Newspaper Clipping(s) of the Day, Valentine's Edition

via Newspapers.com

It's nearly Valentine's Day, that precious holiday devoted to sentimental thoughts of fights, family feuds, libel suits, and sudden death.

In the good old days when romance was still king, sending "comic" or "vinegar" Valentines was quite common.

Fierce retaliation by the recipients was even more popular.

From the "Eaton Democrat," May 17, 1855:

A few days ago, a young lady of Cincinnati who had received an offensive valentine, suspecting a neighboring bachelor of having a hand in the matter, took a convenient opportunity, in the afternoon, while he was passing an alley entrance overlooked by the window, of emptying the contents of an earthen vessel over his devoted head.

The story of a Valentine that destroyed a whole family comes from the "Logansport Times," April 19, 1889:

Fifty years ago James Martin, well-to-do farmer living near Ballietville, refused to purchase his fifteen-year-old daughter a dress that she very much coveted on the plea that he could not afford it. It was a few days before St. Valentine's Day. The daughter was a quick tempered girl and took her father's refusal to purchase her the dress much to heart.

On St. Valentine's Day Farmer Martin took from the village post-office a valentine addressed to him in his daughter's handwriting. It was a rough caricature, representing a miser counting and gloating over his money. There lived in the neighborhood a man of that kind. He had a niece whom he treated brutally. When Farmer Martin looked at his valentine he showed it to his wife, simply remarking that be had not expected such a bitter and uncalled-for insult from their child. Mr. Martin took the girl to task about it. The daughter at once declared that she had not sent the valentine to her father, but on the contrary, had mailed him a very complimentary one, entitled "The Honest Farmer," it having been her custom since she was a little child to send him a valentine every year. The old miser's niece had obtained the valentine Farmer Martin received to send to her uncle. Farmer Martin's daughter was with her when she bought it. The two girls had sealed their valentines at the same time, and the Martin girl took them both and addressed them. In doing so she got them mixed, and sent the miser's valentine to her father.

In spite of all explanation, Farmer Martin could not be brought to believe daughter's story. From that day he never spoke to her. She married and lived on a farm adjoining her father's. With her husband and her children Farmer Martin was on the fondest and most familiar terms, but he never noticed his daughter. Recently he died. He left an estate valued at $45,000, To his aged widow he left $30,000. To his son-in-law he bequeathed the remainder of the estate, provided he survived his wife, the farmer's daughter. If the husband died first then the $15,000 was to be divided among his three children. To his daughter Farmer Martin bequeathed "a package to be found in his trunk, tied with a green ribbon and sealed with green wax." When this was opened it was found to be the unfortunate valentine that had caused the extraordinary estrangement of the farmer from his daughter fifty years ago.

Sending a poison-pen Valentine is one thing. Sending the real thing quite another. From the "Iowa County Advertiser," February 27, 1903:

Miss Lulu Cole of York, Pa., received on Valentine's day a phial of poison by mail, and since has had eight letters threatening her life. The valentine and letters have been turned over to the postal authorities, who are making an investigation. Miss Cole thinks the letters were sent by a young woman out of jealousy.

Vinegar Valentines were a lawyer's best friend. Here are a few cases where love--or something--led not to the altar, but to the courtroom. First up comes a story from the "Butte Inter Mountain," April 30, 1902:

Steve Hughes, a young man living in the eastern part of the city, was arrested by Deputy United States Marshal Meiklejohn yesterday on a charge of sending through the mail a valentine on which there was some obscene writing. The warrant for the arrest was sworn out by M.J. Donahue, miner at the Pennsylvania mine, to whose young daughter the valentine was sent.

The offense was committed about the middle of February. Since then the matter has been in the hands of an attorney to whom Mr. Donahue referred it.

Hughes is not in custody; he was released on his own recognizance on assurance from his parents that he would appear before United States Commissioner Naughton tomorrow.

So, a tripe-dresser and a cheesemonger walk into a courthouse...("Exeter Gazette," March 13, 1885.)

At Fulham, George Crate and William Ward, neighbours, each summoned the other for an assault. Crate is a tripe-dresser; Ward a cheesemonger. During the progress of the case a settlement was suggested, upon which Crate presented the Magistrate with a valentine which had come to him by post, and which was the chief cause of offense. This, however, was met by the cheesemonger producing another valentine, which had come to him through the post, and with which he was greatly annoyed, especially as there was a libel written on it. The tripe-dresser then averred that he had also been libelled. The Magistrate suggested that the parties should exchange the loving epistles, but, having looked at them, he directed the usher to take the tongs and put them in the fire; the papers were too dirty for anyone's hands. The cheesemonger, however, was reluctant to part with his property--he wished to frame the valentine. [Ed. note: ???] The order of the law, however, took its course, and amid much amusement the valentines were placed in the fire, and the summonses issued by both parties were dismissed.

This must have been quite some school. The "New York World," July 27, 1895:

Hempstead, L.I., July 27.--Squire James Seaman's court-room was crowded this morning at the hearing in the charge of libel made against Trustee George N. Paff, of the Uniondale School District, by Principal Caleb Simons. The latter alleged that Trustee Paff had sent him a written valentine of an offensive character, and also circulated a report that he had taught his girl pupils high kicking in the school room. [Ed. note: ??????]

Miss Emily Ashdown, one of the pupils at the Uniondale school, blushed when she was called to the witness stand. She testified that Lottie Paff, a daughter of Trustee Paff, had told her that her father had sent funny valentines to Principal Simons.

Miss Ashdown said that she had never seen any high kicking in the school-room by the principal or the girl pupils. Florence Vandewater, another pupil, gave testimony of a similar character.

Lottie Paff was then called to the stand. The objectionable written valentines which Principal Simons had received were then showed to the witness. Lottie seemed much confused. At first she said the writing was like her father's handwriting, but she finally stammered out that she was positive that the signature was not her father's.

The hearing was not concluded.

The "Penny Newsman," March 25, 1860:

This was a claim by the plaintiff, a young man, to recover a sum of £4 1s. 4d. of defendant, landlord of the Dover Castle tavern, Deptford, being the amount of a month's wages as barman. The defendant paid £3 11s. 4d. into Court, and disputed the remainder. The plaintiff stated that he was engaged by the defendant as barman at a salary of £25 per annum, but had received a month's notice to leave. This notice would have expired on the 20th February, but on the 11th of February defendant suddenly ordered him to leave the house, refusing to let him remain any longer. The defendant observed that on the day in question, while standing in his bar, the plaintiff came inside, and, without making any remark, struck a lad who was standing there a most violent blow in the face, splitting the lad's nose, and causing him to have two black eyes. He thought the attack so cowardly that he certainly did order plaintiff to leave, and tendered him the amount due to him up to that time.--His Honor--: What have you to say to this?--The Plaintiff: The fact is, your Honor, I have some young lady friends in the country, and received a letter from them, enclosing a valentine which had been sent them, and accusing me, as the only person they knew in London, of having sent it them. (Laughter)--His Honor: Have you the valentine with you?--The Plaintiff: No, your Honor, but it was a most offensive one, indeed.--(Renewed laughter.)--His Honor: The valentine, I suppose, had a picture and a copy of verses?--The Plaintiff: Yes, your Honor, and the verses, I can assure you, were most indelicate.--(Loud laughter.)--His Honor: But how do you know the lad sent it to the young ladies?--The Plaintiff: Oh! your Honor, I know he did. I could tell his handwriting, and he often said he would write to my sweetheart, and admitted doing so.--(Loud laughter.)--His Honor: Then what you object to is the sending of verses anything but of an Orpheus character to your lady love!--(Roars of laughter.)--The Plaintiff: Yes, your Honor, I do, besides I do not think I ought to have been turned away, because I received quite as violent a blow in the face as I gave the lad--(Laughter.)--His Honor: Well, I think the defendant was quite justified in summarily dismissing you after your pugilistic conduct in the bar. It was, no doubt, annoying for you to find your sweetheart annoyed by an insulting valentine being sent her, but you should have restrained your violence in your master's house.--Judgment was then given for defendant, and the plaintiff left the court.

That barman and the impolite young man with the broken nose and black eyes got off easy. From the "Semi-Weekly Interior Journal," February 25, 1898:

In Falls county, Texas, Jesse Kelley shot and killed two Dewalt brothers, who had threatened his life on a false accusation of sending an offensive valentine to their sister.

This headline from the "Wheeling Intelligencer," February 15, 1900, says it all:

Yet another Fatal Valentine was reported in the "Indiana State Sentinel," March 18, 1847:

The Coroner was called to hold an inquest at the house of J. Cheserman, 710, Broadway, New York, on the body of a young girl, named Margaret Cray, a servant in his family, who came to her death by taking laudanum. A companion, with whom she slept, testified that when she went to bed, she left Margaret standing before the looking glass, decking her hair as if for a party, having previously performed her ablutions, and arrayed herself in her best gown. She also testified that the deceased spoke to her about taking some medicine, and playfully asked her if she would not like a little. When she fell asleep, the deceased was upon her knees at prayer. Perfect silence then rested upon the household, and in the morning Margaret Cray was dead, and an empty vial was on a stand beside her bed.

She was a beautiful girl, but on the day before her death, she had received a cruel Valentine, from one whom she had looked upon as a lover; which circumstance was probably the cause of her death.

The lesson is clear: Valentine's Day is the most frightening day of the year. I strongly advise you, dear readers, to avoid sending any cards this year, and whatever you do, refuse to accept any.  And no high kicking in the school-room!

However, if you insist on celebrating the holiday, do so wisely. If anyone wishes to exercise their sentimental leanings by getting my house a new roof and plumbing, cleaning the cat boxes, presenting me with ten million dollars in cash, and writing my blog posts for the next few years, I can guarantee the gestures would be graciously accepted.

Leave it to Krampus to capture the true spirit of the day.

The Resurrection of Louis de la Pivardière

History is often made by the unlikeliest people. For instance, no one could have guessed that an obscure, impecunious, seemingly thoroughly uninteresting minor nobleman named Louis de La Pivardière would eventually instigate one of seventeenth-century France’s most explosive causes célèbres?

De la Pivardière was the youngest son of a family that was, like so many in France, long on illustrious lineage but short on cash. When his father died, Louis was left with literally no assets but his aristocratic heritage. In 1687 he utilized the power of that heritage to marry a plebian, but fairly well-to-do widow named Marguerite de Chauvelin. It seems to have been a typical marriage of convenience, where the two parties were able to just about tolerate each other, but nothing more. When, after two years of wedlock, Louis was called away to military service, it was a welcome development to them both. During his long absences, his wife saw much of the head of the local priory of Miseray, Sylvain-Francois Charost, and a warm friendship—at the very least—developed between them.

When word of this relationship reached the ears of De la Pivardière, he chose to put the worst possible construction on the news, and apparently decided to look upon his marriage as essentially over.

What brings his story into the realm of The Weird is that he decided his whole life—his whole identity—as over as well. Pre-revolutionary France was ludicrously obsessed with genealogy. If even the most poverty-stricken losers had the right ancient pedigree, they were a prized Somebody, entitled to look down their regal noses at the bourgeois, no matter how wealthy their “inferiors” may have been. It was a society nearly as inflexible and unforgiving as the old caste system of India. And yet De la Pivardière, for reasons never understood from that time to this, voluntarily threw it all away. He chose to go, you might say, from Brahmin to Untouchable.

In the town of Auxerre, he met an innkeeper’s daughter, Marie-Elisabeth Pillard. Her beauty and gentle sweetness appealed to him—perhaps he even fell in love. He wooed the girl under his family name of Dubochet, and presented himself as a simple ex-soldier, giving her no hint of his true identity. They married, and Louis took on his recently-deceased father-in-law’s job as huissier (essentially usher to the local assembly.) The couple was very happy together, and for four years all went well.

Then, in 1697, the rightful Madame de la Pivardière finally got wind of what her wandering lord had been up to. Soon after she heard the news, Louis himself turned up at the family home in Narbonne asking for money, and the fat was well and truly in the fire. That evening, the pair had a flaming row, which ended when Madame was overheard to say the ominous words: “You shall learn what it is to offer such an insult to a woman like me!”

The two parties flounced off to their respective bedchambers. And De la Pivardière vanished. His belongings were still in his rooms and his horse remained in the stables, but no one in the chateau or the neighboring area saw any sign of him again.

Considering the circumstances of when he was last seen, it is no surprise that the most sinister rumors began to spread. Two of Madame de la Pivardière’s female attendants, Catherine Lemoine and Marguerite Mercier, whispered dark hints about their mistress’ role in Louis’ disappearance. Four other servants swore they had heard a musket shot the night he was last seen. In short, there was a growing certainty that de la Pivardière had been murdered by his wife. Finally, the local authorities were persuaded to formally look into the matter. They questioned a number of witnesses, in particular Lemoine and Mercier, and what they heard caused them to issue an arrest warrant for Madame de la Pivardière.

Madame went into hiding, and her nine-year-old daughter Marie was sent to a family friend. While there, the little girl told a story that seemed to be conclusive proof that her mother murdered her father. She claimed that on the night Louis disappeared from the family chateau, she had been put to bed, not in her usual bedroom, but in a garret at the top of the house. During the night, she was awakened by a loud noise and her father’s voice crying “Oh my God, have mercy upon me!” When she tried to go investigate the commotion, she found her door had been locked. The next day, she saw bloodstains in her father’s room, and a few days later caught her mother washing bloodstained linen. Marguerite Mercier corroborated the girl’s story, and declared that she had seen the Prior of Miseray and two of his servants murder de la Pivardière in his bed. Lemoine claimed to have been out of the chateau at the time of the actual killing, but described seeing Louis’ dead body before the servants took it away for a secret burial. Over thirty other people—some of whom were friends of Marguerite de la Pivardière—confirmed that she had had her troublesome husband put to death.

In short, it was looking like Madame and her Prior were the two most obvious assassins on record.

Then, something utterly unexpected happened. It began to be reported that Louis de la Pivardière had been seen alive and well in a neighboring town days after his “murder.” When inquiries were made at Auxerre, the whole story of his bigamous marriage was revealed, as well as the fact that he had been there very recently, but had suddenly fled for parts unknown. Agents acting for his wife were able to track him down.

When he was discovered, de la Pivardière claimed that on his last night in his family chateau, Catherine Lemoine warned him that he was in danger of being arrested for bigamy, (a capital offense,) inspiring him to make as hasty a retreat as possible. He left his horse behind because it was lame, and did not want to be burdened by carrying along his luggage. When told that his wife was about to be convicted of his murder, Marie-Elisabeth Pillard—who only now learned of her husband’s true identity—urged him to prevent this miscarriage of justice.

When de la Pivardière returned to Narbonne, he was immediately recognized—although many at first assumed they were seeing his ghost. However, when he presented himself before Lemoine and Mercier, they both declared he was an impostor.

In exasperation, the Procurer-General of Chatillon, who had been leading the “murder” inquiry, ordered that de la Pivardière be put under arrest until it could be determined just who he was. This news caused Louis, ever fearful of the inevitable bigamy trial, to flee back to Auxerre.

What followed was a highly curious legal standoff. De la Pivardière’s entire family insisted he had not been murdered. The alleged victim himself insisted he had not been murdered. The Procurer-General, on the other hand, continued to stubbornly insist that he had. De la Pivardière, for his part, refused to return until he was granted a safe-conduct that would protect him against being charged with bigamy. After a great deal of legal wrangling, the Chauvelin family was able to persuade Louis XIV himself to issue the document.

Safe-conduct in hand, the fugitive returned to prove that A: He was Louis de la Pivardière, and B: He was not dead. The court hearing on the matter lasted, rather amazingly, for many days. In the end, the judges were still divided in their opinion, but in the summer of 1699, finally decided that, yes, this man was who he said he was.

If you think that was the end of the matter, however, forget it. It was ruled that a separate trial was necessary to prove that the testimony of Lemoine and Mercier was false. Lemoine had, arguably fortunately for her, died before she could be charged, but Mercier was found guilty and given a dire punishment: She was whipped, branded on her shoulder, all her worldly goods were confiscated, and she was banished for life. Madame de la Pivardière and the Prior were publicly exonerated and set free.

After all was over, de la Pivardière went from having a surplus of wives to no wife at all. He and Marie-Elisabeth Pillard parted ways (whether it was from his desire or hers is not clear.)  De la Pivardière obtained a position in the army, and thereafter disappeared from history.  According to one chronicler, de la Pivardière was soon killed in an encounter with smugglers, but this is unverified. It seems only appropriate that his death should be as enigmatic as his life. Marguerite de la Pivardière died suddenly in her bed not long after she was freed. As for Marie-Elisabeth Pillard, she survived three more husbands during her long life and, we are told, “lived and died much respected.”

Although the de la Pivardière case was settled, it was by no means completely solved. It has remained a mystery why Lemoine and Mercier—who had always been treated with great kindness by their mistress and who would be putting themselves at great risk by committing perjury—would invent such a grave allegation. And what of young Marie’s story about terrible cries during the night and blood in her father’s bedroom?

Do we really know the whole truth about Louis de la Pivardière?

Weekend Link Dump

It's Friday!

Long live the Cat Queen!

Little-known fact: Every full moon, Queen Victoria turned into a cat. pic.twitter.com/4tPgrqh6iQ
— Undine (@HorribleSanity) January 25, 2015

On to the Link Aristocracy:

Where the hell is Miguel de Cervantes buried?  Now we know?

Who the hell was Shakespeare's "Mr. WH?" Now we know?

Why the hell are barns painted red?  Now we know!

Who the hell beheaded D.W. Stoddard?

What the hell are these Colorado ice patterns?

Watch out for the Blue Hole of New Jersey!

Watch out for those sneezing corpses!

Watch out for those deadly mourning clothes!

Watch out for those Death Pantries!

Watch out for the Devil's Backbone!

Watch out for the orange snow!

Watch out for those 18th century dentists!

The death of a globalized Englishman, 1623.

And here is an early 19th century globalized English businesswoman.

Hey, monsters can be saints, too.

An Indian performance troupe falls on hard times in Victorian London.

A classic anecdote from the time of Louis XIV:  The case of the Chocolate Baby.

Sex in the (medieval) city.

Winchester Cathedral opens up.

If you're still harboring doubts that the world is a very weird place, contemplate the fact that the Vatican has a storehouse of fake mummies.

The secret language of beauty spots.

The strange case of the Alabama swamp dolls.

Meet the woman who can't stop dying.

The story of the Great Nome Serum Race.

I need this house.

An attempted murderer didn't care too much for Broadmoor.

Napoleon and the Prince Regent.

A great quote from Alexander Pope.

Not for the squeamish:  The horrifying fate of a Regency elephant.

The mysterious case of the medium and the doctor.

When teleportation just becomes a big nuisance.

How to be a proper Edwardian lover.

18th century doctors behaving badly.

How a hat led to the last hanging at Tyburn.

A curatorial crisis at the Smithsonian?

Hans Holbein, the painter who popularized the Tudors.

How not to strangle a baliff.

A look at the first anti-vaccination movement.

An early New York retirement farm for horses.

The mystery of Ireland's "Vanishing Triangle."

Shorter version:  Medieval scribes were nuts.

Family silver and a scandalous elopement.

"Little people" in 1880s New York.

Why it's rarely a good idea to rent a cottage that has a bunch of old bones in the walls.

Robert E. Lee's descendants are still keeping him hidden.

King Charles I not resting in peace, 1813.

The puzzling tomb of...Akhenaten?

And we're done! See you on Monday, with the tale of a rather unusual return from the dead. For now, here's to getting some of that do-re-mi.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

This account of the "Lamberhurst ghost" appeared in the "Kent & Sussex Courier" for June 1, 1906. It is your standard poltergeist story, but with a few unusual trimmings.

We quote the following from Monday's "Daily Mail.":--

Strange, unaccountable things are befalling in the neighbourhood of Lamburhurst, Kent. The villagers, who in the midst of their laughter exhibit unmistakable symptoms of fear, are convinced that they are sheltering one of the moat enterprising, audacious, and mysterious working "ghosts" recorded in the annals of the unseen.

If "ghost" it be--and the word of the persons chiefly concerned can only be accepted on this point--the visitant has displayed the greatest discrimination in the choice of its field of operations. Lamberhurst is an old-time cluster of cottages, Elizabethan for the most part, lying midway between Horsmonden and Gondhurst. Two miles further on is the Furnace Mill, owned by Mr. J.C. Playfair, a well-to-do farmer and hopgrower. Here the "ghost" has established its headquarters.

Furnace Mill lies in a wooded hollow, a quarter of a mile from the main road. It is flanked by a darksome lake, in which the tall elms that fringe it cast shadowy reflections. The tricking of a cascade and the calls of birds are the only sounds that disturb the silence. No other dwelling is visible. Altogether an eminently-appropriate home for a "ghost."

Playfoot, a matter-of-fact, business like man, recounted with some reluctance his weird experiences to a "Daily Mail" representative; "for," he said, already the news has got abroad, and last Sunday hundreds of people from the towns and villages for miles around invaded my place to look for the 'ghost.' Whatever the thing may be," he went on, "that is playing the very mischief with my place, it operates only in the day time and under the very noses of myself and other members of the family who are looking out for it.

"It is important to know that I have not discharged anyone, that this place only be reached by a private road, that the approach of any stranger would be disputed by two watchdogs that would not stand on any ceremony, and that I carry in my own pockets the keys of the mill, stables, hayrooms and other buildings.

"Despite all these precautions, locked and bolted doors swing open, the horses are changed from stable to stable, are sometimes turned around in their stalls so that their backs are against the mangers, and are often seen to run shivering and startled from their stables into the road.

"Bales of hay are cut and scattered about the hayrooms, the contents of sacks in the drying-room are emptied and changed about, while in the tool house barrels of lime weighing hundredweights are flung down a flight of stairs, and many other strange things happen in rooms that are locked, barred and bolted, while people watch and listen outside, and the keys are in my pockets. Nobody and nothing is ever seen or heard."

Thea Playfoot detailed what was, perhaps, the strangest "manifestations" of all. "About noon a few days ago," he said, "in the presence of my son, I locked and bolted every building in the premises and went into the mill-house for dinner. Suddenly I heard a startled cry from the lad, and rushing into the yard saw the door of the drying-room, only about ten yards away, wide open. Within the room I heard the shouts of the lad, but before I could reach him the door silently closed. I seized the handle. The door was locked! My son was a prisoner inside. The key of the room was in my pocket. I unlocked the door and entered the room. Nobody was there except my son standing on the stairs frightened and pale."

Young Playfoot, a bright lad about fifteen years of age, corroborated this strange story. "As soon as I had entered the room," he added, "I saw the door closed in a mysterious way. The latch rattles and the lock creaks, but, although I stood only a foot or two away, neither the latch nor the lock made the least sound."

"I could not have believed if I had not been there," supplemented Mr Playfoot.

A strong-man feat performed by the "ghost" was the overturning of a large water butt—a veritable Sandow from spirit-land. One morning, according to Mr. Playfoot, as he was working near one the stables, the lock was screwed off. He substituted a bolt. Shortly afterwards he found that the bolt had been removed and the lock neatly restored to its place. "And yet I saw nothing," he said, as he wearily drew his hand across his brow.

Mr. Playfoot conducted the "Daily Mail" representative to one of the stables. The double doors were locked and bolted, and the entrance was spanned by a stout timber bar secured by a hidden fastening designed by the mill-owner in the hope circumventing the "ghost." In the stable was a grey mare.

"Now such strange things had happened to this horse," he said, "that one day I decided to watch the stable closely. I made everything secure and put the keys in my pocket. Presently I crossed over from where I was standing, and unlocking the stable door, looked in. The stable was empty. I found the horse in an adjoining hayroom, which was padlocked.

"How the horse got there—how it got through a communicating door scarcely wide enough to allow a man to pass—how it got up the steps—all these things are beyond me. If they had been done by human agency (and I hesitate to believe in ghosts) I must have seen or heard something, for I was only yards away. In ordinary circumstances the stamp of the horse's hoofs on the wooden floor of the hayroom would hare reached me. Besides, although the doors must have been unlocked and re-locked, I had all the keys in my pocket. It is impossible that there can be duplicates."

The police have attempted to investigate the circumstances, but without any result. They are as mystified as Mr. Playfoot. Meanwhile, something like alarm exists among the scattered inhabitants of Lamberhurst, Horsmonden and Gondhurst, and they hope that the "ghost," as they firmly believe to be, will confine its operations to Furnace Mill.

Unfortunately, I've been unable to find any follow-up stories to this riddle. I just hope the "ghost"--or whatever it was--decided to finally leave those poor horses alone.

One of Australia's Great Mysteries: The Deaths of Gilbert Bogle and Margaret Chandler

Gilbert Bogle

Investigating unnatural deaths always centers around three basic questions: “Why would someone kill this person?” “How did someone kill this person?” And, most importantly, “Who could have killed this person?” Investigators are usually able to come up with answers to at least one of these puzzles. However, there are a few rare instances where no one has been able to definitively answer any of them. And those are the truly eerie murder mysteries. Among the most notorious examples are the deaths of of Dr. Gilbert Stanley Bogle and the most recent of his many mistresses, Mrs. Margaret Chandler.

Margaret Chandler

On New Year’s Eve 1962, Bogle and Chandler slipped away from a holiday party to enjoy a little quality time together. Their destination was a lovers’ lane along the Lane Cove River in Sydney, Australia. Their bodies were discovered there the next morning. They were only partially dressed, but covered with their own clothing, as well as debris such as carpeting and old cardboard. They clearly died no natural death.

“Cause of death” is usually the easiest thing to determine about a murder. In the Bogle/Chandler case, however, it was and still is the biggest mystery of all. The autopsies found no sign of any violence or disease. From the fact that vomit and other bodily excretions were found near the bodies, it was presumed they had somehow been poisoned. But with what? No trace of any known poison was ever found in their systems. Same with alcohol, drugs, carbon monoxide, or animal/insect bites. As a sign of how desperate authorities became to find a cause of death, tests for radiation poisoning or radioactivity were made, and also came up empty. The coroner’s verdict of “acute circulatory failure”--in other words, they were dead because they had died--was little help.

The police were also stymied when it came to finding suspects and a motive. Bogle’s well-known womanizing was the most obvious reason some jealous man might have wanted him dead. Mrs. Chandler’s husband was initially a prime suspect, but it became clear that theirs was an open marriage: Geoffrey Chandler knew all about his wife’s affair, and was too engrossed in his own philandering to give two hoots what she did. He also had an alibi for the night of the deaths--he and his children were at his girlfriend's house, and there was a disinterested witness to back up his story.

What of Bogle's wife Vivienne, who, on the night of her husband's death, was spending a quiet New Year's Eve at home with their four children? She is a curiously inconspicuous figure in this mystery. Mrs. Bogle was either willfully ignorant or incredibly obtuse about her husband's flagrant and nearly non-stop infidelities. She insisted to authorities that their home life had been a happy one, and she may even, as far as it went, have been telling the truth. In any case, even if she had a motive, she appears to have been lacking either the means or the opportunity to kill her husband and his lover.

Students of the case have also looked long and hard at Margaret Fowler, a colleague and ex-lover of Bogle's. She was a somewhat hysterical, neurotic sort, who made no secret of the fact that she was still obsessed with Bogle. There were rumors that she had followed Bogle and Mrs. Chandler to their riverside rendezvous, only to find them unconscious or dead. It has been speculated that it was she who was responsible for arranging the bodies in the odd way in which they had been found, in a half-baked attempt to give the man she loved some measure of posthumous dignity. It could be said that she had the motive--and possibly the mental instability--to kill the couple, but no actual proof of her culpability was ever found. Also, any efforts to pin the deaths on her runs into the same problem one has in making a case against Mrs. Bogle or Mr. Chandler--if one of these people did kill the couple, how in the world did they do it?

Bogle, a research scientist for the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization, had been working on various controversial experiments, including ones that involved LSD and what was breathlessly described as a “death ray.” There were various conspiracy theories proposing that his death--murder?-- was somehow connected to his work, but again, there was no actual proof. Years later, it was even proposed that Bogle had been an espionage agent who was killed by the CIA and/or M15. (The odd fact that Bogle's FBI file is still classified gives a certain measure of credence to these exotic speculations.)

One slightly less exotic theory was proposed by Dr. Pang Teng Cheung, the Director of Forensic Medicine for the Hong Kong Police. He had uncovered two deaths that showed the same puzzling features as Bogle and Chandler. These people had died after taking an illegal Asian aphrodisiac called yohimbine. There were rumors that Dr. Bogle was suffering from sexual difficulties--a disastrous development for someone of his proclivities. Might he and his new lover have tried this exotic drug, with fatal results? Or could they have--either through accident or murder--died from an overdose of LSD, a drug which would at the time have been untraceable?

The case remained at a standstill until 2006, when a documentary about the case written by Peter Butt suggested what may be the most startling solution to the mystery: that Bogle and Chandler had not been murdered at all. According to this theory, the couple died of acute hydrogen sulphide poisoning emitted by fumes from the Lane Cove River. For many years, a local factory had been pumping the smelly, highly toxic hydrogen sulphide into the waterway, and the pollution had generated a great deal of complaint among local residents. Butt suggested that while Bogle and Chandler were making love near the river bank, they were left disoriented by the fumes. Unable to escape, they were accidentally gassed to death. (Significantly, the autopsies discovered a particular discoloration of their blood that is characteristic of hydrogen sulphide poisoning.)

However, if the river was that toxic, it is odd that Bogle and Chandler would be the only fatalities. (It would certainly make theirs one of history’s most unlucky trysts.) And if their deaths were completely accidental, it does not explain the strange way their semi-nude bodies were covered. While this scenario has the charm of simplicity, it still seems somewhat feeble.

It was Margaret Fowler who supplied the most intriguing comment on the mystery. Shortly before her death in 1977, she read "Without Hardware," a book written by Catherine Dalton, the widow of leading atomic scientist Clifford Dalton. Dr. Dalton--who had been a friend of Gilbert Bogle's--had died in mysterious circumstances in 1961, leading to persistent rumors that he had been killed by intelligence agents. Mrs. Dalton's book suggested that Bogle had learned of major security leaks at the Australian Atomic Energy Commission and some nefarious activities of American espionage agents. When Bogle threatened to reveal these details, he was killed by spraying him with nerve gas. Mrs. Chandler was simply a case of wrong place, wrong time.

Fowler talked about the book with a friend, commenting that "I've been puzzled [about Bogle's death] for years, but this book has finally supplied the answer."

Was this a vital clue? Or simply yet another red herring?

Weekend Link Dump

The weekend is almost here! Don't let yourself be boxed in.

Leave that to the cats.

Let's unpack this week's links:

What the hell happened at Montford Bridge in 1966?

What the hell are the Naga Fireballs?

What the hell is the Antikythera Mechanism?  (The latest in a continuing series...)

Where the hell is the Ark of the Covenant?  Do the Ethiopians know?

Where the hell is the White Pyramid of Xian?  Did it even ever exist?

Watch out for the puff guts!

Watch out for the Gympie-Gympie!

Watch out for Nessie!

Watch out for those Sumo-wrestling cats!

What the well-dressed Undead are wearing.

The ghost of Ann Frost grasses on her killer, 1820.

Georgiana, the colorful Duchess of Devonshire.

The fashionable French Revolution.

Genghis Khan proves that it's a small world, after all.

A grim tale from WWII France:  What to do with the 18-year-old?

It turns out that space aliens make lousy pancakes.

Some charming 18th century trade cards.

Franklin Stockton, ghostwriter in every sense of the word.

Some helpful tips on visiting 1830s France.  If someone insults you as you walk along the street, knock 'em down!

Zazel, female cannonball.

Why it was never a good idea to laugh at Henry VIII's poetry.  (As an aside, I think Dr. Beach is spot-on when he suggests that bruised pride led Henry to convince himself of Anne Boleyn's guilt.  This also probably explains the immediate failure of his marriage to Anne of Cleves.  Anne's first meeting with Henry was wholly unexpected on her part, and it's clear, in her surprise, she failed to hide that she was physically unimpressed with him.  As the old judicial serial killer's ego was as massive as it was fragile, he had to heal this blow to his self-esteem by convincing himself that he had an unconquerable physical aversion to her.  Henry VIII:  World's worst blind date.

The curious tale of Fulcanelli the alchemist.

The "ghost island" of Japan.

John Wilkes, the Truth and the Filth.

A children's book gives us an intimate look at the Early Modern world.

In search of Ivan the Terrible's library.

Discovering a long-forgotten natural disaster.

Viewing the work of the "divine" Bernini.

Christoph Haizmann, yet another example of why making contracts with the Devil is a damned tricky business.

Architecture for ghosts.

Dead Man Walking.

It's consoling to know that tapeworm pills appear to be an urban legend.

The man who was both a dwarf and a giant.

The often sad saga of Soviet space dogs.

And we're done!  See you on Monday, with the tale of two famously mysterious deaths. We'll meet again, some sunny day.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

In early January 1995, a number of newspapers across America described eerie dual tragedies that took place in a home located in an upper-class subdivision in Georgetown, Texas.

The first owners of the home were Cynthia and Cecil Wuthrich. They lived there without apparent incident from 1981 until October 1989, when Mrs. Wuthrich was found dead in an upstairs bedroom. She had been either strangled or smothered. Her husband was the only suspect in the case, (two months earlier, Cynthia had filed for divorce,) but police never had the chance to question him fully. He shot himself four days later. Her killing has remained officially unsolved.

Only six months after this murder-suicide, the house was sold to another couple, Laura and Cliff Brown. They knew all about the house's grim history, and professed themselves to be completely untroubled by it. In fact, they gloated over the fact that it had enabled them to buy the home at a bargain price.

The neighbors, who had been badly shaken by the shocking crime, welcomed having such a nice, normal couple and their two daughters move into the Wuthrich home. "They were good neighbors," said a woman who lived next door.

Sadly, very soon after moving into their new home, the once-happy Browns began having marital trouble. In August 1994, Laura Brown filed for divorce.

The divorce never had a chance to go through. On New Year's Eve 1994, Cliff Brown went mad. He chased his wife through several of the neighbor's yards before he managed to corner her long enough to shoot her three times through the head. He then turned the pistol on himself.

Mr. Brown died instantly, but, amazingly, his wife survived her injuries.

After this second tragedy, a neighbor was quoted as saying he hoped they would tear the home down.  A Google Earth search shows that there is still a house at that address, but I cannot say if it is the same one.  If it is, one wonders how the current tenants feel about its history.

So, what is the story with this upscale suburban home? A writer of fiction, of course, would assume either that the house was somehow "cursed" from the beginning, or that the "bad vibrations" from the Wuthrich murder/suicide impregnated the residence, influencing Cliff Brown to commit a similar act of evil.

Or was it just an awful coincidence that the first two families to live in this house--two well-liked and seemingly "ideal" couples--should both have their marriages break down in the month of August and end in violent death shortly afterward?

I just hope that whoever lives there now is unmarried.