Ghosts and Scholars: Ghost Stories in the Tradition of M. R. James

THE STRANGE AFFAIR AT UPTON STONEWOLD Frederick Cowles

Frederick Cowles was a librarian and antiquarian whose books on folklore and travel achieved a wide popularity in the thirties. Whereas these non-fiction works are still easy to locate on the secondhand market, the extreme rarity of his two collections, The Horror of Abbot’s Grange (1936) and The Night Wind Howls (1938), has ensured that his horror stories are now largely unknown. These range from some memorable ‘shockers’ and Jamesian tales (including ‘The Cadaver of Bishop Louis’) to pieces of a gentler fantastic quality. In all he wrote over sixty short stories, including several between 1938 and his premature death in 1948 that never saw publication. Among these is ‘The Strange Affair at Upton Stonewold’, and we are very grateful to Mrs Doris Cowles for supplying this story.

During my four years at Cambridge I made many acquaintances, but only one really intimate friend. He was Jocelyn Bourne and, unlike the majority of our contemporaries at St Hugh’s, was a man with a mind above the usual frivolities of youth. I do not mean to imply that he was anything of a pedant. In those days we both enjoyed our leisure to the full and amused ourselves in our own fashion. But we did not lose sight of the fact that the brief years at the University were intended to fit us for the battle of life, and that the business of living was likely to be a serious affair. We had many things in common, not the least of which was a keen interest in ecclesiastical archaeology. He was, and still is, a convinced and sincere Anglo-Catholic with a love for the dignified beauty of advanced ritual. I belong to a family whose members have always clung to that older Faith which, in my opinion, has the sole right to the title Catholic. In spite of our theological differences, which seemed to amount to little more than the question of the validity of Anglican Orders, Bourne and I were the best of friends and no futile arguments or senseless bickerings marred the harmony of our companionship.

After we had taken our degrees Bourne went on to a theological training college and was eventually ordained. I went abroad for a time and then settled down to my job as an architect in the small West of England town where my family has held property for generations. We kept up a fairly regular correspondence and occasionally met in London when he was serving his first curacy in one of the suburbs. Then I accepted a commission from the Italian Government, to supervise the restoration of some ancient buildings in Umbria, and was away from England for nearly three years.

I came home in 1932 and one of the first things I noticed in The Times was an announcement that Bourne had been appointed vicar of Upton Stonewold—one of those pleasant fenland villages in the diocese of Ely. I immediately penned a few lines of congratulation, for I remembered that, although I had never seen it, Upton Stonewold church was accounted a gem of fifteenth-century architecture. It was a living in the gift of St Hugh’s and was looked upon as a sure step to preferment. Within a couple of days I had Bourne’s reply and a suggestion that I should visit him in his new home as soon as he had settled down. A month or so passed and then I received another letter containing a very definite invitation.

‘The church is literally a medieval treasure-house,’ he wrote. ‘You will be delighted with it. You may have seen, in some of the journals, a report of our recent find. We have discovered that St Walstan’s, unlike the majority of fenland churches, possesses an interesting crypt. The entrance to this has been walled-up for centuries and I only came across it by a lucky accident. The undercroft contains a holy well which I think may have been a pilgrimage centre. I intend to set about a complete restoration as soon as I can secure the necessary faculty, and shall be grateful for your expert advice. There is a peculiar tomb which will have to be moved before I can set up an altar.’

At that time I was busy with plans for a new art gallery in a town in the South Midlands, and had seen no report of the finding of the crypt. I looked up back numbers of the Architects’ Journal, the Architectural Review, and the Church Times and found that the discovery of the crypt at Upton Stonewold was regarded as an event of some importance. Experts were of the opinion that it ante-dated the present church by at least two hundred years, and that the well was pre-Roman.

Another month passed before I was able to arrange my visit to Bourne. I then wrote suggesting a date, and received an enthusiastic reply in which he informed me that the faculty had been granted and the restoration work would commence as soon as I had approved the plan.

‘Will you do me the favour of breaking your journey at Cambridge, he added. ‘I am under the impression that the library at St Hugh’s possesses a manuscript relating to this parish and it may have something to say about the crypt. I am particularly anxious to have some information about the tomb I mentioned in my previous letter. The only inscription on the slab is—“J.S. 1628” and there is also a crude outline of a monstrous cat. If you can spare the time to look this up for me, and see if there is any reference which may be helpful, I shall be very much obliged.’

So, on the 14th of September, I travelled up to Cambridge, and spent the night at the ‘Castle’ where I had booked accommodation. In the morning I went along to the library at St Hugh’s. Massey, the librarian, is an old friend of mine and appeared very pleased to see me. After the usual small-talk I asked about the Stonewold manuscript. He vaguely remembered something of the kind but, as at that time the manuscripts had never been properly catalogued, it was not easy to locate the book. At last we found it tucked away in a cupboard, and a perusal of it proved rather disappointing. The volume was a small octavo, consisting of some fifty pages bound in calf. It bore regrettable evidences of ill-treatment and some of the leaves were missing—obviously ripped out by a careless hand. The manuscript recorded a few minor episodes in the history of the village, and there were two brief references to the crypt.

On the second page I read: ‘Some here do still resort to a popishe holy welle in ye crypt of ye church whych, so it is sayd, was blessed by Etheldreda, the Ely abbess whych some call Awdrey. Whether those who go to ye welle do so for healing I cannot say. But many do believe that those who meet in the crypt are wytches and do there worship the devil.’

Later on was this entry: ‘There hath recently come amongst us the Lady Joanna Stanning who seemeth to have grete wealth at her command and hath bought the house of ye Hadwickes. None knoweth who she is or from whence she hath come.’

The missing leaves, which seemed to be five in number, had been torn from the end of the book, and then came the final entry: ‘Thys daye, 15 Januari 1628, was J.S. buryed in ye crypt and God grant that ye terrible thyngs of which I have written may now have an end. We have consulted wyth ye byshop and he hath ordered that ye crypt shall be walled up that, in tyme maybe, its very existence shall be forgotten.’

I copied out these three entries, but I had a feeling that the missing pages could have revealed a very startling tale. Massey was kind enough to invite me to luncheon in hall and, consequently, it was early evening before a slow train deposited me at Upton Stonewold station.

The village of Upton Stonewold is one of those lovely places which appear to have been left undisturbed by the passing centuries. There is a street of gabled houses ending in a wide green with the church and the Tudor rectory on one side of it and a charming old inn on the other. Beyond are a few mellow red-brick houses dating from the time of Queen Anne and, still further afield, three or four Elizabethan mansions which are now farm-houses.

Of the church much has been written. Any guide-book to East Anglia will tell you of its graceful tower, the sixteenth-century bells, the old coloured glass, the curious bench-ends, the unique sedilia carved with fenland flowers and birds, the rare brasses, and the fragments of medieval wall-paintings. Bourne was justly proud of its beauty and our first day together was spent in examining the building and its treasures. My friend, being a man of means, could afford to spend his own money lavishly upon beautifying the church, and he had already brought about many improvements. I could see that the high altar, with all its trappings, was of recent installation and its severe dignity was in keeping with its surroundings. Two of the side chapels had been refurnished and, in one, a lamp burned before a veiled aumbry. This type of restoration always pleases me, for I resent seeing an ancient church looking like a Primitive Methodist chapel. Anglo-Catholicism has, at least, given back warmth and life to these old shrines, and I should be the last to decry a belief which has done so much to restore beauty and atmosphere to places mutilated by ignorance and intolerance.

It was late afternoon before we descended into the crypt and I realized that Bourne had left the finest thing until the last. Two acetylene flares illuminated the undercroft and the workmen were busy opening up a group of three arched windows. This lovely underground chapel is now familiar to all visitors to Upton Stonewold but, when I first saw it, it had been closed and forgotten for three hundred years. Little is known of its history and it certainly belongs to the late Norman period. The well, which still occupies the centre of the crypt, is fed by a chalybeate spring and has medicinal properties. One of the coping stones was later found to be a Mithraic altar, and is now preserved against the west wall. In the place where the altar now stands was the low table-tomb described in Bourne’s letter. It was marked with no cross or other symbol of Christianity. In the centre of the slab were the initials and the date and, below them, roughly cut into the stone, a grotesque figure of a huge cat. The tomb is now in a deep recess in the south wall, and cannot easily be seen.

As we left the crypt one of the workmen was beginning to chip away some of the mortar which held the slab in place above the tomb. He appeared to be finding it a difficult job and complained that the hardness of the material was blunting his chisel.

The strange happenings which, for a few days, disturbed the peace of Upton Stonewold actually commenced during the second night of my stay in the village.

After dinner that evening Bourne and I retired to his study to examine the extracts I had made from the manuscript in the library of St Hugh’s. The first could be linked up with a local tradition that St Etheldreda had once visited the village, and it was not improbable that she had blessed a well formerly associated with pagan rites. We found confirmation of suspected witchcraft at Upton Stonewold in Steele’s History of East Anglia, published at Cambridge in 1709. The writer states that two witch-finders toured the district in 1619 and, at this particular place, discovered four reputed witches. Two of the women, Elizabeth Manning and Jane Brannings, had been hanged at Ipswich, and the others suffered terms of imprisonment. In the report of the trials Elizabeth Manning is said to have stated that she ‘acted upon the orders of one who came with her face veiled, and neither I nor any other knew from whence she came. And sometimes this stranger did appear to us as a monstrous cat with her mouth dripping blood and her eyes glowing like lanterns.’ Had this stranger anything to do with the Joanna Stanning who ‘bought ye house of ye Hadwickes’? Bourne said that Hadwicke was still a common name in the district, but he had no knowledge of a particular house which may have been the family home.

The mention of ‘terrible things’ in the last extract evidently referred to events which had been recorded in the missing pages. Bourne had searched the diocesan archives, but could find no reference to the closing of the crypt. We came to the conclusion that there may have been two reasons for such action. If people continued to resort to the well because they had faith in its healing properties the bishop might have ordered the entrance to be blocked as a way of ending what he considered to be a ‘popish superstition’. On the other hand the hint that witchcraft was practised in the undercroft was sufficient cause for its closure. Yet, in those days, witchcraft and the practice of the Catholic religion were deliberately linked together by those who had no love for the old Faith.

We puzzled over these things and discussed the matter far into the night. It was nearly one o’clock when we retired. I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, for I had had a tiring day. But I was rudely awakened, it seemed almost immediately, by a most hideous caterwauling. From the awful noise it seemed that all the cats in the neighbourhood must have congregated in the rectory garden and raised their voices in chorus. I lay there hoping the din would subside. But it only increased in volume and, at last, I jumped out of bed and flung the window wide. The moon was shining and, beyond the garden hedge, I could see the white tombstones in the churchyard. Perched on one of them was an enormous black cat with eyes shining like green lamps and, around it, were the dark shapes of thirty or forty of the creatures. As I watched this scene in amazement there was a tap on my bedroom door and, in response to my invitation, Bourne came in and stood at my side.

‘What do you make of it?’ he asked. ‘I swear there isn’t a cat of that size in the whole county.’

‘I wonder if the moon is creating an illusion of size by magnifying the shadow of the animal.’ I suggested.

As if in defiance the monster stretched its neck towards us and howled with ear-piercing insistence. The whole mob of cats increased their hellish din—an eerie shrieking which made one’s blood run cold. Then the sound suddenly ended. We saw the leader leap from the tombstone and the feline company slunk away among the trees. We waited until we were fairly certain that the pandemonium would not break out again, and then I closed the window and faced my host.

‘Good heavens, Jocelyn!’ I exclaimed. ‘What devilish thing has been let loose in this place?’

He did not reply for a few moments and then he spoke softly as if to himself. ‘What did Elizabeth Manning say in her confession? “And sometimes this stranger did appear to us as a monstrous cat with her mouth dripping blood and her eyes glowing like lanterns.”’

‘Don’t tell me that you blame all this upon witchcraft,’ I chaffed him in a vain effort to reassure myself. ‘There must be plenty of cats in the village and, if they all choose to dance attendance upon a visiting Tom, it is to be expected that their serenade should be something out of the ordinary.’

Bourne laughed, but I could see that he was disturbed. ‘We’d better try to get some sleep and see what the morning brings,’ he said as he made for the door. I was a long time settling down again, but eventually I slept. There were no more cats’ concerts and the sun was shining through the windows when the maid brought my morning tea. I rose leisurely for I knew that Bourne was conducting early service and breakfast would not be until 8.30. I was downstairs before he returned and as, through the dining-room window, I watched him crossing from the church, I could see that he was either very weary or still troubled. We said little until we were seated at the breakfast table and then he blurted out, ‘Jim, I think I’m beginning to imagine things.’

‘Why, what’s wrong?’ I asked with my mouth full of bacon.

‘I went over to the church about seven o’clock and unlocked the door in the north aisle. As soon as I stepped inside the building something like a large cat came up to me and, purring loudly, began to rub itself against my cassock. At first, in the semi-darkness, I thought I could see the animal. But, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I realized that no cat was visible although I could still feel its warm body against my legs and hear the low purring. I felt a little afraid and turned to make my way to the sacristy. As I stepped forward I distinctly heard the soft pad of feet preceding me and, believe it or not, I saw paw-marks on the stones. It was just as though a cat with damp feet was walking in front of me and leaving imprints which dried immediately.’

‘This cat business seems to have got on your nerves,’ I replied. ‘Were you troubled by any similar manifestations whilst you were at the altar?’

‘None at all. The only other incident out of the ordinary was when I returned to the sacristy to remove my vestments. I laid the stole on the press, with one end hanging down almost to the floor. Suddenly I got the impression that something clawed at the embroidered cross and pulled the whole thing to the ground. I picked it up and there was a tiny tear in the silk—just as if it had really been clawed.’

‘Perhaps the little tear was there all the time,’ I suggested, ‘and the other part of the business was some sort of optical illusion brought on by thinking too much about cats. A round of golf will put the whole affair out of our minds.’

But we did not get to the golf course. We had hardly finished breakfast when visitors began to arrive at the rectory and their business was all concerned with cats. It seemed that the favourite domestic pets in Upton Southwold were all behaving in a strange manner. Old Abel Radford, returning from attending to a sick animal at a neighbouring farm soon after one o’clock in the morning, had been set upon by a wild black creature. Abel struck out hard with his heavy walking stick and laid his attacker low—in fact he beat the life out of it before he discovered it to be Mrs Crook’s black cat, Sable, which was normally a most inoffensive animal. Other cats in the village had clawed children and, in two cases, so severely that the victims had to be treated by the doctor. He, the doctor, came to the rectory soon after lunch to discuss the situation with the vicar. His only explanation of the phenomena was that the cats were afflicted with a form of madness. But he couldn’t explain why this complaint should have affected them all at the same time, nor why the animals should now appear as docile and tame as usual. As he was a hard-headed Scot neither Bourne nor I dared to hint at any supernatural reason for the curious outbreak.

The most exciting item of news did not come in until much later in the day, and then it was Bourne himself who brought it. Before tea he was summoned to attend a parishioner who was dying—an aged lady, named Beatrice Turner, who lived in one of the Queen Anne houses. The call did not surprise the vicar for it seemed that the lady had been ill for some time and the end was not unexpected. He was away for over an hour and, on his return, told me that Mrs Turner was dead. Her end had undoubtedly been hastened by the fact that, in the early hours of the morning, a huge cat had gained access to her room and had attacked the poor old lady. She had been badly scratched and mauled before her cries brought assistance, and the shock had proved too much for one in her enfeebled condition. Mrs Turner’s niece, who had given the information to Bourne, had seen the cat when she entered the room in response to her aunt’s cries. With great presence of mind she had seized a hair-brush from the dressing-table and thrown it at the creature. According to her the brush appeared to pass right through the cat which turned, spat at her, and then jumped out of the window.

Another curious thing must be recorded in connection with that day of strange events. The workmen in the crypt asserted that they were troubled all the time by the mewing of a cat, but all their efforts failed to locate the animal. No further work was done on the tomb as the man, who was responsible for the removal of the slab, had been taken ill. We found that a kind of paralysis was affecting his right arm. I visited the undercroft during the afternoon and tried to chip away some of the mortar which sealed the tomb. But it was as hard as concrete and my efforts made little impression upon it.

When we had finished dinner that evening I asked Bourne if he had any kind of rifle in the house. He produced a nice little Savage .22 which, he informed me, was used for rook shooting. I loaded the weapon and placed it by the window in my bedroom. I have always been accounted a good shot and had no doubt but that I could deprive the monster cat of one of its nine lives if it should decide to treat us to another nocturnal concert.

We retired soon after midnight and, within half an hour, the discordant din commenced. Jocelyn came into my room at once and, from the window, we saw the same enormous cat seated on the same tombstone and surrounded by its company of admirers. The noise they made set one’s nerves on edge, for it was like the wailing of a hundred banshees. The moon was bright and, resting the gun on the window-sill, I took careful aim. I was certain I could hit the creature at that range. Yet, after the noise of the explosion had died away, the animal still sat there undisturbed and the caterwauling increased in volume. I was annoyed at my failure and, hastily donning trousers and coat, I told Bourne I was going down into the churchyard to endeavour to get a close shot. He hurried after me, snatching a cloak from a cupboard as we passed through the hall, and we crossed the lawn as silently as possible, keeping to the shadow of the trees. The cats appeared oblivious of our approach, for they were making such a terrible noise. I got within ten yards of the monster on the tombstone and, raising the gun to my shoulder, fired point-blank. It was impossible to miss. The explosion echoed like a thunder-clap and I saw the cats scatter with plaintive screams. Yet, when the smoke cleared, that infernal creature was still sitting on its perch apparently unscathed. It turned its baneful eyes in my direction, gave a shrill howl of rage, and jumped away into the bushes.

Both Bourne and I were now convinced that there was something uncanny about the affair. We also decided that it was in some way connected with the opening of the crypt and the figure on the tomb. We made up our minds that the next day should be devoted to a thorough examination of the church and the undercroft in an effort to clear up the mystery. It was time the matter was cleared up for that very night, although we did not know of the tragedy until the following day, Laura Weston’s baby was literally torn to pieces by a clawed animal.

I was over at the church before the morning service had ended. The congregation consisted of a few middle-aged ladies, two men and a few children. For a moment or so I watched Bourne standing at the altar and reciting the English version of the Mass. Then I quietly made my way to the crypt entrance and descended into the vaulted chamber. As soon as I entered the place I became aware of the unmistakable smell associated with cats. It seemed to be particularly strong near the tomb. The three windows had been cleared and the early morning light filtered through the openings. There was also a chilly breeze as, of course, the spaces had not yet been glazed. Suddenly something rubbed against my right leg and I heard the dull sound of purring. I looked down, but there was nothing there. I felt where the animal should have been, but my hands encountered nothing solid.

Down there in the crypt, with something like terror in my heart, I formulated a plan for the destruction of this supernatural cat. As ordinary weapons seemed useless against it, something extraordinary must be employed. I had noticed, in Bourne’s study, a fine Toledo dagger with a silver crucifix set into the handle. This was the ideal instrument for the destruction of the monster for, according to the best authorities, witches can only be killed with silver weapons and a crucifix is the best antidote to their spells. I was determined to make use of the cruciform dagger that very night.

After breakfast Bourne and I returned to the crypt. The man who had been working on the tomb was still absent, and none of the other workmen would carry on with the task. In fact they seemed to have developed a fear of the place and suspected that the fellow labourer’s illness was a punishment for interfering with the dead.

‘You see it’s like this,’ said one. ‘Poor old Bill ’as never ’ad a touch of screwmatics in his life and yet, as soon as he starts on this job, ’is arm goes so stiff and useless that he cannot lift it to down a pint.’

The men insisted that the mewing cat still disturbed them. Fortunately there was still plenty of work to be done on the windows so it was unnecessary to instruct them to attempt to remove the slab of the tomb.

I spent most of the morning examining the fragments of glass in the west window of the church. Most of it was early sixteenth century, but no attempt had been made to fit the portions into the original pattern. This has since been done and anyone, who saw those jumbled pieces prior to 1932, would have difficulty in associating them with the lovely Coronation of the Blessed Virgin which now fills the central light.

Poor Laura Weston, accompanied by her mother, arrived at the rectory just before lunch. The girl was distraught and we had to soothe her before she was capable of telling a coherent story. The old lady was even worse and, at one point in the narrative, she became quite hysterical. The tale was brief and tragic. Laura’s baby, which I gathered was a love-child, was a boy of six months. On the previous evening Laura, following her usual practice, had put him to bed in the cot, in her room, about six o’clock. About eleven she had awakened him for feeding, and the child had gone off to sleep again before the mother retired. Some time later she had been awakened by the baby’s screams and, sitting up in bed, she had clearly seen a great black cat standing over the cot. In answer to Laura’s cries her mother had come into the room just in time to see the cat disappearing over the window-sill. The two women lit a candle and a terrible sight was revealed. The child’s face was a mass of gashes and blood was splashed all over the cot. The little baby was dead—frightened to death and torn to pieces by the sharp claws of the ghostly cat. We did our best to comfort Laura and her mother, but there was little we could say or do. I had an uncomfortable feeling that, if the people of Upton Stonewold began to suspect that the opening of the crypt had anything to do with the unpleasant happenings, they might be inclined to blame the vicar.

After our visitors had departed I outlined my scheme to Bourne. He didn’t like it at all, mainly because he felt that I was exposing myself to some personal danger. He was of the opinion that, if there was any risk to be as encountered, he should be the one to take it. We argued for some time and finally I convinced him that his part was to pray for the success of the venture.

It was my friend’s custom to say Compline in the church at six o’clock. When he returned to the rectory, after the service, he said he had been painfully aware of the presence of the animal throughout the recitation of the Office, and had seen its eyes gleaming in different corners of the building. We dined quietly and then read and talked until just before midnight. Then, donning a dark coat and putting the dagger into my pocket, I made my way to the churchyard and crouched under the stone on which the cat usually appeared. The place appeared silent and deserted and, although I knew Bourne to be close at hand, I didn’t feel very happy.

The minutes seemed like hours as I waited in that cramped position. Suddenly I saw a flickering circle of green eyes and knew that the cats were congregating. Then the dismal howling commenced and, looking up, I saw the enormous black shape of the terrible cat gradually appearing on the stone above me. At first it was little more than a thin mist. Slowly it materialized until the animal, apparently of solid flesh and blood, stood there and, stretching its neck, screeched a greeting to the assembled cats. With a prayer on my lips I raised the dagger and plunged it into the heart of the foul creature. An agonized scream sounded through the night, and then there was a sinister silence. I knew that the monster had gone and I saw the dark shapes of the ordinary cats slinking away into the shadows. Bourne was at my side in a moment and, with that unearthly wail echoing in our ears, we returned to the rectory.

Bourne said his Mass as usual and we breakfasted together before investigating the scene of the previous night’s adventure. We found the tombstone to be spattered with blood, but there was no sign of the Toledo dagger. A trail of bloodstains led through the churchyard to the windows of the crypt and, on going inside, we found that they continued right up to the tomb, where they appeared to have dripped down the side from which the mortar had been removed.

Horrocks, the man who had been ill, was back at work that morning. He said that the use had suddenly returned to his arm during the night, and credited the cure to the virtues of some embrocation his wife had been applying. Both Bourne and I felt that the most urgent task was to open the tomb and ascertain what it contained. The workmen seemed to regard the job with superstitious horror. But, with the promise of suitable reward, they overcame their fears and all set to work upon chipping the mortar away. It was a difficult business and soon blunted their tools. Eventually we decided to insert crowbars under the slab and endeavour to lever it off. It took our united efforts to detach it and, even then, it cracked at one end. At last we were able to lift the pieces and see what lay within the cavity.

The tomb contained the uncoffined body of a small woman. There was no sign of decay on the aged countenance, the green eyes were wide open, and the lips were twisted in an evil snarl. The winding sheet was torn to tatters and wet with fresh blood and, from the woman’s breast, protruded the Toledo dagger. I noticed that her ears were strangely pointed and that bristling whiskers grew from her upper lip. Even as we gazed upon that hideous corpse it slowly disintegrated before our eyes until the dagger fell with a crash and only a heap of dust was left. In the cavity we found a small parchment scroll which we afterwards examined in Bourne’s study. It was written in a crabbed seventeenth century hand and said: ‘Thys daye, 15 Januari 1628, accordyng to ye byshop’s instructiones, have I, Simon Dutton, preste, buryed Joanna Stanning in thys crypt whych shall now be sealed. She hath done sore harm in thys parysh for she is a wytch.’

There is little to add to this strange story. The people of Upton Stonewold still remember the curious behaviour of their cats in the autumn of 1932. But, as there has been no further outbreak of that mysterious feline disease, the whole business will soon be forgotten.

Those who visit the crypt of the church of St Walstan see the lovely Norman vaulting, the modern well-cover with its pictures of East Anglian saints, and the richly decorated altar about which is a fine statue of St Etheldreda. Some may peer into the recess in the south wall, but the low stone tomb is almost concealed and the effigy of a cat cannot easily be seen.

I advance no theories in explanation of my story. The curious enquirer is referred to records of witch-trials in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. He will there find many references to the common belief that witches could turn themselves into cats. For example the Aberdeen witches, in 1596, were accused of dancing around the Fish Cross ‘in the lykness of cats’. In 1607 Isobel Grierson was convicted of witchcraft and the main charge against her was that she assumed the form of a cat and, in such guise, did torment Adam Clark and his wife in their house at Prestonpans. Isobel Smith, tried at East Barnes in 1629, was said to have ‘come out of a hole in the roof in the likeness of a cat’. William Johnstone, a baillie of Edinburgh, made report in July 1661 upon Janet Allan and Barbara Mylne, ‘whom the said Janet did once sie come in at the Watter-gate in lykness of a catt’. Isobel Gowdie, in her confession dated April 1662, gave the magic formula by which she transformed herself into a cat. Marie Lamont, who was tried at Greenock on 4th March 1662, confessed that she, ‘Kettie Scot and Margaret Holm, cam to Allan Orr’s house in the likeness of kats.’ The celebrated Cotton Mather, in his Wonders of the Invisible World, tells of Susanna Martin who, in the ‘likeness of a cat’, attacked one Robert Downer and almost killed him.

Hundreds of similar examples, of this general belief in the power of the witch to transform herself into a cat, could be quoted from official documents and learned books. But I will leave the reader to form his own conclusions and to decide whether a curious event in the twentieth century had anything in common with the superstitious beliefs of three hundred years ago.