Murder On the Cheap

As I have mentioned before, murder cases do not usually interest me unless they are unsolved and/or have an unusual quality to them. Simple, unadorned brutality is not something I care to dwell upon. However, every now and then I come upon a murder that is your usual banal evil with virtually no mystery at all, but is so utterly deranged from beginning to end that I find it noteworthy enough to include in the hallowed halls of Strange Company HQ.

As you may have already guessed, this week we shall look at an unjustly obscure example of one of those crimes. Behold, The Case of the $1.50 Hit Man.

At the center of our story is Gaylord V. Saunders, the pastor of a Methodist Episcopal church in Wabash, Indiana. As he entered his mid-thirties, Saunders, like so many people, had something of a mid-life crisis. His life felt empty. He needed a sense of meaning to his existence. He longed for excitement, emotional fulfillment, new challenges, a fresh road to travel. So, naturally, he moved to Indianapolis and enrolled in an embalming school. Unaccountably, his wife Neoma failed to heed the siren song of organ preservation and creating a remarkably lifelike appearance, so she and their children stayed behind in Wabash.

Over the embalming tools and formaldehyde, Saunders became friends with a classmate, 19-year-old Theodore Mathers. So far as anyone knew, Saunders' studies went along quite pleasantly until the morning of February 2, 1934, when he was discovered in his parked car, in a condition ideal for his recently-acquired skills. He had been shot in the back of the head.

As baffling as the crime may have initially appeared, it wound up being a candidate for the shortest unsolved murder on record. By the end of the following day, the police knew not only who killed Saunders and why, but a whole lot more besides. If anything, this was an investigation that elicited almost too much information.

Theodore Mathers had a long-time friend named Masel Roe, to whom he confided all the details of his personal life. This was Mathers' error. No sooner had Saunders' body been found that Roe was telling police all he knew about the crime. And, brother, that was plenty.

Roe, you see, claimed to have witnessed Mathers shooting the aspiring undertaker. He explained to police, "Several times Mathers told me that his roommate, Saunders, was nuts and was going to kill his wife and children at Wabash. Mathers said he would rather kill Saunders than see him kill the children." Accordingly, on the night of February 1, Roe and Mathers escorted Saunders to a local tavern for some much-needed liquid courage. Then, the three got back in the car, with Saunders at the wheel, and "before I knew what had happened, Mathers shot Saunders through the head." After idly driving around town with the corpse--apparently the question of what to do with the body afterward had never previously occurred to these criminal masterminds--they simply stopped in a quiet spot, placed the body back in the driver's seat, took the dead man's watch and ring in order to simulate a robbery, and went to their respective homes to contemplate the strange byways of Life. At some point during the night, it finally entered Roe's mind that he was now an accessory to murder. This made him a bit uneasy. The next day, he went to the nearest police station to unburden himself. When detectives heard his tale, they naturally wished to conduct an interview with Mr. Mathers.

They tracked down Mathers at what was probably among the last places they expected to find him: the home of the newly-bereaved Neoma Saunders. He explained that he was there to help with the funeral arrangements. (As he himself was directly responsible for the need of such arrangements, this was an admirably considerate and mannerly touch.)

The police's first question to Mathers was probably what you yourself would be asking, given the opportunity: why did he shoot Saunders, and why was he taking such an interest in his victim's widow?

Mathers--who was just as chatty and self-incriminatory as his buddy--had a simple answer: Mrs. Saunders had hired him to do the deed. Three weeks earlier, he explained, Neoma paid him ten dollars to rid the world of her husband. He had invested eight dollars and fifty cents of his payment on the gun used for the deed.

Yes. Theodore Mathers was willing to commit murder for the net profit of a buck-fifty. Which gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, "life is cheap."

Mathers and Mrs. Saunders were immediately arrested and hauled back to Indianapolis. Roe was taken into custody as well, along with a nurse named Mabel Balke. Mathers had helpfully informed the authorities that Balke had known all about the murder plot, and had even been obliging enough to hide Saunders' watch and ring in her basement. (She later enlisted a Saunders family friend, Ross Curtis, to destroy the items.)

The foursome proved to be the most informative bunch of suspects on record. They were practically fighting to be the first to put their hands up. Neoma admitted to planning her husband's murder. Theodore admitted to carrying out these plans. Masel admitted to witnessing the deed. Mabel admitted to having prior knowledge of the crime. You couldn't find a more obvious Murder Incorporated if you tried.

Mrs. Saunders was the first to face a jury. It was expected to be the least suspenseful murder trial on record. Everyone assumed it was not a question of if Neoma would take a seat in the electric chair, but when. Her lawyers did what lawyers generally do when given an apparently unwinnable case: they threw everything they had against the wall to see if any of it would stick.

The defense went for that time-honored tactic of blaming the victim. Every competent criminal defense attorney knows that no matter how overwhelming the case against your client may be, if you can just present an unlikable corpse, your murderer is off to the races. Neoma told heartrending tales of how she lived in fear of her insane husband. According to Neoma, Gaylord had threatened to kill their sons. Mrs. Saunders explained, "I wanted my husband killed because he was losing his mind and I had papers filed to put him in an insane asylum." (Presumably, she decided that murder was both cheaper and more efficient than institutionalization.) Mabel Balke agreed. She testified that, in her professional opinion, Mr. Saunders was losing his mind, and was a great danger to everyone around him.

But wait, there's more! The late embalming student was not just a lunatic, he was an alcoholic, marijuana addict, and "moral pervert" who subjected his wife to "unspeakable indignities" such as making her look at lewd pictures and listen to equally indecent stories. Ross Curtis testified that Mr. Saunders had once threatened to take a butcher knife to his spouse. When Curtis objected to this plan, Mr. Saunders bit him on the finger.

So, why did Neoma select young Theodore as her hit man? And why did he accept the job? For just the reason you might think: the two were having an affair. However, Mrs. Saunders managed to turn even that into an indictment of her husband. You see, Gaylord had forced them to become lovers. At knife-point.

Once the defense had finished blackening the victim's character, they moved on to disparaging their own client. They brought out the insanity defense. Mr. Saunders' many "unnatural acts" had driven his poor wife around the bend, causing her to believe her husband was possessed by the Devil. Three medical experts testified to their belief that whatever Neoma's mental state had been previously, she was--at the moment, at least--sane.

In response to all this, the prosecution settled for presenting the unvarnished facts: Mrs. Saunders was involved with another man, and wished to enjoy the $29,200 worth of life insurance she would collect if her husband met with a premature end.

The case made by the defense was patently ridiculous, but like so many patently ridiculous things in this world, it worked. After deliberating for a grand total of 80 minutes, the jury returned a verdict of not guilty, due to "temporary insanity." As the three doctors had ruled that Neoma was now perfectly compos mentis, that meant she was immediately free as the proverbial bird.

Mathers stood trial in April 1935. His lawyers, recognizing a good thing when they saw it, essentially repeated the same story given by Mrs. Saunders. Mathers, too, was insane at the time of the shooting. Being forced into a romance with Neoma, they explained, had driven him temporarily out of his mind.

Mrs. Saunders could not have been pleased with this argument.

Unfortunately for the defendant, jurors were getting a bit bored with this tactic, but they still showed him a certain amount of favoritism. Instead of finding him guilty of first-degree murder, they delivered a verdict of "involuntary manslaughter." One to ten years in prison. There were many petitions asking the court to give Mathers a suspended sentence, but these efforts on his behalf appear to have failed.

As for Mabel Balke and Masel Roe, the authorities decided it wasn't even worth the effort of putting them on trial. The law merely shrugged and let them go. And that was the end of what contemporary newspapers dubbed "The Ten-Dollar Murder."

Weekend Link Dump

This week's Link Dump is sponsored by this celebrity cat, who looks understandably alarmed to be canoodling with Evelyn Nesbit.

Things had a way of happening to guys who canoodled with Evelyn Nesbit.

Who the hell was the real Venerable Bede?

What the hell was this creature stalking Montana cattle?

Watch out for those fava beans!

Watch out for those hungry ghosts!

Watch out for the Suffolk sea monster!

An Australian almanac of magic.

The execution of one of the Pendle Witches.

A Voltaire love affair.

Graffiti from the dungeons of Richmond Castle.

A history of the "king-pine."  That's pineapples to you.

Europe's oldest tree is still going strong!

Herrings:  Icelandic gold!

18th century tea drinking.

Folklore relating to midwives.

How to speak Persian like a Colonial Englishman.

The Leka and the logger.

A Georgian actress gets third time lucky.

Executing the executioner.

The clock that foretold death.

A Chilean Stonehenge.

The good news for Tycho Brahe:  He wasn't poisoned.  The bad news for Tycho Brahe:  He's still dead.

Elizabeth Short wasn't the only grisly murder victim in 1940s Los Angeles.

Defenses against dark algorithms.

What pilots see during night flights.

A menu from India's Gorakhpur Club, 1916.

Restoring Stonehenge.

A peek at the life of an Early Modern wife.

The last days of Empress Josephine.

The life of an early 20th century factory girl.

That time Thomas Jefferson sent a moose to Paris.

Tuffi the elephant's great escape.

People who live in glass dresses shouldn't...well, they just shouldn't.

Scottish political history adds one more to its extensive body count.

The anti-suffragist nursery cat.

Today's forecast: scattered showers of honey, maggots, and bog nuts.

A bad end for a grave-robber.

The ballerina who shot Nazis on her way out.

That's all for this week! See you on Monday, when we'll look at one very cheap murder. In the meantime, here's some Handel.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

Another case of Mystery Fires, this one targeting one particularly helpless woman. From the (Sioux Falls, South Dakota) "Argus-Leader," March 23, 1922:

Alva, Okla.--Blue flames, their origin a mystery, which burst into being apparently from the air itself, threaten death to Mrs. Ona Smith, 23 years old, an invalid, who lies paralyzed on a bed in a little cottage here.

The authorities are completely baffled and the woman cowers in terror. Bedside watchers, who are keeping vigil day and night, can only leap to the rescue as the mysterious fires break out at intervals in bedding, clothing worn by Mrs. Smith, wall draperies or any inflammable material in the room.

Two mattresses have been reduced to smoldering ruins, a calendar on the wall has been ignited, a shawl worn by the invalid has burst into flames and several other blazes started in bedding in the last few days.

The first fire came at midnight Wednesday. The flames, which suddenly leaped up from the bottom of the mattress on the bed were extinguished by Mrs. Smith's mother, Mrs. John Meyers. Later the mattress caught fire in another another spot.

Friday a calendar on the wall blazed. Soon afterward the carpet ignited. An aunt, Mrs. Mary Wagner, was in the room at the time.

The invalid was removed from the bed to a chair. Her shawl flamed as it touched the floor. All bedding and apparel were removed from the room and a new mattress installed. It burst into flames yesterday morning, witnessed by several among them a newspaper reporter.

Dr. C. L. Rogers, who was called in following the first blaze, failed to solve the mystery. Speculation here is rife concerning the reason for the fires. Theories advanced include spiritualism, chemical reaction from urine and incendiarism.

Witnesses say the fires seem to start in the air, blue flames jumping and crackling.

The last report on the story, dated several days later, stated that after Mrs. Smith was removed to a hospital, the terrifying blazes stopped. Sadly, however, according to findagrave.com, poor Ona died on March 20, before most of the newspaper items about her strange affliction even appeared in print.

Hollywood's Greatest Mystery: Review of "Tinseltown," by William J. Mann

William Cunningham Deane-Tanner was born in Ireland in 1872. His father was a retired Army Officer. William had the classic upbringing of the Victorian gentry. His most unconventional feature was a fondness for amateur theatricals. In 1890, he spent time at a dude ranch in Kansas. While there, his interest in acting was rekindled, and he settled in New York.

In 1901, Deane-Tanner married a well-to-do ex-Floradora girl named Ethel May Hamilton, and he settled down to work in an antiques store on Fifth Avenue. Although the couple was prominent in local society and had, on the surface, a privileged life, William was not happy. He was bored and frustrated with his comfortable but stultifying life, and reportedly dealt with his misery by heavy drinking and a succession of affairs.

In October 1908, William Deane-Tanner vanished, without so much as a word to his wife and young daughter.

The next few years of Deane-Tanner's life are largely lost to history. All we know for certain is that he led an itinerant life, traveling though Canada, Alaska and the U.S. northwest, mining for gold and performing with various acting troupes. By the time he landed in San Francisco some time around 1912, "William Deane-Tanner" had gone forever. He had reinvented himself as "William Desmond Taylor." The newly-christened runaway settled in Los Angeles, where he found work as an actor in the fledgling film industry. In 1914, he switched to directing films. He directed more than fifty films, with his work finding both commercial and critical success. In a twist straight out of Hollywood, failed family man William Deane-Tanner had become the successful filmmaker William Desmond Taylor. He was very popular with his peers (who knew nothing about his past life.) Women especially adored him, seeing him as the epitome of the cultured, courtly gentleman. He was considered to have a spotless personal reputation.

Ethel Deane-Tanner knew nothing of her ex-husband's whereabouts until 1918, when--in yet another Hollywood-like twist--she and her daughter went to see the film "Captain Alvarez." When one of the actors came onscreen, she told her child, "That's your father!" Ethel contacted William via his studio. Although he refused to publicly admit his real identity, he did visit his former family and made his daughter his legal heir.

On the morning of February 2, 1922, Taylor's straight-out-of-a-film-script life had one hell of an ending when his dead body was discovered in his Los Angeles bungalow. He had been shot to death. Although it's doubtful he would have appreciated the honor, his murder has remained Hollywood's strangest and most famous mystery, spawning at least four books and an endless number of theories that claim to "solve" the riddle of his death.  Over the years, virtually everyone who ever knew Taylor has been accused of murdering him.  His death has arguably spawned more "suspects" than the Jack the Ripper killings.

Taylor's Alvarado Street bungalow

What makes the crime particularly impenetrable is that there were deliberate efforts from people high-up in the movie industry to ensure that the case remained unsolved. It is virtually certain that there were a number of people who knew--or, at least, had a pretty good guess--who shot the film director, but for their own reasons, they launched a conspiracy that allowed someone to get away with murder. Evidence was concealed, misleading rumors were launched, and mouths were kept firmly shut. As all the people "in the know" are now long dead, we will never learn for certain who was behind the killing, and why it was done. As very little reliable evidence about the mystery survives--all the trustworthy known facts about the case could fit on a postage stamp--all theories about the case are necessarily based on speculation.

"Tinseltown" is no exception to this rule, but William J. Mann offers one of the fullest, richest accounts of the Taylor killing to date, introducing several new details, a novel, intriguing "solution," and--most valuable of all--offering a fascinating look at Old Hollywood. The Taylor murder is, in fact, only a plot element in the complex, often sordid, but always exciting history of the film industry's early days.

The anti-hero of our story is Adolph "Creepy" Zukor, the ruthless film mogul who likely engineered the Taylor cover-up. Other stars of the show include the drug-addicted comedienne Mabel Normand (one of the few sympathetic characters in this story,) the lovely but tormented ingenue Mary Miles Minter, Taylor's black, gay valet Henry Peavey (depicted much more sensitively and positively than most other accounts of the case,) and a host of grifters, blackmailers, film idols, main-chancers, lost souls, politicians, killers, and desperate wanna-be stars.

Mann's scenario of how Taylor died is interesting, if impossible to prove. It centers around an obscure early film actress, Margaret Gibson. Gibson was a classic Hollywood failure story: a beautiful young girl enters the film industry with dreams of stardom, but never gets beyond the lowest rung of the ladder. She turned to drug dealing and prostitution. Gibson soon found a more lucrative market: blackmail. Even in those early days, the film industry was rife with corruption and disgusting, even criminal behavior. Couple that with being a business dependent on keeping the favor and good will of the public, and you've got a blackmailer's Eden.

Margaret Gibson

Gibson and a number of other Hollywood fringe characters formed an extensive extortion and blackmail ring, preying on those who had a lot of money and even more dirty secrets. In 1923, these exploits led to her arrest, although the charges were eventually dropped. She continued her struggle to find legitimate work in the industry, but she never graduated beyond bit parts before permanently retiring from acting in 1929. For reasons unknown, she moved to Singapore in 1935, where she married an oil company executive, Elbert Lewis. The marriage appears to have been a happy one. After Lewis's death in 1942, Gibson (who was now calling herself "Pat Lewis,") moved back to the Los Angeles area, where she led a reclusive existence living off a small "widow's pension" until her death in 1964.

Gibson was never linked to the Taylor murder until 1996, when a man named Ray Long, who had known Gibson in her final years, went public with a startling tale. He stated that he was present at Gibson's last moments. As she was dying, she suddenly blurted out that many years before, she had shot a man named William Desmond Taylor.

Mann seized upon this story. He pointed out that Gibson had performed with Taylor in 1910, when he was still just another traveling actor. The two later appeared together in a few early silents. Mann's thesis is that this early acquaintance enabled Gibson to acquire "dirt" on Taylor. Perhaps she knew of his past life as "Deane-Tanner." Perhaps she knew something about his sexual history that Taylor would also wish to keep hidden. (Mann asserts as fact that Taylor was gay, a claim that so far as I know has never been corroborated.)

Taylor and Gibson in "The Kiss," 1914

Mann argues that Gibson and her merry band of blackmailers went to Taylor's bungalow to demand money for their silence. Taylor refused, and in the resulting altercation, one of Gibson's more excitable confederates shot the director. Afterward, industry executives initiated a cover-up, deliberately thwarting justice lest Hollywood's many dark secrets should emerge from any real investigation of Taylor's death.

Mann's scenario cannot be accepted as the "final word," but it's certainly not impossible. However, it should be emphasized that his premise rests entirely on one woman's alleged death-bed confession. If you question whether this elderly, mentally unstable woman was speaking the truth--or for that matter, if she made this confession at all--Mann has no evidence on which to base his theory.

As thorough as Mann's book is in most respects, he does make a few odd omissions. He barely mentions the curious fact that in 1912, Taylor's brother, Dennis Deane-Tanner, also abandoned his family and disappeared. It has been proposed that Dennis was really Taylor's sinister former valet, Edward Sands. Not long before the murder, Sands robbed Taylor and vanished--yet another puzzling element to this endlessly peculiar case. (Mann states that Sands was never seen again, although other accounts claim that the ex-valet was eventually found dead under suspicious circumstances.) I believe Mann made a mistake in dismissing all possibility that brother Dennis and Sands the valet somehow figured in the murder. Like so many researchers who fall in love with a particular theory, he seizes upon any scrap that might prove his pet thesis, while deliberately ignoring anything that argues for rival "solutions."

Although I believe "Tinseltown" does nothing to solve Taylor's essentially unsolvable murder, this book is wonderfully absorbing reading. Even if you have little interest in true crime, the soap-opera like saga found in these pages is almost certain to draw you in.

Weekend Link Dump

This week's Link Dump is sponsored by this celebrity feline who landed a high-paying gig acting as
Ann-Margret's wig.

That ever-popular mystery:  Who the hell were the Green Children of Woolpit?

Another ever-popular mystery:  When the hell did Hitler die?  Surprise, surprise!

What the hell are the Oregon Mystery Shrieks?

What the hell are these carved Neolithic balls?

Watch out for those Prague windows!

Watch out for the Saurian monster!

The evolution of "Beauty and the Beast."

That time when drinking coffee was a capital offense.

A reporter's experiences attending executions.

Tip for the day:  Never pack your sword without the scabbard!  (And, no, that's not meant to be a euphemism for anything.  Get out of here.)

The supernatural creatures of Norway.

You've heard of those old warnings about how masturbation can make you blind?  Well, one guy managed to top that.

Amelia and her bloomers.

Romance and murder in 19th century France.

18th century tips on managing servants.

19th century French funeral etiquette.

Ancient Egyptians brewed pretty good beer.  And then drank it with straws.

While we're barhopping, here's Portugal's wine of the dead.

Joseph Bonaparte and Mexico.

Let's talk mountains and wild men.

More from the bulging "We don't know jack about earth's history" file.

If you own an Alexa, be aware that it's preparing to blackmail you.

The magic of coral.

WWII's greatest urban legend.

A trustworthy Indian in Stockholm.

A remarkable 19th century cancer operation.

Surprizing camels!  Wonderful dromedaries!

The latest Stonehenge theories.

UFOs lead to a strange double suicide.

A Gothic tale of deadly revenge.

France's first Police Minister.

The difficulties of being Byron.

Ancient Jewish graffiti.

How to tell when someone is drowning.  It isn't as obvious as you'd think.  (I can attest to this.  When I was a child, I very nearly drowned in a lake--in the midst of a crowd of people.  The only reason I'm here today is that there happened to be an adult in the vicinity who was savvy enough to recognize that I was in trouble.  Everyone else was completely oblivious.

On the other hand, I suppose it's possible that they simply weren't all that averse to seeing me go under.  I was just that kind of kid.)

A look at vanishing London.

London's infamous "Great Stink."

One very, very well-traveled farmer.

An "extraordinary" bladder stone.

Well, I'm guessing this isn't a good sign.

Witches and Edinburgh Castle.

A bohemian heiress.

John Keats, cat person.

A post-office cat.

The first Duke of Sussex.

Frederick Marryat and the Brown Lady.

Roxy, well-traveled railroad dog.

The yeasty Dolley Madison.

Doppelgangers are pretty useless.

An unsolved murder in Cincinnati.

Windsor Castle during the Georgian era.

Scandinavian fairy crowns.

19th century royal beauty secrets.

The world's oldest mattress.

And that's it for this week! See you on Monday, when we'll look at Hollywood's greatest unsolved murder. In the meantime, here's some Artie Shaw. I've been reading a bit about him. Not my idea of prime husband material (although obviously a lot of ladies disagreed with me,) but he was quite an interesting guy.  He had very strong ideas about toilet paper.

Book Clipping of the Day

This eerie little tale was published by Frederick George Lee in his 1878 book "More Glimpses of the World Unseen."  It was prefaced with, "The following story was told to a lady by the sailor who witnessed the appearance."

David ____ went to sea under a very drunken, cruel, and profane captain. This captain fell ill, after hard drinking, and lay sick in his cabin. It was a moonlight night when David ____ and two other sailors were talking on deck, when they saw a form or figure suddenly fly out of the cabin, as it were, and felt an unmistakable gust of wind as it passed. He said to the others, "Did you see that?" They replied, "It is the soul of our old master." The figure was like a man's head and face, quite recognisable, with black flapping wings. It seemed to fly away into the dark distance.

David then went down to the captain's cabin and found him dead. No one else would go near to the corpse. So David wrapped and sewed it up in a hammock, said a prayer over it, and threw it into the sea.

I don't claim to be an expert on such matters, but this probably was not the best omen for the captain's afterlife.

The Road to Fair Elfland: Review of "Magical Folk," Edited by Simon Young and Ceri Houlbrook

"See here, boys, there may be ghosts or there may not; but if there are none, there are fairies, and they are worse."
~One man's understandable reaction to being repeatedly dunked into the Atlantic.

I believe in fairies the same way I believe in Antarctica: I've never seen either in person, but enough seemingly rational people have to convince me of their existence.

I also feel that the fairies--or Brownies, "little people," sprites, pixies, elves, imps, whatever you care to call them--must feel an unimaginable contempt for modern civilization. Consider: for millennia, our ancestors regarded fairies with respect, awe, sometimes deep affection, more often not a little fear. And with good reason: As this book notes, "The fairies...assaulted and tricked and, in some cases, murdered and kidnapped their way through human populations." They were worshiped, placated, grovelled to. Now? They've been degraded into twee, harmless, silly little creatures. Fairies are now cute. And spare a moment of pity for the leprechaun. Imagine going from a mischief-maker with a hidden stash of gold and supernatural powers to a little green guy peddling Lucky Charms cereal.

Possibly for that very reason, few people even believe in them anymore.

Thankfully, antidotes for such puerile drivel are available in the form of books such as "Magical Folk: British and Irish Fairies 500 AD to the Present." This volume brings together contributions by various academics, folklorists, and lay historians addressing various aspects of the astonishingly long and varied reign of these "magical, living, resident humanoids"--a reign that continues to this very day.

The editors kick off the book by addressing the question "What is a fairy, anyway?" (Short answer: "It's complicated,") and offering a helpful guide to the widely varying "Fairy Tribes." Then Jacqueline Simpson addresses the sadly ignored fairy lore of Sussex, complete with the Queen of the Fairies dispensing medical advice and poet William Blake crashing a fairy funeral.

Pollyanna Jones looks at Worcestershire, home of fairies who appear as shape-shifters, or simple blobs of light. The region is known for "Pucks," mischievous tricksters who lead people into ditches or ponds, and other such practical pleasantries. The playful aspect of the local folklore helped inspire J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit." Oh, and if you're ever in Worcestershire, don't swear or use an angry tone of voice. The fairies don't like it.

Mark Norman and Jo Hickey-Hall take us to the rich lore of Devon, where the Magical Folk so predominate they have been classified into distinct types: fairies, imps, sprites, elves and pixies (the last-named are tentatively connected to the ancient Picts.) Like Worcestershire's Puck, pixies are most noted for leading travelers astray. This was such a common occurrence that being "Pixy-led" was an accepted local hazard well into the 19th century. As recently as 2002, a Devon farmer reported seeing a "circle of small green figures" dancing around a fire.

Richard Sugg writes of Yorkshire, where the history is replete with dark tales of "everyday magic," witchcraft, and powerful, often quite frightening fairies. Fittingly enough, this often cold, bleak region has spawned some of Britain's most sinister and enduring fairy legends: "having drunk in fairy beliefs with your mother's milk, you did not easily lose them. Ever after, the fairies were in your head. Day by day, you heard them, sensed them, inferred them from their activities--and sometimes even saw them." Many of the elves were considered "evil spirits." Yorkshire fairies would kidnap human babies, leaving weird "changelings" in their place. Yorkshire is also the home of the "Cottingly Fairies," that curious hoax which is probably fairy-lore's most notorious chapter.

Jeremy Harte examines Dorset's eight-hundred years of fairy history, which as far as is recorded, began with enigmatic beings known as "pucas," probably an ancestor of "Puck." Harte also delves into "cunning folk," those humans who took advice (for both good and ill) from the fairies, as well as the often tense relationship between fairies and Christianity.

Simon Young takes us to Cumbria, which has a lively contemporary fairy population. In the early 1920s, a self-described "fairy seer" recorded seeing brownies, rock gnomes, tree manikins, undines, lake spirits, nature devas, and--last but certainly not least--a god. Some twenty years later, hikers at Borrowdale ran into some fairies playing on the rocks. The area's older fairy history, however, was far grimmer, reflecting the punishing environment endured by the human residents. For these villagers, fairies were dangerous creatures who needed to be held at bay by all the folk cures at human disposal. Young's essay is aimed at reviving these earlier, now largely-forgotten days where Cumbrians faced a world filled with destructive and predatory boggarts, monsters, and demons. (In the 18th century, one parish recorded that within a five-year period, no less than four people had been "frightened to death by the fairies.") On a lighter note, Cumbrian fairies had a particular fondness for butter.

Ireland is arguably the area most people associate with fairies, and not without reason. Jenny Butler's essay explores how deeply the belief in fairies (or, "sidhe") has been woven into Irish history and folklore. To the Irish, fairies are a component of the otherworld, "a supernatural realm that is intertwined with the ordinary sphere in which human beings live." It is--albeit somewhat ambiguously and debatably--identified with the afterlife. It has even been suggested that the sidhe are spirits of the human dead--what are more commonly called "ghosts." So respected and feared are these beings that the Irish hesitated to even mention them by name, preferring to call them "the noble people," or "the good people," or merely "themselves." (Rather like actors who refuse to call "Macbeth" anything other than "The Scottish play.") Any encounters with the fairies were generally believed to be ill-fated in some way or another. Butler notes that even though Ireland has not been immune from the "Disneyfication" of fairies, the "good people" are still a major element of the country's cultural tradition.

Anyone at all familiar with Scottish history knows that it is a deeply weird place. Perhaps the fact that it is packed to the rafters with fairy glens has something to do with it. Ceri Houlbrook takes a tour of this region that has a particular bond with fairy belief--a bond so deep that the Scottish landscape itself is felt to have been a creation of the fairies. (It is believed that a "Fairyland" or "Elfland" still exists somewhere in Scotland, and woe to any mere mortal who accidentally stumbles into this territory.) Of all the areas covered in this book, Scotland's fairy folklore is probably the most voluminous, varied, and enduring. Not to mention the most delightful: among the Scots fairies are such gems as the evil Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle, the equally malevolent Whoopity Stoorie, Habetrot (kindly patron of spinning,) and NicNiven the Fairy Queen. As we have seen in other regions, there is a lack of consensus about what these fairies really are: nature spirits? Gods? Fallen angels? An early race of humans who were the first inhabitants of northern Britain? Some sort of human/angel hybrids? Take your pick. Happily, a belief in fairies is still strong in Scotland, albeit on a more benign level. Children still pay homage to fairy glens so their wishes will come true, and no doubt many still take care not to wander into Elfland.

Moving on to the unique supernatural lore of Orkney and Shetland, Laura Coulson informs us that the region's most notable "fairies" are those curious beings known as "trows," melancholy human-like beings who are apt to kidnap women and children and steal cattle. They are also referred to as the "grey folk." Trows had an extensive mythology, covering everything from their marriage and family rituals to their Yuletime celebrations. Sadly, in recent years it is believed the trows have abandoned the Orkney Isles. Life has become too modern on the islands, forcing them to retreat to the Dwarfie Stone on Hoy. More unsettlingly, other traditions say all the trows drowned! Either way, the Orkneys are surely a duller place without them.

Wales, as one sixteenth-century man noted, is a land where the people have "an astonishing reverence of the fairies." The country has always been full of all sorts of supernatural beings of the best sort, but you can barely swing a stick in Wales without hitting a fairy. Richard Suggett's essay examines the Welsh history of these sprites, who were apparently as enigmatic and difficult to categorize as they were terrifying. Welsh fairies tend to take so many forms, they defy easy description. Welsh folklore also has humans seeing fairies much more often than legends of most other areas. Suggett notes the "rather prosaic, everyday quality" of Welsh fairy/human interactions, and adds that "Fairies were encountered in everyday circumstances as people went about their usual business and some people claimed to have had numerous encounters with the fairies." Naturally, many Welsh considered themselves to be "experts" on the fairies. "Enchanters," who helped their fellow humans cope with the sprites, was a popular occupation. One Elizabethan-era writer commented that Wales contained "swarmes of southsaiers and enchanters" who bragged about their frequent communion with fairies. Suggett also provides a handy tip for dealing with any Welsh fairies you might encounter: they are repelled by iron. (On the other hand, the metal is a powerful attraction for ghosts. It's literally a case of damned if you do, damned if you don't.)

Francesca Bihet contributes a look at the fairy culture of the Channel Islands. These sprites, known to islanders as "les p'tites gens" ("the little people,") "faiteaux," or simply "dames," are believed to inhabit the islands' many prehistoric sites, which, according to folklore, they themselves built long before the islands were inhabited by humans. In fact, the ancient monuments are commonly called "pouquelaye," or "fairy place." The fairies are also said to have dug a network of tunnels connecting the various "fairy places." The fairies emerge from these underground passages at night to dance under the full moon. Unsurprisingly, it's considered to be extremely unlucky for humans to meddle in any way with these ancient sites.

Stephen Miller's look at the Isle of Man's fairy-lore focuses on the work of the Early Modern writer George Waldron, whose 1731 "A Description of the Isle of Man," contains the first comprehensive collection of Manx folklore. As is the case with the folk beliefs of the Channel Islands, the Manx believe fairies were the original settlers of the Island. Manx refer to them as "the Good People," and say they still live in forests and wilderness, shunning cities "because of the Wickedness acted therein." Manx believe that any house visited by the fairies is blessed, because the beings "fly Vice." Unlike most other regions, the fairies of Manx are loved and welcomed by humans, as they "never come without bringing good Fortune along with them." Despite this, there are still the usual stories about fairies replacing babies with "changelings," kidnapping adults, and even riding mortals' horses during the night.

Ronald M. James deals with the "piskies and knockers" that make life a great deal more interesting for the human residents of Cornwall. Other terms for Cornish fairies are "pobel vean" ("small people,") spriggans, buccas, and brownies. Cornish fairies are a mix or good or bad. While their human neighbors feared them, they also hoped that the piskies could be propitiated into doing them favors. The fairies are invariably described as being tiny, large in number, and often very well dressed. The most well-known Cornish fairies are the "underground knockers," the beings who haunt the region's many mines.

Peter Muise contributes a look at the fairies of New England. Curiously enough, fairy sightings in that area have only really become popular in recent years. Presumably, the fairies (commonly known in New England as ""Pukwidgies") had no desire to hang around those stern early Puritans, and who can really blame them? Historians have also speculated that as fairies tend to be associated with ancient features of the British landscape, when the Puritans emigrated to the New World, they left the fairy folk of the Old World behind. However, anthropologists and historians have documented a rich and ancient fairy belief among New England's Native American tribes, so it could be said that the region has long been populated with fairies, but the white settlers simply ignored them until modern times. The good news is that, according to James, New England fairy sightings are returning with a vengeance. Recent stories contributed to the Fairy Census include six-fingered humanoids, a little creature made of vegetation, and tiny fairies with dragonfly wings.

Although Canada as a whole has scant fairy folklore, the notable exceptions are the coastal settlements of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Labrador, north-eastern Quebec, and Newfoundland. Simon Young describes these Canadian fairies as a "melting-pot," "a minestrone of different traditions with ingredients coming from different parts of the Old World." Young notes that Atlantic Canadian fairies (known as "good people," "bad people," "little people," lutins, leprechauns, "devil's angels," or "co-pixies") are a particularly alarming lot: "[these] fairies were terrifying, even by the standards of their European confreres." If you are unfortunate enough to encounter a Newfoundland fairy, be prepared to have your tongue pulled out, your eyes gouged out, and your fingernails removed. If they're feeling benevolent, the little folk might merely trick you into getting lost in the woods or toss you into a whirlwind. Harsh climates seem to breed a harsh race of fairies. So pervasive is the largely malign influence of these "little people," that in one notable instance, they wound up in court. In 1880, a man excused himself from missing several days of work by explaining that he had been kidnapped by fairies. And he won his case! (So next time you're late for work, feel free to use the "I was abducted by co-pixies" line to the boss.) Newfoundland fairy lore, Young notes, has been particularly persistent and long-lasting. He dubs the area's supernatural beings, "The Last Traditional Fairies."

In the book's final essay, Chris Woodyard examines how Irish fairylore was transplanted to the New World, where this fresh soil caused the fairies to sprout in some strange new ways. Irish-American fairies take the form of spook lights, "leaping fiends with luminous eyes," will-o'-the-wisps, women in white, and "the odd leprechaun story." Even the traditional banshee and changeling baby make an occasional appearance in 19th century reports. The oddest story Woodyard presents is a baffling news report of a young woman who was kidnapped by fairies, never to be seen again...in 1876 Dubuque, Iowa, surely the last place one would expect to see marauding Little Folk. (This story has certain elements of modern-day reports of Men in Black sightings and alien abductions, reminding me that it would have been interesting to end this volume with a piece analyzing the similarities between historical "fairy sightings" and today's extraterrestrial "close encounters.")

"Magical Folk" is both impressively scholarly and highly entertaining, and I strongly recommend it for anyone with the slightest interest in folklore--or even just a liking for history's stranger corners. It does a wonderful job of documenting how the fairy legends of different regions are similar in so many respects, while displaying their own quaint and distinctive features.

In fact, the book is so comprehensive that I fear its contributors are in danger of meeting the same fate as our old friend Robert Kirk.