Last year saw the centenary of what is probably one of the more unusual Lin(d)field anniversaries, when Henry Lindfield of Brighton became the very first motorist to die from the injuries he received in Britain’s first fatal car crash. Accompanied by his 18 year old son, Henry’s car smashed into a tree at Russell Hill Road in Purley, Surrey. He was rushed to Croydon General Hospital, but died the following day.

All the main details of the accident, which happened on February 12 1898, were reported in the ‘Evening Argus’ of Brighton, where Henry had his home. As usual for this period, the article was particularly thorough:

"A sad fatal accident occurred on Saturday to Mr. Lindfield, a gentleman, of 42, Montpelier-street, Brighton. Mr. Lindfield, accompanied by his son, Mr. Bernard Lindfield, a young man of 18 or 19 years of age, was driving a motor car from London to Brighton. They had passed through Croydon, and at about two o’clock were descending a long hill, the machine running of its own impetus.

About half way down the hill the car began to sway, probably owing to the action of the brake, and at that time the son happened to remark, "I believe the bag has fallen out." Directly afterwards the vehicle became unmanageable, and swerving round on to the path ran through a light fence of barbed wire and struck against a tree with great force. Unfortunately one of Mr. Lindfield’s legs came between the motor car and the tree, the result being that it was completely smashed just below the knee. The son was thrown from the vehicle. He escaped practically unhurt, and finding his father jammed against the tree at once obtained assistance.

Mr. Lindfield was removed to the Croydon Hospital, where his injuries were found to be so serious (the main artery was shattered) that the three surgeons who were in attendance came to the conclusion that the only possibility of saving his life was by amputation of the injured limb. This was done, but after the operation Mr. Lindfield remained unconscious, and yesterday morning at about nine o’clock he died. Mr. Lindfield was able, just after his admittance to the hospital, to converse with his son, and to give him some directions in case he should not survive. The deceased gentleman, who was only 42 years of age, leaves two sons and a daughter to mourn his loss, for whom the greatest sympathy is felt. Mr. Lindfield was well-known and highly esteemed in Brighton, and the news of his untimely death will be received with very great regret by his many friends.The motor car which Mr. Lindfield was driving was a two-seated one, which he had just purchased. He took considerable interest in motor cars, and had on the previous Saturday brought another one, which he had also just purchased for private use, from London to Brighton, but on that occasion, it may be remarked, he was accompanied by an engineer."

The accident was also reported in the ‘Croydon Times’. Henry was apparently a ‘retired builder and contractor’ who lived at Lynton House, 42 Montpelier Street, Brighton. We now know from his birth certificate that he was born in Hampstead, Middlesex on November 21 1855, son of Thomas Lindfield, retired builder and his wife Elizabeth. During the 1870s, Henry married Laura Louisa Isom, and their son Bernard was born on July 3 1879 when they were living at 24 Albert Street. Henry’s occupation on the birth certificate is given as "gentleman". Following in his father’s profession, Henry was obviously doing well for himself; to own a motor car in those early pioneering days of motoring was a sign of wealth.

According to the article above, Henry and Laura had other children, another son and a daughter – certainly there were further births registered in the district of St. Pancras (notably Frances Jane Lindfield, registered in the 2nd quarter of 1881; Mira Edith Lindfield and Stanley Lindfield, registered in the 3rd quarter of 1883; and Sarah Lindfield, registered in the 1st quarter of 1884.)

On the anniversary of the tragic accident, a certain Mr. Porter of the safety group Roadwatch organised a prayer vigil at the spot in Russell Hill Road, at the junction with Purley Way, to "remember the half a million people who have died on Britain’s roads over the last century." A report in the Evening Argus also stated that he was trying to trace any descendants of Henry Lindfield. I have no idea whether he succeeded, but it would be intriguing to know. Assuming there are, do they actually know of their unfortunate ancestor’s untimely end, which has made him such an unenviable statistic? Certainly there are many who would argue that the motor car has, in many ways, been the scourge of the 20th century. Incidentally, although Henry was the first motorist to die in a car accident, he wasn’t the first person to die in a car crash. That dubious honour belongs to Bridget Driscoll, of Croydon, south London, who was knocked down by a car on August 17, 1896. According to a report in ‘The Times’ of August 12 1996, the coroner at the inquest into Mrs. Driscoll’s death "expressed the hope that such a thing would never happen again." (!!)

Although only 42 years of age at the time of his tragic death, Henry was already a widower, having lost his wife in 1893 at the age of 45. The administration of his estate, with a ‘limited’ will, was granted to Percy Benjamin Edward Isom, retired bootmaker, presumably his brother-in-law. The probate value of his estate came to £4230 16s 10d, a fairly substantial sum for the time.

Of course, driving at the turn of the century would have been unimaginably different to anything we take for granted nowadays. Not only were the roads badly made up, but there would have been an incredible amount of mud about, largely produced by the vast numbers of horses conveying the predominantly horse-drawn vehicles of the time. Another consequence was the large number of hobnails from horse shoes causing frequent punctures. And then there were also the practical difficulties involved in driving the cumbersome, heavy machines in these adverse conditions.

The Daily Mail was the only national newspaper to report the story in an article on February 11 1998 entitled "In memory of the man who found the car can be a killer." An interesting fact they managed to discover was that Henry was "agent for one of the newly formed motor companies of the day, International Cars." They also assert that "he was probably worried about whether the vehicle’s batteries would last all the way. Maximum range before recharging tended to be only 25 miles . . . " But going back to a Brighton Herald report of the Inquest (dated February 19 1898), the car "was worked by petroleum ignited by electricity." An engineer had driven them to Hammersmith before Henry took over, no doubt confident there would be few problems, especially as he "had driven the car two or three times" previously. The verdict of "Accidental Death" was returned at the inquest held at Croydon Hospital on February 14.

We may know little about Henry’s descendants, but we do know something about his predecessors. As mentioned before, his parents were Thomas and Elizabeth Lindfield. Thomas married his mother, Elizabeth Chorley on 28 April 1855 at the parish church in Bethnal Green. When Henry was born, they were living at 19, Stanhope Street, Hampstead, St. Pancras. This was his father’s second marriage as he is shown on the marriage certificate as a widower. In 1839, according to the Times of 2 October, "Thomas Lindfield, junior, Stanhope Street, Hampstead Road, builder . . . " was to appear before the Bankrupt’s Court. This suggests that his father was also called Thomas.

From our index of wills and administrations (Linfield and Lindfield Wills and Administrations 1858-1920 from the Calendar of Wills at Somerset House by Alan Lindfield, 1995) we know that Thomas Lindfield died on 27 May 1867, at the age of 75 – presumably Thomas’s (and Henry’s) father. According to the marriage certificate, Thomas’s father was William Lindfield, gentleman; Elizabeth’s father was John Chorley, engineer. A possible match for his parents would be William Lindfield of Patcham, Brighton (born 1764) who married Mary Miles at the parish church of St. Nicholas, Brighton on 23 September 1788.

Incidentally, we have in the Group archives part of an indenture dated 11 February 1825 between William Raddon (of the first part) of Sidmouth Street, Thomas Lindfield (of the second part) of Beaumont Place and Thomas Griffiths of George Place (of the third part).

This indenture is concerned with land in "the parish of St. Pancras in the County of Middlesex fronting west on York Market" and in "the east by an intended Mews." The lease, to William Raddon, was for a period of 98 years land was situated in the the Regent’s Park area. Unfortunately, the missing portion of this document means we only have some of the details.

As something of a footnote to the tragedy surrounding Henry’s untimely end, our former President, Eric Linfield, contacted ‘The Guinness Book of Records’. Unfortunately, their reply was most unhelpful and rather imperious: "this proposal is not currently suitable for publication". I would have thought it more interesting than the record for eating the most baked beans with a cocktail stick, or the person with the longest finger nails in the world! It would seem that the ‘Guinness Book of Records’ is more interested in the bizarre and sensational these days, which is a great pity.

I have always been fascinated by the science of archaeology. Many years ago I even participated in a dig, in the city of Chichester. To be more precise, I spent some weeks in the Summer of 1974 and the Spring of 1975 helping with the excavation of the Roman baths in Tower Street, with an old school friend. As volunteers, we received the princely sum of 1 per day and shared communal accommodation in a house in nearby Crane Street, which also served as the nerve centre for the whole operation.

As short term participants, we weren’t allowed to do anything terribly exciting, which was quite understandable in the circumstances- though a little bit disappointing! At the time, the Tower Street excavations were heralded as the largest ever to take place in Chichester, involving the removal of some 1,300 cubic metres of soil by hand to reveal the several layers of occupation down to the Roman level. This was a classified ‘Rescue Excavation’ in advance of the ultimate development of the site as a multi-storey car park. It is interesting to observe, however, that the proposed development has still not materialised, and, hopefully, never will as the intrusion of the motor car is at last being resisted, especially in town centre locations.

My first job on the Tower Street excavation was certainly a memorable one – two of us had the task of digging out an old Victorian cesspit! My fellow worker on this occasion was a senior police officer who appeared to spend all his available free time on archaeological digs. What we found was fairly mundane and uninteresting: broken pottery, plenty of oval shaped soda water bottles, the odd Victorian ‘Bun’ penny, all discarded rubbish from long ago. We kept the old bottles which came from a local firm and were of value to bottle collectors. Once the cesspit was cleared of its detritus, we dismantled the internal walls to enable further excavation below (no doubt to some of the more interesting parts!)

Looking back to those days, there is little doubt that the site director, Alec Down was one of those rare people with an innate ability to inspire and motivate. He was a no-nonsense professional, completely dedicated to the job but able and willing to share his knowledge with all of us. On rainy days, he would alleviate the boredom of washing finds in the pottery room with an illuminating talk on the Roman occupation, often interspersed with some of the many anecdotes of a colourful and eventful life. When I recently rediscovered the notes he sent to all prospective volunteers, the following comments exemplify the man I remember: “Please DON’T volunteer if you are a dillentante type who thinks that archaeology consists of tickling a mosaic with a small brush and looking dedicated and /or hairy. It isn’t like that at all – except perhaps on television.”

It certainly wasn’t anything like it, for most of the time we were carrying heavy buckets to a conveyor belt which removed the soil off site. Nevertheless, it was a worthwhile experience, and I still remember the excitement of finding a Roman coin; such finds are an important way of dating the different layers. What was particularly fascinating about the Tower Street dig, despite the fact that the site was riddled with Medieval and Victorian cesspits, was how the several layers of occupation were all investigated down to the Roman level. In other words, the purpose of the excavation wasn’t simply to discover the Roman baths, but to record the totality of human activity on the site for over 2000 years. The northern part of the site had been occupied by a pub called ‘The Fighting Cocks’ from at least 1808, and before that it had been used as a Poor House for the Parish of St Peter the Great. The site had also accommodated the Royal Lancastrian School from 1811, which was finally demolished in 1974. The area east of the school building was the playground, with a number of 19th century cesspits below. During the excavations, several scholars’ slates were recovered, many with their owner’s name scratched upon them.

As for the Roman Baths, without going into any detail, it is estimated that they covered some 5,500 square metres. Unfortunately, since large quantities of the building stone were robbed during the Norman and medieval periods, interpretation of the evidence has been difficult. But three main periods of construction and alteration have been recognised: Period A (Flavian):

Period A (Flavian): Comprising a number of hot rooms, which were fired from the north end, there was another room (still lying beneath Tower Street), which was probably fired from the west side. Period B (Mid to late 2nd century):

Period B (Mid to late 2nd century): During this period there were a number of alterations and additions. A number of tepid rooms appear to have been converted to cold rooms – certainly the hypocausts were filled in and a mosaic and tesselated floors were laid on substantial foundations. Period C:

Period C: Considerable alterations appear to have taken place, but problems of interpretation have arisen from the presence of medieval bell founding pits and other disturbances of the site. Nevertheless, there are indications of a possible change of function. Municipal baths were not immune from changes in bathing fashion, and no doubt alterations of the existing premises would have been carried out to accomodate other types of bathing.

When did the baths cease to function? The coin series ends during the last quarter of the 4th century, but the systematic robbing of the building during the post Roman period effectively destroyed all floor levels. Therefore there is no firm evidence to answer this question. In all probability, the run down was quite slow, in keeping with the gradual decline in town life generally. The major robbing most likely occurred during the late 11th and early 12th century when the Norman Cathedral was being built a few yards away.

But I digress; the main reason for writing this article is to reveal two interesting archaeological finds which were made on land belonging, firstly, to my grandfather, Arthur Linfield and secondly, to my uncle, Jim Linfield. In the early Thirties, my grandfather moved with his family from Worthing to live in Thakeham, West Sussex, presumably to be close to the nurseries there which were being expanded as the old Worthing nurseries were gradually sold off for building development. They were living at South Hill Farm, and it was whilst digging a private swimming pool in the grounds, that some exciting discoveries were made. The excavation revealed Saxon pottery (probably sixth to eighth century), as well as fragments of Roman tiles, which suggested to the archaeologist who visited the site, Eliot Curwen, that they had found the site of a Saxon cottage. A partly polished flint axe was also retrieved. Soon after his visit, he sent the following letter to my grandfather:

16th March 1934                             1 ST. AUBYN ST, HOVE

Dear Mr Linfield,

My son and I have examined the pottery and taken British Museum opinion on it, and the result of your excavations and our enquiries turns out very prettily. The black pottery proves to be Saxon, and there is no doubt that you have excavated over the site of a Saxon dwelling. Whether the Roman tiles were brought from Hardham for use in the Saxon building or not, one cannot be certain, but their overlying the Saxon pottery at least carries this suggestion. The pottery of a lighter colour from a higher level is early medieval.

In connection with your discovery it is interesting to note that the word Thakeham means ‘Thatched Homestead’, and it is a pleasing conceit to think that you have hit upon the homestead that gave its name to your village. Indeed, what pleasanter site could have been chosen?

Now as to the axe. This is an instrument of peculiar interest. In the first place it appears to be made from chert which comes from a place called Broom, which is on the River Axe, down west. In shape and some characteristics it is typical of what we call the mesolithic period, the period which immediately preceded the neolithic. The polish is, however, a characteristic of neolithic work, and is not normally found earlier. The combination of the mesolithic shape and characteristics with the neolithic polish makes it not only of interest but of value from the point of view of the inference to which it gives rise, helping us to realise the overlapping between these two important periods.

We shall hope to bring all your objects over to you one Saturday in the near future, and then I am going to ask you to be kind enough to allow some of the black pottery and this axe to find a place in the County Archaeological Museum at Lewes, where they will be open to examination by the student. (Annotated ‘Yes’ in the margin).

We would like, with your permission, to write a description of the site and the finds for publication in “The Antiquaries Journal” of London. (Annotated ‘Yes’ in the margin).

Would you please let me know the width of the excavation, that is to say, the north-to-south measurement? (Annotated ’12ft’ in the margin).

With kind regards, and many thanks for letting us see these interesting objects and your excavation, Believe me, Yours sincerely, Eliot Curwen.

Now to the other interesting discovery. Towards the end of the Second World War, my uncle Jim and a partner bought Hillbarn Nurseries in the parish of Sompting, near Worthing. It was subsequently purchased by the main family business and put over to mushroom production. However, during excavation for foundations in October 1946, a hoard of bronzes was unearthed by a mechanical excavator at a depth of some 5 feet in a valley bottom.The following is taken from the official report by E. Cecil Curwen.

The hoard consisted of:

1. The greater part of a bronze cauldron.

2. Sheets of bronze apparently derived from one or more larger cauldrons.

3. A ‘phalera’ or boss-shaped object of sheet bronze.

4. Seventeen socketed axes.

1. Unfortunately, the cauldron was badly damaged by the grab, although it was undoubtedly in poor condition prior to its discovery. Nevertheless, by measuring the surviving pieces, it was possible to produce a fairly accurate reconstruction. The external diameter of the rim was some 12.5 inches, and the internal diameter of the brim between 8 and 9 inches. The greatest diameter of the body of the cauldron was about 17 inches, and its height around 10 inches. This gives it an estimated capacity of just under 5 gallons. As for its construction, it consisted of seven overlapping strips or plates held together by rivets. There were also signs of repair work. The uppermost pair of plates were folded back to form the brim, whilst the rim was formed by rolling sheets of bronze into tubular beadings. Two ring handles (about 3.3 inches in diameter) were attached by means of staples of cast bronze fixed to the upper surface of the brim.

2. Apart from the fragments of the cauldron described above were some sheets of bronze from another source. There were five pieces from the basal plate of another much larger cauldron. The fact that one edge was pierced with rivet holes, some with rivets still in place, shows that the plate was derived from the destruction of an old cauldron. Another piece of sheet bronze, with most of the rivets still in place along one edge, had originally formed part of a plate from the widest part of the body of a large cauldron. Various cuts indicated that the owner had been using it to make repairs.

3. The boss shaped object had been hammered out from a thin single sheet of bronze. From a basal flange, it rose steeply to another bead, and then more gently in a steepening cone to a height of 4 inches from the base. The apex had been torn off. The author had seen nothing like it before, and could not commit himself to any serious guesses. However, he did make a comparison to the ‘breast discs’ found in the Llynfawr hoard, although they were much smaller. It has also been suggested that this phalera was a trapping for the forehead and breast of horses.

4. The highlight of the find was undoubtedly the 17 socketed axes. These all had a single loop, were rectangular in shape and appeared to have come from twelve moulds. Some were rough castings, with the blade widening only slightly to a straight but very blunt cutting edge. The rest had been sharpened to varying degrees by hammering, the effect being to flatten out the edge so that it resembled a curved arc.

My uncle presented the bulk of the hoard to Worthing Museum, where it may still be viewed today.

Among Curwen’s conclusions, the following is of interest:

“The hoard evidently represents the stock of a bronze-smith, which includes several rough-castings of axes from the same moulds, as well as odd pieces of sheet bronze derived from worn-out cauldrons. The complete cauldron may have been likewise destined for scrap, or it is possible that it may have been temporarily in the possession of the bronze-smith for the purpose of repair.

A date in the second half of the Late Bronze Age (say 750-500 BC) is suggested for the hoard by the wing-decoration on two of the socketed axes, and this relatively late date would be in keeping with the developed character of the handle-fittings of the cauldron, according to Leeds’s typology . . . “

Although this article digresses somewhat from the strict confines of ‘family history’, I hope it may be of interest. Incidentally, many of you reading this may actually be descended from the bronze smith above! I wonder why all these pieces were discarded at the time – we will never know.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

West Sussex Gazette April 18 1974 Chichester Excavations 3 by Alec Down (Phillimore, 1978).

Roman Chichester by Alec Down (Phillimore, 1988).

‘A Saxon hut-site at Thakeham, Sussex’ from The Antiquaries Journal (Being the Journal of the Society of Antiquaries of London) October 1934 (Vol. XIV, No. 4).

‘A Bronze Cauldron from Sompting, Sussex’ by E. Cecil Curwen from The Antiquaries Journal (Vol. XXVIII July-October 1948 Nos. 3,4).

Worthing Museum Publications No. 2 ‘A Guide to the Bronze Age Collection’ by AE Wilson, D. Litt., FSA.

I was most interested to read in Sussex Life of the recent purchase by the Horsham Museum Society of a long case clock which was made by Edmund Linfield of Storrington. The article, which I saw in the June issue, also states that “very little” is known about Edmund. It continues: “He may have been a journeyman clock maker visiting Storrington for a year or so, making one or two clocks for local families. Or he may have lived in the town and worked at other trades. These and other questions will be answered after the Museum staff and volunteers have researched this interesting and elusive clock maker.” Since Eric, Alan and myself are all members of the Horsham Museum Society, I was somewhat surprised that nobody from the organisaton had bothered to contact us, so I sent them a letter giving details of all the information we presently have about this “elusive” clockmaker. I have been intending for some time to write an article about Edmund, so what follows is based upon the information I sent them.

Edmund was baptised at Thakeham Church on 14 October 1722, the younger son of William and Jane Linfield. William was a husbandman in the parish and married Jane Hooker at Fittleworth on 17 June 1711. Baptised at Itchingfield in 1683, William was the eldest child of George Linfield and Elizabeth Stringer of Shipley, who were married on 15 May 1681. Although I have not yet found their marriage entry in any of the local parish registers, Edmund married Mary Richardson in about 1750. The earliest Storrington reference to Edmund takes place on 8 November 1753 with the christening of his daughter Ann. In the parish register he is referred to as a “clocksmith” so his business was presumably established in the village at around this time. Undoubtedly, this must have been his main occupation although he would have worked at other trades related to his craft. He probably made all his clocks to order, whilst the cases would have been made by a local carpenter to the specific requirements of the customer. All his children by Mary were christened in Storrington, namely Ann (1753), Elizabeth (1757), James (1759), Sarah (1761), Richard (1763) and Catherine (1766).

Extracts from the Thakeham Manor Court Book (add. Ms. 2298) for 1755 refer to a cottage with acre of land at South Common in Thakeham. This property was eventually to revert to “Mary the wife of Edmund Linfield (clockmaker)” daughter of Richard Richardson, after “the deaths of Samuel Richardson & the said Richard Richardson the father.”

My own research into the life of Edmund Linfield was originally motivated after I first saw one of his clocks, which belongs to a cousin. I have also subsequently corresponded with a lady who has another, quite different, example of his workmanship and I have heard of at least one other clock in Sussex. Although I have not seen the clock at Horsham Museum, I shall describe the two clocks I am familiar with since it will be interesting later to see how they compare. I believe the basic product of the Sussex maker was the thirty-hour longcase clock, earlier made with a single hand but after the mid 18th century with two hands. My cousin’s clock has a brass face, with a chapter ring which shows Roman numerals for each hour and a minute band marked at every fifth unit (see illustration and front cover). The word “LINFIELD” is engaved in plain capital letters; beneath, more artistically executed, is a flowery “STORRINGTON”. The minute band is placed around the outer edge of the dial. This clock is therefore a classic example of a two handed 30 hour longcase clock. There is also a clue to the year of its manufacture: the year 1761 is pencilled inside the door of the case. I would imagine that it may be engraved on the workings, possibly with Edmund’s signature, and that whoever pencilled in the date may have found it whilst carrying out renovation work. Its year of manufacture, 1761, was at a time when the majority of 30 hour clocks were two handed; whereas, twenty years earlier, most would have been single handers.

London was the main centre of clockmaking until the mid-18th century, and most of the clocks produced there were 8 day clocks. Interestingly, the 30 hour and 8 day clocks were available from the same time, although the 8 day types were the most popular. The dial consisted of several parts – the dial sheet, corner-pieces or spandrels- attached by a screw – and a main chapter ring carrying the numbers. The most obvious difference between the 30 hour and 8 day clocks is the presence of two winding holes on the latter, since 30 hour clocks do not wind with a key. This is not to deny, of course, that there are exceptions: some people liked to give the impression that they possessed an 8 day clock by positioning “dummy” winding holes on the dial of their 30 hour clock. They also provided a decorative effect to improve the appearance of an over-plain centre, whilst at the same time following the fashion of the capital.

The numbers or chapter ring was a separately cast brass disc onto which the hours and minutes were engraved. It was usually silvered over to enhance the appearance of the numbers, but my cousin’s clock shows no sign of silvering as, in most cases, it has been polished away over the centuries. It is, however, a legitimate restoration technique to resilver the dial by using a paste of silver chloride.

The other Edmund Linfield clock I have come across has some interesting differences. Unfortunately, I have not actually seen it, but I do have a photograph of the clock face as well as some descriptive information from my correspondent. It has a brass dial with the engaved words “LINFIELD, STORRINGTON” in two scrolls. Although the clock has two hands, there are no minutes marked at all, but simply Roman hour numerals, and between them only four spaces instead of five on the inner chapter ring edge. This is very interesting since it suggests that the clock was originally single-handed; the four spaces represented quarter-hour units, to provide clarity of time to the nearest quarter-hour. However, there are also two winding holes in the clock face, which complicates matters somewhat since it would appear to be an 8 day clock – which, according to clock expert Brian Loomes, were always made with two hands! Some single handed 8 day clocks do exist, but they are apparently very rare indeed. What it suggests, of course, is that this particular clock was originally a single handed 30 hour clock which was later fitted with an 8 day movement and an extra hand. There are other reasons for supporting this view: for instance, most 8 day clocks also had a seconds dial, whilst 30 hour clocks did not. This clock has no seconds dial.

Such alterations were probably quite common, and were usually carried out when excessive wear had become a problem. In the case of 30 hour clocks, it was understandably preferable to replace the movement completely and, for the sake of convenience, with an 8 day movement. But it also meant cutting winding holes in the face of the clock, which may have rough edges and no ringing like many original brass dial 8 day clocks. My correspondent also indicated that she thought the case was not the original; the case on my cousin’s clock is very plain and was probably known as a “cottage clock”, judging by its simple oak case which would have been made to order by a local carpenter. It was therefore destined for a more modest household than the much more elaborate and expensive mahogany cases favoured by the rich.

The following family tree should help to clarify what we already know about Edmund. He was born in 1722, and died at Storrington in 1799 at the age of 77. His first wife, Mary Richardson, by whom he had six children, died in 1772. Two years later he married his second wife, Sarah Boniface at West Grinstead on June 25 1774, by whom he had a son, Richard, baptised in 1779.

In a previous article in Longshot (Vol 2 No 1, May 1993), I wrote about the prosperous butcher, Peter Linfield of Storrington, who moved to the village from West Chiltington in 1779 and lived there until his death in 1791. In his inventory, he is shown as owning two grandfather clocks, and it is tempting to imagine that he bought them from his distant kinsman of Storrington, Edmund. As an interesting observation, although they both had businesses in the same village, their fortunes ran in opposite directions: whilst Peter thrived, and his business grew from strength to strength, Edmund’s eventually failed, and what the family tree fails to show, is that when he died in 1799, Edmund was sadly a pauper. However, although we have no firm evidence, there is a possible clue in the family tree.

Family Tree of Edmund Linfield, 1722-1799

It is interesting to note that Edmund’s three sons all predeceased him. The eldest, James died in 1791 at the age of 31 or 32, and he may well have helped his father in the business with the eventual prospect of taking it over. Increasing infirmity probably precluded Edmund from continuing with his clockmaking skills, but the premature death of his son would have finished the business completely since there was nobody else to take over. In such circumstances, without any means of support, he ended his days in the local poor house. Such a scenario may well describe the situation which developed. We still need to find out what happened to his wife, since there is no record of her burial in the Storrington parish registers.

I wonder how many clocks Edmund made during his career. Assuming he probably worked at least 40 years, and he finished a clock every two weeks (the usual time taken to complete a clock), the maximum he could have completed during his lifetime would be 1000. However, taking into account possible vagaries in demand – which he must have experienced in a small Sussex village – and the fact that he probably made all his clocks to order, the final total would have been much lower – probably less than half this amount. In order to make a living, he would have found it necessary to supplement his income by other means; perhaps he also repaired and serviced local clocks, for example. But in the end it was either incapacity or a serious decline in the demand for his clocks which destroyed his business and forced him into the workhouse. It may well be that he failed to adapt to changing fashions, such as the introduction of the white dial which began in 1772, although the majority began from about 1780. However, by 1790 most longcase clocks had white dials. For someone who had been making brass dial clocks since 1750 or thereabouts, it would have been a very difficult process to adapt to the new technology, particularly as there were a number of impediments involved. In remote rural Sussex, Edmund may have failed completely to realise that fashions were changing.

References Loomes, Brian The Concise Guide to British Clocks (Barrie &amp Jenkins Ltd, 1992) Tyler, E J The Clockmakers of Sussex (Watch & Clock Book Society, 1986)