BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.

Which serial killer or murderer do you share a birthday with? Is it famous serial-killer like Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Ian Brady or Myra Hindley, a spree-killer like The Blackout Ripper, the Rostov Ripper or the Yorkshire Ripper, or a perhaps little known murderer?

To uncover this, I've trawed the birthdays of every known, little known and barely known serial killers, spree-killers, murderers, shootists, assasins, poisoners, bombers, hijackers, cult leaders, war-criminals, terrorists, Nazis, crack-pots, nutjobs, criminals, military despots and those who are previously or currently on Death Row or those who have been executed for murder, to compile a list of 367 famous and infamous murderers. That's one for each and every day of the year, with a very special treat for those of you born on a Leap Year, as they have less birthdays than most.

This is not a comprehensive list of serial-killers and murderers, as many (annoyingly) do share the same birthday, so where possible I've opted for the more famous / more interesting option, so some of your favourites may be missing. Sorry. To make these list legiable, I'm split them into three sets: January to April, May to August, September to December.

If you'd like to download higher-quality versions, click the links below.

• Serial Killers by Birthday - January to April
• Serial Killers by Birthday - May to August
• Serial Killers by Birthday - September to December

To download a high-quality version, click this Serial Killers by Birthday - January to April

In this list for January, February, March and April is featured: Abdul Rahman Said Yasin (WTC Bomber), Abraão José Bueno ** (serial-killer), Adolf Hitler (Nazi Dictator), Aileen Wuornos “Damsel of Death, Aleksey Sukletin “Vassilyevo Cannibal”, Alexander Bychkov “Belinsky Cannibal, Alexander Pichushkin “Chessboard Killer”, Alexander Spesivtsev “The Cannibal of Siberia, Alferd Griner Packer "The Colorado Cannibal", Anders Breivik (2011 Norway attacks), Arthur Hutchinson “The Fox” Barry Dale Loukaitis (school shooter) Blanche Taylor Moore (serial-killer/poisoner) Carl Brandt “Uncle Charlie” Cecil Lee Clayton (cop-killer) Chevie O'Brien Kehoe (white supremacist) Christine Falling “The Babysitter from Hell” Clifford Olson Jr "Beast of British Columbia" Colin Ireland “The Gay Slayer” Colin Norris (Scottish nurse/poisoner) Constance Emily Kent “Bad Annie” Darlie Lynn Peck Routier (child-killer) David Birnie (The Moorhouse murders) David Edward Maust “Crazy Dave” David Francis Bieber (cop-killer) Dennis Rader “BTK” Devin Patrick Kelley (church shooter) Donald Harvey “Angel of Death” Donald Henry “Pee Wee” Gaskins  Donnie Edward Johnson (wife-killer) Dorothea Puente “Death House Landlady” Doug Clark “The Sunset Strip Killer” Elfriede Blauensteiner “The Black Widow” Elizabeth Ridgeway (poisoner) Erwin Hagedorn (paedophile/child-killer) Faryion Wardrip “Wichita Falls Body Snatcher” Futoshi Matsunaga (serial-killer) George Joseph Smith “Brides in the Bath” Gordon Frederick Cummins “Blackout Ripper” Guenther Fritz Podola (cop-killer) Harold Shipman “The Doctor of Death” Henri Desire Landru “The Lady Killer” Herbert Baumeister “The I-70 Strangler” Howard Arthur Allen (robber/serial-killer) Ian Brady “The Moors Murderer” Israel Keyes (serial-killer / rapist) Issei Sagawa “The Kobe Cannibal” Ivan Hill “Route 60 Killer” James William Miller "Truro murderer" Jane Toppan “Jolly Jane” Jeremy Bamber (White House Farm murders) Jerome Brudos “The Lust Killer” Joachim Georg Kroll “Ruhr Cannibal” Joel Rifkin “Joel the Ripper” John Martin Crawford “The Lady Killer” John Reginald Christie (10 Rillington Place) John Thomas Straffen (serial killer) John Wayne Gacy “The Killer Clown” Josef Mengle “White Angel of Auschwitz” Joseph Lyle Menéndez (brother of Eric) Joseph Paul Franklin “The Race Killer” Juan Fernando Suárez (Ecuador’s youngest killer) Judy Buenoano “The Black Widow” Karl Denke “Cannibal of Ziębice" Keith Jesperson “Happy Face Killer” Kelly Renee Gissendaner (murderer) Kenneth McDuff “The Broomstick Killer” Kerry Lyn Dalton (torturer/murderer) Lam Kwok-Wai “The Tuen Mun Rapist” Leonarda Cianciulli "Soap-Maker of Correggio" Leslie Irvin “The Mad Dog Killer” Lindsay Hoani Beckett (Bega girl murders) Linwood Earl Briley (serial killer) Louis-Amadeo Lacroix (Chilean Robin Hood) Lucious Boyd “Lucifer” Luis Alfredo Garavito “La Bestia” Mark Wayne Wiles (burglar/murderer) Michael del Marco Lupo “Wolf Man” Mike DeBardeleben “The Mall Passer” Mikhail Popkov "The Wednesday Murderer" Norman Avzal Simons “Station Strangler” Oleg Kuznetsov “Balashikha Ripper" Ottis Toole “Jacksonville Cannibal” Paul Charles Denyer “Frankston Killer” Paul John Knowles “Casanova Killer” Phillip Carl Jablonski (spree-Killer/necrophile) Randy Kraft “The Scorecard Killer” Richard Leonard Kuklinski “The Iceman” Richard Ramirez “The Nightstalker” Robert Black “M1 Maniac / Smelly Bob” Robert Christian Hansen “The Butcher Baker” Robert Francis Garrow (spree-killer) Robert Napper “Green Chain Rapist” Robert Silveria Jr “The Boxcar Killer” Robert Yale Shulman “The Postman” Roberto Succo “The Killer with Eyes of Ice” Romulus Veres “The Hammer Man” Roy William Whiting (Sarah Payne) Seung-Hui Cho (Virginia Tech Massacre) Shoko Asahara “Japanese Doomsday Cult” Stanislav Ivanovich Rogolev “Agent 000” Stanislaw Modzelewski “Vampire of Galkowek“ Stephen Port “The Grindr Killer” Stephen Richards “Kearney County Murderer” Steve Wright “Suffolk Strangler” Tamara Samsonova “Granny Ripper” Theresa Knorr (murderer/torturer) Timothy Joseph McGhee “Toonerville Gang” Timothy McVeigh “Oklahoma Bomber” Vasiliy Sergeevich Kulik "The Irkutsk Monster" Very Idham Henyansyah “Ryan” Vincent Johnson “The Brooklyn Strangler” Vladimir Mukhankin “Chikatilo’s Pupil” Walter Timothy Storey (murderer) Wang Qiang (Chinese serial-killer) Wesley Shermantine Jr “Speed Freak Killer” William Charles Morva (cop-killer) William George Bonin “The Freeway Killer” Wolfgang Abel “The Ludwig Killer” Yokamon Laneal Hearn (robber/murderer) Yoshio Kodaira (murderer/necrophile) Yves Trudeau "The Mad Bumper".

To download a high-quality version, click this Serial Killers by Birthday - May to August

In this list for May, June, July and August is featured: Abdulaziz al-Omari (9/11 Hijacker) Albert Fish “Werewolf of Wysteria” Albert Millet "The Boar of the Moors" Anatoly Yuriyovych Onoprienko “Citizen O” Andrés Leonardo Achipiz “Pescadito” Andrew Cunanan (Gianni Versace) Andrew Douglas Golden (school shooter) Anna Margaretha Zwanziger "The Brinvillier" Anthony Allen Shore “Tourniquet Killer” Anthony Edward Sowell “Cleveland Strangler” Anthony Hardy “The Camden Ripper” Antone Charles Costa “Tony Costa” Arnold Prieto Jr (robber/murderer) Arthur Shawcross “Genesee River Killer” August Sangret “Wigwam Murderer" Bandali Michael Debs (shooter) Béla Kiss "The Monster of Czinkota" Bevan Spencer von Einem (murderer) Billy Richard Glaze “Butcher Knife Billy”  Bobby Jack Fowler “Highway of Tears” Bruce George Peter Lee (serial killer) Carol M. Bundy “Sunset Strip Killer”  Carroll Edward Cole “The Young Killer” Charles Albright “The Eyeball Killer” Charles Ray Hatcher “Crazy Charlie” Charles Schmid “Pied Piper of Tucson” Charles Whitman (Texas University shooter)  Christopher Dorner (cop-killer) Dallen Forrest Bound (serial-killer) Daniel Conahan “Hog Trail Killer” Daniel Gonzalez “The Mummy’s Boy” David Alan Gore “The Killing Cousins” David Berkowitz “Son of Sam” David Copeland “London Nail Bomber” David Joseph Carpenter “Trailside Killer” David Koresh (Cult Leader in Waco, Texas) David Meirhofer “The Family Man” Donald Neilson “Black Panther” Donato Bilancia “Monster of Liguria”  Dorángel Vargas “The People Eater” Earl Mitchell Forrest II (robber/murderer) Earle Leonard Nelson “Dark Strangler” Elizabeth Tracy Mae "Bethe" Wettlaufer  Ensio Kalevi Koivunen (Finnish serial-killer) Faye Copeland “Fay & Ray Copeland” Francisco Garcia Escalero “The Killer Beggar” Frederick Bailey Deeming “Windsor Murderer” George Emil Banks (prison-guard/murderer) Gerald Armond Gallego “Love Slaves Killer” Glen Edward Rogers “Cross Country Killer” Gong Runbo (serial-killer/paedophile) Gurmeet Singh Insan (DSS Cult Leader) H H Holmes “Dr Death” Henry Lee Lucas “Highway Stalker” Hiroshi Maeue “Suicide Website Murderer” Jacques Plumain "The Ghost of Kehl" Jaroslav Stodola “Czech Slasher” Jeffrey Dahmer “Milwaukee Cannibal” Jeffrey Lundgren (cult leader/murderer) Johann Unterweger “The Writer” John George Haigh “Acid Bath Murderer” Johnny Shane Kormondy (rapist/murderer) oseph Di Mambro “Doomsday Cult” Karla Homolka co-“Scarborough Rapist” Kenneth Erskine “Stockwell Strangler” Kevin Foster “Lord of Chaos” Klaas Annink "Huttenkloas" Kwauhuru Govan “Sex Pod Killer” Laurence Shirley (4th Earl of Ferrers) Levi Bellfield “The Bus Stop Killer” Lindsey Robert Rose (contract-killer) Lonnie David Franklin Jr “Grim Sleeper” Marie Alexandrine Becker (serial-killer) Marie- Marguerite d'Aubray (serial-killer) Mark David Chapman (John Lennon) Max Gufler “Blue Beard”  Michael Bruce Ross “Roadside Strangler” Michael Ryan “Hungerford Massacre” Michael Wayne McGray (spree-killer) Mohammed Ali Hamadei (Wanted Terrorist) Myra Hindley “The Moors Murderer”  Patrice Alègre “Beast of Toulouse” Patricia Allanson “Deadly Magnolia” Patrick Wood Crusius (El Paso shooter) Paul Bernardo “Scarborough Rapist” Paul Durousseau “Jacksonville Strangler” Pedro Rodrigues Filho “Killer Petey” Peter Kurten “The Vampire of Dusseldorf” Peter Sutcliffe “Yorkshire Ripper” Peter Tobin “Bible John” Peter Woodcock (David Michael Krueger) Phillup Partin (hitchhiker murderer) Ramon Escobar “The Homeless Killer” Raoul Moat “Johnny Bravo” Raymond Morris “Cannock Chase Killer” Richard Angelo “The Angel of Death” Richard Chase “Vampire of Sacramento” Robert Lee Yates Jr “Spokane Serial Killer” Robert Maudsley “Hannibal the Cannibal” Rodney Halbower “Gypsy Kings Killer” Rory Enrique Conde “Tamiami Trail Strangler” Rudolf Pleil “The Deathmaker” Samuel Little “Choke and Stroke Killer” Sergei Dovzhenko “Murchik” Sergey Pomazu “Belgorod shooter" Shonelle Andre Jackson (murderer) Skylar Preciosa Deleon (murderer) Sonya Caleffi (Italian serial-killer) Surgeon General Shirō Ishii (war-criminal) Susan Atkins “Manson Murders” Ted Kaczynski “The Unabomber” Thomas Lee Dillon “Roadside Sniper" Tommy Lynn Sells “Cross Country Killer” Trevor Hardy “Beast of Manchester” Waneta Hoyt “The Smotherer” Wang Zongfang (Chinese serial killer) Westley Allan Dodd “Vancouver Child Killer” Willi Walter Seifert (school-shooter) William Lester Suff “Riverside Prostitute Killer” William Palmer “The Rugeley Poisoner” William Van Poyck (murderer/escapist) Yang Xinhai “Monster Killer”Zhang Jun (Chinese serial-killer)

To download a high-quality version, click this Serial Killers by Birthday - Sept to December

In this list for September, October, November and December is featured: Adnan Çolak "The Beast of Artvin" Albert DeSalvo “Boston Strangler” Anatoly Slivko (Russian paedo/necrophile) Andrei Chikatilo “The Rostov Ripper” Angelo Buono Jr “Hillside Strangler” Ansis Alberts Kaupēns (Latvian serial-killer) Anthony Kirkland “Cincinnati Strangler” Armin Meiwes “The Rotenburg Cannibal” Barry Kenneth Williams (spree killer) ** Baruch Kopel Goldstein (Cave of Patriarchs massacre) Belle Gunness “Hell’s Belles” Bertha Gifford (serial-killer/poisoner) Beverley Allitt “Angel of Death” Bobby Joseph Long “The Adman Rapist” Carl Anthony Williams "The Premier" Carl Eugene Watts “The Sunday Morning Slasher” Carl Großmann (German serial-killer) Cary D. Kerr (rapist/murderer) Cesar Barone (Oregon serial-killer) Christiana Edmunds “Chocolate Cream Killer" David Ray Parker “The Toy Box Killer” Dean Arnold Corll “The Candy Man” Dennis Andrew Nilsen “The Kindly Killer” Derrick Bird (Cumbria shooter) Derrick Todd Lee “The Baton Rouge Killer” DeWayne Craddock (Virginia Beach shooting) Dmitry Sharifyanovich Karimov “Concrete Maniac” Dylan Klebold (Columbine shooter) Edmund Emil Kemper III “The Co-Ed Butcher” Edwin Hart Turner (murderer) Erik Galen Menéndez (brother of Lyle) Ernst-Dieter Beck (German serial-killer) Ferdinand Gamper “Monster of Merano” Florisvaldo de Oliveira "Cabo Bruno" Fred West “Fred & Rose West” Fritz Haarmann “The Butcher of Hanover” Gao Chengyong “Silver City Ripper” Gordon Northcott “Chicken Coop Murders” Graham Young “Teacup Poisoner” Jacobus (Koos) Hertogs (Dutch serial-killer) Harvey Glatman “The Lonely Hearts Killer” Hasib Hussain (7/7 Bomber) Ilich Ramírez Sánchez “Carlos the Jackal” Irina Gaidamachuk “Satan in a Skirt” Ivan Milat “Back Packer Murder” James Oliver Huberty (McDonald's massacre) Jan Caubergh (Belgian serial-killer) Janie Lou Gibbs “The Georgian Black Widow” Jeanne Weber “The Ogress” Joachim Knychala “Vampire of Bytom” John Allen Muhammad “The Beltway Sniper” John Justin Bunting “Snowtown Murders” José Augusto do Amaral “Black Devil” ** José Rodríguez Vega “The Old Lady Killer” Joseph James DeAngelo Jr “Golden State Killer” Joseph Michael Swango “Dr Death” Kang Ho-sun “The Lust Killer” Kevin Ray Underwood “Zombie Kevin” Kimberly Saenz “Angel of Death” Kristen Gilbert “Angel of Death” Kurt-Friedhelm Steinwegs “Monster from Lower Rhine” Larry Eyler “The Interstate Killer” Larry James Harper (Texas Seven) Lawrence Sigmund Bittaker “The Tool Box Killer” Lee Harvey Oswald (John K Kennedy) Loren Joseph Herzog “Speed Freak Killer” Louise Peete “Black Widow” Luis Ramírez Maestre “Monster of Tenerife” Mack Ray Edwards (child serial-killer) Marc Lépine (spree-killer) Maria Swanenburg “Good Mie” Mark Goudeau “Baseline Killer” Mark Richard Hobson (spree-killer) Martin Ney “The Masked Man” Mary Ann Cotton “The Black Widow” Maxim Vladimirovich Petrov “Doctor Killer" Mohammad Sidique Khan (7/7 Bombing) Moses Sithole “The ABC Killer”  Nannie Doss “Jolly Black Widow” Nathan Leopold Jr “Leopold & Lobe” Nathaniel R. Brazill (murderer) Nikolai Arkadievich Dudin "The Grim Maniac" Nikolai Dzhumagaliev “Kolya the Man-Eater” Omar Mir Seddique (domestic terrorist) Patrick MacKay “Devil’s Disciple”  Patrick Wayne Kearney “Trash Bag Murderer” Paul Dennis Reid “The Fast Food Killer” Pedro Alonso López “Monster of the Andes” Peter Moore “The Man in Black” Randall Woodfield “The I-5 Killer” Raúl Osiel Marroquín “El Sádico” Ray Copeland “Fay & Ray Copeland” Ray Fernandez “The Lonely Hearts Killer” Richard Francis Cottingham “Torso Killer” Richard Speck “Birdman” (serial-killer) Robert “Willie the Pig-Farmer” Pickton  Robert Rhoades “The Truck Stop Killer” Rosemary West “Fred & Rose West” Ruth Ellis (last woman hanged in England) Saeed al-Ghamdi (9/11 Hijacker) Sarah Jane Makin “The Baby Farmer” Scott Lee Kimball “Joe Snitch” Sergei Ryakhovsky “The Balashikha Ripper” Sergey Golovkin “The Boa” Serhiy Fedorovich Tkach “Pologovsky Maniac” Sharon Kinne “La Pistolera” Shehzad Tanweer (7/7 Bomber)  Stephan Letter (nurse/serial-killer) Steven Grieveson “The Sunderland Strangler” Susan Leigh Smith (child-murderer) Terrence Peder Rasmussen “Bear Brook” Tex Watson (Manson murderer) Theodore “Ted” Bundy Thierry Paulin “The Monster of Montmartre” Thomas John Ley (politician/murderer) Timothy John Evans * (10 Rillington Place) Uwe Böhnhardt (neo-nazi) Velma Barfield "Death Row Granny" Victor Joseph Prévost “La Chapelle Butcher” Víctor Saldaño (murderer) Vladimir Ivanovich Kuzmin “Child 44 Killer” Vladimir Viktorovich Mirgorod “The Strangler”

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph'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.

BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.

This photo is of 15 Linden Gardens in Chiswick, W4, where Nora Tenconi and Barbara Doyle lived in the basement flat, seen just behind the blue car.

EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIX:
On the morning of Friday 27th August 1971, in the basement flat at 15 Linden Gardens in Chiswick, W4; with her family life in tatters, her emotions frought and everything she had ever loved destroyed, being at a loss at her lover’s rejection, Nora Tenconi took several desperate steps which ended in death. But why?

• Date: Friday 27th August 1971
• Location: Basement Flat, 15A Linden Gardens, Chiswick, W4
• Victims: 1 (Barbara Judith Doyle)
• Culprits: 1 (Nora Tenconi nee O'Donnell)
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.

THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

The location of 15A Linden Gardens, in Chicwick, W4 is located where the black triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, 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: 15 Linden Gardens as it looks today, a police plan of the basement flat at 15 Linden Gardens, a photo of the entrance to the basement flat and two photos of Linden Gardens.

Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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.

SOURCES:
This case was researched using the original declassified polcie investigation files held at the National Archives, as well as many other sources.

• https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C9206486
• https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11246317
• https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11021923
• https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C9206486

MUSIC: 

• Man In A Bag by Cult With No Name (Intro and interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
  
• Floating Angelic With Drum by James Longley
  
• In Hollywood You Won’t Find Bel-Air by Cult With No Name
  
• Heavenly by Aakash Ghandi
  
• Leoforos Alexandras by Dan Boden
• Ambient Smooth by James Longley
• Through and Through by Amulets
• Remembering Her by Esther Ambrami
• Lyra Mortis by LooPop
• Sopor by Kai Engel
  

UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:

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 and beyond the West End.

Today’s episode is a simple story about two like-minded ladies who found love, a nice flat and a happy home life having adopted many cats. Nora & Barbara were each other’s forever lovers, but true-love doesn’t always last, and when the romance died, it drove one lady to leave and her lover to kill.

Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 106: The Last Love of the Chiswick Cat Ladies.

Today I’m standing in Linden Gardens in Chiswick, W4; a place we’ve only tenuously been to before as we’re one street south of where Kate Beagley picked-up Karl Taylor for their first and last date, a quick cycle east of the arrest of Edward Tickell for the bungled abortion of Helen Pickwoad, and a few stops from the six-day killing spree of Britain’s very own Bonnie & Clyde - coming soon to Murder Mile.

Chiswick High Road is deeply pretentious and desperate to cling to its posh aspirations of yesteryear. It’s the kind of place you will always find avocados, humus, sold out copies of Horse & Hound and a broken wicker chair dumped in a skip only to be sold seconds later to a pipe-smoking Tweed-wearing numpty in red trousers for six hundred quid. Here ‘hiring a cleaner’ is still seen as high status, they still say nanny instead of baby-sitter, they don’t go on holiday they ‘holiday’ (big difference) and it’s illegal to order a single thing off a menu unless you insist the chef makes a tiny pointless change just for you (“less garlic”, “no wheat”, “use fair-trade spoons”, “yah, baby Tarquin loves black truffle cous-cous”). And although it thrives on its pseudo-posh pretentions, it’s also a bit shit. There’s an air of grubbiness about it, as it is just a through road from the city to Richmond, Kew and (if you keep going) Bristol.

Linden Gardens is a peaceful little side-street just off Chiswick High Road and one road from Chiswick police station; it’s quiet, neat, safe and pleasant, with a line of trees on both sides, a line of cars (usually Audi’s) and several cats sunning themselves on the pavement pretending to be the best pal of every crazy but easily-duped and desperately lonely lady who smells of fish. (“che-che-che, here kitty”).

Comprising of three and four-storey terraces with brown brick, cream plasterwork, white windowsills and black iron gates, some houses are wholly-owned and others are a mix of rented flats. But none of them have a front garden, just a set of stone steps leading to a small self-contained basement below.

Almost fifty years ago, the basement flat at 15 Linden Gardens was the rented home of Nora Tenconi, her lover Barbara Doyle and their eight cats. This was their love-nest and the place they planned to grow old together, but their happiness was not to last, so - as the two lovers split - this peaceful little street was shattered by tears, cries and screams as a very fractious relationship came to a tragic end.

As it was here, on Friday 27th August 1971, in the basement flat at 15 Linden Gardens, being at a loss at her lover’s rejection, Nora took several desperate steps which ended in death (Interstitial).

Nora Tenconi was born Nora O’Donnell on the 7th September 1934 in the rural town of Charlesville in Country Cork (Ireland). As the seventh of eight siblings in a traditionally large Irish Catholic family who lived tip-to-toe in a small terraced house, Nora struggled for any shred of attention amongst the many O’Donnell siblings, but with those moments of affection being few-and-far between, this didn’t make her a little monster (as some love-starved kids tend to be), it actually made her a better person.

Nora always loved a cuddle and a kiss, the warm reassuring feeling of another person’s embrace she would always cherish, and as much as her strict God-fearing mother seemed to love no-one other than the Lord, blessed with a big-heart and a smothering hug, it was always her father who she adored.

Being small, thin, pale and painfully quiet, Nora became a very thoughtful person. She was emotional but never destructive, placid and always polite. If anything, she kept to herself-to-herself and learned to internalise her pain, but again, that only made her a better person. And although, as the second youngest in a tight squabbling brood of ten, being a level-headed and even-tempered young girl with boundless love for everyone, Nora was often the peacemaker, as the family bond was everything.

Raised to be a good Catholic, Nora didn’t steal, swear and she renounced the temptations of the devil, whether theft, adultery, lustful impulses, homosexual acts, suicide, self-destruction and murder, which she feared but was deeply confused by as (being just a child) she was unlikely to commit or even understand. And yet, gripped by an innate sense of guilt over these vile things she had never done, her faith would be sorely tested. As a blameless child bullied into confessing the sins she was raised to renounce, being forced to invent sins to confess, as lies were a sin, confession had made her sinner.

Nora was a good person with a deep love of people, animals and especially cats, but childhood was a confusing time, especially for a bright growing girl trying to work out who she was. Her emotions were conflicted. If homosexuality was a sin, gay-sex was as bad as murder and God would cast all sodomites down into the eternal fires of hell simply for being what they felt was right, how could she call herself a Christian (the very definition of caring) if her heart was filled with so much love but so much hate?

For fear of being led-astray by the temptations of the flesh, Nora’s mother had banned her from going to dances or having a boyfriend; the simple things which blossom a young girl into a young woman. So throughout her early life, any romance was in secret and yet again, her faith had forced her to sin.

Educated at the Charlesville Secondary School, a Catholic school with the sexes split, it was here that Nora enjoyed her first teenage crushes, fondles and kisses, but she didn’t fancy the boys, it was the girls who fuelled her passions. But was this of her own desires, hormones, or a cruel trick of the devil?

In 1948, aged 14, Nora left school and – being naturally very caring – she started work as a nanny. But struggling with the conflicts of her lustful feelings towards woman, an inbuilt disgust of homosexuality and a strong traditional desire to marry a man, have children and make a home, Nora didn’t know who she was, or what she was meant to be. Feeling the overwhelming pressure to conform regardless of her own happiness, in 1952, aged 17, alongside her older sister Helen, Nora moved to London.

It was a big step, a clean break and a difficult time for Nora, as being so far from her beloved family - and especially her father whose kisses and his cuddles she greatly missed - in the bright lights of the big city she sought a better life, a smattering of happiness and (she hoped) to discover her true self.

Only her new life in London would also be full of angst, confusion, self-loathing and conflict.

Having quit as a nanny, Nora worked a variety of jobs as a cashier in a butcher’s shop on Chiswick High Road, an orderly at St Steven’s Hospital in Fulham and an usher at the Gaumont Cinema in Camden, and although she was described as loyal, bright and efficient, she was prone to bouts of depression.

In late 1954, aged 20, following her Irish Catholic instincts and driven by a desire to finally be happy, Nora met and fell in love with a 33-year-old Italian convict called Rene Clive Tenconi, a bad man with a bad past and a furious temper whose criminal ways would lead her astray.
In May 1955, being found guilty of breaking into a branch of WHSmith’s on North End Road in Fulham to steal a rack of raincoats, hats and shirts worth £100, as a first-time offender Nora was charged with larceny, given a two-year probation order and bailed. But being a prolific thief who had been arrested stealing copper cables from a GPO store in Harlesden, Rene was sentenced to six months in prison.

At this point, Nora could have run, as Rene was a violent abusive brute who regularly beat her black-and-blue… but she didn’t, as the pull of love and marriage was too great. Instead, in 1956, shortly after his release from prison, Nora O’Donnell married Rene Tenconi, she got pregnant and being so violently assaulted by him that she miscarried, shortly afterwards they separated, but (owing to their faith) they never divorced, hence she was stuck with her married name.

It seemed as if Nora Tenconi was doomed to live an unhappy life where love would always elude her.

Over the next six years, Nora had three short but fruitless romances with a man and two women, but it was not to be. Her life was a confusing mess, she had broken so many sins – theft, lust, adultery and homosexuality – and yet, she wasn’t bad, she was just a big-hearted woman who craved love and the simple things that romance brings; like kisses, cuddles, love letters, romantic meals and holding hands.

By the age of 30, she had lost all hope of ever finding love.

And then, she met Barbara. (Interstitial)

Barbara Judith Doyle, known to her friends as ‘Judy’ was born on the 22nd September 1936 in the New Zealand city of Wellington, having come to Britain in 1962, just one year before she had met Nora.

As a loving couple, Nora & Barbara were similar in many ways; born two years apart, both had parents living overseas, both had fled difficult relationships, both were raised Catholic but struggled with their faith’s persecution of their chosen romantic choices, and they both loved music, books, wine and cats.

Separately, their differences complimented each other; where-as Barbara was a raven-haired fan-of-fashion who would confidently strut down the Chiswick High Road in a pair of high heels, a wide-brim hat and an outfit in shocking pink, Nora dressed more conservatively in a brown trouser suit, soft pumps and - being a creature of comfort - she loved nothing more than lounging on the sofa wearing her favourite (if slightly worn and a little threadbare) red bathrobe, tied at the waist with cotton cord.

In contrast, Barbara was more dominant, outgoing and impulsive, but her boundless energy also drove Nora to become more confident in herself, and although she would still be plagued with bouts of self-doubt and depression, this period of her life had stability and progression. Having been promoted to cashier at Gaumont cinema in Waltham Green, manageress of a drycleaners on Portabello Road and later as a cashier at Hedges Butchers in Chiswick, with a combined wage of £35, Nora & Barbara moved in together and to everyone who knew them they were very much in love.

As a gay couple, the only real conflict they encountered was in Nora’s own inner turmoil, as although Barbara had been a lesbian since her teens – still struggling with her faith, family and traditional urges – Nora was gripped with a tremendous guilt, as still fancying men, she felt she “didn’t feel completely gay”.  And yet, as a faithful, loving and caring couple, they would remain together for almost a decade.

In the spring of 1968, Nora & Barbara moved into a three-storey terraced-house at 15 Linden Gardens, just off Chiswick High Road. On the top floor lived the landlady Marguerite Perkins, an elderly widower and a sweet old-dear who was hard-of-hearing so was prone to play her radio a little too loud. On the ground-floor was Kathleen Bowden, a widowed housewife with two teenage sons (Dennis and James) and an older daughter (Diane). And in the self-contained basement flat were Nora and Barbara.

The flat was small but it suited them fine. Situated on a quiet road and accessed down a set of stone steps to a small white door, it was private, neat and secure. And although a full-width window only afforded them the view of a small coal bunker below the road and several feet on the pavement above - for only £10 per week - they had a small kitchenette, a bedroom, a sitting room, a toilet outback and use of a tiny back garden where Nora was often seen with her trowel, weeding and planting flowers.

They were happy in their new home; the tenants were welcoming, the area was good and with six cats of their own, two adopted strays and feeling the need to feed any feline which passed-by – although this was the kind of unconventionally gay set-up that her God-fearing mother refused to approve of – finally Nora had found love, happiness and contentment. And assuaging the pull of her traditional Irish urges, she also had a loving partner, a nice little home and a large family of children… all of them cats.

15A Linden Gardens would be their home for the next three years, but following the sudden death of Nora’s father in May 1968, coupled by frequent bust-ups and spiralling mood swings which fractured this once loving relationship, the Christmas of 1970 would mark an end for the Chiswick Cat Ladies.

It wasn’t that things were bad; it was just that things weren’t as good as they once were. Life plodded on, love became stale and - like so many couples - those first special sparks of sexual attraction had been dampened down to the daily drudgery of predictable routines. It was nobody’s fault except time.

They kissed less, they hugged less and they touched less. Even sitting on the sofa listening to the radio, where-as once they cuddled, now they sat ends apart with the wide void between them filled by cats.

Like her smallest kitten, Nora was a homebody content to stretch-out and snooze by a warm fire with a nice meal in her belly and kisses on her head, all snuggled-up in her slightly-threadbare red bathrobe. Where-as Barbara was more akin to the stray tom-cat they had adopted; who popped in, said ‘hi’, got fed and headed-out to prowl the town looking for new friends and fun times ahead.
So, it wasn’t surprising when the obvious happened.

At a Christmas party held at her employer - The National Society of Operative Printers and Assistants in Borough Road – 34-year-old accounts clerk Barbara Doyle met 33-year-old secretary Sylvia Long; a lady with same hobbies, same style and the same love of music, the only downside being that Sylvia didn’t like cats, but (that aside) very quickly a friendship blossomed into a love affair and soon enough Barbara would be spending less nights with Nora in Chiswick and more night with Sylvia in Tooting.

Being quiet and insular, Nora sensed something was wrong, but said nothing. And as each dreary month passed, the more they argued, the less they talked and the further they drifted apart.

On 26th July 1971, needing a break, Nora headed back to Charlesville; to soak-up the reassuring sights of her hometown, to see her much-missed siblings and to lay flowers on her beloved father’s grave. It was the sanctuary she so badly needed in a moment of crisis, but it was not to be. As a devout Catholic sickened by her own child’s homosexual affair, a bitter family row erupted and choosing God over her little girl’s happiness, Nora left, vowing never to return to Ireland or to see her mother ever again.

Nora was distraught, her head was a mess, her life was falling apart and having lost her father, her mother, her siblings, the land that she loved and her faith, all she had left was Barbara and her cats.

On 7th August, Nora returned home to her basement flat at 15A Linden Gardens. Being told by Barbara that their eight-year relationship was over, that she had met someone else and they would be moving into a flat together as soon as possible, a blazing fight ignited as the two ladies’ screams wailed across the quiet little street, right throughout the night. And the very next day, in that flat, Nora met Sylvia.

It was over. Nora had nothing. Her thoughts were muddy, her emotions were dull and later described by the prison psychiatrist that she had reacted “like a cornered rat, with her life totally destroyed, she suddenly became paradoxically angered in a way which was uncharacteristic for her”, drinking heavily, this usually calm, placid and thoughtful woman was reduced to a hysterical impulsive shell.

On the morning of Monday 9th August, having phoned Barbara and threatened to smash-up her prized radio if she didn’t return to her, with her bluff called and her prized possession lying in pieces, Nora watched as the first of Barbara’s belongings were loaded into a car and driven away to Sylvia’s flat. And just like her life, once it was full of love and happiness, but now it was nothing but an empty void.

That night, as she hysterically wept with only her cats for company, unable to imagine any kind of life and hurt by Barbara’s parting words describing their time together as “eight years of hell” – having knocked back two half-bottles of gin and rum - with a kitchen knife, Nora slashed open both wrists.

Being bloodied and barely conscious, thanks to the compassion and quick-thinking of her landlady; Nora survived her suicide attempt, her wounds were stitched and being so depressed that she gave-up work, even though Nora was prescribed a cocktail of anti-depressants, tranquiliser and something to quell her anxiety, all she did was cry day and night - as without Barbara, she felt she was nothing.

Resigned to her fate and a life of loneliness, Nora reluctantly agreed to a mutual split from Barbara on the condition that (as Nora wasn’t working) she helped her out with £8 40p a week for the rent, 50p for the cat’s fish and in two weeks’ time, on Friday 27th August 1971 Barbara would move out for good.

It seemed a logical compromise… only it had a major flaw.

Sylvia didn’t like cats. In fact, whenever she stayed at the Chiswick flat, she always insisted that Barbara locked them outside whenever she was in, so in their new flat together, these cats were not welcome.

Left in Nora’s care, although she deeply loved each and every one of her cats like they were her own babies – being depressed, drugged and often drunk - unable to look after herself let alone her family of cats, Nora felt forced to make a fateful decision, and had a vet put all six of her cats to sleep.

Their deaths hurt Barbara deeply, but feeling like she had destroyed her own babies, it affected Nora worse. Like a final stab to the heart, being unable to cope with their loss – with not a single meow or purr in the sparely furnished flat and its walls lined with packed bags and boxes - on the evening of Thursday 26th August, putting her head in the gas oven - once again -Nora tried to take her own life.

Rescued by Marguerite, their elderly landlady, that night she sat down with both ladies in their sitting room for a chat over a cup of tea. Knowing that through the haze of drink, drugs and depression, deep-down Nora truly was a very loving person who was level-headed, caring and thoughtful, by 11:15pm, as all three went off to their respective beds, Nora & Barbara had agreed it was time to move on.

For the first time in months, they both slept soundly, as around them lay the last of Barbara’s personal belongings, ready to be collected by Sylvia in the morning, for their new life ahead.

As a devout Catholic, Nora hadn’t committed a single sin until her first confession. She wasn’t bad, she was just a big-hearted woman who craved love and the simple things that romance brings; like kisses, cuddles, love letters and holding hands. But as true-love eluded her, she would break so many sins; such as theft, lust, adultery, homosexuality, suicide and – soon - she would commit the ultimate sin.

At 7am, on the morning of Friday 27th August 1971, after a humid night, Barbara awoke and ran a bath in the first-floor bathroom they shared with the rest of the house. After half-an-hour, she returned to the basement, she did her make-up and hair, and she dressed in a pink dress, a blue cardigan, black shoes and her favourite rain-mac in shocking pink, so by 8am, Barbara Doyle was finally ready to leave.

In contrast to this immaculate lady she loved more than life itself, Nora was a mess of bed-hair, baggy eyes, a gaunt complexion and red puffy eyes, as – although they agreed to a mutual split – dressed in her tatty threadbare red bathrobe, Nora pleaded for her to stay, as tears streamed down her face.

Nora’s words were fruitless, she knew it, and as her once forever-lover asserted “Nora. No! I’m leaving you. I’ve nothing more to say”, both ladies were unaware of how true that statement was, as Barbara would never utter another word. And from the door of the kitchen, as she took a last look at her home for the last three years - a place so full of good times and happy memories - as she turned away from the little back garden where their family of cats played among the posies, suddenly Nora snapped.

Like “a cornered rat”, acting without thinking, instinctively she grabbed a garden trowel and smacked Barbara hard over the head with the small iron tool, as blood gushed down her pink waterproof mac’. In panic, Nora gave chase as Barbara staggered along the passageway towards the front door, pleading for her forgiveness and crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” as the dazed lady stumbled to make her escape.

Blinded by the blood in her eyes, as Nora desperately yanked her jilted lover away from the door, they both tumbled into the sitting-room, tripped over the rug and hit the wooden floor hard, as Barbara’s head bounced off the cast-iron fire-place, and above her right eye, a large gash poured profusely.

Grabbing a tea-towel to stem the bleeding, as Nora dabbed at the gaping wound, begging “I’m sorry, don’t, I didn’t mean to hurt you”, and tried to silence her by beseeching “don’t scream, please, don’t”, fearing for her life as her ex-lover bared-down upon her, Barbara’s screams only got louder.

And before Nora even knew what she was doing – being angry, desperate and love-sick - having pulled the cord from her tatty red bathrobe and wound it swiftly around Barbara’s small pale neck, with both fists gripping it tight till her knuckles were white, Nora cried “don’t scream, don’t scream”, as Barbara’s face turned a dark shade of puce. And as Nora stared into the slowly reddening eyes of the woman who was once her lover, although a few faltering claw marks from her pink fingernails struggled to free her last living breath, before Nora knew it, the relationship was over and Barbara was dead. (End)

Being sat alone and stroking her dead lover’s bloody head in the sitting-room they once shared, a short while later, Nora called her sister Helen who lived nearby and her young nephew Anthony who ran to Chiswick Police Station just one street over. Officers arrived at 10am, a doctor declared life as extinct and with the evidence matching Nora’s full and honest but emotional confession, the investigation conducted by Detective Chief Inspector Hurley and Detective Inspector Busby was short but thorough.

Being full of remorse and confusion, there was no denying that this was a crime of passion committed whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed and without any premeditation. The autopsy confirmed the head injuries were caused by blunt force trauma by a trowel and the fire-place, her death was due to asphyxiation by strangulation, and along side the boxes, the packed bags, the broken bits of radio, the cries, the blood stains, the six dead cats and the tatty red bathrobe which – out of habit - Nora had hung-up on the back of the bedroom door, she was arrested for the murder of Barbara Doyle.

On Tuesday 7th September 1971, barely ten days later, Nora Tenconi formerly O’Donnell was tried at the Old Bailey in a short trial of what was described as an ‘open-and-shut case’. With the psychiatrist of Holloway Prison concluding that being “trapped like a cornered rat, with no prior experience and feeling unable to cope, Nora had snapped”, at her trial, she pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty of manslaughter by diminished responsibility and as both the prosecution and defence accepted this plea, Nora was sentenced to three years in prison and after her release, her fate is unknown. All the Chiswick cat lady ever craved was a kiss, a cuddle and a hug, and for that, she paid the ultimate price.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

I hope you enjoyed the episode and all the hard work that goes into it. It may only be thirty minutes long, but it takes ages to research, a week to write and edit and it literally kills me to finish. But if you also like some pointless gobbledegook where nothing much happens; except I say some words, I drink some tea, we do a quiz, I eat cake and then I switch off the recording. If that sounds great, stay tuned.

Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Kath Mounce and Karl Phillips, I thank you all for your support, it’s much appreciated. A thank you to Anne-Marie Griffin for your very kind donation, I thank you too. And with a huge thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the podcast. There’s a lot of choice out there so I’m glad you’re staying with the show.

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.


*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph'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.

BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.

This is a photo taken of the corner of Great Russell Street and Dyott Street where the Rookery and the back of the Horseshoe Brewery once stood, and wher ethe explosion took place.

EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE:
On Monday 17th October 1814, at 5:30pm, an iron hoop on a vat of Porter beer at the Horseshoe Brewery would slip, it didn't seem like an emergency, but it would unleash a deadly tidal wave which would change Great Russell Street and the residents of The Rookery forever

• Date: Monday 17th October 1814
• Location: Meux & Co's Horseshoe Brewery, Tottenham Court Road, W1
• Victims: 8 (Eleanor Cooper, Mary Murry/ Mulvey, Thomas Murry, Hannah Banfield, Sarah Bates, Anne Saville, Elizabeth Smith and Catherine Butler)
• Culprits: 0 (Sir Henry Meux & Charles Young) were found innoncent
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.

THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

The location of The Horseshoe Brewery is marked with a blood red triangle and is where the words Tottenham Court Road are. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, 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: the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Great Russell Street where the Horseshoe Brewery once stood, a photo of the Horseshoe Brewery in operation and a photo of the location (post 1920's) after the brewery had closed and the Dominion Theatre was being built.

Left to right: the corner of Great Russell Street and Dyott Street (later George Street) where the Rookery once stood and the explosion occured, a drawing of several of the huge vats inside the Horseshoe Brewery, and a picture of Sir Henry Meux.

Left to right: a copy of William Hogarth's Gin Lane (inspired by The Rookery), an example of a building inside the Rookery, a map (with the red lines denoting the Nrewery's boundary, the orange star denoting the point of explosion, and the black lines where the debris was spread) and on the smaller map, the two red stars denote 3 & 4 New Street and 23 Great Russell Street.

Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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.

SOURCES:
This case was researched using the original court documents and many other sources.

• http://zythophile.co.uk/2010/10/17/so-what-really-happened-on-october-17-1814/
• https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofBritain/The-London-Beer-Flood-of-1814/
• https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/food-and-drink/features/what-really-happened-in-the-london-beer-flood-200-years-ago-9796096.html
• https://www.thehistorypress.co.uk/articles/the-london-beer-flood/
• https://www.history.com/news/the-london-beer-flood-200-years-ago
• https://www.geriwalton.com/london-beer-flood/
• https://blog.adkinshistory.com/londons-great-beer-flood/
• https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/printed-sketch-of-the-rookery-in-st-giles-1817
• https://landmarksinlondonhistory.wordpress.com/2017/12/06/st-giles-rookery-the-lost-london-landmark/
• https://hidden-london.com/gazetteer/st-giles/
• https://pastinthepresent.net/2014/03/09/lost-neighbourhood-of-st-giles-hides-its-poverty-past/
• https://www.theundergroundmap.com/article.html?id=985
  

SOUNDS:
Geyser - https://freesound.org/people/MacFerret_20/sounds/198994/
Water Gushing - https://freesound.org/people/Tomlija/sounds/110103/
Water Gushing 2 - https://freesound.org/people/jakobthiesen/sounds/188427/
Earthquake 1 - https://freesound.org/people/OGsoundFX/sounds/423120/
Cracking Earthquake - https://freesound.org/people/uagadugu/sounds/222521/
Large Earthquake - https://freesound.org/people/LoafDV/sounds/148002/
Earthquake 3 - https://freesound.org/people/zatar/sounds/514381/
Lion Roar - https://freesound.org/people/qubodup/sounds/212764/
Waves - https://freesound.org/people/florianreichelt/sounds/450755/
Bottles Moving - https://freesound.org/people/BeeProductive/sounds/395602/

MUSIC: 

• Man In A Bag by Cult With No Name (Intro and interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
  
• Antique Phonograph Music Parts 2 and 3 (no author)
• Light Years Away by Doug Maxwell
  
• EXiiLFE by Ars Sonor
• Western Shores by Philipp Weigl
• Because For Everything There is Someone by Patches
• Tibet by Hovatoff
• The King’s Men by Biz Baz Studios
• Wistful Harp by Andrew Huang

UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:

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 and beyond the West End.

Today’s episode is about a tidal wave, a flood, right in the heart of London; a terrifying wall of heavy fast-flowing liquid so fierce it left a trail of death in its wake from Great Russell Street to Tottenham Court Road. Only this wasn’t caused by a river or rain, this very unnatural disaster was man-made.

Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 105: Meux and the Man-Made Tidal Wave.

Today I’m standing on Great Russell Street in Bloomsbury, WC1; two streets north of the forgotten inferno on Denmark Place, one street east of the eatery where Jacques Tratsart massacred his entire family, two streets west of the misreported stabbings on Russell Square, and just a short stone’s throw from the end of the bloody killing spree of Daniel Gonzalez – coming soon to Murder Mile.

Great Russell Street is an anonymous little side-street which connects the pricey electronics shops of Tottenham Court Road - where inflation runs riot, logic is lost and the ludicrous cost of every item makes you go “sorry mate, how much?” – all the way to Southampton Row, where hotel prices induce heart-attacks, meals require a mortgage and even a small scoop of ice-cream gets a frosty response.

In fact, the only people who walk down this street are lost tourists, having uttered that familiar phrase “excuse please, where is Breeteesh Moozem?”, who vaguely follow my directions of “it’s passed the giant Freddie Mercury, right at the YMCA, down a bit, dodge the crack-addicts and straight ahead”, only to wonder which of the newsagent, car park or burger bar is actually the British Museum.

This side of Great Russell Street has a real wealth of very old buildings and very new buildings, with an odd epicentre of modern monstrosities in and around the corner of Dyott Street, which is interspersed with historical gems like diarist Dr Johnson’s house, a tenuous link to Charles Dickens and lots of lovely little Georgian and Edwardian terrace-houses from the 1700’s and 1800’s, and - although Porter was a hugely popular drink – no trace of Meus & Co’s infamous Horseshoe Brewery exists.

At present, on this spot, sits an uninspiring piece of brutalist architecture cobbled together from a vague grey mishmash of concrete and glass, known as The Congress Centre; a large conference hall, meeting point and series of office spaces. It is also the home of the TUC (the Trades Union Congress) and USDAW (the Union of Shop, Distributive and Allied Workers); two groups who fight hard for better pay, rights, safety and working conditions for every one of Britain’s workers in small or big businesses.

Sadly, both were established too late to help the traumatised workers at the Horseshoe Brewery which stood on this site, as a colossal explosion and flood wrecked countless homes and lives, sending many of London’s poorest to an early grave - all caused by a man-made disaster in the pursuit of progress.

As it was here, on Monday 17th October 1814, at 5:30pm, that the structural failure of a simple iron hoop would unleash a deadly tidal wave which would change Great Russell Street forever. (Interstitial)

It may seem strange to build a brewery in the heart of London’s West End; with the persistent clank of lump-hammers, the bray of dray-horses and a thick sweet cloud of smoky malt belching from the four towering chimney stacks as it billowed down Oxford Street and wafted into Fitzrovia and Soho?

But it wasn’t.

In Soho alone, there were two breweries (The Lion and Golden) on Broadwick Street, two more (Ayre’s and David’s) on the appropriately-renamed Brewer Street, and on Glasshouse Street, just off Piccadilly Circus, were long lines of factories producing an endless supply of ceramic, pewter and glass drinking vessels for the pubs, clubs and patrons that the breweries supplied.

Beer wasn’t illicit, as in the early 1800’s, with no sewer system, drainage and street-side pumps whose water was only fit for washing – as beer was brewed at a high temperature - even children would drink a weak beer for breakfast to keep their bodies hydrated and healthy, they even used it to brush their teeth. In the 1800’s, beer was just an ordinary part of everyday life for men, woman and children. 

Dating back to 1623, when The Horseshoe was little more than a small tavern, The Horseshoe Brewery opened in 1764 and covered almost a square block; with the length of its yard rubbing against the brick and timber houses on Great Russell Street, the back-yard stretching up to slums of New Street, covering two-thirds of Bainbridge Street and with its ornate steel gates at the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, it also had a side yard at what later became New Oxford Street.

By 1785, as the eleventh largest producer of Porter – a dark malty beer with a nutty smoky taste which is served tepid and is blessed with a long shelf-life - The Horseshoe produced 40,000 barrels of Porter a year. But by 1809, with the site being purchased by the ambitious master-brewer Sir Henry Meux and his partner Charles Young (later of Young’s Brewery), by 1812, Meux & Co became the fifth largest producer in London, brewing 103,000 barrels of Porter a year - a total of 35 million pints. And although this rapid success let him acquire his rival – the Clowes & Co brewery of Bermondsey – Sir Henry knew he was way behind the industry leader, Samuel Whitbread, whose network of breweries churned out a whopping 150,000 barrels, amounting to a staggering fifty million pints of Porter every year.

Sir Henry needed to be bigger and better to compete with the competition, or risk being swallowed-up by his rivals. To achieve this, in the preceding years, he followed his father’s successful example.

To create this heady full-bodied brew, Meux’s brewery used a large sparklingly clean steam-engine to rhythmically stir barrow-loads of baked malt into a wide drum of boiling water, churning and chugging this super-heated liquid until – through a series of thick lead pipes – it was pumped into a fermentation vat. Porter usually matures for a few months or up-to a year for the best, but to achieve a high volume and keep a consistent flavour and strength, Meux’s Porter was fermented in large wooden vats.

Constructed of thick oak pillars, these barrel-shaped vats were often twelve feet wide by twenty-three feet high, holding up-to 18,000 imperial gallons-a-piece and each weighing a colossal 571 tonnes. To keep this heavy and intensely hot liquid from buckling the structure, each gigantic vat was wrapped in a series of twenty-two iron hoops, each weighing seven hundred pounds. Some vats were so tall, they stood three-to-four stories high, higher than the wall along Great Russell and New Street, and standing end-to-end down the three sides of the brewery’s storeroom, stood almost seventy gargantuan vats.

The 1800’s was an era of rapid industrialisation, where big business strived to meet the demand of an ever-expanding population and mechanisation had begun to make everything getting bigger, better and faster, but it was only a matter of time until something broke. To many, a failure was inevitable. In fact, it had happened before, and yet – this time - the simple buckling of a single iron hoop on a colossal vat of Porter would unleash on the West End a truly man-made disaster (Interstitial).

The real devastation of this technological failure wouldn’t just impact on Sir Henry’s business and his profits, but on the poor wretches forced to live in the dank dark shadow of the Horseshoe brewery.

Commonly known as ‘The Rookery’, set across from Soho, this filthy decaying slum sprawled over eight acres of the city’s filthiest and most squalid hovels, from the brewery’s storeroom wall at the back of Great Russell Street to the boundary of St Giles’ Church, in and around where Centrepoint now stands.

Dubbed ‘Little Ireland’ or ‘The Holy Land’ owing to an influx of Irish Catholic immigrants, The Rookery was a semi-derelict rabbit’s warren of crumbling tenements, sinister alleys and open cess-pits perched at the precipice of rickety lines of crumbling shacks unfit for human habitation. So squalid, rancid and cramped was this smoky fume-cloaked shanty-town that - on George Street, Bainbridge Street and New Street, a dead-end which backed right up to the wall of the brewery’s storeroom –a single room would often house up-to six families or forty people, and where-as Kensington averaged roughly ten people per acre, The Rookery crammed-in more than two-hundred souls into the same sized space.

Packed full of a ragged haggard people, too tired to work, too hungry to sleep and too sick to survive, they lived a life so depressing that hope was nothing but a dream. Crime was rife, sex was cheap, lives were disposable and – to numb the never-ending ache of their bleak little existence – from a nest of seedy brothels and gin-shops, its inhabitants often staggered, high on a lethal mix of homemade hooch - a fizzing stew of potato peel, acid, turps and sometimes urine – as they drank themselves into a slow soporific death. So depressing and debauched was this slum, it was said to be the inspiration for William Hogarth’s infamous painting of Gin Lane. And yet, around it, big business continued to flourish.

This was no place to raise a family, and yet, many people had no choice. Bathed in the sunless claggy shadow of the brewery’s twenty-five-foot high walls, spewing chimneys stacks and its towering storerooms stacked high and wide with twenty-three-foot-high fermentation vats of bubbling Porter, The Rookery was dark, dank and dripping in the thick smog of the endless clank of industry.

With no light, no fresh air and no sewers, unscrupulous landlords would charge their impoverished tenants for the right to live higher and further off this festering faeces-strewn street. Condemning the poorest of the poor to live at the lowest level, that meant that - when the rains came, the filthy streets were soaked and the cess-pits overflowed - into these crowded basements the sewage always ran.

For those in The Rookery, life was hard… but for an unfortunate few, it would also be short.

As a faceless people shunned by society and (just-as-quickly) forgotten by history, the only reason we know their names and a few scant details about their lives is because of how tragically they died.

Prior to this disaster, which was largely unwritten and yet tallied more deaths than were recorded in the Great Fire of London of 1666, the eight people who perished meant nothing to no-one but those that they loved. And they certainly meant nothing to Sir Henry Meux in whose shadow they struggled.

At the Tavistock Arms at 22 Great Russell Street, fourteen-year-old Eleanor Cooper earned a pittance as a servant-girl to keep her family fed. On the first floor of 3 New Street, Elizabeth Smith was carer to four-year-old Hannah Banfield and three-year-old Sarah Bates. And next door, down in the bowels of a dank basement at 4 New Street, aided by Catharine Butler, Mary Mulvey and her three-year-old son Thomas, Anne Saville made the last preparations for an Irish wake, as laid-out before her - draped in a homemade shroud as they were too poor for a pine box - was the body of Anne’s two-year-old son.

Unlike a crazed-maniac, disasters are unscrupulously fair, killing the well and the sick, the able and the disabled, the young and the old alike, and often the rich and poor… but not in this case. None of the eight had done anything to deserve to be chosen, and the only reason they were was because they were there. And although this would be their last day alive, for the eight, it was just an ordinary day.

Monday 17th October 1814 was an unusual day for a flood, let alone one in the heart of the city.

After a long hot summer, with very little rain to feed the crops, to refill the water-wells or to mercifully dampen the stench of more than sixteen hundred unwashed souls in a baking hot slum, thankfully the city was (and still is) sustained by twenty-one hidden rivers – such as the Tyburn, the Kilburn, the Fleet, the Westbourne and the Walbrooke – which ran under the streets, supplying water and a makeshift sewer. But none of them were near a point of flooding and the week’s weather ahead was good.

As for a tidal wave, of epic proportions, in the West End? Although the River Thames is fast and tidal, it rarely breaks its banks. When it does, it does so slowly, and being more than a mile south of Soho and with the North Sea a full forty miles away, that day the Embankment would remain dry and a tidal wave so far inland would be unheard of. And yet, it would happen.

George Crick had been the storehouse clerk for Meux & Co for the last seventeen years, six since Sir Henry acquired the Horseshoe Brewery and eleven years prior at the Meux’s Griffin Brewery on Liquor Pond Street in Clerkenwell, where even larger fermentation vats were stored. He was loyal, trusted and experienced, so much so that he was able to get his brother (John) a job here as a labourer.

Covering almost two acres, the Horseshoe Brewery was the epitome of efficiency with every square metre split into its component parts for the production of Porter; everything from mixing to boiling to pumping to fermenting to bottling to delivery, and fifty foot off the ground, above the storeroom sat a second level for the lead pipes, air-vents and inspection. To the uninitiated, the Horseshoe Brewery was noisy, hot and clammy, but ruthlessly organised with strict systems in place, as any deviation from their tried-and-trusted methods could spoil a vat of Porter, each which cost £40,000-a-piece. At the behest of the owners - Sir Henry and Mr Young - everything was noted, scrutinised and signed-off.

At roughly 4:30pm, as George Crick passed the back of the storeroom (that butted-up just eight inches from the wall of the New Street slum), on one of the twenty-three-foot-tall fermentation vats, he had spotted that an iron hoop had slipped. As a professional, he wasn’t concerned and for good reason.

Size-wise, the vat wasn’t the biggest. At only ten years it was far from the oldest. And being full of the more mature Porter which had been left to ferment for ten months, being a feisty brew, as its gases build-up, the vat’s lid was prone to blow-off, hence a gap of ten centimetres is left to let it to breathe.

Being the third lowest hoop from the bottom of the vat, it wasn’t integral to its structure. As one of twenty-three 700lb iron-hoops which secured the oak-timbers, its slippage wasn’t an emergency. And as the 571-tonne oak vat was prone to expand and contract as it heated and cooled, at least three times-a-year a hoop would slip, only to be repaired or replaced. As part of protocol, George inspected it; the vat’s bottom was level, the sides were stable, there were no leaks of any gases or liquids, and the vat was creaking no more than 18,000 imperial gallons of slowly fermenting Porter should.  

A few moments later, as part of a formal process, George Crick informed his superior Mr Young, who was also the son of the co-owner Charles Young, that he had discovered a burst hoop. It would take several hours to repair the ironwork, one week to build a new hoop, and to get the wheels of progress moving, George would need to put in a written request to Messers Meux and Young, which he did.

And that was it. One of twenty-two iron hoops on a medium sized fully-functional vat had slipped off one of seventy vessels which sat in a well-maintained storeroom with a solid track record in safety.

It didn’t creak, crack or rumble. It didn’t split, fizz or shudder. There was no forewarning of what was to happen, no history of incidents where it had, and no clues of the fury which would be unleashed. No-one in the storeroom suspected a thing, as if they had, they would surely have run for their lives?

No-one knows that happened. Maybe an oak timber was loose, another hoop was weak, or the 18,000 gallons of warm gassy Porter was unstable? Either way, at roughly 5:30pm, whilst George Crick stood over the storeroom on the overhead platform with a written request for the hoop’s repair in his hand…

…the vat shattered.

Even in a storeroom as colossal as this, George’s ear-drums popped as the air-pressure peaked and a violent shockwave knocked him off his feet, as the ceiling, walls and floors around him quaked.

With its weak point at the rear, having imploded then exploded, it unleashed a force so fierce it was as if a giant fist had crushed the vat like a tin-can; splitting its two-tonne oak timbers like brittle twigs which shot across the brewery like it was under-attack by an army armed with spears, and snapping the 700lb iron hoops like a petulant child with an unwanted birthday bracelet, as thick chunks of sharp shards of hard metal were flung fast, smashed and thudded against the opposing walls. So powerful was the explosion, it demolished a 25-foot-high and two-and-a-half-brick thick wall at the rear of the brewery, toppling several of the four-storey timbers which held up parts of the storehouse roof.

In a chain reaction of catastrophe, the vast fast deluge of thick heavy Porter which spewed from the shattered vat like a giant wet wall of terror caused devastation in its wake; knocking-off the stopcock off a neighbouring vat, the force of the blast smashed hogsheads of beer, barrels and casks, flooding the cellar and the storeroom in seconds with almost 300,000 imperial gallons of thick sticky Porter.

That’s one million pints of beer or half an Olympic-sized swimming pool which flooded like a fast wall of warm sticky liquid, out of the brewery gates, up Tottenham Court Road and down Oxford Street.

Thankfully, having just gone five o’clock, with the brewery reduced to a skeleton crew, only a handful of traumatised workers waded waist-deep in the warm sticky stew calling and searching for those who were missing amongst the shattered casks, floating wood and piles of rubble in a black steaming sea.

Thirty minutes later, three men (including George’s brother John) were pulled alive from the ruins and being blessed with only minor injuries, all were taken to hospital, treated and discharged later that day. And although some men made a good recovery, others were unable to ever return to work.

Given the colossal scale of the disaster, it was lucky that no-one had died inside the brewery…

…but outside in the slum, that was a different story.

At roughly 5:30pm, as George Crick stood in the storeroom with the written request in his hand, the weakened vat suddenly shattered. In a volatile explosion, the extreme pressure smashed apart the 25-foot-high, 60-foot-long and 22-inch-thick wall at the rear of the brewery, which led to The Rookery.

So explosive was the blast that bricks were thrown two hundred feet away. Mercifully unoccupied, the crumbling slum-houses at 9 and 10 New Street were pummelled to dust as a whirlwind of timber and brick reduced it to rubble, smashing apart two more homes and scattering a thick blanket of debris half way down New Street, so that everything – from the basements to the first and second floors - were strewn with the brewery’s wreckage.

Had this accident occurred an hour or two later, when more families were home and the streets and houses were full, this disaster may have claimed many more lives, but the loss would be no less tragic.

As the brewery’s brick wall burst, having just sat down to tea in their ground-floor lodging at the back of a shop on 23 Great Russell Street, hearing a cataclysmic crash, the Goodwin family were swept off their seats and spat out into the street by what witnesses described as a fifteen-foot-high “tsunami of Porter”, a thick black wave of ferocity which left them wet, shaken and choking, but thankfully unhurt.

Next door, in the back-yard of the Tavistock Arms public house at 22 Great Russell Street, 14-year-old Eleanor Cooper was earning a few pennies to feed her family by washing pots at a water pump at the base of the brick wall, when it collapsed. As hundreds of tonnes of brick and timber rained down upon the young girl, being pinned by timber, Eleanor survived unhurt. But at 8:20pm, although she was still standing upright when they rescued her, having suffocated, there was nothing anyone could do.

With half of New Street smashed, flattened and strewn with rubble two-storeys deep, many families lay trapped, only to be dug out hours and even days later. But this debris was their saviour, as with so many basements blocked by bricks, this tsunami of Porter had to go somewhere. Some residents were swept out into the street and some scaled tables to escape to torrent, but others were not so lucky.

On the first-floor of 3 New Street, after a gruelling day at work, Mary Banfield was taking tea with her child’s carer – Elizabeth Smith. As the fast flood hit, the thick black wave slammed Mary out of the first-floor window and although she landed broken, bloody and unconscious, she was later found alive, but only just. Sadly, seconds later, as the crumbling structure buckled, its top two floors collapsed and crushed the carer, 3-year-old Sarah Bates and (being trapped) Mary’s 4-year-old daughter Hannah was found drowned in her own bed.

And although a horrific sight to witness, the worst was yet to come…

As a rabbit’s warren of dead-end streets and tight alleys with no drains or sewers, with her ramshackle lodging at 4 New Street far enough from the blast-zone so only a smattering of rubble had barricaded her door, the full structure was still in-tact, but now, with 18,000 gallons of liquid unleashed, there was no way for her to escape the flood and no way to stop the tsunami. Having finished preparing for the wake, as her two-year-old child lay in state, a tidal wave of thick dark Porter flooded the basement. Later found floating face-down in the cellar, everyone from the boy’s grieving mother to the wake’s three mourners (Catharine Butler, Mary Mulvey and her young son Thomas) had drowned. (End)

The aftermath was described as a scene of absolute reverence, as onlookers stood in silence so the rescuers and frantic families could listen out for the cries of loved-ones still trapped amidst the rubble, as right into the night and through to the following day, cartloads of debris and buckets of Porter were cleared by hand. Miraculously, countless numbers of people escaped with their lives and only a dozen needed to be seen by a doctor, but – in total – eight innocent people had lost their lives. And for weeks afterwards, the unforgettable stench of the sticky Porter clung to the street like a painful memory.

Out of respect, the brewery’s watchmen charged people a penny to see the smashed vats, and at ‘The Ship’ public house and at the Horseshoe’s yard , the shrouded coffins of the dead lay in state, as long lines of mourners clinked pennies onto a plate which paid for all of the funerals. And although too poor to bury her beloved boy a pine box, finally Anne Saville, this grieving mother had a casket for her dead son (and now herself) as this mother and baby were buried together in St Giles churchyard.

On Wednesday 18th October 1814, just two days later, an inquest into the disaster was held at the St Giles Workhouse. Eight people were dead, but with the coroner and jury reassured that this disaster wasn’t an act of negligence but “an act of God”, no criminal charges were brought against the owners, the Horseshoe Brewery returned to business, and Sir Henry Meux was compensated for £30,000 worth of damages and loss he had sustained (almost £1.75 million today). But the families received nothing.

As a result of the disaster, oak-timbered vats were phased out, in 1921 the Horseshoe Brewery closed, in 1961 Meux & Co fell into liquidation, and yet, more than two-hundred-years on, there has never been a memorial to those who died; those who were poor, faceless, nameless and forgotten.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

I hope you enjoyed the episode, but if you fancy some extra stuff (which isn’t compulsory) you can stay behind like a naughty school-boy or girl and be forced to listen to Extra Mile, after the break.

Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Sheridan Fuller, Lori King and Kelly Garner, I thank you all for your support, it’s much appreciated. A thank you to Darren De-Rosa for your very kind donation, I thank you too. And with a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the podcast and spreads the word to their pals about how much they love it. That’s hugely appreciated.   

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.


*** 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 tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph'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.

BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.

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 and beyond the West End.

• A weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
• 300+ infamous, untold or often forgotten true murders
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Researched from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there.

EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR:
On Thursday 15th October 1942, in flat 34 of Chalfont Court at 236 Baker Street, the body of William Raven was discovered. He was an elegant sociable divorcee and co-owner of a gentleman’s outfitters with no enemies, who was found battered to death in his own bed. Everybody liked him. But was this a bungled robbery, a revenge attack, or was it something a little more ordinary?

• Date: Thursday 15th October 1942
• Location: Flat 34 of Chalfont Court at 236 Baker Street, NW1
• Victims: 1 (William Raven)
• Culprits: 1 (Henry Smith & George Frederick Brimacombe)
  

Note: Henry was acquitted and George was found guilty of manslaughter only.

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.

THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

The location of Chalfony Court at 236 Baker Street, NW1 where William Raven was murdered is located where the rum and raison triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, 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.

Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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.

SOURCES:
This case was researched using the original declassified polcie investigation files held at the National Archives, as well as many other sources.

• http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258021
• https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4201650

MUSIC: 

• Man In A Bag by Cult With No Name (Intro and interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• Sherlock Holmes and the Pearl of Death – theme
• Horror House by Aaron Kenny
• Mona by Cult With No Name
• The Curious Kitten by Aaron Kenny
• Beneath the Moonlight by Aaron Kenny
• Space Hunter by Quincas Moreira
• Serenity by Parvus Decree
• Resolver by Amulets

UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:

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 and beyond the West End.

Today’s episode is about the murder of William Raven, an elegant sociable divorcee and co-owner of a gentleman’s outfitters who was found battered to death in his own bed. Everybody liked him. But was this a bungled robbery, a revenge attack, or was it something a little more ordinary?

Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 104: The ‘Elementary’ Murder of William Raven.

Today I’m standing on Baker Street in Marylebone, NW1; three streets east of the photographic studio where John Reginald Christie took naked snaps of one of his victims, one road south of Regent’s Park barracks where the Blackout Ripper was arrested, a ten minute walk from the Regents Business School where Martine Vik Magnussen first met the cowardly billionaire’s son who became her killer, and a short dawdle from the odd but unsolved murder of Gladys Hanrahan – coming soon to Murder Mile.

Up by the tube station, at the junction of the Marylebone Road, the north side of Baker Street is a real disappointment to the millions of excitable tourists - who flock to stand next to a semi sort-of look-a-like waxwork of a pseudo-celebrity-nobody at Madame Tussauds - only to realise there’s nothing else here. Nothing but smog, smoke, bogs and bedsits choked by belching buses on a death-trap of a road.

Baker Street is famous for a few things; there’s Gerry Rafferty’s sax solo (which every busker is forced to play every hour of every day or risk losing their licence to rip-off real artist’s records), the home of celebrated sci-fi author H G Wells (which is only memorialised by a small plaque), an obscure tribute to The Beatles (who fled their beloved Liverpool faster than they forgot how to say “ah, de-do-doh-don’t-de-doh”) and, of course, there’s the infamous residence of fictional detective Sherlock Holmes.

Still being as smoggy and murder-strewn as it once was, at 221b Baker Street sits the Sherlock Holmes museum; a shrine to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s literary creation where avid-fans fork-out actual cash to “oooh” at the deerstalker this imaginary character never wore, “aah” at the pretend pipe that this made-up detective never smoked and “wow” at an out-of-work actor sitting behind a blatantly fake desk that Sherlock never sat at, only to get to the gift-shop and realise the tv series were once books.

But as these museum patrons queue up, they have no idea that directly opposite, on the sixth floor of 236 Baker Street was a real murder; a baffling mystery so odd, it initially had the detectives perplexed, but through dogged persistence and a clinical Investigation, the Police would have it solved.

As it was here on Thursday 15th October 1942, in flat 34 of Chalfont Court, that William’s Raven’s death looked like a case for the great detective himself, and yet its solution was ‘elementary’.  (Interstitial).

(Sherlock line) Real murders are rarely as thrilling as they may appear in detective stories. The victims and killers are almost always connected, whether as family, friends, lovers or rivals. Their motives are usually clear; whether wealth, love, revenge or pride. And although a tale full of plot-twists makes for a gripping story, real murders are rarely pre-meditated, carefully planned or cleverly executed. Killing is an act of extreme emotion, so being desperate to flee, murderers rarely leave clues or red-herrings.

The murder of William Raven had all the tropes of a ‘locked-room’ mystery – a respected businessman is found beaten to death in his own bed, on the sixth floor of a secure mansion block; the door was locked from inside, the key was in place and there were no signs of a break-in. Nobody heard a sound or saw anything strange and although they hadn’t touched anything of any value, they had stolen two pounds from the victim’s wallet, a pair of shoes, a fawn suit and (oddly) two pairs of white underpants.

And yet, even more bafflingly, having been seen by several witnesses that night; in that flat, the killers would leave their fingerprints, a pair of boots, a dirty uniform and two sets of soiled underpants, giving the police a big clue as to their description, occupation and – eventually - their names. But was this an unplanned murder, a message or a masterclass in deception and misdirection by a cunning criminal?

So, who was the victim?

Born on 26th November 1900, forty-one-year-old William Raven, known to his associates as Bill was an elegantly-dressed bachelor and well-regarded director of Horstman & Raven, a gentleman’s outfitters for the city’s well-heeled and high-status clientele based at 80 Regent Street, near Piccadilly Circus.

Raised in Leeds, although his modest northern roots were hidden by a cut-glass English accent, being keen to be seen as prosperous and cultured, even as a boy he was always immaculate and polite, with dreams of being finely dressed in a tailored suit, handmade shoes and a silk handkerchief in his pocket.

As an apprentice, seen a skilled tailor, William worked-hard to learn his craft and through long hours, patience, an innate sense of style and a meticulous eye for detail, he established a solid reputation among the society elite. Financially? He had some money, but every penny was invested in the shop. His shop’s manager was an old and trusted friend, his business partner was like the brother he never had; they had no rivals, no debts, no threats and although (being war-time) they had the savings to weather the storm, very little cash was kept on the premises, and his killers had never visited the shop.

In terms of family? He had very little left, except for a married sister in Leeds. Sadly, his parents had long since deceased, he had amicably divorced from his wife and as she had recently passed-away, their two boys – John & Alan – were being raised by their mother’s parents in Cockermouth. As families go, they weren’t close, but there were also no disputes, no secrets and nothing which raised suspicion.

During the war - being too old, too small but more importantly a pacifist – William did his duty as manager of the Merchant Navy Supply Association, issuing and repairing uniforms for military units, including a few bespoke orders for the Special Operations Executive, who just two years earlier had recruited the super-spy Christine Grenville and who were based only a few doors down from his Baker Street flat. And yet, although an interesting detail, William was not a spy, a soldier or a secret agent.

Socially? William was a real character and being just five-foot-five, with a slim frame, pale skin, elfin-like features, black swept back hair and a ‘pug-like’ nose, he was well-known and easy-to-spot. He was charming, chatty and generous. He preferred wine but drank rum or ale to suit his guests, he didn’t gamble, fight, argue or do drugs, he was never rude or nasty, and he treated everyone with respect.

Sexually? Since his divorce, although illegal, William had come-out as a gay-man. Feeling free, he kept a diary of his sexual conquests, but wasn’t looking for a lover, as he preferred the thrill of anonymous sex with a stranger. Usually they were rough young squaddies from tough backgrounds, many of which he picked-up in gay-safe pubs like The York Minster on Dean Street, The Swiss Tavern on Old Compton Street and The Volunteer opposite his flat on Baker Street, where he always ate his nightly supper.

And that’s pretty much it. William Raven was a businessman who wasn’t rich, a widower who wasn’t disliked, and a gay man who wasn’t being blackmailed or bullied. He had no jealous lovers, no business rivals, no criminal connections, no secret past and no family feuds. His death made no sense. Of course, this could have been an attack on a known homosexual? But we know that wasn’t the case.

So, if this was a robbery – believing this to be a two-man job as three sets of fingerprints (including William’s) were found - how did they get in? how did they get out? Why did they steal just enough cash to last one person for two days, but left behind his silver cigarette case, lighter and silver wrist watch? Why did they steal nothing of any value from the flat, just a fawn-coloured suit, a set of shoes and two pairs of white underpants, and yet they left behind a military uniform?
Was the uniform his? Were his killers’ military? Or was this somehow connected to his business?

Strangely, even though he had only lived at 236 Baker Street for thirteen weeks, this wasn’t the first and only unusual robbery which had occurred in Flat 34. On Sunday 11th October 1942, although there were no signs of a break-in, burglars had stolen every single item of his clothes. But once again, in a strange similarity, they touched nothing else; no art, no jewellery, no electricals and no paperwork.

Was this copy-cat robbery just a coincidence, an insurance scam, a war-time crime of high-quality suits in short supply to be sold on the black market? Or was this heist merely a ruse to gain entry to his sixth-floor flat in a secure mansion block, as part of pre-meditated, carefully planned and cleverly executed murder? Rightly, he reported this burglary to the Police, but there was little they could do.

Four days later, William Raven would be brutally beaten to death in his own bed (Interstitial).

Thursday 15th October 1942 was William’s last day alive… only he wouldn’t know that, as compared to any other day, it was neither odd, unpleasant nor remarkable.

After a good breakfast of egg, toast and tea, most of his morning was spent in his flat, where a young handsome locksmith replaced his door-lock (as a precaution having just been burgled) and although an invasion of his privacy, he wasn’t worried, as he knew that this kind of thing happened in a big city.

With his shop under the care of its manager (Wallace Staggle), William had a spot of lunch with an old pal in Soho, did a stock-check at the Merchant Navy Supply Association and visited several outfitters in the West End as he liked to keep abreast of the current trend in men’s fashion.

At 3pm, dressed in a blue pin-striped suit, a white shirt, a dark tie and pair of black shoes, William popped into his Regent Street shop and regaled Wallace with the tale of his unusual burglary. As was common practice, Wallace gave his boss £20 in £1 notes out of the till, which he signed for, and (to temporarily replace his missing clothes) into a bag William packed a stylish but inexpensive fawn-coloured suit, two white shirts, two pairs of white socks and two pairs of white underpants, identical to the ones which would be stolen, and then he left. His mood was upbeat and relaxed.

That evening, being in his usual good spirits, William and an unidentified gentleman in his mid-forties known only as George - who was plump and small with a face caked in a thick white powder – met for drinks at The York Minster, a gay-safe pub at 49 Dean Street in Soho. Being war-time, the streets were full of squaddies and the pub was packed-to-the-rafters with artists, singers, drag acts, ladies seeking a safe place to drink, many openly homosexual locals and a smattering of secretly gay soldiers who had deliberately come here – away from their disapproving comrades – hoping to be themselves.

As usually happened - as the camaraderie flowed, drinks were sunk and the hot bodies mingled in the tightly packed bar - William’s roving eye was instantly attracted to two boys who were just his type.

Being half his age, with a come-hither finger he beckoned forth two short, slim but well-built boys in their early-twenties. One had jet-black parted hair, the other had mousey curls, and - as the mirror opposites to his elegant refinement and his high-class sophistication - these two Canadian soldiers were both scruffy, uncouth and rough-looking, but that was exactly the type that William liked.

Greeting these two cuties by cooing “call me Bill” and engaging them in a bit of saucy banter, William made every stranger feel like a friend. And having treated both boys to a few cheeky beers, a little light supper and having (shockingly) discovered that they hadn’t booked a hotel for the night – being the epitome of generosity, living just a tube hop away and unwilling to turf two lovely young boys out on a bitterly cold night such as this –having sunk a few more beers at the notorious homosexual hang-out of the Swiss Tavern on Old Compton Street, William and his two new pals left the pub at 10:30pm, caught the Bakerloo line to Baker Street, and – as had become routine for a gay bachelor with a capacious sexual appetite and a gap in his diary of sexual conquests – William and the two young soldiers entered Flat 34 of Chalfont Court. They were happy, laughing and a little bit tipsy.

That night; they sat, chatted, drank and - with not one witness hearing a single sound – they all went to bed. The next day, William was found dead and (once again) a very odd robbery had occurred.

Detective novels thrive on many devices to make a hum-drum killing seem more thrilling; by adding plot-twists, misdirection, red-herrings and duplicitous characters, with the big clues being nothing and the smallest of details being everything. Sherlock Holmes knew that the solution to any case was down to the arrogance of the criminal mastermind who would make a tiny but elementary mistake.

Real murders are usually self-explanatory, but strangely, the murder of William Raven was not. Almost all victims and killers have long-established connections, but in this case, they weren’t. Their motives are usually clear; whether wealth, love, revenge or pride, only this time it wasn’t. And although real murders are rarely pre-meditated, this murder looked entirely spontaneous. But was it?

At 9:40am, William’s cleaner (Mrs Rose) unlocked the outer door to Flat 34, but found the inner door was locked from within. She left, alerted no-one and was the only other person with a spare key. At 11am, Margorie Vogt in Flat 35 - the flat immediately next door who heard nothing the night before - saw the morning’s newspaper still sticking out of William’s letterbox, but didn’t notify anyone till three hours later. At 2pm, having informed the head porter, Frederick Bowen climbed up the fire escape, entered the flat via the bathroom window, and in the bedroom, he found the body of William Raven.

The room was messy, chaotic and bloody, but all of the violence had been contained in just one room.

Having called the Police, at 2:35pm, PC Allan Ireland entered via the fire escape to preserve the crime scene for evidence. Clearly, the tastefully decorated bedroom was once small, neat and pristine white, but with the plush carpet scattered with a mishmash of khaki clothes and the once-fragrant air buzzing with feverish flies who fed off a thick soupy puddle of blood which pooled at the head of the double bed and slurped at the gloopy spatter which was too dry to drip down the patterned wall, seeing the slightly-build semi-naked man slumped face-down on the floor with his sweet features beaten to a mushy swollen pulp, PC Ireland stood guard over the dead body until the detective arrived.

At 3:40pm, the Police Division Surgeon arrived to confirm life as extinct, but seeing a subtle rising and falling of the sticky pyjama-clad chest and a gentle pop as blood bubbles formed about the lips, the PC had missed an important clue. William Raven wasn’t dead but barely alive. A full twelve-to-fourteen hours after his brutal attack, William was rushed to nearby St Mary’s hospital, but he died at 6pm.

He never regained consciousness, he never identified his attackers, he never gave a statement and he never said a single word. The last and only independent witness to his murder had been silenced.

The only way to solve the case was through the evidence presented before them, and yet, this brutal Baker Street murder didn’t have the luxury of being investigated by an infamous yet fictional detective with books, films, a statue and even a museum in his honour… but they did have the next-best-thing. Detective Inspector John Smale; he was smart, methodical, savvy and – best of all – he was real.

The crime-scene presented the detective with the following pieces of evidence which suggested that this wasn’t a pre-planned murder, but a spontaneous emotive attack and an opportunist robbery.

With no sign of a break-in, the door was the only entry point and both men were welcomed in by William, who (as a habit) locked the inner door to the flat and popped the key on a hook in a cupboard. Neighbours said that William and the two young soldiers were happy, laughing and a little bit tipsy.

In the sitting room, three sets of fingerprints were found on three glasses and a bottle of whiskey, rum and cordial, indicating they all continued to drink. One man sat in the armchair, two men shared the settee and (at some point) someone briefly slept in the small guest bed in the sitting room.

With all but one bottle of white wine consumed, the three men retired to the bedroom. Here, they undressed; William hung-up his blue pin-stripe suit, and the two Canadian soldiers casually dumped their scruffy Army-issue uniforms on the floor; their khaki clothes were dirty and worn, but not torn. At some point during the night, all three men removed their underpants, which were found on the floor.

According to his diary, William was a known homosexual, who frequented gay-friendly bars and had a capacious sexual appetite. If sex did take place, he didn’t note it in his diary, and yet, his post-mortem would confirm that the last three inches of his anus was dilated, congested and smooth, suggesting that – as a passive male – he had engaged in anal sex with another man shortly before his death.

So far, this had been a very ordinary evening for William… but abruptly, the good mood would change.

The post-mortem conducted by Sir Bernard Spilsbury confirmed that William had been subjected to a fast and viscous attack, by one or two men. The six lacerations to the back of the head matched the bloodied raffia of a broken bottle found at his feet, and six heavy blows from a fist to his left eye, left hand and mouth caused multiple skull fractures, unconsciousness and he died of a brain haemorrhage.

The tell-tale signs on the wallpaper of pear-shaped blood spatter in a downward trajectory confirmed that William had been standing at the time at the time of the attack, the smeared bedsheets indicate where he had fallen, and a six-inch pool of blood around his swollen head was consistent with being unconscious for the twelve-to-fourteen hours, until he was found. So, at no point, had he been moved.

Possibly out of panic and shock, the killers made no attempt to conceal the body or the crime. They stole nothing of any value; not even the silver lighter, cigarette case and watch. Instead, they took two pounds, a fawn suit, two shirts, a pair of socks, a pair of black shoes and two sets of white underpants. So, for Detective Inspector Smale, it was clear that the robbery wasn’t an act of greed, this was need.

When questioned, none of the witnesses could recall the names of the two Canadian soldiers William was seen with that night, but they all agreed that the men were dishevelled, penniless, rough-looking and - having nowhere to sleep that night – William had invited them to stay at his flat.

On William’s bedroom floor lay a crumpled Canadian Army issue forage cap, a pair of filthy black socks, two sweat-stained khaki shirts (with the label of Warrendale, a uniform manufacturer for the Canadian Army), a very worn pair of Army-issue boots (in size 7 with the soles worn down to the leather) and three pairs of underpants; one made by Horstman & Raven, a gentleman’s outfitter on Regent Street, and the other two pairs of underpants were Army-issued and very dirty, smelly and heavily soiled.

Desperate to flee the murder scene, out of panic, they tried to unlock the flat’s front door using three keys they had found rather than the actual key which William had popped on a hook in a cupboard. So, unable to unlock the inner door, they fled by the bathroom window and out onto the fire-escape.

Because of the overwhelming evidence, Detective Inspector Smale requested the fingerprints and details of all Canadian soldiers serving in Britain who had been reported missing since the time of the murder, or were being held under detention for being ‘Absent Without Leave’. Admittedly this was like searching for a needle in a haystack, as the list of possible suspects was huge, the war was raging on, the Army was not compliant and the interviews would take almost a year.

But was the detective right? Was the evidence as simple as it seemed? Was the unplanned murder of William Raven really just a spontaneous attack and an opportunist robbery, or had this humble copper got it wrong, having been duped by a cunning criminal in a masterclass of deception and misdirection?

On 17th July 1943, after nine long months of interviews, having dredged the bottom of his suspect list, Detective Inspector Smale went to Eire Camp in Headley Down (Hampshire) to question a twenty-year old Canadian Private called Henry Smith. With the murder having plagued his guilty conscience, Henry confessed and named his pal, twenty-one-year-old George Frederick Brimacombe as the murderer.

The evidence supported his story, the witnesses identified their faces, their fingerprints were an exact match and being rough-looking young men, who wore uniforms and came from difficult backgrounds, although neither (for good reason) admitted they were gay - they were just the type that William liked.

Having enlisted into the Army to escape the horrors of their family life, Henry & George absconded from their units at the end of September 1942, but with no plan and very little money, soon they were hungry, broke, homeless, and their uniforms and boots were worn-out, tatty and soiled. And (possibly) in return for companionship and anonymous sex, William Raven offered them food, drink and a bed.

On the 14th September 1943, at the Old Bailey, Henry Smith and George Brimacombe were charged with murder, but with no evidence of pre-meditation, Henry was acquitted and sent back to Canada, and George was found guilty of manslaughter and served just three years at Wormwood Scrubs prison.

So, you see, sometimes the simplest answer is usually the right one and although this story has all the hallmarks of a classic ‘locked-room’ mystery, it was really just a very simple tale of two young lads, on the run, in need of a few basic things; money, food, a place to sleep and a clean pair of pants.

On the surface, William’s Raven’s death may have looked like a case for the great detective himself, and yet, even Sherlock Holmes would agree that its solution was ‘elementary’ (“Watson, the needle”).

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

For me, that’s the hard bit done; all the research, all the writing, with just three days of editing to go. Urgh! And now it’s time for pointless bit which takes zero effort. In fact, I couldn’t probably do it in my sleep… if Eva didn’t insist that I’m on hand all night to mix her cocktails. Huh! That woman eh? Sigh!

Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Rhiannon Williams, Christina Hughes and Julie Davis, I thank you all for your support, it’s much appreciated. With a welcome to all new listeners and a thank you to the hard-core listeners who’ve been there since the dawn of time. 

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.

*** 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 tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph'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.

BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.

EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THREE:
On Tuesday 4th October 1853, in a squalid first-floor lodging at 6 Little Dean Street, the beating of baby Richard began… and ten days later, he would be dead. Described as a ‘bastard’ child, his widowed mother struggled against insurmountable odds in the hope that he would survive, only those she was forced to trust with his care, became his killers.

• Date: Tuesday 4th to Friday 14th October 1853
• Location: 6 Little Dean Street, now called Bourchier Street, W1
  
• Victims: 1 (Richard Higgs, possibly Ryall or Banks)
• Culprits: 1 (Joseph Birch and Caroline Nash)
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.

THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

The location of The Coach and Horses public house at 42 Wellington Street, WC2 is where the dark blue triangle in Covent Garden is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, 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.

Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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.

SOURCES:
This case was researched using the original declassified court transcripts from the Old Bailey, as well as the British History website, local knowledge, and several news sources from the time. .
https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?id=t18531024-name-363&div=t18531024-1123#highlight

MUSIC: 

• Man In A Bag by Cult With No Name (Intro and interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• As Below by Cult With No Name
  
• Beneath the Moonlight by Aaron Kenny
  
• Lyra Mortis by Loopop
  
• Crystalline by Amulets
• Anton by Dan Boden
• Alone With My Thoughts by Esther Ambrami
  

UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:

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 and beyond the West End.

Today’s episode is about the tragic little life of an eleven-month-old baby boy known only Richard. Described as a ‘bastard’ child, his widowed mother struggled against insurmountable odds in the hope that he would survive, only those she was forced to trust with his care, became his killers.

Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 103: The Beating of Baby Richard.

Today I’m standing on Bourchier Street, in Soho, W1; one road west of the brutal attack on Parisienne sex-worker Jacqueline Birri, several doors down from the sex-shop slayer Richard Rhodes Henley, two hundred feet west of the deaf/mute murder of Rosa O’Neill, and with the rear windows of the Admiral Duncan pub and Dutch Leah’s pad peering over, we are only a one minute walk from The French House where William Raven met his lovers, his robbers and his executioners - coming soon to Murder Mile.

Hidden amidst the gloomy darkness of Old Compton Street and Meard Street, Bourchier Street is little more than a side-alley between Dean Street and Wardour Street. First known as Milk Alley; from 1838 until 1937, it became Little Dean Street before being renamed after the late rector of St Anne’s church, and having been demolished three times - once by a bomb - nothing of historical significance remains.

Seeing only the backs of four-storey buildings on both sides, Bourchier Street has no houses, no shops, no life nor colour. It’s little more than a series of brick walls, backdoors, fire escapes, gates, a bin store, the locked entrance to an underground car-park, a public relations firm, a set of flats, a single solitary tree (which looks lost) and half of a road which stops dead, smack bang in the middle, for no reason.

Being grey, dark, gloomy and drab, it’s only used as a quick cut-through for savvy locals, a hidey-hole where taxi-drivers take sneaky tea-breaks, a little snook where embarrassed skateboarders repeatedly fail to do even the most basic of tricks, a breathing space where editors get high having wasted another day editing shite like ‘Britain’s Wackiest Celebrity Pet Patio Makeovers from Hell’, but - mostly – it’s a place where incontinent men come to piddle having just left the pub and wishing they wore Tenalady.

It truly is a pointless part of Soho, a place so forgettable it’s almost as if someone has deliberately tried to erase its past. And maybe they did, as many years ago, when Little Dean Street was an impoverished slum, a desperate woman came here to put her cherished child in the care of another couple. And although, the street, the building and the people have long since been reduced to dust, unable to erase the horror of the crime, some people say that – even today - you can still hear the baby scream.

As it was here, on Tuesday 4th October 1853, in a squalid first-floor lodging at 6 Little Dean Street, that the beating of baby Richard began… and ten days later, he would be dead. (Interstitial)

Richard was doomed to live a sad and tragic life before his life had even begun…

History is primarily concerned with four things; kings, colonies, creations and conquests, almost all of which are the pre-occupation of the prosperous and the privileged, and no matter how little they’re lives have amounted to, their drooling biographers detail the minutia of their frivolously pampered existence in microscopic detail. Where-as the poor and the ordinary? Unless their crime or their death is particularly cruel or grisly, they will only ever be listed a statistic, a footnote or entirely forgotten.

Richard’s mother was a nobody, a nothing, a faceless worthless wretch whose name, age and place of birth wasn’t worth the courts recording correctly, so although she was known as Eliza Ryall (possibly the surname of the child’s father), Miss Banks (probably a mistake) and Elizabeth Higgs (supposedly her married name), as her birth name was unknown, all we do know was that Elizabeth Higgs was a middle-aged single-mother with dark ragged hair, pale anaemic skin and a gaunt haunted face.

She was tatty, frail and weak, but her look made sense given the stress of her miserable little life.

With so much confusion over her names, there are a few possibilities we can assume. If she was born Elizabeth Banks and became Mrs Higgs but was now an unmarried mother called Miss Ryall – with the life expectancy amongst the city’s poor being in the mid-to-late forties – it’s likely she was a widow.

Being uneducated, unskilled and recently bereaved, with no known next-of-kin, no home, no savings and no regular income – beyond the meagre money she could scrape-up by toiling away in a series of poorly-paid jobs and being reduced to the shamed indignity of pleading poverty - Eliza was the poorest of the poor, who lived from day-to-day and penny-to-penny, never knowing how long she could last.

According to her own account, she has three young children, but as none of them were listed as living in her squalid leaky lodging at 3 Peter Street, the only other option is that (being deemed by the state that she was incapable of raising them alone) all three were condemned to a life in the workhouse; where they would work hard, eat poorly, be beaten, and the odds of their survival was slim.

And yet, these were her children who had survived, as this frail widow had three more who had died.

Still being only babies, it began as flu-like symptoms; first with tiredness, restlessness and redness of the skin, descending into the agonising swelling of the baby’s body and brain, and gripped by a high fever - as hospitals were not a place for the poor to get well, they were only the sanctuaries for those whose money earned them the right to live – three of Eliza’s babies had died of ‘water on the brain’.

On an unrecorded date in November 1852, in the district of Marylebone – being described by the court as a ‘bastard’ (as if his fatherless status meant that rightfully his life should be worth less) - the fourth of Eliza’s surviving children was born and she named him Richard. Being too poor to be baptised, his birth was sparsely recorded and he never received a surname - whether as Banks, Ryall or Higgs.

With his birth father absent and the government having enslaved every woman into a marriage merely to survive - as the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1831 penalised and demonised all single mothers to be the sole-breadwinner of their brood of bastards or be condemned to a slow death in the workhouse – this morally self-righteous law had created an unjust system, which was hailed by the law-makers, but was ripe to be abused by cruel people keen to make money out of poor women in a bad way.

Earning a pittance, working days and nights, in a series of menial demeaning jobs - where each day Eliza would race across the city to earn a few pennies, only being hired on a ‘first-come first-served’ basis, if she was too late, the job would be gone - so money, food and lodging was never guaranteed.

At the start of November 1853, as a mild autumn slunk behind the thick brooding clouds and the sharp winter winds and bitter rains drew in earlier than expected, eleven-month-old Richard caught a cold. He had a little sniffle, a raspy cough and his putty white skin was all warm, red and sticky to the touch. And although his symptoms were mild, as Eliza knew, in 1853, a simple cold could kill.

Her baby needed medicine, but without money, Eliza needed to work, but to work - as a single mother - she would be forced to find someone trustworthy but cheap to look after her baby. The young couple she was recommended lived at 6 Little Dean Street, and they were called Mr & Mrs Birch.  (Interstitial)

On the bitterly cold morning of Tuesday 4th October 1853, at a little after dawn, having wrapped baby Richard in several woollen layers – as still being sniffly, his blue eyes, red nose and pale cheeks were the only features which peeped out of this thick toasty bundle - Eliza left her lodging at 3 Peter Street, crossed over Wardour Street and entered Little Dean Street, a distance of less than one hundred feet.

Working seven days-a-week, sixteen hours-a-day, just to afford the basics; food, lodging, a doctor’s fee, medicine and the half-a-crown-a-week the carer would cost, Eliza had to work flat out. But being local – although it ripped her soul apart to be parted for so long from her baby - knowing this was only a temporary measure until he was well and that a good woman would feed him, bathe him and wean him, she could still see her boy two or three times a day, and - when she needed to - she could sleep.

As yet another dark and dingy Soho slum, Little Dean Street was a thin airless alley barely one hundred and fifty feet long by five feet wide with two long wooden lines of rickety ramshackle buildings stretching four and five storeys high on both sides. But as each tier overhung – so that every tossed bucket of festering human waste didn’t slop and drip down the window’s below – with barely a crack of skylight above, as both roofs almost touched, the sun rarely (if ever) shone on Little Dean Street.

It was leaky, dirty and cold. It was overrun with rodents, over-flowing with effluent, every stair was a death-trap and the back-alley below was a seedy hideaway for gin-swiggers and the sexually depraved, as the feted air hung with the stench of an abattoir, tannery and an open cess pit - and although a rat-infested hovel prone to outbreaks of Typhoid and Cholera was not uncommon - for many, it was home.

As planned, part way down Little Dean Street, Eliza knocked at the wooden door of house number six. Greeted by Mrs Birch, she handed the young woman (who she barely knew) a half-crown, a blanket, a woollen shawl, a small sack of food and – as many women would be forced to do - her baby too.

That night, just shy of midnight, as a gaunt and haunted woman who was weak with exhaustion having worked from dawn-till-dusk, Eliza made the last of her three trips that day to see her baby boy in the Birch’s first-floor back-room lodging. She cradled him, she breast-fed him, she put him to bed, and she stumbled the short walk home back to Peter Street, for a few scant and anxious hours of sleep.

Eliza’s day was as ordinary as many other working-class women in that era who had been forced into a very desperate situation simply to ensure the safety and the future of their families. By chance, putting trust in a stranger, Eliza had sealed her baby’s fate, and ten days later, Richard would be dead.

In the ensuing trial into the death of a “bastard child” known only as Richard, as was common practice, Mr & Mrs Birch were permitted to face, question and interrogate their accuser – Miss Elizabeth Higgs – a mother still in grief as nature cruelly continued producing her dead baby’s milk in her aching breast. During the trial, many details would emerge, some were expected, others would be truly horrifying.

Going under the seemingly respectable guise of Mr & Mrs Birch, neither were married and both were born liars. Described as ‘dirty-looking’, twenty-two-year-old Joseph Birch was a thief, a layabout and an abusive drunk with a fiery temper, spawned from a close but dishonest family of petty crooks. With a nine-month-old bastard of their own to feed, his girlfriend Caroline Nash claimed to be a carer, but lacking patience and cursed by a cruel and nasty streak, she was less of a mother, more of a monster.

Earning a paltry fee, Caroline couldn’t care a hoot for some other woman’s sprog, let alone her own who was left to lie in his own filth, crying and sore, as she’d scream “shut up” and “be quiet” whenever it wailed. And yet, when Eliza was due, pretending to be all sweetness and cuddles, both babies were miraculously calm, quiet and a little bit sleepy, as their milk had been laced with a large slug of rum.

So, by the end of the first night, as an exhausted Eliza fed her baby in the dark of the Birch’s backroom - although this clammy tot still wheezed and sneezed - as she put him to sleep, she was reassured as her little boy soundly slept… but his silence would bely the abuse that this helpless baby would suffer.

On Wednesday 5th October, as the first of two visits this determined but drained woman could make that day - with three dead babies plaguing her thoughts and seeing similar symptoms return – in those few precious moments that her work would allow, she was focussed on keeping him fed, warm and soothed, so (as far as we know) she was unaware of what had and would happen to her baby.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, although it always echoed with the hubbub of everyday life - a shout, a scream, a laugh and a cry - inside the wooden walls of 6 Little Dean Street, the familiar pained wailing of this feverish and restless boy had grown more even heart-rending, as the viscous scorn of two unfit adults (“shut up”, “bloody child”, “little devil”) did nothing to soothe or stifle his screams as Caroline & Joseph repeatedly slapped, smacked and beat Eliza’s helpless baby boy.

From across the landing, fellow lodger and mother-of-three Ann Dakin shouted "for God's sake, don't beat the baby so", only to bruskly feel the hot lash of Caroline’s curt tongue, as she barked back “I will do as I see fit” and threatened “shut it, or I’ll hurl you down the stairs and snap your bloody neck”. All of which were backed-up by the drunken brutal bulk of a slurring bottle-swigging Joseph who kicked open Ann’s door and unleashed a volley of holy abuse, as she shielded her babies. And although Ann did threaten to call for a constable - fearing for her life - she didn’t. In fact, no-one said a word; not to the Police, the landlord, or even to Eliza. Moments later, the baby’s screams were smothered.

Just shy of midnight, as an exhausted Eliza fed her subdued child – with his wheezing deep, his little chest rattling and his pallid skin all hot and blotchy – sensing the kind of fever which had already stolen half her brood, Eliza only saw the symptoms she feared the most, and not the obvious signs of abuse.

In court, with the cruel couple’s litany of lies backed-up by his dishonest family, Joseph dismissed this beating as being just a few light pats on the bottom, Caroline claimed that when the baby came into her care that it was sicker than it actually was (saying “he was almost at death’s door”), and with her boyfriend’s next-of-kin concocting an alibi that neither Caroline nor Joseph were there that night, or any of the subsequent nights when similar beatings took place, often it was their word against Eliza’s.

Twice that week, Eliza had taken Richard to see a doctor, and although this professional’s fee for five minutes of prodding was more than she earned in two days’ work, as the diagnosis was uncertain, the wheezing boy was given a mild decongestant and Eliza was told to bring him back if he got any worse.

On the odd nights she had him home; sporadically sleeping, always screaming and with his mottled skin a vivid mix of reds, purples and blacks - as the common curse of bed-sores, lice and fleas nibbled at his flesh and as a spiking fever inflamed his swollen blotchy torso - even the doctor didn’t see the bruises, and so – crippled by the expense of doing her best - she returned her baby to Mr & Mrs Birch.

Every day eleven-month-old baby Richard would cry, and every day the Birch’s would beat him…

On Friday 7th October, at roughly 4pm, just three days into their care, two lodgers at 6 Little Dean Street would witness the abuse - Ann Dakin who lived opposite and Lydia Armstrong one floor above.

Within the hard echoey confines of the tiny first-floor backroom, every sound echoed; from the baby’s cries, to the couple’s viscous screams, to the hard slaps as rough hands smacked soft bare flesh as the little boy endlessly cried until it could cry no more. By now, through threats and fear, the whole house had reluctantly become accustomed to its tears, but what Lydia would see next was truly awful.

Having pulled a pitcher of water from the communal drum in the basement, as Lydia slowly crept back up the creaky stairs – for fear of incurring the Birch’s wrath – hearing its pained screams muffled for an interminably long time, only to cut the air as sharp and loud as ever (as if the little boy was fighting for his life), as Caroline screamed “it won’t silence, make it quit” and a furious drunken Joseph barked at the boy “you little bastard, I am the master of you”, Lydia peeped through a small crack in the wall.

Inside their pitiful little lodging, she witnessed Joseph; his brown toothy shards all bared, his reddened glassy eyes all glared, his heaving brutal bulk towering tall as the tiny wailing tot cowered between his feet on the rough splintered floor. Yanking up the terrified boy by its thin pale arms like it was a rag-doll, being gripped in his hairy fist, Joseph smacked the little boy’s soft head against the hard-wooden skirting-board, a total of eight times, smashing his skull down again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again and again, until having cast him aside, the little boy lay limp and silent.

Once more, nobody did anything or said anything to Eliza or the Police. Joseph denied he was there that night “I was at my brother’s in Borough Road”, Caroline pleaded ignorance “I never touched it, not once. I love my baby I do”, and their family swearing in court and on the Bible that both were elsewhere at the time of each beating… (add “we was at the theatre”, “he was helping me out down the market”, “our mother can vouch so he was”)… as all the while, baby Richard got sicker and weaker.

On Saturday 8th October – as Eliza had eaten less to afford more, only to earn less as her work slowed - during one of her brief visits, whilst washing her wheezing boy, the fatigued woman thought she saw bruises on the mottled swollen skin of his skull. Paying more than she could afford for a doctor to dismiss this as abuse and state the obvious - “babies do fall” - seeing all of the symptoms she dreaded in her little boy – aches, swelling, limpness, sweating, shivers and a high fever – just as she had with her three dead babies before him, Eliza suspected that baby Richard had a swelling on the brain…

…and he did. Only this fatal swelling of the brain wasn’t caused by a fever, but by his carers. And with his frail little body too weak to fight off his injuries, as his broken mother was tossed back into the viscous circle of an unjust system from which she would never escape - in order to work, to earn, to (barely) live, and (if she was lucky) to survive - she was forced to return her baby back to the Birch’s.

In court, the Birch’s and their deceitful kin trotted-out an endless sluice of excuses to provide alibis for Joseph & Caroline’s crimes on the days in question. On Monday 10th, Joseph said “I were in Borough market, my brother’s a costermonger, I was pushing his barrow cos of his bad foot”, with George Birch affirming under oath “that’s true, he didn’t leave till gone nine”. On Tuesday 11th, their excuses were much the same. And on Wednesday 12th, Caroline testified to the court “me and him was at his mum’s all day”, which both parents swore blind was true.

Only the lodgers (Lydia and Ann) would tell a very different story to the court, one about the slaps, the smacks and the screams they heard, every single day, at 6 Little Dean Street.

But by Thursday 13th, everything would change…

At one o’clock, from the first-floor back-room of 6 Little Dean Street, the caustic scorn of Caroline and Joseph was as loud and abusive as ever (“you little devil”, “shut that bastard up”), their slaps were as hard, their wrath was as bitter, and although muffled, the little cries from the baby’s lungs was weak.

Being silent and still, suddenly his tiny body tensed, and as a foam of frothy white liquid formed about his lips, with every one of his little muscles trashing violently like he was possessed by a demon, baby Richard was enveloped in a convulsive fit. And for once, Caroline and Joseph’s mouths fell silent.

An hour later, Caroline went to 3 Peter Street to tell Eliza that her child was “unwell”. Not dying, not fitting, not beaten to within an inch of its life, just “unwell”. Seeing the silent tot wrapped-up in his cloak with a barely a few pale features visible, she held him in her arms, cradling her limp baby boy.

But by the morning, having suffered a second fit, eleven-month-old baby Richard was dead. (End)
Grieving the loss of her fourth of seven babies, Eliza viewed her little boy’s cold body in the surgery of Dr Wakem, but even as a layman - having witnessed death by brain fever three times prior - in the stark light of unimaginable loss she could see that his symptoms were not right. With his body cooled, less red and swollen, the mottled bruises to his legs, arms, back and head were unmistakable.  

A post-mortem confirmed that his bruising was caused by beatings over several days, and – although his symptoms were consistent with a ‘brain fever’ – with no evidence of any diseases except for a cold, the fits and bloody congestion in his brain were attributed to his head being smacked hard against the skirting board. And although he had been a healthy little boy, with his stomach empty, it was clear that the food Eliza had provided, to feed and wean him, Caroline had given to her own boy instead.

At the Coroner’s Inquest held at the Globe Tavern in Southwark, Caroline Nash and Joseph Birch were found guilty of manslaughter. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 27th October 1853, for the charge of “slaying a male ‘bastard’ child named Richard”, although Eliza was interrogated by her accusers and condemned as an unfit mother and a liar, she stood her ground and both were found guilty of murder.

The life of baby Richard - a bastard whose surname was never determined - was deemed so unworthy that although they should have been executed, Joseph and Caroline were sentenced to just four years in prison. Joseph was sent to HMP Portland in Dorset, Caroline to Brixton Prison, and on their release, they married and moved to Warwickshire, where they had three more children and died in the fifties.

Being too poor, baby Richard was buried in an unmarked grave, with several strangers, somewhere in London. And although his mother - Elizabeth Higgs - had done everything she could when faced with a difficult and insurmountable situation where the odds were always stacked against her, sadly being a nobody who meant nothing to no-one, she has vanished from history and her fate is unknown.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

The episode is complete, so feel free to switch off now… but if you’d like to know more details about this case, as well as listen to some meanderingly aimless unscripted waffle about cakes, coots and canal things, please stay tuned for Extra Mile, after the break.

Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Svetlana Bezverkhaya, Philippa Chapman and Paul Morrissey, I thank you all for your support. And thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the podcast, review it, share it, all the thing that keep it alive.

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.

*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER