Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #27 - The Blackout Ripper - Part Three (Margaret Florence Lowe)25/4/2018
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EPISODE TWENTY SEVEN
Episode Twenty Seven: The Blackout Ripper Part 3: In the early hours of Wednesday 11th February 1942, 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe was found strangled and posed in her flat on 9/10 Gosfield Street (Fitzrovia), but her murder was uncannily similar to the murders of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley just two days before. Was a sadistic spree-killer on the loose?
THE LOCATION
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BLACKOUT RIPPER Part 3 (Margaret Florence Lowe)
INTRO: On 1st September 1939, following the Nazi annexation of Poland, Britain declared war on Germany, and in a brutal conflict which spanned four continents and raged for six years and one day, by the end of the Second World War, over seventy-three million people would be dead. Being short on soldiers, the Military Training Act reinstated National Service and all healthy men, aged 18 to 41, with few exceptions, were conscripted into the Army, Navy and Air-Force, later extended to men up to 51, and all single women aged 20 to 30. Although vital, conscription severely depleted Britain’s emergency services, and even though London’s Metropolitan Police force maintained a total of roughly 19500 officers for the duration of the war, their numbers were bolstered by inexperienced reservists, special constables and retired officers. And with the already overworked Police officers burdened with new war-time duties including chasing deserters, enforcing the blackout and aiding the rescue effort after the Blitz, with crime rate in England having increased from 303,000 offences per year in 1939, to 478,000 in 1945, the depleted Police force struggled to stem a new flow of crimes such as looting, bootlegging and black market trades. By 1942, at the height of the war, with the city in blackout and a population in fear as Nazi bombers loomed overhead, a new terror stalked the seedy streets of London’s West End, with an insatiable hatred of women, a thirst for blood and a hunger to slash, torture and kill. No-one knew his name, no-one had heard his voice and no-one had seen his face, but over the last 24 hours, this sadistic maniac had strangled, posed and mutilated two seemingly unrelated women in two different parts of the West End - 41 year old pharmacist Evelyn Hamilton in an air-raid shelter on Montagu Place and 34 year old prostitute Evelyn Oatley in her flat on Wardour Street - at the start of what would become a five day killing spree. And tonight he would go in search of his next victim. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part three of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Gosfield Street, W1, in an upmarket residential area called Fitzrovia, north of Soho and barely a five minute walk from Wardour Street, Oxford Circus and Regent’s Park. Being a small one-way side-street, lined with at least six trees, but no bushes, no grass and no flowers, no cats, no dogs and no birds, no stores, no cafes and no pubs, no shoppers, no buskers and no life whatsoever, Gosfield Street is quite possibly one of the most boring places in the West End. And number 9/10 Gosfield Street is a prime example; as being a red and brown bricked six-storey mansion-house (which is really just a posh way of saying “a block of flats”), most residents must have an allergic reaction to pavements, as the only time they’re seen on the street is to slip into an Uber, scowl at a lost homeless man, shout at a dog-plop dropper, shoe-away an ASDA delivery truck having secretly disguised their cheapo shopping in Waitrose bags, and noisily shushed (whisper) a certain pot-bellied baldy-headed murder podcaster for daring to make a noise within earshot of their £1.1 million flat, having instantly devaluing it, simply because I’m a Brummy. “Y’alroit mayte?” But back in 1942, 9/10 Gosfield Street truly was in a working class neighbourhood, full of underpaid and undervalued skilled and unskilled workers, whether seamstresses, waitresses, cobblers, tailors, bakers, maids and (of course) prostitutes. And today, as much as the elderly may crow that “the streets were much safer in my day, there was no crime, we all left our doors unlocked and everybody looked out for each other”, this is a story which would greatly dispute that. As flat 4 at 9/10 Gosfield Street was home of the third victim of The Blackout Ripper… and her name was Margaret Lowe. (Interstitial) The early life of Margaret Lowe is as mysterious as her death. Being born on an unspecified date in 1899, Margaret Florence Campbell Burkett was the twin sister of Sidney, one of four siblings raised in the coastal town of Napier, in the Hawkes Bay region of New Zealand. Living in a picturesque setting surrounded by clear skies, blue seas, sandy beaches and green fields, although they were not a wealthy family, through hard-work, struggle and dogged persistence, they lived a comfortable life in an idyllic part of the world, and everything was good. But for unfortunate reasons only known to them – whether sickness, bereavement or financial hardship - the entire family uprooted back to England, where life would only get poorer, harder and darker. Having dramatically downsized from their own beautiful beachside home, to live in a shared lodging house amongst the industrial smog of Hoxton in East London, with an expanding family and an ever decreasing income, life got worse for the family, when their father was killed during the First World War, leaving behind a widowed mother with four young children, with no pension nor savings. Dreaming of living a better life and shamed by the stench, poverty and squalor she lived in, Margaret left school with a limited education and spent five years toiling away in several unskilled dead-end jobs; for long hours, very little pay and no future. What happened in between is uncertain, but in 1919, 20 year old Margaret (under the alias of “Peggy Campbell”) was charged at Bow Street Magistrates Court, convicted of “living of the immoral earnings of prostitution” and was fined twenty shillings. Shamed by her conviction, her sentence and the depths to which she had sunk, two years later, fate seemed to finally smile on Margaret, as having fallen in love with 40 year old Frederick George Lowe, a kindly widower who was 18 years her senior, on 11th October 1921, they married in the pretty market town of Rochford (in Essex), gave birth to a beautiful baby girl called Barbara and set-up a fancy dress shop in the nearby coastal town of Southend on Sea. And having returned to an idyllic life full of clear skies, blue seas, sandy beaches and green fields, once again, life was good. But after 11 years of marital bliss, on the 14th December 1932, 51 year old Frederick George Lowe died, leaving Margaret a widower with a four year old daughter to raise alone. And although (unlike her late father) Frederick had savings and insurance to secure his family’s future; being wracked with grief, depression and alcoholism, with the shop shut-down, her home boarded-up and her daughter Barbara taken into care, Margaret had lost everything. Within two years, Margaret had gone from being a happily married mother and a prosperous shop keeper to a homeless childless penniless alcoholic, and seeing no other option, she moved back to London, worked in a series of dead-end jobs in sleazy strip-clubs, and later returned to prostitution, where – a just few years later - she would die at the hands of The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial). Between Monday 9th and Wednesday 11th February 1942, on three consecutive days, in three different streets within one mile of the West End, three women were murdered. But if their sadistic deaths was perpetrated by the same man, how does he know these women, and what connects them? (Typewriter): Birth place? This we can rule out as Evelyn Hamilton was born and raised near Newcastle in the north-east of England, Evelyn Oatley in Lancashire in the north-west, and Margaret Lowe in Napier in New Zealand and Hoxton in London, so none of them were childhood friends. (Typewriter): Education? This we can rule out as with Hamilton being degree-educated at Edinburgh University, and Oatley and Lowe having left school with no qualifications, being raised in different counties and countries, almost eight years apart, none of them were school friends. (Typewriter): Personality? Again, we can rule this out, as with Hamilton being a shy pharmacist, Oatley being a confident socialite and Lowe being a depressed alcoholic, even though they never lived on the same street, frequented the same pubs and (with the exception of occasional stays at the Three Arts Club for lectures) Hamilton never lived in London, so it’s highly unlikely they socialised together. In fact, as three wildly dissimilar women, from different statuses, outlooks and situations, although they were all within one square mile of each other during those three fateful days, based on the hundreds of witness statements taken by the Police from anyone who knew them, there is no evidence – at all - that Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Lowe ever met or even knew each other, and the only time their names were linked together, was when they were murdered. (End Typing). By 1942, 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe had been a West End prostitute for eight years, but as familiar as she was to sex-workers and servicemen alike, very little is known about her, as although she went by her alias “Peggy Campbell” and “Peggy Burkett”, she was known locally as “The Lady”. Physically, Margaret was unremarkable; as being a portly woman of five foot five inches tall, with neck-length brunette hair and a side-parting, neat make-up, a maternal smile and a slightly bulbous nose (brought on by the effects of chronic alcoholism), she easily resembled any other Piccadilly prostitute, but as a person, “The Lady” was very much a woman of many contradictions. Neatly dressed in polished black shoes, shiny black leather gloves, a black leather handbag, an elegant felt hat and a large fur coat, although Margaret had been convicted three times for “soliciting for sex” and “behaving in an indecent manner” (each time using a different alias), she always walked with her head held high as if she was a well-to-do lady, off for a night at the theatre. As a plummy voiced woman with an indeterminately posh accent, who enunciated her h’s, said “whom” instead of “who”, “we” instead of “us” and “one” instead of “I”, although she’d never denigrate herself by swigging back a pint or picking up punters in the local pubs and clubs, she was often found drunk and tottering the kerbs of the West End, singing little ditties and slurring her words. And as an obviously refined women full of airs-and-graces, who was too busy to stop, too posh to chat and too senior to socialise with anyone below her status, Margaret always walked alone; no friends, no joy, just drink; a sad lonely lady clinging onto the long-lost memory of a life which once was. Unlike most prostitutes, Margaret didn’t have a patch, instead choosing to walk in a large square, right around Soho, from Shaftesbury Avenue, to Charing Cross Road, Oxford Street, Regent Street and back to Piccadilly Circus. And with her only working after 11pm, it was as if Margaret didn’t want to be seen. Describing prostitution as a “dirty piece of work”; Margaret hated her job, resented her punters and only did the dirty deed to survive, but as a chronically depressed alcoholic, who had sold her body to earn money, earned money to buy booze and drank booze to dull her senses so she could earn more money by having sex, she was trapped in a vicious circle, of which there was no way out. And although she was nicknamed “The Lady”; as a feisty, argumentative and belligerent boozer who wouldn’t stand for ill-manners, coarse language or any rough stuff, she was widely known to be a real tough cookie and a scrapper who could easily handle herself. And in an illegal job which involved inviting numerous strangers back to her flat, for sex, during the blackout? Being handy with her fists was a skill which – unfortunately for Margaret Lowe - came in very handy. In the early hours of Friday 30th January 1942, just two weeks prior to her death, in Flat 4 on the ground floor of 9/10 Gosfield Street, Margaret was physically assaulted in her bed by a punter she had picked up in Piccadilly. Forcibly barging the Canadian soldier out of the door, with fists flailing and feet flying, Margaret screamed at the top of her lungs “Help! Murder! Police!” causing such a ruckus, it awoke her neighbours - Florence Bartolini (in flat 1) and Ralph George Stevens (in flat 2). And although the Police were called, statements were taken and the worst of her injuries was a badly bruised chest, with the man having fled and Margaret unwilling to press charges (for fear of implicating herself in the illegal act of prostitution), the case was dropped and her attacker was never caught. One week later, Margaret was assaulted again. Two weeks later, she would be dead. (Interstitial). Between roughly midnight and just after 1am on Monday 9th, Tuesday 10th and Wednesday 11th February 1942, three wildly different and unrelated women, who witnesses claim had never met, were strangled, posed and brutally murdered on different streets in London’s West End? But if these three women had died at the hands of the same man, why did he pick them? Did he have a type? (Typewriter): Physically? All three women were between five foot one and five foot five inches in height, aged from their mid-thirties to early forties, and with none of them being either stunning, ugly or memorable in any way, the best way they can be described is “average” and “unremarkable”. And that’s where the physical similarities end; Evelyn Hamilton was an average-sized brunette, Evelyn Oatley was a slim blonde and Margaret Lowe was a portly brunette, although he clearly picked women that a taller/heavier man could overpower, he didn’t seem attracted to one type of woman. (Typewriter): Geographically? The only similarities being that they were all murdered in the West End; with all three having died on different streets (Montague Place, Wardour Street and Gosfield Street); two having died in private flats, one in a public space; and with no witnesses or suspects of any kind, and only two fingerprints found which didn’t match a single felon on Scotland Yard’s Print Index, the Police had no idea who their killer / or killers were. And in a deeply confusing investigation made all the more impossible as with Evelyn Hamilton being murdered in Marylebone (known as D Division), and Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Lowe murdered in Soho and Fitzrovia (known as C Division), although they didn’t know this yet, two different Police departments were hunting the same murderer. (Typewriter): And even with a wealth of witness statements from wide variety of reliable sources, the over-worked and understaffed Police force had no idea where any of these women were picked-up, who had approached them or how they had met their murderer? But what follows are the last known sightings of Margaret Florence Lowe. On the morning of Tuesday 10th February 1942 – at roughly the same time that Police were examining an horrific crime scene (barely a few streets away) at 153 Wardour Street, involving a semi-clad lady, a razor blade, a can-opener and a trail of blood six feet long – Margaret walked into the butcher’s shop at 41 Great Titchfield Street (one street west of her home) and spoke to proprietor Emily Harries. Unlike her usual grumpy, feisty and frumpy self, on this day Margaret was in a chipper mood, her dark mood lifted, as with the weekend approaching, Margaret’s daughter – no longer a sullen six year old placed into care at St Gabriel’s orphanage in Southend on Sea, but now a vivacious 15 year old who had blossomed into strong young woman – Barbara would be paying her mother a regular visit. The one good thing in Margaret’s miserable life and her last connection to happier times. Excited at seeing her daughter, Margaret didn’t buy anything at the butchers, instead (using her weekly ration) she asked Emily to put aside some lamb’s livers, kidneys, bones and fat, so she could bake her baby a suet pudding. A real treat during the hardships of war-time England. Sadly, being so solitary, the next confirmed sighting of Margaret wasn’t until 12:30am, a full thirteen hours later and roughly an hour before her death, it was also her last known sighting. Kathleen Norah Clarke, a local sex-worker spotted the prostitute she knew only as “The Lady” strolling by Eros News Theatre on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus, heading by Monaco’s restaurant; where barely one night before, Evelyn Oatley had waved “goodnight” to Laura Denmark and Molly Desantos-Alves having picked-up a red-headed Corporal and a fair-haired Aircraftman. As always, Margaret was alone; impeccably dressed in her polished black shoes, shiny black leather gloves, a black leather handbag, an elegant felt hat and a large fur coat, she smoked a cigarette from her silver cigarette case as she shimmied along the kerb-side, slightly tipsy, merrily singing to herself, her spirits high as (although the night was bitterly cold) she had got something to look forward to. At approximately 1:10am, two independent witnesses living at 9/10 Gosfield Street - Florence Bartolini (in flat 1) and Ralph George Stevens (in flat 2), both basement flats situated below the communal door and Margaret’s ground-floor flat, heard the unmistakable sound of the lady they knew as “Mrs Lowe” unlock the door and quietly enter, accompanied by a man; and although they didn’t see him, his heavy footsteps had the dull thump of men’s boots, and his accent was unmistakably English. Although their conversation were unintelligible; their voices were low, their tone was cordial and she welcomed the man into her flat, but – unusually for Margaret, who (witnesses state) “wasn’t the best of neighbours” and often kept the whole house awake by playing loud music on her gramophone in the dead of night to deaden the sounds of a sex-worker in action – after a brief chat and the clink of glasses, there was silence. After which, Florence and George fell asleep. No-one heard any screams, shouts or cries. Nothing was broken, smashed or trashed. And – with the exception of Margaret - no-one saw his face. In fact, the only sound which heard that whole night was at an undetermined hour when bleary-eyed Florence Bartolini was briefly awoken by the heavy thud of a flat door being shut, the communal door being opened and a heavy booted man briskly walking into Gosfield Street and heading right in the direction of Baker Street, Warren Street or Regent’s Park. And with these being the usual sounds heard nightly from the flat of a 43 year old alcoholic sex-worker, thinking nothing more of it, Florence rolled over and went back to sleep. So, with very little eye-witness testimony and very few pieces of tangible evidence, what can we say (for certain) about the man who murdered Margaret Florence Lowe, (and possibly Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley), if this was him at all? (Typewriter): She clearly felt comfortable and unthreatened in his presence, so either she knew him, liked him, or he didn’t look, sound or act like a man who (deep-down) was a sadistic sexual monster. If so, was he driven to kill by drugs, drink or mental illness? Was his hatred of women triggered by a childhood trauma having talked to Margaret? Or was he a maniac with a supreme level of self-control? (Typewriter): Just like Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley, Margaret was alone when she was picked-up, often felt lonely and depressed, and had been drinking that night. And with all three women last seen in or near infamous West End restaurants – Hamilton in Maison Lyonese and Oatley & Lowe by Monaco’s – was he a regular there, with money to spend, drinks to be drank and girls to be chased? (Typewriter): Clearly being confident, pleasant and approachable, who all three ladies felt safe with, was he a local man with a good knowledge of the West End streets, was he an experienced man used to chatting-up ladies and picking-up prostitutes, or was he the type of man you would instantly trust, whether a policeman, a fireman, an air-raid warden, a soldier, a sailor or an airman? (Typewriter): And with Margaret being a feisty lady who was well-known to fend-off any fiends with fists and feet, just as Evelyn Hamilton had (her black scuffed shoes having kicked chunks of brick mortar off the inside of the air-raid shelter), had he learned his lesson, by striking fast and strangling first, giving himself ample time to sadistically mutilate their limp, dying and lifeless bodies? Of course, with no sightings, no witnesses and no suspects, most of this would have been pure guess-work. And regardless of whether these murders were connected, if they were the work of the same sexual sadist, or if Margaret Florence Lowe was the third victim of The Blackout Ripper; as a lonely widow living alone in a single flat, with no friends and no close family, who spent her time surrounded by strangers, no-one knew she had even been murdered until almost three days later. The next morning on Wednesday 11th February 1942 at 11am, Florence Bartolini spotted a brown paper parcel at the foot of the door of flat 4, delivered by the postman but (as of yet) uncollected and unopened. And with the large gift being addressed to Mrs Lowe and Florence’s day chockful of chores, she ignored it and left by the communal door, unaware of the unimaginable horror a few feet away. When she returned, six hours later, the parcel was still there. The next morning it was still there. And the next evening it was still there. And as the residents from nine different flats, all walked by, spied the parcel, stared at it quizzically, commenting about how unusually quiet flat 4 was; with no yelling, no music and heavy-booted men waking them up at all hours of the night, still no-one did anything. On Friday 13th February at 3:50pm, having caught the train from Southend-on-Sea, eager to stay the weekend, see the sights and tuck into the delicious suet pudding her mum had promised to bake, 15 year old Barbara Joan Lowe, entered 9/10 Gosfield Street and knocked on the door of flat 4… …but here was no reply. She knocked again. Nothing. Having spotted a brown paper parcel at her feet, post-marked with Monday’s date, Barbara queried with the neighbours who confirmed it was odd that they hadn’t seen or heard from her mother in days, and gripped with a queasy feeling of dread, Barbara called the Police. At 4:30pm, Detective Sergeant Leonard Blacktop of C Division from West End Central police station on nearby Saville Row arrived at 9/10 Gosfield Street to investigate the possible disappearance of a 43 year old alcoholic, nothing more. Unable to access flat 4 owing to a locked door and Barbara having no key, DS Blacktop deduced that most alcoholics (prone to lapses in memory) would likely keep a spare key nearby, and having found one under her doormat, the detective entered the flat. On initial inspection, although (with the lights off, the electricity metre money having ran out and the windows covered in blackout curtains) the flat was in total darkness, but as DS Blacktop shone his torch around her tiny congested sitting room, nothing seemed disturbed, out-of-place or damaged. As he walked along the thin dark passageway towards the cramped kitchenette in the backroom, DS Blacktop noticed what looked like the contents of her handbag, strewn across the kitchen table; a few letters, three ration books, a pink lipstick, two Yale keys and a six-inch metal torch, but no money, no handbag and (unusually for a heavy smoker) no cigarette case. As well as a bottle of stout, which was three quarters full, but no glasses. And with the kitchen cupboards opened, rifled and their contents scattered, spilling all manner of cutlery (including forks, knives and a can-opener) across the work-surfaces, it looked like a burglary, but so far, there was still no sign of Margaret. The only room left to try was her bedroom. With the door locked, no suitable key found and three days having passed, with Barbara’s permission, DS Blacktop forced her bedroom door. And although the room was dark, in the middle, lying on her bed, he saw the unmistakable sight of the strangled and mutilated body of 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe. Having escalated the case up to Chief Inspector Edward Greeno of Scotland Yard, this was now no longer a hunt for a missing person, this was a murder investigation. In an unnervingly similar crime scene to that of Evelyn Oatley, it didn’t look as if a struggle had taken place; the coal fire had been on, the bedside lamp was off, her clothes were neatly folded and placed on a wooden chair, and on the mantelpiece was a half full glass of stout, which two people had shared. In fact, the only detritus in the room was a used condom and the broken handle of a fire poker. Just like Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Lowe was semi-clad and lying flat on her back; her lifeless body spread diagonally across her double divan bed, as resting on a blood-soaked pillow was her purple swollen head, as the wide inky black pupils of her bloodshot eyes stared vacantly towards the door. And as before, his attack was swift, violent and shocking, as having struck Margaret across the left side of her face, head and jaw with a metal fire-poker, he used such force that the poker broke. With his victim suitably subdued, grabbing a black stocking off the chair, he tied the taut nylon so tightly, it left a one inch indentation around her neck, and having securely knotted it, with the blood forcing her swollen purple face to rupture and mucus to seep from her nose and mouth, as she gasped her last few gulps of air, during her last few moments alive, he set about mutilating the rest of her body. With her nightdress rucked-up around her bare breasts, her legs spread wide and her knees drawn-up to her hips, lying between her thighs (as if he was showing off his trophies) was a white handled bread knife, a black handled table knife, a potato peeler and a broken piece of fire-poker. Across her abdomen was a five inch wound, so deep it exposed her intestines and sliced her uterus. Along her right thigh was a ten inch slash, so deep it severed her great saphenous vein, bleeding so profusely her bed was soaked with blood. And all of which he did when she was either alive, dying or unconscious. And in a final act of humiliation, with her electric metal torch in the kitchen and nothing else to hand, he inserted a six inch candle deep into her vagina, almost as if it was his birthday. The autopsy of Margaret Florence Campbell Lowe was conducted at Paddington Mortuary (once again) by Sir Bernard Spilsbury in the presence of Chief Inspector Edward Greeno, and the similarities between all three victims were unnerving. They’d all been robbed; as having found Margaret’s handbag hidden behind a paper carrier-bag in the kitchenette, the bank books and anything identifiable remained, but her money was missing. They all had items stolen; from Evelyn Hamilton he’d taken a handkerchief and a pencil, from Evelyn Oatley an initialled silver cigarette case, and from Margaret Lowe, also a silver cigarette case. And yet, if he truly was a sexual sadist, why didn’t he steal souvenirs like panties, bras and stockings? Although violated, none of these women had been raped; as with no semen found in any of their vaginas and a discarded condom found on Margaret’s bed, did sex take place, or was he incapable? They had all been mutilated; both pre-and-post mortem, using a strange selection of knives, razors and kitchen cutlery (including a can opener and a potato peeler), none of which he’d brought with him, instead making-do with whatever was to hand, suggesting their murders weren’t premeditated? They had all been violated; having inserted various objects into their vaginas, including (possibly) a metal torch with Evelyn Hamilton, a metal torch and (potentially) a set of curling tongs with Evelyn Oatley and a six inch candle and (potentially) a fire-poker with Margaret Lowe, none of which he’d brought with him, instead – once again - making-do with whatever was to hand? And they had all been strangled; and although he’d changed his MO, having manually strangled Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley with his hand, and garrotted Margaret Lowe with a black stocking, by the way he had left it tied around her neck, once again, the Police knew that the attacker was left-handed. Margaret Florence Lowe was unmistakably his third victim. And again, he had made a big mistake. As Superintendent Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s Print Bureau had dusted the crime-scene and found three sets of his fingerprints; one on the base of the candlestick (having removed the candle to violate her), one on the bottle of spout (which he’d poured in the kitchen) and one on the half full glass of stout he had left on the mantelpiece, featuring both of their fingerprints and suggesting they had shared a final drink. And although they didn’t match any on the Police index files, the fingerprints matched those found on the can-opener and the compact mirror which belonged to Evelyn Oatley. But by the time of Margaret Lowe’s autopsy, it was too late. As with her mutilated body having lay undiscovered for three days, and the Police only aware of two unrelated murders in two different streets, they had no idea that a sadistic spree-killer was on the loose. So by Thursday 12th February 1942, four days into his five day killing spree, with three women dead, and three unsuspecting women walking the streets, unaware of the horror which awaited them, he headed back into the West End, and The Blackout Ripper would go in search of his next victim. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to join us next week for the fourth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper. I have some exiting news! The Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast has been nominated in the Best True-Crime Podcast category at this year’s British Podcast Awards, alongside those titans of documentary-making BBC World Service and BBC Radio (yes, the company who made me redundant almost five years ago), as well as two fabulous independent UK true-crime podcasts; They Walk Among Us (who were deservedly last year’s winners) and (this year’s nubies, just like myself) S’laughter True Crime Podcast. Both of whom are hugely deserving of this very prestigious award, owing to their hard work, research, dedication and commitment to the spirit of independent podcasting. And even if Murder Mile doesn’t win the award, I’m honoured to be included amongst this amazing group, and this will truly be a big win for all of us independent podcasters. The awards are held on Saturday 19th May 2018, and although the true-crime award is voted for by an industry panel, you can vote for your favourite true-crime podcast in the Listener’s Choice Award. To support independent podcasters, click on the link in the show-notes. A big thank you goes out this week to our brand new Patreon supporters who – by donating just $3 a month (that £2 in real money) – are ensuring the future of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast and receiving lots of fabulous goodies including crime scene photos, murder location videos and exclusive Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 episodes. So a hearty thank you to Marie Harris, Mike Featherstone and Melanie Gudgel, who (oddly) have messaged me to ask if (in return) I could bump off their bosses. Sadly, that’s not a Patreon service I offer, yet, but I will be sending you all a complimentary spade, bin-bags, a ripsaw and a large bucket of quicklime. Any problems with disposal, give me a call. And with a special donation from a mate from Australia. Gday. This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Mens Rea; hosted by Sinead, Mens Rea is a fortnightly true-crime podcast based in Ireland and the UK, many of which you won’t have heard of, and all of which is meticulously researched, wonderfully told and is always fascinating, insightful and gripping. If you love true-crime, which makes you go “wow”, check out Mens Rea (MENS REA). Check out the promo). Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode… is part four of our series into The Blackout Ripper. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** 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 various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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EPISODE TWENTY SIX
Episode Twenty Six: The Blackout Ripper Part 2: On 10th February 1942, 34 year old Evelyn Oatley was found strangled, posed and mutilated in her flat at 153 Wardour Street in a murder strangely similar to Evelyn Hamilton, just one night before. Was this coincidence, or was there a sadistic spree-killer on the loose in Soho?
THE LOCATIONS
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BLACKOUT RIPPER – Part 2 (Evelyn Oatley)
INTRO: One year into the Second World War, German chancellor Adolf Hitler and the Nazi high-command sought to deplete, destroy and demoralise Britain with a series of devastating bombing raids, beginning with what the Luftwaffe called ‘Unternahmen Seeschlange’ (or Operation Sea-snake); a terrifying attack from the clouds, so fast and so deadly, that the British people referred to it by the German word for “lightening”, they called it ‘The Blitz’. Between 7th September 1940 and 11th May 1941, over 57 days and nights, German bombers rained down over 41000 tonnes of high explosives, incendiary devices and parachute mines, as well as deadly V1 (and later V2) rockets onto Britain’s industrial cities, their terrifying tactics designed to frighten the people into submission and bring Britain to its knees. By 1942, Britain had suffered its worst defeat, as the allied troops retreated to Dunkirk as Nazi troops had taken France, all that stood between Britain and surrender was the English Channel. The people were hungry, the people were tired, and the people were scared. But amidst the smoky bombed-out inferno of London’s West End, with a blackout in-force which plunged the soot-covered city into a perpetual darkness, as the petrified populous scoured the skies for German mass-murderers who loomed above… a person of pure evil stalked the city streets. In the early hours of Monday 9th February 1942, Evelyn Hamilton; a shy and timid pharmacist who had celebrated her 41st birthday alone, was found strangled in an air-raid shelter in Montagu Place. With her handbag and £20 missing, was this a robbery which had gone wrong? With slashes on her breasts and genitals but no semen in her vagina, was this a failed attempted rape? With her corpse looking as if it had been posed, was this the grisly calling-card of a sexual sadist? The Police were perplexed. And with no fingerprints, no witnesses and no suspects of any kind, and a confusing mix of mismatched evidence including a pack of Master’s safety matches, fragments of brick mortar and a broken metal torch, all the Police knew of her killer was that he was left-handed. Initially the Police thought this was just a one-off attack, a crime of passion, but little did they know that they had a serial sexual sadist and spree-killer in their midst… and his killings had only just begun. Over five days, six unrelated women across different parts of London’s West End would be brutally attacked with escalating levels of sadism, torture and violence. It started with Evelyn Hamilton, but with his bloodlust unquenched, just one day later, he would go in search of his next victim. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part two of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Wardour Street, back in the heart of Soho; one road east of Broadwick Street, one road west of Old Compton Street, and barely a one minute walk from the murder sites of deadly dentist Isador Zeifert, shadowy sex-worker Margaret Cook, sweet-faced fanny-seller Ginger Rae, crazy cock-chopper William Stoltzer and chronic Canadian willy-fiddler Richard Rhodes Henley. Sadly, this unsightly side of Wardour Street has been stripped of its soul and replaced by nosh-shops for numpties, takeaways for twits and wanky eateries for the anally retentive; which somehow survive by selling one type of food (whether ham, fish or humus), by avoiding one type of food (whether meat, wheat or milk), by rebranding buffets as street food, salads as main meals, sandwiches as a some kind of luxury, and where cigar-shops flog-off thirty quids worth of old rolled leaves to non-smokers who light-up, lean back and aim to act cool, slick and aloof, but instead look green, sick and queasy. And although, by the 1940’s, this side of Soho was full of drafty bombed-out hardly habitable terraces, only suitable as homes for the less fortunate, many of which have since been demolished, it was here at 153 Wardour Street, that an ambitious woman called Evelyn Oatley came to London to seek her fame and fortune, but instead found infamy… as the second victim of The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial) Born Evelyn Judd on 5th April 1907 in Earby in Lancashire; a small rural town hidden in the barren wilds of the former West Yorkshire dales, its chief occupations being lead-mining and farming, with a population of roughly 70 families and six times as many cows, sheep and pigs. Raised by her beloved mother (Rosina), busy father and one brother, although her childhood was poor but pleasant, for young Evelyn, Earby was an industrial eyesore in dull rural setting where the air hung with soot and the strong stench of manure, a far cry the bright lights of London’s West End. Desperate to escape, to act, to sing, to dance and blossom into Shaftesbury Avenue’s latest sensation, selling out theatres every night and surrounded by adoring fans, lackeys and lovers, Evelyn’s hopes were dashed early, as with Earby not blessed with a single playhouse, drama school and no theatre producers driving-by eager for a new blonde ingénue to headline his latest West End show, and maybe later Broadway and even Hollywood too, Evelyn left school aged 14, with no skills nor qualifications and drifted into a series of dead-end jobs, trapped by isolation and circumstance. Still dreaming of being famous and adored, aged 15, unmarried Evelyn gained local notoriety by becoming pregnant by an unknown man, a big scandal in early 1920’s, so unable to support the child alone, Evelyn’s daughter was put up for adoption, later living her life somewhere in Canada. In 1932, 25 year old Evelyn Judd met Harold Mollinson Oatley; a kind, loving and sweet-natured poultry farmer who could provide her with a good life, full of love, money and a sweet little bungalow on Rover Road in the larger (but equally isolated) town of Thornton, Lancashire. But Evelyn didn’t want to be a chicken-farmer’s wife, she wanted to be an actress, so being too timid to dissuade her of the dangers of big-city life and hoping that she’d eventually see sense, get the acting bug out of her system and come back to marry him, Harold financed Evelyn’s trip to London to fulfil her dreams. In late 1934, 27 year old Evelyn Judd, moved into a cheap and tiny lodging on Great Portland Street (at the back of Oxford Circus) and having adopted the stage-name of Lita Ward, she eked-out a meagre living as a nightclub hostess, a dancer in disreputable theatres and even at Soho’s infamous Windmill Theatre, where every night topless girls jiggled their tits and swung their tassels to crowds of drunk drooling deadbeats. To most people, Evelyn’s new lifestyle may have seemed cheap, tacky and low-rent, but as a country-girl from a remote northern town whose ambitions had been crushed for 27 long years, now she was embracing every ounce of big city life, and finally, her dream had come true. But by March 1936, after 16 months in the bright lights of the West End; fame hadn’t come calling (for this almost 30 year old topless dancer), work had dried up (as younger legs and prettier faces scored all the best roles) and with her money having ran-out, Evelyn returned to the poultry-farm, where just a few months later on 25th June 1936, she married Harold, and became Mrs Evelyn Oatley. As predicted, married-life wasn’t for Evelyn; she found no joy staying-in every night playing Scrabble with her homebody husband, no peace being tucked-up in bed with a book by 9pm and no reward cleaning crap out of the chicken coops, as having tasted the excitement of the big city, she knew she wanted more. Trapped in a dull life of squawking birds, in local hotels under an assumed name, Evelyn started clandestine affairs with married men and continued to live and work in London, all under the nose of Harold who was too ineffectual to stop her and too dull to offer her an alternative. One year later; with money tight, tensions fraught and his poultry-farm having gone out of business, even though he’d been forced to move into his Aunt’s house in nearby Cleveleys (in Lancashire), as desperate as Harold was to please his wayward wife, although they remained married and stayed in-touch, Evelyn returned to London, knowing she would never be a big star, but loving the nightlife. By February 1939, with Britain on the brink of World War Two, Evelyn Oatley had moved into a tiny one-roomed flat on the first-floor of 153 Wardour Street; a simple four-storey terrace house with the ground-floor of five houses converted into a motorcar showroom called Shaw & Kilburn. And although she shared a kitchen and a bathroom with five other flats and her small room was simply furnished with a double-divan bed, a sofa, an armchair, a table, a wash-stand, a wireless radio and a gas fire (with a coin-slot metre), even though she kept some plates and cutlery in her wardrobe, mostly she’d eat out, spending her nights drinking, dancing and attracting the attention of men. With her dancing roles having dried-up, and the adulation and applause of audiences over, Evelyn wanted a gentleman admirer to sweep her off her feet; a moneyed man who would lavish her with gifts, flowers, love and trinkets. And having a lust for “real men”, who were tall and toned, with easy smiles, kind blue eyes and neatly dressed in a military uniforms - whilst still married - Evelyn had several boyfriends, all of whom Harold knew about, and none of whom looked like him. As World War Two broke, a blackout was enforced and British and Canadian servicemen flooded the West End with money to spend, drinks to be drunk and girls to be chased, Evelyn should have had the pick of the crop, but too often, having got her heart broken by these heartless heroes, every time this would happen Harold would always be there as a shoulder to cry on and to pick up the pieces. And as much as they remained close, with Harold travelling the 12 hour round-trip from Lancashire to London, every few weeks, he naively believed that his beloved wife worked as a nightclub hostess and a dancer in the West End theatres, but for the last six years, ever since they had been married, Evelyn Oatley (known locally as Lita Ward) had earned herself a living as a Soho prostitute. Being 5 foot 1 inches tall, 7 stone in weight, with dark blonde curly hair, blue eyes and a cheeky smile; Evelyn was well regarded amongst Soho’s sex-workers as fun, honest and generous. And as a confident woman, Evelyn had no qualms about picking-up punters and bringing them back to her flat for drinks and sex, but being flirtatious and charming, she was also adept at luring any potential sugar-daddies to not just spend the night, but also the day after, with free meals, expensive gifts and shopping trips. And as much as Evelyn was a woman of morals; who never stole from a customer, never worked on Sundays and only picked-up punters on her patch; she was also a heavy drinker of Scotch, not picky about which men she picked up, and (according to a close-friend) she was a desperately lonely lady who craved attention, feared solitude and longed to be loved. The last time Harold saw Evelyn was on Tuesday 3rd February 1942 at Euston Station, as from the train which took him back to Lancashire he waved his beloved wife “goodbye”; hoping one day that she would come back to him and never realising that the next time he would see her… she would be dead. Six days later, on the morning of Monday 9th February 1942, in an air-raid shelter on Montagu Place (barely one mile from Wardour Street), the strangled and mutilated body of Evelyn Hamilton would be found. Police thought it was a one-off, but with his sadism still unsated, that evening, The Blackout Ripper would stalk the West End looking for his next victim… her name was Evelyn Oatley. (Interstitial) The evening of Monday 9th February 1942 was bitterly cold as an icy wind blew from the east, swirling the freshly settled snow down the half empty streets of the West End. On her regular patch - a stretch of pavement from Lawley’s fine-bone china shop on Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus – Evelyn paced back-and-forth to keep herself warm, the piping hot bowl of vegetable stew and a quick shot of Scotch that she’d just polished off in The Leicester Arms pub, straining to keep out the cold. Dressed fashionably in a bright red jumper, a tweet two-piece jacket and skirt, black boots, a black leather handbag and a black woollen hat, her top decorated with three brooches; one yellow, one red and one in white metal, her style was impossible to see as with the night being so infernally cold, Evelyn had her knee-length black coat buttoned-up to her neck. And with business being bad and boredom creeping in, amidst the miserable darkness of the blackout (as switched-off for the full duration of the war were the famous lights of Piccadilly Circus), Evelyn stood in the doorway of Lawley’s, illuminated by the red-hot tip of her cigarette, which was taken from her stylish white metal cigarette case, etched with her initials ‘LW’ (short for Lita Ward, a sole reminder of her lost acting ambition) and inside, a photo of her beloved mother “Rosina”. Feeling cold and lonely, Evelyn wouldn’t be choosey about who she picked-up, as all money was good and she just wanted to head home, pop on the fire and hop into bed. But soon she would be cold for a very different reason, and what follows would be the last known sightings of Evelyn Oatley. At 10:15pm, on the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus; two Soho prostitutes and close pals of Evelyn - one a blonde called Laura Denmark and a brunette called Molly Desantos Alves - waved to their friend as she stood outside of Lawley’s smoking. With both Laura and Molly having been chatted-up by two tall, slim and handsome (if slightly sozzled) RAF servicemen from the Royal Air Force Reception Centre in Regent’s Park, they took the men back to their flats; Molly headed to Denham Street with the red-headed Corporal and Laura headed to Frith Street with the fair-haired Aircraftman. At 11:00pm, outside by Monico’s (a reputable late-night restaurant once used as a pick-up place for sex-workers and servicemen) on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus; a part-time waitress and prostitute called Ann Carew saw Evelyn, who she knew as Lita Ward, chatting to a Canadian soldier dressed in a khaki battledress. Although cold, she seemed chatty and only a little bit tipsy, and seeing Ann, she waved, wished her a “goodnight” and guided the military man towards her flat through the dark-lit streets of Soho, guided solely by the dim light of her six inch metal torch. At a little after 11:20pm, Icy Cecilia Poole, a fun-fair attendant and Evelyn’s neighbour who lived in the adjoining flat on the first floor of 153 Wardour Street saw Evelyn escorting a man up the wooden staircase. But he wasn’t Canadian or in khaki battledress, but a young tall and pasty civilian in a brown suit with horn-rimmed glasses. And although he wasn’t Evelyn’s type; as the night was cold, money was money, and – with most men’s sexual prowess being less like a stud-muffin and more like a “two pumps and squirt merchant” – she knew he’d only need a few minutes until he was done, before she would head-out again and pick-up another punter. As Evelyn closed the wooden door marked with a metal plate which read “Lita Ward”, Ivy heard Evelyn and the young man chat, as with their penny-pinching landlord having split one large room in half with two folding doors to create two small flats, the walls were wafer-thin and Ivy could hear everything. Sharing such a small space, Evelyn was always so considerate of noise, but that night she wasn’t. Instead, switching her bedside radio from news to music, she turned up the volume until the recognisable sounds of the couple’s mumbling, fumbling and groaning was drowned-out, and eager to sleep, Ivy popped in her earplugs, placed her pillow over her head and nodded off around midnight/ That was the last time that 34 year old Evelyn Oatley was heard, or seen alive, ever again. The next morning, on Tuesday 10th February 1942 at 8:20am, with her room all dark and silent, Ivy had slept so soundly over the last eight hours that she barely heard a loud banging on her door. Alerted to the noise by her startled cat, Ivy groggily unlocked the door to see the familiar face of Charles Victor Fleming of the Central London Electricity Company, who – along with his assistant George Kenny Carter - were here to read each flat’s electricity metres and collect this month’s shillings from the coin-slot. It was just an ordinary day, for three ordinary people, going about their ordinary lives. As with Ivy (who was still sporting her bathrobe and slippers), George knocked loudly on Evelyn’s door, but with it barely being an hour after dusk, he got no reply. Knocking louder, George noticed the door was ajar, but as a timid young man who was too polite to simply barge into a strange lady’s boudoir uninvited and risk seeing things a young man should never see like frilly things and her ladies monthly unmentionables, George continued to knock. Sensing the shy youth’s frustration and sporting some awful bed-hair, Ivy tapped loudly enquiring “are you there, dear?” as she pushed open the door. With the windows blacked-out, the lights off, the fire out and the last shilling in the electricity metre having been spent, as much as Ivy flicked the light switches, the flat remained in pitch black. But as they entered the flat and their eyes adjusted to the dark, it was clear that they weren’t alone; someone was there, lying on the bed, all silent and still. And as George Carter flicked on his torch to see who it was, as the dull light illuminated the shape on the bed, he stopped, blinked and gasped, having seen a sight which no-one should ever see. First on the scene at 8:35am was Inspector John Hennessey of West End Central Police Station, having spent the night at the Police section house on Broadwick Street (one street behind), who secured the scene to ensure nothing was touched, followed by Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey and Divisional Surgeon Dr Alexander Baldie at 8:50am, and Divisional Detective Inspector Charles Gray at 9:15am. With no windows open, no fire on and the female victim – a five foot one inch mid-thirties blonde – in the early stages of rigour-mortis, Dr Baldie recorded that she’d been dead for at least 4 hours. And although the name on the door read ‘Lita Ward’, she was quickly identified as Evelyn Oatley, What startled the Police (beyond the sickening extent of her horrific injuries) was how tidy the room was; nothing was tipped over, very little was broken and there didn’t seem to have been a struggle. In fact, almost everything seemed to be just as Evelyn had left it just a few hours before. It was almost as if she had welcomed her attacker in; had known him, liked him, or simply felt comfortable with him, and yet this shocking attack had come out of the blue. On the mantelpiece, where she always kept them, Evelyn had placed the keys to her flat. On the sofa were her clothes, neatly placed and ready to be re-worn; a bright red jumper, a black hat and a tweet two-piece jacket and skirt. On an armchair she’d placed her black boots, a slip, a brassiere and a pair of black stockings by the fire, drying after a long cold night. And in the right-hand side of her wardrobe (where she always put it) was her black knee-length coat, along with her black leather handbag. Oddly, the only damage in the whole room was the wardrobe’s lock, which (although the key was still in it) had been violently broken off; Evelyn’s handbag had been removed, the zip fastener opened and the contents strewn over the sofa. And whoever her attacker was, he’d ignored her bank books and ration coupons, and only stole two items; roughly £20 (£600 today) from her brown leather purse and her white metal cigarette case, etched with her initials ‘LW’ and a photo of her mother inside. Was this a robbery? Was this a burglary? Was this a rape? The Police were perplexed. But whoever it was who had attacked her, had a deep-rooted hatred for either prostitutes, women or Evelyn Oatley, as not only was her attack brutal and sickening, but her torture was prolonged and humiliating. In the centre of the room, with the headboard against the wall, between two blacked-out windows, was her double divan bed. Lying face-up and sprawled diagonally across her freshly made sheets was the cold corpse of Evelyn Oatley, her body splayed and posed, with her thin cotton vest and a silk nightdress rolled up, exposing her legs, genitals, lower torso and breasts. With no-one having heard her scream and the bruised outlines of a thumb and four fingers across her throat and neck, Evelyn was initially strangled by hand in an unprovoked attack, which trapped her windpipe, crushed her vocal chords and made her more pliable, as although she drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few minutes, what happened next, was done whilst she was still alive. With her head slumped backward, hanging over the side of the bed, using the 2 inch blade of an Ever-Ready razor, a five and a half inch wound was cut, from her right ear to her voice-box, so deep it exposed her throat, split open her jugular vein and left a six foot trail of blood to the door. As Evelyn clutched onto her last few moments alive, being immobile as her body was drained of blood, her bare legs were splayed wide. And (as with Evelyn Hamilton) although there was no semen found in her vagina, in and around her genitals were a series of twelve unusual wounds; some less than half an inch long, one more than three and a half inches long, but all were rough jagged tears, made using an old-style kitchen can-opener with a sharp hooked claw. But his sadism hadn’t stopped there, as having placed the metal can-opener next to her left knee, and posed the blood-soaked razorblade next to Evelyn’s ghostly white face, as well as an ominous set of blood-stained curling tongs, her sadistic killer – not content with her torture and humiliation – had inserted, four inches deep, her six inch metal torch into her open and exposed vagina. The autopsy of Evelyn Oatley was conducted that day by Sir Bernard Spilsbury, home office pathologist (and father of forensic science), who just 24 hours earlier had examined the body of Evelyn Hamilton and although there were differences between both attacks; their ages, hair colour, occupations and the location of their deaths (with one in public and the other at home), the similarities were striking. Both women were lonely and alone. Both women were in the West End. Both women had been robbed of roughly £20. Neither woman had been raped. Both had been posed, both had been exposed, both had unusual cuts to their genitals, and non-specific internal injuries to their vaginas, one made using a six inch metal torch, and the other within sight of an eight inch metal torch. And although both women were called Evelyn, the Police put this down as possibly just a coincidence. But in each case, although the Police wouldn’t know this yet, their murderer had taken a souvenir. Was this the same man, or merely chance? Was this a spree-killer, or a strikingly similar attack? With Evelyn Oatley’s long fingernails being unbroken, they knew her attacker was swift. With bruise marks on their necks, Police knew they’d both been strangled by a left-hander. And although, Superintendant Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s Print Bureau had found a left thumb print on Evelyn Oatley’s compact mirror (touched as her killer rifled her handbag for money) and a left little finger print on the metal can-opener he had used to mutilate his latest victim, none of his prints were on file. If the same man had murdered both women, the Police wouldn’t have time to even contemplate the horror of a spree-killer in their midst; as with his violence escalating, his bloodlust pumping and his sadism unsated, he was only two days into his five day killing spree, and as darkness fell over London, once again, he headed into Soho, as The Blackout Ripper went in search of his next victim. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to join us next week for the third part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper. This week’s recommended podcast of the week is True-Crime Enthusiast, hosted by Paul, True-Crime Enthusiast is a fantastic dive into the UK’s most twisted, deranged and disturbing murderers, presented with a disarmingly charming style, Paul lures you in with his jovial friendly banter, only to bludgeon you over the head with truly disturbing and utterly baffling true-crime tales from the lesser known annals of UK murder, all of which will make you gasp, grin, guffaw and maybe even gag. Check out True-Crime Enthusiast. (Play Promo) A big thank you goes to my brand new Patreon supporters who get exclusive access to original Murder Mile content, including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases. What lucky people! They are the fabulous Hannah Mirza (who has been a dream on social media, so thank you Hannah), the wonderful Elizabeth Nazaralli (who loves murder so much, she’s willing to pay $3 a month to see more) and someone called Helene Buchanan-Dunne (who loves Murder Mile so much, she’s stolen my surname and some of my DNA – I think – either that or she’s my sister). To join the Murder Mile Patreon group, click the link in the show-notes. And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Asian Madness Podcast, hosted by Melissa, the Asian Madness Podcast unearths some truly unsettling mysteries, madness, weirdness and worrying weirdos from right across Asia. And second is Southern Fried True-Crime, hosted by Erika, Southern Fried True-Crime explores some truly fascinating true-crime tales from America’s Deep South; the states where banjos play, whiskey flows and the homespun charm is alluring, but underneath it all, murderers lurk. Check them both out on iTunes and all podcast platforms. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode… is part three of our series into The Blackout Ripper. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** 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 various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #25 - The Blackout Ripper - Part 1 (Evelyn Margaret Hamilton)11/4/2018
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EPISODE TWENTY FIVE
Episode Twenty Five: The Blackout Ripper Part 1: In the early hours of Monday 9th February 1942, 41 year old Evelyn Margaret Hamilton was found strangled and posed in an air-raid shelter in Montagu Place (Marylebone). Police had no idea who had murdered her, or that this was the start of a vicious killing spree of The Blackout Ripper.
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THE LOCATIONS
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THE BLACKOUT RIPPER Part 1 - Evelyn Hamilton
INTRO: Ripper; noun, the origins of the word “Ripper” are uncertain, as although its first recorded use was in the year 1615 to describe a primitive cutting tool used by tanners, curriers and leather workers to rip and tear apart cow-hide, as well as later termed by slate-workers, corn threshers and to define the hook-like drill which breaks-up rock and ore as used to extract oil and gas, by the early 1800’s, when having gas-lighting in your home was a sign of affluence, “Ripper” had entered the public vocabulary as a slang term to describe anything which is “good, excellent or splendid”. But by the late 1880’s, in London’s East End, the word “Ripper” had re-entered the modern parlance with a much darker and deadlier meaning, denoting a murderer who takes great pleasure in the slashing and tearing of his victim’s flesh, whether pre-or-post mortem to satisfy their sexual sadism, as around the impoverished streets of Whitechapel, a maniac stalked the city’s sex-workers. And as gripping as the story of Jack the Ripper is; even today, no-one knows his name, his face, his age, his address, his description, his motivation, his method, the exact span of his killings, which victims he killed, which of the current 106 suspects he really is, or even, if he actually existed at all. Since then, the term “Ripper” has only been adopted by the press to describe three British serial killers and spree-killers during their reign of terror; they were Jack the Ripper, the Yorkshire Ripper and a maniac so terrifying, so fascinating and yet so unassuming, that during the dark of the blitz of World War Two, across London’s West End, and over just five days, he would brutally attack six women, with escalating levels of sadism and violence… and yet his killing spree had only just begun. With much of the evidence supressed by the government and the press for fear of unsettling a weak morale in London during the fear of the early 1940’s, the true story of the West End’s very own ripper has long been lost, rehashed, fudged and retold in a rambling mix of confusingly short fragments. But after eight months of intensive research, experimentation and investigation, using all the original declassified police investigation files, military records and court transcripts of the case, the puzzle is complete and what follows over the next few weeks is a definitive history of one of Britain’s deadliest, strangest and long-forgotten spree-killers. And as always, these episodes will contain graphic details which may offend, realistic sounds which may startle, and is not suitable for the easily flustered. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part one of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Montagu Place in Marylebone, W1; a picturesque upper-class enclave hidden from the hustle and bustle of city-life; just three streets north of Oxford Street, four streets south of Baker Street, one street east of Edgware Road, and with Soho two tube-stops to the west. Surrounded by a rich mix of four to six storey townhouses from the Regency period to the Georgian, Edwardian and Victorian era; being calm, quiet and clean, Montagu Place (which borders the ultra-affluent Montagu Square, whose perfectly manicured private garden is alarmed, patrolled and protected by ornate wrought iron gates, with a key you can only acquire if were schooled at Eton, holidayed at Monty, bunked with a boy called Jolyon, or your uncle’s a QC don’t you know) this area aims to keep the hoity-toity in and the hoi polloi out. And with no beggars, no buskers and no boozers pebble-dashing its pristine paths with steamy great clumps of working-class puke; what you’re left with are rows of half-empty houses full of cocks with cooks, burkes with butlers, drips with drivers, fannies with nannies and posh-pricks protected by private security who are less likely to be robbed and more likely to be slapped, as they’re manhandled back to man-child mansions; being too posh to scream, too British to cry, and incapable of cacking their pants having been born with a fine selection of silver cutlery poking out of their poo-pipes. And even though, during the sixties, they actually let some scousers (called John Lennon and Ringo Starr) move in; being brightly-lit, super-clean and regularly patrolled by the Police, here in Montagu Place, under the shade of the Swiss and the Swedish Embassies, you will always feel safe and secure. But appearances can be deceptive. As it was here, in calm of Montagu Place, on the cold winter night of Sunday 8th February 1942 that a lone woman called Evelyn Hamilton was murdered. No-one heard her scream, no-one saw her struggle and no-one came to help. London’s West End was about to be gripped by five nights of absolute terror, where no woman was safe, as a serial sexual sadist stalked the city streets with murderous intent… and he was known as The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial) Born on 8th February 1901, Evelyn Margaret Hamilton was one of four sisters born to Lucy, a recent widow whose deceased husband’s insurance had ensured his family’s finances after his untimely death, giving them stability and security as the economic depression of World War One loomed large. Raised in the idyllic tranquillity of the semi-rural village of Ryton in Tyne & Wear in the North East of England, far from the industrial sprawl and smog of the Newcastle mills and the Sunderland shipyards, Evelyn’s upbringing was the epitome of picture perfect; surrounded by fresh fruit, clean air, long walks and no crime. And being a progressive woman in an era where the best a young girl could aspire to be was as a machinist, a maid or married-off, Lucy enrolled her four daughters in the best schools. Having studied at Skerry’s College in Newcastle and the prestigious medical school at the University of Edinburgh, by 1923, 22 year old Evelyn graduated with a diploma in chemistry and pharmacology. Having qualified as a chemist and a druggist, over the next 18 years, she focussed on sharpening her skills, climbing the career ladder and seeing more of the country, as she moved from job-to-job in Loughborough, Leicestershire, Surrey, London and later in Essex. By November 1941, with the economic ravages of World War Two having started to bite and rationing in full-swing, Evelyn had secured herself a position as manager and pharmacist in the respected high-street store of Yardley’s Chemists at 9 Market Parade in the market town on Romford (Essex). And as qualified as she was for the job, three months later, she would be gone. On the surface, Evelyn Hamilton seemed unremarkable and easily forgettable; as being just five foot 3 ½ inches in height and a slender seven stone in weight, who wore very little make-up nor perfume, never smiled nor spoke-up, and always dressed-down and looked dour, as exceptionally bright as she was, she never wanted to be noticed and blended into the background. Being fastidiously neat, unfashionably dressed and wrapped in a thick excess of shapeless woollen layers (being thin-skinned, shivery and prone to goose-bumps) even on the warmest of days; with short brown hair, a furrowed brow and droopy brown eyes which hung with the air of sadness of a lonely woman who never felt loved, was never told she was beautiful, and never once had a best-friend nor boyfriend in her 41 years, she had become a shadow of her former self. Evelyn was a very private person, who was quiet, uptight and troubled. Described by her employer – Mr Bernard Gray - as agitated, eccentric and that she often looked as if she was frightened, being prone to bouts of insomnia and depression, she never found peace within herself and regularly returned to her mother’s home in Ryton for long periods of rest and recuperation. But Romford was not for Evelyn, and as a book-worm surrounded by sheep-farmers, here she felt mentally, physically and emotionally starved, and what she needed was some fun, love and excitement. Friday 6th February 1942 started like any other day. Being a creature of habit, Evelyn rose at 7:30 sharp; washed in the hand-basin, nibbled at a breakfast apple and dressed in her practical clothes she’d laid-out the night before (a thick woollen jumper, a thick woollen skirt, stockings, a bra, a white vest and two pairs of under-garments to keep out the cold). With the February snow being thick under foot and the icy winter wind howling, she wrapped-up warm in her full-length camel hair coat, an orange and pea-green woollen scarf, a green woollen “turban style” hat and black leather gloves. And having applied a thin coat of pink lipstick (hardly a shade darker than her own lips), draped over her shoulder a beige canvas gas-mask (standard issue during World War Two) and clutching her dark brown leather handbag (which looked less like a fashion accessory and more like a wrapped parcel), she gave a polite smile to Mrs Eva Lever, her landlady of her middle-class lodging called The Haven on Link Way in Hornchurch, and headed towards the bus stop. As always, she walked to the bus stop alone, stood at the bus stop alone and opened the shop alone, not realising that (as much as she hated her new routine) that she would never do it, ever again. Being a tall four-storey brick and sandstone building right in the heart of Romford’s busiest market, Yardley’s Chemist shop at 9 Market Place should have been a profitable business, but with times hard, tensions high and the economy in disarray as Britain entered its third year in a six year war, 16 months after the Dunkirk evacuation and 16 months before the D-Day Landings, as the invading forces took France and loomed nearer the English coast, it began to look like Germany would win. So sadly, both Evelyn Hamilton and her 14 year old assistant Miss Bettina Grace Gray were given their notice, and being paid a wage of £5 per week (roughly £250 today), Evelyn was given one month’s pay and the doors of Yardley’s Chemist’s closed forever. Two days later, she would be dead. (Interstitial) On the morning of Sunday 8th February 1942, Evelyn rose at 7:30 sharp, lying alone in a single bed in a drab little rented room, another heavy cloud of depression hung over her. And although she hated where she lived, where she worked and being unemployed, being so qualified, she quickly found work as a pharmacist in the port-town of Grimsby in Lincolnshire; a place where she had no family, no friends and would (once again) be a single woman, in a lonely bed, in an empty room. Having written a letter to her mother (Lucy), which she did every week without fail, using the green and black pencil she’d loaned of her assistant Bettina and forgot to give back, Evelyn added a few pounds of her £20 severance pay to help her doting mother in her old age, and proceeded to pack. Into a large brown trunk, wrapped in protective newspaper, she placed her treasured possessions; family photos of her mother and her three sisters, a stack of books (mostly chemistry textbooks, a history of women’s suffrage and political literature as she was an ardent socialist), and her practical clothes, all of which were neatly washed, ironed and etched with the laundry mark - E2474. Into a medium-sized overnight case, she placed a toothbrush, hairbrush, book and a change of clothes. Perched next to that sat her dark brown leather handbag, containing a white metal lighter, a veneer cigarette case, a metal compact, a pink lipstick, a set of handkerchiefs etched with an E2474 laundry mark, her purse containing what remained of her £20 severance pay (roughly £1000 today), next to which she’d laid out her coat, hat, scarf, gloves and gas-mask. And having settled her account in full with Mrs Eva Lever, landlady of ‘The Haven’, politely declined a spot of tea and left instructions for a railway man to arrive on Monday morning, collect her trunk and send it to Grimsby, Evelyn sat alone on her single bed, smoked a cigarette and opened four brightly coloured cards from her family. As not only was this her 41st birthday, it was also her last day alive. What follows are the last known movements of 41 year old Evelyn Margaret Hamilton: On Sunday 8th February 1942 at 7:20pm, dressed in her camel-hair coat, brown velvet under jacket, white vest, green jumper, brown skirt, brown stockings, black shoes and her usual two pairs of under-garments, with a pea green and orange scarf and a green woollen hat, Evelyn arrived at Hornchurch station clutching her medium sized suitcase, a brown leather handbag and purchased a one-way ticket to London. Arriving at Aldgate East at 9:40pm, four hours after dusk, the city was in pitch-black as the wartime blackout was inforce; and with all street-lamps dimmed, doors closed, curtains shut and vehicle headlights reduced to mere slits to obscure the urban sprawl from the German bombers above, using her trusty 8 inch metal torch, Evelyn joined a sea of people with dull bobbing lights as she took a Hammersmith & City line train nine stops west to Baker Street station. With heavy winter snow crunching under foot and an icy wind blowing in from Siberia, although she had barely a 1/5 mile further to go, Evelyn hailed a black-cab and was driven by Abraham Israel Ash to The Three Arts Club at 76 Gloucester Place; a hotel she had stayed many times before, and always felt safe, warm and comfortable, before catching the early train to Grimsby and her new life up north. The time was 10:15pm, and so far, nothing out of the ordinary had happened; her trains were on time, her cab-driver was pleasant; she hadn’t been short-changed, swindled, followed, accosted or abused, and like any other ordinary people living in a sprawling metropolis like London, with no debts, drink or drug issues, and no enemies what-so-ever, she was an entirely unlikely person to ever be murdered. Evelyn was just a shy nervous lady going about her business and not being a bother to anyone, With half a crown covering the taxi-fare and Abraham’s tip for carrying her suitcase up The Three Arts Club’s stairs, Evelyn checked into a single room for one night and didn’t unpack, instead – feeling a little peckish having politely declined her former landlady’s kind offer of a spot of tea – Evelyn asked Ms Kathleen Rosser Jones (manageress of The Three Arts Club) if food was still being served, but with the kitchens now closed, Evelyn set out into the dark streets of Marylebone in search of sustenance. The time was 10:50pm. And with the street being cold, her stomach having rumbled too many times and the batteries of her torch slowly dying as the dim bulb began to fade; Evelyn hopped in a black-cab and headed half a mile south to the one place that was always open and never stopped serving. This was her last taxi-ride, to her final meal, which passed a little side-street behind her hotel called Montagu Place, where just a few hours later, Evelyn Hamilton would be found dead. The cab ride should have taken little more than five minutes, but Evelyn’s whereabouts over the next hour are unknown. Where she went? Nobody knows. Who she saw? Nobody knows. What she did? Nobody knows. But it’s unlikely that anything suspicious or untoward happened, it’s just an odd gap in the last known movements of a shy quiet lady with very few friends, a fondness for solitude, and a deep desire to be anonymous, blend into the crowd and never be noticed. Just before of midnight, at the junction of Oxford Street and Great Cumberland Place (now the site of the Cumberland Hotel which overlooks the prestigious addresses of Marble Arch, Park Lane and Hyde Park), Evelyn entered Maison Lyonese; a well-respected five-storey corner-house tearoom, one of five in London, which was famed for its speedy service, 24 hour restaurants, live entertainment and food-hall packed full of delicatessens, chocolatiers, florists and hair-salons. Witnessed by waitress Betty Witcover walking into the brasserie, although she was neither seated nor served by Betty, she felt a sympathetic pang for Evelyn, a lonely women sitting by herself amongst a sea of raucous friends, kissing couples and boozy servicemen, as she raised a single solitary toast to herself, on this her 41st birthday. According to her autopsy, her final meal was one small glass of white wine, two slices of wholemeal bread and a main-course mostly consisting of beetroot. After that, Evelyn Hamilton disappeared; no-one saw her talk to anyone, no-one saw her leave, and she was never seen alive again. On the following morning of Monday 9th February 1942, at 8:40am, local Paddington plumber Harold Batchelor and his mate William Baldwin were walking to their first job of the day; the cold air caused their cheeks to flush, the biting wind made their noses sniffle and under their boots they crunched a fresh layer of pristine white snow, as they crossed over Gloucester Place and into Montagu Place. On the left hand side of Montagu Place; positioned half on the pavement, half on the road and built in a neat little line, were three surface air-raid shelters, one of thousands which dotted the city. Being 7 ½ foot high, 7 ½ foot wide, with a 23 foot middle shelter and two half its size either side; although these three oblong blocks made of 14 inch brick, 1 foot thick reinforced concrete roofs and covered with 20 kilo sandbags wouldn’t protect its terrified occupants from a direct-hit; one year earlier, it had saved 100 residents from certain death, having shielded them from the blast-wave, shrapnel and falling debris of a Nazi bomb, so in Montagu Place, these air-raid shelters were a place of safety. Last night though, there wasn’t an air-raid, no German bombers had flown by and no bombs were dropped, so apart from an occasional homeless man or kissing couple, the shelters would be empty. But as Harold and William walked by the larger middle shelter, on the snow speckled pavement they spotted the broken top of an 8 inch metal torch, a lady’s green woollen “turban style” hat, and poking out of the brick entrance was a woman’s left leg lying prostrate on the floor, wearing brown stockings and practical black shoes. Reeling from the shock, Harold barked “Will? Fetch the Police”. The crime-scene was promptly secured by PC John Mills, ready for the arrival of Divisional Detective Inspector Leonard Clare at 8:55am and the Divisional Surgeon Alexander Baldie at 9:10am. With her handbag missing, Police were uncertain who this woman was; all they knew was that she was in her early forties, 5 foot 3 ½ inches tall, 7 stone in weight, wearing a full-length camel coat, a pea green and orange woollen scarf, a pale shade of pink lipstick and that she had been murdered. Being a fastidiously neat women whose unfashionable clothes were professionally cleaned, pressed and etched with the laundry mark – E2474 – now she lay dumped in the wet gutter of the road which ran through the centre of damp dark shelter; her clothes all dirty, torn and in disarray. With her left leg poking out of the entrance, her right leg remained within, raised and resting on the shelter’s brickwork, her practical black shoes badly scraped and scuffed. Under her brown stockings lay fragments of brick mortar which had broken away from the wall, as in a desperate fight for her life, she had fought back, as a violent struggle took place. Denying her any hint of modesty, her calf-length brown skirt had been pulled up to her hips, her torn bloomers and ripped knickers pulled down to her knees, her legs spread wide, and the genitals of a deeply private woman exposed for all to see. What hatred he’d had for this small timid woman, to humiliate her in such a way, nobody would know. But with her camel-hair coat splayed open under her cold corpse, her white vest torn, deliberately exposing her right breast, Police felt that not only had she been posed, but that her punishment wasn’t just a violent and sickening death, but also her humiliation. And although her pea green and orange woollen scarf slightly masked her bruised cheeks and bloodied lips, peeping out from above, her eyes were etched with terror. Three days later, 41 year old Evelyn Margaret Hamilton was identified at Paddington Mortuary by Ms Kathleen Rosser Jones (manageress of The Three Arts Club), her former employer Mr Bernard Grey of Yardley’s Chemists in Romford, and her sister Kathleen Hamilton. At 3pm that afternoon, an autopsy was held at Paddington Mortuary by the Home Office pathologist (and father of forensic science) Sir Bernard Spilsbury in the presence of Divisional Detective Inspector Leonard Clare, but the evidence presented before them was perplexing. . With her handbag, purse, money and all forms of ID missing, Police considered a possible motive of robbery, but were confused as to why her attacker had left an expensive gold watch on her left wrist. With no sperm found in her vagina, Police ruled out rape as sexual intercourse had not taken place, but they couldn’t account for the a small amount of blood found in and around her vagina. And with abrasions to her legs, scalp and back, with a 1 inch cut on her left eyebrow, a 2 inch bruise on her right cheek, a 3 inch abrasion on the back of her neck, and an odd series of small cuts on her right breast, was this a physical assault, or the work of a sexual sadist? What they knew for certain was that (owing to her body’s temperature and state of decomposition) Evelyn Hamilton’s time of death was roughly 1am, barely one hour after waitress Betty Witcover had seen her in Maison Lyonese, a time which was corroborate by her broken gold watch. And that, with her bloodshot eyes, her dilated pupils, her flushed swollen face, her fractured larynx, her engorged lips, fingers and swollen tongue which jutted from the white froth of her open mouth, with a clear bruised outline of a thumb over her throat and four fingers pressed into the mottled flesh at the back of her neck, Police were certain that she had been throttled to death by a left-handed strangler. But sadly, that’s where the investigation into the murder of Evelyn Hamilton stalled; as with no motive, no witnesses and no fingerprints what-so-ever; very little physical evidence beyond her torn clothes, her broken torch, some scuffed shoes, a few fragments of brick mortar, and a tin of Ovaltine tablets and a pack of Masters safety matches (which no-one knew who they belonged to); as well as the fresh snow having masked any footprints and the last hour of Evelyn’s life being a complete mystery. Her shocking murder on Montagu Place asked more questions than it answered, such as; if she took a cab from the hotel to the restaurant, why didn’t she take one back? If she walked back, why would she do so, alone, in the cold, with a broken torch? And with Montagu Place barely a 10 second walk from her hotel, why would she go inside of an air-raid shelter on a night when there were no air-raids? Was Evelyn followed? Did Evelyn have a dark-side? Had Evelyn a secret enemy? Or was 41 year old Evelyn Hamilton; a bookish women who was too shy to talk, too timid to dress-up and too reticent for red lipstick, who hide in the background of life and had no experience of love, was this painfully lonely women approached by a man, flattered by his attention, brought a birthday drink and then lured to her death by the first man ever to tell her she was beautiful? That, we shall never know. Her murder would have remained unsolved… but during that terrifying week in February 1942, across the dark-lit bombed-out streets of London’s West End, as the petrified people scurried in the darkness for fear of being murdered by the German bombers which loomed above, a sexual sadist stalked the streets. Evelyn Hamilton was the first, but she wouldn’t be the last victim of The Blackout Ripper. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Murder Was The Case; presented criminologist Lee Mellor and host Vanessa Vanelli, Murder Was The Case is a fascinating in-depth analysis of murder, by an expert, explain the difference between homicide and murder; serial-killer and mass-murderers, genocide, patricide, matricide, infanticide and every detail about murder that you’ve ever wanted to know. So if you’ve got a curious mind eager for facts, check out Murder Was The Case. (Play Promo) Don’t forget to check out the Murder Mile website at murdermiletours.com, find us on Twitter or Instagram, join the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast discussion group on Facebook, or even better, for extra exclusive content, subscribe to the Murder Mile Patreon group. . A quick thank you this week to the fabulous people who have left five-star reviews of Murder Mile and have been truly fabulous on social media, they include; Dennaz Broacha-Jones, Rhomany, Summer Sabateur, Poor Little Nell, Janine Madden and English Expat. And a big thank you to my very first Patreon supporter, so eager was this man to get access to exclusive Murder Mile content, that he signed up to our Patreon account before I’d even launched it, so a huge thank you goes out to Terrence Scannel, Patreon #1. And just before I started recorded Cam Roberts pledged $3 too, a big thank you to Cam Roberts. And a quick shout-out goes to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Canadian True-Crime; hosted by Kristi, Canadian True-Crime is a well-researched and well-presented deep-dive into the twisted lives of some truly warped Canadians, such as Robert Pickton, Tori Stafford, the Ken & Barbie Killers. And second is Killafornia Dreaming, hosted by Rosanna, Killafornia Dreaming brings you terrifying true-crime stories from the Golden State of California, which statistically has the highest proportion of serial killers in America. Both are excellent podcasts and will truly put you off going to Canada or California. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode… is part two of our series into The Blackout Ripper. Thank you for listening 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 various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
*** 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 ***
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. Archives
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