BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
New Blue is a three-part series in which I chat to my friend Paul, who is a serving officer in the Metropolitan Police, what it's like being an officer. In Part One we discuss his training, Part Two is about his first experiences as an officer and Part Three is his average work day.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #147: Resistance: The Last Fight of Countess Teresa Łubieńska22/9/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Platform 5 at Gloucester Road tube station
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SEVEN:
Today’s episode is about Countess Łubieńska, a formidable woman who endured a life of unspeakable horrors, and yet never stopped fighting for the rights of others. But when a simple night-out turned deadly, her last fight... would be for her life.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Platform 5 of Gloucester Road tube station is located with a dark orange cross, just below the words Bayswater, below Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's two videos to go with this week's episode. The one on the left show you Platform 5 at the Gloucester Road tube station where Teresa was last seen alive, and the one on the right shows you her last steps, before she was murdered. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using court records and several other sources, with just a few listed below.
MUSIC:
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Countess Łubieńska, a formidable woman who endured a life of unspeakable horrors, and yet never stopped fighting for the rights of others. But when a simple night-out turned deadly, her last fight... would be for her life. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 147: Resistance: The Last Fight of Countess Łubieńska. Today I’m standing at the Gloucester Road tube station, SW7; two streets east of the Polish super-spy Krystyna Skarbek, four streets north west of the devil child’s home invasion, directly opposite the basement where John George Haigh dissolved the entire McSwan family in a drum of acid, and three streets from the infamous killings of a misunderstood young man - coming soon to Murder Mile. This is Platform 5 of the eastbound Piccadilly Line service at Gloucester Road. With the surface station opened in 1868 and the deep-level lines in 1906 - following a recent refurbishment - much of this tube stop remains unchanged; with its ornate titling, its deep green and cream tiles, its blood red surface station and its wonderfully arched platforms down below. Aesthetically, it’s actually quite beautiful. Sadly, many commuters miss this, as the platform is merely a place where they grumble about a train being delayed by a full minute, and for the rest of the journey – with heads down, a book open and earphones on – they daren’t catch anyone’s eye for fear of engaging in a conversation with a real human-being; except to grunt at someone who’s bag’s on a seat, to tut at a flannel-dodger for whom deodorant is merely a yearly gift, and to gasp at the ladies who manage to perfectly apply their make-up on the world’s bounciest tube without looking like they’ve been smooched by Bongo the Clown. Minding your own business is a skill we’ve all mastered, especially in London... ...but when crimes occur, this apathy makes for terrible witnesses. On Friday 24th May 1957, at 10:19pm, a Piccadilly Line train from Earls Court pulled in on Platform 5. From the middle of seven carriages - most of which were a-third full of revellers heading to and from the West End - a tall elderly white-haired lady exited the train. Her name was Countess Łubieńska; a truly formidable woman who looked a little frail, but – with fire in blood – was unafraid to right the injustices of the past. But somewhere between the platform and the lift, she was murdered. As it was here, having battled her way through a life of torture and pain - in a tube-station miles from her broken homeland - that Countess Łubieńska would lose her last ever fight. (Interstitial). If you think you know what courage is? Then think again. Countess Łubieńska was born Teresa Skarżyńska on the 18th April 1884, the daughter of Władysław & Dorota. Raised among the wealthy Polish elite in south-eastern Poland, her early life was privileged, she lived on a large country estate and she was educated at an élite Catholic boarding school for girls. In 1902, aged 18, she married Count Edward Łubieński; a prominent man from a once-powerful Polish clan, money was no object and together they raised three children; Isabelle, Stanisław and Izabela. Given her upbringing, she could easily have become just another pointlessly pampered lady, living a life of luxury, as from her high horse she looked down her nose at the less fortunate below... ...but that was not Teresa. Revered throughout Poland for her generosity of wealth and spirit, she was esteemed throughout the country, with every Pole knowing that her home was always open to all. She fed the poor and nursed the sick, but what made her more impressive was how she fought for those who needed her help. Teresa was a fire-brand, a force to be reckoned with who sought-out injustice and was never afraid to pick a fight with someone bigger than herself. As a moral woman who couldn’t abide bad behaviour, she would single-handedly tackle ruffians in the street, and easily go twelve rounds with any fascist. What she lacked in size, she more than made-up for in presence; as when she spoke, they listened, but when anyone needed an ear, she was silent. As a big personality, Teresa was staunchly-loyal and had a remarkable memory for details - she always remembered a name and she never forgot a face. During the First World War, she served in the Red Cross, she fought for her country supporting the 14th Regiment of Jazlowiec Uhlans, and she served alongside the Red Army in Kuban, southern Russia. By 1918, the war may have been over... but her fight had only just begun. Following the October Revolution and the armed uprising of Bolsheviks, as hostilities erupted between Russia and Poland, their country estate was encircled and – being a prominent Polish diplomat – the enemy forces stabbed her husband to death. To protect her three young children, Teresa fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs, as the Red Army stripped her home of money and possessions. Witnessing her husband’s brutal murder, the rape of her life and death-threats against her family, that would have been enough to break anyone... and yet Teresa never gave up. Instead, she fought on. Over the next two decades, living in a small top-floor flat at 6 Sierpnia Street in Warsaw, this widowed single-mother earned a modest wage as an accountant for the Post Office Savings Bank and – although times were hard – she continued to shelter the poor, to feed the hungry and to fight her oppressors. But as hard as her life was... it was about to get even worse. On the 1st September 1939, Germany invaded Poland in a blistering ‘blitzkrieg’ attack. Within six days, the country had fallen, its military was wiped out and its people fell under Nazi and Soviet control. 700,000 Poles were captured and 133,000 were killed, one of whom was Teresa’s only son – Stanislaw. Seen by the Nazis as ‘Untermensch’ - a sub-human species - with many Poles (especially Jewish Poles) confined to the ghetto; disease and famine swept through Warsaw, and – so hungry were the people – that when a horse fell dead in the street, they stripped it for meat, until all that was left was bones. Teresa was alone and struggling, but there was no time for selfishness or grief (as many would resort to), as the Polish people needed her help and – no matter what – she would fight to protect them. Her shabby little top-floor flat at 6 Sierpnia Street was home, but it was far from safe; as with a German barracks in front, a Gestapo building behind and the other floors all occupied by enemy soldiers, she was very much a lone hen in a fox’s den. But this did not stop her from doing her patriotic duty. As a resistance fighter and a lieutenant in the Polish Underground Army, her flat became a key base of operations for the resistance movement - where industrial sabotage and the assassination of fascist collaborators was planned - and for three years, she continued to hide dissidents, spies, refugees and even an entire family for six months, in that tiny little flat, right under the noses of the Nazi’s. But as selfless as Teresa was – simply to save their own skin - someone ratted her out. On the 11th November 1942, Teresa was arrested without trial, sent to Warsaw’s brutal Pawiak prison - where resistance-fighters were publicly hung as a warning to others – and here she was tortured. Relentlessly and without mercy, she endured weeks of painful and humiliating tortures, day and night. Designed to break her spirit; she was starved, sleep deprived, drowned, frozen and raped. Forced to stand in stress positions as she was beaten with an iron bar, whipped red-raw and kicked until she was black and swollen, many sadistic techniques included the snapping of bones, nails ripped out, genitals burned and taken to the brink of death, she would be brought back to life, only to be tortured again. These savage beatings would have broken even the toughest of soldiers... but Teresa never broke. In fact, for the rest of her life, she would wear the scars on her flesh like a badge of honour and defiance. And yet, as hard as her life had been so far... it was about to get even worse. From Warsaw, Teresa was sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp; a Nazi death camp where you were either worked to death, starved to death, or were gassed in the extermination chambers. Imprisonment had left her frail and weak, as – like so many others – being riddled with lice and scabies in this filthy hell-hole, she fell seriously ill in a camp riddled with dysentery, tuberculosis, typhoid and pneumonia. But what kept her alive was her formidable spirit and unwillingness to let the Nazi’s win. Even inside, Teresa put others before herself. Nicknamed the White Angel of Ravensbrueck, her self-sacrifice and kindness made her legendary among prisoners and so feared among the Gestapo, that -for two years - she was held in a ‘punishment block’, which few survived... and again, she was tortured. In January 1945, with the tide of war turning against Hitler, the Nazis began destroying all evidence of their barbaric crimes, including the mass-extermination of its prisoners at camps like Ravensbrueck. In the final weeks of the war, Count Folke Bernadotte – regarded as the Swedish Oskar Schindler – made a secret deal with Heinrich Himmler and negotiated the release of 31,000 prisoners. On 28th April 1945, Teresa found herself standing on the quay at the Swedish port of Malmö. She was little more than a skeleton swathed in filthy oversized rags with a shaven head and shoes made of paper. Countess Teresa Łubieńska had fought through war, death, poverty, loss and torture. But regardless of what she had endured, the fact that she was alive and that she was still standing, that was courage. And yet, although the Second World War had ended... for so many Poles, her fight was far from over. With the Potsdam Conference divvying-up Poland among the Allies and the Soviets, like this already smashed and battered country was a spoil of war – with her hometown now under Communist control – this allied collaborator knew that if she ever returned to Poland, she risked being shot as a spy. So, with no other options, no money and no possessions, Teresa moved to London... ...where twelve years later, she was murdered. During the post-war years – to many, who never knew this amazing woman - The Countess was just a little old lady; frail, thin and weak, but with a bob of white hair and a very defiant walk. Struggling to get British citizenship, she found it difficult to find even a menial job, and so she relied on charity. Therefore, it’s unsurprising, that - living in a small rented room in Cornwall Gardens, two streets from the Gloucester Road tube station - she became friends with Krystyna Skarbek, codename ‘Christine Granville’; the former super-spy, who at the same time was reduced to working as a hotel maid, and when she was murdered by her stalker, one of the mourners who stood at her grave-side was Teresa. Through the forties and the fifties, the city was full of refugees, who were displaced and abandoned. And although Teresa had nothing, she feed the poor, she nursed the sick and – with her indomitable spirit – she slammed her fists on the table of debate, demanding that the voice of the people be heard. As chairman of the Polish Association of Ex-Political Prisoners, Teresa spoke-out against Communists, Nazis, fascists and racists, who - even in the post-war years – still had millions of supporters. She picked fights with Wladyslaw Gomulka (the communist leader of post-war Poland), she waged a viscous battle with the West German government to get compensation for Polish refugees, and – as a Catholic - she was unafraid to take on the might of The Vatican, from Cardinal Wyszynski, all the way up to the Pope. For many Poles in Britain, Teresa was beloved... ...but by those she opposed, she was feared. By May 1957, Teresa was 72 years old. Her health was declining, but - still fighting on- that fire in her belly was a fierce as ever, as just like her prisoner’s tattoo and the torture scars which pockmarked her cut-and-burned body – although time had made them fade a little, they would never disappear. And still being a moral woman, she was not averse to clipping a ruffian about the ear for foul language. In the two weeks leading up to her murder, Teresa had received three death threats; two by phone, one by letter, and all were anonymous vague threats issued – at a distance - by cowards. Rightly, she informed the Police, but she wasn’t overly concerned, given the real horrors of the life she had lived. Friday 24th May 1957 was a good day. The weather was warm but cool, and as a very social person, Teresa had been to a friend’s birthday party on Florence Road in Ealing. Dressed in a set of pearls, a white jacket and a little hat with bright flowers, although she was poor, she always dressed well. At a little after 9:50pm – being in good spirits, but not being a night-owl - Teresa said her goodbyes and left the party accompanied by her good friend, Father Kazimerz Krzyanowski; a roman Catholic priest, the Polish assistant at the Brompton Oratory and a survivor of Dachau concentration camp. Just shy of 10pm, they entered Ealing Common tube station, purchased two single tickets and sat in the seventh compartment of the District Line tube train. The journey was uneventful, the carriage held roughly twelve people, all of whom were quiet and (as often happens) kept-to-themselves. At no point did they sense any danger; they weren’t approached, harassed or (as far as they know) followed. As Father Krzyanowski lived at Redcliffe Gardens in Kensington, at Earl’s Court they exited the train. With a short walk to his home, he wished his friend “goodnight” and left the station. Teresa changed trains and took the Eastbound Piccadilly Line service one stop east to Gloucester Road tube station. Being a Friday night and one hour before the pubs chuck-out, the train which held an average of 220 seated passengers was roughly one-third full of workers and revellers going to and from the West End. At 10:18pm, one minute before, the westbound service departed, so by the time that the eastbound service pulled into Platform 5, both platforms were bustling with pockets of people, but weren’t busy, At 10:19 precisely, entirely alone, Teresa exited the train onto the wide well-lit platform. Speaking to no-one and walking at her usual ‘determined’ pace, she followed the ‘exit’ sign and headed up a short set of stairs, along the tiled corridor towards the passenger lifts, and the station concourse above. The distance from the train carriage to the lifts was roughly 150 paces. But nobody saw her, heard her, or witnessed what happened next. Emanuel Olu Akinyemi, a 32-year-old ticket-inspector was manning one of the passenger-lifts that night. At 10:18pm, to catch the eastbound Piccadilly Line service (which Teresa was on), he saw two people enter the lift; a short brunette lady in red shoes and a fair-haired foreigner in a checked suit. Apart from them, the concourse was empty, as he entered the lift with his passengers. During its brief descent, he heard a scuffle coming from in or near the iron spiral staircase to the right of the lifts, and assumed – as had happened many times before - it was tearaway kids trying to avoid paying the fare. But as the lift doors opened and the scuffling stopped, he witnessed no kids playing-up. Instead, he saw a lone woman; frail, tall and white-haired, a haunted expression on her face and her arms outstretched, as she staggered towards the lift, weakly muttering “bandit, bandit”. Putting out his hands to aid her, inside her jacket he spotted blood pouring from the left-hand-side of her chest. The only words her faltering voice could muster was “bandit, bandit”, and although this strong-willed woman remained upright as they ascended, clutching her heart, she collapsed at the foot of the lift. Emanuel called the police from the nearest phone-box, PC Ron Sherfield was on the scene in minutes, and although conscious – choking on her own bloodied breath – she had spoken her last known words. Giving no description of her attacker, she was taken to nearby St Mary Abbot’s hospital.... ...but shortly after arrival, she died. Teresa was stabbed five times with a small short-bladed knife; one in the stomach, one in the back and three in the left-hand-side of her chest, with two piercing her heart. She had no defensive wounds. A search was conducted of the station, the platforms and all departing trains, as well as the tunnels, but no weapon or assailant was found. A street-to-street search was initiated, but with no description of the aggressor, this proved fruitless. A few spots of blood were seen beside the iron spiral staircase by the lifts, but – with no witnesses - Police could only speculate that this was where it taken place. And although fingerprint experts were called in, being a high traffic area, there were no usable prints. The investigation was headed up by Detective Chief Inspector John Du Rose and Chief Superintendent Edward Greeno of the Met’ Police, but – given the victim’s status - they were also joined by MI5. A public appeal was made; 18,000 passengers and staff were interviewed, 214 Piccadilly Line trains were examined, her home was searched, any person listed in her address book was contacted, and – over the next few months - every knife found in any station was handed to forensics to be tested. Of the 13 people in the eastbound Piccadilly Line carriage that night, most were traced. Of the 17 who rode in the lifts at the time of the attack, almost all were found. But – for whatever reason – maybe they didn’t recognise themselves, didn’t see anything strange, or didn’t want to come forward, many witnesses remain unidentified, like the brunette in the red shoes and the foreigner in the check suit. Several possible suspects were identified, such as; an underground worker who had booked a room at a local hotel but hadn’t used it, a teacher who had arrived at school the next day with a black eye and scratches to his face, and a homeless man who was loitering near the station, but all had alibis. The case remains active, but as of today, no-one has been arrested for Teresa’s murder. (End) So, who killed Teresa and why? It was unlikely to be a robbery, as her silver brooch was still pinned to her jacket and her handbag was on her arm, but – as someone who would never back-down from a fight - this couldn’t be ruled-out. As a moral woman who was quick to rebuke the rudeness of ruffians, a relative later stated that Teresa often used the word “bandit” to describe hooligans, and a station porter had seen a ‘gang of youths’ (some of whom carried knives) getting up-to-mischief on the platform, shortly before the murder. As a political animal, who was beloved by many, but equally as feared by others, Teresa had ruffled the feathers of Nazis, Communists, fascists and racists – who she also referred to as “bandits” – as well as the governments of West Germany, Russia and Soviet-backed Poland, and The Vatican. But if this was an assassination, why murder a frail old lady, a decade after the end of the war? The murder rate in London was at its highest that year. So, it could have been a politically-motivated hit, or just as easily, as an unplanned attack by a lone nutjob, the jealous reaction of a stalker (as had happened to Krystyna Skarbek), a case of mistaken identity, or - as someone who everyone agreed “never forgot a face” - maybe she spotted someone from her past who was wanted for war-crimes? An inquest was held on 28th August 1957 at Hammersmith coroner’s court, where her death was ruled as ‘murder by persons unknown’. With a huge outpouring of emotion from the Polish communities, hundreds of mourners attended her service at Brompton Cemetery, she was buried not far from the political activist Emmeline Pankhurst and was posthumously awarded the Golden Cross of Merit. But let’s not remember her for her death. Let’s remember her for who she was; a resistance fighter, a charity-worker, a humanitarian, a champion of the poor, a defender of the right, an agitator of the wrong; a mother, a wife, a widow, and above all, she was Countess Teresa Lubienska – a living legend. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you love to listen to a fat bald man waffle on about tea, cake, Eva and coots, and you’re keen to hear more details about this case and do a little quiz, stay tuned till after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Becky McDowall, Chris Hawkes and Craig Stephens. I thank you. I bless you and so do the coots, but Eva doesn’t, not because she’s rude, but because she’s suffering from a massive hangover... again. What can I say? She likes yards of ale. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Harry Tuffney. Through his eyes, he saw himself as a loyal and loving man who always fought to live a good life; with a job, a home and a wife. But when his perfect little dream went awry, Harry would do the unthinkable.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of 75 Star Street is marked with a blue cross, just by the word Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified police investigation file, as well as several other sources, not all of which are listed below:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Harry Tuffney. Through his eyes, he saw himself as a loyal and loving man who always fought to live a good life; with a job, a home and a wife. But when his perfect little dream went awry, Harry would do the unthinkable. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 146: Harry Tuffney: The Abandoned Man. Today I’m standing on Star Street in Paddington, W2. Two streets from four very different killers; the solo-strangling of the Sad-Faced Killer in Sussex Gardens, the necrophile Reg Christie preying on Kathleen Maloney in Praed Street, the sadistic Blackout Ripper casually smoking after his failed attack on Kathryn Mulcahy in Southwick Street and then there was Frozen Jim - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just shy of Paddington Station, Star Street is one of a series of identical residential streets packed full of late 19th century three-storey terraces, which was formerly a slum. But with white stucco on ground floor, brown brick above and wrapped with black wrought-iron railings, they’ve brushed-up right nice. The problem is – with each street identical, and every house indistinguishable – it’s hard to tell them apart except for a tiny detail; like a lamp, a flower box, a garishly-coloured door, a mat with an oh-so witty slogan like ‘welcome’ (only misspelt so it reads ‘weclome’), ‘my other house is a mansion’ (which it isn’t), ‘you don’t have to be mad to live here, but it helps’ (suggesting that said owner is a ‘personality on legs’ when in fact he’s just a turd in a suit) and – the ever-funny - ‘beware of the wife’ (not the dog, the wife, implying she’s viscous, has rabies and spends half the day licking her genitals... I’m guessing). And if the postman or any passing guest is really lucky, the door might even have a house number. Today, it’s a home, but back in the 1930’s, 75 Star Street was Elizabeth Warren’s lodging house. A nice place where young couples could stay while struggling to afford their own home. In the front second-floor rooms lived Harry, a mechanic, and Kitty, a waitress; a pleasant couple in their late thirties who had recently got engaged and we’re looking forward to spend their whole lives together. This was where their love affair had begun... but sadly, it was also where it would end. As it was here, on the night of Friday 29th June 1934, that gripped with a life-long fear of abandonment, Harry Tuffney would ensure that he and his beloved Kitty would never be apart. (Interstitial) Into the wee small hours of the night, dressed in just pyjamas and a nightdress, Harry & Kitty were sat on Harry’s bed. Being in an age when unmarried couples didn’t dare share a bed (let alone have sex) for offending civilised society or the Good Lord above – being engaged, but unmarried, as they couldn’t afford the fee – the couple had single rooms with single beds connected by an adjoining door. Having sat sipping whiskey and ale from two tumblers, the love-sick twosome – who had only been an item for barely a year, so their feelings were still as box-fresh as the day they had met – had talked of their past and their future; of one together and one apart. And as the night drew ever blacker, so did their talk, as the thought of never being able to lie side-by-side turned their talk more morose. Through Harry’s eyes, there were no cries nor noises that night, only tears. No-one in that fully occupied lodging house heard a single sound as the unthinkable happened, as it was all very peaceful. With Kitty tucked-up in her own little bed, snuggled under the softness of her own sheets, Harry kissed his beloved’s cheek - “goodbye my sweet” – as her last ever breath left her slowly cooling body. Kitty was gone, Harry was broken, so with no reason to live, Harry used his last alive moments to write two letters; one to the police explaining the situation, and one to his family apologising for what he had done and was yet to do. “Dear mum and all. My darling passed away at 3am. It was instantaneous. She did not suffer at all. Never murmured. We had quite a long chat together, had a bottle of ale and a small bottle of whiskey. A parting drink from this world into the next. At 1am, after our talk, she said she did not care which way things went. Little did she know how near both our times were. Goodbye all. Harry”. With handwritten love-letters strewn about the floor and their last drink still whetted with her lipstick, Harry laid upon the carpet. Placing down two cushions for his head, he laid flat and opened-up the gas taps. Breathing the invisible killer deep, as in heaven, he prayed he would see his beloved again. Through Harry’s eyes, death was the only option... ...her death, his death, together... ...as Kitty was the only woman he would ever love. Born Edith Kathleen Longshaw in 1896, making her 38-years-old when she died, Kitty was never a fan of being called Edith, instead she preferred Kathleen, Kitty or Kat. To be honest, the nickname suited her, as with large almond-shaped eyes, a small nose and prominent cheeks, she looked like a cat. Raised in the peaceful village of Shipton-under-Wychwood in Oxfordshire, being far from any bustling city or choking industry, this small ancient parish was dominated by the stately manor houses of two wealthy families for the last five centuries. But Kitty’s family wasn’t one. Being working-class, as far back as anyone can recall, they had always lived here, working as farmers and domestic servants. Kitty’s life was as tough as anyone’s in that era, but with a loving mum, a hard-working dad and being one of several brothers and sisters, she came from a good family in this tight-knit country community. When the world was first plunged into all-out war, she remained in the village, working as a maid and keeping-tabs on her aging parents. When her brothers returned from war, some – like Ernest – stayed and used his military training to become a mechanic and chauffeur for one of the prominent families, but with some of others now living in the big city, Kitty wanted more for her life and moved to London. Widely regarded as reliable, pleasant and fast on her feet, Kitty worked several jobs in cafes and pubs, but really found her place as a ‘nippy’; one of the infamously speedy waitresses at Maison Lyonese, the corner-house tearoom owned by J Lyon’s & Co on the corner of Edgware Road and Marble Arch. Dressed head-to-foot in black with a white lace pinny, red buttons and a paper hat, Kitty worked fifty-four-hours-a-week for a wage of twenty-six shillings. It wasn’t a lot, but she got by, and being a “nice girl”, she befriended a regular customer called Mrs Warren who ran a lodging house at 75 Star Street. If ever she needed a clean affordable room – which sometimes she did – all she had to do was ask. And that was Kitty. She led a simple life (as many of us do); with no real troubles, issues or stresses. She worked hard, she lived as well as her wage would allow, and she hoped one day to have a home, a few kids, and - having been in-and-out of relationships - she was yet to find her ‘Mr Right’. Not a prince, nor a Romeo... ...just someone she could love. Harry was born Harry Tuffney in 1898, making him two-years younger than Kitty when he took his own life. Raised in Chalfont St Peter, a village in Buckinghamshire, he also came from working-class stock. Living in a cramped hovel in the delightfully-named Gravel Hill, the Tuffney family was large but typical of the era; with Harry being the first surviving child of mum Alice and John, a brick-layer; followed by Florence, Lucy, William, Isabella and George in quick succession. Without question, life would be hard, given his limited education and modest wage as a part-time baker’s boy. But his childhood would be short and tragic, as – with madness on both sides - his family were cursed by ‘maladies of the mind’. In 1912, aged just four, his baby brother George died in the Buckinghamshire Insane Asylum. His illness was undiagnosed, but it was reported that be suffered from ‘strong emotions’ and ‘bouts of delusion’. Three years earlier his aunt had died in the same asylum, his younger brother William was committed there in 1920 (where he would remain until his death), and – being prone to ‘hearing voices’ and ‘irrational acts’ – one frequent inmate was ‘the only woman he would ever love’ – his beloved mum. With a loss of affection, Harry had no stability in his early life, and although this was a sad tragedy which many families suffered – through his eyes – he always felt that he had been abandoned, a feeling which left him always searching for that one constant love who would remain by his side... forever. It is unknown whether Harry was ever a patient at the asylum, but as a painfully loyal young man who took loss very personally, around the time of his aunt’s death, aged eleven, Harry was found hanging from an apple tree. He survived, but no-one really knew if this was an accident, bullying or suicide. In 1916, aged 18, Harry did ‘his bit for King & Country’ and enlisted. Trained as a motorcycle mechanic, he rose to the rank of Staff Sergeant in the Light Car Patrol of the 11th Machine Gun Corps, based out of Tanta in Egypt. Harry had finally found his place in life; he had a career, a wage, a home and a new family amongst his fellow soldiers. He was described as loyal and brave, but a little ‘hot-headed’. Years later, he would claim that - in 1918 - he was hit by shrapnel in the head. There is no medical record to disprove this, and by 1934, he had no injury or scar. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. In 1920, it was said that while attempting to quell an uprising in Tanta and seeing one of his comrades “bashed and nearly killed” by a brutal mob - in a pique of uncontrolled anger – he “ran amok in a riot”, shooting and stabbing three Egyptians to death. Three weeks later, to protect a military policeman who was also a pal, he shot an Egyptian boy dead. No action was taken, no report was filed and (being war-time) there was no trial or inquiry. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. On 12th June 1920, finding “the only women I will ever love” he married 18-year-old Victoria Mardaros, they moved into a little flat at 28 Tel El Haddadin in Tanta, and being demobbed from the Army, he found a new career as the chauffeur, bodyguard and motor mechanic to an unnamed Egyptian Prince. To His Highness, Harry was (and would always remain) his eternally loyal servant, but always believing that Victoria – who he later described as “an obnoxious woman whose conduct preyed on my mind” - was unfaithful, six years later Harry divorced her... but not before he had tried to shoot her dead. Of this, there is no evidence nor criminal trial, but - in his eyes – it was her who had abandoned him. In 1928, with the Prince moving to London, so did Harry, and although his career was his one constant, his love-life was in chaos. That summer - “the only women I will ever truly love” – his mother, died in the Buckinghamshire Insane Asylum. Being broke and distraught at her passing, he tried to find love again, but by 1932, his second wife Margaret also died, just weeks after they were married. In Harry’s eyes, he had been abandoned, again and again, and again. Love had eluded him, happiness was a distant memory, and he would be forever cursed to live his life alone... ...until September 1933, when Harry met Kitty. Where they met was unrecorded, but they clearly liked each other having found their kindred spirit. With Harry, a mechanic and Kitty, a waitress, unable to afford swanky dinners and champagne, their romance was like anyone else’s – simple and sweet. They went to pubs, cinemas and took walks in the park, eating cheese and pickle sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and feeding the crusts to the ducks. It was a very normal relationship given the confines of the era; and still only courting, they held hands in public, kissed in the dark of the cinema and went to dances as an excuse to hold each other tight. At Christmas 1933, after four months together, Harry proposed and Kitty accepted. Fuelled by the fear that time was ticking away, maybe he was a little too rash to find a wife and she was too eager for babies? But there was no denying that they were in love. So, in March 1934, they moved in together. Taking up Mrs Warren’s offer, by the April, Harry & Kitty had rented two adjoining rooms at the lodging house at 75 Star Street. It was pleasant, clean, quiet and full of ten lodgers in full-time employment. Originally a larger room overlooking the street, being subdivided by a partition wall, Harry & Kitty’s rooms were small but affordable; with each consisting of a single bed, an armchair, a wash stand, a small fireplace for heating and for hot water, a small hob connected to a gas-tap at the skirting board. Being a temporary fix until they could afford a place of their own, it was filled with the typical things; a trunk of clothes, a wireless radio, some hats, some coats, some shoes, his bits for shaving, her bobs for make-up and a few pieces to make a nice night-time brew, as well as being sparsely decorated with a few family keepsakes, their many love-letters, and – on their bedside tables – a photo of each other. According to the lodgers, the future Mr & Mrs Tuffney weren’t just lovers, they were best friends; who stood side-by-side, were always loving and although a little quiet, no-one ever heard them quarrel. There was no denying, that Harry was entirely devoted to Kitty... ...only Kitty was not as devoted to Harry, and it plagued on his mind. Like many relationships, once the honeymoon period was over, feelings were never as strong. It didn’t mean she didn’t love him – she did – she just didn’t love him, as much. But as another loving relationship seemed to slip through his fingers, his life-long fear of abandonment rose, once again. Over the next few weeks, still living in adjoining rooms as they could afford little else, they remained together but had clearly drifted apart; they touched less and kissed as infrequently. Desperate never to lose “the only women I will ever truly love”, Harry insisted they marry soon, but always keen to keep the peace, Kitty simply smiled, trying to make the best of a difficult situation for both of them. But as the hurt slowly ate away at Harry’s heart, the paranoia began to gnaw away at his brain. In one of several letters written to his sister Lucy, Harry wrote of his pain and anguish, stating “there’s something wrong with my brain. One day, I feel that something is going to snap”. Helplessness had made him bitter and jealousy had made him moody, but something was not right in his head. In May 1934, after a decade of loyal service and just four weeks before he did the unthinkable, Harry lost his job as chauffeur and mechanic to the Egyptian Prince. The reason? He had become unreliable, although he would later claim he was sacked after an unnamed client made a false complaint against him. Of course, there was no evidence to disprove this, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. On Friday 15th June 1934, two weeks before, Kitty sat Harry down and told him the truth – “Harry, it’s over” – she said it softly, she held his hand and – to make him not feel like a failure, as she knew he would - she used every possible platitude to ease his pain; “you’ve done nothing wrong”, “it’s not you, it’s me”, “it wasn’t meant to be”. All of which, he seemed to take rather well. Two days later, having admitted to his sister that he had been snooping in Kitty’s handbag, Harry found a letter from a man called Briggs addressed to Kitty, in which the two planned to run-away together, and in the weeks prior, he had seen her out-and-about with several men. He said nothing to her about it, he put the letter back and it was never seen again. Although, there is no evidence to disprove this... ...but in his eyes, it was all true. Friday 29th June 1934 began as a very ordinary day. Still living in adjoined rooms and staying on friendly terms, Harry joined Kitty for a breakfast of tea, toast and boiled eggs. With her uniform crisp and neat, Kitty went to work, doing the regular 11am to 11pm shift at Maison Lyonese, a few streets away. The day was bright and sunny, but for Harry, the morning was already beset by a persistent gloom. In her fireplace, he had spotted the charred remnants of yet another letter to Kitty from Briggs. “I felt a blackness coming over me. I became infuriated. I went for a walk to feel better”. Skulking four streets south, six-minutes later he arrived at an iron-monger’s on Kendall Street, and purchased an axe. Harry: “it just came into my head... go out, buy a chopper”. With its wooden handle one foot-long and the six-inch-wide steel blade half-a-kilo in weight – as a very common tool for any household with a fireplace – it was light enough to carry in his hand, but heavy enough to split a large log in half. Returning home “I saw the letter again. I had an itching feeling all over my body, as I have felt before and I could see rings coming at me. I seemed to go very peculiar”, and he hid the axe under his bed. Mid-afternoon, Kitty came home. He would claim: “we kissed as usual. I felt better and I forgot all about the axe”, although several sources would state that she didn’t arrive back till almost midnight. That night, dressed in just pyjamas and a nightdress, they sat on Harry’s bed talking of their past and their future; of one together and one apart, with Harry favouring one and Kitty the other, as their calm and amicable conversation stretched into the wee small hours, waking no-one in the whole house. With work the next morning, although lipstick would prove that the two had sipped whiskey from two tumblers, no alcohol was detected in Kitty’s system. She wasn’t much of a drinker, in fact; she wasn’t ever morose or maudlin, she didn’t have dark thoughts or depression, and she never talked of suicide. Harry: “After drinking an eighth of a bottle of whiskey, I went to my room, undressed, I went to her room to say goodnight, and she said I was not looking well. She said she was fed up, and I suggested we should gas ourselves. We sat on the bed, and after drinking more whiskey, she started to write a letter”. Her last ever letter. Although, if this was true, her suicide note was never found. Through his eyes – unable to face a future where this love-sick twosome could never lie side-by-side – together they had decided on a death pact. But through hers, she was just tired and headed to bed. Harry: “I remember seeing it under the bed, I picked up the chopper and after that I went blank”. With Kitty tucked-up in her own little bed, snuggled under the softness of her own sheets, Harry kissed his beloved’s cheek - “goodbye my sweet” – and with one swift strike, he buried the axe’s blade deep into the back of her head; splintering her skull, splitting it wide and exposing her brains, as a thick pool of red goo formed about her lifeless corpse, as her last ever breath left her slowly cooling body. Locking the door, with Kitty gone, Harry used his last moments alive to write one letter to the police and one to his family (some living, some dead) apologising for what he had done and was yet to do. “Dear mum and all. My darling passed away at 3am. It was instantaneous. She did not suffer at all. Never murmured. We had quite a long chat together, had a bottle of ale and a small bottle of whiskey. A parting drink from this world into the next. At 1am, after our talk, she said she did not care which way things went. Little did she know how near both our times were. Goodbye all. Harry”. With Kitty’s handwritten love-letters to Briggs strewn about and their last drink still whetted with her lipstick, Harry laid upon the carpet. Placing down cushions for his head, he laid flat and opened-up the gas taps. Breathing the invisible killer deep, as in heaven, he prayed he would see his beloved again. Through Harry’s eyes, death was the only option... ...her death, his death, together. (End) Only Harry didn’t die. Why? We don’t know. Maybe a window was open, maybe the gas was weak, or maybe, it was all a lie? A few hours later, still wearing his blood-stained pyjamas, Harry handed himself in at Marylebone Lane Police Station, confessing “I have killed my girl. Here is the key to the door”. The Police arrived at 75 Star Street at 9:14am, to find a body, an axe, two tumblers, two letters written by Harry, no letters written by Kitty or Briggs, no witnesses, no assault, no signs of a struggle, and – following a medical - the police surgeon confirmed that Harry was suffering from coal-gas poisoning. Harry was charged at 11:30am with her murder, to which he confessed “I murdered the girl and that is the end of it. I done it. I suffer for it. I have had my revenge”. And unlike many other aspects in his life, we know this definitely happened, as there was a report, an inquest and a trial. While on remand at Brixton prison, two medical specialists came to different conclusions: Dr Organ for the defence stated that “Harry was temporarily insane at the time of the murder” and had a “family history of insanity”, where as Dr Grierson for the prosecution refuted this, stating that Harry was sane. Tried at the Old Bailey, Harry pleaded guilty to manslaughter by reason of insanity, but having already made a full confession to the Police, the jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to death. Harry Tuffney was executed at Pentonville Prison on 9th October 1934. But was any of this Harry’s fault? As with his mother, his aunt and two younger-brothers dead; having been hung as a child, injured as a soldier, and having shot and stabbed four Egyptians to protect his friends, with a divorced first wife, a dead second wife, and now a dead future third wife, all of whom had cheated on him? Would Harry have committed this heinous act if they hadn’t abandoned him? All of that is entirely true... but only if you see it through Harry’s eyes. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy a bit of non-obligatory chin-waggery, featuring a cup of tea, a possible cake (diet permitting), a little quiz and a few extra details about this case, join us after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Nicola Marshall, Darren Gallagher, Carole Anne Willsher, Matthew Miskell and Sarah Bevan. I thank you for supporting the show, my belly, my cholesterol count and shares in Mr Kipling’s bakery. I thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Olga's former home at Cumberland Park in Acton, W3, where Dylan Freeman was murdered
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FIVE:
Today’s episode is about Olga Freeman, a devoted mother to her ten-year-old physically and mentally disabled son – Dylan. She had everything in place to ensure he had the best care possible. But when the Covid Pandemic hit, Olga & Dylan’s lives were thrown into chaos.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Olga home is located with lilac cross, just above the words ACTON. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you Olga's former home in Cumberland Park, Acton, W3, where Dylan Freeman was murdered. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case is very new, and none of the court records are available, it was based on news sources, so the veracity of the content cannot be fully verified. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-56025628 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-53904823 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-53833604 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-55794997 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-9249697/Mother-given-indefinite-hospital-order-suffocated-autistic-son.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-55794997 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/olga-freeman-guilty-killing-disabled-son-acton-b900984.html https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/mum-admits-killing-son-10-23379040 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/acton-murder-mother-court-dean-freeman-son-10-a4526786.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2021/feb/11/olga-freeman-uk-woman-who-killed-disabled-son-detained-in-hospital-indefinitely https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/dylan-freeman-death-mother-disabled-son-inquest-a4532506.html https://www.image.ie/self/the-tragic-death-of-dylan-freeman-shows-the-pressure-cooker-of-lockdown-on-those-already-struggling-to-cope-235830 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/lockdown-child-killings-murder-london-b1792720.html https://www.mylondon.news/news/west-london-news/acton-mum-who-chocked-disabled-19817407 https://www.cps.gov.uk/london-north/news/mother-admits-killing-10-year-old-son-acton https://krw-law.ie/olga-freeman/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/dylan-freeman-murder-acton-mother-olga-freeman-inquest-a9688351.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Olga Freeman, a loving mother... (Podcast grinds to a halt / white noise / distortion). Imagine if everything stopped. Without reason or warning, everything you ever knew or depended on suddenly ceased in the blink of an eye. None of it was your fault, but you were left to fend for yourself. When the Covid pandemic hit, for billions of people the whole world stopped dead. The simple things we all took for granted became a massive concern; like our jobs, our health, our wealth and our loved ones, followed by mass panics over some of life’s basics like water, pasta, rice and toilet paper. Lockdown was a difficult time for everyone - as being prisoners in our own homes - without a routine to keep us sane, boredom created tensions, and (at times) living with those we love became an ordeal. These were desperate times – a crisis for our age - which pushed our stress levels to breaking point, our sanity to its limits, our tolerance to the edge, and many of us lost loved ones... ...but as the bulk of the population sat on their fat arses, staring at screens and grumbling about the loss of seemingly insignificant little luxuries; like trips to the flicks, nights in the pub, holidays in Greece, footie matches, concerts, picnics and what they would do once they had completed Netflix? While some lamented their so-called hardships and woes living a mildly inconvenienced life in lockdown... ...others were really struggling, being trapped in a waking nightmare. For those with physical disabilities and mental health issues, as well as those who selflessly provide the care they so desperately need, even little changes to their routines can have a devastating effect. Simple changes to when they eat, sleep or play; what they do or where they go can quickly spiral into a traumatic event. But what if – one day, without any warning – everything collapsed, their routine upended, and they were forced to stay indoors, every day, with no end in sight? With every vital piece of specialist care or support services they had always relied-on taken away in the blink of an eye, and no matter how loud they shouted or how hard they cried, no-one could hear them scream. Olga Freeman was a single-mother, living alone, with her severely disabled son – Dylan. Every day was a struggle and every hour was difficult, but she coped as best she could, thanks to her dedication as a loving mother and the routines and services she had put in place to give Dylan the best possible life. But when the pandemic struck... ... and everything stopped... ...Olga Freeman was left alone. (Podcast sound comes back in). My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 145: A Desperate Lockdown for Olga Freeman. (Let the theme tune play long, street sounds) A little over one year ago, this was Olga’s home that she shared with her ten-year-old son - Dylan. It is a small two-bedroomed flat on the ground-floor of 18 Cumberland Park in Acton, West London. The brickwork is white, the windows are large, there’s a central door to the flats above and a small shared garden outback. It is not unlike any other home on this lower-middle-class residential street. In fact, being a quiet little street discretely dotted with cars, trees and the occasional house converted into a community-minded business like a dentist’s, a doctor’s surgery or a nursery, it’s not unlike any other street. It’s a nice homely place where families live, and here they can feel safe and protected. If you were expecting a glib comment or an amusing quip by myself, as often happens in his part of the podcast as a bit of light levity before the heart-breaking horrors of this story folds? Think again. (Don’t let the music end, don’t add a busker or an interstitial. Don’t add anything familiar). Olga was born Olga Voronina on 19th March 1980 in Moscow, Russia. Raised during the death-throws of this communist state - with the Soviet Union dissolved on 26th December 1991 - Russia developed closer links to the West and Olga’s financially-successful family fulfilled their middle-class aspirations. With political isolation a thing of the past, fortune was on their side as they headed into a bright future. With blonde hair, hazel eyes and a warm smile, Olga was blessed with an inviting face which matched her intoxicating personality. And combined with a methodical brain and hard-working ethic, it was clear to everyone she met that she would be a success. By the turn of the millennium, she was studying law at Moscow State Law Academy, by the mid-2000’s she was doing her post-grad’ at BPP Law School in London and – being fluent in English – she worked for several corporate law firms in the City. Her life was blessed; she wasn’t rich, but her life was good, she worked hard and the rewards paid off. Like anyone else, she enjoyed the fruits of her labour; but she didn’t go to excesses, she didn’t commit criminal acts, she didn’t set-out to hurt anyone and she didn’t have a bad bone in her body. She had a brief history of depression, but who doesn’t? And through good diet, yoga and medication, she coped. By the end of the 2000’s, Olga had met and fallen in love with Dean Freeman, son of famed celebrity photographer Robert Freeman and a talented photographer in his own right, having shot portraits of the Spice Girls and David Beckham. Together Olga & Dean travelled the world and lived the jet-set life of everyone’s dreams; first-class tickets, exclusive parties and - to escape the stresses of life – they holidayed in a Brazilian tropical hideaway amidst the rain forest overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The perfect life had fallen into place for Olga. With good careers, the couple married, moved into a million-pound Edwardian house in Acton and on 3rd January 2010, their son Dylan Valentine was born. They had it all and they lived the good life... ...but even for those who don’t deserve it... ...fate can be cruel. Dylan was sweet child, a little dot of pink flesh with a mop of blonde hair, just like his mum. Like any parent, this bundle of joy was a delight, as – in their eyes – he was beautiful and perfect in every way. But at a few days old, it was clear that Dylan wasn’t well, he couldn’t feed properly and his lungs were weak. Unlike the other babies, he didn’t cry, instead the best he could muster was a weak high-pitched wail, like he was eternally dying. Physically, his body was frail and malformed; with a head abnormally small, a degenerative eye-sight and a narrow set of hands and feet crudely held together by weak muscles and loose joints (which made simple tasks like standing, walking and holding objects difficult). Dylan was diagnosed with Cohen’s Syndrome, one of the rarest congenital birth defects with only five hundred known cases across the world, and a genetic disorder for which there is no known cure. With his body fighting against him, Dylan’s little life would be plagued by physical disability. Requiring constant love and care - twenty-four hours a day, seven-days-a-week – he would be unable to walk, feed or function without help. With his brain as underdeveloped as his body, Dylan was also on the autistic spectrum, which meant he was prone to mood swings, struggled to communicate, and when he was sad or in pain, he couldn’t express it, so instead he would howl like a wounded wolf cub. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was also at a higher risk of infection and autoimmune disorders. Disability aside, Dylan blossomed into a lovely little boy who everyone described as gentle, happy and sweet, and whose favourite part of the day was cuddling up to his mum as they watched Peppa Pig. Olga gave up everything for her beloved son; her career, her lifestyle, her dreams. As a smart driven businesswoman, she became a full-time carer, as he was her everything - her world - and she was his. Olga was a great mum; dedicated and loving. To stimulate her son’s body and his brain, she took him swimming, to the park, to art galleries, and together this family of three went on overseas holidays. To aid his education, he went to a special needs school five-days-a-week. And when she needed it, she got in a respite carer, as she knew that she had to be physically and mentally fit in order to cope. It wasn’t easy, but Olga was incredibly patient. Although he struggled to swallow food, she would turn meal-times into play-time just to get him to eat. As he howled by night, she sang him to sleep, and – drained of all energy – she slept whenever she could. Friends all said “she always put a brave face on”, never showing if she was stressed, as she wasn’t doing this for her, she was doing this for him. Olga was holding it together... ...but owing to the stresses of work and caring for Dylan, Olga & Dean separated and later divorced. To keep some consistency, Dylan spent the summers with his dad in Barcelona, where he now lived. But with the family home broken-up as part of the divorce settlement, Olga & Dylan moved into a small two-bedroomed ground-floor flat at 18 Cumberland Park in Acton, not far from his school. As a recently single mum with a severely disabled son, life was hard but she coped. As he grew older, larger and began to enter puberty, Dylan became more disruptive, and yet, still she coped. But when the whole world was plunged into chaos... ...everything that Olga & Dylan relied on, collapsed. It was said in court: “she did an awful thing... but she was not an evil person, even if it was an evil act”. Through the winter of 2019 and 2020, Covid-19 wasn’t a major issue; Brexit was on our mind, Trump was still President and our Prime Minster (Boris Johnson) had dismissed it as a Chinese problem. With the virus over there, rather than over here, the world had side-stepped several outbreaks over the last decades – such as Swine Flu, Bird-Flu, Sars-1, Ebola – and Spanish Flu was a distant memory. On 16th March 2020, like many countries across the planet, Britain entered a national lockdown... (Insert soundbite of Boris Johnson announcing lockdown restrictions). Unessential shops were shut, unnecessary travel was banned and public gatherings were forbidden. Everything was pared down to only the most basic of essentials, and as key workers carried-on – doing a heroic job with no overtime nor protection - the selfish shoved the vulnerable aside, ransacked the shelves and the sale of fridge freezers surged, as the irresponsible hoarded chips, pizzas and Kiev’s by the kilo. It was a crisis which showed everyone in their true colour – dividing the selfish and the selfless. Three days later, Olga celebrated her 40th birthday alone. Although in good spirits, she was rightfully concerned about the virus, as her son was at a higher risk of infection than most. But with very little credible information being released on how to protect them both, all she could do was to be vigilant. For many, it was a time of great uncertainty; as rules were flouted, masks were non-existent and the unscrupulous sold hand-sanitiser at grossly inflated prices. Initially, the lockdown was only supposed to last for three weeks, but as the infection rate sky-rocketed, emergency measures were introduced. On the 25th March 2020, the British Government fast-tracked through Parliament the Coronavirus Act; to give them powers to slow the spread of the virus and to reduce the burden on public resources. Overnight, every school closed and many parents (who were unqualified) became their child’s teacher. But this act also relaxed the legal onus on local councils to provide case for those with Special Needs, so alongside every school being shut, vital care and support services were withdrawn overnight. Parents of Special Needs children were said to be “quaking in their boots”, as “many of our children have behavioural problems. They can be highly aggressive and self-destructive. They are bouncing off the walls, scratching themselves or lashing out. It's like a pressure cooker only there is no break”. Gone was the specialist care. Gone were the respite carers. One week earlier, Dylan was attending a special school five-days-a-week - an important time which aided his development and wellbeing – as well as giving Olga a brief window to sleep and mentally-reboot. But now it was just the two of them. Olga & Dylan were alone, stuck inside a small two-bedroomed flat, day and night. With her family in Russia, her ex-husband in Spain, travel banned and her friends isolating (as everyone was), doors and windows were locked and – shielding to protect him from infection – this twosome stayed at home. Even little changes to his routine were traumatic, but now everything familiar was gone. And as Dylan became more unsettled and agitated, the less he slept, the less she slept, as a numbness filled her mind and her body. But still – being a loving devoted mother – she never gave up, she ploughed on. As carefully as she could, she took Dylan for walks in the park, they played on a little trampoline in the back garden, they cuddled on the sofa watching endless episodes of Peppa Pig, and she even bought him special pillows to help him sleep... which he rarely did. Every day was exhausting, every night was identical, and with lockdown extended from weeks to months, there was no end in sight. Or so it seemed. (Insert soundbite of Boris Johnson announcing the easing of lockdown restrictions). On 10th May 2020, after just nine weeks of limited isolation; with PPE still unavailable to every health care worker and the UK listed as the worst infected country in Europe and second worst in the world, the lockdown restrictions were lifted. Masks were binned, holidays were booked and pubs reopened. We were three months from a second wave and six months from a vaccine, but with “fuck it” being the national response, and “I’m bored now, I deserve some fun” - with the government caring more about money than its people - the truly selfish acted as if a global pandemic had never happened... ...and that it wasn’t still killing (as it is, as of today) thousands of people every day. Lockdown had devastated Dylan’s mental health, it left him agitated and volatile. But combined with the isolation and the exhaustion, even worse was how it had impacted on Olga. To help her sleep, she had started taking Melatonin, a natural sleep aid to help sedate her and Dylan. Being at her wits-end, she was prescribed anti-depressants, as well as pain-killers, as having to constantly carry her ten-year-old boy from sofa to bed to the bath, the physical stresses of being his carer had damaged her knees. She hadn’t slept in weeks; her smile was gone, her eyes were dark and her skin was sallow. Olga was now little more than a hollow ghost of her former self. But still – being the devoted and loving mother of a little boy who she would love with her last dying breath – she cared for Dylan as best she could. Throughout, she kept in regular contact with Ealing Council who provided her son’s care, and although some services returned, with a severe backlog and a staff shortage, they were “slow to respond”. On 26th June 2020, she asked the council for an increase in the carer’s allowance, but this was rejected. On 6th July, as the carer was part-funded by herself and she was unable to work, she requested an increase in funding to help cover the cost, but no decision was made. And on the 7th July, she called the council stating that she was “under significant pressure”, that she was “feeling forgotten” and that – more importantly - she was “so stressed, she was not functioning mentally”. Those words should have raised alarm bells... ...but they didn’t. Diagnosed with depression and anxiety, Olga suffered a breakdown owing to the extreme stresses she was under. She was overwhelmed and broken, but her care for Dylan didn’t stop for a single second. And never once was he hurt, abused or malnourished, as she never stopped loving her little boy. In the week leading up to the 15th August, Olga’s depression had developed into a psychosis. Unable to eat; chain-smoking and guzzling coffee to keep herself awake, she was sleep-deprived and isolated. And as her reality blurred, her mind was distorted by the sound as Dylan howled like a wounded wolf. At times, Olga said she was experiencing “supernatural events”; she heard voices, she saw apparitions, and – gripped with delusions of grandeur - she even believed that she was the second coming of Jesus. Edita Surpickaja, her friend and former nanny was worried. Having heard Olga’s ramblings about “her mission”, how “they were waiting for us in Jerusalem” and how “this was the best thing for Dylan” - worried she would flee the country, having purchased two tickets to Tel-Aviv – Edita hide her passport. But by then, it would be too late. On Saturday 15th August 2020, at about 10pm, Olga texted Edita with the words “I am done”. Calling her back, Edita was so concerned she recorded their conversation, as Olga admitted “I have sacrificed my beloved child to create a balance in the world”. It was impossible to believe, but sadly, it was true. Edita arrived at 12:45am. She wasn’t allowed into the bedroom, but Olga confessed to what she had done. At 2am, she reported to Acton police station stating “I have killed my son”, and at 2:15am, with Dylan found unresponsive, the little boy was pronounced dead, and Olga was arrested for his murder. Seeing this as her only option, Olga was as gentle with his death as she had been with his life. Having fed him a sedative in a spoonful of mashed-up banana, as he softly drifted-off, she tucked him up under her duvet to keep him safe and warm, as – for the last time – she kissed her little boy goodnight. As Cohen’s disease had ravaged his lungs, always struggling to breathe, to aid his departure, she placed a bath sponge in his mouth and secured it with the strap of her bra and a strip of Sellotape. He didn’t panic, he felt no pain and his death was quick, as he faded-away into a long eternal sleep, surrounded by the toys he loved so much; his teddies, his Thomas the Tank Engine and his Peppa Pig. (End) A post-mortem was conducted at Great Ormond Street Hospital, where a pathologist confirmed that death was caused by upper airway obstruction. There were no signs of abuse, bruises or neglect. On the 25th January 2021, the trial was held at the Old Bailey with Olga seen via video-link from the Orchard Ward, a psychiatric unit at St Bernard’s Hospital in West London, where she pleaded guilty to manslaughter. It was undeniable to everyone that this was a truly tragic case of a single mother doing her best under extraordinary circumstances, and which both Dylan and Olga were the victims. In her summation, the judge stated to Olga: “that you loved your son and sacrificed yourself for him I have no doubt. The burden of caring for a severely disabled boy was one you took on, as mothers do, out of love and duty. I can see that and I can see how you discharged it faithfully for years. You fought for your son to have the best support, but it was a burden that took an enormous toll on you. Although he was not able to tell you so, I am sure you were loved by him and there will have been many joys in the life you led together. I have no doubt at all that you were a loving and dedicated mother to a vulnerable child, until multiple pressures overwhelmed you and your mind”. On 11th February 2021, Olga Freeman was sentenced to an indefinite hospital order, and (as of today) she remains at the Orchard Unit. A report into the council’s lack of care during the pandemic, stated “It is clear from the evidence of this review so far, is that this death could not have been foreseen". OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy a bit of non-compulsory chit-chat about cake, tea and other details about his case, as well as a little quiz, then feel free to join me after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are James Parry, Verity Herrington, Emily Clark and Margaret Christensen. I thank you for supporting the show as well as my ever-expanding waistline. With a special thank you to James for your kind donation via the Supporter link. I thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Brewer's Green in St James', as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOUR:
Today’s episode is about Martha Browning, a young girl who murdered her elderly bed-mate for that most common of reasons - money. And although her attempt to cover it up was bafflingly inept, her motive was one that no-one could truly fathom.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Mrs's Graham's Lodging House at 1 Providence Place, where the murder of Elizabeth Mundell took place is marked with a red cross and is under the word ST JAMES'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you Brewer's Green. Sadly the lodging house and Providence Place has long since been demolished. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: This case is primarily based on the original court records held at the Old Bailey, but it is also based on several news sources, only a few listed here.
MUSIC:
Just Stay by Aakash Gandhi Contempt by Seclorance Serenity by Parvus Decree Rain by Silent Partner Baci Soavi e Cari by Capela Duci Omonia by Dan Boden UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Martha Browning, a young girl who murdered her elderly bed-mate for that most common of reasons - money. And although her attempt to cover it up was bafflingly inept, her motive was one that no-one could truly fathom. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 144: Martha Browning’s Baffling Motive. Today I’m standing in Brewer’s Green, Westminster, SW1; three roads south of Ghodratollah Barani banging on the gates of Buckingham Palace, four roads east of the scattered remains of Emily Beilby Kaye, one hundred yards east of the assassination of Sir Michael Francis Dyer by Udham Singh, and very close to the mystery of Bob Gould, the man who was never there - coming soon to Murder Mile. Brewer’s Green is an odd place, as being perched at a y-shaped junction, it consists of one large tree, an impossibly tiny school and a fenced-off patch of grass, but – surrounded on all sides by modern glass-fronted monstrosities – it looks like the last vestige of its past has been swamped by its present. Preserved for posterity, on the corner of Caxton Street sits the Blue Coat School; a 17th century relic often called The Blue Boy, and yet everything built prior to the 1900’s has long-since been demolished. Flanked by embassies, law firms and equity firms; as well as salons where a single trimmed follicle can cost a monthly wage, posh hotels where even touching the mini-bar requires a second mortgage, tailors who intricately stitch pocket-hankies (“which are NOT for blowing your bogies on – thank you”) and – of course – there’s a Pret’, the McDonald’s for every avocado-chomping middle-class numpty. More than 170 years ago, Brewer’s Green was unrecognisable; being a rabbit’s warren of dark alleys, dilapidated hovels and overcrowded lodging houses. Just off Caxton Street, at 1 Providence Place was a three-storey townhouse occupied by thirty-two lodgers. Paying by the week and sometime by the day - being too poor to rent or buy their own - many shared a room and often a bed with a stranger. Two such bed-fellows were 61-year-old Elizabeth Mundell and 23-year-old Martha Browning. Like a surrogate mother and daughter, being snuggled up under a blanket was no great issue as it kept them both warm and safe. But when money got tight, their situation forced Martha to do the unthinkable. As it was here, on 1st December 1845 that Martha murdered Elizabeth. And although she would almost disguise her ghastly crime, right from the start, her motive was cursed with a fatal mistake. (Interstitial) Everybody likes a laugh and a joke, right? A bit of fun to alleviate the stresses and strains of daily life. Elizabeth Mundell was a jolly lady, as full of life as she was of food, and being a pink round ball of flesh, which heartily wobbled like bowl of blancmange when she laughed, she was impossible not to love. But as a woman for whom tragedy often beat her with a shitty stick? She made the best of a bad life. Elizabeth was 61-years-old, a good age for a working-class woman in that era. Born on the 4th February 1785, her family were labourers and washer-women, so her depressing little life’s history was written before she had even breathed. But rising to the modest rank of domestic servant, she did alright. Slogging her guts out seven-days-a-week, sixteen-hours-a-day to serve her ungrateful lord and master, her meagre wage included no holidays, no sick-pay, no benefits, no pension, and it was barely enough of a pittance to survive. But in her twenties, she met and married Thomas Mundell, later a soldier in the Queen’s Guards based out of Horse Guard’s Parade near the newly renovated Buckingham Palace. Married for close-to forty years, they battled through thick-and-thin, and although they tried for a child several times, with the morality rate for babies being high, only one was known to have survived. But together; Thomas, Elizabeth and their daughter Ann lived a good life in Kennington, South London. As the matriarch, Elizabeth was strong. Although large, she was fit, healthy and agile on her feet, with part of her width being the muscles she had developed owing to the demanding nature of her work as a domestic, a wife and a mother. But by 1840, life rewarded her with cruelty. Unable to keep up with the younger servants, Elizabeth was let go. Being too old, Thomas was invalided out of the Army. And with pensions the preserve of the middle-classes, they were forced to rely on their only child. In 1843, Thomas died, leaving Elizabeth as a penniless widow. To dull her depression, sometimes she drank, and around the same time, she sank a bottle of poison, although some said this was a mistake. She had worked her whole life, but had nothing to show for it, except a few odd-and-sods which fitted in a small wooden chest and some cheap knickknacks she kept in a red cloth ‘housewife’; a small bag she stashed in her bathrobe pocket, full of needles, threads, buttons and things which made her smile. She loved to laugh and devoured anything which distracted her from her pain. She took pleasure in the simple things in life like a cup of tea, a suet pudding, but most of all, she loved a bargain; keeping any leaflet or voucher which saved her money, and especially any harmless sales gimmick - like a fake cheque or a pretend pound note – which no-one in their right mind would take seriously. In 1844, she moved into a first-floor room of Mrs Graham’s lodging house at 1 Providence Place, and – as much for company, warmth and an income of 18 pence a week – she shared her bed with a lodger. In November 1845, a friend of her daughter and someone she had known for six months became her bed-fellow; she paid on time, they got on well, and although – being a larger lady – Elizabeth took up most of the mattress, it didn’t prove a problem as her lodger was quiet, harmless and petite. Her name was Martha Browning... ...three weeks she would kill Elizabeth Mundell... ...and yet, no-one foresaw this, as she didn’t look like a murderer. Martha was twenty-three, but looked barely thirteen. Being as tiny as a dolly and as fresh-faced as a peach, she exuded innocence and was the kind of girl many wanted to protect. With a faint little voice and apple-blossom cheeks, although undeniably sweet, her pixie-ish proportions were partly down to malnutritian, and plagued with illness, she walked with a slowness which mirrored her child-like mind. Little is known about her life, except she was born in Alton in Hampshire, her father was dead and her two siblings lived in London. Since the summer, Martha had worked as a lowly servant to Captain William Matthews and his wife Jane on Bedford Street in Covent Garden, but being too light for heavy work and too simple for complicated tasks, on the 18th of November, she was let-go from her job. The few coins she had squirrelled away were gone, the bitter winter was howling in, and living under the black shadow of the workhouse which loomed behind like a dirty cloud of doom. Unable to pay 18 pennies-a-week for a bit of a bed, soon her fate would include hunger, poverty and homelessness. Thankfully, she had a very maternal bed-fellow in Elizabeth... ...but pushed to such extremes, even the meekest of creatures are likely to snap. Around that same time, inside Elizabeth’s red cloth ‘housewife’, Martha spotted something she had never seen before, and probably would never see again. Printed on paper, swirled with ornate italics and emblazoned with what her semi-literate eyes read as ‘Bank of England’, she saw a £5 note. It was tatty, it was old, and (having kept it for so long) it had an odd smudge of dirt in the corner. For Elizabeth, she was not shy about showing it to others, as it made her smile... ...but for Martha, that note would pay her rent for the next two years. On the night of Sunday 30th November 1845, both women went to bed at 10:30pm. According to Mary Cheshire, the lodger in the next room, Elizabeth was “in good spirits”, but Martha would disagree. Martha: “she went off all well and sober, but about midnight she was turning and restless, she didn’t say what of but earlier she had pains in her head. About four o’clock she plunged like she was fitting, I asked her what was wrong, she said it was a dream. I asked should I get her anything, she said no”. For the next three hours, they slept. But at 7am, Martha was awoken by Elizabeth’s screaming face. Her eyes wide and wild, her jowls undulating, as she screamed “Murder! Murder! What are you doing to me?!” Maybe it was widow’s grief, or bad food, or some sort of madness? As she was not herself. Martha: “she threw her hands up to her face, screaming all hell and such, I got up, washed her face with water, but it did no good, none at all, so I said to her I’d go fetch her daughter”. Of course, that was Martha’s version of events... ...but Mary Cheshire had heard the screams. “I heard Mrs Mundell cry out, I went to her door and found it fastened on the inside. I hammered, nobody answered, I rapped again, and the girl answered in a low tone of voice ‘nothing’s the matter’, I heard nothing after that, no noises nor calling out”. Fifteen minutes later, having put on her bonnet and cloak, Martha unlocked the door: (Martha) “she was lying in the bed, quite quiet she was, Elizabeth pleaded “don't go for Ann", but I had to”. Before leaving, Martha knocked on Mary’s door; she told her Elizabeth was sick but now sleeping, she was going to fetch help, and asked Mary to check on her if she heard any noises. She heard nothing, so never went in... and during the fifteen minutes that Martha was away, no-one else entered the room. Of course, there was a reason why Elizabeth was so silent. A few streets south, at 11 Rochester Street, Martha frantically banged as loud as her tiny fists could, as her little lungs breathlessly exclaimed “your mother’s ill, she fitted, come quick”, at which Ann followed. But by the time they had returned to the lodging house, Elizabeth was already dead... ...but her death was not from a fit, nor natural causes. The scene was bizarre. It was only a small simple room, but the bed was empty. Elizabeth was missing, and upon the indent where she had slept, three heavy wooden chairs had been stacked high. But why? Behind the door, Elizabeth lay. Dressed in a nightdress; she lay sprawled on her back, her limbs lying limply by her sides and her head hung back, as the roundness of her belly arched high. With bloodshot eyes bulging from her pale livid skin, through her frothy gaping mouth, a fat purple tongue poked. Shocked by the sight, Martha fled screaming “for God's sake, send a man, a woman’s hung herself". And so, it seemed, as knotted around her neck, embedded deep into her flesh was a length of cord. But if this was a suicide, it looked as if it was cobbled together in a panicked state by a simple mind. Dr John Atkinson arrived soon after, determining “her flesh was swollen and livid, her eyes open, blood issued from her nose and ears, with froth from her mouth, consistent with hanging... or strangulation”, but – aside from the fact that she had been of “good spirits” - several details didn’t make sense. If she had hung herself, why had the three chairs remained upright? Why were the roof pegs unable to take the doctor’s weight, let alone hers? If the rope had snapped, why hadn’t it frayed and left a tatty length of noose dangling? And why were there two ends of rope on either side of her neck? If instead, she had strangled herself? How did she tie the knot without it loosening? How did she pull the rope from behind her own back? Why was the rope still taut, as the second she lost consciousness, it would have untied? Given the depths of the marks in her neck, why were there no resulting rope burns on her palms or fingers? And how did she climb onto the box, after she was already dead? And if this was a murder? Being strong, Elizabeth could have fended-off any assailant, but only if she was awake. With the door locked from the inside, so how did her killer get in? And – most importantly of all – what had been stolen, as nothing appeared to have been touched... or so they thought? That night, at the Coach & Horses pub in Dean’s Yard, an inquest was held into the death of Elizabeth Mundell. Witness statements were heard, Martha gave an account, the jury saw the body in-situ, but – as was standard practice in a case so seemingly simple - Dr Atkinson’s was not asked to give evidence. So, based on her widow’s grief, her poverty and prior history of suicide, the jury declared that Elizabeth had died by “suicide owing to her state of insanity”. Martha was not arrested, no police investigation was initiated, and - with Dr Atkinson unable to usurp the coroner’s decision - the case was closed. Back at the lodging house, Elizabeth’s body was laid-out, so mourners could lay flowers and pay this lovely lady their last respects. But struggling to cover her funeral costs, there she would remain there until the money could be found or her rent ran out. And unwilling to sleep in the same room or even the same bed as a dead body, Ann let Martha (her mother’s murderer) sleep in her home. But still, grief aside, things didn’t sit right for Elizabeth’s family. Upon moving her body onto the bed, Edward, Ann’s husband had noticed that the mattress was wet, as was to be expected, as when a person is hung, their bladder often voids, expelling urine. Only the top was bone dry and the wetness was underneath, meaning someone had flipped the mattress over. At Ann’s home, Martha was clearly nervous as a second inquest was requested and looked likely to go ahead. And against what he was permitted to do, Dr Atkinson had informed Ann & Edward that the inquest’s findings were wrong, that death was not suicide and that Martha was most likely the killer. What they needed was undeniable proof... ...what they got was Martha Browning. Two days later, Ann & Edward, accompanied by Martha, headed to the lodging house to prepare the body for burial. A sadness hung in the air like the feted stench of decomposition. Riddled with guilt as the grieving daughter wept, Martha kissed the corpse’s cheek and uttered “do you think she’s happy?” And although an odd phrase to utter insuch company, as she prayed, what she did next defied logic. With uncharacteristic generosity, to Edward, Martha declared “most likely you are short on money. I will lend you a sovereign"; a small fortune for many, but being the equivalent four month’s rent for an unemployed girl of just twenty-three-years-old, he thanked her, but his suspicions had been piqued. From her cloak pocket, she pulled a note; printed on paper, swirled with ornate italics and emblazoned with what her semi-literate eyes read as ‘Bank of England’, she held a £5 note. It was tatty, it was old, and (having been kept by its original owner for so long) it had an odd smudge of dirt in the corner... ...which Edward saw. “I offered to change it for her”, he said “but she insisted on doing it herself”. Into the Blue Boy, a public house beside the small school on Brewer’s Green, Martha entered, note in hand. But barely a minute later, she emerged with a look of dejection and even a little shock on her squished-up little face, stating "oh, they have played a trick on me, I do not understand, they said they would not change it...” ...and they wouldn’t, and for good reason too. Thousands were printed, but this £5 note was one Edward & Ann had seen before, as had many others, as having brought so much joy to Elizabeth, the dirty smudges were as identifiable as fingerprints. Grabbing her by the scruff of her neck, Ann & Edward forcibly marched the girl towards Scotland Yard, and being too tiny to break free or flee, Martha could do nothing to escape their grip, as she was dragged kicking and screaming along St James’ Park, up Horse Guard’s Parade and to 4 Whitehall Place. In her hysterical panic, between fits of pleading and passing-out, she made a full confession, declaring; "what will my mother think of me; a murderer; to die on the gallows", several times she asked those around her to pray for her guilty soul, she admitted that this was her first and only robbery, and said "I cannot keep it any longer. I murdered the old woman, and deprived your wife of her mother." The £5 note was presented, Martha confessed, she was arrested at the Gardener’s Lane Police Station and - whilst ripping out fistfuls of her own hair and repeatedly collapsing to the floor like a dumped rag-doll - she tearfully pleaded "I am an unfortunate creature, do with me what you like". Headed up by Inspector Partridge, an investigation was conducted by the newly formed Metropolitan Police, and several pieces of evidence were found, which the initial inquest hadn’t requested; such as two pawn tickets for a gown and a shawl once owned by Elizabeth - and most damning of all - in her own box, they found a length of cord identical to that she had used to strangle her bed-mate to death. This time, thanks to Dr Atkinson’s testimony (which he was finally permitted to give) a second inquest dismissed the case of ‘suicide by insanity’ and found grounds to proceed with a charge of murder. Martha Browning was tried at the Old Bailey on 17th December 1845, before Mr Baron Alderson and Mr Justice Patteson. The case was a media sensation, as no-one could believe that this mere slip of a girl with elfin-like limbs and apple-blossom cheeks could be so callous, especially as often she had to be carried into the dock by two policeman and several times the trial was stopped as she had fainted. Her defence was simple. Elizabeth’s death had no witnesses; no-one had seen it nor heard it, she was unwell (as an inquest had proved that) and all of the evidence was entirely circumstantial, so her guilt could never be proven without a “shadow of doubt”. The jury agreed and asked for leniency... ...but the judges overruled them, and she was sentenced to death. At five minutes to eight, on the morning of Monday 5th January 1846, Martha was led from her cell at Newgate Prison. In a barely-audible whisper, she thanked the guards for their kindness, and weeping like there was no tomorrow (which there wasn’t), she was led outside to the hangman’s gallows. As the first woman executed at Newgate for 14 years, a crowd of 30,000 spectators had assembled; some sat eating picnics, some got pissed, many jeered and heckled, and so excitable were the crowds, that when Martha appeared, a stampede crushed several, leaving a 9-year-old girl crippled for life. As the clock struck eight - having made her peace with God, Martha uttered her final words, “may the Lord have mercy on my soul” - with her thin limbs fastened and the noose tightly secured about her tiny neck, the trapdoors flung open and the little body of Martha Browning dropped. (End). Only, she didn’t die... as with William Calcraft being less of a skilled executioner and more of a grisly showman, through his bungling for the sake of entertainment, Martha endured a truly horrible death. As being so tiny and light, her body-weight hadn’t broken her neck in a single swift snap, but instead, she was yanked and dangled, and as her neck stretched, she was strangled for several long minutes. Ironically, her end mirrored Elizabeth Mundell’s at her own hands, but with crowds baying for blood, Martha’s life was ended by Calfraft’s trademark finale, as the fifteen stone man hung from her feet. In her prison cell, Martha had fully confessed to a priest. Her motive was simple, she was desperate and had been tempted by the £5 note... a sum of money which could (and did) change her life forever. But even though the murder was pre-planned... a small (but vital) detail had eluded Martha. To distract her from her pain, Elizabeth loved to laugh. She took pleasure in simple things like a cup of tea, a suet pudding, but most of all, she loved a bargain. Always looking to save a penny, she kept any leaflet or voucher, especially a harmless little gimmick like a fake cheque or a pretend pound note. Printed on paper, swirled with ornate italics and emblazoned with what her semi-literate eyes read as ‘Bank of England’, what Martha saw was a £5 note, but what everyone else saw was a practical joke. You couldn’t spend it, and it was worth nothing, it wasjust a simple ploy to lure the customers in, and which no-one in their right mind would ever take seriously, or think was legal tender. But having missed the joke, Martha’s motive was fatally flawed, as the note - once again - made Elizabeth smile. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, an entirely optional bit of chit-chat which includes some aimless thoughts, a few questions and lots of extra details about the case continues after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Hazel Cullen, Mark Gibson and Simon Russell, I thank you all. May the king of Battenberg bestow upon you a lifetime supply of cakes, all served up by Reg Christie clutching a cup of tea. What a treat! And – of course – all the treats you get via Patreon; like badges, stickers, key-rings, photos and videos, plus episodes you won’t get anywhere else. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 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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