“It is said that York has so many public houses, one could patronise a different establishment each day of the year. Indeed, a number of locals of my acquaintance would attempt to try them all in a day if they could. A number of the most haunted buildings in the City are pubs, one such being Ye Olde Starre Inne which, having served ale since 1644, is said to be one of York’s oldest taverns and boasts a distinctive presence in the City on account of its large sign spanning Stonegate. The building itself is labyrinthial with many dark corners in which to get lost and cosy snugs in which to disappear for a private meeting or clandestine chat. It is sufficiently atmospheric to believe that the whole place is filled to the rafters with spirts… of the non-alcoholic kind.

I had been invited to the building by the Landlord John “Carver”. Carver may or may not have been his surname, but he earned it by reputation for the fearsome way he handled a blade. He was a brute of a man with such a broad Yorkshire accent that at times was difficult to comprehend. Carver always sported a charismatic smile which kept his regulars happy and put visitors at ease. He took me to the bar near the courtyard entrance where his dog Rowley patiently sat, as if waiting to go for a walk, though he was not facing the door. The springer was staring at something which I was unable to see, but appeared to be atop the bar. “He sits like that for hours, I mean, he be as daft as a brush most of t’time but it be ‘appenin more and more. He sits there and stares and whines a bit, but stays rooted t’ spot. I were wondering if tha could give me a few answers, as I ‘ave heard about your obsession with all things unnatural…” at which point he stopped talking and gave me a curious side eye, then started talking again as though it had never happened. “There be a rabbit pie and a few pints in it for tha’ if tha can get t’bottom of it”. Those pies did, indeed, have a rather good reputation and the thought was making me feel rather peckish. After the infamous Mr Todd made a name for himself in London, I had always been a little more cautious about what and where I ate, but there was no mistaking a rabbit pie. Although not the highest payment for my work, I was happy to overlook it and proceed in the interest of science.

I returned in the dead of night, the air after closing time still filled with the fug of pipe smoke, beer and stale bodies. John, deep in whispered conversation with what looked like an engineer of some kind, waved a welcome gesture at me and then pointed to the dog Rowley, still rooted to the spot though several hours had passed, before returning to his chat.

I set up my clockwork lantern on the new stand I had made for it and wound it fully so that it began to whirr and click as a purple glow started to fill the room. Something began to materialise but it was not the clearest of apparitions, hampered perhaps by being indoors and by the lack of moonlight to aid its viewing. There was certainly something to see and the room fell silent as upon the bar and on a nearby bar stool appeared the faintest images of two black-shrouded cats. Rowley was staring fixedly at the cat on top of the bar but, even stranger, were the figures which began to appear in the seating areas behind him. One was a soldier dressed in finery, carrying an old-fashioned pistol and wearing a sash and sword, whilst the others seemed to be soldiers in antiquated helmets. Each of the apparitions appeared to be seriously wounded. It was at this point that the silence was broken as John came charging through the room carrying the largest meat cleaver I had ever seen which he waved from side to side whilst shouting some rather colourful language and almost slicing the lantern in two. The soldiers appeared oblivious to him as he seemed to pass straight through them but, as with my previous encounters, the cats paid close attention. They looked in his direction and even sprang away from his swings. Rowley snapped out of his trance and started barking and growling and, as the light from my lantern waned, the disturbance ended and the dog began wagging his tail and spinning round and round.

I re-wound the lantern but there was nothing to be seen. John, unimpressed by the optical show and quite pragmatic about the whole event, said “thought it might be t’cats, he be allus after the damn things in t’ street, folk ‘ave said they’ve seen black shadows darting around the place afore”. He went on to describe how, back at the time of the construction of this section of the building in the 1600s, two cats were bricked into a nearby ceiling column whilst still alive. “It were supposed to be lucky for t’ building but not very lucky for t’ cats if tha asks me. Now that I knows what the daft creature be looking at, I will be able to take a swing at ‘em so he can get on wi’ his job - he be supposed to be guarding t’ place!” Getting on to the subject of the soldiers, John looked a little more thoughtful. He had heard tales from his father, the previous landlord, of soldiers wandering around the premises and that, beneath the building, had been the morgue for the royalist civil war soldiers. “I thought it were mi father’s way of stopping me from ‘elping mi sen to some of ‘is ale in t’cellar when I were a lad. I ‘ave to say, I didn’t dare go down there for years”.

At this point he snapped out of his thoughtful pondering and said “Jenny’ll ‘ave a rabbit pie ready for thi’ lunch tomorrow and a couple of pints for afters. I think I might ‘ave to get some of t’local clergy to come around and bestow some blessings around t’place to see off t’soldiers. A couple of sherries should grease t’wheels - nowt attracts clergy more than a few free swift uns and we can’t ‘ave people walking around wi’ weapons, it’ll scare t’regulars”. And with that he was off, taking his very well-worn cleaver with him.”