Smithfield’s Secret Haunted Pubs, Body Snatchers & Last Call

Body snatchers, cadavers, and one last drink before execution. I’m getting chills — and they’re sure to be multiplying — as host Eric Blair takes us down the dark alleys of Smithfield. From The Rising Sun’s ghostly guests and tales of fresh corpses for sale, to The Hand and Shears’ grim fairground trials, The Old Red Cow’s spectral landlord, and the origin of the phrase “on the wagon,” Eric guides us through another fascinating, spine-tingling take on London pub history. 

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Google map with pubs covered in previous episodes pinned, courtesy of Andy Meddick:

https://www.google.com/maps/d/u/0/edit?mid=1xXDGJSfJIUy2gw_6uCASi-C45FpOg_M&usp=sharing

Or TinyURL:  https://tinyurl.com/4xhc8w2s

The following resources are referenced or quoted frequently in this episodes:

• Ted Bruning  -- London By Pub (ISBN 978-0658005022)
• Wikipedia
• https://londonspubswherehistoryreallyhappened.wordpress.com/  by Ann Laffeaty 
• https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/
• Richards & Curl, City of London Pubs - A Practical and Historic Guide  ISBN:0-87749-358-8

Additionally, the  following resource(s) were used / quoted in this episode

Rising Sun

:https://pubwiki.co.uk/LondonPubs/StBart/ClothFair38.shtml

https://owlcation.com/humanities/resurrectionists-body-snatching-in-19th-century-britain

https://www.spookyisles.com/rising-sun-london-ec1/

https://alondoninheritance.com/londonpubs/pubs-of-the-city-of-london-july-2020-part-3

Cloth Fair Street

https://alondoninheritance.com/london-streets/cloth-fair/

https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryMagazine/DestinationsUK/41-Cloth-Fair-The-oldest-house-in-the-City-of-London/

https://www.landmarktrust.org.uk/properties/cloth-fair-43/

Hand and Shears and The Old Red Cow

https://www.pubology.co.uk/pubs/4099.html

https://alondoninheritance.com/londonpubs/hand-and-shears/

https://thehandandshears.com/history/

https://www.pubology.co.uk/pubs/4231.html

https://london.randomness.org.uk/wiki.cgi?Old_Red_Cow,_EC1A_9EJ

Intro Music:  Vivaldi - Spring Allegro by John Harrison w/ the Wichita State University Chamber Orch.

Photo:  Jim Lindwood

Website: https://historiclondonpubcast.com/

E-mail: hosteric@historiclondonpubcast.com

Transcript

Welcome to this episode of the Historic London Podcast. I'm Eric Blair, and I'd like to take you on a journey through the rich history of London's iconic pubs. My goal is to share with you my passion for the great old pubs of London. I want to give you some facts to help you appreciate the history of these hallowed establishments mixed in with some fun stories that make it all go down as smooth as a well poured pint. 

In our previous episode, number 44, we begin in Clerkenwell and moved south to Smithfield Market. Today we're going to start to the south of the market and move north. There is so much history here. We'll only get to three pubs today, but fear not. Future episodes will get to other deserving establishments in this area. 

Our first pub is The Rising Sun at 38 Cloth Fair Street. This little pub goes back a while and has experienced some ups and downs, but turns out okay in the form of today's pub. The first records of a pub at this location are in 1616 and was called The Star. By the time more exacting licensing and survey records were being kept in the early 1800s, they confirm a pub called The Rising Sun and it continued well into the 20th century. But we'll get into that in a bit. 

Another record source, that of The Old Bailey Court, helped us go back a bit further. A man was accused of stealing money and clothing from a fellow lodging in the upstairs of the pub in 1730. He was acquitted, by the way. So, the pub was operating back then as The Rising Sun, offering libation and lodging.

The Rising Sun also finds itself linked to another kind of crime, this one a bit more macabre than robbing a lodger. Thanks to its proximity to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, a major teaching hospital just around the corner, the area became associated with body snatching, the grim practice of stealing corpses from fresh graves to supply the cadaver hungry anatomy schools of Georgian London. We touched on this ghoulish trade back in Episode 29, when we visited The Flask in Highgate. That pub has a section known as The Autopsy Room, where dissections were carried out on the newly interred from nearby Highgate Cemetery. But in Smithfield, body snatching wasn't tied to just one building. It was part of the atmosphere. And since The Rising Sun set right in the middle of it, I think it's worth digging in a little deeper.

Okay, okay, that's the last grave pun, I promise. At the turn of the 19th century, British medical science was leaping forward, and it needed bodies to do it. Dissection was central to the training of surgeons, and while public anatomy lectures drew eager crowds, each student needed a cadaver of their own to master the craft. But legally, only the corpses of executed murderers could be used, and as capital punishment declined in favor of transportation to Australia. 

Demand quickly outstripped supply. With anatomy schools desperate and refrigeration still a future dream, the Resurrection Men, as they called themselves, stepped in. These criminal gangs who prowled the crowded graveyards by night, digging up the freshly buried and selling them to hospitals by morning. In London alone, an estimated 500 cadavers a year passed through the dissection rooms. A youthful corpse could go for ten guineas, and that was enough to keep the gang solvent for months.

The legal loopholes were part of the trade's appeal. Body snatching wasn't technically a felony, just a misdemeanor under common law, so long as no valuables were taken, the penalty might be a fine or a short stint in jail. Consequently, the resurrection tests were careful to leave behind jewelry or grave goods. Stealing a ring could send them to the gallows, for stealing a body was not only more profitable, but safer.

Some public houses near London's Great teaching hospitals became gathering points for this grim trade. Now, just to be clear, The Rising Sun is often cited as one of these, but only as a likely venue because of its location. I couldn't find any documentation linking the pub specifically to this trade. That is, if you count out the spirit world. But we'll get to that in a bit. 

But other pubs do have documented links, one being The Fortune of War on Giltspur Street, just a four-minute walk from The Rising Sun. It served as a depot for the dead, officially designated by the Royal Humane Society as a reception point for drowned persons. The back room was lined with benches bearing the names of Resurrection Men. Surgeons from Saint Bartholomew's Hospital just across the way would visit and inspect the latest arrivals. That image puts a tingle up your spine, doesn't it? By the way, The Fortune of War pub was closed and demolished in 1910, but it gets worse. 

In the late 1820s the trade turned darker. In Edinburgh, William Burke (now note his last name, Burke) and William Hare discovered it was even more profitable to create corpses than to wait for natural ones over the course of a year. They murdered at least 16 people and sold the bodies to a respected anatomist. The crimes and the scandalous trial that followed shocked the public. The two men became infamous, and when Burke was hanged in 1829, it made the headlines far beyond Scotland.

London took notice. Time to change the business process a bit. Soon the capital had its own London Burkers. The most notable gang operated right here in Smithfield, working the graveyards near Saint Bartholomew's, led by John Bishop, with three accomplices. They were said to have stolen over a thousand bodies in a dozen years, but in 1831 they took things too far. They lured a young cattle drover from Lincolnshire into The Bell, a Smithfield pub that dated back to the early 1600s after drugging him with rum and laudanum. They killed him and tried to sell his body to King's College for 12 guineas, but the corpse was suspiciously fresh, and the anatomist refused. Police were called and the gang was arrested.

A search of their Shoreditch lodgings revealed more evidence of murder. The London workers were not the only enterprising lads interested in a profitable business. After the arrest, authorities opened the gang's lodgings there in Shoreditch to paying visitors charging five shillings for entry. So many came to gawk at where these villains held up that the building was gradually dismantled – floorboards, bricks, fixtures taken away piece by piece as macabre keepsakes.

Remember the pub from where the lad was taken? The Bell. It ceased operation in the mid-1800s and the site was absorbed by Smithfield Market. Bishop and an accomplice, Williams, confessed to multiple killings and were hanged at Newgate Prison in December 1831. What began as a business opportunity in the backroom of pubs like The Fortune of War ended in scandal, which prompted legislative reform.

In 1832, Parliament passed the Anatomy Act, legalizing the use of unclaimed bodies from workhouses, hospitals and prisons for dissection and strictly regulating anatomists and licensing and inspections. The new supply stream undercut the illicit market, reducing the need for resurrections. Over the next few decades, grave robbing continued to taper off as embalming became widespread in the 1880s, allowing medical schools to preserve cadavers longer. So fortunately, the era of body snatching in Britain came to an end. So, with the resurrectionists now done in. Is it safe to go into The Rising Sun now? Well, maybe we'll get to that after a bit more about The Rising Sun’s history. 

The pub continued into the 20th century and appears to have made it to World War II with no problems. In fact, it was able to help out less fortunate businesses. alondoninheritance.com tells us,

“One of the more unusual references in newspapers to The Rising Sun dates from 1945. During the war, businesses bombed out of their normal building had to find temporary offices, and in October 1945, the Maurice Dixon Musical Service, who provided orchestral services to theaters and the West End, were advertised saying that their temporary address was The Rising Sun.”

Now I assume that that was using the upper floors, but tough times eventually did come to the pub. We know from Stevens and Pearl's 1973 book on London city pubs that The Rising Sun was closed at that time, but it came back from the dead. Sources generally agree that it was purchased by a brewer, but conflicting accounts as to who that was and was restarted, but there is conflict here as well as to the dates. The restart happened either in the late 1970s or early 1980s. At some point it went into the Samuel Smiths group where it exists today. 

Okay, you asked if it was safe to go back into the pub now? It seems that with return to operations, remnants of its past emerge. Woo hoo! Cue the spooky music! The website spookyisles.com loves this stuff, so you can get details at the link in the notes. Let me just summarize the ghostly lore. 

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, several staff members reported experiences they struggled to explain to young women living above the pub, describe a presence in their room, something unseen but deeply unsettling, said to sit on their beds at night and tear the covers away as they slept. Cleaning staff spoke of hurried footsteps across the upper floor after closing, though no one was there. In one of the more disturbing accounts, a landlady recalled showering when the door moved on its own, followed by a feeling of a cold, coarse hand sliding down her back. 

Okay, submitted for your consideration. But hey, don't be scared. I liked this pub and have visited several times, and each visit has been a good experience, and the spirits I experienced were never of the ethereal kind.

It is not a big place and has a tucked away feel. Most of my visits have been in the afternoon before happy hour and the pub was not crowded then. Its Victorian ambiance makes it a pleasant place to take a load off and sip a Samuel Smith’s Stout. Some reviewers like the upstairs better than the street level, but I have only been to the downstairs. When you’re in the area, give it a go. I think you'll like it. 

Okay, drink up and let's head to Cloth Fair Street. Great name, eh? It gets its name from when, in medieval times, merchants gathered to buy and sell fabric during Bartholomew Fair, an event held every August within the precincts of the Priory of Saint Bartholomew’s.  Until 1910, Saint Bartholomew use was a separate liberty, with gates that were shut at night. alondoninheritance.com (see the link in the notes) does a terrific treatment of this short street. It is only 150 yards long. Let me mention a couple of highlights. 

“The street is home to the only house in the City of London that survived the Great Fire of 1666. That house is located at 41 and 42 Cloth Fair and was built between 1597 and 1614. Historical records indicate that the building was spared from major damage in the fire, because it stood within the protective walls of a large priory. By 1929, the City of London Corporation had identified the structure for potential demolition as part of its sanitary improvement plan and because the house also had structural safety concerns.” 

Somehow it hung on, waiting for good news and its patience was rewarded.

New owners acquired the property in 1995 and carried out a comprehensive restoration. The quality of the work was recognized with the City Heritage Award in 2000. 

The other interesting point on the street is at Number 43, where Sir John Betjeman lived from 1954 to 1971. Benjamin, the Poet Laureate, architectural campaigner and one of Britain's most recognizable cultural voices in the mid-twentieth century, moved into the narrow Georgian house long before the street regained its charm, making it his base for writing, broadcasting, and preservation work.

A familiar face on radio and television, Betjeman helped popularize poetry and brought attention to historic architecture through documentaries, essays, and public campaigns. He also certainly counted The Rising Sun among his local stops, and famously led efforts to save The Blackfriar pub over near The Thames from demolition. His long-running concern for Victorian and Edwardian buildings helped lay the groundwork for the modern heritage movement.

The house is now owned by The Landmark Trust, a charity that works to preserve historic buildings. You can even book a stay at this historic house, but it's not cheap. The Landmark Trust concludes their website on this houseby saying, 

“It feels very appropriate that an organization that cares for historic building looks after the home of someone who championed that cause in the UK.”

Right on, while we were here. It's certainly appropriate to say something about Saint Barts Hospital as well. It's only about a four-minute walk away. Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, known affectionately as Saint Barts, is the oldest hospital in London still operating on its original site. It was founded in 1123 by Rahere, a courtier turned monk who also established the Priory of Saint Bartholomew, where our pubs are today.

Rahere claimed he had received a vision from Saint Bartholomew while on a pilgrimage, prompting him to create a place of healing for the poor in the heart of Smithfield. Remarkably, the hospital has been in continuous service for over 900 years, weathering plagues, fires and wars. We know its teaching history involved having to deal with some body snatchers, but in modern times it's become a world class center for medical training and research. Saint Barts was where William Harvey first developed his revolutionary theory on the circulation of blood in the 17th century, a discovery that changed the course of medical science. Today, medical students continue to train at St. Barts, blending centuries old tradition with cutting edge clinical practice.

It's a place where the long arc of medical history is still very much alive. Though thankfully no longer reliant on the midnight mark of resurrection, as the hospital also hosts a small but a fascinating museum tucked away within its historic north wing alongside surgical instruments and portraits of medical greats, is an unexpected gem. An autographed cricket bat belonging to none other than WG Grace, a towering figure in 19th century cricket.

Grace was also a qualified doctor and lover of pubs. We covered his amazing story in Episode 38 when we visited The Ivy House, one of his favorites. See? It's all linked! It's the pubs. That's the real connective tissue of history, and speaking of pubs. Ooh, us? Oh, let's get over to a couple just down the street.

A one-minute walk up Cloth Fair Street northeast brings us to The Hand and Shears at One Middle Street. That's the point where the street name changes from Cloth Fair Street. The pub is inextricably linked to the Saint Bartholomew's Fair. So, let's start there. Henry I granted a charter for the fair to right here the Founder of the Priory of Saint Barts in 1133 to raise money to fund the priorities workings.

It took place each year on the 24th of August, that’s Saint Bartholomew's Day, and became one of London's preeminent summer fairs. It was expanded to two full weeks in the 1600s, and by 1641 the fair had achieved international importance and featured sideshows, prize fights, musicians, wire walkers, acrobats, puppets, freaks and wild animals. Samuel Pepys mentions going to the fair several times in his diary entries in the 1660s, but as I read them, most of his comments describe the kind of spectacle that becomes off-putting. A man with no legs that danced on his hands and performing animals that were abused by their masters for making a mistake. 

Evidently, others thought the fair had gone over the top as well. By 1691 it was cut back to four days closer to the original concept. It settled in to become both a trading event for cloth. It was the chief cloth sale in all of Britain, as well as a pleasure fair. The event drew crowds from all classes of English society, but everything runs its course. In 1855, the fair was suppressed by the city authorities for encouraging debauchery and public disorder. This was the more conservative Victorian period you know. 

It was the tradition for the Lord Mayor to open the fair by cutting the first bolt of cloth. This is thought to be the basis for today's ribbon cutting, as part of the openings of buildings and other constructions. Some say that it is also the basis for the pub's name, The Hand and Shears, but others say it was just the close association of the pub with the tailor and cloth maker community that inspired the name.

The upstairs of the pub was used for the Pie Powder Court. These courts were a tradition dating back to the Middle Ages, when the town set up a public fair. It was given there with all the street, commerce and revelry, there would be issues. Pie Powder Courts were special tribunals with unlimited jurisdiction over personal actions or events taking place at the market, including disputes between merchants, theft and acts of violence.

The name came from a French phrase, but exactly which one is in dispute. Sources say either French for Peddler or French for Dusty Feet, and then either the Dusty Feet of the Travelers to the Fair, or the Magistrates Who Walk the Street of the Fair. Maybe we need our own Pie Powder Court to resolve these disputes. 

Okay, let's talk about how far this pub goes back in history. Short answer – a bunch. It was thought that there was an ale house here since about the time the Priory was established. So that takes us back to the 1120s. The date above the door of the pub is 1532, and we know that The Hand and Shears was granted a Justice License under the Ale House act in 1552.

So, the door date indicates that the pub was operating a couple of decades before licensing was required. Parliament passed the Ale House Act of 1551 to control abuses and disorders, as are had and used in common ale houses. This piece of legislation laid the foundation of modern licensing law for Britain. The Act gave Justices of the Peace power to stop the selling of ale and beer in common ale houses and tippling houses, where they felt that it was appropriate and convenient.

No one was permitted to keep an ale house without being so licensed by the Justices of local courts. The Justices were to take bond and surety from the keepers of the houses to prevent, 

“The playing of unlawful games, as well as for the maintenance of public order.”

But it did have a popular exception. Common selling of ale and booze at a fair by any person was permitted, 

“For the relief of the King's subjects that shall repair to the same rate provision.”

Thanks, King! So, all licensed and legal. The Hand and Shears continued to operate. Of course, there are a couple of local legends as spring up for a pub that has this much history. First, King Charles II dined in the basement of the pub. Not much of a credibility stretch here, given his passion for drink and merriment. And two, there was a tradition that prisoners on their way to Newgate Prison were allowed one last drink here. They were transported by horse drawn convenience, and when asked by the barman if they wanted another round, they'd reply, 

“No, I'm on the wagon.”

Which is become today's classic statement for professing abstinence. Little documentation for these, but good stories nonetheless. 

The pub was rebuilt in 1852, and it's generally agreed that the changes since then have been minor. Architecturally, the pub is notable for its unusual corner entrance, fitted with a pair of curved doors. Multiple doorways around the exterior lead to separate drinking areas arranged and around a central servery. Some of the internal glazing, including etched glass panels labeled saloon and private bar, appears to date from the 1930s refurbishment. The front room has two doorways, suggesting it may once have been used for off sales. The pub is Grade II Listed and holds a prestigious three-star rating on CAMRA’s National Inventory of Pub Interiors.

So, there you have The Hand and Shears, the pub that claims the longest pedigree of any of the pubs of Smithfield. Well worth a visit. Oh, one more thing. It's said that the locals have a nickname for the pub, 

“The Fist and Clippers.” 

You can try to pass as a local if you want to try it. As for me, with my accent, I'd be hopeless doing that.

Good news. We're not far from our next pub, a mere 130ft. The Old Red Cow. The name? Well, all red cows are a rare sight out in the English countryside. And as such, their milk is considered to be of great value. How do we know? An old rhyme tells us so, 

“The old red cow gives good milk now.

This cow gives such good liquor, would puzzle a vicar.”

The sign outside the pub gives us a bit of history. 

“A painting in the Guildhall shows the old red cows that appeared in 1854, and it's one of the earliest ancient taverns of Smithfield. Mr. Dick O'Shea, a previous host, frequently entertained many personalities of stage and screen, such as Bernard Miles and Peter Ustinov, and was well known for his hot toddy, which consisted of a secret substance together with ginger wine paste.”

Thank you, sign. Both the celebs mentioned were actors of prominence in the postwar years. Ustinov was an actor, director and writer, and as an internationally known raconteur, he was a fixture on television, talk shows and lecture circuits for much of his career. He racked up two Academy Awards, three BAFTA Awards and three Emmy Awards. 

Bernard Miles is known mainly in Britain, playing character roles and providing voiceover acting like Ustinov. He had a long, successful career spanning several decades. It would have been great to run into either of these guys at The Old Red Cow in the ‘50s, but I think the sign did not properly cover the antiquated pub. Licensing and insurance records go back to the early 1800s, with the name being The Red Cow even back then. But the pub was around a while before that.

Old Bailey records tell us of a trial of Edward Wanton in 1744, accused of stealing a silver tankard from the pub. John Bates was a silversmith by trade, but at that time he evidently was the publican of The Red Cow. He testified that he found the tankard missing and quickly advertised in the paper for his return. The accused, wanting showed up with it, in part saying that he had bought it on the street from another man, a butler to a gentleman. But that story didn't hold up under other witnesses’ testimony, including Sarah Vane, the barmaid. Wanton was found guilty and sentenced to seven years transportation. 

Now, I usually think that transportation means a ticket to Down Under. But in 1744, transportation meant that you were going to the departure lounge for the American colonies, likely Maryland or Virginia. Well, Mr. Wanton, I hope you reformed yourself on the ship right over.

Other court records support The Old Red Cow’s operation down the years before and after the licensing records kick in. Thefts in 1768 and 1822 and a coining offense, in other words, counterfeiting in 1823. Two cheeses were stolen from a 13-year-old errand boy right in front of The Red Cow in 1830. The thief got 14 days in prison for that.

And finally, in 1866, a bit of rowdiness at The Red Cow resulted in a stabbing. The perpetrator was sentenced to 18 months in jail. The whole adventure started when somewhat of a lubricated bloke walked up to an unknown fellow patron, grabbed his beer and drank it right down. Please be sure not to do that when you're in there.

The current building dates from a rebuild in 1854. The name has been some version of Red Cow or The Red Cow, The Old Red Cow, all like that for the pub's entire life, from what I can see, except for a brief period of madness in 2007, when the name was changed to The Long Lane. That's the street name the pub is on.

Fortunately, reason prevailed, and the old name came back in the next year, 2008. The pub today caters to beer enthusiasts known for its broad selection of craft keg beers. The ground floor is compact and squared with minimal decoration and mostly high tables. Bar stools are in use, but one reviewer comments that they can obstruct access to the counter.

A wide staircase leads up to a quieter upstairs dining room, which has its own keg only bar. london.randomness.org summarizes in their review,

“A fine pub for beer drinkers.”

That's a nice, concise compliment. One last point. You would think that with all the history and all the tankard thefts and cheese thefts and rowdies that visited the pub over the centuries, it would be a ghost story, and you would be right. But the reported ghost is of fairly recent times. 

Remember the publican mentioned in the sign out front, the one that made his signature hot toddies for the celebs? That was Dick O'Shea and he's been reported as the ghost looking down from upstairs who watches people on the ground floor. Most sources say Mr. O'Shea passed away in 1981, but one says 1996.

So there seems to be a credibility issue in the whole matter. I would suggest that you just enjoy your craft beer. Don't let any rowdy grab it from you. And if a ghost appears? Ask for ID if you could. It would really help clarify things a lot. 

Okay, those are our three pubs today in history-rich South Smithfield.

Thanks so much for listening. If you've enjoyed wandering through history with us, why not drop us a line? Got a favorite haunt or curious tale? Put that in there too. The email address is in the notes hosteric@historiclondonpubcast.com 

You'll find more stories, including all of our episodes, at historiclondonpubcast.com and if you fancy another round, tap, follow or subscribe wherever you get your podcasts.

We'll be back soon. Pint in hand and story at the ready. Until then, Cheers!