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Marlborough Street Magistrates Court & Police Station (behind Women sign), above you can see the rooftops that David Martin climbed across during his daring escape from the cells, exiting at the Palladium Theatre (far left, behind the plastic sheeting)
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of 300+ untold, unsolved and often long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE SEVENTEEN
Episode Seventeen: David Martin and the Baffling Case of the Transgender Houdini. On Christmas Eve 1982, 36 year old David Ralph Martin was charged at the Marlborough Street Magistrates Court on twelve counts including armed robbery, theft, fraud and attempted murder, but his bungled arrest would led to one of the Metropolitan Police’s worst miscarriages of justice.
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THE LOCATION
Ep17 – David Martin: The Baffling Case of the Transgender Houdini
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode seventeen of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. When I started Murder Mile, I wanted to show the world that murders aren’t simply something which happens to other people, living in other towns or cities, but that there truly is murder on every street and in every house, and to find the truth (if you’ll pardon the pun) you just need to dig deep enough. I started with London’s West End; a place I’ve worked in for over two decades, and although I know the streets well, I didn’t know a single murder in and around Soho. And even though on Murder Mile we delve into the often untold and unsolved murders within one square mile, so far we’ve barely even covered a fifth of a mile, and on just these few streets we’ve unearthed serial killers, mass murderers, gangsters, evil pimps, dead prostitutes and mafia hits. If these stories surprise you? Trust me, each week as I uncover a new case, it surprises me too. But today’s episode is not only surprising, it’s also hard to explain, so I’ll just let the story tell itself. Once again, stay tuned to the end of this episode to hear more about Murder Mile’s podcast of the week, this time it’s the awesome True-Crime Sweden; thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about David Martin, the gun-loving, sticky-fingered, cross-dressing transgender burglar whose bungled arrest led to one of the Metropolitan Police’s worst miscarriages of justice. Murder Mile contains graphic descriptions of violence which may upset those who are easily offended, as well as 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 17: David Martin and the baffling case of the Transgender Houdini. (Note: the word transgener wasn't in common usage in the early 1980's, so having discussed this with members of the LGBTV community and some of David's associates, it was agreed that "transgender" was a term which he would have approved of, rather than "transsexual" or "transvestite" which were in more common usage back then). Today, I’m on Great Marlborough Street, in Soho, W1; a mid-sized road which runs parallel with Beak Street (where mad shoemaker and wannabe cock-chopper William Stoltzer was arrested), Broadwick Street (where big-hearted Ginger Rae was brutally murdered) and intersects with Carnaby Street (where the mysterious Margaret Cook was gunned down). Often called Marlborough Street owing to a clerical error made on the original Monopoly board, a mistake which remains today, Great Marlborough Street was named after John Churchill, the First Duke of Marlborough. And although Great Marlborough Street was the former home of evolutionist Charles Darwin, the current home of the mock-Tudor splendour of the Liberties store and the inspiration for the Marlboro cigarettes as it’s here where in 1881 tobacco baron Phillip Morris’ opened his first cigarette factory, it really is a street which doesn’t warrant the prefix of Great, as today it’s little more than a coffee-shop filled cut-through for honking taxi-drivers and impatient delivery trucks. But for fans of true-crime, this street has one redeeming feature, as 19-21 Great Marlborough Street was once the home of the Marlborough Street Police Station and Magistrates Court; where Oscar Wilde’s infamous libel trial was held, where the Rolling Stones stood trial for drug and firearms offences, where John Lennon and Yoko Ono were tried for obscenity, where Richard Rhodes Henley (the randy Canadian sailor with a deadly wanking fixation) was arrested and it was here, in 1982, that a baffling chain of events which led to the near-execution of an innocent man which all began with the arrest of a transgender burglar called David Martin. (INTERSTITIAL). A word of warning before we proceed any further; as insane, deranged and bat-shit crazy as the details in this episode may seem, although the story reads like a trashy tabloid journalist has eaten his own sleazy newspaper and shat out onto the page a runny bum-lump of words, it is entirely real, totally true and very unpredictable, so strap yourselves in folks we’re in for a bumpy ride. The childhood of David Ralph Martin was truly unremarkable; he was an only child to a doting mother and a hard-working father, raised in a lower-middle class house in the shadow of post-war London. And although rationing was still inforce; he didn’t starve, he wasn’t beaten and he wasn’t broke. Being an incredibly bright, driven and talented child who could truly turn his hand to anything, David should have excelled at school, but as an easily bored child who was often distracted, dissatisfied and desperate for toys, love and attention, David’s overriding traits were greed, frustration and impatience, and it would drive him into a life of crime. Aged just 14, David stole a car; not that he needed a car, not that he wanted a car, but because it was there and he felt it belonged to him. And yet, being arrested didn’t bother him, being told off by his parents, nor was it the brief stint in borstal which lit a fire under David’s arse, but that having returned the car to its rightful owner, David felt a great hatred towards the Police (which would remain to the bitter end) as in his eyes, they had stolen what he felt was his. During his teenage years, having progressed up the criminal ladder to burglary, David applied his sharp brain, dextrous hands and photographic memory to a new set of skills; and just as his training as a motor mechanic had made him a swifter car-thief, having learned to bypass any building’s alarm system and developed an encyclopaedic knowledge of door locks, this had made him into a master burglar, who only needed the briefest of looks at a key to memorise the shape of the barrel and to fashion himself a lock-pick using whatever object came to hand. Before his twenty-sixth birthday, David Martin had been arrested and convicted on more than fifty counts of theft, burglary and fraud, resulting in minor custodial sentences in borstal, young offender’s institutions and later adult prison, until 1973, when David was convicted of the greater charge of cheque-fraud and was sentenced to nine years in Brixton Prison. Having grown-up under the strict rules of a domineering father; and being so driven, free-spirited and independent, with a deep-seated hatred for authority; prison-life should have been hell for David as a closet bisexual who (although he enjoyed being a man), he always felt that his long legs, petite frame and feminine features were better suited to women’s clothes, and by wearing a dress, high-heels and stockings, they always made him feel more comfortable. Although initially self-conscious; inside prison, David slowly became the man he wanted to be, and as a transgender bisexual (whose feminine look bridged the gap for sex-starved heterosexual convicts), it was here that he fully explored the homosexual side of his bisexuality, later entering into a loving relationship with Britain’s most infamous serial killer Dennis Nilsen, and letting his cross-dressing very much became not only an important part of his life and his identity, but also his criminal career. Prison had reinforced David’s self-confidence and upon his release in 1981, David Martin ditched his jeans, jacket, trainers and t-shirt, and – feeling a need to always look fabulous, even whilst committing a crime – he’d often dress in a leather skirt, halter-top, stockings, suspenders and designer sling-backs, with his hair dyed, his nails painted, his make-up done, and – like a feisty femme fatale in a 1940’s pulp novel – always packing a fully-loaded revolver in his handbag, which was not only his identity, but it was also a disguise, David’s duel-identity was an invaluable part of his criminal career, as initially he’d case a building dressed in a blouse, skirt and a fur-coat – the genius part of his plan being that no-one would suspect him as a thief, as when was the last time you ever heard of a burglar wearing high-heels – and then at a much later date, he’d break in wearing the more practical attire of jeans, t-shirt and trainers. Being skilled but broke, and with a greater need for designer clothes, David progressed to armed robbery, later holding up an armoured car dressed in a leather skirt, six-inch heels and fish-net tights. And although, in July 1982, he’d steal 24 handguns and over 1000 rounds of ammunition from Thomas Bland & Sons, a gun-dealer on New Road in Covent Garden? He didn’t need the guns and he didn’t want the guns, and (although some he sold) he kept most, believing that they belonged to him. In February 1982, having ventured into the lucrative market of video piracy, David used his burglary skills to break into Colour Film Services; a film laboratory and private cinema at 22 Portman Close, at the back of Oxford Street, to assess which video recorders and master copies of the latest Hollywood blockbusters he would eventually steal. When disturbed by Albert Seaman who was working the nightshift, and asked what he was doing there, instead of fleeing, with supreme self- confidence, dressed in a blonde wig, mink coat, tapered trousers, Cuban heeled shoes and carrying a clutch-bag, David simply replied in his manly voice “It’s okay mate, I’m security”, then flashed a fake ID badge, and casually walked out, testing the doors he left. So implausible was this story that, even though Albert reported it to his superiors and eventually the Police, no further action was taken. On Thursday 5th August 1982, at a little before midnight, David returned to Colour Film Service at 22 Portman Close dressed in dark jeans, boots, a black leather jacket, a lot of eye-liner (well this was the 1980’s) and picked the lock using the key he’d fashioned a few months earlier out of a screwdriver. Once again, having been spotted by a security guard, David bluffed his way out, but not believing the story of a man dressed entirely in black, the security guard called the police. Moment later, PC Nick Carr and PC Jerry Fretter entered the premises. Unfazed by their arrival, David was polite but officious, adopting the believable persona of an anxious employee with a tight deadline to keep, and when asked who he was, he handed an ID card in the name of David Demain, that he’d stolen just a few days before. His story was good and the ID checked out, but when the dubious PC’s requested that David empty his pockets, he refused and tried to flee. With PC Fretter having rugby-tackled the dark-dressed suspect to the floor and holding him in a tight headlock as PC Carr went for his handcuffs, David’s hatred towards the boys in blue came bubbling up once again. Seeing red, from his jacket pocket, he pulled a Colt Mustang semi-automatic pistol and fired three .38 calibre bullets, hitting PC Carr in the leg and severing a vital artery. PC Nick Carr was rushed into hospital, where – although he lost six pits of blood – he survived, made a full recovery, and both he and PC Fretter were later awarded a Police Commendation for Bravery. But having fled the dark-lit building, leaving the police with a limited description of the assailant who was using a stolen ID, David Martin should have been impossible to trace… …but with numerous robberies over the last few months having been committed by a skilled burglar and locksmith, with long blonde hair, a slim feminine body, heavy use of make-up and a very distinctive Roman nose, who often carried a black .38 Colt Mustang, so small it easily fits into a lady’s clutch-bag? Police knew his face, they knew his MO, now they just needed a name. In need of some quick cash after the bungled burglary at the film laboratory, David attempted to sell the firearms he’d stolen from the Covent Garden gun-dealer to another dealer in Ladbroke Grove. Being suspicious, the dealer discretely notified the Police and handed them the contact details that David had left. Except this time, he didn’t use a fake ID, or a stolen identity, he used his real name, and also supplied the gun-dealer with his home address of Flat (16?) 1 Crawford Place, Marylebone. Knowing he was armed and dangerous, Detective Constable Peter Finch and Detective Constable Guy Van Dee of the Metropolitan Police kept surveillance on David’s Crawford Place flat for several weeks, keeping their distance, but never once seeing him, only his dark-haired girlfriend – Sue Stephens – and a slim blonde-haired lady who accompanied her to the wholefood shop and yoga practice… …the lady of which had large feet, an Adam’s apple and a distinctive Roman nose. Having made a positive ID of their suspect, on Wednesday 15th September 1982 just before 10pm, as David pulled up outside his flat in a stolen VW Golf wearing a wide-brimmed hat, leather skirt and jacket and black stockings, he entered 1 Crawford Place, not knowing that the Police were lying in wait. But being edgy, angry and paranoid after six weeks on the run, the second he exited the 7th floor lift, Detective Constables Finch and Van Dee pounced, but David had already drawn his black .38 calibre Colt Mustang from his handbag. Fearing for his life, their guns not drawn, Finch wrestled David to the floor, knocking the firearm free of his hands, and as he flipped David over to handcuff his disarmed assailant, with his free-hand, David reached between his legs and pulled from his stocking top, a small but deadly silver Smith & Wesson .22 calibre pistol and – in a truly-terrifying moment in which his life flashed before his eyes – as a volatile man with wild hair, black eyeliner and blood-red lipstick smeared across his face, the unstable David screamed “I will blow you away” as he pointed the loaded gun directly at Finch’s head. Desperate to protect his partner from a dangerous man with a death-wish, Detective Constable Guy Van Dee shot David Martin in the neck, disabling his suspect and cuffing the bleeding suspect, all the while with David frothing like a rabid dog, screaming “I could have killed the lot of you, I could have had you all, why don’t you just finish me off?” goading them to end his life, there and then. Just like PC Carr, the police constable who he’d shot, although he’d lost a lot of blood, David survived, had the bullet removed from his neck under armed guard at Charing Cross Hospital, and was later sent to Brixton Prison, where he awaited his trail. And although David was arrested and imprisoned, and both officers received a Police Commendation for their bravery, Detective Constable Peter Finch would never forget David Martin for bringing him this close to death, and neither would he forgive him. As although the due process of law had to be carried out, bad blood remained between them. (FAKE CWNN OUTRO) On Christmas Eve 1982, 36 year old David Ralph Martin was charged at the Marlborough Street Magistrates Court on twelve counts including armed robbery, theft, fraud and the attempted murder of PC Nick Carr, where he pleaded “not guilty” to all charges… (RECORD SCRATCH) Of course, in any normal story, this would be the end… but it wasn’t, this is just the beginning. After his initial hearing, David was returned to the cells in the bowels of Marlborough Street Police Station; a standard single cell measuring six foot wide by six foot deep, surrounded by four cold grey walls of solid brick, a small high window covered in thick iron bars, with a basic bed, a simple toilet and the only way in or out being a eight inch thick steel door, which was locked. Here the prisoner would sit and wait, as the endless hours and minutes ticked by, trapped in a grey drab cell. But then again; being so driven, bright and easily distracted, with people to see, things to do and an all-consuming contempt for the law, David was never very patient man, and so, by 4pm that afternoon, when the Police opened his cell-door to transfer his back to Brixton Prison…. David was gone. Nicknamed by his former Police captors as “Houdini”, after the infamous magician and escapologist Harry Houdini, David wasn’t just a genius at breaking into the buildings, he was just as skilled at breaking out. Claiming to his friends, “there’s no prison which can hold me”, David had first escaped from borstal in 1968 by picking the lock. In 1972, he twice escaped from the prison-van on his way to court; one through the skylight, the other by picking the lock and springing his cell mate’s doors open too. In 1973, David and twenty other prisoners rammed the prison gates having hijacked a rubbish truck, but was caught hailing a cab on Brixton Hill. In 1974, he almost escaped from Parkhurst maximum security prison having handcrafted a set of seven keys to the prison doors. And in 1975, at HMP Gartree, another maximum security prison, having cut away the metal grill in his window and bypassed the alarm system he almost escaped, but was caught, having injured his leg. But this time, in his cell at Marlborough Street Police Station, David didn’t have the luxury of time, so he made-do with what he had… which was an encyclopaedic knowledge of locks, a photographic memory and a lock-pick hidden in his thick blonde hair for emergencies. And having viewed the shape of the key in the warder’s hand for literally a split second, David fashioned the pick to match the barrel of the lock, inserted the makeshift key, turned it, and barely a minute later, his cell door was open. Scurrying along the prison corridor, David darted up to the top floor, popped open a skylight, climbed onto the prison roof, jumped onto the Palladium Theatre, waltzed into the theatre’s foyer, mingled with the patrons, exited the front doors, and disappeared into the throng of Christmas shoppers on Oxford Street. By the time the warders had opened his cell door, David was long gone. David had literally vanished into this air; and although the Police kept surveillance on his usual haunts; his Crawford Place flat, his parent’s home, his favourite bars, yoga clubs and wholefood shops, David had completely disappeared. But everyone has their weaknesses… and David’s was a woman. Described by David as “the only woman I would ever love”, Sue Stephens was a 26 year old glamour model who David was so besotted with that the Police knew he’d break cover to contact his girlfriend. On the evening of Friday 14th January 1983, having received a tip-off that David and Sue were due to meet to hand-over a stash of cash, stolen IDs and guns which David had stored in a safe-deposit box in Selfridges, Detective Constable Peter Finch spotted a bright yellow Mini pull up outside of Sue’s flat. As the petite dark-haired figure of Sue got into the backseat of the cramped little car, although Finch didn’t recognise the driver – Lester Purdy, a friend of Sue’s – the man in the passenger’s seat seemed very familiar, with his dark leather jacket, slim frame, long blonde hair and a very distinguished nose. DC Finch radioed in a possible sighting of David Martin, and with two teams of armed Police officers keeping a safe distance until a positive ID could be made, they followed the yellow Mini, all the while with DC Finch desperate to put an end to David Martin’s criminal career once and for all, as the bad blood between them had already been spilled. As the rush-hour traffic around Earls Court became hopelessly congested and the yellow Mini came to a dead stop on Pembroke Road, DC Finch – as the only officer on the team who had physically seen David Martin in the flesh – was sent forward to make a positive ID. Fearing for his life and knowing that the David was volatile, dangerous and heavily armed, not wanting to make the same mistake twice, as he ran along the pavement towards the bright yellow Mini, this time Finch’s gun was drawn. Sidling up to the Mini, armed with a standard Police issue Glock-17, DC Finch glanced in through the darkness of the passenger’s side window and saw the familiar features of David Martin; a flash of fear in his eyes at seeing the armed officer, and as the blonde-haired passenger reached his hand around into the backseat, in a split second decision between life and death, DC Finch opened fire. Providing tactical back–up for his partner, Detective Constable John Jardine fired five shots through the Mini’s rear window, missing Sue Stephens who cowered in the backseat and hitting the passenger as a volley of shots ripped through his from different angles. Fearing for his life, the car’s driver Lester Purdy scrambled from the blood-splattered Mini and as his wounded friend attempted to flee through the driver’s side door, DC Jardine shot the injured man two more times, as he slumped on the driver’s seat. With his heart racing and his blood pumping, as DC Finch reached the driver’s side door, firing once more, he realised he was out of ammunition, so unarmed and angry, he dragged the bloodied man from the Mini and pistol-whipped him into unconsciousness. David Martin’s criminal career had finally come to an end. No longer being a danger to anyone, having handcuffed the unconscious passenger, they rolled him over to formally arrest him, but as his blonde hair which was matted with blood was moved away from his face, DC Finch realised he had made a deadly mistake, the man he had shot… was not David Martin. The Mini’s blonde-haired passenger was Stephen Waldorf, a 26 year old freelance film editor, who was a friend of Sue’s who had never met David Martin, and yet tragically they looked remarkably similar. The police had shot an innocent man; pistol whipping him, handcuffing him, shooting him five times, hitting him in the arm, the stomach and the head, and leaving him bleeding on the pavement. (FAKE CWNN OUTRO) Although riddled with bullets, having gone into cardia arrest and lost a lot of blood, Stephen Waldorf remained in intensive care at St Stephen’s hospital (Fulham) for many weeks and went on to make a steady recovery, He received a full apology from the Metropolitan Police, was awarded £120000 compensation (roughly £300000 today) and Detective Constables Finch and Jardine were charged at the Old Bailey for the attempted murder of Stephen Waldorf. (RECORD SCRATCH) Of course, in any normal story, this would be the end… but it wasn’t. On 19th October 1983, even though the ambush on the yellow Mini was conducted amidst busy traffic, posing a serious threat to public safety, openly flouted the strict rules which governed the Police’s use of firearms and an innocent man was severely wounded, Detective Constables John Jardine and Peter Finch were found not guilty of all charges and acquitted of the attempted murder of Stephen Waldorf, and although both men were relieved of firearms duties, they remained on the force. And yet, throughout, the police’s hunt to find David Martin continued unabated. Still traumatised and shocked after the bloody attack on the yellow Mini and terrified that her association with David Martin had risked her life and almost killed her friend, Sue Stephen’s agreed to have the Met’ Police use her as bait to lure him out of hiding. Having covertly agreed to meet “in the last place we met”, on Thursday 28th January 1983 at 8pm, a beige stolen Ford Sierra pulled up on Heath Street in Hampstead (North London); inside sat a furtive looking man in his mid-thirties wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket, with short dark recently dyed hair and a distinctive Roman nose. And although he wore no make-up, no skirts and no heels, there was no denying that this was David Martin. As David nervously sidled up to the Milk Churn; the small family run-restaurant where he’d agreed to meet his beloved Sue, his instincts told him that something didn’t seem right, and with no sign of Sue in the half-full restaurant and too many single men aimlessly milling about the street, sensing that this was a set-up, David fled on foot, with the Police in hot pursuit. Having hidden in the Nag’s Head pub, armed officers flooded the street, blocking David’s access to his stolen getaway car, and seeing no other way out, he sprinted into Hampstead underground station, leaping over the barriers, bouncing down the spiral stairs, onto the northbound Northern Line platform, where he ran the full length of the stationary tube train, burst through the driver’s cab, out onto the tracks, and - narrowly avoiding the power line which carries a deadly charge of twenty-five thousand volts – he vanished into the inky blackness of the tunnel. Once again, David Martin – the “transgender Houdini” – had disappeared into thin air. But having lost him before, there was no way that the Police were going to lose him this time. Having switched off the deadly current, armed officers swarmed the Northern Line tunnels in both direction, entering from both Golder’s Green (one stop to the north) and Belsize Park (one stop to the south). At 8:43pm, on the southbound line of the Northern Line at Belsize Park, having double-backed on himself using a service door to fool his pursuers, hearing footsteps in the tunnel, the officer’s torches illuminated the dusty, dirty and choking silhouette of David Martin, who – with armed officers on all sides – was out of breath and options gave up without a fight. Taking no chances with the volatile, violent and heavily armed man, the officers searched David in the tunnel and although he didn’t have a gun, he was packing two knives and a can of ammonia spray. But before this infamous Houdini who had bragged that “there’s no prison which can hold me” was put in his prison cell, the Police (very wisely) subjected David to a very thorough body cavity search, upon which they discovered several lock-picks and a razor blade in his hair, and a stuck to the roof of his mouth using a piece of chewing gun, a tiny pen-knife filed to the shape of a lock. To which, naked and unashamed, David gave the officers a wry smile and joked “well, you can’t blame me for trying”. David Ralph Martin was tried in Court Two of the Old Bailey on 27th September 1983 and was charged with fifteen offences including robbery, fraud, resisting arrest and the attempted murder of PC Nick Carr, and although the wealth of evidence against him – with his customary brand of contempt for the law – he pleaded “not guilty” to all charges. After a 14 day trial, on 11th October 1983, David Martin was found guilty of all charges, and even though he was sentenced to twenty-nine years in Parkhurst maximum security prison, where he had already escaped before, he vowed there and then that he would escape again. Prison life was no great shakes for David having spent much of his adult life behind bars, and as a cross-dressing bisexual who filled the gap for horny heterosexual inmates and (having been sentenced at the same time as him) David rekindled his relationship with the infamous British serial-killer Dennis Nilsen. But life inside was not the same, and it would never be again. Described by David as “the only woman I would ever love”, Sue Stephens, his 26 year old girlfriend whose life had been risked in the bungled attacked on the yellow Mini, had broken up with him, refusing to write, visit or see him ever again. Left in a fragile, vulnerable and emotional state, with his drive gone, his ambition quashed and his heart broken. And with no reason to escape or even live, on 13th March 1983 at 6pm, prison officers found David hanging in his cell from a ventilation grill, having used a bootlace as a noose. David Ralph Martin, the infamous burglar, robber, trickster and criminal escapologist made his final escape from Parkhurst maximum security prison, but this time he didn’t ram the gates, burst through the skylight or pick the door’s lock, instead the heartbroken man exited his cell, this world and the life he despised so much, for the final time, lying face-up in a simple pine box… …and in the final indignity to this “transgender Houdini”, he was dressed as a man. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to Murder Mile. If you love true-crime podcasts, this week’s treat is the amazing True-crime Sweden. I know! Sweden! It’s hard to believe that in the beautiful home of Ikea, Nokia and ABBA that evil people could even exist, but they do. In True-crime Sweden, our fabulous host Pernilla provides you with a real eye-opener into the dark and dirty side of Sweden’s most infamous killers. (PLAY PROMO) If you fancy chatting to myself or any fellow listeners, seeing unseen photos or discussing any of the cases, I’ve set-up a discussion group on Facebook, simply called the Murder Mile true-crime podcast discussion group and there’s a link in the show-notes. Or join us on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode is… The unsolved murder of Nora Upchurch Thank you 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 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by ADD NAMES, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Love true-crime podcasts? Subscribe to Murder Mile on iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn
Like true-crime? Love podcasts? Looking for something new? Murder Mile is a weekly true-crime podcast featuring 300+ untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murder cases, all set within one square mile of London's West End, and investigated using the original declassified police files.
Over just a handful of streets, we explore the dark and hidden world of London's most infamous serial killers, mass murderers, terrorists, assassins, poisoners, bombers, mafia hit-men and crazed maniacs as well as loads of unsolved murders, with new episodes every Thursday.
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82 Dean Street (ahead, now demolished) and St Anne's Court just to the right
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE SIXTEEN
Episode Sixteen: Richard Rhodes Henley; the Seamen, the Semen and the murder of the Porn Peddler. On Saturday 27th October 1956, 26 Canadian sailor Richard Rhodes Henley committed armed robbery for the first and very last time, but he didn’t steal money, or booze, or drugs to feed his habit, he stole pornography to fuel his addiction to masturbation, and yet, so desperate was his carnal needs that it would drive him to commit murder.
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THE LOCATION
Ep16 - Richard Rhodes Henley; the Seamen, the Semen and the Porn Peddler
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode sixteen of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. Well, the end of January is almost upon us, and those New Year’s resolutions we’d promised to stick to are already a distant memory, as our goal to eat, drink and smoke less died a few days after we’d said them and was replaced in our gobs by either a pie, a pint or a pipe. And yet, as much as we deny that we’ve got a problem, that we need a fix, or that we’re struggling with an addiction, being hooked on food, booze, fags and even true-crime podcasts, is surely not as bad being a smack or crack head, am I right? I mean, would you be willing to kill someone to satisfy your addiction? You may think you wouldn’t, but I’m sure that Richard Rhodes Henley, the culprit in this week’s episode of Murder Mile true-crime podcast must have thought the same. So, as you press play on this – your twenty-fifth podcast of the day, with a ciggie in one hand, a cake in your mouth and another quadruple espresso on the go – I just wanted to say stay tuned to the end of the episode to hear more about your next obsession, Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, the fabulous Dark Poutine, thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. Mwah-haa-haa-haa. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about the senseless murder of “Big Alan”; the burly purveyor of illicit pornography on Dean Street, who was robbed by Richard Rhodes Henley, a man so hopelessly addicted to his all-consuming need to masturbate over mucky magazines, that it would drive him to kill. Murder Mile contains bizarre, lewd and often rude descriptions which may cause a mild upset in those who are easily offended, as well as 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 16: Richard Rhodes Henley: the Seamen, the Semen and the Porn Peddler Today, I’m on Dean Street, roughly three hundred feet north of Old Compton Street and three hundred feet south of Oxford Street, in a part of Soho so heavily renovated, scrubbed and sanitised, that much of Soho’s original but admittedly seedy character has been erased, as the property prudes move in and any hint of originality moves out. In fact, the only culture left in this part of Dean Street is the famous Soho Theatre immediately behind me, where every night a wealth of right-on wankers dressed in beards, boots and feather boas, waffle-on about how literally yards from here Karl Marx wrote the Communist manifesto (which they profess to know the finer points of, and yet have never actually read), whilst starving having refused to eat the sushi at Wagamammas as they’re allergic to fish, intolerant to rice and are too full of their own shit, and are off to watch a dull arty play about one-legged Armenian strippers with AIDs, knowing it’ll be dross, but hoping – besides being culturally enriching – it’ll either have boobs, bums or a cock in it. Today, 82 Dean Street has been entirely demolished and replaced with a yucky modern monstrosity. And yet, the area around 82 Dean Street is a far cry from the seedy street full of sex-pests that it once was; being the bastion for the closet pervert and the chronic masturbator, as a drove of dirty old men in flashing macks stifle boners as they trawl the mucky book shops in search of tits, tights and tassels. One of these men in search of a triple X thrill was so addicted to his need to spill his seed, that it would consume his life and end another. His name was Richard Rhodes Henley. (INTERSTITIAL) On Wednesday 24th October 1956, HMCS Iroquois, a tribal class destroyer under the command of the Canadian Navy berthed in Southampton Dock on the English coast, after fourteen months on patrol in the Atlantic, the Mediterranean Sea, the Red Sea and hostile waters off Korea’s post-war peninsula. Needing six days to resupply, refuel and repair before returning to its home port in Halifax (Canada), half of the ship’s crew were given three days leave. And as a military vessel of mostly men who’d been cramped together in an oversized tin-can for just over a year with no privacy, no space and no outlet for their passions; the second the gangplank was lowered, with a whoop and a cheer, the dock was splashed in a sea of white as great groups of over-excitable seamen, set-out in search of girls. Pulling away from the pack, cutting quite a solitary figure as he limped along on his crutches, his left foot lame having twisted it just a few days earlier, was 26 year old Leading Seaman Richard Rhodes Henley. And although he was dressed like the others in his Navy issue uniform of black shoes, dark woollen jersey, a round cap and black bell-bottom trousers, he looked a little odd as his hero’s clothes badly hung off this tall, thin and gangly man with a small feminine mouth and thick lensed glasses. And yet, described by his commanding officer as a cook of exemplary character whose conduct on-board was always first class, Henley’s impressive work ethic wasn’t just in a deep-rooted desire for praise, promotion and a need to blend in… but to distract him from his dirty addiction. Henley was a masturbator, a chronic masturbator, who dove into work to keep his mind on his job and his hands out of his pants, as the second he wasn’t whipping an egg-white, fluffing a pancake batter or frothing a custard to a creamy head, his dirty desire would take over and he’d have to dive into the communal Navy toilet (also known as the head) for a five-knuckle shuffle. Needing to masturbate on an almost hourly basis, Henley’s sexual addiction was out of control and impossible to sustain on a cramped ship, at sea, with not a single second to himself. And so the second he disembarked, Henley set off on the first train to London and headed to Soho. Eleven years after the end of World War Two, with rationing over, prosperity blossoming and the good times having returned, London’s West End was the place to be to. As with every bar buzzing, every club thumping, every dance-hall fit-to-burst and finally the dark-lit streets of Soho being bathed once again by the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus, with just three day’s leave, every sailor hit the West End hoping to soak up as much vice as possible, whether girls, booze or gambling. But being a man with so little money and so many debts, Henley never gambled. As a devour Catholic with a wife back home, Henley never visited brothels. And as a drinker, even though he drank, he always drank alone. But these were not his vices, as his drug of choice was pornography. During his three day’s leave in London, Henley did very little else except trawl the mucky book shops in search of sexy magazines, but his quest was fruitless. As even though Soho was London’s sex shop central, Henley wasn’t interested in those mildly titillating top-shelf titles where scantily-clad ladies display an inch of an ankle, a bit of a boob or (if you were really lucky) a flash of a fanny fluff, but having been a chronic masturbator since he was twelve, Henley’s addiction was out of control, and with a single sexy photo only able to satisfy him for two or three self-love sessions before boredom would creep in, and Henley would need something harder. On Friday 26th October, having purchased twenty-five pornographic photos from a sex-shop just a few streets away in Piccadilly, and knowing this was barely enough filth to sustain his sexual appetite for a week, Henley asked the owner if he knew of any mucky book shops that sold harder porn, which was kept off the shelves and out of sight, as the porn was of such a strong nature, it was illegal. The store Henley was directed towards was at 82 Dean Street, it was ran by Alan Robinson (INTERSTITIAL). Although he was born John Alan Dixon Robinson, “Big Alan” as he was known was a thirty-six year old man of an impressive stature, as being over six feet tall and weighing seventeen stone with unflinching eyes and a bear-like beard, and a no-nonsense World War Two veteran with the Royal Fusiliers, his imposing size and gruff demeanour was perfect for his occupation as the manager of a Soho sex-shop, a job that required him to deal with all manner of unsavoury characters such as drunks, perverts, weirdos, conmen and gangsters. Situated at 82 Dean Street, Big Alan’s Soho sex-shop was the epitome of discretion, as (unlike most jazz-mag joints) there was no frosted glass and no neon signs flashing a “triple x”. Instead it was a simple white plaster façade with a number but no name; just the words “books and magazines” emblazoned on the walls and above the dark wooden door. And in the windows which were protected by black wrought-iron railings were displayed a deceptive collection of erotic novels, lurid fiction and dubious history books about naked African tribes, giving the illusion (to anyone who wasn’t “in the know”) that this was just a very normal book shop. That evening, just before closing time, as the last of the book-shop’s customers were shuffling out, in walked a tall slim bespectacled sailor replete with black bell-bottomed trousers and the naval epaulets of a Leading Seamen who was limping on a pair of crutches. And although a little shy and socially awkward, he seemed polite, quiet and harmless. Their discussion was cordial and brief; Henley asked if Big Alan had any hard-core films to sell, he had and offered him three 16 millimetre stag-films for thirty five pounds each, Henley agreed and – even though, in today’s money, that adds up to a whopping one thousand eight hundred pounds for three ten minute skin-flicks – Henley promised he’d return with the money the next day. But Henley had no intention of buying them, as he had no money, but what he did have was an all-consuming need for harder and stronger porn, and he would do anything to get it. Spending that Friday evening at the Union Jack Club in Lambeth (South London), an exclusive club for members of the armed forces, Henley sat alone, sunk back a few whiskeys, contemplated his rapid descent into a life of crime and later drunkenly stumbled back to the Waverly Hotel (in Bloomsbury), where he unpacked his kit-bag inside which he’d hidden a 9 millimetre German Luger pistol. Born in Creston in Canada, a small town on the south-eastern side of British Columbia, close to the US border, Richard Rhodes Henley was an only child, conceived in illegitimacy and whose very existence was blamed for the failure of his father’s marriage. Regularly beaten by his abusive alcoholic father, Henley’s childhood was spent either running away from home or being put into foster-care. And the more he drank, the more isolated he’d become, trapped in a solitary friendless world, never once having a loving mentor nor role-model to guide him on the tricky issues of life, love or sex. Aged just twelve years old, it was during those hormonally difficult and emotionally sensitive years as his body grew and puberty bloomed that Henley’s father caught his son masturbating - a natural act that almost all curious boy’s engage in, which is easily pacified by calmly discussing the facts of life – but that is exactly what his father should have, but didn’t do. Henley was abused. Henley was beaten. Henley was whipped. And for the following year, twelve year old Richard Rhodes Henley would spend every night, lying in bed, his wrists tightly shackled and bound to a rough leather harness secured around his waist. A barbaric device which was meant to stop this wicked boy from pleasuring himself and would cure him of this seedy affliction… but it backfired spectacularly and turned a common childhood habit (that he may have grown out of) into a dark, alluring and rebellious addiction. In 1947, aged 17, Henley ran away from home for the final time. In 1948, aged 18, he enlisted in the Canadian Navy to see the world and escape his father forever. In 1950, aged 20, as a devout Roman Catholic he hastily married his first girlfriend having – like his father before him - conceived an unplanned child out of wedlock; and as the love dried-up, the sex stopped and the marital bed grew cold, Henley turned to his one true-love – masturbation. By 1956, having docked in Southampton, Richard Rhodes Henley was a married man, with a five year old son, a blossoming naval career and financial responsibilities. In truth, he wasn’t a bad man; he wasn’t a drunk or a druggie; he was never physically, sexually or verbally abusive; he had no STIs, STDs nor any major health issues; and unusually he wasn’t a peeper, a flasher, a groper, a stalker or a sex-pest. In fact, prior to this moment, he had never committed a criminal act; but with his drug of choice being pornography, his addiction had consumed his life, his thoughts, his money and his even actions, and – now being hopelessly broke - he would do anything to get his fix. On the morning of Saturday 27th October 1956 at the ungodly hour of six thirty AM, Richard Rhodes Henley was witnessed pacing impatiently on his crutches outside of Big Al’s book-shop on 82 Dean Street. And although his intention was to commit an armed robbery, he didn’t hide his face and didn’t have a disguise, instead he wore his full Naval uniform complete with cap, boots and bell-bottoms. At nine-thirty AM, having nervously paced and waited outside for more than three hours, the book-shop finally opened, but it wasn’t the terrifyingly imposing frame of Big Al who unlocked the dark wooden door; it was his younger smaller assistant Robert Edward Clemment, also known as “Bob”. Wracked with nerves and shaking with tension, Henley must have thought that fate was smiling upon him, as - even though in his pocket he’d stashed the 9 millimetre German Lugar pistol loaded with eight bullets in the mag’ and one in the chamber – with the street being dead, the shop being empty and Bob being all alone, the robbery would be quick, no-one would get hurt and Henley could catch the next train back to Southampton Dock, before his ship departed, making a slick robbery followed by the perfect getaway. But it was not to be. As with Bob claiming to know nothing about any pornographic films which his boss had apparently stashed in the backroom (a room he had never used as it was practically empty), Bob told Henley to return when Big Alan was back, at 12pm, another two and a half hours later. For two and a half hours, Henley hobbled along the streets of Soho, nervously biting his lip, as with his three days leave almost over, and his orders to return to his ship at Southampton Dock by 11am at the very latest, torn between risking his career and his need for harder porn, his addiction won and Henley sauntered into the Rose & Crown tavern, twenty feet away, on corner of St Anne’s Court for a large slug of “Dutch courage” and – being so nervous – he knocked back 2oz or 300ml of whiskey. This is of course if you believe Henley’s confession, as Bob denied ever opening the shop, having keys, meeting Henley, or ever handling any illegal pornographic films (a claim which absolves him of this crime), and yet, although Henley claimed he was drunk at the time of the murder, he was never witnessed in the Rose & Crown pub that morning by either the customers or the landlord, he did not appear drunk, and (when checked by the police doctor) Henley had no alcohol in his system. Anyway… At 12pm, with Henley (supposedly) being inebriated, he returned to the mucky book shop at 82 Dean Street, which consisted of a single room measuring barely twenty feet wide by twenty feet deep, with every inch of wall-space riddled with trashy paperbacks, as a small smattering of sheepish-looking customers leafed through the lurid novels whilst shuffling nearer to the soft-core pornographic magazines which hung above the shop’s serving hatch, behind which stood Bob and Alan. With Henley being instantly recognisable in his sailor’s suit, Big Al grabbed his keys and discretely ushered him into the locked backroom behind the shop, where they privately talked in hushed tones. The backroom was bare, except for an empty fireplace, a single wicker chair (oddly placed in the centre of the room, which neither man sat in) and a waist-high wooden cabinet from which Alan pulled three metal tins of 16 millimetre film. With almost two thousand pounds worth of hard-core films in his hands, a loaded Lugar in his pocket and this very private room secured by a lockable door, a successful end to Henley’s pornography heist was in sight… but his need for newer, harder and more explicit images was so overpowering, that with greed having taken over, Henley wanted more. Thinking he must have met his dream customer and that this was his lucky day, Big Al led Henley back into the half-full shop, through the partitioned area behind which stood Bob and also Sidney Bayard, the shop’s accountant, and ushered him into Alan’s office, where once again, with greater discretion and even quieter voices, Big Alan and Henley finally shook hands on a price. For three 16 millimetre films and a box containing seven hundred and eighty four pornographic photos, Henley would pay two hundred and sixty-four pounds, which is today’s money is over four and a half thousand pounds. A price which (as we know) Henley had no plan to pay. Waiting until Alan had wrapped up the films and the photos into two discretely packaged parcels of brown paper, Henley gave his excuse that he had his money hidden about his person and didn’t want to reveal it in the shop, and seeing a large bulge in his jacket, Big Al fatefully guided Henley and the parcels back to the privacy of the locked backroom. The second the door was opened, Henley pulled out his pistol and aimed the barrel between Alan’s eyes, but with surprisingly sharp reflexes which belied his imposing size, Alan got the jump on Henley, slammed the backroom door in his face, and believing his armed robbery was a success, Henley fled down the dusty passageway, towards the dark wooden door, but it was all a ruse. There was no way that Alan was ever going to part with almost five thousand pounds worth of illegal pornographic stock, and before Henley had reached the front door, he turned to see the six-foot one, seventeen stone bulk of Big Alan bearing down on him, with fists clenched and anger in his eyes, and feeling truly afraid, Henley panicked and pulled the trigger. And yet, as Alan lay there, dying on the floor, the events which followed it are almost comical… …terrified at what his addiction had driven him to do, as Henley hopelessly limped into Dean Street, clutching his stolen parcels of porn but having left his crutches behind, Bob and Sidney chased the hobbling armed robber at an impressively slow speed, as with Bob having a gammy leg and the rather rotund Sidney managing little more than a quick waddle, they shouted “stop that man, he’s shot somebody” as Henley limped down St Anne’s Court, dropping both parcels in the process. Ignoring the commotion, a kind lady stopped to help the disabled Henley pick-up his scattered porn parcels, and even though Bob and Sidney, who were limping and waddling behind him in a half-speed pursuit called out to a passing taxi-driver on Wardour Street shouting “Don’t take that sailor, he’s shot a man”, with the cabbie Maurice Gould thinking they were drunken nutters, he picked up Henley and headed in his chosen direction of Waterloo Station, to get his train back to Southampton Dock. Henley had almost got away… …but sensing that something was up, Gould drove Henley to Trenchard House, a local police section house one street away on Broadwick Street, where the taxi-driver handed the clearly bewildered, shaking and ghostly white Canadian sailor over to Police Constable Alan Cole. But did Henley confess to his crime? No, of course he didn’t. He gave the police a total cock and bull story about how he’d been beaten up by a Teddy Boy who had stolen his crutches, his bullshit story of which ended with Henley dragging the incredulous PC on a wild goose chase through the streets of Soho in search of this mysterious (and entirely fictional) assailant, all whilst hiding a 9 millimetre Lugar pistol on his pocket and clutching almost five grands worth of highly illegal pornography under his arm. Moments later, as he neared Dean Street, Henley was arrested. Thirty minutes later, John Alan Dixon Robinson also known as Big Alan, died of his injuries at Charing Cross Hospital. And although this single bullet had passed through his bowel, his liver and his back, causing massive internal bleeding, Alan ultimately died of shock. Upon his arrest at West End Central police station, Henley gave a full confession, freely admitting he had committed an armed robbery to fuel his addiction to hard-core pornography and masturbation. He was searched, and amongst his possessions they found a £10 note, 8 shillings in silver and 7 ½ pence in copper, one Canadian dollar, a return ticket to Southampton, a Navy leave pass, an organ donor card, a liquor permit, 10 pornographic photographs, plus another 25 indecent images, plus two parcels containing three 16 millimetre hard-core films, numerous mucky books and magazines, and another seven hundred and eighty four illicit photos, as well as a bottle of liniment, which although it is used as a pain relief lotion also causes a tingling sensation in the more sensitive parts of the body. Hence, it was here, that Henley finally admitted that he had a problem. On 5th December 1956, at the Old Bailey, Richard Rhodes Henley was declared mentally fit to stand trail for murder - a charge which normally warrants a sentence of life in prison, but with Henley having taken a life in pursuit of a robbery – he was found guilty of all charges and sentenced to death. But not wishing to cause a major diplomatic incident between the two allies by having a Canadian soldier executed on British soil, the Home Secretary (Mr Gwillam Lloyd George) ordered a reprieve of the case, and within days Henley’s death sentence had been commuted from execution to the most lenient term possible, just fifteen years in prison. Richard Rhodes Henley was sent to HMP Parkhurst, a brutal Victorian maximum security prison on the Isle of Wight; a cold and lonely two-mile island off the English coast, where – as a murderer, he wasn’t permitted to work in the kitchens – so instead he’d stay in his cell, 23 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 15 long years, lying on his bed; alone with nothing but his dirty thoughts, his eager penis and his fumbling hands. And with no doctors to treat his addiction, no psychiatrists to cure his affliction and no drugs to dampen his sexual urges, only a lot of time and too much boredom, on an undisclosed day in the early 1970’s, having served his sentence and (I’m sure) having learned his lesson, Richard Rhodes Henley was released from prison, he boarded a boat and returned to his home country of Canada. And so, to Murder Mile’s Canadian listeners, I just wanted to say “good night and sleep well”. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to Murder Mile. Each week, in this section, I’ll be proudly introducing you to a new true-crime podcast which I love and want to share with you. This week’s treat is the fabulous Dark Poutine hosted by the brilliant Mike and Scott, who have an amazingly warm chemistry together, a passion for their subject and a genuine compassion for the victims as they delve into the depths of Canada’s dark and murky past. It’s one of my go-to podcasts, even if it has put me off ever going to Canada. Check them out. (PLAY PROMO) Don’t forget to check out my blog for more photos, videos and maps surrounding this case and all other episodes, by going to my website – murdermiletours.com / blog, or check out the Murder Mile podcast on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode is… David Martin: The Baffling Case of the Trangender Houdini Thank you 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 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by Kai Engel and Sergey Cherimisinov, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Full Transcript - Episode #16 - Richard Rhodes Henley; the Seamen, the Semen and the murder of the Porn Peddler
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode fifteen of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. Well, the end of January is almost upon us, and those New Year’s resolutions we’d promised to stick to are already a distant memory, as our goal to eat, drink and smoke less died a few days after we’d said them and was replaced in our gobs by either a pie, a pint or a pipe. And yet, as much as we deny that we’ve got a problem, that we need a fix, or that we’re struggling with an addiction, being hooked on food, booze, fags and even true-crime podcasts, is surely not as bad being a smack or crack head, am I right? I mean, would you be willing to kill someone to satisfy your addiction? You may think you wouldn’t, but I’m sure that Richard Rhodes Henley, the culprit in this week’s episode of Murder Mile true-crime podcast must have thought the same.
So, as you press play on this – your twenty-fifth podcast of the day, with a ciggie in one hand, a cake in your mouth and another quadruple espresso on the go – I just wanted to say stay tuned to the end of the episode to hear more about your next obsession, Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, the fabulous Dark Poutine, thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. Mwah-haa-haa-haa. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about the senseless murder of “Big Alan”; the burly purveyor of illicit pornography on Dean Street, who was robbed by Richard Rhodes Henley, a man so hopelessly addicted to his all-consuming need to masturbate over mucky magazines, that it would drive him to kill. Murder Mile contains bizarre, lewd and often rude descriptions which may cause a mild upset in those who are easily offended, as well as 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 16: Richard Rhodes Henley: the Seamen, the Semen and the Porn Peddler Today, I’m on Dean Street, roughly three hundred feet north of Old Compton Street and three hundred feet south of Oxford Street, in a part of Soho so heavily renovated, scrubbed and sanitised, that much of Soho’s original but admittedly seedy character has been erased, as the property prudes move in and any hint of originality moves out. In fact, the only culture left in this part of Dean Street is the famous Soho Theatre immediately behind me, where every night a wealth of right-on wankers dressed in beards, boots and feather boas, waffle-on about how literally yards from here Karl Marx wrote the Communist manifesto (which they profess to know the finer points of, and yet have never actually read), whilst starving having refused to eat the sushi at Wagamammas as they’re allergic to fish, intolerant to rice and are too full of their own shit, and are off to watch a dull arty play about one-legged Armenian strippers with AIDs, knowing it’ll be dross, but hoping – besides being culturally enriching – it’ll either have boobs, bums or a cock in it. Today, 82 Dean Street has been entirely demolished and replaced with a yucky modern monstrosity. And yet, the area around 82 Dean Street is a far cry from the seedy street full of sex-pests that it once was; being the bastion for the closet pervert and the chronic masturbator, as a drove of dirty old men in flashing macks stifle boners as they trawl the mucky book shops in search of tits, tights and tassels. One of these men in search of a triple X thrill was so addicted to his need to spill his seed, that it would consume his life and end another. His name was Richard Rhodes Henley. (INTERSTITIAL) On Wednesday 24th October 1956, HMCS Iroquois, a tribal class destroyer under the command of the Canadian Navy berthed in Southampton Dock on the English coast, after fourteen months on patrol in the Atlantic, the Mediterranean Sea, the Red Sea and hostile waters off Korea’s post-war peninsula. Needing six days to resupply, refuel and repair before returning to its home port in Halifax (Canada), half of the ship’s crew were given three days leave. And as a military vessel of mostly men who’d been cramped together in an oversized tin-can for just over a year with no privacy, no space and no outlet for their passions; the second the gangplank was lowered, with a whoop and a cheer, the dock was splashed in a sea of white as great groups of over-excitable seamen, set-out in search of girls. Pulling away from the pack, cutting quite a solitary figure as he limped along on his crutches, his left foot lame having twisted it just a few days earlier, was 26 year old Leading Seaman Richard Rhodes Henley. And although he was dressed like the others in his Navy issue uniform of black shoes, dark woollen jersey, a round cap and black bell-bottom trousers, he looked a little odd as his hero’s clothes badly hung off this tall, thin and gangly man with a small feminine mouth and thick lensed glasses. And yet, described by his commanding officer as a cook of exemplary character whose conduct on-board was always first class, Henley’s impressive work ethic wasn’t just in a deep-rooted desire for praise, promotion and a need to blend in… but to distract him from his dirty addiction. Henley was a masturbator, a chronic masturbator, who dove into work to keep his mind on his job and his hands out of his pants, as the second he wasn’t whipping an egg-white, fluffing a pancake batter or frothing a custard to a creamy head, his dirty desire would take over and he’d have to dive into the communal Navy toilet (also known as the head) for a five-knuckle shuffle. Needing to masturbate on an almost hourly basis, Henley’s sexual addiction was out of control and impossible to sustain on a cramped ship, at sea, with not a single second to himself. And so the second he disembarked, Henley set off on the first train to London and headed to Soho. Eleven years after the end of World War Two, with rationing over, prosperity blossoming and the good times having returned, London’s West End was the place to be to. As with every bar buzzing, every club thumping, every dance-hall fit-to-burst and finally the dark-lit streets of Soho being bathed once again by the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus, with just three day’s leave, every sailor hit the West End hoping to soak up as much vice as possible, whether girls, booze or gambling. But being a man with so little money and so many debts, Henley never gambled. As a devour Catholic with a wife back home, Henley never visited brothels. And as a drinker, even though he drank, he always drank alone. But these were not his vices, as his drug of choice was pornography. During his three day’s leave in London, Henley did very little else except trawl the mucky book shops in search of sexy magazines, but his quest was fruitless. As even though Soho was London’s sex shop central, Henley wasn’t interested in those mildly titillating top-shelf titles where scantily-clad ladies display an inch of an ankle, a bit of a boob or (if you were really lucky) a flash of a fanny fluff, but having been a chronic masturbator since he was twelve, Henley’s addiction was out of control, and with a single sexy photo only able to satisfy him for two or three self-love sessions before boredom would creep in, and Henley would need something harder. On Friday 26th October, having purchased twenty-five pornographic photos from a sex-shop just a few streets away in Piccadilly, and knowing this was barely enough filth to sustain his sexual appetite for a week, Henley asked the owner if he knew of any mucky book shops that sold harder porn, which was kept off the shelves and out of sight, as the porn was of such a strong nature, it was illegal. The store Henley was directed towards was at 82 Dean Street, it was ran by Alan Robinson (INTERSTITIAL). Although he was born John Alan Dixon Robinson, “Big Alan” as he was known was a thirty-six year old man of an impressive stature, as being over six feet tall and weighing seventeen stone with unflinching eyes and a bear-like beard, and a no-nonsense World War Two veteran with the Royal Fusiliers, his imposing size and gruff demeanour was perfect for his occupation as the manager of a Soho sex-shop, a job that required him to deal with all manner of unsavoury characters such as drunks, perverts, weirdos, conmen and gangsters. Situated at 82 Dean Street, Big Alan’s Soho sex-shop was the epitome of discretion, as (unlike most jazz-mag joints) there was no frosted glass and no neon signs flashing a “triple x”. Instead it was a simple white plaster façade with a number but no name; just the words “books and magazines” emblazoned on the walls and above the dark wooden door. And in the windows which were protected by black wrought-iron railings were displayed a deceptive collection of erotic novels, lurid fiction and dubious history books about naked African tribes, giving the illusion (to anyone who wasn’t “in the know”) that this was just a very normal book shop. That evening, just before closing time, as the last of the book-shop’s customers were shuffling out, in walked a tall slim bespectacled sailor replete with black bell-bottomed trousers and the naval epaulets of a Leading Seamen who was limping on a pair of crutches. And although a little shy and socially awkward, he seemed polite, quiet and harmless. Their discussion was cordial and brief; Henley asked if Big Alan had any hard-core films to sell, he had and offered him three 16 millimetre stag-films for thirty five pounds each, Henley agreed and – even though, in today’s money, that adds up to a whopping one thousand eight hundred pounds for three ten minute skin-flicks – Henley promised he’d return with the money the next day. But Henley had no intention of buying them, as he had no money, but what he did have was an all-consuming need for harder and stronger porn, and he would do anything to get it. Spending that Friday evening at the Union Jack Club in Lambeth (South London), an exclusive club for members of the armed forces, Henley sat alone, sunk back a few whiskeys, contemplated his rapid descent into a life of crime and later drunkenly stumbled back to the Waverly Hotel (in Bloomsbury), where he unpacked his kit-bag inside which he’d hidden a 9 millimetre German Luger pistol. Born in Creston in Canada, a small town on the south-eastern side of British Columbia, close to the US border, Richard Rhodes Henley was an only child, conceived in illegitimacy and whose very existence was blamed for the failure of his father’s marriage. Regularly beaten by his abusive alcoholic father, Henley’s childhood was spent either running away from home or being put into foster-care. And the more he drank, the more isolated he’d become, trapped in a solitary friendless world, never once having a loving mentor nor role-model to guide him on the tricky issues of life, love or sex. Aged just twelve years old, it was during those hormonally difficult and emotionally sensitive years as his body grew and puberty bloomed that Henley’s father caught his son masturbating - a natural act that almost all curious boy’s engage in, which is easily pacified by calmly discussing the facts of life – but that is exactly what his father should have, but didn’t do. Henley was abused. Henley was beaten. Henley was whipped. And for the following year, twelve year old Richard Rhodes Henley would spend every night, lying in bed, his wrists tightly shackled and bound to a rough leather harness secured around his waist. A barbaric device which was meant to stop this wicked boy from pleasuring himself and would cure him of this seedy affliction… but it backfired spectacularly and turned a common childhood habit (that he may have grown out of) into a dark, alluring and rebellious addiction. In 1947, aged 17, Henley ran away from home for the final time. In 1948, aged 18, he enlisted in the Canadian Navy to see the world and escape his father forever. In 1950, aged 20, as a devout Roman Catholic he hastily married his first girlfriend having – like his father before him - conceived an unplanned child out of wedlock; and as the love dried-up, the sex stopped and the marital bed grew cold, Henley turned to his one true-love – masturbation. By 1956, having docked in Southampton, Richard Rhodes Henley was a married man, with a five year old son, a blossoming naval career and financial responsibilities. In truth, he wasn’t a bad man; he wasn’t a drunk or a druggie; he was never physically, sexually or verbally abusive; he had no STIs, STDs nor any major health issues; and unusually he wasn’t a peeper, a flasher, a groper, a stalker or a sex-pest. In fact, prior to this moment, he had never committed a criminal act; but with his drug of choice being pornography, his addiction had consumed his life, his thoughts, his money and his even actions, and – now being hopelessly broke - he would do anything to get his fix. On the morning of Saturday 27th October 1956 at the ungodly hour of six thirty AM, Richard Rhodes Henley was witnessed pacing impatiently on his crutches outside of Big Al’s book-shop on 82 Dean Street. And although his intention was to commit an armed robbery, he didn’t hide his face and didn’t have a disguise, instead he wore his full Naval uniform complete with cap, boots and bell-bottoms. At nine-thirty AM, having nervously paced and waited outside for more than three hours, the book-shop finally opened, but it wasn’t the terrifyingly imposing frame of Big Al who unlocked the dark wooden door; it was his younger smaller assistant Robert Edward Clemment, also known as “Bob”. Wracked with nerves and shaking with tension, Henley must have thought that fate was smiling upon him, as - even though in his pocket he’d stashed the 9 millimetre German Lugar pistol loaded with eight bullets in the mag’ and one in the chamber – with the street being dead, the shop being empty and Bob being all alone, the robbery would be quick, no-one would get hurt and Henley could catch the next train back to Southampton Dock, before his ship departed, making a slick robbery followed by the perfect getaway. But it was not to be. As with Bob claiming to know nothing about any pornographic films which his boss had apparently stashed in the backroom (a room he had never used as it was practically empty), Bob told Henley to return when Big Alan was back, at 12pm, another two and a half hours later. For two and a half hours, Henley hobbled along the streets of Soho, nervously biting his lip, as with his three days leave almost over, and his orders to return to his ship at Southampton Dock by 11am at the very latest, torn between risking his career and his need for harder porn, his addiction won and Henley sauntered into the Rose & Crown tavern, twenty feet away, on corner of St Anne’s Court for a large slug of “Dutch courage” and – being so nervous – he knocked back 2oz or 300ml of whiskey. This is of course if you believe Henley’s confession, as Bob denied ever opening the shop, having keys, meeting Henley, or ever handling any illegal pornographic films (a claim which absolves him of this crime), and yet, although Henley claimed he was drunk at the time of the murder, he was never witnessed in the Rose & Crown pub that morning by either the customers or the landlord, he did not appear drunk, and (when checked by the police doctor) Henley had no alcohol in his system. Anyway… At 12pm, with Henley (supposedly) being inebriated, he returned to the mucky book shop at 82 Dean Street, which consisted of a single room measuring barely twenty feet wide by twenty feet deep, with every inch of wall-space riddled with trashy paperbacks, as a small smattering of sheepish-looking customers leafed through the lurid novels whilst shuffling nearer to the soft-core pornographic magazines which hung above the shop’s serving hatch, behind which stood Bob and Alan. With Henley being instantly recognisable in his sailor’s suit, Big Al grabbed his keys and discretely ushered him into the locked backroom behind the shop, where they privately talked in hushed tones. The backroom was bare, except for an empty fireplace, a single wicker chair (oddly placed in the centre of the room, which neither man sat in) and a waist-high wooden cabinet from which Alan pulled three metal tins of 16 millimetre film. With almost two thousand pounds worth of hard-core films in his hands, a loaded Lugar in his pocket and this very private room secured by a lockable door, a successful end to Henley’s pornography heist was in sight… but his need for newer, harder and more explicit images was so overpowering, that with greed having taken over, Henley wanted more. Thinking he must have met his dream customer and that this was his lucky day, Big Al led Henley back into the half-full shop, through the partitioned area behind which stood Bob and also Sidney Bayard, the shop’s accountant, and ushered him into Alan’s office, where once again, with greater discretion and even quieter voices, Big Alan and Henley finally shook hands on a price. For three 16 millimetre films and a box containing seven hundred and eighty four pornographic photos, Henley would pay two hundred and sixty-four pounds, which is today’s money is over four and a half thousand pounds. A price which (as we know) Henley had no plan to pay. Waiting until Alan had wrapped up the films and the photos into two discretely packaged parcels of brown paper, Henley gave his excuse that he had his money hidden about his person and didn’t want to reveal it in the shop, and seeing a large bulge in his jacket, Big Al fatefully guided Henley and the parcels back to the privacy of the locked backroom. The second the door was opened, Henley pulled out his pistol and aimed the barrel between Alan’s eyes, but with surprisingly sharp reflexes which belied his imposing size, Alan got the jump on Henley, slammed the backroom door in his face, and believing his armed robbery was a success, Henley fled down the dusty passageway, towards the dark wooden door, but it was all a ruse. There was no way that Alan was ever going to part with almost five thousand pounds worth of illegal pornographic stock, and before Henley had reached the front door, he turned to see the six-foot one, seventeen stone bulk of Big Alan bearing down on him, with fists clenched and anger in his eyes, and feeling truly afraid, Henley panicked and pulled the trigger. And yet, as Alan lay there, dying on the floor, the events which followed it are almost comical… …terrified at what his addiction had driven him to do, as Henley hopelessly limped into Dean Street, clutching his stolen parcels of porn but having left his crutches behind, Bob and Sidney chased the hobbling armed robber at an impressively slow speed, as with Bob having a gammy leg and the rather rotund Sidney managing little more than a quick waddle, they shouted “stop that man, he’s shot somebody” as Henley limped down St Anne’s Court, dropping both parcels in the process. Ignoring the commotion, a kind lady stopped to help the disabled Henley pick-up his scattered porn parcels, and even though Bob and Sidney, who were limping and waddling behind him in a half-speed pursuit called out to a passing taxi-driver on Wardour Street shouting “Don’t take that sailor, he’s shot a man”, with the cabbie Maurice Gould thinking they were drunken nutters, he picked up Henley and headed in his chosen direction of Waterloo Station, to get his train back to Southampton Dock. Henley had almost got away… …but sensing that something was up, Gould drove Henley to Trenchard House, a local police section house one street away on Broadwick Street, where the taxi-driver handed the clearly bewildered, shaking and ghostly white Canadian sailor over to Police Constable Alan Cole. But did Henley confess to his crime? No, of course he didn’t. He gave the police a total cock and bull story about how he’d been beaten up by a Teddy Boy who had stolen his crutches, his bullshit story of which ended with Henley dragging the incredulous PC on a wild goose chase through the streets of Soho in search of this mysterious (and entirely fictional) assailant, all whilst hiding a 9 millimetre Lugar pistol on his pocket and clutching almost five grands worth of highly illegal pornography under his arm. Moments later, as he neared Dean Street, Henley was arrested. Thirty minutes later, John Alan Dixon Robinson also known as Big Alan, died of his injuries at Charing Cross Hospital. And although this single bullet had passed through his bowel, his liver and his back, causing massive internal bleeding, Alan ultimately died of shock. Upon his arrest at West End Central police station, Henley gave a full confession, freely admitting he had committed an armed robbery to fuel his addiction to hard-core pornography and masturbation. He was searched, and amongst his possessions they found a £10 note, 8 shillings in silver and 7 ½ pence in copper, one Canadian dollar, a return ticket to Southampton, a Navy leave pass, an organ donor card, a liquor permit, 10 pornographic photographs, plus another 25 indecent images, plus two parcels containing three 16 millimetre hard-core films, numerous mucky books and magazines, and another seven hundred and eighty four illicit photos, as well as a bottle of liniment, which although it is used as a pain relief lotion also causes a tingling sensation in the more sensitive parts of the body. Hence, it was here, that Henley finally admitted that he had a problem. On 5th December 1956, at the Old Bailey, Richard Rhodes Henley was declared mentally fit to stand trail for murder - a charge which normally warrants a sentence of life in prison, but with Henley having taken a life in pursuit of a robbery – he was found guilty of all charges and sentenced to death. But not wishing to cause a major diplomatic incident between the two allies by having a Canadian soldier executed on British soil, the Home Secretary (Mr Gwillam Lloyd George) ordered a reprieve of the case, and within days Henley’s death sentence had been commuted from execution to the most lenient term possible, just fifteen years in prison. Richard Rhodes Henley was sent to HMP Parkhurst, a brutal Victorian maximum security prison on the Isle of Wight; a cold and lonely two-mile island off the English coast, where – as a murderer, he wasn’t permitted to work in the kitchens – so instead he’d stay in his cell, 23 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 15 long years, lying on his bed; alone with nothing but his dirty thoughts, his eager penis and his fumbling hands. And with no doctors to treat his addiction, no psychiatrists to cure his affliction and no drugs to dampen his sexual urges, only a lot of time and too much boredom, on an undisclosed day in the early 1970’s, having served his sentence and (I’m sure) having learned his lesson, Richard Rhodes Henley was released from prison, he boarded a boat and returned to his home country of Canada. And so, to Murder Mile’s Canadian listeners, I just wanted to say “good night and sleep well”. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to Murder Mile. Each week, in this section, I’ll be proudly introducing you to a new true-crime podcast which I love and want to share with you. This week’s treat is the fabulous Dark Poutine hosted by the brilliant Mike and Scott, who have an amazingly warm chemistry together, a passion for their subject and a genuine compassion for the victims as they delve into the depths of Canada’s dark and murky past. It’s one of my go-to podcasts, even if it has put me off ever going to Canada. Check them out. (PLAY PROMO) Don’t forget to check out my blog for more photos, videos and maps surrounding this case and all other episodes, by going to my website – murdermiletours.com / blog, or check out the Murder Mile podcast on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode is… David Martin: The Baffling Case of the Transsexual Houdini. Thank you and sleep well.
Sources:
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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"How many murders occur within one square mile?" That was the question I asked myself before starting the research for the Murder Mile Walks and the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. "Five? Ten? Maybe twenty?" I thought ."..but they'll probably all be really dull...mostly just a bunch of drunks and domestic disputes". Well, I was wrong.
So far, after just 15 episodes of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast, over barely a handful of streets (as seen on the Murder Map above), we've already had serial killers, mass murders, bombings, mafia hits, crazed maniacs, gangland executions and loads of unsolved murders, and yet we've barely even scratched the surface. And this doesn't even begin to cover the 12 murderers, 15 locations and 75 mysterious deaths we cover solely on our guided walk of Soho in Murder Mile Walks. London's Soho truly is murder central. So, if you're looking new and original murder cases, unsolved and untold, which have been investigated using the original declassified police files, then check out Murder Mile Walks for a guided walks of Soho's most infamous murders, (visiting real murder locations) and to accompany this, listen to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast on iTunes, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify, Youtube, Podcast Addict or Libsyn. Or click on the media player below to listen to an episode.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast #15 - The (Almost) Double Deaths of the Disgruntled Dish Washer17/1/2018 
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South side of Soho Square, with the former site of 27 Soho Square (now Barclays) straight ahead
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of 300+ untold, unsolved and often long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTEEN
Episode Fifteen: The (Almost) Double Deaths of the Disgruntled Dish Washer. On Friday 12th May 1933, 31 year old disgruntled dish-washer Varnavros Antorka murdered his overbearing boss, head-chef Boleslaw Pankorski at Bellometti’s restaurant in Soho Square, and yet this brief moment of madness almost lead to him being convicted of double murder.
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THE LOCATION
Episode 15 - The (Almost) Double Deaths of the Disgruntled Dish Washer INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode fifteen of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. Well, it’s going to be an exciting year on the Murder Mile true-crime podcast, as I’ve been spending a ridiculous amount of time at the National Archives, diving into the original police investigation files of many of the West End’s most infamous murders, so whether they’re new or old, solved or unsolved, famous or forgotten, you can expect a some truly strange, shocking, weird and baffling cases over the coming year, all of which are mad, bad, sad, big, bold and bonkers. And if after a lovely Christmas and a Happy New Year, you’re already hating being back at work, and are despising your job and (especially) your boss, then this episode is just for you, as it’s about a disgruntled employee who murders his boss. Happy days. Don’t forget, that on my website Murder Mile tours.com / podcast, there’s a detailed murder map which shows you how close each murder is and contains links to each episode’s blog, featuring photos and videos to aid your enjoyment of the series. Once again, thank you for listening, and I hope you enjoy the episode. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode features the callous murder of Boleslaw Pankorski, a polish chef in an upmarket restaurant on Soho Square by his beleaguered underling Varnavros Antorka for quite possibly the pettiest motive ever… and yet, this single action almost lead to him being tried for double murder. Murder Mile contains upsetting descriptions which may offend sensitive listeners, as well as 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 15: The (Almost) Double Deaths of the Disgrunted Dish Washer Today, I’m in Soho Square. Originally called King’s Square, having been erected in the reign of Charles II, Soho Square is an elegant 17th century tree-lined square nestling in the north-east corner of Soho between Oxford Street and Old Compton Street; which is ringed by one-way traffic, lined with parked cars and surrounded by a slew of posh premises for 20th Century Fox, the British Board of Film Classification, St Patrick’s church, The House of St Barnabus and the former home of FIFA (football’s governing body which oddly as a non-profit organisation has cash reserves of over $1.4 billion dollars). And in the centre of the square sits a Tudor-style black and white timber potting shed where a slew of diligent groundsmen keep the lawns neat, the flowers perky and the paths leaf-free in this light and airy garden which is open to everyone, whether a tweed-suited city-trader talking a little too loudly on his phone, a stupidly bearded media twat playing ping-pong over a soya latte, six Soho hobos collapsed in a catatonic puddle of piddle, or a rancid wealth of classic London pigeons, all covered in shit, hobbling on a stump and feverishly pecking at a pub-goers puke. Ah London. And yet, little do these sandwich nibbling lunchers and sun-loving loungers know that just a few feet from where they’re sitting, an over-emotional employee brutally gunned down his back-stabbing boss. (INTERSTITIAL) Situated on the south side of Soho Square on the north-west corner of Greek street sits 27 Soho Square; an-eight storey red-stone building known as Nascreno House, part of which currently occupies the Soho branch of Barclays Bank. Before its demolition in 1938, 27 Soho Square was originally a grand four storey townhouse built in 1803, whose previous inhabitants included such luminaries as Viscount de Longueville, the Second Earl of Plymouth, the First Earl of Tankerville, the Fourth Earl of Dundonald, Lord Fitzwilliam, Sir Francis Knollys and a whole host of upper-class twits and Oxbridge knobs who practically no-one has ever heard of, all of whom had butlers, maid and servants. But by 1933, five years before its demolition, 27 Soho Square was once a very upmarket West End restaurant called Bellometti’s; with the first floor reserved for its posh patrons whose five-course meal was served on immaculate white linen table-clothes, fine bone china and crystal wine glasses by silver service waiters in starched shirts and dicky-bows; the ground floor hosted an ornate guest reception up front, a drab and dreary staff entrance out back, a scullery for the servers, a laundry for the maids and a winery for the head waiter; and in the basement was the kitchen, whose head chef called Boleslaw Pankorski was a hot-tempered perfectionist who looked down on his mild-mannered but effortlessly lazy dish-washer - Varnavros Antorka. (INTERSTITIAL) Like most up-market eateries in the West End, although it was housed in a single building, Bellometti’s comprised of two very different worlds; an upstairs and a downstairs, which divided the diners from the staff, the rich from the poor, with the customers only seeing an elegant façade of wealth, style and tranquillity, as just two floors below, stuck in a cramped kitchen buried in the bowels of the basement, it was anything but. Head chef at Bellometti was 37 year old Boleslar Pankorski, known as “Paul”, who had only worked at the restaurant for 18 months but had greatly impressed Mister Morgan, the Chairman, with his culinary skills, his creative flair, his impeccable timing and his ruthless efficiency. Born in Lotz (Poland) on 23rd March 1897, Paul came from a family of highly respected Polish chefs, who was part-way through an apprenticeship when the First World War broke out. Aged just 17, Paul was one of many Polish youths who both bravely and thanklessly enlisted in the British Army to fight off the German invasion, and served as a private in the Middlesex Regiment’s 4th battalion stationed in Boulogne-sue-Mer and Le Harve on the Western Front, and later in India and Egypt. Although he was a cook, not a soldier, the sights Paul witnessed on the muddy battlefields in France - the bombs, the bodies and the blood – had not only mentally scarred him turning a timid boy into a serious man, but seeing the soldiers return to their waterlogged trenches; tired, wet and traumatised, never knowing which day would be their last, he knew their lives relied on one certainty – food. As a good solid meal served on-time can go a long way to making his comrades feel human again. At Bellometti’s restaurant, Paul ran his kitchen like a well-oiled machine using the military precision he’d honed in the war, and even though this cramped basement was a cacophony of noise, smoke and steam, every surface was spotless, every jar was labelled, every waste-bin was empty, and every meal was served on time, lightly seasoned and cooked to perfection. With the kitchen as his battleground, Paul would bark orders like a General going to war, surrounded by his loyal troops (ranking from his soux-chef right down to the lowly dish-washer), all of whom he hoped had a mind-set like his own and saw the preparation of meals as their mission. But sadly, that wasn’t always the case. 31 year old Varnavros Loizi Antorka, also known as “Varna” had been in service at Bellometti’s for 18 months, having been hired at the same time as his head chef but hadn’t been hired by Paul himself. Although gifted the fancy title of “silver washer”, Varna was a humble dish-washer, the second lowest ranking staff member, who’d spend his days scrubbing plates, pots and pans, for long hours, little pay and rarely a please or a thank you. And although Paul and Varna worked side-by-side for many months, both men were very different. Born in Nicosia (Cyprus) in 1902, Varna grew-up in the shadow of the First World War, and although he was too young to enlist, as a Greek–Cypriot it was his home that was the war-zone. With Cyprus under British military occupation effectively from 1878 to 1960, the capital city of Nicosia like the rest of the country itself was ethnically divided in its struggle for independence from the United Kingdom, with the Christians aligning with Greece and the Muslims with Turkey. So dangerous and deadly had Nicosia become that one of the city’s main thoroughfares was given a nickname that we still use today to describe a road of synonymous with death, as Ledra Street truly was the first place to ever be dubbed as the “Murder Mile”. But by 1925, with rioting, looting and bombing ravaging a city in chaos, and having been burdened by heavy taxation, widespread poverty and rampant disease, Varna – with his parent’s blessing – took what little money, food and possessions he had, boarded a ship and set sail for America. Having escaped the horrors of his homeland, Varna and his younger brother were quick to embrace the fun and frolics of the free-world, soaking up the bright lights of Boston and the non-stop bustle of New York, and even though they lived simply, surviving on a meagre income as bus-boys and bottle-washers, they always had fun, ate well, drank hard and never forgot to send regular letters to their beloved mother, telling her tales, wishing her well and always enclosing a few dollars. After five years in America, and eager to explore the rest of the world, Varna and his brother moved to London, rented a flat on Arthur Street, fell in love with the West End and funded their nightlife and cash-filled letters home by working menial jobs for just £1 and 15 shillings a week. Described as “quiet, polite and inoffensive” and “a man of good character who got on well with his colleagues”, Varna was fun-loving, diligent and honest. But as a lowly dish-washer who wanted to see the world and yet spent the bulk of his days staring at a kitchen wall with his hands in soapy dish-water, he’d often day-dream, and be berated by Paul for his slow-speed and tardiness. Friday 12th May 1933 was no exception, as lacking Paul’s military precision and punctuality, once again after a heavy night of booze and boogying, Varna slowly ambled into work a full twenty minutes late, which in most cases is no great crime, but with the guests getting seated, the lunch orders looming and the head chef’s meticulous system already in chaos owing to a backlog of spotty pots and dirty dishes, Varna’s lateness was the last straw for Paul and he was sacked on the spot. Varna’s dismissal by Paul at roughly 12:45pm wasn’t witnessed by any of the staff and therefore what was said between the two men at that moment is lost to the mists of time, but given Paul’s demanding and domineering manner mixed with Varna’s mild-mannered and softly spoken way, this sacking didn’t go as simply as Paul had suspected it would, as something had lit a fire under Varna’s backside. He was angry, furious and seething at the loss of an unskilled dead-end job that he didn’t much care for and could easily acquire anywhere else, so those missing few minutes of heated debate between the two men are vital to understand Varna’s misguided mind-set. Maybe he was broke and struggling to fund his family overseas in an increasingly volatile and hostile country? Maybe he hated being berated by this bully-boy head-chef who had always wanted him out? Or maybe, deep down, he truly loved the life and the money of a day-dreaming dish-washer? Either way, this we shall never know. Coming from a good family with a good education, no police record and no criminal convictions, by 1pm Varna had dashed back to his lodgings at 19 Arthur Street (now known as Earnshaw Street at the back of Denmark Place) and hastily raced up the wooden stairs to his top floor flat, where he was heard rummaging in his drawers by Louisa Mutty - his landlady – who said that on that day he was uncharacteristically impatient, rude and flustered. At 13:05pm, as Varna dashed the five minutes back to Soho Square with his right hand hidden inside his jacket, Paul was upstairs in the supper room of Bellometti’s receiving his weekly wage from Arthur Cecil Morgan, chairman of the restaurant, and informing him of Varna’s dismissal, which Mr Morgan didn’t need to know nor did he care about, and as briskly as it had begun, their conversation was over. At 13:08pm, witnessed by the wine-butler James Sydney Bryce who was standing in the ground-floor passageway, a drab and drafty staff entrance which led to Soho Square, Varna burst in. Breathlessly standing on the hall’s bare floorboards, his sweaty face was etched with anger as deep shadows were cast by the bare single light bulb above. At that moment, accompanied by William Summers, a waiter, Paul strolled across the first floor landing, his feet thudding down the wooden stairs and as he neared the bottom, he was met by Varna’s furious eyes. With his unusually angry voice echoing off the hall’s bare walls, Varna barked “You sacked me you bastard…” and grabbing the chef’s white serviette which hung around Paul’s neck, he spat “…take me back or I shoot”. Unsure what he meant, Paul looked down and saw that in his right hand, Varna held .32 Smith & Wesson five shot revolver, which was aimed squarely at his chest. Instinctively, as both Paul and William Summers grabbed his right arm and wrist to wrestle the loaded gun away, Varna clutched at Paul’s throat with his free left hand and started to strangle him. But being unable to catch his breath, the more Paul lost consciousness, the more he lessened his grip on Varna’s arm, and with the constant toing-and-froing of the firearm, before anyone knew what had happened – with the muzzle within inches of the chef’s chest – Varna had fired. As an ominous silence gripped the hall, Paul fell to his knees like a sack of spuds, and slumped against the wooden wine boxes; his face ghostly white, as blood poured from the left of his chest, soaking his chef’s whites with a vivid red which pooled around his heart. Varna took a step back, his breathing deep and erratic, not quite believing what he’d done... but his shock was short-lived… as feeling his rage rise again, Varna venomously spat the words “bloody bastard” towards his kneeling and bleeding boss and fired once more, with a shot which ripped right through his stomach. Having heard the shots from the restaurant, head-waiters Guiseppe Negrari and Mitchel Kikilarou dashed downstairs to put a stop to this unseemly fracases, as two waiters and now two head waiters tried to wrestle the gun free as – once again - Varna took aim at his dying foe. But as Mitchel, an innocent bystander (who’d had no beef with the angry dish-washer) darted upstairs to inform Mr Morgan if the incident, Varna fired; and although he had aimed downwards towards the fearful head of the slumped chef, the third bullet missed its target, nicked the defensively splayed fingers of Paul’s right hand and miraculously missing his head entirely, the .32 projectile ricocheted off the hardwood floor, and at a practically improbable 70 degree angle, it hit Mitchel, one floor above. With Bryce having disarmed Varna and cast aside the smoking hot steel of the revolver into a discarded pile of wine boxes, as Varna was subdued, Bryce ran to get a passing policeman - PC Walter Middleton – who quickly placed the angry Cypriot dish-washer under arrest. Drifting in and out of consciousness and badly losing blood, Paul was laid on the floor, his tie loosened, as the staff awaited the arrival of the ambulance men, who during 1930’s London, in the days before paramedics, were little more than glorified van-drivers and were less than useless. Head-waiter Mitchel Kikilarou was driven with Paul to the Middlesex Hospital having been shot in the calf of his left leg, but with the bullet fragment having missed his bones and all veins and vital arteries, Mitchel’s flesh wound was dressed and – being the type of conscientious ex-military man who Paul admired – he returned to work that very same day, apologising profusely for the hole in his trousers. Sadly, although Paul received the best medical treatment of the day, he remained in critical condition at Middlesex Hospital for two days, but on Sunday 14th May at 11:35am, 37 year old Boleslar “Paul” Pankorski, head-chef at Bellometti’s, died of his injuries. He left behind a wife and three children. His autopsy was conducted that evening by the Home Office’s chief pathologist Sir Barnard Spilsbury, who concluded that although the first bullet had entered Paul’s chest without breaking any ribs, had passed right through his left lung, his heart and had embedded itself in his right lung, it was the second bullet which killed him. As having been shot in the stomach, the bullet had pierced his abdominal wall and small intestine resulting in acute peritonitis; a simple bacterial infection which can cause multiple organ failure if left untreated, and is easily cured by the kind of broad spectrum antibiotics commonly available from your doctor today, which in 1933 was yet to be discovered. Varna was taken to the Great Marlborough Street police-station, just north of Carnaby Street, where he was cautioned, arrested, read his rights and interviewed by Detective Inspector Clarence Campion where he made the statement “I tell you the truth, he grumble at me minutes before, I go home and get gun and come back to restaurant and say to him you have five minutes to live, he say you are finished, I say do not say I am finished, he say yes, I shoot him. I do not know what happened after I lose my temper”, later ironically adding “I did not mean to hurt him”. Varna was tried at the Old Bailey before the brutally obstinate Mr Justice Humphries on the 30th June 1933, barely six weeks later, where he pleaded “not guilty” to the charge of murder. In his defence, he pleaded that he had no intention to kill Boleslaw “Paul” Pankorski, instead his ill-thought out and badly executed plan was to threaten the chef with the loaded revolver, with the hope that he would become so frightened that Paul would instantly give Varna his job back. The jury deliberated for just forty-five minutes. Not because the evidence against him was so overwhelming but because the judge, Mr Justice Humphries, had refused to give the jurors an option to find Varna either guilt or not guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter, only murder. Therefore, on the charge that Varna had “feloniously, wilfully and of his malice aforethought did kill and murder Boleslar Pankorski”, and that he did “feloniously, wilfully and of his malice aforethought did wound (the head waiter) Mitchell Kikillarou by shooting him with a revolver with intent to do him grievous bodily harm”, even though the Police had confirmed he was wounded by the entirely accidental ricochet of the bullet, Varna was found guilty of both counts. And although the foreman of the jury recommended a plea of mercy as all twelve jurymen felt that the murder of Boleslar Pankorski was not premeditated (a crime which warrants a life sentence or less), Mr Justice Humphries made no comment towards their plea, and donning his black cap, he sentenced 31 year old Varnavros Loizi Antorka to death. The final days of Varna, the Greek-Cypriot dish-washer who had escaped his war-torn country with the hope of bettering himself, funding his impoverished family and seeing the world, was spent in solitary confinement on A Wing, in the first floor of London’s Pentonville Prison, staring at the cold stone walls of his lonely cell. Being basic, the condemned man’s cell consisted of a bed, a table, three chairs and (at the far end of the room) a large wooden wardrobe, as well as a bathroom and a separate room for the prisoner to receive guests. Sadly, although he would continue to write many a loving letter home, the only guest Varna received was his younger brother, as being too poor, his worried parents could never visit. It was here that he sat, slept, ate, prayed and waited, always under a guard’s personal supervision and never once knowing that he was just fifteen feet from the gallows which would ultimately kill him. On the bright crisp morning of Thursday 10th August 1933, having struggled to eat his last meal of tea and toast and having been read his last rites by a Catholic priest, Varna sat in his cell, the two other chairs occupied by his guards who sat on either side of him in a hushed silence. There was no sounds, no words and no clocks, only the deep rasp of his petrified breath and the erratic beat of his heart. With the nod of the Governor’s head, as the hour struck, there was a quick clank of keys, the steel cell door opened, and with the swiftness of a younger man in rushed a mid-fifties gentleman in a simple black suit, who looked out of place and said nothing. He was the infamous hangman Robert Baxter, a protégé of the legendary executioner Albert Pierrepoint, who was flanked by his assistant Alfred Allen. Like Pierrepoint, Baxter and Allen were great believers that as barbaric as capital punishment was, that an execution needn’t be a sadistic spectacle where the prisoner’s agony is prolonged. Instead, each prisoner was despatched in a way which was the epitome of swift, professional and painless. Pulling Varna to his feet, as the guards moved the chairs to one side, Baxter secured the prisoner’s wrists behind his back with suede-lined shackles (with the velvety soft material added to stop any pinching of the skin and causing the condemned to flinch during this critical moment). Once secured, the large wooden wardrobe (which was deliberately placed behind the prisoner and out of view) was slide to the left, so that – only at the very last second – would Varna see that hidden behind it was a secret door, leading to the execution chamber. It was a cold stone room with the walls painted a subtle pale green; in the dead centre of the floor was a trap-door comprising of two leaves, each eight and a half feet long by two and a half feet wide, with a large metal lever to the left, and dangling from a beam above, at head height, was the noose. As Varna was quickly ushered the ten short paces into the execution chamber, his feet never once tripping or scuffing on the deliberately smooth floor, he was positioned onto to a white chalk mark in the middle of the trap-doors, and as Alfred Allen secured his feet, the last sight Varna saw (was not Paris as he had planned, Rome as he had wanted, or even the smiling face of his beloved mother back in his hometown of Nicosia, as he had dreamed), but instead it was the emotionless face of hangman Robert Baxter pulling a white cotton sack over his head. And having secured the leather lined noose; with a yank of the lever, the swing of the trap-doors, the drop of his body and a swift snap to the right of his neck, with two vertebrae broken, Varna was dead. His body was buried in an unmarked grave on the grounds of Pentonville Prison, where he remains to this day. Having been executed by master hangman Robert Baxter, the time from when the cell door opened to the moment that Varna was dangling at the end of a rope dead just fifteen seconds. He would have felt no pain, he might have shed no tears, and he may not have uttered any last words, as it all happened so fast, he may not have known what was happening until the deadly deed was done. And yet, as cruel as capital punishment may be, one question still baffles my brain; and it’s this. Given how slick, quick and truly professional this hanging was; would Boleslaw “Paul” Pankorski, the head-chef at Bellometti’s restaurant at 27 Soho Square, who survived the horrors of the First World War and ran his kitchen with military precision, would he have been truly appalled at the senseless death of a lowly dishwasher, or would he have admired (and maybe even smiled) at its ruthless efficiency? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to Murder Mile. If you’re thinking, “hmm, surely there’s some really interesting cases based in Soho which I think Michael hasn’t done a podcast episode about?”, you’re absolutely right. Although I have literally hundreds of amazing murders to still tell you about on this podcast, many of my favourites are reserved solely for my infamous Murder Mile Walk, which takes in the West End, every Sunday. So if you’re in London soon, why not book a ticket and see the murder locations in the flesh. Don’t forget to check out my blog for more photos, videos and maps surrounding this case and all other episodes, by going to my website – murdermiletours.com / blog, or check out the Murder Mile podcast on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode is… The Baffling Case of the Seamen, the Semen and the Porn Peddler. Thank you 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 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
DOWNLOAD Episode #15 - The (Almost) Double Deaths of the Disgruntled Dish-Washer
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Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by Kai Engel, Sergey Cherimisinov, Turku: Nomads the the Silk Road and Daniel Vessey, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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EPISODE FOURTEEN
Episode Fourteen: William Stoltzer and the Stabbing of Peter Keim. On Saturday 30th September 1843, 28 year old William Stoltzer stabbed Peter Keim once in the stomach with a boot-maker’s knife, and even though he confessed to the murder; the life, the death and the trail of William Stoltzer is as strange and mysterious as both his past and future.
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THE LOCATION
Ep14 - William Stoltzer and the Stabbing of Peter Keim
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode fourteen of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. And an especially big thank you to everyone who listened, rated and reviewed my two-part special on British serial-killer Dennis Nilsen and the terrifying tales of the men he unsuccessfully attempted to murder. As you liked it so much, you can expect a few more little known stories about Dennis Nilsen soon. As well as an upcoming episode on the infamous murderer known as “Soho Jack”, who it is said, supposedly murdered four Soho prostitutes including Russian Dora and Black Rita, as well as Murder Mile’s very own Ginger Rae and Margaret Cook. If this is your first-time listening to Murder Mile, don’t worry, you don’t have to play the episodes in any particular order as each story stands alone, but (as regular listeners will know) the further we go through this series, the more that familiar places, faces and names will crop up again and again. So if you want to listen to Murder Mile from episode one first, please do… but it’s not essential. And if you fancy seeing lots of photos, videos and maps associated with each case, check out the Murder Mile true-crime podcast on Twitter, Facebook and my website Murder Mile tours.com / blog Thank you. Enjoy the episode. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is the murder of Peter Keim by his close friend William Stoltzer. And even though there’s no mystery over who killed who, the events which precede and follow it are truly baffling. Murder Mile contains grisly details which won’t be suitable for delicate daisies, as well as 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 14: William Stoltzer and the stabbing of Peter Keim. Today, I’m on Beak Street in Soho; a one-way street which runs parallel with Broadwick Street (the home of Ginger Rae and Soho’s deadly dentist Isidor Zeifert), passed Carnaby Street (site of the Blue Lagoon where Margaret Cook was gunned down) and leads to London’s infamous Regent’s Street. Although an innocuous little road which is eternally shrouded in dark shadows owing to a tangled mess of terrifyingly tall flats, shops and town-houses, which ominously loom on either side of this tight single-lane street, Beak Street is the kind of place where tourists don’t go and most locals don’t know. But centuries ago, Beak Street was one of the West End’s busiest city highways which linked Piccadilly and Oxford Circus; so prominent was this street, it was one of the first to be paved in stone and was named after Thomas Beake, the personal messenger to Queen Elizabeth I. Although largely forgotten today, except by delivery drivers desperate to avoid the choking snarling chaos of Oxford Circus, this three hundred and twenty metre long stretch of road is the only surviving section of this ancient highway – which was known up until 1883 as Silver Street – and is still dotted with a hodgepodge of late 17th and early 18th century grade 2 listed buildings which were once packed full of famous painters, writers and composers. But by the 1840’s, where our story begins, Silver Street (like most of Soho) had already descended into squalor; a place famed for drink, drugs and debauchery, packed full of tumble-down workhouses, hardly habitable lodging houses, home to one of West London’s largest plague pits riddled with rotting corpses buried ten layers deep, a festering water pump so rancid that – just thirteen years later – it killed one sixth of Soho’s population, as well as the seedy side street where Peter Keim’s guts, gizzard and innards were ripped at the hands of his good friend William Stoltzer. (INTERSTITIAL) William Stoltzer is an enigma, whose life is as mysterious as the murder he committed, and yet, had he not stabbed Peter Keim to death, William – like so many millions of long-forgotten commoners– would have disappeared into unrecorded obscurity, the unremarkable life of an unimportant pauper lost in the mists of time. And although all we know is that William Stoltzer was born Wilhelm Stoltzer in either Hamburg or Cologne sometime in 1815, he had no known criminal record, medical history nor immigration papers; he was an unmarried man with no surviving parents, siblings or children, who by 1843 was living a hard, cold and often hungry hand-to-mouth existence in the slums of Soho. So what we do know about the mysterious life of William Stoltzer (and maybe even the reason why his sole goal that night was to stab, slice and slop-out onto Silver Street the warm steamy guts of Peter Keim) is gleaned solely from the tantalising titbits documented in court transcripts about those fateful days prior to the murder. On Wednesday 20th September 1843, ten days before he filleted his faithful friend, 28 year old German native William Stoltzer, an uneducated part-time cobbler entered the shop of Nicholas Dherry, a boot-maker on Silver Street who over the last five years had hired William to mend shoes. At first, William was a shy, quiet but conscientious worker who although a little bit odd was more-than-adequate at providing simple repairs to shoes for an agreeable price. But slowly, as his moods got blacker, his eyes wilder and his demeanour more aggressive, his workmanship slowly became sloppy, slipshod and shoddy, and this day was no exception, as having been given three pairs of boots to repair, William Stoltzer had returned with just two, having sold a pair for a bottle of gin. William was well known in the community as a laughable harmless buffoon who was prone to humble brags, little white lies and outright bullshit, such as claiming he was Prince Albert and Napoleon Bonaparte – even going so far as to accessorize his tatty threadbare rags with a wild flourish like a handmade crown or a French military bicorn hat to accentuate his deeply deluded tale – some of which he’d do whilst streaking naked through the streets of Soho. But during this final year, even brief stints in the local insane asylum had done little to exacerbate his eccentricity, as with a toxic mix of “street gin”, malnutritian and an undiagnosed mental illness flooding his booze-addled brain, the harmless buffoon was gone, only to be replaced by a volatile beast who was much darker. Having been fleeced too many times and still a slew of unpaid debts, the boot-maker Nicholas Dherry who was William’s sole employer sacked him on the spot and ordered him to leave. Describing William in court as a fidgety, feeble and weak-minded weirdo who people always laughed at, Nicholas demanded "You had better go, or I shall make you", to which William – his eyes wild, a clenched fist in the pocket of his leather apron - threatened "I shall make you pay you that, and kill you very likely". And although William was not big, strong or well, Nicholas had already experienced William’s volatile side, and shouting at him "I do not care about you, you are a coward, mind yourself, and do not come here like this again", Nicholas wisely grabbed William’s right arm, twisted his clenched fist behind his back, and ushered the madman out of his shop… forever. Or so he thought. On Tuesday 26th September 1843, just four days before William Stoltzer would spilt the contents of Peter Keim’s stomach, William returned to Nicholas Dherry’s cobblers shop; and stood silently, his teeth gritted, his eyes glazed and unblinking, as his twitchy right hand fiddled in the pocket of his leather apron. But being a scrawny feeble man who could hardly cut a sinister figure, instead of being scared, Nicholas’s sister just laughed, as she always did into William’s face and joked "what is it my sweetheart, have you anything else the matter with you?", to which William, saying nothing, slowly approached her, and sidling up to her eyeball-to-eyeball, he removed a boot-maker’s knife from his apron pocket, held the six-inch wood-handled blade inches from her face and goading her to taut him some more he muttered “I wonder what you would say, if I stabbed you?”. Fearing for his sister’s life, Nicholas ducked into the backroom to find something sharp or heavy to arm himself, a chair, a poker, anything, but by the time he had returned, his sister was safe and William had gone. That evening, having borrowed a large stone bottle off Bartholomew Mauritius - his impoverished, terrified and rather reluctant flat-mate who shared not only a small cramped one-roomed bedroom with William Stoltzer but also his flea-ridden bed – William staggered to The Blue Posts public house on the corner of Broadwick Street and Berwick Street (a pub which still exists today), and needing his lethal fix, filled the stone bottle with a gallon of gin and gulping back great glugs of booze, he unsteadily stumbled back to his tumble-down lodging at no 4 Bentinck Street (now Livonia Street), a dead-end at the back of Broadwick Street, consumed the full eight pints of liquid death, and went to bed. Had Bartholomew Mauritius not been so broke he wouldn’t have had to share a coarse horsehair bed in a dank dark hovel with a wildly unstable alcoholic who’d regularly drink himself into a deathly drunken stupor, only to spend the night ranting, raving, fitting, frothing and sleeping with his feted feet raised a full foot off the bed, as he slept. It’s probably not surprising to learn that a few months prior to this, William Stoltzer had – not for the first time in his life - been committed to the Saint Marylebone Hospital, the local insane asylum. With a primitive understanding of mental health, the insane asylums of the 1800’s were less a place where the insane were cared-for and cured, and more a place where the insane were hidden from view by shamed families who’d committed an unruly relative for such medical misdemeanours as depression, anxiety, imbecility, claustrophobia, epilepsy, nymphomania and even masturbation, where the quality of the patient’s care was entirely dependent on their social status, class and income. As an impoverished alcoholic with no funds nor family, William Stoltzer’s committal at St Marylebone asylum (which was designed for 300 patients but often housed 1300) was basic; with no heating, light, colour or joy, the patients were forced into a rigorous routine of hard work, plain food, solitude and religion, with the belief that strict discipline would return them to sanity. And although many patients were trained to brew, make bread and (in William’s case) mend boots; the bare walls, the flea-riddled sheets and the daily beatings, having been left naked, starved and chained to their bed in a cell barely 8 feet by 6 feet, it’s not surprising that many patients came out worse than when they went in. And just like today, there was very little (if any) support when they were released back into the community. The next four days in the story of William Stoltzer are a mystery as nobody knows where he was, what he was doing or who he was with, but what’s obvious is that he was broke, angry and unstable. Over those missing days, William apparently pestered his few remaining friends for funds to fuel his booze binge, one of whom was Peter Keim; a fellow German bootmaker who – over the sixteen months they’d know each other – had helped William as best he could, but being married with three children and struggling financially, Peter was broke. What was said between the two men was neither witnessed nor recorded, but whatever happened, would change their lives forever. On Saturday 30th September 1843 at roughly 10pm, PC William Merryfield (C44), a police constable assigned to the Vine Street police station was patrolling the west end of Broadwick Street when he heard a terrified voice scream “Murder!”. From the direction of Carnaby Street, sprinting down Marshall Street, PC Merryfield saw 30 year old Peter Keim running for his life, his hand was clutched to his stomach, as just three yards behind him William Stoltzer gave chase, a glint of hatred in his eyes, a maniacal grin on his face and boot-maker’s knife balled-up in his fist. With PC Merryfield pursuing both men along Marshall Street, they quickly scurried right at the Silver Street Coffee Shop and cut down Silver Street. But with Peter Keim having quickly ducked left onto Upper James Street and safely ensconced himself amidst the bushes in Golden Square, as William Stoltzer had lost sight of his breathless and bleeding victim, Stoltzer stopped, stood silently and smoked his tobacco pipe which – throughout the entire chase - had remained in his mouth. As PC Merryfield slipped onto Silver Street, Stoltzer unsuccessfully tried to hide himself in a small dark alley between numbers 45 & 41 (the former home of artist Antonio Canaletto), but with his breathing labored, his shoes squeaky, great plumes of smoke billowing from his puffing pipe and worse still, Marie Nelson, a witness to the entire event pointing directly at him and loudly stating to the constable “there he is”, PC Merryfield quickly apprehended William Stoltzer. And with a firm Policeman’s hand perched on his collar, and seeing the broken-tipped blade of the bootmaker’s knife balled-up in his fist, the constable queried “my dear man, what are you going to do with that you have in your hand?". Shaking, twitching and sweating, but seeming neither drunk, sober nor reeking of booze (as being too poor to drink, it is suspected that he was in the depths of alcohol withdrawal), William bluntly stated how with malice on his mind he’d wanted to run the full length of the six inch blade deep into Peter Keim’s belly, bowel and even his boy-bits, but had it not been for the rough leather which had lined Peter’s bootmaker’s trousers, he would have (to quote William Stoltzer) “ripped it all out of him”. Suggesting that at some point during the night, he had attempted to cut Peter’s cock off. William Stoltzer was frog-marched to the Vine Street police station (over Regent’s Street and just shy of Piccadilly Circus) where he was cautioned, searched and questioned. But with him not being drunk, his blade being clean, his knife being a perfectly legal tradesman’s tool and – even though he’d openly confessed to a policeman to the brutal stabbing of Peter Keim – as no victim found, William Stoltzer was released. He was escorted back to his squalid lodgings at 4 Bentinck Street and left in charge of William Henry Bolton (a fellow lodger who had no had no legal authority to hold him) until the Police could ascertain what, if any, crime had been committed. At roughly 11pm, an hour after William Stoltzer had attempted to gut, kill and castrate his close friend Peter Keim, William Henry Bolton stood in the parlour with PC Merryfield questioning the state of Stoltzer’s mind, as just a few weeks earlier - fearing for the safety of his wife and young children who also lodged at 4 Bentinck Street – Bolton had unsuccessfully tried to obtain a parish doctor’s certificate to have Stoltzer committed to an asylum, believing he was not in a fit state to be at large. But with this being Saturday night and nothing being open till Monday morning, William Henry Bolton knew he was stuck, and as he waved goodbye to the Constable, he was left in the company of a madman. Desperate to pacify this possible psychopath whose face was a mad mix of strange and vacant, Bolton thought it best to appear cheerful, bright and jocular, hoping that this good mood would rub off on the silent and staring Stoltzer, and invited him to take a light supper of bread and cheese with him. And even though beer was offered, unusually for an alcoholic he drank nothing but water. After ten minutes of stilted silence, long sighs and glazing glares, with Bolton having trod the careful balance between being caring, casual and cautious, Stoltzer finally spoke. And with a dark brooding gloom having descended across the baggy tired lines of his weary face, he politely muttered “may I have a candle?” and having bestowed his fellow lodger with a light, Bolton watched as Stoltzer slunk outside into the darkness of the yard and entered the solitude of Bentinck street’s communal toilet; the flickering glow of candle light illuminating the cracks between the wooden walls of the shithouse. Moments later, Bolton heard a loud knock at the door and there stood PC Jesse Jeapes (the Constable from the Vine Street police station who just thirty minutes earlier had booked in and just as quickly dismissed William Stoltzer) with the news that – although gravely ill - Peter Keim had been found alive. Desperate to dispense with his duties as the guardian of a homicidal maniac, Bolton exclaimed "You must get him into custody”, and with all the subtly of an axe-wound, PC Jesse Jeapes exclaimed "I should be very happy to do so, or he will stab you, or some of your family". Wasting no time, both men dashed across the pitch black yard towards the candle-lit crapper, and although from inside the wooden walls they heard the echo of an ominous groan, this was not the typical exhale of a grunting man expelling a gassy yet satisfying dump, but a deathly groan, followed by a heavy thud. Fearing the worst, PC Jeapes yanked open the toilet door, only to find William Stoltzer; his face purple, his tongue swollen and a silken handkerchief tightly tied around his neck, as a trickle of blood oozed from the bloody gash on his forehead, as he lay slumped on the floor in a festering pile of piss, as above him, hung a rusty broken pipe, which moments earlier, he had used to hang himself. Although barely conscious and hardly breathing, PC Jeapes revived Stoltzer, escorted him back to the Vine Street police station, where he was held over the weekend and charged him with the attempted murder of Peter Keim, to which, the only words that William Stoltzer uttered were “I would like my pipe?”, and then sat there, smoking his tobacco, and never once uttering another word. But the charge of attempted murder would not stick, not through a lack of evidence, confessions nor witnesses, but because by four pm on the Monday afternoon, Peter Keim was dead. Having been stabbed at 10pm on Saturday 30th September 1843, although the six-inch bootmaker’s knife had penetrated just two inches into the left-hand side of his belly, the surgeon saw no hope for Peter Keim as – although his leather trousers had saved his manhood from a more horrific injury – the blade had penetrated his bowel in two places, piercing the intestine and spilling a caustic mix of stomach acid, blood and human waste which sloshed about his belly, as – over the next forty-two hours – Peter’s innards grew more bloated, swollen and inflamed, as riddled with a toxic infection, his last days alive were spent writhing in agonising pain, until finally his life ceased. On Monday 23rd October 1843, just three weeks after the excruciating death of Peter Keim, 28 year old William Stoltzer was tried at the Old Bailey on the more serious charge of murder. During his four hour trial, William Stoltzer was deemed mentally unfit to stand trial, and although he was present throughout the court proceedings, he never made a statement in his own defense. No prior grievance nor feud was established between Peter Keim and William Stoltzer. No motivation was given as to why William Stoltzer would want to kill Peter Keim. And although he’d confessed to the murder, no-one had actually seen William Stoltzer fight, argue or stab Peter Keim. There was no blood found on his clothes, his hands and even on the knife itself; a theory which the prosecution’s own surgeon explained away by stating that when a knife is retracted from a human cadaver, as the blade rubs against fat, skin, hair and clothes, that it often wipes itself clean, and yet whether or not this theory is even correct, never once was it rebutted by the defense. What is clear is that William Stoltzer was mentally unwell; he was a deeply deluded hopeless alcoholic with suicidal tendencies who was regularly hospitalised in the local insane asylum having been deemed “unfit to be at large” and he was seen as simply a harmless buffoon who’d streak naked, sleep with his feet one foot above the bed and truly believed he was Prince Albert and Napoleon, there was no denying that he had a darker side and inner demons which were only assuaged by drink. And although an insanity plea was put forward by his defense, no physician was called to comment on his mental state, no doctors gave evidence as to why he’d been committed to an insane asylum, and although he was deemed unfit to stand trial, he was deemed fit to be punished for his crimes. Having deliberated for five whole minutes, the jury returned, satisfied that it was William Stoltzer who had inflicted the fatal wound which had killed Peter Keim and he was found guilty of murder. Donning his black cap, Mister Justice Maule passed sentence, “William Stolzer, you have been found guilty the crime of willful murder, which is one of the few offences punishable by death. It appears you inflicted a wound upon the unfortunate deceased, of which he died. The weapon which you used was one of a very dangerous nature. It appears you pursued the unfortunate man, that you declared your intention to stab him, and death was inflicted under these circumstances. Your counsel set up in your defense the plea that you were not of sound mind, and that you did not know what you were doing. The jury have not been of opinion that there was not any ground for the supposition, or that there was evidence to show that you were incapable of judging for yourself. Under these circumstances, therefore, it only remains for me to put upon you the sentence of the law, which is, that you be taken back to the place from whence you came, and from thence to a place of public execution; that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the gaol, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul!” Throughout his trial, William Stoltzer uttered no sounds, made no movements and – even upon the reading of his death sentence – he exhibited no emotion. And although he was clearly insane, the gallows outside Newgate prison were hastily readied, as a rabid public eagerly awaited the yank of the pulley, the drop of his body, the snap of his neck and the cheer of the crowd in a very public execution. But as mysterious as the life of William Stoltzer was prior to the murder of Peter Keim, the death of William Stoltzer is even stranger. One week before his execution, the Court of Appeals - with no reason given - commuted his death sentence to transportation, meaning although he clearly was mentally ill, instead of being killed, he would serve a total of seven years as a forced labourer in the Colonies, after which he would be freed to live the rest of his days in lovely sunny Australia. And yet, of the eighteen ships that set sail for Australia at the end of 1843 and all of 1844, such as Equestrian, Greenlaw, Blundell, London, Cadet, Maria Somes, Angelina, Agincourt, Lord Auckland, Royal George, William Jardine, Tasmania, Phoebe, Hyderabad and Sir George Seymour, all of which landed in either Port Phillip (New South Wales) or Van Diemen's Land (Tasmania), there never was a William Stoltzer on-board. And after 1843, there are no medical records, no prison files, no death certificate for William Stoltzer, and no evidence that he was ever transported to Australia. Once so, as an undocumented man of mysterious origins, who didn’t seem to exist on any record before 1843, by 1844, once again William Stoltzer… had simply disappeared. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to Murder Mile. And a special thank you to those who have posted reviews on iTunes and other podcast platforms, it is very much appreciated, really means a lot to me and makes me feel very warm inside, so thank you. Don’t forget to check out my blog for more photos, videos and maps surrounding this case and all other episodes, by going to my website – murdermiletours.com / blog, or check out the Murder Mile podcast on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode is… The (Almost) Double Deaths of the Dish Washer Thank you and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by Kai Engel and Sergey Cherimisinov, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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50 Carnaby Street (former home of the Blue Lagoon), showing the length of Carnaby Street
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of 300+ untold, unsolved and often long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE THIRTEEN
Episode Thirteen: Margaret Cook and the Long Confession. On 10th November 1946, a 26 year old club singer and prostitute Margaret Cook was brutally gunned down outside the Soho nightclub known as the Blue Lagoon, and although the murder remains unsolved, her life is even more mysterious than her death.
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THE LOCATION
Ep13 - Margaret Cook and the Long Confession
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode thirteen of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. This week, there’s no waffly intro, just a simple hello to regular listeners, a welcome to new listeners, and a thank you to those who left reviews. Follow us on Twitter, Facebook and for photos, videos and maps of each case, go to the Murder Mile website – murder mile tours.com / podcast.But before we begin, here’s my recommended true-crime podcast of the week - Corpus Delici. (promo) That’s it folks. Enjoy the episode. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is the unsolved murder of Margaret Cook, a woman whose death is a mysterious as her life itself, and yet almost 70 years after that tragic day, her death would make British legal history. Murder Mile contains grisly details which won’t be suitable for delicate daisies, as well as 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 13: Margaret Cook and the Long Confession. Today, I’m on Carnaby Street, a pedestrianised shopping district within spitting distance of Oxford Circus and Regents Street, which – over the last few years – has been forced to have a much needed facelift to make it look modern, stylish and funky. And yet, still being synonymous with the swinging sixties, it looks less like a typical London street and more like a tacky Austin Powers style theme park, riddled with a kaleidoscope of offensively bright colours, an ever-playing cacophony of Beatles tunes and is chock full of garish British stereotypes such as minis, beef eaters, red phone boxes, portraits of The Queen and with everything everywhere emblazoned with a Union Jack. Urgh! But Carnaby Street (like most of Soho) is a place of ever-changing fortune; where once the in-crowd would go and before next it was a no-go zone, swinging from pop groups to gangsters, designers to druggies, pop art to prostitution. Today, it’s a street on-the-up, with neatly restored four-storey buildings on both sides of the street, and packed full of over-priced fashion outlets for those attention seeking tosspots with no personality such as Muji, Pepe Jeans, Dr Martins, Vans, The Kooples and – of course – the Ben Sherman store, where the life of Margaret Cook would end and our story begins. But to tell her story properly, we can’t start at the beginning, standing outside of 50 Carnaby Street in the middle of the 1940’s? Instead we need to go right to the very end of the story, to Canada in the summer of 2015. (Airplane noise, then to hospital sounds) A 91 year old man lies in a clinically white bed in an undisclosed nursing home in Ontario (Canada); we don’t know his name, we don’t know his address and we don’t know his description. He sits upright in bed, his pyjamas on and a freshly brewed cup of tea in his hand, which he slowly sips, it’s a familiar taste that brings flooding back some fond but also painful memories from his past, the mental scars of which are etched across his pale yellowy skin, his furrowed brow and the heavy bags under his eyes. Although mentally sharp, physically he looks much older than his 91 years, as the stress of decades of emotional guilt and many sleepless nights presses down on his shoulders. Beside him, a heart monitor bleeps, a nurse is on standby as he’s carefully fed by intravenous drip a steady concoction of pain killers, glucose and saline to give him some quality of life before his inevitable demise having been recently diagnosed with terminal liver cancer. And with time running out, he sits upright, to make what may become his death-bed confession. Three men sit around him; not family, not friends, but strangers in suits whose demeanour is calm, considered and cautious as they quietly question the dying man about his past. Being police detectives, all three are highly experienced in the art of interrogation, but this time there’s no good-cop / bad-cop routine, there’s no coercion, no shouting or no strong-arm tactics that they’d deploy with any common criminal, as – unusually for a murder case – it was the dying man who invited them there, having handed himself in at a local police station just a few days earlier. But unusually for a Canadian murder investigation, only one of the detectives seated around the bed is Canadian. The other two are British, having flown the 3 ½ thousand miles from the Metropolitan Police’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command in London to Ontario (Canada) to visit a Canadian national who was once one of their fellow countrymen, who had confessed to the murder of an unnamed woman, in the 1940’s, on Carnaby Street. Armed with the scantest of details including a basic description of the victim, a location and a rough date, the two detectives trawled through the cold case archives to unearth any solved or unsolved murders which fitted those few details. Before him, on the dying man’s tray-table, the detectives placed twelve black and white photos of slightly different but visually similar women, with each photo looking slightly faded, brown and dog-eared at the edges, as if they’d been roughly man-handled many moons ago and then filed away for the span of at least three generations. With his glasses perched on his nose, the dying man leaned forward to get a closer look at the photos; and although some were blonde, some were brunette, some were redheads, and all were in their early to mid 20’s, out of the twelve only one drew his attention. And as he held her small tatty photo in his trembling hand, his eyes began to fill with tears and the heart-monitor’s bleeps got steadily quicker, as with a slowly growing lump in his throat and his subtle Canadian accent scored with a strangely British twang, the man turned to the homicide detectives and said “it’s her… that’s the woman I killed”. The woman in the photograph was Margaret Cook. (INTERSTITIAL) Margaret Cook is a true enigma, and as little as we actually know about the night of her death and her murderer himself, we know even less about her life after it began and before it ended. Abandoned shortly after her birth to unidentified parents somewhere in Bradford (West Yorkshire) on an unspecified date in 1920, the unnamed female child was legally adopted by Mrs Dorothy Gladys Willis of Swain House Road in Bolton, who had no children of her own and named her Margaret Willis. And what started in such an inauspicious, mysterious and often troubled beginning, continued along the same vein for the bulk of her brief life, as with no formal education, training or qualifications, all that is known of her formative years is that she spent a short while in borstal (which is a brutal juvenile prison), repeatedly ran away from home, and one year before her murder, Margaret married a 24 year old labourer in Bradford called Joseph Cook, but they separated a few months later, after which she moved to London. Being of average height, weight and size, with a striking yet instantly forgettable face, Margaret Willis also known as Margaret Cook was forever changing her appearance from brunette to blonde to redhead, not just to keep abreast with the latest fashion, but to evade the West End police with whom she was very well acquainted having been arrested in an impressively short period for an unspecified number of charges for theft, robbery and solicitation, and always under a variety of different aliases. If you’re wondering why I’m not being as pedantic as I usually am about digging down to the bare bones of the truth of who Margaret Cook was, that’s because the original police investigation file on the life and death of Margaret Cook is held in the National Archives until 2024, and given the recent revelations about her potential Canadian killer’s confession, that date is likely to be extended even further, so what little evidence there is, is based on a wealth of very unreliable sources, none of which I can verify as actual facts. Widely known by those who knew her as a woman of mystery, Margaret Cook was incredibly secretive about what she did, where she lived and who she shared her life with, with many friends nicknaming her “sealed lips” and the local police giving her the moniker of “Milady”, owing to her love of putting of a posh affectation to her voice, pose and mannerisms, as if she was better off than she actually was, and was disguising her real roots, background and identity. And although we know that she briefly lived with a female friend in Devonshire Terrace in the East End, during the 18 months that she lived in London she also lived in at least 20 different locations, rarely returning to the same place twice. And although she was a singer by trade, some sources report that she was a prostitute, an escort and a bride-for-hire (even though she was still technically married to Joseph Cook and always wore her platinum wedding), it is known for certain that she was an exotic dancer, a stripper and a “torch singer” at the infamous Blue Lagoon club at 50 Carnaby Street. Now housing the recently renovated Ben Sherman store in all its glass-fronted and wood-panelled glory, 50 Carnaby Street has – for much of the 20th century – has been a seedy nightclub of varying infamy; beginning as Florence Mills Social Parlour in the 1930’s, the Blue Lagoon in the 40’s, Club Eleven and the Sunset Club in the 50’s, the Roaring Twenties in the 60’s and Columbo’s in the 70’s, before it was abandoned in the 1980’s, having hosted fledgling bands such as The Who, Queen, The Beatles and famous British comedians such as Max Bygraves, Tommy Cooper and Spike Milligan. And although it was suitably situated in the heart of the West End, the Blue Lagoon was not a high-profile nightspot frequented by the great and the good, where the wealthy went wild, the famous frolicked and the beautiful boozed, surrounded by a sea of stretched limos, a mountain of mink-stoles and a fountain of freshly fizzing champagne flutes. No, the Blue Lagoon was a much less classy affair, as – having been hidden in a dark, drab and dingy Soho basement – the club was little more than a front for gambling, bootlegging, hawking, drug-dealing and prostitution; it was a notorious hang-out for every West End wastrel, East End gangster and local ne’er-do-well, where (before you enter) you’d have to hand in your hat, coat and gun at the cloakroom, and where fist-fights were frequent, police raids were plentiful, dodgy deals were done and even in its brief history it had its fair share of murders, including that of Margaret Cook. Now. If (like me) you’re British, there’s one teeny tiny little detail in that last sentence which has probably got you a little bit confused, and it’s this – that at the Blue Lagoon, before you entered the club, there was a cloakroom where you had to hand in your hat, your coat… and your gun. Yes, that’s right, your gun. Which begs the question: “wow, what kind of hell-hole was this, where the staff half expected its ragtag bag of questionable clientele to turn-up to a fun night out, all suited, booted and packing a pistol?” Well, actually, in that regard, this was a very normal nightclub, with exactly the same fire-arm policy as almost every other British venue in the 1940’s. You see, as much as we may criticise the lax gun laws of other countries, gun-control in the UK is still a relatively new concept. Before 1900, almost any British citizen could carry a gun. By 1903, the Government introduced the first permit and age-restriction which limited children and some teenagers access to weapons (yes, you heard that correctly). By 1919, a mandatory firearms certificate was introduced meaning you had to have a “good reason” why you should own a gun (examples of which included hunting, target practice and rat-catching). In 1936, short-barrelled shotguns and fully automatic weapons were outlawed and a “safe storage” policy was introduced to stop guns falling into the wrong hands. And by 1946, the year that Margaret Cook was shot to death, the police deemed “self-defence” no longer a good enough reason to own a gun, and yet it wasn’t until 1953, six years later, that carrying any kind of firearm, outside of supervised and permitted areas, for any reason except hunting, was made illegal. Hence that death by shooting in the UK after 1956 is still extremely rare. Although this may seem like merely an interesting factoid about the state of UK gun-control, it actually gives important context to the murder of Margaret Cook, as even though the tabloid press (and their dubious sources) had suggested that she was shot to death by a pimp, a gangster, a robber or a crook, having become embroiled in a seedy gangland feud involving sex, drugs and dodgy deals, which – you have to admit is a much more exciting story - she could have been shot by literally anyone. But surely, as we’ve never really had a “gun-culture” in the United Kingdom, there wouldn’t have been all that many firearms on the streets, right? Well, that is true, but it wasn’t in the mid-to-late 1940’s, as the streets were flooded with legal and illegal firearms, so much so that even today, many are still being discovered in the hands of collectors and criminals, with some having been brought home by returning servicemen wanting to retain a war-time souvenir, and others being sent, in bulk, to Britain by America. Following the military failure (but political success) of the Battle of Dunkirk, when the allied troops were forced to retreat back across the English Channel and the ever-present threat of a Nazi invasion was imminent – with every available weapon in active service – there wasn’t enough privately owned firearms to protect the people. So needing a quick but steady supply of guns to protect the homeland, the UK turned to its old ally the USA. In November 1940, The American Committee for the Defence of British Homes sent out an urgent appeal (which appeared in American Rifleman Magazine) asking for US citizens to donate their “pistols, rifles, shotguns and binoculars” to the British people, which they did in droves. And for that, we thank you. And although many of these firearms were either returned, destroyed or dumped in the channel (for fear that our peaceful isle would descend into the Wild West), sadly a large proportion of guns remained in private ownership and were sold on the black market. And yet, context aside, very little is known of the whereabouts of 26 year old Margaret Cook on the night of her murder, and what is known is spurious and sketchy at best. The evening of Saturday 10th November 1946 was a classic British autumn evening as the weather was as indecisive as always, it was neither raining nor dry, instead a light drizzle peppered the air, seeming never to feel wet and yet everything it touched it soaked, as a blustery wind whipped up the discarded litter that swirled about the dark-lit streets of Piccadilly. The war was over, the streets should have been a veritable riot of light and colour with the blackout no longer imposed, but with the infamous lights of Piccadilly Circus still out of action, the streets pockmarked with bomb-craters, every other building being unsafe and almost every streetlamp still broken, the only light sources were the passing glow of the occasional car headlight, the yellow dull glow of gaslight, and a small pockets of fireworks which illuminated the London skyline but disappeared into the gloom of the overcast sky. Dressed in a fashionable fawn coat, with a bright pink blouse, a brown chequered dress and fawn high-heeled shoes, between 8:45pm and 9:10pm, Margaret Cook was witnessed walking the side streets of Soho such as Great Windmill Street, Denman Street and Sherwood Street, which all intersect with Brewer Street, the infamous prowling ground and pick-up place for prostitutes and punters. So whether she was on the game that night is debatable, as (if – based on her last known movements - she was deliberately avoiding Brewer Street) that could either mean she was solely socialising that night, was unwelcome on a rival prostitutes turf, or that she was specifically trying to avoid someone? But that we shall never know. Of course, if she was a “working girl” who (unlike Ginger Rae) didn’t live local and had no place to entertain her punters, then maybe the bomb-damaged side-streets were her next best option, as – like most out-of-town sex workers who travelled into the West End to try their luck - she serviced her clients in the damp, cold but ultimately free bomb-craters and disused air-raid shelters which dotted the streets, saving her a pretty penny. But again, that we shall never know. According to her friends, the ever secretive Margaret whose love-life was as mysterious as her natural hair-colour, was said to have confided in an unnamed flat-mate at her Devonshire Terrace flat that an undisclosed man was trying to extort money from her and that her new boyfriend (whose identity was never revealed) had recently threatened her with a revolver. All of which are easily spurious press reports which cropped-up only in the days after her death, and with no evidence to back this up, it’s hard to substantiate whether they are true, half-truths or outright lies invented by cash-strapped friends or devious chancers hoping to make a quick quid off a salacious news-story. And yet, even the suspiciously scant details of Margaret Cook’s actual murder are open to debate, as what we do know, doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. Later that evening, as Carnaby Street fizzed and bristled with the excitable buzz of pub-goers, who bustled amidst the dark-lit street deciding where to go next in that last hour before the dancehalls, jazz joints and nefarious nightclubs opened. But busy as it was, the passageway just to the right of 50 Carnaby Street, where soon-enough an eager throng of excitable customers would queue up to enter the infamous Blue Lagoon, the passage way was dark and sparse, all except for the faint glow of cigarette tips from a couple whose conversation – it is said - was heated. Although in shadow, the woman was described as slim, mid-20’s, five foot seven inches tall and fashionably dressed in a mix of subtle fawn and bright pink, who spoke in a slightly affected posh voice which was accentuated by her natural Northern accent when angered, and although she went by many names, most people knew her as Margaret Cook. In the alley, although what was said is unclear, there was no denying that an argument was taking place with an unidentified man described as “aged 25-30, 5 foot 8 or 9 inches tall, with a dark complexion, dressed in a Burberry style raincoat and a pork-pie hat”. Was he her boyfriend? Was he her pimp? Was he a customer? That we shall never know. But at 9:35pm, as the fiery exchange between the feuding couple escalated, the numerous spurious sources who reported this fracas have suggested that either Margaret was heard to shout “This man has a gun!” or “I know you have a gun, put it away”. Now whether or not either phrase was actually said is unclear, but immediately after this, an unidentified man who according to various accounts was either a former policeman, an off-duty copper or none of the above, attempted to intervene (even though he was unarmed) but was aggressively chastised by Margaret Cook’s pork-pie hat-wearing companion who either shouted “mind your own business” or “get on your way chum, this has nothing to do with you", which means the same, but are very different sentences. At which point, the maybe possibly off-duty ex-policeman either stayed or walked away, all before her pimp, pal or punter in the pork-pie hat, pulled out either Russian-made .25 calibre pistol or a German-made .30 calibre revolver, and with a single bullet, shot Margaret Cook in the heart. Fearing arrest, he supposedly ran in two different directions, either east down Broadwick Street or north towards Oxford Circus, where (although he was chased) he disappeared. His name is unknown, his identity is unknown and his whereabouts today are unknown. He was never photographed, he was never fingerprinted and he was never caught. His face was half-obscured, he dropped nothing, he wasn’t known to the locals, and - over the bustling hubbub of the street and the cacophony of exploding fireworks – his exact accent could not be determined. And although the Met Police’s homicide detectives conducted a thorough investigation; they found no gun, no shell-casing and – with an entrance wound over her heart and an exit wound in her back – they found no bullet. Sadly, as she lay there, the lifeless body of Margaret Cook slumped against a bricked-up emergency water tank in the shadowy passage of 50 Carnaby Street – with the night being wet and her corpse surrounded by gawkers as the scene wasn’t sealed-off quick enough – much of the evidence was lost. And although, just four days later, the Met Police questioned a 27 year old builder from Strathavon in Lanarkshire (Scotland) called Robert Currie Wilson, who was 5ft 8in, with blue eyes, black hair and a pale complexion, who was muscular with heavily tattooed forearms and hands and a scar beneath his chin - a description which, at best, only half fits our suspect – he was released without charge. Along with her ex-husband Joseph Cook, who on the night of his wife’s murder, was in prison, in Bradford (170 miles away) awaiting trail for theft. And although the trashy tabloid press have often lazily attributed the murder of Margaret Cook to the infamous killer known as Soho Jack, a mysterious maniac who (supposedly) murdered four Soho prostitutes in quick succession including Ginger Rae, Black Rita and Russian Dora, the murderer of Margaret Cook was never caught. (Pause) So I guess you’re expecting a big reveal about now? A surprise ending? A twist involving an intricate piece of previously undisclosed evidence unearthed by myself in the National Archives which conclusively proves or at least hints at a possible suspect for the murder of Margaret Cook? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. This isn’t a fairy-tale. This isn’t a detective novel. And – as with any murder - this doesn’t have a happy ending. It remains an unsatisfying story and with no obvious conclusion, which leaves us with a series of unanswered questions and no real answers. By its very nature, prostitution is a secretive business, and even though – in cases such as the brutal murder of Ginger Rae, where her last known movements were wonderfully documented by those who loved her - in the case of Margaret Cook, a mysterious outsider who closely guarded her privacy, disguised her roots and lived a life of secrecy, her murder may never be solved. So, what about the confession? What about the 91 year old British ex-pat lying on his death-bed in an undisclosed nursing-home in Canada, who confessed to the killing of Margaret Cook? Well, we don’t know his name, we don’t know his location and we don’t know his description. So whether the dying man was 5 foot 8 or 9 inches tall, with a dark complexion, who was dressed in a Burberry style raincoat and a pork-pie hat”, who owned either a Russian-made .25 calibre pistol or a German-made .30 calibre revolver, that we shall never know. What we do know is that he was British, and having served in the Army during World War Two, he was demobbed in 1945, and five years after the murder of Margaret Cook (not a day, not a week, but five years later) he emigrated to Canada, and settled in Ontario, where he became a Canadian citizen, he married and raised a family. And at the time of the murder, he was 24 years old. Robert Currie Wilson, the heavily tattooed Scotsman with a scar on his chin who was questioned by the police was 27. So they can’t be the same man. Not only because on the passenger manifests for 1951, travelling from the UK to Canada, there is no Robert C Wilson, born in 1919, but also because he never left the UK and died in the mid 1980’s. Just like her husband Joseph Cook. Which means, as far as known suspects go, we have none. In the summer of 2015, it was reported in the press that the UK Director of Public Prosecutions Alison Saunders sought the extradition of the Canadian man to stand trial for the murder of Margaret Cook, as they felt they had a realistic prospect of a conviction and he had been deemed mentally fit. But as extradition requests are confidential state-to-state communications, the Government of Canada can neither confirm nor deny the existence of such a request, but given the dying man’s advancing age, medical needs and his declining physical infirmity, and even though - with his confession coming almost 70 years after the murder of Margaret Cook, this is now the longest gap between a crime and a confession in British legal history - it is highly unlikely that he will ever stand trial. But how safe is this confession? As it’s never been released (and probably won’t be in our lifetime) that’s hard to tell, but let’s ask the question, how reliable is this confession? He’s a 91 year old man dying of liver cancer, a debilitating disease which causes nausea, exhaustion and confusion, who’s 70 year old confession was so full of holes, that having supplied the Met Police with such scant details, they returned with twelve possible victims, and placed in front of him the tatty dog-eared photos of similar looking women, and asked him to pick-put a face he last saw in a dark alley on a rainy night just after World War Two, of a woman who’s name (he says) he didn’t know, or has since forgotten. Maybe he did murder Margaret Cook and this truly is his deathbed confession? Maybe the dying man is confused and recalling a murder that he remembers reading about during his time in London? Or maybe, he’s just a confused and lonely man wanting a little bit of attention before he dies? And – two years after his confession - whether he’s actually still alive, even that we do not know, therefore the murder of Margaret Cook remains unsolved… and may never be solved. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to Murder Mile. Soon, I shall do a catch-up episode, so if there are any loose threads on any of the solved or unsolved cases we’ve discussed in earlier episodes, we can address them there. But in the case of Margaret Cook? Good luck. If you like this podcast, please do rate and review us, and share it with your friends. It only takes a second and it really does mean a lot to me. You can follow us on Twitter and Facebook – just search for Murder Mile Podcast. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode is… William Stoltzer and the Unusual Defence Thank you and sleep well.
DOWNLOAD this episode Murder Mile Ep #13 - Margaret Cook and the Long Confession
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Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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