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.
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 TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX:
On Saturday 22nd of June 1968, a petty thief tried to steal a small amount of cash from Taj Mahal at 21 Romilly Street in Soho. It wasn’t a daring heist, but a petulant act which would have resulted in a fine or a few weeks in prison. And yet, allegedly using ‘acceptable force’ to restrain him, three men would be charged with murder.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a lemon exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Soho'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click 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 Romilly Street in Soho, W1; a few doors north of the loo irradiated for life by Russia’s most incompetent spies, two doors east of Dennis Nilsen’s favourite pub, and within sight of the restaurant where the daily special included a dose of death - coming soon to Murder Mile. Snuck between Old Compton Street and Shaftesbury Avenue, Romilly Street is a soulless void. Being nothing more than a dirty backstreet riddled with the ramshackle rear-ends of some very questionable restaurants, you won’t see a shop, but you may see a gang of rats roughing up a one-legged pigeon, two crack-addicts playing backgammon using their displaced teeth, and a stain-spackled chef keeping his filthy hands warm by ferreting about in his ‘back garden’ and then fondling his ‘trouser vegetables’. But oddly, this was (and still is) a place where people would come to find good food. At 21 Romilly Street currently stands Gauthier, a high-brow vegan restaurant ran by award-winning chef Alexis Gauthier, and back in the late 1960s, this was also an Indian restaurant called ‘Taj Mahal’. As an Indian eatery catering to bland British tastes, the staff at the Taj Mahal were well-used to a little spice in their day; whether being whinged-at by a halfwittery of has-beens who start every sentence with the words “I’m not a racist, but…”, or a spew of yobbos scoffing napalm-flavoured vindaloo to impress their pals, as on a regular basis the staff are threatened, attacked, spat at, abused and robbed. On Saturday 22nd of June 1968, a petty thief tried to steal a small amount of cash from Taj Mahal. It wasn’t a daring heist, but a petulant act which would have resulted in a fine or a few weeks in prison. And yet, allegedly using ‘acceptable force’ to restrain him, three men would be charged with murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 226: Overkill. By the end of the day, three men would be charged with the Taj Mahal murder - Ali Mian, Ali Mokbul and Abdul Subhan. Having committed (what many regard) as one of society’s most heinous crimes, you may assume that these three were all vicious, cruel and remorseless killers… only they weren’t. As the temporary manager of Taj Mahal, Ali Ahmed Mian was born on the 6th of April 1935 in Datra, a small rural village in the Comilla district of what was then British India, now known as Pakistan. Being the fourth of five siblings to two elderly parents and with his father said to be in his 90s, he was raised to be one of the family’s breadwinners and unlike his friends, he had the blessing of a good education. As farm labourers, many of the boys in his village were barely literate, but being intelligent and bright, up until the age of 23, Ali studied Bengali, English, Civics and Economics at college, and although he was part way through his degree, he had to quit to his education so he could work on his family’s farm. This was the way his life would be, by putting his family first and himself second. By 1962, as a married man with two sons aged 6 and 7, although he was earning a decent wage as a clerk for the Water and Power Development Authority in Rangpur, both he, his wife and his children still lived – as many men did – with his elderly parents, but with his plan – one day - to move out. It was then that a golden opportunity appeared. On the 14th of June 1962, his company sent him from the newly formed country of Pakistan to the old and slightly creaky land of England, with the plan to research how the British utility companies work. Britain on the cusp of the so-called swinging sixties must have been a shock to his system; a mess of sex, drugs and sausage rolls; a population of long-haired men and short-skirted ladies neither of whom wore enough clothes to keep warm in a sun-less summer of perpetual drizzle and sometimes snow; all while eating - without doubt - the blandest beigest food ever, so bad, it has to be drenched in salt. Still pockmarked with Victorian slums, crumbling ruins and bombsites from the Blitz, 1960s London was a fiery melting pot of different faces and voices, fighting for space and the right to earn a living as underneath a tension of hostility, sirens, strikes and (what would be known as) Paki bashing simmered. The city was a place of unease and disquiet, but for a man with a dream of a better life for his family and so many mouths to feed, London was a land of potential and promise, but also of peril and pain. Having arrived, he quickly terminated his contract with the company, and went in search of work. And there lied the problem, as although well-educated, his visa restricted him to menial jobs and being described as “thin and sparsely built”, Ali wasn’t physically equipped to be a bouncer or a labourer, so in September 1966, he started work as a waiter at the Taj Mahal Indian restaurant on Romilly Street. Promoted to manager during the months when the owner returned to Pakistan, regarded as “honest” and “reliable”, he worked long hours and slept in a squalid shared room above this busy restaurant. For six years he slogged his guts out, sending - from his wage of £18 per week - the lion’s share back to his wife, his children and his parents, hoping that – one day – he could return to his loved one’s. Ali Mian was a kind man, a good father and (to many) a loyal friend… …and then, on Sunday 23rd June 1968, along with two others, he was charged with murder. So, where did it all go wrong? When did his life go rogue, his morals vanish, and fuelled by drugs, a bad crowd led him down a path of doom and despair? Well, it didn’t. Ali was just a regular man doing his job on an ordinary day when his life was changed forever… the same was said of his two friends. Born in Mandaruka village in Eastern Pakistan in 1941, Ali Mokbul was the only brother to three sisters and two half-sisters, and with his 65-year-old father paralysed down his left-hand-side, he needed to put a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. But not being an academic, his skill was cookery. In 1963, as a married man with two children, keen to provide them with a good life, Ali Mokbul came to London and – working from the ground up – he was as a kitchen porter at ‘The Talk of the Town’, a cook at Anglo Steak House, and was later promoted to a cook at some of the West End’s most affluent restaurants, like Royal Garden Hotel, the White Hall Court and finally at the Café Royal in Piccadilly. Earning a decent wage of £20 a week, he could have partied hearty and lived the high life, but focussed on supporting his family, he worked late, rarely went out, and – rented out by the owner – he lived in small and cramped room on the third floor above the Taj Mahal restaurant with his pal, Abdul Subhan. Also born in Sylat in eastern Pakistan, as a married man with four children, Subhan had met Mokbul when they worked as lowly kitchen porters and dishwashers; and having been promoted to butcher and cook at the Royal Garden Hotel, they shared the £5 per week rent, they lived humbly, and although they had never worked at the Taj Mahal, they were good friends with its temporary manager, Ali Mian. As devout Muslims, they didn’t drink. As family men, they didn’t cause trouble. As law-abiding citizens, they had never been arrested or even questioned. And keen to continue being decent hard-working people, they didn’t break the rules, especially as Subhan was applying for his British citizenship. Their story was typical of many workers from overseas, who just wanted to do well… …but for one man, this chance at change was an opportunity he would squander. Bashir Meah was a 46-year-old unemployed wastrel and petty-thief who was described by the Police (as few people knew him as a friend) as short, stocky and unpleasant. Like Ali, Mokbul and Subhan, although he also came from eastern Pakistan, neither of them new him before the week of his murder. With his parents dead and with no known relatives still living in Pakistan, in 1947, 19-year-old Bashir fled to Britain, and according to his wife Eileen “he hasn’t worked a day in twenty years”. Living off National Assistance handouts, they drifted between council houses, and although they would have two children together – a daughter and a son – their 14-year-old boy was later placed into social care. With a lengthy criminal record and an aggressive streak, Bashir was the kind of blight on society that the Police often questioned, rounded up for line-ups and would turn a blind eye to if he got attacked. Within his first few months in the UK, he was sentenced to six months in prison for assault. In 1952, he served six months for armed robbery and ABH. In 1955, six weeks for stealing 15 cigarettes. In 1956, five years for armed robbery, but just three months after his release, he was back inside serving 21 months for robbery with violence. And so it went on, as like a foul whiff, he drifted between prisons, as being the epitome of a shitty half-witted criminal without a single brain cell, he always got caught. Again, after his release, in 1962 he served 2 years for the theft of a radio, 30 months in 1964 for stealing a briefcase, and 14 days for stealing 13 fruit dishes and 6 months for shoplifting both in 1967, which meant across his career, he spent more time inside than out, which was a blessing for his wife. By April 1968, Bashir and Eileen had moved into a dirty unfurnished council flat at 300 Lewisham Road in Deptford, where he returned to after his release from prison. On the 11th of June 1968, just eleven days before his murder, he was sentenced to three months at Woolwich magistrates court for the charge of shoplifting. But with the magistrate – for whatever reason - being lenient on this repeat offender, his sentence was suspended, and Bashir went back to being a petty thief, a notorious pest… …and a violent thug who beat his wife. Eileen stated: “we fought a lot”. Several times she had threatened to leave, and staying at a friend’s house, “I went home to collect my stuff… my husband arrived. I was frightened. I did not open the door. He picked up a brick and broke it down”, and although they argued, that night she left for good. The last time she saw him alive was on Friday 21st of June 1968 at about midnight, just 20 hours before his death. “He was in bed…”, Eileen said, “I asked him to leave, but he refused. I called the Police to eject him, but they were unable to do so”, and so having begun legal proceedings for a separation, “we were due to be heard at Greenwich Court on 22nd July”. But by then, her husband would be dead. Bashir wasn’t the big-time gangster he thought he was, as to those who had the displeasure of crossing his path, he was nothing but a petty thug and a pointless waste of space, a leech on society who would nick whatever wasn’t nailed down and extort paltry sums of money from hardworking persons. And as a notorious pest who never failed to annoy, one of the places he pestered and pilfered from…. … was the Taj Mahal on Romilly Street. Bashir seen as little more than a nuisance, as according to Isak the cook: “he came now and again for nothing, but sometimes he came to sell stolen items”, only now, he had become very desperate. On Thursday 20th June, two days prior, Ali Mokbul was lured out of his third-floor lodging over the Taj Mahal by Bashir Meah, supposedly “to get some fresh air”. Hailing a taxi, he didn’t know where they were going or why, and neither was he introduced to the stocky white males sitting either side of him. According to Mokbul, they drove for miles to somewhere unknown, until suddenly stopping the taxi “he put a big knife to my throat and said, ‘give me what you’ve got’”. They took his watch, two rings (including his wedding band) and the £5 he had placed in an envelope to send to his wife and children. Mokbul didn’t report the robbery to the Police as he didn’t want to risk losing his job and his visa… …but they all knew one thing, that (like a bad smell) Bashir would be back. Saturday 22nd of June was a day which began as ordinary as any other. Being a little after 5pm, the Taj Mahal on Romilly Street was ghostly quiet, except for Isak prepping the food in the basement kitchen, Ali in the manager’s office organising the cash float for the nights’ business, and three floors above, connected by a single stairwell, Mokbul and Subhan were in their bedroom, resting between shifts. According to their statements, the incident was as unremarkable as any Saturday night in Soho. Ali stated “I was about to open. I looked towards the counter and saw a man pick up my cash box and begin to make off with it”, the man was Bashir Meah, and the cash box held just £3 (or £50 today), but with Ali being the manager and the money belonging to the business, the responsibility was his. Like any decent person, Ali said “I ran after him and jumped on his back. I shouted for help”, screaming ‘come quick, he’s taking my money’, and hearing his cries, Mokbul and Subhan raced down to see this small-time petty thief trapped; in his left hand - the cash box, as in his right – a terrifyingly large knife which he thrust like a striking cobra in Ali’s petrified face, hissing with venom “I’m going to kill you”. Approaching stealthily from behind, Subhan said “I grabbed his right wrist, swung him round, we both fell to the ground. Mr Ahmed & Mr Mokbul assisted me to overpower him”. And with Bashir’s manner described as “aggressive” and “extremely violent”, “we keep him there until the Police came”. With the call logged at 5:38pm, PC Wright arrived at the Taj Mahal restaurant at 21 Romilly Street to the report that the manager and two others “had detained a man for the larceny of cash from a till”. And that was it. A petty-thief and a local pest had failed to steal £3 in loose change; he was cornered, restrained and receiving a few minor cuts and bruises to his face, hands and neck, with the room speckled with a few shards from a broken wine glass which broke in the struggle, the staff were questioned and with Bashir unable or unwilling to respond to questions, being semi-conscious he was taken to hospital for tests. The so-called incident was so uneventful, that with the restaurant late opening and the theatre crowd already queueing up outside, Isak the cook would claim “I went into the kitchen and lit the gas rings”, as to those who were there that night, this was nothing that they hadn’t witnessed many times before. Only this night was about to turn deadly. Taken to Charing Cross Hospital, Dr Dupere, the casualty officer stated “he was semiconscious, and he complained a pain in his leg and difficulty breathing. He was very shocked”. On initial assessment, his injuries were consistent with restraint but also a beating, “he had bruising to his back, grazes down his shins and knuckles, a black eye, a cut to his lip, and a circular wound which looked like a bite mark”. And suspecting “a fractured skull and possible broken ribs”, he was given two x-rays, but having deteriorated fast and with his heart having stopped, at 7:20pm Bashir Meah was declared dead… …and all three men (Ali, Mokbul and Subhan) were arrested and charged with his murder. Interviewed at West End Central police station by Detective Inspector George Chandler, together they had explained how they had caught and restrained him, how he had threatened them and struggled. But interviewed separately, suddenly the story fell apart and a different tale had begun to be told. Upon arrival at the Taj Mahal, PC’s Wright & Moore spotted that things were not as they seemed; “we were shown into a small poorly-lit backroom, on the floor a man lying was on his right side in a semi-prone position. His clothes were disarranged, there were bloodstains on his shirt, he had a deep cut on his upper lip from which blood was flowing, and he had bruises and reddening about the face”. Asked what had happened, the constables were told “we overpowered him and held him down until you arrived”, nothing more. But when asked by the officers “who tied his wrists and his ankles in front of him with rope?”, they all denied this, and according to PC Higgins “the Indians were all jabbering loudly…” as if – shielded by their own language - were they deciding what story they would tell. Isak confirmed that at 5:35pm, seeing all three men struggling with Bashir, “they said ‘we’ve caught a thief’ and I helped them drag him into the small room”. And although proven, none of them could answer why they had dragged him from the hallway to a small, secluded office behind the restaurant? When interviewed, their recollections of the night were vague to say the least. When asked “was Bashir tied up?”, separately they replied, “I don’t know”, “nobody tied him up”, and “I didn’t see that”. When asked “did anyone punch or kick him?”, Mokbul said “I didn’t kick him, I only tried to lift him” and stating “no-one else hit him”; Subhan admitted “I punched him once or twice” but he denied that anyone else did “I didn’t see anyone”; and although their statements varied between how many men were fighting – whether three, two, one or none – Subhan blamed Isak the cook, but he denied this. And although the full extent of the injuries which ended Bashir’s life were yet to be revealed, when asked “did you seen anyone jumping on him?”, separately they would all agree that they hadn’t… …contradicting the evidence of the autopsy. Conducted by Professor Keith Simpson at Westminster Public Mortuary at 10:30am the next morning, with the scuffs, grazes and abrasions set aside, although a fracture ran from the side of the skull into the right eye-socket, his death was not caused by a brain haemorrhage, or exacerbated any disease. It was the bruising to the chest that drew his attention “as there were no external injuries to the front”, where the victim’s wrists and ankles had been tied with rope, but only to the back. And although, all three men had all denied kicking Bashir and jumping on him, “both shoulder blades were fractured”. His back was a patchwork of black bruises and purple swollen lumps covering from his neck to his hips. X-Rays had proven that his cheekbones has shattered and that his right eye had ruptured, but also – underneath several flat wounds which bore the unmistakable outline of shoed feet – something akin to the weight of a man had repeatedly jumped and pummelled up and down, squarely upon his back. Fracturing the shoulder blades and breastbone, the force had snapped 21 of his 24 ribs like dry twigs as his whole chest cavity buckled in. With nothing to protect his internal organs, and these bones as sharp as glass shards; his diaphragm and his spleen ripped apart, both lungs were crushed, and as the life-giving air leaked his flattened chest, his body filled with blood suffocating his heart and his brain. His cause of death was certified as “haemorrhage owing to fractured ribs and crushed lungs” (End). Charged with murder at 4:35pm on Sunday 23rd of June 1968, Ali Ahmed Miah, Ali Mokbul & Adbul Subhan gave statements, and agreed to have their clothes, fingerprints and blood samples taken. Held at Brixton Prison, all three “gave a good account of the incident, knew the nature of the crime and were capable of knowing the acts were wrong”, so therefore they were declared “fit to stand trial”. Tried on the charge of murder – which would not only result in a prison sentence, but also the loss of their jobs and deportation back to Pakistan – their case was heard in a two-day trial at the Old Bailey. With the prosecution laying-out the evidence against them, uniquely for a murder trial such as this where – with no independent witnesses - it was hard to tell who had inflicted what injuries, each man had a different blood group; Bashir was O, Ali was A, Subhan was O negative and Mokbul was B. But with no blood found on either of their clothes and the accused sticking to their story that they had struggled and restrained a violent thief who was holding a knife, on the 11th of September 1968, Mr Justice Paull declared “in view of the evidence, it would be unsafe to ask any jury to convict. In those circumstances, I will take the responsibility of directing them to find the defendants not guilty”. Cleared of all charges – not GBH, ABH or even manslaughter – all three men walked from the court. But were they innocent of a crime, did they use ‘appropriate force’, was this a case of ‘overkill’ which the investigation couldn’t prove, or were the police given a tough choice – to convict three decent men who were pushed too far, or to bring justice to a petty thief who they knew no-one would miss? 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.
Harlesden Police Station
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE:
On Saturday 4th August 1945, Private Cyril Patmore knocked on the door of 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a purple exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Wembley'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
Welcome to Murder Mile. On Saturday 4th of August 1945 at 8:55am, Frederick Keeling, a driver for Taxilux (a local cab company) pulled up outside of 16 Greenhill Road in Harlesden. The street was silent as the residents were roused by the chirp of a dawn chorus and the clatter of a milk cart. Having loaded the first of his fare’s luggage into the boot for what should have been an unremarkable day, it was then that Frederick saw Cyril. Standing outside of his wife’s lodging at 12 Greenhill Road, a short stocky man in an Army battledress slowly approached him, his face a ghastly white, his mouth agog with shock and his pale hands dripping with a deep red ooze, from his fingertips, up his sleeves and with dots spattered up his agonised face. Although slow, he didn’t stumble like a man in pain but a man in shock, as in his hand he held a curved knife, a souvenir from India, which continuously dripped with the warm fresh blood of his victim. Stopping by Frank’s car, the driver stared but didn’t feel afraid, as Cyril wasn’t seen as a threat but as someone who needed help. And as the soldier shook his bloody hands, spattering the pavement, in a quiet voice he uttered “Get the Police, I’ve done my missus”. Unable to comprehend that he had said, Frank asked him to repeat it, and (as if he couldn’t believe it himself) he did, “I’ve just done my missus”. And as Frank drove off to find a phone-box to call the Police, Cyril walked out of Greenhill Road. Only, this wasn’t his escape, as he didn’t he didn’t even attempt to flee. Keen to give himself up, amidst a gaggle of gobsmacked pedestrians, this bloodied and dazed soldier trudged half mile north to Harlesden Police Station, his sluggish demeanour like he had just emerged from a battlefield. And with Frank’s frantic call coming in, by the time Inspector Coote and Sergeant Firster had driven 100 yards, the unmistakable sight of Cyril Patmore was walking towards them. Pulling up, this killer didn’t run. Instead, he stated “I’ve done my wife in”; he gave them the address, he confessed “I did it with this” having handed them a small curved knife from his right trouser pocket, and being cautioned, Cyril’s only reply was “to think it was an Italian she’s been going with”. Having been to 12 Greenhill Road, at 10:30am, Inspector Coote told Cyril “I have seen the body of your wife Kathleen and I am making enquiries into the circumstances of her death”. Described as extremely distressed, clutching the last letters he had sent her, Cyril said “I want to tell you about my trouble”. At that, he made an accurate and lengthy statement, and throughout his main concern was for his family, stating “I live for my children and my wife. They’ve had a rough time since I’ve been away”. In a police report dated the 11th of August 1945, just days later, Inspector Coote wrote sympathetically of Cyril’s case, stating “the motive of the crime is most apparent, and it cannot be disputed that the moral character of the deceased woman (Kathleen Patmore) was of the lowest. There can be little doubt that her moral character during her husband’s absence has been utterly deplorable”. Lying slumped in a bloody heap, Kathleen was dead, and yet, he was the victim, and she was the villain. Across the investigation, it was the immorality of Mrs Patmore which was the motive for her murder. And yet, outside of Cyril and Kathleen, there was one other person who – it can be said – was to blame. The spiteful writer of a letter, send to Cyril in Burma, which told him everything… …and although anonymous, that someone was only known as ‘Joe’. It was during those dark lonely days of the war that Kathleen’s lack of morals came into question. As witnessed by landlords, lodgers, locals and even her own children, no-one was decrying her desire to be loved was lacking, as it’s a very human need. But it was the uncaring way in which she went about it, her unashamed sexual appetite that caused whispers to spread from Farmoor all the way to Burma. Described as ‘coarse and mouthy’, those who disliked Kathleen were said to be unsurprised when a welfare officer was called, when she got evicted from two farms, and her children were placed in their uncle’s care all within the space of a year. Many were shocked at how unashamedly she’d had sex in the woods and even with one-of-three (if not all three) lorry-drivers as her daughter slept beside her. But what riled them most was her fornicating with the Italian Fascists who Britain was fighting against. That level of disgust is how a gust of gossip travelled to Burma… …and set the seeds of her murder in motion. One of those who spoke-up was her sister May, who she had always had a fractious relationship with. When questioned, May selectively said to the police, “I have seen Kathleen on numerous occasions in a field having intercourse with the lorry driver named Gordon. She also carried on with the other driver called Bill. I have spoken to her about her conduct, and she has told me to mind my own business”. And although her statements of Kathleen’s morals were cherry-picked, it was like calling a ‘pot kettle black’, as according to the same witnesses, as a married mother herself, her morals were no better. George Podbery, the landlord of Woodend Cottages stated “I began to think that immoral things were taking place in the cottage. I then did what I could to keep these men away and I told the women I would not allow the men in. They took no notice. I received abuse and insults when I spoke to them”. Possibly out of spite, May had blabbed about her sister’s ‘filthy ways’, but according to Joseph Wiley, licensee of the Seacourt Bridge Hotel in Botley, often it was three women (identified as May, Kathleen and another, said to be one of May’s daughters) whose behaviour was so bad “I asked them to stop”. And whereas Horace, the brother of both women, who – let’s not forget, was the uncle put in charge of the children, instead of it being their Auntie May – he would state “I have seen both women going out at nights to woods near the cottages with Italian prisoners of war. I have also seen them returning at 7am, and it was obvious to me that they had spent the night in the woods with the Italians”. In her statements, May acted like she was an angel, only it’s hard to call someone immoral, when by your own actions, you’re no more moral than you are immoral. She told the Police, “I don’t know the names of any of the men. She was very secretive in nature and told me little about her men friends”. Which was a blatant lie, but as Edward, a lodger in the cottage would state “May was alright until Mrs Patmore arrived, then she seemed to lose control and told me once that ‘this sister would ruin her’”. And technically, she did, as on the 18th of December 1944, both Kathleen (who was pregnant by a man who wasn’t her husband), her sister May and their children were booted out of the cottages. But having moved elsewhere, the immorality continued. Between January and May 1945, at The Nunnery in Eynsham, the farm’s landlord Gordon Blake said Kathleen “was one of two women” (the other being May) “who were consorting with the prisoners”. When questioned, Antonio Frunzo and Mario Saviello of No45 Camp said that they knew both women “only to pass the time of day”; with Mario only “acquainted with ‘May’” and Antonio having “never had sexual relations with her”. Although even admitting to that during wartime was a criminal offence. But was there more to this than just sisterly spite and bitter jealousy? Maybe not. In late April, May discovered that Kathleen was pregnant. Shortly afterwards, Cyril received a letter in Burma, from an unidentified person known only as ‘Joe’, who told him everything and could provide a list of possible fathers. But not only was Joe the nickname Mario gave to May, not only did she draw up a list for the police, but the letter written by ‘Joe’ was said to be in a similar handwriting to May’s. May would state, she believed that Antonio Frunzo, the Italian prisoner of war was the child’s father. But that can’t be true, as with the child conceived between the 21st and the 28th November – easy to recall dates as Kathleen said she was celebrating their wedding anniversary and Cyril’s birthday – she didn’t move to The Nunnery until the January of 1945, two months later, when she first met Antonio. That letter led to Kathleen being investigated by a welfare officer; having her children removed from her care, to her eviction from her lodgings and a paying job, and it ended her relationship with Antonio. Whether that was May, we shall never be certain, but a second letter was also sent by ‘Joe’. Dated the 28th of May 1945, the day Kathleen left for London, it was sent to the Commandant of the No45 prisoner of war camp at North Hinksey, it read; “Dear Sir. I feel it is my duty write to you as it concerns a British soldier, a wife and their five children. One of your men, Antionio Frunzo (also a married man) is going with a Mrs Patmore, who is using the name Miss Stanton. Will you please stop this man seeing this woman as her husband is away in Burma. I am sorry to trouble you, but it is only fair to her husband and children. Perhaps the man could be sent to another camp. I wish this letter to be treated in confidence, as they may not know she is married. Yours respectfully. A British Citizen”. And although sent anonymously, Mario would confirm it was sent by ‘Joe’, as it impacted on him too. That day, Kathleen moved into 12 Greenhill Road to anxiously await Cyril’s arrival… … only May’s bitterness towards her ‘immoral’ sister was far from finished. Arriving at St Pancras on Sunday 29th of July 1945, granted 28-day leave owing to “his wife’s conduct” – news which had caused serious ramifications for his brigade, as his fellow soldiers were now worried about the faithfulness of their wives - he sorted a place to stay, and headed off to see his children. On Tuesday 31st of July, he savoured his time with his children – Reggie aged 16, Christina 12, Terry 6, Noreen 4, and Kathleen aged just 3 - at the home of their Uncle Horace at Lower End Farm in Thrupp. Whilst he was there, Cyril said “I asked Mr & Mrs Jenning and my wife’s relations”, including her sister May “what had been going on while I was away”, and they told him everything. In fact, so helpful was May to this mild-mannered man whose heart had been ripped in two, that according to Cyril “off her, I got a list of names. She said the list was of the men my wife had been going with”, and with her also adding quite maliciously “when you see your wife, ask her to pick the one out of that list”. But even he would admit, “this might have been done for spite because my wife and her sister fight like hell”. During his stay, May said “he questioned me about his wife’s behaviour. I told him the whole truth about everything” – except of course about her own immorality - “and he could not eat nor sleep”. Torn by his tired head and his broken heart, with his children by his side and the list of her lovers in his hand, Cyril (who had often had concerns of his wife’s fidelity, having cheated on her husband with him) had begun to question which of the four children that he assumed to be his, were actually his. Born in the period when he was stationed overseas, Cyril looked at his youngest daughter, 3-year-old Kathleen, and when Horace had asked “do you think it’s his”, it was said that Cyril replied “they’re just like the bastard”. And having wiped his hand with his brow, he huffed and gruffly uttered ‘Jesus Christ’. Cyril had always been suspicious of who his daughter’s father was, as ever since the previous Christmas when he had read a letter written by Kathleen to Frank Tobin, their landlord at 63 Randolph Avenue, which was signed off with the words ‘love especially from YOUR little Noreen”, with ‘your’ underlined. Unable to trust his own eyes, his own wife and the words of her spiteful and bitter sister – who would state, “she always told me that she never intended living with her husband again” - as hard as it was, he knew that the only person he could trust was his own daughter, Christine who was only 12. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a child, being torn between their loyalty to their parents, and in later life, possibly blaming themselves for their own mother’s murder, but he had to know the truth. Asked, Christine said “on at least six or seven occasions I’ve seen ‘Bill’ and ‘Gordon’ sleeping with my mother”. With the evidence undeniable, Maisie, May’s daughter said “Cyril was a devoted husband and father. I never heard him threaten to harm his wife”, but while he was there, “he acted like a man demented. He could neither sit nor stand” and upon leaving the house to head to London, he said one of either two things; “If anything happens, do what you can for the kids”, or a phrase impossible to verify… …“I will do her in and I shall hang for it”. On Wednesday 1st August, “I wandered about all day trying to pluck up the courage”, not to kill her, just to see her and to talk to her, as he knew that just the sight of her swollen belly would upset him. The next day, stealing his resolve with a few thick hits of rum, Cyril headed to 12 Greenhill Road. Being a little inebriated, with the list of his wife’s lovers in his hand, and May’s words still ringing in his ears - “when you see your wife, ask her to pick the one out of that list” – he was in no state to be rational. At about 2pm, Ernest and ‘Marg’, two of the lodgers were told by Kathleen “It’s my husband. I’m taking him upstairs. He’s had something to drink”. They didn’t see him, but both entered her first-floor room. Being drunk and tearful, Cyril claimed “I lost my temper with the way she had let me down. We talked for a while, and I asked her whatever made her do it”, only she didn’t reply to his question. Maybe she didn’t want to, or maybe she didn’t have an answer? Thrusting the list into her hand, she would defend “I don’t know who most of these people are”. And although Cyril was not a violent man, he hit her. Later that evening, ‘Marg’ saw Kathleen in the shared kitchen, her lip cut and her mouth bruised. “She was upset, she said her husband had hit her because she had been carrying on with Yanks and Italians”. In her room, he had spat “I could have forgiven you if it had been anyone else, but not our enemy”, and as several months of pent-up anger bubbled, “how could you expect me to own a child that wasn’t mine?’ he fumed - ignoring the fact that Reggie wasn’t his and possibly their youngest too – and although she pleaded with him to stay, “I couldn’t. I couldn’t be introduced as the father of the child she was carrying, so I left. She shouted, ‘if you go now, you’ll never see me again’. But still I left”. It was not how either of them had wanted this reunion to go, but tensions were high. Kathleen was said to be frightened that Cyril would return, only he didn’t. He needed to cool off, and he knew that. So, that night, having bedded down in a Salvation Army Hostel, being drained and exhausted, he slept. Early the next morning, he hand-delivered a letter through Kathleen’s door. It read “Dear Kath. I would like to have my personal articles”, some of which she had pawned, “please be good enough to meet me a half of an hour from now outside the Odeon. Pat”. On the envelope was scrawled “I love you”. He was sober, it was a safe place, and having vented their anger, they both had a lot of talking to do. At 9:45am, they met as planned. With Cyril’s head downcast and sore, and Kathleen’s mouth swollen and bruised, Cyril said “when I saw her, I felt sorry because I knew she was in trouble. I didn’t ask her for my things. I took her out for the day. It brought back memories of when we used to go together”. They walked in the park, went to the theatre, and they ate a meal in a café where they talked. He still loved her, but along with knowing the truth, he needed to see her remorse so he could forgive her. “I asked her why she had gone as ‘single”, having used an alias of Miss Stanton rather than her married name of Mrs Patmore, but she didn’t reply. Asked what the Italian wanted to do, even though she said she hadn’t seen him in a month, “he waits for me every night… the arrangements were, I would have the child and his people would come over, take it and give me a lump sum”, as if they were buying it. “From her bag, she took out a lot of Italian money and tore it up in front of me”. Whether she was committed to their future, their marriage or their children, he wasn’t sure. Together they could make it work, he knew that, but whether she could remain faithful, that he didn’t know. After a pleasant walk in Paddington Green, Cyril walked her to the bus stop, “here, I’ll wait with you till it comes”. Thinking they had reached a resolution, she said “you’re coming home with me”, being a woman who believed she could get whatever she wanted from a man by using her body. Only, with a bump between them due within the week, being a reminder of her infidelity, he turned her down. “I said ‘no, that’s impossible. How can you expect me to come back and sleep with you, when you’ve been with another man”. Like many servicemen, the one thing which had kept him alive was to come home to be with his beloved wife, “for years I’ve waited for this moment to return, but I was robbed of everything’. And with that, saying their goodbyes, and on the bus he put his heavily pregnant wife. Their ruined relationship had a slim hope of surviving… …but it all rested on whether she loved him. On Saturday 4th August 1945 at 8:50am, having slept fitfully, Private Cyril Patmore entered Greenhill Road in Harlesden. The street was silent, as the residents were roused by the chirp of a dawn chorus, the clatter of a milk cart, and Frederick Keeling, a driver for Taxilux pulling-up to await his passenger. Dressed in his battledress as expected of a soldier on leave, in his pockets Cyril held the list, his wife’s letters and a six-inch knife purchased as a souvenir at an Indian bazaar. “I did not know what to do, but I wanted to see her. I loved her so much. I had every intention of overlooking everything again”. Inside, Kathleen heard him knock at the front door. According to ‘Marg’, “Kathleen said ‘I expect that’s my husband’, she trembled and said ‘I’m finished. I don’t know whether to open the door’”. She froze, as his unmistakable shadow loomed over the frosted door-pane just a few feet away, as she whispered “I’ll let him knock again. Perhaps he’ll put the letter through the door and go away”. Only he didn’t. Informed of her immorality by her family, her sister, herself, and even his own children, for their sake, he wanted to give their marriage a chance. What he needed was the woman he had married and the mother of his children to show him that she still loved him… but – fed-up with his questions and having rejected her - what he got was an “uncouth and mouthy” Kathleen who was unashamed of her actions. From the hallway, she led him into the empty kitchen at the rear of the ground floor, so with the lodgers in their rooms, no-one would hear the foul words she would unleash in his reddening face. To the medical officer of Brixton Prison, Cyril confessed “it was her casual and indifferent attitude… she said ‘you’ve got a bag of nerves asking questions’, I said ‘are you coming, because I’m leaving’” -thereby giving her an ultimatum that if they left together, right now, there was still a possibility of saving what little was left – but with her shouting ‘do what the hell you like’, “I know I was finished”. “I only meant to scar her, so that nobody else could have her but me”, Cyril would state, “she struggled and I stabbed her in the wrong place”. Although whether that was true, only he would know. Hearing a scream, and Kathleen shouting ‘Marg! Marg!’, the tenants raced down to see Cyril, the knife in his hand, his sleeves bloodstained as he tottered into the street, and knowing his life was over, having uttered to Frank “Get the Police, I’ve just done my missus”, moments later, Cyril was arrested. At 9:05am, Dr Crowe, the Police Divisional Surgeon entered the ground-floor kitchen, to see the walls splashed with fresh warm blood, it dripping off the surfaces where the human ooze was yet to congeal. Lying face down on the tiled floor, wearing a print frock and blue ankle socks, Kathleen was pale and lifeless, as owing to her injuries, she was unconscious within a one minute and dead within three. Bleeding profusely from a gaping wound to her throat, with no wounds to her hands nor any signs of a struggle, Cyril’s blade had severed the small muscles of the neck, slicing open her right carotid artery and the right jugular vein, penetrating the upper lobe of the right lung, and draining her heart of blood. Kathleen was dead, but as Dr Crowe rolled over her still-warm corpse - seeing she was heavily pregnant and carrying inside of her a 10lbs and 4 ounce baby, which was barely a week from its birth - through her sopping wet bloody dress, he saw its final kick, as starved of life, the baby died inside of her. (End). Tried at the Old Bailey on 26th September 1945 before Mr Justice Charles, the jury of ten men and two women were said to be in tears as the testimony unfolded. Taking pity on Cyril, owing to the immoral ways of his wife, a verdict of manslaughter was returned, and he was sentenced to five years in prison. With Mr Justice Charles incensed at the jury’s decision, he stated “it would be the law of the jungle if a man finding his wife had been unfaithful once or even twenty times, was entitled to murder her and then say ‘but look at the provocation I have received’. But if manslaughter it be, and I am bound by the jury’s verdict… your counsel has said you were a sorely tried man. If you had not been so sorely tried, I should have been bound to give you a very very heavy sentence” – that sentence being death. As a key witnesses in the trial, May – who it was never proven was the anonymous writer of the letters penned by someone known only as ‘Joe’ - spoke openly of her sister’s ‘wholesale immorality’, which not only lessened her killer’s sentence, but also her spiteful words had condemned Kathleen to death. Serving his time at Wormwood Scrubs, throughout his prison term, Cyril’s concern was “the welfare of my children”, and not trusting his wife’s family, as far as we know, they were placed into care. Upon his release, Cyril Patmore went on to live a good life, he earned a living as a plumber, he remarried, he remained close to his children, and outliving his new spouse, he died in Southwark in 1999… …never fully knowing the truth about the ‘immoral’ Mrs Patmore. 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. 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12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden
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 TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR:
On Saturday 4th August 1945, Private Cyril Patmore knocked on the door of 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died.
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THE LOCATION
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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 Greenhill Road in Harlesden, NW10; three roads west of Peter Buckingham’s last gasp, a short walk from the First Date Killer’s callous joyride, two streets east of Dennis Nilsen’s first day as a copper, and half mile from the body parts nobody claimed - coming soon to Murder Mile. As a regular residential street, Greenhill Road consists of two-storey semi-detached red-brick houses, a few trees doted for greenery, and two lines of contractor’s vans parked up outside of (what is often) the worst adverts for their skill; with a builder’s brickwork as smashed as a boxer’s smile, a plumber’s drain as leaky as a pensioner’s plonker and any award-winning driveway as lumpy as a teenager’s face. Only what sets 12 Greenhill Road apart from the others is not how it looks, but what happened within. On the morning of Saturday 4th August 1945, having travelled five and a half thousand miles from war-torn Burma, Private Cyril Patmore was here to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, as his ‘immoral’ wife had been unfaithful while he was fighting for his country, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died. The Patmore’s tale was as familiar as it was tragic, but with two sides to every story, this part was his. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 224: The ‘Immoral’ Mrs Patmore – Part One. The Second World War was a difficult time for many couples, as being ripped apart for a cause which wasn’t their doing, unsure if they would be together once again, and - occasionally being in need of a kiss, a cuddle or a night’s worth of affection - their morals drifted in a moment of regrettable passion… …but in Kathleen’s case, she loved to be loved whether she was married to the man, or not. Kathleen Marjorie Jenning was born in 1907 in the Oxfordshire village of Wallingford, as one of eleven children to Sarah, a housewife and William, a quarryman. With just six being blood-relatives as her mother had remarried, with barely a year between each child and her father dying young, struggling to feed them all, many of the older siblings had fled the chaos of this fractious squabbling brood. Therefore, it’s no surprise that as one of the youngest, Kathleen was desperate to feel loved. Raised by her widowed mother in Elmdon, Northamptonshire, Kathleen was far from the demure ideal of a 1920s teenage girl, as – shockingly – she drank alcohol, smoked cigarettes, regularly got into spats, and with her mood said to be “foul” and “uncouth”, she was later described as “coarse and mouthy”. As a scrapper, who liked the affections of boys and often fought bitterly with May, her sister nine years her senior, their spiteful childish rivalry would last for the rest of their lives. But as with many of the most impoverished of families forced together, as apart they had nothing – when they needed each other for the sake of survival, these sisters were always there – only not out of love, but necessity. In 1928, aged 21, Kathleen married Alfred Shaw, although how well this family regarded this union is uncertain as her brother Horace said he thought her husband’s name was Wildred. And although, the following year, Kathleen gave birth to a son who she named Reginald, before he was even three years old, she had already began looking elsewhere for love, and her eyes had rested on a man called Cyril. Born in Malta, although not Maltese, Cyril Patmore was the only child of Arthur, an actor, and May, a housewife. With no siblings and very few relations, when he met Kathleen – owing to his mother dying when he was only six, and losing his father aged nineteen – he had lost a lot and longed to be loved. In 1932, Cyril and Kathleen met while he was working as a waiter at the Hind Hotel in Wellingborough. She was local, married, a mother and he knew that, but still - within the month - they had eloped. So, is it so odd that he wouldn’t expect a woman who had cheated on her husband, to later cheat on him? Maybe he had? And having fled, with Cyril raising Reginald (another man’s son) as his own, they lived at Windmill Cottages in Blisworth, and Cyril was cited in the divorce paper between Katheen & Alfred. On 27th November 1937, Kathleen & Cyril married at Oxford Registry Office. Only it didn’t bode well, as on their marriage certificate she lied, stating she was a widow when Alfred was alive. But across their eight-year marriage, they had five children: Christine in 1933 (before the divorce), Terry in 1939, Noreen in 1941 and their youngest Kathleen in 1942, as well as Reginald to Kathleen’s ex-husband. In 1938, seeking work, they moved into a top floor flat owned by Beatrice Martin at 436 Edgware Road in London, who said “they appeared to be reasonably happy”, and although she wasn’t fond of Kathleen, “Cyril was a very decent chap” and a loyal father who took pride in his children’s appearance. And although fractious, their marriage could have survived… …but with the looming war coming to London, soon they’d be split apart. Barely five-foot-tall, stocky and sturdily built, whilst a waiter in London, Cyril had been an ARP warden watching the skies for bombers, and although he didn’t meet the height requirements, short of good men, in December 1940, he was conscripted as a Private in the 1st Battalion of the Royal Scots Fusiliers. As a shock to the system, Cyril went from a wet and cold Britain to a hot and steamy Burma, fighting as part of the 29th Independent Infantry Brigade in its dense and dangerous jungle, battling through a hideous onslaught of bullets and blood, but also rats, snakes, foot rot, man traps and dysentery. In 1942, he survived the bloody Battle of Madagascar and was seconded to the 36th Infantry in India. Like many servicemen forced to fight, all he ever thought of was his wife and children; their faces lost in the midst of his mind and their voices all but a distant memory, as the war drove them further apart. Being more than five thousand miles from home, having missed the birth of Noreen and their youngest Kathleen, his return would always be a special moment for Cyril, or at least that’s what he thought. According to May, Kathleen’s older sister “Cyril joined the Army after a quarrel with his wife”. Whether this was true, we shall never know, but it was clear that their marriage and love-life was struggling. In December 1941, as mother to then four children, Kathleen moved into a larger flat at 63a Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale, as owned by Frank Tobin, who stated “they were happy, he was a good husband. When he got leave, he came home” although “she spoke of being fed up when he was away”. While he was serving overseas, Frank remained a good friend to Cyril, a much-needed man-about-the house to Kathleen, and a friendly uncle figure to her children especially when baby Kathleen was born. And although he was ‘just a friend’, it was suspected that Frank was father to her youngest child. If he wasn’t, why did he send Kathleen £2 every week… …out of kindness, or a moral duty? As if this fractured family hadn’t suffered enough, owing to the endless onslaught of blitz bombs which illuminated this smouldering city with a choking cloud of raging red flames and deathly black smoke - as part of Operation Pied Piper – her five children were evacuated to the safety of the countryside in 1942, but owing to the V1 rockets which pummeled the West End, Kathleen followed in May 1944. Moved 60 miles west of London to the tiny village of Farmoor, it was as remote as you could get, being just a few farmhouses on the bank of the White Horse reservoir, a passing canal and a woody outcrop. With the city burning far on the horizon, but no reason for bombs to drop here, Kathleen and her kids moved in with her older sister May at Woodend Cottages, along with May’s daughters Cissie & Maisie, as well as the lodgers; three truck-drivers for Hudson & Hope haulage, called Gordon, Percy and Bill. For Kathleen, Farmoor was a place where this lonely lady could find the love she was longing, but as a space where strangers don’t go unnoticed, even the slightest whisper of immorality carried far. For May, Kathleen’s goings-on would risk the rented home she lived in with her husband and children, as (just three weeks in) her lodgers were getting a little more than bed and breakfast from Kathleen. May would say: “I saw Kathleen on numerous occasions in a field”, believed to be Bean Wood, “having intercourse with the lorry driver named Gordon. She also carried on with the other driver called Bill. I spoke to her several times about her conduct, and she has told me to mind my own business”. And as the gossip spread like wildfire, Kathleen quickly gained a bad reputation among those who would condemn her and “in addition, she was friendly with other men from the Forces stationed nearby”. At the Black Horse pub in Botley, the landlord said “when it came to closing time, she started singing, and when I asked her to leave, she told me to stick my pub up my arse… I have seen her drinking on many occasions with different men, mostly soldiers. She was a most horrible type of woman”. She had been there barely a month, and as a married mother of five children, whose faithful husband was risking his life for King and Country, she had no shame in her actions, even around her own family. When interviewed, 12-year-old Christine told the Police about when she was frightened by the distant bombings she would share her mother’s bed, and how she was not the only one who did: “sometime during the night, the three lorry drivers came to my mother’s room. One of them, Bill, got into bed with my mother and slept with her. The other two who had their own beddings, slept on the floor”, and in the same room as this young child, “I saw him sleep with my mother on six or seven times”. “When they began to suspect that I knew, my bed was put back into the attic”. And being out of sight and out of mind, that should have shamed her to stop, only it didn’t. When the landlord found out, Kathleen, along with May and her kids were kicked out of Woodend Cottages, and described as “living in unfit conditions”, Kathleen’s children were sent to be looked after by her brother Horace in Thrupp. But by that point, the catalyst for Kathleen’s murder had already begun… In a difficult letter to Cyril she wrote “you asked me why I didn’t tell you before, well shame, remorse, frightened, call it what you like, but each time I write to tell you about it I hadn’t the nerve… the pity is I was celebrating your birthday and our wedding day all in one”, suggesting that she had sex with an unnamed man between the 21st and the 27th of November 1944, “and having four miles to walk home, well evidently I didn’t make it… I didn’t go into it cold sober otherwise it wouldn’t have happened…”. …and being in Burma at the time of its conception, everyone knew that Cyril was not the father. Having said she felt “shame” and “remorse”, having been evicted and with her kids all being removed from her care, that should have shocked her into being decent, only it did not stop her immoral ways. Having found a place to stay and a spot of work on the farm of Gordon Blake in Eynsham, Oxfordshire, ironically called The Nunnery, although it had long since quit being a place of morality and chastity, a sense of unpatriotic filth would descend over this farm owing to Kathleen and her sexual appetite. Based at No45 Camp at North Hinksey, two Italian prisoners of war - Antonio Frunzo & Mario Saviello – worked the land to feed the British people as part of their punishment, but while the Allies (like Cyril, her loving and loyal husband) were risking their lives to fight the Fascists, she was busy fucking them. Farmer Blake would state “for four months she practically lived with four Italian prisoners of war”, and given her notice to leave in May 1945, he’d say “I desired her to leave the farm as soon as possible”. Kathleen’s life was a mess which was all her own doing. Although a sweet and mild-mannered man, she worried what he might say or do upon hearing that – having left his wife in charge of their life – she had been evicted twice, their five children were in care, and she was pregnant by another man. She was terrified of telling him what she had done… …but whispers can carry far, across land, sea and air, all the way to Burma. In April 1945, Cyril received an anonymous letter from someone in England called ‘Joe’. Arriving by air-draft and with the original destroyed, it told him she was pregnant by an Italian prisoner of war. Rightfully, he was angry, but – foremost, as a loving father – he contacted the ‘Soldier’s, Sailor’s and Airman’s Society’ and had a welfare officer check on his children, who were doing well with their uncle. Penning several letters, he asked Kathleen about the children, in which she replied: “my darling Pat”, being his nickname, “I was surprised you wrote to SSAFA. Rest assured they are in excellent health and going to school. Everything in England is looking lovely now and I’m sure you will be glad to get home. Mrs Martin is making the rest of the silk up for Kitty & Noreen’s dresses, you will be proud” and heartlessly, “Pat, you will have a few surprises all round. All my love for now. Yours as always. Kath”. With no mention of her infidelity or the pregnancy, when questioned, she’d reply… “My darling. …one thing I know is that you loved me, otherwise you wouldn’t have been so hurt… God knows I couldn’t go on without you… but should a moment of madness bring me a lifetime of sadness… I didn’t mean to do it, believe me sweetheart, and don’t start a divorce I just couldn’t stand that. I feel too ashamed for you to see me in this condition, yet how I wish I could see you to talk to you”, and as if to pre-empt her fate, she would chillingly write “it wouldn’t matter what you did to me. Yours Kath”. By May 1945, with Hitler dead and the war essentially over, a heavily pregnant Kathleen had moved back to the charred remains of London, with her children still living in Thrupp with their uncle Horace. On the 28th of May, 39-year-old Kathleen Patmore moved into a small furnished first-floor room at 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden, a two-storey semi-detached house with eight rooms for seven lodgers and a shared kitchen. Owned by Edward Treeves, an undertaker, along with Rebecca Ellie, a 22-year-old married woman known as ‘Marg’ who had become a new friend to Kathleen, they all liked her. Kathleen had changed. Being no longer a drunk, foul-mouthed or shagging strange men, as the tenants would testify, she was just a pregnant woman awaiting the arrival of her husband serving overseas. In their eyes, Kathleen was quiet and kind, as for them she made meals and mended clothes, and in reference to the bulging bump in her belly, she would joke “he’ll be walking in any day. I don’t know what he’ll do”, as even he didn’t know what he would do, “but he has threatened to strangle me”. In further letters, Kathleen spoke of her fears, “I’m wanting to see you, but I don’t think I will have the nerve to face you, you see you have always been a decent man and looked after me, how it hurts to know I have let you down. Oh darling, will I ever be happy again, not without you of that I am certain”. And in another, she spoke of her hope. “my greatest wish is to have my children with me, God knows I miss them… I suppose you will tell me it is my job to look after them, it is, but now I can’t, that’s where my heartbreak comes, apart from you and how I’ve let you down, the innocent are suffering for my mistakes. Don’t give this address to anyone, I’ve finished with the lot… yours as always, Kath”. With that last letter written one month before her murder, Kathleen’s spirits were buoyed by a reply dated Sunday 27th June, in which Cyril wrote: “Hullo dear… however I will take it for granted that you do love me in your in your kind of way, otherwise you wouldn’t give me such a lovely lot of children, my love for you is without a doubt, I haven’t come up to what a husband should be and perhaps it was because I was young and inexperienced, however for all the ups and downs, we had some good times and plenty of laughs and I am looking forward to all those days again, especially our little thrills when you used to faint, it’s going to be hard at first, however with your help we should be able to get a nice little home together and live happy ever after. Oh roll on the day when I can straighten things out a bit and settle down to the second chapter of married life. Love to all, yours always, Pat”. Upon his arrest, some suggested that her murder was premeditated. But with the weapon, a clasp knife purchased at an Indian bazaar months before he knew she had been cheating - that aside – his letters don’t sound like an angry vengeful husband hellbent on slicing open his cheating wife’s throat. If anything, having spoke of his hope, a wife, his kids and a home, being upset but not volatile, he knew that if he killed her, and was convicted, his children would have a worse life than if she had lived. So, although her murder was fated… …it wasn’t why he had come back. Granted 28 days of compassionate leave from his new posting in India, having travelled five and a half thousand miles to London, on the morning of Sunday 29th of July 1945, Private Cyril Patmore arrived at St Pancras station. Dressed in his battle fatigues and with a knapsack on his back, although in his possessions he had the knife he would take her life, he didn’t rush off to Harlesden in a crazed frenzy. Instead, seeking a trusted friend’s advice, he had a cup of tea with Frank Tobin, their former landlord at 63 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale. In need of accommodation, he visited Beatrice Martin, their other landlady at 436 Edgware Road who gave him a bed for the night, and having said of Kathleen “she has done a terrible thing to me”, he would state “she must be punishing me for this”, as if he was blaming himself for being sent overseas to fight for his country, even though the choice wasn’t his. Appearing “dejected and ill”, on Tuesday 31st July, he travelled to Lower End Farm in Thrupp, to see his children and to be reassured that their welfare was good in the hands of their Uncle Horace, and it was. Staying the night, he was happy that they were doing well, and seeing May who relayed the whole sorry tale of Kathleen’s infidelity, they were heartbroken at the way his wife had treated him. He was tired and upset, but there was no anger or rage in the man who would murder her. (End). On Saturday 4th August 1945, just shy of 9am, Cyril went to 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to see his wife. Being barely a week from giving birth, the day before, they had spent a few hours together. She apologised and explained, he spoke of how he had wished he hadn’t been away, how he had saved up to take them on a holiday, and – with their time together going as well as can be expected - they went to the theatre to watch a show, they had a nice meal, he saw her onto the bus to take her home, and although she had invited him back – hoping that he would stay over – politely he had declined. It wasn’t easy, no-one had expected it would be, but it didn’t feel like a precursor to a murder. “I explained to her that she was the only woman in my life” and although his heart was broken, given time, it could be repaired. But that morning, pushed to his limit, this quiet man would slit her throat. In a statement to the police, with her blood still on his hands, Cyril said “I live for my children and my wife. I hope they will be well looked after. They’ve had a rough time since I’ve been away”. Arriving in London, his manner mild and his thoughts far from murder, what plagued the investigation was what had whipped him into such a frenzy that it had driven him to kill the woman he still loved. The sex aside, it had all began with a letter from someone in England who was known only as ‘Joe’, and as a whisper of gossip which had travelled on the breeze, those words had led to Kathleen’s death. But who would be so spiteful, as to risk her life, by telling him about his ‘immoral’ wife? The ‘Immoral’ Mrs Patmore 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.
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.
Westminster Bridge, where Dorothy lost her life
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 TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE:
On Monday 27th of August 1923 at 12:45am, 18-month-old Dorothy Kaslofski drowned in the river Thames having been thrown from Westminster Bridge. Only she didn’t fall, she was thrown by her mother in an act of mercy, having been given some devastating news by a doctor that her daughter’s life wouldn’t be worth living. But was he wrong, had she misheard, or did was this a lie?
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THE LOCATION
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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 Westminster Bridge, SW1; three streets west of the assassination of Sir Michael O’Dwyer, four streets east of Thomas Meaney being mistaken for a tailor’s dummy, four streets west of the odd excuse Martha Browning used to murder her elderly bed mate, and one street north of the cruel ship’s Captain who couldn’t fathom why he was going blind - coming soon to Murder Mile. Spanning the River Thames from Waterloo to Big Ben, Westminster bridge is an 820 foot long, 85 foot wide, seven arch cast iron structure completed in 1862. Supposedly, painted green to match the seats our politician’s bone-idles bums are perched on at the House of Commons, if that’s true, I’d expect to see the bridge fiddling its expenses, banging rent-boys, hoofing blow, sexing up WMD dossiers, and voting to pump 50 million tonnes of raw shit into our waters, having first sold their river-front mansion. Seen as the epitome of calmness, the River Thames belies its dangerous side, as under its vast expanse of brown silt (in which visibility is zero), sits a muddy bed of thick sludge (impossible to wade through) upon a 9-mile-an-hour tide with deep undercurrents which can drag the strongest swimmer under. With a dead body recovered from the River Thames roughly every six days, some die by suicide, some fall by accident, and some lives are lost as a good Samaritan dives in to save those from their deaths. On Monday 27th August 1923 at 12:45am, 18-month-old Dorothy Kaslofski became the latest casualty to this treacherous water. Only she didn’t fall, she was thrown by her mother in an act of mercy, having been given some devastating news by a doctor that her daughter’s life wouldn’t be worth living. But was he wrong, had she misheard, or did was this a lie? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 223: “A Cripple for Life”. (heavy river sounds) In court, Mr Justice Swift would ask the medical expert: “have you heard anything in the evidence inconsistent with a sane strong-minded woman, passionately fond of her baby, taking its life because she was convinced it was the best thing for the baby?”, Dr Morton replied “that would be a very uncommon view for a mother to take”, and although the judge heartily agreed, “but unfortunately, we know of cases where people think the best way to benefit a child is to destroy it”. Ada was one such woman, but what would drive a mother to do the unthinkable? Ada Elizabeth Street was an ordinary girl born on the 12th of February 1897 amidst the bustling hubbub of King’s Cross. As a working-class family squeezed into a tumbledown two-room dwelling like over-ripe fruit in grocer’s bin, the lives of this family of eleven were not without poverty or tragedy. Of her surviving three brothers and five sisters to Ada Attaway, her mother and her father Thomas, a painter, Ada began life as one of twin sisters. As the mirror image of the other, dressed in matching dresses and never far from each other’s side, the first tragedy to strike took that half of her young life, as barely into her infancy, although she had no history of epilepsy, her twin sister died of convulsions. Whether Ada witnessed this in her crib - the rolled terrified whites in her sister’s eyes, the forming froth around her rictus grin, and her tiny body twitching in a fevered shake as her colour drained from a peachy pink to a pale white with deathly tinges of blue - is uncertain, but as the first great grief to grip her, a worry which may have plagued her for her short sad life could have been if it was hereditary. It’s no surprise, living her life as half-of-the-person she once was, that many described Ada as “a happy sort of girl, but erratic, excitable and troubled”, especially as the family tragedies continued. Aged 16, her young father died of a heart attack. As was expected, her mother remarried, and although William Street, a harness maker was a good provider for the family, like Thomas, he died of an aneurism. And as if poverty and grief wasn’t enough to burden this family, World War One brought terror to London. From this broken little home at 34 Litcham Street in Kentish Town, death rained down as – unlike the ceaseless cacophony of screaming bombers and doodlebugs which draped London’s skies in a choking cloud of fiery reds and doom-ladened blacks – Germany’s fledgling air-force unleashed this first blitz on this city by airship, as a fleet of monstrous balloons drifted silently, looming like the Reaper himself. Life was hard for Ada, as it was for many who were sparely educated and barely skilled. And as a short dumpy girl, with freckled cheeks, a vague grin and a brown bob as ragged as a fox dragged backwards out of a bush, she hadn’t got the benefits that her more attractive contemporaries would unfairly get. When she could, she earned a living as a domestic servant for middle-class women, aged 19 she was imprisoned for 21 days for stealing blankets, and being prone to making rash decisions as too often her emotions fuelled her depression, she was mostly teetotal, as drink would cloud her judgement. Ever since she could remember, Ada’s life had been plagued by loss and tragedy. What she wanted was a happy marriage and a healthy child… …but – spurned by fate - it was not to be. On the 28th of April 1920, Ada Street married Alexander Kaslofski known as ‘Alec’, a Jewish cabinet maker who was born and raised in Hoxton to a German mother and a Russian father. Living with his mother at 13 Kent Street, for the first two years they lived happily enough, but with Ada having told an odious lie from the start (which no-one ever spoke of), soon enough, their marriage unravelled. Conceived on their wedding night, although they were both thrilled at the impending arrival of a pink bundle of joy, five months into her pregnancy, Ada miscarried, bled copiously and almost lost her life. Many couples bounce back from such a painful tragedy, but for Alec & Ada, with the seeds of mistrust having been sown so early into their relationship, it didn’t make them stronger, but more distant. Around this time, a frantic and depressed Ada wrote her mother a letter, in which she said that “Alec was treating her badly… he had knocked her about many times… he denied her money to eat or live…” and that seeing no way out of her dire and desperate situation, “she said he wanted to drown herself”. But when her mother came to her door, although denied access by Alec’s mother who disliked her, “I didn’t see any bruises. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t been badly treated. I never saw anything in her husband to complain of… she complained of being hungry but there was always food in the house”. Talking to Alec, she heard that Ada had pawned his suit and some blankets to make money for herself, and that when she had told her mother that “she had got consumption and that a doctor had told her she’d only got three months left to live”, she couldn’t find any evidence to back any of it up. But was this a symptom of Ada’s depression, her grief at losing the baby, or was she making it up for attention? In December 1921, Alec & Ada moved into 105 Cambridge Street in Westminster, a small room in a three-storey dwelling, hoping that a fresh start would do them good, as again, Ada was pregnant. The last few months had been an anxious time, as every time her stomach buckled with cramps, Ada’s nerves frayed at the thought of another baby ending in a miscarriage. Only this time, with fate (for once) smiling on her, on 2nd February 1922, a baby girl was born, who she named after her dead sister. A little under-weight but blessed with a healthy pinkish hue, dark hair like her mum, and all her fingers and toes, Dorothy Catherine Kaslofski was a happy and healthy baby, who – all the neighbours in the street who once loved sleeping would agree - had oodles of energy and a very strong set of lungs. It should have been the epitome of perfection, as Ada had everything she had ever wanted… …but with the relationship in tatters, the stresses of a baby, only made it worse. On the 7th of June 1922, four months after Dorothy’s birth, Alec & Ada separated. With both of them moving back in with their parents, Ada obtained a Separation Order and although Alec was required to pay maintenance of £1 per week for the upkeep of his family, Ada’s mother looked after the child. Whether it was through need or neglect, Ada restarted her job as a parlour maid, first to Mrs Hogg at 22 Radington Road, Hampstead, and later to Mrs Lillian Richardson at 45 Haverstock Hill in Chalk Farm. Working long hours for little pay, she saw very little of Dorothy across the next few months, so when she had to, Mrs Richardson let her bring the baby to work. But this was as infrequent as it was brief, as – more often than not – if Ada wasn’t off sick, it was clear from her demeanour that she was unwell. Elsie Botting, a butcher’s girl who made deliveries to Ada’s work would state “she told me her husband was an awful villain, he treated her badly and that she had left him”. Although in truth, he had left her, so no-one really knew whether he was a nasty piece-of-work, or she was fond of spinning stories. Her employer, Lillian would state “once or twice, when she had received a letter from him, she said she would drown herself and the baby in the river, but I laughed and did not think much about it”. And who would? As a habitual liar, who had told tales to her husband, her mother, her closest friend and also her employer, even the doctors couldn’t tell if Ada was sick, struggling or just flat-out lying, Later examined by Dr Morton, the medical officer of Holloway Prison “she admitted she was depressed and dazed…”, that over the last few months “she’d had some very severe headaches, suffered from insomnia, and had a feeling at the back of her head which she described as ‘the dripping of water’... the sound of running water in her ears and unrecognisable voices telling her to ‘finish it off’.” Gripped by paranoia, anxiety and depression, with Ada separated from her husband, seeing her child very little and with the unresolved grief of a dead father, a dead twin and her first child also dead, how much of that statement she gave - after the murder - to Dr Morton is true, only Ada would know? Either way, it can’t have been easy, as plagued by the worry of hereditary illness… …when Dorothy got sick, her anxieties flooded back. On 12th March 1923, finding the funds himself, Alec’s mother took Dorothy to see Dr Lennox Broster, a clinician at The Children’s Hospital in Hackney. Examined, the 11-month old child wasn’t in any pain and she was eating and sleeping well, but when she raised her arms, “it was clear she had a weakness down the left side of the body, which I thought was due to some injury during birth”, Dr Broster would state, “I had the child x-rayed”, which ruled out anything sinister, “and I ordered her to wear a splint”. Over the next five months Dorothy was examined, and as Alec confirmed “she seemed to improve”. Only, the relationship between Ada and Alec did not. As their resentments simmered, things came to a head when Alec was unable to keep up the payments as his work had dried up, and – under Ada’s care - the weakness in Dorothy’s left arm hadn’t got better, but worse. As the best solution to a bad situation, Ada had her daughter handed over to Alec’s mother, with Ada calling by “a day a week, often Tuesdays and alternate Sundays” to kiss and cuddle her baby. For the next few months, although they lived apart, the sparks often flew between this waring couple, as their child was used as a rope in an emotional tug-of-war, between the father who wanted to see his child well and the mother who wanted to see her child more. With trust broken, lies spilled, anger seething and tempers erupting, often the child cried, and on occasions, the police were called. With Ada given permission by her employer (Lillian Richardson) to bring her child to work with her, as she had no child-care, on Monday 13th August, Alec paid her a visit at 45 Haverstock Hill in Chalk Farm. He would later admit it was a stupid thing to do, as he was angry, upset and he wasn’t thinking straight. As their hurtful words spawned into abusive curses and the baby screamed, Ada would state “he struck me three times in the chest. Mrs Richardson tried to get him out of the house, he pushed her away”. Being witnessed by a neighbour, Alec confessed “I lost my temper with my wife for telling me a lie”, what it was we don’t know, “I pushed her once or twice and Mrs Richardson threatened to shoot me”. With no-one hurt, it only seemed like a little fight… …but that minor spat had big ramifications for Alec, Ada and Dorothy. Two days later, backed up by Mrs Richardson, “I wrote to my husband”, Ada said “and told him I was going to have the baby. On Wednesday 15th August, I fetched her, a policeman with me, as I thought my husband might assault me. My husband was there. He said he was sorry the baby was going”. With the cogs of law churning, Alec was summoned to Old Street Police Court for Ada’s assault. Having been charged, the magistrate varied the Separation Order, Ada was given full custody of her child, and as the toddler tottered away from 13 Kent Street, that was the last time that Alec saw his daughter. In the eyes of the court, Alec was a violent man unfit to be a parent, and yet Ada was not a well woman. Just days before, still plagued by anxiety and depression, she told her mother “suppose I done myself in mum?”. Only her mother dismissed it, “don’t talk foolish” as Ada had always been a habitual liar. But by the end of the week… …Dorothy would be dead. On Friday 24th August, Ada took Dorothy to The Children’s Hospital. Dr Lennox Broster stated “I believe that was the first time I had seen the mother”, so although she had been told everything the doctor had already said by her mother and Alec’s mother, he was obliged to go through it all again with Ada. “The child was unable to raise the left arm above the shoulders and there was some weakness in the left leg. I had the shoulders x-rayed and there was an ill-defined upper paralysis for which I ordered a splint to be worn. I told her it was probably a birth injury and that it would take time to get quite well”. As a fit and healthy toddler, Dorothy was still growing, and like many children with a minor disability, they had caught it early enough and were able to do something about it. But sometimes, in moments of crisis, we don’t always hear everything what we should, and how we interpret those words is key. Dr Broster stated in court “I told the mother that the injury was probably due to birth-paralysis. I did not use the words infantile paralysis”, a much more serious disability, of which there is little recovery. Only Ada would claim “I was told by the doctor that she had infantile paralysis. This distressed me, as several people told me there was no cure”. And having cried her eyes out, as she told her loved-one’s that Dorothy had a “tubercular spine” and was likely to “be a cripple for life” - maybe with the memory of those she had lost before still haunting her – “it made me decide to destroy myself and the baby”. Nobody believed her story… …as nobody ever had. Sunday 26th August began like any other. Having dressed Dorothy in a pink woollen coat and hat, Ada fed the little tot, popped her in a pram, and they both headed off to Regent’s Park to feed the ducks. To anyone watching that day, Ada looked like any other woman doing her duties as a loving mother. But underneath, she was a swirling torrent of depression, as – according to Ada – inside her tired brain, the relentless dripping of water flooded her mind, and a voice slowly uttered ‘finish it, finish it off’. That day, she quit her job, she handed her mother the keys to her trunk, she drank a whiskey (which was strange, as she had always been teetotal), and she wrote several letters to her loved one’s. To her mother: “This is just a goodbye forever. I hope by the time you receive this my baby and I are dead. I cannot face any more, it broke me up when I was told that baby is cripple. So goodbye to all. From Ada & Baby”, in which she left 10 shillings to pay her debts and asked for her clothes to be sold. To her friend, Mrs Gilbert: “I thank you with all my heart for the pleasant times you have given me, but I could go through no more, so have taken baby with me where we shall know no more pain”. And to her husband, Alec, she enclosed their marriage certificate, daughter’s birth certificate and their separation papers, as well as a letter, as grammatically terrible as it was chillingly cold. It read “I shall never hear from you again, and you will never see Dorothy alive. I can never see my child grow up a cripple… I shall never know, but the day will come when deep in your heart you will be sorry! I have kiss Dorothy for you. I shall never be taunted by you anymore. So goodbye. From Dorothy’s mother”. But by the time he had received the letter, it was too late. (voice ‘‘finish it, finish it off’) Having caught the omnibus to Victoria Embankment, Ada was seen pacing along the north side of the Thames, her baby in her arms. Spotted at 12:35am by two men - John Puffer and Albert Arch – they would state “she looked at us… she was walking quickly and seemed worried… so we followed her”. At that time of night, Westminster bridge was deathly quiet and ominously dark, as a still wind howled through the cold steel structure. With no buses, no boats, no cars and very few people, Ada was little more than a shadowy spectre amid the dull yellow haze of several streetlights and the face of Big Ben. As she cradled her baby on the first parapet, forty feet below, this dark and dangerous river ran. On top, its flat brown expanse belied a fast greedy rapid of swallowing currents, a thick sludge which no-one could wade through, and – being high-tide – it sped West, faster than many could swim or run. (Sounds of the river waters, and the voices increasing - ‘finish it, finish it off’, ‘drown her’). Albert would state “…when we got to 20 yards from her, she turned and threw the baby into the river”. Sprinting fast as the baby vanished under the bridge and into the murky darkness beyond, as they got close, “she attempted to get over the parapet. She had got over with the exception of one leg. I and my friend got hold of her, pulled her back and we held onto her, and a pal sent for a Police Constable”. When apprehended, Ada was said to be “quite calm”. When asked why she had done it, she said “the doctor has given up all hopes of my baby, it is a cripple”. At one point, she did ask the PC to save it, but with the baby gone, swept away and submerged into the silty blackness of the River Thames… … only a fool with a death-wish would even try to save her. Detained at Cannon Row police station, Ada was charged with the murder of 18-month-old Dorothy Catherine Kaslofski and the attempted suicide of herself. She was cautioned and replied “I did what I did as it was for the best, and I wanted to go with her. I couldn’t see my child grow up a cripple”. (end) Giving a full statement of her actions, her demeanour was described as cold and unemotional, with her later stating “I am not a bit sorry, because it is for the best. I should have been at the bottom of the river with my baby, if those men had not got me. I am prepared for the penalty”. And then asking, “has my baby been found?”, and hearing that it hadn’t, she replied “I wonder where she has got to?” Five days later, the body washed up on the foreshore by Barnes Bridge, seven miles west, and it was taken to Mortlake Mortuary. Examined by Dr Parry, “the body was well-nourished with no marks of violence… death was by asphyxia from drowning…” and as for her disability “there was no disease in the arm or elbow… most likely, an irritation in the spinal cord had caused this clenching of the hand”. Declared sane, on 19th October 1923, Ada was sentenced to death at the Old Bailey. But later proven to be insane at the time of the murder, although without an ounce of sympathy, Mr Justice Swift had declared “one must look with horror on any claim of a parent to take a child’s life”, the jury were sympathetic to her plea, as was the Home Secretary who later commuted her sentence to life in prison. After two years as an in-patient at Broadmoor Criminal Asylum, Ada was released on 28th September 1925, and having served her time, she returned to her family, and the rest of her fate is unknown. 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. |
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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