Going back to my (murderous) roots: Widdington, Essex
great-great-great-great-great uncle John, born 1802
Just off the main London to Cambridge road, a few miles north of Stansted Airport, lies the dead-end village of Widdington. It's a picturesque village surrounded by fields and woodland, complete with 13th century church, 16th century pub and 19th century murder (of which more later). In the churchyard I found a couple of relatives' gravestones (which was a bit of a thrill). Around the triangular village green I found an old bakery and an old post office (except they were now called "The Old Bakery" and "The Old Post Office" and people lived in them). And hidden on a hilltop I found one of the finest surviving medieval barns in south east England (except it was closed). You'd like the place.
My quadruple-great grandfather Thomas was born in Widdington in 1770, as was his father before him. Thomas was "an industrious labourer" and of "good character", and worked in the employ of the local landowner. He was father to a daughter and five sons, one of whom passed his genes on to me. But one of the other sons, John, never got round to starting his own family because at the age of 21 he was convicted of murder. And he committed his heinous crime right here, down this very country lane.
"There is just at the particular part of the road alluded to, a distance of nearly a mile either way, in which not a cottage or vestige of security presents itself. It was in such a dreary spot that the murderer attacked the unfortunate victim of his malice - a bare mile from Widdington only, in a narrow road, where the sides are thrown up so as to exclude any distant view by open day, and prevent the voice from being heard by night; at this point, and in the darkest part of Monday evening last, when fatigued in his endeavours to ascend a very steep hill, Mr. Mumford appears to have been attacked, and with such remorseless fury, that the spot exhibits but little signs that any resistance could be made. The blood itself cries aloud for retribution; it's purple stream is even now clearly visible and will long remain." (Chelmsford Chronicle, Friday December 12 1823)
Almost two centuries later that bloodstain is long gone, but the country lane is still as dark, secluded and remote as ever it was, even in daylight. I went for a cautious walk up the hillside in the footsteps of my homicidal ancestor, following the route he'd taken on his final journey as a free man. John had been binge drinking too much in the nearby village of Quendon, and took it upon himself to follow the local landowner's son home. But only halfway home...
"The head was beat in at the hind part, the jaw was crushed to pieces, and the bludgeon with which it was effected being jagged, the face and even under the chin was so torn that it was first thought that a sharper instrument had been used, the blood having run down the road in a stream. The deceased could not possibly be recognised by the nearest relative, but from other proofs than those of his former features."
Confused by drunken bloodlust, John hoped to cover his tracks by pretending he'd discovered this mutilated body on the road. He proceeded up the hill, carrying the bloodied corpse over his back, and delivered the body to the Fleur-de-Lys pub (pictured left). John wasn't the brightest of men (the local newspaper described him as "an illiterate yokel") so he made two crucial mistakes. Firstly he announced to the pub precisely who the dead man was, despite the fact that nobody else could possibly recognise the disfigured face. Secondly, and rather more stupidly, John was discovered with Mumford's bloodied knife still in his back pocket. He was arrested on the spot, although it took seven villagers to restrain him. He was then carted off to Chelmsford where he was locked up and tried for murder, before being taken to the gallows three days later.
"The prisoner was a stout athletic man, of great muscular power; he had that pale, unsound appearance which we frequently observe in those whose earnings are spent in superfluous drink, and which idle habits induce them to prefer. He still wore the bloodstained smock in which he had been arrested. Amongst the crowd present were half a dozen young men weeping most bitterly and uttering compulsive sobs; all were relations. The executioner shook the condemned man's hands, removed the steps and the platform dropped back on its hinges. The crowd looked on in silence, with awe but not with sympathy. Many noted the prisoner's dreadfully expressive face, drawn up by the agony of despair."
I wonder whether the present inhabitants of Widdington know the story of their village's darkest day. Thankfully when they saw me wandering around outside the pub they didn't form a lynch mob and hold me to account for this ancient crime. Nevertheless I didn't hang around for too long, just in case. And I kept looking behind me as I walked down that infamous lane out of the village, because blood sticks.
Going back to my (murderous) roots: Widdington, Essex
Just off the main London to Cambridge road, a few miles north of Stansted Airport, lies the dead-end village of Widdington. It's a picturesque village surrounded by fields and woodland, complete with 13th century church, 16th century pub and 19th century murder (of which more later). In the churchyard I found a couple of relatives' gravestones (which was a bit of a thrill). Around the triangular village green I found an old bakery and an old post office (except they were now called "The Old Bakery" and "The Old Post Office" and people lived in them). And hidden on a hilltop I found one of the finest surviving medieval barns in south east England (except it was closed). You'd like the place.
"There is just at the particular part of the road alluded to, a distance of nearly a mile either way, in which not a cottage or vestige of security presents itself. It was in such a dreary spot that the murderer attacked the unfortunate victim of his malice - a bare mile from Widdington only, in a narrow road, where the sides are thrown up so as to exclude any distant view by open day, and prevent the voice from being heard by night; at this point, and in the darkest part of Monday evening last, when fatigued in his endeavours to ascend a very steep hill, Mr. Mumford appears to have been attacked, and with such remorseless fury, that the spot exhibits but little signs that any resistance could be made. The blood itself cries aloud for retribution; it's purple stream is even now clearly visible and will long remain." (Chelmsford Chronicle, Friday December 12 1823)
Confused by drunken bloodlust, John hoped to cover his tracks by pretending he'd discovered this mutilated body on the road. He proceeded up the hill, carrying the bloodied corpse over his back, and delivered the body to the Fleur-de-Lys pub (pictured left). John wasn't the brightest of men (the local newspaper described him as "an illiterate yokel") so he made two crucial mistakes. Firstly he announced to the pub precisely who the dead man was, despite the fact that nobody else could possibly recognise the disfigured face. Secondly, and rather more stupidly, John was discovered with Mumford's bloodied knife still in his back pocket. He was arrested on the spot, although it took seven villagers to restrain him. He was then carted off to Chelmsford where he was locked up and tried for murder, before being taken to the gallows three days later.
