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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…
…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…
…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.
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.
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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.
In July 2015, a ninety-one year old British ex-pat living in a care home in Canada was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and given just a few months to live.
Wracked with guilt, plagued by nightmares, and unable to pass away peacefully because of the bloody burdens of his past, he promptly walked into a local Police station and admitted to the murder of Soho prostitute Margaret Cooke, outside the Blue Lagoon club at 50 Carnaby Street, on 10th November 1946. This is the longest gap between a crime and a confession in British criminal history.
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.
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.
Pubs - the perfect pastime for London's ever expanding populous, whether you're popular, poor, parched or are just a perpetual piss-head.
With over 7000 pubs in our capital alone, you're never short of a hospitable hostelry to wet your whistle in, whether your refreshment needs be a little libation, a "wee swally", a few cheekies or a full on sesh'.
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.
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.
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.
This Sunday 8th May 2016, Murder Mile Walks marks the 80th anniversary of the brutal murder of the Soho prostitute Constance May Hinds alias “Dutch Leah” in her second floor lodgings at 66 Old Compton Street. Her death was attributed to Soho’s very own “Jack the Ripper”, a man who was never identified or caught, and dubbed by the press as “The Soho Strangler”. And so, 80 years on…
…the murder of “Dutch Leah” remains unsolved. So who was “Dutch Leah”, why was she killed, why was her murder attributed to “The Soho Strangler” and – more importantly – who killed her? Murder Mile Walks investigates. Born Constance May Hinds in 1912 to mother Kathleen Hinds (a career criminal, convicted thief, alcoholic and prostitute) and an unknown father, Constance had a tough upbringing, which didn’t get any easier the older she got. By the tender age of 18 years old, she’d been married twice, dated a slew of unsavoury characters, was forced to give her own daughter up for adoption, and had eight convictions for prostitution, which funded her rampant alcoholism. Nicknamed “Dutch Leah”, Constance Hinds was born and raised in London, and had no connection to Holland at all, except having – like most London-born prostitutes – adopted a street-name that made her sound more “exotic” than she really was. By 1936, the year of her death, “Dutch Leah” was known by a range of non-de-plumes including Leah Hinds, Connie Smith, Connie May Hinds, Constance Smith, and was affectionately known as “Stilts Leah” on account of her love of wearing very high heels. But with arrears spiralling, she frequently moved from shabby lodging to hideous hovel, leaving a trail of angry debtors behind her. On the evening of the 8th May 1936, “Dutch Leah” – having partied a little too hard and drank a little too much in a local Soho gin palace– was last seen entering her lodgings at 66 Old Compton Street with a “gentleman friend”. The next morning, her diminutive husband - Stanley King – knocked on the door, but got no reply. Not having a key, and fearing the worst, he procured the help of a passing labourer called Addams, who broke down the door. Stanley found his wife lying on their matrimonial bed. Her dress was rucked up around her midriff, her genitals exposed, as if she was awaiting a customer - but no sex had taken place - instead she’d been violently strangled with a thin copper wire, and her head had been brutally bashed in with a rusty flat iron, splitting her skull wide open.
So, who was this “gentleman friend” she was last seen with? Was he “The Soho Strangler?” Unfortunately, no-one knows, as the man dubbed “The Soho Strangler” was never caught. What we do know is that her “gentleman friend” was “tall, slim, clean shaven, foreign, had long hair and a slouching gait, and he wore a dark raincoat… but not a hat (unusual for the period)”. Three sets of finger prints were found in the room by Police; Dutch Leah’s. Stanley King’s… and one other - never identified.
And that is all the evidence we have. Unfortunately, in 1936, forensic science was still in its formative years, with Home Office Pathologist Sir Bernard Spilbury’s “murder kit” (a suitcase for evidence gathering) only introduced a few years earlier. Which is why no corroborative evidence exists on many of London’s earlier and most infamous murder cases – especially “Jack the Ripper” - as during the birth of the Police Force, “beat officers” were effectively little more than untrained “moral guardians”, who – upon discovering a murder – would often reposition the body, remove the murder weapon, and would have the blood-soaked street washed down for fear of offending the public’s moral decency. So, was “Dutch Leah” murdered by “The Soho Strangler”? No. Of course she wasn’t. “The Soho Strangler” is just a name; a convenient yet slightly sensational character, created by eager-journalists, during the early days of tabloid, to sell newspapers. Just as they had done fifty years earlier in the “Jack the Ripper” case. With literacy amongst the British working class starting to blossom, newspapers had stopped being the preserve of the educated elite, and tabloid news born, with an eye towards sensational stories to lure the “less educated” readers in. So, there wasn’t a “Soho Strangler”? It’s possible, but unlikely. As with the Jack the Ripper case, there are as many similarities as there are dissimilarities between each of the victims, which can easily skew your perception of “who killed who”, either one way or another. So, let’s look at what the Press purported to be “facts”: Fact #1: “All four victims of the Soho Strangler were prostitutes”? Incorrect. Although Paulette “French Marie” Estelle, Josephine “French Fifi” Martin and Constance “Dutch Leah” Hinds all worked in the sex trade, the third victim – Marie Jeanette Cotton – had no prior convictions for soliciting, no pimp and (unlike the others) no known street name. Fact #2: “All four of the victims of the Soho Strangler were murdered in Soho?” No. The first victim of the man dubbed "The Soho Strangler" by the Press was actually murdered in Bath Row… which was in Euston, one and a half miles away. Fact #3: “All four Soho Strangler victims were strangled?” – Yes, all were strangled, but each in a different way, which suggests they weren’t strangled by the same perpetrator.
Three facts, purported by the Press, all with big gaping holes. Still that didn’t stop unscrupulous tabloids like The Mirror proclaiming “Maniac’s Three Soho Victims! Girl’s Friends Fear to Talk”, even though they seemed to find enough “friends” willing to talk in the article itself, even though the Police confirmed that they could find “no clear link between either of the women”.
The Press had also wrongly attributed the “Soho Strangler” murders to Soho’s very own Kings of Sleaze and the pimps of the West End’s red-light district (1920’s to the mid 1930’s) Roger Vernon and his partner "Red Max" Kassel (photo on right). Unfortunately, their proof is easily dispelled. Fact #4: Although Roger Vernon and “Red Max” were Soho pimps – just like most illicit relationships between pimps and prostitutes, very little connection is provable or ever written down. Fact #5: Yes, “Red Max” had a fondness for strangling, hence he was the Police’s number one suspect in the strangulation of “French Fifi” who lived & died in his flat, but… Fact #6: …although “Red Max” was a Soho pimp, and the prime suspect in the murder of the Soho Strangler’s second victim, before murders #3 (Marie Jeanette Cotton) and #4 “Dutch Leah”, Red Max Kassel was already dead and Roger Vernon was in prison. So, if we remove this whole myth about “The Soho Strangler” and what facts are we left with?
And if she was murdered by a punter – given that prostitution is a notoriously dangerous profession – why was she not raped, and not robbed? Was “Dutch Leah’s” murder the work of someone with an intolerable hatred for prostitutes, a vendetta against “Dutch Leah” herself, or simply - given the severity of her murder – had a severe mental illness, such as Neurosyphilis (a common illness of that era, the symptoms of which include headaches, mood swings, hallucinations and violent rages)? Unfortunately, we shall never know. 
And yet, one piece of the puzzle still perplexes me? Stanley King, “Dutch Leah’s” husband had to break down the door of their second floor flat on 66 Old Compton Street (see photo on left), as he “didn’t have a key”? But with the “Dutch Leah’s” key still in her handbag, the door must have been locked from the inside? So, if that’s true, how did her killer escape? Her flat’s two stories up, with nothing to grip onto?
Had the British tabloid press chosen to accurately investigate the murders of “French Marie”, “French Fifi”, Marie Jeanette Cotton and “Dutch Leah”, instead of concocting a sensational if slightly ludicrous story such as “The Soho Strangler”, then maybe these murders would be solved today? Instead they sold an eager public a lie, to sell newspapers, just as they’d done fifty years earlier in the Jack the Ripper case. And so, 80 years on… …the murder of “Dutch Leah” remains unsolved.
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.
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
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