Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #82: Sulphuric: 6 - Henrietta Helen Olivia Robarts Durand-Deacon24/12/2019 
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.
The Onslow Court Hotel at 108 Queen's Gate in South Kensington where John George Haigh lived for almost five years and where he met Olivia Durrand Deacon, his final victim
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK 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 EIGHTY-TWO:
On the evening of Friday 18th February 1949, serial-killer John George Haigh murdered his sixth and final victim Henrietta Helen Olivia Robarts Durand-Deacon, also known as Olive at his storeroom at Leopold Road. Six people had been murdered, as English Law states that “corpus delicti – with no body, there can be no crime”, having dissolved their bodies in acid, he knew he could literally get away with murder… but Haigh had made a fatal error.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
Ive added the location of The Onslow Court Hotel at 108 Quen's Gate where John George Haigh lived for the last four years of the murders and where he met Olivia Durrand Deacon. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
here's two little videos for you to enjoy with this episode; on the left is Wandsworth Prison (still a prison today) where John George Haigh spent his final days and where he was executed, and on the right is The Onslow Court Hotel in South Kensington where Johnny lived and where he met Olivia Durrand Deacon, his final victim. These videos are links to youtube, so they won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Left to right: Henrietta "Olive" Durand-Deacon, Constance Lane and John George Haigh. Photos taken from Wiki Commons
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This series was researched using the original declassified police files held at the National Archives, the Metropolitan Archives, the Wellcome Collection, the Crime Museum, etc. MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART SIX OF SULPHURIC.
Johnny Haigh seemed such an unassuming little fellow; small and slight, neat and polite, and being just a few weeks from forty – blessed with a boyish face, dimpled cheeks and an unbroken voice - as he nibbled his toast and supped his tea, the quiet little choir-boy whose mummy had dressed him in bow-ties was still easy to see… but not the monster that he claimed to be. For the last few hours, the four men had sat in the stuffy cramped confines of Interview Room Three of Chelsea Police Station, and as Chief Superintendent Barratt, Divisional Detective Inspector Symes and Detective Inspector Webb listened, little Johnny Haigh candidly recounted his callous crimes with the calmness of a man for whom murder was routine. And as each delicious detail tickled him, his feeble moustache bristled, but behind the dark dots of his marble-like eyes, there was nothing. (Haigh) “I have made some statements to you about the disappearance of Mrs Durand-Deacon. The truth is, we left the hotel together and she was inveigled by me into going to Crawley. Having taken her into the store-room at Leopold Road, whilst she was examining some paper for use as fingernails, I shot her in the back of the head and disposed of her in a tank of acid”. Having befriended the McSwan family and the Henderson’s, assumed their identities, inherited their estates and drained their assets, all five had mysteriously vanished and almost no-one had noticed. Any investigation would prove fruitless; years had passed, evidence was sold, and with no fingerprints or witnesses, basing his murders on the legal loophole that (Haigh) “corpus delicti - with no body, there can be no crime”, all that remained of his victims was a yellowy-green sludge. And so, cocky in his confidence, having already confessed to five perfect murders, John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would now confess to a sixth; the how, the where and the when, every single detail… but without a body, the Police could do nothing. (Interstitial*) Give or take a few minor mishaps, his first five murders had been a doddle and his sixth would be easy-peasy, but unlike the pitiful scraps he had been tossed having popped-off the supposedly wealthy McSwan’s and the Henderson’s, this time, Johnny would hit the jackpot… and not a moment too soon. Johnny was broke! Again! Having first fleeced the fortunes of the McSwan family and blown every penny in two and a half years, as the Henderson’s deaths had netted him a hefty £7700 (almost a quarter of a million pounds today), this should have been enough money to last a lifetime… only after just eight months, Johnny squandered the lot, and worse still, his bank account was overdrawn. How? Don’t ask! He didn’t drink, barely smoked, didn’t do drugs and – described by his on/off lady friend as a “bit of a cheapskate” – although he wore sharp suits, drove fancy cars and ate in the best eateries, that was all just for show, as his idea of a good date was tea, toast and scrambled egg. But then, nobody’s perfect. Of the three vices Johnny had, all would bleed him dry; as a bad gambler he couldn’t tell a dead-cert from an old nag; as a wannabe entrepreneur, he couldn’t see a done deal from a dodgy dud; and – most bafflingly of all - although he never had an ounce of empathy for anyone but himself, this working-class boy aspired to be accepted by those he secretly despised. By the first week of February 1949, being neck-deep in debt and having bounced his last cheque, owing six weeks back-rent at the Onslow Court Hotel who had told him to “pay-up or get-out”, the middle-class reputation Johnny had cultivated was now in tatters and his name was becoming mud. Business was bad. Nothing came of the silent jackhammer, the needle-threader, the toy rocking horse, the battery powered fan, or the other silly ideas he had no skills to build, and with Edward Jones sick of his so-called partner’s stupid schemes, Johnny’s only other means of income had come to an end. As hard times bit hard, having sold Archie’s Lagonda and Saloon 12, shamefully this supreme swindler (who’d been half way to becoming a millionaire) scuttled back to his old tricks, by illegally refinancing his Alvis for just three hundred quid, a petty scam he last did a decade ago, only now, being so in love with living the high life, this pittance wouldn’t last him a day. But for Johnny there was no going back. He’d been poor, broke, hungry and homeless, and he didn’t like it, not one jot. For this boy born in the stark austerity of the Plymouth Brethren, there was nothing finer than sleeping on Indian linen sheets and taking tea and tiffin in the Tudor Room of the Onslow Court Hotel. It was civilised, cultured, sophisticated and – as one of its few male residents - being swarmed by a wealth of lonely widows, easily ensnared by the cheeky charms of a harmless man who (even during rationing) could slip his girl’s a little treat - like tights, bags and silks (just ignore the scorch marks) – oh yes, here he was adored… but taking tea with Johnny was like putting a famished shark in a paddling pool. Since Christmas, wreaking with desperation, he had struggled to lure several ladies to their deaths at Leopold Road, and now he was out of money, out of time, out of luck… but not out of persistence. (Haigh) “When I discovered there were easier ways to make a living, I did not ask myself whether I was doing right or wrong. That seemed to be irrelevant. I merely said “this is what I wish to do”. And as a means lay within my power, that was what I decided… if you’re going to go wrong, go wrong in a big way. Go after women – rich old women who like a bit of flattery. That’s your market”. Unlike the pitiful pay-out he had been bequeathed from his old dead pal Mac McSwan and his fleet of pinball parlours, the day Johnny met Mrs Durand-Deacon, he knew had hit the jackpot… Mrs Durand-Deacon was blessed with an impressively regal name which reflected her upper-middle class status, born on 28th February 1880, she was christened Henrietta Helen Olivia Robarts Fargas, although for brevity’s sake, she preferred to be called “Olive”. As the first of five children to Henry, a prominent solicitor and Helen, a solicitor’s wife, raised among the royal parks in the wealthy borough of Richmond, shielded by the ornate wrought-iron gates of an affluent country villa with private tutors, four servants and a nurse, the upbringing of Olive could easily be described as privileged, and although she had money, above everything else, she had morals. Being smart and fiercely independent, Olive was protective of her younger siblings; Nigel, Angela, Fred and Esme, and as a big sister - in every sense - being five foot ten and fourteen stone, as a stoutly built and strong-willed girl, she stood-up to bullies, shielded the weak and had a fire in her belly to fight for the rights of those less fortunate; not an easy a feat in an era where women were second-class citizens. Having rejected the shackles of marital subservience, for Olive, the early 1900’s was a time to fight… By the death of Queen Victoria - one of Britain’s wealthiest and most powerful women – the average woman had less rights than a horse; education was limited, careers were denied, prospects (beyond marriage and babies) were bleak, and denied the right to vote, women had no say on their own lives. In 1903, infuriated at the ineffective women’s groups whose crusades culminated in a strongly-worded letter to the all-male British government, Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughters Sylvia and Christine set-up The Women’s Social and Political Union; a small but powerful group who through “deeds not words” would fight and (if needed) die to give women the right to vote - one of their group was Olive. Seen as little more than weak women, the government grossly underestimated the passion with which these women would fight, refusing to be silenced and unfazed by the threat of arrest, in order to draw attention to their cause, they relied on new tactics, what they referred to as “direct action”; whether by heckling, threats or protests, hunger-strikes, suicides and even bombs. Under the name of ‘Mrs Drew’, Olive was unabashed about her own direct actions; over three years, she was expelled from the Albert Hall for shouting-down the First Lord of the Admiralty, she publicly harassed Prime Minister Herbert Asquith and Cabinet Minister Winston Churchill as they strolled along Whitehall and being a staunchly vocal and physical supporter of women’s rights, she took part in the Black Friday protest of 1910 and two city-wide campaigns of targeted criminal damage across the West End in November 1911 and March 1912 - the second of which would land Olive in prison. On Monday 4th March 1912 at 8am, The Women’s Social and Political Union congregated in Parliament Square for what their invite implied would be speeches by well-known suffragettes, but in truth, this rally of little women was nothing but a cunning ruse. As the speeches began, in a simultaneous attack, over 150 women armed with hammers, stones and clubs smashed shop windows right across the West End. Olive and her pal, the radical suffragette Maud Joachim broke six panes of glass at a jewellers and tea-shop on Regent Street, causing £32 worth of damage, and although the press initially dubbed this as an act of mindless violence, it was actually a very calculated political statement, designed to prove the government cared more about broken windows than a woman’s life… and they were right. As one of the 126 women arrested, Olive spent five days at Holloway Prison, was fined £50 and was bound-over for one year, but it was a small price to pay, as vowing to fight on until every last women, regardless of class, wage or education had the right to vote… by 1928, they had won. On 13th August 1918, 38 year old Olive married Reginald Durand-Deacon, a Captain in the Gloucester Regiment who later became a wealthy London lawyer, and although (a little late in life) she had finally found true love, standing true to her beliefs, her life would be good but her fight would never be over. In short, unlike his other victims – a thin timid drip, a weak pair of old recluses, a bankrupt impulsive boozer and a bed-bound neurotic - Mrs Durand-Deacon would be no push-over. Compared to Johnny, she was taller, heavier, stronger, bolder and a real force-of-nature who never let a mere man boss her about. But as Johnny knew, every victim had their fatal flaw, and hers… was that she was lonely. After twenty years of wedded bliss, on 25th January 1938, Reginald died. With a will of £5800 (just over £360,000 today) and no debts or dependents, her financial stability was assured, but a large pile of money is a poor substitute for the love, warmth and companionship of her beloved husband. For the last eleven years of her life, Olive never remarried, and although she was lonely, she was never alone… …which was bad news for Johnny. In fact, almost everything about Olive Durand-Deacon made her unsuitable for his murderous plan. Olive was a well-known face in South Kensington high society, who was liked by everyone and was an active participant in groups such as the Six Points women’s suffrage, the Francis Bacon Society, Christian Science and Solicitor’s & Artists Benevolent Fund, all of which she gave sizable donations. Olive was predictable; a precise and punctual lady who disliked surprises and rarely deviated from a schedule she openly discussed with her closest friend Constance Lane, and hating waste, she always informed the staff at the Onslow Court Hotel if ever she planned to be away (which was rare) or late. Olive was easy-to-spot; as a tall, broad and regal looking lady, with immaculate make-up, who turned heads in her royal blue dress, black Persian lamb coat, large black hat, tortoiseshell spectacles and a bright red handbag. And as a lover of exquisite jewellery – who was never without her twin-set of pearl necklaces, pearl studded earrings, 18 carat gold watch, five rings (studded with rubies, sapphires and diamonds) and a large Russian crucifix on a gold chain – whenever she walked, she sparkled. But worse still for Johnny, her disappearance would be entirely out-of-character and unexpected… …Olive was an honourable lady; she had no vices, debts or enemies, she lived sensibly, spent frugally and although she tipped well, she never withdrew more than £5 a week to cover her needs. And with no psychological issues, as an older overweight lady, she had no major medical problems, except for gall-stones which gave her a mild stomach ache and a new set of dentures she had recently had fitted. As his next victim, she was entirely unsuitable… …only Johnny was blind-sided by one bright shining detail. Olive was rich, very rich, as having been bequeathed a small fortune by her late husband, as a savvy businesswoman and a shrewd investor in her own right, Olive had turned this £5800 into £37000 – a lonely widow who today would be worth £1.2 million pounds. To Johnny, he had hit the jackpot, and all it took was a little flattery. (Interstitial*) (Haigh) “She was inveigled by me into going to Crawley. Having taken her into the store-room at Leopold Road, whilst she was examining some paper for use as fingernails, I shot her in the back of the head. Following that, I removed her coat, jewellery and disposed of her in a tank of acid. Oh, I should have said that in-between, I went round to a cafe for a cup of tea and scrambled egg”. But she was so strong, so confident and so feisty? She was a fiery independent woman who harangued Prime Ministers, shouted down an Admiral, smashed shop windows and scraped in the street with the Police, where-as little Johnny Haigh, the skinny little weasel had repeatedly lied in his so-called confession, so was her death really that simple? (BANG, SLUMP, FIZZ) Well, yes, it was. With his first five deaths a doddle and his sixth easy-peasy, having learned his lessons, murder really had become routine for Johnny… and yes, as always, he made a few cock-ups here-and-there… only this time, being so broke and desperate to sink his claws into Olive’s fortune – with his cocky calmness replaced by an impulsive recklessness – his mistakes weren’t just big, they were bloody stupid. The killing Mrs Durand-Deacon wasn’t a well-though-out plan but a last-minute decision… On Monday 14th February 1949, four days before her death, as Olive took lunch in the Tudor Room with her friend Gwendoline; overhearing the ladies discuss a lack of suitable alternatives to artificial fingernails and offering to mock-up a solution, Johnny invited Olive to his workshop in Crawley. It seemed inconsequential, but several witnesses heard the killer, lure his victim, to the murder location. On Tuesday 15th February, Johnny ordered thirty gallons of sulphuric from Alfred White & Sons, being broke and his cheques having bounced, and although their relationship had fractured, he was forced to loan the cash off his unhappy business partner Edward Jones, and get Thomas Davies to deliver it. On Wednesday 16th, as a years’ worth of wind and rain had rusted the steel drums he had stashed in the yard, yet again, unable to replace or repair either, he was forced to order a new one, but with no money to pay the bill, he didn’t, and for days afterward, risked a bailiff being sent round to collect it. And yet, his worst mistakes were yet to come – this time, his crime had witnesses, a lot of witnesses. Friday 18th February 1949 was Olive’s last day alive. As usual, as she took tea with Constance Lane in the small but tightly-packed Tudor Room, Olive said “I’m going down to Mr Haigh’s place in Crawley where he experiments on different things”, her appointment was at two-thirty and the time was ten passed two. This exchange was overheard by Constance, several residents and three waitresses. At 2:10pm, Hilda Kirkwood (the hotel’s bookkeeper) witnessed Johnny leave via the front door, cross Queen’s Gate, enter his garage at Manson Mews and drove two and a half miles east in his dark-blue Alvis (registration plate BOV463), which was odd, as he was meant to meet Olive in fifteen minutes. At 2:15pm, distinctively dressed in a royal blue dress, a large black hat, a black Persian fur coat, two pearl necklaces and a bright red handbag, Hilda watched as Olive hailed a taxi and headed in the same direction, to the Army & Navy Stores on Victoria Street where Olive purchased a set of false nails. His plan was simple, as before, by meeting in a pre-arranged place, Johnny could ensure he was never seen with any victim on the day they died. Only having picked-up Olive, he was spotted… twice. First at 3:45pm, as Johnny’s 20hp Alvis trundled passed Maurice Laudauer’s garage at Povey Cross at a sedate 35mph, the owner (who knew him well having serviced his car on many occasions) saw Johnny, in broad daylight, driving his Alvis towards Crawley, with a lady who fitted that description. And second, a little after 4pm, with her gall-stones giving her gip, Olive needed to use the loo, so they stopped-off at The George; a local hotel, where (for the last five years) Johnny had often ate and slept, and having politely asked “Would you don’t mind if I use your bathroom?”, the manager Hannah Caplan would later positively identify Mrs Durand-Deacon... and Johnny Haigh; together, in Crawley, just three streets from Leopold Road and a few moments before her death. (BANG, SLUMP, FIZZ). With Symes & Barratt having stepped away a while ago, as Haigh concluded his confession to Detective Inspector Webb, although his mouth grinned, the soulless glare of his cold dead eyes gave away nothing, “Mrs Durand-Deacon no longer exists. She has disappeared completely and no trace of her can ever be found. How can you prove murder if there is no body?” And with that, the callous killer slurped his tea. He loved to toy with this simple copper, knowing his intellect was vastly superior… …but there was one thing Johnny didn’t know - the Police were one step ahead. Being a master of silence and subtly checking his watch, Webb waited till Johnny had ran out of things to say and segued into small-talk, Haigh asked “so, where are the other two?”, suitable baited Webb replied “Well, they shouldn’t be very long now, they’ve got a fair way to come”, leaving that little morsel dangling on a hook, (Haigh) “They’ve been a long time, haven’t they?”, and with that Johnny fell into Webb’s trap (Haigh) “Where are they coming from?” to which Webb replied “Oh, they’ve been down to Crawley”. Johnny didn’t react; no smile, no blink, no wince, just a single solitary gulp. But what could they prove? Nothing. For Johnny, the evening of Olive’s death was like any other (Haigh) “disposal had become automatic by then. I am not aware of any remorse. It was a fatiguing business getting a fourteen stone carcase into an oil drum on one’s own, it took me two hours”. So hungry and tired, he had tea, toast, scrambled egg, a good night’s sleep, and the next morning, pumped the drum four-fifths full of acid and left. There was blood on the walls, a handbag on the floor, tortoise-shell spectacles on the bench and a dead body dissolving in a drum, but with so much money to spend, Johnny was gone. And yet, before his cunning subterfuge of writing letters to lawyers and siblings began, it all took an unexpected turn… On the afternoon of Sunday 20th February, with the usually punctual lady now missing for two days, Constance Lane, a long-term resident at the Onslow Court Hotel walked into Chelsea Police Station and reported her close friend – Olive Durand-Deacon - as missing… and she was aided by Johnny Haigh. Eager to limit the damage, as Police Sergeant Dale took down Olive’s particulars, Johnny vainly barked “You have written down Mrs Lane’s name and address, but you haven’t asked for mine”. A decision which would prove fatal, as being so prominent in South Kensington’s high society, her disappearance made the papers… and so did Johnny’s name… a detail which didn’t go unnoticed by Arnold Burlin. On Monday 21st, three days had passed, but the body hadn’t dissolved, (Haigh) “I returned to Crawley to find the reaction almost complete, but a piece of fat and bone was still floating in the sludge”. Being taller than Amy & Rosalie, having pumped the drum four-fifths full of acid, just like Archie, although her flesh, muscles and bones had dissolved into a black acrid soup, parts of her left foot still bobbed about on the thick sticky surface of yellow-green gloop. (Haigh) “I emptied off the sludge with a bucket and pumped a further ten gallons of acid into the tank to decompose the remaining fat and bone”, having tossed in her red handbag for good measure. A day later, “I dumped it in the yard”, and with that, the body was gone, evidence was destroyed and Mrs Durand-Deacon had vanished (Interstitial*). …but the Police were closing in. As a matter of routine in a missing person’s case, WPS Alexandra Lambourne questioned everyone at Onslow Court; their answers were solid, but one resident stood out; as being too eager to tell his side of the story, although this neat little man came across as harmless, something about him caused her skin to crawl, and unhappy with his answers, she alerted her boss - Detective Inspector Albert Webb. Across the week, Johnny volunteered several statements in connection to her disappearance, but with his details vague, his facts shifting and his eyes cold and unemotional, having pulled his criminal record - although he had no history of violence – the detectives were in no doubt that they were dealing with a fraudster, a forger and a professional liar, so treading carefully, they brought him in for questioning. On Monday 28th February at 4:15pm, when asked to assist the Police once more, Haigh exclaimed “I’ll do anything to help you” and was driven to Chelsea Police Station… but instead of being free to speak, as Webb awaited his colleagues’ return, for the first two hours, all they did was sit and wait in silence. Exuding the calmness of a man who knew he would never be caught, Johnny supped tea, nibbled toast and even snoozed, but the delay was deliberate, and being so desperate to show-off just how clever he really was, although he would brazenly confess to his six perfect murders… the wait gave Barratt and Symes time to examine the storeroom at 2 Leopold Road. Given permission by Edward Jones to break the lock, everything was a Johnny had left it a few days prior; his clean-up wasn’t even slap-dash, it was non-existent, but he knew he didn’t need it to be. With the later investigation headed-up by Home Office pathologist Dr Keith Simpson and Detective Chief Inspector Guy Mahon; inside, they found three carboys of acid, an Enfield Mk1 revolver, eleven rounds of .38 calibre ammunition (three spent), a rubber apron, a set of rubber gauntlets, an Army-issue gas-mask, several items marked with a large monogrammed H, ten strips of red cellophane (believed to be a prototype for artificial fingernails), a broken monocle, a spatter of bloodstained whitewash removed from between two windows, an attaché case full of passports, driving licences, identity cards, ration books and marriage certificates in the names of William Donald McSwan, Donald McSwan, Amy McSwan, Archibald Henderson and Rosalie Henderson, and outside in the yard, three 40 gallon steel drums (two badly rusted and one nearly new but empty and dry) and a large quantity of yellowy-green sludge. It was a wealth evidence, but it was all circumstantial, and it wasn’t a body. From the basement at 79 Gloucester Road, they recovered some unspecified sludge from inside the manhole and an old worn axe, gifted by Johnny to the estate agent, Albert Marshall, but not a body. From Room 404 at the Onslow Court Hotel, they found a large stash of personal possessions belonging to all six victims, including Mac’s typewriter, Archie’s suits, every piece of forged paperwork relating to the theft of their estates, a shopping list written in Johnny’s handwriting for (Haigh) “a drum, acid, stirrup pump, gloves, apron, rags, cotton wool, red paper etc”, and amongst his dirty linen they found a bloodied shirt. And although he fully confessed (Haigh) “that must be Mrs Durand Deacon’s blood. I was wearing that shirt when I shot her”, again, it circumstantial evidence, but wasn’t a body. After a painstaking examination of the yard at Leopold Road, having sieved 400lbs of soil, the Police found the smashed frames of Olive’s spectacles and the plastic handle of her red handbag, as well as several fragments of bone identified as the left foot of an elderly female, the broken pieces of Olive’s dentures (identified by her dentist) and amazingly even one of her gallstones. But once again, it wasn’t a body, in fact, with everything having been dissolved into an unrecognisable stew, these random bits of a dead woman were as close as the Police ever came to finding the remains of Mrs Durand-Deacon. When shown all of the legal letters he had forged, although Johnny cockily crowed “yes, I wrote all of the signatures”, even going so far as to quip, “I signed Mac’s name, I remember I didn’t make a good job of it, instead of Donald, I write Ponald”, they could only arrest him for fraud but nothing more. Even his diary, in which he had celebrated each killing with an initial “A is for Archie, R is for Rose”, knowing that “with no body, there can be crime”, as circumstantial evidence, it meant nothing. (End) He had given the Police everything, and having confessed to the murders of six innocent people – the McSwan’s, the Henderson’s and Mrs Durand-Deacon - all of whom had vanished completely, John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would never be convicted. (Interstitial*) …or so he thought. Across his six (supposedly) perfect murders, little Johnny Haigh had made a lot of mistakes, many of which he had miraculously got away with, and although many were big, they weren’t the biggest, as back in Lincoln Prison, on the day he had concocted his murderous plan, he had made a fatal mistake. Back in Interview Room Three at Chelsea Police Station, bored of waiting, Johnny impatiently pressed (Haigh) “What are they doing now? Symes and Barrett I mean”. (Webb) “Well John, I don’t really know, but I should imagine they are working hard in order to get you hanged”, (Haigh) “Hanged, what on earth for?”, (Webb) “Oh, you know very well that they only hang people for one reason in this country, don’t you John?”. And he did… but having once read in a law-book about Corpus Delicti, Johnny knew (Haigh) “You can’t prove that I murdered anybody… you can’t prove a murder without a body”. To which, as his trap snapped shut, Webb retorted (Webb) “Oh yes you can…” and as Webb listed two trials off the top of his head, with that cocky grin firmly wiped off his smug little face, Johnny gulped. Johnny was right though, “Corpus Delicti, with no body, there can be no crime”, but his mistake was to assume that by “body” the law meant a human body, but it doesn’t, it means a “body of evidence”. All the Police needed was enough circumstantial evidence to prove where the victim had been, how they had died and been disposed of and – more importantly - who had killed them, and having confessed to six murders, including Mrs Durand-Deacon’s - Johnny had given the police everything. On 2nd March 1949, Johnny was charged with the murder of Henrietta Helen Olivia Robarts Durand-Deacon, to which he replied “I have nothing to say”. The irony lost on him, as many-moons before, he had boasted to his cell-mate “who can tell if a murder has taken place if a person completely disappears? Only the murderer would know and if he kept his mouth shut, he would be safe”. On 18th July 1949, at Sussex Assizes, he pleaded his innocence, but after a two-day trial and having deliberated for just seventeen minutes, a unanimous jury found him “guilty” and he was sentenced to death. On Wednesday 10th August 1949 at 9am, taking just seven seconds from the opening of the cell door to his little torso dangling from a taut hemp rope, as seasoned executioner Albert Pierrepoint perched the tiny trembling monster on a chalk ‘x’ - granted no last words, no final requests, no quick cigarette, no speeches, no bullshit, not even time for tears – with his last ever sight blocked by a thick white hood, as his skilled slayer pulled the lever, the trap doors parted and as his little body plunged seven feet and four inches into a dark cold void, as the hemp rope tugged tight, the top two vertebrae of his neck snapped to the right and little Johnny Haigh was dead. And with that, the killing-spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial killers finally (for the very last time) came to an end. (End) But was his death really that simple? (Rope/Pull/Creak) Well, yes, it was. (Interstitial*) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile, that was the final part of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the omnibus editions of this series and a special Q&A episode rolling out next week, to mark the end of the season. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporter – Mir Razavi – as well a big thank you to Julie at Nostalgia Knits for sending me the lovely hand-knitted sock, very cosy, and April McLucas and Emily Lock for the kind donations sent via the Murder Mile website. I promise you, it will be spent on beer and cake. Murder Mile was researched, written & 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 ***
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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
0 Comments
Human Hair: What can a single strand of human hair tell Crime Scene Investigators / Pathologists?20/12/2019 
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.
What can a single strand of human hair tell crime scene investigators and pathologists?
We’ve all seen it; a cop pulls out a pen, uses it to pick up a single strand of hair, pops that hair into an empty crisp packet, takes it to be boys down the crime lab and boom, the victim is identified. But is that possible, can you get a complete DNA match of a victim or perpetrator from a single thread of human hair? No. You can’t. Currently, it is not possible to identify a person by a single strand of hair, although it is a vital piece of evidence in any enquiry. You can learn a lot from a single strand of human hair, as (unless it’s cut) a human hair normally grows for up to two to six years before it falls out, so you can determine some details: what racial group a person is from (whether European, Asian or African), their hair colour (whether natural or dyed), what chemicals, toxins or heavy metals they’ve been exposed to, the types of foods they eat, possible diseases, genetic disorders, health issues, and if they smoke, drink or do drugs. Gulp! If you’re worried… the drugs which can be tested includes cannabis, cocaine, opiates, amphetamines, methamphetamines, benzodiazepines, methadone, ketamine, most prescription drugs, antidepressants, neuroleptics, steroids and GHB, all from a single strand of hair. And while a urine test will reveal if you’ve used drugs in the last several days, hair testing (depending on the sample) can show if you’ve used drugs over the past 3 months. On average, a person sheds 100-150 strands of hair a day, and although the hair shaft contains some mitochondrial DNA – this DNA is easily degraded by bacteria, fungi, ultraviolet light, bleaches, dyes and the weather, rendering it useless for testing – but it’s actually the root pulp at the end of the shaft which contains the nDNA (nuclear DNA), which is vital for identifying a person. Sadly, the hairs we shed, do not contain root pulp, but they do if they are yanked out in a violent struggle. The problem is that even this nDNA found in the hair’s root quickly degrades when exposed to light, moisture or heat, making it almost useless (but not entirely useless) for identification, so the best hair strands for DNA testing are those pulled directly from the victim or perpetrators’ head with the root pulp still attached, prior to testing, and in order for the laboratory to accurately determine a person’s identity, they wouldn’t need one single hair, they would need at least one hundred. So, the next time you see a TV detective picking up a single eye-lash with their tweezers and getting a match to a known felon within an hour, call “bulls**t”, and check the DVD extras to see if there’s an additional scene where he spends fifty-two days on his hands and knees, scouring the floor for ninety-nine more and praying the felon has a genetic disorder, so unique, they named a disease after him. So why am I bald? Nature’s been cruel to me, that’s all.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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 50 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.
Here's another rather mundane letter written by a serial killer, which willmgives you a different and more interesting insight into them as a person.
This week, we have two different letters written by American serial killer John Wayne Gacy. As a bit of background; Gacy was a man with two distinct lives; on the one hand he was professional contractor, a community volunteer, a business man and a children’s entertainer who dressed as “Pogo the Clown”, and on the other side, he raped, tortured and murdered at least 33 teenage boys and young men between 1972 and 1978, and buried their bodies under the crawlspace of his home. The evidence against him was overwhelming to say the least. Which is why this first letter is so fascinating, it’s a typed letter, by Gacy. It’s undated but appears to have been sent in the early 1980’s, whilst serving on Death Row and awaiting his appeals and was sent to Mr Luis Kutner, Attorney at Law in Chicago. "Dear Mr Kutner. I have recently read about you in the newspapers and wondered if you might be interested in working on my case, at a point of Post Conviction. I have included a clipping on my appeal, while I feel I have good issues, I don’t feel I will get justice in the Illinois courts, because of public pressure and mass publicity surrounding my case. The state appellate defender is handling my appeal at this point, but may not be when I get to Post-Conviction. I was railroaded to where I am now on Death Row, not only by incompetent counsel, but by constitutional law, judicial misconduct and Prosecutors misconduct along with procedural errors. Since you’re as famous as I am infamous, and the vetos you have behind you, I wonder if you would handle the case of a mass murderer who is not one, but can’t seem to get anyone to look at the facts instead of mass publicity, fantasy and state theories. And now in the courts with political pressure. If your interested, I would like to hear from you one way or another, and maybe be able to fill you in on more of the facts so that you would see what I have to work with. I am told that if you would put all of the facts in my case into a computer (ooh) along with all the Illinois law, my case would be thrown out, as there is no evidence to tie it all together. I have been made into a media monster, through mass publicity and the facts seem to just go right out of the door. Thanks for taking time to read this. Look forward to hearing from you. Yours sincerely. John Wayne Gacy" Yes, John Wayne Gacy, you’re absolutely right, put all of the facts to do with the 33 dead bodies who were mysteriously found under your house and the entire US legal system into a computer, which in that era would have been at best a BBC Micro with the computing power of gnat with an abacus, you could press ENTER and it would print GACY IS INNOCENT. Case closed. And secondly, is a handwritten letter, by Gacy, dated 6th May 1994, it is signed John Wayne Gacy and was sent just four days before he was executed. It’s on headed paper, and has at the top (in red ink) “John Wayne Gacy, N00924, Lock Box 711, Menard, Illinois” and as a tag-line “Execution… revenge for a sick society!!!”. Given what we know about him, know this, the letter is written to an unnamed boy who Gacy was corresponding with whilst on Death Row, having murderer young boys his age. “Hi Ho. Hey it was nice talking with you, and keep up with a positive attitude. I understand what your going through with your parents splitting up. But just remember, it’s not your fault, grown-ups do crazy things, but it doesn’t mean they still both don’t love you. You have to accept things you can’t change, change the ones you can, and always think positive for yourself as you have a lot going on for you. I enjoy your letters. I’ve enclosed some art work of mine. Take care for now. Best regards. Your friend up north. John Wayne Gacy”.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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 50 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.
The storehouse in Giles' Yard at 2 Leopold Road in Crawley, where the murders and disposal of the bodies of Archie & Rosalie Henderson took place
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK 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 EIGHTY-ONE:
In the evening of Thursday 12th February 1948, John George Haigh lured Rosalie Henderson (a bed-bound depressed neurotic) to her death, inside the storeroom at Leopold Road, where he had murdered her husband, just a few hours earlier. As with the other four murders, her death and disposal was pretty simple... but something would go horrible wrong.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the storeroom in Giles Yard, 2 Leopold Road in Crawley where Archie & Rosalie Hendeson were murdered and their bodies dissolved in acid is marked with a green dot. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
Two little videos for you to enjoy with this episode; on the left is 2 Leopold Road in Crawley, the site of the storeroom where John George Haigh murdered and dissolved the bodies of Archie & Rosalie Henderson and Olivia Durrand-Deacon (now a nice house) and on the right is 16 Dawes Road in Fulham, former Doll's Hospital toy shop and home of the Henderson's.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This series was researched using the original declassified police files held at the National Archives, the Metropolitan Archives, the Wellcome Collection, the Crime Museum, etc. MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART FIVE OF SULPHURIC.
To Johnny, murder had become almost routine, an unemotional moment as common as withdrawing cash, only with the simple transfer between accounts sullied by that tiresome annoyance – people. (Haigh) “I met the Henderson’s by answering an advertisement for the sale of 22 Ladbroke Square. I disposed of Dr Henderson in the storeroom at Leopold Road by shooting him in the head and put him in a tank of acid”. With the doctor dead, the assets should rightfully be his, but in his way was a wife. Rosalie Henderson was a feisty angry neurotic; doped-up on sleeping pills, drowsy with drink and bed-bound in a Brighton hotel, who Johnny – a man her own brother had warned her against – would have to lure out on the flimsy excuse that her now-dead husband (she had threatened to divorce) was sick. Driven at night, in a strange car, to an isolated yard, this paranoid lady with a lifelong fear of the dark would be led inside an odd little shed, illuminated by a single bulb, only to find... no Archie. Instead she would see three acid bottles, two steel drums (one empty, one full), a cracked monocle, a spatter of blood, a rubber apron, a set of gauntlets and - in Johnny’s hand - her dead husband’s revolver. “I went back to Brighton and brought up Mrs Henderson on the pretext that her husband was ill. I shot her in the storeroom, put her in another tank and disposed of her with acid”. But was it really that simple? (BANG / SLUMP / FIZZ). Well, yes, it was. And although it irked Johnny a tad to fritter-away his busy social schedule to do a double-murder, it was (at best) only a bit of a bother and soon enough, with the dirty deed done, Archie & Rosalie Henderson would vanish completely. In his diary, Johnny marked the moment “A is for Archie and the sign of the cross. R is for Rose, I didn’t deal with her until just before midnight”. And yet, so trivial were their deaths, had it not been for that note, he’d have forgotten - “yes, I suppose it must have been on the 12th when I got rid of them”. The killing-spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers was complete. As expected, his fourth murder was perfect, his fifth was easy-peasy and with the Police unaware that anyone was missing, the rest would be textbook… but once again, having overlooked yet another small and seemingly insignificant detail, something would go horribly wrong. (Interstitial*) The Henderson’s were gone, and bit by bit, as Johnny picked it apart, so were their assets. (Haigh) “In the case of Dr Henderson I removed his gold cigarette case and pocket watch, and from his wife, her wedding and engagement ring”. Before their bodies were reduced to a dark smouldering goo, Johnny pawned-off a diamond and sapphire ring, a gold watch, a gold chain, a set of gold studs, a Pewter tea set and a silver cigarette case to Horace Bull, a jeweller in Horsham for £292. Johnny gave a false name and address, and all of the pieces were either sold-on, broken-up or smelted down. Having sidled-up in a red Lagonda which burst with boxes, golf bags and suitcases all monogrammed with a large flashy ‘H’, Johnny stashed the property of “two old pals who had gone to South Africa” into the garage of Thomas Davies - some of which, “at their request”, he would dip-into and flog off. Being post-war - with money tight, essentials rationed and the black market a bit of a grey area - the average bod didn’t give two hoots where a case full of hooky goods came from, so with a nod, a wink and no questions asked - unaware that they were destroying evidence - Thomas bought some golf clubs and glassware; Leonard & Gladys Bevan had five pairs of ladies shoes and a lamb’s wool coat; and Barbara Stephens (Allan’s daughter and Johnny’s sort-of girlfriend) got first dibs on a green linen dress, a mustard coloured blouse and a nearly-new bathing suit. And yes, some of it may have been a little scorched, but even Johnny’s overcoat had acid burns on the cuffs, so beggars can’t be choosers. Bits and bobs he stored in his garage to sell later; a metal filing cabinet, two office chairs and an electric heater, but all the best stuff he kept for himself at the Onslow Court Hotel. Of course, it wasn’t weird at-all that he wore dead man’s suits, shirts, ties, cuffs, belts and collars; that he proudly pranced about his bedroom (all peacock-like) in the deceased’s silk robe and slippers, or that Johnny played at being doctor by coveting a few odd objects from Archie’s life; like his hip flask, briefcase, stethoscope, kidney bowls, a brass thermometer, an inkstand and two metal plates marked ‘Archibald Henderson’? No, this wasn’t strange at all, as with the couple now dead and gone, all of this stuff… was his stuff. Okay, maybe Johnny was a tad careless to sell-off his victim’s stuff, to dress in his victim’s clothes, to drive his victim’s car, to take his victim’s dog and to sign his victim’s name on his victim’s cheques at his victim’s bank, but (as before) having laid a cunning subterfuge, Johnny had covered his tracks. One hour after her murder, having adopted a high-pitched voice, Johnny called the Metropole Hotel, and pretending to be Rosalie he stated the couple had (Haigh/Rose) “unexpectedly been called away”, and (concerned for his wellbeing) asked the night porter to feed and walk Pat, their elderly Red Setter. Four days later, clutching a seemingly legal-looking letter supposedly signed by the Henderson’s which gave this random stranger total authority to do as he pleased: (Haigh) “I paid their hotel bill, collected their dog and took their luggage to Dawes Road”. With their account settled in full, the animal gone, the room vacated and the luggage collected, the hotel had no reason to be concerned. Being fond of Pat, Johnny cared for the old dog in his hotel room, where he was loved, brushed and fed on meat rations he’d bought having queued-up for hours at the butchers, he even took the almost-blind dog to an eye-specialist, but with pets being against the hotel’s rules, Pat was put into kennels. With the old ploy practically fool-proof, as before (Haigh) “I kept the relatives quiet by sending letters purporting to come from the Henderson’s to Rosalie’s brother Arnold and Archie’s sister Ethel”. Having stolen their passports, identity cards, driving licences and marriage certificate “I acquired the forged deeds of transfer for 16 Dawes Road” - this time with no spelling mistakes or dodgy signatures -and, once again, he collected the rent, in person, having introduced himself as the tenant’s new landlord. Oh yes, the murders were a doddle, the subterfuge would be a done deal and soon it was time for tea, toast and scrambled egg. I mean it had all worked before so why change a winning formula? Besides, with Ethel busy moving house in Jersey and having swallowed a semi believable story that Archie & Rosalie were moving to Durban, she wouldn’t be aware that anything was amiss until a year later. As for the disposal? Well, Johnny had got the knack now, and as the fifth person he’d liquefied in less than five years, it was all very simple, so in just forty-eight hours The Henderson’s went guts to gloop. Step One: (Bang); a single shot, at close range, blasted in the back of the head, Rosalie dropped like a sack of spuds; the walls muffled the noise, the dark disguised the killing, the fence hid the storeroom. Step Two: (Slide); stripped of stuff (rings, ID, keys, cash), bent double, hog-tied with twine as the limbs were still floppy, she’s slid inside a 40 gallon drum and (as a slight eight-stoner) easily propped upright. Note to self (Phone): Find a phone-box, call Metropole Hotel (Haigh/Rose) “hullo, Rosalie here, could you take Pat for a walkies”, then lock the door, lights off, home for snooze and a hearty breakfast. Step Three: (Pump): Apron on, gauntlets on, gas-mask on, with the carboys still and bucket be damned, stirrup-pump thirty gallons of sulphuric until the drums are four fifths full, windows open and lid on. Step Four: (Fizz): first ten mins, acid turns black as hair, eyes and flesh are stripped; next thirty mins, acid boils as it reacts with the blood and fat; drum rattles a bit, then settles, quick stir with a rod, then a cuppa tea. After three hours; muscles, tendons and cartilage are gone, but the skeleton remains. Second note to self: (Phone) drums are three foot high, the McSwan’s and Rosalie were five foot eight max, but Archie was six foot, so with his left foot sticking out and not dissolved (Haigh) “Hello, White & Son? I’d like to order a forth carboy of acid”, an extra cost, a slight delay, but job done, no biggie. Step Five: (Drum) two days later, with the drums cooled, the gloop tepid and a greasy yellow sludge on top with a black smoky soup beneath, give it a quick stir, check there’s no big bits but a few small fragments is fine. Sadly with no drain at Leopold Road, both drums are dragged into the yard, the goo is tipped amongst the trash and car oil, and soaked into ground, it’s not ideal but the gloop is gone. And as always, a quick clean-up followed, nothing major; apron up, gauntlets away, gas-mask stowed, carboys collected, ID and victim’s stuff stashed, gun and gas-mask back to hotel room, give the drums a rinse out with acid (as fat tends to cling to the sides), dump both in the yard, and after a quick wipe-down with a rag (as blood’s a dead giveaway), return the storeroom keys back to Edward. Easy-peasy. A thorough murder investigation headed-up by Detective Chief Inspector Guy Mahon and Home Office Pathologist Dr Keith Simpson wouldn’t be conducted until more than one year later, after Johnny’s confession, but by then, very little of The McSwan’s or The Henderson’s would be found. In the last half a decade, the basement at 79 Gloucester Road had changed hands several times, so in terms of cast-iron proof, it was useless. Any personal items belonging to these five victims could have been legally acquired at any time (which Johnny certainly had the paperwork to prove) and as a full year had passed, any evidence relating to the Henderson’s at Leopold Road was purely circumstantial. There would be no witnesses; nobody on Leopold Road saw, heard or smelled anything strange coming from this engineer’s workshop. Between Brighton and Crawley, nobody spotted Johnny with either of the Henderson’s that day. There would be no ballistics; no bullets, no holes, no casings and although a firearms specialist recreated the shot, shielded by brick walls, it sounded like a muffled pop. Being a dirty oily storeroom, the investigators were unable to pull a single fingerprint from any surface. His clean-up was slap-dash, but using a wet rag he wiped away any trace of the Henderson’s blood. Of their personal possessions; the cracked monocle was proven to be Archie’s, as were the gas-mask, the revolver and the hat-box marked with a monogrammed ‘H’, as well as his and his wife’s ID’s, licences, marriage certificate and passports, all which were legally acquired and none of which was a body. And although forensics found a beech-wood rod with one end disintegrated, two rusted steel drums, a stained apron and gauntlets, and a series of zig-zag marks in the soil as two heavy drums were dragged from the storeroom to an ominous pool of yellowy-green grease, this suggested was that something had been dissolved in acid, but that wasn’t unusual for an inventor who experimented in plastics. The Police would find no hard evidence that the Henderson’s were at 2 Leopold Road, and as you can’t fingerprint sludge, Johnny was right, (Haigh) “Corpus Delicti - with no body, there can be no crime”. Only having overlooked another small detail, once again, the killer risked capture. (Interstitial*) (Haigh) “I found The Henderson’s interesting and amusing, we went about a good deal together, they talked a lot about themselves, and from many conversations I learned a great deal about them”. To Johnny, whereas Archie was the prize, Rosalie was a mere formality who could be rubbed-out as easily as he could erase her name, and as he listened to her life-story, some bits he stored, but most bits he binned. Rosalie Mercy Burlin, known as Rose, was born on 11th September 1907, as the eldest of two siblings, with a younger brother Arnold - (Haigh: “urgh, boring-boring-boring”) – to Edith, an English housewife - (Haigh: “argh, snooze”) - and Adolph, a naturalised German dentist – (Haigh: “Ah! A dentist? Bingo!”). Described as a neurotic paranoid hypochondriac, Rose’s nervousness began when her uncaring nanny thought the best way to keep a chatty child quiet was to tell the tot terrifying tales and lock her in a pitch black room; a childhood trauma which resulted in years of therapy, terror and tranquilisers - (Haigh: “a dull little detail there, but… like Archie’s bad back and poor eyesight… possibly useful?”). Educated at Pendleton High School, Rose trained as a typist at the Pittman College and began a short career as a secretary - (Haigh/flips pages: “secretary, secretary, short-hand typist, modelled once but mostly unemployed. Oh, so she’s got no money, her dad’s a financial risk, her mum’s just a wife and her brother runs a crappy seaside hotel in Blackpool, so basically, they’re all worth nothing. Damn it!” (Haigh) “Right! Rosalie; thirty-seven years old, five foot seven and eight stone; slim, weak, wet; with drawn on eye brows, chronic nerves and a painted smile. In short; sad, false and pointless. Typical! In 1931 she married Rudolph Erren – ah, an engineer, an inventor and founder of the Erren Motor Company. Hmm. Oh, start of the war, he’s suspected of being a Nazi; arrested, interred, divorced and later deported back to Germany. Shame. Meanwhile…” (Haigh) “Rudolph & Rosalie live opposite Archie & Dorothy, which we know. Archie & Rosalie have an affair, which we know. Rosalie taunts Dorothy with this knowledge, which we didn’t know, nasty bitch. Rosalie shacks-up with Archie (an abusive alcoholic womaniser). Archie gets Rosalie pregnant? Ah-ha! Illegally aborts the baby? Ah-ha! In Dorothy’s sitting-room? Ah-ha! Dorothy leaves Archie and three days later she dies suspiciously. Hmm, I may have to consider blackmail? This follows eight years of lies, drink, affairs, blah-blah-blah, and haemorrhaging cash (oh I know that feeling) The Henderson’s sell-off their very expensive and tastefully decorated twenty-bedroomed house at 22 Ladbroke Square in the exclusive suburb of Holland Park, which is where they met me… and – even though, for any pedants, this last bit was touch of dramatic licence rather than an actual quote - the rest we know”. Only he didn’t. Johnny only cared about one thing, money. As for people? His only concern was what they were worth so anyone whose money wasn’t worth stealing he disregarded as irrelevant; a mistake he had made before with The McSwan’s and now with Rose Henderson. Every rose has its thorn… …and his name was Arnold Burlin. On 3rd September 1947, being broke and keen to weasel his way into the life of a man he thought was a wealthy mark, (Haigh) “I met the Henderson’s by answering an advertisement offering for sale of 22 Ladbroke Square”; a house they had purchased for £4600, would sell for £8700 (to cover their debts), and yet, much to the befuddlement of Rose’s younger brother, Johnny declared “that’s too cheap, but if you accept £10,500, that’s a deal”. As a no-nonsense Blackpool hotelier, attuned to spotting an unsavoury-sort too poor to stump-up a pound to pay his bill, Arnold later said of Johnny “of the scores of stupid people I’ve met, I’ve just been introduced to the greatest of them all”, later advising Rosalie “when you meet a man who talks like that, you should run for your life”, and although she kept a bit of a distance, Archie did not. The last time Arnold saw his sister was on 1st February 1948 in their flat above the ‘Doll’s Hospital’ toy-shop at 16 Dawes Road, as being asset-rich but cash-poor, having loaned the Henderson’s £160 to furnish it, Archie repaid it, that day, by cheque. The last time Arnold spoke to his sister, was by phone, a few days before her death; she was unwell, bed-bound but fine. (BANG/SLUMP/FIZZ). (Haigh) “I kept the relatives quiet by sending letters purporting to come from the Henderson’s”. And a skilled forger who over the previous months had mastered their handwriting, spelling, style and tone, once again, his cunning subterfuge began. On Saturday 14th February, on headed paper swiped from the Metropole Hotel, Johnny penned a letter from Archie to Daisy Rowntree, manageress of the ‘Doll’s Hospital’ toy-shop. It read; (Haigh/Archie) “Dear Daisy. Mrs Henderson & I are going away for two or three months, first to Scotland and later abroad. In my absence Mr Haigh will look after my affairs. I am closing the shop. Mr Haigh will keep you for a few days to enable him to take stock. Mrs Henderson and I send you kind regards and hope to see you again when we return. Yours sincerely Archibald Henderson”. Received on Tuesday 17th, Daisy was shocked, as in short she’d been sacked; no thank you, no warning, no reason and no goodbye, just gone - an uncharacteristically callous dismissal from a man he liked. That same day, Arnold dropped-in, as the cheque had bounced. Shocked at Daisy’s distress and the fact that his sister’s affairs were being handled by a stranger, he told Daisy to (Arnold) “do nothing till I speak to them”. (Phone) Unable to contact the Henderson’s, he traced Johnny to the Onslow Court Hotel; (Arnold) “Here, Haigh, what’s all this about then?” Caught off-guard by the nosey Northern blighter, Johnny reassured this nobody he had nothing to be concerned about, the Henderson’s merely owed him a rather sizable debt, and he had all the paperwork to prove it, don’t you know? But being immune to Johnny’s charms and seeing the little louse as “a bit too smooth”, Arnold was suspicious. It was odd, usually Johnny’s letters worked like a treat, but then again, the reclusive McSwan’s weren’t like the recalcitrant Arnold Burlin, so if he wanted proof, he would get proof, in the form of a forged contract from Archie to Johnny, backdated eight days before their deaths and signed by the dead. For Johnny, this wasn’t an issue, but a golden opportunity to fleece the deceased. (Typewriter / Archie / Haigh) “To J G Haigh. I acknowledge receipt of two thousand five hundred pounds on part loan for three months. For repayment I hereby assign to you: the stock at 16 Dawes Road, a Standard Saloon, a blue lacquered bedroom suite and other items on inventory to come. This leaves a value of £1500 outstanding and should I require the loan after the 3rd May 1948, I will assign to you the freehold of 16 Dawes Road. Signed Archibald Henderson, witnessed by Rose Henderson”. Would Arnold buy it? He didn’t know. So… …as a second layer of lies to bed-in his bullshit, Johnny penned a letter from Rose to himself dotting it with hints as to why they unexpectedly departed, written on Metropole Hotel note-paper with Brighton crossed-out and Edinburgh scrawled beneath, which is quicker than travelling to Scotland. It read (Rose/Haigh): “Dear Mr Haigh. To let you know that we are alright, as you must be wondering when you were going to hear from us. Archie is quite different now and (you won’t believe it) he is laying off the bottle! He has at last come to his senses and realises that I could not carry on as we were doing. We are going to Aberdeen tomorrow for a day or two and shall be calling at my brother Arnold’s on our way back. Archie won’t get in touch with him because he sent him a bad cheque. It was good of you to help him, I do appreciate it and hope you are having luck with the stock at Dawes Road. I shall look forward to seeing you again before we go to South Africa. I hope Pat is not giving you any trouble. Please give my kind regards to Daisy. Yours sincerely. R Henderson”. Not subtle, but effective. Sadly, as Pat’s blindness was incurable, being placed in kennels, although he was genuinely concerned about the dog’s welfare, it resulted in the only two occasions when anyone recalled Johnny becoming upset; once when Pat was put to sleep, and later when a tabloid falsely accused him of animal cruelty. But Johnny’s soft and sensitive side didn’t cut the mustard with Arnold… On Monday 23rd February 1948, determined to get to the bottom of this, Arnold asked to meet Johnny at 16 Dawes Road, in the sitting-room of which he spotted the Henderson’s suitcases and passports. Eek! Fearing his ruse had been rumbled, Johnny spun a semi-believable story about drink and debts, locked the flat, and unsure if he had pacified Arnold, he fired off another letter, this time from Rose. Typed, signed and dated Friday 27th February with a Birmingham postmark, it read (Haigh/Rose) “Mr dear Arnold. We’ve never had such a long silence, you must wonder what happened? Unfortunately Archie found out that I was leaving him. We had a perfect bust-up at Brighton and he threatened to commit suicide if I left him…” followed by some family bumph and bluster… “I thought we might be along to see you this weekend but we must keep on the move for a little while yet, probably three more weeks. We are keeping away from Archie’s usual haunts. Archie is as good as gold and is very seldom drinking. I only hope Johnny Haigh is doing alright because he has been a brick to me during the last few months. Hope you are all well. Don’t worry. Give my love to mummy. Rose”. Did it work? Did it not work? He didn’t know. So, to be sure, he fired off a few postcards. 27th February, Birmingham, Archie to Arnold and Johnny – “Am doing very well, that is Rose is, and we shall be returning at the end of March. Archie”, which made sense, as Archie was a man of few words. 5th March, Rugby postmark, Rose to Daisy – “Hope you are alright and getting on well with Mr Haigh. We are very well and having a busy time. See you at the end of March. Kind regards. Rose”. 5th March, Rugby, Rose to Arnold – “Hope my letter put your mind at rest. I expect the details would amuse you at least. Arch is still very good and the Brighton episode was a blessing in disguise. Love to Mumsy and all. Shall see you on our way back. Rose”. Only this time, Johnny had misspelled Mumsie. And again, 5th March, Rugby, in a postcard written by Johnny, as Rose, and sent to himself - “To let you know we are still well and very busy. Hope you are alright. Kind regards. Rose”. And although Arnold couldn’t help but be drawn-in by the catalogue of convincing correspondence, he couldn’t explain the passports, the suitcases and why Rose’s personal address-book was found in Johnny’s car. On Friday 19th March, having not spoken to Rose in person for more than a month, Arnold contacted a friend at the Stockport Police who agreed to look into the possible disappearance of the Hendersons. Alarmed at this news, and panicked, the very next day, Arnold received a telegram, it simply read “Going to Scotland tonight, contact you Tuesday or Wednesday. Rose”. It was short, but as a stalling tactic, it gave Johnny time, as two days later, three letters arrived at three different addresses. (Typing) 21st March, Glasgow, Rose to Arnold and Mumsie, this time spelled correctly. (Rose/Haigh) “This is very confidential so you’ll have to discuss its main points with Mr Haigh and McNab Taylor (a firm of solicitors Johnny had appointed). I write to you in a hurry because our boat to South Africa leaves on Tuesday…”, and in a fifteen page letter in which he hammered home the need for everyone to lie low and stay schtum, the key points were there; “write to us courtesy of the General Post Office in Durban until we know our address”, letters of which would sit for month gathering dust in a box, “Archie has made over the property to Haigh and sent it to McNab Taylor for completion”, meaning Johnny owned 16 Dawes Road, and all the while reassuring what remained of Rose’s family, “I hope you won’t feel too sore but it’s the only thing we could do if Archie wasn’t to go bankrupt. I don’t want you to worry about me. With my very warmest love to you all. Yours. Rose”. That day, a second letter was sent to McNab Taylor, the solicitors and the third was sent from Rose to himself, thanking Johnny (Rose) “I’m glad to say we’ve done it. With much thanks to your assistance which other friends seemed to lack the courage to do. Yours very sincerely Rose Henderson”. And before Arnold could even reply… …legally, the Henderson’s assets were stripped, Johnny was back in the black, Arnold was none the wiser and there was nothing anyone could do, or prove. And as Arnold’s detective friend in the Stockport Police found nothing suspicious, the Henderson’s were never reported missing. Everyone who knew them believed they had started a new life nine thousand miles away… when in truth, they were both little more than a black sludge slowly sinking into the dirty soil at Leopold Road. (End) To little Johnny Haigh, murder had become routine. Yes, it sometimes got quite exciting when things went awry, as sticky beaks were stuck where they didn’t belong and the simple transfer of funds between two accounts were sullied by that tiresome annoyance – people. But people are people. Once again, Johnny had failed to learn from his fatal mistakes, as having overlooked a seemingly small detail, something had gone horribly wrong… but with a simple snip, the Rose was clipped, its thorn was blunted and – whether by pluck or luck – Johnny had pulled-off another perfect murder. To pacify Arnold was simple, as his trouble began with a bounced cheque by Archie, Johnny just wrote him a new one and once the cash had cleared, Arnold returned to Blackpool and Johnny never saw him again. And soon enough, although puzzling, Archibald & Rosalie Henderson would be forgotten. It took a single second to kill the Henderson’s, just two days to dissolve their corpses and after only eight weeks, Johnny had full control of their entire estate; from their home, shop and stock, to their shares, savings and their life insurance. Ah yes, the good life had returned; and as a respected middle-class gentleman with a business to run, good suits to wear and three sports cars to drive, Johnny’s toughest decision was between taking tea or tiffin with the rich widows at the Onslow Court Hotel. Annoyingly, as a notoriously irrational and irresponsible gambler, of the £20,000 Archie had been left in his dead wife’s will, having sold 22 Ladbroke Square to cover his mounting debts, although Johnny had spent literally months perfectly preparing the untimely demise of his old pals – The Henderson, their deaths only netted him a piffling £7700. I know! I mean, yes, that’s just over quarter of a million pounds today, but it wasn’t the three quarter of a million pounds he’d been hoping for, but hey-ho. Still, with more than enough money to last a lifetime, this time at least, the killing spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would finally come to an end… …or would it? (Interstitial*) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the penulti8mate part of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the final part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to those lovely people who very kindly showered me with gifts on my previous Murder Mile Walk, it was unexpected and lovely; they were Emma Thorpe, Jonny Rex, Jessica from Asian Madness Podcast and the lady with the large black suitcase who very kindly gave me some yummy spiced Christmas biscuits, it happened so fast I never got your name, but thank you. And also a hello to Hamish, my boat neighbour and listener to Murder Mile. Ssshh! Only you know what my boat looks like, so that’ll have to remain our little secret. Murder Mile was researched, written & 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 ***
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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 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.
EPISODE EIGHTY:
On the morning of Thursday 12th February 1948, two years after the triple murder of the McSwan family, with John George Haigh having blossomed into a respected businessman with enough money to last a lifetime and had no plans to kill ever again, he lured his new pal - a wealthy man of dubious morals Archie Henderson - to his workshop at 2 Leopold Road, where he murdered him and dissolved his body in acid. But why did Johnny return to a life of crime?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of 22 Ladbroke Square with a blue dot, where The Henderson's first met John George Haigh. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
Left to right: Archibald Henderson (Captain), 22 Ladbroke Square (home where the Henderson's first met John George Haigh), Rosalie Henderson and 14 Dawes Road, the "Doll's Hospital" toy shop with their flat above where Johnny stole the revolver (used to kill Archie) and the gas mask.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This series was researched using the original declassified police files held at the National Archives, the Metropolitan Archives, the Wellcome Collection, the Crime Museum, etc. MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART FOUR OF SULPHURIC.
“William, Donald & Amy McSwan have gone to Scotland… or Ireland… or was it America? It was one or the other. I mean, does it really matter?” Johnny’s ruse was simple; a shy reclusive family - who were never reckless, impulsive and rarely went out – had unexpectedly fled to the country, in the dead of night, leaving behind everything that they had ever owned; from their homes, businesses, stocks and savings, to their teacups on the table, their bread in the basket and their clothes in the cupboard… …but somehow it worked. The McSwan’s were an intensely private, tightly-knit and deeply-loyal family who kept-to-themselves, so with no close friends or concerned family, no-one reported them missing. And why would they? Armed with a set of keys, a forged letter and a Power of Attorney, over the next few months, Johnny paid the remaining rent on their top-floor flat, settled any bills, collected the post, tipped the milkman, topped-up the gas-metre with coins and even paid Mac’s monthly subscription to the Amusement Caterer’s Association. On paper, the McSwan’s still existed, just not in person. But as clever and calculated as Johnny was, being so uncaring and eager to fritter-away the family’s fortune, he was also brazen and callous; and having let himself in, rifled through drawers and flogged-off the dour clothes and sparse furnishing of the recently deceased, Johnny sold everything. Every item, asset or account; whether their wallets, purses, ration-cards or chequebooks, and – before he sold all four of their houses in Beckenham, Wimbledon and Raynes Park – cocky in his confidence, he even collected the monthly rents, in person, having signing the rent-book himself. And yet, as for the McSwan’s pitiful pensions of a piffling 22 shillings per week? He left that. It wasn’t worth his time. Within a few months, having stolen the equivalent of £210,000, Johnny had dissolved every single asset of the McSwan family, until – just like their corpses – nothing existed. And as no-one had noticed, with the law of Corpus Delicti still valid and stating that “with no body, there can be no crime”, even if he was arrested and gave the Police a full confession, with no evidence, he could never be convicted. By August 1945, having made enough money to last a lifetime, the killing spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers should have come to an end… but it didn’t. (Interstitial*) Johnny Haigh was jubilant. Yes, 1944 had been a right dog’s dinner, but with 45 going great-guns, 46 being a real pip and – although Britain was in the grip of post-war austerity with millions either jobless, penniless or homeless, blah-de-blah-de-blah - for Johnny, 1947 was looking to be a bit of a doozy. One month after he had casually flushed the whole McSwan family down the sewer – a laborious deed which severely ate into his social schedule and soiled his trench coat, leather gloves and his once shiny shoes – billowing with bank notes - Johnny permanently moved into the rather upmarket Onslow Court Hotel at 108 Queen’s Gate in South Kensington, one street up from the acid-stained basement. Room 404 was his man-pad; an exclusive serviced room with Indian-linen sheets on the soft sprung mattress, an armchair for entertaining his chums, a wardrobe full of his tailored suits, drawers for his dress-shirts, silks shorts, ties and hankies - so Johnny the entrepreneur always looked dapper - and at his desk; a fountain pen, a diary, a waste bin, several books on mechanics and an Imperial typewriter. Catering to his every whim; the bellboy polished his shoes, the maid cleaned his room, the concierge collected his dry-cleaning and the night-porter emptied his waste-bin, so with nothing to do but to choose between breakfast, luncheon, tiffin, high-tea, drinkies, din-dins or a little late supper, he busied himself by mingling in the dining room with the wealthy, the cultured, the respected and the widowed. Ah yes, this was the life alright – civilised, urbane, stylish - and it had all been worth his struggle. That said, as much as South Kensington’s most eligible bachelor loved to tootle about town in his dark green Armstrong Siddeley saloon - the bright glint of its waxed body, the subtle squeak of leather seats, the luxurious whiff of walnut dash and the solid rumble of its 20hp engine really turned some heads - but he felt it was a bit fuddy-duddy for a real go-getter, so his new wheels would have to go. But it wasn’t all play you know. Johnny’s company - Union Group Engineering – was up-and-running. Established to give legitimacy to his purchase of large quantities of lethal acids, now as a legitimate businessman, he used his money to develop ideas with inventors. Okay, he’d lied a little bit; his business address was a hotel room, his title of Technical Liaison Officer was self-appointed, the BSC initials after his name related to a phony degree and he had no training as an engineer, but then again, half of success is confidence, right? In 1945, he invested in a needle-threader. In 1946, he dabbled in toy rocking horses made from tubular steel, and in 1947, having invested £225 in Hurstlea Products Ltd to develop a silent jack-hammer and a battery powered fan, the boss Edward Jones appointed Johnny as nominal director. Eager to make-a-go of it, Johnny didn’t take a wage, but instead relished the role’s credibility, the extra petrol rations (vital in post-war Britain) and – keen to develop his own inventions – having purchased it off Allan Stephens, Edward gave Johnny access to a small storeroom in Crawley, based at 2 Leopold Road. So had the sadistic serial-killer stopped his killing-spree to become a serial-investor? Well, yes, he had. Ex-con Johnny was gone, as having realised his full potential and blossomed into a respected company director who lived well, dressed fine and spoke properly, moving in middle-class circles, this gave him the perfect opportunity to meet likeminded people… like Archibald & Rosalie Henderson. (Haigh) “I met the Henderson’s by answering an advertisement for the sale of their property at 22 Ladbroke Square. They were staying at the Metropole Hotel in Brighton. I took Dr Henderson to the storeroom at Leopold Road, disposed of him by shooting him in the head and put him in a tank of acid. I brought up Mrs Henderson, shot her too and put her in another tank of acid”. Simple. Of course, the Henderson’s were not part of his original plan. Johnny wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, he was a cool-headed businessman, but sometimes, try-as-you-might, life has other ideas. (Interstitial*) Johnny liked Archie, they were so similar, but where-as Mac was the little boy Johnny once was, Archie was the older brother he aspired to be; rich, flashy and confident, heartless, selfish and cruel. Archibald Henderson was born in Glasgow on 20th July 1897, eleven years before Johnny, and although identical in many ways, Archie’s upbringing was a blue-print of how Johnny wished his life had been. Raised in the prosperous Scottish suburb of Partick to a housewife mother and a banker father, unlike Johnny, Archie was proper middle-class, not an uppity coal-miner’s son with lofty aspirations. As part-time Presbyterians who embraced a faith when it suited them, Archie’s early years weren’t silent and stuffy like the Plymouth Brethren, but bright and joyous affairs, full of music, colour, laughter and life, and as intensely social people, they were liked, trusted and welcomed. Educated at the affluent High School of Glasgow, one of Britain’s oldest grammar schools and the seat of learning for two Prime Ministers, just like Johnny, Archie was gifted a great education but as a day-dreamer who wasn’t academically blessed, although he loved science and mechanics, he struggled. Conversely, where-as the quiet undersized boy in bow-tie with no siblings and no friends saw school as a very solitary experience; being tall, sporty and a big personality, Archie loved school, had oodles of chums and (unlike this only child) he would never be lonely, as by his side was his big sister – Ethel. Archie had everything that Johnny did not; money, style, class and status. And as a strapping six-footer with chiselled features, an athletic physique and a very manly moustache, although unconventionally handsome with sticky-out ears, pursed lips and a stern stare that glared over the dark bags of his world weary eyes, being a real man, Archie was someone that little Johnny Haigh literally looked-up to. And yet, as two frustrated men who hated hard graft for little reward, they struggled to find their full potential, but where-as Johnny was always patient, sober and distant - as a deeply unhappy man with unfulfilled dreams of living a kept life to a wealthy wife - Archie was often angry, violent and drunk. As a conscript, Private Henderson served in World War One, unlike Johnny he didn’t dodge the draft, but being a lowly-squaddie with little respect for rank, routine or regiment, he was never promoted, and yet, he held onto his medals, his gas-mask and his Enfield Mark 1 service revolver as souvenirs. Demobbed in 1919, ten years and several tries later, he qualified as a doctor from Glasgow University, but being superior, stubborn and self-important, with a dreadful bedside manner and style other doctor’s described as “clumsy and inept”, instead of patients, he preferred golf, gambling and girls. Archie was unpredictable, being crippled by Spondylitis (a stiffness of the back), Kyphosis (a curvature of the spine) and intermittent spasms in his shoulder, as a debilitating and degenerative illness, his moody demeanour was made worse as he was forced to temper it with drink and prescription drugs. Just like Johnny, Archie hated hard-work. (Haigh) “When I first discovered there were easier ways to make a living, I did not ask myself whether I was doing right or wrong. That seemed to be irrelevant. I merely said ‘this is what I wish to do’. Go after women; rich old women who like a bit of flattery. That’s your market”. And although Johnny was yet to bag himself a biggie, Archie was way ahead of him. On 18th January 1930, 33 year old Archie married 29 year old Frances Dorothy Orr; a wealthy socialite with several lavish pads in Mayfair, Knightsbridge and Kensington, who spoiled him with shirts from Harrods, suits from Saville Row and a bright red Lagonda sports car, as well as many expensive trinkets including an 18 carat gold cigarette box and lighter engraved with her name ‘Dorothy’. Squandering his wife’s wealth, Archie quit work to live a truly hedonistic life of drinking, gambling and womanising; a heartless cheat who spent wildly, racked-up debts and shagged copiously, as to Archie - who only loved her money - she wasn’t his wife, she was his meal-ticket. So disgusted were his family, that just weeks after the wedding, Archie cut all ties with them… except with his beloved sister Ethel. As heavy-drinkers and unhappily-married, their South Kensington suite at 3 Grenville Place echoed to her volatile screams, as always cursing, fighting and living in fear of his fists, Dorothy sunk into a deep depression. And for the last few months of their marriage, being drugged-up and drunk, crying and catatonic, she lay there (bedbound and broken) cuddling Pat - her Red Setter puppy. Not that Archie really gave a rat’s ass, as with his wife wasted on scotch and sleeping pills (which he had prescribed), he openly flaunted his torrid affair with their friend and neighbour Rosalie Errens. On 20th April 1937, simply to escape his abuse, Dorothy moved into a private suite in The Bailey Hotel at 140 Gloucester Road. Three days later she died. And although her family suspected foul-play at the hands of Dr Henderson her money-grabbing husband, her death was declared natural causes, her body was cremated and Archie inherited her entire estate, a total of £20,000 (almost £800,000 today). Johnny liked, admired and respected Archie. He was the older brother he never had, the only pal he ever wanted and the affluent business man he aspired to be. So it must have been a real bummer to have to bump-off Archie? But hey-ho, that’s the way it goes. (Interstitial*) By August 1947, two years had passed since Johnny had slopped the hot melted mess of the McSwan’s down the festering manhole. He was a new man now – respectable, honest and successful - with a company to run, a full life to lead and enough money to last a lifetime… or so he had thought. During the post-war austerity, although he’d invested in several inventions with Edward Jones - a silent jack-hammer, a battery powered fan, a needle-threader and had dabbled in the mass–production of a toy rocking horse made of tubular steel – nothing came of them. It was nobody’s fault, it happens. But being shamefully shy on his rent at Onslow Court, forced to sell his dark green Armstrong Siddeley, (which left just two cars in his rented garage, a sporty Alvis and a sedate Saloon 12) and with his good name sullied owing £353 to five bookies having placed a few bad bets on the doggies and gee-gee’s, so with every last penny shaken out of the McSwan’s and flatly refusing to turn – with tail-tucked between his leg - back to Wakefield, once again, Johnny was one month away from being broke. So… somebody had to die. He knew Edward Jones, of course, but why should he murder Edward? Yes, he liked him, and yes he had some assets; a tidy house, a small engineering firm called Hurstlea Products and a storeroom at 2 Leopold Road, which (as co-director) Johnny the enthusiastic but painfully unskilled inventor would turn into a little workshop, but – just like his old pal Allan Stephens - his small income didn’t amount to much, so setting aside their friendship, yes he could kill Edward, but what would be the point? No, Johnny needed money, a lot of money… so he had to murder Archie. The day he met Dr Archibald Henderson, having bungled the first three (supposedly) perfect murders, Johnny started making a mental checklist to ensure that the fourth would be just that - perfect. (Haigh) “I found The Henderson’s interesting and amusing, we went about a good deal together, and they liked me to play to them, I sat at their piano interpreting the classics. The Henderson’s talked a lot about themselves, and from many conversations I learned a great deal about them. But I never had any great affection for any of my victims. None”. On 6th October 1938, one year after his wife’s abrupt death, Archie married his mistress Rosalie Errens. Logistically, this was a tad inconvenient as with the silly cow legally his next-of-kin, she had unwittingly volunteered to be Johnny’s fifth victim. Which was a bit of a waste of his time to be honest, but having done a double-drum murder before, and as a nervous lady who was often drunk, drugged and bed-bound in a style strangely similar to the first wife, should she die too, the Police would probably blame Archie. And with their closest relatives being his sister Ethel Norman in Jersey and her brother Arnold Burlin in Manchester, they couldn’t affect the Power of Attorney, so legally it would be a breeze. Asset-wise. Archie had frittered away his dead wife’s estate, but as an impulsive investor who had recently sold his doctor’s practice in Upminster, a 20 bedroomed guest house at 22 Ladbroke Square in Holland Park and still owned a flat and toy shop called The Doll’s Hospital, all worth £600,000 today, so including a sizable military pension, a bright red 20hp Lagonda sports car and a half-blind elderly Red Setter called Pat (who Johnny was rather fond of), they would – most definitely - be worth killing. Medically; Rosalie was a depressed neurotic with drink and drug issues, a history of secret affairs, wild spending sprees and a suspicion of sadomasochistic sex; Archie was a crippled pill-popping alcoholic with a violent temper, a succession of mistresses and a string of bad debts, so (although a very social couple) their impromptu vanishing wouldn’t be unexpected, with it attributed either to suicide, stress, self-abuse or starting a new life together (as they had discussed) in the South African city of Durban. Luring the Henderson’s to their deaths would be a piece-of-cake; as a budding entrepreneur eager to make-a-mint without lifting a finger, who was crippled by a bad back and wore a monocle to read, Archie’s bait was obvious. And as for Rosalie? A bed-bound chronically-depressed drunk? Ha! He had easily pried the reclusive McSwan’s out of their little hidey-hole, so how hard could she be? No, as far as Johnny was concerned, boxes were ticked, plans were made and (with his overdraft fit to burst) he set-about preparing their deaths. His one major ball-ache was he never thought he’d be back here again, murdering for money, it was so vulgar, and besides everything was gone; the drums (gone), the acid (gone), the cosh (gone), the drain (gone) and the basement (gone). Urgh! So, again, for the second time in two and half years, he would have to rebuild his murder basement from scratch. Thankfully, luck (or maybe God) was smiling on little Johnny Haigh, so this time it all sought-of fell into his lap, which was rather nice, and having turned his back on the old boy for a bit, Johnny did consider going back to Church once-in-a-while… but maybe not to confession… obviously. As co-director of Hurstlea Products, Edward Jones had given Johnny access to 2 Leopold Road; it wasn’t much, but as a small isolated storeroom thirty yards from a remote side-road in an industrial part of Crawley, with thick brick walls, no immediate neighbours, a messy yard chock full of indecipherable scrap and hidden behind a six foot high fence – even though it had no drain - it was private and perfect. Sadly, the two steel drums he’d shipped to Allan’s had been scrapped, as a caustic mix of rain and acid had caused them to irreparably rust, but having spied two in a nearby yard, he blagged both for just an ounce of tobacco and called in a freebie from his welder pal Thomas Davies to fix any holes and fit both with a lid to limit the leakage of toxic gases, so actually, they were better than the old drums. With a black mark against his company’s name, which slightly sullied his business terms with Canning & Co, he ordered a Winchester of hydrochloric and three 10 gallon carboys of sulphuric from chemical wholesaler - A White & Sons – at the cheaper price of £4 pounds 8 shillings and 7 pence. Money saved. As for the rest? The previous occupier had left behind a stirrup-pump, so instead of slopping out 535lbs of highly corrosive acid by bucket, Johnny could safely full up the drums without any risk to himself. Also being gifted a thick rubber apron and pair of rubber gauntlets – from neck to knees and fingers to forearm - Johnny was now fully protected from any acrid splashes, and all at no extra cost. And as a frequent visitor to the Henderson’s flat over their ‘Doll’s Hospital’ toy shop at 16 Dawes Road, when the sticky-beaked manageress (Daisy Roundtree) wasn’t being so bloody nosey, Johnny swiped Archie’s old Army-issue respirator (so it was goodbye to the old gas mask made from cardboard and string) and (saying farewell to the pinball table leg, the length of lead-pipe and the old rusty hand-axe) he pilfered Archie’s Enfield Mark 1 service revolver and an envelope of eleven .38 calibre bullets. So, to be honest, starting from scratch was all pretty simple actually. Admittedly, with the tiny storeroom still in use until 1st January 1948, and unwilling to split it – with one side for storing engine-parts and the other side for a spot of serial-killing – Johnny put his deathly deed on hold. So being broke, his Christmas was a present-free affair and his New Year’s Eve with the Henderson’s was all on their coin, but (as patience is a virtue) it did bring him some unexpected treats. Two Christmas cards sent by Archie and Rosalie to his sister Ethel and her brother Arnold, stating they were fine, well, selling-up and maybe moving to South Africa. Which was rather sporting, as it did irk Johnny somewhat to chug to-and-from Scotland to post a few forged postcards from the McSwan’s dead son, so how bothersome would it have been to do likewise… in Durban? Lucky Johnny eh? And as for the rest, it was child’s play. On Friday 5th February 1948, in the workshop of Thomas Davies, Johnny dangled a tasty morsel – a rocking horse made of tubular steel. As a toy-shop owner, Archie loved it; being short-sighted, he popped on his monocle to inspect it and with his back aching, he winced as he bent over the bench, but with no sale made, Archie left empty-handed, Thomas was annoyed, but – for Johnny – it was fine. On Saturday 6th, with Rosalie unwell and eager to recuperate, the Henderson’s packed three suitcases, a holdall and two bags (all exquisitely marked with a monogrammed ‘H’) into their red Lagonda and accompanied by Pat, their elderly Red Setter, they drove from their flat to the more-isolated Kingsgate Hotel in Broadstairs (Kent). Away from their social life, routine and anyone who knew them. On Tuesday 10th, with the Kingsgate being too-quiet, they moved to the Metropole Hotel in Brighton, just twenty-one miles from Leopold Road. Having checked in for six nights, with Rosalie unwell, the housekeeper brought her a hot-water bottle and a portable radiator, the maid delivered her meals to her bed and asked to walk her elderly dog, the night porter noticed a vast array of medicines on the side table, as in the evenings, the waiter served Archie and a small boyish man with a little moustache. As a busy hotel which catered to their every whim, they saw nothing suspicious. And why would they? On the morning of Thursday 12th, with Rosalie still very-much bed-bound, Archie left for a business meeting. No-one was concerned, no-one reported him missing and he was never seen alive ever again. (Haigh) “The Henderson’s were staying at the Metropole Hotel in Brighton. I took Dr Henderson to the storeroom at Leopold Road, I disposed of him by shooting him in the head with his own revolver and I put him in a tank of acid”. But was it really that simple? Well, yes, it was. Miraculously, no longer being a murder virgin, but instead a seasoned serial-killer with three dead, one due, and a fifth he was planning to pop-off a little later, Johnny Haigh had learned his lessons. Convinced to leave behind his rather ostentatious red Lagonda sports car, as planned, Archie caught a train from Brighton, he was picked-up at Crawley station by an unidentified man in his slightly drab Saloon 12 and sedately driven to an industrial part of town, down a remote road and into a secluded yard, hidden behind a six-foot high fence and the closed double-gates of 2 Leopold Road. If this is true, at no–point from the hotel to the storeroom were Archie and Johnny seen together? Being mid-morning and mid-week, of the few neighbours whose premises surrounded this street, with their own busy lives to lead and money to make, neither the laundress, the metal-presser or a stable yard owner saw, heard and smelled anything out-of-the-ordinary from this engineer’s workshop. As per usual, as Johnny pulled-in and parked-up his car inside the private yard, his new pal Archie got out. It was an odd little place; around the fences was a scruffy sea of tangled trash; tyres, boxes and mechanical bits-and-bobs, and dead-centre was a laughably tiny box-like storeroom barely the size of Archie’s bathroom, with one door, two windows and a reassuring sign which read ‘Hurstlea Products’. It was just as Johnny had described; small, simple but suitable for an ambitious entrepreneur. So led in by his pal and potential business partner, having toasted at Christmas, New Year and (hopefully) many more celebrations beyond, although Archie’s bad back made his walk slow and laborious, Johnny took his time. He was in no rush, as death comes to us all eventually… and to some, sooner than most. Unlocking the only door with the only key to the storeroom only Johnny had access to, Archie sensed no danger, no threat and no suspicion, as (in broad daylight) he entered the small brick-lined room of a keen inventor who dabbled in plastics. As expected, hung on a hook on the white-washed walls was a thick rubber apron and two rubber gauntlets, nearby were three carboys of unidentified liquid, two steel-drums and flush to the walls was a waist-high bench, on which, something which drew his attention. Perhaps the designs for a needle-threader, a silent jack-hammer or a battery-powered fan? Popping on his monocle to his dark-circled eye to inspect an invention his pal had placed before him, as six-foot Archie craned over the three-foot bench, he winced a little as a familiar sharp pain shot up his stiff spine causing his movements to slow to a crawl. But again, Johnny was in no rush, this was all part of his superior plan, as with his victim being short-sighted and partially-crippled, facing away, this gave Johnny ample time, as from behind, he took aim with Archie’s own revolver. (BANG). In a single shot, his head exploded, as at close range, the 38 calibre bullet ripped through his skull, brain and face, as a fine mist of mucus and blood spattered down the white-washed wall, causing his monocle to crack as his half-mangled head thumped against the bench, and the lifeless (and almost faceless) body of 50 year old Archibald Henderson slumped in a heap on the dusty floor, dead. It was brazen to shoot a man dead, in broad daylight, between two windows… but Johnny was unfazed. With one down and one to go; pockets were emptied, limbs were hog-tied and the body was slid into the drum, but before the acid, the disposal and the death of Rosalie - which (as a mere formality) really was a huge waste of his time - before all that, he had lunch. Tea, toast and scrambled egg. Yummy. Johnny liked, admired and respected Archie. He was the older brother he never had, the only pal he ever wanted and the affluent businessman he aspired to be. And although it should have been a real bummer to bump-off his buddy? Actually it wasn’t all that bad. So, with his body dissolved, his assets legally swiped and the man himself having vanished completely, Johnny would literally become Archie. Everything would now be his; from his home, his bank, his bags and his business; to his shirts from Harrods, his suits from Saville Row and his 18 carat gold cigarette box engraved with his dead wife’s name. He took everything, right down to his cuffs, collars, shoelaces and slippers, even his blue silk dressing-gown exquisitely marked (as everything was) with a monogrammed ‘H’. Everything he liked, wanted or was fond of was taken; even Pat, his elderly Red Setter. And as Johnny drove the corpse’s bright-red Lagonda through the West End, although the open-top sports-car ruffled his immaculately parted hair, the throaty roar of its 30hp engine and the high-pitched squeal of its racing wheels announced to the city that Johnny Haigh has arrived. The colour even matched his red tie and socks. In his diary, Johnny marked the occasion (Haigh) “I wrote an A for Archie and the sign of the cross. He came to his end before midday”. Unlike the McSwan’s, his death had been a doddle. Everything had gone swimmingly; Archie was dead, Rosalie was next, his tools worked well, the storeroom was secure, the body was hidden, the assets would soon be legally his and the scrambled eggs were smashing. So why should the rest of it be anything but simple? As a cocky little man, high on arrogance and stupefied by his own superiority, having overlooked a small detail, Johnny would be faced with a big problem, and although the fourth of his six (supposedly) perfect murders was exactly that – it was perfect – his fifth was not. The murder of Rosalie Henderson should have been easy-peasy… but something would go horribly wrong. (Interstitial*) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part four of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the penultimate part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Steff Thomas, Jim Hendry and Paxoman, with a special thank you (as always) to everyone who has liked, shared, commented and reviewed this small independent podcast. Murder Mile was researched, written & 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 ***
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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 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.
Ever wanted to get inside the mind of a serial killer? Well now you can, by reading a rather mundane letter by a serial killer. This week is the turn of an American serial killer called Randy Kraft, also known as the Scorecard Killer, who murdered at least 16 vulnerable and even homeless young men between 1972 and 1983, mostly in Southern California, and is also believed to have raped and murdered up to 51 other boys and young men. He is currently incarcerated on death row at San Quentin State Prison. A man of no remorse.
This is a one-page typed letter, with a letter head at the top marked RANDY S KRAFT, Box E-38700, San Quentin State Prison, dated 1st Nov 2001, and it’s clearly a mail-out with a hand-written note at the bottom, as there no introduction or even a hello at the top, it simply begins like this. “I have been here at San Quentin since late 1989, and for most of that time, including now, I have been dirt poor since condemned prisoners in California are not allowed to work or have any business or income. (Yeah, it’s called prison Randy, you’re being punished for your crimes, but anyway, continue) I, like all others here, depend on the charity of people like you for money to buy simple necessities and food stuffs. Though not allowed to work, a prison store allows me to purchase $180 of such supplies per month. The State of California has determined that $180/month is a reasonable amount for a prisoner to spend. Since I have been here, I have rarely had $180 to spend. I have done without for long periods of time. This year to date, I have received a total of $237 in contributions, and some of that has been taken by San Quentin for fees and charges. I need you help (misspelled). San Quentin allows you to send me a money order or check, made out to Randy Kraft, for any amount and as often as you like. Include it in the same envelope with a regular letter. Please do not send cash or stamps. Money orders are processed fairly fast, while personal checks are held for several months by San Quentin until they clear the bank. Please, you say that your interest is friendly, and that you want to correspond in a friendly manner. I believe you. So please do what a friend would do in these circumstances. You can help. Please send a contribution“. Not signed off. At bottom, hand written: “John. Thanks for the letter. I hope to hear from you again. Randy” Gosh, I hope he was sent enough pocket money by John to buy some sweeties, as they’re clearly best buddies? I don’t think I’ll rest until I know. Eek.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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 50 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.
John Henry George Lee was born on the 15th November 1864 in the rural village of Abbotskerswell in Devon. As a working class boy who left school with no qualifications, John began his working life as a humble servant to Miss Emma Anne Whitehead Keyse, a spinster who lived alone an affluent home called ‘The Glen’ in the coastal hamlet of Babbacombe Bay, with her servants; sisters Jane & Eliza Neck, Elizabeth Harris the cook and the cook’s half brother John Henry George Lee.
Being a restless teenager - with no money, no life experience and eager to see the world - John enlisted in the Royal Navy, but almost as quickly as he’d left, he was invalided out owing to a leg injury and was returned back to Devon. Being broke, John tried his hand at being a footman, but was found guilty of stealing from his employer and was sentenced to two years hard labour. In 1884, aged 20, thanks to the kindness and generosity of his former employer – Emma Keyse – John Lee was taken back to the familiar surroundings of his job at ‘The Glen’ in Babbacombe Bay. Barely a few months later, on the morning of 15th November 1884, Miss Emma Keyse was found brutally murdered; her throat was slit from ear-to-ear with a kitchen knife, she had three deep puncture wounds to her head, and - in his attempt to hide his crime – her corpse had been set on fire. The Police had one suspect - John Henry George Lee – a convicted criminal, with an unexplained cut on his arm, who was the only male in the house. That was the evidence. There were no witnesses to her murder, no sightings of John, and he had the same alibi as everyone else in the house – he was asleep. He had no motive, no murder weapon, no blood stains and he hadn’t stolen anything. The evidence was slim, and as his legal defence became unstable as his lawyer started feeling ill (and later dying), and believing in his innocence, John stated "The reason I am so calm is that I trust in the Lord and he knows I am innocent". Only his prayers fell on deaf ears, as John Lee was found guilty of murder and was sentenced to be hung by the neck until he was dead. I appears that as much as he prayed, God had forgotten John Lee. Or had he? On the morning of 23rd February 1885 at Exeter Prison, a set of wooden gallows were transferred from the old infirmary into the coach house in preparation for the execution of 21 year old John Lee. As was his job, the executioner James Berry calculated John Lee’s weight and height, measured out a length of hemp rope appropriate to the necessary drop to break his neck, a slip-knot and a noose were tied at one end and James Berry tested the trapdoors of the gallows with a sack of grain in place of the prisoner. Everything worked perfectly. At the strike of the hour, as John Lee stood on the gallows with the hemp rope around his neck, as Berry pulled on the draw bar to open the trap doors, with a quick drop and a sudden stop, soon enough John Lee’s neck would be snapped and he would be dead… only it didn’t. John’s neck didn’t break. In fact, he didn’t even drop or move, as the trapdoors remained shut. James Berry pulled the draw bar again… nothing. Unsure what was wrong, John Lee was removed from the gallows, and as he watched from the side, the sack of grain once again took his place, only this time, the trapdoors spring open. With the problem solved and with his appointment with death imminent, John Lee was returned to the gallows, his head through the noose, and with a sharp tug of the draw bar… nothing. John Lee wasn’t dead and hadn’t moved an inch. Again he was removed from the gallows, again the draw bar was tugged, and again the sack of grain plummeted to the ground, on command, so again John Lee was returned to the gallows, his feet on the trapdoors, his head through the noose, his neck seconds away from being broken and his life being extinguished forever, and as James Berry yanked hard on the draw bar? Nothing. John Lee wouldn’t die. Being pushed aside by the executioner whose incompetence was obvious to all who watched impatiently as John Lee stood their ‘not dead’ and James Berry stamped up and down upon the trapdoors, trying to force them open with his body weight, his face red with fury, knowing full-well he wouldn’t be paid for a botched job. And yet, with John Lee having survived an execution three times, the medical officer refused to take part in this debacle, and with no medical officer on-sight, the execution was stopped. Home Secretary, Sir William Harcourt later commuted John Lee’s sentence to a life sentence stating "It would shock the feeling of anyone if a man had twice to pay the pangs of imminent death". In 1907, 22 years after he had cheated death, John Lee was released from prison. When the gallows were inspected, it appeared that when it was moved from the old infirmary into the coach house, the draw bar had been slightly misaligned, meaning the hinges of the trapdoor were at best temperamental, and at worst useless, so (whether this was divine intervention) we shall never know, but then as John Lee himself said "The reason I am so calm is that I trust in the Lord and he knows I am innocent".
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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 50 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.
How can you plead in court?
You may think, when a judge asks “how do you plead”, that as the defendant, you have just two options – guilty or not guilty? But you don’t. There are several options. The three main ones are: Guilty: by admitting your guilt you waive any rights and the trial can progress to sentencing without any evidence, witnesses or even the victim being called. Most lawyers would advise against a guilty plea unless it benefits yourself by offering a more favourable sentence. That said, you may be able to withdraw a guilty plea, at any time during the trial, as long as sentencing has not begun. Not Guilty: by admitting your innocence – even if you are guilty – this gives your legal defence time to examine and evaluate any new evidence which the prosecution may wish to present, and to mount a defence against it, so this is often the most common plea in criminal court. No Contest: by neither admitting your innocence or guilt with regards to the charges, the trial must proceed as if you have pleaded “not guilty”, but this is rarely an option lawyers suggest taking as (by pleading neither way) it can come with some serious consequences. And you can also, say nothing. Even in court, (although it is not advised by your lawyer) you do not have to plead at all. In fact, unless summoned, as a defendant you can choose to remain silent, and even fail to appear in court, but in most cases, silence or failing to appear will result in a guilty plea. I spend a lot of time in court, watching cases, and it’s amazing the amount of time a little scrote is brought before the judge, and when asked how he pleads, he shrugs and say “bovvered”. Baffling. But there are other pleas you can make: The Alford Plea: this is where the defendant proclaims their innocence to the charges but acknowledge that the evidence is sufficient to convict them should the case go to jury trial. Famous case of Henry Alford charged with first degree murder, pleaded innocent, even though he had confessed to a witness that he had committed the act, and yet had he pleaded guilty, he may have escaped the death penalty. A Conditional Plea: this is where the defendant pleads guilty to the offense, but specifically reserves the right to appeal certain aspects of the charges (eg: if the evidence was illegally obtained). And there’s the Insanity Plea: this is where the defendant admits their guilt of the charges but claims they were not responsible for their actions by reason of insanity or a lack of mental capacity. For an insanity plea to be accepted, mental health professionals on both sides will be called to give evidence on whether they agree that the defendant was “not of sound mind at the time of the crime” and did not understand the difference between “right” and “wrong”, commonly known as the McNaughton Rules, but only the jury can decide if he/she was guilty of the crime. The Insanity Plea is accepted in the UK, Canada, Australia and almost all states in the USA, accepted Idaho, Kansas, Montana and Utah, but Kansas does allow a guilty but insane verdict by a jury. Where-as in the Nordic countries; insanity is not allowed as a legal defence, therefore in Sweden (the perpetrator is fully accountable for their crimes), in Denmark & Norway (those declared insane are not punished for their crimes but are committed for psychological and mental treatment), and in Finland, any punishment can only be administered if the accused is compos mentis (of sound mind).
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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 50 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.
Autopsies. What happens during an autopsy?
We’ve all seen it in cop shows, we’re in a cold white morgue, a dead body lies on a slab, the cop comes in, the pathologist pulls back a plastic sheet, and wham, we see an obvious injury, and if you’re lucky you get to see some boobs, bush, bott-bott or (for the ladies) a wiggly bit of winkle. Admit it! I know you all pause those scenes in Silent Witness, and if anyone comes into the room you say “oh I just paused it whilst I was just making a cup of tea, that’s all, and I definitely wasn’t ogling the dead man’s rather delightful blue-veined piccolo, pink obo, or fleshy love-trumpet”. Unless – of course - it’s Tom Hardy, but he’ll never pop his lad out in the flicks as he’s a classy actor now. That said, he did, in that film Bronson, remember that? Where he was stark bollock naked for like half the film and (in that one scene) he shouted “lube me up”, which the prison guard did, with handfuls of Vaseline? What? Didn’t you know about that? That explains why you’re all sweaty. Look, if you ladies or gents weren’t aware that Tom Hardy is totally starkers in Bronson, feel free to go and download it on Netflix, we’ll wait for you, don’t worry. (Whistles). Hmm, they may be a while. I tell you what, we’ll carry on without them, they won’t be able to concentrate anyway. So, what is an autopsy? Also called a post-mortem examination or a necropsy, an autopsy can be either an external and/or an internal examination of a whole body, or just a single organ, to determine cause of death, whether by accident, homicide, suicide, negligence, infectious disease or natural event. Autopsies are also used to identify a person in times of natural or manmade disasters, and for research purposes. Autopsy derives from the Greek word autopsia: meaning "to see with one's own eyes". Does every death require an autopsy? No. Only if the manner of death is suspicious, unexpected, undetermined or could present a significant risk to public health, or has legal or financial ramifications. Autopsies can be requested by the health authority, police, hospital, coroner or the family themselves. What happens before an autopsy? This is a key step overlooked by TV shows, but the body has to be transported to the mortuary, and to ensure any vital evidence is preserved, the body is placed in a HRP (a human remains pouch, also known as a body bag). Conceived during World War One, originally this was a simple cotton cover, by the Vietnam war it had been replaced by a thick black rubber sack, but today HRP’s are thick sealed waterproof plastic bags, designed to retain even the smallest of remains (whether hair, blood, purge fluid, powder, dirt etc), and that’s the reason the bags are white. A new body bag is used for each person and they are completely sterile. Any body parts which are believed to hold significant evidence (whether fingers or feet) are also wrapped in paper sacks and are sealed and taped shut. The body is then tagged and catalogued to avoid confusion. The autopsy is split into two parts; an external and an internal examination, although the type of examination is entirely dependent on what the perceived death is. First is an external examination: Step #1 – the body is photographed before it is moved, creating a record of how it was received, the pathologist also notes down the position of the body, any clothing, visible scars or injuries. Step #2 – with the body still in the HRP, the body’s basic details are recorded; age, sex, race, weight, height, hair, skin and eye colour, tattoos, surgical scars, birth marks, etc. Step #3 – any unnatural residue (such as dirt, oil, paint) is collected from the surface of the body for examination, and an Ultraviolet light is used to check for any residue not visible to the naked eye. Step #4 – samples of hair, skin and blood are taken (if required) and – if needed – the body is radiographically imaged using an MRI, to see inside before a single incision has been made These four steps are done all whilst the body is still in the HRP, to ensure that any evidence is retained inside the white plastic bag. Only then can we reach… Step #5 – the body is removed from the HRP by the diener (also known as an APT - Anatomical Pathology Technician) and placed onto a sterile aluminium examination table. Here the body is undressed, cleaned, weighed, measured and prepared for an internal examination, if needed. Steps 1-4 are repeated, now that the body is out of the HRP, and the HRP itself is examined. Throughout the autopsy, the pathologist will verbally record each stage of the process, as well as writing notes on a pre-printed autopsy report and marking it on a diagram of the body… …and will probably have a good old ogle at their boobs, bush, bot-bot or bell-end. What pathologists don’t do (which TV shows love pretending that they do) is they don’t nibble on a kebab, puff on a ciggie, or swig a hot cup of Bovril, whilst slicing up a cadaver or examining a body, as the mortuary is a sterile environment, and any external factors are considered contamination… which could either destroy or compromise the evidence. If an internal examination is required, to make the torso easier to examine, a rubber brick called a "head block" is placed under the shoulders, this causes the neck to hyperflex, arching the spine backwards, which pushes the chest upward, making any incision easier. Bleeding is minimal or non-existent in most cases, as (with no heart to pump blood) gravity causes blood and other fluids to pool at the lowest part of the body and – if possible - no incisions are made which would be visible at an open-casket funeral. There are four different types of incisions made, depending on which organs need to be examined: #1 - a large and deep Y-shaped incision, starting at the top of each shoulder, running down the front of the chest and ending at the base of the breastbone (known as the sternum) #2 – a curved incision from the tips of each shoulder and down across the second ribs #3 – a single vertical incision from the base of the neck to the base of the sternum (one used on TV) #4 – a u-shaped incision from the tips of the shoulders down the sides of the chest Using a prosector (like a set of garden sheers), the pathologist will cut through the ribs to open the chest cavity, the sternum is removed and set aside for later, so the heart and lungs can be examined in situ for evidence of disease, injury or trauma. As the heart and lungs are our blood and oxygen supply - and without them we are dead - they are usually the first internal organs examined. Once this is complete, the other organs can be examined, but depending on the pathologists preferred style or requirement from the autopsy, the organs are either removed one by one in a slow systematic fashion, or en masse, in one large block, especially with infants or babies. Each organ is examined, weighed and tissue samples are taken in the form of several thin slices, which will neatly fit onto microscope slides. The major blood vessels are inspected for clotting, ruptures, swelling and infection, and the contents of the stomach are checked to determine a time of death, as certain foods digest at different rates. Bodily fluids may also be checked – such as urine, blood, vitreous gel from the eyes, or bile from the gallbladder — for drugs, infection, chemical composition or genetic factors. A toxicology report can be requested to determine what or if any drugs or poisons have been taken or ingested, but this is not always essential, and is limited to the most commonplace of toxins. As it is impossible to search for every type drug, poison or toxin, the pathologist can recommend a broad spectrum report, and/or a search for a few very specific poisons… but not everything. If an examination of the brain is required to determine meningitis, an incision is made from behind one ear, over the crown of the head, to the other ear, the scalp is pulled away in two flaps; one over the face and one over the back of the neck. With the skull exposed, a cranial cut is made using a semi-circular saw, around the skull like a cap, which can neatly be removed, and the brain can be observed in situ. If required, the cranial nerves and spinal cord can be severed, and the brain removed. Once the autopsy is complete, the cap can be refitted, the scalp flaps can be pulled back into place and stitched, and the scar won’t be visible in an open casket. Any organs not required for examination are placed in plastic bags to prevent leakage, returned to the body, the lining of the body cavity is filled with cotton wool, or an absorbant material, and the body is sewn shut, in what is regarded as a “baseball stitch”. The body is then ready to be embalmed by a funeral director. There you go, you are now a fully-fledged pathologist and qualified to conduct your own autopsies. Well, you’re as qualified as any TV actor playing a pathologist. And just think, if Tom Hardy (steady ladies) if Tom Hardy dies in a TV drama, or film, I’m sure there would be a rush of you who are suddenly RADA trained actors and part-time morticians eager to pretend that you can determine his time of death, according to the smoothness of his chest, the smell of his armpits, the taste of his lips and (your own specific scientific method) the length of his willy.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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 50 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.
Stanhope Mews West, the back entrance of 79 Gloucester Road where John George Haigh murdered and dissolved the bodies of William, Donald and Amy McSwan in acid
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK 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 SEVENTY-NINE:
On Monday 2nd July 1945, British serial-killer John George Haigh lured the reclusive parents of his first victim and friend – William Donald McSwan – to his basement at 79 Gloucester Road to be murdered and their bodies disposed of in acid. But how did he do this, and why?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of the murder basement at 79 Gloucester Road where the murder of William, Donald & Amy McSwan took place where the yellow dot and their home at 45 Claverton Street marked with a purple dot. Their home to the basement is 2.8 miles away, so (with no car) he had to lure them into his basement. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
Two little videos for you to enjoy with this episode; on the left is Stanhope Mews West, the back entrance to 79 Gloucester Road (where Johnny lured Mac in, had the acid bottles delivered and came stumbling out when he almost gassed himself to death) and on the right is 45 Claverton Street in Pimlico where Donald & Amy McSwan lived (now demolished).
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This series was researched using the original declassified police files held at the National Archives, the Metropolitan Archives, the Wellcome Collection, the Crime Museum, etc. MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART THREE OF SULPHURIC.
(Drain) Glug after glug, as little Johnny Haigh wrestled to stop the forty-gallon steel drum from tipping too far over, the thick black gloop slowly slid into the dark festering sewer, hidden behind the locked back-door in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road. As the smoking stew slopped up the rim, the acrid stench of acid stung the air and the last of the shapeless fatty goo oozed down into the drain - seeing no eyes, hair or skin, just a yellowy-green layer of ominous grease – this was all that remained of 33 year old William Donald McSwan. And with the manhole cover replaced, Mac was gone. Being the first of six (supposedly) perfect murders, although this baby-faced psychopath would soon bloom into one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers, in truth, as a murder virgin, Johnny had badly bungled his first slaying, but somehow – with his deathly cherry popped – he had got away with it. But as a convicted fraudster, experienced forger and a charming liar, the rest would be textbook. (Haigh) “I had known McSwan for some time, and on seeing his mother and father, I explained that he had gone off to avoid his ‘call-up’. I wrote a number of letters purporting to be from him and posted them in Glasgow and Edinburgh, explaining various details of the deposition of assets”, which included a company, four homes and seven bank accounts, worth a quarter of a million pounds today. Last seen on Saturday 9th September 1944, as a shy introverted recluse who hid in the shadows, Mac would be missed by nobody but his doting parents who would swallow an entirely plausible story that their only son - a shamed petty criminal, an absconded parolee, a conscription deserter and a secret homosexual, with so much to lose – would flee the city, leaving his only friend in charge of his affairs. It seemed logical; so strung-along by a sweet little man that Mac saw as a sibling and for fear of leading the Police to their terrified child, his timid parents kept up the pretence that their boy was away on business, all the while unwittingly aiding his murderer. And just as Johnny had done with his body, the cocky little killer would strip, dissolve and dispose of all Mac’s assets… until not a single trace of him would ever be found. (Interstitial*) Only Mac didn’t have a single penny or asset to his name. On Tuesday 12th September 1944, with the trifling little matter of murder ticked-off his ‘to-do’ list and Mac’s sludgy remains slopping its way towards one of several sewage plants across the city - after a decent night’s nap, a solid breakfast and another quick peek at a rather-nifty dark-green Armstrong-Siddeley saloon he had his eye on in a nearby car showroom - Johnny set-about cleaning the basement. There was no real rush though; having rented the premises for three months he had barely used just a week, the landlord (Albert Marshall of Taylor Lovegrove & Co) was fully aware that any odd whiffs emanating from the floor below was due to Johnny undertaking “experimental work for a government contract”, and so with Mac only missing, the Police wouldn’t find this crime-scene until five years later. Being a filthy basement soiled by several previous tenants, Johnny’s clean-up would be (at best) a slap-dash affair; he swept a bit, moved some stuff and tipped a bucket of hot soapy water, but as he disliked hard work, he really wasn’t all that bothered, especially now that Mac’s money would soon be burning a hole in his pocket. Desperate to get the job done, Johnny had a scrap man destroy the steel drum, Canning & Co collected three empty bottles (a 6lb Winchester and two ten-gallon carboys) and seeing no reason to waste a £7 a month on a perfectly serviceable (but now seemingly pointless) place for a murder, Johnny sublet the dingy basement to Ronald A Fontana… a pleasant fellow who needed the storage space and was happy to be left a few odd and sods that Johnny really couldn’t be bothered to bin; you know, stuff, like pinball table legs, a length of lead-pipe and an old rusty axe. And so, eager to turn his tatty threads into a tailored suit, his sofa-surfing spree into a private room at the upmarket Onslow Court Hotel and his scuffed shoes into a sports car - having treated himself to a slap-up dinner - the almost bankrupt Johnny Haigh assumed the identity of the wealthy Mac McSwan. In an era where the best security was a signature, becoming Mac would be no biggie. Besides, having swiped his ID, although dead, for Johnny’s scheme to work, he would only need Mac to exist on paper. Clutching the keys he had rifled from the corpse, Johnny helped himself to a few necessary knickknacks he had filched from Mac’s ground-floor flat at 22 Kempsford Gardens; a cheque book, a suitcase, some clothes, a nice pen, a few handwritten letters, a surprisingly good suit and Mac’s Imperial typewriter. Not that this crime was as uncouth as a common burglary, or as petty as pilfering a fridge. Johnny wouldn’t stoop so low as to half-inch a few cheap trinkets to pawn off for a pound. No, these personal possessions had purpose… and besides, it was entirely coincidental that, on that same day, some low-life broke into Mac’s workshop - although quite what this hoodlum had nicked, may never be known. That aside, the banks and lawyers would be a push-over, a few stuffy old men easily duped by a legal letter and an ID, signed in an identical scrawl, but for his superior scheme to truly work, Johnny needed Mac’s parents to believe that their beloved son wasn’t dead… but that he had voluntarily disappeared. And yet, with a little bit of effort, a large dollop of knowledge, a few days spare and several pounds in his dwindling account, Donald & Amy McSwan swallowed it whole… and Johnny did most of it by post. But how did it work and why? Well, the McSwan’s weren’t all that different to his parents - The Haigh’s. Born in a staunchly Presbyterian house in Menstrie, a small rural village in the Scottish lowlands snuck between Edinburgh and Glasgow, Donald was the second youngest of seven siblings; to Christina, a devoted housewife and William, a ball-man (who tested the quality of whiskies) at the local Glenochil Distillery; a skilled profession for a strict teetotaller who was always punctual, steady and sober. As with The Haigh’s, Donald’s upbringing was dictated by two core beliefs; the family and serving God. So the rest of his early life, you can probably guess. Raised to be neat, clean and polite, just like his son, Donald was a slightly undersized boy with a long weary face and a thin weedy frame, all barely held together by the expression of a haunted boy who fear was forcing him to fold-in on himself, as (owing to an awkward birth) he walked with a stoop. And being just one in a family of nine; he never stood out, never felt loved and always hid in the shadows. Surviving many brutally bitter winters in an austere Victorian era where only the rich had nest-eggs to save them from the hard-times ahead, although the family were far from poor, their faith had taught them to spend frugally, live sparsely, waste nothing and squirrel away whatever they could. Graduating Menstrie Public School aged 13, young McSwan - who was Donald to his mum, never Don; “boy” to his dad, never “son”, and to his friends… well, he didn’t have any friends – eager to appease his domineering father who was never drunk just disappointed, he earned a living at the distillery. But being swamped by three burly brothers, as a quiet bookish boy and the runt-of-the-litter who had learned to type and to take shorthand, instead of a tough sweaty manual job, Donald became a clerk. Throughout his life, Donald feared his father and as an unmarried man being denied his independence, although he had never set foot out of Menstrie, let-alone to the nearby cities of Edinburgh or Glasgow; in 1908, aged 30, holding all he owned, Donald fled his home, his county and his country, travelling 475 miles south to Tunbridge Wells in Kent. Had he fled any further, he’d have drowned in the sea. Whatever had caused this rift is unknown; he missed his family, he grieved their deaths and he longed to be loved, but – so deep was the pain – that Donald never spoke or wrote to his parents ever again. That year, Donald became the secretary at the Tunbridge Wells Spa Hotel; here he found work, a wage, a purpose and a place to stay… as well as falling for the woman he would love until his dying day. Amy Beatrice Paige was a waitress. Just like Donald; she was slight, quiet and neat; a painfully shy Presbyterian who spoke in a tiny whisper, stood with a timid stance and always avoided eye-contact, but was forced into unsuitable work to earn a modest wage for a large fractured family. And yet, with Donald as her manager, she found love, support, strength and someone who made her feel safe. Donald & Amy were a very decent couple, moral but modest, fiercely loyal but easily forgettable; they never kissed in public and yet always held each other’s hand, they never wore bright colours except for a little flower he popped in her lapel, and – as two recluses - they said and did very little, but were always happiest together in their own home, away from the dangers of strangers. In October 1910, Donald & Amy fell pregnant. It was a blissfully jubilant time for the two solitary lovers who (one day) dreamed of becoming a family, but conceived by mistake and born-out-of-wedlock, that month, Donald & Amy hastily became The McSwan’s, having married in secret. On 12th May 1911, William Donald McSwan was born; a small but healthy boy who (as their only child) was always loved and hugged; given everything and denied nothing, raised well but never spoiled, being different he was never forced to be anything but himself, and – no matter what – The McSwan’s would do anything to protect their beloved boy… whether he was alive, dead, or (allegedly) in hiding. And yet, it was their lives which shaped the future of Mac McSwan… for better and for worse. In December 1915, with World War One raging, just as it would for his son a quarter-of-a-century later, 36 year old Donald was conscripted to fight with the 6th Royal Fusiliers on the French Frontline. As a small, weak, terrified pacifist with a stoop, whose religion forbade him to kill and who cried every night that he didn’t see his wife and baby, it’s nothing short of a miracle that (being little more than cannon-fodder) Donald survived more than two years in the trenches. But in February 1918, his luck ran out. Blasted by a mortar shell, his only physical injury was small scar over his right eye, but the bloody war had taken its toll on Donald, and for the rest of his life, traumatised and plagued by night terrors, his right-hand would perpetually-shake with an involuntary tremor, a sad souvenir of the (so-called) Great War. Demobbed in July 1918, although he was hailed as a hero and given two medals, Donald swore that (from this day onward) he and his family would never be apart, ever again. For the next twenty-five years, Donald, Amy and William McSwan spoke daily, were parted rarely and always wrote… …but all that changed the day they met Johnny Haigh. His subterfuge was simple… (Haigh) “I explained to them that Mac had gone off to avoid his call-up”, a dilemma Donald understood which was why he supported his son’s decision to do whatever he could do to avoid the draft. “I wrote a number of letters purporting to be from him”; the typed one’s matched his typewriter, the signature was a perfect match and the handwriting on the postcards mirrored his style, tone and grammar. And having “posted them in Glasgow and Edinburgh”, the two nearest cities to Donald’s hometown, he explained the “various details of the deposition of assets” which were to be left to his old pal Johnny. The retired recluses reassured by their boy’s words that he was fine, well and would be home soon… …unaware that he was already dead and dissolved. As per his letters, on the 18th September 1944, one week after the murder, Donald arrived at his son’s office to inform the workshop’s owner (Herbert Woodman) that Mac was “out of town, on business, indefinitely”. On 5th October, Donald paid his son’s rent at 22 Kempsford Gardens, ended the tenancy and removed his boy’s belongings, noting the items that Mac must have taken with him; a cheque book, a suitcase, a nice pen, a few handwritten letters, his best suit and his Imperial typewriter. The McSwan’s totally believed this logical ruse that their beloved son had vanished by choice, was laying low and for fear of alerting the Police to his whereabouts, they never reported him missing. All the while giving his killer ample time to destroy any evidence, assume his identity and steal his assets. Johnny’s plan to murder for money was perfect… sort of. The McSwan’s were so like The Haigh’s, two devoted parents - neat, shy and reclusive - who would do anything to protect their boy, but as Mac’s life collapsed, as much as he trusted his old pal, Johnny was too arrogant to see his fatal mistake - Mac liked Johnny as a brother… but he wasn’t family. On 5th November 1943, just as ex-con Johnny was seeking his first victim having been released from Lincoln Prison, with the war draft looming closer, Mac did what many serviceman and civilians in war-time did and visited his bank - the Belgravia branch of Lloyds - where he signed a Power of Attorney granting financial control of his affairs to the only people he trusted without question – his parents. Everything; from his bank accounts, to his stocks, shares and his company, everything but his homes. Again, Johnny had made another fatal mistake… only this one was obvious. Just like his own parents, and to some extent Mac himself, Donald & Amy lived a very frugal life in a small, sparsely furnished top-floor flat in a less desirable part of town, rented weekly for just £1, and – as a solitary couple who didn’t own a car, didn’t socialise or go on holiday – they scraped by on a meagre pension of 22 shillings a week. To Johnny, they looked like they didn’t have two farthings to rub together, but to Donald & Amy, they had everything – their family, their faith and their fortune. Technically, Mac didn’t have a single penny or asset to his name… but his family did. They always had. As their faith had taught them to live sparsely, waste nothing and squirrel away their nest-eggs, all three McSwan’s jointly owned and rented-out the four homes in Beckenham, Wimbledon and Raynes Park, so with total control over their son’s assets; as much as Johnny’s letters lied, it was all for nothing. Johnny’s bank account was empty… …of his last £26; the basement had cost seven quid, the acids three and with a few shillings for sundries like letterheads, business cards and his victim’s last meal, in total Mac’s murder had cost him a tenner, and although (anticipating a rather wonderful windfall) he had slightly prematurely toasted his success with a teeny little spending-spree of a few suits from Hawkes of Saville Row, exquisite din-dins at The Punch Bowl Club, good seats for classical concertos at the Albert Hall, a few big bets on the gee-gee’s and doggies over at the White City Stadium, and several decent snoozes on soft linen sheets at the upmarket Onslow Court Hotel for the princely sum of £5 a week (plus 10% service charge, obviously), but what irked him the most was the endless expensive of chugging back-and-forth from London to Edinburgh to Glasgow to post a few forged letters from the McSwan’s dead son… …a now-needless charade, which - having cruelly teased him with a taste of ‘the good life’ and left a nifty little Armstrong-Siddley saloon stuck in the showroom - this whole grand plan had bled him dry. On 12th January 1945, aided by a stolen chequebook, a forged signature and a devious little dollop of duping Mac’s dad, Johnny syphoned-off monies from one of Mac’s accounts, a scam he would repeat on 3rd February and 8th March, draining £210 (almost £8300 today). Admittedly, this was a pitiful little sum which would tide him over for a bit, but it wasn’t a quarter of a million, which was rightfully his. If only there was a way to make Donald & Amy McSwan vanish completely? Hmm. (Interstitial*) (Haigh) “I had known the McSwan’s for several years. I took them to the basement, disposing of them in the same way as their son”. As before, he made it sound so simple, so precise and so superior, but with no plan to become a serial-killer and believing that he was made-for-life having offed a big mark like Mac, with all of the tools of his murderous deeds either destroyed or disposed of, Johnny would have to start from scratch. And although he was no longer a murder virgin, where-as the first of his six (supposedly) perfect murders was laughably inept, the second and third would be totally absurd. It’s safe to say that Johnny Haigh hadn’t learned his lessons… Having leased the basement at 79 Gloucester Road to Ronald Fontana, his perfect execution site was gone. So being unwilling to totally give it up, on 22nd January 1945, the two men agreed to split it; Ronald had the front-room for his storage and (separated by a thin wall and a single door) Johnny had the back rooms for his murders. Still, at least he had sole access to the drain, so that was something. On 10th February, Johnny ordered a Winchester of hydrochloric and three ten-gallon carboys of sulphuric from Canning & Co at a cost of £4 pounds 12 shillings and 4 pence, but with his funds dry, the cheque bounced, so the usually swift delivery of the bottles were delayed by a further two weeks, and Johnny’s company - Union Group Engineering - had a black-mark placed against their name. Having scrapped the drum and needing two, Johnny borrowed a set of old, rusty and warped but (hopefully) watertight 40 gallon steel drums off a builder’s merchant. Having almost scorched his hands and suffocated on the fumes, this time he would wear protection; only being too cheap to buy, too lazy to borrow and too superior to steal, he made-do with an old tatty trench-coat, a pair of leather gloves and a makeshift gas-mask made from cardboard and string. Again, having forgotten how impossible it was for a 150lb man to decant a 165lb carboy into four foot high steel drum, which took two men to lift, once again he opted to slop the lethal liquid in by bucket. And yes, as before, he failed to purchase (possibly) the most important thing – a murder weapon – so instead, the same shoddy crap he left lying around would have to suffice; a pinball table leg, a length of lead pipe or an old hand-axe, whatever… I mean, it had worked fine last time… hadn’t it? With the preparations for the double-murder of the McSwan’s done and dusted, now all Johnny had to do was to lure this frail old couple into his lair, just as he had done with their son, but (once again) he had overlooked one small detail which would prove to be his biggest mistake… …Mac McSwan liked Johnny, he trusted him, but Donald & Amy did not. Over the next four months, Johnny struggled to speak to (let alone see) the McSwan’s. As two shy and reclusive homebodies - who rarely went out, invited nobody in and mostly communicated by letter, sometimes by phone and once-in-a-blue-moon on the communal doorstep at 45 Claverton Street, all within earshot of a busybody landlady and two nosey tenants - even if he could lure them out (which he couldn’t), be invited in (which he wasn’t), or break-in (which he couldn’t) to murder them in their own home? Without a car, or any transport, how would he cart two dead bodies from a top-floor flat in Pimlico to his basement, three miles away in South Kensington? What was he to do, charter a bus? No, Johnny was well and truly stuck. And then it got worse. Unable to afford the extortionate train fare to Scotland, Johnny had to stop writing the letters. When Ronald Fontana moved-out, for safety’s sake, Johnny had to use his last penny to take-up the full lease on the basement. And being broke, like a hobo with nowhere to go, he was forced to bunk-down in the dark dingy basement, asleep on an old mattress, surrounded by two steel drums gathering dust. And then, it got even worse. On Monday 30th April 1945, with Hitler dead, the war over and conscription to-be abolished, as people cheered in the streets that their loved one’s would soon be coming home, as Mac had been missing for nine months and silent for three, the McSwan’s began to ask the question - where was our boy? And then, his whole plan collapsed. On Wednesday 6th June, Albert Marshall (estate agent at Taylor Lovegrove & Co, one floor above) gave Johnny one month’s notice to vacate the basement. With no money left, to time to waste and no other options, it was now or never. But how do you lure two shy recluses out of their home? (Interstitial*) On the evening of Monday 2nd July, (Haigh) “I took separately to the basement, the father Donald and the mother Amy, disposing of them in exactly the same way as the son”. As a frail elderly couple – one a petite lady with a tiny whisper, a timid stance and a little a flower in her lapel, and the other, an awkward battle-scarred veteran with a haunted face, a painful stoop and a perpetually trembling hand – were easy kills. Coshed, hog-tied and drowned in sulphuric acid, as the twin drums shook, boiled and the dirty fizzing stew stripped their hands, feet and faces to the bone, Johnny stirred the deathly brew, his trench-coat, leather gloves and makeshift gas-mask doing the job. And although we know they both died that day, it’s still uncertain whether they were dead, alive or dying, as side-by-side, he dissolved their bodies in acid, but being an uncaring sort of chap, it’s possible. Two days later, all that remained was a black acrid gloop. Glug after glug, as little Johnny Haigh wrestled to stop the steel drums from tipping too far over, and the hot gooey residue of the elderly recluses slid into the dark festering sewer, behind the locked back-door in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road - after nine long months of patiently waiting, praying and hoping – finally, Donald & Amy McSwan… were reunited with their boy. (Drain. End) As per his tenancy, on 6th July 1945, Johnny vacated the premises; he had the empty carboys collected and (should they ever be needed) the drums relocated to Allan Stephen’s yard at 2 Leopold Road. Eleven days later, rightly assuming the banks and lawyers to be a push-over, ‘Turner, MacFarlane, MacKintosh & Co’, a firm of Glasgow solicitors were asked to draw up a Power of Attorney for William Donald McSwan, Donald McSwan and Amy Beatrice McSwan assigning full control of their assets to John George Haigh. ID was produced, all three signatures matched and having checked the documents (Haigh) “the solicitor would (and did) confirm they were legal, because in his eyes, they were”. Selling-off the business, their homes and all stocks, savings, shares and war-bonds, although he didn’t steal every last penny that the McSwan family had ever earned - not for the want of trying - in total, from these three murders, Johnny’s pocket would be flush with enough cash to last a lifetime. With his bank balance brimming, his belly full of fine foods and his suits stylish once again, as a dapper sophisticated bachelor - who was finally living the life he deserved… and had earned - Johnny became a permanent resident in Room 404 of the exclusive Onslow Court Hotel, outside of which he parked his brand-new, rather nifty, Armstrong Siddeley saloon – and now, his dream was complete. Johnny Haigh was a wealthy middle-class man, living a lavish life in an affluent part of town. Yes, to get it, he had slaughtered three people, plundered their assets, dissolved their corpses and poured the sludge into the sewer, but as no-one had reported them missing? Where was the problem? In the end, it took very little effort to lure the McSwan’s into his lair. In fact, it was simple. Johnny had made many mistakes in his first three murders, the biggest being to assume that he knew his victims better than they knew themselves, and although the Haigh’s were similar to the McSwan’s in many ways, by watching them, Johnny knew that they all had one fatal flaw which he didn’t – love. As two doting parents who would do anything to protect their boy, having swallowed an entirely plausible story that their only son (a shamed petty criminal, an absconded parolee, a conscription deserter and a secret homosexual) was missing, after three months of silence, when Johnny showed them proof of life in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road, they only saw what they wanted to see; the handwriting was a match, the date was recent, the postmark was local and the loving words on the postcard reassured his worried parents that their boy was fine, well and would be home soon. By the summer 1945, having made enough money to last a lifetime, the killing spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers should have come to an end… but it didn’t. (Interstitial*) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part three of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the fourth part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are – Tracey Lawrence, Cindi Ortiz, Kim Cook, Stephanie Enns and Jennifer Venn – with a special thank-you to Kaz Every and Jason Abercrombie, the wonderful admins on the Murder Mile Discussion Group in FaceBook. As well, as always, to everyone who has liked, shared, commented and reviewed this small independent podcast. Murder Mile was researched, written & 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 ***
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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
|
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
Archives
February 2025
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
|
