Short Stories

The strange story of an old snuff box

Manor Lodge. Image/Sheffield Manor Lodge

The following is a true story – well, almost a true story. I stumbled across a newspaper article from 1876 in which a Sheffield boy had dug up an old snuff box. Then followed a week of piecing the story together. But one question remained. Whatever happened to the snuff box? And so, fact meets fiction, embellished by my own hand. But realistically, there is the chance that somebody out there did inherit a tarnished old snuff box.


It was 1584, and Mary Stuart sat in the long grass beneath the shade of her favourite walnut tree. It was summer and everything was green. She gazed down at the castle that she had come to despise, but her eyes were drawn towards the hills, valleys, and moorland that stretched beyond. Soon, the sun would disappear, and the sky would become a sea of red, orange, and then deep blue.

“There you are Mary,” said a voice. She looked up at the solemn face of George Talbot who sat beside her. “I see you are taking a last look at Sheffield.”

“That’s right. This is a view I shall not forget, nor shall I forget the past fourteen years. I am grateful that you allowed me to spend so much time up here and not in that dark and gloomy castle.”

George Talbot, 6th Earl of Shrewsbury, reached into his pouch and pulled out a tiny snuff box. He took a pinch and offered it to Mary who placed a small amount between her thumb and index finger and sneezed after taking it.

“Where am I going?”

“I have come to tell you that you are going to Fotheringhay.”

George thought she looked old and had noticed how unsteady she had become on her feet and summoned two servants to help her back to the lodge.

It was the last time they spoke.

That night, George realised he had left his snuff box underneath the walnut tree and sent his manservants to retrieve it. But there were hundreds of trees, and it was dark, and they were unable to find it.


In 1876, a boy called George Martin, son of a man of the same name, was clearing long grass and weeds beside an old walnut tree that had been felled the day before. His master, Henry Fitzalan-Howard, Duke of Norfolk, had instructed the men to chop down more timber to make charcoal for the melting of iron and steel. But this was walnut, and George knew that this tree would end up in the workshop of a London cabinet maker.

George liked Old Crofts, and he sat on a patch of newly exposed soil to rest. He looked across the valley and was glad that he was here, away from the grime and smoke that belched out below. Once, a strong wind had briefly blown the smoke away and he had seen a glimpse of what lay beyond the rooftops and factory chimneys. There were more hills like the one he was sitting on.

He began chopping at the vegetation again, piled it against the dead tree, and used a pick and spade to loosen the soil. Then he noticed something buried underneath and started digging deeper.


Later, George Martin showed the snuff box to his father who lived on Bernard Street. It was incredibly old, studded with several stones, but they weren’t sure if it was worth anything. His father had a brother who lived in Hermitage Street, who mentioned his nephew’s find to Thomas Jowitt, landlord of the Rising Sun.

Jowitt was interested in antiquaries although professed not to be an expert. He asked to see the old snuff box and it was brought to him at the pub. He inspected it carefully and despite it being tarnished, was convinced that the box was made of gold. He was also of opinion – although upon this point, he was no means certain – that the stones might be precious ones, even – to go a little further – diamonds.

Jowitt bought the box for what he considered a fair sum and cleaned it up the best he could before putting it on the sideboard.


Michael Ellison, the Duke of Norfolk’s agent, was paid a considerable wage to know everything about his nobleman’s estate. One morning, Ellison had become irritated with his master, who had grumbled that the Sheffield newspapers had reprimanded him for the ruinous condition of the Turret Lodge.

He sat in his office at The Farm and went through the notes before him. There were tales of rebellious tenants, trespassers, and poachers. But one thing struck him as being unusual.

There was a note from one of his rent collectors who drank at the Rising Sun public house in the town. It spoke of the landlord who had come into possession of an old snuff box that had been found at the Old Crofts, near to the Turret Lodge.

More peculiar, were the landlord’s claims that the old box had been the property of one or other of the distinguished personages who in ancient times had resided at the Manor.

Ellison summoned the rent collector who repeated the story and added that antiquarians had been profane enough to suggest that the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots may have used its contents to titillate her Royal nose.

“Bring the snuff box to me,” exclaimed Mr Ellison. “Let me have a look at it.”

A day later, the rent collector arrived with the snuff box, but Ellison was too busy and put it aside to be inspected later.

Days went by. Ellison got a cold, then a fever, and was laid up in bed for weeks. In the meantime, his assistant had found the snuff box and asked Ellison what he should do with it.

“Oh! Send it back. Write a note saying that his Grace is not regarding it as a relic belonging to the Howard family, nor anybody else for that matter.”


The snuff box remained on Thomas Jowitt’s sideboard for years afterwards. Occasionally, when drink got the better of him, he would retrieve it and regale customers with increasingly romantic and far-fetched stories about its provenance. His regulars played along and told Jowitt that it might be worth a fortune.

This was lost on a stinky little urchin called Alfred March, who, one day, was surprised to find the back door of the Rising Sun wide open. March slipped inside and stole three bottles of ginger beer but not before pilfering the intriguing old snuff box.

He struggled along Hermitage Street, careful not to drop any of the bottles, and when he reached Porter Brook decided that the little box was more trouble than it was worth and flung it into the water.

And there the snuff box lay, trapped between rocks, until winter snows caused the river to become angry and send raging torrents along its course. It was sent down river, bounced along the stony bed, until it reached the Sheaf and the Don, from which the dented snuff box was lost in the mud forever.

©2022 David Poole. All Rights Reserved.

Buildings Short Stories

I am a pair of gates… and I’ve suffered more than most

Moorfoot. Photograph: DJP/2021

“I am a pair of gates. I’ve been padlocked for 40 years. I am the victim of abuse.

“People have climbed on me. People have thrown things over me. People have been sick on me. People have urinated on me… and sometimes much worse. People have fought against me and got hurt, and then I have seen them arrested. People have laughed with me, and there have been people who’ve cried. People make love against me, and there are those that have slept by my side all night. Sometimes, bad people have hid in the shadows and I have been unable to do anything.

“I am at my best in autumn, when I’m able to catch fallen leaves, and then they rest at my feet until they’ve become a rotting mess. But I guess I’m only a pair of gates, and people pass me every-day without giving me a second glance.”

Moorfoot. Photograph: DJP/2021

© 2021 David Poole. All Rights Reserved

Short Stories

I have grown up believing that I once met Edith Sitwell

I have grown up believing that I once met Edith Sitwell.

It was at a nursing home, in a big old house, and I was a little boy. I wandered into a room and found an old lady in a wheelchair gazing out of the Victorian window. She looked sad and frail, wrinkles lined a painfully thin face, and a pointed nose protruded from it. She smelt of soap and disinfectant. She was very frightening.

She looked at me, held out a hand, and beckoned me to her. I nervously approached and held a skeleton hand and she obliged with a dog-tired smile. And we both looked out of the window in silence. And then a nun, wearing  a terrifying cornette, came in and told me to leave. I let go of her hand and left, but not before looking back, and seeing that the strictest face offered kindness. And so, I smiled back at her.

I have grown up believing that I once met Edith Sitwell.

That old nursing home was a large house on Sandygate Road that became Claremont Hospital, set up by the Sisters of the Institute of Our Lady of Mercy. According to The Inventory of the Edith Sitwell Collection, she spent three weeks here in August 1960.

I have grown up believing that I once met Edith Sitwell.

Except it was an impossibility. Because I was not around in 1960, and she died four years later, and I was only eight-months-old. But my mother said she took me with her to visit a sick old friend at Claremont when I was a little boy, and that I wandered off and was found in an empty room by one of the nuns.

And there, I believe, I once met Edith Sitwell.

© 2021 David Poole. All Rights Reserved.

Short Stories

A Ghost Story: Inspector Woodhead meets Flash Billy

Inspector Woodhead stepped out of the hansom cab that had brought him from the Midland Station to the Thatched House Restaurant. It was a tall, four-storey building, sandwiched between Boots Cash Chemist and an auction house.

He placed his copy of The Times under his arm, doffed his hat at a passing lady, and stepped inside. It was surprisingly quiet for Friday afternoon, but he had no intention of eating. Instead, he made his way towards a staircase that disappeared into the basement.

At the bottom, he pushed open a glass door and walked into a small smoke-filled room. Behind the bar an elderly man stood anticipating his next customer, of which there were few.

Inspector Woodhead nodded to the barman and ordered a tankard of an unusual Sheffield brew. He looked around and found the person he was looking for. A strange young fellow sat at a corner table staring at the glass of whisky in front of him.

Woodhead grabbed his ale and walked over to join him. He sat down beside and carefully placed his hat, newspaper, and pipe, on the table. Then he took a swig of strong northern beer.

“It’s a miserable day,” Woodhead said to his neighbour.

“Do I know you?” scowled the young man.

Woodhead ignored the question. He filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and sat back.

“No, sir. You don’t know me, but you could say that I know you.” He puffed at his pipe. “I am Inspector Woodhead of Scotland Yard and I have been looking a long time for you”

“Looking for me? Whatever for?”

“Sir. All in good-time, but first let me get you another drink.”

The young man tugged nervously at the sleeve of his purple suit.

“You are William Burnand Davy, are you not? There are some in this city that call you the Second Marquis of Anglesey behind your back, and in the cafes the waitresses know you as ‘the millionaire.’ You are the grandson of the late William Davy, the well-known proprietor of the Black Swan Hotel and then the Thatched House, a public house that this restaurant is named after.”

“State your business, I cannot sit around all day,” Davy demanded.

“In 1893, your grandfather died leaving a windfall of twelve thousand pounds which came to you when you were 21 years of age.” Woodhead paused to drink. “That was two years ago.”

“Inspector, I cannot see why my financial situation is any concern of yours. What is it you want? Are you demanding money from me? If you are, I must tell you…”

Inspector Woodhead stopped him and smiled.

“You have been a very extravagant young man. You went down to London for a season, spent a good deal of the summer at Bridlington, stayed at the leading hotels in Sheffield, and spent seven months visiting Australia and Ceylon.”

“It was my money to do whatever I wished,” sneered Davy.

“You bought a motor car, and had a chauffeur attired in a striking uniform. The car and its driver were often seen attracting attention outside Sheffield’s hotels. You liked driving, but I understand that you had your licence endorsed in Bridlington for reckless driving.”

Davy swallowed his whisky and the barman brought him another.

“Your ties were the talk of all the ladies, your diamond rings were the price of a manufacturer’s ransom, and your scarf pins included some exquisite gems.” Woodhead paused. “Yes. All eyes were instinctively drawn to you… you were known as carefully-groomed Billy. Trousers that were not properly creased were never worn again, always turned up to show your delicately-coloured silk socks, and your fancy waistcoats and the cut and colour of your suits, might easily have been taken for an imitation of Vesta Tilley.”

“There is no need to be so rude.”

“Facts, my boy, facts,” said the Inspector. “One of your eccentricities was to buy costly presents for girls. Such folly, because after only a few hours acquaintance you’d take her to a jeweller’s shop.”

“My friends told me not  to waste money on them,” Davy conceded, “But I treated it as a joke.”

“Ah, yes. Your friends. Those who hung around you for hours and days and weeks. Do you remember the day you walked into the Ceylon Café and joined six of your fellows? You cried, ‘Let’s all go to London,’ and ‘I’ve plenty of money,’ you shouted, and pulled a handful of gold out of your pocket, and to London you all went.”

Woodhead sat back and puffed on his pipe.

“Inspector, you still haven’t told me the reason for your visit.”

“Ah yes,” Woodhead conceded. “About twelve months ago you met Irene Rose Key, a tall, good-looking girl, well known in West End establishments, and in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly. You became infatuated, and impressed her with stories of your fortune, and last May you persuaded her to marry you at Strand Registry Office.”

“Inspector, I think you have the wrong person, because I am not married.”

“Sir. I think you will find that I am correct. Queenie Key was popular in all the music halls and public houses of Leicester Square. And it might have been a happy marriage had it not been for one simple truth.”

“And what might that be?”

“Because at the time of your marriage your financial position became exceedingly embarrassed. Your money ran out.”

Davy laughed for the first time and shouted for another whisky.

“Inspector, this is a joke. I have all the money I need, and if you care to go outside you will see that I have a six-cylinder Belsize car waiting. And to prove there are no hard feelings, I have a sheaf of bank notes and we’ll share a bottle of champagne.”

“It is not a joke. You both came north, but your family refused to accept Queenie, so you returned to London and lived at hotels. Coming to the end of your resources, however, you separated, she returning to the West End and you wanting her back.”

“I have never been married.”

“And so, the purpose of my calling on you today is to discuss the events of eighteenth November 1908. You met your wife on Wednesday morning at a public house in the Haymarket. You both remained until the evening, dined together, and then took a taxi-cab for King’s Cross, your wife under the impression that she would leave you there, that you would return to Sheffield, and eventually leave the country.”

Davy lit a cigarette. “This is beginning to sound like a fantastic crime novel. What am I supposed to have done next?”

“Your wife was wrong. It was never your intention to leave her. You argued in the taxi-cab as it passed along Shaftsbury Avenue, Hart Street, and Bury Street, and into Montagu Street.” Woodhead puffed harder on his pipe. “And in Montagu Street you seized her by the neck, drew a revolver from your pocket and fired two or three shots at her head.”

“I did what?” Davy laughed. “I’m sure I would remember if I had killed somebody.”

Inspector Woodhead unfolded his newspaper to reveal the headline ‘TAXI-CAB TRAGEDY – MURDERER A SHEFFIELD MAN – FORTUNE INHERITED AND SQUANDERED.” He shifted in his seat and faced the young man.

“Sir, there is a simple reason for you not remembering. After you killed your wife, you turned the revolver against your own head and shot yourself.”

“I shot myself?”

“Yes, Mr Davy. You are quite dead.”

“Am I to suppose you have come to arrest a dead man?”

“No. That is not my style anymore. I simply came to make you aware of your crimes.”

“And I have heard enough.” Davy jumped up, gathered his straw boater, and looked down at Woodhead. “I shall leave now and hope to never see you again.”

“Sir. You will not hear from me again. You are free to go. And when you leave by that door, I shall not be able to follow you.”

“I have never heard such nonsense in my life. Good day, Inspector.”

Davy snatched his cane and strode towards the door. He hesitated before opening it and turned back to face the seated Inspector.

“A most grotesque story if ever I heard one. But I have one more question before I leave. If I shot a woman and then turned a gun upon myself, why am I stood here talking to you, and why won’t you arrest me? … No, Inspector. Please do not answer that. Fanciful rubbish. I am leaving.”

William Davy disappeared through the door, closed it behind him, and Inspector Woodhead looked long and hard at it. Then he folded up The Times, relit his pipe, and decided to finish his ale.

“Sir. You are dead,” he murmured. “You have been dead for many years. Only you had chosen not to remember and have sat by yourself in this little room ever since. It was time for you to face the consequences.”

Woodhead felt tired after his long journey and needed to sleep, but here would not do. He closed his eyes, resisted the urge to doze, and when he opened them, he was in an unfamiliar room.

“Time for me to go as well.”

The Inspector gathered his belongings, placed the hat on his head, and left through the same door he had entered. He climbed strange stairs into the dark restaurant and looked about him. How sad, he thought, that it was not a restaurant anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shape of a restless black figure.

“Hello, Mr Davy. I see that you are still here. It must be well over a hundred years now.”

Inspector Woodhead stood up straight and disappeared through the glass window that had once been the entrance to the Thatched House Restaurant. Knocked down and rebuilt I should not wonder, he thought.

Outside, the Town Hall clock struck midnight, and Inspector Woodhead turned to look at the building he had just left. BOOTS – PHARMACY – BEAUTY. It was good to see that Boots the Cash Chemist still existed. And then he made his way across High Street, stepped over Supertram tracks, and completely disappeared, never to be seen again.

© 2021 David Poole. All Rights Reserved.