Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #279 & 280: The Grey Man - Parts 1 & 2 (Philip Joseph Ward)11/12/2024 
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
side entrance of 1-3 Hadley Gardens in Chiswick @Googlemaps Sept2021
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-NINE AND EIGHTY:
Across the morning of Tuesday 11th of November 1941, from 8:50am to 10:20am, an armed man dressed in grey went on a killing spree across Chiswick, Hammersmith and Acton armed with two shotguns. It seemed like he was picking off random people, but having spent months rehearsing and surveilling his targets, his mission had a purpose. Of so he thought.
THE LOCATION:
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MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: of PART ONE Tuesday 11th of November 1941. The Second World War had raged on for two long years and Britain was losing the fight. Still reeling from the evacuation of Dunkirk, German troops were massed at the English channel poised to invade and an eight-month blitz bombing campaign had reduced many cities to smoking and smouldering ruins of rubble, with Hitler’s plan to pummel the British people into submission… only it had failed. For most Londoners, the bombings had become a bit of a nuisance, fires lit up every skyline, guns were commonplace, and with each street tinged with the stench of rotting bodies, they carried on with life. That day was Armistice Day (later known as Remembrance Day and Veteran’s Day), where – with fresh irony – the people marked the end of hostilities between the Allies and Germany just 23 years before, and with a paper poppy pinned to their lapels, at 11am sharp, the city would fall to a 2-minute silence. As a typical middle-class suburb in Chiswick, West London, Foster Road was full of neat semi-detached houses on a peaceful tree lined street, where you rarely heard a sound above a softly spoken whisper. At 8:45am, as per usual, 28-year-old Leslie Ernest Ludford left his home at 11 Foster Road. Dressed in a smart suit and clutching a briefcase, as he worked as a solicitor dealing in divorces and conveyancing. This half-mile walk took twice as long, as being born with dwarfism, this diminutive man seemed even smaller as a curvature of the spine left him with a hunched back and propped up by a pair of crutches. To some, he may have stood out as weak, but as his father always said “it didn’t stop him, as the only thing he couldn’t do was run”. Leslie was well-respected, a keen player of the card-game Whist and was Chairman of the Brentford and Chiswick Junior Conservative Club on nearby Chiswick High Road. As he’d done so many times before, he turned onto Hadley Gardens heading towards Duke’s Avenue. The street was typically quiet; with a few cars parked up and the milkman having done his round, opposite 1-3 Hadley Gardens, Ada Dancy was selling poppies, Arthur Burgess and Matilda Mott were talking to her, Stanley Randall was in his bedroom, and Violet Pender was a few paces behind Leslie. Ada said “I didn’t appreciate the seriousness at the time”, as Violet agreed “I didn’t think it was real”, as having had a gas attack drill days before, they thought it was a practice for if the German’s invaded. But it was real, and Leslie knew it. From in-front of a dark blue saloon, a tall shadowy man raised a single-barrel shotgun to his shoulder, as its sights fixed squarely as the dwarf hobbled on wooden crutches. Stopping dead, with his eyes wide in terror, he raised his hands and Leslie screamed “don’t, don’t”, but the man showed no mercy. Exploding in a fiery burst, a 12-bore shell of lead-shot ripped apart his upper left arm, shattering the humerus, embedding his flesh with red-hot wadding and fragments of suit, as it spun him like a child’s toy. Collapsed and bleeding, as Leslie steadied himself on the wall, he screamed, as a tall man in a grey suit, a grey overcoat and a grey hat reloaded the shotgun and stalked towards him, focussed and calm. As death loomed, breathless and broken, Leslie hobbled to the side gate of 1-3 Hadley Gardens. But with it locked, as he turned, he saw that all that stood between living or dying was man with a gun. The second shot blasted a 2-inch hole in his gut shattering the wooden gate behind and spattering his blood and bits of his undigested breakfast across the path, as Leslie slumped to the ground. Only the grey man didn’t want him scared or injured, but dead, as he fired again from just a few feet away. Crumpled in a bloody heap, the third shot blew a 4 ½ inches hole from Leslie’s groin to his belly button, lacerating his bladder, his intestines, his pelvis, parts of his spine, and with three gaping wounds to his torso which had shredded his left lung, he was slowly drowning in his own blood, acids and toxins. In panic, the poppy seller and two others hid inside 15 Hadley Gardens, but being deaf and having not heard them, Violet Pender walked on. “I hurried along the pavement thinking I would get out of the way and when I got outside of the house, I heard another shot and I felt a pain in my right thigh”. Staggering to the junction of Duke’s Avenue, passersby dragged her into the surgery of Dr Evans, and as the assailant’s car roared away down Foster Road, this usually quiet street descended into screams. Ambulances arrived at 8:52am, two minutes after the call. Violet was lucky, as although suffering wounds to her right thigh and buttocks, with no broken bones or severed arteries just superficial cuts, she was bandaged, stitched and later made a good recovery. But Leslie was ghostly pale by the time the doctor arrived, having lost two pints of blood which was a lot for his tiny frame. And although barely alive, it was as he was driven to West Middlesex hospital that Sergeant Hammond saw his lips move, “I put my head down to him, raising it slightly from the stretcher and I heard him say ‘Brent. It was Brent’”. He then fell unconscious, and died of his injuries. But who was ‘Brent’? The street was littered with evidence, as beside Leslie’s scattered and bloodstained crutches, five empty shotgun shells were found with their shiny brass-caps bearing the words ‘Eley & Kynock’ and ’12 bore’. But having been passed from person-to-person, any hope of finding a fingerprint was lost. The same was said of the killer’s description, as although Police interviewed the six living witnesses, they could all remember was the gun, the blasts and the fear, but not him. Said to be tall, of average build and in his 20s or 30s, dressed in grey and with his face hidden by a grey Trilby hat, he was a Grey Man in every sense of the word, he was forgettable, as all agreed “I doubt I’d recognise him again”. What baffled Police most was the lack of motive. Leslie’s killing was deliberate, but why target him? By all accounts, he was a pleasant man who lived a quiet life with no debts, enemies or secrets. Being unmarried, he had no jealous lovers. Being a staunch Conservative, he had no Fascist leanings. Being a little dull, he played cards, but never for money. And given the era, he wasn’t a suspected German spy or a British double-agent, as owing to his disability, he was declared unfit for serve in the military. Violet’s shooting seemed random, as she only knew Leslie by sight, she knew no-one called Brent, yet if he’d tried to kill her for being a witness, why didn’t he kill those who had huddled in a nearby house? What was certain was that Leslie’s killing was deliberate, and given his unique look, it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. With witnesses seeing a dark blue Hillman Minx parking up just minutes before, as planned, the killer had waited, targeted and gunned Leslie down in cold blood. He knew where Leslie lived, and he knew his route and timings having kept surveillance on him in the days and weeks prior. But who was ‘Brent’, and why did he want Leslie Ludford dead? A small clue was gleaned from the scene, as although terrified, Matilda had memorised the licence plate of the car - GGC83. At 9:10am precisely, as detectives started trawling every garage, showroom and hire company, its details were transmitted to every constable and wireless cars in every borough. With the hunter now being the hunted, the Police thought it was only a matter of time before Leslie’s killer was caught and brought to justice. And yet, before the police and ambulances had even arrived… …the Grey Man had moved onto his next target. Five minutes west, having snuck along the backstreets, at exactly 8:55am, the dark blue Hillman Minx pulled into St Mary’s Grove, another quiet residential street where the middle-classes live in silence. He didn’t rush, he wasn’t indecisive, and he wasn’t prowling for victims to kill, as having rehearsed this, he calmly pulled up outside of a two-storey semi-detached Victorian home at 1 St Mary’s Grove. This was the pleasant little home of two sisters; 58-year-old Annie New, a spinster who lived alone in the ground floor flat, and 56-year-old Emma Jane Crisp and her husband Thomas who lived upstairs, with their flat a little quieter, as during the blitz, their daughter Phyllis had evacuated to the country. Just like Leslie, they seemed an unlikely target, and yet the Grey Man was specifically hunting them. Opposite, Mrs Kimpton saw a car pull up, a tall man in a grey suit and hat get out, he walked up the path towards the door, he rang the bell and gave it three loud knocks. Inside, Annie went to answer it, but with her sister Emma saying “it’s the milkman, I want him”, she beat her to the door. Only when she opened it, no-one was there. She looked, but the milkman was a few houses away, and seeing a newspaper at her feet, it was as she bent to pick it up that she spotted a man sitting in a car’s backseat. With its long barrel perched on the car’s right rear window, from inside, the Grey Man fired. Exploding in red-hot fury, both sisters were shot with the first blast. Partially obscured by Emma, Annie was hit in the right forearm as the lead shot ripped at her flesh, described as a “sharp stinging pain”. Emma had sustained the brunt of a double-barrelled shotgun’s brutal force, as with a 117 wounds to her hand, abdomen and chest, her right kidney and liver were lacerated, her right lung collapsed, and leaving a 14-inch hole in her body, blood flooded her plural cavity, as she cried “I’ve been shot”. Staggering backwards, Annie tried to pull her sister away from the line of fire, but before she could, a second shot shredded Emma’s left elbow, forearm and buttock, leaving 174 wounds and a 10-inch hole. And as calmly as he had arrived, the assailant got back into his Hillman Minx and drove away. Screaming for help, Mrs Calcott called the Police from a phone box and they were there in minutes. Rushed to West Middlesex Hospital, where Leslie Ludford lay dying, Annie was permanently disabled, disfigured and traumatised for life, but despite the surgeon’s best efforts, Emma died at 5:25am. The crime scene was a carbon copy of the first; with the same car, the same method, the same shotgun shells, the same suspect – a tall Grey Man who was vague and forgettable – and similar victims, having no known connection to the government, the military, any political group, or any kind of criminality, they didn’t know Leslie Ludford or Violet Pender, and they had never met or knew as man called ‘Brent’. Yet, this killer had specifically targeted either one or both of these seemingly innocent sisters. It seemed unusually random, only the car’s licence plate led to a likely suspect. Detectives discovered that the killer’s Hillman Minx was a hire car, owned by Queensbury Hire Services and rented out for four days from Sunday 9th November at noon to Thursday 13th having paid a deposit. The renter, a Mr P J Ward, which was suspected to be an alias had supplied all the relevant documents, which it was assumed was either forged or stolen. But the man himself was said to be ‘forgettable’. Records showed that Mr Ward, a vague man dressed in grey, had hired the same car three times prior, in February, April and August of 1941, and over four days, each time he drove roughly 65 miles. He used the right petrol coupons, paid promptly, was never late and the car was never dirty or damaged. With a brown suitcase on the backseat, it was clear he’d been rehearsing his killing spree for months, but what connected each victim, and who was the Grey Man; Mr Ward, ‘Brent’, or somebody else? Having left an address on the contract, again the hunter was the hunted, as Police used every resource to find this armed assassin. But before they had arrived at the double shooting on St Mary’s Grove… …again, the Grey Man had moved onto his next target. Two miles east, having driven through the narrow backstreets of Hammersmith to Ravenscourt Park, at 9:05am, barely 20 minutes after the shooting Leslie & Violet and 10 minutes after Emma & Annie, the killer’s Hillman Minx was slowly heading north along Westcroft Square towards Hamlet Gardens. Out of her flat at 34 Westcroft Square, 36-year-old showroom assistant Kathleen Guyver left to post a letter. By all accounts, she was an ordinary law-abiding singleton with no known connections to crime, anything sinister nor any of the four earlier victims, and yet it was clear that he was targeting her. William Porter, a road sweeper and Nellie Heath, a neighbour saw the same car, driven by a tall man in a grey suit, enter via the east as if he was heading towards her home and park up in Hamlet Gardens. Kathleen didn’t stop, turn or change direction, she showed no fear or apprehension, instead she calmly walked along the right-hand path on her pre-planned route. But as she passed the car… (bang) from two metres, the muzzle of a double-barrelled shotgun exploded, blasting two holes in her left side. Seeing the car pull away, neighbours said the blast sounded like an exhaust backfiring, but it wasn’t until they saw Kathleen stagger and blood pour from her side, that they realised she had been shot. Rushed to DuCane Road hospital in Shepherd’s Bush, a 1 ½ inch gunshot wound to the left wrist was surrounded by an outer ring of lead shot, which splintered her radius. A second gunshot had narrowly nicked her abdomen and left a 3-inch wound on the inside of her right forearm. But miraculously, with the corner of her handbag completely blow off by the first blast, and a fountain pen and a pencil blown into pieces, this had saved her from more devastating injuries, disability, and maybe even death. Taken to DuCane Road hospital, Kathleen made an almost full recovery. Like so many others, she could only give a vague description of her assailant “30s, dark hair, I cannot describe him further and I do not think I would know him again”, and she denied knowing anyone named ‘Brent’ or Mr Ward. So, was he a stranger, or was this a sinister code of silence by those too afraid to utter his name? That morning, 74 miles north-east in Suffolk, Police burst into his lodging at Newmarket, some clothes and a suitcase was missing, but shotgun shells of the same type were found. Said to be 6ft tall, mid-20s, slim, balding, and always wearing the same grey suit and hat, the landlady only knew him as Philip Joseph Ward. She knew very little about him, and said he was quiet, polite and kept to himself. When detectives looked into his past, they discovered that Phillip Ward was a Private in the 317th Searchlight Battery stationed in Newmarket, having been assessed as ‘Grade 1’ on 15th July 1940. His Commanding Officer described him as efficient and quiet but very much “the grey man” of the unit. Given training as a rifleman, that week he was on 7 days leave, as he had three times prior that year. Almost no-one knew him, not his colleagues nor the lodgers, with the landlady remembering “every week, he received a registered letter. He is very secretive and has never given any information about himself”, but his parents did live in West London, and his last known address was a lodging in Chiswick. Some people knew him as Ward, one man knew him as Brent, but most people didn’t know him at all. So, why was he targeting this group of seemingly unrelated victims? If indeed he was? With every officer alerted to find the car, as the Police raced to his West London lodging, detectives were getting closer to apprehending the Grey Man. Only, before they had arrived at the last shooting… … the Grey Man had moved onto his next target. Two mile west, having driven in an odd zig-zag pattern across Chiswick and Hammersmith, at 9:15am, the Grey Man pulled up at 4 Bollo Lane, a two storey Victorian terrace beside the Piccadilly and District Line tube. He knocked, rang the bell, and waited, but his victim wasn’t in. Half an hour earlier, he’d done the same as neighbours had seen him, but with Mrs Henrietta Sell, a 52-year-old housewife and mother-of-three out doing her shopping, his plans had now been scuppered twice… or so he thought. Trailing her shopping basket behind her, Henrietta was strolling up Bollo Lane just three minutes from her home, when the Grey Man spotted her. She didn’t know his face, his car, and as he parked up outside of the Fairlawn Café, she assumed he was just another customer heading in for a cup of tea. She wasn’t afraid, worried, or suspicious, so much so that she didn’t even see the muzzle of his shotgun poking out of the driver’s window, as all she would remember was the flash, the blast and the pain. Two shots shattered her left arm, as from a few feet away, the fiery explosion blew off her left thumb at the joint, it eviscerated the soft tissue of her palm, and it severed the humerus at the elbow, so as she staggered into the café, her lower arm dangled and flapped, held together by tendons and skin. Collapsing in shock and blood-loss, Henrietta screamed “the Germans, the Germans have shot me”, and as customers ran to get towels to stem the bleeding, Henry Gaskin & Henry Saville dashed outside. Seeing a grey shadowy man driving away in a dark blue saloon, Gaskin boarded Savile’s truck. Flooring this six-wheeled beast, they sped up Bollo Lane towards Acton Town station with the choking fumes of the accelerating car growing ever closer. But as the truck approached the level crossing, the warning lights flashed, the gates closed, and as the train sped through, the truck braked and they lost him. Like most victims, trauma had scrambled Henrietta’s memory, as all she could recall was “everything happened suddenly, I didn’t see his face. I just remember a long black gun and then everything went blank”. Rushed to Acton hospital, miraculously she survived, but her arm had to be amputated. Once again, a dangerous mass-murderer was unleashing a killing spree in West London. Henrietta Sell had been specifically targeted just like the others, and yet, she didn’t know ‘Brent’ or a Phillip Ward. That morning, Police raided his lodging at 78 Barrowgate Road in Chiswick. As a large three-floored boarding house owned by Jessie & Edith Burrows, Mr P J Ward had stayed at ‘Garthowen’ four times that year, and always for four days. He carried a brown suitcase, he often sent a large truck head of him, he had no guests, no calls, and spoke to anyone. Said to be softly spoken, he was no bother, he always paid on time, he never talked about himself and he was easily forgettable. It was no coincidence though that the home of his first victim, Leslie Ludford was just one street south. In his room, Police found the paperwork for a 12-bore double-barrelled shotgun bought for £26 & 7 shillings on 24th of January 1941 from J Rigby & Co, and 8 weeks before the killing spree, a single barrel 12-bore knock-about shotgun for £4 & 5 shillings from the Midland Gun Company in Birmingham. Both were paid for in cash by P J Ward, delivered to Troop 3 of 317th Searchlight Battery in Newmarket, and as hunting rifles, they were powerful but precise weapons used for shooting at distance with accuracy. As expected, his suitcase was missing, but in his trunk were a selection of recent receipts showing that this very organised man had prepared not just for a single hour – in which he had already murdered Leslie Ludford & Emma Crisp, seriously injured Violet Pender & Annie New, and left Kathleen Guyver & Henrietta Sell on the critical list – but that he had meticulously planned at least two days of killing. He had a passport, 7 torch batteries, 4 packs of cigarettes, 10 chocolate bars, several bottles of ginger beer, 1 pack of tea, 5 bars of soap, gun oil, a cloth, a pack of safety pins, a ball of rubber bands, 2 fancy dress masks, and a knife and chopping board showed that he had made enough sandwiches to last. So far, he had only fired 10 shots all with deadly accuracy, but in total, he had purchased 200. ‘Brent’, Ward or whatever he was really called was hellbent on annihilating a cabal of conspirators who had wronged him, and finding two memo pads dated October 1939 and September 1941 in which Leslie Ludford was repeatedly named, it was clear that he had been planning his attack for four years… …and now the Grey Man’s day of reckoning had come. Tuesday 11th of November 1941. Armistice Day. At precisely 6:45am, he awoke in the single bed of the ‘Garthowen’ lodging house. He washed, dressed in his grey suit, grey overcoat and grey Trilby hat. At 7:30am, he ate a modest breakfast of powdered eggs, toast and tea and quietly read the newspaper. At 8:30am, he bid the landlady a ‘good day’ as he carried a brown suitcase to the garage, and moments later, he left in a hired dark blue Hillman Minx. No-one saw him leave, or suspected he was about unleash a devastating massacre. His victims were strangers to each other, but still bitter after four years, those he had killed were just the beginning. The concluding part of The Grey Man continues next week. UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: of PART TWO Tuesday 11th of November 1941. Armistice Day. The Grey Man’s day of reckoning had come. 8:50am, Leslie Ludford was murdered in Chiswick as Violet Pender was shot in the legs. 8:55am, Emma Crisp was gunned down on her doorstep, with her sister Annie on the critical list. 9:05am, Kathleen Guyver narrowly escaped her execution in Hammersmith. And 9:15am, housewife Henrietta Sell had her arm blown off in Acton and was lucky to still be alive. Two dead, four injured, over three miles in 25 minutes. Armed with 200 shotgun shells, a tank of fuel, a fast car, a forgettable grey suit and enough food to last two days, his killing spree had just begun. Having outrun a truck on Bollo Lane and with armed officers hunting him and his car, any other mass-murderer would have fled. Being calm and calculated, there was no hesitation in his actions, as he wasn’t randomly killing strangers, but specifically targeting those he’d kept surveillance for months. And although he was a wanted man, he headed 1 and a ½ miles south, and back towards Chiswick… …as the Grey Man moved onto his next target. 9:25am. Grove Park Road, two streets south of Emma’s murder and three streets from his lodging, the dark blue Hillman Minx drove along this quiet residential street. It was empty, except for one woman. 24-year-old Winifred Allenby strode confidently from the supply depot of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force at 24 Hartington Road. As an Aircraft Woman 1st Class, Winifred wore a very identifiable uniform of black shoes, tie and stockings, a blue skirt, shirt and tunic with gold buttons, and a blue peaked cap. Heading back to her hostel at 66 Grove Park Road, under her right arm was slung a gas mask in a green canvas bag (as was the law), and under her left arm, she was struggling with a bundle of bedsheets. Like every victim prior, she was undertaking a mundane task on a seemingly ordinary day, as with a poppy pinned to her lapel, her only thought was to get her duties done before the two-minute silence. Roughly 50 yards from her hostel, a blue saloon passed by, she didn’t know the car or the driver. Its speed was steady, as just two metres in front of her, it pulled in, as its nearside wheel struck the kerb. She wasn’t scared and she didn’t slow, as Winifred recalled “as I approached, I noticed the barrel of a gun protruding from the passenger’s window, the driver was crouching down taking aim. I stopped”, and with Britain readying itself for the impending German invasion, this was not an uncommon sight. Terror was coming to the Britain’s streets, only for Winifred, it would come sooner than she thought. “Actually I thought he was going to fire at the house. I started walking again and was about level with the rear wheels, when the barrel turned towards me”, as from barely a few feet away, “it exploded”. Blasting her with a force of 2300 foot-pounds, Winifred’s slender 8 stone frame flew hard against the brick wall behind her with the same kinetic energy as if she had been hit by a car at 60 miles an hour. Engulfed in a wall of smoke and a shattered cloud as woollen fragments of blue and grey exploded in a mushroom-like haze, the car calmly sped away, as Winifred lay on the path, silent and motionless. She should have been dead, as that was the assailant’s aim, but fate was on her side. Shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what had happened, she got to her feet, she felt no pain, she saw no blood, and she hadn’t got a single scratch or cut on her face or body. She had been hit, but she wasn’t hurt. Winifred was lucky, as although the shotgun was aimed directly at her torso, with her carrying several thick layers of woollen bedsheets over her left arm – still smouldering with its lead shot embedded – it had taken the full force of the blast. “So, I went straight to the hostel and reported it to the Police”. Like others before her, Winifred didn’t know a man called ‘Brent’ or Ward, she had no connections to any of the victims, her name didn’t appear in any of the memo pads which were found at his lodging, and although her attack had seemed as random as the others, it was key to the whole killing spree. The Grey Man was angry four years after a cabal of conspirators had wronged him… …they were all connected, they just didn’t know it. ‘Brent’ was an alias, but the Grey Man’s real name was Philip Joseph Ward. Born on 16th of April 1910, five miles west in the working-class suburb of Hanwell; his military experience was brief, he wasn’t a fascist, a Nazi, a mafia hitman, a German spy or a British double agent and he had no criminal record. He was an ordinary boy living in a modest flat at 13 Half Acre Road as one of several siblings to William & Hermia, until aged 12, he was concussed and hospitalised having struck his head against a wall. Prior to that his father said “he was a happy little boy, but overnight became awkward and troublesome”. In 1925, aged 15, having begun complaining of hearing voices and people laughing at him, doctors at Bethlem Hospital said it was “suffering the aftereffects of concussion”, but it clearly something worse. In 1927, Maida Vale Hospital for Nervous Diseases suggested he be committed to an asylum, only his parents were against this. In 1931, after an attempt to take his own life, diagnosed with Schizophrenia (in which he was depressed, solitary and fixated on the idea that there was a conspiracy against him) - with anti-psychotic medications like Chlorpromazine not available until the 50s - being admitted as a voluntary patient at Stone House Asylum, on the 14th of January 1932, he was certified insane. After a year inside, feeling that he wasn’t getting better but worse, Phillip discharged himself without permission and returned home to Hanwell under his parent’s supervision. It seemed the best solution, but over those three years, in their words, “he became unbearable”. He was sullen, violent, and being hopelessly paranoid, he believed his loving family were against him. In 1936, of his own volution, for the sake of his siblings, Phillip left home, but unable to work, his father would send him £2 a week. By 1937, aged 27, he was living alone in a small lodging on Horn Lane in Acton. Given anti-depressants, he didn’t steal, fight or drink, and he didn’t spiral into criminality. Said to be a tall, vague and a quiet man, he kept to himself and was largely forgettable. Being a passionate reader, he was well-educated, and - although he never worked, had few friends and never had a girlfriend - he busied himself with social clubs. To many, he was an insignificant man who breezed through life without a care... …but everyone has their breaking point, and as a paranoid schizophrenic, his would lead him to kill. That year, being only slightly political, Phillip joined the Brentford & Chiswick Junior Conservative Club at 443 Chiswick High Road, seeing it as a good place to meet likeminded people, as it engaged in charity work for local causes, canvassing for their MP, and frequent games of whist. Its chairman was a local solicitor who walked on crutches having been born with dwarfism, whose name was Leslie Ludford. Phillip wasn’t a popular member of the club, in fact few people said they knew him, as being seen as an outsider, he insisted on using the alias of ‘A Ross Brent’, even though everyone knew him as Ward. In a later psychiatric report, he described the conspiracy as “a campaign against me… I was treated in a shameful way… they communicated with each other and made me an outcast and spoilt my life”. It began with his unwanted affections of several female members of the club, especially a young lady called Barbara Newmark. On 6th of April 1937, he wrote in his memo pad of the first time he fell in love with her “she had come up the passage with the burst of a smile and it passed and she grew more and more sober each moment, giving me the embarrassed feeling that she was uncertain of me”, and although she wasn’t keen, by September he sent her postcards daily - we known this as he kept a list. His memo pad was full of fantasy like “once Barbara caught my attention by thrusting some snapshots into my hands”, which was untrue, as she was said to be a timid girl who was betrothed to her beau. With several girls and their parents complaining, the committee were keen to “prevent him from being a nuisance”, so threatening to cancel his membership, Phillip was given a warning, which he took well. Only the pestering of the girls didn’t stop, as one said “it was extremely unusual and offensive stuff”. On the 23rd of November, while playing a game of whist, witnesses stated “Ward suddenly overturned a table and made a dash for Leslie Ludford’s throat”, barking “just because you are a cripple, you think you can do as you like”, and he also struck another committee member as he was being turfed-out. On 30th of November 1937, an official letter was sent by all members of the committee that “we have passed the following two resolutions: 1 – that Mr A R Brent’s membership of the branch be cancelled. 2 – that Mr Phillip Ward’s membership of the branch be cancelled. The two resolutions were passed to avoid any confusion as to the person concerned. And should you endeavour to enter this branch after this date, such steps will be taken by the officers to ensure your removal as they deem available”. And although, across the year, many letter were sent back-and-forth as Phillip argued a moot-point, at the top of every letter from every committee member was written their current home address. That was it. That was the conspiracy. The cancellation of his membership to a meaningless social club. To others, this would have been nothing but a mild inconvenience, but to a paranoid schizophrenic, this so-called conspiracy by at least 30 alleged conspirators was the real reason his life was collapsing. The letters continued and his rage escalated well into the next year, but in September 1939 when the Second World War began and the club was forced to close, with no outlet, his rage could only fester. By 1941, all the committee members had forgotten about Phillip Ward… …but going unmedicated, the Grey Man felt he was due a day of reckoning. Across eleven months, Phillip had planned his killing spree with precision. He’d selected two powerful shotguns which were easily hidden in a suitcase, 200 shells which were purchased legally, he’d rented a fast car having stored up enough petrol coupons, and having kept a detailed surveillance on each committee member’s home, he’d picked the perfect time to kill them, and three times he’d rehearsed. On his first attempt in February he drove 70 miles, in April 65 miles, and by August, he’d got it down to 62 miles. Eliminating the slack, his November attack would be the epitome of efficiency, as with no fuss, he’d drive from one location to the next, until everyone on his hit list was dead or disabled. Allowing for changes, he was so calm, he had even made enough sandwiches to last at least two days. His first victim, Leslie Ludford, was the chairman of the Conservative Club. Others especially those who he said had “conspired against me” were the vice chairs Peter Bulwar & Mr J Brett, treasurer Mr D Moore, secretary Miss Jean Crimpton, as well as committee members Mr Audrey, Lydia Isaacs, Gerald Davidson, Freddie Williams, Christopher Fuller, Miss Lewisohn, Doris Moore, Doris Appleby, Mr & Mrs William Brett, Douglas Thorburn, and Mrs Stacey, who was political agent for the Conservative Party. And yet, so far, across the first hour of his massacre, only one of them had been targeted. At 9:25am, having fled the shooting of Winifred Allenby on Grove Park Road in Chiswick, he drove 4.3 miles northwest on a 17-minute journey to Rathgar Avenue, another quiet residential street in Ealing. At 9:47am, Miss Agnes Hunt, a 60-year-old retired school mistress left her home at 1 Lyncroft Gardens and arriving at the junction of Rathgar Avenue and Somerset Road two minutes later, she saw a dark blue saloon. It’s engine on, fumes spewing from the exhaust, and inside, a lone man wearing no hat. As before, she didn’t know the man or the car, but as she crossed in front of him, he pulled a shotgun up to his shoulder, and having got her squarely in his sights, he fired… (bang)… but missed. Not a single lead shot had hit her, she wasn’t even winged, and as Agnes stared directly at him, she got a good look at his face; “early 20s, balding, clean shaven, dark eyes, sallow complexion, and he looked angry”. Speeding off, leaving her stunned, she called the Police stating “I’d spot him, as I never forget a face”. It was uncertain how he missed or why didn’t take a second shot, but a greater mystery remained. He murdered Leslie Ludford, chairman of the committee for conspiring to cancel his club membership. Violet Pender, it was assumed was an unconnected passerby who was shot because she was a witness. He then shot Emma Crisp & Annie New at 1 St Mary’s Grove, only neither of them were club members. But Emma’s daughter Phyllis (who was part in his dismissal) was and although in 1939 she lived at that flat, having been evacuated to Peterborough, it’s likely that having seen her address on a letter, he hadn’t twigged that after four long years, a blitz bombing and a global war that she might have moved. Likewise, neither Kathleen Guyver, Henrietta Sell nor any of their relatives were club members, but as many members had very little to do with him and visa-versa, having got the wrong address, it’s likely he only thought he’d got the right house, having kept surveillance on someone he assumed was right. His attempted murder of Winifred Allenby was tenuous, as with it believed he had mistaken her for Barbara Newmark - the girl whose complaint led to his dismissal - this made no sense as she had joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service and not the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. So was this simply a case of mistaken identity, and if so, why did this obsessed man not recognise the girl he claimed to love? Having begun with a cast iron plan, his killing spree was slowly becoming random, as like many others, Agnes Hunt, the ex-school mistress had no known connection to her attacker, the victims or the club. In a later psychiatric report, Phillip stated “the killing of others (all co-conspirators) is justified, as only by such means can the conspiracy be brought home” to those who wronged him. Unable to find those he blamed, as the spree progressed, his schizophrenia created its own logic, and even if those he killed were innocent, in his mind, everyone was part of a conspiracy against him, even when they weren’t. And yet, before the Police even knew about Phillip Ward… …the Grey Man had moved onto his next target. Having left Agnes Hunt unharmed but stunned, the Hillman Minx was driven up Northfields Avenue, along Argyll Road, 1 and a ½ miles north to Bruton Way, another quiet residential street in West Ealing. At exactly 10:10am, it pulled outside of number 33, a two-storey semi-detached house with a garden. Playing in the street, 4-year-old Robert Stubblefield and 3-year-old Geoffrey Thomas saw the car pull up, a tall grey man get out, and barely noticing them, he walked up a neat little path to the front door. This was the home of 57-year-old housewife Edith Amelia Barringer. She didn’t know him, his alias, and neither she, her husband nor anyone at this address had been a member of the Conservative Club. Inside, hearing a knock and the doorbell ring, her day-servant Elizabeth Eames was about to answer it, but believing it was a rep from Mead & Jefferies who were here to repair her radio, she went herself. Oddly, through its smoked glass pane, Edith didn’t saw a man’s outline, as when she opened the door, no-one was there. No-one, except getting into a car’s backseat was a tall man in a grey suit and hat. “Are you from Mead & Jefferies?”, Edith called. “No”, the Grey Man replied “are you Mrs Barrington?”. Her words were the truth, “yes, it is”, and yet, although she wasn’t the right one but a woman with a similar name, in his eyes, he’d found another conspirator, and those three short words meant death. Like a thunder strike, the double gunshots boomed off every window in the street, as hit with a sonic wall of energy, Edith was blown off her feet and slumped in a blooded heap. Through a smoking hole in her coat, a 3 ½ inch gash had been blasted in her abdomen as her steaming intestines protruded. And ringed by 23 lead shots, they’d shattered her ribs, right kidney and embedded in her lumbar spine. With her pelvis full of blood and her lungs collapsing, although she was rushed to hospital, despite the doctor’s best efforts, she died at 11:40am. Another was dead, as across one hour, three were killed, four were critical or wounded, two had miraculously escaped, but only one had belonged to the club. Death had come to West London, and then, as swiftly as it had arrived… …the Grey Man vanished. No-one knew where he went. It was said that he headed to Sudbury Hill and hid in a side-street; eating his sandwiches, drinking a ginger beer and having a smoke. At some point he polished his single-barrel shotgun, and (as a soldier), at 11am, he may have paid respect to the fallen in the two-minute silence. It’s an irony that may have been lost on him, as with a tank of fuel, two shotguns, 187 12-bore shells, and a list in his head of at least 30 co-conspirators he needed to kill, after an hour, he headed north. But with every available officer ordered to arm themselves and head to west, his killing spree would come to a close. (Radio) “All cars, be on the lookout for dark blue Hillman Minx saloon, plate GGC83, driven by a Phillip Joseph Ward, 31, 6-foot, in a grey suit and hat, he is armed and very dangerous”. With so many dead, and fearing so more deaths, the Police were going to stop him - dead or alive. At 11:45am, seen by Sergeant Frostick on Station Road in Harrow, the officer jumped on the running board and tried to ram the car into a hedge, but speeding away, he was thrown into the road. Five minutes later, seen by PS Sutton & PC Cook on Headstone Lane in Pinner, they commandeered a truck and tried to block its path at Brooks Hill, but again, driving recklessly, the car swiftly accelerated away. Then at 12:03pm, three hours into his massacre, a Police radio car spotted him at Stanmore Broadway. Chased down Spur Road, the two cars sped onto the Watford bypass, he swerved a police barrier, but with the police getting the better of him by going the wrong way up a roundabout, they sideswiped the Hillman Minx, ran it into a kerb, and forced it to a dead stop. Through their windscreen, PC Percival aimed a loaded rifle at his head and dragging him from the car, PC Laver handcuffed and arrested him. “Alright, I give in”, Phillip said, and it was lucky that he had, as although he had enough shotgun shells to kill every club member three times over, he was armed with a knife for when he ran out of shots. Held at Edgware Road Police Station, Inspection Ward cautioned him and “I told him I was going to charge him for a man’s murder in Chiswick”, at which he replied “do you mind telling me his name again”, but when told “Ludford, Leslie Ludford”, he replied “I say I am innocent, I do not know him”. But was this an alibi, confusion, or a symptom of his sickness? (end) The next day, Wednesday 12th of November, a line of women booed the van as he arrived at Acton Police Court. Grinning broadly with vacant eyes, beside a solicitor supplied by his father, he stood in the dock to state his name and to hear the charges against him. But when asked how he pleaded, he didn’t understand what was happening, and his only concern was the £37 the Police had confiscated. Assessed by two noted psychiatrists and the medical officer of Brixton Prison, with Phillip Ward said to be hostile, distant, remorseless and constantly speaking of “a conspiracy”, Dr Grierson said “I am of the opinion that he is suffering from Schizophrenia… and that when received, he was insane, that he was insane at the time of the crimes and he is still insane. I consider him fit to plead but in view of the varying moods associated with the disease, I can only express a final opinion on the day of the trial”. It began on Wednesday 21st of January 1942 at the Old Bailey, but with Phillip Ward unable to focus, instruct his defence counsel, and having already been certified insane ten years before, Justice Gerald Dodson QC stated “he is unfit to stand trial and should therefore be detained at the King’s pleasure”. Sent to Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison on an indeterminate sentence, although schizophrenia’s cause is still unknown, inside he got the help and medication he badly needed, and – unable to harm anyone – he spent his days in silence, reading books in his cell, where he remained for the rest of his life. In January 1972, either at Broadmoor or Newbury Hospital, he died aged 61. The massacre of the Grey Man remains one of West London’s worst mass-murderers, yet it is almost entirely forgotten. So before the memories of the dead are lost forever, we’ll spare a thought for those he killed or hurt; Agnes Grace Hunt, Winifred Allenby, Kathleen Irene Guyver, Henrietta Mabel Sell, Annie New, Violet Mary Pinder, Edith Amelia Barringer, Emma Jane Crisp and Leslie Ernest Ludford. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
the infamous 'From Hell' letter
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-EIGHT:
Across October and early November 1888, when 'Jack the Ripper' slayed several women in the East End of London, a smaller and largely forgotten sexual sadist was attacking women in Soho in the West End. Masked using a series of baffling distractions, his crimes were made possible owing to the fevered frenzy in the midst of a mini media mania committed in the Ripper's shadow. But who was he, was it a hoax, or did he even exist?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a teal symbol of a bin just by the words 'Soho' off Wardour Street. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: a selection sourced from the National Archives and the Metropolitan Archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Bourchier Street in Soho, W1; a few paces east from the spot where Captain Ritchie was bricked, a few doors west from the last plea of Henry Hall, a few doors up from the beating of Baby Richard, and the same street as the dog who saw it all - coming soon to Murder Mile. Formerly called Little Dean Street, Bourchier Street connects Dean Street and Wardour Street. As little more than a dark drab alley where the eateries of Old Compton Street park their sticky oozing bins and the frequently soused empty their bladders, for good reason, it’s the most avoided part of Soho. For those who don’t watch where they’re walking, a common items to step on in this street are usually a puddle of piddle, a splat of sick, a splash of gentleman’s relish seconds after a sex show, a used condom (of course), a pair of spoiled trousers, a pineapple shaped butt-plug, dirty syringes and faeces. Yet, these aren’t the oddest things found on this street, as back in November 1888 was found an eye. A human eye, fully intact, red raw from a recent trauma, and bobbing about in an overflowing gutter. Barely yards away, the body of Eliza Shad lay in her bed, recently dead. Only no-one would find her body for days, as with this speck of West London gripped by the panic that an infamous East End killer was stalking the denizens of Soho, they were looking the wrong way at the wrong thing. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 278: In the Ripper’s Shadow. Three miles east of Soho in the similarly dank and sleezy working-class district of Whitechapel, gossip was forming in the terrified mouths of its inhabitants that a sadistic serial killer was slaying women. Rumblings that something sinister was brewing had begun since the unsolved murders of Emma Smith and Martha Tabram. On the 31st of August, the sadistic killing of Mary Ann Nichols sparked a manhunt for an extortionist nicknamed Leather Apron leading to misinformation, accusation and anti-Semitism. On 8th of September, with Annie Chapman’s body found in the back yard of 29 Hanbury Street, both deaths were connected, some say tenuously. But following the double-murder of Elizabeth Stride on Berner Street and Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square - half a mile and 45 minutes apart – so desperate were the Police to arrest him and so ravenous were the press for stories, that on the 1st of October, the infamous Dear Boss letter was made public and the name Jack the Ripper would forever be known. With a city in panic, tabloids slathered over the sensation of a serial killer on the loose, especially when George Lusk was posted half a human kidney. And although some supposed facts and alleged evidence was fabricated when the newspaper’s circulation waned, a mass hysteria enveloped the East End and as the petrified public clambered for more, a dark tourism sprung-up as flocks of grisly gorpers dashed to Whitechapel, with it culminating (some say) on the 9th of November and the massacre of Mary Kelly. Whether he existed or not, the idea of Jack the Ripper turned the East End into a frenzy of fear… …and yet, at the same time, a little piece of horror went largely unreported in Soho. It start unremarkably. Friday 5th of October 1888 was typical of most days in Soho. Hours before the dawn-light had cracked the sky and shone a blast of brilliant light on Berwick Street, the costermongers and traders were setting up the market for the day. Being surrounded by slums, hostels and tuppenny lodgings, vendors sold affordable fare for the most impoverished; like bread, eggs and fish, vegetables like potatoes, carrots and parsnips, fruits like apples but nothing exotic, and - being abundant and cheap - oysters. At around 7am, an unnamed Constable who had been patrolling his beat along Wardour Street, turned onto the light bustle of Peter Street, and as he entered the market, his nose recoiled at a horrific smell. So pungent it made his eyes water, this reek of rotten cabbage was enough to make him retch, as in the gutter – swarming in flies who feverishly fed off its decomposition - lay a coiled pile of intestines. No-one thought for a second that it might be human, they just assumed it was animal, probably a pig. It had gone unnoticed and ordinarily it would have been ignored, but with the Constable being a proud local who liked his streets clean, he insisted the cat meat trader, a man called Tam clean up the out-of-date offal from the gutter, even though he had no intestines on sale. Sparking a big old hullaballoo of loud voices, before the festering guts could be got rid of, a pack of hungry dogs had wolfed it down. Tam was given a stern warning, and later released, and that was it. As I said, it started unremarkably, with this side of Soho seeing a few minor crimes that morning, including a watch theft, a broken vase, and at nearby 28 Peter Street, a prostitute called Eliza Smyth claimed she’d been groped in her sleep. It was just an ordinary day in Soho, if anything, it was a bit quiet. Six days later, in the mid-afternoon of Thursday 11th, a group of kids were heard squealing hysterically on the corner of Denman Street and Denman Place, just off Piccadilly Circus. With a local seamstress growing increasingly annoyed by their noise, she was ready to clip them about the earholes, when she saw what they were poking and prodding excitedly – on the spike of an iron railing was a bloody heart. Fresh, red and dripping, everyone assumed it was a pig’s (probably stolen off the market) and with the tale of the intestines having not made it this far, she tossed it in a basement and it was eaten by rats. That day was just another ordinary day in Soho, except a few doors down at an undisclosed lodging, a prostitute nicknamed ‘Swiss Annie’ woke from an overlong sleep, in which she felt unusually woozy, her throat felt sore and her breasts felt tender. Being ashamed, she told only her closest friends. With news of the East End ripper permeating from one red-light district to another, these seemingly insignificant events in Soho wouldn’t be recorded until weeks later, so their accuracy is questionable. But the next one isn’t. Tuesday 16th of October, the same day it was said that George Lusk received the infamous ‘From Hell’ letter and half a kidney, on Sutton Row off Charing Cross Road, human teeth were found scattered, all were bloody with their roots till intact. It caused a commotion, as all were different shades of yellow and brown, many were rotten, but there were too many for a single mouth, some said as many as 50. Two hours later and 40 feet north in Falconberg Mews, a prostitute nicknamed ‘Lady Jane’ or ‘Lazy Jayne’ was found collapsed and semi-conscious, her petticoat missing, her breasts and neck sore, and although she had no head wound nor missing teeth, she also had no memory of how she got there. Jayne Jones (an alias) gave a statement, only it was destroyed when Vine Street Police Station closed. But were those two incidents – the teeth and the attack – connected or a coincidence? With Whitechapel only three miles away, and the name ‘Jack the Ripper’ on everybody’s lips, rumours started to circulate that – maybe – Soho had its own sexual sadist who had already made his first kill. Over the weeks of mid-to-late October 1888, the city saw an unusually cold fog descend and shroud its streets in a choking cloak of impenetrable grey, synonymous with depictions of the Ripper’s London. It is said, although reports were sketchy, that more body parts were found scattered or neatly placed. Monday 22nd, Hanway Place in Fitzrovia, a ponytail was spotted having been hacked-off near the scalp, yet it was bloodless and fleshless. Some suggested an impoverished women was on her way to sell it as wealthy ladies paid a pretty penny for good wigs. Yet, just south on nearby Hanway Street, Emma Jewson awoke in her bed, feeling dizzy, confused with five bruises to her throat in the shape of a hand. But again, was it connected? With domestic violence and drunkenness so commonplace, the Police dismissed this as “a good time girl” who “got what she deserved” from her husband or her punter. Thursday 25th, Baimbridge Street at the back of the old Horseshoe Brewery, a liver was found. Said to be human, although it was impossible to differentiate it from a pig’s, witnesses said it was “wrapped in a woman’s dress”, some said it “sat on a cloth”, and others said it was “near a cloth”. That day, Alice or Anna Dedmun was choked unconscious by a left-handed man in the nearby Horseshoe Hotel. Her liver wasn’t removed, neither was Jayne’s teeth or Emma’s hair, yet rumours spread that the body part belonged to each victim and was a grisly trophy or as a warning to others. And although a plausible reason could be given for each – whether unwanted animal offal, the theft of a barber’s tooth jar, or a simple purchase from a butcher’s stall - it was all about to take a much darker and sinister turn. Sunday 28th, on Flitcroft Street (then called Little Denmark Street), a dirty severed finger was found. Rumours said it had “nail polish” or “a wedding ring”, but with no proof it was a woman’s, we can’t discount that this area of St Giles was full of factories and accidents were commonplace. And yet again, in a doorway at 23 Denmark Place, ‘Minnie’ Jones, a Welsh prostitute was strangled and almost killed. With no memory of the attack, her assailant or the moments prior, her skirt was ripped, she had five bruises to her throat and neck as made by “a leftie with big hands”, she had a missing finger only this wasn’t hers, and yet, a cut had been sliced into her right cheek in the shape of a ‘W’, or two ‘V’s. Again, this could be seen as a coincidence, a remarkable coincidence, if indeed it was true. But could this have been a bizarre distraction by the assailant to draw the public’s attention from his real crimes? It was an era of excitable frenzy, when people wanted to believe that a serial killer was on the loose, or that – as some gossips cruelly suggested - that ‘Minnie’ had done this to herself for attention. Before the murder of Eliza Shad, one more body part was found - a tongue, pinned to a door on Smith’s Court with a note which read “I lov rippin hors” (all badly written and misspelled) with a trail of blood leading through a door, upstairs to an empty lodging. Occurring not long after the Whitechapel double murder and the publication of the ‘Dear Boss’ letter in which its author claiming to Jack the Ripper stated “am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled”, this could be a copy-cat, a hoax, or maybe it never happened? That’s the curse of attempting to unearth fact when the press and the people are more fascinated by salacious guff or grisly aspects, that the truth gets lost in a quagmire of lies. With the East End Ripper taking all the newsprint, Soho’s seemingly insignificant little sex-pest was barely reported. Recounted weeks and (in many cases) months later, by then, those memories had become hazy and exaggerated. For many, it was uncertain if he was fake, or a sadist hiding in the Ripper’s shadow… …yet that didn’t stop a mini mania from erupting across Soho. By the start of November 1888, as several Ripper suspects were named and blamed with the so-called evidence against them being so flimsy it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, a similar witch-hunt was underway in Soho, as the easily angered with their own axe to grind set out to accuse any undesirables. As happens when mouths run faster than brains, any man seen with either victim in the hours prior was hounded and anyone seen walking by at the time was said to have been “suspiciously loitering”. One suspect was said to have “had a knife”, only it was later said he was “eating an apple”. One man was said to have been seen “fondling” one of the women, only he turned out to be her boyfriend. And one mysteriously “had his face always covered with a hanky”, yet it turned out he had a winter cold. Seizing the opportunity to stick the boot in on anyone they had a gripe with, abandoned wives blamed their unfaithful-husbands, businessmen blamed their ex- partners, and sibling rivalries exploded into finger-pointing, as anyone with a grudge, used this series of unsolved attacks to settle an old score. Therefore its unsurprising that – even though not one of the women had any memory of her attacker – that a list of alleged “eyewitness” descriptions “by the girls” drifted from street to street with little embellishments added in each retelling. The men they were on the hunt for included “a man in his 20s, average height and build in a black suit and hat”, as lynch mobs love vagueness. “An Irish labourer, 30s, big hands, fat head, scarred and a dirty suit”, as well as xenophobic descriptions like “a drunken Pole”, “a swarthy foreigner”, “a Jew with sinister eyes” and any enemy of the era whether homeless, disabled, depressed or disfigured, the mentally unwell, homosexuals, and those seen as degenerates. In short, the usual suspects for bigots and racists. Some blamed it in Soho murderer William Crees even though he’d been in Broadmoor since 1883, a shooting that month on Frith Street was tenuously linked even though none of the victims were shot, with some saying it was an extortion gang, some said it was a prostitute was taking out her rivals, a corrupt copper doing the job the law wouldn’t allow him to do, and others blamed opium and Absinth. As for the body parts, some suggested it was the work of a rogue mortician, a dodgy undertaker, or a lazy barber (as in that era, for the poorest, a hairdresser was also a dentist and a surgeon). It was implied it was a prank by medical students at the London School of Anatomy on nearby Dean Street, and that it was (somehow) an advert for the new play ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde’ which was causing a sensation on the West End stage. But many locals believed it was the tabloid press trying to conjure up a little excitement as had gripped the East End, only being so corny, no-one believed it. Fearing a panic, the Police (said to be under the guidance of local business leaders) were keen to keep a lid on this, as where there’s fear there’s panic. In their favour, the East End Ripper was so infamous that this West End Fondler (and some say, strangler) had hijacked all the press coverage, and with any link between the victim and a body part being so ludicrous, it was dismissed as a mere scaremongering. It died, before it even became a thing. And unlike Jack the Ripper, he wasn’t given a sinister nickname. The problem was (as much as the people wanted a scare story) this wasn’t a series of victimless crimes, as women had been attacked. All were unusually similar, having been drugged, fondled and strangled to the point of near-death, it was said “one had been bitten” and he had escalated to minor mutilation. If connected, someone had deliberately laid a series of distractions as they wanted time with each woman, so it’s possible that – if this was one man - he had chosen them, as this required planning. This frenzy of excitement died as quickly as it arose, and yet, as rumours spread, any new victims found it impossible to be believed, so they didn’t report it. For many women, this was real, but with the myth becoming little more than a joke, many weren’t believed by their own families, let alone by the Police. Only for one more women, this would end in her death. Eliza Shad was a 23-year-old mother-of-one, at least that’s what we think. Said to have been born in or about 1865, she doesn’t appear on any census and she doesn’t have a birth or a death certificate. Conspiracy theorists might decry this as the corrupt elite trying to erase her history to hide a sinister plot, but many records have been lost in office moves, destroyed in the blitz, mistakes made when they were digitised or mis-transcribed when they were first written, and with even official documents like autopsy reports and police files listing a person by their alias, what we know about Eliza (if that is her name) was reported by those who claimed to know her, so must be taken with a pinch of salt. Eliza’s life was the epitome of tragic. It was said, the first sounds she uttered was her wailing tears which echoed down the dark cold walls of a local workhouse infirmary. She wouldn’t remember her father, as before she was born, he had abandoned his wife and children having become a slave to the demon drink and his fate was unknown. As for her mother? She never felt her hug, as like so many women before her, she died in childbirth. Raised by an older sister who was little more than a child herself, she received a basic education and was trained to mend clothes and cook, so at best, she would become a wife or a servant. As far as we know, she never married, so not being seen as a person in her own right, her life went undocumented. Like many of the most impoverished, she lived a hand-to-mouth existence, never knowing if she’d eat that day. Being transient, she never had a home, at best she scraped together a few pennies for a bed in a hostel or a lodging, and at worst, she slept in doorways, sheds or outhouses, shivering in the cold. With no family, it was said her first baby died before it took a breath. The second she had miscarried having been beaten by her drunken boyfriend. And bruised black and blue, her third child was taken by the beadle as she was deemed an unfit mother simply because she couldn’t escape her horrific life. Sunday 4th of November 1888 was a brutally cold day, but Eliza’s luck seemed to be turning a corner. That morning, she went about her usual routine, by going to St Anne’s church for prayers, and having passed 28 Peter Street where a month earlier Eliza Smyth claimed she had been groped in her sleep, she headed to nearby Berwick Street market, where that same day, the festering intestines had been seen. Here she bought bread, cheese and milk, a little bacon and some welks, as in her purse she had enough money to ensure her belly was full. It must have felt odd to be eating as having tried to kick the drink, as a prostitute she would have usually squandered it, but this time, she was able to afford a lodging. It was a big step for an alcoholic, and having paid for three nights board sleeping on a filthy flea-ridden bed made of horsehair and straw in an unidentified lodging house of a Mrs Crowmar, it was something. That night, as a foul wind howled down Old Compton Street, it was said she brought back three men to her lodging on Little Dean Street, and although this dark urine-soaked alley hardly cut a romantic tone, they weren’t here for kissing and cuddling. But was one of them a sadist with an odd obsession? According to the other lodgers, Eliza was discrete, so none of the men were ever seen. No-one heard any cries or screams, as it’s likely she had been drugged. And – if this was true - having laid a bizarre distraction, he had his wicked way with her in the seclusion of her room, and no one was any wiser. On Wardour Street, beside a little path leading to Little Dean Street, a crowd had gathered, larger than usual, as they giggled with grisly fascination at the gory sight before them – a human eye, intact and red raw from a fresh trauma. Having poked it, it plopped into an overflowing gutter where it bobbed. Grabbing it by the optic nerve which dangled at the rear of this bloody bulb, a boy waved it in a girl’s terrified face, and although these spectators laughed, it drew their gaze from something truly sinister. Wednesday 7th of November, three days later, with her rent having expired, the landlady knocked on Eliza’s door and asked her to leave. Getting no reply, she entered and found her cold and dead. (end) Like a carbon copy of previous assaults, Eliza had been drugged so she lay unconscious, paralysed and at her attacker’s whim. Her petticoat had been removed and left neatly folded on a chair. Her breast was exposed and covered in a dried blood which wasn’t hers. And on her thigh was a single bitemark. Again, a small ‘W’ or ‘double V shaped’ cut was found on her cheek, although the police surgeon said it could have been a scratch from the side table. And like the others, with no defensive wounds, her throat and neck was etched the bruises of a left-hander who had taken her to the very edge of death. It seemed as if he liked to play God with these girls, by taking their lives and giving it back, but unaware that having lived such a hard life (barely covered in a sodden blanket as she slept in cold doorways), Eliza had suffered with asthma, and having taken her too far, her lungs were too weak to recover. Dismissed by the police as ‘a possible accident’ by an over amorous lover or punter, being a prostitute who they said may have engaged in indecent acts like sadomasochism, no-one was arrested or sought. And as the last of this series of bizarre assaults over a month of sadistic madness, was this a mistake, was this someone else’s alibi, or the escalation of a wannabe serial killer who had made his first kill? Investigated by Detective Thomas Bowden, the case was wrapped up and filed away as solved. No-one was brought to trial, no-one was even suspected, and it has remained forgotten for 136 years. It is unknown whether he fled, killed himself, was jailed for a similar crime which was never connected, if he was sent to an asylum, or quit owing to the grief that his odd sexual perversion had taken a life. His identity shall remain a mystery, and yet the biggest mystery remains, if any of it was even true. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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