While I am away researching further episodes of Murder Mile, here's something to keep you entertained. Last time in New Blue, I interviewed Paul (alias Police Constable Arsenal Guiness) about the day-to-day duties of a serving Met Police Constable.
This time, I had a friendly chat with Sally & John of True Crime Investigators UK, two retired police detectives about life as a detective. In part one, we discuss a detective's day-to-day duties. In part two, we discuss police interviews. And in part three, we discuss the basics of crime scenes. Listen to True Crime Investigators UK here
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BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Lover's Walk in Hyde Park where the "suicide pact" took place
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR:
On the night of Tuesday 23rd October 1928, just shy of Halloween, a constable’s torch-light spotted two bodies splayed on the grass in Hyde Park. They were 21-year-old Julia Mangan, a housemaid and 27-year-old Robert Williams, a carpenter. Drenched in blood with their throats slit, he believed their deaths were a suicide. And although proven to be untrue, the killer’s motive would come not from love or hate… but from the twisted imagination of the master of horror.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a mustard raindrop at the right of the Hyde Park by the word 'Serpentine'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. Wednesday 9th February - MEPO 3/1642 - Murder of Julia Mangan by Robert Williams at Hyde Park on 23 October, 1928, man claims he killed her during an epileptic fit - – https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257684
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. This is Grosvenor Gate in Hyde Park, W2; a short walk south of the strangulation of homeless man Mark Morrison, a few streets west of the terrorist attack on the flight-crew of El-Al 016, the last night of fun by the Bloody Butler, and a very public beheading in Park Lane - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated between Knightsbridge, Bayswater and Mayfair, Hyde Park is one of several royal parks open to the public, but also for filming movies. (“Quiet on set”) Many scenes have been shot here (“and action”) for films like cold-war thriller The Ipcress Files, zombie-flick 28 Weeks Later, the first film about Glyndwr Michael in The Man Who Never Was and my favourite Alfred Hitchcock’s Frenzy. Movies cost millions, but a shot can be easily ruined by an extra “or background artiste, thank you” who mimes talking like a fish drowning, walks like their proctologist forgot to cut his nails, and ends each scene with the hilarious quip “that’s a wrap, I’ll be in my trailer”, by which they mean toilet. Hyde Park is a very atmospheric location, with many sights which may leave an indelible memory on a tortured soul, and yet some of the greatest horrors to have happened here weren’t fiction but fact. On the eastern edge, south of Marble Arch, sits the Alford Street Gate (also known as Fountain Gate). On the night of Tuesday 23rd October 1928, just shy of Halloween, a constable’s torch-light spotted two bodies splayed on the grass. Drenched in blood, their throats slit, he believed their deaths were a suicide. And although proven to be untrue, the killer’s motive would come not from love or hate… …but from the twisted imagination of the master of horror. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 175 - London After Midnight. (Projector spooling). One hundred years on, it’s hard for modern audiences to appreciate the power of the silent horror films of the 1920s. Still in its infancy, cinema was a revelation, but as most films and its directors spawned from the theatres, many resulting films were stale and flat. (Horror music) Ignited by the the greats of German expressionism - Robert Weine, Karl Martin and F W Murnau - the early 1920s saw an explosion of groundbreaking horror masterpieces which still chill the blood even today. Classics like; The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, From Morn to Midnight, The Golem, and Nosferatu. With no sound, except for maybe an organ, it was the director’s vision and the actor’s performance which took the audience from a passive spectator to a willing victim whose life was in their hands. Released during pre-code cinema, in an era before scissor-wielding censors sliced up celluloid of any scene which was deemed unacceptable to the moral prudes, 1920’s horrors were shocking and raw. But with many British and American attempts utilising the work of Edgar Allen Poe, most failed. All bar a few like; The Lodger, Phantom of the Opera, The Cat and the Canary, much later Dracula and Frankenstein, and in 1927 came London After Midnight, starring the master of Horror, Lon Chaney. In the trial at The Old Bailey, for the murder of 21-year-old housemaid Julia Mangan, the terrifying gut-wrenching performance of Lon Chaney became a key point of evidence. Only the horror maestro was never arrested or called to testify for his part in her brutal murder, as his alibi was sound… …unlike the mind of her killer. Every horror movie requires a victim to be sacrificed, and ours was Julia Mangan. Born in 1907, Julia was raised in the windswept wildes of Glengarriff, a small isolated village in the Beara Peninsula of County Cork on the far south-west coast of Ireland. Translated as ‘rough glen’, it was as remote as any settlement, as amidst a dense dark forest, small farms pockmarked the land, as ahead lay the violent swells of the Atlantic ocean, a forboding sea of shipwrecks and drowned souls. As a small girl, with pale skin like an amaemic ghost and flame-red hair like the fires of hell, this was not a place of fear or terror, as this dramatic setting was her home which always made her smile. With America ahead and England behind, coming from a large Irish family whose parents had always strived to keep their brood clothed and fed - as an eternally cheerful and conscientious girl who put others before herself - she was keen to what was right and to take the burdon from their shoulders. As her older brother Patrick had done not long before - keen to find her feet, to experience life and to earn an honest crust sending monies back to aide her parents - Julia Mangan moved to London. Arriving in August 1927 with a battered suitcase of clothes and a headful of dreams, 21-year-old Julia quickly found work as a domestic servant at 35 Stanhope Gardens; a five storey Georgian terrace in the fashionable Knightsbridge, two roads south of Hyde Park and a world away from her home. Living in a small basement bedroom which she shared with the housemaid Mary Lea, although the hours were long and the pay was modest, she was well-liked as she was always pleasant and positive. Everyday was an education for this country girl in the big city. Back home; warmth was by peat-fires, light was by candle and entertainment was by father’s mournful songs, but London was different. In the tall elegant home in which she worked and lived; lights were electric, heat came by pipes and the radio played the popular hits, as the BBC broadcast news from across the world in an instant. And at night she had to close the curtains, as a yellow glow bathed the sky as the city streets never slept. In her spare-time, Julia explored this chaotic metropolis of lights and sounds, her mouth agape and her eyes wide to the new world of wonder; fast cars, instant foods, high fashion and the latest films. Surrounding the eternal sprawl of Piccadilly Circus were a wealth of picture houses. As palaces to the modern moving picture, Julia often sat in awe, as her pale skin was bathed in an endless projection of news, cartoons and movies depicting worlds she could not imagine and lives so far from her own. As a hopeless romantic, she often sat with heavy heart watching a tragic tale of love and loss unfold; recent hits were Flesh and the Devil with Greta Garbo & John GIlbert, Sunrise and 7th Heaven both with Janet Gaynor, and - although a horror which wasn’t her thing - the 1923 hit The Hunchback of Notre Dame, starring horror maesto Lon Chaney as the mangled beast of the bell tower, Quasimodo, and Patsy Ruth Miller as Esmeralda, a woman who sees beyond his deformity to find love true. For Julia, the summer of 1927 was an exciting time to be alive. Two weeks later, as if by fate, she would find love… …but three weeks after that, she would be dead. It may be hard for modern audiences to accept, but there was no actor quite like Lon Chaney. In the silent era, when films were soundless and the score was often played by an old dear on a tuneless organ interpreting the film’s action into emotion having never seen it before, as a human chameleon able to contort every inch of his body into a beast before your eyes, Chaney was a god and a monster. So lauded was Chaney that a popular saying was “don’t step on that bug, it might be Lon Chaney”. Nicknamed ‘The Man of a Thousand Faces’, not only was Lon Chaney a gifted actor who endured pain to create truly jaw-dropping characters - as in the 1920 film The Penalty, when he strapped his lower legs behind his thighs to portray a double leg umputee - but he also created his own make-up. Portraying Erik in the 1925 horror classic, The Phantom of the Opera, his hollow skull like appearance was so shocking, that audiences fainted, fled and even some more sensitive patrons were supposedly committed to asylums. His face is an image so grotesque, it still has the power to shock even today. As a master of horror, the 1920s saw Lon Chaney at the height of his powers… …by 1927, his latest masterclass in terror was released, and it was called London After Midnight. Every horror movie requires a villain to be feared, and ours was Robert Williams and his life was as tragic as any monster Lon Chaney could imagine. Born on the 28th December 1899 in Tanybraich in Caernarvonshire, North Wales, Robert Williams was came into being as Robert Owen Jones, the illegitimate son of Lizzie Jones, a struggling single mother. Stemming from a family where insanity was a cruel curse from God, unable to cope and having fled to Canada, aged just three months old, Robert was put up for adoption. Raised as their own by Mr & Mrs Williams of Lon Las in Garn Dolbenman, north west of Porthmadog, his early life was good, being blessed with two loving parents and - like himself - an adopted brother from an adandoned life. As an average lad of normal features - 5 foot 7, pale skin, dark brown hair and blue eyes - he was as liked as any other boy. Educated at Garn Council School, he left aged 14 and entered the trades. Aged 14 to 19 as a farm labourer, 19 to 21 as an apprentice joiner at Brynkir Arms on the Welsh Highland & Festiniog Railway, and he continued as a carpenter for the rest of his life… cut-short by the incident. Described as good, quiet if a little distracted, a hideous spector always haunted his soul, as although abandoned at birth, a little piece of his mother would remain within him. Physically, he was rarely ill, with just two bouts of fever and no pox, trauma or seizures. But mentally, sickness was in his blood. Cursed by moments when this boy seemed “peculiar”, this was not unusual as insanity ran rampant in Jones’ family; declared incapable, two cousins were committed for life to the North Wales Asylum, one had been “an imbecile since childhood”, and two had taken their own lives aged just 18 and 14. Aged 14, Robert had tried to end his pain by throwing himself against the hind legs of a horse, as its kick could crush his skull and break his neck, but miraculously he survived. Dr Hume had diagnosed Robert with neurasthenia - an ill-defined condition resulting in fatigue, headaches, paranoia and mood swings - and although it was mental abnormality, he could not be certified as insane. On 24th March 1927, at Caernarvon Quarter Sessions, Robert Williams was acquitted of the indecent assault on a young woman, and - unable to deal with his shame in his hometown - he fled to London. As a 27-year-old joiner, Robert lodged at 50 Robert Street in Camden with a fellow Welsh bricklayer called Owen Williams, he worked on various building sites across the West End, he visited pubs with his new pals, and - just like Julia who he hadn’t met - he entertained himself with trips to the cinema. Robert liked horror; that queezy feeling of trepidation as your palms sweat, your heart pumps and the pit of your stomach lurches and churns, as a phantom of unbridled terror stalks your senses. Released under the title The Hypnotist - directed by Tod Browning who later shot Freaks and Dracula - London After Midnight was a silent horror about an old spooky house haunted by the vampire of its former owner who killed himself. For maximum chills, the horror maestro Lon Chaney had widened his eyes and lips with hidden wires to give his face a maniacal grimace, as shocking today as then. Robert had only seen the film once… …but for the rest of his life, it would torture his soul. The relationship of Julie & Robert began under uncertain circumstances. The exact date is unknown, but a month after her arrival in London, 21-year-old Julia Mangan was introduced by her room-mate Mary Lea, to a 27-year-old Welsh carpenter called either Walter Ellis or Mills - no-one was sure what. Why Robert used an alias is a mystery, but maybe being shamed of his past, he was hiding the truth? There was no doubt that Julia liked him; he wasn’t handsome but he was cute, he was sometimes funny but also serious, and although he skirted the facts of his past, his emotion was always honest. Mary Lea was undecided if he liked him and her brother Patrick dispised him from the start, but like Esmeralda in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as a small girl with a big heart, she would always seek to see beyond the ugliness of his quirks and faults, to find true love inside her very own Quasimodo. It’s a romantic notion that no matter how deformed a person is that not every beast is a monster… …only Robert’s deformity was not upon his skin, but in his soul and in his brain. On 10th October 1927 - one week into their love and two weeks before her death - with his work rate eratic, Robert lost his job as a carpenter. With no job and no wage, he risked losing his lodging, only - as a man who was haunted by the spectre of his past - what he feared most was loneliness. As a habitual drinker, who boozed to quell his pain, where-as this perculiar boy was often odd, under the dreaded influence of alcohol, those who knew him said he became “crazy” and “unpredictable”. With no work to occupy his time, he drank. Supping to sooth his sickness, drink was not the medicine to aide his ailments and - lost in liquor - he could no longer trust his senses. As even while he was awake, he saw visions of a ghastly face he had feared for months and was goaded by a ghostly voice. On Saturday 20th October 1927 - one week before - being hungry and spent as the harrowing spirit haunted his addled mind, Robert had tried to end his torment by ripping apart his throat with a razor, only - unable to hold he blade straight - he had failed, having displeased the voice who only he knew. His death was soon, but how and when? And unable to kill himself, he grew obsessed with Julia. Wherever she went - like an icy wind howling down an unlit alley - it sent shivers down her spine to know that he was always behind her. Whenever she worked - like a havock-making gremlin - doors were knocked and doorbells rang. And even when she tried to sleep - like the bumps and crashes of a lonely poltergeist who demanded her undivided attention - he would never give her peace. On Sunday 21st October at 8:10pm - although it was against the rules to have any male-friends in her quarters - in her basement bedroom at 35 Stanhope Gardens, Patrick and his girlfriend Hannah came by, only to find Julia crying and Robert blind drunk and collapsed on he bed, muttering incoherantly. With his eyes as wide as a werewolf’s gaze minutes before seeing the moon, and his mouth as bloody as a vampire’s smile after feeding - having gashed his head and mouth in a drunken stumble - Robert didn’t look like he was in this world or the next, but trapped in a twilight land of misery and pain. As all he could utter was “I want Julia, I want Julie, I want Julie”, as if he was demented ot possessed. Unable to move him herself and being to frighten to do so - as a burly builder - Patrick hauled him up like a hod of bricks and carted the rambling reprobate out of her employer’s house, never to return. Robert was gone, Julia was grateful (as his presence risked her losing her job and the wages she sent back to her loved ones) but - more importantly - as the hard door was slammed behind him and this crazy crackpot landed flat in the street, to her brother Julia declared “I never want to see him again”, On Monday 22nd October 1927, he called again, but - this time - she kept him at a distance and her words brief. In her eyes, their love was dead and their relationship of just three-weeks was now over. Knowing how fragile he was, Julia needed to find the right words to break it to Robert gently… …only their parting words would come from her lips, or even his, but those of Lon Chaney. As a domestic servant, Tuesday 23rd October 1928 was a typical day for Julia Mangan; she cleaned, dusted, washed sheets and with her duties done, she finished her shift at 7pm. She had a bite to eat, she got dressed, she told Mary Lea “I’m going out for a breath of fresh air” and at 8:15pm she left. Robert’s day was a different to Julia’s as night is to day. Being bored, having sunk enough booze to sink a battleship, it wasn’t the beer in his gut which haunted his brain, as - every time he blinked - that face grimaced, those eyes glared and that voice goaded; mocking his manhood in a ceaseless whisper like a dying breath, of how he was weak. Even as - in his jacket pocket - he fingered the sharp blade of his cut-throat razor, the final act of his life was to be a river of blood spewing from his neck. Neither Julie nor Robert had spoke of their plans that night, so whether they had agreed to meet, or he had followed her to a familiar place? Nobody knows, but they would meet for one last time. The scene was set - Hyde Park, one of the few places a person can feel feel alone and isolated amidst the rippling chaos of London’s streets; it has darkness, shadows and silence. As an ancient hunting ground, blood has soaked into every inch of its soil and every tree has soaked-up the juices of death. The time was set - 10pm, more than four hours since the sun had set, and with a vague hint of moon obscured by a blanket of dark forboding clouds, the night was was as the sky brooded gloomily. Being mid-week and too late for the sensible, the park was as deathly quiet as an old abandoned crypt. Even the usual cackawing of crows or foxes screams were dulled by the endless traffic on Park Lane. And as for the actors in our terrifying horror - this intimate scene of love, loss and longing was to be played by a cast of only two; Robert & Julia, the victim and villain, who once loved but now loathed. It was an odd place to meet at any hour of the day or night. Perched on the eastern edge of Hyde Park, at a place called Fountain Gate, it’s both somewhere and nowhere; as being half way between Marble Arch and Welllington Arch, even when the park is fit to burst, it’s eerily quiet and silent. Sitting on a bench in the gap between a footpath and a horsetrack, the two sat talking. With no witnessest, what happened that night can only be based on the words from Robert’s mouth and the memories from his fevered mind, so how much of what follows is true or real is debateable? Robert would state: “We sat down and talked for a bit. I said I was going to give up the drink and that sometimes I felt I could not give it up”. He had tried many times in the past and had always failed. “Julia said ‘I will pray for you. God can do nothing unless you do yourself’”. As a Catholic, this was typical of her kindness, believing there was goodness in everyone and giving a hint of hope to follow. Only Robert’s demon wasn’t booze, but his brain. “My head was then getting troublesome. Thoughts came into my mind. I felt my head getting fuller and fuller. It seemed to be steaming at both sides, like a red hot iron being pushed inside my head”. And like all horror movies, in the third act, a shock twist would bolt us from our seats. “I thought I was in a room and a man was standing in the corner pulling faces at me, he threatened and shouted at me that he had got me where he wanted me”. Goading Robert and tormenting his soul - as he had done for several months since - before him was the face, the voice and the eyes of Lon Chaney. As real as the sweat on his own palm and the razor within - like a scene from London After Midnight - the horror maestro stood before Robert; his ghoulish eyes bulging as if the devil was gouging them out and his grimaced mouth goading him to kill, his famished fangs seeing his flesh as not enough of a feast. In the mind of a disturbed man - as the epitome of terror personified - Lon Chaney was here. “The last thing I remember was Julia whistling”, which was something she often did when she was both nervous and afraid, and as that familiar feeling pounded inside his skull, “I felt as if my head was going to burst” and with that, the music swelled, the lights dimmed and the screen faded to black. (Silence, projector) “I’m teling you the truth, I had no intention of hurting her”... At 10:10pm, alerted from Hyde Park police station set inside of Marble Arch, PC John Green raced to Fountain Gate to a report that a couple had “passed-out”. Only it was worse than he could imagine. Found between the path and the horsetrack, the first body found was Julia’s; face down and curdled up, her left hand still clutched at her throat, with her white glove saturated with blood, as a deep gash had ripped apart her flesh and drained her lungs of her last breath. An autopsy confirmed that the injury was “not self-inflicted” and “considerable force had been used to inflict such a wound”. She was declared dead at the scene. Nearby lay Robert. Like Romeo & Juliet, you may expect these two ex-lovers to die side-by-side? Only they were not. Robert was found face down, his back turned and 36 feet away. With his throat slit and the bloody razor in his left hand, it’s no mystery who murdered Julia Mangan. And yet, in his right, he held a letter, addressed to Julia, written by her mother - its contents never disclosed. (End) Discovered in a serious condition but miraculously still alive, Robert was rushed to nearby St George’s hospital, he was operated upon and being discharged a week later, he was arrested for her murder. Examined by Mr Watson, Medical Officer of Brixton Prison, no evidence of insanity or epilepsy was found and when recounting the incident, Robert did not mention being “terrified by a face”. When interviewed by Dr East, Medical Inspector of Prisons, he appeared emotional and depressed but did recall the face of Lon Chaney. And when examined by Dr James Cowen Woods, a specialist in mental diseases, it was believed he had suffered from an episode of epileptic automatism; a seizure of the frontal lobe where the patient is lucid, but unaware of their actions, as if they are sleepwalking. Declared sane and with a scarf covering the scar on his neck, on Wednesday 9th January 1929, at The Old Bailey, he pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder. Summing-up, Mr Justice Humphries asked the jury: “I do not know whether you have seen ‘London After Midnight’ in which Lon Chaney acted”, but he left the weight of the case up to thejury to decide; was he insane and guided by a terrifying memory of a horror actor in a film, or was he sane and merely using the idea of a vision as an excuse. Having initially failed to reach a verdict, after much deliberation, the next day, they found him guilty of murder. They did not believe he had seen Lon Chaney and he was sentenced to death. But on emotional grounds, his execution was later commuted to a life in penal servitude. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Queensborough Terrace in Bayswater, where the attack took place
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR:
On the night of Tuesday 6th June 1961, three American airmen were attacked by a group of local men armed with fists, bottles and a knife on Queensborough Terrace in Bayswater. 22-year-old Stanley Roach was stabbed to death and died in the melee. Only, his murder wasn’t as clear-cut as it seemed, and although there was no doubt that the two convicted men were guilty of Stanley’s murder, the big question is why? Why did they murder Stanley Roach, a man they didn’t know?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a red raindrop at the top left of Hyde Park, by the words 'Long Water'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
Thursday 10th February - MEPO 2/10443 - Murder of Stanley Thurman ROACH by Andrew XANTHOU, Daniel ATTARD and Xanthos ZACHARIA on 6 June 1961 at Queensborough Terrace, London, W2 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C556163 SOURCES:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Queensborough Terrace in Bayswater, W2; one road north of the stabbing of PC Jack Avery in Hyde Park, two roads east of the pub where Dennis Nilsen met Twinkle, two roads south of the Blackout Ripper’s last victim, and one street west of the seemingly safe bed where a confused old lady was tortured to death in a real ‘hotel of horrors’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Running parallel with Queensway and the Bayswater tube, Queensborough Terrace consists of two lines of four-storey Georgian terraces, made of white render, black iron gates and fake doric columns. Having seen better days, some are homes, but most are slightly tacky B&B’s for tourists seeking the “real London”. Not everyday things like long queues, grumbling and dog-plop, but the cheesy stuff - like red phone boxes, soldiers in bearskins and portraits of the Queen - so they don’t feel cheated. As a hub for holiday-makers, Bayswater has adopted a similar cringe-making style, so expect to see; The Union Jack Flapjack Shack, The Queen Liz Bean & Fizz, The Dickens Wig & Hair-Thickening Clinic, The Princess Di Doe-Eyed Beauty Parlour and - thankfully - nothing with a certain Prince’s name on. At 49 Queensborough Terrace currently stands the Central Park Hotel, but back in the 1960s, this was the Knights Hotel; an affordable B&B mostly occupied by tourists, long-term residents and squaddies. On Tuesday 6th June 1961, three American airmen booked-in and headed out for a fun night. They were here to let-loose, but being attacked by a gang armed with bottles and a knife, one of the three would lose his life. The deadman was a US Citizen called Stanley Roach and he was just 21-years-old. Sadly, there is violence on every street, and often it is made worse when drunk angry idiots fuelled by arrogance pick on the innocent for no reason, and - in this case - they ruined three lives forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 174: Nothing But Common Thugs. On 3rd October 1961 - four months after his murder - three men stood in the dock of The Old Bailey; 20-year-old Andreas Xanthou, a Cypriot chef of Notting Hill; 22-year-old Daniel Attard, a Maltese salesman of Forest Gate; and 28-year-old Xanthou Zacharia, a Cypriot waiter of Leinster Gardens. In a four-day trial, Xanthou, Attard & Zacharia all pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the Grevious Bodily Harm of 2nd Class Airman Gerald Barreras and the murder of 2nd Class Airman Stanley Roach. Defended by Queen’s Counsel, a highly experienced but expensive solicitor whose services were entirely funded by the tax-payer, the three were expertly defended, even though the evidence was against them. From the crime-scene; their vicous attack was seen from several angles by impartial eye-witnesses in good light from a few feet away, their fingerprints matched the shards on the bottles they had hurled at and smashed over their victim’s skull, traces of Stanley’s blood were found on the wiped-clean murder weapon and one of his killer’s clothes, and - although they all denied holding the knife which ended his life - Xanthou, Attard & Zacharia were three bad men who did bad things for bad reasons. Born on the 28th July 1940 in Kyrenia, a coastal city in north Cyprus, Andreas Xanthou left his country in 1958 following his father’s death leaving behind his widowed mother and two younger siblings. Unable to get a job in the UK as a decorator, he worked sporadically in restaurants; at the Hellas in Piccadilly for four days in November 1959, at the Las Vegas Club on Stanhope Street for six months, and - supposedly - at the Barcelona on Old Compton Street, even though, by then, it had shut-down. When arrested, he gave his job title as a ‘chef’, only his work record showed he was a ‘kitchen porter’ and having not worked for a full year, he admitted to “living off the proceeds of gambling”. Nicknamed ‘Blackie’ and using the alias of Tony Blackia, Xanthou had one prior conviction for robbery with violence, and having served four months, he was released from prison on 22nd February 1961. Born on 23rd September 1938 in Sliema, a coastal district in northern Malta, Daniel Attard left school aged 15. His life had started well, having become an electrician in Sliema, Cuchgarie and Valetta dockyards for five years working on contracts for the British Government. But having left of his own accord in March 1959, he moved to the UK, only his new life lacked the opportunities he desired. From May 1959 to May 1961, he worked six months as a table-fitter, one month for Spratts Biscuits in Poplar and two months as a plate scullion onboard the SS Kenya Castle, only he was discharged from duty as his work was unsatisfactory. When arrested, he said he was a salesman, only he wasn’t. After one month in the UK, he was sentenced to three months at Marlborough Street police court for wilful damage and assaulting a policeman, and he lived at home with his parents in Forest Gate. And finally, there was Xanthou Zacharia. Born in Nicosia, the capital city of Cyprus on 17th February 1933, Zacharia was a criminal before he came to the UK; with one count of turkey theft and two counts of assault. Working intermittently as a waiter, a labourer, a mechanic, an ice-cream-maker, a rubber moulder and a fruit delivery driver, he had an extensive criminal record; with crimes ranging from the petty - theft, drunkenness and the use of offensive words - to the serious - burglary, car-theft, pimping and violent assault with a knife. At the time of his arrest, he had served twenty months in prison and hadn’t worked in six. On the 9th October 1961 - unable to prove his guilt - Zacharia was acquitted, and with neither man admitting that they had held the knife, both Xanthou and Attard were found guilty of the assault of Gerald Barreras and the murder of Stanley Roach. With the police stating that “society is well rid of them” being thugs who profited from violence and crime, both men were sentenced to life in prison. A few days after his murder, the body of 2nd Class Airman Stanley Roach was repatriated back to his grieving family in his hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee. He was a good man with a promising career whose young life was cut short in a random attack by three armed strangers who he did not know. It’s sad, but it’s an all-too common event in a city like London, where common thugs walk free among the innocent who are simply trying to live their lives without being beaten, accosted or murdered. We will never know who stabbed Stanley Roach to death… …but the real question shouldn’t be who, but why? Set aside the Swinging Sixties, 1961 was a year of escalating world tensions. Three years into the Vietnam war, one year from the Cuban Missile Crisis, three months since the Bay of Pigs, and with the Soviets having exploded Big Ivan - a 58 megaton hydrogen bomb, the largest ever built - and with Germany being partioned into East and West by a wall - the Cold War had gone from icy to nuclear. Seeking to extend their presence in Europe, the Ministry of Defence re-established this former World War Two airbase, so that US jets and bombers could be strambled at a minute’s notice. As air-crew, 2nd Class Airman Gerald Barreras was assigned to the Technical Fighter Wing alongside 3rd Class Airman William Hammond, with 2nd Class Airman Stanley Thurman Roach in Armament Electronics. Aged 20 to 21, as young lads embarking on an exciting mission in a foreign land - with money to burn and a penchant for gorgeous English girls - Stanley, William and Gerald worked hard and played hard. Being easy-to-spot; William was a big lump, Gerald had charm and Stanley was the baby-faced cutie. (Clock): Wednesday 31st May 1961, six days earlier. With ten days leave, William and Gerald came to London in William’s Volkswagen Beetle, parking up outside of 49 Queensborough Terrace and staying at the Knight’s Hotel. Having been there before, they liked it, as the hotel was cheap and the area was lively, but they hadn’t experienced any trouble. On Monday 5th June, they were joined by their buddy Stanley Roach who was on a three day pass. Their first night was as predictable as any; as they ate, drank, chatted up girls and headed to bed late. (Clock ticking:) Tuesday 6th June 1961, the day of the murder. Nothing happened before 2pm, as being cursed by a trio of stinking hangovers, Stanley, William and Gerald suffered for the silly levels of booze they had belted back the night before. But hey, they weren’t on duty, so why not? By 3pm, still feeling rough, they sat in Hyde Park soaking up a rare spot of British sun and shared a bottle of Canadian whiskey to take the edge off the pains in their bonces. At 7:30pm, having necked back a few “warm pints” (and not knowing they weren’t lagers but ales), at 9pm they headed one street west, to the 30 Club at 30 Queensbury, to drink and dance with girls. At 11pm, with the club closed, as Gerald had promised to walk the barmaid home to Queensborough Terrace, William & Stanley headed into Queensway looking for two nice girls for themselves. Their chances wouldn’t be great as both men were bladdered, but their boners didn’t know how to say no. With just 55 minutes until the attack, so far they had not met either Xanthou, Attard & Zacharia. (Clock:) At 11:50pm, with William having headed-off to Notting Hill, Gerald & Stanley staggered into Queensborough Terrace and fumbled with the key to his VW bug. Although hugely arseholed, being six years before the UK drink drive limit, they could drive pissed as long as they weren’t a danger. Only, in their condition, their immediate danger wasn’t from traffic but gangs of violent thugs. Focussed on the car, as the seriously sozzled twosome swore at its unruly key, three men of Cypriot and Maltese origin formed a semicircle of hate behind them; with one sporting balled-up fists, one armed with a stack of glass bottles and a third clutching a fourteen-inch knife, as long as a forearm. At that moment, the men were unaware of the deadly threat, as Xanthou, Attard & Zacharia loomed closer, intent on doing this isolated and outnumbered pair some serious damage and possibly death. It began, with Gerald being smashed over his head with a milk bottle, which split open his skull and sprayed blood across the car window and his wincing eyes. Before they could turn, in a cowardly attack, the three unleashed a volley of fists and feet, as Gerald and William struggled to fight back. Hearing their cries, lights came on in the neighbouring hotels as a sea of eye-witnesses watched the assault from several angles; as glass bottles smashed, men screamed and a sharp blade glinted. It was a melee of flying limbs and slamming bodies impossible to distinguish whose arm and whose leg. Unable to see through his bloody lids, Gerald shouted “there are too many of them, let’s go”, and as the two airmen staggered down Queensborough Terrace, as they turned onto the busy Bayswater Road, it became clear they were no longer being chased. And with their attackers having fled - being battered and exhausted - both Gerald and Stanley collapsed at the junction of Inverness Terrace. Bleeding profusely from a nasty gash to his head, as he wiped a red running river from his eyes, the gaggle of onlookers thought that Gerald was the worst hurt… …only seeing his woollen pullover pooling in an ever increasing crimson pump, it was as Stanley hit the floor with a hard thud, unable to even move, that the severity of his injuries became clear. An ambulance rushed both men to Paddington General. In A&E, Gerald received five stitches to his head, but - having been stabbed once in the heart - at 2:18am, Stanley Roach was pronounced dead. The death of Stanley Roach was described by eye-witnesses as a mindless act by cowardly thugs who the police said “society is well rid of them”. Both men were drunk, unarmed and outnumbered. Such brutality on an innocent person never makes any sense… …but why were Gerald and Stanley attacked? Was it random, or did it have a reason? (Clock) Rewind to 11pm. With the 30 Club shut and Gerald walking the barmaid home, Stanley & William drunkenly stumbled onto Queensway looking for girls. Being drunk and horny, they weren’t in the mood for a nice chat with a filly or a possible friend, they were here to fuck - plain and simple. Checking-in at the Knight’s Hotel, all three Americans hadn’t signed in with their own names, but aliases; William was Robert Bryant, Gerald was Joe Alberto and Stanley Roach was Stanley L Donnell. When asked why, all three said “this was to prevent us being identified, if there was any trouble with the girls”. Which begs the question, why do this, if you don’t plan to do something immoral or illegal? Thirty minutes later, on the corner of Moscow Road and Queensway, having failed to pick-up two girls, William Hammond - a big guy with a foul temper when he was steaming - smacked a stranger in the face for no reason what-so-ever; bloodying his nose and splaying the lad across the street. Having been assaulted by a common thug and rightly incensed, the victim did the right thing and alerted a passing policeman. The two strangers were a 21-year old chef called Andreas Xanthou and - sporting a bloody lip - the victim was a 22-year-old Maltese salesman called Daniel Attard. At 11:40pm, Daniel pointed out William Hammond to PC Collier shouting “he just hit me”. With one word against the other and their pals - Andreas Xanthou siding with Daniel Attard, and Stanley Roach siding with William Hammond - the constable had no power to arrest, only to apply for a summons. Furious that his attacker was set to walk free from an unprovoked assault, as a hot-heated man still smarting from a serious thump, Daniel stormed off, shouting “I will deal with this myself, I will get my friends, we will get you for this”. And with Daniel having left the scene, no crime could be charged. One block north-west of the random assault on Daniel Attard - seeking a weapon - Andreas headed into Gray’s restaurant on Prince’s Square, a place he had waitered and stole a 14-inch kitchen knife. Hopped-up with rage having been insulted by a fat yank, on their streets, in the home - having met Xanthou Zacharia - Andreas, Daniel & Zacharia scoured every nook and cranny of Bayswater for the two; with fists balled, bottles stashed and brandishing a big knife which would soon take a man’s life. Ten minutes later, they would unleash their fury on Barreras and Roach… …but even that doesn’t explain why Hammond punched Daniel? (Clock) 11:45pm. At the junction of Moscow Road and Queensway. With Daniel & Xanthou having stormed-off fuming “we will get you for this”, local taxi-driver Maurice Greenberg approached PC Collier; his face bruised, his glasses broken, and - in a mirror image of the incident just a few minutes before - he pointed to Hammond and stated “that man hit me and them”. Indicating to the two girls behind him - both red-faced, furious and scuffed - as this time witnesses had seen this assault, Hammond was swiftly arrested and escorted to Notting Hill police station. Having been left on his own, Roach headed back to their hotel on Queensborough Terrace, where Barreras had walked the barmaid home, and - having recounting the story - the drunken twosome fumbled with the key, trying to get into Hammond’s VW bug, to bail this loose-cannon out of jail. Being angry and humiliated, it was unlikely that Andreas, Daniel & Zacharia ever intended to kill the baby-faced GI when they surrounded them. What they did was not right, as a punch doesn’t warrant a death. But with all six (whether Cypriot, Maltese or American) being hot-headed, they didn’t think. In a moronic melee of fists and feet, which both sides could easily have quelled the tensions having calmed down, seen sense or issued an apology. But as five angry men fought to prove nothing but their manhood, they gave as good as they got until the fight got too much… and one man lay dead. All of it could have been prevented by common sense… …and although it explained the incident, it doesn’t explain the spark. (Clock): 11pm. With the 30 Club closed, as Barreras walked the barmaid home, William & Stanley headed onto Queensway looking for girls; both bladdered, but with their boners unable to say no. At this point - being elsewhere - Andreas, Daniel & Zacharia were unaware the Americans even existed. In his own words, Hammond would state “we were walking the streets of Baywater looking for girls with a view to sex”. Whether local ladies or prostitutes, they didn’t care as long as they got to stick their pointless little dicks in any random chick at the Knight’s Hotel. And if she complained, the police would end up chasing three aliases known only as Robert Bryant, Joe Alberto and Stanley L Donnell. At 11:15pm, in an alley behind the 30 Club, Hammond & Roach approached two girls smoking. “We met two girls and asked them to go with us”. There was no “hello”, no “how are you”, just a blunt and drunken “hey girls, let’s fuck”, as if they didn’t want to waste their energy on chatting, only shagging. As flat-mates out for a drink, 23-year-old Inger Robinson and 25-year-old Jean Stokes didn’t know who these arrogant little assholes were. World War Two was over, the days of GIs carrying nylons and Hershey bars were gone, and besides, compared to good old British chocolate, it tasted like dog-shit. But what got their goat was being treated like pieces of meat by two rude little shitbags who couldn’t string a sentence together and who wafted their money about like they were King ‘fucking’ Farouk. These girls were not sex-workers, but with Hammond waving £5 in their faces - bartering to buy their bodies to do their dirty deeds to - insulted, Inger & Jean told them to “Sod off” and walked off. Although too drunk to remember, Hammond would later deny this took place… …but what happened next was witnessed by others. Seeing the girls as theirs and unwilling to accept “no” as an answer to their bulging pants, Hammond & Roach followed the girls up Queensway, to the junction of Bayswater Road, insisting they “put out”. Hailing a taxi, as Jean tried to get in and be rid of these randy roaches forever, having grabbed the door so the cab couldn’t leave, Hammond offered £10 for sex. With Inger & Jean seething, seeing trouble brewing, the bespectacled taxi-driver - Maurice Greenberg - came round to assist. It was then that the moment turned… …offering a deliberately insulting sum “how about two shillings and six pence?”, Roach remarked “nah, they ain’t worth it, they’re just a couple of skags”. Furious, Jean asked him to repeat it, he did, and as she went to slap him, Stanley Roach, the baby-faced airman, punched her squarely in the face. Falling to the floor, as Ingar tried to defend her friend, Hammond kicked her to the ground and the two cowards continued kicking these two girls, as they lay on the pavement screaming and bleeding. The taxi-driver stepped in to break it up, but being punched by Hammond - whose quick temper and fast fists would get him into trouble just a few minutes later - seeing a policeman, the airmen fled. Smarted by the girls’ rejections and spoiling for a fight - by chance - Hammond & Roach headed towards the junction of Moscow Road and into the path of Daniel Attard & Andreas Xanthou. (End) Seen fleeing the scene of this seemingly unprovoked stabbing on Queensborough Terrace, Andreas Xanthou wiped the knife clean and returned it to Grey’s restaurant. In hospital, Barreras described the gang who had attacked them, as “swarthy, curved nosed and thick lipped”, along with a wealth of unsavoury details reflecting an era where foreigners were described as if they were always the villain. Back-up by witnesses and fingerprints, police arrested three unemployed men; Andreas Xanthou alias Tony Blackia, a recently released Cypriot criminal on bail for violent robbery; Daniel Attard, a Maltese “salesman” with a conviction for assaulting a policeman; and Xanthou Zacharia, a Cypriot gambler with a criminal record for theft, drunkenness, burglary, pimping and assault with a knife. In court, with “society well rid of them”, although Xanthou Zacharia was acquitted, Daniel Attard & Andreas Xanthou were sentenced to life in prison. It’s true that all three were bad men who did bad things - not one of them was an angel - but with manslaughter taken off the table, what wasn’t taken into account was the provocation initiated by William Hammond, Gerald Barerras and Stanley Roach. Every crime has a culprit and a motive, but it’s not always as clear to see when you look through the prism of name, rank and uniform. On paper, the three airmen were decent men doing a good job during a time of conflict, but when let off the leash, they were nothing more than common thugs. Hammond & Barreras were charged with no offences, and Stanley Roach was buried with honours. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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The Peabody Buildings on Roupell Street in Waterloo
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-THREE:
On the night of Thursday 7th December 1950, 42-year old William Donoghue stabbed 74-year-old Thomas Meaney to death. The two men had met that night (as friends of a friend), they got on well, they had been drinking and then they fell asleep. The attack was unprovoked and frenzied. And yet, this would be an incident so bizarre, even William would struggle to believe that he had murdered Thomas Meaney… but he had.
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. Manslaughter of Thomas Meaney by William Donoghue at Duchy Street, Waterloo, SE1 on 8 Dec 1950 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10887894https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4202234 MUSIC: Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (Intro) Hard Times To Come Again No More by The Westerlies Horror House by Aaron Kenney Delirium by Kai Engel Sunset by Kai Engel UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today i’m standing on Roupell Street in Waterloo; a few streets south of the ‘happy slapping’ attack on David Morely, the dumped body of Peggy Roberts, the frozen remains of baby Harry Hartley and one street west of the woman who never spoke her killer’s name - coming soon to Murder Mile. Created by social visionary George Peabody in late 1800s, the Peabody buildings were (and still are) a series of inner-city estates to provide clean and affordable housing for the most disadvantaged. To qualify, every tenant must be neat, decent, law-abiding and obey the rules on noise and cleanliness. As beyond these precision pieces of brownstone history, you won’t find a dumped fridge, a stinky bin bag, a slumped drunk, a corridor blocked by ten pairs of pants wiggling on a line like a budget Magic Mike, a sad singleton belting out Whitney on a loop, or the courtyard crammed full of car parts like a hoarder got bored building a museum to a Nissan Micra scrap-yard - simple rules we could all live by. Back in 1950, Flat 21 on the fourth floor of Block F was home to a 42-year-old bachelor called William Donoghue. Described as quiet and pleasant, he was typical of the residents. By day, he worked hard as a bus conductor, and by night (if he wasn’t on an early shift) he would go to his local pub for a pint. William was an ordinary man with no real problems who was never angry, violent or disturbed. But all that would change on the night of Thursday 7th December 1950, when in an unprovoked and frenzied attack, he would brutally stab a friend-of-a-friend to death. This was an incident so bizarre, even William would struggle to believe that he had murdered Thomas Meaney… but he had. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 173: A Buddy, A Dummy, A Dead Man. To say that William Donoghue was an ordinary man would be an understatement. Born on the 7th April 1908, William known as ‘Bill’ was raised in an Irish Catholic family, as the second youngest of three brothers and three sisters to George & Nellie Donaghue. Being working-class with a basic education, they earned an honest living, kept out of trouble and their lives were uneventful. As a person, he stood-out only as much as the next man being of average height and build, he had neat dark hair, a fresh face and prominent eyebrows - but not to the point where people would stare. Having left school aged 14, William began a series of low-paid but well-respected jobs at which he stayed for two-to-three years, left of his own accord and his work record ranged from satisfactory to exemplary. Beginning in 1922 as a page-boy and lift-attendant at the Strand Palace Hotel, from 1925 to 1930 he was a barman (in Southwark, Dagenham and Covent Garden), he spent seven years as a porter at Waterloo station, three years lugging frozen meats at a storage firm, and - when war was declared - he enlisted to fight as a Private in the Army serving in France, Egypt and the Middle East. As many men did, he was awarded several Campaign medals having fought, he suffered no obvious trauma, he openly spoke of his service (but never bragged) and he retained his bayonet as a souvenir. Discharged on the 27th September 1945 - always keen to earn an honest crust - within three weeks he had begun a new career as a conductor on the No10 bus from Brixton to Waterloo. Being diligent; he was polite, cheerful and punctual, he earned £6 and 5 shillings a week (which wasn’t much, but it was enough to pay his bills and keep him comfortable) and his uniform was neat and freshly ironed. Like most people, his life was pockmarked with little tragedies - his mum died when he ws 17, his dad and older brother died when he was 26, and his sister Nellie had suffered a breakdown in 1935 and had remained as an inpatient at Cane Hill Mental Hospital for the last 15 years - but he dealt with it. Of his three surviving siblings, they all lived locally - with his younger brother Albert in Peckham and his two older sisters, Kathleen in Kennington and Eileen in Brixton - who he saw on a regular basis. In the summer of 1948 - having fulfilled the tenancy criteria - William moved into 21F of the Peabody Buildings. Comprising of a room measuring just 14 feet by 12, it wasn’t much but it was enough for him. With space for a single bed, a solitary arm-chair, a small table and a chest of drawers, it was practical and lacked a homely touch, but as he lived alone and rarely had guests, it suited his needs. He had a wireless for his nightly entertainment, a small hob for cooking basic meals (although he preferred to eat lunch and dinner in the bus garage canteen) and - typically for an ex-Army bachelor - instead of buying a bread-knife, he cut thick doorstop slices of white bread with his 10-inch bayonet. And that’s pretty much it. William Donoghue was an unremarkable as anyone. Across his 42-years of life, he had never married or had kids and had no plans to do so. He lived a solitary life with a small group of friends, but could happily chat to anyone in a pub without being a bother. He drank but wasn’t a drunk, he had never been arrested, and his health was good with no known afflictions. So, why he would stab his guest to death is anyone’s guess. But he did… …only he wouldn’t know it. Just as William was as ordinary as anybody else, Thursday 7th December 1950 was a day which began like any other. Being mid-week, he still had a few days to work till the weekend, but having received his Christmas bonus, he was looking forward to spending the festive holiday with his loved ones. In court, William would state “I finished work at 1:22pm”. As he was due on the early shift the next day, he would usually head home, pop on the radio and be in bed by nine, but with a stack of notes burning a hole in his pocket, he felt like he deserved a bit of a blow-out. “Before going to my sister’s in Brixton, I had two Guinnesses in the Black Horse and two in the Windmill”. His consumption was not excessive for him, the pubs were familiar and he sat reading the paper and chatting to the locals. “I stopped at my sister’s from a little after three to twenty past four”. He collected a suit, he seemed his usual self and he didn’t complain of any issues or incidents. Up until the moment of his arrest for murder, he had never committed a violent act. He had no debts, no secrets and he didn’t suffer from any emotional outbursts. Everyone who knew him would praise his meekness and his even-temper. “I got home at twenty past five”. A sighting confirmed by Marguerite Veitch, his next-door neighbour at 22F who confirmed he stayed for about ten minutes. He courtesouly greeted her, and left just after half-five still wearing his dark grey uniform and overcoat as a bus conductor for London Transport. “I went to a pub called the Dark Horse on Blackfriars Road”, where - being a regular - “I played a few games of darts with the guvnor and two customers, and had several Guinnesses to drink”. Which was the only thing different about that night as “I don’t usually drink Guinness, only mild or bitter”. At 6pm, William entered The Prince Albert further up Blackfriars Road, a few streets from his home. Again, as a regular, he had a few Guinnesses and played darts with the landlord (Edward Wilson) and several employees of the Amalgamated Press, who didn’t know him but said he was “very friendly”. So far, William was yet to meet Thomas Meaney, the man he would murder… …and stranger still, as a friend-of-a-friend, William barely knew him. Oddly, although the two were little more than strangers, they were as similar as long-lost brothers. Born in 1890, 60-year-old Thomas Meaney known as Tom was a quiet good-natured man of medium build and height, who liked darts, beer and sport. Being a generation older than William, he was unable to see active service in the FIrst World War owing to a deformed right forearm and a false elbow joint, but he did his duty as a messenger and had been a police driver for the last 30 years. Unlike William, Thomas was married, having been a loyal husband to Margaret for 39 years raising a family of eight children (two of whom still lived at home) and they lived on nearby Stamford Street. As a creature of habit, Thomas kept to a routine as regular as it was predictable. Working out of the Lambeth Police Garage five-days-a-week, he would finish by 6pm, be home by 7:15pm, and that day would be no different. He had a wash, ate some tea, did his pools coupons and at 9:25pm he headed out to the pub - something he did three times-a-week, occasionally with his wife but not often. As per usual, Margaret waved him goodbye, knowing that he would be back by 10:30pm, or 10:40pm at the latest, where she would stay up listening to the radio, and together they go to bed at 11:30pm. At 9:30pm, as regular as clockwork, Thomas Meaney met 72-year-old Richard Copley known as ‘Dick’ in the Brunswick Arms at 25 Stamford Street, his local pub situated just 300 yards from his home. As pals for 40 years, the two always sat quietly in the public saloon playing cards, chatting and drinking no more than three pints of mild. Neither man was a big drinker and Thomas disliked spirits. According to his friends, Thomas was pleasant, easy-going, an affable chap who was no trouble, and was not “given to playing practical jokes”. This might seem an odd thing to say, but it will make sense. So far, nothing had happened to forewarn Thomas of the danger ahead… …and this is how the night would remain, right up to the moment he was murdered. Back at The Prince Albert pub on Blackfriars Road, having sunk six bottles of Guinness (which was about average) William purchased a bottle of Booth’s gin and a bottle of orange squash as off-sales, as he was planning to visit his other sister the next day, and placed them in his overcoat pockets. When he left at 9:45pm, the landlord said he looked relatively sober as he said “goodnight”. William could have gone home to bed as he had work the next morning, but with 45 minutes until closing, he decided to go to the Brunswick Arms - a nice pub he had been to before, but he was not a regular at. At 10:15pm, two hours before the murder, William entered the pub. Seeing Richard, who he knew as they lived on adjacent streets, Richard introduced William to Thomas. The two men knew of each other (William: “Oh, I’ve seen you a few times drinking at The Stamford”, Thomas: “Yeah, that’s right. Good pub that”, William: “Yeah, good pub, decent pint too”), but they had never met until that day. As the three sat chatting in a tone described as “friendly” and “calm”, William bought them both a half pint (as they were over their usual three pint limit), and they sat drinking until “last orders”. What happened next was a little odd, but not out-of-character. With the bar shut - even though the gin was for his sister - William opened the bottle. He poured himself a shot, but having missed Richard’s glass as he moved it and Thomas’ having covered his glass with his hand. Being reprimanded by the manager - (“hey, what do you think you are doing? Do you want to get me into trouble?”) - William apologised, re-corked the bottle and the three men left. William was good-natured about his little indiscretion and witnesses said he was tipsy but not drunk. At 10:30pm, the three men exited the pub, as friendly as they had been all night. Ten minutes later, they entered Duchy Street, a third of a mile south-west of the Brunswick Arms. As this was the road where Richard lived, he bid them a “goodnight” and left. Thomas was due home and with both men working the next day, they should have called it a night, only with William stating “I said to this chap ‘come up and have a drink. I’ll open this bottle of gin’”, Thomas decided to do so. At 10:45pm, Thomas Meaney and WIlliam Donoghue entered flat 21F of the Peabody Buildings. They sat, drank and laughed. “We had a nice little chat, opened up the bottle and we drank the lot. After we had emptied the bottle he lay on my bed with his overcoat on. I sat on the chair leaning on the table, and more or less dozed off”. And that was that, as the two men drifted off to sleep (snoring). Within the hour, William would stab Thomas to death in a blind frenzy… …and yet, his motive would be so bizarre, it would defy belief, even to him. The morning of Friday 8th December 1950 was cold and bitter with a bright glaring sun. It had been a long night for Margaret Meaney, as she lay in a half empty bed wondering why her husband hadn’t come home. Unable to concentrate on anything else, she cut short her graveyard-shift as a cleaner, and followed Thomas’ usual route from his house to the Brunswick Arms. But it would all be in vain, as across the morning, word bled through the streets of Waterloo that a man’s body had been found. At 7:20am, (alarm clock) the splitting wail of his alarm clock pierced his thick head, as William awoke in a fug. He never normally drank on the night before an early-shift, and having sunk 10 bottles of Guinness and drained a bottle of gin, with his skull pounding, now he was regretting the whole night. “Before I got into bed, I put an alarm clock on the stool by the side of the bed. It was set for half past four. It had been like that all week. I don’t know whether it went off, but when I woke up, the alarm said twenty past seven”. And seeing he had overslept, his first thought was “Shit! I’m late for work”. Standing up as best as his wobbly legs would allow, he spotted his crumpled uniform at the foot of his solitary arm-chair in this small empty room. With the curtains closed, this little space suitable for a bachelor was bathed in black, but as he switched on the light, it was then that he saw the blood. It was everywhere; across the floor, up the walls and on the bed. With a thick sticky pool of crimson at his feet, dark arcs of red spattered up his chest of drawers, and a long heavy trail as if something had been dragged from the floor to the door, William saw blood on his hands, only he was not hurt. “It can’t have been” he thought, “no, I saw it myself, it can’t have been real”. But it was. On the table lay the detritus of last night’s fun; two glasses, a newspaper, an empty bottle of gin and lying dead centre (as always) was his 10-inch bayonet. Still sharp from his military service, the blade which was usually dotted with tiny crumbs of white bread was instead thick with blood up to the hilt. With booze still coursing through his veins, it could have been a trick of the light, an echo of a dream or a sick prank by a pal with a warped sense of fun? Only he knew that it wasn’t. As following the red smudged trail to his door - two foot wide by twenty feet long - as he reached the communal landing on the fourth floor of Block F, there he found the truth and the horror - “Oh god, what have I done?” At 7:30am, having exited her flat, 74-year-old widow Emma Duthie saw William. His pale face etched in shock as he stared at the motionless body of the man he knew he had murdered. With a trembling voice, he asked “Mrs Duthie, will you call the police?” and he went back inside to await his arrest. (Siren) Just as dawn was breaking, through the dim winter light, PC’s Woodcock and Ross arrived to secure the scene. Seeing William seated and nervously smoking a cigarette which shook in his hand like a persistant blur, he confessed “If that is a real man? Then I done it. I thought he was joking with me. I must have struck him with my bayonet and dragged him onto the landing”. William Donoghue was arrested on the charge of murder, and he was calmly escorted to Southwark police station. The investigation was headed-up by Chief Inspector Leslie Knight of CID. It was a case as clear-cut as any he had investigated before. As the only suspect; William Donoghue was seen with Thomas Meaney in the Brunswick Arms by the landlord, on Duchy Street by Richard Copley who heard William invite Thomas back to his room for a drink, and by several neighbours who heard them return to the Peabody Buildings and Flat 21F. Both William and Thomas’ fingerprints were found on both bottles and glasses, their alcohol levels were as heavy as two men who had drained a large bottle of gin, William’s bayonet and hands were stained with Thomas’ blood group, and - even clearer - William had confessed to the man’s murder. Lying face-down along concrete corridor connecting the fourth-floor flats; with his legs straight and his arms above his head, it was clear that William had dragged Thomas by his hands. With a bloody pool having formed under his face and his clothing soaked, the body had been dumped while he was still alive but not conscious, as he hadn’t moved a muscle. And comparing his body temperature to the night itself, being dead for roughly seven hours, that put his time of death at roughly midnight. When questioned, three witnesses - Marguerite Veitch in the flat to his right, Emma Duthy to his left and John Howard one floor below - heard three distinct ‘thuds’ at 11:55pm, confirmed as Marguerite looked at her clock. But no-one could tell where they had come from, and they heard nothing else. For the detective, William had definitely murdered Thomas, but the question wasn’t how, but why? These were two semi-strangers with no previous grudge, who had joined each other by invite, in the home of the culprit. They hadn’t argued, and no screams were heard, only laughter. When his body was examined, Thomas’ wallet, watch and wedding ring were all in place. There was no evidence of poisoning or assault, and both men were medically examined, ruling out any hint of homosexuality. But stranger still were the results of the autopsy. At 4:30pm, Dr Keith Simpson examined the body of Thomas Meaney at Southwark Mortuary. With an alcohol level of 300 milligrammes of alcohol per 100 millilitres of blood, Thomas was heavily intoxicated, which was why there were no defensive wounds to his hands, arms or fingers. Suffering an blunt trauma to his face, nose and chin, the unconscious man had either fallen or had been pulled out of bed and had hit the floor hard, too drunk to wake. Based on his injuries, Thomas was lying on his side, facing right when he was attacked. And with his wounds consistent with a bayonet, William had stabbed Thomas in his head and neck seventeen times in an assault described as frenzied. With 11 wounds penetrating 1 ½ inches deep and grouped about his cheek, 6 others had sunk 4 ½ inches into his neck, splitting his jugular vein, carotid artery, and resulting in blood-loss and shock. The evidence against William was irrefutable, and yet one question remained unanswered. Why did he murder Thomas Meaney? At 2:15pm in Southwark Police Station, still a little worse-the-wear for drink, William gave an answer, only it would be one which even he would struggle to believe. (End) Cautioned, William would state “I woke up cold and I wanted to get to my bed as I was early duty. I shook the chap in my bed and said ‘come on, get up’. When he did not move I thought he was playing a practical joke on me. I pulled him again and said ‘come on’. He fell on the floor, he didn’t move, and I thought it was a dummy or mannequin. He fell like a sack of coal. I got hold of it again, thinking the man was hiding somewhere in the room or the corridor, and I said ’this is what I’ll do with your dummy’. I picked up the bayonet up off my table - I used it as a bread knife - and I stabbed down”. “After I stabbed down, I saw red, and thought it was a theatrical thing he was using, where you pinch a tube and blood spurts out. I dragged it across the floor through the door to the landing, and as I let go of it, I said ‘that’s what I think of your dummy’. I still thought he was hiding nearby or had left the building leaving the dummy behind. I went back in my room, set my alarm clock and went to bed”. To William, this was the only logical explanation as he had no reason to murder Thomas. Examined at Wandsworth Prison, William appeared exhausted and shocked but was co-operative, and was declared fit to stand trial. For the police, as strange as his motive seemed, William was not a crazed maniac who had snapped, as to everyone he was “a quiet, inoffensive and respectable man”. Believing his story that he truly thought the man was a dummy, fuelled by excessive drinking which had resulted in loss of judgement and potentially caused hallucinations, he was charged with murder. But on the 9th January 1951 at the Old Bailey, he pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter. William Donoghue served three years in prison for the death of Thomas Meaney. And although the jury agreed that the attack had been a drink-induced accident, upon his release from prison, he lost his job as a bus conductor and - having breached its rules - he lost his flat at the Peabody Buildings. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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