Another Ghost Story: Revd Dr Stapleton and Mr Thring

In October 2024, we shared a Victoria County History Ghost Story here on the IHR On History blog, in homage to the 120th anniversary of the publication of Ghost Stories of an Antiquary by M.R. James and the early history of the VCH. We invited you to share your own VCH / historical ghost stories.

It’s been a pleasure to see the response, both in spooky stories from current VCH research, and from fellow admirers of M.R. James and the antiquarian ghost story.

We are delighted to publish this historical ghost story here, submitted by history teacher Rupert Fitzsimmons. A bundle of VCH goodies is on its way to Rupert—thank you! Please enjoy this story, which also plays in the space between history and fiction, making an unsettling interpolation into the archives of Uppingham School…

Revd Dr Stapleton and Mr Thring

There is a small town in the East Midlands called Uppingham. Some of you may have heard of it on account of its public school of high repute. For those who have not come across it, it is sufficient to say that it is a quaint town of the size that means every one of its inhabitants is, at least by sight, acquainted with one another. It is remarkably pretty, its unique golden stone giving its small cottages a warm glow. But enough of the description. I am telling you this because I came across an elderly gentleman some weeks ago at the railway station in Cambridge who told me a story I have been so far unwilling to share. I trust that you will treat this mysterious affair with the sensitivity it deserves.

The gentleman at the railway station was a scholar of the University. A lecturer of Divinity, the Revd Dr Stapleton was a fellow of one of the smaller colleges. Prior to the election of his fellowship, he informed me, he had been a master at Uppingham School. He had been there during the tenure of the famous headmaster, Mr Edward Thring. Upon hearing that I was myself a master at another public school he engaged me in a conversation about his time at Uppingham. I was enjoying hearing about his teaching and his time spent lodging in a boarding house. Suddenly, however, his story took a darker turn. His voice grew quiet, and he ushered me close. I was listening carefully at this point although starting to wonder whether the old don had taken a turn. Of course, wishing to be polite, I continued to nod.

“It all changed the night that the great Mr Thring passed into the hands of our Creator. The grand educator had been aging rapidly in the preceding years. In the days before his death, when he had staggered limply from chapel less than two weeks before All Saints’ Day, 1887, we knew that it would soon be time to find a new headmaster”. The old don produced from his satchel a ragged copy of John Skrine’s A Memory of Edward Thring and it fell open to page 275. This page, through to page 278, were heavily thumbed. In places the pages had been so used that they felt like cooking parchment, the grease of countless hands clinging to them. He thrust the account of this troubling period into my hands.

The account read: ‘on Friday, we knew he could not win this one. There was inflammation of the lungs which a young man might have survived, but not he, with his burden of life-long cares, weighing heaviest on him at this moment.’ Dr Stapleton pointed at this line and uttered the phrase still echoing in my head, “his burden of life-long cares… Indeed, these cares, it transpired, were to extend beyond Mr Thring’s life.”

I continued to read, directed by the wrinkled finger of Dr Stapleton. ‘I was brought to his bedside, the face and voice was unfamiliar there… he looked up, gave me my name… There was then no more articulate speech, and the delirium grew. The murmurs of it crept, through the floors of the old schoolhouse, to the silent group in the room below him. What a weird thing it was to listen to!—the strong mind wandering helpless, lost, among shadows, like a ghost already. Of him, there is no more to tell’.

The old don fixed his gaze upon me. “I was there”, he said. “It was exactly as the book describes, only it does not reveal the full truth of the matter. When the poor headmaster’s mind was fading and his wails resonated through the old schoolhouse, it was as though he was already a ghost—for he nearly was. The shadows that awaited his spirit were not passive. They were taunting him as they pulled his life-spark from our realm. They had been waiting to muffle and restrain his soul. It was their turn!”

I looked up from the book. The poor gentleman was shaking, as if reliving this peculiar experience. Perhaps the expression on my face gave away my incredulity. “It is true, he said! Believe me! I did not believe myself at first but, as a scholar of the Bible, I was at least aware of precedent. The souls of men, especially men of virtue who hold greater responsibility than they can maintain, have often been tormented by evil.” He looked away and, in a sombre tone, recited the scripture. “Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” His gaze returned to my own, “Poor Mr Thring’s burden had dissolved his alert and sober mind. The weight of this battle had eroded his faculties and permitted evil to take hold.”

I wanted to make some excuse about needing to leave for my train. I turned my head to look down the tracks. Despite priding myself as a man of science and reason, I admit I could hardly mistrust this learned gentleman. He was, after all, an eminent scholar of the numinous. When I turned back, however, he was gone.

I was left there at the station alone again. The book remained open in my hands. I concluded that I must have been searching the horizon for my train for longer than I realised. I waited some time for Dr Stapleton to return thinking that he might have found himself momentarily occupied. Regrettably, my train soon arrived, and I departed. I wondered, all my journey, what Dr Stapleton had meant about the changes that had occurred at the time of Mr Thring’s death. Had there been a change at the school’s management? A change in his employment? I sensed it was a change much less tangible than that.

Some weeks later, I found myself in Cambridge once more and stopped by Dr Stapleton’s college, hoping to return the book. I enquired whether the porters had seen Dr Stapleton that day and a look of horror came over their faces. It transpired that Dr Stapleton had last been in the college 20 years earlier, in 1904. He had been present for a funeral; his own.

They recounted his final hours. The delirium they described mirrored Mr Thring’s death with chilling precision. He had resided in one of the staircases off the main court until his death. His cries and ramblings had led to the evacuation of some undergraduates living in an adjacent set. His rooms have been refused by all who have been offered them since.

I finally managed to convince the porters to take the book from me. I felt no desire to hold onto it given the circumstances surrounding my possession of it. I received a letter the following week from the college librarian thanking me for the donation. The librarian also enquired whether I had any information regarding some damage to the book. The worn pages of 275 to 278 were missing. They had been torn raggedly from the binding.

Rupert Fitzsimmons is a history teacher at Uppingham School. He leads the school’s Oxbridge programme and works in a boarding house as a deputy housemaster. Having studied at Cambridge as an undergraduate he is now pursuing a part-time MA at King’s College London in Education, Policy and Society. His current interests are in the history of education in Britain and the British Empire since the late-eighteenth century.

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