It was Christmas 2022, and I was between projects, whiling away the holiday by mulling over my favourite Georgian romantic poets, and wondering if some episode in their often eccentric lives might provide a spark for my next historical mystery.
Modern biographies are all very well, but the most fun and detailed accounts are often contained in older ones, usually heavier on narrative and lighter on analysis. Accordingly, I was sitting in the festive kitchen, idly reading Alexander Gilchrist’s 1880 Life of William Blake, when I first came across the extraordinary story of seventeen-year-old Blake’s involvement with Westminster Abbey.
Blake, then apprenticed to an engraver in London, was sent to the abbey to make sketches of the tombs and monuments for a forthcoming book. “From 1773, the Gothic monuments were for years his daily companions,” Gilchrist says. “Shut up alone with these solemn memorials of far-off centuries, the spirit of the past became his familiar companion.”
This seemed very romantic – and nicely humanised by the fact that he often got locked in when the vergers forgot about him. I could already easily imagine strange goings on between the hundreds of eerie carved figures which crowd the abbey.
But then, reading on, the plot thickened.
In 1774, members of the London Society of Antiquaries appeared at the abbey, with permission from the king to open the tomb of Edward I, “Longshanks”, of Braveheart fame. The tyrant who threw his son’s lover bodily out of a window, sent Mel Gibson to be disembowelled, and pinched the Stone of Scone. (Other accounts of his character are available.)
Edward’s tomb was of special interest to the antiquaries, since his will had ordained that after his death (in 1307) his tomb should be regularly opened and his body embalmed so that it might accompany any future English army against the Scots. This task had apparently been faithfully performed throughout the medieval period but the custom had been forgotten during the English Civil War and Commonwealth.
When Longshanks’ tomb was opened, the antiquaries were delighted to find the still-robed, well-preserved mummy holding replicas of Edward the Confessor’s coronation sceptres which Cromwell had melted down a century earlier.
“I cannot help hoping that Blake (unseen) assisted at the ceremony,” Gilchrist ended his account of this little episode.
By now, I certainly hoped so too, and only a brief recce on Google revealed that Gilchrist had missed out the best bit: Blake hadn’t just been present; he’d actually been roped in to sketch the mummified body of the king for posterity!
What could be more fabulous than Westminster Abbey, the Society of Antiquaries, medieval mummies, and William Blake all together?
The Society of Antiquaries was the archaeological equivalent of the Royal Society for scientists. Its members were very eager to find physical evidence for old historical accounts, some of which read like outrageous fiction to us today. The earth had been created at twelve noon, on the 23 October 4004 BC for instance; and Britain’s origin story involved exiled warriors from Troy fighting giants and tossing them off the cliffs at Totnes.
The driving force behind the Society’s request to open the tomb was the elderly Joseph Ayloffe, who went on to write the official account of the event, ably assisted by (among others) fellow antiquarian, Daines Barrington.
Barrington was a member of the Royal Society as well as the Antiquaries and, with the characteristic chutzpah of the times, was a prolific author on a remarkable variety of topics: childhood prodigies (how created?); bird song (a language?); and the possibility of reaching the North Pole (James Cook was to be roped in). With such eclectic expertise, opening the tomb of an ancient king wasn’t going to faze him!
Nowadays such an undertaking would doubtless be hedged about with safeguards and sucked-teeth warnings, but they were an intrepid lot in those days. And even a hundred years later, the Dean of the Abbey cheerfully dug up dozens of tombs on the flimsiest of pretexts. Such irreverence in such a reverent place seemed even riper for murder and mayhem.
I was lucky enough to see the Abbey accounts for 1774, with all the names of the gardeners, vergers and other abbey servants of that year neatly inscribed beside their wages. Their names make it to the novel, but my badly behaved clergymen are all fictional, along with the outrageous, murderous consequences of what Gilchrist calls that “highly interesting bit of antiquarian sacrilege.”
Bells of Westminster by Leonora Nattrass (Profile Books) Out Now
London, 1774. The opening of a royal tomb will end in murder...Susan Bell spends her days within the confines of Westminster Abbey, one of many who live in the grounds of the ancient building. Her father, the kindly but foolish Dean of Westminster, is always busy keeping the many canons and vergers in check, when not being romantically pursued by forceful widows. Life at the abbey is uneventful, even after the unwelcome arrival of Susan's cousin Lindley and his unusual scientific demonstrations. That is until the Society of Antiquaries come armed with a letter from King George III. They wish to open the tomb of Edward I, each to investigate their own academic interests - whether it be rumours of the royal body's embalmment, an obsession with Arthurian legends or even a supposed Roman temple to Apollo beneath the abbey's undercroft. However, as the Society prepares to open the tomb, a ghostly figure is seen walking the abbey cloisters, wearing the crown and shroud of the dead king. There is further uproar when one of the Antiquaries is found viciously murdered, and the corpse of Edward I is stolen. With her father's position under threat from the scandal, Susan feels bound to investigate these strange occurrences. Could one of the Society members be harbouring a murderous secret? Or is one of the abbey's own a killer?
More information about Leonora Natrass can be found here.
She can also be found on X @LeonoraNattrass and on instagram @leonoranattrass.
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