BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Westbound Metropolitan Line platform at King's Cross
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-EIGHT: On Saturday 30th January 1965, at 10:50am, two men met for the very first time on the west bound Metropolitan Line of King’s Cross underground station. The first was a 44-year-old porter called Lawrence Gwyther, and the other was a 42-year-old homeless alcoholic called John Ritchie. Until that very moment, the two men had never met. And although their brief interaction would last just a few seconds, this incident would change both of their lives forever. And yet, their paths would only cross owing to circumstances outside of their control.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the attempted murder is marked with a purple raindrop near the words King's Cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. RITCHIE, John: attempted murder of Lawrence GWYTHER on 30 January 1965 in King's Cross underground station, London by pushing in front of train. Convicted of attempted grievous bodily harm http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10878991 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing at King’s Cross station; two roads south of where Glyndwr Michael’s heroic after-life began, one road north of the Sad Faced Killer’s hotel, a few feet from where the Camden Ripper picked up sex-workers, and one road east of the man who mumbled – coming soon to Murder Mile. Below King’s Cross sits a subsurface station which connects the Piccadilly, Northern, Victoria, Circle, Bakerloo, Hammersmith & City and the Metropolitan lines. As one of the busiest tube stations in Europe, more than a hundred and fifty thousand people a day pass through this station; for some it’s part of their commute or a place of work, and for others it’s somewhere to stay dry and beg for change. King’s Cross is a haven for the homeless. Here you’ll see such sights of sadness, as a family of haggard refugees huddled in a rain-sodden doorway, a ragged mess dressed in nothing but a soiled duvet, a brutally honest alcoholic “mate, I just wanna get pissed”, and my personal favourite, the red-headed man with the imaginative ploy who once said to me “I’m saving up for a boob job, ain’t I?”. Everyone of them has a tragic tale to tell; whether a life of hardship, struggle, addiction or abuse. Some are criminals, some are heroes, some are lost, and others never want to be found. We all make assumptions in the few seconds it takes to apologetically tap our pockets or toss them a few coins to feel better about ourselves. But no-one really wants to get involved… and that’s the real problem. On Saturday 30th January 1965 at 10:50am on the westbound Metropolitan Line of King’s Cross tube station, two men from very different worlds met for the first time. One was a 44-year-old porter called Lawrence Gwyther, and the other was a 42-year-old homeless alcoholic called John Ritchie. Their interaction was brief, their words exchanged were few and their lives need never have crossed. And yet - for reasons outside of their control - it did, and changed both of their lives forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 168: The Outcast. It was a day which began for both men like any other… Lawrence Francis Gwyther was a 44-year-old bachelor who lived a good life in a small lodging at nearby 23 Granville Square. As a hard-working warehouse porter, he did his job, he paid his taxes and he kept out of trouble. He was tall and slim but sturdy, and having suffered with epilepsy since childhood, he’d been unable to enlist as a war-time soldier, but he did his duty for King & Country as a messenger. Described as “a quiet thoughtful man” who was no bother to anyone, he kept to himself but he wasn’t afraid to speak up if he felt that something wasn’t right. That morning at 10:30am, as regular as clockwork, Lawrence began his walk to work, heading one mile north to King’s Cross station. (whistle) In contrast - according to his extensive criminal record - John Ritchie was a 42-year-old ‘vagabond’ with a long history of drunkenness, theft and violent assault. Having been unable to hold down even the most menial of jobs since his teens, he hadn’t worked a day in the last seven years, and living in a hostel funded by tax-payers, he leeched off the system and squandered his benefits on booze. That morning, having already sunk two bottles of wine, a quart of cider and a hip-flask of whiskey – at least that’s what he could recall – being broke, John stumbled onto the Victoria Line at Walthamstow. Having arrogantly leaped the barrier and barked abuse at the ticket inspector, this shambling mess rode the tube for free and accosted every commuter for cash, as this scruffy ne’er-do-well staggered about wreaking of piss - as on his shoulder and sleeve, a splash of last night’s puke slowly congealed. In court, he couldn’t account for how he got there, as being in an alcoholic haze of anger and hate, he “hated these bastards” and everything about them, and yet – the irony was - he needed their money. At 10am, eye-witnesses report seeing John in a tunnel to the side of the ticket hall of King’s Cross tube station. Sitting slumped, although sloshed, he begged for change by playing his mouth organ. For the station staff, John was a habitual pest, but – momentarily lost in his music - he wasn’t being abusive. At 10:45am, Lawrence entered the main hall, he purchased a ticket, he went through the turnstile and he turned right into the tunnel towards the Metropolitan Line. A few feet behind him was Eric Mueller-Ahsmann, a 40-year-old Planning Officer who would state “…my attention was drawn to a scruffy man playing the mouth organ”. Just as Lawrence would, “as I passed him, he kept playing, but held out his hand for money. I carried on by, and as we do, I said “not now, another time”, or something like that”. That was the first time that Lawrence and John had met; they didn’t speak nor interact, but the porter would have seen there was just a few pennies in the dirty outstretched hand of this pissed-up vagrant. At 10:46am, Lawrence descended the wide stone stairs, turned left onto the westbound Metropolitan Line platform, and stood near the mouth of the tunnel alongside thirty other people. Number 184, a six-car train was (add Tannoy) “about to depart Farringdon and would/will arrive in four minutes”. Eric continued: “a few minutes later, the man had made his way onto the platform. He was swaying about, I thought he was either off-his head or simple. I saw him go to two youngsters sitting on a seat”. Being schoolboys and intimidated by the rambling drunk, (Eric) “one of them gave him a penny”. But with a penny of the boy’s pocket-money not enough to buy booze, John held out his hand for more. Hugh Ferry, a 51-year-old interior decorator told the court; “another man told the mouth organ player he should not be begging”. Others would clarify what Lawrence had said “do your begging elsewhere”, followed by an afterthought of “maybe put your cap on the floor, you might be more successful?”. From the second they had first met to this final interaction, Lawrence and John’s encounter had lasted no longer than three minutes and ten words at best. They hadn’t made eye-contact, there were no raised voices, Lawrence’s words were neither abusive nor threatening, and – not wanting to cause a scene – the warehouse porter calmly moved a third of the way down the platform, away from John. (Tannoy) “The next westbound Hammersmith & City line train will be arriving in two minutes”. At 10:48am, being six hours into his shift manoeuvring the 184 from Whitechapel to Hammersmith, Albert Copeland had left Farringdon on time. Driving the six-car train at 40mph through the tunnels, although it would slow to 25mph as it approached the platform, even if the emergency brake is pulled in time, it would still take a few hundred feet for this two-hundred tonne train to come to a stop. Standing three feet from the platform edge, Lawrence was minding his own business. And to all who would witness what was about to be unleashed, it seemed as if the scruffy little vagrant was too, as his mouth-organ parped a little ditty and his filthy scratched hand reached out for change. Eric would state “…he turned to the people on the seat and said something, pointing to the man who just shrugged him off. He was making a nuisance of himself, passing remarks and appeared to be under the influence of drink. He seemed to be seeking their sympathy and carried on playing the mouth organ… then he stopped, and pointed to the man who was then standing at the edge of the platform”. To many, it looked as if John was mocking him, but (rightly so) Lawrence just ignored him. (Tannoy) “The westbound train will be arriving in one minute”. Whether what happened was fuelled by anger or stupidity - with any rational thoughts clouded by a booze-fuelled haze - as the shambling mess of a man sidled up the platform, having accosted all and sundry, he stopped behind Lawrence. Hugh would state “he came up behind him, and with his foot near his buttocks, he made a gesture as if he was going to push him. I took this to be a sort of joke”. Lawrence didn’t know this, he didn’t see it, and he didn’t feel it… but it was not a joke. (Tannoy) “Please stand back, as the train is now approaching”. At 10:50am, bang on time, as the westbound train hurtled through the pitch-dark tunnel into bright blinding light of the platform, (Eric) “the drunk man gave his buttocks a violent shove…” towards the 630-volt electrified track. “It was a heavy kick and the man lurched forward”. And although – being blessed with quick reflexes – having seen it happen, Albert had pulled the emergency brake… …but it was too late… (Albert Copeland) “…I heard him strike the train”. (Train stops… …silence… …alarm). The chance of anyone surviving being struck by a 200-tonne train at 25mph over a 630-volt track would be one-chance-in-a-million. But miracles do happen, as this was obviously not Lawrence’s day to die. Later, he would tell the court that “I felt a blow in the pit of my back, and this happened just as a train came out of the tunnel. I fell forward and managed to turn, at the same time I hit the side of the train”. Having been kicked a split-second too late, he had missed being smacked by the roaring train by inches or falling onto the track underneath the train’s wheels. Instead, the right hand side of his body hit the motorman’s cab, and having bounced off the window, Lawrence was thrown back onto the platform. Lawrence: “I don’t know what happened next, but I gathered my senses”. And as Albert brought the tube train to a standstill, he was amazed to see not only that Lawrence was alive, but still standing. The only injuries to his body were a bruise to his palm, a cut on his little finger and a ripped fingernail. Whether it was down to fate, luck or maybe just a drunk who couldn’t kick straight… …someone was watching over him. With John Ritchie attempting to flee, the train driver and two witnesses grabbed him by his sleeve and frogmarched the stinky reprobate to the Station Inspector’s office in the ticket hall. Kicking up a fuss and wreaking of whiskey, as he unleashed the foulest of language, when Lawrence told PC Dugdale “…this man tried to kill me”, John admitted “I did, and I’ll fucking do a proper job of it if I go down for this. I’ll kill the cunt. He’s not going to touch me up” - an alleged sexual assault that no-one had seen. With five eye-witnesses, John Ritchie was taken to Caledonian Road Police Station and charged with causing Actual Bodily Harm under Section 47 of the Offences Against Person Act of 1861. Tried at Clerkenwell Magistrates Court, the jury heard of his history as one of life’s wastrels. Described as a “scoundrel”, a “rogue” and a “vagabond”, John Ritchie was nothing more than a recalcitrant and a drunk. Since the age of 19, he had spent 9 years 10 months and 8 days of his 42-years in prison for a never-ending catalogue of crimes, such as; robbery, theft, burglary and assaulting three policemen. Throughout his life, repeated attempts were made to improve his behaviour - with three years spent in corrective training and six months in a psychiatric hospital - but as a remorseless drunk who flouted bail and often broke his probation, it was clear he didn’t care and was unwilling to change his ways. With the magistrate feeling that a charge of Actual Bodily Harm was a sentence too lenient given what could have happened, the case was escalated to the Old Bailey on the charge of attempted murder. (Cell door / silence). And that was it. There was nothing else to say. The evidence was water-tight, the witnesses were clear and – although drunk at the time of the attack – John Ritchie did not dispute these events. He did it. Those were his words. And he wouldn’t use an insanity plea or diminished responsibility as an excuse. The prosecution had put before the jury every reprehensible thing he had done in his life to paint him as the leech on society which (he would agree) that he was. But he also felt that unfairly this was only one side of his life-story and that there was more to him than just a criminal record. His was a history of hardship, and maybe if he appealed to a sympathetic ear, he wouldn’t go to prison for life? In a letter to the Court of Appeal, John wrote “My Lords, I have no wish to minimise the charges against me. It was a wrong and foolish act, and I am sincerely sorry. However, I feel that my case was badly defended and that the court was not informed as to my actual physical state at the time”. This was what the jury did not hear… John Ritchie was born on the 30th April 1922 in Paisley, Scotland, as the second eldest of eight siblings in a small cramped lodging where every week they struggled to make-ends-meet. When asked, John’s memory of his childhood was vague, as maybe he couldn’t recall or maybe he chose to forget? What he could remember was that his father was an angry abusive drinker who was handy with his fists. Until the age of 14, John was educated at Abercorn Public School in Paisley where he learned to read and write. As a short slightly-scrawny kid, although a chatty little fella, he got a reputation as a bit of a scrapper as the bigger bullies picked on the feisty lad at school, and then again when he got home. Whether he was abandoned or fled in fear, being barely in his teens, he would lose almost all contact with his family. As far as he knew; his siblings had scattered, his mother had died of cancer and his father was alive eleven years ago, although - by now – it was likely that he had drunk himself to death. His first job was as a newspaper boy in Glasgow, making a pittance for long hours standing in the cold and wet. Determined to earn his own money and stand on his own two feet, he slogged his guts out for two years and did himself proud. By 1938, aged 16, he was training as an apprentice car mechanic; he was learning a trade, he lived in a rented lodging, he had food in his belly and a bright future ahead. Socially he drank, as many would do to dull the edges of the daily grind, but his real joy was music. He would play his mouth organ to keep himself calm and to escape to a better place, far from his past. Life was going well for John… until the world changed everything. In August 1939, under orders to fight for King & County, 17-year-old John Ritchie was conscripted to fight as a rifleman in the Cameronian Rifles, seeing active service in the Middle East, Sicily and Italy. He was a just small frightened kid, sent off to fight, to kill, to die in a foreign land of unspeakable horrors. Images it was impossible to scrubs from his memory once the blood was etched into his brain. With no outlet for his trauma, he drank. And the more death he saw, the more he drank, until getting wasted was the only way to survive the moments when his eyes were open. Deep down he was a good lad, and (some say) decent when he was sober, but when he drank, the drink unleashed his demons. On 14th May 1943 and 4th January 1946, Private John Ritchie was court marshalled for two cases of ‘drunkenness and desertion’ and was sentenced to a total of 14 months in prison. During his desertion, he had turned to crime; being bound over for 3 years for ‘robbery with violence’, 3 months hard labour for ‘stealing cigarettes’ and 6 months for ‘burglary and theft’. Following this last conviction, he was discharged with ignominy from the Cameronian Rifles, making him ineligible for veteran’s benefits. Distanced from his family, traumatised by the war and denied the most basic of income he was owed, alcohol became his way to cope. This was his vicious circle; as the more he drank, the more he stole. With nothing of any value in his life, ‘John the Veteran’ became ‘John the Vagrant’; a shambling mess who drifted from town-to-town causing a nuisance. His crimes were minor; March 48, Marylebone, 3 months for stealing 29 shillings; September 48, Clerkenwell, 7 days for the theft of an egg-cup and gravy boat; August 49, Glasgow, 90 days for drink driving; October 49, Glasgow, 3 months for the theft of cigarettes; May 50, Bow Street, assaulting a policeman; and June 50, 6 months for drink driving. On paper, when read out to a jury, this brief passage from his lengthy criminal record makes him seem like a selfish remorseless thief. Only he wasn’t, he was an addict, and he was trying to fight it. In 1951, as he had done many times before, John had battled his demons and sobered up; from January 51 to July 52, he worked for eight months as a packer at Cowan de Groot in Holborn, and eleven months as a machine operator at Babcox & Wilcox nearby. He was sober, polite, prompt and well-liked. After a decade in the wilderness, he had finally got his life back on track… …only (of all his battles) drink was the most difficult demon to slay. In July 52, after his fourth conviction for driving while drunk, John was sentenced to 6 months at Long Grove Mental Hospital, where he would be detoxed under strict medical supervision. Every day was pain and every night he screamed, as his torturous demons refused to let his addled brain be free. But he did it and he was clean. In November 52, he found work as a handy-man at Frederick Simons in Holborn, and again got his life back on track. But as often happens, having kept his criminal record a secret (as no-one wants to hire an ex-con); he lost his job, his lodging and - gripped with depression - he fell back on booze. His life continued this way through the 1950s and into the 1960s; he was in and out of prison, on and off of jobs, and back and forth from the bottle. Some days he was clean, others he was sloshed. Some weeks he had a roof over his head, and others he slept shivering in a rain-soaked doorway. In prison, at least he was fed and dry, but regardless of his crimes, he was always a prisoner of his own body. From 53 to 58, he barely worked a few weeks or days as a packer in a factory, and being sacked from his last job as a kitchen porter in Margate, for the rest of his life he lived off benefits of £4 and 17s per week, which he squandered on drink – news which would only have rankled any tax-paying jury. On the 11th December 1964, John was released HMP Dartmoor; he had been unemployed for 7 years, a prisoner for 10, homeless for 15 and he had been battling alcoholism for almost quarter of a century. With a criminal record stretching over four pages, he was known to every pub or off-licence, constable or court, and his rap-sheet listed him as a “vagabond”, a “rogue” and a “scoundrel”. In short, he was dirt. One month after his release, John was living in a half-way-house at 99 Church Hill in Walthamstow; a depressing bedsit in a hostel crammed full of sex pests, druggies and drunks. He had no job, no roots, no friends, and with those old familiar demons calling his name, he knew that he needed help. John “As I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in prison, I tried to do something to affect a cure. I walked into St Mary’s in Paddington. The best they could do for me was to see a psychiatrist the next week. I attended” and seeing the seriousness of his sickness “I was recommended hospitalisation”. A possible cure for his illness was in sight, John “I was fixed an appointment for the 9th February 1965, and in the interval, I truly tried to do without alcohol… but the compulsion was too strong”; as it’s easier to stay sober on a ward, but almost impossible when you’re stuck in a dingy depressing bedsit. On Wednesday 27th January, he contacted the Probation Service who tried to intervene, as seeing his pain and desperation to get clean, they knew if he got back on the booze he would go back to prison. Somehow it worked. That day, John received confirmation. On Monday 1st February 1965, one week earlier, he would be committed to St Bernard’s psychiatric hospital to treat his alcoholism. This was John’s moment to kick his addiction forever… …all he had to do was to wade out the weekend without touching the booze. But that’s about as easy as telling a hungry mouse to stop nibbling a wheel of cheese. He would try, but he would fail. John: “I was arrested that night for drink and bailed when sober. I failed to appear in court. I was arrested again and fined, arrested again and bailed out. And I carried on like this in an alcoholic haze…”. On Saturday 30th January 1965 at 10:45am, as John Ritchie played his mouth organ to soothe his pain beside the westbound Metropolitan Line tube; having been drunk, tired and hungry for four days, and having sunk two bottles of wine, a quart of cider and a hip-flask of whiskey that morning alone, he had no memory of how he got there and - having fallen off the wagon – he had lost his one shot at sobriety. John was back to square one; a homeless drunk stuck in a vicious circle. And as every person passed him, no-one had any idea about his past or his struggle, as to them he was just a dirty drunk. (End) At 11:10am, having been dragged by a baying mob to the Station Inspector’s office of King’s Cross; as five witnesses spoke of how he had kicked Lawrence Gwyther into the path of a moving train, it was the drink who spoke up for John Ritchie – (Lawrence) “…this man tried to kill me”, (John) “I did, and I’ll fucking do a proper job of it if I go down for this. I’ll kill the cunt”. And with that, his fate was sealed Taken to Caledonian Road Police Station, he was charged with ABH and he was held at Brixton Prison. When his case was heard at Clerkenwell, the jury would learn of every bad deed he had done, but not the context for his drinking and his aggression. Escalated to the Old Bailey, on 11th March 1965 John Ritchie was tried on the more serious charge of ‘attempted murder’, which – if found guilty – would warrant a life behind bars. Again, his history was ignored, and he was sentenced to 5 years for ABH. Hoping to be heard by a sympathetic ear, he sent a handwritten letter to the Court of Appeal imploring “I truly state that although I was provoked into this assault, had I been of the right mind, reason would have controlled impulsive emotions, that - at the time through continual drinking, a lack of food and sleep - I was in a poor state both mentally and physically. Considering these facts my Lords, I consider the present sentence of five years is severe and I appeal for leniency. Yours. John Ritchie”. His appeal was rejected and he was sent to Wandsworth Prison. In March 1987, Lawrence Gwyther died in Hendon at the age of 67. And after his release, John Ritchie’s whereabouts remain unknown. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The main door to 69 Eaton Place leading to flat 3
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVEN: On the morning of Sunday 10th August at 09:08am, Victor Ford-Lloyd the butler to Sir William Ackroyd entered the top floor flat at 69 Eaton Place after a night out. In the master bedroom, he found his friend, his lover and the man servant to Sir William dead. Having died several hours earlier, he was lying motionless, with a sticky pool of congealed blood about his head, having had his skull brutally smashed in with a hammer. But why?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the murder is marked with a black raindrop near the word Belgravia. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. Archive File - CRIM 1/5227 / DPP 2/4727 - - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11026966 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: On the morning of Sunday 10th August 1969, Victor Ford-Lloyd yawned as he staggered down Eaton Place, still feeling a little tipsy as he chuckled to himself at the night he just had. Looking rough after a long hot night, at about 9am, Sir William’s butler returned to 69 Eaton Place. (Sounds: door lock, stairs, “Frankie?”, door, dog whimpers, stairs, “Frankise?”). (Phone dials) “Hello Police? I am at Sir William Ackroyd’s residence… there is a body upstairs”. But as he stood, staring at the corpse of Frank hocking; his best friend, his lover and the man he owed his life to, Victor knew that everything which was good about his life had been stolen from him in an instant. Victor was nothing without Frank… and he knew it.It didn’t take long for Detective Chief Superintendent Ivor Reynolds to assess and dismiss the myriad of possible motives for Frank’s brutal murder. This wasn’t a robbery as nothing was stolen. This wasn’t a burglary as the outer doors and windows were intact. This wasn’t mistaken identity as over the bed hung Sir William’s portrait. And this wasn’t a homophobic assault, as Frank hadn’t been threatened. There were many details about the crime-scene which didn’t make sense, but what was obvious was that the killer knew the flat, he had a key, he had a motive and this attack was personal. At 9:45am, divisional police surgeon Dr Albert Lovell declared the life of Frank Hocking as extinct. Judging by the trail of detritus Frank had left in his last moments alive, he had undressed in a small bedroom placing his clothes on an armchair and a small pile of underwear on the floor. But having already been assaulted, with his shirt cuff stained with his blood – for whatever reason – someone had left him change into his night attire of blue pyjamas and white socks… only to then kill him. Prior to his death, a bitter argument had taken place; the bedroom door was forced open, a white lamp had been broken and a clump of Frank’s hair had been ripped-out at roots. At some point. Frank had voluntarily entered Sir William’s bedroom; he had got into the bed, and lying face-up and straight, he had covered himself in a crisp white sheet - as if he was going to sleep. But he didn’t call the police. Toxicology reported a high level of alcohol in his blood and a strong smell on his breath, as well as a considerable concentration of urine in his trousers and vomit on his shoulder, airway and bedsheets. The autopsy confirmed that – whilst lying down, yet still awake - Frank had been brutally bludgeoned over the head several times with a hammer. With no impact injuries to his hands or arms, he hadn’t attempted to protect his face, so it’s more than likely that the fatal blows were swift and unexpected. Upon examination, it was clear that Frank’s face and body was a patchwork of defensive wounds; some cuts, scratches and bruises, and although a few were fresh, the majority told tales of old assaults. Above his right ear lay a deep impression fracture - 1 ½ inches long, 1 ¾ inches wide and 2 inches deep – the weapon was heavy and leaving a hexagonal mark, it perfectly matched any household hammer. One blow would have been enough, but slightly above that wound was a second - 3 ½ inches wide. With his skull smashed in, as blood pooled across the pillows, he sustained extensive haemorrhaging to the brain stem and temporal lobes, which rendered him paralysed and unconscious. Examined just shy of 10am, he had been dead for 10 to 12 hours, but it had taken him an additional six hours to die. The crime scene itself wasn’t a great mystery for DCS Reynolds - as finding a pink bloodstained shirt hidden under a shelf in the utility room (matching the one Victor had worn to the casino) and a white bloodstained shirt in the laundry basket (matching the one he wore to Coq Au Vin, with two missing buttons later found under the chaise-lounge) - the question wasn’t whether he had done it, but why? In the utility room where Albert the pampered Pomeranian slept, a steel-headed, wood-handled, foot-long hammer was missing, and after a brief search, it was found under a cushion on a floral armchair. The blood on its head matched Frank’s and the fingerprints on the handle would later match Victor’s. With Frank dead and with Sir William in Scotland (as confirmed by many sources), the police had one prime suspect and enough evidence to prove his guilt, but what they really wanted was a confession… …only that would prove tricky. At 10:25am, in the upstairs hallway, the detective introduced himself “I am Chief Superintendent Reynolds. I request your assistance while I make enquires into Mr Hocking’s death”. And Victor agreed. Victor’s lack of emotion had intrigued him, as he professed to be upset, only his eyes said otherwise. There were no tears, no sobs nor quivers. It was as if his feelings for his late lover were switched off. Which was odd as Victor was a very emotional man. Everyone knew that especially when drunk - being unduly sensitive about his upbringing –he was prone to bursts of tearful anger, and when he did something wrong, he would lie until he could lie no more, even when the truth was glaringly obvious. At 11:05am, the first interview was conducted at Gerald Road, a small discrete police station two roads south of Eaton Place, which was nestled among a row of wealthy houses. During his questioning, he would give several accounts of his movements that night. The question was which one was right? (Police) “Where did you go yesterday?”, (Victor) “We went out to dinner at Noah’s Ark in Oxford”. (Police) “What did you drink?”, (Victor) “Quite a lot. Five or six big Martinis before dinner, and Frank had two or three brandies”. (Police) “When you arrived back at 69 Eaton Place about 1am, did you go in with Frank?”, (Victor) “No, I saw him to the front door. I was going on to get coffee and cigarettes”. (Police) “Did he know that?”, (Victor) “No. Frank was sloshed, so I didn’t want him to come, he’s always nagging, so I left him at the lift”. (Police) “And after that?”, (Victor) “…I went to Crockfords to play roulette. I stayed till 4am, winning £200. I tried to get into the Playboy Club, and - not wanting to wake anyone up - I stayed at the Hilton, Room 1215. I left at about 8:30am and got home by taxi at 9am”. The Police knew this was untrue but the best way to trap the guilty is to hang them with their own lie. (Police) “Was Frank expecting any friends or visitors?”, (Victor) “No, but you know what it is. He could have gone out after I had gone and picked up someone. There’s a men’s toilet at Pont Street”. Only, there was no evidence of sexual assault, and as for robbery, Frank still had £227 in his pockets. Examined by Dr Lovell, Victor had two scars running across his forehead from an old car accident, and five fresh abrasions to his lower lip, cheeks and mouth, which he blamed on shaving cuts. And although this was possible, it was as the Police probed further, that his answers became hazy and uncertain. (Victor) “I am a bit confused about the days and times. I am not trying to put up a defence of blaming this on liquor, I am trying to be helpful because things are coming back to me slowly. Let us start from the beginning; Frank & I work for Sir William Ackroyd. Frank is his man servant and I am his butler”. Only he was not Sir William’s butler… …and just like the bulk of his statements, most of it was a lie. In July 1968, having heard about his tragic upbringing – raised in a boy’s home, fleeing to Australia and his decent into petty crime – Frank introduced Victor to Sir William who wanted to help. All of that is true. (Victor) “When I went to 69 Eaton Place… I worked for Sir William as his butler”, but this was not. Sir William would state “I did not pay him and he was never in my employ”. With Frank as Sir William’s manservant and valet, Victor did odd jobs to help out; dog-walking, shopping, a little DIY (using the flat’s toolkit) and he was briefly a chauffeur, until he lost his licence owing to a drink/drive conviction. Using his contacts, Sir William found him some work; as a salesman at John Michael’s tailors on Saville Row which he lost owing to lateness; as a catering assistant at Searcy Tansley, a job he lost owing to a suspicion of theft; and at Fortum & Mason’s as a waiter, only Victor said “I was a butler”. Only he wasn’t. At the time of the murder, he was working part-time in this job, and although his employment was so he could pay £4-a-week to stay in Sir William’s spare room, not a single penny was paid in rent. And being a man who was used to the finer things in life, his meagre wage didn’t stretch far. It should have come as no surprise – given his criminal past – that Victor couldn’t stop his sticky fingers. Across their year-long friendship; he stole from Sir William, cashed stolen cheques, pawned a set of gold cufflinks and bought goods from Harrods, to such an extent that Sir William closed the account. It’s likely that this was overlooked as (Victor) “Sir William is an alcoholic and Frank is as well”. Having been an alcoholic since he was 16, although Sir William had twice paid for Victor to enter an exclusive detox clinic called The Priory, his return to Sir William’s flat was akin a sex-addict living above a brothel. There’s no denying that the relationship was complicated. Being three gay alcoholics, Victor described their love-life as a “complicated triangle”. As Frank was definitely having an affair with Victor (Victor) “as a result of my being there, a relationship grew between Frank and I... this was a purely homosexual relationship”. And although kept a secret, many close friends knew that Sir William was dating Frank. This was a toxic triangle he’d have done well to steer clear of, but being a lost lad from a broken past, his new life of a ‘butler’ got him a step nearer to being a pretty boy on a wealthy sugar daddy’s arm. (Victor) “After four months together, it terminated, on my part, but not on his. I tried to case it off by kindness but it developed into a holocaust of rows and screaming and scenes. As a result, Frank drank more, I drank more and so did Sir William… it reached the stage where physical violence came into it”. Being so hot-headed, it was not uncommon to see Frank & Victor bickering and coming to blows; with screeching voices, scratched faces and hair pulled with clumps yanked from its roots, being the smaller of the two, Frank’s face and body was often a patchwork of black-eyes, purple bruises and red cuts. Without the generosity of Frank and Sir William, Victor was nothing… …and he knew it… …he just couldn’t accept it. On Friday 1st August 1969, Sir William left 69 Eaton Place on a two-week break, leaving his flat in the capable hands of Frank, his manservant, as well as his house-guest Victor. For Frank, this should have been a chance to relax, but with their fights growing more volatile, the more they drank, the worse it got. On the night of Friday 8th August, not Saturday 9th as Victor would claim, James Olliffe the chauffeur drove both men to Noah’s Ark restaurant in Oxford, as confirmed by the head waiter. (Victor) “Frank & I were on friendly terms during the meal”, which was a matter of perspective, as always firing snide remarks and hurtful barbs at each other, no-one saw their bitter spat as anything other than normal. What they spoke of that night is unknown, but clearly Frank’s patience had worn thin. With generosity, he and Sir William had welcomed this troubled man into their life, only for Victor to bleed them dry. Over previous weeks, Frank (the part-time waiter) seemed flush with limitless funds, he wore tailored clothes he could never afford, and several items of Sir William’s went missing; such as a gold watch, a gold money clip, an antique lighter and cigarette holder, with a receipt found for a local pawnbroker. (Victor) “As I had paid for lunch, he picked up the bill”. This was confirmed by the restaurant. (Police) “When you arrived back at 69 Eaton Place about 1am, did you go in with Frank?”, (Victor) “No, I was going on to get coffee and cigarettes. Frank was sloshed, I didn’t want him to come, he’s always nagging, so I left him at the lift”. And although Victor would state that this happened on the Saturday, the evidence would dispute this, as by that point, Frank would have been dead for several hours. Saturday 9th August started as normally as any morning for a man who was about to be murdered. Frank awoke, he made coffee and toast, he fed the dog, he checked the post, he hoovered the flat and straightened-up (like any houseproud manservant would) and did all of the things he would normally do, only this time was for the last time… although he wouldn’t know that, and neither would his killer. After Noah’s Ark, Victor had headed-out to a club on the King’s Road; drinking, dancing and flirting (on whose money we shall never know). Only a call was about to rudely awaken his festering hangover. (Ark) “Frank? It’s the manager of the Noah’s Ark. Your cheque ’s been rejected”. (Frank) “My cheque? But I didn’t pay”, (Ark) “It’s a cheque in the name of F A Hocking, only the signature isn’t yours”. Having stolen another of Frank’s cheques, in his drunken stupor, Victor had signed it using his own name. That morning, neither Victor nor Frank were seen by another living soul, a bitter fight was overheard by two of the neighbours, but no-one called the police as their hate-filled spats were not uncommon. At 1pm, Frank sat alone in a French restaurant called Coq Au Vin. Dressed in the brown open-necked-shirt and fawn trousers – later found on Sir William’s bedroom floor – he silently mulled over his love-life, eating his last meal of spinach, potatoes and tomato, and slugging back several large dry Martinis. At 2:30pm, like a bad smell from a broken sewer, Victor walked in, a little sheepish at his actions but equally obstinate over the veracity of his lies – “so? I picked up the wrong chequebook, mistakes happen”. And yet, being dressed in a black jacket and trousers - worn when he later discovered his boyfriend’s body – and a crisp white shirt, Frank knew these were purchased on Sir William’s account. At 3pm, paying the £10 bill by signing his own cheque with his own name – another stark reminder of Victor’s mistrust – Frank left and Victor followed, as they both headed back to the same flat. With both men bitter and fuming, Frank felt cheated by his betrayal, but Victor remained unrepentant for his crimes, as when he spoke, lie was layered upon other lies, as – once again – he was broke. At 3:30pm, from the phone in the flat, Victor made a call to Boodle’s, the private member’s club in St James, posing as Sir William. Confirmed by Alfred Russell (the head porter), in an unconvincing upper-class voice, Victor said “I should like to send my chauffeur, Victor, with a cheque for £25”, as (having done this scam before) he knew that a cash loan over this limit required approval by the club secretary. It’s unclear whether Frank overheard this call, but if he did, maybe this was the last straw? Maybe having had enough, Frank asked him to leave his flat and his life? And without Frank, Victor knew that he was nothing. In a later confession, believed to be as truthful as Victor could be, he would state: (Victor) “we were both fairly ‘liquored up’ and he started screaming and carrying on… Frank had been stamping about the house banging doors and everything” – although with the neighbours out, this cannot be verified. (Victor) “In Frank’s room… he had thrown a vase at me. He had started getting violent and said, "You like watching the 'box' so much, see what joy you get out of this", and with a wallop, the TV went over” – the police later found a broken vase in the kitchen, and when switched on, the TV smoked. At this point, although it was still only late afternoon, being drunk, upset (and possibly having taken a sleeping pill) Frank got into his pyjamas - ready to stay in, as Victor headed for a wild night out. (Victor) “I went into the master bedroom – Sir William’s - whilst Frank was ranting and raving. I locked the door from the inside, but Frank bashed the door through and started screaming and raving” – which was true, the door was broken in, and the smashed door lock lay four feet inside the bedroom. Inside, the fight continued. (Victor) “he could hardly walk because he was so drunk. He got himself on to the bed still screaming and ranting. He said “come to bed”, but I said “no I’m going out for coffee”. As it always did, their bitter fight descended into physical violence. With long nails, Frank scratched at Victor’s face, leaving cuts he’d later claim were shaving wounds, (Victor) “and as he asked me who I’d been sleeping with and all this nonsense… the one thing Frank can't stand is having his hair pulled, so I grabbed his hair and a handful came out” – as noted by a clump of Frank’s hair found on the floor. But as much as the punches and kicks hurt his body, Frank knew where to dig the knife into his soul. As everyone knew, sometimes Victor’s emotions got the better of him and – being unduly sensitive about his upbringing – often he was gripped with anxiety and prone to short bursts of tearful anger. (Victor) “I went downstairs and got hold of the hammer from Albert’s room. I took it to warn Frank that if he did not shut his raving mouth, I was going to knock him out. It was just a threat… but then he started raving on about my mother being mental, that I go to bed with old men for money, that I had been to prison and I was a cheap dirty whore… it was then that I went behind him” - the evidence would prove that Victor was standing behind the bed head beside the broken lamp, when he attacked. (Victor) “I told Frank ‘If you don't shut-up I'll belt you with this’. He kept on ranting and threatened me to do it, it was then that I struck him. I hit him on the head with the hammer. Blood started pouring out, so I pulled over the blanket and struck him two or three times more” – as the autopsy confirmed. (Victor) “I covered up the whole scene. I picked up the pieces of the vase and put them into a red bag in the kitchen. I straightened up the television. I then had a wash, a shave and changed my shirt” – placing his bloodstained white shirt in the laundry basket, and popping on a freshly ironed pink one. This murder definitely happened before 5pm, as Frank’s father (William Hocking) telephoned the flat to speak to his son, only a muffled voice stated “he’s not in until after 6pm” and abruptly hung-up. But this still leaves us with an odd unanswered question… …having brutally murdered Frank inside a seclude flat – given that he didn’t call the police for sixteen hours – why didn’t he destroy any evidence of his crime? Instead, why did he head out for a long hot night of fun - did he not care about his dead lover, or did he know that this night would be his last? (Party music from Part One) Picked-up in a Daimler at 5:33pm, Hermanus Loggenberg the chauffeur drove a man who called himself ‘Sir William Aykroyd’ to Boodles. Inside, the pink-shirted man handed the Head Porter a letter supposedly written by Sir William, and his “butler” was handed £25 in notes. To toast his last night of freedom, at 5:55pm, he ordered a Bloody Mary at the Dorchester Hotel, he made a call to several pals, and - held in an ornate gold holder – he smoked an imported cigarette as lit using an antique gold lighter – all of which were stolen from Sir William before he left for Scotland. At 6:15pm, he ate vichyssoise, crab meat and glugged back a bottle of plonk at the Brompton Grill. As back at the flat, Frank’s blood pooled about his head - as although he was not dead, Victor’s lover lay dying. At 7:20pm, Victor met a pal for drinks at the Grove public house in Beauchamp Place, but by 8:10pm, the barman had refused to serve him any more booze, as the pie-eyed man “has had enough”. At 8:30pm, under a false name, the Concierge of the Hilton gave him an introduction to a member’s only casino, and from 9pm to 3am, a man known only as ‘Mr Canapper’ played roulette at Crockford’s Casino in Mayfair, where he won £200. At around the time that Victor’s winning streak paid off, after six hours of bleeding, Frank Hocking died of his injuries, only he wouldn’t be found for ten hours more. At 4am, he tried to get into The Playboy Club, a high-end seedy club full of Hugh Heffner’s bunny girls, but with his application rejected, he called it a night. He didn’t sleep at the Hilton, as he said, instead he most likely found a late-night bar and savoured his last dawn as a free man. It was hardly an amazing night out, but as it was his last, it was better than what he’d had before, or was yet to come. (End) On Sunday 10th August at roughly 9am, Victor yawned as he staggered down Eaton Place, still feeling a little tipsy as he chuckled to himself at the night he just had. (Keys/door/dog). Inside, having cradled Victor for one last time, he changed out of his now bloodstained pink shirt and hid it in the laundry. (Phone) “Police? I’m at Sir William Ackroyd’s residence, there is a body upstairs, I think it’s Sir William’s butler”. And with that, his privileged life was gone, as he would now be a guest of Her Majesty. At the end of his second statement – being the most truth of all his confessions - Victor would state “I’m sorry about the grief I have brought upon Frank’s parents, the effect on Sir William and his family, and the shame and guilt I shall bear for the rest of my life. I suppose in the years to come, I shall always remember that horrible night and I will no doubt pay for it in more ways than one”. On the 24th November 1969, at the Old Bailey, Victor Ford-Lloyd pleaded not guilty to the murder of Frank Hocking. Assessed at St Bernard’s in Southall (the same psychiatric hospital his mother was sent), Dr P D Scott (a consultant psychiatrist) diagnosed Victor as a “psychopathic personality”. Cursed with a lack of empathy for others, an inability to learn from his experiences, being incapable of forming lasting relationships and being amoral, although a textbook “psychopath”, he was declared fit to stand trial, but under the Homicide Act this abnormality of the brain reduced his responsibility. On 27th November 1969, Victor Ford Lloyd was found guilty of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, he was sentenced to life in prison and died in Birmingham in August 2003. Everything which was good about his life had been stolen in an instant… and it was all his fault. * LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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69 Eaton Place in Belgravia, where the murder of Frank Hocking took place
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SIX:
On the next morning of Sunday 10th August at 09:08am, Victor Ford-Lloyd the butler to Sir William Ackroyd entered the top floor flat at 69 Eaton Place after a night out. In the master bedroom, he found his friend, his lover and the man servant to Sir William dead. Having died several hours earlier, he was lying motionless, with a sticky pool of congealed blood about his head, having had his skull brutally smashed in with a hammer. But why? Was this a robbery? A revenge killing? Or an attack on an openly gay man? With Sir William in Scotland and Victor at several clubs in the city at the time of the murder, neither witnessed the attack, or saw any potential suspects. So, what happened, and who murdered Sir William’s manservant?
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THE LOCATION
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The location of the murder is marked with a black raindrop near the word Belgravia. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. Archive File - CRIM 1/5227 / DPP 2/4727 - - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11026966 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Eaton Place in Belgravia, SW1; three streets east of the unsolved death of Countess Lubienska, two streets south of acid-bath murderer John George Haigh, two streets west of not-so “lucky” Lord Lucan (a case so dull and done-to-death I won’t ever cover it on this podcast) and two streets south of the boy who killed because a film-star told him to – coming soon to Murder Mile. Eaton Place is a very posh neighbourhood. Being a wide semi-private street consisting of two lines of five-storey buildings made of Portland stone with huge Doric columns to the side of each main door, this area is so posh, the average house is worth £40million and most residents are knighted. Whether a CBE for tax-avoidance, an MBE for going to Eton, an OBE for being “a jolly good egg, what-what”, a KCG for covering up a politician’s “little snafoo with a pig and his willy”, a Ladyship for being pals with a royal (not that one) or a Lordship for services to charity, but only when it benefits their bank balance. Sadly, although architecturally pleasant, there’s no community. The most you’ll see of any resident is as the chauffeur pulls up, the butler fawns, the maid curtsies and they savour an evening with their fifth spouse and several lawyers to silence a string of sexual assaults with the swipe of a blank cheque. In 1969, Flat 3 of 69 Eaton Place was the home of Sir William Ackroyd, 3rd Baronet of Lightcliffe. Like many men of prestige, he kept a small staff; a housekeeper, a chambermaid, a live-in man-servant called Frank Hocking, and - by the summer - a butler called Victor Ford-Lloyd. It was a neat home, he led an elegant life, his staff got on well and Sir William was regarded as a kind and generous employer. Being wealthy, his house was deliberately secure and his staff took the necessary precautions to ensure their safety. But on the evening of Saturday 9th August 1969, a brutal and violent murder inside of this millionaire’s home would change all of their lives forever… and not just the victim. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 166: The Bloody Butler – Part One. No matter who you are or where you’ve come from, it’s hard to get through life without relying on the kindness of others. That was particularly true for Victor Ford-Lloyd, the butler to Sir William. On Sunday 10th August at roughly 9am, Victor yawned as he staggered down Eaton Place, still feeling a little tipsy as he chuckled to himself at the night he just had. Wow! What a night! With the boss away and no need to be up early, Victor hit the town to let off a bit a steam; he saw some chums, he sunk some beers, he saw in the wee small hours at the roulette table – winning £200 quid, which isn’t bad for an Essex lad who scraped by in maths – he tried to get into the Playboy Club but their admissions policy was a joke, and slept the last few hours of the night at the five-star Hilton hotel in Park Lane. Being knackered, he wanted breakfast, a shower and to get back to his place of work at the prestigious 69 Eaton Place, which he also had the pleasure of calling his home –a far cry from his humble roots. Oddly, although stylishly dressed, after a long hot night of fun, Victor looked a little rough; as his black jacket, trousers and pink shirt had creased. But there was still no denying he was handsome. Victor was a looker, as being a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pale-skinned 32-year-old who was tall and slender, this pretty boy had no problem pulling the twinks, but he preferred the older gentlemen of wealth who could keep this working-class kid away from poverty and in the lifestyle which he felt he deserved. Just after 9am, Victor popped his key in the black front-door, locking it behind him. From the hallway, he didn’t call out – “Frankie, I’m home” – as being a communal hallway to two other flats, that kind of hollering was uncouth. Besides, when drunk or upset, his posh accent slipped and the Essex pops out. Climbing the stairs, as he opened the door to the flat’s lower floor, his first thought was to pop in the storeroom; a utility room full of mops, linen and tools, as this was where Albert slept. Being a slightly pampered black Pomeranian, Albert was a little yappy, but when Victor saw him, he was whimpering. “Frankie?”, Victor called across the living room, dining room and kitchen. As he had left it the night before, these tastefully decorated rooms were as neat as a pin with nothing out of place. But what was odd was the silence, there was no sign of Frank; the man-servant, his best-friend and his lover. Climbing-up to the upper floor, although around him were two bathrooms and two small bedrooms (one each for Frank and Victor), his eyes were draw to the master bedroom – Sir William’s. Left ajar, it was clear that the white wooden door had been forced, as the smashed lock lay a few feet inside. Entering, he knew it didn’t look right, as someone had broken in, but they hadn’t touched much. As a very elegant room with exquisite furnishings, the bedroom was full of busts, vases, books and intricate little pieces of object d’art, but nothing appeared to have been vandalised, rifled or stolen. On an armchair, lay a set of clothes, as if someone had got ready for bed, on the floor lay a small pile of underwear, and to the side lay a broken lamp, but this could have been caused by an accident. The only obvious sign of disarray was the bed. Befitting a man of his status, Sir William’s bed was grand and stylish, a French chaise-lounge with a curved headboard, handsewn fabrics and soft white sheets. Only, the pristine white was now dotted with faint spots of red, as underneath lay a motionless lump. “Hello?”, Victor cooed to the lump, “Hello?”, but got no reply. With his right hand, he pulled back the bedsheet and instantly he wished that he hadn’t. What he saw was the red of a smashed head, its skull caved in with such violence that it made this pale lifeless face look as if – in that last moment of terror - it had tried to spawn a set of red wings to fly itself to heaven. Shivering with fear, although his lips quivered and his breathing was staggered, Victor was too confused to shed any tears and - although heaving at the sight - his guts couldn’t retch any sick. Grabbing the phone and dialling 999, at 9:08am, PC Sydney Gillingham at New Scotland Yard received his call: (Victor) “I am at Sir William Ackroyd’s residence. It’s in a state of turmoil”, (PC) “Do you mean a burglary?”, (Victor) “I don’t know but there is a body upstairs”, (PC): “A dead body?”, (Victor) “Yes, I think so, I think it’s Sir William’s butler”, (PC) “Are you sure he is dead?”, (Victor) “Yes”. Victor gave his name and the address, the officer stated (PC) “we’ll be right there, don’t touch anything”, (Victor) “yes sir, I won’t” and – having been dispatched from Gerald Road - the police arrived at 9:18am. As he stood there, staring at this freshly slaughtered corpse, Victor knew one thing for certain; with his colleague, his best friend, his lover and the man he owed his life to - murdered, the second Frank Hocking had died, everything which was good about his life had been stolen from him in an instant. Victor was nothing without Frank… and he knew it. To say that his upbringing was fractured would be an understatement. Victor Norman Ford-Lloyd was born on the 25th May 1937 in Hampstead, north London, as one of five siblings to three sisters and a brother. With his father deceased, his early life lacked stability, as with his mother absent, Victor spent much of the first twelve years of his life in foster homes and care. Which is not to say that his mother was negligent or uncaring, as having been diagnosed with chronic schizophrenic - one year after his birth and fourteen years before a drug could manage the symptoms – she was committed to both Bedlam mental hospital and St Bernard’s psychiatric unit in Southall. Like many boys starved of love, emotionally he developed slower than most, as still prone to thumb-sucking and bed-wetting until his teens, even as a grown-up he was terrified of the dark and he never went to sleep without searching the wardrobe, curtains or the underside of his bed for monsters first. As a war-time child, raised in a turbulent time of bombings, trauma and rationing, his education was sporadic and although literate, his academic level was – unsurprisingly - regarded as ‘unremarkable’. Given his early life, it’s amazing that this blonde-haired boy with a beautiful face even knew how to smile, but he did and as a charming lad who wanted to be hugged, people liked him and trusted him. But sometimes his emotions got the better of him and – being unduly sensitive about his upbringing – often he was gripped with depression, prone to short bursts of tearful anger, and - when he did something wrong - he would lie until he could lie no more, even when the truth was glaringly obvious. Leaving school aged 15, he tried to work hard and be a decent person, but life by himself was hard. HIs first job in August 1952 was as a junior clerk at a lino manufacturer in Holborn on the tiny wage of £2 a week. Sadly, he lasted just two months, as he was discharged for being untrustworthy. He lasted longer in his next jobs, but being unable to flee the poverty which haunted him, he turned to crime. In March 1954, at Lambeth Juvenile Court, he was given a 12-month conditional discharge for stealing a television and was sent to live in a boy’s hostel in Maida Vale. One year later, at Chelsea, he was again discharged for twelve months for taking and driving away a motor vehicle without consent. It’s no surprise that – riddled with anxiety and depression – as a drifter who lacked any purpose in life, by the age of 16, he had begun drinking heavily and never quit as the booze hide his pain. And although Sir William would describe him as “mild, kind, reliable”, he had a “bad temper when he was drunk”. Aged 16, as his sister had agreed to sponsor him in the hope of turning his life around, he moved to Ballarat in south-east Australia, and stayed with her for a year and a half. It was a new life and a fresh start, but still being haunted by his past, they quarrelled, he moved out and returned to petty crime. Across the four years he lived in Australia, he travelled far and wide, moving from Perth to Victoria and Melbourne to Canberra, stealing what he could and being convicted of theft in every state. In 1956, he was convicted four times in Perth for theft and served 15 months in prison. In 1957, he was tried twice in Victoria for receiving goods under false pretences and served 13 months. In 1959, in Canberra, he did 9 months hard-labour for buying goods on false credit. And in 1960 in Melbourne, he served nine months for passing worthless cheques. He was a drunk, a thief, but he wasn’t violent. As a British citizen who (as they saying goes) had dirtied his ticket, at his own request, Victor asked to be deported from Australia, and on the 15th June 1961, the SS Orontes docked in the port of Dover. In short, he was back where he had started… …and across his 24-years of life, he had achieved nothing. But being a pretty boy, he had learned that crime wasn’t the only way to live the life he wanted to live. Since his early years in a boy’s home surrounded by others who wanted to be loved, being gay came as naturally as being blonde. And as he travelled Australia, and later Spain, New York, Tangiers and Paris, his life became easier as a pretty little thing perched on an older gentlemen’s arm. The maths was simple, as by snuggling-up to a wealthy sugar daddy, he was loved, protected and pampered. As a millionaire’s plaything, he could leave his broken upbringing behind, and for the rest of his life he would eat the best food, drink the finest wine, wear only tailored clothes and - best of all - it was legal. In 1964, he attempted to move in the right circles by working as a private secretary and a club manager in the best parts of London, but the second they discovered his criminal record, he was out. Being homeless from 1964 to 66, he was convicted four times at Bow Street Magistrates Court for stealing wallets, passing worthless cheques and using it cover his expensive tastes… but his life was in decline. Struggling with depression and anxiety, in 1966 he took an overdose of sleeping pills, and three times he was committed to psychiatric hospitals for the treatment of his alcoholism, depression and anxiety. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed like Victor’s life was destined to implode… …and then, as if by fate, he met and fell in love with Frank. Frank Alfred Hocking was neither elderly nor wealthy, he was not the type of man Victor would usually go for, but being of similar ages and working-class backgrounds, together they became kindred spirits. They met in July 1968. It was never said where, maybe a bar as they were both fond of drink. Being five-foot two-inches tall with thick sideburns, dark thinning hair and his eyes arched with a monobrow, physically Frank was the mirror opposite of Victor, but both being gay, neat and highly strung, they fit. Having heard his tragic backstory, in July 1969, one year later, Frank invited Victor to come to his place of work at 69 Eaton Place and to meet his employer - Sir William Ackroyd, 3rd Baronet of Lightcliffe. Sir William was not the usual kind of aristocrat, all hoity-toity and fuelled by snooty glares, as although rich and elderly - as a gay man himself - he had a big heart. He sympathised with Victor; a homeless man trapped in a vicious circle where every time an employer discovered his criminal past, he was out. (Victor) “I became Sir William’s butler”. Given a generous wage of £14 per week (including food and sundry expenses), he paid £4 rent to live in a small bedroom inside the opulence of Sir William’s flat. Victor had hit the jackpot. As for the first time in his turbulent little life, he had a steady job, an honest wage, a roof over his head and he was in a loving (if occasionally fractious) relationship. After 32 years of struggles and failures; he finally had stability, safety, a family of sorts and a chance at a future… …and he owed it all Frank. The role of a butler required Victor to ensure that Sir William had everything he required; his wallet, his key, his money clip, his cheque book and his cigarettes. To make his master’s life run as smoothly as a well-oiled machine, Victor had contacts and accounts at many high-profile suppliers and outlets. At John Michael of Saville Row, Sir William’s tailored suits were ordered on account. To get him about, a chauffeur-driven car was on hand at his beck-and-call (and the staff for work purposes). Likewise, he never heard the words “we’re full”, as all Victor had to do was say “Sir William would like…” and it was done, whether staying at Dorchester or Hilton hotel, playing at Crockfords Casino, or fine dining at the Brompton Grill. And if his bulging wallet was ever a little light – in an era before ATMs - at Boodles; a very exclusive private member’s club, he could send his butler with a note and a cash loan was made. It's a very different world to how you or I live, but for Victor, this was where he wanted to be. On Friday 1st August 1969, seeking solitude and silence, Sir William headed off for a two-week break with an old pal in the Highlands of Scotland, leaving his home in the capable hands of Frank and Victor. This made sense as Frank was trusted and diligent, and Sir William saw Victor as “mild, kind, reliable”. On Saturday 9th August 1969, both of their lives would change forever… …but there was nothing which forewarned them of the danger ahead; there were no threats, no thefts nor break-ins, no vicious letters, no malicious calls nor strangers skulking in the shadows of the street. Neither Frank, Victor nor Sir William was disliked or in debt, as by all accounts, it was an ordinary day. As a seemingly motiveless crime, to help identity any possible suspects who might want to cause harm (and ultimately) murder Frank Hocking in cold blood, Victor provided the police with their movements. At 2:30pm, Frank and Victor sat in a French restaurant called Coq Au Vin in Knightsbridge; a stylish yet safe space for two gay men to enjoy each other’s company in an era when homosexuality was illegal. They sat together but not holding hands, they chatted but never loudly and Victor (having arrived late) shared a few coffees and dry Martinis with Frank who ate a meal of spinach, potatoes and tomato - as confirmed by his autopsy. The £10 bill was paid by cheque in the name of Mr F A Hocking, although the cost went to Sir William, being a chequebook to cover expenses but also to treat his staff to lunch. At 3pm, they returned home to Flat 3 at 69 Eaton Place, as verified by their taxi-driver. They completed a few chores, Victor made a call to Boodles on behalf of his boss, they fed Albert the Pomeranian, they then popped this pampered pooch in his bed, and having dressed for dinner, at 7:30pm, they left. Several witnesses - who knew both Frank and Victor – saw these easily-identifiable men of different heights and hair colour wearing the following clothes; Frank was in a brown open-necked-shirt and fawn trousers – which were later found on Sir William’s bedroom floor, and Victor was in a black jacket and trousers – which he wore when he discovered his boyfriend’s body – as well as a white shirt. On account, they hired a car from Claborn Hire at 7:30pm, and the chauffeur - Hermanus Loggenberg – wrote in his logbook that he drove them to The Punch Bowl in Abingdon and Noah’s Ark restaurant in Oxford – two venues which were owned by their friends – (Victor) “as Frank paid for lunch, I paid for dinner” – this was confirmed by cheque, and the chauffeur drove them back to 69 Eaton Place. Again, there were no issues, no incidents, and nothing which raised their suspicions. (Victor) “I told Frank I was going out for some coffee and cigarettes. Frank said something to the effect that with any luck he would see me in the morning, and I went out, leaving Frank alone in the flat”. Returning to the flat, the windows were locked, the doors were secure and the dog didn’t whimper. And yet, it’s impossible to accurately pin-point the exact time when Frank was attacked, as having been bludgeoned with a hammer, this rendered him unconscious… but wouldn’t die for several hours. According to Victor’s timings “I left Frank at the flat at about 1am” and heading out to let off a little steam, “…I went to Crockfords to play cards and roulette. I stayed till 4am, winning £200. I tried to get into the Playboy Club but they refused, and - not wanting to wake anyone up - I stayed the night at the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane. I left the Hilton at about 8:30am and got home by taxi at about 9am”. Each sighting was verified by witnesses and many of his payments were made by cheque. (Door opens) “Frankie?”. (Whimpering dog). (Phone dials) (PC) “Hello Police”, (Victor) “I am at Sir William Ackroyd’s residence… there is a body upstairs… I think it’s Sir William’s butler”, (PC) “We’ll be right there, don’t touch anything”, (Victor) “Yes sir, I won’t”. (Police sirens). But as he stood there, staring at the freshly slaughtered corpse of his best friend, his lover and the man he owed his life to, Victor knew that everything which was good about his life had been stolen from him in an instant. Victor was nothing without Frank… and he knew it. (End) At 9:45am, the Police divisional surgeon Dr Albert Lovell certified the life of Frank Hocking as extinct. Arriving a few minutes before, Detective Chief Superintendent Ivor Reynolds took charge of the scene, and – on first impressions – it looked like an almost motiveless attack on a defenceless man in his bed. With the neighbours, Sir William and Victor out; they had no eye-witnesses. The blood was Group A, being Victor’s and no-one else’s. And as for fingerprints, only those who resided in the flat were found. As crime scenes go, it was a muddle of misinformation. If this was a robbery? Why weren’t the drawers rifled or anything stolen? If this was a bungled kidnapping – if the culprits had mistaken Frank (who was asleep in the master bedroom) for Sir William – why kill Frank rather than use him as leverage? If this was a burglary - as the bedroom’s broken door-lock would suggest - how did they gain entry via the locked doors of 69 Eaton Place and Flat 3? And if this was a homophobic assault on a gay man, why did they murder him inside a secure flat, rather than on a dark quiet street, such as Eaton Place. Even without anyone hearing the sounds of screaming, the evidence pointed towards an argument between Frank and his assailant; as on the floor lay a broken lamp, on the carpet lay a clump of Frank’s hair having been ripped out by the root, and then – most bafflingly of all – at some point during the attack, with his prospective murderer still in the room, Frank returned to the bed and he lay down. But who had murdered him, when, and why? At 10:25am, the detective introduced himself, stating “I am Chief Superintendent Reynolds. I request your assistance while I make enquires into Mr Hocking’s death”. Victor agreed, being happy to help. But his helpfulness would also be his downfall, as the police’s prime suspect was a man who Frank knew, who was emotional, unduly sensitive, prone to anger when drunk, and - when he did something wrong - he would lie until he could lie no more, even when the evidence was glaringly obvious. Without Frank Hocking, Victor Ford-Lloyd knew that he was nothing… …which left the police with an unanswered question: “why did Victor murder Frank”? ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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The Regent Palace Hotel as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE:
On Sunday 30th October 1932, Mabel & Herbert checked into Room 201, at the far-left end of the second floor. They had enjoyed a romantic week together, they been out to the theatre, they had savoured a last meal, they sent their personal belongings to their families, and having written their suicide notes, they laid on the bed, and kissed each other goodbye… having taken cyanide. It was ultimate love story of Bradford’s very own Romeo & Juliet. Or so it seemed.
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THE LOCATION
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The location of The Regent Palace Hotel is marked with a black coloured raindrop near the words Piccadilly. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. Tuesday 25th January - Murder of Mabel Hill by Herbert Turner at Regent Palace Hotel, London, on 30 October, 1932 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257718
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Glasshouse Street, W1; two streets west of the senseless stabbing of the unfortunate Mr Johnson, three hundred feet north-west of the tube stop where the cowardly killer of Camile Gordon fled, one street east of where The Blackout Ripper picked up several sex workers, and one road south of the (possible) suicide by the sportsman’s mistress - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just off Piccadilly Circus, at 32 Glasshouse Street, once stood the Regent Palace Hotel. Opened in 1915 and ran by J Lyons & Co - owners of the Cornerhouse Tearooms – being nine-stories high, across half a square block and with over a thousand bedrooms, the Regent Palace was the largest hotel in Europe. Since its post-war decline, it became little more than a brothel so bawdy that Canadian servicemen referred to it as ‘the riding school’, a youth hostel for overseas students slash shoplifters, and now its grand entrance is a showroom for Ugg - those hideous fleece-lined boots which supposedly make the wearer look as devastatingly sexy as cavewoman Raquel Welsh in the film One Million Years BC, but actually make them look like they’ve mistimed a kick up a sheep’s jacksie, and - being so toasty warm - they make the wearer’s tootsies stink like a Neanderthal’s butt-crack… but that’s just my opinion. On Saturday 29th October 1932, at a little after 9:30pm, a Mr & Mrs Turner of Bradford booked into Room 201 on the second floor of the Regent Palace Hotel. Not being locals, they looked as if they were here to see the vibrant sights of the big city. Kissing and holding hands, it was clear that this young couple were very much in love. And although their small suitcase re-iterated to the receptionist that they would only be staying a few nights, their plan was to never leave their room… at least not alive. The suicide pact of Mabel Hill and Herbert Turner was a tragedy reported by talentless hacks, whose bile has been regurgitated verbatim, as if every detail was fact. But having only scratched the surface of this sorry story, what every writer missed was the truth about these lovers and their last fateful act. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 165: To Love, To Die, Together. Love is a powerful emotion. Being stronger than anger and more vindictive than hate, it can turn the rational irrational in the blind pursuit of good, of bad, of joy and of pain. Fuelled by little more than a lethal burst of chemicals - even though our primary instinct is own preservation - mistakenly believing – as if by fate - that we have found our ‘one true love’, that love can lead to our own destruction. Mabel & Herbert were two such lovers… …but denied their togetherness in life, they would seek it in death. Mabel Hill was born Mabel Bentley on 9th December 1899 in Shipley, West Yorkshire. Raised in a two-storey sandstone terrace at 2 Alexandra Road, it was the kind of place where the kids played tig in the street, the wives scrubbed the stoops till the black slate shined and the men folk slunk back from the pit - all soot-sodden, calloused and hacking-up coal-dust – in a life without any dreams nor joy. Just the endless drudgery of everyday existence, with the majority married as that was what was expected. As the eldest of six to her widowed mother Clara, fate would be intensely cruel to the Bentley’s, as with the family being bereft of a father, before too long death would come for two of the children. With life being a struggle, to provide an income, the last of the family lived upstairs, as the downstairs was converted into a small confectionery shop selling boiled sweets, wine gums and liquorice. A few doors down at number 24 lived Herbert, the second eldest son of four boys to Charles and Augusta. And although our ‘lovers-to-be’ were raised just fifty yards apart – with Mabel being eleven years his senior, a huge age gap in a child’s perspective – she only knew him as the ‘Turner’s kid’ and their only interactions early-on was (possibly) as she ruffled his hair to gift him a half-penny sweet. In later life, many would describe Mabel as ‘matronly’, as although a little dour yet sturdily-built, being a formidable brunette, she had a steely strong will to do what she felt was right. To some, they may have seemed an odd couple – one short, one tall; one little, one big – but they made sense; as with Herbert being an eternal boy – almost as if they were mother and son – she became the voice to his silence and his decision-maker as he dithered over what was best for others, stammering a passive “yes dear” or a “no dear” as she wiped a tiny speck of dirt off his cheek with a hankie and a lick of spit. They were an odd mix, but as an unlikely couple they were two opposites who perfectly complimented each other’s strength and weaknesses. Always being happy, upbeat and never without a whistled ditty on his lips, Herbert brought the hope and joy to her life, where Mabel only saw darkness and woe. It’s unclear how much Herbert knew of her past, as having struggled with anxiety and depression – so severely, that the arrhythmic palpitations of her stuttering heart often caused her to collapse –she had once tried to take her life by slitting her own throat. And although her make-up often hid the bags under her eyes, it would take a thick scarf to shield (from prying eyes) her most deadly of scars. Mabel & Herbert’s curse was that they both wanted to be loved. For him, he treasured its simple pleasures; hugging, kissing, holding hands, and making the other as happy - if not happier - than him. But for Mabel, being ever the romantic fuelled by a daily-diet of fairy-tale romances, she had always dreamed of the perfect marriage to the perfect man, but as we know, dreams are rarely unattainable. And as the shame of spinsterhood loomed ever larger, as this 25-year-old singleton was left on the shelf, fearing a life of loveless solitude, she did as many women do – and she settled for second best. On the 24th May 1924 in Bradford Registry office, Mabel Bentley married 30-year-old Herbert Victor Hill, a textile-engineer from Bradford and the two moved in together at nearby 7 Daleside Road. As romances go, it was fine, perfunctory and pleasant. But lacking any spark, whether love or friction, although they would remain good friends, they drifted apart. And following a mutual agreement, in 1931, after seven years of marriage, they separated and Mabel moved back to 2 Alexandra Road. For Mabel, the breakdown of her marriage felt like a failure. And although when she had married, Herbert Turner was nothing but a scrawny little schoolboy - having returned to her childhood home – the boy had become a man, and as the two locked eyes in church, a new love had begun to blossom. It was a love which would lead to exquisite happiness… …but also, their deaths. With Mabel still legally married, although an amicable divorce looked likely, living barely a few doors apart, they had to keep their love-affair a secret from the local sticky beaks and wagging tongues. In their own words, they became “sweet-hearts”; two lovers who nipped off for sneaky walks, slipped each other love letters and snuck down alleys for a quick peck-on-the-cheek when no-one was looking. It may seem tame by today’s standards, but in a small town, a little scandal has big repercussions. No-one knew about Mabel & Herbert; not their friends, their families nor her ex-husband-to-be. By the start of October 1932, having barely been together for six months, they both believed they had found their one true-love. This was it. Their search was over. And being so besotted with each other that they could see nothing but a life of eternal bliss, their talk turned to their future together, forever. …but it was not to be. On Tuesday 18th October 1932, less than two weeks before their fateful decision, Mabel met her husband Herbert, as they often did, still being friends. Over a cup of tea, he mooted the thought that maybe they should get back together? As in his eyes, the marriage wasn’t dead. But in her eyes, it was. Without blinking, Mabel made it clear, they were over, finished, done, and although she kept her new beau out of the conversation, her future now rested in her husband’s hands. According to the law, the sanctity of marriage was paramount above everything, including her happiness and wishes, and as the separation was mutual with no accounts of infidelity, cruelty nor violence, she could not divorce him. Falling out of love was not an excuse to defy God, so blinded by love, Mabel and Herbert saw only one way out of their troubles… as being denied their love in life, they would find it together in death. On Saturday 15th October 1932, Herbert was fixing a car at Sherburn Garages on Town Lane in the village of Idle, where he worked as a motor mechanic for W & W Heggs. Walter Heggs, the proprietor liked Herbert; he was quiet, a little frail and easily-led, but a good lad who always worked hard. Mid-afternoon, Herbert piped up (Herbert) “Mr Heggs?”, (Walter) “Yes lad”, (Herbert) “If I… if I needed to destroy some puppies, would strychnine do?”. Which may seem an odd thing to say, but back then, it was perfectly fine. “No lad, best thing you can do is drown them”. And with that, Herbert thanked his boss and carried on with his job, but the ‘demise of these doggies’ weighed heavy on his mind. At a little before 5pm, George Leslie Todd, a local chemist parked his car at the Sherburn Garage as per usual. Asked the same question, Mr Todd replied “no son, you’ll want prussic acid’…” also known as hydrogen cyanide. And with its purchase being legal for everyday means, Mr Todd reassured him “pop by the shop, I’ll sort you out”. It was a casual transaction, made by a chemist and a customer many times prior for enough poison to kill a litter of puppies, or two persons intent on saying goodbye. On Tuesday 18th October at 11am, Herbert entered Mr Todd’s chemist shop at 17 Bradford Road. As legally obliged to, the chemist filled in the poisons book (writing) “Oct 18/32, Mr H Turner, HCW formula, destroy pups”, it was signed “H Turner” in a scrawl which would later match the register at the Regent Palace Hotel and the suicide note he would send to his mother, and having paid two shillings – one for each life - he was handed a small green bottle with a double fatal dose of cyanide. That night, back on Alexandra Road, away from the prying eyes, Herbert met Mabel in secret. (Herbert) “I told her I’d got it and she said “all right”. We didn’t take it then because she suggested we should come to London and do it. I agreed and gave her the bottle which she kept for safety in her handbag”. With the poison ready for this ‘Romeo & Juliet of the north’, all they had to do was slip away silently. As agreed, Herbert told his mum and dad that he was going away with a friend to Blackpool, a local seaside town frequented by millions every year. And although it would be too bitterly cold for a swim, as his trip would coincide with the famous illuminations, his parents weren’t worried for their boy. In fact, having asked their permission to go, his father gave him a few shillings to make sure he had fun. “On Saturday 22nd October, we went to Blackpool together and stayed at The Granville, a boarding house”, Herbert would state, “we stayed there as Mr & Mrs Turner and occupied the same bed”. Many hotels would refuse an unmarried couple a bed, so the ruse was a sensible precaution to lay low. With only one week of life before their demise, they made their final days as special as possible. With walks on the beach, eating candy-floss and riding rollercoasters by day; as by night, they lay cradled in each other’s arms, as Mabel’s matronly chest enveloped Herbert’s head with a smothering love. It should have been the perfect start to a tragic end, and although Mabel had told her mother she was going to Blackpool with a girl-pal, she also felt obliged to send a letter to her soon-to-be ex-husband. On the day they had arrived, Mr Hill had received a handwritten note telling him where she had gone and that she was planning to return by next Tuesday. Only her sign-off caused him great concern given the decline in her mental state, as it read; “please forgive me if you can. Goodbye. Love Mabel”. On Sunday 23rd October, having scoured the streets of Blackpool in search of the woman who was still legally ‘his wife’, on the seaside esplanade underneath the illuminations, Mr Hill spotted the sturdy shape of Mabel walking hand-in-hand with a small young man, who he later knew as Herbert Turner. Amidst the roar of trams and the screech of seagulls, Mr Hill harangued Mabel in public, as there was no way he would grant her a divorce, not now, not ever. It was a bitter fight in which Mabel gave as good as she got, but - as was his way - Herbert stayed silent, not wanting to be a bother. And needing to have this out with her husband once and for all, Mabel sent Herbert back to the boarding house. Only this was just a ruse, as making the excuse that she needed the loo, Mabel slipped out of the cafe’s back door and unable to find her again, Mr Hill returned to Bradford, as the two lovers went to London. On Monday 24th October, Mabel & Herbert arrived in London. It was the perfect place to hide out, as being a gargantuan metropolis which fizzed with a dizzying blur of passing people too busy to stop and talk, even if her husband went looking here, he could stand right next to them and never see them. To keep their profile low, for several nights, they stayed at an unnamed hotel at 28 Bloomsbury Street, signing in as Mr & Mrs Sinclair. They saw the sights; Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the British Museum, and savoured many pleasant meals at the Lyon’s Cornerhouse Tearooms, always splitting the bill. On Saturday 29th October, feeling a greater sense of security and freedom, they moved to the slightly less-affordable but certainly more resplendent Regent Palace Hotel, just off Piccadilly Circus. Opened in 1915 as Europe’s largest hotel, J Lyons & Co knew how to run a high quality establishment at a more affordable price. Featuring a cocktail bar, a small theatre and an opulent reception, although many rooms overlooked the backs of buildings and were bathed by the dizzying neon of the infamous lights of Piccadilly Circus; the beds were cosy, the rooms were clean, the fires were soothing, and with a phone and a bathroom on every floor, a maid was on hand to connect your call or run you a bath. At 9:40pm, Irene Ewart, the reception clerk of the Regent Palace Hotel welcomed two new guests; a larger lady in her early thirties and a shorter man just out of his teens. Giving their names as Mr & Mrs Herbert Turner of Shipley, he signed in, said they planned to stay at least one night maybe even two, and as the only luggage they had was a small battered suitcase and a handbag – which she clutched to her heart as tightly as any stranger in the big smoke – they were handed the keys to Room 201. The receptionist had no reason to be suspicious, as they made a sweet (if slightly odd) couple, and although she was a little bossy, he was pleasant and polite as he wished the receptionist a good night. No-one could have foreseen the horror which would be unleashed. Having entering the lift, as the lovers ascended to the second floor, they held hands and smiled, as he whistled a cheerful little ditty. Strangely, this wouldn’t be the first suicide pact at the Regent Palace Hotel. As just five months earlier, Captain John Blockley had bigamously married his new wife Helen Diamond. And seeing no way out; he shot her, shot himself, and their bodies were not discovered until at least twelve hours later. Suicides are not uncommon in hotels; some see a person’s sad demise once a month, a year or a decade, and although it’s frequency shouldn’t make the deaths of Mabel & Herbert any less tragic... …the real tragedy was hidden underneath. Sunday 30th October 1932 was their last day alive, so - as money no longer had meaning - they splashed out. They ate as best food their finances could afford, they went to a West End show – maybe The Cat and the Fiddle at the Palace, or Tell Her the Truth at the Savill – and by all accounts, they looked happy and devoted; holding hands and kissing, as they shared the last treats from a box of Swiss chocolates. At 6:15pm, a large parcel and two letters written on Regent Palace notepaper were received at a local postal sorting office. Addressed to their mothers, Mabel’s read: “My darling mother. I hope you will forgive me for what I am about to do. I cannot think of any other way out for a bad girl. I have caused enough trouble for you in this world and I hope the Good Lord will forgive me. I am broken hearted at what I have done and the world is well rid of me. Goodbye mother and try not to worry about me. Give my love to Clarice, Alan, Ralph and Grandma, and yourself, and my dear husband who was too good for me. Your broken-hearted daughter. Mabel”. Inside lay a card leaving everything to her mum. Her handwriting was neat, her spelling was good, and there were no corrections or mistakes. Herbert’s read: “Dear Mother. Can you ever forgive me for the trouble I have cause you, for by the time you receive this I shall not be on this earth. Please do not blame anyone for what I am doing, as it is all my own fault. I am sending you my things on by parcel post and please give them to Roland as it is my last wish that he should have them, and please tell him to cheer up, also please ask father to forgive me, as I have been a rotter to him. No doubt you will know who I am with, but please do not blame her as we cannot live without each other. Your loving son. Herbert xxx”. His letter was hesitant, messy, and having struggled to write his suicide note, this wasn’t a first draft, it was his third. At 9pm, they returned to the hotel… but only one of them had no plans ever to leave. Twenty minutes later, as if to cleanse himself of his sins, Herbert asked the chambermaid to run him a bath. She did so, he said “thank you”, he washed his woollen vest, his socks and his pants, and having returned to Room 201, he placed his wet undergarments on an armchair beside the roaring fire. Dressed in his blue patterned pyjamas, being sat on the bed, he saw that Mabel was dressed in her best clothes; a black dress with yellow trimming and light-coloured stockings, with her hair neat, her make-up on and a set of pearls which hid a faded scar from an earlier time when life got too much. Only she wasn’t dressed for a night on the town, but to check out of this life… once and for good. (Herbert) “While I was in the bathroom, she had placed the poison on the table near the bed. There was some already poured out in two glasses. There was more in her glass than in mine. I picked up the bottle (it was empty) and put it in a drawer. I then went to the bed and we both lay down”. The moment had come - a farewell to the sadness and a hello to their happiness in the ever-after. (Herbert) “I was nearest the wall. We got ourselves comfortable and bid each other goodbye”, sharing a last kiss in this life and sealing their love in the next. “She took hers first”. Raising the glass tumbler to her lips, Mabel swigged back the colourless liquid with the faint pale blue hue, and flinched at its taste of bitter almonds. “She handed me her empty glass which I put upon the table”. Cursed with a weak heart, she died within the minute, and with his lover gone, “I took my poison and drank it”. (Phone) On Monday 31st October at 8:45am, having received a parcel and a deeply troubling letter, Herbert’s father called the hotel demanding to speak to his son. Upon their door, the chambermaid knocked three time but got no reply, so she entered the dark cold room, softly cooing “sir, a trunk call for you”. Only neither stirred, as the two motionless figures lay on the bed, holding hands in silence. As the chambermaid reached over, she touched her face and saw that Mabel was icy cold… …but seeing a flicker in his eyes, she realised that Herbert was still alive. At her autopsy, detecting a purplish hue to her lips, neck and upper arms, rigor mortis determined that death had occurred twelve hours prior, and with no signs of a struggle, no smell of cyanide on her breath (as it evaporates quickly) and an empty green bottle beside her - suicide was suspected. At Charing Cross Hospital, as a precaution, Herbert had his stomach pumped and was injected with adrenaline, as a medic stated he was “apparently unconscious”. With his colour good, his breathing was fine and his heart soft but regular, the woozy lad complained of “a burning at the back of my throat”, but when the doctor looked, there were no burning, nor signs that he had taken any cyanide. But was this a mistake, fate, or deliberate? (End) On the 13th December 1932, at the Old Bailey, Herbert Turner was tried on the charge of “feloniously and wilfully murdering Mabel Hill by administering poison”, at which his terrified lips quivered ‘not guilty’. But as a death sentence loomed, so terrified was this frail boy, that he collapsed in the dock. Seeing through to the very heart of the evidence, John Maude (his solicitor) pleaded to the jury “he loved Mrs Hill passionately. It is clear that this woman had worked on the boy’s mind by her suggestion of suicide until he became obsessed with the idea that there was nothing worthwhile in life but death”. As a happy little lad who was easily-led, but never once had a dark thought or spoke of suicide, Herbert always put others and their needs before himself, and – even when stressed – he would never speak-up or answer back, as his way of coping with life’s worries was to whistle a cheerful little ditty. As a voice when his silence said little; she decided to buy the poison, to come to London, she poured it out, and although she was dressed for death - wearing his pyjamas – he was clearly dressed for bed. Her letter to mother was neat and direct; his took three attempts, the last of which was a muddle, as if he wasn’t fully committed to the terrifying prospect of death, but didn’t want to disappoint her. And besides, if he was really suicidal, why did he wash his pants, socks and vest, and hang them out to dry? Was his survival just luck having not taken enough, or did he take none having only pretended to die? Found guilty, Herbert Turner was sentenced to death for Mabel’s murder, but with the jury making a strong recommendation for clemency, Mr Justice Charles commuted his sentence to life in prison. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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