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The Ghost of Kensington Palace

It is said that a feeling of melancholy hangs over Kensington Palace, and many who have lived here seem to have succumbed to its air of desolation and despair. It first became a Royal Palace during the reign of William III, and later, George II died here. His last days were spent anxiously awaiting the arrival of long overdue dispatches from his beloved Hanover. He would glance up at the weather vane that stood over the entrance, watching for the wind to change direction and speed his messengers to him. His courtiers would hear his sorrowful voice, muttering in broken English, 'Vy dondt dey com?'. When the dispatches finally did arrive it was too late; the king had died a short time before. Now, his ghostly face appears at the window of his chambers. Fretful and careworn, he still stares wide-eyed at the palace weather vane. From time to time, his ethered voice echoes through the chambers, repeating over and over again the question that pre-occupied his last days, 'Vy dondt dey com?'.

During the reign of George III, several members of the family lived at Kensington Palace, among them the King's fifth daughter, the Princess Sophia. The princess fell deeply in love with a royal equerry, Thomas Garth, by whom she had an illegitimate son. With the birth of the child, Garth's ardour diminished and poor Sophia retreated to a lonely existence in her apartments in Kensington Palace. As time passed, and old and crept upon her, her eyesight began to fail, and she became a sad, pathetic figure whose only solace was to sit at her spinning wheel to toil at her embroidery frame. Tragically, even this diversion became impossible when her sight failed. She was moved to nearby York House and there she lived out the remainder of her days. Her spirit often returns to the rooms at Kensington Palace where she suffered so much unhappiness. The sound of her ghost spinning wheel cranked by her unseen spectral form, has often disturbed the night-time peace, its squeaking, creaking rhythmic sound reverberating through the palace as the hours of darkness slips slowly by.

from Richard Jones, Walking Haunted London, New London 1999 £9.99