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THE crooked Parish Warden had watched the countess’s body being carried into the mausoleum. He knew the cadaver of the much-missed aristocrat was dripping with jewellery – and so he hatched an evil plan to return later that night, break into the family vault, and relieve the late Countess of Edgecombe of her much-loved rings.
The church worker got in and, as the story goes, had so much difficulty wriggling the rings from rigor mortis-stiffened fingers, he took a knife to one of the digits. And it was as he tried to carve his way through her fingers he got the shock of his life – because the countess was not dead at all, and the pain of his knife work revived her.
He fled in terror, while she traipsed 10 miles through the night to surprise her grieving husband.
This Victorian urban myth – the evidence for it happening is shaky – is just one of many such stories, reveals archaeologist Robert Stephenson.
The historian will discuss the Victorian fear of being buried alive in the first of a new series of talks hosted by the Friends of Highgate Cemetery starting this month.
The story of the revival of the Countess may not be quite true, says Mr Stephenson.
“There were two Countesses of Edgecombe who this apparently happened to,” he says.
“And the church records of the family mark her being buried just once – if she had come back to life, the parish register would have shown her burial on two separate occasions.”
But such stories touched a nerve with the public. Edgar Allan Poe used the idea as the basis for a short stories, while “Taphnophobia” – the fear of being buried alive – was rife.
One incident described by Sir Francis Bacon was that of John Dunn Scotus, who would often fall into trances. It happened to the unfortunate fellow while holidaying in Germany. His servant was not on hand to warn of this condition and he was consigned to the turf. When the servant insisted they dig him up, they found inside the coffin the signs of a bitter struggle to free himself before he suffocated.
And it was only in the 1920s that doctors were legally obliged to examine a corpse before they signed a death certificate. Previously they could simply take other people’s words for it, and this added to the fear that mistakes could be made.
People would leave instructions in their wills to ensure they were dead by piercing the heart, cutting the jugular or for the really wary, even decapitation to make sure such mistakes could not happen.
Victorian doctors were fascinated by trying to find ways to ascertain death, says Mr Stephenson.
The first work on how to make sure someone was dead came from Danish anatomist Jacques Winslow. Mr Stephenson says his Dissertation on The Signs of Death prompted states to put money towards building “waiting mortuaries” – places were bodies could lie for a few days to make absolutely sure before burial.
The variety of methods doctors developed in­cluded some outlandish ideas. “The Society for the Prevention of Premature Burial was established,” says Mr Stephenson. “They used stethoscopes but they were crude, so they sought other evidence. Its president, a Severin Icard, came up with a ‘florescin’ test, by injecting the body with a dye. If the subject was alive it would pump round the body. The skin would turn a brilliant yellow while the eyes would turn emerald green.”
Apparently he found it hard to find humans willing to be guinea pigs, so he practised the techniques on the pet dogs of his friends.
Another method relied on writing on a piece of paper “I Am Really Dead” using a lead acetate, which was not visible to the naked eye. This was shoved up the nose of the cadaver, and the theory went that the noxious gases caused by putrefaction would bring the words magically to the surface. “The problem was, they discovered the same type of gases could be caused if you had tonsil­itis,” adds Mr Stephenson.
The fear played heavily on peoples minds – so much so that unscrupulous undertakers would cash in on it. “Undertakers built special coffins,” he reveals.
Some would have air tubes, others complicated signalling devices.
“These included pyro­technics you could let off, string systems with bells that could be operated by wriggling toes, or even buttons you could press with your noise – if you were too weak to move.”
Others were buried with a crucifix in one hand and a revolver in the other so they could finish themselves off, while keys that opened coffins from the inside were also popular.
The fear of being buried alive lingers today – and with good reason. Mr Stephenson cites two cases that show it is still possible: in 1987, Agnes Tomblin, 94, was pronounced dead and lay in her coffin at a funeral director’s premises.
Except she wasn’t. One of the funeral parlour staff noticed her twitching – she was rushed to the Leicester Royal Infirmary and lived for another two years.
In 1996, Maureen Jones, 59, a diabetic, was also pronounced dead by her GP – until a police officer noticed her leg moved. He gave her a heart massage and she made a full recovery.
l Fear of Being Buried Alive, by Robert
Stephenson, is on
Thursday January 28 at 7pm at the chapel at Highgate Cemetery, Swains Lane, N6. £10, includes refreshments. For tickets email:
info@highgate-cemetery.org 020 8340 1834. Details of future events at www.highgate-cemetery.org
DAN CARRIER