Pull up a chair, let me tell you a tale…

I first heard the story during a violent storm in Buxton.

At the time I was a young folklorist, scarcely three years removed from university, engaged upon the collection of local traditions throughout the Peak District. Such pursuits frequently led me into lonely villages, isolated farmhouses and ancient inns where, if one possessed patience and a willingness to listen, remarkable stories might still be uncovered beneath the surface of everyday conversation.

The day in question had begun pleasantly enough. I had spent the morning exploring old trackways above Tideswell before making my way towards Buxton on foot. The autumn weather, however, proved deceptive. By late afternoon dark clouds had gathered over the western hills, and before I had crossed the final mile a tremendous storm descended upon the town.

Rain lashed the streets. Thunder rolled across the valley. The great crescent of Georgian buildings emerged and vanished behind curtains of water. Thoroughly drenched and grateful for shelter, I made my way into the Crescent Hotel.

The place possessed an atmosphere entirely suited to such weather. The long windows rattled beneath the force of the wind. Lamps cast uncertain pools of amber light upon polished wood and old portraits. Somewhere in the building a clock ticked with remarkable insistence.

After securing a room, I retired to a small lounge overlooking the gardens. Only one other guest occupied it. He was an elderly gentleman sporting an old tweed jacket and a magnificent white moustache. He was, perhaps seventy or eighty years of age and seated comfortably beside the fire with a glass of brandy which he swirled from time to time, the amber liquid catching the light of the crackling fire.

As often happens among travellers, conversation arose naturally.

He inquired as to my reasons for visiting Buxton I, in turn, explained my interest in folklore and at this, he regarded me thoughtfully.

“Then perhaps,” he said, “you ought to hear about John Kane.”

I admitted the name was unfamiliar.

“That does not surprise me,” he replied. “The dead are remembered only while somebody continues telling their stories.”

The rain battered the windows relentlessly and somewhere out in the tempest a dog howled once. Our room , however, remained silent but for the ticking of the clock and the shifting of the logs in the fireplace.

Presently, my companion spoke again.

“He was a comedian.”

“A comedian?” I asked, a little startled by this sudden announcement.

“One of the finest of his age. Played before fashionable audiences in London. A celebrated performer long before theatres became what they are today.” The old gentleman gazed again into the flames.

“He came to Buxton in 1799…”

I waited as he took a long sip from his glass.

“He was entertaining visitors who had come for the waters. The town was becoming fashionable then. Aristocrats, military officers, wealthy merchants. There was always an audience for a clever man.”

His expression changed. His brow furrowing.

“But his engagement ended rather abruptly…”

I recalled having heard some vague local tale.

“The poisoning?” I asked. The old man nodded.

“So the story goes.”

Thunder shook the window as the old man leaned forwards in his chair.

” Kane was appearing at the Opera House,” The old gentleman said. A magnificent performance by all accounts. The house was packed. The audience adored him. They said he had them laughing from the moment he stepped upon the stage. The applause shook the very rafters of the place. There were calls for encores and standing ovations long before such things became fashionable. It was, by every account, one of the finest performances of his career…” The old man paused and stared thoughtfully into the flames before continuing.

“Kane was also known for his appetite. He enjoyed the finer things in life and possessed a particular fondness for good food. After the performance he retired, flushed with success, and ordered a late supper. Roast beef with horseradish.”

Outside, the dog howled again as the thunder rolled across the hills.

“The maid sent to fetch the horseradish was new to her duties. Whether she was careless, ignorant or merely unlucky, no one can now say. What is certain is that she returned not with horseradish, but with hemlock.” He lifted his glass to his lips and took a slow sip of brandy.

“The cook prepared the meal without suspecting a thing. Kane ate heartily, praised the supper, then retired for the night.By morning, the man who had brought the house to it’s feet only hours before was dead.”

The matter was related so simply that it produced a greater effect than any theatrical embellishment might have done.

“An unfortunate accident.” I said

“Perhaps.”

His reply seemed curious – eerie even – in the flickering firelight with the storm raging outside.I pulled my shawl around me against the sudden chill that crept through the room and looked across at the old gentleman. He seemed to study the fire with unusual concentration.

“You doubt it then?” I asked.

His simple answer –

“Doubt is a useful habit.”

did little to ease my nerves…

The conversation drifted then for a time towards local history. Then, quite unexpectedly, he said:

“Have you visited St Anne’s Church?”

I replied that I had not.

“You should.” He replied, leaning forward again to attend the fire.

“And why is that, may I ask?” I of course knew of the tiny church by the marketplace in Higher Buxton, but I saw no relation of it to our current discourse.

He regarded me stourly over his glass.

“Because John Kane is buried there.”

I saw no particular significance in this.The old man, however, seemed to anticipate the thought.

“His grave is different.” The light from the fire glinted in his eyes playfully. Outside, lightning illuminated the gardens for an instant.

“Different how?” I asked.

Every trace of amusement vanished from his face.

“Every grave in that churchyard faces east..”

“Well, naturally…”

“Every grave,” he repeated,

“except one.”

The fire crackled loudly. I found myself leaning forward.

“John Kane?”

“Indeed.” He replied, leaning back in his chair and gazing again into the flickering grate. For several moments neither of us spoke. Then, at length he continued.

“The story is that the townsfolk loved him so much they buried him facing the wrong direction..”

I laughed softly. “An unusual tribute..”

“..so that he would always face his audience.” He continued.

The room seemed strangely quiet. The old gentleman gestured vaguely towards the darkness outside.

“Stand beside Kane’s grave and look across the churchyard.”He paused.

“The other graves rise upon the slope before him.”

I could not suppress a smile.”Like theatre seating?”

The old man returned my gaze.

“Exactly.”

Something in his expression made the comparison suddenly less amusing.The storm intensified. Rain rattled against the windows. A curious feeling came over me then, difficult to describe even now. It was not fear precisely. Rather the uncomfortable impression that the conversation had strayed into territory from which ordinary explanations had quietly withdrawn. I attempted to restore a lighter tone.

“And does the comedian continue entertaining them?”

The old gentleman considered this carefully.

“According to some.”

I waited for elaboration but none came. Instead he rose slowly from his chair.

“I think, Miss…” He hesitated as I realised with surprise that I had never supplied my name.Yet somehow he continued.

“…I think you should visit the churchyard tomorrow.”

Then he departed.

I remained by the fire for perhaps another hour. Only later did it occur to me that I had never learned his name either.

The following afternoon dawned cold and grey.The storm had passed, leaving low clouds drifting among the hills. My curiosity overcoming any remaining reluctance, I climbed towards St Anne’s Church.The churchyard was deserted, a faint wind moving among the yew trees. Finding Kane’s grave required little effort.

The elderly gentleman had spoken truthfully. The stone stood facing the opposite direction from those surrounding it. At first the arrangement appeared merely eccentric.Then I stepped behind it looking outward and an unpleasant sensation gripped me immediately.

The graves stretched away down the slope in ordered rows. Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands. Every headstone facing towards the spot where I stood. Watching. The impression seemed unmistakable.This was not a churchyard. It was an audience.

I told myself the resemblance was accidental.Yet the longer I remained there, the stronger the sensation became.There was something profoundly unsettling about occupying the position of the performer.

The dead appeared assembled before me.

Patient.

Attentive.

Expectant.

I stepped away.

At that moment a sound reached my ears. Laughter. Very faint. Very distant. The sort of laughter one hears at the conclusion of a successful joke. I turned sharply.

The churchyard was empty.

Only the wind moved among the stones.

A sensible person would have dismissed the matter immediately. Unfortunately I have spent much of my life collecting stories, and such habits encourage one to linger where wiser individuals would leave. I examined the grave more closely.

The inscription had weathered considerably, and as I bent to study it, another sound drifted across the churchyard. Not laughter this time. Applause. A brief scattering of claps, nothing more.

I straightened at once.The noise ceased.The silence that followed seemed deeper than before. A cloud passed across the sun and the shadows lengthened. Suddenly and without reason I became aware that I was no longer alone.

I cannot explain this sensation.There was nobody visible among the graves. No movement. No figure approaching. Yet I felt with absolute certainty that something stood immediately behind me. Something waiting. Watching. Listening. The instinct to turn around became almost irresistible. Yet another instinct, far older and stronger, warned me not to do so.

For several seconds I remained perfectly still.Then, with a determination I did not truly feel, I walked steadily towards the gate. Only when I reached the path beyond did I glance back.The churchyard was empty. The graves stood silent beneath the lowering sky. John Kane’s stone remained fixed upon its peculiar axis, facing his audience. Or perhaps, I reflected with a sudden chill, ensuring that they continued facing him.

I left Buxton the following morning.

Many years have passed since then.I have forgotten countless stories gathered during my travels.Others have become confused with time.Yet I remember John Kane. And occasionally, when visiting old churchyards, I find myself wondering about that curious arrangement of graves. For there is a question I never managed satisfactorily to answer.

If the people of Buxton truly buried their beloved comedian so that he might always face his audience…

Who, exactly, was expected to give the performance?

The Story Behind the Story

Like many of the best tales, the story of John Kane sits somewhere between documented history and local tradition.

John Kane was born in Ireland in 1746 and became one of the most celebrated comic actors of his generation. During the late eighteenth century he performed on stages across Britain and Ireland, earning a reputation for his comic timing and stage presence. Contemporary accounts suggest he was a favourite with audiences and a respected performer within theatrical circles.

While appearing in Buxton, Kane died following an accidental poisoning. Local tradition holds that he had requested roast beef and horseradish for supper, but poisonous hemlock was gathered and prepared in error. The mistake proved fatal and Kane died shortly afterwards.

He was buried in the churchyard of St Anne’s Church in Buxton, where his grave can still be seen today.

Over the years a curious legend attached itself to the burial. According to local folklore, Kane was buried facing his audience. Whether this refers to a particular orientation of the grave or is simply a poetic story told by later generations remains uncertain. What is clear is that the tale has survived for more than two centuries.

The image of a comedian forever facing an audience is a powerful one. Perhaps that is why the story endures. The theatres in which Kane performed have long since changed or vanished, and the audiences who applauded him are gone. Yet his name remains remembered in Buxton, carried forward through local history, churchyard lore and the stories told by one generation to the next.

In that sense, the legend may contain its own truth.

Every performer hopes to be remembered.

More than two hundred years after his death, John Kane still is.