Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-THREE:
This is 19 Gloucester Avenue (formerly Gloucester Road), Regent’s Park, NW1. Back in 1935, this building was split into three self-contained flats; with a stage manager in the basement, an artist on the first floor and the top two floors owned by single woman, Ms Riley. Feeling lonely in this spacious flat, for three weeks, Louise (her house-sitter) was accompanied by her 20-year old daughter Maxine and Maxine’s boyfriend, 28-year-old Alan Grierson. The morning of Saturday 22nd June 1935 had started much the same as any other. They’d had a cup of tea, a cooked breakfast, and – as Maxine and Alan headed off to work – they had agreed to meet later, to head off on a romantic weekend away in Torquay, as Louise stayed in, to house-it. It was very much an ordinary day… only Louise’s fateful decision to stay behind, would lead to her murder… …and it was all because of a spoiled little brat.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop in the north-east corner of Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4200901 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1352094 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4166199 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4166200
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Gloucester Avenue, near Regent’s Park NW1; one street north-east of the bloody killing by the grieving elephant keeper, four doors down from the first possible victim of the Blackout Ripper, one street north-west of the posed body of Gladys ‘Rene’ Hanrahan, and - as an unnervingly similar case in almost that same place - another body would be found - coming soon to Murder Mile. Regent’s Park is a lovely place to rest, relax and read a book. Or it should be, only swarms of piss-poor parents always unleash their shitting spitting little seeds of Satan onto this tranquil idyll, as their over-sugared sexcrement screams “I want, I want, waaaah” as it attempts to stamp to death the park’s wildlife population like veritable a Pol Pot of pigeons. And should anyone dare to chastise said sprog - through a 3pm haze of Valium and vodka – the parent always says “oh leave him, he’s just having fun”. Brats; they cry, they crap, and if you’d bought one in a shop - thinking it’s faulty - you’d take it back. For the first four years of a child’s life, when its personality is forming, it spends most of its time with its parent; listening and learning. If a child turns out to be polite, kind and decent, the parent has every right to proclaim - “oh yes, it’s all down to good parenting, you see?” - as they’ve done the hard work. And yet, should their child - who was born a blank canvas onto which the parent’s morals are projected – should their little angel spawn from a devil in a diaper to a schoolyard Stalin, too often its parent will blame sugar, video-games or music (the bogeymen of each era). Good parents raise good children. But do they? Or, is there much more to be considered? I’m going to tell you a story about a spoiled little brat, a young lad called Alan who was born healthy, raised well and - living a nice life to good parents in a decent family – he had no reason to turn bad. He didn’t suffer with any diseases, poverty, abuse or trauma. So, with no reason to do any wrong, his life should have gone well. But burdened with a sense of privilege, self-entitlement, and arrogance, he had become so fixated on doing what HE wanted, that he would murder a woman in his way. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 193: A Spoiled Brat. Parenting is unlike any other job. To do it; you don’t need a licence, qualifications or training; many parents are thrown-in at the deep-end with no knowledge of whether they will sink or swim; and although most get it right, some get it wrong, and - for a few - a little mistake can turn into tragedy. The morning of Saturday 22nd June 1935 had succeeded a surprisingly sticky night, as a mini-heatwave had gripped the city. At a little after 7am, the residents of 19 Gloucester Road (or Gloucester Avenue as it was later renamed) began to slowly stir from an interrupted slumber after a rough night’s sleep. As a sandstone terraced house on a quiet street, 19 Gloucester Road was a nice place to live. Split into flats; John Moody, a stage manager had the basement; an artist called Gillian Pyall had the first; and Dorothy Riley, a single woman of independent means owned the second and third floors to the top. At 7:30am, in the master bedroom on the third floor, 20-year-old Maxine Gann awoke and headed to the kitchen to make her still sleeping mother a cup of tea, as they were housesitting for Ms Riley. As a slim pretty brunette who the young men flocked to with big grins and bulging pants, although she dreamed of meeting Mr Right - as Maxine was still too naïve to bag a keeper - she lived in Shepherd’s Bush with her dad Stanley, and her short but rather formidable mother, 63-year-old Louise Gann. With her mother snoring, Maxine put a cuppa by the bed and headed down to Ms Riley’s bedroom. Being decorated in all manner of frippery - like lace doilies, delicate trinkets, silver jewellery and a slew of porcelain oddments (with far too many shaped like cats) – her ‘boyfriend’, 28-year-old Alan Grierson looked silly sleeping among this sea of old lady’s finery, but no matter what, she always loved him. Popping on his dark horn-rimmed glasses to absorb her beauty, in a well-mannered voice Alan cooed “good morning Mickey, my sweet” and the two pressed lips, both their cheeks flushed in tandem. Being so deeply smitten after four months together, just four months from this point, Alan & Maxine would be days away from marrying, as this loving young couple prepared for a life-time together. At 8am, over a cooked-breakfast, the two savoured this time together in a posh flat surrounded by all the mod-cons - it was a mirror of how their future could be. And with Maxine in her shop assistant’s uniform, and Alan in a smart blue suit, black shoes and a bright red tie - as a salesman for a prestigious car firm on Great Portland Street - it would be a lot of hard graft, but it would be worth it in the end. At 8:30am, as mother slept soundly, Maxine left 19 Gloucester Road. Having agreed to meet Alan later - to take her on a romantic trip to the seaside town of Torquay - from the landing, he softly whispered “see you at 1:20pm my love” – and the last thing she saw was her lover waving her goodbye. It began as a normal day. It ended with her world destroyed… …and it was all in the name of love, and spite. From 1907 onwards, Alan James Grierson had a blessed upbringing. Born in Shirley, on the north side of Southampton, he was raised in a spacious penthouse flat at 12 Brunswick Terrace overlooking East Park. As the son of Hugh, a prominent solicitor and Emma, a solicitor’s wife; Alan was the youngest of two, whose every whim was cared for by Lucy, a live-in servant. As a privileged boy, he never without… …except, maybe for love. Little is known about his upbringing, so it’s uncertain whether he was ruled with an iron rod, pampered like a preening prince, or was molly-coddled with too much love and not enough oxygen. Undeniably, he had been raised to be well-mannered, cultured and polite. And yet, he was also a spoiled little brat. Growing up, Alan easily fitted the mould of 1920s middle-class gent’; dressed in smart dark suits, bright ties and adopting the slicked-back black hair and horn-rimmed glasses like the silent movie-star Harold Lloyd, Alan had the smooth pale skin of a man who had never done a hard day’s work in his life, and the plummy voice and the slow deliberate gait of a man of leisure, who had not a worry in the world. Alan cared for no-one but himself. From a young age, he stole from his own home to fund his lifestyle. Everything he did was about his wants, his needs and he didn’t care who got hurt in his quest for cash. With no history of criminality, sickness or insanity in the family, he was only injured twice in his life; aged 8, he was briefly being knocked unconscious by a cricket ball, and aged 18, he fell off a motorbike and ended up with a two-inch scar to his skull. Since then, he has felt “perfectly fine” with no ill effects. But what would make a well-manner boy from good home and a private school, go bad? Aged 19, having been released from prison for a string of petty thefts, on 23rd June 1927, his father packed his only son off onboard of the SS Barrabool, a passenger ship bound for Melbourne, Australia. With a small allowance to set-up this ‘family embarrassment’ as far away as possible, Alan arrived all alone, having been banished to an unfamiliar land. It could have been the fresh start that he needed? Only being too lazy to work and too greedy to go straight – after another string of offences – on 11th April 1930, Alan was convicted of four cases of ‘fraud’ and he was sentenced to four years in prison. Released again in 1934, and - with no plans to ‘do the decent thing’ or to think of anyone but himself - he sailed back to Britain, hunkered down in a lodging and continued his life of petty crime in London. On 4th March 1935 at West London Police Court, 28-year-old Alan Grierson, an unemployed ‘clerk’ was sentenced to one month in prison for stealing postal orders. Released on the 1st of April, once again, he was back where he had begun; he was broke, jobless, homeless and an ex-con out on probation. Born with big dreams, Alan wanted everything his life could offer (a lavish home, a fast car, a full bank account and a beautiful wife who loved him without question). And yet, through his own selfishness, Alan had nothing, as this petty little thief had been disowned by every loved one he had stolen from. Three weeks later, Alan Grierson would meet Maxine Gann… …and yet, their undying love would lead to murder. On Saturday 20th April 1935, in a club in Hammersmith, Alan and Maxine met for the very first time and fell in love. For him; she was sweet, pretty, petite and the epitome of the woman of his dreams. For her; he was charming, kind and handsome. But being naïve, she swallowed the story he span about being an ambitious solicitor’s son from a good home, and avoided the less palatable truth of his past. Across the following months - constantly kissing, making her laugh and with her dashing beau forever wooing her with poetry and a tune on his ukulele - Maxine had fallen for Alan, like she had plummeted from the sky. In her eyes, he could do no wrong, as the world unfairly smited their blissful dreams. As Alan struggled to find work - having promised to marry her by her 21st birthday, a few months away - although Maxine was far from wealthy; a badly paid shop-assistant whose mother was a housewife and father was a struggling oyster merchant – out of love; she loaned him money, she gave him hope, she praised his ambitions and – as he had nowhere to live – she would find him a place to stay. Taking a well-earned holiday in Scotland, Ms Riley, the owner of the top-two floors of 19 Gloucester Road near Regent’s Park had entrusted her home to her old friend Louise Gann. Moving in on 2nd June, 63-year-old Louise, known as Bertha was the perfect house-sitter, and – feeling a little lonely – rattling around this grand flat all by herself, she invited Maxine to join her, and later, her daughter’s boyfriend. They would live together for the next three weeks … …but although Maxine loved him blindly, Louise had concerns. Over meals, they sat like a happy little family; the lovers gazing all gooey-eyed and giggling, too full of lust to finish their food, as Louise - short but sturdy at barely 4 foot and 11 inches – smiled politely but said nothing, as her eyes gave a withering look of disapproval. Alan was not the first boyfriend Maxine had brought back, and she hoped he wouldn’t be the last, as she didn’t trust him… and rightly so. Alan’s search for work was always fruitless; a ludicrously long drive up to Manchester to find a job he could acquire in London, followed by a slow drudge back, a whole day wasted and a tank of fuel spent, all funded by yet another loan from Maxine which he always promised to pay back, but didn’t. Alan wanted everything in his dreams; only without the long hours, hard effort or miniscule wage. The answer was staring him in the face. On his first night at 19 Gloucester Road, with Maxine & Louise sharing a bed on the third-floor, and – keen to keep the creeping feet and hanky-panky at bay - Alan was consigned to Ms Riley’s room on the second floor. As a sickening mix of pink lacy chintz, it should have made him wince to bed-down amidst this haberdasher’s orgasm. But it didn’t, it made him drool. Like a child in a chocolate shop, with no money, but quick hands and fast feet, Alan returned to default. Inside a mahogany box lay Ms Riley’s jewellery; consisting of seven gold rings, two gold watches, an assortment of gold bracelets, chains, tie pins, pendants, brooches, lockets and a silver crucifix. They were special to her and cherished. But to him, as she had loads, he didn’t think she’s miss one or two? Four days later, at Jay, Richard Attenborough & Co at 142 Oxford Street, Alan pawned for £5; a gold enamel brooch, a diamond and gem-stone brooch, and a hare diamond and gem-stone ring. With the seller’s slip signed using the name Mr J Hoskisson, a builder who had given him work when he needed it most. £5 was the equivalent of two weeks wage for a man who worked for a living in 1935. As Alan didn’t and his windfall made no sense, Louise went looking and her eagle-eyes spotted the open jewellery box and the missing items, taken from this self-contained flat with only three people living in it. Feeling shamed (mostly for being caught rather than regretting his actions) Alan sent Maxine & Louise a written apology begging ‘Forgive me, Alan’, he enclosed the pawn tickets and Alan’s patent pending ‘cast-iron promise’ that he would get the jewellery back. As always, naively Maxine believed him, just as she believed he would pay back the money she had loaned him. And although, Louise was not best pleased – as her withering glace would testify – at Maxine’s request, he was let back into the house. A little after midnight on 10th June, clutching a little posy for his sweetheart and a box of chocolates for her mum, Alan (who was homeless) skulked back into 19 Gloucester Road with his head hung low. Declaring this little theft as a minor aberration, a one-off moment of sheer madness by a good lad driven to desperation by poverty and shame, a tearful Alan sobbed as he swore on his mother’s life (albeit having not seen or contacted her in years) that he would never steal anything ever again. Returning to the pink chintzy warmth of Ms Riley’s room, Alan slept soundly that night. His mission was clear; to apologise to Louise and to prove his love for Maxine, he would redeem the jewellery… …but first, he needed money. On Thursday 13th June, having dressed in his one best suit, Alan returned home with a little something to celebrate. Having aced the interview, as of Monday, he would begin his career as a salesman for HC Paul, a respected motor firm at 90-92 Great Portland Street. On a decent salary, with his first week’s wage packet in advance, he made a promise to give them £1 each of the £7 they had loaned him, to redeem the jewellery with the second week’s wage, and by the Monday, he was as good as his word. Given a fresh start, Maxine saw only the good in Alan, and to Louise, he seemed like he was trying. He left for work at 9am Mondays to Fridays, and with his wage he treated his girlfriend like a princess. It all seemed to be going well. Too well maybe? And that’s because a spoiled brat will always be a spoiled brat; the gifts were a ruse, the money was stolen, the promise was lost and the job was a lie. As only a two-bedroomed flat, Alan remained in within the temptation of Ms Riley’s room. With the mahogany box now locked by Louise, she didn’t think for a second that he knew how to break in. But he had. On the 17th June, he pawned; a mix of old gold for £1 at A Forsythe in Victoria; a gold locket for £4 and 5s at Sanders in Camden Town; a gold, diamond and emerald cluster ring for £4 at Wallis Davis & Sons, WC1; and each time giving a new alias - A Williamson, Mrs Rauley and even Mrs Gann. But burning through money like he burned through truth, before he knew it, the spoiled brat was broke. Dressed in new suits, quaffing rich foods and glugging fine wines, his fictional wage simply couldn’t cope with his expensive tastes. Up to his eyes in loans and driving a car he had gained through Hire Purchase, this was not his greatest expense, as the couple were already perusing the wedding shops. Alan wanted it all – his dream was so close he could taste it - but needing a stash of quick cash and an easy way to cover his tracks as the mahogany box was almost empty, what he needed was a plan… …and a distraction. On Thursday 20th June, Alan (the kind lad with the good intentions) said he had to drive to the seaside town of Torquay as part of his job, and he wanted to treat Maxine & Louise to a weekend by the beach. The weather was great, a heatwave was looming, and who wouldn’t want to escape a hot city? His plan was simple; meet the ladies somewhere local like Oxford Circus, at a time which meant they’d be at least 30 minutes from the house. Using the spare-key he had swiped earlier, he’d quietly ransack each room, leaving a window or door open as if Louise had made an honest mistake, and meeting them at a time and place as planned, he would take them both to Torquay with the loot stashed in the boot. After a lovely weekend of sand-castles and ice-cream, all three would return to the flat, and seeing the devastation he would share their look of shock as everything of value (including the bits he had already pawned) were gone, and not a single witness anywhere in this building had seen the culprit. In Alan’s eyes, his burglary would be a work of brilliance; a plan, a distraction, and an alibi-to-boot. Having got time off work, Maxine was all ready to go. But being a decent woman, who had promised Ms Riley she would house-sit her home. 63-year-old Louise Bertha Gann declined his offer… …and with that, she had unwittingly signed her own death warrant. The morning of Saturday 22nd June was succeeded by a surprisingly sticky night, as the heatwave had left Louise too tired to get out of bed, so Maxine made her a cup of tea - unaware it would be her last. Excited for the day ahead, a half days work followed by a weekend away, Maxine carried a cuppa into her beau who slept in a pink blanket among a sea of porcelain cats and a now empty mahogany box. Popping on his horn-rimmed glasses, he cooed “good morning Mickey, my sweet” as the two soon-to-be newly-weds pressed lips and blushed bright red. Only their happiness could come at a great price. At 8:30am, after a cooked-breakfast, dressed in her uniform, Maxine looked up the stairs to see Alan – wearing his blue suit and red tie, for a job which didn’t exist – standing on the landing, he softly whispered “see you at 1:20pm my love” - and the last thing she saw was her lover waving her goodbye. With Maxine gone and Louise fast asleep, his brilliant plan to burgle the flat would only need a little tweak. It was simple, as long as he was quiet, no-one would be any the wiser… (creaking floorboard) …but nothing ever goes to plan. Being giddy with glee and as excited as a kid about to lick an ice-lolly, 20-year-old Maxine Gann waited patiently at Oxford Circus for the man she would marry to whisk her away on a sun-kissed trip for two. But by 1:40pm, as Alan hadn’t arrived, she phoned the flat but got no reply. By 2pm, she arrived back at 19 Gloucester Road to find the main door open but the flat door locked. Using a neighbour’s phone she called Alan’s employer, but no-one had heard of him. Growing concerned, at 3pm, she requested the help of Frederick Summers at Bucknell’s, and he forced open the door on the second-floor landing. Maxine would recall “the place was in a terrible state”; drawers were open, cupboards were emptied and everything had been ransacked. Inside the third-floor bedroom, she found a suitcase on the table which was half-filled with stolen items; jewellery, silver jugs and a cash box, anything easily saleable. And beside the door – dressed in a blue coat and black shoes, as if she was going out – lay her mother. Collapsed and unconscious, a bloodied flat-iron lay nearby, this one kilo-cast-iron weight was matted with her bloodied hair, having been used by the burglar – who was missing - to bash in her skull. Having never regained consciousness, at 9:35pm the next day, Louise Gann died of her injuries. (End) The investigation was simple - with a history of theft, the pawned items signed for in his handwriting, his fingerprints on the stolen items as well as the flat-iron, and having vanished without trace - the police issued Alan’s description in the papers and on Sunday 30th June. he was easily apprehended. Being too arrogant to adopt a disguise, while lodging in the home of Mrs Ellen Church of 8 Beech Road in Weybridge and using the worst alias ever –that being Ian McIan – wearing the same suit and staring at a photo of himself, he engaged in a conversation about himself and the murder he was wanted for. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 10th September 1935, although he professed his innocence even against overwhelming evidence, eight day later, having deliberated for 25 minutes, the jury found him guilty. It was proven without a shadow of doubt that Alan Grierson was guilty of the murder of Louise Gann. Everyone had accepted it as a fact. Everyone… except Maxine, who was so blinded by her love for the man who had bludgeoned her own mother to death; that she wrote him love letters in prison, she set-up a petition to pardon him, and – having taken his hand in marriage – she had agreed to be his wife. They were due to marry on 30th October 1935, the day of her 21st birthday. But with his reprieve being denied, at 9am, he was hung by his neck at Pentonville Prison. Dressed in black, when his death was announced, she placed a bouquet of violets at the prison gates with a note: ‘To my Alan, from Maxine”. Alan Grierson was buried in Pentonville Prison. Two years later, being gripped with an uncontrollable grief, Maxine took her own life, having died by suicide. And it was all for the love… of a spoiled brat. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Lover's Walk in Hyde Park
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 NINETY-TWO:
Just shy of midnight on Wednesday 26th August 1942, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk sat 44-year-old Gladys Wilson and her lover Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz of the Polish Army. Both being married to others who the war had split apart, neither Glady nor Ronnie had planned to have affairs, as like so many others, they were just seeking a little affection during a turbulent time of loss and grief. After ten days of romance, being sat holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, for him their love was forever… in both life and death. Found after her death, Gladys had written nine truly tragic words in her diary. The first four of which were “I love him, but…”. The question was, but what?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop near the words 'The Serpentine'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. MEPO 3/2234 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258017
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Lover’s Walk in Hyde Park, W2; one street west of the last sighting alive of Ruby Bolton, a short walk south-west of the last night of fun by the bloody butler, one gate down from the suicide and murder of former lovers Julia Mangan & Robert Williams, and in another odd mirror of both tragic cases, the death pact of the couple who failed to see - coming soon to Murder Mile. As an ill-defined bridle way off the main walkway around the eastern edge of Hyde Park, it’s strange that a place so littered with death is still called Lover’s Walk. And yet, this is where they stroll. You’ll see all types of couples here; whether it’s the old ones sweetly holding hands, the young ones sucking face, the new ones bonking and banging their bits together like they’ll win a prize if they erase each other’s genitals, and then there’s the ones with sprogs; who look as ravaged as a Guantanamo Bay prisoner - having been waterboarded by urine, tortured by a tiny tot with lungs like a pig with piles, and imprisoned in a Peppa Pig covered hell - who will confess to (literally) anything in return for five minute nap, a half pint with a pal and a conversation which doesn’t involve stains, fluids or orifices. For love to last, it needs to be built on a strong foundation of trust, time and friendship. Sadly, too many loves are doomed to failure, as being too hasty to believe that they’ve met ‘the one’, and fearing that – if they don’t get hitched this second – their lover for life will leave them forever, so many relationships end in break-ups, separations and divorces, and occasionally they end in death. Just shy of midnight on Wednesday 26th August 1942, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk sat 44-year-old Gladys Wilson and her lover 28-year-old Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz. Both being married to others who the war had split apart, neither Gladys nor Ronnie had planned to have affairs, as like so many others, they were just seeking a little affection during a turbulent time of loss and grief. After ten days of romance, being sat on a bench holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, for him their love was to last forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 192: “I love him, but…” To many, it may seem easy to condemn these two as nothing but common cheats, a morally loose pair of lascivious lushes who slipped their marital vows before God as easily as they slipped into a seedy bed of lust to fondle and fornicate. But this is not a story about a tawdry affair, this is a tale about two good people, lost amidst the horrors of war, who – like so many others – were simply seeking affection. Gladys Maud Pearson was born in and around Fulham in 1898. She would live to the age of forty-four, but blessed with an ageless face, old-fashioned morals and a youthful heart, the newspapers stated she was somewhere between thirty and fifty – which may have made her bristle, blush or chuckle. The first decades of the twentieth century were a time of hardship and grief, as the world was hit by an onslaught of tragedy; First World War, Spanish Flu, Influenza and the Great Depression had left billions broke, lost and bereft; with their lives only held together by the strength of their family’s love. The Pearson’s were one such family hit hard by grief, as with her mother Maud left a grieving widow with two young children to feed, Gladys and her younger brother Cyril were raised in the middle-class affluence of Kingston with Uncle William and Auntie Kate, as her mother struggled to cope alone. Tragedy aside, their childhood was loving. So, it’s no surprise that Gladys sought out any hint of affection, worried that any love she was given could easily be her last. Gladys was a woman who loved to be loved - and who doesn’t. And although remarkably youthful, she was as ordinary as most; with a slim build, short brown hair and pale skin; she had lips that longed to be kissed, a hand which ached to be held, and a set of chestnut eyes which cried out for a special someone to mend her broken heart. Keen to rebuild her life and to find love again, in 1916, her mother Maud married William Crawley, a respected wool merchant who was good, decent and kind. They lived in a little flat at 58 Margravine Gardens in Baron’s Court and they remained together until their deaths in their seventies and eighties. According to those who knew her, Gladys was a solid woman; she was reliable and caring, she was warm and big-hearted, a woman who needed to be loved and to love those who needed to be loved. As an average woman with an ordinary life, we know little of her circumstance before the day it ended. Married in her early twenties, Gladys Wilson (as she became) found happiness with a man she loved and together in a cosy home they had a son who they nicknamed Budge. Life was simple but good. As a romantic, throughout her life, Glady kept a diary in which she jotted down everything; from those most wonderous moments which made her the woman she was (her marriage, her son, their home), to her most intimate of thoughts; whether her fears and foibles, issues or aches, loves or losses. Being so private, she wasn’t one to gossip about her worries, but in her diary, she would spill her heart. On Tuesday 25th August 1942, the day before she died, in her diary she would commit to paper some of the most heart-breaking and tragic words this woman would ever write, unaware that it would be some of her last. It was a simple sentence composed of just nine words, the first four of which were… “I love him, but…” September 1939 saw the start of a war which ripped loved ones apart in a way which never been seen on that scale before. The Second World War was a global conflict which wouldn’t leave a single family untouched by grief, displaced by tyranny, bombed to oblivion, evacuated for safety or ordered to fight. For Gladys, as with so many wives and mothers, with her loving husband and her only child conscripted and shipped overseas, she had gone from being a woman of purpose, to being a lost lone lady rattling around an empty house with no-one to care for. As if she was already bereaved, this once bustling home of her beloved family now hung with the eerie ghosts of their presence; their photographs, their clothes, and even their smell. Only now, this woman who loved to be loved was all alone. With a phone call from overseas nigh-on-impossible – even just to hear their voices or be assured they were alive - she felt blessed if she received a letter-a-week, or (held up or lost by conflict) as a bunch every few months. But as the war dragged on from a skirmish it was said would be done by Christmas to a fight with no end in sight, Gladys did as most women did, and knuckled down to her life and work. In 1940, she moved in with her mother and step-father in their little lodging at 58 Margravine Gardens in Baron’s Court, and being conscripted into the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry (renamed the Women’s Transport Service) - as a skilled truck-driver and motorbike rider - Gladys served her country shuttling the injured on the front-lines of North France, Norway and (as a key defensive position) East Scotland. With her beloved boys far from home, the war had proven a distraction from the gaping hole in Gladys' heart. Being so busy, she had little time to mourn the two men in her life she never knew if she would ever see again soon. Work had given her purpose and focus. But what she needed most… …was a little affection. Thanks to the stories we’ve been told, we have a rose-tinted view of how the soldiers who fought and their sweethearts back home held each other’s pictures to their hearts and remained forever faithful. The war pushed ordinary people to the brink, not just of their safety and sanity, but also of their love. By 1942, three years into the war, Britain had taken a turn for the worst; as the Luftwaffe’s bombers ravaged our skies, Nazi hoards perched on the shores, and so thick and fast were our losses that even Dunkirk would be rewritten forever as a success of our British pluck, rather than a failure of our forces. The people were rightfully in fear, as – with no end in sight, the dead mounting and fresh meat being forced into the grinder - those whose anthem claimed “we shall never be slaves”, looked likely to lose. Before war had begun, even as it loomed, the people needed hope and love. In the first few months, the marriage rate in Britain skyrocketed by 250%; with many marrying those they barely knew, to fulfil a dream before they died, and with some even getting wed and having a baby to avoid conscription. Marriage requires a strong foundation to survive so many months or even years apart, but having hastily committed to a life of love with a stranger they were little more than smitten by; in 1939 the divorce rate was one-in-six, by 1946, the first year after the end of the war, it had risen to one-in-four. In terms of statistics, the interwar years were chaotic. Owing to the mass slaughter, 1941-42 was the only year this century where the death rates outweighed the birth-rate. And as the war escalated, so did the birth rate. But with so many parents widowed and too many marriages over - the greatest victim of this rush for to find love was the children – as by 1946, adoption had risen and peaked. It’s impossible to say how many children were put up for adoption, having been born out-of-wedlock or made by mistake as a brief dalliance between two lonely strangers who were looking for affection. But this is not to shame them, as what happened-happened. In the turbulent time of war as everyone drowned in a sea of misery and death, the only antidote was love. For some, it was sex. But for others, it was those special things they missed; a little kiss, a warm hug, a lingering smile or holding hands. Gladys & Ronnie were just two regular people, married to others but parted by the war, who found love in each other’s arms, and who knew – when all this was over – it would never be spoken of again. But what began as a bit of fun, a little kissing to soothe a broken heart, soon blossomed into a love that they could no longer control. So besotted was Ronnie, that she became his one-true-love. So smitten was Gladys, that in her diary, she would write four words about the man she had fallen for. “I love him, but…” Ronauld Kurasz was a 28-year-old Second Lieutenant in the Polish Army Corps. With his homeland smashed and its military shattered within the first month of the war by dual invasion by Germany and Russia, as millions were displaced, 80,000 men went into exile and reformed the 1st Polish Corps. Formed in September 1940, 14,500 soldiers comprising of two Rifle Brigades, an Armoured division and a parachute unit were there to protect a 200-kilometre stretch of Scottish shore between the Firth of Forth (north of Edinburgh) to Montrose (south of Aberdeen) as Norway had fallen to the Nazis. Having built sea-defences and gun batteries to repel an invasion, the 1st Polish Corp were billeted in the small town of Cupar in Fife, which – for the next few years – would become their temporary home. For Second Lieutenant Kurasz, known as Ronnie, as welcoming as the locals were to these visitors from a foreign land, their kindness could never fully erase the losses they felt; of the country they had lost, of the lives they had left behind, and of the friends and families they may never see or hear from again. Through the fate of being a soldier, Ronnie had survived. But being ordinary civilians, he had no idea if his wife or children had lived. With millions displaced and dead, he had no way to contact them and no knowledge if they knew where he was, in an unwinnable war which the Allies were losing. Three years had passed in a flash, but to those still grieving, it felt like a lifetime. Cupar was a nice place, it was safe and friendly. To make these lost souls feel at home; Polish delicacies were cooked, strong beer was never in short supply, and – as a reminder of the land they were fighting for –from the tower of the Corn Exchange, each day a bugler played the St Mary’s Call of Krakow, in tribute to a lone sentry who while sounding the invasion alarm in 1241… was killed mid-note. As welcoming as the town was, Ronnie struggled to survive in this strange land so far from home. His work had kept him busy and his friends had made him smile, but what he missed most… …was love. As an ambulance driver for the Women’s Transport Service, it was sheer coincidence that Gladys was billeted at Lodge No 19 at 72 Bonnygate in Cupar, barely half a mile from Ronnie’s barracks. With her diary lost to the midst of time, we will never know how Ronnie & Gladys met. Perhaps having been injured – as a mix of Florence Nightingale and Stirling Moss – maybe Gladys had rescued Ronnie and the two got chatting over some surgical swabs and the smell of iodine? As enlisted soldiers, maybe they shared a kiss being hunkered down in a bunker on manoeuvres? Or maybe, needing to kick off their boots after a hard day at work, these two lonely people caught each other’s eyes over a pint? It began as a friendship, two lovers with heavy hearts finding solace in each other’s company. Being an easy remedy to their grief and a distraction from their pain, all they wanted was to feel loved again. To neither Gladys nor Ronnie, it wouldn’t have seemed like they were engaged in an illicit affair, as all they were doing was chatting, smiling and laughing - the simple things which a being with a beating heart needs to survive. And maybe, having taken a long walk in the dunes, holding hands and sharing a long lingering silence as the waves broke, they kissed for the first time… and knew they were in love? It was wrong and they would have known it. But being so many miles and years apart from their loved ones, although absence makes the heart grow fonder, it’s hard to love a memory as it fades every day. It’s unlikely it was planned this way, but before they knew it, they were in love… …only this was a love which they knew would never last. (Whisper) “I love him, but…” June 1942. The outcome of the war hung on a knife-edge; as the Battle of Midway had proved a turning point in the Pacific, Tobruk was captured in a defeat that Churchill called a “disgrace”, and the first reports had filtered back that gas was being used in concentration camps to exterminate the Jews. Horror was everywhere, but for Ronnie & Gladys, their hearts were broken for reasons closer to home. Gladys was no longer an ambulance driver based in Cupar, she had been requisitioned back to London. London was her home, Cupar was his, and with both ordered to serve their country as and when their superiors decreed, the war had ripped them from their loved one once before, and now, it had again. Being 420 miles apart, with a limited train network and issued only a few days leave a year, they saw each other as often as they could, but with the long distance taking up a full day, it was never enough. To fill the void of loss and loneliness, they wrote as often as they could; but even a scented envelope, a wallet-sized snapshot and a few handwritten pages of words of longing and dreams of what may be, could never repair the new hole which had ripped in their hearts, as their memories grew distant. It’s uncertain why – whether an order or an opportunity – Gladys applied for a job in the Mechanised Transport Corps. In need of skilled drivers, the MTC drove dignitaries of foreign and British agencies, they shuttled SOE agents to airfields, and – as Gladys had done – they drove ambulances into war-zones. Only this time in Syria, Egypt and Palestine, where Gladys’ husband and son were based. Once again, for this brave and selfless woman, it was a chance to serve her country and rekindle her life with the loved ones she had lost so long ago. Having been successful in her interview, Gladys would initially be posted to the northern city of Leeds, with her attachment beginning at the end of August. On Friday 15st August 1942, issued a 72-hour leave pass to see his beloved in London, Ronnie booked a room at a boarding house at 13 Colosseum Terrace, to the side of Baker Street and Regent’s Park. Across this long weekend of love, they packed in as much as any couple could; they dined over candle-lit dinners, they took in a West End show and walked hand-in-hand seeing the sights, but unable to take their eyes off each other, as the two lovers shared a moment, they knew it was for one last time. With his 72-hour leave almost up, Sunday 17th August was to be their last day together, but unable to part, Ronnie did the unthinkable and – risking two years in prison – he went Absent Without Leave. Classed as a criminal and with his career in jeopardy, this secret couple who had signed in under the assumed name of Mr & Mrs Kurasz, laid low, kept quiet and spent as much time in each other’s arms, knowing that – like the sands inside an hour-glass –their brief relationship too was coming to an end. On Sunday 23rd, one week before she was due to start her new job, Ronnie met Gladys’ mother; they chatted over tea and cake, although it is uncertain if Gladys introduced him as a ‘friend’ or ‘boyfriend’. With their time almost up and their savings spent, on Tuesday 25th August, Gladys & Ronnie checked out of the boarding house by Regent’s Park. Later found upon their person, they had both written passages in their diaries that day. Although only part of it was found, Ronnie’s was tragic and paranoid. It read; “We are absolutely two broken people. She give up always everything for me, also her life”. Whereas Gladys’ last entry in her diary addressed to her mum was less of a suicide note, but was more of a last will and testament, which spoke of the fears she could never say in words. It read: “To my mother. Just in case anything happens to me today, Ronnie is still here. He should have returned yesterday, but says he cannot live without me in the awful place where his regiment is. I hope everything will be alright. But Ronnie is in a terrible state about going back. We have had a wonderful leave together. He threatens all the time to kill himself and me”. And following her tragic premonition, she wrote the most heart-breaking words this lonely woman would ever write. “I love him, but… I don’t want to die”. On Wednesday 26th August 1942, just before midnight, Ronnie & Gladys walked – as many couples do – along the tree-lined seclusion of Lover’s Walk in Hyde Park. With her bags packed, her lodging booked and new job awaiting her in Leeds, she had told her mother “I won’t be late”. But she was. After ten days of romance, being sat holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, a little affection to repair her lonely heart. For him, their love was to last forever, as this would be their last goodbye. (Two shots, then one shot - END). Hearing the shots, at roughly 11:40pm, PCs Heath & Gillespie were on duty in Hyde Park when they heard three shots and ran in the direction. 100 yards west of Stanhope Gate, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk, they found a uniformed soldier and a woman in her civvies, collapsed and bleeding. With two bullet wounds to her left temple, one behind his right ear and an Army-issue Smith & Wesson .38 calibre revolver in his right hand with three of the six rounds spent – discovering their diaries upon their person - it was no mystery to the officers what had happened, as death permeated this path. With Gladys sprawled across his chest and with no defensive wounds, in a moment of surprise he had shot her in the head while she was distracted by something else. Clutching his dying lover to his body, this couple who were not to be would die in each other’s arms - whether she wanted to, or not. As the ambulance arrived, it had proved to be a miracle that Gladys had clung onto a sliver of life, but by the time she had arrived at nearby St George’s hospital, the doctor declared her life as extinct. An inquest was held at Westminster Coroner’s Court before Mr Bentley Purchase. Concluded without the jury retiring, it was determined that Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz had “murdered Gladys Wilson and that he had committed suicide while of unsound mind”. Giving evidence, Glady’s brother Cyril would state that “she would have been the last person in the world to take her own life”. It’s tragic that - as a woman who loved to be loved - the war had driven Gladys to find affection in the arms of another man who truly loved her. But instead of finding warmth, she found only death. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINE-ONE:
Back in 1962, Flat D on the ground floor of 60 Redcliffe Square was a one-roomed lodging which was once the home and workplace of Lyn Bain & Jan Blake - two ladies with too many secrets. Given the era, they disguised their illegal lesbian relationship as merely a tempestuous friendship, but it would be a single incident over a few drinks, a card game and a bit of telly, which would end it all. The evidence states that Thursday 14th September 1962 was a seemingly quiet night in Lyn & Jan. And yet, something caused them to argue and fight, for a knife to cut flesh and for a cover-up to erase what happened that night. With a secret so big, wrong, dark or strange, it left one woman in the prison, the other in the morgue and both taking their unspoken motive to the grave. But what was this secret?
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. The location is marked with a blue raindrop near the word Fulham. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here. SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C5781317 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4204122
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Redcliffe Square in Putney, SW10; two stops north of Fergie’s crazed dresser, three stops north-east of the last attack by the sadistic little drummer boy, one street east of the pub of choice for several of Britain’s most infamous serial killers, and one street north of the callous killer who discretely hid his victim’s body by dumping it on his own doorstep - coming soon to Murder Mile. Designed to confuse any visitor, almost every street in this part of West Brompton is filled with lines of identical white five-storey Victorian terraces with stepped entrances encircled with Doric columns. Being so ominously vague and silent, it’s as if this street is trying to hide all its secrets. Only, being the kind of pretentious toss-pot haven - where Fenella & Hugo Asti-Spumante raise their ruddy-faced bully-magnets, each named after a philosopher, a composer, a chemical element, a place in Italy, a type of Parmesan, a long-lost sexual disease and an obscure quote to prove they can read - the deepest darkest secrets these residents are likely to hide would be when they bought sliced white bread by mistake, they skipped a Zumba class, or spoke to a ‘real life’ northerner without getting a tetanus shot. And yet, one of these flats has a seedy story to tell which had also been forgotten, until now. On the right-hand-side of the ground-floor of 60 Redcliffe Square stands Flat D. a one-roomed lodging which was once the home and workplace of Lyn Bain & Jan Blake - two ladies with too many secrets. Given the era, they disguised their illegal lesbian relationship as merely a tempestuous friendship, but it would be a single incident over a few drinks, a card game and a bit of telly, which would end it all. The evidence states that Thursday 14th September 1962 was a seemingly quiet night in Lyn & Jan. And yet, something caused them to argue and fight, for a knife to cut flesh and for a cover-up to erase what happened that night. With a secret so big, wrong, dark or strange, it left one woman in the prison, the other in the morgue and both taking their unspoken motive to the grave. But what was this secret? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 191: Lyn, Jan and Him. We all have secrets; whether it’s a shame about our past, a criminal act, an odd incident, a childish habit, or a strange perversion we only do when we’re alone. Whatever it is, we keep it well hidden and only discuss it with those we trust most. But what kind of secret is worth killing for, and dying for? There are two types of people; leaders and followers – Lyn was a follower. Born on 21st March 1937 in the village of Leslie, in Fife, Scotland, Marilyn Anne Bain known as Lyn had a good upbringing to moral and hard-working parents. Raised in Kirkcaldy, although her childhood was good, this began a period of entirely predictable instability as her parents went where the work was. She found it difficult to build friendships and to form relationships, which stayed with her for life. Being small, thin and softly spoken with a thick Scottish brogue, Lyn was described as quiet and high-spirited; an easily-led girl who would do well in life but only if she was guided by the right person. Sadly, her young life lacked a good friend or role-model, as her father was always working, her mother struggled with nervous breakdowns and her sister wasn’t born until Lyn was almost ten. In 1946, as her dad worked for CCG (the Control Commission of Germany), the family uprooted to the turbulent war-torn city of Berlin, as these spoils of war were ripped apart like hyenas tearing at a fresh carcass. As a wee Scottish lass trying to find her feet in a foreign land - where she didn’t know the language, the people or the culture - she had lost everything familiar. And yet, it was in this city, that she suffered an undocumented ‘sexual assault’ which (according to her family) ‘altered her personality forever’. Aged 12, keen to be educated well, Lyn was sent to a boarding school in Wilhelmshaven, Germany; but again, feeling isolated and punished - before she could make a single friend - she was uprooted within the year and returned to Kirkaldy; a place she hadn’t lived for two years, which for a child is a lifetime. And after four years at Kirkcaldy high school, she left in 1952 with no qualifications. It’s no-one’s fault. Her parents were only doing what they thought was best; to give her a good life and an education. And although some children cope and even thrive on this excitement? Some do not. With no-one to confide in – no friend, no parent, no sibling – Lyn kept her deepest secrets to herself. As a drifter with no-one to follow, she could easily have become a no-one who did nothing… …but it was then, that the Army came calling. Fresh out of school, having spent three years training at McCrone Nursing School in Dunfermline, in 1955, Lyn enlisted as a Private in Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. The Army was exactly what she needed; routines and rules, with her superiors’ barking orders which she was forced to obey. Over the next four years - although she served in such far-flung realms as Hong Hong, Singapore and Malaya – she didn’t feel lost, as – being her new family - within the Army she found qualifications and skills, as well as romantic attachments with a few women she was secretly (if illegally) in love with. It was never said who - whether a leader or a lover – was the light who led this lost girl from the path of uncertainty to a life of hope. But by the age of 23, Lyn had become a quiet but well-liked nurse with a good bedside manner and - awarded a General Service Medal - she had a good future ahead of her. Or at least, she should have done. On 20th October 1959, Lyn was discharged from the Army. As many nurses had, she could have made the leap from working in a military to a civilian hospital. But with no-one there to guide her through the thorny issues of life, work, romance and her sexuality, she began to drift, and quickly fell apart. As a heavy drinker since her teens, booze became her coping mechanism. On 20th April 1960 she was placed on an 18-month probation for stealing car wing mirrors. And seeing her rapid decline, Missy Parker, her probation officer got her to attend the Reginald Carter Clinic to treat her alcoholism. Being jobless, homeless, loveless and lost, Lyn needed someone strong-willed to guide her… …the person she picked was Jan - a confident independent woman who was assured of her life, secrets and sexuality. And although she would be perfect as a partner to many, she was wrong for Lyn. Jan was born Jeanette Doreen McVitie on the 4th June 1929 in Balham, South London, as the only girl of five siblings to Evelyn a housewife and Henry a builder’s labourer. From the off, her childhood was a struggle, but the harshness of her upbringing hardened Jan, making her formidable and very direct. As a dot just 5 foot 1 inches high, often mistaken for a push-over, any assailant got a rude awakening as – weighing 14 stone, the same as most male boxers – she would kick if provoked, bite if attacked, headbutt if needed, and she was never afraid to go toe-to-toe with an aggressor twice her size. In 1948, Jan married a man called Blake, although his details were expunged from the court records. A few years later, they separated but – as far as we know – they remained in contact, with Jan keeping his name to disguise her identity and stating “I can’t stand sex with men except for business purposes”. In 1954, 25-year-old Doreen Brookes (an alias she used) was fined 40 shillings for soliciting for sex; and over the next three years she would be fined five more times, also for drunkenness and wilful damage. Everyone who knew her _whether prostitutes or punters – was aware that Jan was a lesbian, which it was not unusual for a sex-worker to be, as the act itself was not about love, but money. She hated men, but she’d readily let some loser give her a pointless fuck and a drunken fumble for a few pounds. On the surface, it’s easy to see why Lyn fell for Jan; she was confident, driven and free-spirited; a force of nature who didn’t give two hoots about what anyone thought of her, and she did what she wanted, when and how she wanted. Jan McVitie was to be the guiding light into the new life of Lyn Bain. Only Jan’s chaotic lifestyle would lead Lyn from despair and hopelessness… …to unspoken secrets and murder. In May 1959, shortly after her discharge from the Army, Lyn met Jan at The Gateways, an infamous lesbian rendezvous at 239 King's Road in Chelsea. A few days later, they moved in together. As two very different personalities - with Jan a boisterous bully, and Lyn a jealous loner – it is no coincidence that Lyn’s alcoholism spiked and her minor criminal career began in the months after she met Jan. Their stormy love-life was described as volatile at best and deadly at worst, as each week they sported new bruises, as the two women constantly fought over the differences which drove them apart. Being direct, Jan had a slew of ex-and-current-lovers, while the solitary Lyn had no-one but Jan. Barred from the Gateways Club for assaulting a former lover of Jan’s, Lyn became ever isolated as she drank more at home. Living off Jan’s sex-work, Lyn’s only contribution was the £5 per week that her father sent her, still believing she was a struggling nurse, rather than an unemployed alcoholic. And with Lyn rarely going out, this caused an even bigger rift between the two, as their flat was both their home... …and workplace. Having moved from Oakley Street to Cremorne Crescent, Finsborough Road to Coleherne Road - often moving when they were evicted for none payment of rent or complaints about their fights - on 22nd March 1962, they moved into Flat D on the ground-floor of 60 Redcliffe Square in West Brompton. Like a tinderbox of hatred and lies, they were the wrong couple in the wrong flat at the wrong time. Set aside the drunken abuse, there were three sparks – in those last few weeks – which caused Jan & Lyn to fall out. One was a question over their sexuality, as Jan had sex with men for money, and Lyn was supposedly seeing a man called Bob, who she liked. Two was that – although Lyn was not a sex-worker – it was said that Jan had coerced her into posing for sexually explicit photos, and the two had engaged in acts of lesbian sex while a male client paid to watch and masturbate. And three… …that their one-roomed lodging was both their home and place of work. Each night, as Jan brought back a procession of man to fiddle and fornicate with on the twin beds they shared – and although they no longer kissed or even cuddled as their love-life in the doldrums – Lyn was forced to wait in the kitchen, the sounds of rampant rutting concealed by nothing but a thin partition wall, as she swigged brandy and stood quietly – sometimes for hours – as several strangers shagged her lesbian lover. By the end of Summer 1962, Lyn had – once again – become lost… …weeks later, she would take her lover’s life. But why? The days leading up to the incident, may have seemed as volatile as an exposed tinderbox, but for Lyn & Jan, these daily (if not hourly) fights and arguments were unremarkable. Both being big drinkers, it was not unusual for one to storm off, the other to sport bruises and the street to echo to their screams. Jan’s close friend Gloria Hamilton would state “the mention of a past friend by Jan, and Lyn would fly off the handle. I have seen Lyn hit her about the head, face and body. She seemed to lose complete control, because the next day when she was told about it, she would honestly not remember”. John Hubbard, their neighbour in Flat C was awoken so often by their fights that no-one ever called the police or intervened. He later stated: “they were always screaming at each other, one or both of them would shout ‘I’ve had enough of this’, and it would stop, but by the morning, they’d start again”. Outside of the confines of their tiny one-roomed flat, they never shared what their fights were about… …but having failed to pay their rent for a third month, their landlord hade given them notice to leave. Thursday 13th September 1962 was typical of most evenings for Jan & Lyn, as long periods of awkward silences were interspersed by shouts and screams across a night left uncomfortably sticky by the heat. At 8:30pm, Jan let in an unidentified male into the ground-floor flat, his voice heard by John Hubbard, and on one of the twin-beds in the sitting room, they engaged in sex, as Lyn stood in the kitchen. For half-an-hour; she waited in silence, with no chair to sit on and no radio to listen to. Shielded by nothing but a thin partition wall, the only sound she heard was her former lesbian lover being fucked by a man. This set-up may seem odd, but stranger still is that given the precarious nature of their finances and living situation, Lyn’s statement says that Jan only picked up one punter that night, not several. It is also said this unnamed man left at roughly 9pm and he was unseen by any corroborative witnesses. The statement Lyn gave to the police of the night’s events were vague at best, and although her lack of memory can be seen as suspicious, it’s understandable given her mood and her chronic alcoholism. Lyn would state: “after the man had gone, Jan asked me if I would like a drink and she gave me £4 to go to the off-licence”. This occurred between 10 and 11pm, as John Hubbard saw her leaving and he remembered it vividly, as although he wished her a “good night”, Lyn ignored him. At two premises, an off-licence on the corner of Old Brompton Road and Earls Court Road, “I bought a bottle of whiskey, a quarter bottle of brandy, three quarters of light ale, and a bottle of ginger ale”, and at Bertorelli’s café nearby “I got five Pepsi-Colas. I then went back to the flat and we started drinking”. Examining the flat, police found empty glasses and half-drunk bottles, as described. And although, this could be seen as a large quantity of alcohol for just two women, both were big drinkers. Several sets of unidentified fingerprints were also discovered, but they may have belonged to past punters. Lyn would state “we were still drinking when the ITV programme finished at midnight”, which matches the schedule as broadcast by Associated Rediffusion. At 9:45pm was US drama ‘Gunsmoke’, followed by review show ‘What the Papers Say’ at 10:40pm, ‘Dan Farson meets Len Peters at 10:55pm, at 11:22pm was ‘People at Work’ (a dry study about primary schools), at 11:47pm was ‘The Epilogue’ (a non-denominational speech given by a priest) with the national anthem and shutdown at midnight. Admittedly, this was a rather dull mix of televisual treats for two women having a fun night in, but as Lyn was barred from the Gateways Club, maybe they were just making-do with what they had at hand? With the TV off, Lyn would state “we carried on drinking and played a couple of games of Ludo. We then started to play poker for fun. She was teaching me to play the game. We had finished playing poker, because I thought the hand I had should have won and the cards went up in the air. We argued as to who should pick the cards up and eventually, I picked them up and we laughed”. It was one of many minor spats this ex-couple would have that night, but was it worth lying, killing and dying for? According to Lyn, a long period of silence followed, as often happened: “she read the paper, I read my book and we ignored each other. We sat like that for a while. Then I asked her if she wanted to play cards again but she refused. This and the drinking went on all night and we never went to bed”. This was the build-up to the moment which would change both of their lives forever… …and yet, something unspoken had either happened or would happen, which led to a death. Their neighbour John Hubbard had stated “I said ‘good night’ to Lyn, but she ignored me”, as sometime between 10 and 11pm she went to buy booze. Only he would confirm “she did not return until 3am”. Which either means; John was mistaken, Lyn was lying, or she was so drunk, she couldn’t remember leaving. And yet, if this was true, where she was going and who she was with will never be known. At 5am, having managed to catch a few winks before work, John’s alarm went off and – as they opened the door to the passageway they shared – still arguing, John would state “I got the impression I heard a male voice in the room. It was a calm voice like someone was trying to keep them quiet”. He may have been mistaken, or it could have a friend of Lyn’s, a punter of Jan’s, or a lover of one or both? On investigation, a photo album of naked women engaged in sexually explicit acts of lesbian sex was found – as is common in the workplace of prostitutes, as sometimes a male client needs a little help to get hard – only these snaps were homemade and its contents were redacted from the court records. At 8am, as yet another minor spat brewed into a pointless slanging match, nobody but Jan & Lyn heard or took any notice of their final fight, and yet, as innocent as it may seem, something was hidden. Lyn confessed: “we started quarrelling, I cannot for the life of me remember what about. I remember Jan pouring a drink and I remarked that she was drinking fast. She said that was the drink talking. It may have been that that started the quarrel. We fought and punched each other. When we were fighting, I punched her in the ribs. I never used to punch her in the face because it would have marked”. But was this out of love, or the knowledge that a prostitute couldn’t earn as much if she’s bruised? Grabbing a six-inch kitchen knife, “I must have stabbed her, but I can’t account for the knife being in the sitting room and not in the kitchen. I remember her saying she couldn’t breathe. I got two pillows and laid her down on them. Then I saw the blood from her blouse and I realised there was something wrong. I flew upstairs and telephoned for an ambulance. I can’t remember much else of what happened. I know we didn’t sleep that night, so no-one else could have come into the room”. It was a single stab wound using moderate force, buried five inches deep, just below the left armpit. At 8:20am, ambulance men - Harry Fry & John Cordery - arrived at 60 Redcliffe Square. Ushering them in, Lyn stated “come in quickly, my friend has collapsed”. Inside Harry saw a woman lying on floor “she had a pillow under her head and she was naked apart from a blouse”. When he went to examine her, Lyn said “she’s been stabbed”. Harry asked “what happened?”, Lyn replied “we had a bit of a party”. Taken by ambulance to the Princess Beatrice Hospital on Old Brompton Road, Jan stated to Harry “she knifed me” and they both began crying. Keen to work out how deep the knife wound was, Harry asked “what type of knife was it?”, Lyn sobbed “I don’t know”, to which Jan defensively retorted “she doesn’t know anything about it”. Harry confirmed that both women were distressed and smelled of drink. The knife itself would not be found for several days and it would never be clear whether Lyn delayed calling the ambulance - perhaps at Jan’s request - so the two of them could get their story straight. But what was the truth, and why did they need to lie? Upon admission, as Jan vomited and fought with the staff, the surgical officer Dr Jotkowitz examined the wound as best he could. As “it had not penetrated the thoracic cage”, he admitted her to the Henrietta Ward, her superficial injury was dressed, stitched and they waited for the drink to wear off. To a casualty nurse, Lyn would state “we’ve been to a party, we had a bit of a barney. When she got home, Jan complained of an awful pain so I dialled 999”. But “got home” from where? Was this a lie, a mistake, had she mis-remembered the night, or had she accidentally blurted out the truth? At 8:45am, as was standard practice in an assault, Police arrived and took statements from Lyn & Jan; both of which were vague and blamed neither for the incident, at which, both were drinking heavily. At 9:20am, the officers went with Lyn to the flat and observed the scene of this minor assault. But as Jan was sedated and unwilling to press charges, it was likely that the case would be dropped. Therefore no photographs or fingerprints were taken, no bottles were examined and the knife was not found. By Monday 17th September, although Jan had contracted aspiration pneumonia, as x-rays would prove that the blade had nicked her lung, appearing to improve, Jan would state: “We were both drunk and we had been drinking all night…” with a sentence, right there, redacted from her statement. When asked, “do you wish to charge her?”, Jan said “no, no, no”. and became upset and she started crying. That afternoon – as both lungs had collapsed – those would become some of the last words spoken by Jan. By 5:10pm she was declared dead, and Lyn was subsequently charged with her murder. (End) Within an hour, Flat D of 60 Redcliffe Square was a crime-scene. With Lyn arrested in her flat, she was described by the officer as distraught but co-operative, even handing Sergeant Smith the knife, stating “I was cleaning up this afternoon and I found it under the fridge” – four days after the fight itself. Inside the half-cleaned room, the detectives found several half-drunk bottles of booze, the remains of Jan’s bloodied blouse (which had been cut away by the ambulance men to stem the bleeding), the pillows her head had rested on, the pornographic photo album, and an unidentified rubber mask spattered with blood. As Jan had refused to give a statement, all they had was Lyn’s drunken recollection; as the male client was never identified and the only witness - John Hubbard - was at work at the time of the stabbing. Following a post-mortem, with Lyn’s fingerprints and Jan’s blood found on the knife, Lyn was charged with murder and was held at Holloway Prison. Tried at The Old Bailey on 16th October 1962, Marilyn Anne Bain known as Lyn pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter. Accepted by both sides, she was sentenced to three years in prison, and she was released in 1965. In his summing up, Justice Edmond Davies would state “the nature of your relationship with your friend caused a situation which led to quarrels. Both of you were drinking regularly and excessively. Whether you know as little about what happened on that night only you can answer. Somehow on this night you caused that carving knife to enter the side of your friend and she met her death”. And there, the case ended. Whatever did happen that night, and whatever secret they silenced, it was clearly something which was worth lying, killing and dying for, as both women took it to their graves. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY:
June 1863. In the basement of 11 Old Compton Street in Soho, 21-year-old Susan Lattaney lived and worked as a prostitute. Having met and fell in love with glass decorator Henry Broughton - keen to fullfil her dreams of a great life together - she agreed to keep selling her body for sex, with Henry as her pimp. It was a small sacrifice she would make for herself and the man she loved... ...but in truth, she would be trapped by his lies, his cruelty and she would become a prisoner inside her own life.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://visitvictorianengland.com/2019/05/07/hard-labour-in-victorian-prisons/ https://www.oxfordcastleandprison.co.uk/about/news/victorian-crime-and-punishment/ Plus various news sources from the era. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in a place we know all too well, Old Compton Street in Soho, W1; five doors north of the murderous drug-fuelled spree of Joe Guynane, twelve doors east of the contract hit on Alfredo Zomparelli, three doors up from the radioactive trail left at Café Boheme, and a few doors down from Eliza Crees’ nightmare honeymoon - coming soon to Murder Mile. Identical to every other building on this narrow hive of seedy smut shops and hipster havens is 11 Old Compton Street, a classic Victorian four-storey flat-fronted terrace with a shop below and flats above. With old Soho dead and gentrified into a sickening pseudo-Shoreditch where history has been usurped by faux shops for the dim-witted who’ll ApplePay for anything that’s fashionable for a hot-minute, 11 Old Compton Street is home to ChaTime; a bubble teashop, where fans of cold milky tea can be fleeced into slurping (what resembles) a pint of rainbow-coloured porridge, sperm and frogspawn. Oh yummy. What next? Tobacco flavoured toothpaste for when bad breath becomes hip? Very possibly. Back in 1860’s, on the ground-floor of number 11 was a butcher’s shop with an abattoir outback, and above, the lodgings of the impoverished, some of whom were sex-workers. With the basement split into two by a thin wall, and a slit window at foot-level overlooking the rear yard where rats ran among bins of rancid meat, this tiny room was the home of 21-year-old prostitute Susan Lattaney. It wasn’t much, but being trapped by the incessant cruelty of her pimp and supposed husband-to-be, Henry Broughton – she believed that this was the beginning of a bright future with the man she loved… …and yet, she would ever only find peace, at the tip of his blade. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 190: The Stockholm Syndrome of Susan Lattaney. Whether guns, poisons or knives, there is no deadlier weapon than words. Words can trip, beat, maim, and kill; they can wound the skin but also the soul, their cuts can outlast any scar, and - by duping the victim to drop their defences – a word can lure us into believing that our worst enemy is our saviour. Susan Lattaney was born in the summer of 1842. We know that as it was registered at The Strand, one street south of Covent Garden. Like many in the working-classes, her life would go unrecorded unless she was arrested or murdered during her tragically brief life. With no chance of escaping her situation, many would be born as they would die, often succumbing to sickness, starvation, or violent assault. With her name misspelt so often on official documents, even the court record, the system cared little of Susan Lattaney because she was poor, because she was a woman and because she was a prostitute. Raised in a shared lodging at 2 Adam Street West in Marylebone, originally from Somerset, her father John was a shoemaker, her mother Susannah was a shoe-binder, and both of Susan’s brothers – Alfred and John – went into the same trade. And although they were blessed with a semi-skilled profession, the Lattaney’s lives remained a struggle, as too many people chased too few jobs for too little reward. As a young girl, she was educated to the age of 10, beyond which it was no longer compulsory. And as each mouth cost pennies the family could not afford, well before her teens she was earning. Possibly as a shoe-smith, or later raised by her grandmother, she may have earned her keep as a char-woman. By 1861, aged 19, Susan disappeared from public records, which was not uncommon. But it does pose a question of why she had left her family home and yet they would remain close? Described as a slim girl with brown curly hair, pale skin and bright green eyes – as her future was pre-destined to be hard and bleak – she may have used the goods she was given in the chance of escaping a life without hope. By at least her late teens, Susan had become a prostitute. This may seem like the last resort of a desperate woman, but in her era, it was all too common for a girl to make her way by selling her body. It’s easy to surmise that; as Susan was born and raised in the West End where sex-work occurs on every corner, she was unskilled and poorly educated, a friend or family member may have already been working in the sex-trade, and in the 1800s, it was said that as many as one in three working-class women provided for their families through some form of sex-work. In truth, she could have earned an honest living as a shoe-maker, but as the wage for a man in 1861 was 3 shillings and 6 pence per day, working 10-hour days, 6-days-a-week – as a woman would earn a lot less than that for the same job – prostitutes could make five times the wage of a manual labourer. In many families -- although they’d deny any knowledge - it was not uncommon for their prettiest girl to be sent out to earn her crust as ‘a hole to fill’. It may seem like cruelty, but in an era where women had very little power, a young girl could have money and influence as the family’s breadwinner, and – being best served to meet a monied man – only she could escape the drudgery of this horrid little life. Against a backdrop of poverty, one day her Prince could come and sweep her off her feet. I mean, it rarely - if ever - happened… …but it could. On an undocumented day and in a way which will never be known - in the spring of 1861 - 19-year-old Susan Lattaney met Henry Broughton; a tall, handsome, and well-dressed man of a similar age to herself, who (reports state) earned an honest living as a ‘glass decorator’, a semi-skilled profession. Born and raised nearby, Henry exuded the swagger of a man with big dreams; he spoke well (for a local lad), he knew everyone on his street, his suit was always neat with a silk hankie and a gold watch hanging off his waistcoat, and in his pocket was a thick wad of notes secured with a silver money clip. Deeply smitten, she had fallen for his looks and his charm, and – as this aspiring man of money was clearly more than just her ticket out of this life - she liked him, and better still, he liked her too. For Susan, it was the fairy-tale romance she had dreamed of. Every day, Henry would profess his love to his beloved; he’d read her poetry, he’d shower her gifts, and he’d buy her fragrant flowers. Over romantic meals, he’d speak the words she had long to hear, of marriage, happiness and babies. And feeling truly spoilt, she got a sense of how the rest of their lives together would be – truly blessed. But that was the future, which she knew was still far away. In truth, Henry was no richer than she was; as although he dressed well, ate well and spoke well, it was all to give an impression of success. But as he told her – if they worked hard and only if she believed in him – they could be happy, forever. I would be a long hard struggle, and - believing in him - she would do anything to make it happen. For a few weeks or months more, Susan would earn as much as she could, as best as she could, doing the one job she was skilled at – prostitution – and (to ensure their success) Henry would be her pimp. For Susan, it would be a simple sacrifice to keep selling her body for the man she loved, in the hope that their hard-work led to a life of love together in a comfortable home surrounded by children. Life had already taught her that nothing good was ever easily earned, so she settled in for a long hard slog. A short while later, Susan & Henry moved into a small basement lodging under a butcher’s shop at 11 Old Compton Street, right in the heart of Soho’s red-light district. It wasn’t much, just a tiny room with a chair, a wardrobe, a washstand and a bed, but -in Susan’s eyes – it was the start of their life together. That’s how she saw it, because that’s how he had sold it… …but in truth, she would be trapped by his lies and his cruelty. Henry was described in court as ‘a coward’ and a ‘utter scoundrel’ who lived off her immoral earnings. His con was simple; to pretend to love her, to show her some affection and to plant a seed in her mind of a life to be. Given enough time; she’d be too love-struck to believe she’d been duped, too exhausted to retort, and (as a violent cherry on a terrifying cake) too frightened to ever think about leaving him. Living in (what was little more than) a lumpy bed in a foul-smelling brothel; being perched in a coffee shop opposite the lodging, here Henry drank, chatted and smoked, keeping tabs on the slew of punters who shunted her for shillings - in a ploy he’d done to many women - who all earned money for him. This rancid little hell-hole was to be a little home for them both, but the only time he visited was to collect his cash, to criticise her for not making enough and to dole-out a small stipend for food and the rent of a tawdry sex-den overrun with flies and rats which whiffed of rotting meat and stale semen. To escape her horror, you may think ‘why didn’t she leave’? But initially, his words were his weapon. With love, he built her up, and with cruelty, he broke her down, until there was nothing left of her… …but what he needed for himself. It began by making her feel as if she was loved. A few key phrases peppered when it suited him best, like; “no-one loves you like I do”, “it’s just you and me”, “we’re meant to be”, the casual contrivances only an abuser would say. And having sold her a hopeless dream of love, slowly he would withdraw his affections, until – like a ravenous dog with a growling belly – she would pine, she would cry and she would be grateful for whatever rancid scraps he tossed at her feet – worried it may be the last. Having trapped her with his lies, he then had to ensure that every escape route was blocked. In times of panic, people always run to the safety of familiarity – their friends, their families, or the police – but by spreading lies and making her believe them, soon the only person she would trust would be him. Feeling isolated, exhausted and seeing only him as her saviour, he would strip her of the last shred of dignity and worth she still had in her frightened little mind. Guilt did the heavy lifting, and if her dream felt too far away, it was all because “you haven’t worked hard enough… for us. Don’t you love me?”. Next came the verbal abuse, designed to demean her, to ridicule her and put her in her place – ‘stupid’, ‘useless’, ‘ugly’ – and subordinate to him, every hurtful barb was her fault, as he was in the right. Compounded by assaults – a slap, a punch, a kick or a choke - always striking her body and never to the head, he knew that time was money and “no-one’s gonna pay to fuck a battered bitch”, so he’d make her too scared to run, to cry, to give up or to lie. The only way for her to escape was to work. Within a short space of time, Susan was be left broken, lost and humiliated; a young girl still clinging to a hopeless dream, beaten by a brute she would always return to, and being trapped inside a waking nightmare from which there was no escape from this viscous circle of sex and abuse. Susan Lattaney was little more than a hostage in her own life. Henry controlled everything; her mind, her body, her time and her money. He had turned a someone into a no-one, who endured pain and misery in the pursuit to earn more to make him happy. Trapped, she would forever know that – if she ever displeased him - her life may end by the tip of his blade… … a blade, which – all too soon - would be stained with blood. The day was Tuesday 20th June 1863. By noon, the cobble-stone streets were too hot to touch as the sun baked down through the thick dark gloom of the belching chimney stacks. 21-year-old Susan had been shagged and buggered by a slew of sleazy strangers for a quarter of her short unhappy life. The young girl was gone, and all that remained was the shadow of pale lifeless woman, lost behind tired eyes, walking cautiously as the rabid shagging of bad men with boners had made her incontinent, and her face was made-up by cosmetics so she didn’t resemble an unsightly sack of skin and bones. This was her life, it was what she did, and there would be no rest in sight… except when she was dead. An account of what happened would be recalled in court by those who had witnessed it. At 12pm, Susan left 11 Old Compton Street. Spied by Henry, he sat in the coffee tavern opposite, his new three-piece-suit all resplendent, as he quaffed and chatted with his pals, a fresh pipe of tobacco spewing from his lips, as he watched her walk her regular patch - a long hard day of pain ahead of her. By 3pm, Susan had earned a sovereign, twenty shillings to be precise - making in three hours what a labourer made in a day – but it’s impossible to say how many punters had man-handled her glands and poked her with their sticky little probes. Every prostitute has a price for full sex, but for ‘extras’, it goes up depending on how degrading the act is, and what pain and humiliation she has to endure. She may have been shagged thirty men in quick succession, or possibly (having paid a small fortune) by one rancid pervert who’d have slowly defiled this young girl in the most inhumane of ways possible. As agreed, Susan met Henry on Regent Street. With a faint smile on her haggard face, she had hoped that the sight of a shiny sovereign in her hand would make him happy, and that – maybe – he might bless her with a faint hint of a memory of affection, rather than a slap of a kick? But it was not to be. “A sovereign? It’s not enough. Get more”, he barked as her smile dropped, her distant dream departed and her notion of working for ‘us’ was replaced by ‘me’, as she was a nothing who worked for him. Whether she knew it or not, Henry hadn’t saved a single penny of her ill-gotten gains for the plans he had once promised her, and - as he had with his other girls - he had squandered the lot. To him, that sovereign was an insult, but he took it and just as quickly as she would earn another, he had spent it. Uncertain if Susan was fleecing him of his money, he followed her south down Regent Street, towards the bustling throng of Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square, where - even on a week day afternoon – sadists with raging boners prowl the seedy side-streets seeking young girls to bang, finger or bugger. A little after 4pm, on Oxenden Street, a few roads west of Leicester Square, Susan met a regular client who had offered her three sovereigns to have his wicked way with her for at least the next hour. It could be said that, maybe she felt three sovereigns would be enough to satisfy Henry, but who knows what horrors she’d have to endure to earn it; maybe sodomy, or maybe something more sinister? But experience had taught her, that even if her punter was a man of money, gone was the hope of a charming prince coming into her life, sweeping her off her feet, and away from all this misery. I mean, it rarely - if ever - happened… …and for her, it never would. Susan Lattaney was trapped like a hostage; she couldn’t run, she couldn’t lie and she couldn’t hide. As her captor rather than her husband-to-be, Henry was a brute with a sharp temper, fast fists… …and a blade with her name on it. As Susan was taken to a squalid room on Oxenden Street to be violated by a man who mauled her for money, Henry secreted himself in a pub – possibly the Union Arms at 36 Panton Street, or the Black Horse at 30 Oxendon Street – and within sight of Susan’s unspeakably sadistic submission, he perched his backside in a window seat and settled down to a spot of dinner and some bare-knuckle boxing. As prize fighters battled it out, he gorged on that was described as ‘a capital meal including three kinds of fish, joints and steaks, as well as bread and cheese’. Washed down with a few jars of porter and a satisfying puff on his freshly-stoked pipe – while Susan possibly sucked on a stranger’s stinky little love raisin – Henry got progressively pissed and blew a sizable chunk of that sovereign on a few bad bets. By the time 5pm had gone, as Susan staggered out of the seedy cess-pit with a pain in her privates, she proudly clutched the three solid sovereigns in her hand which she hoped would make him smile. She had hoped… but she was wrong. “Three sovereigns?” Henry barked, “it’s not enough. Get more”. That day, she had earned him four sovereigns or eighty shillings, more than thirty times his daily wage as a (supposed) glass decorator, which he no longer did. Only now he wanted twenty pounds, five times more at four hundred shillings. It was more than she had ever earned in a day, but that was part of his con. If he ever gave her hope that a sovereign was enough, then that was all she would earn. Daring to speak-up, she muttered “I can’t do it, it’s too much”. For such insolence, he demanded her watch and chain, which she gave him. He checked her pockets for coins, but as she squealed “I haven’t got any more”, for her insolence he slapped her, he kicked her and her tore at her hair in the packed street as onlookers jeered and jostled for a better view of her assault. And as she whimpered “I’m sorry, I’ll try…” - trying was not good enough. If he wanted £20, then £20 is what she would make. And to ensure that she learned her lesson… …in the middle of Oxenden Street, between three packed pubs and several coffee taverns, Henry grabbed the neck of her one-good dress and ripped it from her trembling body, until she was naked. Standing amidst a baying crowd, all bruised and humiliated, Susan Lattaney felt more worthless than she had ever felt before. She was not a woman but a piece of meat to be manhandled and gawked at for a price. And having been broken down to such a pitiful point that she believed this was all her fault, as her petrified lips fumbled to form an apology “I’m sorry, I really am”, Henry pulled out his blade… …to ensure that she would never defy him again. Some people laughed and others sneered, but many did not. Many were moral and decent, some were rightly appalled, and a few (including several sex-workers who had witnessed similar brutality at close hand themselves) were not going to stand by and let this good woman be hurt any more. Before his blade could nick her shivering skin, Henry’s eyes widened, as a thick sea of furious woman surged towards him. Before he could retort, the swelling mob had ushered the girl to safety and having surrounded this petrified pimp, they unleashed a volley of flying fists and clawing nails upon him. Breaking free and tearing at his finest clothes-to-boot, as the coward fled towards Coventry Street, he swiftly hailed a horse-drawn cab to make his escape. Henry was lucky, at worst all he’d had was his face scratched and his pride dented. But with his hot blood coursing, he needed someone to blame… …and that someone was Susan. Having dashed three streets north to her lodgings at 11 Old Compton Street, Susan had grabbed some clothes, a bag, a few belongings and she had left, with Henry missing her by mere minutes. This was her one chance to escape him forever - but being so broken down - she wouldn’t go to the police or confide in a friend, and he knew that. But there was still one place he knew where she would be… …her mother’s. Hiding in Marylebone, at 7 Chapel Place, it wasn’t five minutes before Henry began bashing the door, demanding that this “bitch come out” and “get what she will be given”. Barging his way in, before her mother, Henry punched and kicked her until she fell, and as she lay upon the floor helpless, he beat her some more; whether on her head or hands, back, breast and face, as she was now worth nothing. Pulling out his blade, with a savage slash, he had tried to slit her lying little throat, but missed. Many times, he had warned her that if she ever left him, he would kill her… and now he would. And with her body bruised, her spirit broken and her resistance truly spent, as he dragged her by the hair out of the door to continue his brutal beating in private, Susan went limp. Not dead, but resigned to the fact that her blessed release from her misery had finally come, and by the tip of Henry’s blade. The dream was over, and so was her life… …but not yet. Hearing the commotion, two lodgers ran from upstairs, Susan’s mother screamed alerting the police, and although Henry fled, later that day, he was arrested and charged with Susan’s assault. Left feeling empty and worthless, Susan didn’t want to press charges, but thankfully, her mother did. (End) On Wednesday 1st July 1863, Henry Broughton was tried at Marlborough Street Police Court. With Susan bravely standing against him, the judge described Henry as a “coward” and he began to cry. For her assault, Henry was fined £10, sentenced to twelve months bail and six months hard labour. It may not seem like much of a punishment, but as a prostitute was not seen as a person, they were often blamed for the violence inflicted upon them, and their captor’s sentences in no way matched their own pain. But this is not to say that Henry’s own time in captivity was a doddle, as it was not. Sent to Millbank prison, Henry was stripped of his clothes, his money and his jewellery to pay his fine; his once-pricey meals were replaced by a gruel with barely enough nutrients to sustain him, he was worked until he bled, and he was imprisoned with men who disliked the cowards who beat up women. In a method similar to how he had broken Susan, the aim of hard labour was to crush his spirit; through a brutal regime of pain, hunger, humiliation and a slew of demeaning tasks to make him feel worthless. He was isolated from his loved-ones, he was punished for speaking his mind, and he was beaten for minor misdemeanours. He wasn’t a man, he was a number. He wasn’t a person, he was a nothing. And the only way to make his pain stop was to make his masters happy by working hard until he dropped. Henry Broughton served his six months and was released. But being working-class, it was unrecorded whether he went straight, or went back to pimping to recoup his lost earnings with another girl? As for Susan, it’s uncertain whether she ever found happiness in her life…? But I doubt it. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-NINE:
This is The Campanile, a 284-foot tower on the south-west corner of Westminster Cathedral. Saturday 23rd February 1924 was an ordinary day for happily married mother-of-two Margaret Ann Davey; she made breakfast, she packed some sandwiches for lunch, and – at 11:30am – she climbed the steps to the top of The Campanile. Having purchased a ticket, the doorman had no suspicions that her mind was unbalanced, as she seemed happy and well. But at 2:10pm, having jumped from the top, and plummeted 86 metres, she ended her life on the hard stone road of Ambrosden Avenue. But why was she so unhappy, why did she choose to die here, and did she choose to take the lives of two innocents, who were just enjoying their lunch?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop near the word Victoria. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257643 https://medicine.uiowa.edu/bioethics/sites/medicine.uiowa.edu.bioethics/files/wysiwyg_uploads/2013%20Rysavy%20essay.pdf
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing outside of Westminster Cathedral, SW1; two streets south-west of the elderly bed-mate slain by Martha Browning, two streets west of the assassination of the war-criminal Sir Michael O’Dwyer and a short walk south of the last fling of the failed dancer - coming soon to Murder Mile. Set beside Victoria Station, Westminster Cathedral is an architectural triumph swished among a sea of glass monstrosities. Completed in 1903, those who are only religious when chocolate is involved flock to this Roman Catholic place of worship; to mime to hymns that nobody knows, to ask God to solve a trivial spat as if he’s not busy enough, to act as if symbolically quaffing the blood and flesh of a man they claim to love isn’t weird, and to tell a stranger hiding behind an ornate glory-hole all their sins (which he forgives if they say Jesus’ mum’s name five times – although I doubt it’s legally binding). Constructed of twelve million red and cream bricks, the most startling part of this wonderous building is The Campanile. Also known as St Edward’s tower, this 284-foot-tower reaches high to the sky rising 175 feet higher than the Cathedral itself, and from Ambrosden Avenue, it’s dizzying to look up at. High up on the parapet, visitors stand in awe at its stunning views of the London skyline, with some struck with a sense of divinity being just one step closer to God. And yet, in one case in particular… …that closeness would become all too true. On Saturday 23rd February 1924 at 11:30am, 37-year-old Margaret Davey known as Maggie entered the cathedral like any other visitor; she bought a ticket, she ascended the stairs, she smiled and she didn’t make a sound. Almost three hours later, having climbed the railing, she hurled her body from the parapet and it smashed onto the hard stone road of Ambrosden Avenue, killing her instantly. But why did she want to die? Why did she choose that moment? Why did she pick such a public place as The Campanile? And why did she take the lives of two innocents who were just eating their lunch? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 189: Maggie’s Fall. No-one can truly understand the rhyme nor reason why a seemingly-sane person would feel compelled to take their life. Even if they left a note explaining everything, it can still be a mystery… …even to themselves. Margaret Davey was born in 1887 as Margaret Ann Chisolm. Raised in the former town of Inverness in the highlands of north-east Scotland, Maggie’s upbringing was as loving as anyone could wish for. As the third eldest of (ultimately) seven children born to James, a local blacksmith and Catherine, a working mum, the family were never without food nor warmth even amidst the harshest of winters. Snuggled in a small sandstone cottage in the heart of the town and nestled on the banks of the river Ness; by 1891, although all were under seven years old, Jemima, John, Margaret, William and Archie were protected by an extended family in Inverness, but also in the nearby village of Kiltarlity. As the breadwinner, work remained steady, as with the never-ending flow of horses and barges up the length of the Caledonian canal, James would have a steady supply of business until his dying days, and – being an industrious working-class family – Catherine kept the coffers coming in as a seamstress. Like so many others, their lives were hard but good, solid yet loving. They suffered the same hardships as their neighbours and they fought through their trials and tribulations by the closeness of their bond. By 1901, mum and dad remained as tight as ever and with the family expanded by two more, Catherine and Christina; Jemima was working as a domestic servant, John assisted his dad on the docks, Maggie, William and her two younger sisters were both in school, but sadly, Archie had succumbed to TB. Given the era, the sad demise of baby Archie was all too common and whether this trauma had played on Maggie’s mind up to the moment of her own is unknown. But by all accounts, the Chisolm’s were not a family plagued by alcohol, abuse, insanity or neglect. By 1910, of her own choice, Maggie left Scotland and moved to London seeking work and she remained in touch with her loved ones. At this point in her story, you may expect Maggie’s life to fall apart, but it was not to be. As the mirror of her mother – being petite but sturdy, and a big-hearted girl who was forever pleasant and polite – people often heard Maggie before they saw her, owing to her fondness for whistling little ditties to keep her spirits up while she worked or to keep the distant shadow of black moods at bay. In the summer of 1913 in the borough of Fulham, Maggie married Edwin James Davey after a brief but loving courtship. As a man in the mould of her own father; he earned a decent living as an upholsterer, he was moral, he was kind, and - as a dedicated husband - he always put his family above himself. In the summer of 1916, Maggie gave birth to Catherine who she named after her mother, and in the winter of 1921, Margaret was born who she named after herself. Both daughters were healthy and to accommodate their blossoming brood, Maggie & Edwin Davey moved into a ground-floor flat at 27 Bridge Avenue in Hammersmith, where they lived for the last three years of their ten-year marriage. By 1924, The Davey’s were living a life as ordinary as any other family; a regular income ensured they were fed and warm with no debts, late rent or financial worries to trouble them; as a quiet couple it wasn’t in their nature to argue or to fight, and the future of this little family looked all calm and rosy. With Catherine aged seven and Margaret having just passed two, as one daughter was at school and the other at home, Maggie was considering returning to work part-time, as she liked to be kept busy. Only, this next step in their lives would never happen… …as Maggie’s mind was fixated on death. The inquest was held at Westminster Coroner’s Court on Thursday 28th February. Being just five days since Maggie had plummeted to her death from The Campanile, his last duty as a husband had been to formally identify the smashed and shattered remains of what they had scraped off the road below. Stood alone before the coroner, Edwin’s face was ashen and his eyes red raw, as his throat croaked a smattering of croaky words to answer the question his dead wife had failed to answer. Why? With a calm compassion, the deputy coroner Mr Douglas Cowburn enquired of this broken man about her history and homelife for any clue as to what had driven this good woman to do the unthinkable. Barely able to contain his grief, Edwin spoke of Maggie as “a loyal wife” and an “exceptional mother”, who was the rock of what neighbours described as a “devoted couple with two adorable children”. The coroner asked: “May we take it that generally your life has been a happy one?”. To which Edwin replied: “Sir, you ought to have been at my home to have seen it. Happiness was not the word for it”. Living an honest and decent life, together they had strived to keep everything as simple as possible, with a solid routine for their children and no need to spend beyond what they could afford. Described as bright and happy, Maggie was a mother “who was devoted to her children in every way possible”. At the inquest, Edwin stated “she never suffered from delusions and had never threatened to take her own life”, such painful words he had struggled to speak as he wept an endless stream of lonely tears. That day had begun like any other, and it had ended with his whole life smashed. He couldn’t fathom why Maggie had killed herself, and – in a fit of madness – had taken two innocents to their graves. Arriving from Inverness, her siblings were certain that this must have been a mishap or a slip… …only the court knew that it wasn’t. During the summer of 1923, just nine months earlier, (Edwin) “I noticed a change in my wife’s mood. She’d got neglectful of her household duties, but never towards the children. She would sit in a dazed state... she complained of pains in her head, getting gradually more depressed for the last six months”. Across her decline; he had asked her what was wrong, but she said she was fine; he had begged her to see a doctor, but she had refused; and reassuring him her black mood would pass, sadly it did not. And yet, if her homelife was good, why did she choose to end it? The summer of 1923 was unremarkable in Maggie’s eyes; Stanley Baldwin had become Prime Minister, and although entitled to vote, she was neither a Tory nor political. In July, a dock workers strike hit Britain, but she wasn’t affected. And that same month, the Matrimonial Causes Act made adultery a sole ground for divorce by either a husband or a wife. But as their marriage was as strong as ever, a separation or divorce hadn’t been discussed and neither Maggie nor Edwin were having an affair. She hadn’t succumbed to any illnesses or diseases, and there was no known tragedies or traumas. As with many women, the 1920s was a time of unprecedented change, which could have put undue pressure on this married mother-of-two, as although the horrors of the First World War were gone and the roaring twenties had begun, the Victorian morals and values still existed, and some still do. In 1918, under the Representation of the People Act, women had won the right to vote, but it wouldn’t apply to the poorest women for another decade, and her right was based on her husband’s earnings. In 1919, the Sex Discrimination (Removal) Act had given women access to greater jobs, but again, this required an education and training which was (and still is) denied too many women, especially in the working-classes, and it ignored the rights of women who had mad a career as a wife and mother. Times were changing both too fast and too slow. By 1922, the Law of Property Act meant that women could hold and dispose of inherited property on the same terms as men. And by 1919, women could sit on juries and serve as a magistrate, although juries remained overwhelmingly male until the 1970s. And yet, a woman couldn’t open a bank account, apply for a loan or hold a mortgage in her own name unless a husband or her father acted as guarantor until 1975. That same decade saw the Equal Pay Act become law which decreed that women should be paid the same as men for doing the same job, and yet, half a century on, that same battle is still being fought in British courts. And up until the 1980’s, 60 years after Maggie’s death, it was still a point of debate if a woman was seen wearing trousers or smoking a cigarette in public, and it was still perfectly legal to refuse to serve women a drink in a pub. By the 1920’s, a woman’s freedom was emerging, but it was limited. In Maggie’s era, access to contraception was strictly limited, an abortion on any ground was illegal and punishable by life in prison, and yet, rape was not considered a criminal offence within a marriage. But again, as an unassuming woman who rarely expressed her gloom, we can never be sure how much (if any) changes in the 1920s affected Maggie or her mood, and - proud to be a wife and mother - she lived simply, quietly and - when stress arose - she whistled away her worries with a happy little tune. Edwin would state she had never expressed a desire to end her life, but given her apathy and lack of self-worth, all we can assume is that she may have suffered from post-partum depression. In the 1920s, PPD was misunderstood, as experts of that era had theorised that “depression during childbirth had no relationship to the pregnancy” and they had even attributed it to “suppressed homosexuality”. As we now know – if left untreated - it can be highly destructive to a woman’s mental wellbeing, and - in rare cases - postpartum depression can appear as postpartum psychosis, leading to self-harm, suicide and even infanticide. But as Maggie spoke to no-one, she took her motive to her grave. And yet, whether by coincidence or not… …her suicide had been foretold… …just three years before her death. (Radio) This is the British Broadcasting Corporation… (static)… Margaret Davey’s death had similarities to another. On the 19th January 1921, 42-year-old Portuguese Countess Di Ribeira da Grande was in convalescence for her nerves, under the 24-hour care of noted physician Sir Bruce Porter of Mayfair. Watched day and night as the countess had expressed morbid desires, in a brief aberration of duty, she eluded her nurse’s care and fled to Westminster Cathedral. Last seen smiling by Mr George Crook, doorkeeper of The Campanile, he described her mood that day as pleasant as she ascended the tower. Officials would state “safeguards (such as a three-foot railing) were in place to ensure that ‘falls’ do not happen”. Moments later, Mr Crook witnessed what he would describe as a “curious thud” as the countess leapt to her death. Her body was found on a balcony twenty feet above Ambrosden Avenue. A verdict was returned by the Westminster coroner as ‘suicide whilst of unsound mind’.” (Radio off) As a local story which featured in the borough’s newspapers, we can never be sure if Maggie had read about the countess’ tragic demise, but their suicides have too many similarities to be a coincidence; the dates, the place, the method and their moods, rising the tower like they hadn’t a care in the world. And yet, one detail is immutable; as the countess plunged to her death, just a few miles away, Maggie was (or had) giving birth to her second child, whilst (possibly) struggling with post-partum depression. So, whether the countess’ suicide was an inspiration or a coincidence… …their deaths had one major difference. Saturday 23rd February 1924 began as an ordinary day for the Davey family. Waking at the crack of dawn, Maggie had slept as soundly as any mother with two children, a husband, and a house to run. At 7am, regular as clockwork, the family-of-four sat in their warm kitchen eating a breakfast of hot tea and buttery toast; their chatter was perfunctory and they spoke of their plans for the Sunday. Maggie’s emotions had been erratic, but the love of her husband and the beaming faces of her beloved babies had been the one constant which had kept her spirits high. That day, Maggie was bright and cheerful. Edwin told the inquest: “she prepared breakfast in the usual way, I left for my business at 7:20am”. Leaving his home in Hammersmith - as he had done each day without fail - he kissed his wife goodbye and said “see you later”, not knowing that it would be the last kiss he would plant on her lips, the very last time he would see her alive, and that – by the time he had returned – his life would be ruined. With no school that day, Maggie washed seven-year-old Catherine and Margaret now two-and-a-half, and dressed both girls in the right clothes for a nice day out in the city. With a bitter winter wind biting and the ground crunching with a frosty snap, they donned their gloves, scarves and bobble hats. Everything was as ordinary as any day prior; the girls were excited for a fun day out at a local landmark, Maggie had enough money in her purse for travel and sundries, she had written a note for Edwin and had left it by their bed, and – as kids are always hungry - she made ham sandwiches, cut into triangles. Shortly after 10am, a neighbour saw Maggie and her girls leave home: “although she seemed to be pale, I did not notice that she was agitated. I thought she was going out shopping” - which she did. At 11am, they hopped on the District Line travelling seven stops east to Victoria and among a sea of locals and tourists, together they strode a short four-minute walk to the majesty of Westminster Cathedral. Being a weekend, the piazza was a hive of gorping faces staring in awe at this relatively new cathedral whose architecture harked back to a more ancient time of Christianity, and a place where people could be at-one with God. Being free to enter, the inside was busier than out, as it was warmer and quieter. For Maggie’s kids, the cathedral must have been a sight of wonder; a colossal red-and-cream bricked behemoth which emanated with a fragrant incense and echoed with a heavenly hum of pipe music, as a glimpse of winter sun shone through the stained-glass windows and sparkled this cavern of gold. Like any other family, they blended in, as they smiled and pointed at these sights of awe. Only, they had not planned to go inside the cathedral that day, they had decided to go up. Craning their necks back as far as they could bend, The Campanile stretched skyward until it almost touched the clouds. The time was roughly 11:30am. For many, the day was too bitterly cold to ascend The Campanile and stand a full 284 feet into the sky, but wearing their winter woollens and clutching a paper bag of ham sandwiches, it didn’t seem strange for George Crook, the door-keeper who had witnessed a similar suicide here just three years before. At the inquest, George spoke of how he had no suspicions of what Maggie was about to do: “they were smiling and happy, they wanted to see what London looked like from such a height. She paid 6d each for them, even asking half price for the kiddies, I let them in and I thought no more about it”. No-one noticed Maggie that day, as although (to us) it was clear what her motive was; with no cries, no tears and no screams - only excitable chatter as they climbed the stone steps to the parapet – the only words heard was what sights they might see from the top, maybe their home, maybe their daddy? At 11:40am, Maggie and her children reached the parapet… …and there they stayed for almost two-and-a-half hours. (Maggie whistles). On a clear day, you can see right across the city. Being so cold, Maggie and her girls were the only people on the parapet that day. With an iron railing in place, it was decreed as safe; “a place impossible to fall from”. And no-one was worried about where they had got to, as George Crook would later explain to the jury: “sometimes people go up for minutes, others go up there for hours”. We have no idea what happened over those missing hours, as no-one saw them or heard them. With the half-eaten remains of some ham sandwiches found in a paper bag, we know they ate lunch, but we know little else. They may have hugged, they may have kissed and they may have cried… …but one thing was for certain, Maggie had death on her mind. At 2:10pm, beyond the silence of his office by the north door, George Crook heard a thud; a deep heavy thud as if something soft had smacked fast into something hard. Not a falling brick, not a piece of timber and not a sack of spuds, but something both unmistakably familiar and horrifying to him. A silence followed, and then, so did the screaming, as below the tower – embedded between the path and the road of Ambrosden Avenue lay a barely recognisable mess of twisted limbs and broken bones. All bathed in a spattered wide sea of red blood and green gastric fluids, which sprayed up the tower’s wall and emanated a thick rising steam on the cold winter street, like a spirit escaping its pain. We know it was once a body and we know it was once a female, but it was not Maggie. Having thrown seven-year-old Catherine to her death, with her youngest in her arms, Maggie assailed the wrought-iron railing over the parapet of The Campanile. According to witnesses, there was no cry and no struggle, as this distraught mother released her grip to join her child who was already dead. Falling at a quickening speed of 35 metres per second, having led go of her baby, Maggie’s fall lasted just two seconds as she hit the road at 90 miles per hour. But being a third of her mother’s size and a quarter of her weight, the toddler impacted the pavement made of crushed stone half a second later. We can only hope that their hearts gave out during the fall, but we can never know for certain. A lift attendant went to Catherine’s aid, but would state: “her head was terribly battered and the skull broken. When I reached her, she had ceased to breath”. Likewise, Maggie. And as a porter rushed to aid baby Margaret, he recalled: “I think that every bone in the poor little kid’s body had been broken”. With every breath expelled from their bodies, their hearts ruptured and their skulls smashed, there was no hope of saving this tragic threesome, and their remains were taken to a mortuary. (End) At 1:30pm, as per usual, Edwin returned home to have lunch with his wife and children, only the house was empty and his family were gone. Beside his bed, he found a note in his wife’s handwriting, it read; ‘Dearest Jack. Thank you for all you have done for me. You have been a good husband and father. I am taking the kiddies with me. Nothing seems to go right. Please forgive me. You have never kept me short of anything. Maggie” – it was a final note which said everything, but explained nothing. And although, when he was reading it, his wife and children were still alive? With no idea where they had gone or how to find them, when he reported them missing, the police confirmed they were dead. In the mortuary of St George’s hospital by Hyde Park, Edwin identified not only the shattered remains of his wife, but also of his children - two innocents who were enjoying a day out and eating their lunch. Dr G R Mathews, house surgeon at St George’s said that death would have been “instantaneous”. Held at Westminster Coroner’s Court on the 28th February 1924, Edwin Davey was described as “very much distressed” as he tearfully gave evidence as to how his wife had killed herself and their children. With her suicide note being of little use and her past showing no clear history of depression, suicide, or a morbid desire to harm her loved ones, the jury returned a verdict that Maggie had “committed suicide while of unsound mind”, and that the “children were deliberately murdered by their mother”. 24 years later, Edwin Davey died of a heart-attack, he never remarried and had no more children. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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