Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
The Peabody Estate on the corner of Drury Lane and Kemble Street where 13 Granby Place once stood
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK 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 SEVENTY-ONE:
On Saturday 7th December 1872, Mary Ann Moriarty; a good, decent and hard-working mother of eight children, who struggled to protect her family whilst trapped in an abusive relationship with a violent angry drunk, had her life and pain ended by the blade of an axe.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright-protected, below are photos taken by me and to view the others, take a peek at my social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of 13 Granby Place, WC2 where Mary Ann Moriarty lived marked with a green !. It's by the "n" of 'Covent Garden'. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as King's Cross and Paddington, you can 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.
Left to right: Wild Street Estate on the corner of Drury Lane and Kemble Street where 13 Granby Place once was (before the slum clearances of 1875), a example of a standard width alley in Covent Garden and the Feather Street slum off Drury Lane in the 1870's.
Ep71 – The Last Days of Mary Ann Moriarty
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 death of Mary Ann Moriarty; a good, decent and hard-working mother of eight children, who struggled to protect her family whilst trapped in an abusive relationship with a violent angry drunk, and with no way of escape, her pain was only ended by the blade of an axe. Murder Mile is researched using the original 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 71: The Last Days of Mary Ann Moriarty. Today I’m standing on Drury Lane, WC2; two streets south of lonely spinster Daisy Edith Wallis, one street east of the brutal baker Alexander Moir, two street south-west of the frozen pauper Charlie Chirgwin, two streets north-west of the murder or suicide of Italian banker Roberto Calvi, and just fifty feet from the home of Karl Taylor, the little-known The First Date Killer - coming soon to Murder Mile. This is the Wild Street Estate; thirteen six-storey sandstone buildings covering a whole city block from Drury Lane to Wild Street to Kemble Street, all set around a central courtyard, and as one of the early Peabody Estates (built in 1881 by philanthropist George Peabody to provide clean and safe inner-city housing for the city’s poorest in the Victorian era), even today it still houses hundreds of families. Hidden in the really shitty-part of Covent Garden – far from the surly servers serving lukewarm lattes for £8, the Opera House where poncy uptight-types feel cultured having watched a fat woman warble and the over-hyped street performers who have one hour to fill and two tricks to perform (so most of their act is about making you clap) – with no sun, no flowers and no joy, just long lines of monstrously drab flat-fronted high-rises, this side of Drury Lane is a real eyesore. So much so that even today I saw a tourist stop-dead in his tracks and gasp, as he realised there were no souvenir shops, no red phone-boxes and no “ye olde English”-looking buildings to take a selfie in front of, so he did a swift about-turn and headed back to the Covent Garden piazza to pose with one of fifty floating Yoda. Happy days. Oddly, the Peabody Estate between Drury Lane, Wild Street and Kemble Street is old and interesting, as before the slum clearances of 1875, somewhere amongst what was once a dark and dirty rabbit’s warren of leaky lodging houses, cow-sheds and cess-pits stood 13 Granby Place. And although it has long-since been demolished, the area still hangs with an unpleasant sense of dread, terror and death. As it was here, on Saturday 7th December 1872, having suffered yet another brutal beating at the hands of her drunk and abusive husband that – armed with an axe - the cruel and tragic life of Mary Ann Moriarty came to an end. (Interstitial) In 1831, Mary Ann Donovan (known as Ann) was born near the town of Kilmallock (County Limerick) in the south-west of the Republic of Ireland, as the third eldest daughter of thirteen siblings. Like many peasants who lived off the land, they were illiterate and poor. Eking out a hand-to-mouth existence - with peat moss on the fire, animal fur for clothes and eating only what they could grow - surviving in the rugged windswept wilds with a dearth of sunlight and a sodden boggy soil on a small-holding barely big enough to feed their family and few animals, they lived-off root-crops like potatoes. In 1845, as an infestation of “potato blight” swept across Ireland; infecting every farm and family, as the British Parliament closed the borders, ceased all trades and caused the Irish economy to crash, The Great Famine saw four years of mass starvation, disease and emigration which killed over one million people (an eighth of the country’s population) and forced another million to flee. After two years of hardship, the decimated and emaciated Donovan family had emigrated to England. But London in the late 1840’s was a far-cry from the farmlands of Limerick; with the hard stone streets a festering river of faeces, the acrid air thick with choking industrial fumes and the water so polluted that one Cholera outbreak would soon wipe out sixth of Soho in a single week, so living in a leaky flea-infested lodging house with five other families, the Donovan’s had survived starvation… but only just. Having moved to London, although illiterate and unskilled, Mary Ann made the best of her new life. By all accounts, Mary Ann was a good Catholic woman with solid morals, strong maternal instincts and a natural warmth which endeared her to others. Being fiercely protective of her family, having been a carer for her younger siblings since an early age, what she dreamed of most was becoming a mum. In the spring of 1851, 20 year old Mary Ann Donovan married 23 year old Daniel Moriarty; a stocky, stout and thick-set Irish bricklayer with arms like tree-trunks, fists like prize-hams and a nose like a squashed spud having broken it in too-many fights, and although a fan of the drink, he worked hard. During those first few years, married life was good but hard - as being Irish, poor and reliant on his wage - they moved from job-to-job and place-to-place, and although Mr & Mrs Moriarty tried to raise a family, being little and weak, the first two babies of their brood failed to survive their first year. But being devout Catholics, the couple had kept their faith and - soon enough - eight children followed. By 1871, after twenty years of marriage, Daniel & Mary Ann were living at 3 Browns Buildings, just off Drury Lane, as with construction having begun on The Gaiety - a music hall on the corner of The Strand - they moved to Covent Garden. And with their eldest (17 year old Mary) in service as a maid, squeezed into just two tiny rooms was their eldest son Danny (aged 14), John (aged 10), Edward (aged 8), William (aged 5) and with a sixth on the way, with Mary Ann as a full-time mother, they struggled but survived. She was the perfect mother; warm, kind and loving, with a big heart, abundant hugs and a bosom to match, and although ten pregnancies had more-than doubled her weight - with pale ruddy skin, red unkempt hair and ragged sack-cloth clothes – Mary Ann always put her babies first. She adored being a mum, but married life was never bliss; as with her sweet smile broken by smashed teeth, her soft flesh mottled with purple welts and her greeny-blue eyes red-raw and puffy from years of tears, Mary Ann lived in fear. Before the year was out, the life of Mary Ann Moriarty would be over, all because of her violent husband, his addiction to drink and an axe (Interstitial). By the summer of 1872, the Moriarty family had moved to 13 Granby Place; two tiny damp rooms on the second floor of a leaky tumbledown house, squeezed in a thin unlit alley hidden amongst a cramped chaotic mess of slums-lodgings, cow-sheds, coal yards and slaughter houses, with hundreds of people all sharing an airless rat-infested courtyard for washing, cooking, bathing and shitting. Covent Garden was a bad place; as not only was it here that the first victims of The Great Plague of 1665 were recorded, just off Drury Lane, but being a theatre district, as a hotbed of boozers and brothels, it was awash with gangs of tricksters, pick-pockets and rapists. So bad had it become that the precursor to the Metropolitan Police Force - The Bow Street Runners - was established right here. And although it was a hell-hole, for the Moriarty family, it was the best they could afford. Scraping by on a meagre wage, Mary Ann made the very best of a dire situation; for her beloved family there was always fresh straw for the two beds they shared, hot food for their rumbling bellies and (being devoid of trees) she kept the log-fire burning by chopping-up old bits of discarded wood with her axe. But as hard as she tried, they never had enough, as Daniel always blew his wages on drink. Daniel Moriarty was a drunken loutish brute. After three decades of chronic boozing, his fierce face was a bloated red mess, his gut was like a flatulent balloon, his glassy scowling eyes were vacant, and with his hard hairy knuckles all bruised and broken, although he had a family to feed, always being drunk, he never had a kind word to say, a penny to spare, or new clothes to warm his ragged family. Not only was Daniel was a cruel husband, a bad father and a selfish drunk, he was also violent criminal. In 1867, five years earlier, Daniel violently robbed an elderly couple in Covent Garden, beating them black-and-blue with his fists, breaking the man’s jaw and all for the sake of a few pennies. Sentenced to seven years in Millbank Prison, Mary Ann was left with no income, five kids to fend for and a sixth on the way. But being resilient, with a sympathetic landlord (George Beales) having taken pity on the good woman’s plight, she moved her family to cheaper lodgings at 13 Granby Place. Daniel served only three years in prison, he was placed on bail and returned to his wife, his kids, his job and his drink. In April 1872, Daniel was sentenced to one month’s hard labour for what the court had termed as “ill-treating his wife”. Risking her own life, Mary Ann filed a complaint against her husband at Bow Street Police Station, as in one of his frequent drunken rages, the brute had rained down several heavy blows upon her - fracturing her eye-socket, cracking three ribs and breaking two fingers – as shielding her children with her arms and back, she defended her new-born baby with her body. Daniel served one month in prison, and fuelled by drink and resentment, again he returned home to his wife and his kids. In June 1872, having boozed himself insensible at The Wheatsheaf pub on Stanhope Street, as a serial womaniser and brothel-botherer, at a little before tea-time, Daniel came home and demanded that his wife and six hungry kids wait outside in the street so he could fuck the whore that he had paid for. In October 1872, at The Bull's Head pub on Vere Street, Daniel and his old pal John Sullivan had boozed themselves into an incapable stupor; a fight sparked-up, they were turfed-out and stumbled back to 13 Granby Place. Having forcibly ejected his family from their own home with a brusk “Woman! Out!”, Daniel grabbed a candlestick, knocked his pal to the floor and robbed him of twenty-three shillings. Tried at Bow Street Police Court, Mary Ann gave evidence against Daniel - as being a violent ex-convict who had broken his bail terms – facing a prison sentence of up-to ten years for robbery, this was Mary Ann’s chance to escape. Only, with the victim (his “old pal” John Sullivan) having recanted his evidence, and later stating in court "I know nothing about it, I never saw the man”; Daniel Moriarty walked free. On the bitter winter evening of Thursday 21st November 1872; with her eyes black and swollen like ripe avocados, her lopsided mouth a misshapen mess of broken teeth and with seven of her starving children in tow, including a malnourished toddler on her hip and a new-born at her breast – with both of her parents dead and her siblings scattered far and wide - 40 year old Mary Ann sought sanctuary at the Holborn City Road workhouse, having been kicked-out onto the icy streets by her husband. Sadly, Mary Ann had become a familiar face at the workhouse, and although she was a neat and sober woman who worked hard (picking oakum) to earn a warm bed, dry clothes and hot food for her babies, as safe as the workhouse was, it wasn’t home. Having stayed for nine days, she knew this was just a brief respite from the beatings, and being reliant on her husband, she begged him to take her back. On Tuesday 3rd December, Mary Ann returned to 13 Granby Place. Again Daniel was drunk, again Daniel was angry and again Daniel beat her; as with two broken fingers, a sprained wrist and the axe’s blade blunt – as the dark nights drew in - the wood was gone, the fire was out and his dinner was cold. Mary Ann could have filed another complaint at Bow Street Police Court, but she didn’t. On Wednesday 4th December, having squandered the bulk of his weekly wage at The Wheatsheaf and stumbled home drunk, as the petrified family sat in silence, too afraid to utter a single syllable for fear of feeling the hard slap of his rough hand, finding fault in anything she did, Daniel’s anger snapped. Being broken, bloodied and bruised, it was only after she had put her babies to bed with a reassuring hug and sweet kiss goodnight that (in private) she allowed herself to cry. Again, Mary Ann could have gone to the Police, but she didn’t. On Friday 6th December, one night before the murder, as Daniel and his pissed-up pals necked a few pots of ale at The Wheatsheaf, with the family famished, Mary Ann sent her son to beg his boozy father for money to buy bread. With a sharp slap, seven year old William was sent back empty-handed, and yet – oddly - staying till closing time, Daniel splashed out on a half-gallon jug of beer to take home. Staggering passed his starving family, Daniel stumbled upstairs with his pal John Kaye and sunk several more beers. Gone midnight, with her kids unable to sleep owing to the banging and raucous cheers, Mary Ann asked Daniel to come home. Seething at her impertinence, he snapped “Woman! Out!”, but she didn’t leave. Fuming at her insolence, he spat “Out! Now!”, again she didn’t, but as his fast fists tightened, being too tired to give her the beating that he felt her cheek warranted, he hurled the half-full ceramic jug at her head, it smashed, split open a gash on her forehead and soaked her ragged clothes with a pint of warm stale ale. Being wet and humiliated, Mary Ann left and went to bed, and although Daniel was too drunk to follow her, by the next morning, he would not have forgotten. The next day was Saturday 7th December 1872. At 5:30am, Mary Ann rose her children; the older boys earned a half shilling-a-day as porters in Covent Garden, on route Edward lugged back a sack of coals for the fire, William struggled to chop-up wood with the badly blunted axe and Mary Ann nursed her two babies whilst she busied herself with a never-ending series of chores. They all worked hard for the sake of the family… all except Daniel, who snored. That morning, as a demeaning part of her weekly routine, Mary Ann popped to see her sympathetic landlord – George Beales – to apologise for being late with the rent. He was a generous man, kind and compassionate, so had it not been for his big heart and the pleas of Mary Ann, her family would have been evicted weeks ago, but now being seven week’s behind, his patient streak had worn very thin. They had to pay up now, or the family was out. A bitter winter had begun; and as a Siberian wind blew down Drury Lane, it froze everything it touched; freezing the water-pumps shut, the washhouse solid, the icy cobblestones slick and dangling from the leaky roofs of Granby Place were lethally sharp sharps of ice. Being denied a home, food and money, if they were drenched by the rain and frozen by the wind, she knew her youngest wouldn’t last a day. Daniel had the money, she knew that and (for the sake of her children) she needed it now. But by the time she had returned home, his bed was empty, his purse was missing and her husband was gone. Nursing a blinding hangover, as plumes of stinky sweaty steam rose off the wheezing bulk of Daniel Moriarty; his guts gurgled, his arse parped and his gob burped, as with his heavy purse clinking with coins, he stumbled down Kemble Street and - to quell his throbbing head – staggered into the nearest pub. And there he stayed all day – at The Yacht, The Bull and The Wheatsheaf – necking back pots of beer, chugging back shots of rum, and only moving on when the obnoxious boozer was booted out. Edward was nine years old and William was only six, and yet having raised her children well, Mary Ann trusted her boys implicitly to look after her young ones whilst she went in search of Daniel. She was alone, afraid and still black-and-blue from the beating she had received several night before. By 2pm, Daniel was drunk again. Sat at the bar with his pals in The Wheatsheaf; the stocky, stout and powerfully built bricklayer slugged back a pot of beer clutched in his big bruised fist, and seeing his wife enter, he scowled “What?!”. Mary Ann pleaded “You have given me no money today", to which Daniel quipped "No, and I don't intend to give you any", spitting ale in her face as he laughed. Although she shook, as she stared at the seething brutal drunk who had beaten her almost every day of her married life; with his selfishness once again risking the lives of her children, the hungry hole in her empty belly was replaced by a fire and - as a strong woman who had given birth eight times - Mary Ann Moriarty stood her ground, as she was angry, determined and unwilling to back down. Publically shaming this bad dad and shitty husband in front of his cackling pals, Mary Ann shouted “Is this how you intend to treat your wife and children, is it?” Hammering home his faults, she let the whole bar know about the seven week’s rent and their eight kids, only he brushed off his wife’s blather with a "mind your own business woman, don't interfere with mine" and ordered another pint. Only he couldn’t, as having heard enough and being absolutely disgusted at this man’s behaviour, Patrick (the landlord of The Wheatsheaf) turfed Daniel out of the pub and ordered him home. Shortly afterwards, George Beales saw Mary Ann propping Daniel up as he stumbled home; spitting her name and swearing at his witch of a wife, as from his gurgling guts he spewed a steamy spray of hot sick onto the icy street. And with her face all filthy, looking as if she had fallen, as they disappeared into the darkness of Granby Place, he thought nothing more about it, as - for them - this was normal. Moments later, their neighbour John Kaye found Mary Ann, all grubby and tired, slumped against the street door of 13 Granby Place - as with two broken fingers, a sprained wrist and three cracked ribs –this time, she couldn’t drag her spouse’s twenty stone slab of flab up two flights of stairs. Hearing her babies crying, John Kaye carried Daniel up to the room, popped him in an armchair and left for work. At roughly 2:30pm, walking barely three hundred feet, Mary Ann arrived at Bow Street Police Station; with two kids, a toddler and a baby in tow; her filthy face speckled with fresh bruises, a bloodied lip and a swollen cheek, as (once again) she made another statement to the Police. At around 3pm, Mary Ann returned home. Daniel was drunk, furious and tense; knowing where she had been, he seethed "You lying bitch, you’ve been to Bow Street, as usual, I'll give you cause to go there”. As an ex-con who had broken bail and faced a harsher sentence, as Daniel grabbed Mary Ann’s hair, he pulled her closer and - as she fought to shield her screaming babies with her body – tightly gripped in his battered fist, Daniel held the axe. (Silence). In this kind of neighbourhood where death was a daily event, violence was to be expected and screams were commonplace, as the heavy axe fell, nobody took any notice of Mary Ann Moriarty. At 7pm, as John Kaye entered the drab gloom of 13 Granby Place, rising up the unlit stairs, the eerie silence was punctuated by stifled sniffles and muffled tears, and as he passed the second-floor landing, he saw the Moriarty kids, the eldest comforting the youngest, too afraid to re-enter the room. With the boys safe, grabbing a candle, John lifted the latch and pushed open the stiff wooden door to the two-roomed lodging occupied by the Moriarty’s. Except for the flickering fire, the sitting room was dark, and as he approached – his shoes sticking to the congealed blood underfoot – slumped in an armchair he saw the black silhouette of a woman. Raising his candle, even by a shaky limited light, he saw her silent face was an unsightly mess of welts, lumps, cuts and gashes; and with fear in his voice he asked what he already knew to be true - "Mrs Moriarty? I'll be damned, if you ain't killed the man?" Breathing rapidly, as the brilliant whites of her glistening eyes peeped through a thick crusty mask of dried blood - his blood - trembling with a mix of terror and euphoria, she stammered "Yes, I am the woman that done it, I had a reason for doing it, and a good job too". As lying on the floor, partially sprawled across the blood-soaked bed, with his head wrapped in a bedsheet was Daniel. The Police arrived at 7:45pm. Tending to the motionless corpse, as Constable Firth pulled open the matted bedsheet, its sticky layers slowly pried apart to reveal a bloody mess which was once a man’s head, but now - like a pound of minced beef - it was split apart by six wounds, made by an axe. After twenty-one years and eight children together; having endured an endless barrage of assaults, abuse, fear and broken bones - being failed by the legal system, ignored by society and condemned by her faith to live in an unbreakable marriage with a violent womanising thug – desperate to protect her babies, having snatched the axe, Mary Ann had finally escaped her brutal drunken husband… …or so she thought. (End) When red bubbles popped from the gaping holes of what was once his nose, as Daniel wasn’t dead but very much alive and still breathing, PC Firth hailed a cab and dashed him to hospital on The Strand. Andrew Duncan, the surgeon at King’s College tended to his wounds; as with nine cuts, six fractures, a sliced-up nose, a split eye-lid and a partially severed ear, although Mary Ann had hit him repeatedly about the head with an axe - being blunt - he ended-up dazed but not dead. And oddly, with his pain lessened by the soporific excess of booze in his blood, his survival was described as miraculous. Admitted to hospital on the 7th December 1872, having successfully had bone fragments removed from his brain and recovered well, on the 11th December 1872, he identified Mary Ann as his attacker. And although, two days later, Daniel Moriarty was dead, Mary Ann was charged with his murder. On 13th January 1873, Mary Ann was tried at The Old Bailey. She was found guilty of manslaughter by provocation and was sentenced to eight years penal servitude, which she served in Woking Prison. With both of their parents gone and no next-of-kin, being classed as adults, Mary & Danny were safe, and although Edward died just a few years later, being raised in Holborn workhouse, John & William lived long lives and died as old men, but the same could not be said for the toddler and the new-born. And upon her release, although she would live for another nineteen years – as an unskilled, unmarried and penniless ex-convict – having escaped poverty, starvation, famine, alcoholism, abuse and assault, the last days of Mary Ann Moriarty were spent in the Woolwich Union Workhouse, where she died in 1901, alone and broken, her beloved babies cruelly taken from her, having fought to protect them. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. For all minty-flavoured murky milers, there’s more flabby gob dribble in the latest “phwoar-fest” after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporter, who is Richard Fitzpatrick, I thank you. And a special thank you to Joerg Naserske who sent a kind donation to keep the podcast alive via the “Donate” button on the Murder Mile website. I thank you too. Also, if you don’t know, iTunes finally created a ‘true-crime’ category and your very own Murder Mile is rocketing up the ranks. Very exciting. But, as always, we are battling against some really big shows, many of whom are made by well-funded professional radio-and TV-networks who (even though they have less than ten episodes, oddly they always appear in the iTunes Top 10 and on the front page of all your favourite podcast app’s). Hmm. Why is that? Well, I’ll let you into a little secret, they pay for it, and they pay well. Sadly small independent podcasts like Murder Mile can’t afford to blow the money we don’t have on that kind of advertising. I wish we could, but there is a way you can help? And it’s free. If you love Murder Mile, and want to keep the show alive (as the more listeners we get, the long we can keep going), if you can give Murder Mile a review on iTunes and your podcast app’, or simply click ‘five stars’, (even if you’ve done it before – don’t worry, they don’t check) that would really help and it would be hugely appreciated. Ssshhh. It’ll be our little secret. Wink. As always, if you want to see what the murder locations look like, every Thursday I upload a blog for each episode, with a map, location videos, photos etc. There is a link to this 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: (not made by me)
Sources: As no National Archive files on this case were available, I used the court transcripts from The Old Bailey and other verified sources. Oh, and some newspapers, if I had to :-)
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
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 Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts and an iTunes Top 25 podcast. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.  Ah. You're back? Seeing out some more exciting true-crime podcasts to get your fangs into? Well search no longer, as like a veritable Burke & Hare seeking out corpses for rich doctors to dissect, I've done the hunting, so you don't have to, as this week I interview the fabulous Adam from the amazing UK True Crime Podcast.
Michael's thoughts: UK True Crime Podcast is a fantastic treat for anyone interested in UK true crime, as each week Adam lures you into the world of lesser known and long forgotten crimes set in the UK, all of which have been intensively painstakingly researched (by someone who is truly passionate about the subject) and with each episode presented with the right mix of passion, love and humour, treating the victim's lives and misfortunes with the respect they deserve, but also making each episode a wonderfully dark and highly entertaining treat. I strongly recommend you check out UK True Crime Podcast. Q & A with Adam from UK True Crime Podcast
But although I loved one and not the other, those two shows demonstrated just how differently you can approach similar material. So I thought I could do this too, adding my personal slant. How hard could it be? I still recall the moment I sat in front of the microphone for the first time wondering who on earth was going to be interested in listening to this stuff.I still get butterflies every time I sit down to record.
But please if you do listen to my back catalogue (I am up to 145 as I write this) please start at about episode five. My show isn’t amazing today, but compared to episode one, today's shows are at the level of ‘Dr Death’.
A re-occuring theme on my podcast is suicide – I am fascinated by how close we all potentially are to taking our own lives - and I recently covered a very disturbing case about a suicide pact at Beachy Head when one man jumped to his death when the other chose not to at the last moment. He was subsequently sent to prison for his role in the death of the other person. The episode is called ‘Catching the bus’ (slang for suicide on forums dedicated to this subject).
Research a real skill and one I see as key going forward to help podcast hosts differentiate their shows. Of course, it appears that some shows have placed less reliance on original research, but best not go there….
I don’t read reviews much – hey, it is free content I will produce just what I want, ok – but I do love those who tell me my voice is pants and I should be replaced by another ‘narrator’ – Iike I work at the BBC or something. My very best review said they would rather listen to two cats fighting in an alley way than my podcast. BOOM - loved that one!
True crime has always interested people – look at the popularity of public trials and hangings since the year dot. Nowadays, social media shows us that others share the same interests as us, so it is ok for us to like it, and they want to talk about it too. This is why the popularity has grown. True Crime is the acting out of the essence of human life, high emotions and the behaviour under stress of the flawed characters we all are. If conflict is the key to successful drama it is normally the perfect story too – introduction, major event, investigation followed by (hopefully) justice. I’m astonished when people aren’t interested in true crime, surely they are the strange ones?
But in my show I look a lot at crimes that take place outside pubs/clubs late at night where one punch can have devastating consequences on many lives, and although I don’t have sympathy with the perpetrator due to the use of violence, I do understand how they can see it as unfair when all the others who behave in a similar manner get on with their lives when their victims aren’t affected by the punch. Simple answer: don’t punch anyone.
For now, I am enjoying it, but where it goes from here I am not so sure but the huge number of new shows means there must be some consolidation. Maybe some of us UK True Crime shows will combine, I wonder?
I don’t tend to think too much until my next episode until the Thursday/Friday beforehand, so whilst I admire these podcasters who have planned all their shows in advance, it is fair to say that my choice of cases is a little more…errrrr, fluid.
I’m not big on giving my opinion of the serious stuff, but I like to bring my whole self to the podcast, so will talk about The Mighty Leeds United, my dislike for the Kings of Leon and some other music, will add some snarky asides and consistently laugh at my own jokes. And if you aren’t keen, that is just fine too – I strongly believe that none of our shows are for everyone, we aren’t looking for the widespread blandness of The One Show. I hope people will enjoy the show, but if not, they can just check out one of the other 635 true crime podcasts out there instead.
1, Be wary of saunas in Rochdale; 2. Stay Classy. I am keen on in-jokes with my listeners and the 3200 people on my Facebook Group. A big thank you to Adam for taking part in this True-Crime Podcaster Q & A. Don't forget to check out his podcast. To explore this excellent UK True Crime Podcast, 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", hailed as The Telegragh's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts 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.
The north side of Blackfriars Bridge where the body of Roberto Calvi was found hanging from a rope (under the middle gold rose). Important: notice the high and low tide marks on the bridge supports
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 SEVENTY
On Saturday 18th June 1982 at 7:30am, the body of Roberto Calvi, the ex-Chairman of Banco Ambrosiano was found hanging under the north-side of Blackfriars Bridge. Having been sacked, with his bank having collapsed owing to a $1.4 billion dollar debt, which he had caused by illegal trade deals, it looked like a regular suicide. But was it?
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 the north-side of Blackfriars Bridge where Roberto Calvi was found marked with a red !. It's on the far right. 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.
And for your enjoyment, here's two short videos. The first shows you the north-side of Blackfriars Bridge where Roberto Calvi's body was found, and the second marked 'tides' was shot at 7:30am, the time when Roberto's body was found, to show you the difference between the high and low tides of the River Thames which is vital to the story. 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.
L-to-R: Roberto Calvi, Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, Grand Master of P2 Licio Gelli, Franklin National Bank financier Michele Sindona and Mafia boss Guiseppe "Pippo" Calo. Photos taken from Wikipedia (so blame them)
Ep70 – Roberto Calvi: The Death of God’s Banker
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 Roberto Calvi, a wealthy Italian financier with influential connections so deep within The Vatican that he was dubbed God’s Banker, and yet, so complex is the mystery surrounding his life, that even today it is still uncertain whether his death was a suicide or a murder. Murder Mile is researched using 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 70: Roberto Calvi: The Death of God’s Banker. Today I’m standing underneath Blackfriars Bridge, WC2; a wrought iron structure constructed in 1869 for traffic and pedestrians, which stretches 105 feet wide by 923 feet long, and is one of nine bridges over the tidal stretch of the River Thames between the Tower of London and the Houses of Parliament. Situated two miles east of Soho, half-a-mile south of the Old Bailey and just a hop from the Oxo Tower and the Tate Modern, Blackfriars was named after the Dominican monastery which stood near this site between 1276 and 1538, and with ‘Black’ being a reference to the habits worn by the monks and ‘Friar’ deriving from the French word ‘Frere’ meaning brothers, hence this became Blackfriars Bridge. Following the monastery’s destruction during the dissolution of the Church - just so bloated pasty and undercooked chicken-McNugget lookalike Henry VIII could play a barbarically realistic version of ‘Shag Marry Kill’ - Blackfriars is no longer a place of religious significance. Instead, 100 feet east is Blackfriars Station, where every day long-lines of soulless dead-eyed commuters trudge from door to desk, having injected six shots of neat caffeine into each eye, to stop their chins scraping along the floor, as they all mutter in unison “I hate my job, I hate my job”, and repeatedly stab a small-cocked voodoo doll of their boss made from a realistic mix of lads mags, old CVs, anal suppositories and dog-shit. And although flanks of desk-bound drones escape their sad little lunch with the other losers by jogging, secretly hoping that if they twist an ankle, break a leg or hack-up a noxious lung they’ll be granted sick leave; as they run along the north-side of the Thames and under the steel beams of Blackfriars Bridge, they pass the site where the stress of a fellow office worker’s job drove him to death. As it was here, on Saturday 18th June 1982, that the body of a mysterious banker called Roberto Calvi was found hanging, but was this a suicide or a murder? (Interstitial). Giacomo & Maria Calvi were two strict Italian Catholics raised in Tremenico, a small village near the Swiss border. Born to rugged mountain folk who worked hard, lived simply and spent frugally, although the family’s modest little home overlooked the affluence of Lake Como, as a fiscally astute man Giacomo had become a successful manager at Banca Commerciale Italiana (one of Italy’s largest banks), and yet the couple renounced wealth, prestige and privilege, choosing to live a life which was simple, drab and austere - a stark contrast to the world Roberto would aspire to. Having uprooted for work, Giacomo & Maria relocated sixty miles south to Milan, Italy’s second city. It truly was a culture shock for the conservative couple, moving from farmland to a financial capital, from livestock to the Stock Exchange, and from a commune of seventy people (mostly relatives) to a sprawling metropolis of seven million strangers. Milan was a city of excess, immortality and opulence. On 13th April 1920, it was here that their eldest son Roberto was born, surrounded by everything this wide-eyed boy would ever want in life – money, power and fame - and yet it was all cruelly denied. Described as an arrogant loner who was obsessively secretive, Roberto was a bright but quarrelsome student who fought often and spent his time finding ever-more imaginative ways to make money to buy the finer things in life his tight-fisted parents had shunned – good food, fine art and fancy clothes. Forced by his frugal mother to wear sensible but drab attire, Roberto adhered to the strict regime of his religious upbringing but secretly craved the trappings of success – expensive cars, five-star hotels and fine dining - and yet style never suited him, as being small and portly, even tailored suits hung off him like a sack of spuds and burdened by a bald head with dark tufts over his ears, his hair consisted of an unfashionable toothbrush moustache fixed in the middle of his wrinkled, stern and grumpy face. From those formative years, he dreamed of wealth, but simply being rich would never be enough. Roberto’s life was uncertain, as having dropped out of a law degree at Bocconi University and enlisted at Turin Military Academy where he rubbed shoulders with the Italian elite, being unable to join the Air Force owing to his chronic vertigo, in 1941 Second Lieutenant Calvi was sent to the Russian Front; a brutal experience where the ravages of poverty and hunger was etched into his brain forever. With the war over, in 1945, Roberto became a clerk at Banca Commerciale Italiana, a stuffy provincial savings bank. He hated the work, the people and the rules, but seeing banking as his quickest route to wealth – having later been given a three-month trial at Banco Ambrosiano – the bank became his life. Established in 1896, Banco Ambrosiano was a small savings bank built to provide financial services for Roman Catholic institutions, so central to its ethos was the Church that any prospective employees had to submit a Baptismal certificate of trust from their priest to prove that they were a good Catholic, but fifty years on, steeped in creaky old traditions, very little had changed. But Roberto saw promise. Roberto rose quickly through the ranks; from clerk, to manager, to personal assistant of the CEO and to General Manager in 1971. And by 1975 he had been promoted to Chairman of Banco Ambrosiano. Although he was an arrogant, secretive and deeply obsessive loner, seen an a great innovator who would shake up its stifling rules and modernised the bank, under his leadership Banco Ambrosiano became Italy’s second largest bank, and – seeing this as his own empire - he was eager to expand. By the late 1970’s, Roberto was rich, powerful and successful. The feisty little boy whose austere parents had dressed him in drab clothes, fed him bland food and denied him the simplest of luxuries had everything he ever wanted… but for Roberto, being rich would never be enough. And seven years later, his body would be found hanging from a beam under Blackfriars Bridge (Interstitial). His downfall began when Banco Ambrosiano bagged its biggest client ever. In 1972, Michele (“Me-kay-lay”) Sindona, financier of the Franklin National Bank introduced Roberto Calvi to Archbishop Paul Marcinkus (“Marchinkus”). Born in Chicago to Catholic parents; as a tall fearsome priest who was nicknamed ‘the gorilla’ owing to his bullish ways, Marcinkus began his career as the Pope’s bodyguard. Eager to modernise The Vatican, when Marcinkus was promoted to Head of the Institute for Religious Works (the Vatican’s own internal bank) he streamlined their systems, computerised their accounting and – having famously said “you can’t run The Church on Hail Mary’s” – he sought to expand its revenue. The Catholic Church is one of the most powerful religious organisations with an annual spend of $170 billion dollars and as the world’s largest private landowner with 71.6 million hectares of land, as well as an undocumented wealth of art-works, buildings and treasures, all of which are managed from The Vatican, to ensure its financial stability, Marcinkus sought expert help. With Catholic morals at its core, Banco Ambrosiano was the perfect choice for The Vatican, and seeing similarities between himself and its Chairman, the deal was done. Roberto became God’s Banker and with such a prestigious client, he began to amass many powerful friends, from The Church, the Government, the Press and the Mafia, all the way into secret societies like Propaganda Due (“Duey”). Established at the end of World War Two, Propaganda Due (known as P2) began as a branch of the Freemasons, a much-maligned non-political non-religious charitable organisation set-up to develop business interests amongst its members, whose traditions lie in medieval stonemasonry, hence much of its symbolism revolves around a stonemason’s tools such as the level, the plumb and the trowel. Splintering from the Freemasons in 1976, under the command of its fascist Grand Master Licio Gelli (“Leechio Jelly”), P2 spawned into a highly secret organisation comprising of only the top-tier of Italy’s most powerful men – including politicians, judges, businessmen, bankers and journalists – to establish an ultra-right-wing group who controlled all aspects of the Italian government, often described as a “state within a state”. Under Article 18 of the Italian constitution, secret organisations were banned, but being protected by such powerful allies and having purchased the managing share of Corriere Della Sera, the leading newspaper in Italy, P2 would be unstoppable, and to ensure its financial success was “God’s Banker”. By the late 1970’s, under Roberto’s guidance and Marcinkus’ management, The Vatican had become the largest shareholder in Banco Ambrosiano, and although this alliance continued to make it millions, Roberto used his bank and The Vatican’s money to secure the finances for P2’s fascist agenda and (whether he knew this or not) to launder the mafia’s ill-gotten gains. Roberto was an influential member of P2 with many powerful friends, but dabbling in such dangerous waters, powerful allies can very quickly become powerful enemies. (Interstitial). Roberto was about to make himself, the bank and its primary shareholder (The Vatican) very rich, and although it was incredibly dangerous to risk the fortunes of The Church, the Mafia and P2 on such an inventive and unorthodox scheme, it was also highly illegal. To bypass Italian tax-laws, through Banco Ambrosiano, Roberto would export money overseas using a series of shell corporations, fake banks, front companies and mail-boxes, all from the respectability of his bank in Milan, by loaning large sums to accounts in Luxembourg, Switzerland, Nicaragua, Buenos Aries, Peru and the Bahamas. As all transfers leave a paper-trail, to prove to the financial authorities that each loan was legitimate, Roberto needed a letter of reference from the primary lending bank in the Bahamas stating they were all credit worthy. This wasn’t a problem, as although each company was fictional, the director of the bank in the Bahamas had been appointed by Roberto himself; it was his old friend and the Vatican’s Head of the Institute for Religious Works - Archbishop Paul Marcinkus. In total, Roberto transferred $1.4 billion dollars overseas, between several companies which only existed on paper, making himself and The Vatican vast sums in the process… and then, it all collapsed. In 1974, two years after Roberto Calvi had been introduced to Archbishop Marcinkus; Michele Sindona of the Franklin National Bank was arrested and imprisoned for fraud, his bank collapsed and - owing to bad loans and fraudulent currency transactions - The Vatican lost almost $30 million dollars. Only this was just the tip of the iceberg, as with Sindona having laundered the proceeds of heroin-trafficking for the Mafia, all banks were now being investigated including Banco Ambrosiano… …and in its wake would be left a trail of corpses. Just like Roberto Calvi, Michele Sindona was a banker with deep connections to the Mafia, P2 and The Vatican; with his reputation and assets ruined, Sindona’s greatest fear wasn’t the prison sentence that he faced, but the powerful people his trial may expose, so even behind bars, his life was at stake. On 11th July 1979, Georgio Ambrosoli, a court-appointed liquidator investigating Sindona’s fraud found evidence of criminal manipulation linking "an American bishop and a Milanese banker". One hour after he had reported these findings to the Palermo Police Chief Boris Giuliano, three Mafia hitmen shot Georgio Ambrosoli dead. Ten days later, the Police Chief was dead too. The Mafia hit had been ordered by Michele Sindona and the names the lawyer gave were Roberto Calvi and Archibishop Marcinkus. Michele Sindona was sentenced to life in prison for murder, but fearing those that his failure would unveil, on 18th March 1986, Sindona drank a cup of coffee laced with highly poisonous potassium cyanide. He died instantly and (even today) it is uncertain if his death was a suicide or a murder. Sindona was the first piece to fall, but many would follow and more deaths were to come. On 17th March 1981, in the villa of Grand Master Licio Gelli (“Leechio Jelly”), prosecutors investigating connections between Michele Sindona and P2 found a list of the secret society’s 962 members which included bankers, generals, judges and the future Italian prime-minister Silvio Berlusconi, as well as Roberto Calvi, and with their members unmasked, P2 was dissolved. A few weeks later, with the authorities having identified $27 million dollars’ worth of Italian Lira which had been illegally exported oversea by purchasing shares in foreign banks, Banco Ambrosiano’s chairman Robert Calvi was arrested, given a four year suspended sentence, a fine of $20 million and was placed on bail pending his appeal. All the while, Archbishop Marcinkus was kept away from Italian investigators as with The Vatican being a sovereign state, he was outside of their legal jurisdiction. But with his passport confiscated and his accounts frozen, Roberto Calvi was a sitting duck. Fearing for his wife and children’s safety - even having spent close to $1 million on alarms, cameras and barriers, a bullet-proof car, private jet hire and ten armed bodyguards - with his impending trial about to expose the Mafia, P2 and The Vatican’s involvement in the fraud, he had his family flown out of the country. Having illegally transferred $1.4 billion of Banco Ambrosiano’s stocks overseas, money which belonged to its powerful and deadly investors, Roberto had no way to plug this deficit without the investigators spotting the fraud, and with the money missing, the bank (along with its client’s funds) would collapse. On Monday 5th June 1982, Roberto sent a private letter to Pope John Paul II, warning him of the bank’s collapse, of Archbishop Marcinkus’ involvement and the impact this would have on The Church. Five days later, on Friday 10th June 1982, Roberto Calvi disappeared. Aided by his underworld contacts, under the cover of night, Roberto was smuggled out of Italy in a speedboat driven by renowned smuggler and bodyguard Silvano Vittor, and to the port of Trieste, where he crossed the Yugoslavian border under false passport in the name of Gian Roberto Calvini. In the backseat of an inconspicuous little car, Roberto was driven to Klagenfurt in Austria, where he stayed for two days, hid in shady hotels and made calls on pay-phones to his wife Clara, his daughter Anna and his secretary Graziella Corrocher (“Gratziela Ko-rrrrock-hair”) to reassure them he was okay, as well as trying to secure a $1.2 billion deal with Italian financier and former officer of the Italian military intelligence Francesco Pazienza (“Francesco Patzienza”) who had aided his escape. And all the while, by his side, sat a black attaché case, in which (it is believed) contained incriminating evidence linking P2, the Mafia, The Vatican and Banco Ambrosiano. On the evening of Tuesday 14th June 1982, having stopped in Bregenz on the German/Austrian border, on-route to the Swiss city of Zurich, in the Central Hotel Roberto met with two trusted allies who had helped his escape - Flavio Carboni & Hans Kuntz. Unusually for such a cautious man, the meeting was unplanned and what they discussed was uncertain, but what was said caused him to change his plans. Panicked, having broken cover, Roberto was driven to Innsbruck where Hans Kuntz had requisitioned a private jet, and under the ruse that Roberto was an executive for Fiat, they flew straight to Gatwick. Why he fled to London? Nobody knows. Having been to London before, Roberto always stayed at the Hilton, the Ritz and Claridge’s, but keen to keep a low-profile, Hans Kuntz booked Roberto into Room 881 of Chelsea Cloisters, a drab shabby student lodging at 87 Sloane Avenue, a booking made for 22 days under the name of “Mr Robertson”. Although inconspicuous – being a drab airless room with coarse bed-sheets, a pokey little bathroom and no telly, just a phone, cigarette burns and a sordid collection of ominous stains - the austere décor brought back bad memories of his frugal upbringing with his tight-fisted parents, but as much as he hated it, he knew it was best for his protection. No-one would think of looking for him here. Becoming increasingly paranoid, Roberto became a self-imposed prisoner in Room 881. In fact, the only time he left was to meet Francesco Pazienza, Hanz Kuntz and Flavio Carboni (who he last met in Hyde Park on the Wednesday night) and always, by his side, was his bodyguard Silvano and the black attaché case. Afterwards, he returned to Room 881 and didn’t leave for the next 24 hours. As hard as he strived to rescue his ailing bank, his whole world was about to implode. On the evening of Thursday 16th June 1982, the $1.2 billion deal with Francesco Pazienza fell through. On the morning of Friday 17th June 1982, the Board of Directors at Banco Ambrosiano met to discuss the $1.4 billion dollar hole in the bank’s finances, and with the company poised to collapse, they fired Roberto Calvi. And being riddled with shame and hurt, having left a scornful letter to her exiled boss, his secretary Graziella Corrocher threw herself out of the fifth-floor window and plunged to her death. As far as he fled and as well as he hid, he would always be hunted by the rich and powerful people he had befriended, cheated and fleeced, and with the dark demons closing in, just a few hours later and eight hundred miles from his home, 62 year old millionaire banker Roberto Calvi would be dead. And yet, the last few hours of his life are a mystery. Being confined to Room 881; feeling depressed, fraught and exhausted (having not slept for days even though he had taken several strong sedatives), Roberto spent the day pacing back-and-forth. He read, he ate, he called his wife and his children, but he never left his bodyguard’s sight and he had no visitors. For the first time ever, that evening, he shaved off his distinctive toothbrush-like moustache. At a little before midnight, according to Silvano, Flavio Carbino arrived at the Chelsea Cloisters for an impromptu meeting, but being unwilling (for whatever reason) to meet him in Room 881 or in the downstairs lobby, Roberto asked Silvano to meet Flavio instead. And with the two men distracted, the freshly shaven Roberto Calvi snuck out - although there are no witnesses to corroborate any of this. Where he went, who he saw and what he did are unknown? But an hour later, he was dead. His body was discovered at 7:30am on Saturday 18th June 1982, as London postal worker Steve Pullen walked along the Thames Path under the north-side of Blackfriars Bridge. Being a little after low-tide - with the side of the riverbed still visible and the bridge’s supports almost fully exposed – Roberto was found fifteen feet from the wall; his neck stretched, his feet dangling, hanging from a rope, as his drenched corpse swung in the soft breeze as salty water dripped from his sodden black suit. In his pockets was $15000 in cash, in his suit were stuffed several bricks (which added weight to hasten his death) and around his neck was a deep red strangulation mark where the rope had ended his life. At the inquest, the verdict was ruled as a suicide, but was it? If this was a suicide, why was no note found on his body, at the scene, or in Room 881? Why did he kill himself in public, when he spent most of his time alone in his room? Why would he buy a rope, when he still owned half bottle of sleeping pills? Having weighted his pockets with four kilos of bricks, why didn’t he simply drown himself in the deep, muddy and fast-moving river? And why would an ailing overweight banker climb over a high river wall, onto a shaky aluminium scaffold and precariously fix his rope, fifteen feet from the wall, on the underside of a bridge, when he suffered from vertigo? Unwilling to accept the initial findings, when the Calvi family hired a private investigator to re-examine the evidence and replicated his supposed suicide, what they found was perplexing. Having stuffed his suit with bricks, climbed over a high stone wall and shimmied down an aluminium scaffold (used hours earlier by painters to de-rust the bridge), even after his body had been partially submerged, why was no paint, rust or brick dust found on his fingers or clothes, as it had in tests? The River Thames is tidal, with low-tide at about 6am and 6pm, and high-tide at midnight and midday. So if he had hung himself just after 1am (as his autopsy states), with the tide being nine metres high, his body wouldn’t have dangled from a long tight rope (as it did when discovered at low-tide); instead the rope would be slack, his suit would be soaked and his body would be partially submerged. In fact, if he had hung himself just after high-tide, the red ligature marks found around his neck would have been made post-mortem (after death) and not ante-mortem (before death), but having died of asphyxiation and with no sea water found in his lungs, we know he did not drown, he was strangled. But by how? Roberto Calvi travelled four miles east from the Chelsea Cloisters to Blackfriars Bridge but how he got there is a mystery. The red ligature marks on his neck prove that he was strangled with a rope, but the hanging may not have been what killed him. With no struggle marks on his body, it is believed that he may have been drugged. And with steel beams under Blackfriars Bridge being dark and discrete, at tide high, a small boat could easily have moored-up unnoticed and positioned the body and the noose. But by who? Roberto Calvi could have been murdered anytime, anywhere, by anyone; having been shot, stabbed, poisoned or drowned; and having disposed of the evidence, including his body, in a way which left no trace. But they didn’t? He was found hanged, with bricks in his pockets, under Blackfriars Bridge. So maybe his murder had meaning? Maybe his “staged suicide” was symbolic? Consider this: As a secret organisation, very little is known about Propaganda Due, known as P2, but some of their traditions have haunting similarities to Roberto’s death. In his suit pockets and in his underpants were shoved four kilos of bricks and stones, key symbols associated with the Freemasons. As a far-right splinter group, with both military and Mafia connections, who he had defrauded out of a lot of money, P2 members dress in black ceremonial robes, just like Dominican Monks, and amongst their inner circle, they refer to themselves as “Frati Neri”, which translates as the Black Friars. (End) Before Roberto’s body was identified, his bodyguard Silvano Vaccari fled London in a private jet and flew from Gatwick to Geneva, he was carrying a black attaché case, identical to the one Roberto always kept about his person, but his case was never found. Three months later, Silvano was found dead, with fifteen stab wounds to his face and two bricks in his pockets. His murder has never been solved. On 13th September 1982, two months later, a man entered Union de Banque Suisse in Geneva and under a false passport tried to withdraw $60 million from several overseas accounts, he was swiftly arrested, and his name was Licio Gelli - the former Grand Master of Propaganda Due. In 1983, Banco Ambrosiano collapsed with debts of over $1.3 billion dollars. As its major shareholder, The Vatican paid $224 million dollars to the bank’s creditors as a ‘recognition of its moral involvement’, but with not enough evidence, The Vatican was granted immunity from prosecution and Archbishop Paul Marcinkus later retired to Sun City in Arizona, having never been tried, charged or convicted. With a second inquiry into Roberto’s death leading to an ‘open verdict’, his murder remains unsolved and although several suspects were named - Francesco Pazienza, Hans Kuntz, Flavio Carboni, Silvano Vittor, Licio Gelli and Mafia-boss Giuseppe ‘Pippo’ Calo – not a single conviction has held. And still, it is uncertain if his murder was committed separately or jointly by The Mafia, P2 or The Vatican. Was it a suicide? Was it a murder? Was it a symbol? Or is it simply a coincidence that the man dubbed ‘God’s Banker’ would choose to end his life, 800 miles from home, under Blackfriars Bridge? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. For all murky mucky milers, there’s more wibbly-mouth bum-plop in Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Grethe Karlsen and Anabel Picon, I thank you. With extra thank you’s to John & Bev Woodley and friends who came on my Murder Mile Walk recently and treated me to some lovely cakes. Thank you to the Hughes Family who came on their second walk (and was treated to a little sausage from a Soho local), which may be a belated congratulations for the marriage of Mr & Mrs King of the Refunds. Huzzah. And a thank you to Emma Lambert for the generous donation to the Murder Mile Cake Fund. I thank you. Don’t forgot, you’ve got one more week to enjoy a whopping 20% off all Murder Mile merchandise via the merch shop. To get 20% off all eBooks, mugs and badges, simply type CallMeReg20 (that’s CallMeReg with no spaces and the number 20) where it says voucher code in the checkout. And as always, if you want to see what the murder locations look like, every Thursday I upload a blog for each episode, with a map, location videos, photos etc. There is a link to this 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:
Sound Effects (not created by me)
Sources: Sadly, there is currently no file on this case available at the National Archives and probably won't be for at least another fifty years, so I've used other sources.
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
Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast - "One of the TOP FIVE TRUE CRIME PODCASTS" by The Telegraph20/8/2019  It's nice to get a lovely write up about Murder Mile UK True Crime podcast in the mainstream press, and this one recently appeared in The Telegraph, so I wanted to share it with you. It lists Murder Mile (a small independent podcast, handmade for no money) as "one of the five best true-crime podcasts" along-side biggies like They Walk Among Us, Criminal, Redhanded and Real Crime Profile.
if you can't open the link, here's the text: "In a brilliantly clever idea, this podcast taps into the popularity of crime-themed walking tours by taking the listener on an audio guided tour of one square mile of London, where more than 300 mysterious deaths have occurred. Some cases are notorious, others less so, but host Michael J Buchanan-Dunne – who runs his own highly rated walking tour of Soho – ensures that they’re all totally gripping. Each weekly episode features eyewitness testimony, vivid descriptions and authentic sounds recorded from the location itself". Thanks for the lovely write-up The Telegraph. Mx  Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.  Hello! You're probably here as you're eager to seek out a new true-crime podcast to get your blood-soaked teeth into, well gnash your choppers no longer, as on this week's Murder Mile blog, I interview Beth from the missing persons and unsolved mysteries podcast - Case Remains.
Michael's thoughts: Case Remains is an absolute must for those of you who (like myself) are always looking for a true-crime /missing persons podcast which treats its subjects with the sensitivity, respect and humanity they deserve, and that's what Beth delivers with Case Remains. Each episode is well written and well-researched, but what Beth expertly does is to introduce each victim to us as a real human being; a three-dimensional person with hopes, dreams, flaws and failures so that we understand the details of their life before we learn about their death or the mystery of their disappearance - a skill that many true-crime podcasts fail to. If you love hearing new cases for the very first time, I strongly recommend you check out Case Remains. Q & A with Beth from Case Remains
A big thank you to Beth for taking part in this True-Crime Podcaster Q & A. Don't forget to check out her podcast. To explore this fine missing persons 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 5o 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.
EPISODE SIXTY-NINE
On Friday 26th December 1947, Elizabeth Wakefield; an elderly widow who was desperate to remarry for fear of being left on the shelf, moved into the first floor flat at 46 Calthorpe Street with an angry drunken maniac called Frederick Cox who had been convicted of the attempted murder of his entire family. But who was worse – the widow or her 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.
I've added the location of 46 Calthorpe Street, WC1 where Frederick John Cox murdered Elizabeth Henrietta Wakefield. It is marked with a red !. It's up by the words 'St Andrew's Gardens'. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho 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.
On the left is the top half of Calthorpe Street today (with no 46 in the distance) and on the right is The Yorkshire Grey public house where Elizabeth loved to booze. It looks as it did in 1947.
Ep69 – The Abominable Mr & Mrs Cox
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 Elizabeth Wakefield; an elderly widow desperate to remarry for fear of being left on the shelf, and when left with very few options, she moved in with an angry drunken maniac who had attempted to murder of his entire family. But who was worse – the widow or her 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 69: The Abominable Mr & Mrs Cox. Today I’m standing on Calthorpe Street, WC1; two streets east of the square where the body-parts of Louis Voisin’s mistress’ were dumped, three streets south of the warehouse where the corpse hero Glyndwr Michael began his infamous second life and two hundred feet west of the hostel where Reg Christie spent his last night of freedom, as well as being just streets from the King’s Cross fire, the 7/7 bombing and the untold stories of the victims of the Camden Ripper – coming soon to Murder Mile. Calthorpe Street is quiet residential street near King’s Cross between Grey’s Inn Road and the former Mount Pleasant postal sorting office, which is now being turned into posh flats (well, what isn’t). With three-storey Georgian terrace-houses on both sides of a curved street, access to a basement flat instead of a front garden, white stucco on the ground floor walls, brown bricks above and shielded by wrought iron railings with a set of thick stone steps leading up to single front-door, where-as once these were pauper’s houses at a cost of £3 10 a week, now each flat sells for nearly £1 million-a-piece. With almost no traffic, no people, no pets nor plants, being a one-way street leading from somewhere to nowhere, very little happens here. It’s the epitome of the modern middle-classes, where everything is about style over substance, and the only noise you’ll hear is the infuriating squeak of a vintage bike, the only smell is freshly baked bread (sprayed from an aerosol) and the only sound is the incessant whine of spoiled little bastards moaning “daddy I want a guava, kale and avocado demi-capu baby-chino”, as long lines of so-called “yummy mummies” dump their precious little sprogs onto a ragged au-pair, to torture their uptight tots with a strict rigorous regime of wanky pretentious pap like baby yoga, toddler Zumba and Latin for little ‘uns, all while mummy complains how “I simply have no time to myself” having engaged in ten hours of lunches and lithium, tiffin and tranquilisers, pampering and Prozac. And although, the first floor flat at 46 Calthorpe Street seems like a nice little home for (what I hope is) a loving and happy couple, it was here on Friday 26th December 1947, in a fit of rage, where Frederick Cox ended the life of Elizabeth Wakefield, the woman who was to be his wife (Interstitial). Elizabeth Henrietta Wakefield had a hard life from the day she was born until the day she died. Born in a Hoxton slum in 1881, as one of six children raised by a housewife and a labourer who shared one house with three families, Elizabeth Henrietta Claxton - also known as Elsie - was impoverished, uneducated and unskilled. Living in fear of sickness, starvation or the pauper’s prison, and denied a career, Elsie’s only chance of survival was by marriage to a man whose babies she would bear. But as she was never the prettiest, the brightest or the wittiest, her choice of spouse would be strictly limited. In 1898, aged seventeen, Elsie met Herbert Wakefield, a warehouseman in a Shoreditch tannery. After six months they were engaged, after twelve months they were married and after nine more months their first child was born, swiftly followed by five more. So with Herbert, Elsie, Bertie, Albert, Leonard, Doris, Gladys and Elizabeth, as well as two lodgers all squeezed into a single ground-floor flat at 15 Danbury Street in Islington, like many large families living off a single unsteady income - life was tough. On 24th November 1926, after twenty-seven years together and having raised six children (all who had moved out), as a bloated, broke and exhausted alcoholic, Herbert died, having drank himself to death. With no savings, no pension, no income and no home; as Herbert was her everything, now she had nothing. And where-as once, her big-bosom and child-bearing hips were her best features; as a five-foot two inch, 18 stone and 45 year old widow, with wiry grey hair, ragged clothes, a deeply lined face and her infertile body battered by eleven pregnancies, Elsie was no longer the woman she once was. So having spruced herself up, brushed her hair down and shaved a full decade off her age, the new 35 year old Elsie Henrietta Wakefield set off to seek out a new man to fill her life. But who? Frederick John Cox was born in 1895, fifteen years after Elsie’s birth, although he wouldn’t know that. Having been abandoned and raised by a Hackney couple who he called Mr & Mrs Cope; his birthday, his home-town and his biological parents were all unknown. All that was known was that having been the by-product of an unwanted pregnancy and a difficult birth, which left the bowling ball-shaped boy with stubby limbs, a conical head and a chronic stutter, from the day he was born, Fred was unloved. Feeling very much like an outsider and seeking some kind of stability in his rotten little life, having left school with a basic education, on the 29th September 1912, aged 17, Fred married his first-love Eliza Mae Newby, in a union swiftly followed by two baby daughters – Amy and Cissie. Described as a decent dad, a good husband and a solid provider, having built his own family, he should have been happy, but riddled with a fear of abandonment, Fred was moody, jealous and controlling. That year, as a sturdy young man with rough hands, a thick neck and a solid knowledge of engines, Fred enlisted in the Royal Navy. Serving through the First World War as a stoker on-board a C-Class British submarine, although he took part in some truly dangerous missions whilst stuck in the dark and claustrophobic bowels of a submerged steel-can surrounded by fuel, fumes and the crushing pressures of the sea, Fred loved his job, his crew, his ship and – best of all – the boozy camaraderie. Fred had two families, one at home and one at sea. In April 1918, whilst submerged off the English coast, one of the submarine’s 4-stroke engines suffered a minor failure, it lost propulsion and the ship drifted deeper under the stormy sea. As a relatively new technology, breakdowns were common and accidents were often, but as the engineer sought to fix the fault, a fuel line snapped and the 150-foot ship swiftly filled with a toxic mix of deadly gases. Forced to resurface, having blown its ballast and popped the hatch to refill the noxious compartments with fresh breathable air, the ship was abandoned, the crew were rescued and thankfully no-one died. But several of the crew were injured… one of whom was Fred. In March 1919, after seven years’ service, Frederick John Cox was medically discharged from the Royal Navy, as although he was physically fit, from this point on, his brain would be plagued with headaches, nausea, memory loss and mood swings, all of which he would pacify with alcohol. Granted a tiny compensation having risked his life for his country, Fred returned home to London, to his wife, to his daughters and to a new and uneventful life as a van guard for Great Northern Railway. As before, his work record was excellent, he was a loving husband and a doting father… …but only when he was sober. Drinking to dull his pain, the booze turned Fred into a very different person, and where-as once he was moody, jealous and controlling, the alcohol made him tearful, paranoid and angry. And having now been rejected by three families – his biological parents, his foster family and the Royal Navy – his fears of abandonment again came full circle, as he began to mistrust his job, his wife and his life. After fifteen unhappy years together, on Thursday 3rd November 1927, their marriage took a dark turn. That morning, Eliza Cox (Fred’s long-suffering wife) turned to her mother and said “I’m going to leave him. I cannot stand it any longer. He’s nagging me from morning till night. If you do not take me in, I shall take the kids and walk into the streets”. With no other option, Eliza and her two young daughters packed-up their few belongings, departed their tiny two-roomed lodging at 20 Cornwall Cottages in Islington and moved into her mum’s pokey little second-floor flat, a few doors down, at number 60. Six ladies squeezed into one tight space; with Eliza, Amy and Cissie in one small room and Eliza’s 63 year old widowed mother Lily and her two spinster sisters Sarah-Jane and Florence in the other. At 4:15pm, having finished a long night-shift at Haggerston Gas Works and popped to the pub to sink several pints to quell his throbbing head, being steaming drunk, Fred staggered home. Only his home was empty, and his wife and kids were gone. Seething with rage, as Fred staggered up the cold stone stairs of Cornwall Cottages, stormed along the second floor balcony which circled the outside of the four-storey tenement block, and as he reached the wooden front-door of number sixty, he banged hard hollering “Eliza! Eliza!” Spotting his wife, as he shoved Lily aside, a bitter slanging-match ensued in the kitchen, as Eliza and Fred screamed at each other; the fearsome mum shielded her sobbing daughters as their drunken dad ranted and stumbled, spitting venom and slamming his fist into a cabinet. And as tears streamed down his fuming face, he belligerently spat “give me my key back, if you want to stay here, you can stay here, see if I care”, Eliza tossed the key at Fred’s head and screamed “No! I am finished! We’re over!” That was it! Thirty four years of abandonment had been boiled down into just two words, spat by an angry wife at her drunken husband in the heat of passion. Whether she meant it or not, we may never know. But as his fears of abandonment once again came full circle - with his reddened eyes glazed, his throat raw and his fists tightly clenched - with that, Fred snapped. From behind, as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked it back hard, as she screamed, her head tilted back, stretching the pale muscles of her exposed neck. From his jacket pocket, Fred pulled out a white ivory handle, which looked innocent enough, but with a quick flick, out flipped his shaving razor, and as the six-inch blade buried deep into her flesh, he slit his wife’s throat from ear-to-ear, ripping open her wailing windpipe, as red bubbles of blood popped from the gaping wound in her neck. And yet Fred wasn’t finished. As Eliza slumped to the floor - wheezing, bleeding and struggling to breathe - with his frenzied attack having only just begun, Fred aimed his razor again at his wife’s throat. Only being desperate to defend her mum, as 12 year old Florence grabbed the razor and the super-sharp blade sheared off the top of her right thumb, she sprawled herself across the choking Eliza, using her own body as a human shield. As the four remaining women frantically grappled with Fred, seizing his eldest daughter, as he slashed wildly, the blade sliced through Amy’s upper lip, split open her right cheek and narrowly missed the soft jelly of her right eye. Lily yanked Fred backwards, but spinning fast, Fred hit her hard in the face with the razor, knocking her to the ground and severing her facial nerve. With blood splashed and splattered up the walls, door and the floor, as Sarah-Ann dashed out of the flat screaming for the Police, Fred grabbed her right leg, and as she tripped, as a single fast slice slashed off the top of her ear, it split apart her cheek and ripped open her nose. And only then, with the neighbours alerted and as crowds converged, Fred’s frenzied attack suddenly ceased and shaking with panicked terror, as he surveyed his bloody aftermath, with six women screaming, both daughters bleeding and his wife now ghostly white and barely conscious, as his face flushed with shame and his eyes filled with tears, Fred stuttered “I’m sorry” and slit his own throat. Seven people were rushed to the Royal Free Hospital. Lily, Amy, Cissie, Sarah-Ann and Florence needed nothing more than a few stitches. Although Eliza was listed as critical suffering a severed windpipe, and Fred having sliced open his superior thyroid artery, having lost several pints of blood, miraculously they both survived. For the rest of their lives, they each had their own scars. So whenever Fred looked at his wife and kids, or at himself in the mirror, from this day until the day he died, the man he would become would always be haunted by the man he once was. On 28th November 1927, having been discharged from hospital and still distraught at the pain he had caused his family, Fred fully confessed to his crimes and was charged with the attempted murder of his wife, two daughters, the wounding of others and a failed suicide. And for the weeks that followed he wept for their forgiveness. He knew he didn’t deserve it… …but as the saying goes, “The Lord works in mysterious ways”. On 10th December 1927, with Eliza was still in a critical condition, although she was unable to talk and could only articulate in gestures, as a deeply religious woman raised as a good Catholic, bafflingly, the appropriately named Reverend Cocq convinced her not to give evidence against her husband. On 2nd February 1928, Frederick John Cox pleaded guilty to all charges at the Old Bailey and was found guilty of attempted murder. But with his wife appealing for leniency, his daughters having forgiven him and with Fred promising to quit drinking, he was sentenced to just twelve months in prison… …and he served only eight. Released from prison just shy of Christmas 1928, Fred kept his promise and having quit the booze, he started work at the Gas & Coke Company in Stock Newington, moved back into the family home at 20 Cornwall Cottages and once again became a decent dad, a good husband and a solid provider. So much so, that they even added to their brood with a third daughter - Doreen. And then, ten years later; with his headaches pounding harder, his anger slowly rising and the dreaded booze once again swirling about his blood, seeing the deep jagged scars across his family’s faces and throats which made him seethe, having threatened them all several times before, on 27th June 1938… Fred upped and left. For the sake of their safety, to protect them from pain and defend them from death, as a violent and emotional drunk with no control over his actions, Fred walked out on his family. And although he paid her a weekly maintenance without fail, Eliza and her daughters never saw him ever again. Fred was a broken man; drunk, lost and in pain, gripped by fears of abandonment which had plagued him since birth; being rejected by his parents, his foster family, the Royal Navy and now turning his back on his own wife and kids for fear of his rage (once again) coming full circle, Fred was alone. What he wanted was love; but being a moody drunken boozer with a quick temper, an unsightly eight-inch scar slashed across his neck and a criminal conviction for the attempted murder of his entire family, who he had since deserted, what woman would actually want him? No-one would. Unless they were desperate… one woman was, and her name was Elizabeth Wakefield. (Interstitial) Nicknamed Elsie, the last twelve years after her late husband’s death hadn’t been kind to her, as being in-and-out of a series of bad relationships, she was still a penniless widow with no trade, skills or income, who lived off her six grown-up children, as she struggled to find herself a new husband. When she met 42 year old Fred, she said she was 47, but by then, she was nearer to 60. And with her portly frame several stone heavier, her wiry grey hair thinning and the deep lines of her reddened face bloated and ravaged by booze, Elsie looked a sorry sight. Elsie & Fred were two broken people looking for love. Having found happiness together, they moved into a small single room on the first floor of 46 Calthorpe Street, at the back of King’s Cross. And with plans to eventually marry, the couple would refer to each other as Mr & Mrs Cox. But life together was far from harmonious. Ten years later, with Fred bringing in their only income to pay the rent and to support his former family whilst working as a Plant Attendant at the Gas & Coke Company in Fulham, with Elsie being unmarried and infertile - believing she no longer had a purpose in life - she had become a full-blown alcoholic. Life was difficult, as living in one room, twelve feet deep by fifteen feet wide, with just enough space for a gas stove, a wash basin and a small horse-hair bed, lived a violent ex-convict and an angry boozer. And although their neighbour described Fred as “a pleasant man who was calm, loving and kind”, she described Elsie as “bad-tempered, aggressive and seldom sober”, with a Police record to prove it. In this sparse tiny space, the abominable Mr & Mrs Cox would live… and this is also where she would die. Christmas Day of 1947 brought thick snow to Calthorpe Street, but no love, no happiness and no joy. Rising at 4am, as 52 year old Fred trudged out to work an eight hour shift, Elsie (who claimed to be 57, but was now nearer 70 and looked every day of it) slept off another hangover. Arriving back at 4pm, Fred found the flat empty, the fire off, the festive food eaten and under a pitiful little Christmas tree, his present to her unwrapped and not a single gift left for him. But then, that was Elsie – rude and selfish. By the time Fred got to Grey’s Inn Road and squeezed among the swearing sweaty throng of wreaking reprobates at the Yorkshire Grey public house, having boozed heavily at the Mechanic’s Larder and the Pakenham Arms all day; Elsie was broke, blind-drunk and dressed in the fur-lined neck shawl he had brought her. Without so much as a “thank you”, having ponced a pound off Fred as she knocked back a swift succession of red-wines, whiskies and bitters, the more bladdered she got, the ruder, nastier and more abusive she became. At closing time, being too blotto to stand, Fred carried Elsie the three hundred yards home, where he made her a cup of tea and put her to bed, and as sat alone by the fire, he nursed his throbbing head, unsure whether those familiar sharp pains were caused by her constant nagging, an ailment from his Navy days or the twenty years’ worth of noxious fumes he inhaled at the Gas & Coke Company. And that was his Christmas Day. Friday 26th December 1947 was more of the same; an early start followed by four hours of traveling, eight hours of working and six hours of nagging, as a fuming Elsie and her freeloading chums quaffed back several gins, all on his coin. And with his head royally pounding, at a little after 10pm, having had enough of Elsie’s selfish and abusive antics, Fred called it a night and headed home… …all the while, yards behind him, Elsie staggered, seething and spitting. And that was his Boxing Day. Arriving back at their first floor flat, just shy of 10:30pm, with Fred now a moderate drinker who was so used to her abuse, throughout he kept his cool knowing she would pass-out soon enough. Only Elsie didn’t back down, as seeing his packed suitcases by the door, she was fired-up and furious. “Elsie”, he stated “we’re over!” That was it! Sixty-seven years of abandonment had been boiled down to just two words, and whether he meant it or not, we may never know. But as her fears once again came full circle - with her reddened eyes glazed, her throat raw and her fists tightly clenched - with that, Elsie snapped. Lunging at Fred, as her tatty nails clawed at his face and her brown teeth teared at his skin; struggling, they slipped and thumped onto the floor, thrashing and screaming, with him on top of her. Her fists repeatedly pounding the throbbing head of a violent ex-convict. And as all of his pain and pent-up rage boiled, instinctively he grabbed the fur-lined shawl which was draped around her neck, and with straining fists, as he glared into her bloated screaming face, he pulled the cords tighter. And with her screams muffled, her breathing weak and her swollen head turning from sickly pale to mottled red to ruptured purple, her lips went blue, her eyes went black and as her chunky little legs slowly stopped twitching, Elsie Wakefield – his wife-to-be - was dead. (End) Shaking with panicked terror, as painful memories of how he had once tried to murder his family came flooding back, as his face flushed with shame and his eyes filled with tears, Fred stuttered “I’m sorry” and (once again) with his six-inch shaving razor, he slit open his own throat, and – to ensure he did it right this time – he slashed both wrists to boot. Weeping and destroyed, as a tearful Fred placed a pillow under the head of his slowly-cooling Elsie, he lay beside her, bleeding and awaiting his death. Only, after almost a whole day lying next to his cold beloved, he didn’t die. Wracked with guilt, at 11:50am on Saturday 28th December 1947, Fred handed himself in at Grey’s Inn Road police station, he made a full confession and gave a written statement. Having been dead for 36 hours and died of asphyxiation, Eliza’s birth records confirmed that she was 67 years old, although I’m sure she would be pleased to know that at least one tabloid newspaper, incorrectly listed it as just 52. Frederick John Cox was tried at The Old Bailey on 9th February 1948. With Elsie being deceased, unlike with his ex-wife Eliza, she was unable to refuse to give evidence or to ask for leniency owing to an interfering priest, so having pleaded guilty to the charge of manslaughter by grounds of provocation, Fred was sentenced to seven years penal servitude, which he served at Pentonville Prison. And by all accounts, prison was okay; it gave him a job, a uniform, a routine and – just like in the Royal Navy – a family, so with the camaraderie he craved, an alcohol-free diet and a steel gate separating him from the outside world, with no-one left to love and being sat in a solitary cell, never again would he be abandoned. Fred died in 1963 and - to the best of my knowledge – he never remarried. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. For all murky milers, please stay tuned to hear about how sweaty this episode was to record in the latest riveting instalment of Extra Mile, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Epenthesis and Emily L, I thank you, as well as a special thank-you to an unnamed friend of the podcast for treating me to a PayPal pint. Burp. I thank you too. As a special treat for you all, until the end of August 2019, you can get a whopping 20% off all Murder Mile merchandise via the merch shop, on everything from eBooks to mugs to badges, etc. To receive this, simply type CallMeReg20 (that’s CallMeReg with no spaces and the number 20) where it says voucher code in the checkout. And don’t forget, if you want to see what the murder locations look like, every Thursday I upload a blog for each episode, with a map, location videos, photos etc. There is a link to this 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: Aerosol Spray - https://freesound.org/people/WeeJee_vdH/sounds/267709/ Rusty Bike – https://freesound.org/people/debsound/sounds/431472/ Underwater - https://freesound.org/people/Abolla/sounds/213914/ Submarine Klaxon - https://freesound.org/people/Timbre/sounds/203562/ SOURCE: The murder of Elizabeth Henrietta Wakefield by Frederick John Cox at Calthorpe Street, WC1 - http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258327 *** 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.  Hello! Well, fans of true-crime podcasts, you are in for a treat. As you know, each week I upload a new and fascinating Q&A interview with a true-crime podcaster, to introduce you to their show and give you an insight into who they are as a person. This week I have the pleasure of interviewing Paul from awesome The True Crime Enthusiast Podcast.
Michael's thoughts: One word "excellent", Paul's True-Crime Enthusiast Podcast really does what it says on the tin, he's super passionate about telling untold and long forgotten true-crime stories in a heartfelt, honest and compelling way and that truly comes across in every episode, as his attention to detail, commitment to telling the truth and his level of research is incomparable. It puts the vast majority of true-crime podcasts to shame. If you absolutely love true-crime podcasts and you're desperate for something rich, emotive and engaging, I heartily recommend you listen to the True Crime Enthusiast Podcast. Q & A with Paul from The True Crime Enthusiast Podcast
A big thank you to Paul for taking part in this True-Crime Podcaster Q & A. Don't forget to check out his 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 5o 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.
EPISODE SIXTY-EIGHT:
On Friday 8th March 2013, wealthy Mayfair socialite Roberto Troyan; a gregarious, fun and generous man who being gripped with grief and unable to cope placed his life in the hands of someone he felt he could trust - his financial advisor - and yet this greedy little man would bleed Roberto dry.
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 Mount Street, W1 where Roberto Troyan was murdered marked with a dark green !. It's by the words 'Mayfair'. 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.
Episode 68 - Roberto Troyan: Grief, Guilt and Greed
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 wealthy Mayfair socialite Roberto Troyan; a gregarious, fun and generous man who being gripped with grief and unable to cope, placed his life in the hands of someone he felt he could trust, and yet this greedy little man would bleed Roberto dry. Murder Mile is researched using original 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 68: Roberto Troyan: Grief, Guilt and Greed. Today I’m standing on Mount Street, W1; three streets south-west of the shoe-store where Seydou Diarrasouba was stabbed to death, two streets east of the Intercontinental Hotel where exiled Iraqi Prime Minister Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif was assassinated, one street south of the Millennium Hotel where former Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko was poisoned by incompetent KGB agents, and one street east of the cruel and painful abortion of Elsie Goldsmith - coming soon to Murder Mile. Mount Street is pretentious little side-street in the heart of the exclusive district of Mayfair; enveloped by embassies, flanked by five-star hotels, peppered with millionaire’s penthouses and awash with tiny art-galleries, all with no customers, only three pictures and a zoned-out receptionist staring into space. Surrounded by half-empty stores of designer this, exclusive that and shapeless tat by names no-one gives a shit about; on a street packed with Bentley’s, Rolls Royce’s, Lambos and even a bright gold Smart Car whose licence plate is worth ten times more than the car itself, Mount Street is wealthy but soulless, vacuous and dead. It’s like a wannabe Rodeo Drive only with drizzle, a stale St Tropez only with a sea of wigs and with so many face-lifts it looks like every local has been caught in an icy-breeze. And with no litter, no dog-poo and no homeless people (as they know too-well that the residents are too tight-fisted to give them a quid, as that is why they are rich), Mount Street lacks any kind of life. Situated half-way along is a four-storey red-and-brown-brick building at 101 Mount Street; a pristine mansion block with fifteen exclusive apartments, complete with a maid service and a concierge, all behind a shiny brass front-door and where the worst crime you could imagine happening might revolve around a poodle’s coiffure, a pair of red trousers and a deeply affronted man called Farquhar. And although each flat is worth £1.3 million, flat six at 101 Mount Street was recently sold for a paltry £300,000. As it was here, on Friday 8th March 2013, having seen that Roberto Troyan was grieving, a greedy financial advisor would take everything, from his last penny to his final breath. (Interstitial) Roberto was larger-than-life, gregarious, funny and astute, the kind of man where - once you met him - you could never forget him, and although he came from wealth, he was good, decent and caring. Born in Italy in 1950, Roberto Charles Troyan was one of two children to Bob (a former US Army officer who later made his money in shipping) and Marie, a doting mother who he would never fail to call each and every day; and with his one sister Rosalie, they both enjoyed a happy and loving childhood. Raised in the US city of Boston, although Robert (as he preferred to be called) would retain a Bostonian twang to his voice throughout his life, blessed with a flair for design and a deep love of Britain, having graduated from art school in 1983, Robert moved to London. But it wasn’t just his sweet face, twinkling eyes and mop of dyed red-hair which made him stand out, as amongst his many friends, it was his charm, his kindness and his talent. And although his life was good, it wasn’t complete. That same year, Robert met 30 year old Anthony Feldman; a successful interior designer and architect from Johannesburg, with many high profile commissions and celebrity clients. And being partners in work, having found true love together, Robert & Anthony became partners in life. As a couple, Robert and Anthony complimented each other beautifully, as with a passion for art and a love of antiques they lived in a stylish penthouse apartment in Hertford Street (Mayfair), furnished with fine art, plush carpets, intricate figurines and a painting by Picasso. It was a perfect partnership; with the fastidious and meticulous Anthony in control of the food, the fun and their finances, and the gregarious Robert like a beaming beacon of light, who made everyone who entered their home feel warm and welcome, bestowing upon them all hugs, compliments and kisses. Robert & Anthony’s lavish dinners were infamous; a veritable who’s who of society, with Anthony as the pianist, Robert as the raconteur and the chilled champagne flowing freely. But being blessed with deep pockets and big hearts, they used their influence for good; raising funds for the homeless, the desperate and the penniless, being generous to everyone; whether celebrities, staff or strangers. And although, being a big part of the social scene, they would holiday in a secluded cottage in Turkey, Robert only ever wanted to live in Mayfair, as here he felt safe… but sadly this was not the case. Robert and Anthony were together for twenty-two years; they worked, ate and slept side-by-side and – being very much in love – they were inseparable. But as two gay men, although they lived together, the law didn’t see them as a couple and denied them any rights. So when the Civil Partnership Act of 2004 was passed, Robert and Anthony make it official and announced their engagement. Robert was blissfully happy, hopelessly in love and soon to be married, as now his life would be complete. Only fate can be cruel… In October 2005, a few months before their wedding, Anthony felt a few twinges in his muscles which he brushed off as just a bad-back, but as his health hastily deteriorated, upon seeing a doctor and getting some tests, Anthony was diagnosed with an aggressive form of pancreatic cancer. On 10th December 2005, just five days after the law was passed, Robert & Anthony were married in a private ceremony in their Hereford Street flat surrounded by four bridesmaids and their closest friends and family. Eight days later, 52 year old Anthony Feldman was dead. A memorial service was held at the nearby Grosvenor Chapel, and amongst a chorus of joyous songs and a sea of grieving faces, although Anthony was given the glorious send-off he truly deserved, being ashen-faced and distraught, Robert sobbed throughout and was barely able to stand. As with his husband gone, his love stolen and his heart broken, this larger-than-life character looked tiny and frail. And as the invites stopped, the parties ceased and their friends drifted away, Robert was left alone. Their spacious penthouse apartment was now a hollow joyless void; their fine art a painful reminder of twenty-two years together, their many photos like cruel glimpses back at happier times, and every old anecdote he once regaled his enraptured friends with, now lost, gone, never to be told again. And with his smell on the pillow, his clothes in the closet and his shoes by the door, everything reminded him of Anthony. As in the middle of their sumptuous suite – with his sweet smile sunken, his eyes red raw and his confidence crushed - Robert sat alone, as the walls which once rang with joyous laughter, now echoed with his solitary tears. As the sole beneficiary of Anthony’s fortune, legally being a widower, the civil partnership had ensured that Robert’s financial future was secure, but physically and emotionally he was bankrupt. So unable to escape the grief which hung in their apartment like a dense cloud of gloom, Robert moved from their spacious penthouse on Hertford Street into the more modest flat six at 101 Mount Street. And even though he had moved, the pain remained, as the grieving man struggled to cope. Anthony was his everything; he handled the food, the fun, their finances, and - without him - Robert was at a loss. So with restaurants nearby, Robert would often eat out, and with his flat in disarray, he hired a maid, but with Anthony gone, being gripped in grief, his spending spiralled out of control. Unable to find happiness, Robert shopped, but the art he brought only made him more miserable. Sometimes he partied, but the late-nights left him with nothing but bar-bills and hangovers. And as a kind and lovely man, he lavished his friends with gifts, but with no control, his life became blur. The caretaker of 101 Mount Street said “Robert was visited by strange men in all hours of the day and night… each morning I’d take the black bin bags from outside of his door away, it always rattled with bottles”. And over time, unable to find fulfilment with sexual partners and bouts of heavy boozing, he turned to cocaine. Edward Brown QC of the Crown Prosecution said at the trail “He was a generous man who lived a chaotic lifestyle and with his finances in a mess, this left him open to exploitation”. Wildly spending to conceal his grief, Robert’s life was spiralling out of control. He knew that. And with his bank account rapidly dwindling, he did the sensible thing, and sought out an experienced and respected advisor to handle his millions in the bank. And his name was David Jeffs (interstitial) Originally from Peterborough, in 2008, Robert was introduced to David Jeffs, a financial advisor for a wealth management firm with a solid reputation called HFM Columbus. David looked as you’d expect a financial advisor to look; as with short dark hair, thick rimless glasses and a boyishly smooth face, unlike Robert he didn’t exude flamboyance; instead he was smart, quiet and bookish. In a crisp white shirt, a plain blue suit and brown suede shoes, although his style hinted at a man eager to break away from the stuffy demeanour of a chartered accountant, flourished in Burberry scarf (tied in the way that GQ said was best) and clutching an old black leather briefcase with a brass clasp (not unlike something a Victorian doctor would carry), he hadn’t got the personality to pull the fashion off. His dress-sense aside, 31 year old David Jeffs was experienced but unremarkable; although recently divorced, he lived with his fiancé and his six year old son in a tidy house on a quiet cul-de-sac in the pleasant village of Arnold in Nottingham. He had a car, a garden, a steady career earning him a decent salary of £53000 a year, and as expected from a financial advisor, his life was modest, safe and good. Acting as his ‘financial concierge’, David started small, by organising Robert’s spending, sorting out his direct-debits and streamlining his standing orders, as even little purchase can make a big dent. With a sense of normality returning to his life, and eager to ensure the longevity of his wealth, David invested £1.2m of Robert’s money into Royal Skandia life insurance - a very stable long-term investment. David Jeffs was a real straight-arrow; dull but indispensable, vapid but invaluable, staid but trusted. So much so, that against his bank’s wishes, Robert wrote David several blank cheques to invest. By 2010, grief had taken its toll on Robert, and although he dressed at Ralph Lauren, had his hair styled at John Frieda’s and ate at Scott’s of Mayfair, having contracted a debilitating skin-disease, the steroids caused his weight to balloon. Being reliant on his maid to do his cooking, washing and cleaning, having packed on several stone, she also had to support him as he walked from his flat to the ground floor. Robert was vulnerable, disabled and frail; an ailing man with an extravagant lifestyle, expensive tastes, a wild spending habit and an inexhaustible bank balance. And now, he was dependant on others. By contrast, David Jeffs lived a modest life; one house, one car, one child and one girlfriend; with a nine-to-five job, working five days a week, with one holiday a year; and with his clothes by Marks, his food by Asda, his art from Ikea and occasional nights out at the flicks, there was no comparison. Dealing with the finances of the rich and famous, David wanted to live a life of luxury, but being an unimaginative and risk-averse man, already living beyond his modest means with ex-wife and a child to support as well as several credit-cards, loans and overdrafts, he knew that life was out of his reach. For David Jeffs, there would be no all-night parties, no stays in five-star hotels and no tables at Michelin starred restaurants, he would have no fleet of sports cars, no exotic holidays and no celebrity friends, with no champagne, no caviar, no chauffeur and no cocaine. He wanted the best, but the best he could achieve was mediocre. In comparison to Robert, David was nothing… …and yet his client was rich, vulnerable, grieving and - best of all - trusting. With complete control of Robert’s bank account, an oblivious client and several blank cheques, over the next two years David embarked on a shopping spree which would make a Saudi prince blush. He spent £1100 at a VIP polo event, £1200 at the Chinawhite’s nightclub, £1400 on two rugby tickets, £19500 in one night at a Spearmint Rhino lap-dancing club (quaffing £400 bottles of Chrystal) and treating himself to two Lotus sports cars for £72500. And although this happened at the height of the recession, he claimed his new-found good fortune was solely down to his sound financial investments. Being flush with cash, David holidayed in Las Vegas, Mauritius and Ibiza; dined-out at London’s most expensive hotels and restaurants, and in his modest home, he amassed a huge collection of guitars. Using the blank cheques, David syphoned off £343000 of Robert’s inheritance into his own account, lavishing his fiancé with a £15000 wedding ceremony in October 2012, and – just a few weeks before Robert’s death – he used his ill-gotten gains to treat himself and his family to a trip to Center Parcs. David had bled his cash-cow dry, but still he wanted more… as by February 2013, the financial advisor’s life was a mess, as with barely £6 in his bank account and in-debt to the taxman to £200,000, Robert’s wealth wasn’t just there to bail David out, but to cover his hopeless addiction to cocaine and ecstasy. In early March 2013, David cashed another blank cheque for £80,000… but this time, it bounced. Having confided to his maid Davey Aganon of his fears about his dwindling bank account, his evasive financial advisor and how he was unable to withdraw any cash, with the lease on his flat up for renewal that week, Robert requested an urgent meeting with David, the very next day at 3pm… …the meeting would be short, as by then, Robert would be dead. Friday 8th March 2013 was a classic British weekday; the sun was absent, the sky was grey and the gloomy grey streets were soaked by a persistent all-day drizzle. At 2:28pm, arriving a full thirty minutes too early, David Jeffs walked into the Audley Pub at 41 Mount Street, a few doors down from Robert’s flat. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, a plain blue suit and brown suede shoes, with a brown Burberry scarf, his old battered briefcase and black leather gloves. Visible pacing back-and-forth in the bar, David slugged back a stiff drink to steady his nerves, as not only would he have to explain the missing monies to Robert and the bank, but with nowhere to turn, as the broke and hopeless drug-addict shook, he knew the lies would be unravelled, the thief would be exposed and the consequences (for his job, his wife and his life) would be huge. At 2:31pm, David called Robert’s phone; as it often did, it went to voicemail: (rings) “Hi, this is Robert, leave a message”. (Beep) “Robert, it’s David, I’m a tad early, I popped by but you’re not in, so I’ll try again in a bit. Cheers”. Only this was a lie, he hadn’t been to the flat, this was part of his alibi. Barely a few minutes later, David called at 101 Mount Street, he pressed the door-bell to Flat Six, the intercom crackled, he was buzzed in by Robert, and as the CCTV caught him enter the communal hall, behind him the brass-covered door closed and he ascended the stairs… out of sight. (Long silence) At 2:45pm, having spent less than fifteen minutes in the building, David descended the stairs, alone, the CCTV re-captured him as he exited the street door and walked into Mount Street. At 2:57pm, he made another call to Robert’s phone, again it went to voicemail; (rings) “Hi, this is Robert, leave a message”. (Beep) “Robert, it’s David, I still can’t get hold of you. I popped by but got no reply, so… erm… let’s rearrange okay? Cheers”. But again, this was a lie, and part of his alibi. Hopping into a taxi, David caught the 3:15pm train from Waterloo and headed 45 minutes south to the suburban town of Guildford; the blackness of his gloves and the darkness of his blue suit disguising the oddly speckled stains which had splashed and splattered up his legs, arms and torso. At 5:36pm, David entered a BP garage outside of Woking, he bought twenty black bin bags, two packs of wet wipes and spending ten minutes in the toilets, he exited dressed in a grey jumper, a light shirt, black trousers and carrying a half-full bin-bag. Later that day, having destroyed the blood-stained originals, he purchased an identical set of clothes – a white shirt, a blue suit, brown shoes and a brown Burberry scarf. And from there, he headed home to his wife and child… as if nothing had happened. But something had happened… …at 3.57pm, punctual as ever, Robert’s faithful maid Davey Aganon opened the door to Flat Six. As always, she called out his name to let him know she was there (“Robert”) but oddly, for a man who was kind and polite, he didn’t reply. And as a large and unsteady man who needed her assistance to simply descend a flight of stairs, it was unusual for him not to be in. So with each room spotless, no sounds heard, nothing out of place and no sign of Robert, Davey began her regular duties. The kitchenette was small and pokey; being barely seven feet deep by six feet wide including the sink, cooker and sides, it stood only two people at a push; and with no windows, one door and being set dead centre in the flat, surrounded by three rooms, outside of these walls, the room was soundless. As Davey entered the kitchenette, her path was blocked as the door was wedged. Being little, she pushed it hard only it wouldn’t budge, but through a crack, she saw on the floor a pair of legs slumped, still and silent. Concerned for her ailing employer, she called “Robert, you okay?” but he didn’t reply. And then she noticed the blood. Two builders working one floor above heard her screams, racing downstairs, they barged the blocked door with brute force, shoving Robert’s twenty-stone bulk aside, only to see a scene of utter horror. Having been attacked from behind whilst graciously making a cup of tea for himself and guest, as a frail and disabled man who was barely able to stand (let alone defend himself from a frenzied and crazed assailant) Robert had been repeatedly battered about the head and the face with such force and ferocity, that – based on his injuries - initially the Police thought he had been shot. But he hadn’t. Unable to evade the rapid savage blows which repeatedly rained down on the grief-stricken man - with his killer blocking his only exit, with nowhere to escape and with no-one to hear his cries - being trapped inside his tiny kitchen, Robert was beaten bloody by an addict with nothing more to gain and nothing left to lose. And as his last drop of life splattered up the shiny stain-steel surfaces and he slumped to the floor, being barely conscious, blood pooled about his head, as his killer fled. The paramedics were called, but having suffered several deep fractures to his skull, his left cheek, his jaw and his eye sockets, 63 year old Roberto Charles Troyan was pronounced dead at the scene. (End) With no break-in, no witnesses and nothing stolen, believing he had weaved an intricate alibi, David’s web of lies were uncovered by a trail of bank statements, an addict’s habit and several blank cheques. And with his clothes and the murder weapon missing, his guilt was proved by a single drop of Robert’s blood found inside the one item which David had failed to destroy - his old black leather briefcase. On 20th March 2013, twelve days later, 36 year old David Jeffs was arrested and charged with murder. Being tried at Croydon Crown Court, although he pleaded not guilty on all accounts, the jury found him guilty of murder and he was sentenced to serve a minimum of twenty-four years in prison, with an additional six years for fraud to be served concurrently. Meaning he won’t be released until 2043. Robert was a good man; kind, loving, generous and gregarious, but grieving his lost-love and struggling to cope as his health and his happiness was taken away (just as it had his beloved husband), he placed his life in the hands of someone he felt he could trust – his financial advisor - and yet, jealous of his client’s good fortune, David Jeffs - this greedy little man would bleed Robert dry. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for another thrilling instalment of Extra Mile, where I may (if you’re lucky) look out of my window and shout “oi, slow down” to a passing boat and grumble a bit about holiday boaters. Ooh, exciting. But before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week; which are American Slacker and Misconduct. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Jack Clark, Dominique Simpson, Kirsty Reynolds, James Rose and the Ben & Rosie from They Walk Among Us podcast. And a thank you to Kirsty MacPhee-Goode and family who came on my Murder Mile Walk and presented me with a rather lovely hand painted Murder Mile flower-pot full of lots of tasty tea and cakey goodness. Burp. And a quick “hi” to everyone I met at the London true-crime meet-ups, which was hosted by They Walk Among Us and Generation Why podcast, and gave me the chance to meet and chat to some lovely listeners, as well as to Coleen from Misconduct, Paul from True-Crime Enthusiast, Jess from Outlines and Kate & Georgie from Nothing Rhymes With Murder. It was a great night. If you missed it? You were missed. Don’t forget, if you want to see what the murder locations look like, on the day that each podcast is released, I also upload a blog for that episode, with a map, location videos, photos and much more. There is a link to this 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:
Sources: Sadly with no National Archives file available, I had to use newspapers. Urgh! Yes, I know, British journalism is often a shoddy pile of shit, but sometimes, you have to go with what you are given.
*** 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 eagle-eyed true-crime podcast fans! If you're drooling like a (nice) rabid-dog, desperate to devour the latest true-crime podcast, then drool no more, as each week I upload a Q&A with a true-crime podcaster so you can learn about their show and the hosts themselves. This week it's the turn of the awesome Aaron from the Devil We Know Podcast. Their Details:
Useful links to Devil We Know Podcast via Website, Facebook or Twitter. Michael's thoughts: Devil We Know Podcast is a fabulous true-crime podcast which is well-written, well researched and well presented, and with no chit-chat or waffle, it gets straight to the truth about some truly disturbing cases such as Israel Keyes, Chris Watts, The DC Sniper and the Virginia Tech shooting, to name but a few. But what I love about DWKP is that Aaron doesn't glamourise, sentationalise or glorify the perpetrator (as many true-crime podcasts do), this podcast focuses on the reason behind the perpetrator's heinous actions, asking what is going on inside their mind, treating them as disturbed human-beings instead of simply maniacs. I really enjoyed the Israel Keyes multi-parter, so check it out. Q & A with Aaron from The Devil We Know Podcast
A big thank you to Aaron for taking part in this True-Crime Podcaster Q & A. Don't forget to check out his 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 5o deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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