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

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

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

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

EPISODE THIRTY

Episode Thirty: The Blackout Ripper Part 6: On the morning of Friday 13th February 1942, The Blackout Ripper was caught and arrested, but not for the brutal murder of four women in London’s West End, and the Police had no idea who he really was.

• Date: Friday 13th February 1942
  
• Location: West End Central police station
  
• Victims: 6
  
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATION

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

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

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

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

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

You can DOWNLOAD episode #30 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the green play button on the media player below.

INTRO: Between the 9th and the 12th February 1942, a sadistic sexual maniac stalked London’s West End brutally murdering four women (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett) and strangling two others (Greta Hayward and Kathryn Mulcahy). And as much as the government kept a lid on any stories which could cause hysteria, none of The Blackout Ripper’s killings made front page news, instead they were relegated to small columns hidden on the inside pages.

The first recorded use of the term “Blackout Ripper” was just one day after Evelyn Oatley’s death. But with few papers taking up this salacious moniker, although it was muttered amongst the locals (almost as if he was a bogie-man), as soon as the trial was over, the case-files were archived, the story was lost, the victims were forgotten and “The Blackout Ripper” didn’t reappear in print until the mid-1950’s when a resurgence in true-crime led to these stories being sensationally and inaccurately retold.

And although The Blackout Ripper had echoes of the infamous Jack the Ripper case 54 years earlier, by the turn of 1942, not only had cinema audiences become incredibly savvy having been raised on a diet of sensational thrillers and the tired clichés of the tabloid press, buby living under the constant threat of the Nazi invasion with a terrifying barrage of bombs raining down from the skies, soldiers and civilians being slaughtered in their millions and ordinary people witnessing death on their doorsteps on an almost daily basis, in the grand scheme of things, the bloody murders of The Blackout Ripper were insignificant during war-time London. And so, once again, one of Britain’s most sadistic spree-killers disappeared into the darkness and his name was almost forgotten.  

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part six of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing outside of West End Central police station on Saville Row, W1; a tall, grey, drab but imposing seven-storey concrete monstrosity just off Regent Street. And although police stations are supposed to instil into a nervous victim a reassuring sense of safety; having a flat featureless façade like a mummified face, a multitude of black shiny windows like a spider’s eye and an ominously wide main-door, lying dead-centre like the dark gaping mouth of a starving snake, West End Central evokes an intake of breath, a tightness in the chest and the spackling of the anal sphincter.

Built in 1940 to support local police stations like Vine Street, Bow Street and Great Marlborough Street as a war-time crime-wave swept through the city, sadly West End Central is now defunct as a working police station. And although it is still used as a local support unit, being full of coppers, panda-cars and riot vans, the glory days are gone and the good old London Bobbie has been relegated to posing for tourists photos, letting pregnant ladies pee in their helmets and having American tourists repeatedly ask them “excuse me sir, can you tell me the way to Li-Ces-Tur Square” and other such places that they deliberately mispronounce just to piss us off, such as Ed-in-bu-ro, Wor-chuster-shire and of course Loogaburg (which – for those of us who actually speak English – is Loughborough).

And yet, although West End Central police station is now nothing more than an admin block, it was here, on Thursday 12th February 1942, where Greta Hayward gave the Police a description of the man who had attacked her. But little would she know that these details would lead to the capture of one of London’s most prolific spree-killers, who was known as The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

The mug of milky tea was warm and soothing as Greta raised it to her trembling lips, most of which she spilled as her hands violently shook, and yet as reassuring as its sweetness was, even swallowing the smallest of gulps caused Greta to wince in pain, as the tea trickled down her swollen throat and an ominous purple-y yellow outline of a left hand formed across her bruised neck.

And although her attacker was still out there, somewhere, possibly prowling the back-streets of Soho and Piccadilly, inside Interview Room 2 of West End Central police station Greta was safe, as she gave a detailed description to Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey; a semi-senior detective whose remit was muggings, robberies and violent assaults (which this most certainly was), as well as murders.

So, for DI Jeffrey, with divisional surgeon Dr Alexander Baldie having confirmed that her injuries were consistent with strangulation, with Greta having provided an accurate sketch of the airman, aided by John Shine’s credible witness statement and the swift discovery of her eight inch torch and her stolen handbag (with the paper money missing), although none of these items retained any fingerprints owing to the wet weather, Greta’s attacker was quickly identified by his unique military serial number he had written in indelible ink inside his Royal Air Force issued gas respirator.

With a kind smile, tired eyes and a world-weary face, which had barely slept in several days - as every time he blinked; the ripped, splayed and mutilated body of Evelyn Oatley flashed before his eyes, having witnessed the horror on Wardour Street just two days before - DI Jeffrey reassured Greta that this was an open-and-shut case and they should have her attacker in custody by the morning.

Having deduced that the airman was stationed at the nearby RAF aircrew reception centre in Regent’s Park, DI Jeffrey telephoned Corporal William Crook, the orderly corporal in charge of Abbey Lodge where the aircrew were stationed, he confirmed that the serial number of ‘525987’ belonged to Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins, a 28 year old blue-eyed fair-haired airmen, and that being under investigation for a possible robbery and an assault, DI Jeffrey instructed the orderly corporal to place Cummins under arrest until the arrival of the Police.

Of course, there were elements of this case which didn’t make any sense - such as why would a total stranger would want to attack Greta Hayward, why a robber would treat his victim to supper first, why (if this was an attempted murder) did he not bring any weapons with him, and why were there several scrapes and a few odd fragments of grey brick mortar inside of the gas-respirator, which didn’t match any wall found in or near where Greta was attacked? But then again, not all cases are neat.

So, as DI Jeffrey prepared the necessary paperwork for the attack on Greta Hayward, as a seasoned detective he knew that – if this actually ended up in court, which many cases (for various reasons) don’t – even with the evidence and statements they had, at best Cummins would be convicted of the lesser charge of grievous bodily harm, and sentenced to a few months in prison, or more likely (with him being an airman, this being war-time and – especially -if this was his first offence) he may get off with just a fine.

But first they would need to find him, as with Gordon Frederick Cummins not asleep in his bed, and the logbook at Abbey Lodge confirming that he hadn’t returned from a night out, that meant that somewhere across the West End, still stalking the city’s streets was The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

It may seem strange, sinister or even stupid, but at 2am on Friday 13th February 1942, barely a few hours after he had committed a brutal murder and two attempted murders, that Gordon Frederick Cummins would return to Piccadilly Circus, but that’s exactly what he did.

By that ungodly hour, Piccadilly Circus was dark, cold and deathly quiet, so with the streets speckled with a smattering of police constables on the look-out for anyone suspicious whether muggers eyeing-up drunken marks, peepers perving through sexy lady’s keyholes and lost servicemen who accidentally ask for directions from lone women who just happened to be prostitutes, it’s almost inconceivable that Cummins would flock here like some-kind of homicidal pigeon, but he did.

I mean, he could have picked literally anywhere in the whole of London’s West End to return to. But instead, being slightly drunk, strangely bored and more than a little arrogant, Cummins headed back to Piccadilly Circus; the place where murdered prostitutes Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe were last seen alive, where mutilated sex-worker Doris Jouanett was heading that night, where that very evening he had picked-up feisty Irish women Kathryn Mulcahy who had kicked six shades of shit out of his guts, and where – just five hours earlier – in a doorway just one street away – he had robbed, assaulted and strangled Greta Hayward; a women who was still alive, had seen his face, knew his history and at whose feet he had dropped his ridiculously unique gas respirator, who was now barely a six minute walk away at West End Central police station, and yet still, like a bad smell in a blocked toilet, Cummins returns to Piccadilly Circus.

Oh yes, Piccadilly Circus was the perfect place for a wanted murderer to blend-in; if you exclude the fact that he had cuts on his left hand, scuff marks on his boots, that the Police had his missing gas-mask and would soon have the belt to his blue tunic which he had misplaced in Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat, and as long as you entirely ignore the fact that the blue Royal Air Force uniform he was wearing right then was splattered with the blood of Doris Jouanett, there was nothing suspicious about Gordon Frederick Cummins at all. So it made perfect sense for him to be in Piccadilly Circus.

But it was here, on the north-side of Piccadilly Circus, right outside of the notorious Café Monaco, that he picked-up another prostitute, hopped in a taxi with her and – in a move which once again was either strange, sinister or just plain stupid – he headed back to her flat, which (given the irony of where he had just been) was quite possibly in the second worst place in the whole of the West End for The Blackout Ripper to return to. Her flat was in Paddington and her name was Doreen Lytton (Interstitial)

As the taxi chugged back along the desolate darkness of West End, Doreen Lytton (a recently married mother of two, housewife and part-time prostitute) sat in the taxi’s back-seat with Cummins, unable to see the deep-red blood on his dark-blue clothes, as in the darkness, everything looked black.

Having slugged back a few too many whiskies, he was clearly tipsy, but unlike her usual clients who – having got her alone, on a back-seat, in a taxi – would feverishly fondle and grope this lone female to satisfy their strange sexual urges, but this one seemed different; he was quiet, calm and distant. And as he stared out of the window, watching the world go by, as the cab passed Maison Lyonese and turned right onto the all-too familiar sight of Edgware Road, Cummins politely enquired “Can I spend an hour with you? I’ll give you £3”, to which Doreen said “yeah, okay”, as in his company she felt safe.

Moments later, the taxi dropped them off at Porchester Place; two streets south of Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat at 28 Southwick Street (where the Police had just recently been, taken a statement and picked-up the missing belt to his blue tunic) and three streets south-east of 187 Sussex Gardens (where the mutilated body of Doris Jouanett would lay undiscovered for the next 17 hours), they walked through to Polygon Mews, Doreen unlocked her door and welcomed into her flat The Blackout Ripper.

Being a small first-floor flat rented solely for sex-work, it was basic, drab and fitted with only the bare essentials, such as a bed with a sheet, a table with a candlestick, a wash-stand with a packet of razor-blades and a wardrobe full of clothes, hats, curling tongs and a collection of kitchen cutlery. And having put the £3 on the mantelpiece, behind a framed photograph of her two beloved babies, Doreen popped a shilling in the coin-slot of her gas-fire to warm the flat up and she started to undress.

But being slumped on her bed, his tired face all sunken, his bloodshot eyes all sullen and expelling a deep exhale of exhaustion, Cummins shook his head and calmly said “that won’t be necessary, I only want to talk, I have been drinking too much”, and so, being unable to perform, Doreen sat, in her flat, on an armchair, opposite the West End’s most prolific spree-killer and serial sexual sadist, and for an hour, over a nice warm cup of tea, they just sat and chatted.

Doreen would later state that he was polite, calm and courteous; a real gentleman, who sat quietly, listened intently and truly seemed to care about her life, as with a genuinely warm smile and a twinkle in his eyes, she showed him the photograph of her beloved family; a husband, a wife and two kids, and the more they talked, with her maternal instincts kicking in, Doreen felt pity for him.

During that very pleasant hour together, nothing immoral took place and they both remained clothed, seated and apart. Being honest with Doreen, Cummins apologised for his lack of libido and reassured her that he definitely did fancy her, but that his real reason for being here was simply to pass an hour or two, as (on tonight of all nights) he was in big trouble.

Of course, during their conversation, he never once mentioned that he was a deeply disturbed sexual sadist who (over the last few days) had strangled and tortured four women; sliced, ripped and filleted their skins, had taken a deeply-disturbing level of pleasure in disfiguring their genitals, into which he had inserted a series of phallic household objects, having then posed each women like morbid mannequins, stolen a creepy collection of souvenirs, and let two women live, who (just like Doreen) knew most of his life story. No, instead, Cummins was concerned with more pressing matters.

As being several hours too late for his 10:30pm curfew back at Abbey Lodge, having misplaced the blue belt to his RAF tunic and lost his serial-numbered gas-respirator, all of which were chargeable offences under the Royal Air Force’s code of conduct, Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins (who was only in London on a three week course) was less concerned with his brutal murders, and more concerned about these minor misdemeanours, as any black mark against his name could seriously jeopardise his chance of ever becoming an RAF pilot. 

With the hour almost up and his £3 spent, taking pity on his plea, Doreen handed the airman an almost identical gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag, that she had found just one week before, he thanked her for the tea, took her telephone number saying he’d love to see her again, and at a little before 4am, Doreen Lytton waved goodbye to The Blackout Ripper, as he disappeared into the darkness.

Today, Abbey Lodge - with its art-deco stylings, wrought iron gates and intricate gold inlayed doors - is a stunning six-storey Georgian mansion-block for the supremely wealthy, situated in the exclusive north-west corner of Regent’s Park, with flats selling for just £3-12million, or rented for £5000 a week. But in 1942, having been requisitioned by the military, Abbey Lodge was known as Number Three Reception Centre, where trainee pilots for the Royal Air Force were stationed.

Although stationed at Abbey Lodge, Cummins resided at the newly built apartments on St James Close on the north-side of Regent’s Park. But with armed sentries positioned on all the doors, added security patrolling the perimeter (especially the fire-escapes which airmen, having missed their curfew would often climb up and sneak into their flats unnoticed) and with a higher risk of him being shot if he tried to break-in, with no other options, Cummins approached the main entrance of Abbey Lodge.

From the darkness of the doorway, into his startled face, the hollow muzzle of a Lee Enfield .303 rifle was aimed as Air Cadets Cyril Woolfenden and David Alfred Arch challenged Cummins. Playing it cool, Cummins beamed a winning smile, showed the sentries his identification card; clarified his name, rank and serial number (“Cummins; Gordon Frederick; Leading Aircraftman, 525987”) and following strict orders to detain Cummins on sight, he was swiftly marched to the guard-room.

Entering the guardroom, Cummins gulped, knowing he was in deep shit, when he was confronted by Corporal Charles Johnson (the Orderly Sargent with an overpowering smell of body-odour and starch) who’s long thin fingers strummed on the battered log-book and Corporal William Crook (the fresh-faced, squat-framed and spud-headed Orderly Corporal) who had taken the call from DI Jeffrey of West End Central.

Feigning ignorance, having smeared on his best poker-face, Cummins casually enquired “what’s this all about?”, to which Orderly Corporal Crook replied “a woman’s been attacked in Piccadilly, your respirator was found at the scene”. But without missing a beat, Cummins let out an audible sigh and uttered “thank God for that” (or words to that affect), tapped the black gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag which was slung over his left shoulder, and having reassured both orderlies that this was nothing more than a silly mix-up, Cummins was escorted on a 15 minute walk back to his billets.

Still partially under construction, Cummins was billeted at St James Close; a seven-storey brown-brick art-deco building, situated on Prince Albert Road on the northern perimeter of Regent’s Park, and although he was not permitted to leave the premises until the Police arrived, at no time during his detention was he ever searched, supervised, locked-in or even placed under armed guard.

At roughly 4:50am, on Friday 13th February 1942, Cummins quietly crept into flat 27, on the first floor of St James Close, trying not to wake his buddies who slept as soundly as seven men could on wire-sprung cots with scratchy woollen bedsheets, but as silent as he was, he was desperate to talk.

Having shaken his bunk-buddy awake, with Flight Sargent Raymond Snelus noticing it was still dark and that Cummins was dressed, he groggily asked “where have you been”, to which Cummins replied “I am in the shit, someone swapped my respirator and it was found at the scene of a crime”. But being unimpressed and needing his extra hour of sleep, Snelus rolled over, farted and nodded off.

And so, for almost a whole hour, amongst a sea of sleeping airmen, Cummins was unobserved.

Having been alerted of his arrival, the police were on their way to question Cummins, but with this being a simple assault and robbery charge, with clear evidence, corroborated witness statements and their only suspect being held inside a secure military location, given that the Police had more pressing matters to deal with – like a sadistic maniac who, so far, had brutally murdered two women in the West End, with two more bodies still to be discovered - there was no real rush to arrest Cummins.

So what he did, during that hour, would determine the course of the rest of his life. It would be the difference between a career and unemployment, prison and freedom, and even life and death,

What did the police really know? Was this about the assault, or was this about the murders? Did they only know about Greta Hayward? Had Kathryn Mulcahy blabbed? Or had they linked him to the murders of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley, and later Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett? Did the Police know more than they said, or could Gordon Frederick Cummins outwit them?

Time was on his side… but the clock was ticking.

At 5:45am on Friday 13th February 1942 - Detective Charles Bennett and Detective Sargent Thomas Shepherd - arrived at flat 27 of St James Close to interview Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins, who was nonchalantly lying on his bunk, fully clothed and smoking a cigarette from a silver cigarette case, as he casually greeted the plain-clothed officers with a courteous “good morning”.

Having established Cummins’ identity using his military ID, Detective Bennett stated “your respirator has been found by the side of a woman who had been badly assaulted and you answer the description of a man who she described”, to which Cummins simply nodded and said nothing.

“Is that your respirator, sir?” Detective Bennett enquired, pointing to the black rubber gas-mask in the beige canvas bag on his bunk (which just hours before Doreen Lytton had given him), but knowing full well that the serial number etched inside didn’t match his own, Cummins replied “no, I picked that up in the Universal Brasserie, someone must have picked up my one by mistake, so I took this one”.

With Cummins fitting the description, Detective Bennett stated “I’m arresting you for causing grievous bodily harm to Mrs Greta Hayward on St Alban’s Street, on the evening of Thursday 12th February 1942”. Cummins was cautioned and handcuffed but made no reply. Calmly stubbing out his cigarette underfoot, the officers escorted their suspect to the awaiting police car, his scuffed black boots making a very slight and unusually flat sound as he walked, which (amongst the hubbub) nobody noticed.

At 9am, a few hours later, having been transferred to West End Central police station, Cummins – who was composed, polite, helpful and almost jokey at the ridiculousness of the situation - was questioned by Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey who stated “I understand you deny being the man who assaulted Mrs Heyward, it will therefore be necessary to hold you for an identification parade”.

But confronted with the overwhelming evidence against him – the gas-respirator etched with his serial number (525987), the witness statements by Greta Hayward and John Shine, the scuff marks on his left hand, the blood-stains on his shirt and having found a small slip of paper in his grate-coat pocket on which had been written “Colindale 6622” (which was Greta Hayward’s phone number) - Cummins quickly confessed, stating “No, that won’t be necessary, I am the man, I was drinking very heavily that night and I remember being with a woman in Piccadilly, but I cannot remember anything else that happened.” At which, Cummins asked to make a full statement.

Part of it read: “… I had several whiskies and brandies, I cannot remember how many, but I know I had several. After some minutes, I cannot recall how many exactly, I went over and spoke to a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs (in the Universal Brasserie), I had some conversation with her and I believe I brought her a drink. I cannot remember exactly what followed but I have a hazy recollection of walking around the streets with her. By this time, I was very drunk and did not know what I was doing. The next thing I remember, it was around 02:30am, I found myself in Marble Arch and caught a cab back to Regent’s Park. I have a hazy recollection of being with a woman but I cannot remember striking her. I deeply regret what has happened and I am willing to pay her compensation”. Cummins re-read his statement, confirmed its accuracy and signed it with his left hand.

As was standard protocol, Cummins agreed to be searched by Detective Bennett in the presence of DI Jeffrey, and his unremarkable personal affects included two £1 notes in his wallet, three shillings and six pence in his pocket, his RAF identity card, a few personal letters on RAF notepaper, a silver cigarette case, a greeny-blue comb with several teeth missing, and in the other gas-respirator (given to him by Doreen Lytton) he had stashed eight £1 notes and a gold wrist-watch.

None of which seemed strange, suspicious or out of the ordinary; a worn leather wallet, a few crinkled pound notes, his military ID, a slightly battered silver cigarette case, an old broken comb and a gold wrist-watch (the type that married couples – like  Mrs & Mrs Cummins – would give each other on a special anniversary). To the untrained eye, they were nothing more than a random assortment of everyday items that most men would carry, and which meant nothing to the Police. But to Cummins, they were personal items, too precious to dispose of or destroy during a vital last hour alone, they were mementoes of his morbid memories and souvenirs of his sadistic crimes.

On the afternoon of Friday 13th February 1942, a grinning Gordon Frederick Cummins appeared at Bow Street Magistrates Court where he was charged with the minor offence of causing grievous bodily harm to Mrs Greta Hayward. As a condition of this charge, Cummins would be remanded in custody at Brixton Prison until his court appearance on 12th March 1942.

If found guilty of GHB, having already spent a month in prison awaiting his trial, although this custodial sentence would be inconvenient, Cummins would most likely be released owing to “time served”, imposed with a small fine and (having missed the remainder of his three week course in Regent’s Park) with the Royal Air Force in need of strong young men to fight off the impending German invasion, Cummins would most likely be demoted and redeployed elsewhere, where he could retrain as a pilot. And once again, into the darkness of the West End, The Blackout Ripper would disappear.

And as he sat there, smoking in the privacy of his small prison cell in Brixton Prison, as his slight grin slowly morphed to a beaming smirk, having outsmarted both the Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard and left a bloody trail of terror across the West End with four women brutally mutilated and two attacked, all in just four days, Cummins knew that he had literally gotten away with murder.

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

Don’t forget to join us next week for the seventh part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is True-Crime Island, brilliantly hosted by your very own Aussie news anchor-man called Cambo, True-Crime Island covers the very latest breaking true-crime news stories from around the world. So if you like your true-crime delivered to you in a fast, fresh and fun way, check out True-Crime Island. (Play Promo)

If you fancy becoming a Patreon supporter, receiving exclusive access to original Murder Mile content including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases, as well as ensuring the future of Murder Mile, you can do this for just £2 a month (or £2 in real money) by clicking on the link in the show-notes.

And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Pleasing Terrors; hosted by Mike (who like myself is a tour guide), Pleasing Terrors is a really well-told series of creepy but true tales which will have you on the edge of your seat (trust me the ouiji board episode in Charleston Prison, I had to switch off, as I knew I wouldn’t get to sleep. And second is Swindled, hosted by an unnamed narrator, Swindled dives into the murky world of white collar crime, focussing on corporate crimes, scandals and swindles, such as the Bopal disaster, Love canal and the mysterious death of the pizza delivery man. So check out Pleasing Terrors and Swindled on iTunes and all podcast platforms.

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

Next week’s episode… is part seven of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: Murder MIle's series on The Blackout Ripper was taken entirely from all of the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, and too almost eight months to intensively research, so everything you hear is original and true.

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

• -7 by Cult With No Name (theme music)
  
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (interstitials and main theme)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• Even When We Fall by Philipp Weigl
• A Vital Piece of Music for all your Soundtrack Needs by Steve Combs
• Untitled by Seclorance
• Waiting for the Punchline by Cult With No Name
• Itsca It’s Glowing Red Hot by Chris Zabriski
• Sunset by Kai Engel
• Warm of Mechanical Heart by Kai Engel
• Modum by Kai Engel
  

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

• Marching - https://freesound.org/people/WebbFilmsUK/sounds/200322/
  
• Rifle Cock - https://freesound.org/people/SpliceSound/sounds/153560/
• Snoring 1 - https://freesound.org/people/Daxter31/sounds/114609/
• Snoring 2 - https://freesound.org/people/swapnil_gt/sounds/370336/

 

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile wal

Love true-crime podcasts? Subscribe to Murder Mile on iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

EPISODE TWENTY-NINE

Episode Twenty Nine: The Blackout Ripper Part 5: before the brutal murder of 34 year old Doris Jouanett on Thursday 12th February 1942 at roughly 11pm, The Blackout Ripper had attacked two more women in London's West End - Greta Hayward and Kathryn Mulcahy - but why did his killing spree abruptly come to an end?

• Date: Thursday 12th February 1942
  
• Location: St Alban's Street & 29 Southwick Street
• Victims: 2 (Greta Hayward & Kathryn Mulcahy)
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATIONS

As The Blackout Ripper committed two separate attacks, on the same day (technically three) both of which occur in this episode, I've included two Murder Mile maps below.

The Attack on Greta Hayward

The Attack on Kathryn Mulcahy

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

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.

If you love true-crime podcasts, subscribe to the Murder Mile on iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Libsyn

INTRO: After Britain declared war against Germany on 3rd September 1939, the first liberation took place, starting in British prisons. With the country desperate to clear its cells for the true enemies of the state; such as spies, traitors, looters and deserters, and in short supply of eligible young men for conscription, any prisoners with three months or less to serve were granted their freedom.

Buoyed by a sense of national pride, some prisoners enlisted, but others did not. And with the cities short on experienced Police officers, rationing enforced, and with basic essentials (such as soap and fuel) being sold at vastly over-inflated prices, some ex-con’s saw war-time as the perfect opportunity for criminal enterprise, and even honest people turned to crime under the cover of the blackout.

Between 1939 and 1945, the crime rate in England & Wales rose by 57%, with the number of reported murder cases increasing from 280 in 1939 to 490 in 1945, and with death, injury and disappearance being a daily occurrence in most war-time cities, many murders were impossible to prove.

But four horrifying deaths, over four nights, in four different parts of the London’s West End, were unmistakable as murders committed by a serial sexual sadist; whose attacks were random, bloody and brutal. And although, by Thursday 12th February 1942, on the fifth day of his five-day killing spree, only the badly mutilated bodies of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley had been found, with Margaret Florence Lowe still lying undiscovered, barely hours before the agonising death of his final victim – Doris Jouanett – in one night, having met them just one hour and two hundred feet apart, as his bloodlust escalated, the West End’s most prolific spree-killer would attack two more women.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part five of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing in Piccadilly Circus, W1; an iconic London landmark which interconnects the roads of Regent Street, Coventry Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, Piccadilly and Haymarket. Built in 1819 under its original name of Regent’s Circus, it later became Piccadilly Circus, after the area it covered, coined after local tailor Robert Baker’s infamous 17th century collar, called the “piccadillio”. And that’s about as exciting as it gets.

Featuring the infamous Criterion Theatre, the London Pavilion, the ghost of Tower Records, two truly hideous tourist attractions (where – for an insulting steep amount of money – you too can stare at badly sculpted plastic replicas of real people) and a statue which every idiot calls Eros (even though it’s not Eros, it’s Anteros - the angel of Christian charity, but then again being educated is so overrated), as everyone stares at Piccadilly’s infamous neon advertising and feels an overwhelming urge to scoff fatty chicken corpses, drink fizzy sugary piss, or smell like a footballer’s arse, they suddenly realise that Piccadilly Circus is nothing more than a world-famous semi-circular traffic contraflow, where every year millions of dipsticks flock to watch traffic; “oh look there’s a truck”, “oh look a bus”, “oh look a bike”, “oh look an accident”, “oh look blood”, “oh look brains”, “oh look entrails”, “oh look a road sweeper”, “oh look a lovely clean road”, as the tourist takes a selfie and says “oh look, there’s a Albanian immigrant wearing a cheap Yoda mask who’s pretending to float, that does look fun”. Sigh!

But actually, for us murder aficionados, Piccadilly Circus is fascinating, As it’s here that Doris Jouanett was heading for her date with The Captain, where both Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe were last seen alive, where two local prostitutes Laura Denmark and Molly Desantos-Alves met a red-headed corporal and a blue-eyed fair-haired airman, and waved goodbye to Evelyn Oatley just hours before her death. And yet, it was here, on Thursday 12th February 1942 at 8pm, where The Blackout Ripper would meet his fourth victim. And her name was Greta Hayward (Interstitial).

As always, being a little too eager and (if she was honest with herself) enthusiastic to escape her home in Kingsbury (North West London) which she shared with her soon-to-be ex-husband; 30 year old Margaret Mary Theresa Hayward, whose friends called her “Greta”, had hopped on the Metropolitan line to Baker Street, changed onto the Bakerloo Line to Piccadilly Circus and was stood outside of the Criterion Theatre – a full hour too early for her date – with nothing to do but wait.

With the shops shut, she couldn’t blow an hour by browsing. With only two films on at the flicks being Bette Davis in The Man Who Came To Dinner and Will Hay in The Black Sheep of Whitehall, she didn’t want to waste a shilling watching a newsreel, a cartoon and half of the pre-feature five-reel b-movie. With the Criterion Theatre having been requisitioned by the BBC to perform live radio for the duration of the war, and tonight’s broadcast being the brutally-dull music show ‘Take Your Choice‘ followed by the BBC Salon Orchestra conducted by Leslie Bridgewater, Greta was already bored of waiting, but she didn’t fancy falling into a coma. And even though Café Monaco was only on the opposite side of Piccadilly Circus, being packed full of sozzled servicemen, as an attractive blonde female sitting by herself, her chance of enjoying a quiet drink was zero.

And so, it was there, at the bottom of the steps of the Criterion Theatre, with time ticking by, her date an hour away and Greta all out of options that a blue-eyed fair-haired airman approached her, with a polite and pleasant proposition she simply couldn’t refuse. (Interstitial)

“Excuse me, are you waiting for somebody?” the airman asked, in an accent which, although well-spoken with the appearance of wealth, class and status, had the unmistakable twang and reassuring hints of North Yorkshire, where Greta was from. Sensing a pick-up attempt, she brushed off his request with the truth that she was awaiting a date with an Army Captain - her clever ploy being to pull rank on this inferior airman, the distinctive white flash on his side-cap suggesting he was still a cadet – but with the snow turning to drizzle, 9pm still an hour away, and the airman seeming harmless enough, with a sweet smile, a kind face and his gentlemanly offer that “I could buy you a drink while you wait for your friend?”, she thought it would certainly pass the time, and in his presence she felt safe.

The Criterion Theatre on Piccadilly Circus began life in the late 1800’s as a grand concert-hall full of cafes, galleries and a fine-dining restaurant in an opulent ballroom, which played host to stars, artists and royals. But after years of neglect and being on its last legs, by 1942, the restaurant had descended into being simply another shoddy pick-up joint for sailors, soldiers and airmen. It was called ‘Brasserie Universelle’, but it was more appropriately known as ‘The Universal Brothel’ or ‘The Brass Ass’.

As always, the bar of Brasserie Universelle was rammed with the sticky bustle of hot bodies as British and Canadian servicemen drank, danced and dry-humped their latest squeeze or conquest. And with the air thick with lewd chatter, fast jazz, cigarette smoke and the unpleasant whiff of jizz, as Greta and the airman drank a whiskey together, it was hard to heard themselves think.

And as much as he failed to flirt with her, by telling her she was beautiful and trotting out other equally unimaginative and retch-worthy chat-up lines, she reminded him of her impending date, he politely apologised and invited her to a spot of supper in the quieter, calmer and the less boisterous ambience of the Salted Almond Cocktail bar in the nearby Trocadero. So with fifty minutes still to go, feeling a little peckish having not eaten since lunch, and with him having agreed to escort her back to the brasserie by 9pm, a time which suited him fine as the rules of the RAF dictated that he had to be back in his Regent’s Park billets by 10:30pm, Greta headed out to supper with the unnamed airman.

He didn’t seem like a bad sort, Greta thought. Yes, he was a little tipsy, but he wasn’t rude, crude or abusive. Yes, the knuckles of his left-hand were scraped, but being an airman he probably did a manual job like a mechanic. And yes, he was a little forward in his approach, but looking rather dashing in his long military grate coat, his shiny black rubber-soled boots, his starched blue tunic with matching belt, his neat brown shirt and straightened tie, his side-cap emblazoned with the insignia of the Royal Air Force, and slung over his left shoulder was a black gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag (the kind of gas-mask that all military personnel were required to carry); she knew nothing bad would happen to her, as on the middle finger of his left hand he wore a gold wedding band, and having proffered her a smoke, she spied a small black & white photo of a pretty blonde lady hidden inside his silver cigarette case, which (she thought) was engraved with her initials of ‘LW’.

The Salted Almond situated in the Trocadero’s original location on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Windmill Street, just off the north-east corner of Piccadilly Circus, would have been a good choice for a quiet spot of supper, as being owned by J Lyon & Sons, creators of corner-house tearooms such as Maison Lyonese, it prided itself on being safe, calm and pleasant for women, but sadly, as the night drew on, the same could not be said for Greta’s new companion.

Being a few whiskies in, with supper looking unlikely and his disarmingly charming tone having shifted to that of a lecherous oaf, the airman lustfully enquired “are you a naughty girl?” - ignoring her plea that she wasn’t a prostitute, had never been and had no plans to be – and bragged that “I’m not broke, look”, as he pried open his wallet, which was stuffed thick with thirty £1 notes (almost £1000 today).

Getting petulant as Greta batted away his advances, he stated “I don’t think there’s time for supper now…” and quickly piped-up with “…come out to dinner with me tomorrow evening?” And with Greta eager to leave, she reluctantly agreed to a date, impressed upon him that sex would not happen and wrote on a slip of paper her phone number (of Colindale 6622) which he pocketed. And as he huffed “Alright, if you don’t want to, I can’t make you, but you seem a nice girl and I really do want you”, Greta brushed him off again, and as promised, at 8:45pm, he escorted her back for her 9pm date.

With the blackout in full force, with every light dipped, dulled or turned-off and even the illuminated signs of Piccadilly Circus switched-off, the streets would have been in near-darkness as Greta was guided out of the Trocadero, taking the brisk three minute walk, straight down the bustling throng of Shaftesbury Avenue and across Piccadilly Circus, back to the front entrance of the Criterion Theatre.

But then again, the airman didn’t take the most direct route. And with Greta having been subjected to a tirade of moody drunken mumblings by the airman, having bragged that he’d “once knocked a girl out”, she didn’t argue with him for fear of incurring his wrath, as he led the nervous lady down the thinner, quieter and darker side-streets to the brasserie’s back entrance.

And as they entered Jermyn Street, an almost pitch-black empty side-street behind Piccadilly Circus, as Greta pulled out of her handbag an eight inch metal torch to see her way and possibly alert a passing Policeman to her need for help, the airman snatched the torch from her hand, balking “you won’t be needing that” and pocketed it, as he casually strolled passed the brasserie’s back entrance.

With her heart racing, her eyes wide and her mouth dry, as the airman led her south down St Alban’s Street, a narrow alley heading away from the brasserie, he expressed his wish to give her a goodnight kiss, and in a chillingly eerie statement (possibly uttered barely four nights before to a painfully shy 41 year old pharmacist in Montagu Place), he said “aren’t there any air-raid shelters nearby?”

Although petite, standing her ground, Greta replied “I don’t know and in any case I wouldn’t go in one of them with you”, but as he led her into the ominous silence of the equally dark St James’ Market, in the cold shadow of the Captain’s Cabin pub, the airman dragged Greta into an unlit doorway.

Removing his RAF issue gas-respirator in its beige canvas bag from his left shoulder and placing it on the ground, the airman pulled Greta’s trembling body close as he started to kiss her; the feted stench of tobacco on his breath, as he rammed his tongue deep into her mouth. And as his hands grabbed at her hips, tugged at her blouse and groped at her breasts, she pushed him away gasping “you mustn’t, you mustn’t do that”. But with his passion enflamed and not being a man who took no for an answer, with an odd glint in his eyes, having placed both hands on her quivering cheeks, she thought (having heard her plea) he was either forthcoming with an apology or a tender but friendly kiss? But as his left hand slipped down her face, slowly caressing her neck, he tightly gripped her throat and squeezed, all the while muttering “you won’t, you won’t”, until her vision went black. 

Nobody heard her screams. Nobody saw his face. Nobody found any weapons.

And at 9pm, on Thursday 12th February 1942, at the back of the Criterion Theatre on Piccadilly Circus, barely two hours before the brutal, shocking and sadistic murder of Doris Jouanett, Margaret Mary Theresa Hayward, known to her friends as “Greta” became the fourth victim of The Blackout Ripper.

Just like the others, she was a lone female. Just like the others, she was attacked in private. Just like the others, she was robbed. But unlike the others… she didn’t die.

Hearing shoes scuffling, a muffled croaky voice and seeing a torch frantically flickering, as 24 year old night-porter John Shine approached St Alban’s Street, he spotted a pair of women’s legs slumped on the wet floor and sticking out of an unlit doorway. Sensing something was wrong, John Shine shouted “Police!” at the top of his lungs, panicking the ominous shape which loomed over the collapsed lady, and before he could do anything, The Blackout Ripper disappeared into the darkness.

And although she was unconscious, Greta was alive…

…but did her survival lead to the death of another woman?

At a little after 10pm, barely an hour later; with his heart pumping, his nerves tingling and his bloodlust unsated, having sunk several more whiskies, the slightly dishevelled airman spotted a lone female, standing in the darkened doorway of Oddenino’s restaurant, near the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus, where just two days before, Evelyn Oatley was last seen alive.

Being a tall, slim and attractive lady, with bobbed flame-red hair, luminous pale skin, stunning grey-eyes and dressed in a black tailored coat, skirt and hat, he was instantly aroused by her. As a 34 year old soon-to-be divorcee who had succumbed to sex-work simply to pay the rent, she reluctantly hopped in a taxi with the drunken airman and took him back to her Paddington flat. And although she was known locally as “Mrs King”, her real name was Kathryn Mulcahy. (Interstitial)

Unlike before, the sozzled airman wasn’t in the mood for small-talk, and having paid her two £1 notes upfront for sex (roughly £60 today), Kathryn sighed “I wish I could make £5 tonight”, at which he flashed his bulging wallet, peeled-off three further £1 notes for her, and in the backseat of the taxi, having got down on his knees, lifted up her skirt and pulled aside her knickers, he began to kiss her genitals, as their taxi drove west along Oxford Street, passing Selfridges, and Doris Jouanett.

Having politely pacified his advances in her soft Irish brogue, stating “don’t be silly, we’ll be in my flat soon enough”, Kathryn was intimidated by his eagerness, as their taxi continued up Edgware Road, along Sussex Gardens and stopped just shy of Paddington Station, outside of 29 Southwick Street.

As the taxi pulled away, a bitterly cold wind blew down the dark and strangely quiet side-street, and although Kathryn shivered, it wasn’t just the icy gust which riddled her skin with goose-bumps, and as she led the amorous airman, off the side-street, under a darkened archway and into eerie silence of Southwick Mews, she unlocked her front door, and welcomed into her flat The Blackout Ripper.

With Kathryn having been out most of the day, and a winter frost having settled on the icy snow, her small second-floor flat was chillingly cold, and being only sparsely furnished with few comforts (just the basics, like a bed with a sheet, a table with a candlestick, a wash-stand with a packet of razor-blades, and a wardrobe full of clothes, hats, curling tongs and a collection of kitchen cutlery) she popped a shilling in the coin-slot of her gas-fire, to warm the flat up, as they undressed.

Being naked, all except for her boots (with her toes too cold to be exposed), Kathryn was desperate for the sex to be over-and-done with quickly, but with the airman ignoring her pleas, the unrolled condom in her hand and his penis still flaccid, he continued fondling her breasts and kissing her vagina.

Lying flat on her back, her trembling body sprawled diagonally across the bed, the airman never once attempted to have sex with Kathryn; instead straddling her slim pale torso, with his knees either side of her hips and an odd glint in his wide blue eyes, he placed both hands on her quivering cheeks, as if to tenderly kiss her, but as his left hand slowly caressed the nap of her neck, he tightly gripped her throat and squeezed, until her vision went black. 

But as a feisty Irish woman, raised by a drunken father, an absent mother and several brothers, who had suffered at the hands of an abusive husband and had given her only child up for adoption, although timid, Kathryn was a born fighter. And having yanked both of thumbs back so hard that the bone almost snapped, making him squeal, having freed her leg, Kathryn booted him squarely in the chest, kicking her assailant right off the bed.

Not wishing to spend a second longer with this maniac, Kathryn ran from her flat screaming “Murder! Police!”, banging on the doors of her neighbours – Agnes Morris and Kitty McQuillan – who came to the naked woman’s aide. But he didn’t run. Instead, seeming unflustered, almost as if nothing had actually happened, as the airman calmly dressed, fixed his hair and sparked up a cigarette (even stopping so low as to ask Kitty if she had a light), being cocky in his lack of haste, he casually apologised to Kathryn, tossed her five £1 notes, and left.

The time was roughly 11pm. The date was Thursday 12th February 1942. And with his anger rising, his hatred fuming and his bloodlust unsated, having turned right and strolled down Southwick Street, The Blackout Ripper disappeared into the darkness of Sussex Gardens, and the home of his final victim.

But unlike his other attacks; this time there were screams, this time there were witnesses, this time they had seen his face, and this time he had left behind evidence. And not just the canvas belt to his blue military tunic he’d misplaced in Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat. No, this was something different.

Roughly one mile away, in a dark alley at the back of Piccadilly Circus, having sustained cuts,. Bruises, concussion and a fractured larynx, although she struggled to breathe, with the aid of the night-porter John Shine, Greta Hayward made her way to West End Central Police Station on nearby Saville Row, where she gave a description of the man who had attacked her.

Although a little fuzzy at first, Greta quickly compiled a detailed description of her unnamed attacker, stating he was “a British Airman, aged 30-ish, 5 foot 9 inches tall, clean shaven, soft features, light blue eyes, slim build, fair-haired, dressed in an Royal Air Force blue uniform, with long black grate coat, a woollen side-cap with a white cadet’s emblem, and over his left shoulder he carried a black gas respirator in beige canvas bag”. And although her depiction was highly accurate, with his attacks all occurring during World War Two, that description could easily match one of thousands of airmen in and around London, that day. But one detail was unique…

…in his haste to escape, Greta’s attacker had dropped his gas-mask; and although it was nothing more than a standard-issue gas respirator, made in a generic black rubber, fitted with a readily available air-filter and carried in a nondescript beige canvas bag, which was mass-produced, cheaply made and widely distributed to all military personnel across the entire British Armed Forces…

…inside his gas respirator, for fear of confusing it with the millions of others which dotted the country, in black permanent marker, he had written his Royal Air Force serial number; a very unique six-digit code and identifiable to just one man. And his name was Gordon Frederick Cummins.

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

Don’t forget to join us next week for the sixth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

And, although we still have a few more episodes to go, if you have any questions about the previous episodes, please message me on social media, and I will include these in a special Q&A episode at the end of this series.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Eye For An Eye, hosted by Lisa and Matt, Eye For An Eye is a weekly true-crime podcast which delves into the deeply disturbing mind of murderers, sociopaths and psychotics, with a big dose of humour, and songs a-plenty. If this sounds perfect for you, check out the promo for Eye For An Eye. (Play Promo)

A big thank you goes to my brand new Patreon supporters who get exclusive access to original Murder Mile content, including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases. They are Jim Balfour, Steve Stadalink, Kathryn Williams, and an extra special friend who asked to be anonymous, all have asked “which bits of human flesh are the tastiest?” Well friends, in ascending order they are; the bum-bum, the boobie, the winkie, the nu-nu, the flaps, the muffin-top and the calamari. Bon appetite.

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

Next week’s episode… is part five of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: The Blackout Ripper series for Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using all of the original declassified police investigation files form the National Archive.

With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution), and additional music used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive, with all additional tracks written & performed by various artists.

• -7 by Cult With No Name (theme tune)
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (interstitials and outro)
  
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
  

With additional sounds supplied by Freesound.org, a fabulous repository of free sound effects, available to use under the Free Attribution Agreement. Credits include:

• 
  

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 featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

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

EPISODE TWENTY EIGHT

Episode Twenty Eight: The Blackout Ripper Part 4: On 12th February 1942, 32 year old Doris Jouanett was found strangled, posed and mutilated in her flat at 187 Sussex Gardens in a murder strangely similar to Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe, over four nights prior. So who was The Blackout Ripper?

• Date: Thursday 12th February 1942
  
• Location: 187 Sussex Gardens
  
• Victims: 1 (Doris Jouanett)
  
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATIONS

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

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

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

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

INTRO: By 1942, at the height of World War Two, with everyday essentials like butter, sugar, eggs, milk, meat, flour, fuel and even clothes in a limited supply and strictly rationed; life was tough, money was tight and ordinary people would be forced to make desperate decisions simply to survive.

Having yet to fully appreciate how invaluable women would become in Britain’s defence, the Second World War proved a turning point for women’s suffrage, as (with men dying in their million) women would become the backbone of the war-effort (not only later as conscripted soldiers, but also) as munitions-workers, doctors, fire-crews, hauliers, air-raid wardens and police constables.

But with the economy in disarray and honest jobs being badly paid, even good women were forced to take drastic steps. And with the cities full of soldiers, sailors and airmen with heavy wallets, empty hearts and endless hard-ons – some women turned to prostitution; becoming a housewife by day and a whore by night, in a clandestine affair, hidden from their husbands, simply to pay the bills.

So synonymous were Soho’s sex-workers for their tactics, speed and cunning as they pursued, pounced and pestered any serviceman, that American GI’s dubbed them the “Piccadilly Commandos”.

But unbeknownst to any women (whether prostitute or not), during February 1942, a sadistic sexual sadist stalked the blacked-out and bomb-damaged streets of the West End; so far, three unrelated women (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe) were tortured, posed and mutilated on three consecutive nights, in the first half of his five-day killing spree.

No-one knew his name, and yet all three women found him confident, charming and unassuming. No-one saw his face, and yet (in his presence) they all felt safe, happy and comfortable. No-one saw him kill, and yet, as he smiled, chatted, drank and carried no weapons, none of these women had any idea of the horror which awaited them at the hands of this homicidal maniac. But tonight, with his blood lust escalating and his sexual desire unsated, he would go in search of his next victim.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part four of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing in Sussex Gardens, W2, in an area most people call Paddington, which was formerly known as Tyburnia; a district made famous as the host of London’s bloodiest execution site – The Tyburn Tree – a hangman’s gallows situated at Marble Arch, at the junction of Edgware Road and Oxford Street, where many a bad lad’s neck was stretched, yanked and snapped.

Constructed during the Victorian era of the early-to-mid 1800’s, although most of the greenery has since been tarmacked and turned into drives, Sussex Gardens is still an affluent area consisting of one long l-shaped street with tall, thin and stunning brown-bricked five and six storey terrace houses on both sides, with tall white windows and white Doric columns on every door.

And although each flat currently sells for roughly £1million a piece owing to its proximity to Hyde Park, being just one street away from Paddington Station – a haven for hookers and bored businessmen with boners – although still beautiful, much of Sussex Gardens has lost its initial value, having been repurposed as flat, offices and modestly-priced hotels full of plumbers, brickies and roofers; who can lay pipe, trowel mortar and repoint tiles (whether you want it done or not), and yet are physically incapable of seeing without ogling, yawning without belching, pissing without dribbling, thinking without farting, talking without saying “facking”, and watching sport without pronouncing it “spawh”.

And yet it was here, in the well-presented ground floor flat of 187 Sussex Gardens that the brutal murder of The Blackout Ripper’s next victim occurred, and her name was Doris Jouanett. (Interstitial)

Wrongly assumed to be French, Doris Jouanett was actually born Doris Elizabeth Robson on either 21st March in the year 1909 (according to her husband), 1906 (according to the national census) or 1907 (according to her birth certificate), and although she may have shaved an odd year off her age, here and there, there was no denying that Doris Robson was ashamed of her impoverished past.

Born amidst the industrial working-class sprawl of Lemington (Northumberland) in the North East of England, although Doris’ birthplace was just four miles from Ryton where (nine years earlier) Evelyn Margaret Hamilton was born, the difference between their upbringings was colossal, as being surrounded by collieries, factories, railways, glassworks and iron foundries, every her family owned (which wasn’t much) was smothered in dirt, dust and a thick blanket of black soot.

Originally from Farlam in Cumbria, Doris’ mother (Elizabeth) was one of nine children born to Thomas and Barbara Robson, and although they survived on a coal-miner’s wage and lived in a cramped lodging house with three other families, their children were well-educated, with four of the siblings becoming school-teachers, including Elizabeth and her younger sisters Isabella and Mary.

Sadly, as an unmarried 41 year old single-parent, shortly after the birth of her only child, Elizabeth died owing to complications, and Doris Elizabeth Robson (who had no mother, no father and no siblings) was raised by her maternal aunties Isabella and Mary, in the gloomy wind-swept headland of Hartlepool, in a small lodging house at 6 Moor Terrace, which overlooked the North Sea.

The next two decades of Doris’ life are a bit of a mystery, as with no school reports, census records and no accurate date of birth, it’s hard to trace where she went, who with, and why. But being a working-class Northern female, who had to live with the shame of being born a bastard, to a dead mother, an absent father and adopted by middle-aged spinsters, life can’t have been easy. But twenty years later, by 1935, Doris had moved to London to make a better life for herself.

Being unskilled, unqualified and having no career to fall back on, Doris didn’t want to work; to slog her guts out, twelve hours a day, seven days a week; an endless slew of filth, drudgery and exhaustion in a joyless job for a thankless boss and all for a pittance. Doris felt she deserved better and dreamed of becoming a kept-women, who lived in a posh house, wore mink furs, fine jewels and never had to lift a finger, having bagged herself a wealthy husband. And in August 1935, her dream had come true.

Believing in love at first sight, within three months of meeting, on 4th November 1935 at Paddington Registry Office, 25 year old Doris Elizabeth Robson married 60 year old Henri Alfred Jouannet, a naturalised French citizen, who managed several hotels in the South East of England. And although their marriage was impulsive, their 35 year age-gap was obvious and whether she actually loved him was debatable; as a wealthy hotelier, with a silver Rolls Royce, a large bank balance and being a kindly man who showered her with expensive gifts, like fine furs, a gold watch and a black fountain pen engraved with her new initials of “DJ”, Mrs Doris Elizabeth Jouanett moved with her husband from Eastbourne, to Farnborough, until eventually they moved to London.

And although Henri was aware of Doris’ desperate days when – being broke and hungry – she worked as a West End sex-worker, she had assured him that those days were long behind her, and (finally) with Henri managing the very prestigious five-star Royal Court Hotel in Sloane Square in a very affluent area of Kensington, Doris truly was living the dream and life was good, as together they moved into a luxurious ground-floor flat, situated at 187 Sussex Gardens. (Interstitial)

(Clock): Henry & Doris Jouanett moved into flat 1 of 187 Sussex Gardens on Monday 26th January 1942, by which time - although air-raids were regular, looting was rife and rationing was routine – The Blackout Ripper was roughly 98 miles away in the West of England, and was still six days away from being relocated to London. So, for now, Doris Jouanett was safe, Evelyn Hamilton was alive but about to be laid-off, Evelyn Oatley was being comforted by her rather dull but eternally loving husband Harold, and Margaret Florence Lowe was drunk, not realising that the next time her beloved daughter would see her again, Margaret (and three other women) would be dead. (End)

Over those seven years of marriage, Doris had become accustomed to the finer things in life; gorging on good food, quaffing on fine wines and sleeping on silk sheets, as she was waited on hand-and-foot by butlers, maids and chefs, and driven to fancy parties in a chauffeur-driven silver Rolls Royce. And being immaculately dressed in the very latest fashions, with manicured nails, coiffured hair and pristine make-up, the ever stylish Mrs Doris Jouanett looked very much like a real lady.

But following a series of bad business deals, lengthy court trials, escalating gambling debts, and with the war having seriously put the boot-in on tourism; the Rolls Royce was sold, the servants were laid-off and Henri was almost broke. And with no savings to access, a status to upkeep and a trophy wife with expensive tastes to fund, when 67 year old Henri should have been enjoying his retirement, he was working day and night at the prestigious five-star Royal Court Hotel in Sloane Square, but not as the hotel’s owner, now he was simply a manager.

Henri would later describe their marriage as “perfectly happy… we never had a disagreement”, but for Doris this was far from the truth. Before moving back to London; as his funds dried-up and life became a little more drab, being petrified of returning to her impoverished roots, Doris regularly travelled from Farnborough and Eastbourne to the West End, under the guise of a bored housewife heading to Piccadilly to meet some pals, when really, she had returned to prostitution.

Nicknamed “Olga” - as (even though many prostitutes thought she was French owing to her surname) many punters thought she looked Russian, a fact that Doris never denied as being a well-dressed lady with a mysterious and exotic past paid better than being plain old Doris Robson, the Geordie – and as a 32 year old, five foot ten inch tall brunette, with long legs, a slim build and striking features (a mixture of hard, moody and demure), Doris was very different from the usual prostitute.

And being very much an elegant lady who was both alluring and aloof, “Olga” drew in a much wealthier clientele, whether businessmen, diplomats, officials, officers and – hopefully – Doris thought, an older, richer man, maybe a wealthy widower or another hotelier, who could keep her in the life to which she had become accustomed, as with Henri almost broke, Doris needed a new sugar-daddy.

To say that Henri didn’t trust his wife would be an understatement. And although, most nights his job dictated that he had to sleep at The Royal Court Hotel; every evening, having dashed the six tube stops from Sloane Square to Paddington, from 7pm to 9:30pm, for those two and a half hours, Henri & Doris Jouanett would settle down to dinner in their ground-floor flat at 187 Sussex Gardens.

(Clock): By 7pm on Thursday 12th February 1942, as Henri & Doris tucked into what-would-be their last meal together; as the icy cold corpses of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley were lying on a slab at Paddington and Westminster mortuaries, and the mutilated body of Margaret Florence Lowe had lain still, silent and undiscovered for 40 hours, barely one mile away, at The Volunteer Public House on Baker Street, a red-headed Corporal was necking back pints and supping free whiskies with a pleasant, blue-eyed, fair-haired man, who was a charmer with the ladies, whose pockets were flush with cash, and (having already slaughtered three women) tonight he would go in search of his next victim. (End)

The last four hours of Doris Jouanett’s life were unremarkable; having finished their evening meal (of chicken chasseur, root vegetables and a white wine), needing some “fresh air”, Doris donned a stylish black velvet hat, a long black coat with a fur collar, a black leather handbag and a large black umbrella (as the recent snowy blizzard had turned to rain) and having left the dirty crockery on the dinner table, Doris accompanied Henri on the four minute walk to Paddington Station, where – having promised her husband she’d head straight home – as he hopped on the westbound District Line train to Sloane Square, she waved him goodbye for one last time. But Doris had no plans to return home.

At 9:40pm - with The Blackout Ripper still in Piccadilly, having escorted a 30 year old woman called Greta Hayward back to the Universal Brasserie on Jermyn Street - Doris was spotted by local prostitute Patricia Borg standing at the junction of Edgware Road and Sussex Gardens, a busy crossroads just a three minute walk from her home and a ten minute stroll from the air-raid shelter on Montagu Place.

And although Patricia and the lady she knew as “Olga” only spoke briefly, opening with the greeting of “hello stranger” and closing with a “see you”; having met a client, serviced his needs and received her money, all within fifteen minutes, by the time Patricia returned to the same spot, Doris was gone.

Moments later, two call-girls called Ruby Ricketts and Grace chatted to Doris as she strolled south down Edgware Road (towards Marble Arch), where accompanied by her friend Beatrice Lang and needing a stiff drink to keep her strength up for the long night ahead, Doris drank a whiskey and soda at a corner-house tearoom called Maison Lyonese, where just four nights earlier, a shy pharmacist called Evelyn Hamilton had (potentially) met her murderer as she celebrated her 41st birthday alone.

But that night, being in Piccadilly, The Blackout Ripper would not frequent Maison Lyonese. So as the two friends chatted over a drink, Doris confided to Beatrice that with money tight, their marriage tense and the couple sleeping in separate beds, Doris had a date tonight with her new sugar-daddy; a wealthy regular client in a military uniform, who she referred to only as ‘The Captain’.

(Clock): At 10:20pm on Thursday 12th February 1942, Doris & Beatrice left Maison Lyonese, walked east along Oxford Street and parted ways outside of Selfridges, and with Doris eager to see her new beau, she headed into Piccadilly, right into the path of The Blackout Ripper. Or she would have done, had fate not taken an unexpected twist… as with his wallet full, his liver pickled and his sexual appetite unsated, having hopped in a taxi with a 34 year old redhead sex-worker called Katharine Mulcahy, as Doris walked east along Oxford Street to Piccadilly, The Blackout Ripper headed west to Paddington. And although, for now, Doris Jouanett was safe… an hour later, she would be dead. (End).

How she knew ‘The Captain’, who he was, or whether she had actually met him that night, we shall never know, as having waved her friend goodbye, Beatrice was the last person to see Doris alive.

For whatever reason, whether ‘The Captain’ was late, early or had cancelled their date, shortly after 11pm, Doris had left the semi-safety of Piccadilly Circus, had returned home to Paddington, and - as the cruel hand of fate took another unexpected twist - with the redheaded sex-worker Katharine Mulcahy, living just one street south-east of 187 Sussex Gardens, a short while later; whether for money, boredom or companionship, Doris Jouanett opened her door to The Blackout Ripper.

At 7pm on Friday 13th February 1942, regular as clockwork, Henri hopped off the eastbound District Line train from Sloane Square to Paddington Station, strolled the four minute walk to Sussex Gardens, and – like Pavlov’s dog - the second he saw his home, his stomach started to rumble. But something didn’t seem right, as by the white Doric columns of his front door, on his doorstep, a full twelve hours after they had been delivered, he spotted two bottles of milk.

Feeling confused; as Henri entered his blacked-out flat, calling out his wife’s name “Doris?” but getting no reply, he spotted on the table their dirty dinner dishes where they had left them the night before; the bread stale, the cabbage cold, the white sauce congealed, but there was no sign of Doris anywhere. Not in the front-room, not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, all that remained, was the bedroom.

With the key missing and the lock shut, as much as Henri jiggled the handle and shoved against the panels, the small-framed 67 year old couldn’t budge the heavy wooden door, but spying through the keyhole he saw the dull red glow and the soft warm heat of the electric bar fire, it was clear that someone was inside, but as much as he banged on the door “Doris?”, still nobody answered.

Deeply concerned, Henri fetched the Police, and at 7:50pm, two burly Bobbies from Paddington Police Station – PC Payne & PC Cox – with Henri’s permission, used their considerable bulk to bash down the sturdy wooden door, and found Doris. Sparing Henri from the horror in the bedroom beyond, PC Cox sat him on the sofa, a comporting hand over shoulder as he gave Henri the bad news, but what PC Payne saw that night, would be burned into his eyes forever.

At a little after 8pm, just three hours after the grisly discovery of the mutilated remains of Margaret Florence Lowe one mile away at 9/10 Gosfield Street, Divisional Detective Inspector Leonard Clare, the detective who was heading-up the murder investigation into Evelyn Hamilton four nights prior in Montagu Place, entered flat 1 at 187 Sussex Gardens. Although instantly shocked, as the small dark room hung heavy with the stench of steamy vomit as inexperienced officers struggled to cope with the sight, for Detective Inspector Clare, this was the all-too-familiar calling card of The Blackout Ripper.

As before, there was no sign of a struggle…

Feeling comfortable; reassured by his kind face, his sweet smile, his soft English voice and his twinkling blue eyes, Doris was lulled into a warm sense of security as she led the tall, handsome and fair-haired man into her bedroom. And although, like most of her clients, he had been drinking, he was charming, alluring and wearing the uniform of a military man; a hero, and in his company, she felt safe.

As she welcomed him in, Doris had already hung-up her long black fur-collared coat in the wardrobe, perched her black velvet hat and black leather handbag on the top shelf, and placed her black dress, stockings, brassiere and brown brogue shoes on a small wooden chair by the toasty warmth of the electric fire, and now she was dressed in nothing but a black quilted bathrobe.

With the small back bedroom comprising of a wardrobe, a dressing table, a chair and two twin beds placed a few inches apart, Doris sat on the bed farthest from the door, smoking a cigarette, as the man disrobed; shedding his long military great coat, unbuttoning his blue tunic, kicking off his heavy black rubber-soled boots and flinging-off his jauntily-worn woollen side-cap, which was emblazoned with a military insignia. And even though, his tie was crooked, his knuckles were scuffed, his breath smelled of whiskey and his belt was missing, having done this many times before, Doris didn’t feel threatened at all.

What happened next is unknown. As with her being a prostitute, with him being a punter and several male rubber contraceptives found scattered about the bed and floor, two of which had been unrolled and used, sex may have taken place. But with the bedroom floor littered with spent cigarette butts and neither of the condoms containing any semen, maybe (for whatever reason) sex didn’t take place. And yet, as far as we know, what happened next was unprovoked, unexpected and shocking.

With a swift hard blow across her left cheek, which fractured her jaw, rendered her giddy and knocked her to the bed, before she could scream for help, with his powerful thighs straddling her arms and torso, his full body weight pinning her down, as he reached across to the small wooden chair, he grabbed one of her black stockings, wrapped it around her neck, and with both hands, pulled it tight.

Gasping for air that wouldn’t inhale and screaming words which no-one would hear, as Doris stared up at the grinning maniac sat on top of her; with her face all purple and swollen, her vision fading to black as her pupils dilated and the whites of her eyes ruptured with blood, her left-handed attacker tied the tights in a knot under her left jaw, leaving a depression in her neck half an inch deep, which fractured her larynx, and compressed her tongue, tonsils and windpipe, and as she drifted in and out of consciousness, The Blackout Ripper proceeded to mutilate her body, whether she was dead or alive.

Using a razor-blade from her dressing table and another as-yet unidentified household weapon, with his victim suitably subdued and immobile, he took his time, savouring every moment, as he sliced a five inch slit from her stomach to her privates, slashed a three inch gash through her pubic hair, sunk the razor-blade deep into her genitals inflicting a six and a half inch wound in and across her vagina, and using two converging cuts, he carved a four inch slit around her left breast, which almost severed her nipple. The one saving grace being that – unlike his other victims – no candle, no torch, nor curling tongs were inserted into her vagina, as with the sheer terror of her agonising death causing her to wet herself, with the bed soaked in a pungent mix of blood and urine, he decided against it.

With his blood-lust sated, he calmly dressed; fastening his blue tunic and trousers, buttoning-up his brown shirt and tie, pulling on his large great coat, tying his black heavy boots and fixing (at a jaunty angle) his woollen side-cap. And needing to satisfy his greed, from her black leather handbag he stole roughly £5 worth of untraceable bank-notes and from her lifeless wrist he took a gold watch (given to Doris by her husband). As a crude memento of a delightful night, he pocketed her black fountain pen uniquely etched with her very identifiable initials of “DJ”, and (even more bizarrely), from her dressing table, he took her worthless greeny/blue comb with several teeth missing.

But before he left, he had one final act of humiliation to conduct upon the corpse of Doris Jouanett. Laying her lifeless body diagonally across the bed; with her black quilted bathrobe spread wide, her left arm outstretched, her right hand across her genitals, her swollen purple head hanging over the side of the bed, her tongue protruding and her bloodshot eyes gazing towards the door, he posed her lifeless body, as a grisly sight to greet the poor unfortunate who would come looking for her.

Having tidied his hair, straightened his tie and checked he hadn’t left any personal possessions behind; his wallet, his keys, his hat, his military ID, or anything stupid which would incriminate him, having been cautious not to leave any fingerprints, having wiped down anything he’d touched, and with no screams, no noise and no witnesses of any kind, he locked the bedroom door, disposed of the key, strolled out of 187 Sussex Gardens and onto the dark inky night The Blackout Ripper disappeared.

Across five nights, over four streets in London’s West End, four totally different and entirely unrelated women, for whatever reason, had been ripped, tortured and posed, by an unidentified sadistic maniac.

All had suffered the same fate; strangulation, mutilation and humiliation. All had been sliced, beaten and violated. All had been robbed, but only of untraceable bank notes, never of bank-books nor ration coupons. And although his sexual sadism compelled him to steal such high risk trinkets as a hanky etched with a unique laundry mark, an anniversary gift gold wrist watch, an initialled fountain pen and a monogrammed cigarette case containing a photo of the victim’s mother, none of these had been found. And with no physical sightings, no credible suspects, and no fingerprints which matched anyone on Scotland Yard’s entire Print Index, the Police were at a loss as to who this man was…

…and it’s here that his killing spree would cease.

Four women were dead: 41 year old pharmacist Evelyn Margaret Hamilton, 34 year old dancer, wife and sex-worker Evelyn Oatley, 43 year old veteran prostitute and mother Margaret Florence Lowe and 32 year old Doris Elizabeth Jouanett; a woman raised in such poverty, she would do anything to never be poor or hungry ever again, and yet her desperate need drove her to her own death.

And having been discovered at 7pm on Friday 13th February 1942, a full 18 hours later, although Doris Jouanett was the last women found, she wasn’t his fourth victim in his five day killing spree, she was his sixth. As barely an hour before Doris’ death, two unrelated women, on two different streets, in two separate parts of the West End, would become the fourth and fifth victims of The Blackout Ripper.

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

Don’t forget to join us next week for the fifth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Lustmordia; hosted by Leigh, Derek & Ginny, Lustmordia dives into the deeply macabre true-crime cases from around the world, whether The Chicago Ripper Crew, Robert Durst and the Beasts of Satan to name but a few, with lashing of fun, a solid dose of humour and giggles-a-plenty. Check out Lustmordia. (Play Promo)

A big thank you goes to my brand new Patreon supporters who get exclusive access to original Murder Mile content, including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases. They are Josie Miller, Alina Ayoshina, Stephani Schwarz, Karin Klooster, and an extra special friend who asked to remain nameless, and all of whom have asked me some personal questions, so here’s your answers: “never on a Sunday”, “occasionally in public”, “only in church”, “pants are optional” and “Vaseline is a must”. There you go, I hope that helps.

And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Outlines, hosted by Jess, Outlines is an incredibly well-researched, neatly-balanced and truly fascinating true-crime podcast which dives into many of Britain’s untold and unsolved murder cases. So if you’re looking for something different, and to hear about cases you never knew existed, checked out Outlines. Second is the infamous Minds of Madness, basically, if you haven’t heard about it yet? Why not. Tyler and Bek do such an amazing job, with this well-presented, finely-researched and heart felt true-crime podcast, that there’s a reason it’s being turned into a TV series? It’s really amazing. So check out Outlines and Minds of Madness on iTunes and all podcast platforms.

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

Next week’s episode… is part five of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: Murder MIle's series on The Blackout Ripper was taken entirely from all of the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, and too almost eight months to intensively research, so everything you hear is original and true.

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

• -7 by Cult With No Name (theme music)
• Yes People by Cult With No Name
• John Stockton Slow Drag by Chris Zabriski
• Global Warming by Kai Engel
• True by NCTRNM
• In Every Way by Cult With No Name
• Mercy by Kai Engel
• Not The Streets You Used to Walk – Philipp Weigl
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (theme, interstitials and outro)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)

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

• Dawn Chorus - https://freesound.org/people/sean.townsend/sounds/98371/
• Industrial Ambiance - https://freesound.org/people/Lewente/sounds/393398/
• Traction Engine - https://freesound.org/people/mike_stranks/sounds/407391/
• Steam Whistle - https://freesound.org/people/mike_stranks/sounds/407394/

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Love true-crime podcasts? Subscribe to Murder Mile on iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

EPISODE TWENTY SEVEN

Episode Twenty Seven: The Blackout Ripper Part 3: In the early hours of Wednesday 11th February 1942, 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe was found strangled and posed in her flat on 9/10 Gosfield Street (Fitzrovia), but her murder was uncannily similar to the murders of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley just two days before. Was a sadistic spree-killer on the loose?

• Date: Wednesday 11th February 1942
• Location: 9/10 Gosfield Street (Fitzrovia)
  
• Victims: 1 (Margaret Florence Lowe)
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATION

As some of the photos of the people or places discussed in this Blackout Ripper episode of Murder Mile are copyright protected by news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

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

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.

If you love true-crime podcasts, subscribe to the Murder Mile on iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Libsyn

INTRO: On 1st September 1939, following the Nazi annexation of Poland, Britain declared war on Germany, and in a brutal conflict which spanned four continents and raged for six years and one day, by the end of the Second World War, over seventy-three million people would be dead.

Being short on soldiers, the Military Training Act reinstated National Service and all healthy men, aged 18 to 41, with few exceptions, were conscripted into the Army, Navy and Air-Force, later extended to men up to 51, and all single women aged 20 to 30.

Although vital, conscription severely depleted Britain’s emergency services, and even though London’s Metropolitan Police force maintained a total of roughly 19500 officers for the duration of the war, their numbers were bolstered by inexperienced reservists, special constables and retired officers.

And with the already overworked Police officers burdened with new war-time duties including chasing deserters, enforcing the blackout and aiding the rescue effort after the Blitz, with crime rate in England having increased from 303,000 offences per year in 1939, to 478,000 in 1945, the depleted Police force struggled to stem a new flow of crimes such as looting, bootlegging and black market trades.

By 1942, at the height of the war, with the city in blackout and a population in fear as Nazi bombers loomed overhead, a new terror stalked the seedy streets of London’s West End, with an insatiable hatred of women, a thirst for blood and a hunger to slash, torture and kill.

No-one knew his name, no-one had heard his voice and no-one had seen his face, but over the last 24 hours, this sadistic maniac had strangled, posed and mutilated two seemingly unrelated women in two different parts of the West End - 41 year old pharmacist Evelyn Hamilton in an air-raid shelter on Montagu Place and 34 year old prostitute Evelyn Oatley in her flat on Wardour Street - at the start of what would become a five day killing spree. And tonight he would go in search of his next victim.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part three of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Gosfield Street, W1, in an upmarket residential area called Fitzrovia, north of Soho and barely a five minute walk from Wardour Street, Oxford Circus and Regent’s Park.

Being a small one-way side-street, lined with at least six trees, but no bushes, no grass and no flowers, no cats, no dogs and no birds, no stores, no cafes and no pubs, no shoppers, no buskers and no life whatsoever, Gosfield Street is quite possibly one of the most boring places in the West End.

And number 9/10 Gosfield Street is a prime example; as being a red and brown bricked six-storey mansion-house (which is really just a posh way of saying “a block of flats”), most residents must have an allergic reaction to pavements, as the only time they’re seen on the street is to slip into an Uber, scowl at a lost homeless man, shout at a dog-plop dropper, shoe-away an ASDA delivery truck having secretly disguised their cheapo shopping in Waitrose bags, and noisily shushed (whisper) a certain pot-bellied baldy-headed murder podcaster for daring to make a noise within earshot of their £1.1 million flat, having instantly devaluing it, simply because I’m a Brummy. “Y’alroit mayte?”

But back in 1942, 9/10 Gosfield Street truly was in a working class neighbourhood, full of underpaid and undervalued skilled and unskilled workers, whether seamstresses, waitresses, cobblers, tailors, bakers, maids and (of course) prostitutes. And today, as much as the elderly may crow that “the streets were much safer in my day, there was no crime, we all left our doors unlocked and everybody looked out for each other”, this is a story which would greatly dispute that. As flat 4 at 9/10 Gosfield Street was home of the third victim of The Blackout Ripper… and her name was Margaret Lowe. (Interstitial)

The early life of Margaret Lowe is as mysterious as her death. Being born on an unspecified date in 1899, Margaret Florence Campbell Burkett was the twin sister of Sidney, one of four siblings raised in the coastal town of Napier, in the Hawkes Bay region of New Zealand.

Living in a picturesque setting surrounded by clear skies, blue seas, sandy beaches and green fields, although they were not a wealthy family, through hard-work, struggle and dogged persistence, they lived a comfortable life in an idyllic part of the world, and everything was good. But for unfortunate reasons only known to them – whether sickness, bereavement or financial hardship - the entire family uprooted back to England, where life would only get poorer, harder and darker.

Having dramatically downsized from their own beautiful beachside home, to live in a shared lodging house amongst the industrial smog of Hoxton in East London, with an expanding family and an ever decreasing income, life got worse for the family, when their father was killed during the First World War, leaving behind a widowed mother with four young children, with no pension nor savings.

Dreaming of living a better life and shamed by the stench, poverty and squalor she lived in, Margaret left school with a limited education and spent five years toiling away in several unskilled dead-end jobs; for long hours, very little pay and no future. What happened in between is uncertain, but in 1919, 20 year old Margaret (under the alias of “Peggy Campbell”) was charged at Bow Street Magistrates Court, convicted of “living of the immoral earnings of prostitution” and was fined twenty shillings.

Shamed by her conviction, her sentence and the depths to which she had sunk, two years later, fate seemed to finally smile on Margaret, as having fallen in love with 40 year old Frederick George Lowe, a kindly widower who was 18 years her senior, on 11th October 1921, they married in the pretty market town of Rochford (in Essex), gave birth to a beautiful baby girl called Barbara and set-up a fancy dress shop in the nearby coastal town of Southend on Sea. And having returned to an idyllic life full of clear skies, blue seas, sandy beaches and green fields, once again, life was good.

But after 11 years of marital bliss, on the 14th December 1932, 51 year old Frederick George Lowe died, leaving Margaret a widower with a four year old daughter to raise alone. And although (unlike her late father) Frederick had savings and insurance to secure his family’s future; being wracked with grief, depression and alcoholism, with the shop shut-down, her home boarded-up and her daughter Barbara taken into care, Margaret had lost everything.

Within two years, Margaret had gone from being a happily married mother and a prosperous shop keeper to a homeless childless penniless alcoholic, and seeing no other option, she moved back to London, worked in a series of dead-end jobs in sleazy strip-clubs, and later returned to prostitution, where – a just few years later - she would die at the hands of The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial).

Between Monday 9th and Wednesday 11th February 1942, on three consecutive days, in three different streets within one mile of the West End, three women were murdered. But if their sadistic deaths was perpetrated by the same man, how does he know these women, and what connects them? 

(Typewriter): Birth place? This we can rule out as Evelyn Hamilton was born and raised near Newcastle in the north-east of England, Evelyn Oatley in Lancashire in the north-west, and Margaret Lowe in Napier in New Zealand and Hoxton in London, so none of them were childhood friends.

(Typewriter): Education? This we can rule out as with Hamilton being degree-educated at Edinburgh University, and Oatley and Lowe having left school with no qualifications, being raised in different counties and countries, almost eight years apart, none of them were school friends.

(Typewriter): Personality? Again, we can rule this out, as with Hamilton being a shy pharmacist, Oatley being a confident socialite and Lowe being a depressed alcoholic, even though they never lived on the same street, frequented the same pubs and (with the exception of occasional stays at the Three Arts Club for lectures) Hamilton never lived in London, so it’s highly unlikely they socialised together.

In fact, as three wildly dissimilar women, from different statuses, outlooks and situations, although they were all within one square mile of each other during those three fateful days, based on the hundreds of witness statements taken by the Police from anyone who knew them, there is no evidence – at all - that Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Lowe ever met or even knew each other, and the only time their names were linked together, was when they were murdered. (End Typing).

By 1942, 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe had been a West End prostitute for eight years, but as familiar as she was to sex-workers and servicemen alike, very little is known about her, as although she went by her alias “Peggy Campbell” and “Peggy Burkett”, she was known locally as “The Lady”.

Physically, Margaret was unremarkable; as being a portly woman of five foot five inches tall, with neck-length brunette hair and a side-parting, neat make-up, a maternal smile and a slightly bulbous nose (brought on by the effects of chronic alcoholism), she easily resembled any other Piccadilly prostitute, but as a person, “The Lady” was very much a woman of many contradictions.
Neatly dressed in polished black shoes, shiny black leather gloves, a black leather handbag, an elegant felt hat and a large fur coat, although Margaret had been convicted three times for “soliciting for sex” and “behaving in an indecent manner” (each time using a different alias), she always walked with her head held high as if she was a well-to-do lady, off for a night at the theatre.

As a plummy voiced woman with an indeterminately posh accent, who enunciated her h’s, said “whom” instead of “who”, “we” instead of “us” and “one” instead of “I”, although she’d never denigrate herself by swigging back a pint or picking up punters in the local pubs and clubs, she was often found drunk and tottering the kerbs of the West End, singing little ditties and slurring her words.

And as an obviously refined women full of airs-and-graces, who was too busy to stop, too posh to chat and too senior to socialise with anyone below her status, Margaret always walked alone; no friends, no joy, just drink; a sad lonely lady clinging onto the long-lost memory of a life which once was.

Unlike most prostitutes, Margaret didn’t have a patch, instead choosing to walk in a large square, right around Soho, from Shaftesbury Avenue, to Charing Cross Road, Oxford Street, Regent Street and back to Piccadilly Circus. And with her only working after 11pm, it was as if Margaret didn’t want to be seen.

Describing prostitution as a “dirty piece of work”; Margaret hated her job, resented her punters and only did the dirty deed to survive, but as a chronically depressed alcoholic, who had sold her body to earn money, earned money to buy booze and drank booze to dull her senses so she could earn more money by having sex, she was trapped in a vicious circle, of which there was no way out.

And although she was nicknamed “The Lady”; as a feisty, argumentative and belligerent boozer who wouldn’t stand for ill-manners, coarse language or any rough stuff, she was widely known to be a real tough cookie and a scrapper who could easily handle herself. And in an illegal job which involved inviting numerous strangers back to her flat, for sex, during the blackout? Being handy with her fists was a skill which – unfortunately for Margaret Lowe - came in very handy.

In the early hours of Friday 30th January 1942, just two weeks prior to her death, in Flat 4 on the ground floor of 9/10 Gosfield Street, Margaret was physically assaulted in her bed by a punter she had picked up in Piccadilly. Forcibly barging the Canadian soldier out of the door, with fists flailing and feet flying, Margaret screamed at the top of her lungs “Help! Murder! Police!” causing such a ruckus, it awoke her neighbours - Florence Bartolini (in flat 1) and Ralph George Stevens (in flat 2).

And although the Police were called, statements were taken and the worst of her injuries was a badly bruised chest, with the man having fled and Margaret unwilling to press charges (for fear of implicating herself in the illegal act of prostitution), the case was dropped and her attacker was never caught. One week later, Margaret was assaulted again. Two weeks later, she would be dead. (Interstitial).

Between roughly midnight and just after 1am on Monday 9th, Tuesday 10th and Wednesday 11th February 1942, three wildly different and unrelated women, who witnesses claim had never met, were strangled, posed and brutally murdered on different streets in London’s West End? But if these three women had died at the hands of the same man, why did he pick them? Did he have a type?

(Typewriter): Physically? All three women were between five foot one and five foot five inches in height, aged from their mid-thirties to early forties, and with none of them being either stunning, ugly or memorable in any way, the best way they can be described is “average” and “unremarkable”. And that’s where the physical similarities end; Evelyn Hamilton was an average-sized brunette, Evelyn Oatley was a slim blonde and Margaret Lowe was a portly brunette, although he clearly picked women that a taller/heavier man could overpower, he didn’t seem attracted to one type of woman.

(Typewriter): Geographically? The only similarities being that they were all murdered in the West End; with all three having died on different streets (Montague Place, Wardour Street and Gosfield Street); two having died in private flats, one in a public space; and with no witnesses or suspects of any kind, and only two fingerprints found which didn’t match a single felon on Scotland Yard’s Print Index, the Police had no idea who their killer / or killers were. And in a deeply confusing investigation made all the more impossible as with Evelyn Hamilton being murdered in Marylebone (known as D Division), and Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Lowe murdered in Soho and Fitzrovia (known as C Division), although they didn’t know this yet, two different Police departments were hunting the same murderer.

(Typewriter): And even with a wealth of witness statements from wide variety of reliable sources, the over-worked and understaffed Police force had no idea where any of these women were picked-up, who had approached them or how they had met their murderer? But what follows are the last known sightings of Margaret Florence Lowe.

On the morning of Tuesday 10th February 1942 – at roughly the same time that Police were examining an horrific crime scene (barely a few streets away) at 153 Wardour Street, involving a semi-clad lady, a razor blade, a can-opener and a trail of blood six feet long – Margaret walked into the butcher’s shop at 41 Great Titchfield Street (one street west of her home) and spoke to proprietor Emily Harries.

Unlike her usual grumpy, feisty and frumpy self, on this day Margaret was in a chipper mood, her dark mood lifted, as with the weekend approaching, Margaret’s daughter – no longer a sullen six year old placed into care at St Gabriel’s orphanage in Southend on Sea, but now a vivacious 15 year old who had blossomed into strong young woman – Barbara would be paying her mother a regular visit. The one good thing in Margaret’s miserable life and her last connection to happier times.

Excited at seeing her daughter, Margaret didn’t buy anything at the butchers, instead (using her weekly ration) she asked Emily to put aside some lamb’s livers, kidneys, bones and fat, so she could bake her baby a suet pudding. A real treat during the hardships of war-time England.

Sadly, being so solitary, the next confirmed sighting of Margaret wasn’t until 12:30am, a full thirteen hours later and roughly an hour before her death, it was also her last known sighting.

Kathleen Norah Clarke, a local sex-worker spotted the prostitute she knew only as “The Lady” strolling by Eros News Theatre on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus, heading by Monaco’s restaurant; where barely one night before, Evelyn Oatley had waved “goodnight” to Laura Denmark and Molly Desantos-Alves having picked-up a red-headed Corporal and a fair-haired Aircraftman.

As always, Margaret was alone; impeccably dressed in her polished black shoes, shiny black leather gloves, a black leather handbag, an elegant felt hat and a large fur coat, she smoked a cigarette from her silver cigarette case as she shimmied along the kerb-side, slightly tipsy, merrily singing to herself, her spirits high as (although the night was bitterly cold) she had got something to look forward to.

At approximately 1:10am, two independent witnesses living at 9/10 Gosfield Street - Florence Bartolini (in flat 1) and Ralph George Stevens (in flat 2), both basement flats situated below the communal door and Margaret’s ground-floor flat, heard the unmistakable sound of the lady they knew as “Mrs Lowe” unlock the door and quietly enter, accompanied by a man; and although they didn’t see him, his heavy footsteps had the dull thump of men’s boots, and his accent was unmistakably English.

Although their conversation were unintelligible; their voices were low, their tone was cordial and she welcomed the man into her flat, but – unusually for Margaret, who (witnesses state) “wasn’t the best of neighbours” and often kept the whole house awake by playing loud music on her gramophone in the dead of night to deaden the sounds of a sex-worker in action – after a brief chat and the clink of glasses, there was silence. After which, Florence and George fell asleep.

No-one heard any screams, shouts or cries. Nothing was broken, smashed or trashed. And – with the exception of Margaret - no-one saw his face. In fact, the only sound which heard that whole night was at an undetermined hour when bleary-eyed Florence Bartolini was briefly awoken by the heavy thud of a flat door being shut, the communal door being opened and a heavy booted man briskly walking into Gosfield Street and heading right in the direction of Baker Street, Warren Street or Regent’s Park.

And with these being the usual sounds heard nightly from the flat of a 43 year old alcoholic sex-worker, thinking nothing more of it, Florence rolled over and went back to sleep.

So, with very little eye-witness testimony and very few pieces of tangible evidence, what can we say (for certain) about the man who murdered Margaret Florence Lowe, (and possibly Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley), if this was him at all?

(Typewriter): She clearly felt comfortable and unthreatened in his presence, so either she knew him, liked him, or he didn’t look, sound or act like a man who (deep-down) was a sadistic sexual monster. If so, was he driven to kill by drugs, drink or mental illness? Was his hatred of women triggered by a childhood trauma having talked to Margaret? Or was he a maniac with a supreme level of self-control?

(Typewriter): Just like Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley, Margaret was alone when she was picked-up, often felt lonely and depressed, and had been drinking that night. And with all three women last seen in or near infamous West End restaurants – Hamilton in Maison Lyonese and Oatley & Lowe by Monaco’s – was he a regular there, with money to spend, drinks to be drank and girls to be chased?

(Typewriter): Clearly being confident, pleasant and approachable, who all three ladies felt safe with, was he a local man with a good knowledge of the West End streets, was he an experienced man used to chatting-up ladies and picking-up prostitutes, or was he the type of man you would instantly trust, whether a policeman, a fireman, an air-raid warden, a soldier, a sailor or an airman?

(Typewriter): And with Margaret being a feisty lady who was well-known to fend-off any fiends with fists and feet, just as Evelyn Hamilton had (her black scuffed shoes having kicked chunks of brick mortar off the inside of the air-raid shelter), had he learned his lesson, by striking fast and strangling first, giving himself ample time to sadistically mutilate their limp, dying and lifeless bodies?

Of course, with no sightings, no witnesses and no suspects, most of this would have been pure guess-work. And regardless of whether these murders were connected, if they were the work of the same sexual sadist, or if Margaret Florence Lowe was the third victim of The Blackout Ripper; as a lonely widow living alone in a single flat, with no friends and no close family, who spent her time surrounded by strangers, no-one knew she had even been murdered until almost three days later.

The next morning on Wednesday 11th February 1942 at 11am, Florence Bartolini spotted a brown paper parcel at the foot of the door of flat 4, delivered by the postman but (as of yet) uncollected and unopened. And with the large gift being addressed to Mrs Lowe and Florence’s day chockful of chores, she ignored it and left by the communal door, unaware of the unimaginable horror a few feet away.

When she returned, six hours later, the parcel was still there. The next morning it was still there. And the next evening it was still there. And as the residents from nine different flats, all walked by, spied the parcel, stared at it quizzically, commenting about how unusually quiet flat 4 was; with no yelling, no music and heavy-booted men waking them up at all hours of the night, still no-one did anything.

On Friday 13th February at 3:50pm, having caught the train from Southend-on-Sea, eager to stay the weekend, see the sights and tuck into the delicious suet pudding her mum had promised to bake, 15 year old Barbara Joan Lowe, entered 9/10 Gosfield Street and knocked on the door of flat 4…

…but here was no reply. She knocked again. Nothing. Having spotted a brown paper parcel at her feet, post-marked with Monday’s date, Barbara queried with the neighbours who confirmed it was odd that they hadn’t seen or heard from her mother in days, and gripped with a queasy feeling of dread, Barbara called the Police.

At 4:30pm, Detective Sergeant Leonard Blacktop of C Division from West End Central police station on nearby Saville Row arrived at 9/10 Gosfield Street to investigate the possible disappearance of a 43 year old alcoholic, nothing more. Unable to access flat 4 owing to a locked door and Barbara having no key, DS Blacktop deduced that most alcoholics (prone to lapses in memory) would likely keep a spare key nearby, and having found one under her doormat, the detective entered the flat.

On initial inspection, although (with the lights off, the electricity metre money having ran out and the windows covered in blackout curtains) the flat was in total darkness, but as DS Blacktop shone his torch around her tiny congested sitting room, nothing seemed disturbed, out-of-place or damaged.

As he walked along the thin dark passageway towards the cramped kitchenette in the backroom, DS Blacktop noticed what looked like the contents of her handbag, strewn across the kitchen table; a few letters, three ration books, a pink lipstick, two Yale keys and a six-inch metal torch, but no money, no handbag and (unusually for a heavy smoker) no cigarette case. As well as a bottle of stout, which was three quarters full, but no glasses. And with the kitchen cupboards opened, rifled and their contents scattered, spilling all manner of cutlery (including forks, knives and a can-opener) across the work-surfaces, it looked like a burglary, but so far, there was still no sign of Margaret.

The only room left to try was her bedroom. With the door locked, no suitable key found and three days having passed, with Barbara’s permission, DS Blacktop forced her bedroom door. And although the room was dark, in the middle, lying on her bed, he saw the unmistakable sight of the strangled and mutilated body of 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe.

Having escalated the case up to Chief Inspector Edward Greeno of Scotland Yard, this was now no longer a hunt for a missing person, this was a murder investigation.

In an unnervingly similar crime scene to that of Evelyn Oatley, it didn’t look as if a struggle had taken place; the coal fire had been on, the bedside lamp was off, her clothes were neatly folded and placed on a wooden chair, and on the mantelpiece was a half full glass of stout, which two people had shared. In fact, the only detritus in the room was a used condom and the broken handle of a fire poker.

Just like Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Lowe was semi-clad and lying flat on her back; her lifeless body spread diagonally across her double divan bed, as resting on a blood-soaked pillow was her purple swollen head, as the wide inky black pupils of her bloodshot eyes stared vacantly towards the door.

And as before, his attack was swift, violent and shocking, as having struck Margaret across the left side of her face, head and jaw with a metal fire-poker, he used such force that the poker broke. With his victim suitably subdued, grabbing a black stocking off the chair, he tied the taut nylon so tightly, it left a one inch indentation around her neck, and having securely knotted it, with the blood forcing her swollen purple face to rupture and mucus to seep from her nose and mouth, as she gasped her last few gulps of air, during her last few moments alive, he set about mutilating the rest of her body.

With her nightdress rucked-up around her bare breasts, her legs spread wide and her knees drawn-up to her hips, lying between her thighs (as if he was showing off his trophies) was a white handled bread knife, a black handled table knife, a potato peeler and a broken piece of fire-poker.
Across her abdomen was a five inch wound, so deep it exposed her intestines and sliced her uterus. Along her right thigh was a ten inch slash, so deep it severed her great saphenous vein, bleeding so profusely her bed was soaked with blood. And all of which he did when she was either alive, dying or unconscious. And in a final act of humiliation, with her electric metal torch in the kitchen and nothing else to hand, he inserted a six inch candle deep into her vagina, almost as if it was his birthday.

The autopsy of Margaret Florence Campbell Lowe was conducted at Paddington Mortuary (once again) by Sir Bernard Spilsbury in the presence of Chief Inspector Edward Greeno, and the similarities between all three victims were unnerving. 

They’d all been robbed; as having found Margaret’s handbag hidden behind a paper carrier-bag in the kitchenette, the bank books and anything identifiable remained, but her money was missing.
They all had items stolen; from Evelyn Hamilton he’d taken a handkerchief and a pencil, from Evelyn Oatley an initialled silver cigarette case, and from Margaret Lowe, also a silver cigarette case. And yet, if he truly was a sexual sadist, why didn’t he steal souvenirs like panties, bras and stockings?

Although violated, none of these women had been raped; as with no semen found in any of their vaginas and a discarded condom found on Margaret’s bed, did sex take place, or was he incapable?

They had all been mutilated; both pre-and-post mortem, using a strange selection of knives, razors and kitchen cutlery (including a can opener and a potato peeler), none of which he’d brought with him, instead making-do with whatever was to hand, suggesting their murders weren’t premeditated?

They had all been violated; having inserted various objects into their vaginas, including (possibly) a metal torch with Evelyn Hamilton, a metal torch and (potentially) a set of curling tongs with Evelyn Oatley and a six inch candle and (potentially) a fire-poker with Margaret Lowe, none of which he’d brought with him, instead – once again - making-do with whatever was to hand?

And they had all been strangled; and although he’d changed his MO, having manually strangled Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley with his hand, and garrotted Margaret Lowe with a black stocking, by the way he had left it tied around her neck, once again, the Police knew that the attacker was left-handed.

Margaret Florence Lowe was unmistakably his third victim. And again, he had made a big mistake. As Superintendent Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s Print Bureau had dusted the crime-scene and found three sets of his fingerprints; one on the base of the candlestick (having removed the candle to violate her), one on the bottle of spout (which he’d poured in the kitchen) and one on the half full glass of stout he had left on the mantelpiece, featuring both of their fingerprints and suggesting they had shared a final drink. And although they didn’t match any on the Police index files, the fingerprints matched those found on the can-opener and the compact mirror which belonged to Evelyn Oatley.

But by the time of Margaret Lowe’s autopsy, it was too late. As with her mutilated body having lay undiscovered for three days, and the Police only aware of two unrelated murders in two different streets, they had no idea that a sadistic spree-killer was on the loose.

So by Thursday 12th February 1942, four days into his five day killing spree, with three women dead, and three unsuspecting women walking the streets, unaware of the horror which awaited them, he headed back into the West End, and The Blackout Ripper would go in search of his next victim.

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

Don’t forget to join us next week for the fourth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

I have some exiting news! The Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast has been nominated in the Best True-Crime Podcast category at this year’s British Podcast Awards, alongside those titans of documentary-making BBC World Service and BBC Radio (yes, the company who made me redundant almost five years ago), as well as two fabulous independent UK true-crime podcasts; They Walk Among Us (who were deservedly last year’s winners) and (this year’s nubies, just like myself) S’laughter True Crime Podcast. Both of whom are hugely deserving of this very prestigious award, owing to their hard work, research, dedication and commitment to the spirit of independent podcasting. And even if Murder Mile doesn’t win the award, I’m honoured to be included amongst this amazing group, and this will truly be a big win for all of us independent podcasters.

The awards are held on Saturday 19th May 2018, and although the true-crime award is voted for by an industry panel, you can vote for your favourite true-crime podcast in the Listener’s Choice Award. To support independent podcasters, click on the link in the show-notes.

A big thank you goes out this week to our brand new Patreon s upporters who – by donating just $3 a month (that £2 in real money) – are ensuring the future of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast and receiving lots of fabulous goodies including crime scene photos, murder location videos and exclusive Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 episodes. So a hearty thank you to Marie Harris, Mike Featherstone and Melanie Gudgel, who (oddly) have messaged me to ask if (in return) I could bump off their bosses. Sadly, that’s not a Patreon service I offer, yet, but I will be sending you all a complimentary spade, bin-bags, a ripsaw and a large bucket of quicklime. Any problems with disposal, give me a call. And with a special donation from a mate from Australia. Gday.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Mens Rea; hosted by Sinead, Mens Rea is a fortnightly true-crime podcast based in Ireland and the UK, many of which you won’t have heard of, and all of which is meticulously researched, wonderfully told and is always fascinating, insightful and gripping. If you love true-crime, which makes you go “wow”, check out Mens Rea (MENS REA). Check out the promo).

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

Next week’s episode… is part four of our series into The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: The Blackout Ripper series for Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using all of the original declassified police investigation files form the National Archive.

With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution), and additional music used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive, with all additional tracks written & performed by various artists.

• -7 by Cult With No Name (theme tune)
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (interstitials and outro)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• Plague by Kai Engel
• The Scent of Cedars by Philipp Weigl
• Night III by Swelling
• Shake Hands With The Devil by Cult With No Name
• True by NCTRNM
• Concern by NCTRNM
• Fly in the Ointment by Cult With No Name
• Oecumene Sleeps by Kai Engel
• Cold War Echo by Kai Engel

With additional sounds supplied by Freesound.org, a fabulous repository of free sound effects, available to use under the Free Attribution Agreement. Credits include:

• Snoring - https://freesound.org/people/poorenglishjuggler/sounds/182758/
• Seaside - https://freesound.org/people/Quistard/sounds/166838/
• Seaside 2 - https://freesound.org/people/Carlvus/sounds/182602/
• Ship & Horn - https://freesound.org/people/hoersturz/sounds/173981/
• Factory - https://freesound.org/people/viertelnachvier/sounds/249637/
• Typewriter - https://freesound.org/people/170134/sounds/407709/
• Bell & Return - https://freesound.org/people/knufds/sounds/345955/

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 featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Love true-crime podcasts? Subscribe to Murder Mile on iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

EPISODE TWENTY SIX

Episode Twenty Six: The Blackout Ripper Part 2: On 10th February 1942, 34 year old Evelyn Oatley was found strangled, posed and mutilated in her flat at 153 Wardour Street in a murder strangely similar to Evelyn Hamilton, just one night before. Was this coincidence, or was there a sadistic spree-killer on the loose in Soho?

• Date: Monday 10th February 1942
  
• Location: 153 Wardour Street (now demolished)
  
• Victims: 1 (Evelyn Oatley)
  
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATIONS

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

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

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

If you love true-crime podcasts, subscribe to the Murder Mile on iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Libsyn

INTRO: One year into the Second World War, German chancellor Adolf Hitler and the Nazi high-command sought to deplete, destroy and demoralise Britain with a series of devastating bombing raids, beginning with what the Luftwaffe called ‘Unternahmen Seeschlange’ (or Operation Sea-snake); a terrifying attack from the clouds, so fast and so deadly, that the British people referred to it by the German word for “lightening”, they called it ‘The Blitz’.

Between 7th September 1940 and 11th May 1941, over 57 days and nights, German bombers rained down over 41000 tonnes of high explosives, incendiary devices and parachute mines, as well as deadly V1 (and later V2) rockets onto Britain’s industrial cities, their terrifying tactics designed to frighten the people into submission and bring Britain to its knees. 

By 1942, Britain had suffered its worst defeat, as the allied troops retreated to Dunkirk as Nazi troops had taken France, all that stood between Britain and surrender was the English Channel. The people were hungry, the people were tired, and the people were scared.

But amidst the smoky bombed-out inferno of London’s West End, with a blackout in-force which plunged the soot-covered city into a perpetual darkness, as the petrified populous scoured the skies for German mass-murderers who loomed above… a person of pure evil stalked the city streets.

In the early hours of Monday 9th February 1942, Evelyn Hamilton; a shy and timid pharmacist who had celebrated her 41st birthday alone, was found strangled in an air-raid shelter in Montagu Place. With her handbag and £20 missing, was this a robbery which had gone wrong? With slashes on her breasts and genitals but no semen in her vagina, was this a failed attempted rape? With her corpse looking as if it had been posed, was this the grisly calling-card of a sexual sadist? The Police were perplexed.

And with no fingerprints, no witnesses and no suspects of any kind, and a confusing mix of mismatched evidence including a pack of Master’s safety matches, fragments of brick mortar and a broken metal torch, all the Police knew of her killer was that he was left-handed.

Initially the Police thought this was just a one-off attack, a crime of passion, but little did they know that they had a serial sexual sadist and spree-killer in their midst… and his killings had only just begun.

Over five days, six unrelated women across different parts of London’s West End would be brutally attacked with escalating levels of sadism, torture and violence. It started with Evelyn Hamilton, but with his bloodlust unquenched, just one day later, he would go in search of his next victim.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part two of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Wardour Street, back in the heart of Soho; one road east of Broadwick Street, one road west of Old Compton Street, and barely a one minute walk from the murder sites of deadly dentist Isador Zeifert, shadowy sex-worker Margaret Cook, sweet-faced fanny-seller Ginger Rae, crazy cock-chopper William Stoltzer and chronic Canadian willy-fiddler Richard Rhodes Henley.

Sadly, this unsightly side of Wardour Street has been stripped of its soul and replaced by nosh-shops for numpties, takeaways for twits and wanky eateries for the anally retentive; which somehow survive by selling one type of food (whether ham, fish or humus), by avoiding one type of food (whether meat, wheat or milk), by rebranding buffets as street food, salads as main meals, sandwiches as a some kind of luxury, and where cigar-shops flog-off thirty quids worth of old rolled leaves to non-smokers who light-up, lean back and aim to act cool, slick and aloof, but instead look green, sick and queasy.

And although, by the 1940’s, this side of Soho was full of drafty bombed-out hardly habitable terraces, only suitable as homes for the less fortunate, many of which have since been demolished, it was here at 153 Wardour Street, that an ambitious woman called Evelyn Oatley came to London to seek her fame and fortune, but instead found infamy… as the second victim of The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

Born Evelyn Judd on 5th April 1907 in Earby in Lancashire; a small rural town hidden in the barren wilds of the former West Yorkshire dales, its chief occupations being lead-mining and farming, with a population of roughly 70 families and six times as many cows, sheep and pigs. Raised by her beloved mother (Rosina), busy father and one brother, although her childhood was poor but pleasant, for young Evelyn, Earby was an industrial eyesore in dull rural setting where the air hung with soot and the strong stench of manure, a far cry the bright lights of London’s West End.

Desperate to escape, to act, to sing, to dance and blossom into Shaftesbury Avenue’s latest sensation, selling out theatres every night and surrounded by adoring fans, lackeys and lovers, Evelyn’s hopes were dashed early, as with Earby not blessed with a single playhouse, drama school and no theatre producers driving-by eager for a new blonde ingénue to headline his latest West End show, and maybe later Broadway and even Hollywood too, Evelyn left school aged 14, with no skills nor qualifications and drifted into a series of dead-end jobs, trapped by isolation and circumstance.

Still dreaming of being famous and adored, aged 15, unmarried Evelyn gained local notoriety by becoming pregnant by an unknown man, a big scandal in early 1920’s, so unable to support the child alone, Evelyn’s daughter was put up for adoption, later living her life somewhere in Canada.

In 1932, 25 year old Evelyn Judd met Harold Mollinson Oatley; a kind, loving and sweet-natured poultry farmer who could provide her with a good life, full of love, money and a sweet little bungalow on Rover Road in the larger (but equally isolated) town of Thornton, Lancashire. But Evelyn didn’t want to be a chicken-farmer’s wife, she wanted to be an actress, so being too timid to dissuade her of the dangers of big-city life and hoping that she’d eventually see sense, get the acting bug out of her system and come back to marry him, Harold financed Evelyn’s trip to London to fulfil her dreams.

In late 1934, 27 year old Evelyn Judd, moved into a cheap and tiny lodging on Great Portland Street (at the back of Oxford Circus) and having adopted the stage-name of Lita Ward, she eked-out a meagre living as a nightclub hostess, a dancer in disreputable theatres and even at Soho’s infamous Windmill Theatre, where every night topless girls jiggled their tits and swung their tassels to crowds of drunk drooling deadbeats. To most people, Evelyn’s new lifestyle may have seemed cheap, tacky and low-rent, but as a country-girl from a remote northern town whose ambitions had been crushed for 27 long years, now she was embracing every ounce of big city life, and finally, her dream had come true.

But by March 1936, after 16 months in the bright lights of the West End; fame hadn’t come calling (for this almost 30 year old topless dancer), work had dried up (as younger legs and prettier faces scored all the best roles) and with her money having ran-out, Evelyn returned to the poultry-farm, where just a few months later on 25th June 1936, she married Harold, and became Mrs Evelyn Oatley.

As predicted, married-life wasn’t for Evelyn; she found no joy staying-in every night playing Scrabble with her homebody husband, no peace being tucked-up in bed with a book by 9pm and no reward cleaning crap out of the chicken coops, as having tasted the excitement of the big city, she knew she wanted more. Trapped in a dull life of squawking birds, in local hotels under an assumed name, Evelyn started clandestine affairs with married men and continued to live and work in London, all under the nose of Harold who was too ineffectual to stop her and too dull to offer her an alternative.

One year later; with money tight, tensions fraught and his poultry-farm having gone out of business, even though he’d been forced to move into his Aunt’s house in nearby Cleveleys (in Lancashire), as desperate as Harold was to please his wayward wife, although they remained married and stayed in-touch, Evelyn returned to London, knowing she would never be a big star, but loving the nightlife.

By February 1939, with Britain on the brink of World War Two, Evelyn Oatley had moved into a tiny one-roomed flat on the first-floor of 153 Wardour Street; a simple four-storey terrace house with the ground-floor of five houses converted into a motorcar showroom called Shaw & Kilburn.

And although she shared a kitchen and a bathroom with five other flats and her small room was simply furnished with a double-divan bed, a sofa, an armchair, a table, a wash-stand, a wireless radio and a gas fire (with a coin-slot metre), even though she kept some plates and cutlery in her wardrobe, mostly she’d eat out, spending her nights drinking, dancing and attracting the attention of men.

With her dancing roles having dried-up, and the adulation and applause of audiences over, Evelyn wanted a gentleman admirer to sweep her off her feet; a moneyed man who would lavish her with gifts, flowers, love and trinkets. And having a lust for “real men”, who were tall and toned, with easy smiles, kind blue eyes and neatly dressed in a military uniforms - whilst still married - Evelyn had several boyfriends, all of whom Harold knew about, and none of whom looked like him.

As World War Two broke, a blackout was enforced and British and Canadian servicemen flooded the West End with money to spend, drinks to be drunk and girls to be chased, Evelyn should have had the pick of the crop, but too often, having got her heart broken by these heartless heroes, every time this would happen Harold would always be there as a shoulder to cry on and to pick up the pieces.

And as much as they remained close, with Harold travelling the 12 hour round-trip from Lancashire to London, every few weeks, he naively believed that his beloved wife worked as a nightclub hostess and a dancer in the West End theatres, but for the last six years, ever since they had been married, Evelyn Oatley (known locally as Lita Ward) had earned herself a living as a Soho prostitute.

Being 5 foot 1 inches tall, 7 stone in weight, with dark blonde curly hair, blue eyes and a cheeky smile; Evelyn was well regarded amongst Soho’s sex-workers as fun, honest and generous. And as a confident woman, Evelyn had no qualms about picking-up punters and bringing them back to her flat for drinks and sex, but being flirtatious and charming, she was also adept at luring any potential sugar-daddies to not just spend the night, but also the day after, with free meals, expensive gifts and shopping trips.

And as much as Evelyn was a woman of morals; who never stole from a customer, never worked on Sundays and only picked-up punters on her patch; she was also a heavy drinker of Scotch, not picky about which men she picked up, and (according to a close-friend) she was a desperately lonely lady who craved attention, feared solitude and longed to be loved.

The last time Harold saw Evelyn was on Tuesday 3rd February 1942 at Euston Station, as from the train which took him back to Lancashire he waved his beloved wife “goodbye”; hoping one day that she would come back to him and never realising that the next time he would see her… she would be dead.

Six days later, on the morning of Monday 9th February 1942, in an air-raid shelter on Montagu Place (barely one mile from Wardour Street), the strangled and mutilated body of Evelyn Hamilton would be found. Police thought it was a one-off, but with his sadism still unsated, that evening, The Blackout Ripper would stalk the West End looking for his next victim… her name was Evelyn Oatley. (Interstitial)

The evening of Monday 9th February 1942 was bitterly cold as an icy wind blew from the east, swirling the freshly settled snow down the half empty streets of the West End. On her regular patch - a stretch of pavement from Lawley’s fine-bone china shop on Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus – Evelyn paced back-and-forth to keep herself warm, the piping hot bowl of vegetable stew and a quick shot of Scotch that she’d just polished off in The Leicester Arms pub, straining to keep out the cold.

Dressed fashionably in a bright red jumper, a tweet two-piece jacket and skirt, black boots, a black leather handbag and a black woollen hat, her top decorated with three brooches; one yellow, one red and one in white metal, her style was impossible to see as with the night being so infernally cold, Evelyn had her knee-length black coat buttoned-up to her neck.

And with business being bad and boredom creeping in, amidst the miserable darkness of the blackout (as switched-off for the full duration of the war were the famous lights of Piccadilly Circus), Evelyn stood in the doorway of Lawley’s, illuminated by the red-hot tip of her cigarette, which was taken from her stylish white metal cigarette case, etched with her initials ‘LW’ (short for Lita Ward, a sole reminder of her lost acting ambition) and inside, a photo of her beloved mother “Rosina”.

Feeling cold and lonely, Evelyn wouldn’t be choosey about who she picked-up, as all money was good and she just wanted to head home, pop on the fire and hop into bed. But soon she would be cold for a very different reason, and what follows would be the last known sightings of Evelyn Oatley.

At 10:15pm, on the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus; two Soho prostitutes and close pals of Evelyn - one a blonde called Laura Denmark and a brunette called Molly Desantos Alves - waved to their friend as she stood outside of Lawley’s smoking. With both Laura and Molly having been chatted-up by two tall, slim and handsome (if slightly sozzled) RAF servicemen from the Royal Air Force Reception Centre in Regent’s Park, they took the men back to their flats; Molly headed to Denham Street with the red-headed Corporal and Laura headed to Frith Street with the fair-haired Aircraftman.

At 11:00pm, outside by Monico’s (a reputable late-night restaurant once used as a pick-up place for sex-workers and servicemen) on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus; a part-time waitress and prostitute called Ann Carew saw Evelyn, who she knew as Lita Ward, chatting to a Canadian soldier dressed in a khaki battledress. Although cold, she seemed chatty and only a little bit tipsy, and seeing Ann, she waved, wished her a “goodnight” and guided the military man towards her flat through the dark-lit streets of Soho, guided solely by the dim light of her six inch metal torch.

At a little after 11:20pm, Icy Cecilia Poole, a fun-fair attendant and Evelyn’s neighbour who lived in the adjoining flat on the first floor of 153 Wardour Street saw Evelyn escorting a man up the wooden staircase. But he wasn’t Canadian or in khaki battledress, but a young tall and pasty civilian in a brown suit with horn-rimmed glasses. And although he wasn’t Evelyn’s type; as the night was cold, money was money, and – with most men’s sexual prowess being less like a stud-muffin and more like a “two pumps and squirt merchant” – she knew he’d only need a few minutes until he was done, before she would head-out again and pick-up another punter.

As Evelyn closed the wooden door marked with a metal plate which read “Lita Ward”, Ivy heard Evelyn and the young man chat, as with their penny-pinching landlord having split one large room in half with two folding doors to create two small flats, the walls were wafer-thin and Ivy could hear everything.

Sharing such a small space, Evelyn was always so considerate of noise, but that night she wasn’t. Instead, switching her bedside radio from news to music, she turned up the volume until the recognisable sounds of the couple’s mumbling, fumbling and groaning was drowned-out, and eager to sleep, Ivy popped in her earplugs, placed her pillow over her head and nodded off around midnight

That was the last time that 34 year old Evelyn Oatley was heard, or seen alive, ever again.

The next morning, on Tuesday 10th February 1942 at 8:20am, with her room all dark and silent, Ivy had slept so soundly over the last eight hours that she barely heard a loud banging on her door. Alerted to the noise by her startled cat, Ivy groggily unlocked the door to see the familiar face of Charles Victor Fleming of the Central London Electricity Company, who – along with his assistant George Kenny Carter - were here to read each flat’s electricity metres and collect this month’s shillings from the coin-slot. It was just an ordinary day, for three ordinary people, going about their ordinary lives.

As with Ivy (who was still sporting her bathrobe and slippers), George knocked loudly on Evelyn’s door, but with it barely being an hour after dusk, he got no reply. Knocking louder, George noticed the door was ajar, but as a timid young man who was too polite to simply barge into a strange lady’s boudoir uninvited and risk seeing things a young man should never see like frilly things and her ladies monthly unmentionables, George continued to knock.

Sensing the shy youth’s frustration and sporting some awful bed-hair, Ivy tapped loudly enquiring “are you there, dear?” as she pushed open the door. With the windows blacked-out, the lights off, the fire out and the last shilling in the electricity metre having been spent, as much as Ivy flicked the light switches, the flat remained in pitch black. But as they entered the flat and their eyes adjusted to the dark, it was clear that they weren’t alone; someone was there, lying on the bed, all silent and still. And as George Carter flicked on his torch to see who it was, as the dull light illuminated the shape on the bed, he stopped, blinked and gasped, having seen a sight which no-one should ever see.

First on the scene at 8:35am was Inspector John Hennessey of West End Central Police Station, having spent the night at the Police section house on Broadwick Street (one street behind), who secured the scene to ensure nothing was touched, followed by Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey and Divisional Surgeon Dr Alexander Baldie at 8:50am, and Divisional Detective Inspector Charles Gray at 9:15am.

With no windows open, no fire on and the female victim – a five foot one inch mid-thirties blonde – in the early stages of rigour-mortis, Dr Baldie recorded that she’d been dead for at least 4 hours. And although the name on the door read ‘Lita Ward’, she was quickly identified as Evelyn Oatley,
What startled the Police (beyond the sickening extent of her horrific injuries) was how tidy the room was; nothing was tipped over, very little was broken and there didn’t seem to have been a struggle. In fact, almost everything seemed to be just as Evelyn had left it just a few hours before. It was almost as if she had welcomed her attacker in; had known him, liked him, or simply felt comfortable with him, and yet this shocking attack had come out of the blue.

On the mantelpiece, where she always kept them, Evelyn had placed the keys to her flat. On the sofa were her clothes, neatly placed and ready to be re-worn; a bright red jumper, a black hat and a tweet two-piece jacket and skirt. On an armchair she’d placed her black boots, a slip, a brassiere and a pair of black stockings by the fire, drying after a long cold night. And in the right-hand side of her wardrobe (where she always put it) was her black knee-length coat, along with her black leather handbag.

Oddly, the only damage in the whole room was the wardrobe’s lock, which (although the key was still in it) had been violently broken off; Evelyn’s handbag had been removed, the zip fastener opened and the contents strewn over the sofa. And whoever her attacker was, he’d ignored her bank books and ration coupons, and only stole two items; roughly £20 (£600 today) from her brown leather purse and her white metal cigarette case, etched with her initials ‘LW’ and a photo of her mother inside.

Was this a robbery? Was this a burglary? Was this a rape? The Police were perplexed. But whoever it was who had attacked her, had a deep-rooted hatred for either prostitutes, women or Evelyn Oatley, as not only was her attack brutal and sickening, but her torture was prolonged and humiliating.

In the centre of the room, with the headboard against the wall, between two blacked-out windows, was her double divan bed. Lying face-up and sprawled diagonally across her freshly made sheets was the cold corpse of Evelyn Oatley, her body splayed and posed, with her thin cotton vest and a silk nightdress rolled up, exposing her legs, genitals, lower torso and breasts.

With no-one having heard her scream and the bruised outlines of a thumb and four fingers across her throat and neck, Evelyn was initially strangled by hand in an unprovoked attack, which trapped her windpipe, crushed her vocal chords and made her more pliable, as although she drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few minutes, what happened next, was done whilst she was still alive.

With her head slumped backward, hanging over the side of the bed, using the 2 inch blade of an Ever-Ready razor, a five and a half inch wound was cut, from her right ear to her voice-box, so deep it exposed her throat, split open her jugular vein and left a six foot trail of blood to the door.

As Evelyn clutched onto her last few moments alive, being immobile as her body was drained of blood, her bare legs were splayed wide. And (as with Evelyn Hamilton) although there was no semen found in her vagina, in and around her genitals were a series of twelve unusual wounds; some less than half an inch long, one more than three and a half inches long, but all were rough jagged tears, made using an old-style kitchen can-opener with a sharp hooked claw.

But his sadism hadn’t stopped there, as having placed the metal can-opener next to her left knee, and posed the blood-soaked razorblade next to Evelyn’s ghostly white face, as well as an ominous set of blood-stained curling tongs, her sadistic killer – not content with her torture and humiliation – had inserted, four inches deep, her six inch metal torch into her open and exposed vagina.

The autopsy of Evelyn Oatley was conducted that day by Sir Bernard Spilsbury, home office pathologist (and father of forensic science), who just 24 hours earlier had examined the body of Evelyn Hamilton and although there were differences between both attacks; their ages, hair colour, occupations and the location of their deaths (with one in public and the other at home), the similarities were striking.

Both women were lonely and alone. Both women were in the West End. Both women had been robbed of roughly £20. Neither woman had been raped. Both had been posed, both had been exposed, both had unusual cuts to their genitals, and non-specific internal injuries to their vaginas, one made using a six inch metal torch, and the other within sight of an eight inch metal torch. And although both women were called Evelyn, the Police put this down as possibly just a coincidence. But in each case, although the Police wouldn’t know this yet, their murderer had taken a souvenir.
Was this the same man, or merely chance? Was this a spree-killer, or a strikingly similar attack? With Evelyn Oatley’s long fingernails being unbroken, they knew her attacker was swift. With bruise marks on their necks, Police knew they’d both been strangled by a left-hander. And although, Superintendant Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s Print Bureau had found a left thumb print on Evelyn Oatley’s compact mirror (touched as her killer rifled her handbag for money) and a left little finger print on the metal can-opener he had used to mutilate his latest victim, none of his prints were on file.

If the same man had murdered both women, the Police wouldn’t have time to even contemplate the horror of a spree-killer in their midst; as with his violence escalating, his bloodlust pumping and his sadism unsated, he was only two days into his five day killing spree, and as darkness fell over London, once again, he headed into Soho, as The Blackout Ripper went in search of his next victim.

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

Don’t forget to join us next week for the third part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is True-Crime Enthusiast, hosted by Paul, True-Crime Enthusiast is a fantastic dive into the UK’s most twisted, deranged and disturbing murderers, presented with a disarmingly charming style, Paul lures you in with his jovial friendly banter, only to bludgeon you over the head with truly disturbing and utterly baffling true-crime tales from the lesser known annals of UK murder, all of which will make you gasp, grin, guffaw and maybe even gag. Check out True-Crime Enthusiast. (Play Promo)

A big thank you goes to my brand new Patreon supporters who get exclusive access to original Murder Mile content, including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases. What lucky people! They are the fabulous Hannah Mirza (who has been a dream on social media, so thank you Hannah), the wonderful Elizabeth Nazaralli (who loves murder so much, she’s willing to pay $3 a month to see more) and someone called Helene Buchanan-Dunne (who loves Murder Mile so much, she’s stolen my surname and some of my DNA – I think – either that or she’s my sister). To join the Murder Mile Patreon group, click the link in the show-notes.

And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Asian Madness Podcast, hosted by Melissa, the Asian Madness Podcast unearths some truly unsettling mysteries, madness, weirdness and worrying weirdos from right across Asia. And second is Southern Fried True-Crime, hosted by Erika, Southern Fried True-Crime explores some truly fascinating true-crime tales from America’s Deep South; the states where banjos play, whiskey flows and the homespun charm is alluring, but underneath it all, murderers lurk. Check them both out on iTunes and all podcast platforms.

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

Next week’s episode… is part three of our series into The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: Murder MIle's series on The Blackout Ripper was taken entirely from all of the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, and too almost eight months to intensively research, so everything you hear is original and true.

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

• -7 by Cult With No Name (theme music)
• The Way You’re Looking At Me by Cult With No Name
• Acid Jazz by Kevin MacLeod
• Operation Failed by Cult With No Name
• Remedy for Melancholy by Kai Engel
  
• Faster Does It by Kevin MacLeod
• True by NCTRNM
  
• July by Kai Engel

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

• Cockerill - https://freesound.org/people/cclaretc/sounds/164064/
• Bed springs - https://freesound.org/people/StinkhornAdrian/sounds/390515/

• Steam train - https://freesound.org/people/keithpeter/sounds/125211/

• Old car - https://freesound.org/people/juskiddink/sounds/77096/
• Old car horn - https://freesound.org/people/daveincamas/sounds/43801/

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 featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk