With the nights drawing in, it’s the season for storytelling. This curious and disconcerting letter was found recently in the archive of the Victoria County History of England (addressed to then-General Editor, William Page) and is published here for the first time. Some identifying details have been redacted.
November, 1914
Dear Mr Page,
I trust this letter finds you well. First, I am afraid I must press the matter of the outstanding payment for my recent submission on —-shire. When may I expect receipt of this?
As you know, our present work on the volume for —-shire took me lately to the town of —-, to study the architecture and consult some documents held locally. It is a small market town, picturesque enough, with a handsome thirteenth-century church (on earlier foundations) and a medieval granary which the locals call (erroneously) the ‘Tithe Barn’.
I had a good first morning, exploring the place and viewing the church from the outside. It is in a state of some disrepair, as is the churchyard, which slopes down to a shallow valley at the edge of the town. From my vantage point, just outside the south door, I could see the headstones pitching ever more crooked and sunken as the tussocky grass gave onto a dark, sluggish stream.
Before midday, I was confronted by the local constable and two shopkeepers, who had seen me examining buildings and making notes, and concluded I was an enemy spy. I quickly reassured them that I was a harmless lady antiquary, and we made light of the confusion. In these uncertain times, Mr Page, our work may become more difficult. But we must continue our great historical endeavour.
In the afternoon, I met the churchwarden, a gruff and distracted sort of fellow named Roberts, who took me around the church and unlocked the vestry. The church itself offered nothing of note, with the exception of a remarkable Doomsday painting (or traces of it) on the south wall, which I believe has not been properly studied. The surviving imagery is of souls mired in the pit of hell, the poor creatures floundering desperately in the slough of eternal torment. I presume a corresponding scene of the blessed in Paradise, to its side, has since been limewashed over.
Roberts kept a careful watch over me in the vestry – perhaps still not wholly convinced that I was not a German spy – and was able to answer some of my questions about the location of those parish records we are yet to unearth. To my surprise, he directed my attention to a small collection of incunables, on a curtained shelf next to the vestments. Such books are beyond my own specialism, of course, but I was astonished to find such early and valuable codices next to moulding old psalters and stacks of dog-eared hymn numbers. I pressed upon him the importance of removing them to a more suitable archive.
One of the books, indeed, was an early printed bible. Some careless reader had left a satin bookmark with a metallic tassel (at Psalm 130, ‘De profundis clamavi ad te Domine’), and the rusty metal had made a stain on the paper. I’m afraid I must have scolded Roberts, and he made to snatch the book from me. I composed myself and perused the volume with pointed leisure before I handed it back. On the front endpaper, I noticed a curious Latin inscription. In a cramped, perhaps eighteenth-century, hand, there was written out several times: ‘figuras retulit antiquas’. Something like ‘restoring ancient shapes’, we might translate it: I suppose my imagination was caught by the notion that a fellow antiquarian had left their mark on this very page, centuries ago. The words seemed familiar, but at that time I was unable to recall their source.
I thanked Roberts for his help and made to walk across to the medieval barn. The quickest way, as the crow flies, was down across the churchyard and up the other side of the shallow valley. I set off through the iron gate, down among the slanted gravestones, my feet sinking into the wet ground and my ankle nearly twisting on a gnarl of coarse grass. I heard Roberts shout to me from the top of the path:
“No, Miss —-, not that way!”
I called back to him, pointed out my direction, and explained it was by far the shorter walk. I have never been afraid of a little mud!
“It’s deeper than it looks, Miss —-!” he called, bustling his way down into the churchyard towards me. I allowed him his gallantry and accompanied him back onto the lane which (via a much less direct route) took us to the barn. I made some notes.
That evening, I was greeted at the Red Lion by a friendly collie and the landlord’s somewhat overbearing wife, who took one look at my muddy boots and insisted I took them off and left them outside the door. I ate supper in my room and rested well.
The next day, I intended to make a perambulation of the parish bounds, to better get my bearings and make the most of the sunshine. Mercifully, it had been a dry night, and my boots outside the door were merely chill and a little damp from the night air.
I pulled out my map and a transcription of the AD 879 Wulfric charter, hoping also to trace the route indicated by the boundary clause. But I was greeted by Roberts – he seemed to have been waiting for me to emerge from my lodgings – who introduced me to his companion, a Mr Newsome, a local scholar. They insisted on showing me some early maps and other materials which might be of interest, in Mr Newsome’s personal collection. I thanked them, and joined them for tea in Mr Newsome’s residence, a handsome Georgian house just off the marketplace.
To be truthful, the materials were nothing of great use or value, though there was a fine Speed map of the county hanging on the parlour wall. As Mr Newsome and Roberts spoke to me of the town’s great history and worthiness of extensive study, a book on his shelves caught my eye. It was a small edition of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, bound in red and gold. And then, of course, I remembered the source of the Latin inscription.
‘Figuras retulit antiquas’: I recalled it now, as you may also, Mr Page. Ovid’s account of the generative power of the annual Nile flood, which spills across the barren desert and brings forth new life from the earth. ‘Restoring ancient shapes.’ The next words sprang into my memory also (perhaps I had learned them rote at school): ‘partim nova monstra creavit’ – ‘sometimes creating new monsters’. A curious enough epigraph for a churchman’s book! But words which charmed me with their spirit of antiquarianism and imagination.
I took my leave of Roberts and Mr Newsome and hurried to catch up with the day’s plan. There were rainclouds gathering and I had several miles of rough ground to cover. I decided to hazard the walk down through the churchyard and across the shallow valley. As I descended, I could see that the stream, such as it was, would make easy fording. The last gravestones, down here, were in a very bad state, fallen and cracked, with some slabs and covers broken fully apart. One had a very fine carving and inscription, which I vowed to return and study later. The church, and the buildings of the town, receded quite out of view above the brow of the hill.
But then – calamity! – one of my feet became stuck in the mud. What a fool I felt, tugging at the boot and caught fast like a bird in lime. Eventually I managed to pull myself free. There was a disagreeable air to the place which I could not quite determine. It was perhaps embarrassment over my foolishness which gave me the unpleasant sense of being mockingly observed. Still, I was glad to have walked that way – and to have triumphantly crossed the stream at last! – as I noted that the parish boundary ran just by, through the little valley and directly under my feet. Indeed, I believe the ‘denu’ or ‘valley’ noted by the Saxon charter (‘wæl-denu’? a conjectural reading as the manuscript is damaged) also describes this same landscape feature.
That evening, I attended Evensong in the church: a muted affair with canticles and responses all said, and just two hymns, accompanied on the creaking old organ. I was rather conscious of my muddy skirt and boots. The sun was already low as the meagre congregation filed out. I bade the vicar and Mr Roberts goodnight, resisting their repeated offers to accompany me back to the Red Lion, and looked out over the sloping churchyard towards the valley and the medieval barn beyond. I was to leave in the morning. The thought occurred to me that perhaps now was my chance to return to the interesting gravestone and note down the design and text.
I let myself through the churchyard gate and walked down among the graves – careful, this time, to steady myself and guard my step. As I moved further down the slope, the sun dipped behind the trees, and I felt suddenly cold. I found the headstone and took out my notebook and pencil. But then something down near the stream, at the bottom of the valley, caught my eye. A creature of some kind, floundering and struggling.
At first, I confess, I thought it was a hare caught in a trap, or perhaps a dog, or even, as I hurried toward it, a small child. Some poor thing fast in the mud, groping and straining to get free. The light was failing and I stumbled and slipped. My boots sank deep, sucked into the wet ground. It was only as I drew near that I realised with horror that the creature was not sinking, but climbing out – heaving itself out of the sodden, roiling earth. It groped across the grass with brown, sinewy arms, a rasping, guttural sound creeping from its lips as if it came from the belly of the earth itself. I did not look at its face.
I turned to run, but once again found my feet stuck in the wet earth. The mud sucked and pulled relentlessly, as if determined to draw me down. I struggled desperately, as the creature dragged itself towards me, reaching and clutching at my legs. With one last, great effort, I tugged my feet out of the boots, toppling forward into the mud. I felt a cold grip fasten around my ankle – then pulled away with all my might and half-crawled, half-ran back up the churchyard and through the iron gate.
At the Red Lion, the landlord’s wife saw my muddy stockinged feet, dirty skirt and soil-caked hands and instantly sat me by the fire with a brandy. A pair of old shoes was found for me, from the wife of one of the shopkeepers. The next morning, Roberts drove me to the station in —-, where I caught my train home.
I regret, Mr Page, that my contribution on —-shire will be late, and ask for your forbearance. I will complete the remainder of my research on —- from the Round Reading Room of the British Museum, here in London. In the meantime, I hope to receive the outstanding payment for —-shire.
My thoughts remain with our young men in northern France and Belgium, in hope that they may yet return by Christmas.
Believe me
Yours sincerely,
Of course, as you’ll have realised, this text was not in fact found in the VCH archive. 2024 is the 120th anniversary of the publication of Ghost Stories of an Antiquary by M.R. James. The VCH Central Office team have often remarked that these stories come from a similar world to the Victoria County History, and that the early years of our project would be fertile ground for a ‘VCH ghost story’. The piece above is a homage to both M.R. James and the early history of the VCH.
Are you inspired to write your own VCH ghost story? We’d love to see your stories, of any length, and to share them (with your permission). There might be a prize for the best… We invite you to email them to Catherine Clarke, VCH Director, or share on social media with #VCHGhostStory.
Catherine Clarke
Director, Victoria County History
Tree image: Andy Beecroft / Spooky Tree at Buttermere Youth Hostel