Haunted London (6 page)

In March 1928, June, the well-known musical comedy actress, was occupying the large dressing room used by Jessie Milward at the time of Terriss’s death. Terriss had been in the habit of tapping a couple of times with his stick on the door of his leading lady’s dressing room as he passed — a little reminder that he was in the theatre. June usually refreshed herself with a light meal between matinee and evening performances, which she consumed in the very pleasant dressing room with its three windows and open fireplace; afterwards she often had a nap until about seven o’clock. On the day in question she had just settled on the chaise-longue for a rest when the couch began to vibrate and lurch, for all the world as though someone was kicking it from underneath, but a careful search revealed nobody under the chaise-longue and nothing that might account for the peculiar movements. No sooner did she lie down again than the movements recommenced and she felt a number of light blows on her arm and then she felt her arm gripped tightly by an invisible hand. Suddenly she noticed a greenish-coloured glow of light hovering in front of the dressing table mirror. Rising from the couch where she had been trying in vain to rest, she walked towards the dressing table, watching the luminous glow all the time. Arriving there and still observing the pale-green light flickering in front of the mirror, she put out her hand towards the light, whereupon it instantly vanished, but she saw raised weals on her arm where ‘something’ had gripped her forearm. After a moment she heard a couple of taps that seemed to come from behind the mirror and then there was silence.

The stage door of the Adelphi Theatre in Maiden Lane where William Terriss was murdered and where his ghost has been seen in recent years.

When June’s dresser, Ethel Rollin, arrived, June related her experiences and then heard for the first time about strange happenings at the theatre. Time after time, the dresser said, just after June had gone on stage, a couple of raps would sound at the door but when she opened it, there was never anyone there. During the course of a séance held in the dressing room, at which psychic investigator Harry Price was present, nothing of real interest happened, but no strange lights or tapping noises were reported for some months afterwards. Four years later, when people suggested that the whole affair was a publicity stunt, June reasserted that she had heard the noises, felt the blows on her arm and seen the strange light; she was still satisfied that her dresser had answered unexplained knocks at the dressing-room door. In 1962, two members of the theatre staff saw what might have been a similar light to that seen by June thirty-four years earlier. It was after everyone else had left the theatre and the dark stage was lit only by two pilot lights. Without warning, one of the stage-hands felt uncomfortably cold, although a moment earlier he had felt normally warm, and in looking about him for some explanation for the sudden and extreme drop in temperature he saw a curious glowing light that seemed to be lit by some kind of inner radiance. Glancing at his companion, he saw that he too was staring at the strange form which seemed to float just above the stage and to be shaped something like a human body. The two men fled in terror and next day reported their experience to the manager, asking to be transferred to work away from the front of the stage, but on being told that they had probably seen the long-established and harmless ghost of the famous William Terriss, they agreed to continue working as before!

Albery Theatre (formerly the New) where the ghost of Sir Charles Wyndham has been seen backstage.

THE ALBERY THEATRE, ST MARTIN’S LANE

The Albery Theatre (formerly the New) in St Martin’s Lane, was built by Sir Charles Wyndham, and his ghost, a handsome figure with wavy grey hair, has been seen backstage, crossing the otherwise deserted stage and disappearing in the direction of the dressing rooms. Film and stage actor Barry Jones told me that he was talking to an actress at the New, during a break in rehearsal, and they both moved aside to allow a grey-haired man to pass them. He nodded an acknowledgement as he went by and then crossed the stage and disappeared from view towards the dressing rooms. His distinguished appearance intrigued Jones and after a moment he too crossed the stage and asked an attendant who was standing beside a door (through which the man must have passed) which way the man had gone, but the attendant said no one had passed him for some time and he had never seen anyone answering Jones’s description in the theatre. Suddenly Barry Jones realized that the figure he and his fellow-actor had seen was Sir Charles Wyndham who had also built the theatre that backs on to the Albery and which bears his name.

Aldine House, Bedford Street, Covent Garden, where a suicide returned in August 1972.

ALDINE HOUSE, BEDFORD STREET, WC2

One of the household staff told me in August 1972 that he had four times heard noises he could not account for in the vicinity of a small room on the first floor of Aldine House, Bedford Street, when it was occupied by Dents the publishers. The noises — the sounds of heavy breathing, coughing and footsteps — were heard over a period of three months, and my informant told me that on the last occasion (on Wednesday 16 August 1972) he was so certain, although he saw nothing, that ‘something’ was there that he ran away and left the light on in that particular room, fearing what he might encounter if he went inside.

The coughing on this occasion sounded very close at hand, almost over his shoulder. He always heard the noises during the early evening, about 6 p.m., when he was touring the building, putting out lights and closing windows. When the housekeeper reprimanded him for leaving a light on, the staff member immediately admitted that he had indeed left the area of the old building very quickly because he had become frightened, after hearing noises that he could not explain. The housekeeper replied that he was not surprised for other people had noticed mysterious noises on that particular landing and indeed his wife had, on one occasion, heard such odd sounds that she had become frightened and telephoned her husband on the internal telephone, from a nearby office, and he had come down at once with a torch and investigated, but nothing was found that might have caused the noises. That time the noises were heard much later at night.

The housekeeper also discovered that many years ago a man had committed suicide in the room where the noises seemed to originate. At the time of the disturbances the building was in process of changing hands — perhaps the ghost was worried about what might happen to its habitat!

I found it interesting to note that the ‘phenomena’ seemed to be mounting in intensity. At first slight noises suggesting someone in the room, then distinct footsteps and louder noises until on the last occasion they seemed to be outside the room and at the very elbow of the staff member doing his rounds. Furthermore, each person who experienced the noises was certain that someone or something was in the room as they reached the corridor leading to the room; on the occasions that the noises were heard they somehow ‘sensed’ that there was something there before they heard anything, although on scores of other occasions they found the area quite normal in every respect.

I tried to discover more about the suicide, whether it had taken place in the evening (which is most probable) and whether it had occurred during the summer months, when the noises were heard; but I was unsuccessful and now, since the building is likely to be completely altered, London has probably lost yet another of its ghosts.

THE BRITISH MUSEUM, BLOOMSBURY

One of the most interesting cases of haunting in London is or was associated with the mummy cases of a high priestess of the Temple of Amen-Ra. Perhaps the best way of presenting the story is to relate the somewhat differing accounts told to me by the various people concerned. It does seem indisputable that from the time the mummy case passed into the possession of an Englishman in Egypt about 1860 a strange series of fatalities followed its journey and even when it resided in the Mummy Room at the British Museum sudden death haunted those who handled the 3,500-year-old relic from Luxor.

Count Louis Hamon, ‘Cheiro’, the palmist and astrologer, used to relate that he once read the hands of a young man named Douglas Murray and that as soon as he took his visitor’s right hand, he experienced a feeling of dread and terror. He felt that the arm would not long remain attached to its owner. In addition ‘Cheiro’ saw the hand draw a prize of some kind and said that from that moment a series of misfortunes would commence and soon afterwards Murray would lose his arm.

A few years later the same man revisited ‘Cheiro’ with the empty sleeve of his right arm fastened across the front of his coat. He said he had been in Egypt with two friends and while in Cairo an Arab showed him a finely-preserved mummy case, the hieroglyphics describing its ancient owner as a high priestess of Amen-Ra. The enigmatic features of the young princess were beautifully worked in enamel and gold on the outside of the case.

When his friends heard of the wonderful find they each wanted to buy the mummy case and eventually it was agreed that the three friends would draw lots for the opportunity of bargaining for it. Douglas Murray won, and the same evening he completed arrangements for the purchase of the mummy case and for its package and despatch to London.

A few days later, duck-shooting on the Nile, Murray’s shotgun exploded and shattered his right arm. In an attempt to hurry back to Cairo he was hindered by tremendous headwinds and it was ten days before he obtained expert medical attention; by then gangrene had set in and the arm had to be amputated. On the return journey to England both Murray’s companions died and were buried at sea. Back in London and feeling far from well himself, Murray found the mummy case unpacked and waiting for him in the hall of his home. There was something ominous about it. The face he had thought so young and beautiful now seemed old and full of malevolence, and when a reporter asked to borrow the mummy case in connection with an interview she was writing on Douglas Murray, he found that he was glad to know that the case was leaving his home.

Misfortune seems to have struck the unfortunate journalist as soon as the mummy case entered her home. Her mother fell downstairs and died as a result, her fiancé ended their engagement, her prize dogs went mad and she herself became ill. Her lawyer, with whom she had been preparing her will, decided that the mummy case was worrying her and he had it returned to Douglas Murray who decided to give it to the British Museum.

Still not feeling his old self, Murray obtained the services of a friend to make the necessary arrangements with the museum authorities and this man, himself an ardent Egyptologist, had the mummy case sent to his home where he studied the hieroglyphics. Within weeks the man was found dead. His servant said that his master had been unable to sleep ever since the mummy case had arrived at the house.

Eventually, the mummy case went to the British Museum and before long stories began to circulate that something unfortunate always happened to anyone who tried to photograph or sketch the mummy case. ‘Cheiro’ claimed that the British Museum authorities removed the mummy case from public exhibition and presented it to a museum in New York and that it disappeared when the ‘unsinkable’ Titanic sank on her maiden voyage across the Atlantic.