Welcome to Ghostly Tales of the Unexplained with your host, Simon Edwhistle. Well,
a very good evening everybody. My name is Simon Entwistle. I am
a professional tour guide. My job of courses to take people around the northern
counties of Great Britain. The vast majority of my stories are all based on
ghosts, murders and indeed, Mistress, I do have a book called ghost
Details that Unexplained. You can get this on the Amazon and a lot of
the stories you've heard over the years on this station, of course, are
in the book. I do have two YouTube channels. One is called Tales
from the Graves, the other is called Tales from the Darkness and these can
be viewed on YouTube. Now this will be my very very last show on
Paranormal UK. I've enjoyed being with you, but I've literally run out of
stories. But I'm going to bring in my last stories tonight and the subject
is going to be is their life after death? Well, these are two
stories that are linked together and I'm going to leave you to find out whether
you feel there is life after death. Now, I went to a Church
of England primary school at a young lad and we learn all about the Bible,
etc. Etc. And like most Christian schools, we were told about
heaven and told about life after death, et cetera, and living in a
totally different place with your soul, if you will. Now, I don't
criticize anyone's religion. I've got friends who are Catholic, I've got friends who
are Jehovah's witnesses. I've got friends who are Mormons. I've got friends to
a Muslims. And the one thing I never do is criticize their religion,
because I believe it's a personal thing. However, this first story is very
much religious. We're going to tell the clock back now to a Sunday afternoon
in two thousand and five and watching a game of football on television. It's
a February afternoon, and the telephone rings. My wife picks up the telephone
and I can see it on her face, a rather shocked expression. I
realized that something was very very serious. She looked at me and inform me
in the most diplomatic way she could do that my brother had died that morning
of a massive heart attack. Now I was shocked. You've all been there,
of course, you've all lost relatives, loved ones, etc. But
for me, it took three days to actually absorb the shock of losing my
brother. He was only fifty two years old. I took some time off
work compassionate leave, if you will, and I knew where the funeral service
was going to take place. It was going to take place in a little
church in South Cumbria called Saint Peter's Church in the village of Heavisham. My
dad is buried there and I knew that my brother would definitely go in the
same grave. However, three days before the actual funeral, I felt obligated
to actually go to the little village. I just felt I had to go.
I drove at the M six motorway and made my way to the little
village of Heavisham. It was around ten to fifteen in the morning. As
I walked into the church, it was empty. The church is never ever
locked for religious reasons. I had sat down in a pew and memories came
flooding back of the family going to that church for services, etc. But
also my days at primary school because the local primary school was allied to Saint
Peter's Church. In fact, it was called Saint Peter's Church of England School.
As I sat down, I was awoke from from my memories by two
very elderly ladies. They seemed to come from nowhere. They were, I
would say, probably in their eighties, but they had very very pleasant faces.
Because I was sitting alone in a pew, they were concerned about me.
And one of these ladies walked across and said, excuse me, are
you all right? I told her the reason I was there because in three
days time my brother's funeral was going to take place. Now, these two
elderly ladies, they had lovely expressions on their faces, and they sat on
either side of me, and they said, can we please pray for you?
Now? Of course, this wasn't something alien to me, and I
shut my eyes and I heard these two ladies taught the Good Lord upstairs.
And I suddenly felt a hand, the palm of a hand on my forehead,
and I thought it must be one of these ladies sitting next to me,
who's doing just that. But as I got my eyes, they both
and their hands clasped together. But I could still feel this hand on my
forehead. It felt like my brother's hand. He had quite small hand,
really, but I could almost feel the curvature of my brother's hand on my
forehead. I know it sounds hard to take kin, but I could really
really feel it. And all of a sudden, there and then I realized
that my brother had gone to the other side, and it was his way
of trying to make contact to me through these two elderly ladies, just to
tell me that he was okay, but living in the next world. The
two ladies finished their prayers and I thanked them both very much indeed, and
I felt huge relief. I got up from the pew, I walked a
few feet away to the door. As I turned round, there was no
one there. The two women, the two elderly women, just seemed to
have disappeared. I got back to my hometown of Clitheroh some fifty miles away,
and as it happened, I was walking for the town center of clithero
and I came across one of the local clergymen from the town who I knew
very very well, and I told him exactly what had happened and how my
brother had meant so much to me, and a huge smile chemic across his
face. Is that well, first of all, Simon, that was your
brother's hand on your forehead, and the two elderly women sitting next to you
were actually angels. Well, that certainly shot me. But I'm looking back.
As I left the church that I had turned there was no one there.
So is their life after death? Well, I personally think so.
And our next story is very very much on the same link I had And
do have a good friend in the town. He has given me permission to
use his story. But I'm going to call him Andy and we're going to
turn the clock back in time now to a little village in West Yorkshire called
Gisbon. Andrew and his friend Stephen were having a very good drink in one
of the local public houses. Now we are all told about the dangers of
drink driving, very very serious in any country. If you're caught drink driving,
it's a fine. You might also take your own life and the lives
of other people, but you can also go to prison, certainly in the
United Kingdom, for dangerous driving and killing people, etc. Now they had
two pints of beer too much. Both men were over the drink drive limit.
Andrew climbed to the front of his four Grenada car in the pasterna seat.
His pal climbed into the other side behind the driving wheel, and they
both put their seat belts on, and they set off at great speed the
six miles from Gisbon into the town of Clitherhom. They took a corner far
too fast, skidded across the road and hit a huge beech tree. The
engine came off its mounting and crushed Andrew into the back of his chair.
His ankles were broken, his fibulas were broken, his hip was broken,
his chest cavity was broken, his sternham and clavicle, and he of course
was knocked unconscious. Immediately the fire crews arrived, the ambulance arrived, and
the police arrived. The fire crews had to literally cut the top of the
roof out completely to get both men out of the vehicle. Andrew's body was
carefully lifted out after the fire cruise had managed to lift the engine off him.
He was laid down by the side of the vehicle and pronounced dead on
the spot. The driver, well, he was very, very fortunate because
the engine went to the left and he was relatively unscathed. The ambler's cruise
walked over and said the old he's definitely dead. Looking at Andrew's body with
a terrible interest to his chest, legs and ankles. That's when in quised
the police officer knelt down next to Andrew and noticed the flicker in an eyelid.
Is still alive? Is still alive? He shouted, well. A
helicopter arrived to take him to the nearest hospital. And Andrew's placed inside the
helicopter. On the journey from the Yorkshire border to the town of Blackburn to
the Royal Infirmary in Blackburn, he had a cardiac arrest. He was defibulous
to get his heart going again, and the captain in charge of the helicopter
thought, this is so serious, we need to get into a special needs
hospital in the city of Manchester. On the journey from from the crashes out
to Manchester, he had another cardick arrest. He was deeed fribbed for the
second time, and when the helicopter land at Manchester there were stretch teen's waiting
for him. He was rushed straight into theater. And this is really where
Andrew's story actually starts. He said, Simon, I know you won't believe
this, but I actually watched my own operation. I said, that's impossible,
Andrew, It's impossible. Oh no. I left my body. I
went to the top of the ceiling of the operating theater and I looked down
and I saw staff working feverishly on my chest. My chest was wide open
with clamps. Nurses and doctors were working feverishly to him up at the blood,
and I could see them are panicking. But I felt completely at ease.
In fact, I've never felt so at ease in my life. I
felt no pain, no panic. And then this beautiful music seemed to come
from nowhere. It was gorgeous music, almost as if the Beach Boys had
met the Beatles. It was beautiful music, and I felt I wanted to
go towards the music, but something stopped me. I then noticed one of
the doctors walk from my body to the sinks in the theater. A nurse
took off his plastic gloves, took off his mask, and I could see
an Asian gentleman with a very very thin, pencil thin mustache. I heard
him talking. He said to the nurse who'd taken the mask off from the
gloves, don't you worry, my dear. We shall be an ibtha very
very soon. I then re entered my body. Now. Andrew was actually
unconscious for three long months. He was put into what we call an induced
comber. Remember was his body was so badly damaged he had he was in
a plaster cast, his anchors, his hip, his knee joints, his
fibula and fema that were all broken, and this took time to heal.
Also, he'd had heart surgery. He came round some three months later to
the joy of his mother and father sitting by his bedside. His mother boast
into burst into tears. Andrew, you're back with us, You're back with
us. He felt so happy, and also there was no pain, and
he managed to get out of bed that day and slowly staggered towards the window
sill when he was told the head surgeon was. The surgeon came upstairs and
into the private room of the hospital and said, oh, Andrew, we
are so glad you're back with us. We fought fieriously to save your life.
Andrew said, oh, yes, sir, I saw the whole thing.
How said the surgeon, I was watching the whole operation from just above
the ceiling of the theater in pasible Andrew. Impossible, said the surgeon.
Oh, sir Andrew, by the way, how is your holiday in Ibitha.
The surgeon's face stiffened. Andrew, how did you know that? Oh?
I remember you're talking to the nurse. You said, My dear,
we will be in Ibitha. Well, said the surgeon. Andrew, I
can't deny that the nurse was actually my wife. And yes we had a
great holiday in Ibitha. So Andrew's story and my brother's story, I think
proves something there is another life after this one. Let's continue with another story,
and indeed one of my favorite stories. We're going to make our way
again to the market town of Clitheroh. Clithero is in the town of in
the county of Lancashire, and Lancashire as a county was world famous for the
textile industry. In fact, the Lancashire textile workers used to boast let's clothe
Great Britain before breakfast and the rest of the world afterwards. That's exactly what
they did do now in towns such as Nelson, Cone, Blackburn, Burnley,
Ottletwistle, Clithero Preston, Manchester, these textile barons made a lot of
money. Of course, all the cotton had to come from Louisiana and Mississippi
and Egypt. But when it came to texts as this county literally clothed the
world. Of course, to get the cot they needed what's called cotton traders,
and one such chap was called Jonathan Martindale. He came from a village
called Bromley Cross, near the Manchester town of Bolton. He would go to
Liverpool, he'd watch the ships come in and there he would literally buy cotton
from the retailers. And he would take samples from each cotton bale and then
placed those in a leather pouch, and he would then sell them to the
textile barons of Lancashire and Yorkshire. His coach arrived at the Shaw Residence,
textile barons, in Clitheroe on a bitterly cold December day eighteen seventy four.
It was so cold inside the coach that John Ty's coat had nearly frozen to
his body. He rushed inside the Shore residence, this rather beautiful mansion,
and there was Missus Shaw. Oh, John Tyre, have you got some
good cotton for me? I haven't indeed, Missus Shaw, but I'm just
rather worried about my wife. She's it's being our first child, and I
did tell her that I'd be by her side when she goes into labor.
Oh, don't worry, Jonathan said, missus Shaw. There's a hot meal
few there. There's a warm drink few there. Your coach and horses have
just gone around the back of the building, and you'll be on your way
very very soon. They're just being fed and watered. John Ty consumed his
meal. He consumed his drink. He then paced the two bottom floor rooms
of the residents, waiting for the coach to arrive. It became slightly dark
outside as dust came in, and there he could clearly see six horses and
a coach. Ah, that's my coach, he shouted. He left the
shore residence very very quickly, taking the order book with him, and climbed
inside the coach. Inside it was damp, it was musty, and as
his eyes became accursed in to the light, he realized that in there with
him were two other people that gave the the distinct impression of being female.
One lady sat next to him with her head bound down, her face obscured
by a Victorian bonnet. Right in front of him, another woman, her
face also disguised by a Victorian bonnet. On her lap was a baby wrapped
in a blanket. But Johnty noticed something. The three of them didn't really
seem to be making any movements. He tried to earn a conversation, going,
excuse me, ladies, would you mind please we just own this window.
It's not very nice in here. No answer. The coach jutted forward.
Johnty made a second request, excuse me, ladies, would you mind
vee on the window please? No answer. He made a third and final
rest, would you mind if I opened the window? Please? No answer.
He stood up. He reached the leather strap attached the window frame to
pull the window down to let some fresh air into the rather abnoxious smelling coach.
As he pulled the leather strap down, to his horror, the whole
of the side of the coach came in his hand. The window casing was
rotten like bolsward. As he fell off the side of the coach, he
heard a scream that went straight through him. He gingerly turned to the right
and noticed that the woman sitting next to him had slowly lifted the face and
where there should have been a face was a hollow, dark cavity. Johnny
screamed in terror. He full out of the coach and banged his head.
He came round on the pavement in Clitheroa town center with a rather nasty head
wound. He stood up in a swirling, swirling blizzard. Heavy heavy snow
came down from the heavens and a biting wind ripped into him. He walked
the half mile back to the Shore residence and as he got to the door
there was Missus Shaw. Johnty let me dress at headwind, be being well.
I got the coach. This woman shed no face, this one she
had a baby. Jaunty calmed down, calmed down, said missus Shaw.
Your coach is still around the back of the building in the stable block.
Your horses are still being fed and watered. And if you look outside,
the snow is so deep and so thick that any coach had arrived here would
have definitely made an imprint. Johnty spent the mind at the Shaw residence.
The following morning, his original coach was ready and he made his way back
to Bromley across Bolton, just in time to work as the birth of his
baby daughter. But he did some research and found that the Lancaster Manchester coach
had left Clitheroe in eighteen seventy one to get to the city of here in
Preston. It had to go through the village of Chipping. As he made
his way towards the village of Chipping, there's a ravine there on either side
of the road, which is still led this very very day. A huge
gust of wind caught the Lancaster Manchester and blew it down the side of the
ravine, killing six horses, a driver, an elderly lady, and a
young woman and her baby. It seems very likely that John Martindale got into
a ghost coach that night. They say, when it's really really quiet,
the sound of a galloping sound of galloping horses pulling a coach can be heard
leaving the shore residence, almost like a But we're going to stay at the
shore residence for a totally different story. That was eighteen seventy four. We're
now going to go to nineteen thirty five. Now, around that period of
time, for the very very first time, the Lancashire texta workers had foreign
competition, mainly from the USA, China, Japan and India. A delegation
arrived from the United States of America in nineteen o three. They came from
a place called Spindle City in Boston, Massachusetts. They knew about the Langshire
text. The workers, particularly a gentleman or a female called a tackler.
What's a tackler, Well, he or she could tackle the laksha loom.
What's a Langsha loom? It's a weaving machine. And the Lancashire tackles were
the best in the world. They were very, very quick, five ten,
fifteen times faster than any foreign counterpart. Now the United States to realize
this, and they said, we're sending all this cotton from Louisiana, Mississippi.
We should be weaving in ourselves. Just one problem. We don't know
how to do it. But they knew the Lancashire tacklers did. And a
delegation arrived at Cone Nelson, Otwotwistle, Accrington, Blackburn, Burnley, Clitheroe,
Preston and Manchester. And they waited for the tacklers to leave the factories
and then they would say, excuse me, sir, we can have you
five times as much as you're earning here in Lancashire. We'll even pay for
your trip across the Landing Ocean. We'll promise you a forty hour guaranteed week,
and you'll even have your own homes as well. So thousands of Lancashire
tacklers left the Red Roads County and made their way to Spindle City, Boston,
Massachusetts, where they not in the showed the American town to we properly,
but the Chinese, the Japanese and the Indians as well. And as
a result, the textile industry here in the United Kingdom suffered greatly. In
fact, it was indeed the death nail in the actual coffin of the industry.
The Shaw family they knew this as well, and in nineteen thirty five
they put up their beautiful residence for sale. They decided to emigrate to Canada.
Before they left the shores of the United Kingdom, Missus Shaw employed a
local artist of the name of John Carradace, and John painted the building.
He got his easel and oil paints in front of the mansion and he very
very carefully painted it, getting every single detail to sheer perfection. However,
there was indeed a discrepancy in the oil painting the top right end window.
He created what you and I would call an optical illusion. As she walked
up towards the painting, a figure appeared in the right hand top window that
looked like a man with a long black coat, silvery blonde hair, and
his cigar or cigarette in the mouth. You stood back, the figure disappeared,
You stood forward. He came back again. It was indeed an optical
illusion. Carradace may have used too much paint. The canvas could have become
kinked, but he created what you and I would call an optical illusion.
In fact, he didn't even see it. He finished the painting and gave
it to missus Shaw. She was furious when she saw the figure in the
right hand window. Mister Carradace, I did not pay you to put this
man in that window. Oh it's not a man, said Carradace. It's
where the canvas has become slightly kicked. I may have used a bit too
much paint there. You will eradicate that figure straight away, said missus Shaw.
Otherwise I will not pay you. With a minute swish of the brush,
That's exactly what us did. And the painting then hung in the main
entrance of the shore residence. That night, Missus Shaw's eldest daughter, Jacqueline
became engaged to a Blackburn Rovers footballer called Neil Williamson. Neil was a left
back for Rovers and he even paid for England. He was quite a tough
lady. They had a fantastic party, a brilliant engagement party, and Neil
was given that room where the figure had been eradicated from the window frame.
In the early hours of the morning, Neil turned over, he felt a
cold temperature drop in the bedroom itself. He opened his eyes and there standing
by the window was a man with a long black cos on, silvery blonde
hair, and a cigar or cigarette in the mouth, and Neil thought burglar.
He got out of bed very very quickly and took a swing at the
character. His fists went straight through him. The figure dissolved, but left
a very very strong aroma of tobacco. He sat on the bed, shivering
with fear. He'd seen something very very paranormal. He rushed next door and
told Jacqueline, who starting to laugh. Jacqueline's brother James and Ian also laughed
as well, and so did miss the Missus Shaw. However, within five
days they had all seen the same character. At the end of their beds.
It was Jacqueline who sussed the situation. I've got it, I've got
it, she said. The person we've all been seeing is the person that
carried us eradicated with the paint brush and the right hand window of the of
the painting. It is, said missus Shaw, that painting is going.
They gave it to fellow textile barons in the town of Acront and the Springfield
family. The Field mills have long since gone, but Springfield House is still
in the town of Acrington to this very day. It's a huge mansion,
once the home of the Springfield family who owned Deed text bal barons. The
painting hangs in the dining room because the building is now a care home for
the elderly. Our ghostly character has followed the painting now. I mentioned this
story on BBC Radio a few years ago and the switchboard of the British Broadcasting
Corporation was absolutely jammed with people who had actually worked at Springfield House as nurses
and care assistants, and they'd all seen this character. The one question we
all asked for these eyewhits accounts was who did he look like, Well,
they all said the nearest description they could come up with would be the nineteen
sixties British Prime Minister Harold Wilson, a man who had a love for a
long black coat. He had silvery blonde hair and a love for tobacco.
This very day, the building is now the museum, the Clitheroe Castle Museum,
and in the museum, of course, there are some very very treasured
artifacts, including a three thousand year old Egyptian mummy other artifacts, and the
building is very very secure. It has burglar alarms, and in the nineteen
nineties, particularly August nineteen ninety, the burglar arms kept going off and four
police cars containing sixteen police officers arrived on the scene night after nightber Each time
they arrived they found the building was actually quite secure, and this went down
from four cars to three, from three to two, and then to one,
and from four officers to just one officer. One of these officers arrived
as usual. He heard the burglar arms going off. He had a set
of keys. He knew what the school was going to be. There'll be
no one there whatsoever. He used his key to open the front door.
The museum and walked upstairs to turn the burglar arm off to reset it.
As he made his way to that top room to turn the burglar arm off
and then put it back on again, he smelled tobacco, rich smelling Virginia
tobacco, and of course, in all British public houses and indeed museums,
you cannot smoke any tobacco whatsoever. Some people believe that the ghost in that
painting is still at the old mansion which is now Clithero Castle Museum. Very
very near the museum is indeed Clithero Castle. Well, it's not really a
castle, it's actually a Norman keep over eight hundred years old. The most
instant story relating to it would be the English Civil War of sixteen forty two
sixteen fifty, where the castle was garrisoned by Royalist infantry under command of Captain
Cuthbert. For our American and Canadian friends, the English Civil Wars started because
of a thing called democracy. For many many years, of course, the
royal family they would indeed rule, this made all the rules and regulations.
But we had for the very first time what's called parliament democracy, and the
head of the parliamentarian authorities was called Oliver Cromwell, and he approached King Charles
the first sir, it's about town. This country is run by the people,
not by the royal family. The King was appalled and the country is
split. Those people who wished to fight for the king were knows civilcally as
royalists. Those poops to fight for Parliament were known as parliamentarians, commonly known
as roundheads and cavaliers. Over thirty years of bloodshed, the Parliamentarian forces got
the upper hand and they marched all over England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland
to stamp their authority down. One of the very very last battles was the
Battle of Preston. Of course, to get to Preston, Chromall's forces had
to come through Clithero where they met some very very serious opposition at Clithera Castle.
Their imagery pros were all repulsed from the castle. So therefore General Asherton
of the Parliamentarian forces said, bring up Humpty Dumpty. What was humpty dumpty?
It was indeed a breaching cannon. Now if you go on the internet
you can find Humpty Dumpty. You'll find it in the Caribbean. In one
of the Bermuda Hotel gardens. The Rinlet's there is because after the English Civil
War all the Royalist prisons of war were sent to the Caribbean, not to
get a suntan, but to work in the sugar cane fields as slaves,
and Humpty Dumpty went with them. Now, the fighting was quite ferocious and
they brought up Humpty Dumpty. It took one hour to load it, it
took one second to fire it, and they sent a huge salvo, a
huge shell right for the side of Clitheroat castle. The white flag was raised
and the garrison surrendered. A crude prisoner war count was built at the base
of the castle, and in the early hours of the morning three Royalist officers
escaped. Letenant Aiken, Lieutenant Casewell and Captain Rockcliffe. There escaped with the
town of Clithero, but their uniforms quickly gave them away, and all three
men are brought back for execution by beheading. Their fellow POWs had to watch
the executions. As a deterrent. These three men had to kneel down.
They have their hands tied behind their backs and they put their head on the
block. What we call the chopping block. Before the axe came down to
remove their heads from their spinal cords, each man shouted, God save that
king. They were loyal to King Charles the First, even in their last
second of life. We now pick up the story many many centuries later,
in nineteen eighty two and harpast two in the morning, when a police patrol
car made its way up towards the castle itself for a smoke break. It
shows you how busy clithero pleases, doesn't it. Really. They're enjoying their
cigarettes, and above the sound of the engine that was still running to keep
the radiator going to keep them warm, they all heard the words God save
the King. That's strange, said the sergeant. Half past two in the
morning a Tuesday morning. Who are the right mind to be up there?
They climbed out of their police vehicle into a biting, fierce cold wind.
They had their torches with them and they made them with the spiral staircase and
enter the Norman keep. They shone their torches on the wall and all of
a sudden, one officer screamed in terror. The other two turnaround in times
to a Royalist soldier walk out of the limestone outcrop and straight from their colleagues.
Now, the police officers had all seen some very very unpleasant sights in
their lives, but not one of them had seen anything as paranormally active as
this. They rushed down spiral staircase into their waiting vehicle, reversed at great
speed, hitting a horse trough in the ground to the castle. They drove
their badly damaged vehicle back to the police station, where their colleagues laughed at
them. They found their story absolutely hilarious. However, one man did not
laugh. He was the death sergeant, the duties sergeant. He said,
look, boys, I believe you. I'd been a bobby in Clithero for
some thirty five years, and I too have seen the ghosts of Oldcastle.
I must say at nighttime it can be other a spooky place to visit.
Summer ten years ago I got a telephone call from a lovely lady who works
in a gorgeous old public house called the Lower Buck in the village of Waddington
in the West Riding of Yorkshire. In dates back to seventeen twenty nine.
But we're going to turn the clock back in time to the sixteenth of May
eighteen thirty three, and the landlord was a gentleman of the name of Thomas
Southworth. Thomas was highly respected. He had a loving wife and eight children.
On this beautiful May day, he left his own residence, the Lower
but Public House, and walked into the village of Waddington to buy some meat
from the local butcher, a gentleman called Thomas Crowder. As he made his
inside the butcher's shop, he was quite horrified to see Thomas Crowder assaulting Missus
Crowder, and he said, I just can't stand and watch this man beat
his wife up. I'll have to intervene. And he said, Missus Crother
were very very nasty beating from her husband Thomas. He left the butch shop
very very quickly, and that night Crowder came into the Lower Book public House
severely intoxicated. He shouted as he made his way inside the Lower Book,
pointing at Thomas south and shouted, you've been telling people about me itch to
me wife, haven't you. I've told no one at all, said Thomas.
I love you for this, said crowd. There a fight took place
which went for the front bar and out into the cobblestones in front of this
beautiful old inn. It seemed Thomas was getting the upper hand for the second
time inside twenty four hours, when Krowther reached into his pocket and produced a
very very sharp knife. He caught Thomas three times through his breast cage and
straight into his heart. Thomas fell to the floor in the art of his
wife, bleeding profusely, and he was swung by his children and died in
his wife's arms. In the meantime, rather starts to run away. He
makes his way along the banks of the River Ribble to the next village called
West Bradford. There he has met by the local village police officer, PC
William Pinder. Pinder arrests him and because this took place in the West Riding
of Yorkshire, he is sent to the City of York and paraded in front
of the York City Magistrates. There he has found guilty not of murder but
of manslaughter and he is deported to Tasmania. Now, I'm sure many of
you have been to the York muse Museum. Well, that used to be
the old prison and it's been a beautifully turn into a museum now, but
it was the old prison. You can see all the cells there and you
can see the excise yard and scratch into the wall of the excise yard are
lots of names of prisoners waiting to be sent to the colonies. You can
clearly see the name of Thomas Crowder. He's used a nail or a file
to scratch his name into the side of the wall. Thomas Crowder, Waddington,
West Riding of Yorkshire, twenty third of May eighteen thirty five. And
the spuic side of this story is they organized an overnight vigil at the lower
book. That's the barmaid and her five friends. And the whole idea is
they we're going to raise money for what we call the air Ambulance, which
is run by charities in this country. The whole idea was to raise money
by staying this Hall Died public house. The five girls got their sleeping bags
together in the main bar, which has a beautiful slate floor. They huddled
together, but in the earlier of the morning, this barmaid called Catherine,
opened their eyes and although it was dark, because the shape of a man
hold the hand of a little girl by the doorway. She had her camera
with her. She took a photograph and the figure disappeared. The photograph was
so good, so clear, it got onto the front page of the local
newspaper and indeed the British National Press. Who else could it be than Thomas
Crowther, a man who loved the end so very much, indeed, and
of course his eight children. He is buried at Saint Mary's Parish Church in
the market town of Clitheroe, and the whole story is actually on top of
his grave. The whole story quite unique, but also a very very sad
story. Our next story we're going to continue in the Old West Riding of
Yorkshire. It is certainly a ghost detail, but also one that it affected
scott and Yard and the West Riding of Yorkshire Police Force. We are going
to tell the clock now to March the eighteenth, nineteen thirty four and the
Bashel Eves murder. Jim Dawson was a farmer. He was very very well
liked. He was forty six years of age. He had served through World
War One and he loved farming the land in the Old West Riding of Yorkshire.
He also enjoyed a pint of ale and March the eighteenth, nineteen thirty
four he walked the two miles from his farm to the local public house,
which was called is called this very day, the eddies Ford Bridge. According
to the landlord John Barnes, he consumed six pints of Yorkshire bitter, followed
by a glass of gin, and then walked home. It was a pretty
breezing night. There was sleet in the air and quite high winds. As
he made his way down the lane, a car came from nowhere and the
car headlamps illuminated a figure three hundred yards down the lane, looking down the
lane towards Jim. The car went past and danced ascended into the lane once
again. Jim was only eight hundred yards from the back door of the kitchen
on the farm where he lived when he heard a metallic click. Was that
something being loaded and felt a severe thud to the shoulder and thought it chucked
a stone at me. He got back to the farm, his two sisters,
Missus Lee Missus Pickles were waiting for him. They'd made a three course
supper for him. He sat down at the table and he enjoyed a very
large meal. They also gave him another bottle of beer and he consumed that
as well. He went to bed at half past two in the morning,
he complained of an agonizing pain in his left shoulder. His two sisters came
rushing into the bedroom. They removed his pajama jackets. They found blood on
the bed. They turned him over. He had an open wound under his
left arm. They called the doctor. Doctor Cooper arrived and looked at the
wound. Mister Dawson, I call me wrong, but I think you've been
shot. Don't worry, we will get you to the Rawal Infirmary in Blackburn
straight away. At the Royal Infirmary they took an X ray and they found
he had indeed been shot, but not by a conventional bullet, but a
rather ugly shaped bullet the shape and size of a bird's egg that was deeply
inbedded between two ribs under his left arm. Mister Dawson, we shall remove
this right away. A look of shock and horror came across Jim's face.
Oh no, you're not touching me. I've served through World War One.
I've seen lads die of in bullets, decking out of them. You're not
touching me, the surgeon's pleaded, mister Dawson, you had been shot.
We need to remove this bullet. Right away. You're not touching me.
Well, Jim was an adult. They couldn't force him. All they could
do was put a bandage over the wound and send him back home again.
On arriving back in the beautiful West Riding of Yorkshire, the first thing Jim
did, though, was contact the West Riding Police Force. They sent two
officers, Inspector Blake and is to Elliott, two officers that had just dealt
with a rather serious case in the city of York. When they saw this
beautiful counterside, they thought, oh, this will be a piece to cake.
Oh I we'll catch this person very very quickly. They sat down with
Jim and the first thing Elliott said was, mister Dawsome, last night you
walked down this long, leafy country lane. You said you saw a figure
in the car headlamps. How tall was he? What color hair? I
don't know? Two far away, said Jim, I can't give a description
whatsoever. So therefore the two West Riding police officers did not have a lot
to go on. They asked all the local people from the surrounding area to
go to the local public house with their shotguns, their air weapons, their
pistols and their rifles, which they did do, and this is when a
strange thing happened. No one talked. When Elliott and Blake asked individual questions
to individual people, they wouldn't talk. They all clammed up. Even the
children refused to talk. Never shot. The two West Riding officers said they
realized that there was something rather strange taking place, but they couldn't force people
to talk, but they refused to. On the third day after the entry,
Jim's wound turned septic and septior seemed to fill his entire body. He
was rushed back to the Royal Infirmary for an emergency operation to remove this rather
ugly shaped bullet the shape and size of a bird's egg, from in between
two ribs under his left arm. The surgeons successfully removed the bullet, but
the damage was done. That night, poor Jim Dawson died of scepter SA.
The West Riding Police Force now realized they had a murder on their hands,
and murder for that period of time in Great Britain was very very rare
because of a death sentence. The murder reached the front page of the every
newspaper in Great Britain. The West Riding Police officers could not get a single
lead because the locals would not taught to them. But this was murder.
They could not close the case. They needed help, and help came from
Scotland Yard. They sent one of the most famous detectives that pid of time,
Chief Inspector Sir robt Churchill. He was seventy seven years old. He
had retired no fewer than fifteen times. But because this case was rather awkward,
rather delicate, they needed a ballistics expert and they needed his professionism.
As a young lad in eighteen eighty eight, Robert Churchill had been a police
consortable in what we call the Metropolitan Police in the City of London. On
the thirtieth of September eighteen eighty eight, he came across the fourth victim of
what we now call the White Chapel murderer. He was on point duty at
Migor Square. He came across the badly mutilated body of the fourth victim,
Catherine Edos. She was in a terrible, terrible state, badly mutilated.
As Churchill looked up, he saw a man and a crossmter Square with a
knife in his hand, wiping the blood off the knife with part of the
petticoat he had ripped from Poor Catherine's petticoat itself. Churchill gave chase. He
said, this man was running so fast he couldn't even hear the sound of
his footsteps, and he believed he was wearing some form of rubber shoe,
because there was no sound from his feet whatsoever. He tried to keep up
with him, but the person who we now call Jack the Ripper just literally
faded the way into the night of White Chaple itself. He was the only
police officer ever can face to face what we now call Jack the Ripper.
He became a celebrity, and he rose for the ranks of the Metiman Police,
and he found himself now in nineteen thirty four as a retired chief inspector
who had been knighted by the King in the market town mclithero. When he
arrid at the Rower station, he was met by the Daily Mail, the
Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mirror, and he boasted, Oh yes, I
shall have these peasant farmers behind bars. By three o'clock this afternoon, he
had the river Ribble dragged, with the help of the Lani Staburi and the
Yorkshire can Staburi then they could not find the murder weapon. The bullet that
was removed from poor Jim's flesh was sent to the blistic section at Scotland Yard
where the forensic scientists had a look at the bullet and they said, the
bullet is homemade. It will not fit any known caliber rifle in the world.
Is being made from cheap agricultural metal, is being placed on a lathe,
rotated at high speed to make it more sharper and more aerodynamic, and
fired from some form of strange weapon. This bullet will not fit any known
caliber rifle in the world. It's been fired from, possibly a crossbow,
possibly an air weapon, but the murder weapon has never being found. Sir
Robert Churchill went back to Scotland Yard, the laughing stock of the British press.
He had not got his man. The two West Riding Police officers,
Inspector Elliott Inspector Blake, were also ridiculed by the West Riding Police Force.
However, the people of that little area known as Bashel Eaves, they know
exactly who shot Jim Dawson. They know why he was shot, but it's
the most jealously guarded secret in the whole of the Old West Riding of Yorkshire
and who's known simply as the Bashel Eaves Murder. From there we shall make
away to the rather pictures village of Chipping again in the Old West Riding of
Yorkshire and the story of the young girl called Elizabeth Dean. Elizabeth was nineteen
years old and she came from the city of London in eighteen thirty five.
She was looking for work. She heard about the textile industry in the north
of England and she made her way up to the town of Preston, where
she obtained work in a textile or factory. The one thing she did need,
though, was accommodation. She made a way to the beautiful little village
of Chipping, situated outside Preston, and she walked into this rather gorgeous old
inn called the Son Inn. She met the landlord, a chap called Harry
Wiseman. And what Wiseman said, He alass as body, as you would
do really well working behind my bar. You'd bring a lot of male customer
near you, would lass? Do you want a job? She thought,
well, that's better than working in a factory. Yes, I'll accept your
job, thank you. So she was given a job as a scully maid.
She of course would wash all the dishes, she'd make the beds,
she'd serve food, and of course she'd serve flagons of real ale. When
she was there, she met a good friend who became an exceptionally good friend,
of the name of Alicia Trainer. They really hit it off together,
these two. They're both the same age, and they enjoyed their job,
and so did Lizzie. She thought, I'm away from the smog and the
smoke of London. This is heaven compared to living down in that horrible,
horrible, grimy city. I'm breathing the fresh West Riding air. I'm living
in a lovely little village. And as we're going to get better for her,
at least so she thought. When a handsome young lad called David Freeman
came to the front door and took one look at Lizzie and became besotted with
her. Within three days, David had actually proposed a young Lizzie, and
quite surprisingly, although she didn't actually know him, she said, yes,
I'll marry you. Apparently David was rather good looking chap and she seemed to
be quite happy with this arrangement. Now Saint Bartholamew's Church is situated right next
to the Sun Inn in the village of Chipping. They made the way across
the road into the church where they met the vicar, the Irreverend John Duckworth,
and they planned their happy, happy day. Well. She went back
to work with a skip in her step. She met a very good looking
lad. She was away from London. Her future seemed to be so happy
now, a handsome young husband and a lovely place to live. But things
were going to turn very, very sour. Just two days before the wedding,
David got cold feet Lizzie. I'm right sorry, Lizzie. I don't
want to marry your love, but I would like to marry your best friend,
Alicia. You can imagine the poor girl's heart was snapped in two.
How insulting, how painful to be told would like to marry her best friend.
Well, the relationship between Alicia and Lizzie was very fraught. When they
made the beds, they would turn their backs in each other. When they
served behind the bar, they would turn their backs in each other. On
the day of the wedding, Paul Lizzardine made her way upstairs to the attic.
She opened the attic window, which overlooks the pathway leading to Saint Bartholomew's
Church. She tearfully watched the groom arrive. She tearfully watched the bride arrive.
The pain that poor Goo's heart was so painful. As she heard the
organ playing and hymns being sung inside the church and the wedding vows about take
place, she made a decision there and then to take her life. She
made a noose for herself. She placed the noose around her neck and she
tied the end of the rope to the end of the bedstead in the attic.
She then shuffled out onto the window sill and waited for her time.
She waited for the door of the church to open, for the wedding party
to leave the front of the church, and walked down the pathway whilst people
showered them with confetti. When she heard the wedding march, she swallowed deeply.
She waited for her time. The door opened and out came David and
Lycia, arm in arm with relatives and people attending their happy day. Then
she decided to jump. As she jumped, David and Lycia looked up and
they saw her literally strangled to death on the side of the building with the
rope around her neck. Of course, the wedding ceremony was wiseman. The
landlord got a ladder. He placed the ladder against the side of the building
and climbed up. He cut young Missy down. In her hand was a
suicide note saying I wish to be buried at the entrance to Saint Bartholimw's,
so David and Lysia go to church, they don't have to go past my
grave and fill remorse for what they've done to me. And she is indeed
buried at the entrance to Saint Barthol's Church. To this day I take coach
partied into the village and I take to the grave and tell them this rather
rather sad story. However, Lizzie's ghost the old son Inn. She's been
seen by many many people, and over Halloween period is quite common to see
TV crews from across the world. They will go there because she has been
very very well recorded. In nineteen ninety nine I received a telephone call from
a gentleman from Edinburgh. He informed me that his wife and family were been
on a holiday and they drove from Litham Saint Anne's to the little village of
Chipping at that period of time in the nineteen nineties to firm called the Berry
Chair Works where they made chairs. They had a showroom where he could buy
chairs and tables which were all handcrafted. When they arrived in the village,
the mother and the two daughters thought they would go to the showroom whilst the
father made his way inside the Son Inn. In those days you could smoke
in public houses. He ordered the pinter veil. He sat down. It
was a Tuesday morning, eleven thirty. He was the only person bar the
landlord in the pub at the time. He felt his pipe up. He
locked up and saw a young lady wearing a dress that looked like it had
been washed thousands of times. Her hair was in ringlets, and she seemed
to be a very thin, slight young lady. He tried to make vocal
contact with them, but to know she couldn't hear him. She then turned
walked straight towards him through the table he was sitting at, and out of
the old brick wall where there used to be a door. He nearly cholted
his pipe. He screamed out the landlord Stephen King rushing down from upstairs and
said, don't worry, don't worry, You've seen the ghost of Lizzie Deane.
She's been with us since the fifth of November eighteen thirty five. I
have never seen her, but many people who have, and it seems that
she's somehow stuck in a time warp. Perhaps she feels really, really annoyed
with the way she was treated by David and Lysia. We shall never ever
know. Well, folks, we've come to the end of my time on
Paranormal UK Radio. It's been an absolute pleasure to have been with you for
these years. But would you believe I've literally ran out of stories. But
if you'd like to hear these stories again, you can buy my book We
Should on Amazon under Ghost Details of the Unexplained. I do have two YouTube
channels, what is called Tales from the Graves, the others called Tales from
the Darkness. So I'd like to thank Evidence Paranormal UK Radio for putting up
these past years, and I'd like to wish everyone, including you who've listened
to this broadcast all the very very best for the future. Thank you very
much. Indeed,