Thomas Augustus Burchill, Doctor of Music (Yorbridge), Fellow of the College of Organists, Associate of the Philharmonic Society of London, was different; special; unique. ‘TAB’, ‘the good Doctor’, Tommy (to his best friends only), was the heart and soul of Hartleydale. There had never been a musician like ‘our Yorkshire Choirmaster’. Queen Victoria had written to TAB personally after his singers’ command performance at Windsor Castle in late 1878. Hartley Parish Church Choir was widely regarded as the best in the country. TAB wanted it to be the best in the world.

Fame and celebrity status had not come easily. Burchill was a singular man; all were agreed on that. Choir members had been sacked; musical assistants had walked out; vicars and churchwardens had railed against the good Doctor’s antics. Nobody, but nobody, could take away from TAB’s achievements over the previous twenty years, during which time the singers had gone from a rough and rustic mob of musicians to the most heavenly choir on earth.

The dream was shattered in a mere 24 hours. Early autumn 1879 and Hartley was in shock: nobody could believe it. Monday morning’s Gazette and Argus had lauded Burchill’s immaculate conducting at one of his glorious choral concerts; that same day’s late-night-final edition announced his death, sudden and unexplained.

The evening of Sunday, 28 September: TAB had locked the organ loft, made sure the hydraulic blowing apparatus that raised the wind to the instrument was switched off, exchanged pleasantries with the Vicar, the Reverend Dr Percy G. Banks, said goodnight to the verger, lit a cigar and walked up the road to his house on New Station Street. Unusually, the good Doctor had not stopped for refreshment at the Railway Cutting Hotel. Instead, he popped into the sweet shop and tobacconist’s run by Ernest Snelgrove, lead tenor singer in the Parish Church choir. TAB was in excellent form, according to Snelgrove, lashing out on a bar of his favourite chocolate as a reward to himself for ‘the evening’s excellent entertainment’ and in consequence of having been awarded a pay rise by Dr Banks. Snelgrove had offered the great doctor a discount on his purchase, given the awe, reverence, respect, and no little amount of fear in which he held the great choirmaster.     

Martha Burchill had found TAB in good spirits on his arrival home, and, over a supper of cold ham and bread, followed by cake and preserved fruit, the good Doctor had regaled his daughter with a report of the evening’s concert, a ‘stunning performance’ (according to the conductor) of Temple Mann’s David and Goliath. ‘If only May Eliz’ had been alive to hear t’performance. Thiv nowt on t’choir at ‘Artley; none of ‘em anywhere! We’s bound ta be a cathedral afore long now’. He had looked at the large photograph hanging over the living room fireplace; five long years since Mary Elizabeth Burchill had died. TAB went to bed at midnight, slept soundly and snored loudly, much to Martha’s consternation. Annie, the live-in maid, was well insulated from the noise, ensconced as she was in her minuscule attic accommodation.     

The following morning, 29 September 1879, the good Doctor had breakfasted, as usual, on bacon, eggs, devilled kidneys (his absolute favourite) and bread. Martha had unlocked the side door to the house to let in the first of his piano students at 09.30 am. Burchill had left home at noon to do his daily organ practice at the Parish Church. Once there, he handed the music list to assistant organist Charles Verney. Verney had gone to the local printers post-haste so that the details of the next services could be distributed in time for the following Sunday’s worship. Scholars at the nearby charity school heard the sound of TAB practising his voluntaries until approximately 2.30 pm. After that, there was silence, only broken by the sound of ladies dusting, tidying, and mopping up after the previous evening’s performance. The church had been packed: some 400 singers from all over Hartleydale, in addition to the 70 men and boys in the Parish Church choir itself and over 600 in the audience. The cleaners’ work was significantly more onerous than usual in consequence.    

Martha had begun to worry when TAB did not return for dinner at 3.30 pm. He was as regular as clockwork, priding himself on being on time for everything: service; lesson; practice; food, and especially dinner. Any later than his customary dining hour and he would be hard pressed to eat, sleep and prepare for the Monday evening rehearsal with the men of the church choir.  As the clock struck four, the good Doctor’s daughter told Annie to go down to the Parish Church and find out what had happened and when her father would be home for his food. Perhaps he had lost himself in his organ playing, or encountered a problem with the instrument, for he had recently been complaining about the unpredictability of the hydraulic engines, given the erratic water pressure in the town. Could he have been accosted by a troublesome student, or an errant choirman? Had a fellow freemason tried to inveigle TAB in a land purchase? The good Doctor already owned fields and cottages to the north of Hartley and, as a ‘reputable gentleman’ was known to have his sights on more acquisitions before the town council got there first. Had Burchill forgotten to tell his daughter that he had a musical engagement elsewhere in Yorkshire and would not therefore be home until the evening?

None of those excuses for TAB’s disappearance rang true, and Martha knew it. Thomas Burchill was meticulous in his arrangements, both personal and professional; he just did not miss an appointment of any kind. Her fears were confirmed when a breathless Annie returned from the Parish Church to report that Dr Burchill was nowhere to be found and had not been seen since finishing his practice more than an hour previously. Upon hearing this news, Martha dispatched the maid once more; this time to locate Charles Verney, TAB’s trusted assistant. Verney and Annie searched the church (no sign of the good Doctor) and various watering holes in which Burchill might have taken refuge (albeit for no obvious reason). There was neither sight nor sound of him.

By 5.00 pm, news of TAB’s disappearance had spread all around the town. The police force were inundated with people calling to express their concern and urge the constabulary to do something. Men were posted around Hartley to keep a look out and to marshal the many members of the public who had volunteered their services. As a keen member of the Hartley Choral Society (conducted by TAB) Detective Chief Inspector Wright Watson, Head of the local CID, began to take an interest in the disappearance upon his return from Leeds. Alighting the train at Hartley Central Station, he was met by Detective Sergeant Edwin Moore, who appraised him of the situation. Watson urged calm but also ordered a thorough inspection of central Hartley, based on Burchill’s last known whereabouts.

A second search of the Parish Church, conducted this time by police constables, yielding nothing, until Charles Verney noticed that the blower switch at the organ console was in the ‘on’ position and yet no wind was getting through to the bellows. Verney, accompanied by two policemen, took the long and tortuous route down into the crypt, where the huge water engines were located. Gas had never been installed in this subterranean space and the light of their candles was less than adequate for the three men to complete a proper search. As they neared the machinery, however, a large figure appeared. Verney recognised the frame immediately; he had observed that back over many years. It had been easy to do so from his vantage point in the choirstalls opposite the Parish Church’s four-manual organ, recently completely renewed by Ishmael Monkhill. Of course, TAB must have got absorbed attempting to repair a problem with those troublesome hydraulics! The good Doctor had been here all the time!

Verney’s sense of relief was short lived. As he placed his hand on TAB’s shoulder, the great Dr Thomas Burchill, Mus Doc, FCO, Associate of the Philharmonic Society of London, slumped forward, face down into the water tank. He was quite dead.