The Storyteller: A savvy prisoner's bid for freedom

During the summer, one of my ghost walks was around Princetown, going from The Plume of Feathers at one end to the imposing gates of Dartmoor Prison at the other. Standing in front of them, in the dimpsy light, knowing the place had been vacated due to the high levels of radon emanating from the granite it’s built from, took me back to a time when prisoners earned rewards for their good behaviour, and the story of one such inmate who became...

A Model Prisoner

Frank Stapleton was what you might call a “career criminal”. Growing up in the East End of London, an only child, with a bullying father and a doting mother, it was only natural that he should share his father’s tendencies and want to do everything he could to please his mother. They were a relatively poor family, but Frank’s dad did everything he could to provide for his wife and child. Frank’s mum never questioned where her husband got the treats from that he regularly came home with; similarly, when Frank started bringing her gifts, she never asked where he got them from, just hugged him, kissed him on the forehead, and accepted them graciously.

From a young age, Frank learnt that being a bully paid dividends. Intimidating his classmates usually got him nice things, like watches he could pawn, or pieces of jewellery that his mother might appreciate, or, failing that, dinner money would suffice. Being a loner, and feared, meant he never had to share his ill-gotten gains with anyone. The fact his father had a bit of a reputation meant no one went crying to their parents, as no one wanted to cross the Stapleton family.

As Frank got older, his desire to please his mother grew, especially when his father was killed as the result of an altercation with the police. Some more charitable people said it was a case of wrong place, wrong time, but the fact he was chasing a getaway car, full of his dodgy mates, who were prepared to leave him behind, putting him in the path of the pursuing police car, that struck him, leaving him badly injured, meaning he was hospitalised, but, sadly, never came out, suggested he was no innocent. His accomplices were never caught, and he never ratted on them, even when he knew he was dying. Unfortunately for Frank and his mother, the fact his father had a necklace in his pocket, from the jewellery store the gang had just robbed, meant there was no chance of compensation, as far as the police were concerned. This left Frank the man of the house, providing everything for his mother, so it wasn’t any surprise that he chose to follow in his father’s footsteps.

Still preferring to go it alone, Frank learnt from his father’s mistakes. Rather than robbing the stores, he chose to rob their customers. Playing the long game, he would stake out high street jewellers, waiting for the carelessly rich to choose to take public transport home. He would then follow them discreetly, noting all the details of their property once they arrived at their destination, and, when the time was right, he would break in and help himself to pretty trinkets for his mother and stuff he could sell. This was how he made a living after his father’s death.

Unfortunately for Frank, this career wasn’t without its downside. Several times over the years, he ended up in prison, serving a few years for burglary, but getting straight back on the horse as soon as he was released. That was until one judge decided to make an example of him, handing down a harsher sentence, in the hope he would finally have learnt his lesson... and that was how Frank ended up in Dartmoor Prison for a ten-year stretch. By this time his mother was quite elderly, and he felt she wouldn’t survive him being inside for so long, so no sooner had he arrived in his new home, stuck right in the middle of nowhere, than he began devising an escape plan.

Above: Gateway to Dartmoor Prison

Back in those days, the prison had a farm, and certain well-behaved inmates would be allowed the privilege of working outdoors, tending to the crops they grew, and managing the livestock. Being the prison shepherd was probably the cushiest job going, and Frank managed to secure this by keeping himself to himself, not causing any trouble, and the fact that a habitual burglar wasn’t seen as a flight risk. Unbeknownst to the prison staff, all the time he was sitting watching over the flock, Frank was planning his escape, watching the rotation of the guards and how the unpredictable weather, out on the moor, affected their scrutiny over their charges, most preferring to stay under cover, whilst the inmates took a soaking, still having to perform their tasks.

Once again, Frank was happy to play the long game, finding the majority of prison life, for someone who avoided any trouble, bearable. The only thing that bothered him was the view from his cell, which looked out over the prison cemetery. He’d heard stories that it was haunted by an old woman, dressed in black, who watched over the graves. Ghost stories had always scared him; when he was younger, his father delighted in telling them to him, so when the inmates said, if you saw her, you were marked for death, he resisted looking out of the window as much as possible, especially when it was suggested that several elderly prisoners had died over the years, claiming to have seen the black figure before their demise...

Finally the day arrived, and Frank put his plan into action. It had started out with light rain, but the sheep still had to be watched over as they grazed. Knowing the guards would stay inside their little hut in this weather, he took them to the farthest point of their field, on top of an incline, so they could still be seen from the hut, but he positioned himself on the other side of them, so he was hidden. No one challenged the fact he couldn’t be seen, the guards assuming he was still with the sheep. Then the rain turned heavier, bringing a mist with it, shrouding the sheep and surrounding landscape completely. Frank made his move, using the mist as cover, and ran down the hillside, keeping the houses on his left. Because of the bad weather, many houses had put their lights on early, helping Frank navigate. Unfortunately, the mist started to get thicker, forcing him to get closer to the dwellings, so in the end he had to strike out into the fog and hope for the best. It wasn’t long before he realised he couldn’t see any lights anymore, and he was heading deeper into the moor, beyond the village. The fog had assisted his escape; now it hampered it. Suddenly, he spotted large outcrops of rock looming up in front of him. Deciding to do the sensible thing, he took refuge amongst the boulders, intending to wait until the weather cleared and he could choose a better way off the moor. The outcrops afforded him some shelter from the rain, and his hiding place was surprisingly quite cosy... It wasn’t long before he found himself nodding off...

He awoke with a start to the sound of footsteps crunching on snow! Allowing his eyes to adjust to the surrounding gloom, he realised that it was now not just foggy, but also dark, and all around him lay the white stuff. Again, footsteps sounded nearby, and, gradually, out of the fog, a figure appeared wearing an old-fashioned army uniform, hunched over from the cold and finding it hard to breathe. Frank slunk back under his outcrop, watching as the soldier stumbled past, on the verge of collapse. Thinking, if he kept a safe distance, he could follow on behind, as the chap seemed to know where he was going, and as soon as he reached a road, he could follow that instead and escape under cover of darkness. No sooner had he fallen in behind the stumbling figure than the soldier pitched forward into the snow and lay still. Instinctively, Frank ran forwards to help the inert figure, checking for any signs of life, and at that same moment a bright beam of torchlight was shone into his face...he knew his escape attempt was over. “I didn’t touch him!” Frank cried, raising his hands in surrender. “Touch who?”, the puzzled guard replied, and as he looked down, Frank saw he was now kneeling in a shallow puddle of water, the snow and the body gone.

Above: The memorial to the valiant soldiers

As they marched him back to the prison, Frank explained what he had seen, adamant that it wasn’t a hallucination. The guards told him he had probably seen a ghost, for the spot where they had found him kneeling was known as Soldier’s Pond, the exact spot where one of the three Valiant Soldiers had been found dead after attempting to return to duty at the prison during one severe, snowy winter...

From that day forward, Frank vowed to be a model prisoner, wanting nothing more to do with the local ghosts. As punishment, his sentence was increased, which meant he never saw his mother again, as she was too frail to visit, and, as he had suspected, she didn’t live long without him. He lost his farm privileges, which was probably just as well, as he had developed a persistent cough after his night on the run, and he satisfied his desire to be outdoors by gazing out of his cell window, daydreaming about what might have been. It was during one of these daydreams that he saw the old lady in black, pointing at him, standing over a vacant plot in the graveyard. The sight of her brought on one of his coughing fits. He had forgotten all about this ghost and what seeing it meant. As he stared at the blood that he had just coughed up into his hand, he realised that, no matter how much of a model prisoner he was, he couldn’t escape the fact that he would soon be lying under the very spot where she now stood...