The confusion began, as most historical mysteries do, with terrible handwriting.
The warrant read "Duck Turpin" clear as day, well, as clear as anything written by Constable Wiggins after his third pint at the Rose and Crown. Whether it was meant to read "Dick Turpin" was a matter of some debate, especially since the actual Duck Turpin was standing right there in the dock, orange beak protruding from beneath a rather stylish tricorn hat, insisting on his identity.
"DUCK Turpin," he honked for the fifteenth time. "D-U-C-K. Completely different fellow from that Dick character everyone keeps mentioning."
The judge, Lord Pemberton, removed his spectacles and cleaned them carefully, hoping the defendant might transform into something more conventional when he put them back on. No such luck.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves. The story of Duck Turpin begins not in a courtroom, but on a particularly soggy Tuesday in 1735, on the Great North Road near Hampstead Heath.
Young Reginald Fotheringham-Smythe was having a decidedly peculiar day. First, his carriage had gotten stuck in mud that seemed specifically designed to trap wheels. Second, his driver had abandoned him to "seek help" at a tavern they'd passed three miles back. And third, and most pressingly, he was being held at pistol-point by what appeared to be a large duck in a highwayman's outfit.
"Your bread or your life!" the duck announced, his orange beak somehow managing to convey menace despite being, well, a beak.
"I beg your pardon?" Reginald sputtered.
"Your bread! Hand it over! All of it! Rolls, loaves, biscuits, crumpets if you've got them!"
"But... but you're a duck."
The highwayduck sighed deeply. "Oh, brilliant observation. Yes, I'm a duck. Duck Turpin, terror of the highways, scourge of bakeries, nemesis of all who transport wheat-based products. Now, THE BREAD, if you please!"
Reginald fumbled in his travel bag and produced a slightly squashed cucumber sandwich.
Duck Turpin examined it with the intensity of a jeweler appraising diamonds. "White or brown bread?"
"Er... white?"
"Acceptable. What about the corners? Crusts on or off?"
"On?"
"Perfect! Theresa! We ride!"
At this command, an enormous goose emerged from the bushes. She was wearing what appeared to be a miniature horse blanket with "TERRIBLE THERESA" embroidered on it in threatening Gothic script. She honked once, a sound that suggested barely contained violence, and Duck Turpin leaped onto her back with surprising grace.
"Remember!" Duck called back as they waddled away at what could generously be called a canter, "You've been robbed by DUCK Turpin! With a U! Tell everyone!"
The legend of Duck Turpin grew quickly, though somewhat confusingly. Every time someone reported being robbed by "Duck Turpin," the authorities assumed they meant Dick Turpin and had simply misheard. This led to Dick Turpin being credited with a series of increasingly bizarre bread-related crimes he hadn't committed, much to his annoyance.
"I steal GOLD!" the real Dick Turpin was heard to complain in a London tavern. "GOLD and JEWELS! Why would I want someone's bloody sandwich?"
Meanwhile, Duck Turpin's actual crime spree was reaching new heights of absurdity. He robbed the Bishop of London's tea party, making off with an entire tray of scones. He held up the mail coach but only took the driver's lunch. He even attempted to rob the King's bakery wagon, though this ended badly when the royal guard's muskets proved faster than Terrible Theresa's waddle.
The relationship between Duck and his mount was complicated. Terrible Theresa had been, by all accounts, a perfectly ordinary goose until Duck found her. Something about their partnership had transformed her into a creature of legendary ornerness. She bit anyone who wasn't Duck, hissed at children, and had once chased a pack of hunting dogs up a tree. Together, they were less "dashing highwayman and noble steed" and more "chaotic waterfowl causing minor inconveniences across England."
Duck's motivation for his crimes remained mysterious. When finally captured (caught red-winged in the Archbishop of York's personal bakery, his beak full of hot cross buns), he was questioned extensively.
"Why bread?" the prosecutor asked. "Why not valuables like any sensible highwayman?"
Duck ruffled his feathers indignantly. "Have you ever tried to eat gold? Terrible for the digestion. Bread, now that's proper food. Crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, perfect for dipping in pond water, I mean, soup. Perfect for soup."
The truth, discovered much later in a journal found in Duck's hideout, was more complex. Duck had apparently been a perfectly ordinary duck until he'd eaten some bread dropped by a witch outside a coaching inn. The bread had been cursed, or blessed, depending on your perspective, with transformation magic meant for someone else entirely. The witch, one Magdalena Spelling (yes, really), was notoriously bad with names and had been trying to curse "that Dick Turpin fellow" for stealing her purse.
Instead, she'd created Duck Turpin: a waterfowl with human intelligence, opposable wing-tips, and an insatiable desire for baked goods.
The trial of Duck Turpin was the social event of 1737. The courtroom was packed with curious observers, broadsheet writers, and at least three portrait painters trying to capture the absurdity for posterity.
Duck stood in the dock wearing his finest brown coat, his tricorn hat at a jaunty angle, maintaining his innocence with remarkable persistence.
"I'm being persecuted for my species!" he honked. "If I were human, I'd be getting a slap on the wrist and a folk song!"
"You robbed the Archbishop!" Lord Pemberton reminded him.
"Allegedly!"
"You were caught with a beak full of his personal hot cross buns!"
"They were delicious, I mean, that's circumstantial!"
The defense attorney, a young man named Clarence Featherstone (who'd taken the case purely for the publicity), tried valiantly to argue that English law technically didn't cover crimes committed by waterfowl. This argument might have worked if Duck hadn't loudly objected, insisting he should be tried as a human since he had "all the same feelings and desires as anyone, just with more feathers."
In the end, Duck was sentenced to hang, though there was considerable debate about whether the rope should go around his neck or his body, given the anatomical differences.
His execution on April 7th, 1737, drew an even larger crowd than his trial. Duck wore his best hat and gave a speech that went on for twenty minutes, mostly complaining about the quality of prison bread.
"Stale!" he honked. "Absolutely stale! If I'm to be hanged for stealing bread, the least you could do is provide decent bread in prison! This is QUACKERS!"
Those were his last words. Terrible Theresa, watching from a nearby rooftop, gave a mournful honk that witnesses say could be heard for miles.
But death, as it turns out, was not the end for Duck Turpin.
The first sighting came just three days after his execution. A mail coach driver swore blind that a translucent duck in a tricorn hat had appeared on the road, demanding his sandwich. When he threw the sandwich at the apparition in terror, it passed right through, and the ghost had honked in frustration before disappearing.
Soon, reports flooded in from across the traditional highways. Duck Turpin's ghost, it seemed, was continuing his crime spree from beyond the grave, though with the significant handicap of being unable to actually take or consume any bread.
"It's the principle of the thing!" the ghost was heard to wail at confused travelers. "I'm maintaining my reputation!"
Terrible Theresa also returned as a spirit, though she seemed more interested in haunting specific people who'd been mean to her in life. The judge who'd sentenced Duck woke one night to find a ghostly goose sitting on his chest, staring at him with spectral rage.
Professor Barnabas Ravenwood, investigating the haunting in 1892, wrote:
"The entity known as Duck Turpin presents a unique case in spectral studies. Unlike most highway ghosts who seek revenge or redemption, Duck appears to be haunting out of sheer habit. He cannot eat the bread he demands, cannot spend the crumbs he occasionally manages to spiritually acquire, and yet he continues his holdups with admirable dedication.
I observed him myself on the old York road, manifesting before a modern motorcar (much to his confusion). He attempted to rob the occupants of their picnic basket, honking traditional highway threats while the bemused family took photographs. When offered a ham sandwich, he spent several minutes trying and failing to grasp it before disappearing with what I can only describe as a dejected 'quack.'
Interviews with local bakers reveal a tradition of leaving bread out for Duck's ghost, though this is usually consumed by living ducks, which seems to satisfy the spirit. Perhaps he simply wants to know that somewhere, ducks are getting the bread he can no longer enjoy."
Modern sightings of Duck Turpin continue, though he's had to adapt to changing times. He's been spotted at drive-through windows, demanding nuggets (before realizing with horror what they're made of). He's appeared at food trucks, confusing tourists who think he's a street performer. One viral video claims to show him attempting to rob a Subway restaurant, though experts debate its authenticity.
The Yorkshire Tourist Board has embraced Duck Turpin as a local legend, selling "Duck Turpin Loaves" and organizing ghost tours where actors dressed as waterfowl jump out at visitors demanding sandwiches. There's even a small museum in York dedicated to him, displaying what they claim is his original tricorn hat (though historians point out that seventeen different museums make the same claim).
Terrible Theresa has her own following, with the "Goose and Tricorn" pub claiming to be haunted by her spirit. Patrons report sudden cold spots, the sound of honking, and occasionally finding their beer glasses knocked over by invisible wings.
But perhaps the most interesting development came in 2019, when a historian named Dr. Margaret Spelling (yes, a descendant) discovered her ancestor's journal. In it, Magdalena Spelling had written:
"Accidentally cursed a duck today instead of that horrid Dick Turpin. The spell was supposed to make him 'fowl' in nature, not 'FOWL' in form. Must remember to be more specific with incantations. Still, the duck seemed quite pleased with his new abilities. Gave him a hat from my costume box. Hope he makes something of himself."
This has led to a new theory: that Duck Turpin and Dick Turpin were actually the same person, split by magic into two beings, one who continued stealing gold and one who developed an obsession with bread. Supporters point to the fact that Dick Turpin's crimes became notably less bread-focused after 1735, while Duck's began.
Critics argue this is ridiculous, but then again, so is a highway-robbing duck.
Today, Duck Turpin remains a beloved figure in English folklore, proof that history doesn't always have to make sense to be memorable. His ghost continues to haunt the old roads, forever seeking bread he cannot eat, riding a goose he cannot control, wearing a hat that somehow stays on despite having no proper head for it.
And somewhere in the spirit realm, Terrible Theresa continues to be terrible, which is really all anyone could ask of her.
As Duck himself supposedly said (according to a medium in 1952): "Being dead hasn't changed much, really. Still can't eat bread, still riding Theresa, still robbing coaches. Only difference is now people think I'm charming instead of terrifying. Which is actually a bit insulting, if I'm honest. I was a very frightening duck!"
The last confirmed sighting was just last month, when a food blogger reported being approached by a translucent waterfowl on the A1 near York. The ghost apparently spent ten minutes critiquing the quality of modern bread before disappearing with a disgusted honk.
"Your bread AND your life would be worthless!" he'd allegedly declared. "Mass-produced nonsense! In my day, bread had CHARACTER!"
Which, everyone agrees, sounds exactly like something Duck Turpin would say.
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