Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINE-FOUR:
Off Edwardes Square in Kensington, W8 lies Pembroke Court, a six-storey art-deco apartment-block built in the 1920s. Back in 1962, the basement flat at 17 Pembroke Court was owned by George Brinham; a respected trade unionist and chairman of the Labour Party, who was hailed as a Prime Minister in the making. And yet, there is no blue plaque to George Brinham. Some might say this was down to his political affiliations, others might imply it was owing to his love life, but maybe it’s simply down to a scandal which on Saturday 17th November 1962, led to his murder. But why was George Brinham killed, and did a quirk of the law let his murderer go free?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a lime green raindrop south west of Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationxalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C3756355 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C9438404 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4204182 https://www.britishpathe.com/video/VLVA4503G3IEM7WK6M9MFB5NTUQMW-UK-SCARBOROUGH-OPENING-DAY-OF-THE-LABOUR-PARTY-CONFERENCE/query/Scarborough
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Edwardes Square in Kensington, W8; four roads north of the killing of Churchill’s super spy Krystyna Skarbek, a short walk east of the former school of the victim of The Beast (Katerina Koneva), a few streets west of the basement where the McSwan family were dissolved in acid, and just a few doors down from the killer who couldn’t say ‘goodbye’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Hidden away off Kensington High Street, Edwardes Square is a posh little place; a manicured private garden surrounded by townhouses, mostly owned by stiff starchy chin-stroking twits who dawdle and drone through galleries about a piece’s “exquisite composition”, not realising they’re staring at a bin. Given its long history as the homes of the well-to-do, many buildings have blue plaques. Organised by a committee of old grey men, these plaques often celebrate a tenuous link to someone long dead and forgotten, half of whom make the bemused passers-by think and state “nope, never heard of him”. Off Edwardes Square lies Pembroke Court, a six-storey art-deco apartment-block built in the 1920s. Back in 1962, the basement flat at 17 Pembroke Court was owned by George Brinham; a respected trade unionist and chairman of the Labour Party, who was hailed as a Prime Minister in the making. He was a man who was making waves and a name, and yet, there is no blue plaque to George Brinham. Some might say this was down to his political affiliations, others might imply it was owing to his love life, but maybe it’s simply down to a scandal which on Saturday 17th November 1962, led to his murder. But why was George Brinham killed, and did a quirk of the law let his murderer go free? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 194: The Gay Panic. On 5th July 1967 at 5:50am, the Sexual Offences Act passed in the House of Commons, a bill purported to decriminalise homosexuality and equalise a person’s legal status regardless of sexual orientation. As a gay man, George would die five years before this decriminalisation, and in an era where it was acceptable to use homophobia as a legal defence… …it is referred to as ‘the gay panic’. George Ivor Brinham was born on 31st January 1917 in Brixham, Devon, one of the smallest and most southerly towns in the south-west of England. Raised by Elijah a fisherman, and Annie a housewife, George was one of three siblings raised in a loving family, with his brother Harry and sister Charlotte. From his hard-working parents, at an early age, George learned the value of loyalty and love, but also how even a little lad from the back-end of nowhere could (and should) stand up for the rights of the average person. Unlike his contemporaries who ascended to the political elite having had mummy and daddy board them at posh public schools like Harrow or Eton, George left school aged 14 with a basic education, but bolstered his knowledge with evening classes and a wealth of personal experience. By living his life and learning from those around him, George became the man he would become. As a high-achiever who came from little, George made the most of every opportunity. In 1932, aged 15, he became an apprentice joiner at Bluebeer & Merchant in Brixham, staying for five years, learning new skills, becoming the shop steward and – already being politically active – the senior union rep. In 1933, aged just 16, as a slightly shy boy, he knocked on the door of politician Mrs F M Chudsey and stammered “would it be possible for me to join the Labour Party?”. And thus his political career began. Being well-dressed and softly spoken, he impressed his seniors. But regarded by some as a ‘scrapper’ and by others as ‘a trouble maker’ - mostly by those who never wanted any change to the status quo which benefitted managers and maligned the workers – George was young, smart and hungry. Aged 19, he became honorary secretary of the Torquay Labour Party. During war-time, he represented Torquay at the annual Labour Party conference, he formed the first local committee of Shipbuilding & Engineering unions, he was trade union rep on the Admiralty Shipyard Control Advisory Committee - all in his early-to-mid-twenties – and in 1944, he was appointed Justice of the Peace, the youngest at that time, and elected to Brixham Urban Council, where he served as counsellor for three years. In his spare-time, he studied economics and local government affairs, eventually becoming a tutor and fellow of the Royal Economic Society. In 1952, he was elected to the National Labour Party Executive, becoming its youngest member. In 1955, having joined the Amalgamated Society of Woodworkers, he became its youngest ever chairman and later its president. And by 1959, aged just 42, George Brinham - a young shy lad from a small fishing town – had become the youngest Chairman of the Labour Party. Physically, as a slim neat man with dark well-groomed hair and a sharp suit, he was not a formidable sight. But undeniably, he was a charismatic man who was devoted to the fight for worker’s rights. The stratospheric career of George Brinham was public and well documented. And yet his private life was not. As a gay man, in an era when it was a criminal offence to be gay; his private life was a dirty little secret known by few who kept it hidden including himself and (possibly) by his party… …until a seedy scandal led to his death. On paper, George did not have a criminal record for acts which - in the 1950s & 60s – were illegal. According to declassified police records; in 1956, a Naval Rating claimed he was picked up in Hyde Park and at the Tregaron Hotel in Bayswater, George paid him 10 shillings to engage in masturbation. George was questioned, he denied any indecency and he was released with no charges against him. In 1958, an unnamed guardsman alleged that George had attempted to commit buggery upon him at his flat at 17 Pembroke Court. The incident was investigated by the Special Investigation Branch of the Army, but with no corroborative evidence and George denying it took place, no charges were made. And in December 1961, an unnamed youth who had claimed he was paid £5 on several occasions for sex was arrested having broken into the flat. George denied knowing him and the case was closed. As a gay man, his options on how he could pick up men was limited to those which were illegal. Unlike others, with high-ranking friends in most government departments, it’s likely that these scandals were silenced for fear of ruining his career and the reputation of the party. But being so well-insulated, this protection is likely to have led to George being a lot less cautious about his illegal sexual activities. In May 1958, George moved into 17 Pembroke Court in Edwardes Square, W8. Although he had lived there for four years, few of his neighbours knew this shy quiet man… but they all knew he was gay. Lacking any discretion, often on weekends, George would drive a lew of handsome young men, some in uniform, in his Blue Ford Colsul from Soho and surrounding areas to his secluded flat in Kensington. Witnessing his homosexual shenanigans, Mrs Christina Ansell of Flat 14 gave an account to the Police. (Christina): “He’d not been living there long before I noticed that he was having a number of different young men call upon him in his flat. I remember a Saturday afternoon about 18 months ago, I was sitting in my bedroom with the windows open. I heard a young man’s voice shout “you’re hurting me” It sounded as if the young man was distressed. Then immediately afterwards I heard a struggle”. Informing Mrs Lucy Alcock the caretaker, this suspected assault was reported to the landlords, but as Mr Brinham was a good tenant, they simply asked him to be quieter from that point on. George had an appetite for young men, which was not dissuaded by nosey neighbours or a copper’s questions. Whatever went on in his private little flat – whether rough sex, or saddo masochism – it didn’t dampen his ardour for lusting after young men, he just made it less obvious to the sticky beaks who blabbed to the police. With the windows shut and the curtains closed, Christina would state “when I saw him bringing in young men, shortly after entering the flat, I would hear music being played very loudly”. Lucy recalled “…I heard screaming coming from the flat, and as the screams got louder, the volume of the music was turned up. It was always the same music, which would last about 15 minutes, then all would be quiet again. I would see him and a young man go out and get into his car and drive away”. It happened so often that the neighbours stopped reporting it. As Christina would state: “with all this activity, it was obvious to me that this man was a homosexual… but we just had to put up with it”. And yet, the lacklustre way in which George conducted his secret sex life also made him an easy target. In October 1962 - eleven months after an unnamed rent-boy was released having broken into George’s flat – either a different boy or the same boy had committed a burglary, stealing items from his home. A neighbour saw George repairing the broken window to his rear basement bedroom, and when he asked if he had informed the Police, George replied “no, it’s no good, they won’t do anything”. In 1962, with homosexuality illegal, and gays regarded as little more than sadistic sexual deviants who corrupted decent society with their ungodly ways, George knew he was an easy target; he had money, he was slightly built, and – having a flat filled with erotic art and gay porn – he was easy to blackmail. And as the punishment for homosexuality was more severe than it was for burglary, he knew his sexuality would most likely be used against him, and any public exposure would risk ruining his career. Even as a victim of crime, in this era, George would be seen in a court of law as culpable. And yet, barely three weeks later, he would be murdered in his own flat… …and the culprit’s defence would be ‘the gay panic’. Also known as Homosexual Panic Disorder, Psychiatrist Edward J. Kempf coined the term in 1920 to define "a panic due to the pressure of uncontrollable perverse sexual cravings". Accepted in British courts as a legal strategy, a defendant could claim to have been provoked into committing an act of violence, in self-defence, because of the unwanted sexual advances of a person of the same sex. In the UK, it has been known for decades as the ‘Portsmouth defence’ or the ‘guardsman's defence’. But was this solely a strategy used to defend the murderer of George Brinham… …or was George chosen as a victim of crime because the law made him an easy target? Saturday 17th November 1962 was George’s last day alive. He wouldn’t know that, and neither would his murderer, as both men seemingly went about their ordinary day. At roughly half-past-two, George met a young man called Laurence Somers, outside of a gunsmith near The Strand, by Covent Garden. Laurence would state: “this fellow just started talking to me. I didn’t know who he was. He offered me a cigarette”. George was a 45-year-old unionist, Laurence was a 16-year-old boy from a broken home. For whatever reason – whether kindness, boredom or seeing an opportunity to commit a minor crime – “we went into a few cafes, then he asked me back to his flat for a drink and we both had a couple of bottles of brown ale each”. According to Laurence, both men were strangers and he was not gay. Bottles of brown ale were found in the flat, with fingerprints corroborating his story. “Then we went to the pictures; it was the Coliseum you know”, a grand picture on St Martin's Lane, “Tarzan and Aladdin was on. We came out of the pictures and went round a few pubs. I had a good bit to drink. It would be getting on for ten o’clock at night and we went back to his flat for a drink”. Having heard George’s Blue Ford Consul pull-up on Edwardes Square, the neighbours at Pembroke Court paid no attention, as this middle-aged man led a scruffy young boy into his basement flat. And, as would often happen, the night would follow a very familiar routine of drink, sex and screams. As a predatory male with a penchant for young boys, George wanted Laurence. But why was Laurence there? Laurence Thomas Somers was born in Ireland on the 28th June 1946. As the eldest of five, to a battered mother and an abusive father described as ‘an aggressive psychopath’, his childhood was short and cruel. Being quick-tempered and emotionally cold, he lacked trust in others and struggled to cope. In 1957, five years prior to George’s murder, his parents had separated, his mother had sued his father on the grounds of cruelty, and they moved into a council house on the Hurst Farm Estate in Matlock. Affected by the family’s split, he began a spate of minor crimes; on 2nd January 1958, aged 11, he was discharged from Matlock Juvenile Court for stealing chocolate; on 27th January 1960, aged 13, he was given two years’ probation for stealing a motorbike in Derby, and on 23rd February 1961, aged 14, he received a further two years’ probation for the theft of a National Assistance book and £7 in cash. Laurence was little more than a lost youth lacking love and a male role model. A few months prior; he had moved into a lodging at 41 Winchester Street in Victoria which he shared with his psychotic father, he worked irregular hours as a pub cellarman, and had a rocky relationship with his current girlfriend. And now – for reasons unknown to anyone but him – he was in the flat of a predatory homosexual. But why? At 10pm - with the windows shut, the doors locked and the curtains closed - George began to entertain his young guest, as Laurence removed his coat and gloves. (Laurence): “This chap told me his name was George. We had a few more drinks, we talked and played records” (Music on) As always, with the same tune muffling every sound, the neighbours didn’t complain as they knew it wouldn’t last long. George’s flat was elegantly decorated with stylish furnishings, the radiogram was new and with the sideboard and walls covered in homo-erotic art of naked men wrestling, Laurence must have known that George was gay. Or, either he didn’t know, didn’t care, or just thought he was posh and cultured? From a heavy crystal decanter, George poured them both a few-fingers of finest brandy, as this man and boy sat chatting in the sitting room, supping boozy drinks, as the music enveloped every sound. Laurence: “he asked me to stay the night with him and I said I wouldn’t”. Nearby, a stash of gay porn lay in a drawer; with titles like Beau and Sir Gay, they depicted muscle-bound hunks in posing pouches engaged in passionate homoerotic postures with other naked men - it was clear what this was. Laurence shifted awkwardly on the sofa: “...the man made improper advances. He put his arms around me and said ‘give us a kiss’. Coming from a man, I thought that was improper”. Dressed in just a white vest and black trousers, at some point George loosened his braces, as they were later found undone. Unnerved, Laurence got up and stood across the other side of the room by the sideboard, but George followed him: “anyway he kept on at me, and he tried to take hold of my privates”. Panicked at being sexually assaulted by a male stranger, “I got the bottle from the side”, it was the heavy glass decanter, “I pushed him away”, but George came at him again, “I belted him a number of times over his head”. Smashed over his head three times with a two-kilo decanter, as the glass was intact, his skull fractured taking the full force, as rivers of blood streamed down his face, into his eyes and onto his white shirt. “He ran towards the door in the hall, but as he was trying to unfasten it, he collapsed”. Evidence shows that George was hit over the head, again in the hallway using the glass decanter. “I dragged him back into the living room”, where he lay unconscious, “and left him there on his back. I did not expect that kind of thing from a man. I hit him to get away. I didn’t mean to kill him”, Laurence would state. With the music still on, the neighbours heard nothing. Laurence: “I stood and thought what I was going to do. I was in a bit of a panic. I thought I would make it look like a burglary. I opened drawers and threw everything all over the place. After this I just ran out and slammed the door behind me”. Laurence had escaped a buggering, but it was only after he had left the flat that he remembered – in his panic to escape - he had left his coat and gloves on George’s bed. But by then, it was too late. The next morning, Laurence stole a van and fled to his mothers in Matlock. With the curtains closed, the lights on, the radiogram having silenced and with no witnesses to the murder, George’s flat looked occupied but quiet for the next few days. On Thursday 22nd November 1962, George was due to a meeting at the Amalgamated Society of Woodworkers, but as he didn’t arrive, the caretaker of the TUC alerted the fire-brigade, and at 3:15pm, his body was found. The investigation was simple; with nothing of any obvious value stolen, the flat had been ransacked to look like a burglary. But in his panic, the attacker had left his coat and gloves. Initially arrested for the theft of van stolen in Finchley one day after the murder, 16-year-old Laurence Thomas Somers was questioned, and his fingerprints matched those inside George’s flat and on the glass decanter. He was charged with unlawful killing and made no reply. But would ‘the gay panic’ be used solely a strategy to defend the murderer of George Brinham… …or was George chosen as a victim of crime because the law made him an easy target? The trial began at The Old Bailey on 18th December 1962, two weeks after George’s funeral. Presented before Mr Justice Paull, the timeline and evidence was clear, and neither the defence nor prosecution would query whether Laurence had smashed George over the head with a glass decanter. He had, and he had admitted it. The question was one of provocation – was this a wilful murder, or a manslaughter by self-defence, committed whilst being sexually assaulted by a man and in the grip of a ‘gay panic’? Unlike any other trial, the murderer was depicted as a young innocent boy who had fled an ungodly act, with the victim (now dead and defenceless) described as an old pervert who preyed on the young. With Laurence as the sole witness to the attack – this could have been the truth, a lie or an alibi - and yet, they did not question Laurence’s history, his sexuality or his motive. Four witnesses were called, none of whom seen or heard anything; Christine & Frederick Ansell of Flat 14 and Lucy Alcock of Flat 18 could only testify to the “screams” and the “indecent acts” George had committed upon vulnerable young men in the weeks and months prior. With a fourth witness, whose name was redacted, believed to be the unnamed Naval Rating who George had paid for sex. Disregarded as contradictory evidence of any credence; it wasn’t questioned why Laurence’s coat and gloves were on George’s bed, or why the blood spatter wasn’t predominantly found by the side-board (where he was allegedly hit) but by the door – this was taken as the boy’s confusion caused by panic. If provocation could be proven, then the judge decreed that murder had to be ruled out. Presented before the Judge were four key pieces of evidence; the glass decanter, the coat and gloves, and the two statements of Laurence Somers – as you would expect. But the other exhibits accepted into evidence were there to prove that the murder victim was a predatory homosexual. Many of the crime scene photos focussed – not on the body or the blood – but the homoerotic art and gay porn, which was listed in court of law - where everyone is innocent until proven guilty - as “a male pervert’s literature”. The magazines were called into evidence, but it could not be proven if they were used that night. In Laurence’s defence, Edward Clarke QC would state “there is still a plea of not guilty to manslaughter, because there is a defence that you are entitled to kill a man, if he is committing an atrocious crime against you” – suggesting that murder is acceptable if you deem a gay man’s advances as a threat. And yet, the worst evidence was presented by respected pathologist Dr Donald Teare. In his autopsy report, he would state “his genitals were rather small” (which served no purpose but to humiliate), “his anus admitted three fingers” (proving that George had been engaged in the illegal act of buggery), and – most bafflingly of all for a man of science – he stated it wasn’t the decanters toughness which fractured George’s skull, but that “death was due to a thinning skull and in my opinion, the condition was consistent with long-practiced homosexuality or self-inflicted perversion”. There was no medical examination of Laurence, to prove if he had defensive wounds, or had engaged in anal sex. (End) On the 21st January 1963, Mr Justice Paull directed the jury to ignore the charge of murder and said “I cannot see how any jury, properly directed on the evidence can fail to find there was provocation. There is the statement of the lad which shows quite clearly that this man attempted to make homosexual advances, and that in consequence Laurence Somers picked up a decanter and hit him on the head. I should think that is about a clear a case of provocation as it is possible to have”. Found not guilty of manslaughter, the Judge ordered Laurence Somers to be discharged and said to his mother “if possible, find him work in Matlock and take him home. There are dangers in London”. Declared an innocent man, he left The Old Bailey, and – as far as we know - never returned to London. Given the evidence, it’s easy to accept the facts that George’s death occurred they way it has been presented – as it’s likely that it was – but with so much focus on George’s “indecent sexual appetite”, there are a wealth of unanswered questions which weren’t answered. Most importantly; why did a young heterosexual boy agree to visit the secluded flat of a middle-aged homosexual stranger? Was he innocent of sex, of danger, and of gay men? Or was his age a convenient excuse? And if the ‘the gay panic’ was used as a useful alibi - knowing that George would never go to the police, even if he was attacked or burgled - did this failure of the law make him an easy target for a young thief? Laurence Thomas Somers died in Derby in 1999, taking the (possible) truth to his grave. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
0 Comments
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-THREE:
This is 19 Gloucester Avenue (formerly Gloucester Road), Regent’s Park, NW1. Back in 1935, this building was split into three self-contained flats; with a stage manager in the basement, an artist on the first floor and the top two floors owned by single woman, Ms Riley. Feeling lonely in this spacious flat, for three weeks, Louise (her house-sitter) was accompanied by her 20-year old daughter Maxine and Maxine’s boyfriend, 28-year-old Alan Grierson. The morning of Saturday 22nd June 1935 had started much the same as any other. They’d had a cup of tea, a cooked breakfast, and – as Maxine and Alan headed off to work – they had agreed to meet later, to head off on a romantic weekend away in Torquay, as Louise stayed in, to house-it. It was very much an ordinary day… only Louise’s fateful decision to stay behind, would lead to her murder… …and it was all because of a spoiled little brat.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop in the north-east corner of Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4200901 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1352094 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4166199 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4166200
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Gloucester Avenue, near Regent’s Park NW1; one street north-east of the bloody killing by the grieving elephant keeper, four doors down from the first possible victim of the Blackout Ripper, one street north-west of the posed body of Gladys ‘Rene’ Hanrahan, and - as an unnervingly similar case in almost that same place - another body would be found - coming soon to Murder Mile. Regent’s Park is a lovely place to rest, relax and read a book. Or it should be, only swarms of piss-poor parents always unleash their shitting spitting little seeds of Satan onto this tranquil idyll, as their over-sugared sexcrement screams “I want, I want, waaaah” as it attempts to stamp to death the park’s wildlife population like veritable a Pol Pot of pigeons. And should anyone dare to chastise said sprog - through a 3pm haze of Valium and vodka – the parent always says “oh leave him, he’s just having fun”. Brats; they cry, they crap, and if you’d bought one in a shop - thinking it’s faulty - you’d take it back. For the first four years of a child’s life, when its personality is forming, it spends most of its time with its parent; listening and learning. If a child turns out to be polite, kind and decent, the parent has every right to proclaim - “oh yes, it’s all down to good parenting, you see?” - as they’ve done the hard work. And yet, should their child - who was born a blank canvas onto which the parent’s morals are projected – should their little angel spawn from a devil in a diaper to a schoolyard Stalin, too often its parent will blame sugar, video-games or music (the bogeymen of each era). Good parents raise good children. But do they? Or, is there much more to be considered? I’m going to tell you a story about a spoiled little brat, a young lad called Alan who was born healthy, raised well and - living a nice life to good parents in a decent family – he had no reason to turn bad. He didn’t suffer with any diseases, poverty, abuse or trauma. So, with no reason to do any wrong, his life should have gone well. But burdened with a sense of privilege, self-entitlement, and arrogance, he had become so fixated on doing what HE wanted, that he would murder a woman in his way. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 193: A Spoiled Brat. Parenting is unlike any other job. To do it; you don’t need a licence, qualifications or training; many parents are thrown-in at the deep-end with no knowledge of whether they will sink or swim; and although most get it right, some get it wrong, and - for a few - a little mistake can turn into tragedy. The morning of Saturday 22nd June 1935 had succeeded a surprisingly sticky night, as a mini-heatwave had gripped the city. At a little after 7am, the residents of 19 Gloucester Road (or Gloucester Avenue as it was later renamed) began to slowly stir from an interrupted slumber after a rough night’s sleep. As a sandstone terraced house on a quiet street, 19 Gloucester Road was a nice place to live. Split into flats; John Moody, a stage manager had the basement; an artist called Gillian Pyall had the first; and Dorothy Riley, a single woman of independent means owned the second and third floors to the top. At 7:30am, in the master bedroom on the third floor, 20-year-old Maxine Gann awoke and headed to the kitchen to make her still sleeping mother a cup of tea, as they were housesitting for Ms Riley. As a slim pretty brunette who the young men flocked to with big grins and bulging pants, although she dreamed of meeting Mr Right - as Maxine was still too naïve to bag a keeper - she lived in Shepherd’s Bush with her dad Stanley, and her short but rather formidable mother, 63-year-old Louise Gann. With her mother snoring, Maxine put a cuppa by the bed and headed down to Ms Riley’s bedroom. Being decorated in all manner of frippery - like lace doilies, delicate trinkets, silver jewellery and a slew of porcelain oddments (with far too many shaped like cats) – her ‘boyfriend’, 28-year-old Alan Grierson looked silly sleeping among this sea of old lady’s finery, but no matter what, she always loved him. Popping on his dark horn-rimmed glasses to absorb her beauty, in a well-mannered voice Alan cooed “good morning Mickey, my sweet” and the two pressed lips, both their cheeks flushed in tandem. Being so deeply smitten after four months together, just four months from this point, Alan & Maxine would be days away from marrying, as this loving young couple prepared for a life-time together. At 8am, over a cooked-breakfast, the two savoured this time together in a posh flat surrounded by all the mod-cons - it was a mirror of how their future could be. And with Maxine in her shop assistant’s uniform, and Alan in a smart blue suit, black shoes and a bright red tie - as a salesman for a prestigious car firm on Great Portland Street - it would be a lot of hard graft, but it would be worth it in the end. At 8:30am, as mother slept soundly, Maxine left 19 Gloucester Road. Having agreed to meet Alan later - to take her on a romantic trip to the seaside town of Torquay - from the landing, he softly whispered “see you at 1:20pm my love” – and the last thing she saw was her lover waving her goodbye. It began as a normal day. It ended with her world destroyed… …and it was all in the name of love, and spite. From 1907 onwards, Alan James Grierson had a blessed upbringing. Born in Shirley, on the north side of Southampton, he was raised in a spacious penthouse flat at 12 Brunswick Terrace overlooking East Park. As the son of Hugh, a prominent solicitor and Emma, a solicitor’s wife; Alan was the youngest of two, whose every whim was cared for by Lucy, a live-in servant. As a privileged boy, he never without… …except, maybe for love. Little is known about his upbringing, so it’s uncertain whether he was ruled with an iron rod, pampered like a preening prince, or was molly-coddled with too much love and not enough oxygen. Undeniably, he had been raised to be well-mannered, cultured and polite. And yet, he was also a spoiled little brat. Growing up, Alan easily fitted the mould of 1920s middle-class gent’; dressed in smart dark suits, bright ties and adopting the slicked-back black hair and horn-rimmed glasses like the silent movie-star Harold Lloyd, Alan had the smooth pale skin of a man who had never done a hard day’s work in his life, and the plummy voice and the slow deliberate gait of a man of leisure, who had not a worry in the world. Alan cared for no-one but himself. From a young age, he stole from his own home to fund his lifestyle. Everything he did was about his wants, his needs and he didn’t care who got hurt in his quest for cash. With no history of criminality, sickness or insanity in the family, he was only injured twice in his life; aged 8, he was briefly being knocked unconscious by a cricket ball, and aged 18, he fell off a motorbike and ended up with a two-inch scar to his skull. Since then, he has felt “perfectly fine” with no ill effects. But what would make a well-manner boy from good home and a private school, go bad? Aged 19, having been released from prison for a string of petty thefts, on 23rd June 1927, his father packed his only son off onboard of the SS Barrabool, a passenger ship bound for Melbourne, Australia. With a small allowance to set-up this ‘family embarrassment’ as far away as possible, Alan arrived all alone, having been banished to an unfamiliar land. It could have been the fresh start that he needed? Only being too lazy to work and too greedy to go straight – after another string of offences – on 11th April 1930, Alan was convicted of four cases of ‘fraud’ and he was sentenced to four years in prison. Released again in 1934, and - with no plans to ‘do the decent thing’ or to think of anyone but himself - he sailed back to Britain, hunkered down in a lodging and continued his life of petty crime in London. On 4th March 1935 at West London Police Court, 28-year-old Alan Grierson, an unemployed ‘clerk’ was sentenced to one month in prison for stealing postal orders. Released on the 1st of April, once again, he was back where he had begun; he was broke, jobless, homeless and an ex-con out on probation. Born with big dreams, Alan wanted everything his life could offer (a lavish home, a fast car, a full bank account and a beautiful wife who loved him without question). And yet, through his own selfishness, Alan had nothing, as this petty little thief had been disowned by every loved one he had stolen from. Three weeks later, Alan Grierson would meet Maxine Gann… …and yet, their undying love would lead to murder. On Saturday 20th April 1935, in a club in Hammersmith, Alan and Maxine met for the very first time and fell in love. For him; she was sweet, pretty, petite and the epitome of the woman of his dreams. For her; he was charming, kind and handsome. But being naïve, she swallowed the story he span about being an ambitious solicitor’s son from a good home, and avoided the less palatable truth of his past. Across the following months - constantly kissing, making her laugh and with her dashing beau forever wooing her with poetry and a tune on his ukulele - Maxine had fallen for Alan, like she had plummeted from the sky. In her eyes, he could do no wrong, as the world unfairly smited their blissful dreams. As Alan struggled to find work - having promised to marry her by her 21st birthday, a few months away - although Maxine was far from wealthy; a badly paid shop-assistant whose mother was a housewife and father was a struggling oyster merchant – out of love; she loaned him money, she gave him hope, she praised his ambitions and – as he had nowhere to live – she would find him a place to stay. Taking a well-earned holiday in Scotland, Ms Riley, the owner of the top-two floors of 19 Gloucester Road near Regent’s Park had entrusted her home to her old friend Louise Gann. Moving in on 2nd June, 63-year-old Louise, known as Bertha was the perfect house-sitter, and – feeling a little lonely – rattling around this grand flat all by herself, she invited Maxine to join her, and later, her daughter’s boyfriend. They would live together for the next three weeks … …but although Maxine loved him blindly, Louise had concerns. Over meals, they sat like a happy little family; the lovers gazing all gooey-eyed and giggling, too full of lust to finish their food, as Louise - short but sturdy at barely 4 foot and 11 inches – smiled politely but said nothing, as her eyes gave a withering look of disapproval. Alan was not the first boyfriend Maxine had brought back, and she hoped he wouldn’t be the last, as she didn’t trust him… and rightly so. Alan’s search for work was always fruitless; a ludicrously long drive up to Manchester to find a job he could acquire in London, followed by a slow drudge back, a whole day wasted and a tank of fuel spent, all funded by yet another loan from Maxine which he always promised to pay back, but didn’t. Alan wanted everything in his dreams; only without the long hours, hard effort or miniscule wage. The answer was staring him in the face. On his first night at 19 Gloucester Road, with Maxine & Louise sharing a bed on the third-floor, and – keen to keep the creeping feet and hanky-panky at bay - Alan was consigned to Ms Riley’s room on the second floor. As a sickening mix of pink lacy chintz, it should have made him wince to bed-down amidst this haberdasher’s orgasm. But it didn’t, it made him drool. Like a child in a chocolate shop, with no money, but quick hands and fast feet, Alan returned to default. Inside a mahogany box lay Ms Riley’s jewellery; consisting of seven gold rings, two gold watches, an assortment of gold bracelets, chains, tie pins, pendants, brooches, lockets and a silver crucifix. They were special to her and cherished. But to him, as she had loads, he didn’t think she’s miss one or two? Four days later, at Jay, Richard Attenborough & Co at 142 Oxford Street, Alan pawned for £5; a gold enamel brooch, a diamond and gem-stone brooch, and a hare diamond and gem-stone ring. With the seller’s slip signed using the name Mr J Hoskisson, a builder who had given him work when he needed it most. £5 was the equivalent of two weeks wage for a man who worked for a living in 1935. As Alan didn’t and his windfall made no sense, Louise went looking and her eagle-eyes spotted the open jewellery box and the missing items, taken from this self-contained flat with only three people living in it. Feeling shamed (mostly for being caught rather than regretting his actions) Alan sent Maxine & Louise a written apology begging ‘Forgive me, Alan’, he enclosed the pawn tickets and Alan’s patent pending ‘cast-iron promise’ that he would get the jewellery back. As always, naively Maxine believed him, just as she believed he would pay back the money she had loaned him. And although, Louise was not best pleased – as her withering glace would testify – at Maxine’s request, he was let back into the house. A little after midnight on 10th June, clutching a little posy for his sweetheart and a box of chocolates for her mum, Alan (who was homeless) skulked back into 19 Gloucester Road with his head hung low. Declaring this little theft as a minor aberration, a one-off moment of sheer madness by a good lad driven to desperation by poverty and shame, a tearful Alan sobbed as he swore on his mother’s life (albeit having not seen or contacted her in years) that he would never steal anything ever again. Returning to the pink chintzy warmth of Ms Riley’s room, Alan slept soundly that night. His mission was clear; to apologise to Louise and to prove his love for Maxine, he would redeem the jewellery… …but first, he needed money. On Thursday 13th June, having dressed in his one best suit, Alan returned home with a little something to celebrate. Having aced the interview, as of Monday, he would begin his career as a salesman for HC Paul, a respected motor firm at 90-92 Great Portland Street. On a decent salary, with his first week’s wage packet in advance, he made a promise to give them £1 each of the £7 they had loaned him, to redeem the jewellery with the second week’s wage, and by the Monday, he was as good as his word. Given a fresh start, Maxine saw only the good in Alan, and to Louise, he seemed like he was trying. He left for work at 9am Mondays to Fridays, and with his wage he treated his girlfriend like a princess. It all seemed to be going well. Too well maybe? And that’s because a spoiled brat will always be a spoiled brat; the gifts were a ruse, the money was stolen, the promise was lost and the job was a lie. As only a two-bedroomed flat, Alan remained in within the temptation of Ms Riley’s room. With the mahogany box now locked by Louise, she didn’t think for a second that he knew how to break in. But he had. On the 17th June, he pawned; a mix of old gold for £1 at A Forsythe in Victoria; a gold locket for £4 and 5s at Sanders in Camden Town; a gold, diamond and emerald cluster ring for £4 at Wallis Davis & Sons, WC1; and each time giving a new alias - A Williamson, Mrs Rauley and even Mrs Gann. But burning through money like he burned through truth, before he knew it, the spoiled brat was broke. Dressed in new suits, quaffing rich foods and glugging fine wines, his fictional wage simply couldn’t cope with his expensive tastes. Up to his eyes in loans and driving a car he had gained through Hire Purchase, this was not his greatest expense, as the couple were already perusing the wedding shops. Alan wanted it all – his dream was so close he could taste it - but needing a stash of quick cash and an easy way to cover his tracks as the mahogany box was almost empty, what he needed was a plan… …and a distraction. On Thursday 20th June, Alan (the kind lad with the good intentions) said he had to drive to the seaside town of Torquay as part of his job, and he wanted to treat Maxine & Louise to a weekend by the beach. The weather was great, a heatwave was looming, and who wouldn’t want to escape a hot city? His plan was simple; meet the ladies somewhere local like Oxford Circus, at a time which meant they’d be at least 30 minutes from the house. Using the spare-key he had swiped earlier, he’d quietly ransack each room, leaving a window or door open as if Louise had made an honest mistake, and meeting them at a time and place as planned, he would take them both to Torquay with the loot stashed in the boot. After a lovely weekend of sand-castles and ice-cream, all three would return to the flat, and seeing the devastation he would share their look of shock as everything of value (including the bits he had already pawned) were gone, and not a single witness anywhere in this building had seen the culprit. In Alan’s eyes, his burglary would be a work of brilliance; a plan, a distraction, and an alibi-to-boot. Having got time off work, Maxine was all ready to go. But being a decent woman, who had promised Ms Riley she would house-sit her home. 63-year-old Louise Bertha Gann declined his offer… …and with that, she had unwittingly signed her own death warrant. The morning of Saturday 22nd June was succeeded by a surprisingly sticky night, as the heatwave had left Louise too tired to get out of bed, so Maxine made her a cup of tea - unaware it would be her last. Excited for the day ahead, a half days work followed by a weekend away, Maxine carried a cuppa into her beau who slept in a pink blanket among a sea of porcelain cats and a now empty mahogany box. Popping on his horn-rimmed glasses, he cooed “good morning Mickey, my sweet” as the two soon-to-be newly-weds pressed lips and blushed bright red. Only their happiness could come at a great price. At 8:30am, after a cooked-breakfast, dressed in her uniform, Maxine looked up the stairs to see Alan – wearing his blue suit and red tie, for a job which didn’t exist – standing on the landing, he softly whispered “see you at 1:20pm my love” - and the last thing she saw was her lover waving her goodbye. With Maxine gone and Louise fast asleep, his brilliant plan to burgle the flat would only need a little tweak. It was simple, as long as he was quiet, no-one would be any the wiser… (creaking floorboard) …but nothing ever goes to plan. Being giddy with glee and as excited as a kid about to lick an ice-lolly, 20-year-old Maxine Gann waited patiently at Oxford Circus for the man she would marry to whisk her away on a sun-kissed trip for two. But by 1:40pm, as Alan hadn’t arrived, she phoned the flat but got no reply. By 2pm, she arrived back at 19 Gloucester Road to find the main door open but the flat door locked. Using a neighbour’s phone she called Alan’s employer, but no-one had heard of him. Growing concerned, at 3pm, she requested the help of Frederick Summers at Bucknell’s, and he forced open the door on the second-floor landing. Maxine would recall “the place was in a terrible state”; drawers were open, cupboards were emptied and everything had been ransacked. Inside the third-floor bedroom, she found a suitcase on the table which was half-filled with stolen items; jewellery, silver jugs and a cash box, anything easily saleable. And beside the door – dressed in a blue coat and black shoes, as if she was going out – lay her mother. Collapsed and unconscious, a bloodied flat-iron lay nearby, this one kilo-cast-iron weight was matted with her bloodied hair, having been used by the burglar – who was missing - to bash in her skull. Having never regained consciousness, at 9:35pm the next day, Louise Gann died of her injuries. (End) The investigation was simple - with a history of theft, the pawned items signed for in his handwriting, his fingerprints on the stolen items as well as the flat-iron, and having vanished without trace - the police issued Alan’s description in the papers and on Sunday 30th June. he was easily apprehended. Being too arrogant to adopt a disguise, while lodging in the home of Mrs Ellen Church of 8 Beech Road in Weybridge and using the worst alias ever –that being Ian McIan – wearing the same suit and staring at a photo of himself, he engaged in a conversation about himself and the murder he was wanted for. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 10th September 1935, although he professed his innocence even against overwhelming evidence, eight day later, having deliberated for 25 minutes, the jury found him guilty. It was proven without a shadow of doubt that Alan Grierson was guilty of the murder of Louise Gann. Everyone had accepted it as a fact. Everyone… except Maxine, who was so blinded by her love for the man who had bludgeoned her own mother to death; that she wrote him love letters in prison, she set-up a petition to pardon him, and – having taken his hand in marriage – she had agreed to be his wife. They were due to marry on 30th October 1935, the day of her 21st birthday. But with his reprieve being denied, at 9am, he was hung by his neck at Pentonville Prison. Dressed in black, when his death was announced, she placed a bouquet of violets at the prison gates with a note: ‘To my Alan, from Maxine”. Alan Grierson was buried in Pentonville Prison. Two years later, being gripped with an uncontrollable grief, Maxine took her own life, having died by suicide. And it was all for the love… of a spoiled brat. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Lover's Walk in Hyde Park
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-TWO:
Just shy of midnight on Wednesday 26th August 1942, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk sat 44-year-old Gladys Wilson and her lover Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz of the Polish Army. Both being married to others who the war had split apart, neither Glady nor Ronnie had planned to have affairs, as like so many others, they were just seeking a little affection during a turbulent time of loss and grief. After ten days of romance, being sat holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, for him their love was forever… in both life and death. Found after her death, Gladys had written nine truly tragic words in her diary. The first four of which were “I love him, but…”. The question was, but what?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop near the words 'The Serpentine'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. MEPO 3/2234 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258017
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Lover’s Walk in Hyde Park, W2; one street west of the last sighting alive of Ruby Bolton, a short walk south-west of the last night of fun by the bloody butler, one gate down from the suicide and murder of former lovers Julia Mangan & Robert Williams, and in another odd mirror of both tragic cases, the death pact of the couple who failed to see - coming soon to Murder Mile. As an ill-defined bridle way off the main walkway around the eastern edge of Hyde Park, it’s strange that a place so littered with death is still called Lover’s Walk. And yet, this is where they stroll. You’ll see all types of couples here; whether it’s the old ones sweetly holding hands, the young ones sucking face, the new ones bonking and banging their bits together like they’ll win a prize if they erase each other’s genitals, and then there’s the ones with sprogs; who look as ravaged as a Guantanamo Bay prisoner - having been waterboarded by urine, tortured by a tiny tot with lungs like a pig with piles, and imprisoned in a Peppa Pig covered hell - who will confess to (literally) anything in return for five minute nap, a half pint with a pal and a conversation which doesn’t involve stains, fluids or orifices. For love to last, it needs to be built on a strong foundation of trust, time and friendship. Sadly, too many loves are doomed to failure, as being too hasty to believe that they’ve met ‘the one’, and fearing that – if they don’t get hitched this second – their lover for life will leave them forever, so many relationships end in break-ups, separations and divorces, and occasionally they end in death. Just shy of midnight on Wednesday 26th August 1942, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk sat 44-year-old Gladys Wilson and her lover 28-year-old Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz. Both being married to others who the war had split apart, neither Gladys nor Ronnie had planned to have affairs, as like so many others, they were just seeking a little affection during a turbulent time of loss and grief. After ten days of romance, being sat on a bench holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, for him their love was to last forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 192: “I love him, but…” To many, it may seem easy to condemn these two as nothing but common cheats, a morally loose pair of lascivious lushes who slipped their marital vows before God as easily as they slipped into a seedy bed of lust to fondle and fornicate. But this is not a story about a tawdry affair, this is a tale about two good people, lost amidst the horrors of war, who – like so many others – were simply seeking affection. Gladys Maud Pearson was born in and around Fulham in 1898. She would live to the age of forty-four, but blessed with an ageless face, old-fashioned morals and a youthful heart, the newspapers stated she was somewhere between thirty and fifty – which may have made her bristle, blush or chuckle. The first decades of the twentieth century were a time of hardship and grief, as the world was hit by an onslaught of tragedy; First World War, Spanish Flu, Influenza and the Great Depression had left billions broke, lost and bereft; with their lives only held together by the strength of their family’s love. The Pearson’s were one such family hit hard by grief, as with her mother Maud left a grieving widow with two young children to feed, Gladys and her younger brother Cyril were raised in the middle-class affluence of Kingston with Uncle William and Auntie Kate, as her mother struggled to cope alone. Tragedy aside, their childhood was loving. So, it’s no surprise that Gladys sought out any hint of affection, worried that any love she was given could easily be her last. Gladys was a woman who loved to be loved - and who doesn’t. And although remarkably youthful, she was as ordinary as most; with a slim build, short brown hair and pale skin; she had lips that longed to be kissed, a hand which ached to be held, and a set of chestnut eyes which cried out for a special someone to mend her broken heart. Keen to rebuild her life and to find love again, in 1916, her mother Maud married William Crawley, a respected wool merchant who was good, decent and kind. They lived in a little flat at 58 Margravine Gardens in Baron’s Court and they remained together until their deaths in their seventies and eighties. According to those who knew her, Gladys was a solid woman; she was reliable and caring, she was warm and big-hearted, a woman who needed to be loved and to love those who needed to be loved. As an average woman with an ordinary life, we know little of her circumstance before the day it ended. Married in her early twenties, Gladys Wilson (as she became) found happiness with a man she loved and together in a cosy home they had a son who they nicknamed Budge. Life was simple but good. As a romantic, throughout her life, Glady kept a diary in which she jotted down everything; from those most wonderous moments which made her the woman she was (her marriage, her son, their home), to her most intimate of thoughts; whether her fears and foibles, issues or aches, loves or losses. Being so private, she wasn’t one to gossip about her worries, but in her diary, she would spill her heart. On Tuesday 25th August 1942, the day before she died, in her diary she would commit to paper some of the most heart-breaking and tragic words this woman would ever write, unaware that it would be some of her last. It was a simple sentence composed of just nine words, the first four of which were… “I love him, but…” September 1939 saw the start of a war which ripped loved ones apart in a way which never been seen on that scale before. The Second World War was a global conflict which wouldn’t leave a single family untouched by grief, displaced by tyranny, bombed to oblivion, evacuated for safety or ordered to fight. For Gladys, as with so many wives and mothers, with her loving husband and her only child conscripted and shipped overseas, she had gone from being a woman of purpose, to being a lost lone lady rattling around an empty house with no-one to care for. As if she was already bereaved, this once bustling home of her beloved family now hung with the eerie ghosts of their presence; their photographs, their clothes, and even their smell. Only now, this woman who loved to be loved was all alone. With a phone call from overseas nigh-on-impossible – even just to hear their voices or be assured they were alive - she felt blessed if she received a letter-a-week, or (held up or lost by conflict) as a bunch every few months. But as the war dragged on from a skirmish it was said would be done by Christmas to a fight with no end in sight, Gladys did as most women did, and knuckled down to her life and work. In 1940, she moved in with her mother and step-father in their little lodging at 58 Margravine Gardens in Baron’s Court, and being conscripted into the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry (renamed the Women’s Transport Service) - as a skilled truck-driver and motorbike rider - Gladys served her country shuttling the injured on the front-lines of North France, Norway and (as a key defensive position) East Scotland. With her beloved boys far from home, the war had proven a distraction from the gaping hole in Gladys' heart. Being so busy, she had little time to mourn the two men in her life she never knew if she would ever see again soon. Work had given her purpose and focus. But what she needed most… …was a little affection. Thanks to the stories we’ve been told, we have a rose-tinted view of how the soldiers who fought and their sweethearts back home held each other’s pictures to their hearts and remained forever faithful. The war pushed ordinary people to the brink, not just of their safety and sanity, but also of their love. By 1942, three years into the war, Britain had taken a turn for the worst; as the Luftwaffe’s bombers ravaged our skies, Nazi hoards perched on the shores, and so thick and fast were our losses that even Dunkirk would be rewritten forever as a success of our British pluck, rather than a failure of our forces. The people were rightfully in fear, as – with no end in sight, the dead mounting and fresh meat being forced into the grinder - those whose anthem claimed “we shall never be slaves”, looked likely to lose. Before war had begun, even as it loomed, the people needed hope and love. In the first few months, the marriage rate in Britain skyrocketed by 250%; with many marrying those they barely knew, to fulfil a dream before they died, and with some even getting wed and having a baby to avoid conscription. Marriage requires a strong foundation to survive so many months or even years apart, but having hastily committed to a life of love with a stranger they were little more than smitten by; in 1939 the divorce rate was one-in-six, by 1946, the first year after the end of the war, it had risen to one-in-four. In terms of statistics, the interwar years were chaotic. Owing to the mass slaughter, 1941-42 was the only year this century where the death rates outweighed the birth-rate. And as the war escalated, so did the birth rate. But with so many parents widowed and too many marriages over - the greatest victim of this rush for to find love was the children – as by 1946, adoption had risen and peaked. It’s impossible to say how many children were put up for adoption, having been born out-of-wedlock or made by mistake as a brief dalliance between two lonely strangers who were looking for affection. But this is not to shame them, as what happened-happened. In the turbulent time of war as everyone drowned in a sea of misery and death, the only antidote was love. For some, it was sex. But for others, it was those special things they missed; a little kiss, a warm hug, a lingering smile or holding hands. Gladys & Ronnie were just two regular people, married to others but parted by the war, who found love in each other’s arms, and who knew – when all this was over – it would never be spoken of again. But what began as a bit of fun, a little kissing to soothe a broken heart, soon blossomed into a love that they could no longer control. So besotted was Ronnie, that she became his one-true-love. So smitten was Gladys, that in her diary, she would write four words about the man she had fallen for. “I love him, but…” Ronauld Kurasz was a 28-year-old Second Lieutenant in the Polish Army Corps. With his homeland smashed and its military shattered within the first month of the war by dual invasion by Germany and Russia, as millions were displaced, 80,000 men went into exile and reformed the 1st Polish Corps. Formed in September 1940, 14,500 soldiers comprising of two Rifle Brigades, an Armoured division and a parachute unit were there to protect a 200-kilometre stretch of Scottish shore between the Firth of Forth (north of Edinburgh) to Montrose (south of Aberdeen) as Norway had fallen to the Nazis. Having built sea-defences and gun batteries to repel an invasion, the 1st Polish Corp were billeted in the small town of Cupar in Fife, which – for the next few years – would become their temporary home. For Second Lieutenant Kurasz, known as Ronnie, as welcoming as the locals were to these visitors from a foreign land, their kindness could never fully erase the losses they felt; of the country they had lost, of the lives they had left behind, and of the friends and families they may never see or hear from again. Through the fate of being a soldier, Ronnie had survived. But being ordinary civilians, he had no idea if his wife or children had lived. With millions displaced and dead, he had no way to contact them and no knowledge if they knew where he was, in an unwinnable war which the Allies were losing. Three years had passed in a flash, but to those still grieving, it felt like a lifetime. Cupar was a nice place, it was safe and friendly. To make these lost souls feel at home; Polish delicacies were cooked, strong beer was never in short supply, and – as a reminder of the land they were fighting for –from the tower of the Corn Exchange, each day a bugler played the St Mary’s Call of Krakow, in tribute to a lone sentry who while sounding the invasion alarm in 1241… was killed mid-note. As welcoming as the town was, Ronnie struggled to survive in this strange land so far from home. His work had kept him busy and his friends had made him smile, but what he missed most… …was love. As an ambulance driver for the Women’s Transport Service, it was sheer coincidence that Gladys was billeted at Lodge No 19 at 72 Bonnygate in Cupar, barely half a mile from Ronnie’s barracks. With her diary lost to the midst of time, we will never know how Ronnie & Gladys met. Perhaps having been injured – as a mix of Florence Nightingale and Stirling Moss – maybe Gladys had rescued Ronnie and the two got chatting over some surgical swabs and the smell of iodine? As enlisted soldiers, maybe they shared a kiss being hunkered down in a bunker on manoeuvres? Or maybe, needing to kick off their boots after a hard day at work, these two lonely people caught each other’s eyes over a pint? It began as a friendship, two lovers with heavy hearts finding solace in each other’s company. Being an easy remedy to their grief and a distraction from their pain, all they wanted was to feel loved again. To neither Gladys nor Ronnie, it wouldn’t have seemed like they were engaged in an illicit affair, as all they were doing was chatting, smiling and laughing - the simple things which a being with a beating heart needs to survive. And maybe, having taken a long walk in the dunes, holding hands and sharing a long lingering silence as the waves broke, they kissed for the first time… and knew they were in love? It was wrong and they would have known it. But being so many miles and years apart from their loved ones, although absence makes the heart grow fonder, it’s hard to love a memory as it fades every day. It’s unlikely it was planned this way, but before they knew it, they were in love… …only this was a love which they knew would never last. (Whisper) “I love him, but…” June 1942. The outcome of the war hung on a knife-edge; as the Battle of Midway had proved a turning point in the Pacific, Tobruk was captured in a defeat that Churchill called a “disgrace”, and the first reports had filtered back that gas was being used in concentration camps to exterminate the Jews. Horror was everywhere, but for Ronnie & Gladys, their hearts were broken for reasons closer to home. Gladys was no longer an ambulance driver based in Cupar, she had been requisitioned back to London. London was her home, Cupar was his, and with both ordered to serve their country as and when their superiors decreed, the war had ripped them from their loved one once before, and now, it had again. Being 420 miles apart, with a limited train network and issued only a few days leave a year, they saw each other as often as they could, but with the long distance taking up a full day, it was never enough. To fill the void of loss and loneliness, they wrote as often as they could; but even a scented envelope, a wallet-sized snapshot and a few handwritten pages of words of longing and dreams of what may be, could never repair the new hole which had ripped in their hearts, as their memories grew distant. It’s uncertain why – whether an order or an opportunity – Gladys applied for a job in the Mechanised Transport Corps. In need of skilled drivers, the MTC drove dignitaries of foreign and British agencies, they shuttled SOE agents to airfields, and – as Gladys had done – they drove ambulances into war-zones. Only this time in Syria, Egypt and Palestine, where Gladys’ husband and son were based. Once again, for this brave and selfless woman, it was a chance to serve her country and rekindle her life with the loved ones she had lost so long ago. Having been successful in her interview, Gladys would initially be posted to the northern city of Leeds, with her attachment beginning at the end of August. On Friday 15st August 1942, issued a 72-hour leave pass to see his beloved in London, Ronnie booked a room at a boarding house at 13 Colosseum Terrace, to the side of Baker Street and Regent’s Park. Across this long weekend of love, they packed in as much as any couple could; they dined over candle-lit dinners, they took in a West End show and walked hand-in-hand seeing the sights, but unable to take their eyes off each other, as the two lovers shared a moment, they knew it was for one last time. With his 72-hour leave almost up, Sunday 17th August was to be their last day together, but unable to part, Ronnie did the unthinkable and – risking two years in prison – he went Absent Without Leave. Classed as a criminal and with his career in jeopardy, this secret couple who had signed in under the assumed name of Mr & Mrs Kurasz, laid low, kept quiet and spent as much time in each other’s arms, knowing that – like the sands inside an hour-glass –their brief relationship too was coming to an end. On Sunday 23rd, one week before she was due to start her new job, Ronnie met Gladys’ mother; they chatted over tea and cake, although it is uncertain if Gladys introduced him as a ‘friend’ or ‘boyfriend’. With their time almost up and their savings spent, on Tuesday 25th August, Gladys & Ronnie checked out of the boarding house by Regent’s Park. Later found upon their person, they had both written passages in their diaries that day. Although only part of it was found, Ronnie’s was tragic and paranoid. It read; “We are absolutely two broken people. She give up always everything for me, also her life”. Whereas Gladys’ last entry in her diary addressed to her mum was less of a suicide note, but was more of a last will and testament, which spoke of the fears she could never say in words. It read: “To my mother. Just in case anything happens to me today, Ronnie is still here. He should have returned yesterday, but says he cannot live without me in the awful place where his regiment is. I hope everything will be alright. But Ronnie is in a terrible state about going back. We have had a wonderful leave together. He threatens all the time to kill himself and me”. And following her tragic premonition, she wrote the most heart-breaking words this lonely woman would ever write. “I love him, but… I don’t want to die”. On Wednesday 26th August 1942, just before midnight, Ronnie & Gladys walked – as many couples do – along the tree-lined seclusion of Lover’s Walk in Hyde Park. With her bags packed, her lodging booked and new job awaiting her in Leeds, she had told her mother “I won’t be late”. But she was. After ten days of romance, being sat holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, a little affection to repair her lonely heart. For him, their love was to last forever, as this would be their last goodbye. (Two shots, then one shot - END). Hearing the shots, at roughly 11:40pm, PCs Heath & Gillespie were on duty in Hyde Park when they heard three shots and ran in the direction. 100 yards west of Stanhope Gate, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk, they found a uniformed soldier and a woman in her civvies, collapsed and bleeding. With two bullet wounds to her left temple, one behind his right ear and an Army-issue Smith & Wesson .38 calibre revolver in his right hand with three of the six rounds spent – discovering their diaries upon their person - it was no mystery to the officers what had happened, as death permeated this path. With Gladys sprawled across his chest and with no defensive wounds, in a moment of surprise he had shot her in the head while she was distracted by something else. Clutching his dying lover to his body, this couple who were not to be would die in each other’s arms - whether she wanted to, or not. As the ambulance arrived, it had proved to be a miracle that Gladys had clung onto a sliver of life, but by the time she had arrived at nearby St George’s hospital, the doctor declared her life as extinct. An inquest was held at Westminster Coroner’s Court before Mr Bentley Purchase. Concluded without the jury retiring, it was determined that Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz had “murdered Gladys Wilson and that he had committed suicide while of unsound mind”. Giving evidence, Glady’s brother Cyril would state that “she would have been the last person in the world to take her own life”. It’s tragic that - as a woman who loved to be loved - the war had driven Gladys to find affection in the arms of another man who truly loved her. But instead of finding warmth, she found only death. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINE-ONE:
Back in 1962, Flat D on the ground floor of 60 Redcliffe Square was a one-roomed lodging which was once the home and workplace of Lyn Bain & Jan Blake - two ladies with too many secrets. Given the era, they disguised their illegal lesbian relationship as merely a tempestuous friendship, but it would be a single incident over a few drinks, a card game and a bit of telly, which would end it all. The evidence states that Thursday 14th September 1962 was a seemingly quiet night in Lyn & Jan. And yet, something caused them to argue and fight, for a knife to cut flesh and for a cover-up to erase what happened that night. With a secret so big, wrong, dark or strange, it left one woman in the prison, the other in the morgue and both taking their unspoken motive to the grave. But what was this secret?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. The location is marked with a blue raindrop near the word Fulham. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here. SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C5781317 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4204122
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Redcliffe Square in Putney, SW10; two stops north of Fergie’s crazed dresser, three stops north-east of the last attack by the sadistic little drummer boy, one street east of the pub of choice for several of Britain’s most infamous serial killers, and one street north of the callous killer who discretely hid his victim’s body by dumping it on his own doorstep - coming soon to Murder Mile. Designed to confuse any visitor, almost every street in this part of West Brompton is filled with lines of identical white five-storey Victorian terraces with stepped entrances encircled with Doric columns. Being so ominously vague and silent, it’s as if this street is trying to hide all its secrets. Only, being the kind of pretentious toss-pot haven - where Fenella & Hugo Asti-Spumante raise their ruddy-faced bully-magnets, each named after a philosopher, a composer, a chemical element, a place in Italy, a type of Parmesan, a long-lost sexual disease and an obscure quote to prove they can read - the deepest darkest secrets these residents are likely to hide would be when they bought sliced white bread by mistake, they skipped a Zumba class, or spoke to a ‘real life’ northerner without getting a tetanus shot. And yet, one of these flats has a seedy story to tell which had also been forgotten, until now. On the right-hand-side of the ground-floor of 60 Redcliffe Square stands Flat D. a one-roomed lodging which was once the home and workplace of Lyn Bain & Jan Blake - two ladies with too many secrets. Given the era, they disguised their illegal lesbian relationship as merely a tempestuous friendship, but it would be a single incident over a few drinks, a card game and a bit of telly, which would end it all. The evidence states that Thursday 14th September 1962 was a seemingly quiet night in Lyn & Jan. And yet, something caused them to argue and fight, for a knife to cut flesh and for a cover-up to erase what happened that night. With a secret so big, wrong, dark or strange, it left one woman in the prison, the other in the morgue and both taking their unspoken motive to the grave. But what was this secret? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 191: Lyn, Jan and Him. We all have secrets; whether it’s a shame about our past, a criminal act, an odd incident, a childish habit, or a strange perversion we only do when we’re alone. Whatever it is, we keep it well hidden and only discuss it with those we trust most. But what kind of secret is worth killing for, and dying for? There are two types of people; leaders and followers – Lyn was a follower. Born on 21st March 1937 in the village of Leslie, in Fife, Scotland, Marilyn Anne Bain known as Lyn had a good upbringing to moral and hard-working parents. Raised in Kirkcaldy, although her childhood was good, this began a period of entirely predictable instability as her parents went where the work was. She found it difficult to build friendships and to form relationships, which stayed with her for life. Being small, thin and softly spoken with a thick Scottish brogue, Lyn was described as quiet and high-spirited; an easily-led girl who would do well in life but only if she was guided by the right person. Sadly, her young life lacked a good friend or role-model, as her father was always working, her mother struggled with nervous breakdowns and her sister wasn’t born until Lyn was almost ten. In 1946, as her dad worked for CCG (the Control Commission of Germany), the family uprooted to the turbulent war-torn city of Berlin, as these spoils of war were ripped apart like hyenas tearing at a fresh carcass. As a wee Scottish lass trying to find her feet in a foreign land - where she didn’t know the language, the people or the culture - she had lost everything familiar. And yet, it was in this city, that she suffered an undocumented ‘sexual assault’ which (according to her family) ‘altered her personality forever’. Aged 12, keen to be educated well, Lyn was sent to a boarding school in Wilhelmshaven, Germany; but again, feeling isolated and punished - before she could make a single friend - she was uprooted within the year and returned to Kirkaldy; a place she hadn’t lived for two years, which for a child is a lifetime. And after four years at Kirkcaldy high school, she left in 1952 with no qualifications. It’s no-one’s fault. Her parents were only doing what they thought was best; to give her a good life and an education. And although some children cope and even thrive on this excitement? Some do not. With no-one to confide in – no friend, no parent, no sibling – Lyn kept her deepest secrets to herself. As a drifter with no-one to follow, she could easily have become a no-one who did nothing… …but it was then, that the Army came calling. Fresh out of school, having spent three years training at McCrone Nursing School in Dunfermline, in 1955, Lyn enlisted as a Private in Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. The Army was exactly what she needed; routines and rules, with her superiors’ barking orders which she was forced to obey. Over the next four years - although she served in such far-flung realms as Hong Hong, Singapore and Malaya – she didn’t feel lost, as – being her new family - within the Army she found qualifications and skills, as well as romantic attachments with a few women she was secretly (if illegally) in love with. It was never said who - whether a leader or a lover – was the light who led this lost girl from the path of uncertainty to a life of hope. But by the age of 23, Lyn had become a quiet but well-liked nurse with a good bedside manner and - awarded a General Service Medal - she had a good future ahead of her. Or at least, she should have done. On 20th October 1959, Lyn was discharged from the Army. As many nurses had, she could have made the leap from working in a military to a civilian hospital. But with no-one there to guide her through the thorny issues of life, work, romance and her sexuality, she began to drift, and quickly fell apart. As a heavy drinker since her teens, booze became her coping mechanism. On 20th April 1960 she was placed on an 18-month probation for stealing car wing mirrors. And seeing her rapid decline, Missy Parker, her probation officer got her to attend the Reginald Carter Clinic to treat her alcoholism. Being jobless, homeless, loveless and lost, Lyn needed someone strong-willed to guide her… …the person she picked was Jan - a confident independent woman who was assured of her life, secrets and sexuality. And although she would be perfect as a partner to many, she was wrong for Lyn. Jan was born Jeanette Doreen McVitie on the 4th June 1929 in Balham, South London, as the only girl of five siblings to Evelyn a housewife and Henry a builder’s labourer. From the off, her childhood was a struggle, but the harshness of her upbringing hardened Jan, making her formidable and very direct. As a dot just 5 foot 1 inches high, often mistaken for a push-over, any assailant got a rude awakening as – weighing 14 stone, the same as most male boxers – she would kick if provoked, bite if attacked, headbutt if needed, and she was never afraid to go toe-to-toe with an aggressor twice her size. In 1948, Jan married a man called Blake, although his details were expunged from the court records. A few years later, they separated but – as far as we know – they remained in contact, with Jan keeping his name to disguise her identity and stating “I can’t stand sex with men except for business purposes”. In 1954, 25-year-old Doreen Brookes (an alias she used) was fined 40 shillings for soliciting for sex; and over the next three years she would be fined five more times, also for drunkenness and wilful damage. Everyone who knew her _whether prostitutes or punters – was aware that Jan was a lesbian, which it was not unusual for a sex-worker to be, as the act itself was not about love, but money. She hated men, but she’d readily let some loser give her a pointless fuck and a drunken fumble for a few pounds. On the surface, it’s easy to see why Lyn fell for Jan; she was confident, driven and free-spirited; a force of nature who didn’t give two hoots about what anyone thought of her, and she did what she wanted, when and how she wanted. Jan McVitie was to be the guiding light into the new life of Lyn Bain. Only Jan’s chaotic lifestyle would lead Lyn from despair and hopelessness… …to unspoken secrets and murder. In May 1959, shortly after her discharge from the Army, Lyn met Jan at The Gateways, an infamous lesbian rendezvous at 239 King's Road in Chelsea. A few days later, they moved in together. As two very different personalities - with Jan a boisterous bully, and Lyn a jealous loner – it is no coincidence that Lyn’s alcoholism spiked and her minor criminal career began in the months after she met Jan. Their stormy love-life was described as volatile at best and deadly at worst, as each week they sported new bruises, as the two women constantly fought over the differences which drove them apart. Being direct, Jan had a slew of ex-and-current-lovers, while the solitary Lyn had no-one but Jan. Barred from the Gateways Club for assaulting a former lover of Jan’s, Lyn became ever isolated as she drank more at home. Living off Jan’s sex-work, Lyn’s only contribution was the £5 per week that her father sent her, still believing she was a struggling nurse, rather than an unemployed alcoholic. And with Lyn rarely going out, this caused an even bigger rift between the two, as their flat was both their home... …and workplace. Having moved from Oakley Street to Cremorne Crescent, Finsborough Road to Coleherne Road - often moving when they were evicted for none payment of rent or complaints about their fights - on 22nd March 1962, they moved into Flat D on the ground-floor of 60 Redcliffe Square in West Brompton. Like a tinderbox of hatred and lies, they were the wrong couple in the wrong flat at the wrong time. Set aside the drunken abuse, there were three sparks – in those last few weeks – which caused Jan & Lyn to fall out. One was a question over their sexuality, as Jan had sex with men for money, and Lyn was supposedly seeing a man called Bob, who she liked. Two was that – although Lyn was not a sex-worker – it was said that Jan had coerced her into posing for sexually explicit photos, and the two had engaged in acts of lesbian sex while a male client paid to watch and masturbate. And three… …that their one-roomed lodging was both their home and place of work. Each night, as Jan brought back a procession of man to fiddle and fornicate with on the twin beds they shared – and although they no longer kissed or even cuddled as their love-life in the doldrums – Lyn was forced to wait in the kitchen, the sounds of rampant rutting concealed by nothing but a thin partition wall, as she swigged brandy and stood quietly – sometimes for hours – as several strangers shagged her lesbian lover. By the end of Summer 1962, Lyn had – once again – become lost… …weeks later, she would take her lover’s life. But why? The days leading up to the incident, may have seemed as volatile as an exposed tinderbox, but for Lyn & Jan, these daily (if not hourly) fights and arguments were unremarkable. Both being big drinkers, it was not unusual for one to storm off, the other to sport bruises and the street to echo to their screams. Jan’s close friend Gloria Hamilton would state “the mention of a past friend by Jan, and Lyn would fly off the handle. I have seen Lyn hit her about the head, face and body. She seemed to lose complete control, because the next day when she was told about it, she would honestly not remember”. John Hubbard, their neighbour in Flat C was awoken so often by their fights that no-one ever called the police or intervened. He later stated: “they were always screaming at each other, one or both of them would shout ‘I’ve had enough of this’, and it would stop, but by the morning, they’d start again”. Outside of the confines of their tiny one-roomed flat, they never shared what their fights were about… …but having failed to pay their rent for a third month, their landlord hade given them notice to leave. Thursday 13th September 1962 was typical of most evenings for Jan & Lyn, as long periods of awkward silences were interspersed by shouts and screams across a night left uncomfortably sticky by the heat. At 8:30pm, Jan let in an unidentified male into the ground-floor flat, his voice heard by John Hubbard, and on one of the twin-beds in the sitting room, they engaged in sex, as Lyn stood in the kitchen. For half-an-hour; she waited in silence, with no chair to sit on and no radio to listen to. Shielded by nothing but a thin partition wall, the only sound she heard was her former lesbian lover being fucked by a man. This set-up may seem odd, but stranger still is that given the precarious nature of their finances and living situation, Lyn’s statement says that Jan only picked up one punter that night, not several. It is also said this unnamed man left at roughly 9pm and he was unseen by any corroborative witnesses. The statement Lyn gave to the police of the night’s events were vague at best, and although her lack of memory can be seen as suspicious, it’s understandable given her mood and her chronic alcoholism. Lyn would state: “after the man had gone, Jan asked me if I would like a drink and she gave me £4 to go to the off-licence”. This occurred between 10 and 11pm, as John Hubbard saw her leaving and he remembered it vividly, as although he wished her a “good night”, Lyn ignored him. At two premises, an off-licence on the corner of Old Brompton Road and Earls Court Road, “I bought a bottle of whiskey, a quarter bottle of brandy, three quarters of light ale, and a bottle of ginger ale”, and at Bertorelli’s café nearby “I got five Pepsi-Colas. I then went back to the flat and we started drinking”. Examining the flat, police found empty glasses and half-drunk bottles, as described. And although, this could be seen as a large quantity of alcohol for just two women, both were big drinkers. Several sets of unidentified fingerprints were also discovered, but they may have belonged to past punters. Lyn would state “we were still drinking when the ITV programme finished at midnight”, which matches the schedule as broadcast by Associated Rediffusion. At 9:45pm was US drama ‘Gunsmoke’, followed by review show ‘What the Papers Say’ at 10:40pm, ‘Dan Farson meets Len Peters at 10:55pm, at 11:22pm was ‘People at Work’ (a dry study about primary schools), at 11:47pm was ‘The Epilogue’ (a non-denominational speech given by a priest) with the national anthem and shutdown at midnight. Admittedly, this was a rather dull mix of televisual treats for two women having a fun night in, but as Lyn was barred from the Gateways Club, maybe they were just making-do with what they had at hand? With the TV off, Lyn would state “we carried on drinking and played a couple of games of Ludo. We then started to play poker for fun. She was teaching me to play the game. We had finished playing poker, because I thought the hand I had should have won and the cards went up in the air. We argued as to who should pick the cards up and eventually, I picked them up and we laughed”. It was one of many minor spats this ex-couple would have that night, but was it worth lying, killing and dying for? According to Lyn, a long period of silence followed, as often happened: “she read the paper, I read my book and we ignored each other. We sat like that for a while. Then I asked her if she wanted to play cards again but she refused. This and the drinking went on all night and we never went to bed”. This was the build-up to the moment which would change both of their lives forever… …and yet, something unspoken had either happened or would happen, which led to a death. Their neighbour John Hubbard had stated “I said ‘good night’ to Lyn, but she ignored me”, as sometime between 10 and 11pm she went to buy booze. Only he would confirm “she did not return until 3am”. Which either means; John was mistaken, Lyn was lying, or she was so drunk, she couldn’t remember leaving. And yet, if this was true, where she was going and who she was with will never be known. At 5am, having managed to catch a few winks before work, John’s alarm went off and – as they opened the door to the passageway they shared – still arguing, John would state “I got the impression I heard a male voice in the room. It was a calm voice like someone was trying to keep them quiet”. He may have been mistaken, or it could have a friend of Lyn’s, a punter of Jan’s, or a lover of one or both? On investigation, a photo album of naked women engaged in sexually explicit acts of lesbian sex was found – as is common in the workplace of prostitutes, as sometimes a male client needs a little help to get hard – only these snaps were homemade and its contents were redacted from the court records. At 8am, as yet another minor spat brewed into a pointless slanging match, nobody but Jan & Lyn heard or took any notice of their final fight, and yet, as innocent as it may seem, something was hidden. Lyn confessed: “we started quarrelling, I cannot for the life of me remember what about. I remember Jan pouring a drink and I remarked that she was drinking fast. She said that was the drink talking. It may have been that that started the quarrel. We fought and punched each other. When we were fighting, I punched her in the ribs. I never used to punch her in the face because it would have marked”. But was this out of love, or the knowledge that a prostitute couldn’t earn as much if she’s bruised? Grabbing a six-inch kitchen knife, “I must have stabbed her, but I can’t account for the knife being in the sitting room and not in the kitchen. I remember her saying she couldn’t breathe. I got two pillows and laid her down on them. Then I saw the blood from her blouse and I realised there was something wrong. I flew upstairs and telephoned for an ambulance. I can’t remember much else of what happened. I know we didn’t sleep that night, so no-one else could have come into the room”. It was a single stab wound using moderate force, buried five inches deep, just below the left armpit. At 8:20am, ambulance men - Harry Fry & John Cordery - arrived at 60 Redcliffe Square. Ushering them in, Lyn stated “come in quickly, my friend has collapsed”. Inside Harry saw a woman lying on floor “she had a pillow under her head and she was naked apart from a blouse”. When he went to examine her, Lyn said “she’s been stabbed”. Harry asked “what happened?”, Lyn replied “we had a bit of a party”. Taken by ambulance to the Princess Beatrice Hospital on Old Brompton Road, Jan stated to Harry “she knifed me” and they both began crying. Keen to work out how deep the knife wound was, Harry asked “what type of knife was it?”, Lyn sobbed “I don’t know”, to which Jan defensively retorted “she doesn’t know anything about it”. Harry confirmed that both women were distressed and smelled of drink. The knife itself would not be found for several days and it would never be clear whether Lyn delayed calling the ambulance - perhaps at Jan’s request - so the two of them could get their story straight. But what was the truth, and why did they need to lie? Upon admission, as Jan vomited and fought with the staff, the surgical officer Dr Jotkowitz examined the wound as best he could. As “it had not penetrated the thoracic cage”, he admitted her to the Henrietta Ward, her superficial injury was dressed, stitched and they waited for the drink to wear off. To a casualty nurse, Lyn would state “we’ve been to a party, we had a bit of a barney. When she got home, Jan complained of an awful pain so I dialled 999”. But “got home” from where? Was this a lie, a mistake, had she mis-remembered the night, or had she accidentally blurted out the truth? At 8:45am, as was standard practice in an assault, Police arrived and took statements from Lyn & Jan; both of which were vague and blamed neither for the incident, at which, both were drinking heavily. At 9:20am, the officers went with Lyn to the flat and observed the scene of this minor assault. But as Jan was sedated and unwilling to press charges, it was likely that the case would be dropped. Therefore no photographs or fingerprints were taken, no bottles were examined and the knife was not found. By Monday 17th September, although Jan had contracted aspiration pneumonia, as x-rays would prove that the blade had nicked her lung, appearing to improve, Jan would state: “We were both drunk and we had been drinking all night…” with a sentence, right there, redacted from her statement. When asked, “do you wish to charge her?”, Jan said “no, no, no”. and became upset and she started crying. That afternoon – as both lungs had collapsed – those would become some of the last words spoken by Jan. By 5:10pm she was declared dead, and Lyn was subsequently charged with her murder. (End) Within an hour, Flat D of 60 Redcliffe Square was a crime-scene. With Lyn arrested in her flat, she was described by the officer as distraught but co-operative, even handing Sergeant Smith the knife, stating “I was cleaning up this afternoon and I found it under the fridge” – four days after the fight itself. Inside the half-cleaned room, the detectives found several half-drunk bottles of booze, the remains of Jan’s bloodied blouse (which had been cut away by the ambulance men to stem the bleeding), the pillows her head had rested on, the pornographic photo album, and an unidentified rubber mask spattered with blood. As Jan had refused to give a statement, all they had was Lyn’s drunken recollection; as the male client was never identified and the only witness - John Hubbard - was at work at the time of the stabbing. Following a post-mortem, with Lyn’s fingerprints and Jan’s blood found on the knife, Lyn was charged with murder and was held at Holloway Prison. Tried at The Old Bailey on 16th October 1962, Marilyn Anne Bain known as Lyn pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter. Accepted by both sides, she was sentenced to three years in prison, and she was released in 1965. In his summing up, Justice Edmond Davies would state “the nature of your relationship with your friend caused a situation which led to quarrels. Both of you were drinking regularly and excessively. Whether you know as little about what happened on that night only you can answer. Somehow on this night you caused that carving knife to enter the side of your friend and she met her death”. And there, the case ended. Whatever did happen that night, and whatever secret they silenced, it was clearly something which was worth lying, killing and dying for, as both women took it to their graves. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY:
June 1863. In the basement of 11 Old Compton Street in Soho, 21-year-old Susan Lattaney lived and worked as a prostitute. Having met and fell in love with glass decorator Henry Broughton - keen to fullfil her dreams of a great life together - she agreed to keep selling her body for sex, with Henry as her pimp. It was a small sacrifice she would make for herself and the man she loved... ...but in truth, she would be trapped by his lies, his cruelty and she would become a prisoner inside her own life.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a yellow raindrop in the cluster where Soho is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://visitvictorianengland.com/2019/05/07/hard-labour-in-victorian-prisons/ https://www.oxfordcastleandprison.co.uk/about/news/victorian-crime-and-punishment/ Plus various news sources from the era. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in a place we know all too well, Old Compton Street in Soho, W1; five doors north of the murderous drug-fuelled spree of Joe Guynane, twelve doors east of the contract hit on Alfredo Zomparelli, three doors up from the radioactive trail left at Café Boheme, and a few doors down from Eliza Crees’ nightmare honeymoon - coming soon to Murder Mile. Identical to every other building on this narrow hive of seedy smut shops and hipster havens is 11 Old Compton Street, a classic Victorian four-storey flat-fronted terrace with a shop below and flats above. With old Soho dead and gentrified into a sickening pseudo-Shoreditch where history has been usurped by faux shops for the dim-witted who’ll ApplePay for anything that’s fashionable for a hot-minute, 11 Old Compton Street is home to ChaTime; a bubble teashop, where fans of cold milky tea can be fleeced into slurping (what resembles) a pint of rainbow-coloured porridge, sperm and frogspawn. Oh yummy. What next? Tobacco flavoured toothpaste for when bad breath becomes hip? Very possibly. Back in 1860’s, on the ground-floor of number 11 was a butcher’s shop with an abattoir outback, and above, the lodgings of the impoverished, some of whom were sex-workers. With the basement split into two by a thin wall, and a slit window at foot-level overlooking the rear yard where rats ran among bins of rancid meat, this tiny room was the home of 21-year-old prostitute Susan Lattaney. It wasn’t much, but being trapped by the incessant cruelty of her pimp and supposed husband-to-be, Henry Broughton – she believed that this was the beginning of a bright future with the man she loved… …and yet, she would ever only find peace, at the tip of his blade. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 190: The Stockholm Syndrome of Susan Lattaney. Whether guns, poisons or knives, there is no deadlier weapon than words. Words can trip, beat, maim, and kill; they can wound the skin but also the soul, their cuts can outlast any scar, and - by duping the victim to drop their defences – a word can lure us into believing that our worst enemy is our saviour. Susan Lattaney was born in the summer of 1842. We know that as it was registered at The Strand, one street south of Covent Garden. Like many in the working-classes, her life would go unrecorded unless she was arrested or murdered during her tragically brief life. With no chance of escaping her situation, many would be born as they would die, often succumbing to sickness, starvation, or violent assault. With her name misspelt so often on official documents, even the court record, the system cared little of Susan Lattaney because she was poor, because she was a woman and because she was a prostitute. Raised in a shared lodging at 2 Adam Street West in Marylebone, originally from Somerset, her father John was a shoemaker, her mother Susannah was a shoe-binder, and both of Susan’s brothers – Alfred and John – went into the same trade. And although they were blessed with a semi-skilled profession, the Lattaney’s lives remained a struggle, as too many people chased too few jobs for too little reward. As a young girl, she was educated to the age of 10, beyond which it was no longer compulsory. And as each mouth cost pennies the family could not afford, well before her teens she was earning. Possibly as a shoe-smith, or later raised by her grandmother, she may have earned her keep as a char-woman. By 1861, aged 19, Susan disappeared from public records, which was not uncommon. But it does pose a question of why she had left her family home and yet they would remain close? Described as a slim girl with brown curly hair, pale skin and bright green eyes – as her future was pre-destined to be hard and bleak – she may have used the goods she was given in the chance of escaping a life without hope. By at least her late teens, Susan had become a prostitute. This may seem like the last resort of a desperate woman, but in her era, it was all too common for a girl to make her way by selling her body. It’s easy to surmise that; as Susan was born and raised in the West End where sex-work occurs on every corner, she was unskilled and poorly educated, a friend or family member may have already been working in the sex-trade, and in the 1800s, it was said that as many as one in three working-class women provided for their families through some form of sex-work. In truth, she could have earned an honest living as a shoe-maker, but as the wage for a man in 1861 was 3 shillings and 6 pence per day, working 10-hour days, 6-days-a-week – as a woman would earn a lot less than that for the same job – prostitutes could make five times the wage of a manual labourer. In many families -- although they’d deny any knowledge - it was not uncommon for their prettiest girl to be sent out to earn her crust as ‘a hole to fill’. It may seem like cruelty, but in an era where women had very little power, a young girl could have money and influence as the family’s breadwinner, and – being best served to meet a monied man – only she could escape the drudgery of this horrid little life. Against a backdrop of poverty, one day her Prince could come and sweep her off her feet. I mean, it rarely - if ever - happened… …but it could. On an undocumented day and in a way which will never be known - in the spring of 1861 - 19-year-old Susan Lattaney met Henry Broughton; a tall, handsome, and well-dressed man of a similar age to herself, who (reports state) earned an honest living as a ‘glass decorator’, a semi-skilled profession. Born and raised nearby, Henry exuded the swagger of a man with big dreams; he spoke well (for a local lad), he knew everyone on his street, his suit was always neat with a silk hankie and a gold watch hanging off his waistcoat, and in his pocket was a thick wad of notes secured with a silver money clip. Deeply smitten, she had fallen for his looks and his charm, and – as this aspiring man of money was clearly more than just her ticket out of this life - she liked him, and better still, he liked her too. For Susan, it was the fairy-tale romance she had dreamed of. Every day, Henry would profess his love to his beloved; he’d read her poetry, he’d shower her gifts, and he’d buy her fragrant flowers. Over romantic meals, he’d speak the words she had long to hear, of marriage, happiness and babies. And feeling truly spoilt, she got a sense of how the rest of their lives together would be – truly blessed. But that was the future, which she knew was still far away. In truth, Henry was no richer than she was; as although he dressed well, ate well and spoke well, it was all to give an impression of success. But as he told her – if they worked hard and only if she believed in him – they could be happy, forever. I would be a long hard struggle, and - believing in him - she would do anything to make it happen. For a few weeks or months more, Susan would earn as much as she could, as best as she could, doing the one job she was skilled at – prostitution – and (to ensure their success) Henry would be her pimp. For Susan, it would be a simple sacrifice to keep selling her body for the man she loved, in the hope that their hard-work led to a life of love together in a comfortable home surrounded by children. Life had already taught her that nothing good was ever easily earned, so she settled in for a long hard slog. A short while later, Susan & Henry moved into a small basement lodging under a butcher’s shop at 11 Old Compton Street, right in the heart of Soho’s red-light district. It wasn’t much, just a tiny room with a chair, a wardrobe, a washstand and a bed, but -in Susan’s eyes – it was the start of their life together. That’s how she saw it, because that’s how he had sold it… …but in truth, she would be trapped by his lies and his cruelty. Henry was described in court as ‘a coward’ and a ‘utter scoundrel’ who lived off her immoral earnings. His con was simple; to pretend to love her, to show her some affection and to plant a seed in her mind of a life to be. Given enough time; she’d be too love-struck to believe she’d been duped, too exhausted to retort, and (as a violent cherry on a terrifying cake) too frightened to ever think about leaving him. Living in (what was little more than) a lumpy bed in a foul-smelling brothel; being perched in a coffee shop opposite the lodging, here Henry drank, chatted and smoked, keeping tabs on the slew of punters who shunted her for shillings - in a ploy he’d done to many women - who all earned money for him. This rancid little hell-hole was to be a little home for them both, but the only time he visited was to collect his cash, to criticise her for not making enough and to dole-out a small stipend for food and the rent of a tawdry sex-den overrun with flies and rats which whiffed of rotting meat and stale semen. To escape her horror, you may think ‘why didn’t she leave’? But initially, his words were his weapon. With love, he built her up, and with cruelty, he broke her down, until there was nothing left of her… …but what he needed for himself. It began by making her feel as if she was loved. A few key phrases peppered when it suited him best, like; “no-one loves you like I do”, “it’s just you and me”, “we’re meant to be”, the casual contrivances only an abuser would say. And having sold her a hopeless dream of love, slowly he would withdraw his affections, until – like a ravenous dog with a growling belly – she would pine, she would cry and she would be grateful for whatever rancid scraps he tossed at her feet – worried it may be the last. Having trapped her with his lies, he then had to ensure that every escape route was blocked. In times of panic, people always run to the safety of familiarity – their friends, their families, or the police – but by spreading lies and making her believe them, soon the only person she would trust would be him. Feeling isolated, exhausted and seeing only him as her saviour, he would strip her of the last shred of dignity and worth she still had in her frightened little mind. Guilt did the heavy lifting, and if her dream felt too far away, it was all because “you haven’t worked hard enough… for us. Don’t you love me?”. Next came the verbal abuse, designed to demean her, to ridicule her and put her in her place – ‘stupid’, ‘useless’, ‘ugly’ – and subordinate to him, every hurtful barb was her fault, as he was in the right. Compounded by assaults – a slap, a punch, a kick or a choke - always striking her body and never to the head, he knew that time was money and “no-one’s gonna pay to fuck a battered bitch”, so he’d make her too scared to run, to cry, to give up or to lie. The only way for her to escape was to work. Within a short space of time, Susan was be left broken, lost and humiliated; a young girl still clinging to a hopeless dream, beaten by a brute she would always return to, and being trapped inside a waking nightmare from which there was no escape from this viscous circle of sex and abuse. Susan Lattaney was little more than a hostage in her own life. Henry controlled everything; her mind, her body, her time and her money. He had turned a someone into a no-one, who endured pain and misery in the pursuit to earn more to make him happy. Trapped, she would forever know that – if she ever displeased him - her life may end by the tip of his blade… … a blade, which – all too soon - would be stained with blood. The day was Tuesday 20th June 1863. By noon, the cobble-stone streets were too hot to touch as the sun baked down through the thick dark gloom of the belching chimney stacks. 21-year-old Susan had been shagged and buggered by a slew of sleazy strangers for a quarter of her short unhappy life. The young girl was gone, and all that remained was the shadow of pale lifeless woman, lost behind tired eyes, walking cautiously as the rabid shagging of bad men with boners had made her incontinent, and her face was made-up by cosmetics so she didn’t resemble an unsightly sack of skin and bones. This was her life, it was what she did, and there would be no rest in sight… except when she was dead. An account of what happened would be recalled in court by those who had witnessed it. At 12pm, Susan left 11 Old Compton Street. Spied by Henry, he sat in the coffee tavern opposite, his new three-piece-suit all resplendent, as he quaffed and chatted with his pals, a fresh pipe of tobacco spewing from his lips, as he watched her walk her regular patch - a long hard day of pain ahead of her. By 3pm, Susan had earned a sovereign, twenty shillings to be precise - making in three hours what a labourer made in a day – but it’s impossible to say how many punters had man-handled her glands and poked her with their sticky little probes. Every prostitute has a price for full sex, but for ‘extras’, it goes up depending on how degrading the act is, and what pain and humiliation she has to endure. She may have been shagged thirty men in quick succession, or possibly (having paid a small fortune) by one rancid pervert who’d have slowly defiled this young girl in the most inhumane of ways possible. As agreed, Susan met Henry on Regent Street. With a faint smile on her haggard face, she had hoped that the sight of a shiny sovereign in her hand would make him happy, and that – maybe – he might bless her with a faint hint of a memory of affection, rather than a slap of a kick? But it was not to be. “A sovereign? It’s not enough. Get more”, he barked as her smile dropped, her distant dream departed and her notion of working for ‘us’ was replaced by ‘me’, as she was a nothing who worked for him. Whether she knew it or not, Henry hadn’t saved a single penny of her ill-gotten gains for the plans he had once promised her, and - as he had with his other girls - he had squandered the lot. To him, that sovereign was an insult, but he took it and just as quickly as she would earn another, he had spent it. Uncertain if Susan was fleecing him of his money, he followed her south down Regent Street, towards the bustling throng of Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square, where - even on a week day afternoon – sadists with raging boners prowl the seedy side-streets seeking young girls to bang, finger or bugger. A little after 4pm, on Oxenden Street, a few roads west of Leicester Square, Susan met a regular client who had offered her three sovereigns to have his wicked way with her for at least the next hour. It could be said that, maybe she felt three sovereigns would be enough to satisfy Henry, but who knows what horrors she’d have to endure to earn it; maybe sodomy, or maybe something more sinister? But experience had taught her, that even if her punter was a man of money, gone was the hope of a charming prince coming into her life, sweeping her off her feet, and away from all this misery. I mean, it rarely - if ever - happened… …and for her, it never would. Susan Lattaney was trapped like a hostage; she couldn’t run, she couldn’t lie and she couldn’t hide. As her captor rather than her husband-to-be, Henry was a brute with a sharp temper, fast fists… …and a blade with her name on it. As Susan was taken to a squalid room on Oxenden Street to be violated by a man who mauled her for money, Henry secreted himself in a pub – possibly the Union Arms at 36 Panton Street, or the Black Horse at 30 Oxendon Street – and within sight of Susan’s unspeakably sadistic submission, he perched his backside in a window seat and settled down to a spot of dinner and some bare-knuckle boxing. As prize fighters battled it out, he gorged on that was described as ‘a capital meal including three kinds of fish, joints and steaks, as well as bread and cheese’. Washed down with a few jars of porter and a satisfying puff on his freshly-stoked pipe – while Susan possibly sucked on a stranger’s stinky little love raisin – Henry got progressively pissed and blew a sizable chunk of that sovereign on a few bad bets. By the time 5pm had gone, as Susan staggered out of the seedy cess-pit with a pain in her privates, she proudly clutched the three solid sovereigns in her hand which she hoped would make him smile. She had hoped… but she was wrong. “Three sovereigns?” Henry barked, “it’s not enough. Get more”. That day, she had earned him four sovereigns or eighty shillings, more than thirty times his daily wage as a (supposed) glass decorator, which he no longer did. Only now he wanted twenty pounds, five times more at four hundred shillings. It was more than she had ever earned in a day, but that was part of his con. If he ever gave her hope that a sovereign was enough, then that was all she would earn. Daring to speak-up, she muttered “I can’t do it, it’s too much”. For such insolence, he demanded her watch and chain, which she gave him. He checked her pockets for coins, but as she squealed “I haven’t got any more”, for her insolence he slapped her, he kicked her and her tore at her hair in the packed street as onlookers jeered and jostled for a better view of her assault. And as she whimpered “I’m sorry, I’ll try…” - trying was not good enough. If he wanted £20, then £20 is what she would make. And to ensure that she learned her lesson… …in the middle of Oxenden Street, between three packed pubs and several coffee taverns, Henry grabbed the neck of her one-good dress and ripped it from her trembling body, until she was naked. Standing amidst a baying crowd, all bruised and humiliated, Susan Lattaney felt more worthless than she had ever felt before. She was not a woman but a piece of meat to be manhandled and gawked at for a price. And having been broken down to such a pitiful point that she believed this was all her fault, as her petrified lips fumbled to form an apology “I’m sorry, I really am”, Henry pulled out his blade… …to ensure that she would never defy him again. Some people laughed and others sneered, but many did not. Many were moral and decent, some were rightly appalled, and a few (including several sex-workers who had witnessed similar brutality at close hand themselves) were not going to stand by and let this good woman be hurt any more. Before his blade could nick her shivering skin, Henry’s eyes widened, as a thick sea of furious woman surged towards him. Before he could retort, the swelling mob had ushered the girl to safety and having surrounded this petrified pimp, they unleashed a volley of flying fists and clawing nails upon him. Breaking free and tearing at his finest clothes-to-boot, as the coward fled towards Coventry Street, he swiftly hailed a horse-drawn cab to make his escape. Henry was lucky, at worst all he’d had was his face scratched and his pride dented. But with his hot blood coursing, he needed someone to blame… …and that someone was Susan. Having dashed three streets north to her lodgings at 11 Old Compton Street, Susan had grabbed some clothes, a bag, a few belongings and she had left, with Henry missing her by mere minutes. This was her one chance to escape him forever - but being so broken down - she wouldn’t go to the police or confide in a friend, and he knew that. But there was still one place he knew where she would be… …her mother’s. Hiding in Marylebone, at 7 Chapel Place, it wasn’t five minutes before Henry began bashing the door, demanding that this “bitch come out” and “get what she will be given”. Barging his way in, before her mother, Henry punched and kicked her until she fell, and as she lay upon the floor helpless, he beat her some more; whether on her head or hands, back, breast and face, as she was now worth nothing. Pulling out his blade, with a savage slash, he had tried to slit her lying little throat, but missed. Many times, he had warned her that if she ever left him, he would kill her… and now he would. And with her body bruised, her spirit broken and her resistance truly spent, as he dragged her by the hair out of the door to continue his brutal beating in private, Susan went limp. Not dead, but resigned to the fact that her blessed release from her misery had finally come, and by the tip of Henry’s blade. The dream was over, and so was her life… …but not yet. Hearing the commotion, two lodgers ran from upstairs, Susan’s mother screamed alerting the police, and although Henry fled, later that day, he was arrested and charged with Susan’s assault. Left feeling empty and worthless, Susan didn’t want to press charges, but thankfully, her mother did. (End) On Wednesday 1st July 1863, Henry Broughton was tried at Marlborough Street Police Court. With Susan bravely standing against him, the judge described Henry as a “coward” and he began to cry. For her assault, Henry was fined £10, sentenced to twelve months bail and six months hard labour. It may not seem like much of a punishment, but as a prostitute was not seen as a person, they were often blamed for the violence inflicted upon them, and their captor’s sentences in no way matched their own pain. But this is not to say that Henry’s own time in captivity was a doddle, as it was not. Sent to Millbank prison, Henry was stripped of his clothes, his money and his jewellery to pay his fine; his once-pricey meals were replaced by a gruel with barely enough nutrients to sustain him, he was worked until he bled, and he was imprisoned with men who disliked the cowards who beat up women. In a method similar to how he had broken Susan, the aim of hard labour was to crush his spirit; through a brutal regime of pain, hunger, humiliation and a slew of demeaning tasks to make him feel worthless. He was isolated from his loved-ones, he was punished for speaking his mind, and he was beaten for minor misdemeanours. He wasn’t a man, he was a number. He wasn’t a person, he was a nothing. And the only way to make his pain stop was to make his masters happy by working hard until he dropped. Henry Broughton served his six months and was released. But being working-class, it was unrecorded whether he went straight, or went back to pimping to recoup his lost earnings with another girl? As for Susan, it’s uncertain whether she ever found happiness in her life…? But I doubt it. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-NINE:
This is The Campanile, a 284-foot tower on the south-west corner of Westminster Cathedral. Saturday 23rd February 1924 was an ordinary day for happily married mother-of-two Margaret Ann Davey; she made breakfast, she packed some sandwiches for lunch, and – at 11:30am – she climbed the steps to the top of The Campanile. Having purchased a ticket, the doorman had no suspicions that her mind was unbalanced, as she seemed happy and well. But at 2:10pm, having jumped from the top, and plummeted 86 metres, she ended her life on the hard stone road of Ambrosden Avenue. But why was she so unhappy, why did she choose to die here, and did she choose to take the lives of two innocents, who were just enjoying their lunch?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop near the word Victoria. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257643 https://medicine.uiowa.edu/bioethics/sites/medicine.uiowa.edu.bioethics/files/wysiwyg_uploads/2013%20Rysavy%20essay.pdf
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing outside of Westminster Cathedral, SW1; two streets south-west of the elderly bed-mate slain by Martha Browning, two streets west of the assassination of the war-criminal Sir Michael O’Dwyer and a short walk south of the last fling of the failed dancer - coming soon to Murder Mile. Set beside Victoria Station, Westminster Cathedral is an architectural triumph swished among a sea of glass monstrosities. Completed in 1903, those who are only religious when chocolate is involved flock to this Roman Catholic place of worship; to mime to hymns that nobody knows, to ask God to solve a trivial spat as if he’s not busy enough, to act as if symbolically quaffing the blood and flesh of a man they claim to love isn’t weird, and to tell a stranger hiding behind an ornate glory-hole all their sins (which he forgives if they say Jesus’ mum’s name five times – although I doubt it’s legally binding). Constructed of twelve million red and cream bricks, the most startling part of this wonderous building is The Campanile. Also known as St Edward’s tower, this 284-foot-tower reaches high to the sky rising 175 feet higher than the Cathedral itself, and from Ambrosden Avenue, it’s dizzying to look up at. High up on the parapet, visitors stand in awe at its stunning views of the London skyline, with some struck with a sense of divinity being just one step closer to God. And yet, in one case in particular… …that closeness would become all too true. On Saturday 23rd February 1924 at 11:30am, 37-year-old Margaret Davey known as Maggie entered the cathedral like any other visitor; she bought a ticket, she ascended the stairs, she smiled and she didn’t make a sound. Almost three hours later, having climbed the railing, she hurled her body from the parapet and it smashed onto the hard stone road of Ambrosden Avenue, killing her instantly. But why did she want to die? Why did she choose that moment? Why did she pick such a public place as The Campanile? And why did she take the lives of two innocents who were just eating their lunch? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 189: Maggie’s Fall. No-one can truly understand the rhyme nor reason why a seemingly-sane person would feel compelled to take their life. Even if they left a note explaining everything, it can still be a mystery… …even to themselves. Margaret Davey was born in 1887 as Margaret Ann Chisolm. Raised in the former town of Inverness in the highlands of north-east Scotland, Maggie’s upbringing was as loving as anyone could wish for. As the third eldest of (ultimately) seven children born to James, a local blacksmith and Catherine, a working mum, the family were never without food nor warmth even amidst the harshest of winters. Snuggled in a small sandstone cottage in the heart of the town and nestled on the banks of the river Ness; by 1891, although all were under seven years old, Jemima, John, Margaret, William and Archie were protected by an extended family in Inverness, but also in the nearby village of Kiltarlity. As the breadwinner, work remained steady, as with the never-ending flow of horses and barges up the length of the Caledonian canal, James would have a steady supply of business until his dying days, and – being an industrious working-class family – Catherine kept the coffers coming in as a seamstress. Like so many others, their lives were hard but good, solid yet loving. They suffered the same hardships as their neighbours and they fought through their trials and tribulations by the closeness of their bond. By 1901, mum and dad remained as tight as ever and with the family expanded by two more, Catherine and Christina; Jemima was working as a domestic servant, John assisted his dad on the docks, Maggie, William and her two younger sisters were both in school, but sadly, Archie had succumbed to TB. Given the era, the sad demise of baby Archie was all too common and whether this trauma had played on Maggie’s mind up to the moment of her own is unknown. But by all accounts, the Chisolm’s were not a family plagued by alcohol, abuse, insanity or neglect. By 1910, of her own choice, Maggie left Scotland and moved to London seeking work and she remained in touch with her loved ones. At this point in her story, you may expect Maggie’s life to fall apart, but it was not to be. As the mirror of her mother – being petite but sturdy, and a big-hearted girl who was forever pleasant and polite – people often heard Maggie before they saw her, owing to her fondness for whistling little ditties to keep her spirits up while she worked or to keep the distant shadow of black moods at bay. In the summer of 1913 in the borough of Fulham, Maggie married Edwin James Davey after a brief but loving courtship. As a man in the mould of her own father; he earned a decent living as an upholsterer, he was moral, he was kind, and - as a dedicated husband - he always put his family above himself. In the summer of 1916, Maggie gave birth to Catherine who she named after her mother, and in the winter of 1921, Margaret was born who she named after herself. Both daughters were healthy and to accommodate their blossoming brood, Maggie & Edwin Davey moved into a ground-floor flat at 27 Bridge Avenue in Hammersmith, where they lived for the last three years of their ten-year marriage. By 1924, The Davey’s were living a life as ordinary as any other family; a regular income ensured they were fed and warm with no debts, late rent or financial worries to trouble them; as a quiet couple it wasn’t in their nature to argue or to fight, and the future of this little family looked all calm and rosy. With Catherine aged seven and Margaret having just passed two, as one daughter was at school and the other at home, Maggie was considering returning to work part-time, as she liked to be kept busy. Only, this next step in their lives would never happen… …as Maggie’s mind was fixated on death. The inquest was held at Westminster Coroner’s Court on Thursday 28th February. Being just five days since Maggie had plummeted to her death from The Campanile, his last duty as a husband had been to formally identify the smashed and shattered remains of what they had scraped off the road below. Stood alone before the coroner, Edwin’s face was ashen and his eyes red raw, as his throat croaked a smattering of croaky words to answer the question his dead wife had failed to answer. Why? With a calm compassion, the deputy coroner Mr Douglas Cowburn enquired of this broken man about her history and homelife for any clue as to what had driven this good woman to do the unthinkable. Barely able to contain his grief, Edwin spoke of Maggie as “a loyal wife” and an “exceptional mother”, who was the rock of what neighbours described as a “devoted couple with two adorable children”. The coroner asked: “May we take it that generally your life has been a happy one?”. To which Edwin replied: “Sir, you ought to have been at my home to have seen it. Happiness was not the word for it”. Living an honest and decent life, together they had strived to keep everything as simple as possible, with a solid routine for their children and no need to spend beyond what they could afford. Described as bright and happy, Maggie was a mother “who was devoted to her children in every way possible”. At the inquest, Edwin stated “she never suffered from delusions and had never threatened to take her own life”, such painful words he had struggled to speak as he wept an endless stream of lonely tears. That day had begun like any other, and it had ended with his whole life smashed. He couldn’t fathom why Maggie had killed herself, and – in a fit of madness – had taken two innocents to their graves. Arriving from Inverness, her siblings were certain that this must have been a mishap or a slip… …only the court knew that it wasn’t. During the summer of 1923, just nine months earlier, (Edwin) “I noticed a change in my wife’s mood. She’d got neglectful of her household duties, but never towards the children. She would sit in a dazed state... she complained of pains in her head, getting gradually more depressed for the last six months”. Across her decline; he had asked her what was wrong, but she said she was fine; he had begged her to see a doctor, but she had refused; and reassuring him her black mood would pass, sadly it did not. And yet, if her homelife was good, why did she choose to end it? The summer of 1923 was unremarkable in Maggie’s eyes; Stanley Baldwin had become Prime Minister, and although entitled to vote, she was neither a Tory nor political. In July, a dock workers strike hit Britain, but she wasn’t affected. And that same month, the Matrimonial Causes Act made adultery a sole ground for divorce by either a husband or a wife. But as their marriage was as strong as ever, a separation or divorce hadn’t been discussed and neither Maggie nor Edwin were having an affair. She hadn’t succumbed to any illnesses or diseases, and there was no known tragedies or traumas. As with many women, the 1920s was a time of unprecedented change, which could have put undue pressure on this married mother-of-two, as although the horrors of the First World War were gone and the roaring twenties had begun, the Victorian morals and values still existed, and some still do. In 1918, under the Representation of the People Act, women had won the right to vote, but it wouldn’t apply to the poorest women for another decade, and her right was based on her husband’s earnings. In 1919, the Sex Discrimination (Removal) Act had given women access to greater jobs, but again, this required an education and training which was (and still is) denied too many women, especially in the working-classes, and it ignored the rights of women who had mad a career as a wife and mother. Times were changing both too fast and too slow. By 1922, the Law of Property Act meant that women could hold and dispose of inherited property on the same terms as men. And by 1919, women could sit on juries and serve as a magistrate, although juries remained overwhelmingly male until the 1970s. And yet, a woman couldn’t open a bank account, apply for a loan or hold a mortgage in her own name unless a husband or her father acted as guarantor until 1975. That same decade saw the Equal Pay Act become law which decreed that women should be paid the same as men for doing the same job, and yet, half a century on, that same battle is still being fought in British courts. And up until the 1980’s, 60 years after Maggie’s death, it was still a point of debate if a woman was seen wearing trousers or smoking a cigarette in public, and it was still perfectly legal to refuse to serve women a drink in a pub. By the 1920’s, a woman’s freedom was emerging, but it was limited. In Maggie’s era, access to contraception was strictly limited, an abortion on any ground was illegal and punishable by life in prison, and yet, rape was not considered a criminal offence within a marriage. But again, as an unassuming woman who rarely expressed her gloom, we can never be sure how much (if any) changes in the 1920s affected Maggie or her mood, and - proud to be a wife and mother - she lived simply, quietly and - when stress arose - she whistled away her worries with a happy little tune. Edwin would state she had never expressed a desire to end her life, but given her apathy and lack of self-worth, all we can assume is that she may have suffered from post-partum depression. In the 1920s, PPD was misunderstood, as experts of that era had theorised that “depression during childbirth had no relationship to the pregnancy” and they had even attributed it to “suppressed homosexuality”. As we now know – if left untreated - it can be highly destructive to a woman’s mental wellbeing, and - in rare cases - postpartum depression can appear as postpartum psychosis, leading to self-harm, suicide and even infanticide. But as Maggie spoke to no-one, she took her motive to her grave. And yet, whether by coincidence or not… …her suicide had been foretold… …just three years before her death. (Radio) This is the British Broadcasting Corporation… (static)… Margaret Davey’s death had similarities to another. On the 19th January 1921, 42-year-old Portuguese Countess Di Ribeira da Grande was in convalescence for her nerves, under the 24-hour care of noted physician Sir Bruce Porter of Mayfair. Watched day and night as the countess had expressed morbid desires, in a brief aberration of duty, she eluded her nurse’s care and fled to Westminster Cathedral. Last seen smiling by Mr George Crook, doorkeeper of The Campanile, he described her mood that day as pleasant as she ascended the tower. Officials would state “safeguards (such as a three-foot railing) were in place to ensure that ‘falls’ do not happen”. Moments later, Mr Crook witnessed what he would describe as a “curious thud” as the countess leapt to her death. Her body was found on a balcony twenty feet above Ambrosden Avenue. A verdict was returned by the Westminster coroner as ‘suicide whilst of unsound mind’.” (Radio off) As a local story which featured in the borough’s newspapers, we can never be sure if Maggie had read about the countess’ tragic demise, but their suicides have too many similarities to be a coincidence; the dates, the place, the method and their moods, rising the tower like they hadn’t a care in the world. And yet, one detail is immutable; as the countess plunged to her death, just a few miles away, Maggie was (or had) giving birth to her second child, whilst (possibly) struggling with post-partum depression. So, whether the countess’ suicide was an inspiration or a coincidence… …their deaths had one major difference. Saturday 23rd February 1924 began as an ordinary day for the Davey family. Waking at the crack of dawn, Maggie had slept as soundly as any mother with two children, a husband, and a house to run. At 7am, regular as clockwork, the family-of-four sat in their warm kitchen eating a breakfast of hot tea and buttery toast; their chatter was perfunctory and they spoke of their plans for the Sunday. Maggie’s emotions had been erratic, but the love of her husband and the beaming faces of her beloved babies had been the one constant which had kept her spirits high. That day, Maggie was bright and cheerful. Edwin told the inquest: “she prepared breakfast in the usual way, I left for my business at 7:20am”. Leaving his home in Hammersmith - as he had done each day without fail - he kissed his wife goodbye and said “see you later”, not knowing that it would be the last kiss he would plant on her lips, the very last time he would see her alive, and that – by the time he had returned – his life would be ruined. With no school that day, Maggie washed seven-year-old Catherine and Margaret now two-and-a-half, and dressed both girls in the right clothes for a nice day out in the city. With a bitter winter wind biting and the ground crunching with a frosty snap, they donned their gloves, scarves and bobble hats. Everything was as ordinary as any day prior; the girls were excited for a fun day out at a local landmark, Maggie had enough money in her purse for travel and sundries, she had written a note for Edwin and had left it by their bed, and – as kids are always hungry - she made ham sandwiches, cut into triangles. Shortly after 10am, a neighbour saw Maggie and her girls leave home: “although she seemed to be pale, I did not notice that she was agitated. I thought she was going out shopping” - which she did. At 11am, they hopped on the District Line travelling seven stops east to Victoria and among a sea of locals and tourists, together they strode a short four-minute walk to the majesty of Westminster Cathedral. Being a weekend, the piazza was a hive of gorping faces staring in awe at this relatively new cathedral whose architecture harked back to a more ancient time of Christianity, and a place where people could be at-one with God. Being free to enter, the inside was busier than out, as it was warmer and quieter. For Maggie’s kids, the cathedral must have been a sight of wonder; a colossal red-and-cream bricked behemoth which emanated with a fragrant incense and echoed with a heavenly hum of pipe music, as a glimpse of winter sun shone through the stained-glass windows and sparkled this cavern of gold. Like any other family, they blended in, as they smiled and pointed at these sights of awe. Only, they had not planned to go inside the cathedral that day, they had decided to go up. Craning their necks back as far as they could bend, The Campanile stretched skyward until it almost touched the clouds. The time was roughly 11:30am. For many, the day was too bitterly cold to ascend The Campanile and stand a full 284 feet into the sky, but wearing their winter woollens and clutching a paper bag of ham sandwiches, it didn’t seem strange for George Crook, the door-keeper who had witnessed a similar suicide here just three years before. At the inquest, George spoke of how he had no suspicions of what Maggie was about to do: “they were smiling and happy, they wanted to see what London looked like from such a height. She paid 6d each for them, even asking half price for the kiddies, I let them in and I thought no more about it”. No-one noticed Maggie that day, as although (to us) it was clear what her motive was; with no cries, no tears and no screams - only excitable chatter as they climbed the stone steps to the parapet – the only words heard was what sights they might see from the top, maybe their home, maybe their daddy? At 11:40am, Maggie and her children reached the parapet… …and there they stayed for almost two-and-a-half hours. (Maggie whistles). On a clear day, you can see right across the city. Being so cold, Maggie and her girls were the only people on the parapet that day. With an iron railing in place, it was decreed as safe; “a place impossible to fall from”. And no-one was worried about where they had got to, as George Crook would later explain to the jury: “sometimes people go up for minutes, others go up there for hours”. We have no idea what happened over those missing hours, as no-one saw them or heard them. With the half-eaten remains of some ham sandwiches found in a paper bag, we know they ate lunch, but we know little else. They may have hugged, they may have kissed and they may have cried… …but one thing was for certain, Maggie had death on her mind. At 2:10pm, beyond the silence of his office by the north door, George Crook heard a thud; a deep heavy thud as if something soft had smacked fast into something hard. Not a falling brick, not a piece of timber and not a sack of spuds, but something both unmistakably familiar and horrifying to him. A silence followed, and then, so did the screaming, as below the tower – embedded between the path and the road of Ambrosden Avenue lay a barely recognisable mess of twisted limbs and broken bones. All bathed in a spattered wide sea of red blood and green gastric fluids, which sprayed up the tower’s wall and emanated a thick rising steam on the cold winter street, like a spirit escaping its pain. We know it was once a body and we know it was once a female, but it was not Maggie. Having thrown seven-year-old Catherine to her death, with her youngest in her arms, Maggie assailed the wrought-iron railing over the parapet of The Campanile. According to witnesses, there was no cry and no struggle, as this distraught mother released her grip to join her child who was already dead. Falling at a quickening speed of 35 metres per second, having led go of her baby, Maggie’s fall lasted just two seconds as she hit the road at 90 miles per hour. But being a third of her mother’s size and a quarter of her weight, the toddler impacted the pavement made of crushed stone half a second later. We can only hope that their hearts gave out during the fall, but we can never know for certain. A lift attendant went to Catherine’s aid, but would state: “her head was terribly battered and the skull broken. When I reached her, she had ceased to breath”. Likewise, Maggie. And as a porter rushed to aid baby Margaret, he recalled: “I think that every bone in the poor little kid’s body had been broken”. With every breath expelled from their bodies, their hearts ruptured and their skulls smashed, there was no hope of saving this tragic threesome, and their remains were taken to a mortuary. (End) At 1:30pm, as per usual, Edwin returned home to have lunch with his wife and children, only the house was empty and his family were gone. Beside his bed, he found a note in his wife’s handwriting, it read; ‘Dearest Jack. Thank you for all you have done for me. You have been a good husband and father. I am taking the kiddies with me. Nothing seems to go right. Please forgive me. You have never kept me short of anything. Maggie” – it was a final note which said everything, but explained nothing. And although, when he was reading it, his wife and children were still alive? With no idea where they had gone or how to find them, when he reported them missing, the police confirmed they were dead. In the mortuary of St George’s hospital by Hyde Park, Edwin identified not only the shattered remains of his wife, but also of his children - two innocents who were enjoying a day out and eating their lunch. Dr G R Mathews, house surgeon at St George’s said that death would have been “instantaneous”. Held at Westminster Coroner’s Court on the 28th February 1924, Edwin Davey was described as “very much distressed” as he tearfully gave evidence as to how his wife had killed herself and their children. With her suicide note being of little use and her past showing no clear history of depression, suicide, or a morbid desire to harm her loved ones, the jury returned a verdict that Maggie had “committed suicide while of unsound mind”, and that the “children were deliberately murdered by their mother”. 24 years later, Edwin Davey died of a heart-attack, he never remarried and had no more children. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
The junction of hertford Street and Park Lane in Mayfair where Ernest Bolton said his wife, Robina, picked up "a bearded man" shortly before she was murdered
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-EIGHT:
At 12:45am on Saturday 14th January 1956, Ruby a local sex-worker was dropped off at this spot by her husband and pimp called Ernest. In his own words, “it was the last time I saw her alive”, as when he returned to their flat at 32 Westbourne Terrace, Ruby had been hatchetted to death in their bed. As the police’s prime suspect, Ernest would lay the blame for her murder on a mysterious man he had neither seen, met and had only heard about from his dead wife in passing. Unable to provide a single shred of evidence that this suspect even existed, his only description was that he was ‘a bearded man’. But was this the truth, a lie, or a shaky alibi?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a rum & raisin raindrop in on the bottom right of Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4202810 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10874384
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on the junction of Hertford Street and Park Lane in Mayfair, W1; one street south of the last defence of bouncer Tudor Simionov, one street east of the monstrous murder blamed on horror maestro Lon Chaney, a few doors down from the bloody butler’s big blow-out, and a short walk north-east of the tragic war hero who would never return home - coming soon to Murder Mile. Engulfed by a flank of five-star hotels; if you’re a talentless fame-hungry personality vacuum with fake teeth, fake tan, fake tits and a fake life; with a trowelled-on smile, a solo brain-cell reserved for pouting and a single expression of “oh my gahd” uttered like a constipated frog – then this is the place for you. Oh yes, this concrete cess-pit is very much the second home of the greedy, needy, grumpy and frumpy. But since the early 1700’s when Park Lane was developed as play-boy’s playground, it has always been a place where prostitutes and punters meet, as (rightfully) a lady-of-the-night should want to a man with money and (hopefully) manners, rather than a drunk thug with fast fists and hardly a tuppence. At 12:45am on Saturday 14th January 1956, Ruby a local sex-worker was dropped off at this spot by her husband and pimp called Ernest. In his own words, “it was the last time I saw her alive”, as when he returned to their flat at 32 Westbourne Terrace, Ruby had been hatchetted to death in their bed. As the police’s prime suspect, Ernest would lay the blame for her murder on a mysterious man he had neither seen, met and had only heard about from his dead wife in passing. Unable to provide a single shred of evidence that this suspect even existed, his only description was that he was ‘a bearded man’. But was this the truth, a lie, or a shaky alibi? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 188: The Bearded Man – Part Two of Two. For the police, the most likely culprit in any murder is often the most obvious suspect. Stranger killings are incredibly rare, as the guilty party is usually the person with the most to gain or lose; like a relative, a lover, a friend, a flat-mate or a business partner – of which, Ernest was all five wrapped up in one. With mounting debts, a change in circumstance and a strange situation in which he helped sell his wife for sex - should a jury find him guilty - then the only rightful punishment would be his death. But how could they find him guilty ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’… …when ‘the bearded man’ may just have been a myth? There was a wealth of evidence against Ernest Bolton; this was his home, this was his wife and these were his debts. With his fingerprints found at the scene, his car spotted loitering nearby, a 45-minute gap in his timeline between when he last saw her and when his friends saw him, as well as the 1 hour 17 minutes delay between the time he discovered her body and when his solicitor called the police. During which time he failed to raise the alarm, to check her vital signs, or even to call for an ambulance. Asked to account for the inconsistencies in his alibi, his story had gaping holes and glaring omissions. He would blame his delay calling the police on shock and his prior conviction for ‘running a brothel’. With no sign of a break-in, he couldn’t explain why he had a key to the flat but not the main door. As her handbag was missing - suggesting a possible robbery – he couldn’t explain where it had gone, and yet, 11 days later after Police had examined the scene, he miraculously found it hidden under the grill. Asked if he knew she was dead, he replied “I am not sure. I think so. I could see something was wrong”. And although her head was caved in and her blood spattered up the wall, he did nothing to help her. Seen in situ, her autopsy was conducted that morning by Dr Keith Simpson at Paddington mortuary. Based on her body temperature, time of death occurred between 12am and 2am, with the 45-minute gap in Ernest’s timeline fitting it perfectly. With no signs of sexual violence or restraint, her assailant was unlikely to be a sadist, but someone with a grudge. Found prone and naked, Ruby was attacked with an axe wielded with such savagery that the blade embedded eight times behind the rear/right of her skull, leaving wounds 3 ½ and 5 inches long and 2 inches deep which lacerated her brain. And as she tried to fight back, the thumb of her left hand was almost severed, as she slowly bled to death. Her murder was frenzied, violent and spiteful. And yet, no weapon matching those wounds was found and with the flat’s fire being gas-powered, it was likely the axe was brought there by her attacker… …suggesting premeditation. Ruby had met several men that night including Ernest; one was a West Country client who was due to stay the whole night, but there was no evidence he had either arrived or left; one was a seller of erotic magazines which Ruby had £1 set-aside to buy, but none were seen among her stash; and of the £11 she’d earned that night (roughly £300 today), not one penny was found in the flat, or in her handbag. Ernest’s story was sketchy at best, but the biggest was his alibi of ‘the bearded man’. Unable to provide any more details; he didn’t know his name, age, address, occupation or even a vague description. But that didn’t mean that he was lying. Given the shocking sight he’d seen, Ernest’s actions were as irrational as any man who had found his wife murdered. When questioned, his grief was obvious being a broken man who had lost the woman he loved. Speaking to sex-workers who knew them both, his car was spotted in Piccadilly and Mayfair (as he had stated) during the time of the murder, and – given the violence of the attack – the culprit should have had blood on his hands, face and clothes. But having stayed over at The Murden’s home that night, he had neither washed his hands nor changed his clothes, and both were free of blood. Questioned by the police, with not enough evidence to charge, Ernest Bolton was released on bail. With their primary suspect looking less likely, needing to either prove or disprove his alibi about ‘the bearded man’, the police examined several the other fingerprints found at the murder scene… …and found a match. But was he a viable suspect… …or a convenient scapegoat? Born in the summer of 1928, Leonard Vincent Atter was a slightly undersized boy born in The Spinney, a quiet residential street in the town of Bedford, where he would live and work for most of his life. As the second youngest of five, with two brothers and two sisters, his upbringing was unremarkable. Educated to a level where a scholarship was mooted, as the family’s finances were too slim to get him into grammar school; he left at 14, he spent four years at a travel agency; five years as an infantryman in Black Watch and by the age of 24 had become a bookkeeper at a timber-merchants’ in Bedford. Blessed with a fanciful imagination, a love of writing and a religion zeal – being a life-long member of the Salvation Army - Leonard devoted his spare time to his faith; playing trumpet in the Salvation Army band, as well as bookkeeper and secretary for its infamous periodicals - War Cry and Our Little Soldier. Always being neatly dressed, well-spoken and clean shaven, even as a boy, he stood out as odd. As a teen who struggled to keep friends and to seize the affections of girls, it wasn’t only his weasily body, his moon-like face and his dark sunken eyes that made others uneasy, it was also his creepy demeaner. As being both a devout Catholic and a chronic masturbator, Leonard was a conflicted boy; with God in his heart, the devil in his soul, a swelling in his pants, and – ever the sadist - perversions on his mind. In March 1950, at a registry office in Bedford, Leonard married Lina Frieda Schafer; a German woman whose dominance excited him, as being a little older and a little taller, he was attracted to her power. Together the two had a daughter, but no longer finding him sexually appealing, they later separated. This was unsurprising as struggling with ‘little man syndrome’; Leonard openly bragged about the size of his penis, that he could satisfy any woman, that his capacious sexual appetite stretched to troilism, S&M and group sex (but never homosexuality), and – as a habitual user of sex-workers, hence why he was always broke - so gifted was his sexual prowess that even seasoned prostitutes paid him for sex. As a regular in every red-light district, he was regarded as a good client; who paid well, was no trouble, he had a few odd kinks (but who doesn’t) and could procure some mucky books at the drop of a hat. Across his odd little life, he was convicted of only one criminal offence, but it was not for violence. Out of a small office on Midland Road in Bedford, Leonard was running a small publishing house which sold his self-penned pornography featuring lurid sexual dalliances between bad girls and wicked men. Considered tame by today’s standards, his filthy mind earned him a £20-a-week – a decent wage. But unable to separate fact from fiction, filth from fantasy, in May 1954, he stepped over the line from a lover of erotic literature to a convicted sex-pest when he sent some of his books – signed “yours lustfully, Victor Love” – to seventeen girls who had been the subject of indecent assaults and rapes. Charged only with ‘publishing obscene books’ and ‘sending it through the post’, he was sentenced to two six-month sentences to be served consecutively and a £5 fine. When later questioned by a tabloid, he whined “it was just boy-meets girl stuff, you know. I never meant anything. I was just lonely”. Having served nine months in prison, he was released from Wormwood Scrubs on the 31st December 1955 and was asked to resign from the Salvation Army. To disguise his identity, Leonard – who had always been clean-shaven – grew a bushy beard, as he returned home to his rented lodging in London. Two weeks after his release, in a part of Paddington that he was known to frequent… …Ruby Bolton would be murdered. But how much of this was evidence, and how much is circumstantial? On the New Year’s Eve, as premature fireworks burst across the London skyline like the balls of a man who hadn’t had sex in months, 27-year-old Leonard Atter strode through the prison gates; with a new year, a fresh start and – shadowing his pale moon-like face - a dark bushy beard, all thick and coarse. Inside, he had undergone seven months of psychiatric assessment “to correct the minor aberration of my mind which previously got me into trouble”, although not once was she unashamed of his crime. As the cold winter air filled his lungs, Leonard sucked-in the much-lamented sights and smells of the city, as he slunk passed the prostitutes of Wormwood Scrubs, and the tube train shunted by the sex-workers of Shepherd’s Bush, Notting Hill, Bayswater and Paddington, until he got off at Regent’s Park. Convicted of the offence of obscenity, his life was left in tatters; Lina had left him taking their child, he had lost his job as a bookkeeper, he had barely a few shillings in his pocket, and his relationship with a 23-year-old window dresser called Thelma Rudkin had collapsed - he had no one and he had nothing. Only Leonard was not the only person who would be punished as a prisoner for his crimes. Before his conviction, Leonard & Thelma had signed a contract on a lodging at 6 St George’s Terrace in Primrose Hill, north of Regent’s Park. Since then, she had left him, but as (legally) a woman could not rent a flat of her own, she was stuck living in a one-roomed lodging with a registered sex offender. By day, she sat among the safety of the other tenants in the communal kitchen, warmed by a roaring stove kept stoked by the broken logs and chopped up kindling. But by night, she was forced to share a bed with a creepy little man; who had a suitcase full of porn, a raging libido, an insatiable need for sex, and – having spent nine months in a men’s prison – he lay with his ex in a cold loveless bed. Thankfully, Thelma knew that he was not a violent man… …just odd fantasist who hated being rejected by women. Eleven days after his release and three days before her death, Leonard prowled his usual haunts. Only being too broke to pay for sex, he sought out ladies in need of his mucky mags and lurid literature. At 11pm, without an ounce of shame, Leonard would confess to the police “I went to Mayfair with the purpose of meeting a prostitute I knew. She was talking to another prostitute on the corner of Hertford Street and Park Lane. I knew her as Ruby”. Having dropped her off, Ernest confirmed she was there, but as the street was unlit and he kept his distance, he could neither describe nor recall Leonard Atter. At first, she didn’t recognise him because of his beard, “I was talking to Ruby for about five minutes. I had been with her before May 1955, nine or ten times when I had intercourse with her for payment”. Having loaned £1 off Theresa, he propositioned Ruby, but with her rate averaging £5 and £15 for the night, she politely turned him down. “I told her where I had been” about prison and his offences “she sympathised and went so far as to say that I should have a cup of tea with her the following night”. She gave him a business card, she agreed to buy two books for £1 and he arrived home at midnight. By the next morning of Friday 13th January, things were looking up for Leonard the ex-con. Starting a new job as a bookkeeper, to tide him over till pay-day, Thelma had agreed to loan him a further £4. After work, in the little kitchen, as they sat supping tea, eating a light meal and being warmed by the roaring log fire, he unashamedly told Theresa about Ruby and the mucky books he planned to sell, stating “I haven't had a woman for nine months. I like her. She has invited me round to stay the night”. Dressed in a black suit, black shoes, black raincoat and carrying a small black briefcase full of porn, Leonard left home at 11pm, like a little dark shadow which dotted the dark-lit streets of the city… …a city which would soon drip red with Ruby’s blood. That day had particular tensions for Ruby & Ernest; the rent was due, the debts were rising, Ruby was working hard and Ernest had slept among the soils of a slew of men who banged his wife for money. The basics had become more difficult to buy; their last meal together came by a kind client’s coin, their last savings went on a new hair-do, they were stuck in a rut, and with the car low on fuel, unless their luck changed, he could no longer drive her to pick up her punters or to run a legitimate taxi-firm. That night, as far as we know, she earned £4 from the first client, possibly £3 from the second, £5 from the third, but – having gone missing from 11pm for 40 minutes – most likely she gained extra punters. Ernest next spotted her back on her patch at 11:40pm, they spoke briefly (but its content was unheard) and he circled from Piccadilly to Park Lane, until he saw her enter a cab with a ‘little guy’ at midnight. As per usual, by the junction of Gloucester Terrace and Craven Road, he waited in his freezing cold car outside the flat, within sight of the side-door and the window, with the light on and the curtains ajar. We know that her client was not Leonard, as at roughly 12:20am, he rang the flat’s phone, offered her £15 for the night, and in his own words “I phoned her, she was unable to speak openly but suggested I should make my way to her flat” – which he did. Which begs the question: if he had planned to pay her £15, how could he do so with only £4 in his pocket, plus the £1 she would pay him for the books? Picked-up by Ernest at 12:30am, Ruby would state “I’ve got somebody here all night… I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay at a hotel”. Supposedly, Ernest enquired “is it the bearded man?”, but as far as we know, she did not confirm who he was, and neither did she mention her client pre-arranged for 3am. Whether he existed is unknown. But as a man he had neither seen, heard, nor could described, as this mysterious unidentified punter was only ever mentioned by Ruby in-passing, he only knew him… …as ‘the man from West Country’. But was this the truth, a lie, or yet another shaky alibi? At 12:45am, on the corner of Hertford Street and Park Lane as she got into a taxi with a client, Ernest would state “it was the last time I saw her alive”. But we know for a fact that the client was Leonard. Having departed Hertford Street at 12:45am, a taxi-driver identified Ruby & Leonard (a bearded man with a black briefcase) as the couple he had dropped off at 32 Westbourne Terrace, a journey made memorable as he had only given a miserly three pence tip, although he would later claim it was nine. Just shy of 1am, about the time Ernest was driving around Piccadilly, they entered Flat 7. “I asked her again to allow me to stay with her for the rest of the night, but she was adamant that I must be clear of the flat by three o'clock when her other client was due to arrive. I eventually agreed… there was no doubt in my mind that she was offering intercourse, and the question of payment was not discussed”. The residents of Flat 4 immediately below and Flat 6 to the side would hear nothing all night. But when questioned, Leonard would state: “she was most friendly. She made cold meat sandwiches and tea, we perused some pornographic photographs, and she shared a large box of biscuits with me”. Although when the room was examined, there were no signs of any biscuits, tea or sandwiches. “It was then about 1.30am”, the time Ernest arrived at Mr & Mrs Murden’s, “she suggested we go to bed and disrobed. She put her coat and dress on the settee. I did not see her with a handbag. I also undressed with the exception of my socks. I joined her in bed where we had intercourse in a normal manner, after which we talked of prison life, her daughter, told jokes and so on for about half an hour. We both then washed our sexual parts in the kitchenette. We both dressed and I left her to await the arrival of the other man”, possibly from the West Country. “I think it was about a quarter past two, or a shade later, but not much. She let me out of the flat itself, but I let myself out of the outside door”. There were no witnesses to what happened but Ruby & Leonard, and although - “I was carrying a black briefcase containing photographs which I intended to leave with Ruby, but I don't know why I didn't” - his departure fits her time of death, just 45 minutes before the West Country man was due to arrive… …a mystery man who was never identified. As a fantasist - even if Leonard was an innocent man – his next few hours were curiously odd. At about 2:30am, a taxi picked him up in Paddington, it drove him east to Euston station where he took a second cab north-west to his home in Primrose Hill, arriving at 3am, having crossed several parks and a canal. At 7am, over breakfast, his ex-partner Theresa asked him if he had met the prostitute and sold her the books (as he had stated earlier), he said “I did not, I went to Lyon’s Cornerhouse in Marble Arch and caught the last tube home” – and yet, not a single staff member nor customer could recall seeing him. That morning, he took the clothes he was wearing to a laundry and had them professionally cleaned. At 7:45am, on Archer Street in Soho, a lodger from the same house saw Leonard with his recognisably bushy beard and waved. At 10am, at 44 Brewer Street, William Gasser a barber was paid 4 shillings to shave off the sides of his beard, leaving him with a goatee. And at 2:30pm, that same lodger again saw Leonard and would state “he had quite a lot of beard, it was bushy…but now it was quite short”. But was this the act of a guilty man covering his tracks, or an innocent man going about his day? Having investigated Ernest’s alibi of a mysterious ‘bearded man’, a fingerprint found in Ruby’s room had led to the criminal record of a man convicted of the crime of obscenity; who knew the victim, had visited her flat, and would later confess that he’d had sex with her. But was he really her killer? (End) On Sunday 15th January at 6pm, one day after her body was found, police questioned Leonard Vincent Atter - at which he confessed to seeing her, but denied killing her – and he was charged the next day. Described as a fantasist and a liar, he would boast that he’d had sex with Ruby without using a condom, but as no semen was found inside of her, the pathologist said it was unlikely that sex had taken place. In a cupboard at his lodging, Police found a black briefcase containing pornographic photos and a lurid story penned by him, which he confirmed were his and which he had taken to Ruby’s in order to sell. Given the brutality of her injuries, believed to have been inflicted by an axe, although his clothes were clean, tests found traces of human blood on his sleeves, legs and shoes, as well as on his handkerchief (with traces of lipstick) and on the inside of his briefcase, as this was how he may have carried the axe. With a short-handled axe used for chopping-up kindling missing from his kitchen, given his odd route home, having possibly dumped the murder weapon in the nearby Regent’s canal, it was never found. Tried at the Old Bailey, at the end of a five-week trial, on Wednesday 21st March 1956, Leonard Atter was found not guilty and later acquitted of Ruby’s murder. With the judge – Mr Justice Devlin – stating that the prosecution’s case was just “a collection of small circumstantial pieces of evidence”. With that, Leonard was discharged and released, the inquest was closed without announcing a verdict, and – as of today - the murder of 34-year-old Robina Bolton, known as Ruby, remains unsolved. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
32 Westbourne Terrace in Paddington, where Robina Bolton was murdered
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SEVEN:
12:45am on Saturday 14th January 1956, at the junction of Hertford Street and park Lane in Mayfair, 34-year-old sex-worker Robina Bolton known as Ruby was last seen alive. The next morning she was found murdered in Flat 7 at 32 Westbourne Terrace, a flat she shared with her husband Ernest. Ernest would claim he last saw Ruby alive as she entered a taxi with an unidentified man. Seven hours later, he would stumble across the body of his wife having been brutally murdered in her bed. As her pimp who was flat broke, the only other person with a key to the flat and a laughable alibi that she was due to meet a man no-one had seen who he knew only as ‘the bearded man’, as the Police’s chief suspect, Ernest was questioned on suspicion of her murder. But was this the truth, or a lie?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a mustard raindrop in Paddington (above the park). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4202810 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10874384
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Westbourne Terrace in Paddington, W2; one street north of the stabbing of PC Jack Avery, three streets west of Alice William’s death, two streets east of the attack on Airman Stanley Thurman, and one street south of the curse of the castrated flasher - coming soon to Murder Mile. Since construction began on the station in in 1852, prostitution has always been part of Paddington’s seedier side. There’s not a single flat which hasn’t been used by sex-workers to service their clients. Only now, many brothels are rented out via Air B&B’s with the transactions taking place via an app’. So, as easily as you may order a McMuffin at a Mucky Doo’s; someone has ticked a blowie from a drop-down box, swiped right for a hand-shandy, clicked ‘yes’ for dogging, added a smiley for S&M where the safe word is ‘Gerald’, and God help anyone who mistakes the pint emoji for the poo. So I’m told. Back in the 1950s, Flat 7 at 32 Westbourne Terrace was a simple small fourth-floor lodging comprising of a single room with a bed, a sink, a sofa and a small kitchenette. Rented out to Ruby, a 35-year-old prostitute and Ernest her husband, this is where she’d have sex with several men each night for cash. Having driven her to and from the flat to a known pick-up point, at 12:45am on Saturday 14th January 1956, Ernest would claim he last saw Ruby alive as she entered a taxi with an unidentified man. Seven hours later, he would stumble across the body of his wife having been brutally murdered in her bed. As her pimp who was flat broke, the only other person with a key to the flat and a laughable alibi that she was due to meet a man no-one had seen who he knew only as ‘the bearded man’, as the Police’s chief suspect, Ernest was questioned on suspicion of her murder. But was this the truth, or a lie? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 187: The Bearded Man – Part One of Two. The most startling detail of this case is the relationship between this husband and wife, this pimp and prostitute - Ruby & Ernest Bolton. It beggars’ belief why a couple, who had married out of love, would make such a seedy deal in which she sells her body to a slew of horny strangers to be pawed over and pumped until they came, as her spouse counts the cash and waits to drive her to her next customer… …but as odd as it may seem, it’s a lot more common than you would think. Ruby was born Robina Pattinson in the summer of 1920 in the city of Carlisle, just shy of the Scottish English border. We know little of her early life, as even to those who knew her, she spoke little about her past. Whether by abuse or abandonment, Ruby always seemed to be running from something. As a gorgeous girl with a cheeky face, short dark hair and bright red lips, whatever or whoever she was fleeing from was hidden by a personality which beamed warmth and love. Being well-liked, Ruby made her way in life by being sweet, polite and nice. And as a woman who would make a living off her looks – even when she was broke – she never went out without her hair coiffured and her nails painted. Receiving a basic education and living in a city thick with the dark sooty plumes of industry where (as a woman) her options were limited, by 25th June 1938, 18-year-old Ruby had moved 92 miles south to the seaside town of Blackpool, where she married a 41-year-old butcher called Richard Moore. Living in a little flat above his butcher’s shop on Rossett Avenue, they lived a simple life, but it lacked love. In early 1940, Ruby gave birth to a baby girl believed to have been called Jean, but even the prospect of a long life with loving family of her own couldn’t hold this little threesome together. As the German bombers of the second world war pummelled the surrounding cities of the north, Ruby became a prostitute. Why? We don’t know. But it’s easy to slip into the Victorian myth that all sex-workers were fallen women; whether drunks, druggies, the deranged and the destitute, of which some were, but others were not - like Ruby who was strong, independent and in control of her own life. The 1940s saw a huge upsurge in everyday women supplementing their meagre income (often half of what a man earned for the same job) through sex-work. For some women; the simple exchange of a meal, a few drinks and a hotel room for the night in return for sex wasn’t prostitution, but a bit of fun and while their husband was serving overseas. For many mothers, sex was noble sacrifice for some extra cash or ration stamps to feed their family when life was hard. And for some women, like Ruby, given a choice of a pittance washing crockery or a decent wage wanking off maybe ten men-a-night, at three minutes a time and earning more per hour than they could in a day? It wasn’t a hard decision. Prostitution gave them money, power, freedom and control in a world where they had none. Ruby was her own woman, who worked the hours she wanted; when, if and how she decided. And although it gave her a better standard of living - as it often did - it caused havoc with her home and family life. Whether her husband knew, colluded or was oblivious to her activities is unknown, but in 1946, after 8-years of marriage, Richard & Ruby separated when she was convicted of brothel keeping and child abandonment. On paper, it sounds abhorrent, but given that her crimes were recorded by religious zealots; ‘child abandonment’ was a common offence attributed to many working mothers, and any property could be classified as a brothel if two prostitutes and a maid were together in the same room, even if they weren’t soliciting for sex at the time of their arrest, but were simply having a cup of tea. Deemed by the courts as a bad mother, Ruby lost custody of her daughter and – again, as was her way – she ran away from her troubles and moved 240 miles south to London, where she met Ernest… …her husband, her pimp and the man who would be questioned on suspicion of her murder. To those who knew them, the relationship between Mr & Mrs Bolton seemed like any other. Raised and living in Lewisham, South London, 35-year-old Ernest Joseph Bolton earned a living as a driver, and having met Ruby just one year before, they had married at a registry office in May 1947. Being of similar age and out-look, they seemed well-suited, but their nuptials got off to a rocky start when their marriage was declared null-and-void, as Ruby was still married to Richard. Divorced, she re-married Ernest on the 21st June 1949, and they lived in the heart of Paddington’s red-light district. On paper, his job was as a driver who owned his own firm called Ruby Car Hire, but making his money as her pimp, it’s likely that this was how he hid their immoral earnings under the guise of a taxi firm. Between 1951 & 1956, Robina Bolton known as Ruby was convicted 22 times of soliciting, with Ernest fined £40 and 10 guineas in 1952 for managing a brothel. With each conviction, they moved to a one-roomed lodging, which was sparsely furnished with a sofa, a chair, a kitchenette, a bath and a bed. Unlike her ex, there was no denying that Ernest was a key part of Ruby’s life in the sex trade, as – for at least the last six or eight years – when she was having sex, he was never more than a street away. Little is known about Ernest or his ways; whether he was violent, coercive, passive or protective. As with prostitutes, there are many types of pimps; some are nothing more than aggressive bullies who drug, beat and abuse their girls into shadows of their former selves; some use the old ploy of love to coerce a fleet of lonely ladies into believing that it’s only him who loves them; to some it’s just a business, which they’ve set-up together, with the wife doing the sex and the husband as protection; and whereas some are passive underlings who do their wife’s bidding as a bodyguard and as a maid. How it was split between Ruby and Ernest may never be known, but as an independent woman – with a shared bank account, both their names on the flat’s contract and with her deciding how many hours she worked and which clients she saw – it’s possible that she set the rules and he did the driving. Myths aside, it’s easy to forget how strong some sex-workers are; many set their own routines, rates and rules; they exist among a network of women who defend each other better than any army; they have ethics and morals which would put almost every chief executive to shame, and – as professionals – they know how to satisfy a client and to ensure repeat business, as quickly and efficiently as possible. They handle drunks better than any bouncer; they haggle faster than any Wall Street trader and they know the law often better than those who police it. Many are in control of their lives… but sometimes – as we all do – their either want or need some protection. And who better than their own husband? It’s not always the case, but this is how it may have been for Ruby and Ernest. It was an odd set-up to the average eye, but it was not uncommon, and without each other… …it’s unlikely they may have lasted for as long as they had. Mr & Mrs Ruby & Ernest Bolton lived in a small rented flat on Porchester Place, a side street between Sussex Gardens and Edgware Road in Paddington. As a little piece of home where they ate and slept, no sex work ever occurred under this roof, as they kept both sides of their lives separate and distinct. As two-sides of the same coin for many years, they had their routine fine-tuned and running smoothly. Waking at 10am, their mornings to mid-afternoon was theirs to do with as they pleased. At 7pm, they ate dinner together in the home they shared. At 8pm, having dressed, they went to the flat; to change the sheets, freshen the air, empty the ash-trays, stock up on tea and milk (as everyone needs a brew); they popped the fire on to make it cosy, the lights on to keep it safe, and – when needed – she replenished the stash of erotic magazines she kept in the flat in case any client had ‘issues downstairs’. It was also a neat trick, as by letting him flick through some saucy photos, half of her job is done before she’s even got undressed. Aiming for a 15-minute turnaround per client, it’s all about efficiency. By 8:30pm, Ernest would drive Ruby to the corner of Hertford Street and Park Lane in Mayfair, a well-known pick-up spot for West End prostitutes in the shadow of some of London’s poshest hotels. As her pimp, he would either wait nearby, or would circle about watching out for any passing policemen. In her purse, she carried just enough for a cab home, condoms of several sizes and business cards with her phone number on - ‘Ambassador 2385’ - as well as the name ‘R Bolton, Plumber’, just in case any punter’s wife got suspicious. Having done his circuit, if she was already gone or he had seen her pick-up a punter, he would discretely follow the taxi back to the Paddington flat and wait till she was done. The routine was always the same; first he would park his car in Gloucester Terrace and wait for her to exit the flats by side door; second (when sex was taking place) she would leave the curtains ajar and the lights on so he knew when she was done; and third, if she was running late, he’d call the phone in the flat from a phone box on Calworth Street or Spring Street to check that everything was okay. Having driven her several times back and forth from Westbourne Terrace to Park Lane, and made £20 to £30 a night (roughly £500 to £800 today), they would usually finish-up by 2am, but – as did happen on occasions - some regular clients would pay to spend the night with Ruby, which was easy money. It may seem odd, but that’s how it had been for Ruby & Ernest for many years… …until things had started to go wrong. Friday 13th January 1956 was typical of the days leading up to her death. As with many couples when money was tight, tempers frayed over the smallest of things. That afternoon, Ruby & Ernest went to the Paddington branch of Midland Bank with a sense of dread. Their joint account had a balance of just 12 shillings and 3 pence, four cheques to the tune of £420 in today money were set to bounce and a loan of £12700 was increasing daily – in short, their debts would be repaid one way or another. Even the basics had become a struggle; the car tyres were bald, the tax was out, their cupboards were bare and having fled their flat in Porchester Place with the rent unpaid, two days after Christmas, they had moved into Flat 7 at 32 Westbourne Terrace; a small fourth-floor lodging barely 15 feet wide and deep; with a sink, a sofa, a bath and a bed, where every night Ruby would have sex with men for cash. No longer was their home-life and sex-work separate, as now it all took place under the same roof; his roof, as by the time he’d return home his still-warm bed, his now-soiled sheets and his forever-faithful wife were sullied by another man’s smell, having violated his bride, as he had waited patiently outside. After the bank, although broke, Ernest drove Ruby to a hairdresser on Edgware Road. This may seem like a luxury, but as a woman whose lifestyle depended on her looks, it was as vital as buying petrol. Having waited nearby, at 4:30pm, Ernest drove them back to the flat, where – as per usual – they changed the bed sheets, freshened the air, emptied the ash-tray, stocked up on tea and milk, and with the erotic magazines a little light, Ruby set aside £1, as she had a contact with a fresh stash or porn. With a few hours to spare, they popped on a small fire to make it cosy, a little light as the winter night drew in, and – according to Ernest – they ate a final meal of wild duck, roast potatoes and green beans (a posh meal for a broke couple which was gifted by an amorous client) as later verified by her autopsy. For almost four hours, Ruby & Ernest were alone in their little flat and not a single sound was heard by the neighbours through the wafer-thin walls. And having dressed, just shy of 8:30pm, they left. Her final night alive was just like any other. At 8:30pm, Ernest dropped Ruby off on the corner of Hertford Street and Park Lane in Mayfair as per usual; and as seen by the sex-workers who knew her well as a regular girl on this patch of the city. To keep himself busy, Ernest would either patrol the streets looking for police, visit a pals’, or do a circuit from Park Lane to Piccadilly - maybe as much as a distraction from the acts his wife was engaged in. By 8:40pm, as she had gone, he drove back to the flat and waited in his freezing car on the corner of Gloucester Terrace and Craven Road; within sight of the side-door, the open curtains and a single bulb shining bright, as inside, on his bed, a man he had never seen nor met rammed his cock inside his wife. With it being improper to disturb Ruby when she was ‘doing the business’, he never entered the room when she was working. And couldn’t, as he only had a key to the flat and not to the communal door. At 9:10pm, a little later than expected as her first customer of the night (a man unseen by Ernest) had issues getting Percy to perk, Ruby returned to the car, having made £4 (roughly £100 today). She was her usual self, she made no complaints, and the two drove back to Park Lane to pick up another punter. At 9:30pm, Ruby picked-up her second customer, the seedy little routine began again and although it’s unclear how much she earned, it varied from £3-£5 depending what things he wanted to do to her. At 10:15pm, she picked-up her third (a man only partially seen by Ernest), but having returned to the flat at 11pm, he saw that the lights were off and the curtains were drawn. With it not uncommon for Ruby to pick-up a man between clients (or as many prostitutes did, to pay taxi-drivers a little extra to turn a blind-eye so they could noshed-off a randy man in the dark of the back seat, saving time and money), Ernest waited 30 minutes, rang the bell but got no reply and returned to Park Lane by 11:40pm where he saw her. She was paid £5 (£125 today), although she never said where she’d been. At midnight, Ernest saw Ruby get into a taxi with a man he described only as ‘a little guy’ who was a bit quick and had paid her £2, making her night’s earnings as much as the average weekly wage. With their finances dire and the debtors circling, Ruby had two hours at best to claw in as much money as possible, and although this pick-up spot in the poshest part of Mayfair was surrounded by five-star hotels and exclusive casinos, she rarely bagged herself a rich man with oodles of cash to flash. But as a pretty and a pleasant girl, she could reply on her regulars… …some of whom who liked her, and loved her. According to Ernest, based on a brief chat he’d had with Ruby that night, at 12:20am, a client she had given her business card to had called ‘Ambassador 2385’ (knowing full well that R Bolton was not a plumber) and asked to stay with her until the morning, at a price more than she had earned that night. This would have been music to her ears, but having pre-agreed to spend the night with a regular from the West Country, she’d had to turn him down. Ernest didn’t hear the call, as he was waiting outside. At 12:30am, during their last-ever ten-minute drive from Westbourne Terrace to Park Lane, Ruby told Ernest “I’ve got somebody here all night… I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay at a hotel”. Having agreed he would return to the flat at 6am - but only if the lights were on and the curtains were open - Ernest would later tell the police: “I asked her, ‘is it the bearded man’?”, a mysterious client she had spoken about just a few hours before, who he had never seen, met, nor never knew his name… …and she had said that it was. At 12:45am, on the corner of Hertford Street and Park Lane, Ernest dropped off his wife of eight years marriage, to pick-up a client for the purposes of sex. In his words “it was the last time I saw her alive”. Where Ernest went over the next 45 minutes is uncertain, as being a lone man in his own car who was used to keeping an eye-out for the police, it’s likely he trawled the unlit streets between Park Lane and Piccadilly. And had he passed his flat on Westbourne Terrace, he’d have seen the curtains ajar and a light on, until his wife and her client had finished their sex and nodded off to sleep, in his bed. Being too late to book in, and – given their finances – unable to afford a hotel room, he stayed at the home of his friends, Mr & Mrs Murden, a solicitor and his wife who lived on nearby Rainsford Street. They would later state; he was chatty, neat and (being tired) he slept on the sofa till just before dawn. The next morning at 5:45am, Ernest left Mr & Mrs Murden’s home and parked-up his car on Craven Street within sight of his flat’s window, as per usual. At 6am, as promised, with the curtains still closed and the light still off - as it was likely she had slept in - he rang the bell to his flat but he got no reply. As was their routine, at 6:15am, from the phone-box on Calworth Street, he phoned his flat, but she didn’t pick up. Taking a short walk to give her time to politely get her client to go, from a phone-box on Spring Street (all within 30-seconds of his flat) he phoned her once more, but again, he got no reply. Unconcerned for her welfare, he returned to Craven Terrace and in a local café, he had breakfast. An hour later, as witnessed by the tenant of Flat 6 who had heard the phone ringing through the wafer-thin walls for several minutes; hanging up, Ernest waited outside of the side-door of 32 Westbourne Terrace until a passing resident whose door-bell he had rung had opened the communal door. None of the tenants had heard any strange sounds that night, nothing had raised their suspicions, and as Ernest (the lodger of Flat 7) rose the stairs to the fourth floor, there were no signs of disturbance. With his own key, he opened his own door and he entered his own flat, which he shared with his wife. But instead of the room being light and warm with her there to greet him, it was cold, dark and silent. The room was as he had left it 13 hours earlier; no mess, no chaos and nothing out of place. Switching on the single bulb which hung from the ceiling, in the double-divan bed beside the window he saw the unmistakable figure of his wife. He called her name “Ruby?”, only she didn’t respond. He called again “Ruby?”, only she didn’t move. And being alone and motionless, with her facing the wall and the bed-sheets pulled down, he assumed she was asleep, until he saw something which made his soul shiver. Beyond the thick dark clumps of her matted brown hair, up the once-white wall by the head of their bed, lay the red spatter of dried blood, having had her skull caved in with a blunt heavy weapon. (End) As her pimp, husband and the last man to see her alive, what he did next would make him the police’s prime suspect. Having failed to check if she was even dead – as a man with a conviction for living off his wife’s immoral earnings – he went straight to the home of Mr Murden, his friend and his solicitor. After an hour of legal advice, at 9:22am, it was Mr Murden who called the police and not Ernest Bolton. The investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Joseph Kennedy, a veteran of West End homicides from Scotland Yard. To his eyes, the crime-scene was as clear-cut as any he had examined. With no forced entry, the victim had either known or trusted her attacker; being naked and in bed, he had assaulted her (possibly) as she slept; with no signs of rape or sexual assault, it was less likely to be a client; with the weapon missing, the murder was almost certainly premeditated; and having been beaten over the back of her head eight times with a blunt object, her killer had hatred for this woman. As for suspects in the murder of Robina Bolton, a sex-worker known as Ruby, the police had only one. A man whose fingerprints were found at the scene. A man whose car was seen loitering nearby in the hours prior. A man who was married to the victim, had prostituted her for money, and whose bank account was grossly in debt. And with her time of death established as between midnight and 2am, although he pleaded his innocence, Ernest had a 45-minute gap in his timeline, at exact that point. Having suggested that her killer was any number of her clients she had slept with that night, as is the clandestine nature of sex-work, none of them could be traced. With a shaky alibi, it was then that Ernest laid the blame on someone he had neither seen, heard nor could he name, as this mysterious unidentified client was only ever mentioned by his dead wife in-passing, and who he knew only… …as ‘the bearded man’. Part two concludes next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Denman Street in Piccadilly, where Coventry Chambers once stood
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SIX:
On Tuesday 15th April 1913, at the bachelor flat of 26-year-old aviator Jack hall - having promised to marry both of of his lovers - Jack would be found dead in his bed having been shot in the chest, just hours before his marriage. But which of his lovers would kill him, and why? Was it out of anger, love, jealousy, or as part of a premeditated revenge?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a teal raindrop in Piccadilly (dead centre). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. CRIM 1/139/6 - Julian Hall, Jeanie Baxter, Denman Street W1 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4200055
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Denman Street in Soho, W1; thirty yards south of the unfortunate Mr Johnson, fifty yards west of the suicide of Mabel Hill & Herbert Turner, twenty yards north of the last hangout of the Blackout Ripper, and ten yards east of the fingers which didn’t lie - coming soon to Murder Mile. Denman Street is a grubby slit in the city made famous as this is what’s behind the Piccadilly lights. As a one-way street stretching 121 metres from Sherwood Street to Shaftesbury Avenue, even though it’s smack-bang in the beating heart of the West End, nobody goes here, as it’s grim, grimy and dead. It’s the kind of dark vapid hell-hole; where the sun can’t be arsed to shine, where life can’t be bothered to exist, where litter whistles down only to go “bugger” and hope it’s blown elsewhere, and where steamy dog turds cling to the bum-lips and dangle for a few seconds longer for fear of being dumped. Under construction, the south side is being ripped out and turned into (you’ve guessed it) luxury flats. But back in the 1910s – among a sea of bars, clubs and small casinos - at 21 Denman Street once stood Coventry Chambers; a three-storey mansion block comprising of fifteen self-service flats for wealthy bachelors and their live-in staff, situated at the back of Café Monaco and above the Coventry Club. In Flat 8 lived Julian Hall, a 26-year-old aviator, sportsman and a chronic alcoholic. Being depressed and drinking himself to death, the life of this wealthy bachelor was in chaos as two women vied for his love. One was music hall artiste Ada Knight, and the other was a lady of leisure called Jeanie Baxter. On Tuesday 15th April 1913 - having promised to marry both of these women - Julian would be found dead in his bed having been shot in the chest, just hours before his marriage. But which of his lovers would kill him, and why? Was it out of anger, love, jealousy, or as part of a pre-meditated revenge? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 186: Dead Rich. For those who thrive on chaos, Russian roulette is the ultimate game of chance. With the six-chambers of a revolver loaded with a single bullet and the barrel randomly spun (barrel spun), each click of the trigger (click) takes you one step closer to fame (click), glory (click), money (click) and excitement (click). But one chance in every six will always lead to death (bang). To many it may seem stupid, but unable to cope with the boredom of an unexciting life, for some a death-wish is the only way to live. Julian Bernard Hall, known to his pals as Jack was born in 1887 in Oswestry in the county of Shropshire. As a young boy born to a wealthy merchant and a ‘woman of means’, Jack had come from money. He didn’t know poverty; he didn’t know hunger and he didn’t know the struggle of never knowing where his next penny would come from, as the family fortune would always ensure he was never without. Raised on an opulent country estate, even the simplest of daily tasks were organised by a fleet of five servants, and - as a break from the monotony of filling their endless spare-time with grouse hunting, horse-riding and long lunches - Jack and his older brother known as Bernard lived among the smog and bustle of the Kensington elite, at their parent’s second home – a townhouse at 33 Elvaston Place. His life was his to live, as he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. His world was truly blessed. But if you are always given everything you have ever wanted, where do you find your excitement? In 1896, aged 9, Jack was booted-off to boarding school, where for 10 months of the year until the age of 15 he would live among 900 other boys whose parents had paid handsomely to have their love-starved children educated by strangers, only to be shipped-off to camps during the summer holidays; never to be loved, never to be hugged, never to be praised and riddled with trauma and abandonment. As was the-done-thing-to-do, his entire future had already been mapped-out by his parents. Boarding school was at Eastman’s Royal Naval Academy in Portsmouth, a prep’ school in Southsea that prepared boys for careers in the Royal Navy. With an impressive list of alumni including captains, admirals and field marshals –a curriculum of sports like boating, gym and tennis; lessons in Latin, Greek and English; and instructions in knots, shooting and navigation – gave him no excuse but to exceed. Upon his graduation, both Jack and his brother Bernard quickly became officers in the British Navy. And although keen marksmen with a love of guns, Jack sought out the precarious danger of innovation. In 1903, Wilburn & Orville Wright performed the world’s first powered flight. Mankind had broken the barrier of our bodies and the limitations of nature. By December 1911 – as the precursor of the Royal Air Force – the Royal Naval Flying School was formed and later absorbed into the Royal Flying Corps. With the principles of aviation engineering still in its infancy - to fly a squadron of manned kites, hydrogen-filled airships and early biplanes like the BE2 and the Avro 500 - they needed fearless men who scoffed at danger, spat out fear and dismissed their deaths knowing each day may be their last. As a thrill-seeker with an innate disregard for his own life, Jack was a born aviator. But when he wasn’t flying, to pacify the dullness of an ordinary life, Jack would seek-out his thrills elsewhere… …with drink and girls. Jack was the epitome of a playboy; tall, rich and handsome. Sporting the latest fashions, an aviator’s moustache and a swashbuckler’s swagger, wherever Jack went he was always seen with a six-shot revolver on his hip, a big slug of whiskey in his fist and a beautiful girl linked into the crook of his arm. By day, he slept off his hangover, as by night, the lived for the thrill of bedding babes, belting back booze and – as a man with a fortune of £18500 (making him a millionaire more than two times over today) – he would blow more money per night at the casino than most people earned in a year. To maximise his downtime, Jack moved into a bachelor pad at 21 Denman Street, barely fifty feet behind the infamous Piccadilly lights, but also in the shadow of some of the best West End bars. Living on the second floor, Flat 8 was a classic man-cave with all the mod-cons, but none of the homely touches of a man with marriage on his mind. With a booze cabinet and a collection of guns, to facilitate his often-delicate state, he had two live-in staff; Lewis Royale his valet and Nellie Champion his cook. There was no denying that Jack was a consummate playboy who lived for life’s thrills without any of the worry. But having had very little affection as a child, he always sought the love of a good woman… …only he didn’t know any good women. In January 1910, possibly at the Coventry Club, Jack met and fell in love with a music hall artiste called Ada Knight. And where-as some described her as a singer, others suggested she was as a prostitute. Not a low rent street-walker who picked up strangers for six minutes of ‘the old in-out’, but a high-end flirt with no plan to work a day in her life, and every aim to get a rich man to fall for her charms, to move into his home and to get him to marry her and keep her in the lifestyle she was accustomed. It's hard to pin down exactly who she was, as Ada Knight also went under the alias of Margaret Roberts, Lallie Roberts and (using Jack’s surname as if she was already married to him) as Lallie Hall. After more than two years of romance, being smitten, Jack bought her a diamond engagement ring, he promised her every day that he would marry her, and to cement his undying love for Ada, on the 14th August 1912, Jack had his will redrafted and left the bulk of his estate to her. Sent to his solicitor, it was dated, signed, witnessed and stamped, meaning that if this aviator ever died, she would be rich. With their love etched in stone and her prosperity assured, Ada went away on a well-earned holiday… …only without her distraction, Jack’s biggest enemy was boredom. When Jack flew his biplane, he was alive. But when he was grounded, he was as good as dead. Gripped with bouts of depression, his valet (Lewis Royale) would state that Jack was often emotional and prone to anger, he always sated his anxiety by downing one and a half bottles of brandy a day and with a set of loaded revolvers stashed beside his bed in his travelling trunk, suicide was never far from his mind. In July 1912, just weeks before their engagement, Jack had broken his right hand and was unable to fly. With Ada away for four whole weeks, he did as he always did, and sought out some affection. His latest love would go by the name of Jeanie Baxter. She was a woman who would bring him life… …but, also his death. Like Ada, Jeanie Baxter had a dream of being the kept woman of a wealthy husband. Never one to lift her hand if she could help it, it’s likely that Jeanie came from nothing, and never wanted to go back. Born in 1889, somewhere in Ireland, 24-year-old Jane O’Kane often went by several names to disguise her past; ‘Jeanie’ was a nickname, O’Kane was reserved for legal documents, and – having been briefly married to a man of money – she went by the surname of Baxter and the respectable title of Mrs. This respectability was vital to gloss over the fact that Jeanie was a prostitute. According to Theresa Jeanie’s maid, “Mrs Baxter was visited by different men at her flat every day and they spent the night”. Separated, as a single-mother to her 7-year-old daughter also called Jane, Jeanie was keen to continue their life of luxury and comfort by finding another man of means to marry. Bouncing from man-to-man and bed-to-bed, with her ring-finger itching to be blessed with a diamond and a band of gold, it wasn’t the dashy aviator Jack Hall who had won her heart, but the mysteriously titled Mr Unwin. A slew of men aside, Jeanie was the kept woman of Mr Unwin. Knowing little of who he was, we know he was independently wealthy, and that for the last two years he had paid her a generous allowance of £5 per week, as well as covering her rent on an upmarket flat at 24 Carlton Mansions in Maida Vale. Besotted, Mr Unwin had professed his undying love to Jeanie - and although to him she was his wife to be, and to her he was a meal-ticket – their marriage was on hold as (for as long as she still had any breath in her body) his mother would not allow this wealthy merchant and easy sex-worker to wed. His mother was old and frail, but for Jeanie, her sad demise couldn’t come quick enough. Therefore, it was entirely by random chance - with Ada on holiday and Mr Unwin at his mother’s – that (possibly in the drunken half-light of the Coventry Club on Denman Street) that Jeanie met Jack. Only, being a man who thrived on chaos and danger… …nothing in his love life was ever simple. In September 1912, Ada Knight returned from her holiday, only to find Jeanie in her fiancé’s arms, flat and bed. Jack didn’t see what all the fuss was about; he was a bachelor, Jeanie was single, and yes, he was engaged to Ada, but it wasn’t like they were married. As Jeanie moved in, Ada moved out, and although both women lived their own lives in their own homes, when Ada confronted Jeanie to chastise her for stealing the man she planned to marry, Jeanie admitted “to be honest my dear, I’m not that interested in Jack” (a wealthy man who was available) “I’ve got Unwin” (a man who was not). Whether it was down to his arrogant wealth or his confused alcoholic state, this seedy little love triangle continued for several months with Jack stringing both women along. As a depressed drunk, Jack wanted the best of both worlds, with both women on his arm and in his bed, at his beck-and-call. On 4th December 1912, handwritten in his drunken scrawl on a crumpled piece of typing paper, Jack rewrote his will, stating “this is the last will and testament of Julian B Hall. I revoke all other wills I may have made. I bequeath all that I possess in my estate to Jean Baxter (O’Kane) and to Ada Knight to be equally divided”. The will was signed and dated by Jack, and was witnessed by two signatories. According to this will, in the event of his death, both Ada & Jeanie would become exceedingly wealthy. With neither woman having married him, they would live the rest of their lives in luxury, never needing to work, to earn, or to find another man, as – all the while - his body grew cold in a lonely grave. That’s how it should have been, and although Jack was still stringing Ada and Jeanie along… …what he couldn’t accept that Jeanie didn’t want him… …she wanted Mr Unwin. On Tuesday 8th April 1913, one week before his death, things would come to a head. In the four months since the writing of his last will, Jack had continued seeing both women and keeping both apart. At 1:30pm, Ada Knight was let into 21 Denman Street by the hall porter who knew her name and face, but didn’t know that Jack was two-timing her and that Jeanie Baxter had spent the night in his bed. Like the lethal mix of volatile chemistry inside a revolver’s barrel of gun-powder, wadding and a spark, the three lovers were an explosive combination and who would get hurt would be a matter of chance. As he lay there, nursing a roaring hangover, his two lovers fought over him: Ada: “what are you doing here?”, Jeanie: “I could say the same about you, he said he’d finished with you?”, Ada “he said the same about you, you’re finished”, Jeanie: “Ha, I was sorry in the first place that I came between you and Jack, but now I have every right to him”, Ada: “But I was with him first?”, Jeanie: “Oh really?” With the only winner being Jack, unwilling to be a boobie-prize, the women gave him an ultimatum. Both Ada & Jeanie demanded that he choose - “which one of us is it to be? You can’t have both”. Like the spin of a barrel of a half-spent gun, Jack had a fifty-fifty chance of getting his answer right and getting his answer wrong. (Spins barrel) And having chosen Jeanie, his new squeeze of a few months as the woman he loved over Ada, his fiancé for the last three years, Ada smacked Jack in the mouth, cutting his lip with his engagement ring and she swore that she never wanted to see him ever again. The second the door slammed shut, it was clear that Jeanie had won. But had she? Across the afternoon to the early evening, Jack & Jeanie argued bitterly; Jack had given up Ada for Jeanie, only Jeanie didn’t want Jack, as she had Mr Unwin – a man who made her a ‘kept woman’, who had bought her a country house, and whose mother’s decline meant that the two would soon be wed. Jack was rich, but he wasn’t that rich. With Jeanie unwilling to give up her other millionaire, Jack struck this two-timing harlot across the chin with a loaded revolver and - rightly – Jeanie left (door slam). Left alone, and drinking himself into an angry alcoholic stupor, the man who lived for danger and chaos was left with nothing but his own black thoughts. Before she left, it was said, he had put the muzzle of the gun to his temple and professed “I am sick of everything. I am not afraid of death”. (Click). Death had never been more than a hair’s breadth away from Jack… …and now, it was closer than he would ever know. Through the hazy gauze of drink and solitude, his bitterness festered until he could stand it no more. Later that same evening, Jack took a taxi from Denman Street to 24 Carlton Mansions in Maida Vale. And in the parlour of Jeanie’s flat which was owned by Mr Unwin, Jack met his rival for the first time. Jack was drunk, very drunk, as from his pockets he pulled two revolvers. Whistling down the barrel, he assured the startled couple “I’m not here to kill myself”, as in the spirit of a fearless aviator with a daily death-wish, his plan was much more reckless: “you love this girl, so do I. I am going to have her”. As Jeanie had done to him, Jack would make her choose: “two men, two guns, we light a cigarette, we turn out the lights, and by the red glow of its tip, we shoot until the other man is dead, what do you say?”. Jack was serious, Mr Unwin was terrified, and having said “no”, Jack fired wildly hitting a photograph, a champagne bottle and - splintering the sitting room door having fired over his shoulder - Jack popped the gun’s muzzle in his mouth and - according to Jeanie – he asked her to pull the trigger. Jeanie was a woman who loved to live, so she didn’t. And as his booze sozzled brain began to feel like sack of lead, Jack apologised and curled up on their hearthrug, where he slept until the morning. Jeanie would never have to choose between her two lovers… …as in fear for his life, Mr Unwin wanted anything more to do with Jack… …and therefore, with Jeanie. This kept woman with a lifestyle to live and a daughter to fund had lost everything; her allowance, her flat, her country home and a marriage to a man who today would be worth more than £6 million. With Mr Unwin gone, and Ada forgotten, all Jack & Jeanie had was each other. But did they? On Sunday 13th April 1913, two days before his death, Jeanie informed her maid (Theresa Pantanello) of the good news: “Jack has promised to marry me by special licence next Tuesday”. In her own words, “having made a mess of everything with Mr Unwin”, Jack would make-a-mends by marrying Jeanie, and making this woman from modest means a millionaire’s wife. On her mind should have been love… …only with a glint of glee at already being in his will (albeit equally split with Ada), Jeanie was heard to declare “if he was to have an accident – a fatal accident – I would get a very large sum of money”. In short, the second Jack died, Jeanie would become dead rich. Tuesday 15th April 1913 was to be the day of the marriage of Jeanie Baxter & Jack Hall, but it was also the day of his death. Having been bed bound for days, with his stomach empty except for his regular bottle and a half of brandy, Jack lay crumpled and slumped in his pyjamas, as depressed as ever. At 9am, Jack rang the service bell, and asked Lewis Royale his valet to make breakfast for Jeanie, who was sat upright in his armchair. Having had a fitful night, both were silent, but not angry, just tired. At 10:30am, again Jack rang the bell, but instead of an empty breakfast tray to clear away, on the bedside table Lewis found a fountain pen and a folded piece of paper. With big grins, Jack declared “I am going to get married to Miss Baxter”, at which a beaming Jeanie confirmed “that’s right Lew”. Keen to make everything right, Jack got his two staff – Lewis his valet and Nelly Champion his cook – to witness a document, which revoked his previous two wills which equally split his estate with Ada and left everything to Jeanie. Thinking nothing more of it, the staff left and went about their duties. Across the next hour, not a single sound was heard coming from the bedroom, until 11:45am. (Five bangs) Five shots, no screams, and by the end of the ten seconds, Jack Hall was dead (End). Running from the room, Jeanie was heard to shout “Lew, I have shot Mr Hall, run and fetch a doctor”. Charged with his murder, Jeanie told the police of his alcoholism, his depression, his death-wish and – with his temperament swinging from manic to moody – having erased their future, he had said “you and I would never get on if we were married. I cannot keep my promise. It is better I should finish it”. From his travelling truck, Jack pulled out a loaded revolver, popped the muzzle in his mouth and – in Jeanie’s own words – he whistled down the barrel as a black mood enveloped him. Fearing for her life, she scrawled a note asking her maid to look after her daughter in the event of her death and in the struggle to wrench the gun away, she shot him twice and fired three more bullets as she fled in terror. On 3rd June 1913, at the Old Bailey, Jane Baxter known as Jeanie, pleaded ’not guilty’ to the charge of murdering Julian Bernard Hall also known as Jack. As she did so, she smiled to her friends in court. Confident of her acquittal, the papers stated that Jeanie laughed heartily from the dock. And yet, having deliberated for just 55 minutes, she was soon stunned into silence as having been found guilty of his manslaughter, a terrified Jeanie was led away to the cells to spend three years behind bars. Released from prison on the 24th June 1916, Jeanie Baxter – the sole beneficiary of Jack Hall’s fortune – received a rude awakening. Debated at Probate Court, Sir Samuel Evans would state - as they were unmarried, as her conviction for his death had deprived her of rights, and as the last two wills were illegal as they hadn’t been submitted to a lawyer – that the rightful heir to Jack’s fortune should be his former fiancé and the legal executer of his estate - Ada Knight - a woman was to become ‘dead rich’. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
370 Uxbridge Road, the former location of Marne Garage
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FIVE:
On Saturday 5th December 1992, 33-year-old travel agent Gillian Bennett entered Marn Garage at 370 Uxbridge Road, W12. With her life and career going well, she purchased a nearly-new bright-red K-reg Fiat Uno. Given a sense of freedom with her own car, this should have been an exciting chapter in her reassuringly safe little life. And yet, finding a series of odd mechanical issues which required the dealership’s attention, it wasn’t only the car which caused her problems, as two weeks later, this purchase would lead to her murder.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop in Shepherd's Bush. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Uxbridge Road, W12; four roads up from The Beast of Shepherd’s Bush, a few doors down from the devil’s child and his little snack, over the road of where Reg Christie destroyed his dog, and a short walk from Bernie, the paedophile that the press hid - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 370 Uxbridge Road in Shepherd’s Bush, on the corner of Blaufontaine Road stands The New Coach House, an alcohol advisory service. But back in the 1990s, at The Old Coach House, within a Victorian three-storey flat-fronted building once stood a car dealership called Marn. Typical of most garages, all the shiny cars sparkled on the forecourt, as outback old bangers had holes patched and panels bashed. With space for ten cars – like many dealerships – an oily spiv slicked on the charm as he attempted to bamboozle a customer with the bluster that a nearly-knackered freshly-waxed death-trap was a dream brum-brum; with its rust rebranded as ‘vintage patina’, the unique blue hue spewing from the exhaust (as an OAP only drove it in first gear) described as an ‘optional extra’, and the obligatory pine-freshener dangling from the mirror to disguise the whiff of botty burp and bum foist which lingered in the seat. Of course, not all car dealerships are like that. Right? On Saturday 5th December 1992, 33-year-old travel agent Gillian Bennett entered Marn Garage. With her life and career going well, she purchased a nearly-new bright-red K-reg Fiat Uno. Given a sense of freedom with her own car, this should have been an exciting chapter in her reassuringly safe little life. And yet, finding a series of odd mechanical issues which required the dealership’s attention, it wasn’t only the car which caused her problems, as two weeks later, this purchase would lead to her murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 185: Driven to Obsession. Shopping; it’s an everyday part of life which we do most days, we don’t think about it, we just do it. It’s designed to be as simple and painless as possible; a quick exchange of cash and pleasantries lasting a minute at best, and once the customer departs and the server moves on, both parties are forgotten. That’s the way it’s supposed to be… …and that’s what Gillian expected. Gillian Margaret Bennett was born on the 21st October 1959 in Carlisle, a Cumbrian city just shy of the English and Scottish border. Raised in a loving family to hard-working parents as one of six children, it was unsurprising that she would live a good life and would blossom into such a warm and loving girl. Too often when a loved-one dies, part of the family’s coping mechanism is to trot out a series of vague platitudes of only the dead’s most positive attributes; how they were ‘lovely’, ‘kind’ and ‘caring, with a bright future ahead of them’. Only no exaggeration was needed to describe Gillian and her life. According to those who knew her, Gillian was popular and pleasant, a bright warm light in a dull grey sky who radiated but never outshone. She was as gentle and as good-natured as an adorable puppy who only wanted to please. And being a fun-loving girl who had the drive to achieve, she softly drifted through life like a fragrant petal on the breeze, quietly making her way without rustling any leaves. Blessed with a slim frame and a pretty face, she was always popular with the boys, and yet, it was her big heart which assured she was surrounded by a constant companion of girls who were good friends. With enough smarts to graduate from university with a degree in tourism, and being fluent in French, Spanish and Italian, Gillian pursued a career as a travel agent. With the 1980s and 1990s seeing a boom in package deals for the wider population and on a more affordable budget, she travelled far and wide. Working for Riva Travel on New Bond Street, across her career, she visited many exciting countries, she embraced a multitude of cultures and became friendly with thousands of strangers, some of whom became friends. But always knowing the dangers, she acted appropriately and she didn’t take risks. By the turn of the 1990s, so focussed was Gillian on her career, that – like a natty little cabriolet sports car in the winter - she had parked her love life in the garage and threw a tarpaulin over her romance until she felt it was time to blow-off the cobwebs of singledom and give relationships one more spin. Enjoying life and being free, she lived in a pleasant ground-floor maisonette on a quiet leafy street on Oakdale Road in Streatham, South London. As a three-storey semi-detached house converted into flats – being safety and money conscious - Gillian lived with Ann Evans, a colleague from Riva Travel. It is said, the sum of a person is the sum of their actions, and Gillian was kindness personified. It seems almost remiss to describe her as just a nice lady who was doing her job and living a good life without being a bother to anyone… but that’s who she was. Like all of us, she deserved to live a good life… …and yet, a simple purchase would change everything. The morning of Saturday 5th December 1992 was an ordinary day, albeit wet and tinged with a frisson of excitement as Gillian was buying herself a car. It was the perfect day to go car-shopping, as with the sky all gloomy and grey, the freshly waxed motors in the showroom wouldn’t distract from their faults. Having done her research, set her budget and chosen a reliable run-around which was both practical and suitable, Gillian entered Marn Garage on the Uxbridge Road and purchased a bright red Fiat Uno. Served by one of the sales-staff, the transaction was swift; she gave her details, signed the agreement and – with the car due to be serviced and MOT’d – it would be delivered to her home next Thursday. It was that simple; she went in, paid money and left, unaware of what had begun. The man who would murder her was an employee of Marn Garage called Winston Goulbourne. In an odd twist - as a mechanic - he didn’t serve her that day and she didn’t see him. But like all pricks who only think with their dicks; the second he saw her, he liked her and having whispered to a colleague “cor, she’s really nice”. he looked up her details in the file and formed a plan to get to know her better. With sex on his mind, Winston wanted to wheedle his way into her pants by posing as the man of her dreams; with smooth music on loop, a slew of cheesy chat-up lines and a stifling of a perpetual boner… …but in truth – for any woman - he was a walking nightmare. Born on the 18th August 1968 in Lambeth, South London, 24-year-old Winston Anthony Goulbourne saw himself as a lady’s man. Guided by his raging manhood rather than his beating heart, he believed he was a red-hot Romeo with the looks to sweep a woman off her feet, the chat to charm a girl into bed, and - as a lothario - he talked of ever-lasting love, as a easy ploy to get a chick onto her back. With his words written like the lyrics to too many crappy R&B songs, the bulk of his spiel spoke of love, hearts and being one, but all too often it ended with the line - “yeah baby, take your pants off”. Described as coming from a broken home, little is known of his upbringing, but something hidden in his past – maybe a lack of love from a parent, a sense that he was worth less, or an early rejection by a girl – had left him damaged. But unwilling to deal with his issues, others would pay for his weakness. To those who knew him, Winston was lovable but harmless rogue with no prior convictions. Born from Jamaican roots, he had the cool calm demeanour of a Caribbean cocktail; regularly working out, he was short but powerfully built; and always well-groomed, Winston’s head sported a neat little flat-top and – as was fashionable back then – on his top lip sat an Eddie Murphy tash from Beverly Hills Cop. By day, Winston worked as a salesman and a mechanic at Marn Garage on the Uxbridge Road. It was a steady job and it paid a decent wage, which afforded him a flat in Ingatestone Road, South Norwood where he lived with his partner Paulette Lucas. But a big chunk of his wage was often spent on clothes. Fashion was his thing; he liked style, expense and he always bragged about the label and the price. But by night – once he had ditched his dirty overalls and oily spanners - Winston would head home to make sweet love to his girlfriend. On the sly, he was shagging his secret lover called Jane Larter, with neither woman knowing about the other’s existence, as he kept his dirty dalliances on the down-low. And as if he was so sad that he had to prove his manliness even further – being the kind of loathsome soul who saw women as conquests, acts of intimacy to be bragged about, and (possibly) the type of truly tragic turd who kept a scorecard of his latest shags and marked-up whether a woman was a right goer or a bad blower – dressed to the nines, he often had one eye always open for his next sexscapade. It’s deeply sad that anyone should be so vapid and vacuous as to believe that they are a silver-tongued stud who all the ladies adore. Stand in any cheesy nightspot, and you’ll always see a preening peacock who wreaks of a desperation to be loved and a belief that one man could be cat-nip to any sex kitten. Winston believed it, and he lived to be loved… …but what he couldn’t accept was rejection. Whether by fate, a stroke of fortuitous luck, or having persistently pestered the boss into letting him be her knight in oily overalls who would deliver this little car to this little lady – given the fact that “I live nearby, I could drop it off on my way home” – this didn’t seem out of the ordinary, and it wasn’t. Keen to make an impression; he straightened his best ‘girl bait’ tie, adjusted the sharp lines of his suit, splashed on some totty lotion, and (possibly) admiring his face in the mirror – he thought he was as dishy as Denzel Washington, but looked more akin to a Carlton Banks from the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. On the evening of Thursday 10th December 1992, as agreed, Winston drove the reg K-reg Fiat Uno to Gillian’s flat at Oakdale Road in Streatham. He parked up, he rang the door-bell, he smiled and said “hi”, and having handed over the keys and the paperwork, the transaction was completed in minutes. Everything was as Gillian had expected; a nearly new car, serviced, MOT’d and delivered to her home. For Gillian, this marked the end of a simple interaction… …but for Winston, this was just the beginning. The next day held a little more excitement than usual for Gillian, as she had her own car. She could go anywhere, she could do anything; whether mini-breaks in the UK, travelling to see friends in other cities or her family up in Cumbria. With the car barely one year old, the likelihood was it would be a decent little run-around for a good few years, and she wouldn’t have to worry about it breaking down. It was a smart choice for a single woman with no children; it was cheap to run, it was easy to repair and it was good to drive, but it didn’t look flashy enough that a little scrote would nick it or trash it. From day one, the Fiat Uno was ready to go… …but that night – being a real home-body - as Gillian sat eating tea and watching TV with her flatmate, Ann, the door-bell rang. Being late and dark, while Ann was on the phone, Gillian approached the door with caution. Quickly she was relieved, as it was just the guy from the garage who had delivered her car. Being nice, she smiled, as this was her way. They made small talk, but only briefly, as she was nothing if not polite. She didn’t invite him in, as he was a stranger and this was her home. And she listened to his believable apology that someone had forgotten to fit her car with foot mats; a set of cheap but durable rugs that sit below the peddles which can be purchased for a few pounds in any car-part shop. In his words, “it’s not a problem, I was passing by”, so this could have been an honest mistake? For Winston, the missing rugs were an easy-excuse to try and slime his way into her life, her home and her knickers, but what he hadn’t counted on was that she had a flat-mate. Being on the phone to a friend, Ann Evans was in eyeline and earshot of Winston and Gillian’s interaction that night. This was his chance to try his luck with a pretty lady, but with another woman near, he lost his bottle. The moment was gone, his chat-up lines had dried up and his smoothness had suffered a few wrinkles. But it was then that fate gave him a break. Inside the flat, he overheard Ann’s phone call, in which she stated to her friend: “no, I can’t do the 19th or 20th December, I’ll be at my parents’ house in Wales”. It was a few words conveyed to a pal which was as innocuous as saying “hello”, but as a gift to an eavesdropper with open ears, it let Winston know when Ann would be gone and when Gillian would be home alone. Having been handed the car-mats, Gillian closed the door and thought nothing more of it. Only Winston was already planning how he would engineer another reason to return. Back at the garage and buoyed by his brief interaction with this sexy lady that he was determined to bag - unable to contain his crass self-delusion that ladies were drawn to his raw sexual magnetism - Winston bragged to his colleagues that he had already bedded her. So supposedly sharp was his charm that he had wooed, bedded and banged her, and that she was all over him like a rash. It was the typical bluff and bluster of a bullshitter with (statistically) a huge ego and a pointlessly tiny little pecker. It was a lie, and we know it was, as (when questioned) he would later admit this to the police. But how far did he believe his own lies that – one day – she would be his, and how far would he go to get her? Even if he was a handsome heart-throb who could pluck the heart-strings of a panting lady at twenty paces – which he wasn’t - Gillian was not interested; he wasn’t looking for a man, she was focussed on her career and - call her crazy –she didn’t find a walking hard-on with a line for every lady attractive. For Gillian, she was just getting on with her life, doing her job and enjoying her freedom. So, it’s odd that just 4 days after delivery - maybe by coincidence - she experienced a problem with her new car. Phoning from home, Gillian called the garage to state “my car won’t start”. With her call handed to a mechanic – strangely and as if by coincidence, to Winston – he promised to drop by on his way home that evening. That night, clutching his tool-kit and tinkering under the hood, he diagnosed the problem as a flooded engine, he rectified the fault and he gave her his phone number should it happen again. Gillian thought nothing more of it, as with the car fixed, she hoped that it was the last of its issues. Only the next day, while giving her flatmate Ann a lift home from Riva Travel, as they drove down the Brixton Road, they noticed an odd thumping noise coming from the driver’s side of the Fiat. Pulling over to investigate, they spotted that a wheel nut had been removed and another had been loosened. Once again, telephoning the garage, Winston showed concern and assured Gillian he would swing by on his way home that night; with a tyre iron, a wheel nut and a spare key he had forgotten to give her. Each time he visited, he trotted out a line and did his best to flirt, only his words bounced right off her. Feeling frustrated with this run of bad luck she’d had with her car; some may have wondered whether this was a coincidence or deliberate? Were the issues a malicious act by someone she had a beef with? It was unlikely. Was it a bored kid who had progressed from nicking hub caps? That seemed unlikely as how many kids carry tyre irons? So, who would benefit from her wheels being damaged? Again, believing that the car was fixed and the problem resolved, Gillian thought nothing more of it. Only the next day, as she approached her car, her face fell as she saw that her tyre was flat. Again, she called the garage. Rightly, she complained that “someone” had let her tyres down, and although (as if from the kindness of his heart and his crotch) Winston offered to fix it, but Gillian flatly declined. Upon inspection, Gillian found a broken matchstick stuck in the valve which deflated the tyre; this was too odd to be an accident and too specific to have been done by a kid. Wanting nothing more to do with garage or the mechanic – frustrated by the problems, his hopeless attempts at flirting, and with each excuse as pathetic as the last – she believed if he didn’t return, then neither would the problems. That little Fiat Uno would never experience another mechanical problem… …as by the next day, its owner would be dead. Saturday 19th December 1992; two weeks after the purchase and less than one week before Christmas. With her flatmate away in Wales, and no social plans of her own, Gillian had an easy night in; dinner, telly and bed by 9:30pm. Always cautious, she locked the doors and windows of this small maisonette. Over in Norwood, a 30-minute drive south of Streatham, unable to keep his dick zipped up, Winston – the slimy creep with the wandering eyes – lied to his girlfriend (Paulette Lucas) “I’m going to a party, girl”. Except the only invitees was himself and his mistress (Jane Larter), and the party was in his pants. Back at hers, they had sex twice, and by 1am - having shot his load and a few cheesy lines - he left. In court, Jane stated “I had sex with him every day”, as his life was ruled by his pointless little plonker. Having left Clapham, Winston’s route home was via the A205 and the B221, a road which went through Streatham. Pulling onto Oakdale Road and parking up beside the red Fiat, he didn’t care that she was asleep and didn’t fancy him, as what he wanted was all that mattered – and that was sex with her. Having dressed in a tailored sports-jacket from a Covent Garden boutique, splashed on his totty lotion and slicked down his tash so he looked like a chunky Martin Lawrence, what woman wouldn’t say no? As far as we know, that was his thought, as he approached her door for one last time. With no eye-witnesses, only the evidence can tell us what happened that night: Although a house split into six flats, no-one had heard a bell being rung or a door being knocked, but – for whatever reason, with no signs of a break-in – Gillian had opened the door to Winston. No-one heard any words, but it’s likely – as she stood, dressed in a long t-shirt and a white dressing gown – that the leech tried his luck, as – keeping her voice down - she politely tried to convince him to leave. Whether rejection had enraged the fragile ego of a loser in the guise of a lothario, at 1:20am, a scream was heard by a neighbour – possibly as he forced his way into her flat – but being half-sleep and living too near the high street where Saturday night screams are common, they dismissed it as nothing. No-one awoke or raised an alarm, and - with Gillian having been knocked out – no sounds were heard. Dragged into her flatmate’s bedroom, Winston half-stripped her of her night attire, baring her breasts and tying her hands behind her back with the cord of her bathrobe. With no sounds, no struggle and no evidence of sexual assault, what happened next is unknown. And yet, having gained full control over the woman he wanted (and with no-one to help her) Winston remained with her for a full hour. What sparked his fury will never be known, but claiming he went berserk, from the kitchen he stole an eight-inch knife and plunged it twice into the chest. So vengeful was his wrath that – having stabbed near her heart – he maliciously withdrew the blade and thrust it in again, where it would remain. With Gillian silent, bleeding but still alive, it was then that Winston left the flat… …only heading to his car, he wasn’t making his escape, he was making sure that she wouldn’t live to tell the tale and that no-one would know that her murder was committed by him. At roughly 2:30am, for one final time, Gillian screamed a scream with her last breath which lasted several seconds. Heard by an uncertain neighbour, once the scream had stopped, they thought the incident was over. But it wasn’t. Having covered his trussed-up victim in a pink blanket, from his car, Winston had doused her with several litres of highly-flammable petrol from a fuel can, and as he lit it, she had screamed. With Gillian slowly being burned alive, with the evidence destroyed and the petrol can in his hand, he calmly walked from the inferno and headed home to shag his girlfriend, as if nothing had happened. At 3:15am, 50 minutes later, with smoke pouring from Ann’s bedroom, the blaze had triggered a smoke alarm in a neighbour’s flat and the fire brigade were called. Having extinguished the flames, Gillian’s body was found; it was burned, tied up and with a knife embedded in her chest. A post-mortem confirmed that – mercifully – she had died of shock and that her death was quick. But a big question remained: the Police knew they had a murder on their hands. But who was the culprit? (End) With no witnesses, finding her killer would be difficult. Keen to trace her movements, that morning, Detective Inspector Bob Randall discovered that the only thing she did that was strange in the days before her death was to buy a Fiat Uno. At the garage, he interviewed a boastful but slightly distressed mechanic who – for reasons which weren’t clear - had visited her home four times in the last ten days. Having found a few unique fibres - a grey wool and black viscose mix - on the bedsheet in Gillian’s flat, police examined a tailored sports-jacket from a Covent Garden boutique in his wardrobe and the fibres were a match. As a lover of fine fashion and being too vain to destroy such a pricey jacket of which only 125 were sold in Britain - finding her blood on his sleeve, on his tie, and with her skin found under his fingernails – on Sunday 20th December, a few hours after the murder, Winston was charged. Tried at the Old Bailey on 4th August 1993, before Mr Justice Richard Lawry QC – having pled not guilty - that same day, a jury of six men and six women took five hours to reach a unanimous verdict. Found guilty, he was sentenced to life in prison, with a recommendation he serve a minimum of twenty years. Praising Gillian as “a lovely girl whose death was a tragedy", DI Randall would state "I can only describe Winston Goulbourne as a Walter Mitty character, an evil and dangerous psychopath". In 1996, with his appeal rejected, the Home Secretary reduced his sentence to 18 years. In 2011, he was released on licence and he moved to Mitcham, South London, where – as far we know – he currently lives. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
Archives
November 2022
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
|
