Tales of suicide: a hare, a tipsy farmer and the Devil's hounds

We all know the sad fate of poor Kitty Jay, denied a Christian burial after taking her own life when the pressure of being shunned after finding herself pregnant out of wedlock became too much to bear. Cruelly cast into a hole in the ground, at a crossroads near where she had lived and worked, some say to prevent her tormented spirit from coming back and haunting the living.

Some accounts suggest that the bodies of suicides might even have been staked through the heart to keep them tethered to the spot. One hopes that this act wasn’t carried out on Kitty Jay’s body as she had already suffered enough, instead, let’s remember her final resting place as being a place of pilgrimage where flowers are left, mysteriously or not, and people go to remember her.

The goddess Hecate, the guardian of the crossroads and the dead, has been worshipped here over the years, as I’ve seen offerings left for her too in the shape of figures of bears and dogs, as these are her familiars. This all adds to the slightly unsettling aspect of the gravesite, being shrouded in trees and keeping it at a cooler temperature all year round. Likewise, Stephen’s Grave on the open moor above Peter Tavy, has a sad tale to tell, that of unrequited love. The fellow buried here was a local lad besotted with a beautiful local lass who, unfortunately for Stephen, was in love with another.

Upon finding them canoodling together, he vowed that if he couldn’t have her, then no one else could either. Poisoning an apple, he took it to her home intending to get her to eat it, thus killing her. At the last minute, he had a change of heart, eating it himself, thus condemning himself to a suicide hole in the ground at a crossroads of moorland tracks. At least in his case, there is an ‘S’ inscribed on the rock placed over him to act as a sort of headstone.

During the course of my research for my recent Ghost Walks around Dartmoor towns and villages, I came across some other examples of suicide graves, one in particular has become wrapped up in folklore. I’ve read two different versions of this story, one is female, the other male, both young people, who, for one reason or another, felt compelled to take their own lives. The boy was buried at a place called Frost Cross, just outside of Bovey Tracey, on the way to Hennock. Not content with just burying him at a crossroads, he was also cursed to turn into a hare every night and be chased by the Devil and his Wisht Hounds until such time as he could get behind his pursuers, something easier said than done.

The story goes that, one night, a local farmer, on his way home from market and an evening in the pub, encountered the hare running along a lane towards him. Leaping up into his lap, the farmer instinctively hides the frightened creature in his panniers, for he can hear the sound of the hounds in pursuit.

Next minute, they round the bend in the lane, accompanied by their master, and the inebriated farmer realises he is witnessing the Devil’s Hunt. Emboldened by drink, he acknowledged the Devil, as he charged past, and continued on his way. Once out of danger, the hare jumped out of the panniers and immediately transformed back into the young man he was in life, forever grateful to the farmer for saving him.

Blessing him with eternal success with all his farming endeavours, the suicide disappears back into spirit, at peace at last, whilst the farmer lived a fairly easy life from that day forward, he and his family never wanting for anything. It would appear that Christianity’s attitude towards suicides has mellowed somewhat, over the years, as I found out when I explored the church of St Michael and All Angels in Princetown. It’s a beautiful old building, supposedly built by prisoners housed in Dartmoor Prison, dating back to the Napoleonic War and the American War of Independence. Inside I found a leaflet identifying some of the graves to be found outside, one of which belongs to one Clara Kistle who died in 1914, two years after her husband, Edwin.

It is said that Clara committed suicide by arsenic poisoning, at the age of 42, leaving five children orphaned after being suspected of stealing a pig from a neighbour. Sadly, she was probably innocent. Being a devout Christian, under The Burial Laws Amendment Act of 1880, she was allowed to be buried in consecrated ground but denied a burial service. Her grave lies next to her husband, to the left of the path, in front of the church, just inside the gates.

In the early days of my group, TIP, we were invited to the home of an elderly lady called Betty, in Buckfastleigh. As well as sharing with us some of her stories, she also wanted us to take her to the nearby Holy Trinity Church, the one on the hill that got destroyed by fire back in the 90s. Here she showed us the grave of her husband and lying beside him, their daughter, who had tragically taken her own life when the demons she had been battling finally got the better of her. A few years ago, on a visit to the church, I checked out Betty’s family plot, and there she was, finally reunited with her husband and daughter, all causes of death finally forgotten and the church hadn’t seemed to mind.

Finally, I want to finish with a story that I was told by a lady who had joined me on my Ghost Walk around Chagford, which actually inspired me to write this article. When I said I had tales to tell about the Ring O’ Bells pub in the town, she asked me if I knew about the little old lady who sits by the bar. I didn’t, but I knew that a friend of mine had investigated it, with her group, after hearing reports of poltergeist activity there. When I checked with her later, she didn’t know about her either, so this tale would appear to be peculiar to my new friend. Having only recently moved to a house in Chagford, which, being sensitive to spirit, she had already ascertained was haunted, she and her then-husband had gone for a meal at the Ring O’ Bells.

Whilst there, she had become aware of a little old lady sitting in a chair in the bar area whose attention seemed to be drawn by something outside. When she asked who she was, neither her husband nor anyone else present could see her, so she took it upon herself to try and get some details from the spirit by dowsing, using her wedding ring hanging on a piece of string. In the ensuing conversation, she understood that the old lady had been so unhappy with her life, that she had ended it by committing suicide. This was in the days when suicides weren’t allowed a Christian burial, yet she was a very religious person, and she had gotten upset to think her body was just going to be disposed of, and not put to rest in her beloved church in the town where she had lived. So when it came time for her burial, the men assigned the task stopped at the pub for a drink before completing it. When the old lady realised she could see the church from there, rather than taking one last look, she decided to stay there in spirit, admiring the view for all eternity. She had no idea where they had taken her body but she was happy enough where she was.

This is one of the reasons why I hold my Ghost Walks, in the hope I get new material, so hopefully my next event, Storytelling around the Campfire, at Wray Valley Camping, on Friday 21st June, the Longest Day/Shortest Night, will prove just as useful. If you would like to join me, please contact me via email (davidtiptrips@gmail.com) and book your place to avoid disappointment, as numbers are limited.