Episode 3. The Casebook of Dr Miller- Case 2, pt1. The Topsham Devils.

Dr Oliver Miller, after his experiences in Devon the previous year, returns some months later on his first 'chosen' case, to investigate the Topsham Devil. A case that may have more in common with his previous visit than he would at first have believed.

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Transcript

Dr Oliver Miller- Case 2

The Devil’s Footprints

February 1855 South Devon- Original Event

References:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Devil%27s_Footprints

https://skeptoid.com/episodes/4031

The Topsham Devil 

February 1898

In the months following on from the extraordinary experiences that I was privy to in Devon, I found increasingly that I could not give my full attention to the demands of my occupation of coroner for South London. I found myself instead being constantly distracted by the memory of poor John and his seeming erasure from history.

More and more I was drawn to searching out accounts of happenings in the area. Most, if not all, smacking of pure folk law or superstition as might be expected in those remote places where simpler folk live in closer contact with the natural world than they do to the sciences and understanding that those of the larger metropolises have become accustomed.

However, searching the archives I found an article that seemed to have some credence to it. The Times of the 16th of February 1855 edition and The Illustrated London News of the 10th of March 1855 both made note and reported on a most unusual incident in South Devon, that had according to the articles been witnessed by many folks over an exceedingly wide area.

Firstly, the report appearing in two such renowned sources gave weight and credence to the matter, and furthermore the event being associated with the county in which I, myself, had experience the strangest of happenings, made it doubly so of interest to me.

Feeling both the weight of my practice and of poor John’s disappearance I saw the discovery of the aforementioned articles to be a sign that I should take a sabbatical to return to Devon and to endeavour to put my mind at rest. The guilt of walking away from the Farmhouse on that ill-fated day weighed heavily on my mind, and in truth it still does, sadly due to my inaction, I feel that it always will.

I shall say no more on the matter of my sabbatical other than to relate that my decision was not met with any great enthusiasm, there being many and constant cases that require investigation in London, and coroners being thin on the ground. I allayed some of the fear and objections in agreeing that I would consult on cases if required, and that I would if absolutely necessary return to London on occasion to aid with any particularly troublesome investigations.

So it was that in early February I found myself disembarking somewhat midway from the Exeter to Exmouth train at Topsham Railway Station. The case I was now investigating had links with both Exmouth and Topsham and the areas betwixt, and with Topsham being an historic port I had deemed that it would make for a good base for my investigations. Topsham itself, I had been as it turned out- reliably informed, was an attractive historical port town located on the river Exe.

I had reserved rooms at The Salutation Inn which proved to be a well-maintained early 18th Century three story building a short distance back from the river. I later discovered that the Inn had quite the history with links to smuggling and of possibly more interest to me and my current preoccupation, apotropaic marks, clusters of circles, carved into the main entrance wicket door- marks better known as witches’ marks- a ritual protection to ward off evil spirits. Had I knowledge of marks such as these previous to my first visit to Devon some few months earlier, I would have marked them as of little noteworthiness other than local flavour. Now, they were of true interest, leaving me with an extremely uneasy feeling, and the thought that all I took for granted as a man of science may not be the whole truth of things. I had no idea then of the extent of the truth of my concerns or of the failings of science to perceive let alone truly understand the true nature of the world. Fate was such that I would soon enough start to understand the failings even if I still cannot fully comprehend what I now know to be true.

I made myself as comfortable as one can in a room that is only borrowed for a short time and not one’s own and I sat at the small writing desk the room provided, determined to make a plan. To my shame I have to say that I had little to no idea of where to start. It is one thing to methodically investigate the method by which a person has met their often-untimely death, using learned and well-practiced scientific methods, another to begin to investigate a ‘unearthly’ happening from some almost fifty years prior.

I had carried my research so far out in the newspaper archives of London’s libraries. I was however certain that there would be no such opportunities here. I had already learned that the nearest library was to be found in Exeter. So where to begin. I had made the journey full of exuberant plans of ‘getting onto the trail’ of the story, but now my mood fell somber as I accepted my own shortcomings in this kind of investigation. I mulled these matters over in my mind for the remainder of the evening and it was only after dinner while sat in the cosy lounge of my temporary home, that it hit me. Where was it that people gathered to tell stories and where tongues became looser- after a few drinks- in a public house! The events being as I have previously mentioned nigh on forty-five years ago this would mean that witnesses would be few. Any of a sensible age at the time would now be in their late seventies at least, even a child of ten at the time would now have reached their mid-fifties- and they and any in their teens at the time would hardly make for the most reliable of witnesses. This however I deemed was all I had to work with for now, and being my only idea, it was in effect, my best idea.

Having ate rather well and in truth having drank a little too much- drowning my sorrows as such, I resolved to explore the town and surrounding countryside the very next day. The first- to spy out suitable premises to visit the following evening to mingle with the locals, and the latter to get a feel for the lye of the land where events unfolded in 1855.

I awoke later than I had planned, undoubted a result of the long journey the previous day and my drowning my sorrows. Once dressed I proceeded out on foot only to realise that the surrounding countryside was far wider, than foolishly, I expected and that without a plan or direction to go in- any proposed investigation would be pointless. Returning into Topsham I embarked on the second part of my plan- to find the most likely public houses. The town proved very pleasant indeed, and with time to spare, my wanderings in the wider countryside having been curtailed, I soon found a couple of likely spots. I reasoned it now being close to lunch time that any of an age to properly remember the events of 1855 may well be heading to or indeed already taking advantage of the local public houses. With this in mind, and with my stomach complaining loudly for lack of breakfast, I entered the last public house I had earmarked for having some promise.

There were some such locals as I had hoped to encounter and I lost no time in sitting at a table close to them and at the first opportunity asked, as a visitor to their hometown, if I may buy them a drink.

The offer was gladly received, and it was not long before they were enthusiastically imparting the wisdom of the local area. I listened intently, nodding approvingly, looking shocked and gasping where I felt it was appropriate and this seemed to bring me into their trusted circle. Feeling the time was now right, I asked if they had witnessed the ‘Devils Footprints’. There was a silence for a moment, and I must admit I thought that I had pushed my luck too far. Relief flooded through me as they drew their stools in closer to the table and leaned in conspiratorially. I too leaned forward pulling my stool in close.

I was asked how I knew of the events, and I offered that only what I had read upon finding some old newspapers in the attic. They immediately proclaimed that the newspapers had no idea and they had only reported what they wanted folks to read and in doing so had missed out the majority of the facts. They had also made it all about the Devil- when in reality the local people had said ‘the devils’ meaning unnatural creatures. It had been a harsh winter and the skies had for the most been extremely clear. Locals from Exmouth to Exminster had witnessed fast moving lights on the moors. Lights that traverse the landscape at incredible speed and with incredible brightness. The lights would then shoot rapidly upwards to be lost to sight. These happenings had been ongoing for some time but there had been no sign of anything else. Some farmers had reported their dogs wildly barking at nothing in the night but beyond that just the lights.

The snows came in rapidly and it was then the- what the papers reported as the Devil’s footprints were made. The papers reported these footprints going on for nigh on a hundred miles. A single line of them.  The locals knew better. There wasn’t a single line, in places prints crossed, and then there were long gaps, the prints starting from nowhere- no tracks in, just out. Spanning two nights farmers for miles had reported not being able to calm their dogs and many reported sounds as insects buzzing outside their properties. Tracks were also found around a couple of farms that had been derelict for years.

My excitement at finding locals so willing to talk now turned into a regret of having embarked on this path as there were uncomfortable resemblances to the recounting and disappearance of John the farmer. I had before I embarked on my journey studied such maps as I could find on the area, and I was only too aware that Totness and Bovey Tracy were not that many miles to the Southwest of my present location, although the events were separate by nearly half a century.

There were, my new ‘friends’ assured me, ‘many expert explanations’ given for the events. The word expert being delivered in a derisive manner, ‘by out-of-town folk, better than us, who knew better’. I was assured no offence was meant or to be taken my being an out of towner and a ‘city folk’ as they put it. I was too preoccupied by the similarities between my experience and these events to be offended. There were theories and explanations put forward from Kangaroos escaped from a private collection to an experimental ballon contraption that hadn’t pulled up its anchor, or some such. It was also proposed that the marks were made by a badger- at this point there was a round of raucous laughter- as though we don’t know what badger prints look like! I haven’t seen no bloody badger that has hoof shaped prints, that’s for sure!

Fearing that the copious amount of ale and scotch now consumed would preclude any further useful information I determined to bid my new companion's farewell, when one leaning forward confided in me, ‘if you want further proof then you could do worse than the vicarage at Clyde St George about a mile and a half out of town to the North East. The vicar there at the time, Reverend Ellacombe, had been sent letters by all accounts from parishioners and friends including other clergy from surround towns on this very subject. It was announced amongst unified nods of acquiescence that if you wanted someone who could be counted on to be truthful than you couldn’t do better than a man of the cloth. Apparently, there were also tracings of the footprints and returned letters that had been sent to the Illustrated London News. The tracings apparently having been made by the Reverend G. M. Musgrove, the vicar of Withycombe Raleigh. Emphatic nodding and ‘ayes’ seemed to indicate that this was proof enough of the validity of anything held at the vicarage.

This being as good as I could have hoped for and feeling that no further time spent here would yield anything of more promise than this, I purchased a parting round, thanking all for their good company and wishing them all the best of health.

Now here was a plan, a course of investigating well worth the following. The vicarage was as close as one could possibly hope for and the information I sought was recorded on paper and not just resigned to mere memory. There were also multiple accounts, and far more importantly they were recorded at the time of the events and not put to paper in the following weeks, months or years when embellishments or errors in recollection could play their part.

My exuberance was for now however, short lived, as I came to the realisation that in my exuberance to gather the information that had led me to this possible course of action, that I had, (I console myself now in believing necessarily in order to play my part), drank rather too much. I could not with all good conscience present myself at the vicarage with the odour of alcohol that I was far too aware was present around me. I was also, I have to admit, a little unsteady on my feet- and so with the disappointment of a child on Christmas Eve realising that they have to wait another day, I resigned myself to a day of leisurely activity their being nothing else for it. The vicarage, letters and tracings would have to wait until another day.

The following day, when rising and drawing back the cosy rooms curtains, was heralded with a light covering of snow on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Due to my room being on the third floor, I could also see some of the surrounding countryside which showed white against a light grey sky.

In my haste to follow up on the proceeding day’s investigations, I ate a frugal breakfast and wrapping up warm against the cold strode off through town and in a general north easterly direction presuming that the vicarage and church being so close that I would easily spy the church tower.

My presumptions were not unfounded, and I easily spotted the tall red sandstone tower of the church of Clyst St George. The church stood somewhat to the East of the small village surrounded by farms. Entering the church, I found the vicar to be replacing kneeling cushions on the wooden benches. He smiled and welcomed me to the church, and I must admit for a moment I forgot the niceties and as having been delayed by my disposition the previous day rushed straight into my line of enquiries. He looked somewhat taken aback for a moment but then quickly recovered and politely asked if I would like to accompany him to the vicarage where we could discuss the matter further in warmer surroundings- it was exceeding cold inside the church. Walking back down the centre isle I noted with some interest that scratched into one of the wooden benches was a symbol with more than a passing resemblance to those adorning the entrance way to The Salutation Inn. I made a mental note but decided not to muddy the waters by asking anything of it, as I wished for full attention to be on the events of 1855.

Being somewhat alert, maybe due to the bracing cold of the air through which large flakes of snow were now falling or possibly being so focused on anything that may pertain to my course of investigation I noticed, while scraping off my shoes, carved into the lintel of the vicarage door the same symbol that adorned by my lodging and the bench at the back of the church. The Reverend Hollingworth, as he had introduced himself, made no comment, although I am sure that he followed my gaze as it fell on that ward.

I shall not relate the ensuing conversations save to say that they were genial and after being asked after of the reason for my interest in the letters I offered that I had been researching some family history and I understood that a distant relation may have written one of the letters. Looking back now, it was a flimsy explanation to say the least and when pressed for a name I could only come up with Dunn, a name I had spotted on a headstone in the church yard.

If my host had any suspicions he did not show or voice them, but rather leading me into the study and bidding me to sit at the desk he brough down from one of the weighty bookshelves that encompassed the room on three sides a wooden box- which he placed on the desk before me. The Reverand Ellacombe, he informed me had taken the events of that February in 1855 so seriously that he had kept all correspondence in this box and had left instruction for those that followed him, that they should keep the correspondence together in the box. This instruction had been dutifully passed down through successive clergy. Seeing I think that I was eager to open the box, he made his excuses and said that should I need anything he would be found in the church.

 The contents of the letters, of which there were some two and half dozen, all confirmed the recollections of the locals I have spoken to the previous day. Reports of the foot or hoof prints, prints that started and stopped with no sign of where to or how whatever made them had progressed from that point. Of livestock becoming disturbed and of working dogs barking incessantly at the night, of buzzing or crackling in the night air. There were letters of indignation at the reporting of the event and of the presumptions made. The most interesting proved to be the tracings of the Reverend G. M. Musgrove. These showed semicircular ‘hoof prints’ of approximately several inches in diameter. The centre of which was entirely hollow, but the prints as described were deep. The stride however was described as longer than any cloven domesticated beast would produce. The resemblance to the depictions of the church of the cloven hooved devil was certainly apparent. However, interestingly of the four letters from clergy, no mention of the devil was made. Two however did mention in query- ‘related perhaps to the deep ones?’

I spent some considerable time reading every word and taking notes and on the chime of the grandfather clock in the hallway I realised that I must have by now exceeded my welcome. Opening the box once again to carefully replace the letters I noted carved faintly into the inside of the lid the apotropaic marks which were becoming an all-too-common occurrence in my visit to Topsham. This I felt was no coincidence and warranted further looking into and I was correct in my assumption as time was to reveal.

For now, however, I determined that my next course of action would be to visit Withycombe Raleigh, the parish of the former Reverend G. M. Musgrove.