Dick Turpin: The Butcher’s Boy Who Became England’s Most Notorious Highwayman
- dthholland
- 11 hours ago
- 6 min read
If you’ve ever heard the name Dick Turpin, chances are you’ve pictured a daring highwayman galloping across the English countryside on a horse named Black Bess, cloak billowing in the wind, pistols drawn, and a roguish smile beneath a tricorn hat. But the truth about Richard Turpin is a good deal grimmer—and far more fascinating—than the legend. The real Turpin was not a chivalrous outlaw but a brutal criminal whose fame owes more to 19th-century fiction than his own actions. Still, his life story, from Essex butcher to infamous highwayman, is a remarkable glimpse into the criminal underworld of 18th-century England.
Born Into Butchery, Baptised for Infamy
Richard Turpin was baptised on 21 September 1705 in the village of Hempstead, Essex. He was one of six children born to John Turpin, a local butcher and innkeeper, and his wife Mary. Raised at the Blue Bell Inn—later known as the Rose and Crown—young Dick likely followed in his father’s footsteps. Several accounts suggest he apprenticed as a butcher in Whitechapel, possibly even running his own shop in Thaxted for a time. By the mid-1720s, Turpin had married Elizabeth Millington and set up shop in Buckhurst Hill, Essex.
But the lure of easy money and adventure soon drew Turpin away from the honest trade of butchery and into far murkier territory.
Enter the Essex Gang: From Deer Poacher to Dangerous Burglar
By the early 1730s, Turpin had fallen in with the Essex Gang—a notorious band of deer poachers operating in the Royal Forest of Waltham. Poaching had long been a problem in these royal hunting grounds, and in response, Parliament passed the Black Act in 1723. The law imposed harsh penalties, including transportation and death, for those who blackened their faces while committing offences in the forest. But the Essex Gang were not deterred.
Led by the likes of Samuel Gregory and his brothers Jeremiah and Jasper, the gang quickly expanded from poaching to violent burglary. They were aided by accomplices like Joseph Rose, John Jones, and Mary Brazier, who acted as their fence. As a butcher familiar with animal carcasses, Turpin may have started as a useful associate—but soon he was fully involved in their crimes.
Between 1734 and 1735, the Essex Gang unleashed a wave of terror on rural households. One infamous raid on the Widow Shelley’s house in Loughton saw them threaten to roast her alive over the fire unless she revealed where her money was hidden. Her son ultimately gave in to save her, and the gang looted the house before making off with two stolen horses.
Turpin’s brutality was especially evident in a January 1735 raid on the home of Joseph Lawrence, a 70-year-old farmer in Edgware. Turpin and his associates tied up Lawrence, beat him savagely, and even forced him to sit bare-bottomed on a fire. The gang’s take from this horrific attack? Less than £30.
The Fall of the Essex Gang and Turpin’s Descent Into Highway Robbery
The authorities soon had enough. The Duke of Newcastle offered a substantial reward for the gang’s capture, and arrests began in earnest. Young John Wheeler, possibly no more than 15, was among those caught early. He turned informant, and descriptions of Turpin and the others were soon plastered in newspapers like The London Gazette. Turpin, described as “very much marked with the smallpox” and wearing a “blue grey coat and a natural wig”, went into hiding.
Over the next several months, most of the gang were captured, tried, and executed. Some were transported to the colonies; others, like Samuel Gregory, were hung and displayed in chains. Turpin alone managed to evade justice—for now.
With his gang dismantled, Turpin reinvented himself as a highwayman. Alongside new accomplices like Thomas Rowden and Matthew King (sometimes misidentified as “Tom King”), Turpin began robbing coaches and travellers across London, Hertfordshire, and beyond. The most notorious of these incidents occurred in 1737, when King was fatally shot during a botched horse theft. Turpin may have fired the fatal shot by mistake, though some accounts blame a local innkeeper named Richard Bayes.
Whatever the case, King’s death pushed Turpin further into infamy. Days later, in Epping Forest, he shot and killed Thomas Morris, a servant of the forest keeper, who had tried to apprehend him. This cold-blooded murder resulted in a £200 bounty being placed on his head—a fortune at the time.
Reinventing Himself in Yorkshire: The Alias of John Palmer
Turpin fled north, settling in Brough under the alias John Palmer. He posed as a gentleman, claimed to be a horse trader, and hunted with the local gentry. But in October 1738, after shooting a game cock in the street and threatening to kill a bystander, “Palmer” was arrested. Local magistrates grew suspicious of his means, particularly how he funded his lavish lifestyle. Suspected of horse theft, Turpin was transferred to York Castle.
While in prison, he wrote a letter to his brother-in-law, Pompr Rivernall, in Hempstead. Rivernall refused to pay the postage, so the letter remained unopened until it reached the post office in Saffron Walden. There, a schoolmaster named James Smith—who had taught Turpin to write as a boy—recognised the handwriting and alerted authorities. Smith travelled to York to identify “John Palmer” as none other than Richard Turpin. For his trouble, he received the £200 reward.
Trial and Execution
On 22 March 1739, Turpin stood trial at York Assizes for horse theft, not murder. Despite several procedural inconsistencies—including the wrong date and location for the alleged crime—Turpin was found guilty. He had no legal counsel, and though he protested that he had not been given enough time to prepare his defence, the court sentenced him to death.
Turpin seemed to embrace his final days with bravado. He reportedly entertained visitors in his cell, bought a new frock coat, and paid five mourners to attend his hanging. On 7 April 1739, at Knavesmire, York’s execution ground, Turpin mounted the gallows with apparent confidence. Witnesses described him bowing to the crowd before throwing himself from the ladder.
According to a contemporary report of 1739, behaving:
…in an undaunted Manner; as he mounted the ladder, feeling his right Leg tremble, he stamp’d it down, and looking round about him with an unconcerned Air, he spoke a few Words to the Topsman, then threw himself off, and expir’d in five Minutes.
His body was later buried at St George’s Churchyard, but reports of it being stolen by body-snatchers led to its reburial—possibly with quicklime.
The Making of a Legend: From Thug to Gentleman Highwayman
The real Turpin was a violent criminal. But less than a century after his death, he was being reimagined as a gallant figure of romantic rebellion. The transformation began with the publication of Richard Bayes’ 1739 pamphlet, The Genuine History of the Life of Richard Turpin—a mix of fact, embellishment, and outright fiction.
In the 19th century, Turpin’s image was further polished by William Harrison Ainsworth’s historical novel Rookwood (1834). Here, Turpin and his mythical mare Black Bess made their iconic overnight ride from London to York—a feat borrowed from the real-life escapades of 17th-century highwayman William Nevison. Ainsworth’s tale turned Turpin into a charismatic antihero, spawning plays, penny dreadfuls, and eventually film and television portrayals.
By the 20th century, Turpin was a full-fledged folk hero. He was immortalised in wax at Madame Tussauds, depicted in comic books, and even played for laughs by Sid James in Carry On Dick (1974). Most recently, he’s been reimagined yet again in Apple TV+’s The Completely Made-Up Adventures of Dick Turpin, starring Noel Fielding.
Legacy of a Myth
Today, there’s a street near Heathrow named Dick Turpin Way, a nod to his supposed haunts on Hounslow Heath. But the real Turpin was no dashing Robin Hood figure. He was a thug, a torturer, and a killer. His fame is largely the product of imaginative 19th-century writers and a public hungry for tales of derring-do.
Yet there’s no denying the enduring appeal of his story. Perhaps it’s the contrast between the grim historical record and the romanticised myth that makes Turpin so compelling. Either way, the butcher’s boy from Essex—who ended his days swinging from the gallows—has carved out a permanent place in British folklore.