Ned was a notorious local highway man. From his hillside redoubt in nearby Dutton Ned would study ship disembarkation times and coaching tables and would pick out likely travellers worthy of plucking. When sure of his information he would sally fourth on his trusty stead Black Tarquin, pistols and sword at hand, with not a care or thought for others loss or forfeit of life or limb.

Such was the luck and measure of his deeds that he became the terror of every turnpike with yarns of his infamy being recounted in every roadside tavern and inn. One inn in which men kept a firm hold of their tongues was here at the Punchbowl Inn, Hurst Green. For this was the watering hole of Ned’s fancy. As Ned’s outrages and notoriety spread, so did the net of King’s Justice trawl wide in search of the old receiver, ‘King of the High Toby.

Eventually the net closed in and his luck ran out. The King’s troopers had run him down and surrounded the Punch Bowl and with fixed bayonets began a room to room search of the buildings there. On entering the hay barn where Ned was held up, a fire-fight ensued and four troopers fell to Ned’s volley. Reloading two brace of pistols Ned mounted the steps to the inn’s gallery for his final stand. Flint hit steel and powder flared and a hail of lead forced Ned to cower for cover in the right-hand corner of the gallery.

Holed through in six places, but still alive, Ned King was overpowered, dragged down and chained. There would be no trial for Ned. He was horse-pulled to the old gibbet that stood at Three Turns at the top of Gallows Lane some three-quarter mile west. There the blooded remains of Ned’s body hung as an example for all to see and for many weeks after did birds’ feast on the carrion.

So ended the life of William Edward Bell, but not the times, his ghost haunts the place to this day. Moaning’s have been heard among the rafters. There are unexplained noises along the corridors at the dead of night and bottles unaccountably fall from shelves. And on the night before the full moon, the fall of Tarquin’s hoofs can e heard in a spectral gallop along the Longridge Road urged on with shouts from its Phantom rider.