Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY-THREE
Episode Fifty-Three: On Sunday 14th December 1952, Ethel Christie died of an accidental overdose of sleeping tablets in bed, her husband tried to save her, but it was too late. And yet, was this the truth... given that her husband was John Reginald Halliday Christie and he had already murdered four people and sent an innocent man to his death?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
Ep53 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Six (Ethel Christie)
INTRO: Decisions. Life is a never-ending series of decisions, and being faced with an endless procession of moral dilemmas, personal preferences and potential outcomes, without a decision, our lives cannot move forwards or backwards, they simply stall and stagnate. We make billions of decisions every day; from the clothes we wear, to the food we eat, to the places we go, and to the people we see; with each decision ranging from the massive, the middling to the microscopic, from the birth of a baby to the blink of the eye. And conscious or not, everything is decided. Each decision has two outcomes, right or wrong, with varying degrees of success or failure in-between. And although our choices are often based on prior knowledge and experience garnered from a similar circumstance, sometimes we still make the wrong decision for (what we feel) is the right reason. If we learn from our mistakes, bad decisions can make us stronger, wiser and braver. They can make us, but they can also break us, with even the most inconsequential of decisions proving fatal. During the murders of Ruth Fuerst, Muriel Eady, Beryl and Geraldine Evans, one other person (beyond Reg Christie) was a resident at 10 Rillington Place, but being sweet, polite and timid, she remained hidden in her husband’s shadow. And yet, twenty years earlier, when her life had hit a crossroads, she made a bad decision (for good reasons) which would bring about her death. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true… is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part six of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing one street east of Rillington Place, on the junction of Ladbroke Grove and Lancaster Road; on the north-west corner is the boarded-up remnants of the KPH public house, on the north-east corner is the floristry shop where David Griffin’s Refreshment Room once stood and on the south-east corner is the North Kensington Public Library at 108 Ladbroke Grove. Opened in 1891, after the Public Libraries Act of 1850 gave each borough in the United Kingdom the power to provide everyone - regardless of age, class, race or gender - with books, knowledge and an education for life, North Kensington was one of London’s first public libraries. As an imposing two-storey building with long ominous windows, black wrought iron gates and a dark shadowy door, as it looms over the street like a screaming face, it doesn’t look welcoming. And with the inside being outdated, like most libraries, it’s mostly empty, except for several soft seats which soak-up old people’s widdle, a musty damp smell which could easily be a dead tramp, a moaning Minnie going “shush” at the tinnitus in her ears, an old dear getting moist over the mere mention of a “trouser protuberance” in a Mills & Boon, and a backwards boy ending-up bent double owing to a brief flash of boob in a photography book. Ah, great days Michael, great days. Sadly, with plans to turn it into a prep school for little posh shits, the tax-paying public are being booted out as the seeds of Satan with silver spoons up their sphincters are moved in, paying almost six grand a term to be educated and entirely defeating the reason why the library was built. And yet, it was here, in peace and solitude of North Kensington Library, clutching a well-thumbed copy of the Penny Poets, that Ethel Christie came to escape, having married a murderer. (Interstitial) At 9:45pm, on Friday 2nd December 1949, in Notting Hill Police Station, Timothy John Evans made his third and final confession. (Tim) “She was incurring one debt after another and I could not stand it no longer. I came home about 6:30pm. She started to argue and threw a milk bottle at me, so I hit her across the face with the flat of my hand. She then hit me back. In a fit of temper I grabbed a piece of rope and strangled her with it. When I knew everything was quiet, I wrapped my wife’s body in a green table cloth, I tied it up with a piece of cord, carried her down to the washhouse, placed it under the sink and blocked it in with pieces of wood. I locked the washhouse door and slipped back upstairs whilst The Christie’s were in bed. On Thursday evening, I done my day’s work, I left the job, I went home, got my baby from her cot, I picked up my tie and I strangled her with it. I sold my furniture, caught the train to Cardiff and made my way to Mount Pleasant, and that’s it”. And in a strangely detailed confession, which the exhausted and grief-stricken husband, father and fantasist had made only after the Police had informed him how, where and when the bodies of his wife and baby were found; having signed his confession as accurate and true, Tim the terrible liar sighed, “it is a great relief to get it off my chest, I feel better already”. And with that, Timothy John Evans was charged with the murders of Beryl & Geraldine Evans and the case was closed. Prior to 2nd December 1949, 10 Rillington Place was just an anonymous tumble-down terraced house tucked away in a gloomy dead-end amidst the craters, rubble and waste of West London, but now, it was infamous. And with two constables stood guard by the washhouse, two posted by the front door and several having cordoned off the street to hold back a throng of gawkers, gossips and giggling kids, as the rapid burst of flashbulbs bathed the unlit street in a blinding white light, into an ambulance were loaded two corpses; both curled-up, one as big as a bundle of rags, one small as a shoe-box. In the front room, the Christie’s sat several feet apart; Ethel on the sofa, Reg in his armchair; his face giddy with glee as he snipped cuttings about the Evans killings from the newspaper, circled his name and stashed each article in his little brown suitcase of treasured memories, as Reg relished this infamy. Where-as Ethel did not. Being a timid and fragile lady with frayed nerves, sullen eyes and a haggard face, Ethel tried to hide from the horror of the last few days with a hot tea, a roaring fire and a book of poetry, but with her home sullied by a feted stench, every time she breathed, she smelled death. Ethel looked older than her fifty-one years, and being a shadow-of-her-former-self, all that was left was a pale, dowdy and down-trodden woman haunted by a three-decades of bad decisions. (Reg flashback) “Ethel, he’s only gone and killed the baby”, (Ethel) “No, Tim would never do that”, (Reg) “I’m telling you Ethel, that’s what he’s done, strangled them both”. (End) As a migraine creeped in - with no kiss, hug or eye-contact - Ethel muttered “I’m off to bed now, night Reg”, which he ignored as he snipped another cutting about the killings. And as her slippers shuffled down the dark drab hall - passed the deckchair, the gas stove, the square glass jar, the length of rope, the washhouse, the fence propped up by half of human thigh bone and their garden where two bodies still rotted in shallow graves - as Ethel curled-up on her bed, her portly frame nestled into the deep recess of the mattress where Ruth Fuerst was strangled… and soon, Ethel would be too. (Interstitial) But her life could have been so different had she made the right decision for the right reason. Ethel Simpson was born on 28th March 1898, the youngest of three children to William, the foreman at an iron foundry and Amy, a full-time mother, with older siblings Henry and Lily. As an upper working-class family raised in the industrial town of Halifax (West Yorkshire) during an economic boom, with a proud father who protected his flock and ensured their safety and stability, a doting mother who kept her brood warm, safe and well-fed; and all three siblings having developed a strong stable bond which would remain till their dying days, Ethel couldn’t have asked for a better start. Sadly, in 1904, tragedy struck when William died, and with his untimely death having left Amy with Henry aged ten, Lily aged five and Ethel aged just three - living in an era which was unjust to single mothers - life could have collapsed. But with William having provided for their future, Amy being their rock and the siblings being close, the Simpson family weathered this tragedy and flourished. And yet, unbeknownst to Ethel, just a few streets away, lived a little boy, called Reg Christie. Described as refined, well-bred and educated, although she lived in the stifling surroundings of a post-Victorian era, Ethel was very much a modern woman; she was self-sufficient (having started work aged 13 as a milliner’s assistant), she was skilled (being trained in shorthand), and being blessed with her father’s work ethic and her mother’s family bond, being a deeply maternal woman with a dream that - one day – she would have a family of her own, although timid and reserved, Ethel was intelligent. As a child, Ethel was instilled with a deep love of poetry, absorbing the literary greats like Shakespeare, Robert Burns, John Keats, Walter Scott and Elizabeth Barrett-Browning, which fuelled her sensitive heart with dreams of romance. And a keen writer with a life-long love of language, every Christmas and birthday, without fail, Ethel would send cards to her friends, family and co-workers, having signed it “from Ethel” and later in life from “Ethel… and Reg”. Eager to find true love, although she was timid and shy; being a shapely petite brunette with a warm smile, soft skin and a motherly nature, who was impeccably dressed, well-spoken and always polite, Ethel easily attracted the attention of men, but being as a romantic soul, she needed him to be special. Even with her siblings, Ethel rarely discussed her private life, so exactly how they met is uncertain. But in the autumn of 1919, whilst working as a typist for John Sutcliffe’s woollen mill, over a nice cup of tea in the canteen, Ethel met a young clerk. He was kind, caring and a good listener; a bespectacled man with a small frame, a sweet-nature and a soft whispering voice, who was totally unthreatening, and as a decorated war-hero with dreams of continuing his training as a doctor, who – just like her – he didn’t drink or smoke and had strong moral beliefs - soon she began to trust him and to love him. The young clerk’s name was John… …(Christie’s whisper) “but I prefer it if you call me Reg?” Eight months later, on the 10th May 1920 in Halifax Registry Office, Miss Ethel Simpson became Mrs Ethel Christie. And in the first of three bad decisions made for good reasons, she married her murderer. (Interstitial) Married life for The Christie’s started badly. Having moved into a cosy little flat at 9 Brunswick Road in Halifax, although they ate well and the rent was paid, it was Ethel’s strong work ethic and secretarial skills for Garside Engineering in Bradford which kept them afloat. As with Reg living off a disability award of eight shillings a week, having been injured in a mustard-gas attack during The Great War and unable to hold down a regular job for more than a few months – whether as a van driver, an office clerk and a doorman – although she held her husband in high regard, Ethel became the breadwinner, whilst Reg was always broke. With her sister Lily having given birth to a baby boy called Edwin who Ethel adored and as a deeply maternal woman who wanted to become a mum, with Reg plagued by impotence, the Christie’s struggled to conceive. And even though, after many months of stress and failure, a baby began to grow inside Ethel, having cruelly suffered a miscarriage, their hopes of having a family fell apart, and as their marital bed chilled, their love-life became distant, cold and unaffectionate. Then on 12th April 1921, eleven months into their marriage, as Ethel grieved the loss of her baby, Reg was found guilty of stealing postal orders whilst working as a postman and sentenced to three months hard-labour in Strangeways Prison. Although shocked, Ethel supported her husband throughout, but having later been sentenced to a further twelve months’ probation for obtaining money under false pretences, after his second conviction on 15th January 1923, Reg deserted his wife and disappeared from her life, with no goodbye, no excuse and no reason, Reg Christie had simply vanished. Married for just two and a half years, although distraught, being a strong, skilled and self-sufficient woman who was educated, refined and attractive, Ethel was given a second chance at a new life. In 1924, Ethel worked as a typist for The English Electric Company in Bradford; she was quiet but polite, friendly but reserved, and remaining loyal to her colleagues and the company even after she was laid-off, every year for the rest of her life, she would send them all a Christmas card, signed “from Ethel”. In 1928, Ethel moved-in with her brother Henry at 63 Hinde House Lane in Sheffield, and with her sister Lily, brother-in-law Arthur and nephew Edwin at number 61, she was surrounded by family. That same year, whilst dancing at the Abbeydale Ballroom, Ethel met and fell in love with a prosperous business man called Vaughan Brindley, who owned a radio shop on the Prince of Wales Road. And just like her, he was loyal, quiet and loving, he didn’t drink, smoke or lie, but best of all, he made her happy. For those four years, Ethel’s life was bliss; she had a steady job as a typist at Saville’s Steel Works, she lived side-by-side with her beloved siblings, and being besotted by Ethel, Vaughan Brindley began to talk of wedding bells and babies, in a life which would have been pure poetry. But Ethel had lied… …stunned by the revelations that she wasn’t a widow, that Reg wasn’t dead, that she was still married, and that she could never have children, as his business collapsed, so did their love affair. And as a deeply moral woman weighed down by guilt and failure, in the second of three bad decisions made for good reasons, she gave Reg one last chance. (Interstitial) In February 1934, nine years after he had deserted her, Ethel travelled from Sheffield to South London to see her husband. He was thinner, smaller and paler, and with thick glasses, false teeth and a bald head, he looked feeble and pathetic. And being dressed in ill-fitting blue fatigues, having come to the end of a three month sentence for car theft in Wandsworth Prison, and two prior offences for larceny and malicious wounding, Reg apologised and promised that (if she took him back) he would change. And he did… …turning his back on petty crime, across the next twenty years of their marriage, he held down three full-time jobs (as a cinema doorman at The Commodore, a driver for Ultra Electric and a clerk for the Post Office), he served his country during war-time as a Special Constable, and as a law-abiding, teetotal respectable married-man with a love of animals and gardening, he remained by her side. In December 1938, having lived in the second floor flat since the summer, as the Smith family moved out, Ethel & Reg Christie moved-in to the ground-floor flat of an old Victorian terrace. It wasn’t a great flat; the bricks crumbled, the floors creaked and the walls shook as the tube trains thundered by, and with no electric lights only gas, a garden with no privacy and a washhouse and a lavatory shared with the other tenants, it wasn’t much, but to Ethel, Reg and their dog Judy, 10 Rillington Place was home. …and yet this new veneer of respectability helped her husband to hide his darker side. And as the years went on, lacking any love, romance or affection, as the stresses and strains of married life took its toll; Ethel went from slim to rotund, elegant to frumpy and attractive to sallow, and as her health deteriorated, being plagued by migraines, rheumatism and varicose veins, she retreated into solitude, silence and remained hidden in her husband’s shadow. In the sanctuary of the North Kensington Library, Ethel whiled away many hours; absorbing poetry and writing letters to friends and family. Her words were always heartfelt, her wishes were thoughtful and her kisses were true, but as a deeply private woman she never expressed the fears she faced, as throughout she remained a loyal wife and a good woman who wished her loved ones well. With war declared and their marriage strained, the safety of the library wasn’t enough and as Ethel’s stays with her siblings (Henry and Lily) grew longer and more frequent, she never spoke ill of Reg. Not once during the twenty years they lived under the same roof, sat in the same chairs, or slept in the same bed… but the signs were there. The loose floorboards under the front room, the uneven bumps in the back garden, the locked brown suitcase under the sofa, Judy digging up unusual bones (Ethel) “tea’s up Reg”, the milky white stick that propped up the fence, the strange stains on her bedsheets (Christie) “She were Austrian I believe, a nice girl, plain but sad-looking”, the deck-chair with the missing length of rope (Christie) “I were medically-trained, you know, she believed I could cure her”, the square glass jar with the rubber tubing (bubbling sound) (Christie) “breathe deeply Muriel” and his obsession with Beryl Evans (Christie) “I thought you might like a cup of tea, dear?”, who he spied on through a hole in the kitchen door. So what Ethel actually knew, we shall never know… …but on Tuesday 8th November 1949, as she lay in the deep recess of her once-badly stained double bed, she may have heard this (dragging sound, thud – Christie) “here, give us a hand lad” from two floors above. And two days later (Christie) “Ethel, he’s only gone and killed the baby”, (Ethel) “No, Tim would never do that”, (Reg) “I’m telling you Ethel, that’s what he’s done, strangled them both”. (End) It was shortly after that, in the winter of 1949, that Ethel’s trips to see her siblings suddenly stopped. As in the third of three bad decisions made for good reasons, whether through loyalty or fear, Ethel Christie lied for her husband. (Interstitial) On 11th January 1950, in Court One of the Old Bailey, (Justice Lewis) “Timothy John Evans, you stand accused of the murder of your wife and daughter, how do you plead?” (Tim) “not guilty”, and with that, the prosecution called their chief witness; who – unlike Tim the terrible liar – was a happily married man (Christie) “twenty nine years to be precise”, a former Special Constable “commended twice” and a decorated war-hero “awarded the British War & Victory Medal”. In court, Christie stated: “About midnight on Tuesday 8th November, my wife and I were startled by a bang, I heard something very heavy being moved. I don’t think I saw Tim Evans on the Wednesday till about 11pm. I was by my bedroom door, he was coming in and my wife put the hall-light on. Beryl and the baby weren’t with him, I asked him where they were, and he said they’d gone to Bristol”. When asked if he had any training as a doctor, Christie replied “no”. When asked if he knew a “young couple in Acton”, Christie replied “no”. When asked if he had performed an abortion on Beryl Evans? Christie replied “no”. All of which was the truth, and his story was corroborated (in court) by Ethel. On 14th January 1950, after three days of evidence, including a stained green table cloth, a set of pink baby clothes, a man’s blue tie with a red-stripe and three false confessions made to the Police, after just forty minutes of deliberation, Timothy John Evans was found guilty of murder. And although Tim was an easily led boy with a wild imagination, a volatile temper and a limited grasp on reality; who was barely literate, had an IQ of just 65 and the mental age of an eleven year old, prison doctors deemed him mentally incapable and punishable for his crimes. On 9th March 1950 at 9am in the cold grey execution chamber of Pentonville Prison, Albert Pierrepoint, a master of his craft – so skilled that a convict could go from sitting-down in a seat to dangling from a rope in just seven seconds – placed the prisoner on a twin trap-door, and with an eight foot drop, a sudden stop, two fractured vertebrae and a severed spinal cord, Timothy John Evans was dead. An innocent man had been hung, a guilty man had walked free and no-one was any wiser, but Ethel. For the next two years, she remained with Reg in the dank dark ruins of 10 Rillington Place; the carpets were as frayed as her nerves, the bricks as broken as her heart and the walls dripped with the feted stench of death, as their home, the street and their names were forever besmirched by the murders. Growing fatter, weaker and paler, as the stresses and strains of sharing a roof, a room and a bed with a liar, a fantasist and a sexual sadist ate at her soul; being too sick to work, too scared to sleep and with their arguments occurring almost nightly, 54 year old Ethel Christie was plagued by migraines. On Friday 12th December 1952, Ethel dropped off a quilt, a bedsheet and a two pillow cases to Maxwell Laundries at 138 Walmer Road, she received a receipt, but never collected them. She returned a copy of Penny Poets No2 to the North Kensington Library, but never took another book out. On the Saturday she watched television with Rosina Swann at 9 Rillington Place, an almost daily event, which would never happen again. And oddly, that Christmas, Ethel Christie would send only one card, to one person - her sister Lily – and with rheumatism having supposedly crippled her hands, it was written by Reg. On the morning of Sunday 14th December 1952, (Christie’s whisper) “I remember waking and finding her shaking violently, her face was all blue and she was choking, I tried to restore her breathing, I did artificial respiration, but it was hopeless. I got out of bed, there was a bottle of blue capsules which I had got from the hospital for my insomnia; beside it was half a cup of water and only two pills left when there should have been twenty-five. It was too late to call for assistance. I couldn’t bear to see her like this, so I got a stocking, tied it around her neck and put her to sleep”. (End) There she lay, on the bed, for several days, all bloated and blue, a black stocking tied tight and buried deep into her swollen neck. And with a locked door and no-one to disturb him, her naked body was his to do with as he wished. Only he didn’t. As her corpse slowly cooled, he wouldn’t grope, kiss, mutilate or rape her, as he had with the others, because Ethel was different. And as inactive as their sex-life was when she was alive, it would remain so, when she was dead. Mourning the loss of his wife of thirty-two years in his own perverse way (Christie) “I think in my mind I didn’t want to lose her”; having wrapped her rigid and decomposing body in a blue flannel bedsheet, tied it shut with a safety pin, covered her aghast face with a pillowcase, and – strangely - positioned a makeshift nappy made from a woollen vest between her legs, he pried up the loose floorboards of the front-room, and in a cold and shallow grave, he covered her with dirt. Fifty-four year old Ethel Christie - the faithful friend, the grieving mother and the forgiving wife, who was timid, kind and caring, intelligent, refined and was once beautiful - was buried one foot below her own sofa, where most nights she sat, silently by the fire, reading poetry and dreaming of happier times… with her brother Henry, her sister Lily, her mum, her dad and of the life she could have had with her lover - Vaughan Brindley - had she not made three bad decisions for good reasons. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed parts one to six of this ten part series, part seven of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place continues next Thursday, with an omnibus edition once it’s finished. And for any murky milers, stay tuned for the verbal equivalent of dribbly bum-squits after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Brew Crime and Disturbed State. (PLAY PROMO) A big thank you to my fabulous Patreon supporters whose kind donations have been wisely spent travelling to/from the National Archives to fact-check this current series and prepare us all for season three. Oooh. So this week’s absolute legends are Geri Katz, Lise Rosenlund, Anne Devine-Pride, Mandi Laing and Suzanne Fox. Thanks folks, you are the glace cherry on my Belgian bun. And as a very special Christmas treat, I would like to wish a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to Stephanie Baca (Ba-ka) from Texas. Yes Stephanie, I mean you. I wanted to say to you, have yourself a truly fabulous holiday, stay safe (which is the moral of Murder Mile) and give an extra special smooch to Matthew, as he (being the loveliest husband ever, am I right?) organised this just for you. Merry Christmas Stephanie. And if any other Murder Mile listeners are currently screaming at their spouse or loved-one, hurling sprouts and shouting “why aren’t you as amazing as Matthew?”, you can arrange a special shout-out via the Merch shop, just click in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY-TWO
Episode Fifty-Two: On Thursday 10th November 1949, fourteen month old Geraldine Evans went missing from 10 Rillington Place. According to her father (Timothy Evans) she had gone on holiday with her mother (Beryl) to Brighton... only this wasn't true, and Tim knew it.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
Ep52 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Five (Geraldine Evans)
INTRO: Guilt. A powerful emotion triggered when we believe we have compromised a law, rule or moral code of our society or own standards, and (in turn) accept responsibility for that violation. Guilt guides our actions, our beliefs and our opinions; it protects us, binds us and shapes our lives. But just like a lie, being fuelled by the heart and not the head, guilt can be subjective. So no matter what part a person has played in that violation - with their perceived level of guilt defined by their own emotional barometer – whatever the truth, blame can be shifted, roles twisted and reality distorted, to the point where the innocent feel truly responsible, and the guilty remain blameless. Being complicit in the failure of his wife’s abortion, her untimely death and her unlawful burial, having destroyed evidence, lied and fled, and deeply missing his baby daughter, twenty-four year old Timothy John Evans walked into Merthyr Vale police station and made a confession. But with his statement littered with lies, his own words had protected the real culprit and condemned himself to death. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true… is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part five of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Bartle Road, W11; a residential side street just off St Mark’s Road in Ladbroke Grove. To my right is a long line of modern four-storey brown-bricked terraced houses, to my left are several lock-ups under the arches of the overhead tube-line, behind is the ominous shadow of the Grenfell Tower and in front (just like it was in the 1940’s) is a garage and petrol station. Named after the Bartle James Iron Works, originally situated at its bottom end, Bartle Road was built in 1979, after the 1970’s slum-clearances saw many derelict Victorian houses demolished. Being new, this street isn’t filled with blue plaques which espouse fascinating titbits about semi-famous people who were once residents, like at 7 Bruce Grove in Tottenham, where a plaque on the home of a famed meteorologist proudly lists him as “Luke Howard – namer of clouds”, at 48 Welbeck Street where Thomas Young is hailed simply as a “man of science”, and at 6 Wimpole Street, where noted surgeon Sir Frederick Treves lived… and yet, the plaque fails to mention that (at that time, in that house) his lodger was none-other than Joseph Carey Merrick, infamously known as The Elephant Man. Some streets take pride in their history, where-as Bartle Road does not and for good reason. As after the last resident left in 1971 and prior to its demolition, the street on which Bartle Road now stands, was a dark and dreary dead-end called Rushton Close, which had been hastily renamed in May 1953 to disguise its infamous horrors, as this was originally Rillington Place. And although a few remnants of Reg Christie’s beloved garden still exist at 26 & 29 St Andrew's Square, just one street behind, between 8 and 10 Bartle Road, there’s an odd break in the terraced houses. As where 10 Rillington Place once stood, sits a memorial garden; with no sign, no plaque and no shrine. As it was here, on 2nd December 1949, in the back garden of 10 Rillington Place, that the Police would discover the decomposing bodies of two females. (Interstitial) (Echo of voices) Timothy Evans: “I want to give myself up. I have disposed of my wife”. DC Evans: “Do you realise what you are saying, sir?”, Timothy Evans “Yes, I know what I am saying. I cannot sleep and I want to get it off my chest”. (End) On Wednesday 30th November 1949 at 6pm, barely an hour after Tim’s confession, Detective Inspector George Jennings and Detective Sergeant James Black of Notting Hill Police Station searched the second floor flat at 10 Rillington Place. As expected, it was empty; no furniture, no clothes and no people, just two suitcases, a pram and a high-chair, left in the safe-keeping of the Christie’s. So far, everything about Tim’s confession rang true… …and yet, if his wife had died and been disposed of the way he’d described, why had he sold everything they owned? Why had he pawned his wife’s wedding ring? And – more importantly – why had he told his family, his friends, his employer, the furniture dealer, the pawn-broker, the rag-trader and the Christie’s that Beryl had gone on holiday to her father’s in Brighton, but to the Police, he said that she was dead, and that he had disposed of her body down the drain? Two hours after dusk, with the street full of giggling kids, gossiping neighbours and with Reg eagerly watching from the doorway; outside of the ground-floor bay-window of 10 Rillington Place, the Police pried up the cast-iron man-hole cover, and armed with flashlights, they peered inside into the sewer. At 9pm, Detective Constable Evans commenced his interview of Timothy John Evans in Merthyr Vale police station, and having heard back from the Notting Hill police, he confronted Tim with what they had found down the drain – nothing - the body of Beryl Evans wasn’t there. And as Tim the terrible liar indignantly replied “well I put her in there”, being incapable of sustaining the story, as his lies unravelled, the detective probed Tim further; (DC Evans) “is it a man hole?” (Tim) “I expect so”, (DC Evans) “who helped you lift it?” (Tim) “I did it myself”, but when faced with the stark reality that (DC Evans) “impossible, it took three officers to lift the cover off”, as he began to realise he was digging his own grave, for the first time in a long while, Tim began to tell the truth. At 9:10pm, just four hours after his first confession, began the second confession of Timothy John Evans… and this - as far as we know - is the nearest we’ll ever get to the truth. (Echo of voices) Tim: “…my wife Beryl told me she was three months gone. I said “another won’t make any difference”. She told me she was going to get rid of it”, Christie: “if only you or your wife had come to me in the first place, I could have done it without any risk… one out of every seven women die”, Tim: “…tell Mr Christie everything is okay”, Christie: “I thought you might like a cup of tea”, and “nothing to worry about dear, it’s just a whiff of gas, like going to the dentist”. On the evening of Tuesday 8th November 1949, having finished his shift as a van-driver for Lancaster Food Products, Tim returned home to 10 Rillington Place. As he pushed open the dark wooden door, beyond the oddly subdued greeting of Judy, at the far end of the drab grey hallway stood Reg; his bald head bowed, his hands behind his back. Eagerly Tim asked “well?”, but Reg didn’t reply. Instead, taking a lengthy breath, he sighed and softly uttered “go on upstairs Tim, I’ll follow you up”. His presence was calm yet controlling, and as they ascended the stairs in silence, the only sounds heard, were the slow creak of wood and the soft squeak of Reg’s plimsolls. Inside, the second-floor flat was dark and empty, as behind them Reg closed the door. Nothing seemed out of place, in fact the kitchen was as Tim had left it that morning, and with the baby asleep in her cot, all that was missing was Beryl, so Tim asked again “well?” But this time, Reg’s face said it all, “it’s bad news Tim, it didn’t work”. (Tim) “Where’s Beryl?”, (Reg) “She’s lying on the bed”. With the curtains drawn and the lights out, the bedroom was in darkness, but hearing his baby grizzling after a long nap, Geraldine’s gurgling was reassuring as he lit the gas-lamp. Bathing the pokey room in a shadowy yellow flicker, Tim turned to see the small familiar shape of his wife, in bed, a quilt from her feet to her chin. (Tim) “Beryl?” he gently cooed to his sickly wife, but she didn’t reply. Tim stroked her hand, thinking she was sleeping, but with the soft warmth of her delicate fingers replaced by five frozen and rigid digits, Tim gulped, as he now knew that Beryl was dead. (Reg) “It was her stomach, septic poisoning we call it, from all those pills she was taking”. Seeing his dead wife through a blur of tears, Tim tried to ask why her face was bloodied, but as his lips stuttered, there was no-way that a feeble fantasist with a child-like brain could compete with a superior intellect. And as Reg reiterated “one in seven women die, I said. If only you or your wife had come to me in the first place, I could have done it without any risk”, he led Tim to the kitchen, and away from precisely positioned quilt which disguised the bruise across Beryl’s neck, and – more importantly - Reg’s guilt. As Tim’s world collapsed, Reg stood beside him, offering his fatherly advice and a few home comforts, and as Reg brewed a tea on the hob, Tim cuddled Geraldine by the warmth of the fire. “We have to go to the Police” Tim pleaded, but being ready with his retort, Reg replied “The police? And tell them what?” his eyes as wide as headlamps, unblinking and still. Reg knew how to bait him, it wasn’t difficult as being such a simple lad he was easily duped. And yet, without any hint of irony, Tim replied “I’ll tell them the truth” - a word which sounded strange as it spewed out of his mouth. (Reg) “Oh Tim, who do you think the Police will suspect…?” And it was true, as a heavy-drinker with a fiery temper, a string of bad debts and a criminal record, it was well-known from Ladbroke Grove to Merthyr Vale that Tim was a terrible liar (flashbacks - Tim) “my father’s an Italian Count”, “I need a loan as my baby’s gravely ill”, “it’s a managerial job at De Havilland” (end) and with their regular rows (flashback – Tim) “I’ll bloody do you in, I will”, witnessed by every resident in Rillington Place, (Tim) “I’ll push you through the bloody window”, the most violent having occurred just two months earlier (Tim) “I’ll smash her up and run her over in my van”, which was reported to the Police, (Reg) “… they’ll think you killed her during one of your fights?” Tim knew he was right. (Reg) “No, it’s best we make it look like she went away… on a holiday”. And as a Catholic, although the thought of hiding Beryl’s body and depriving her of a church service, a burial and a grave made him physically sick, (Reg) “Well that’s the only thing I can do…”, Reg fired back with the clincher which would prey on the simple boy’s guilt (Reg) “…otherwise I’ll get into trouble with the Police. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” And in three short words - (Tim) “No Mr Christie” - Reg took complete control of Tim. Instructed to look after the baby, having changed her nappy, Tim made her a cup of tea and a boiled egg. Being just fourteen months old, as Geraldine hugged her stuffed rabbit and her daddy dangled a set of Dandy Jinglers hoping to distract her, she was blissfully unaware that her mum was dead. But from the bedroom, with a dull thump, Reg dragged her dead mother’s corpse. With each heave and pull, Reg wheezed and panted, as he struggled to haul the lifeless body into the landing. She was only seven and a half stone, but being just a little fella himself, whose back played merry-hell and whose dicky tummy often left him bog-bound, Beryl’s body was a dead-weight. (Reg) “Here, give us a hand, lad” Reg huffed, and dutifully, Tim did. Clutching her chilly ankles, as they carried her cadaver down to the currently vacant first-floor flat of Mr Kitchener, with Reg’s arms flat over her chest, rucking her blue woollen jacket right up to her neck, the strangulation scar was hidden. There, Beryl’s body was dumped on the hard-wooden floor; slumped in a crumpled heap like a bag of old rags. It didn’t seem real, his wife was dead and he was to blame, but this wasn’t one of Tim’s fanciful tales told to his pals over a few pints, this was reality - something Tim knew nothing about. Through stuttering sobs, Tim stammered “so… where will you put her?” Tim didn’t want to know, but he knew he had to know, and although Reg’s reply was oddly clinical and almost inhuman, (Reg) “I’ll dispose of it down the drain”, Tim said nothing, he just nodded, knowing Reg was right. (Reg) “You’d better go to bed now and leave the rest to me”, Reg said, and as he handed the distraught boy the wedding ring he had yanked off her stiff finger (Reg) “there you are lad, sell it”, over the next few days, in a dizzy daze of exhaustion and confusion, Tim would do whatever Reg said. (Tim) “Mr Christie said (Reg) “the best thing you can do is to disappear, get out of London somewhere”. So I just said “Alright”. The next day, on Wednesday 9th November, (Tim) “I got up, fed and changed the baby and put her in her cot. I saw Christie before I went to work and he told me that he would feed her during the day. I had wanted to take the baby to my mother but he said not to, as it would cause suspicion. He told me that he knew a young couple in East Acton who would look after her”. That evening, (Tim) “Christie told me they’d be here in the morning to take the baby and said to pack-up some clothes for her, which I did”. It consisted of two large suitcases full of baby clothes, her favourite stuffed rabbit, a rag doll and a set of Dandy Jinglers, as well as a pram and a high chair which Reg promised to drop round to the couple later in the week. Being their last night together (for a while), as Tim sobbed by the warmth of the kitchen fire, he kissed and cuddled his baby daughter - her skin was as soft as warm marshmallows, her rosy cheeks as bright as the pink woollen coat she wore and her smell was a familiar mix of milk and talc. And truly believing he was doing what was best for his baby, he hoped that (someday soon) he would see her again… …only he wouldn’t. Under Reg’s instruction, over the next four days, Tim erased his and his family’s existence; he quit his job at Lancaster Food Products, told his mother that his wife and child had gone on holiday to Brighton, sold his furniture to Robert Hookway for £40; including a three-piece oak suite, a kitchen table, a folding chair, a six foot bed and even the lino off the floor, and having sliced-up his wife’s clothes and the quilt into strips, two anonymous bundles of assorted cloth were handed to a local rag merchant. By 1pm, on Monday 14th November, the second-floor flat was bare and hollow. There was no hint that a family had once lived there, no clue as to where they had gone and no evidence that a murder had taken place. And with no reason to stay, Tim closed the door, never to return to 10 Rillington Place. (Tim) “Christie asked me where I was going to go and I said I didn’t know. Then I got my suitcase I took it up to Paddington, left it at the left luggage department until half past midnight, and caught the five to one train to Cardiff. I got to Merthyr Vale about twenty to seven in the morning, went to Mount Pleasant and I’ve been there ever since”. Being back in his home-town of Merthyr Vale; staying with his Uncle Con & Auntie Vi’s at 93 Mount Pleasant, a few doors down from where he was born, and being surrounded by the lush green valleys, the soft bleat of sheep and the soothing trickle of the River Taff, everything felt reassuring and safe. But for the next two weeks, Tim wouldn’t sleep, as every night he silently wept; his heart breaking for each day that he didn’t see his baby daughter, his mind flashing with horrifying images of his dead wife and his soul crushed by the thought of her body dumped in a rat-infested sewer. And with Reg Christie no longer here to guide him, the feeble little lies of Timothy Evans started to unravel. With very little making sense and Tim struggling to remember which lie he had told to who - such as; why he was in Wales, how long he was staying, why had Beryl walked out on him, why had she gone to stay with her father in Brighton, why had she left Geraldine with Thomasina and why did he have his wife’s wedding ring in his jacket pocket - with Tim growing ever more angry and evasive whenever Beryl was mentioned, Uncle Con telegrammed his mum. This was her reply. From Thomasina Probert to Cornelius & Violet Lynch. “Dear brother & sister. Well Vi, I don’t know what lies Tim has told you down there, I know nothing about them as I have not seen him for three weeks, and I have not seen Beryl or the baby for a month. Tim came to me to tell me that Beryl and the baby had gone to Brighton to see her father for a holiday. That is all I know about them. Ask Tim what he had done with all the rented furniture in his flat. You can tell him from me, I never want to see him again as long as I live”. Shortly before this letter arrived, Uncle Con received a telegram from Beryl’s father, in it he confirmed that he had not seen his daughter or the baby for almost a year. And in that, Tim’s lies collapsed. On Wednesday 30th November 1949 in Merthyr Vale police station, Tim made his first statement (Tim) “I want to give myself up. I have disposed of my wife” claiming she had died having taken some tablets. A few hours later; with the drain checked, Beryl missing and no body found, (DC Evans) “it took three officers to lift the cover off”, Tim retracted his first statement and made a second, (Tim) “the only thing that is not true is the part about meeting the man in the café and disposing of my wife’s body. All the rest is true… I said it to protect a man called Christie”. But when interviewed, the ex-Special Constable stated “I cannot understand why Evans should make any accusations against me, as I have been really good to him in a lot of ways. It is very well known locally that he is a liar and my wife and I have expressed the opinion that we think he is a bit mental”. On Friday 2nd December 1949, as Tim was transported to Notting Hill police station, a full search was conducted at 10 Rillington Place. And with Tim having stripped the flat bare, sold the furniture, cut-up the clothes and the quilt, told conflicting stories, sold his wife’s wedding ring and left the Christie’s with a high-chair, a pram and two suitcases full of baby clothes, to be delivered to a “nice young couple in East Acton” who neither Reg nor Ethel had ever heard of - everything looked suspicious. And then, at 11:50am, in the recently repaired wash-house in the back-garden of 10 Rillington Place, having pulled aside a stash of wooden slats (left by the builders for the tenants to use as firewood) Detective Inspector Jennings and Detective Sergeant Black found what they thought was a large bag of old rotten laundry stuffed under the porcelain sink and wedged against the brick wall. (Tim flashback) “I’ll bloody do you in I will”. Being two foot high, deep and wide, and weighing roughly seven and a half stone, as they dragged the hefty green bundle out onto the cold stone floor, the sack was dense and lumpy, with an ominous feted stench. And having snipped the length of clothesline used to keep its green tablecloth tied, as it parted aside, they spied some clothes; a blue woollen jacket, a spotted cotton blouse and a black shirt. (Tim flashback) “I’ll push you through the bloody window”. Inside, lay the decomposing body of Beryl Evans; bent double, her knees tucked-up to her chin, her breasts, thighs and genitals exposed. With her upper lip, chin and right eye bloodied and swollen, the pathologist concluded she had been the victim of an assault. With large fatty maggots having gnawed into her mouth and left breast, it was determined she had been dead for at least three weeks. And with a series of deep abrasions to the throat, it was irrefutable, that Beryl had been strangled. (Tim flashback) “I’ll smash her up and run her over in my van”. Conducted by Dr Robert Tear e, the post-mortem confirmed that (with a six and a half inch male foetus found deceased in her uterus) at the time of her death, Beryl was sixteen weeks pregnant. With no cuts or tears, it was clear that no abortion had taken place. And with deep bruising to her inner-thighs and with her parovarium ruptured, at some point before or after her death, Beryl had either been viscously kicked in the genitals, violated with a finger, or violently raped. But behind the wooden door to the wash-house, crudely covered in timber slats and cruelly dumped on the dirty floor, Police found a second body; smaller, younger and still dressed in a pink woollen coat, a flannelette frock, a white undervest and a white cotton nappy. Her tiny lifeless body was bloated and swollen; and with her lungs collapsed, her voice-box crushed and a man’s blue tie with a red-stripe wound with sadistic tightness which imbedded an inch deep into her soft neck – just like her mum beside her - fourteen month old Geraldine Evans had been strangled to death. (End) At 9:45pm, on Friday 2nd December 1949, in Notting Hill Police Station, twenty-four year old Timothy John Evans was shown two piles of dirty clothes by Detective Inspector Jennings; one being worn by Beryl, with the green tablecloth which bound her body; and the other, a set of pink and white baby clothes, as worn by Geraldine, and on top, was the thin striped tie which had ended her life. Informed that both bodies were found in the wash-house at the back of 10 Rillington Place, Detective Inspector Jennings stated “I have reason to believe that you are responsible for these deaths, is that correct?” To which - being exhausted, broken and crippled with guilt - Tim simply replied “yes”. And as an emotional and exhausted boy with a low IQ and the mental age of a child, having lost his grip on reality, that night, Tim would make his third statement to the Police, in which he confessed: (Tim) “She was incurring one debt after another and I could not stand it no longer, so I strangled her with a piece of rope, and then took her to the washhouse after midnight. On Thursday evening I come home and I strangled my baby in our bedroom with my tie”. And having signed his name confirming that the statement was accurate and true, with a guilty sigh, Tim stated “it is a great relief to get it off my chest, I feel better already”. On 8th December 1949, Beryl Susanna Evans was buried in a simple coffin at Gunnersbury Cemetery; it was lined with flannelette, padded with soft pillows, and between her legs, draped in a lace shroud, lay her baby daughter Geraldine. And as her husband was arrested for the murders of his wife and child, Reg Christie – the serial killer - went back to his home and his wife at 10 Rillington Place. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed parts one to five of this ten part series, part six of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place continues next Thursday. And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for some jolly japes, giggles and general shenanigans after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Evidence Locker and Great Lakes True-Crime. (PLAY PROMO) A big thank you to this week’s fabulous Patreon supporters whose very generous subscriptions to Murder Mile, once again, keeps the podcast chugging along, puts coal in my fire, cake in my belly and a little tipple to keep the cold out, so a big thank you to Ryan Crum, Rhian Burgess, Michael Schlepp, Hayley Grocock and Roger Remy. You are all truly amazing. And – of course – a big thank you to all of you who listen to Murder Mile. With no listeners, Murder Mile would be nothing. So thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY-ONE
Episode Fifty-One: On Wednesday 30th November 1949 at Merthyr Vale Police station in South Wales, 24 year old Timothy John Evans confessed to disposing of his wife's body, down a drain, outside of 10 Rillington Place, after a failed abortion attempt. But as a known liar who had spent many hours at the Kensington Park Hotel, getting drunk and telling fanciful stories, was this even true? This is part four of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place
THE LOCATION
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Ep51 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Four (Timothy John Evans)
INTRO: Lies. We all hear lies, tell lies and deny that we lie, and yet there’s very little difference between a truth and a lie, as just like the truth, a lie is just a very subtle shift in one person’s perspective, used to protect ourselves or others from the truth. So really, one person’s truth is just another person’s lie. But then again, there’s no such thing as the truth, it can never exist; as every single sentence, word or syllable we utter is riddled with a carefully calculated degree of emphasis, bias and belief, all of which is unconsciously rearranged and reedited to suit our own needs, goals and opinions. Fibs, untruths and little white lies are part of our daily vocabulary. It’s the difference between a person who is dull, poetic, creative or a visionary, with a very fine line between what is fantasy and reality. Lies are harmless, fibs are fun and everything we say is spun, but the second that lying becomes second nature, and the fantasist begins to believe their own lies as the truth, those lies can become deadly. By 1949, two bodies lay undiscovered in shallow graves in the back garden of 10 Rillington Place. On 8th November 1949, following a series of failed abortion attempts and in a fit of depression, 20 year old pregnant mother-of-one Beryl Evans committed suicide by gassing herself. Fearing the suspicion would fall upon her abusive husband; a heavy drinker, a terrible liar and known fantasist whose fiery bust-ups with his wife had been reported to the Police, Timothy Evans destroyed any evidence, packed-up, moved-out and fled, knowing that he would be blamed for her death. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true… is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part four of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing outside of The Kensington Park Hotel at 139 Ladbroke Grove, directly opposite (what was) David Griffin’s Refreshment Room, and one street east of The Thorley’s family home at 112 Cambridge Gardens, Tim’s mum’s house at 11 St Mark’s Road and the final flat of Beryl & Tim Evans on the second floor of 10 Rillington Place. Built in 1866 as a purpose built public house, the KPH is an eye-wateringly beautiful four-storey British boozer with a rich wood-panelled façade, a twin saloon door and an oil-burning lantern on the outside, with the inside thick with traditional period details, like brass fittings, ornate pillars, moulded cornices, bottle balustrades, a central bar-island, and fitted-out with a luncheon room, a billiard hall, a theatre and (as created in 1929) a “discrete ablution facility” for the ladies. And as one of London’s oldest live music venues - where Welsh crooner Tom Jones played his first city gig, punk band The Clash hung out, notorious fascist Oswald Mosley staged his ill-fated 1958 election bid and where (it is rumoured) a small softly spoken serial-killer once served behind the bar - the KPH is a great pub where generations of legends have sat, supped pints and spouted bullshit about sport. Sadly, it’s now boarded-up, as the £3.2 million property is about to be turned into yet another bloody gastro-pub - where bearded dickheads in dungarees swig pints the size of thimbles, smarmy gits in red trousers quaff vegan fry-ups served on a coal-miner’s shovel and tosspots in tiny hats pose for selfies in-front of their poncy din-dins, tweeting about how “amazeballs” it is, even though it’s just a piece of toast, drenched in oil, slopped with hummus and smeared in avo-f**king-cado – instead of a good honest local pub frequented by the salt-of-the-earth heroes. (Burp! “Better out than in”). And yet, it was here, in the autumn of 1949, that – over a few pints – 24 year old Timothy Evans would regale his chums with a stream of rather fanciful stories, but having forgotten how to tell the truth, his impulse to lie would cost him his life. (Interstitial) On Wednesday 30th November 1949 at 3:10pm, in the sleepy Welsh village of Merthyr Vale, a tired and dishevelled Timothy Evans entered the local police station stating “I want to give myself up. I have disposed of my wife”. Taken-aback, Detective Constable Gwynfryn Evans asked “do you realise what you are saying, sir?” to which Evans replied “Yes, I know what I am saying. I cannot sleep and I want to get it off my chest”. And over the next two hours, he gave the following statement. (Tim’s voice): “October-time, my wife Beryl told me she was three months gone. I said “another won’t make any difference”. She told me she was going to get rid of it. I told her not to be silly that she’d make herself ill. Then she brought a syringe and some tablets. That didn’t work, I told her I was glad. On the Monday morning, she told me if she couldn’t get rid of the baby, she’d kill herself and our baby Geraldine. I told her she was talking silly. Then I went to work, loaded up my van and went on my way. That morning, I pulled up at a café between Ipswich and Colchester. I can’t say exactly where. I ordered a tea and there was a man sitting opposite me. He said “you’re looking worried?” So I told him about it. He said “don’t worry, I can give you something to fix that” and he handed me a little bottle wrapped in brown paper. He said “tell your wife to take it first thing then to lay down for a few hours, and that should do the job”. He never asked any money for it. I paid my bill and went on my way. When I got home, my wife found the bottle but I told her not to take that stuff. The next evening, after work, I went home and noticed there was no lights on. I lit the gas and it started to go out so I went into the bedroom to get a penny and I noticed the baby in the cot. I then saw my wife lying in the bed. I shook her, but I could see she wasn’t breathing. Between about one and two in the morning I got my wife downstairs. I opened my front door at 10 Rillington Place, and pushed her body head first into the drain. After that, I got my baby looked after. I quit my job. I sold my furniture. I told my mother that my wife and baby had gone for a holiday. Then I caught the train to Merthyr Vale and I’ve been here since. That’s the lot”. In this statement, he would admit to aiding his wife’s death, procuring an abortion and the unlawful burial of her body. Two months later, Timothy John Evans would be charged with murder. It was a confession which would end his life… but the trouble had begun almost two decades earlier. The life of Timothy John Evans started badly even before he was born. Abandoned by his father Daniel Evans whilst Thomasina was still pregnant, Tim was a small, pale and sickly little boy raised in a village full of burly men who hauled coal at the Merthyr Vale Colliery, who would always feel like an outcast. Born on 20th November 1924 at 50 Mount Pleasant; a tiny two-story coal-miner’s cottage in a rural Welsh village on the banks of the River Taff, Tim’s early life was a struggle, and with Thomasina being a single-mother, times were hard. But being a strong sturdy women living in a tight-knit community with many families – like the Lynch’s, the Probert’s and the Evans’ - related by marriage or birth; she remarried, rebuilt her family and (just like at 11 St Mark’s Road) she gave her babies strength, love and stability. And yet, she would always struggle with Tim - an unruly boy who life had cursed. Always being shorter, smaller and weaker, Tim was mercilessly bullied by the other boys, and having struggled to speak properly before the age of five, even his teachers saw him as a “backwards” child. At school, Tim wasn’t a good scholar; as being slow-witted, hot-tempered and easily-duped by older boys, he often got into trouble. And having an abnormal IQ of just 65 and the mental age of an 11 year old, being barely literate, Tim would struggle to read and write, choosing instead to dive into comic capers like The Beano and The Dandy, wild adventures like Boys Own, or fantasy sci-fi like Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon. But by the age of nine, Tim’s limited education would be cut short. Whilst bathing in the River Taff, Tim impaled his big toe on a hidden shard of broken glass; a harmless boyhood injury which is easily repaired, but having bound his bloody foot in a dirty hanky, by the time Tim hobbled his way from Mount Pleasant to the doctor in the neighbouring village of Merthyr Vale, the small cut had gone septic, and would leave him with a lifetime of sickness, absence, pain and a permanent limp. Later contracting tuberculosis, Tim spent a whole year isolated at the Moorland Clinic for Children in Hampshire, hundreds of miles away from his family. And being a small lonely boy, with a low IQ, a bad lung, a disabled foot and a deep feeling of inferiority, being blessed with a vivid imagination, Tim began to twist the truth of his humdrum life into a fantasy world where he was rich, smart and successful, but lacking the intelligence to sustain such a bold story, even Tim’s mum branded him a “terrible liar”. By the outbreak of World War Two, eager for excitement, Tim tried to enlist in the Armed Forces, but was rejected from National Service on medical grounds. Aged 15, Tim worked as a van-boy at Merthyr Vale Colliery, and by 17, he was a driver for the Air Ministry, having settled with his family at 11 St Mark’s Road. But being regarded as unreliable, highly strung and a fiery liar with a string of bad debts, his work history was patchy, as he drifted from jobs as a coal-haulier, car cleaner and a factory worker. Being easily-duped, in April 1946, Tim received two criminal convictions; one for driving an unlicensed car, and one for receiving stolen goods (most notably a suitcase and a rug), both resulted in fines. And although his exasperated mother supported her unruly son with a bed, money, meals and endless love, often being unemployed and always being broke, with no hobbies nor interests to engage him; every evening, over a few pints, as he propped-up the bar at The Kensington Park Hotel, Tim would wax lyrical and regale the locals with tall-tales and fanciful fibs of how he lived the life of a gigolo, how his absent dad was an Italian Count and how his fictional brother owned a fleet of limousines. So with her patience wearing-thin, it must seemed like a blessing for Thomasina, when (in 1947) her boy met and married a lovely girl called Beryl Thorley who later gave birth to a beautiful baby called Geraldine. This should have been the makings of him as a grown-up and a man. But with deceit coming as second nature; having falsely claimed his daughter was gravely ill to acquire a loan, pretended he hadn’t been sacked for whole three weeks to save on marital spats and having kept-up the pretence to his wife and lodger that he was starting a new career as a manager at de Havilland Air Lines, a job which didn’t even exist, Tim was a born liar who was incapable of the truth. By Monday 7th November 1949; with arguments being a daily event, debts stacking up and Beryl feeling pale, weak and depressed after several failed abortions, what the Evans’ needed was honesty. But Tim wasn’t the only liar and fantasist living at 10 Rillington Place. (Interstitial). (Christie’s whisper) “The next day Beryl told my wife she was going to get a separation. My wife and I agreed that - if she needed us to - we would adopt the baby. It were then, at a later date that Beryl told me she were going to make an end of it. In short, she were going to commit suicide”. After Beryl’s death and Tim’s arrest, Reg Christie (the ex-Special Constable, decorated war-hero and respected family man) made that statement to the Police… except none of it was true. On Monday 31st October 1949, eight days before Beryl’s death, Raymond Phillips & Frederick Jones of Larter & Sons were contracted to repair a leaky bay-window and the roof of the communal washhouse. It was a simple job undertaken during the week days which shouldn’t have disturbed the tenants, but with Ethel stuck at home, Beryl feeling blue, Geraldine all restless and Reg off sick with fibrositus and bouts of diarrhoea, the constant banging and hammering had left 10 Rillington Place in total disarray. As the baby wailed the whole house down with a constant cacophony of tired tears, Beryl didn’t hear his soft plimsolls as they slowly crept up the creaking stairs and lurked on the landing, then again, she never did. But as Reg’s egg-like head peeped around the open door – having an almost comical face with over-prescribed spectacles, slipping false teeth and a softly cooing voice which soothed Geraldine - clutching two steamy mugs of tea, Reg cooed “I wondered if you fancied a cuppa, dear?” He did this most days, and with Beryl being alone, she appreciated his company, his chats and his friendship. Reg could see Beryl wasn’t her usual self. She was always such a pretty young girl, but with her flawless brow wrinkled by a deep frown, her smooth skin all sickly and pale, her luscious red lips all cracked, her baby blue eyes red-raw from crying and her supple figure hidden by a shapeless mass of crumpled clothes, what the innocent twenty-year old needed – Reg thought - was a father’s love and protection. Over the eight months she’d live there, Beryl & Reg had developed a good relationship. He was a very patient man, who cared and listened; and having pacified her hot-tempered husband after several of the couple’s regular rows, covered the cost of their furniture fees to keep the bailiffs at bay, snapped a much-loved family portrait of mother and baby which hung on her wall, and being medically trained, Beryl knew that Reg was experienced, trusted and (best of all) knowledgeable. And as she opened up to him about her inner most secrets; about the arguments, the lies, the debts, her struggles with motherhood, her unexpected second pregnancy and her several failed abortions - all of which had left her sickly, thin and exhausted - with the baby’s termination being a tricky topic and Beryl & Tim often at each other’s throats, Reg agreed to speak to Tim on Beryl’s behalf. And for the first time in weeks, Beryl smiled. (Christie’s whisper) “…it were my wide knowledge of medicine which made it possible for me to talk convincingly about sickness and disease, and she readily believed I could cure her”. (End) That night, having finished his shift at Lancaster Food Products, as promised, Reg had a man-to-man chat with Tim in the privacy of his front-room. And being a boy whose dad had abandoned him before he was born, Tim appreciated this fatherly advice. This was, after all, John Reginald Halliday Christie; a happily married man (Christie’s whisper) “twenty nine years to be precise” who for nine of those years had deserted his wife, a former Special Constable “commended twice” having helped arrest a man who had stolen a bicycle, and a decorated war-hero who was “awarded the British War & Victory Medal” which every serving soldier received regardless of their conduct, but then again, Tim didn’t know any of that. So as Reg sat there, flanked by two framed medical certificates (and knowing that the barely-literate Tim wouldn’t know they were only for First Aid), as he thumbed a thick medical book (and knowing that the easily-duped Tim wouldn’t know it was only a St John’s Ambulance manual) and regaling him with tales of how his training as a doctor was “cruelly cut short by The Great War” (all of which was a lie, but then, where-as Tim lacked the intelligence to maintain a story, Reg did not), and claiming to have a wide knowledge of abortions (which – with two bodies rotting in the back garden – meant it was technically true), Reg coerced Tim into letting him perform a termination on his pretty petite wife. All the while, laying the blame squarely on the young couple stating “if only you or your wife had come to me in the first place, I could have done it without any risk” and extending the cautious caveat that, given the risky procedure “one out of every seven women die”. Being physically tired, emotionally torn and with his brain thoroughly bamboozled, Tim said he would have to sleep on it. But being a young couple, unable to afford a new baby, they had only one option, and Christie knew that. On the morning of Tuesday 8th November 1949, after a restless night, Beryl and Tim washed, dressed, fed Geraldine, and as Tim sat at the kitchen table, having a smoke, he exhaled deeply and said “tell Mr Christie everything is okay”. And although a great weight dropped from Beryl’s shoulders, in those six simple words, Tim had sealed the fate of their unborn baby and condemned them both to death. And as he kissed his wife goodbye, little did he know that this was the last time he would see her alive. After the chaos of the last eight days, with the bay-window finally fixed and the roof of the washhouse replaced, with only one plasterer remaining, normality had been restored to Rillington Place. As Ethel dozed by the toasty fire, Reg rummaged through a small brown suitcase. It didn’t contain much, just a few odd knickknacks; like a necklace, a hair-brush, a stocking, a handbag and a dog-eared photo of a young pretty girl holding a baby, and as he softly stroked her image - after eight months of patience and persistence - he imagined what it would be like to finally touch Beryl. It was 10:30am, and with Ethel asleep, Reg returned the suitcase under the sofa, having retrieved four little items; a length of rope, a bottle of Friar’s Balsam, two rubber hoses and a square glass jar. For the last time, Beryl placed her baby in the cot for a mid-morning nap, tucked the soft sheet up to her chin and kissed her rosy cheeks. As always, Beryl didn’t hear his soft Plimsolls creep up the creaky stairs, or feel his hot breath on her neck as he lurked on the second-floor landing, so initially she was startled. But seeing the reassuring smile and hearing the soft voice of a trusted friend, who whispered “I thought you might like a cup of tea”, seeing Reg, made Beryl’s beautiful smile return. And as they entered her flat, so they wouldn’t be disturbed, he locked the door. Beryl stood there, all hopeful and nervous, dressed in a blue woollen jacket with black stitching, a blue and white spotted cotton blouse and a black shirt, as she trembled, her heart thumping fast and hard. From her bedroom, Reg pulled a thick quilt, laid it on the kitchen floor in front of the unlit fire, and with the bedside manner of a doctor, he said “let’s get you comfortable, shall we?” As his patient, she was in his hands, and so - trusting him implicitly - at his command, she slipped off her stockings, slid off her knickers and lay on the quilt, her legs parted, her genitals exposed. Beside her, Reg popped the square glass jar, it sloshed with a white liquid which smelled like the minty balm that she would rub on her baby’s chest whenever she was ill. This was all very strange and new to Beryl, but as he attached the long rubber hose to a copper pipe at the side of the fire, she trusted him, as Reg reassured her “nothing to worry about dear, it’s just a whiff of gas, like going to the dentist”. And as he placed the shorter hose next to her nose, at his command, Beryl breathed deeply… …and just like Muriel Eady, as her lungs filled with lethal levels of carbon monoxide, she would willingly render herself unconscious, and soon, Beryl Evans would be his; to grope, to kiss, to fondle, to fuck. (Knocking on door) Startled by the knocking, Reg froze. (Knocking on door) With Tim out at work, the lone plasterer by the washhouse and Ethel in the front room, it could only be one other person - her friend Joan Vincent. (Knocking) “Beryl?” But – hoping she would leave - Reg remained still and silent. (Knocking) “Beryl??” Hearing her friend’s voice, Beryl began to stir and weakly uttered a faint mumble. In panic, Reg smothered her lips with his rough hands, muffling her words. “Beryl? Are you there?” As her legs kicked, her arms flailed and she frantically gasped for air, before she could muster enough strength to scream, Reg punched her hard in the face, knocking her out cold. “Beryl? If you don’t want to open the door, that’s fine”. And as Joan Vincent descended the creaky stairs, with both ends of his strangling rope clutched in his hands, Reg pulled tight, and the last drop of life left Beryl’s body forever. With no privacy to do his dirty deed and no time to have his wicked way with her, as Joan chatted to Ethel just two floors below, Reg dragged Beryl’s body into the unlit bedroom, and although her mouth and nose was bloodied, slowly forming a plan, he masked the long dark bruise around her neck with the top of the quilt, and left her, in bed, just a few feet from Geraldine. (Baby crying / End) On Wednesday 30th November 1949 at 3:10pm, a tired and dishevelled Timothy Evans walked into Merthyr Vale Police Station and confessed to disposing of his wife’s body, by stating “between about one and two in the morning I got my wife downstairs. I opened my front door at 10 Rillington Place, and pushed her body head first into the drain. After that, I got my baby looked after. I quit my job. I sold my furniture. Then I caught the train to Merthyr Vale and I’ve been here since. That’s the lot”. But as a regular drinker, an abusive husband and a known fantasist, who even his own mother referred to as a “terrible liar”, his heartfelt confession didn’t ring true. And having lied to Thomasina that his wife and child were on holiday to Brighton, lied to Uncle Con & Auntie Vi that he was on a business trip to Wales; lied to a furniture dealer, a pawnbroker and a rag-trader about why he was selling all of his and his wife’s possessions, having lied to The Christie’s about why they had so hastily moved out of Rillington Place and – having discovered Beryl’s body; not down the drain, but hidden in the communal washhouse, bundled in a green table cloth and tied with a length of clothesline – with the autopsy confirming that no interference had taken place which was consistent with an abortion, the Police knew that Timothy Evans had lied about his wife’s death. As it was clear, that 20 year old Beryl Evans had died by strangulation… and so had Geraldine. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed parts one to four, part five of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place continues next Thursday. And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for some wibbly gob dribble after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Point Blank and The Ladykillers Podcast. (PLAY PROMO) A thank you this week to Trevor Williams, who very kindly made a much-needed donation to keep the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast afloat, via the Murder Mile website. Thank you Trevor, you’re a super star. And a special thank you to everyone who recently left us a review on iTunes or your podcast app’, and anyone who has spread the good word about Murder Mile on social media, and in person, it really is very much appreciated. So I thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY: On 8th November 1949, 20 year old Beryl Susanna Evans, a married mother-of-one who lived in the second floor flat at 10 Rillington Place, died following a suspected suicide attempt after a series of failed abortions, and yet, her husband Timothy Evans would be arrested for her murder. But was this a suicide, a murder, or was she the third victim of the infamous British serial killer John Reginald Halliday Christie. This is part three of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place.
Ep50 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Three (Beryl Susanna Evans) INTRO: One of the most powerful words in the world is home. It’s the place we all feel safe, secure, happy and comfortable, and no matter where we end up, it’s where we all return to. Home can be anywhere; a country, a county, a town, a street, a house, a room, a bed, or simply a state of mind, where we’re surrounded by the things we like and the people we love, often called a family. A family can be anyone; parents, siblings, offspring, friends, colleagues or neighbours, a network, a group or a single person, as family is not about blood-ties or lineage, it’s about trust. And for all of us, no matter who we are or what our life becomes, we all seek a family and a home. By 1949, the Second World War was over; and although, it is said, that the allies won, in truth, we had all lost; with millions dead, countries in ruins, homes destroyed and families shattered. The Blitz was now a distant memory, the blackout was off and with thousands of the city’s civilians missing, although many were still mourned, some were forgotten. Two of those missing were an Austrian refugee called Ruth Fuerst and an East London orphan called Muriel Eady. And having been strangled and raped by an unassuming little man called John Reginald Halliday Christie, their bodies lay undisturbed in two shallow graves in a small back garden in Ladbroke Grove. Their deaths weren’t deemed suspicious, murder was never mentioned, and with no witnesses, no sightings and with no-one suspecting him, his killing spree had stopped. Reg Christie hadn’t killed in five years. It was almost as if those old strange urges had gone. But all that changed in the spring of 1949, when the second floor flat became vacant, and (in need of a good home and a loving family) his next victim walked into 10 Rillington Place. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true… is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part three of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on St Mark’s Road in Ladbroke Grove; a street vital to our story, but after decades of haphazard redevelopment, only a few fragments of these key locations still exist. One street east is what remains of David Griffin’s Refreshment Room and the Kensington Park Hotel, but on this street alone, 11 St Mark’s Road was demolished, 133 St Mark’s Road was rebuilt and the side-street formerly known as Rillington Place has been completely eviscerated. It’s a classic example of post-war inner-city design, where a cash-strapped council with homes to build, but no plan, money or map, dumps a jumbled mishmash of architectural monstrosities onto a grid and says “yeah, that’s do”. So with no grassland, ponds or parks, having nowhere to play, from every bedroom echoes the incessant bleep of games consoles as rows of portly pasty prepubescents enter a fantasy world where they imagine what it’s like to stand-up, to move and even to talk. Wow! Except, once a day, as each parent pushes their unsightly waddling sprog into the street to burn-off a delightful tea of Pot Noodle, chicken dippers and blue-fizzy drink. And as the fat pasty spawn wobbles into reality, winces at the sight of natural light and wheezes because they’re upright - having been told to “get away from your bloody computer” – they stare at their bike (wondering where they plug it in), their football (searching for how they turn it on) and their legs (querying who ordered them and how they can get a refund?) Only to huff, grunt, fart and start playing on their phones; heads down, eyes open, world gone. But - to be honest - that could be a description of literally anywhere. And although some sites are still here, like the tube-line and the A40 flyover, with 10 Rillington Place now a memorial garden, and the skyline overshadowed by the blackened shell of the Grenfell Tower where seventy-two people lost their lives, this whole street is tinged with sadness and tragedy. And yet, it was here, in the spring of 1949, that nineteen year old Beryl Thorley believed she had found herself a good home, a loving family… and a kindly neighbour. (Interstitial) Beryl Susanna Thorley was born on 19th Sept 1929 in Lewisham Hospital (South London), to William, a petrol pump attendant for the London General Omnibus Company and Elizabeth, a housekeeper. Raised during The Great Depression - as the stock markets crashed, currencies devalued and the world descended into economic chaos – being a middle-aged working-class couple living a hand-to-mouth existence in a tiny rented flat, this probably wasn’t the best time to start a family. And yet, even though the Thorley’s had three children in very quick succession, they lived an unremarkable life; with no highs nor lows, no joys nor tragedies, just the ordinary struggles of a very average family. Barely keeping their heads above water, from year-to-year the Thorley’s plodded on, moving from job-to-job, flat-to-flat and bill-to-bill, with nowhere to really call home. And lacking any real warmth, love or affection, only the tired routine of meals, baths and bed-time, they didn’t feel like a family. As the eldest of three, although Beryl was a pretty petite girl with bright twinkling eyes, soft fair hair, a button-nose and an angelic smile; being eager to regain her rightful place as the ‘baby of the family’ - having been usurped by her baby brother Basil and swiftly shoved-aside by her little sister Patricia – Beryl’s beauty belied a stroppy temper, an awkward stubbornness and a child-like immaturity. Having uprooted several times in as many years, from Lewisham to Clapham to Hammersmith; as war was declared, the Thorley’s moved into the top floor flat at 112 Cambridge Gardens in Ladbroke Grove, just off St Mark’s Road, and situated on the other side of the tube-line, opposite Rillington Place. So, except for their daily disputes, sibling rivalry and the dull thud as Nazi bombs pockmarked the city, life was pretty uneventful. That is, until the late winter of 1947, when Beryl’s mother passed away. It was a tragedy which split the fractured family even further, and with her siblings packing-up and her father moving to Brighton (where he would remain like a distant relative for the rest of her life), with no home, no family and being in the grip of grief, Beryl’s life could have collapsed… …but a few months prior, 17 year old Beryl Thorley had met and fallen in love with 22 year old Timothy Evans; a small handsome Welshman with a thick mop of dark hair, a childish sense of fun, a very vivid imagination, a steady job as a lorry-driver and a deep desire to become a good dad. And in a whirlwind romance - having met on a blind date in January, become engaged by March and having tied the knot in September - shortly afterwards the newly married Beryl Evans moved in with her husband Tim into his mother’s three-storey townhouse at nearby 11 St Mark’s Road. Surrounded by a loving family - with (Thomasina) his mother treating her like a daughter, (Penry) his step-father protecting her like she was his own, being blessed with two sisters-in-law (Eleanor and Mary) and a close extended family including Uncle Cornelius & Auntie Violet in the Welsh mining town of Merthyr Vale – within the year, Beryl had a family, a husband, a home and was blissfully happy. (Wind) It had been a cold cruel winter, and with the snowdrops shrivelled and the daffodils struggling, Reg’s much-loved rose bush was little more than a tangle of dead vines and jagged thorns. His back garden didn’t provide much privacy or space being just twelve feet long by ten feet wide with a five foot brick wall on both sides and surrounded by two long lines of terraced houses, but as a little dot of bright colour on a drab grey landscape, this was his sanctuary. With Judy doing some digging of her own, as Reg dug his spade into the hard soil, he winced. The 51 year old’s back was riddled by fibrisitis and with his stomach plagued by daily bouts of diarrhea, he’d given up driving for Ultra Electrics and was now a desk-bound clerk at the Post Office Savings Bank. As he exhaled painfully, Reg pulled from the soil a milky white stick, all smooth like it had been stripped of bark, but it was oddly broken and brittle. As Ethel exited the washhouse, she mumbled “tea’s up Reg”, but he barely heard her, instead he just nodded, staring at the stick perplexed. Something was missing from Reg’s life; he loved his garden, he liked his dog, his job was tolerable and his marriage was… fine, but nothing excited him anymore, it was as if something inside him had died. (Echo - “I knew I wanted her, the Eady woman”). As Reg stroked the bone-white stick in his hand, a flash of recollection widened his eyes. (Echo – “she were different from the others, you know, quiet-like”). Being eager to please her master, as Judy burrowed deeper into the soil, she too unearthed something pale, brittle and broken. (Echo – “so it had to be a really clever murder, much cleverer than the first”). But times had changed, the war was over and Reg had killed in almost five years. (End wind) The newly-wed Mrs Beryl Evans lived at Tim’s mother’s house at 11 St Mark’s Road for one and a half years, squeezed into the second-floor back-bedroom. With it being a busy family home with a mum, a dad, two sisters, Beryl and Tim, with two tenants on the top floor, although they lived comfortably, for a lusty young lad with a blushing new bride, it lacked privacy - but for now, it was enough. Beryl & Tim were very much kindred spirits; being small, pretty and fun, they bonded quickly. But just like Beryl, Tim’s sweetness belied a stroppy temper, a stubbornness and a child-like immaturity. And with both love-birds being tetchy and fiery - with their fights formed of feet stamped, things thrown and a few choice words, they both “gave as good as they got” - the only real friction caused as Tim’s mum would always take Beryl’s side in any dispute, branding her own son “a terrible liar”. So by all-accounts, Beryl & Tim Evans were just a very normal couple of young kids, who were recently married, testing the waters and finding their feet, in a family which was about to expand. On 14th October 1948, in the Queen Charlotte Hospital, Beryl gave birth to a beautiful baby girl - a tiny tot with sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks and a hot-temper, and just like her parents she was a little handful. But to Beryl & Tim she was perfect, and with their family complete, they named her Geraldine. Being showering with gifts, love and support from an extended family, Geraldine had everything, and with two proud and doting parents to cuddle her, life was good. But as the baby grew, the small beck bedroom seemed to shrink, so needing more space, Beryl & Tim began looking for a flat of their own. (Wind) With the sky bruised, clouds looming and the distant rumble of thunder, Reg stood in his back garden, clutching the milky-white skull of Muriel Eady. Reg was in a real quandary; for safety’s sake he knew should either bury it, smash it or burn it, and although half a length of her thigh bone neatly propped up his broken fence, that could easily be mistaken for a stick, where-as a skull’s a skull? Reg knew he had to make the right choice, and besides, he didn’t need those… urges. And as a tube train thundered-by, seated by the window, Joan Vincent spotted an advert in a second-floor window, it simply read “flat to let”. Fortuitously, it was cheap, local and would perfectly suit her old school friend and their new baby. The flat was at 10 Rillington Place. (Interstitial) On 24th March 1949, with their bags packed, spirits high and a new furniture set paid for by Thomasina; Beryl, Tim and Geraldine moved into their first flat on the second floor of 10 Rillington Place. It wasn’t a great flat; as the stairs were a nightmare to navigate with the pram, it was heated and lit by gas only, and having just a bedroom and a kitchen, the only bathroom was a communal washhouse and lavatory outback. But with a rent of just twelve shillings a week, being located one minute from Thomasina, and with the other tenants being an elderly widower on the first floor called Mr Kitchener and a lovely couple on the ground-floor called Mr & Mrs Christie - (Christie’s whisper) “I prefer it if you call me Reg” - keen for their own space, Beryl snapped it up and her family home was complete. Beryl & Tim liked the Christie’s. They were very old-fashioned. Raised with Victorian standards, they were polite, moral and kind, and keeping the house orderly with strict rules and curfews, even though they dispensed advice to newly-weds, as a couple, they rarely spoke and never kissed or hugged. As a portly lady in her early fifties, Ethel Christie was a neat quiet homebody who lived in her husband’s shadow, and although she was clearly loving, warm and deeply maternal, with no children of her own, Ethel’s eyes only lit-up was when Beryl let he hold the baby. And with Reg having a fatherly quality, who was kind, caring and patient; having been an ex-Special Constable, an injured war-hero and with a wide knowledge of medicine, she knew that Reg was experienced, trusted and knowledgeable. For Beryl, having the Christie’s nearby was like being blessed with a second set of parents. For the first few months, as a new mum and dad, life was a struggle; but with Thomasina just one street away, the Christie’s only two floors down and although Tim was burdened by a low IQ, a bad lung, a disabled foot and being almost totally illiterate, with money coming in, for a while, they coped. But being kindred spirits, what brought Beryl & Tim together, also drove them apart; as having stroppy tempers, an awkward stubbornness and a child-like immaturity, with Tim being a “terrible liar” and Beryl still acting like “the baby of the house” (even though she now had a baby of her own), neither of them were grown-ups, instead they were just children trapped in an adult’s world. On 11th July 1949, Tim started work as a delivery driver for Continental Wine House in Edgware Road, on the modest wage of £7 per week, but having falsely claimed that Geraldine was gravely ill, he asked for £3 in advance, £7 to cover a doctor’s bill and a further loan of £10, all in just two weeks, and with his employer regarding his work as “unsatisfactory”, by the 25th Tim was sacked, and didn’t tell Beryl. Being secretly unemployed for several weeks, Tim kept up the pretence, and as the bills piled up, never once did he miss a boozy session with the boys at the Kensington Park Hotel (known as KPH), and yet, he always lost his temper if Beryl had a night-out with the girls and left him at home with the baby. Feeling shut-in, lonely and desperate, as Beryl struggled with the demands of motherhood; the dirty dishes piled up, the meals went uncooked and the flat became squalid. And although she wasn’t a bad mum, being so depressed, although Thomasina would always baby-sit on Saturdays, it wasn’t just to give Beryl a break, but as an excuse to give Geraldine a much-needed bath and to wash her clothes. And still, as well as the young couple were being supported by friends and family, with their lies, debts and jealousy mounting, Beryl & Tim’s arguments became more frequent, fiery and violent. The worst having occurred at the end of August 1949, just three months before Beryl’s death. With money tight, Beryl feeling low and Tim due to start a well-paying managerial job at de Havilland’s Air Lines in Hatfield, twenty miles north of London; on Friday 19th August, they took in a lodger - 17 year old Lucy Endicott - who provided a little extra income and kept Beryl company whilst Tim was away. So, with his best suit cleaned, a fresh shirt ironed, his shoes polished and his suitcase packed, being ready to leave on the early morning train, Tim slept by the kitchen fire whilst Beryl and Lucy slept in the bedroom with Geraldine in the cot. But the next night, Tim returned. As always, Thomasina was right and Beryl’s instincts were spot-on, Tim was a “terrible liar”. And having telephoned de Havilland’s, they quickly confirmed that there was no job, no wage and no record of a Timothy Evans. Being heartbroken, furious and unable to look him in the eye, Beryl’s anger festered. One week later, on the evening of Sunday 28th August, having been out to the cinema, as Beryl & Lucy hopped off the bus by David Griffin’s Refreshment Room, stood outside of the KPH public house, being a few pounds poorer and a few pints heavier, they saw Tim waiting. Their bitter screams echoed all the way down Lancaster Road, St Mark’s Road and right into Rillington Place; with every house-light turning on as Tim snapped “I’ll give you a good hiding for going to the pictures and leaving the baby”, each curtain twitching as Beryl barked “I told you I was going out” and every wireless silenced as Tim spat “that doesn’t make any difference, your place is at home, just you wait till I get you inside”, as he slammed the front door shut of 10 Rillington Place, and once again, the neighbouring streets were treated to yet another furious fight between The Evans’. In the proceeding trial, the following incident was reported to the police as witnessed by Mrs Hyde on Lancaster Road, Mrs Swan at 9 Rillington Place, and The Christie’s on the ground-floor. Gone were their petty childish squabbles and their tit-for-tat tantrums, as with The Evans’ relationship irrevocably split, their silly spats had descended into physical assaults. And as Tim slapped Beryl’s face hollering “I’ll bloody do you in, I will”, Beryl grabbed a bread-knife. To protect himself, seeing how Beryl was precariously perched, Tim screamed “I’ll push you through the bloody window”, only for Lucy to trip-up hot-tempered Tim, as he threatened her, squealing “I’ll smash her up and run her over in my van”. Of course, whether the five-foot five-inch fiery liar actually would or could is debatable. Thankfully, before anyone was badly hurt, the fight was broken-up by Thomasina; Lucy was asked to leave, Tim cooled off, Beryl calmed down, and a full statement was made to the Police. (Christie’s whisper) “The next day Beryl told my wife she was going to get a separation. My wife and I agreed that - if she needed us to - we would adopt the baby. It were then, at a later date that Beryl told me she were going to make an end of it. In short, she were going to commit suicide”. With their relationship straining at the seams; being riddled with debts, jealousy and lies; and devoid of love, trust or patience; the more Tim slugged back the drink, the further Beryl fell into depression. And yet, life was about to throw the struggling couple yet another curve-ball… Beryl was pregnant. But Beryl didn’t want another baby; not now and not with Tim. Confiding in her friend (Joan Vincent) that she wanted to miscarry; with abortions being illegal, dangerous and expensive, as old-fashioned methods like punching herself in the stomach, necking neat gin and overdosing on laxatives, all failed, Beryl risked her own life even further by swallowing poisons like quinine and ergot, syringing herself with glycerine and iodine, and trying to hook the tiny foetus out using a bent coat-hanger. And with each attempt having failed, as the unwanted baby slowly grew inside her, Beryl Evans became more sickly, pale and withdrawn, as life reached a new low. And then, on Monday 7th November 1949… (Christie’s whisper) “I went upstairs and found Mrs Evans in the kitchen, lying on a quilt in front of the fireplace. She had made an attempt to gas herself, from a gas-pipe on the side of the fireplace, and a piece of rubber tubing near her head. I shut it off and when I opened the window she started coming around. I do not know what she said, but a little while after she complained of a headache and I made her a cup of tea. My wife was downstairs but I did not call tell her. Mrs Evans asked me not to”. (End) The next day, on Tuesday 8th November 1949… (Christie’s whisper) “I went upstairs again, I think it was about lunch time. She still intended to do away with herself and begged of me to help her. She said she would do anything if I agreed. I think she was referring to letting me be intimate with her. She brought the quilt from the bedroom and put it down in front of the fireplace. I got on my knees but found I was not physically capable of having intercourse with her owing to my fibrisitus and my dicky tummy. I turned on the gas tap and as near as I can make out, I held it close to her face. When she became unconscious I turned the tap off. I was going to try and have intercourse with her but it was impossible, I couldn’t bend over”. (End) Later that evening…. (Christie’s whisper) “Tim came home about six o’clock. It was dark. I spoke to him in the passage and told him that his wife had committed suicide, and that she had gassed herself. We went into his kitchen and he touched his wife’s hand, then picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. After Evans lay his wife on the bed, he fetched the quilt from the kitchen and put it over her. I told Evans that no doubt he would be suspected of having done it because of the rows and fights he had with his wife. He seemed to think the same. He said he would bring his van down and leave her somewhere”. (End) Plagued with guilt; having quit his job, sold his furniture, gone into hiding and repeatedly lied to his family about his wife’s whereabouts, on 30th November 1949 Tim confessed to disposing of Beryl, and with her body being found three days later, on 13th January 1950, faced with overwhelming evidence against him, Timothy John Evans was found guilty… of murder. Beryl was a pretty, petite but painfully immature young girl from a fractured upbringing who dreamed of nothing but a good home and a loving family. And having got everything she ever wanted, aged just 20 years old, Beryl Susanna Evans was buried in a simple coffin at Gunnersbury Cemetery. Except, inside her coffin, Beryl wasn’t alone. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed parts one, two and three, part four of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place continues next Thursday. And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for some dribbly bum-plop after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Murder Under the Midnight Sun and The Hidden Podcast. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new and current Patreon supporters whose kind donations have kept Murder Mile afloat, as last week, my laptop actually went kasplewey (that’s a technical term, probably caused by all the cake crumbs inside) so thanks to them, I was able to fund some emergency repairs. So Murder Mile’s new IT repair team are Dawn Smith, Heather, Kristy McGlew and Jacqueline Wright. You are (as British TV quiz-host Jim Bowen used to say “super smashing great”). Also a special thank you to Jonny & Sara, and Kristin, who came on a Murder Mile Walk recently and spoiled me with lots of cakey goodies, so if I sound fatter, blame them. Another thank you to everyone who’s purchased Murder Mile mugs from my website (I thank you) but the biggest thank you goes out to everyone who listens to the show. Thank you for listening, it really means a lot to me. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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