Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via  iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

EPISODE THIRTY-TWO

Episode Thirty-Two: The Blackout Ripper Part 8: In this episode, we dive into the life history of Gordon Frederick Cummins, a sadistic spree-killer who murdered four women (and attacked two others) in four days in London's West End, but here we ask who is he and why?

• Date: Monday 9th to Thursday 12th February 1942
  
• Location: West End , London
  
• Victims: 6
  
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATIONS

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

THE BLACKOUT RIPPER – The Final Part – The Life of The Blackout Ripper

INTRO: On Thursday 25th June 1942 at a few seconds after 9am, in the cold stone execution chamber inside Wandsworth Prison, the cruel life of the West End’s most sadistic spree-killer was cut short by a long drop and a sudden stop, as the second and third vertebrae of his neck was snapped, severing his spinal cord and (in an instant) The Blackout Ripper was dead.

With the trial concluded, the evidence archived and the limp body of Gordon Frederick Cummins buried in a pine box, the news stories ceased and his name was no longer plastered inside of every newspaper (nestled next to adverts for corsets, hair tonic and piles cream), as in the minds of the public and the press, the case was closed. But in a race to exploit the graphic details of his grisly crimes, one important question was never resolved, and that was “why did he kill?”

Why did a seemingly normal and relatively handsome 28 year old man with a bright military career, a happy marriage and a grammar school education, who was raised in a loving and a respectable middle-class family, and had no criminal record, drug issues or history of mental illness, why did he strangle, pose and mutilate four women, across four days, in London’s West End?

Trying to pin-down who Cummins is an impossible task, as some people say he was charming, pleasant and polite, whereas to others he was rude, aloof and arrogant. But regardless of what type of man he was, several questions remain; why did he steal when he was in a well-paying job, why did he lie when the evidence was against him, and why did he hate these women so much?

By the time of his death, he had given no confession, his statements were lies, there were no witnesses to back-up his story, and his wife and family totally believed in his innocence. So why did he kill? Well, that’s what we hope to explore in his episode, but I warn you now, there is smoking gun, there are no certainties, and what we unearth may ask more questions than it answers.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And (for the first time ever) I present to you, the final part of the full, true and untold story about the life of The Blackout Ripper.
SCRIPT: Gordon Frederick Cummins was born on 18th February 1914, five months before the start of World War One, in the small rural village of Earswick; a quiet leafy hamlet nestling in wilds of North Yorkshire. Raised in an idyllic setting surrounded by fields, streams and buzzing bees, Cummins’ childhood was the epitome of perfect for a young boy, as with trees to climb, fresh fruit to eat and clean water to drink, he was a far-cry from the industrial filth, poverty and squalor of the big cities.

Being an adventurous boy who was eager to explore but was always constrained by the boundary of his tiny world, with Earswick consisting of little more than a handful of thatched cottages, twenty families and a small school, although his village was barely 4 ½ miles from the bustling city of York, for a quizzical and excitable boy, it must have seemed a world away.

Raised in a quiet aspirational middle-class house by his doting mother, his strict school-master father John Robert and his older-brother John Harvey, who – as the first-born son had the honour of being named after his father – Gordon Cummins grew-up with no sisters, no female friends and no close relatives, as with John Robert being an intensely private man who (as a school-master) felt a certain sense of seniority over everyone else, and with his mother coming from Northumberland in the far north-east of England, Cummins had very few playmates, and almost none who were girls.

So, as an over-active, imaginative and frustrated young boy stuck in a small friendless world, with no-one (outside of his family) to talk to, to play with or to learn from, Cummins drifted into day-dreaming.

Did it bother him that his brother was the first-born and the favourite son? Did it matter that he knew very little about girls? And being the school-master’s son, was he bullied by the boys, teased by the girls, and allowed to get away with more than most? That we shall never know. But what he needed in his life was stability… and that’s exactly what was missing.

With the world in upheaval following World War One, the Cummins family went where the work was, so when John Robert became the school-master of Vicar Pritchard's School in Llandovery in the south west of Wales; they packed-up, moved-out and once again, being uprooted, Cummins had lost the few friends he had, and as a new boy, in a new town, in a new country, he became the outsider.

And being from a middle-class English family in a Welsh working-class town, surrounded by people he didn’t know, who spoke a language he couldn’t speak and saw words he couldn’t read, as he withdrew into his own personal world, the more difficulty he had concentrating, the worse his academic record became, which (for his father being the school-master) was deeply shameful.
For anyone, those early teenage years are awkward enough, but for a hormonally-charged Gordon Cummins who lacked even basic social skills, a rudimentary knowledge of girls and a sense of himself, it was around this time that – being ashamed of his heritage and having a voice which was a mix of his father’s native Yorkshire twang and his mother’s natural Geordie drawl, being both working-class northern accents - that Cummins adopted a mock-posh accent, in a hope to distinguish himself.

But being a divisive figure, who (like his arrogant father) exuded the sense of seniority of a man in denial of his own upbringing, this new accent only served to alienate Cummins further, and the more he was ignored, the more he began to resent others for making him feel inferior.

Sadly, this sense of entitlement and a desire to live beyond his already generous means would bring a great shame on the family, when his father; a strict school-master and a devout Catholic was caught stealing money from the school. And although he professed his innocence, never confessed, but later (under the weight of evidence) repaid the money, being burdened by a sense of shame, he lost his job as the school-master and the family were forced to move back to England.

Did his father’s actions show Cummins that the world owed him more than he was given? Did it give him an appetite to live beyond his means, even if it meant stealing? And did his father’s foray into criminality, his arrogant rejection of the rules and his denial of his obvious guilt show Cummins that he was entitled to do whatever he wanted, and – better still – he could get away with it?

In 1929, the Cummins family uprooted to the typically English and delightfully picturesque rural village of Harlestone in the Northamptonshire countryside, five miles north-west of Northampton, which with a smattering of cottages, families and a school was not unlike his birth-place of Earswick.

Once again, they lived in the School House; with his father as the school-master, his mother as a house-wife, his older brother training to be a teacher and Cummins in his final year at Northampton grammar school, and although his father had committed fraud, having not been prosecuted and with very few repercussions for his actions, life for the Cummins family returned to normal. And even though they felt more at home here, as a private family, they rarely socialised and kept to themselves.

Aged 15 years old, having barely scraped through basic education at Northampton Grammar, with the help of his father’s connections, Cummins attended Northampton College of Technology where - even though he achieved a diploma in chemistry – he was described as lazy and easily distracted.

Having blossomed into a handsome young man of five foot nine inches tall, with pale blue eyes, fair wavy hair and a charming smile, with an athletic physique and a well-rehearsed upper-class accent, Cummins had started to gain the attention of girls, but being over-eager, immature and inexperienced, he found it difficult to be himself and instead he would boast, lie and show-off.

Quite when Cummins got his first girlfriend, we shall never know, but as a love-sick teenager desperate to explore this new-found world of feminine allure, although he was merely a student with a modest amount of pocket-money, being eager to lavish his lady lovers with a fine array of gifts and trinkets, Cummins often lived beyond his meagre means, and (to afford this lifestyle) he stole.

And as much as those who knew him stated that he stole, up until his arrest for assault and murder, Gordon Frederick Cummins he had no prior convictions, no criminal record and not even so much as a black-mark against his name. It’s as if (like his father) money was paid and his crimes were forgotten.

So, what did Cummins’s early foray into criminality include; theft, assault, cruelty? That we shall never know. Was he excited by these thefts, apathetic towards their victims and did robbery become an alternative means to achieve his goals (when his parents said no to more money)? And being described as a “thrill-seeker” and a “daredevil”; was adrenaline his drug of choice, was his love all-consuming, or in his desperate bid for attention did he injure his head and change his personality forever. Or was this arrogant, aloof and narcissistic young man already on course to become a mass-murderer?

In November 1932, being eager to see the world and spread-his-wings, 18 year old Cummins moved to his mother’s home city of Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the north-east of England where he worked as an assistant warehouseman for Elswick Leather Goods, but being dreadful at his job, easily distracted by girls and lacking any kind of concentration, he was dismissed after just five months.

Moving back home, a few months later Cummins started work at George Baker & Co, another leather manufacturers, this time in Northampton, but he barely lasted one year as not only was he incapable of following simple requests, but his employers described him as “abnormal and dense”, and once again, he was too easily distracted by girls.

In October 1934, 20 year old Cummins moved to London and worked as an assistant chemist in another leather goods firm called Reptile Dressers at 48/50 Bermondsey Street, where once again, he lasted just one year, before being booted out for being lazy, slow and unfocused.

Three jobs in two years, and yet, in statements which would strangely mirror those who knew him in his final posting at the RAF base in Regent’s Park, at none of his work places did anyone recall Cummins having any friends; he was always short on money, always boasting and eager to impress the girls.

So, did moving to London (one of the world’s most expensive cities) fail to kerb his urge to live beyond his means? Did working in the leather tanning industry, a dangerous job which often meant workers were exposed to highly noxious chemicals such as chromium, cyanide and mercury based biocides, did this effect his personality, or was the damage already done? And did being based in Bermondsey, flanked by wharfs and factories on the south-side bank of the River Thames and surrounded by dock-workers, sailors, pubs and prostitutes, is this where he found his fondness for hard drink and easy sex?

Lacking any focus, Cummins may have squandered the next few years drifting through a series of short-term dead-end jobs in London’s docks, splashing out on booze, chasing after babes and blowing his cash before he’d even paid the rent, but it was here in the summer of 1935 that he met and fell in love with a 22 year old secretary, whose name was Marjorie Stevens.

Very little is known about Marjorie – who she was, how they met or what she looked like – and as a shy retiring person she was very much a homebody hoping to settle down in a nice house with a good man, and so, being a steadying influence, it seemed as if Marjorie would be the making of Cummins.

Marjorie and Gordon married on 28th December 1938 at Paddington Registry Office on Harrow Road (oddly, just a ten minute walk from where Evelyn Hamilton and Doris Jouanett would be murdered), by which time Marjorie had been promoted to a theatre producer’s secretary, Cummins had changed careers and they had both moved in together into a rented first-floor flat at 21 Westmoreland Road in the leafy suburb of Barnes (south west London), which they shared with Marjorie’s sister Freda.

In a rare statement recorded after the trial, the intensely private Marjorie described their marriage as “very very happy” and that her husband “has never been anything but kind and tolerant to me in every respect. He is a normal man who does not consort with other women and he is certainly not a sex-maniac or a pervert”, further stating that “he is not a drunkard, occasionally he would binge, but when he got drunk, he would just become quiet, withdrawn and would pass-out”.

Marjorie remained faithful, married to Cummins and maintained his innocence until the day he died, and although they wanted a family, in the four years of their marriage, they never had children.

Shortly after meeting Marjorie, Cummins quit the graft of the leather-work industry and enlisted in the Royal Air Force; a noble profession with regimented training, a regular income and even though he was stationed right across Britain, he’d regularly travel back to London’s West End to visit Marjorie.

So, with him being regularly billeted across the far-flung parts of Great Britain, did this cause a rift in their relationship? Was their marriage not as harmonious as she claims, with their marital bed being icy cold? Was this why they didn’t have children, or was he suffering from impotence? And was it during these regular weekend visits to the West End that Cummins started visiting Soho prostitutes?

Although the Royal Air Force kept the easily distracted Cummins in a strict routine of tight schedules, tidiness and discipline, just like his fractured childhood, he rarely stayed in one place for more than a few months, as Aircraftman Cummins was posted to several RAF bases in as many years.

Unlike his previous employment at the leather tanners, his Commanding Officer described Cummins’ conduct as “exemplary”, that he was efficient at his work and was never known to complain, and here he would remain in military service for eight years. But, as before, being unable to make new friends, eager for attention and desperate to disguise his true-self, his Commanding Officer also added that Cummins was “boastful, cunning, prone to lying, fond of drink and was morally loose”.

Initially stationed at RAF Felixstowe on the south-coast of England, Cummins was a Flight Rigger, part of No85 RAF Maintenance Unit based in Felixstowe harbour, who assembled the airframes for seaplanes. As before, by adopting a posh-accent and upper-class mannerisms, with his back straight and his nose in the air, as well as claiming to be well educated (which he wasn’t), pretending that he spoke French (which he didn’t) and professing to be wealthy (even though he was always broke), Cummins got the nickname of “The Count”.

Next, Cummins was posted to RAF Helensburgh in Dunbartonshire (Scotland); a recently opened top-secret facility known as the Marine Aircraft Experimental Establishment, where (with the German Luftwaffe bombing every allied runway, engineers were developing innovative avionics and seaplane technology) and once again, being disliked, deceptive and boastful about his many conquests with women, Cummins had become known as “The Duke”. And, as always, he was broke.

Next, Cummins was posted to RAF Catterick, an air-crew training base for Hurricane and Spitfires, back in his home-county of Yorkshire, where “The Count” was widely known as a boozer, a womaniser, a liar and with robbery and theft having become a regular part of his routine to purchase gifts and trinkets to impress the ladies, Cummins had bought himself a gun.

By April 1941, just 10 months before his killing spree, Cummins was posted to RAF Fighter and Bomber Command in Colerne, Wiltshire in the west of England, where – having bragged to locals in The White Heart, The Six Bells and the Fox & Goose public houses that he was the black-sheep in a well-to-do family – he was nicknamed the “Honourable Gordon Cummins”, and although he was notoriously broke, somehow Cummins would always come into money, which he would lavish on the ladies.

With Colerne being a small rural village built around an air-base, on his evenings, Cummins would travel to the city of Bath, just eight miles away, where he would regularly frequent the local brothels and places of ill-repute, such as the red-light district on Quiet Street, and infamous prostitute hang-outs at the Royal Hotel, the Francis Hotel and the Christopher, as well as a notorious café known as The Hole in the Wall, which was strictly out of bounds to all military personnel.

During those few months that Cummins was in Wiltshire, two women were robbed and beaten by a fair-haired airman in the village of Ford, three miles north-east of Colerne, and several ladies handbags were stolen in the Hole in the Wall café, again by a fair-haired airman. Sadly, no positive identification of the man was made, and by the time that Bath Police had begun the investigation, Cummins had been reposted to RAF Predanneck in Cornwall. Where once again, “The Count” having claimed to be nobility, became a member of the prestigious Blue Peter Club in Mullion, and having inveigled himself into a trusted position with the proprietor, he syphoned off the booze supplying free drinks to the local ladies and (it is said) he stole £1000 worth of jewellery from the apartments above. But for whatever reason, no formal complaint was made to the Police.
So, were these the only criminal acts which Cummins committed? A handful of thefts and a smattering of assaults in the pursuit of money and trinkets to impress his lady-friends, or had he progressed to being a prolific thief, able to bluff and bribe his way out of any conviction? That we shall never know.

His final posting was at Abbey Lodge, known as No3 Air-Crew Receiving Centre in Regent’s Park, where he was engaged in a three-week course to train as a pilot, starting on 2nd February 1942, just one week before the murder of Evelyn Hamilton. And having trotted out a familiar tale of him being a wealthy black-sheep, within his first week Cummins had become notorious for being a liar, a thief and an odd-ball, who none of the airmen either trusted or liked, especially when (having had his confiscated) he tried and failed to buy himself another gun.

Prior to his execution, Cummins was examined by Hugh A Grierson, Senior Medical Officer of Brixton Prison in which he stated that there was no history of insanity in the family, and that Cummins had no known mental health issues, no history of violence and no obvious hint of cruelty to either people or animals in his nature, all of which was corroborated by his father, his mother and his wife.

During this examination, Cummins was lucid, rational and polite, and although he was unemotional throughout, he denied suffering from blackouts, memory-loss, drunkenness or any sexual perversions. He was also tested for VD, syphilis and all known STDs and STIs, all of which came back negative.

So, who was Gordon Frederick Cummins and why did he kill?

Robbery? Well, all four of his murder victims (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett) all had money and personal items stolen, so if his impetus to kill began as thefts to obtain fancy trinkets like silver cigarette cases and a gold watch for his lady-friends, why did he keep them and why did he steal such valueless items like a handkerchief and a broken comb?

Hatred? If Cummins didn’t have a prior history of cruelty, why would he – as a man who supposedly committed several assaults, robberies and thefts - escalate to strangulation, torture, mutilation and murder in a matter of months? Was he secretly a sadist? Was there an incident that caused him to snap? And (as a man who constantly craved the attention of women) why did he hate them so much?

Rape? Cummins was clearly a man afflicted by erectile dysfunction, as at each murder scene, sex either didn’t take place or if it did he didn’t climax, as the condoms found on the floor were spent and empty. Impotence is extremely common amongst rapists, and as the attacks escalate, the sex becomes less important as their overriding desire is to over-power, to control and to humiliate, with many turning to strangulation and murder. So did Cummins have a prior history of rape which went unreported?

And finally, humiliation? With Cummins, his murders were never pre-planned (as he never carried any weapons), so were they spontaneous acts of aggression? The key element to all of his murders was his victim’s humiliation; he would rob, strangle and mutilate them, but - more importantly - he would pose them; with their bodies naked, their breasts exposed and their legs left wide open, as their bloodied and ripped corpses stared blankly towards the door – a shocking sight to greet the poor soul who found them. And yet, all of these injuries occurred after he had attempted sex. But why?
I want to show you an incident which occurred on the night of Monday 9th February 1942 at 11pm, the night that Evelyn Oatley was murdered.

On the western corner of Piccadilly Circus, on the junction of Regent Street, Cummins (dressed in his blue military tunic and dark great-coat) stood with the red-headed corporal, bartering for sex with two Soho prostitutes – a brunette called Molly DeSantos Alves and a blonde called Laura Denmark.

And as Laura escorted Cummins passed Café Monaco, she waved to a dark figure in a bright red jumper who was smoking a cigarette as she struggled to stay warm against the cold wintery wind, she was a working-girl that Laura only knew as ‘Lita Ward’, but whose real name was Evelyn Oatley.

Being a 22 year old pretty petite blonde, Laura Denmark was exactly Cummins’ type, and he wasn’t shy of showing her his affection as he unsteadily stumbled down Old Compton Street, towards her Frith Street flat, having sunk back one too many Canadian whiskies in Brasserie Universalle.

Situated on the first floor of 47 Frith Street (above Ronnie Scott’s jazz club today), Laura’s tiny first floor flat was sparsely furnished with just a bed with a sheet, a table with a candlestick, a wash-stand, a packet of razor-blades, some hats, clothes, curling tongs and a collection of kitchen cutlery. And as she popped a shilling in the coin-slot of her electric fire to warm the flat up, they started to undress.

As Laura lay on her double divan bed, naked except for a pair of black stockings, Cummins held in his right hand a condom, as his left hand feverishly bobbed up and down inside the small tent of his white cotton pants, fiddling with his soft flaccid penis, as he leered at Laura’s nakedness, trying to get himself hard.

The more he tugged, the less it grew and the greater his frustration got, as desperation etched across his shamed face and his cheeks flushed red, as with a deep sigh of defeat he said “no, it’s gone”. And as a man who (many said) was unemotional, Laura sensed a sadness in his eyes.

Taking pity on him as his limp and shrivelled penis lay motionless, Laura sidled-up beside Cummins on the bed; a caring arm wrapped around this distraught man, a tender kiss on his cheek, as her head gently rested on his shoulder as they sat in silence, soaking up the warmth of the fire. And for the next half an hour, they chatted, they laughed, they joked and enjoyed each other’s company.

Months later, during his trial, Laura described Cummins as “polite, courteous and a real gentleman, he seemed a very decent sort of chap and was very respectful to me”.

Feeling more comfortable in her presence, as Cummins stroked her blonde hair, his penis swelled, and as the tent of his pants bobbed further and faster; with a grip, a grimace and groan, he was done. With a relieved exhale, Cummins apologised to Laura saying “I’m sorry for keeping you a long while, it must be the drink”; they dressed, walked back to Piccadilly Circus, where he shook her hand, politely said “I wish you all the best and I hope you earn more money tonight” and with that, he was gone.

This moment occurred one hour before Gordon Frederick Cummins brutally murdered Evelyn Oatley.

So, this begs the question, why was he so tender with women like Laura Denmark and Doreen Lytton (who he shared a cup of tea with), and yet, he would brutally torture, mutilate and humiliate Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett? At a critical moment in the night’s nuptuals, was his man-hood mocked? Is the difference between each woman whether or not they scoffed at his lack of sexual prowess? Did a word, a look or even a simple gesture spark a rage inside him, triggered by an unknown incident in this defiantly arrogant charlatan who believed in his own superiority? Or were these attacks entirely random? That we shall never know.

After his execution, unable to believe that a man with no known history of violence would suddenly go on killing-spree, murdering four women and attacking two others in as many days, the detectives of Scotland Yard examined their cold cases and found two unsolved murders with eerie similarities.

On Monday 13th October 1941, 19 year old shop-assistant Mabel Church waved goodbye to friend at Charing Cross Station, the next day demolition workers found her naked strangled body in a bombed-out derelict house on Hampstead Road, just a few roads east of Regents Park.
On Friday 17th October 1941, 49 year old Edith Eleanora Humphries was strangled and bludgeoned to death in bed, in her flat on Gloucester Crescent, just two roads north-east of Regents Park.

In both instances, their assailant was never arrested, questioned or identified.
In both instances, they were robbed of money and personal possessions.
In both instances, there was nothing that seemed to connect these women.
In both instances, they were strangled within days and streets of each other.

And even though, during that week, Cummins was stationed 98 miles away at RAF Colerne in Wiltshire; (just like Abbey Lodge) there was no accurate record of his movements in any log-book, as with most air-bases it was common for airmen to hitchhike to/from London so (if he did travel) his journey went unrecorded, and with Cummins regularly visiting his wife Marjorie at her workplace on The Strand, just a few streets south of Piccadilly Circus, not only would this put him within walking distance of Regents Park, but also on the same road as Charing Cross Station where Mabel Church was last seen.

Posthumously, Cummins was considered a viable suspect by the Police in both cases, but with very little evidence, no charges or conviction could be brought against him.

There’s no denying that Gordon Frederick Cummins was the epitome of a psychopath; arrogant, vain and self-obsessed, a habitual liar who showed no emotion for his victims, no remorse for his actions, gave no confession for his crimes and had a single-minded drive to fulfil only his own desires. And yet, somehow, by becoming a different person to different people, Cummins could be sweet and sadistic, charming and cruel, tender and a torturer, being opposite sides of the same personality.

Even during his trial, when he was faced with insurmountable evidence against him and his impending death, Cummins was less interested in defending himself than he was of catching the eye of any girl.

Was Cummins so arrogant that he truly believed he was innocent? Was Cummins such a day-dreamer that he could no longer tell the difference between right and wrong? Or as a lonely boy, with very little experience of girls, who was raised by doting mother and a self-righteous father who stole to fund a lavish lifestyle, a crime for which he was never convicted, did these minor moments shape an ordinary boy into a sadistic maniac, who believed he could (literally) get away with murder?

And, if the killing-spree of Gordon Frederick Cummins wasn’t a snap decision, but instead was an act of selfish greed which slowly manifested itself over the twenty-eight years of his life, the real question we should be asking is how many more women were attacked and murdered by The Blackout Ripper?

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

That was the final part of The Blackout Ripper series. Originally it was going to be a ten-parter, but I felt the life of Gordon Frederick Cummins, his personality and the key moments in his life (which led up to the murders) could be best summed up in a single episode, but there are still many unresolved questions about his life, so I shall be returning to The Blackout Ripper story once I’ve done more research. This is also the final episode of Murder Mile this season as I need to take a well-earned break to rest and research season two, but I hope to post some goodies whilst I’m away.

If you love The Blackout Ripper story, please rate it and share it with your friends, as the more listeners Murder Mile gets, the more stories I can tell, and the longer this podcast can keep going.
This week’s recommended podcasts of the week are Trace Evidence, hosted by Steven Pacheco, if you haven’t heard of Trace Evidence, why not? It’s a fabulous true-crime podcast where Steven digs deep into some truly fascinating unsolved murder cases with through research, heart and passion, hence why Oxygen .com voted it one of “7 True-Crime Podcasts you should listen to right away”, and luckily for you, here’s the promo.

And secondly we have Ignorance Was Bliss, hosted by Kate, Ignorance Was Bliss is a podcast about crime and psychology in which Kate tackles the difficult issues of domestic violence and the psychology behind it, as well as schizophrenia, anxiety and modern mental health crises, in a series which is honest, true and well researched. So check out Ignorance Was Bliss (promo).
This week’s new Patreon supporter is Anita, whose generous donation is going to buy myself an official set of Murder Mile knuckle-dusters, so if you see any mouthy youth in London with the words Elim Redrum written backwards on their foreheads, Anita that’s for you.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

And until Murder Mile returns, stay safe and sleep well.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Love true-crime podcasts? Subscribe to Murder Mile on iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

EPISODE THIRTY-ONE

Episode Thirty One: The Blackout Ripper Part 7: On Friday 13th February 1942, Gordon Frederick Cummins was arrested for assault, and as the evidence mounted, it became clear that to the Police that in their cells was The Blackout Ripper. But could they prove it, and could they make him confess to his crimes?

• Date: Friday 13th February 1942
  
• Victims: 6 (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe, Doris Elizabeth Jouanett, Greta Hayward and Kathryn Mulcahy)
  
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATIONS

THE BLACKOUT RIPPER Part 7 – The Trial and Execution (“Why Did He Do It?”)

INTRO: On Friday 13th February 1942, 28 year old Royal Air Force air-cadet Gordon Frederick Cummins (a married man with no prior convictions) was arrested and charged with causing grievous bodily harm to 30 year old Greta Haywood in a suspected robbery in a back street just off Piccadilly Circus.

Faced with insurmountable evidence; including an accurate description which identified Cummins as her attacker (having had drinks with him barely an hour before), a corroborated witness statement by the man who had come to her aide, her home telephone number written in her handwriting which was found inside his grate-coat pocket, and his military issued gas-respirator discovered at the scene of the crime inside which he had written his RAF serial number - 525987 - a number so unique, it led the Police directly to Cummins; who apologised, feigned memory loss, blamed the incident on drink and would be remanded in custody at Brixton Prison until his court appearance.

With the trial being a legal formality, no loose ends to tie-up and the investigation into the attack on Greta Haywood being short, neat and complete, the Metropolitan Police could focus their efforts on more pressing matters, such as murder.

As on two consecutive days, on two different streets in London’s West End, two unrelated women (Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley) had been strangled, mutilated and posed by a serial sexual sadist, in two sickening and unnervingly similar attacks. With their attacker’s fingerprints not on record, no eye-witnesses to either murder and the victim’s last known movements being uncertain, the Police knew they had to catch him quick before he struck again…

…but little did they know that he had already murdered two others women (Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett), whose bodies were yet to be discovered, and that the Police had already caught The Blackout Ripper.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you, part seven of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing outside of the Central Criminal Court, more affectionately known as The Old Bailey, which stands on the medieval grounds of the infamous execution site of Newgate Prison, on the junction of Holborn Viaduct and Newgate Street. Destroyed by fire and rebuilt between 1902 and 1907, The (new) Old Bailey is a stunning Georgian court-house made from sculpted blocks of pale Portland stone, designed in an imposing neo-Baroque style, and stood atop its 67 foot domed roof is a shimmering bronze statue of Lady Justice; a beacon of truth, with a sword in her left hand, scales in her right, and although she’s supposed to be blindfolded (as justice is meant to be blind), Lady Justice isn’t, as apparently, in the eyes of its sculptor, all ladies are fair, honest and unbiased. (snigger)

And although, as Britain’s most high-profile court, The Old Bailey has hosted such sensational murder trials as Dr Crippen, Kray Twins, Ruth Ellis and the Yorkshire Ripper, today its oak-panelled chambers mostly echo to the sounds of big business ducking hefty tax bills, failed pop-stars insisting they only snort sherbet (having recently been diagnosed with a severe sugar addiction), billionaires paying for the privilege to build a penis-shaped penthouse which overlooks Buckingham Palace (having previously been denied a passport) and undeniably dull TV nobodies supressing salacious stories about their nightly love sessions with a royal, a tub of butter, a ring-piece and a large root vegetable.

But it was here, on Monday 27th April 1942, in the bomb-damaged remains of The Old Bailey, that London’s most infamous spree-killer would be tried for murder. (Interstitial)

As Gordon Frederick Cummins sat in his prison cell, smoking and smirking, something just didn’t sit right with Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey, as although the assault on Greta Haywood was clear-cut, several unnervingly similar elements of the case sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Although the attack took place at night and in private, which many in the West End do, Cummins stole cash from Greta’s handbag, and yet (according to her testimony) his wallet was stuffed full with close to thirty £1 notes, an amount that was considerably more than his fortnightly wage.

During the unprovoked assault on Greta, he didn’t shove, kick, punch, or even threaten her with a weapon, instead he strangled her with his left hand - a slow and sadistic method of attack, rarely used by robbers and muggers, which is more akin to murderers and rapists – and across his middle fingers were the bloody scabs of an injury, easily more than a few hours old, but most probably a few days.

And upon his arrest, not only did Cummins have in his possession a gold wrist-watch, a silver cigarette case and a greeny-blue comb with several teeth missing, none of which he said he owned, had seen before, or could account as to why they were found in his pockets, but (in the bright lights of West End Central police station) several blood splashes were visible on his brown shirt and blue tunic, and although she was bruised and unconscious, Greta Hayward didn’t bleed. So whose was the blood?

On the morning of Friday 13th February 1942, at around the time that Cummins was arrested, feisty Paddington prostitute Kathryn Mulcahy was examined by Dr Alexander Baldie who confirmed that her injuries were consistent with strangulation. Giving the Police a detailed description of her attacker, which was corroborated by her neighbours (Agnes Morris and Kitty McQuillan) and exactly matched Gordon Frederick Cummins, having handed-in the missing blue belt to his RAF tunic, on which were two specks of blood, feeling that the assaults on Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy required further investigation, they were escalated to Chief Inspector Edward Greeno, one of the West End’s most senior detectives, who also headed up the murder investigation of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley.

But before Chief Inspector Greeno could even begin to consider Cummins as a viable suspect to two assaults and two unnervingly similar murders, two more bodies would be found.

At 4:30pm, having broken down the locked bedroom door of flat 4 at 9/10 Gosfield Street, Detective Sergeant Leonard Blacktop discovered 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe; her left-handed attacker had strangled her, posed the body, mutilated her using a variety of readily available household objects, and (although rape hadn’t occurred) he had violated her with a candle. Cash was taken, personal items were stolen and once again no-one saw her murder, or her murderer.

And even though Superintendent Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s Print Bureau had found three sets of his fingerprints; one on the base of the candlestick, one on a bottle in the kitchen and one on the half full glass of stout, which Margaret and her killer had shared, which he had then left on the mantelpiece, he couldn’t be identified as (with Cummins having been arrested for the first time, that very morning and the assault charge still pending) his fingerprints had yet to be put on file.

Then, at 7:50pm, having broken down the locked bedroom of flat 1 at 187 Sussex Gardens, PC Payne discovered 32 year old Doris Elizabeth Jouanett; her left-handed attacker had strangled her, posed the body and mutilated her using a variety of readily available household objects, but (this time) he hadn’t raped or violated her, as through sheer fear, she had wet herself. Cash was taken, personal items were stolen and once again no-one saw her murder, or her murderer.

And although no fingerprints were found, Home Office chief pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury, who conducted all four autopsies on Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett, confirmed that it was highly likely that all four murders had been committed by one man.

There was no denying it, London’s West End was in the grip of a serial sexual sadist and spree-killer, who had murdered four women in just four days, and (with the press getting wind of the story) the Police had to catch The Blackout Ripper before he struck again. But Chief Inspector Greeno already had a prime suspect in his sights and – better still – he already had him locked-up in prison.

On Saturday 14th February 1942, Detective Inspector Freshney interviewed Cummins at Brixton Prison to ascertain his whereabouts between Sunday 8th and Thursday 12th February, and although the prisoner appeared pleasant, charming and helpful, his answers were deliberately vague and evasive.

In summary, he stated that these were his movements:

(Typewriter) Sunday 8th February (the night that Evelyn Hamilton was murdered): Cummins visited his wife in Barnes (South West London), said goodbye to her at 6pm, took a bus and tube to Baker Street, headed to his flat at St James Court and was in bed by 10pm. There is no mention of Maison Lyonese, Marble Arch or Montagu Place in his statement.

(Typewriter) Monday 9th February (the night that Evelyn Oatley was murdered): being on duty all day, he left his flat just after 6pm, headed into Piccadilly with a red-headed corporal, he got drunk, met two prostitutes (later identified Laura Denmark and Molly DeSantos-Alves) and returned back to his flat after midnight. Although partially true, there is no mention of Wardour Street in his statement.

(Typewriter) Tuesday 10th February (no known murders were committed by The Blackout Ripper that night): but being on duty all day, he finished at 6pm, went to the YMCA bar, and was in bed by 9:30pm.

(Typewriter) Wednesday 11th February (the night Margaret Florence Lowe was murdered): being on duty all day, he finished at 6pm, went to the YMCA bar, and was in bed by 9:30pm. There is no mention of Piccadilly Circus, Soho or Gosfield Street in his statement.

(Typewriter) Thursday 12th February (the night of Doris Jouanett’s murder, and the attacks on Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy): being on duty all day, he left his flat just after 6pm, headed to the Volunteer public house by Baker Street with a red-headed corporal, got drunk, headed into Piccadilly, met Greta Haywood at Brasserie Universalle, but as he doesn’t remember much after that, he ended-up in bed with an unknown prostitute in Paddington (believed to be Doreen Lytton), arrived back at Abbey Lodge at 4:30am and was detained by the Orderly Corporal prior to the arrival of the police.

In his statement, Cummins deliberately admitted only to being in the places he knew he’d been seen, he avoids any reference to the murder locations, and by repeatedly stating that he returned to his billets before curfew on all other nights, with all of the air-cadets at Abbey Lodge and St James Close being unfamiliar with each other’s names, faces and movements (having met barely one week before), he knew that the chance of anyone accurately confirming his precise whereabouts across that whole week, in a major metropolitan city, at war-time and during the blackout, would be slim.

With an incomplete timeline and no witnesses to accurately corroborate his whereabouts, the Police were relying on one vital piece of evidence to either confirm or deny his story – the log-book.

As an active military instillation working under tight war-time conditions, the Royal Air Force dictated that no person was permitted to leave his or her station (whether at Abbey Lodge or St James Close) without signing in or out in the log-book first, using their name, rank and serial number, all of which was cross-checked using their military ID card in a visual inspection by an armed sentry.
It was supposed to be a fool-proof system, but with security amongst the cadets being lax – with many airmen signing in/out for each other, stuffing their bedsheets with clothes to thwart the midnight bed-check and accessing their flats via an often unguarded fire escape which led directly from the ground-floor – often the logbook (into which you could write in either pen or pencil) was incomplete.

When Detective Inspector Freshney examined each page of the log-book for Cummins’ whereabouts, his heart almost stopped dead: the page for Saturday 7th February had been torn-out, the page for Sunday 8th had no entry for Cummins, on Monday 9th he had signed out at 18:20 but never signed in, the pages for Tuesday 10th February and Wednesday 11th February had no entry for Cummins at all, and on Thursday 12th February he had signed out at 18:29, but never signed in.

Wherever Gordon Frederick Cummins was, during that week, was a mystery, which couldn’t be unravelled by relying on eye-witness testimony or military records. And so far, in terms of conviction, the Police had a lot of circumstantial evidence, but very little of which would stick.

With Cummins almost certain to be charged with causing the grievous bodily harm of Greta Haywood, the Police’s next steps were to confirm that Cummins (on the same night) had attacked Kathryn Mulcahy, to prove that both attacks were connected, and that this left-hander was a serial strangler.

And no matter how small, slim or seemingly insignificant, the over-worked and under-staffed detectives of the Metropolitan Police had to scrutinise every single piece of evidence they had, starting with his clothes, the spare gas-respirator and his money.

On Sunday 15th February, Cummins’ Royal Air Force uniform – consisting of a brown shirt, brown tie, long grate coat, blue woollen side-cap, blue trousers, blue tunic and the misplaced blue belt – were removed from Brixton Prison, and having spotted thirteen small blood stains on the shirt and belt, they were sent to the Police Laboratory in Hendon for an examination, which would take four days.

Having traced Paddington prostitute Doreen Lytton, she confirmed she had met Cummins in Piccadilly at roughly 2am on Friday 13th February, had gone back to her flat in Polygon Mews, and that she had given him her spare gas-respirator having found it the Saturday before. With its original owner having inked his army serial number of 823863 inside the gas-mask, Police confirmed it belonged to Gunner Aubrey John King of the 96th Field Regiment, who had lost it back in November 1941, and was stationed in Clacton-on-Sea, 70 miles away, during the full duration of the murders, ruling him out as a suspect.

Upon his arrest, Cummins had £10 in his possession (£2 in his wallet, £8 in the spare gas-respirator) but also, that evening he had given Kathryn Mulcahy ten £1 notes; £2 on Regent Street, £3 in the taxi and £5 as an apology for attempting to strangle her, which she handed into the Police as evidence.

According to the paymaster’s records (which - unlike the log-book at Abbey Lodge - was the epitome of military precision), Cummins received his fortnightly wage of £12 on Saturday 1st February, which was distributed by Pilot Officer John Rowan from a fresh block of 500 £1 notes that he had withdrawn from the bank that day, meaning the notes serial-numbers were all in an unbroken sequential order.

On Sunday 8th February, six days before his next pay-day, with Cummins being broke he was only able to borrow £1 off his wife, but by Monday 9th, Felix Sands Lebron Johnson (the red-headed corporal who Cummins treated to pints and whiskies, that night in Piccadilly) noted he had £19 on him. And yet, Cummins had no savings, no loans, no debts owing, no inheritance and no other source of funds.

With the paymaster having distributed each wage in alphabetical order, Pilot Officer Rowan checked the remaining bank notes of any cadet whose surname began with the letters b, c and d, and was able to accurately determine what the serial numbers of Cummins’ bank-notes would have been.

The Police cross-checked the serial-numbers of the bank notes in evidence and confirmed that, of his original £12 wage; one £1 note was found in the bundle of eight which Cummins had stashed inside the spare gas-respirator (along with the gold watch), two £1 notes were given to Kathryn Mulcahy and a further two £1 notes were found in the daily takings at Brasserie Universalle and the Salted Almond.

Without a shred of doubt, the Police could prove that Cummins had strangled two women - Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy - on the same night, now they just needed to piece together a picture of his movements that week, and prove that Gordon Frederick Cummins was The Blackout Ripper.

At 6:30pm on Saturday 14th February 1942, Detective Sergeant Leonard Crawford searched flat 27 at St James Close in Regent’s Park. On his bunk in room b, he found Cummins’ kitbag which was marked with his rank and surname - ‘LAC Cummins’ – and his spare blue tunic which was missing a blue belt, in the left pocket of which was his identity discs (etched with his serial number of 525987) and in his right breast pocket, DS Crawford found a black fountain pen, engraved with the initials of ‘DJ’.

On a hunch, Chief Inspector Greeno asked the victim’s next of kin to identify three personal items found in Cummins possession; Margaret Florence Lowe’s 15 year old daughter Barbara confirmed that the silver cigarette case was her mother’s, and Henri Jouanett, Doris’ husband identified the greeny-blue comb with several teeth missing as Doris’, as well as the gold wrist-watch, which he had brought in France in 1927 and had gifted it to his wife on their wedding anniversary just four years prior.

Within just three days, Police had conclusively linked Cummins to two stranglings and three murders, within streets of each other on London’s West End and the evidence against him was escalating.

Eager to cross-check his whereabouts, on Monday 16th February, Chief Inspector Greeno interviewed Cummins at Brixton Prison, stating “I’m conducting an enquiry into the murder of three women”, and once again, although the prisoner was pleasant, charming and helpful, his answers were deliberately vague and evasive.

Keeping a straight face as he calmly toked on a smoke, Cummins denied he’d ever been to Gosfield Street or Sussex Gardens, denied going to any flat with a West End prostitute (even though he’d previously admitted he had had sex with both Laura Denmark and Doreen Lytton) and denied he had ever seen the black fountain pen, the gold watch or the silver cigarette case before, and yet, strangely, he admitted that Doris Jouanett’s broken greeny-blue comb was his, even though it wasn’t.

And once again, confirming that his statement was true and accurate, he signed it with his left hand, as across his middle fingers were a series of bloody scabs, all at least one week old.

Having noticed that his scuffed black boots made an unusually flat sound as he walked, Chief Inspector Greeno asked “Are those your RAF boots?”, to which Cummins nodded, grinned and removed his size 8’s. Now, whether the Police had found his footprints at either crime scene was irrelevant, as (during the full hour that Cummins was left unsupervised in his flat, surrounded by sleeping airmen) in an attempt to outwit the Police, he had crudely cut-off the rubber soles of his RAF boots, having hastily disposed of them and gave no explanation why.

With the interview over, Chief Inspector Greeno stated to Cummins that “tomorrow, on Tuesday 17th February 1942, you will be brought to Bow Street Magistrates Court and charged with murder”. Remaining calm, composed and almost cocky, Cummins replied “am I to be charged with murder? Oh…”, only to casually enquire “how many women did you say?”, to which Greeno replied “three”, and Cummins was led away to his cell, a smug grin spread across his face, knowing there were four.

On Tuesday 17th February at 10am, at the back of Bow Street Magistrates Court, Gordon Frederick Cummins was charged with the murder of Doris Jouanett, he was cautioned but made no reply.

As part of the formal process, Superintendent Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s print bureau took Cummins’ fingerprints, and compared them to the left thumbprint found on Evelyn Oatley compact mirror, the left little finger found on her can-opener, and the left index finger found on the bottle and the glass of stout he had shared with Margaret Florence Lowe, all of which were a perfect match.

And with Dr Davidson of Hendon Police Laboratory confirming that the thirteen blood-spots found on his blue RAF tunic, his blue belt and the left sleeve of his brown shirt were not Cummins’ own blood, but that the blood type matched that of Doris Jouanett’s. Police could conclusively link Cummins to the attacks on Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy, as well as the murder of Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett, but sadly, not Evelyn Hamilton.

It was then that the Police were blessed with an amazing piece of good fortune.

That same day, Cummins’ bunk-mate, Sergeant Keith Edward Moon was cleaning out the kitchenette they shared in flat 27 of St James Close, when he discovered secreted on the top shelf of their fridge, a silver cigarette case, which Cummins had hidden during his hour of solitude, and it contained a small photograph of a pretty blonde lady and the case was etched with the initials ‘LW’.  

Concerned that this may be evidence, the cadets conducted their own search. And at 2:30pm, Corporal Gordon Arthur Freeman found in the kitchen bin, the hastily sawn-off rubber soles to Cummins’ black scuffed boots, a green and black pencil and a handkerchief etched with the laundry mark of E2474.

Again, Chief Inspector Greeno asked those closest to the victims to identify two personal items found in Cummins’ flat; grieving widower Harold Oatley confirmed that the silver cigarette case etched with the initials ‘LW’ belonged to his wife Evelyn Oatley (also known as Lita Ward) and that the photo inside was of her mother Rossina,. And former chemist’s assistant 14 year old Bettina Grace Gray confirmed that she had loaned the green and black pencil to her manager Evelyn Hamilton one week prior.

With the handkerchief’s laundry mark of E2474 verified by Thorpebay Laundry Company in Romford, which matched an identical set found in Evelyn Hamilton’s suitcase, left in her hotel room at The Three Arts Club in Marylebone, and having confirmed that the grey brick mortar found in Cummins’ own gas respirator matched the sample taken from the air-raid shelter in Montague Place, the Police now had more than enough evidence to go to trial and (they hoped) to convince Cummins to confess…

On Tuesday 10th March 1942, at the back of The Old Bailey, Cummins was charged with the murders of Evelyn Hamilton, Margaret Florence Lowe, Doris Jouanett and the assaults on Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy, to which he replied “absurd”.

On Thursday 26th March 1942, at the back of The Old Bailey, Cummins was charged with the murder of Evelyn Oatley, to which he replied “that’s ridiculous”.

…Cummins denied all charges and gave no confession.

On Monday 27th April 1942, 28 year old Gordon Frederick Cummins was tried before Mr Justice Asquith and a jury of twelve men in court two of the Central Criminal Court, known as The Old Bailey. As was his prerogative, even in the face of the overwhelming and irrefutable evidence against him, Cummins – in a mixture of either stupidity, confidence or arrogance – gave no evidence in his defence, submitted no witnesses to back-up his claims, didn’t enter an insanity plea, or put forward any mitigating factors (like a history of mental illness), and – facing almost certain death - he pleaded not guilty to all charges.

If anything, as his face beamed bright with a contented grin, as mawkish crowds of spectators jostled in the gallery and rabid journalists jotted down his name, in a legal defence entirely funded by the British tax-payer, although brief, he actually seemed to relish his time in the limelight.

In a trial which didn’t even last the whole day, the jury only needed to deliberate for just thirty-five minutes before they came to a unanimous conclusion, and found Gordon Frederick Cummins, on the charges of four counts of murder, one count of grievous bodily harm and one charge of assault – guilty.

And although he protested his innocence, his parents put forward several legal appeals and his wife applied for clemency, Gordon Frederick Cummins, the West End’s most infamous spree-killer and serial sexual sadist, who also known as The Blackout Ripper was sentenced to death.

On Thursday 25th June 1942, at a little before 9am, in the condemned man’s cell in Wandsworth Prison, Cummins sat wearing itchy woollen prison-issue fatigues which caused him to shift uncomfortably as he sat on a hard wooden chair, trapped by four cold stone walls, a barred window and a steel door.

The room was cold, basic and simple, sparsely furnished with few comforts, not unlike the bedrooms of the many women he had mauled, mutilated and massacred. But this time there were no knives, no razors, no candle, curling tongs nor can-opener to occupy his endless hours, as all he had here was a bed with a sheet, a simple wooden chair, a table with a jug of water, a bucket to defecate in and a large wardrobe (not unlike the kind his victim’s filled with hats, coats and handbags) but this particular wardrobe held a big surprise for Cummins, which even he wouldn’t expect

Having declined a final meal, instead supping back a glass of brandy, whether to settle his nerves, toast his life or celebrate his crimes, Cummins sat with his back to the wardrobe, facing the pale white wall with a sickly green hue, smoking and smirking, excitably chatting away, as having had no company for the last three months but his own dark thoughts, he was desperate to talk, but the guards said nothing.

Having written a few farewell letters, Cummins knew that today was the day of his death and that at precisely 9am - not a minute early and not a minute late – that he would be dead. But with no clock on the wall, no watch on his wrist and guards motionless and silent, as the morning sun of a bright new day raised up into the sky, time dragged slowly for Cummins, as (just like with his victims) he would be forced to live with the terrifying agony of never knowing when his end would come.

During those last days of his wasted life, having had many lonely nights to contemplate his killings, visualise his victims and mull-over the mutilation, full of horrifying images which would haunt their families forever, Cummins often visited the prison chapel; to pray for his wife, his father, his mother, his brother, his friends and especially for himself, but he never prayed for his victims or for forgiveness.

Although his visitors were few; mostly consisting of close family, Police officers and a priest, never once in those three months of solemn reflection did he ever confess to his crimes, and when asked why he did it, he’d simply reply “I didn’t”, as in his mind, he was innocent.

And the morning dragged on and time seemed to stall, the more his leg jiggled, his fingers strummed and his charming façade dropped as he became more even more impatient. And although he wouldn’t know this, the time was one minute to nine…

…in the briefest of moments, with a hard heavy clunk, the cold steel door of the cell would swing open, and as his two flanking guards would sharply raise Cummins to his feet, in would swiftly walk the prison governor, the doctor and the chaplain, accompanied by a slight and almost debonair 30 year old who would shackle the prisoner’s hands behind his back, as Cummins came face-to-face with a slim, short and unassuming man in a brown suit, with a kind face and a small wisp of hair on his head.

This was Albert Pierrepoint – his executioner.

Just like Cummins, Pierrepoint was a Yorkshireman. Just like Cummins, Pierrepoint was synonymous with death. And just like Cummins; Pierrepoint was charming, well-mannered and polite, and in his company Cummins felt safe, so for those who were due to die at his hands, his kindly demeanour was a false sense of security. And that’s where the similarities ended.

Pierrepoint was a professional whose precisely calculated, intricately rehearsed and swiftly performed executions were the epitome of efficiency, designed to be as humane and painless as possible, with the time from the prisoner hearing the cell door open to their body dangling at the end of a rope being less than ten seconds, and (as a master of his art) his quickest was seven.

Unlike his victims, Cummins wouldn’t suffer a horrendously painful death, as a sadistic maniac slowly strangled every breath out of his trembling body, crushing his throat and vocal chords, as with joyous glaring eyes his executioner clutched both sides of the stocking around his neck and pulled, chocking every ounce of life out of him, over several long, agonising and terrifying minutes.
No. He wouldn’t be mutilated, he wouldn’t be violated and he wouldn’t be posed. His loved ones wouldn’t witness his dead dangling corpse and his burial would be simple but dignified.

With Harry Allen, the executioner’s assistant having shackled the prisoner’s hands behind his back, as a prison guard slid aside the large wooden wardrobe, Cummins would be turned to face the dark secret behind the wardrobe, as barely ten feet from where he stood was the execution chamber. There was no long walk and no green mile, death had come to him.

Being led into the cold stone chamber, barely forty feet wide, high and deep, the eerily empty room had pale green walls, a set of sprung trap-doors in the centre and a wooden beam across the ceiling from which dangled a thick hemp rope, its end curled into a noose, measured to fit Cummins’ head.

And as they would swiftly position Cummins onto the chalk-marked ‘T’, dead-centre on the trap-doors, before he could even realise where he was, a white silken hood would be pulled down over his head, the silk-lined noose would be placed around his neck, and – having precisely calculated the prisoner’s five foot nine inch / eleven and a half stone frame – Pierrepoint would remove the bolt, and Cummins would drop. His six foot three inch fall, lasting less than half a second and releasing 1000 foot lbs of energy, as his motionless body was stopped from hitting the stone-tiled floor by the thick hemp rope, which would dislocated the second and third vertebrae of his neck, as fast as a foot snaps a stick.

As a legal requirement, his body would be left to hang for a full hour to ensure he was dead, and with no cheer, no joy and no applause, Cummins would be buried and Pierrepoint would be paid his £12.

That would be the end of The Blackout Ripper.

But before the strike of 9am, in his last minute alive, Gordon Frederick Cummins - the man who had terrorised London’s West End, brutally and savagely slaying four women and leaving two more scarred for life – continued to profess his innocence, gave no further statements and made no confession.
Instead, having stubbed out his cigarette and huffing like a man who had better things to do, Cummins impatiently protested to his guards “come on, let’s get this done”. And as the steel door opened, his arms were shackled, the wardrobe was slid back, his legs were secured, his head was hooded, his neck was noosed and Pierrepoint gripped the bolt – amidst the irony that London, that very morning, was in the grip of an air-raid, with a cacophony of sirens wailing, almost like a fond farewell to the West End’s most sadistic spree-killer – from underneath the heaving hood as his terrified breath quickened, with barely a second left to utter his final words, The Blackout Ripper said… nothing. (OUT)

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to join us next week for the eighth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper. Yes, that’s right, the eighth part, as although this was the finale of The Blackout Ripper’s story, because he professed his innocence and never gave a confession, I think it’s only right to re-examine the case. So, next week, for the first time ever, we’ll dive deep into the personal life of The Blackout Ripper, to look at his childhood, his relationships and his life leading up to the murders to see if there are any clues as to why he committed these murders, and we’ll do an episode showing his exact movements at the time of the killings and a Q&A episode where you can post me any questions, and post your theories as to why he did it. Message me on any social media platform with a Q&A question or theory.

If you love The Blackout Ripper story, please rate it and share it with your friends, as the more listeners Murder Mile gets, the more stories I can tell, and the longer this podcast can keep going.
This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Murderish, hosted by Jami, Murderish is an intriguing true-crime series which dives into the minds, method and the madness of murderers and those who track them, with excellent interviews with retired FBI profiler Jim Fitzgerald (who played a significant role in catching the Unabomber), Rob Demery (homicide investigator) and Emily Meehan (daughter of the infamous Dirty John) to name but a few. Check out Murderish. (play promo)

This week’s new Patreon supporter is Coralee, whose donation to the Keep Murder Mile Alive Fund is really appreciated, and truly helps cover the costs of researching each episode, as well as the 50-60 hours a week they each take to write, record and edit, so every penny really is appreciated. In answer to your question, my preferred method of attack is a ball kick, up-cut to the nose and a throat smash followed by a head-butt, or (if that’s sounds too aggressive) simply rip off his wig, mock his small hands, and tell him that Obama was a much better President, that should work. Good luck.

And a quick shout-out to two excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Redrum Blonde, hosted by Erin, the latest episode of Redrum Blonde is a real kicker, as she deep-dives into the sinister world of Scientology and the mysterious death of Lisa McPherson, so if you love true-crime with a twist, check out Redrum Blonde. And second is Heist Podcast, co-hosted by Matt & Simon, Heist Podcast trawls the news archives to bring you some of the world’s craziest, most bizarre and baffling robberies, from across the world, whether historical or topical. So if these podcasts sound perfect for you, check them out on iTunes and all podcast platforms.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Next week’s episode… is part eight, about the early life of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via  iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End. 

• A weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
• 300+ infamous, untold or often forgotten true murders
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Research collected from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself
• An audio guided walk... all from the comfort of your home

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there.

EPISODE THIRTY

Episode Thirty: The Blackout Ripper Part 6: On the morning of Friday 13th February 1942, The Blackout Ripper was caught and arrested, but not for the brutal murder of four women in London’s West End, and the Police had no idea who he really was.

• Date: Friday 13th February 1942
  
• Location: West End Central police station
  
• Victims: 6
  
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

BLACKOUT RIPPER – Part 6 The Arrest of The Blackout Ripper

INTRO: Between the 9th and the 12th February 1942, a sadistic sexual maniac stalked London’s West End brutally murdering four women (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett) and strangling two others (Greta Hayward and Kathryn Mulcahy). And as much as the government kept a lid on any stories which could cause hysteria, none of The Blackout Ripper’s killings made front page news, instead they were relegated to small columns hidden on the inside pages. 

The first recorded use of the term “Blackout Ripper” was just one day after Evelyn Oatley’s death. But with few papers taking up this salacious moniker, although it was muttered amongst the locals (almost as if he was a bogie-man), as soon as the trial was over, the case-files were archived, the story was lost, the victims were forgotten and “The Blackout Ripper” didn’t reappear in print until the mid-1950’s when a resurgence in true-crime led to these stories being sensationally and inaccurately retold.

And although The Blackout Ripper had echoes of the infamous Jack the Ripper case 54 years earlier, by the turn of 1942, not only had cinema audiences become incredibly savvy having been raised on a diet of sensational thrillers and the tired clichés of the tabloid press, but by living under the constant threat of the Nazi invasion with a terrifying barrage of bombs raining down from the skies, soldiers and civilians being slaughtered in their millions and ordinary people witnessing death on their doorsteps on an almost daily basis, in the grand scheme of things, the bloody murders of The Blackout Ripper were insignificant during war-time London. And so, once again, one of Britain’s most sadistic spree-killers disappeared into the darkness and his name was almost forgotten.  

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part six of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing outside of West End Central police station on Saville Row, W1; a tall, grey, drab but imposing seven-storey concrete monstrosity just off Regent Street. And although police stations are supposed to instil into a nervous victim a reassuring sense of safety; having a flat featureless façade like a mummified face, a multitude of black shiny windows like a spider’s eye and an ominously wide main-door, lying dead-centre like the dark gaping mouth of a starving snake, West End Central evokes an intake of breath, a tightness in the chest and the spackling of the anal sphincter.

Built in 1940 to support local police stations like Vine Street, Bow Street and Great Marlborough Street as a war-time crime-wave swept through the city, sadly West End Central is now defunct as a working police station. And although it is still used as a local support unit, being full of coppers, panda-cars and riot vans, the glory days are gone and the good old London Bobbie has been relegated to posing for tourists photos, letting pregnant ladies pee in their helmets and having American tourists repeatedly ask them “excuse me sir, can you tell me the way to Li-Ces-Tur Square” and other such places that they deliberately mispronounce just to piss us off, such as Ed-in-bu-ro, Wor-chuster-shire and of course Loogaburg (which – for those of us who actually speak English – is Loughborough).

And yet, although West End Central police station is now nothing more than an admin block, it was here, on Thursday 12th February 1942, where Greta Hayward gave the Police a description of the man who had attacked her. But little would she know that these details would lead to the capture of one of London’s most prolific spree-killers, who was known as The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

The mug of milky tea was warm and soothing as Greta raised it to her trembling lips, most of which she spilled as her hands violently shook, and yet as reassuring as its sweetness was, even swallowing the smallest of gulps caused Greta to wince in pain, as the tea trickled down her swollen throat and an ominous purple-y yellow outline of a left hand formed across her bruised neck.

And although her attacker was still out there, somewhere, possibly prowling the back-streets of Soho and Piccadilly, inside Interview Room 2 of West End Central police station Greta was safe, as she gave a detailed description to Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey; a semi-senior detective whose remit was muggings, robberies and violent assaults (which this most certainly was), as well as murders.

So, for DI Jeffrey, with divisional surgeon Dr Alexander Baldie having confirmed that her injuries were consistent with strangulation, with Greta having provided an accurate sketch of the airman, aided by John Shine’s credible witness statement and the swift discovery of her eight inch torch and her stolen handbag (with the paper money missing), although none of these items retained any fingerprints owing to the wet weather, Greta’s attacker was quickly identified by his unique military serial number he had written in indelible ink inside his Royal Air Force issued gas respirator.

With a kind smile, tired eyes and a world-weary face, which had barely slept in several days - as every time he blinked; the ripped, splayed and mutilated body of Evelyn Oatley flashed before his eyes, having witnessed the horror on Wardour Street just two days before - DI Jeffrey reassured Greta that this was an open-and-shut case and they should have her attacker in custody by the morning.

Having deduced that the airman was stationed at the nearby RAF aircrew reception centre in Regent’s Park, DI Jeffrey telephoned Corporal William Crook, the orderly corporal in charge of Abbey Lodge where the aircrew were stationed, he confirmed that the serial number of ‘525987’ belonged to Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins, a 28 year old blue-eyed fair-haired airmen, and that being under investigation for a possible robbery and an assault, DI Jeffrey instructed the orderly corporal to place Cummins under arrest until the arrival of the Police.

Of course, there were elements of this case which didn’t make any sense - such as why would a total stranger would want to attack Greta Hayward, why a robber would treat his victim to supper first, why (if this was an attempted murder) did he not bring any weapons with him, and why were there several scrapes and a few odd fragments of grey brick mortar inside of the gas-respirator, which didn’t match any wall found in or near where Greta was attacked? But then again, not all cases are neat.

So, as DI Jeffrey prepared the necessary paperwork for the attack on Greta Hayward, as a seasoned detective he knew that – if this actually ended up in court, which many cases (for various reasons) don’t – even with the evidence and statements they had, at best Cummins would be convicted of the lesser charge of grievous bodily harm, and sentenced to a few months in prison, or more likely (with him being an airman, this being war-time and – especially -if this was his first offence) he may get off with just a fine.

But first they would need to find him, as with Gordon Frederick Cummins not asleep in his bed, and the logbook at Abbey Lodge confirming that he hadn’t returned from a night out, that meant that somewhere across the West End, still stalking the city’s streets was The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

It may seem strange, sinister or even stupid, but at 2am on Friday 13th February 1942, barely a few hours after he had committed a brutal murder and two attempted murders, that Gordon Frederick Cummins would return to Piccadilly Circus, but that’s exactly what he did.

By that ungodly hour, Piccadilly Circus was dark, cold and deathly quiet, so with the streets speckled with a smattering of police constables on the look-out for anyone suspicious whether muggers eyeing-up drunken marks, peepers perving through sexy lady’s keyholes and lost servicemen who accidentally ask for directions from lone women who just happened to be prostitutes, it’s almost inconceivable that Cummins would flock here like some-kind of homicidal pigeon, but he did.

I mean, he could have picked literally anywhere in the whole of London’s West End to return to. But instead, being slightly drunk, strangely bored and more than a little arrogant, Cummins headed back to Piccadilly Circus; the place where murdered prostitutes Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe were last seen alive, where mutilated sex-worker Doris Jouanett was heading that night, where that very evening he had picked-up feisty Irish women Kathryn Mulcahy who had kicked six shades of shit out of his guts, and where – just five hours earlier – in a doorway just one street away – he had robbed, assaulted and strangled Greta Hayward; a women who was still alive, had seen his face, knew his history and at whose feet he had dropped his ridiculously unique gas respirator, who was now barely a six minute walk away at West End Central police station, and yet still, like a bad smell in a blocked toilet, Cummins returns to Piccadilly Circus.

Oh yes, Piccadilly Circus was the perfect place for a wanted murderer to blend-in; if you exclude the fact that he had cuts on his left hand, scuff marks on his boots, that the Police had his missing gas-mask and would soon have the belt to his blue tunic which he had misplaced in Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat, and as long as you entirely ignore the fact that the blue Royal Air Force uniform he was wearing right then was splattered with the blood of Doris Jouanett, there was nothing suspicious about Gordon Frederick Cummins at all. So it made perfect sense for him to be in Piccadilly Circus.

But it was here, on the north-side of Piccadilly Circus, right outside of the notorious Café Monaco, that he picked-up another prostitute, hopped in a taxi with her and – in a move which once again was either strange, sinister or just plain stupid – he headed back to her flat, which (given the irony of where he had just been) was quite possibly in the second worst place in the whole of the West End for The Blackout Ripper to return to. Her flat was in Paddington and her name was Doreen Lytton (Interstitial)

As the taxi chugged back along the desolate darkness of West End, Doreen Lytton (a recently married mother of two, housewife and part-time prostitute) sat in the taxi’s back-seat with Cummins, unable to see the deep-red blood on his dark-blue clothes, as in the darkness, everything looked black.

Having slugged back a few too many whiskies, he was clearly tipsy, but unlike her usual clients who – having got her alone, on a back-seat, in a taxi – would feverishly fondle and grope this lone female to satisfy their strange sexual urges, but this one seemed different; he was quiet, calm and distant. And as he stared out of the window, watching the world go by, as the cab passed Maison Lyonese and turned right onto the all-too familiar sight of Edgware Road, Cummins politely enquired “Can I spend an hour with you? I’ll give you £3”, to which Doreen said “yeah, okay”, as in his company she felt safe.

Moments later, the taxi dropped them off at Porchester Place; two streets south of Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat at 28 Southwick Street (where the Police had just recently been, taken a statement and picked-up the missing belt to his blue tunic) and three streets south-east of 187 Sussex Gardens (where the mutilated body of Doris Jouanett would lay undiscovered for the next 17 hours), they walked through to Polygon Mews, Doreen unlocked her door and welcomed into her flat The Blackout Ripper.

Being a small first-floor flat rented solely for sex-work, it was basic, drab and fitted with only the bare essentials, such as a bed with a sheet, a table with a candlestick, a wash-stand with a packet of razor-blades and a wardrobe full of clothes, hats, curling tongs and a collection of kitchen cutlery. And having put the £3 on the mantelpiece, behind a framed photograph of her two beloved babies, Doreen popped a shilling in the coin-slot of her gas-fire to warm the flat up and she started to undress.

But being slumped on her bed, his tired face all sunken, his bloodshot eyes all sullen and expelling a deep exhale of exhaustion, Cummins shook his head and calmly said “that won’t be necessary, I only want to talk, I have been drinking too much”, and so, being unable to perform, Doreen sat, in her flat, on an armchair, opposite the West End’s most prolific spree-killer and serial sexual sadist, and for an hour, over a nice warm cup of tea, they just sat and chatted.

Doreen would later state that he was polite, calm and courteous; a real gentleman, who sat quietly, listened intently and truly seemed to care about her life, as with a genuinely warm smile and a twinkle in his eyes, she showed him the photograph of her beloved family; a husband, a wife and two kids, and the more they talked, with her maternal instincts kicking in, Doreen felt pity for him.

During that very pleasant hour together, nothing immoral took place and they both remained clothed, seated and apart. Being honest with Doreen, Cummins apologised for his lack of libido and reassured her that he definitely did fancy her, but that his real reason for being here was simply to pass an hour or two, as (on tonight of all nights) he was in big trouble.

Of course, during their conversation, he never once mentioned that he was a deeply disturbed sexual sadist who (over the last few days) had strangled and tortured four women; sliced, ripped and filleted their skins, had taken a deeply-disturbing level of pleasure in disfiguring their genitals, into which he had inserted a series of phallic household objects, having then posed each women like morbid mannequins, stolen a creepy collection of souvenirs, and let two women live, who (just like Doreen) knew most of his life story. No, instead, Cummins was concerned with more pressing matters.

As being several hours too late for his 10:30pm curfew back at Abbey Lodge, having misplaced the blue belt to his RAF tunic and lost his serial-numbered gas-respirator, all of which were chargeable offences under the Royal Air Force’s code of conduct, Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins (who was only in London on a three week course) was less concerned with his brutal murders, and more concerned about these minor misdemeanours, as any black mark against his name could seriously jeopardise his chance of ever becoming an RAF pilot. 

With the hour almost up and his £3 spent, taking pity on his plea, Doreen handed the airman an almost identical gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag, that she had found just one week before, he thanked her for the tea, took her telephone number saying he’d love to see her again, and at a little before 4am, Doreen Lytton waved goodbye to The Blackout Ripper, as he disappeared into the darkness.

Today, Abbey Lodge - with its art-deco stylings, wrought iron gates and intricate gold inlayed doors - is a stunning six-storey Georgian mansion-block for the supremely wealthy, situated in the exclusive north-west corner of Regent’s Park, with flats selling for just £3-12million, or rented for £5000 a week. But in 1942, having been requisitioned by the military, Abbey Lodge was known as Number Three Reception Centre, where trainee pilots for the Royal Air Force were stationed.

Although stationed at Abbey Lodge, Cummins resided at the newly built apartments on St James Close on the north-side of Regent’s Park. But with armed sentries positioned on all the doors, added security patrolling the perimeter (especially the fire-escapes which airmen, having missed their curfew would often climb up and sneak into their flats unnoticed) and with a higher risk of him being shot if he tried to break-in, with no other options, Cummins approached the main entrance of Abbey Lodge.

From the darkness of the doorway, into his startled face, the hollow muzzle of a Lee Enfield .303 rifle was aimed as Air Cadets Cyril Woolfenden and David Alfred Arch challenged Cummins. Playing it cool, Cummins beamed a winning smile, showed the sentries his identification card; clarified his name, rank and serial number (“Cummins; Gordon Frederick; Leading Aircraftman, 525987”) and following strict orders to detain Cummins on sight, he was swiftly marched to the guard-room.

Entering the guardroom, Cummins gulped, knowing he was in deep shit, when he was confronted by Corporal Charles Johnson (the Orderly Sargent with an overpowering smell of body-odour and starch) who’s long thin fingers strummed on the battered log-book and Corporal William Crook (the fresh-faced, squat-framed and spud-headed Orderly Corporal) who had taken the call from DI Jeffrey of West End Central.

Feigning ignorance, having smeared on his best poker-face, Cummins casually enquired “what’s this all about?”, to which Orderly Corporal Crook replied “a woman’s been attacked in Piccadilly, your respirator was found at the scene”. But without missing a beat, Cummins let out an audible sigh and uttered “thank God for that” (or words to that affect), tapped the black gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag which was slung over his left shoulder, and having reassured both orderlies that this was nothing more than a silly mix-up, Cummins was escorted on a 15 minute walk back to his billets.

Still partially under construction, Cummins was billeted at St James Close; a seven-storey brown-brick art-deco building, situated on Prince Albert Road on the northern perimeter of Regent’s Park, and although he was not permitted to leave the premises until the Police arrived, at no time during his detention was he ever searched, supervised, locked-in or even placed under armed guard.

At roughly 4:50am, on Friday 13th February 1942, Cummins quietly crept into flat 27, on the first floor of St James Close, trying not to wake his buddies who slept as soundly as seven men could on wire-sprung cots with scratchy woollen bedsheets, but as silent as he was, he was desperate to talk.

Having shaken his bunk-buddy awake, with Flight Sargent Raymond Snelus noticing it was still dark and that Cummins was dressed, he groggily asked “where have you been”, to which Cummins replied “I am in the shit, someone swapped my respirator and it was found at the scene of a crime”. But being unimpressed and needing his extra hour of sleep, Snelus rolled over, farted and nodded off.

And so, for almost a whole hour, amongst a sea of sleeping airmen, Cummins was unobserved.

Having been alerted of his arrival, the police were on their way to question Cummins, but with this being a simple assault and robbery charge, with clear evidence, corroborated witness statements and their only suspect being held inside a secure military location, given that the Police had more pressing matters to deal with – like a sadistic maniac who, so far, had brutally murdered two women in the West End, with two more bodies still to be discovered - there was no real rush to arrest Cummins.

So what he did, during that hour, would determine the course of the rest of his life. It would be the difference between a career and unemployment, prison and freedom, and even life and death,

What did the police really know? Was this about the assault, or was this about the murders? Did they only know about Greta Hayward? Had Kathryn Mulcahy blabbed? Or had they linked him to the murders of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley, and later Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett? Did the Police know more than they said, or could Gordon Frederick Cummins outwit them?

Time was on his side… but the clock was ticking.

At 5:45am on Friday 13th February 1942 - Detective Charles Bennett and Detective Sargent Thomas Shepherd - arrived at flat 27 of St James Close to interview Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins, who was nonchalantly lying on his bunk, fully clothed and smoking a cigarette from a silver cigarette case, as he casually greeted the plain-clothed officers with a courteous “good morning”.

Having established Cummins’ identity using his military ID, Detective Bennett stated “your respirator has been found by the side of a woman who had been badly assaulted and you answer the description of a man who she described”, to which Cummins simply nodded and said nothing.

“Is that your respirator, sir?” Detective Bennett enquired, pointing to the black rubber gas-mask in the beige canvas bag on his bunk (which just hours before Doreen Lytton had given him), but knowing full well that the serial number etched inside didn’t match his own, Cummins replied “no, I picked that up in the Universal Brasserie, someone must have picked up my one by mistake, so I took this one”.

With Cummins fitting the description, Detective Bennett stated “I’m arresting you for causing grievous bodily harm to Mrs Greta Hayward on St Alban’s Street, on the evening of Thursday 12th February 1942”. Cummins was cautioned and handcuffed but made no reply. Calmly stubbing out his cigarette underfoot, the officers escorted their suspect to the awaiting police car, his scuffed black boots making a very slight and unusually flat sound as he walked, which (amongst the hubbub) nobody noticed.

At 9am, a few hours later, having been transferred to West End Central police station, Cummins – who was composed, polite, helpful and almost jokey at the ridiculousness of the situation - was questioned by Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey who stated “I understand you deny being the man who assaulted Mrs Heyward, it will therefore be necessary to hold you for an identification parade”.

But confronted with the overwhelming evidence against him – the gas-respirator etched with his serial number (525987), the witness statements by Greta Hayward and John Shine, the scuff marks on his left hand, the blood-stains on his shirt and having found a small slip of paper in his grate-coat pocket on which had been written “Colindale 6622” (which was Greta Hayward’s phone number) - Cummins quickly confessed, stating “No, that won’t be necessary, I am the man, I was drinking very heavily that night and I remember being with a woman in Piccadilly, but I cannot remember anything else that happened.” At which, Cummins asked to make a full statement.

Part of it read: “… I had several whiskies and brandies, I cannot remember how many, but I know I had several. After some minutes, I cannot recall how many exactly, I went over and spoke to a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs (in the Universal Brasserie), I had some conversation with her and I believe I brought her a drink. I cannot remember exactly what followed but I have a hazy recollection of walking around the streets with her. By this time, I was very drunk and did not know what I was doing. The next thing I remember, it was around 02:30am, I found myself in Marble Arch and caught a cab back to Regent’s Park. I have a hazy recollection of being with a woman but I cannot remember striking her. I deeply regret what has happened and I am willing to pay her compensation”. Cummins re-read his statement, confirmed its accuracy and signed it with his left hand.

As was standard protocol, Cummins agreed to be searched by Detective Bennett in the presence of DI Jeffrey, and his unremarkable personal affects included two £1 notes in his wallet, three shillings and six pence in his pocket, his RAF identity card, a few personal letters on RAF notepaper, a silver cigarette case, a greeny-blue comb with several teeth missing, and in the other gas-respirator (given to him by Doreen Lytton) he had stashed eight £1 notes and a gold wrist-watch.

None of which seemed strange, suspicious or out of the ordinary; a worn leather wallet, a few crinkled pound notes, his military ID, a slightly battered silver cigarette case, an old broken comb and a gold wrist-watch (the type that married couples – like  Mrs & Mrs Cummins – would give each other on a special anniversary). To the untrained eye, they were nothing more than a random assortment of everyday items that most men would carry, and which meant nothing to the Police. But to Cummins, they were personal items, too precious to dispose of or destroy during a vital last hour alone, they were mementoes of his morbid memories and souvenirs of his sadistic crimes.

On the afternoon of Friday 13th February 1942, a grinning Gordon Frederick Cummins appeared at Bow Street Magistrates Court where he was charged with the minor offence of causing grievous bodily harm to Mrs Greta Hayward. As a condition of this charge, Cummins would be remanded in custody at Brixton Prison until his court appearance on 12th March 1942.

If found guilty of GHB, having already spent a month in prison awaiting his trial, although this custodial sentence would be inconvenient, Cummins would most likely be released owing to “time served”, imposed with a small fine and (having missed the remainder of his three week course in Regent’s Park) with the Royal Air Force in need of strong young men to fight off the impending German invasion, Cummins would most likely be demoted and redeployed elsewhere, where he could retrain as a pilot. And once again, into the darkness of the West End, The Blackout Ripper would disappear.

And as he sat there, smoking in the privacy of his small prison cell in Brixton Prison, as his slight grin slowly morphed to a beaming smirk, having outsmarted both the Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard and left a bloody trail of terror across the West End with four women brutally mutilated and two attacked, all in just four days, Cummins knew that he had literally gotten away with murder.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to join us next week for the seventh part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is True-Crime Island, brilliantly hosted by your very own Aussie news anchor-man called Cambo, True-Crime Island covers the very latest breaking true-crime news stories from around the world. So if you like your true-crime delivered to you in a fast, fresh and fun way, check out True-Crime Island. (Play Promo)

If you fancy becoming a Patreon supporter, receiving exclusive access to original Murder Mile content including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases, as well as ensuring the future of Murder Mile, you can do this for just £2 a month (or £2 in real money) by clicking on the link in the show-notes.

And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Pleasing Terrors; hosted by Mike (who like myself is a tour guide), Pleasing Terrors is a really well-told series of creepy but true tales which will have you on the edge of your seat (trust me the ouiji board episode in Charleston Prison, I had to switch off, as I knew I wouldn’t get to sleep. And second is Swindled, hosted by an unnamed narrator, Swindled dives into the murky world of white collar crime, focussing on corporate crimes, scandals and swindles, such as the Bopal disaster, Love canal and the mysterious death of the pizza delivery man. So check out Pleasing Terrors and Swindled on iTunes and all podcast platforms.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Next week’s episode… is part seven of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Love true-crime podcasts? Subscribe to Murder Mile on iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

EPISODE TWENTY-NINE

Episode Twenty Nine: The Blackout Ripper Part 5: before the brutal murder of 34 year old Doris Jouanett on Thursday 12th February 1942 at roughly 11pm, The Blackout Ripper had attacked two more women in London's West End - Greta Hayward and Kathryn Mulcahy - but why did his killing spree abruptly come to an end?

• Date: Thursday 12th February 1942
  
• Location: St Alban's Street & 29 Southwick Street
• Victims: 2 (Greta Hayward & Kathryn Mulcahy)
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATIONS

As The Blackout Ripper committed two separate attacks, on the same day (technically three) both of which occur in this episode, I've included two Murder Mile maps below.

The Attack on Greta Hayward

The Attack on Kathryn Mulcahy

BLACKOUT RIPPER – Part 5 – Greta Hayward & Kathyrn Mulcahy

INTRO: After Britain declared war against Germany on 3rd September 1939, the first liberation took place, starting in British prisons. With the country desperate to clear its cells for the true enemies of the state; such as spies, traitors, looters and deserters, and in short supply of eligible young men for conscription, any prisoners with three months or less to serve were granted their freedom.

Buoyed by a sense of national pride, some prisoners enlisted, but others did not. And with the cities short on experienced Police officers, rationing enforced, and with basic essentials (such as soap and fuel) being sold at vastly over-inflated prices, some ex-con’s saw war-time as the perfect opportunity for criminal enterprise, and even honest people turned to crime under the cover of the blackout.

Between 1939 and 1945, the crime rate in England & Wales rose by 57%, with the number of reported murder cases increasing from 280 in 1939 to 490 in 1945, and with death, injury and disappearance being a daily occurrence in most war-time cities, many murders were impossible to prove.

But four horrifying deaths, over four nights, in four different parts of the London’s West End, were unmistakable as murders committed by a serial sexual sadist; whose attacks were random, bloody and brutal. And although, by Thursday 12th February 1942, on the fifth day of his five-day killing spree, only the badly mutilated bodies of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley had been found, with Margaret Florence Lowe still lying undiscovered, barely hours before the agonising death of his final victim – Doris Jouanett – in one night, having met them just one hour and two hundred feet apart, as his bloodlust escalated, the West End’s most prolific spree-killer would attack two more women.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part five of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing in Piccadilly Circus, W1; an iconic London landmark which interconnects the roads of Regent Street, Coventry Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, Piccadilly and Haymarket. Built in 1819 under its original name of Regent’s Circus, it later became Piccadilly Circus, after the area it covered, coined after local tailor Robert Baker’s infamous 17th century collar, called the “piccadillio”. And that’s about as exciting as it gets.

Featuring the infamous Criterion Theatre, the London Pavilion, the ghost of Tower Records, two truly hideous tourist attractions (where – for an insulting steep amount of money – you too can stare at badly sculpted plastic replicas of real people) and a statue which every idiot calls Eros (even though it’s not Eros, it’s Anteros - the angel of Christian charity, but then again being educated is so overrated), as everyone stares at Piccadilly’s infamous neon advertising and feels an overwhelming urge to scoff fatty chicken corpses, drink fizzy sugary piss, or smell like a footballer’s arse, they suddenly realise that Piccadilly Circus is nothing more than a world-famous semi-circular traffic contraflow, where every year millions of dipsticks flock to watch traffic; “oh look there’s a truck”, “oh look a bus”, “oh look a bike”, “oh look an accident”, “oh look blood”, “oh look brains”, “oh look entrails”, “oh look a road sweeper”, “oh look a lovely clean road”, as the tourist takes a selfie and says “oh look, there’s a Albanian immigrant wearing a cheap Yoda mask who’s pretending to float, that does look fun”. Sigh!

But actually, for us murder aficionados, Piccadilly Circus is fascinating, As it’s here that Doris Jouanett was heading for her date with The Captain, where both Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe were last seen alive, where two local prostitutes Laura Denmark and Molly Desantos-Alves met a red-headed corporal and a blue-eyed fair-haired airman, and waved goodbye to Evelyn Oatley just hours before her death. And yet, it was here, on Thursday 12th February 1942 at 8pm, where The Blackout Ripper would meet his fourth victim. And her name was Greta Hayward (Interstitial).

As always, being a little too eager and (if she was honest with herself) enthusiastic to escape her home in Kingsbury (North West London) which she shared with her soon-to-be ex-husband; 30 year old Margaret Mary Theresa Hayward, whose friends called her “Greta”, had hopped on the Metropolitan line to Baker Street, changed onto the Bakerloo Line to Piccadilly Circus and was stood outside of the Criterion Theatre – a full hour too early for her date – with nothing to do but wait.

With the shops shut, she couldn’t blow an hour by browsing. With only two films on at the flicks being Bette Davis in The Man Who Came To Dinner and Will Hay in The Black Sheep of Whitehall, she didn’t want to waste a shilling watching a newsreel, a cartoon and half of the pre-feature five-reel b-movie. With the Criterion Theatre having been requisitioned by the BBC to perform live radio for the duration of the war, and tonight’s broadcast being the brutally-dull music show ‘Take Your Choice‘ followed by the BBC Salon Orchestra conducted by Leslie Bridgewater, Greta was already bored of waiting, but she didn’t fancy falling into a coma. And even though Café Monaco was only on the opposite side of Piccadilly Circus, being packed full of sozzled servicemen, as an attractive blonde female sitting by herself, her chance of enjoying a quiet drink was zero.

And so, it was there, at the bottom of the steps of the Criterion Theatre, with time ticking by, her date an hour away and Greta all out of options that a blue-eyed fair-haired airman approached her, with a polite and pleasant proposition she simply couldn’t refuse. (Interstitial)

“Excuse me, are you waiting for somebody?” the airman asked, in an accent which, although well-spoken with the appearance of wealth, class and status, had the unmistakable twang and reassuring hints of North Yorkshire, where Greta was from. Sensing a pick-up attempt, she brushed off his request with the truth that she was awaiting a date with an Army Captain - her clever ploy being to pull rank on this inferior airman, the distinctive white flash on his side-cap suggesting he was still a cadet – but with the snow turning to drizzle, 9pm still an hour away, and the airman seeming harmless enough, with a sweet smile, a kind face and his gentlemanly offer that “I could buy you a drink while you wait for your friend?”, she thought it would certainly pass the time, and in his presence she felt safe.

The Criterion Theatre on Piccadilly Circus began life in the late 1800’s as a grand concert-hall full of cafes, galleries and a fine-dining restaurant in an opulent ballroom, which played host to stars, artists and royals. But after years of neglect and being on its last legs, by 1942, the restaurant had descended into being simply another shoddy pick-up joint for sailors, soldiers and airmen. It was called ‘Brasserie Universelle’, but it was more appropriately known as ‘The Universal Brothel’ or ‘The Brass Ass’.

As always, the bar of Brasserie Universelle was rammed with the sticky bustle of hot bodies as British and Canadian servicemen drank, danced and dry-humped their latest squeeze or conquest. And with the air thick with lewd chatter, fast jazz, cigarette smoke and the unpleasant whiff of jizz, as Greta and the airman drank a whiskey together, it was hard to heard themselves think.

And as much as he failed to flirt with her, by telling her she was beautiful and trotting out other equally unimaginative and retch-worthy chat-up lines, she reminded him of her impending date, he politely apologised and invited her to a spot of supper in the quieter, calmer and the less boisterous ambience of the Salted Almond Cocktail bar in the nearby Trocadero. So with fifty minutes still to go, feeling a little peckish having not eaten since lunch, and with him having agreed to escort her back to the brasserie by 9pm, a time which suited him fine as the rules of the RAF dictated that he had to be back in his Regent’s Park billets by 10:30pm, Greta headed out to supper with the unnamed airman.

He didn’t seem like a bad sort, Greta thought. Yes, he was a little tipsy, but he wasn’t rude, crude or abusive. Yes, the knuckles of his left-hand were scraped, but being an airman he probably did a manual job like a mechanic. And yes, he was a little forward in his approach, but looking rather dashing in his long military grate coat, his shiny black rubber-soled boots, his starched blue tunic with matching belt, his neat brown shirt and straightened tie, his side-cap emblazoned with the insignia of the Royal Air Force, and slung over his left shoulder was a black gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag (the kind of gas-mask that all military personnel were required to carry); she knew nothing bad would happen to her, as on the middle finger of his left hand he wore a gold wedding band, and having proffered her a smoke, she spied a small black & white photo of a pretty blonde lady hidden inside his silver cigarette case, which (she thought) was engraved with her initials of ‘LW’.

The Salted Almond situated in the Trocadero’s original location on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Great Windmill Street, just off the north-east corner of Piccadilly Circus, would have been a good choice for a quiet spot of supper, as being owned by J Lyon & Sons, creators of corner-house tearooms such as Maison Lyonese, it prided itself on being safe, calm and pleasant for women, but sadly, as the night drew on, the same could not be said for Greta’s new companion.

Being a few whiskies in, with supper looking unlikely and his disarmingly charming tone having shifted to that of a lecherous oaf, the airman lustfully enquired “are you a naughty girl?” - ignoring her plea that she wasn’t a prostitute, had never been and had no plans to be – and bragged that “I’m not broke, look”, as he pried open his wallet, which was stuffed thick with thirty £1 notes (almost £1000 today).

Getting petulant as Greta batted away his advances, he stated “I don’t think there’s time for supper now…” and quickly piped-up with “…come out to dinner with me tomorrow evening?” And with Greta eager to leave, she reluctantly agreed to a date, impressed upon him that sex would not happen and wrote on a slip of paper her phone number (of Colindale 6622) which he pocketed. And as he huffed “Alright, if you don’t want to, I can’t make you, but you seem a nice girl and I really do want you”, Greta brushed him off again, and as promised, at 8:45pm, he escorted her back for her 9pm date.

With the blackout in full force, with every light dipped, dulled or turned-off and even the illuminated signs of Piccadilly Circus switched-off, the streets would have been in near-darkness as Greta was guided out of the Trocadero, taking the brisk three minute walk, straight down the bustling throng of Shaftesbury Avenue and across Piccadilly Circus, back to the front entrance of the Criterion Theatre.

But then again, the airman didn’t take the most direct route. And with Greta having been subjected to a tirade of moody drunken mumblings by the airman, having bragged that he’d “once knocked a girl out”, she didn’t argue with him for fear of incurring his wrath, as he led the nervous lady down the thinner, quieter and darker side-streets to the brasserie’s back entrance.

And as they entered Jermyn Street, an almost pitch-black empty side-street behind Piccadilly Circus, as Greta pulled out of her handbag an eight inch metal torch to see her way and possibly alert a passing Policeman to her need for help, the airman snatched the torch from her hand, balking “you won’t be needing that” and pocketed it, as he casually strolled passed the brasserie’s back entrance.

With her heart racing, her eyes wide and her mouth dry, as the airman led her south down St Alban’s Street, a narrow alley heading away from the brasserie, he expressed his wish to give her a goodnight kiss, and in a chillingly eerie statement (possibly uttered barely four nights before to a painfully shy 41 year old pharmacist in Montagu Place), he said “aren’t there any air-raid shelters nearby?”

Although petite, standing her ground, Greta replied “I don’t know and in any case I wouldn’t go in one of them with you”, but as he led her into the ominous silence of the equally dark St James’ Market, in the cold shadow of the Captain’s Cabin pub, the airman dragged Greta into an unlit doorway.

Removing his RAF issue gas-respirator in its beige canvas bag from his left shoulder and placing it on the ground, the airman pulled Greta’s trembling body close as he started to kiss her; the feted stench of tobacco on his breath, as he rammed his tongue deep into her mouth. And as his hands grabbed at her hips, tugged at her blouse and groped at her breasts, she pushed him away gasping “you mustn’t, you mustn’t do that”. But with his passion enflamed and not being a man who took no for an answer, with an odd glint in his eyes, having placed both hands on her quivering cheeks, she thought (having heard her plea) he was either forthcoming with an apology or a tender but friendly kiss? But as his left hand slipped down her face, slowly caressing her neck, he tightly gripped her throat and squeezed, all the while muttering “you won’t, you won’t”, until her vision went black. 

Nobody heard her screams. Nobody saw his face. Nobody found any weapons.

And at 9pm, on Thursday 12th February 1942, at the back of the Criterion Theatre on Piccadilly Circus, barely two hours before the brutal, shocking and sadistic murder of Doris Jouanett, Margaret Mary Theresa Hayward, known to her friends as “Greta” became the fourth victim of The Blackout Ripper.

Just like the others, she was a lone female. Just like the others, she was attacked in private. Just like the others, she was robbed. But unlike the others… she didn’t die.

Hearing shoes scuffling, a muffled croaky voice and seeing a torch frantically flickering, as 24 year old night-porter John Shine approached St Alban’s Street, he spotted a pair of women’s legs slumped on the wet floor and sticking out of an unlit doorway. Sensing something was wrong, John Shine shouted “Police!” at the top of his lungs, panicking the ominous shape which loomed over the collapsed lady, and before he could do anything, The Blackout Ripper disappeared into the darkness.

And although she was unconscious, Greta was alive…

…but did her survival lead to the death of another woman?

At a little after 10pm, barely an hour later; with his heart pumping, his nerves tingling and his bloodlust unsated, having sunk several more whiskies, the slightly dishevelled airman spotted a lone female, standing in the darkened doorway of Oddenino’s restaurant, near the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus, where just two days before, Evelyn Oatley was last seen alive.

Being a tall, slim and attractive lady, with bobbed flame-red hair, luminous pale skin, stunning grey-eyes and dressed in a black tailored coat, skirt and hat, he was instantly aroused by her. As a 34 year old soon-to-be divorcee who had succumbed to sex-work simply to pay the rent, she reluctantly hopped in a taxi with the drunken airman and took him back to her Paddington flat. And although she was known locally as “Mrs King”, her real name was Kathryn Mulcahy. (Interstitial)

Unlike before, the sozzled airman wasn’t in the mood for small-talk, and having paid her two £1 notes upfront for sex (roughly £60 today), Kathryn sighed “I wish I could make £5 tonight”, at which he flashed his bulging wallet, peeled-off three further £1 notes for her, and in the backseat of the taxi, having got down on his knees, lifted up her skirt and pulled aside her knickers, he began to kiss her genitals, as their taxi drove west along Oxford Street, passing Selfridges, and Doris Jouanett.

Having politely pacified his advances in her soft Irish brogue, stating “don’t be silly, we’ll be in my flat soon enough”, Kathryn was intimidated by his eagerness, as their taxi continued up Edgware Road, along Sussex Gardens and stopped just shy of Paddington Station, outside of 29 Southwick Street.

As the taxi pulled away, a bitterly cold wind blew down the dark and strangely quiet side-street, and although Kathryn shivered, it wasn’t just the icy gust which riddled her skin with goose-bumps, and as she led the amorous airman, off the side-street, under a darkened archway and into eerie silence of Southwick Mews, she unlocked her front door, and welcomed into her flat The Blackout Ripper.

With Kathryn having been out most of the day, and a winter frost having settled on the icy snow, her small second-floor flat was chillingly cold, and being only sparsely furnished with few comforts (just the basics, like a bed with a sheet, a table with a candlestick, a wash-stand with a packet of razor-blades, and a wardrobe full of clothes, hats, curling tongs and a collection of kitchen cutlery) she popped a shilling in the coin-slot of her gas-fire, to warm the flat up, as they undressed.

Being naked, all except for her boots (with her toes too cold to be exposed), Kathryn was desperate for the sex to be over-and-done with quickly, but with the airman ignoring her pleas, the unrolled condom in her hand and his penis still flaccid, he continued fondling her breasts and kissing her vagina.

Lying flat on her back, her trembling body sprawled diagonally across the bed, the airman never once attempted to have sex with Kathryn; instead straddling her slim pale torso, with his knees either side of her hips and an odd glint in his wide blue eyes, he placed both hands on her quivering cheeks, as if to tenderly kiss her, but as his left hand slowly caressed the nap of her neck, he tightly gripped her throat and squeezed, until her vision went black. 

But as a feisty Irish woman, raised by a drunken father, an absent mother and several brothers, who had suffered at the hands of an abusive husband and had given her only child up for adoption, although timid, Kathryn was a born fighter. And having yanked both of thumbs back so hard that the bone almost snapped, making him squeal, having freed her leg, Kathryn booted him squarely in the chest, kicking her assailant right off the bed.

Not wishing to spend a second longer with this maniac, Kathryn ran from her flat screaming “Murder! Police!”, banging on the doors of her neighbours – Agnes Morris and Kitty McQuillan – who came to the naked woman’s aide. But he didn’t run. Instead, seeming unflustered, almost as if nothing had actually happened, as the airman calmly dressed, fixed his hair and sparked up a cigarette (even stooping so low as to ask Kitty if she had a light), being cocky in his lack of haste, he casually apologised to Kathryn, tossed her five £1 notes, and left.

The time was roughly 11pm. The date was Thursday 12th February 1942. And with his anger rising, his hatred fuming and his bloodlust unsated, having turned right and strolled down Southwick Street, The Blackout Ripper disappeared into the darkness of Sussex Gardens, and the home of his final victim.

But unlike his other attacks; this time there were screams, this time there were witnesses, this time they had seen his face, and this time he had left behind evidence. And not just the canvas belt to his blue military tunic he’d misplaced in Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat. No, this was something different.

Roughly one mile away, in a dark alley at the back of Piccadilly Circus, having sustained cuts, bruises, concussion and a fractured larynx, although she struggled to breathe, with the aid of the night-porter John Shine, Greta Hayward made her way to West End Central Police Station on nearby Saville Row, where she gave a description of the man who had attacked her.

Although a little fuzzy at first, Greta quickly compiled a detailed description of her unnamed attacker, stating he was “a British Airman, aged 30-ish, 5 foot 9 inches tall, clean shaven, soft features, light blue eyes, slim build, fair-haired, dressed in an Royal Air Force blue uniform, with long black grate coat, a woollen side-cap with a white cadet’s emblem, and over his left shoulder he carried a black gas respirator in beige canvas bag”. And although her depiction was highly accurate, with his attacks all occurring during World War Two, that description could easily match one of thousands of airmen in and around London, that day. But one detail was unique…

…in his haste to escape, Greta’s attacker had dropped his gas-mask; and although it was nothing more than a standard-issue gas respirator, made in a generic black rubber, fitted with a readily available air-filter and carried in a nondescript beige canvas bag, which was mass-produced, cheaply made and widely distributed to all military personnel across the entire British Armed Forces…

…inside his gas respirator, for fear of confusing it with the millions of others which dotted the country, in black permanent marker, he had written his Royal Air Force serial number; a very unique six-digit code and identifiable to just one man. And his name was Gordon Frederick Cummins.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to join us next week for the sixth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

And, although we still have a few more episodes to go, if you have any questions about the previous episodes, please message me on social media, and I will include these in a special Q&A episode at the end of this series.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Eye For An Eye, hosted by Lisa and Matt, Eye For An Eye is a weekly true-crime podcast which delves into the deeply disturbing mind of murderers, sociopaths and psychotics, with a big dose of humour, and songs a-plenty. If this sounds perfect for you, check out the promo for Eye For An Eye. (Play Promo)

A big thank you goes to my brand new Patreon supporters who get exclusive access to original Murder Mile content, including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases. They are Jim Balfour, Steve Stadalink, Kathryn Williams, and an extra special friend who asked to be anonymous, all have asked “which bits of human flesh are the tastiest?” Well friends, in ascending order they are; the bum-bum, the boobie, the winkie, the nu-nu, the flaps, the muffin-top and the calamari. Bon appetite.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Next week’s episode… is part six of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via  iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

EPISODE TWENTY EIGHT

Episode Twenty Eight: The Blackout Ripper Part 4: On 12th February 1942, 32 year old Doris Jouanett was found strangled, posed and mutilated in her flat at 187 Sussex Gardens in a murder strangely similar to Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe, over four nights prior. So who was The Blackout Ripper?

• Date: Thursday 12th February 1942
  
• Location: 187 Sussex Gardens
  
• Victims: 1 (Doris Jouanett)
  
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATIONS

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

BLACKOUT RIPPER Part 4 – Doris Jouannet (Nickname “Olga”)

INTRO: By 1942, at the height of World War Two, with everyday essentials like butter, sugar, eggs, milk, meat, flour, fuel and even clothes in a limited supply and strictly rationed; life was tough, money was tight and ordinary people would be forced to make desperate decisions simply to survive.

Having yet to fully appreciate how invaluable women would become in Britain’s defence, the Second World War proved a turning point for women’s suffrage, as (with men dying in their million) women would become the backbone of the war-effort (not only later as conscripted soldiers, but also) as munitions-workers, doctors, fire-crews, hauliers, air-raid wardens and police constables.

But with the economy in disarray and honest jobs being badly paid, even good women were forced to take drastic steps. And with the cities full of soldiers, sailors and airmen with heavy wallets, empty hearts and endless hard-ons – some women turned to prostitution; becoming a housewife by day and a whore by night, in a clandestine affair, hidden from their husbands, simply to pay the bills.

So synonymous were Soho’s sex-workers for their tactics, speed and cunning as they pursued, pounced and pestered any serviceman, that American GI’s dubbed them the “Piccadilly Commandos”.

But unbeknownst to any women (whether prostitute or not), during February 1942, a sadistic sexual sadist stalked the blacked-out and bomb-damaged streets of the West End; so far, three unrelated women (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe) were tortured, posed and mutilated on three consecutive nights, in the first half of his five-day killing spree.

No-one knew his name, and yet all three women found him confident, charming and unassuming. No-one saw his face, and yet (in his presence) they all felt safe, happy and comfortable. No-one saw him kill, and yet, as he smiled, chatted, drank and carried no weapons, none of these women had any idea of the horror which awaited them at the hands of this homicidal maniac. But tonight, with his blood lust escalating and his sexual desire unsated, he would go in search of his next victim.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part four of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing in Sussex Gardens, W2, in an area most people call Paddington, which was formerly known as Tyburnia; a district made famous as the host of London’s bloodiest execution site – The Tyburn Tree – a hangman’s gallows situated at Marble Arch, at the junction of Edgware Road and Oxford Street, where many a bad lad’s neck was stretched, yanked and snapped.

Constructed during the Victorian era of the early-to-mid 1800’s, although most of the greenery has since been tarmacked and turned into drives, Sussex Gardens is still an affluent area consisting of one long l-shaped street with tall, thin and stunning brown-bricked five and six storey terrace houses on both sides, with tall white windows and white Doric columns on every door.

And although each flat currently sells for roughly £1million a piece owing to its proximity to Hyde Park, being just one street away from Paddington Station – a haven for hookers and bored businessmen with boners – although still beautiful, much of Sussex Gardens has lost its initial value, having been repurposed as flat, offices and modestly-priced hotels full of plumbers, brickies and roofers; who can lay pipe, trowel mortar and repoint tiles (whether you want it done or not), and yet are physically incapable of seeing without ogling, yawning without belching, pissing without dribbling, thinking without farting, talking without saying “facking”, and watching sport without pronouncing it “spawh”.

And yet it was here, in the well-presented ground floor flat of 187 Sussex Gardens that the brutal murder of The Blackout Ripper’s next victim occurred, and her name was Doris Jouanett. (Interstitial)

Wrongly assumed to be French, Doris Jouanett was actually born Doris Elizabeth Robson on either 21st March in the year 1909 (according to her husband), 1906 (according to the national census) or 1907 (according to her birth certificate), and although she may have shaved an odd year off her age, here and there, there was no denying that Doris Robson was ashamed of her impoverished past.

Born amidst the industrial working-class sprawl of Lemington (Northumberland) in the North East of England, although Doris’ birthplace was just four miles from Ryton where (nine years earlier) Evelyn Margaret Hamilton was born, the difference between their upbringings was colossal, as being surrounded by collieries, factories, railways, glassworks and iron foundries, everything her family owned (which wasn’t much) was smothered in dirt, dust and a thick blanket of black soot.
Originally from Farlam in Cumbria, Doris’ mother (Elizabeth) was one of nine children born to Thomas and Barbara Robson, and although they survived on a coal-miner’s wage and lived in a cramped lodging house with three other families, their children were well-educated, with four of the siblings becoming school-teachers, including Elizabeth and her younger sisters Isabella and Mary.

Sadly, as an unmarried 41 year old single-parent, shortly after the birth of her only child, Elizabeth died owing to complications, and Doris Elizabeth Robson (who had no mother, no father and no siblings) was raised by her maternal aunties Isabella and Mary, in the gloomy wind-swept headland of Hartlepool, in a small lodging house at 6 Moor Terrace, which overlooked the North Sea.

The next two decades of Doris’ life are a bit of a mystery, as with no school reports, census records and no accurate date of birth, it’s hard to trace where she went, who with, and why. But being a working-class Northern female, who had to live with the shame of being born a bastard, to a dead mother, an absent father and adopted by middle-aged spinsters, life can’t have been easy. But twenty years later, by 1935, Doris had moved to London to make a better life for herself.

Being unskilled, unqualified and having no career to fall back on, Doris didn’t want to work; to slog her guts out, twelve hours a day, seven days a week; an endless slew of filth, drudgery and exhaustion in a joyless job for a thankless boss and all for a pittance. Doris felt she deserved better and dreamed of becoming a kept-women, who lived in a posh house, wore mink furs, fine jewels and never had to lift a finger, having bagged herself a wealthy husband. And in August 1935, her dream had come true.

Believing in love at first sight, within three months of meeting, on 4th November 1935 at Paddington Registry Office, 25 year old Doris Elizabeth Robson married 60 year old Henri Alfred Jouannet, a naturalised French citizen, who managed several hotels in the South East of England. And although their marriage was impulsive, their 35 year age-gap was obvious and whether she actually loved him was debatable; as a wealthy hotelier, with a silver Rolls Royce, a large bank balance and being a kindly man who showered her with expensive gifts, like fine furs, a gold watch and a black fountain pen engraved with her new initials of “DJ”, Mrs Doris Elizabeth Jouanett moved with her husband from Eastbourne, to Farnborough, until eventually they moved to London.

And although Henri was aware of Doris’ desperate days when – being broke and hungry – she worked as a West End sex-worker, she had assured him that those days were long behind her, and (finally) with Henri managing the very prestigious five-star Royal Court Hotel in Sloane Square in a very affluent area of Kensington, Doris truly was living the dream and life was good, as together they moved into a luxurious ground-floor flat, situated at 187 Sussex Gardens. (Interstitial)

(Clock): Henri & Doris Jouanett moved into flat 1 of 187 Sussex Gardens on Monday 26th January 1942, by which time - although air-raids were regular, looting was rife and rationing was routine – The Blackout Ripper was roughly 98 miles away in the West of England, and was still six days away from being relocated to London. So, for now, Doris Jouanett was safe, Evelyn Hamilton was alive but about to be laid-off, Evelyn Oatley was being comforted by her rather dull but eternally loving husband Harold, and Margaret Florence Lowe was drunk, not realising that the next time her beloved daughter would see her again, Margaret (and three other women) would be dead. (End)

Over those seven years of marriage, Doris had become accustomed to the finer things in life; gorging on good food, quaffing on fine wines and sleeping on silk sheets, as she was waited on hand-and-foot by butlers, maids and chefs, and escorted to fancy parties in a chauffeur-driven silver Rolls Royce. And being immaculately dressed in the very latest fashions, with manicured nails, coiffured hair and pristine make-up, the ever stylish Mrs Doris Jouanett looked very much like a real lady.

But following a series of bad business deals, lengthy court trials, escalating gambling debts, and with the war having seriously put the boot-in on tourism; the Rolls Royce was sold, the servants were laid-off and Henri was almost broke. And with no savings to access, a status to upkeep and a trophy wife with expensive tastes to fund, when 67 year old Henri should have been enjoying his retirement, he was working day and night at the prestigious five-star Royal Court Hotel in Sloane Square, but not as the hotel’s owner, now he was simply a manager.

Henri would later describe their marriage as “perfectly happy… we never had a disagreement”, but for Doris this was far from the truth. Before moving back to London; as his funds dried-up and life became a little more drab, being petrified of returning to her impoverished roots, Doris regularly travelled from Farnborough and Eastbourne to the West End, under the guise of a bored housewife heading to Piccadilly to meet some pals, when really, she had returned to prostitution.

Nicknamed “Olga” - as (even though many prostitutes thought she was French owing to her surname) many punters thought she looked Russian, a fact that Doris never denied as being a well-dressed lady with a mysterious and exotic past paid better than being plain old Doris Robson, the Geordie – and as a 32 year old, five foot ten inch tall brunette, with long legs, a slim build and striking features (a mixture of hard, moody and demure), Doris was very different from the usual prostitute.

And being very much an elegant lady who was both alluring and aloof, “Olga” drew in a much wealthier clientele, whether businessmen, diplomats, officials, officers and – hopefully – Doris thought, an older, richer man, maybe a wealthy widower or another hotelier, who could keep her in the life to which she had become accustomed, as with Henri almost broke, Doris needed a new sugar-daddy.

To say that Henri didn’t trust his wife would be an understatement. And although, most nights his job dictated that he had to sleep at The Royal Court Hotel; every evening, having dashed the six tube stops from Sloane Square to Paddington, from 7pm to 9:30pm, for those two and a half hours, Henri & Doris Jouanett would settle down to dinner in their ground-floor flat at 187 Sussex Gardens.

(Clock): By 7pm on Thursday 12th February 1942, as Henri & Doris tucked into what-would-be their last meal together - as the icy cold corpses of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley were lying on a slab at Paddington and Westminster mortuaries, and the mutilated body of Margaret Florence Lowe had lain still, silent and undiscovered for 40 hours - barely one mile away, at The Volunteer Public House on Baker Street, a red-headed Corporal was necking back pints and supping free whiskies with a pleasant, blue-eyed, fair-haired airman, who was a charmer with the ladies, whose pockets were flush with cash, and (having already slaughtered three women) tonight he would go in search of his next victim. (End)

The last four hours of Doris Jouanett’s life were unremarkable; having finished their evening meal (of chicken chasseur, root vegetables and a white wine), needing some “fresh air”, Doris donned a stylish black velvet hat, a long black coat with a fur collar, a black leather handbag and a large black umbrella (as the recent snowy blizzard had turned to rain) and having left the dirty crockery on the dinner table, Doris accompanied Henri on the four minute walk to Paddington Station, where – having promised her husband she’d head straight home – as he hopped on the westbound District Line train to Sloane Square, she waved him goodbye for one last time. But Doris had no plans to return home.

At 9:40pm - with The Blackout Ripper still in Piccadilly, having escorted a 30 year old woman called Greta Hayward back to the Universal Brasserie on Jermyn Street - Doris was spotted by local prostitute Patricia Borg standing at the junction of Edgware Road and Sussex Gardens, a busy crossroads just a three minute walk from her home and a ten minute stroll from the air-raid shelter on Montagu Place.

And although Patricia and the lady she knew as “Olga” only spoke briefly, opening with the greeting of “hello stranger” and closing with a “see you”; having met a client, serviced his needs and received her money, all within fifteen minutes, by the time Patricia returned to the same spot, Doris was gone.

Moments later, two call-girls called Ruby Ricketts and Grace chatted to Doris as she strolled south down Edgware Road (towards Marble Arch), where accompanied by her friend Beatrice Lang and needing a stiff drink to keep her strength up for the long night ahead, Doris drank a whiskey and soda at a corner-house tearoom called Maison Lyonese, where just four nights earlier, a shy pharmacist called Evelyn Hamilton had (potentially) met her murderer as she celebrated her 41st birthday alone.

But that night, being in Piccadilly, The Blackout Ripper would not frequent Maison Lyonese. So as the two friends chatted over a drink, Doris confided to Beatrice that with money tight, their marriage tense and the couple sleeping in separate beds, Doris had a date tonight with her new sugar-daddy; a wealthy regular client in a military uniform, who she referred to only as ‘The Captain’.

(Clock): At 10:20pm on Thursday 12th February 1942, Doris & Beatrice left Maison Lyonese, walked east along Oxford Street and parted ways outside of Selfridges, and with Doris eager to see her new beau, she headed into Piccadilly, right into the path of The Blackout Ripper. Or she would have done, had fate not taken an unexpected twist… as with his wallet full, his liver pickled and his sexual appetite unsated, having hopped in a taxi with a 34 year old redhead sex-worker called Katharine Mulcahy, as Doris walked east along Oxford Street to Piccadilly, The Blackout Ripper headed west to Paddington. And although, for now, Doris Jouanett was safe… an hour later, she would be dead. (End).

How she knew ‘The Captain’, who he was, or whether she had actually met him that night, we shall never know, as having waved her friend goodbye, Beatrice was the last person to see Doris alive.

For whatever reason, whether ‘The Captain’ was late, early or had cancelled their date, shortly after 11pm, Doris had left the semi-safety of Piccadilly Circus, had returned home to Paddington, and - as the cruel hand of fate took another unexpected twist - with the redheaded sex-worker Katharine Mulcahy, living just one street south-east of 187 Sussex Gardens, a short while later; whether for money, boredom or companionship, Doris Jouanett opened her door to The Blackout Ripper.

At 7pm on Friday 13th February 1942, regular as clockwork, Henri hopped off the eastbound District Line train from Sloane Square to Paddington Station, strolled the four minute walk to Sussex Gardens, and – like Pavlov’s dog - the second he saw his home, his stomach started to rumble. But something didn’t seem right, as by the white Doric columns of his front door, on his doorstep, a full twelve hours after they had been delivered, he spotted two bottles of milk.

Feeling confused; as Henri entered his blacked-out flat, calling out his wife’s name “Doris?” but getting no reply, he spotted on the table their dirty dinner dishes where they had left them the night before; the bread stale, the cabbage cold, the white sauce congealed, but there was no sign of Doris anywhere. Not in the front-room, not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, all that remained, was the bedroom.

With the key missing and the lock shut, as much as Henri jiggled the handle and shoved against the panels, the small-framed 67 year old couldn’t budge the heavy wooden door, but spying through the keyhole and seeing the dull red glow and the soft warm heat of the electric bar fire, it was clear that someone was inside, but as much as he banged on the door “Doris?”, still nobody answered.

Deeply concerned, Henri fetched the Police, and at 7:50pm, two burly Bobbies from Paddington Police Station – PC Payne & PC Cox – with Henri’s permission, used their considerable bulk to bash down the sturdy wooden door, and found Doris. Sparing Henri from the horror in the bedroom beyond, PC Cox sat him on the sofa, a comporting hand over shoulder as he gave Henri the bad news, but what PC Payne saw that night, would be burned into his eyes forever.

At a little after 8pm, just three hours after the grisly discovery of the mutilated remains of Margaret Florence Lowe one mile away at 9/10 Gosfield Street, Divisional Detective Inspector Leonard Clare, the detective who was heading-up the murder investigation into Evelyn Hamilton four nights prior in Montagu Place, entered flat 1 at 187 Sussex Gardens. Although instantly shocked, as the small dark room hung heavy with the stench of steamy vomit as inexperienced officers struggled to cope with the sight, for Detective Inspector Clare, this was the all-too-familiar calling card of The Blackout Ripper.

As before, there was no sign of a struggle…

Feeling comfortable; reassured by his kind face, his sweet smile, his soft English voice and his twinkling blue eyes, Doris was lulled into a warm sense of security as she led the tall, handsome and fair-haired man into her bedroom. And although, like most of her clients, he had been drinking, he was charming, alluring and wearing the uniform of a military man; a hero, and in his company, she felt safe.

As she welcomed him in, Doris had already hung-up her long black fur-collared coat in the wardrobe, perched her black velvet hat and black leather handbag on the top shelf, and placed her black dress, stockings, brassiere and brown brogue shoes on a small wooden chair by the toasty warmth of the electric fire, and now she was dressed in nothing but a black quilted bathrobe.

With the small back bedroom comprising of a wardrobe, a dressing table, a chair and two twin beds placed a few inches apart, Doris sat on the bed farthest from the door, smoking a cigarette, as the man disrobed; shedding his long military great coat, unbuttoning his blue tunic, kicking off his heavy black rubber-soled boots and flinging-off his jauntily-worn woollen side-cap, which was emblazoned with a military insignia. And even though, his tie was crooked, his knuckles were scuffed, his breath smelled of whiskey and his belt was missing, having done this many times before, Doris didn’t feel threatened at all.

What happened next is unknown. As with her being a prostitute, with him being a punter and several male rubber contraceptives found scattered about the bed and floor, two of which had been unrolled and used, sex may have taken place. But with the bedroom floor littered with spent cigarette butts and neither of the condoms containing any semen, maybe (for whatever reason) sex didn’t take place. And yet, as far as we know, what happened next was unprovoked, unexpected and shocking.

With a swift hard blow across her left cheek, which fractured her jaw, rendered her giddy and knocked her to the bed, before she could scream for help, with his powerful thighs straddling her arms and torso, his full body weight pinning her down, as he reached across to the small wooden chair, he grabbed one of her black stockings, wrapped it around her neck, and with both hands, pulled it tight.

Gasping for air that wouldn’t inhale and screaming words which no-one would hear, as Doris stared up at the grinning maniac sat on top of her; with her face all purple and swollen, her vision fading to black as her pupils dilated and the whites of her eyes ruptured with blood, her left-handed attacker tied the tights in a knot under her left jaw, leaving a depression in her neck half an inch deep, which fractured her larynx, and compressed her tongue, tonsils and windpipe, and as she drifted in and out of consciousness, The Blackout Ripper proceeded to mutilate her body, whether she was dead or alive.

Using a razor-blade from her dressing table and another as-yet unidentified household weapon, with his victim suitably subdued and immobile, he took his time, savouring every moment, as he sliced a five inch slit from her stomach to her privates, slashed a three inch gash through her pubic hair, sunk the razor-blade deep into her genitals inflicting a six and a half inch wound in and across her vagina, and using two converging cuts, he carved a four inch slit around her left breast, which almost severed her nipple. The one saving grace being that – unlike his other victims – no candle, no torch, nor curling tongs were inserted into her vagina, as with the sheer terror of her agonising death causing her to wet herself, with the bed soaked in a pungent mix of blood and urine, he decided against it.

With his blood-lust sated, he calmly dressed; fastening his blue tunic and trousers, buttoning-up his brown shirt and tie, pulling on his large great coat, tying his black heavy boots and fixing (at a jaunty angle) his woollen side-cap. And needing to satisfy his greed, from her black leather handbag he stole roughly £5 worth of untraceable bank-notes and from her lifeless wrist he took a gold watch (given to Doris by her husband). As a crude memento of a delightful night, he pocketed her black fountain pen uniquely etched with her very identifiable initials of “DJ”, and (even more bizarrely), from her dressing table, he took her worthless greeny/blue comb with several teeth missing.

But before he left, he had one final act of humiliation to conduct upon the corpse of Doris Jouanett. Laying her lifeless body diagonally across the bed; with her black quilted bathrobe spread wide, her left arm outstretched, her right hand across her genitals, her swollen purple head hanging over the side of the bed, her tongue protruding and her bloodshot eyes gazing towards the door, he posed her lifeless body, as a grisly sight to greet the poor unfortunate who would come looking for her.

Having tidied his hair, straightened his tie and checked he hadn’t left any personal possessions behind; his wallet, his keys, his hat, his military ID, or anything stupid which would incriminate him, having been cautious not to leave any fingerprints, having wiped down anything he’d touched, and with no screams, no noise and no witnesses of any kind, he locked the bedroom door, disposed of the key, strolled out of 187 Sussex Gardens and onto the dark inky night The Blackout Ripper disappeared.

Across five nights, over four streets in London’s West End, four totally different and entirely unrelated women, for whatever reason, had been ripped, tortured and posed, by an unidentified sadistic maniac.

All had suffered the same fate; strangulation, mutilation and humiliation. All had been sliced, beaten and violated. All had been robbed, but only of untraceable bank notes, never of bank-books nor ration coupons. And although his sexual sadism compelled him to steal such high risk trinkets as a hanky etched with a unique laundry mark, an anniversary gift gold wrist watch, an initialled fountain pen and a monogrammed cigarette case containing a photo of the victim’s mother, none of these had been found. And with no physical sightings, no credible suspects, and no fingerprints which matched anyone on Scotland Yard’s entire Print Index, the Police were at a loss as to who this man was…

…and it’s here that his killing spree would cease.

Four women were dead: 41 year old pharmacist Evelyn Margaret Hamilton, 34 year old dancer, wife and sex-worker Evelyn Oatley, 43 year old veteran prostitute and mother Margaret Florence Lowe and 32 year old Doris Elizabeth Jouanett; a woman raised in such poverty, she would do anything to never be poor or hungry ever again, and yet her desperate need drove her to her own death.

And having been discovered at 7pm on Friday 13th February 1942, a full 18 hours later, although Doris Jouanett was the last women found, she wasn’t his fourth victim in his five day killing spree, she was his sixth. As barely an hour before Doris’ death, two unrelated women, on two different streets, in two separate parts of the West End, would become the fourth and fifth victims of The Blackout Ripper.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to join us next week for the fifth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.
This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Lustmordia; hosted by Leigh, Derek & Ginny, Lustmordia dives into the deeply macabre true-crime cases from around the world, whether The Chicago Ripper Crew, Robert Durst and the Beasts of Satan to name but a few, with lashing of fun, a solid dose of humour and giggles-a-plenty. Check out Lustmordia. (Play Promo

A big thank you goes to my brand new Patreon supporters who get exclusive access to original Murder Mile content, including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases. They are Josie Miller, Alina Ayoshina, Stephani Schwarz, Karin Klooster, and an extra special friend who asked to remain nameless, and all of whom have asked me some personal questions, so here’s your answers: “never on a Sunday”, “occasionally in public”, “only in church”, “pants are optional” and “Vaseline is a must”. There you go, I hope that helps.

And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Outlines, hosted by Jess, Outlines is an incredibly well-researched, neatly-balanced and truly fascinating true-crime podcast which dives into many of Britain’s untold and unsolved murder cases. So if you’re looking for something different, and to hear about cases you never knew existed, checked out Outlines. Second is the infamous Minds of Madness, basically, if you haven’t heard about it yet? Why not. Tyler and Bek do such an amazing job, with this well-presented, finely-researched and heart felt true-crime podcast, that there’s a reason it’s being turned into a TV series? It’s really amazing. So check out Outlines and Minds of Madness on iTunes and all podcast platforms.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Next week’s episode… is part five of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog her

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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk