Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Fairy Tales & Fantasy
- Subject: Ghost Stories / Paranormal
- Published: 12/24/2019
The Gentleman's Boots
Born 1957, M, from Denver/Pa, United StatesThe Gentleman's Boots
By T.R.Hart
The whole silly mess could have been avoided, but his honor was at stake. There was only one remedy for this outrageous affront. So, in a gentleman-like fashion, a challenge was made and immediately accepted. The two gentlemen would settle their grievance with pistols at exactly seven o'clock in the morning, just after sunrise on the 15th of December, on the western bank of the River Boyne near Blackfriary in the Year of Our Lord, 1823.
The Duke of Malbry arrived in the darkness one half hour before the designated time with his Second, whose attempts to avoid the shedding of blood had been in vain. His demeanor was calm. He had fought in the Napoleonic Wars and was a skilled marksman. The pistols to be used were from his own personal collection, made by one the finest German gunsmiths. They had been fired twice before successfully in previous duels and the Duke was quite confident that the same history would be repeated.
His adversary, an Irishman of questionable birth, was still absent at 5 minutes to seven o'clock. Malbry's Second seemed to breathe a sense of relief believing that the man was either frightened enough to avoid his probable death or, as his reputation be known, was too inebriated to attend. “No matter”, thought the Duke's man. “So much for the better.”
The Duke smiled. It was now five minutes past the hour and yet no sign of his opponent. The Duke started to make a statement about the cowardice of his enemy when the sound of a horse's hooves grew louder with each word that left his mouth. More clattering followed and the neigh of a horse revealed his adversary's Second, a small thin man dressed in black with a comical cap tilted to one side of his head.
“So sorry sirs for the inconvenience, but my master was a little difficult to stir this morning.”
“Drunk again?” suggested the Duke with a smirk on his face.
“No sir, a little hung over you might say, but he is very much excited as he said.”
“Did he mention any issue of an apology?” asked the Duke's Second.
“No sir!” he seems quite determined.
“And what were his exact words?” responded the Duke with a wide grin that assured him of his opponent's absence due to cowardice.
“Not to be disrespectful sir, but he said that he “could not wait to shoot the old bastard in the guts!”
“Well, it is ten minutes past the hour sir...”
“Nonsense!” the Duke said jokingly to his second. “I think I shall have a cup of tea while I wait for the rascal!”
Just then a clippety-clopping of hooves could be heard. Slowly but surely the image of a man slumped forward on his horse appeared in the road from behind a grove of fruit trees. It was the Irish gentleman. He was dressed sloppily in a dress shirt, soiled pants and a greatcoat thrown over his shoulders. His head was topped by an old tricorn tilted high and back revealing his fat face with cheeks and nose reddened from years of drink. Although he was no more than thirty years of age, he looked much worse for wear than the Duke, who was fit and trim, and nearing fifty!
The laughter that followed the spectacle of the Irishman falling off of his horse aroused his anger. He shouted obscenities too vulgar for repeating, got up, dusted himself off, and gave a look of defiance to the amusement of the Duke and his second.
The rules were set. They would stand twenty pace apart and turn toward each other. To ensure that no one would cheat, it was determined that the dropping of a handkerchief would be the signal for the men to take aim and fire. The men agreed to the terms. The pistols were checked, loaded, and primed.
The Duke took each stride with a magisterial air about him while the Irishman took efforts not to stumble with each step. The two men stopped at twenty paces, turned, and stood facing one another staring at the handkerchief held high in the air. The two men then waited for the signal.
The quiet was interrupted by a large belch emanating from the Irishman who quickly excused himself while attempting to stand up straight.
The air was still and quiet once again. The handkerchief was dropped and suddenly a shot followed by another was heard. In an instant the two men collapsed on the ground. Both Seconds rushed over to each of the duelists. The Irishman's Second searched frantically about his master's seemingly lifeless body for a wound but found none. The Irishman breathed a bit. It was quickly noted that he was dead...drunk!
The Duke was not so lucky. It was obvious that the man was dead. A large pool of blood encircled his head, which was face down, on the ground. It was completely unexpected that the shot fired would find its mark. The ball had taken out the right eye and was lodged in the brain of the dead man.
Duke Malbry's body was taken up and quickly taken for burial in his native England to be buried with much solemnity and ceremony. There were many kind words said in his honor and many accounts were given about his bravery in battle, but secretly many thought him a fool.
He had not been killed in pursuit of a military victory nor an honorable cause. The Duke had lost his life over an argument, and a silly one at that. The two men had argued heatedly about the horsemanship skills of the English and the Irish, both proclaiming superiority over the other. But, the most galling thought to many of his English peers that not only had he been killed, but that he was unable to hit the staggering Irishman whose shot hit him while the drunken lout was falling toward the ground!
Well, dead is dead and that should be the end of the story, but the story has only begun. The burial took place on the 21st of December (The first day of winter) and the body was placed within the family burial crypt beneath the church of St. Mary's under the watchful eye of its sexton, Hannibal Pinch.
Pinch
Pinch had been the Sexton of St. Mary's for nearly half of his sixty years. His father Cornelius Pinch had been the sexton before him and so it was assumed that he would, and did, take up his father's position upon his death.
The former Mr. Pinch was a learned man and fancied himself quite a scholar in the study of the classics and an amateur authority on antiquities. He had high hopes for his little son and despite his mother's objections he named the boy Hannibal in hopes that the name of the great Carthaginian General would inspire young Pinch to ambition. It was not to be. The young Pinch was no scholar, a “bit of a slacker” according to his schoolmaster, and above all, his propensity for appropriating other person's property was a source of embarrassment for his well-intentioned father.
As the boy grew older he became more adept at concealing his thefts and with time, his former transgressions had been forgotten. Upon the death of his doting mother Pinch became more withdrawn, and despite his good looks, had neither love interests nor ambition. The one thing that he did seek was wealth. Realizing that a sexton salary afforded little recompense and merely a stable living, young Pinch decided that the appropriation of wealth could be attained easily. He would rob the dead!
What better profession could he have to accumulate the wealth of the corpses? Even an undertaker would be suspected while the body lay in wait of its burial, but after the burial, only the sexton would have the means and the opportunity to loosen the rich from their chains. “After all” Pinch would say to himself, “wouldn't it be easier for a rich man to pass through the needle's eye without his riches?”
When old Pinch died he was given a simple funeral. His son bemoaned his poverty and inability to give his father a proper funeral. Generous congregants donated funds for the funeral but they noticed that the funeral was cheaply executed and without a lunch.
Pinch always presented himself to the church members as being a man of extreme piety and lived by himself in the small cottage provided by the church members. It was a mere stone's throw from the church, so Old Pinch would be seen going back and forth several times a day with his back getting more hunched as he became older, with lantern in one hand and a small carpet bag in the other.
His strange walk was caused, perhaps, by a deformity in his leg bones. Others theorized that it was due to the old hobnail boots that he wore. They should have been replaced long ago, but Pinch was extremely frugal and attached metal cleats to the soles making a clicking sound as he walked on the stone floors of the church.
Pinch was ubiquitous in his little world, but spent much of that time in the vaults below the church. Most likely he could be found at his small desk set atop with a lantern and large book containing the names and dates of the deaths of church members upon it. When visitors would come, Pinch would welcome them in a most humble and almost cringing demeanor as he directed them to the vaults, of which he held the keys.
Unbeknownst to those who pitied the old man and often rewarded the humble sexton with small tokens of thanks, a substantial fortune had been accumulated from their deceased loved ones. One can only imagine the number of coins taken from the eyes of the departed.
Oh he was a sly one! The "appropriated" items were stashed behind the nooks and crannies within the vaults. During each of his nightly visits, Pinch would conceal the items in his bag and quietly slip into his house. Once he was safe within his room, he would remove a piece of planking from the wall directly opposite the niche containing his bed, and deposited his booty within.
"It's so simple!" he thought, but he knew that he must exchange his ill gotten goods for money. "Those walls will be filled before long, and I must find a way to rid myself of them lest I be found out!"
So, the old thief was determined to make a plan. As he was known to be humble, he decided that he must leave his town with the pretense of going on a pilgrimage, but where could he go? After much decision he would go to county Kent to Canterbury Cathedral. Of course, he had no intention of going neither on pilgrimage nor to Kent, but rather he would pack some bags and to nearby Sussex where he would find buyers, preferably from the continent where he could exchange his goods for gold.
He bade goodbye to Pastor Faregood, who rejoiced in relieving himself though temporarily of this odious little man of whom he had misgivings since his arrival five years prior.
A small group of women brought him sandwiches and pastries for his journey (which Pinch graciously accepted) and bid him a fond farewell. A small Bible was placed in his hands by one of the women.
"I hope that it gives you comfort on your journey Mr. Pinch."
Pinch thanked her in his cringing, servile manner while thinking that he could probably get a shilling for the Bible as it had been on pilgrimage to Canterbury prior, and was considered somewhat sacred to a devotee of the religion.
And so, he was off to his destination, but, as planned, wasn’t to Canterbury!
Within a day Pinch had gotten his money for his purloined goods from an Italian merchant who asked no questions, but was a hard bargainer. Pinch would have gave as good as he got, but he knew that his time was short and he must relieve himself of his treasure. It was upsetting to him however that he found no buyer for his Bible.
The deal was made and the gold coins were exchanged. Pinch seemed to forget his piety and proceeded to have good time with the money. Pinch liked women and he liked drink. So, within a short time, his money was dwindling fast. Thinking foolishly that he would win back his money he went to the cockfights and lost even more.
Pinch was smart enough to know that he was licked and decided that it was time to go home with a pittance of his fortune rather than nothing. Besides, business would be good again and he was smarter for his troubles. He would not be so foolish again.
With his Bible conspicuously in his hand he returned to St. Mary's with his tales of Canterbury and divine revelations which he had during his pilgrimage. His devotees of the good women of the parish were held spellbound by his anecdotes, but a more suspicious view was held by his employer, the Reverend Faregood.
Late one night while the Reverend was preparing his homily for the Christmas services in the parsonage, he noticed a shadowy figure with a bag slung over its shoulder and holding a lantern in front to guide the way. It approached the entry to the vaults, lingered for some time inside and then emerged with a full bag. Pastor Faregood made his way down the steps and out into the cold wet night. He looked up and down the small pathway, but the phantom was nowhere to be found.
The Boots
Well, you may ask “What has this story to do with Pinch and the Dead Duke?” Remember that the last person who had seen the Duke, not in life, but before his burial, was the light-fingered sexton who was now desperate for money.
Having robbed all of the dead already, Old Pinch was badly in need of boots for the approaching winter. His old hobnail boots were cracked. The holes in his soles could no longer be patched. He had spent nearly all of his money and was badly in need of a new pair.
It was while he was attending the services for the Duke that he noticed something that the Duke was wearing that he could use – his boots!
The smart looking riding boots completed the uniform of the finely dressed corpse. They were soft blackened leather, expertly stitched with new soles and heel. “Surely” he thought. “Of what use are they to a dead man?”
Although the Duke was a tall man and Pinch was short, the Duke had abnormally small feet. It was then that he decided to make his plans to steal the boots. In the dead of night, he would take them. The Duke’s uniform was bedecked with rows of medals that might fetch a tidy sum as well.
The Tower Bell rang out at midnight on Christmas Eve. The Revelers had retired to their homes. Pinch waited a bit, then slowly and quietly made his way through the falling snow towards the Church, crouching and hiding the light from his lantern beneath his threadbare coat, leaving just enough light peeking through to guide his way.
Now inside the vault Pinch was safe. He shivered a bit as the vault was no warmer inside than outside. He swallowed a gulp of brandy from the bottle he kept behind the tomb of Mr. and Mrs. John Pickney Bowles (no longer burdened with their jewelry including their wedding rings). He raised a glass to all of the deceased that he had fleeced, saying “a Merry Christmas to all of you and I do appreciate your gifts to this poor old fella!”
Pinch then made his way to his little desk and from his huge key ring selected that of the Duke’s crypt. He hobbled over to the gate, opened it, and with all the strength he could muster pushed back the stone concealing the casket.
“Praise the Lord, there are no nails in this coffin” He chortled. “And, there ain’t no lock that can’t be picked.”
The unscrupulous old miser picked the lock easily and opened the lid revealing the Duke in all of his glory.
He worked quickly. “One boot, two boots, you can have my old boots!” “Merry Christmas, M’Lord!’
The old boots looked ridiculous on their new owner’s feet, but the Duke made no objection. Pinch attempted to take the medals adorning the chest but was unable to get to them as the dead man’s arms were folded stiff across them.
“No matter I’ll search the pockets!” he sighed. Pinch, having not even an ounce of pity for the dead man’s honor proceeded to relieve him of an eyeglass, a handkerchief, and a pocket watch. He placed his goods in the bag, closed the casket, and with one great push sealed the tomb.
In his haste to return home he forgot to lock the gate behind him. He placed the soft boots on his feet (which were freezing by now) and realizing that they were a perfect fit, playfully marched around the vault like a soldier on parade.
But what was that? Did he hear something? Pinch feared that he might be caught with the stolen boots. He hurried over to the door which he opened, just a crack, and looked through it.
“No one there, thank goodness. Perhaps the wind…Oh bloody Hell…I forgot me bag!”
Pinch tiptoed lightly back toward the vault when he heard a grating sound that sent a chill down his spine.
“Surely there is someone in here” he thought. He raised his lantern checking each of the crypts for an intruder, or perhaps a cat chasing a mouse. Finding nothing, he returned to retrieve his bag. He took a large gulp from his bottle and slung his booty over his shoulder when he heard the distinct sound of cleated boots walking on the stone floor.
Pinch’s black heart pounded within his chest. His pigtail seemed to rise up with the hair on his neck. For the first time in his life he was truly afraid to be alone in the vault…but alas, he was not alone!
“Who’s there?” he said in a loud whisper. No answer came. Again he asked, but there was no reply, only the sounds of boots coming toward him with the sickening sound of metal against the slate floor.
The old man swung his lantern to and fro in search of the source of the approaching footsteps. Each swing of the light cast terrifying shadows on the wall that seemed to dance with the flickering lamplight.
Pinch turned once again and this time to his horror he beheld a spectre that turned his knees into a pair of knockers and set his teeth chattering. It was the Duke!
The body stood not more than a few feet from him. The tall frame cast its ghostly shadows dancing on the walls as the lantern shook violently in Old Pinch’s quivering hand. The Duke's corpse, with one good eye open and the other closed and filled with wadding, stood before the sexton wearing a sardonic grin of death upon his face.
Not a word left the dead man’s lips, but he raised his hand and pointed toward his boots which now adorned the feet of the thief. Pinch was struck with fear, but understanding the intent of the signal, quickly removed the boots and fled from the vaults, shoeless and without his stolen goods.
Christmas Day Service, as always, was in full attendance, save the always conspicuous sexton. Immediately afterwards, there were inquiries in regards to Pinch’s whereabouts after some of the visitors went to the vault to place wreaths on the tombs of their loved ones.
There was no sign of the sexton, only his broken old boots and a couple of items left in a bag upon his desk. Some of the church members reported seeing a man’s footprints in the snow leading away from the vault.
Reverend Faregood, who happened to be in attendance, summed up what he believed to be the fate of the church’s sexton: “My dear people, you are probably wondering where our beloved Mr. Pinch has gone. As you know, he was quite a humble and devoted man and has traveled on pilgrimages in the past. As his faith grew, so he desired to set loose all of his worldly possessions as did the beloved Francis of Assisi. It is this act of selflessness that we must all remember at this time of year for giving. Mr. Pinch’ gifts will be sold and the money will be donated to those in need. God Bless You Mr. Pinch!"
Moral of the story:
Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s goods!
The Gentleman's Boots(T.R. Hart)
The Gentleman's Boots
By T.R.Hart
The whole silly mess could have been avoided, but his honor was at stake. There was only one remedy for this outrageous affront. So, in a gentleman-like fashion, a challenge was made and immediately accepted. The two gentlemen would settle their grievance with pistols at exactly seven o'clock in the morning, just after sunrise on the 15th of December, on the western bank of the River Boyne near Blackfriary in the Year of Our Lord, 1823.
The Duke of Malbry arrived in the darkness one half hour before the designated time with his Second, whose attempts to avoid the shedding of blood had been in vain. His demeanor was calm. He had fought in the Napoleonic Wars and was a skilled marksman. The pistols to be used were from his own personal collection, made by one the finest German gunsmiths. They had been fired twice before successfully in previous duels and the Duke was quite confident that the same history would be repeated.
His adversary, an Irishman of questionable birth, was still absent at 5 minutes to seven o'clock. Malbry's Second seemed to breathe a sense of relief believing that the man was either frightened enough to avoid his probable death or, as his reputation be known, was too inebriated to attend. “No matter”, thought the Duke's man. “So much for the better.”
The Duke smiled. It was now five minutes past the hour and yet no sign of his opponent. The Duke started to make a statement about the cowardice of his enemy when the sound of a horse's hooves grew louder with each word that left his mouth. More clattering followed and the neigh of a horse revealed his adversary's Second, a small thin man dressed in black with a comical cap tilted to one side of his head.
“So sorry sirs for the inconvenience, but my master was a little difficult to stir this morning.”
“Drunk again?” suggested the Duke with a smirk on his face.
“No sir, a little hung over you might say, but he is very much excited as he said.”
“Did he mention any issue of an apology?” asked the Duke's Second.
“No sir!” he seems quite determined.
“And what were his exact words?” responded the Duke with a wide grin that assured him of his opponent's absence due to cowardice.
“Not to be disrespectful sir, but he said that he “could not wait to shoot the old bastard in the guts!”
“Well, it is ten minutes past the hour sir...”
“Nonsense!” the Duke said jokingly to his second. “I think I shall have a cup of tea while I wait for the rascal!”
Just then a clippety-clopping of hooves could be heard. Slowly but surely the image of a man slumped forward on his horse appeared in the road from behind a grove of fruit trees. It was the Irish gentleman. He was dressed sloppily in a dress shirt, soiled pants and a greatcoat thrown over his shoulders. His head was topped by an old tricorn tilted high and back revealing his fat face with cheeks and nose reddened from years of drink. Although he was no more than thirty years of age, he looked much worse for wear than the Duke, who was fit and trim, and nearing fifty!
The laughter that followed the spectacle of the Irishman falling off of his horse aroused his anger. He shouted obscenities too vulgar for repeating, got up, dusted himself off, and gave a look of defiance to the amusement of the Duke and his second.
The rules were set. They would stand twenty pace apart and turn toward each other. To ensure that no one would cheat, it was determined that the dropping of a handkerchief would be the signal for the men to take aim and fire. The men agreed to the terms. The pistols were checked, loaded, and primed.
The Duke took each stride with a magisterial air about him while the Irishman took efforts not to stumble with each step. The two men stopped at twenty paces, turned, and stood facing one another staring at the handkerchief held high in the air. The two men then waited for the signal.
The quiet was interrupted by a large belch emanating from the Irishman who quickly excused himself while attempting to stand up straight.
The air was still and quiet once again. The handkerchief was dropped and suddenly a shot followed by another was heard. In an instant the two men collapsed on the ground. Both Seconds rushed over to each of the duelists. The Irishman's Second searched frantically about his master's seemingly lifeless body for a wound but found none. The Irishman breathed a bit. It was quickly noted that he was dead...drunk!
The Duke was not so lucky. It was obvious that the man was dead. A large pool of blood encircled his head, which was face down, on the ground. It was completely unexpected that the shot fired would find its mark. The ball had taken out the right eye and was lodged in the brain of the dead man.
Duke Malbry's body was taken up and quickly taken for burial in his native England to be buried with much solemnity and ceremony. There were many kind words said in his honor and many accounts were given about his bravery in battle, but secretly many thought him a fool.
He had not been killed in pursuit of a military victory nor an honorable cause. The Duke had lost his life over an argument, and a silly one at that. The two men had argued heatedly about the horsemanship skills of the English and the Irish, both proclaiming superiority over the other. But, the most galling thought to many of his English peers that not only had he been killed, but that he was unable to hit the staggering Irishman whose shot hit him while the drunken lout was falling toward the ground!
Well, dead is dead and that should be the end of the story, but the story has only begun. The burial took place on the 21st of December (The first day of winter) and the body was placed within the family burial crypt beneath the church of St. Mary's under the watchful eye of its sexton, Hannibal Pinch.
Pinch
Pinch had been the Sexton of St. Mary's for nearly half of his sixty years. His father Cornelius Pinch had been the sexton before him and so it was assumed that he would, and did, take up his father's position upon his death.
The former Mr. Pinch was a learned man and fancied himself quite a scholar in the study of the classics and an amateur authority on antiquities. He had high hopes for his little son and despite his mother's objections he named the boy Hannibal in hopes that the name of the great Carthaginian General would inspire young Pinch to ambition. It was not to be. The young Pinch was no scholar, a “bit of a slacker” according to his schoolmaster, and above all, his propensity for appropriating other person's property was a source of embarrassment for his well-intentioned father.
As the boy grew older he became more adept at concealing his thefts and with time, his former transgressions had been forgotten. Upon the death of his doting mother Pinch became more withdrawn, and despite his good looks, had neither love interests nor ambition. The one thing that he did seek was wealth. Realizing that a sexton salary afforded little recompense and merely a stable living, young Pinch decided that the appropriation of wealth could be attained easily. He would rob the dead!
What better profession could he have to accumulate the wealth of the corpses? Even an undertaker would be suspected while the body lay in wait of its burial, but after the burial, only the sexton would have the means and the opportunity to loosen the rich from their chains. “After all” Pinch would say to himself, “wouldn't it be easier for a rich man to pass through the needle's eye without his riches?”
When old Pinch died he was given a simple funeral. His son bemoaned his poverty and inability to give his father a proper funeral. Generous congregants donated funds for the funeral but they noticed that the funeral was cheaply executed and without a lunch.
Pinch always presented himself to the church members as being a man of extreme piety and lived by himself in the small cottage provided by the church members. It was a mere stone's throw from the church, so Old Pinch would be seen going back and forth several times a day with his back getting more hunched as he became older, with lantern in one hand and a small carpet bag in the other.
His strange walk was caused, perhaps, by a deformity in his leg bones. Others theorized that it was due to the old hobnail boots that he wore. They should have been replaced long ago, but Pinch was extremely frugal and attached metal cleats to the soles making a clicking sound as he walked on the stone floors of the church.
Pinch was ubiquitous in his little world, but spent much of that time in the vaults below the church. Most likely he could be found at his small desk set atop with a lantern and large book containing the names and dates of the deaths of church members upon it. When visitors would come, Pinch would welcome them in a most humble and almost cringing demeanor as he directed them to the vaults, of which he held the keys.
Unbeknownst to those who pitied the old man and often rewarded the humble sexton with small tokens of thanks, a substantial fortune had been accumulated from their deceased loved ones. One can only imagine the number of coins taken from the eyes of the departed.
Oh he was a sly one! The "appropriated" items were stashed behind the nooks and crannies within the vaults. During each of his nightly visits, Pinch would conceal the items in his bag and quietly slip into his house. Once he was safe within his room, he would remove a piece of planking from the wall directly opposite the niche containing his bed, and deposited his booty within.
"It's so simple!" he thought, but he knew that he must exchange his ill gotten goods for money. "Those walls will be filled before long, and I must find a way to rid myself of them lest I be found out!"
So, the old thief was determined to make a plan. As he was known to be humble, he decided that he must leave his town with the pretense of going on a pilgrimage, but where could he go? After much decision he would go to county Kent to Canterbury Cathedral. Of course, he had no intention of going neither on pilgrimage nor to Kent, but rather he would pack some bags and to nearby Sussex where he would find buyers, preferably from the continent where he could exchange his goods for gold.
He bade goodbye to Pastor Faregood, who rejoiced in relieving himself though temporarily of this odious little man of whom he had misgivings since his arrival five years prior.
A small group of women brought him sandwiches and pastries for his journey (which Pinch graciously accepted) and bid him a fond farewell. A small Bible was placed in his hands by one of the women.
"I hope that it gives you comfort on your journey Mr. Pinch."
Pinch thanked her in his cringing, servile manner while thinking that he could probably get a shilling for the Bible as it had been on pilgrimage to Canterbury prior, and was considered somewhat sacred to a devotee of the religion.
And so, he was off to his destination, but, as planned, wasn’t to Canterbury!
Within a day Pinch had gotten his money for his purloined goods from an Italian merchant who asked no questions, but was a hard bargainer. Pinch would have gave as good as he got, but he knew that his time was short and he must relieve himself of his treasure. It was upsetting to him however that he found no buyer for his Bible.
The deal was made and the gold coins were exchanged. Pinch seemed to forget his piety and proceeded to have good time with the money. Pinch liked women and he liked drink. So, within a short time, his money was dwindling fast. Thinking foolishly that he would win back his money he went to the cockfights and lost even more.
Pinch was smart enough to know that he was licked and decided that it was time to go home with a pittance of his fortune rather than nothing. Besides, business would be good again and he was smarter for his troubles. He would not be so foolish again.
With his Bible conspicuously in his hand he returned to St. Mary's with his tales of Canterbury and divine revelations which he had during his pilgrimage. His devotees of the good women of the parish were held spellbound by his anecdotes, but a more suspicious view was held by his employer, the Reverend Faregood.
Late one night while the Reverend was preparing his homily for the Christmas services in the parsonage, he noticed a shadowy figure with a bag slung over its shoulder and holding a lantern in front to guide the way. It approached the entry to the vaults, lingered for some time inside and then emerged with a full bag. Pastor Faregood made his way down the steps and out into the cold wet night. He looked up and down the small pathway, but the phantom was nowhere to be found.
The Boots
Well, you may ask “What has this story to do with Pinch and the Dead Duke?” Remember that the last person who had seen the Duke, not in life, but before his burial, was the light-fingered sexton who was now desperate for money.
Having robbed all of the dead already, Old Pinch was badly in need of boots for the approaching winter. His old hobnail boots were cracked. The holes in his soles could no longer be patched. He had spent nearly all of his money and was badly in need of a new pair.
It was while he was attending the services for the Duke that he noticed something that the Duke was wearing that he could use – his boots!
The smart looking riding boots completed the uniform of the finely dressed corpse. They were soft blackened leather, expertly stitched with new soles and heel. “Surely” he thought. “Of what use are they to a dead man?”
Although the Duke was a tall man and Pinch was short, the Duke had abnormally small feet. It was then that he decided to make his plans to steal the boots. In the dead of night, he would take them. The Duke’s uniform was bedecked with rows of medals that might fetch a tidy sum as well.
The Tower Bell rang out at midnight on Christmas Eve. The Revelers had retired to their homes. Pinch waited a bit, then slowly and quietly made his way through the falling snow towards the Church, crouching and hiding the light from his lantern beneath his threadbare coat, leaving just enough light peeking through to guide his way.
Now inside the vault Pinch was safe. He shivered a bit as the vault was no warmer inside than outside. He swallowed a gulp of brandy from the bottle he kept behind the tomb of Mr. and Mrs. John Pickney Bowles (no longer burdened with their jewelry including their wedding rings). He raised a glass to all of the deceased that he had fleeced, saying “a Merry Christmas to all of you and I do appreciate your gifts to this poor old fella!”
Pinch then made his way to his little desk and from his huge key ring selected that of the Duke’s crypt. He hobbled over to the gate, opened it, and with all the strength he could muster pushed back the stone concealing the casket.
“Praise the Lord, there are no nails in this coffin” He chortled. “And, there ain’t no lock that can’t be picked.”
The unscrupulous old miser picked the lock easily and opened the lid revealing the Duke in all of his glory.
He worked quickly. “One boot, two boots, you can have my old boots!” “Merry Christmas, M’Lord!’
The old boots looked ridiculous on their new owner’s feet, but the Duke made no objection. Pinch attempted to take the medals adorning the chest but was unable to get to them as the dead man’s arms were folded stiff across them.
“No matter I’ll search the pockets!” he sighed. Pinch, having not even an ounce of pity for the dead man’s honor proceeded to relieve him of an eyeglass, a handkerchief, and a pocket watch. He placed his goods in the bag, closed the casket, and with one great push sealed the tomb.
In his haste to return home he forgot to lock the gate behind him. He placed the soft boots on his feet (which were freezing by now) and realizing that they were a perfect fit, playfully marched around the vault like a soldier on parade.
But what was that? Did he hear something? Pinch feared that he might be caught with the stolen boots. He hurried over to the door which he opened, just a crack, and looked through it.
“No one there, thank goodness. Perhaps the wind…Oh bloody Hell…I forgot me bag!”
Pinch tiptoed lightly back toward the vault when he heard a grating sound that sent a chill down his spine.
“Surely there is someone in here” he thought. He raised his lantern checking each of the crypts for an intruder, or perhaps a cat chasing a mouse. Finding nothing, he returned to retrieve his bag. He took a large gulp from his bottle and slung his booty over his shoulder when he heard the distinct sound of cleated boots walking on the stone floor.
Pinch’s black heart pounded within his chest. His pigtail seemed to rise up with the hair on his neck. For the first time in his life he was truly afraid to be alone in the vault…but alas, he was not alone!
“Who’s there?” he said in a loud whisper. No answer came. Again he asked, but there was no reply, only the sounds of boots coming toward him with the sickening sound of metal against the slate floor.
The old man swung his lantern to and fro in search of the source of the approaching footsteps. Each swing of the light cast terrifying shadows on the wall that seemed to dance with the flickering lamplight.
Pinch turned once again and this time to his horror he beheld a spectre that turned his knees into a pair of knockers and set his teeth chattering. It was the Duke!
The body stood not more than a few feet from him. The tall frame cast its ghostly shadows dancing on the walls as the lantern shook violently in Old Pinch’s quivering hand. The Duke's corpse, with one good eye open and the other closed and filled with wadding, stood before the sexton wearing a sardonic grin of death upon his face.
Not a word left the dead man’s lips, but he raised his hand and pointed toward his boots which now adorned the feet of the thief. Pinch was struck with fear, but understanding the intent of the signal, quickly removed the boots and fled from the vaults, shoeless and without his stolen goods.
Christmas Day Service, as always, was in full attendance, save the always conspicuous sexton. Immediately afterwards, there were inquiries in regards to Pinch’s whereabouts after some of the visitors went to the vault to place wreaths on the tombs of their loved ones.
There was no sign of the sexton, only his broken old boots and a couple of items left in a bag upon his desk. Some of the church members reported seeing a man’s footprints in the snow leading away from the vault.
Reverend Faregood, who happened to be in attendance, summed up what he believed to be the fate of the church’s sexton: “My dear people, you are probably wondering where our beloved Mr. Pinch has gone. As you know, he was quite a humble and devoted man and has traveled on pilgrimages in the past. As his faith grew, so he desired to set loose all of his worldly possessions as did the beloved Francis of Assisi. It is this act of selflessness that we must all remember at this time of year for giving. Mr. Pinch’ gifts will be sold and the money will be donated to those in need. God Bless You Mr. Pinch!"
Moral of the story:
Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s goods!
- Share this story on
- 10
COMMENTS (0)