BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The entrance to London Zoo on Outer Circle, Regent's Park, NW1
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-TWO:
Back in the 1920’s, London Zoo had two elephant experts; Sayed Ali and San Dwe. They lived on site, they loved their elephants, and - according to the zoo’s owners - everything was going swimmingly. That was until the night of Friday 24th August 1928, when Sayed was found beaten to death in his bed. But who would want to murder this little man, and what did it have to do with the most sacred of elephants?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a red raindrop at the top end of the park to the left. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. MEPO 3/1640 - Murder of Sayaid Ali by San Dwe at Zoological Gardens, Regents Park, N.W, on 25 August, 1928 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257682
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in London Zoo, on the north-east corner of Regent’s Park, NW1; a short walk from the first two possible murders by the Blackout Ripper, the discovery of the strangely reverent body of ‘Renee’ Hanrahan and the scattered remains of the sex-pest who crept - coming soon to Murder Mile. Established in 1828 as the London Zoological Society, London Zoo has provided education to the city’s citizens for almost two hundred years. It’s a wonderful place to experience animals beyond London’s persistently shagging foxes, scuttling buck-toothed rats and our famously deformed pigeons. As here, kids can giggle at the bright red butt-cheeks of baboons and go “oooh” at the large piles of poo. London Zoo has thousands of animals; whether lions, tigers, camels, crocodiles, apes, fish, penguins, snakes, spiders and even Komodo dragons, but they don’t have elephants. With the last having left to live in at Whipsnade Safari Park in 2001, this ended a long traditional of elephants at the zoo. Back in the 1920’s, London Zoo had two elephant experts; Sayed Ali and San Dwe. They lived on site, they loved their elephants, and - according to the zoo’s owners - everything was going swimmingly. That was until the night of Friday 24th August 1928, when Sayed was found beaten to death. But who would want to murder this little man, and what did it have to do with the most sacred of elephants? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 172: The Sacred One. (Siren, bushes rustling). PC: “You? In the bushes. Identity yourself", San: “I’m San Dwe, elephant keeper”, PC: “Christ! What happened to you?”, San: “Four men… they try to kill me”. (Siren passes). Imagine this. You’ve lived in a dark chaotic city your whole life. Sputtering trams cram the roads, tall chimneys belch plumes of smoke across the horizon turning the blue skies grey, and the only hints of nature are the trees in the parks, the horses pulling carts and you’ve never even seen a cow or a sheep. Maybe in a book or a film you may have seen an image of an elephant, but this is impossible to imagine – as standing 8 and 13 feet tall, 10 to 16 feet long and weighing 5000 to 15000 lbs – an elephant is the largest land mammal on Earth. And suddenly there it is, in a 350-acre park in the heart of the city. In many religions, the elephant is the symbol of wisdom, loyalty, love and luck, and they epitomise the spirit of the gentle giant. But to the average person, an elephant is a spectacle of wonder and awe. In the 1920’s, the London elephants were celebrities; newspapers printed their names, postcards were adorned with their image and people could ride their backs, seeing further than many had ever seen. Britain didn’t have the expertise to ensure that the elephants were well-cared-for, so the zoo hired the best man they could from one of the countries where the elephants roam free – India… …and his name was Sayed Ali. In 1922, having travelled 4500 miles by ship from Calcutta to Southampton, 26-year-old Sayed had left behind his wife and children to seek-out a better wage for their future. Back in India, he was just an animal trainer, but to millions of Londoners, Sayed was as much a spectacle as the elephants. As a little man from foreign climes, Sayed exuded mysticism to the masses. Unlike the pasty locals, his skin was brown like the purest cane sugar, his robes were ornately stitched with intricate symbolism, like an Indian king he wore a mystical turban and he spoke in a strange language no-one understood. Sayed knew that he was unique, and as a mahout who trained and drove the elephants, he earned £2 and 10s a week, but often as much as £5 (more than the average weekly wage) thanks to tips. He liked his job, he stood proud, he was well-regarded and he had become quite the local celebrity. But – as can be expected – his life was not as easy as Sayed made it look. Giving elephant rides by day, his hours were long and exhausting. By night, he bathed, fed and watered them, he checked their pads for injury and slept when he could. As a Muslim, his prayer times were chaotic, and living in a country of pies and puddings, his stomach ached for fresh fruit and vegetables. Given his prestige, you might expect him to live in modest comfort or luxury, but he was treated no better than an animal. Situated in the far north-western corner of the zoo – being perched between the screeching baboons on Monkey Hill, a caged orangutang, a rubbish incinerator and a steaming dung heap – he had a bed and tiny kitchen in a small two-roomed loft-space above the Tapir House. His status of a minor celebrity had brought him some benefits, but the notoriety had also brought him danger. As a man who some feared as he looked different - with fascism on the rise – he was subjected to abuse, assaults and threats. And fearing the theft of all his savings, with his bedroom window barely a few feet from the Outer Circle (insert drunks, glass smashing “go home black man”, “bog off darky”), at night he would sit in a trembling darkened silence, having hid his money in a green padlocked box. Worse still was the inclement British weather. Coming from a country of scorching hot summers, the incessant drizzle and grey gloom had taken its toll on his health. So when autumn came and the zoo closed, having bedded the elephants down, Sayed would return to Calcutta with a raging cold. Like most jobs, it had its perks and pitfalls… …only Sayed was not the only celebrity at the zoo. In the summer of 1926, as part of the world tour by entertainment empresarios The Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus - having spent two years travelling from Burma to be exhibited in India and America - Pawah, a 10-year-old albino elephant would make its grand entrance at London Zoo. Captured in 1919, this incredibly rare elephant was as pale as the whitest marble. Owned by Dr Saw Po Min of the Burmese Karen Zoological Society, to many cultures (like those in Burma and Siam), a white elephant wasn’t just unique; it was sacred, revered, a symbol of power and a blessing from God. PaWah was a worldwide sensation and to ensure the well-being of this celebrity, the circus hired the best animal trainers and keepers, as alongside a team of ten, PaWah was accompanied by San Dwe. Jokingly known by his English pals as ‘Sandy Wee’, although San was only 20-years-old when he arrived at London Zoo, he had an intuitive understanding of elephants. Described as a softly spoken man who was as humble as he was still, he wasn’t here to become famous, he was here to care for Pawah. Dressed in a wrinkled suit and a crumpled hat, San was described as “one of the gentlest of fellows”; he didn’t drink, swear or raise his voice; he didn’t care for prestige, fame or riches; and he loved his elephants so much that – if they were sick – he would sleep beside them until they were healthy. As a Burmese Karen Christian, his mild personality made him the perfect choice to be Pawah’s keeper, especially as the tour was not without controversy. Two years earlier, Buddhist monks had protested the circus, appealed to the government and – with their threats falling on deaf ears – they had warned that a curse would befall anyone who removed this sacred elephant from its homeland. Seeing only pound signs, this mystical curse was ignored by the circus… …and soon, a river of blood would come to London Zoo. (Creaking door). San: “Sayed? Sayed? No”, PC: “Oh…Christ! Somebody get an ambulance”. (siren pass) The late summer and autumn months of the North American tour had been a great success, with the audiences of New York and Chicago wowed by this miraculous beast. With each elephant and handler as healthy as when they had left, heading back to Burma, the curse had seemed like an empty threat. In November 1928, the circus stopped off for two weeks in Regent’s Park. With Sayed having returned to Calcutta - coughing and sneezing being seized by his usual cold - as a baby elephant called Chang had been born, when Pawah headed home, the zoo asked San Dwe to stay on as the new keeper. With the zoo closed, he only earned a modest wage for weening the baby elephant, but being keen to ensure the health and welfare of the others – off his own back - he cared for all of the elephants while Sayed was away; feeding, bathing and mucking them out. It was a job that he loved without complaint. San Dwe had been the elephant trainer for seven months at London Zoo, across which time, this quiet and friendly man had made many friends and he was well-respected for his compassion and expertise. Everybody loved San Dwe… …everyone, except Sayed Ali. On the surface, Sayed was always professional, a little man who stood tall and knew his place as the famous face of London Zoo. But having returned to Regent’s Park where he was known and respected, suddenly he had discovered that a young upstart had taken his crown as the elephant king. In his eyes, he had worked so hard, and now everything had been stolen from him by this pretender. As the elephant expert, he had been usurped by someone who didn’t just ride them, he could raise them. As another dark-skinned man, the exotic look of Sayed Ali was no longer unique. And with both men living on-site, in the two-roomed loft space above the Tapir House, San slept in the other bed. For the owners of the zoo, it was win-win and everything seemed to be going tickety-boo. Sayed never showed his anger in public, he was too smart for that, but in private, he would make San’s life hell. Believing these two “outsiders” would bond like brothers over their mutual love for elephants, nobody saw that (like oil and heat) San & Sayed were a combustible mix which was certain to spark or explode. San was Burmese, Sayed was Indian. San was Christian, Sayed was Muslim. Set aside their difference in age and culture - hired to do the same job - San tried to make peace but Sayed wanted him out. Seeing the elephants as his, Sayed took them all back. Seeing it as his main income, Sayed insisted that only he be allowed to drive the elephants, meaning that San earned less than half of what he did. Seeing ‘Chang’ also as his responsibility – even though he hadn’t the skill, the time and he wasn’t hired to do so – Sayed would raise the elephant calf himself, only in secret, San secretly oversaw its rearing. Wanting to find his purpose and not cause trouble, San backed down and stayed out of Sayed’s way. Which was easy to do when they were busy working, but impossible to do when they were alone. Up a steep flight of stairs, stuck in a cramped little loft above the Tapir House, the two shared a small kitchen with a tiny table at which they never sat or ate together, a wood-burning hob on which they cooked separate meals, and in a bedroom barely 15 feet square, lay two single beds side-by-side. Barely sleeping, they struggled to get an hour’s sleep-a-night, as not only were they annoyed by the other’s snoring, but also the baboons howling, lions roaring and through two pokey windows, drunks would stagger the Outer Circle, hurling abuse at the coloured men, and trying to break into the zoo. No-one had ever seen them quarrel, but Sayed had made it his mission to oust San from his life. In their dingy little room, Sayed had marked what was his, and where San could and couldn’t stand. To bring himself a little joy missing his home, San would play music, only Sayed insisted this stop. Being too passive to speak up or lash out, San never spoke of his anguish… except once, to the zoo’s stoker. Three weeks before the murder, John Maycock had seen San sleeping in the elephant house. It made sense as he loved his animals, but with none of them sick at that time, when asked why he wasn’t in his own bed, San replied “I would sooner sleep with the elephants than Sayed”. Here he found peace… …but in his own room, he found only persecution. We have only San’s word on this, but he said that seeing himself as vastly superior to this boy, Sayed, a Muslim would insist that San, a Christian, kneel at his feet and bow ten times before him, as if this opinionated elephant driver was a minor celebrity. By the end of August 1928, life for San Dwe had become unbearable… …and then, tragedy struck. On Thursday 23rd August 1928, across the world, almost every newspaper ran with the headline that following its return to its native Burma, the albino elephant Pawah had died, aged just 10-years-old. Having spent years raising this sacred elephant which many Burmese considered a deity, San was left broken man, lost and distraught. Gripped with immense guilt, once again, the Buddhist monks warning swept over him that a curse would befall anyone who removed the sacred one from its homeland. San Dwe would never fully admit to having murdered Sayed Ali, but it was believed that it was with this news that Sayed had taunted him. San was not a violent man, but playing on his grief… …by the next night, something would make him snap. Friday 24th August 1928 was a barmy British summer’s day, as a hot sun baked the ground. In Regent’s Park, kids squealed in the ponds, lads played football in field and giving rides upon the back of a five-ton beast sat Sayed – all majestic in his turban and robes, like the king of elephants upon his throne. At the elephant house, San was bathing ‘Chang’. Seeing the little calf splashing in the cool water always make him smile, but unable to feel anything but grief and anger, his cheeky face was ashen and cold. San had always been a Christian with strong moral beliefs. Only now, he had murder on his mind. With Chang clean, fed and ready for bed, San kissed his baby elephant, either saying goodnight or goodbye. At 5pm, Herbert Moss, a labourer working in the yard beside the Tapir House stored his tools in the stoke hole “I had a good mind to lock them away, but I decided not to, I thought they would be safe”. At 7:50pm, San was seen by Harold Ward, a zoo keeper passing that same spot. No-one saw San take the tools, but by the morning, a sledgehammer and a pickaxe would be found drenched in blood. At 9pm, Sayed had a cup of tea in the canteen and returned to his home at the Tapir House. Giving an eye-witness statement to the police, San would state: “I lay reading till about half past ten when Sayed put out the light and stood at the window. He said ‘come and look, look, English, one by one’. There was men standing by the fence under our window. He said they were like animals. (Insert drunks, glass smashing “go home blackie”, “bog off darky”). Sayed told them to leave, an Englishman shouted back “shut up you black man, shut up”. After this talk, I went to sleep. Sayed was not in bed”. San would stick to his alibi throughout the trial, only the evidence was against him. Both stokers in that neck of the zoo heard nothing that night – no shouts, no screams, no noise – the zoo was calm. Even Douglas Stewart who was exercising a wolf said the wolf detected no-one, which it would have. According to San “I lay on the bed reading a book. Sayed locked the door at the top of the stairs. He always did so when he came in after me”. And with the day over, the two men quietly went to sleep. Awoken about midnight, San Dwe would not sleep for very long, and yet Sayed Ali would sleep forever. (Breaking door, smashing, noise). Smashing open the stairway door, San: “I was awakened by a light on the bed. Sayid said ‘who are you, what do you want?’. I roll off the bed underneath. I heard Sayid’s noise very big, then a cry”, as Sayed was bludgeoned in his bed with the thick steel of workman’s tools. San: “I took some of my blankets and jumped out of my window”. Sliding down a banked tiled roof and landing in a priest’s hedge behind a six-foot railing, he was barely a few feet from the Outer Circle. “I thought I would call out, but I cannot breathe. I cannot run. I creep, I call out and a policeman come”. Passing by, PC’s Evans and Bussey raced to his aid. (Bushes rustling). PC: “You? In the bushes. Identity yourself", San: “I am San Dwe, elephant keeper”. The little man was clearly petrified, dressed in just his pyjamas, he had cuts to his feet, gashes to his hands, and with foam frothing at his mouth he muttered incoherently – “don’t let them kill me”. PC: “Christ! What happened to you?”, San: “Four men, they try to kill me”. (Siren passes). PC: “What about your mate?”, San: “I think he is dead”. Alerted by the two Constables rattling the gate and ringing the bell, the zoo’s Assistant Superintendent Charles Hicks who lived on-site let them in, as they cautiously escorted San back to the Tapir House. And being unable to walk unaided, as he kept passing out, PC Evans had to carry San in his arms. Something horrific had truly taken place… …only the crime scene didn’t make any sense. As Detectives Askew, Henstridge and Oxland arrived at the zoo, they were unable to speak to a single witness who had heard a scuffle or scream, and oddly, the animals weren’t restless or agitated. As they ascended the thin wooden stairwell, the first thing they noticed was an absence of light, as above their heads an electric light should have illuminated the way, only the bulb was missing. Shining a torch through the darkness to guide the way, at the top of the stairs, entry had clearly been made by bashing the bloodstained door wide open with a heavy tool, possibly a sledgehammer. Only, with both men having been awoken in their sleep by two torches shining in their eyes, why didn’t they hear the door being broken, and how did the blood from inside the room, end up outside of the door? Inside, the small dark room was in chaos. Only it didn’t look like the chaos of anger, it looked staged. A washing line of clothes was snapped, the bed was slightly askew and a window was open; only having supposedly fled in panic, San had the presence of mind to take two blankets, a scarf and his door keys. Moments after his murder, the padlock to Sayed’s green trunk had been smashed and the contents scattered. Only his life savings; £50 in notes and a savings book of £60 (roughly £7000 today) was left. Examining the scene, the police could identify no other fingerprints except for Sayed and San’s. Both electric bulbs were spotted in the hedge, smashed, where he had fallen. A pick-axe and sledgehammer was left on Sayed’s bed. And although he had fled, the hands of San Dwe were dripping with blood. Sayed’s still warm body was found in his bed. Lying on his left-hand-side, with his bed-sheets up to his waist and no defensive wounds to his hands, it was clear that when he was attacked, he was asleep. With the walls spattered and his bed saturated with blood, as the right-hand-side of his head had been battered-in with the sledgehammer – being still sticky with matted hair –his skull had caved in and all that remained was a gaping wound between his right ear and eye, which protruded at odd angles. With at least eight hard swings, considerable force had unleashed three fast blows to his head, four to his chest and one to the right arm, and - although it was hard to see among the swelling mass of red - three deep puncture wounds were found to his torso, having been made with a pick-axe. Sayed Ali was taken to Hampstead General Hospital but he was declared dead on arrival. (End) Committed to the psychiatric ward of St Pancras hospital, San was hysterical and had to be restrained, ranting “a white man came into my room, he called Sayed a bloody bugger, and hit him with a pickaxe”, sticking to his alibi – as full of holes as it was – that they had been attacked by robbers or racists. The next day, at Albany police station, he gave a statement admitting “I know Sayed is dead, everyone will say I kill him” and “if you ask me if I like Sayed, I say ‘no, I don’t like him’”. And yet, he would say nothing about the abuse and the bullying he had endured before and following the death of PaWah. On 27th November 1928, at The Old Bailey, 22-year-old San Dwe pleaded not guilty to murder. As was his legal right, he gave no evidence to back-up his alibi that they had been beaten and robbed by unknown assailants, and – although many character witnesses described him as “a good peaceful man” - he gave no testimony as to how Sayed had tormented him to the point where he had snapped. On 28th November, having retired for twenty minutes, he was found guilty and sentenced to death. In a one-sided trial, the jury would never be given the option to find him guilty of murder by diminished responsibility or manslaughter owing to mitigating circumstance. This was little more than a cowardly attack on a defenceless man in his sleep, by a foreigner with brown skin who spoke a strange language. To many, Pawah was simply a celebrity elephant, a freak of nature and a spectacle of wonder. But to San Dwe, this a sacred albino elephant was as rare as angel’s breath and as precious as God’s word. As the crown jewel of his native country, this elephant (who he had loved) was his responsibility, and having ignored the monk’s warning of a curse upon those who remove it from its homeland, now it was dead… and his fault. San was a man in grief, but to the jury, he was a man with blood on his hands. On Saturday 15th December 1928, San appealed his sentence, he confessed that his alibi was false, he admitted to being bullied, and with the judges agreeing that this was a case of religious persecution by a Muslim upon a Christian, King George Vth commuted his death sentence to life in prison. Having served his sentence, San Dwe returned to Burma and the job he loved as an elephant trainer. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-ONE:
At 7 St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove once lived William Reason, his brother-in-law Daniel Hanrahan and his 35-year-old niece called Gladys, who everyone knew as Renee. Everyone loved Renee; she was sweet, petite and polite. On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at 10:30pm, the body of Renee was found in Regent’s Park, three miles east. She had been gagged, strangled and beaten. What happened to Renee? What was she doing in Regent’s Park after dark? Who did she meet and why? And what does this street and the location of her uncles’ off-licence on St Ervan’s Road have to do with her death?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop near the words Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MEPO 3/2856 - Unsolved murder of Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan at Regents Park, 1947 Oct 1 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258314
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on St Ervans Road in Westbourne Park, W10; two streets north of the Landor House murders, two streets east of the cinema where Reg Christie was once a projectionist, and a short walk from the last tragic moments in the sad life of Lena Cunningham - coming soon to Murder Mile. The original buildings on the eastern edge of St Ervan’s Road were demolished in the 1960s to make way for the A40 flyover, a delightful concrete monstrosity which blots the horizon with a grey sunset of hazy smog, a bird song of roaring trucks and a hooty jam of window lickers heading to a job they hate. In the pursuit of progress, the off-license at 7 St Ervans Road was erased; taking with it the home of William Reason, Daniel Hanrahan, his daughter Renee and the tragedy which befell this loving family. Her home was three miles west of where her body was found; no-one knew how she got there, where she had been and – more importantly – why anyone would murder someone so shy, kind and beloved? Believing this lone girl must have been attacked in a dark park by a random stranger, the residents of St Ervans Road were left in shock. And yet, a greater shock was yet to come. As this was a murder as ordinary as any other, and the street wasn’t just where she lived, but also where her killer called home. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 171: The Girl with a Smile for Everyone – Part Two. A smile can do many things; it can light up a room, soothe a mood and endear us to a person. But a smile isn’t an honest expression, it can exude happiness, whilst hiding truth, pain and fear. Wednesday 1st October 1947 at 10:30pm, at Cumberland Green on the eastern edge of Regent’s Park, Detective Inspector Jamieson and Superintendent Beveridge assessed this unusual crime-scene. The park was dark and empty, as it had been barely an hour earlier when Renee had been murdered. With the only witnesses being to her discovery, the detectives could only speculate that she had been beaten, strangled and gagged elsewhere, possibly transported by car, and her body dumped. But why here? Why not a canal, a drain, a bush or a bin? Why pick an open expanse of grass in a public park with no obstructions to disguise this despicable deed? Why commit such a heinous crime, only to lay her down with such reverence; her clothes neat, her limbs straight and her handbag like a pillow. With no robbery, no rape and no signs of a struggle, it was clear that her killer was someone who loved her intensely and hated her as fiercely. This was someone that she knew, loved and trusted. As a shy girl with good morals and a limited social circle, the prime suspects would be limited to just a few Suspect 1: William Reason, a widower known as Uncle Willy who for the last twenty years had given a home, love and safety to the niece he treated like his own child. Broken by the news of her death, he cancelled his 65th birthday, closed his shop and lost in his tears, he would never recover from the loss. Suspect 2: Daniel Hanrahan, Renee’s widowed father who had fought in court to get custody of her, who had threatened to tear her killer to pieces and like Willy became a shell of himself after her death. In Renee’s throat, an old torn hanky had been used to gag her. It was stitched with the laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. And although the hanky was his, his alibi was solid and his grief genuine. Suspect 3: James Locke, the yard hand at United Dairies who dated Renee, took her to Margate on his motorbike and made-up a foursome with Dorothy and Gedge. Police discounted him as a suspect as he was seen at the social club in Wembley from the time she went missing until after she was found. Police would examine the lives of everyone who knew Renee, whether family, friends, colleagues and acquaintances. With no motive, everyone would be ruled out, which left the police with one suspect; her friend, her neighbour and the man she once saw as a close family friend – Albert Edward Butler. Married for 24 years and having ran a grocery for 17, Bert epitomised the perfect neighbour to Daniel, Willy & Renee. Being a friend during the blitz and when Willy’s wife died, he supported them, he aided them in the shop, he drove them in his black Ford saloon on trips to Ascot and Brighton. Every night he drank tea, chatted and played dominoes in their back room, and then he helped Renee wash up. On the surface, he seemed like a second uncle to Renee… …but underneath, Bert was bubbling with danger. Thursday 2nd October 1947, at 8:30am, as a ravenous press swarmed St Ervans Road looking to get the scoop, a reporter who was unaware of which house was Uncle Willy’s blurted out the horror. To his wife Gladys, Bert said “something terrible has happened, Renee has been murdered” and having gone next door to support Daniel & Willy who stood in pale shock – without a prompt – he told them both “I had a drink with her, yesterday lunchtime at the Golden Cross” – a detail they hadn’t asked for and (as Daniel would state) “he related the whole of his movements from lunch-time till Renee was found”. Bert was an unusual man, friendly but a little direct. Being 49 years old, 5 foot 10 and thinly-built with square shoulders, he resembled any other hard-working man of the day. Only burdened by sharp eyes and a bald head – most strikingly – he had a stern angular face which didn’t flinch when he was furious. Depending on who you were, there were two sides to Bert; the sweet uncle and the imposing bully. His wife Gladys never spoke ill of him; they worked and lived together, and yet, sleeping in separate beds, she rarely joined him next-door for dominoes, and would state “some evenings, he goes out for long walks by himself. I do not as a rule know where he goes, unless he happens to mention it”. Every night, in the back-room of number 7, the routine was the same; Bert would arrive at 9pm, they’d have a snack, a chat, a game of dominoes, he would help Renee wash-up, and would leave by midnight, Daniel would state “he often helped her in the scullery, and in doing so, they were alone together”. Nothing sinister was thought of this as Bert was a family friend. Uncle Willy would state “he was so regular with his visits I thought it strange when he didn’t come” - as he wouldn’t on the night she died. Nine months earlier, while washing up next to the woman - a foot shorter, half his weight and fifteen years his younger - Bert accidentally nicked his finger on a knife. It was just a small cut, so to stem the flow, Daniel gave him an old torn hanky, stitched with the laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. Thinking nothing of it, Bert kept the hanky and Daniel forgot all about it… …only months later, Bert would use it to choke her screams and to end her life. The relationship between Renee & Bert seemed to be that of a kindly uncle and his smiling niece, some had queried if it was morally right, but nobody saw it as other than the kindness of a family friend. They got on well, they chatted, he helped her with the stock-check in the cellars of both shops, and – being so shy – as he did with Willy & Daniel, he drove Renee to Ascot Races… but this time, by herself. To Bert “she was a girl with a smile for everyone”. Only her smile would hide the pain of a girl who was leched over by a creepy uncle; a pest who was had admitted he was attracted to her, who had expressed his love for her and – in whispers from the scullery – that he wanted to have sex with her. Renee never wanted to burden her father or uncle with her pain… …so, she never said a word to them about Bert. Desperate to be near Renee, Bert drove her to work every Monday, and although he lived three miles west, he rented a garage for his car in Manchester Mews - right behind the dairy where she worked. As a frequent visitor to her home, Bert would later admit to the police “I was attracted to Renee, but for nothing more than being a good friend. I have been in her bedroom often, but only to do odd jobs”. Six months earlier, Daniel came back from a night-shift and found himself locked out of the house. As a pal, hearing his plea, Bert helped him out, and - wearing just his pyjamas - Bert climbed through the back window as Renee slept and entered their home. During his police interview, Bert would tell the detectives: “I have never been in the house during the night unknown to the members of the family”. Working at the dairy, Renee felt safe. But at home, she didn’t. One month before her death, she had confided to two friends that she was fed-up with him chasing her, and that she was scared, saying “he might do things if I refuse to have anything to do with him”. With no way to escape and not wishing to upset anyone, she told no-one else about this family friend. Only, the less Renee saw him, the more Bert’s love would grow from attraction to obsession. As a quiet girl with a small but trusted circle of friends, every Wednesday she went with her colleagues to the dairy’s social club at the sports ground in Wembley; to drink, to chat, to watch the footie and to dance. But across the August of 1947, Bert had followed her from her home at St Ervans Road, to Westbourne Park station, onto the train at Baker Street station and all the way to the sports ground. On Wednesday 27th August, six weeks before her death, at the social club, Dorothy & Gedge saw Renee in an unheard heated exchange with a bald stern-faced man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby hat. The next day, at work, Renee confided to a friend: “Butler had a terrible temper because I would not go out with him. He said ‘it was a good job I did not stay last night, or I should have done you in”. With obsession turning to stalking and threats, she looked distressed, but masked it with a smile. On Sunday 31st August, the foursome – Dorothy, Renee, Gedge and Jimmy - headed to Margate. It was an escape from her stresses and she had a wonderful time, but having been driven back home on the back of Jimmy’s motorbike, from behind the twitching curtains next door, Bert was jealously watching. On Wednesday 24th September, one week before her death, having followed her again to the sports ground, Renee asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t. She told him “It’s no use you waiting here, I shall be going home on the bike” – Jimmy’s bike – only Bert sternly replied “if I see you on it, I shall cut you off’”. Which was why so many people found it strange to see Bert at Renee’s funeral. In their eyes, the two were no longer friends, but at her service, Bert stood beside Daniel & Willy, crying like a relative. To keep up the pretence that everything was fine, Renee plastered on a smile. On the night of Tuesday 30th September, all four sat together chatting about the plans for Uncle Willy’s 65th birthday… …only the party would never happen, as by Bert’s hand, Renee would be dead. Wednesday 1st October 1947 began like any other day for Renee. At 8am, she made breakfast, she did the cleaning and helped out in the shop. At 12pm, she left, having a few errands to run for Uncle Willy. Witnessed by his wife, Bert made the spontaneous decision “I think I will have a walk… the air will do me good”. He popped on a fawn raincoat, a brown trilby, he headed into Ladbroke Grove, and what followed was an alibi that he would rigidly stick to throughout the duration of the coroner’s inquest. “The last time I saw Renee… I met her by chance in Portabello Road”. Seen waiting for her outside of Barclays Bank, “I asked her to have a drink with me… we went to the Golden Cross pub; Renee had two gin and limes and I had two pints of beer”. Being a thin man with a stern face and a tiny lady with frizzy hair, three people saw this easily recognisable twosome sitting in the saloon bar talking quietly. At 1pm, “Renee left me, she was going to Woolworths to buy a birthday card”, and he re-iterated to the police, “I have never been to the sports ground in Wembley… I was not near Regent’s Park that night and I am empathic that I left Miss Hanrahan at round 1pm and that I never saw her afterwards”. At 2pm, Renee and Uncle Willy had sausages, mash and peas, with peaches and custard for pudding. Bert’s wife had expected him back for lunch as usual: “however he did not return, but I did not worry”. It was then - as would happen to Renee - that for some reason, his routine would change. “I had gone on the impulse of the moment as I was at a bit of a loose end”. After the pub “I took the train to Brighton. The return fare was 15s 3d. I arrived at about 3:45pm” – the details of which he would have known having visited this seaside town with Renee, Daniel & Willy just two weeks before. “I walked to the sea front, sat down on the beach near the Palace Pier. I fell asleep and I did not wake up until 6pm. I then went to a snack bar with white tiled walls, I can’t remember the name, I had a cup of tea and a sandwich, and then I went to the station”. When asked if anyone could corroborate his movements, he would state “I spoke to no-one who can verify my story that I was in Brighton…”. Arriving back at Brighton station, “I got the 7:14pm train and arrived in Victoria at exactly 8:30pm”. He could provide no tickets to prove this journey, and there were no pebbles in his shoes or clothes. Being back in the city, with his shop shut and time to kill, he could have gone anywhere - a cinema, a theatre or a restaurant – instead “I got a No 11 bus to World’s End in Chelsea and had a walk around” as he had seen a property he liked and dusk seemed like the perfect time to go house-hunting. At the end of which time, “I went by No 31 bus to Great Western Road”, a road running just shy of his home. At around the time that it was believed Renee had been murdered, three miles west of Regent’s Park “I entered the Metropolitan pub at 9:45pm. I spoke to a young lady”, later identified as Rose Deveraux, “I stayed with Rose and her friend till closing. I then stood outside talking to them and I left to go home at 10:40pm”. Police tracked down Rose and her friend, but their accounts proved unreliable. According to his statement, Bert headed down Tavistock Crescent to St Ervans Road, “I intended to go into Willy’s” for a cup of tea and a game of dominoes in the backroom “but did not get back in time”, meaning half-an-hour after the detectives had arrived at the crime-scene, he had returned home. His wife Gladys would state “I was sat in the backroom listening to the wireless, it was 10:45pm, my husband came in. He said ‘hello dear’…” and – without a prompt – volunteered his movements for the day; the train, the beach, the sleep. “He poured himself a Guinness. He seemed his usual self. I did not talk with him much as I was tired. I left him and went to bed. He came up about 20 minutes later”. The alibi provided by Albert Butler would put him fifty-four miles south of London at the time when Renee was last seen alive, and three miles west of Regent’s Park during the hour when she was murdered. During the inquest, the coroner would ask “If anyone were to say they had seen you in London that afternoon, would they be wrong?”. Bert would reply “yes sir, they are mistaken”. And when asked “did you have anything to do with the death of Miss Hanrahan, Bert would reply “no sir, I did not”. That was Bert’s alibi, and as vague as his story was, he stuck to it throughout the inquest… …only, when the police dug deeper, other witnesses told a different story. At 5pm, Renee went to Smith’s at 63 Tavistock Crescent to buy cigarettes for her uncle as served by Mrs Underwood. Stating that Renee looked flustered, she was seen in a heated exchange across the road with a man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby. Although, she could not positively identify if this was Bert Butler – a neighbour and grocer who had lived one street away for the last two decades. At 5:30pm, Isabella Greenwood, an assistant who often worked for Bert & Willy said she had seen him standing behind the counter of his grocers alongside his wife, a sighting confirmed by regular customer Lillian Fudge. So, either his wife was badly mistaken, or she had changed her story to protect him? Both of these sightings were debated in court, but they could not be verified as conclusive proof. At 5:55pm, being the last time Renee was seen alive by a loved-one, she left 7 St Ervans Road with her plans for the night still undecided. She was dressed to go out, she had asked about films at the cinema and she had money in her purse. But for some reason she didn’t go to the sports ground in Wembley. As confirmed by a ticket found in her purse, the serial numbers confirmed that she had purchased a return ticket to Baker Street at Westbourne Park tube station between 6 and 7pm, as issued by ticket inspector Arthur Deadman, who knew Renee and remembered that she was alone. When discovered, it was found that her ticket had not been clipped, meaning that she had never boarded the train. Between the time she entered the station to the moment her body was found, Renee seemed to have vanished without a trace. No-one who knew her had seen her… but what about those who didn’t? Two days after her murder, Police issued her photo in the local newspapers alongside a description of this woman who was truly unique – 35 years old, four foot eleven, seven and a half stone, with pale skin, grey eyes, lips like a toffee apple and a sweet face topped with brown frizzy hair like candy floss. She was dressed in a light blue frock, a navy-blue coat, black shoes and brown leather handbag. Five hours were missing from her life, but slowly, even strangers began to recognise her. Three people came forward with three possible sightings of Renee. Between 7:50 and 8:20pm, Frances McLoughlin, barmaid of the Prince of Wales pub on Harrow Road, a short walk from Westbourne Park tube station saw Renee (who she knew) and Bert (who she didn’t) enter the pub. Her statement was back-up by Theresa Grimes, a customer who knew neither but said “they were easy to recognise”. They looked odd together; one tall, one short, one bald, one frizzy. Asked in court, Bert would state “I have not been to the Prince of Wales in over twelve months”. When asked by the coroner, if she recognised the man, although Bert was sat in the witness box, the barmaid said she could not. It later transpired that she had received an anonymous letter on the 15th October which read “To Mrs McLoughlin. We strongly advise you to keep your nose out of the Gladys Hanrahan case or perhaps you will find yourself in the same place as her” - the sender was never identified. At 8:55pm, just south of Regent’s Park, Lydia Malcolm saw a woman believed to be Renee and a man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby hat walking towards the Laurie Arms at 32 Crawford Place, W1. Bert would state “I was never there on that day or any other”, even though it was a few streets from the dairy where Renee worked and the rented garage in Manchester Mews where his car was parked. In Bert’s defence, the witnesses may have been mistaken; it might have been another couple, date or place, or maybe – having read about it in the paper – they made the whole thing up? As although the timeline put Renee & Bert near Regent’s Park at the time she was murdered, it may have been untrue. It was possible… but then there was this. At 9:10pm, one hour before her body was found, a postman called Francis Carter was walking along Chiltern Street, just south of Baker Street and the border of Regent’s Park. Heading home, he passed Portman Mansions; two long lines of seven-storey red-bricked buildings on either side of a quiet road. “A couple were walking in front of me. They stopped. I saw the man grab hold of the girl by the lapel and shake her, he then pushed her in the face”. Not knowing if this was a harmless bit of fun or a fight, “I followed them because I thought there was going to be trouble”, but he lost them at the lights. He described the woman as “about five feet tall, fragile build, frizzy hair and a blue coat”. Shown her body hours before her funeral, the postman positively identified Renee as the girl he saw. In court, he would point to the man he saw being “5 foot 10, late 40s, in fawn mac and a Trilby hat” as Bert. This sighting may seem a little spurious and maybe unconnected, as at no point did anyone see Bert kill Renee… but it does reveal two pieces of possible evidence that the police never released; where they thought that Renee had been murdered, or how her body had been dumped in Regent’s Park. Chiltern Street is a six-minute walk from Manchester Mews where Bert’s car was parked. If he offered Renee a lift home, maybe it was in that dark secluded garage where he beat, strangled and choked her, having rejected his love? Maybe, that’s where he placed her body in the boot? Maybe from here he drove to the Outer Circle on Regent’s Park and dumped her in Cumberland Green? And although this is only hypothetical, maybe it was him who the Police saw chain-smoking in a black Ford saloon, as he sat watching the detectives examine a strange body in an unusual crime-scene? (End) Albert Butler gave three statements to the Police in which he stuck to his story about being in Brighton. He denied being in Regent’s Park, Baker Street or Wembley, owing or using the handkerchief or driving his car that day. When asked why anyone would want her murdered, he blamed it on a fictional affair he said she had with a cousin and a yard hand at the dairy she was “sweet on” who rode a motorbike. An inquest was held at St Pancras Coroner’s Court before Mr Bentley Purchase. Given the gravity of the offence, Albert Butler was bound-over and told not to say anything which would implicate him. During the inquest, Bert was grilled hard by the prosecution on details in his alibi he should have known, only he repeatedly said “I don’t know”. For the detectives, Bert was their number one suspect; he had motive, purpose and means, and being unable to provide a single witness or piece of evidence to back up his story, everything was against him. If escalated to a criminal court, he risked a death sentence. Only the prosecution’s case had holes. Summing up, the coroner would state “there is no evidence that Butler, putting the worst case against him, is the person who murdered her. Even if the jury were to accept the evidence that he had not gone to Brighton, that is a very different thing from having any evidence that he was with the girl in Regents Park. That is the unsatisfactory feature of this case”. On 3rd December 1947, having deliberated for ten minutes, the jury returned with an open verdict that Renee had been “murdered by person or persons unknown”. And with that, Albert Butler walked free, he returned to St Ervans Road and continued his life living next-door to Renee’s grieving family. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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Cumberland Green in Regent's Park, the exact location where Renee's body was found
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY: On the eastern edge of Regent’s Park is Cumberland Green on the corner of Chester Road and the Outer Circle. It’s a non-descript expanse of grass with several intersecting paths and few trees.
On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at roughly 10:30pm, the body of a woman was discovered here. Her name was Gladys Hanrahan, also known as ‘Renée’, a 35-year-old book-keeper who worked in a local dairy. She was well-liked, popular and loved. She hadn’t been robbed, she hadn’t been sexually molested, there were no threats on her life, she didn’t owe money, she didn’t keep secrets, and – stranger still –her body had been posed. So, why was Gladys Hanrahan murdered and who by?
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a purple raindrop near the words Regent's Park (far left). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. MEPO 3/2856 - Unsolved murder of Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan at Regents Park, 1947 Oct 1 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258314
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile Today I’m standing in Regent’s Park, NW1; two roads south and west of the first two possible murders by the Blackout Ripper, one road east of the college where Martine Vik Magnussen met a deadly friend and a short walk south of the brutal slaughter over the sacred elephant - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just north of Baker Street, Regent’s Park is one of several royal parks in London. Covering 395 acres, it has boating lakes, an open-air theatre, a zoo, and limitless space for everyone; whether a yappy little rat who soils itself every six feet like its writing its demands in a stinky Morse code, a Lycra-clad jogger whose sweaty whiff makes the flowers wilt, and an attention-seeking turd who ruins every picnic by bringing a guitar so their fragile ego can be massaged by the words “oooh, aren’t you talented”. Yawn. Cumberland Green is a wide expanse of grass on the far eastern edge of Regent’s Park, just shy of the perimeter road called the Outer Circle. Cross-crossed with a series of interconnecting paths, unlike the rest of Regent’s Park which is manicured and cultivated, Cumberland Green has no plants, no shrubs, no bushes, no pond and only a smattering of trees. It’s as if the planners simply ran out of ideas. Being flat and unincumbered by obstructions, it’s perfect for a game of cricket. But if you wanted to hide something - let’s say a dead body - this part of the park would be possibly the worst place to pick. On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at roughly 10:15pm, it was here that the body of a 35-year-old book-keeper called Gladys Hanrahan was found. Having been gagged, strangled and beaten, it was clear she had been dead for barely an hour. But what wasn’t clear was where she had died, as with the grass all wet and freshly-cut and her shoes all clean and dry, someone had carried her here. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 170: The Girl with a Smile for Everyone – Part One. It’s fair to say that everybody loved Gladys. Being a harmless little dot – barely four foot and eleven inches high and just seven and a half stone in weight – she was unmistakable and easy to spot. Known by her loved ones as Renee, she was the size of a child and as fragile as a deer. With pale skin punctuated big grey eyes, lips as red as a toffee apple and her sweet face topped with brown frizzy hair like candy floss, she was impossible not to love. Everybody said she was “a girl with a smile for everyone”. And although, when people die, the grieving often expel cherry-picked clips of a rose-tinted version of their life, in this case it was true. Renee was a truly beautiful person, inside and out. Being no bother to anyone, she was shy but without appearing rude, she was friendly without being too-familiar, and she was quiet but that was her way. She was truly lovely, as inside that tiny body would beat a big heart with enough love for everyone. Which is why it’s so hard to believe that anyone would hate Renee so much they would murder her… …but they would. Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan was born on the 3rd August 1912 in Marylebone, barely a few streets from where she would die. As the youngest of two, where-as her older brother was given the name Daniel after her father, with Gladys named after her mother, it’s no surprise that she preferred to be called Renee, as her birth name only reminded her of the mother she would have chosen to forget. Shortly after her birth, Daniel & Gladys separated. With mum having taken the girl and dad taking the boy, although this split fragmented the family, her brother got the better end of the deal. He only earned a modest wage as a night-porter and could never afford a place of his own, but Daniel was a good man, he was solid, honest and loving. Where-as Gladys was a drinker who drank till she was sick. Witnessing the neglect that Renee was subjected to, Daniel fought to get full custody of his children and won. In 1919, when she was only seven, Renee’s mother died. It was a tragedy but also a blessing, as for the rest of her life Renee would never be much of a drinker - a bottle of Guinness a night at best. For Daniel, providing stability for his family was vital. Having moved into his parent’s house at 27 Park Crescent Mews, just south of Regent’s Park, three generations lived side-by-side in supportive bliss. Living alongside his sister and her husband, William Reason, although they were not blood relations, Daniel & William were as close as any brothers. With no children of his own, Uncle Willy treated Renee like she was his own daughter. Since her birth, Renee had been cursed by the worst kind of mother-figure, but as she grew, she would be blessed with two fathers who would love her without question. In May 1929, Daniel and his kids moved in with Uncle Willy and his wife at 30 Northumberland Place in Westbourne Park, and having begun to bloom, Renee’s turbulent past made way for a bright future. Educated at Marylebone Grade School, Renee had an aptitude for maths. Leaving school aged 14, over the next 22 years – being loyal to her employer and hard-working – she would have only two jobs; as a book-keeper keeping tabs on the finances at Arthur’s Stores in Westbourne Grove for a decade, and – broken only by her death – 12 years at the Marylebone branch of United Dairies on Blandford Street. As her father had strived to achieve, her life was the epitome of stability… …and nothing in her life forewarned of her cruel demise. As a creature of habit, she worked six days-a-week except Sundays, taking every second Wednesday afternoon off. She hung out with a small but trusted crowd, she always told her dad or uncle where she was going, she rarely stayed out after 10:30pm, and she steered clear of any dangers or strangers. Her hobbies consisted of reading poetry and going to dances. Her one vice was that she liked to smoke. She was immaculately dressed with manicured nails and stylish clothes. And when she wasn’t working, she helped out in her Uncle Willy’s off-licence, by keeping the books and stocking the shelves. Whether it was owing to her shyness, by the age of 35, Renee had had a few boyfriends, but she hadn’t found ‘the one’. She wanted to be loved, but this lack of love in her life left a huge hole in her heart. Plagued with loneliness, even those closest to her would never know this, as batting it away with a beaming smile, she kept her feelings locked-up tight and never wanted to burden others with her pain. Outside, Renee was always smiling… …but on the inside, she was crying. On the 14th December 1938, with her brother having married, Renee and Daniel moved in with Uncle Willy and his wife into a three-storey terraced house at 7 St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove, W10. Situated north-west of Paddington, St Ervans Road was a quiet residential street in a working-class neighbourhood comprising of two lines of identical houses, with the ground floors of a few converted into small shops. Theirs at number 7 was an off-licence and next-door at number 5 was a grocer. It was a nice place where everyone was friendly and felt safe. If you left your house, you could expect to be greeted with a “good morning”, if you hadn’t got enough cash to buy your food it would go on the slate, and if you left your door unlocked, you knew your neighbours would watch your house. Nine months after they had moved in, war was declared and the world was plunged into chaos. It was a time of fear and anxiety, but – like so many streets – the residents of St Ervans Road stuck together. Next-door at number 5 lived Mr & Mrs Butler. Married for 24 years, for the last 17 they had run a small grocery shop on their ground-floor, selling tinned stuffs, powdered goods, bread, milk and eggs. Gladys Butler was a private woman who kept-to-herself, but being a local businessman and a good pal of Uncle Willy, Albert Butler (who everyone called ‘Bert’) was a regular visitor to their shop and home. Being businesses next-door to one-another, there was never any rivalry between Willy & Bert. Instead, they helped each other out. If they needed odd-jobs done, they knew who to call. As a book-keeper, Renee did stock-taking in the cellar and kept tabs on the finances for both shops. As Bert had a car – a 14 horse-power black Ford saloon - not only did they use it to pick-up stock (saving money) but also, Bert took Daniel, Willy and Renee on trips to the races at Ascot and day-trips to the sea at Brighton. From 9pm till bed-time, every night - without fail - Bert came around for a cup of tea, a snack, a natter and a game of dominoes. Just like Uncle Willy, Bert and his wife never had any children, but he would regard Renee as one of his own. Her life was blessed, she never really had a mother, but now she had three fathers, and although she was 35 years old, to them all, Renee would always be their “little girl”. Being so shy and fragile, their love was a vital part of her life… especially when tragedy struck. As her only female role model, on the 10th October 1944, Uncle Willy’s wife died leaving Daniel without a sister and Renee without an aunt. Rallying to support each-other, Renee took on her aunt’s duties of cooking and cleaning, and Bert came over more to ensure that this quiet girl wasn’t overworked. Conscious not to burden her family, she never spoke of her worries… …but by helping her with simple things like the washing-up, it a little pressure off. By 1947, with the war firmly over, Renee had been a book-keeper at United Dairies at 75 Blandford Street in Marylebone for over 12 years. She was quiet and polite, but well-liked and punctual. She had never been promoted, but not being an ambitious person, she liked the security of a familiar routine. Every day, she caught the Circle Line tube from Westbourne Park to Baker Street, taking just half an hour door-to-door, even with her little legs. She didn’t eat out, choosing to carry sandwiches. She rarely went out in the evenings, instead she stayed in with her dad and two uncles. But once a week, she and her small group of friends headed to the dairy’s social club, at Preston Road in Wembley. Having made up a foursome with three friends from the dairy - Dorothy Brown (a 34-year-old book-keeper), Frederick Gedge (a 40-year-old milk inspector) and James Lock (a 27-year-old yard hand) – Renee had recently become a little bit smitten by James, who everyone called Jimmy. Their first date was to see a film, each time he would pick her up and drop her off on his motorbike, and as a guest in her home, the three men in her life would give this young man the once-over with a cautious eye. On the bank holiday of Sunday 31st August 1947, four weeks before her murder, the foursome headed out to the seaside town of Margate. With Dot riding pillion on Gedge’s bike and Renee on the back of Jimmy’s, with the engine roaring and the wind in her hair, it was quite a thrill for her quiet little life. For Renee, she really hoped that Jimmy would be ‘the one’… …and although she wanted to be loved, it was not to be. Giving evidence at her inquest, James told the court, “Rene and I were only working friends, and no intimacy had never taken place between us”. The evening of Tuesday 30th September 1947 was as ordinary as any other, except for one reason. The Thursday would be Uncle Willy’s 65th birthday. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it, just an invite for a few friends and neighbours for drinks and a game of cards in the back-room at 7 St Ervans Road. From the scullery, as they washed-up the dirty crockery, Willy could hear Bert whispering to Renee. He didn’t like birthday surprises, but he needn’t have worried as the party would never take place… …as by the next night, his beloved Renee would be dead. Wednesday 1st October 1947 began like any other day for Renee. Typically, being her day-off, with the summer sun gone, the sky was dull blanket of grey which lay a fine wet drizzle on the ground. At 8am, she made breakfast for Uncle Willy and herself, and a meal for her dad as he came off his night-shift. She did the cleaning, a little washing, and helped out in the shop, speaking to a handful of customers. At 12pm, with a few errands to run for Uncle Willy, Renee took the 12-minute-walk to Barclays Bank at 137 Ladbroke Grove, she picked up a few odds and ends, and – as promised – she was back by 2pm. For lunch, they had sausages, mash and peas, with peaches and custard for pudding. And at 5pm, she went to Smith’s at 63a Tavistock Crescent, buying her uncle’s cigarettes as served by Mrs Underwood. So far, her day was unremarkable… but for some reason, her routine would change. That night, she appeared tired, although typical of Renee, she never complained. Being a Wednesday, she usually went to the dairy’s social club in Wembley, and although Jimmy, Dorothy and Gedge had expected to see her there, she never turned up. That evening, before his shift, she asked her dad what films were on at the cinema, he suggested ‘Master of Bankdam’ on Edgware Road, but she never went. Ready for a night out, she dressed in a light blue frock, a navy-blue coat, black shoes and – as always – her nails were brightly painted, her make-up was neat and her hair was as frizzy as ever. In her brown leather handbag was a make-up compact, £5 in notes and a cotton hanky (stylish, colourful and clean). Around her neck she wore a sapphire and diamond pendant, which had belonged to her belated aunt. At 5:30pm, she had a cup of tea and a piece of cake with Uncle Willy, and she was her usual pleasant self. As they sat there in the back-room, having had a coughing fit, Renee asked him ‘would you like me to stop with you’, but seeing that she needed a night off, he replied ‘no, you go and enjoy yourself’. They would be one of the last words which Uncle Willy would say to Renee. She had told no-one of her worries, as she didn’t want to burden those she loved… but a dark secret was plaguing her mind. At 5:55pm, she left her home at 7 St Ervans Road for the very last time, she walked to Westbourne Park tube station and purchased a return ticket to Baker Street… only she never boarded the train. Four and a half hours of her life would vanish… …as he next time she was seen, she was dead. The night fell at 7:12pm, although with the sky a murky grey, it was hard to tell. Being dark and a few hundred feet from a dotted line of street-lights on the Outer Circle, Regent’s Park was almost empty. Occasionally, the cross-crossing paths would feature a hint of life like a dog-walker, a cyclist heading home or an amorous couple kissing, but with the gardeners having packed up for the day, it was silent. Of the witnesses who found her body, nobody saw or heard what had happened to Renee. Nothing drew their attention nor aroused their suspicion. There were no screams and no sounds to mask them. At 10:15pm, Leonard Daniels, a cable worker from Greenwich was sitting on a bench in Cumberland Green with his girlfriend Menna August, a domestic servant who worked at nearby 6 Chester Place. Having finished work, they had been to the cinema, and were sitting quietly having a chat and a smoke. They had barely been there for five minutes when a short thick-set man in his early twenties came up saying “there’s a woman laying over there, I think she’s ill?”, Leonard asked “where?”, and he pointed to just fifty feet from where they were sat. Pulling out her torch, Menna shone it upon a wide expanse of grass with no bushes or trees in any direction, and there lay a woman, seemingly fast asleep. Alerted by the commotion, Thomas Hustwayte, a toolmaker from Hackney asked “has she fainted?”, but having briefly examined her, Leonard’s words were clear “no, she is dead”. Of those four, Menna, Leonard & Thomas walked to Albany Street police station, but the thick-set man was never identified. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Inspector Jamieson and Superintendent Beveridge. It was clear upon arrival that this was not an ordinary attack on a lone woman walking through a park at night. It had some of the hallmarks, but too many elements of the scene didn’t make any sense. There was no robbery; her sapphire and diamond pendant remained round her neck, the rings were on her fingers and her brown leather handbag hadn’t been opened or disturbed. Inside was the £5. There was no sexual assault; not a single item of her clothing or underwear had been ripped, scuffed or even disarranged. Everything looked as neat and pressed as when she had left her home that night. There had been an attack; as with broken nails and blackened eyes, it was clear that this tiny lady had valiantly tried and failed to put up a brave fight in her last seconds alive, but it hadn’t happened here. Whoever had attacked her had strangled her with a hand and inserted a handkerchief so far down her throat that she choked, only that hadn’t happened here. The detectives would comment “It looked like she had been laid down and her bag used as a pillow… it was like she was positioned with reverence…”. With straight arms, legs and body, she hadn’t collapsed here, but she had been placed. Renee had been dead for nearly an hour by the time she was found, but she hadn’t set foot in Regent’s Park that night. For the police, they knew this for certain, as with air moist with drizzle and the grass freshly cut, everyone’s shoes were wet and dotted with green sticky clippings… all except Renee’s. But who had attacked her, where had they strangled her and why did they dump her body here? It made no sense. Cumberland Park was one of the few parts of Regent’s Park without obstructions. With the nearest entrance being from the Outer Circle - a ring road which loops from Baker Street to Great Portland Street – she was far enough away from the street-lights and traffic, but to get to the place where her body was laid, somebody had carried her through a gate shrouded by dark thick trees. Clearly, she had been posed and placed in the open, but why did her murderer want her to be found? Whoever it was, they had both loved and hated Renee for whatever reason, and although this attack seemed like a crime-of-passion, in the heat of the moment, her assailant had made a single mistake. Down her throat a cotton handkerchief had been forced. It wasn’t hers, as being so stylish, Renee’s were always neat, clean and colourful, matching her clothes or nails. This was old, it was torn and it was used. It was a man’s handkerchief stitched with the blue laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. Police searched the surrounding areas – the streets, the park and made house-to-house enquiries – but there had been no sightings of Renee since she left her home at 6pm, and no sounds of the attack. With no suspect, the police had three possible theories as to what had happened. #1 – Renee had gone for a walk in a park (three miles from her home) and was attacked by a stranger. This was less likely, as she was not the sort of woman to go walking in a dark park, at night, by herself. #2 – Chosen at random, her murder was committed by a copy-cat killer, inspired by the film ‘Wanted for Murder’ where a killer strangles a woman in a London park - which was still playing at the cinema. Or #3 – Renee had met a man, he had killed her elsewhere, and he had dumped her body in the park. This seemed the most likely theory. Within two days, the police were convinced that her killer was someone she liked, someone she possibly loved, and – more importantly – someone she trusted. (End) The next morning, unsure which was the home of Uncle Willy, a reporter entered Bert’s grocery shop. Having been a little too eager to get the scoop, they blurted out the tragic truth before the police had a chance to inform her loved one’s. And within the hour, the whole street knew that Renee was dead. Informed by a ravenous press too insensitive of her grieving family’s feelings to tread carefully with a deadline looming, when Bert went next-door, he saw the ashen faces of his pals Daniel and Willy; their eyes red with tears and their anger evident, as through choked words, the dead girl’s father barked “If I get hold of the man who did it, I would tear him to pieces”. Knowing they needed his support, Bert stayed with them until 1:50pm, as the three men who loved her stood in silence and shock. With the door locked and his 65th birthday party cancelled, Uncle Willy put a sign on the door of his off-licence, which read “owing to the sudden death of my dear niece, this shop will be closed”. On Thursday 8th October 1947, just eight days after her murder, the funeral of Gladys Hanrahan known as Renee was held. Organised by Herbert Marshall, the depot manager at United Dairies, as a mark of respect, among the cortege was a long line of milk floats which passed her home at a solum pace, and on each van lay a brightly coloured wreath which typified this good woman’s warmth and love. The church was full of mourners; family, friends, neighbours and colleagues, everyone who loved her. With not a dry eye to be seen, no-one could fathom why anyone would hate Renee, let alone how any one would want her dead? And yet, somewhere in this church, someone she knew had murdered her. Renee was known as the girl with a smile for everyone… but maybe it was one smile too many? ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE:
On the morning of Friday 17th July 1964, Kathleen Cotter, a mother of three who lived in the top floor flat of 7 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale found 77-year-old Samuel Bragg dead in his bed. The old man had been ill for many months owing to malnutrition and advancing dementia. As was protocol, the police were called, an investigation was conducted, but his autopsy would confirm what everyone suspected, that old Samuel had died in his sleep. It’s a tragic story which happens every day, in every town… …only, a small sound heard higher up in the house would lead to a truly disturbing story which nobody suspected and would lead to the arrest of the murderer of Samuel Bragg.
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. COTTER, Timothy Noel(14): murder of Samuel BRAGG between 14 July 1964 and 18 July 1964 in Paddington, London by asphyxiation. Convicted of manslaughter (Boy smothers room mate) https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C3756486 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C5038655 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale, W9: two streets south of the arrest of Edward Walstrom-Lewis, a few hundred feet east of the frozen torso of Hannah Brown, and two roads west of the unsolved murder by a killer who claimed to be ‘the real ripper’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Nestled to the side of Little Venice, Randolph Avenue is a quiet, discrete and impressively clean road lined with an odd mix of building styles reflecting its ever-changing fortune over the centuries. Not too long ago it was full of run-down council tenements, but today, it’s mostly full of celebrities. But aside from featuring in the comedy ‘A Fish Called Wanda’, when Otto (played by Kevin Klein) side-swipes a car and shouts the immortal line “aaaaaassssshooole”, you’ll have no reason to know it. At 7 Randolph Avenue currently stands a five-storey townhouse worth £6 million. And although the loft and the white Doric columns around the door are recent additions, it looks as it did in the 1960s. Back in 1964, the front ground floor flat was the home of 77-year-old Samuel Bragg, a war-veteran who suffered with dementia and lived in squalor. The council were aware of his situation, but wanting to be left alone, there was nothing they could do. Thankfully, living in a house full of caring neighbours, when he needed help, they were always there, right up to the day that he passed away in his bed. It’s a sad story which happens every day in every town… …only, Samuel’s seemingly peaceful death would lead to his killer’s arrest. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 169: Samuel Bragg: The Miser’s Demise. Befitting a man who lived by himself, little is known about Samuel’s life. Born in 1887, Samuel Bragg was the youngest of four to Henry & Eliza Bragg of Union Street in Lambeth (South London); a working-class family with his mum a housewife and his dad a saw-dust dealer. Aged 14, he left school, becoming a building site labourer until he enlisted to fight for King & Country in the First World War, for which he was given a veteran’s pension. And that was all that was recorded about the life of Samuel Bragg. It’s as if his past had never existed and his present was coming to a close. In March 1955, aged 67, Samuel Bragg had moved into the small front-room on the ground-floor of 7 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale; a council-run lodging with Mr Rosen, a 60-year-old bachelor living on the first floor, Mrs De Troch a 75-year-old widow on the second, and on the third, the Cotter family – comprising of mother Kathleen, father Timothy, and three children; Jean, Anthony and Timothy Junior. Concerned for his well being, the tenants always kept tabs on ‘Old Samuel’, as it was clear that he had no-one. With no wife, no kids, no friends nor siblings to visit him, Samuel was very much a loner. The sadness was that he had not always been this way. As a little guy of just five foot three inches high with a fondness for felt hats and sporting an elegant moustache, he was clearly once a bit of a dandy. But with no-one to care for and no-one to love him, Samuel became a shadow of his former self. Isolated. Lonely. Unloved. Through his twilight years, this dapper gent had morphed into a ragged sack of bones, infected with bed sores, his eyes sunken and his skin unwashed and stinking. With his days spent alone in his squalid room, wearing soiled pants and muttering to himself in a rambling mumble. As a vulnerable man with advancing dementia, the Welfare Service had tried to get him a cleaner and a carer over the years, and to coax him to move into a nursing home, but he always refused any help. Samuel lived the life of a miser; saving every penny, spending nothing and living in abject squalor. Set to the side of the front door; his single-room (being just fifteen feet square) consisted of a bed, a chair, two chests of drawers and a small hob for cooking. With just one window which was never open, the stale stench of his depressing hovel remained in semi-darkness, as he was too tight-fisted to switch on the bare bulb over his head. Being too mean to buy a rug, his calloused feet crept about on icy cold floorboards. And unwilling to waste money on coal, the soiled sheets of his bed was his only warmth. It was a room of utter sadness. There was no colour, no music and no joy. In no part of this dingy filth lay family photos, love letters or fond memories of his past - as all it contained was just the basics. And although malnutrition had made him weak, his spendthrift ways made him live on a diet of sardines and potatoes - the cheapest food he could buy – as every day his mental and physical health declined. Samuel had no-one to love him… …but there was one person who cared. On the third floor of 7 Randolph Avenue lived 40-year-old Kathleen Cotter, a busy mother of four who earned an honest crust as an office cleaner as her husband’s wage as a labourer wasn’t enough. The Cotters had lived there for twelve years, and they had known Samuel since they day he had arrived. Initially, he was liked, but as his illness progressed and the peculiarities of his dementia surfaced, some of the tenants grew distant. When they were little, Kathleen’s youngest boys (Timothy and Anthony) often popped down to see Old Samuel. He was fun, he was kind and – although tight-fisted – he always had a few pennies to spare so the kids could buy sweets. But in later years, although the promise of coins would prove a powerful lure, Tim & Tony stopped visiting, as (in their words) “the room stank”. As a mother with a big heart and lots of patience, Kathleen did what she could for Samuel; she made him hearty meals, she darned his tatty clothes and she even washed his bed-sheets as he often stayed in bed for days at a time. So rancid were his sheets that although she boil-washed them separately to eviscerate the lice, she would have loved to have burned them, only she knew he wouldn’t buy more. In 1962, Kathleen was so worried about Samuel that she called the welfare officer, he was taken to St Mary’s hospital and having remained there for five months, when he returned home, he looked well. But within weeks, being back in the squalid stench of his own festering filth, Samuel began to decline; he got thin, pale, even more confused, and – now rejecting her help - he just wanted to be left alone. On the odd occasion that he ventured outside, he could often be found wandering the streets in a pair of soiled underpants, mumbling to himself, unable to recall who he was or where he was going. Inside, his conversation was limited to just ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers. And his hygiene was non-existent; he rarely bathed, his clothes smelled bad and he would urinate in a metal bucket which he kept beside his bed. With a communal toilet on the first floor, waking every day at 5:30am, Samuel would ascend the stairs, nab Mr Rosen’s newspaper and spend the next twenty minutes straining all manner of unpleasantness from his upset bowels. And when his symphony of rectal explosions was over, with shaky hands he would empty his bucket, often missing the bowl and slopping his feted waste over the seat and floor. It wasn’t malicious and she knew it, so without any complaint, his mess was cleaned up by Kathleen. As his illness got worse, Samuel’s paranoia turned to the only thing he had in life… his money. Samuel was a miser, he wasn’t mean, he just terrified of being robbed and left with nothing. Everyone knew that Samuel had money, as on the days when he couldn’t pick-up his pension, Kathleen would collect it for him. Being held in a tin box in the third drawer down of his chest of drawers, the tin was always fastened, the drawer was kept locked and the key was fixed to a chain on his belt. But as an old frail man - for any passing thief - he was an easy target. In January 1964, seven months before his death, Samuel had £26 stolen from his tin. With the front door left open and being too mean to fix the lock to his room, having left his trousers on his bed, the keys were used and – within seconds – the money was stolen. With the thief apprehended by Mrs Cotter, as Samuel didn’t want to report it to the police, the criminal agreed to pay back the full amount at a rate of ten shillings a week. And that’s what made the flats at 7 Randolph Avenue such a nice place to live… …as the tenants always looked out for one another. Tuesday 14th July 1964 was the last day that Samuel was seen alive. For the past three weeks he had been bed-bound, his breathing was laboured and his body was weak and pale. It took Kathleen a little off-guard to see him upright and alert; as she knelt scrubbing the steps, her mind distracted by a set of keys to the office she cleaned which had gone missing the day before. But there he was. Alongside Mrs De Troch, Kathleen asked “Mr Bragg. Are you feeling okay?”. Standing in the doorway of his unlit room, dressed in a stained pair of pyjamas, he croaked “no, no I’m not”, his face all long and drawn. “You really ought to see a doctor” Mrs De Troch begged. But just wanting to be left alone, the old man muttered “the doctors can do nothing for me”. And with that, he returned to his bed. That was the last time that anyone saw Samuel Bragg. The next day, Kathleen had given her son Timothy £1 to buy some bread and milk. Being a typical 14-year-old, his teenage years had made him selfish, so – having taken 3 shillings of her change (roughly £1 today) - he had spent it on pinball machines at The Phoenix Club, a youth club in West Hampstead. It had been fun, but knowing how hard she worked and how disappointed she’d be, at 10:30pm, as he came in (Timothy) “I heard Old Samuel moaning. I didn’t pay any attention as he was always like that. Besides, the room smelled of wee”. And worried about how he was going to apologise to his mum, Timothy passed Samuel’s room, ascended the stairs and returned to the family flat on the third floor. That was the last time that that anyone heard Samuel Bragg. On Friday 17th July, two days later, Kathleen had grown worried. Having entered the communal toilet at 7:10am, she had prepared herself to reel from the toxic horror of the old man’s ablutions. Only, it was as clean as she had left it before. Which was odd, as Samuel was a man of routine, even when ill. Kathleen would state: “I went down to his door. As it always was, it was wedged shut with a piece of paper. I listened outside and heard nothing. I pushed it and went in. The bed was behind the door. All I could see of him was his arm over the top of his chest outside the covers. His head was turned towards the wall and there was a pillow over the side of his face. I lifted it up and saw he was dead”. PC Horace Simms arrived at 8am, followed by police surgeon Dr Samuel Sanders who declared the life of 77-year-old Samuel Bragg extinct. With no signs of forced entry and nothing obviously stolen, robbery was ruled out. The room was messy, but no more than usual. And with his skin mottled with old and new bruises, this wasn’t seen as suspicious as the elderly bruise a lot easier than the young. With no signs of a struggle or assault, the most likely cause of death was an accidental suffocation as his pillow blocked his airways as he slept. His body was removed J H Kenyon, an undertaker, and taken to St Pancras Mortuary where Dr Molesworth Johnson confirmed ‘death by accidental smothering’. With no loved ones, no close friends and no known relatives left to mourn him, the body of Samuel Bragg was held at St Pancras Mortuary until someone either claimed him, or paid for a funeral. And with that, the inquest was closed… …it was nothing extraordinary, as being something which happens on most streets, in most towns, on most days, the death of Samuel Bragg was just another sad demise of old lonely miser. The tenants at 7 Randolph Avenue went back to living their regular lives, the council had the room fumigated, his few possessions were destroyed, and a new lodger moved into the ground-floor flat. Kathleen never found her missing keys, Timothy paid her back the three shillings he had taken and the toilet remained mercifully clean in the proceeding weeks, although a sadness still hung over the house. As often happens, some of the tenants spoke of how weird Samuel’s death was; of how the messiness of his room wasn’t right, of how he had bruised himself only he hadn’t left his bed, and even Kathleen would inform the police “I think Old Samuel’s been done in”. But with no evidence of foul play, the police knew (as often happens) that people often clutch at straws when they’re struggling with grief. One week later, on Wednesday 22nd July, Kathleen was enduring the typical day of a harassed mother. Being home for lunch, 14-year-old Tim & 15-year-old Tony were bickering as always. Their flat was too small for a family of six and with the boys sharing bunk-beds, they often got on each other’s nerves. With lunch finished, she was trying to wash-up the dishes when she heard her boys getting up in each other faces. “Boys, quit it” she barked, knowing they were due back at school and with Tim off on his paper-round soon enough, with the quibbling siblings split, the flat would quickly become quieter. From the front room, Tony called out “mum, he’s hiding something”, dobbing in his younger brother (as he does) like a massive swot, only Tim was adamant (Tim) “I’m not mum, I’m not hiding nothing”. Their father, a former heavy-drinker was more of a disciplinarian whose fast smacks could silence any nonsense, but their mother would be the first to admit that she was often a little too soft on her boys. Especially Tim, as although bright, he was often bullied for wearing thick glasses owing to a squint. Their bickering continued. (Tony) “mum, Tim’s hiding something in his jacket”, (Kathleen) “boys, quiet down”, (Tim) “mum, I’m not, he’s lying”, (Kathleen) “okay, enough now”, (Tony) “I can, I can heard it jangle”, (Tim) “he can’t, he’s lying”, (Tony) “prove it, gimme your jacket”, (Tim) “get off, mum?!” But it was the next sentence which stopped Kathleen in her tracks. (Tony) “he has, he’s got some keys”. A whole week she had searched for her keys, she had looked everywhere and she had asked everyone but nothing had been found, and now, furious at his little joke, the fun and games were over. With a look only a mother can give, the kind which makes all boy’s bits shrivel, she barked “Hand me back my work keys”. Timothy froze. “Hand over my keys… now”. But still he didn’t move, as the only movement was a single tear which trembled on his lid. But Kathleen was not joking “Timothy! Keys! Now!”. Unwilling to put up with his shit any more, Kathleen snatched his jacket off the chair, she reached inside his pocket, and – as was expected – with a distinctive jangle, she pulled out a set of keys. Tony grinned with glee, thinking “oooh, Tim’s gonna get it bad when dad gets up”. Only, these were not Kathleen’s keys… …and as she held them, her face became etched with horror. (Kathleen) “Timothy, what are you doing with Samuel’s keys?”. She didn’t want to think it, she daren’t, but as her youngest son began to cry, there seemed to be only one answer and it was the unthinkable. Unsure what to do, Kathleen sent him to school while she discussed it with the boy’s father. At 4:30pm, a little later than usual, he sheepishly returned, grabbed his bike, and headed out on his paper round. It was the right thing to do. It was a part-time job he had been doing since January, and earning £1 a week. 10 shillings he kept for himself, and the other 10 shillings were paid on a weekly basis to Samuel. Back then, his mother had protected him, as being a good lad, she had begged Samuel not to go to the police, and a local probation officer had arranged the repayment of the £26 which he had stolen. But this was different… …this was murder. At 7:15pm, Timothy returned home to 7 Randolph Avenue. For Kathleen, it was possibly the hardest decision that any mother would ever have to make, but she knew it was right. (Kathleen) “Tim? You know what we’ve got to do, don’t you?”, she calmly cooed. And he did. With a quivering lip, Tim cried “yes mum, I won’t hold it against you if you turn me in” and as he dressed, she said he cried bitterly. It was only a ten-minute walk down Edgware Road, but it would be the longest walk of their lives. At 8:30pm, Kathleen & Timothy Cotter arrived at Paddington Green police station, as this devoted mother and son stood quietly holding each other’s hands. Interviewed by Detective Superintendent Howlett, the DS asked the boy “your mother has told me she found Samuel Bragg’s keys in your pocket and that you told her you may be the cause of his death?”, Timothy nodded and he was cautioned. In a brief confession, he would state “I went into the room to get some money. I took his keys off his trousers and was looking through the drawers when Mr Bragg woke up. I panicked and picked up the pillow. I held it there for about 1 to 2 minutes. While I was holding the pillow, he grabbed my hand and I held his hand until he let go of mine. He was breathing when I left him. I knew he was. I saw his stomach going up and down”. Those words were Timothy’s own words, but as he was still only a child, his confession had to be counter-signed by his mum. Except for the keys, nothing else was stolen, but as he sat there, the boy’s motive became obvious. As Tim would cry “I stole three shillings of your change mum, I’m sorry, I wanted to make it up to you”. That evening, as no relative had claimed Samuel Bragg’s body, a second autopsy was conducted at St Pancras Mortuary to determine if this was in fact a case not of ‘accidental smothering’ but of murder. As before, his injuries were consistent with accidental asphyxiation. There was no sign of assault, no evidence of manual or ligature strangulation, nor any obstruction to the airways. But given that the man was old, frail and weak, the pathologist deduced that it was perfectly possible for a boy to press a pillow over the old man’s face for one to two minutes and induce unconsciousness and even death. This kind of injury would ordinarily have caused bruising to the lips, but as Samuel had taken his false teeth out, no bruising had occurred. Bruises to his right hand were found, as the confession suggested, but it could not be determined if the other bruises were caused by compression or everyday knocks. On Wednesday 22nd July 1964, following a further investigation and autopsy, in the presence of his mother, 14-year-old Timothy Cotter was charged with the murder of Samuel Bragg. (End) To many, Timothy Cotter was a harmless young boy who had made a mistake to pay back his mum. But as his story came out, the more people talked. Many knew he had stolen £26 from Samuel. But what only a handful knew was how much money the old man was worth. Had Timothy found the right key, he’d have seen that the cash tin contained an assortment of notes and coins worth £30 (£550 today), alongside some war certificates and a post office savings book with a credit of £3400 (£67000). Kathleen had seen this when she (as a good woman caring for an old man) had put Samuel’s pension in, but as she gossiped to her husband (in confidence) it was overheard by her son. Her sweet little angel had started hanging around with boys she disliked, who had become rude, distant and violent. Some may blame his friends, but others would state that Timothy had a dark side, as a few days after the murder, he relayed the facts of his burglary to a pal, with the cool calmness of a career criminal. Held at Ashford Remand Centre, Dr P D Scott conducted at psychological assessment of Timothy who stated “this boy is of superior intelligence, an IQ of 129… he displays a callousness towards his victim… and admits to stealing to feed his new tastes” – buying records, fancy clothes and going out to dances. “He has regretted the offence largely because of its implications to himself rather than because of sympathy for his victim… the only hint of violence is his fantasy in his description of how he would deal with homosexual men in cinemas” stating (“I would slam them, or stub them with cigarettes”). Tried on 8th September 1964, at the Old Bailey, he pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter and the jury accepted this. On 15th September, 14-year-old Timothy Noel Cotter was sentenced to ten years in prison. At which, his face was emotionless. Unlike his mother, who was in floods of tears. Timothy Cotter served his sentence at Stamford House Remand Centre in Shepherd’s Bush, where he boasted to the others of having “killed a man”, and he had to be separated from the other boys. He was placed on licence before his sentence expired and his current whereabouts are unknown. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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