Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #75: The Fatal Fling of Emily Beilby Kaye - Part Two (The Liar)23/9/2019 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
The South Side of Waterloo Station where the left luggage cloak room was in 1924 and where the Gladstone Bag of Patrick Mahon was stashed
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE SEVENTY-FIVE:
On 2nd May 1924, Patrick Mahon was arrested after Police found a brown Gladstone bag in the left luggage kiosk of Waterloo Station containing a woman's bloodstained clothes and a ten inch cook's knife. But with Emily missing, very little evidence and her body destroyed, although her death looked accidental, the Police now had to prove that this was a murder.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of the left luggage kiosk at Waterloo Station is marked with a bright green !. It's at the bottom by 'Waterloo'. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as King's Cross and Paddington, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. Sadly, as photo of Emily & Patrick are copyrighted, I can't post them here.
Top left: Waterloo main entrance today. Bottom left: the south side where the left luggage kiosk was. Middle: the left luggage kiosk at King's Cross station (they're very similar). Right: inside Waterloo Station in the 1920's.
TRANSCRIPT:
Ep75: The Fatal Fling of Emily Beilby Kaye – Part Two (The Liar)
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about Emily Beilby Kaye; a sweet-natured lady who eloped with a lovable Irish rogue called Pat. Only Pat wasn’t what he seemed, and with Emily missing, very little evidence and her body destroyed, although her death looked accidental, the Police now had to prove that this was a murder. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 75: The Fatal Fling of Emily Beilby Kaye – Part Two (The Liar). Today I’m standing in Waterloo train station just off the South Bank of the River Thames; three bridges south west of the hanging of Roberto Calvi, two streets west of brutal attack on David Morley and one street south of the revenge attack on Sir Michael Francis O'Dwyer – coming soon to Murder Mile. Built in 1848, London Waterloo is UK’s busiest train station, serving one hundred million customers a year from the south of England and terminating at the West End. Rebuilt in 1922, with a baroque Portland stone entrance, stained glass windows, ornate friezes and its infamous four-faced clock, Waterloo’s 700 foot concourse is naturally illuminated by an expansive glass roof and cast iron arches. Sadly, most of its stunning architecture is lost amidst a nauseating sea of colourful adverts for caffeine-rich cow-tit drinks, a splat of mashed pig corpses in a ketchup bap, macerated baby chickens moulded into fun-sized fat-coated nuggets, the latest bum-numbing series you “must-see” or your life isn’t worth living (which “gets good around series three”) and – ironically - adverts for health insurance. Waterloo Station is like a little shopping complex, but back in its heyday, it was pretty much the same; a train station full of tea-shops, florists, newsstands and even a cinema. And yet, as many punters watched the latest newsreels, cartoons and thrillers, barely a few feet away in the left luggage kiosk on the south side of Waterloo station, a bloody murder mystery was unfolding. As it was here, on Friday 2nd May 1924, seventeen days after her disappearance, that the murderer of Emily Beilby Kaye would be caught… all the Police had to do now was to prove it (Interstitial). By the morning of Friday 2nd May, the Police knew that the brown Gladstone bag belonged to Jessie’s adulterous husband Pat; the torn clothes to his mistress Emily, the Cook’s knife tested positive for blood and the yellowy-brown fat proved to be human, and although they suspected something more sinister had happened, Chief Inspector Guy Savage had only circumstantial evidence of an illicit affair or a botched abortion… but nothing more. And now, both Pat and Emily were missing. But having stashed the Gladstone bag in the left luggage kiosk at Waterloo Station and kept the ticket, believing that he might return to collect it, the Police placed the bag back on the shelf, instructed his long-suffering wife Jessie to return the ticket to the pocket of his brown crumpled suit where she had first found it, and – with CID Officers lying in wait - a trap had been set to catch a killer. But who was Pat and why would he kill the woman he loved? Patrick Mahon was born on the 23rd September 1889 on Helena Street in West Derby (Liverpool), the fourth of six children to Henry, a wholesale draper and Amy, a housewife, with all of his siblings entering honest professions; one was a veterinary surgeon, one was a teacher and one was a priest. Raised in a middle class household in an affluent suburb in a prosperous booming city, with the Mahon family being big believers in hard-work, decency and the teachings of the Good Book, as dedicated church-goers, they were widely regarded as respectable, moral and honest. Just like Emily, Pat had a good upbringing and was given everything he would need to become a fine upstanding man, but - unlike Emily - his life wasn’t beset by tragedy, struggle or grief. Educated at St Mary’s Church of England school, although he was good at sports, active in the church and would later become a Sunday school teacher, being described as “bright but easily distracted”, Pat grappled with his religious beliefs - as if sins were so bad, why did breaking them feel so good? On the surface, Pat seemed like a handsome charmer, but being easily tempted by the devilish lure of goods, girls and gambling, and excited by the thrill of defying God, seeing these sins (not as life lessons but) as goals to getting whatever he desired, Pat had learned to lie, cheat and steal. After a few weeks as a shop assistant for H Young & Sons, Pat was dismissed having been suspected of theft. His next job as a clerk for a chocolatiers called Barker & Dobson lasted a few months, it is said he left for “personal reasons” but (having developed an insatiable addiction to betting on horseraces) it was no coincidence that after he left, the company’s finances were no longer a little bit light. Here he also stole the heart of a 23 year old typist called Jessie; a good Catholic girl with a solid work ethic and a romantic soul, but with Pat being incapable of telling the truth, whilst still living under the roofs of their respective parents, on 6th April 1910, at Pat’s request, they married in secret. And as his addiction got worse, so did the deceit. On 24th January 1911, after a few months working as a clerk for W G Taylor’s, an African art importer, Pat was arrested for forging cheques worth £123 (almost £6000 today), all under the aliases he used to cover-up his crimes, including Herbert Mahon, Pat Waller and Pat Derrick Pattison. Too cowardly to face the Police, Pat fled, left Jessie to pick up the pieces, and with Mr Taylor unwilling to prosecute Pat out of respect for his family, Pat’s father paid the balance of the missing money and after one month on the run, Patrick Mahon was bound over for one year at Liverpool City Police Court. As a convicted criminal, Pat’s dirty little secret was hushed-up by his family and having discovered that he was secretly married, his mother insisted they remarry, but the sanctity of marriage meant nothing to Pat, as all the while he posed as a single man, using his ill-gotten gains to woo his other women. By 1916, Pat was absent, broke and jobless but still juggling several women; so with Jessie left to raise their new-born baby alone, being too ashamed to admit her husband had also served a year in prison for stealing postal orders, when asked where he was, she would simply say “he’s in a sanatorium”. His parents and his long-suffering wife had put-up with so much, they had given him so many chances, but that year, unable to see beyond his greed, Patrick Mahon took one step closer to becoming a killer. On the night of Saturday 8th April 1916, seeing theft as easier than earning an honest wage, Pat broke into the unlit home of Herman Lange, manager of the London & Provincial Bank in Chertsey. Dressed in black and clutching a hammer he had wrapped in cloth to deaden the sound, Pat shimmied up a drain-pipe, cracked a hole in a first floor window, lifted a latch and crept inside. His plan was perfect. Except, having startled the sleeping housemaid, as she screamed and turned to flee, Pat panicked, hit her several times over the head with the hammer, rendering her unconscious and profusely bleeding. Only, Pat didn’t run… instead he waited. As with no signs of the Police, the house secluded, the maid still alive and his greed overpowering any rational thought, when she came to, he demanded she hand him the keys to the bank. He had hit the jackpot. But when he returned later the next day, with the Police lying in wait, Pat was arrested. On 27th June 1916, Patrick Mahon was sentenced to five years hard labour for burglary and the assault on Olive Wickens. And although his actions had severe ramifications for others, he showed no regrets for his victim, his family, his baby daughter or his wife - only for himself. Upon his conviction, his siblings disowned him, his mother sunk into depression and his father (it is said) died of shame. After four years in prison, Pat moved into 2 Pagoda Avenue to live with the only person who stuck by him – his long-suffering wife Jessie. Struggling to find work, to help her out, Jessie’s employer - Consols Automatic Aerators Ltd - hired Pat as Sales Manager to oversee the company’s liquidation under Robertson Hill & Co. And it is there, in July 1923, that he would meet Emily Beilby Kaye. (Interstitials). From the first day they met, to her very last day alive, Pat lied to Emily. Lured by his chiselled good looks, dazzled by his roguish charm and amused by his cheeky banter, the smitten spinster knew him (not as Pat Mahon but) as Patrick Derrick Pattison, a pseudonym he used to sign false cheques, to hide his philandering ways and to mask his criminal convictions. By September, after a delightful day by the river, their first “intimacy” took place. It meant everything to Emily as the respectable lady gave up her body to the man she loved; but to a serial womaniser like Pat, she was just another notch on the bedpost, and as the desperately love-sick lady droned on-and-on about marriage, to keep her sweet, he told her his divorce was imminent, but in truth, it wasn’t. By Christmas, with Emily no longer employed by Robertson Hill & Co, they saw each other less and less. Which was fine by Pat, as growing ever needy, Emily’s talk of romance had become tiresome. Besides, he had been married before and it was all a bit of a bore, babies did nothing but wither his wild oats and why would he divorce his wife, when Jessie was the one he always ran to when it all went wrong? It was fun while it lasted but the affair was over. Pat didn’t love Emily… …but he did love her money. Blinded by his charm, the level-headed lady was strung along by the well-rehearsed spiel of a cash-strapped lothario, as the convicted fraudster coerced the usually frugal Emily to sell £400 worth of her shares under the ruse that they would start a new life together in South Africa via Paris. On 27th March 1924, as a weakened Emily recuperated from a suspected flu; her alleged lover trotted-out the tried-and-tested ploy of chilled champagne, twinkling stars and a sparkly ring, and having got down on bended knee, Pat proposed and Emily’s dream came true… but to Pat, a ring was just a ring, a pretty thing to pop on a finger, so having kept the receipt, he knew he would lose nothing. Only Emily wasn’t easily duped, as being a self-sufficient lady whose calmness had guided her through years of family tragedy – with Pat still not divorced and still without a passport - now more than ever, being two months pregnant and rightly suspicious that he was cheating on her with another woman, she needed to test his commitment by making them live as “husband and wife”. At her request, Pat rented a romantic little bungalow called The Officer's House in Pevensey Bay. It was perfect; for Emily, it meant long coastal walks and quiet nights by the fire. But for Pat – who viewed it under an alias, paid in cash and rented it for six weeks longer than he needed, having lied to the owners that his wife needed a quiet place to write - it was isolated, remote and private. And having told her lover about the impending birth of their baby - with that - her fate was sealed. On Saturday 12th April at 1pm, as Emily checked out of the Kenilworth Court Hotel, dragging behind her a large trunk which could soon contain the hacked-up bits of her dismembered corpse, a salesman at the Staines Kitchen Equipment Company made an entry in his log-book for a ‘ten inch cook's knife and a small meat-saw’, the buyer was Pat Mahon and it was dated three days before her death. On the 13th, they walked arm-in-arm on the shingle beach. On the 14th, Emily posted a letter to ‘Fizz’. And on the 15th, she waved to a passing butcher. After that, Emily was never seen alive again. The night of Tuesday 15th April was nasty, as a violent storm ripped through the heart of Pevensey Bay. Inside the bungalow, sat alone by the flickering fire-light, Emily ate the roast dinner, as once again, opposite hers, Pat’s plate remained untouched. His commitment to their relationship was as tested as her patience, as of the three days they had lived together, Pat had been gone for two. In a statement, Pat later claimed “She fumed and raved. Suddenly, in a fit of anger, she picked up a coal axe”. Only we know that’s not true, as being described as “one of the nicest girls you could ever hope to meet”, who was placid, sweet-natured and unflappable, Emily was never violent. “She threw it at me. It glanced off my shoulder”. But when Pat was examined by a doctor, he had no cuts or bruises to any part of his body. “It hit the bedroom door, breaking the shaft”. And although the Police found a small hand-axe with its handle split, tests confirmed it had been splintered by repetitive hard strikes, not a single blow, and on none of the doors was there an axe-wound. “I felt appalled at the fury she showed me and realised how strong she was”. Given her physical fitness, his lack of injuries and being a woman who could handle herself, the Police believed she didn’t die in a fight as he had suggested, but in a cowardly brutal attack from behind. “We struggled, fell over an easy chair and her head came into violent contact with the round coal cauldron”. And although, a leg on the cast iron cauldron was bent, the housekeeper confirmed this had happened one year prior. “She lay stunned or dead. The next few seconds I cannot remember, except as a nightmare of horror for I saw blood begin to issue from Miss Kaye's head. I did my utmost to revive her”. Only he didn’t. Pat’s statement was a tissue of lies, and yet, the evidence told a different story… Having earlier stocked the cauldron full of coal and spent a short while chopping logs, Pat hid the axe in the bedroom. Seeing the notorious womaniser stumble home late, Emily calmly put an end to the relationship and - dressed in slippers, bloomers and a silk nightdress - she walked out of the bedroom to sleep somewhere else. For Pat, who wanted out, she had handed it him on a plate. It was fun while it lasted but the affair was over. Besides, Pat didn’t love Emily… …but he did love her money. And with the bungalow secluded, the axe in his fist and Emily’s back turned; as his greed overpowered any rational thought, just as he had with the banker’s housemaid – Olive Wickens - seeing her not as a human-being but as an obstacle to his money, with a single fast blow, Pat buried the axe in her head. Caught off-guard, as an intense pain shot into her brain, Emily staggered into the sitting room, dazed and blinded, her last steps marked by a bloody trickle. Only being physically strong she didn’t fall, so having learned from his attack on Olive (who had survived having been repeatedly beaten over the head with a hammer), Pat wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Emily, and having bludgeoned her skull so the bone caved in and the axe broke, Pat strangled Emily until her legs stopped twitching. “The struggle reduced me to exhaustion, and as the terrible position I was in flooded my brain, I was still so upset that I could not carry out my intention to decapitate the body”. When questioned by the Police, Pat perfectly played the part of the grieving lover whose fiancé had died in a tragic accident, only his tears weren’t real and his delay in her dismemberment had nothing to do with grief. Five days prior, on Thursday 10th April, whilst waiting for a train at Richmond Station, 32 year old Ethel Primrose Duncan met a handsome Irish rogue who (although he had a wife at home and a pregnant mistress in a hotel) he claimed to be an unhappily married and impending divorcee called Pat Waller. On Tuesday 15th April, as Emily cooked a romantic roast dinner for two, Pat dined with Ethel. Returning late to the love-nest with perfume on his suit, lipstick on his cheek and cheap whiskey on his breath, for Emily - this was the last straw. And yet, before she was even dead, Pat had already invited his new mistress to spend the following weekend with him in the secluded little cottage in Pevensey Bay. …all he needed was Emily out of the way. On Thursday 17th, Pat sent Ethel a telegram and a £4 money order to get a train ticket to Eastbourne. Anticipating a sexy weekend, to set a more romantic mood; he scrubbed the bloodied carpet, shoved Emily’s stuff in a box and – as she was too tall to dump in the trunk – he decapitated her cold corpse, his knee on her chest, sweating profusely, as his butcher’s meat saw ripped through skin, muscle and bone, severing her spine, and splitting her body into two arms, two legs, a torso and a head. Ethel stayed at the bungalow from Friday to Sunday; sleeping in a dead woman’s bed, spending a dead woman’s money, shagging a dead woman’s killer, and all just a few feet from the mangled stinking mess of his mistresses’ rotting flesh. Thankfully, Ethel had a cold so she smelled nothing. With the weekend’s fun done, over the next ten days, Pat disposed of the body of Emily Beilby Kaye. As a broad girl, even with her limbs sawn in half and her torso split in quarters, her bits were still too big to bin. So in the scullery’s bath, using the ten inch Cook’s knife, Pat sliced off her sagging muscles, the jagged blade tearing at her rancid meat, as a thick gloop of congealed blood, cartilage and sinew splashed up the cast iron bath and clogged the choking drain-pipe. On the stove, three two-gallon sauce-pans boiled hour-after-hour, as in a red bubbling liquid with a yellowy-brown curd on top, severed arms and hands were boiled down to bones, with a rough gristle sunk to the base of the pot, as the air hung with an unholy mix of old stew, hot fat and singed hair. On the fires, he burned her feet, neck, bits of spine, “the thigh bone also, it’s surprising what a fire will destroy”. And although - at some point - he must have loved her, “I burned the head in fire, it was finished in about three hours”; as he sat and watched his mistress’ face char and blacken until nothing was left but a skull. “I poked it, the fire poker went through her head”. And to sum-up how little his lover meant to him, “the next day I smashed up the skull and put the pieces in a bin”. By 28th April, almost two weeks after her murder, Pat still struggled to fully dispose of Emily’s body; in the trunk were two slabs of pelvis and her right upper chest, in her hat-box were twenty wrapped slivers of boiled flesh, and in a Huntley & Palmer’s biscuit tin were her lungs, heart, bowels, liver and intestines – all yet to be boiled, burned or binned. And with the bungalow sticky with blood, crawling with flies and oozing with hot pots of human fat, with close to a thousand bone fragments in the fire’s ash-pan, it was all an absolute mess, but (being due back at work) Pat had to go home. Planning to return, Pat packed his brown Gladstone bag; he wrapped the Cook’s knife in the bloomers, twenty more slivers of boiled flesh parcelled-up in the nightdress and stashed inside the tennis satchel to disguise the smell, and “I threw them out of the train between Eastbourne and Waterloo”. That same day, at the left luggage kiosk in Waterloo Station, having handed in his bag, Pat was given ticket number J2415, which he placed inside the pocket of his crumpled brown suit. And that night, at home, as he kissed his wife and child, he grinned with delight, as once again he had defied God. Only, with the trap having been set, this would be his last sin of Patrick Mahon. (End) On Friday 2nd May 1924 at 8:40pm, having bought a return ticket to Eastbourne, Pat collected the brown Gladstone bag and was apprehended by PC Mark Thompson, but he wasn’t arrested, as at that point the Police didn’t know if a crime had even been committed - all they had was the bag. Interviewed at Kensington Road Police Station, when he was shown its contents, Pat remained cool, claiming it was meat for his dogs. But Chief Inspector Guy Savage refused to accept his lies, and after an hour of cunning silence, Pat broke and said “I suppose you know everything. I'll tell you the truth". And although his statement was a tissue of lies, the evidence inside the bungalow spoke volumes. According to the Home Office pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the body was destroyed beyond all recognition, but having trawled through sauce-pans of bloodied gloop, bins of sliced-up bits and even the clogged drain-pipe of the bath, he matched the victim’s blood group, hair colour, height, weight, shoe size, sex, age and month of her pregnancy to the missing woman called Emily Beilby Kaye, having painstakingly recreated her skull from hundreds of smashed bits of bone in the fire’s ash. And so, even without a body, the Police could prove not only that was this wasn’t an accident, but this was a murder. On 8th July 1924, at Lewes Assizes, Patrick Mahon pleaded “not guilty” and stuck to his story that Emily’s death was a tragic accident having hit her head on the coal scuttle. But faced with overwhelming evidence and the jury appalled not just at his callous acts but also by the affair he had engaged in with Ethel Duncan between the day of the death and the dismemberment, having been found guilty of the murder of Emily Beilby Kaye, on Wednesday 3rd September 1924 at 9am, Patrick Mahon was executed at Wandsworth Prison. The liar, cheat, thief and womaniser had almost got away with the perfect murder… almost, had it not been for his bag, a ticket and the suspicions of his wife. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the concluding part of The Fatal Fling of Emily Beilby Kaye. For all of Mickey’s bona-fide Belgian Bun munching pals, there’s more sweet treats after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Vivia Boe, Georgia Harris and Diane Low, I thank you, with an extra thank you to the patrons who have even increased their pledge to get extra goodies like early and ad-free episodes and even a Murder Mile mug. Ooh. Plus special thank you’s to Tom & Nicola Rainsley-Hughes for the lovely card and the wedding seeds which I have planted in my Murder Mile plant pot and thank you to Emma Thorpe, who I met at the Generation Why / They Walk Among Us meet-up, for sending me the lovely nice email. 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.
The Murder Mile Threadless Store
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
Sounds (not created by myself):
Sources: This case was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archives.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #74: The Fatal Fling of Emily Beilby Kaye - Part One (The Affair)18/9/2019 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
EPISODE SEVENTY-FOUR:
On Monday 7th April 1924, Emily Beilby Kaye; a smart independent lady who felt her last chance of wedding bells and babies had her slipped-by, left her apartment at the Green Cross Club at 68 Guilford Street, WC1, having met an Irish rogue called “Pat”. And although this tawdry affair would lead to her death…it also led to one of the most significant innovations in murder investigations.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of The Green Cross Club at 66 Guilford Street, WC1, marked with a green !. It's at the bottom by 'Russell Square'. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho and Paddington, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. I can't post photos of Patrick Mahon and Emily Beilby Kaye here, so check my social media.
Guilford Street in the 1920's (note: The Grenville Hotel from Ep72 where Vera Crawford died in on the far right), middle photo is 68 Guilford Street today and on the right is the street itself.
TRANSCRIPT:
Ep74 – The Fatal Fling of Emily Beilby Kaye – Part One (The Affair)
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about 38 year old Emily Beilby Kaye; a smart, calm and independent lady who felt her last chance of wedding bells and babies had slipped-by. But having met an Irish rogue called “Pat”, although she was deeply in love with a married man, this tawdry affair would led to her death. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 74: The Fatal Fling of Emily Beilby Kaye – Part One (The Affair). Today I’m standing on Guilford Street in Bloomsbury, WC1; one street south of the Tavistock Square bus bombing, two streets east of the Abominable Mr & Mrs Cox, a few doors down from the ‘peaceful’ sleep of Vera Crawford in The Grenville Hotel and one street west of the misreported killing of Darlene Horton - coming soon to Murder Mile. Guilford Street is an ugly little side-street just off Russell Square, which being crammed full of unsightly student halls, aging hospitals and long lines of (previously ramshackle, but now smartly renovated) five storey Victorian townhouses, many of which were converted into hotels, B&Bs and hostels; with no bars, cafes or museums, this street is an insult to your eye-balls, your backside and your cake-hole. In fact, the only sound you’ll hear is the endless thrum of suitcase wheels, noisily scraping and scuffing along the pot-holed street, as with the tourists having packed for our rather pitiful three-day British summer – with most women carting about a canvas Cargo container of everything they’ve ever owned and most men having packed a single pair of underpants – what they’ve forgotten are the essentials; not shorts, sunglasses and sandals, but rain-macs, rat-poison and (if they arrive any time after Brexit) tinned foods, candles and bottled water. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine (clip – Boris bumbling). 68 Guilford Street is currently a series of stylish apartments in a slim five-storey terraced house, with (the standard) white stucco on the ground-floor, brown brick above, black wrought iron railings and a single black entrance door. But back in the 1920’s this was the Green Cross Club; a “bachelor house” which provided safe, comfortable and elegant accommodation for independent and career-minded single ladies, who weren’t rich but having worked hard they could afford to live well. One of those residents was a delightful if slightly lonely lady called Emily Beilby Kaye and here she was happy. And yet, having got engaged, packed her bags and was ready to elope with the man of her dreams, on Monday 7th April 1924, Emily walked out of the Green Cross Club and never returned (Interstitial) For fourteen years, Jessie Mahon had been the long suffering wife of Pat; a handsome Irish charmer with chiselled good looks, a roguish cheek and the gift of the gab. Pat wasn’t a good husband; as having a chequered past he struggled to hold down a job, being bad with money he was too broke to pay any bills and with a long history of betting on horse-races and cheating on his wife (which he had assured her was over), having stood by him for the sake of their only child, their family was reliant on Jessie. Only with Pat having been distant over the last few months and absent for most of the last few weeks; leaving without reason, returning without warning and never with a convincing excuse, once again, Jessie had suspected that he had gone back to his old ways of gambling… and he was having an affair. Having returned on the evening of Monday 28th April to their home at 2 Pagoda Avenue in the affluent suburb of Kew; with his brown suit crumpled and his Gladstone bag missing, as Pat kissed his wife and child as if nothing had happened, Jessie could see from his oddly quiet demeanour that he harboured a guilty secret and (as a Christian) his soul was being punished having broken one of God’s deadly sins. Suspecting him of seeing another woman, Jessie’s worst fears were confirmed when hidden in his suit pocket she found a letter confirming he had leased an undisclosed bungalow from 11th April until 8th June for £3 10s a week, and a cloak room ticket issued at the left luggage kiosk at Waterloo Station. With a potential divorce looming against her philandering husband and needing ironclad proof of his infidelity, Jessie wisely asked John Beard - a friend and a former Divisional Detective Inspector for the Met who now worked for the British Transport Police – to investigate her husband’s tawdry affair. At the left luggage kiosk at the south side of Waterloo Station, accompanied by two railway officials, John Beard handed the attendant ticket number J2415. From a sea of coats, hats and cases, he was given a brown Gladstone bag, owned by Pat. Made of hardened ox-leather, missing a key and with the clasp lock firmly shut, the case could not be opened, but by carefully prying a side flap apart, John peeped inside and saw further proof of Pat’s adultery – a pair of women’s bloomers. But who was this woman that Pat having an affair with? As many names as Jessie would have hurled at her husband’s lover, in truth, she wasn’t a gold-digger, a harlot or a home-wrecker, she was just a lonely spinster struggling to retain her last chance at love. Born on 26th November 1885, Emily Beilby Kaye was the youngest of five children to Charles & Emma Kaye - a prosperous shipping merchant and a hard-working housewife - with two brothers (Elijah & Charles), two sisters (Gertrude & Elizabeth) and raised in the middle-class affluence of Altringham in Lancashire, they always had a domestic servant. The family was educated, decent and moral. Blessed with both physical and mental strength, even though she was taller than most girls; with broad shoulders, an athletic frame and a distinctive look of bobbed brown hair, grey-blue eyes and a parrot-like nose - being calm, quiet and bookish - Emily was undeniably clever but painfully shy. Described as “one of the nicest girls you could ever hope to meet”, Emily was always smartly dressed, sweet-natured and polite. She never have a bad bone in her body, a curse word on her lips or a hurtful thought in her head, and being so prepared and placid, her unflappable attitude would guide her through the endless tragedies which would befall her life. Aged seventeen, her parents died in an accident, and with both of her brothers (Edward and Charles) and her eldest sister (Gertrude) dying a few years later, living with her one remaining sister – Elizabeth – Emily supported herself for more than twenty years; having wisely invested her £600 inheritance in shares, spent frugally and earned a decent living as a professional secretary. But by 1922, with her sister Elizabeth now a married mum living in Manchester, 36 year old Emily moved to London. Eager to live somewhere safe for a single lady, near to her work and not too far from her bowls club, but nowhere which would break-the-bank or cause her to dip into her savings (of almost £35,000 today), being financially astute, Emily moved into the Green Cross Club at 68 Guilford Street. And in a small but stylish flat that she shared with her close pal and tennis partner - Edith Mary Warren - who she nicknamed “Fizz”, with Emily affectionately nicknamed “Peter”, the two ladies were inseparable. With tragedy behind her, by being both calm and clever, Emily had blossomed into a self-sufficient woman with a good job, a nice life, solid savings and no worries. But with her fortieth birthday slowly looming, most of her pals all married off, and being cruelly seen by society as a spinster, she felt that her last chance at love had slipped away. And then, she met the man of her dreams. In May 1923, whilst working as a secretary at an accountants called Robertson Hill & Co in Moorgate, Consols Automatic Aerators Ltd, a factory which made Soda Fountains went into liquidation. With Robertson Hill & Co appointed as the receiver, Emily regularly spoke on the phone with the company’s sales manager and a friendship ‘of-sorts’ was formed, but it wasn’t until the July that they would meet. When Pat walked in, Emily was instantly smitten. As a striking six footer with deep chestnut eyes, soft wavy brown hair and a cheeky roguish grin, who lifted the mood of any room like a ray of Irish sunshine, Pat had the looks and Emily fell for his charm. Having been a single lady for a good long while, unused to doing the wooing and feeling her forties charge forth, Emily was a little rusty at courtship. That aside, any passionate plans would be scuppered as Pat was still married, but having been reassured that his and his wife’s relationship was as-good-as done and an amicable divorce was close-to imminent, happy that no-one would be hurt, Emily pursued her man and her hopes for a lasting love. By September, after a delightful day by the river, their first “intimacy” took place. Emily was deeply in love, and as her heart pounded, so did the pace of their relationship, as talk turned to marriage. Emily was eager for them to live respectfully and legally as “man and wife”, so awaiting his divorce, the usually frugal Emily quit her job, sold her shares in Dunlop and the Meux Brewery, and withdrew £400 (£25000 today), as Emily & Pat planned to begin a new exciting life together in South Africa via Paris. On 27th March 1924, as Emily recuperated from the flu at the South Western Hotel in Southampton (as the sea air did wonders for her health) Pat popped into a high-street jewellers and purchased a 14 carat gold ring with a large sapphire surrounded by diamonds. That night, over champagne, with the stars twinkling bright and having got down on bended knee, Pat proposed and Emily’s dream came true. Giddy with excitement, on 1st April, a beaming Emily returned to London, a sparkler on her finger and a spring in her step, as having set a date for the big day, her future looked rosy. In her room, she wrote letters to her close friends and one remaining sister informing them of her “great news”. And with no need to live in such a solitary space for old maids and unloved spinsters, especially now that her pal and flat-mate “Fizz” was seeing her new beau called Fred, with love in the air, Emily packed. On the morning of Monday 7th April 1924, having hailed a taxi and carting a tennis racket, a hat box and a large brown trunk, all wisely etched with her initials of ‘EBK’ (should they ever be misplaced), Emily exited the black front door and left the Green Cross Club forever. (Change) In the left luggage kiosk at the south side of Waterloo Station, John Beard stared at the Gladstone bag, its clasp lock firmly shut, but having peeped inside and seen further proof of Pat’s adultery – a pair of women’s bloomers – the question wasn’t just who was this woman, but where was she now? Although adultery wasn’t a criminal offence, as an officer in the British Transport Police, John had the authority to open any bag he deemed suspicious, and using a small penknife, he easily picked the lock. Inside, the hard leather case was a unsightly mess, as having been packed fast and stashed here so its contents would be hidden from his long-suffering and rightfully dubious wife, not only did the bag contain irrefutable evidence of her husband’s infidelity, but also the dire consequences of conducting an adulterous affair. As finding a pair of ladies bloomers, a torn silk nightdress, a white bath towel - all of which were bloodstained - and a sharp knife, often being performed by the untrained in secluded and unsanitary conditions, a backstreet abortion was illegal, and for many woman, it was fatal. So fearing a crime had been committed, John Beard contacted Superintendent Welsey of Scotland Yard. Emily’s drab little life as a lonely spinster was finally over and her new exciting life as a wife-to-be was about to begin. Having travelled by train from Waterloo to the coastal town of Eastbourne, as agreed, she booked herself into the Kenilworth Court Hotel to await her lover and recover from the flu. Oddly, being so athletic, she was usually strong as an ox and fighting-fit, but after three weeks nausea, insomnia and vomiting which had left her quite weak, with her sickness confined to the mornings and her “ladies curse” unusually late this month and last, this wasn’t the flu, but something more joyful. As Emily recuperated, having seen an advert in Dalton’s Weekly, Pat rented a romantic little bungalow called The Officer’s House in Pevensey Bay; a sweet whitewashed cottage in a row of former homes for the local Coast Guard, which overlooked the sea between Eastbourne and Bexhill. As a love-nest, it was perfect; as set on a coastal walk, the lovers could stroll along the shingle beach as the rolling waves splashed about their feet, far from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of those who disapproved, but still being quite a cautious lady, with the cottage rented from 11th April until 8th June, this gave Pat & Emily time to live as “husband and wife” before they eloped overseas. So with the quaint little bungalow stocked-full of everything the couple would ever need; a master bedroom, three guest rooms and two sitting rooms featuring a cosy coal fire; a box-room to store her large trunk and other such luggage, a kitchen with every conceivable utensil and a scullery chockful of logs, kindling and (if needed) an axe; being woozy with dreams of romantic nights cuddled-up with her lover beside a roaring fire, the fee was paid in advance and Pat pocketed a letter confirming the lease. On Saturday 12th April, Emily checked out of the Kenilworth Court Hotel, she politely asked if any mail for her could be redirected to Paris - their first stop before South Africa – and having loaded up her tennis racket in a brown canvas satchel, a hat box and a large brown trunk, she met Pat off the train at slightly later time of 4:49pm and made their way to The Officer’s House in Pevensey Bay. On the afternoon of the 13th, the loving couple were seen walking arm-in-arm along the shingle beach. On midday of the 14th, Emily posted a letter to her pal (which was stamped with a date, a time and a place). And on the morning of Tuesday 15th April, a butcher delivering meat to a cottage adjoining their own saw Emily heading out to the shops, and – being a polite lady – she smiled and waved. That was the last time she was seen alive. Having given Miss Warren a forwarding address of ‘c/o The Standard Bank in Capetown, South Africa’, as a sweet-natured woman whose thoughts were always of others and rarely about herself, the last letter she ever wrote was to arrange to see her beloved friend again. “Dear old Fizz. Very many thanks for sending on the parcel. Apparently you’re up in town this weekend, I wonder if Fred is up with you. Pat arrived and we are having a very nice time – quiet – but a nice change from town. He particularly wants to get us to Paris for Easter and I would love you and Fred to come and have dinner with us before setting out on our final journey. I shall look forward to seeing you then. We are returning from here on Wednesday and going straight over to Paris. Gay old Paris. Love to all my pals at the club and lots to yourself old thing. Yours ever. Peter” But by the time Fizz had received it, Emily was dead. At the left luggage kiosk in Waterloo Station, John Beard showed Superintendent Welsey the ripped and bloodied rags stashed inside the Gladstone bag; a bath towel, a nightdress and a pair of bloomers. Still uncertain whether adultery or an illegal abortion had taken place, with no proof that a crime had been committed, the contents of the bag were purely circumstantial. The clothes could merely be rags used to mop up a spill or to wrap-up a butcher’s blade. Being ten inches long, the Cook’s knife was too unwieldy for an abortion as the thick serrated blade was better at carving up meat, therefore the blood was just as likely to have come from an animal in an abattoir. And with the initials ‘EBK’ matching no-one who had been reported missing, the evidence pointed to a possible affair, but nothing more. And yet, with the blood’s origin undetermined and the base of the Gladstone bag oozing with a strange yellowy-brown layer of grease, Chief Inspector Guy Savage requested the assistance of the Divisional Surgeon Aubrey Scott Gillett. As if the blood was human and the grease was what the Police thought it was, they knew that – whoever EBK was - something very bad had happened to her. The night of Tuesday 15th April 1924 was nasty, as a violent storm ripped through the heart of Pevensey Bay and a biting rain lashed down the whitewashed walls of the bungalow. So dark was the night that as a thick soupy fog suffocated the moonlight and the bitter wind howled so loud - like a pack of hungry wolves tearing at fleshy carcass – that from inside their little love-nest, nothing could be seen or heard. Illuminated by candles, a coal-fire and gas-lights, although Pat had stocked the cast iron cauldron full of coal and spent a short while chopping logs into little lumps, all with a pointlessly small axe; the roast dinner was a disaster thanks to the kitchen’s old pots, cracked crockery and blunt knives. And as the storm raged, the weather outside matched the mood inside, as not only was Pat still married, not only was Pat still not divorced, but being just days from leaving for Paris, Pat still didn’t have a passport, At around 10:30pm, although we can never be certain, as Emily stood in the sitting room; dressed in slippers, bloomers and a silk nightdress, the question of Pat’s commitment arose, as her last chance at love slowly began slipping away. In a later statement, Pat would say “She fumed and raved. Suddenly, in a fit of anger, she picked up a coal axe and threw it at me. It glanced off my shoulder and it hit the bedroom door, breaking the shaft”. When investigated, the Police would find a small hand-axe, its handle split. “I felt appalled at the fury she showed me and realised suddenly how strong she was. She dashed at me and clutched at my face and neck”. Talking to those who knew her, it was clear that as a tall broad-shouldered woman and a keen tennis player, she was powerfully built and knew how to handle herself. “In sheer desperation and fright, I did my best to fight back, we struggled, fell over an easy chair and Miss Kaye's head came into violent contact with the round coal cauldron”. And as expected, by the side of the sitting-room fireplace, the Police would find a cast iron cauldron with one of its legs bent. “She lay stunned or dead. The next few seconds I cannot remember, except as a nightmare of horror for I saw blood begin to issue from Miss Kaye's head. I did my utmost to revive her”. But by then, it was too late and Emily Beilby Kaye was dead. Pat’s statements continued… “The struggle reduced me to exhaustion, and as the terrible position I was in flooded my brain, I cannot remember, but I think I gently placed the body of Miss Kaye into the trunk”. In the box-room, the Police would find a large brown trunk, bloodstained and initialled with the letters ‘EBK’. “I came up to London on 17th April and purchased a knife and a small saw”. At the Staines Kitchen Equipment Company at 94 Victoria Street, a salesman sold Pat a ten inch Cook’s knife and a butcher’s meat saw, as in the cottage’s kitchen, its largest knives were too blunt to be of any use. Petrified of this dreadful accident being uncovered, “I severed the legs from the hips, cut off the head and the arms, which I burnt in the fire. I boiled some of the flesh in a pot, the smell was appalling, so I cut up the portions small, packed them in a brown Gladstone bag and I threw them out of the train between Waterloo and Richmond”. All of which was corroborated by a stack of stained pots, a foul smell and ash in the fire’s pan, but sadly, no flesh was ever found by the sniffer-dogs. Having stashed the Gladstone bag in the left luggage kiosk of Waterloo Station as “I was returning to the bungalow to get some more flesh to be disposed of”, on the evening of Monday 28th April, Pat returned home, hung up his suit which wreaked with the stench of a boiled body, and – as if nothing had happened - he kissed his wife and child (End). The death of Emily Beilby Kaye was effectively an ‘open and shut’ case; a tragic accident backed-up by facts and a statement by her lover. If found guilty of manslaughter, Pat would serve a few years in prison, but with no other witnesses and very little evidence to suggest ‘foul play’, Pat would most likely face the lesser charge of ‘denying a proper burial’, for which he would serve just a few weeks. On Friday 1st May 1924, seventeen days after she was last seen alive, Police Divisional Surgeon Aubrey Scott Gillett confirmed that the bloodstains found on the rags and the yellowy-brown grease which oozed across the base of the Gladstone bag were human. Having identified the victim by linking the ‘EBK’ initials on her canvas satchel to her tennis club, the Police knew who she was; but with no departures to Paris or South Africa in her name, and no letters or sightings after the 15th April (which was highly unusual for such a social and thoughtful lady), the Police suspected that something bad had happened to Emily, but they had no idea what, or even where she was. The Police were certain of one thing - this was not an accident, or an abortion, this was a murder. But how do you prove a murder took place when an accident is the most logical answer? How do you prove a murder when the victim is missing? How do you disprove a murderer’s alibi when his statement is factually accurate but clearly a tissue of lies? And how do you prove that a murder was premeditated and committed in cold-blood, when every essential piece of evidence has been either boiled, burned or destroyed, and the body of the victim herself… will never be found? To be continued… OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. The concluding part of The Fatal Fling of Emily Beilby Kaye continues next week. For all of Mickey’s Bakewell tart chomping beauties, there’s more tea-riffic treats and cakey-goodness after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Wendy Evans, Russell Tudge and Kara Langford, I thank you, with an extra thank you to the patrons who have even increased their pledge to get extra goodies like early and ad-free episodes of Murder Mile. Ooh. I thank you. Plus special thank you’s to Amanda King for the kind donation via PayPal, Dawn Smith for the very kind donation sent via the Donate button on the Murder Mile merch shop, and Dan Huxley (who came on a Murder Mile Walk) armed with cake. I am a very lucky boy, so I thank you all. 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.
The Murder Mile Threadless Store
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
Sounds:
Sources: This case was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archives.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts and an iTunes Top 25 podcast. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Queen's Walk on the South Bank where Chelsea O'Mahoney (and the gang) kicked David Morley to death
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 London's West End.
EPISODE SEVENTY-THREE:
On Saturday 18th September 2004, at 3:10am, on the South bank of the River Thames, David Morley met Chelsea O'Mahoney; two very different people raised by very different parents under very different circumstances; one was loving and kind, the other was heartless and cruel, and yet, having met by chance, their lives would be changed forever.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright-protected, below are photos taken by me and to view the others, take a peek at my social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of Queen's Walk on the South Bank where David Morley was murdered with a purple exclamation mark, just south of the river, and I've included the other locations, mentioned in the episode with red skull and cross bones around it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as King's Cross and Paddington, you can access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Top left: Lower Marsh where David Dobson was attacked. Top middle: Queen's Walk where David Morley was attacked. Top right: Embankment where the students were attacked. Bottom left: Jubilee Gardens where Nigel Elliot was attacked. Bottom Middle: Leake Street where Wayne Miller was attacked. Bottom right: The Admiral Duncan pub.
TRANSCRIPT:
Ep73 – The Raising of David & Chelsea
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about the upbringing of David Morley and Chelsea O'Mahoney; two very different people raised by very different parents under very different circumstances; one was loving and kind, the other was heartless and cruel, and yet, having met by chance, their lives would be changed forever. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 73: The Raising of David & Chelsea. Today I’m standing on the South Bank, on the south side of the River Thames; a short walk down from the dubious suicide of Roberto Calvi under Blackfriars Bridge, a short walk up from the terrorist attack on Westminster Bridge, a brisk dawdle right of the failed bombing of the Houses of Parliament by Guy Fawkes, the strangely successful assassination of sitting British Prime Minster Spencer Percival, and a few feet from the murder of Timothy Baxter on Hungerford Bridge - coming soon to Murder Mile. Officially called Queen’s Walk, as a grotty fifty foot wide concrete pavement between Lambeth Bridge and Tower Bridge, this side of the South Bank whiffs of 1950’s modernist architecture, as slabs of drab grey are pockmarked with wilting trees, rusty railings and the brownest river you’ve ever seen, which teems with local fish like the bum-trout, the arse-salmon, the stinkleback and the shit-haddock. Oddly, having been redeveloped from an ugly industrial shipping port full of docks, wharfs, cranes and the former Lion Brewery. Now, the South Bank has bloomed into an ugly tourist trap, where every year thousands of sightseers flock to explore the “real” London, only to see long lines of market stalls serving traditional English foods like hotdogs, candy floss, curry and paella; to see aquatic mammals in the Sea Life Centre (none of which are native to London), to see drummers from Tonga in the Royal Festival Hall, to be briefly scared by an out-of-work Aussie actor in the London Dungeon, and to go up a bit on the London Eye, see nothing through the city smog, and then go down again. Great days. That said, the South Bank is a great place for families, as it’s always full of mums, dads and kids sharing quality time; laughing, playing and learning invaluable lessons about life. Admittedly, some may be screaming little bags of snot, shit and piss who bleed you dry, but the importance of good parenting can never be undervalued, as the first seven years of a child’s life defines their personality forever. And although, just to the south side of the Hungerford Bridge, a bench has since been replaced by an anonymous tree, as parents and children play, they are unaware - that fifteen years earlier - two strangers (raised by very different parents) would meet here for the first and the very last time. As it was here, on Saturday 30th October 2004, that 37 year old David Morley, a good man who had survived so much, was kicked to death by 14 year old Chelsea O’Mahoney… and all for fun. (Interstitial) On Saturday 8th May 1999, in the heart of Soho, the bell of St Anne’s rang three times. Three solitary bells reverberated off the walls of Dean Street, Wardour Street and Old Compton Street, their echoes audible in an eerily quiet city, as each ring – one for each victim - peeled-off towards the setting sun. As the last bell tolled, thousands of people stood, heads bowed, as they observed a minute’s silence. A sea of grief; all hugging, weeping and holding hands in a mix of mournful black clothes and bright rainbow flags, barely one hundred feet from the boarded-up remains of the Admiral Duncan pub. One of those mourners was the pub’s assistant manager David Morley. Barely one week after the bombing – which had killed three and injured seventy-four – with the images still as fresh and the pain was still as raw as the burns to his face and hands, having narrowly escaped with his life when a nail bomb ripped the pub apart, although deeply traumatised, as a good decent man who was described as loving and kind, he wasn’t there to mourn his loss, but to comfort others. David Morley was born on the 3rd October 1967 in a small West Midlands village, as the adopted son of Geoffrey & Doreen Morley. As an only child who was raised by a late-thirties married couple in good careers - being smart, stable and level-headed - although they showered their baby boy with love, he was never spoilt, so blessed with a good education, they raised him as a fine young man. Likewise, although they weren’t his blood, David adored his parents; calling them every week without fail and going with them on holidays. But being quiet, conservative and almost two generations older than himself, although the lie ate at his soul, being worried about how the truth might embarrass his beloved parents, by thinking of their feelings instead of his own, he kept his homosexuality a secret. In 1988, aged 21, David moved to London and (more importantly) to Soho. As a gay man working in a gay pub in openly gay part of town, here David could be himself, and as his confidence blossomed, he became a real showman behind the bar, who the regulars nicknamed Sinders. Described as "big, jovial, fun and hugely camp", David was “the life and soul of a party. He made a good night into a great night. There was never a sad face when Sinders was around", as David wasn’t just loved, he was beloved. And with his parents living a quiet village life and rarely coming to London, he kept both worlds apart. But on Friday 30th April 1999 at 6:40pm - for better and for worse - his life would be changed forever. (Explosion) Left in a rucksack by the bar of the Admiral Duncan pub was a homemade bomb built by a deluded Neo-Nazi consisting of six pounds of explosives made from fireworks and fertiliser, a wind-up alarm clock in a transparent sandwich box as a crude timer, and as shrapnel, the bomber had filled the bag full of over one thousand steel nails, so whoever the blast didn’t kill, these four-to-six inch high-speed projectiles would; three people died, seventy-four were injured and hundreds were left traumatised. Deafened by screams, blinded by smoke and disorientated by sirens, as the caustic smell of fertiliser stung his eyes, David’s focus wasn’t on saving himself, but escorting the injured to safety. At 7pm, as David’s parents switched on the news, they saw their son’s pub, all smashed and smoking, the street outside a sea of blood, as unconfirmed reports spoke of injuries and deaths. Knowing they’d be distraught, twenty minutes later, from amidst the carnage, David called his parents to reassure them “I’m fine”. Over the coming weeks, although physically and mentally scarred, David stood side-by-side with his fellow survivors at the memorial service at St Anne’s, he spent his spare time visiting the injured in hospital and (being promoted to manager) David saw it as his duty to the community to rebuild the Admiral Duncan, and - fighting through his own pain and trauma - it re-opened just nine weeks later. The next day, having caught the earliest train to be with their son and seen every newspaper headline emblazoned with the words ‘gay pub bombed’ - with his secret out and being riddled with guilt - David apologised to his parents saying “I’m sorry you had to find out this way”. But loving their boy without question, being happy that he was happy, his homosexuality wasn’t a problem. In fact, although being born in a generation where they rarely expressed their feelings, Geoffrey wrote a letter to his son in which he said 'Your mum and I are so proud'. David Morley was a rock; a generous, kind and loving man who put others before his own pain, having been the product of two parents who taught him how to be a decent human-being. He was strong for those who needed him to be strong, but when asked how he was coping, David would shrug it off with a jovial “I’ve had better days”. And although he always laughed loud, his smile was painted-on, his eyes were full of sadness, and struggling to cope, he partied hard and drowned his fears with booze. In 2004, five years after the bombing; David quit drinking, partying and working at the Admiral Duncan, and with the support of his faithful friends, loyal colleagues and loving family, he finally began to turn his life around. And then, on Saturday 30th October 2004, by chance, he met a broken girl from a very different upbringing and her name was Chelsea O’Mahoney. (Interstitial) Chelsea Kayleigh Peaches O'Mahoney was born on the 16th November 1989 in Edgware hospital, West London; the middle-child of five to Susanne Cato, a single mother and an unknown convict father, and with both parents being hopeless heroin abusers, Chelsea was born an addict. As a junkie, living in squalor and half-starved, Susanne didn’t give a shit about anything except her next fix, as her wailing babies saw her strung-out, shooting-up and with blood spurting from a ripped vein. With no love, care or support, left to fend for herself, a severely neglected Chelsea was found by social services wandering the city streets, alone and at night, aged just three. Unable to rehabilitate her mum, aged seven, Chelsea taken into care. To give her an ounce of stability, instead of being fostered out to strangers, she was placed with an aunt and uncle in South London, and to try and maintain some kind of a normal relationship with her mum, she was granted regular phone calls, but being too drunk to speak to her own daughter, Susanne forgot and the calls ceased. Seven years later, aged fourteen, with her exasperated aunt and uncle unable to cope with the violent, emotional and unruly girl, who stayed out all-night, smoked cannabis and daubed graffiti, Chelsea was fostered out to yet another aunt, this time on the Ethelred Estate in Kennington, South London. That year, with her aunt becoming seriously ill, Chelsea was fostered again. Being rejected and displaced by a succession of substitute parents, her most formative years were a fragmented and chaotic mess, as Chelsea was bounced from house-to-house, with no love, no routine, no role-model, and always feeling like she was a burden. No-one cared for her and she cared for no-one… and then, she found a new family in Darren Case, Reece Sargeant and David Blenman. Supposedly the leader of the gang, 20 year old Reece Sargeant was an easily-led lad who attended a special needs school for his learning difficulties, speech impediment and emotional problems. Raised by disabled grandparents, following an abusive upbringing, 17 year old Darren Case left school aged 13 and was described as aggressive, hyperactive and psychologically damaged. And 16 year old David Blenman, having never met his father was abandoned by his mother, bounced between relatives, suffered from emotional and behavioural problems and had prior convictions for mugging. A broken band of brothers brought together by an unusual bond, but in each other they found a family. In her diary, scrawled in a mix of pidgin English and Jamaican patois, as the love-sick Chelsea mimicked the West Indian roots of her boyfriend David Blenman, she wrote about the gang’s violent assaults: “Yesterday I done an allniter wiv Barry, Darren and Reece. Them lot bang up some old homeless man which I fink is bad, even doe I woz laughen after”. Prior to 2004, Chelsea had no criminal record, but simply as a way to entertain herself - with the boys being of limited intelligence, easily-led and eager to impress - having slugged back several bottles of vodka and toked on a few spliffs, the feral gang engaged in an all-night spree of muggings and violent assaults on strangers, which she filmed on her phone, in a sadistic craze known as “happy slapping”. At a little after 1am, in the early hours of Saturday 30th October 2004, with the gang of six - two black boys, two white boys and two white girls, including 19 year old Barry Lee and an unidentified girl – all dressed in hooded tops; having chosen their victims at random and attacked with no rhyme nor reason, as they did it for kicks, the gang set out from Kennington to the South Bank for a night of violence. In hindsight, their first victim of the night was remarkably lucky. At 2:30am, David Dobson, a 24 year old actor at the nearby Old Vic Theatre was confronted by the gang on Lower Marsh, a side-street running parallel with the Thames. As part of a pre-rehearsed plan, when one of them asked “do you know what time it is?”, as the lone victim glanced down at his watch, being briefly distracted, the cowardly pack pounced and rained down a volley of punches and kicks, as (on her phone) Chelsea filmed the assault. David Dobson fled with little more than cuts and bruises. Sadly, their second victim was not so lucky. At 3:10am, on the dimly-lit pavement of Queen’s Walk, on the south side of Hungerford Bridge, barely a few hundred feet from their last attack, the gang sidled-up to two men, quietly sitting on a bench, chatting by the river. The night was cool and calm, as the two friends savoured the soft autumn breeze having spent a pleasant evening at Heaven, a popular gay club on the Embankment. One was called Alastair Whiteside and the other was his friend of six years, a Soho bar manager called David Morley. Five years after the bombing of the Admiral Duncan, being physically well but mentally scarred and eager to move on, David uprooted to Chiswick, started a less stressful job at Bromptons (another gay pub over in Earls Court) and enjoying an occasional garden party with his boyfriends and his parents, he had finally begun to find his inner peace and to put the horrors of his past behind him. With the two men facing the river, having stealthfully approached from behind, neither David nor Alastair heard a thing as the gang surrounded them; the two girls either side, the four lads behind. Being just fourteen years old - with a pale cherubic face, neatly parted brown hair and deep blue eyes - Chelsea looked so innocent, like a little girl who could do no wrong. And with her left eyebrow raised, a jovial lilt to her voice and an amused smirk on her thin red lips, raising her camera-phone to meet David’s eye, she quipped “we're doing a documentary on happy slapping. Pose for the camera!” And at that, the gang attacked. Kicked to the ground, as David and Alastair lay helpless on the cold concrete slabs, the gang jumped and stamped on the cowering men, pummeling them with a volley of frenzied fists and flying feet, as having been robbed of their personal possessions, the savage beating continued. All the while, Chelsea excitedly captured the moment, on her phone, so they could all watch it again later, and laugh. Bloodied and bruised, as Alastair lay by the foot of the bench; too disorientate to flee and too terrified to fight back, as with the attack being so swift it was impossible to register, as he turned - slumped by the river railings like a sack of discarded rags - he saw the battered mess of his good friend. David was loving and kind, Chelsea was heartless and cruel, and yet, they had met by chance. But as two very different people raised by very different parents under very different circumstances, it was here that their lives would be changed forever, as the bomb-blast survivor met his sadistic killer. Unlike David, the big-hearted barman who always put others before himself; having rescued strangers from an explosion, visited the injured in hospital and comforted those who grieved, Chelsea had no love, no respect and no compassion for those she had hurt, as unable to attack back those who had hurt her, David was little more than a faceless stranger and the next-best-thing to a punch-bag. A few feet away, Chelsea stood. Seeing the bleeding man collapsed on the pavement, his hands by his side as he drifted in and out of consciousness; with a glint in her eye and a grimace on her face, having taken a quick run up, with a fast right foot, Chelsea kicked David hard in the head, booting it like a football as his skull jolted backwards. And feeling a buzz of exhilaration - as the gang dashed away, whooping and cheering at the fun of their night’s entertainment - she kicked his head again, and again, as David Morley lay dying. At 3:15am, just five minutes later, three students sitting on a bench on the opposite side of Hungerford Bridge were subjected to a violent assault, a mobile phone was stolen and the gang fled. At 3:20am, as Nigel Elliott sat in Jubilee Gardens by the London Eye, having missed his train, the gang attacked; he was tripped, kicked, robbed, beaten and smashed over the head with a beer bottle. At 3:30am, on Leake Street near Waterloo Station, the gang violently assaulted a homeless man called Wayne Miller as he lay sleeping rough in a shop doorway; stamping and jumping on his back and head, as the cowardly gang ran-off into the darkness, once again, they whooped in celebration. By 5am, having returned to the Ethelred Estate in Kennington, they divvied-up the loot which they had stashed in Chelsea’s blue trainer’s bag, sparked-up a few spliffs and cackled like demented loons as – crowded around the phone - they watched back the grainy footage of their night of terror. To them, it was all just big laugh. David was transferred to St Thomas’, a trauma hospital, a few hundred metres from the scene of these five violent assaults. Arriving in A&E - unconscious, swollen and bloodied - having sustained forty-four injuries, a doctor later said it was as if he had been hit by a car or had fallen from a great height. As when the feral yobs had jumped, stamped and kicked David, five of his ribs had snapped like twigs, causing his left lung to collapse and his spleen to rupture, so 60% of his blood leaked into his body. Geoffrey & Doreen Morley were on holiday when they received the fateful call that their son had been attacked. Just as they had after the bombing, they took the next train to London to be by the side of their beloved son… but having suffered a heart-attack in surgery, he was pronounced dead at 7.40pm. A thorough police investigation was conducted, but with each area being quiet, unlit and not covered by security cameras, with the gang’s faces hidden by hoodies, identifying them would be impossible. Except, with rough sleeper Wayne Miller having been assaulted near Waterloo Station, a CCTV camera had captured his attack in full, forensics found fingerprints, blood matched a broken beer bottle found Jubilee Gardens and with the feckless yobs having used two of the stolen phones, the Police tracked their movements and identified six youths; Darren Case, Reece Sargeant, David Blenman, Barry Lee, an unspecified female and (seen filming the assault on her phone) was Chelsea O’Mahoney. One week later, as Police entered her foster parent’s home in South Norwood, Chelsea pointed to the easily identifiable blue trainer’s bag (as seen on the CCTV) and glibly stated “That's what I wore on the night”. And although, in her diary, they had found entries relating to the attacks - “Yesterday I done an allniter wiv Barry, Darren and Reece. Them lot bang up some old homeless man which I fink is bad, even doe I woz laughen after” – when they examined her phone, the footage had been erased. Chelsea O’Mahoney was arrested for the murder of David Morley; but with no CCTV, her phone wiped and being just fourteen, although she had sadistically kicked David three times in the head which contributed to his death, with the evidence unsteady and her defence that she was merely as a spectator, it was likely that she would walk away from the serious charge of murder. (End) On the evening of Friday 5th November 2004, five years after the bombing, another memorial service was held at St Anne’s, and as a single church bell rang out, and its sombre echo reverberated off the crowded Soho streets, once again, more than a thousand misty-eyed people stood in silence. Only this time, one man was missing… but stood in his place was his proud parents. David Morley was a beautiful man; kind, loving and caring, who was abandoned at birth, grappled with depression, hid his homosexuality and survived a terror attack, and yet, still blossomed into vital part of the gay community, who always put others before himself and even risked his life to save strangers. On 23rd January 2006, following a trial at The Old Bailey; Reece Sargeant, Darren Case & David Blenman were sentenced to twelve years for the lesser charge of manslaughter and a six years for conspiracy to cause grievous bodily harm. And although Chelsea O’Mahoney claimed she hadn’t filmed or taken part in the attacks, she was simply “checking her phone”, she was found guilty and sentenced to a total of thirteen years for manslaughter and conspiracy, which she served in Peterborough Prison. After the trial, Geoffrey Morley said “I didn't see any signs of remorse on the defendants' faces. I think they were sorry - but only because they got caught". Having lost his only son, although still grieving, with some of the families of his son’s killer causing a disturbance in the public gallery, David’s friends and family had to be escorted out of court to safety in Police vans, having been threatened with throat-cutting gestures, as someone shouted "my cousin got twelve years because of your faggot friend". We are all responsible for our actions - there is no denying that - but how we are educated and raised by our parents plays a big part in the actions we take; whether we become a kind and loving person who rescues others from a bombed building, or a cruel and heartless yob who beats others to death. No-one is born good or bad, but the lessons we learn from those we love can change our lives forever. In September 2009, just four years after the murder of David Morley, 19 year old Chelsea O’Mahoney was released on licence from prison – where she is now… is unknown. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. For all of Mickey’s cakey-covered crazy what-nots, there’s more doobie-doobie quack-quack after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Adele Mol, Selina Dean and Linda Cardinale, I thank you. With a special thank you to Luisa Timothy for the yummy goodies (sadly, Police Constable Arsenal Guinness confiscated the Guinness caramels, under section bladdy bladdy blah of the 2006 Coppers Getting Fat Act), and extra thank you’s to Kim Nixon for the scrummy cakes and Maritha, Maarten and Preston for the fabulous waffles, all of which have mysteriously disappeared. A special thank you to everyone who left reviews of Murder Mile on iTunes, it is really helping get the show higher up the rankings and is very much appreciated. As always, if you want to see what the murder locations look like, every Thursday I upload a blog for each episode, with a map, location videos, photos etc. There is a link to this in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
The Murder Mile Threadless Store
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
Sources: As no National Archive files on this case were available, I used the court transcripts from The Old Bailey and other verified sources. Oh, and some newspapers, if I had to :-)
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform.
EPISODE SEVENTY-TWO
On Saturday 18th September 1948, the body Vera Crawford, an unwell woman was found dead in her hotel bed. It seemed as if she had died of natural causes but being required to inform the victim’s next-of-kin, the Police uncovered a murder which was both sinister and tragic.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of The Grenville Hotel at 1 Grenville Street, WC1, marked with a yellow !. It's at the bottom by 'Coram's Fields'. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho and Paddington, you access them by clicking here.
And for your enjoyment, here's two short videos. The first shows you Grenville Street today and the second shows you The Round Table public house where they drank before the murder. These videos are only one minute long and is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left: The Grenville Hotel as it would have looked, Top right: Grenville Street and bottom/right The Round Table
Ep72 – Vera Crawford: A Very Ordinary Murder
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about Vera Crawford, an unwell woman who was found dead in her hotel bed. It seemed as if she had died of natural causes but being required to inform the victim’s next-of-kin, the Police uncovered a murder which was both sinister and tragic. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 72: Very Crawford: A Very Ordinary Murder. Today I’m standing on Grenville Street, WC1; three streets south of the square where the body-parts of Emilienne Gerard were dumped, one streets east of the hotel where The Unfortunate Mr Johnson’s killer took a quick snooze, two blocks east of the University where (nursing a sore neck) Carl Stotter realised he had narrowly missed being the next victim of serial killer Dennis Nilsen, and a short walk from the Tavistock and Russell Square bombings – coming soon to Murder Mile. Grenville Street is an unsightly side-street surrounded by hotels, hospitals and hostels, snuck between Soho and King’s Cross, in what is dubbed the “fashionable district” of Bloomsbury… if you’re a former Victorian slaver master who wears a monocle, a cane and a top-hat; laments the good old days when you could own a pet Geordie, eat a Rhino, execute anyone who didn’t school at Eton, be acquitted of all “historical sex crimes” with a wink and could make-a-mint saving relics from jolly foreigner having flogged them off to the British Museum. Ah happy days, eh Boris? With a long terrace of three-storey Georgian townhouses on the left, an odd greasy-spoon café smack bang in the middle, a hospital at both ends, and on the right is a disgusting seven-storey 1960’s halls of residence called International Hall. An architectural eye-sore full of student doctors, all using their medical training to nurse a three-year hangover, with the hope of coming away with more than just a huge debt, a lack of sleep and a buggered liver. And yet, on the site of these student halls, at 1 Grenville Street, in a hotel imaginatively titled Grenville Hotel, once lay a woman even they couldn’t save. As it was here, on Saturday 18th September 1948, in Room 1 of the Grenville Hotel, that the seemingly ordinary death of a customer would lead to the arrest of an unusual murderer. (Interstitial) The Grenville Hotel was a sparsely-furnished four-storey house providing a simple bed-and-breakfast for just thirty shillings a night. Like many buildings which had survived The Blitz – with windows broken, roof tiles missing and the side wall buckled having suffered subsidence after a German bomb left a ten foot hole in the road – deemed structurally sound, although it was a mess, it was business as usual. At 7:30am, Paul Jenkins, the manager unlocked the front door, picked-up the post and began making breakfast for the hotel’s guests – seven customers in four of the sixteen rooms; with a new couple Mr & Mrs Savill in Room 1, Rooms 4, 5 and 6 occupied by three elderly residents, the hotel’s owner Mary Rock in Room 2, and (when they turned-up) a cuppa for the builders renovating the top floor. At 9am, as requested, Paul took a tray of tea to Mrs Savill in Room 1. He knocked, but got no reply. He knocked again (“here’s your tea ma’am”) but again, he got no reply, so he unlocked the door. Situated on the ground-floor annex at the hotel’s rear, Room 1 was 10 feet long by 13 feet wide, with no windows, just a skylight above, and everything you would expect of a budget B&B; a gas fire, an electric lamp and a wash-basin, with the occupiers shoes by the door, her handbag on the side table, her clothes folded on the armchair and in the double bed, the silent and motionless shape of a woman. Having heard no snoring nor breathing and seeing her peaceful face peeping over the covers, with her eyes shut and her skin pale blue, Paul knew she had passed away, but there was no shock, just sadness. He knocked on the door of Room 2. (Paul) “Mary, a guest’s passed away”, (Mary) “Right, well, you’re up, you deal with it”, (Paul) “Great! Thanks Mary”. And with that, having seen enough dead bodies during the war and one-or-two in the hotel-trade, he called the Police and carried on with his duties. At 9:30am, PC Arthur Green attended The Grenville Hotel and reported (radio) “one deceased mid-thirties female, no signs of break-in, no injuries or assault, no disturbance or robbery”. No-one had heard a disturbance, the door had been locked from the inside and the key was on the bedside table. At 10am, Dr Gerrard Malone-Lee, the Police surgeon examined the body in-situ; (radio) “female, early thirties, five foot six, skinny, no obvious bruises, blood or cuts, deceased for six hours putting time of death at 4am, died by natural causes… or possible poisoning”. Although with her toxicology report coming back clean, no noxious substances found in the room, her cheeks mottled with red blotches, her breath smelling of alcohol, and in her handbag - a bottle of Milk of Magnesia, it was clear she had been unwell for a long time, suffering from high blood pressure, gastric ulcers and an inflamed liver. At 11am, the body of Mrs Savill was removed and the room was cleaned ready for the next guest. As standard procedure, she was taken to Holborn Mortuary so a full autopsy could establish her exact cause of death and the Police could inform Mrs Savill’s next-of-kin of her demise. That was it. Mrs Savill, an unwell lady who liked to drink had passed away peacefully in her sleep. But had she? (Interstitial). Mrs Savill was born Vera Cunnington on 28th August 1914 in the humble mining town of Saltburn in Yorkshire, as one of nine children to George and Mary, an iron miner and a housewife. Plagued by asthma, a bad heart and stomach problems; being sick for her most formative years, Vera spent much of her childhood in bed. Drowsy with drugs, denied any love, and poked and prodded by dubious doctors, the only time she saw her pals in the playground was from the hospital window. Lacking a decent education, Vera left school aged twelve with no qualifications or skills. Vera always looked sickly. As a skinny brunette with scrunched-up eyes like all lights made her squint, small teeth which never showed even when she smiled and a very pale translucent skin like she was haunted by her own ghost, although always ill, she never cried, pitied or complained about her many ailments. Her life was limited, she knew that, so what little she had left, she was going to enjoy. Diagnosed with gastric ulcers, an arrhythmic heart and high blood pressure, so bad that she was unable to walk a few feet without getting out of breath, doing only what she loved most, she shunned the doctor’s advice by drinking and smoking whenever she liked, as ill-health ravaged her life. In December 1935, aged 20, with her first-born son William born out of wedlock, Vera married William Crawford, a boiler repair man from Scotland who was imaginatively nicknamed “Jock”, and three years later, their second son Leslie followed. Jock was a good husband, a solid dad and - by all accounts, including Vera’s - they had a happy marriage. But living each day like it was her last, being a wife and mother just wasn’t part of Vera’s plan, so with her drinking getting out-of-hand, her liver swelling and her debts stacking-up, as she moved from job-to-job and flat-to-flat, it came as a real shock to Jock when she suggested that they separate. With the family split, to give them some stability, the boys stayed in Kingston-on-Thames with their father. In 1941, for the sake of his kids, Jock tried to patch things up with Vera, but having made plans to meet her, she failed to turn up. In August 1942, with her life spiralling out-of-control, after her second arrest for theft, the judge pleaded with Vera to return to her family. She agreed, as did Jock, and the boys were excited to finally get their mum back, but Vera never showed-up and they never saw her again. Vera’s world had become chaotic, as unwilling to accept any form of responsibility, she still craved the love and attention of others, but lived her life as if he had a death wish. As a chronic alcoholic, Vera was a regular in the West End pubs, where sometimes she got part-time work as a cook, barmaid or cleaner, only to be sacked for drunkenness. Racking-up debts, with her money squandered on booze and with nowhere to live - having already served one month in Brixton Prison for prostitution - simply so she had somewhere to sleep she picked-up men in pubs and stayed in a series of cheap hotels in Bloomsbury, like The Bradford, The Endsleigh and The Grenville Hotel. Known by the hotel staff only by face and to the other sex-workers only as “Vicky”, although she was pleasant, polite and (if she could afford it) she often tipped, Vera took very little care of herself; instead choosing to booze, smoke and accept unprotected vaginal and anal sex with her many male clients. Her life was coming to an end, and without love, she had no reason to care. On 7th August 1948, just eleven days before her death, Vera was sacked from The Blue Posts pub at 6 Tottenham Court Road, having slapped a customer. In a single night, she had lost her job, her place to stay and an honest income. And excluding the night she died, she was never seen again. So, it made perfect sense to assume that she had died peacefully in her sleep. Only she hadn’t… she had been murdered. Examined in-situ at The Grenville Hotel, the Police Surgeon’s preliminary assessment stated she had died by “natural causes”, a logical conclusion (which the pathologist initially agreed with) given that she had no obvious cuts, bruises or blood stains. But having conducted a full autopsy, Dr Teare found two small crescent-shaped abrasions on either side of her spine hidden by her hair at top of the neck, as well as a patch of burst blood vessel on her forehead, under her eyelids, across her cheeks (marks hidden by her red flushing caused by high blood pressure, gastric ulcers and heavy drinking) and burst blood vessels on the surface of her lungs and heart… meaning she had died of asphyxiation. And with no natural conclusion as to how she had suffocated, Dr Teare determined that she had been strangled. Only with no ligature marks or hand-sized bruises around her neck, how was this possible? What began as a very ordinary death had turned into a very unusual murder as the crime scene itself had thrown-up several confusing questions: With the hotel’s entrance door locked by the manager, no windows open and no signs of a break-in, if she was murdered, how did her killer enter the hotel and escape? With the windowless Room 1 being locked from the inside and the door key on the bedside table, if she was murdered, why did her killer lock himself in, and then how did he escape? Why did no-one hear anything, given that seven people were in the hotel at the time, with Mary Rock next door in Room 2 (separated by a thin partition wall) and Paul Jenkins in a basement room below? When her handbag was examined, no money or jewellery had been stolen, and everything which could identify her – her bank books, ration cards and letters – had been removed. And – stranger still – at 10:30am, when the builders returned to the hotel’s top-floor, on the annex roof above Room 1, they found a handmade knife which wasn’t there the night before. It had a 9 inch blade cut from a French military-issue bayonet, a u-shaped metal handle tied with white wax string and was wrapped in a white bandage. And yet, it had no blood on it. So why was it there? Recalling the previous night of Friday 17th September, Paul Jenkins (manager of The Grenville Hotel) stated to the Police “the doorbell rang, it was just after midnight, I know it was as I heard Big Ben chime on the wireless and Mary (who was in bed) always has me lock the entrance door about then. I let in a man and a woman, they was looking for a room. I guessed they missed the last train as they’d no luggage about them. She was thirties, thin, had mousy hair, a pale face with red cheeks, small teeth and wore a browny-yellow costume. He was about the same age, bit taller, bit thinner, in a dark brown suit frayed at the cuffs and a light rain-mac. I’ve seen him before I think but I dunno; he’d got greased back hair, greying at sides, dark bushy eyebrows, long-face, long nose, large ears and his two front-teeth were yellowing. Seemed like a nice enough chap, they both did”. For Paul, he had sorted out a last-minute room for couples with no luggage many of times before and this time was equally as unremarkable and forgettable. They were just an ordinary pair of sweethearts who kissed, held hands and called each other “darling”, and although there was a faint smell of alcohol as if they’d just come from the pub; they seemed in good spirits and in need of a good night’s sleep. As was his moral obligation, Paul asked if they were married, the man confirmed they were; he paid thirty shillings in cash for a double room, wrote the name ‘Mr & Mrs Savill’ in the registration book (as single couples often risked being denied a shared room on the grounds of immortality) and having informed the manager that he would need to leave early for work, he politely asked if his wife could be bought a pot of tea at 9am – which Paul did. In fact, the only detail which was strange (but not suspicious) was that although the slightly meek man did all of the talking, it was the woman who made all of the decisions, stating them in a loud clear voice into her husband’s left ear, having informed Paul “you’ll need to speak up, he’s a bit deaf”. That aside; the couple were handed the key to Room 1, they wished Paul a “good night”, locked the door, and – making no sounds all night - that was the last time the woman was seen alive. So if Vera was “Mrs Savill”, who was “Mr Savill”, and – if they were so in love - why did he kill her? As a very distinctive man, having circulated his description in the newspapers Mr Savill wasn’t difficult to track down. Two weeks later, the Police were given a name… and it was Herbert Alfred Savill. The early life of Herbert Alfred Savill was remarkably similar to Vera’s. Born just two years apart, raised in Walthamstow, Herbert was one of seven children to Frederick and Elizabeth, a plumber and a housewife. But as a small frail boy, plagued with hearing loss and headaches having been hit on the head with a brick aged three, his most formative years were spent in a hospital bed. Missing his mum, the love he craved so much would be denied him, as with his depressed mother and alcoholic father crushed by the death of two infants, a thick cloud of grief hung over the family. Herbert always looked sickly; being thin, weak and pale-skinned, with a perpetual frown etched across his gaunt face as a world of sound slowly escaped his failing ears and moving lips became but a muffle, and although a softly spoken boy with good morals and manners, being so meek, he remained a loner. As a quiet shy lad, what he wanted most was to be loved… but like sounds, love would evade him. Unwilling to let his disability dictate his life, having trained as an apprentice engineer, he served in the Royal Army Ordnance Corps, proudly fighting for his country in World War Two, but with a volley of bomb blasts having aggravated his deafness in both ears, on 24th October 1941, Herbert was declared “medically unfit”, discharged from the Army and sunk into a depression. Living at home with his sister, although he earned a good living as a skilled engineer making precision instruments; with no friends or close family, both parents dead, being almost entirely deaf and having never had a girlfriend, by 1948, 32 year old Herbert Savill was fed-up with his lonely little life. He had so much love to give, but no-one there for him to love… …and then he met Vera. “I first met her on 13th July in a turning off Shaftesbury Avenue, she asked me for a light”. Popping into a pub for a pint, the two pale and skinny loners sat side-by-side, being amazed at the similarity of their life-stories, it seemed as if Herbert had found his soul-mate. And over the coming weeks, as he treated his special lady to drinks and dinners, poems and perfume, loans and love-letters, as a sickly lady living on borrowed time, he wanted to give her the life she deserved with a husband, a family and a home. Herbert had finally found love… …only her life was all a lie. As a veteran sex-worker who he only knew by the street-name of “Vicky”, having shunned any hint of family life, Vera’s job is was to make the lonely men she met feel loved. She wasn’t bad, evil or cruel, she was just a homeless, broke, chronic alcoholic doing what she had to… to survive. Being so besotted with her, Herbert got her to a hospital, but so acute was her inflamed liver that the doctors ordered her to quit drinking immediately. Only being a woman with a death-wish, she didn’t. Five days before her death, as an intoxicated Vera spat hurtful insults at Herbert, refusing to quit drink, shunning her belated birthday present and threatening to go to Piccadilly Circus to pick-up a man who “understood” her, as Herbert sat on the train home, tearful and heartbroken, as his one-true-love cast him aside, “I brooded on her drinking and prostitution, and thought she would be better off dead”. He had known her for just eight weeks. Using his engineering skills, sat in a solitary room at his sister’s home, Herbert fashioned a handmade knife from a nine-inch French bayonet with a u-shaped metal handle bound with white wax string. “I had every intention to kill her” and so, with his mind made up, he made plans to meet her. On Friday 17th September 1948 at 8:20pm, Vera & Herbert met in The Round Table at 26 St Martin’s Court, just off Leicester Square; they drank, chatted, kissed and left at 10:45pm (‘last orders’), as witnessed by the barmaid Bridgett O’Reilly. Feeling peckish, at 11pm, they bought two portions of fish and chips at 1 Newport Place, as served by Fay Strom. Forty minutes later, having briefly chatted to Vera’s old flat-mate Edna DeCampo. Vera & Herbert took a taxi one mile north to Grenville Street, and a few moments after the bell of Big Ben had struck, they entered The Grenville Hotel. It was just a very ordinary evening. Once inside Room 1, Herbert locked the door behind them. Like most shabby lodgings, the windowless room smelt a little stale, but having slept in much worse, Vera made herself comfortable; she popped her shoes by the door, her handbag on the side table, her clothes folded on the armchair and she sat by the blue flickering flame of the gas fire, warming her toes. Loving her more than she ever loved herself and desperate to give a hopeless woman one last chance at a better life, Herbert later stated “when we got in the room, I asked her to give up the spirits, as it would be fatal for her, she knew it, and said she didn’t care”. About the sex-work, she said the same. She had given up a husband, a home and a family, and no matter what she said, Herbert knew that Vera was a woman with a death-wish… and loving her so much… he would be the man to fulfil it. From inside his fawn raincoat, with a trembling hand, Herbert pulled out the foot long knife, the full length of its thin nine-inch blade glinting in his misted eyes, as gulping aloud, he stammered “Look! I intend to kill you tonight”. But instead of being afraid, she just laughed and said “give me that thing”. They didn’t fight or argue, instead having confiscated the knife, she popped open the skylight, tossed it onto the roof and feeling the crushing weight of his mistake, Herbert politely said “perhaps it would be better if I go now”. But Vera cooed “ssshhh, get your clothes off and come to bed”, which he did. And there the two lovers lay, side-by-side, wrapped in each other’s arms. Vera fast sleep, knowing her death-wish would be coming, but not here and not now. And yet, as she slept soundly, over the next three hours, as his hands caressed her soft face, Herbert brooded his deadly dilemma. “I got out of bed, I switched on the bedside lamp and sat there looking at her. She woke. I don’t know why, I sprang on top of her, my legs pinning her arms to the side”, and with the woollen bedsheets up to her neck, being so soft that even a tight pressure couldn’t bruise her skin, “I strangled her with both hands”. Hidden by her hair, the only marks visible were two small crescents embedded on either side of her spine, made by his fingernails, which had slipped beyond the bedsheet. “I suppose it lasted about three minutes… the strangling”. And as Herbert’s hands tightly squeezed her thin pale neck, as her flushed skin matched the mottled redness of her booze-raddled cheeks, and as her legs twitched for the last time, the life of Herbert’s one and only love slowly drained away… and once again, he was alone. “I sat on the bed just looking at her for some time. At first I intended to stay there until someone came and give myself up. I changed my idea; picked up her handbag, took out the letters from me and all traces of her identity, rearranged the bedclothes and smoothed out the pillow”. With the hotel door locked, as the only other exit, “I jumped out through the skylight about 6:30am, got the Russell Square tube to Liverpool Street, and near Bethnal Green I tore up the letters and threw them out of the window. Later, at home, I read that a report in the paper that a woman had died of natural causes in the Grenville Hotel, so I thought I might have evaded detection”. Only he hadn’t. (End) On 10th October 1948, at Grey’s Inn Road Police Station, 32 year old Herbert Savill was arrested and charged with the murder of Vera Crawford. As an easily identifiable man who was witnessed entering a locked room just hours before her death, whose fingerprints and hair were found at the scene and having made a full confession, he was tried at the Old Bailey, pleaded guilty and was sentenced to death. But having been commuted to life in prison, he died twenty-one years later, aged fifty-three. It began as the unremarkable passing of an unwell woman discovered in a hotel bed, whose death had initially been reported as by “natural causes”, but by following strict protocols which require the Police to identify the deceased, to inform their next-of-kin, and for a pathologist to determine their exact cause-of-death, having examined every piece of evidence, the Police had uncovered a murder. But what they found wasn’t an intricate plan by a criminal mastermind made to make a very cunning murder look like an ordinary death, it wasn’t a genius stroke of luck for a hapless convict whose escape from justice was aided by two distracted detectives and it wasn’t the expert execution of a crazed killer who knew how to cover his tracks. It wasn’t premeditated or even pre-planned. And although a coincidental chain of events lead to the discovery of a dead body in a locked room, it may feel like the contrived opening chapter of a tawdry murder mystery, but in truth, it isn’t. Herbert Savill killed Vera Crawford because he loved her and he couldn’t have her. That’s it. There’s no myths, no mystery and no alternate theories, as it’s just a very ordinary murder. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. For all of Mickey’s milky-smelling murky milers, there’s more floppy dangle fruits after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Saranne, Laura Bell, Michael Mullen and Maureen Gallagher, I thank you. All of you should have received a very exclusive thank you card from me, plus some exclusive goodies in the post and online. If you fancy supporting Murder Mile on Patreon, you can for as little as $3 a month, where you’ll get exclusive crime scene photos, location videos, a weekly ebook of the unedited script, plus loads more. And $10+ patrons get their weekly episode of Murder Mile, on Mondays, ad-free. Ooh. As always, if you want to see what the murder locations look like, every Thursday I upload a blog for each episode, with a map, location videos, photos etc. There is a link to this in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
Sources: This case was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archives.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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