess Melba squeezed his throat, or maybe he got discouraged, for he died after all our work to save him. We even put him in a big basket, and tied the basket to the tree, but when we looked again he was lying on his back with his little claws in the air. His parents knew he was dead for they never came to the window after that. We buried Robbie under an orange lily that is in bloom, and we put a stone over him, so that Melba couldn't scratch him up. How sad that on the day of liberty an American cat should take the life of a fellow-being!

In all seriousness, I hope everyone celebrates the holiday this weekend in a festive, but prudent manner. After all, you don't want to risk being featured in my 2015 Independence Day post, do you?

Newspaper Clipping(s) of the Day, Bonus Edition

Illustrated Police News, May 29, 1897

Over at Twitter and Facebook earlier this afternoon, I found myself--God knows why--posting a series of stories about bicyclists getting the worst of encounters with various members of the animal kingdom.

Because yes, I'm just that anxious to avoid doing anything remotely productive with my life.

Anyway, I thought that while I was at it, I may as well post them here.  Why should my blog readers--all four of you--get off any easier than my FB friends or Twitter followers?

The normal weekly newspaper clippings--this round featuring a host of Fourth of July cautionary tales--will be posted tomorrow as usual.

Joseph Cosey, Confounding Copycat

[Note:  I originally published this post over at The World of Edgar Allan Poe in 2010. I have a soft spot for old Joe, and he seemed to fit this blog nicely, so I’m repeating it here. Hope you don’t mind reruns.]

The period of the 1920s-1950s was a Golden Age for Edgar Allan Poe-related "discoveries." During these years, many previously unknown letters and documents of the legendary poet surfaced for the first time. Unfortunately, a great deal of credit for these additions to Poe lore can be given to an astoundingly imaginative, talented, and energetic forger named Martin Coneely.

Coneely, who was born in 1887, is best known by his favorite alias of "Joseph Cosey." Little is known of his early life. He ran away from home at an early age, and henceforth led a solitary, nomadic life, supporting himself through a series of petty crimes. He apparently had no friends or family ties. Despite his shady and hardscrabble background, he was a highly intelligent man with an instinctive love for books and history--19th century Americana in particular. In other circumstances, he would have become a genuine scholar, but as it happened, his fate was instead not to merely study history, but to make it. Literally.

In the 1920s, he paid what proved to be a life-changing visit to the Manuscripts Division of the Library of Congress. His motives in requesting to see signatures and documents belonging to such greats as Jefferson and Washington were entirely innocent--he merely wished to gratify his passion for Americana. However, once he was able to actually see and touch these priceless relics of the past, he felt he could not let them all go. Settling his desire upon a pay warrant signed by Benjamin Franklin in 1786, he slipped the paper into his pocket, and, in those more trusting times, left the library unnoticed.

A year or so later, he was living in a tenement in New York City, drunk, alone, and flat broke. Desperate for money, he steeled himself to sell his one prized possession--his stolen Franklin document. Upon taking it to a book dealer, however, he was stunned and indignant when the man scornfully rejected it as a forgery. In his disgust, Cosey resolved to teach this impertinent fool a lesson. He, himself, would create a real forgery and sell it to him! He haunted the local public libraries, studying facsimiles of the handwriting of historical figures. He found that Abraham Lincoln's signature came easiest to him, and after some months of practice, whipped out a handsome "Yrs. Truly, A. Lincoln" on a scrap of paper. The same dealer who dismissed his authentic Franklin bought the bogus Cosey for ten dollars.

It was an epiphany. Cosey, after a lifetime of aimless and unproductive wanderings, felt he had finally found his mission in life. He threw all his previously dissipated energies into his new calling, and he exceeded beyond all expectations. He became to manuscript forging what Tiffany's is to diamonds. G. William Bergquest, an expert on literary hoaxes, called him "the greatest forger of his kind in this century." The renowned book and autograph dealer Charles Hamilton went even further, describing Cosey as "the most skilled and versatile forger of all time." During his long and prolific career, he forged many items of Americana, particularly ones imitating the handwriting of Lincoln and George Washington.

Alas for Poe scholarship, Cosey also had a personal devotion to the author of "The Raven," which he expressed in his own singular manner. He also, for whatever reason, had a predilection for Poe's literary contemporary Nathaniel Parker Willis. He is known to have created more than one letter from Poe to Willis, and enjoyed adding forged notations by Willis to his "Poe manuscripts." Physically, they were impeccable pieces of work, but Cosey occasionally made several factual errors in the text. The errors were relatively minor--I've seen far worse in many Poe biographies--but they were enough to discredit the documents. Otherwise, the letters may well have been permanently accepted as genuine. In fact, Hamilton stated that all of the extant Poe/Willis correspondence has to at least be suspected as being Cosey's handiwork. (All this makes me very curious about a manuscript copy of Poe's poem "For Annie" which sold at auction not long ago for a cool $830,000, even though very limited information was given about the document's provenance. Among the distinguishing features of this artifact were notations added by none other than N.P. Willis.)

Cosey was considerably more ambitious than the typical forger. Not content merely with reproducing signatures or brief snippets of already-published texts, he did serious preliminary research on his subjects, enabling him to convincingly channel the literary style of Poe and his other favorite targets, churning out with unnerving speed and agility interesting letters, artifacts such as account books and legal papers, and long samples of documents (including manuscripts of "The Poetic Principle," "The Raven," and "The Fall of the House of Usher.") His instinctive skill for replicating handwritings was coupled with the savvy to use genuinely antiquated paper and writing implements, including a distinctive brown ink specific to the 18th and early 19th centuries. He even became adept at forging letters of verification to accompany his creations. All this combined to make him a formidable menace to the world of manuscript collecting.

Cosey was also clever enough to take advantage of an odd quirk in the penal codes of New York (and a number of other states.) According to the law, merely forging any "archaeological object" was not in itself illegal. The crime occurred only when the owner of the "object" deliberately presented it for sale it as a genuine artifact. Cosey would merely diffidently present his documents to dealers or private collectors as objects of unknown value that he had "inherited," or "been given," or simply "found," and left it up to the prospective buyer to decide whether it was of any worth. Ironically, his seeming casualness about the documents served to enhance their plausibility. And if the forgery was detected, all he had to do was innocently state that he had never claimed the manuscripts were anything other than old pieces of paper.

Another thing that made Cosey notable was that, like many other great figures of his unusual profession, he saw himself as no mere criminal, but as an artist, a craftsman. He took great pride in his output, which he invested with a care that arose not merely from a desire to avoid exposure, but from a love of the work itself. He was, in the words of one of his parole officers, "a likable, ingratiating fraud." To paraphrase one of his favorite subjects, for him forgery was not a purpose, but a passion.

What is more, he convinced himself that he was actually doing a public service. After all, relatively few of even the most ardent Poe devotees have the money or opportunity to possess a letter or other document in his writing. Thanks to Joseph Cosey, many more of them would get that chance! He once told a story about going to a bookstore with a "Poe letter" he had created. "The owner was out," he said, "but his secretary told me she was a student of Poe and would be thrilled to see something in his handwriting. I finally sold it to her for three dollars, but only because I was broke. Well my conscience bothered me about it for weeks, and the first time I had three dollars I went back to the shop to tell her it was a counterfeit, and buy it back from her. But when I heard her talk about how much pleasure that letter had given her, I didn't have the heart to disillusion her. So I walked out and let her keep it and believe in it."

I'd like to know where that letter is now. And how often it has been quoted as source material in Poe biographies.

For all his natural gift for chicanery, Cosey did sometimes turn out product sufficiently flawed to be exposed by the experts. He often ignored the fact that a person's handwriting inevitably changes with age. A Cosey "Benjamin Franklin," for example, would have the same signature in old age that he had in his prime. He would occasionally cut corners by chemically treating modern paper to give it the appearance of age. Such mistakes led to his arrest in 1937, after he sold an "Abraham Lincoln" letter. It was dated "December 2, 1846." but, with uncharacteristic sloppiness Cosey wrote it on paper bearing a discernible 1860 watermark. (By this time, Cosey was not only an alcoholic, but a heroin addict, which undoubtedly affected his talents.) His victim was content to chalk it up to the hazards of the business, but after he heard Cosey was attempting to sell a similar letter to another dealer, the police were summoned. The detectives who brought him in for questioning immediately saw from the marks on his arms that he was a drug user, and evidently promised him a much-needed "fix" if he confessed. He did, and was convicted of petty larceny. He was paroled after less than a year, and he inevitably immediately went back to his life's work. He is believed to have kept up his cheerfully felonious ways right until his death, which is generally thought to have taken place around 1950, when he simply dropped out of sight. Some sources, however, believe he was still producing "artifacts" for some years afterwards. His end, appropriately enough for a Poe impersonator, is a mystery.

Thankfully, many documents have been exposed as his handiwork. (A fine example can be seen here.)  Such is his reputation, that many of them have fetched high prices at auction as "Genuine Cosey Forgeries." A side industry even emerged of--seriously--forged "Cosey forgeries." The New York Public Library did him the dubious, if unmistakable, honor of setting up a permanent collection of his "Greatest Hits." (One of the founding items in this file was an assortment of notes Poe supposedly wrote in relation to the printing of "Tamerlane.") However, it is acknowledged that there are many, many more "Coseys" in circulation that have gone undetected. Early on in this blog, I posted a quote from Charles Hamilton (who made a particular study of Cosey's career.) "Long ago," he wrote, "I concluded that there must be far more forgeries of Poe by Cosey than there are original Poe letters."

Considering how many leading items of Poeana--items which largely have a sketchy or nonexistent history--first appeared during Cosey's prolific heyday, Hamilton's words should be memorized by any student of Poe's life. And it must be remembered that Joseph Cosey was hardly the first Poe forger, nor the last. Caveat emptor. And then some.

Weekend Link Dump

It's our first Link Dump of the summer!

And the cats can't wait to get to the seaside.

Behold our latest crop of links:

What the hell happened to this Persian army in 524 B.C.?  Now we know!

What the hell happened to the Pope's Stone?  Well, we sort of know...maybe.

What the hell was this Barbary ape doing in Iron Age Ireland?

What the hell is in this Romanian wall painting?

Watch out for those crinolines!

Watch out for those rock-dwelling elves!

Watch out for the lightning bolts!

Plymouth is really humming!

The night sky as you've never seen it before.

Pirates:  Underrated scientists?

A curious mystery involving an alleged shipwreck and a Welsh bone-setter.

An 1809 breakfast, brought to you from the same people who gave the world Necropants.

You know, considering what the average specimen of humanity is like, I've often thought a lot of people were better off not "finding themselves."

We need a Fortean Perry Mason to solve The Case of the Combustible Countess.

Cheltenham makes hay while the sun shines.

Forging Galileo.

A premature burial that acted as a matchmaker.

It's kinda sad when you become President of the United States (not to mention Chief Justice of the Supreme Court) and what you're mainly remembered for is your bathtubs.

Exploring the weird, wonderful world of archaeoacoustics.

The 19th century, in living color.

Ann Debar, one of the great Victorian charlatans.

An ancient Welsh kingdom reemerges from the sea.

Miles Pierce, a leading candidate for the world's worst selfie.

The "Syrian Pompeii."

A fond look back at the Fejee Mermaid, once the pride of New York.

John Murray Spear and his mechanical Messiah.

Madame Bob:  Lion tamer, race car driver, arranger of elopements.  I would have loved to have seen her business card.

Edward Warren: the first American to successfully take a balloon trip.

We're all Sherlock Holmes now:  how armchair detectives are using the internet to solve cold cases.

I'll say this for the Regency era:  when they wanted to shock their guests, they didn't mess around.

Midsummer Eve and the Black Death.

Pirate Cats and Polio.

A shotgun wedding with a twist, 1906.

It's a dog's life.  Luckily for us humans.

The Ratcliffe Highway Murders:  over 200 years later, still one of England's most notorious crimes.

A duel to the death.  By starvation.

Fanny Murray, 18th century Queen of the Courtesans.

Grace O'Malley, 16th century Irish pirate queen.

Forbes Winslow, offbeat alienist.

Our image of the week:

Believed to be the Earliest Photograph Taken of New York City - Broadway, May 1850 | #NYhistory #photography pic.twitter.com/yA8J8nuOoj
— NewYorkologist.org (@NewYorkologist) December 19, 2013

And, finally, a favorite tune of mine from the Scottish Fiddle Orchestra, "The Old Man of Hoy." Just because.



See you all on Monday, when I will be reviving the tale of my favorite forger.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

via British Newspaper Archive

Here is a mystery from 1921 centering around poltergeist activity in a London home. As you will see, it had a more tragic ending than most such tales. From the "Aberdeen Journal," February 18:

The mystery of the bewitched house at Ferrestone Road, Horrsey, is to be investigated immediately by the Society for Psychical Research. A prominent member of the society has placed himself in communication with the distracted household, and his services have been gratefully accepted.

The theory that the whole trouble is due to the powers of Gordon Parker, the twelve-year-old nephew of Mr. Frost, the householder, received a rude shock yesterday. There was fresh trouble early in the day, when the boy Gordon was not in the house. According to Mr. Frost, the disturbance was renewed at 7 a.m. A pin cushion and other articles were flung from the chest of drawers to the floor. An orange lifted itself off a chair and dropped on the children's bed. A gown was overturned on a chair. The children, Frost insists, could not have touched any of these things. Members of Mr. Frost's household have been cross-examined and re-examined during the last few days by numberless inquirers. They quite admit that their story seems fantastic beyond belief; but they ask the sceptics what motive they could have for concocting such a tale and for breaking up their own home.

As anyone who visits the house can see, the manifestations, whether spiritualistic or not, have done material damage. Windows and pictures and crockery are broken, and the walls are scarred where pieces of coal have struck the wall paper. A woman neighbour who called to express sympathy states that a piece of coal, thrown from apparently nowhere, struck her on the leg. Mr. Frost has suffered in health so much that his employer went home with him yesterday to make inquiries himself. "We sent the boy out of the room while we talked, and hardly had he turned the handle then there was a crash in the kitchen at the back. I ran out," said Mr. Millard to a press representative, and saw that some trays had fallen down and the boy was crouching frightened in a corner of the kitchen."

More details from the "Western Gazette," February 25:

What is the secret of the strange things that are said to happen almost daily in an eight-roomed villa in a quiet road in North London?

The occupants say weird occurrences are taking place. Loud explosions have been heard, lumps of coal fly in all directions, plates rattle, and tables and chairs go jazzing about the room.

This has been the state of affairs for the past three weeks, and a curious feature of the trouble is that nothing unusual takes place while a twelve-year-old schoolboy, the grandson of Mr. J. S. Frost, is away from the house. [Note: This contradicts what was said in the previous article.]

The Rev. A. L. Gardiner, of St. Gabriel's, Bounds Green, Hornsey, and the Rev. A. Chandler, vicar of St. John's, Wood Green, have interested themselves in the matter, and Mr. Chandler took the boy on Tuesday to sleep at his residence. Arrangements are being made by the clergymen and some friends to send the boy away to the seaside.

The Rev. A. L. Gardiner, interviewed on Wednesday, said:--

"I know nothing whatever of spiritualism, but my idea is that the boy is a 'medium.' His mother died in the house about a year ago and must, I imagine, be trying to communicate something to the family.

"On Monday the boy, with one of his brothers, was put to bed. I was in the house at the time, and a few minutes later we heard screams in the bedroom. We rushed up, and both the boys declared they had seen their mother, 'dressed in red,' at the foot of the bed.

"They also said that the bed had been lifted off the floor, and while I was the room several articles were dropped or thrown about from no-one knew where."

The boy was examined Wednesday afternoon by the family's medical adviser, who declared that he was in perfect health.

"I believe it is the spirit of my sister," said Mr. Frost, the tenant of the 'haunted' house at Hornsey, when discussing the strange events at his home with a Press representative on Friday.

"She is trying, I think, to get into communication with us," he added. "She tried to tell us something before she died, but passed away before she could make us understand."

Mr. Frost said the disturbances had continued all night at intervals. "Manifestations" similar to those previously reported took place, and articles fell about and were smashed. Gordon, the little boy who was thought to be responsible, is still away from the place under clerical care.

Occultists, church officials, and many other people have visited the house, and on Friday night Professor M. Gunnell, of the Psychical Society, began an investigation on condition that complete privacy was maintained.

Professor Gunnell's "investigation" apparently accomplished little. After this, the story died out in the papers, until this sequel was reported in the "Sunday Mail" on April 3, adding a tragic coda to the puzzle.

The "ghosts" in Hornsey's haunted house have, it is declared, brought about the death of Muriel Parker, the five-year-old niece of Mr. Frost.

"There is not the slightest doubt that Muriel's death was caused by the strange happenings in the house," said Mr. Frost in an interview. "When my two boys, Gordon and Bertie, returned to the house about a fortnight ago, the manifestations started again. Chairs were thrown about, and pieces of coal hurled against the walls. These occurrences were too much for Muriel's nerves, and she broke down. She was ill for nine days, and died yesterday. The doctor reported meningitis as the cause, but said that nerve strain had accelerated death.

"Sceptical people have laughed at the 'ghost stories,' and have said that we have caused all the happenings ourselves. Perhaps the death of my little niece will convince them that we are not responsible. As a matter of fact, we are having a terrible time. We are forced to keep the two boys out of the house as much as possible; our home is being ruined, and we are all becoming physical wrecks.

"There is only one course open to us now—to more into a new house.

"We do not want any sympathy. It is too late now. All we hope is that people will think a little in the future before they poke fun at things which are beyond their understanding."

Muriel, it stated, took no notice of the happenings for some time, but one day a chair fell over near her, and she bit her tongue. She afterwards showed signs of extreme nervousness.

Presumably the Frost family did indeed move away after this. In any case, their peculiar ordeal fades into history at this point, so we have no idea when--or if--their troubles were satisfactorily explained.