Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within on square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script. 

You can DOWNLOAD episode #47 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below.

Thank you for downloading episode forty-seven of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. This is the second and final part of Who Killed Freddie Mills, so – if you haven’t - listen to episode forty-six first. But before we begin, please take a moment to listen to this important message.

(Christmas music): Ho-ho-ho, it’s not quite almost sort-of Christmas-ish, ho-ho-ho; a festive time of wildly confusing Pagan and Christian rituals, but mostly it’s about gorging on food, family arguments, watching a Bond film and spending lots of money. Ho-ho-ho. So if your house is like this…

Son: “Daddy, for Christmas, I want a Murder Mile mug”, Dad: “Oh really. And have you tidied your bedroom? No? Well, go and f**king tidy it then!”, boy cries. Wife: “Honey, for Christmas, what I really want is…” (dad whispering “please say a divorce, please say a divorce”) “…a Murder Mile card with badges and stickers”, Dad: “Ah shit”. Granny: “Son, what I want was … (dad whispering “please say it, please say it”)… a lovely one-way trip to Switzerland…”, Dad: “Yes! Hallelujah”, “…but first I want a voice cameo in a Murder Mile episode”, Dad: “you got it granny”.

…why not treat your loved ones to a Murder Mile eBook (me “it’s a good distraction as you bash them over the head”), gift vouchers to a Murder Mile Walk (me “if they’re really obnoxious, I’ll bump them off for you”), a Murder Mile ring-tone (me “if you’ve forgotten where you’ve buried the body, just call”) and a whole episode dedicated to them (me “think of it as an early obituary”). And by “loved ones”, I really mean “yourself”. Sod the family, they’re all an ungrateful bunch of bastards. Ho-ho-ho.

Legal disclaimer) Murder Mile in no way endorses the brutal death of family members, unless that murder is committed in or near Soho; that it’s grisly, shocking and amusing, and you give me exclusive rights to all of the photos, interviews and murder weapons so I can make an episode out of it.

Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End.

Today’s episode is part two about the mysterious death of Freddie Mills; was it a suicide, or a murder, involving debts, threats, depression, a bungled investigation, a secret sexuality, or was he a sadistic serial killer with a guilty conscience?

Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 47: Who killed Freddie Mills? Part Two

In the early hours of Sunday 25th July 1965, in the darkest corner of Goslett Yard, an eerily silent dead-end just off Charing Cross Road, Freddie Mills (the champion boxer, wholesome celebrity and beloved family man) was found dead. There were no gunshots heard, no fingerprints found, no threats on his life, no witnesses, no suspects, and exactly how, when and why he was shot is unknown.

The crime-scene was simple: Freddie had sat alone, in the left rear seat of his own silver Citreon DS19, for one and a half hours, to sleep-off a raging headache and the alcohol he had consumed. Its engine was off, its lights were out, the rear windows were open and the car was in complete darkness. And having suffered from insomnia, depression and being crippled by escalating debts, using a .22 calibre rifle, Freddie shot himself in the head. The gun was found in his car, the bullets matched the gun and with the Coroner ruling his death as a “suicide”, eight days later the case was closed.

But several elements of the case just didn’t make sense…

According to those who knew and loved him, not only was Freddie a fighter, a winner and champion, who rolled with the punches and always got-up when he was knocked down, but as a loving father and doting husband who was so full of life, fun and joy, who loved his family above everything else, if he did kill himself in a fit of depression, why was there no suicide note?

These are the elements that are in question: if he had been drinking, where was the bottle? If this was Freddie’s car, why was he sat in the left rear seat? If this was the gun which killed Freddie, where did it come from, who owned it, why was it found neatly propped against the seat in-front, and why was he shot using a fairground rifle? If he had shot himself, why was he still sitting upright with both hands flat on his lap, and why had he been shot in his right eye? And – more bafflingly – why did the Police delay investigating the crime-scene for several hours, and why was the body of Freddie Mills (and the rifle itself) removed before the Police had even arrived?

After his death, several theories started circulating suggesting that Freddie had a dark-side. Five deep secrets that (for many years) he had kept hidden from his friends, family and his legion of fans, which linked him to debts, gangsters, police corruption, a secret life as a bisexual and a sadistic past as the depraved slayer of eight women in West London, known as The Hammersmith Stripper.

What makes each theory stick is the fact that they are all plausible, so let’s look at them a little closer:

Theory One: Freddie Mills was murdered by Chinese gangsters who were trying to take over his club.

It’s true; Freddie was the co-owner of a Soho nightclub with his Chinese business partner – Andy Ho; two years prior the Freddie Mills Nitespot had been a Chinese restaurant, which was situated just one street away from Chinatown, an area ruled by the Triads, who (during that era) were rapidly expanding their criminal empire through extortion, blackmail and murder.

But with no threats on Freddie’s life, no known association with the Triads and no evidence that the actor, chef and the club’s co-owner Andy Ho (who was Freddie’s friend and business partner for more than two decades) was himself a Triad? If this was a murder used to force an unwilling businessman to part with his club; why didn’t they kill Andy Ho, why didn’t they kill Chrissie (who was also a co-owner) and why would they make - this incredibly powerful message - look like a suicide?

Theory Two: Freddie Mills committed suicide over the death of his gay lover.

It’s true; Freddie was distraught at the death of his close friend Michael Holliday, a popular singer with chart hits in the 1950’s and 60’s. And being a fragile man with drug issues, a history of mental illness and a secret sexuality, on the 29th October 1963 - having headlined at the Freddie Mills Nitespot (a cabaret situated in Soho - the homosexual capital of the West End) - Michael Holliday tragically overdosed, just two years before the mysterious death of Freddie.

But were Freddie and Michael gay lovers? No. Freddie was a big-hearted happily-married man, who loved and cared for everyone, who feared for his friend’s mental health and had tried and failed to prevent Michael’s suicide. And although the press tried to paint Freddie as a secret homosexual who – they claimed – had been arrested in a public lavatory and charged with indecency (a charge for which there is no evidence); Ronnie Kray, the openly bisexual East End gangster who knew Freddie and dated Michael Holliday, stated before he died “Freddie was a real man's man, he wasn't that way inclined”.

Theory Three: Freddie Mills was either murdered by, or his suicide was staged by the Kray twins.
It’s true; Freddie Mills knew the infamous East End gangsters Ronnie & Reggie Kray; who had a history of violence, regularly frequented his club, both had access to guns, were in London at the time of his death, and in the following years, both Ronnie & Reggie Kray were convicted of murder.

So did the Kray twins murder Freddie Mills? No. Of course they didn’t. Not only was every club in 1960’s Soho frequented by gangsters, and not only was Freddie not a threat to them, but as ex-boxers themselves, Ronnie & Reggie Kray were in awe of Freddie and considered it an honour to drink and chat with the former light-heavyweight champion of the world; a man they called their “friend”.

Two years after Freddie’s death, when his wife Chrissie asked Detective Chief Superintendent Leonard 'Nipper' Read - the man who made it his mission to bring down the Kray twins – to re-examine the case, even he had to reluctantly state that there was no evidence that the Krays were ever involved.

And besides, the idea that Freddie’s death was either a murder or a staged suicide, simply doesn’t make any sense. As why would Freddie pay someone to stage his suicide or murder? And even if they did, why would they shoot him in the eye, using a fairground rifle, and not leave a suicide note?

And yet, if you still truly believe that Freddie was murdered, by being shot, in the eye, with a fairground rifle? Ask yourself this; why would a hired assassin choose to commit a murder using fake bullets? Yes, fake bullets, which weren’t made of lead, they were made of clinker; a stony residue made from burnt coal which is designed to fragment when it hits a wooden target, just like it would, at a fun-fair.

Theory Four: the Police (deliberately) bungled the investigation into the death of Freddie Mills.

It’s true; the Police delayed a full examination of Goslett Yard for several hours and the body of Freddie Mills (and the rifle itself) was removed from the crime scene before the Police had even arrived… but the investigation wasn’t bungled.

When (the ambulance drivers) Leslie Rowe & Thomas Spalding arrived at 1:39am, the alley was so dark they had to use torches, as did the Police, who preserved the scene by sealing off the street and didn’t conduct a thorough examination of Goslett Yard or the car until after sunrise at 4:31am.

And why was Freddie’s body removed from the scene? Simple, because he wasn’t dead.

Having been shot sometime prior to 11:45pm, although Freddie was motionless, unresponsive and bleeding, having detected very faint signs of life, Rowe & Spalding (the ambulance drivers) transferred Freddie to Middlesex Hospital and they took charge of the rifle so the doctor could determine what type of gun and bullet his patient had been shot with - all of which was standard practice for a suicide.

And Theory Five: Freddie Mills was an infamous serial-killer known as The Hammersmith Stripper.
It’s true; between 1959 and 1965, in West London, eight young prostitutes were strangled by a serial sexual sadist who dumped their naked bodies in or around the River Thames, and according to Chief Superintendent John Du Rose (who headed-up the investigation) his prime suspect was a “respectable married man and an ex-boxer, in his forties, who had committed suicide in mid-1965”.

Even Michael Litchfield, reporter for tabloid newspaper The Sun confirmed that Mills had met with John Du Rose, a fellow freemason at the West End’s masonic lodge, and Freddie had confessed to the murders in return for a reduced sentence - a devastating confession which Du Rose secretly recorded.

So was Freddie Mills (the world champion boxer, the beloved film star and devout family man) secretly the brutal slayer of eight prostitutes in the 1960’s, who was known as the Hammersmith Stripper? No. Of course he wasn’t. This theory, like all of those we’ve just discussed, is complete and utter dog-shit. And here’s why:

Freddie was not a sexual sadist with a hatred for women; he was never cruel, mean or spiteful; he was a good man with a big heart, who (above everything else) loved his family.

Freddie had no criminal record; not one charge for assault, indecency, soliciting, harassment, peeping, prowling or public lewdness, all of which you would expect from a serial sexual sadist.

Of the seven thousand men who were interviewed by the Police in connection with the Hammersmith Stripper, whose cars were seen curb-crawling in the area, a silver Citreon DS19 with the licence plate DLR610 does not appear in the Police database, and Freddie Mills was never questioned.

Freddie doesn’t match the Identikit image of the Police’s primary suspect, who was a short, slim, elfin-faced youth with a long straight nose, beady little eyes and sticky-out ears.

And even if you exclude the fact that Chief Superintendent John Du Rose confirmed that Freddie Mills was never a suspect, at any point, in any part of the investigation into the Hammersmith Stripper? This taped confession which Michael Litchfield claims exists… has never been seen, has never been heard, and even in John Du Rose’s own autobiography, it is never once mentioned or referenced.

So how did this theory begin?

It began with a simple misunderstanding; Chief Superintendent John Du Rose stated that his prime suspect in the investigation was a “respectable married man and an ex-boxer, in his forties, who had committed suicide in mid-1965”. A description which perfectly fits Freddie Mills and his very public death which – across Britain - was front-page news.

Only Du Rose wasn’t talking about Freddie at all, he was talking about Mungo Ireland; a mid-forties, ex-boxer and happily married man who worked as a security guard on the Heron Trading Estate in Acton (an area synonymous with prostitution and where the body of the Hammersmith Stripper’s last victim was found) and having become the Police’s prime suspect in the murders, Mungo Ireland left a note which read "I can't stick it any longer… to save you and the police looking for me I'll be in the garage", where his dead body was found having gassed himself.

So if Freddie Mills wasn’t murdered by the Triads, if his death wasn’t staged by the Kray twins, if the police investigation wasn’t part of a masonic cover-up, and if he wasn’t a sadistic serial killer with a guilty conscience? Was he really just a former boxing idol, a fading film star and a failing businessman, who was wracked with debts and - in a booze-fuelled fit of depression - took his own life? What really happened that night?

To understand Freddie’s death, we have to go back to 1948, when he was at the peak of his success.

On 26th July 1948, Fearless Freddie fought the American boxer Gus Lesnevich in-front of a 46000 strong crowd in West London’s White City stadium. And although Freddie wasn’t a skilled fighter; with a dogged mix of pressure, persistence and an uncanny ability to take a pounding, as Lesnevich launched a brutal attack in the 12th and 13th rounds, Freddie went the distance and won on points, to become the world light-heavyweight champion, a national hero and one of Britain’s greatest boxing idols.

Freddie was at the top of his game, with nowhere to go, but down.

Two months later, Freddie was set to defend his title against Lesnevich, but the fight was cancelled, as having been diagnosed with a misaligned vertebrae at the base of the skull, Freddie was crippled with migraines and dizziness – symptoms which would plague him for the rest of his life.

In November 1948, Freddie beat Johnny Ralph in Johannesburg for the Empire heavyweight title, breaking a metacarpal in his right hand. In June 1949, Freddie fought Bruce Woodcock to retain the British, Empire and European title, but was floored four times and knocked out in the 14th round. And in January 1950, having lost three teeth and with his gums imbedded in his upper jaw, Fearless Freddie lost his world light-heavyweight title to Joey Maxim who knocked him out in the 10th round.

Once month later, Freddie Mills retired from boxing.

Making full use of his celebrity status; being blessed with a cheeky smile, twinkling eyes and a childish sense of fun, Fearless Freddie made the move into television and quickly became a family favourite. But as the fifties made way for the sixties, and his crippling migraines started affecting his memory, his speech and had developed into facial tics, acting work for Freddie Mills had begun to dry up.

Freddie was no dummy, he knew his career as a boxer and an actor was short-lived, so being eager to provide a stable future for his beloved family, Freddie had invested his winnings in several properties and businesses in and around London.

In 1946, four years before his retirement from boxing, Freddie and his friend Andy Ho opened the Freddie Mills’ Chinese Restaurant at 143 Charing Cross Road, where – having wisely used his celebrity status to pull in the punters - it remained as a profitable and popular business for almost twenty years.

And although, in the 1940’s, Chinese restaurants were a rarity, by the 1960’s they were commonplace. So being eager to regain his success, in May 1963, Freddie invested £12000 (which is a quarter of a million pounds today) and converted the premises into a cabaret and nightclub called the Freddie Mills Nitespot, which was instantly a success… for four months… and then it closed.

Faced with tough competition, spiralling overheads and with Freddie’s celebrity status almost non-existent (except amongst 1940’s boxing aficionados like the Kray twins), as the nightclub sunk deeper into debt, Freddie was forced to sell-off his other properties simply to stay afloat, and although, in September 1963, the Freddie Mills Nitespot was up for sale, no-one would buy it.
Being a born fighter with an uncanny ability to take a pounding, Freddie re-opened the Nitepot in August 1964… but again, the club struggled and Freddie was taken to court for non-payment of bills.

And then; being crippled by migraines, dizziness and bedridden with pneumonia, on Friday 23rd July 1965, just two days before his death, at Marylebone Magistrates Court, Freddie (and Andy Ho) were found guilty of keeping an illegal fruit machine and fined £68 each. With his finances laid bare before the court, it was only then that Chrissie (his wife) learned how dire their situation was – that Freddie Mills (the world champion boxer, actor, businessman, devoted father and loyal husband) was broke.

With his cheeky smile and that infamous twinkle in his eye now gone, as he secretly struggled to cope with depression, having been trained (as a boxer) never to show any weakness, Freddie fought on.

And although, never once in Freddie’s life had he ever given up, here he had reached rock-bottom.

On Tuesday 20th July 1965, Freddie drove to the home of 58 year old Mary Gladys Ronaldson, an old friend from his fledgling days as a semi-professional pugilist at Sam McEwan’s Boxing Booth, who was currently working at the nearby Battersea funfair. Under the pretence that he had been hired to open a charity fete in Esher that week and that he wanted to dress as a cowboy, he asked Mary for a gun.

The gun she offered him was an FN self-loading .22 calibre Belgian repeater rifle, the type used to shoot targets at the fun-fair. Mary had no issues loaning him the gun; she knew Freddie, she trusted him and with the unloaded rifle having been removed from the shooting gallery as it was old, faulty and “prone to misfire”, she knew it would be perfect as a prop and harmless as a lethal weapon.

With no other option – unable to confide in his friends, too ashamed to tell his family and knowing that most gangsters are gossips - Freddie accepted her offer and returned on Thursday 22nd July 1965 to collect the rifle. That day, he seemed anxious, stressed and after he had left, although the faulty rifle was unloaded, of the five bullets that her son had left on the mantelpiece… three were missing.

Exactly what happened that night, only Freddie knows, but the most logical theory is this.

On the evening of Saturday 24th July 1965, the night that Freddie was shot; being gripped with depression, a migraine, pneumonia and chronic insomnia, having kissed his beloved wife and daughters goodbye, Freddie hopped into his silver Citreon DS19 and drove to Goslett Yard.

Freddie was a champion, a fighter, a winner; who had achieved greatness and (to many) was an idol, who once had it all, but now it was gone; his fame, his health and his wealth.

Being trained to hide his weakness, Freddie sat alone, in the darkness of his car, a loaded rifle in his hands, barely a few feet from an off-licence, a pub, and the half-empty nightclub which (every second it stayed open) it bled him dry, as with just £387 to his name, within the week, he would be bankrupt. And to the family who he truly adored, with his life insured, Freddie knew he was better off dead.

Freddie was a man torn, as – having returned the gun once before, written no suicide note, and yet he had made plans to compare the cabaret and to meet Chrissie and Don - for almost an hour he sat alone; mulling over his life, with alcohol in his blood, a throbbing pain in his brain and tears in his eyes.

Having test-fired the rifle – and seeing the dense ‘clinker’ almost penetrate the steel base of the passenger’s side door - as the faulty rifle worked fine, and seeing no other way out, closing his eyes tight, Fearless Freddie put the muzzle of the rifle to his forehead.

No-one would see anything, as the car was hidden in a dark dead-end.

No-one would hear anything, as a fairground rifle wouldn’t make a bang, but a muffled pop. (POP)
And with the crime-scene being a chaotic mess of distressed relatives and friends, all concerned for Freddie who wasn’t dead, but dying, it’s clear to see how, where and why the confusion began.

So who moved Freddie and sat him upright with his hands on his lap? Well, before the ambulance men had arrived, four people clearly stated that they had moved Freddie; Robert Deacon the doorman shook him (“Mr Mills, it’s time”), Henry Grant the head-waiter shook and slapped him (“Freddie, wake up”), Chrissie had hugged and cradled him (“Freddie? Freddie?”), his blood staining her blouse, as did his step-son Don. And for at least an hour and a half after he was shot, Freddie wasn’t dead.

So who moved the rifle and where were the fingerprints? Well, according to the Police, as guns are oily, usable fingerprints are only recovered in less than 5% of all cases. And again, in their own witness statements, three people admitted to moving the gun; Leslie Rowe & Thomas Spalding (the ambulance men) and Freddie’s step-son Don who stated “I’m certain I put it back in roughly the same place”.

So why was Freddie shot in the eye? Well, it’s entirely possible that the faulty gun didn’t go off? That he only opened his eyes to wonder why he wasn’t dead, that he only moved the gun from his forehead to see what was wrong, and with the rifle being “prone to misfire”, a light thud may have dislodged the firing pin, accidentally shooting a lethal blast of clinker into his eye and into his brain?

Although, what really happened that night, only Freddie truly knows.

Freddie Mills was a good man; he wasn’t a gangster, a secret homosexual or a serial sexual sadist, he was a devoted family man with a cheeky smile, twinkling eyes and a big heart, who struggled alone, with injury, debts and depression, and – for the final time – lost a brave fight.

And although, a series of shallow self-serving cowards have fabricated a series of scandalous tales and rumours simply to make themselves a name, some cash, or to boost their ratings, Fearless Freddie did not deserve to be treated this way. So let us remember him properly; here’s to Freddie Mills, the world light-heavyweight champion boxer, film star, businessman, loving husband, doting father and legend.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to tune in next week for the start of Murder Mile’s huge eight-part series into the untold story of one of Britain’s most terrifying serial killers. Who is it? Find out next week.
And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for more extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Obscura and Asian Madness. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, some of whom will get to find out who my new multi-part series is about days before everyone else. Ooh. So thank you to M.J. Maccardini and Hannah Mirza. And to Thomas Wiedemann who donated to save Murder Mile from poverty. Thank you folks, you are truly amazing.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archive.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
• Merry Christmas by United States Marine Band
• Refocussing by Parvez Decree
• SCidENT (feat The Tidwell Noise Collective) by Ars Sonor
• Particles by Parvez Decree
• No More Suffering by Parvez Decree
• Operation Failed by Cult With No Name
• Night Palette by Peter Rudenko
• Closing by Peter Rudenko
• NEvrAGN by Ars Sonor

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Birds & Crows - https://freesound.org/people/Adrianac/sounds/266438/
• Jazz Band Warming Up - https://freesound.org/people/bsumusictech/sounds/82709/
• Car Stop & Start - https://freesound.org/people/ReyDros/sounds/327056/
• Car Stop & Start 2 - https://freesound.org/people/botha9johann/sounds/326052/
• Dogs Barking - https://freesound.org/people/ivolipa/sounds/337101/
  

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”, nominated Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.

Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End. 

• A weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
• 300+ infamous, untold or often forgotten true murders
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Research collected from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself
• An audio guided walk... all from the comfort of your home

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there.

EPISODE FORTY-SIX

Episode Forty-Six: On Sunday 25th July 1965, in Goslett Yard in Soho; world champion light-heavyweight boxer, film star and club-owner Freddie Mills was found dead, shot in the head. But was it a suicide, or murder? This is part one of a two-part episode.

• Date: Sunday 25th July 1965
  
• Location: Goslett Yard, W1
• Victims: 1 (Freddie Mills)
• Culprit: Unknown

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts"

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.

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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In or Acast

As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within on square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script. 

You can DOWNLOAD episode #46 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below.

Thank you for downloading episode forty-six of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. Before we begin, please take a moment to listen to this important message.
“My namesh Schawn Connery, I wash Jamesh Bont, Murder Mile makesh mugsh and mugsh makesh me schmile”. Yes folks, that was the Sean Connery, and he recently visited the Murder Mile eShop to treat himself to a very exclusive Murder Mile mug (“mugsh”), as well as ebooks (“ebooksh”), badges (“badgesh”), stickers (“schtickersh”), ringtones (“ringtonesh”) and even bespoke goodies (“ah balsh to it”), as well as a whole host of other treats that Sean Connery can’t pronounce.

Other celebrities who whole heartily endorse the Murder Mile eShop include professional buffoon Boris Johnson (“whah-whah-whaaah bah, Brexit, ah buggery, oops what-what”), reality TV star Donald Trump (“nobody does the bestest bigly Murder Mile mugs but me, okay”), slapstick 1980’s Russian villain Vladimir Putin (“these mugs are worth… one million dollars”), and unelectable unelected British PM Teresa May (screechy “buy a mug, or I’ll give those Irish fascists another £1 billion to not do exactly as I say”), As well as famous folks such as Bobcat Goldthwaite from Police Academy (“mewhwhe”), Hugh Grant (“ah-ah-ah-ah-ah”), Al Pacino (“ooh ah, she got a GREAT MUG ”), Christopher Walken (“aw, I got a mug… in the ass”), Bjork (any odd sounds) and Sean Bean (“buy a mug… you bastard”).

To browse the Murder Mile eShop, go to www.murdermiletours.com or simply click on the link in the show-notes.

(Speedy voice) Legal disclaimer: The Murder Mile eShop is not endorsed by any celebrity, of any kind, ever, even the really shit ones, and the voices you heard were piss-poor impersonations done by me, with no rehearsal or thought, and if you believe they were real, you’re an idiot.

Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End.

Today’s episode is about the death of Freddie Mills; a boxer, a celebrity and a businessman, whose untimely death in a Soho alley is shrouded in so much mystery, that parts of it have become myth.

Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 46: Who killed Freddie Mills? Part One

Today I’m standing in Goslett Yard; a dark, drab and gloomy dead-end street, secreted off the choking fumes of Charing Cross Road, and just a stone’s throw away from the Lyon’s Corner House tearoom where deluded dreamer Jacques Tratsart gunned-down his siblings, Denmark Place where one of Britain’s worst mass-murders occurred, and the former Meax & Co Brewery where eight people drowned in a tidal wave of one and a half million gallons of beer – coming soon to Murder Mile.

Being barely 80 feet long by 16 feet wide, but going nowhere, Goslett Yard truly no purpose; as with no houses, no shops, no cars and no people, only a backdoor to Starbucks, the bins for Borderline, a sea of swirling litter and several steamy lumps of doggy dumps, it’s almost as if Goslett Yard was made by mistake. Even the now-defunct pub called The Royal George (literally built in the middle of the street) looks like it was delivered it to the wrong address, and the postman thought “ah sod it”.  

Formerly, on the right-hand side of Goslett Yard was the former Cross & Blackwell warehouse, which loomed six-storeys high, as half a block of dark and imposing Gothic architecture left the yard in eternal shadow. And what was once merely a quiet place to park-up at the back of Freddie Mills Nitespot, has now been bulldozed and reduced to rubble, with the only sound being the drone of diggers, the tremble of trucks and the eternal grunt, fart and belch as six workmen stand around staring as one man digs a hole, with fags in their gobs, bacon sarnies on the go and one hand scratching their butt-cheeks, before they all take another well-earned tea-break - a job well done.  

And yet, it was here, on Sunday 25th July 1965, in the ominous quiet of Goslett Yard, that (boxer, actor and celebrity club owner) Freddie Mills either committed suicide… or was murdered? (Interstitial)

So who was Freddie Mills?

Frederick Percival Mills - known by everyone who loved him as Freddie – was born on 26th June 1919, as the youngest of four children to two doting parents, Thomas James Mills and Lottie Hilda Gray. As a working-class family living under the shadow of the First World War, life could have been rough, but being instilled with a solid work ethic by his scrap-dealer father, a sense of pride by house-wife mother, a love of play by his adoring siblings, and all within the fresh air of Bournemouth, a small seaside town on the English south coast, Freddie’s life was good, and at the centre of it all – always - was his family.

Gifted his first set of boxing gloves aged eleven, Freddie quickly fell in love with the sport and with his family’s encouragement and full support to fulfil his dreams, he’d regularly spar with his older brother Charlie (already a semi-professional boxer) and – whilst earning his keep as a milkman’s assistant – he was trained by the brother and boxing partner of Welsh former lightweight champion Gordon Cook.

Freddie was a good boy with a big heart, a beaming smile, a loving family and a passion for boxing. But don’t think that this is going to be a story about a poor kid raised in a slum, who used his fists to fight through the mean streets of gangs, drugs, guns and (ultimately) his death… because it isn’t.

By the tender age of sixteen, Freddie had gone professional, and having honed his skills as part of Sam McEwan’s Boxing Booth; a fairground attraction where local men could fight professional pugilists, here he learned not only how to fight, but also how to win the hearts and minds of the crowd, as Freddie became both a professional boxer and a talented showman.

Between 1936 and 1939; although he was a middleweight boxer, Freddie fought middle, light-heavy and heavyweight boxers, and across sixty-four professional fights; he drew seven, lost nine and won forty-eight, three he won by a knockout. And although he wasn’t a very skilled fighter, with a dogged mix of pressure, persistence and an uncanny ability to take a pounding, so beloved had he become among boxers, promoters and crowds, that he was blessed with the nickname of “Fearless Freddie”.

In 1939, he was the Western Area champion. In 1940, he beat the Eastern Area champion. Having enlisted in the Royal Air Force as a physical training instructor, to serve his country during World War Two; in 1942 Freddie won the British and Empire light-heavyweight titles, beating the reigning champion Jock McAvoy on points and knocking Len Harvey (dubbed the “Prince of Boxers”) right out of the ring. By 1948, at the age of 29, Fearless Freddie became the world light-heavyweight champion, a national hero and was one of Britain’s greatest boxing idols in the post-war era.

Freddie was a dedicated athlete, a charismatic entertainer, a winner, a hero and a gentleman. But don’t think that this is going to be a story about a punchy pugilist, whose fall from grace sees him used as a hired goon for an East End gangster, whose death was to be expected… because it isn’t.

Having wisely retired from boxing at the peak of his success, Freddie Mills was one of the few sporting icons to break into television. And although - with a broken nose - he had a face like a melted matinee idol; being blessed with a cheeky smile, twinkling eyes and a childish sense of fun, Freddie became a family favourite, presenting the music show Six-Five Special, being a quiz show panellist on What’s My Line and appearing in several British films such as Carry-On Constable and Carry-On Regardless.

Freddie Mills was a loveable character, a charming personality, a trusted celebrity, and he absolutely loved it. But don’t think that this is going to be a story about a famous face who smiled for the cameras, and yet, deep down, he had a dark and twisted side… because it isn’t.

Freddie was a boxer, an actor and a businessman, but – first and foremost - he was a faithful husband and a doting father. As having married Christine Marie (also known as “Chrissie”) on 30th September 1948; not only did Freddie become the proud dad of two daughters – Susan and Amanda – but he also raised Chrissie’s son Don (from a previous marriage) as his own, and all of whom he adored. For Freddie, life was perfect. And there was nothing he loved more than his family.

And yet, at a little after 1am, on Sunday 25th July 1965, in the backseat of his silver Citreon DS19, with a single bullet wound to the head, forty-six year old Freddie was found dead. (Interstitial)

But how and why?

The afternoon of Saturday 24th July 1965 was sunny and bright, as under a cloudless sky, Freddie stood in his back garden, skimming the leaves off his swimming pool and smiling with delight as his beloved daughters – Susan (aged 13) and Amanda (aged 7) – played and giggled in the garden.

He’d made a good life for his family; they were healthy, happy and wholesome; living harmoniously in a newly built two-storey detached house at 186 Denmark Hill, in a middle-class part of Brixton, South London. And as he soaked up the sun’s warmth, dressed in a pair of shorts, as a 46 year old man, he was still in good shape, and unlike many ex-boxers, he’d still got his health, his life and a livelihood.

At 4pm, having struggled to sleep properly for several weeks - being burdened by the usual worries of a businessman, still recovering from a bout of pneumonia and with his sleep-pattern having gone-to-pot since he’d opened his own Soho nightclub called Freddie Mills’ Nitespot just two years earlier - whilst Chrissie and the girls went out shopping, Freddie popped upstairs for a mid-afternoon nap.

By 7:30pm, having barely slept a wink, as an all-consuming headache he’d had (on and off) since 1948 raged in his brain, Freddie slugged back a cup of coffee, as he snugged on the sofa with his girls, giggling at the loony antics on The Morecambe & Wise Show. And as much as Chrissie pleaded with him to take the night off, he couldn’t, as being a film star, a boxing idol and a showman with a solid work ethic, Freddie had a club to run, a family to provide for and a legion of fans he would never disappoint.

At 9:40pm, as per usual; being dressed in a smart dark suit, a crisp white shirt, black polished shoes and a stylish chequered tie, Freddie kissed his girls goodbye, having made plans to meet Chrissie and his 26 year old step-son Don at the club, at around 1am, and hopped into his silver Citreon DS19.

The journey from his home at 186 Denmark Hill to his club at 143 Charing Cross Road, in Saturday night traffic, took forty-five minutes, and he arrived at roughly 10:30pm, having taken no detours.

And although, he would usually park-up outside of his club on Charing Cross Road, his car being keenly watched by Robert Deacon the doorman, that night, with his head furiously thumping, Freddie pulled off the bright lights of the busy city street, as he crept his car into the silent darkness of Goslett Yard, which he had done many times before.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

With co-owner of the club Andy Ho not arriving until 11:15pm, and Freddie being less of a manager and more of a famous figurehead, whose role was to compare the cabaret, shake hands with the fans and pose for photos, Freddie knew he wouldn’t be needed until midnight. So, suffering from a blinding headache and having asked the doorman to wake him in an hour, with his car secreted in an unlit, secluded but peaceful passage, Goslett Yard was the perfect place for a little nap.

As instructed, at 11:45pm, with the cabaret band tuning-up, Robert Deacon sauntered down Charing Cross Road and turned right into Goslett Yard, ready to wake Freddie.

With structures on all sides; a row of brown-bricked work-sheds to the left, two black-fronted garages ahead and the tall white rear of a vague office space to the right, as the night had almost no moon, and with a single street-lamp too far away, the eerily silent dead-end was plunged into blackness.

At the end, diagonally parked, with its bonnet facing the far-right corner and its boot to the street; with its engine off, lights out and being barely visible amidst the gloom was Freddie’s silver Citreon.

Being only three weeks into his job as the club’s doorman, 23 year old Robert Deacon approached the car cautiously, as although Freddie was a real gent; with him feeling unwell, being the boss and having had a few drinks to pacify his pounding head, he knew it wasn’t his place to be too pushy.  

As Robert’s feet clomped along the cobblestones, he sidled up to the passenger’s side of dark-lit silver Citreon and saw the unmistakable stocky silhouette of Freddie; sitting bolt upright, with both hands flat on his lap and his head slumped slightly forward. And yet, oddly, he wasn’t sat in the driver’s seat, but in the back behind the passenger’s seat, totally still and ominously silent.

Eager to wake his boss, with the rear window open, Robert called out “Mr Mills” as his knuckles rapped on the car door, but Freddie didn’t move. He hollered again, “Mr Mills”, but still there was no reply. Opening the left-rear door, Robert shook the big fella’s thick broad shoulder and barked “Mr Mills, it’s time”, but – unusually for a man with lightening quick reflexes - there was no reaction.

Smelling the booze on his breath, seeing his comatose state and spotting a froth of saliva form around Freddie’s mouth and nostrils, Robert thought nothing more of it, and went back inside the club.

Roughly forty minutes later, with the cabaret delayed and the crowd getting restless, the club’s 47 year old head-waiter Henry Grant entered Goslett Yard. And being familiar with his boss’s occasional need to nap, but his insistence on never missing a performance, Henry vigorously shook the ex-boxer’s left shoulder, shouting “Freddie, wake up”, as with a firm hand, he sharply slapped Freddie’s face.

But Freddie didn’t blink, wince or budge an inch.

Dashing back inside the club, Henry alerted Andy that the boss didn’t look well and tried to telephone Freddie’s wife, but with Chrissie being on-route to the nightclub, she couldn’t be reached.

At a little after 1am, Chrissie and her 26 year old son Don arrived at the club, but there no time to drink or dance, as – with a great sense of urgency - the club’s short and portly co-owner Andy Ho ushered them both outside and took Chrissie’s arm as he frog-marched them both to Goslett Yard, nervously mumbling “I think Mr Mills is very ill and his car is somewhere around the back, I’m told”.

Sidling through the yard’s dark gloom, up to the ominous silence of the silver Citreon, as she saw the familiar silhouette of her seemingly dozing husband, Chrissie gently cooed though the open rear window “Freddie? Freddie?” hoping to wake him, but – as before – he didn’t answer.

Eager to rouse him, Chrissie moved round to the rear driver’s side door and calmly sat on the backseat; a tender arm reached around Freddie’s broad shoulders, as she shook him, cooing “Freddie? Freddie?” but again, he didn’t budge. And although the yard was dark and inside the car was even darker, being seated next to Freddie, at his feet Chrissie spotted a .22 rifle (propped against the seat in front with its muzzle upright) and down his crisp white shirt she saw a slowly spreading pool of blood, which trickled down his cheek from a bullet hole in his right eye.

Clutching Freddie towards her, Chrissie cried “Andy, Freddie has shot himself, call an ambulance” as she held him close, his blood staining her blouse, but already (with help on its way) his face was cold.

The ambulance arrived at 1:39am, but on arrival at Middlesex Hospital, Freddie was pronounced dead.

So, where’s the mystery?

What we’re dealing with here is surely a suicide? A lone businessman suffering from depression and riddled with debts, who has a few drinks to quell his headache, parks his car in a dark secluded dead-end at the rear of his own nightclub, and with a .22 rifle pointed at his head, he shoots himself dead.

There was no sign of a struggle, no screams nor shouts; no suspicious characters were seen, no drugs or poisons were found in his system (just a moderate level of alcohol), only his fingerprints were found, there were no threats on his life and he had no known enemies. Even his own wife was heard to cry out “Freddie has shot himself”. And after a thorough Police investigation, on 2nd August 1965, the coroner recorded this as “death by suicide”, confirming that Freddie Mills had taken his own life.

It all seem simple enough, right? Well, not quite, you see there are elements to this case which don’t make a lot of sense. For example:

No-one saw or heard anything, not even a gun-shot.

No fingerprints were found on the gun, not even Freddie’s.

Unusually for such loving family man, there was no suicide note.

That night, he had made plans to meet his wife Chrissie and his step-son Don at the club, and had expressly asked Robert Deacon the doorman to wake him just prior to midnight, ready for the cabaret.

And finally, Freddie was shot - not in the head or the heart - but in the eye, which (based on his injuries and the lack of powder burns to his lid) suggests that his eye was open at moment he fired the shot.

All of which could easily be explainable, but there are also elements which are not. Such as:

The alcohol: Chrissie confirmed that Freddie had only drank coffee at home, we know he didn’t take a detour on his forty minute drive from his home to the club, nobody at the club served him, no bottle was found in the car, and yet, Freddie’s blood had 37 micrograms of alcohol per 100 millilitres.

The seating position: Freddie had supposedly shot himself in the face, and yet, if he had, why was he sitting in the backseat of his own car, why was he still sitting upright, and why – if he had been holding the rifle, with the muzzle aimed at his head – were both of his hands found flat on his lap?

The timing of his death: Freddie parked in Goslett Yard at 10:30pm, Robert Deacon struggled to wake him at 11:45pm, as does Henry Grant at 12:30am, and Chrissie at a little after 1am. And yet, even though Freddie was clearly in medical need, no-one called for an ambulance for one and a half hours.

The bullet-holes: there were two; one bullet was fired from the rifle into Freddie’s right eye, and the other was fired from inside the silver Citreon into the base of passenger’s side door.

And even stranger is the weapon itself: firstly, if Freddie had shot himself, with the incline of the rifle’s muzzle aimed at his head, having pulled the trigger, surely gravity would cause it to fall towards him? But it didn’t, it fell away, and was found leaning against the driver’s seat in a very neat upright position, almost as if it had been placed there. And secondly; Freddie didn’t own a gun, no-one had ever seen him with a gun, and yet, the gun which ended his life wasn’t your average lethal weapon? It was an FN self-loading .22 calibre Belgian repeater rifle, the kind used to shoot targets at a fun-fair.

And if that’s not strange enough? Answer me this; why did the police not investigate the scene until several hours after the body was found? And why was the body of Freddie Mills (and the rifle) moved from the scene of the crime before the Police had even arrived?

Within eight days, the Police, the pathologist and the coroner had concluded that Freddie Mills had committed suicide, a verdict which his family openly disagreed with, and the case was closed.
But was this a suicide, or was it a murder? The facts just didn’t add up. And as those who knew Freddie started to talk, details started to emerge, and alternative theories began to form.

Was Freddie really just a depressed ex-boxer who was secretly struggling with crippling headaches and depression? Was he a businessman who ended it all over a series of bad debts? Was he a loving family man who made a snap-decision to kill himself, without saying goodbye to those he loved?

Or did Freddie Mills (the charming, fun-loving gentleman) have a secret dark side? Was he in debt to the Mafia? Were the Triads trying to muscle him out of his Soho club? Did he pay the infamous gangsters known the Kray Twins to end his life? Was this married man a secret homosexual who was depressed after the death of his gay lover? Was this all part of a Police cover-up to disguise a bungled investigation? Or was Freddie Mills; the light-heavyweight champion boxer, beloved film star and all-round family man, the sadistic murderer of eight prostitutes whose bodies were left ripped and naked across West London? Was Freddie Mills the infamous maniac known as The Hammersmith Stripper and is this the shameful secret he took to his grave? The only way to know is to find out who killed Freddie Mills?

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to tune in next week for part two of who killed Freddie Mills? And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for more extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Out of the Shadows and Dumb and Busted. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, some of whom will get to find out who killed Freddie Mills days before the whole world and who all get free ebooks of the Murder Mile scripts. Ooh. As well as more goodies coming soon. It’s like a veritable murder Christmas. These lucky people are Dena Siegert, Jessica Shannon, Tracy Armstrong, Nina Colliver, Beth Kelley and Olivia Wallis, Thank you ladies, you are all truly amazing.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archives.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
• I Will Leave You Too by Steve Combs
• Swansong Instrumental by Josh Woodward
• Western Shores by Philip Weigl
• No News by Cult With No Name
• Piano Piece Blue by Cult With No Name (unreleased)
• Untitled by Seclorance

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Metal Knocking - https://freesound.org/people/BenjaminNelan/sounds/410362/
• Birds & Crows - https://freesound.org/people/Adrianac/sounds/266438/
  
• Jazz Band Warming Up - https://freesound.org/people/bsumusictech/sounds/82709/
• Car Stop & Start - https://freesound.org/people/ReyDros/sounds/327056/
  
• Car Stop & Start 2 - https://freesound.org/people/botha9johann/sounds/326052/
• Dogs Barking - https://freesound.org/people/ivolipa/sounds/337101/

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”, nominated Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile wal

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.

Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End. 

• A weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
• 300+ infamous, untold or often forgotten true murders
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Research collected from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself
• An audio guided walk... all from the comfort of your home

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there.

EPISODE FORTY-FIVE

Episode Forty-Five: On Monday 1st March 2004, Camille Gordon; a bubbly student with a beaming smile, a big heart and a bright future, who had no enemies, only friends, was stabbed to death outside of The Blue Bunny Club in Soho. But why?

• Date: Monday 1st March 2004
• Location: The Blue Bunny Club, 7 Archer Street
• Victims: 1 (Camille Gordon)
• Culprit: Unknown

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts"

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.

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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In or Acast.

Thank you for downloading episode forty-five of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. Before we begin, please take a moment to listen to this important message.

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SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End.

Today’s episode is about Camille Gordon; a bubbly student with a beaming smile, a big heart and a bright future, who had no enemies, only friends, and yet someone wanted her dead. But why?

Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 45: Who killed Camille Gordon?

Today I’m standing on Archer Street, in Soho; one road south of Brewer Street where George Pickering stabbed Rosa O’Neill to death, five doors down from The White Horse where Larry Winters shot Paddy O’Keefe, and I’m right next door to the top-floor flat where Soho’s most infamous pimp strangled his most valuable sex-worker to death with her own stocking – only available on a Murder Mile Walk.

Bookended by the bland back-end of Shaftesbury Avenue’s Apollo Theatre to the left and the infamous Windmill Theatre to the right, Archer Street is a former Victorian slum. And being a thin one-way street, barely 200 feet long, with strangely vague and oddly anonymous four and five storey buildings on either side, even on the brightest of days, Archer Street is cast in shadow.

Feeling lifeless, joyless and soulless; although Archer Street is situated smack-bang in the middle of Soho’s sex district, in stark contrast, it’s drab, dark and deathly silent; looking like the kind of dirty hovel where trucks unload, waiters smoke, drunks widdle, crack-addicts puke and a certain bald tour-guide points to scenes of grisly death, all of which happen within a few feet of a primary school. Nice.

Today (gasp, shock) Archer Street is being gentrified. And as much as I may lambast those hairy-faced hipsters who dress like a Yeti moonlighting as an Elizabethan chimney sweep, who talk like Danny Dyer quoting Pruste whilst dying of the plague, who’ve uploaded every single second of their miserable little life (even though they have all the personality of an anus) and who’ve over-complicated a simple beverage to such an extent it makes you want to scream “I just want a f**king cup of coffee”, (frothing, then calm) there is one bright spot on this whole street, and that is Gelupo at 7 Archer Street.

A joyous and brightly coloured blue and white tiled Italian ice-cream shop, full of rich soft sumptuous scoops of mouth-wateringly inventive flavours such as tropical Eton Mess, blueberry cheesecake, chocolate earl grey and Pimms and lemonade. Oh yummy. (Sigh).

And yet, beyond the sweet smell of icy treats, 7 Archer Street hides a deadly secret; as it was here, on Monday 1st March 2004, outside of an infamous Soho clip-joint called The Blue Bunny Club, that an innocent woman called Camille Gordon was stabbed to death. (Interstitial)

Why anyone would hate Camille Gordon is a mystery?

Camille loved kids, she adored them, and with her life-long dream to become a nursery school teacher, it was obvious to anyone who met her that it was a job she was perfect for. Being described by those who knew her as “beautiful, inside and out”, Camille was warm, caring and loving; a vivacious girl who was instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, who could illuminate a room with a smile and could make any stranger feel welcome.

And with silky smooth skin, soft gentle features, warm chestnut eyes and brown shoulder length hair, as a pretty girl with a heart of gold, Camille was the kind of person you couldn’t help but gravitate towards. So given her sweet, warm and generous nature, as a nursery school teacher, Camille would have been absolutely perfect. And yet, she ended up dead in the heart of Soho’s red-light district?

Born on the Caribbean island of Jamaica in 1981 and raised in a strong, loving and supportive family, although they struggled financially; Camille had a very normal upbringing. And even though her grades were good, by the turn of the millennium, feeling that the her homeland lacked the opportunities she needed to truly fulfil her dream, with her mother’s blessing, 21 year old Camille waved farewell to the sun-kissed tropics and headed to the bright prospects but miserable drizzle of England.

Described by a close friend as “a little bit naïve”, being a young girl in a strange land, although England was an exciting place, Camille was street-smart, and was not about to take any risks.

Staying with relatives, Camille lived for two years in the industrial city of Birmingham in the West Midlands; studying at Handsworth College by day, and working as a waitress by night, with additional hours as a nursery assistant at weekends. And although she was stuck in the classic student dilemma of either being too poor to eat, too busy to earn or too tired to learn, she remained totally focused on her goal. And so, by the summer of 2003, Camille graduated with a teaching certificate.

With her dream coming true; being eager to start her career, to pay off her student loan and to earn a modest wage (some of which she would send home to support her mother), Camille moved to the bustling city of London. But times were hard, money was tight and with nursery placements being few-and-far between, temp work being badly paid and waitressing only available at unsociable hours, seeking to supplement her meager income with a well-paying part-time job whilst she enrolled in further education, Camille struggled to make-ends-meet.

So, one night, in the bleak winter of 2003, being a pretty girl with a slim figure, a soft voice and a sweet face; dressed in six inch-heels, black stockings and a tight-fitting dress, Camille sashayed up Rupert Street into the dark heart of Soho’s red-light district. Surrounded by a sea of seedy sex-dens which bathed her silky skin in a gaudy neon haze, as Camille tottered along the puke-splattered urine-soaked street, dodging drunks and leering louts, she was enveloped by the pitch black gloom of Archer Street.

As against the dark sinister facade of number 7, in a doorway draped in a purple velvet curtain and under a flashing neon sign which simply read “girls”, Camille stood, as hostess at The Blue Bunny Club, luring horny young men near with a wink, a smile and a come-hither finger, as for just a fiver, she promised them a “good time with a pretty lady”. (Interstitial).

But this is not what you think.

This is not a story about a vulnerable young girl; who being broke, hungry and hard-up, sinks into drink, falls into drugs, is sold by a gang into the Soho sex-trade, and (in a vicious circle of abuse) is murdered simply for disobeying her pimp. Far from it.

This is a story about a bright girl with a big heart, a warm smile and a blossoming dream of becoming a nursery school teacher. And it still is. That was her goal and she was going for it. But she didn’t have a dark side, she wasn’t leading a double-life and she wasn’t starving, desperate or forced. Camille had no criminal record, she rarely drank, she didn’t do drugs and her only debt was a student loan.

And although, being a hostess in a notorious Soho clip-joint was outside of her comfort zone; as a part-time job, the hours were short, the pay was good and – with her role requiring no nudity or sex-acts, of any kind, by strict orders of the management - all she had to do was talk and smile. So as a smart, strong and ambitious young woman, the decision to become a hostess at The Blue Bunny Club was one she had made independently… and yet, just a few months later, someone would want her dead.

But Camille wasn’t unique; with clip-joints and lap-dancing clubs being on the fringes of the sex-trade, both of which are licensed by the local council; with London being the most expensive city in Europe, given a choice between waitressing for a minimum wage, stacking shelves at night, or bar-work whilst being accosted by drunken louts, many hostesses and lap-dancers aren’t trafficked women, but are actually students, nurses and young mums; all busy girls with big dreams looking for quick (and entirely legal) cash, whilst being protected by strict laws, CCTV and a barrage of burly bouncers.

As one lap-dancer said to me, “I only work one night a month; but it pays well, everyone’s very nice and I feel safe, and what I do here (let’s be honest) it’s no different than what I do at hot yoga”.  

And in the same way that outside of almost every club, bar or restaurant in almost every city, the first person you’ll see is a hostess; a beautiful young woman who is instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, and who can make any stranger feel welcome. So being a hostess at The Blue Bunny Club was merely a well-paying part-time job in a role that Camille was perfect for.

By Monday 1st March 2004, Camille had enrolled in further education; her rent was paid, her life was good, she was happy, well and thriving. But that night, a total stranger would be fueled by so much hatred for Camille that he would end her life forever… and yet, they had only just met. But why?

To understand the murder, you have to understand how clip-joints like The Blue Bunny Club operate. And to do that, you’ll need to come with me, on a little walk into Soho. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.

The date is Monday 1st March 2004. It’s 5pm. As you slip out of the rush-hour bustle of Shaftesbury Avenue, you slink onto Rupert Street; a short cobblestoned road strewn with swirling litter, its slight incline stretching up passed a dither of day-time drinkers, a huddle of homeless beggars and a prong of porn-perusing perverts clutching bafflingly indiscreet brown paper bags. But what draws your eye, is that in almost every doorway, on both sides of the street, stand long lines of very pretty girls; all slim, semi-clad and smouldering.

Being young, inexperienced and desperate, a smorgasbord of lovely ladies - who’d usually look right through you - beckon you nearer with sultry smiles and ‘come to bed’ eyes. And with every book-shop, brothel, strip-club, S&M store and porn-theatre screaming the word “sex”, as gaudy neon signs flash with unsubtle subliminal messages like ‘girls’, ‘nude’ and ‘triple X’, sex is why you are here. But as any farmer will tell you, just because you’re in a field of cows, it doesn’t mean you can buy a steak.

And as a nervous young lad; too shy to watch strippers, too timid to be lap-danced and too terrified to bust your cherry in a brothel; with your heart racing, your mouth dry and walking awkwardly as you struggle to stifle a burgeoning boner, not wanting to be noticed, you’re lured into the shadowy gloom of Archer Street and the dark façade of The Blue Bunny Club.

But there’s no need to be scared, it’s not menacing, it’s reassuring. As from the brightly lit doorway, bathed in a pink neon haze (that hints at hidden flesh) and amidst the heart quickening pulse of disco, a stunning young lady with silky smooth skin, soft gentle features and warm chestnut eyes lures you near with a wink, a smile and a come-hither finger. And being the type of girl who could make any stranger feel welcome, everything she says in her soft Jamaican lilt is what you want to hear.

As in a swirl of words like “girls”, “drinks” and “erotic show”, being stood next to a large sign which reads ‘£5 entrance fee’; with security cameras on the ceiling, bouncers on the door and the club’s terms and conditions fixed to the wall, thinking “wow, if she’s the lady they put on reception, imagine the bevvy of beauties that await me inside?”, you hand her your crinkled fiver, and as she slides back the purple velvet curtain leading down into the excitement of the basement, in a voice as warm and reassuring as a nursery school teacher, she says “have fun”, as you descend into The Blue Bunny Club.

With each step, your mind imagines the world within; a paradise for your swollen penis and a nirvana for your aching nads, as amidst a cavernous expanse of naked flesh, stunners sway on swings, pretty ladies slide on phallic poles and bosomy babes frolic together in a champagne fountain, as a sweaty heaving mass of young men, swarmed in a sea of jiggling boobs and butts, lie exhausted like dribbling wrecks, their bodies trashed by a life-changing orgy of carnality and debauchery.

And as you reach the bottom step, your heart racing, your mouth dry and your loins engorged, as you excitedly pull back the plush red curtain of your sexual utopia, the first thing that greets you is… disinfectant, the oddly un-erotic whiff of an anti-bacterial floor cleaner which stings your nostrils.

For a few seconds, as your eyes acclimatize to the dark, you wonder if you’ve stumbled into the broom-cupboard, but slowly, across the small gloomy room, you see a tiny wooden bar, an empty stage and several stained sofas, on which sit a handful of single and rather awkward looking men.

Realising your mistake, as your Adam’s apple bobs and your sphincter tightens, you quickly turn to leave, but behind you a beef-cake bouncer blocks your only exit, and as you nervously utter “it’s a bit quiet”, with an emotionless yet menacing look, the looming lump growls “it’s still early” (which – no matter what the hour - it always is) as the barrel-chested brute ushers you towards the bar.

Needing a stiff drink to steady your nerves, as you sidle up - your shoes struggling to rip free from the un-arousing grip of the sticky lino - you scan the poorly-lit wooden alcove for any tipple which takes your fancy, but with no draft taps, no spirit optics and no branded bottles, you quiz the rather bland-looking barmaid “do you have any beers?” Audibly huffing like she’s unsure how to inflate a balloon, as – for the fiftieth time that hour – her razor sharp talons point to the drinks menu, which has just  three options; soft drinks, low-beer and virgin cocktails, as she barks “we don’t serve alcohol”.

And it’s true, they don’t. Clip-joints don’t have liquor licenses, so legally they can’t sell booze, if they did, they’d be breaking the law. This was scrawled on the club’s Terms & Conditions, by the door, but as your swollen love-trumpet was too busy leading you downstairs, you didn’t bother to read it.

So, as you slump onto a tacky red sofa, mottled with a mishmash of dubious stains (which you deduce are most likely to be Vimto, blackcurrant cordial or Rola Cola), you daintily sup the egg-cup’s worth of watered-down fruit-juice, a steal at just £20. And as the several scared men stare expectantly at the empty stage, as the unused pole gleams brightly, you think “maybe I just missed a show” or perhaps “it’s still early” (which – no matter what the hour - it always is)? But the truth is, clip-joints don’t have an entertainment license, so legally they can’t put on a show, if they did, they’d be breaking the law. 

And as a mildly attractive yet blatantly disinterested lady sits beside you; her face caked in half an inch of make-up to mask her look of disdain, being semi-sexily dressed in black like she’s keen to cop-off with a funeral corpse and being draped in a feather boa (as nothing says sexy like an itchy scarf made of a dead bird’s plumage), as her vague pleasantries clumsily segue into you buying her a drink (which – as an employee – surely she gets for free), suddenly you realise “it’s a con”.

Nothing is going to happen between you and this lady. Nothing. Not a kiss, a hug or a how-do-you-do. This is a clip-joint, they don’t have a sex-establishment license, so even a legally acceptable sex-act like a striptease or a lap-dance cannot take place, if it did, they’d be breaking the law.

Furious that you’ve been duped into blowing £25 to sit alone for several minutes in an empty club swigging fruit cordial, you get up to leave… but beyond the suspiciously mottled red velvet curtain should be a set of dark-lit steps ascending to the club’s only exit, except it’s blocked by two tree-trunk sized apes in tuxedos, one of whose gigantic hairy fists hands you a bill.

“What? I already paid”, you mutter “a fiver on the door and twenty quid for the drink?” And as your brain scrambles to fathom how you could possibly have accrued such an extortionate bill in such a short period of time, thinking this could be a prank, their unflinching faces say otherwise.

Here, everything costs; from the privilege of talking to the hostess and the honour of buying her a drink, to the pleasure of missing a show, and with the bar having a “two drink minimum” spend and a £300 service charge on top, all of which were clearly in their Terms & Conditions and none of which you bothered to read, so – for now - you’re not going nowhere, until they get their money.
And as two oversized brutes loom over you; their colossal callused hands perched upon your trembling shoulders as their hot-breath snorts down you perspiring neck, as you fumble for your wallet, you consider calling the Police? But on what charge? They haven’t broken the law, and - besides – it’s not like you’ve been mugged, face it, you are the mug.

Many men feel so ashamed that they pay in full, some are so terrified that they hand over their wallets, some plead poverty only to be frog-marched to the nearest cash-machine, and yet, some men become so enraged that by lashing out this allows the bouncers to use physical force. And feeling humiliated, cheated and robbed, most men chalk this up as a lesson learned and make the wise decision to never go back… but one man? He wanted revenge.

On Monday 1st March 2004, at 6:20pm, a customer approached; he was mid-twenties, 5 foot 8 inches tall and dark-skinned, wearing blue jeans, white trainers, a black hat with a white stripe and dark hooded jacket emblazoned with the motif of the Cleveland Indians Major Baseball League. Greeted by Camille and having paid his fiver, he was led downstairs into The Blue Bunny Club.

Ten minutes later, being handed a bill for £370, a heated argument ensued, and having being fleeced to the tune of £90, the man was forcibly ejected by the bouncers; spewing curses as he stormed-off down Archer Street. For those at The Blue Bunny Club, this was just an ordinary day. But having been made to feel stupid, forty minutes later… the furious man returned.

Camille was standing in the doorway; smiling, chatting and earning a few more pounds to fund her dream of becoming a nursery school teacher, a job which she would have been perfect for, as being a vivacious girl who was instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, she could make any stranger feel welcome. Except this stranger didn’t feel welcome, he felt angry and humiliated.

But with the club’s owners elsewhere and the bouncers otherwise engaged, even though Camille was only a part-time hostess who he had briefly met barely moments before, seething with rage and being furious (not at her but) what she represented, he stabbed her once, in the heart. And after a long struggle, as she fought to stay alive, at 8:25pm, 23 year old Camille Gordon was pronounced dead.

And even though the Police have his DNA, his fingerprints, his description and clear CCTV footage of the attack and his escape as he fled into Piccadilly Circus tube station and onto a southbound Bakerloo line train, even with a £20000 reward in place, her murderer remains at large.

Camille Gordon was a beautiful young girl, with a sweet smile, a kind heart and big dreams; who had no enemies, only friends; who wasn’t hated, only loved, and yet – owing to a legal loop-hole on the fringes by Soho’s sex-trade, to which (for many decades) the council had turned a blind-eye – an innocent young woman was brutally stabbed to death by an angry man, simply because he didn’t bother to read the small print. So who killed Camille Gordon? That we may never know.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Already Gone and Going Postal. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are so desperate to see extra videos of my big fat head that they’ve signed-up for more. So either they use it to frighten their kids, to measure melons or they’re werewolves and my balloon shaped bonce reminds them of the moon? This week’s weirdos are Sisse Skovbakke, Lisa Lebo, Vicki Joseph, Ann Stangroom, Darren James, Katrina Van Der Vliet and Jennifer Yee. Thank you guys, there are more moon-faced vids coming your way.

Also a big thank you to Marie, Tracey, Sean, Lorna and Sheryl, who booked into my Murder Mile Walk recently and thank you to Marie for the bakewell tarts… which mysteriously vanished, hence my big fat head. And… etc. But – of course – my biggest thank you is to everyone who listens to Murder Mile. Thank you to you all.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using authentic sources and first-hand accounts (where possible) as there is no file at the archive, given that this is a recent and on-going police investigation.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
• Faster Does It by Kevin MacLeod
  
• Under the Stair by Josh Woodward
• Inner Mental Cage by Controlled Insanity
• Western Shores by Philip Weigl
• Serenity by Parvuz Decree
• Something Bonus by Kai Engel

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• School Kids - https://freesound.org/people/makosan/sounds/34716/
  
• Dogs Barking - https://freesound.org/people/ivolipa/sounds/337101/
• Keyboard Typing - https://freesound.org/people/avakas/sounds/144120/
• Police Siren - https://freesound.org/people/conleec/sounds/159745/
  

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”, nominated Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In or Acast.

Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End. 

• A weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
• 300+ infamous, untold or often forgotten true murders
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Research collected from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself
• An audio guided walk... all from the comfort of your home

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there.

EPISODE FORTY-FOUR

Episode Forty-Four: Between Friday 22nd, Saturday 23rd, Sunday 24th and Monday 25th March 1850, at 25 Brydges Street, a baker’s wife called Susan Moir was literally beaten to death. And although this story is almost 170 years old, it remains just as relevant today

• Date: Friday 22nd to Monday 25th March 1850
  
• Location: Moir's Bakery, 25 Brydges Street (no demolished)
• Victims: 1 (Susan Moir)
• Culprit: Alexander Moir

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In or Acast.

Thank you for downloading episode forty-four of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.

As a word of warning, this episode contains shocking acts of physical, mental and emotional cruelty inflicted by a husband on a wife, and although these upsetting events will be depicted in a dramatized way, every detail of this incident is true, and - for far too many people - this kind of life and death is a daily occurrence. So if you have been subjected to, or have inflicted abuse against a loved one, don’t forget that help is only a phone call away. Thank you for listening and stay safe.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End.

Today’s episode is about Susan Moir; an East End pauper who escaped poverty to become a mother to two boys and the wife of a prosperous baker, and yet, her new life was a fate worse than death. 

Murder Mile is researched using the original court documents. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also features loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 44: Susan Moir: The Brutal Life of the Baker’s Wife.

Today I’m standing on Catherine Street, WC2; two streets east of baby-killer James Richardson Mills, two streets south of Dora Freedman (the West End prostitute supposedly slaughtered by the infamous maniac known as Soho Jack) and one street north of Waterloo Bridge where Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov was assassinated by the KGB, using an umbrella – coming soon to Murder Mile.

Wedged between the historic bustle of Covent Garden and the infamous theatre district of Drury Lane, being barely 800 feet long, Catherine Street is a short slightly sloped side-street which begins at the Theatre Royal, ends at The Strand and (with smog permitting) has stunning views of the Thames.

Laid out in the 1630’s, Catherine Street (originally called Brydges Street) and its surrounding area was – and still is – a vibrant hub, as being crammed-full of theatres, pubs and posh eateries, it’s here where the play’s patrons swig back a pre-show pint, quaff coffee whilst quoting comedy, guzzle down a swift gin at the show’s interval, or copiously weep over an entirely fictional character’s tragic plight, which (in an easily digestible two-hour instalment) is recreated, on a fake stage, off a script, by badly-paid actors, whilst the wobbly-lipped patron wolfs down a plate full of waffle.

Ironically, today it’s a place of happiness, laughter and joy, where loved one’s bond, where fear is a façade, and any tears are only temporary. And yet, there’s one truly heart-wrenching tragedy which played-out right underneath our feet, and it has remained untold, until today.

If you’re wondering why this section isn’t filled with my usual mix of wit, jibes and sharp barbs, that’s because – as this is a deeply tragic story about the horrors of domestic abuse - there’s nothing funny to say. And although this murder occurred almost 170 years ago, it’s a story which is just as relevant today. As it was here, at 25 Brydges Street, from Friday 22nd, Saturday 23rd, Sunday 24th to Monday 25th March 1850, that a baker’s wife called Susan Moir… was literally beaten to death. (INTERSTITIAL)

The most important moment in Susan Moir’s life was her death; as being a lower working-class woman of no historical importance living in an East London slum in the mid-1800’s, almost nothing is known about her sad and tragic life, except what happened in her final days.

Her birth name was Susan Hare. She was born sometime (although we can’t be certain) during the bleak winter months of 1811, somewhere amidst the ragged filth and festering squalor of Stepney (in East London), as one of either six, seven or eight siblings, half of which died before they could walk.

Like many off-spring raised to an East London pauper, Susan’s early life was tough, harsh and cruel.

Living a hand-to-mouth existence; some days she ate, some days she didn’t. With diseases like cholera and dysentery running rampant, medicine was only for the wealthy. With malnutritian having ravaged her immune system, even a common cold could be deadly. And a sickly child, who played amongst the rats in the faeces-splattered streets with no shoes on her feet, who drank water which lay stagnant near an open cess-pit, and – every day – breathed in the thick soupy air of the choking industrial smog which hung across the city like a looming cloud of death; with a third of all children dying before their fifth birthday, if she didn’t starve, freeze or succumb to disease, the longest that Susan could hope to live for was into her mid-to-late thirties. So her chance of survival was literally just that – chance.

And yet, for Susan, life was even worse; not just because she was poor, not just because she was lower working-class, and not just because she was sick, but because she was a woman.

Like most young girls; except for two hours a week at Sunday school, she was denied a basic education; except for unskilled peace-work, she was denied any training or trade; and with no vote, very few rights and almost no say in her own future, the best that Susan could hope for, was to escape the poverty of her own ragged family, by being married-off into another.

And so, it should have been the happiest day of her life, when in the spring of 1837, with her first baby boy on the way, 26 year old Susan Hare married a 31 year old a Scottish tradesman, with a steady income, an honest job, his own home and a prosperous bakers shop at 25 Brydges Street? He must have seemed like the answer to all of her prayers, as (with everyone needing bread) she’d never be cold, poor or hungry ever again. But her husband’s name was Alexander Moir, and when stated in his marriage vows that they’d be together “till death us do part”, he meant exactly that. (INTERSTITIAL).

By 1850, Brydges Street was on its last legs; some of the buildings had rotted away, others had been ransacked by robbers and rats, and what remained was just decades away from being demolished. And as a thick choking smoke drifted east from Bielefeld's papier-mâché works and every bankside furnace and toxic textile factory belched out great plumes of noxious fumes, being just six years before Soho’s deadly cholera outbreak and eight years before The Great Stink which (having no sewer system) saw the city main source of fresh drinking water - the River Thames - turned into a festering pile of floating turds, London was not only dangerous, it was deadly. But for Susan, it was home.

At 25 Brydges Street stood Moir’s Bakery; a rickety old two-storey building made of warped timber and crumbling stone. With the roof having caved in years earlier, only the front part of the upper floor was habitable enough to rent out to lodgers, so with the basement taken up by the bake-house ovens, and half of the ground-floor converted to a shop; the Moir family lived in the small back parlour, which comprised of a kitchen (where their children slept) and a simple bed for Alexander and Susan.

To the outside world, it looked like perfect family business, with Alexander baking, Susan selling and their sons Alexander Junior (age 13) and Jack (age 7) delivering. And as hordes of hungry punters peered in through the shop’s large sash window, to see shelves lined with golden loaves, baskets of soft buns and trays of biscuits, crumpets and hot cakes, as one of the few pleasant smells on the whole street, Moir’s Bakery must have seemed like a dream? But upon entering the bakery, that delightful image would be shattered by the sight of Susan, the sound of screaming and the smell of fear.

According to her autopsy, Susan Moir was 39 years old; she was five foot five inches tall; thin, pale and frail; with wiry brown hair, ruddy cheeks and callused hands. She walked with a stoop, but she wasn’t sick. She looked haggard, but she wasn’t old. She was always exhausted, but she never slept.

And with her sunken and bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles, her uneven cheeks swollen with an unsightly mix of yellow, brown and purple bruises, two broken fingers, several missing teeth, her whole body covered in welts, and her jaw hung open and low so her ghostly white face looked as if it was perpetually stuck in the midst of a scream, even though – by those who knew her – she was a deeply devoted mother who would do anything to protect her boys; she was always scared, tired and broken, and – to combat this, it is said – she would drink.

And so, what follows are the last days of Susan Moir.

Friday 22nd March 1850 was bleak, wet and cold, as a bitter wind whipped down Brydges Street and washed an inch-thick torrent of rain towards the Thames. Times were hard, money was tight and sales were short, so with good bread going to waste, once again, Alexander tutted.

Having worked sixteen hours-a-day for seven days a week since Christmas, it probably never occurred to him that drink wasn’t the reason his wife swayed unsteadily on her feet, that a swollen jaw was why her speech was slurred, or that being bruised was why she moved so slow, but with business being bad, and as she ran the shop, he knew that she was to blame.

Alexander Moir was as 44 year old Scottish baker; a blunt brutish bully-boy who was short and squat like a bulldog, with an unkempt beard, unblinking eyes, a humourless grin, and – after a stint in the navy – he had arms like tree-trunks, fists like lump-hammers and a temper as short as his fuse. So why she loved him? Or whether she ever did? That we shall never know.

By all accounts it was a regular night; as – at a little after 11pm - Susan kissed goodnight to her two boys who shared a mattress made of horse-hair and straw, which was nestled beside the kitchen fire, and as she stood on the cold stone step by the sink, she washed-up the last of the bakery’s spoons, dockers and earthenware crocks, which were baked black with burned-on crumbs and crusts.

With the candles out, the shutters down and the door’s iron bolt slid tight, the shop was shut for the night, but before his bed (which – for most bakers – was just four hours a night, at best) Alexander trudged down into the dark basement. In the bake-house was 14 year old baker’s apprentice John Johnston; and with this being his first week, being eager to please his master, as well as being a little bit scared, John set about making the dough and promised to wake his employer at 3am sharp.

But that night, no-one would sleep.

It began just shy of midnight, as raised voices echoed through the thick oak beams of the bake-house ceiling; the man’s gruff bellow was furious, the woman’s timid squeak was terrified, as with repeated thumps and thuds, as furniture crashed, crockery smashed and a petrified woman was repeatedly dragged from wall-to-door-to-floor screaming "you'll kill me, you'll kill me", it was then that the man growled "I'll murder you before I am done with you". But fearing for his job, and his life, 14 year old John Johnston did nothing, as the violent beating of Susan Moir continued late into the night.

Susan hated her life, so she drank; because she drank, so her husband would beat her; and because he would beat her, so she drank. And yet, for Susan, there was no escape. As a devout Catholic, the Church had denied her any chance of a divorce. As a wife, legally she had no right to separate. As a victim, her only refuge was the dreaded workhouse. As a daughter, she was the responsibility of her spouse to feed, clothe and chastise. And as a woman, having promised before God to “love, honour and obey” her husband, being trapped in a violent marriage, Susan was stuck “till death us do part”.

By the crack of dawn, the only sound heard was the roar of the bake-house ovens, as - in a gruff silence - Alexander bundled the freshly baked bread into a wicker basket, and as John readied himself to make the morning’s deliveries, he noticed that his master’s fists were cut, scuffed and caked with blood.

Having climbed the stone stairs, the first time John saw Susan that morning was in the shop, as - in his own words - he would state in court “she looked a dreadful sight”. Being barely able to hold herself upright, a sixteen hour day ahead of her, as she unsteadily stumbled, Susan tried to prop herself up against the wooden counter, but every time she did, she would wince in pain, as her fingers, hands and forearms were black and swollen, having tried to protect her face from the onslaught of his fists.

But her face was unrecognisable; and being a mismatched puffy mess of lumps, bumps, scrapes and cuts, John could hardly to work-out where her nose stopped and her cheeks began, as with her right eye being too swollen to open, through her tears, Susan saw very little, and said even less.

By 3pm, being barely half-way through her working day, Susan’s cousin popped into the shop; and although the sight of black-eyes and the sound of screaming was a common occurrence in the bakery, for Mary Ann Bryant, this turbulent relationship had truly taken a turn for the worst.

Whether Susan staggered, stumbled and slurred her words owing to an excess of booze or a volley of beatings is unknown, as - having knocked her so insensible that she’d forgotten one-too-many bread orders that day - with Alexander being furious, as customers fled from the bakery, he pummelled the puffy swollen flesh of Susan’s ruptured face with his hard bloodied fists, and with the timid woman being too shattered to simply raise her blackened hands to shield herself, as roughly a dozen blows rained down, each fist struck her squarely in the face and back, again and again and again.  

Having demanded that his lazy feckless wife quit her dilly-dallying and refill the window display with fresh stock, Susan tried to arrange a line of two-penny loaves, but as her world spun wildly and everything went black, she lost consciousness and collapsed; there was a hard thud as she landed face first on the hard wooden floor, ripping a one inch gash across her forehead as a trickle of blood wept from her swollen right eye. Shocked by the ferocity of his violence, Mary-Ann cried “get her up, she needs help”, to which Alexander – his sole focus being to bake a fresh batch of York biscuits – snorted “Let the drunken bitch wait there till she comes to herself".

And with Mary-Ann being too slight to lift the cataleptic woman up, there Susan stayed, slumped under the buns in the shop’s window, as customers came and went, crusty loaves in hand, chattering and gorping, as a battered and barely conscious woman lay in a crumpled heap.

A short while later, Susan slowly regained consciousness, and through bloodied and malformed lips which mumbled barely intelligible words as drool spooled down her chin, she begged Mary-Ann to ask her husband to let her lie down, to rest and to recover from her injuries, but Alexander said no.

Eager to aide her semi-comatose cousin - who struggled on, in the shop, for many hours more, serving breads to bemused customers - Mary-Ann set about covering some of Susan’s chores; like washing their clothes, cleaning the parlour and cooking the family’s dinner, as she tended to Susan’s cuts and swellings, but it would all be for nothing.

At a little after 8pm, on Saturday 23rd March, as their two boys sat silently at the kitchen table, their heads staring at their laps for fear of incurring their father’s fists, Alexander slapped Susan hard, having found a half-empty bottle of gin hidden in a nook. By now, being so used to his abuse and with her face being a bulging mess of tough puffy welts, she barely felt his hand impact, as her salty sobs mixed with blood making it seem like she wept pink tears, and yet still she screamed, as - to Susan – the misery and the pain of her daily beatings were as commonplace as breathing.

Moments later, Mary-Ann served dinner; and having said Grace, the family sat down to mutton chops, potatoes, carrots, peas and gravy. The aggrieved Alexander should have been moderately happy (given the day’s many disturbances) that his dinner was on the table, on time, and that Mary-Ann was actually a good cook, but still he sat there fuming about the failures of his drunken wife.

And as Alexander scooped an overloaded fork of food into his bearded gaping mouth, he spat a volley of peas as he shouted "This is more like gravy, not the watery soup you make", but as Susan was too tired to retort (which he took as insolence), he hurled half of a hard-baked loaf at her head, as its rough edges ripped open an old wound.

Through sheer agony, with every inch of her exhausted body being bloodied, beaten and bruised, as Susan tried to stand-up, her trembling legs barely held-up by two blackened arms, Alexander slammed her back into her seat, forcing her freshly bruised backside down onto the hard wooden chair, as – with a mashed mouthful of potato – he spat "If you don't finish your meat, I will send for a rolling-pin, and will force it down your throat”.

And like a dark shadow of death which loomed over the tiny trembling woman, there he stood; staring, seething and snarling, as her numb fingers struggled to raise the shaking fork to her swollen lips, but seeing her inability to eat, not owing to her injuries but due to her drunkenness and selfish petulance, as Susan’s broken fingers dropped the fork, Alexander exploded with rage.

The assault was sustained, vicious and swift as a flurry of heavy fists and booted feet flew into Susan’s legs, back and face. And as the man who had once sworn an oath, in Church and to God that he would always “love, honour and protect her”, as his wife cowered on the hard wooden floor, curled-up like a ruptured ball, as she screamed for him to stop, he savagely beat her until her body went limp.

But Susan didn’t die, not then, not yet. As even though her pummelled face was said to be “the colour of sheep’s liver”, her swollen lids had rendered her right eye blind, and her brown wiry hair was matted thick with congealed blood, she struggled on for the sake of her boys. And all the while, as Mary-Ann washed her cousin’s cuts with cool water, Alexander sat by the fire, his feet-up, smoking a pipe.

One hour later, as Susan unsteadily slumped against the sink, desperate to complete her nightly chores for fear of upsetting her husband further, as her aching fingers scrubbed the baked-on crusts of the earthenware pots, and as an irregular gush of blood thrummed and thumped through her aching brain, suddenly everything went black and – again - she collapsed.

The heavy thud should have alerted Alexander that his wife was in trouble. Her stillness should have rang an alarm bell that all was not well. But it didn’t. As seeing his lazy useless wife, lying down like an unruly mutt, her stupid head slumped against the cold kitchen step like the silly cow was spitefully defying him by taking a little nap, he bellowed “Get up you drunken bitch”, and when she didn’t, wearing hard leather boots, he repeatedly kicked her legs, her body and her head.

Susan didn’t fight back, she didn’t scream, and she didn’t even move, as being either so bruised, unconscious or beyond caring, she just lay there. And with Alexander, once again, refusing to pick her up, Susan lay slumped in an insensible mess on the cold kitchen floor, for the next two hours,

By Sunday 24th March, with Alexander having denied her the right to rest in her own bed, as her persistent bleeding would have soiled his sheets, Susan was moved to the horsehair and straw mattress that her children slept in, nestled on the floor, next to the kitchen fire, like a dog; and there she lay, silent, still and barely breathing except in low rasps gasps.

At 8pm. Mary-Ann returned, when she asked Alexander how Susan was, he huffed that she “was in a very bad state” and that he was “astonished that ‘it’ had lasted as long as it had done”. And when asked if he had sent for a doctor, he said “no, there was no need”, but Mary-Ann insisted.

Dr Joshua Watkins of nearby Chandos Street was called for and arrived at 25 Brydges Street just after 11am on the morning of Monday 25th March 1850, by which time, 39 year old Susan Moir was dead.

On Monday 6th May 1850, at The Old Bailey, Alexander Moir pleaded not guilty to his wife’s murder. Having heard the testimony, examined the scene and viewed the body, a jury of 15 men assembled to debate the case at the Two Spies public house on Brydges Street.

The evidence was overwhelming; every inch of Susan’s skin was covered in a patchwork of lumps, cuts, bruises and breaks; some were old, some were new, but all told a tale of terrified woman fearing for her life. And having removed six ounces of coagulated blood from her brain, the surgeon confirmed that Susan been beaten to death as she lay either unconscious or dying.

In his summing-up, Mr Justice Cresswell stated that if the jury felt it was Alexander’s intention to beat his wife to death, then he must be charged with murder. But that if by beating his wife, his intention was only to cause her pain, and that as a result she died, then he must be charged with manslaughter.

After a very short deliberation, for the brutal death and the physical, mental and emotional abuse he had inflicted on Susan, over two decades, the jury found Alexander Moir guilty… of manslaughter.

Alexander Moir was sentenced to life, but he served just twelve years. And although, as an East End pauper, Susan had escaped poverty, disease and malnutritian by becoming the wife of a prosperous West End baker, being beaten black-and-blue every day of her married life, the one horror she could never escape was her violent husband. Susan Moir was buried in a pauper’s grave, somewhere in East London, but her exact whereabouts are unknown.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Wine & Crime and Affirmative Murder. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who (following my previous advert) desperately wanted to have super perky sky-pointing tits and lethally-long dongs which dragged on the floor, and those lucky people are Taya Brendle, Ladislav Eichler, Amanda-Jayne Lamb, Debbie Halliwell, Robert Lee-Floyd Williams, Jason Aberchrombie and Ashley Shannon, although they will be easy to spot. Also a big thank you to Tom who came on my Murder Mile Walk and very kindly became a cash Patreon. And a special thank-you to Stacey Conover who as a mega-patreon not only gets gravity defying boobs for life and a man-trumpet so long it’s a trip-hazard, but also she will receive a very exclusive Murder Mile mug – only one of two currently in existence. Ooh! But – of course – my biggest thank you is to everyone who listens to Murder Mile. Thank you to you all.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original court documents from The Old Bailey and other sources.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
  
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
  
• Piano Blue by Cult With No Name
• EXiiLFE by Ars Sonos
  
• Sopor by Kai Engel
• Mercy by Kai Engel
• Piano Piece 3 by Cult With No Name

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Street Organ - https://freesound.org/people/RTB45/sounds/203424/
  
• Chimney - https://freesound.org/people/markb/sounds/86977/
• Market Traders - https://freesound.org/people/deleted_user_1116756/sounds/74460/
• Columbia Flower Market - https://freesound.org/people/AlKerr/sounds/214673/
• Horse & Carriage - https://freesound.org/people/dobroide/sounds/111211/
• Horse & Carriage 2 - https://freesound.org/people/Sirderf/sounds/333679/
  

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End. 

• A weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
• 300+ infamous, untold or often forgotten true murders
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Research collected from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself
• An audio guided walk... all from the comfort of your home

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there.

EPISODE FORTY-THREE

Episode Forty-Three: On 30th December 1942, in 112 Bryanston Court, Marion Lees-Smith was a single mother who was struggling alone to cope with the daily demands of Derek - her deaf and brain-damaged son. And as frustrated and exasperated as Marion would often be, her death would come about, not by exhaustion, but by the hand of her own son.

• Date: Friday 30th December 1942
  
• Location: Flat 112, Bryanston Court, W1
  
• Victims: 1 (Marion Scott Lees-Smith)
  
• Culprit: Derek Thayer Lees-Smith
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Marion Lees-Smith; a single mother struggling alone to cope with the daily demands of Derek - her deaf and brain-damaged son. And as frustrated and exasperated as Marion would often be, her death would come about, not by exhaustion, but by the hand of her own son.

Murder Mile is researched using the original police investigation files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 43: Marion Lees-Smith: The Rich Mum, The Deaf Son and the Paltry Sum.

Today I’m standing on George Street, W1. And like most places on Murder Mile, it may sound familiar, because we’ve already been here before; as we’re just one road south of first failed assassination of former Iraqi Prime Minister (Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif), one road north of the badly bungled abortion of Helen Mary Pickwoad, one square west of The Blackout Ripper’s first victim (Evelyn Hamilton), and three blocks south of the terrorist tube bombing at Edgware Road – coming soon to Murder Mile.

In front is Bryanston Court at 137 George Street; a seven-storey mansion-house covering half a square block; with brown brick walls, black wrought iron railings, art deco lamps and with four huge Doric columns in chalk stone on either side of a black wooden door, it looks very much like an old bank.

Like much of Marylebone, George Street is rather grand, as being named after the most infamous of Britain’s mentally-unwell monarchs - as it’s here that that (the unfairly dubbed) mad King George III ranted, raved and recuperated from the debilitating blood disorder of porphyria - although this sleepy side-street is chock full of five-star hotels, mansion houses, embassies, galleries and lines of posh cars (like a very literal willy measuring contest), oddly - for a major metropolitan city - there’s no people.

It’s lifeless, joyless and colourless; bland, dull and beige, like a potato waffle coated with caviar, like a Tory MP in a tux, or like that very white kind of 1980’s poodle poop… only sprinkled with lots of pearls.

It’s a place so false, no-one has their original name, nose, voice or spouse; and with so many nips and tucks, anybody you do see is totally unable to sit, smile, stand, talk, walk or jiggle their norks, as they look like they’re staring straight into a force 10 gale. And with many of the flats owned by bankers as a tax dodge; the only life on George Street, are those uptight twats in tweed suits who drive their Bentley’s at half the speed of a bunged-up slug’s bowel movement, and those mummified corpses in mink coats, who stink of moth balls and gin, and walk a £5000 fluffy rat on a very posh piece of string,

And although, in Bryanston Court, the three-bedroomed apartment of Wallace Simpson (the American wife of abdicated King Edward VIII) recently sold for £5.35 million, it was also here, on the night of Wednesday 30th December 1942, in flat 112, that a devoted and well-off mother called Marion Lees-Smith was murdered by her son, over a paltry sum of just £2. (INTERSTITIAL)
Life was idyllic for Marion Lees-Smith. Raised as a well-mannered, educated and a devoutly religious lady from a wealthy and upstanding family, although a native of Chicago, having married Norman (an executive for the Canadian Pacific Railway), together Marion and her husband would travel the world.

By 1920, being berthed in the bustling city of Shanghai (China); as a major international trade port and one of the east’s most important financial centres, Shanghai was in its golden age; and being bathed by bright coloured lights, stunned by the hectic buzz of the city, and knocked-out by the sweet sizzling smell of steamed crab, beggar’s chicken and shredded duck dumplings, Marion was in her element.

She lived in a stunning three-storey house on the prosperous Nanking Road; was served by a butler, a housemaid and a chef; wore tailored dresses, fine jewels and handmade shoes; and as a 40 year old globetrotter from a wealthy family, with no commitments or responsibilities just a very active social life, as money was no object, Marion could literally buy anything… except happiness.
As a hard-working but always exhausted executive, Norman was rarely home, and on the odd occasion he was, the faint cracks in their fractured relationship would show. Often they’d argue, always they’d fight, and so - with fate being so fickle – this was possibly the worst time to have a baby, but on 21st August 1922, Marion gave birth to a boy, and she named him Derek.

Derek was (and would always be) their only child; and as a happy, normal and healthy baby, raised to two loving parents in a wealthy family, although he was an accident, Derek was adored. And with his doting mother smothering her beloved son with endless toys, good food, soft sheets and a nursemaid at his beck-and-call, even as a baby, Derek had a better life than most.

But then, even in a truly idyllic setting, sometimes accidents do happen.

It was a momentary lapse in concentration, as Amah (the family’s diligent nursemaid) was distracted for little more than a few seconds. With Derek being a restless two-year old; being unable to sit still, desperate to stand and struggling to peep out of his pram, as Amah looked away, the adventurous tot crawled over the pram’s canvas side, and with no sense of distance or danger, he slipped, and fell.

The thud was heavy. The cobbles were hard. His head bled. And although motionless, as a pained wail burst from his bloodied lips which cut the chaotic Shanghai streets to silence and reassured Amah that the boy was still breathing, Derek was rushed to hospital, having landed on his head. “He was lucky”, the doctors said, as with no broken bones, only a superficial cut and a few bruises, being given a pill for the pain and a plaster, Marion took her son home and thought nothing more of it.

But Derek had been damaged.

It started with stutter; a simple tripping of the tongue over some troublesome words. Then he became unnaturally clingy, oddly silent and always cried, as if he was in pain. And as he retreated into his own little world, with his hearing slowly fading, by the age of 12, Derek was totally deaf.

With Amah sacked, Marion became Derek’s full-time carer, and with his deafness being manageable, having invested in a hearing aid and lip-reading lessons, Marion was coping. But somewhere, deep inside of Derek’s head, something else had broken. (INTERSTITIAL)

Having relocated to London, limited their social life and put their globetrotting days firmly behind them, having made their life stable for their disabled son, Derek’s demands had placed a great strain on his parent’s relationship, and although they stayed in touch, Marion and Norman had split.

Part-funded by her family, Marion moved with her son into flat 112 on the sixth floor of Bryanston Court; a modern, well-furnished, two-bedroomed apartment. And as a little family stuck together in a tiny West End flat, with no-one for company but each other, although Marion and Derek were mother and son, to those who knew them, they seemed like an odd mix.

With her globetrotting days long gone, 61 year old Marion was a pale, thin and hollow version of her former self, and although she was fastidiously neat and elegantly dressed, lacking any smile or sparkle, it seemed as if, every day, a little piece of her soul had drained away. And as a single woman, struggling alone, with a boy whose injuries she blamed on herself, Marion was the epitome of exasperation.

Where-as Derek, always seemed awkward in his own skin, like a 20 year old man trapped in a 70 year old’s body. As with a messy mop of jet black hair perched above his elongated face, a dark crumpled suit which clung to his thin weedy frame, a set of horn-rimmed glasses with lenses like coke-bottle bottoms, so thick, they magnified his tiny eyes to the size of saucers, and – as his little legs walked with oversized strides – being forced to cart-about a clunking great hearing aid with its bulky battery in a carry-case, although he was deaf, delicate and socially-awkward, he was eager for freedom.

Not a lot, just some… but with Marion always fussing, huffing and tutting, as a woman wracked with the guilt over her broken boy, believing she was being a good mum, she had encased him in a cocoon.

A cocoon that Derek would never escape, even after he had stabbed his mother to death.

In 1942, three weeks before Christmas, Marion was at her wits-end. Not from the strict rationing with the country’s food stocks in short supply, the lack of clean water as water pipes burst (limiting each flat to just two buckets a day), or the barrage of Nazi bombers which – night-after-night – rained down death from the skies, but by loving him so much, she had nothing left to give.

Every night, they’d fight; and although their little spats were never hurtful, spiteful or physical, the thin walls of their tiny flat echoed with the sharp sounds of screaming and sobbing as an exasperated mother and her frustrated son clashed.

When Derek was a little boy, although they’d argue, Marion would always win; as being a strong willed woman and – more importantly - his mother, with just a finger, a look or even a tut, she could easily override the unruly demands of a such small boy, with a slow brain and a stutter, but now, he was a man. And although he resembled a 70 year old man trapped in a 20 year old’s body with a 8 year old’s brain, with Marion being a just little lady; as he grew taller in height, heavier in weight and greater in strength, the more she became older, weaker and more exhausted.

Hence the cocoon, but she wasn’t being cruel.

Like every loving mother, Marion only wanted the very best for her little boy, and so – with a modest allowance, a good education, love, trust and a hand to hold - she gave him freedom; she wanted him to grow, to bloom and - ultimately - to be free. But as a deaf, delicate and socially awkward boy, in a big city, who was a danger to himself, with his best interests at heart, there had to be limits.

Determined that his disability should never hold him back, Derek was educated at some of Britain’s best private schools, but being described by his tutors as distant, erratic, distracted and intellectually deficient, for the third time in the last six months, Derek had dropped out of education.

With an interest in animals, Marion arranged for work experience at a farm in the fresh air (and safety) of Saffron Waldon, but – being unable to keep hold of a single thought - Derek had grown bored before the first egg hit the straw. And so it went on. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t earn, he couldn’t learn.

Being eager to do his bit for the war-effort, having sucked-up her fears (and a few tears) Marion helped her boy to enlist in the Army, but being rejected on medical grounds, with a warm hug, she reassured him he could help defeat Hitler by doing the Army’s admin, and so, he learned to type. In October 1942, Derek enrolled in a Pitman course on nearby Southampton Row, but by Christmas, he had quit.

Marion was exasperated, exhausted and alone. She had tried everything and everything had failed. Even his modest weekly allowance of 12 shillings, which - although not much - was enough to give him some independence. But where-as once, as a boy, he’d spend the lot of sweets, now, as a man, he’d blow the lot on booze, making him deaf, delicate, socially-awkward and also drunk.
To Marion - as a devout teetotaller - that was a step too far, and fearing she had lost control, she did the only thing she could do; she stopped his allowance, and – for the last time - the cocoon was shut.

And that’s how it all began? Not as a bitter battle over an inheritance. Not as a long-standing feud over love. And not owing to a slow descent into drugs and drink. And even though (it is said) that Derek had been brain-damaged; he didn’t suffer with headaches, visions and never heard voices; he was never violent, cruel or committed a crime. He was just… quiet.

It all began as a simple spat over a few pennies, between a loving mother and her slightly unruly son, as she tried to protect him from harm, as he tested the boundaries of his new-found freedom. It was an argument, which every parent, has with their child, every day. And resulted in a very normal murder.

Three days before Christmas, like a marvel to the art of multi-tasking, Marion managed to find the time to establish the St George’s Club at 62 Great Cumberland Place; a small social club for members of the armed forces, which - as a proud and patriotic woman – she did as her bit for the war-effort. And although it kept her busy, it also provided her son with a good job, a regular income and allowed her to keep him busy and close. It seemed like the perfect solution to a small problem… but it wasn’t.

Wednesday 30th December 1942 was Marion’s last day alive. And yet, like most parents, her morning had begun like any other, as being late for work, she impatiently banged on the bathroom door.

It started as a simple squabble over the usual; her son having hogged the hot water, made a mess and failed to flush, that’s all. But somewhere in their war or words, Marion hit a nerve – as having merely mentioned that the club’s nightly takings were a little light – their sparks erupted into a scuffle, and in a truly rare moment of anger (which shocked them both) Derek struck his mother and stormed out.

She wasn’t injured, cut or bruised, if anything, she was just disappointed. An hour later, he apologised.

If she’d been hit by any other employee, they’d have been sacked. If they’d been as disorganised at their duties, they’d never have been hired. But having kept her boy on the pay-roll for ulterior motives, after one week, Marion’s patience was tested, and as she chatted to the club’s barman about this possible financial error, her face said it all, her trust had been lost. Derek saw this, and stormed out.

Between 9pm and 11pm, at the New Inn public house at nearby Marble Arch, Derek sat alone, fuming, as he necked back four pints of mild ale, which was odd, as he hadn’t been paid.

At a few minutes after 11pm, with the club closed for the night, Marion returned home. With the blackout blinds drawn and every light off, the flat was inky black, and although (just hours earlier, it was here that Marion and Derek had fought) its silence was eerie, as there was no sign of her son.

As was her usual routine, Marion readied herself for bed; on the sofa she dumped her gloves, purse and shopping bags; as it was cold, she slipped on a bathrobe, a nightie, a woollen vest, a set of booties and scarf; to distract her mind, she sat at the kitchen table, her spectacles on, doing the crossword; and then, with slumber looming, she popped the kettle on the hob, and beside it, a hot-water bottle.

At 11:20pm, Derek returned. And although their tiny flat was filled with a tense trepidation; no words were said, no tuts were uttered and no looks were exchanged, so seeing that his mother was already dressed and ready for bed, Derek went straight to his bedroom and popped on his pyjamas.

On his bed lay her brown attaché case; in it were the club’s cash boxes, which she’d bring home every night. But it wasn’t what it was, what it contained, or where it had been placed which made Derek smile, but what it meant. As still being trusted to count the club’s takings, this wasn’t just her money, it was a symbol of trust, a reconciliation, and one last chance.

With his pad and a pencil, Derek set about counting the cash. It didn’t take him long, not just because he was eager to please his mum - whose pale drained face beamed with pride from the doorway - but with the club being new, the takings were only small, and amounted to the paltry sum of just £2. And yet, as she slowly sidled up, to thank her son, she smelled the stale stench of booze on his breath.

And that’s all it took; an accusatory sniff, an exasperated sigh and a withering look; the disappointed eye-roll of a frustrated mother whose trust had been lost, but it was enough to make Derek snap. 

With a vice-like grip, the loose pale skin of her wrinkled neck folded over his forefingers as both of his hands squeezed her throat tightly; his thumbs embedded into her windpipe, so deep, they cut-off her air and her screams, as standing over her, with wide staring eyes, her baby boy loomed large. And as her swollen tongue protruded from her pulsating purple face, with her blue lips agog, like her last ever words were trapped in the midst of a silent scream, as her whole world slowly went black…

…Derek let go.

Marion gasped for air, gulping down great mouthfuls of oxygen, as her pallid complexion returned.
In court, Derek described this as “a moment of temporary insanity”, he just “wanted to frighten” his mother, and frightened she was, but as he stormed out of the bedroom, he knew he’d done wrong.
Having taken the wailing kettle off the hob, as a small boy dressed in striped pyjamas, Derek stood in the kitchen; his breathing staggered, his eyes flooded with tears, as being both terrified and ashamed of the truly awful act which he’d done to his mum with his own two hands, hearing her sobs echo from the bedroom, to steady his nerves, Derek decided to fix himself a lime juice and ginger ale.

And as he opened the cutlery drawer, his quivering hand hovering near to the bottle-opener, behind him, in the bedroom, he heard the distant crinkle of notes and the faint clink of coins being counted, as his mother checked the cash-box for theft. And in that instant, Derek went from shame to rage.

With her back to the bedroom door, she didn’t hear her son return. With her head facing the bed, she couldn’t see him rush up behind her. And being so focussed on counting the club’s nightly takings, Marion did see that in the hand of her baby-boy had he held a four-inch black-handled kitchen knife.

The first thing she felt was a hard thump like she’d been punched in the back, the force having shoved her forward into the bed, and feeling a warm trickle as blood ran down her spine, as she turned, and saw her own knife (last used to slice spuds) sunk deep in her back, right up to the handle, as her left lung slowly pooled with blood, Derek retracted the blade, and stabbed his mother again.

The second stab wound sliced one inch deep into purple skin of her bruised neck, severing her larynx, and with the pleural cavity of her left lung now collapsed, being unable to breathe as she chocked on her own blood, Marion slipped into shock, frozen in fear, as slowly she began to bleed to death.

And having turned to look into the eyes of her killer, the last sight Marion saw was her own son; as with his hand held high, gripping a bloodied knife, with every ounce of hate, spite and hurt, he stabbed her once, in the face, slicing open her lower lip and chin, right down to the jawbone. And moments later, 61 year old Marion Lees-Smith - mother of Derek - was dead. (END)

At 9:15am, the next morning, Marion’s body was found by their housekeeper. The crime scene wasn’t difficult for Detective Inspector Clare to deduce; as with one dead body, an empty cash box, a locked door, her son missing, his fingerprints on the knife and his blood splattered pyjamas soaking in the sink, having being seen by the night-porter walking out of Bryanston Court barely minutes after her screams had died, with Derek as the Police’s only suspect, his description was issued to all stations.

With £2 in his pocket, Derek finally got the freedom he had dreamed of… but with those few stolen notes adding up to little more than £90 today, by 6:30pm, being broke, sober and totally distraught, he handed himself in, stating in a mumbled stutter “The only thing I can say at my trial is I am guilty”. Except, he didn’t.

On 16th March 1943 in a two-day trial at The Old Bailey; a tearful Derek pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. And with neither the defence nor the prosecution protesting the findings, with two doctors having confirmed he had a psychopathic personality disorder, an erratic heartrate and abnormal brain-waves consistent with an undiagnosed brain injury, when he fell from a pram aged two, the jury retired for just 1 hours and 40 minutes before they returned with a unanimous verdict of guilty… but insane.

In a statement (spoken by his solicitor) Derek said “I am very sorry I did this awful thing… I have done the greatest of harm by disposing of my best friend in life”.

Derek was sentenced to be detained at His Majesty’s Pleasure which he served at Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison. And although the protective cocoon of loving mother was created to shield her deaf, delicate and socially-awkward son from danger, for the sake a paltry sum, this one night of freedom left Marion dead and Derek trapped inside a very different kind of prison… forever.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Outlines and Unseen Podcast. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Mark Williams and Alison Lee. As a big thank you, I’m donating to both of you, one of my livers, split in two. And it’s up to you what you do with it; either you can sell it, give it to a donor, grill it, fry it, sauté it, or – given that’s it’s only 10% blood but at least 90% neat Jack Daniels – I’d drink it. Go on, treat yourself.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archive.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
  

• Waiting by Peter Rudenko
  
• Piano Song 2 by Cult With No Name
• NEvrAGN featuring Mutate-loopool by Ars Sonor
• Ennui by Lee Rosevere
• FTmiSTK featuring The Implicit Order by Ars Sonor
• Sopor by Kai Engel

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Shanghai Nanjing Road - https://freesound.org/people/Unice.ys/sounds/100647/
  
• Lu Xun Weirdness - https://freesound.org/people/RTB45/sounds/192242/
• Air Raid Siren - https://freesound.org/people/RTB45/sounds/179606/
• Shanghai - https://freesound.org/people/taurindb/sounds/136051/
• Horse & Carriage - https://freesound.org/people/dobroide/sounds/111211/
• Horse & Carriage 2 - https://freesound.org/people/Sirderf/sounds/333679/
• Car Horns - https://freesound.org/people/allthingssound/sounds/424918/
• Car Horns 2 - https://freesound.org/people/toiletrolltube/sounds/175847/
• Studdebaker Start  -https://freesound.org/people/lonemonk/sounds/201988/

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End. 

• A weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
• 300+ infamous, untold or often forgotten true murders
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Research collected from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself
• An audio guided walk... all from the comfort of your home

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there.

EPISODE FORTY-TWO

Episode Forty-Two: On the afternoon of Friday 12th December 2014, in Ormond Yard, a quiet back-street at the back of a garish restaurant called Abracadabra, larger-than-life businessman David West Senior was brutally stabbed to death by his diligent business partner and beloved son – David West Junior. But why?

• Date: Friday 12th December 2014
  
• Location: 8 Ormond Yard, SW1
  
• Victims: 1 (David West Snr)
  
• Culprit: David West Jnr
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts"

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk