Alan Headbold – or ‘The Alan’ as he is known in Suffolk – was a popular man in 19th century Chelmsford, having won the annual wife lifting competition four years in a row. He also achieved fame for rescuing Patsy, the Mayor’s Labrador after she fell through the ice on the local skating pond one particularly harsh winter. Unfortunately, it was this last show of courage that was to be Headbold’s undoing as a man. Convinced that Patsy was the true love of his life, he drove himself to a foaming jealousy upon seeing the Mayor proudly parade his trusted companion about the town at weekends. Headbold’s twisted delusion transformed him from local hero to feared villain. Headbold left his wife and home and retreated to the Tiptree caves. For several months villagers there recounted that he had begun to show signs of feral activity, scampering on all fours through the streets at night and stealing old pieces of meat which he carried away in his mouth.
By some mysterious method, he soon gathered a pack of other hounds around him; strays mostly but also some who had been thrown into the river as puppies in a failed attempt to kill them, the memory of which had ignited their hatred of Man. To the shock and amazement of all concerned, on the 14th June 1893, Headbold, wild-haired and naked but for a small leather flap dangling over his shrivelled manhood, led this pack of slavering beasts on a raid of the Mayor of Chelmsford’s manor home. Shattering through the windows in a series of great leaps the pack entered the poor official’s home just as he and his guests were sitting down to a fine dinner. Headbold is alleged to have appeared down the chimney, caring not for the flaming coals in the hearth which terrifyingly set his body hair aflame. One guest recounted that Headbold had rolled over the carpet at an in-human speed and then somersaulted onto the dining table roaring as he did so. He made a direct line for the Mayor but was smashed from his path by the massive punch of a blunderbuss wielded by Sir Panton Grieg Hanvorhandles, the fearless, seven-foot big game hunter. The big man had just retired from a life spent quenching his thirst for blood in the darkest folds of Africa, and having never lost his habit of carrying the thunderous weapon about with him wherever he went he brought the thing to bear with a practised ease even while others around him still had their forks in their mouths. With their leader presumed dead and the prospect of a decent meal on the cards, the remaining canines seemingly lost their spirit for vengeance and went about wagging their tails, accepting a petting from the waiting staff whilst the guests waited for their carriages. Whilst a huge pool of blood was found under the table, Headbold’s body was never found.
Since the the time of these extraordinary events, the chimney down which Headbold appeared has been solidly bricked-up. There is a thriving business inviting visitors into the house now, which the family enhances with rumours of scratching and faint growling behind there late at night.
