The Dead Keep Calling Me: 30 Years of Suicide in Brompton Cemetery 1888 -1908

If the spate of horrific deaths of gravediggers buried alive, the occasional freak fatal accident such as impalement on grave railings and the odd person who just keeled over and died for no apparent reason (“Mrs Susan Georgina Ashley Risque, aged 54, of Barons Court Road, West Kensington, dropped dead as she was placing some flowers on her husband's grave in Brompton Cemetery.” Western Daily Press Tuesday 12 March 1929) wasn’t enough; Brompton was also a hot spot for cemetery suicides during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Melancholy Death of a Lady

In September 1888 the Illustrated Police News reported, under the perennially popular 19th century headline ‘Melancholy Death of a Lady’ (stick it in any newspaper archive search engine and be astonished at how many different stories it brings up), the suicide of 39 year old spinster Sarah Granville. Dr Diplock, the West London Coroner, held the inquest at Kensington Workhouse and heard how Ms Granville had died three hours after being admitted to the Kensington Infirmary on Thursday 13th September. She had been brought in “quite unconscious, and dying fast. The deceased was taken to the ward; the stomach pump was used, and extracted some liquid, which smelt strongly of opium. Efforts to recover consciousness were fruitless.” She expired at 4.30pm. She had been found around noon by PC Matcham about 400 yards from the West entrance of the cemetery lying on the path a few feet from her parent’s grave. The PC recovered three empty bottles of laudanum, one from beneath a tree and two from the grave of Ms Granville’s parents, which he later discovered had been bought from three different chemists under the pretext of being needed to cure a toothache. Ms Granville took 2500 drops of laudanum, enough to kill five people. The Inquest heard from the deceased’s brother-in-law who told the court that she had lost her mother five years before and her father fifteen years before that. She was a lady “possessed of considerable means” he told Dr Diplock before confirming that that no member of the family had previously committed suicide or been admitted to a lunatic asylum. Mary Wilson, a servant at the house where Ms Granville lodged confirmed that the deceased “did not follow any employment,” and said that “during the last few days she had seemed very melancholy,” and “was also very restless during the nights. To her knowledge, she never suffered from toothache.” The Coroner summed up by saying that all the symptoms showed insanity in some form, and the jury, following his advice, returned a verdict of Suicide while in a state of temporary insanity.

The Painter and the Parlourmaid

A shocking and senseless case in August 1892 featured not only a suicide but a murder. On Friday 27th August two sisters, both in domestic service and in their early twenties, Alice and Emily Franklin and two of their friends arrived at the cemetery at 7.00pm intending to visit their aunt’s grave. The cemetery was closed but they persuaded the gatekeeper to allow them in, saying that they wouldn’t be long. As the four girls made their way to the grave they passed a man lying on the grass with a bag by his side. He followed them at a distance, waiting around a corner when they laid some flowers at the grave of the aunt. The four girls passed him again, standing on the path with his bag at his feet, as they made their way back to the gate. One of them wondered what he was doing and another remarked that he was probably going to do some work. The man then walked up behind them and produced a pistol, firing three or possibly four shots. The girls ran to the gate where Alice Franklin collapsed, apparently unaware that she had been shot in the back. A doctor was sent for but Alice was dead before he arrived. The police combed the cemetery for the gunman, who was later identified as James Boursell, a 26 year old housepainter of Vesper Road, Shepherds Bush and found him dead with self inflicted gunshot wounds in the chest. No motive for the murder or the suicide was identified.

Fred's dead; what more to be said

On the pleasant afternoon of Monday the 16th May 1898 Mr Grisbrook Waller, a 27 year old thespian, whose lodgings at 24 Coleherne Road, SW10, were just around the corner from the cemetery, took himself to Brompton for a quiet stroll in the sunshine amongst the gravestones.  He was appearing in the farce ‘The Showman’s Daughter’ at the Vaudeville Theatre where he played, “in a delightfully breezy vein” according to a newspaper critic, the part of Dick Seymour, an impecunious medical student, who was in love with a baronet’s daughter, (played by the ‘dainty’ Miss Adelaide Aylmer). As he mentally rehearsed his lines in preparation for the evening’s performance he noticed a middle aged gentleman walking amongst the graves. A short while later he heard a pistol shot and racing to where the sound came from found the same gent slumped to the ground, breathing heavily, semi conscious and bleeding from a bullet wound in the head.  Grisbrook ran to get the police and a doctor and the would be suicide was taken to St George’s Infirmary in the Fulham Road where he died later that evening of a fractured skull.  In his pocket was found a letter addressed to the Coroner:

16 South Hill Park

Hampstead

Dear Mr Coroner

For your information, my name is Frederick James Blake, aged 55 years. Profession, solicitor; admitted E. T. 1864. I have taken out 35 certificates in London and various parts of the country. At present lodging at Hampstead.  Widower.  Grave No. 146454, Brompton Cemetery (where my wife is buried). Have no wife, no children, no home, no means, nothing to do, and can see nothing but miserable and dirty and poverty stricken existence in the future. I hate poverty and dirt. I've very few relatives or friends, and do not wish to be a trouble to anybody, so there, I have gone. I've done what good l could in my time, and see no chance of doing so any further. Nobody wants my services. I have seen all the most beautiful parts of England, Scotland, Ireland, the Channel Isles, Isle of Man, France, Belgium, and some of Australia and New Zealand, and, I am too tired to do it again, even if I had the means. To live for oneself is too trying and tiring for me, and so I have retired, Sorry to give you so much trouble, Nasty business, but there! I wish I had the job. There would be something to do, and it is nothing to do that kills me. My only brother, W. E. Blake, surveyor, of Rosebery avenue, can give you any information you desire.

Yours truly,     F.J. Blake

As Frederick lay dying in the Fulham Road, across town in Clerkenwell his brother Walter, surveyor to the New River Company of Rosebery Avenue would have been arriving home after a day in the office. The handwriting on the envelope his wife Clara handed him would have been very familiar and he would not have been surprised to see the letter postmarked earlier that day as the post office routinely made same day deliveries at the time. The contents of the letter would have astonished him though, the news it contained was shocking. The completely inappropriate, jocular tone it was conveyed it may have made it seem like a practical joke in extremely poor taste. Poor Walter probably didn’t know whether to believe his brother or not:

Pickwick Bicycle Club

I have got a berth at last, and my future address will be No. 146,454 grave, Brompton Cemetery. Fred's dead; what more to be said. His sins won't weight him as heavy as lead. Life without occupation or society is not worth living, and since I had the influenza and was run up I have felt fit for nothing, and as I feel I should only have a few more miserable years to exist I have taken a short cut. Sorry to cause yourself and Clara any pain, and no one else will care a rap about my existence, and it will save a lot of worry and trouble. I am sorry to cause so much trouble, and I've left what little I have to yourself and Clara, and Mr W. H S-, of Fenchurch buildings, is my executor. You had better look after the things at South Hill Park. Give the officials any information they may require; and with sincere love to Clara and yourself, believe me in death your loving brother,

Fred 

PS I have written to Cooksey (an undertaker), with an order for a coffin, and gone to Brompton to save expense of funeral.

On Thursday 19 May an inquest on Frederick’s death was held at St George’s Infirmary, presided over by the West London Coroner, Mr Luxmoore Drew. The principal witnesses were Grisbrook Waller and Frederick’s brother Walter. Limelight being his natural habitat the actor no doubt gave a flamboyant and dramatic account of the events of Monday afternoon and left the witness box feeling his performance had been a triumph deserving of at least a standing ovation. He was upstaged completely however by the grief stricken Walter Blake who had clearly still not recovered from the shock of the events earlier that week. He told the court that his brother had been a solicitor, ‘on the rolls’ as he put it, for 35 years, initially practicing in their home town of Wotton-under-Edge in Gloucestershire where he had been clerk to the magistrates and the Mayor before moving to London and setting up a business in Croydon. He had been happily married but had not been blessed with any children. Seven years previously, Walter told the court, Frederick’s wife had died and something seemed to have snapped inside the staid solicitor. He sold his practice and started restlessly travelling, first around the UK, then on the continent and finally to Australia and New Zealand. Nothing seemed to ease the emptiness he felt inside and he frequently complained that he wished he was dead. “He was not strange or peculiar,” Walter told the Coroner, “merely despondent.” He reluctantly admitted when questioned that his brother was not strictly sober. A few months earlier he had been knocked down on Cornhill by a cab and shortly afterwards had caught the influenza and since then had never appeared the same. On the previous Sunday, the day before he killed himself, Frederick had called on his brother at home. He was in low spirits and complained about his head but gave no indication of what he was planning. He went home after spending the day with Walter and wrote the two suicide notes, posting the one to his brother next morning on his way to the cemetery and placing the other one carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket. Walter told the court that his brother had no financial worries and that his life was insured for £500. He identified the suicide weapon as a revolver belonging to his brother. The five chambered revolver still had four bullets left in it. The gun had been in Frederick’s possession for many years Walter told the court, since he had been the magistrate’s clerk in Gloucestershire in fact. He had acquired it as a keepsake; a young fellow Frederick had known well had got himself into serious trouble and seeing no other way out had committed suicide by shooting himself, in the head, with the revolver. Every eye in the court momentarily fixed itself on the double killing hand gun lying on the clerks table. 

His Dead Wife’s Call

Brompton Cemetery was scene of a tragic occurrence the other night. It seems that a man, apparently about 35 years of age, was seen to lie down on one of the graves, and, without warning, to take a revolver from his pocket and shoot himself in the right temple. The body was later identified as that of Alfred Dredge, who lived formerly at Kensal-rise. The grave upon which he shot himself dead was that of his wife, whom he had buried last August, and the tragedy rendered the more sad by the fact that he was to have been married again in a few days.

Diss Express - Friday 17 April 1908

As if killing himself a few days before his wedding wasn’t startling enough further remarkable details of 34 year old Albert James Dredge’s story emerged at the inquest into the suicide. Dredge was a pensioned off Boer War veteran who worked for the fledgling London Film Industry at the Charles Urban Trading Company, in Wardour Street. He had served in the Welsh Regiment, eventually becoming Sargeant, and was mentioned in dispatches and then decorated for an act of gallantry on the battlefield; he carried his wounded colonel from the frontline under heavy fire. His wife had died the previous August but he quickly became engaged to a Miss Rebecca Payne of Hanwell. William Mitchington, the cemetery gatekeeper told the inquest that he had seen Dredge standing by a grave at 7pm the previous Wednesday. He approached him, wanting to ask him to leave as it was time to close up, but thinking that he was praying at the graveside decided to hang back for a minute or two until he had finished. Dredge then sat down on a gravestone, took off his hat and placed it carefully on the floor beside him, withdrew a revolver from his pocket and shot himself in the right temple. When the police later searched the body they found a letter addressed to his fiancée in his coat pocket, containing words of very cold comfort for a woman due to be married three days hence.

It was not to be, for after leaving you on Sunday, and arriving home all right, I saw Hettie (his dead wife) as plain as I saw your dear self, and she called me to go to her, and today, darling, I am going to answer her call. Just as happiness is in store for me, I get a message from the dead calling me to her, and I am bound to go, answering her call. We belong to one another. I shall be looking out for you in the next world. . . .

The letter Dredge wrote to his friend Jack was even eerier:

My Dear Old Chum. Perhaps by the time you will receive this I shall be no more, as I have had a call from Hettie and must go to her. I saw her, Jack, on Sunday night. I felt as if something was going to happen, and when I retired for the night saw her as plainly as I see you, and her words were, “Come out to me” and they have haunted me ever since. Well, old Jack, I walked about all day yesterday, and today too, to shake the feeling off but it is no good. The words still ring my ears, and my legs took me to the cemetery, and there I have been all day, feeling relieved knowing that I should go to her, answering her call.

For once the standard jury verdict in these circumstances, suicide during temporary insanity, seems entirely appropriate.

The Accidental Death of a Gravedigger; Brompton Cemetery

A grave, like any deep excavation, is potentially a dangerous place. Most graves are dug to a depth of between six and ten feet and, in the final stages of excavation, the gravedigger is in a pit completely below surface level. Earth close to the grave, or even in the grave itself, has often been previously dug and is more prone to shifting than dirt unacquainted with the spade and mattock. Grave sides require shoring up with planks and excavated earth needs to be stored at a safe distance from the mouth of the grave to stop it falling back in. Gravediggers who cut corners or who are just plain unlucky can suffer horrific accidents. Between 1863 and 1875 no less than 3 gravediggers and an unemployed acquaintance of the cemetery workers were buried alive at Brompton Cemetery; three of the four died.

Amongst many other newspapers, The Irishman of Saturday 28 November 1863 reported the death of 49 year Henry Baker:

Mr. J. Bird, coroner for the western division of Middlesex, hold an inquest Tuesday night, at the Bull’s Head tavern, Middlesex, on the body of Henry Baker, aged forty nine years, who met his death in a grave at the Brompton Cemetery, under the following shocking circumstances. The deceased, it would appear from the evidence, was a grave-digger, and while engaged in that occupation in a deep, newly-dug grave, the earth, as soon as the struts were removed, gave way, and the poor fellow was covered. A man who was at work nearby at once gave an alarm, and after a short time the unfortunate man was got out, but life was found quite extinct. After a short deliberation the jury returned a verdict that the deceased was accidentally killed in a grave.

In July 1873 unemployed 19 year old Alfred Hunter went to the cemetery to watch a Polo match at the Lillie Bridge Sports Ground. The grounds adjoined the cemetery close to West Brompton station and anyone prepared to scramble to the top of the cemetery wall could get a free view of any events taking place inside. Hunter paid dearly for his afternoon of free entertainment as the Royal Cornwall Gazette reported:

A tragic incident has occurred in Brompton Cemetery, which resulted in the death of a young man, Alfred Hunter, aged nineteen years, of Cumberland place, Marlborough- road, Chelsea. The deceased, who was out of employment, was acquainted with some of the grave-diggers, and went to the cemetery with the intention of standing on the wall and witnessing the Polo match in the adjacent Lillie-bridge Grounds. During the afternoon, while he was near a newly-dug grave, the ground gave way, and he was buried alive beneath seven feet of earth. The dead body was conveyed by the police to Kensington workhouse mortuary.

Less than two years later two gravediggers were buried alive in a nine foot deep grave; one of them only to the waist but the other, who was at the bottom, was completely interred. Witnesses could clearly hear him calling for help; the poor man probably only succeeded in using up his limited air supply by his cries for assistance. The Sheffield Daily Telegraph of Thursday 27 May 1875 has the full story: 

Holman Hunt's Sailor and Gravedigger

On Tuesday night Dr. Diplock held an inquest at the Black Bull Inn, Fulham Road, London, upon the body of Samuel Matthews, aged 43 a grave digger, whose death was caused by the falling in of a grave at Brompton Cemetery. The evidence went to show that on Saturday last the deceased and another grave-digger named Holloman were digging a grave. The latter was on a platform about 2 feet 6 inches below the level of the ground, and the other was at the bottom, a depth of about 9 feet 6 inches. The deceased called out to Holloman, and then the grave fell in. Both men were buried, but Holloman only up to his waist. Vaughn, another gravedigger, heard cries for assistance and went to the spot. He quickly extricated Holloman, who appeared at the time to be much hurt, but he could see nothing of the deceased, although he could plainly hear him below the earth calling for assistance. With help the deceased was dug out; he was in a kneeling position, and was quite dead. It was elicited on questioning some of the witnesses that the distance between the last strut and the bottom of the grave was 15 inches, a space deemed by the Coroner and jury to be too great in a sandy soil. The jury returned a verdict of "Accidental death."

One would like to think that the spate of fatal accidents made the cemetery authorities take steps to avoid further tragedies and I certainly have not been able to trace any further accidents of this sort after the death of Samuel Matthews.  

The Public Are Permitted To Walk In The Cemetery Daily; Brompton Cemetery's uneasy relationship with the general public

The public may be permitted to walk daily but only the dead can walk here nightly

Brompton is probably London’s liveliest cemetery.  The first time I ever visited I was early for a work appointment at Earls Court and I thought a cemetery would be an appropriate place to kill time. At 8.30am on a weekday morning I expected to find the place deserted but it was heaving with joggers, cyclists, dog walkers and commuters in suits using it as a short cut on their way to work. No funerals or mourners. There isn't an ice cream van or a cafe and the gravestones make playing football on the grass difficult but the locals treat it as a park and completely ignore the fact that it is a place where they bury dead people. On match days Chelsea FC’s fans stream rowdily through the cemetery, strewing beer cans and fag ends, on their way to Stamford Bridge. Participants in Earls Court’s lively drug subculture find the cemetery a convenient place to relax and there have been complaints about it being used as a gay cruising ground (though it is not in the same league as Abney Cemetery in this respect). Some relatives of the dead take offence at the free and easy atmosphere; one Google reviewer fulminates “I grew up a couple of streets down from here and every now and again would visit with my dad on a sunny Sunday afternoon and read with fascination some of the tombstones. My dad has since passed and is now buried in this cemetery but it angers me to see how disrespectful some people are and think that it is OK to sun bathe among the dead. This is a place of rest and where families visit their lost loved ones. Go to a park people, we don't want to see your half naked bodies in a cemetery!!”

The colonnades above the catacombs

Complaints of disrespectful behaviour in the cemetery are not a recent phenomenon.  A correspondent of the editor of the Morning Post in September 1890 complained bitterly about the deportment of the local population who seemed to treat the cemetery as a place of entertainment and funerals as a free amusement:

Sir, — I had occasion lately to take my part as a mourner at a funeral in Brompton Cemetery, and as such I crave permission to draw public attention, through the medium of your columns, to the scandalous and revolting license that is tolerated in that burial-ground. The bearers had not reached the grave before it was surrounded by a throng of slatternly women with their full quota of screaming babies. Boys of all ages were cutting through the procession and pushing about among the mourners, after making short work of the rope barrier stretched on some sticks, which a torpid policeman in vain endeavoured to restore to its pristine inefficiency; while not a few of the full-blown type of the semi-vagrant London loafer elbowed their way to the front, and to one of them, as he stood by the graveside, I overheard the officiating clergyman say, '"Cannot you at least have the decency to take off your hat?"

Brompton was effectively nationalised in 1850 when the Government bought out the shareholders when the cemetery was in danger of financial collapse. The many complaints that the authorities were overly tolerant of poor behaviour occasionally prodded them into action against some hapless individual for relatively trivial offences but enforcement was too haphazard to make much difference. In October 1895 one local mourner overdid the Dutch courage on her way to visit her mother’s grave and according to the headline in the Lancashire Evening Post was found ‘Drunk on a tombstone’:

At Westminster Police Court yesterday, Sarah Matthews, aged 49, was charged with being drunk and disorderly in Brompton Cemetery. She was drunk and asleep on a tombstone.

Prisoner: I was not in the cemetery five minutes when this policeman came up to me as I was by my mother's grave, and pushed me down and ill-treated me.

The magistrate: You must go for a month s imprisonment.

In August 1854 the Evening Standard reported that Mrs Sarah Pace “a respectable married woman, living at No. 12, Dorset Street, Bryanston  Square, was charged with picking flowers in the Brompton Cemetery, the property of her Majesty's Commissioners of Woods and Forests.” Note this was not the crime of stealing flowers from a grave but picking wildflowers from overgrown areas of the cemetery. Mr Beadon, the Magistrate at Hammersmith Police Court ordered her to pay a 10 shilling fine or serve a ten day gaol sentence, “the money was paid,” according to the newspaper report. Three months later Mr Beadon heard another case involving, as the Evening Standard put it, a “disgraceful scene at the Brompton Cemetery Chapel” but this time he was far more lenient against the defendants, a Mr Henry Chappell and his wife Harriet, who were accused of assaulting their son in law, William Lewis, at the funeral of their daughter/his wife who had died a few days earlier at the Brompton Hospital. The 22 year old Lewis had joined the funeral party in the Cemetery Chapel despite the best attempts of his in laws to exclude him. “As soon as he got in,” the Standard reported, “the female defendant, who was walking behind him, suddenly struck him with both her fists on the side of the face, and nearly knocked him down. He fell amongst the people, the chapel being crowded, and he was pushed back into his place. He carried his hat in his hand, and the male defendant then struck it, and doubled the hat up, and also struck him upon the face.” The other mourners intervened and to prevent further brawling whilst the funeral service was in progress. But Lewis’ travails were not at an end; when he followed the coffin out of the chapel only to find himself trapped in a vestibule with his mother in law who “raised her foot and kicked him in a most indecent manner.” The timely arrival of two police constables put an end to the violence but Lewis, hobbling gingerly no doubt, had to be accompanied by the police to the graveside for his own protection. Mr Beadon somehow persuaded the feuding family to make up during the court hearing and then dropped all the charges; the Chappell's did however give their son in law £20 towards his legal costs.

In January 1916 Mr Fordham, the West London Magistrate, delivered a ‘scathing rebuke’ to Harry Hobbs, a cemetery worker who had worked at Brompton for 33 years and now found himself in the dock “You moved about the place like ghoul, interfering with the place where the dead sleep, and with a good deal of toil hacked and cut at this memorial which loving hands have put up the departed. It is a horrible case of desecration.” Hobbs was no resurrection man, his ghoulish crime was stealing part of the gunmetal railing around a grave and selling it for scrap. William John Rogers a 45 year old labourer from Anselm Street in Fulham would have been grateful if Hobbs had stolen every single railing in the cemetery. In February 1935 Rogers rather stupidly climbed up and stood on a spiked railing around another grave. Inevitably he slipped and impaled himself on a spike; he later died of his injuries. 

The colonnades, Brompton

"Anyone for a spot of buggery?"; Ernest Thesiger (1879-1961), Brompton Cemetery

Ernest rests with his mother and father in the family vault at Brompton Cemetery

To the left of the main path, just before the catacombs, there is a part of Brompton Cemetery, which seems to be dedicated purely to the Thesiger family.  The substantial plot was bought by the first Baron Chelmsford, Lord Frederic Thesiger, PC, KC, FRS, to serve as the final resting place for the dynasty of military men, lawyers, colonial administrators and government servants he clearly hoped to found.  Despite his enormous wealth and influence the plot in Brompton does not border the main path and the monuments are relatively modest, solid granite slabs for the most part, nothing especially eye catching or flashy with not a single angel or other piece of funerary statuary.  Amongst the many graves lies that of the Hon. Sir Edward Pierson Thesiger KCB, whose memorial inscription records that he was the ‘Fifth Son of the 1st Baron Chelmsford’. He may have been the fifth son but he was the sixth child, the first born of the first baron being a girl, Augusta, she literally did not count in this patriarchal family census.  Sir Edward is buried with his wife, Georgina Mary,  and with his third son Ernest Frederic Graham Thesiger who joined his parents in the vault as recently as 1961 (it seems recent to me – I was alive, just, in 1961).

Ernest Thesiger was a well known British character actor whose long theatrical career was supplemented by appearances in almost 60 films, mainly in Britain but also in Hollywood.  He is best remembered for his eccentricity and for his legendary role as Dr. Septimus Pretorius in ‘The Bride of Frankenstein.’  He was born in Chelsea in January 1879 (a week later his uncle, the 2nd Baron Chelmsford was leading the British army to defeat against the Zulu’s at the Battle of Isandlwana) and was educated at Marlborough College and the Slade School of Art.  At the Slade he met the painter William Bruce Ellis Ranken and began an intimate relationship that somehow survived Ernest’s rather odd decision to marry Ranken’s sister Janette in 1917. The three became almost inseparable but William died unexpectedly in 1941, leaving both Ernest and Janette grief stricken.   The couple continued to live together until Ernest’s death but unsurprisingly there were no children.  Despite her constant presence in his life Ernest fails to mention his marriage or his wife in his memoirs but there are frequent references to William.

Ernest gives his greatest ever performance as Dr. Pretorius in James Whale's 'The Bride of Frankenstein.'

In addition to the stage and beautiful young men, Ernest’s other abiding passion was needlework and embroidery.  He became a world expert in petit point embroidery, publishing his first book ‘Adventures in Embroidery’ in 1941, and could be found plying his needle in the most unlikely places – the trenches in the First World War, in London markets (Alec Guinness recounts a story of him being surrounded by mocking ‘toughs’ at an antiques market, he laid down his petit point with great dignity and facing them fearlessly said   “In Chelsea I’m known as the stitching bitch....now buzz off.”) and at Buckingham Palace where he would sit and embroider in companionable silence with Queen Mary.  He must have inherited some martial qualities from the family gene pool because in 1914 he enlisted at the outbreak of the war. According to his memoirs “I thought a kilt would suit me, so I applied at the London Scottish Headquarters, but my Scottish accent, assumed for the occasion, was apparently not convincing, and I was referred to another London regiment.  Getting into a taxi, I consulted the list of recruiting stations and found myself in a queue outside the Headquarters of the Queen Victoria Rifles in Davies Street.  I came away a few hours later a private in His Majesty’s Army.” He served on the Western Front and was wounded when an artillery shell hit an abandoned barn his platoon was taking shelter in on New Year’s Eve 1914.

Ernest indulges his passion for petit point

He made his film debut in 1916 in a spoof called ‘The Real Thing At Last’ in which he played one of the three witches in Macbeth. His last film appearance was in 1961, at the age of 82, when he had a cameo role in ‘The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone’ playing alongside Vivien Leigh and Warren Beatty. In between he made almost sixty appearances including  ‘Nelson’ (1918), ‘The Adventures of Mr Pickwick’ (1921) ‘The Ghoul’ (1933) with Boris Karloff and  Ralph Richardson, ‘Bride of Frankenstein’ (1935) directed by his friend James Whale, Lawrence Olivier’s ‘Henry V’ (1944), ‘The Winslow Boy’ (1948), ‘The Man in the White Suit’ (1951) with Alec Guinness, ‘The Robe’ (1953) with Richard Burton, and ‘The Horse’s Mouth’ (1958) based on Joyce Cary’s novel. He also enjoyed a long stage career, the greatest success of which was ‘A Little Bit of Fluff’. He appeared in this farce more than a thousand times, the London Evening Standard lauding his performance in “the character of Bertram Tully, with his overpowering innocence, his keen desire to be called Bertram and not plain Tully, his mission work, and his love of playing the flute, is one of the happiest seen on the stage for a decade past, and Mr. Ernest Thesiger achieved a real triumph as the young man who, when told by an imperious and rather vulgar young woman to pull his socks up, obediently bent down to the task.”

A lot of stories are told about Ernest Thesiger, many them are probably apocryphal, but like all legends the man has gradually become the myth.  It is often claimed that he laid lilies at the feet of a handsome doorman at the Savoy, that at a soiree consisting almost entirely of young men he gazed around the company and asked loudly ‘Anyone for a spot of buggery?’, that he once said ‘‘I should have liked to have a figure so beautiful that an Act Of Parliament would have been passed, forbidding me to wear clothes.’ According to John Gielgud it was said that he ‘always wore a string of very good pearls round his own neck, and never took it off for fear that the loss of the warmth of his skin might spoil their quality.’ And as his experiences in the trenches showed he was always cool under fire; “Henry Hathaway, the director, lunched at a film studio commissary with members of his cast.  One was Ernest Thesiger, over 80, a gentle man who used to spend afternoons doing petit-point at Buckingham Palace with the late Queen Mary.  At the studio luncheon a young actor, who’d gone berserk before, suddenly wheeled and placed the point of his steak knife at Hathaway’s throat.  Thesiger broke the tension:  He slapped down the knife with his own spoon, and said: ‘It’s very rude to point.’”  

Ernest retains cult status even today as the work of tattooist Lou Hopper of New Cross shows

Lizzie Le Blond and her Three Husbands; Elizabeth Alice Frances Hawkins-Whitshed (1860-1934) Brompton Cemetery

The family vault is on  large plot just behind the McDonald Mausoleum

Fred Burnaby was often described as bohemian. His official biographer wrote that he lived ‘entirely aloof, absolutely regardless of conventionalities.’....Burnaby had gone deep into Russia, across Asia Minor and the Middle East, up the Nile. He had crossed Fashoda country, where both sexes went naked and dyed their hair bright yellow. Stories that adhered to him often featured Circassian girls, gypsy dancers and pretty Kirghiz widows.

He claimed descent from Edward I, the king known as Longshanks, and displayed virtues of courage and truth speaking which the English imagine unique to themselves. Yet there was something unsettling about him. His father was said to be ‘melancholy as the padge-owl that hooted in his park’, and Fred, though vigorous and extrovert, inherited this trait. He was enormously strong, yet frequently ill, tormented by liver and stomach pain, ‘gastric catarrh’ once drove him to a foreign spa. And though ‘very popular in London and Paris’, and a member of the Prince of Wales circle, He was described by the Dictionary of National Biography as living ‘much alone’.

Julian Barnes ‘Levels of Life.’

It was while I was reading Julian Barnes book a week ago that I decided that my next subject for the London Dead would be Elizabeth Alice Frances Le Blond.  It may have been coincidence but I suspect that unconsciously I recognised that there was a connection between these two apparently unrelated individuals. Thrice married Lizze Le Blond had been on my list of potential subjects for a very long time and I wasn’t sure what had suddenly brought her to the forefront of my mind. I dug out the photographs I had taken of her grave in Brompton Cemetery back on a beautiful cloudless autumn day in 2013 and I started doing some basic research into her life.  She was a woman of many achievements, the least of which were her three marriages, but her first husband sounded like an interesting character. I looked him up in the DNB but it was only when I read the sentence “adventurous and excited by danger, Burnaby became an enthusiastic balloonist....” that the penny finally dropped. ‘Levels of Life’ makes much of the ballooning exploits of its characters and it was the aerial adventures of Frederick Gustavus Burnaby that finally made me realise that this madcap Victorian adventurer was Lizzie le Blond’s first husband. It is possible that was only a coincidence but I think not; I’m convinced that Burnaby’s name, exploits and wife were all stored somewhere in my brain but beyond the reach of conscious recall and that apparently forgotten information prompted me to recall Lizzie. I suspect my brains capacity to store information is still pretty good but my ability to retrieve it is starting to deteriorate – if you can’t dig it out of your memory it might as well not be in there in the first place. Anyway, I suspect this is already going to be a hideously long post and I shouldn’t be adding to it with these inconsequential rambles.

Frederick Gustavus Burnaby was born in Rutland in 1842, the eldest son of a wealthy, fox hunting parson who felt that two masters of foxhounds would make better godparents for his offspring than any clerical colleagues. In the time honoured traditions of the upper classes Fred spent most of his childhood at boarding schools in England before going to Dresden to study languages (he eventually spoke 7 fluently including Russian, Turkish and Arabic). At 16 his father purchased him his first commission in the Royal Horse Guards (the Blues); he became a cornet for a mere £1200. For his 18th birthday he was bought a lieutenancy and when he was 23 he became a captain. He was a young man of superior physical gifts, 6 feet 4 inches tall with a 46 inch chest, exceptional strength, striking good looks but let down by a thin and piercing voice. His obituaries describe a relatively short but exceptionally eventful life:

“Fred" Burnaby was in many ways a remarkable man. His personal appearance, as he sauntered down the street, or as he sat on horseback on parade, never failed to attract attention. He was six feet four in height and burly to boot, with a dark, finely cut, handsome face, and eyes ready enough to flash with the light of battle, but equally ready and even more accustomed to turn upon a friend with kindliest glance. In his youth he was passionately fond of gymnastics, in which he excelled above all his fellows. There used to be in one of his clubs a colossal dumb bell in a glass case, with the offer of a heavy wager that no man would hold it out at arm’s length for the space of sixty seconds. The wager was never won, though Burnaby made nothing of accomplishing the feat. Among the many stories of his physical prowess one relates to a period shortly after he joined the Blues. The regiment was down at Windsor, and a horse dealer who had come into possession of couple of very small ponies had taken them thither by command to exhibit them to the Queen. Before going to the Castle he showed them to the officers of the Blues, to whom a happy thought occurred. Burnaby, who was captain then, was in his own room on the first flight. With some trouble the ponies were got upstairs, and, the door quietly opening, they trotted in unannounced. This was a capital joke, and had great success. But, as presently appeared, it had a gloomy side. The ponies had gone upstairs quietly enough; but neither force nor entreaty could induce them to go down. The hour approached at which they were to be presented the Queen, and the owner was in despair. Burnaby settled the matter offhand.  Taking a pony up in either arm he walked down stairs and set them in the courtyard.

Overtaxing even his splendid physique by his untiring devotion to pursuits entailing such muscular exertion, the late gallant officer had in early life to travel in foreign lands to win back again the health he had lost. Entering the Horse Guards Blue at eighteen, in the early years of his military career he had travelled through South America and in Central Africa, and in 1875 he started on his famous “Ride to Khiva,” which was attended with risks and difficulties which would have overcome any but he. His intention to continue his journey to Bokhara was frustrated by the Russian authorities at whose instigation the Duke of Cambridge ordered his return from Central Asia. In the following year Colonel Burnaby went on horseback through Asia Minor and Persia, and subsequently he was a non-combatant and newspaper correspondent with Don Carlos' army during the fighting in Spain. When the Soudan expedition from Souakim  against the Mahdi’s forces was undertaken last year, Colonel Burnaby served under General Graham, bring attached to the Intelligence Department, and be was present at the battle of El Teb, where, it will be remembered, was the first to mount the parapet, and deal destruction to the natives from his double-barrelled shotgun. Here a cannon ball severely wounded the colonel the face, and he bad scarcely recovered from the Injury sustained, when once again the restless voice of war called him out to the land of the Nile, where was doomed to die.

The 28 year old Frederick Burnaby, 1870 portrait by James Jacques Tissot in the National Portrait Gallery

In times of peace his restless spirit sought fresh fields of peril, and was always going up in a balloon. His last adventure In this direction was a little less than three years ago, when he crossed the “silver streak” In the car of the Eclipse, and after some vicissitudes In mid-air descended the Chateau  de Montigny, near Envermeu, in  Normandy. Colonel Burnaby took a keen interest In politics, and at the general election of 1880 he contested Birmingham in the Conservative interest, when, though unsuccessful, no fewer than 15,710 votes were given in his favour. He was an excellent public speaker, vigorous, concise, and pointed, with a rich fund of wit and humour, and had he been spared would have made a good figure in Parliament.

One other ambition he had beyond that of winning a seat at Birmingham. It was to visit Timbuctoo and make the personal acquaintance of the King. This was the “next trip” he had in his mind, and had he lived would probably have accomplished it, for under his winning manner there was a resolute will that would have stopped at nothing. But it has been finally stopped at Abu Klea.

Mid Sussex Times - Tuesday 27 January 1885

A late Burnaby masterpiece detailing his aerial adventures

Both Julian Barnes and the obituaries fail to mention the fact that Burnaby was married; in ‘Levels of Life’ Barnes ignores his genuine relationship with Lizzie and instead concentrates on a completely concocted affair between the explorer and the French actress Sarah Bernhardt. The newspapers had reported extensively on Burnaby’s wedding in June 1879 but apart from mentioning that the Queen had asked Sir Henry Fonsonby to telegraph her deep regrets to his widow, said very little about her at his death. She was rather characteristically staying at the Hotel Belvedere in Switzerland at the time and quite probably consoled herself by climbing a mountain or two.

Elizabeth Alice Frances Hawkins-Whitshed was the only daughter of a baronet and the heiress to a substantial fortune which included an estate in County Wicklow in Ireland. Her father died when she was eleven and even though her mother was still alive she became a ward of chancery. Her time was split between the family house in London and the Wicklow estate. Although there were no early indications that she would be anything other than a conventional upper class girl Frederick Burnaby presumably spotted something different about her when she came out at her first London season, he praised her ‘piquant beauty, charm of manner and intellectual gifts’. Lizzie was still 18 and technically a minor which meant Fred had to seek the approval of the Lord Chancellor if he wanted to marry her. In March 1879 the newspapers reported that the Chancellor “who is slightly indisposed, sat on Saturday at his own house in Merrion Square, Dublin, to approve of the heads of a settlement of an intended marriage between Captain Burnaby, of "Khiva" notoriety, and Miss Whitshed (a minor and ward court), the only child of the late Sir J. H, Whitshed, Bart.” The couple were married 3 months later, on Wednesday 25th June, at St Peter’s, Brompton. It was a glittering social affair with 400 guests, the Luton Times and Advertiser described the bride as being “dressed in white satin trimmed with Brussel’s point and fringes of orange blossoms, a wreath of orange blossoms, and large tulle veil. Her ornaments were a diamond tiara, the gift of the bridegroom, and a diamond bracelet and pendant, the gift of her mother.” The Leicester Journal went on to describe how:

The Hon. Oliver Montagu, son the Earl of Sandwich, officiated as best man. Mr. Arthur Bentinck gave the bride away. The eight bridesmaids were Lady Madeleine Keith-Falconer, Lady Blanche Keith-Falconer, Miss Felicia Bentinck, Miss Ottoline Bentinck, Miss Renira Pollard, Miss May, Miss Erskine, and Miss Rita Handcock. The Hon and' Rev. Arthur Byng, Chaplain to the House of Commons performed the ceremony, in which was assisted by the Rev. Dr. Teignmouth Shore and the Rev. J. H. Handcock, uncle of the bride. The register been duly inscribed, the wedding party drove to Bailey's Hotel, Gloucester-road, where a sumptuous déjeuner à la fourchette had been provided, and where Captain and Mrs. Burnaby subsequently held reception... The company were received by Captain and Mrs. Burnaby in the drawing room of the hotel—a very fine apartment, furnished in blue and gold, and tastefully decorated with flowers from the establishment of Mr. Aldous, F.R.H.S, the florist of' Gloucester-road. Both here and in the coffee-room, where the déjeuner was spread, flowers were profusely used in the decorations, the walls bearing medallions of flowers at regular intervals; and a floral wedding bell depended from the centre-piece of the ceiling. On the staircases of the hotel were also placed choice flowers and evergreens, which loaded the air with perfume and added to the brilliancy of the scene. After the reception Captain and Mrs. Burnaby left for the Continent, where they are going to spend their honeymoon. Among a large number of valuable presents which were displayed in the drawing room of Bailey's Hotel, were a smoking room service, Japanese manufacture, in blue and gold enamel, given by the Prince of Wales.....

Although we know, courtesy of the newspapers, exactly what Lizzie was wearing when she set off on honeymoon (‘The bride’s travelling dress was stone-coloured cashmere, trimmed with satin to match, a white chip bonnet, and long white feather’), the only thing we know about the honeymoon itself is that Lizzie came back pregnant and the couple were barely on speaking terms. They lived in London, together, until the birth of their only child, a boy, but before they could celebrate their first wedding anniversary Lizzie had moved to Switzerland ‘for the sake of her health.’ The presumptive consumptive startled everyone by taking up mountain climbing, something almost unheard for a woman in the dying years of the Victorian age. The cosseted ward of the Chancellor discovered unimagined freedom in the mountains, including the hitherto novel experience of putting “on my own boots, and I was none too sure on which foot should go which boot. It is difficult for me to realize now that for several years longer it did not occur to me that I could do without a maid … I owe a supreme debt of gratitude to the mountains for knocking from me the shackles of conventionality, but I had to struggle hard for my freedom. My mother faced the music on my behalf when my grand-aunt, Lady Bentinck, sent out a frantic S.O.S. ‘Stop her climbing mountains! She is scandalizing all London and looks like a Red Indian.’”  As well as being sunburnt Lizzie climbed in pragmatic short skirts which barely came down to her knees, to her scandalised contemporaries, practically naked in other words. Perhaps in competition with Fred who had turned out a couple of bestsellers about his travels and his ballooning,  within a couple of years she had written her first book “The High Alps in Winter or Mountaineering in Search of Health.” She went on to write many more.

Lizzie and companion in formal mountaineering attire c1890

In his wife’s absence Fred took up politics, running unsuccessfully for Birmingham as an MP in 1880, and hot air ballooning, making his first aerial channel crossing in 1882. The onset of middle age and the more sedentary lifestyle began to take a toll on his legendary strength and stamina and his good looks spoiled as he gained weight. He was keen to see active service and was disappointed when his services were declined for the 1882 Egyptian Campaign. He had better luck in 1884 when he persuaded his friend General Baker to take him to the Sudan as an intelligence officer. He courted disapproval at the second battle of El Teb in February by using a double barrelled shotgun to fight the Mahdists but was wounded and invalided back to London. In England he had fallen out of favour with the Prince of Wales and quarrelled with his superior officers. He was desperate to join the Gordon Relief Expedition and return to the Sudan but permission was refused. Unluckily he knew General Wolseley the leader of the expedition, who thought him ‘clever and as brave as a lion’ and allowed him to join as a volunteer. He left for Eygpt in November 1884 and died at the battle of Abu Klea on 17 January 1885. Some say his orders led to the breaking of the British Square at the battle, only the second time this had happened during Victoria’s reign. If this is true he paid a heavy price; surrounded by Mahdists and fighting them off with his sabre he was speared in the throat and then hacked down by their swords. A private who went to his rescue received a DCM but Burnaby received nothing – Wolseley wrote cruelly ‘how delighted the Prince of Wales & the Duke of Cambridge will be that poor Burnaby is killed.’ Queen Victoria is said to have fainted when she heard the news. Lizzie simply said ‘he died as he would have wished, facing the foe’ and left it at that. Fred was buried on the battle field along with the other British dead, “Fred Burnaby sleeps in a soldier’s grave in the continent whose inmost recesses he had quietly arranged with himself would someday explore,” as the Mid Sussex Times put it.

The death of Colonel Burnaby - the moment just before a Mahdist buries his spear in Fred's neck

Lizzie continued to spend most of her time in Switzerland, climbing, taking an active interest in winter sports (she was the first woman to pass the men’s ice skating test), taking bicycle trips through the Alps and raced motor cars in hill climbing contests. She also trained herself to become an accomplished photographer (she was a medalist of the Royal Photographic Society). She became one of the first women to take up film making, a 1902 catalogue lists 10 of her short films, all shot in Switzerland. Despite her disillusioning experiences of marriage and the tragic death of her husband, Lizzie apparently remained an optimist about matrimony. In Switzerland she met John Frederic Main, a professor of engineering at Bristol University, who was staying in Davos to recuperate from a severe pulmonary attack. Following what must have been a whirlwind romance she married him in 1886. Her lucky husband became the recipient of a £1000 a year marriage settlement from his wife’s Irish estates but it wasn’t enough to make him stay with her. After just a year of conjugal cohabitation Main left Lizzie in Switzerland and took off for the United States where he lived in Denver, on Lizzie’s money, until his death in 1892. Once shy, twice bitten Lizzie did not marry again until 1900; her last husband was Francis Aubrey Le Blond of Aldeburgh in Suffolk, nine years her junior. The wedding was rather less lavish than her first to Fred but still made the society pages of the newspapers, as this extract from the Morning Post of 14 June 1900 shows:   

The marriage of Francis Bernard Aubrey Le Blond, eldest son of Francis Aubrey Le Blond, of Norbiton, Surrey, to Elizabeth Alice Frances Main, only child of the late Sir St. Vincent Bentinck Hawkins Whitshed, Bart., of Killincarrick, County Wicklow, Ireland, took place at St. Mary Abbot's, Kensington, on Tuesday. The wedding was very quiet, only the nearest relatives of the bride and bridegroom being present. The officiating clergymen were the vicar, the Rev. Canon Pennefather, and the Rev. W. Pace Rigg, M.A., uncle of the bridegroom. At the conclusion of the ceremony Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey Le Blond left town, en route for Norway.

Norway was where Lizzie now preferred to do her climbing following a fatal accident in the Alps that killed the son of her guide. Aubrey seemed content to let his wife carry on climbing; he was more interested in collecting oriental pottery (his Korean collection was eventually donated to the Victoria and Albert Museum) In comparison to her previous marriages this final trip to the altar was followed by wedded bliss. She continued to lead an independent life but often travelled with her husband, going with him to China, Korea and Japan in 1912, and riding the Tran-Siberian railway to Russia back in 1913. She wrote more books, took more photographs and climbed more mountains. In the First World War she volunteered at a hospital in Dieppe, raised funds for ambulances and after the Armistice founded a fund for the restoration of war damaged Rheims Cathedral. After the war she travelled to Morocco and the United States and was awarded the Légion d'honneur for her efforts in getting a statue of Marshall Foch erected in London. She died on 27 July 1934.whilst recovering from a major operation at Mangalore, the home of her brother-in-law, Dr George Worthington, in Llandrindod Wells, Radnorshire. She was buried with her mother in Brompton Cemetery in the family vault, which occupies a large plot next to the McDonald Mausoleum. For such a large and expensive plot the family memorial is relatively modest and unobtrusive.  

The Art of Memory; Sculpture in the Cemeteries of London by Richard Barnes (Frontier Publishing £44)

Subscription publishing is making a comeback. I found out about this book from a flyer in the Kensal Green and Brompton Cemeteries Friends newsletters. I would have been tempted to buy it anyway but pre-publication subscribers were offered further inducements in the form of a 25% discount on the rather steep cover price of £44 and the promise of finding their name printed inside the book on a subscriber list. I thought the practice had died out in the 19th century but apparently it has been revived in the last few years. You can see the attraction – books about cemeteries are unlikely to make any best seller lists and if you are going to risk putting out a heavily illustrated, all colour, low print run, high cost opus on a subject of minority interest it isn’t a bad idea to know that you have a minimal number of punters willing to pay for a copy. For a cover price of £44 I was expecting, naively perhaps, a hardback but this is a paperback. Books used to come unbound; I could look for a bookbinder I suppose.

Richard Barnes’ book features 102 memorials from London cemeteries and churchyards, listed in chronological order starting with William Hogarth in Chiswick (c1764) and finishing with Bryan Gould in Highgate (2011). The memorials are all chosen for their sculptural interest and include virtually all of London’s best known tombs from Karl Marx in Highgate to Thomas Joseph Tate in Finchley, Martha Gall Bianchi in Hampstead, Sir Richard Burton in Mortlake to Bonomi and Courtoy  in Brompton.  New to me were all the Brookwood memorials as I have yet to make it to Woking; Richard Barnes has made me realise what I am missing and I will make sure I get out there this year. Almost everything else was very familiar to me but there were a couple I have never heard of – Margaret Bunzl’s Magic Flute influenced grave in Chislehurst and the Lucena memorial in Enfield. In general it’s hard to argue with Barnes’ choice of memorials, personally I would have gone for Joyce McQueen’s memorial in Manor Park over Bryan Gould’s and I have a soft spot for the Vassallo memorial in Plaistow and would have loved to have seen it featured. But almost everything of sculptural importance, interest or beauty in London’s cemeteries is here. Every memorial is illustrated and the well written and informative text not only gives details of the artist who created it (where known) but also has brief but often fascinating biographical details for the owner.  James Steven Curl (author of ‘The Victorian Celebration of Death’) provides an excellent essay on the history of the cemetery movement as an introduction.  

The photographs in the book are almost all by Charles Slade, better known as Stiffleaf on ipernity and flickr). They are of a uniformly high standard and many of them are stunningly beautiful; they are a vital contribution to the success of this book and I can’t help feeling that the photographer merited at least a mention somewhere on the cover. I absolutely love this book and if you can afford it and have even a passing interest in the subject I would highly recommend it.  

William Hogarth's memorial in St Nicholas' churchyard, Chiswick 

The comfortable Estate of Widowhood, is the only Hope that keeps up a Wife's Spirits; Auguste Kettner (1833-1877) Brompton Cemetery

As soon as I saw the inscription on this memorial I knew that I am spending far too much time in cemeteries. Not only did I know immediately who Auguste Kettner was, I also knew exactly where his widow is buried – in fact from  here I could probably have walked to her grave blindfold (admittedly it is only a couple of hundred yards away).  The widow, Barbe Maria Theresa Sangiorgi, has one of Brompton Cemetery’s best known funerary monuments, but Kettner’s is completely obscure. I had no idea that he was even buried here and certainly no inkling that his grave was so close to hers.  I have never noticed the monument before because it is in a section that has been wildly overgrown for as long I have been visiting the cemetery. When I dropped by in March the undergrowth had been cleared away revealing, for the most part, dozens of uninteresting late Victorian grave stones with just two or three more elaborate memorials dotted amongst them of which Kettner’s bare breasted figure of grief is one.

I have written previously about Kettner and the Sangiorgi monument:

Barbe Maria Theresa Sangiorgi was the widow of Auguste Kettner a Frenchman who allegedly had been Napoleon III’s chef during the second empire (but before the Emperor was forced to live in exile in the suburbs of south-east London at Chislehurst).   In 1867 Kettner opened a modest restaurant in what was then Church Street (now Romilly Street) in Soho.  According to Nathaniel Newnham-Davis in his “Gourmet’s Guide to London” (1914), it “was the first small restaurant that dared to show its kitchen to all comers at a time when the kitchens of most foreign restaurants were places of horror.” The restaurant was discovered and publicised by a correspondent of The Times and became successful enough for Kettner to expand by leasing 3 neighbouring properties and knocking down party walls to create a large public dining area and converting the upstairs into private dining rooms.  “In 1877 two events of great importance to M. Kettner happened,” says Newnham-Davis, “he wrote his ‘Book of the Table’ and he died….”  Kettner’s ‘Book of the Table’ was in fact written by the journalist Eneas Sweetland Dallas with Kettner’s name used as a marketing device.  The name of the restaurant was so established that there was no question of changing it following Kettner’s death; in fact it is still open today, at the same address under the same name. 

Barbe's grave is just a stone's throw away from her husbands

I now know that I had some of my facts wrong. Kettner (full name Auguste Charles Edouard Kettner) was not French, he was German, born in Berlin in 1833. His father,  Augustinus Joseph Kettner, a printer, died in London  in 1872 presumably after being brought here by his son from Berlin where he may well have been living alone as the inscription says Kettner was his only child and we know his wife died in Berlin in 1850. In fact this is really the father’s memorial; Kettner’s widow buried him here in 1877, the son only outlasting the father by five years.  Barbe Marie Therese Dubois was born in Belgium in April 1833 and met Kettner in Paris where he was a chef and she a chambermaid. They married in 1861. There is no evidence that Kettner ever worked for Napoleon III. In the normal course of events Barbe may well have joined her husband and father-in-law in their vault when she died in 1893 at the age of sixty. But in 1880 at the age of 46 she had remarried to the 31 year old Giovanni Sangiorgi, an Italian who may well have been an employee before he married the boss’s widow. His flair for business transformed Kettner’s into one of London’s more famous and successful restaurants and the couple were very wealthy when Barbe died. Rather than inter her with Kettner, Giovanni bought an expensive plot in a good part of the cemetery near the main gates and erected a very elaborate and very Italian memorial in her memory. Barbe rests there alone as when Giovanni died in 1909 he chose to have his body shipped to Lugano and be buried with his ancestors. She might have been less lonely if she had been allowed to join her ex husband.