BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
58 Charteris Road in Kilburn, as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR:
Today’s episode is part one of two about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall. Described as a pathetic little mummy’s boy, his early crimes didn’t just set out to prove his bullies wrong, they also became the first faltering steps of - potentially - a fledgling serial-killer.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the murder is located with a black cross at the top left by Kilburn. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is part one of two about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall. Described as a pathetic little mummy’s boy, his early crimes didn’t just set out to prove his bullies wrong, they also became the first faltering steps of - potentially - a fledgling serial-killer. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 154: The Sadistic Little Drummer Boy – Part One. Today I’m standing on Charteris Road in Kilburn, NW6; right in the middle of the St John’s Wood home of Teddy Sieff where Carlos the Jackal botched his first assassination, the Harlesden house where 8-year-old Peter Buckingham took his last gasp, the Cricklewood Arms pub where Stephen Holmes met the ‘Kindly Killer’, and an unsolved attack by another potential ‘Ripper’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Charteris Road is lovely little residential street comprising of two long-lines of two storey terraces from the 1920’s and 30’s. It’s very quiet and very orderly, with a smattering of silver birch trees, the road carefully marked with white lines to denote who parks where and when, with a covered bicycle rack which is almost certainly chock full of Brompton’s. There’s no noise, no kids, no smells and no mess. The worst crimes you could imagine happening on this street might be a yappy little rat incessantly yipping for its millionth morsel that minute of roast-chicken tit-bits, a 90-inch TV briefly blurting too loudly and risking the neighbours knowing that they watch trashy shite like Love Island, something plastic being put in the glass recycling bin, or – scandalously - an Acado delivery replacing their beloved avocadoes with tins of baked beans. And not the good ones but the cheapo own brand. Oh, the shame. But every street has its dark secrets, and this street is no different. At 58 Charteris Road sits a nice two-storey terraced-house; with cream brick walls, white window sills, a thin front garden reserved for three bins, and a UPVC entrance door to the right. It’s currently someone’s home, but back in 1958, this was a lodging house. On the first floor was a bed-sitting room occupied by a new tenant named Veronica Murray, but being new to the area, almost no-one knew her name, her occupation, her history, or anything else about her life. She was a mystery. And yet, her death would become almost as mysterious as her life itself. As it was here, on Friday 19th December 1958 that her body was found. And although it asked more questions than it answered, it also marked the fledgling steps of a potential serial-killer. (Interstitial) (Michael) “My mates think I’m queer, I’ve tried to show them they’re wrong about me, I really have... but they always make me feel like I’m a nobody, a nothing. Well, I’ll show them, won’t I?”. It’s hard to tell what made Michael into a sadistic little monster; maybe it was the bullying, maybe it was the trauma, perhaps his appearance, possibly a crossed-wire in his genetic make-up, or maybe it was a mixture of them all? This is not to excuse his actions, as everybody’s life has challenges, but it’s how we choose to embrace these trials, which either shapes us for the better or for the worse. Michael Douglas Dowdall, known as ‘Mick’ was born on the 12th December 1940; fifteen months into the Second World War and three months into an eight-month-long blitz, a time of trauma and death. Gestated in the terrified womb of a lone woman whose husband was a British Army captain serving overseas, Michael entered this world to the persistent bang of bombs, as the hospital violently shook. Right into his adulthood, Michael would always look like a baby. With a stick-thin body perched above an oversized head, a mop of Charlie Brown hair, a set of sticky out ears and his skin the hue of stale porridge, although for some this youthfulness would be a blessing, for Michael, it was a curse. Raised as the youngest of two sons to a struggling-mother, Michael never knew his father and he never would, as Captain Dowdall was killed-in-action when the boy was barely one. With no memory of the man whose loss made his mother weep, it left a void in his life, but one he could never explain. Uprooted from a nice cottage in Uckfield (Sussex) to a lodging house in Paddington in West London, he was desperate to be the hero his father once was, but Michael was no military man. Being small, weak and prone to outbursts of tears, the little boy spent his early years clinging to his mummy’s leg. Without a father-figure to guide him, to admonish him or to rain him in, although his mother did her very best by herself; he resented his school, his teachers, and – being persistently bullied for looking and acting like a ‘baby’ – by the age of six-and-a-half, he was referred to a child care officer, owing to his volatile outbursts, his hysterical moods, his cruelty to animals and his uncontrollable violence. Mocked for being a mummy’s boy, he always felt he had to prove himself to the bigger boys. And yet, barely held together by a single speck of stability, that was about to vanish forever. In 1948, when he was only eight, his mother died. With both parents’ dead, once again he was uprooted from the big city of London to his aunt’s house in the remote mining village of Llanhilleth, near Abertillery in Wales. Michael was now a foreigner in his own family; surrounded by relatives he barely knew, in a place he had never lived, hearing a language he didn’t understand, and again, at school, this fragile little boy was mercilessly bullied for being an outcast and a nobody. And after a vicious fight where the length of his nose was slashed with a knife, he would forever be given the nickname of ‘Scarface Mick’. But no matter how hard his Aunt Alice tried, it was like Michael was driven to bring misery and pain. During his turbulent teenage years, twice he had tried to burn his aunt’s house to the ground. He often drank himself insensible going drink-for-drink with the men, like he had something to prove. Like a little magpie, he persistently stole anything which wasn’t nailed down, not because he needed it, but because he wanted it. And as his hormones raged – feeling sexually inferior, as a late-bloomer who the girls rightly avoided – as his sexual aggression grew, his desperation led him to pay for sex. In his eyes, a man was defined by how much he drank, fought and fucked... ...but no matter what, Michael would always be a baby. Not just because of his boyish body and a cherubic face, but because of his actions. Always bragging about his conquests, if anyone dared not to believe him? Tears welled, lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and a hate-fuelled violence erupted. In 1955, having left school, 15-year-old Michael Dowdall joined the 3rd Company of the 1st Battalion of Welsh Guards; based out of Pirbrlght in Surrey, and later at the Chelsea Barracks in West London. Having enlisted in the military (as his late father had) this should have been the making of him. Earning an honest wage, learning new skills and being mentored by a flank of disciplined father-figures, this wild little boy could easily have been modelled into a good little man... only the rot had already set in. Being a drummer boy - a role far from the fight of his heroic father and one of the lowest ranks in the battalion’s band - being surrounded by bigger boys, this only increased his anxieties. His commanding officer Lt Col Mansell Miller described him in court as “a bit odd... the boy had delusions of grandeur despite being small and weak”. Few knew him, even less liked him, and because of that, he was bullied. The torment would be so merciless, that in 1956, aged 16, he tried to hang himself in the guardroom. During the three years he spent in the Welsh Guards, he often went AWOL, disappearing from his duty to visit sex-workers in the West End. On his 18th birthday, he convinced three other guardsmen to join him for a few celebratory drinks at a hotel in Guildford, and although they only sunk a few beers to be polite - unable to reign-in his desperation - he sank three pints of gin and had to be carried home. Michael: “my Army mates think I’m queer. So, I have a drink, and then I feel better and more important. Once I started the heavy drinking, I liked it and kept it up. When I was drunk, very drunk, I would try anything. I wasn’t fussy about what I did, or what woman I went with. It made me feel... different”. Routinely mocked by squaddies for being a baby-faced mummy’s boy, he began paying the others to wash his shirts and to clean his boots. No-one knew where he was getting the money from, but seeing him less as a target and more of an extra income, the bullying stopped and it made him feel superior. For Michael, he had finally found a way to prove his masculinity... ...but what the soldiers didn’t know was that they had helped sow the seeds of a potential serial-killer. It’s unlikely that Michael knew much about his first victim, as very few people did. Veronica Murray was born in the Northern Irish town of Londonderry in or about 1927; she was raised a devout Catholic and she was educated at a convent, but – for whatever reason – she didn’t stay. Why she left, we shall never know; maybe she was fleeing an abusive father, maybe she was kicked-out having had sex out of wedlock, or maybe this was an act of rebellion against her strict upbringing? It’s hard to pin down exactly who Veronica was, as she changed her age to suit her needs, and although vivacious and chatty, many people knew her, but not well. She was personable but kept a professional distance, she rarely spoke about her private life, and she was mostly known as Ronnie or Monica. On an unspecified date in 1958, 31-year-old Veronica moved to London, seeking work in West End clubs. Being a fashionable lady with a neatly-coiffured brunette bob, Paris eyebrows and a thick set of red lips - she had a hint of the Hollywood star about her. So, it’s not surprising that she found work as night-club hostess... and yet, she also worked as a sex-worker. Police would later confirm that she had a criminal record for soliciting, but she didn’t turn to prostitution owing to desperation or addiction. Sex-work was a conscious choice; she chose the hours, the places and the punters. She was financially astute enough to spend and save her money well, hence she was always immaculately dressed. But also, she had the foresight to be able to afford her own rented flat at 58 Charteris Road in Kilburn. It was only small, but this first-floor front-facing bedsit was perfect. Perched on a residential street, it was the perfect space for such a private person, but it also afforded her the privacy to her bring clients back home, which is why neither her landlord nor any of the other lodgers knew very much about her. Being far from a shrinking wallflower, life in the big city didn’t scare Veronica, as she had street-smarts, she was savvy and she was cautious. She was chatty enough to make even the most nervous of men feel calm, but also, she had the confidence to stand her own ground when they got rough with her. Veronica was in a dangerous world where she knew how the handle herself... ...but then again, everybody makes mistakes. It was the bitterly cold winter’s night of Monday 15th December 1958. There was no snow, but typically it was cold and wet, as Veronica stood to the side of Trafalgar Square. This was a regular pick-up point for horny punters being conveniently situated near pubs, hotels, a train station and several theatres. Nearby, a Salvation Army band made merry music, the bells of St Martin’s rang, chestnuts (of dubious origin) slowly roasted in an old steel drum as (allegedly) mulled-wine was hocked from a cask, and the city was blessed with a Christmassy feel now that all of the war-time rationing was well-and-truly over. At an unspecified hour, in or near to midnight, Veronica was approached by a punter. He was just a boy, no bigger than Veronica but easily a few stones lighter. With a weak little body and a babyish face, he was barely out of his teen; but was desperate to act like a Billy Big Bollocks bragging about all of his sexual conquests... and yet, experience had told her, it was most likely his first time, Dressed in civvies, although he claimed to be in the Welsh Guards, with his dark suit and starched shirt hanging-off his weasily little frame like a sack of spuds, the best he could be was as a drummer boy. (Michael) “I had been drinking in the West End and I got very drunk”, he would later state. To Veronica, this would have been obvious given his slurred speech and staggering limbs, so perhaps she didn’t see this tipsy little boy with a boner as a threat? Maybe, he was easy money? She had been with pathetic little man-babies many times before, so it’s highly likely – having paid his £1 – he would struggle to raise his pointless little pecker, or as a two-pumps-and-a-squirt-merchant, he’d fart and fall asleep. “I picked up a prostitute in Trafalgar Square. She called a taxi and I remember she gave an address as somewhere in Kilburn”. The journey took 30 minutes, as the cab rode past Hyde Park and up Edgware Road. In his nasal Welsh drone, maybe Michael tried to impress her with a few bullshit tales, at which - being professional - she smiled. But so unmemorable was the journey, that during the investigation it was almost impossible for the Police to track down the driver, as to him, it was just a regular fare. Sometime after midnight, the cab pulled up at 58 Charteris Road. He paid the agreed amount, they entered the house, and both Michael and Veronica were quiet, as neither of the other tenants nor the landlord on the ground-floor heard them. “We got to her house and climbed the stairs to her room”. It was a small clean room with a floral double-bed, a wardrobe brimming with fashionable clothes, a neat dresser covered with curling tongs, brushes and a fine array of cosmetics, with a coin-operated meter for both the lights and the gas-heater, and on the mantelpiece for a fire which no longer existed lay a few personal possessions – some photos, a postcard, a trinket, and a pair of pink ornamental dumb-bells weighing 6lbs each. What they meant to her isn’t known but clearly, they held importance. According to his statement, “I had sex with her and went to sleep”, and that was that. But how much of that was true? When questioned, Michael Dowdall would state “when she woke me up, we had a row over something and she called me a ‘filthy little Welsh bastard’”. Only nobody heard a fight. “I threw a vase at her. I believe it smashed”. Which was true, but no-one knows how it smashed or when. “She came at me and hit me with something on the back of the neck and head, and scratched my nose and eyes”, but by the time he was interviewed, no marks or scars could be seen. So already, his statement had gaps. “I rushed at her, and I knocked her down and then grabbed an ornament off the mantlepiece and hit her on her head or face. I think she was half-getting up, I pulled her onto the bed and I remember chucking some clothes over her. I took a bottle of whiskey and then I left the place”. But why? Did she mock his tiny manhood, did he struggle to sexually perform, was this simply a bungled robbery, or did this man-baby erupt into an uncontrollably violent tantrum, because he couldn’t get his own way? “I went back to the Union Jack Club and went to sleep”. His stay at the serviceman’s hostel at Waterloo Station was proven, although this would suggest he was sober enough to travel back from a place he never knew, and begs the question, how he could have slept having inflicted such a level of violence. “When I woke up, I found blood on my hands, my shirt and suit. I chucked the shirt away in the dustbin having tried to wash it, and I sent the suit to the cleaners. A day or two afterwards, I read in the newspapers that a prostitute had been found murdered in Kilburn, and I knew I had killed the woman”. It seems likely, so perhaps this was an accident? Or maybe - for the most immature reason imaginable – his tears welled, his lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and his hate-fuelled violence erupted... ...marking this as one of the first-fledgling steps of a potential serial-killer? By Friday 19th December 1958, a girl-friend of Veronica’s had grown concerned, as no-one had seen or heard from her for five days, neither at the nightclubs she worked at nor on the Soho sex scene. At 6pm, she phoned the Turkish landlord of 58 Charteris Road – a man named Ratomir Tasic. He assumed that he wasn’t in; as the lights were off, the room was cold and the door was locked from the outside. But using his master key to gain entry, the inside of her room told a very different story. Drawers were opened, contents were scattered, and although the room was in disarray, nothing of any real value had been taken, except maybe a bottle of whiskey, to either be drank, sold or traded? On the bed, partially obscured by sheets lay a woman’s body, all silent and still. Her skin was sickly pale yet mottled with patches of purple, as the excitable buzz of flies and wriggle of maggots formed amidst the sheets caked with blood, and within the impacted recess of her very obvious wounds. Veronica had been dead for five days maybe six, but exactly what time she died - whether as she was going to bed, or just getting up - was impossible to tell, owing to her clothes. Sprawled across the bed, with both legs splayed, she lay naked except for her brown pullover, which had been partially pulled up over her head, as if her killer no-longer wanted to see into the black haemorrhages of her bloodshot eyes, but instead, he dreamed of doing something unimaginable to her body, which was now all his. What the pullover hid was what ultimately ended her life. From the mantlepiece, he had grabbed one of the pair of pink ornamental dumb-bells, made from heavy cast iron and weighing 6lbs a piece. One had remained untouched and clean, but the other lay on the floor, matted with her hair and dripping with her blood, as with the uncontrolled force of a petulant anger, he had bludgeoned her senseless, inflicting six wounds to her forehead and multiple fractures to her cracked and crushed skull. “I knocked her down and hit her on her head or face. She was half-getting up and then I left the place”. As her face swelled, fluid constricted her skull and the pressure forced her eyes to protrude from their sockets, a brain haemorrhage would have taken several agonising minutes for Veronica to die. But had her killer been so panicked at his actions, if this had been merely an accident? He wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to switch off the lights, to lock the door, and do what he did to her next. For this, he was calm, steady and in a state or either arousal or enjoyment. With steady hands, he had inflicted a most unusual wound. Around her thighs and abdomen were three identical marks, a set of circular abrasions on her skin, which formed an intricate v-shape. What it meant? We don’t know. What he had used? That was missing, but noted pathologist Dr Donald Teare concluded that they were not bite marks, but made by “a manufactured item with a flat end”. They made no sense, but one detail was certain. As each mark had occurred post-mortem, her killer hadn’t fled in panic. Instead, he had waited in that room with her body; and calmly inflicted each wound, either after her death, or as she lay dying, as the terrified woman helplessly lay there; her body bleeding, her eyes fixed and unable to breathe or scream – the mark of a true sadist. (End) The investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Evan Davies of Scotland Yard. The room was preserved for evidence and a set of fingerprints (other than Veronica’s) had been found; one on a teacup suggesting she had invited her killer in, and one on a bloodied coat-hanger, which was never conclusively proven, but he may have inserted it inside her. The fingerprints were examined, but they did not prove to be match to anyone with a criminal record, and neither did the MO of this murder. With no witnesses to the crime, being a sex-worker who kept herself-to-herself and a Northern Irish woman who was new to the area, Police contacted her friends and family but drew a blank. In the Christmas Eve edition of the Daily Mirror, Police posted her picture on the front-page pleading “did you see this woman?”, but with no witnesses, this produced no suspects and the investigation went cold. 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall was an unlikely suspect, being small, weak and baby-faced. With no prior convictions, this nobody had never come to the attention of the Police, therefore he was not on their radar; not even for theft or assault. But within this little boy lurked the heart of a sadist. (Michael) “My mates think I’m queer, I’ve tried to show them they’re wrong about me, I really have... but they always make me feel like I’m a nobody, a nothing. Well, I’ll show them, won’t I?”. Veronica Murray was his first, but more victims would feel the wrath of the sadistic little drummer boy. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who love hearing cake-crumbs fall from a fat man’s mush, while he waffles on about stuff n things, join me after the break for a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Barbara Anderson, Zoe Taylor and Julian Barnes. I thank you all for supporting the show and I hope you’ve received your goodies. With a special thank you to Bernadette H and an anonymous friend for your kind donation via the Supporter link. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #153: GEC and the Fourth Floor Girls (The Mansion House Fire)24/11/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
67 Queen Victoria Street as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE:
Today’s episode is about a fire in an old building fitted with modern innovations to ensure its workers safety, and although everyone should have survived, it was the old-fashioned attitude towards one particular group of workers, which led to ten unnecessary deaths.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is on the far right hand side marked with a black cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a fire in an old building fitted with modern innovations to ensure its workers safety, and although everyone should have survived, it was the old-fashioned attitude towards one particular group of workers, which led to ten unnecessary deaths. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 153: GEC and the Fourth Floor Girls. Today I’m standing on Queen Victoria Street by St Paul’s Cathedral; the furthest east we’ve been so far, being two streets north-east of the hanging of God’s banker Roberto Calvi, but very little else. Situated by Mansion House tube, sits the busy intersection between Cannon Street and Queen Victoria Street. It’s a dull vague space with little to see, so you’re more likely to pass through it, than to stop. Like most junctions, it is dotted with every conceivable safety measure to ensure you’re less likely to get hurt having not paid a basic level of attention for doing something as simple as walking. Therefore, there’s signs which say stop, go, slow, no-stop, no-go, no-slow, exit, entry, one-way, no-way and naff off. There’s hand-rails to hold, foot prints to follow, bollards at a good height to rest your bollocks on, and even a flashing green man to show you when to walk and (for the real thickies) how to walk. Often, this over-cautious molly-coddling by the Health & Safety Executive does feel like we’re one step away from every pedestrian being fitted with an inbuilt system which issues a cacophony of warnings each second of our lives; like ‘look left’, ‘mind the car’, ‘avoid poop’, ‘oh-oh charity mugger’, ‘BO ahead, limit breathing’, ‘cake is a no-no fatty’, ‘warning potentially unnecessary purchase ahead’, and for a certain niche subset of man-servants ‘get Eva her 3pm cocktail now, or feel her wrath you loser’. It may seem like over-kill, but what we forget is that before any laws are changed and measures are set-up, usually a tragic accident will have happened first. Pedestrian crossings and speed-cameras are often as a result of a loss of life, being a grim memorial to a life lost and the price we pay for progress. At 67 Queen Victoria Street now sits a six-storey concrete building. The original has long-since been demolished, but the third and fourth floors were once owned by GED, the General Electric Company; an innovative maker of electrical devices (like fire alarms) in an era long before electricity was standard in many homes, who prided themselves on their practices designed to ensure the safety of its workers. So, when a fire broke out on the second floor, everyone should have survived... only they didn’t. As it was here, on Monday 9th June 1902, that although the company’s methods were modern, their old-fashioned attitude towards the fourth-floor girls led to ten easily-avoidable deaths. (Interstitial) In 1901, Queen Victoria died, and although the country was gripped in grief for our then-longest reigning monarch, the impending coronation of Edward VII would mark the start of a modern era... The final years of the Victorian era saw many innovations we take for granted today; beginning with the first electric light bulb invented by Joseph Swann in 1878, the first electric iron by Henry Seeley in 1882, the fuse by Thomas Edison in 1890, the first electric kettle by Arthur Leslie Large in 1891, and the first transmission of radio waves in 1901, with many more modern inventions to swiftly follow. Electricity heralded a new era of innovation, it was rightly seen as the way of the future, and although most of London’s street-lamps had been converted from sodium and gas to electricity lamps by 1881 – the same year that Britain built its first public generator at Godalming - the country’s power supply wouldn’t be standardised and co-ordinated until 1926. By 1919, only 6% of homes had electric lighting, a prohibitive luxury reserved for only the most affluent. So, by 1901, even Buckingham Palace had only had been illuminated by electricity for the last thirteen years. But it would come to the masses. One such company ahead of the curve was GEC, the General Electric Company; a business similar in name and in spirit with the American multinational partly co-founded by Thomas Edison. Established by German immigrant Gustav Binswanger, G Binswanger & Co was already a successful electrical goods wholesaler, when in 1886 he partnered up with entrepreneurial salesman Hugo Hirst to produce the first catalogue of electrical appliances; such as bells, telephones, switches and wiring. Trading all across the world, the General Electric Company Ltd was formed, it became a private limited company and established its head-office on the top three floors of 67 Queen Victoria Street in London; with admin and executives on the third floors, and product assembly and packing on the fourth. Innovations in electricity was progressing at a previously unparalleled speed, as each company strove to be the first to invent the next mass-market appliance for the modern household. But electricity was dangerous and everybody knew it, as a single spark could ignite a devastating fire, especially in a city like London with so many old buildings constructed out of highly flammable materials. As a stark reminder, GEC was just half-a-mile from Pudding Lane, the epicentre of the 1666 Great Fire of London. It takes an event of such devastation to change laws, and – although the blitz helped form today’s fire brigade - between both of those events, little innovation had been made to prevent and control fire. It was said “firemen were asked to fight twentieth-century perils with nineteenth-century machinery”. As modern methods of construction meant that buildings grew ever taller, the out-dated appliances the fire crew used remained the same. The ineffective Factory and Workshop Act of 1895 had left the installation and regulation of safety equipment to the companies themselves, and - until 1938 and the creation of the Auxiliary Fire Service - fire crews were privately owned, many by insurance companies. Therefore, the fire-crew’s job wasn’t to protect lives, but to protect the buildings and its contents. Thankfully, GEC was a modern company who were better prepared to defend against fire than most businesses in that era, and even by today’s standards. Proudly proclaiming to be makers of ‘all things electric’, GEC was one of the first buildings in London to be fitted with a fire alarm, with ‘break glass buttons’ on every floor and in every stairwell, it had heavy iron fire doors between buildings, the staff conducted fire drills on a weekly basis, they had their own fire hoses connected to an endless water supply being two streets from the River Thames, and just 100 feet away was their own fire brigade. If a fire were to break-out at 67 Queen Victoria Street, everyone should have survived... ...but not every worker at GEC was treated as equally as the others. The day was Monday 9th June 1902 and the weather was bright with very little wind, as before 8am, a flank of workers exited the Metropolitan District Railway at Mansion House station. For the executives and admin staff employed by GEC, the location was perfect as this five-storey half-block wide building was both the train terminus and their workplace, with a Spiers & Pond restaurant above for luncheon. But for those less-well-paid workers - like the assembly girls on the fourth floor - many would arrive by public omnibus or by foot, dressed in a neat pinafore with their sandwiches wrapped in a cloth rag. The ground, first and second floors were occupied by Messrs Murdoch Nephews - purveyors of fancy goods, the kind of frivolous non-essential trinkets used to make a modern home look nice - with an enclosed central stairwell leading to the top two floors, owned by the General Electric Company. Being typically hierarchical, execs and admins were on third with the manual workers on fourth. Each floor was split, with the seniors sat by the windows and the juniors stuck in the shadows. This was not uncommon as being in keeping with the very Victorian class system; separate bathrooms, eating areas and even entrance doors ensured that those deemed important weren’t sullied by less vital staff. Only the workers wouldn’t have time to worry about things as trivial as equality, as with King Edward VIIth coronation two weeks’ away, GEC had to finish an order of electric street decorations. Desperate for cheap labour, they keep costs down by hiring the poor, the young and – of course – females. Hidden away on the top floor was the work-room, where GEC’s products were assembled and packed. In the middle, a large spiral staircase split the room in half; with the men sat separately, as - being staff – both their sex and seniority afforded them a better place to sit, beside the wood-burning stove. Where-as the thirteen young girls sat at a long bench, silently assembling the light’s floral wreaths. That day though, there was only one man at work, David Eveson, who managed the thirteen girls, many of whom – hired very recently - were new to the department, the company and its practices. Around the bench included 18-year-olds Violet Hodgson from Peckham and Florence Amor of Forest Gate, 17-year-old Mabel Amos from Clapham, 16-year-olds Mable Garrett from Camberwell and Lily Mansell of Brixton, 15-year-olds Jessie Hastie of Camberwell and Ada Steel from East Ham, and fresh out of school, 14-year-old Phyllis Elliott from Hackney and Gladys Chambers from Clapton Park. All were young girls earning a pittance to help their struggling parents feed and clothe their siblings. The most senior there - but far from the oldest - was 15-year-old Alice Thompson; one of four from Brixton who was hired 18 months earlier as an Electric Light Assistant, with her role to screw together the brass and porcelain parts before packaging a dozen completed lamps into a cardboard box. But that day, Alice would be forced to undertake a new job... ...one she hadn’t sign up for, but if she hadn’t, more girls would perish. As inequality at GEC wasn’t just as simple as what door you walked in or who sat nearest the stove, as the temporary staff and especially the young girls were not given the same basic training as the men, this included the assembling of lights, the repairing of circuits and – most important of all – fire safety. On the surface, GEC looked like a modern progressive company, but not everything was as it seemed. Fire escapes had recently been introduced to the UK from New York where they had been successfully used on inner-city tenements, so they could have fitted one to the building’s flat-front and thin ledges, or even at its unseen rear? But they didn’t. It was considered an eye-sore and an unnecessary expense. It’s true that GEC was one of the first companies in London to fit a fire-alarm system, only – two years since Pearson’s had installed it – they were yet to connect the switchboard to the local fire station. So, although the alarms would sound, no fire-fighters would be alerted until someone saw smoke. And that included their own fire brigade, situated two doors away at 71 Queen Victoria Street. They were a small crew of part-time fire-fighters working as full-time engineers whose ancient equipment was designed to cope with fires at a time when commercial premises were three-stories high, not five. And yes, each floor had been fitted with a ‘break glass’ button in case of emergencies, but only senior staff were trained and authorised to use them. To the regular workers, these were just decorations. Fire drills were regularly held, but only after working hours when most of the staff had gone home, and with the fourth-floor girls only ‘temporary staff’, they weren’t deemed ‘essential’ enough to train. So, in a company where different bells were used to communicate between different departments – with bells for deliveries, phone calls, tea-breaks or shift changes - only those deemed important to the company knew how to differentiate between the office bells, the warehouse bells and the fire bells. As an employer, GEC was regularly assessed by the Factories Inspectorate and each time they passed with flying colours, but as the fourth floor was not officially a designed workspace - it was really just a storage room repurposed for producing decorations for the King’s Coronation – it had no emergency signage and was the only floor in the building with no copies of the evacuation procedure on the wall. As the longest-serving of the girls, 15-year-old Alice Thompson was savvy enough to eavesdrop on the men’s chatter and pick-up a few titbits. So, she knew about the three ladders hidden under the bench in the packing room, but she didn’t know about the trapdoor leading from the fourth floor to the roof. And like the other girls, Alice had neither heard of nor was informed that – in case of an emergency – each floor had eight designated ‘fire police’ whose job it was to ensure that the staff were evacuated. Theirs was a man called John Tyndall; but they had never met him and they had never heard of him. This was a disaster waiting to happen... and it is about to get worse. Working with Messers Murdoch Nephews to create the coronation lights, the boxed-up floral wreaths on the second-floor were made of a mix of linen and wax. They were pretty, durable and waterproof, but when exposed to a naked flame, the wreaths didn’t just blacken or burn like any other decoration, a single heat source would cause them to explode in a flash of brilliant white light, like gunpowder. When questioned at the inquest, other than the electric lights and wires in the store-room, there were no other heat sources, but some staff did admit to smoking on the premises – which was forbidden. But that wasn’t the worst. As in that room, GEC had stored what they described as “a small quantity of liquid”, but was actually 76 kilos of Commudine – a highly flammable and very combustible fluid. The fuel had been stocked, the touchpaper had been set. and it was only a matter of time... ...before someone would die. The day had been uneventful for the girls on the fourth-floor. Assembling the wreaths had kept them busy and with all but a handful of the men no-where to be seen, they could chatter a little louder. One floor below, the admin staff were packing-up, but the assembly workers still had a few hours to do. At roughly 5pm, a fire broke-out in the second-floor stock-room. Whether its ignition was caused by an electrical spark or a carelessly discarded cigarette is unknown, but nobody noticed the blaze and the alarms wouldn’t activate until someone pushed a button, having seen a fire or smelled the smoke. So, for the next fifteen minutes... nothing happened, except the swelling of an angry inferno. At 5:15pm, a fire alarm was tripped, and the building echoed to the shrill of a persistent piercing bell. Trained to react, David Eveson, who managed the girls, recognized the bell and swiftly left via the stairwell, taking fourteen-year-old Stanley Chapman with him, but leaving the thirteen girls behind. Having never heard that particular bell before and smelling no smoke, being too afraid to leave their posts for fear of losing their badly paid jobs, the girls took a tea break and stayed on the fourth floor. With alarms ringing, four of the eight designated ‘fire police’ on shift began to evacuate the building’s 200 employees. They were methodical and calm to ensure no-one got hurt. Only John Tyndall, whose job was to clear the fourth-floor, only made it as far as the second step up the stairs, from where he shouted “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!”, except his words which were lost amid the alarm’s din. And ordered by his seniors to undertake a more vital task, he assisted in shuttling the accountancy ledgers across the street to the City & Midland Bank - putting a few books full of figures over the lives of the girls. It was a journey he would undertake three times, before he realised his tragic mistake... ...thankfully, there were others who took their roles seriously. The second the alarm sounded, the 25-strong crew of GEC’s own fire-brigade sprang into action, being co-ordinated by its captain, Max Byng. Alerted towards the second floor stock-room, Charles Frederick Trippe passed through the heavy iron double door connecting 67 and 69 and witnessed the inferno. The second floor was the epitome of hell; as acrid air swirled with thick black smoke which whiffed of gunpowder, heaving waves of reddish orange flames licked the dark peeling walls like the devil’s own tongue, and stacked boxes of wreaths exploded in white hot flashes, making breathing impossible and the stairwell impenetrable, even for a moderately experienced fire-fighter like Trippe. Outside on Queen Victoria Street, a crowd had begun to gather; a crew of fire-fighters, numerous nosy bystanders all gorping at the flames, and an excitable mess of close-to 200 employees, all recounting their own exciting tale of what might have been... but wasn’t. Doing his job, Captain Byng asked the lead of the ‘fire police’ “is everyone accounted for?”, and he was told they were, but this was untrue. From the street, through the rising flames and up beyond the thickening smoke, bystanders began to scream, as at the windows of the fourth-floor, the terrified faces of thirteen young girls peered down. The girls were trapped by smoke and heat which slowly filled the stifling room. Taking control, although only 15, Alice had led the girls down fiery stairwell towards an exit, but as they descended – being blinded by smoke, choked by fumes and with the sizzling hot metal of every handrail and door-knob scorching their skin – they were forced to retreat back-up to the fourth floor. Ironically, they had three ladders (which Alice knew of) and an escape route was just a few feet away. But having never been told of the trapdoor leading up-and-out to the roof, here they were trapped; stuck on the top floor of a flat-fronted building with no fire escape and windows with very thin ledges. The terrified girls of the fourth floor could do nothing but rely on the fire-fighters... ...a team of courageous but badly-funded and tragically equipped fire-fighters whose hoses had only enough pressure to pump water to the third floor, whose ladders could only reach to the second floor, and – having been only partially installed by Pearson’s two years earlier – the system wasn’t connected to the switchboard, which meant that the professional fire-fighters were not aware of the fire. Innovation had failed, but having been notified by Captain Byng, within minutes the professional crews of both Watling Street and Southwark fire stations were alerted and some were already on the scene... ...but even that wouldn’t be enough. Created and funded by an amalgam of 36 insurance companies, the Metropolitan Fire Brigade and the London Salvage Corps had what was described as “a deplorable lack of equipment”, with engines so old-fashioned that only “a museum would be glad to get London’s archaic fire-fighting appliances”. Their ladders were also ten-feet too-short; their engines lacked the necessary pressure to hit their marks, their hoses struggled to fully extinguish the flames and the ‘jump sheet’ (a twenty-foot-square patch of canvas designed to make a fall from a five-storey building survivable) - that was missing, But this didn’t prevent their bravery. Fighting the intense heat and smoke, one officer crawled on his belly to rescue Emily Johnson, dragging the unconscious girl up to the roof. Another called Hillman, dangled precariously from a wire, grabbing one girl from a burning window and lowering her to safety as the flames shot out. Calling out in the darkness and seeing the skylight beginning to collapse, Officer West succeeded in rescuing 17-year-old Mabel Amos from the flames, but she was so taut with terror, the young girl died of heart attack. With the heat and smoke becoming too intense for the firemen, they were unsure if any would survive, and with a 70-foot ladder on-route from Southwick, by the time that arrived, it may be too late. With quick thinking, a bystander ripped the tarpaulin off a fruit-vendor’s cart and gripped tight by two dozen firemen, they had made a makeshift ‘jump sheet’. “Jump!”, the crowds willed the girls, “Jump!” they called, but through the smoke, five-stories high, the sheet looked no bigger than a postage stamp. Five were trapped, four girls and a boy; as the flames licked their skin, the heat caused their clothes to combust and the smell which stung their nostrils was the scorching of their own hair. All wept and all prayed, as these children were given an impossible choice – burn to death, or jump into oblivion? It takes real courage to make that kind of life-or-death decision... ...so, it’s no surprise that the first to jump from the burning building was Alice. Smashing the far-west window, Alice perched herself on the thin window ledge; shutting her eyes tight, with her back to the world, she rolled backwards and from five-stories up, she disappeared into the dense smoke. (END) Hitting the sheet dead-centre and escaping with only cuts and burns, as the crowd erupted in cheers, Alice’s bravery encouraged the others to follow. Norah Jones, Emmeline Ambrose and Dora Cutter all survived. Jessie Hastie jumped, as her burning blouse streaked the sky like a firework, and she too was one of the lucky few. But having fainted before she could leap, Phyllis Elliot died inside, and 21-year-old Arthur Paget, a clerk with a widowed mother, jumped but missed the sheet, and died of his injuries. The 70-foot ladder arrived shortly afterwards and rescued those who were trapped on the roof, having escaped via the trap-door. And with the fire extinguished within twenty-minutes, the bodies of seven young girls were later recovered from the charred remains of the building and buried; Mable Garrett, Ada Steel, Lily Amelia Mansell, Gladys Chambers, Phyllis Elliot, Violet Hodgson and Florence Amor. An inquest was held two days later, at the Coroner’s Court in Golden Lane. 65 eyewitnesses gave their testimony, including Alice Thompson who spoke eloquently through her burns, cuts and trauma. After twelve days of testimony, on the 29th July 1902, the court found the London Building Act of 1894 to be inadequate, and recommendations were made to cover existing buildings. No-one was found guilty of manslaughter and although GEC admitted to negligence, a criminal trial was not requested. Except for a privately-funded plaque to two of the girls, a memorial to the dead was never erected at 67 Queen Victoria Street. Today, it is occupied by an office and a Sainsbury’s. And although forgotten, this little-known fire helped to shape many of the innovations and processes we use today to prevent more deaths. So, next time you hear a fire alarm? Forget about how this is a slight inconvenience to your busy day, and instead, think of the tragic souls who have already given their lives to save yours. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who enjoy listening to the wibble-wobble of a tubby loser droning on about pointless shit? Join me for a little quiz and some extra details about this case in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Tom Gillett, Sarah Freer and Sophie Chadwick. I thank you all. I hope you’re enjoying all the exclusive online treats, the lovely thank you card of goodies you will have received in the post, and (even while Murder Mile is off-line in January & February, when I do my research), you’ll still be receiving lots of goodies to keep you entertained. If that sounds lovely, you too can join Patreon and support the show, via the link in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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The flats above King's Mall off Ashcroft Square in Hammersmith
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO:
Today’s episode is about a family; cursed with a history of mental illness and hereditary blindness, it’s a strange relationship where their condition both united and divide them, but with sexual abuse added into the mix, it would lead to a brutal and horrifying murder.
SOURCES:
http://hundredfamilies.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/MARIA_CALERO_LON_06.07.pdf https://www.hammersmithtoday.co.uk/#!pages/hammersmithtoday:info:concrime117 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7625269.stm MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a family cursed with a history of mental illness and hereditary blindness. It’s a strange relationship where their condition both united and divide them, but with sexual abuse added into the mix, it would lead to a brutal and horrifying murder. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 152: Blind Obsession. Today I’m standing... (static and muffled street sounds) somewhere in the borough of Hammersmith & Fulham in West London, possibly in a flat above Ashcroft Square in Hammersmith, W6. But none of this can be verified, as the most of the details were never published and many were redacted. If so, we’re streets from the home of one of John Monckton’s killers, the garage where the First Date Killer pulled up with Kate Beagley’s body in the boot, the house where schoolgirl Katerina Koneva died at the hands of The Beast, and the obsessions of Winston Goulbourne - coming soon to Murder Mile. It is often said that some stories are never meant to be told, as there are deep dark secrets that exist in a family which no-one would dare to discuss until someone steps over the line of what is right and wrong. This is a case which did not appear on the TV news and it barely made it into any papers, which is why – at times – the details may be vague and many statements cannot be independently verified. A detailed report by the mental health trust provided a fascinating insight into the life of the young woman involved, and although she was only referred to as Ms T, we know her name was Maria Calero. What follows is some of her story. (Interstitial) (Static) The date was Sunday 17th June 2007. It was early morning, at roughly 3am. And as for the exact location, that was never disclosed, but it was possibly a flat somewhere off Ashcroft Square. From an upstairs window, two unidentified boys, aged 12 and 13 attracted the attention of a passer-by having been locked inside their bedroom. With no smoke, alarms nor screams, this could have been a prank? Only the children were in a state of panic; not in fear for themselves, but for someone else. The Police were called and concerned for the boy’s welfare, they gained entry. Physically, they were unharmed, but mentally they had been through an ordeal, having heard a man being cruelly tortured. On the floor lay their father – Eduardo; slumped in a cold motionless puddle of his own blood, his walls and doors were spattered red as a kitchen knife and a set of scissors has ceaselessly severed his veins and arteries. As across his once-clean carpet, the sticky shadows of his bloodied hand-prints lay where the terrified man had dragged his body far from his assailants, leaving a long red trail like a dying slug. It was a brutal murder by someone with a lot of hatred in their heart. An attack so sustained, that if it began right now (insert torture sound and use throughout) it wouldn’t end until this episode stops. Three people were arrested for his death, his niece, his nephew and his brother. But proving who the culprit was would be problematic, as with the children locked in the bedroom, they saw very little. One of the accused would claim “I did not take part in the murder”, the other said “I didn’t kill, because I couldn’t see”, and with all three either partially sighted or almost entirely blind, that could be true? Only there was one who saw everything; a reliable eye-witness who could replay every second, every stab and every slash of the murder, and recount it in a court of law with irrefutable detail and accuracy. But that is for the end... so let’s go back to where all this began. (Rewind) Referred to in the report only as ‘Ms T’, Maria Calero was born 1986 in the South American country of Peru, with her brother Richard born one year later. The circumstances of their plight were unknown, but following a brutal conflict in their homeland - although their father Ricardo remained behind - six-year-old Maria, five-year-old Richard and their mother sought asylum in the UK in 1992. It made sense, as their mother’s brother - uncle Eduardo - was living in a West London flat with his wife, his daughter and - soon-to-become pregnant with the first of two sons - although Maria’s mother had very little to call her own, what she did have was a close-knit family for when times got tough. In April 1993, her mother’s mental health deteriorated as her immigration status remained uncertain, and against medical advice that she needed to be fully assessed, she discharged herself from hospital. A few days later, this lone mother stood on London Bridge looking across the dark and muddy waters of the raging River Thames. In her arms, she held all that loved - her children. Clutching them tight and kissing their heads – seeing this drastic measure as her only way out - she hurled both children off the bridge, herself following behind, as they plunged thirty-feet to a certain death at this suicide spot. Quick-thinking passers-by called the police, a nearby marine patrol was dispatched, and all three were rescued. The fall should have killed them and the water should have drowned them, but thankfully, their physical injuries weren’t critical. Their mother had fractured her spine, Richard suffered face and elbow abrasions, and Maria had fractured her pelvis. In time, they would all make a good recovery... ...but the psychological scars would never heel. In February 1994, Maria’s father Ricardo came to England seeking asylum, and given the fragility of his wife’s mental state, he was assessed as the ‘protective parent’ of Maria and Richard. Earning a living as a dental assistant, he supported the family while his wife sought the help she so badly needed. Only, she would struggle to find peace in her mind. Maria and Richard witnessed their mother’s mania on a regular basis; her outbursts, her threats and her suicide attempts. In one she sliced-up her wrists, in another she took an overdose of pills, and again, she would try to destroy those she loved most. In 1995, when Maria was aged only 11, her mother tried to drown her in a bath. For their safety, both children were placed on the child protection register, they were put into foster care, and Maria and her brother received child therapy from a Spanish-speaking therapist. The abuse she suffered made Maria feel “unloved and vulnerable”, and she struggled to form healthy relationships with her family. In 1998, when Maria was 12, her mother fled the family. Their relationship was torturous, so this break-up should have been a moment for Maria to rediscover herself? But having been bounced from foster homes, to temporary housing, to living with her uncle, daughter and his two sons, Maria’s early years were incredibly unstable, especially as this young girl entered her hormonally-charged puberty. Life was hard and although times were bad... ...for all of the Calero family, it was about to get worse. That same year, Maria’s father Ricardo was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, known as RP; a rare genetic disorder where the light-sensitive tissue in the retina aggressively degenerate, making even the simplest of tasks – whether reading, walking or recognising faces – difficult without assistance. Within the year, her father would be completely blind... and although his vision meant the family lost their main income, this diagnosis came with a terrifying footnote - Retinitis Pigmentosa is hereditary. Maria’s vision was fine for now... but how long would it last? (Torture sounds) By the turn of the millennium, Maria’s homelife was a mess. Her mum was back and her father was blind, so when she wasn’t in foster care, she found sanctuary in her uncle’s flat, off Ashcroft Square. Two years earlier, uncle Eduardo had separated from his wife, but stayed in the small flat with his two sons and their older sister. It seemed like a stable place for his niece to escape to, but depending on whose story you choose to believe, Maria and Eduardo had a very strange bond - one of love and hate. That same year, aged 14, Maria locked herself in her uncle’s flat and refused to come out. This makes some sense as this hormonal teenager had made allegations of bullying and abuse against her mother. Later in 2000, Maria claimed that her uncle had abused her, a social worker investigated the allegation but no action was taken, and having absconded from foster care, Maria returned to stay at his flat. Again, that same year, she alleged that her uncle had sexually assaulted her, an accusation backed-up by parents and some of her uncle’s children. Both the Police and Child Services were involved, but no action was taken, as often she would deny the assault took place, or withdrew the allegation. And yet, it is said – that being unable to maintain a healthy relationship within her family - she continued in a “sexual relationship” with uncle Eduardo, as finding very little love elsewhere, she feared his rejection. In February 2001, Maria’s parents alleged further ‘inappropriate behaviour’ by her uncle, a complaint was made to Child Services, but as both Maria & Eduardo denied this, again no action could be taken. Rightfully, the Police criticised Child Services for allowing this minor to sleep-over at her uncle’s while an allegation of sexual assault was pending, but they were powerless to take action. So, with no foster carer at that time, a social worker was assigned to monitor Maria while she stayed with her uncle. But there was only so much monitoring a social worker could do from a distance. In July 2001, another official allegation of child sexual abuse was made against uncle Eduardo and his now 15-year-old niece. This time, by his own daughter. Having fled, she told the Police she “was afraid to go home”, having seen Maria & Eduardo on the sofa - he was shirtless and putting on his trousers. Again, the allegations were denied by both, and being powerless to proceed, no charges were made. Allegations and denials flew thick-and-fast, and with the system designed to protect Maria seen as helpless or hopeless, her parents took matters into their own hands. They smashed his car windows and assaulted him in the street. It did nothing and it solved nothing, except to vent their frustrations. ...only, the stresses and strains of a fractured family were piling up on top of Maria. (Torture sounds) By February 2002, concerns were raised about Maria’s mental health, having been diagnosed with an “adjustment disorder with dissociative symptoms”. She had cut-off her hair, dropped-out of school and told her child therapist how “unloved” she felt, stating “even my spit isn’t worth anything”. And having become agoraphobic, she had become virtually housebound, living inside her uncle’s flat. Two years later, Child Services had to remove Maria following allegations that her uncle had punched one of his pre-teen sons in the face. Right then, the council had proved it had the power to protect a child from abuse... but for Maria, it was too-little-too-late, as by September 2004, she had turned 18. Officially an adult, the care order had ended with Hammersmith & Fulham Children’s Services, but she was transferred under the authority of Adult Mental Health Services, as Maria had “complex needs”. Her mental decline was understandable given her chaotic upbringing. Nobody could hope to come out unscathed, given what she seen, what she had heard and what she experienced; truancy, depression, anxiety, isolation, infighting, with allegations of physical assaults and sexual abuse (which – although unproven – could easily be real), as well as her own mother’s attempts to kill herself and Maria; once in a bath as a child and once having thrown her off London Bridge. It’s no surprise that Maria lacked trust, she felt no love, she was full of anger, and suffered with bouts of anxiety and depression. And yet, a psychiatrist would state she had “no major mental illness” and “medication was not required”. To those who knew her, Maria’s mental health was in a rapid decline, but this wasn’t just because of her past, as one very specific aspect of her future had been plaguing her mind for almost a decade... ...and now, her greatest fear had become a reality. In the summer of 2006, Maria was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, the same hereditary condition which had taken her father’s sight, and given how fast her vision had degenerated, her prognosis was not good. Specialists had confirmed that - within the year – she too would be almost entirely blind. Weighing heavy on her spiralling mental health, Maria admitted to her psychiatrist that - as the once-bright world around her became ever-darker – burning feelings of anger had begun to swell inside her, as she became more impulsive, anxious and started to experience hallucinations. In November 2006, she was prescribed the anti-depressant Sertraline, as - like her mother before her – she had expressed suicidal thoughts, as well as deep feelings of aggression towards others... especially her uncle. (Torture sounds) ...in less than one year, Maria Calero would brutally stab uncle Eduardo to death in a sustained torture in his Hammersmith flat, which would leave his two teenage sons traumatised... ...but who was the victim at this point, and why wasn’t the alleged abuse stopped? Unable to restrain her bubbling rage, Maria had assaulted her mother and admitted to her psychiatrist her desire to stab and blind her uncle. Born on the maternal line, Eduardo was not afflicted by this family curse, but – regardless of whether her hatred for him was fuelled by the abuse she had allegedly suffered, or (if you take the other side) as he had rejected her love - Maria wished blindness upon him. The psychologist was so concerned that he wrote to Eduardo making him aware of Maria’s desire to do-him-harm, and for him to consider this when and how he made contact with her next. And although her parents openly attacked him claiming he raped their daughter, Maria returned to his flat. To say that their relationship was confusing would be an understatement. Crippled with depression, anxiety and with her last vestiges of vision rapidly deteriorating to the point where even the simplest of tasks had become impossible without assistance, Maria became reclusive, a shut-in at uncle Eduardo’s flat and almost entirely reliant on him for food, clothes and prescriptions. With her mind plagued with thoughts of self-harm and aggression, as was her prerogative, she stopped seeing her therapist, ignored the calls from her social worker and often failed to take her medication. Having isolated herself inside her uncle’s flat, her anxieties and delusions only got worse; she would claim that voices would talk to her in the night and sometimes she saw their faces too. Whether real or imaginary, she became ever more distressed as her uncle’s sons mocked her, that her and Eduardo’s relationship had descended into frequent verbal fights, and again, she talked about “ending it all”. And although, she had threatened to harm him... ...her words soon turned into wounds. On the morning of Friday 15th June 2007, just two days before, Maria called her social-worker to confess “I’ve stabbed my uncle” and repeated her allegation that he had raped her seven years earlier. In an incident which erupted when he allegedly started to wind her up by threatening to bring his own daughter from Peru - in his words - “to make your life hell”, Maria stated “I felt rage, then I stabbed him in the back with a knife”. But was this assault fuelled by anger, jealousy or rejection? Assessed at the A&E of Charing Cross Hospital, Eduardo covered for his niece by claiming it was a work-related injury having fallen backwards onto a sharp metal tool, he was treated and discharged. Accompanied by her care-worker, Maria re-iterated her story at Hammersmith police station and later to the Sapphire Unit in Fulham (a specialist police team who handle sexual offenses against adults and children) for further investigation and she returned home, not to her uncle’s flat but to her parent’s. ...but by the time the investigation got underway, uncle Eduardo would be dead. (Torture sounds) On Sunday 17th June 2007, at roughly 2:30am, in (what is believed to be) a two-floor flat at the Ashcroft Square complex above the King’s Mall; stood Maria, her brother Richard and their father Ricardo. Exactly what happened may remain as vague as their vision, as with all three virtually blind and often helpless without some assistance, the details of this night are shrouded in a thick fog of confusion and allegations. How and when they got into the flat is unknown; maybe they had a key, maybe they broke in, or maybe they were let in on the ruse of this fractured family making peace? But at some point, Eduardo’s boys were locked inside their bedroom, and the real reason for the visit would come out. The torture of uncle Eduardo was slow and protracted. Clutching a kitchen knife and a set of scissors, Maria plunged and pierced each blade into his flesh, screaming at the top of her lungs “he raped me, he raped me” - an allegation she had both repeatedly admitted and denied over the last seven years. Seeking revenge for a rape only he or she would know was true, over the next twenty-four minutes, she would stab and slash the uncle (she both loved and hated) a total of one hundred and eleven times. An attack so sustained, if it began at the beginning of this episode, it still wouldn’t have stopped. In his last few moments alive, Uncle Eduardo pleaded for his life. And although his terrified sons heard every second of their father’s brutal murder, having flagged down a passer-by, the Police were alerted, the flat was sealed-off and all three members of the Calero family were arrested and charged. The evidence was irrefutable – the blood, the knife, the scissors and the testimony of what the boys had heard – but with all three suspects either visually-impaired or blind, as one claimed “I did not take part in the murder” and the other “I didn’t kill, because I couldn’t see”, how could this be proven? It was simple, unable to fully see what they were doing - whether to aid the attack, or as a sick souvenir of Maria’s revenge - Richard had filmed the entire murder on his mobile phone; every second, every stab and every slash of Eduardo’s demise which could be recounted in court, as an irrefutable fact. So shocking was the footage, that many jurors needed counselling over what they had seen and heard... ...but in that flat, that night, those 24 minutes of footage was the only reliable eye-witness. (END) Eduardo Mendoza was transferred to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, but was pronounced dead on arrival, owing to blood loss and shock. Richard, Ricardo and Maria Calero were arrested on the charge of murder. With Maria sobbing as she was led away from the crime-scene “the voices made me do it”. But if this was true, which voices made her commit murder – the angry ones, or the jealous ones? Ricardo and Richard were held in custody to wait their appearance at West London Magistrates Court. Having been assessed at Shepherd’s Bush Police Station, suspecting that Maria was hallucinating, she was held under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act and was transferred to a mental health hospital. So distraught was Maria’s mother upon hearing news of her brother’s murder at the hands of her own husband, son and daughter, that again Mrs Calero took her own life, only this time she did not survive. In a month-long trial at the Old Bailey, on the 30th June 2008, 21-year-old Maria – whose fingerprints proved she was solely responsible for the attack on Eduardo - admitted to his murder and pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. She was given an indefinite prison sentence with Judge Morris insisting that she serve at a minimum of three years. Cleared of both the charges of murder and manslaughter, Richard and Ricardo wept as they were released. And as for the rape and sexual assault allegations made by Maria against Eduardo? They remain unresolved. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy listening to the pendulous jowls of a cake-filled fat man, as he waffles on about his stupid little life in which pretty much nothing happens, except his imaginary relationship with the goddess Eva Green? Stay tuned till after the break for more info and a little quiz in Extra Mile. If you’ve ran out of episodes of Murder Mile, just to say there are more than 50 episodes of Walk With Me – the companion piece to Murder Mile – available via Patreon, as well as location videos and exclusive photos for more than 100 episodes, as well as our regular feature Cake of the Week. Yum. You can become a Patreon subscriber for as little as $3 a month, that’s £2 in real money, and I’ll also post you a very exclusive pack of goodies and a thank you card from me. Life can’t get any better. And if you fancy a Murder Mile mug of goodies, you can order one via the Murder Mile merch shop. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE:
Today’s episode is about Henry Hall, a loyal husband to his wife and father to three children, who made a honest living as a boot-maker. So, devoted was Henry, that he would willingly sacrifice everything to provide for his family; whether his energy, his health and even his sanity.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the home of the Hall family at 65 Dean Street, it is right in the heart of Soho (not the one in Piccadilly) and is located with a black cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode. It's a link to YouTube so it won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Henry Hall, a loyal husband to his wife and father to three children, who made a honest living as a boot-maker. So, devoted was Henry, that he would willingly sacrifice everything to provide for his family; whether his energy, his health and even his sanity. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 151: No Way Out for Henry Hall. Today I’m standing on Dean Street in Soho, W1; ten doors south from the medical school where London’s Burke & Hare hawked a dead boy’s fresh corpse for cold hard cash, three doors east of the senseless beating of baby Richard, just to the rear of Dutch Leah’s death and five doors north of the suspicious ‘so-called suicide’ of ‘supposedly Peruvian’ priest - coming soon to Murder Mile... the book. On the corner of Bouchier Street, at 65 Dean Street currently sits Goldcrest, a post-production facility. Soho was once Britain’s film and TV capital, but as most companies failed to adapt to changes in the industry, some moved out and some were forced out, but most simply went bust. I worked nearby at two such companies. In one meeting, our producer barked “let’s make a film about a disabled African football team who are dying of AIDS”. You know, the kind of big-bucks blockbuster that audiences are crying out for. In another, being too thick to be original and desperate to leech off the fame of car-modification show ‘Pimp my Ride’, for an hour solid, the “creatives” (in inverted commas) piped-up with novel twists; like ‘pimp my bedsit’, ‘pimp my dog’, ‘pimp my anus’, ‘pimp my pimp’, ‘pimp my celebrity chef patio makeover from hell’ etc. As far as I know, both companies folded. But that is true of every industry; fashions change, and if they don’t keep up, they die. Back in 1877, 65 Dean Street was a four-storey lodging house inhabited by six working-class families. It was clean, safe and occupied by skilled tradespeople such as tailors, glovemakers, seamstresses, cobblers and bootmakers, whose small rooms doubled as where they lived and where they worked. On the second floor lived the Hall family; they were good, decent and loving. Like most families, they struggled to make-ends-meet as times-were-tough, but by working-hard, they survived. But when times became too tough to bear, Henry’s desperation would turn this doting dad into a danger. As it was here, on Friday 8th June 1877, seeing no way out from his abject poverty, that Henry did the unthinkable... only what drove him to kill were his feet and his teeth. (Interstitial) Love can be a powerful driving force. It can make the rational irrational; it can drive the sane insane... ...and it can even turn the most loving and mild mannered of men into a homicidal monster. In 1840, Henry Hall was born in the Shropshire town of Ludlow. As one of several sons to a bootmaker and a seamstress, he was blessed with an unremarkable upbringing, being burdened by no more trials and tribulations than others in that era. Built from sturdy country stock, he was raised with pride in his blood, and like the long line of men before him, he toiled to provide a good life for his loved-one’s. As a person, everyone described him as kind and attentive, with never a bad word said against him. In 1868, he married Jane, a woman six years his senior who hailed from Chalfont in Buckinghamshire. Being like two peas in a proverbial pod, they never spoke ill of each other nor slept with a curse-word spilled, as being hard-working and level-headed, they always found a way to resolve their issues. Therefore, it’s unsurprising that Mr & Mrs Hall would raise four children together, all of whom would turn out as bright and good. In 1869, having moved to Paddington (West London), their first daughter Jane was born. In 1871, the family moved to 11 King St in Soho on the eastern-edge of Old Compton Street, and it’s here that three more were born; Frank in 1871, Annie in 1873 and Louisa in 1876. With six mouths to feed, Mr & Mrs Hall held-down several jobs; with Jane working as a charwoman, a cleaner to a few well-to-do households, starting at 8am and often not finishing till midnight. Being a bootmaker - with his wife out - as Henry plied his trade in the second of their two-roomed lodging, a child-minder helped rear their kids so Henry could focus on his business, which was their main income. In the winter of 1876, the family moved into two smaller rooms on the second floor of 65 Dean Street; with a living space for this family-of-six at the rear, and next to a large bed, Henry’s tools of his trade. It wasn’t much, but it was home. They weren’t well-off, but they didn’t starve. Their life wasn’t wine and roses, but it was always warm and cosy. And although, Henry & Jane were often exhausted – even if it meant they didn’t eat or sleep - everything they did was for the sake of their children. As with an 8-year-old, a 6-year-old, a 4-year-old and a toddler; living off Two small incomes, times were hard... ...but they made it work. Raised as a skilled craftsman, the family’s main income had always come from Henry. Henry was a boot-maker; not a cobbler, not a clogger, nor a cordwainer. There is a big difference and legally – although to the layman they all make shoes – to the industry, they were each very distinct. In 1395, the Mayor of London decreed that each profession must form their own guild, which held each craftsman to a set of strict rules and regulations to ensure that competition was evenly spread, but it also kept those of a lower rank in their place, in this very old, very traditional industry. The guilds were set-out like so; cordwainers were shoemakers who made new shoes from new leather meaning their products were of the highest quality. Henry was a bootmaker, who made practical boots for working man and woman, which could only be made from second-hand leather. Below Henry were the cloggers who could not make boots out of any type of leather (only wood, twine or ceramics) and, at the bottom, cobblers were not permitted to make any shoes of any type, ever. Their job is to repair. In order to work, you had to be a member of a guild, at which, you had to pay your dues. If you didn’t pay your dues, you didn’t work, and if you didn’t work, you didn’t eat – simple as that. And although many craftsmen - at all ends - flouted the rules, Henry never jeopardised his family by taking that risk. Being a bootmaker, it may seem as if Henry was in a better position than most - and he was – but he could only succeed if there was more demand and less competition. Boot-making was an ancient skill, handed down from father-to-son, which had changed very little in the last few centuries... ...but the industry was about to get a very rude awakening, owing to innovation. The 1870’s were a difficult time for traditional craftspeople, especially in Soho, as not only were they surrounded by the high fashion stores of Oxford Street and Regent Street, but also, times had changed. By the mid-1800’s, shoemaking had gone from a cottage industry into a mechanised production. It began in 1812, when Marc Brunel invented an automatic sole-fastener to supply military boots during the Napoleonic War. In 1853, during the Crimean War, Tomas Crick patented a riveting machine which maximised production, and introduced steam-powered rolling and cutting machines which precisely cut hardened leather to an exact template. By 1864, Lyman Blake had perfected the shoe-stitching machine, and so – with cutting, rolling, fastening and stitching no longer done by hand - by the late 1870’s, the process of mass-producing shoes or boots to the people was almost entirely mechanised. Shoes were now cheaper, there was greater choice, and the size and quality had been standardised. For the people, it was win-win.... ...but for skilled working-class craftsmen like Henry, who still made boots by hand as his forefathers had done for centuries, it would be impossible to keep up... or even to keep going. Through the bitter winter and sodden spring of 1877, Henry had struggled. As a 37-year-old married father of four, he had earned an honest wage as a bootmaker for almost all of his life. It was all he had ever done, it was all he knew how to do and owing to the guild’s rules, it was all he was allowed to do. But now, struggling to cover even just the basics like paying the rent and putting food on the table, he wasn’t sleeping and he wasn’t eating, as the endless worry plagued his mind. With his wife already working a 16-hour day, every day, it still wasn’t enough, but they were certain they’d get through it. Only, one problem would plague them all... their teeth. For the last four months, Henry had been suffering with chronic toothache. Like many people in this era, his mouth looked more like a box of brown broken biscuits than a smile, but now these unsightly stumps bled red with profuse frothy rivers and his impacted jaw protruded like he’d been thumped. Worried sick with money-troubles - even if he could eat or sleep, which he couldn’t – the pain had meant that he rarely got a good night’s sleep, making him unusually moody. He was never nasty, cruel or violent, but he would sometimes snap for no reason, only to apologise with his head hung in shame. Admittedly, he could have gone to a dentist, but with Britain still two years from Parliament passing the Dentist Act, which established a register and required that all dentists were trained and qualified to a minimum standard, many barbers moonlighted as dentists with little or no experience or training. So bad was British oral health, that often patients in their teens to twenties would willingly have their teeth ripped-out and replaced with a false set made from wood or ceramics. The idea being it saved on pain, decay, any future dental costs and it remained a popular 21st birthday gift up until the 1940s. But with the procedure being risky, painful and each tooth costing five shillings-a-piece, Henry couldn’t afford this. Besides, as a good decent man - as bad as his pain got - his priority was always his family. With his wife, Jane, plagued by shards of festering stumps dangling from her puffy red ridge of swollen gums like bloodied stalactites, being riddled with a pain so intense it caught her breath and made her question her own sanity, the meagre funds he could scrap together were used to cure her, not him. This was a rational decision, as if she couldn’t work – as their new breadwinner - they would all starve... ...but that would be one of the last rational decisions he would ever make. To try to pacify the pain; for those who could afford it, they were prescribed cocaine. But for those who couldn’t, they took Laudanum; a legal but potentially lethal and highly addictive poison concocted from a 10% solution of opium in alcohol, which was used to treat pain, insomnia and nerves. As a reddish-brown liquid with a very bitter taste, when given to babies to suppress a chesty cough, many parents would disguise its retch-inducting essence with spices or tea. A safe dosage was just four-to-six drops in a glass of water, but this would be enough to induce a feeling of rest and euphoria. But by the mid-1800’s, with accidental overdoses having become too frequent – leading to respiratory depression, hypoxia, coma and death – and laudanum the drug of choice for the suicidally-inclined, although it could be purchased without a prescription (as it would be until the 1970s), chemists were instructed to follow two simple rules; they must insist that each customer has a valid excuse (“I’ve got toothache”, “my child won’t sleep”, “my wife’s back is killing her”) and only then, would a very specific dosage be provided via a pipet. (Drops heard times six) “Thank you Sir, that will be one penny”. It wasn’t a fool-proof system, but it had saved lives. By Wednesday 6th June 1877, just two days before, Henry was a physical and emotional wreck. With his impacted gums throbbing like he’d gone eight rounds with a heavyweight, and every time his heart thumped, a rush of blood made his deformed face feel like it was about to burst open, this incessant thrumming – every second, of every minute – was one of the worst tortures Henry had ever endured. Looking little more than a frail ghost with bloodshot eyes perched on top of a thin streak of grey sallow skin; his words were unintelligible, his hands were shaky, and once again, he became unusually rude. It was rare that Henry ever lost his temper, but having shouted at the kids for barely uttering a peep, and having spat some truly foul words at his beloved wife of nine good years, all because he hadn’t the pennies to pay his dues to the Bootmakers Guild and the dire consequences that would inflict... ...he snapped. But again, he was never violent or cruel, and as a thick slick of quivering tears flooded his tired eyes, as always, Henry’s heart fell heavy with regret and he apologised. “I’m sorry, I... I... I don’t... sorry”. Henry Hall was trapped in a vicious circle which wasn’t of his making; unable to work, he couldn’t earn, he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, and so the pain continued. There was no way out for Henry Hall. Working harder, Jane scraped-by six pennies to help him out, which left him with a fateful choice; to pay his dues to the guild, or to buy some drugs for the pain. But unable to make a rational decision... ...Henry chose to do neither. The same day that he snapped, Henry walked into Mr Hartnell’s chemist shop at 7 Titchbourne Street, off Great Windmill Street and ordered an eighth of a teaspoon’s worth of laudanum, declaring “it’s for my toothache”. With his speech slurred, his eyes sunken and his jaw bulging like a rotting sack of offal, it was clear to the assistant that his need was legit. As Henry pulled out a small vile - marked with a crow and ‘poison’ scrawled in Henry’s own hand - the chemist dispensed enough laudanum to suppress a week’s worth of pain, he issued a stern warning “four-to-six drops in a glass of water once-a-day, no more” and having written-up the purchase in the Poisons Book, Henry paid him two pennies. Henry could have taken the laudanum right there and then, and eased his pain... (long exhale) ...only, his frazzled brain was elsewhere (electrical sparks). A short while later, he stumbled into Cooper & Co, a chemist’s shop at 20 Moor Street, just off Old Compton Street and placed his order, slurring “it’s for my toothache”. Pulling out a second vile, marked and labelled correctly, the chemist dispensed a drachm and a scruple, roughly an eighth of a teaspoon of laudanum, stated “four-to-six drops in water, no more”, wrote-it-up in the Poisons Book (which no governing body was overseeing so the exercise was prone to abuse) and Henry paid him two pennies. Henry could have been pain-free, within minutes... (long exhale) ...only, this good man had taken a very bad turn (electrical sparks). On Thursday 7th June, one day before, Henry staggered into Crow’s Chemist’s at 49 Princes Street, at the bottom of Wardour Street, still wincing with pain having not touched a drop. “It’s for my tooth”; he popped out a vile, was warned, the purchase was noted and Henry paid him two pennies. Henry now had enough laudanum to end his pain forever, and his life... (long exhale) ...only, seeing no way out, it wasn’t his pain he was trying to ease (electrical sparks). At 8am on Friday 8th June 1877, Jane headed-out for another 16-hour shift as a charwoman. With 8-year-old Jane, 6-year-old Frank, 4-year-old Annie and 18-month-old Louisa left at home, as per usual, their neighbour Mrs Mary Tice popped in every so often, so Henry could focus on making boots. The children were well-behaved, they played but didn’t disturb their dad, and having kept their energy up with a cup of tea and a slice each of bread and treacle for lunch, Mary Tice saw nothing unusual. The time was roughly two-thirty pm. Their eldest daughter Jane would later state “father came into the room, we were running about with a ball, we were rather noisy and he told us not to make such a racket, but he never said why. My mother had left the teapot on the table, and from his work-room, my father pulled a bottle”. It was a bottle they had seen among his things many times before, one he himself had drunk from to make himself well, and now this very bottle (which held the contents of three purchases from three different chemists) was held in the hand of their beloved father; a good kind man who they all trusted. Into the remnants of the morning’s cold tea, Henry poured the reddish-brown liquid. “The baby was playing with us”, Jane would state, of the little mite who was barely the size of a small bundle of rags, “he took her into the back room... when he brought her back, I think I saw some sick on her pinafore”. Laying his youngest on their shared bed, as his head thrummed louder, the baby began to wail... only its cry was a tear-soaked sob which grew quieter and fainter as her little life slowly ebbed away. Being unusually grumpy, although their father was never one to strike them for misbehaving, not wanting to upset him any further, they did as he said, so the four little children could go back to playing quietly. 4-year-old Annie was next “she did not like it, she said it was nasty stuff, but my father promised her a penny if she drank it, so she did” and never being one to turn down a shiny penny, Frank was next. Feeling woozy and with a trickle of sick spewing down their chests, all three children lay on the bed. And as Jane, his eldest daughter stared into her dad’s dead soulless eyes, “I told him I did not want any”. Being bright, she wouldn’t have supped from a bitter cup had it been offered by anyone else. But as this was her father – a man she could never believe for a single second had an ounce of hate in his heart, or would ever wish her dead - “I drank from the same cup, it tasted nasty and I was sick”. And as Jane lay beside her sickening siblings, Henry sat motionless as aside from an endless thrumming inside his head, the only sound which filled the room was the choking as his children lay dying... ... ...but again, never being a violent or cruel man, as a slick of tears flooded his tired eyes and Henry’s heart fell heavy with regret, he apologised and ran out, sobbing “I’m sorry, I... I’ll fetch mother”. At 3pm, Jane returned home to find her eldest vomiting into a bucket, and the silent and seemingly motionless forms of her youngest lying on the bed, their breathing only slight. Aided by Mrs Tice, she dashed her dying babies to Dr Clark’s at 23 Gerrard Street, and - with their pupils like pin-points and smelling the bitter stench of laudanum on their breath - he administered an emetic, and rushed the four innocents to Charing Cross Hospital, as each child clung onto a very thin sliver of life. (end) Poverty had driven their doting father to murder them. In an exhausted state of confusion, he believed he was doing the right thing to spare them from starvation, and although his poverty had been the overriding reason that Henry had made this irrational decision, it was also the reason they survived. Thankfully, had he poisoned himself, he would definitely be dead. But being so broke that he couldn’t afford enough laudanum to kill them all, sharing it evenly among each child, on Thursday 14th June, one week later, the last of his four children were discharged from hospital, having made a full recovery. Having fled in shame, at 8pm, Henry Hall was arrested and transferred to Vine Street police station. The next day, he was charged at Marlborough Street Police Court, with his solicitor pleading that “this is a very painful case, and I appeal to the magistrate for leniency”, as the children had all survived, and Henry Hall was widely regarded by those who knew him as a loyal husband and a loving father. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 25th June 1877, two days later, he was found guilty of ‘administering a poison with the intent to murder’. And just as poverty had saved their necks, it too would save his, as having murdered no-one, he escaped a death sentence and was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Being a good strong mother, Jane moved her children a few doors away to 13 Little Dean Street and although she never remarried, all four of her children went on to live long and live well. But they would never again see their beloved father, as having served his sentence at Pentonville Prison, Henry Hall died in the spring of 1884, aged 43, in the St George’s workhouse... with not a penny to his name. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you like a little quiz, a lot of waffle, the sound of a kettle brewing and a cake which you can’t see or smell, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Grace Soria and Pam Kitchens. Thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. Plus, a thank you to everyone who leaves lovely reviews of Murder Mile on your favourite podcast app’, it really is very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY:
Today’s episode is about a music legend, a bandleader who could have been one of the all-time greats had his brilliance not been snuffed-out before his time. Only his untimely death wasn’t brought-about because he was black and gay, but owing to one of the most random of tragedies.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Cafe de Paris at 3-4 Coventry Street is located with a light blue cross, just near the words 'Leicester Square'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with the episode. They are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: Lancashire Evening Post - Monday 10 March 1941 Nottingham Evening Post - Saturday 05 April 1941 Leicester Evening Mail - Saturday 05 April 1941 Bradford Observer - Monday 08 September 1941 The Stage - Thursday 06 October 1994 The Stage - Thursday 11 October 2001 West London Observer - Friday 04 October 1957 Bradford Observer - Wednesday 10 September 1941 West Middlesex Gazette - Saturday 05 November 1938 The Era - Wednesday 15 January 1936 The Scotsman - Monday 07 April 1941 Sunday Post - Sunday 06 April 1941 Daily Mirror - Friday 14 March 1941 Derby Daily Telegraph - Saturday 05 April 1941 Lincolnshire Echo - Saturday 05 April 1941 Liverpool Echo - Saturday 05 April 1941 Halifax Evening Courier - Saturday 05 April 1941 http://uncover-ed.org/ken-snakehips-johnson/ https://londonist.com/london/history/when-a-music-legend-was-killed-playing-in-central-london https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpJ1hzoPB0A https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1264532/The-blitz-70-years-Carnage-Caf-Paris.html http://adrinkershistoryoflondon.com/eighty-years-on-cafe-de-paris-8-march-1941/ http://www.westendatwar.org.uk/page_id__246.aspx https://www.cwgc.org/find-records/find-war-dead/casualty-details/3123240/JOHNSON,%20KENRICK%20HYMANS/ https://www.blackhistorymonth.org.uk/article/section/music-entertainers/black-british-swing-caribbean-contribution-to-british-jazz-in-the-1930s-and-1940s/ https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2006/oct/05/secondworldwar.world https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/the-bombing-of-the-cafe-de-paris/#note-7422-20 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a music legend, a bandleader who could have been one of the all-time greats had his brilliance not been snuffed-out before his time. Only his untimely death wasn’t brought-about because he was black and gay, but owing to one of the most random of tragedies. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 150: The Day the Music Died. Today I’m standing outside of Café de Paris on Coventry Street, W1; one street west of the killing of David Knight, one street south of the unsolved shooting of Black Rita, one street east of the Blackout Ripper’s failed attack on Greta Hayward, and a few doors down from the most radioactive shisha bar in the West End - coming soon to Murder Mile... the book. Connecting Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square, Coventry Street is an eyesore; a hideous boil on the West End’s rear-end, dotted with the ugly bum-grapes of consumerism. Tourists flock here to see ‘the real London’ – like fish n chips, moaning and bad teeth - only to have their senses assaulted by a hotch-potch of tacky un-British tat; whether that’s the mecca to sickly American sweets at M&M World, a lisping Asian Frank Sinatra impersonator who croons “stwangers in the night”, flanks of hairy Turks peddling Indian-made rickshaws as five Croatians on a stag-do eat Falafel while dressed like Pikachu, and lines of garish hell-holes flogging-off trashy trinkets like a Princess Di car waxing kit, a Queen Mum toenail clipper, a Prince Andrew ‘wipe clean’ diary sponsored by Pizza Hut, and – Police Constable Arsenal Guinness’ favourite – a Princess Kate face flannel (PCAG) “ooh, put me down for three”. And although this particular street is a disgustingly lurid example of what happens when some of our worst cultural ideas are shared - when it’s done properly – it can be what makes Britain truly great. In the basement of 3-4 Coventry Street sits the Café de Paris; an opulent music venue famed for jazz and swing orchestras, and it’s here that the Charleston was introduced to London. Royals and regulars mixed, race and sexuality were unseen, and it hosted many famous names such as Judy Garland, Dita Von Teese, Dorothy Dandridge, Marlene Dietrich, Louise Brooks and Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson. Ken was a bandleader, who was tipped to breaking-through into the music mainstream, and the only reason he isn’t regarded as among the greats – like Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman and Glen Miller – is owing to a series of random and almost unbelievable events, which led to his untimely death. As it was here, on Saturday 8th March 1941 at roughly 9:45pm, that Ken ‘Snakes Hips’ Johnson would entertain his last ever crowd... and although the music died, his memory would live on. (Interstitial). Legends aren’t born fully-formed; some strive, some stutter and some spurt, but where-as others like Ken would be so musically untalented it’s unbelievable that he would ever be hailed as an infamous bandleader - even his own musicians would state "he couldn't tell a B flat from a pig's foot!"... ...although music wasn’t his real gift, what he had in spades was personality and enthusiasm. Kenrick Reginald Hijmans Johnson was born on the 10th September 1914 in Georgetown, Guyana; a former British colony on the north coast of South America between Venezuela, Suriname and Brazil. With his mother a nurse and his father a doctor (and the Minister of Health), pressure was put on him to enter the medical profession. In 1929, aged just 14, this young boy boarded the SS Nickerie and docked on 31st August in the British port of Plymouth. Being tall, skinny and clutching a small suitcase, Ken was alone in a foreign country with a population of 45 million, of whom barely 15000 (like himself) were black, and although this was the height of summer, the young boy shivered with cold and fear. To please his parents, Ken was privately educated at Sir William Borlase Grammar School near Marlow in Buckinghamshire. Being bright, he excelled. Sprouting-up to an impressive six-foot four-inches tall, he stood out in a crowd, as well as a cricketer and a goalie. And being so personable, he was well liked. In 1931, changing to law - it is said – that he studied at Edinburgh University. Only there are no records to prove this; so, either the files were lost, the archives had erased any evidence of a black student, or – maybe to shield his eager parents from the real truth – Ken only said he studied there, but didn’t. Music was in his blood, which was unsurprising as his uncle was the pianist, Oscar Dummett. In 1932, he enrolled in the West End dance-school of Clarence ‘Buddy’ Bradley, a successful African-American choreographer, and owing to Ken’s lithe body and fluid dance style, the nickname of ‘snake hips’ stuck. Touring Guyana, Trinidad and New York as part of a dance troupe, Ken used this time to broaden his skills; he ingratiated himself with the latest dance and music styles, he formed his first all-black dance-band alongside saxophonist David ‘Baba’ Williams; he honed his tap-dancing among Harlem’s finest, he drew inspiration from Bill ‘Bojangles’ Robinson and his infamous ‘stair dance’ as performed on the vaudeville stage, and – idolising Cab Calloway – he was inspired to become a band-leader. But not a ‘stick wiggler’, a technically-proficient if slightly-starchy conductor as too many band-leaders were, Ken wanted his band to entertain, with him as the tall elegant figurehead. Backed by a truly talented swing orchestra, all dressed in fine tails and bow-ties; Ken would bring his inimitable style and charm, as well as his fast feet and hypnotic snake-hips which always wowed the crowds. But as America had already embraced this style of swing, he needed a new audience... ...one, which he knew, was particularly stiff and lightly-uptight – Britain. Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson would go on to shape the sound of swing across London in the 1930s and 40’s, and – having let trumpeter Leslie Thompson direct the music - as "he couldn't tell a B flat from a pig's foot.... he had the gift of imparting his terrific enthusiasm to those who were talented". Returning to Britain in 1936, later renamed as ‘Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra’, the band toured the variety club circuit. Being an all-black orchestra, this was certainly a selling point and a novelty for many British audiences, seeing musicians from such exotic climes as Jamaica, Sierra Leone, Trinidad, South Africa and Cape Verde, with some hailing all the way from South Wales. But being unwilling to sully the mix by adding a white-face – as they couldn’t find two suitable trombonists - Reg Amore and Freddie Greenslade, two pasty-white musicians had to wear black-face to blend in. That said, it was the band’s talent and Ken’s electrifying personality which shone through. Becoming famous fast; they became the resident house-band at the Old Florida Club in Mayfair, played gigs at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, did stints on BBC World Service where they rose to the ranks of stars, and recorded their first discs - ‘Goodbye’, ‘Remember, ‘Washington Squabble’ and ‘Please Be Kind’. By 1939, Ken wasn’t even 24 years-old, but already he was a bandleader, an entertainer, a famous name and a well-known face; he was widely respected by the industry and audiences, he was on a good wage and he had a natural gift in an era for whom the music of swing was about to explode... ...only fate would deal an unfortunate hand for the man with rhythm in his hips. Everything could have gone so wrong for Ken in so many ways. Being a black man from a former enslaved colony, Britain wasn’t the most welcoming place for Ken. In 1863, the President of the London Anthropological Society had stated “the negro is intellectually inferior to the European and can only be civilised by Europeans”, a statement many still believed. By the 1940’s, barely 20,000 black people had made Britain there home, with many eking-out a living in badly-paid jobs in some of the most deprived areas. By the 1950’s, of 1000 landlords surveyed, only 15 would let a room to a black person, who had to pay double the rent of a white person. Persecution was wide-spread, segregation had become the norm’, and denied all but the most menial of jobs, black people were banned from entering many clubs, except as waiters and performers to white audiences. And even then, a black musician in an all-white band could be problematic, as the venues had the legal right to block their inclusion. So, performing as an all-black band was truly ground-breaking. To overcome this ingrained bigotry, Ken strove harder than most and pushed the band to excel; the music was impeccable, their professionalism was unparalleled, his showmanship was second-to-none, and for maximum impact, the band wore bright-white dinner-jackets with black bow-ties, establishing Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra as one of the best swing bands in Britain. Only being black wasn’t the only issue which made his life hard... ...as Ken was also gay. In the 1930’s; it was illegal to be gay, a crime to admit to being a homosexual, laws were drafted which pigeon-holed gay-sex alongside such moral debauchery as prostitution, incest and bestiality, with the act itself (often dubbed as ‘sodomy’ or ‘buggery’) punishable by 10 years in prison, and the consensual sex between two adults of the same gender wouldn’t be decriminalised for almost another 30 years. His sexuality was a secret he kept hidden from his family and all but his closest of friends, and for good reason too. In 1940, Ken met and fell in love with Gerald Hamilton; widely regarded as “the wickedest man in Europe”, Gerald’s former bunk-mate was the infamous occultist Aleister Crowley, he acted as an informer for Sinn Féin, Special Branch and the British Military Mission in Berlin, and served prison time for bankruptcy, theft, gross indecency and being seen by MI5 as “a threat to national security”. Only Ken wasn’t a political dissident hellbent on underpinning the state, what drew him to Gerald - a man 20 years his senior - was his fascinating life, his Edwardian airs and malicious anecdotes. The two were like chalk and cheese, but being in love, in 1941, they moved in together at 91 Kinnerton Street in Belgravia and later bought a cottage called Little Basing in Bray, overlooking the River Thames. Besides, it wasn’t like Ken could hide in the shadows, as being an elegant and handsome gentleman, a full half a foot taller than most males, his electrifying personality was his calling-card. Ken was a star, whose bright light was about to blow supernova... ...but even the brightest of stars don’t get to twinkle for long. The year was 1939, the world was at war and Ken’s plans for an overseas tour were scuppered. With British musicians conscripted to fight, his West Indian band were in high demand, but with theatres shut and nightclubs closed as the bombing raids ravaged the city, Westminster Council issued very few licences for fears of public safety, so - with gigs in short supply - many musicians found other work. But Ken wasn’t about to give up. Opened in 1924, Café de Paris was the epitome of sophistication. With its ballroom and supper club modelled on the opulent interiors of the Titanic, and featuring oval mirrored dance-floor and elevated stage encircled by ornate curved staircases, it was the night spot for London’s society elite. Given a licence, its owner Martin Poulsen would hail it as “one of the safety and gayest place in town”. Built below the Rialto Cinema, with four storeys of stone and steel above, hidden underground and encased in concrete, it dodged the blackout rules and was impenetrable to the Luftwaffe’s bombs. On 5th November 1940, eight weeks into the eight-month long blitzkrieg campaign in which German bombers levelled great swathes of the city, Café de Paris re-opened to great fanfare. Having stockpiled 25,000 bottles of champagne, even as the shock-waves shook its foundations, the people danced, because as hard as he tried to break the British spirit, this party was be a big f**k you to Adolf Hitler. To aid the war-effort, Café de Paris was requisitioned as a place of recreation for active servicemen. To return a sense of normality to a wider audience – not just its usual clientele like the Mountbatten’s, the Aga Khan, Cole Porter and King Edward VIII – it lowered its prices. And it also played host to many of Britain’s finest comedians; such as Frankie Howerd, Tommy Cooper, Tony Hancock, Michael Bentine and Benny Hill, as well as Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Spike Milligan from The Goon Show. Not to mention a whole host of famous musicians, singers, dancers, performers and band-leaders. During war-time, Café de Paris was the perfect place to be; it was friendly, popular and safe... ...only, a series of random, tragic and almost unbelievable events would lead to Ken’s untimely death. Bursting into the starlight, Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra were snapped-up as the resident band for the Café de Paris, often kicking-off the night or headlining at the top of the bill. With the venue fitted with state-of-the-art recording equipment, the band's popularity rose and their shows were broadcast on BBC Radio and BBC World Service across large parts of the UK and the world. But success wasn’t the only boon for Ken, as being a respected artist, he had the power to showcase any new and upcoming talents, many of whom – being black and/or female – would previously have been denied this opportunity, and this helped bridge the gap between music, business and oppression. Ken was at an all-time high... and his ascent into infamy had only just begun. Six months into the blitz, the British were yet to surrender as the bombing continued, so as they went about their everyday lives, the Luftwaffe targeted smaller cities giving London a little breathing space. For Ken and his band, they had settled into a comfortable life in the rumble-strewn chaos of the West End; the gigs were good, the pay was solid, crowds were appreciative and their popularity was rising. Saturday 8th March 1941 was an ordinary day; cloudy and rainy with a hint of drizzle. Having woken late, Ken had caught the river boat from the cottage he shared with Gerald from Bray to Embankment, where he did some shopping and met a few friends for drinks at the Embassy Club on Old Bond Street. At roughly 9:20pm, he politely excused himself, and although they wanted him to stay for one more drink, as he and his band due to be on stage at 9:45pm, Ken would never dream of being late. And there’s the irony, had he not been the epitome of professionalism... he may have lived? At 9:25pm, he exited the Embassy Club in Mayfair, with Café de Paris being less than one mile away, roughly a fifteen-minute walk. He considered hailing cab, but as the streets were busy and although relatively famous – being a black man - the chance of getting a taxi would be slim, so he chose to walk. Had he waited, he may have been late... and maybe have lived? Strolling towards Piccadilly, there was no real panic in Ken’s lengthy strides, as - like everyone else, eighteen months into the war – they heard the bombers and felt the blasts, but being finely-tuned to know which way they were heading, how close they were and how long it took to run to the nearest air-raid shelter - so commonplace had the blitz become - avoiding a bomb was like catching a bus. Had he sought to seek safety in an air-raid shelter, he may have lived... ...but he’d have also missed the start of his show. At roughly 9:40pm, Ken arrived at the Café de Paris. He dressed in his tailored white tails with a bright majestic flower in his button-hole and grabbed his slightly over-sized black baton. With the patrons either seated, supping chilled champagne or eager to groove, even though the bombers loomed closer and the explosion grew louder, from the safety of the club, the party was about to kick off. At 9:45pm, ’Snake Hips’ and his swing band entered the stage... ...to play the last song Ken would ever play. The bombing wasn’t particularly heavy that night. Around 130 tonnes of high explosives and 30,000 incendiaries pummelled the West End, as it had many times before. With British anti-aircraft batteries positioned in the parks unleashing volleys of flack, many German bombers flew outside their range at 20,000 feet (with some pressurised to fly higher), therefore the chance of a bomb hitting its target was slim. But this bombing campaign was no longer about precision, it was about maximum casualties. At roughly the same time that Ken instructed his band to play the opening bars of the Andrews Sisters' hit ‘Oh, Johnny’, a squadron of Heinkel HE 111’s had loomed over the blacked-out gloom of Piccadilly. As many bombs exploded across Regent Street, Shaftesbury Avenue and Haymarket, two hit Coventry Street. Dropped from high-up in the troposphere, two SC50 fifty-kilo high-explosive bombs fell at a rate of 400 feet-per-second. Being 110cm long and 20.3cm wide, to aid its direction and flight, as air rushes across its spiralled fins, this forced the projectile into a fast rotation causing it to nose-dive. So, as it gained speed, it hit the ground at maximum velocity, detonating the explosive warhead in its tip. By chance, these two bombs missed the glass roof of the Rialto Cinema. They missed stone and steel structure of the building above. And they both missed the concrete reinformed ceiling of the club. But being in a basement, with no windows and few doors to expel the noxious gases from the kitchen and to supply the customers with fresh-air, the club was fitted with one-metre-wide ventilation shafts. Had the bombs fallen flat, they would only have damaged the roof of the empty cinema, as many of them had. But falling tip-first, scoring an almost impossible bullseye into two different vents, both bombs flew straight down the four floors of the ventilation shaft and landed in the packed club below. Thankfully, one bomb hit the dance floor and failed to explode... but the other did not. In a blinding blue flash, a bomb exploded in the gallery directly above the band. Packed with 23 kilos of TNT, its steel shell shattered, firing hundreds of hot dense fragments in every direction, piercing anything in its path; whether glass or brick, bone or flesh. Eighty people were injured, many seriously. Survivors told the press of cuts, burns and broken bones, but many stories were too grim to be shared; one patron witnessed her lover’s back blown out as they sat eating supper, one saw a lady in a green dress sat at the bar, a champagne in hand, too shocked to realise that her other arm was blown-off, and a rescuer tripped over a dead girl’s head, only to see her decapitated body still sitting in a chair. Thirty people died, including the club’s owner Martin Poulsen, the head waiter, several staff and diners, and the band’s saxophonist Dave ‘Baba’ Williams, as well as the band-leader himself Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson. Being at the front of the stage, entertaining the crowd with his mesmeric hips and fluid dance style, as the bomb ignited, from his shoulders down, his lithe body was cut in half by the blast. The band's guitarist Joe Deniz later stated: “the next thing I remember was being in a small ambulance, as bombs lit up Dean Street. Then someone came to me and said: ‘Ken's dead’. It broke me up”. (End) The rescue was hampered by confusion, so as civilians and off-duty medics fought to save lives - in this so-called golden era, where you could leave your doors open - the looters descended. Nabbing purses, swiping bottles, filching the pockets of the dying, and cutting off fingers to steal their rings of the dead. The Westminster ARP declared the incident as closed at 11pm, civil engineers declared the structure as unsafe, and – being closed - Café de Paris wouldn’t re-open its doors for another seven years. The next day, Gerald Hamilton, Ken’s lover was informed of his death and was asked to identify the body at the Westminster Mortuary. Oddly, although Ken had been decapitated, most of his body was unmarked, parts of his suit were still white, and even his little flower in his button-hole was untouched. Ken’s funeral was held on 14th March 1941 at Golders Green crematorium with his ashes placed in the chapel of the Sir William Borlase's Grammar, where he went to school. For the rest of his life, Gerald kept a picture of Ken in his tuxedo, with him at all times, and called him “my husband" until his death. There was a huge out-pouring of love in the press, Melody Maker paid endless homage to Ken in the weeks after his death, and – albeit belatedly – the BBC broadcast a memorial one year later. But being too devastated, traumatised and (in many cases) injured, the band broke up and never played again. The impact that Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson had on swing, the innovation of sound and the elevation of black talent can never be understated, but given that he was only 26-years-old when he tragically died, this begs the question; what could he have achieved had he missed his death by mere minutes? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if your favourite part of the show isn’t the bit which takes days to research, write and edit, but the pointless bit where a fat bald man talks crap and makes a tea, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case, a little quiz and a treat in Extra Mile. But before that here’s a little promo. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Gaz Porter and Phelps Boyce, I thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. You get access to lots of exclusive goodies, plus you get to hear to episode of Walk With Me where I get attacked by a horse-fly. Ooh, exciting. Plus, if you liked this story and you want to learn more about Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson, check-out the Soho Bytes podcast starring the lovely Dom DeLarge. It’s an excellent podcast for fans of classic movies and local history. He’s also a jolly nice chap to share a pint with. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #149: The Abuse of Jane Andrews - Part 2 (Tommy's Story)27/10/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-NINE:
On Sunday 17th September 2000, after a romantic break in the French Riviera, Tommy Cressman and Jane Andrews retired to bed. Their relationship was a tempestuous one, tensions were high and by the morning, Tommy would be dead. But did Jane kill him in an act of self-defence, or was this a cold-blood and brutal murder? Tbhis is Part Two of Two.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3kz304 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 19 March 2002 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 19 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 28 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 17 May 2001 Irish Independent - Wednesday 02 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 28 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Wednesday 25 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 01 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 03 May 2001 Irish Independent - Tuesday 24 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 17 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 24 April 2001 Irish Independent - Friday 04 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 20 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 29 April 2001 Irish Independent - Thursday 17 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 01 October 2000 https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2003/aug/30/weekend7.weekend1 https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2003/aug/30/weekend7.weekend10 https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/may/21/royal-aide-jane-andrews-prison-release-murder https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2009/nov/23/jane-andrews-royal-absconds-prison https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2001/may/02/sarahhall https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2009/nov/25/jane-andrews-press-abuse https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2000/sep/20/jeevanvasagar https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2009/nov/24/jane-andrews-former-royal-aide https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2001/may/04/sarahhall https://www.birminghammail.co.uk/news/midlands-news/brothers-fury-murderer-jane-andrews-9307439 https://www.justiceforwomen.org.uk/sharon-akers-1 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8930949/Pictured-Sarah-Fergusons-killer-ex-dresser-way-new-Morrisons-shelf-stacking-job.html https://www.lccsa.org.uk/r-v-jane-dawn-elizabeth-andrews-2003/ https://www.casemine.com/judgement/uk/5a8ff7ac60d03e7f57eb1156# http://www.bailii.org/ew/cases/EWCA/Crim/2003/2750.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2003/sep/24/ukcrime.libbybrooks http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/3135464.stm To name but a few. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Having returned to 74 Maltings Place on Saturday 16th September 2000, the couple’s turbulent relationship had descended into a bitter argument (Tommy) "we are rowing and someone is going to get hurt". Jane had endured a long history of physical, emotional and mental abuse at the hands of her boyfriend Tommy; a sexual sadist aroused by pain, domination and cruelty. At roughly 3am, having already been anally raped, (Jane) "where do you want me to sleep?", (Tommy) "with me, of course", the abuse of Jane Andrews continued; (Jane) “he buggered me. I didn't resist because if I did it hurt like hell”, (Tommy) “you’ve got shit on my penis, lick it off”. And although she would find some peace in her sleep, the violence didn’t stop (Tommy) “I’m going to f**king kill you”. It was self-defence, plain and simple. Living in fear for her life, she had placed a cricket bat by the bed and a kitchen knife by her side solely for protection, and as this wild-eyed sadist yanked her by the hair back across their bed to teach this terrified lady a lesson she would never forget (Jane) "I was holding the knife as he came towards me. I don't know, it just went into him. It must have done". In a blind petrified panic over what this “sexual monster” would do if he ever caught her, Jane dashed into her white Volkswagen Polo and fled... not knowing that Tommy Cressman was already dead. That was Jane’s story. But how much of it was true? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 149: The Abuse of Jane Andrews – Part Two. (Interstitial) There are two sides to every story and this is Tommy’s... Thomas Ashley Cressman, known to his friends as Tommy was born 22nd October 1960 to Harry and Barbara Cressman, and with two older siblings - Rick and Cathy - Tommy was the baby of the family. Raised in Hampton-in-Arden, just outside Birmingham, Tommy was blessed with a privilege upbringing thanks to his father’s entrepreneurial spirit. Alongside his brother Albert, Harry Cressman had founded the car firm Bristol Street Motors, as well as several other businesses and he later become a director of Aston Villa football club. Harry was a hard-working man who had a love of family and a passion for classic cars, all of which rubbed off on Tommy as a boy, and made him the man that he would become. Given a great start in life, Tommy could easily have become a selfish, jaded, arrogant man-baby who took whatever he deemed to be his and treated others like dirt – but he didn’t. With twinkly brown eyes and a cheeky smile, Tommy was charming and caring with an infectious personality. He was the type of person you would naturally gravitate towards, as he exuded warmth and “always looked as if he had a laugh in his throat”. He was a lovely man who steered away from trouble and confrontation. It’s odd, as – so far – Tommy doesn’t seem like “a sexual monster” who Jane would later describe in court as “jealous, possessive and abusive with a violent temper”. But maybe he just hit it well? In 1986, Tommy trained as a stockbroker for Prudential-Basche Securities in New York, but later quit as he didn’t have the instincts to make a killing in this cut-throat industry, and besides, money wasn’t his passion. Tommy loved classic cars, he owed eight including four vintage Mercedes, and having set-up a business making specialist car-covers, he partnered-up with British racing-driver Sir Sterling Moss. It easy-to-see why many mistook Tommy as ‘immature’, as he didn’t fall into the traps laid down by life and society. His job wasn’t a nine-to-five grind to pay the bills; it was his passion. He loved fast cars, speed-boats and Tin-Tin cartoons, and although some said that he never grew-up, others would praise that fact that he never lost his enthusiasm for the things he loved as a child. Often, he was unfairly pigeonholed as a confirmed bachelor, but as marriage and children had never been his plan, he wasn’t ready to settle down, as he was only in his thirties and he still felt he had a lot of life to live. Tommy had many girlfriends, which was unsurprising as he was handsome, funny and kind, but sadly, they never lasted long. This wasn’t down to a dark sadistic streak or a nasty brutal violence he would inflict on these terrified ladies. It ended because he was married to his work. He knew that, they knew that, he hoped to marry one day if he found Miss Right, and he remained on good terms with his ex’s. As for Tommy’s dark side? It’s true, he collected British, American and German militaria, a hobby not uncommon among history buffs in a country still obsessed with World War Two. Some pieces were Nazi, others were not, and although it was a decent collection, it wasn’t a shrine to the Fuhrer. In his beside drawer, Police would later find two S&M magazines - Desire and Stiletto Heel. Everybody has an outlet for their stress, and Tommy’s was sex-lines, role-play and masturbation. It may seem seedy, but he did it in private, everything was consensual and he stopped before anyone got hurt. In intimate love letters, Police also discovered that he had a fondness for anal-sex, a predilection that some couples engage in, but many of his ex-girlfriends would state that Tommy was a considerate lover who never subjected them to physical or sexual abuse. Being a romantic at heart, he bought flowers, he was generous with money and he picked up his girlfriends from work as he worried about their safety. Tommy was kind, sweet and supportive, he disliked confrontation and he wasn’t a rapist. Tommy Cressman was no angel - who is - but he certainly wasn’t a beast, or a monster. In August 1998, at Min’s Restaurant in Knightsbridge, Tommy and Jane met on a blind date, and being instantly smitten with this stunning redhead, he swept her off her feet and their romance ensued. Having recently been divorced and made redundant by the Duchess, with her life collapsing all around her, she saw this millionaire’s son as her one chance to return to the luxuriant life that she had loved. Even a close friend of Jane’s would state “the relationship was very important to her. It became her new obsession” and for fear of slumping back into obscurity, she became fixated on marrying Tommy. Their first weeks of romance were passionate and loving. Tommy saw Jane as her friends would; “she was very sweet, quite shy. Jane reminded me of a delicate bird. You wanted to pick her up carefully so as not to damage her wings”. But there were many details about her past that Tommy didn’t know... ...especially about her dark side. In April 1989, Jane met and later married Christopher Dunn-Butler, a divorced IBM executive. It wasn’t love for her, but a step-up the social ladder. She even admitted “I craved someone to take care of me”, but having had a string of affairs behind his back (Jane) “I'm not proud of it", and they later divorced. In February 2001, she stated to a psychiatrist hired by the trial lawyers, "the relationship broke down amicably. There was never any violence or abuse". By November 2001, she told a different psychiatrist that “Christopher became violent and I was sacred to leave him”. His friends and family deny that any assault took place, there were no police reports and (as Jane also admitted) he was a good decent. Which explains why they remained on such good terms and whenever she needed a friend – including before and after Tommy’s murder – the first and only person Jane called was Christopher. Not only was Jane deeply manipulative, twisting facts to suit her needs, she was also abusive. In 1996, Jane fell in love with Dimitri Horne, the son of a Greek shipping magnate. He was single, rich and seeing him as her shot at happiness, Jane became obsessed with snaring this man in matrimony. Her friends would state “when things were going fine, she was lovely – prim and proper, like an English rose. But as soon as things didn’t go well, she would go absolutely crazy”. Dmitri said “I was living in fear... she followed me everywhere” and when he ended the relationship “she went berserk, turned violent, punching and kicking. I was afraid because when she got violent, she became unpredictable”. The abuse of Jane Andrews was relentless; she sent him death-threats, she vandalised his car, she ransacked his flat, she smashed his possessions and she stalked him wherever he went. So terrified was Dmitri that he paid her to leave him forever, and when she wouldn’t, he called the Police. Her violence erupted – as it often did – whenever the relationship and her hopes of marriage ended. But Jane – it is said - was not averse to concocting a tall tale to illicit sympathy when she needed it. As a teenage girl gripped with bouts of depression, anxiety and an eating disorder, she attributed some of her psychological issues to the sexual abuse she said she suffered as a child, at the hands of one of her brothers. In which the sex was “our little secret” and that “bad girls who tell go to prison”. An allegation denied by the alleged offender, her mother, and the first time she ever mentioned being abused was in the spring of 1999, a quarter of a century later and one year before Tommy’s murder. Child abuse became a key part of her conviction appeal, but it was rejected owing to a lack of evidence. It is even suggested, that of her several unsuccessful suicides, that these were not a concerted attempt to end a life she no longer wanted to live but to seek attention from those she sought something from. There are no police reports of rape or abuse perpetrated against Jane by any of her partners (including Tommy), but there are reports of violence, threats, assault and criminal damage perpetrated by her. Even going so far as to threaten to kill an unborn child, out of spite, if her partner didn’t take her back. Tommy had a few little secrets, as we all have... ...but then again, so did Jane. The relationship was self-destructive. As Jane rightly said “I was the ultimate in insecurity. He was the ultimate in commitment-phobia”. She was a 33-year-old former royal dresser for whom the biological clock was incessantly ticking, the curse of spinsterhood hung overhead and who was desperate to snare a 37-year-old bachelor, unwilling to settle down or grow-up. It was never meant to be. But Jane couldn’t see that, and she wouldn’t see that, as her life’s goal was to possess him. Tommy found her jealous and overbearing. If he so-much-as looked at another woman, she would give him the evil eye. If he talked to another woman, she would drag him away. When he went on a stag-do, the second he got off the plane, he was barraged with texts and voicemails demanding to know; “where are you?”, “what are you doing?”, “why haven’t you called me?”, and whenever they went out together with friends, she was very vocal about the fact that he was not committing to her. By the Autumn of 1999, barely a year into their relationship, they were no longer sleeping together. Jane was struggling to adjust to an ordinary life after her royal redundancy, and lasting just two months as the PR Manager for Claridges’ Hotel, she was entirely reliant on Tommy. And like so many couples trapped in a loveless existence, they hung on... believing this was just a blip, but unwilling to change. Maybe this is where and why they engaged in role-play and S&M? Maybe, like a couple disappearing off for a dirty weekend, this was an attempt to re-ignite and spice-up their love life? Maybe they both had a fondness for sexual sadism, with one playing the dominator and the other as the submissive (a fact impossible to prove, as one half of the couple was dead)? Or maybe, Jane only did this to please Tommy; “I would sleep with someone, because I was frightened if I didn't, they would go. I allowed men to do anything they wanted to me". Even acts which she said, she found abhorrent, like anal sex. Every relationship is full of secrets and lies, but the more theirs collapsed, the further they retreated into their own private spaces and fantasies. For him, it was fetishes and masturbation. For her, it was seeing a psychiatrist and (perhaps) inventing stories to illicit sympathy, in which she was the victim. We shall never know the real truth, as even the smallest details about their private lives can be inflated and twisted into unfair proportions to make them both look like the Holy Mother or a monster. But it was during their frequent fights that those secrets became a weapon with which to beat each other; she threatened to tell Tommy’s business partners and parents about his “dirty little habits”, and he threatened to go to the press or the police to expose the things she had seen in the royal household. It was these secrets which destroyed their relationship... ...but Tommy still had one more secret hidden away. At a conference in Las Vegas, Tommy met Deborah DiMiceli. They were never intimate together, but she was someone who shared his sexual predilections and they regularly corresponded. In January 2000, just nine months before Tommy’s death, Jane hacked into his laptop and found the emails. Described in court as being written in a ‘cheap novelette style’; some contained a sexual fantasy about a submissive woman in a maid's outfit tied to a four-poster bed and crying "finish tying me up and rape me", with many references to “large kisses and licks in all the right places” and vigorous anal sex. Jane admitted she was “very angry and very upset" by the emails, which Tommy said was "just a bit of fun" and he promised to stop. But what hurt her most was what he had written about her. In the emails, Jane is described as “getting a little like that pair of slippers I can't throw away!" The relationship was dead, the love was gone and they were both treading water... ...but Jane was still fixated on marrying Tommy... ...as somewhere there was hope. In the bin, at 74 Maltings Place, Police would later find an undated torn-up letter written by Tommy. In it, he wrote “Dearest Jane. I do care about you. Yes, times have been difficult for us over the last year but I do like you. However, over the last two months, I have felt like I’ve been walking on egg shells all the time. Your mood swings have been hard to predict”. In it, he admitted his mistakes, he apologised for his failings, he noted that he hadn’t tried hard enough, and he signed it off “Tom.xxx”. But was Tommy using her love as a weapon (Jane) “he knew which carrots to dangle and which strings to pull" in order to emotionally break her, or as a very loving man - deep down - did he really care? In the Summer of 2000, they went house-hunting in the Cotswolds. This definitely happened as they registered with an estate agent in Chipping Norton under the name of ‘Mr & Mrs Cressman’. But did he really want to buy a house with Jane? Did he want her to become his wife? Was he trying to make a disintegrating relationship work? Or was he simply pacifying her, to make a difficult life less terrible? Either way, it’s easy to see why Jane became confused. From the 1st to 15th September 2000, they went on a romantic holiday in the French and Italian Riviera; a taste of the luxuriant life she was so desperate to return to, and - she hoped - a marriage proposal. But it was not to be. Amidst the stunning sunsets which glistened over the clear-blue sea echoed their bitter words, as Tommy made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of marrying Jane... ever. As a last-resort to lure him back, she threatened suicide by driving off the edge of a cliff. But the love was gone, and it is alleged he replied: “don’t do that darling, that’s my brother’s car you’re driving”. By Friday 15th September 2000, Tommy and Jane had split-up, for good. At Nice Airport, the couple were seen bitterly arguing, an incident which Jane would later dispute. "If it was true that he said he wasn't going to marry me, then I'd say so”. And yet, she made several calls to her ex-husband Christopher and her friend Gil Hancox confirming “this time it is definitely over”, some of which were made in the car with Tommy and his mother in earshot. When later asked why, Jane stated “I was trying to goad him. I was being a complete bitch. It was the thing I said whenever we fought: 'You don't love me anymore, you don't want to marry me'. I'm not making excuses for what ended up happening, I'm just trying to get across that there was no premeditation, no plan to kill him". Over the next thirty-six hours, right up to the point when Tommy was murdered, the two were alone. According to Jane, they returned home to Maltings Place. Collecting their post, she took a small knife to the bedroom to open the letters, and later - although exhausted from arguing – they made love. Saturday 16th September 2000 - the next morning - was Tommy’s last day alive. As the couple had continue to argue throughout the day, Tommy went to his office nearby, as Jane had called in sick. At 8.47am, he called his mother, during which he sounded harassed. Jane made an appointment for both of them to see Michael Cameron, a relationship counsellor, but Tommy later cancelled this. At 11.35am, as they argued further, Tommy called the Police; stating "we are rowing and someone is going to get hurt", (officer) “is anyone hurt?”, (Tommy) “not yet, but if you don’t get here soon, someone is going to get hurt”. On the call, a woman can be heard screaming, and one minute later, Jane telephoned her ex-husband (Christopher) and told him “Tommy is attacking me”. Allegedly, a physically fight ensued and Tommy tried to throttle her... but neither of them sustained any injuries. It’s around this time that both version of the story dramatically deviates. At 12pm, moments after the call ended, according to Jane, he tied her to the bed with the cord of her dressing gown and anally-raped her, saying, "I'm really going to hurt you and nobody will believe you". Only, it was at that moment that Tommy was seen in the street, making a call to his friend Richie Gore, in which he said they’d had an argument, she had driven-off and that she’d threatened to kill herself. Police records prove that Tommy and Jane exchanged insults and accusations by mobile phone over the next few hours, with Tommy in or near Maltings Place, and Jane driving in her car in West London. But with neither party looking to deescalate their bitter fight, Tommy suggested ways in which - if she was actually serious –Jane could kill herself, and – out of spite - at 1.54pm, Jane faxed the illicit emails to the employer of Tommy’s secret sexy pen-pal Deborah DiMiceli and later to his parents. Across the next few hours, they both called their closest friends and family for support, explaining their versions of the events, but at no point did Jane accuse Tommy of violence, imprisonment or rape. At 8pm, Jane returned home. She would later state; "a part of me still wanted to go back. I couldn't believe what had happened in the morning. I remember watching him through the window. He was sitting in an armchair watching television. I was scared, and when he heard me, he leaped up. I thought he was going to be angry but instead he threw his arms around me and said 'welcome home'. It was all mind games". Later that night – having been made to feel worthless - Jane reluctantly returned to the bedroom they shared, asking (Jane) "where do you want me to sleep?", (Tommy) "with me, of course", as again he tried to anally rape her, shouting "you know you like it, you know you do". All of which was true... ...but only if you believe Jane’s version. A Police investigation would confirm that - when Jane returned home at 8pm - she packed a black bag with spare clothes, underwear and toiletries, and hid it in a cupboard. Earlier that day, she had already filled her car with fuel, and with a small kitchen knife (used to open the mail) still in the bedroom and Tommy’s prized cricket bat nearby, she placed an eight-inch carving knife under her side of the bed. That night, Tommy had sat quietly watching the Sydney Olympics, and at 10pm, he went to bed. He was dressed in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, and – being so short-sighted that he could barely see just 20cm in front of his face – he placed his glasses on the bedside table and drifted off to sleep. He didn’t wake in the middle of the night, he didn’t punch her in the face, he didn’t rape her, he didn’t drag her across the bed by her hair, and he didn’t scream “I’m going to f**king kill you”, as he strangled her... ...as when Jane attacked him with the cricket bat, Tommy was lying face down on the bed, fast asleep. Stunned but not unconscious, as Tommy slowly moved, Jane grabbed the eight-inch knife, later stating "I was holding the knife as he came towards me. I don't know, it just went into him ". Only, an autopsy would confirm that she hadn’t stabbed him in the front, but the back. And as the blade plunged deep into his rib-cage, through his left lung and nicked his heart - as his body filled with blood and he slowly drowned in a pool of his own fluids – she partially withdrew the blade and then twisted it, watching him in his last moments alive, as this terrified man struggled to remove the knife from his own body. Jane claimed she disliked S&M and his “dirty little habits” ... but that is epitome of a sadist. After that, she said she fled in panic. Only, she was calm enough to take a shower, to grab the bag she had hid, to get changed, to clean-up some of the blood, to call her ex-husband Christopher at 3:10am during which – again – she bemoaned how Tommy had refused to marry her (but said nothing about the murder or rape) and tied the cord of her bathrobe from the banister to the door handle - for fear of what this sexual monster would do if he ever caught her - even though, Tommy was dead. In Police interviews, Jane would state "I didn't go out of my way to hurt him, I was just protecting myself". (End) Jane Andrews’ trial began at The Old Bailey on the 23rd April 2001. In this three-and-a-half-week trial, where as the prosecution set-out to prove without a shadow of doubt that this was a premeditated cold-blooded killing by a woman scorned, Jane stuck to her story about rape and pleaded self-defence. A jury of ten women and two men deliberated for twelve hours and found her guilty of murder. On 16th May 2001, she was sentenced to life in prison, but owing to changes in the law, this was reduced to eleven years before parole can be considered. In 2012, having served the remainder of her term at HMP Bullwood Hall in Essex – a Category C, not a Category A prison, the type reserved for violent offenders – her parole was rejected as she was judged a 'danger to the public', especially men. That aside, on 19th June 2015, she was released on licence and sent to a probation hostel, with the hope of re-integrating her back into society. Three years later, she was arrested for breaching the terms of her licence having harassed a former lover. She was re-convicted, sent back to prison, but was re-released from prison on 8th August 2019 and is now living somewhere in the East of England. Jane Andrews; the former dresser to the Duchess of York, who dreamed of a great life, an amazing career, hobnobbing with the elite and settling down with a wealthy husband - a far cry from her upbringing – was last known to be stacking shelves for £8.50 an hour in a Morrison’s Supermarket... ...a job she could easily have got back home in Grimsby. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if the highlight of your day is listening to the aimless bluster of a fat bald loser with an Eva Green fixation and three bellies; one for tea, one for cake, and one for everything else, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case and a little quiz in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Claire Lou Bee and Barry Wilson. Thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. Plus, a belated thank you to Beth, James and two anonymous people who made donations via Supporter link. I thank you too. Plus, a thank you to everyone who listens to the show and shares it with their pals. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #148: The Abuse of Jane Andrews - Part 1 (Jane's Story)20/10/2021
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The Maltings, the former home of Tommy Cressman and Jane Andrews
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT:
On Sunday 17th September 2000, after a romantic break in the French Riviera, Tommy Cressman and Jane Andrews retired to bed. Their relationship was a tempestuous one, tensions were high and by the morning, Tommy would be dead. But did Jane kill him in an act of self-defence, or was this a cold-blood and brutal murder?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the home of Tommy Cressman is located with a purple cross, just near the words 'Fulham'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you The Maltings where Tommy & Jane once lived and where Tommy Cressman was murdered. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below. https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3kz304 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 19 March 2002 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 19 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 28 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 17 May 2001 Irish Independent - Wednesday 02 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 28 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Wednesday 25 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 01 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 03 May 2001 Irish Independent - Tuesday 24 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 17 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 24 April 2001 Irish Independent - Friday 04 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 20 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 29 April 2001 Irish Independent - Thursday 17 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 01 October 2000 https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2003/aug/30/weekend7.weekend1 https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2003/aug/30/weekend7.weekend10 https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/may/21/royal-aide-jane-andrews-prison-release-murder https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2009/nov/23/jane-andrews-royal-absconds-prison https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2001/may/02/sarahhall https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2009/nov/25/jane-andrews-press-abuse https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2000/sep/20/jeevanvasagar https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2009/nov/24/jane-andrews-former-royal-aide https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2001/may/04/sarahhall https://www.birminghammail.co.uk/news/midlands-news/brothers-fury-murderer-jane-andrews-9307439 https://www.justiceforwomen.org.uk/sharon-akers-1 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8930949/Pictured-Sarah-Fergusons-killer-ex-dresser-way-new-Morrisons-shelf-stacking-job.html https://www.lccsa.org.uk/r-v-jane-dawn-elizabeth-andrews-2003/ https://www.casemine.com/judgement/uk/5a8ff7ac60d03e7f57eb1156# http://www.bailii.org/ew/cases/EWCA/Crim/2003/2750.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2003/sep/24/ukcrime.libbybrooks http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/3135464.stm To name but a few. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. This is Maltings Place in Fulham, SW6, a series of four-storey brown-brick terraces in a curved block surrounded by industrial estates, council flats and looming cranes. Protected by roving cameras, high walls and heavy electronic gates, the security may seem like overkill, given that the houses are bog-standard and cars outside are nothing but crappy Beamers and Audis. This is far from an exclusive bolt-hole for the rich and famous, but for some, maybe this protection was vital? 74 Maltings Place Is an unremarkable building, in fact it looks like the kind of new-build you would find in any new-town; it’s tall and thin, with three-bedrooms and a car-port below. Back at the millennium’s turn, this house was owned by Tommy Cressman, an independent businessman, heir to the Bristol Street Motors fortune, and his girlfriend Jane Andrews, the former dresser to the Duchess of York. On Sunday 17th September 2000, after a romantic break in the French Riviera, the couple retired to bed. Their relationship was a tempestuous one, tensions were high and by the morning, Tommy would be dead. But did Jane kill him in an act of self-defence, or was this a cold-blooded and brutal murder? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 148: The Abuse of Jane Andrews – Part One. (Interstitial) There are two sides to every story and this is Jane’s... Jane Dawn Elizabeth Andrews was born on 1st April 1967 in Cleethorpes, Lincolnshire, a sea-side town in the north-east of England, with stunning scenery and a delightfully picturesque beach. As the youngest of three with two older brothers, for a working-class girl this was a good place to grow up. But with her father struggling to stay in full-time employment, the family fought to survive on the mother’s meagre income as a teaching assistant, therefore poverty was only ever a short step away. In 1976, when Jane was eight, their financial situation forced the Andrews to move two-and-a-half miles west to Grimsby; a depressing port town on the Humber estuary, which once was home to the world’s largest fishing fleet, but was now just a gloomy rust-ridden ghost of a former industrial great. Their home was a small townhouse with no bathroom and a toilet outside. Jane would later recall: "from an early age I was aware that things were not right. My parents were always arguing. But they were very proud. I remember one day we didn't have enough to buy a loaf of bread and mum had us looking down the sides of the settee for money to scrape together. I was brought up to keep it in the family. We didn’t let our relatives think that we're anything other than comfortably off". The Andrews were a proud family, but any upheaval can be traumatic for young child – new school, new friends, new life – and this lack of stability in her early years greatly affected her mental health. Close friends would later regard Jane as “bright, vivacious, a force of nature”, "she was so good to know", "you can't imagine how great it was to be with her. But she never believed that she was loved... on the outside she was bright and sunny, but on the inside, she was a fragile mess of insecurities”. Educated at Hereford Secondary School, Jane excelled, as she had drive and intelligence. She may only have been a thin wisp of a girl with pale skin and red hair - like a little lost matchstick - but bubbling underneath was a fiery determination to achieve. As a far cry from her upbringing, Jane dreamed of a great life, an amazing career, hobnobbing with the elite and settling down with a wealthy husband. She had the brains and guts to succeed, but she was guided by one overriding need – to be loved. It was during those difficult teenage years that Jane was gripped with bouts of depression, anxiety and an eating disorder. In later years, many of her psychological issues would be attributed to the sexual abuse she said she suffered as a child, at the hands of one of her brothers. At one point, a lock had to be fitted to her bedroom door, as having chased his terrified little sister with a knife, he had hushed that the sex was “our little secret” and that “bad girls who tell go to prison”. And although, what happened in their family stayed in their family, her mother would dispute this ever happened. Desperate to feel loved, but gripped with a persistent fear of rejection, as a young teen Jane used sex to get whatever she wanted or needed. She would state “I would sleep with someone, possibly on the first date, because I was frightened if I didn't, they would go. I allowed men to do anything they wanted to me". Many acts of which left this vulnerable and insecure girl feeling degraded and worthless. Aged 15, driven by self-loathing and self-destruction, Jane swallowed every pill she could find in the bathroom cabinet in an attempt to kill herself. She was found unconscious and collapsed on her bed, "but they didn't call for help or take me to the hospital”, Jane said, “again, it was kept in the family”. Just like her abortion, aged 17, which Jane described as “the most traumatising experience of my life”. Her world was in total chaos, but she had one thing which kept her straight and true – her dreams. With barely three o-levels, Jane enrolled in the Grimsby College of Art studying fashion and later began designing children's clothes for the retail brand Marks & Spencer. Her life was heading in a brighter direction, but she knew that this path wouldn’t give her the exclusive life that she so badly craved. In February 1988, 21-year-old Jane replied to an advert’ in The Lady, one of Britain’s longest running women’s magazines, in which an unnamed client with two young children sought a ‘personal dresser’. In July, she was interviewed by the client, who was none-other than Sarah Ferguson; the Duchess of York, mother to Beatrice and Eugenie, and the wife of Prince Andrew (the fourth in line to the throne); who had homes on Eaton Square in Belgravia, Drummer in Hampshire, Sunninghill Park and the Royal Lodge in Windsor, as well as holiday retreats in the exclusive ski-resort of Verbier in Switzerland, and – of course, the most exclusive homes in our whole country – Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace. As a skinny, pale and frail working-class girl from the rusty wilds of Grimsby - who had battled poverty, sexual abuse, suicide and self-doubt - finally Jane’s dreams had been exceeded. It took guts to run, but she knew she had to. “I was running away from all the horrible things in my past. I arrived at King's Cross with a suitcase and £10 in my pocket. I got in a taxi and said 'side door of Buckingham Palace' and the driver made a joke. One of the housemaids met me and took me up to my room, and there was a little posy of flowers from Fergie and a card that read 'welcome to the team, the Boss'". Jane Andrews had arrived. This was her dream job with a dream boss, and - as two feisty red-heads - Fergie & Jane struck up an instant rapport. The role didn’t pay well, as she only earned £18000 a year as her dresser, accounts manager and companion, but it gave Jane access to a lifestyle she could never have reached any other way. "Suddenly I was at Balmoral mixing with the royals, having long chats with Princess Diana". To blend in, Jane hid her northern accent. Besotted with her royal employer, Jane mimicked Fergie’s look, even to the point where she was given the nickname of ‘Lady Jane’, as people often mistook the two as old friends rather than a royal and her servant. And as an unashamed social-climber, Jane put noses out-of-joint by claiming to be Fergie’s Lady-in-Waiting, rather than just her humble dresser. But once Jane was inside this very exclusive circle, she would do anything to remain within. In April 1989, Jane met Christopher Dunn-Butler, a divorced IBM executive. Seeing him less as a lover and more as a step-up the social ladder, demanding his commitment, in August 1990 they married. “I so wanted to be loved”, Jane said “even though I was self-sufficient, I craved someone to take care of me". But as their love-life floundered and their intimacy withered, "I had a few flings. I'm not proud of it". Using sex as a substitute for love, Jane engaged in a string of affairs, and in 1995, they divorced. They remained on good terms, and whenever she needed a friend, it was Christopher who she called. For Jane, this break-up was a personal failure. She was so desperate for love and so blind-sided by the unthinkable - that if all this collapsed, the only alternative was to return to Grimsby with her face rouged in shame and her tail tucked between her legs – that she didn’t see what a good man he was. But a fear of failure and a need to flee from the horrors of a past can be a powerful motivator, and so – taking this badly - she sank into a deep depression and was prescribed with anti-depressants. Without a man by her side and someone to love her, Jane felt like she was nothing. In 1996, Jane fell in love with Dimitri Horne, the son of a Greek shipping magnate. Only it wasn’t love, it was need, a desperation to not let yet another wealthy husband-to-be slip through her fingers, and this consumed her every thought. Her friends said “when things were going fine, she was lovely – prim and proper, like an English rose. But as soon as things didn’t go well, she would go absolutely crazy”. When Dmitri ended the relationship, "I was so angry”, Jane would state “on the mantelpiece was a cup and saucer that I knew was very special to him and I smashed it. I went through his journal with a marker pen and blanked out all the references to myself. I picked up his telephone and smashed that too. I'm ashamed of what I did. I've never done that to anyone else's possessions". But with the pain of rejection being too much to bear - when her hopes of a happy life slipped away - she lashed out. Once again, just as she had in her teenage years, Jane took an overdose and tried to end her life... ...a suicide attempt which was kept secret from the Duchess for fear of risking her dream job. But Jane couldn’t focus if she didn’t feel loved. Several failed relationships followed; one with Fergie’s biographer Allan Starkie, who she harangued with jealous notes under his locked bedroom door and one with an unnamed man who she (allegedly) rang from an abortion clinic threatening to kill his baby if he didn’t take her back. She slept with journalists, palace courtiers and royal protection officers. Jane could be lovely and charming, but as a fragile woman, she could be deceitful and manipulative. But love wasn’t her only desire. In December 1995, two years earlier, Jane had attracted public notoriety when she mistakenly checked in an unlocked suitcase belonging to the Duchess of York into the baggage hold of a BA jet at Kennedy airport. Quarter of a million pounds worth of the Duchess's jewellery vanished, including a diamond-encrusted necklace and a matching bracelet gifted to Fergie as wedding presents from the Queen. Several sources have alleged that Jane stole these expensive items and that “it became clear that for every pound she had spent on Fergie, she had spent £2 on herself”, hence on her rather modest wage she was able afford a new flat overlooking Battersea Park. But these allegations were never proven. And then, in November 1997, Jane suffered her ultimate failure... ...as with Fergie divorced and no longer a royal, needing to make cutbacks, Jane was made redundant. After nine years of loyal service, her exclusive life among the elite was over. Feeling worthless, she sank deeper into depression, she struggled to pay her mortgage, and forced to find a regular job – although she briefly worked at Theo Fennel, an exclusive high-end jeweller on the wealthy Fulham Road - she was little more than a sales assistant, a job she could easily have got back home in Grimsby. Jane was back to square one.... ...she was a no-one with nothing... ...and then, she met Tommy Cressman. In August 1998, at Min’s Restaurant in Knightsbridge, a mutual friend introduced the two. Jane was instantly smitten as Tommy was fun loving, charming and gregarious. Seven years her senior, he had trained as a stockbroker but now ran his own business. He mixed in elite circles, he hobnobbed with the stars, he was the son of a multi-millionaire and he holidayed in a private villa on the French Riviera. And best of all, he was single. That night, they drank, they ate and – getting on well – they left together. What Jane wanted was a husband, but what Tommy didn’t want was a wife. Some said he was a little bit immature for his 37 years, he was an eternal boy and – worse still – a confirmed bachelor, who loved fast cars, speed-boats and cartoons. A friend of Jane’s later stated: “he was quite spoiled, a wilful chap who always had a laugh in his throat but was very much a little boy, who could be manipulative". On the surface, they looked well-suited... but underneath they were not. That same friend later stated "she was very sweet, quite shy. Jane reminded me of a delicate bird. You wanted to pick her up carefully so as not to damage her wings. But she could put on a good show - happy-go-lucky, confident, relaxed - and of course she wasn't any of those things". And although they were badly mismatched, Jane saw this man as her one chance to return to the life that she loved. Only her happiness would only ever be fleeting. To many, it may be unsurprising that a spoiled little man-baby with an obsession for World War Two regalia who collected Nazi uniforms, SS weaponry and whose most prized possession was an oak lump reputed to have been part of Adolf Hitler’s desk had a dark side. But he did. In court, Jane depicted Tommy as “a sexual monster, who was jealous, possessive and abusive with a violent temper”. By the winter, the rot in the relationship had set in. He would claim “it was an accident” which had occurred while the couple were dancing, as now Jane was sporting several bruises and a broken wrist. Jane would state: "I so wanted this relationship to work. I never knew when his moods were going to change. He could be so incredibly nice and then with absolutely no reason whatsoever he would hit me with this wooden brush. He always made me feel it was my fault. He would say I was weak". But so desperate was Jane’s need for love, that when he asked here to move in, she said ‘yes’. In November 1998, after just three months together, Jane moved into Tommy’s home at 74 Maltings Place, a bachelor pad purchased by his parent’s deep pockets for their little boy just one year before. At first, he seemed like “a charming romantic”, Jane would state; he sent her roses, he left her love letters, he paid-off her debts and he always picked her up after work, but – for her – these generous gestures had a more sinister motive, “to ensure that I was never alone with anyone else but him”. And yet, still fixated on her one overriding goal, she was determined to marry him... at all costs. Over the next two years, the relationship began to stagnate. Jane hadn’t been her usual self since the Duchess had made her redundant, and flitting between jobs – just as her father had during the difficult childhood she had so desperately tried to flee – now she had become entirely reliant on Tommy. Over time, Jane would often state that their relationship became increasingly volatile, characterised by physical violence, domination and his escalating sexual demands – acts that she found abhorrent. She said the first she became aware of his sexual preferences was when she found a pair of lady’s thigh-length boots and bondage straps among his possessions. She tried to end the relationship, but he begged her to stay, and when he realised that she had given them to a charity shop, he hit her. In his bedside cabinet, she found two fetish magazines – Desire and Stiletto Heel – dedicated to S&M, for sexual sadists who get their thrills by inflicting pain, humiliation and domination on a subordinate. And when Jane – his fragile little bird, trapped in a cage – couldn’t fulfil his immediate needs, from the back pages (it is said) he would call the private numbers of sex-workers for “instant sexual relief”. It is said that Tommy took her to the London Erotica Show, an expo for the sexually adventurous which was described by a journalist as being “about as erotic as a paperclip convention”, but it was here that rubber garments were purchased for Jane to wear during sex - the kind worn by a sexual submissive. In one role-play session, with Tommy dressed-up like an old school-master in a mortarboard and cloak, he had Jane dress as a schoolgirl, in a short-pleated skirt and one of his old school ties. And what began as an innocent adventure into kinky foreplay, she said, often descended into violence and rape. "He was shouting at me in this stupid German voice. He was wielding this knife. What he meant to do was spread my legs by touching them with this knife, but I struggled and he caught the back of my right leg and cut me. It wasn't deep but it was sore. I was so frightened that I spread my legs”. For sexual sadists, humiliation and domination is part of the thrill, but Tommy also had a preference for anal sex – something Jane found abhorrent. “He buggered me. I didn't resist because if I did it hurt like hell. Nine times out of ten he used to come inside me, which really disturbed me, or he would ejaculate over me and rub it all over me, even my hair. On one occasion, I was having problems and I couldn't go to the loo. He'd had anal sex with me and when he came out, he'd got excrement on his penis. He grabbed hold of my hair and screamed at me and yanked me down and made me lick it off". She never told anyone about the abuse, and she never called the Police. As a family friend once said "she spent ten years with the royal family, she was intensely loyal, but trusted no-one". And just like when she was abused as a little girl back in Grimsby, what happened in the family, stayed in the family. In the months leading up to Tommy’s death, their arguments grew more volatile. In December 1999, Jane ended up at Charing Cross Hospital, later stating that Tommy had thrown her down the stairs. And in June 2000, after an argument in which he (allegedly) accused her of flirting with another man “I got hit from behind and I went flying. He started kicking me round the kitchen. I was covered in cuts and bruises. I had to go into work the next day. I said to Tom: 'What am I going to tell them?' and he laughed and said 'Tell them you fell off your bike, you stupid cow'. Why didn't I say anything to anybody? For the simple reason I didn't think I'd be believed. I was ashamed. I felt a failure. People at work would laugh and say 'Tommy picks Jane up from work every night, isn't it sweet?' No, it wasn't”. That month, once again, she attempted suicide. But – as Jane would state in a court of law – sex and violence weren’t Tommy’s only weapon. He knew her strengths, he knew her weaknesses and he knew exactly which buttons to push and when. For Jane, marriage was everything. "It was such a complex relationship that we had. I was the ultimate in insecurity. He was the ultimate in commitment-phobia. I would threaten to leave. He would tell me to leave. Then he would reel me back in. He knew which carrots to dangle and which strings to pull". In the summer of 2000, Jane & Tommy went house-hunting in the Cotswolds. The arguments had lessened, the relationship was better, and she believed that a marriage proposal was on the horizon. From 1st to 15th September 2000, Jane & Tommy holidayed in the French and Italian rivieras, cruising to a boat-show in his mahogany Riva, a stylish elegant speedboat, and staying at his mother’s opulent villa, drinking fine wines and relaxing to stunning sunsets which glistened over a clear-blue sea. Once again, Jane was back in the lifestyle she craved so much, forgetting her past, as this was her future. Only Tommy had absolutely no intention of marrying Jane... ever. Heard bitterly quarrelling at Nice Airport and sat in stony silence for the flight back, having returned to Maltings Place, Jane later said “Tommy wanted me out", a fight ensued and he tried to throttle her. Their fight escalated through the next day, becoming so venomous that at 11.35am, Tommy called the Police, informing the operator "we are rowing and someone is going to get hurt". Upstairs, Jane could be heard screaming, and although he was asked “is anyone injured?” replying – almost prophetically - “not yet, but if you don’t get here soon, someone is going to get hurt”, as this was a domestic and no crime was committed, they were asked to resolved it themselves. At the same time, Jane called her ex-husband Christopher to tell him “Tommy is attacking me”, but no-one came to her aid. (End) At 12pm, moments after the call ended, according to Jane, he tied her to the bed with the cord of her dressing gown and anally-raped her, saying, "I'm really going to hurt you and nobody will believe you". She never mentioned it to the police or friends “as I was so ashamed, I just couldn't talk about it", but fearing for her life – being trapped with a sexual sadist - she placed a cricket bat and knife by the bed. Violated, bleeding and confused - having been made to feel worthless - later that night, Jane returned to their bedroom and asked "where do you want me to sleep?", at which he replied "with me, of course", as again he tried to penetrate her anus, shouting "you know you like it, you know you do". And although she would ultimately find some peace in her sleep, the violence didn’t stop. During the night, she awoke to find him punching her hard in the face, screaming “I’m going to f**king kill you”. Panicked, she grabbed the cricket bat and swung, hitting him across the head, but only stunned him. And as this wild-eyed sadist loomed over the petrified lady, yanking her back to the bed by her hair, "I was holding the knife as he came towards me. I don't know, it just went into him. It must have done". Petrified beyond belief, Jane fled, and tied the door handle to the banister using her bathrobe’s cord, so that the monster inside – who had repeatedly beaten and rape her – could never hurt her again. Moments later, Jane got into her car and drove fast, fearing what he would do if he ever caught her. But he never would, as - in order to protect herself from danger - she had killed him. Tommy was dead. In court, Jane would plead self-defence. It was clear to anyone that she was an abused woman who had defended herself from a violent and dangerous partner, who had tried to murder her. Everything you have heard in this episode – so far - is entirely true... but only if you believe Jane’s version. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you can’t get enough of a wobbly pointless loser waffling on about tea, cake and coots, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case, a little quiz and a treat in Extra Mile. But before that here’s a little promo. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Kerry Forrest and Kerry Perkins, two Kerry’s in one go, the plural of which (I’m guessing) is The Kerri, as Kerryses sounds weird. Thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. Plus, a thank you to Mark Dunstan, Mark Gibson and Dawn Smith for your kind donations via the Murder Mile merch shop. I thank you all. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
New Blue is a three-part series in which I chat to my friend Paul, who is a serving officer in the Metropolitan Police, what it's like being an officer. In Part One we discuss his training, Part Two is about his first experiences as an officer and Part Three is his average work day.
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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #147: Resistance: The Last Fight of Countess Teresa Łubieńska22/9/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Platform 5 at Gloucester Road tube station
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SEVEN:
Today’s episode is about Countess Łubieńska, a formidable woman who endured a life of unspeakable horrors, and yet never stopped fighting for the rights of others. But when a simple night-out turned deadly, her last fight... would be for her life.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Platform 5 of Gloucester Road tube station is located with a dark orange cross, just below the words Bayswater, below Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's two videos to go with this week's episode. The one on the left show you Platform 5 at the Gloucester Road tube station where Teresa was last seen alive, and the one on the right shows you her last steps, before she was murdered. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using court records and several other sources, with just a few listed below.
MUSIC:
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Countess Łubieńska, a formidable woman who endured a life of unspeakable horrors, and yet never stopped fighting for the rights of others. But when a simple night-out turned deadly, her last fight... would be for her life. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 147: Resistance: The Last Fight of Countess Łubieńska. Today I’m standing at the Gloucester Road tube station, SW7; two streets east of the Polish super-spy Krystyna Skarbek, four streets north west of the devil child’s home invasion, directly opposite the basement where John George Haigh dissolved the entire McSwan family in a drum of acid, and three streets from the infamous killings of a misunderstood young man - coming soon to Murder Mile. This is Platform 5 of the eastbound Piccadilly Line service at Gloucester Road. With the surface station opened in 1868 and the deep-level lines in 1906 - following a recent refurbishment - much of this tube stop remains unchanged; with its ornate titling, its deep green and cream tiles, its blood red surface station and its wonderfully arched platforms down below. Aesthetically, it’s actually quite beautiful. Sadly, many commuters miss this, as the platform is merely a place where they grumble about a train being delayed by a full minute, and for the rest of the journey – with heads down, a book open and earphones on – they daren’t catch anyone’s eye for fear of engaging in a conversation with a real human-being; except to grunt at someone who’s bag’s on a seat, to tut at a flannel-dodger for whom deodorant is merely a yearly gift, and to gasp at the ladies who manage to perfectly apply their make-up on the world’s bounciest tube without looking like they’ve been smooched by Bongo the Clown. Minding your own business is a skill we’ve all mastered, especially in London... ...but when crimes occur, this apathy makes for terrible witnesses. On Friday 24th May 1957, at 10:19pm, a Piccadilly Line train from Earls Court pulled in on Platform 5. From the middle of seven carriages - most of which were a-third full of revellers heading to and from the West End - a tall elderly white-haired lady exited the train. Her name was Countess Łubieńska; a truly formidable woman who looked a little frail, but – with fire in blood – was unafraid to right the injustices of the past. But somewhere between the platform and the lift, she was murdered. As it was here, having battled her way through a life of torture and pain - in a tube-station miles from her broken homeland - that Countess Łubieńska would lose her last ever fight. (Interstitial). If you think you know what courage is? Then think again. Countess Łubieńska was born Teresa Skarżyńska on the 18th April 1884, the daughter of Władysław & Dorota. Raised among the wealthy Polish elite in south-eastern Poland, her early life was privileged, she lived on a large country estate and she was educated at an élite Catholic boarding school for girls. In 1902, aged 18, she married Count Edward Łubieński; a prominent man from a once-powerful Polish clan, money was no object and together they raised three children; Isabelle, Stanisław and Izabela. Given her upbringing, she could easily have become just another pointlessly pampered lady, living a life of luxury, as from her high horse she looked down her nose at the less fortunate below... ...but that was not Teresa. Revered throughout Poland for her generosity of wealth and spirit, she was esteemed throughout the country, with every Pole knowing that her home was always open to all. She fed the poor and nursed the sick, but what made her more impressive was how she fought for those who needed her help. Teresa was a fire-brand, a force to be reckoned with who sought-out injustice and was never afraid to pick a fight with someone bigger than herself. As a moral woman who couldn’t abide bad behaviour, she would single-handedly tackle ruffians in the street, and easily go twelve rounds with any fascist. What she lacked in size, she more than made-up for in presence; as when she spoke, they listened, but when anyone needed an ear, she was silent. As a big personality, Teresa was staunchly-loyal and had a remarkable memory for details - she always remembered a name and she never forgot a face. During the First World War, she served in the Red Cross, she fought for her country supporting the 14th Regiment of Jazlowiec Uhlans, and she served alongside the Red Army in Kuban, southern Russia. By 1918, the war may have been over... but her fight had only just begun. Following the October Revolution and the armed uprising of Bolsheviks, as hostilities erupted between Russia and Poland, their country estate was encircled and – being a prominent Polish diplomat – the enemy forces stabbed her husband to death. To protect her three young children, Teresa fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs, as the Red Army stripped her home of money and possessions. Witnessing her husband’s brutal murder, the rape of her life and death-threats against her family, that would have been enough to break anyone... and yet Teresa never gave up. Instead, she fought on. Over the next two decades, living in a small top-floor flat at 6 Sierpnia Street in Warsaw, this widowed single-mother earned a modest wage as an accountant for the Post Office Savings Bank and – although times were hard – she continued to shelter the poor, to feed the hungry and to fight her oppressors. But as hard as her life was... it was about to get even worse. On the 1st September 1939, Germany invaded Poland in a blistering ‘blitzkrieg’ attack. Within six days, the country had fallen, its military was wiped out and its people fell under Nazi and Soviet control. 700,000 Poles were captured and 133,000 were killed, one of whom was Teresa’s only son – Stanislaw. Seen by the Nazis as ‘Untermensch’ - a sub-human species - with many Poles (especially Jewish Poles) confined to the ghetto; disease and famine swept through Warsaw, and – so hungry were the people – that when a horse fell dead in the street, they stripped it for meat, until all that was left was bones. Teresa was alone and struggling, but there was no time for selfishness or grief (as many would resort to), as the Polish people needed her help and – no matter what – she would fight to protect them. Her shabby little top-floor flat at 6 Sierpnia Street was home, but it was far from safe; as with a German barracks in front, a Gestapo building behind and the other floors all occupied by enemy soldiers, she was very much a lone hen in a fox’s den. But this did not stop her from doing her patriotic duty. As a resistance fighter and a lieutenant in the Polish Underground Army, her flat became a key base of operations for the resistance movement - where industrial sabotage and the assassination of fascist collaborators was planned - and for three years, she continued to hide dissidents, spies, refugees and even an entire family for six months, in that tiny little flat, right under the noses of the Nazi’s. But as selfless as Teresa was – simply to save their own skin - someone ratted her out. On the 11th November 1942, Teresa was arrested without trial, sent to Warsaw’s brutal Pawiak prison - where resistance-fighters were publicly hung as a warning to others – and here she was tortured. Relentlessly and without mercy, she endured weeks of painful and humiliating tortures, day and night. Designed to break her spirit; she was starved, sleep deprived, drowned, frozen and raped. Forced to stand in stress positions as she was beaten with an iron bar, whipped red-raw and kicked until she was black and swollen, many sadistic techniques included the snapping of bones, nails ripped out, genitals burned and taken to the brink of death, she would be brought back to life, only to be tortured again. These savage beatings would have broken even the toughest of soldiers... but Teresa never broke. In fact, for the rest of her life, she would wear the scars on her flesh like a badge of honour and defiance. And yet, as hard as her life had been so far... it was about to get even worse. From Warsaw, Teresa was sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp; a Nazi death camp where you were either worked to death, starved to death, or were gassed in the extermination chambers. Imprisonment had left her frail and weak, as – like so many others – being riddled with lice and scabies in this filthy hell-hole, she fell seriously ill in a camp riddled with dysentery, tuberculosis, typhoid and pneumonia. But what kept her alive was her formidable spirit and unwillingness to let the Nazi’s win. Even inside, Teresa put others before herself. Nicknamed the White Angel of Ravensbrueck, her self-sacrifice and kindness made her legendary among prisoners and so feared among the Gestapo, that -for two years - she was held in a ‘punishment block’, which few survived... and again, she was tortured. In January 1945, with the tide of war turning against Hitler, the Nazis began destroying all evidence of their barbaric crimes, including the mass-extermination of its prisoners at camps like Ravensbrueck. In the final weeks of the war, Count Folke Bernadotte – regarded as the Swedish Oskar Schindler – made a secret deal with Heinrich Himmler and negotiated the release of 31,000 prisoners. On 28th April 1945, Teresa found herself standing on the quay at the Swedish port of Malmö. She was little more than a skeleton swathed in filthy oversized rags with a shaven head and shoes made of paper. Countess Teresa Łubieńska had fought through war, death, poverty, loss and torture. But regardless of what she had endured, the fact that she was alive and that she was still standing, that was courage. And yet, although the Second World War had ended... for so many Poles, her fight was far from over. With the Potsdam Conference divvying-up Poland among the Allies and the Soviets, like this already smashed and battered country was a spoil of war – with her hometown now under Communist control – this allied collaborator knew that if she ever returned to Poland, she risked being shot as a spy. So, with no other options, no money and no possessions, Teresa moved to London... ...where twelve years later, she was murdered. During the post-war years – to many, who never knew this amazing woman - The Countess was just a little old lady; frail, thin and weak, but with a bob of white hair and a very defiant walk. Struggling to get British citizenship, she found it difficult to find even a menial job, and so she relied on charity. Therefore, it’s unsurprising, that - living in a small rented room in Cornwall Gardens, two streets from the Gloucester Road tube station - she became friends with Krystyna Skarbek, codename ‘Christine Granville’; the former super-spy, who at the same time was reduced to working as a hotel maid, and when she was murdered by her stalker, one of the mourners who stood at her grave-side was Teresa. Through the forties and the fifties, the city was full of refugees, who were displaced and abandoned. And although Teresa had nothing, she feed the poor, she nursed the sick and – with her indomitable spirit – she slammed her fists on the table of debate, demanding that the voice of the people be heard. As chairman of the Polish Association of Ex-Political Prisoners, Teresa spoke-out against Communists, Nazis, fascists and racists, who - even in the post-war years – still had millions of supporters. She picked fights with Wladyslaw Gomulka (the communist leader of post-war Poland), she waged a viscous battle with the West German government to get compensation for Polish refugees, and – as a Catholic - she was unafraid to take on the might of The Vatican, from Cardinal Wyszynski, all the way up to the Pope. For many Poles in Britain, Teresa was beloved... ...but by those she opposed, she was feared. By May 1957, Teresa was 72 years old. Her health was declining, but - still fighting on- that fire in her belly was a fierce as ever, as just like her prisoner’s tattoo and the torture scars which pockmarked her cut-and-burned body – although time had made them fade a little, they would never disappear. And still being a moral woman, she was not averse to clipping a ruffian about the ear for foul language. In the two weeks leading up to her murder, Teresa had received three death threats; two by phone, one by letter, and all were anonymous vague threats issued – at a distance - by cowards. Rightly, she informed the Police, but she wasn’t overly concerned, given the real horrors of the life she had lived. Friday 24th May 1957 was a good day. The weather was warm but cool, and as a very social person, Teresa had been to a friend’s birthday party on Florence Road in Ealing. Dressed in a set of pearls, a white jacket and a little hat with bright flowers, although she was poor, she always dressed well. At a little after 9:50pm – being in good spirits, but not being a night-owl - Teresa said her goodbyes and left the party accompanied by her good friend, Father Kazimerz Krzyanowski; a roman Catholic priest, the Polish assistant at the Brompton Oratory and a survivor of Dachau concentration camp. Just shy of 10pm, they entered Ealing Common tube station, purchased two single tickets and sat in the seventh compartment of the District Line tube train. The journey was uneventful, the carriage held roughly twelve people, all of whom were quiet and (as often happens) kept-to-themselves. At no point did they sense any danger; they weren’t approached, harassed or (as far as they know) followed. As Father Krzyanowski lived at Redcliffe Gardens in Kensington, at Earl’s Court they exited the train. With a short walk to his home, he wished his friend “goodnight” and left the station. Teresa changed trains and took the Eastbound Piccadilly Line service one stop east to Gloucester Road tube station. Being a Friday night and one hour before the pubs chuck-out, the train which held an average of 220 seated passengers was roughly one-third full of workers and revellers going to and from the West End. At 10:18pm, one minute before, the westbound service departed, so by the time that the eastbound service pulled into Platform 5, both platforms were bustling with pockets of people, but weren’t busy, At 10:19 precisely, entirely alone, Teresa exited the train onto the wide well-lit platform. Speaking to no-one and walking at her usual ‘determined’ pace, she followed the ‘exit’ sign and headed up a short set of stairs, along the tiled corridor towards the passenger lifts, and the station concourse above. The distance from the train carriage to the lifts was roughly 150 paces. But nobody saw her, heard her, or witnessed what happened next. Emanuel Olu Akinyemi, a 32-year-old ticket-inspector was manning one of the passenger-lifts that night. At 10:18pm, to catch the eastbound Piccadilly Line service (which Teresa was on), he saw two people enter the lift; a short brunette lady in red shoes and a fair-haired foreigner in a checked suit. Apart from them, the concourse was empty, as he entered the lift with his passengers. During its brief descent, he heard a scuffle coming from in or near the iron spiral staircase to the right of the lifts, and assumed – as had happened many times before - it was tearaway kids trying to avoid paying the fare. But as the lift doors opened and the scuffling stopped, he witnessed no kids playing-up. Instead, he saw a lone woman; frail, tall and white-haired, a haunted expression on her face and her arms outstretched, as she staggered towards the lift, weakly muttering “bandit, bandit”. Putting out his hands to aid her, inside her jacket he spotted blood pouring from the left-hand-side of her chest. The only words her faltering voice could muster was “bandit, bandit”, and although this strong-willed woman remained upright as they ascended, clutching her heart, she collapsed at the foot of the lift. Emanuel called the police from the nearest phone-box, PC Ron Sherfield was on the scene in minutes, and although conscious – choking on her own bloodied breath – she had spoken her last known words. Giving no description of her attacker, she was taken to nearby St Mary Abbot’s hospital.... ...but shortly after arrival, she died. Teresa was stabbed five times with a small short-bladed knife; one in the stomach, one in the back and three in the left-hand-side of her chest, with two piercing her heart. She had no defensive wounds. A search was conducted of the station, the platforms and all departing trains, as well as the tunnels, but no weapon or assailant was found. A street-to-street search was initiated, but with no description of the aggressor, this proved fruitless. A few spots of blood were seen beside the iron spiral staircase by the lifts, but – with no witnesses - Police could only speculate that this was where it taken place. And although fingerprint experts were called in, being a high traffic area, there were no usable prints. The investigation was headed up by Detective Chief Inspector John Du Rose and Chief Superintendent Edward Greeno of the Met’ Police, but – given the victim’s status - they were also joined by MI5. A public appeal was made; 18,000 passengers and staff were interviewed, 214 Piccadilly Line trains were examined, her home was searched, any person listed in her address book was contacted, and – over the next few months - every knife found in any station was handed to forensics to be tested. Of the 13 people in the eastbound Piccadilly Line carriage that night, most were traced. Of the 17 who rode in the lifts at the time of the attack, almost all were found. But – for whatever reason – maybe they didn’t recognise themselves, didn’t see anything strange, or didn’t want to come forward, many witnesses remain unidentified, like the brunette in the red shoes and the foreigner in the check suit. Several possible suspects were identified, such as; an underground worker who had booked a room at a local hotel but hadn’t used it, a teacher who had arrived at school the next day with a black eye and scratches to his face, and a homeless man who was loitering near the station, but all had alibis. The case remains active, but as of today, no-one has been arrested for Teresa’s murder. (End) So, who killed Teresa and why? It was unlikely to be a robbery, as her silver brooch was still pinned to her jacket and her handbag was on her arm, but – as someone who would never back-down from a fight - this couldn’t be ruled-out. As a moral woman who was quick to rebuke the rudeness of ruffians, a relative later stated that Teresa often used the word “bandit” to describe hooligans, and a station porter had seen a ‘gang of youths’ (some of whom carried knives) getting up-to-mischief on the platform, shortly before the murder. As a political animal, who was beloved by many, but equally as feared by others, Teresa had ruffled the feathers of Nazis, Communists, fascists and racists – who she also referred to as “bandits” – as well as the governments of West Germany, Russia and Soviet-backed Poland, and The Vatican. But if this was an assassination, why murder a frail old lady, a decade after the end of the war? The murder rate in London was at its highest that year. So, it could have been a politically-motivated hit, or just as easily, as an unplanned attack by a lone nutjob, the jealous reaction of a stalker (as had happened to Krystyna Skarbek), a case of mistaken identity, or - as someone who everyone agreed “never forgot a face” - maybe she spotted someone from her past who was wanted for war-crimes? An inquest was held on 28th August 1957 at Hammersmith coroner’s court, where her death was ruled as ‘murder by persons unknown’. With a huge outpouring of emotion from the Polish communities, hundreds of mourners attended her service at Brompton Cemetery, she was buried not far from the political activist Emmeline Pankhurst and was posthumously awarded the Golden Cross of Merit. But let’s not remember her for her death. Let’s remember her for who she was; a resistance fighter, a charity-worker, a humanitarian, a champion of the poor, a defender of the right, an agitator of the wrong; a mother, a wife, a widow, and above all, she was Countess Teresa Lubienska – a living legend. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you love to listen to a fat bald man waffle on about tea, cake, Eva and coots, and you’re keen to hear more details about this case and do a little quiz, stay tuned till after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Becky McDowall, Chris Hawkes and Craig Stephens. I thank you. I bless you and so do the coots, but Eva doesn’t, not because she’s rude, but because she’s suffering from a massive hangover... again. What can I say? She likes yards of ale. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Harry Tuffney. Through his eyes, he saw himself as a loyal and loving man who always fought to live a good life; with a job, a home and a wife. But when his perfect little dream went awry, Harry would do the unthinkable.
THE LOCATION
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The location of 75 Star Street is marked with a blue cross, just by the word Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
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SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified police investigation file, as well as several other sources, not all of which are listed below:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Harry Tuffney. Through his eyes, he saw himself as a loyal and loving man who always fought to live a good life; with a job, a home and a wife. But when his perfect little dream went awry, Harry would do the unthinkable. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 146: Harry Tuffney: The Abandoned Man. Today I’m standing on Star Street in Paddington, W2. Two streets from four very different killers; the solo-strangling of the Sad-Faced Killer in Sussex Gardens, the necrophile Reg Christie preying on Kathleen Maloney in Praed Street, the sadistic Blackout Ripper casually smoking after his failed attack on Kathryn Mulcahy in Southwick Street and then there was Frozen Jim - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just shy of Paddington Station, Star Street is one of a series of identical residential streets packed full of late 19th century three-storey terraces, which was formerly a slum. But with white stucco on ground floor, brown brick above and wrapped with black wrought-iron railings, they’ve brushed-up right nice. The problem is – with each street identical, and every house indistinguishable – it’s hard to tell them apart except for a tiny detail; like a lamp, a flower box, a garishly-coloured door, a mat with an oh-so witty slogan like ‘welcome’ (only misspelt so it reads ‘weclome’), ‘my other house is a mansion’ (which it isn’t), ‘you don’t have to be mad to live here, but it helps’ (suggesting that said owner is a ‘personality on legs’ when in fact he’s just a turd in a suit) and – the ever-funny - ‘beware of the wife’ (not the dog, the wife, implying she’s viscous, has rabies and spends half the day licking her genitals... I’m guessing). And if the postman or any passing guest is really lucky, the door might even have a house number. Today, it’s a home, but back in the 1930’s, 75 Star Street was Elizabeth Warren’s lodging house. A nice place where young couples could stay while struggling to afford their own home. In the front second-floor rooms lived Harry, a mechanic, and Kitty, a waitress; a pleasant couple in their late thirties who had recently got engaged and we’re looking forward to spend their whole lives together. This was where their love affair had begun... but sadly, it was also where it would end. As it was here, on the night of Friday 29th June 1934, that gripped with a life-long fear of abandonment, Harry Tuffney would ensure that he and his beloved Kitty would never be apart. (Interstitial) Into the wee small hours of the night, dressed in just pyjamas and a nightdress, Harry & Kitty were sat on Harry’s bed. Being in an age when unmarried couples didn’t dare share a bed (let alone have sex) for offending civilised society or the Good Lord above – being engaged, but unmarried, as they couldn’t afford the fee – the couple had single rooms with single beds connected by an adjoining door. Having sat sipping whiskey and ale from two tumblers, the love-sick twosome – who had only been an item for barely a year, so their feelings were still as box-fresh as the day they had met – had talked of their past and their future; of one together and one apart. And as the night drew ever blacker, so did their talk, as the thought of never being able to lie side-by-side turned their talk more morose. Through Harry’s eyes, there were no cries nor noises that night, only tears. No-one in that fully occupied lodging house heard a single sound as the unthinkable happened, as it was all very peaceful. With Kitty tucked-up in her own little bed, snuggled under the softness of her own sheets, Harry kissed his beloved’s cheek - “goodbye my sweet” – as her last ever breath left her slowly cooling body. Kitty was gone, Harry was broken, so with no reason to live, Harry used his last alive moments to write two letters; one to the police explaining the situation, and one to his family apologising for what he had done and was yet to do. “Dear mum and all. My darling passed away at 3am. It was instantaneous. She did not suffer at all. Never murmured. We had quite a long chat together, had a bottle of ale and a small bottle of whiskey. A parting drink from this world into the next. At 1am, after our talk, she said she did not care which way things went. Little did she know how near both our times were. Goodbye all. Harry”. With handwritten love-letters strewn about the floor and their last drink still whetted with her lipstick, Harry laid upon the carpet. Placing down two cushions for his head, he laid flat and opened-up the gas taps. Breathing the invisible killer deep, as in heaven, he prayed he would see his beloved again. Through Harry’s eyes, death was the only option... ...her death, his death, together... ...as Kitty was the only woman he would ever love. Born Edith Kathleen Longshaw in 1896, making her 38-years-old when she died, Kitty was never a fan of being called Edith, instead she preferred Kathleen, Kitty or Kat. To be honest, the nickname suited her, as with large almond-shaped eyes, a small nose and prominent cheeks, she looked like a cat. Raised in the peaceful village of Shipton-under-Wychwood in Oxfordshire, being far from any bustling city or choking industry, this small ancient parish was dominated by the stately manor houses of two wealthy families for the last five centuries. But Kitty’s family wasn’t one. Being working-class, as far back as anyone can recall, they had always lived here, working as farmers and domestic servants. Kitty’s life was as tough as anyone’s in that era, but with a loving mum, a hard-working dad and being one of several brothers and sisters, she came from a good family in this tight-knit country community. When the world was first plunged into all-out war, she remained in the village, working as a maid and keeping-tabs on her aging parents. When her brothers returned from war, some – like Ernest – stayed and used his military training to become a mechanic and chauffeur for one of the prominent families, but with some of others now living in the big city, Kitty wanted more for her life and moved to London. Widely regarded as reliable, pleasant and fast on her feet, Kitty worked several jobs in cafes and pubs, but really found her place as a ‘nippy’; one of the infamously speedy waitresses at Maison Lyonese, the corner-house tearoom owned by J Lyon’s & Co on the corner of Edgware Road and Marble Arch. Dressed head-to-foot in black with a white lace pinny, red buttons and a paper hat, Kitty worked fifty-four-hours-a-week for a wage of twenty-six shillings. It wasn’t a lot, but she got by, and being a “nice girl”, she befriended a regular customer called Mrs Warren who ran a lodging house at 75 Star Street. If ever she needed a clean affordable room – which sometimes she did – all she had to do was ask. And that was Kitty. She led a simple life (as many of us do); with no real troubles, issues or stresses. She worked hard, she lived as well as her wage would allow, and she hoped one day to have a home, a few kids, and - having been in-and-out of relationships - she was yet to find her ‘Mr Right’. Not a prince, nor a Romeo... ...just someone she could love. Harry was born Harry Tuffney in 1898, making him two-years younger than Kitty when he took his own life. Raised in Chalfont St Peter, a village in Buckinghamshire, he also came from working-class stock. Living in a cramped hovel in the delightfully-named Gravel Hill, the Tuffney family was large but typical of the era; with Harry being the first surviving child of mum Alice and John, a brick-layer; followed by Florence, Lucy, William, Isabella and George in quick succession. Without question, life would be hard, given his limited education and modest wage as a part-time baker’s boy. But his childhood would be short and tragic, as – with madness on both sides - his family were cursed by ‘maladies of the mind’. In 1912, aged just four, his baby brother George died in the Buckinghamshire Insane Asylum. His illness was undiagnosed, but it was reported that be suffered from ‘strong emotions’ and ‘bouts of delusion’. Three years earlier his aunt had died in the same asylum, his younger brother William was committed there in 1920 (where he would remain until his death), and – being prone to ‘hearing voices’ and ‘irrational acts’ – one frequent inmate was ‘the only woman he would ever love’ – his beloved mum. With a loss of affection, Harry had no stability in his early life, and although this was a sad tragedy which many families suffered – through his eyes – he always felt that he had been abandoned, a feeling which left him always searching for that one constant love who would remain by his side... forever. It is unknown whether Harry was ever a patient at the asylum, but as a painfully loyal young man who took loss very personally, around the time of his aunt’s death, aged eleven, Harry was found hanging from an apple tree. He survived, but no-one really knew if this was an accident, bullying or suicide. In 1916, aged 18, Harry did ‘his bit for King & Country’ and enlisted. Trained as a motorcycle mechanic, he rose to the rank of Staff Sergeant in the Light Car Patrol of the 11th Machine Gun Corps, based out of Tanta in Egypt. Harry had finally found his place in life; he had a career, a wage, a home and a new family amongst his fellow soldiers. He was described as loyal and brave, but a little ‘hot-headed’. Years later, he would claim that - in 1918 - he was hit by shrapnel in the head. There is no medical record to disprove this, and by 1934, he had no injury or scar. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. In 1920, it was said that while attempting to quell an uprising in Tanta and seeing one of his comrades “bashed and nearly killed” by a brutal mob - in a pique of uncontrolled anger – he “ran amok in a riot”, shooting and stabbing three Egyptians to death. Three weeks later, to protect a military policeman who was also a pal, he shot an Egyptian boy dead. No action was taken, no report was filed and (being war-time) there was no trial or inquiry. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. On 12th June 1920, finding “the only women I will ever love” he married 18-year-old Victoria Mardaros, they moved into a little flat at 28 Tel El Haddadin in Tanta, and being demobbed from the Army, he found a new career as the chauffeur, bodyguard and motor mechanic to an unnamed Egyptian Prince. To His Highness, Harry was (and would always remain) his eternally loyal servant, but always believing that Victoria – who he later described as “an obnoxious woman whose conduct preyed on my mind” - was unfaithful, six years later Harry divorced her... but not before he had tried to shoot her dead. Of this, there is no evidence nor criminal trial, but - in his eyes – it was her who had abandoned him. In 1928, with the Prince moving to London, so did Harry, and although his career was his one constant, his love-life was in chaos. That summer - “the only women I will ever truly love” – his mother, died in the Buckinghamshire Insane Asylum. Being broke and distraught at her passing, he tried to find love again, but by 1932, his second wife Margaret also died, just weeks after they were married. In Harry’s eyes, he had been abandoned, again and again, and again. Love had eluded him, happiness was a distant memory, and he would be forever cursed to live his life alone... ...until September 1933, when Harry met Kitty. Where they met was unrecorded, but they clearly liked each other having found their kindred spirit. With Harry, a mechanic and Kitty, a waitress, unable to afford swanky dinners and champagne, their romance was like anyone else’s – simple and sweet. They went to pubs, cinemas and took walks in the park, eating cheese and pickle sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and feeding the crusts to the ducks. It was a very normal relationship given the confines of the era; and still only courting, they held hands in public, kissed in the dark of the cinema and went to dances as an excuse to hold each other tight. At Christmas 1933, after four months together, Harry proposed and Kitty accepted. Fuelled by the fear that time was ticking away, maybe he was a little too rash to find a wife and she was too eager for babies? But there was no denying that they were in love. So, in March 1934, they moved in together. Taking up Mrs Warren’s offer, by the April, Harry & Kitty had rented two adjoining rooms at the lodging house at 75 Star Street. It was pleasant, clean, quiet and full of ten lodgers in full-time employment. Originally a larger room overlooking the street, being subdivided by a partition wall, Harry & Kitty’s rooms were small but affordable; with each consisting of a single bed, an armchair, a wash stand, a small fireplace for heating and for hot water, a small hob connected to a gas-tap at the skirting board. Being a temporary fix until they could afford a place of their own, it was filled with the typical things; a trunk of clothes, a wireless radio, some hats, some coats, some shoes, his bits for shaving, her bobs for make-up and a few pieces to make a nice night-time brew, as well as being sparsely decorated with a few family keepsakes, their many love-letters, and – on their bedside tables – a photo of each other. According to the lodgers, the future Mr & Mrs Tuffney weren’t just lovers, they were best friends; who stood side-by-side, were always loving and although a little quiet, no-one ever heard them quarrel. There was no denying, that Harry was entirely devoted to Kitty... ...only Kitty was not as devoted to Harry, and it plagued on his mind. Like many relationships, once the honeymoon period was over, feelings were never as strong. It didn’t mean she didn’t love him – she did – she just didn’t love him, as much. But as another loving relationship seemed to slip through his fingers, his life-long fear of abandonment rose, once again. Over the next few weeks, still living in adjoining rooms as they could afford little else, they remained together but had clearly drifted apart; they touched less and kissed as infrequently. Desperate never to lose “the only women I will ever truly love”, Harry insisted they marry soon, but always keen to keep the peace, Kitty simply smiled, trying to make the best of a difficult situation for both of them. But as the hurt slowly ate away at Harry’s heart, the paranoia began to gnaw away at his brain. In one of several letters written to his sister Lucy, Harry wrote of his pain and anguish, stating “there’s something wrong with my brain. One day, I feel that something is going to snap”. Helplessness had made him bitter and jealousy had made him moody, but something was not right in his head. In May 1934, after a decade of loyal service and just four weeks before he did the unthinkable, Harry lost his job as chauffeur and mechanic to the Egyptian Prince. The reason? He had become unreliable, although he would later claim he was sacked after an unnamed client made a false complaint against him. Of course, there was no evidence to disprove this, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. On Friday 15th June 1934, two weeks before, Kitty sat Harry down and told him the truth – “Harry, it’s over” – she said it softly, she held his hand and – to make him not feel like a failure, as she knew he would - she used every possible platitude to ease his pain; “you’ve done nothing wrong”, “it’s not you, it’s me”, “it wasn’t meant to be”. All of which, he seemed to take rather well. Two days later, having admitted to his sister that he had been snooping in Kitty’s handbag, Harry found a letter from a man called Briggs addressed to Kitty, in which the two planned to run-away together, and in the weeks prior, he had seen her out-and-about with several men. He said nothing to her about it, he put the letter back and it was never seen again. Although, there is no evidence to disprove this... ...but in his eyes, it was all true. Friday 29th June 1934 began as a very ordinary day. Still living in adjoined rooms and staying on friendly terms, Harry joined Kitty for a breakfast of tea, toast and boiled eggs. With her uniform crisp and neat, Kitty went to work, doing the regular 11am to 11pm shift at Maison Lyonese, a few streets away. The day was bright and sunny, but for Harry, the morning was already beset by a persistent gloom. In her fireplace, he had spotted the charred remnants of yet another letter to Kitty from Briggs. “I felt a blackness coming over me. I became infuriated. I went for a walk to feel better”. Skulking four streets south, six-minutes later he arrived at an iron-monger’s on Kendall Street, and purchased an axe. Harry: “it just came into my head... go out, buy a chopper”. With its wooden handle one foot-long and the six-inch-wide steel blade half-a-kilo in weight – as a very common tool for any household with a fireplace – it was light enough to carry in his hand, but heavy enough to split a large log in half. Returning home “I saw the letter again. I had an itching feeling all over my body, as I have felt before and I could see rings coming at me. I seemed to go very peculiar”, and he hid the axe under his bed. Mid-afternoon, Kitty came home. He would claim: “we kissed as usual. I felt better and I forgot all about the axe”, although several sources would state that she didn’t arrive back till almost midnight. That night, dressed in just pyjamas and a nightdress, they sat on Harry’s bed talking of their past and their future; of one together and one apart, with Harry favouring one and Kitty the other, as their calm and amicable conversation stretched into the wee small hours, waking no-one in the whole house. With work the next morning, although lipstick would prove that the two had sipped whiskey from two tumblers, no alcohol was detected in Kitty’s system. She wasn’t much of a drinker, in fact; she wasn’t ever morose or maudlin, she didn’t have dark thoughts or depression, and she never talked of suicide. Harry: “After drinking an eighth of a bottle of whiskey, I went to my room, undressed, I went to her room to say goodnight, and she said I was not looking well. She said she was fed up, and I suggested we should gas ourselves. We sat on the bed, and after drinking more whiskey, she started to write a letter”. Her last ever letter. Although, if this was true, her suicide note was never found. Through his eyes – unable to face a future where this love-sick twosome could never lie side-by-side – together they had decided on a death pact. But through hers, she was just tired and headed to bed. Harry: “I remember seeing it under the bed, I picked up the chopper and after that I went blank”. With Kitty tucked-up in her own little bed, snuggled under the softness of her own sheets, Harry kissed his beloved’s cheek - “goodbye my sweet” – and with one swift strike, he buried the axe’s blade deep into the back of her head; splintering her skull, splitting it wide and exposing her brains, as a thick pool of red goo formed about her lifeless corpse, as her last ever breath left her slowly cooling body. Locking the door, with Kitty gone, Harry used his last moments alive to write one letter to the police and one to his family (some living, some dead) apologising for what he had done and was yet to do. “Dear mum and all. My darling passed away at 3am. It was instantaneous. She did not suffer at all. Never murmured. We had quite a long chat together, had a bottle of ale and a small bottle of whiskey. A parting drink from this world into the next. At 1am, after our talk, she said she did not care which way things went. Little did she know how near both our times were. Goodbye all. Harry”. With Kitty’s handwritten love-letters to Briggs strewn about and their last drink still whetted with her lipstick, Harry laid upon the carpet. Placing down cushions for his head, he laid flat and opened-up the gas taps. Breathing the invisible killer deep, as in heaven, he prayed he would see his beloved again. Through Harry’s eyes, death was the only option... ...her death, his death, together. (End) Only Harry didn’t die. Why? We don’t know. Maybe a window was open, maybe the gas was weak, or maybe, it was all a lie? A few hours later, still wearing his blood-stained pyjamas, Harry handed himself in at Marylebone Lane Police Station, confessing “I have killed my girl. Here is the key to the door”. The Police arrived at 75 Star Street at 9:14am, to find a body, an axe, two tumblers, two letters written by Harry, no letters written by Kitty or Briggs, no witnesses, no assault, no signs of a struggle, and – following a medical - the police surgeon confirmed that Harry was suffering from coal-gas poisoning. Harry was charged at 11:30am with her murder, to which he confessed “I murdered the girl and that is the end of it. I done it. I suffer for it. I have had my revenge”. And unlike many other aspects in his life, we know this definitely happened, as there was a report, an inquest and a trial. While on remand at Brixton prison, two medical specialists came to different conclusions: Dr Organ for the defence stated that “Harry was temporarily insane at the time of the murder” and had a “family history of insanity”, where as Dr Grierson for the prosecution refuted this, stating that Harry was sane. Tried at the Old Bailey, Harry pleaded guilty to manslaughter by reason of insanity, but having already made a full confession to the Police, the jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to death. Harry Tuffney was executed at Pentonville Prison on 9th October 1934. But was any of this Harry’s fault? As with his mother, his aunt and two younger-brothers dead; having been hung as a child, injured as a soldier, and having shot and stabbed four Egyptians to protect his friends, with a divorced first wife, a dead second wife, and now a dead future third wife, all of whom had cheated on him? Would Harry have committed this heinous act if they hadn’t abandoned him? All of that is entirely true... but only if you see it through Harry’s eyes. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy a bit of non-obligatory chin-waggery, featuring a cup of tea, a possible cake (diet permitting), a little quiz and a few extra details about this case, join us after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Nicola Marshall, Darren Gallagher, Carole Anne Willsher, Matthew Miskell and Sarah Bevan. I thank you for supporting the show, my belly, my cholesterol count and shares in Mr Kipling’s bakery. I thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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