Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Denman Street in Piccadilly, where Coventry Chambers once stood
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SIX:
On Tuesday 15th April 1913, at the bachelor flat of 26-year-old aviator Jack hall - having promised to marry both of of his lovers - Jack would be found dead in his bed having been shot in the chest, just hours before his marriage. But which of his lovers would kill him, and why? Was it out of anger, love, jealousy, or as part of a premeditated revenge?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a teal raindrop in Piccadilly (dead centre). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. CRIM 1/139/6 - Julian Hall, Jeanie Baxter, Denman Street W1 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4200055
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Denman Street in Soho, W1; thirty yards south of the unfortunate Mr Johnson, fifty yards west of the suicide of Mabel Hill & Herbert Turner, twenty yards north of the last hangout of the Blackout Ripper, and ten yards east of the fingers which didn’t lie - coming soon to Murder Mile. Denman Street is a grubby slit in the city made famous as this is what’s behind the Piccadilly lights. As a one-way street stretching 121 metres from Sherwood Street to Shaftesbury Avenue, even though it’s smack-bang in the beating heart of the West End, nobody goes here, as it’s grim, grimy and dead. It’s the kind of dark vapid hell-hole; where the sun can’t be arsed to shine, where life can’t be bothered to exist, where litter whistles down only to go “bugger” and hope it’s blown elsewhere, and where steamy dog turds cling to the bum-lips and dangle for a few seconds longer for fear of being dumped. Under construction, the south side is being ripped out and turned into (you’ve guessed it) luxury flats. But back in the 1910s – among a sea of bars, clubs and small casinos - at 21 Denman Street once stood Coventry Chambers; a three-storey mansion block comprising of fifteen self-service flats for wealthy bachelors and their live-in staff, situated at the back of Café Monaco and above the Coventry Club. In Flat 8 lived Julian Hall, a 26-year-old aviator, sportsman and a chronic alcoholic. Being depressed and drinking himself to death, the life of this wealthy bachelor was in chaos as two women vied for his love. One was music hall artiste Ada Knight, and the other was a lady of leisure called Jeanie Baxter. On Tuesday 15th April 1913 - having promised to marry both of these women - Julian would be found dead in his bed having been shot in the chest, just hours before his marriage. But which of his lovers would kill him, and why? Was it out of anger, love, jealousy, or as part of a pre-meditated revenge? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 186: Dead Rich. For those who thrive on chaos, Russian roulette is the ultimate game of chance. With the six-chambers of a revolver loaded with a single bullet and the barrel randomly spun (barrel spun), each click of the trigger (click) takes you one step closer to fame (click), glory (click), money (click) and excitement (click). But one chance in every six will always lead to death (bang). To many it may seem stupid, but unable to cope with the boredom of an unexciting life, for some a death-wish is the only way to live. Julian Bernard Hall, known to his pals as Jack was born in 1887 in Oswestry in the county of Shropshire. As a young boy born to a wealthy merchant and a ‘woman of means’, Jack had come from money. He didn’t know poverty; he didn’t know hunger and he didn’t know the struggle of never knowing where his next penny would come from, as the family fortune would always ensure he was never without. Raised on an opulent country estate, even the simplest of daily tasks were organised by a fleet of five servants, and - as a break from the monotony of filling their endless spare-time with grouse hunting, horse-riding and long lunches - Jack and his older brother known as Bernard lived among the smog and bustle of the Kensington elite, at their parent’s second home – a townhouse at 33 Elvaston Place. His life was his to live, as he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. His world was truly blessed. But if you are always given everything you have ever wanted, where do you find your excitement? In 1896, aged 9, Jack was booted-off to boarding school, where for 10 months of the year until the age of 15 he would live among 900 other boys whose parents had paid handsomely to have their love-starved children educated by strangers, only to be shipped-off to camps during the summer holidays; never to be loved, never to be hugged, never to be praised and riddled with trauma and abandonment. As was the-done-thing-to-do, his entire future had already been mapped-out by his parents. Boarding school was at Eastman’s Royal Naval Academy in Portsmouth, a prep’ school in Southsea that prepared boys for careers in the Royal Navy. With an impressive list of alumni including captains, admirals and field marshals –a curriculum of sports like boating, gym and tennis; lessons in Latin, Greek and English; and instructions in knots, shooting and navigation – gave him no excuse but to exceed. Upon his graduation, both Jack and his brother Bernard quickly became officers in the British Navy. And although keen marksmen with a love of guns, Jack sought out the precarious danger of innovation. In 1903, Wilburn & Orville Wright performed the world’s first powered flight. Mankind had broken the barrier of our bodies and the limitations of nature. By December 1911 – as the precursor of the Royal Air Force – the Royal Naval Flying School was formed and later absorbed into the Royal Flying Corps. With the principles of aviation engineering still in its infancy - to fly a squadron of manned kites, hydrogen-filled airships and early biplanes like the BE2 and the Avro 500 - they needed fearless men who scoffed at danger, spat out fear and dismissed their deaths knowing each day may be their last. As a thrill-seeker with an innate disregard for his own life, Jack was a born aviator. But when he wasn’t flying, to pacify the dullness of an ordinary life, Jack would seek-out his thrills elsewhere… …with drink and girls. Jack was the epitome of a playboy; tall, rich and handsome. Sporting the latest fashions, an aviator’s moustache and a swashbuckler’s swagger, wherever Jack went he was always seen with a six-shot revolver on his hip, a big slug of whiskey in his fist and a beautiful girl linked into the crook of his arm. By day, he slept off his hangover, as by night, the lived for the thrill of bedding babes, belting back booze and – as a man with a fortune of £18500 (making him a millionaire more than two times over today) – he would blow more money per night at the casino than most people earned in a year. To maximise his downtime, Jack moved into a bachelor pad at 21 Denman Street, barely fifty feet behind the infamous Piccadilly lights, but also in the shadow of some of the best West End bars. Living on the second floor, Flat 8 was a classic man-cave with all the mod-cons, but none of the homely touches of a man with marriage on his mind. With a booze cabinet and a collection of guns, to facilitate his often-delicate state, he had two live-in staff; Lewis Royale his valet and Nellie Champion his cook. There was no denying that Jack was a consummate playboy who lived for life’s thrills without any of the worry. But having had very little affection as a child, he always sought the love of a good woman… …only he didn’t know any good women. In January 1910, possibly at the Coventry Club, Jack met and fell in love with a music hall artiste called Ada Knight. And where-as some described her as a singer, others suggested she was as a prostitute. Not a low rent street-walker who picked up strangers for six minutes of ‘the old in-out’, but a high-end flirt with no plan to work a day in her life, and every aim to get a rich man to fall for her charms, to move into his home and to get him to marry her and keep her in the lifestyle she was accustomed. It's hard to pin down exactly who she was, as Ada Knight also went under the alias of Margaret Roberts, Lallie Roberts and (using Jack’s surname as if she was already married to him) as Lallie Hall. After more than two years of romance, being smitten, Jack bought her a diamond engagement ring, he promised her every day that he would marry her, and to cement his undying love for Ada, on the 14th August 1912, Jack had his will redrafted and left the bulk of his estate to her. Sent to his solicitor, it was dated, signed, witnessed and stamped, meaning that if this aviator ever died, she would be rich. With their love etched in stone and her prosperity assured, Ada went away on a well-earned holiday… …only without her distraction, Jack’s biggest enemy was boredom. When Jack flew his biplane, he was alive. But when he was grounded, he was as good as dead. Gripped with bouts of depression, his valet (Lewis Royale) would state that Jack was often emotional and prone to anger, he always sated his anxiety by downing one and a half bottles of brandy a day and with a set of loaded revolvers stashed beside his bed in his travelling trunk, suicide was never far from his mind. In July 1912, just weeks before their engagement, Jack had broken his right hand and was unable to fly. With Ada away for four whole weeks, he did as he always did, and sought out some affection. His latest love would go by the name of Jeanie Baxter. She was a woman who would bring him life… …but, also his death. Like Ada, Jeanie Baxter had a dream of being the kept woman of a wealthy husband. Never one to lift her hand if she could help it, it’s likely that Jeanie came from nothing, and never wanted to go back. Born in 1889, somewhere in Ireland, 24-year-old Jane O’Kane often went by several names to disguise her past; ‘Jeanie’ was a nickname, O’Kane was reserved for legal documents, and – having been briefly married to a man of money – she went by the surname of Baxter and the respectable title of Mrs. This respectability was vital to gloss over the fact that Jeanie was a prostitute. According to Theresa Jeanie’s maid, “Mrs Baxter was visited by different men at her flat every day and they spent the night”. Separated, as a single-mother to her 7-year-old daughter also called Jane, Jeanie was keen to continue their life of luxury and comfort by finding another man of means to marry. Bouncing from man-to-man and bed-to-bed, with her ring-finger itching to be blessed with a diamond and a band of gold, it wasn’t the dashy aviator Jack Hall who had won her heart, but the mysteriously titled Mr Unwin. A slew of men aside, Jeanie was the kept woman of Mr Unwin. Knowing little of who he was, we know he was independently wealthy, and that for the last two years he had paid her a generous allowance of £5 per week, as well as covering her rent on an upmarket flat at 24 Carlton Mansions in Maida Vale. Besotted, Mr Unwin had professed his undying love to Jeanie - and although to him she was his wife to be, and to her he was a meal-ticket – their marriage was on hold as (for as long as she still had any breath in her body) his mother would not allow this wealthy merchant and easy sex-worker to wed. His mother was old and frail, but for Jeanie, her sad demise couldn’t come quick enough. Therefore, it was entirely by random chance - with Ada on holiday and Mr Unwin at his mother’s – that (possibly in the drunken half-light of the Coventry Club on Denman Street) that Jeanie met Jack. Only, being a man who thrived on chaos and danger… …nothing in his love life was ever simple. In September 1912, Ada Knight returned from her holiday, only to find Jeanie in her fiancé’s arms, flat and bed. Jack didn’t see what all the fuss was about; he was a bachelor, Jeanie was single, and yes, he was engaged to Ada, but it wasn’t like they were married. As Jeanie moved in, Ada moved out, and although both women lived their own lives in their own homes, when Ada confronted Jeanie to chastise her for stealing the man she planned to marry, Jeanie admitted “to be honest my dear, I’m not that interested in Jack” (a wealthy man who was available) “I’ve got Unwin” (a man who was not). Whether it was down to his arrogant wealth or his confused alcoholic state, this seedy little love triangle continued for several months with Jack stringing both women along. As a depressed drunk, Jack wanted the best of both worlds, with both women on his arm and in his bed, at his beck-and-call. On 4th December 1912, handwritten in his drunken scrawl on a crumpled piece of typing paper, Jack rewrote his will, stating “this is the last will and testament of Julian B Hall. I revoke all other wills I may have made. I bequeath all that I possess in my estate to Jean Baxter (O’Kane) and to Ada Knight to be equally divided”. The will was signed and dated by Jack, and was witnessed by two signatories. According to this will, in the event of his death, both Ada & Jeanie would become exceedingly wealthy. With neither woman having married him, they would live the rest of their lives in luxury, never needing to work, to earn, or to find another man, as – all the while - his body grew cold in a lonely grave. That’s how it should have been, and although Jack was still stringing Ada and Jeanie along… …what he couldn’t accept that Jeanie didn’t want him… …she wanted Mr Unwin. On Tuesday 8th April 1913, one week before his death, things would come to a head. In the four months since the writing of his last will, Jack had continued seeing both women and keeping both apart. At 1:30pm, Ada Knight was let into 21 Denman Street by the hall porter who knew her name and face, but didn’t know that Jack was two-timing her and that Jeanie Baxter had spent the night in his bed. Like the lethal mix of volatile chemistry inside a revolver’s barrel of gun-powder, wadding and a spark, the three lovers were an explosive combination and who would get hurt would be a matter of chance. As he lay there, nursing a roaring hangover, his two lovers fought over him: Ada: “what are you doing here?”, Jeanie: “I could say the same about you, he said he’d finished with you?”, Ada “he said the same about you, you’re finished”, Jeanie: “Ha, I was sorry in the first place that I came between you and Jack, but now I have every right to him”, Ada: “But I was with him first?”, Jeanie: “Oh really?” With the only winner being Jack, unwilling to be a boobie-prize, the women gave him an ultimatum. Both Ada & Jeanie demanded that he choose - “which one of us is it to be? You can’t have both”. Like the spin of a barrel of a half-spent gun, Jack had a fifty-fifty chance of getting his answer right and getting his answer wrong. (Spins barrel) And having chosen Jeanie, his new squeeze of a few months as the woman he loved over Ada, his fiancé for the last three years, Ada smacked Jack in the mouth, cutting his lip with his engagement ring and she swore that she never wanted to see him ever again. The second the door slammed shut, it was clear that Jeanie had won. But had she? Across the afternoon to the early evening, Jack & Jeanie argued bitterly; Jack had given up Ada for Jeanie, only Jeanie didn’t want Jack, as she had Mr Unwin – a man who made her a ‘kept woman’, who had bought her a country house, and whose mother’s decline meant that the two would soon be wed. Jack was rich, but he wasn’t that rich. With Jeanie unwilling to give up her other millionaire, Jack struck this two-timing harlot across the chin with a loaded revolver and - rightly – Jeanie left (door slam). Left alone, and drinking himself into an angry alcoholic stupor, the man who lived for danger and chaos was left with nothing but his own black thoughts. Before she left, it was said, he had put the muzzle of the gun to his temple and professed “I am sick of everything. I am not afraid of death”. (Click). Death had never been more than a hair’s breadth away from Jack… …and now, it was closer than he would ever know. Through the hazy gauze of drink and solitude, his bitterness festered until he could stand it no more. Later that same evening, Jack took a taxi from Denman Street to 24 Carlton Mansions in Maida Vale. And in the parlour of Jeanie’s flat which was owned by Mr Unwin, Jack met his rival for the first time. Jack was drunk, very drunk, as from his pockets he pulled two revolvers. Whistling down the barrel, he assured the startled couple “I’m not here to kill myself”, as in the spirit of a fearless aviator with a daily death-wish, his plan was much more reckless: “you love this girl, so do I. I am going to have her”. As Jeanie had done to him, Jack would make her choose: “two men, two guns, we light a cigarette, we turn out the lights, and by the red glow of its tip, we shoot until the other man is dead, what do you say?”. Jack was serious, Mr Unwin was terrified, and having said “no”, Jack fired wildly hitting a photograph, a champagne bottle and - splintering the sitting room door having fired over his shoulder - Jack popped the gun’s muzzle in his mouth and - according to Jeanie – he asked her to pull the trigger. Jeanie was a woman who loved to live, so she didn’t. And as his booze sozzled brain began to feel like sack of lead, Jack apologised and curled up on their hearthrug, where he slept until the morning. Jeanie would never have to choose between her two lovers… …as in fear for his life, Mr Unwin wanted anything more to do with Jack… …and therefore, with Jeanie. This kept woman with a lifestyle to live and a daughter to fund had lost everything; her allowance, her flat, her country home and a marriage to a man who today would be worth more than £6 million. With Mr Unwin gone, and Ada forgotten, all Jack & Jeanie had was each other. But did they? On Sunday 13th April 1913, two days before his death, Jeanie informed her maid (Theresa Pantanello) of the good news: “Jack has promised to marry me by special licence next Tuesday”. In her own words, “having made a mess of everything with Mr Unwin”, Jack would make-a-mends by marrying Jeanie, and making this woman from modest means a millionaire’s wife. On her mind should have been love… …only with a glint of glee at already being in his will (albeit equally split with Ada), Jeanie was heard to declare “if he was to have an accident – a fatal accident – I would get a very large sum of money”. In short, the second Jack died, Jeanie would become dead rich. Tuesday 15th April 1913 was to be the day of the marriage of Jeanie Baxter & Jack Hall, but it was also the day of his death. Having been bed bound for days, with his stomach empty except for his regular bottle and a half of brandy, Jack lay crumpled and slumped in his pyjamas, as depressed as ever. At 9am, Jack rang the service bell, and asked Lewis Royale his valet to make breakfast for Jeanie, who was sat upright in his armchair. Having had a fitful night, both were silent, but not angry, just tired. At 10:30am, again Jack rang the bell, but instead of an empty breakfast tray to clear away, on the bedside table Lewis found a fountain pen and a folded piece of paper. With big grins, Jack declared “I am going to get married to Miss Baxter”, at which a beaming Jeanie confirmed “that’s right Lew”. Keen to make everything right, Jack got his two staff – Lewis his valet and Nelly Champion his cook – to witness a document, which revoked his previous two wills which equally split his estate with Ada and left everything to Jeanie. Thinking nothing more of it, the staff left and went about their duties. Across the next hour, not a single sound was heard coming from the bedroom, until 11:45am. (Five bangs) Five shots, no screams, and by the end of the ten seconds, Jack Hall was dead (End). Running from the room, Jeanie was heard to shout “Lew, I have shot Mr Hall, run and fetch a doctor”. Charged with his murder, Jeanie told the police of his alcoholism, his depression, his death-wish and – with his temperament swinging from manic to moody – having erased their future, he had said “you and I would never get on if we were married. I cannot keep my promise. It is better I should finish it”. From his travelling truck, Jack pulled out a loaded revolver, popped the muzzle in his mouth and – in Jeanie’s own words – he whistled down the barrel as a black mood enveloped him. Fearing for her life, she scrawled a note asking her maid to look after her daughter in the event of her death and in the struggle to wrench the gun away, she shot him twice and fired three more bullets as she fled in terror. On 3rd June 1913, at the Old Bailey, Jane Baxter known as Jeanie, pleaded ’not guilty’ to the charge of murdering Julian Bernard Hall also known as Jack. As she did so, she smiled to her friends in court. Confident of her acquittal, the papers stated that Jeanie laughed heartily from the dock. And yet, having deliberated for just 55 minutes, she was soon stunned into silence as having been found guilty of his manslaughter, a terrified Jeanie was led away to the cells to spend three years behind bars. Released from prison on the 24th June 1916, Jeanie Baxter – the sole beneficiary of Jack Hall’s fortune – received a rude awakening. Debated at Probate Court, Sir Samuel Evans would state - as they were unmarried, as her conviction for his death had deprived her of rights, and as the last two wills were illegal as they hadn’t been submitted to a lawyer – that the rightful heir to Jack’s fortune should be his former fiancé and the legal executer of his estate - Ada Knight - a woman was to become ‘dead rich’. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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370 Uxbridge Road, the former location of Marne Garage
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FIVE:
On Saturday 5th December 1992, 33-year-old travel agent Gillian Bennett entered Marn Garage at 370 Uxbridge Road, W12. With her life and career going well, she purchased a nearly-new bright-red K-reg Fiat Uno. Given a sense of freedom with her own car, this should have been an exciting chapter in her reassuringly safe little life. And yet, finding a series of odd mechanical issues which required the dealership’s attention, it wasn’t only the car which caused her problems, as two weeks later, this purchase would lead to her murder.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop in Shepherd's Bush. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Uxbridge Road, W12; four roads up from The Beast of Shepherd’s Bush, a few doors down from the devil’s child and his little snack, over the road of where Reg Christie destroyed his dog, and a short walk from Bernie, the paedophile that the press hid - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 370 Uxbridge Road in Shepherd’s Bush, on the corner of Blaufontaine Road stands The New Coach House, an alcohol advisory service. But back in the 1990s, at The Old Coach House, within a Victorian three-storey flat-fronted building once stood a car dealership called Marn. Typical of most garages, all the shiny cars sparkled on the forecourt, as outback old bangers had holes patched and panels bashed. With space for ten cars – like many dealerships – an oily spiv slicked on the charm as he attempted to bamboozle a customer with the bluster that a nearly-knackered freshly-waxed death-trap was a dream brum-brum; with its rust rebranded as ‘vintage patina’, the unique blue hue spewing from the exhaust (as an OAP only drove it in first gear) described as an ‘optional extra’, and the obligatory pine-freshener dangling from the mirror to disguise the whiff of botty burp and bum foist which lingered in the seat. Of course, not all car dealerships are like that. Right? On Saturday 5th December 1992, 33-year-old travel agent Gillian Bennett entered Marn Garage. With her life and career going well, she purchased a nearly-new bright-red K-reg Fiat Uno. Given a sense of freedom with her own car, this should have been an exciting chapter in her reassuringly safe little life. And yet, finding a series of odd mechanical issues which required the dealership’s attention, it wasn’t only the car which caused her problems, as two weeks later, this purchase would lead to her murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 185: Driven to Obsession. Shopping; it’s an everyday part of life which we do most days, we don’t think about it, we just do it. It’s designed to be as simple and painless as possible; a quick exchange of cash and pleasantries lasting a minute at best, and once the customer departs and the server moves on, both parties are forgotten. That’s the way it’s supposed to be… …and that’s what Gillian expected. Gillian Margaret Bennett was born on the 21st October 1959 in Carlisle, a Cumbrian city just shy of the English and Scottish border. Raised in a loving family to hard-working parents as one of six children, it was unsurprising that she would live a good life and would blossom into such a warm and loving girl. Too often when a loved-one dies, part of the family’s coping mechanism is to trot out a series of vague platitudes of only the dead’s most positive attributes; how they were ‘lovely’, ‘kind’ and ‘caring, with a bright future ahead of them’. Only no exaggeration was needed to describe Gillian and her life. According to those who knew her, Gillian was popular and pleasant, a bright warm light in a dull grey sky who radiated but never outshone. She was as gentle and as good-natured as an adorable puppy who only wanted to please. And being a fun-loving girl who had the drive to achieve, she softly drifted through life like a fragrant petal on the breeze, quietly making her way without rustling any leaves. Blessed with a slim frame and a pretty face, she was always popular with the boys, and yet, it was her big heart which assured she was surrounded by a constant companion of girls who were good friends. With enough smarts to graduate from university with a degree in tourism, and being fluent in French, Spanish and Italian, Gillian pursued a career as a travel agent. With the 1980s and 1990s seeing a boom in package deals for the wider population and on a more affordable budget, she travelled far and wide. Working for Riva Travel on New Bond Street, across her career, she visited many exciting countries, she embraced a multitude of cultures and became friendly with thousands of strangers, some of whom became friends. But always knowing the dangers, she acted appropriately and she didn’t take risks. By the turn of the 1990s, so focussed was Gillian on her career, that – like a natty little cabriolet sports car in the winter - she had parked her love life in the garage and threw a tarpaulin over her romance until she felt it was time to blow-off the cobwebs of singledom and give relationships one more spin. Enjoying life and being free, she lived in a pleasant ground-floor maisonette on a quiet leafy street on Oakdale Road in Streatham, South London. As a three-storey semi-detached house converted into flats – being safety and money conscious - Gillian lived with Ann Evans, a colleague from Riva Travel. It is said, the sum of a person is the sum of their actions, and Gillian was kindness personified. It seems almost remiss to describe her as just a nice lady who was doing her job and living a good life without being a bother to anyone… but that’s who she was. Like all of us, she deserved to live a good life… …and yet, a simple purchase would change everything. The morning of Saturday 5th December 1992 was an ordinary day, albeit wet and tinged with a frisson of excitement as Gillian was buying herself a car. It was the perfect day to go car-shopping, as with the sky all gloomy and grey, the freshly waxed motors in the showroom wouldn’t distract from their faults. Having done her research, set her budget and chosen a reliable run-around which was both practical and suitable, Gillian entered Marn Garage on the Uxbridge Road and purchased a bright red Fiat Uno. Served by one of the sales-staff, the transaction was swift; she gave her details, signed the agreement and – with the car due to be serviced and MOT’d – it would be delivered to her home next Thursday. It was that simple; she went in, paid money and left, unaware of what had begun. The man who would murder her was an employee of Marn Garage called Winston Goulbourne. In an odd twist - as a mechanic - he didn’t serve her that day and she didn’t see him. But like all pricks who only think with their dicks; the second he saw her, he liked her and having whispered to a colleague “cor, she’s really nice”. he looked up her details in the file and formed a plan to get to know her better. With sex on his mind, Winston wanted to wheedle his way into her pants by posing as the man of her dreams; with smooth music on loop, a slew of cheesy chat-up lines and a stifling of a perpetual boner… …but in truth – for any woman - he was a walking nightmare. Born on the 18th August 1968 in Lambeth, South London, 24-year-old Winston Anthony Goulbourne saw himself as a lady’s man. Guided by his raging manhood rather than his beating heart, he believed he was a red-hot Romeo with the looks to sweep a woman off her feet, the chat to charm a girl into bed, and - as a lothario - he talked of ever-lasting love, as a easy ploy to get a chick onto her back. With his words written like the lyrics to too many crappy R&B songs, the bulk of his spiel spoke of love, hearts and being one, but all too often it ended with the line - “yeah baby, take your pants off”. Described as coming from a broken home, little is known of his upbringing, but something hidden in his past – maybe a lack of love from a parent, a sense that he was worth less, or an early rejection by a girl – had left him damaged. But unwilling to deal with his issues, others would pay for his weakness. To those who knew him, Winston was lovable but harmless rogue with no prior convictions. Born from Jamaican roots, he had the cool calm demeanour of a Caribbean cocktail; regularly working out, he was short but powerfully built; and always well-groomed, Winston’s head sported a neat little flat-top and – as was fashionable back then – on his top lip sat an Eddie Murphy tash from Beverly Hills Cop. By day, Winston worked as a salesman and a mechanic at Marn Garage on the Uxbridge Road. It was a steady job and it paid a decent wage, which afforded him a flat in Ingatestone Road, South Norwood where he lived with his partner Paulette Lucas. But a big chunk of his wage was often spent on clothes. Fashion was his thing; he liked style, expense and he always bragged about the label and the price. But by night – once he had ditched his dirty overalls and oily spanners - Winston would head home to make sweet love to his girlfriend. On the sly, he was shagging his secret lover called Jane Larter, with neither woman knowing about the other’s existence, as he kept his dirty dalliances on the down-low. And as if he was so sad that he had to prove his manliness even further – being the kind of loathsome soul who saw women as conquests, acts of intimacy to be bragged about, and (possibly) the type of truly tragic turd who kept a scorecard of his latest shags and marked-up whether a woman was a right goer or a bad blower – dressed to the nines, he often had one eye always open for his next sexscapade. It’s deeply sad that anyone should be so vapid and vacuous as to believe that they are a silver-tongued stud who all the ladies adore. Stand in any cheesy nightspot, and you’ll always see a preening peacock who wreaks of a desperation to be loved and a belief that one man could be cat-nip to any sex kitten. Winston believed it, and he lived to be loved… …but what he couldn’t accept was rejection. Whether by fate, a stroke of fortuitous luck, or having persistently pestered the boss into letting him be her knight in oily overalls who would deliver this little car to this little lady – given the fact that “I live nearby, I could drop it off on my way home” – this didn’t seem out of the ordinary, and it wasn’t. Keen to make an impression; he straightened his best ‘girl bait’ tie, adjusted the sharp lines of his suit, splashed on some totty lotion, and (possibly) admiring his face in the mirror – he thought he was as dishy as Denzel Washington, but looked more akin to a Carlton Banks from the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. On the evening of Thursday 10th December 1992, as agreed, Winston drove the reg K-reg Fiat Uno to Gillian’s flat at Oakdale Road in Streatham. He parked up, he rang the door-bell, he smiled and said “hi”, and having handed over the keys and the paperwork, the transaction was completed in minutes. Everything was as Gillian had expected; a nearly new car, serviced, MOT’d and delivered to her home. For Gillian, this marked the end of a simple interaction… …but for Winston, this was just the beginning. The next day held a little more excitement than usual for Gillian, as she had her own car. She could go anywhere, she could do anything; whether mini-breaks in the UK, travelling to see friends in other cities or her family up in Cumbria. With the car barely one year old, the likelihood was it would be a decent little run-around for a good few years, and she wouldn’t have to worry about it breaking down. It was a smart choice for a single woman with no children; it was cheap to run, it was easy to repair and it was good to drive, but it didn’t look flashy enough that a little scrote would nick it or trash it. From day one, the Fiat Uno was ready to go… …but that night – being a real home-body - as Gillian sat eating tea and watching TV with her flatmate, Ann, the door-bell rang. Being late and dark, while Ann was on the phone, Gillian approached the door with caution. Quickly she was relieved, as it was just the guy from the garage who had delivered her car. Being nice, she smiled, as this was her way. They made small talk, but only briefly, as she was nothing if not polite. She didn’t invite him in, as he was a stranger and this was her home. And she listened to his believable apology that someone had forgotten to fit her car with foot mats; a set of cheap but durable rugs that sit below the peddles which can be purchased for a few pounds in any car-part shop. In his words, “it’s not a problem, I was passing by”, so this could have been an honest mistake? For Winston, the missing rugs were an easy-excuse to try and slime his way into her life, her home and her knickers, but what he hadn’t counted on was that she had a flat-mate. Being on the phone to a friend, Ann Evans was in eyeline and earshot of Winston and Gillian’s interaction that night. This was his chance to try his luck with a pretty lady, but with another woman near, he lost his bottle. The moment was gone, his chat-up lines had dried up and his smoothness had suffered a few wrinkles. But it was then that fate gave him a break. Inside the flat, he overheard Ann’s phone call, in which she stated to her friend: “no, I can’t do the 19th or 20th December, I’ll be at my parents’ house in Wales”. It was a few words conveyed to a pal which was as innocuous as saying “hello”, but as a gift to an eavesdropper with open ears, it let Winston know when Ann would be gone and when Gillian would be home alone. Having been handed the car-mats, Gillian closed the door and thought nothing more of it. Only Winston was already planning how he would engineer another reason to return. Back at the garage and buoyed by his brief interaction with this sexy lady that he was determined to bag - unable to contain his crass self-delusion that ladies were drawn to his raw sexual magnetism - Winston bragged to his colleagues that he had already bedded her. So supposedly sharp was his charm that he had wooed, bedded and banged her, and that she was all over him like a rash. It was the typical bluff and bluster of a bullshitter with (statistically) a huge ego and a pointlessly tiny little pecker. It was a lie, and we know it was, as (when questioned) he would later admit this to the police. But how far did he believe his own lies that – one day – she would be his, and how far would he go to get her? Even if he was a handsome heart-throb who could pluck the heart-strings of a panting lady at twenty paces – which he wasn’t - Gillian was not interested; he wasn’t looking for a man, she was focussed on her career and - call her crazy –she didn’t find a walking hard-on with a line for every lady attractive. For Gillian, she was just getting on with her life, doing her job and enjoying her freedom. So, it’s odd that just 4 days after delivery - maybe by coincidence - she experienced a problem with her new car. Phoning from home, Gillian called the garage to state “my car won’t start”. With her call handed to a mechanic – strangely and as if by coincidence, to Winston – he promised to drop by on his way home that evening. That night, clutching his tool-kit and tinkering under the hood, he diagnosed the problem as a flooded engine, he rectified the fault and he gave her his phone number should it happen again. Gillian thought nothing more of it, as with the car fixed, she hoped that it was the last of its issues. Only the next day, while giving her flatmate Ann a lift home from Riva Travel, as they drove down the Brixton Road, they noticed an odd thumping noise coming from the driver’s side of the Fiat. Pulling over to investigate, they spotted that a wheel nut had been removed and another had been loosened. Once again, telephoning the garage, Winston showed concern and assured Gillian he would swing by on his way home that night; with a tyre iron, a wheel nut and a spare key he had forgotten to give her. Each time he visited, he trotted out a line and did his best to flirt, only his words bounced right off her. Feeling frustrated with this run of bad luck she’d had with her car; some may have wondered whether this was a coincidence or deliberate? Were the issues a malicious act by someone she had a beef with? It was unlikely. Was it a bored kid who had progressed from nicking hub caps? That seemed unlikely as how many kids carry tyre irons? So, who would benefit from her wheels being damaged? Again, believing that the car was fixed and the problem resolved, Gillian thought nothing more of it. Only the next day, as she approached her car, her face fell as she saw that her tyre was flat. Again, she called the garage. Rightly, she complained that “someone” had let her tyres down, and although (as if from the kindness of his heart and his crotch) Winston offered to fix it, but Gillian flatly declined. Upon inspection, Gillian found a broken matchstick stuck in the valve which deflated the tyre; this was too odd to be an accident and too specific to have been done by a kid. Wanting nothing more to do with garage or the mechanic – frustrated by the problems, his hopeless attempts at flirting, and with each excuse as pathetic as the last – she believed if he didn’t return, then neither would the problems. That little Fiat Uno would never experience another mechanical problem… …as by the next day, its owner would be dead. Saturday 19th December 1992; two weeks after the purchase and less than one week before Christmas. With her flatmate away in Wales, and no social plans of her own, Gillian had an easy night in; dinner, telly and bed by 9:30pm. Always cautious, she locked the doors and windows of this small maisonette. Over in Norwood, a 30-minute drive south of Streatham, unable to keep his dick zipped up, Winston – the slimy creep with the wandering eyes – lied to his girlfriend (Paulette Lucas) “I’m going to a party, girl”. Except the only invitees was himself and his mistress (Jane Larter), and the party was in his pants. Back at hers, they had sex twice, and by 1am - having shot his load and a few cheesy lines - he left. In court, Jane stated “I had sex with him every day”, as his life was ruled by his pointless little plonker. Having left Clapham, Winston’s route home was via the A205 and the B221, a road which went through Streatham. Pulling onto Oakdale Road and parking up beside the red Fiat, he didn’t care that she was asleep and didn’t fancy him, as what he wanted was all that mattered – and that was sex with her. Having dressed in a tailored sports-jacket from a Covent Garden boutique, splashed on his totty lotion and slicked down his tash so he looked like a chunky Martin Lawrence, what woman wouldn’t say no? As far as we know, that was his thought, as he approached her door for one last time. With no eye-witnesses, only the evidence can tell us what happened that night: Although a house split into six flats, no-one had heard a bell being rung or a door being knocked, but – for whatever reason, with no signs of a break-in – Gillian had opened the door to Winston. No-one heard any words, but it’s likely – as she stood, dressed in a long t-shirt and a white dressing gown – that the leech tried his luck, as – keeping her voice down - she politely tried to convince him to leave. Whether rejection had enraged the fragile ego of a loser in the guise of a lothario, at 1:20am, a scream was heard by a neighbour – possibly as he forced his way into her flat – but being half-sleep and living too near the high street where Saturday night screams are common, they dismissed it as nothing. No-one awoke or raised an alarm, and - with Gillian having been knocked out – no sounds were heard. Dragged into her flatmate’s bedroom, Winston half-stripped her of her night attire, baring her breasts and tying her hands behind her back with the cord of her bathrobe. With no sounds, no struggle and no evidence of sexual assault, what happened next is unknown. And yet, having gained full control over the woman he wanted (and with no-one to help her) Winston remained with her for a full hour. What sparked his fury will never be known, but claiming he went berserk, from the kitchen he stole an eight-inch knife and plunged it twice into the chest. So vengeful was his wrath that – having stabbed near her heart – he maliciously withdrew the blade and thrust it in again, where it would remain. With Gillian silent, bleeding but still alive, it was then that Winston left the flat… …only heading to his car, he wasn’t making his escape, he was making sure that she wouldn’t live to tell the tale and that no-one would know that her murder was committed by him. At roughly 2:30am, for one final time, Gillian screamed a scream with her last breath which lasted several seconds. Heard by an uncertain neighbour, once the scream had stopped, they thought the incident was over. But it wasn’t. Having covered his trussed-up victim in a pink blanket, from his car, Winston had doused her with several litres of highly-flammable petrol from a fuel can, and as he lit it, she had screamed. With Gillian slowly being burned alive, with the evidence destroyed and the petrol can in his hand, he calmly walked from the inferno and headed home to shag his girlfriend, as if nothing had happened. At 3:15am, 50 minutes later, with smoke pouring from Ann’s bedroom, the blaze had triggered a smoke alarm in a neighbour’s flat and the fire brigade were called. Having extinguished the flames, Gillian’s body was found; it was burned, tied up and with a knife embedded in her chest. A post-mortem confirmed that – mercifully – she had died of shock and that her death was quick. But a big question remained: the Police knew they had a murder on their hands. But who was the culprit? (End) With no witnesses, finding her killer would be difficult. Keen to trace her movements, that morning, Detective Inspector Bob Randall discovered that the only thing she did that was strange in the days before her death was to buy a Fiat Uno. At the garage, he interviewed a boastful but slightly distressed mechanic who – for reasons which weren’t clear - had visited her home four times in the last ten days. Having found a few unique fibres - a grey wool and black viscose mix - on the bedsheet in Gillian’s flat, police examined a tailored sports-jacket from a Covent Garden boutique in his wardrobe and the fibres were a match. As a lover of fine fashion and being too vain to destroy such a pricey jacket of which only 125 were sold in Britain - finding her blood on his sleeve, on his tie, and with her skin found under his fingernails – on Sunday 20th December, a few hours after the murder, Winston was charged. Tried at the Old Bailey on 4th August 1993, before Mr Justice Richard Lawry QC – having pled not guilty - that same day, a jury of six men and six women took five hours to reach a unanimous verdict. Found guilty, he was sentenced to life in prison, with a recommendation he serve a minimum of twenty years. Praising Gillian as “a lovely girl whose death was a tragedy", DI Randall would state "I can only describe Winston Goulbourne as a Walter Mitty character, an evil and dangerous psychopath". In 1996, with his appeal rejected, the Home Secretary reduced his sentence to 18 years. In 2011, he was released on licence and he moved to Mitcham, South London, where – as far we know – he currently lives. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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The "Old" Marylebone Town Hall where Salisbury Mansions stood in the 1850s
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FOUR:
Friday 31st July 1863. Wealthy merchant Frederick Chappell owned a small flat in a townhouse on the Marylebone Road. On the second floor, he secretly ensconced 24-year-old Emily Mitchell. Once his maid, now his pregnant mistress, she lived the life of a lady… but she could never be treated as his wife, as she was not of the right class. With the baby, due to be born in secret, even though its conception was as much his fault as it was hers, living in a world dominated by men, the impending child would be seen as her sin… not his… and therefore death would come to Salisbury mansions.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a yellow raindrop south of Regent's Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/print.jsp?div=t18631026-1201
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Marylebone Road, NW1; two streets west of the burglary of William Raven, one street north of the recruitment of Churchill’s favourite spy, a short walk west of the last sighting of Rene Hanrahan, and one street north of the boy who broke the rules - coming soon to Murder Mile. Perched on the corner of Gloucester Place sits The Old Marylebone Town Hall, a large stone structure with Doric columns and an obelisk-like tower, made famous by the known faces who have wed there. Sadly, as a registry office, marriages which begin there, tend not to last. As Paul McCartney got hitched (rather creepily) to two wives there, only to end up widowed and divorced. Stroppy Oasis grumbler Liam Gallagher married Patsy Kensit and Nicole Appleton there, only for both marriages to lose their “shee-iiiine”. And having wisely split from the second-best drummer in the Beatles, Ringo received his marching orders from ex-Bond girl Barbara Bach and - I’m sure, in his typically passive-aggressive way - stated that he was far “too busy” to sign the divorce petition, “with peace and love, peace and love”. Although called The Old Marylebone Town Hall, it’s not that old, having only been built in 1920. Prior to this, once stood Salisbury Mansions, a set of three-storey townhouses for the city’s professionals. One such flat was owned by Frederick Chappell, a wealthy merchant from Liverpool. Only residing in his own townhouse just a few streets away, this discrete and convenient little hideaway would be the home of his pregnant mistress – 24-year-old Sarah Emily Mitchell. Being once his maid, now the mother of his child, here she would live like a ‘lady’, and yet, she would never be treated as his wife. This site is a place synonymous with unhappy unions, but only one of them would lead to murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 184: A Woman’s Sin. Were you to read any articles from this era about Sarah Emily Mitchell, you would see her tarred with the brush of “a wretched mother”, “a woman of sin” and “a harlot of no pedigree”. The world was against her, not because of who she was, but because of what she was - a woman of a lower class. This unjust persecution is something that still happens today, hence why gossip mags and tabloid trash litter the shelves. Fixated on trivial tales of marital splits, cheating cads, bad bonks and how – bafflingly - a female celebrity we’ve not seen since the 1980s has got both fatter and older (gasp). Shock. But why people love them is that it shows someone of a higher status being brought down to a level lower than our own. We ridicule how far they’ve fallen, as no-one should rise above their own station. Society dictates that we all know our precarious place on the lowly ladder of life… …and once we slip from our slim little rung, our downfall should be our fault, and no-one else’s. She was born Sarah Emily Mitchell in 1840, although her exact details are unknown, as – being of lower middle-class and a woman – her life wasn’t worth recording, except as an appendage to a man. Raised in the bustling port city of Liverpool, she was blessed with a better life than most, as her father wasn’t burdened by the endless grind of manual labour, as being an accountant, he had a profession. Although only of lower-middle-class stock, this distinction afforded him and his two daughters more. Along-side her sister Eliza, Sarah had just two choices in life; to marry a man and to bear his babies, or to go into domestic service. Born of ‘better stock’, she wouldn’t stoop so low as to work for pennies as a char woman to a destitute brood, but as maid to a family of means in a good part of town. In 1859, aged 19, Sarah Mitchell went into service as the house-keeper to Mr Frederick Chappell, a wealthy merchant and a recent widower with two young daughters to care for, who lived in the affluent resplendence of Highton Hall, a large estate in the fresh smog-free outskirts of Liverpool. Given a good wage, a kind family to attend to, and later joined by her sister as assistant housekeeper - with Frederick being a man of wealth whose business took him to many places – Sarah & Eliza lived at his second home, a small townhouse at 11 Seymour Street situated not far from the city’s port. As a young fresh-faced girl, innocent of the world and inexperienced of its dangers, she was blessed to have fallen into such a pleasant life. It’s true that her hours were long and her chores were endless, but what made her days a pleasure was Frederick – her employer with whom she was deeply smitten. Being as aged as her own father, a little lacking in follicles on top, and with a pot-belly as rotund as an upturned cauldron, Frederick may not have been the most handsome, but being blessed with a kind nature and a big heart, he was certainly the sort of man a lower-class girl would dream of marrying. As happens, eyes met and lips followed. As a young impressionable girl and a grieving widower, their romance was mutual, and with chemicals fizzing and feelings a-plenty, basic logic made way for love. Initially, Sarah kept this steamy little love-tryst with her boss a secret from her sister, but their longing looks and furtive fumblings couldn’t be kept quiet for long. Eliza would state “Mr Chappell visited daily; he would take his meals there, his breakfast and his coffee in the ‘noon”. In a society where status was everything, and the class you were born in was the class you would die in, these two should never have been – and they knew it – so for the price of a piece of passion, they had let their hearts rule their heads… or maybe it was their loins… in a romance doomed to failure. Had they seen common sense, their brief dalliance may have ended there. But on an undefined night in September 1861 - after two years of service as his paid domestic - in a secret rendezvous, Frederick and Sarah engaged in a wild night of nudity and naughtiness, from which a baby would bloom. Given the era, neither party knew about this ticking timebomb of chromosomes growing in her womb, but - as eyes popped wide, tongues were clucked and gossip was gabbled - this undeniable evidence of their dirty doings would soon explode into the world, like a screaming firework of tears and shit. The fuse was lit… …it was just a matter of waiting, until it all went bang. To our modern eyes and liberal sensibilities, it may seem quaint and almost idiotic that society would be so ‘up-in-arms’ about a man of stature carrying on – sexually – with a girl from ‘below the stairs’? It’s the stuff of those drivel-filled dramas about an 18th century singleton marrying for fear of becoming a dreary spinster… as if – by being a woman – she doesn’t exist unless a man ‘completes her’. Urgh! But that attitude is no less scandalous today. How much ink has been blown on ‘news stories’ about a man of status and a woman of less; like the priest and the housekeeper, the Prince and the Hollywood actress and the Californian Governor and the maid? An affair is only an affair if the two parties are of equal class, but the second a man married to the Kennedy clan knobbed his cleaner? It was a scandal. Over time, the text may have changed in the trashy tabloids and images may have been added to the gossip rags, but the stinky attitude still wreaks of a desire to see the classes put in their place has not… …as all that’s missing next to the headline are these simple words; ‘women, know your place’ In May 1862, with her oversized clothes struggling to disguise eight months of pregnancy, still unable to admit to her own sister that a baby was on the way, they concocted a ruse to hide it from the eyes. Born in secret at an undisclosed flat using a private nurse, on the 11th June 1862, Sarah gave birth to a little girl who she named Sarah Emily Adeline Mitchell. With peach-like skin and a loud set of lungs, it was clear that the baby was happy and healthy, and that its beaming mother was blissfully joyous. Notified of its arrival, Frederick did the decent thing – which is more than can be said of some – and registered the child’s birth using his name as its father and shielding mother and baby from scandal. It’s fair to say that – in the Victorian era – people feared the disease of how others perceived them, over actual illnesses. A sickness could come and go, but if someone cast aspersions over your homelife, your habits, or who the father was of the baby suckling at your breast, that could linger for a lifetime. On paper, Frederick was the father, but even to silence their cruel words, he could never marry her. She was the wrong class, and should he let her in, she may pollute his status with the stench of poverty. So endemic was this attitude that – even if his loved one’s overcame their revulsion – the aftermath of marrying a lower-class woman could risk his business and reputation, whether he liked her or not. Seeing no-one but her baby and kept hidden in a lonely flat, from the baby’s birth until mid-July, Sarah began to experience side-effects of the pregnancy and (what we would term as) post-natal depression. Needing family, Eliza was told of her confinement and was moved to London to be by Sarah’s side. But it was clear that her sister was not doing well – “I was very much distressed about her strange and odd manner, I was afraid of her doing something silly, as she was often quite dark and was not herself”. With money no object, Frederick hired Dr William Cathrow, a respected and discrete practitioner who attended to Sarah’s black moods - believed to have occurred owing to a rather troublesome labour. His diagnosis was ‘hysterical peritonitis’. Following a traumatic birth, the stomach sometimes suffers a reddening and swelling known as Peritonitis. Today we know it’s caused by bacterial infection in the blood or a rupture, but – in the 1800s – they believed it was caused by hysteria. Being a woman and therefore prone to extremes of emotions – with the wonder of penicillin not discovered for another 70 years - the cure he’d administer was not an anti-inflammatory, but something to quell her mood. Marketed as ‘a woman’s friend’, Laudanum, a mix of opium and alcohol was used to treat all manner of female maladies (as they were termed) which these predominantly male doctors didn’t understand; such as menstruation, child-birth and – the very fashionable malady of its day known as - 'the vapours', which included such lady-like symptoms as hysteria, mood-swings, depression and fainting spells. According to Dr Cathrow “I got her well by giving her large doses of opium”. Being drugged into silence, Sarah was discretely returned back to Liverpool where she lived in a pleasant flat funded by Frederick. As a wealthy and generous man, she lived a better life than most; with a weekly allowance, her food and clothes on account, and no need to worry about work or paying the rent, but it was not a life. Hidden from view like a dark secret, the baby rarely saw daylight and its mother barely saw people, as being kept under wraps for fear of ruining his reputation, this imprisonment only made her sicker. And when she got worse, they sedated her with more Laudanum. Only the problem was not her mind… …but her situation she was in and the sin blamed on her. On 11th October 1862, as the savage echo of Scouse tongues faded behind her, Sarah was moved from her hometown of Liverpool to her new home of London. It was to be a fresh start among strangers, as being a woman of no-known past, she could re-invent herself as a woman without scandal. That day, at the newly opened Baker Street station, Sarah and Eliza were met by Frederick. In a cab, he escorted them to a presentable little lodging on Weymouth Street; replete with ornate drapes, soft furnishings, a cold store and every conceivable modern luxury like running water and gas lighting. For Sarah, feeling rather regal living in such a grand place as this, she would often quip to her sister that she should call herself m’lady. And yet, she would be gifted a much grander title than that, as to the landlady, Frederick introduced Sarah as ‘Mrs Chappell’; with a gold ring on her finger, a townhouse in London, Eliza as her live-in maid and no-one to dare question her status as a gentleman’s word was enough. Given the circumstances, Frederick had done his best for her, himself, but also his business. During her first month living life as a lady among the London elite, Sarah was in her element. With her mood rosy, her health spry, and her maternal affections to blessed baby Sarah without reproach, she had begun to become acclimatised to her new status. Only what plagued her mind daily was the sham. On the public’s lips, they were ‘Mr & Mrs Chappell’. But on the papers which mattered, they were not. In short, the marriage was a façade, her child was a bastard and she would forever be seen as a woman of sin, a dirty little secret hidden from view and swept under the carpet like an embarrassment of dust. For now, she was a lady. But how long could the silence last in a land full of whispers and suspicions? In society’s eyes, Sarah was nothing but a cocky queue-jumper, a whorish louse who had unleashed the perfume of her feminine wares to lure this wealthy widower into her lair, and – in his weakened state of grief – she had ensnared him with a baby of burden to wring his wealth dry for her own gain. In truth, she hadn’t. But the second a fragment of gossip is either written or repeated – regardless of whether it is based on a shred of truth - its factual voracity is irrelevant in the court of public opinion. Quite rightly, Sarah could not live with such dishonesty, and its torment made her mind a terror. Of her sister, Eliza would state “she was once so lively, so vibrant, a girl of smiles and warmth”, and as a mother “she was always extremely kind to the child… she showed more maternal tenderness to it than I had ever known”. But gripped by depression and distress - although unable to sleep – her bed became her home, her pillow a prison, daylight was now an enemy, and her silence like a bitter wind. For Frederick, he lived his own life in his own townhouse a few streets away, in a place it was best for the woman who was sort of ‘his wife’ to not pop by, otherwise tongues would wag -so he went to her. Still both smitten, as often happens, the bed-sheets were warmed and a second baby would bloom. In November 1862, requiring a much larger residence for this expending brood, Frederick moved Sarah his pregnant mistress, her five-month-old daughter and her sister Eliza as a live-in maid into a two-storey lodging at Salisbury Mansions on the Marylebone Road - a fresh start in yet another new home. But from where this sin had begun… …soon tragedy would follow. Sarah’s second pregnancy was not a joyous one, as whether sensing its mother’s anguish, this restless baby had not given her a single night’s sleep since conception. Born on 13th April 1863, Frederick Chappell, son of Frederick Chappell was born, with his father’s name in life and on its birth certificate. But being born a full three months premature, with its energy utterly spent and emerging in an excess of its mother’s blood, this undersized spawn had lived a little, but had lasted for just half an hour. Her baby was dead, and inside her soul, so was its mother. As before, diagnosed with ‘hysterical peritonitis’ by Dr Cathrow, a discrete an respected practitioner, who noted “she had a good deal of nerves about her, with pains in the abdomen that I could not account for - also pains in the head, and a very great restlessness”. Keeping her sedated, but failing to identify her situation as its cause, “she required large doses of opium, I gave her a very considerable quantity to enable her to get any rest at all”… but also to silence her tears and the neighbour’s gossip. On the doctor’s orders - seeing how “excitable” they stated she was, as wailing with every ounce of her exhausted breath as the milky smell of her dead son still clung to her empty arms - her daughter was removed to a different room and it was decided that Frederick should no longer visit her as often. What spurred this was she had made words to end her life and that of her child, unless Frederick and she could live as man and wife. And yet, for her sake - but more probably his – he had separated them. In a brief moment in time, she had been a wife and a mother with a family, and now she had none. Riddled with paranoia, from the confines of her lonely bed, Sarah saw things which were never real. On the bitter breeze she heard gossipy whispers which stabbed her ears. Through the walls walked faceless spirits whose cruel questions never quelled. At her feet stood a policeman to drag her to the asylum. And too terrified to sleep, a black river of beetles scuttled about her bed, body and head. To give her peace, when her moods seemed less black, Eliza brought her baby daughter to Sarah. Sat in placid silence, this small act of mercy did more than any drug ever could, but it also exacerbated her greatest fear; “assure me dear sister”, Sarah said “don’t let Mr Chappell take her from me, please”. Sarah lived in hope of a blissful end to her troubles and trauma… but it was not to be. With three doctors, all specialists in their field, having determined that her declining mental state was proving to be a hazard to the welfare, business and reputation of their client – Mr Frederick Chappell - through Dr Cathrow - a man she trusted - a letter of importance was delivered to Eliza. It read; Dear Elizabeth. I am very sorry to have to tell that I have written to your sister to say that a separation must take place between us. With this view, my solicitor will call tomorrow to confer with her as to my making a proper settlement for you all, for I am resolved neither your sister nor yourself shall ever want for anything. You and your sister, with baby, will be enabled to live wherever you like, though it should be somewhere where I should be able to see baby. I am sure you will never forsake poor baby, and that you will do your duty; give her a kiss for me, and believe me, yours sincerely, F Chappell”. Being as good as his word, a generous annual allowance was made for Sarah, Eliza and the baby, and in his will - written prior to his son’s death – this was upheld, leaving a second nest-egg for life. She could live her life as a comfortable lady, but – as a woman of sin – she would do it alone. Unhappy with this financial settlement, Sarah would reject his offer… …and – once again - death would return to Salisbury Mansions. Friday 31st July 1863 was a better day. With Sarah sleeping, eating and having been weaned off the Laudanum, a sense of normality had returned. In the morning, with the 13-month-old baby sat in its pram and its rosy cheeks all giggles, Eliza strolled it amidst the fresh crisp air of Regent’s Park. Back at the flat, all was not well, as her doctors (who were really Frederick’s doctors) accompanied by his solicitor enthusiastically instructed Sarah of the medical benefits of taking his very generous offer; doing what was best for herself, the baby and – of course – Mr Chappell and his business interests. In court, having previously declared her as ‘sane’, they would state “she was a very obstinate person, excessively so; I thought so by her not taking the advice I gave with the best intention”, and “I formed the opinion that she was labouring under insanity; I thought her of unsound mind”. All she had to do to make the pain go away was sign the settlement and “give up all annoyance of Mr Chappell”. At 1pm, they left. Sarah & Eliza had lunch. And feeling a desire to enjoy a sumptuous peach, at 2:30pm, Sarah asked Eliza to buy them one both from Covent Garden market, as Sarah cuddled her daughter. Again, sweeping their failures aside as if their expertise was never to be in question, as the case revolved around the motive of this loose woman’s morals, the doctors would inform the court; “the great cunning that she showed was another symptom of insanity”, “she threw us off our guard”. For Sarah this was not a cunning plan to avenge her former lover… …as in her eyes, this was the only way out. Being alone in the sparse empty flat, Sarah laid out two neat piles of clothes on the bedside chair; a nightdress and stockings for herself, and beside them, a set for the baby. Although clean, neither would be worn just yet, as they were for the laying out their bodies when mother and baby were dead. In her Bible, she marked up a few passages of prominence, and – with no will nor final words - clutching a sharp razor, she stabbed down deep into the baby’s chest, through the tiny thorax and its little lungs, as the pristine white of its woollen nightdress began to stain with a slow spreading red from within. With nothing left to live for; no family, no marriage, no Frederick, her baby son dead and her daughter soon to join him, Sarah ripped the blade across her throat, sawing a jagged wound from ear-to-ear, and dividing her jugular vein, until her body was still, her skin was pale and her pulse was weak. (End) Discovered when Eliza returned, although the baby clung onto life, it died two days later. Miraculously, although critical, Sarah survived and was found to be pregnant – once again - with Frederick’s child. On 4th August 1863, in a coroner’s inquest held at the Buffalo’s Head Tavern on Marylebone Road, after five minutes, the jury returned a verdict of “wilful murder” against Sarah Emily Mitchell. Held at Newgate Prison, her visiting physician was Dr Cathrow who (as witness against her) attested that her eyes were vacant, her movement unsure and – being of unsound mind – he declared her as insane. Having already lost a large amount of blood, a second physician (Dr Chowne of Charing Cross) decided it best to alleviate her hallucinations, her mania and her suicidal thoughts by bloodletting. Weakened more before the trial, not one doctor asked if it was the cruel situation, the pressure of society or the doctor’s insistence (paid for by the man she wished was her husband) which made her insane? But instead, it was ruled that – being a woman, of a lower-class – she was cursed by her emotions and sin. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 26th October 1863, charged with the wilful murder of her bastard child and her attempted suicide, Sarah was found ‘not guilty’ on the grounds of insanity and was ordered to be detained until Her Majesty's pleasure be known. She died years later in Broadmoor Asylum. Which begs the question; as a maid, had she fallen for a man of her own class, was it more likely that she would have lived? Maybe? Status is only relevant to those who fear losing it. Happiness is what’s important and not what someone we haven’t met thinks about the things we have or haven’t done. None of us are perfect, we all make mistakes, and we all try to better ourselves. So why do we find it so shocking when someone dares to do better, to achieve more, to be greater than life says we should? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-THREE:
At a little after 11:30pm on Friday 14th September 1945, Captain John Ritchie of the Canadian Army was attacked on Bourchier Street by two British soldiers clutching half a brick. But why? This is a case less about the man who died, or the men who did it, but how a war had shaped and then broke them?
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. Liverpool Echo - 29 Dec 1945 Daily Mail - 29th Dec 1945 Nottingham Evening post - 29 Dec 1945 Derby Evening Telegraph - 29 Dec 1945 Western Daily Press – 29 Dec 1945 The Birmingham Mail - 29 Dec 1945 Coventry Evening Telegraph - 29 Dec 1945 Evening Standard - 29 Dec 1945 The Ottawa Journal · 25 Oct 1945 Evening Standard · 16 Nov 1945 Evening Standard · 23 Oct 1945 Liverpool Echo · 29 Dec 1945 Daily Mail - 29 Dec 1945 Citizen - 29 Dec 1945 The Nottingham Evening Post - 29 Dec 1945 Derby Evening Telegraph - 29 Dec 1945 Evening Chronicle -29 Dec 1945 Birmingham Mail - 29 Dec 1945 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Bourchier Street in Soho, W1; we’re at the back of the unsolved murder of Dutch Leah, a few doors down from baby Richard’s beating, the failed poisoning of Henry Hall’s family, and one street north of the Stockholm Syndrome of Susan Latterney - coming soon to Murder Mile. Bourchier Street is grim. It sounds posh as the name originates from the French ‘boursier’ meaning ‘keeper of the purse’; except the only purses unveiled in this drab little alley are the one’s a little scrote has robbed so he can blow a tenner on enough scag to make a lightweight microbe mildly merry, or the kind a drunk gent’s widdle dribbles down as he struggles to paint his own shadow in wee-wee. Oh yes, this is a real hovel, being little more than a dark alley hidden by the backs of brothels. Apparently. Stand here and except; a stench, a sticky foot, an indecent proposition and possibly several STDs. In 1945, Bourchier Street was worse than it is today, as 60 to 64 Old Compton Street had been hit by 25 kilo bomb which reduced it to piles of rubble and burnt-out facias. With no shops, this was little more than a place to take a sneaky detour, to empty your bladder, or to lay in wait for your next victim. At a little after 11:30pm on Friday 14th September 1945, Captain John Ritchie of the Canadian Army was attacked on Bourchier Street by two British soldiers clutching half a brick. But why? This is a case less about the man who died, or the men who did it, but how a war had shaped and then broke them? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 183: Captain J A Ritchie and the End of the War. (Celebration). 8th May 1945, VE Day. Hitler is dead, Berlin has fallen, the Axis of Evil has been crushed by the might of the right and the Second World War was just four months from its official end. For the first time in six years, as Big Ben rang out, street parties erupted as a grey gloom of people rejoiced. It had been a long-fought battle in which so many died and so much had been lost. But now, for those who had survived, their lives would return to some kind of normality. (The celebrations die down) Twelve days later, Captain J A Ritchie would be beaten to death – possibly - by Robert Blaine. Born on 3rd August 1920, Robert Blaine would be a life-long resident of Southwark, a borough just south of the river Thames. Formerly of Borrett Road in Walworth, few records survive of his early years, except that he was an average working-class man who had little or no contact with his family. On the 29th September 1939, three weeks into the war, the National Registration Act was introduced; every British subject was issued an identity card and their details taken. Robert was listed as a 19-year-old general labourer living at 6 St Clare’s Chambers on Silvester Street. Like the Peabody Buildings, St Clare’s Chambers was a seven-storey tenement block providing affordable living for those dubbed ‘the industrial classes’; such as hawkers, joiners, porters and traders, of mostly men, but some women. Barely scraping by on a basic wage, with very little to call his own, his life was tough and exhausting. Like so many others, Robert Blaine was ordinary man living an unremarkable life… … and yet, his life was about to become extraordinary, whether he liked it or not. When we think about the lives of those who lived through the Second World War we think of rationing. Mistakenly believing this skirmish would be “done by Christmas”, in January 1940, the Ministry of Food introduced rationing and each person was limited to a weekly allowance of 8oz of sugar, 3oz of sweets, 4oz of ham, 3 pints of milk, 2oz of tea, cheese and butter, with 1 egg and a pack of dried eggs every four weeks. In comparison to today, if the average coffee-shop patron guzzles a large café latte, a muffin and a cheese & ham toastie, they would have annihilated their weekly ration in one sitting. With other items, like tinned goods, dried fruit, petrol, clothing and soap rationed on a points system. But there were many more measures and ramifications which impinged on the people and their lives. War-time memories are often littered with the rose-tinted recollections of those who cherry-picked the chaos to create a myth of ‘blitz spirit’. It’s romantic, but it’s inaccurate. It’s true that amidst the bombing and destruction, that we – the plucky British people with our stiff upper lips – flipped a mid-digit to Adolf by refusing to be defeated as his Luftwaffe rained down death from the skies. But the same was true of the Germans whose cities our bombers failed to cripple and its people to break. We are all human, we are all alike, and we are all flesh and blood, regardless of geography or politics. Another myth was that “there was no crime, you could leave your doors open”. But as we know, with history written by the victors who believed they’d won the right to edit the bits they didn’t like, the ‘good old days’ are often remembered for what they should have been, instead of what they were. In reality, war is brutal and life during any conflict is oppressive. Within the blink of an eye, the world of so many decent people was turned upside-down, with everything they had known either changed or gone; livelihoods had ceased, families were split, and the familiarity of routine was a memory. For criminals, it was a boom-time, which is why the prisons were emptied of anyone with three months or less to serve, making space for spies, but mostly for ‘real criminals’ like looters, spivs and deserters. But even for the average Joe with good morals who could still proudly claim “I never broken the law”, low-level criminality was absolved as the buying of black-market goods was the equivalent of a “little white lie”. It’s no myth, that good women turned to prostitution and good men turned to robbery. On a single day in November 1940, the Old Bailey heard 20 of the 56 cases for looting during the blitz. Across just four months, 4584 cases were tried of those who had stolen from the bombed-out homes of their neighbours, often stepping over the dead or dying to ransack the remnants of their shattered lives. So rife was the looting, that – when a building was bombed – the police had to spend more time protecting the property than searching for survivors, as a home could be stripped in twenty minutes. Life was hard, ethics were a grey area and the rationale of the living was that they had families to feed. Rationing had led to one of the most lucrative black-market activities, the forging of ration coupons. In 1944, 14000 ration-books were stolen in a raid, many of which were sold on Oxford Street for £10 a sheet, with a value today of £400 each, or £3million for the entire haul. Again, many ordinary people wouldn’t have seen this as an offence, “as it’s not a crime, if everyone’s at it… besides we’re at war”. By March 1941, 2300 people had been prosecuted for fraud and dishonesty. In 1943, 5 million clothing coupons were stolen. And by 1945, there were more than 114000 prosecutions for black market sales. With the government compensating those who had lost their homes to the tune of £500, the system was open to abuse (as we’ve seen during Covid). In one case, Walter Handy of Wandsworth made a successful claim for the bombing of the same house, 19 times over five months. In the end, he received three year’s free food and accommodation courtesy of the British government in Wandsworth prison. But the prisons weren’t only full of pilferers, as in war-time, standing up for your rights had become a crime as it was illegal to go on strike. In 1942, miners at the Kent colliery went on strike over working conditions; their leaders were arrested but - unable to imprison the 1000 strong pit – many were fined. Even boredom led to spates of criminality - as with many places of entertainment closed, families displaced, father’s serving overseas and mother’s working multiple jobs to maintain a basic income – conviction rates for hooliganism among the under 17s leapt from 52000 to 72000 in just two years. And as for the notion that “we knew everyone” and “all looked out for one another”? The facts don’t back that up. In so many murders – as with the Blackout Ripper – the neighbours of these lone women who were living in the same building would comment how strange it was that they had been seen for days, as parcels stacked-up on their doorsteps. And yet, no-one went to see if they were okay. Which is not to say that today we are any better or worse, but that we haven’t had the luxury of time to gloss over the inconvenience of truth. War-time was difficult, existence was hard, and it forced even ordinary people to do desperate things. That was the world that Robert Blaine was living in… …only with one big difference. Being in his early twenties… …he had been conscripted to fight. On the 3rd September 1939, the day Britain declared war on Germany, Parliament passed the National Service Act ordering all medically-fit males aged 18 to 41 to fight for King & Country. One of the one and a half million men conscripted was 19-year-old south London labourer Robert Blaine. Like anyone else; we don’t know his morals, his ethics, his hopes, his dreams or his politics. But it can’t have been easy. Overnight, he was uprooted, his life ripped apart, as – given limited training – he was forced to fight, to shoot and to kill. To murder a mass of strangers in a foreign country for a reason he may not have fully understood, with the knowledge that he may end up dead, disabled or deranged. As children, we are taught the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, and that no matter what - murder is strictly forbidden. And yet, as a soldier, he was legally obliged to kill a fellow human. Everywhere he looked, he was told “it is your duty to fight, to kill, to give your life for your country”. And although millions of soldiers did, this trauma would stay with them for the rest of their lives. Through the privileged prism of our modern-day lives, you may think he had the right to say no. But he didn’t. With prisons cleared for deserters and contentious objectors (regardless of their political or religious beliefs), they were seen as the ‘true enemy’. Many men would be shamed into fighting by loved-ones, even though the Fifth Commandment is “thou shalt not kill”, in a Christian faith which during World War Two, 64% of the British population claimed they were. By the war’s end, 500 objectors were court-martialed, 17 were sentenced to death (none were carried out), 150 objectors were imprisoned for life, many were harassed and beaten, and the bulk would suffer a huge stigma. If a serving soldier committed a criminal offence – theft, assault or drunkenness, even a rape or murder – their status as a ‘valued member of society’ (valued over many others, especially their female victims) meant that the police and law-courts often downgraded or turned a blind eye to their crime. And yet, for the crime of not ‘doing your duty’, the sentence could be severe. During World War One, 306 British soldiers were shot for desertion – not murder, not terrorism, just for refusing to fight – but with this deemed illegal according to the 1929 Geneva Convention, other punishments were enacted. During World War Two, if you went Absent Without Leave and were convicted by a military court, you could serve anything from two years to life. For pretending to have an illness or injury to avoid service, the crime of malingering was also punishable by two years in prison. And for the crime of misconduct towards a superior officer (whether violence or threats) you could expect up to ten years in prison. Conscripted in 1939, Private Robert Blaine was an infantryman in the British Army. As a labourer, who harboured no dreams of an army life, he had endured the harsh regiment of the military for six years. That’s six years of chowing down on sub-standard rations, marching like drones at the crack of dawn, being barked at by bullies who were too shite to fight, and routinely punished for minor misdemeanors like not bulling his boots to a mirror shine, or daring to speak his own mind in the earshot of a Sergeant. With very little freedom and no idea when this legally-enforced torture would end, we know that Robert Blaine sometimes adopted the alias of Reginald Douglas Johnson and often deserted his post. (Celebration). 8th May 1945, VE Day. With the war as good as over, many enlisted men faced several futures. Some tried to return to the civilian lives they had left behind, but their lives had gone; no job, no home, no wage and no purpose. For others, with the war technically over, many serving soldiers had their pay-cut, the government hadn’t considered given them a pension for their sacrifice, and – for many –as new regimes popped up as old enemies died, their conscription had only just begun. Rationing remained for another decade, with bread added to the list of rationed basics in 1946, and as a new crimewave swept across Britain; unemployment rose, goods were slim and to make a few quid many soldiers sold off their guns which flooded the streets. During the post-war years, it was said it was safer to fight for your country overseas, than to live at home on the streets of our cities. The Second World War officially ended on the 2nd September 1945. During the celebrations, Robert Blaine went AWOL… …the war was over, but – still under conscription – he was classified as ‘a deserter’. As a born-and-bred Londoner, now 25, Robert Blaine returned to the one place he knew – London. He had left behind a pristine city and what he had returned to was a smouldering ruin of black smoke, bomb craters and chaos. Everything he knew or owned was gone; his home, his job and his belongings. And worse still, having left the battlefields behind, the city was now a sea of death and destruction. In the year prior to his conscription, the annual homicide rate in England and Wales was roughly 400 people per year. One year later – as bombers obliterated the city – that rose to 400 people per day. Mortuaries were overwhelmed, bodies lay unburied, the dismembered limbs of loved one’s littered the rubble-strewn streets, morgue vans became as familiar as ice-cream trucks once were, and the city’s swimming pools were drained to keep the dead bodies cool until their remains could be claimed. A new epidemic would ravage the streets, and its name was death. Between 1939 and 1945, the crime rate in England & Wales rose by 57%, with the number of reported murders doubling in just five years. With a decimated police force, many cases went unsolved, as it was almost impossible to prove or disprove a person’s disappearance during war-time and the blitz. Rape was up, robbery was up, manslaughter was up, and – with many citizens and servicemen seeing a black person for the first time, London experienced race-riots and even lynchings in the West End. And yet, more than eighty years after the event, there was one other conspicuously silent massacre which is rarely spoken by those who lived through those darkest of days. When Robert returned home, he would have sensed an odd emptiness on every street, as one specific family member was absent. When war was declared, the British Government formed NARPAC (the National Air Raid Precautions Animals Committee) whose job was to advise pet owners. Worried that many people could not afford the ‘luxury of a cat or dog’, their freely distributed pamphlet advised “If you cannot place them in the care of neighbours, it really is kindest to have them destroyed", along-side an advert for a bolt pistol. Appealing for calm over this unnecessary hysteria, veterinarian groups like the PDSA and the RSPCA were against such drastic instructions, but - with their hospitals swamped by worried owners - more than 750000 pets were legally destroyed, many in the first few weeks of the war. It is still unclear how many family pets were murdered during the panic, as many were drowned, shot or strangled. It was hardly a welcome home for Robert, but everyone’s life had been altered forever. With nothing but the uniform on his back and a few shillings in his pockets, he couldn’t just restart his life; as without discharge papers, he couldn’t get work; without a National ID card, he couldn’t get a ration book; without a furlough pass, he risked being arrested for walking the streets; leaving him with one option – to commit crime. For which – as a deserter – he could serve up to ten more years inside. During his desertion, Robert had met up with 19-year-old Charles Connelly, known as ‘Jock’; a stockily-built Glaswegian who had been arrested as a stowaway onboard the HMS Europa. Fleeing from the military police at Plymouth, he had broken free of his handcuffs resulting in a wound to his right hand. They were hungry, broke, on the run, and their only crime was wanting their old lives back… …but that doesn’t (and shouldn’t) absolve them of the crime they would commit… ...as this is just context. On Friday 14th September 1945, the night that Captain J A Ritchie would die, Robert Blaine and Charles Connelly were in Soho; a dangerous den of iniquity, but – with bars and brothels on each street, where syphilis-raddled servicemen spread the diseases that sex-workers were often unfairly blamed for – the intersections of Old Compton Street was the perfect place for a deserting soldier to hide in plain sight. Soho, especially at night, was deadly. Dubbed ‘London’s murder spot’, over the previous 18 months, Scotland Yard and the Home Office had become “gravely concerned” about this “deadly square mile”. With many people describing Soho as a no-man’s land, the unlit streets of this patch renamed ‘little Chicago’ was awash with theft, looting, drunkenness, assault, extortion, drugs, prostitution and death, as gangs of civilians and servicemen engaged in street fights with guns, knives and knuckle-dusters Prior to this little-known murder, which barely bothered many journalists’ ink, Superintendent Parker and Divisional Detective Inspector Stevens of West End Central, informed the military authorities that they were “busy enough with civilian crime, without needing to deal with these military hooligans”. That night, with Canadian and US military police patrols having been doubled on the streets from Soho down to Victoria - in a bid to clean-up the West End and “to whisk away any trouble-makers” - so seriously was this taken, that all US military police had been re-issued with loaded fire-arms. The streets were dangerous and the troops were hungry… …only this desperate measure would come too late for Captain Ritchie, as the Sunday Pictorial would state “his murder was a climax to weeks of knife and razor battles, and near-riots involving US and Canadian troops and coloured civilians”. And yet, it had all begun, six years earlier during conscription. In short, this wasn’t a murder, it was a bungled robbery in an act of desperation. At roughly 11:30pm – for whatever reason - Captain John Alexander Ritchie, a 41-year-old Canadian officer was taking a short-cut from Dean Street to Wardour Street through the bombed-out remains of Bourchier Street. It was dark, isolated and he had enjoyed a few drinks that night, as being on leave from the Hampshire Depot at Tweedsmuir, he was due to be repatriated back home to Montreal. The thin unlit alley was (and still is) a bottle-neck at the best of times. Once you’re in, it’s hard to get out, especially if you’re cornered by two hoods hidden in the shadows, as there’s nowhere else to run. Being drunk and outmanned, Captain Ritchie was robbed, and – possibly having fought back - one of the desperate deserters had smacked the officer over the head with half a brick, and as he lay bleeding and unconscious, the other rifled his pockets, stealing £5 in notes, or two weeks of their Army wage. Found a few minutes later, Captain J A Ritchie died on his injuries at 11:45pm. (End) Pursued by two constables, Charles Connelly escaped and was never found. Seen hiding in a doorway, Robert Blaine (who was thin, hungry and had clearly been sleeping rough for weeks) was arrested and the half-a-brick found inside his jacket was taken into evidence. When questioned, he stated “I didn’t do it. He hit him while I was holding him”, admitting to the robbery but blaming Connelly for the killing. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 16th November 1945, he pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murder, but admitted that he had helped Jock (who he said had held the brick) to steal from the dying man’s pockets. The prosecution would allege that although it could not be proven whether he had struck the fatal blow which killed Captain Ritchie, there was clear evidence “that he taken part in the assault”. Summing up, the Judge would state “where two persons are engaged a robbery with violence and the victim dies, they are both guilty of murder. It is quite immaterial which of them gave the fatal blow”. Being sentenced to death, and with his appeal dismissed, Private Robert Blaine (formerly of the British Army) was executed on 29th December 1945 at Wandsworth Prison by hangman Albert Pierrepoint. The cruel irony being that – in a roundabout way - he was executed for desertion. For many, the end of the war did not mark a return to normality, as their lives and their trauma would last a lifetime. As the victors, it’s easy to romanticise the conflict and to cherry-pick the facts, but what that does is to erase and devalue the hardship and the struggle that the average person endured. War was hard, life was hard, and many people made sacrifices both physically and morally to survive. To forget the real truth is a disservice to those who gave up their life and sanity to protect us… …as during desperate times, even good people were driven to kill for just a few pounds. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-TWO:
Summer 1958, the occupant of Room 622 in the Strand Palace Hotel was Bernard Smith; a kind and decent man who was quiet and respectable. Running a successful furniture business in New York, he doted on his sisters, his niece and he would do anything for them, and likewise for him. With his health declining, having discussed his retirement with his sisters, Bernard had sold up and moved to the UK to be nearer his family – it is what families do, they support one another. At 12:15pm on Tuesday 3rd June 1958, Lila Gilman (Bernard’s sister) was in Room 622 helping him with a task. Last seen entering his room, moments later, he would brutally beat her to death.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a sea blue raindrop by the words Charing Cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
CRIM 1/2993 – Bernard Smith (brother) murders Lila/Leah Gillman at Strand Palace Hotel, one files closed, https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4203102 DPP FILES CLOSED - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10874705
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on The Strand, WC2; three streets south-east of the Bedfordbury baby batterer, five buildings right of the last play Emmy Werner saw, directly opposite the strangled baby at the Coal Hole Tavern, and a short walk from The Strand Medical School scandal - coming soon to Murder Mile. Opened in 1909, The Strand Palace was one of several ‘grand’ hotels built by J Lyons & Co, owners of the Cornerhouse Tearooms. Covering one square block and standing seven stories high, by the 1950s, its 600 rooms had been greatly modernised to include private bathrooms, central heating and radios. Like many others, Room 622 has seen its fair share of action; whether by randy reprobates making the walls shake like an earthquake lasting six whole seconds, dodgy drunks replacing the over-priced mini-bar shots with cheapy shite from a nearby Spa, bored businessman falsely claiming they “fell asleep on the TV remote” and “accidentally” switched it to eight hours of ‘hot chicks with dicks’, and many possessed wives who held a pillow over her spouse’s face and pondered stopping the snoring forever. But unlike the others at The Strand Palace Hotel, Room 622 has also been the witness to a murder. In the summer of 1958, the occupant of Room 622 was 68-year-old American, Bernard Smith; a kind and decent man who was quiet and respectable. Running a successful furniture business in New York, he doted on his two sisters, his niece and he would do anything for them, and likewise for him. With his health declining, having discussed his retirement with his sisters, Bernard had sold up, left America and moved to the UK to be nearer his family – it is what families do, they support one another. At 12:15pm on Tuesday 3rd June 1958, Lila Gilman (Bernard’s sister) was in Room 622 helping him with a simple task. Last seen entering his room, moments later, he would brutally beat his sister to death. Bernard had nothing to gain by killing Lila, and everything to lose – so why did do it? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 182: The Quiet American. At 12:30am, on Wednesday 4th June, twelve hours after the attack, Bernard sat in the interview room of Bow Street police station. For Chief Inspector Millington and Detective Sergeant Baker, there was no denying his guilt, as his fingerprints were in the room and he had made a full confession. Across their careers, they had interviewed all kinds of killers – whether sadists, psychopaths, the sick and the deranged – but Bernard was different. As the epitome of a frail old man, standing just five foot six inches high and weighing barely nine stone, he looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over. Described as “small and stooping”; he walked with an ambling gait, his thick-lensed glasses magnified his eyes to twice their size, and - having left his hearings-aid on his bed, unable to hear his own voice – with his soft words barely above a whisper, the hotel staff often called him The Quiet American. With his clothes dishevelled and his hands bloody, before the interview had even begun, Bernard’s first words were “how is my sister?”. Being deaf, eagerly watching DS Baker’s mouth, he read the reply on his lips; “your sister is dead”. And as Bernard sat with his head in his hands, incredulous at what he had done, he repeatedly sobbed “I must be crazy, crazy, crazy. I loved my sister. How could I do it?” But that was exactly the question they wanted to know… …how could he kill his own beloved sister … …and why? Bernard Smith was born Bernard Bernstein on the 8th January 1890 in Russia. With his father a master tailor and his mother a dedicated housewife, they lived a good life as a middle-class Jewish family. Blessed with two younger sisters; Sarah and Leah, who everyone called ‘Lila’, he doted on his siblings. Living amid the volatile times of the pogroms where the Jews were forced from their homes; having faced persecution, violence and often death, the Bernstein’s fled to England by the end of the century. Setting up home in Portsmouth on the south coat of England, they rebuilt their lives, their safety was assured and they enjoyed the kind of upbringing that all children deserved in a warm loving family. In 1911, with Europe on the brink of war and keen to seek his fortune, as a quiet boy with big plans and a lot of confidence, 21-year-old Bernard moved to New York and became an American citizen. Living in a small self-contained flat in a brownstone tenement block at 83 Hopkinson Street, Brooklyn, Bernard worked hard as a storeman; climbing his way up the ladder of success, learning his trade by day and sleeping by night. His room had very few homely touches, but it was just right for a bachelor. After several years of hard slog, having branched out, Bernard had set-up his own business; a furniture company which not only sold bed-suites, armchairs and kitchen appliances, but – for those unable to afford to furnish a room – they could rent a piece for a period of time, or pay for it in instalments, As an entrepreneur, across wars and depression, Bernard’s business always flourished. With no wife or kids, he supported his sisters and sent them money whenever they needed it. Bernard would state: “I love my family. I have always been very generous to them” - something they would never deny. Living thousands of miles apart, Bernard and his sisters would stay in regular contact, even when travel was not possible: “I have been receiving letters from my family on the average of one every ten days”. According to Sarah and Lila, as a big brother, Bernard was always a good man, he was quiet and loving. Being so focussed of the welfare of his family, they always knew he would have made a loving husband and father, but with few friends or lovers – being shy – he never found someone share his life with. For Bernard, he was dedicated to ensuring that his family were well-cared for. But as they got older, the sisters needed him less-and-less, having both got married to good men; Lila to a furrier called David Gilman and they moved into a spacious flat at 83 Huddleston Road in Tuffnell Park; and Sarah to an American serviceman, they had a daughter called Rene and lived in Reading. Both sisters had the protective family unit which Bernard so badly needed… …but living on another continent, it was never within his reach. Since he had first set foot on American soil until the day he had left for England, Bernard had only one friend. Having moved to Chicago, with Rene as Sarah’s daughter and his niece, Bernard would visit her twice a year for three-to-four weeks at a time. But for the rest of his days, he was mostly alone. His isolation had become a serious worry for his sisters, especially being so far away. The tiny room he lived in was little more than a cell in which he slept and ate when his work was done for the day. His job was fulfilling, but having done it for decades, he had no hobbies to occupy his mind. And with no friends nor companions, he had no-one to listen to his daily woes nor to soothe him when he felt low. Being so introverted, his quiet nature had turned him into a recluse, a prisoner in his own mind and a hermit in his own life, who spoke to almost no-one each day but his regular clients and maybe a checkout girl. And yet, it was his health which would make the narrowness of his world even smaller. It began in his thirties, as odd words passed him by and simple sounds were lost in a noisy morass. It didn’t seem an issue as his job was physical and he often worked in a noisy environment. But by 1940, now in his fifties, although he saw many specialists, his failing hearing had become a real problem. The next seventeen years of his life was like a life sentence held in solitary confinement with no chance of parole. Given a bulky white box to perch on each ear, his hearing aids had a limited ability to amplify the sounds, but as his condition got worse, he could do nothing but listen as he became stone deaf. He had learned to lip-read, but with no-one to talk to, even he described his existence as miserable. Across those years of ever-increasing silence, unable to hear his own words or anyone else’s, the only conversations he had were the ones inside his head. Unable to walk a street for fear of being hit by a car he couldn’t see, as his eyesight declined, even simple tasks became something to be feared. And to those who didn’t know him – as he couldn’t hear his own volume – strangers often mistook him for a nutter who shouted at no-one or a weirdo who mumbled to himself, so few would come to his aid. By 1957, aged 67, two decades into his deafness, what little sounds he could hear had been replaced by the maddening thrum of tinnitus; a persistent ringing which couldn’t be cured and wouldn’t be stopped. Whether awake or asleep, this tone rang in his head like the endless torture of a cruel sadist. Every day, every night, every moment, all he heard was ringing, until eventually he snapped. By the winter of 1957, having had a nervous breakdown, Bernard was seen by a doctor, suffering from depression, memory loss, paranoia, and having been diagnosed with early on-set dementia. He wasn’t so sick he had to be hospitalised, but it was enough to force him to change his lifestyle forever. Bernard would say: “In every letter, my sisters expressed their anxiety at me being alone in New York. They wanted me to come to England to settle down, so that I would receive the care and attention I needed”. And just as their big brother had cared for them, his little sisters would care for him. Concerned for his welfare - as the families of elderly relatives often do – they packed up his belongings into suitcases and provided him with everything he would need for his retirement. They transferred his money to a joint-account, co-signed by his niece Rene, to protect his life savings. And having sold his business, in January 1958, Bernard moved back to England – to the place he had once called home. Given sanctuary among the warm embrace of his siblings, far from the stresses of New York, Bernard had gone from barely existing in a wall of silence, to being surrounded by those he loved on a daily (and if needed, hourly) basis. With someone always there to talk to and to listen, the sadness of his usual solitary snack sat alone on the sofa had been replaced by the vibrant bustle of family meals. In his time of need - just as he had for them - his sisters had come to his aid when he needed it most. Bernard was a good man, who was quiet and kind, and loved his family above everything else. And yet, with every ounce of his strength… …he would kick his beloved sister to death. On the 13th January 1958, clutching a suitcase and a steamer trunk, Bernard disembarked a passenger liner at Southampton Dock. It had been a decade since he had last set eyes on his sister Sarah and her family, and although they had grown older, it was the change in him which shocked them the most. Her big brother had somehow become small, thin and frail; a doddery old codger whose movements were slow, whose thoughts were several seconds behind everyone else’s, and who required every question to be repeated slowly and clearly three or more times, every time a request was spoken. And yet, his decline was not only physical, but also mental. Their plan for his well-earned retirement was simple; Bernard would temporarily live with Sarah and her family, they would introduce him to their circle of friends, and he would seek out a little cottage in the country for himself, half way between his sisters – with Sarah in Reading and Lila in London. Only his behaviour would change their plans before things got any worse. In Sarah’s eyes, Bernard had always been kind and considerate, a softly-spoken man who never raised his voice and always put others needs before his own. But even Bernard would admit he had become difficult; “since the day I sold my business, I changed, something happened inside my mind”. His moods were like the switch on the side of his hearing aids, it had just two settings – on and off. In one moment, he would be like a man at peace with the world, and the next, a fiery mess of abuse; with arms flailing and mouth screaming, as a temper from deep-down within burst out of nowhere. This quiet man was instantly rude, irritable and foul, but never violent. And just as quickly as his fit had erupted, his face would droop, the tears would flow and his apologies would be heartfelt. Bernard would stay at Sarah’s for four months, but unable to cope with his moods, he would need to move out. What had happened to him, only he would know; maybe it was the dramatic change to his life, maybe it was the torturous sounds in his ears, or maybe it was his suspicions of his sister’s plans? Every few days, Bernard had noticed a scurry of surreptitious phone calls between Sarah and Lila, but never himself. When he asked what they were about, he was always told “it’s personal”. At least once a week, letters arrived and were sent in his both sister’s handwriting. And when he asked to read them, he was told “I don’t have to show you the letters, it’s my business”. But he was family too? Being kept out of the loop and feeling he was being treated less like a loved-one and more like a loony, his paranoid suspicions of his sisters could have been entirely real, or merely part of his dementia? There were two ways to look at it; his sister’s way, being that Bernard was an elderly loved-one in dire need of protection, who was mentally declining owing to a loss of sleep, hearing and independence. Or his way, that he was forced by his nagging sisters to sell up his life and to live under their control. Bernard would state: “up to now, they always respected me because I was always generous to them. I have transferred my money and had put it in a joint account which my niece could draw on. It was about $21,000 dollars”. Today, that is the equivalent of almost a quarter of a million dollars. “Once they got my money, I don’t know what happened”, he would say, “Well, I fell for it. I believed them. I had a nervous breakdown and I disposed of a very profitable business to come here and join my family. I sold up because they had promised to give me care. After I had made over the money to my niece, an account she could draw on without my signature, everything changed. They abused me”. And yet, the question would always remain, who was abusing who? On the 24th April 1958, Bernard moved into Room 622 of The Strand Palace Hotel. Needing his own space, it suited his needs. As a small room with a single bed and its own bathroom, it was not unlike his little flat back in Brooklyn, although modernised with a radio, central heating and homely touches. As a bachelor, the hotel provided him with everything he needed. Every day – Ruby Richardson – the chambermaid would change his sheets, a porter sent his clothes to the cleaners, the bar hosted nightly musicians to keep him entertained, and for an agreeable fee of just 37 shillings a day, he got comfy bed and a decent breakfast, as you’d expect from J Lyons & Co. According to the staff, Mr Smith was no bother at all, being a gentleman who was polite and kind. Often sleeping in till noon, they rarely saw him, and speaking in a soft whisper, they barely heard him. As the perfect long-term resident; he always paid his bills, he kept to himself and yet they knew little about him as (being deaf) “he was hard to understand”. He never had guests, he never saw friends, he always left a tip and each night he would head to Tuffnall Park to have dinner with his sister – Lila. Bernard would remain at the hotel for five weeks… …with his stay only broken when he murdered his sister. His evening routine was always the same. At roughly 5pm, he would take the Northern Line tube from Charing Cross to Tuffnell Park, and – in checked-jacket and pressed slacks - shuffled the four-minute walk to Lila’s house at 83 Huddleston Road, a three storey terrace she shared with her husband David. He loved his sister, he liked her cooking and he appreciated their company, but there was always an undercurrent of tension around the table, as not only were Lila & David not used to Bernard having such a foul and unpredictable temper, but he had begun to question his relationship with his sisters. On Monday 2nd June 1958, the day before her death, their heated discussions would come to a head over dinner. As he would state “whenever we got together, they always abused me”. For Bernard, his retirement was a mistake; as an American, he missed his home; as a businessman, his missed his work; and although he had no friends nor family in New York, he didn’t feel he had family in England either. Realising that all of this was a huge mistake, he had begun to pack his bags, he had booked a ticket to New York on board a boat sailing the next day, and he wanted his life back, as well as his money. There were two ways to look at this situation; his sister’s way, as fearing that their elderly brother in his declining years would once again be so far away that they could no longer protect him; or Bernard’s way, that he was simply fighting to stop his greedy scheming sisters from stealing his fortune. That night, as forcefully as he could (which wasn’t all that forceful), Bernard insisted that Lila gave him the letter relating to his finances that his niece Rene had sent him, courtesy of Lila and David. When asked, they would deny any such letter existed – but was this the truth, or part of his paranoia? With that, he left his sister’s home, and would never return. Tuesday 3rd June 1958 was to be Bernard’s last day in the UK. With so much to do, Ruby the chambermaid was surprised to see Bernard awake at such an early hour as 10:15am, but there he was - fully-dressed and bright as a button. Listening carefully to his barely audible whisper, he softly asked her if she would mind tidying his room next, as his sister was on her way over to the hotel. Last night, having snapped out of his mood, he had apologised as always and – being a good sister – she had agreed to help him pack, before bidding her big brother a goodbye. As a man who was easy-to-spot and impossible not to miss, as sometimes his voice was too loud, a wealth of witnesses would see the final hour of Lila Gilman’s life, and it was as ordinary as any other. Arriving at The Strand Palace Hotel at 11am, as planned, she enquired at reception “I’m here for my brother, Mr Smith”, and a few minutes later, he came down, and they sat in the bar drinking coffee. With Bernard in checks and slacks, and Lila in a green cardie and a pink hat, they were unmistakable. According to the other diners, their conversation was calm and pleasant, but no-one heard its content. At 11:30am, with his ship sailing from Southampton at 3pm, they rose in the lift to the sixth floor, and entered his room, even though the chambermaid hadn’t finished. On the bed were two half-packed cases, and according to Ruby, “they appeared very normal”, there were no bad words nor sour looks. Moments later, Ruby left the room promising to return and complete her work… … that was the last time that Lila was seen alive. (Street sounds and silence). It’s unclear exactly what happened during the forty-five minutes that they were alone. At 12:15pm, Ruby heard Bernard shouting, but as a deaf man prone to loud words, she took no notice. With the windows open, Elisabeth Mortimer, a secretary in an office directly opposite on Exeter Street heard a woman’s screams: “I looked out, I could see two figures inside struggling”. The Room was 622. One hour later, hearing no sounds and believing they had left, Ruby went to finish cleaning the room. Below a half-open window, Lila Gilman lay slumped on the floor. A vicious fight had clearly taken place as her pink hat was across the other side of the room, and her dislodged earrings lay several feet apart. With nothing stolen, there was no robbery. With no weapon, the murder was not premeditated. And yet - with her blood having pooled about her head and thick droplets having spattered two feet up the wall - her death had been savage and brutal, as with all of his strength, he had kicked her to death. Curled up, with extensive bruises to her hands and arms, as she had tried to defend herself from her attacker; her breast bone was fractured, two sets of ribs were broken, and with multiple lacerations and abrasions to her face, chest and neck, he had stamped on her head with a lot of pent-up rage. Certified dead at 3:05pm, her cause of death was brain haemorrhage, caused by kicking and stamping. With no denying who the guilty party was – as his fingerprints were in the room, alongside his hearing aid and his American passport – Police sent out an alert for a wanted killer called Bernard Smith. (End) Every dock, station and airport were searched, his photo was issued and his description given, but no-one had seen him. Nine hours later, on Waterloo Bridge, barely a minute’s walk from the hotel, PC Robert Richardson spotted Bernard Smith and he calmly gave himself up. When asked where he had been, he admitted he had aimlessly been walking around, unable to comprehend what he had done. Examined at Bow Street police station, Bernard – who was helpful and co-operative, if hard of hearing – gave a full confession, being soaked through from his socks to his knees with Lila’s blood. When he heard that she was dead, he broke down, howling “I must be crazy, crazy, crazy. I loved my sister”. In his recollection of the events leading up to her murder, Bernard would state: “I asked her why I couldn’t see the letters from my niece. She was rude to me and went to hit me with her bag. Everything came up in me which had been accumulating, I went crazy and (then everything went) blank”. Examined at Brixton Prison, the Quiet American was deemed mentally competent and fit to stand trial. Tried at the Old Bailey from the 8th to the 11th July 1958, having pleaded ‘guilty’ to manslaughter by diminished responsibility, Bernard was sentenced to life in prison. As a US citizen, he was deported back to New York, where he served the remainder of his sentence, until his death a few years later. Upon investigation, Police found no letter from Rene to Bernard in the possession of his sister Lila. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The entrance to Queen's Walk in Green Park, SW1
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-ONE:
In the early hours of Saturday 25th July 2009 at roughly 4am, two such strangers would meet by chance right here. One was Nadim Gulamhuseinwala and the other was Thomas Connor; two men from very different cultures, but blessed with a gift at an early age, they were both given the opportunity to make the most of it. In their own ways, they would both get the success they deserved… … one got recognition through years of hard-work and study to his craft, the other received instant fame through an image on a packet of instant dessert. One was a brilliant doctor with a bright future ahead of him, and where as the other would be nicknamed after the product he blamed on his demise.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a purple raindrop by the words Green Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2010/apr/22/angel-delight-model-murder https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/thugs-murdered-management-consultant-for-ps100-to-pay-a-prostitute-6460029.html https://www.newsshopper.co.uk/news/8114300.st-pauls-cray-life-sentences-for-green-park-doctor-murder-pair/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8626093.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8189707.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8188593.stm https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1260371/I-bullied-face-Angel-Delight-says-man-murdered-doctor-mugging-near-Buckingham-Palace.html https://www.injuryjournal.com/article/S0020-1383(03)00242-0/references https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2121237/ https://www.scotsman.com/news/killer-ex-model-given-life-1723554 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/exchild-model-jailed-for-life-1951958.html http://www.thecnj.com/westend/2009/080709/wnews080709_05.html https://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/170792/Ex-child-model-jailed-for-murder http://opaealing.org.uk/obituaries-f-l/ https://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/ukgwa/20130411005042/http://content.met.police.uk/News/Robbers-guilty-of-doctors-murder/1260267473839/1257246745756 https://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/ukgwa/20100426101322/http://cms.met.police.uk/news/convictions/men_jailed_for_green_park_murder https://www.designweek.co.uk/issues/7-june-2001/angel-delight-gets-graffiti-look/ MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Green Park, SW1; three streets west of where Sarah Gibson was tortured, four streets south-east of the attack on Tudor Simionov, one street west of the murder of David West by David West and one street from the sadistic slayer with a tear in his eye - coming soon to Murder Mile. South of Green Park tube station, along the western edge of The Ritz hotel sits Queen’s Walk; a tree-lined path built in 1730 for Queen Caroline by King George ll. As a fashionable hang-out for Georgian aristocrats, it was not uncommon to see a decadent dandy dabbing his laudanum-soaked lips with a lace hanky; as he bleeds a weeping pauper dry of his last pitiful penny, bastardises the law to benefit his wealthy Etonian chums and buggers a young boy senseless in a bog as a copper turns a blind eye. Back then we called them the gentry, but today… we call them politicians. Boom. Utter bastards. If so many of them weren’t corrupt, why else would a millionaire want a job which pays just £84k a year? That said, we all have dreams; whether money, skills, happiness or - the most fleeting of all - fame. At roughly 4am, on Saturday 25th July 2009, two strangers would come face-to-face on Queen’s Walk. As boys, they both had harnessed a gift which would bring them success and recognition in their own right. And whereas, one would become a well-respected doctor through years of hard-work, the other would get a little cash and a flash of fame having had his face plastered on a packet of instant dessert. When a dream becomes reality, it brings with it a wealth of problems. As the hardest part isn’t how you achieve your dream, but how you cope when you’re riding high or as you plummet to the ground. Nadim and Thomas had never met before, and yet, it was here that one dream became a nightmare. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 181: Sweet Dreams. (Advert for Angel Delight) As children, we live our lives full of hope and innocence. Unaware of what our future may bring, we dream of living a good life and fulfilling our goals, but with little knowledge of the dangers or pitfalls. It’s a sad indictment of our society that we put so much pressure on our children to succeed and often to fulfill our dreams. Their lives should be about playing and learning, not careers and money, but that is what we do. A child’s dream should be light, fluffy and sweet - like a cool glass of Angel Delight. Born in Hendon, North-West London in 1977, Nadim Gulamhuseinwala was one of two sons born to Vajiuddin and Veronika. Originating in Godhram in the Indian state of Gujarat in the north-west India, like the children of many immigrants – whatever dreams they had – part of theirs would be a desire to please their parents, to strive and to achieve, and to make their struggle and sacrifice worth-while. Blessed with parents described as “calm and sensible”, both boys were raised well and would succeed. Being two years his senior, Nadim’s big brother would make a serious mark in financial banking, setting up his own company, leading the UK’s Open Banking initiative, and being awarded an OBE in the 2017 New Year’s Honours list for his services to finance. That was his dream and he would achieve it well. Nadim had his own dream, and keen to follow his own path, he would make his mark in medicine. Educated at St Benedict’s School in Ealing, he left in 1993, went to college where he studied A Levels in science, and then he would attain a degree in medicine at Bristol University. Being smart, it’s likely he suffered with bullying (as many brain-boxes do), especially given that he was from another culture and his skin was a different colour. But it was how he dealt with it that made him a success. His upbringing would give him the skills to navigate life’s turbulent storms. Like anyone, he would face his own risks, his own dangers and his own failures, being surrounded by contemporaries many of whom would be bigger, better and brighter than him. No-one is perfect and no-one is faultless, so as he slow climbed the long ladder to success, Nadim would be aware of his faults. But what made him a success was how he would learn from his failures and turned his weaknesses into his strengths. After his graduation, he became an anatomy demonstrator at King's College in London, one of the top 10 universities in the UK, where he met and fell in love with his girlfriend – Caroline Bott. His father would state: “Nadim was a shining light (who) achieved twice as much as most people…”. He was exceptionally gifted but also blessed with kindness and decency, later described by many as “a sharp wit with a silliness that made your laugh" as well as being “big-hearted and incredibly loving". Across his illustrious career, Nadim spent eight years working for the NHS, he was a surgeon at Guys and St Thomas’s Hospital, he became a member of the Royal College of Surgeons in 2005, and he published research papers, including one on neurological damage owing to stab wounds to the spine. In 2007, Nadim took a prestigious job as a consultant at McKinsey's, a city-based healthcare practice at 1 Jermyn Street, just off Piccadilly Circus. As an ‘engagement manager’, he would be based out of this office, but he would travel internationally, often back-and-forth between London and New York. By his early 30’s, Nadim was a success with an even brighter life ahead of him. He had achieved fame in his own field, it was done on his own terms, and he had achieved it through his own hard work. As his father would say “he was on the verge of an exciting future, full of promise and happiness”… …but as his life was flying high, someone else’s dream had smashed into smithereens. Born 13 years after Nadim, 19-year-old Thomas Connor was raised by his mother in St Paul’s Cray in Orpington, a small village in the borough of Bromley, south east London. Living on Curtismill Way, he was raised among a mix of post-war two-story semi-detached houses for working class families. According to his barrister, although his mother had done her best to raise him and his two-year old sister; seeing his mum beaten by his father, him abandoning the family for more than a decade and his mother’s second husband also beating her up in front of the children, this had left him with trauma. With his education faltering and burdened by a succession of shitty male role models, even as a young boy he risked being stuck in a world of wastrels and ne’er-do-wells, who’s daily high-point was hoofing aerosols, contracting an STD and pissing another day up the wall like a spent bottle of blue WKD. Everybody has a dream, but sometimes, what every child needs is someone to give them a chance. In June 2001, global giant Kraft Foods were looking to rebrand a family favourite – Angel Delight. First launched in 1967, Angel Delight is a powdered instant pudding which turns into a fluffy moose when milk is added. Back then, when Thomas was barely eleven, there were seven varieties; strawberry, banana, chocolate, forest fruits, raspberry, vanilla and (for those with no taste buds) butter scotch. Seen as old fashioned, they aimed to revitalise it as something fun for kids to make with their mums. The packets had a pop-art design full of funky colours and bold lettering. With a different child’s face for every flavour, fun was added by giving it a silly name like ‘stonking strawberry’, and each child’s face was graffitied with a funny moustache, eyebrows or a beard made of the frothy whip. The design was simple but bold, and above the child’s head were the words Angel Delight, topped off with a halo. With the design approved, what they needed was seven children with angelic faces. As had happened with Kate Moss, the talent scouts didn’t trawl the magazines trying to find the face to fit the product, they hung out at shopping centres trying to find a nobody who was fresh and unique. Thomas had never modelled before and he had no dreams of becoming a model. But blessed with soft blonde hair, a cheeky face and ears like two-handled mug, he fit their image of a “little angel”. Chosen from a pool of thousands, not only was his face selected to be on packets in every supermarket and on adverts on every television across the country, but – as the brand’s favourite - he was specifically chosen among the few to be the face of ‘stonking strawberry’ – the brand’s top-selling flavour. The photoshoot was a breeze and his fee a welcome addition to this struggling little family, but – more importantly, just like the dessert – as a leg-up the ladder of success, his fame would be instant… …only fame comes with more pitfalls than promises. In their young lives, where-as Nadim had set-aside his bully’s taunts as the jealous rantings of losers who would achieve nothing, Thomas let their hurtful barbs jab at his skin like the prickles of dickheads. Bullied, beaten and branded as “gay” by his classmates, he was mercilessly teased and taunted as the face of a packet pudding. As a global campaign the company had ploughed millions into - unlike an embarrassing news-story which a few locals would gossip about one day, only for it to be used to wrap fish and chips the next - the rebranding of Angel Delight would be around for the best part of a decade. This flash of fame should have been the springboard to a brighter career and a better life, but riddled with anxiety and depression, it had ruined his childhood and it left him with a legacy that he resented. He ran away from home being unable to cope. Having left school, he struggled to hold down a regular job. And seeing no way to escape his torment as the ‘Angel Delight’ kid, he tried to take his own life. Across his teenage years, when the world should have been a place of limitless dreams, Thomas should have been the epitome of happiness. Only drifting from rejection to rejection, he would waste his days hanging around with his pal William Paton, another bullied boy described as a talentless waster who was used as a verbal punchbag having been branded with nicknames like Billy Idiot and Forrest Gump. To distract himself from the horror, he took cocaine and visited brothels. With a history of self-harm, he had tried to join to Army, but he was rejected. And with the last four years of his life a write-off, Thomas was at his wits-end. The boy who had found fame as the face of an instant pudding was a lost soul with no future, whose image – every day in millions of homes - was being tossed into the bin. On Friday 24th July 2009, Thomas was accepted as an assistant at a local garden centre. It was a simple job for a modest wage, but this distant glimpse of hope would leave him in a “celebratory mood”. Finally, his shitty little life had turned a corner… …a few hours later, the boy dubbed ‘Britain’s little angel’ would brutally beat a stranger to death. Friday 24th July 2009 was a regular day in a seemingly ordinary world. In sport, Serena Williams had won Wimbledon beating her sister and claiming her third Grand Slam victory. In memorial, America had bid farewell to celebrated news-anchor Walter Kronkite and Britain had bid goodbye to comedy institution Mollie Sugden. A few months earlier, a miracle had occurred when Captain Sullenberger landed his stricken plane, US Airways Flight 1549 on the Hudson. And although a potential pandemic was whispered as HN1N swine flu slowly spread across the globe, the world was as chaotic as usual. For Nadim, after two years as ‘engagement manager’ at healthcare practice McKinsey's, his life was hectic travelling back and forth from London to New York, but he had done his best to keep a work-life balance. Still very much in love with his girlfriend, Caroline, they would see each other as often as possible, and when their careers and lives got in the way, they always made time to chat on the phone. Having just returned from New York, by early evening Nadim had left his office on Jermyn Street and was heading out for a fun evening with a friend at Funky Buddha, just around the corner at 15 Berkley Street in Mayfair. It was a regular night, with a trusted pal, in a club he had often frequented. With a flat in Westminster, a few streets south of Green Park, he wasn’t a baffled stranger staggering some strange and unfamiliar streets, but a born-and-bred local living his life in his home city of London. As a doctor who had been trained at two of London’s busiest trauma centres, having written research papers on the neurological effects of stab wounds, and after years in A&E seeing some of the horrifying things that a human-being can do to another person, he knew the dangers of living life in the big city. Nadim was in town having fun… …as at the same time, so was Thomas. That night, still being in a jubilant mood as the next week he would begin a new job at the garden centre, Thomas and his pal William headed to a bar in Bromley to sink a few suds and neck a few shots. The two boys, both aged just 19, were here to dance, to laugh and to party. Not to commit a murder. With their home-town being a too quiet to kick-back and the pubs already kicking out, they purchased a gram of cocaine for £40, they had a swift toot of Columbia’s finest and took the night bus to London. Mayfair’s clubs are notoriously snooty over who they let in, so being ‘dressed to impress’, the barely legal lads made their nostrils extra festive with an extra snort from Santa’s magic bag, and headed to Strawberry Moons; a nightclub hidden on Heddon Street, with the usual half-deaf DJ banging out tunes too loud to hear, an over-priced cocktail bar for fans of watered-down vodka with fruit, and a pink chequered dancefloor where posers tried to mimic John Travolta, but moved like crabs with piles. For Thomas and William, they were just two young lads out for a bit of a boogie. But cocaine can affect different people in different ways. It can make us fun, silly, arrogant and selfish. It can heighten the best and the worst characteristics of our personalities – making the timid chatty and the twats into massive arseholes – but when mixed with alcohol, it can make for bad bed-fellows. At 2am, Thomas (accompanied by William) left Strawberry Moons, staggering but stifling a boner as they crossed Regent Street and headed into Soho. With little open in the wee small hours, this single lad headed to Rupert Street, a place synonymous at that time of night for just one thing - sex. Approached by a prostitute, she propositioned him, and – being all gee’d up on coke and probably believing that he was a lothario with the stamina to last, but knowing this kid was little more than two pumps and a squirt merchant – from a cash-machine, Thomas withdrew £90 and handed it over. Seeing this sweet-faced lad was worse for wear and not particularly bright, with his brain powered by his balls, she played the oldest trick in the book; to prey on a drunk, to play on his needs, and – having grabbed his cash and swiftly fled – he lost her in the maze of Soho’s back-streets and side-alleys. The boy who was once the saintly face of Angel Delight had been ripped off by a Soho sex-worker… …but instead of dealing with it - as he had done by being bullied over his brief brush with minor fame as the epitome of innocence for a child’s packet of instant whip - he let the anger eat him up inside. He could have let it slide, he could have gone home, or he could have admitted he cocked up, but he didn’t. For the next hour, described as a “tower of rage”, Thomas roamed the streets with William in tow, hunting down this woman who had robbed him and wanting his money back. Later admitting to the jury that he was ‘angry, upset and frustrated’, he was broke, furious and he wanted to fuck. Like too many boys who were bullied - faced with an obstacle - the bullied would become the bully. Ganging-up as they’re too afraid to go it alone, and hitting out at those who can’t defend themselves - being out of money and still sporting an unused erection – Thomas wanted cash to buy a shag. As the sulking twosome sculked the dark-lit streets from Soho to St James… …they hatched a plan to rob a stranger, as just off a path in Green Park… …they hid behind a tree, lying in wait on Queen’s Walk. Having had a good night and said goodbye to an old friend, 32-year-old Nadim was walking a familiar route from the club in Mayfair to his flat in Westminster. Although it had gone 4am, being barely 30 minutes before dawn, he was on the phone to his girlfriend, Caroline. Entering Green Park by the gates to the side of The Ritz hotel, Queen’s Walk was dark and empty, with not a living soul to see or hear. According to Caroline, “he sounded happy”, his usual bright-self enjoying the good life he had made for himself through his own hard-work. About a hundred feet down Queen’s Walk, Nadim stopped to lean against the black wrought iron railings. With his girlfriend worried about him walking through the park alone, he assured her he would take a taxi the rest of the way but said was enjoying the night air. In the familiar dark of Green Park and a path he had walked many times before, the faint light of his phone was the only light illuminating his face, as he spoke to the woman he loved, for one last time. Having had a long day, he said he felt tired, and was jealous of the fact that she was already in bed. Caroline would later state "he started saying something else, then there was two to three seconds of white noise. I just said ‘hello, hello', then the phone went completely dead. I thought his battery had died as it had done in the past. I didn't try to ring him again because I thought he would be home in 20 minutes and he would ring or text me to say he had got home safely”. It had happened before, and with nothing to really worry her, “I tried to stay awake”, but with the hour being so late, “I fell asleep". It seemed like just a regular call hampered by bad technology… …only Nadim would never make it home. Shown as evidence, footage would clearly show no provocation prior to the attack. Thomas and Nadim had barely exchanged glances for a split second and hadn’t spoken a single word. While Nadim was on the phone, a look of horror engulfed his face as Thomas swung a 10-kilo iron railing at his head. In his confession, Thomas would admit “I run and got the pole. I have run over to him. I don't know why, I was just really angry at everything, everyone being rude. As he leaned over while on his phone I struck him down, he got up, looked at me, and hit him square on the head. It hit his left cheek first and he's gone down. I saw his eyes were open, I thought he was looking at me so I got scared. I stamped on his head a couple of times. Then I realised what I was doing. It's not normally I do that.' Knocked unconscious, Nadim suffered multiple skull fractures as Thomas stamped on his head and face. And as the young gifted doctor, who was barely half-way through his life lay dying on the ground; Thomas’ pal William Paton rifled the bleeding man’s pockets stealing his phone, wallet and cash. In the time it would take to make some Angel Delight, Nadim’s dream was shattered… …and all because of a selfish little boy whose own dream had become a nightmare (End). With his family devasted, Imran would state "my brother was killed in a barbaric, senseless and utterly unprovoked attack. They asked no questions, made no demands and no threats. He had no argument with the men … but they brutally robbed him of his life and future”. Discovered by a passer-by just a few minutes later, at 4:15am, police and paramedics were called and Nadim was rushed to hospital in a critical condition. But having suffered a brain haemorrhage, he remained in a coma for two weeks, and on Wednesday 5th August 2009, he was declared legally dead. On the day of his death – using CCTV, DNA, fingerprints and phone data – Thomas & William were arrested, with Thomas stating “I was looking at him for a couple of seconds thinking ‘what have I done?’. I didn't want him to die. I just kept running as fast as I could. I was so scared, I really thought he was dead. I kept saying to Bill "he's dead, I think he's dead’”. And yet, so traumatised were the boys having believed they had killed a stranger, that while the paramedics were fighting to save his life, they had returned to Soho so Thomas have his fuck, and then the two headed back home to Bromley. Pleading ‘not guilty’ and blaming each other, in a three-week trial at the Old Bailey, Thomas Connor was sentenced to life imprisonment for murder with a minimum of 25 years, with William Paton to a minimum of 23 years, with both due to serve an additional 10 years for robbery to run concurrently. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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A view west up the Grand Union canal at Paddington, from the Wedlake Street footbridge, where the body of Lena Cunningham was spotted
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY:
On Wednesday 22nd July 1942, the body of a woman was pulled from the water right here. She had been missing for more than a week, but no-one had reported her missing. We know her only as Lena Cunningham. How she got here, why she died, and what she was running from is still a mystery, but her death and life was a tragedy which is all too common, but should never have happened.
THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a mustard raindrop at the left of Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
Lena Cunningham found dead in the Grand Union Canal at Harrow Road, Paddington on 22 July, 1942 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258013 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile Today I’m standing beside the Wedlake Street footbridge in Paddington, W9; three roads north-west of the home of Gladys Hanrahan, one road west of the long rest of Minnie Barry, and four roads north of the brutal torture in a Hyde Park flat by a gang of trained dancers - coming soon to Murder Mile Stretching over the Grand Union Canal, the Wedlake Street footbridge is a simple steel structure which lets pedestrians cross to the busy Harrow Road. Being part of the city’s canal-system, some boaters refer to this stretch as ‘bandit country’; as it’s not uncommon to have your boat broken into, to be roughed up by teenage hoods, chatted up by toothless crack addicts, or to crash your boat into a submerged stolen moped while drunks fling dog-shit at your stern and bored kids shoot at your bow with air-rifles. Oh yes, this is a lovely place… but then again, it’s not as bad as Slough. (Hilly-Billy guitar). Hundreds of canal boats pass this stretch every week, chugging through the murky brown churn. With the bend tight and the water shallow, it’s a spot notorious for causing your propellor to get fouled by rubbish in the water; whether by old ropes, bin-bags, dirty rags or – sometimes – a dead body. On Wednesday 22nd July 1942, fifty feet west of the Wedlake Street bridge, the body of a woman was pulled from the water. We know her only as Lena Cunningham. How she got there, why she died, and who she was running from remains a mystery. But her death wasn’t the real tragedy… it was her life. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 180: Lena – Alone and Unloved. These are the opening words of the report into Lena’s death “the deceased was a loathsome type who had been sleeping on the canal bank for some time, she earned a few shillings by prostitution”. In the eyes of an uncaring society; Lena was a nothing, a nobody, no-one cared for her while she was living… …and even less would mourn her when she was dead. Originally built in the 1800s, the Grand Union Canal stretched from Birmingham and London, and was once a vital inland transport link for Britain’s heavy industry. By the 1940s, with bigger roads and faster rail proving more efficient, the waterways were in its death-throws and were on the verge of collapse. Being roughly seven miles from the River Thames, under the Wedlake Street footbridge an average of ten steel boats - six feet wide by seventy feet long and ladened with up to 200 tonnes of cargo – would pass this stretch of the canal every day. At a sedate 3 miles per hour, they were slow but powerful. As a residential area encircled by gas works and factories, the towpath was not the kind of place you hung out, as being unlit and thick with industry, you only went there for work or nefarious purposes. Being a forgotten part of a fast-paced city, the water was far from clean. Having filled with one and a half centuries worth of silt, becoming a dumping ground for builder’s rubble, and with a fine slick of oil and sewage on the surface, the boat’s propellors would churn through a thick brown murky stew. That day, being busier, by 11:30am six boats had navigated this section. Burdened by a tight bend, trained boatmen often drop their speed - as although the canal looks deep - even if the boat was dead-centre, the bottom was only two-to-three feet down, giving the boat’s hull a clearance of a few inches. A skilled captain always listened for the tell-tale sound of scraping against the hull, or an ominous rev and sputter as unseen detritus in the water fouls their propellor, risking a loss of power and steering. Sometimes it can rectify itself as the spinning steel blade rips the sodden rags to shreds, or a discarded rope spools around the propellor but causes no concern. From the rear of the boat, it’s impossible to see many obstructions until they collide. But boatmen expect rags, ropes and even the odd mattress… …but rarely a dead body. It was said that Lena Cunningham was born in Ireland in 1899… …and although these details are vague, not one of them could be true. Lena was a woman with no history. According to Edgar Dench, the last man she had lived with “she said she came from Ireland but I could never find out what she had been doing before I met her”. She had no family photos, no people she called friends and no stories of her struggle or tales of her past. It was estimated she was 42, but given the stresses of her life, she may have looked older. Being just five-foot one-inch tall and weighing eight-stone, her body was both scrawny and bloated, having spent her life half-starved, gorging on scraps and binge-drinking booze to fight off her demons. With her fresh face all weather-beaten, the only colour to her pale skin was the flushing of her cheeks, an unkempt mop of black hair, and - encircling the blue innocence of her eternally reddening eyes - lay two rings of purple bruises, having been beaten by yet another drunk who saw her only as a hole. With a scarred left cheek, an old broken nose, untreated gonorrhoea and a yellow set of dentures held in place by her last black molar, this was a woman who’d had a hard life for a long time. And although her clothes were little more than second-hand rags, she always tried her best to look presentable. Lena was a mystery; unmarried, childless, alone, and yet her name could have been one of six aliases she had used for more than two decades. What little we know of her life comes from her criminal record. But what it does show is a woman who was always running, always hiding and trusted no-one. Most likely, this was her real name, as the first evidence we have that she even existed was on the 13th January 1921, when - possibly aged 22 - she was ‘bound over’ at Marlborough Street Police Court in Soho for theft and four other offences including prostitution, under the name of Lena Cunningham. Across her 21 years of known criminal convictions, she deliberately used aliases which were as vague and forgettable as any other; Lena King, Lucy King, Maggie King, Mary Smith and Iris Smith. But what’s odd is that, at the start of the Second World War, when every British citizen was required to identify themselves under the National Registration Act, Lena Cunningham used the alias of Alice King. Based on her crimes – of more than 80 convictions for prostitution, drunkenness, theft and living rough – Lena was a woman living day-to-day, who was hiding from her past and unable to face her present. She traveled from city-to-city, borough to borough, moving on when her face became too well known to the Police and she never stopped in one place for too long. She was a drifter with no roots; whether in West London, Aldershot, Chichester or Liverpool. And yet, she would never return to Ireland. Like a stuck record, Lena’s life was an endless cess-pool of misery. Arrested simply for trying to survive and unable to pay her fines, repeated months of prison time weren’t a lesson learned but a blessed release. As being behind bars; with a roof over her head, a bed under her back and three-meals-a-day in her belly, inside she had no reason to run. But on the outside, Lena would make herself invisible. On the 22nd June 1931 in Aldershot, she served two months for sleeping in an abandoned shed. Selling her body for 18 pence a punter, each night she would need two men to violate her, to afford her food and lodging. But being a hopeless alcoholic – who squandering her pittance on ‘Red Lizzie’, a cheap fortified wine - most nights she slept wherever she could; like a doorway, a toilet, an alley, or a hedge. As a lost soul with no friends nor enemies, although she was described as a public nuisance, she wasn’t violent or rude, as being a wanderer with no-where to go, she was as memorable as she was forgotten. On the 3rd July 1936 at Brentford, Lena was sentenced to 7 days for being ‘drunk and incapable’. With significant injuries to her face and body – a broken nose, a fractured eye-socket, several cracked ribs and bruises to her throat – for neither the first nor the last time, Lena was attacked by a customer. Considered a common risk for such a dangerous occupation, her assailant was never caught… …and suffering two black eyes, she would be attacked again just a few days before her death. It was a little after 11:30am on Wednesday 22nd July 1942, when Harry Stevens, a labourer working at Globe Wernicke spotted something odd in the water: “I was coming down an iron rung ladder at the back of the works when I saw something floating”. The sky was clear and the canal was muddy brown. It was not uncommon to see black bits of crap bobbing below the oily surface… but this was white. Having telephoned Harrow Road police station, within minutes, PCs Hithersay & Glen had arrived. 10 yards west of the bridge, seeing the unmistakable form on a woman floating face down, with the aid of two grappling irons, they brought her to the bank and laid her cold and lifeless body on the towpath. Police Surgeon Dr Tweddle attended the scene and declared her life as extinct. With her flesh slightly bloated making her eyes thin like mere slits, it was clear she had been in the water for at least a week. For the police, her identity would be a mystery; as she had no handbag, no purse, no papers, no ticket stubs, no tattoos, no photos nor birth marks. And as the dead don’t speak, she could tell them nothing. How she ended up here was impossible for the detectives to tell, as with multiple injuries, each one could have occurred moments before or after she had entered the water, or either side of her death. As for her clothing, at some point before her life was taken, she had been fully dressed. On her feet, all that remained was one black shoe. On both legs was a pair of black tights held up with lace garters. Every inch of skin from her knees to her chest was naked, except for a single ripped sleeve of a brown coat on her right arm, the torn fabric of her blue floral dress which was rolled up and wrapped tightly around her neck like a brightly coloured noose, and – oddly – she had no bra and no knickers. Briefly examined on the bank, she had several unexplained injuries which needed a pathologist’s eye. Along her legs, her back, her buttocks and her breasts were a series of thick deep bruises, and with several ribs broken and her left forearm fractured, it looked as if she crushed under a heavy object. With no canal water in her lungs, it was clear that she hadn’t drowned, but had died of asphyxiation and shock. And although a strange series of identical semi-circular lacerations had sliced up her body from her buttocks to her scalp, the police couldn’t find what weapon would have done such damage. But what was most baffling were the items which were missing; she had no purse, no handbag, no house keys and no jewellery. She didn’t have a savings book and she had no bank notes, and yet hidden in her left garter was a single shilling, and in the ankle of her right stocking, one shilling and six pence. Patrolling the towpath from Paddington Basin to Wormwood Scrubs, the police found several ripped fragments of the victim’s dress in the water, and among a tall patch of grass by Scrubs Lane bridge, a brown felt hat which matched her coat, and two pieces of hard yellow soap wrapped in brown paper. Who she was, where she had come from, and how she had ended up here was all a mystery? But what concerned them the most was this… …having been dead for a week, why had no-one reported her missing? In July 1936, following the assault in Brentford which left her broken and bedridden, unable to earn a shilling for a night’s sleep, Lena was kicked out of a lodging house at 13 Duncan Terrace in Islington. Hobbling and swollen, again Lena drifted to a new part of the city where she was known by no-one – the East London town of Wanstead. Being rough, gloomy and smog-thick with industry, it was the perfect place where a nobody could stay unknown, and yet, it was here that she would find someone. Almost three decades her senior, Edgar Dench was a 69-year-old scrap-metal dealer. With varicose veins and festering ulcers on his legs owing to a lifetime of toil, he struggled to walk unaided. But with no savings to allow him to retire, like Lena, he lived day-to-day with each penny as precious as the last. Living alone in a small wooden hut in the bowels of the scrapyard, Edgar was a lonely man with no-one to love, whose only pleasure in his shitty little life was a pint at The Green Man pub in Leytonstone. One night, being bedraggled but neat having to sleep in a hedge at Epping Forrest, Edgar got chatting to Lena, he bought her a drink of ‘Red Lizzie’, and hearing her plight, they came to a mutual agreement. In return for cooking, cleaning and sorting the rags, for a modest wage of £1 per week, she would get food, warmth, friendship and a bed in his little wooden hut in the scrapyard at 72 Eastern Avenue. As an unassuming little man, Edgar provided a hint of stability in her life and she stayed for six years. She had found a home of sorts, she was rarely arrested, and she had quit selling her body for sex. Finally, Lena had stopped running and hiding…. …but her demons were never far behind. By the 1940s, Edgar was the closest thing that Lena had to a friend or a family, and yet he only knew her as Alice King. When he asked about her upbringing, the tears would flow, so his questions stopped. Edgar was a good man who treated her well and he genuinely loved her, later saying “had it not been for her drinking, I would have married her”. From the darkness, he had given her life a glint of hope and happiness, but after so long living in the wilderness, something in her past would make her run. Every few months, without warning, Lena would vanish. At first, Edgar feared for her safety. But after a few weeks, she always stumbled back; her clothes ragged, her face bruised, and having been arrested for drunkenness, he would pay off her fines. With her bed and belongings in the scrapyard, as well as a man who truly loved her, keen to give her a home but also space, he never reported her missing, as he always knew that she would return… …until one day, she didn’t. With three fines over two weeks and a brief stint at Holloway prison for drunkenness, on Friday 12th June 1942 at 4pm, she was arrested on Cambridge Park Road for being intoxicated and incapable. Fed-up with Lena - as he had done many times before - Edgar asked her to leave. She packed a small leather case with a few essentials, like two pieces of hard yellow soap wrapped in brown paper. From the rag pile, she selected an old but presentable outfit; a blue floral dress, a brown overcoat and a matching felt hat. And in her black leather handbag, she placed her employment papers, her National Registration card, and – to pay the fines that she owed - 30 shillings which Edgar had given her. On the morning of Saturday 13th June 1942, she left the scrapyard having been summoned to attend Stratford Petty Sessions. Only, she didn’t arrive at court, she never paid the fines, she squandered the 30 shillings on ‘Red Lizzie’, and in a different part of town, Lena went back to selling her body for sex. Expecting her to return, one month later, Edgar would only learn of her fate when he read about a dead woman whose body was found floating in the canal, who locals only knew … … as Alice King. An autopsy was conducted by Sir Bernard Spilsbury. With a series of five-inch wounds from her legs to her head; breaks, fractures and crush injuries, he concluded “it was possible she had been knocked down by a car and killed, and that her body had been thrown into the canal, possibly from a bridge”. Police scoured every garage and spoke to each mechanic seeking a damaged car, but found none. They interviewed the landlords of every local lodging house, but no-one knew of her. With a few small bits of food in her stomach, they quizzed every nearby café owner, but no-one could recall her. And as a woman who wanted to remain anonymous, she would be as memorable as she was forgotten. By chance, at Scrubs Lane bridge, just over one mile west of where her body was found, officers found “a deep impression in the tall grass where someone had slept”. Hidden by a brick wall, they spotted Lena’s brown felt hat and a brown overcoat (as later identified by Edgar) and two pieces of hard yellow soap wrapped in brown paper. With her identification and bags missing; either she had been mugged, she had lost them, or someone had stolen them in the week between her death and her discovery. Knowing that this was where she had spent her final night alive… …the Police would piece together the last known movements of Lena Cunningham. First seen one week before her death, Frederick Edmunds, a park-keeper at Wormwood Scrubs who knew the prostitutes who plied their trade there, noticed a “newcomer”; with dark hair, blue eyes and a brown outfit, she went by the name of Alice King and hung out at The Pavilion pub on Wood Lane. On Wednesday 15th July 1942, a month after she had left Edgar, she was seen three times in the pub; the first at 5pm when it opened for evening orders, and at 10:30pm after last orders had been called. Sporting two black eyes, Lena (along with many local prostitutes) picked up men on Wormwood Scrubs Common, as – being war-time – the 172nd AAZ Battery of the Royal Artillery was stationed there. Just shy of 9pm, at the back of the prison, Lena was seen talking to two soldiers through the barbed wire fence. Identified as Gunners Paget & Coulson, they would state “she said she hadn’t had a break all day” – the passing trade was sparce and needing a shilling for a night’s lodging – “she asked if we’d like to come with her for eighteen pence”, Only they said they didn’t take her up on her offer of sex. Having seen her since the Saturday, as always; she was drunk, her clothes were dirty, her bruises were fresh, and with her shoes described as “shoddy”, she walked awkwardly as one shoe had a bad heel. During the night, she was seen with a grey-haired man at the rear of the prison, which may explain why she had coins in her stockings, as the police in Wanstead said that was where she hid her earnings. A few minutes past 10:30pm, Lena was seen by Frederick Edmunds talking to a man as she hobbled on a broken shoe up Wood Lane and towards the canal. It was dark, so he was unable to describe him. At some point during that night, Lena Cunningham would die… …and although Dr Spilsbury had stated his theory that she had been hit by a car and dumped in the canal, based on the police’s investigation, a second autopsy would cause him to revise his conclusion. The deep impression by Scrubs Lane bridge suggested a theory; having taken a man or several back to the canal for sex; she had been paid and had stashed her coins in her stockings (as she did). But being too late and too drunk to seek out a night’s lodging, again, she bedded herself down in the tall grass. Often drinking till she passed out, the autopsy would confirm that seconds before she had died, she had vomited. Staggering to the canal and choking as her last undigested meal had blocked her airways – stumbling on a broken heel – she had slipped, fell and hit her forehead on the canal’s stone edge. Immersed in water, unconscious and unable to breathe, it was the shock and lack of air that killed her. Speaking to the Chief Patrol Officer of the Grand Union Canal who had recovered hundreds of bodies in his 24-year career, he would state “she would have sunk and rolled into the centre of the canal”, which (on some stretches) is heavily silted, murky brown, strewn with rubbish and a few feet deep. Being submerged for several days, the water would have carried her east towards Paddington. With her injuries consistent, the Police identified all of the boats which had traversed this stretch from the 15th and 22nd July. Job Neal, captain of a working boat called The Tyburn would recall his propellor being fouled half-a-mile west at Ladbroke Grove bridge, a few days before her body was found. Examining his hull – as he would do when his engine stalled - around his prop’, he had cut away several thick rolled shreds of a blue floral fabric (having been ripped from Lena’s dress). With his boat sitting two-and-a-half feet below the waterline, it’s likely – with only a few inches clearance – that Lena was hit and rolled underneath his (and certainly several other boats) as the 20 to 200 tonne bulk rolled over her, and their three-foot wide propeller blades cut thick slices up the length of her body. (End) Lena’s details were posted in the newspaper. Coming forward, Edgar would identify her body, and she was later be formally identified as Lena Cunningham owing to the fingerprints in her criminal record. On the 8th August 1942, at Hammersmith Coroner’s Court, the inquest into Lena’s death concluded. The coroner would state “there is no evidence that the deceased met her death as a result of foul play” and as there were insufficient fact to suggest a suicide or accident, he recorded an ‘open verdict’. How she died, when and why shall always remain a mystery to everyone, but Lena. With it mentioned in the press that she had money on her person and no known next-of-kin, several men claimed to be her husband and the rightful heir to her money, but found to be liars, those two shillings and six-pence went to pay for her burial, in an unmarked communal grave in Paddington. In life she was invisible, in death she wasn’t even seen as human. In the police report which described her as “loathsome type”, it would state “the idea that such a wretched creature was raped is out of the question, owing to her known immoral character and the fact that all she was known to charge was 18 pence, with many of her clients more or less of not much of a better class in life than herself”. Lena may not have had much, but she was worth more. As a woman fleeing the horrors of her past - maybe as a child in Ireland - she deserved a better life and – at least – a hint of happiness. But unable to trust others (even those who gave her a home), Lena would die as she had lived - alone and unloved. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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Maryland Road, similar houses and the nearest point to there 3 Rundell Road once stood
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-NINE:
In a small basement front room of 3 Rundell Road in Maida Hill once lived a little family; 26-year-old chambermaid Minnie Barry, her fiancé 24-year-old porter Frederick Sorensen and their 3 year old son Frederick. Times were hard, money was tight, and – as a truly diligent woman with a big heart and a focus to provide for her family – she got them through the toughest of times, but only just. But everybody has a breaking point. Everybody reaches their limit. And on Wednesday 28th June 1933, Minnie’s happened right here.
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MEPO 3/1685, Murder of Minnie Barry on 28 June 1933 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257727 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on what was once Rundell Road in Maida Hill, W9; three streets north-east of the home of Gladys Hanrahan, one street north-west of the registry office where Blackout Ripper got married, and a short walk from the lonely demise of Lena Cunningham - coming soon to Murder Mile. Maida Hill is a hotch-potch of mismatched buildings reflecting the area’s changing fortune, so among the council flats, stone churches and three-storey Victorian terraces you’re as likely to see a rude boy popping wheelies on a stolen e-scooter cussing “me is wicked, you get me?”, as an opera bore tuts at “that disrespectful rapscallion” as the sleeve of his silk housecoat shuffles to a set of nudie etchings. Between Oakington, Maryland and Thorngate Roads now stands Paddington Academy. But back in the 1930s, through the middle of this secondary school once stood Rundell Road; two lines of tumbledown houses sub-divided into cramped lodgings for working-class families living on a pitiful little wage. In a small basement room at 3 Rundell Road lived 26-year-old chambermaid Minnie Barry, her fiancé Frederick Sorensen and their 3-year-old son Freddy Jnr. For Minnie, money was short, but being so focused on providing for her family, she got them through the toughest of times… but only just. Minnie would fight a brave fight to keep her family from the gutter, and although Wednesday 28th June 1933 would start like any other day, everybody has a breaking point and hers would happen here. It was a day which began with breakfast… and descended into death. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 179: Minnie. We all have a temper. For some, it sits way down deep barely making a ripple. Whereas for others, its sits simmering on the surface forever bubbling like a boiling pot of scolding soup on a hot stove. Being so close to spilling over, when tempers flare, all it takes is one more lick of a flame for someone to get hurt in a fight sparked by something small; like a cruel word, an off look, or even the last slab of butter. With the Great Depression consigned to the past and Adolf Hitler little more than a mild nuisance on the horizon, seen as a time of mechanical evolution, 1933 saw the land speed record break 100mph at Brooklands and one of the country’s first power stations was connected up to the National Grid. Britain was entering the modern age, but it was only available to those who could afford it. For the working-classes stuck in a Victorian era, many were only ever a pay day away from starvation. Life was a slog. With a six-day working week, lunch breaks non-existent for another 40 years and sick pay not mandatory for another half century; if you didn’t work, you didn’t earn and you didn’t eat. Wednesday 28th June 1933 was an ordinary day for 26-year-old Minnie Barry. The sun was bright, the wind was light, and outside – three hours past sunrise – the city was awake and grinding into action. 3 Rundell Road was a standard three-storey Victorian terrace, owned by local solicitor Herbert Blake. As a neat little lodging for those on a low-wage, all of the tenants were married couples and families. For Minnie, it was a good place to raise her child; it was quiet, safe and clean… but it wasn’t much. As a small single room, 17 feet wide by 12 feet deep, it was barely big enough for a double bed, a small table for family meals, and a solitary armchair for one person to rest in. With no electricity nor running water; the gas lights gave a dull yellow glow, in front of the fire lay an endless line of damp clothes, and - in the washstand - the same bowl was used to flannel their faces as to clean the dirty crockery. With a tiny front window half obscured by the pavement, this dark little box had been their home for a little over a year, but it was all they could afford on the meagres wages they both brought in. At 7am, as per usual, while Frederick silently washed his face and their son 3-year-old Freddy Jnr slept in their bed after a fitful night, Minnie prepared her family a simple breakfast of bread and butter. The mood was tense, and they had argued many times before… …only this time, Minnie would be pushed too far. She was born Minnie Perkins in 1907. Raised in a small two-storey terrace at 24 Percy Street in Jarrow, an industrial town five miles east of Newcastle in the north east of England; life was a constant struggle for her father Samuel a labourer, her mother Edith a housewife and their six children, all under ten. As the second youngest of the siblings, Minnie was doted on but never spoiled. No matter how young, as a tight unit, every child had a duty to perform and a job to do to keep the family safe and warm. Educated to the age of 14, like her sisters, Minnie entered domestic service becoming a chambermaid at several guesthouses in neighbouring towns. Always being polite, conscientious and diligent, it was rare that Minnie was out of work and - if she was - she was swiftly rehired or recommended elsewhere. She was a young girl living a hard life … but she fought through it all by being calm, honest and patient. And although such a good woman deserved a nice life and a decent husband… …it was not to be. In 1925, aged 18, Minnie gave birth to a baby called Edith; a sweet little girl who she adored but knew that she could never keep. It was a bond which should never be broken, but being unmarried and with the unnamed father having fled, the cruel morals of a judgmental society had given her no choice. As a single mother - whose sin was cruelly deemed to be her doing, not his - she would struggle to get even the basics to survive; no work, no money, no support and no lodging. As many families did, her child was adopted by her grandmother in the hope of giving them both a better chance at life. Moving out of Jarrow in search of better work, Minnie saw her daughter as often as she could and never once forgot to send a letter home to say she loved her, to post a little gift to make her smile, or – from her miniscule wage – to support her upbringing as best she could on what little she made. Keen to find a husband – as a 1920s woman did not exist unless she was a wife - on the 24th February 1927, near the seaside town of Blackpool, 20-year-old Minnie married 22-year-old William Barry. As a night porter, they met at work, they fell in love and moved into a tiny lodging in Lytham St Annes. Like her later room in Rundell Road, it wasn’t much, but (as she always did) Minnie made it a home. Only, this little lodging was less like a place of warmth and love, and more like a cold empty prison. Like a bad apple, William was rotten to the core; a lazy man who did as little as little can do, a useless drunk who pissed every penny up the nearest wall, and a wretched mess who was handy with his fists. Beaten black and blue, Minnie tried her best to cling on in the hope of building a better life for herself; as a wife with a loyal husband and a daughter they could raise as their own, but it was not to be. With a criminal record for indecent assault, and later being convicted of threats and blackmail, just six months into their unhappy marriage, Minnie fled their home, the town and she would never return. It was her hope that William would be long gone, but – even whilst he was locked-up in prison – the law made it so he could still make her life hell. As a battered woman, she could abandon him. But as a wife, she couldn’t divorce him without the money to do so, or his say so… which she would not get. At the beginning of January 1928, Minnie Barry moved to London; she got a job as a chambermaid at the Rutland Hotel at 63 Lancaster Gate in Bayswater, she started to rebuild her shattered life, and it was here – having fallen for a basement porter called Frederick - that she would finally find love. For Minnie, this was a fresh start in a new city… … but later driving her to snap… …this beginning would mark their end. A little after 9am on Wednesday 28th June 1933, PC Quinnell of Harrow Road police station descended the stone stairs at 3 Rundell Road and entered the small basement room of Minnie Barry, Frederick Sorensen and their 3-year-old son Freddy Jnr - it was an ordinary lodging of an unremarkable family. The room was as they had left it a little over one hour before. The bed was unmade as if a small figure had been peacefully sleeping, as - to the side - lay a few little toys where a young boy had recently enjoyed (possibly) his last ever playtime with both parents. Around a wooden table were three wooden chairs where a family once sat for breakfast; three cold cups of tea with one still full to the brim but two others little more than dregs, a cutting board, a slicing knife, a still warm loaf of bread and a ceramic dish containing a fresh block of butter with a corner cut. Except for a yellow greasy smear and several white crumbs upon the blades, the knives were clean. At the washstand – beside a cut-throat razor, a bar of soap and a tub of laundry powder – the sink was empty, but the wooden floorboards bore the tell-tale signs of wetting, as a drizzle and a constant drip led to the lit gas-fire, as five – still slightly damp - black silk stockings hung freely on the fireguard. For PC Quinnell and Divisional Detective Inspector Worth (who would head up the investigation) there were no signs of a break-in, a struggle or an assault. Everything was as to be expected… … except in the armchair lay a corpse. At 9:10am, Dr Mayberry arrived and declared life as extinct. It was odd, as the body looked so peaceful, so silent. Sat upright, with legs straight and bare feet inches from the fire, it was as if the flames were still keeping its toes all toasty warm, and yet everything else began to cool, being already dead. Had it not been for a coloured cloth covering its face, the detectives may have mistaken the body for someone merely sleeping, and yet – when unveiled - its head would tell a very different story… …of how an ordinary family breakfast had led to a brutal murder. Frederick Sorensen was one of three children raised by Frederick, a Danish national and Rachel a native of Jarrow (where Minnie grew up). Born in 1909 in South Shields, his father was a merchant seaman and – like Minnie, and millions of other working-class women – his sisters went into domestic service. Although living and working in London, their mutual upbringing would prove a perfect match as it gave them both a chance to see their families, and especially for Minnie, to see her 8-year-old daughter. As a boy, Frederick was described as quiet, passive and often a little distant. He had begun life fit and well with no illnesses or diseases. But at the age of seven, he suffered an unexplained haemorrhage to the sinuses, which left him with a distant gaze, memory loss and partial deafness in both ears. At times, being unable to hear what was said to him, this made his temper quick and his mood sullen. Beginning life as a rivet catcher in the South Shields Docks, aged 19, when work was slack, he uprooted to London seeking a better wage and he found himself a job as a basement porter at the Rutland Hotel. It was here that Minnie met Frederick and they fell in love… …only every day of their four years together would be a struggle… …right up to the point of when she snapped. As an exemplary employee, Minnie was swiftly promoted to Staff Maid, a senior position on a higher wage which afforded a simple but a better standard of living for herself, and for her daughter back home. Life was going in the right direction; a good job, a decent wage and a potential husband-to-be. For the first year, they lived at The Rutland Hotel, as free room and board came with the job; the hours were long, the work was hard, they saw each other little, but it gave them a taste for living together. Only, an unexpected change in their circumstances would force them to rethink their situation. In February 1930, their son – Frederick – was born in Balham Hospital; he was good, quiet and healthy. With both parents working, earning and doting upon him, he would have had a good life. But with William Barry having been released from prison, and still refusing to grant Minnie a divorce, her marriage to Frederick would remain in limbo, limiting their rights and branding their son as a bastard. To disguise their shame; she wore a brass ring as if it was gold, they went by the title of Mr & Mrs, they lived as man and wife, and their son was christened with both names, as Frederic Sorensen Barry. It was a ruse which made life a little easier, but - as a regular bone of contention - they often fought. In May 1932, this small family moved into the front basement room at 3 Rundell Road; a dark airless box barely big enough for a singleton, but Minnie made it a home as best she could. Together they could afford the rent of 9 shillings a week, and as they always paid on time, their life had some stability. For Minnie, she had always held onto her jobs as she was calm, honest and patient… …but burdened by deafness – although he was liked – Frederick’s temper often got him into trouble. Having been dismissed from the Rutland Hotel, Frederick had moved from job-to-job; a few months at the Lindus Court on Cromwell Road, three weeks at the Hotel Elizabeth, five weeks at the Park Royal in Paddington, and eight months at the Hyde Park Hotel on Queensborough Terrace in Bayswater. Earning a decent wage as a kitchen porter on 25 shillings a week, the family were doing well. That was until the 16th July 1932, when – in a trivial spat over a word his partially deaf ears had misheard - in what he often described as “a spasm”, he unleashed a volley of fists at the chef. The fight was short and both men apologised, but with his pride being hurt, Frederick left his job. For the sake of the family, Minnie begged him to return as they needed both wages, but he wouldn’t. With a patchy employment record, regular work was hard to come by. Across the following year, he did odd stints as a labourer, a painter and a shop assistant, but from the August of 1932 onwards, Frederick was forced to sign on at the Labour Exchange and relied heavily on benefits and handouts. Even with two wages, money was always tight; rent was 9 shillings a week, food was 12 shillings, 7 shillings a week was sent to raise to her daughter, and earning just 23 shillings a week - even with public assistance - Minnie would struggle to buy her family the basics; like bread, milk, tea and butter. By the end of May 1933, four weeks before the murder, she hadn’t enough money to pay the rent. Since the Christmas last, Minnie had taken on extra work as a kitchen assistant at Lyon’s & Co, and as an assistant at several shops in Kilburn. It was a little extra cash to help them get through life, but all these extra hours would put an immense pressure on her strength, her energy and her patience. Working long hours, she paid for a babysitter while Frederick was (supposedly) out seeking a job… … but feeling exhausted, as her cool demeanour slipped away, a temper began to bubble underneath. To Minnie, Frederick had given up. Depressed and living off dole money, he always made an excuse as to why he couldn’t work - “the pay’s crap”, “it’s miles away”, “it’s not what I want to do”, always thinking of his needs and never once putting himself forward as the breadwinner of this little family. And yet, her stresses were only beginning, as by the start of June, Minnie was two-months pregnant. With life getting harder and money no longer stretching as far – as an industrious woman - she did her best to buy the food, to pay the bills and to keep the house clean. But she didn’t have seven shillings to send to her daughter, and – already three weeks late – the nine shillings to pay this week’s rent. In their cupboard; the bread was down to the crusts, the tea leaves were reused so often the brew was pale and tasteless, and the pitiful knob of butter in the ceramic dish was barely enough for two. Minnie had held this family together, where-as Frederick had given-up; he frittered his hours away, he loafed about, he rarely helped, and as his temper spiked - like William - he beat her black and blue A few days before, in his coat pocket, Minnie found his diary. Had he merely scrawled a few bad words about her or had maybe named a woman he was seeing on the side, she wouldn’t have been surprised. But inside, she saw something which made her seethe – a stack of betting slips for horses, dogs and football matches, having squandered the last vestiges of the cash they didn’t have and couldn’t afford. On the surface, Minnie tried to remain calm… …but on the inside, she was already fuming. The morning of Wednesday 28th June 1933 began like any other; a bright sky but etched with gloom. Having had a fitful night, 3-year-old Freddie hadn’t slept a wink, and as he tossed and turned, neither had his parents. Leaving him to snooze in their small shared bed, Minnie & Frederick began their day. For Minnie, it would be another endless slog of utter exhaustion; with a house to clean, shopping to do, three jobs to hold down and a pot of money she would somehow have to magic out of thin air. As for Frederick, he washed his face and made his excuses, but she knew he wouldn’t go looking for work. Upon the table, lay three pale cups of tea, three thin crusts of bread, and under the lid of the ceramic dish lay a pitiful blob of butter, which – if spread painfully thin – might cover two slices, but not three. Arguing quietly so as to not wake their son, Frederick blamed Minnie for not buying enough butter, Minnie blamed Frederick as it was his gambling which had left them broke, and – in a fit of petulance – Frederick snatched a few pennies from her purse and stormed out into the bustle of Rundell Road. It may seem like nothing, but this was the spark which would ignite the fury. With him gone, Minnie washed her black silk stockings in the sink and placed all six on the fireguard. Just shy of 8am, Frederick returned with a fresh loaf, a block of butter and - sitting in absolute silence, unable to look at one another - they ate their bread and supped their tea as the young boy slept. Sometimes, a long silence can pacify a fight as the warring sides slowly see sense. But still furious, as he had dared to blame her for the situation that they were in… … it was then that Minnie snapped. (Silence, building tension, and then Minnie mumbles) “you’re lazy”. And that was it. As a calm and patient woman, her temper rarely surfaced beyond a cruel word she would quickly regret; followed by a tear, a silence and an apology. Minnie was not a bubbling pot of rage or spite; she was just a good woman with a feckless boyfriend who knew that she deserved better. Only, better would never come. Enraged at a trivial spat over a word his partially deaf ears had misheard - once again, in what he would describe as “a spasm” – (Frederick): “I saw the hammer lying on the mantle shelf. I got hold of it and swung it wildly at her” – the steel head of the hard hammer fracturing her skull above her right ear. “She shouted ‘Freddy’ and clawed at my face. I put my fingers round her throat and kept pressing. I saw a black silk stocking on the fireguard, I grabbed it and slipped it round her neck and pulled it hard. I did not realise there was any blood until I saw it on the floor… then I realised she was dead”. (END) Still sleeping, realising his 3-year-old son could wake at any moment and see his mother dead, “I picked her up, I put her in the chair, and I covered her face with a cloth because I didn’t want him to see her”. As his boy awoke, Frederick went about their morning as regular as any other; he washed the boy’s face, he got him dressed, he gave him a breakfast of a thick slice of bread slathered with a hearty knob of butter, as - beside him - his mother lay silent and still, propped up in an armchair. His father’s ruse being to say “mummy’s asleep, she’s very tired, let her nap” – and this woman would sleep forever. At 8:50am, Frederick left 3 Rundell Road never to return, and - clutching his son’s hand for one last time – he entered Harrow Road police station and told the officer “I think I have done my wife in”. Arrested at 11am, Frederick Sorensen would make a full confession to the murder of Minnie Barry. Tried at the Old Bailey on 22nd September 1933 before Mr Justice Swift, his defence had discovered an inflammation in his skull (caused during his childhood) which led to his deafness and mood swings, but being declared as sane, he was found guilty and was sentenced to death. Having lodged an appeal, Frederick Sorensen later had his sentenced reduced to life in prison, which he served at Pentonville. And that’s it. We all have a temper. For some, it sits way down deep barely making a ripple. Whereas for others, it sits simmering on the surface forever bubbling like a boiling pot of scolding soup on a hot stove. As their tempers frayed; Minnie lost her life, Frederick killed his lover and a little family was destroyed forever. As in many arguments, their fight had a multitude of facets, and yet, as their rage built, all it took was a single spark to end in death, being over something as simple… as a knob of butter. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-EIGHT:
On the morning of Sunday 17th September 1972, in Room 11, 68-year-old Emmy Werner was found dead in the bed of Room 11 in the Queen’s Hotel, Bayswater. Having locked her door from the inside – gaining entry - someone had beaten, suffocated and strangled her. It was a cruel and motiveless crime on a defenseless old lady, which remains unsolved to this day. But who had killed her, and why?
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
COURT RECORDS - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11039420 COURT RECORDS - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11039421 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. (Long pause, street and siren). At roughly 1pm on Sunday 17th September 1972, a chambermaid found the body of 68-year-old Emmy Werner, behind the locked door of Room 11 at the Queen’s Hotel. Having been subjected to six years under Nazi occupation, three years in a concentration camp, a decade in psychiatric care owing to the trauma she had suffered and half a lifetime of mental illness, this little dot of a lady had endured so much and yet she deserved to find peace in her declining years. In a break from the nursing home she disliked, on a quiet side-street in Bayswater, she found a small sliver of sanctuary by staying at a cheap little guesthouse called The Queen’s Hotel. In her own words; the rooms were clean, the staff were nice and she felt safe among the people she saw as friends. Emmy was a frail old lady who was battling dementia… and although some of the staff genuinely cared about her welfare; for others, her frail body, confused brain and deafness made her an easy-target The evidence you are about to hear has never been released, many of the witnesses’ descriptions may include perspective rather than fact, and to protect the innocent the names have been abbreviated. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 178: The Night Porter – Part Three. The Police knew there were several undeniable truths about the man who murdered Emmy Werner. Having entered her locked bedroom without breaking-in, he had prior knowledge of the fault with the balcony door, the acute deafness of his victim and the large sums of cash in her purse. By trade, he was not a professional burglar (as he carried no tools-of-his-trade) but a cocky amateur who had crept into hotel rooms many times before, to steal as his victims slept soundly in their beds… …only this time, the occupant had awoken. It was never believed that his intention was murder; but having been startled awake, seeing his face and (possibly) knowing his name, in a fit of panic he had beaten, strangled and suffocated her. Fleeing, with very little, if anything, his selfishness had resulted in the slow and painful death of an elderly lady. As in all investigations, the Police questioned the staff… in particular, the night porter. Paddy had been the night porter at The Queen’s Hotel for ten weeks. Hailing from Ireland, he had taken over from the previous night porter who was dismissed, although we shall never know why. On the night of Saturday 16th September 1972, Paul the 16-year-old day porter would recall “Paddy was drunk when he arrived. I said to him ‘you’re a bit pissed’. He said ‘I am a lot pissed’. I told him he was too fucking pissed to take over, but he said ‘he couldn’t go to bed because ‘they’ (his cousins Barry & Maureen who were not paying guests) were having a jump around’. Unable to stay in Room 45, as they were shagging, being at a loose end, a sozzled Paddy came to reception and continued to drink. “Paddy said he was starving. I said I’d go to the Wimpy on Queensway. I got him two cheeseburgers, a bag of chips and I went back to the hotel and gave them to him. Except for the sleeping staff and guests, this brief gap left Paddy alone in the hotel in and around the time Emmy that was attacked. Paddy partly paid for his food with a £20 note. Where he got this money from was never determined, although by running a little scam in which he (allegedly) let out rooms to guests off-the-book and kept the cash, that night he gave Paul & Patricia the chambermaid £5 between them to keep them sweet. Being drunk and alone, with a weak alibi and a dubious sum of money, Paddy was a prime suspect. Police investigated his movements that night, but being unable to find anything to connect him to the evidence obtained at the crime scene, Paddy was ruled out. On the balcony, detectives had found a fingerprint, only it was not his. No particles of black bitumen had attached to his clothes or boots. The saliva found on the cigarette’s filter-tip (possibly left by her killer) was from a Group A secreter, but he was Group B. And none of Emmy’s blood, skin or hair were found on his clothes or under his nails. The Police still believed the night porter was her killer, only that night, Paddy was not the night porter… …as having traded shifts as Paddy was drunk, the night porter was Paul. Born in the mid-fifties in Middlesbrough, an industrial town on the north-east coast of England, his father was a hard-working docker in the local shipyards, as his disabled mother raised him at home. Aged three, tragedy struck when on the day after his brother’s birth, his mother died of heart failure. With this small family in chaos as the lynchpin of their unit was gone, Paul and his three siblings were adopted by their grandmother, who raised them as her own in her pre-war terraced council house. Seen as elderly (in his eyes), she gave him the love and stability this young boy needed, and by all who knew him; he was intelligent, alert and articulate, and wasn’t disturbed by the trauma of his past. That year, his father remarried, and although Paul spoke fondly of his grandmother and affectionately of his father, his one later regret was that “I never gave my step-mother a chance”. This wasn’t a wild and angry kid out for revenge, as even he would state “I felt inferior… and wanted to better myself”. Life was going okay; he had gained a place at grammar school and his future looked promising. But in 1969, when he was 14, his grandmother died. She was his everything. Paul would later state “I never had a family, just replacements of a family… they all died, all my life I’ve been getting over it”. Still being only a kid, he moved back in with his father and step-mother but the atmosphere was tense. He lived briefly with his uncle, but being arrested in May 1971 for burglary and theft - escaping with a £5 fine - he personally asked Social Services to put him in a Youth Hostel. As a young lad on the streets with a criminal conviction who had begun experimenting with drugs, his life could have hit the skids… …only he wasn’t seeking self-destruction or revenge, what he wanted was excitement. On 10th January 1972, Paul got a job as a porter and handyman at The Queen’s Hotel; the hours were easy, the pay was okay and with food and board included, the rest he spent on fun. In his spare time, he joined a band (playing guitar and harmonica), he got gigs as a roadie (with his dream to tour with the Rolling Stones), he hitchhiked across the UK in June to July, and in August he returned to the hotel. Like many at the hotel, he was a typical young lad looking for new experiences; he liked music, fashion, drink and sex, and – amidst this like-minded group of kids in an adult’s world – he found a new family. When arrested on the charge of murder, his family found it impossible to comprehend that he could be capable of such violence, being described as “passive with no tendencies towards aggression” … …but for the police, Paul was their prime suspect. By August 1972, when Paul had returned from hiking and was back at the hotel earning a few quid for his next adventure, Emmy had already become a well-liked regular. As a friend of Linda, Paul joined them both for meals, he collected her post and they chatted in the hotel lounge most evenings over a light bedtime snack of cheese, crackers and a cup of tea. It was like having a grandmother once again But was this a new friendship which was blossoming… …or (as the police would suspect) a burglar simply choosing his next victim? On the night of the murder - with Paddy apparently too pissed to do his duty as the night porter - Paul called Osmond (who was sick in his bed) and asked “can I take Paddy’s shift?”. A noble act, and yet; Paddy remained at reception during the night, Paul already had plans to meet his pals (which he would do), and Paul himself was sick with a cold, sneezing and blowing his nose into fistfuls of toilet tissue. The police felt this was unusual, although it had some logic. On previous visits, as an elderly lady who struggled to climb stairs unaided, Emmy had regularly stayed in Room 17, next-door to Osmond. But being almost full that weekend, she was place in Room 11 - a room in which the balcony doors could not be locked unless Paul had held it shut with a 5p piece, and - as the hotel’s handyman - a job which Paul was either scheduled to repair, or deliberately didn’t? Again, the police felt this was unusual, but (given how badly this guesthouse was run) it had logic. When questioned, Paul admitted that he (and other members of staff) would enter hotel rooms via the French windows on the balcony, stating; “yes, a lot of times, guests get locked out and I had to climb up to let them in”. When Detectives asked “have you had to do this for Room 11?”, Paul replied “nearly every room. I know you’re thinking about fingerprints, but mine are all over the place”. Fingerprints were found on the balcony, but none of them were Paul’s. As a dysfunctional hotel run by disinterested kids earning a pittance and a manager with other things on his mind, their complacency had clearly rubbed-off on each other. For Emmy, she saw this cheap little hotel as a safe haven and the staff as her friends, but what she didn’t witness was its darker side… … a dark side which may have got her killed. Among some of the staff, The Queen’s Hotel had a bad attitude which was encouraged. With this being more of a job than a career; many bunked off work, turned up drunk and let mates stay over for free. Ziggy & Garnot, two German pals of Paul’s admitted “we were sitting in the TV room, the phone rang once, then stopped. That was a pre-arranged signal from Paul that the manager was coming. We ran out and waited till Paul said it was safe”. Admittedly, his actions were no worse than any other petty-minded teenager pushing the boundaries. But was he protecting his friends, or (as the police would suspect) was this a way to ensure that the hotel was clear of guests? Being sick in bed, Osmond stated he never left his room all night, which means between 11:30pm and 2am, Paul was mostly alone. That said, many of the staff engaged in little side-lines which were not only wrong, but illegal. According to Rosemary, the chambermaid who Cathy replaced “after a few days, everyone was sitting at the table and openly talking about what they were doing at the hotel in a way as a fiddle…”. It was said that the scams began at the top. “Osmond the manager always had things in his room, like teddy bears, watches, cameras, jewellery, everything”. It was a like an Aladdin’s cave of stolen goods. Staff routinely stole from guest’s suitcases (which is how they knew that Mr James owned a bondage whip), and as is a habit in some hotels – when guests were rude – their toothbrush was inserted anally. The hotel did a roaring trade in illicit drugs, whatever you wanted, they could get; cannabis, speed and LSD, partially bought from Tappy, a mate of Osmond who claimed he was a roadie. Which was one of the reasons the police had so few witnesses to the murder, as some of the staff were drunk or high. Another possible reason was that the hotel sold sex. According to Amy “Paul slept with the prostitutes, as well as Linda and Patricia”, and as stated by Rosemary “Osmond had Cindy the chambermaid sacked because she had been one of his prostitutes for the guests, and he refused to give her a bigger cut”. But the main scam among the staff were the thefts. Several staff attested that Paul – the 16-year-old with a conviction for burglary – often bragged about his unblemished record when it came to theft. “He boasted about getting into guests’ bedrooms and stealing things while they were asleep”, asked why they never saw him, he said ‘he was too clever’“. To ensure the guest’s personal possessions were safe, according to the Gunhilde the housekeeper, “there should only have been three master keys which opened every door; one for the manager, one for myself and one kept at reception… but everybody had a master key, Osmond had a bunch of them”. Besides, Paul knew how to creep about undetected. When asked why no-one heard him stealing from rooms “he said it was because of his plimsolls. He used to sneak up, so quiet, behind you and put his hands on your shoulders… he was really creepy. I asked him if he had any close calls and he said ‘never’. But like everyone who is young, cocky and inexperienced… …sometimes luck can bite you back. According to Rosemary “he got a kick out of it. I saw him with cameras, jewellery, etc, he always had rolls of money and spent a lot. Paul told me he knew which guests had money and which would wake up… he said he mostly went into women’s rooms because they left their jewellery out at night”. And to ensure they wouldn’t awake as he crept about, he would pick the easiest of targets… …like frail old ladies who were deaf and suffered with dementia. But it was the sadism inflicted on Emmy which led the police to their prime suspect. If a burglar had been disturbed, he was most likely to flee or batter his victim to silence them. Whereas Emmy was gagged, suffocated and strangled in a slow painful torture which would have taken minutes to die. He seemed such a passive young boy, but to those who knew him, Paul also had a sinister side. Mowan, a former receptionist said “he was obsessed, he talked all the time of how he would strangle people. He told me one day about how he had strangled one of the chambermaids with her own hair”. Only, he wasn’t a man who was “all mouth, no trousers”, kinky sex was what he liked. Diana, also a former receptionist at The Queen’s Hotel told the police of an incident which occurred just three days before Emmy’s murder: “I went to my bed in Room 43 at about 1am. I woke up when Paul came into my room. The door lock didn’t work. He sat on the bed, lit a cigarette and said he felt like doing something naughty. I was tired and uninterested. He said “I think I’ll tie you up”. He took the bootlaces from his boots, he tied my wrists and ankles, he placed a towel over my head in the form of a hood. It almost smothered me… I could not remove it was because my hands were tied and he was sitting astride me” – a method of strangulation not too dissimilar to how Emmy would die. Of course, Paul was never charged with any of these offenses… …which begs the question, was any of it true? On Thursday 14th September 1972 at roughly 10:30pm, Emmy entered the Queen’s Hotel. As a regular, she was dressed in a brown cardigan (later used to bind her wrists) and a woolly mohair scarf (used to gag her screams and shut-off her breath). In her hand she carried a bag filled with items of little value to anyone but her; some clothes, some tissues, a box of TUC crackers and a bottle of jasmine perfume. The Queen’s Hotel was where Emmy felt safe, among a staff of kids she saw as friends. Greeted by Angela the receptionist, Paul, the young day-porter telephoned Linda in her room to tell her “Mrs W’s here”, as Emmy had promised to take her to the theatre. And although blighted by a cold and blowing his nose into fistfuls of toilet tissue, Paul assisted Emmy and her bag to Room 11. Emmy was liked… but it’s possible she had already been marked as an easy target. Osmond admitted he didn’t like her: “she was a little bit senile and I thought she was rather pathetic. I got the impression that she had money”. But what he liked was that she always paid her bill in cash. Emmy was not wealthy, but like many pensioners with money worries, she trusted notes over banks. Back in August, Amy a former chambermaid recalled “an old woman was staying in Room 17, she had a German accent. She had a lot of money but she looked very poor. Whilst she was showing me some photographs, she took her purse out which had loads of money in it… afterwards Paul remarked ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of that’… one time I found her purse while cleaning the TV room, I handed it back to her and Paul said I was stupid. He asked ‘did she have a lot?”, I said ‘it was full, I couldn’t close it’. The next day, as Emmy came down to breakfast, the staff remarked that she didn’t look well. She said she hadn’t slept a wink as she thought “someone was trying to get into her room”. That night, “she slept in all of her clothes and had put a table against the door”. As a confused old lady who was prone to losing things, although she thought she’d had some money stolen, this was dismissed as senility. In her eyes, why would the staff steal from her? They were her friends. But were they? Amy would also state: “Paul was always taking the Micky”, and as a vulnerable lady whose traumatic life and mental illness often caused her to repeat what others had said, “he mocked her, saying she was like a parrot”. But most of all, “he always watched her, especially when she opened her purse”. That night, as Emmy checked-in to The Queen’s Hotel, she wasn’t placed in her usual room, Room 17. But Room 11, a small first-floor bedroom with a balcony and a set of French doors which didn’t lock. This could have been a coincidence, or it could have been deliberate? At 9pm, on Saturday 17th September, Emmy & Linda returned from the theatre, they chatted in the lounge with Paul & Patricia, and at 11:05pm, Linda escorted her to Room 11 and went to bed herself. Most of the guests and staff were asleep, Paddy was drunk, Ziggy & Garnot were awaiting Paul’s call, Barry & Maureen were shagging and there would be next-to-no witnesses to Paul’s alibi or the murder, as that night, in his basement room; Patricia, Ziggy, Garnot and Paul would each drop a tab of LSD. With no eye-witnesses, the Police could only go on the evidence found at the crime-scene. By his own history, 16-year-old Paul had one conviction for burglary, he was frequently seen with stolen goods and he boasted of creeping into guests’ bedrooms as they slept to steal their belongings. As a porter, he could access master keys. As a handyman, it was his job to undertake repairs. And as staff, he knew Emmy was in a room with a broken lock, on a night that the hotel was unbearably hot. That night, the man who entered Emmy’s room as she slept got away with very little, if at all. Possibly a few pounds, but missing was a bottle of jasmine perfume, similar to one later found in Paul’s room. The day after her murder, the Police doctor examined Paul and found several bruises, a day to two old; upon his arms, wrists and fists which he could not explain – but we know that Emmy fought back. Upon the floor, a cigarette’s filter-tip was retrieved and examined; the brand was John Player Special (the type Paul smoked), and the saliva was from a Group A (HP 2-1) secretor – the same as Paul’s. But none of this was cold hard fact, as every piece of evidence also had a logic and a reason. Paul would admit that his fingerprints would be found in the room, but they weren’t. Not a single print of his was; so, either they had been wiped away, or as a porter who wore gloves, he left none? With only one entry point, the Police knew Emmy’s killer had walked particles of black bitumen (used to waterproof the balcony) across the carpet, to the bed, to the wardrobe and inside of her bedsheet as he had straddled her during her beating and strangulation. But retrieved a few days later – although he was on her balcony as the fire engines went past - no particles were found on his clothes or shoes. When examined, none of Emmy’s skin, blood, saliva or fibres was found on Paul. And as a boy with a cold who repeatedly sniffled and sneezed that night, although fistfuls of identical toilet tissue - which her killer had stuffed down Emmy’s throat to suffocate her - was found in his room and in his pockets, it was a standard white toilet paper, kept in the hotel storeroom and used by every guest or staff in every room. And besides, Paul wasn’t the only staff member with a cold that day, as so was Osmond. That aside, for Emmy’s murder, the Police felt they had enough evidence to convict… (End) …only they didn’t. From the 5th to the 12th February 1973, Paul was tried at The Old Bailey on the charges of robbery and murder. Standing before Mr Justice Eveleigh, and defended by Mr Mayhew QC, he pleaded not guilty. Across the five-day trial, witnesses included family, friends, staff, pathologists, forensic scientists, a psychiatrist to determine Paul’s state of mind and medical experts as to the effects of LSD on memory. Throughout Paul held firm of his innocence, and said that if released, his father had agreed to take him back, and given his age, they asked that he be placed under a care order, rather than in a prison. But it was all academic. With no witnesses and no fingerprints, his movements vague and her time of death sketchy, with the cigarette tip not proven to be his and the perfume not proven to be Emmy’s, and – more importantly – not a single person having seen him enter Room 11? With the evidence determined to be purely circumstantial, on the 12th February 1973, Paul the day porter was acquitted. Through the hardships of her life, Emmy had struggled and survived through unimaginable horror. Like many, physically she had survived the holocaust, but mentally she was scarred till the day she died. As an old vulnerable lady, she believed she had found sanctuary and friendship in a little guesthouse in Bayswater… only to be preyed on by the epitome of selfish evil, for a few pounds she didn’t have. This year marks the 50th Anniversary of the murder of Emmy Werner and the case remains unsolved. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.  The Vaudeville Theatre where Emmy attended a farce 'Move Over Mrs Markham' a few hours before her murder Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SEVEN: On the afternoon of Saturday 16th September 1972, 68-year-old holocaust survivor Emmy Werner went to The Vaudeville Theatre to watch the farce Move Over Mrs Markham with a care assistant from her nursing home and a receptionist from her hotel. It was an ordinary and unremarkable day. The next morning, this vulnerable lady who suffered with dementia was found dead in her bed, having been subjected to a horrific attack, in which she was beaten, suffocated and strangled. But why?
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
COURT RECORDS - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11039420 COURT RECORDS - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11039421 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing by the Vaudeville Theatre on The Strand, WC2; one street east of the last seconds of Desmond O’Bierne’s life, one street north of the fall of Peggy Richards, a few steps from the Coal Hole, and three streets west of the deafening rage of Bernard Smith – coming soon to Murder Mile. Theatre. Love it or hate it. For many, it’s a chance to chin-stroke through some Shakespearian dirge, to hum to tenuously-linked pop hits cobbled-together by an 80’s boyband with six divorces to pay for, or for audiences to show how badly behaved they can be; by coughing every six seconds, not turning their phone off (as – bafflingly – they didn’t realise that paying a 14-year-old £10 wouldn’t get them a top-notch babysitter), or – as I’ve witnessed myself – a patron cutting their toenails off the balcony. But for so many people, it’s a much-needed night out and a chance to do something different. On the afternoon of Saturday 16th September 1972, 68-year-old holocaust survivor Emmy Werner went to The Vaudeville Theatre to watch the farce Move Over Mrs Markham with a care assistant from her nursing home and a receptionist from her hotel. It was an ordinary and unremarkable day. The next morning, this vulnerable lady who suffered with dementia was found dead in her bed, having been subjected to a horrific attack, in which she was beaten, suffocated and strangled. But why? The evidence you are about to hear has never been released, and the names have been abbreviated. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 177: The Night Porter – Part Two. Nothing in the preceding days would hint at the fate which would befall Emmy Werner… …as even when you pick apart the strangest moments in her day, everything had a reason and logic. On Thursday 14th September 1972 at about 10:30pm, Emmy entered the Queen’s Hotel. Having stayed there three times since May, the staff liked this frail little dot of a lady. Often confused, struggling to walk unaided and slightly deaf – as a hotel staffed by young people far from home – they looked after her as they would their own, and some had even become her friend. (Phone ringing) “Mrs W’s here”. Dressed in a tatty brown cardigan, an old skirt and a mohair scarf, she didn’t exude a woman of wealth. In her bag she carried some spare clothes, tissues, crackers and a bottle of perfume, and although a few items and a little cash had gone missing in the recent months, this was put down to senility. On previous visits, Emmy had stayed in Room 17, a first-floor room next to Osmond, the manager. But being occupied, they put her in Room 11; between regular guest Mr James in Room 12 and the newly-weds, Mr & Mrs Gibbs in Room 10. All rooms were small, clean and secured by a double locked door. The only excitement that night was from a possible false alarm, as at 10:40pm, Emmy & Paul, the 16-year-old day porter stood on her balcony and watched the fire engines race to 42 Inverness Terrace. Still struggling with a cold, as he blew his nose, he kept his distance for fear of passing on his germs. One problem with the room was that the balcony doors would not lock. Placed on a long-list of repairs that the manager was yet to complete, Paul temporarily fixed the lock by wedging it with a 5p piece. That night, Emmy had a good sleep, she awoke early, she ate her breakfast in the hotel’s lounge and she went to Paddington to visit her sister Anna, as planned. Witnesses verify this. At 10:30pm, she returned to the Queen’s hotel, chatted with Linda & Paul, and at 11pm, he escorted her to her room. As always, Emmy double-locked the door behind her, undressed and enjoyed an undisturbed sleep. Saturday 17th September 1972 was the day of Emmy’s trip to the theatre. Escorted by Giovanna, a care assistant from Emmy’s nursing home, and Linda, a receptionist from the hotel, the family were happy to pay for extra tickets if it meant Emmy would be accompanied by someone they knew and trusted. At 4:20pm, Emmy & Linda left the hotel by taxi and met Giovanna at the Vaudeville Theatre on The Strand, as paid for by Emmy who had begun her four-day stay with roughly £100 in her purse. With the matinee show finishing at 7:30pm, and Giovanna having left, Emmy & Linda headed to a pub; Linda had rum and coke, Emmy a martini and soda, they ate sausage sandwiches, and left at 8:20pm – as witnessed by the customers. At 9pm, they arrived at The Queen’s Hotel, as confirmed by the taxi-driver. And for the next two hours, Emmy sat in the lounge chatting with Linda the receptionist, Paul the day porter and Patricia the chambermaid over a snack of bread, cheese, crisps and a cup of tea. Emmy was on good form that night, but the staff said that two issues were plaguing her mind; that she had a sizable sum of money in her bank account that her daughter and son-in-law wouldn’t allow her to have access to (an issue which many elderly persons and their families worry about), and her dislike of Edgar Coldwell, the proprietor of the care-home who was “always shouting, always angry”. According to Paul, “we talked until 11:05pm and that was the last time I saw her”. With Paddy the night porter running late for his shift, Linda assisted Emmy to Room 11. She would state “I unlocked her door, giving her the key. She remarked that the room felt hot, so I opened the balcony doors”. The 5p piece played by Paul to keep the doors locked was later found on the dresser where it was placed. It was odd for Emmy to sleep with the balcony doors open, but that night the room was unusually hot. As Linda was leaving, with Emmy undressing, Linda took the mohair scarf and hung it on a hook behind the door and placed her brown cardigan in the wardrobe. With her handbag and purse beside the bed, Emmy thanked Linda and wished her a good night. Emmy double-locked the door behind her, leaving the key in the lock, and - dressed in a chequered nightshirt with a white nightgown - she went to sleep. It was a day as mundane as any other… …and then she was murdered. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Chief Inspector John Candlish. Being a premises with a high turnover of staff and guests, he had his work cut-out trying to find out who was where and when. Cathy, the chambermaid began her shift at 6:30am. With check-out at 11am and check-in at 2pm, the turnaround was tight but doable. That morning, with Mr James in Room 12 and Mr & Mrs Gibb, the newly-weds in Room 10 having checked-out, Cathy had cleaned their rooms but was yet to do Emmy’s. With the door locked and the key on the inside, Cathy didn’t suspect foul play, only that this frail and vulnerable old lady had either overslept, missing her alarm owing to her deafness, or that she was out. She knocked “Mrs W?” but got reply. Using the phone in Room 12, Cathy got Angela the receptionist to call Room 11, but again, she got no reply. From the first-floor balcony of Room 12, which overlooked Inverness Terrace, Cathy could see that one of the balcony doors was slightly ajar (as it had been left the night before), so she climbed over the black wrought iron railings, and entered Room 11. Initially, Cathy saw no-one; “the bed looked untidy as all the blankets were filed up, and I didn’t think anyone was lying in it” - especially not Emmy who was just a dot, at barely five foot and seven stone. Believing the room had been vacated, Cathy unlocked the door to fetch her trolley of fresh linen. A lock-smith would verify there was no evidence of a break-in and none of the locks had been forced. When questioned, Cathy recalled that the wardrobe was open, the door hook was unused and Emmy’s handbag was unzipped and left open. Although it was impossible to tell whether anything was missing. For Cathy, at that moment, all she had on her mind was getting Room 11 cleaned while Mrs W was out; she didn’t see a body and there were no signs of an assault or a break-in. Emmy had left her bags beside the bed, but as a confused old lady prone to misplacing items, this wasn’t out of the ordinary. Cathy would state “I went to make the bed, and as I pulled back the bedspread…” she saw Emmy. Not asleep nor slowly rousing, but unmistakably dead; her mouth agape, her eyes wide, etched in terror. Cathy was 22-years-old and had been in the job for just six weeks. Rightly startled, she fled downstairs, alerting Osmond the manager who phoned an ambulance, and Bob the hotel’s chef of just two weeks. Called at 1:10pm, an ambulance arrived six minutes later… …but finding no pulse, Emmy’s body was left in situ. For DCI Candlish, it was clear that this was not a natural death nor a suicide, but a murder. Emmy had been targeted by a perpetrator who had purposely gained entry to Room 11 with one specific motive. Entry to Room 11 would not have been easy from the street, as being a first-floor room with no place to position a ladder, no hand-holds and with the French doors shielded by a set of anti-burglar spikes, the most obvious entry or exit was the balcony, whether via Inverness Terrace or another hotel room. No fingerprints were found suggesting the culprit had worn gloves, but fragments of bitumen – a semi-solid black paint made of asphalt, used to waterproof the balcony – had been walked into the room. Particles were found by the dressing table, the wardrobe and on the bottom sheet of Emmy’s bed. It was impossible to determine the shoe size owing to the high-traffic in the room, as several people - Cathy, Bob, Oswald, two ambulance drivers and a doctor – had been inside before the police arrived. Robbery was a possibility but unlikely; as Emmy was not wealthy, she didn’t wear jewellery, her possessions weren’t of any real value, and of the £100 it was suggested that she may have carried to cover her costs, only £15 remained in her purse, although no-one knew how much she had spent. Examining the room, the police saw a clear timeline of her final moments; a locked door, a half-drunk cup of tea and a few crumbs from her bedtime snack of cheese and crackers, she had set her alarm clock, undressed placing her skirt and jacket on a chair and her coat in the wardrobe. As there were no signs of a struggle in the room, it was suggested she had been attacked in her bed, as she slept. Upon inspection, her brown cardigan and mohair scarf were no longer where Linda had left them the night before. But why? Who would take this tatty set of an old lady’s clothes… …and for what purpose? Her murder lacked an obvious motive. She wasn’t the kind of woman who hadn’t a bad bone in her body, or a bad word to say about anyone. She didn’t make enemies and she didn’t have any debts. So, who would want her dead? A friend, a family member, a stranger, or someone from her past? Emmy was just a frail elderly lady, living a simple life, with few friends, money or possessions. But it’s clear that she was chosen, by someone who had entered her room and no other, ignoring the other fifty-nine rooms at the Queen’s Hotel, or any other guest-houses and flats along Inverness Terrace. To establish what had happened, the police needed to find witnesses, starting with the guests. The Queen’s Hotel was a guesthouse consisting of four townhouses knocked through; with a reception and TV lounge on the ground floor, bedrooms for the guests and the manager on the first, second and third floors, and in the basement was a kitchen, a storeroom and several bedrooms for the staff. The hotel was busy that weekend, and to identify all of the guests would prove problematic. As with many guesthouses in the 1970s, the booking system was haphazard. If you wanted a room; you telephoned in advance, sent a letter or walked up off the street, upon entry you signed the guest book with a name and an address (in a handwriting which was often illegible), you were not required to provide any ID (in fact, with lone men and unmarried couples, it was common to use false details to disguise their identity in case of they were embroiled in a scandal) and many guests paid by cash. Of the rooms reserved for guests, police were able to question most of the customers who consisted of tourists from across the world. The majority were asleep at the time of the murder, no-one heard any screams or saw any strangers, and – by all accounts – it was a very ordinary night in a hot hotel. Several guests had checked-out that morning, and owing (possibly) to mistakes in the booking system, the police struggled to identify or question them. Three of them were key witnesses to the success of the investigation; a man known only as Mr James in Room 12, and the newly-weds, Mr & Mrs Gibbs in Room 10. Three people whose rooms were the nearest to where Emmy was murdered. This could be seen as suspicious, but The Queen’s Hotel was – at best - a slap-dash guesthouse, run by a manager with other things on his mind, and mostly staffed by a bunch of kids who had only been in the job for a few weeks. Standards were low to non-existent, the turnover was high (with the former night porter having been recently dismissed), and - being young and immature – many of the staff took liberties with their new freedom; by turning up late, stealing, or letting friends stay over for free. Several non-paying guests stayed over that night; two German brothers called Ziggy and Garnot, and Barry & Maureen, a cousin of Paddy the night porter and her husband who were partying in his room. Of those questioned, they saw and heard nothing strange, but then again, many of them were drunk and were nowhere near the scene of the crime in the hours before, during or after the murder. To get a better picture of the hotel, police interviewed staff from past and present; including Gunhilde the housekeeper who was away that weekend, Bob the chef who was asleep during those crucial hours, Osmond the manager who was sick in bed with a cold from 5pm until 1pm the next day, and Rosemary the chambermaid of just three weeks who Cathy (who found the body) had taken over from. Statements would be obtained, but as the staff had formed little cliques - as for some this was a career, but for others, it was just a giggle - this made it harder for the police to know whose word to trust… …as we shall see. Detectives also interviewed the last staff to see Emmy alive that night, as their sightings were crucial. Patricia, a chambermaid who had been at the hotel for seven weeks would state “I started work at 7am till 3pm (on the day of the murder). When I came off work, I didn’t do much, I had no plans… later I planned to see some friends (Paul the day porter, and Ziggy & Garnot the German brothers), I popped out about 10:30pm to meet a friend at a pub, and I arrived back about 10:45pm or a bit later. I talked to Paul & Linda and I think Mrs Werner was there too in the hotel lounge”. Movements which were back-up by the other staff, and during which she didn’t see or hear anything unusual. Paul the 16-year-old day porter would clarify he had been chatting with Linda, Patricia and Emmy in the lounge over cheese and crackers. “It was the beginning of August when Mrs Werner came to the hotel. It was whilst there that I first had anything to do with her. She had left a box of tissues in one of the shops in Queensway, Linda asked me to go round and find them. Linda and I have been friendly with Mrs Werner ever since”. That night, Paul was due to finish his shift at 11pm, but had stayed later as Paddy the night porter had failed to turn up for his shift, having been drinking with his cousin. According to Paul, Linda walked Emmy to her room at 11:05pm, and “that was the last time I saw her”. Linda, as one of the longest-serving staff, was the receptionist at The Queen’s hotel for 14 months. Since Emmy’s first visit in May, the two had become close friends and someone Emmy could trust. So, it was not unusual for them to dine out together, to go to the theatre, or (as Linda would state) “Mrs Werner asked me to meet with her daughter to discuss her money. She had a sizable amount in her bank which they would not allow her to access. It was my day-off, but I agreed”. Linda would escort Emmy to her room, and living in Room 51 on the second floor, she went to bed shortly afterwards. Both Paul & Linda would meet Emmy socially. Paul would state “I was under the impression that she was a very lonely woman and was anxious to make friends”. On several occasions they had dinner with her at the care home on Fenstanton Avenue in Finchley, when she needed it Paul would collect her post, and while there he understood why she preferred staying at the hotel; “Mr Coldwell was always angry. He shouted the whole time and looked pretty fearsome. Mrs Werner said she was frightened of him because he was always shouting and she was afraid that he would tell her daughter”. When questioned, neither Linda nor Paul saw or heard anything suspicious… …but there were still guests and staff who were yet to be interviewed. Despite repeated appeals, with the last being three years ago, Mr & Mrs Gibbs were never found. It’s likely they were unmarried and their names were false to disguise the shame of a clandestine affair. An initial suspect was a regular known only as Mr James, who stayed in Room 12, next door to Emmy’s. Being on shift, Paul saw him enter the hotel at 9:20pm. Being a foot taller and several stone heavier than Emmy; he was unfriendly, unnervingly quiet, he often brought prostitutes back to his room and – three weeks before the murder - Patricia the chambermaid spotted in his suitcase a bondage whip. Given Emmy’s injuries, any sexual sadist in the vicinity was suspected… …but having been interviewed, Mr James provided a concrete alibi and was ruled out. This left just one unaccounted person, staying in the hotel that night who was yet to be questioned… …Paddy the night porter. With no witnesses to the murder, the police had to rely on the evidence before them. Whoever had murdered Emmy Werner had wanted her body hidden for as long as possible; with the lights off, the curtains closed, the door locked, the bedsheets pulled up and a pillow placed over her face. But was this to affect a faster escape, or simply to hid the horror of what they had done to her? The evidence suggests that her murder was not premeditated, as her killer had only used items which came to hand within the confines of Room 11; there were no ropes, knives nor weapons of any kind. So, why was this person there, in a locked room, alone with an old sleeping lady? Her autopsy would give the detectives a rough timeline of the attack. Owing to the inconsistent temperature of her room - as the radiators were unbearably hot and the balcony doors were left open - her time of death was placed at sometime between midnight and 3am. With her fingernails unbroken and no defensive bruises, it was clear that Emmy was attacked while she slept in her bed. It was likely her killer had no intention of waking her, as his entry was stealthy. Possibly, hearing a sound – maybe a floorboard creak – she stirred, begun to scream and was silenced with a hand across her mouth. But by then, it was too late, as his face had already been seen. Perhaps in panic, he had straddled her; rucking up her nightdress, leaving a particle of bitumen on the bedsheet and crushing her chest with his weight, resulting in fractures to both her right and left ribs. With bruising to her left chin and cheek, unable to silence her, he had punched this frightened old lady hard in the face. To someone less frail, a fast fist may not have been so violent, but having undergone a lobotomy, the impact had cracked her skull open, fracturing the two bore holes until they met. Hemorrhaging, Emmy bled into her pillow; trapped, silenced and terrified. In her harrowing life, she had endured more pain and suffering than most people could imagine, only now her death wouldn’t be at the hands of the Nazis, but (possibly) a man who until a few months ago she had barely known. As a small woman of unquestionable strength, we know she fought back, but his attack was sustained. Around her throat, he had manually strangled her until she drifted into a semi-consciousness. His hand had left bruises as he crushed her larynx, fractured her hyoid bone and caused her tongue to swell. Seizing his moment to silence her and to make his escape; from the sink he grabbed a towel and tightly bound her feet together so she could neither run nor move, and from the wardrobe he snatched her tatty brown cardigan and around her wrists he tied her hands in front of her. She was still, but maybe – coming to – she was not silent. And beginning to scream, that could be why he did what he did next. With fistfuls of hotel toilet-roll, he forced the wadded paper into her throat, stuffing it so deep that she began to choke. Grabbing her mohair scarf off the door hook, he gagged her tight so she couldn’t spit it out, and knowing that Mrs Werner - a woman who had survived so much, but was about to die for so little – could (possibly) identify him, he suffocated her with her blood-soaked pillow. (End) Lying dead, her face etched in terror for an eternity, Emmy’s assailant covered her with the bedsheets, and just as he had crept in via the open doors of the balcony, from there he would vanish. His motive was neither murder, hatred nor sexual assault. It was as simple as this – a burglary. Having targeted this 68-year-old woman for what he believed was £100 (£1500 today), he left with literally nothing. All she had was a few pounds, some old clothes, a box of crackers and a bottle of Jasmine perfume. Unsure who he was, and with no fingerprints found (as it’s likely he wore gloves), the police felt they had enough evidence to convict their most likely suspect, even without an eye-witness. The man who murdered Emmy Werner would have fibres from her bedsheets and scarf on his clothes, particles of black bitumen from her balcony and bedsheet on his shoes, and – having smoked a cigarette (perhaps before he fled) – he had left the filter-tip of a John Player Special, along with his Group A saliva. The detectives had a prime suspect since the first day of the investigation; as an employee of the hotel, he had knowledge of the rooms, the doors and the locks; he often bragged of stealing from guests, he knew how to enter guest’s rooms undetected, and he had seen a stack of notes inside Emmy’s purse. The night porter would be questioned and investigated... only the man they arrested was not Paddy. The concluding part of The Night Porter continues next week. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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