Arsenic of Love: The Dark Tale of Mary Blandy and the Haunting of Oxford Castle Prison

In the hallowed annals of history, Mary Blandy's story stands as a chilling testament to the fragility of innocence and the depths of human tragedy. As the fateful day of 6 April 1752 dawned, the 33-year-old "Fair Parricide" faced her impending doom with unwavering resolve and a steadfast claim of her innocence. Her serene composure amidst the impending darkness would both astonish and captivate those who bore witness to her final moments.

As the solemn procession made its way to the gallows, a poignant air of sorrow descended upon

Mary Blandy (1718/19–1752)

the gathered crowd. Mary's dignified countenance evoked a sense of both surprise and admiration, as her demeanor defied the weight of the heinous crime she was accused of. Onlookers, some of whom shed tears, were simultaneously captivated and mystified by the enigma of Mary Blandy.

A paragon of grace until the bitter end, Mary addressed the assembled gentlemen with a plea for decency as she ascended the ladder at the place of execution. "Gentlemen, don't hang me high for the sake of decency," she beseeched, a testament to her unwavering sense of propriety even in the face of imminent death. And in a moment of vulnerability, she tremulously expressed her fear of stumbling, further revealing the human frailty that lay beneath her stoic facade.

Her final moments, witnessed by those who had condemned her, left an indelible mark on the collective memory of that fateful day. Mary Blandy, the "Fair Parricide," departed from this world with the same serenity and composure that had enchanted many and defied their expectations. Her departure, tinged with tragedy and unanswered questions, marked the end of a life that would forever be etched in the annals of infamy.

Yet, beyond the earthly realm, Mary's spirit is said to linger, its ethereal presence haunting the very walls of Oxford Castle prison. Her unwavering resolve and tragic fate have woven a tale that continues to captivate the imagination of those who venture into the prison's depths. In the interplay between darkness and serenity, innocence and guilt, the legacy of Mary Blandy endures—a testament to the timeless allure of human drama and the haunting whispers of a troubled soul.

In the shadowed alleys of Henley, an intelligent and well-respected woman named Mary Blandy concealed a chilling secret that would shatter her reputation forever. Little did she know that her tragic fate would not only mark her demise but also leave an indelible mark on the very fabric of Oxford Castle prison, where her spirit is said to linger to this day.

In the year 1751, the tranquil facade of Mary's life was tainted by a fateful encounter with Captain William Henry Cranstoun, a man who would become the catalyst for her descent into darkness. As Mary's heart entwined with Cranstoun, their dreams of matrimony seemed within reach.

But fate had other plans, revealing the sinister truth of Cranstoun's hidden marriage. Unveiling the deception, Mary's father, Francis Blandy, grew suspicious and voiced his vehement disapproval of their relationship.

In her desperation to win her father's favor, Mary found herself entangled in a sinister plot. Lured by promises of a love potion, she unknowingly became an instrument of destruction. The potion, masked in the guise of affection, turned out to be the venomous arsenic that would seal her father's tragic fate.

The trial that followed was a spectacle of forensic intrigue, with Dr. Anthony Addington uncovering the truth behind the lethal poison. As the evidence mounted, Mary's fate was sealed, and she faced the grim prospect of the gallows. On Easter Monday, the solemn streets of Oxford witnessed her final moments, as she paid the ultimate price for the crime of parricide.

But even after her earthly demise, Mary Blandy's spirit is said to have found no rest. It is whispered that her ghostly presence lingers within the cold stone walls of Oxford Castle prison, haunting the very corridors where she spent her last days. Visitors and staff have reported eerie occurrences, unexplained phenomena, and an unsettling sense of unease attributed to the tormented soul of Mary Blandy.

The mystery of her actions, the conflict between love and deception, and the timeless question of moral culpability are interwoven with the haunting presence that still resonates within Oxford Castle prison. Mary Blandy's name lives on not only as a tragic figure of the past but also as a restless spirit forever tied to the dark legacy of the prison's halls.

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The Piltdown Man: Unmasking the Chilling Deception

It was a tale that could have sprung forth from the eccentric mind of Sherlock Holmes himself, captivating the attention of none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the mastermind behind the brilliant detective. In 1912, Charles Dawson, a solicitor with a passion for antiquities and aspirations to be a Fellow of the esteemed Royal Society, made a startling announcement.

He claimed to have unearthed a fossil that bridged the evolutionary gap between humans and apes. Supported by the professional paleontologist Arthur Smith Woodward, Dawson unveiled the remains of Eoanthropus dawsoni, christened as Dawson's Dawn-man, discovered in a Pleistocene-era gravel pit near Piltdown, Sussex.

This enigmatic figure, later known as Piltdown Man, possessed all the elements necessary to seize the headlines—half a million years old, utterly unique, and bearing the unmistakable breeding of England's home counties. Our oldest human ancestor, it seemed, hailed from the very heart of England, a notion that delighted the nation.

By the early 1900s, Charles Darwin's theories of evolution had gained solid ground, and the quest to find an elusive creature marking the juncture between humans and apes had intensified. Following the discovery of Homo heidelbergensis, also known as "Heidelberg Man," in Germany in 1907, the race to unearth an even older human fossil had escalated into fierce competition.

The timing of the revelation of Piltdown Man was no coincidence.

With Britain and Germany teetering on the brink of war, even ancient fossils could become pawns in the game of national rivalry. When Dawson initially wrote to Woodward about his discovery, he presented it as a rival to Homo heidelbergensis, perfectly aligning his personal ambitions with the prevailing national sentiment. Woodward, then the Keeper of Geology at the Natural History Museum in London, was naturally captivated by his esteemed colleague and friend's findings.

So, what exactly had Dawson found? In early 1912, he informed Woodward that workmen had stumbled upon a part of a skull in 1908 but failed to identify it correctly, eventually breaking it into fragments. Dawson now possessed a piece of the cranium, prompting him and Woodward to return to the gravel beds in search of more fragments. To their astonishment, they discovered additional cranial fragments, half of a lower jawbone, animal remains, and stone tools—a collection that seemingly told a compelling story of our early ancestors.

In December 1912, at a meeting of the Geological Society of London, the two men unveiled the fruits of their research. Woodward had meticulously reconstructed the extraordinary features of Piltdown Man, combining attributes that bore resemblance to both apes and humans.

The skull leaned towards human characteristics, albeit smaller in size compared to modern skulls, while the jawbone closely resembled that of a chimpanzee. Alarms should have rung at this point, but the nation was too enchanted by the idea that our earliest human ancestor was unquestionably an Englishman, much like God himself. The age of approximately 500,000 years was assigned to this newfound marvel. The scientific community greeted the results with widespread enthusiasm, and the nation applauded.

However, it didn't take long for skeptics to emerge. One of the earliest doubters was Arthur Keith of the Royal Society of Surgeons, whose own reconstruction portrayed Homo piltdownensis, his preferred name, as significantly more human-like and less ape-like—a more suitable representation of a Home Counties ancestor.

David Waterston, an academic from King's College London, published a paper in 1913 suggesting that Piltdown Man resembled a human skull combined with an ape's jaw. Despite these voices of skepticism, the Piltdown parade marched on too joyfully for anyone to rain on its parade. Even the discoverer of Heidelberg Man graciously endorsed the findings, and the public reveled in the discovery. Piltdown Man even became a favorite subject for cartoonists, and it was said that he owned a cricket bat-like artifact crafted from a fossilized elephant bone.

Woodward's reconstruction included canine teeth that leaned more toward the ape side of the family, even though the original jaw did not contain them. In 1913, further investigations of the excavation spoil heaps yielded a surprising discovery—an ape-like canine tooth that fit the jaw. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a member of the team and a French Jesuit establishing his reputation as a paleontologist and geologist, made this remarkable find.

Ironically, this discovery, which should have sealed the case, turned out to be the first major crack in the story. Arthur Keith pointed out that the presence of the canine tooth would have made it impossible for the molars to exhibit the kind of wear observed, as it would not allow the side-to-side chewing characteristic of humans.

A heated academic dispute ensued, with anthropologist Grafton Elliot-Smith, who would later gain renown for his investigations of ancient Egyptian royal mummies, siding with Smith Woodward. The disagreement caused an irreparable rift between Woodward and Keith.

Piltdown Man had profound and lasting consequences for the study of ancient humans. In 1914, the discovery of the Talgai skull in Australia was seen as confirmation of the authenticity of Piltdown Man rather than an independent significant finding. Skepticism persisted, with Marcellin Boule stating in 1915 that Piltdown Man consisted of an ape's mandible combined with a human skull.

Gerrit Smith Miller reached a similar conclusion. Fortunately for the Piltdown narrative, Dawson fortuitously discovered more skull fragments in 1915, though he remained elusive about the precise location, promptly dubbing it "Piltdown II." In 1923, Franz Weidenreich added to the controversy, declaring that the remains were indeed a human skull with an orangutan's jaw, further noting that the teeth had been deliberately filed down. By this time, Dawson had already passed away.

The final blow to the case came in 1953 when scientific investigators Kenneth Page Oakley, Sir Wilfrid Le Gros Clark, and Joseph Weiner published their independent results in The Times. Their findings unequivocally exposed Piltdown Man as an elaborate forgery, composed of the remains of three species—human, chimpanzee, and orangutan.

The teeth had been deliberately altered to resemble human teeth, and the collection had been stained with iron and chromic acid.

The question of who orchestrated the hoax lingered. Dawson naturally emerged as the primary suspect, given his opportunity and, above all, his ambitious nature. However, suspicion also fell on Teilhard de Chardin, Arthur Keith, and others, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who resided nearby and was believed to have personal motives for tarnishing the reputation of the scientific establishment.

Perhaps Dawson's stroke of genius lay in having "the workmen" discover the initial skull fragment, while Teilhard de Chardin stumbled upon the canine tooth, successfully diverting attention away from himself.

In 2003, Miles Russell from Bournemouth University exposed Dawson, the chief suspect, as a serial fraudster. Many items in his purported antiquarian collection turned out to be faked, leading Russell to conclude that Piltdown Man was the culmination of a lifetime of deception.

In 2016, a team from Liverpool John Moores University, led by Isabelle De Groote, employed cutting-edge investigative techniques such as CT scans, DNA analysis, and X-ray tomography to unravel the methods used in creating Piltdown Man.

Their study confirmed that the hoax was the work of a single perpetrator, employing material from a single orangutan sourced from Borneo and possibly three medieval humans. Dental putty had been used to hold the assemblage together. Since no additional discoveries were ever made after Dawson's demise, the prevailing conclusion points to Dawson as the mastermind behind the forgery. Elementary, my dear Watson, as Holmes never said.

Piltdown Man has been regarded in various ways: an embarrassing episode for the establishment, an amusing hoax, and even a criminal act. Yet, perhaps the most apt description, as expressed by diligent researchers in their pursuit of the truth, is a "cautionary tale." It is possible that the availability of modern investigative methods for paleoanthropologists and archaeologists received a significant boost as a result of the Piltdown Man incident, as no one ever wanted a repetition of such a deception.

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The Double Hanging Mystery of Soldiers from Mandora Barracks

ESTHER Atkins possessed an air of theatricality in her dissolute occupation, distinguished by her

flamboyant attire. At times, she draped herself in an opera cloak, while on other occasions, she adorned her silk blouse with broad ribbon sashes that cascaded from her waist to the hem of her skirt.

During the depths of winter, she mirrored the wintry conditions, presenting herself in pristine white, setting her apart from her fallen companions in her outward cleanliness.

Yet, a prostitute she remained, not exempt from the laws that occasionally led to her incarceration in Winchester Prison for indecency and disorderly conduct.

Despite her vocation, the 35-year-old Atkins, afflicted by a speech impediment and burdened by the tragic loss of her father in a sewer repair accident during her early years, possessed a fiery temperament. Nonetheless, she always took care to arm herself with a strong physique, ready to defend against violent and perverse customers.

Alas, on the fateful day of October 6, 1903, her preparation proved inadequate.

Having just been released from a recent stint in prison, Atkins found herself embroiled in trouble mere hours after her freedom was regained. She suffered a brutal assault, leaving her with grievous facial injuries that necessitated medical attention.

And yet, fate had more cruel intentions in store.

Around 11pm, Atkins stepped into a cab accompanied by three men, two of whom were serving soldiers clad in gray overcoats and donning Glengarry patterned caps—a clear indication of their affiliation with the 2nd Royal Scots Fusiliers stationed at Mandora Barracks in Aldershot. The third man had been discharged from the regiment.

They directed the driver, Robert Carter, to drop them off near the 'Red' church in the vicinity of the Wellington Statue. One of the men ominously confided in the driver his intention to rob Atkins of the £10 she had concealed within her garments.

At approximately 2:30am, a partially unclothed body was discovered in a nearby coppice.

Some doubted it could be Atkins, for had she not perished in prison just the week before? Certain individuals insisted that she possessed the strength to defend herself, while others were convinced otherwise.

Yet, the victim was indeed Atkins.

The scene that awaited those who arrived was horrifying—her head bore the marks of a savage beating inflicted by jagged branches, her body drenched in blood. It was evident that she had fought tenaciously for her life, despite being restrained by her wrists.

Soon, events took an unexpected turn.

A laborer approached a driver from the Royal Engineers, urgently sharing, "Wait a minute, friend. There were two soldiers down at the common who murdered a woman. I heard her cries for help, and when I arrived, they had killed her, stripped her, and then turned their violence towards me. I was subjected to blows upon my head, body, and hands."

Overwhelmed by fear for his own safety and recognizing the futility of intervening, he made a hasty retreat.

Curiously, he appeared unscathed.

The driver advised him to report the incident to the military authorities, who, in turn, contacted the civilian police. Accompanied by Sergeant Garrett, the laborer guided them to the copse where the lifeless body had been discovered.

Significantly, the victim's shoes were missing.

However, doubts emerged concerning his testimony.

The police were acquainted with the man, later revealed to be a former fusilier named Thomas Cowdrey. Having spent time in an asylum and possessing limited intelligence, he failed to inspire confidence during the investigation. Consequently, at the behest of the police, the entire regiment was paraded in the hope that he might identify Atkins's assailants, yet he professed ignorance.

Nonetheless, he remained a person of considerable interest to the detectives.

But the detectives were not toiling in solitude.

Major Woods, conducting his own inquiries, questioned men regarding any suspicious activity or individuals they may have observed. Private John Robertson proved to be the key informant, disclosing that two of his colleagues, William Brown, aged 27, and John Dunbar, aged 21, had been absent without permission that fateful night.

Furthermore, upon their return in the early hours, Brown had requested a towel to clean his bloodstained hands, a fact noticed by Robertson.

When interrogated, neither Brown nor Dunbar denied having absconded from the barracks or having been in Atkins's company at the Crimea Inn. They also implicated Cowdrey as the third man.

A search conducted near Brown's barracks yielded the discovery of Atkins's missing shoes, leading to the arrest of the two men on charges of murder.

Later, the cab driver participated in an identification parade, confidently singling out Cowdrey as the third passenger he had collected from the pub and transported to the vicinity of the church. Further evidence against Cowdrey surfaced through the presence of bloodstains on his attire.

Consequently, both Brown and Cowdrey stood before Mr. Justice Willis at the Hampshire Assizes on November 24. Though the two soldiers exhibited contrasting displays of composure—Brown incessantly gnawing at his lip, while Cowdrey wore a peculiar countenance, alternating between a sneer and a smile—they pleaded "not guilty" when asked for their pleas, each speaking in a resolute and audible voice. Dunbar, however, quivered with trepidation.

Addressing the assembled jurors, Mr. Justice Willis declared it to be the most appalling murder case he had the misfortune of trying, with a staggering count of 60 witnesses to be heard. The gravity of the situation necessitated that the jurors remain together until the conclusion of the trial, lodged at a Winchester hotel, with means for their essential needs to be provided.

The Crown's case was led by Charles Matthews KC, who, in his opening statement, contended that Brown and Dunbar had not embarked on a night of revelry and debauchery in search of another prostitute named Jenny Clark, as the prosecution had initially posited. Failing to locate her, they returned to the Crimea Inn, where they encountered Atkins. The three individuals walked together, with Cowdrey trailing a short distance behind.

At the cab stand, Brown inquired of Carter the cost of a ride to the Wellington Statue. When informed of the fare—two shillings—he acquiesced.

Subsequently, Atkins and Dunbar proceeded toward the small woodland, with Cowdrey again following behind. Meanwhile, Brown engaged in a dispute with the driver over the fare before eventually joining the others.

That marked the final sighting of Atkins alive, Matthews informed the court. "She was forced to the ground, and a fierce and savage struggle ensued. Seven wounds were found upon her head, inflicted by a blunt, heavy object, possibly the buckle of a soldier's belt. Injuries to her face suggest they were caused by a branch from a tree, half of which was discovered near the woman's lifeless form."

Despite the considerable number of witnesses called forth during the trial, the proceedings concluded in a mere four days. Each defendant sought to deflect blame onto the other for Atkins's demise. Brown acknowledged that he and Dunbar had gone to the copse with the intention of engaging in sexual activity but claimed it was he who had attacked Atkins after Cowdrey confirmed she carried money.

Dunbar admitted being present at the scene but maintained that he neither assaulted her nor possessed any knowledge of a plot to rob11 pmher.

In his closing remarks, Mr. M. St. Gerrands contended that the jury faced a straightforward decision. "It is a matter of murder or nothing," he reasoned. "You must decide whether these men, who possess every opportunity to lead fulfilling lives, should be acquitted or face a violent and dishonorable death."

Expressing skepticism toward the prosecution's claims, particularly the notion that they would rob a woman known for her destitution, he remarked, "It is the product of a fevered imagination. No more improbable a tale exists than that a man fresh from committing a heinous murder would immediately proceed to the barracks and say to a comrade, 'I have blood on my hands; lend me a towel.'"

Following a 40-minute deliberation, the jury convicted Brown and Cowdrey, who were promptly sentenced to death, while Dunbar was acquitted.

The circumstances surrounding the discovery of the shoes raised significant concerns that they had been deliberately planted by an unknown party subsequent to Brown's arrest.

Although Dunbar mounted a campaign asserting his compatriot's innocence and placing the blame solely on Cowdrey, Home Secretary Aretas Akers-Douglas refused to intervene. Consequently, on the morning of December 16, at 8 a.m., the two men made their final journey of 30 yards from the condemned cell to the looming gallows.

As the noose was tightened around his neck, Brown confessed, "Before I depart this world, I confess my involvement."

Cowdrey then exclaimed, "Grant me five minutes to speak the truth. God has aided me in my innocence. I am bound for Heaven. Brown is the perpetrator and has confessed."

Hardly had the words "I helped" faded from Brown's lips than they were executed.

And the somber tolling of the prison bell reverberated.