Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #153: GEC and the Fourth Floor Girls (The Mansion House Fire)24/11/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE:
Today’s episode is about a fire in an old building fitted with modern innovations to ensure its workers safety, and although everyone should have survived, it was the old-fashioned attitude towards one particular group of workers, which led to ten unnecessary deaths.
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a fire in an old building fitted with modern innovations to ensure its workers safety, and although everyone should have survived, it was the old-fashioned attitude towards one particular group of workers, which led to ten unnecessary deaths. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 153: GEC and the Fourth Floor Girls. Today I’m standing on Queen Victoria Street by St Paul’s Cathedral; the furthest east we’ve been so far, being two streets north-east of the hanging of God’s banker Roberto Calvi, but very little else. Situated by Mansion House tube, sits the busy intersection between Cannon Street and Queen Victoria Street. It’s a dull vague space with little to see, so you’re more likely to pass through it, than to stop. Like most junctions, it is dotted with every conceivable safety measure to ensure you’re less likely to get hurt having not paid a basic level of attention for doing something as simple as walking. Therefore, there’s signs which say stop, go, slow, no-stop, no-go, no-slow, exit, entry, one-way, no-way and naff off. There’s hand-rails to hold, foot prints to follow, bollards at a good height to rest your bollocks on, and even a flashing green man to show you when to walk and (for the real thickies) how to walk. Often, this over-cautious molly-coddling by the Health & Safety Executive does feel like we’re one step away from every pedestrian being fitted with an inbuilt system which issues a cacophony of warnings each second of our lives; like ‘look left’, ‘mind the car’, ‘avoid poop’, ‘oh-oh charity mugger’, ‘BO ahead, limit breathing’, ‘cake is a no-no fatty’, ‘warning potentially unnecessary purchase ahead’, and for a certain niche subset of man-servants ‘get Eva her 3pm cocktail now, or feel her wrath you loser’. It may seem like over-kill, but what we forget is that before any laws are changed and measures are set-up, usually a tragic accident will have happened first. Pedestrian crossings and speed-cameras are often as a result of a loss of life, being a grim memorial to a life lost and the price we pay for progress. At 67 Queen Victoria Street now sits a six-storey concrete building. The original has long-since been demolished, but the third and fourth floors were once owned by GED, the General Electric Company; an innovative maker of electrical devices (like fire alarms) in an era long before electricity was standard in many homes, who prided themselves on their practices designed to ensure the safety of its workers. So, when a fire broke out on the second floor, everyone should have survived... only they didn’t. As it was here, on Monday 9th June 1902, that although the company’s methods were modern, their old-fashioned attitude towards the fourth-floor girls led to ten easily-avoidable deaths. (Interstitial) In 1901, Queen Victoria died, and although the country was gripped in grief for our then-longest reigning monarch, the impending coronation of Edward VII would mark the start of a modern era... The final years of the Victorian era saw many innovations we take for granted today; beginning with the first electric light bulb invented by Joseph Swann in 1878, the first electric iron by Henry Seeley in 1882, the fuse by Thomas Edison in 1890, the first electric kettle by Arthur Leslie Large in 1891, and the first transmission of radio waves in 1901, with many more modern inventions to swiftly follow. Electricity heralded a new era of innovation, it was rightly seen as the way of the future, and although most of London’s street-lamps had been converted from sodium and gas to electricity lamps by 1881 – the same year that Britain built its first public generator at Godalming - the country’s power supply wouldn’t be standardised and co-ordinated until 1926. By 1919, only 6% of homes had electric lighting, a prohibitive luxury reserved for only the most affluent. So, by 1901, even Buckingham Palace had only had been illuminated by electricity for the last thirteen years. But it would come to the masses. One such company ahead of the curve was GEC, the General Electric Company; a business similar in name and in spirit with the American multinational partly co-founded by Thomas Edison. Established by German immigrant Gustav Binswanger, G Binswanger & Co was already a successful electrical goods wholesaler, when in 1886 he partnered up with entrepreneurial salesman Hugo Hirst to produce the first catalogue of electrical appliances; such as bells, telephones, switches and wiring. Trading all across the world, the General Electric Company Ltd was formed, it became a private limited company and established its head-office on the top three floors of 67 Queen Victoria Street in London; with admin and executives on the third floors, and product assembly and packing on the fourth. Innovations in electricity was progressing at a previously unparalleled speed, as each company strove to be the first to invent the next mass-market appliance for the modern household. But electricity was dangerous and everybody knew it, as a single spark could ignite a devastating fire, especially in a city like London with so many old buildings constructed out of highly flammable materials. As a stark reminder, GEC was just half-a-mile from Pudding Lane, the epicentre of the 1666 Great Fire of London. It takes an event of such devastation to change laws, and – although the blitz helped form today’s fire brigade - between both of those events, little innovation had been made to prevent and control fire. It was said “firemen were asked to fight twentieth-century perils with nineteenth-century machinery”. As modern methods of construction meant that buildings grew ever taller, the out-dated appliances the fire crew used remained the same. The ineffective Factory and Workshop Act of 1895 had left the installation and regulation of safety equipment to the companies themselves, and - until 1938 and the creation of the Auxiliary Fire Service - fire crews were privately owned, many by insurance companies. Therefore, the fire-crew’s job wasn’t to protect lives, but to protect the buildings and its contents. Thankfully, GEC was a modern company who were better prepared to defend against fire than most businesses in that era, and even by today’s standards. Proudly proclaiming to be makers of ‘all things electric’, GEC was one of the first buildings in London to be fitted with a fire alarm, with ‘break glass buttons’ on every floor and in every stairwell, it had heavy iron fire doors between buildings, the staff conducted fire drills on a weekly basis, they had their own fire hoses connected to an endless water supply being two streets from the River Thames, and just 100 feet away was their own fire brigade. If a fire were to break-out at 67 Queen Victoria Street, everyone should have survived... ...but not every worker at GEC was treated as equally as the others. The day was Monday 9th June 1902 and the weather was bright with very little wind, as before 8am, a flank of workers exited the Metropolitan District Railway at Mansion House station. For the executives and admin staff employed by GEC, the location was perfect as this five-storey half-block wide building was both the train terminus and their workplace, with a Spiers & Pond restaurant above for luncheon. But for those less-well-paid workers - like the assembly girls on the fourth floor - many would arrive by public omnibus or by foot, dressed in a neat pinafore with their sandwiches wrapped in a cloth rag. The ground, first and second floors were occupied by Messrs Murdoch Nephews - purveyors of fancy goods, the kind of frivolous non-essential trinkets used to make a modern home look nice - with an enclosed central stairwell leading to the top two floors, owned by the General Electric Company. Being typically hierarchical, execs and admins were on third with the manual workers on fourth. Each floor was split, with the seniors sat by the windows and the juniors stuck in the shadows. This was not uncommon as being in keeping with the very Victorian class system; separate bathrooms, eating areas and even entrance doors ensured that those deemed important weren’t sullied by less vital staff. Only the workers wouldn’t have time to worry about things as trivial as equality, as with King Edward VIIth coronation two weeks’ away, GEC had to finish an order of electric street decorations. Desperate for cheap labour, they keep costs down by hiring the poor, the young and – of course – females. Hidden away on the top floor was the work-room, where GEC’s products were assembled and packed. In the middle, a large spiral staircase split the room in half; with the men sat separately, as - being staff – both their sex and seniority afforded them a better place to sit, beside the wood-burning stove. Where-as the thirteen young girls sat at a long bench, silently assembling the light’s floral wreaths. That day though, there was only one man at work, David Eveson, who managed the thirteen girls, many of whom – hired very recently - were new to the department, the company and its practices. Around the bench included 18-year-olds Violet Hodgson from Peckham and Florence Amor of Forest Gate, 17-year-old Mabel Amos from Clapham, 16-year-olds Mable Garrett from Camberwell and Lily Mansell of Brixton, 15-year-olds Jessie Hastie of Camberwell and Ada Steel from East Ham, and fresh out of school, 14-year-old Phyllis Elliott from Hackney and Gladys Chambers from Clapton Park. All were young girls earning a pittance to help their struggling parents feed and clothe their siblings. The most senior there - but far from the oldest - was 15-year-old Alice Thompson; one of four from Brixton who was hired 18 months earlier as an Electric Light Assistant, with her role to screw together the brass and porcelain parts before packaging a dozen completed lamps into a cardboard box. But that day, Alice would be forced to undertake a new job... ...one she hadn’t sign up for, but if she hadn’t, more girls would perish. As inequality at GEC wasn’t just as simple as what door you walked in or who sat nearest the stove, as the temporary staff and especially the young girls were not given the same basic training as the men, this included the assembling of lights, the repairing of circuits and – most important of all – fire safety. On the surface, GEC looked like a modern progressive company, but not everything was as it seemed. Fire escapes had recently been introduced to the UK from New York where they had been successfully used on inner-city tenements, so they could have fitted one to the building’s flat-front and thin ledges, or even at its unseen rear? But they didn’t. It was considered an eye-sore and an unnecessary expense. It’s true that GEC was one of the first companies in London to fit a fire-alarm system, only – two years since Pearson’s had installed it – they were yet to connect the switchboard to the local fire station. So, although the alarms would sound, no fire-fighters would be alerted until someone saw smoke. And that included their own fire brigade, situated two doors away at 71 Queen Victoria Street. They were a small crew of part-time fire-fighters working as full-time engineers whose ancient equipment was designed to cope with fires at a time when commercial premises were three-stories high, not five. And yes, each floor had been fitted with a ‘break glass’ button in case of emergencies, but only senior staff were trained and authorised to use them. To the regular workers, these were just decorations. Fire drills were regularly held, but only after working hours when most of the staff had gone home, and with the fourth-floor girls only ‘temporary staff’, they weren’t deemed ‘essential’ enough to train. So, in a company where different bells were used to communicate between different departments – with bells for deliveries, phone calls, tea-breaks or shift changes - only those deemed important to the company knew how to differentiate between the office bells, the warehouse bells and the fire bells. As an employer, GEC was regularly assessed by the Factories Inspectorate and each time they passed with flying colours, but as the fourth floor was not officially a designed workspace - it was really just a storage room repurposed for producing decorations for the King’s Coronation – it had no emergency signage and was the only floor in the building with no copies of the evacuation procedure on the wall. As the longest-serving of the girls, 15-year-old Alice Thompson was savvy enough to eavesdrop on the men’s chatter and pick-up a few titbits. So, she knew about the three ladders hidden under the bench in the packing room, but she didn’t know about the trapdoor leading from the fourth floor to the roof. And like the other girls, Alice had neither heard of nor was informed that – in case of an emergency – each floor had eight designated ‘fire police’ whose job it was to ensure that the staff were evacuated. Theirs was a man called John Tyndall; but they had never met him and they had never heard of him. This was a disaster waiting to happen... and it is about to get worse. Working with Messers Murdoch Nephews to create the coronation lights, the boxed-up floral wreaths on the second-floor were made of a mix of linen and wax. They were pretty, durable and waterproof, but when exposed to a naked flame, the wreaths didn’t just blacken or burn like any other decoration, a single heat source would cause them to explode in a flash of brilliant white light, like gunpowder. When questioned at the inquest, other than the electric lights and wires in the store-room, there were no other heat sources, but some staff did admit to smoking on the premises – which was forbidden. But that wasn’t the worst. As in that room, GEC had stored what they described as “a small quantity of liquid”, but was actually 76 kilos of Commudine – a highly flammable and very combustible fluid. The fuel had been stocked, the touchpaper had been set. and it was only a matter of time... ...before someone would die. The day had been uneventful for the girls on the fourth-floor. Assembling the wreaths had kept them busy and with all but a handful of the men no-where to be seen, they could chatter a little louder. One floor below, the admin staff were packing-up, but the assembly workers still had a few hours to do. At roughly 5pm, a fire broke-out in the second-floor stock-room. Whether its ignition was caused by an electrical spark or a carelessly discarded cigarette is unknown, but nobody noticed the blaze and the alarms wouldn’t activate until someone pushed a button, having seen a fire or smelled the smoke. So, for the next fifteen minutes... nothing happened, except the swelling of an angry inferno. At 5:15pm, a fire alarm was tripped, and the building echoed to the shrill of a persistent piercing bell. Trained to react, David Eveson, who managed the girls, recognized the bell and swiftly left via the stairwell, taking fourteen-year-old Stanley Chapman with him, but leaving the thirteen girls behind. Having never heard that particular bell before and smelling no smoke, being too afraid to leave their posts for fear of losing their badly paid jobs, the girls took a tea break and stayed on the fourth floor. With alarms ringing, four of the eight designated ‘fire police’ on shift began to evacuate the building’s 200 employees. They were methodical and calm to ensure no-one got hurt. Only John Tyndall, whose job was to clear the fourth-floor, only made it as far as the second step up the stairs, from where he shouted “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!”, except his words which were lost amid the alarm’s din. And ordered by his seniors to undertake a more vital task, he assisted in shuttling the accountancy ledgers across the street to the City & Midland Bank - putting a few books full of figures over the lives of the girls. It was a journey he would undertake three times, before he realised his tragic mistake... ...thankfully, there were others who took their roles seriously. The second the alarm sounded, the 25-strong crew of GEC’s own fire-brigade sprang into action, being co-ordinated by its captain, Max Byng. Alerted towards the second floor stock-room, Charles Frederick Trippe passed through the heavy iron double door connecting 67 and 69 and witnessed the inferno. The second floor was the epitome of hell; as acrid air swirled with thick black smoke which whiffed of gunpowder, heaving waves of reddish orange flames licked the dark peeling walls like the devil’s own tongue, and stacked boxes of wreaths exploded in white hot flashes, making breathing impossible and the stairwell impenetrable, even for a moderately experienced fire-fighter like Trippe. Outside on Queen Victoria Street, a crowd had begun to gather; a crew of fire-fighters, numerous nosy bystanders all gorping at the flames, and an excitable mess of close-to 200 employees, all recounting their own exciting tale of what might have been... but wasn’t. Doing his job, Captain Byng asked the lead of the ‘fire police’ “is everyone accounted for?”, and he was told they were, but this was untrue. From the street, through the rising flames and up beyond the thickening smoke, bystanders began to scream, as at the windows of the fourth-floor, the terrified faces of thirteen young girls peered down. The girls were trapped by smoke and heat which slowly filled the stifling room. Taking control, although only 15, Alice had led the girls down fiery stairwell towards an exit, but as they descended – being blinded by smoke, choked by fumes and with the sizzling hot metal of every handrail and door-knob scorching their skin – they were forced to retreat back-up to the fourth floor. Ironically, they had three ladders (which Alice knew of) and an escape route was just a few feet away. But having never been told of the trapdoor leading up-and-out to the roof, here they were trapped; stuck on the top floor of a flat-fronted building with no fire escape and windows with very thin ledges. The terrified girls of the fourth floor could do nothing but rely on the fire-fighters... ...a team of courageous but badly-funded and tragically equipped fire-fighters whose hoses had only enough pressure to pump water to the third floor, whose ladders could only reach to the second floor, and – having been only partially installed by Pearson’s two years earlier – the system wasn’t connected to the switchboard, which meant that the professional fire-fighters were not aware of the fire. Innovation had failed, but having been notified by Captain Byng, within minutes the professional crews of both Watling Street and Southwark fire stations were alerted and some were already on the scene... ...but even that wouldn’t be enough. Created and funded by an amalgam of 36 insurance companies, the Metropolitan Fire Brigade and the London Salvage Corps had what was described as “a deplorable lack of equipment”, with engines so old-fashioned that only “a museum would be glad to get London’s archaic fire-fighting appliances”. Their ladders were also ten-feet too-short; their engines lacked the necessary pressure to hit their marks, their hoses struggled to fully extinguish the flames and the ‘jump sheet’ (a twenty-foot-square patch of canvas designed to make a fall from a five-storey building survivable) - that was missing, But this didn’t prevent their bravery. Fighting the intense heat and smoke, one officer crawled on his belly to rescue Emily Johnson, dragging the unconscious girl up to the roof. Another called Hillman, dangled precariously from a wire, grabbing one girl from a burning window and lowering her to safety as the flames shot out. Calling out in the darkness and seeing the skylight beginning to collapse, Officer West succeeded in rescuing 17-year-old Mabel Amos from the flames, but she was so taut with terror, the young girl died of heart attack. With the heat and smoke becoming too intense for the firemen, they were unsure if any would survive, and with a 70-foot ladder on-route from Southwick, by the time that arrived, it may be too late. With quick thinking, a bystander ripped the tarpaulin off a fruit-vendor’s cart and gripped tight by two dozen firemen, they had made a makeshift ‘jump sheet’. “Jump!”, the crowds willed the girls, “Jump!” they called, but through the smoke, five-stories high, the sheet looked no bigger than a postage stamp. Five were trapped, four girls and a boy; as the flames licked their skin, the heat caused their clothes to combust and the smell which stung their nostrils was the scorching of their own hair. All wept and all prayed, as these children were given an impossible choice – burn to death, or jump into oblivion? It takes real courage to make that kind of life-or-death decision... ...so, it’s no surprise that the first to jump from the burning building was Alice. Smashing the far-west window, Alice perched herself on the thin window ledge; shutting her eyes tight, with her back to the world, she rolled backwards and from five-stories up, she disappeared into the dense smoke. (END) Hitting the sheet dead-centre and escaping with only cuts and burns, as the crowd erupted in cheers, Alice’s bravery encouraged the others to follow. Norah Jones, Emmeline Ambrose and Dora Cutter all survived. Jessie Hastie jumped, as her burning blouse streaked the sky like a firework, and she too was one of the lucky few. But having fainted before she could leap, Phyllis Elliot died inside, and 21-year-old Arthur Paget, a clerk with a widowed mother, jumped but missed the sheet, and died of his injuries. The 70-foot ladder arrived shortly afterwards and rescued those who were trapped on the roof, having escaped via the trap-door. And with the fire extinguished within twenty-minutes, the bodies of seven young girls were later recovered from the charred remains of the building and buried; Mable Garrett, Ada Steel, Lily Amelia Mansell, Gladys Chambers, Phyllis Elliot, Violet Hodgson and Florence Amor. An inquest was held two days later, at the Coroner’s Court in Golden Lane. 65 eyewitnesses gave their testimony, including Alice Thompson who spoke eloquently through her burns, cuts and trauma. After twelve days of testimony, on the 29th July 1902, the court found the London Building Act of 1894 to be inadequate, and recommendations were made to cover existing buildings. No-one was found guilty of manslaughter and although GEC admitted to negligence, a criminal trial was not requested. Except for a privately-funded plaque to two of the girls, a memorial to the dead was never erected at 67 Queen Victoria Street. Today, it is occupied by an office and a Sainsbury’s. And although forgotten, this little-known fire helped to shape many of the innovations and processes we use today to prevent more deaths. So, next time you hear a fire alarm? Forget about how this is a slight inconvenience to your busy day, and instead, think of the tragic souls who have already given their lives to save yours. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who enjoy listening to the wibble-wobble of a tubby loser droning on about pointless shit? Join me for a little quiz and some extra details about this case in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Tom Gillett, Sarah Freer and Sophie Chadwick. I thank you all. I hope you’re enjoying all the exclusive online treats, the lovely thank you card of goodies you will have received in the post, and (even while Murder Mile is off-line in January & February, when I do my research), you’ll still be receiving lots of goodies to keep you entertained. If that sounds lovely, you too can join Patreon and support the show, via the link in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO:
Today’s episode is about a family; cursed with a history of mental illness and hereditary blindness, it’s a strange relationship where their condition both united and divide them, but with sexual abuse added into the mix, it would lead to a brutal and horrifying murder.
SOURCES:
http://hundredfamilies.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/MARIA_CALERO_LON_06.07.pdf https://www.hammersmithtoday.co.uk/#!pages/hammersmithtoday:info:concrime117 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7625269.stm MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a family cursed with a history of mental illness and hereditary blindness. It’s a strange relationship where their condition both united and divide them, but with sexual abuse added into the mix, it would lead to a brutal and horrifying murder. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 152: Blind Obsession. Today I’m standing... (static and muffled street sounds) somewhere in the borough of Hammersmith & Fulham in West London, possibly in a flat above Ashcroft Square in Hammersmith, W6. But none of this can be verified, as the most of the details were never published and many were redacted. If so, we’re streets from the home of one of John Monckton’s killers, the garage where the First Date Killer pulled up with Kate Beagley’s body in the boot, the house where schoolgirl Katerina Koneva died at the hands of The Beast, and the obsessions of Winston Goulbourne - coming soon to Murder Mile. It is often said that some stories are never meant to be told, as there are deep dark secrets that exist in a family which no-one would dare to discuss until someone steps over the line of what is right and wrong. This is a case which did not appear on the TV news and it barely made it into any papers, which is why – at times – the details may be vague and many statements cannot be independently verified. A detailed report by the mental health trust provided a fascinating insight into the life of the young woman involved, and although she was only referred to as Ms T, we know her name was Maria Calero. What follows is some of her story. (Interstitial) (Static) The date was Sunday 17th June 2007. It was early morning, at roughly 3am. And as for the exact location, that was never disclosed, but it was possibly a flat somewhere off Ashcroft Square. From an upstairs window, two unidentified boys, aged 12 and 13 attracted the attention of a passer-by having been locked inside their bedroom. With no smoke, alarms nor screams, this could have been a prank? Only the children were in a state of panic; not in fear for themselves, but for someone else. The Police were called and concerned for the boy’s welfare, they gained entry. Physically, they were unharmed, but mentally they had been through an ordeal, having heard a man being cruelly tortured. On the floor lay their father – Eduardo; slumped in a cold motionless puddle of his own blood, his walls and doors were spattered red as a kitchen knife and a set of scissors has ceaselessly severed his veins and arteries. As across his once-clean carpet, the sticky shadows of his bloodied hand-prints lay where the terrified man had dragged his body far from his assailants, leaving a long red trail like a dying slug. It was a brutal murder by someone with a lot of hatred in their heart. An attack so sustained, that if it began right now (insert torture sound and use throughout) it wouldn’t end until this episode stops. Three people were arrested for his death, his niece, his nephew and his brother. But proving who the culprit was would be problematic, as with the children locked in the bedroom, they saw very little. One of the accused would claim “I did not take part in the murder”, the other said “I didn’t kill, because I couldn’t see”, and with all three either partially sighted or almost entirely blind, that could be true? Only there was one who saw everything; a reliable eye-witness who could replay every second, every stab and every slash of the murder, and recount it in a court of law with irrefutable detail and accuracy. But that is for the end... so let’s go back to where all this began. (Rewind) Referred to in the report only as ‘Ms T’, Maria Calero was born 1986 in the South American country of Peru, with her brother Richard born one year later. The circumstances of their plight were unknown, but following a brutal conflict in their homeland - although their father Ricardo remained behind - six-year-old Maria, five-year-old Richard and their mother sought asylum in the UK in 1992. It made sense, as their mother’s brother - uncle Eduardo - was living in a West London flat with his wife, his daughter and - soon-to-become pregnant with the first of two sons - although Maria’s mother had very little to call her own, what she did have was a close-knit family for when times got tough. In April 1993, her mother’s mental health deteriorated as her immigration status remained uncertain, and against medical advice that she needed to be fully assessed, she discharged herself from hospital. A few days later, this lone mother stood on London Bridge looking across the dark and muddy waters of the raging River Thames. In her arms, she held all that loved - her children. Clutching them tight and kissing their heads – seeing this drastic measure as her only way out - she hurled both children off the bridge, herself following behind, as they plunged thirty-feet to a certain death at this suicide spot. Quick-thinking passers-by called the police, a nearby marine patrol was dispatched, and all three were rescued. The fall should have killed them and the water should have drowned them, but thankfully, their physical injuries weren’t critical. Their mother had fractured her spine, Richard suffered face and elbow abrasions, and Maria had fractured her pelvis. In time, they would all make a good recovery... ...but the psychological scars would never heel. In February 1994, Maria’s father Ricardo came to England seeking asylum, and given the fragility of his wife’s mental state, he was assessed as the ‘protective parent’ of Maria and Richard. Earning a living as a dental assistant, he supported the family while his wife sought the help she so badly needed. Only, she would struggle to find peace in her mind. Maria and Richard witnessed their mother’s mania on a regular basis; her outbursts, her threats and her suicide attempts. In one she sliced-up her wrists, in another she took an overdose of pills, and again, she would try to destroy those she loved most. In 1995, when Maria was aged only 11, her mother tried to drown her in a bath. For their safety, both children were placed on the child protection register, they were put into foster care, and Maria and her brother received child therapy from a Spanish-speaking therapist. The abuse she suffered made Maria feel “unloved and vulnerable”, and she struggled to form healthy relationships with her family. In 1998, when Maria was 12, her mother fled the family. Their relationship was torturous, so this break-up should have been a moment for Maria to rediscover herself? But having been bounced from foster homes, to temporary housing, to living with her uncle, daughter and his two sons, Maria’s early years were incredibly unstable, especially as this young girl entered her hormonally-charged puberty. Life was hard and although times were bad... ...for all of the Calero family, it was about to get worse. That same year, Maria’s father Ricardo was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, known as RP; a rare genetic disorder where the light-sensitive tissue in the retina aggressively degenerate, making even the simplest of tasks – whether reading, walking or recognising faces – difficult without assistance. Within the year, her father would be completely blind... and although his vision meant the family lost their main income, this diagnosis came with a terrifying footnote - Retinitis Pigmentosa is hereditary. Maria’s vision was fine for now... but how long would it last? (Torture sounds) By the turn of the millennium, Maria’s homelife was a mess. Her mum was back and her father was blind, so when she wasn’t in foster care, she found sanctuary in her uncle’s flat, off Ashcroft Square. Two years earlier, uncle Eduardo had separated from his wife, but stayed in the small flat with his two sons and their older sister. It seemed like a stable place for his niece to escape to, but depending on whose story you choose to believe, Maria and Eduardo had a very strange bond - one of love and hate. That same year, aged 14, Maria locked herself in her uncle’s flat and refused to come out. This makes some sense as this hormonal teenager had made allegations of bullying and abuse against her mother. Later in 2000, Maria claimed that her uncle had abused her, a social worker investigated the allegation but no action was taken, and having absconded from foster care, Maria returned to stay at his flat. Again, that same year, she alleged that her uncle had sexually assaulted her, an accusation backed-up by parents and some of her uncle’s children. Both the Police and Child Services were involved, but no action was taken, as often she would deny the assault took place, or withdrew the allegation. And yet, it is said – that being unable to maintain a healthy relationship within her family - she continued in a “sexual relationship” with uncle Eduardo, as finding very little love elsewhere, she feared his rejection. In February 2001, Maria’s parents alleged further ‘inappropriate behaviour’ by her uncle, a complaint was made to Child Services, but as both Maria & Eduardo denied this, again no action could be taken. Rightfully, the Police criticised Child Services for allowing this minor to sleep-over at her uncle’s while an allegation of sexual assault was pending, but they were powerless to take action. So, with no foster carer at that time, a social worker was assigned to monitor Maria while she stayed with her uncle. But there was only so much monitoring a social worker could do from a distance. In July 2001, another official allegation of child sexual abuse was made against uncle Eduardo and his now 15-year-old niece. This time, by his own daughter. Having fled, she told the Police she “was afraid to go home”, having seen Maria & Eduardo on the sofa - he was shirtless and putting on his trousers. Again, the allegations were denied by both, and being powerless to proceed, no charges were made. Allegations and denials flew thick-and-fast, and with the system designed to protect Maria seen as helpless or hopeless, her parents took matters into their own hands. They smashed his car windows and assaulted him in the street. It did nothing and it solved nothing, except to vent their frustrations. ...only, the stresses and strains of a fractured family were piling up on top of Maria. (Torture sounds) By February 2002, concerns were raised about Maria’s mental health, having been diagnosed with an “adjustment disorder with dissociative symptoms”. She had cut-off her hair, dropped-out of school and told her child therapist how “unloved” she felt, stating “even my spit isn’t worth anything”. And having become agoraphobic, she had become virtually housebound, living inside her uncle’s flat. Two years later, Child Services had to remove Maria following allegations that her uncle had punched one of his pre-teen sons in the face. Right then, the council had proved it had the power to protect a child from abuse... but for Maria, it was too-little-too-late, as by September 2004, she had turned 18. Officially an adult, the care order had ended with Hammersmith & Fulham Children’s Services, but she was transferred under the authority of Adult Mental Health Services, as Maria had “complex needs”. Her mental decline was understandable given her chaotic upbringing. Nobody could hope to come out unscathed, given what she seen, what she had heard and what she experienced; truancy, depression, anxiety, isolation, infighting, with allegations of physical assaults and sexual abuse (which – although unproven – could easily be real), as well as her own mother’s attempts to kill herself and Maria; once in a bath as a child and once having thrown her off London Bridge. It’s no surprise that Maria lacked trust, she felt no love, she was full of anger, and suffered with bouts of anxiety and depression. And yet, a psychiatrist would state she had “no major mental illness” and “medication was not required”. To those who knew her, Maria’s mental health was in a rapid decline, but this wasn’t just because of her past, as one very specific aspect of her future had been plaguing her mind for almost a decade... ...and now, her greatest fear had become a reality. In the summer of 2006, Maria was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, the same hereditary condition which had taken her father’s sight, and given how fast her vision had degenerated, her prognosis was not good. Specialists had confirmed that - within the year – she too would be almost entirely blind. Weighing heavy on her spiralling mental health, Maria admitted to her psychiatrist that - as the once-bright world around her became ever-darker – burning feelings of anger had begun to swell inside her, as she became more impulsive, anxious and started to experience hallucinations. In November 2006, she was prescribed the anti-depressant Sertraline, as - like her mother before her – she had expressed suicidal thoughts, as well as deep feelings of aggression towards others... especially her uncle. (Torture sounds) ...in less than one year, Maria Calero would brutally stab uncle Eduardo to death in a sustained torture in his Hammersmith flat, which would leave his two teenage sons traumatised... ...but who was the victim at this point, and why wasn’t the alleged abuse stopped? Unable to restrain her bubbling rage, Maria had assaulted her mother and admitted to her psychiatrist her desire to stab and blind her uncle. Born on the maternal line, Eduardo was not afflicted by this family curse, but – regardless of whether her hatred for him was fuelled by the abuse she had allegedly suffered, or (if you take the other side) as he had rejected her love - Maria wished blindness upon him. The psychologist was so concerned that he wrote to Eduardo making him aware of Maria’s desire to do-him-harm, and for him to consider this when and how he made contact with her next. And although her parents openly attacked him claiming he raped their daughter, Maria returned to his flat. To say that their relationship was confusing would be an understatement. Crippled with depression, anxiety and with her last vestiges of vision rapidly deteriorating to the point where even the simplest of tasks had become impossible without assistance, Maria became reclusive, a shut-in at uncle Eduardo’s flat and almost entirely reliant on him for food, clothes and prescriptions. With her mind plagued with thoughts of self-harm and aggression, as was her prerogative, she stopped seeing her therapist, ignored the calls from her social worker and often failed to take her medication. Having isolated herself inside her uncle’s flat, her anxieties and delusions only got worse; she would claim that voices would talk to her in the night and sometimes she saw their faces too. Whether real or imaginary, she became ever more distressed as her uncle’s sons mocked her, that her and Eduardo’s relationship had descended into frequent verbal fights, and again, she talked about “ending it all”. And although, she had threatened to harm him... ...her words soon turned into wounds. On the morning of Friday 15th June 2007, just two days before, Maria called her social-worker to confess “I’ve stabbed my uncle” and repeated her allegation that he had raped her seven years earlier. In an incident which erupted when he allegedly started to wind her up by threatening to bring his own daughter from Peru - in his words - “to make your life hell”, Maria stated “I felt rage, then I stabbed him in the back with a knife”. But was this assault fuelled by anger, jealousy or rejection? Assessed at the A&E of Charing Cross Hospital, Eduardo covered for his niece by claiming it was a work-related injury having fallen backwards onto a sharp metal tool, he was treated and discharged. Accompanied by her care-worker, Maria re-iterated her story at Hammersmith police station and later to the Sapphire Unit in Fulham (a specialist police team who handle sexual offenses against adults and children) for further investigation and she returned home, not to her uncle’s flat but to her parent’s. ...but by the time the investigation got underway, uncle Eduardo would be dead. (Torture sounds) On Sunday 17th June 2007, at roughly 2:30am, in (what is believed to be) a two-floor flat at the Ashcroft Square complex above the King’s Mall; stood Maria, her brother Richard and their father Ricardo. Exactly what happened may remain as vague as their vision, as with all three virtually blind and often helpless without some assistance, the details of this night are shrouded in a thick fog of confusion and allegations. How and when they got into the flat is unknown; maybe they had a key, maybe they broke in, or maybe they were let in on the ruse of this fractured family making peace? But at some point, Eduardo’s boys were locked inside their bedroom, and the real reason for the visit would come out. The torture of uncle Eduardo was slow and protracted. Clutching a kitchen knife and a set of scissors, Maria plunged and pierced each blade into his flesh, screaming at the top of her lungs “he raped me, he raped me” - an allegation she had both repeatedly admitted and denied over the last seven years. Seeking revenge for a rape only he or she would know was true, over the next twenty-four minutes, she would stab and slash the uncle (she both loved and hated) a total of one hundred and eleven times. An attack so sustained, if it began at the beginning of this episode, it still wouldn’t have stopped. In his last few moments alive, Uncle Eduardo pleaded for his life. And although his terrified sons heard every second of their father’s brutal murder, having flagged down a passer-by, the Police were alerted, the flat was sealed-off and all three members of the Calero family were arrested and charged. The evidence was irrefutable – the blood, the knife, the scissors and the testimony of what the boys had heard – but with all three suspects either visually-impaired or blind, as one claimed “I did not take part in the murder” and the other “I didn’t kill, because I couldn’t see”, how could this be proven? It was simple, unable to fully see what they were doing - whether to aid the attack, or as a sick souvenir of Maria’s revenge - Richard had filmed the entire murder on his mobile phone; every second, every stab and every slash of Eduardo’s demise which could be recounted in court, as an irrefutable fact. So shocking was the footage, that many jurors needed counselling over what they had seen and heard... ...but in that flat, that night, those 24 minutes of footage was the only reliable eye-witness. (END) Eduardo Mendoza was transferred to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, but was pronounced dead on arrival, owing to blood loss and shock. Richard, Ricardo and Maria Calero were arrested on the charge of murder. With Maria sobbing as she was led away from the crime-scene “the voices made me do it”. But if this was true, which voices made her commit murder – the angry ones, or the jealous ones? Ricardo and Richard were held in custody to wait their appearance at West London Magistrates Court. Having been assessed at Shepherd’s Bush Police Station, suspecting that Maria was hallucinating, she was held under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act and was transferred to a mental health hospital. So distraught was Maria’s mother upon hearing news of her brother’s murder at the hands of her own husband, son and daughter, that again Mrs Calero took her own life, only this time she did not survive. In a month-long trial at the Old Bailey, on the 30th June 2008, 21-year-old Maria – whose fingerprints proved she was solely responsible for the attack on Eduardo - admitted to his murder and pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. She was given an indefinite prison sentence with Judge Morris insisting that she serve at a minimum of three years. Cleared of both the charges of murder and manslaughter, Richard and Ricardo wept as they were released. And as for the rape and sexual assault allegations made by Maria against Eduardo? They remain unresolved. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy listening to the pendulous jowls of a cake-filled fat man, as he waffles on about his stupid little life in which pretty much nothing happens, except his imaginary relationship with the goddess Eva Green? Stay tuned till after the break for more info and a little quiz in Extra Mile. If you’ve ran out of episodes of Murder Mile, just to say there are more than 50 episodes of Walk With Me – the companion piece to Murder Mile – available via Patreon, as well as location videos and exclusive photos for more than 100 episodes, as well as our regular feature Cake of the Week. Yum. You can become a Patreon subscriber for as little as $3 a month, that’s £2 in real money, and I’ll also post you a very exclusive pack of goodies and a thank you card from me. Life can’t get any better. And if you fancy a Murder Mile mug of goodies, you can order one via the Murder Mile merch shop. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE:
Today’s episode is about Henry Hall, a loyal husband to his wife and father to three children, who made a honest living as a boot-maker. So, devoted was Henry, that he would willingly sacrifice everything to provide for his family; whether his energy, his health and even his sanity.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the home of the Hall family at 65 Dean Street, it is right in the heart of Soho (not the one in Piccadilly) and is located with a black cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode. It's a link to YouTube so it won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Henry Hall, a loyal husband to his wife and father to three children, who made a honest living as a boot-maker. So, devoted was Henry, that he would willingly sacrifice everything to provide for his family; whether his energy, his health and even his sanity. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 151: No Way Out for Henry Hall. Today I’m standing on Dean Street in Soho, W1; ten doors south from the medical school where London’s Burke & Hare hawked a dead boy’s fresh corpse for cold hard cash, three doors east of the senseless beating of baby Richard, just to the rear of Dutch Leah’s death and five doors north of the suspicious ‘so-called suicide’ of ‘supposedly Peruvian’ priest - coming soon to Murder Mile... the book. On the corner of Bouchier Street, at 65 Dean Street currently sits Goldcrest, a post-production facility. Soho was once Britain’s film and TV capital, but as most companies failed to adapt to changes in the industry, some moved out and some were forced out, but most simply went bust. I worked nearby at two such companies. In one meeting, our producer barked “let’s make a film about a disabled African football team who are dying of AIDS”. You know, the kind of big-bucks blockbuster that audiences are crying out for. In another, being too thick to be original and desperate to leech off the fame of car-modification show ‘Pimp my Ride’, for an hour solid, the “creatives” (in inverted commas) piped-up with novel twists; like ‘pimp my bedsit’, ‘pimp my dog’, ‘pimp my anus’, ‘pimp my pimp’, ‘pimp my celebrity chef patio makeover from hell’ etc. As far as I know, both companies folded. But that is true of every industry; fashions change, and if they don’t keep up, they die. Back in 1877, 65 Dean Street was a four-storey lodging house inhabited by six working-class families. It was clean, safe and occupied by skilled tradespeople such as tailors, glovemakers, seamstresses, cobblers and bootmakers, whose small rooms doubled as where they lived and where they worked. On the second floor lived the Hall family; they were good, decent and loving. Like most families, they struggled to make-ends-meet as times-were-tough, but by working-hard, they survived. But when times became too tough to bear, Henry’s desperation would turn this doting dad into a danger. As it was here, on Friday 8th June 1877, seeing no way out from his abject poverty, that Henry did the unthinkable... only what drove him to kill were his feet and his teeth. (Interstitial) Love can be a powerful driving force. It can make the rational irrational; it can drive the sane insane... ...and it can even turn the most loving and mild mannered of men into a homicidal monster. In 1840, Henry Hall was born in the Shropshire town of Ludlow. As one of several sons to a bootmaker and a seamstress, he was blessed with an unremarkable upbringing, being burdened by no more trials and tribulations than others in that era. Built from sturdy country stock, he was raised with pride in his blood, and like the long line of men before him, he toiled to provide a good life for his loved-one’s. As a person, everyone described him as kind and attentive, with never a bad word said against him. In 1868, he married Jane, a woman six years his senior who hailed from Chalfont in Buckinghamshire. Being like two peas in a proverbial pod, they never spoke ill of each other nor slept with a curse-word spilled, as being hard-working and level-headed, they always found a way to resolve their issues. Therefore, it’s unsurprising that Mr & Mrs Hall would raise four children together, all of whom would turn out as bright and good. In 1869, having moved to Paddington (West London), their first daughter Jane was born. In 1871, the family moved to 11 King St in Soho on the eastern-edge of Old Compton Street, and it’s here that three more were born; Frank in 1871, Annie in 1873 and Louisa in 1876. With six mouths to feed, Mr & Mrs Hall held-down several jobs; with Jane working as a charwoman, a cleaner to a few well-to-do households, starting at 8am and often not finishing till midnight. Being a bootmaker - with his wife out - as Henry plied his trade in the second of their two-roomed lodging, a child-minder helped rear their kids so Henry could focus on his business, which was their main income. In the winter of 1876, the family moved into two smaller rooms on the second floor of 65 Dean Street; with a living space for this family-of-six at the rear, and next to a large bed, Henry’s tools of his trade. It wasn’t much, but it was home. They weren’t well-off, but they didn’t starve. Their life wasn’t wine and roses, but it was always warm and cosy. And although, Henry & Jane were often exhausted – even if it meant they didn’t eat or sleep - everything they did was for the sake of their children. As with an 8-year-old, a 6-year-old, a 4-year-old and a toddler; living off Two small incomes, times were hard... ...but they made it work. Raised as a skilled craftsman, the family’s main income had always come from Henry. Henry was a boot-maker; not a cobbler, not a clogger, nor a cordwainer. There is a big difference and legally – although to the layman they all make shoes – to the industry, they were each very distinct. In 1395, the Mayor of London decreed that each profession must form their own guild, which held each craftsman to a set of strict rules and regulations to ensure that competition was evenly spread, but it also kept those of a lower rank in their place, in this very old, very traditional industry. The guilds were set-out like so; cordwainers were shoemakers who made new shoes from new leather meaning their products were of the highest quality. Henry was a bootmaker, who made practical boots for working man and woman, which could only be made from second-hand leather. Below Henry were the cloggers who could not make boots out of any type of leather (only wood, twine or ceramics) and, at the bottom, cobblers were not permitted to make any shoes of any type, ever. Their job is to repair. In order to work, you had to be a member of a guild, at which, you had to pay your dues. If you didn’t pay your dues, you didn’t work, and if you didn’t work, you didn’t eat – simple as that. And although many craftsmen - at all ends - flouted the rules, Henry never jeopardised his family by taking that risk. Being a bootmaker, it may seem as if Henry was in a better position than most - and he was – but he could only succeed if there was more demand and less competition. Boot-making was an ancient skill, handed down from father-to-son, which had changed very little in the last few centuries... ...but the industry was about to get a very rude awakening, owing to innovation. The 1870’s were a difficult time for traditional craftspeople, especially in Soho, as not only were they surrounded by the high fashion stores of Oxford Street and Regent Street, but also, times had changed. By the mid-1800’s, shoemaking had gone from a cottage industry into a mechanised production. It began in 1812, when Marc Brunel invented an automatic sole-fastener to supply military boots during the Napoleonic War. In 1853, during the Crimean War, Tomas Crick patented a riveting machine which maximised production, and introduced steam-powered rolling and cutting machines which precisely cut hardened leather to an exact template. By 1864, Lyman Blake had perfected the shoe-stitching machine, and so – with cutting, rolling, fastening and stitching no longer done by hand - by the late 1870’s, the process of mass-producing shoes or boots to the people was almost entirely mechanised. Shoes were now cheaper, there was greater choice, and the size and quality had been standardised. For the people, it was win-win.... ...but for skilled working-class craftsmen like Henry, who still made boots by hand as his forefathers had done for centuries, it would be impossible to keep up... or even to keep going. Through the bitter winter and sodden spring of 1877, Henry had struggled. As a 37-year-old married father of four, he had earned an honest wage as a bootmaker for almost all of his life. It was all he had ever done, it was all he knew how to do and owing to the guild’s rules, it was all he was allowed to do. But now, struggling to cover even just the basics like paying the rent and putting food on the table, he wasn’t sleeping and he wasn’t eating, as the endless worry plagued his mind. With his wife already working a 16-hour day, every day, it still wasn’t enough, but they were certain they’d get through it. Only, one problem would plague them all... their teeth. For the last four months, Henry had been suffering with chronic toothache. Like many people in this era, his mouth looked more like a box of brown broken biscuits than a smile, but now these unsightly stumps bled red with profuse frothy rivers and his impacted jaw protruded like he’d been thumped. Worried sick with money-troubles - even if he could eat or sleep, which he couldn’t – the pain had meant that he rarely got a good night’s sleep, making him unusually moody. He was never nasty, cruel or violent, but he would sometimes snap for no reason, only to apologise with his head hung in shame. Admittedly, he could have gone to a dentist, but with Britain still two years from Parliament passing the Dentist Act, which established a register and required that all dentists were trained and qualified to a minimum standard, many barbers moonlighted as dentists with little or no experience or training. So bad was British oral health, that often patients in their teens to twenties would willingly have their teeth ripped-out and replaced with a false set made from wood or ceramics. The idea being it saved on pain, decay, any future dental costs and it remained a popular 21st birthday gift up until the 1940s. But with the procedure being risky, painful and each tooth costing five shillings-a-piece, Henry couldn’t afford this. Besides, as a good decent man - as bad as his pain got - his priority was always his family. With his wife, Jane, plagued by shards of festering stumps dangling from her puffy red ridge of swollen gums like bloodied stalactites, being riddled with a pain so intense it caught her breath and made her question her own sanity, the meagre funds he could scrap together were used to cure her, not him. This was a rational decision, as if she couldn’t work – as their new breadwinner - they would all starve... ...but that would be one of the last rational decisions he would ever make. To try to pacify the pain; for those who could afford it, they were prescribed cocaine. But for those who couldn’t, they took Laudanum; a legal but potentially lethal and highly addictive poison concocted from a 10% solution of opium in alcohol, which was used to treat pain, insomnia and nerves. As a reddish-brown liquid with a very bitter taste, when given to babies to suppress a chesty cough, many parents would disguise its retch-inducting essence with spices or tea. A safe dosage was just four-to-six drops in a glass of water, but this would be enough to induce a feeling of rest and euphoria. But by the mid-1800’s, with accidental overdoses having become too frequent – leading to respiratory depression, hypoxia, coma and death – and laudanum the drug of choice for the suicidally-inclined, although it could be purchased without a prescription (as it would be until the 1970s), chemists were instructed to follow two simple rules; they must insist that each customer has a valid excuse (“I’ve got toothache”, “my child won’t sleep”, “my wife’s back is killing her”) and only then, would a very specific dosage be provided via a pipet. (Drops heard times six) “Thank you Sir, that will be one penny”. It wasn’t a fool-proof system, but it had saved lives. By Wednesday 6th June 1877, just two days before, Henry was a physical and emotional wreck. With his impacted gums throbbing like he’d gone eight rounds with a heavyweight, and every time his heart thumped, a rush of blood made his deformed face feel like it was about to burst open, this incessant thrumming – every second, of every minute – was one of the worst tortures Henry had ever endured. Looking little more than a frail ghost with bloodshot eyes perched on top of a thin streak of grey sallow skin; his words were unintelligible, his hands were shaky, and once again, he became unusually rude. It was rare that Henry ever lost his temper, but having shouted at the kids for barely uttering a peep, and having spat some truly foul words at his beloved wife of nine good years, all because he hadn’t the pennies to pay his dues to the Bootmakers Guild and the dire consequences that would inflict... ...he snapped. But again, he was never violent or cruel, and as a thick slick of quivering tears flooded his tired eyes, as always, Henry’s heart fell heavy with regret and he apologised. “I’m sorry, I... I... I don’t... sorry”. Henry Hall was trapped in a vicious circle which wasn’t of his making; unable to work, he couldn’t earn, he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, and so the pain continued. There was no way out for Henry Hall. Working harder, Jane scraped-by six pennies to help him out, which left him with a fateful choice; to pay his dues to the guild, or to buy some drugs for the pain. But unable to make a rational decision... ...Henry chose to do neither. The same day that he snapped, Henry walked into Mr Hartnell’s chemist shop at 7 Titchbourne Street, off Great Windmill Street and ordered an eighth of a teaspoon’s worth of laudanum, declaring “it’s for my toothache”. With his speech slurred, his eyes sunken and his jaw bulging like a rotting sack of offal, it was clear to the assistant that his need was legit. As Henry pulled out a small vile - marked with a crow and ‘poison’ scrawled in Henry’s own hand - the chemist dispensed enough laudanum to suppress a week’s worth of pain, he issued a stern warning “four-to-six drops in a glass of water once-a-day, no more” and having written-up the purchase in the Poisons Book, Henry paid him two pennies. Henry could have taken the laudanum right there and then, and eased his pain... (long exhale) ...only, his frazzled brain was elsewhere (electrical sparks). A short while later, he stumbled into Cooper & Co, a chemist’s shop at 20 Moor Street, just off Old Compton Street and placed his order, slurring “it’s for my toothache”. Pulling out a second vile, marked and labelled correctly, the chemist dispensed a drachm and a scruple, roughly an eighth of a teaspoon of laudanum, stated “four-to-six drops in water, no more”, wrote-it-up in the Poisons Book (which no governing body was overseeing so the exercise was prone to abuse) and Henry paid him two pennies. Henry could have been pain-free, within minutes... (long exhale) ...only, this good man had taken a very bad turn (electrical sparks). On Thursday 7th June, one day before, Henry staggered into Crow’s Chemist’s at 49 Princes Street, at the bottom of Wardour Street, still wincing with pain having not touched a drop. “It’s for my tooth”; he popped out a vile, was warned, the purchase was noted and Henry paid him two pennies. Henry now had enough laudanum to end his pain forever, and his life... (long exhale) ...only, seeing no way out, it wasn’t his pain he was trying to ease (electrical sparks). At 8am on Friday 8th June 1877, Jane headed-out for another 16-hour shift as a charwoman. With 8-year-old Jane, 6-year-old Frank, 4-year-old Annie and 18-month-old Louisa left at home, as per usual, their neighbour Mrs Mary Tice popped in every so often, so Henry could focus on making boots. The children were well-behaved, they played but didn’t disturb their dad, and having kept their energy up with a cup of tea and a slice each of bread and treacle for lunch, Mary Tice saw nothing unusual. The time was roughly two-thirty pm. Their eldest daughter Jane would later state “father came into the room, we were running about with a ball, we were rather noisy and he told us not to make such a racket, but he never said why. My mother had left the teapot on the table, and from his work-room, my father pulled a bottle”. It was a bottle they had seen among his things many times before, one he himself had drunk from to make himself well, and now this very bottle (which held the contents of three purchases from three different chemists) was held in the hand of their beloved father; a good kind man who they all trusted. Into the remnants of the morning’s cold tea, Henry poured the reddish-brown liquid. “The baby was playing with us”, Jane would state, of the little mite who was barely the size of a small bundle of rags, “he took her into the back room... when he brought her back, I think I saw some sick on her pinafore”. Laying his youngest on their shared bed, as his head thrummed louder, the baby began to wail... only its cry was a tear-soaked sob which grew quieter and fainter as her little life slowly ebbed away. Being unusually grumpy, although their father was never one to strike them for misbehaving, not wanting to upset him any further, they did as he said, so the four little children could go back to playing quietly. 4-year-old Annie was next “she did not like it, she said it was nasty stuff, but my father promised her a penny if she drank it, so she did” and never being one to turn down a shiny penny, Frank was next. Feeling woozy and with a trickle of sick spewing down their chests, all three children lay on the bed. And as Jane, his eldest daughter stared into her dad’s dead soulless eyes, “I told him I did not want any”. Being bright, she wouldn’t have supped from a bitter cup had it been offered by anyone else. But as this was her father – a man she could never believe for a single second had an ounce of hate in his heart, or would ever wish her dead - “I drank from the same cup, it tasted nasty and I was sick”. And as Jane lay beside her sickening siblings, Henry sat motionless as aside from an endless thrumming inside his head, the only sound which filled the room was the choking as his children lay dying... ... ...but again, never being a violent or cruel man, as a slick of tears flooded his tired eyes and Henry’s heart fell heavy with regret, he apologised and ran out, sobbing “I’m sorry, I... I’ll fetch mother”. At 3pm, Jane returned home to find her eldest vomiting into a bucket, and the silent and seemingly motionless forms of her youngest lying on the bed, their breathing only slight. Aided by Mrs Tice, she dashed her dying babies to Dr Clark’s at 23 Gerrard Street, and - with their pupils like pin-points and smelling the bitter stench of laudanum on their breath - he administered an emetic, and rushed the four innocents to Charing Cross Hospital, as each child clung onto a very thin sliver of life. (end) Poverty had driven their doting father to murder them. In an exhausted state of confusion, he believed he was doing the right thing to spare them from starvation, and although his poverty had been the overriding reason that Henry had made this irrational decision, it was also the reason they survived. Thankfully, had he poisoned himself, he would definitely be dead. But being so broke that he couldn’t afford enough laudanum to kill them all, sharing it evenly among each child, on Thursday 14th June, one week later, the last of his four children were discharged from hospital, having made a full recovery. Having fled in shame, at 8pm, Henry Hall was arrested and transferred to Vine Street police station. The next day, he was charged at Marlborough Street Police Court, with his solicitor pleading that “this is a very painful case, and I appeal to the magistrate for leniency”, as the children had all survived, and Henry Hall was widely regarded by those who knew him as a loyal husband and a loving father. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 25th June 1877, two days later, he was found guilty of ‘administering a poison with the intent to murder’. And just as poverty had saved their necks, it too would save his, as having murdered no-one, he escaped a death sentence and was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Being a good strong mother, Jane moved her children a few doors away to 13 Little Dean Street and although she never remarried, all four of her children went on to live long and live well. But they would never again see their beloved father, as having served his sentence at Pentonville Prison, Henry Hall died in the spring of 1884, aged 43, in the St George’s workhouse... with not a penny to his name. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you like a little quiz, a lot of waffle, the sound of a kettle brewing and a cake which you can’t see or smell, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Grace Soria and Pam Kitchens. Thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. Plus, a thank you to everyone who leaves lovely reviews of Murder Mile on your favourite podcast app’, it really is very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY:
Today’s episode is about a music legend, a bandleader who could have been one of the all-time greats had his brilliance not been snuffed-out before his time. Only his untimely death wasn’t brought-about because he was black and gay, but owing to one of the most random of tragedies.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Cafe de Paris at 3-4 Coventry Street is located with a light blue cross, just near the words 'Leicester Square'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with the episode. They are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: Lancashire Evening Post - Monday 10 March 1941 Nottingham Evening Post - Saturday 05 April 1941 Leicester Evening Mail - Saturday 05 April 1941 Bradford Observer - Monday 08 September 1941 The Stage - Thursday 06 October 1994 The Stage - Thursday 11 October 2001 West London Observer - Friday 04 October 1957 Bradford Observer - Wednesday 10 September 1941 West Middlesex Gazette - Saturday 05 November 1938 The Era - Wednesday 15 January 1936 The Scotsman - Monday 07 April 1941 Sunday Post - Sunday 06 April 1941 Daily Mirror - Friday 14 March 1941 Derby Daily Telegraph - Saturday 05 April 1941 Lincolnshire Echo - Saturday 05 April 1941 Liverpool Echo - Saturday 05 April 1941 Halifax Evening Courier - Saturday 05 April 1941 http://uncover-ed.org/ken-snakehips-johnson/ https://londonist.com/london/history/when-a-music-legend-was-killed-playing-in-central-london https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpJ1hzoPB0A https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1264532/The-blitz-70-years-Carnage-Caf-Paris.html http://adrinkershistoryoflondon.com/eighty-years-on-cafe-de-paris-8-march-1941/ http://www.westendatwar.org.uk/page_id__246.aspx https://www.cwgc.org/find-records/find-war-dead/casualty-details/3123240/JOHNSON,%20KENRICK%20HYMANS/ https://www.blackhistorymonth.org.uk/article/section/music-entertainers/black-british-swing-caribbean-contribution-to-british-jazz-in-the-1930s-and-1940s/ https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2006/oct/05/secondworldwar.world https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/the-bombing-of-the-cafe-de-paris/#note-7422-20 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a music legend, a bandleader who could have been one of the all-time greats had his brilliance not been snuffed-out before his time. Only his untimely death wasn’t brought-about because he was black and gay, but owing to one of the most random of tragedies. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 150: The Day the Music Died. Today I’m standing outside of Café de Paris on Coventry Street, W1; one street west of the killing of David Knight, one street south of the unsolved shooting of Black Rita, one street east of the Blackout Ripper’s failed attack on Greta Hayward, and a few doors down from the most radioactive shisha bar in the West End - coming soon to Murder Mile... the book. Connecting Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square, Coventry Street is an eyesore; a hideous boil on the West End’s rear-end, dotted with the ugly bum-grapes of consumerism. Tourists flock here to see ‘the real London’ – like fish n chips, moaning and bad teeth - only to have their senses assaulted by a hotch-potch of tacky un-British tat; whether that’s the mecca to sickly American sweets at M&M World, a lisping Asian Frank Sinatra impersonator who croons “stwangers in the night”, flanks of hairy Turks peddling Indian-made rickshaws as five Croatians on a stag-do eat Falafel while dressed like Pikachu, and lines of garish hell-holes flogging-off trashy trinkets like a Princess Di car waxing kit, a Queen Mum toenail clipper, a Prince Andrew ‘wipe clean’ diary sponsored by Pizza Hut, and – Police Constable Arsenal Guinness’ favourite – a Princess Kate face flannel (PCAG) “ooh, put me down for three”. And although this particular street is a disgustingly lurid example of what happens when some of our worst cultural ideas are shared - when it’s done properly – it can be what makes Britain truly great. In the basement of 3-4 Coventry Street sits the Café de Paris; an opulent music venue famed for jazz and swing orchestras, and it’s here that the Charleston was introduced to London. Royals and regulars mixed, race and sexuality were unseen, and it hosted many famous names such as Judy Garland, Dita Von Teese, Dorothy Dandridge, Marlene Dietrich, Louise Brooks and Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson. Ken was a bandleader, who was tipped to breaking-through into the music mainstream, and the only reason he isn’t regarded as among the greats – like Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman and Glen Miller – is owing to a series of random and almost unbelievable events, which led to his untimely death. As it was here, on Saturday 8th March 1941 at roughly 9:45pm, that Ken ‘Snakes Hips’ Johnson would entertain his last ever crowd... and although the music died, his memory would live on. (Interstitial). Legends aren’t born fully-formed; some strive, some stutter and some spurt, but where-as others like Ken would be so musically untalented it’s unbelievable that he would ever be hailed as an infamous bandleader - even his own musicians would state "he couldn't tell a B flat from a pig's foot!"... ...although music wasn’t his real gift, what he had in spades was personality and enthusiasm. Kenrick Reginald Hijmans Johnson was born on the 10th September 1914 in Georgetown, Guyana; a former British colony on the north coast of South America between Venezuela, Suriname and Brazil. With his mother a nurse and his father a doctor (and the Minister of Health), pressure was put on him to enter the medical profession. In 1929, aged just 14, this young boy boarded the SS Nickerie and docked on 31st August in the British port of Plymouth. Being tall, skinny and clutching a small suitcase, Ken was alone in a foreign country with a population of 45 million, of whom barely 15000 (like himself) were black, and although this was the height of summer, the young boy shivered with cold and fear. To please his parents, Ken was privately educated at Sir William Borlase Grammar School near Marlow in Buckinghamshire. Being bright, he excelled. Sprouting-up to an impressive six-foot four-inches tall, he stood out in a crowd, as well as a cricketer and a goalie. And being so personable, he was well liked. In 1931, changing to law - it is said – that he studied at Edinburgh University. Only there are no records to prove this; so, either the files were lost, the archives had erased any evidence of a black student, or – maybe to shield his eager parents from the real truth – Ken only said he studied there, but didn’t. Music was in his blood, which was unsurprising as his uncle was the pianist, Oscar Dummett. In 1932, he enrolled in the West End dance-school of Clarence ‘Buddy’ Bradley, a successful African-American choreographer, and owing to Ken’s lithe body and fluid dance style, the nickname of ‘snake hips’ stuck. Touring Guyana, Trinidad and New York as part of a dance troupe, Ken used this time to broaden his skills; he ingratiated himself with the latest dance and music styles, he formed his first all-black dance-band alongside saxophonist David ‘Baba’ Williams; he honed his tap-dancing among Harlem’s finest, he drew inspiration from Bill ‘Bojangles’ Robinson and his infamous ‘stair dance’ as performed on the vaudeville stage, and – idolising Cab Calloway – he was inspired to become a band-leader. But not a ‘stick wiggler’, a technically-proficient if slightly-starchy conductor as too many band-leaders were, Ken wanted his band to entertain, with him as the tall elegant figurehead. Backed by a truly talented swing orchestra, all dressed in fine tails and bow-ties; Ken would bring his inimitable style and charm, as well as his fast feet and hypnotic snake-hips which always wowed the crowds. But as America had already embraced this style of swing, he needed a new audience... ...one, which he knew, was particularly stiff and lightly-uptight – Britain. Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson would go on to shape the sound of swing across London in the 1930s and 40’s, and – having let trumpeter Leslie Thompson direct the music - as "he couldn't tell a B flat from a pig's foot.... he had the gift of imparting his terrific enthusiasm to those who were talented". Returning to Britain in 1936, later renamed as ‘Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra’, the band toured the variety club circuit. Being an all-black orchestra, this was certainly a selling point and a novelty for many British audiences, seeing musicians from such exotic climes as Jamaica, Sierra Leone, Trinidad, South Africa and Cape Verde, with some hailing all the way from South Wales. But being unwilling to sully the mix by adding a white-face – as they couldn’t find two suitable trombonists - Reg Amore and Freddie Greenslade, two pasty-white musicians had to wear black-face to blend in. That said, it was the band’s talent and Ken’s electrifying personality which shone through. Becoming famous fast; they became the resident house-band at the Old Florida Club in Mayfair, played gigs at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, did stints on BBC World Service where they rose to the ranks of stars, and recorded their first discs - ‘Goodbye’, ‘Remember, ‘Washington Squabble’ and ‘Please Be Kind’. By 1939, Ken wasn’t even 24 years-old, but already he was a bandleader, an entertainer, a famous name and a well-known face; he was widely respected by the industry and audiences, he was on a good wage and he had a natural gift in an era for whom the music of swing was about to explode... ...only fate would deal an unfortunate hand for the man with rhythm in his hips. Everything could have gone so wrong for Ken in so many ways. Being a black man from a former enslaved colony, Britain wasn’t the most welcoming place for Ken. In 1863, the President of the London Anthropological Society had stated “the negro is intellectually inferior to the European and can only be civilised by Europeans”, a statement many still believed. By the 1940’s, barely 20,000 black people had made Britain there home, with many eking-out a living in badly-paid jobs in some of the most deprived areas. By the 1950’s, of 1000 landlords surveyed, only 15 would let a room to a black person, who had to pay double the rent of a white person. Persecution was wide-spread, segregation had become the norm’, and denied all but the most menial of jobs, black people were banned from entering many clubs, except as waiters and performers to white audiences. And even then, a black musician in an all-white band could be problematic, as the venues had the legal right to block their inclusion. So, performing as an all-black band was truly ground-breaking. To overcome this ingrained bigotry, Ken strove harder than most and pushed the band to excel; the music was impeccable, their professionalism was unparalleled, his showmanship was second-to-none, and for maximum impact, the band wore bright-white dinner-jackets with black bow-ties, establishing Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra as one of the best swing bands in Britain. Only being black wasn’t the only issue which made his life hard... ...as Ken was also gay. In the 1930’s; it was illegal to be gay, a crime to admit to being a homosexual, laws were drafted which pigeon-holed gay-sex alongside such moral debauchery as prostitution, incest and bestiality, with the act itself (often dubbed as ‘sodomy’ or ‘buggery’) punishable by 10 years in prison, and the consensual sex between two adults of the same gender wouldn’t be decriminalised for almost another 30 years. His sexuality was a secret he kept hidden from his family and all but his closest of friends, and for good reason too. In 1940, Ken met and fell in love with Gerald Hamilton; widely regarded as “the wickedest man in Europe”, Gerald’s former bunk-mate was the infamous occultist Aleister Crowley, he acted as an informer for Sinn Féin, Special Branch and the British Military Mission in Berlin, and served prison time for bankruptcy, theft, gross indecency and being seen by MI5 as “a threat to national security”. Only Ken wasn’t a political dissident hellbent on underpinning the state, what drew him to Gerald - a man 20 years his senior - was his fascinating life, his Edwardian airs and malicious anecdotes. The two were like chalk and cheese, but being in love, in 1941, they moved in together at 91 Kinnerton Street in Belgravia and later bought a cottage called Little Basing in Bray, overlooking the River Thames. Besides, it wasn’t like Ken could hide in the shadows, as being an elegant and handsome gentleman, a full half a foot taller than most males, his electrifying personality was his calling-card. Ken was a star, whose bright light was about to blow supernova... ...but even the brightest of stars don’t get to twinkle for long. The year was 1939, the world was at war and Ken’s plans for an overseas tour were scuppered. With British musicians conscripted to fight, his West Indian band were in high demand, but with theatres shut and nightclubs closed as the bombing raids ravaged the city, Westminster Council issued very few licences for fears of public safety, so - with gigs in short supply - many musicians found other work. But Ken wasn’t about to give up. Opened in 1924, Café de Paris was the epitome of sophistication. With its ballroom and supper club modelled on the opulent interiors of the Titanic, and featuring oval mirrored dance-floor and elevated stage encircled by ornate curved staircases, it was the night spot for London’s society elite. Given a licence, its owner Martin Poulsen would hail it as “one of the safety and gayest place in town”. Built below the Rialto Cinema, with four storeys of stone and steel above, hidden underground and encased in concrete, it dodged the blackout rules and was impenetrable to the Luftwaffe’s bombs. On 5th November 1940, eight weeks into the eight-month long blitzkrieg campaign in which German bombers levelled great swathes of the city, Café de Paris re-opened to great fanfare. Having stockpiled 25,000 bottles of champagne, even as the shock-waves shook its foundations, the people danced, because as hard as he tried to break the British spirit, this party was be a big f**k you to Adolf Hitler. To aid the war-effort, Café de Paris was requisitioned as a place of recreation for active servicemen. To return a sense of normality to a wider audience – not just its usual clientele like the Mountbatten’s, the Aga Khan, Cole Porter and King Edward VIII – it lowered its prices. And it also played host to many of Britain’s finest comedians; such as Frankie Howerd, Tommy Cooper, Tony Hancock, Michael Bentine and Benny Hill, as well as Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Spike Milligan from The Goon Show. Not to mention a whole host of famous musicians, singers, dancers, performers and band-leaders. During war-time, Café de Paris was the perfect place to be; it was friendly, popular and safe... ...only, a series of random, tragic and almost unbelievable events would lead to Ken’s untimely death. Bursting into the starlight, Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra were snapped-up as the resident band for the Café de Paris, often kicking-off the night or headlining at the top of the bill. With the venue fitted with state-of-the-art recording equipment, the band's popularity rose and their shows were broadcast on BBC Radio and BBC World Service across large parts of the UK and the world. But success wasn’t the only boon for Ken, as being a respected artist, he had the power to showcase any new and upcoming talents, many of whom – being black and/or female – would previously have been denied this opportunity, and this helped bridge the gap between music, business and oppression. Ken was at an all-time high... and his ascent into infamy had only just begun. Six months into the blitz, the British were yet to surrender as the bombing continued, so as they went about their everyday lives, the Luftwaffe targeted smaller cities giving London a little breathing space. For Ken and his band, they had settled into a comfortable life in the rumble-strewn chaos of the West End; the gigs were good, the pay was solid, crowds were appreciative and their popularity was rising. Saturday 8th March 1941 was an ordinary day; cloudy and rainy with a hint of drizzle. Having woken late, Ken had caught the river boat from the cottage he shared with Gerald from Bray to Embankment, where he did some shopping and met a few friends for drinks at the Embassy Club on Old Bond Street. At roughly 9:20pm, he politely excused himself, and although they wanted him to stay for one more drink, as he and his band due to be on stage at 9:45pm, Ken would never dream of being late. And there’s the irony, had he not been the epitome of professionalism... he may have lived? At 9:25pm, he exited the Embassy Club in Mayfair, with Café de Paris being less than one mile away, roughly a fifteen-minute walk. He considered hailing cab, but as the streets were busy and although relatively famous – being a black man - the chance of getting a taxi would be slim, so he chose to walk. Had he waited, he may have been late... and maybe have lived? Strolling towards Piccadilly, there was no real panic in Ken’s lengthy strides, as - like everyone else, eighteen months into the war – they heard the bombers and felt the blasts, but being finely-tuned to know which way they were heading, how close they were and how long it took to run to the nearest air-raid shelter - so commonplace had the blitz become - avoiding a bomb was like catching a bus. Had he sought to seek safety in an air-raid shelter, he may have lived... ...but he’d have also missed the start of his show. At roughly 9:40pm, Ken arrived at the Café de Paris. He dressed in his tailored white tails with a bright majestic flower in his button-hole and grabbed his slightly over-sized black baton. With the patrons either seated, supping chilled champagne or eager to groove, even though the bombers loomed closer and the explosion grew louder, from the safety of the club, the party was about to kick off. At 9:45pm, ’Snake Hips’ and his swing band entered the stage... ...to play the last song Ken would ever play. The bombing wasn’t particularly heavy that night. Around 130 tonnes of high explosives and 30,000 incendiaries pummelled the West End, as it had many times before. With British anti-aircraft batteries positioned in the parks unleashing volleys of flack, many German bombers flew outside their range at 20,000 feet (with some pressurised to fly higher), therefore the chance of a bomb hitting its target was slim. But this bombing campaign was no longer about precision, it was about maximum casualties. At roughly the same time that Ken instructed his band to play the opening bars of the Andrews Sisters' hit ‘Oh, Johnny’, a squadron of Heinkel HE 111’s had loomed over the blacked-out gloom of Piccadilly. As many bombs exploded across Regent Street, Shaftesbury Avenue and Haymarket, two hit Coventry Street. Dropped from high-up in the troposphere, two SC50 fifty-kilo high-explosive bombs fell at a rate of 400 feet-per-second. Being 110cm long and 20.3cm wide, to aid its direction and flight, as air rushes across its spiralled fins, this forced the projectile into a fast rotation causing it to nose-dive. So, as it gained speed, it hit the ground at maximum velocity, detonating the explosive warhead in its tip. By chance, these two bombs missed the glass roof of the Rialto Cinema. They missed stone and steel structure of the building above. And they both missed the concrete reinformed ceiling of the club. But being in a basement, with no windows and few doors to expel the noxious gases from the kitchen and to supply the customers with fresh-air, the club was fitted with one-metre-wide ventilation shafts. Had the bombs fallen flat, they would only have damaged the roof of the empty cinema, as many of them had. But falling tip-first, scoring an almost impossible bullseye into two different vents, both bombs flew straight down the four floors of the ventilation shaft and landed in the packed club below. Thankfully, one bomb hit the dance floor and failed to explode... but the other did not. In a blinding blue flash, a bomb exploded in the gallery directly above the band. Packed with 23 kilos of TNT, its steel shell shattered, firing hundreds of hot dense fragments in every direction, piercing anything in its path; whether glass or brick, bone or flesh. Eighty people were injured, many seriously. Survivors told the press of cuts, burns and broken bones, but many stories were too grim to be shared; one patron witnessed her lover’s back blown out as they sat eating supper, one saw a lady in a green dress sat at the bar, a champagne in hand, too shocked to realise that her other arm was blown-off, and a rescuer tripped over a dead girl’s head, only to see her decapitated body still sitting in a chair. Thirty people died, including the club’s owner Martin Poulsen, the head waiter, several staff and diners, and the band’s saxophonist Dave ‘Baba’ Williams, as well as the band-leader himself Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson. Being at the front of the stage, entertaining the crowd with his mesmeric hips and fluid dance style, as the bomb ignited, from his shoulders down, his lithe body was cut in half by the blast. The band's guitarist Joe Deniz later stated: “the next thing I remember was being in a small ambulance, as bombs lit up Dean Street. Then someone came to me and said: ‘Ken's dead’. It broke me up”. (End) The rescue was hampered by confusion, so as civilians and off-duty medics fought to save lives - in this so-called golden era, where you could leave your doors open - the looters descended. Nabbing purses, swiping bottles, filching the pockets of the dying, and cutting off fingers to steal their rings of the dead. The Westminster ARP declared the incident as closed at 11pm, civil engineers declared the structure as unsafe, and – being closed - Café de Paris wouldn’t re-open its doors for another seven years. The next day, Gerald Hamilton, Ken’s lover was informed of his death and was asked to identify the body at the Westminster Mortuary. Oddly, although Ken had been decapitated, most of his body was unmarked, parts of his suit were still white, and even his little flower in his button-hole was untouched. Ken’s funeral was held on 14th March 1941 at Golders Green crematorium with his ashes placed in the chapel of the Sir William Borlase's Grammar, where he went to school. For the rest of his life, Gerald kept a picture of Ken in his tuxedo, with him at all times, and called him “my husband" until his death. There was a huge out-pouring of love in the press, Melody Maker paid endless homage to Ken in the weeks after his death, and – albeit belatedly – the BBC broadcast a memorial one year later. But being too devastated, traumatised and (in many cases) injured, the band broke up and never played again. The impact that Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson had on swing, the innovation of sound and the elevation of black talent can never be understated, but given that he was only 26-years-old when he tragically died, this begs the question; what could he have achieved had he missed his death by mere minutes? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if your favourite part of the show isn’t the bit which takes days to research, write and edit, but the pointless bit where a fat bald man talks crap and makes a tea, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case, a little quiz and a treat in Extra Mile. But before that here’s a little promo. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Gaz Porter and Phelps Boyce, I thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. You get access to lots of exclusive goodies, plus you get to hear to episode of Walk With Me where I get attacked by a horse-fly. Ooh, exciting. Plus, if you liked this story and you want to learn more about Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson, check-out the Soho Bytes podcast starring the lovely Dom DeLarge. It’s an excellent podcast for fans of classic movies and local history. He’s also a jolly nice chap to share a pint with. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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