Crime scene photo (1933) of the burned out shed at 30 Hawley Crescent, Camden
On Tuesday 3rd January 1933, in his rented shed at 30 Hawley Crescent in Camden, local builder Mr Samuel J Furnace died… for the very first time, but his death was not to be his last. At 8pm, that very evening, a crowd began to gather around the merchant’s yard of Hawley Crescent as thick plumes of smoke poured from the brick shed and flames lapped at the windows. Mr Wynne, the owner called the fire brigade, and within minutes the blaze was extinguished, but it wasn’t until they’d broken down both doors, that they saw the full horror of the scene. As sitting at his desk, in a high chair, slumped over a high wooden table, was a badly charred body of a man, identified by a lodger and Mr Wynne himself as Samuel J Furnace, the local builder who’d rented the shed. Unable to see a way out of his spiralling financial situation, Samuel Furnace took the ultimate tragic step, and ended his life by setting himself alight. He left behind a wife and three children. Their only reminder of his final hours being a suicide note, written on a typewriter (seen above), which summed up his desperation that simply read “No money. No work. Goodbye. Samuel J Furnace”. Mr Samuel J Furnace was dead, death by suicide, and the case was closed…  Samuel J Furnace - the "deceased"?
…or, so you would think? But a few factors didn’t sit well with the forensics, nor the Police. Why would a builder, who has access to all manner of tools, blades, tourniquets and even chemicals, set himself on fire? Why not hang himself? Drown himself in the Regent’s Canal (a 2min walk from him shed)? Or shoot himself with the loaded gun that he owned? Why write a suicide note, using paper, when you plan to set yourself on fire? And even more bizarrely, how did he manage to remain so still, and seated in a high chair, at his desk, after he’d set himself on fire? It simply didn’t make sense. When district Pathologist, Mr Bentley Purchase, examined the badly charred body, he noticed that Samuel Furnace had been shot; once in the back and once on the left-hand-side of his torso, both occurring before he’d died, and before he’d set himself alight. Which begged the question, who had shot Samuel Furnace, and – having been shot - why had Samuel set himself alight? Or, if he hasn’t, had his killer torched the body to make it look like a suicide to cover their tracks? The Police knew that this was not a suicide - this was a murder. But, then who had killed Samuel Furnace? Well…  The high chair that the charred body was found "sitting" in.
…no-one.
When the Pathologist examined the charred body he deduced that, even though two independent witnesses had identified the smouldering corpse as that of the 42 year old builder Samuel Furnace, the teeth were of a considerably younger man - twenty years younger, in fact. In a badly burned overcoat found next to the body, Police found fragments of the owner’s post-office savings slip, a debtor’s collection book and an empty wallet, all marked with the – slightly scorched but still legible - name of “W Spatchett”. Walter Spatchett, a 25 year old debt collector, who’d gone missing that day, having completed his rounds, collecting £40 (roughly £2000 today) from debtors and made a sizable withdrawal from his savings account, had returned to the shed he’d shared with Samuel Furnace - who Walter had bailed out financially on numerous occasions - and was never seen again. It seems that no-one had shot Samuel Furnace, nor had they set him on fire. Instead, he was alive, well and on the run. He’d murdered Walter Spatchett, having accrued an unmanageable number of debts, being short of work, low on cash, frustratingly married and living a lifestyle he couldn’t afford with numerous “lady friends”. As well as having recently renewed his life own insurance policy. Samuel Furnace planned to disappear, but this was thwarted by his own brother-in-law, who Furnace had sent a desperate letter to, asking to meet him in Southend with “a bag full of clothes” and no explanation. His brother-in-law agreed, but not before he’d tipped off the Police, an ambush was set, and Furnace was captured and arrested. In custody, Samuel Furnace claimed that he’d “accidentally” shot Walter Spachett (albeit twice), stolen his money to escape his financial woes, set the shed on fire to cover his tracks, and had thrown his gun into the Regent’s Canal. Furnace was charged that evening with murder. But he was never brought to trial, as the night after his arrest, as he rested in his prison cell, he complained that he was cold and asked the officer on duty if he could have his overcoat to keep himself warm. At 7am the next morning, as the officer checked his cell, and saw Furnace raising a small bottle to his lips, that he’d hidden in the lining of his coat (should he ever need it). It was hydrochloric acid.  30 Hawley Crescent today, now "Poppies Fish & Chips"
Samuel Furnace died 24 hours later in St Pancras Hospital, his last words from his burning lips being “my dear wife…”. Oddly, Samuel Furnace died on 16th January 1933, thirteen days after he’d originally died, but this second suicide, was the to be last. Samuel Furnace was dead.
And his windfall to save his family from spiralling debts was not to be, as having not checked the small print, his life insurance policy was deemed null & void, as it did not cover him… for suicide.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
0 Comments
 Soho, a poo-fetishist's paradise?
Soho: the cultural heart of London, a district in the parish of St Anne’s, epicentre of the West End’s smut, sleaze and sex trade, and unquestionably the must-see place for all manner of weirdness, whether you’re looking to ogle an octogenarian punk with an plethora of questionable piercings, to pour praise upon a paraplegic drag-act, or marvel as a homeless man busks for a “quid to get a boob-job”. Trust me, this is all very standard fare for Soho.
But would you expect to find someone eating their own poo? Hmm, possibly. But as a piece of performance art, by one oddball, with an crazy idea of what entertainment is – but not everyone. So, why did several streets in Soho, during two weeks in a not abnormally hot summer, all eat each other’s poo, resulting in the death of 616 residents? Was it an odd arts festival? A strange cult? Or simply the people of Soho… being “quirky”? In fact, it was neither. During the mid-19th century, Soho (a district whose fortune continually rises and falls owing to its ever changing populous and situated in the busy West End, where few people put down roots or stay for longer than is necessary) was – again - one of the more impoverished parts of town. At its heart was Broad Street (now Broadwick Street), formerly the site of one of the city’s largest inner city plague pits - covering Carnaby Street to Poland Street, Great Marlborough Street to Broadwick Street – see my blog on Carnaby Street's Plague Pits - was now in the grip of yet another epidemic, owing to the large influx of people, and unsanitary conditions, as London’s new sewer system built by Bazelgette had only reached the posh parts of town – not Soho. So, with no sanitation at their disposal, the Soho residents (like most of England) simply dumped the expulsion of their bodily functions - that’s wee and poo to you – into the city’s streets, causing the gutters, walkways and cellars to become cesspools of people’s filth, with thousands of tonnes of rotting, stinking and feted faecal matter floating underneath people’s floorboards as they ate.  Dr John Snow
On 31st August 1856, there were several outbreaks of Cholera (which causes vomiting, diarrhoea, dehydration and eventually death) across the city, with one major outbreak in Soho. In just three days, 127 people died in or around Broad Street, and ten days later, over 500 people had died, 12.6% of the population, leaving 616 residents dead by the time the epidemic had ceased.
The scientific theory of the day - which hadn’t been expanded on since The Great Plague of 1665/6 – was miasma, that diseases travel upon clouds of “bad air”, at least until Louis Pasteur poo-poo’d (pardon the pun) this idea with his “germ theory” in 1861. Luckily for the Soho residents, Dr John Snow, a local physician who lived on Frith Street, was never an advocate of the “bad air” theory, and began talking to those who become ill, and the families of those who’d died, to find a common thread or source for this epidemic. Very quickly, Dr Snow had discovered one fact that unified them – they’d all collected their drinking water from the Broad Street pump. But what was it about the pump that was making everyone so ill? As a matter of precaution, the pump was dismantled, examined and the locals were forced to seek their drinking water from another source, other pumps across the city, where the Cholera outbreak had been practically non-existent. And very quickly, within days in fact, the epidemic was gone. Oddly, during an era when water wasn’t considered “clean” and many residents (including children) chose to drink beer instead of water, and even brushed their teeth with it, none of the workers at the Broad Street brewery contracted Cholera, as each had drank their daily allowance of beer, which is boiled during the process and destroys the Cholera bacteria.  The Board Street Pump, a memorial to Dr John Snow
Upon further investigation, Dr John Snow discovered that the water source of the Broad Street pump had been dug barely one metre from a large, bubbling, faeces-filled cess pit, of a family who, like everyone else, dumped their waste, either in a cess-pit, or in the street, whichever was easier. In this case, their overflowing cess-pit contained the nappies and faeces of their baby… who had recently died of Cholera.
Unwittingly, the Soho residents hadn’t consciously eaten each other’s poo – either as a dare, a party-piece, or to appear a little bit “wacky” (although I wouldn’t put it passed them) – instead, they’d each drank particles of everyone’s plop which had leaked into their everyday drinking water. Today, (when and if the contractors return it) a replica of the Broad Street pump sits on Broadwick Street, opposite the site of the original pump street, where a lovely pub stands, named after Soho’s famous saviour – The John Snow. Go there, have a drink, maybe have a wee or a poo too, as they no longer flows to/from the same source… we’ve been informed. Although steer clear of the Guinness, it’s a bit… frothy. (that’s a joke)
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
What's your favourite tipple? A sparkling glass of bubbly, a glass of full-bodied red, a shot of peaty Perthshire Scotch, a lewdly named cocktail with an abundance of fancy fruit, colourful umbrellas and fizzing sparklers, that it would make a Soho drag-act blush, or... would you prefer a beer?
I mean, with the bank holiday weekend quickly approaching, you're probably looking for something seriously fun, quirky, curious, original and different to do in London or Soho, and rightly you'll deserve to treat yourself to a few light libations to quench your well-earned thirst after a hard week at work, am I right? And what's better than a nice pint of beer? Mmm. How about FREE BEER!!!??? And not just one free beer, or two, or even ten, but a free unlimited supply of London's finest, fullest, lightly frothed and most famous beer, enough to last you a lifetime. How about that? Would that quell your thirst? Well, in 1814, your dream came true. 
On the 17th October 1814, a colossal beer vat at The Horse Shoe Brewery situated on Tottenham Court Road, ruptured, spilling 135,000 gallons of locally brewed Porter Ale, after the metal hoops holding the barrel together snapped. The sheer weight and force of 610,000 litres of frothing and fizzing fine ale rushing through the vaults, was so overwhelming, that it toppled another 8 to 9000 barrels of Porter, and formed a fifteen foot tidal wave - totalling 323,000 gallons (1,470,000 litres) - of beer, which burst into the city streets. But, this free supply of booze wasn't a cause for celebration or merriment. There wasn't singing and dancing in the streets as a tsunami of creamy dark ale surged out of the brewery, down Tottenham Court Road and into the awaiting mouths of anyone who happened to be yawning, talking or conveniently a tad thirsty (having always held their trap open, in case any such ludicrous situation should unfold - because you never know?). No. Unfortunately, the area surrounding the Horse Shoe Brewery, known as St Giles' Rookery - an area of poverty and boozing that inspired Hogarth’s Gin Lane - was packed full of alms houses and tenements for the poor, sick and destitute. And as the Great Beer Flood exploded, a large proportion of those 1.4 million litres of still sticky ale, completely decimated two houses, crushed the wall of the Tavistock Arms Pub, trapping fifteen year old worker Eleanor Cooper amidst the rubble, and flooded the basements on George Street and New Street, where many families were living, killing a mother and daughter who were taking afternoon tea, sweeping both away, and surging through a back room of mourners who had gathered for a funeral wake. Many family members crawled onto the tops of floating furniture in a bid to survive, but some were not so lucky. Of those who perished were: Ann Saville (aged 53), Eleanor Cooper (15), Catherine Butler (63), Elizabeth Smith (27), Mary Mulvey (30), Sean Duggins (29), Hannah Bamfield (4), and Thomas Mulvey (3), having either drowned or died from their injuries. 
And although watchmen at the Brewery made a pretty penny or two by allowing the morbid hawkers who came in their hundreds to marvel at the macabre spectacle (of the ruined beer vats), many locals simply stood around in hushed silence, keeping as silent as possible so the screams of those still trapped could be heard.
A jury cleared the brewers (Henry Meux & Co.) of any wrongdoing, and the incident was set aside as "an unavoidable act of God", with Meux & Co receiving a refund for the excise duty they had paid to produce the beer they had lost, but which had lost so many lives. The Horse Shoe Brewery was soon back into production, making the infamous dark porter ale, until it closed in 1921, and was replaced by the Dominion Theatre. Still thirsty? Looking for something quirky, curious, original & unusual to do in London or Soho this bank holiday weekend? Try Murder Mile Walks. And having read this blog post, I'll give you 30% OFF all tickets, simply by typing MULLEDW1NE into the booking widget above.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
In Victorian England, following the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 (which removed any financial obligation from the fathers of illegitimate children), unmarried mothers were stigmatized, struggled to make ends meet, and were subsequently forced to give away their unwanted children to the local “baby farm” for a small fee. These were supposedly a safe haven for the illegitimate foundlings to flourish with food, warmth, clothing and – maybe – an education, but more often than not, baby farms were established to make money, by exploiting the weak, impoverished and the vulnerable.
Whether overwhelmed by a deluge of bastards, or unable to adequately care for the illegitimate, many babies died of a lack of nutrition, measles, mumps or cot-death, but many unscrupulous “baby farmers” simply starved the babies (once payment had been made) to save money, or poisoned them with a lethal mix of syrup and opium, curiously known as “Mother’s Friend”. One such baby farmer was Amelia Dyer; midwife, nurse and married mother-of-two, who easily reassured her clients – all distraught mothers with the hardest decision to make – that with her pleasant home, stable marriage and two healthy children, that she was the right choice to give their unwanted offspring a chance. But for Amelia… “baby farming” was nothing more than a lucrative way of making her money. And so, being unwilling to waste any time, money or effort by letting the children die of neglect or starvation, Amelia simply murdered each child the second their distraught mother was out of earshot, and pocketed the cash. Was she ever caught? Of course. As a mentally unstable alcoholic with a growing opium addiction and a history of suicidal tendencies, whose mood swings and temperament swung between high-as-a-kite and hateful beyond the extreme, a local doctor became suspicious of the number of child deaths he’d been called to certify in Amelia Dyer's care and called the authorities. So, she was convicted of murder, manslaughter, or maybe infanticide, right? No. She was sentenced to just six months hard labour… for child neglect. But wasn’t she even imprisoned for murder when caring for an illegitimate baby, as the governess grew suspicious that this baby that had been returned to her… wasn’t hers, stripped off the baby’s clothes to reveal a birthmark, which wasn’t there? No. Amelia Dyer feigned a breakdown and committed suicide by drinking two bottles of laudanum. Or she would / should have died, had she not built up a tolerance, owing to her long-term substance abuse, and survived. Upon release from hospital – and having been declared “sane” - Amelia stopped relying on doctors to issue a death certificate for each child she'd dispatched, as this only aroused suspicion from the Police and even mothers desperate for their child’s safe return, their fortunes now better, so she began disposing of the diminutive little bodies herself. Often by wrapping them in carpet, weighed down with bricks, and dumping them in the River Thames. But unknown to Dyer, on 30 March 1896, a package was retrieved from the Thames at Reading by a bargeman. The package Amelia dumped had not weighted down adequately and was easily spotted. It contained the decomposing body of a baby girl, later identified as Helena Fry. It was while examining the paper that the baby was wrapped in that Detective Constable Anderson made a crucial breakthrough, using a microscope he deciphered a barely legible name—Mrs Thomas (one of Amelia’s many aliases)—and an address. On 3 April 1896, police raided Amelia’s home, and were immediately overpowered by the stench of human decomposition. And although no human remains were found, there was enough evidence in the form of white edging tape (used to strangle the babies & children), telegrams making reference to “adoptions”, pawn tickets for the child's belongings and letters from distraught mothers inquiring about the well-being of their children to have her arrested. 
At the inquest, Police calculated that, in just a few months, Amelia Dyer had “cared” for at least twenty children, leading some experts to estimate that over the two decades of which she was a “baby farmer”, she may have killed over 400 babies and children, making her one of the most prolific murderers ever, as well as the most prolific female serial killer ever. On the 10th June 1896 “baby farmer” Amelia Dyer (aged 69) was charged with three counts of murder and was executed by hanging at Newgate Prison, drawing in one of the largest gatherings in London to a public execution in the 1890's.
Looking for something quirky, curious, original & unusual to do in London or Soho this bank holiday weekend? Try Murder Mile Walks, on Saturday 28th, Sunday 29th and Monday 30th May @ 11am. And having read this blog post, I'l give you 30% OFF all tickets, simply by typing MULLEDW1NE into the booking widget above.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
What started as a relatively straight-forward murder - a local prostitute / exotic dancer / singer in a suspected argument with a punter is shot to death outside of nightclub - soon descended into urban myth, local legend and journalistic farce, as once again the tabloid press, keen to increase sales with a salacious story, attributed her death with a convenient character who'd proved profitable before, causing panic amongst the peddlers, prostitutes and populous of the seedy streets of Soho. His name was "The Soho Strangler". From 1946 to 48, four sex workers had been murdered within streets of each other, gripping Soho in fear, as their brutal slaying seemingly echoed not only Jack the Ripper, but also The Blackout Ripper, and The Soho's Strangler's original killing spree just a decade earlier.
But then again, following the sensational murders of a still disputed number of street-walkers in London's East End of the 1888's, to a convenient character concocted by the newly formed tabloid press, dubbed Jack the Ripper, fact was far less important than a good story, some gory details and a sinister name to strike fear into a gullible public and - more importantly - increase sales. Therefore the 1948 so-called Soho Strangler killings were just as inaccurate:
In 1935-36, suspicion for the killings of "French Fifi", "French Marie", Marie Jeanette Cotton and "Dutch Leah" fell onto their pimp, known locally as "Red Max Kassel", even though - hardly reported in the press - he'd actually been murdered on 24th January 1936 by his partner "Roger Vernon" who was subsequently imprisoned just two days later, meaning neither man could have possibly committed all four murders. in 1948, suspicion for these four murders of "Russian Dora", "Black Rita", "Ginger Rae" and Margaret Cook, again fell onto those of their pimps - The Messina Brothers, even though only the symbolic murder of "Ginger Rae" matched their very specific method of enforcement, and by 1948, The Messina's were long gone. The Messina Brothers had dominated Soho vice since the mid 1930’s, but by the late 1940’s, a Police Task Force had been set up to stamp out prostitution, shut down the brothels and convict those who had a strangle-hold on Soho. The Messina's; Alfredo, Attilo, Eugene and Carmelo all fled Britain, they were hunted, captured and imprisoned, with each serving a paltry four to six years before being deported back to Malta. The remaining brother, Salvatore went into hiding and was never found.  Site of The Blue Lagoon Club today at 50 Carnaby Street
And yet, in the case of Margaret Cook? The facts is, that she was last seen, outside of The Blue Lagoon Club at 50 Carnaby Street, arguing with her boyfriend - a local hoodlum - who owned a revolver. He fled the country, no-one knew where, just a few days later.
And yet... the murder, up until a few months ago, remained unsolved. Along with the murders of "French Fifi", "French Marie", Marie Jeanette Cotton, "Dutch Leah", “Ginger Rae”, “Russian Dora”, and “Black Rita”. None of these cases has ever been solved, none of their killers were ever caught, and many of these murders attributed to prostitution being a notoriously dangerous profession*. Over the last ten years in the UK, sixty prostitutes (both male and female, that we know of) have been murdered, meaning that if you are a sex-worker you are forty-two times more likely to be murdered than anyone else, and yet, it is sixty-four percent less likely that your case will lead to a conviction. As of today, the - still unnamed - 91 year old British ex-pat who confessed to the murder of Margaret Cook outside of the Blue Lagoon club in 1946 is currently awaiting extradition for his crime. But given his age, infirmity and declining health, British Authorities are unsure whether he’s fit to stand trial for murder, or whether the case will even go to trial... at all. * on average there are 562 murders in UK per year, that’s less than two per day, but that accounts for one prostitute being murdered every two months.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
But... have you ever been perched on a stool next to a serial killer? Ever got chatting to a "really nice chap" who - unbeknownst to you - keeps corpses in his cellar? What, not even swigged back a Martini with a murderer, a pint with a poisoner, or cadged a fag outside off a callous killer? No. Are you sure? Because the chances are... you have. What follows is a hand little list of pubs which the more infamous of London's serial killers and murders hung out in, either for a "swifty", a "nibble", or as a pick-up joint to prey on their next - slightly intoxicated - victims.
Colin Ireland, a sadomasochist who was supposedly "heterosexual", lured five gay men to their deaths (Peter Walker, Christopher Dunn, Peter Bradley III, Andrew Collier and Emanuel Spiteri) in 1993, having made a New Year's resolution to become a serial killer. His victims were chosen, courtesy of the Coleherne customer's colour-coded handkerchiefs (indicating which were sexually passive and into sadomasochism). Michael Lupo, an Italian who travelled extensively, murdered four young men who - like Nilsen and Ireland - preyed upon on his colour-coded victims at The Coleherne. Later sentenced to four life sentences, plus 14 years for two attempted murders, Lupo is believed to have committed murders wherever he travelled including America, Italy and Germany.
This is by no means an exhaustive list. There are certainly other pubs, and other killers, which you are more than welcome to add in the comments section below. And, obviously, I can't include all the serial killers who are currently out there, right now, sitting next to you in a bar, asking you for the time, borrowing your paper, or (supposedly) whistling a merry little tune as they mind their own business - or so you think? Anyway, stay safe. Cheers!
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
What’s your worst nightmare as a commuter on the London Underground? The claustrophobia of being crammed into a stiflingly hot carriage, unable to breathe, as a sweaty businessman’s armpit is wedged under your nose? A power cut that plunges your world into pitch darkness, leaving you trapped, hundreds of feet underground, the terrifying possibility that whatever is rubbing your leg is a “pervert’s protuberance”? Or … being pushed, to your death, under the wheels of a moving tube train, by the London Underground’s most prolific serial killer? The last one? Of course it is. But that would never happen, right? Wrong. During the 1970’s and 80’s, a sadistic serial killer stalked the Northern Line of London’s Underground network looking for his next victims. This series of murders were so shocking, that Scotland Yard covered them up for fear of causing a city-wide panic amidst London’s 2.6million commuters. Many of his victims were recorded simply as suicides, with every commuter tutting as the rush-hour news was announced “we apologise for the delay, this is due to a body on the line at Kennington”. Evidence only came to light last year, when former Scotland Yard detective Geoff Platt announced "It was a cover-up. Think about it, the police don't want it getting out – there would be mass panic. They didn't want people knowing a serial killer got away with pushing innocent people on to the tracks – they’d be afraid it could happen again." But it had – 18 times. 
London Underground’s most prolific serial killer was an Irish drifter in his 50’s known as Kieran Kelly, who preyed upon the commuters of the network’s Northern Line (at stations such as Kensington, Clapham Common, Oval, Stockwell and Tottenham Court Road, to name but a few).
Kelly, a violent alcoholic and a homeless beggar (who ironically had a pathological hated for tramps) was convicted murdering his cell-mate, William Boyd, by strangling him with a pair of socks and stamping on his skull until it was an unrecognisable mush. As well as Hector Fisher in a Clapham Common graveyard, and Maurice Weighly, found murdered in the graveyard of St Anne’s Church (Soho), his face and genitals mutilated, the neck of a broken bottle thrust up his rectum. Former Scotland Yard Detective Geoff Platt commented that, not only was Kieran Kelly a willing eye-witness at many of these “tube suicides”, but – whereas most commuters would depart the scene after such a harrowing incident - “What got my attention was Mr Kelly often appeared to have been the only man left standing on the platform", offering false witness statements about the victim’s final few moments and even their suicidal motives. It wasn’t until Detective Geoff Platt interviewed Kieran Kelly for the murder of his cell-mate William Boyd, that Kelly spilled the beans. "He was loaded with testosterone and adrenaline, mentally, physically and sexually aroused and could not stop talking about what he had done. He was asked if he had murdered his cellmate and he admitted that he had, and, unprompted, he then went on to admit that he had also previously killed fifteen other people". So, the next time you’re on a tube or train platform, surrounded by strangers, all huffing and puffing with pent-up frustration, one curt word short of losing their temper. Ask yourself? Who’s that standing behind me? What are they thinking about? And – more importantly – who have they already killed? Stay safe!
* Unlike every case presented in Murder Mile Walks, “The London Underground Serial Killer” has not been researched, verified or checked by my own thorough and meticulous standards (using court transcripts, etc, as there are currently no such documents). This "evidence" exists solely as a statement made by a former police detective… with a book to sell. Therefore the truthfulness of these facts I cannot verify as accurate. At the time of writing this, British Transport Police have invited “Mr Platt to submit any information he has on these matters to us.". He is yet to reply.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
London's Carnaby Street sits in the vibrant heart of Soho's cultural epicentre, being - not only a style shopper's paradise, packed full of quirky, unusual and original designer goods, foods and fashions, but it also the epitome of the swinging sixties, pop culture and contemporary rock and blues history - making it an icon, a must do, and easily one of the top things to do in London. If you haven't been to Carnaby Street before, I strongly suggest you pay a visit... just be careful where you walk. As the West End's very own fashion capital, along with a multitude of Soho's seedy streets are built upon mass graves. 
At the back of Carnaby Street sits a lovely residential street chock full of listed buildings, swanky offices and high-rise homes for Soho's well-to-do, sat amidst a sea of patisseries, hair salons and to-good-to-be-true tapas bars. This is Dufour's Place. Dufour’s Place has been known locally and informally since the 1600’s as Pesthouse Close. The Pesthouse (later renamed St James' Workhouse, but the structure of which now forms the Poland Street car park) was where Soho's infected and incurable residents were quarantined, treated and studied, but mostly it was used as a mortuary and burial ground for the poor, diseased, criminal and the insane. But as the plague of 1665 spread across Europe, killing a sixth of the population, Pesthouse Close quickly became an almighty plague pit. It was so big, it covered an area of half a square mile, from Broadwick Street to Poland Street, from Marshall Street to Carnaby Street, with every spare inch packed full with thousands of rotting and disease riddled corpses. So fast were London's plague pits being filled, during the height of the 1665-6 epidemic, that pits - six foot wide, fifty foot long and fifteen foot deep - were dug, with layers of bodies, stacked on top of each other, with a covering of quick lime in between (to speed the decomposition), making the graves resemble a lasagne. A very meaty one. And the majority of these corpses... are still under our feet today. 
But you need not worry, as you shop in Soho's uber fashionable Carnaby Street. Those thousands upon thousands of plague riddled bodies can't harm you, with their deadly (and highly contagious) disease, they're hidden under many tonnes of gravel, soil and concrete... ...except when Soho's bustling streets are dug up (which Westminster council seems to do on a seemingly daily basis, for no reason what-so-ever)... ..and besides, the plague is old news, it's dead, gone, cured, it can't hurt you. And anyway, we haven't had an outbreak of the plague since 1666. Except of course, the Great Plague of Vienna in 1679, the Baltic plague in 1708, and there was one in Marseille in 1720. And, okay, Australia had twelve plague outbreaks between 1900-1925, with another massive one in India in 1994. But as plagues go, it’s dead, right? The plague no longer exists. Surely? Hmm, okay, maybe a few small particles found in March last year on the New York subway system. But that’s it. * Enjoy you shopping trip! * Unfortunately not! According to WHO (World Health Organisation) there are on average 200 recorded cases of the plague across the world, every year. But, this isn't a deadly disease which only affects the poorest of third world countries, last year there were 16 confirmed cases of the plague in the United States of America.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
On January 18th 1908 at 3:40pm, Jane Farvish, a 41 yr old woman of “generous proportions”, staggered into 54a Broadwick Street, a chemist shop known as Soho Drug Stores. On the door was a wooden sign which read "teeth extracted". Aided by her concerned husband Nathan and daughter Annie, she was weak, tired and breathless, having not slept for three nights owing to a severe tooth ache.
After a quick examination of her gums, the dentist, Isidor Zeifert, concluded she needed two teeth removed and something for the pain. But having ran out of gas, a common anaesthetic which also causes headaches, he opted for a more expensive analgesic - cocaine. Cocaine had been in surgical use in England since 1884 and, although still in use in 1908, was listed in 1905 under the Poisons Act. So, having prepared a solution of roughly one-third of a grain of cocaine (60milligrams) in ten drops of water, he injected it into her gums and waited for the pain to subside. Which it did, quickly. But within minutes, Jane was sweating profusely, her pulse was heavy and her breathing erratic. The dentist reassured her this was just a side-effect of the cocaine. Moments later, her face had become crooked and paralysed, she complained, her speech now slurred and barely audible, but again the dentist brushed off her concerns, impatiently huffing about how she was over-reacting, and set about removing her teeth with his plyers. As he twisted the second tooth free, Jane suffered a fit, so violent, she almost snapped the legs of the chair she sat in, until eventually she passed out. As her terrified daughter Annie ran for the doctor at her father’s request, still the dentist protested his innocence, claiming that her comatose state was perfectly normal. "Don't be afraid”, he said, reassuring her husband, “your wife will be like this for about ten minutes, no more". But after three quarter of an hour, Jane had gone silent, she was still, and was cold to the touch. Jane Farvish was pronounced dead at 6:40pm. Isidor Zeifert was charged with manslaughter at 8:10pm, and was tried at The Old Bailey on 3rd March 1908. At his trial, the pathologist concluded that not only had Isidor Zeifert injected into his patient, more than double the safe dosage of cocaine, but also, having only checked the gums of this 41 year old woman of “ample measurements”, who’d arrived at his chemists; too weak to stand, too tired to stay awake and too breathless to walk unaided, he’d failed to check the state of her heart, which was standard practice when administering such a dangerous poison. Jane Farvish died of cocaine poisoning, at the hands of Isidor Zeifert, her local dentist. He was a lethal mix of incompetence and arrogance, but worse than that, he wasn’t qualified. Not in England, and not in his native Russia, neither as a chemist, nor as a dentist. But then this was 1908, anyone could set themselves up with very little training, experience or qualifications. All you just needed was a rented room, a white coat and a sign on a door. When the jury returned their verdict, for the unlawful manslaughter of Jane Farvish, the unqualified self-taught dentist and chemist, Isidor Zeifert was pronounced… not guilty. The judge recommended that “in future, when administering cocaine… that he be more careful”.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian 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 quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 18 murderers, 3 serial killers, across 21 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
|
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
|
