Best True-Crime Podcasts of 2019 - Blood, Sweat and Fear: The Story of Inspector Vance (Q&A)30/6/2019 Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform. Hey avid true-crime podcast listeners! If you're dribbling and drooling insatiably for the very latest true-crime podcast to get your chops into, you're in luck. On this blog, every week, I will be posting a Q&A by some of the best true-crime podcasters out-there. This week, it's the turn of the fabulous Eve Lazarus, reporter, best-selling author and independent podcaster of the amazing Blood, Sweat, and Fear: The Story of Inspector Vance.
Michael's thoughts: If you're a true-crime fan and a history nut, I highly recommend Blood, Sweat & Fear: The Story of Inspector Vance, written and presented by reporter and best-selling author writer of Murder by Milkshake, Eve Lazarus. Not only is it insightful, well-conceived and beautifully produced, but if you love story-telling and true-crime history, then this is a must. Anyone who knows me knows I'm slightly obsessed with Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the father of forensic science, but this opened my eyes to a new world as this is the true story of Inspector Vance, a pioneer of forensic science in Canada. Eve's podcast is written, researched and presented with a lot of love and care, so I strongly recommend you give it a listen. Mx Q & A with Eve from Blood, Sweat and Fear: The Story of Inspector Vance How did you get into true-crime podcasting?. It seemed like a natural extension of my true crime/history book Blood, Sweat, and Fear: The story of Inspector Vance, Vancouver’s first forensic investigator It was a way to keep the story going and to reach a different audience. Now I’m totally obsessed with creating and listening to podcasts. What podcasts (true-crime or not) inspire you? I love long-form true crime podcasts like Dirty John and Teacher’s Pet that do great reporting while telling a compelling story. My latest book Murder by Milkshake: an astonishing true story of adultery, arsenic and a charismatic killer, has been optioned for movie/television and documentary, and I’d eventually like to turn it into a long form podcast. What was your first episode and why was it an important story to tell? My first episode was The Mysterious Disappearance of Clara Millard: and takes place in 1914. Jack Kong was a 16-year-old Chinese house boy who worked for the Millards’ in Vancouver’s West End. One morning, Jack got up, made porridge for Clara Millard, killed her, hacked up her body, and burned it in the furnace. It was the first time my Inspector Vance worked for police when he was brought in to examine the blood found at the crime scene. And, while the story was incredible, it was fascinating for me to research because it put racism into a historical context and takes us through early Chinatown, a “third degree” police inquisition, and the eventual trial. What’s the most obscure true-crime fact you know? That the BC Coroner’s office currently has 181 cases of unidentified remains dating back to 1947. Which piece of research are you most pleased with? The hero of Blood, Sweat, and Fear is Inspector Vance, one of the first forensic scientists in North America, certainly the first to be attached to a police department. He retired in 1949 and died in 1965, and there was little information available about him. I tracked down his grandchildren, begged them to look for anything they may have kept of his, and eventually turned up seven cardboard boxes full of case notes, crime scene photographs, autopsy results, trial transcripts, his diary, and even forensic samples—hair and gravel that was found at a crime scene. These boxes hadn’t been opened for over half-a-century. It was an incredible find and really added to the richness of the stories. Which case has been the biggest joy or headache to cover and why? The murder of Jennie Eldon Conroy in 1944. Jennie was a war worker who was beaten to death and dumped outside a cemetery. After her death, the police leaked to the media that she was an unwed mother and the press brutalized her, basically blaming her for her own murder. She was an amazing woman, and it was wonderful to set the record straight. During the course of my research, I found Jennie’s niece in Vancouver and her daughter in New Zealand, who was then 71. Mary and Debbie helped me write the story, and show the impact of a murder on the family even after several decades. Now the story is about Jennie, and not just her murder. If you had a time-machine, which murder would you love to witness simply so you could say “oh, that’s what happened?” The murder of the two brothers whose skeletons were found in Stanley Park in 1953. It has always been thought that their mother was responsible. I’d like to find out if that was true, but more importantly, I’d like to give them back their names. They are just known as “The Babes in the Woods,” they have never been identified. Why should new listeners give your podcast a try? I’m a reporter, and I take a deep dive into the story behind every podcast, and wherever possible, double source everything. As well as newspaper morgues and archives, I get the inquests, vital statistics, and talk to everyone involved in the case. That could be police detectives, lawyers, forensic psychologists, coroner, doctors and toxicologists, but more importantly I talk to the families, friends and former colleagues of the victims. My focus is always on the victim, and as much as possible, I try to give them back their voice. What’s next? Blood, Sweat, and Fear is a 12-episode podcast. I’m now in the planning stages of creating a podcast based on my book Cold Case Vancouver: The City’s most baffling unsolved murders . A big thank you to Eve for taking part in this True-Crime Podcaster Q & A. Don't forget to check out her podcast and website. To explore this fine true-crime podcast further, click on the links. . Stay safe my friends Michael.x Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast #64: Ben & Freya Pedersen - the Last Victims of the Hyde Park bombing26/6/2019
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE SIXTY-FOUR
On Tuesday 20th July 1982, an IRA bomb exploded in Hyde Park. Ben and Freya Pedersen were the last two victims of the Hyde Park bombing, and yet their faces don’t appear in any photos and their names aren’t etched on the memorial plaque, and although they died thirty years after this terrorist attack, their deaths are no less tragic.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Hyde Park bombing on South Carriage Drive is marked with a red ! at the bottom. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as King's Cross and Soho, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Ep64 – Ben & Freya Pedersen: The Last Victims of the Hyde Park Bombing
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about Ben and Freya Pedersen, the last two victims of the Hyde Park bombing, and yet their faces don’t appear in any photos, their names aren’t etched on the memorial plaque, and although they died thirty years after this terrorist attack, their deaths are no less tragic. Murder Mile is researched using original and authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 64: Ben & Freya Pedersen: the Last Victims of the Hyde Park bombing. Today I’m standing on South Carriage Drive in Hyde Park, W2; a short walk south of Maison Lyonese where Evelyn Hamilton met The Blackout Ripper, a brisk dawdle east of the Milk Bar where Rita Nelson met Reg Christie, a quick canter from the Tyburn Tree – London’s infamous execution site, and a short saunter from the ice disaster on the Serpentine – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated west of Mayfair and book-ended by Bayswater and Kensington, Hyde Park is the largest of London’s four royal parks. Established in 1536, when fat bloated wife-shortener Henry VIII nabbed 350 acres of the Church’s land to turn a deer reserve into a shooting gallery, Hyde Park is a public park, open to everyone, for everything, from concerts to protests, sports to picnics, fairs to free-speech. Hyde Park is a real blessing in a smoggy metropolis like London - as although it’s circled by belching buses, honking horns and speed-crazy psychopaths on scooters racing to get a cup of hot coffee to some arsehole with an app, too lazy to get it themselves in a city where there’s a Costa or Starbucks every ten feet – being full of grass, trees, birds and a lake, Hyde Park is a literal breath of fresh air. Of course, its tranquillity is often sullied by halfwits in hammocks, yetis in yoga pants, joggers squatting with sweaty bum cracks, utter twats playing tinny tunes on iPhones, bag-handed bastards picking up their dog-plop only to hang it from a tree like it’s a fricking Christmas treat (also known as the “shit Santa”) and - of course - babies. Really, what is the point to them? All they do is cry and crap. Urgh! Skirting the south side of Hyde Park, South Carriage Drive is a two-lane street between Exhibition Road and Park Lane. Lined with trees, a horse-track and Hyde Park Barracks, it’s always quiet, as cars cannot stop or park here… and for good reason. And although, a memorial commemorates the dead, with very few people knowing their story, there is no plaque for Ben & Freya Pedersen. As it was here on Tuesday 20th July 1982, that one of Britain’s worst mainland bombings took place, and yet, thirty years later, Hyde Park would claim its last two victims. (Interstitial) 1982 was bad year… …being at the tail end of a recession, with three million people unemployed (the highest figure since the 1930’s), inflation high, wages low and crime soaring, as Margaret Thatcher entered her fourth year as British Prime Minister, Britain was at war with Argentina over the disputed territory of the Falkland Islands and the 1979 ceasefire with the Provisional Irish Republican Army had collapsed. Tensions were high and security was tight. Seeing itself as the successor to the original IRA, who sought to end British rule in Northern Ireland, the Provisional IRA was the most active republican paramilitary group of the conflict, killing more than eighteen hundred people in its thirty year campaign. In the two years since the ceasefire’s collapse, in London alone, the IRA detonated seven bombs injuring sixty-five people and killing twelve. On 2nd December 1980, five died at a Territorial Army recruitment centre in Kensington. 8th January 1981, fifty musicians escaped an explosion at RAF Uxbridge. 17th October 1981, Lieutenant-General Sir Stuart Pringle lost a leg when a booby-trapped bomb blew up under his car. 26th Oct 1981, Kenneth Howarth was killed as he tried to defuse a bomb left in a Wimpy Bar on Oxford Street. And on 23rd November 1981, a soldier’s wife and her friend were injured when a bomb (disguised as a toy gun) exploded outside of the Royal Artillery Barracks, next to a school for the Army’s children. Quoting Article 51 of the UN Statue that “nothing shall impair the right of individual or collective self-defence if an armed attack occurs against a member of the United Nations”, the IRA stated “now it is our turn to invoke article 51 and quote all Thatcher’s fine phrases on the right to self-determination of a people. The Irish people have sovereign rights which no task or occupational force can put down”. In a campaign which was both targeted and random, sometimes the IRA gave warnings, sometimes they didn’t, sometimes a blast was just a distraction to cause panicked people to run in the direction of a bigger bomb, and with devices left in bags, on buses or in bins near busy shopping districts, their victims were both servicemen and civilians, whether men, women or children. And the next bomb was no exception… With the sight of injured civilians splashed across the newspapers proving detrimental to their cause, the London-based Active Service Unit of the Provisional IRA sought out a strictly military target. On Saturday 10th October 1981, at 12pm, having finished their shift at the Tower of London, as a small white coach carrying twenty-three soldiers from the British Army regiment of the Irish Guards turned onto St Barnabas Street; a quiet, calm side-street at the back of Chelsea Barracks, the bomb exploded. Hidden in a parked laundry van, detonated by remote, packed full of eight kilos of highly explosive gelignite and being padded with bags of four inch nails, although the blast was strong enough to eviscerate the van, as the bus wasn’t close enough, the initial explosion missed its target. But as the blast wave turned these harmless steel nails into thousands of high-speed projectiles - which could penetrate metal, wood, bone and skin – forty people were injured, eight seriously and two were killed; 59 year old Nora Field and 18 year old John Breslin, two innocent civilians who happened to be passing. …and yet, little would the British Security Services know that the bombing at the Chelsea Barracks was just a dress-rehearsal for the true horror that was still to come at Hyde Park. (Interstitial) In a plain red-bricked but oddly shaped six storey building sat alone on South Carriage Drive, with ten foot high walls, a thick reinforced gate and a large Union Jack flag proudly flying, although it looks like a tacky 1980’s hotel - with a faint whiff of dung, a discrete whinny of horses and a military insignia – this is the garrison of the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment, the Queen's official bodyguards. Comprised of the British Army’s two most senior regiments - the Life Guards and the Blues & Royals - The Household Cavalry performs the ‘Changing of the Guard’; a ceremonial tradition dating back three hundred and sixty years, and on alternate days – with the Life Guards in red tunics, gold plumes and gold body armour, and the Blues & Royals in dark blue tunics, red plumes and silver body armour – they ride with absolute precision, on neat and unfazed horses, from Hyde Park Barracks, down South Carriage Drive and Constitution Hill, changing at Buckingham Palace and Horse Guards Parade. Tuesday 20th July 1982 was an ordinary day, as being Britain, the summer sun was hidden by a blanket of grey cloud, a dirty wind and an interminable drizzle. As a consummate soldier who was fastidiously neat, precise and professional, for 21 year old Michael Pedersen, being a Sargent in the Blues & Royals was an honour. Up early to black his boots, starch his creases and polish his body-armour to a mirror-shine, with his face clean shaven and his brown hair neatly trimmed to military regulation, Michael took pride in his duties. Trained to tackle the unexpected in an unemotional way, showing no weakness or fear, although he had a fun and gregarious side, Michael was the perfect soldier; he was smart, loyal and serious about every single detail of his life, as in his eyes - everything had to be perfect – and that included his horse. Bred as a cross between an Irish draught mare and a thoroughbred stallion, with silky black hair, a broad powerful body and standing sixteen hands high, Sefton was an impressive sight. Unlike Michael, Sefton had already served in the British Army for fifteen years, but just like Michael, although strong, sturdy and unshakable, off-duty he had a temperamental side, with Sefton disobeying commands and breaking rank, hence he was given the nickname “Sharky”, as to those he didn’t like, he would bite. At exactly 10:30am on Tuesday 20th July 1982, as the double-gates of Hyde Park Barracks opened, in two-by-two formation, the Blues & Royals trotted out and turned right onto the South Carriage Drive. Being mid-morning; the street was quiet, the park was empty and the traffic was light, so except for a handful of tourists and a few parked cars, the road was silent. As per usual, the route was routine, and as the troop passed a low depression in the road, rising up towards Hyde Park Corner, everything seemed ordinary; from the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, to the faint rustle of leaves, to the distant click of cameras as a small excitable crowd gathered… unaware that they were trotting into a trap. On the night prior, the Provisional IRA had stolen a plain-looking car which by the morning had yet to be reported missing. Parking it up on South Carriage Drive and having fed the meter with new 20p pieces, the rather ordinary blue Austin Morris Marina blended in with the other parked-up minis and VWs. The horses and riders thought nothing of it as they passed the little blue car, but hidden in its boot was a remote detonator, eleven kilos of gelignite and fourteen kilos of four-inch steel nails. At 10:40am, the nail bomb exploded. The flash was an intense yellow, burning bright but fading fast, as with the bulk of the blast insulated by its metal boot, the explosives tossed the Austin Marina into the air, flipping it onto the car behind, a ragged tangled mess of twisted smoking metal. With ears ringing, an eerie silence descended as the disorientated spectators stirred, their world enveloped by a cacophony of sounds; as the blast wave smashed windows streets away, sirens wailed and horses whinnied, as slowly, began the screams. Thick with black caustic smoke, as the stench of chemicals and burning drifted from the fiery wreckage, although they could hear the fear, no-one could see what had happened as the street was shielded in a cloud of acrid dust and smouldering debris. But as a light wind blew, the dark clouds parted. Both lanes of South Carriage Drive were a sea of blood as side-by-side soldiers and stallions lay dead or dying; the dull grey road littered with black shapeless lumps as injured horses oozed red slicks, and underneath these crippled beasts - with shiny armour oddly glinting - their bloodied riders lay trapped. As before, it wasn’t the explosives which killed or injured, but with eighty nails per bag, the blast wave turned fourteen transparent bags of harmless pins into nine hundred lethal steel projectiles, which whizzed through the air like thin silver bullets, piercing skin, shredding muscle and embedding in bone. Alerted by the blast, soldiers ran from the barracks to aid their bleeding comrades and disregarding the risk of a secondary explosion as they entered a scene of chaos and carnage. As a strong and sturdy horse, Sergeant Pedersen later stated that Sefton reacted so professionally that even as the bomb exploded, he (as the rider) wasn’t thrown, and although Sefton bled profusely with four-inch nails having ruptured its left eye, jugular vein and embedded in thirty-four parts of its body, the injured horse galloped to the barracks, Sergeant Pedersen on top, taking its rider to safety. Sergeant Pedersen was miraculously unharmed; the blast and shrapnel shielded by his horse and his vital organs protected by his body armour, but having witnessed a sight of absolute horror, so shocking it can’t be unseen, being too traumatised to even talk, Sergeant Pedersen remained in severe shock. The nail bomb injured all sixteen of the horses; nine along with Sefton were wounded, as well as ‘Echo’ a grey mare of the Metropolitan Police who was escorting the troop, but with seven being so badly maimed they would never have survived, under several dark tarpaulins, the Regiment’s vet ended their suffering. They were Cedric, Epaulette, Falcon, Rochester, Waterford, Yeastvite and Zara. Twenty-two people were admitted to hospital, eighteen soldiers, one policeman and three civilians, (one of whom was a mother and her baby) and although the standard bearer of the Blues & Royals fought on, three days later he died of his wounds and became the fourth human casualty of the Hyde Park bombing, the first three having been killed outright. Those we lost were Corporal Major Roy Bright, Lieutenant Anthony Daly, Trooper Simon Tipper and Lance Corporal Jeffrey Young, Two hours later, at 12:55pm, two miles north in Regent’s Park, as thirty members of the Royal Green Jackets performed hits from Oliver, a second bomb exploded, injuring eight and killing seven. The events of Tuesday 20th July 1982 brought a country to standstill. And although many servicemen survived, still living in an era of the British stiff-upper lip, where a trained soldier never shows fear and real men supposedly never show weakness, the worst injuries weren’t always physical or even visible. As the beloved children of Sergeant Pedersen, thankfully Ben & Freya weren’t there that day, as being barely a young unmarried man himself, they wouldn’t be born for at least another two decades, but the horror of Hyde Park bombing - even thirty years later - would affect their lives forever. With every newspaper carrying the same photo; the sight of seven dead horses strewn across the street sparked a furious fire under the British people, and with Margaret Thatcher condemning their actions as “callous and cowardly crimes committed by evil, brutal men who know nothing of democracy. We shall not rest until they are brought to justice", conversely, although Irish-Americans had openly supported the IRA, the bombing had backfired and their US funding began to cease. That day, given only a 50/50 chance of survival, Sefton underwent an eight operation to save its life, and being a strong-willed stubborn horse, as donations flooded in, against the odds, Sefton survived. And as an act of defiance against the cowardly terrorists who hid in the shadows, detonated bombs from a distance and indiscriminately killed and injured men, women and children; the next day, the Household Cavalry performed the Changing of the Guard, passing the same spot where their comrades fell. To this day, a memorial stands, and as they pass, they honour it with eyes-left and swords drawn. A few months later, both Sergeant Pedersen and Sefton returned to the Hyde Park Barracks and back to active service, as although they were physically and mentally scarred, they were both soldiers. As a symbol of courage, triumph and British pluck, having won the British people’s hearts - alongside his rider - Sefton was awarded the prestigious title of Horse of the Year and they both became national celebrities, receiving standing ovations wherever they went. After two more years of service, in August 1984, Sefton retired. Owing to an incurable lameness in his legs caused by his injuries, on 9th July 1993, aged thirty, Sefton was put to sleep. He was buried with military honours at the Defence Animal Training Regiment in Melton Mowbray and a life-size statue of Sefton was unveiled at the Royal Veterinary College, with a medical wing in his name. Sefton lived like a soldier, died like a fighter, was treated like a hero and was buried with honours. But serious injuries aren’t always obvious, and although physically Michael Pedersen had survived, mentally he was battle-scarred and bleeding, but he wasn’t the last casualty of the Hyde Park bombing. One year later, Michael married his girlfriend Susan Day and they had two babies together. As a doting father, described as a “lovely man who would help anyone out if they had a problem”, after twenty-one years in the British Army, he completed his full military service and retired in 2001. After nearly quarter of a century of strict rules, bellowed orders and starched shirts, life outside of the Army was difficult to adjust to; the world was too sloppy and disorganised for a neat, precise man who liked things done his way, or not at all. And sadly, that year, his marriage to Susan ended in divorce. Taught to bottle his feelings, hide his anxiety and disguise his depression, battling endless nightmares and survivor’s guilt, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Michael admitted to his doctor that he thought he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but being too proud, he didn’t get help. In 2002, Michael married his second wife, Erica, he retrained as a lorry-driver, together they ran a successful haulage company called Highroad Logistics, and having moved into a lovely red-bricked cottage in Ashford (Kent), the couple had two lovely children who they named Ben & Freya. Life was good… or so it seemed. Seen by neighbours as a gentle giant who “loved his kids and wouldn’t do anything to harm them", although seven year old Ben and six year old Freya seemed neat, happy and polite, Michael could be very controlling, overbearing and a bully, and being jealous of his wife, the marriage was rocky. The end began so innocently. On Saturday 25th August 2012, Michael & Erica Pedersen were invited to an Army reunion; having both had one too many drinks, Michael saw Erica briefly being kissed by another man, the couple argued, they fought and (allegedly being pushed) Erica sustained a broken arm and shoulder. A few days later, Michael posted on Facebook “the worst day of my life. Sadly have split with Erica, I am absolutely distraught. Still love her very much and would give anything to turn the clock back”, but the marriage was over, the assault was a step too far and as Erica began divorce proceedings, Michael was served an injunction banning him from the family home, where his wife and two children lived. His very precise and regimented life was falling apart and (for the first time) he had no control. On Sunday 30th September 2012, as part of a pre-arranged visit by his soon-to-be ex-wife, Michael took Ben & Freya to visit their grandfather in Andover (Hampshire); they had lunch, they played, they paddled in the lake, and – as promised – he would drop them back to the family home by 5pm. By 7pm, with her calls going unanswered, no sign of Michael or the kids, her house having been ransacked and two chef’s knives missing from the kitchen, Erica called the Police… but it was too late. At 6:15pm, in the nearby village of Newton Stacey, a local dog-walker strolled down a secluded country lane, thick with overgrown bushes. Seeing a blue Saab 900 convertible parked up and the car blocking the bridleway - with the engine off, the lights out and no-one inside – as the dog-walker skirted down its sides, navigating the nettles, at the back, by the boot, they found Ben, Freya and Michael. As much as he loved his children, he could never be apart from them – and with no traces of drugs or alcohol in his system – in that lane, Michael had inflicted his final act of control against his wife. The attack was frenzied, violent and terrifying, as (having been treated to a last day out) the two tiny children stood, their tears ignored, their screams unheard, as wielding two large silver knives, a six-foot soldier stabbed them one-by-one. Only this wasn’t a crazed stranger – this was their daddy. Struggling to fight off their attacker, both children sustained deep slashes to their arms and hands, but being no match for a man five times their size, seven year old Ben was stabbed six times in the chest, the eight inch blade left sticking-out and bolt upright. With a second knife, he stabbed six year old Freya in the heart, severing a major artery which bled down her pretty pink top and leggings. And as both of his babies lay dead, Michael Pedersen plunged the knife three times into his own chest. (END) Hundreds of mourners turned out for the service at St Saviour's Church. With the pews lined with pink and blue balloons, a sermon by the vicar who had baptised them both, a reading from Freya’s favourite book The Gruffalo and the hall ringing to the tune of The Circle of Life, a song from Disney's The Lion King, on a large screen beamed the smiling faces of Ben & Freya, a big brother and his baby sister hugging during happier times, with Ben dressed as a racing driver and Freya as a little fairy. At the inquest, the coroner recorded a verdict of death by suicide and two counts of unlawful killing. Being born almost a quarter of a century after the 1982 bombing which had traumatised their father, it is still uncertain today whether Michael’s actions were as a consequence of those events, or his need for precision and control, unable to cope in an undisciplined world away from the British Army. Many people died that day in Hyde Park and Regent’s Park. Many were injured, both servicemen and civilian, humans and equine. And up until the 1997 ceasefire, which still holds today, in a bloody feud between the British Government and the Provisional IRA, many more fatalities were to come. But the aftermath of such horrifying atrocities stretches beyond the incident itself, affecting friends and family, far and wide, and although some injuries aren’t always visible, unless help is sought to deal with the mental and emotional scars which linger underneath, other innocents may be hurt. And although they didn’t die that day on South Carriage Drive, perhaps four more names should be added to the memorial – Michael, Erica, Ben and Freya, the last victims of the Hyde Park bombing. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As per usual, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra waffle after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are All Crime No Cattle and Simply Strange. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Vivian, Mette Kongsted and True-Crime Nana, who get a regular dose of crime scene photos, videos, a weekly ebook and shall be the lucky recipients of some rather delightful Murder Mile goodies, only available via Patreon. Sorry. A special thank you to Christine from Jonny & Erik of Cult With No Name (the geniuses who do most of the music for Murder Mile) as Christine came to see Cult With No Name play when they were at Farncombe. Christine I’m glad you enjoyed them, they’re really great aren’t they. A comment which was backed-up by Phillip Grundy who – like myself – is hooked on their music. And rightly so. This week, I wanted to draw your attention to a new true-crime book which has hit the bookstores (both online and in real life… ooh). It is a collection of fascinating and previously unheard true-crime tales written by Ben & Rosie of the fabulous They Walk Among Us podcast. If you love this podcast (and you should because it’s amazing) here they bring you ten new and previously untold true-crime tales, which (like the podcast) are intricately researched and expertly told, in a thrilling, emotional and unbiased way. There’s a reason why this is one of the best true-crime podcasts out there, and now they have a book. I’ve read it, I loved it and I devoured it in two days. It’s a cracking read and a must for all true-crime fans, and (even better, for short-sighted people like myself) the text is a decent size. And if reading isn’t your thing, you can also get it in audio version, as read by Benjamin. If you fancy treating yourself, I’ve popped a handy link in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
SOUNDS
Sadly, most of the original sources at the National Archives are unobtainable so I've researched this story using as many firsthand accounts as I could get, as well as news articles.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform. Hey avid true-crime podcast listeners! If you're always slathering at the chops for the newest, freshest and best true-crime podcasts, you're in luck. On this blog, every week, I will be posting a fabulous Q&A by some of the best true-crime podcasters. This week, shamefully, it's my turn, as I discuss my very own British Podcast Award-winning Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.
Michael's thoughts: I highly recommend Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. Well, I would, as it's mine, but if you've never heard it before, I try to make it as different and original as possible, it's researched using the original declassified police investigation files, first hand accounts and as many authentic sources as possible, it's told from the victim's perspective and is presented like an audio drama, the idea being that "you'll feel like you're actually there". It's written, researched and presented with a lot of care and love, so if this sounds right up your street, give it a go. Mx Q & A with Michael from Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast Q - How did you get into true-crime podcasting? A - By accident, I had created Murder Mile Walks (featuring 12 murderers across 15 locations in 1 square mile) and realised there was so many more fascinating true-crime stories to tell and only able to give five to ten minutes per story on the tour, I realised by turning these other new stories into a podcast, I could give each victim enough time to tell their story properly. Q - What was your first episode and why was it an important story to tell? A - The Denmark Place Fire was one of Britain's worst mass-murders and yet is it almost entirely unknown, as having occurred during the the final year of the Yorkshire Ripper's killing spree, the press weren't interested, and as the inferno contained many people (who it was incorrectly claimed were illegally in the country) the press weren't interested. It took me almost a year to research the Denmark Place Fire by talking to locals who were there, knew the victims or the club. Q - What’s the biggest mistake you find that murderers make? A - Arrogance. Believing that they are above the law and that they are smarter than the Police. A prime example being The Blackout Ripper (who slaughtered four women and attempted to kill two others in four day) and yet, knowing he was about to be arrested, instead of running, he lay on his bunk bed smoking a cigarette. Check out the first of the eight part Blackout Ripper series here. Q - What’s the most obscure true-crime fact you know? A - John Reginald Halliday Christie was well-hung and wasn't circumcised. Q - Which piece of research are you most pleased with? A - I work hard on every episode I write, researching using as many official sources as possible, as newspapers are often inaccurate, biased and misleading, but I'm most proud of my in-depth investigation into the suicide (not murder) of boxer/actor Freddie Mills. His family have always stated he was murdered, tabloid myths have always suggested he was secretly a sadistic maniac called Jack the Stripper (utter tabloid tosh) but by carefully interrogating the facts using the original police files, I was able to prove his death was an "accidental suicide". You can listen to this two-part special here. Q - What have you learned about yourself whilst making your podcast? A - I've learned that I'm quite an emotional person, I never thought I was, but by delving so deeply into victim's personal lives, I've become quite close to them, I've learned to see their world from their eyes, and in some cases, like with lovable prostitute Ginger Rae I learned to love them. Q - If you had a time-machine, which murder would you love to witness simply so you could say “oh, that’s what happened?” A - It would have to be Jack the Ripper. Not so I could find out who Jack the Ripper was, but so I could prove to all of these "Ripperologists" that there is nothing unique about these murders and that they were committed by different people, and not a single maniac called Jack the Ripper. Q - Have you ever been contacted by the victim/killer’s family and why? A - Often. Almost all of the time, they get in touch to thank me for the sensitive way I have portrayed their loved-one, their life and death, as in most books the victim is simply relegated to being just a "name, an age and a collection of injuries". Sometime they're fascinated to learn the truth about a relative's hidden past (I did a private tour for the family of Ginger Rae and they loved it) but sometimes families do get in touch upset that I've dragged up details they would rather have forgotten (or - more often - didn't know the truth about, as families rarely do), and that's why I write it in a very clear, truthful and sensitive way, out of respect for the living and the dead. Q - Given their often tragic backgrounds, should we see murderers as victims too? A - I feel they should. No baby is born bad, just as no adult makes the conscious decision to become a killer, there's always an incident or series of events which turn a good child into a bad adult, so it's important not to use this as a way to excuse their actions, but to understand why they do what they do. Q - Do you have a message for your loyal listeners? A - Yes, it's a simple one, and it's "thank you". Without my listeners my podcast would be nothing, it would have died a long time ago, but by having such amazing listeners, they've help me through the difficult times and shaped the podcast for the better. So thank you. Mx A big thank you to me for taking part in this True-Crime Podcaster Q & A. Don't forget to check out my podcast. To explore this fine true-crime podcast further, click on the links. . Stay safe my friends Michael.x Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE SIXTY-THREE
On Wednesday 31st October 1917, Emilienne Gerard went missing from her home at 50 Munster Square, the perfect suspect was her lover - Louis Voisin, an experienced butcher who could kill a cow with a single blow, a conniving love-rat who carefully juggled his two secret mistresses and a romantic soul who would do anything for the woman he loved - but did he kill her?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of 101 Charlotte Street where Louis Voisin lived and where Emilienne was murdered with marked with a red !. to the left and the red ! to the right is Regent Square where her body parts were found. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as King's Cross and Paddington, you access them by clicking here
For your enjoyment, here's two short videos showing you 101 Charlotte Street where Louis lived and Emilienne was murdered, and Regent Square where the body parts were found. These videos are only one minute long and is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Ep63: Louis Voisin – the Love-Rat, his Ladies and the Bloody Belgian
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about Louis Voisin; an experienced butcher who could kill a cow with a single blow, a conniving love-rat who carefully juggled his two secret mistresses and a romantic soul who would do anything for the woman he loved. But which one did he love? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 63: Louis Voisin – the Love Rat, his Ladies and the Bloody Belgian. Today I’m standing on Charlotte Street, W1; one street north of the infamous Charlotte Street robbery, three streets east of The Blackout Ripper’s third victim Margaret Lowe, one street west of the death-bed of fourteen week old Charlie Chirgwin and between Hyde Park and Regent’s Park where two terrorist bombs caused two innocents to die… who weren’t even there - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated in Fitrovia - a supposedly fashionable district just north of Soho - Charlotte Street stretches almost the length of this square mile, running parallel to Tottenham Court Road, but unlike the funky seedy filth of Soho’s Old Compton Street; Charlotte Street is dull, grey, drab and bland. As a long straight road with flat-fronted townhouses on both sides, many of which may be musty old eateries but as they’re so dark inside it’s hard to tell, Charlotte Street is only busy three times a day; when the commuters arrive, leave and pop to Pret. Then suddenly, it’s swarmed with advertising arseholes all waffling on about how their projects are on-brand, dynamic and game-changers, and TV tosspots daring to call themselves ‘creatives’ when all they do pick random words from a hat and loudly exclaim “huzzah, that’s our new show, ‘celebrity chef patio make-overs on ice’. Oh my God, I am a genius. Pay-rise please”. But for the rest of the time, the street is dead. Set near the north end, 101 Charlotte Street is entirely demolished; with the old building replaced by a new one and the new replaced by a newer one. As being a construction site, a sea of men in hi-viz vests stand-about doing diddly-squat as they supervise one dude doing some digging, all under a sign which proudly reads “no accidents for 140 days”, which ironically was the last time they’re weren’t on a tea-break. And yet they are unaware that this was the sight of a brutal murder and dismemberment. As it was here, on Wednesday 31st October 1917, that French butcher Louis Voisin would make a fatal decision which would drive one mistress to insanity and the other mistress to her grave. (Interstitial) Louis Voisin loved women. Born on the outskirts of Paris in 1875 and raised in a decent honest working-class family, to a butcher father, a housewife mother and three younger sisters; as the eldest and only boy, Louis Marie Joseph Voison loved the attention of women; whether family, friends, school-chums or colleagues. Oddly, he never married, but rarely being single; Louis always had a girlfriend, often had a mistress and (as if his love-life wasn’t hectic enough) he sometimes had a second mistress. But he wasn’t a wealthy playboy, a sexy stud or a dashing gigolo with chiselled features, sharp-suits and a six-pack. No, Louis was a butcher; who looked, dressed and smelled like a butcher. In fact, as a short but stocky man with big arms, thick legs, a fat neck, a bulbous nose and a large round gut, being an employee for Messers Dring Launay & Co, a sausage merchants at Smithfield Market, he looked as you’d expect a sausage butcher to look. And although, with a ludicrously huge handlebar moustache, he seemed as if he also dabbled as a part-time opera singer in the local pubs, he didn’t. Louis was a butcher and a good one too. Being a large man with powerful arms, Louis could fell a fully-grown cow with a single blow, instantly putting it out of its misery, and as a skilled executioner of livestock with a solid knowledge of anatomy, each single swipe with his axe would precisely hit the joint, sever the muscles, slice the tendons and cleanly dismember its limbs, legs, hooves and head. Louis Voisin was hardly what you might call a heartthrob or a hunk; being a recent stranger in a foreign land, he was barely literate in English, with hardly enough conversation to get by and his spelling was atrocious, and yet, there was something about him which some women adored. As a native French speaker, Louis was articulate, erudite and cultured. As a patient man, he would sit, wait and listen. And as an avid reader, he would woo these love-sick women with poetry. He wasn’t wealthy, educated or handsome, but he gave them what they wanted; time, warmth and attention, and in stark contrast to his job, he was big yet gentle, powerful yet sensitive, a killer and yet kind. But like all love-rats, his downside was that as much as he professed his undying love for a woman, he was never faithful, and always sought the attention of others, whether they were available or not. In April 1916, he met his next lover, and her name was Emilienne Gerard. Born in the French city of Rouen, Emilienne Gerard was a 32 year old housewife who was shy, quiet and softly-spoken. With pale luminescent skin accentuated by her dark neck-length hair, baby blue eyes as wide as a startled deer’s and rose-bud lips stuck somewhere between desperation and deeply tragic, being so weak and slightly built, it looked as if a stiff breeze would blow her over. With her father in France, she had no close family. Except for her cats, she lived alone. Being so timid, her only friend was a young girl called Marguerite Dufour. And with World War One raging, being enlisted in the Army - Paul Gerard - her husband of seven years had been gone for almost three. Living in a two-roomed lodging at 50 Munster Square, three streets north of Charlotte Street, although Marguerite kept her company; Emilienne hated the dark, the silence and the solitude. As even in a big city like London, miles from the bloody battleground of The Somme, at night, German zeppelins crept across the pitch-black sky like silent clouds of death, raining down fire on the sleeping people below. Emilienne was a lonely fragile lady who was desperate for love and protection. In April 1916, Emilienne took a job as a cook at The Commercial, an Italian restaurant at 99 Charlotte Street. With modest savings squirrelled away, she didn’t need the money, but being so lonely, she needed to stay busy and to have someone to talk to. Sadly, as the job was too hot, fast and heavy for such a frail lady, Emilienne lasted just two weeks, but by then, a new friendship had bloomed. Supplying the restaurant with fresh meat, Louis and Emilienne became an unlikely pairing; he was big and gregarious, she was tiny and meek; her hands were neat and petite, his were large, rough and caked in blood - but as friends, they were inseparable. Two weeks later, Louis offered her a more suitable role as his housekeeper in his humble two-roomed lodging, opposite the restaurant at 101 Charlotte Street. She stayed in the job for more than a year, and during that time their relationship went from friends, to soul-mates, to secret lovers. And yet, eighteen months later, on 31st October 1917, in the basement of 101 Charlotte Street, wielding a bloody axe, Louis Voisin would hack her lifeless body to bits. (Interstitial) Being considerate of her needs and unwilling to cause her any unnecessary distress, Louis kept their liaison quiet, with many believing they were just friends. But over Christmas 1916, their tawdry affair was tested to its fullest when her husband Paul got eleven days leave and returned home. Sat in their two-roomed lodging at 50 Munster Square, over a home-cooked meal and a game of cards, Paul found Louis to be charming, his wife to be happier, and knowing he was unable to provide her with the companionship she needed, from so far away, in early January 1917, Paul Gerard left for the French front-line reassured that Louis - his wife’s new friend - was just that. Only he wasn’t. As Paul set sail on the boat-train back to the trenches, Emilienne hung a large portrait of Louis above her mantelpiece - its frame well-polished and its glass bright - as being besotted by her lover, she continued to lavish him with meals, gifts and even a rather substantial loan of £50 (almost £3500 today). Unaware that her money was not being used to better himself but to support his other women. In May 1917, eager to see her father in Rouen, Marguerite’s friends in Marseille and to rekindle what little was left of her marriage, Emilienne left on a three month trip to France, leaving her faithful lover a key to her house - to open her post, feed her cats and pay her rent, which he did without fail. With Emilienne gone for three long months, Louis found himself another housekeeper and mistress. Born in the coastal city of Boulogne-Sur-Mer in Northern France; as a recent widow whose husband had been cruelly cut-down by canon-fire at The Somme, 38 year old Berthe Roche was weak, fragile and tragic; a tiny spindly brunette who was the opposite of Louis, but the spitting-image of Emilienne. To say he had a type was an understatement, and as an emotionally wrought women; terrified of the dark, silence and solitude, who being wracked with grief lived in a spiral of love, loss and jealousy, although they seemed like sisters, the love-rat kept both of his women apart. At the end of September 1917, as Emilienne returned to London, Berthe moved into Louis’ basement lodging at 101 Charlotte Street. Living in two pitifully cramped rooms, although it was adequate for a single butcher, it hardly cut a romantic tone for a love-rat, his girlfriend or his mistress. The dark sitting-room was sparsely furnished with two wooden chairs, a small fire and a coarse horse-hair bed; the filthy kitchen was littered with the tools of his trade (knives, ropes, axes and sacks); and in the back yard was the slaughter man’s stables, a sad soulless shed full of two old nags on their last legs, a horse-cart used for carrying larger carcases, an overpowering stench of manure and a thick oak table with a drain underneath to wash away the animal’s guts, gizzard and entrails. So being too afraid to walk the bomb-damaged streets alone, Berthe stayed at home. With his place being a pit, Louis preferred to wine and dine Emilienne in the modest comfort of her own home. And so, with his girlfriend and mistress just three streets apart, they remained unaware of each other, living in blissful ignorance. But one month later, Louis’ love would be sorely tested. Wednesday 31st October 1917 was Emilienne Gerard’s last day alive. As a creature of habit, every day Louis awoke at 4:30am, arrived at Smithfield Market one hour later, saw the foreman, fed the company’s horses, returned to Charlotte Street and (sat upon his horse and cart) he delivered sacks of meat and sausage parcels across Soho and Fitrovia throughout the day. At 3pm, Louis met with Emilienne. He later stated “I last saw Madame Gerrard between two and three pm on Wednesday 31st, she was with a young French girl named Marguerite Dufour, who (I am told) intended to go to Marseilles. Madame Gerrard was to accompany her friend to Waterloo Station and possibly as far as Southampton. In her absence, she asked me to visit her home to feed her cat”. Shortly afterwards, he went straight to 24 Charlotte Street, staying for one hour, as confirmed by the occupants Mr & Mrs Melanie; he returned home and attended to his horses, as witnessed by several tenants at 101 Charlotte Street; had dinner at 7pm and went to bed by 9pm, as witnessed by Berthe. But the night would be short… At a little before midnight, Berthe awoke with a jolt, as the fast rapid fists of their landlady (Angeline Luppens) pounded door-after-door screaming “wake up, air-raid”. Berthe’s bedroom was pitch black and silent except for Louis’ deep nasal snore, but beyond the hubbub of terrified tenants whose feet thundered downstairs, through the clawing wail of sirens, the distant bangs as bombs crept ever closer and the low drone as Zeppelin airships loomed overheard, Berthe knew that Death was approaching. Dashing into the unlit passageway, Berthe stood with the other tenants; the gas-lights off, the walls shaking, families holding each other tight, as above them stalked the silent killers in the clouds. Alone and petrified, as Berthe’s hands shook, she called to Louis - “Louis” – and although the big man grunted a grumpy “alright, alright”, having survived several bombings before, seconds later, his snoring began. Outside, although a soupy fog hung low, making visibility close to zero, it was pockmarked with yellow flashes and orange flames as the city burned. Fearing for their lives, the tenants fled their flats and braved the blacked-out streets, as they raced deep into the safety of the underground platforms of Goodge Street tube station – everyone left, except for Berthe and Louis. For three hours, the city shook… until suddenly, the guns stopped and the “all clear” was sounded. When the tenants returned, Angeline saw that Berthe was a mess; her hands shook, her nerves were shredded and her pale face was etched with a haunted expression. And yet, through it all, Louis slept. The next morning was a normal day for Louis; up at 4:30, Smithfield by 5:30, home by 7:30, and went about his deliveries on his horse and cart. At 3pm he visited the shop of his boss Mr Launay on Charing Cross Road, he fed his horses, finished by 7pm, and as a creature of habit he was in bed by 9pm. Still traumatised by the night’s horrors, Bertha distracted herself by scrubbing his bloodied butcher’s overalls – a job Louis always preferred was handled by professionals at his local laundry – so being so heavily soiled and with Berthe’s nerves too shot, she left his white and blue striped shirt to soak. It was just a very normal day. And with a fierce storm brewing, as a bitter wind whipped up, being too strong for Zeppelins to fly, the next night was silent, as Berthe slept and Louis snored. On Friday 2nd November 1917 at 8:30am, thirty-two hours after the blitz - as the shell-shocked citizens counted the cost of lost homes and lives in their bomb-cratered city - one mile north-east of Charlotte Street, Thomas Henry (a nurse at the local insane asylum) left his home at 17 Regent Square, WC1. By then, the lashing rain had stopped. Being a large private garden with lines of four-storey terrace-houses on all sides, as Thomas strolled along the south-side, towards the central gate, just inside of the square’s tall iron railings, he spotted two large parcels, half-hidden by the bushes. With the larger parcel as big as a fifty kilo sack of spuds and the other slightly smaller; neatly wrapped in coarse muslin sacks and tied with a thick twine, they looked too tidy to be trash, so feeling curious, Thomas pried the larger parcel open and what he found was undeniably human flesh. (Police whistle) Examined by Divisional Surgeon John Cabe, underneath the brown sacks and bound in ripped strips of red bedsheets, the large parcel contained a woman’s torso, naked but for a silk chemise and a cotton vest; her wrists, knees and neck severed, leaving their ends little more than fleshy stumps. The remains of her lower legs in the smaller sack, but her hands and head were missing. Who she was? They didn’t know. She had no papers, no birthmark and matched no missing person. A few things were certain; with the ground sodden but the parcel damp, as the rain had ceased by 4am, her body had been dumped shortly after that. With bruises on her thighs, arms and shins, her death was preceded by a violent struggle. And with her pallid skin slipping off her bloated body and flies feeding off her festering blood, as they lay maggots in her rotting meat, judging by the corpse’s decay, she had been dead for at least 30 hours, putting her time of death as during the air-raid. Obviously, she had been murdered. But for Dr Cabe, her method of death was truly perplexing, as this was not the work of a crazed maniac absorbed in a killing frenzy, this was someone with patience. Her hands, legs and head had been severed by a swift single strike, using a sharp instrument (possibly an axe), wielded by a powerful man with a great degree of skill and a solid knowledge of anatomy. And yet, with small blood spots on her heart indicating she had died of asphyxia; with all of her internal organs being healthy but pale - before she died - she had bled, losing almost two pints of blood. Which begs the question: why were the cuts so clean and efficient, and yet her death was painful and slow? To answer that, they needed to know who she was. On a scrap of brown paper, stitched to her chemise, her killer had crudely scrawled the words “bloody Belgian”, only with the spelling being so atrocious, it actually read "Blodie Belgiam". With the war at its peak, hostilities high and everyone seen as either an ally or an enemy, was this a political attack? Although the sacks were stencilled with ‘Argentina La Plata Cold Storage’, with thousands distributed across London by the city’s butchers, they weren’t unique. Thankfully, sewn into the lining of the red bedsheets was a laundry mark which was – it simply read ‘11H’. The mark had been made by Leavery Laundry at 20 Charlotte Street and the bedsheets were owned by Emilienne Gerard. Last seen on the night of the air-raid, Police entered her home at 50 Munster Square, accompanied by the noted pathologist Bernard Spilsbury, who examined the two-roomed lodging; the door was locked, the rooms were in disarray and the drawers had been ransacked. With a splash of blood on the bedhead, a small red puddle in the middle and its bedsheet missing, having spotted an identical selection of red bedsheets stitched with laundry mark ‘11H’, a connection had been made between the bed and the body. So surely this is where the murder had occurred? With ragged shreds of coarse muslin sacking in the cupboard, strands of thick twine on the floor, a flick of blood spots on two doors, a half full pail of pinkish water and sticky red stains splashed across the table, with the blood being human, it looked as if this was where her murder and dismemberment had taken place. But the evidence didn’t sit well with Spilsbury - something just wasn’t right. If this was a burglary, how did they get in, if they didn’t break in? If this was a dismemberment, where were the knives and the axes? If this was a political attack on a “Bloody Belgian”, why had they targeted a shy, quiet and introverted French lady with no political beliefs or leanings, a lonely lady who only ever wanted to be loved? And if this was a murder, where was the blood? Having been decapitated within an hour of her death; with her arms, legs and head severed – although a small pail of pinkish water suggested a half-hearted clean-up had taken place – as her arteries ripped and her veins split during this violent struggle, walls would be splashed, doors splattered, tables dripped and the bed drenched, as (squelching under foot) the carpet would be a thick slick of sticky red ooze, swarming with feverish flies. But it wasn’t. If anything, it looked as if the two rooms at 50 Munster Square had been staged. With her husband at war, her father in France, Marguerite in Marseilles and no other family close by, Police contacted her only known friend; whose love-letters were found in a drawer, an IOU for £50 signed by him on the table, whose portrait proudly hung over the mantelpiece, and as a powerfully built French butcher who lived just three streets south, Louis Voisin was a very credible suspect. Although he spoke very little English, Chief Inspector Wensley interviewed Louis Voisin. He was polite, helpful and calm. With an alibi for the thirty-six hours around Emilienne’s death, he stated “I last saw Madame Gerrard between two and three pm on Wednesday 31st, with a young French girl named Marguerite Dufour, who (I am told) intended to go to Marseilles. Madame Gerrard was to accompany her as far as Southampton. In her absence, she asked me to visit her home to feed her cat”. All of which was verified by his friends, family, lodgers, colleagues and his girlfriend Berthe Roche. He loved Emilienne, he missed Emilienne and (even though the portly love-rat juggled a romance with two women who he kept apart) it was clear that he adored them both and would hurt neither. Only, his story had holes. On Friday 2nd November 1917, aided by his English-speaking nephew Leon Duvat, Louis Voisin told Emilienne’s landlady Mary Rouse that she had gone to France for two weeks. Except on the night of the Zeppelin air-raid, Mary heard her in her flat; she was nervously pacing, and at a little after 11:30pm (as the air-raid sirens wailed) Emilienne left 50 Munster Square alone and was carrying no luggage. With Berthe unable to recall if the bloody overalls she washed was due to a bullock he slaughtered in Whitechapel, or a calf he cut-up in Surbiton - two events which occurred three days apart – on a hunch, Chief Inspector Wensley asked Louis to write, five times, these two words - “Bloody Belgian”. The handwriting was a match and his spelling was atrocious having mistakenly written "Blodie Belgiam". When Dr Spilsbury stood on the fly-infested sticky stone-floor of the dark and gloom basement at 101 Charlotte Street, the pathologist knew this was the scene of Emilienne’s murder and dismemberment. With a broken glass panel on the door between the kitchen and the yard; its wood speckled with fine spots, specks inside the hinge and blood splattered a two foot radius, spraying up the sink, the gas-stove and even the ceiling, he knew the attack had taken place by the open door. Seeing a bloodied towel hanging up, inside were found strands of long brown hair (an exact match to Emilienne’s) and a pearl earring, caught in the towel, which had been used to muffle her screams. With a bloody trail from the door to the stables, having dragged her body, her disposal was shielded by the blackout, low fog and the cacophony of bombs, guns and sirens. Surrounded by knives, saws and axes, on a thick oak table, he had hacked Emilienne to bits. And with her torso and limbs wrapped in muslin sacks, no-one would suspect a butcher, on his horse and cart, as he travelled from Charlotte Street to Smithfield Market, stopping off half-way at Regent Square, where the body parts were found. Inside; in a tub, they found his blood-soaked shirt which a terrified Berthe had tried to wash, hidden in a secret panel by the mantelpiece was a stash of Emilienne’s jewellery, and in a large barrel, peeping through a thick layer of sawdust (her mouth open, her eyes wide and her neck a bloody stump) Police found the head of Emilienne Gerard. On either side, her two severed hands, as if reaching for help. On 6th November 1917, at 4:25pm, for the wilful murder of Emilienne Gerard, Chief Inspector Wensley arrested and charged the love-rat Louis Voisin… and his girlfriend Berthe Roche. On 15th January 1918, at the Old Bailey, they both stood trial; Louis described as a powerful imposing brute, Berthe as weak, pale and pathetic. When asked how he pleaded, Louis stated “not guilty”. When asked how she pleaded, Louis slammed his fists on the table and growled “Madame Roche is innocent, she is a pure as the driven snow”, stating “her only crime is her selfless love for me”. Only the Police knew better… and they could prove it. One question had plagued the investigation into Emilienne’s death: “why were her cuts so clean and efficient, and yet her death was painful and slow?” Louis Voisin was a love rat, with a girlfriend and a mistress carefully kept three streets apart, and although unaware of each other, both women were strikingly similar, being frail, pale and lonely. At 11:30pm, on 31st October 1917, with the distant bangs of bombs drawing ever closer as Zeppelin airships loomed overheard, as Berthe shook, so did Emilienne. Terrified, she ran to Charlotte Street to seek safety in her lover’s arms, only opening his door, she found Louis in the arms of another. Mistress met girlfriend, a love-rat was exposed, but loving him unquestionably, their hatred was for each other. His women fought, his ladies screamed and the love-rat tried to break it up, but raging with jealousy, Berthe grabbed a fire-poker and smashed her rival over the head. Bloodied but only dazed, as Berthe’s strike was too weak, Emilienne screamed, so as Louis muffled her pained howls with a towel, Berthe feebly struck her victim six more times – Emilienne’s face a bloody mess, and yet, she was still alive. Forced to make a fatal decision, Louis grabbed the poker and (as he would to a bullock) with a single powerful strike, he ended her life. His mistress was dead, and his girlfriend was guilty. Desperate to protect her, he dismembered the body, disposed of the bits and created a subterfuge to throw the Police of the culprit – his beloved Berthe. After a three day trial, on 18th January 1918, Louis Voisin was found guilty of murder and Berthe Roche was found guilty as “an accessory to murder”, his gallantry for his girlfriend having swayed the jury. On 2nd March 1918, in Pentonville Prison, Louis Voisin was executed by hanging, his girlfriend - having been spared a death sentence - she showed no pity or remorse. And having been sentenced to seven years in prison, as a nervous women, she was driven insane and died in Liverpool Asylum one year later. Never once shedding a single tear for her victim, or the love rat who had saved her life. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget murky milers, stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are True-Crime Finland and True-Crime Fix. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Clive Lewis, Ian Watts, Maria Dean and Stacy Kielczynski (Keel-Gin-Ski), who will be treated to some seriously good goodies, many of which are only available via Patreon. Sorry, but cakes don’t buy themselves you know. A little shout-out this week to a new true-crime podcast; so hi to Jeru and Stanley of Bad in the Boondocks, it’s a new podcast so give it a go. And just to say, to anyone going to the London true-crime meet-up on Sunday 7th and Monday 8th July, hosted by Generation Why and They Walk Among Us, I will be there. Sadly I can’t make it to the Manchester one, as some of us work on Sundays. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
SOUNDS Cannon Fire - https://freesound.org/people/gim-audio/sounds/28645/ Engine Noise - https://freesound.org/people/Nexotron/sounds/371282/ Police Whistle - https://freesound.org/people/klankbeeld/sounds/242537/ Zeppelin Motor - https://freesound.org/people/Johnnyfarmer/sounds/209770/ *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform. Hey avid true-crime podcast listeners! If you're always hungry for the latest, the best and the most brilliant true-crime podcasts imaginable, but you're always stuck for exciting new shows to devour and don't know where to peruse them? On this blog, every week, I will be posting a fabulous Q&A by some of the best true-crime podcasters. This week, it's the amazing Ben & Rosie Fitton of awe-inspiring, hugely successful and British Podcast Award-winning They Walk Among Us.
Michael's thoughts: I highly recommend They Walk Among Us, it truly was the first true-crime podcast I ever listened to and it's one of the few I still regularly listen to today, as it's researched with a fine-tooth comb, written with bags full of heart, presented with an incredibly amount of care and each episode is told with warmth and compassion. It's always thrilling and upsetting, exciting and engaging. I love it. Mx Q & A with Ben & Rosie from They Walk Among Us Q - What have you learned about yourself whilst making your podcast? A - As a married couple we have figured out we love working together too. We have different strengths and weaknesses and different roles in the podcast. It took a while to find our places. Q - Has any case proved so tragic/sad you’ve had to take a break from the research? A - I think we get invested in and affected by each case. We have the privilege of having to move on to create the next episode. It's luxury people that are actually involved in these cases don’t have. That personally makes me sad the people left behind to deal with it. There was a specific incident where we did pack up for the day. We were researching the John Straffen case at the National Archives and I unintentionally saw a crime scene photograph of a little girl. She looked peaceful like she was sleeping but it stirred me. Such a waste of life that little girl should be older than my mother now. Q - If you had a time machine, which murder would you love to witness simply so you could say “oh, that’s what happened?” A - I think one we have coming up season 4 episode 4 the case of Rikki Neave is one of many that bothers me. I think he deserved more in life he should at least get justice in death. Q - Which case do you feel is over-exposed / under-exposed and why? A - I don't think there is such a thing of overexposure if a crime isn't solved. Currently, there is a nineteen-year-old Leah Croucher who has gone missing under suspicious circumstances from Milton Keynes a few months ago. I would like to see more national media press on her disappearance. To read more, click this link. Q - Which murderer (if any) do you feel is misunderstood? A - Maybe Robert Mawdsley (Usually incorrectly spelt Maudsley). He became a very damaged young man partly as a result of his distressing childhood. Some news outlets falsely reported he ate some of one of his victim's brains with a spoon. I think he’s an easy target to make into a bigger monster. Q - Where do you see your podcast going over the next few years? A - As always we have new possibilities on the horizon this year it was a book the next few years we aren't sure yet. (Michael's note: you can buy the fabulous They Walk Among Us book on Amazon and all good physical book-shops, here's a link). Q - Do you have a message for your loyal listeners? A - Send snacks! (MIchael's note: "I totally agree") A big thank you to Ben & Rosie for taking part in this True-Crime Podcaster Q & A. Don't forget to check out their podcast, website and new book (also available in audio form). To explore this fine true-crime podcast further, click on the links. . Stay safe my friends Michael.x Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE SIXTY-TWO (part two)
This is a PART TWO of a TWO part special on the murder of Michael Barry Porter; a twenty-three year old scaffolder from King’s Cross, who was brutally murdered in a disreputable West End club, and yet, strangely, almost none of the forty witnesses could identify his killer. This is the investigation.
CRIME SCENE PHOTOS:
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
Ep62b – The Rosendale Murder Part 2 (the investigation)
Like all cases covered on Murder Mile, the Rose n Dale murder is not a comprehensive documentary covering the span of a person’s life. It is a dramatization of a snapshot on a specific moment in time, being based on court records and witness statements, which are full of truth, lies, opinion and bias. This is Michael’s story. Being the victim (in so much as he was the one who died), it has been told from his perspective, and it does not cover the history or feud between those whose actions led to violence and death. There are no angels or winners in this story, as the real victims are those whose lives were affected by this murder – the families – who still feel the impact of this tragedy long after those involved have gone. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is the final part of a two part special on Michael Barry Porter; a 23 year old scaffolder, brutally murdered at the notorious Rose n Dale club, and although there was very little evidence and not one single eye-witness could identify his killer, the Police would bring a killer to justice. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 62: The Rosendale Murder - Part Two (The Investigation). Today I’m standing by the Regent’s canal in Haggerston, E8; two miles west of the Islington tunnel where the body of Sebastiano Magnanini was tied to a shopping trolley and dumped in a watery grave, two miles west of Battlebridge Basin where the hacked-up bits of Paul Fields were fished-out by two boys and barely quarter of a mile east of Broadway Market where (bobbing along in the stagnant water) were found the dismembered body-parts of Gemma McCluskie - coming soon to Murder Mile. That’s three bodies in sixteen bits and all on one small stretch of the Regent’s Canal, which is about average for this place, as recently, when the canal was drained, amongst the submerged detritus (like beer cans, old prams, mucky mags and fag packets, as well as pretentious trash like humus hampers, falafel wrappers, artisan breads in the shape Marcel Pruste’s arsehole and wanky wicker baskets full of gluten-free vegan pizzas made by hairy-handed homeless-looking bearded hipster yetis - “BEARD”), divers also found a stash of guns, knives, grenades, an unexploded WW2 bomb and six open safes. But in 1971, the Police weren’t here to find a corpse, they were here to find a killer. Strangely, not one single eye-witness had uttered his name, but Detective Chief Inspector William Peel and his Murder Squad detectives were close to capturing a known felon who murdered Mickey Porter. As it was here, on the Regent’s canal in Haggerston on 25th October 1971, one month after the murder, that Police uncovered a key piece of evidence which brought a killer to justice. (Interstitial) This was an incredibly complicated case, expertly handled by the Police, but made even more difficult by the vagueness and lies of some witness statements, so let’s recap on what they knew for certain. On Sunday 26th September 1971, at 12:57am, in the Rose n Dale club at 9 Newport Place, Michael Porter, known to his pals as “Mickey” was stabbed in the back with a single-bladed knife, shot three times in the neck, back and groin with a .22 calibre pistol and died at the bottom of the stairwell. Consisting of a small single-room on one floor, the Rose n Dale club was forty feet long by fifteen feet wide (six feet at its thinnest), it was all open-plan, with seating on the outside and no hidden corners, columns or booths; the lighting was dim, the music was loud and “last orders” had been called. Standing in the corner near the kitchen, it started as a fight between four men; two were six foot tall, two were five foot eight; one wore a maroon velvet jacket, one a light beige sweater, one a white flowered shirt and one was Mickey, with two women (a streaked blonde and a redhead) stood nearby. For whatever reason, Mickey slashed a pale man in a maroon jacket across the left cheek with a broken glass. In retaliation, Mickey was stabbed once, slashed once and shot three times; once by the kitchen, once on the first-floor landing and twice down the stairs, blood stains and shell casings corroborate this, as well as two .22 calibre bullet fragments which nicked the thumb of Albert Griffiths, the club’s co-owner. Mickey Porter died at the scene and his unidentified assailant fled, leaving a trail of blood. Forensics teams found three distinct blood groups – type O, type A (positive) and type A (negative) - on the walls, door, floor and stairwell, and yet, having bled profusely, only the type A positive blood was found on the pavement outside of numbers 9, 7 and 3 Newport Place. Mickey Porter was type O. At the time of the murder, there were roughly thirty-five patrons and four staff on the first floor, with no-one in the second-floor club above or the ground-floor shop below. With the only access being via Newport Place, everyone entered via the black street door, which (even when the club was open) the door was always locked, with a single set of keys, held by Albert. And as a private member’s club, with everyone having been personally vetted by Albert, all thirty-five patrons either arrived as couples or larger groups, there were no singles or strangers and although everyone had to sign-in; some didn’t, some weren’t members and some gave false names. Of those forty witnesses; some fled, some stayed and others gave statements which were either vague, wrong or untrue; no knife, no gun and no culprit was found, and no-one - in any of the three hundred plus statements by eye-witnesses – identified the killer. But why? Through experience, the Police knew that eye-witness testimony is notoriously unreliable, as although memory is only 30% accurate, the human eye sees less than 5% of what is in our field of vision, with the remainder interpreted by the brain, and the same can be said the for rest of our senses. Witnesses may see identical things in different ways, for example; blonde hair may be fair, white, light, mousey or auburn, based on the brightness and the colour of the lights; a person may be five eight, five ten or even six feet tall, but without a tape measure we can’t be accurate, opting for a ‘best guess’ based on who they’re standing near; and a maroon velvet jacket could just as easily be a red blazer, a burgundy cardigan or a dark top, based entirely on the wealth or limits of a witness’s vocabulary. These different depictions could describe the same person, or someone different, so having witnessed a shocking event, in near dark conditions, for a split second, and being asked to recall it hours, days or weeks later, it’s not surprising that so many eye-witness statements were vague, confused or wrong. And yet, some witnesses deliberately gave false statements, and the Police knew this as a fact. Through the dogged determination of Detective Chief Inspector Peel and his fastidious Murder Squad detectives, by painstakingly double-checking even the tiniest detail, re-interviewing each witness and cross-referencing every statement, they wheedled out the truth from the lies, and in an utterly baffling and truly complicated case, their persistence paid off, and a killer was caught. The Police quickly ruled out the following witnesses; the staff comprised of Albert (who was on the door), Sara (who was serving sandwiches), Denise (who was behind the bar) and Marcia (the waitress); as well as other innocent bystanders such as Dave the Tout, Lenny Fields, Lew the Jew, Dancing Charlie, Scotch Bobbie, Little Ted, Carole & Monica, Kerri Lane the pianist, Playboy Roy, his wife Coral, their friend Iris, his brother Terry and his wife Carol, Mr & Mrs Harwood, Peter Goody, Jackie Hunt, Susan Cash and Peter & Sheila Kennedy. John Reilly’s statements were proved to be an honest account of the night and (excluding the minor argument he had with his brother Matt, outside in Newport Place) he was stood with his sister-in-law Marilyn by bar at the farthest point from the incident itself. Which left the Police with eight viable suspects: all but one of whom had prior criminal convictions, all of whom lied or misled the Police and some of whom had refused to give statements, they were; Matt Reilly, John & Ann Kavanagh, Charlie Snookes, Ian Doran, Terry Haynes, Barbara Ali and June Lawrence. So who had lied and why? Having driven to the club in a red Wolsey, Mickey’s friends John & Ann Kavanagh and Charlie Snookes initially stated (cross-fade) “We did not go to a club called the Rose n Dale. In fact, I have never been to a club called the Rose n Dale”, “I was not there this evening, nor was my husband or Charlie. In fact, I have never heard of the club before”, “I’ve never been to the Rose n Dale, in fact, I don’t know where it is exactly”. The problem was, having adhered to the rules of the club, in the leather bound book just inside the door, all three had signed in as guests and members, using their real names. When re-interviewed by the Police, they confirmed (cross-fade) “I saw him lying on the stairs, moaning and groaning”, “I knew he was hurt but I didn’t know he was hurt so bad. I squeezed past with Ann and Snooke and got into the car where we sat and watched”. When asked why they’d lied; Charlie gave no excuse, neither did John, and Ann later said “I told lies before as I didn’t want to get involved”. The Kavanagh’s and Charlie Snookes were ruled out as suspects, as their actions, timings and location were corroborated by others in the club, and none of them fitted the descriptions of the four men and two women being sought by the Police, but their statements did clarify the sighting of someone else. Matt Riley; having initially refused to give a statement, Matt later stated “I didn’t see Mickey all night, in fact, I didn’t even know he was there”. A statement contradicted by five people including his own brother, who said “I recognised a man called Mickey Porter standing with Johnny Kavanagh and Ann, they were about four feet away”. Later, although Matt denied seeing his pal Mickey bleeding to death on the stairs, “I grabbed my wife, and me and John joined the queue for the stairs… I saw a man who I can’t describe lying face down on the floor”, but his brother also contradicted this, saying “I saw Mickey lying on the stairs, I bent down and looked at his face, and saw his eyes were staring, Matt was with me, he said to his wife “come on, let’s go”, we stepped over Mickey and left the club”. And although - for whatever reason - he failed to tell the truth, with the Police asking each witness to clarify what they were wearing that night, six-foot tall fair-haired Matt said he wore a “yellow flowered shirt”. Meaning that of the four men, in the corner, by the kitchen, involved in the fight, Matt was one. So why did he lie? Nobody knows. What the Police knew was that he was unarmed, uninjured and involved, but whether the argument with his brother just moments earlier was related to the murder itself (clips - “leave me alone, I can handle it”,“I’m your brother, stick with your family, not your friends”) is unknown. Others have suggested that Matt was trying to broker a peace between Mickey Porter and his killer (clip - “forget about it, let’s have a drink”). So as Matt doesn’t match the description of either man, Matt was ruled out as a suspect. Which left the Police with four viable suspects; two men and two women. It was a simple process of elimination based on the facts given by both the witnesses and the suspects; Barbara Ali and June Lawrence were stood by the cigarette machine, barely three feet from the fight, the stabbing and the shooting. Both claimed “we went to the club by ourselves, we saw very little and left together” and that “we didn’t know anyone else in the club”, but the Police knew that was a lie. When questioned about the night, Barbara confirmed she wore a mauve jumper, a pink mini-skirt and had blonde streaked hair, and June was a redhead wearing a white woollen jumper, blue hot pants and grey knee-length boots – which perfectly fit the description of the women seen fleeing the club. Which left just two men; both described as five foot eight and early twenties, one wore a light dog’s tooth patterned shirt (and what was described as a “light beige sweater”) and one was a pale man in a maroon velvet jacket, who bled profusely from a stab wound the left cheek, and both were missing. And although one of the wanted men signed into the member’s book as “Davies” (which the Police knew was not his real name), the other signed-in as Terry Haynes (which was). And as a five foot eight, fair haired, 18 year old plumbers’ mate, dressed in a snazzy yellow shirt with a dogs tooth pattern and a fawn pullover, Terry was also one of the four men. Which left the Police with one viable suspect. But with Barbara & June unwilling to talk, Terry having fled and the suspect’s type A positive blood splattered inside the club, outside of numbers 9, 7 and 3 Newport Place, on a broken wine glass (which Mickey had used to slash open his left cheek) and on the clothing of the murder victim himself, as his name was barely mentioned in any witness statement, the Police knew him only as ‘Mr Jennings’. Only his name wasn’t ‘Mr Jennings’, or even ‘Davies’, it was Ian Doran; a 22 year old, five foot eight, second-hand car dealer, dressed in a maroon velvet jacket, black trousers and polo neck, colours which accentuated his pale and profusely bleeding complexion, who had arrived and left with Terry Haynes (his cousin), Barbara Ali & June Lawrence (his half-sisters), and as a known felon who was dangerous, violent, easily riled and armed with a .22 calibre gun, now he was on the run. So how was a killer caught and convicted? With no smoking gun, the Murder Squad Detectives relied on the smallest of details, all cross-referenced and double-checked; who was where, who wore what and how could they prove it. What follows is the most accurate account of what happened that night. At 12:15am on Sunday 26th September 1971, having parked-up his black Ford Mustang in nearby Little Newport Street; Ian, Terry, Barbara and June entered the Rose n Dale club at 9 Newport Place, witnessed by Albert, and although Ian signed-in as ‘Davies’, the others signed-in as themselves. It was an ordinary night and the foursome were out for fun, but - described by the Police as ruthless, paranoid and volatile - even on a nice night out, Ian was carrying a gun. Ian Doran was wild, angry and uncontrollable; expelled from school once and sent to borstal twice, Ian was convicted of shoplifting aged 13, car theft aged 15 and burglary aged 16, with 11 convictions by age 23, including a firearms offence. For half of his life he had been a criminal, and he was only twenty-three. Ian dreamed of being an infamous gangster who was respected and feared; living the fast life with snazzy clothes, sports cars, easy money and armed with a .22 calibre Beretta. It was pure coincidence that Mickey Porter and Ian Doran were both in the Rose n Dale that night, and as a tiny one-roomed club with nowhere to hide, being too proud to leave and too arrogant to back down, it is believed that Matt unsuccessfully tried to broker a peace between the two fuming men. At 12:50am, (“last orders”) with tempers rising (“leave me alone, I can handle it”) and keen to keep his baby brother out of trouble (“stick with your family, not your friends”), Matt & John Reilly were ushered outside by Albert, into Newport Place, to settle their differences, but with the club’s patrons distracted by the siblings stand-off, although June heard Mickey say to Ian “forget about it, let’s have a drink”, what happened during those crucial few moments will never be known. Was it sparked by a look, a word or a mistimed nudge? Or (being drunk, angry and paranoid) did Ian Doran simply misinterpret the well-meaning offer of a friendly drink from Mickey Porter; a man who many described as a “flash git” who “rubbed people up the wrong way” and had the scars to prove it. At 12:57am, with the last drinks served, the pianist wrapping up, the patrons picking up their coats and Sara serving the final sarnies, from across the bar Mickey Porter dashed, broken glass in hand yelling “you can have it now you c**t”, his scream muffled by loud music, hubbub and high-jinx. Clutching the sharp shard in his balled up fist, Mickey slashed Ian across the left cheek, missing his eye by half an inch and – cutting to the bone - split open a two inch gash, which bled a rapid stream of type A (rhesus positive) blood, down Ian’s pale face onto his maroon velvet jacket. Situated in a tight dark corner, farthest from the bar and the piano (where – singing a last song - most eyes were facing), much of the action was obscured by Mickey’s back, but seen (in full) by Barbara and June. Seething at his assailant, from his waistband Ian pulled a loaded .22 calibre Italian Beretta, wildly fired off an un-aimed single shot from hip-height, hitting Mickey to the left of his groin, splitting his pelvis and embedded the bullet in his left thigh, as the crotch of his fawn corduroy trousers ran red. And as the spent .22 calibre shell ejected, landing under the nearest stool, although the hubbub in the busy club slowly subsided, with the bang muffled by sweaty bodies and soft furnishings, most witnesses were unsure of what they had heard, whether a firework, a cap-gun or a champagne cork. Shot once, still standing (with the pain masked by 13 whiskies) and a bloodied and furious Ian Doran raising his Beretta once more, Mickey Porter tried to flee, but his path was blocked by Terry Haynes. Terry would state “I saw a man charging me with a broken glass in his hand, it was Porter, he was like a wild man. I had a penknife in my pocket, I opened it, pushed my arm out and ducked my head”, implying it was self-defence. Except, the autopsy proved different, as not only did Mickey have a one inch defensive wound to his right middle finger, but having been stabbed in the back, not the stomach or chest, it’s more than likely that Mickey was stabbed by Terry as he turned or ran away. Seeing Mickey flee, Ian fired again, caring not a jot if he shot an innocent, as his second bullet narrowly missed his half-sisters Barbara, June and his cousin Terry, but as Mickey fled via the first floor door, a small hole ripped open in his back, fracturing his 8th rib, splitting the bullet into several lethally sharp projectiles; one tore through his right lung, one split open his stomach, and two exited Mickey’s torso, embedding into the base of Albert’s thumb, ejecting a shell casing by the door and spraying the multi-coloured wall and door with two types of blood – type A (rhesus negative) and type O. As Mickey staggered downstairs; his pelvis shattered, his lung collapsed, his chest full of blood, Ian fired again… but missed, and as a third shell ejected onto the 9th step, being a few inches from freedom, as Mickey yanked the handle, the black front door wouldn’t budge… it was locked. Seeing he was trapped, the last thing Mickey saw was Ian Doran, thundering downstairs; his pale face bloody, his eyes wild, a loaded Beretta outstretched, as with a loud bang and a muzzle flash, a bullet ripped through his neck, his oesophagus and embedded in the base of his heart. Mickey collapsed on the spot, a fourth shell by his head and the wall splattered with type A (positive) blood and type O. As the petrified patrons feared for their lives, Lew unlocked the door, and amongst a sea of sweaty bodies, Ian Doran fled, swiftly followed by Terry, Barbara and June; the bulk of the eye-witnesses too confused, shocked or terrified to accurately recall what they seen… and in the panic, a killer escaped. But Detective Chief Inspector William Peel and his Murder Squad detectives would find him. Dashing down Newport Place, Ian profusely bled his type A (rhesus positive) blood along the pavement outside numbers 9, 7 and 3, and having parked up in Little Newport Street, at the back of Leicester Square, he dived into his black Ford Mustang; Terry in the front, Barbara and June in the back, as witnessed by Charles Harwood who exclaimed to his wife Winifred “look at that man sitting in the car with his face all bleeding, how can he drive like that with a handkerchief to his face?” As the car sped away, Barbara saw Terry “wiping blood off a knife with a hanky”, which she described as “a small black single edged blade, with a coat of arms on it, the kind you buy at a seaside town”. Police were on the look-out for a left-hand drive black Ford Mustang and all hospitals for a “man in a maroon jacket cut across the left cheek, a man in dog’s tooth shirt, a streaked blonde and a red-headed woman”. Insistent that all evidence be destroyed, Ian dropped Terry off in King’s Cross, told him to destroy a stash of bullets at his home, and fearing Ian’s wrath, Terry did as Ian demanded and disappeared. Safely ensconced at Barbara’s mum’s house at Gopsall Street in Haggerston, Ian tried to lay low, but rapidly losing blood, Barbara said “I thought he was dying”, so with his getaway car hidden, “I dragged him over to the van and put him in. I was frightened. I wanted him to go to the hospital”. Driven to nearby St Leonard’s Hospital, in a tiny dilapidated Ford Thames van, barely big enough for two people, having falsely claimed to be “Mr Jennings”, at 2:14am, Dr Mark O’Keck tended to the v-shaped wound on Ian’s cheek. Having dressed it, stitched it and removed all the glass fragments – with Ian being aggressive and Barbara clearly nervous - having taken a sample of Ian’s blood to test for infection, feeling suspicious of the pair, Dr O’Keck handed the small vial of blood to the police. But having discharged himself, a few hours later, Ian Doran had vanished. At his command, all of the evidence was destroyed; June scrubbed away his blood stains at 40 Gopsall Street, Ian brother’s Stephen sold the black Ford Mustang, and Barbara slung the maroon velvet jacket into a bin at Dunstan Road, with the black .22 Italian Beretta dumped in the Regent’s Canal. Ian was gone, Terry was gone, the evidence was gone, and the investigation should have stalled… …but fear can be a powerful motivator, it can make people do stupid and highly illegal things, it can cause people to lie to the Police, but (when lives are threatened) it can also make liars tell the truth. On Monday 27th September 1971, the day after Ian had vanished, Barbara handed an envelope to her trusted pal Teresa Bromiley; it contained two front-door keys, insurance details for a Ford Mustang, a driving licence in the name of Frank Richard Huggett (an alias of Ian Doran), and although Teresa never asked why, Barbara said “if anything should happen to me, hand these to the police”, to which Teresa said “see you tomorrow”, and Barbara nervously stuttered “yes, if I haven’t been shot”. On 7th October 1971, having been interrogated twice, Barbara Ali and June Lawrence were arrested and charged with impeding the arrest of a wanted man. Even though June had scrubbed the living room with bleach, forensics teams found a large quantity of dried type A (rhesus positive) blood, an incredibly rare group, which matched the heavy bloodstaining in the Ford Mustang (traced to a new owner), the Ford Thames van (found stripped and dumped by the Regent’s canal) and the vial marked ‘Mr Jennings’ taken at St Leonard’s hospital, as well as outside of numbers 9, 7 and 3 Newport Place, inside the Rose n Dale club, and on clothing of Mickey Porter. Although Ian’s maroon velvet jacket was never found, after 21 days searching a short stretch of the Regent’s canal between Kingsland Road and Haggerston Road, Police divers found two revolvers, 16 rounds of .45 calibre bullets, one 12 bore shotgun and a .22 calibre Italian Beretta pistol, wrapped (as Barbara described) in a white and blue cloth; with only two live rounds left in the six-shot clip. With enough evidence to convict, all that was missing were the culprits - Ian Doran and Terry Haynes. After a week in hiding out in Wellingborough, with a man’s murder weighing heavy on the boy’s mind, on 2nd October 1971 at 11:55pm, 18 year old Terry Haynes handed himself in to Detective Chief Inspector Peel; he made a full confession, admitted the knife had been destroyed, and having found a single drop of Mickey Porter’s blood on his left shoe, the only detail Terry refused to give (“I don’t want to, I’m frightened”) was one the Police already knew – the name of Mickey’s killer. (ENDING) After an anonymous tip-off, on 20th December 1971, Ian Doran was arrested by Glasgow Police, as part of a four-man team who robbed several banks (supposedly) to fund an extreme left-wing group, except most of the cash, Ian splashed out, on living the high-life as a wannabe gangster. And as predicted, described by the Police as ruthless, paranoid and volatile, during one robbery, a masked assailant fired a loaded shotgun, with no aim or warning, narrowly missing an innocent bystander. Ian Doran was found guilty at Glasgow High Court on 20th March 1972 and sentenced to 25 years for armed robbery. On 12th April 1972, Police took a sample of his type A (rhesus positive) blood, and when Detective Chief Inspector Peel charged Ian Doran with murder, and asked if he did it, Ian Doran cockily stated “Yes I did, you know all about it, that’s why I had to leave London”. Tried at the Old Bailey; Barbara Ali, June Lawrence and Stephen Doran were found guilty of impeding the apprehension of a man wanted for murder and sentenced to three years’ probation. Terry Haynes was found guilty of unlawful wounding and given a two year conditional discharge, and having pleaded “not guilty” to murder but “guilty” to manslaughter on the grounds of provocation, Ian Doran was sentenced to an additional ten years and three months in Wormwood Scrubs prison. His sentence would have expired in 2007, he died in 2003, aged 54. The murder of Mickey Porter in the Rose n Dale club was a complicated case, made next to impossible by a lack of prints, weapons, motive or credible witnesses, and yet, it was solved by the fastidious work of Detective Chief Inspector Peel and his Murder Squad detectives, who relied not on big clues, but thousands of tiny ones, which may have seemed insignificant, but they led to the arrest of a killer. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of the Rosendale Murder, but there will be loads more single-part Murder Mile episodes starting next week. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break. A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Simon Lewis and Vickii (two I’s), and a thank you to everyone who has been on my Murder Mile Walk recently, it’s lovely to meet listeners in person and to get a chance to show you murder sights you will only ever hear about on the podcast. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE SIXTY-TWO (part one)
This is a PART ONE of a TWO part special on the murder of Michael Barry Porter; a twenty-three year old scaffolder from King’s Cross, who was brutally murdered in a disreputable West End club, and yet, strangely, almost none of the forty witnesses could identify his killer.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Rosendale Club at 9 Newport Place is marked with a yellow ! in the middle. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as King's Cross and Paddington, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Ep62 – The Rosendale Murder Part 1 (the crime scene)
DISCLAIMER: This is part one of a two-part episode, but – I warn you now – this is not your usual Murder Mile episode; there are no sympathetic characters, there is no emotional backstory, there is no simple narrative, and there is no-one for you to root for (even the victim), as this is not an episode about an innocent person whose life was cruelly taken - this is a story about lies. The Rose n Dale murder should have been a simple investigation for the Police to solve, as forty eye-witnesses in a small room were all within feet of a brutal murder, and yet, none of them were able to identify the killer. So don’t expect a story about love, loss and sadness; this is a story about how eye-witnesses are accurate, fallible and devious, it’s about the difference between truth, lies and misinformation, and how – against the odds – the Police managed to solve an unsolvable murder. This is part one. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is a TWO part special on the murder of Michael Barry Porter; a twenty-three year old scaffolder from King’s Cross, who was brutally murdered in a disreputable West End club, and yet, strangely, almost none of the forty witnesses could identify his killer. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 62: The Rosendale Murder - Part One (The Crime Scene). Today I’m standing in Newport Place, WC2; just north of Leicester Square, on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Charring Cross Road; two streets south of the Denmark Place Fire, one street east of the empty shop where Nora Upchurch was cruelly slaughtered and barely one hundred feet from the sad and tragic death of Reginald Gordon West – coming soon to Murder Mile. This is Chinatown; a dirty cramped tourist trap bookended by two sets of dragon-emblazoned iron gates (which serve no purpose except to distract selfie-takers while their pockets are picked) across a series of short side-streets all strewn with paper lanterns, gaudy pagodas and stone tigers; amidst the annoying pop of fire-crackers, the fug of cigarette smoke and the stench of MSG, as the easily duped gobble-up “chop-suey”, “fortune cookies” and “sweet & sour sauce” (none of which are authentically Chinese), in a place so false, you half expect the residents to be portrayed (like in those early Charlie Chan movies) by white actors, in silk robes and cripplingly tiny shoes, with bucked teeth and rather racist eye-make-up, all bowing and saying “ah so, number one son most honourable”. God I hate this place… but I do love shredded duck pancakes with plum sauce. Mmm. Sweet irony. Situated at the western end of Chinatown is Newport Place; a recently renovated piazza, 140 feet long by 100 feet wide - which took Westminster Council a year to lay, then one day after completion, they dug it all up and spent six more months relaying it. Why? I dunno, boredom – and although this stone-clad piazza is circled by a mix of modern monstrosities, to the left is Ikkyu, a Japanese buffet at 9 Newport Place; a tall, thin, 300 year old five storey building slathered in white stucco with three tall windows on each floor. And with a mouth-watering array of sushi and sashimi in the ground floor window, as a procession of grinning teeth and rumbling tums enter via an innocuous looking door to the right, no-one is aware that behind this door, was once the scene of a very bloody murder. And although Chinatown has a long history of drugs, sex and death, having tried to investigate murders in this neighbourhood, I’ve been blocked by a wall of silence, and this story is no exception. And yet, it was here, at 9 Newport Place in the notorious Rose n Dale Club on a busy Saturday night, that a man was murdered in plain sight, surrounded by forty witnesses… and yet they saw nothing. (INTERSTITIAL) By Saturday 25th September 1971, London’s long hot summer was over as the first spots of rain sizzled on the steamy streets, and being overcast, the day was grey but the night was cool. With the swinging sixties dead, Hair the musical was half-way through its West End run, The French Connection was soon to be unleashed at the cinema and every stereo pumped to the sounds of Maggie May by Rod Stewart, Get It On by T-Rex and (for those with no taste) Chirpy Chirpy Cheap Cheap by Middle of the Road. It had been a good day for Michael Barry Porter, known as “Mickey”; as being a scaffolder he didn’t work the weekends, as a life-long Arsenal fan he was on top form having watched The Mighty Arse thrash Leicester 3-0 at Highbury, and having tarted himself up in a maroon polo-neck, a blue jacket with a matching handkerchief in his pocket, fawn corduroy trousers and suede shoes, having parted his shoulder length mousey brown hair and smelling like a right dandy with a splash of Brut aftershave, Mickey headed to The Lord Nelson pub on Copenhagen Street, in the shadow of King’s Cross Station. Mickey was a local lad who was easy-to-spot in a crowded room. Being a well-built, six-foot and clean-cut 23 year old with a tattoo of a bird and “mother” written on his left forearm and a dagger and “Mick” written on his right, visually Mickey stood out. Being a bit on the loud side and described as anything from a “happy-go-lucky chap” to “a flash git”, even if you couldn’t see him, Mickey made his presence known, but as someone who rubbed people up the wrong way, he had the scars to prove it. Sixteen months prior, on 29th April 1970, in a dingy boozer called The Phoenix Club in King’s Cross, for whatever reason – whether a word, a look or a mistimed nudge - Mickey made an enemy of a known felon who (although a full four inches shorter) was violent, easily riled and armed with a shotgun. Being blasted from a few feet away, he should have died, but as the modified gun lacked enough punch, amazingly Mickey survived the attack. He was left with a scar on his right forearm, a scar across the right-side of his jaw and - for the rest of his life - gun-pellets remained embedded under his skin. For the Police, it should have been an open-and-shut case; an easily recognisable man, shot in a packed nightclub, surrounded by witnesses who knew him and his attacker, but with Mickey being unwilling to give evidence and the witnesses mysteriously silent, his unnamed assailant was tried on 30th April 1970 at North London Magistrates Court (not for assault or attempted murder but) for the possession of a loaded weapon. He was given a conditional discharge for 12 months and the case was dropped. Mickey wasn’t a grass or a snitch, and as far as he was concerned, this was all water under the bridge. And yet, this brush with death would have chilling echoes of the fate which awaited him. (Interstitial). Saturday 25th September 1971 was an ordinary evening, as married couple John & Ann Kavanagh and their pal Charlie Snookes popped into the Lord Nelson pub for a few jars and a good giggle with Mickey Porter, and as the night went on, the good times rolled. By 10pm, with it still being early, the foursome hopped into Charlie’s red Wolsley automatic, drove to the Horns in Shoreditch till 11:30pm, and with closing time having descended, they headed into the West End to find a late-night boozer. The night was fun, unplanned and uneventful. At a little after midnight, Charlie’s little red car pulled into Newport Place and parked-up next to a few others; the square was dark and sparsely lit and the stone floor was still damp as the rain had stopped. To some, this seedy side-street south of Soho may have seemed intimidating, but as the air was cut by the cheeky Irish banter of Matt Riley – a close pal of Mickey Porter’s, who was tall, thin, with curly brown hair and dressed in a splendid light flowered shirt – he slunk out of his white Mini Clubman and greeted his pal with a friendly “oi-oi”, standing alongside his brother John with his wife Marilyn; as the old and new faces walked across the square to the black front door of number nine Newport Place. A private member’s club called The Rose n Dale. Previously known as The Pink Elephant, the Rose N Dale was a small supper club, open from 10pm till 1am, with a late licence for alcoholic drinks, a space to dance, seats to relax and light snacks to nibble. As the first venture into clubbing by transport magnate Frederick Rosendale and the club’s manager Clifford Perry, the Pink Elephant had acquired a bad reputation, being branded by the Commander of the CID as “a dubious haunt of unsavoury and criminal elements”. So bad that the club’s cabaret artiste Kerri Lane had quit, having witnessed one too many fights and lewd acts by its unsavoury clientele. In May 1970, after a stylish renovation, a strict set of rules and new management, it re-opened as the Rose N Dale, a supper club co-owned by Clifford Perry and his partner Albert Griffith. Albert was a no nonsense manager, and as a stocky man with a stern stare and a droopy moustache like a Mexican bandit, having spent 15 months in prison for housebreaking and passing forged banknotes, although his criminal record had been clean for a decade, Albert knew how to handle himself and any riffraff. As Mickey Porter and his three pals sidled up to the right hand side of a Chinese art supplies shop, stood before a black front door (which was always shut even when the club was not) and as he buzzed the doorbell, they waited. Holding the only set of keys, Albert greeted Mickey Porter and Charlie Snookes, and (as was the rules) they signed-in in a leather bound book, and as personal guests of the members, John & Ann Kavanagh were welcomed in and ascended the stairs… …where less than one hour later, Mickey Porter would be dead. The Rose n Dale was a family business, as that’s the way Albert liked it, as if you create a nice friendly atmosphere, it attracts nice people with good intentions, so as host was his wife Sara, behind the bar was Denise his step-daughter and Marcia (a family friend) was waitress. Eager to repair its bad reputation, the first floor bar (although just forty feet deep by fifteen feet at its widest and barely six feet at its thinnest) had been “sumptuously decorated” in an early 1970’s chic, with plush green carpet and curtains, striped multi-coloured wallpaper and the limited space carefully adorned with three plush banquettes with two knee-high tables at each, three stools, an upright piano in the far corner, a tiny mirror-panelled bar under the alcove of the stairs, as well as the usual; a cigarette machine, a pay phone and ladies and gents toilets upstairs and down, with a small kitchen outback, from which Sara would exit carrying trays of sandwiches to keep the punters perky. Normally, the second floor bar would be open too, but with Clifford Perry feeling unwell, only the first floor bar was open that night, and with standing room only, fifty people would make it feel crowded. As the night rolled on, the people rolled in, and having re-assured her that the Rose n Dale was in safe hands, cabaret star Kerri Lane returned and entertained the small but enthusiastic crowd of old members and new guests with a merry mix of jazz, blues and folk on the piano. As always, according to the signing-in book, first into the Rose n Dale that night was Collin Cooper, Jim Ryan and Noddy; three cheery regulars who had a quick swig and left by eleven. Later, as it filled up, familiar faces could be seen, like; Dave the Tout, Lenny Fields, Lew the Jew, Dancing Charlie, Scotch Bobbie and Little Ted. With Carole and Monica, the hostesses from Maria’s club on Archer Street sat by Kerri Lane on the piano. And a couple of larger groups, like “Playboy Roy” with his wife Coral, their friend Iris, his brother Terry, Terry’s wife Carol and Mr & Mrs Harwood who’d wisely grabbed a banquette, with Peter Goody, Jackie Hunt and their friends Peter & Sheila Kennedy on another. Stood by the bar was a stylish group; with 22 year old Ian Doran; a second-hand car dealer dressed like a dude in a maroon velvet blazer, black trousers and polo neck, colours which accentuated his pale complexion. His pal Terry Haynes, an 18 year old plumber’s mate who (in a snazzy yellow shirt with a dogs tooth pattern and a fawn pullover) was the dog’s bollocks. And Ian’s half-sisters Barbara Ali; a factory worker in a mauve jumper, pink mini-skirt and blonde streaked hair, and June Lawrence, a redheaded barmaid adorning a white woollen jumper, blue hot pants and grey knee-length boots. As well as brothers Matt & John Riley necking beers near the bar with Matt’s wife Marilyn who supped a vodka and lemonade, whilst stood by John & Ann Kavanagh, Charlie Snookes and Mickey Porter. And although most people had signed-in, with exceptions like Matt Reilly who cockily decided he was above that and non-members like Ian Doran who scribbled the name ‘Davies’ as he thought it was funny, although there were barely thirty-five patrons in the club, it was hard to put a name to a face. So far, it was a regular night; and with the lights down, the music playing and the drinks flowing, they drank, they chatted and they laughed… but someone was about to die. 12:50am, from behind the bar, Denise called “last orders”. Having had roughly nine or ten beers, brothers Matt & John Reilly’s hackles were up as John unsubtly insinuated that Matt’s wife Marilyn was seeing someone else. Not wanting to offend her further, John said “outside, not in front of your wife”, and although tensions ran high, disputes did happen and very little notice was taken, so their argument is pieced together by the fragments overheard by others. Stood at the top of the stairs, Matt shouted “leave me alone, I can handle it”, John replied “I’m your brother, stick with your family, not your friends”, to which Matt retorted “you think you’re grown up because you’re bigger than me”, and seeing the Dubliner’s tensions rise, Albert wisely unlocked the black front door and ushered the brothers outside into Newport Place. And for a few minutes, as the club patrons muttered, ogled and giggled, being briefly distracted by the siblings stand-off, there was a spark of excitement… but being flesh and blood, the brother’s tempers cooled as quickly as their beers warmed, and so, with a smile, a hug and an “ah, forget about it”, Matt and John were let back in, Albert locked the door and led them both back upstairs to the club. 12:57am, winding down her musical repertoire Kerri started playing the Anniversary Waltz, Denise poured the last bevvies of the night and Sara served a final round of sarnies amongst the half-starved. The night was over. What happened next is uncertain. According to the witnesses; the club was dark, the room was tight and everyone was otherwise occupied, or so they say, so this too is pieced together from fragments. As Sara exited the kitchen, a tray of sandwiches in hand, she squeezed by four men engaged in “a lively debate” but over the music, she couldn’t hear what was said. By the piano, Norma Bennett said she saw “shoving” and “a fight”, but again, she heard no words. At the farthest part of the bar, Matt Reilly “heard screaming and bottles breaking” and although Ian Doran’s half-sisters stood by the cigarette machine, just three feet away, Barbara Ali later said “I didn’t hear what they were talking about” and yet, June Lawrence swore she heard Mickey Porter say “forget about it, let’s have a drink”. As to who the four men were; two were tall men and two were shorter; one wore a maroon jacket, one a light beige sweater, one a white flowered shirt and one who we know was Mickey Porter. The most reliable account of the night came from Albert Griffiths, the club’s owner, who was stood just a few feet away in the doorway, but even his statements are understandably vague. Having heard a ruckus, Albert said “I saw a fellow in a light blue blazer (who we know was Mickey) rush across the floor screaming “you can have it now you c**t” and I saw he had a broken glass in his right hand”. And as Mickey slashed the jagged glass shard across the pale face of his intended target, as the man’s left cheek bled profusely, a river of blood dripped and disappeared onto his similarly coloured jacket. Standing nearby, in his yellow dog’s tooth shirt, Ian Doran’s pal Terry Haynes feared for his life, as he stated “the next thing I know Mickey was waving a broken glass about. I saw somebody hit the floor”. At this point, Albert intervened “I immediately dived at him, I jumped on him from the back” and in the chaos, someone said someone pulled a knife, and someone said someone pulled a gun. And suddenly, everything went silent. Lew Fisher said he heard a ‘pop’ and saw a ‘flash’. Norma heard four shots, Barbara heard three, Matt only two and Roy heard six, whereas June heard none, and yet across the crowded room, Kerri dived under her piano having heard two loud bangs and a woman screaming “Terry don’t, he’s got a gun”. Terry said “then I heard a bang, I went on the floor, crouched down in case there was any bullets flying about. The gun went off again. I saw a man charging me, it was Porter, he was like a wild man”. Amongst a sea of panicking people who fled the club, the four men dashed into the dark-lit stairwell, swiftly pursued by a seething Mickey clutching a bloodied broken bottle. Albert said “as I jumped on the guy with the glass from behind, I heard rapid explosions, three or four shots, I felt pain in my hand and I spun round and finished up slumped down outside the door. I was dazed for a few seconds. I got up and the fellow I had grabbed ran passed me and down the stairs”. From the stairwell, John Reilly heard the shots and someone said “he’s been done, he’s been done”. Playboy Roy recalled “I saw Albert standing there, looking down the stairs, he was all dazed. I took his arm and pulled him into the club”, as a steady stream of blood oozed from Albert’s trembling hand. As the people panicked, a bottleneck of petrified punters formed by the first floor door, jamming the club’s only exit, as the stairwell rammed full of sweaty screaming faces, as at the bottom, the people banged on the door screaming “open the door”, “let us out”, “where are the keys?” Having been nicked by a bullet fragment, as Sara tried to stem her husband’s bleeding fist with a tea-towel, Albert shouted “Lew, take those keys and open the front door”. Clutching the only set, Lew squeezed down the sweat-soaked stairwell, and with a quick jangle and click, yanked open the black door, and like a violently fizzing cork stuck in a boisterous champagne bottle, a sea of people spilled into Newport Place. Some ran to phone the Police, some sat in shock on the pavement and others simply disappeared. At the bottom of the stairs by the open black door, with his head slumped on the second step and his body slumped on the floor, lay Mickey Porter; belly-down and curled-up, his eyes wide and unblinking, as a steady froth of blood oozed from his raspy lungs, as slowly, his life slipped away. Albert said “I remember someone saying the man was dead and to turn him over. I said leave him, as I had felt a faint pulse in his neck”. It was Lew who called for an ambulance, but being eager to escape, for whatever reason, as he lay dying, everyone stepped over Mickey Porter… even his friends. Having entered through this door barely one hour before with Mickey, Charlie Snooks later said “I saw him lying on the stairs, moaning and groaning”, and John Kavanagh said “I knew he was hurt but I didn’t know he was hurt so bad. I squeezed past with Ann and Snooke and got into the car, where we sat and watched, when the Old Bill arrived, we just had a walk to a coffee shop”. Others there that night, like Matt Reilly exclaimed “I grabbed my wife, and me and John joined the queue for the stairs… when we reached the bottom I saw a man who I can’t describe, lying face down on the floor, there was a lot of blood around him”. His brother John said “I saw Mickey Porter lying on the stairs, I bent down and looked at his face, and saw his eyes were staring, Matt was with me, he said to his wife “come on, let’s go”, we stepped over Mickey and left the club”. The ambulance arrived a few minutes later, although he was rushed to Charring Cross Hospital, at 1:33am, Michael Barry Porter, known to his pals as “Mickey” was pronounced dead. (flat line) Having sealed off the Rose N Dale club and Newport Place, the Police investigation began. Splattered down the multi-coloured walls, the door, floor and stairwell of the club, as well as across the pavement outside of numbers 9, 7 and 3 Newport Place, were two distinct blood groups; type A and type O, but being in the era before DNA, an exact match would never be found. On the bar; the stem, base and bowl of a broken and bloodied wine glass was found, but having been cleared away by someone else, part of which had been binned, with a broken glass also found under Mickey’s face, whether this was a weapon, or not, may never be known. And with the club having had a steady flow of punters across the three hours it was open, although the Police had confiscated the club’s signing-in book, even if the punters had all signed-in (which some hadn’t) and used their real names (which some hadn’t), there would be very few usable fingerprints. Police quickly recovered four spent .22 calibre shells found in the club; two in the stairwell, one in the club by main door and one under a stool by the kitchen, where the fight began. And yet, no gun was found, no knife was recovered, there was no motive and no name given as to who killed Mickey Porter. At his autopsy conducted at the Westminster Mortuary, along with an alcohol level the equivalent of thirteen measures of whisky, Dr David Bowen found holes in Mickey’s maroon polo-neck, blue jacket with a matching handkerchief and fawn corduroy trousers, which were consistent with his injuries. With a defensive wound to his right middle finger and a one-inch deep wound to the left-hand side of his back, it was clear that Mickey had been stabbed using a small knife with a single edged blade. With a small wound under his right earlobe, which ripped through his neck tissue, his oesophagus and embedded a bullet at the base of his heart; a small hole in the right hand side of his back, which tore through his right lung and fragmented into two lethally sharp pieces, and a third hole, to the left of his groin, which split his pelvis and embedded in the thigh, three bullets and two fragments were removed from Mickey’s corpse, all consistent with the .22 calibre shells found in the Rose n Dale club. His cause of death was “haemorrhage by bullet wounds to the chest”, meaning that, as he lay there, on the stairs, being stepped over by his closest friends; as his stomach, lungs and chest cavity ruptured, being unable to breathe, 23 year old Mickey Porter drowned in his own blood. For the Police, it should have been an open-and-shut case; an easily recognisable man, shot in a packed nightclub, surrounded by witnesses who knew him and his attacker… but it wasn’t. That night, of the three cars identified at the scene (a red Wolsley, a black Ford Mustang and a white Mini Clubman) two were missing. Of those people who hadn’t fled the scene, more than three hundred witness statements were taken, and most of those were either vague, wrong, misleading or (being unwilling to assist the Police) some eye-witnesses – for whatever reason - refused to talk. The friends who Mickey had arrived with that night were interviewed by the Police but all denied they were even there; John Kavanagh told Police “We did not go to a club called the Rose n Dale. In fact, I have never been to a club called the Rose n Dale”. Ann Kavanagh added “I was not there this evening, nor was my husband or Charlie. In fact, I have never heard of the club before”. And Charlie added “I’ve never been to the Rose n Dale, in fact, I don’t know where it is exactly”. Barbara Ali and June Lawrence, who were standing next to the cigarette machine, barely three feet from the fight itself, stated “we went to the club by ourselves, we saw very little, and left together”, failing to mention that they’d arrived with Terry Haynes or Ian Doran, both of whom were missing. When questioned, Matt Reilly (who’d greeted Charlie Snooke, John & Ann Kavanagh and Mickey Porter in Newport Place before entering the club together) refused to give evidence, and when asked by a policeman if they’d been in the club that night, his brother lied, saying they hadn’t. And although bloodied and dazed having been shot and wounded, Albert Griffith, the proprietor of the Rose n Dale club and his friend Lew Fisher gave possibly the clearest and most reliable eye-witness testimonies of the night, giving a description of two men the Police were eager to trace. Lew stated “…I ran down stairs, and as I stepped over the boy on the floor, I saw two men”, both who he described as five foot eight and early twenties, with one “wearing a fawn coloured top” and a young pale man in dark clothes and a maroon jacket “in a semi-crouched position with blood pouring down his hand and face”. Both men hastily left, accompanied by two girls, a blonde and a red-head. Was this a culprit, an accomplice or another victim? Unable to trace them, the Police didn’t know, but with pools of blood found on the pavement outside of numbers 9, 7 and 3 Newport Place, they knew that someone was bleeding profusely having been slashed with a broken glass by Mickey. (Ending) Albert Griffith was treated at Charring Cross Hospital, and with two bullet fragments removed from his left thumb, he made a full recovery, aided the police and gave a sample of blood for comparison. Penny Porter, Mickey’s mum heard about the shooting on the radio, and even before his name was mentioned, she said “I had a premonition something was wrong… then the Police came, one of them said ‘I have some bad news, your son has been shot’”. That day, she identified her son’s body. And as the investigation continued, the Police were stymied, not only by unwilling witnesses, but also by the intimidation of witnesses by an unknown group, as although Peter Goodey’s testimony was next to useless, his children’s lives were threatened and a Police guard was placed on his home. The Police had a truly monumental task; they had no fingerprints, no weapons, no culprit and with no obvious motive - whether a word, a look or a mistimed nudge – Mickey made an enemy of a known felon who (although a full four inches shorter) was violent, easily riled and armed, and with witnesses being mysteriously silent, once again, the unnamed assailant of Mickey Porter got away. And yet, the autopsy raised one interesting detail. Across the tattoo of a dagger on his right forearm and the right hand side of his jaw, embedded under his skin, were pellets, from a shotgun. For whatever reason, one year before his death, someone had shot Mickey Porter, but why and who? Part two of The Rosendale Murder continues next week. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Christian & Damon’s Amazing Nerd Show & Assassination Podcast. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Scott Denny and Carol Wood, with a warm thank you to everyone who has left a lovely review on iTunes or your favourite podcatcher; I read them all, they are hugely appreciated and I thank you. It only takes a few minutes to do but (for small independent podcasts like myself) it really makes the difference. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
SOUNDS
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE SIXTY-ONE
On Thursday 14th November 1872, the life of Charlie Chirgwin was ended; he was an innocent who wasn’t stabbed, beaten or shot; but his last few hours alive were decided by rules, red-tape and petty revenge, and yet Charlie would never know that, as he was only fourteen weeks old.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
For your enjoyment, here's a short video showing you where The Strand Union at 36 Cleveland Street is/was and the St Giles Workhouse on Short's Gardens. These videos are only one minute long and is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Ep61 – The Senseless Killing of Charlie Chirgwin
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about the cruel and senseless death of Charlie Chirgwin; an innocent who wasn’t stabbed, beaten or shot; but whose last hours alive were decided by rules, red-tape and petty revenge, and yet Charlie would never know that, as he was only fourteen weeks old. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 61: The Senseless Killing of Charlie Chirgwin. Today I’m standing in Short’s Garden’s, WC2; two streets east of the wife-beating baker Alexander Moir, one street south west of the mysterious murder of lonely spinster Daisy Wallis, and one street north of the unsolved murder of Russian Dora – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated between Shaftesbury Avenue and Long Acre, Short’s Gardens is an odd one-way street at the back of Covent Garden, mostly used as a cut-through by cabbies, brickies and Uber Eats (that pointless service for lazy feckless halfwits who are one step away from needing an app to wipe their own ass). Surrounded by a queasy excess of funky barbers, crazy cafes, flip-flop boutiques and (possibly) a falafel museum, this side of Short’s Gardens staunchly refuses to evolve. It’s a tree-lined street lost in a 1970’s time-warp; with window boxes full of pampas-grass, pavements full of white dog-poo and a laundrette full old dears dreaming about the good old days of spam, rationing and syphilis. So if you think that prawn cocktail, vol-aux-vents and cheese cubes on sticks is the height of chic, this place is for you. On the eastern corner of Short’s Gardens and Endell Street is Dudley Court; six-storey brown-bricked block of flats with a convenience store on the ground floor, a mix of council and private flats above and balconies above full of bike bits, carpet cut-offs and part-dried underpants. And like most awful architecture, it was clearly designed by a clumsy child who had a seizure whilst playing with Lego. Now entirely demolished, on this site once stood the St Giles workhouse; a brutal unforgiving place, where the borough’s sickest, poorest and most destitute were sent to work, to live and often to die. As it was here, on Thursday 14th November 1872, in the grounds of the workhouse, that the life and death of fourteen week old Charlie Chirgwin was decided by petty superintendent. (Interstitial) Being just a baby, very little is known about Charlie… ...his mother’s name was Eliza, but it could have been Elizabeth; she was possibly from Penzance and was born sometime in or around 1847, making her twenty-four years old. But being one of London’s forgotten paupers living below the poverty-line, her life was deemed too unworthy to record, so eking out a hand-to-mouth existence and never knowing how she would feed her family from one day to the next, the only evidence we have of her pitiful little life is through the death of her baby boy. For Eliza, life was tough. As an only-child with both parents dead, her only family was a disabled aunt and a young cousin living in a cramped one-roomed lodging in Crown Street (Soho). Although illiterate, having worked since the age of five and trained as a waistcoat hand; with no regular income and no home of her own, her days were spent struggling to raise four-pennies to pay for a night’s lodging, shuttling between rugs on relative’s floors, shivering in icy-cold doorways and begging to be admitted to the workhouse. So endemic was poverty in the 1800’s that each borough within walking distance of Soho had its own workhouse, including The Strand Union and St Giles. Funded by the local council and managed by the church; although they were built to feed, clothe and shelter those less fortunate, the workhouse was more like a pauper’s prison where the impoverished were punished simply for being poor. As a last refuge for almost eight hundred people, each workhouse housed an unholy mix of the city’s desperate; including the disabled, the diseased and the dying; the pregnant, the pitiful and the putrid; the imbeciles, the vagrants and the inmates, whether young or old, male or female, senile or insane. The only difference being which ward you entered and how (if at all) you left; as the Casuals ward took in anyone too poor to pay for a night’s lodgings, the Workhouse was deemed a debtor’s prison for those sentenced here by the court, and the Infirmary was for the ill, the infectious and the incurable. In long dark halls, lines of pale expressionless faces sat in strict silence, forced to endure menial tasks like unpicking oakum – a thick twine hardened with black tar, so tough it made their fingers bleed, so hard it made their thumbs swell - for sixteen hours a day, and all to pay for their keep. In return, their meals were a watery slop, their beds were old and lumpy, and their care was inhuman. But for many, born and raised in the workhouse, this miserable little life was better than living on the streets. Aged 19, Eliza gave birth to her first child Mary in the lice-infested filth of the St Giles workhouse. Aged 22, her second child William was born in the pitiful squalor of the St Pancras workhouse. Aged 23, Eliza married the children’s father (William Jerrard) and with the two having decided to start a new life in America, for once, Eliza had high hopes and big dreams… …but with her passage denied, as her new husband boarded a ship bound for Chicago and waved her goodbye, Eliza was left behind clutching their few possessions, a seven year old girl, a four year old boy and a large swelling in her belly. A few months later, living in abject poverty, her third baby was born in the cold and rancid filth of the St Giles workhouse – a little boy, who she would call Charlie. Charlie was a happy baby; a cheeky little bundle of joy who cuddled but cried very little. Although he was born a little undersized - being blessed with a loving mother (who only being slight herself) would sooner starve than see her children go without – Charlie was well-fed; his tiny little limbs and chubby little belly wrapped in a thick layer of baby fat to protect him from the harsh winter ahead, as being raised in a workhouse, the life expectancy for a child under five was less than one in twenty. With no home, no money and no father, just three months into his short life, Charlie would be dead… but he wasn’t starved, poisoned or even beaten. No, the death of this quiet little boy would be even more senseless, even more tragic, and it was all because of a man called George Cannon. But he wasn’t a maniac, a killer or a sadistic paedophile… …33 year old George Cannon had no criminal record, and although he claimed to be a good Christian, he had an un-Christian attitude. Being short and portly, George was a haughty little jobsworth, who as assistant superintendent at the St Giles workhouse, he had just one job to do – to receive all voluntary admissions at the Casual’s ward - providing beds, warmth and food for mothers and babies. The rules were simple; if a space was free and the person wasn’t rude or drunk, the bed was theirs. Except feeling righteous with an ounce of responsibility, hopped up on his own self-importance and high on his own hint of power, George felt it was his divine right to decide who slept there, who ate there and who stayed warm and dry – as his one job made him feel like a God over the poor. On 17th October 1872, Eliza arrived at the Casual’s ward of St Giles. One bed was free; but being tired, hungry and unsteady on her feet, George called the Police claiming she was drunk. With the Police unwilling to charge her as George’s claims were unfounded, with no other option, he gave her a bed… …but on his terms. By the morning, Eliza would have to pick a full half-pound of oakum. So instead of sleeping; being gripped with worry, and with two young children at her side and a two-month old at her breast, although her thumbs were badly blistered, she spent the night pulling apart coarse tarred rope, until weak with exhaustion, she nodded-off. With the oakum unfinished, George put a black-mark against her name and Eliza and her children were booted out of St Giles. It may seem like a rather petty and even childish act, but this is where the senseless death of Eliza’s little boy began… and one month later, he would be dead. (Interstitial) The eight years prior had been the wettest on record with the winter seeing a year’s rainfall in four months; the harvest was soggy, the economy was rough and disease was rampant. With the weather bad, business was bad, and with her fingers bruised and blistered, as the nights barely rose above freezing, although broke, Eliza’s hands shook so much she couldn’t sew a button on a single waistcoat. That week, little Charlie had a cold. It wasn’t anything serious, just a sniffle and a cough which was on its way out, as his loving mother had swaddled him in long woollen clothes and snuggled him next to her warm heaving chest, as he suckled on her nourishing milk. The worst of the cold was over. On the night of Wednesday 13th November, with her cousin away, Eliza slept in the modest comfort of her aunt’s one-roomed lodging on Crown Street in Soho. It wasn’t much, but it was warm and dry. The next night, with her cousin back and unable to scrape together four pennies for a night’s lodging, Eliza and her children headed out to the nearest workhouse, known as The Strand Union. Crown Street to Cleveland Street is half a mile, it should have taken no longer than twelve minutes, but with a fierce storm brewing, as Eliza battled to shield her babies from the stinging rain and bitter icy wind, protected from the cold but not the wet, their thick woollen clothes soon became sodden. Having left just after a quarter passed six, Eliza arrived at 36 Cleveland Street at a quarter to seven. With log fires blazing, tea brewing and a stew on the stove, the warmth of the Strand Union workhouse was welcoming, as the heat tingled their frozen limbs. Greeting them at the door, Mr Keller, the relieving officer of the Strand Union stated that as they stood there, dripping and shivering, with pools of water forming around their feet, “it was as if someone had dragged them out of the Thames”. And although the family was desperate, the news was not good - the wards were closed. With the casual ward shut and the workhouse locked down, even though the infirmary stayed open for the chronically ill, with none of them being sick, no beds were free. Thankfully, rules had been set which stipulated that any casuals The Strand Union could not accept would be received by the St Giles workhouse, and - seeing Eliza and her babies as a priority - Mr Keller handed Eliza an order to confirm this. It read; “to the Master of the St. Giles's workhouse. Admit Eliza Chirgwin and three children, Mary, William and Charles. Signed G. Keller, assistant relieving officer". With a signed order in her hand, a surplus of beds at St Giles’ and being stone-cold sober, Eliza would have no problem finding shelter that night, especially as George Cannon was very aware of the rules. Having received his orders four weeks prior, he sent a letter to the Board of Guardians. It read; "I beg to inform you that I commenced last evening receiving casual paupers from the Strand workhouse. Trusting that you will kindly take into consideration the extra amount of duty which I now perform, and that a salary increase would be forthcoming. I remain your obedient servant, George Cannon". His letter was sent on the 12th, but so far, he had not received a reply. Cleveland Street to Short’s Gardens is just shy of one mile, it should have taken no longer than twenty-five minutes, but battling a brutal headwind, icy blasts of arctic show and their soaked woollen clothes beginning to freeze on their shivering skin, although they were forced to stop twice, hearing a familiar wheeze from Charlie’s chest, Eliza ploughed on, desperate to get them all warm, dry, fed and a bed. With their legs like lead, their faces flushed red-raw and the children’s tears dangling like icicles, even though they had barely one hour to reach the workhouse before the heavy wooden gates were shut, through strength and determination, Eliza arrived at the Casual’s ward of St Giles at half passed seven. The doorbell clanged. The family waited. The gate unlocked. Stood before them, all short and portly; his beady little eyes like a blanket of fresh snow soiled by dog-shit, his lips pursed like an old toothless hag sucking a lemon and the hairs of his flared nostrils hanging like rows of unused nooses, illuminated by a single flickering candle… was George Cannon. Although a good few inches shorter than Eliza, peering along the length of his upturned nose, through spectacles which precariously perched on his nose’s tip, he still managed to look down on her, as around his neck, a crucifix hung, as if Jesus himself would absolve him of his sins. Glaring at the bedraggled shadows, George nasally snorted "you want a night's lodging?", as stood in the bitter icy rain, Eliza meekly stammered “yes”, her lips too cold to form anything more, as she handed him the order with a shivering hand. Snatching it, George slowly read all twenty-two words, a look of distain at this letter which superseded his own mighty authority. All the while, his corpulent wife stood behind him, shovelling fistfuls of food into her fat sweaty face. Holding the order by his fewest fingers, George huffed “well… come in then”. And as the ward’s door opened, the warmth of the log-fire, the smell of a hot meal and a sense of relief swept over them, as for that night at least, Eliza and her family were safe. Or they should have been. To George Cannon, the name Eliza Chirgwin wasn’t synonymous with a struggling mum in dire need of his help, she was an obstinate insult on decent society who had flatly refused his demand to pick a half-pound of oakum, and with a black-mark against her name, this haughty little jobsworth had one simple rule to abide by; if a space was free and the person wasn’t rude or drunk, the bed was theirs. Eliza hadn’t drank. Eliza didn’t swear. Eliza wasn’t rude. As Eliza entered the gate; with her icy hands shaking and her rigid lips too cold to properly say “thank you”, being too weak to stand, Eliza stumbled a little – a single misstep over the base of the gate. George barked “Oh! You are drunk again, are you?", Eliza pleaded "No, I am not", but her pleas fell on deaf ears as George decreed “stand here you drunken beast” and sent for the Police. Behind him, his vulgar wife screamed "that's right, lock her up", spitting food from her frothing bloated mouth. And as Eliza stood there, too meek to argue back, too weak to stand her ground, as her broken little family stood there crying, shivering in sodden frozen clothes, Charlie’s little lungs began to rasp. At 8pm, PC Samuel Kemp was summoned to the St Giles’ workhouse to arrest an abusive drunk. With no drunk in sight and the only obscenities spat by the seething superintendent and his abusive spouse, as Eliza cradled her weeping babies, a baffled PC Kemp asked "Mr Cannon, you are surely not going to charge this woman with being drunk?", George rebuked “I shall do so". Drenched himself, PC Kemp said "but you are surely not going to send those children out on a night like this?", to which George barked "I surely shall, and you will take them to the station". But PC Kemp flatly refused. Bristling with rage at the Constable’s impertinence, George spat “Fine, for failing to take charge, I shall report you”. PC Kemp was a married man with two children of his own, and unwilling to risk his career over something so trivial, he begrudgingly trudged the frozen family another quarter mile to Bow Street Police Station. George Cannon in tow, rubbing his hands with glee at his petty victory. And yet again, the tiny lungs of little Charlie wheezed. With Bow Street being a Police Court, as was the rules, Eliza stood in the dock, accused of the charge of being ‘drunk and abusive’; two screaming children about her feet, a suckling baby at her breast. Seeing the charge as unfounded, with PC Kemp on her side and Inspector Usher stating of Eliza “I never saw a more humble or harmless woman", as George vociferously argued about why this woman must be charged, the Police took pity of the family, their fate at the mercy of this petty little man. And as the nasty little legs of George Cannon sped back to St Giles, throwing aside his papers and files to seek out a minor clause in an Act of Parliament which decreed, by law, that they charge her for the little known crime of “acquiring lodgings using a false name” - the name in question being Jerrard, her married name – as Inspector William Usher fought Eliza’s case, his Sergeant fed the family with hot tea and toast, as they sat by the fire, Mary and William asleep, Charlie’s chest now rattling. At 9pm, Inspector Usher had the family examined by Dr Mills, the Police Surgeon. Although cold and malnourished; Eliza, Mary and William were well, but Charlie was not. Being swathed in soaking wet wool and exposed to bitter winter winds for the last three hours; with his pale skin trembling, his tiny limbs icy cold and the whistling of his little chest being a dire indication of bronchitis, Dr Mills wrote an order admitting Eliza and her children to the nearest workhouse, outranking George Cannon. Accompanied by Constable Scutt and clutching a doctor’s order, Eliza and her babies were forced to slog another quarter of a mile, through a torrent of freezing rain, from Bow Street Police Station, until they returned back at the Casual’s ward of the St Giles’ workhouse. Once again, the doorbell clanged. Once again, the family waited. Once again, the gate unlocked. As stood before them, all short and portly; his arms folded like a locked gate, his nostril flared like a furious bull and his little beady eyes like full-stops, George Cannon barked “she’s not coming in here, she’s drunk”, as at his side (having lied to him) was the assistant surgeon of the workhouse. Being only a Constable, incredulously PC Scutt asked "you will not take her in?", but the answer was clear as George sneered “no”. With the nearest workhouse being the Strand Union (whose wards were shut), George snorted “take her away then”, as once again, he turfed the wet, cold and shivering family out into the darkness. And with another one mile slog ahead, before he slammed the gate shut on them forever, George retorted "make her walk, she’s more than able to”. With Charlie weak and pale, as a matter of urgency, PC Scutt hailed a horse-drawn carriage, and with the family huddled under a dry blanket, their shivering faces shielded by a canopy, they rode back to The Strand Union at 36 Cleveland Street, where their journey had begun. Seeing Charlie’s pitiful state, Mr Keller, the relieving officer of the Strand Union took them straight to the infirmary. Eliza, Mary & William were given dry clothes, hot tea and warm beds, and as her rasping baby was attended-to by the nurses, broken with exhaustion Eliza wept “bless you, God bless you all”. Given just the basics that any human requires - food, warmth and medicine – the little boy soldiered on for three more days, but with his lungs too weak and unable to feed, on Sunday 17th November 1872, fourteen week old Charlie Chirgwin died. (End) Examined by John Angus, medical officer of the Strand Union; he stated, although an undersized baby, his body was plump, his organs were healthy and with his slight cold almost cleared, being exposed to a bitter winter wind, in wet clothes, for four hours, Charlie had succumbed to bronchial pneumonia. George Cannon was tried on 16th December 1872 at the Old Bailey, under the charge of manslaughter, which he denied and pleaded not guilty. With emotions running high, Mr Justice Quain asked the jury “not to allow feelings of humanity to run away with your judgment and make the prisoner the victim of a system, as the real offenders are those who had authorised to send paupers from one union to another, no matter what the weather”. After a short deliberation, being certain that that it was his selfish and petty actions which exacerbated the baby’s death, George Cannon was found guilty of manslaughter. And although the judge was eager that this act should be a warning to others, he sentenced him to prison… for just twelve months. Eliza’s baby had lived for less than three. Charlie Chirgwin was a healthy little boy, and although raised in abject poverty, being blessed with a loving parent, against the odds, he may have survived. But the death of Charlie Chirgwin was cruel and senseless; he was an innocent whose last hours alive were decided by rules, red-tape and the petty revenge on a mother who only wanted a bed for her babies. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget murky milers, stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Moms & Murder and Murderific. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Graham Sillars, Stella Singer, Tina Korteland, Barbara Johnson and Suzanne Fox, with a thank you to old Patrons and retuning patrons, who are enjoying the new goodies, such as location videos, crime scene photos (exclusive to Patreon), a weekly ebook of the unedited Murder Mile script, and a handwritten thank-you card from me with Murder Mile badges, stickers and an official “murky miler” badge. Ooh. A big thank you this week to Molly, Aaron and the gang from the University of Idaho, who booked a private Murder Mile Walk. It was lovely to meet you all and thank you for being amazing. Next week’s episode is a two-parter, and you will receive both parts that day, so don’t delete one of them thinking it’s a mistake. It’s a very different episode to what you’re used to, so get ready. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
Additional sounds featured include: Horror Gate - https://freesound.org/people/Tomlija/sounds/109710/ Metal Keys - https://freesound.org/people/lux244/sounds/200269/ Doorbell - https://freesound.org/search/?q=pull+doorbell&f=&s=score+desc&advanced=0&g=1 *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
February 2025
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Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
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