Unholy Relics and Other Uncanny Tales

THE OFFICER’S COAT

A few years ago, I had occasion to inspect the documents of a very ancient north-country family living in one of those desolate Lancashire stone manor-houses that lie among the hills round Blackburn. After we had gone through two muniment-chests of which my host was very proud, he suddenly had a fit of energy and decided, as he had in me a tame records-worker on the spot, to see if anything more of historic interest could be discovered in the gable-attics, filled with the lumber of at least two centuries. At the end of an exceedingly dirty afternoon at this, we were lucky enough to unearth an oak chest which, we lamented, was of the plain, ugly type of about 1730.

It was locked, but we were easily able to force the lid, and fellow-enthusiasts may judge of our joy at finding it apparently crammed full of still more old papers and parchments.

We had lifted out several armfuls, however, when the supply suddenly ceased; my hands hit some soft cloth. This on being disinterred, proved to be a finely-preserved scarlet military coat with gold-lace facings, and though it was much too late for my periods of study, I put it down as dating from somewhere about 1790 to 1820.

My host could not identify it, and, though he had succeeded his father in the estate more than thirty years before, had no idea whether or not it had belonged to an earlier officer of the family or not. So we took it downstairs for a clean-up.

The garment proved to be so handsome a specimen, entirely free from moth-ravages, that I at once thought of a friend, Peter Sands, who is a recognised authority on costume of the 18th and early 19th centuries, and has one of the best collections in England. My host at once consented to his being asked to come over and inspect it, as he also lives in the north of England.

The upshot of this was that Sands was wired for, arrived next day and, by the time we reached the port at dinner, had persuaded my host (who like nearly all landowners in these days was feeling the pinch) to part with the coat for a handsome sum. The expert pronounced the garment as undoubtedly that of an officer of the 2nd (Royal North British) Dragoons—better known as The Greys—dating from about the time of Waterloo.

Full of elation, he carried off his prize to his bedroom in a flat cardboard dress-box, fastened up with string all ready for transport.

Next morning at breakfast, I thought Sands looked somewhat quiet and thoughtful, and he asked our host a number of leading questions, endeavouring to get a clue to the origin of the coat, but without any light being forthcoming.

As we were smoking our post-prandial pipe in the garden, he turned to me suddenly, when our host had excused himself to see the gardener, and said:

“Damn queer thing happened last night, Wayne.”

“Why,” I replied, “did those wretched owls wake you up? I had a job to get to sleep for them.”

“Owls, no!” he snorted, “something happened I wouldn’t have believed possible—that army coat came to life.”

“Now, look here, Sands,” said I, “I can stand having my leg pulled so far—but no further. Do you mean the thing got out of its box and did a dance or something?”

“No. To be serious, old man: it was a most peculiar experience, and somehow I feel I have not seen or heard the last of it yet. I woke up, just in time to hear some clock strike two, to find a man sitting on the bed looking at me, smiling, and wearing that coat. In fact, he was in the full rig of a Greys captain of 1815.

“Well, I pinched myself, and felt sure I must be dreaming, as the result of my prize capture; but no, the figure was real enough, and as soon as he spoke, I realised it.

“‘Do not be afraid’, he said, in a most cultured voice, ‘I have come to tell you how glad I am you have found my coat. I know you will tend it carefully. I have long waited for someone to find it who should do so’.

“I realised by this time that I was talking to what I suppose would be called a ghost—and that it was a golden opportunity to find out something more.

“‘I shall certainly cherish the uniform,’ I heard myself reply, ‘but would you mind telling me who you are—or were?’

“‘I am Captain John Barnby,’ the figure replied. ‘I fell at Waterloo, after more than seventy of my brother-officers and men had fallen.’

“‘But you are not of the family here at the Hall,’ I said. ‘How comes your coat to be here?’

“He smiled sadly. ‘She whom I loved was of this family,’ he answered, ‘a comrade brought home my coat and told her I should not return. If you, examine it closely tomorrow, you will see a bullet-hole through the lacing near the left breast. My loved one, Charlotte, never married. I am happy now.’

“Before I could utter another word, he had vanished. I sprang out of bed and rushed over to the dress-box. There it lay just as I had taken it upstairs, with the string untouched, and on opening it, I saw the coat lying just as I had folded it.”

I told Sands that in my view the re-discovery of the uniform had in some mysterious way caused a “thought-form” of its owner to materialise to his vision, but he left with his treasure, a sadly-puzzled costume-expert. He decided to say nothing to our host, whose wife was of a nervous disposition, as we did not wish to alarm the household with any hint of ghosts.

However, there are two sequels. The first is that a few weeks later, on compiling the pedigree of this Lancashire family, I discovered that a daughter, Charlotte, died unmarried in 1817 aged 20.

The second is that Sands was right; the matter, for him, did not end with his strange vision.

He came to spend a week-end with Granville and myself about three months after this occurrence, having dropped a brief note that he had some curious information to impart.

It transpired that in the previous week Sands had been called in to inspect, and advise upon the repair of, a number of 18th-century dresses discovered in a Yorkshire manor-house owned by a Mrs. Entwistle, widow of the lord of the manor; they had turned up in an old powder-closet found by accident during repairs to an attic bedroom.

In the drawing-room, says Sands, there was a fine collection of miniatures, which, while waiting for his hostess, he at once proceeded to admire with the eye of a connoisseur.

“Suddenly,” he told us, “I nearly fainted with shock—to see the face of none other than my Waterloo captain, in what might have been the identical coat, looking at me from one of the miniatures.”

“When Mrs. Entwistle came down, I said, as easily as I could: ‘I know who that is, Madam,’ indicating this portrait.

“‘Impossible,’ she smiled. ‘There are three of those miniatures which have no visible inscription, and which no-one has yet managed to identify, even in the family. They are all mine: that is to say, I brought them with me on my marriage from my family home.’

“‘Nevertheless’, I persisted, ‘I know who that man is. I have his uniform coat, and have spoken with what I can only suppose to be his spirit. He was Captain John Barnby, and he fell at Waterloo.’”

Mrs. Entwistle, Sands says, turned quite pale, and rested for support against a table.

“This is uncanny,” she declared. “You of course did not know, but my maiden name was Barnby, and my old home was their manor-house, near Blackburn.”

The old lady, when she had got over the shock of Sands’ recital of his experience, was determined to see the matter through. She got him to get the back off the miniature, a delicate and difficult task; and inside they found an inscription: