Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #60 - Reginald Gordon West: the Birthday Party and the Spent Penny29/5/2019 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
A comparison of Lisle Street taken from the crime scene photo (left) and latest by me (right); 23 Lisle Street is second from the right with the black and orange sign
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.
EPISODE SIXTY
On Monday 25th April 1966, Reginald Gordon West was murdered by three young men; he had never met them before, he had never seen them before and they had never spoken before. In fact, they had never met. So why and how did they kill him?
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.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Ep60 – Reginald Gordon West: The Birthday Party and the Spent Penny
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about the senseless death of Reginald Gordon West; an innocent man in the wrong place, at the wrong time, for a very innocent reason. Oddly, he never saw his killers, he never heard his killers and – stranger still – he would never meet his killers. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 60: Reginald Gordon West: The Birthday Party and the Spent Penny. Today I’m standing on Lisle Street, WC2; one street east of the Latin Quarter nightclub where the murder of David Knight led to a mafia hit on Alfredo Zomparelli, two streets south of the Piccadilly Hotel where the first bungled assassination on Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko irradiated an entire room, and a few doors down from the infamous Rose n Dale murder – coming soon to Murder Mile. Lisle Street is a thin pedestrianised road wedged between Shaftesbury Avenue and Leicester Square, and bookended by Wardour Street and Charing Cross Road; with the north side being a mix of oriental eateries, noisy gay-bars and discrete brothels, and the south side little more than a featureless wall being the backside of such cultural delights as the Hippodrome, Warner’s Cinema and M & M World. Rarely bathed in sunlight, Lisle Street is dark and shadowy; a seedy side-street slathered in gloom and menace; illuminated by the fizz of tacky neon signs, echoing with the deafening clatter of cobblestones and dripping in the beery stench of frothy urine, as a drunk expels his pee just two feet from a portaloo, only to exclaim “f**k sake” having tripped over one of fifty bin-bags or slipped in yet another dog-shit. Sadly, Lisle Street (being yards from Leicester Square) has lost most its charm; as with many punters feeling fleeced having watched a street performer gee-up the crowd for 58 minutes, do two tricks and guilt-trip them all into giving a quid, they all slump to Lisle Street with a major grump-on, only to be jostled by tramps, junkies and a dickhead dressed as Pikachu, amongst the moronic chant of football louts, the high-pitched squeal of an over-prosecco’d hen-do and some lairy lads out on the lash looking for a place to pint-up, piss, puke, or pay £30 to pop their pointless little peckers in the sore-raddled vagina of an exploited, under-aged, drug-addled sex-slave. (chanting - “lads, lads, lads”, laughter). Today, 23 Lisle Street is home to the Beijing Dumpling; a tasty little dumpling house set in a thin four-storey brown-stone building on a long curved terrace, with a small restaurant on the ground-floor and a side door to flats above. It’s warm, friendly and the good’s great, but if you breathe deeply, there may be an odd smell you can’t quite put their finger on. As it was here, on Monday 25th April 1966, on the second floor of 23 Lisle Street, where the life of Reginald Gordon West would end at the hands of three killers… who he would never meet (Interstitial). On Tuesday 26th April 1966, 49 year old George Elrington West, an engineer from Windsor entered a vague red-bricked building at 65 Horseferry Road, two miles south of Soho. Being blonde, thin and medium-build, although he spoke well and held himself with a middle-class decorum, George’s eyes were etched with shock, sadness and dread for what he was about to see, as this was Westminster Coroner’s Court, where inquests are held and - in the mortuary below – where bodies are laid. Being stark, clean and cold, the softly spoken voices of George, Dr Teare and Detective Superintendent Walker echoed across the steel fridges and white tiled walls of the morgue with an eerie reverb, as DS Walker asked “George, do you recognise any of these personal affects?” On a small side table, several strangely familiar items were laid out like a bad jumble-sale – a shoe, a hanky, two pens, a pair of spectacles and a watch – except everything was black and sooty, broken and snapped, several tiny fragments of a life destroyed. Seeing a charred size 8 hand-stitched shoe, two shattered pieces of horn-rimmed glasses and a white metal wrist-watch (the glass smashed, the face black and the warped hands forever trapped at 7:35pm), the Police knew who they belonged to… …as inside the victim’s pocket; between his burned jacket, his scorched shirt and his seared flesh, lay a brown leather wallet. The contents barely legible but unmistakable; as except for four £1 notes and 10 shillings, they found a membership card to the Pen & Wig Club, a signed cheque for £25, a parking permit for Somerset House and four Inland Revenue pay-slips, all in the name of a Mr R G West… …but given their state, George said “They look similar, but… I can’t be certain, I’m sorry”. All the while his eyes darted towards the gurney, as on top lay a thick white shroud draped over a life-sized lump. (DS Walker) “Ready George?” He nodded, not ready but knowing that with no other next-of-kin, this job was down to him, and as Dr Teare pulled down the shroud to the neck, now he could see the face. Only there was no face, no features, this wasn’t a human, it was an outline; a silhouette of a person Gordon once loved – who was alive yesterday and dead today – his once pale skin scorched charcoal black and oddly smooth, his new cologne like burned plastics and pig-fat, and his soft blonde hair singed and shrivelled, as before him lay an unrecognisable shadow with no lips, no lashes and no eyes. George couldn’t connect the two; this silent blackened corpse and his big brother, who once cradled him as a baby, played with him as a boy, and into adulthood protected him, who just five years earlier had stood by his side, as on the same day, the brothers buried both parents. And now, he was gone. And as George stood over his brother’s charred remains, the morgue was tinged with an eerie silence, as two strikingly similar men - same height, weight and size – were face-to-face for the final time, only (like a photograph and its negative) one was blonde and alive, and the other was black and dead. DS Walker asked “George, I know this is hard, but is that Reginald?”, and with tears of both sorrow and frustration, George replied “I don’t know… I don’t know if that’s my brother… I just can’t tell”. Reginald Gordon West died a truly horrifying death having been burned alive, and although this was unequivocally proved to be him, one question still stood – who had killed him… and why? (Interstitial) The morning of Monday 25th April 1966 was dry and clear, as a light north-easterly wind whipped the dust and litter up off the streets, and being three degrees hotter than the monthly average, unusually it had rained very little. You may ask why a weather report is so important to the case… but it is. At 9:30am, three young men (Roger, Robert and David) excitedly hopped on the Bakerloo line tube at Kilburn Park in North London and headed nine stops south to Piccadilly Circus; their spirits were high, their banter was jovial and their mood was fun… and for good reason. Being a work-day, although they each earned an honest living as a cabinet maker, a musician and a sales-clerk respectively; as three close friends, raised a few doors apart and educated side-by-side, who had stuck together through thick and thin, all three had taken the day off, as today was Roger’s 21st birthday. And in an undisclosed café, just off Leicester Square, they sat down to a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, sausage and beans; some good old English stodge to soak up the booze. It was just an ordinary morning, for three working-class lads, out celebrating a pal’s special day. Half a mile east, having driven up from his home in Champion Hill (South London); with a permit in his wallet, 54 year old Reginald Gordon West parked his car into his usual spot at Somerset House on The Strand, and began his job as civil servant for the Inland Revenue. Being a different age, class, occupation and raised in different parts of the city, Reginald had never met, spoke or heard of either of the three lads before… but ten hours later, they would burn him alive. With their bellies full, the pubs open and the first drink of the day calling their names, the boys began as they meant to go on; with beer flowing, shots necked and hog-lumps munched; and with some cheeky banter, lewd jokes and a smattering of naughty words, the boys had fun and were no bother to anyone. (In background we hear them singing “for he’s a jolly good fellow” followed by cheering). Roger Hammond was born on 25th April 1945, as one of five children, with two older sisters and two younger brothers. He lived (as he did up until his arrest) at 24 Donaldson Road in Kilburn, was educated at Salisbury Road Secondary Modern where he met Robert and David, and upon leaving, he gained an apprenticeship as a cabinet maker for Andrew Pegran Ltd, and remained in that job for six years. Two incidents of trauma scar his childhood; aged eleven, his parents separated and divorced ten years later; becoming nervous and hostile, he briefly saw a psychiatrist and for the sake of the family, his father lived locally. Aged twelve; Roger contracted Still’s disease, a form of juvenile arthritis and having attended a school for the handicapped for one year, although he would suffer into adulthood with some muscular pain, he lived a full and active life. From both incidents, he made a good recovery. Roger was a normal lad; a little loud, easily-riled and hot-tempered; but he had no debts, drug issues or drink problem; he didn’t consort with gangs, he had no criminal record and no history of violence. Whilst in custody, being charged with murder, the Police stated he was polite, helpful and composed. And just like the other two lads, there was nothing in his life to suggest that he would become a killer. At 1pm, Reginald took his usual four minute stroll west to the Pen & Wig Club, at 230 The Strand; an exclusive member’s-only club for journalists and lawyers, with no riff-raff, no rabble and (certainly) no lads out on the lash. For lunch, he had two glasses of wine, a small plate of cheese sandwiches, some crisps and returned to work by 2pm. You may ask why his lunch is so important to the case… but it is. Robert Alcock was born 31st May 1944; as an adopted child raised with no siblings, although his foster parents were loving and caring, living just doors apart, he regarded his brothers as Roger and David. Leaving school, Robert tried his hand as a printer, a porter and a postal clerk, but nothing held his interest like music. As a gifted musician, Robert formed a beat group called The In-Crowd; he loved the job, the travel, the money and - being recently engaged - life was good. Describing himself as a gentleman, in custody, the Police corroborated this, stating he was polite, intelligent and cooperative. At 5pm, Reginald finished work for the Inland Revenue at Somerset House. Being a middle-aged man in a middle-class profession, he spoke well, walked tall and dressed respectably; his smart black suit was starched, his white shirt was crisp, his tie was neat, his handmade shoes gave a reassuring squeak, his white metal watch was set precisely to the second, and it was all topped off with a black bowler hat. You may ask why the clothes he was wearing is so important to the case… but it is. David Hugman was born on 26th June 1946 in Southport (Lancashire). Like Robert, he was adopted and being raised as an only child to two doting parents, his upbringing was happy. Leaving school, he was trained by his adoptive father as a fish merchant at Billingsgate market, later promoted to salesman for C J Newnes Ltd where he was described as “exceptionally good and completely trustworthy”. In custody, the Police also stated he was polite, cheerful and alert. And as the evening rolled on; the jokes got dirtier, the banter got bawdier and the booze flowed quicker, and although the lads were mostly moderate drinkers, having worked hard, they’d earned a day off, not just to celebrate their pal’s 21st birthday, but also, their lifelong friendship. (In background we hear them singing “happy birthday to you” followed by cheering). Where Reginald went next? We don’t know. Who he was with? We don’t know. What he did between the hours of 5pm and 7:30pm? We don’t know. With it being a nine-minute walk from Somerset House to Leicester Square, it’s likely that he walked. With nothing in his stomach but a few partially digested sandwiches and some crisps, we know he hadn’t eaten since lunch. And with 299 milligrams of alcohol to 100 millilitres of blood in his system, we know that during those missing two and a half hours, he had drank the equivalent of seven pints of beer - a considerable amount for an eleven stone man. Again, you may ask why what he drank is so important to the case… but it is. As all of these details – the wind direction, the lack of rain, his clothes, his meals and his drink – all paint of picture of where he had been, what he had done, where he went next and - more importantly - why he ended up dead. At 6:30pm, Roger, Robert and David entered Lisle Street. They were 75 minutes away from killing Reginald West. But at no point during that day had they seen, spoken to, or even met their victim; they didn’t even know that he existed until almost a week later… and that is the way it would remain. They were not crazed killers out for revenge, they were just stupid, drunk, horny young men… looking for girls. 23 Lisle Street was inconspicuous; a four-storey building set in a curved terrace with an electrical store called London Central Radio on the ground-floor. With no signs, no flashing lights and no doorman, the upper floors were private flats used by sex-workers and on the first floor was a clip-joint. Of course, you would only know that if you had been there before and you knew what you were looking for, but the one thing that sex-establishments don’t scream is exactly that – sex. To the right of the shop under a tatty red awning was an open door. Egging the other on, Roger walked in first followed by Robert and David. With torn wallpaper, a musty smell and their feet creaking on the tinder-dry steps as a north-easterly breeze whistled up the gloomy stairs and out of a slightly-ajar window set with horizontal steel bars, the boys giggled, as so far, this was about as erotic as a prison. And the floors above were no better, as under the disconcerting boing of bedsprings from the second floor flats, on an isolated landing was a toilet; so cramped you could barely turn, so dirty you’d rather hover than risk infection, as with a tiny barred window screwed shut and the door’s lock prone to jam, often an unfortunate punter would be trapped inside this airless cess-pit, their nose violated by the stench of unflushed piss and shit, until someone heard their cries and gave the door a good shove. Only the boys would never ascend that far. The first floor was split into two rooms, the first, an outer room, barely ten feet square and draped in tacky black velvets, faux-silks, tatty lace and mildly erotic portraits of ladies in lingerie, and stood by a cash-tin, a signing-in book, the club’s terms & conditions and a coat-rack was a woman known only as Julie… whose real name was the even less alluring moniker of Griselda. With the club’s door locked and the boys clearly sozzled, Julie took £5 (roughly £100 today) off Roger to cover his tab, had him sign the visitor’s book with an illegible scrawl, and with his pals being broke, Robert & David decided to wait outside, whilst the birthday boy entered the club… and sexual heaven. Of course; with it being a little after tea-time, the club was dead; with their shift having barely begun, Betty, Margaret, Sylvia, Del and Pauline weren’t in the mood; and like all clip-joints, it was the oldest scam in the book – three tatty sofas in an tiny empty room, with no alcohol, no dancing, no nudity, no sex, and charging an extortionate fee to stupid drunk men to walk in, stand about and look dumb. After half an hour of boredom, Roger demanded his money back, all of it. But costing £2 to get in, 10 shillings to be served an alcohol free drink and £2 10s to make small-talk with a fully-dressed girl, under the terms & conditions (which he had ignored), his £5 was spent. And feeling cheated, ashamed and fleeced out of more money than he earned in a week, Roger’s temper rose. Unwilling to back-down, Roger and Julie argued it out; two huge voices in a tiny room, both strong, wronged and indignant. But as Roger’s blood boiled and with no doorman to boot the boozy boy out, Julie offered him half of his money back. Half. He wanted it all. Only with Sylvia exclaiming “hey, your mates have gone up the street”, Roger took half of what was his and gave chase to Robert & David. For Roger, it was a lesson learned, and for the girls, it was just another night. Only it wasn’t... …a few minutes later, Sylvia screamed “they’re coming back”, as storming up Lisle Street she spied the boys; Roger playing the big man, as behind him, his pals cackled like school-kids. Sensing trouble, Sylvia locked the club’s door and (like a pre-rehearsed battle-plan) the girls dashed upstairs, passed the stinky toilet, crawled out of an unbarred window, onto a flat roof outback, and waited in silence. One floor below, the girls heard banging, shouting and laughing, as Roger screamed “I want my money. All of it”. Being terrified, the girls scraped together what little cash they had, and (being the focus of his wrath) Sylvia climbed back inside and descended the stairs. But no sooner had it began, it ended. Peeping out of the stairwell, Sylvia spotted the boys fleeing west down Lisle Street, as in the pique of a petty childish tantrum, these grown-men had emptied a full bin-bag of dirty rubbish on the stairs. The Police were called, but with nothing damaged or stolen, no-one hurt and the three lads nowhere to be seen, no charges were made. Still being early into their shift; Sylvia & Margaret popped next door for dinner, Sandy & Jay were regaled with the evenings’ excitement and (although Vivian didn’t usually let non-members in, especially one so sozzled who was clearly several pints worse for wear) being a well-dressed man in a smart suit, spectacles, hand-stitched shoes and a bowler hat, who was well-spoken and polite, she guided the blonde stranger upstairs to the club’s toilet, to spend a penny. It was just a quiet Monday evening… but the evening was far from over. At Lex Garages, three streets north-west, on the corner of Brewer Street and Lexington Street, three drunken lads clutching a large Coleman’s mustard tin paid two shillings for half a gallon of petrol, and having grabbed another bin-bag of rubbish, they stood in the doorway of 23 Lisle Street laughing, as (feeling cheated out of £2 and 10 shillings) the silly giggling lads unleashed a petty prank. They only wanted to scare the girls. They didn’t want to hurt anyone. They said, it was just a joke. At 7:30pm, sensing a dark acrid smoke and a soft distant crackling, Vivian peeped down to the street-door to see the three lads from earlier, giggling naughtily; a new bin-bag of rubbish strewn across the stairs, a sad little flame in a pile of crumpled newspapers like a Boy Scout’s first attempt at a bonfire. Before she could reprimand the pathetic little boys, Roger tipped the petrol tin onto the smouldering sack, and with a flash, a blast and a gasp, the doorway ignited, and the drunken lads darted off down the street, giggling with hilarity at their hilarious jape, unaware of what they had unleashed. As the stairwell filled with thick black smoke and deadly gases, Vivian ran into the club screaming “fire, fire”, but with their only exit blocked by a raging inferno, (as before) the girls crawled out of the unbarred upstairs window, onto the flat roof and shouted down to the passers-by for “help”. And as the searing flames licked up the wooden walls and flicked out of the shattered windows like fiery tongues, the first-floor of 23 Lisle Street was enveloped in seconds. The Soho Fire Brigade were called at 7:36pm, they arrived at 7:39pm and the fire was out by 7:58pm. Fire Officer Eades said that being a mix of paper and petrol, the fire would have remained by the street door and burned itself out causing minimal damage to just the ground-floor… but with the flames being whipped-up by a light north-easterly wind, as fresh oxygen whistled up towards an unbarred open window, the tinder-dry beams of the old wooden stairwell acted like a chimney flue, forcing the fire higher and faster, enveloping all four floors of the building with speed and ferocity. Thankfully, with two of the girls in a nearby restaurant and six rescued from the rooftop; sustaining no cuts, bruises or burns, miraculously everyone inside 23 Lisle Street escaped unharmed… …at least, that’s what they thought. Obscured by the panic to escape, nobody heard him banging; hidden by thick plumes of black smoke, nobody saw him choking, and muffled by the frantic chaos on the roof, being trapped one floor below in a dirty cramped toilet, nobody heard him screaming. Being barely three foot square, on either side of the frantic man were two intensely hot walls (so hot, its paint warped and peeled as he roasted inside); behind was a small single window (its frame screwed shut and the steel horizontal bars too thin to crawl through) and in front, a thick wooden door, wedged shut, its lock jammed, as beyond it, an inferno raged. And inside what had become his tiny coffin, all of his life-giving air was slowly replaced by heat, flames and deadly gases - he had no way to escape. A few hours later, the charred body of 54 year old Reginald Gordon West was found, slumped on the toilet floor; a once well-dressed man now unrecognisable from the blackened walls, his skin scorched, his hair shrivelled and an acrid stench of seared flesh hung in the air, having been burned alive. (END) With his body so severely damaged that even his own baby brother couldn’t recognise him, Reginald’s identity was confirmed by the contents of his wallet and the records of his Harley Street dentist. Believing it had been little more than a harmless prank, unaware of the horror they had unleashed and being wanted for murder, one week later the Police issued Identikit pictures of the three unknown men seen starting the fire. Seeing their faces in the papers, Roger Hammond, Robert Alcock and David Hugman handed themselves in at West End Central Police Station, made full confessions and all three expressed their anxiety and upset at the death of Reginald West, it all caused by a stupid prank. Being tried at Bow Street Magistrates Court, on 3rd June 1966, all three pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter, a lesser charge the jury accepted. On 14th July, Roger and Robert were sentenced to two years and David to 21 months, which they all served at Wormwood Scrubs prison. With both parents dead, George buried his only brother. Reginald West was a good man; quiet, polite and professional; a well-dressed and well-mannered civil servant, who (after a hard day at work) went out for a few drinks and – like any normal person – felt an overwhelming urge to empty his bladder. His death was truly senseless, he was an innocent man in the wrong place, at the wrong time, for an innocent reason, who was caught up in a childish prank by three drunken boys who’d been conned by a simple scam. He never met his killers, he never saw his killers and he never even knew they existed. He died a horrible, painful and lonely death, burned alive inside a dirty toilet in a seedy clip-joint, and all because Roger felt cheated out of £2 and 10 shillings, and Reginald was desperate to spend a penny. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Getting Off and I Said God Damn (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Felicity Ellis, Eva R (not to be confused with Eva G), David Sack and Diane Rossiter, who receive a hand-written thank-you card from me, as well as a little envelope full of Murder Mile goodies, as well as Patron-only ebooks, videos and crime scene photos, all for as little as $3 a month. A little shout-out to Dan Horning of Seriemodenpodden podcast and one of the podcast’s writers Eva Martinsson, who I met on my Murder Mile Walk recently and were a delight to meet. And – if you’ve not read it, Adam at the fabulous UK True-Crime Podcast blog, asked me to write a piece about Murder Mile for his blog. I’ve enclosed a link in the show-notes- https://www.uktruecrime.com/murder-mile-true-crime-podcast/ 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. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
As mentioned in the show, check out my blog about Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast on Adam's fabulous UK True-Crime Podcast, by clicking here.
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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor 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
0 Comments
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
157 High Holborn, originally building has been demolished
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.
EPISODE FIFTY-NINE
On Monday 15th August 1949, Daisy Edith Wallis; a lovely but lonely lady with big dreams and a warm heart struggled against the odds to build her own business from scratch, and having succeeded, should have been happy… but (unbeknownst to her) someone wanted her dead.
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.
Ep59 - Daisy Edith Wallis: the Slaughtered Spinster
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about Daisy Edith Wallis; a lovely but lonely lady with big dreams and a warm heart, who struggled against the odds to build her own business from scratch, and having succeeded, should have been happy… but (unbeknownst to her) someone wanted her dead. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 59: Daisy Edith Wallis: the Slaughtered Spinster. Today I’m standing in High Holborn, WC2; a three minute walk east of the Denmark Place fire, a five minute dawdle south-west of the lonely death of Nora Upchurch and a ten minute stroll from the truly strange and unsolved death of Vera Crawford – coming soon to Murder Mile. High Holborn is one of Central London’s busiest roads, stretching from Farringdon to St Paul’s, Holborn to Shaftesbury Avenue; as long lines cars, trucks and buses burp great plumes of choking fumes, across a grey soulless landscape with no grass, trees or birds, just concrete, cranes and commuters. Being somewhere between Oxford Street and Covent Garden, High Holborn is awash with lost tourists bemused by the lack of street-signs and sunlight, and unaware that the longer they stay, the faster they’ll develop the three stages of being a local – the London tan; as your sickly pale skin is coated in ten layers of dust, dirt and dog-shit; the London crick; as your neck fuses downwards for fear of making eye-contact, and the London gape; an aghast expression anytime someone says hello or thank you. Demolished in the 50’s, 157 High Holborn was a four-storey building with a vacant shop and six offices above, rented to strangers who sat alone, their silence punctuated by a dull thrum of sewing machines, the constant cacophony of telephones and a distant squeak as an unseen person enters or exits by the single street door. Now replaced by a new high-rise called Commonwealth House, as rented office space, oddly its purpose is the same, but thankfully (as of yet) that’s where the similarity ends. As it was here, on Monday 15th August 1949, in the solitude of the top floor office of a lovely (but lonely) lady, that her big dream began… and her life was ended. (INTERSTITIAL) Daisy Edith Wallis was born on 25th May 1913 as the second of three daughters to Thomas & Ada; two loving parents with a strong sense of family pride. As upbringings go, she couldn’t have asked for better, and although she survived two world wars, this isn’t a story about poverty, tragedy or hardship; as Daisy was a lovely lady with a very ordinary life, who was good, honest and decent. As a timid child, with a tiny voice, fidgeting fingers and downcast eyes, Daisy never spoke up, she was a shy girl who hid in the shadows, and although she had big dreams, a noisy city was no place for a small quiet girl. So raised with her two sisters (Nella and Dora) at 4 Cornwall Gardens in Willsden Green (north-west London); a neat, red-bricked terraced house in a quiet cul-de-sac with a small back garden, so safe and warm was this safety net, that well into her mid-thirties, Daisy remained at home. Although bookish, being intelligent Daisy graduated from Dudden Hill School with a school certificate and having qualified from Cricklewood’s Clarke College as a short-hand typist (one of the few trades open to a woman), with the West End just a few tube stops away, she entered the workforce. But the 1930’s were tough; as living in the wake of the Great Depression, jobs were scarce; lacking any confidence or sparkle, she didn’t stand out, and as a woman, her career options were strictly limited. Trapped in an era where (except as a teacher, a nurse or a mother) women weren’t allowed to flourish, Daisy knuckled-down with a series of administrative roles; as a typist for a furniture removals firm, as an assistant at the Abbey Road Building Society in Baker Street and as a secretary for British Airways; all the while being praised as a loyal and professional asset. But for Daisy, this was never a job, a wage or even a career, this was a learning curve, with her plan to make something of herself, and as her experience grew, her confidence bloomed. With her skills seen as vital to the war-effort, Daisy was exempt from national service and seconded to the Air Ministry in Aldwych, just off High Holborn. After four more years as a secretary, Daisy decided it was time to fulfil her dreams and - armed with glowing references, a bulging contacts book and an impeccable work record stemming back twenty years - on 25th January 1949, she took a big bold step and set-up her own secretarial agency, based in a top floor office at 157 High Holborn… …seven months later, in that office, Daisy would be stabbed to death (INTERSTITIAL). With the war over and the infrastructure shattered, as the country strived to get back on its feet, new industries boomed and fresh opportunities arose for enterprising young men and women. For the first time in her life - away from the safety of a weekly wage, work colleagues and a set routine – Daisy was finally her own boss; with goals, targets and responsibilities. And although she was scared, with this as her dream, she was determined for it to succeed. Never relying on debts, loans or hand-outs, The Adelphi Secretarial Agency was Daisy’s first business venture, and as an employment agency for senior secretaries set in the heart of London’s West End, she built it all from scratch, working six days-a-week and she funded it herself using her own savings. Being well-spoken, well-dressed and well-mannered, Daisy always made a good impression for new clients; her smile was warm, her voice was soft and her face was kind, but keen to be taken seriously in a very competitive industry, she stopped being known as Daisy and started calling herself ‘Dorothy’. Although slow-to-start, business was good, as being based in a small affordable building on a busy city street between two tube stations, every day saw a steady throng of passing trade visit Daisy… but working every day, by herself, in a tiny office, Daisy’s greatest fear wasn’t failure, but loneliness. After twenty years as part of a large team, 157 High Holborn must have seemed like a lonely place for Daisy; as with the ground-floor vacant, there was no shop to chat in before the day began; with a single street door leading to the three floors above, there was no receptionist; and with six small offices rented out to five strangers with very dissimilar professions – a tailor, a dress-maker, a theatre agent, a fruit importer and a secretarial recruiter - with no place to mingle, no reason to mix and conversations limited to polite pleasantries, like most rented offices everyone kept to themselves. On the top floor was The Adelphi Secretarial Agency; staffed solely by Daisy; a five foot eight inch lady sat behind a small desk in a claustrophobically tiny office, just eleven feet long by eight feet wide; with a chair, a filing cabinet, a rug, a phone, a typewriter, and to the left, a depressingly small window with grimy views of Dunn’s Passage, a dirty little alley, cutting from High Holborn to New Oxford Street. With no sounds except the dull ring of the telephone, no noise except the incessant clunk of the duplicating machine and no chat except a steady stream of secretaries recounting their resumes, with many hours and days pockmarked by silence, Daisy often sat alone, with no-one to talk to, but herself. On the outside, Daisy seemed like a modern independent business woman; bold, strong and confident, but having risked everything for one giant leap into the darkness and with its success or failure resting squarely on her head, Daisy was often wracked with anxiety, self-doubt and bouts of depression. So who killed Daisy and why? Well, there are several things we know about her for certain: She wasn’t a criminal; Daisy had no dodgy dealings, she didn’t consort with dead-beats and she had no criminal record, she was moral, decent and didn’t even return a library book late. She wasn’t an addict; Daisy disliked gambling, she didn’t do drugs and although a moderate drinker (who preferred gin or shandy), one year prior she gave up alcohol and stuck to tonic water. She wasn’t in debt; she had no loans, she paid her rent and every item in her office she owned. In fact, of the £500 she invested into her company, as a very frugal business woman, she still had £352 left. She had no secrets; as a timid woman, Daisy never stayed out late, rarely met new people and always confided in her mother, and although she kept a diary, it contained nothing but her hopes and fears. In short; she worked hard, she lived well, she was no bother to anyone, and being surrounded by good decent people, there was nothing in Daisy’s life to suggest that she was in any danger. As a young, single and attractive woman, in her final year, Daisy dated several men; as always she kept it professional, most lasted a few weeks, rarely going beyond kissing and they all ended amicably. Each of her boyfriends were traced, interviewed and (with solid alibis) were discounted as suspects. She was social, but only mingled with her closest chums - Phyllis, Peggy, Mary and Gladys – going to the cinema, cafes or one of six reputable West End clubs solely so she could get cheap theatre tickets. Of those who visited her office, although she provided printing services as an added income, the bulk of her clients were secretaries seeking work. So, as far as we know, she had no issues, no enemies and (according to those who knew her) not a single reason why anyone would want to kill Daisy Wallis. In fact, the only criminal incident in Daisy’s life was on 10th June 1949, as seeing the street door open, opportunist thief David Hill broke into her office and stole (the only item of value) her typewriter. He was questioned, but at the time of her death, he was serving a twelve month prison sentence. And that is the only moment of crime in her entire life… and then she was murdered. One week before her death, The Adelphi Secretarial Agency had been running for seven months, word-of-mouth had spread and business was good. This should have been a time for celebration, but Daisy was depressed, as although her work life was a success, in her eyes, her love-life was a failure. With both sisters married, as a mid-thirties singleton who still lived with her parents, Daisy was cruelly regarded by society as a spinster and the shame of it ate at her soul. Often she’d confide to her mother, her fears that she would never find love, not that the men she dated were bad (they weren’t) but being gripped with low self-esteem, she rejected them, as she didn’t feel that she was good enough. By day, she sat alone in her tiny office; riddled with anxiety, gripped with depression and unable to see how truly amazing she was, as lost in solitude, she had no-one to talk to but her own dark thoughts. And at night, unable to cope, she would cry herself to sleep. Daisy was a success, but so alone… …and yet, all that would change. On the morning of Wednesday 10th August 1949, a bright young woman called Sheila Bennett walked into The Adelphi Secretarial Agency. Just like Daisy he was polite, shy and bookish. And although work wasn’t exactly chaotic, for the sake of her own mental wellbeing, Daisy hired Sheila as her assistant. Meeting her mum for lunch, it seemed to Ada as if a little weight had been lifted off Daisy’s shoulders, her brown eyes were brighter and her thin lips had lifted into a little smile. It was simple answer to an easy question; as a full-time assistant Sheila would be invaluable company, costing just £4 a week her new staff wouldn’t break the bank, and starting the following week, Daisy’s loneliness would be over. Monday 15th August 1949 was Sheila Bennett’s first day at work… but Daisy Wallis’s last day alive. The day started as every weekday did; she rose at 7am, washed her face, dressed in stylish but sensible clothes (a pink rayon dress and a black overcoat with matching hat, stockings and shoes), she unfurled the curlers from her shoulder-length hair and applied her make-up (which was neat and discrete). After a light breakfast of tea, toast and an apple, she kissed her mother goodbye, left Cornwall Gardens at a little after 8am, took a short walk to Wilsden Green Library, a bus to Notting Hill Gate and a Central Line tube to Holborn station, so she arrived at 157 High Holborn at 9am sharp. With the other occupants already inside, as was common practice, the street door was unlocked and left open. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, she had met no-one and her mood was good. Sheila Bennett started work at 09:30am. The morning’s schedule was kept light so Daisy could explain the systems, at 1pm they had lunch at Rucco’s café (Daisy’s meal a mix of meat, tomatoes and bread) and in the afternoon, she had three appointments; all female, all secretaries, all who were accounted for, interviewed, all provided credible witness statements and who were disregarded as suspects. With no unusual visitors, no threatening calls and no ominous letters, it was just a very normal day. As for the other occupants of 157 High Holborn; Paul Feuer (the tailor) left at 11am, Annie Henderson (the dress-maker) left at 2:30pm and Doris Newton (the agent’s secretary) left at noon, none of whom returned to until the next day. Thomas Cox (the fruit importer whose office was next door to Daisy’s on the third floor) popped in at 4:40pm to ask Daisy a question about workman’s compensation, they chatted for two minutes, said goodbye and Thomas left. This was corroborated by Sheila. Daisy’s last client was Joyce Jones who replied to an advert for typists; she arrived at 5:30pm, filled out an application (during which Sheila left for the day) and after a ten minute interview, Daisy typed Joyce three introductory letters for secretarial jobs, they shook hands and Joyce left. Joyce passed no-one on the stairs, the street door was open, she saw nobody loitering, and (with the exception for her killer) Joyce Jones was the last person to see Daisy alive. Being hidden away, in the top floor office of an empty building, far from the rush-hour traffic and distracted commuters, nobody witnessed her murder. So the only clues we have to go on are these: At 6:20pm, Iris Wilkins telephoned the agency at Daisy’s request, although usually prompt to pick-up, the phone rang for a minute, Iris almost hung-up, when it was answered by a man with a gruff voice and no obvious accent; he barked “hello?”, Iris asked “is that the agency?”, “yeah what do you want?”, “is Miss Wallis there?”, “no, it’s a bit late to be phoning, besides she’s gone”, “well, this is Miss Wilkins, I’ll phone again tomorrow”, to which the man growled “yeah, phone earlier next time” and hung-up. Who he was? We may never know. At 6:30pm, 19 year old Florence Crowley and her 16 year old sister Ethel were in their bedroom at the rear of 158 High Holborn, when they heard a woman scream. But living on a busy city street, next to two pubs and a dark alley, they thought nothing of it. Whether that was Daisy? We may never know. At 6:40pm, Harold & Doris Littler were walking down Dunn’s Passage (an alley to the side of 157 High Holborn) when they heard a lady gasping and sobbing. Barely twenty paces from the street, Doris was nearly knocked off her feet by a man described as mid-twenties, 5 foot 4 inches tall, stocky build, with dark hair and a “swarthy” complexion, he wore a white open-necked shirt, brown trousers and was carrying a camel hair jacket as if he was trying to hide something. Who he was? We may never know. But being unaware of what they had saw or heard, if at all, not one of them called the Police. Without fail, Daisy would return home every day by 7:30pm; if she was meeting a friend, she would call her parents to let them know and would be home by 11pm at the latest. By the next morning, with Daisy still missing and fearing the worst, Ada called the phone in Daisy’s office… but it was engaged. On Tuesday 16th August 1949 at 9:25am, Sheila Bennett returned for work, but with the street door locked and getting no reply from the office phone, she went to the café next door and waited. At 9:45am, the first occupant to arrive was Annie Henderson the dress-maker, who unlocked the street door and entered only as far as her office on the second floor, she saw and heard nothing suspicious. At 9:55am, Thomas Cox the fruit importer arrived and entered his office on the third floor, next door to Daisy’s, but he saw and heard nothing suspicious. Noticing the street door was open, Sheila finished her coffee, collected the post, ascended the stairs and she too saw and heard nothing suspicious. Except, as she pushed the white office door, with it only open a crack, the sight inside made her gasp. The Police were called at 10:02am, PC Harris secured the scene at 10:06, and nothing was touched or moved until the arrival of Chief Superintendents Rowlerson and Hawkyard of the CID. There were no signs of forced entry; as the rim-lock and hasp on the outside of the office door was in place and the padlock and key were on top of the cupboard where Daisy had left it the day before. On the third floor stairwell wall were faint traces of blood; too smeared to recover a clear fingerprint, and with the blood group being type O (the same as Daisy’s) it was too common to be of any use. Entering Daisy’s tiny office, there were no signs of disorder; her tea-cup was half-drank, her files were neatly stacked and fresh flowers were still in the vase. So neat had Daisy kept her office that all that was unsettled was a wooden armchair, moved back a little which caused the red rug to ruck-up an inch and the phone was off the hook, an engaged tone ringing as the receiver dangled over the desk. And likewise, nothing had been stolen; her handbag was unopened, her jewellery was untouched, the typewriter and duplicating machine were still in situ, and with no cupboards ransacked, no cash taken and no valuables kept on the premises, a robbery had not taken place. In fact, the only way the Police knew there had been a crime… was Daisy’s body. Three feet from the door, slumped beside her desk, Daisy lay; face-up and flat on her back, her long legs bent-back and to the side, her thin arms flexed (her palms flat) as if raised to her head; as under her torso, pools of blood had spread across the linoleum like red angel wings. A stark contrast to her ghostly pale skin, the whites of her staring eyes and the mottled purple of her lips, gaping open, as if in mid-scream. By her state of rigour mortis, she had been dead for at least sixteen hours. Just like the office, Daisy was untouched; her clothes were crumpled but not ripped, distressed but not undressed and being fully clothed, no sexual assault had taken place. In fact, with no signs of pregnancy, abortion, sexual disease or surgical scars, in keeping with her high standards, good morals and lacklustre love-life, the pathologist confirmed she had not had sex for at least several years. And yet, someone had brutally murdered her with force and anger and hatred. With bruises to her back, legs and buttocks, it’s clear that at some point Daisy fell. With stab wounds to her arms, hands and cheek, Daisy tried to defend herself. And with the fingers and palm of her right hand slashed, during the attack, Daisy had grasped her killer’s knife. Daisy was stabbed five times, three times in the back; one below the left shoulder, the six-inch stiletto blade exited her armpit; one fractured her 4th dorsal vertebrae and 4th rib, and one below the right shoulder which cracked the 9th rib and ripped through her right lung. But neither of these killed her? He stabbed her twice more; once below her left nipple, with a force so fierce his fist broke her 7th rib and buried the blade so deep it impaled her liver, stomach and left kidney. And once through her left breast, breaking her 5th rib, and tearing through her left lung and her heart. And even though this last wound would prove fatal, to ensure she was dead, having placed his blood-stained hand across her gasping throat, as she lay there, eyes wide, mouth open, with the weight of his body bearing down on her, he strangled her, until every ounce of her life was taken. Daisy Wallis died of shock, blood-loss and multiple organ-failure. She was 36 years old. (END) 300 sets of fingerprints were taken, 600 witness statements were checked and after a large media campaign and a lengthy investigation; with no motive, no suspect and no weapon found, the Coroner concluded that Daisy had been murdered by persons unknown, and the case remains unsolved. So who killed Daisy Wallis and - more importantly – why? If this was a burglary, why hadn’t they broken in? If this was a robbery, why wasn’t anything stolen? If this was a rape, why hadn’t she been molested? If this was blackmail, who would extort the owner of a small secretarial agency? And if this was revenge, what had she done, who to, and why? She wasn’t a criminal, she had no debts and she didn’t drink or do drugs. Everybody loved her; from her close family to her loyal friends, and as a shy timid woman, the only people she consorted with was her new assistant, occasionally a co-worker and hundreds of hopeful secretaries looking for work. And yet, someone – for whatever reason – had murdered Daisy with a lot of hatred. As always, the trashy tabloids tried to pass this off as the sadistic work of a random maniac, to boost their circulation, having invented some tawdry lies about Daisy’s life, but she deserved so much more. Daisy Edith Wallis was a good woman; she was moral, decent and kind; she was shy, timid and slight; a nervous lady who set aside any thoughts of love or marriage, in the hope of bettering herself, in an age when the best a woman could be was second to a man. And as she battled through anxiety, self-doubt and depression, she strived to become something big, bold and important. She was a modern independent business woman, ahead of her time, she was self-made, she was a trail-blazer, and yet, she was so alone. She never wanted money, fame, or even success… all she wanted was to be happy. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Pretend Radio and Hillbilly Horror Stories. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Amanda Richards and Amy McKnight, who instantly get sent a hand-written thank-you card from me, as well as a little envelope full of Murder Mile stickers, badges, a fridge magnet and a very rare “official Murky Miler” badge, and loads of exclusive Murder Mile videos, ebooks and crime scene photos. Not bad for just $3 a month. 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. 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
Sounds:
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor 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
Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #58 - Jacqueline Birri: The Hooker, The Poker and The Stranger15/5/2019 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform
Peter Street in Soho; 3 Peter Street where Jacqui was murdered is the light brown (sandstone) building on the left, with the pink sign on the door
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.
EPISODE FIFTY-EIGHT
On Thursday 2nd November 1961, on the first floor of 3 Peter Street, a Soho sex-worker called Jacqueline Birri was bludgeoned to death… by a complete stranger. But why?
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
Ep58 – Jacqueline Birri - the Hooker, the Poker and the Stranger
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about the murder of Soho prostitute Jacqueline Birri; it seemed like a simple open-and-shut case, there was a body, a culprit and several eye-witnesses, in a case neatly wrapped up with a confession, a sentence and a conviction. Justice was served… but something didn’t sit right. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 58: Jacqueline Birri - the Hooker, the Poker and the Stranger. Today I’m standing on Peter Street in Soho, W1; one street north of the deaf/mute murderer George Pickering, one street north-east of the Soho Strangler’s last victim Dutch Leah, one street south of The Blackout Ripper’s second victim Evelyn Oatley and one road west of Great Windmill Street, where an American GI stabbed an innocent man to death and no-one knows why - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated in the heart of old Soho’s red-light district, Peter Street is a grotty little side-street barely 100 feet long by 15 feet wide, which bookends Berwick Street market. Surrounded by clip-joints, brothels and the infamous Walker’s Court (known locally as Wanker’s Court) – as this tiny grubby alley is often chock full of men walking through with their wives, proudly pretending not to notice row after row of seedy sex-shops… when in fact they’re mentally jotting down a shopping list of a tube of sparkly lube, a wipe-clean copy of Chocolate Starfish 6, Dr Chow’s Cock Jumpstart Kit, a set of anal bum-beads in the shape of Boris Johnson’s big fat lying face, and a Union Jack dildo which plays Rule Britannia) – thus Peter Street has always been synonymous with sex. Like most buildings on Peter Street, number three was once a brothel, and - although as a slim, three-storey, sandstone-bricked building set dead-centre in a former six-house terrace, it has changed very little in the last two hundred years, but with black painted sills, bright lights and a wide window, the ground-floor is now home to a funky clothing store, modestly titled as Supreme. Here, long lines of muttering youths (who see only on screens, breathe only through vapes and talk only in grunts, farts and emoji’s) stand for hours, in a roped-off area, eager to be one of three people, ushered-in by a gruff security guard, to stare at a single pair of jeans. Ooh. Which they’ll pick-up without trying on and buy without wearing, as the second they’ve left, they flog it off for twice the price on eBay. And yet, they’re oblivious that this was also the sight of a shocking murder. As it was here, on Thursday 2nd November 1961, on the first floor of 3 Peter Street, that a Soho sex-worker called Jacqueline Birri was bludgeoned to death… by a complete stranger. (INTERSTITIAL) Barely eight hours later; having been witnessed at the crime-scene, tracked to his home, searched, examined and arrested, 22 year old David James Emery, a married factory-worker from Stevenage, admitted to the murder of Jacqueline Birri; he was charged by the Police and made a full confession. “I’ve been going to see a prostitute I know as Ruby at 3 Peter Street for five years, today I decided to see her again. I got into the flat about twenty past one and I walked in, the maid knows me well. When I got to Ruby’s bedroom, there was a girl I have never seen before. I pulled out two pounds from my pocket and gave her one. She said in broken English “that for me too” and put her fingers on the second note. I said “no, I am skint, I need that for my fare home”, she said “ah yes” and playfully took it from my hand. I asked for it back and she turned away. I grabbed hold of her arm and said “give me both of them back, I’m going”. I prized her fingers open (we were both still laughing at the time) and when I did take the money back, she started jabbering away in French or Italian and came towards me. I pushed her and she fell over into the fireplace. She jumped up with something in her hand - a brass poker or something like that - she started shouting and aimed a blow at me with the poker and hit me on the front of the head. I grabbed hold of her and we were struggling together. I managed to get the poker (or whatever it was) from her, I pushed her away again and she fell across the dressing table. A bell started ringing, I thought it was the doorbell, I thought someone was coming up, I lost my head and swung at her with the poker whilst she was across the dressing table. I hit her on the head, she fell down and rolled off the dressing table onto the floor. She then really started screaming, the bell was still ringing, and someone was banging on the door. I lunged at her with the poker, and I think I hit her twice whilst she was on the floor. I saw her trying to pull herself up off the floor. She looked very white and I saw a load of blood. I opened the front door and there was two women shouting in a foreign language. I said “she is alright” and brushed passed more women. I ran into Peter Street, up Wardour Street and through several roads. Then I realising I still had the poker in the inside pocket of my overcoat, as I turned into the next road, there weren’t many people about, and I threw the poker into what I think was a doorway. I had no intention of killing the girl, or even harming her when I first went into the flat. I would only have been too pleased to leave when she started shouting. With the bell ringing, people banging on the door and screaming, and the fact that I was in a prostitute’s flat, I lost my head”. The statement of David James Emery was taken by Detective Superintendent Tennant, written-up by Detective Inspector Bruce and was used by both the defence and prosecution, as one of many pieces of evidence, in his trail at The Old Bailey. It seemed like a simple open and shut case with a confession, a culprit, and a conviction. But was it? To try and understand Jacqueline’s murder, we need to understand her killer. David James Emery was born on 19th July 1939 to two hardworking parents - Cecil & Edith Emery – who had married one year earlier and (in keeping with their Catholic beliefs) their first child was born. Raised in the lower-middle-class enclave of New Barnet (North London) 10 weeks before the outbreak of World War Two, although times were tough with rationing, poverty and hunger rife, crime endemic and death a daily occurrence, David flourished being blessed with good moral parents. His early years were only as traumatic as any war-time boy, as fun as any adventurous lad and as idyllic as any only-child; with three solid meals, a good home and loving parents, and with no incidents of disease, injury or abuse, by all accounts (including his own) David Emery had a very normal and happy upbringing. In 1946, aged seven, his position as the baby of the family changed when another boy was born, swiftly followed by two more. So with his father out working all hours and his mother exhaustedly wrangling a house full of boys, with David no longer his parent’s sole focus, he became anxious, angry and upset. Educated at Oakleigh Infants School, although clearly intelligent, David was unruly and mischievous. Aged just ten, he was found guilty at Highgate Juvenile Court for making obscene calls; he was fined £1, and on the same day, he was charged with stealing £1. These may seem like silly boyhood pranks, but they began a career of petty thefts, which were stupid, selfish and impulsive. Aged 12, David was found guilty of burglary having broken into the flat above using a ladder from his bedroom and was placed on a two year probation order. Eight months later, having stolen cigarettes, padlocks, plaster masks and a pen-knife, the probation order was increased to three years. And on 12th May 1952, aged just 14, being convicted of his fifth offence (the theft of boots, tools and a lamp from a builder’s store), he was sentenced to two years at Kneesworth House. Kneesworth was a borstal; a tough institution where maladjusted boys (too young for prison and too wild for society) were sent to be re-educated with strict discipline, but being isolated from his family and friends during two of his most formative years, aged 15, David was once again convicted of theft. And although these were all petty impulsive crimes – so far – he had no history of violence. Upon release, he worked as a trainee taxidermist at E Gerrard & Sons in Camden Town; a slightly morbid role but it gave him a purpose, an income and easy access to Peter Street, where he would meet a sultry Soho sex-worker who he would see for the next five years… and her name was “Ruby”. After fifteen months, David left the taxidermists to find a better paid job, as (although he lived in his parent’s home) the going rate for sex was a quarter of his £4 weekly wage, but failing to hold down a job as a labourer, trainee or errand boy, and being dismissed twice, he funded his lifestyle with theft. Aged 17, seen as an adult and subject to harsher sentences, he received one month in prison for theft, three months for wounding a Police officer and a further two years’ probation for petty theft. By all accounts, he wasn’t a drunk, abusive, cruel or a sadist; he stole but he didn’t do drugs, he broke the law but he wasn’t nasty, and excluding some semi-regular dalliances with a local sex-worker on Peter Street - who said he was always decent, nice and polite – he had no violent or sexual urges. On 26th May 1961, having married Pauline Ellis, the newlyweds moved into a small but well-furnished council house at 31 Newgate in Stevenage. Being trained as a process operator for a large plastics firm called British Visqueen and earning £25 per week; with a good relationship, a nice home and no convictions for the last two years, it seemed like David Emery had finally turned over a new leaf. Six months later, he would brutally bludgeon Jacqueline Birri to death. (Interstitial) Rolande Stephenson was a French prostitute who had lived at 3 Peter Street for eight years; she was neat, polite, kind and sweet, with a softly spoken Parisian lilt, a whiff of motherly perfume and a calm and reassuring demeanour, and as Rolande wasn’t a sexy name, she went by “Ruby”. As a professional sex-worker, Ruby knew how to make her clients comfortable, as with lines of nervous boys and over-excited men queueing up to spill their seed, a swift and happy outcome was reliant on keeping them relaxed. As with many punters raised in single-sex schools, borstals and prisons, with very little (if any) experience of girls; some had problems with sexual stamina, some struggled to get an erection, and some feared being mocked about having an undersized penis. David was just sixteen when he first visited Ruby. So as an impressionable teen, with hormones raging, fresh out of borstal and (perhaps) feeling abandoned in a family home full of boys, was Ruby his first sexual experience, was she his first love, or (as an older woman) was she a much-needed mother figure? Either way, he liked her, trusted her and for the next five years he would visit her. Separating her home-life from the sex-trade, with a private flat on the second floor of 3 Peter Street, Ruby also kept a small bedroom on the first floor. Although only fifteen feet long and wide, the room was bright, warm and homely; with a pink floral double bed with a large mirror behind, matching pink floral curtains which gave privacy from the window overlooking Peter Street; a stylish white dressing table adorned with intricate porcelain figurines, jewellery boxes, perfume bottles and make-up, and to ensure the flat was warm and snug, although the old fireplace had been boarded up many moons ago, in-front was a coin-operated gas-fire. Having aided her for the last five years (like many prostitutes) Ruby had a maid. Her name was Eileen Tomlin and her duties were simple; keep the rooms tidy, the bedsheets clean and fresh flowers in the vase; with newspapers to read, an erotic magazine to peruse and a supply of cups of tea from the communal kitchen next door should a calming brew be needed to quell an unruly dicky droop. And always promptly arriving at 1pm and being dismissed only when Ruby was done, in order to keep the riff-raff out, the only access to the first-floor flat was via a black front door on Peter Street, which was always locked, and was only opened by Eileen to those she knew, liked or trusted. The morning of Thursday 2nd November 1961 was bright and sunny. As per usual, 22 year old fair-haired David Emery washed, had breakfast and being dressed in a grey suit, a fawn overcoat, a white shirt and black shoes, he kissed his wife goodbye and left their home at 31 Newgate in Stevenage. It was an ordinary day; his mood was good, his marriage was sound, his wage was decent and (with no kids, debts or impending pregnancy) he had no stress, grief or worries. In his pockets he carried his a roll of pound notes, a comb and a torch. Only, that morning, he didn’t go to work at British Visqueen… …instead, he hopped on a train to King’s Cross and headed into Soho. Eileen Tomlin arrived at 1pm sharp, and in the first floor kitchen, next door to Ruby’s room, she made a list of the essentials (tea, milk, bread and butter) and popped to the Peter Street grocery shop. She was gone no longer than seven minutes, but while unpacking, realised she had forgotten the eggs. The time was 1:20pm. As Eileen descended the stairs, the doorbell rang. Opening the door, before her stood David Emery; a regular client of Ruby’s who Eileen knew by name, face and by a few scant details, having chatted (in passing) over the last five years. He was sober, pleasant and polite. Sensing nothing out of the ordinary and with no suspicions raised, she let David in and he made his way up to Ruby’s bedroom. With no queue at the grocer’s, Eileen was gone no longer than three minutes. As David pushed open the white bedroom door, he felt the usual warmth of the gas-fire, he saw the neat array of porcelain figurines on her dressing table and smelled the familiar scent of fresh flowers, but – in Ruby’s bed, tucked between her pink floral sheets – he came face-to-face with a stranger. That morning, Ruby had left for Paris to stay for a few weeks with her family. Needing a trusted friend to look after her home, as well as her business and clients, she loaned out her flat to her pal – “Jacqui”. Born in Paris, Jacqueline Christiane Henriette Birri was a perfect choice, as having been a professional sex-worker since she was fifteen, 26 year old Jacqui had known Ruby for nine years; she worked hard, she rarely drank and as Catholic (who was never without her silver crucifix) she was moral and fair. That aside, she was also playful, well-mannered, even-tempered and undeniably pretty. As David entered the bedroom, he realised this wasn’t Ruby; a lady he liked, trusted and (maybe even) loved… but with Jacqui being a stunning French brunette with a slender figure, a sweet fresh face and long fluttering lashes, it could be easy to see how a horny young man may become smitten. With Jacqui wearing very little, except a matching black bra, suspender belt and knickers, a short grey skirt and a light quilted housecoat, forgoing his usual routine, David pulled two pounds from his pocket and (as was the going rate for sex) he handed her a single one pound note. According to his statement, having been handed the first note, Jacqui playfully took the second note and in broken English said “that for me too?”, he replied “no, I am skint, I need it for my fare home”, which (not being a native speaker) she may not have understood, so believing he was being robbed, David grabbed her by the arm and said “give me them both back, I'm going”. Whether this happened, we only have his word, but the autopsy confirmed there was some light bruising around her left wrist. Realising he was leaving and she wouldn’t be paid, “she started jabbering in French and came towards me, I pushed her and she fell over in the fireplace”. With no burns to her body or charring to her clothes, she may have missed the fire, or it may not have been on, but her autopsy confirmed she had a small graze on the front of her left shin consistent with hitting something below knee-height. “She jumped up with something in her hand, it might have been a brass poker; she was shouting and aimed a blow at my head”. Later, when examined by the Police doctor, it was confirmed that David had a small abrasion, half an inch long, across his hairline, caused by something blunt but not heavy. At this point, four independent witnesses next door at 2 Peter Street heard Jacqui screaming; they were Leona Strang, a prostitute in the front first floor flat, her maid Nella Dall’Ava, Genevieve Evans, a prostitute in the rear first floor flat and the housekeeper Brenda Caccavale; all who rushed outside to the front door of 3 Peter Street, but with Eileen still at the grocer’s, the black front door was locked. David stated, “I managed to get the poker from her, I pushed her away and she fell across the dressing table. A bell started ringing, I thought it was the doorbell, I thought someone was coming up”. Only they couldn’t; unable to get in and with Jacqui’s screams more pained and terrified, as Leona, Nella and Geraldine furiously banged on the front door, raising hell and ringing the doorbell, Brenda dashed back into her flat to find the spare set of keys to number 3 Peter Street. “I lost my head and swung at her with the poker whilst she was across the dressing table. I hit her on the head, she fell down and rolled off the dressing table onto the floor”. With a thick spatter of type AB negative blood up the wall between the dressing table and the window and a 4 ½ cm break to her right occipital bone, the pathologist confirmed that the back of Jacqui’s skull had been fractured by a heavy blunt object, and that (like tiny knives) sharp shards of bone had embedded into her brain. “She then really started screaming, the bell was still ringing and someone was banging on the door. I lunged at her with the poker, and I think I hit her twice whilst she was on the floor”. Amidst a pool of blood, forensics officers found a clump of brown hair driven one inch deep into a hole in the linoleum; and with two gaping wounds behind her left ear and temple, and her head a patchwork of fractures, as she moved, the shattered fragments of her smashed skull could be heard scraping together. And then, Jacqui fell silent… and in the panic, David fled. The Police arrived within two minutes, the ambulance within six and with Jacqui still clinging to life, she was transferred to Middlesex Hospital. But with her skull smashed, her brain swollen and her body fitting uncontrollably, with a lethally sharp shard of bone having severed her carotid artery, 26 year old Jacqueline Birri died at 5pm. She left behind a husband and a four year old boy. David Emery continued his statement: “I opened the door and there was two women shouting in a foreign language“. Having found the set of spare keys, the ladies dashed into 3 Peter Street as David hastily descended the stairs, Leona and Nella tried to block his escape, Brenda grabbed his coat and as he barged them aside, he cracked his head on the top of the door, Leona later stated “it was a heavy thud, I heard the noise of it”, and although Genevieve tried to hold the front door shut, David thumped her hard across the face screaming “what’s going on here? Everybody’s mad?” By the time Eileen Tomlin returned with the six eggs, she saw David Emery flee and it was all over. David Emery ran up Wardour Street “realising I still had the poker in the inside pocket of my overcoat, as I turned into the next road” believed to be Bateman Street “I threw the poker into what I think was a doorway”. And although the Police searched for it, the murder weapon was never found. PC Clifford Poke of West End Central was the first on the scene; six eye-witnesses gave him matching descriptions of the man, Eileen Tomlin gave a name, and eight hours later, David Emery was arrested. Being in the presence of his wife, he initially made a false confession but later corrected this. He gave a blood sample (type A), the scrapings from under his fingernails reacted positively to blood and his grey suit, fawn overcoat, white shirt and black shoes all had traces of type AB negative blood. Under interrogation, David feared for his life, asking “can I be hanged for this”, as with the UK death penalty four years from being abolished - if found guilty - he could be executed, but only if during the murder he had stolen something. And although he was a thief, there were no signs of robbery. With no illness, disability or history of insanity, he was declared mentally fit to stand trial, and on the 19th December 1961, having pleaded “not guilty” to murder, but “guilty” to manslaughter, with no other witnesses to contradict the story that Jacqui Birri hadn’t attempted to rob him of a one pound note, David James Emery was found guilty of manslaughter, and sent to prison… for six years. (END) As David stated: “I had no intention of killing the girl, or even harming her when I first went into the flat. I would only have been too pleased to leave when she started shouting. With the bell ringing, people banging on the door and screaming, and the fact that I was in a prostitute’s flat, I lost my head”. So far, most of his story tallies-up. Only… …in the bedroom, someone had tried to mop-up the blood with a jumper, later found hidden under the sink, and on the outside of the white bedroom door (a full fifteen feet from the murder scene) it was heavily smeared in blood. But then, there could be a logical reason for that? Maybe he panicked. He claimed “she jumped up with something in her hand, it might have been a brass poker; she aimed a blow at my head”. Only Leona Strang stated “he pushed me and banged his head on the top of the door, it was a heavy thud, I heard the noise of it”; an injury the Police doctor agreed was more consistent with a slight bump than blunt force trauma. But being concussed, maybe David forgot? He also confessed “I pushed her away and she fell across the dressing table… I swung at her with the poker whilst she was across the dressing table. I hit her on the head, and she rolled off onto the floor”. A miraculous feat considering that on the stylish white dressing table adorned with intricate porcelain figurines, jewellery boxes, perfume bottles and an array of make-up; not a single item was damaged, spilled or out-of-place. No blood was found on the dressing table. And the Police confirmed there were no signs of struggle in the room. In fact, it looked as if Jacqui had just got out of bed. And even more baffling is the murder weapon itself. Ignoring the fact that this brass poker was never found as “realising I still had the poker in my overcoat, I threw it into a doorway”, having pushed Jacqui so she fell over into the fireplace, David claimed she jumped up with something in her hand, “it might have been a brass poker”. Only it can’t have been, as with the old fireplace having been boarded up many moons ago, it was replaced by a coin-operated gas-fire, connected to the mains, which had no need for any coal, logs and (especially) a fire poker. Ruby confirmed “I have never had a poker. I have never kept a weapon in the flat which could hit anyone. I can’t think of anything heavy in the flat”. A statement corroborated by Eileen Tomlin, who had cleaned the bedroom the night before and confirmed “there is nothing in the flat heavy enough to hit someone with”. And having thoroughly searched, no possibly murder weapon was found. Which leaves us with several unanswered questions; was this an accident, a robbery or an assault? Where did the fire poker come from and go? Why did he have so much hatred for a total stranger? And if Jacqueline Birri wasn’t his intended target, was he really here to murder Ruby? And if so, why? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; History Gone Bad and Release the Clowns. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are L Camille Anderson and Miss E Green - with a warm thank you to everyone who has left a lovely review on iTunes or your favourite podcatcher; I read them all, they are hugely appreciated and I thank you. It only takes a few minutes to do but (for small independent podcasts like myself) it really makes the difference. 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. 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 below:
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor 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 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
|
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
Archives
October 2024
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
|