The Nameless Horror of Berkley Square

With tales going back as far as 1770, the townhome at 50 Berkley Square in Mayfair, London has a sinister reputation.  A shapeless, menacing horror is said to haunt the second floor bedroom of the posh Westminster address and is responsible for the deaths of more than one intrepid soul who dare stay the night there.  In this episode we'll take an in-depth look at the facts and see if there is any truth to the legend of the Nameless Horror of Number 50 Berkley Square.

Transcript

The Nameless Horror of Berkley Square

Narrated by Jay Nix

On tonight’s episode we’re heading across the pond to the foggy streets of London and an unassuming residence in the Mayfair district.  Little more than a five-iron from Buckingham Palace stands a four-story townhome just around the corner from the Sexy Fish restaurant.  Until recently, it was home to Maggs Bros. Rare Book Sellers, but the proprietors recently pulled up stakes and relocated to new digs on Bedford Square near the British Museum.  As of today, the property appears to be vacant, waiting for the right tenant with deep pockets who can afford the 13,000-pound rent on the fully furnished 5-bedroom flat.  But the price alone is not the only thing that dissuades potential lessees from moving into this pricey abode.  That’s because the house at No. 50 Berkley Square is purported to be one of the most haunted addresses in London and the sight of perhaps the most famous and terrifying ghost story in history.

What sets No. 50 Berkley Square apart from most other haunted houses is that there appears to be more than one apparition in residence.  Legends tell of the specter of a suicidal girl who still walks the halls of the home.  In the attic, the phantom of a criminally insane man who was chained to the floor and fed through a slot in the door is said to remain long after his death, still trying to break free from his chains.  And in one 2nd floor bedroom lurks a terrifying and deadly entity that has reportedly claimed the lives of several intrepid souls who dared to stay in the room overnight and is commonly referred to as the Nameless Horror.

Over the years, many a writer has sought to bring the story of the house on Berkley Square to the reading public.  Perhaps the most popular and widely read version can be found in the 1971 compilation “50 Great Ghost Stories”, which was edited by John Canning.  The story itself written by the British author, self-styled sexologist and accused Nazi double agent Ronald Sydney Seth, whose personal history is almost as compelling as the tale which he penned.  I recently pulled this 50-year-old book off the self in my library and sat down to read it again for the first time in decades.  And just as is it did when I was ten, this tale of terror still gave me the willies.  But it also gave me the idea that this ghostly anecdote would be perfect fodder for the podcast.  So as with all subjects we cover here on BTF I decided to have a closer look at the accounts of No. 50 Berkley Square and see what was fantastic and what was phantasmic.  As you’re certainly aware, most tall tales contain at least a kernel of truth and the truth behind this ghost story is weird to say the least.  But before we get too far into the histrionics of the story, lets first focus on the history itself.  So, let’s go back in time and try to trace the lineage of the tragic events that gave rise to legend that has become known as “The Nameless Horror of Berkley Square”.

Whites Gentlemen’s Club is perhaps the most exclusive club of its kind in the world.  It’s membership roster reads like a who’s who of British aristocracy.  Duke, Earls, Barons, and captains of industry swill brandy by the decanter, smoke the finest cigars of Caribbean pedigree and pat each other on the backs in self-congratulatory fashion for being masters of the world.  Women are certainly allowed into White’s – as cooks and as part of the cleaning staff.  But not as members.  The sole exception was when Queen Elizabeth was allowed to stop by briefly on a couple of occasions.  This grand tradition harkens back to the club’s foundation in 1693 on Cruzon Street in Mayfair, barely a whack of a cricket bat from Berkley Square.  But in 1778 it moved to its current address on James Street in the Whitechapel district, famous – or rather infamous – as the hunting grounds of Jack the Ripper.  At the time of our tale in the autumn of 1840, White’s had garnered a reputation as a gambling den that many described as the “bane of half the English nobility”.  

On one particular evening, Lord Henry Cholmondeley, 3rd Marquess of that family name was joined in drink by Sir Dugall Forster and a dashing young baron from Huntingdon named Robert Warboys.  Sir Robert was a common fixture in London and in particular at White’s, frequenting the club when ever in town on business or whenever a debaucherous whim struck his fancy.  He was quite wealthy with land, a country manor and a stockpile or ready cash to fund his extravagant tastes and his gambling habit.  He was an orphan and bachelor and the target of every eligible daughter in London society.  But what few outside the walls of White’s knew was that Sir Roberts sworn bachelorism wasn’t the result of his inability to find just the right woman, it was because he had already found just the right man in the form of his personal valet.  But even in the early years of the Victorian era where conservativism and evangelicalism were the orders of the day, the members of White’s seemed to embrace Sir Robert, in a manner of speaking, as being a genial chap and an all-around fine fellow.  

And thus, as the three noblemen took turns toasting to each other’s health and wealth, the conversation grew more tawdry with each drink a began to veer away from politics toward the finer sex and eventually the occult.  Dugall was the first to broach the subject when he brought up the Witches of Warboys, a family in the town of Sir Roberts family namesake who were tried and hung as witches in 1593 based solely on the accusations of the 9-year-old daughter of the town squire.  The ribbing by Cholmondeley and Dugall didn’t faze Sir Robert in the least, proclaiming the idea witches, wraiths, and ghosts puerile and not worthy of discussion.  No, proclaimed Warboys, I don’t buy into any of that nonsense and those who do belong in a sanitarium.  

Just as Sir Robert was emphasizing his point, Cholmondeley noticed a gaunt, slouching figure entering the smoking lounge.  The Lord immediately recognized the somber looking man and quickly called him over to join the group. 

“So, you don’t believe in ghost do you, Warboys? Well, here’s the man who can change your mind on that.  Sir Robert Warboys, meet Mr. John Benson, esp.”

The newcomer appeared agitated and uncomfortable at the unorthodox introduction but extended his hand all the same.

Cholmondeley continued, “John here has a resident ghost in his very home, the most terrifying specter of these Isles.  Surely you’ve heard of the horror of Berkley Square?”

“I confess, I have not.  So, you’ve a phantom in your attic, Mr. Benson?”, asked Warboys snarkily.

Benson did not share the baron’s mirth.

“It is a subject upon which I prefer not to speak and certainly not lightly, my lord”, replied Benson.

“To be sure, it is a matter of the gravest reality and is known from Woolwich to Battersea”, assured Dugall. 

“And you, my lord Cholmondeley?  You believe in this – spook?”

Cholmondeley’s countenance faded ever so slightly, and his upper lip stiffened.  

“I have not seen it, Warboys.  But I would wager a gold purse that it is as real as you or I and not to be trifled with.”

Warboys laughed aloud, slapping his knee, and almost falling from his chair.

“Ye gods, are you men or maidens?  The very idea!” roared Warboys.  “Well then, Benson, tell me of this terror with whom you share room and board and spare no detail!”

Though initially reluctant, John Benson relented under the urgings of Forster and Cholmondeley and at length related the tale of the Berkley Square horror to his incredulous audience.  

Upon completion of the tale, Benson paused to gauge Warboys reaction.  Sir Robert slowly cut his eyes from Sir Dugall and then to Lord Cholmondeley before turning his gaze back to Benson.  

“Come, gentlemen”, Warboys offered slyly.  “You think me simple to fall for such a yarn.  We are men of the world, not children.  Fear of battle, of blade or bullet is one thing.  But fear of shadows in one’s own boudoir?  Really.”

“I fear I must concur with Lord Cholmondeley, Sir Robert, and too would dare wager that this fiend of which John speaks is more fact than fancy.”

Warboys ears pricked at the second mention of the word “wager” and a wry smile spread across his lips.

“So, there’s money to be made in settling this matter, I take it friend Dugall and Lord Cholmondeley?  You have my interest, and now you shall have my terms.  I shall stay the night in Mr. Benson’s accursed room –”

Benson interrupted by saying, “I pray, my lord you do not treat this frivolously”.

Holding up his hand, Warboys continued.  

“I shall stay in said accursed room in Mr. Benson’s home.  If I survive the night unscathed, you gentlemen will in toto pay me the sum of 50 guineas.  However, if for any reason I abandon the enterprise before sunrise, I shall pay you collectively the sum of 100 guineas.  What say you?”

The only thing that frightened gentlemen of leisure more than evil spirits was the thought of missing out on a sure-fire winner.  Dugall and Cholmondeley glanced at each other and nodded knowingly.  They then turned to Benson, who appeared to be in physical pain but finally nodded as well as he stared at the floor.

“Splendid!”, exclaimed Warboys.  “If there are no objections from our conscripted host, shall we agree to gather tomorrow evening at say six o’clock?  We will dine and drink and then retire to our chambers, and I for one shall wake all the wealthier the following morning.”

 With the terms of the wager and time and date set, the men decided to call it an evening as the clock approached midnight.  They shook hands, wished each other well and bade one another good night.

The following evening at precisely six, Lords Warboys, Dugall and Cholmondeley arrived at No. 50 Berkley Square just as night was falling and the gas lamps along the avenue were being lit.  The home was much like any other townhouse lining the avenue.  The building was a four-story affair with large, 12-pane windows overlooking Berkley Square Park just across the street.  A cast iron railing topped with fleur-de-lis spikes guarded the entrance.  Two low steps lead to a heavy oak door which sported an imposing brass ring knocker.  As the visitors approached, the door slowly opened, and a shadowy figure emerged.

“Good evening gentlemen, and welcome”, offered Benson as he motioned the men inside.  Upon entering the foyer, Benson ushered his visitors along a narrow hallway into the parlor where glasses of port awaited.  

Warboys seemed in particularly high spirits.

“A toast, gentlemen”, offered Sir Robert as he raised his glass.  “To what will surely be the easiest 50 guineas I shall ever earn.”

While Warboys sipped the wine, Cholmondeley and Dugall shared a brief glance before raising their glasses.  Benson’s jaw tightened as he placed his port on the table untouched.

“Pardon me, milord”, stated Benson, “but before we begin, I must insist on several stipulations.  These will not only address your safety but also shield the property and myself from any liability.”

Sir Robert tried to reassure the host.

“Friend John, I am quite certain that we four may agree to terms as gentlemen.  Neither I nor Cholmondeley or Dugall shall hold you legally accountable, come what may.  Agreed?” 

“I thank you, Sir Robert”, replied Benson, “but there are precautions that must be agreed to or this enterprise can proceed no further.”

Cholmondeley spoke first.  

“We are guests in your home, Mr. Benson, and shall abide by any and all requirements made upon us.  Will we not, gentlemen?

“Naturally”, agreed Dugall.

“Of course,”, responded Warboys.

Benson offered with a sigh of relief.  “I thank you, gentlemen.  Firstly, Sir Robert.  You shall occupy the southeast bedroom, which I apologize is not in the finest state as neither I nor any of my temporaries have entered the room these five weeks past.  I have in any case I have laid on a small supply of firewood just outside the door.  Second, Sir Robert shall be armed with a pistol loaded and at the ready placed on the night table beside the bed.” 

“And what of my Bible and holy water, friend John?”, inquired Warboys with a smirk.

Unfazed by the attempt at humor, Benson continued.

“Thirdly, Lord Cholmondeley, Sir Dugall and I shall remain here in the parlor for the duration of the night, at the ready to respond should assistance be required.  And lastly, Sir Robert, there is bell pull hanging just to the side of the bed which with even slightest tug may alert those of us here in the parlor to make all haste to your side.  Your room is immediately above where we now stand, and we may be up the stairs and with you in seconds.  Do you agree to these terms?”

Warboys was struck by the earnestness of his host and the smirk faded from his lips.  He nodded in compliance.

“Of course, Mr. Benson, I shall acquiesce to all rubrics put forward by the owner of this fine property”, agreed Warboys.  After handshakes between the four sealed the deal, the four men moved into the dining room for a hearty supper of Marsala broth and saddle of mutton with red jelly.

For the most part talk at dinner steered clear of the ghostly wager, focusing instead on the creation of the Province of Canada in North America via the Union Act and of the newly begun construction of a statue and column in Trafalgar Square honoring British naval war hero Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson.  After dinner, the men returned to the parlor for drinks and cigars as two young girls quickly cleared the table and, balancing precarious loads of dishes in their arms, hurried into the kitchen.  Within minutes the girls entered appeared in the hallway door.

“We are finished, Sir.  Will that be all?”, asked the taller and older of the two, nervously shifting from one foot to other.

“Yes, Clara, and thank you”, nodded Benson.

But before last syllable had barely escaped Benson’s lips, the girls had already rushed out the door and were hurrying down the street without looking back.

“I wonder how far the lasses will go before realizing they forgot to collect their wages”, chuckled Dugall.

“Prepayment is a condition of employment for this house, milord”, stated Benson.  “I do not hold this against the girls.  I think I should demand the same if I were in their position.”

Warboys downed the last sip of brandy from his snifter and arose from his chair.

“Very well, Gentlemen, I feel it is time that I retired.  I have had a monstrous day at the track, the excitement of which has left me quite drained, though my pockets quite filled.  I bid you goodnight.”

Benson rose as well.

“I shall accompany milord to his room and –”

“There is no need, Friend John.  I am quite capable of turning down my own covers.  But there is one more thing.  As time draws near for this little adventure to begin, I admit that my imagination may be getting the better of me.  So, let me offer this.  If you should happen to hear the bell emit a single peel, I pray you do not rush to my aid as this may be ascribed to – let us say – nervous anxiety.  However, if you should hear the bell ring for a second time… Well…”.

“That sounds like a reasonable stipulation”, said Lord Cholmondeley.  “What say you, John?”

Hesitating briefly, Benson nodded

“It is the room left of the second-floor landing overlooking the street, Sir Robert”.

“Excellent.  And with that I bid you goodnight gentlemen”, quipped Warboys as he bowed before taking up the oil lamp Benson had prepared for him.  “Oh, and just to remind you, I will be armed so for your own sakes please knock before entering my chamber.  Hmm?”

Robert Warboys flashed his signature smirk as he grasped the railing an ascended the stairs.  Moments later, those remaining in the parlor heard the door to the bedroom open and quickly close.  And then there was silence.

“Well, my friends, I suppose we might agree to a watch so that we may get some rest this night”, suggested Lord Cholmondeley.  

“That will not be necessary, milord”, offered Benson.  “I’ll not sleep a wink until sunrise in any event, so I invite you to rest as you can.”

“That’s very good of you, John, but surely you— “.  Dugall’s sentence was cut short by the peeling of the bell mounted high on the parlor wall.  

The three men froze, their gazes transfixed on the small metal dome still vibrating from the strike of the hammer.  For what seemed an eternity, the men stared motionless as the bell.

“That was a single ring, was it not?”, stammered Dugall.  

“Yes, a single ring”, agreed Cholmondeley, not averting his gaze.

Benson said nothing, staring intently at the bell.

Suddenly a spine-chilling scream echoed throughout the house, accompanied by the deafening report of a pistol.  At the same time the bell rang again, only this time it continued to sound as though the pull had not been released.

John Benson was halfway up the stairs in seconds taking the steps 3 at a time with Lord Cholmondeley and Sir Dugall hot on his heels.  After breathlessly reaching the second floor landing the three men entered the large bedroom and were met with a ghastly sight.  

The smell of gunpowder still hung in the air from the discharge of the pistol.  On the bedside table burned the whale oil lamp which cast an eerie amber pall over the room.  In the wall next to the closet the men spotted a bullet hole, plaster and paint flakes sprinkled on the floor below.  And draped across the bed, hanging half off the mattress with pistol gripped in one hand and the bell pull still clutched in the other lay the body of Sir Robert Warboys.  His mouth was agape and contorted in terror, his eyes still open and staring in the corner of the room nearest the closet.  And spilling from his jacket pocket was a cascade of gold sovereigns amounting to 100 guineas in total. 

The death of Robert Warboys, though attributed to “heart failure”, caused a minor scandal which led to John Benson abandoning the house at No.50 Berkley square.  The dreadful reputation of the home now exacerbated by Warboys death resulted in the property remaining vacant for almost 50 years, falling into ever-increasing levels of disrepair.  And so, the house stood, untended, unoccupied, and wholly avoided until December of 1887.

On the day before Christmas in that year, the ironclad corvette HMS Penelope arrived in Portsmouth after an extended cruise in the British West Indies.  Though she was no stranger to armed conflict, having earned her battle pennant during the Anglo-Egyptian War in 1882, she had after 20 years of solid service come to the end of her combat career.  Having been relegated to coastal defense, her current mission was to protect her majesty’s sea-going interests in her outlying posts.  And now after 3 months abroad, she was returning to England for a refit and much needed respite for those who served aboard her.  Thus, soon after putting into port in Portsmouth on 24 December 1887 and the dock watch set, the rest of the crew was awarded a two-week shore leave and quickly scattered across the countryside.  While many of the sailors planned to return home right away to spend time with family and friends, others were simply eager to find a decent meal, a pint of ale and a comfortable bed.  Two such salts were Edward Blunden and Robert Martin who decided to enjoy a little R&R in the welcoming inns and pubs of London before setting off for their homes in Halstead and Reading, respectively.  

Upon alighting from the train at Waterloo Station, Blunden and Martin quickly made their way across the Thames toward Soho and one of the most well known drinkeries in the area, The Intrepid Fox.  As the sailors plied pretty bar flies with whiskey milk punches and drained one pint of ale after another, they scarcely noticed the drain the nights festivities was having on their finances.  It was only after they left the Fox drunk and alone that the young men realized they were practically broke.  What few coins that remained would be needed for train fare to get them home for Christmas celebrations.  Thus, Blunden and Martin had no money for a hotel and the thought of spending the night in a doss house was too depressing to consider.  Surely, they thought, two clever chaps like themselves could find some bargain lodgings on the sly.  I was with this in mind that they headed west toward the Mayfair district in search of a free lodging. 

It was well past midnight and bone-chillingly cold, so the urgency to find shelter was palpable.  It just as the sailors were about to toss in the towel that Martin spied a “To Let” sign on hanging askew from a gate railing.  

“Ello, what’s this?” remarked Martin, staring up at the four-story townhome just across the street from the Berkley Square green park.

The dilapidated condition of the façade and the broken panes of glass suggested that the place had been empty for quite some time.  Above the front door was a triple sided lantern casing upon which the address number had been stenciled.  Though faded and barely discernable, the men could just make out the markings.  It was a number. 50.

“You don’t suppose anybody is home?”, asked Blunden.

“You must be joking”, replied Martin.

The two men crept closer and peered into the ground floor window.  Through the grim-coated glass they spotted the shabby remnants of what appeared to be once high-quality furnishings, now little more than broken shards of wood.  And while certainly not the Savoy, it was under roof, and it would not adversely affect their finances.  So, reaching through a broken pane, Blunden unlocked the window nearest the door and raised the window frame with little difficulty.  After slipping inside and quickly closing the window behind them, Blunden and Martin found themselves in the foyer hallway at the base of a set of narrow stairs.  What was once a parlor or receiving room was now stacked high with piles of rubbish, broken chairs and a table and moth-eaten curtains.  At the far end of the room a door opened into what the assumed was a dining room, but they decided against trying to navigate the mounds of trash to find out.

“Well, up or down?”, asked Blunden.

“Up, of course”, chimed Martin.  “We don’t want some hobnailed Jack peering in and finding us asleep on the floor, do we.  A trespassing warrant won’t exactly help our case for promotion, now will it.”

“There’s a point”, agreed Blunden as he reached into his seabag for a stub of candle to light the way.  “Bedrooms more likely upstairs anyway, yes?”

Blunden struck a match to light the candle while Martin placed himself between the flame and the front of the house so passersby would not notice the glow.  Cradling the flickering light with the cup of his hand, Blunden began to inch his way up the stairs.  The staircase groaned in protest, having not felt the weight of a human footfall in almost half a century, but to their relief, the steps held.  At the top of the landing just above the parlor they found a narrow hallway and two bedrooms.  The door to one bedroom was open revealing another empty space devoid of any trace of its former furnishings.  The door to the other bedroom was closed, and when Teddy tried the handle, he found the latch locked.  

“Strange this room would be locked, don’t you think”, mused Blunden as he stared blankly at the knob.

“Yeah, we’ll we can amend that easy enough”, replied Martin.   Taking a few steps back, the stocky sailor rushed the door and before Blunden even had a chance to react, Martin barreled through the doorframe and into the formerly locked room.

“Are you daft! What if someone heard that?”, admonished Blunden as he followed Martin into the room.

“Balls.  Any noise from this ramshackle would likely frighten someone away than attract their attention, yes?”

“Another good point, but don’t you—”

Blunden’s reply got clipped in his throat as soon as his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room.  Unlike the rest of the derelict house, this room was fully furnished with a night table, a small fireplace and best of all a bed with the coverings still in place.

“We’ve hit the sweepstakes, old boy”, exclaimed Martin excitedly.  “Would you look at this?  Almost as good as the Savoy, wouldn’t you say?”

Blunden didn’t say anything.  He just stared into the eerie room; his gaze inexplicably fixed on the closet door in the far corner.

“Ay, snap out.  What’s with you?” asked Martin.

“I don’t like it.  I don’t like it all.”  Blunden stated without looking at this companion.

“What are you talking about?  It’s a bed and it’s free and it’s ours.  What’s not to like?”

“Why this room?  Every other room in the house is empty and ransacked, and this one is fully furnished and untouched.  I don’t – I don’t like it.”

Martin shook his head.

“Well, I for one like it very much and I also like that fireplace just waiting for fire to bring it to life.  What say I go downstairs, grab some of that wood rubbish and build us a nice warm fire we can fall asleep by.  Ay?”

“We should go”, was Blunden’s reply.  “Just get out of here.”

“No”, admonished Martin.  “This is a godsend, Teddy.  The best Christmas gift we could hope for, and it’s fallen into our frost-bitten laps.  Now pull it together and get this bed square while I run down and get something to get a fire started.  Okay?” 

Though unable to shake the oppressive pall he felt about the strange bedroom, he realized he wasn’t going to change his friends mind and finally acquiesced.

“Yeah, right, okay”, mumbled Blunden.

“Okay”, repeated Martin, patting Blunden on the shoulder before turning and heading back downstairs.

His eyes now more accustomed to the dark, Bob Martin was able to descend the steps and pick his way around the parlor where he found several broken slats and legs, the remains of a table that had long ago seen its last meal.  As Martin was stacking the wood pieces into a more manageable pile, he heard what sounded like a door banging against a wall as if flung open.  Then he heard a blood-curdling scream from the room directly above him.  

“Teddy!” Martin screamed as he dropped his makeshift firewood and raced back up the stairs.

Taking the steps 2 and 3 at a time, Martin vaulted up the stairs to the hallway above.   Upon reaching entrance to the second bedroom, his blood ran cold.  Though dimly lit, Martin could make out the interior of the room only a few feet away.  Through the doorframe he could see Blunden backed into a corner and shrieking uncontrollably.  And between his friend and the closet door stood… something.  Some shapeless, horrid thing that seemed to be approaching Blunden in a menacing manner.  Unable to move, all Martin could do was call out to the other sailor.

“Teddy!”

As he shouted his friends name, the dark brooding shape stopped its advance on Blunden and seemed to turn toward Martin.  For a moment it remained where it was, though its shape seemed to undulate and change like a swirling fog.  Was that hair, or perhaps tentacles, thought Martin as he strained to make sense of what his eyes were telling him.  Then, suddenly, the thing passed through the doorway and began approaching Martin, the diaphanous limbs reaching out for him.  Letting out a scream of his own, Martin vaulted over the banister and fell the ten feet to the lower landing below.  More falling than stumbling, Martin bolted toward the entrance, flung open the door and raced down the darkened street shouting for help.

By stroke of luck, policeman James Moorcroft was just making his turn onto Berkley Square from Hill Street after completing his round of the neighborhood.  Seeing the hysterical young man running toward him, Moorcroft raised his lantern and rushed to meet him.

“What’s all this, then?” inquired Moorcroft grasping the sailor by the collar of his coat.

“My shipmate, it – it got him!”, babbled Martin.

Assuming he was dealing with his third case gin-fueled hysteria of the night, Moorcroft tried to placate the young man.

“Now, now, who’s got your mate and where was he – gotten”, asked Moorcroft in a calming voice. 

“On the right, the old place that’s to let”, insisted Martin, pointing to the decrepit abode.

The policeman peered over the young man’s shoulder in the direction he was pointing.

“Mary mother, you vazey sots!  Don’t tell me you went into —”

The constable’s sentence was cut short by a horrible scream accompanied by the loud shattering of glass.  Officer Moorcroft and Robert Martin looked up just in time to see Edward Blunden falling from the second story bedroom window onto the gate railing below, his body becoming impaled on the fleur-de-lis pikes atop the iron bars.  The bobby and the sailor rushed to Blunden’s aid, but it was readily apparent that there was nothing they could do.  Edward Blunden was gone, his eyes wide and staring dead ahead, and his face a mask frozen in eternal terror.

A nameless, shapeless phantasm so horrifying as to frighten a man to death is something hard to imagine, let alone considering such an entity as an actual possibility.  But tales of such creatures go back to ancient times to the Greek legends of the gorgon Medusa whose appearance was so horrific that a single glance was enough to turn a man to stone.  The basilisk was a serpent king of sorts, half snake half bird that could kill with a killer gaze.  So, there is precedence, albeit legendary, of human beings being frightened to death by simply looking upon a dread apparition.  Dying of fright is nothing new, as this has occurred from the dawn of civilization and happens every day and not necessarily at the behest of supernatural entities.  Heart failure brought on by psychological shock is a proven medical event, so it certainly can happen.  Nothing extraordinary there.  But when a writer sets such a terrifying demise in a run-down haunted house and throws in an aggressive, menacing and tentacled monster, then you can see how such mundanities can turn mortifying and have an adverse effect on a reader.  

These two fatal incidents alone are enough to give someone nightmares and solidify the home’s sinister reputation.  But believe it or not, these are neither the only purported ghostly manifestations of the thing at 50 Berkley Square, nor is the nameless horror the only spirit said to haunt the premises.  But before we look more closely at the incidents occurring at the home, it might help to understand a little bit about the place where this all happened.

The history of Berkeley Square is almost as compelling as the tale associated with it.  For starters Berkley Square is a park referred to as a green town square in London’s affluent Mayfair area in the West End, City of Westminster.  The square was designed by architect William Kent in the mid-18th century and named for Lord John Berkeley.  The first houses along the square’s East side were built around 1738 with the West side residences finished in 1745, a few of the original houses still surviving today in their original state.  The house at No. 50 Berkley Square was completed in 1740.  Although Berkeley Square became the height of fashion for a town residence, various shops and businesses also called the buildings home. There was Hemley's coffee house, a carpenter, a wax chandler, a wool merchant, undertaker, distiller, hosier, tailor, and an apothecary were all based in Berkeley Square at one time or another.  The neighborhood boasts a veritable Who’s Who of London’s upper crust as former residents.  The writer Horace Walpole, former Prime Minister George Canning (no relation to John, the editor of the ghost story collection), Charles Rolls cofounder of Rolls-Royce, and even Winston Churchill all called Berkley Square home at some point.  Though of these luminaries, only George Canning actually lived at the prosaic address of No. 50 Berkley Square.

Tales about the house being haunted go back almost as far as the building itself.  The oldest tale concerning the nameless horror comes from 1770 and concerns none other than Lord Thomas, 2nd Baron of Lyttleton.  Known in gossip circles as “wicked Lord Lyttelton”, the Baron had apparently heard tell of a terrifying monster in the house at No. 50.  So, one evening on a dare, Lyttelton armed himself with two blunderbusses, or muskets, loaded them with silver coins to ward off evil spirits, and set out to spend the night in a bedroom on the second floor.  According to legend, Lyttelton saw a misty shape that lept toward him in the dark.  The Baron fired and saw the mist crumple to the floor “like a dead pheasant” before disappearing.  Similarly, it is also said of Lord Lyttelton that his death was foretold to him in a dream about being visited by a white bird three days before he actually gave up the ghost.  But as far as this Lord Lyttelton goes, and notice I said “this” one because believe it or not there is another Lord Lyttelton involved in this affair, I think we can effectively rule him out as a witness to this paranormal phenom and I’ll go into that in due course.  But the main reason that I’m excluding Wicked Tom here is because there is another legend surrounding 50 Berkley Square and this too was said to occur in 1770.  

This alternative takes on the 1770 timeline concerns a fellow by the name of DuPree, originally of Wilton Park, who purportedly took up residence at 50 Berkley Square in that year.  It seems that Mr. Dupree had a brother who was homicidally insane, requiring him to be shackled 24-7 in the attic and fed through a slot in the door.  This motif of a mental case being chained in the basement – or in this case the attic – is a familiar one in paranormal lore.  I’m sure most of you can think of one or two movies off the top of your head that employ this literary device.  And while the spirit of a murderous mental patient might seem a tantalizing explanation for the troubles in the house, several questions arise that cast doubt on this particular episode.  For one, why would a man with the means to purchase a townhome in one of the most desirable neighborhoods in London insist on chaining his bat-crap crazy brother in the attic.  Why not admit him to perhaps the most famous psychiatric hospital not only in London but perhaps the world.  Bethlem, or more easily recognized as Bedlam, was in full operation at the time and in the heart of London no less.  That would certainly have been better for both the patient and his wealthy sibling.  How hard must it have been for Mr. Dupree to entertain guests with all the shrieking and chain rattling echoing through the house.  But that logical observation aside, there are in fact no records showing anyone named DuPree or DuPrey or any derivation of that name ever owning or even leasing the property at 50 Berkley Square.

The earliest actual record I was able to dig up concerning someone residing at this infamous address comes from 1817 when William Peatt Litt was shown as the legal occupant of 50 Berkeley Square and remained so until 1820.  Litt, we know from tax liens, was a slave trader and merchant but surely fell on hard times after the Slave Trade Act of 1807 effectively brought an end to human trafficking throughout the British empire.  There are no indications that Litt ever experienced any anomalies while he lived in the house.  He wasn’t driven mad or suicidal by some unseen specter.  He simply decided to pull up stakes and moved to Jamaica in 1820 in search of other and more fruitful business opportunities.

And it is at this time that 50 Berkley Square saw the residency of its most famous tenant, George Canning, the former Prime Minister of England.  Canning lived at No. 50 from 1820 until his death in 1827, only 119 days after having taken office.  His 4-month tenure as Prime Minister was the briefest in British history.   Due to the high profile of this occupant, it would follow that if anything untoward occurred at 50 Berkley Square during his stay that there would certainly be a record of it in his journals, diaries, letters, etc.  But this is not the case.  While some historians have put forward the notion that Canning did experience paranormal events during his tenancy, these are garden variety shadows and bumps in the night and not the murderous mist at the heart of the legend.  It seems certain that George Canning did not experience any terrifying goings on at the Berkley Square home while he lived there.

And then we come to the genesis of yet another ghost that is said to haunt 50 Berkley Square.  This concerns the ghost of a young girl, aged 15 to 30 depending on the version you come across, who upon growing despondent at the constant sexual advances of her uncle died after throwing herself from the top floor window.  Now this ghost seems to have a much milder temperament than her ectoplasmic housemate.  She is rarely seen inside the home, but rather is seen strolling along the adjacent sidewalk at night.  It is also said that this demure ghost can be heard tapping on the glass of the windows as if trying to get in.  Now, you would be hard pressed to throw a rock in old town London and not hit a house allegedly haunted by a young girl who committed suicide rather than relent to incestuous sexual advances.  It’s almost as common as off-street parking.  So, this ghost story is most likely attributed to 50 Berkley Square rather than an event that actually occurred there.

So, Canning died in 1827, the death of Sir Robert Warboys is said to have happened in 1840 and the suicide of the girl occurring sometime in the interim.

We’ve already recounted the death of Robert Warboys at the house, so there’s no need to go over that ground again.  But it is this tale that effectively puts the nameless horror at No. 50 in by 1840.  But if you remember from this saga, it was stated that after Warboys’ death the home remained vacant until 1887 when the Blunden and Martin arrived on Christmas Eve of that year.  But that is not the case.  In fact, there have been several tenants between the alleged Benson residency and the HMS Penelope tale, each with their own part to play in the legend.

After Prime Minister Canning passed away in 1827, the residence came under the ownership of Miss Elizabeth Curzon and one of the streets radiating from Berkley Square bears her name to this day.  While not a great deal is known about Ms. Curzon, it is known that she passed away in 1859 at the ripe old age of 90.  We again look through historical documents related to Elizabeth Curzon and can find no mention of the menacing horror haunting the second-floor bedroom.  While she may have spoken of ghostly occurrences at her home, this was actually quite common in Victorian England as no self-respecting property owner wanted to be the only one without a resident spirit.  And even this is anecdotal and not verifiable in any of the writings the lady left behind.  

Point in fact, there isn’t any contemporary local lore purporting that No. 50 Berkley Square was at all haunted before the arrival of our next tenant, Mr. Thomas Meyers.  Thomas Meyers was a real person, and this guy did in fact live at 50 Berkley Square from 1859 until about 1872.  So, we can dispense with the guesswork related to this point.  From what we know about Thomas Meyers, he was by all accounts a couple of aces short of a full deck.  Even before he purchased the Berkley Square home, rumors concerning his mental state were widespread.  Be that as it may, Meyers did appear to have enough wits about him to woo the finer sex and become engaged in 1859.  It is said that he bought the Mayfair home as a wedding gift for his bride to be.  But before toit nups were officially exchanged, Meyers’ fiancé broke off the engagement and made off with another man.  This seems to have pushed Meyers over the edge and his mental state rapidly deteriorated.  He became a shut in, never leaving the house, only sending his valet out when needed.  But things were to get much worse.  

As his dementia grew, Thomas Meyers took to sleeping during the day and wandering about the house at night by candlelight, moaning and crying over having been abandoned by his beloved.  And it is right about this time that stories began to circulate about the strange goings on at No. 50 and it was about this time that the house first gained its reputation as being haunted.  All the while Meyers mental state was in steady decline, so was the state of the property.  The paint had begun to fade and peel, curtains became moth-eaten and ragged, the windows were now covered in soot from years of candle use.  All this only added to the growing reputation of the Meyers house.  Even Meyers’ niece, the writer Lady Dorothy Nevill, attributed the strange activity at the home to Meyers’ grief-induced madness, as he wandered around the home turning lights on and off in the middle of the night.  She published an article in 1906 in which she stated the whole business of ghosts at 50 Berkley Square was the result of her uncle’s nocturnal tendencies.  

But wait, there’s more.  Remember we talked about Wicked Thomas, Lord Lyttelton who shot at a misty form with a musket at the house in 1770?  Well, that episode seems to have been a case of mistaken identity by writers not diligent enough to fact check their own work, which resulted in part of the story being ascribed out of chronological order with a much later purported event.  Let me explain.  One thing you may or may not know about British aristocracy is that these lineages and titles are passed down in succession from one generation to the next and that these semi-royals, particularly in the 18th and 19th centuries, routinely fathered upwards of 12 kids if not more.   And unlike today, they were highly unoriginal in naming their offspring, sticking largely with William, George, James, and Thomas for boys.  Which brings us to forward 100 years to the direct descendent of Thomas Lyttelton, the 4th baronet Lyttelton, George.  

George’s story with respect to the haunting at Berkley Square is so similar to that of Thomas that they might be one and the same.  And you guessed it, they were.  It seems that many writers of the paranormal tales get tripped up while trying to untangle the Lyttelton rootstock and mistakenly said it was Thomas, not George, who shot at the nameless horror.  But as we’ve just seen, 50 Berkley Square didn’t garner its haunted reputation until after the Thomas Meyers’ residency in the 1860’s and ‘70s.  Thus, with Thomas Lyttelton now off the hook, let’s see what George had to do with the whole affair.  

The tale of George’s involvement with the nameless horror is a cut and paste of previous versions of the legend.  In this case George Lyttelton was said to be the intrepid skeptic, and it was George who insisted on spending the night in the haunted room, armed to the teeth and ready for ectoplasmic action.  In George’s version we also find the wager about the existence of ghosts, and we also find the literary device of the bell pull.  “One ring and I’m fine, two and I need help”.

Now this episode of George reportedly took place in 1872.  Well, we know that doesn’t jibe well with the facts, because Thomas Meyers was still stalking the house by candlelight at time and probably would not have been keen to entertain houseguests, particularly ones packing heat.  We also know from historical records that George Lyttelton was not an adventure-seeker of unbounding bravery.  He was rather a meekish individual prone to bouts of depression.  It was during one such bout that he committed suicide in 1876 by, believe it or not, throwing himself off the second-story balustrade at his home at 18 Crescent Park.  I came across one account that stated George Lyttelton threw himself out of the window at No. 50 to escape the nameless terror, which mirrors not only the alleged suicide of the young girl by also that of Blunden throwing himself – or being throw – from the window as well.  This seems as yet another attempt by some unscrupulous writer of the occult to lend credence to a tale by injecting an “unimpeachable witness” paradigm into the tale.  

But doesn’t this also sound remarkably like the episode that served as the crux of our tale, the death of Sir Robert Warboys?  It certainly does.  So how does this detailed tale of Warboys fare under the glare of historical scrutiny?  Not well.

This seminal episode in the lexicon of 50 Berkley Square fails in so many ways that it is a wonder how it was ever considered a true story.

One.  The wager, a comical and overused device in many such stories, was born as the men were making merry in the smoking lounge of White’s Gentlemen’s Club.  This social club is a real place, still in existence today and is considered one of if not the most exclusive in England.  And the identities of those who belong to the club are not cloaked in illuminati-like secrecy as White’s is not shy about boasting its membership roster, which is readily available for both current and past members.  When one looks down the list at the names and titles of members in the 1840’s at the time the Warboys drinking party is said to have occurred, guess whose name is absent from the membership role?  Robert Warboys.  Guess who else.  John Benson.  Guess who else.  Forster Dugall.  And rounding out the list of MIAs from the White’s membership list is Lord Billy C, the 3rd Marquis of Cholmondeley.  None of these men were or have ever been members of White’s and were therefore not swilling brandy in the smoking lounge in the club on that or any other night.  

As for the men themselves?  Well apart from William Cholmondeley, there is no record of the other three ever existing.  There is no deed showing of anyone named John Benson ever owning or even leasing the house at No. 50 Berkley Square.  There is no historical mention at all of anyone named Sir Forster Dugall at all.

And as for Robert Warboys?  I found one public record of a Robert Warboys, but he was not a lord and he died in 1812 at the age of 76, so he couldn’t be our man.  As for Warboys Manor, there was a manor in the town of Warboys, but it was not owned by anyone of that name and was not the ancestral seat of local nobility.  The manor was named for the town and not any Warboys family.  In the early 19th century, the property passed through a veritable revolving door of ownership.  During the timeframe in which Sir Robert was said to be lord of Warboys, the manor was owned in quarter shares by the families Richards, Kirton, Carstairs. and Farcy.  In 1840 Carstairs daughter Johanna married Sir John Henry Pelly, but they were not listed as the owners at that time.  Instead, the estate was held by a Rev. Hugh Chambers.  But upon Chambers death the manor was returned to the Pelly/Carstairs clan when ownership fell to Sir John Pelly’s son, Henry Carstairs Pelly in 1877.   

So, no one named Warboys owned the manor bearing the towns name and no Robert Warboys, and certainly not a “Sir”, was alive at the time he was purportedly frightened to death by a ghost in London.   It appears again as if some writer decided to invent a trio of lords on which to center the story and tossed poor unsuspecting Bill Cholmondeley in for good measure.  Having not one, not two, but 3 witnesses of unimpeachable character present at the alleged event has lent a great deal of credibility to the tale over the years.  As we’ve seen this is a common device utilized by writers intent on turning paranormal fiction in widely accepted truth.  Thus, countless readers and indeed other writers have accepted the Warboys death account as gospel and repeated, rehashed and reprinted the legend for almost 70 years after Seth’s story was first penned.  And it’s certainly easier and much more mysterious to just take the story at face value rather than spending hours digging through the historical records trying to verify these assertions.    

I feel like I’m starting to sound like Billy Mays, because wait, there’s more.  There is yet another tale centered around the house at Berkley Square concerning a family this time named Bentley who shacked up at the townhouse in 1880.  This tale follows along with most of the standard fare we’ve seen before.  Bentley’s daughter was set to marry a dashing army captain named Kenfield and an engagement party was scheduled to celebrate the upcoming toit nups.  On the night of the soiree, a maid goes up to the daughter’s room alone to fetch the daughter’s gloves.   A scream is heard that the household races upstairs.  The maid found curled up on the floor and babbling incoherently about some formless thing emerging from the closet.  She died of shock in hospital the following day.  So, our intrepid Captain Kenfield decides to stay in his fiancés room the following night to see the entity for himself, despite the pleas of his beloved.  As before, the brave man goes in armed and instructs the rest of the household to ignore one bell, but to come running if they hear two.  This harkens back to the “Don’t open the door no matter what happens” device, my favorite example of this is featured in Mel Brook’s masterpiece “Young Frankenstein”.  Naturally, there’s a gun shot and naturally the bell rings twice and naturally the man is found either dead or insane with fright and dies the next day as the maid did -- depending on the various takes on this chapter of the legend.    

And this brings us to 1887 and terrifying story of the two sailors of HMS Penelope.  So how does this cog the gearwork of 50 Berkley Square stand up?  Again, not well.

First of all, there’s the HMS Penelope.  While there was a British Ship named HMS Penelope – in fact, there have been nine over the course of the royal navy’s history – the one we’re concerned with was a three-masted iron-clad sailing corvette.  So far so good.  But records show that the ship was not on a lengthy cruise to the west indies in the autumn of 1887.  She wasn’t on any overseas mission at all.  Because in 1887, Penelope was no longer a ship of the line, but had been relegated to coast guard duty and based out of Harwich near Ipswich.  She was not moored in Portsmouth and her crew was not chomping at the bit for their first shore leave in months.  Truth of the matter is that her range was along the easter coast of England probably made port back in Harwich on a regular basis.  In that even the most mundane particulars of the boat are concocted – the only truth to this tale is the name of the ship -- I don’t think we can take any of the more phantasmic elements seriously.

Of course, it wasn’t until after I had done all the legwork tracking Penelope’s movements at the time of the story that I learned that the tale of Martin and Blunden was a complete work of fiction anyway.  Albeit a great story, it is nonetheless a story and HMS Penelope was employed with egregious literary license.  The story was written by Elliot O’Donnell and first appeared in print in his book “Phantoms of the Night” in 1956.  Until then, there had never been any mention of sailors breaking into 50 Berkley Square, let alone that one of them either jumped or was thrown out the window to his death.

The building continued to cycle through other various owners over the years including a 60-year stint in which Magg’s Bros. Rare Book Sellers occupied the premises.  One former patron of the book shop stated that on her first visit she was shocked by what she had seen at 50 Berkley Square.  But it wasn’t a ghost that sent the woman hurrying from the building in a fright, but rather sticker shock from the astronomically priced rarities they sold at the shoppe.  As for the agents at Maggs Bros., none ever reported a single instance of paranormal activity during the six decades the business was located in the building.

Looking back at newspaper and magazine articles over the past 140 years or so, one can find mentions of the ghostly reputation of the townhouse in Mayfair, but nothing like the horrific nature of the hauntings attributed to the nameless horror.  This aspect of the Berkley Square legend seems to have originated with our buddy Elliot O’Donnell in 1956.  Picking up this baton and running with it, Ronald Seth then expounded on the legend by adding to the mix the Warboys chapter.  And from then on, it was no longer a myth, but accepted as truth.

Much supposition has fueled this fiery topic over the years as writers and researchers have published wild, fantastic, and even idiotic theories attempting to explain the haunting at Berkley Square without ever considering the most plausible explanation first.  And that is that none of the incidents attributed to the nameless horror ever actually happened.  While there are hints that a young girl or woman had actually committed suicide at one of the houses at Berkley Square, I have been able to neither substantiate that this happened at No. 50, or that it even happened at all.  Regardless, this tragic event whether real or not is more likely tied to the more traditional ghostly tales associated with the house like the invisible finger tapping on the window and the apparition itself walking near the home, not the tentacled terror that was reputed to haunt the bedroom.   Not surprisingly other have suggested that the house was built on an ancient Norman burial ground and had thus those interred there are angry at the intrusion ala the movie “Poltergeist”.  But my absolute favorite theory that attempts to encompass the shapelessness and horrifying appearance of the entity is that a giant killer squid or octopus somehow crept up through the sewer, made its way into the house 30 miles away from the nearest source of seawater, took up residence in the second-floor closet and killed all those gun-toting daredevils over the course of 60 plus years.  I wish I were kidding.

There are a couple more details about No. 50 Berkley Square I’d like to point out and that has to do with the layout of the house.  We’ve talked at length about the haunting being focused on the bedroom on the second floor.  For those unfamiliar with how Europeans grade their building levels, I should point out that the “ground floor” and the “first floor” are not synonymous as they are in the US.  The “first floor” is the floor above the ground floor, what we Yanks call the “second floor”.  So, when looking at the house from street level, the windows of the haunted bedroom as it were would be the third row up from the sidewalk, not the second.  And the kitchen and storage area were located in the “lower ground level”, in what was effectively the basement level.   And there isn’t an attic in which homicidal maniacs may be chained to the floor and fed through a slot in a dungeon-like door.  The third floor – or fourth floor to us colonials – is just another living area consisting of one large and two smaller bedrooms, the requisite dressing room, a linen closet, and bathroom.  No creepy attic here.  Just thought I’d clear that up.

As you may also remember from the stories, the horror always seemed to emerge from the closet in the corner of the room before launching an attack.  Well, fun fact, there isn’t a closet in the corner of the second-floor bedroom.  There isn’t a closet in that room at all.  There are only two doors in and out of the main second-floor bedroom: one opening out to the landing along the staircase and the other opens into the adjoining bedroom.  There is no closet at all.  In true Victorian fashion, there was a dressing room specifically included in the blueprint of the home that measures 15 ½ feet by 9 feet adjacent to the boudoir.  There was no closet in which a monster could hide, even if it wanted to.  Now there is a second smaller bedroom connected to the master, but it does not have a fireplace and this factor plays an important part in the saga of the two sailors.  It was as Martin was downstairs scrounging for firewood that Blunden was said to have been attacked.  Be that as it may, it seems that most if not all of those who have written about the house at No. 50 Berkley Square have never even bothered to verify the property’s layout, let alone ever actually having gone inside.  Details vary and closets appear where none are found, and the kitchen shifts from floor to floor depending on who you believe.  But you can see for yourself how the property is laid out by visiting the Savills website and checking out the listing for the property.  I guess you could even schedule a walkthrough if you were so inclined.

They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  Of course, in literary terms this is known as plagiarism.  In order to avoid this nasty little legality, writers have to alter the original even if slightly when passing it off as their own.  Which would explain why there are just as many versions of this tale as there are writers who have attempted to pass it off as a true story.  With a tweak here and an embellishment there, the strange tale of a reclusive jilted bachelor who wandered about his home at night by candlelight has mutated into a tale as terrifying as the madness from which poor Thomas Meyers must have suffered.  But when all is said and done, it is simply a ghost story.  But a great one to be sure that holds a place of honor in the history of the genre.  While I did spend days combing through the historical records associated with No. 50 Berkley Square, my initial source for this episode was John Canning’s book “50 Great Ghost Stories” which is readily available online with many copies coming in at under $5.  If you are at all interested in well-crafted tales of the unearthly then I highly recommend picking up a copy. 

And after finishing to collection as you rush around your home tuning on all the lights, you may find yourself wondering “Could these things really have happened?”.   Well, you can take comfort in the fact that at least in the case of No. 50 Berkley Square, the answer is a resounding “no”.