Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
32 Westbourne Terrace in Paddington, where Robina Bolton 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 EIGHTY-SEVEN:
12:45am on Saturday 14th January 1956, at the junction of Hertford Street and park Lane in Mayfair, 34-year-old sex-worker Robina Bolton known as Ruby was last seen alive. The next morning she was found murdered in Flat 7 at 32 Westbourne Terrace, a flat she shared with her husband Ernest. Ernest would claim he last saw Ruby alive as she entered a taxi with an unidentified man. Seven hours later, he would stumble across the body of his wife having been brutally murdered in her bed. As her pimp who was flat broke, the only other person with a key to the flat and a laughable alibi that she was due to meet a man no-one had seen who he knew only as ‘the bearded man’, as the Police’s chief suspect, Ernest was questioned on suspicion of her murder. But was this the truth, or a lie?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a mustard raindrop in Paddington (above the park). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4202810 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10874384
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Westbourne Terrace in Paddington, W2; one street north of the stabbing of PC Jack Avery, three streets west of Alice William’s death, two streets east of the attack on Airman Stanley Thurman, and one street south of the curse of the castrated flasher - coming soon to Murder Mile. Since construction began on the station in in 1852, prostitution has always been part of Paddington’s seedier side. There’s not a single flat which hasn’t been used by sex-workers to service their clients. Only now, many brothels are rented out via Air B&B’s with the transactions taking place via an app’. So, as easily as you may order a McMuffin at a Mucky Doo’s; someone has ticked a blowie from a drop-down box, swiped right for a hand-shandy, clicked ‘yes’ for dogging, added a smiley for S&M where the safe word is ‘Gerald’, and God help anyone who mistakes the pint emoji for the poo. So I’m told. Back in the 1950s, Flat 7 at 32 Westbourne Terrace was a simple small fourth-floor lodging comprising of a single room with a bed, a sink, a sofa and a small kitchenette. Rented out to Ruby, a 35-year-old prostitute and Ernest her husband, this is where she’d have sex with several men each night for cash. Having driven her to and from the flat to a known pick-up point, at 12:45am on Saturday 14th January 1956, Ernest would claim he last saw Ruby alive as she entered a taxi with an unidentified man. Seven hours later, he would stumble across the body of his wife having been brutally murdered in her bed. As her pimp who was flat broke, the only other person with a key to the flat and a laughable alibi that she was due to meet a man no-one had seen who he knew only as ‘the bearded man’, as the Police’s chief suspect, Ernest was questioned on suspicion of her murder. But was this the truth, or a lie? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 187: The Bearded Man – Part One of Two. The most startling detail of this case is the relationship between this husband and wife, this pimp and prostitute - Ruby & Ernest Bolton. It beggars’ belief why a couple, who had married out of love, would make such a seedy deal in which she sells her body to a slew of horny strangers to be pawed over and pumped until they came, as her spouse counts the cash and waits to drive her to her next customer… …but as odd as it may seem, it’s a lot more common than you would think. Ruby was born Robina Pattinson in the summer of 1920 in the city of Carlisle, just shy of the Scottish English border. We know little of her early life, as even to those who knew her, she spoke little about her past. Whether by abuse or abandonment, Ruby always seemed to be running from something. As a gorgeous girl with a cheeky face, short dark hair and bright red lips, whatever or whoever she was fleeing from was hidden by a personality which beamed warmth and love. Being well-liked, Ruby made her way in life by being sweet, polite and nice. And as a woman who would make a living off her looks – even when she was broke – she never went out without her hair coiffured and her nails painted. Receiving a basic education and living in a city thick with the dark sooty plumes of industry where (as a woman) her options were limited, by 25th June 1938, 18-year-old Ruby had moved 92 miles south to the seaside town of Blackpool, where she married a 41-year-old butcher called Richard Moore. Living in a little flat above his butcher’s shop on Rossett Avenue, they lived a simple life, but it lacked love. In early 1940, Ruby gave birth to a baby girl believed to have been called Jean, but even the prospect of a long life with loving family of her own couldn’t hold this little threesome together. As the German bombers of the second world war pummelled the surrounding cities of the north, Ruby became a prostitute. Why? We don’t know. But it’s easy to slip into the Victorian myth that all sex-workers were fallen women; whether drunks, druggies, the deranged and the destitute, of which some were, but others were not - like Ruby who was strong, independent and in control of her own life. The 1940s saw a huge upsurge in everyday women supplementing their meagre income (often half of what a man earned for the same job) through sex-work. For some women; the simple exchange of a meal, a few drinks and a hotel room for the night in return for sex wasn’t prostitution, but a bit of fun and while their husband was serving overseas. For many mothers, sex was noble sacrifice for some extra cash or ration stamps to feed their family when life was hard. And for some women, like Ruby, given a choice of a pittance washing crockery or a decent wage wanking off maybe ten men-a-night, at three minutes a time and earning more per hour than they could in a day? It wasn’t a hard decision. Prostitution gave them money, power, freedom and control in a world where they had none. Ruby was her own woman, who worked the hours she wanted; when, if and how she decided. And although it gave her a better standard of living - as it often did - it caused havoc with her home and family life. Whether her husband knew, colluded or was oblivious to her activities is unknown, but in 1946, after 8-years of marriage, Richard & Ruby separated when she was convicted of brothel keeping and child abandonment. On paper, it sounds abhorrent, but given that her crimes were recorded by religious zealots; ‘child abandonment’ was a common offence attributed to many working mothers, and any property could be classified as a brothel if two prostitutes and a maid were together in the same room, even if they weren’t soliciting for sex at the time of their arrest, but were simply having a cup of tea. Deemed by the courts as a bad mother, Ruby lost custody of her daughter and – again, as was her way – she ran away from her troubles and moved 240 miles south to London, where she met Ernest… …her husband, her pimp and the man who would be questioned on suspicion of her murder. To those who knew them, the relationship between Mr & Mrs Bolton seemed like any other. Raised and living in Lewisham, South London, 35-year-old Ernest Joseph Bolton earned a living as a driver, and having met Ruby just one year before, they had married at a registry office in May 1947. Being of similar age and out-look, they seemed well-suited, but their nuptials got off to a rocky start when their marriage was declared null-and-void, as Ruby was still married to Richard. Divorced, she re-married Ernest on the 21st June 1949, and they lived in the heart of Paddington’s red-light district. On paper, his job was as a driver who owned his own firm called Ruby Car Hire, but making his money as her pimp, it’s likely that this was how he hid their immoral earnings under the guise of a taxi firm. Between 1951 & 1956, Robina Bolton known as Ruby was convicted 22 times of soliciting, with Ernest fined £40 and 10 guineas in 1952 for managing a brothel. With each conviction, they moved to a one-roomed lodging, which was sparsely furnished with a sofa, a chair, a kitchenette, a bath and a bed. Unlike her ex, there was no denying that Ernest was a key part of Ruby’s life in the sex trade, as – for at least the last six or eight years – when she was having sex, he was never more than a street away. Little is known about Ernest or his ways; whether he was violent, coercive, passive or protective. As with prostitutes, there are many types of pimps; some are nothing more than aggressive bullies who drug, beat and abuse their girls into shadows of their former selves; some use the old ploy of love to coerce a fleet of lonely ladies into believing that it’s only him who loves them; to some it’s just a business, which they’ve set-up together, with the wife doing the sex and the husband as protection; and whereas some are passive underlings who do their wife’s bidding as a bodyguard and as a maid. How it was split between Ruby and Ernest may never be known, but as an independent woman – with a shared bank account, both their names on the flat’s contract and with her deciding how many hours she worked and which clients she saw – it’s possible that she set the rules and he did the driving. Myths aside, it’s easy to forget how strong some sex-workers are; many set their own routines, rates and rules; they exist among a network of women who defend each other better than any army; they have ethics and morals which would put almost every chief executive to shame, and – as professionals – they know how to satisfy a client and to ensure repeat business, as quickly and efficiently as possible. They handle drunks better than any bouncer; they haggle faster than any Wall Street trader and they know the law often better than those who police it. Many are in control of their lives… but sometimes – as we all do – their either want or need some protection. And who better than their own husband? It’s not always the case, but this is how it may have been for Ruby and Ernest. It was an odd set-up to the average eye, but it was not uncommon, and without each other… …it’s unlikely they may have lasted for as long as they had. Mr & Mrs Ruby & Ernest Bolton lived in a small rented flat on Porchester Place, a side street between Sussex Gardens and Edgware Road in Paddington. As a little piece of home where they ate and slept, no sex work ever occurred under this roof, as they kept both sides of their lives separate and distinct. As two-sides of the same coin for many years, they had their routine fine-tuned and running smoothly. Waking at 10am, their mornings to mid-afternoon was theirs to do with as they pleased. At 7pm, they ate dinner together in the home they shared. At 8pm, having dressed, they went to the flat; to change the sheets, freshen the air, empty the ash-trays, stock up on tea and milk (as everyone needs a brew); they popped the fire on to make it cosy, the lights on to keep it safe, and – when needed – she replenished the stash of erotic magazines she kept in the flat in case any client had ‘issues downstairs’. It was also a neat trick, as by letting him flick through some saucy photos, half of her job is done before she’s even got undressed. Aiming for a 15-minute turnaround per client, it’s all about efficiency. By 8:30pm, Ernest would drive Ruby to the corner of Hertford Street and Park Lane in Mayfair, a well-known pick-up spot for West End prostitutes in the shadow of some of London’s poshest hotels. As her pimp, he would either wait nearby, or would circle about watching out for any passing policemen. In her purse, she carried just enough for a cab home, condoms of several sizes and business cards with her phone number on - ‘Ambassador 2385’ - as well as the name ‘R Bolton, Plumber’, just in case any punter’s wife got suspicious. Having done his circuit, if she was already gone or he had seen her pick-up a punter, he would discretely follow the taxi back to the Paddington flat and wait till she was done. The routine was always the same; first he would park his car in Gloucester Terrace and wait for her to exit the flats by side door; second (when sex was taking place) she would leave the curtains ajar and the lights on so he knew when she was done; and third, if she was running late, he’d call the phone in the flat from a phone box on Calworth Street or Spring Street to check that everything was okay. Having driven her several times back and forth from Westbourne Terrace to Park Lane, and made £20 to £30 a night (roughly £500 to £800 today), they would usually finish-up by 2am, but – as did happen on occasions - some regular clients would pay to spend the night with Ruby, which was easy money. It may seem odd, but that’s how it had been for Ruby & Ernest for many years… …until things had started to go wrong. Friday 13th January 1956 was typical of the days leading up to her death. As with many couples when money was tight, tempers frayed over the smallest of things. That afternoon, Ruby & Ernest went to the Paddington branch of Midland Bank with a sense of dread. Their joint account had a balance of just 12 shillings and 3 pence, four cheques to the tune of £420 in today money were set to bounce and a loan of £12700 was increasing daily – in short, their debts would be repaid one way or another. Even the basics had become a struggle; the car tyres were bald, the tax was out, their cupboards were bare and having fled their flat in Porchester Place with the rent unpaid, two days after Christmas, they had moved into Flat 7 at 32 Westbourne Terrace; a small fourth-floor lodging barely 15 feet wide and deep; with a sink, a sofa, a bath and a bed, where every night Ruby would have sex with men for cash. No longer was their home-life and sex-work separate, as now it all took place under the same roof; his roof, as by the time he’d return home his still-warm bed, his now-soiled sheets and his forever-faithful wife were sullied by another man’s smell, having violated his bride, as he had waited patiently outside. After the bank, although broke, Ernest drove Ruby to a hairdresser on Edgware Road. This may seem like a luxury, but as a woman whose lifestyle depended on her looks, it was as vital as buying petrol. Having waited nearby, at 4:30pm, Ernest drove them back to the flat, where – as per usual – they changed the bed sheets, freshened the air, emptied the ash-tray, stocked up on tea and milk, and with the erotic magazines a little light, Ruby set aside £1, as she had a contact with a fresh stash or porn. With a few hours to spare, they popped on a small fire to make it cosy, a little light as the winter night drew in, and – according to Ernest – they ate a final meal of wild duck, roast potatoes and green beans (a posh meal for a broke couple which was gifted by an amorous client) as later verified by her autopsy. For almost four hours, Ruby & Ernest were alone in their little flat and not a single sound was heard by the neighbours through the wafer-thin walls. And having dressed, just shy of 8:30pm, they left. Her final night alive was just like any other. At 8:30pm, Ernest dropped Ruby off on the corner of Hertford Street and Park Lane in Mayfair as per usual; and as seen by the sex-workers who knew her well as a regular girl on this patch of the city. To keep himself busy, Ernest would either patrol the streets looking for police, visit a pals’, or do a circuit from Park Lane to Piccadilly - maybe as much as a distraction from the acts his wife was engaged in. By 8:40pm, as she had gone, he drove back to the flat and waited in his freezing car on the corner of Gloucester Terrace and Craven Road; within sight of the side-door, the open curtains and a single bulb shining bright, as inside, on his bed, a man he had never seen nor met rammed his cock inside his wife. With it being improper to disturb Ruby when she was ‘doing the business’, he never entered the room when she was working. And couldn’t, as he only had a key to the flat and not to the communal door. At 9:10pm, a little later than expected as her first customer of the night (a man unseen by Ernest) had issues getting Percy to perk, Ruby returned to the car, having made £4 (roughly £100 today). She was her usual self, she made no complaints, and the two drove back to Park Lane to pick up another punter. At 9:30pm, Ruby picked-up her second customer, the seedy little routine began again and although it’s unclear how much she earned, it varied from £3-£5 depending what things he wanted to do to her. At 10:15pm, she picked-up her third (a man only partially seen by Ernest), but having returned to the flat at 11pm, he saw that the lights were off and the curtains were drawn. With it not uncommon for Ruby to pick-up a man between clients (or as many prostitutes did, to pay taxi-drivers a little extra to turn a blind-eye so they could noshed-off a randy man in the dark of the back seat, saving time and money), Ernest waited 30 minutes, rang the bell but got no reply and returned to Park Lane by 11:40pm where he saw her. She was paid £5 (£125 today), although she never said where she’d been. At midnight, Ernest saw Ruby get into a taxi with a man he described only as ‘a little guy’ who was a bit quick and had paid her £2, making her night’s earnings as much as the average weekly wage. With their finances dire and the debtors circling, Ruby had two hours at best to claw in as much money as possible, and although this pick-up spot in the poshest part of Mayfair was surrounded by five-star hotels and exclusive casinos, she rarely bagged herself a rich man with oodles of cash to flash. But as a pretty and a pleasant girl, she could reply on her regulars… …some of whom who liked her, and loved her. According to Ernest, based on a brief chat he’d had with Ruby that night, at 12:20am, a client she had given her business card to had called ‘Ambassador 2385’ (knowing full well that R Bolton was not a plumber) and asked to stay with her until the morning, at a price more than she had earned that night. This would have been music to her ears, but having pre-agreed to spend the night with a regular from the West Country, she’d had to turn him down. Ernest didn’t hear the call, as he was waiting outside. At 12:30am, during their last-ever ten-minute drive from Westbourne Terrace to Park Lane, Ruby told Ernest “I’ve got somebody here all night… I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay at a hotel”. Having agreed he would return to the flat at 6am - but only if the lights were on and the curtains were open - Ernest would later tell the police: “I asked her, ‘is it the bearded man’?”, a mysterious client she had spoken about just a few hours before, who he had never seen, met, nor never knew his name… …and she had said that it was. At 12:45am, on the corner of Hertford Street and Park Lane, Ernest dropped off his wife of eight years marriage, to pick-up a client for the purposes of sex. In his words “it was the last time I saw her alive”. Where Ernest went over the next 45 minutes is uncertain, as being a lone man in his own car who was used to keeping an eye-out for the police, it’s likely he trawled the unlit streets between Park Lane and Piccadilly. And had he passed his flat on Westbourne Terrace, he’d have seen the curtains ajar and a light on, until his wife and her client had finished their sex and nodded off to sleep, in his bed. Being too late to book in, and – given their finances – unable to afford a hotel room, he stayed at the home of his friends, Mr & Mrs Murden, a solicitor and his wife who lived on nearby Rainsford Street. They would later state; he was chatty, neat and (being tired) he slept on the sofa till just before dawn. The next morning at 5:45am, Ernest left Mr & Mrs Murden’s home and parked-up his car on Craven Street within sight of his flat’s window, as per usual. At 6am, as promised, with the curtains still closed and the light still off - as it was likely she had slept in - he rang the bell to his flat but he got no reply. As was their routine, at 6:15am, from the phone-box on Calworth Street, he phoned his flat, but she didn’t pick up. Taking a short walk to give her time to politely get her client to go, from a phone-box on Spring Street (all within 30-seconds of his flat) he phoned her once more, but again, he got no reply. Unconcerned for her welfare, he returned to Craven Terrace and in a local café, he had breakfast. An hour later, as witnessed by the tenant of Flat 6 who had heard the phone ringing through the wafer-thin walls for several minutes; hanging up, Ernest waited outside of the side-door of 32 Westbourne Terrace until a passing resident whose door-bell he had rung had opened the communal door. None of the tenants had heard any strange sounds that night, nothing had raised their suspicions, and as Ernest (the lodger of Flat 7) rose the stairs to the fourth floor, there were no signs of disturbance. With his own key, he opened his own door and he entered his own flat, which he shared with his wife. But instead of the room being light and warm with her there to greet him, it was cold, dark and silent. The room was as he had left it 13 hours earlier; no mess, no chaos and nothing out of place. Switching on the single bulb which hung from the ceiling, in the double-divan bed beside the window he saw the unmistakable figure of his wife. He called her name “Ruby?”, only she didn’t respond. He called again “Ruby?”, only she didn’t move. And being alone and motionless, with her facing the wall and the bed-sheets pulled down, he assumed she was asleep, until he saw something which made his soul shiver. Beyond the thick dark clumps of her matted brown hair, up the once-white wall by the head of their bed, lay the red spatter of dried blood, having had her skull caved in with a blunt heavy weapon. (End) As her pimp, husband and the last man to see her alive, what he did next would make him the police’s prime suspect. Having failed to check if she was even dead – as a man with a conviction for living off his wife’s immoral earnings – he went straight to the home of Mr Murden, his friend and his solicitor. After an hour of legal advice, at 9:22am, it was Mr Murden who called the police and not Ernest Bolton. The investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Joseph Kennedy, a veteran of West End homicides from Scotland Yard. To his eyes, the crime-scene was as clear-cut as any he had examined. With no forced entry, the victim had either known or trusted her attacker; being naked and in bed, he had assaulted her (possibly) as she slept; with no signs of rape or sexual assault, it was less likely to be a client; with the weapon missing, the murder was almost certainly premeditated; and having been beaten over the back of her head eight times with a blunt object, her killer had hatred for this woman. As for suspects in the murder of Robina Bolton, a sex-worker known as Ruby, the police had only one. A man whose fingerprints were found at the scene. A man whose car was seen loitering nearby in the hours prior. A man who was married to the victim, had prostituted her for money, and whose bank account was grossly in debt. And with her time of death established as between midnight and 2am, although he pleaded his innocence, Ernest had a 45-minute gap in his timeline, at exact that point. Having suggested that her killer was any number of her clients she had slept with that night, as is the clandestine nature of sex-work, none of them could be traced. With a shaky alibi, it was then that Ernest laid the blame on someone he had neither seen, heard nor could he name, as this mysterious unidentified client was only ever mentioned by his dead wife in-passing, and who he knew only… …as ‘the bearded man’. Part two concludes next week. 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.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
Denman Street in Piccadilly, where Coventry Chambers once stood
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SIX:
On Tuesday 15th April 1913, at the bachelor flat of 26-year-old aviator Jack hall - having promised to marry both of of his lovers - Jack would be found dead in his bed having been shot in the chest, just hours before his marriage. But which of his lovers would kill him, and why? Was it out of anger, love, jealousy, or as part of a premeditated revenge?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a teal raindrop in Piccadilly (dead centre). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. CRIM 1/139/6 - Julian Hall, Jeanie Baxter, Denman Street W1 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4200055
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Denman Street in Soho, W1; thirty yards south of the unfortunate Mr Johnson, fifty yards west of the suicide of Mabel Hill & Herbert Turner, twenty yards north of the last hangout of the Blackout Ripper, and ten yards east of the fingers which didn’t lie - coming soon to Murder Mile. Denman Street is a grubby slit in the city made famous as this is what’s behind the Piccadilly lights. As a one-way street stretching 121 metres from Sherwood Street to Shaftesbury Avenue, even though it’s smack-bang in the beating heart of the West End, nobody goes here, as it’s grim, grimy and dead. It’s the kind of dark vapid hell-hole; where the sun can’t be arsed to shine, where life can’t be bothered to exist, where litter whistles down only to go “bugger” and hope it’s blown elsewhere, and where steamy dog turds cling to the bum-lips and dangle for a few seconds longer for fear of being dumped. Under construction, the south side is being ripped out and turned into (you’ve guessed it) luxury flats. But back in the 1910s – among a sea of bars, clubs and small casinos - at 21 Denman Street once stood Coventry Chambers; a three-storey mansion block comprising of fifteen self-service flats for wealthy bachelors and their live-in staff, situated at the back of Café Monaco and above the Coventry Club. In Flat 8 lived Julian Hall, a 26-year-old aviator, sportsman and a chronic alcoholic. Being depressed and drinking himself to death, the life of this wealthy bachelor was in chaos as two women vied for his love. One was music hall artiste Ada Knight, and the other was a lady of leisure called Jeanie Baxter. On Tuesday 15th April 1913 - having promised to marry both of these women - Julian would be found dead in his bed having been shot in the chest, just hours before his marriage. But which of his lovers would kill him, and why? Was it out of anger, love, jealousy, or as part of a pre-meditated revenge? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 186: Dead Rich. For those who thrive on chaos, Russian roulette is the ultimate game of chance. With the six-chambers of a revolver loaded with a single bullet and the barrel randomly spun (barrel spun), each click of the trigger (click) takes you one step closer to fame (click), glory (click), money (click) and excitement (click). But one chance in every six will always lead to death (bang). To many it may seem stupid, but unable to cope with the boredom of an unexciting life, for some a death-wish is the only way to live. Julian Bernard Hall, known to his pals as Jack was born in 1887 in Oswestry in the county of Shropshire. As a young boy born to a wealthy merchant and a ‘woman of means’, Jack had come from money. He didn’t know poverty; he didn’t know hunger and he didn’t know the struggle of never knowing where his next penny would come from, as the family fortune would always ensure he was never without. Raised on an opulent country estate, even the simplest of daily tasks were organised by a fleet of five servants, and - as a break from the monotony of filling their endless spare-time with grouse hunting, horse-riding and long lunches - Jack and his older brother known as Bernard lived among the smog and bustle of the Kensington elite, at their parent’s second home – a townhouse at 33 Elvaston Place. His life was his to live, as he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. His world was truly blessed. But if you are always given everything you have ever wanted, where do you find your excitement? In 1896, aged 9, Jack was booted-off to boarding school, where for 10 months of the year until the age of 15 he would live among 900 other boys whose parents had paid handsomely to have their love-starved children educated by strangers, only to be shipped-off to camps during the summer holidays; never to be loved, never to be hugged, never to be praised and riddled with trauma and abandonment. As was the-done-thing-to-do, his entire future had already been mapped-out by his parents. Boarding school was at Eastman’s Royal Naval Academy in Portsmouth, a prep’ school in Southsea that prepared boys for careers in the Royal Navy. With an impressive list of alumni including captains, admirals and field marshals –a curriculum of sports like boating, gym and tennis; lessons in Latin, Greek and English; and instructions in knots, shooting and navigation – gave him no excuse but to exceed. Upon his graduation, both Jack and his brother Bernard quickly became officers in the British Navy. And although keen marksmen with a love of guns, Jack sought out the precarious danger of innovation. In 1903, Wilburn & Orville Wright performed the world’s first powered flight. Mankind had broken the barrier of our bodies and the limitations of nature. By December 1911 – as the precursor of the Royal Air Force – the Royal Naval Flying School was formed and later absorbed into the Royal Flying Corps. With the principles of aviation engineering still in its infancy - to fly a squadron of manned kites, hydrogen-filled airships and early biplanes like the BE2 and the Avro 500 - they needed fearless men who scoffed at danger, spat out fear and dismissed their deaths knowing each day may be their last. As a thrill-seeker with an innate disregard for his own life, Jack was a born aviator. But when he wasn’t flying, to pacify the dullness of an ordinary life, Jack would seek-out his thrills elsewhere… …with drink and girls. Jack was the epitome of a playboy; tall, rich and handsome. Sporting the latest fashions, an aviator’s moustache and a swashbuckler’s swagger, wherever Jack went he was always seen with a six-shot revolver on his hip, a big slug of whiskey in his fist and a beautiful girl linked into the crook of his arm. By day, he slept off his hangover, as by night, the lived for the thrill of bedding babes, belting back booze and – as a man with a fortune of £18500 (making him a millionaire more than two times over today) – he would blow more money per night at the casino than most people earned in a year. To maximise his downtime, Jack moved into a bachelor pad at 21 Denman Street, barely fifty feet behind the infamous Piccadilly lights, but also in the shadow of some of the best West End bars. Living on the second floor, Flat 8 was a classic man-cave with all the mod-cons, but none of the homely touches of a man with marriage on his mind. With a booze cabinet and a collection of guns, to facilitate his often-delicate state, he had two live-in staff; Lewis Royale his valet and Nellie Champion his cook. There was no denying that Jack was a consummate playboy who lived for life’s thrills without any of the worry. But having had very little affection as a child, he always sought the love of a good woman… …only he didn’t know any good women. In January 1910, possibly at the Coventry Club, Jack met and fell in love with a music hall artiste called Ada Knight. And where-as some described her as a singer, others suggested she was as a prostitute. Not a low rent street-walker who picked up strangers for six minutes of ‘the old in-out’, but a high-end flirt with no plan to work a day in her life, and every aim to get a rich man to fall for her charms, to move into his home and to get him to marry her and keep her in the lifestyle she was accustomed. It's hard to pin down exactly who she was, as Ada Knight also went under the alias of Margaret Roberts, Lallie Roberts and (using Jack’s surname as if she was already married to him) as Lallie Hall. After more than two years of romance, being smitten, Jack bought her a diamond engagement ring, he promised her every day that he would marry her, and to cement his undying love for Ada, on the 14th August 1912, Jack had his will redrafted and left the bulk of his estate to her. Sent to his solicitor, it was dated, signed, witnessed and stamped, meaning that if this aviator ever died, she would be rich. With their love etched in stone and her prosperity assured, Ada went away on a well-earned holiday… …only without her distraction, Jack’s biggest enemy was boredom. When Jack flew his biplane, he was alive. But when he was grounded, he was as good as dead. Gripped with bouts of depression, his valet (Lewis Royale) would state that Jack was often emotional and prone to anger, he always sated his anxiety by downing one and a half bottles of brandy a day and with a set of loaded revolvers stashed beside his bed in his travelling trunk, suicide was never far from his mind. In July 1912, just weeks before their engagement, Jack had broken his right hand and was unable to fly. With Ada away for four whole weeks, he did as he always did, and sought out some affection. His latest love would go by the name of Jeanie Baxter. She was a woman who would bring him life… …but, also his death. Like Ada, Jeanie Baxter had a dream of being the kept woman of a wealthy husband. Never one to lift her hand if she could help it, it’s likely that Jeanie came from nothing, and never wanted to go back. Born in 1889, somewhere in Ireland, 24-year-old Jane O’Kane often went by several names to disguise her past; ‘Jeanie’ was a nickname, O’Kane was reserved for legal documents, and – having been briefly married to a man of money – she went by the surname of Baxter and the respectable title of Mrs. This respectability was vital to gloss over the fact that Jeanie was a prostitute. According to Theresa Jeanie’s maid, “Mrs Baxter was visited by different men at her flat every day and they spent the night”. Separated, as a single-mother to her 7-year-old daughter also called Jane, Jeanie was keen to continue their life of luxury and comfort by finding another man of means to marry. Bouncing from man-to-man and bed-to-bed, with her ring-finger itching to be blessed with a diamond and a band of gold, it wasn’t the dashy aviator Jack Hall who had won her heart, but the mysteriously titled Mr Unwin. A slew of men aside, Jeanie was the kept woman of Mr Unwin. Knowing little of who he was, we know he was independently wealthy, and that for the last two years he had paid her a generous allowance of £5 per week, as well as covering her rent on an upmarket flat at 24 Carlton Mansions in Maida Vale. Besotted, Mr Unwin had professed his undying love to Jeanie - and although to him she was his wife to be, and to her he was a meal-ticket – their marriage was on hold as (for as long as she still had any breath in her body) his mother would not allow this wealthy merchant and easy sex-worker to wed. His mother was old and frail, but for Jeanie, her sad demise couldn’t come quick enough. Therefore, it was entirely by random chance - with Ada on holiday and Mr Unwin at his mother’s – that (possibly in the drunken half-light of the Coventry Club on Denman Street) that Jeanie met Jack. Only, being a man who thrived on chaos and danger… …nothing in his love life was ever simple. In September 1912, Ada Knight returned from her holiday, only to find Jeanie in her fiancé’s arms, flat and bed. Jack didn’t see what all the fuss was about; he was a bachelor, Jeanie was single, and yes, he was engaged to Ada, but it wasn’t like they were married. As Jeanie moved in, Ada moved out, and although both women lived their own lives in their own homes, when Ada confronted Jeanie to chastise her for stealing the man she planned to marry, Jeanie admitted “to be honest my dear, I’m not that interested in Jack” (a wealthy man who was available) “I’ve got Unwin” (a man who was not). Whether it was down to his arrogant wealth or his confused alcoholic state, this seedy little love triangle continued for several months with Jack stringing both women along. As a depressed drunk, Jack wanted the best of both worlds, with both women on his arm and in his bed, at his beck-and-call. On 4th December 1912, handwritten in his drunken scrawl on a crumpled piece of typing paper, Jack rewrote his will, stating “this is the last will and testament of Julian B Hall. I revoke all other wills I may have made. I bequeath all that I possess in my estate to Jean Baxter (O’Kane) and to Ada Knight to be equally divided”. The will was signed and dated by Jack, and was witnessed by two signatories. According to this will, in the event of his death, both Ada & Jeanie would become exceedingly wealthy. With neither woman having married him, they would live the rest of their lives in luxury, never needing to work, to earn, or to find another man, as – all the while - his body grew cold in a lonely grave. That’s how it should have been, and although Jack was still stringing Ada and Jeanie along… …what he couldn’t accept that Jeanie didn’t want him… …she wanted Mr Unwin. On Tuesday 8th April 1913, one week before his death, things would come to a head. In the four months since the writing of his last will, Jack had continued seeing both women and keeping both apart. At 1:30pm, Ada Knight was let into 21 Denman Street by the hall porter who knew her name and face, but didn’t know that Jack was two-timing her and that Jeanie Baxter had spent the night in his bed. Like the lethal mix of volatile chemistry inside a revolver’s barrel of gun-powder, wadding and a spark, the three lovers were an explosive combination and who would get hurt would be a matter of chance. As he lay there, nursing a roaring hangover, his two lovers fought over him: Ada: “what are you doing here?”, Jeanie: “I could say the same about you, he said he’d finished with you?”, Ada “he said the same about you, you’re finished”, Jeanie: “Ha, I was sorry in the first place that I came between you and Jack, but now I have every right to him”, Ada: “But I was with him first?”, Jeanie: “Oh really?” With the only winner being Jack, unwilling to be a boobie-prize, the women gave him an ultimatum. Both Ada & Jeanie demanded that he choose - “which one of us is it to be? You can’t have both”. Like the spin of a barrel of a half-spent gun, Jack had a fifty-fifty chance of getting his answer right and getting his answer wrong. (Spins barrel) And having chosen Jeanie, his new squeeze of a few months as the woman he loved over Ada, his fiancé for the last three years, Ada smacked Jack in the mouth, cutting his lip with his engagement ring and she swore that she never wanted to see him ever again. The second the door slammed shut, it was clear that Jeanie had won. But had she? Across the afternoon to the early evening, Jack & Jeanie argued bitterly; Jack had given up Ada for Jeanie, only Jeanie didn’t want Jack, as she had Mr Unwin – a man who made her a ‘kept woman’, who had bought her a country house, and whose mother’s decline meant that the two would soon be wed. Jack was rich, but he wasn’t that rich. With Jeanie unwilling to give up her other millionaire, Jack struck this two-timing harlot across the chin with a loaded revolver and - rightly – Jeanie left (door slam). Left alone, and drinking himself into an angry alcoholic stupor, the man who lived for danger and chaos was left with nothing but his own black thoughts. Before she left, it was said, he had put the muzzle of the gun to his temple and professed “I am sick of everything. I am not afraid of death”. (Click). Death had never been more than a hair’s breadth away from Jack… …and now, it was closer than he would ever know. Through the hazy gauze of drink and solitude, his bitterness festered until he could stand it no more. Later that same evening, Jack took a taxi from Denman Street to 24 Carlton Mansions in Maida Vale. And in the parlour of Jeanie’s flat which was owned by Mr Unwin, Jack met his rival for the first time. Jack was drunk, very drunk, as from his pockets he pulled two revolvers. Whistling down the barrel, he assured the startled couple “I’m not here to kill myself”, as in the spirit of a fearless aviator with a daily death-wish, his plan was much more reckless: “you love this girl, so do I. I am going to have her”. As Jeanie had done to him, Jack would make her choose: “two men, two guns, we light a cigarette, we turn out the lights, and by the red glow of its tip, we shoot until the other man is dead, what do you say?”. Jack was serious, Mr Unwin was terrified, and having said “no”, Jack fired wildly hitting a photograph, a champagne bottle and - splintering the sitting room door having fired over his shoulder - Jack popped the gun’s muzzle in his mouth and - according to Jeanie – he asked her to pull the trigger. Jeanie was a woman who loved to live, so she didn’t. And as his booze sozzled brain began to feel like sack of lead, Jack apologised and curled up on their hearthrug, where he slept until the morning. Jeanie would never have to choose between her two lovers… …as in fear for his life, Mr Unwin wanted anything more to do with Jack… …and therefore, with Jeanie. This kept woman with a lifestyle to live and a daughter to fund had lost everything; her allowance, her flat, her country home and a marriage to a man who today would be worth more than £6 million. With Mr Unwin gone, and Ada forgotten, all Jack & Jeanie had was each other. But did they? On Sunday 13th April 1913, two days before his death, Jeanie informed her maid (Theresa Pantanello) of the good news: “Jack has promised to marry me by special licence next Tuesday”. In her own words, “having made a mess of everything with Mr Unwin”, Jack would make-a-mends by marrying Jeanie, and making this woman from modest means a millionaire’s wife. On her mind should have been love… …only with a glint of glee at already being in his will (albeit equally split with Ada), Jeanie was heard to declare “if he was to have an accident – a fatal accident – I would get a very large sum of money”. In short, the second Jack died, Jeanie would become dead rich. Tuesday 15th April 1913 was to be the day of the marriage of Jeanie Baxter & Jack Hall, but it was also the day of his death. Having been bed bound for days, with his stomach empty except for his regular bottle and a half of brandy, Jack lay crumpled and slumped in his pyjamas, as depressed as ever. At 9am, Jack rang the service bell, and asked Lewis Royale his valet to make breakfast for Jeanie, who was sat upright in his armchair. Having had a fitful night, both were silent, but not angry, just tired. At 10:30am, again Jack rang the bell, but instead of an empty breakfast tray to clear away, on the bedside table Lewis found a fountain pen and a folded piece of paper. With big grins, Jack declared “I am going to get married to Miss Baxter”, at which a beaming Jeanie confirmed “that’s right Lew”. Keen to make everything right, Jack got his two staff – Lewis his valet and Nelly Champion his cook – to witness a document, which revoked his previous two wills which equally split his estate with Ada and left everything to Jeanie. Thinking nothing more of it, the staff left and went about their duties. Across the next hour, not a single sound was heard coming from the bedroom, until 11:45am. (Five bangs) Five shots, no screams, and by the end of the ten seconds, Jack Hall was dead (End). Running from the room, Jeanie was heard to shout “Lew, I have shot Mr Hall, run and fetch a doctor”. Charged with his murder, Jeanie told the police of his alcoholism, his depression, his death-wish and – with his temperament swinging from manic to moody – having erased their future, he had said “you and I would never get on if we were married. I cannot keep my promise. It is better I should finish it”. From his travelling truck, Jack pulled out a loaded revolver, popped the muzzle in his mouth and – in Jeanie’s own words – he whistled down the barrel as a black mood enveloped him. Fearing for her life, she scrawled a note asking her maid to look after her daughter in the event of her death and in the struggle to wrench the gun away, she shot him twice and fired three more bullets as she fled in terror. On 3rd June 1913, at the Old Bailey, Jane Baxter known as Jeanie, pleaded ’not guilty’ to the charge of murdering Julian Bernard Hall also known as Jack. As she did so, she smiled to her friends in court. Confident of her acquittal, the papers stated that Jeanie laughed heartily from the dock. And yet, having deliberated for just 55 minutes, she was soon stunned into silence as having been found guilty of his manslaughter, a terrified Jeanie was led away to the cells to spend three years behind bars. Released from prison on the 24th June 1916, Jeanie Baxter – the sole beneficiary of Jack Hall’s fortune – received a rude awakening. Debated at Probate Court, Sir Samuel Evans would state - as they were unmarried, as her conviction for his death had deprived her of rights, and as the last two wills were illegal as they hadn’t been submitted to a lawyer – that the rightful heir to Jack’s fortune should be his former fiancé and the legal executer of his estate - Ada Knight - a woman was to become ‘dead rich’. 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.
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370 Uxbridge Road, the former location of Marne Garage
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 EIGHTY-FIVE:
On Saturday 5th December 1992, 33-year-old travel agent Gillian Bennett entered Marn Garage at 370 Uxbridge Road, W12. With her life and career going well, she purchased a nearly-new bright-red K-reg Fiat Uno. Given a sense of freedom with her own car, this should have been an exciting chapter in her reassuringly safe little life. And yet, finding a series of odd mechanical issues which required the dealership’s attention, it wasn’t only the car which caused her problems, as two weeks later, this purchase would lead to her murder.
THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a black raindrop in Shepherd's Bush. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Uxbridge Road, W12; four roads up from The Beast of Shepherd’s Bush, a few doors down from the devil’s child and his little snack, over the road of where Reg Christie destroyed his dog, and a short walk from Bernie, the paedophile that the press hid - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 370 Uxbridge Road in Shepherd’s Bush, on the corner of Blaufontaine Road stands The New Coach House, an alcohol advisory service. But back in the 1990s, at The Old Coach House, within a Victorian three-storey flat-fronted building once stood a car dealership called Marn. Typical of most garages, all the shiny cars sparkled on the forecourt, as outback old bangers had holes patched and panels bashed. With space for ten cars – like many dealerships – an oily spiv slicked on the charm as he attempted to bamboozle a customer with the bluster that a nearly-knackered freshly-waxed death-trap was a dream brum-brum; with its rust rebranded as ‘vintage patina’, the unique blue hue spewing from the exhaust (as an OAP only drove it in first gear) described as an ‘optional extra’, and the obligatory pine-freshener dangling from the mirror to disguise the whiff of botty burp and bum foist which lingered in the seat. Of course, not all car dealerships are like that. Right? On Saturday 5th December 1992, 33-year-old travel agent Gillian Bennett entered Marn Garage. With her life and career going well, she purchased a nearly-new bright-red K-reg Fiat Uno. Given a sense of freedom with her own car, this should have been an exciting chapter in her reassuringly safe little life. And yet, finding a series of odd mechanical issues which required the dealership’s attention, it wasn’t only the car which caused her problems, as two weeks later, this purchase would lead to her murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 185: Driven to Obsession. Shopping; it’s an everyday part of life which we do most days, we don’t think about it, we just do it. It’s designed to be as simple and painless as possible; a quick exchange of cash and pleasantries lasting a minute at best, and once the customer departs and the server moves on, both parties are forgotten. That’s the way it’s supposed to be… …and that’s what Gillian expected. Gillian Margaret Bennett was born on the 21st October 1959 in Carlisle, a Cumbrian city just shy of the English and Scottish border. Raised in a loving family to hard-working parents as one of six children, it was unsurprising that she would live a good life and would blossom into such a warm and loving girl. Too often when a loved-one dies, part of the family’s coping mechanism is to trot out a series of vague platitudes of only the dead’s most positive attributes; how they were ‘lovely’, ‘kind’ and ‘caring, with a bright future ahead of them’. Only no exaggeration was needed to describe Gillian and her life. According to those who knew her, Gillian was popular and pleasant, a bright warm light in a dull grey sky who radiated but never outshone. She was as gentle and as good-natured as an adorable puppy who only wanted to please. And being a fun-loving girl who had the drive to achieve, she softly drifted through life like a fragrant petal on the breeze, quietly making her way without rustling any leaves. Blessed with a slim frame and a pretty face, she was always popular with the boys, and yet, it was her big heart which assured she was surrounded by a constant companion of girls who were good friends. With enough smarts to graduate from university with a degree in tourism, and being fluent in French, Spanish and Italian, Gillian pursued a career as a travel agent. With the 1980s and 1990s seeing a boom in package deals for the wider population and on a more affordable budget, she travelled far and wide. Working for Riva Travel on New Bond Street, across her career, she visited many exciting countries, she embraced a multitude of cultures and became friendly with thousands of strangers, some of whom became friends. But always knowing the dangers, she acted appropriately and she didn’t take risks. By the turn of the 1990s, so focussed was Gillian on her career, that – like a natty little cabriolet sports car in the winter - she had parked her love life in the garage and threw a tarpaulin over her romance until she felt it was time to blow-off the cobwebs of singledom and give relationships one more spin. Enjoying life and being free, she lived in a pleasant ground-floor maisonette on a quiet leafy street on Oakdale Road in Streatham, South London. As a three-storey semi-detached house converted into flats – being safety and money conscious - Gillian lived with Ann Evans, a colleague from Riva Travel. It is said, the sum of a person is the sum of their actions, and Gillian was kindness personified. It seems almost remiss to describe her as just a nice lady who was doing her job and living a good life without being a bother to anyone… but that’s who she was. Like all of us, she deserved to live a good life… …and yet, a simple purchase would change everything. The morning of Saturday 5th December 1992 was an ordinary day, albeit wet and tinged with a frisson of excitement as Gillian was buying herself a car. It was the perfect day to go car-shopping, as with the sky all gloomy and grey, the freshly waxed motors in the showroom wouldn’t distract from their faults. Having done her research, set her budget and chosen a reliable run-around which was both practical and suitable, Gillian entered Marn Garage on the Uxbridge Road and purchased a bright red Fiat Uno. Served by one of the sales-staff, the transaction was swift; she gave her details, signed the agreement and – with the car due to be serviced and MOT’d – it would be delivered to her home next Thursday. It was that simple; she went in, paid money and left, unaware of what had begun. The man who would murder her was an employee of Marn Garage called Winston Goulbourne. In an odd twist - as a mechanic - he didn’t serve her that day and she didn’t see him. But like all pricks who only think with their dicks; the second he saw her, he liked her and having whispered to a colleague “cor, she’s really nice”. he looked up her details in the file and formed a plan to get to know her better. With sex on his mind, Winston wanted to wheedle his way into her pants by posing as the man of her dreams; with smooth music on loop, a slew of cheesy chat-up lines and a stifling of a perpetual boner… …but in truth – for any woman - he was a walking nightmare. Born on the 18th August 1968 in Lambeth, South London, 24-year-old Winston Anthony Goulbourne saw himself as a lady’s man. Guided by his raging manhood rather than his beating heart, he believed he was a red-hot Romeo with the looks to sweep a woman off her feet, the chat to charm a girl into bed, and - as a lothario - he talked of ever-lasting love, as a easy ploy to get a chick onto her back. With his words written like the lyrics to too many crappy R&B songs, the bulk of his spiel spoke of love, hearts and being one, but all too often it ended with the line - “yeah baby, take your pants off”. Described as coming from a broken home, little is known of his upbringing, but something hidden in his past – maybe a lack of love from a parent, a sense that he was worth less, or an early rejection by a girl – had left him damaged. But unwilling to deal with his issues, others would pay for his weakness. To those who knew him, Winston was lovable but harmless rogue with no prior convictions. Born from Jamaican roots, he had the cool calm demeanour of a Caribbean cocktail; regularly working out, he was short but powerfully built; and always well-groomed, Winston’s head sported a neat little flat-top and – as was fashionable back then – on his top lip sat an Eddie Murphy tash from Beverly Hills Cop. By day, Winston worked as a salesman and a mechanic at Marn Garage on the Uxbridge Road. It was a steady job and it paid a decent wage, which afforded him a flat in Ingatestone Road, South Norwood where he lived with his partner Paulette Lucas. But a big chunk of his wage was often spent on clothes. Fashion was his thing; he liked style, expense and he always bragged about the label and the price. But by night – once he had ditched his dirty overalls and oily spanners - Winston would head home to make sweet love to his girlfriend. On the sly, he was shagging his secret lover called Jane Larter, with neither woman knowing about the other’s existence, as he kept his dirty dalliances on the down-low. And as if he was so sad that he had to prove his manliness even further – being the kind of loathsome soul who saw women as conquests, acts of intimacy to be bragged about, and (possibly) the type of truly tragic turd who kept a scorecard of his latest shags and marked-up whether a woman was a right goer or a bad blower – dressed to the nines, he often had one eye always open for his next sexscapade. It’s deeply sad that anyone should be so vapid and vacuous as to believe that they are a silver-tongued stud who all the ladies adore. Stand in any cheesy nightspot, and you’ll always see a preening peacock who wreaks of a desperation to be loved and a belief that one man could be cat-nip to any sex kitten. Winston believed it, and he lived to be loved… …but what he couldn’t accept was rejection. Whether by fate, a stroke of fortuitous luck, or having persistently pestered the boss into letting him be her knight in oily overalls who would deliver this little car to this little lady – given the fact that “I live nearby, I could drop it off on my way home” – this didn’t seem out of the ordinary, and it wasn’t. Keen to make an impression; he straightened his best ‘girl bait’ tie, adjusted the sharp lines of his suit, splashed on some totty lotion, and (possibly) admiring his face in the mirror – he thought he was as dishy as Denzel Washington, but looked more akin to a Carlton Banks from the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. On the evening of Thursday 10th December 1992, as agreed, Winston drove the reg K-reg Fiat Uno to Gillian’s flat at Oakdale Road in Streatham. He parked up, he rang the door-bell, he smiled and said “hi”, and having handed over the keys and the paperwork, the transaction was completed in minutes. Everything was as Gillian had expected; a nearly new car, serviced, MOT’d and delivered to her home. For Gillian, this marked the end of a simple interaction… …but for Winston, this was just the beginning. The next day held a little more excitement than usual for Gillian, as she had her own car. She could go anywhere, she could do anything; whether mini-breaks in the UK, travelling to see friends in other cities or her family up in Cumbria. With the car barely one year old, the likelihood was it would be a decent little run-around for a good few years, and she wouldn’t have to worry about it breaking down. It was a smart choice for a single woman with no children; it was cheap to run, it was easy to repair and it was good to drive, but it didn’t look flashy enough that a little scrote would nick it or trash it. From day one, the Fiat Uno was ready to go… …but that night – being a real home-body - as Gillian sat eating tea and watching TV with her flatmate, Ann, the door-bell rang. Being late and dark, while Ann was on the phone, Gillian approached the door with caution. Quickly she was relieved, as it was just the guy from the garage who had delivered her car. Being nice, she smiled, as this was her way. They made small talk, but only briefly, as she was nothing if not polite. She didn’t invite him in, as he was a stranger and this was her home. And she listened to his believable apology that someone had forgotten to fit her car with foot mats; a set of cheap but durable rugs that sit below the peddles which can be purchased for a few pounds in any car-part shop. In his words, “it’s not a problem, I was passing by”, so this could have been an honest mistake? For Winston, the missing rugs were an easy-excuse to try and slime his way into her life, her home and her knickers, but what he hadn’t counted on was that she had a flat-mate. Being on the phone to a friend, Ann Evans was in eyeline and earshot of Winston and Gillian’s interaction that night. This was his chance to try his luck with a pretty lady, but with another woman near, he lost his bottle. The moment was gone, his chat-up lines had dried up and his smoothness had suffered a few wrinkles. But it was then that fate gave him a break. Inside the flat, he overheard Ann’s phone call, in which she stated to her friend: “no, I can’t do the 19th or 20th December, I’ll be at my parents’ house in Wales”. It was a few words conveyed to a pal which was as innocuous as saying “hello”, but as a gift to an eavesdropper with open ears, it let Winston know when Ann would be gone and when Gillian would be home alone. Having been handed the car-mats, Gillian closed the door and thought nothing more of it. Only Winston was already planning how he would engineer another reason to return. Back at the garage and buoyed by his brief interaction with this sexy lady that he was determined to bag - unable to contain his crass self-delusion that ladies were drawn to his raw sexual magnetism - Winston bragged to his colleagues that he had already bedded her. So supposedly sharp was his charm that he had wooed, bedded and banged her, and that she was all over him like a rash. It was the typical bluff and bluster of a bullshitter with (statistically) a huge ego and a pointlessly tiny little pecker. It was a lie, and we know it was, as (when questioned) he would later admit this to the police. But how far did he believe his own lies that – one day – she would be his, and how far would he go to get her? Even if he was a handsome heart-throb who could pluck the heart-strings of a panting lady at twenty paces – which he wasn’t - Gillian was not interested; he wasn’t looking for a man, she was focussed on her career and - call her crazy –she didn’t find a walking hard-on with a line for every lady attractive. For Gillian, she was just getting on with her life, doing her job and enjoying her freedom. So, it’s odd that just 4 days after delivery - maybe by coincidence - she experienced a problem with her new car. Phoning from home, Gillian called the garage to state “my car won’t start”. With her call handed to a mechanic – strangely and as if by coincidence, to Winston – he promised to drop by on his way home that evening. That night, clutching his tool-kit and tinkering under the hood, he diagnosed the problem as a flooded engine, he rectified the fault and he gave her his phone number should it happen again. Gillian thought nothing more of it, as with the car fixed, she hoped that it was the last of its issues. Only the next day, while giving her flatmate Ann a lift home from Riva Travel, as they drove down the Brixton Road, they noticed an odd thumping noise coming from the driver’s side of the Fiat. Pulling over to investigate, they spotted that a wheel nut had been removed and another had been loosened. Once again, telephoning the garage, Winston showed concern and assured Gillian he would swing by on his way home that night; with a tyre iron, a wheel nut and a spare key he had forgotten to give her. Each time he visited, he trotted out a line and did his best to flirt, only his words bounced right off her. Feeling frustrated with this run of bad luck she’d had with her car; some may have wondered whether this was a coincidence or deliberate? Were the issues a malicious act by someone she had a beef with? It was unlikely. Was it a bored kid who had progressed from nicking hub caps? That seemed unlikely as how many kids carry tyre irons? So, who would benefit from her wheels being damaged? Again, believing that the car was fixed and the problem resolved, Gillian thought nothing more of it. Only the next day, as she approached her car, her face fell as she saw that her tyre was flat. Again, she called the garage. Rightly, she complained that “someone” had let her tyres down, and although (as if from the kindness of his heart and his crotch) Winston offered to fix it, but Gillian flatly declined. Upon inspection, Gillian found a broken matchstick stuck in the valve which deflated the tyre; this was too odd to be an accident and too specific to have been done by a kid. Wanting nothing more to do with garage or the mechanic – frustrated by the problems, his hopeless attempts at flirting, and with each excuse as pathetic as the last – she believed if he didn’t return, then neither would the problems. That little Fiat Uno would never experience another mechanical problem… …as by the next day, its owner would be dead. Saturday 19th December 1992; two weeks after the purchase and less than one week before Christmas. With her flatmate away in Wales, and no social plans of her own, Gillian had an easy night in; dinner, telly and bed by 9:30pm. Always cautious, she locked the doors and windows of this small maisonette. Over in Norwood, a 30-minute drive south of Streatham, unable to keep his dick zipped up, Winston – the slimy creep with the wandering eyes – lied to his girlfriend (Paulette Lucas) “I’m going to a party, girl”. Except the only invitees was himself and his mistress (Jane Larter), and the party was in his pants. Back at hers, they had sex twice, and by 1am - having shot his load and a few cheesy lines - he left. In court, Jane stated “I had sex with him every day”, as his life was ruled by his pointless little plonker. Having left Clapham, Winston’s route home was via the A205 and the B221, a road which went through Streatham. Pulling onto Oakdale Road and parking up beside the red Fiat, he didn’t care that she was asleep and didn’t fancy him, as what he wanted was all that mattered – and that was sex with her. Having dressed in a tailored sports-jacket from a Covent Garden boutique, splashed on his totty lotion and slicked down his tash so he looked like a chunky Martin Lawrence, what woman wouldn’t say no? As far as we know, that was his thought, as he approached her door for one last time. With no eye-witnesses, only the evidence can tell us what happened that night: Although a house split into six flats, no-one had heard a bell being rung or a door being knocked, but – for whatever reason, with no signs of a break-in – Gillian had opened the door to Winston. No-one heard any words, but it’s likely – as she stood, dressed in a long t-shirt and a white dressing gown – that the leech tried his luck, as – keeping her voice down - she politely tried to convince him to leave. Whether rejection had enraged the fragile ego of a loser in the guise of a lothario, at 1:20am, a scream was heard by a neighbour – possibly as he forced his way into her flat – but being half-sleep and living too near the high street where Saturday night screams are common, they dismissed it as nothing. No-one awoke or raised an alarm, and - with Gillian having been knocked out – no sounds were heard. Dragged into her flatmate’s bedroom, Winston half-stripped her of her night attire, baring her breasts and tying her hands behind her back with the cord of her bathrobe. With no sounds, no struggle and no evidence of sexual assault, what happened next is unknown. And yet, having gained full control over the woman he wanted (and with no-one to help her) Winston remained with her for a full hour. What sparked his fury will never be known, but claiming he went berserk, from the kitchen he stole an eight-inch knife and plunged it twice into the chest. So vengeful was his wrath that – having stabbed near her heart – he maliciously withdrew the blade and thrust it in again, where it would remain. With Gillian silent, bleeding but still alive, it was then that Winston left the flat… …only heading to his car, he wasn’t making his escape, he was making sure that she wouldn’t live to tell the tale and that no-one would know that her murder was committed by him. At roughly 2:30am, for one final time, Gillian screamed a scream with her last breath which lasted several seconds. Heard by an uncertain neighbour, once the scream had stopped, they thought the incident was over. But it wasn’t. Having covered his trussed-up victim in a pink blanket, from his car, Winston had doused her with several litres of highly-flammable petrol from a fuel can, and as he lit it, she had screamed. With Gillian slowly being burned alive, with the evidence destroyed and the petrol can in his hand, he calmly walked from the inferno and headed home to shag his girlfriend, as if nothing had happened. At 3:15am, 50 minutes later, with smoke pouring from Ann’s bedroom, the blaze had triggered a smoke alarm in a neighbour’s flat and the fire brigade were called. Having extinguished the flames, Gillian’s body was found; it was burned, tied up and with a knife embedded in her chest. A post-mortem confirmed that – mercifully – she had died of shock and that her death was quick. But a big question remained: the Police knew they had a murder on their hands. But who was the culprit? (End) With no witnesses, finding her killer would be difficult. Keen to trace her movements, that morning, Detective Inspector Bob Randall discovered that the only thing she did that was strange in the days before her death was to buy a Fiat Uno. At the garage, he interviewed a boastful but slightly distressed mechanic who – for reasons which weren’t clear - had visited her home four times in the last ten days. Having found a few unique fibres - a grey wool and black viscose mix - on the bedsheet in Gillian’s flat, police examined a tailored sports-jacket from a Covent Garden boutique in his wardrobe and the fibres were a match. As a lover of fine fashion and being too vain to destroy such a pricey jacket of which only 125 were sold in Britain - finding her blood on his sleeve, on his tie, and with her skin found under his fingernails – on Sunday 20th December, a few hours after the murder, Winston was charged. Tried at the Old Bailey on 4th August 1993, before Mr Justice Richard Lawry QC – having pled not guilty - that same day, a jury of six men and six women took five hours to reach a unanimous verdict. Found guilty, he was sentenced to life in prison, with a recommendation he serve a minimum of twenty years. Praising Gillian as “a lovely girl whose death was a tragedy", DI Randall would state "I can only describe Winston Goulbourne as a Walter Mitty character, an evil and dangerous psychopath". In 1996, with his appeal rejected, the Home Secretary reduced his sentence to 18 years. In 2011, he was released on licence and he moved to Mitcham, South London, where – as far we know – he currently lives. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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The "Old" Marylebone Town Hall where Salisbury Mansions stood in the 1850s
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 EIGHTY-FOUR:
Friday 31st July 1863. Wealthy merchant Frederick Chappell owned a small flat in a townhouse on the Marylebone Road. On the second floor, he secretly ensconced 24-year-old Emily Mitchell. Once his maid, now his pregnant mistress, she lived the life of a lady… but she could never be treated as his wife, as she was not of the right class. With the baby, due to be born in secret, even though its conception was as much his fault as it was hers, living in a world dominated by men, the impending child would be seen as her sin… not his… and therefore death would come to Salisbury mansions.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a yellow raindrop south of Regent's Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/print.jsp?div=t18631026-1201
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Marylebone Road, NW1; two streets west of the burglary of William Raven, one street north of the recruitment of Churchill’s favourite spy, a short walk west of the last sighting of Rene Hanrahan, and one street north of the boy who broke the rules - coming soon to Murder Mile. Perched on the corner of Gloucester Place sits The Old Marylebone Town Hall, a large stone structure with Doric columns and an obelisk-like tower, made famous by the known faces who have wed there. Sadly, as a registry office, marriages which begin there, tend not to last. As Paul McCartney got hitched (rather creepily) to two wives there, only to end up widowed and divorced. Stroppy Oasis grumbler Liam Gallagher married Patsy Kensit and Nicole Appleton there, only for both marriages to lose their “shee-iiiine”. And having wisely split from the second-best drummer in the Beatles, Ringo received his marching orders from ex-Bond girl Barbara Bach and - I’m sure, in his typically passive-aggressive way - stated that he was far “too busy” to sign the divorce petition, “with peace and love, peace and love”. Although called The Old Marylebone Town Hall, it’s not that old, having only been built in 1920. Prior to this, once stood Salisbury Mansions, a set of three-storey townhouses for the city’s professionals. One such flat was owned by Frederick Chappell, a wealthy merchant from Liverpool. Only residing in his own townhouse just a few streets away, this discrete and convenient little hideaway would be the home of his pregnant mistress – 24-year-old Sarah Emily Mitchell. Being once his maid, now the mother of his child, here she would live like a ‘lady’, and yet, she would never be treated as his wife. This site is a place synonymous with unhappy unions, but only one of them would lead to murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 184: A Woman’s Sin. Were you to read any articles from this era about Sarah Emily Mitchell, you would see her tarred with the brush of “a wretched mother”, “a woman of sin” and “a harlot of no pedigree”. The world was against her, not because of who she was, but because of what she was - a woman of a lower class. This unjust persecution is something that still happens today, hence why gossip mags and tabloid trash litter the shelves. Fixated on trivial tales of marital splits, cheating cads, bad bonks and how – bafflingly - a female celebrity we’ve not seen since the 1980s has got both fatter and older (gasp). Shock. But why people love them is that it shows someone of a higher status being brought down to a level lower than our own. We ridicule how far they’ve fallen, as no-one should rise above their own station. Society dictates that we all know our precarious place on the lowly ladder of life… …and once we slip from our slim little rung, our downfall should be our fault, and no-one else’s. She was born Sarah Emily Mitchell in 1840, although her exact details are unknown, as – being of lower middle-class and a woman – her life wasn’t worth recording, except as an appendage to a man. Raised in the bustling port city of Liverpool, she was blessed with a better life than most, as her father wasn’t burdened by the endless grind of manual labour, as being an accountant, he had a profession. Although only of lower-middle-class stock, this distinction afforded him and his two daughters more. Along-side her sister Eliza, Sarah had just two choices in life; to marry a man and to bear his babies, or to go into domestic service. Born of ‘better stock’, she wouldn’t stoop so low as to work for pennies as a char woman to a destitute brood, but as maid to a family of means in a good part of town. In 1859, aged 19, Sarah Mitchell went into service as the house-keeper to Mr Frederick Chappell, a wealthy merchant and a recent widower with two young daughters to care for, who lived in the affluent resplendence of Highton Hall, a large estate in the fresh smog-free outskirts of Liverpool. Given a good wage, a kind family to attend to, and later joined by her sister as assistant housekeeper - with Frederick being a man of wealth whose business took him to many places – Sarah & Eliza lived at his second home, a small townhouse at 11 Seymour Street situated not far from the city’s port. As a young fresh-faced girl, innocent of the world and inexperienced of its dangers, she was blessed to have fallen into such a pleasant life. It’s true that her hours were long and her chores were endless, but what made her days a pleasure was Frederick – her employer with whom she was deeply smitten. Being as aged as her own father, a little lacking in follicles on top, and with a pot-belly as rotund as an upturned cauldron, Frederick may not have been the most handsome, but being blessed with a kind nature and a big heart, he was certainly the sort of man a lower-class girl would dream of marrying. As happens, eyes met and lips followed. As a young impressionable girl and a grieving widower, their romance was mutual, and with chemicals fizzing and feelings a-plenty, basic logic made way for love. Initially, Sarah kept this steamy little love-tryst with her boss a secret from her sister, but their longing looks and furtive fumblings couldn’t be kept quiet for long. Eliza would state “Mr Chappell visited daily; he would take his meals there, his breakfast and his coffee in the ‘noon”. In a society where status was everything, and the class you were born in was the class you would die in, these two should never have been – and they knew it – so for the price of a piece of passion, they had let their hearts rule their heads… or maybe it was their loins… in a romance doomed to failure. Had they seen common sense, their brief dalliance may have ended there. But on an undefined night in September 1861 - after two years of service as his paid domestic - in a secret rendezvous, Frederick and Sarah engaged in a wild night of nudity and naughtiness, from which a baby would bloom. Given the era, neither party knew about this ticking timebomb of chromosomes growing in her womb, but - as eyes popped wide, tongues were clucked and gossip was gabbled - this undeniable evidence of their dirty doings would soon explode into the world, like a screaming firework of tears and shit. The fuse was lit… …it was just a matter of waiting, until it all went bang. To our modern eyes and liberal sensibilities, it may seem quaint and almost idiotic that society would be so ‘up-in-arms’ about a man of stature carrying on – sexually – with a girl from ‘below the stairs’? It’s the stuff of those drivel-filled dramas about an 18th century singleton marrying for fear of becoming a dreary spinster… as if – by being a woman – she doesn’t exist unless a man ‘completes her’. Urgh! But that attitude is no less scandalous today. How much ink has been blown on ‘news stories’ about a man of status and a woman of less; like the priest and the housekeeper, the Prince and the Hollywood actress and the Californian Governor and the maid? An affair is only an affair if the two parties are of equal class, but the second a man married to the Kennedy clan knobbed his cleaner? It was a scandal. Over time, the text may have changed in the trashy tabloids and images may have been added to the gossip rags, but the stinky attitude still wreaks of a desire to see the classes put in their place has not… …as all that’s missing next to the headline are these simple words; ‘women, know your place’ In May 1862, with her oversized clothes struggling to disguise eight months of pregnancy, still unable to admit to her own sister that a baby was on the way, they concocted a ruse to hide it from the eyes. Born in secret at an undisclosed flat using a private nurse, on the 11th June 1862, Sarah gave birth to a little girl who she named Sarah Emily Adeline Mitchell. With peach-like skin and a loud set of lungs, it was clear that the baby was happy and healthy, and that its beaming mother was blissfully joyous. Notified of its arrival, Frederick did the decent thing – which is more than can be said of some – and registered the child’s birth using his name as its father and shielding mother and baby from scandal. It’s fair to say that – in the Victorian era – people feared the disease of how others perceived them, over actual illnesses. A sickness could come and go, but if someone cast aspersions over your homelife, your habits, or who the father was of the baby suckling at your breast, that could linger for a lifetime. On paper, Frederick was the father, but even to silence their cruel words, he could never marry her. She was the wrong class, and should he let her in, she may pollute his status with the stench of poverty. So endemic was this attitude that – even if his loved one’s overcame their revulsion – the aftermath of marrying a lower-class woman could risk his business and reputation, whether he liked her or not. Seeing no-one but her baby and kept hidden in a lonely flat, from the baby’s birth until mid-July, Sarah began to experience side-effects of the pregnancy and (what we would term as) post-natal depression. Needing family, Eliza was told of her confinement and was moved to London to be by Sarah’s side. But it was clear that her sister was not doing well – “I was very much distressed about her strange and odd manner, I was afraid of her doing something silly, as she was often quite dark and was not herself”. With money no object, Frederick hired Dr William Cathrow, a respected and discrete practitioner who attended to Sarah’s black moods - believed to have occurred owing to a rather troublesome labour. His diagnosis was ‘hysterical peritonitis’. Following a traumatic birth, the stomach sometimes suffers a reddening and swelling known as Peritonitis. Today we know it’s caused by bacterial infection in the blood or a rupture, but – in the 1800s – they believed it was caused by hysteria. Being a woman and therefore prone to extremes of emotions – with the wonder of penicillin not discovered for another 70 years - the cure he’d administer was not an anti-inflammatory, but something to quell her mood. Marketed as ‘a woman’s friend’, Laudanum, a mix of opium and alcohol was used to treat all manner of female maladies (as they were termed) which these predominantly male doctors didn’t understand; such as menstruation, child-birth and – the very fashionable malady of its day known as - 'the vapours', which included such lady-like symptoms as hysteria, mood-swings, depression and fainting spells. According to Dr Cathrow “I got her well by giving her large doses of opium”. Being drugged into silence, Sarah was discretely returned back to Liverpool where she lived in a pleasant flat funded by Frederick. As a wealthy and generous man, she lived a better life than most; with a weekly allowance, her food and clothes on account, and no need to worry about work or paying the rent, but it was not a life. Hidden from view like a dark secret, the baby rarely saw daylight and its mother barely saw people, as being kept under wraps for fear of ruining his reputation, this imprisonment only made her sicker. And when she got worse, they sedated her with more Laudanum. Only the problem was not her mind… …but her situation she was in and the sin blamed on her. On 11th October 1862, as the savage echo of Scouse tongues faded behind her, Sarah was moved from her hometown of Liverpool to her new home of London. It was to be a fresh start among strangers, as being a woman of no-known past, she could re-invent herself as a woman without scandal. That day, at the newly opened Baker Street station, Sarah and Eliza were met by Frederick. In a cab, he escorted them to a presentable little lodging on Weymouth Street; replete with ornate drapes, soft furnishings, a cold store and every conceivable modern luxury like running water and gas lighting. For Sarah, feeling rather regal living in such a grand place as this, she would often quip to her sister that she should call herself m’lady. And yet, she would be gifted a much grander title than that, as to the landlady, Frederick introduced Sarah as ‘Mrs Chappell’; with a gold ring on her finger, a townhouse in London, Eliza as her live-in maid and no-one to dare question her status as a gentleman’s word was enough. Given the circumstances, Frederick had done his best for her, himself, but also his business. During her first month living life as a lady among the London elite, Sarah was in her element. With her mood rosy, her health spry, and her maternal affections to blessed baby Sarah without reproach, she had begun to become acclimatised to her new status. Only what plagued her mind daily was the sham. On the public’s lips, they were ‘Mr & Mrs Chappell’. But on the papers which mattered, they were not. In short, the marriage was a façade, her child was a bastard and she would forever be seen as a woman of sin, a dirty little secret hidden from view and swept under the carpet like an embarrassment of dust. For now, she was a lady. But how long could the silence last in a land full of whispers and suspicions? In society’s eyes, Sarah was nothing but a cocky queue-jumper, a whorish louse who had unleashed the perfume of her feminine wares to lure this wealthy widower into her lair, and – in his weakened state of grief – she had ensnared him with a baby of burden to wring his wealth dry for her own gain. In truth, she hadn’t. But the second a fragment of gossip is either written or repeated – regardless of whether it is based on a shred of truth - its factual voracity is irrelevant in the court of public opinion. Quite rightly, Sarah could not live with such dishonesty, and its torment made her mind a terror. Of her sister, Eliza would state “she was once so lively, so vibrant, a girl of smiles and warmth”, and as a mother “she was always extremely kind to the child… she showed more maternal tenderness to it than I had ever known”. But gripped by depression and distress - although unable to sleep – her bed became her home, her pillow a prison, daylight was now an enemy, and her silence like a bitter wind. For Frederick, he lived his own life in his own townhouse a few streets away, in a place it was best for the woman who was sort of ‘his wife’ to not pop by, otherwise tongues would wag -so he went to her. Still both smitten, as often happens, the bed-sheets were warmed and a second baby would bloom. In November 1862, requiring a much larger residence for this expending brood, Frederick moved Sarah his pregnant mistress, her five-month-old daughter and her sister Eliza as a live-in maid into a two-storey lodging at Salisbury Mansions on the Marylebone Road - a fresh start in yet another new home. But from where this sin had begun… …soon tragedy would follow. Sarah’s second pregnancy was not a joyous one, as whether sensing its mother’s anguish, this restless baby had not given her a single night’s sleep since conception. Born on 13th April 1863, Frederick Chappell, son of Frederick Chappell was born, with his father’s name in life and on its birth certificate. But being born a full three months premature, with its energy utterly spent and emerging in an excess of its mother’s blood, this undersized spawn had lived a little, but had lasted for just half an hour. Her baby was dead, and inside her soul, so was its mother. As before, diagnosed with ‘hysterical peritonitis’ by Dr Cathrow, a discrete an respected practitioner, who noted “she had a good deal of nerves about her, with pains in the abdomen that I could not account for - also pains in the head, and a very great restlessness”. Keeping her sedated, but failing to identify her situation as its cause, “she required large doses of opium, I gave her a very considerable quantity to enable her to get any rest at all”… but also to silence her tears and the neighbour’s gossip. On the doctor’s orders - seeing how “excitable” they stated she was, as wailing with every ounce of her exhausted breath as the milky smell of her dead son still clung to her empty arms - her daughter was removed to a different room and it was decided that Frederick should no longer visit her as often. What spurred this was she had made words to end her life and that of her child, unless Frederick and she could live as man and wife. And yet, for her sake - but more probably his – he had separated them. In a brief moment in time, she had been a wife and a mother with a family, and now she had none. Riddled with paranoia, from the confines of her lonely bed, Sarah saw things which were never real. On the bitter breeze she heard gossipy whispers which stabbed her ears. Through the walls walked faceless spirits whose cruel questions never quelled. At her feet stood a policeman to drag her to the asylum. And too terrified to sleep, a black river of beetles scuttled about her bed, body and head. To give her peace, when her moods seemed less black, Eliza brought her baby daughter to Sarah. Sat in placid silence, this small act of mercy did more than any drug ever could, but it also exacerbated her greatest fear; “assure me dear sister”, Sarah said “don’t let Mr Chappell take her from me, please”. Sarah lived in hope of a blissful end to her troubles and trauma… but it was not to be. With three doctors, all specialists in their field, having determined that her declining mental state was proving to be a hazard to the welfare, business and reputation of their client – Mr Frederick Chappell - through Dr Cathrow - a man she trusted - a letter of importance was delivered to Eliza. It read; Dear Elizabeth. I am very sorry to have to tell that I have written to your sister to say that a separation must take place between us. With this view, my solicitor will call tomorrow to confer with her as to my making a proper settlement for you all, for I am resolved neither your sister nor yourself shall ever want for anything. You and your sister, with baby, will be enabled to live wherever you like, though it should be somewhere where I should be able to see baby. I am sure you will never forsake poor baby, and that you will do your duty; give her a kiss for me, and believe me, yours sincerely, F Chappell”. Being as good as his word, a generous annual allowance was made for Sarah, Eliza and the baby, and in his will - written prior to his son’s death – this was upheld, leaving a second nest-egg for life. She could live her life as a comfortable lady, but – as a woman of sin – she would do it alone. Unhappy with this financial settlement, Sarah would reject his offer… …and – once again - death would return to Salisbury Mansions. Friday 31st July 1863 was a better day. With Sarah sleeping, eating and having been weaned off the Laudanum, a sense of normality had returned. In the morning, with the 13-month-old baby sat in its pram and its rosy cheeks all giggles, Eliza strolled it amidst the fresh crisp air of Regent’s Park. Back at the flat, all was not well, as her doctors (who were really Frederick’s doctors) accompanied by his solicitor enthusiastically instructed Sarah of the medical benefits of taking his very generous offer; doing what was best for herself, the baby and – of course – Mr Chappell and his business interests. In court, having previously declared her as ‘sane’, they would state “she was a very obstinate person, excessively so; I thought so by her not taking the advice I gave with the best intention”, and “I formed the opinion that she was labouring under insanity; I thought her of unsound mind”. All she had to do to make the pain go away was sign the settlement and “give up all annoyance of Mr Chappell”. At 1pm, they left. Sarah & Eliza had lunch. And feeling a desire to enjoy a sumptuous peach, at 2:30pm, Sarah asked Eliza to buy them one both from Covent Garden market, as Sarah cuddled her daughter. Again, sweeping their failures aside as if their expertise was never to be in question, as the case revolved around the motive of this loose woman’s morals, the doctors would inform the court; “the great cunning that she showed was another symptom of insanity”, “she threw us off our guard”. For Sarah this was not a cunning plan to avenge her former lover… …as in her eyes, this was the only way out. Being alone in the sparse empty flat, Sarah laid out two neat piles of clothes on the bedside chair; a nightdress and stockings for herself, and beside them, a set for the baby. Although clean, neither would be worn just yet, as they were for the laying out their bodies when mother and baby were dead. In her Bible, she marked up a few passages of prominence, and – with no will nor final words - clutching a sharp razor, she stabbed down deep into the baby’s chest, through the tiny thorax and its little lungs, as the pristine white of its woollen nightdress began to stain with a slow spreading red from within. With nothing left to live for; no family, no marriage, no Frederick, her baby son dead and her daughter soon to join him, Sarah ripped the blade across her throat, sawing a jagged wound from ear-to-ear, and dividing her jugular vein, until her body was still, her skin was pale and her pulse was weak. (End) Discovered when Eliza returned, although the baby clung onto life, it died two days later. Miraculously, although critical, Sarah survived and was found to be pregnant – once again - with Frederick’s child. On 4th August 1863, in a coroner’s inquest held at the Buffalo’s Head Tavern on Marylebone Road, after five minutes, the jury returned a verdict of “wilful murder” against Sarah Emily Mitchell. Held at Newgate Prison, her visiting physician was Dr Cathrow who (as witness against her) attested that her eyes were vacant, her movement unsure and – being of unsound mind – he declared her as insane. Having already lost a large amount of blood, a second physician (Dr Chowne of Charing Cross) decided it best to alleviate her hallucinations, her mania and her suicidal thoughts by bloodletting. Weakened more before the trial, not one doctor asked if it was the cruel situation, the pressure of society or the doctor’s insistence (paid for by the man she wished was her husband) which made her insane? But instead, it was ruled that – being a woman, of a lower-class – she was cursed by her emotions and sin. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 26th October 1863, charged with the wilful murder of her bastard child and her attempted suicide, Sarah was found ‘not guilty’ on the grounds of insanity and was ordered to be detained until Her Majesty's pleasure be known. She died years later in Broadmoor Asylum. Which begs the question; as a maid, had she fallen for a man of her own class, was it more likely that she would have lived? Maybe? Status is only relevant to those who fear losing it. Happiness is what’s important and not what someone we haven’t met thinks about the things we have or haven’t done. None of us are perfect, we all make mistakes, and we all try to better ourselves. So why do we find it so shocking when someone dares to do better, to achieve more, to be greater than life says we should? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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