When the flames were at their height, the tumult was suddenly suspended by an unexpected apparition.  A beautiful female, in a nightdress, extremely rich, but at least half a century old, appeared in the very midst of the fire, and uttered these words in her vernacular idiom:  “Anes burned, twice burned; the third time I’ll scare you all.”  The belief in this apparition was formerly so strong that on a fire breaking out and seeming to approach the fatal spot, there was a good deal of anxiety manifested lest the apparition should make good her denunciation.

But family romance contains many such tales of horror, and one told of Sir Richard Baker, surnamed “Bloody Baker,” is a match even for Blue Beard’s locked chamber.  After spending some years abroad in consequence of a duel, he returned to his old home at Cranbrook, in Kent; he only brought with him a foreign servant, and these two lived alone.  Very soon strange stories began to be whispered of unearthly shrieks having been frequently heard at nightfall to issue from his house, and of persons who were missed and never heard of again.  But it never occurred to anyone to connect incidents of this kind with Sir Richard Baker, until, one day, he formed an apparent attachment to a young lady in the neighbourhood, who always wore a great number of jewels.  He had often pressed her to call and see his house, and, happening to be near it, she determined to surprise him with a visit.  Her companion tried to dissuade her from doing so, but she would not be turned from her purpose.  They knocked at the door, but receiving no answer determined to enter.  At the head of the staircase hung a parrot, which, on their passing, cried out: 

    “Peapot, pretty lady, be not too bold,
    Or your red blood will soon run cold.”

And the blood of the adventurous women did “run cold” when on opening one of the room doors they found it nearly full of the bodies of murdered persons, chiefly women.  And when, too, on looking out of the window they saw “Bloody Baker” and his servant bringing in the body of a lady, paralysed with fear they concealed themselves in a recess under the staircase, and, as the murderers with their ghastly burden passed by, the hand of the murdered lady hung in the baluster of the stairs, which, on Baker chopping it off with an oath, fell into the lap of one of the concealed ladies.  They quickly made their escape with the dead hand, on one of the fingers of which was a ring.  Reaching home, they told the story, and in proof of it displayed the ring.  Families in the neighbourhood who had lost friends or relatives mysteriously were told of this “blood chamber of horrors,” and it was arranged to ask Baker to a party, apparently in a friendly manner, but to have constables concealed ready to take him into custody.  He accepted the invitation, and then the lady, pretending it was a dream, told him all she had seen.

“Fair lady,” said he, “dreams are nothing; they are but fables.”