Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Fursecroft in Marylebone, the former home of Harry Michaelson
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 THIRTY-THREE:
At 5:15am, on the Boxing Day morning of 1948, cartoonist Harry Michaelson was found on his doorstep of Flat 75 at Fursecroft in Marylebone, nursing a bloody wound to his head. With no memory of what had happened, the police relied on the evidence. But having made a lazy assumption, they almost derailed the entire investigation.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Marble Arch'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on George Street in Marylebone, W1; one street south of the first killing by the Blackout Ripper, two streets east of the failed hit on the exiled Iraqi general, a few doors down from the deaf son’s desperate mum, and a few doors up from Dot the Deadly - coming soon to Murder Mile. Built in the 1930s, Fursecroft is a posh ten-storey Edwardian mansion block, the kind you’d expect to see in Poirot, where for 90 minutes the famous Belgian detective twists his little moustache and jiggles his grey cells – all the while dreaming of waffles, chocolate, TinTin and moule et frites, as what else do Belgian’s do - only to conclude that – dun-dun-duuuuhn, the killer was the slutty bigamist… again. And yet, Marylebone’s own detectives almost failed to solve a simple case owing to an assumption. On the Boxing Day morning of 1948, 50-year-old Harry Michaelson was found on his doorstep at Flat 75. With a towel to his forehead, blood running down his face, and no memory of what had occurred, with no signs of forced entry, the police assumed they were hunting an assailant who Harry had let in. Only he hadn’t. And although they had supposedly interrogated every detail given by the eyewitnesses who knew Harry well, it took a sharp-eyed constable with a suspicious nose to truly trap his murderer. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 233: Sketches. Eugene Fordsworthe said, “assumption is the mother of all mistakes”. It’s a crime we’ve all committed, as sometimes, it’s too easy to assume the most logical answer must be the right answer. For us, it’s a mistake we can make with very little consequences, but for detectives, it can derail an investigation. Harry Saul Michaelson was born on the 14th of December 1898, being raised in a loving well-educated middle-class family and spending most of his five decades in and around Willesden and Paddington. Being five foot six and sparsely built, those who knew Harry described him as a cheery and pleasant gentleman who was always kind, and - as a talented cartoonist and an acclaimed commercial artist – he loved to wile away his free time by sketching friends and strangers over a cup of tea and a chat. But painting was also how he made his living. Nicknamed ‘one minute Michaelson’, Harry toured the theatres of Great Britain as a ‘lightening cartoonist’ who wowed the crowds with his speedy sketching as part of a music hall act. As an immensely creative man who brought joy to the masses, especially as the bombs of the Luftwaffe pummelled every British city while the Second World War raged on, it made sense that Harry would fall in love – possibly on the circuit - with a talented pianist called Anna. In November 1938, they married at Willesden Registry Office, and as performers with no children, it was said that they toured together. But with Harry having contracted malaria during the First World War – and still suffering from the long-term effects of fevers, chills, aches and pains, as well as stomach problems and nerves - described by his younger brother as “highly strung”, for the sake of his health, he gave up performing, and continued working from home with a set of paints and an easel by his bed. In 1941, Harry & Anna moved into a small bed-sitting room at Flat 75 of Fursecroft in Marylebone. As a basement flat, the view from its two casement windows wasn’t much as it overlooked the concrete wall below the corner of Brown Street and Nutford Place, but as a modern block with solid locks and being staffed by a team of porters, day and night, what they paid for was the amenities and security. For Harry, who spent most of his days alone in this tiny two roomed flat, it had everything he needed; a kitchen-cum-bathroom with a toilet and a bath in the same room as a gas hob (which for then was normal), and a bed-sitting room with two single beds, a phone, a gas fire, a wealth of artwork, a day bed for resting while he sketched with an easel, paints and heaped stacks of magazines and papers for reference, as well as a tubular metal chair where his guests could sit as they posed for their portraits. As a polite but solitary figure, he always greeted the porters, he went for his morning coffee at Maison Lyonese in nearby Marble Arch, and although a semi-regular guest at Sketch (an artist member’s club), not being much of a drinker owing to gastric issues, he spent most of his time alone in his flat, painting. He wasn’t well-off but he wasn’t broke, he wasn’t a bad man just kind and quiet, and although his wife had recently recovered from an overdose of sleeping pills owing to Harry uncovering her affair with a car dealer called George Jenkinson, they had contemplated getting a divorce, but resolved it amicably. Harry Michaelson was just an ordinary chap… …so, who would want to kill him, and why? Friday 24th of December 1948. Christmas Eve. Across the city, with rationing partially in force, a festive hum of excitement and frivolity rippled across this brightly lit city as the people shopped for presents. That day, from his Post Office savings account, Harry withdrew £3 (roughly £130 today) to purchase a “a chicken and a piece of lamb”, as well as £2 in silver so he could tip the porters over the holidays. The Christmas Day itself was bright, but with no snow, a cold wind whistled down George Street. Being a man whose body swung from fevers to chills owing to a distant bout of Malaria, even though it was barely above freezing, for the last seven years he’d left his thin bedroom window and his flat door ajar to help circulate the fresh air, but with a trusty team of porters on duty, Harry had always felt safe. Rising at 8am, as always, their little flat hadn’t a single Christmas decoration up, as being Jewish, they didn’t celebrate the holiday, so it didn’t bother them in the slightest that they would spend it apart. At 9am, hired to perform at a slew of hotels in the seaside town of Bournemouth until just after Boxing Day, Anna kissed Harry goodbye and headed off, not knowing that she would never see him again. For Harry, it was a simple day. Throughout the afternoon, as he came across them, he handed each porter several shillings as a thank you for their work and said to one-and-all “here’s wishing you all the best”, He asked the head porter if he could pop the chicken and lamb in their freezer ready for his wife’s return. And at 6pm, 8pm and 10pm, he left via the main door, as having run out of bread – being Jewish – he had also forgotten that today being Christmas Day that most of the bakers would be shut. At 10pm, he returned, and was greeted by the night porters - Samuel Freeland and Frederick Newman - who said that (as usual) he was in a good mood and - although breadless - he wished them both well. As was his routine, Harry undressed, putting his brown striped suit on the chair, his shoes by the bed, a glass of water by the bedside phone, and having finished a good book, in the single bed nearest the door, he drifted off to sleep, snoring loudly, as the fresh winter air ventilated this usually stuffy flat. For the two porters, it was a busy night, as of the 300+ tenants at Fursecroft, several Christmas parties ensured that a steady stream of guests entered and exited via both sets of main doors. Being routine, both were locked at midnight, only the porters had the keys, every guest or resident was only escorted in or out after that hour by the two night-porters, and both doors were only unlocked at 7:30am. Samuel and Frederick both confirmed that it was an uneventful night… …only for Harry, it was a night that (if he could) he would never forget. At 5:15am, night porter Samuel Freeland heard a voice he recognised calling from downstairs, as Harry shouted “Porter! Porter!”. At the door of Flat 75, dressed in his pyjamas and a robe, the ghostly white frame of Harry stood, holding a towel to his head, as a stream of blood ran down his panicked face. Samuel asked, “what happened?”, at which Harry bluntly replied, “never mind, call an ambulance, I’m bleeding like a pig”. Only what Samuel, and possibly Harry, didn’t realise was that Harry already had. With the ambulance on its way, as the porters led Harry to the reception, stumbling and trembling, it was clear that he was terrified, and although he cried – “I am a finished old man. I am dying. I can feel it in my bones and the blood pumping in my brain” - it was clear he had no idea what had happened. The porters assumed he’d had an accident, as nobody had heard a break-in, a scream or an assault. Arriving at St Mary’s hospital at 5:38am, with a single wound to his right temple which was no different to any other injury caused by a domestic slip or tumble, x-raying this 1 ½ inch laceration, a fracture to the skull was identified, a blood clot was removed, and although initially conscious, Harry repeated “I can’t tell you what happened. I don’t know. I have not been in a fight or been drinking. I have not hit my head. All I know is that I discovered a lump on my head which is bleeding and I know I won’t live”. Drifting into a coma, the next day at 12:45pm, Harry died of his injuries… …unable to tell the Police anything about his “accident”. With the investigation headed up by Superintendent Beveridge, DDI Jamieson and Inspector Grange, Harry’s flat didn’t seem like the scene of an assault. Far from it. It was messy, but there was no sign of a struggle. With all three windows locked from within, there was no forced entry. And with blood dotted in a steady line upon the carpets between the bedroom, bathroom and hallway, he grabbed a towel to stem the wound, he made a call for an ambulance, and then he collapsed upon his bed. If it was an attack, it was motiveless, as nothing seemed to be missing; his cheque book was on the side, he had 16 shillings in his suit pockets, and several pieces of saleable artwork hadn’t been touched. With no obvious weapon found, and only Harry’s hair and blood identified, it didn’t seem like a break-in by a stranger, so the police assumed that – if Harry had been attacked – he had let his assailant in. Several suspects were considered: every guest at the Christmas parties in that block were questioned and George Jenkinson (his wife’s former lover) was quizzed, but all had a cast iron alibi. With a wealth of sketches featuring unknown people who had posed for Harry found in his bedroom, although it was assumed that he may have sketched his killer before the attack, this was proven to be unlikely. And even though two of the porters had criminal records with one for violence, all eight were ruled out. The lack of evidence was driving the detectives towards a dangerous assumption, that “we believe he knew his killer”, and although “the theory that he was attacked by a walk-in thief has not been ruled out”, it didn’t seem logical that a stranger would break-in, steal nothing and leave as if he wasn’t there. On closer examination, Anna found that Harry’s black leather wallet was missing from inside of his suit jacket, and hidden by the steady stream of blood drops by his bed, on the leg of the metal tubular chair lay a finger and palm print which didn’t belong to Harry, Anna, the police or any of the porters. With the autopsy conducted by Dr Donald Teare, identifying two crescent shaped fractures to the right of his skull, one 5 ½ inches and the other 2 ½ inches long which split into sharp shards and punctured his brain, it was confirmed “that the tubular steel chair was the most likely cause of the wounds”. This was no accident. This was a murder. But who had killed Harry, and why? Three weeks after his death, the police had hit a brick wall. They had assumed that he had known his assailant, but with Harry being a solitary figure, they had exhausted every suspect, and with no sign of a break-in or a struggle, his killer was unlikely to be a burglar – so who had attacked him was unknown? The breakthrough in the investigation came down to an off-duty constable, unconnected to the case. On Tuesday 18th of January 1949, PC Walsh spotted two men in dark clothes acting suspiciously in St John’s Wood, outside of two affluent houses on Grove End and Hamilton Terrace. And as they dipped between the shadows, slipped down dark alleys, and furtively peeped in through unlit windows, calling for backup, at 5:55pm, PC Walsh arrested 26-year-old Thomas Collier and 21-year-old Harry Lewis. With the details of every local burglar being passed to the murder squad, taking their fingerprints, police found a perfect match to the murder of Harry Michaelson, which were linked to Harry Lewis. Questioned at Paddington police station, Harry Lewis would swiftly confess “it has come at last. I didn’t think I would get away with it. When I read about it in the newspapers, I knew he was the man I hit”. But who was he, and why had he murdered Harry? Born 28 years before and 170 miles north-west of Harry Michaelson’s birthplace, Harry Lewis was the illegitimate son of Annie Lewis, a single mother. Unable to support herself, being admitted to the Poor Law Institution at Hawarden in north-east Wales, aged three, Harry Lewis was abandoned and for the rest of his childhood, he would be bounced from foster parents to orphanages and penal institutions. From ages three to nine, he spent in the dark depressing gloom of the Cottage Homes orphanage in Holywell, where a lack of love left him feeling abandoned, lost and angry at the world. For one year, he was briefly boarded-out to a Mrs Williams in Leeswood, and although she said he was “likable and well-behaved”, getting sick, he was sent back to the orphanage where he would stay for nine years. Aged twelve, with the Second World War having erupted, against his will, he was sent to the Nautical Training School at Portishead, where destitute and neglected boys were giving hard military discipline, being barked at and bullied by authority figures, with the aim to find him a role in the Merchant Navy. Subjected to four years of compulsory discipline, his report describes him as “unsatisfactory… with numerous instances of dishonesty and theft… he is a boy greatly lacking in decent moral principles”. Booted out of the Nautical Training School and bounced back the Public Institution at Holywell, his file lists him as “troublesome, insolent, unmanageable and a confirmed thief”, and lasting a few weeks as a labourer at the Steel Works in Shotton, Harry was seen as “a poor workman and mentally weak”. What followed was a series of committals to institutions and petty criminal acts. In December 1943, aged 16, he was placed on probation back at the Holywell Public Institution, where he absconded. In January 1944, he was sentenced to 28 days for stealing cigarettes. The next month, he was committed to two years at the Approved Probation Home for Youths in Stonebridge Park. And although aged 17, having enlisted as a private in the Middlesex Regiment to avoid more time in borstal; he was fined £7 in Chester for forgery, sentenced to 2 years at Marylebone for theft, and discharged from the Army for theft and assaulting a woman, that had been his entire life up unto the age of 20. On 7th December 1948, just 18 days before, Harry Lewis was released from Wormwood Scrubs prison. Described as “a violent and undisciplined man whose record reveals no redeeming features”, even though he was married and had a three-year-old child; he didn’t have a job, he didn’t have a home, his wife had – rightfully – fled from her violent abusive husband, and he had nothing. Abandoned, just like he had been as a baby, he drifted across the city, with no money, no hope, no life and no future. By the Christmas Day of 1948, Harry Lewis had never met Harry Michaelson… …he didn’t know him, and he had nothing against him - he was a stranger. It’s a strange thought, but while the city celebrated Christmas, both Harry’s were sat alone; with Harry Michaelson in a basement flat in Marylebone, and Harry Lewis in a cheap B&B in Euston. And whereas one made his living bringing joy with his sketches, the other knew nothing but theft, “It was early on Sunday morning”, Harry Lewis said, “I’d no money and I thought I’d break into a house and get some”. It was between 2am and 3am, when passing the corner of Brown Street and Nutford Place, that Harry Lewis happened to stumble upon a thin window left open a crack, by a man whose dose of malaria 30 years before had left his body swinging from fevers to chills, even on a cold night like this. “There was a big drop down into the basement, so I jumped the railings and dropped”, far from the porter’s view. Hidden in the dark, as the convicted burglar crept along this concrete slit, “I opened the window and heard a man snoring”. Breaking into a dark but occupied flat was riddled with risks like injury, capture, arrest and even death, but being desperate, it was worth the risk, just as long as Harry was silent. “I climbed in. It was dark. I was feeling my way round and came to the bottom of a bed at the far end”. That being Harry’s bed, in which he slept, his slumber just a single sound from being broken. “A man’s trousers was lying on a metal chair, I took a wallet, some coins, and I then went out into the hall”. As a stranger staggering about in an unfamiliar flat, he had no idea that the hall only led to the kitchen-cum-bathroom with very little in it, the corridors of Furzecroft which were patrolled by night porters, a set of main doors which had been locked many hours before, and that the only item of any real value which was worth stealing was the wallet. Harry didn’t know that, but by then, his luck had run out. “When I got into the hall, a chap sat up in bed and said who’s there”, Harry: “who’s there?”. With the owner awake, the only way out was through him and the window from which he’d entered, “the chap was just getting out of bed. I was frightened of getting caught… so I picked up the metal chair. It was the first thing I could put my hands on, and I thought I could knock him out with it, just a bash on the head. He fell, but started getting up again. I swung the chair again and gave him another bash. He was then leaning against the wall on his left side. I then dropped the chair and left, the way I come in”. Fleeing into the cold night, and hopping into a taxi on Edgware Road, the burglar of 75 Fursecroft got away with four £1 notes and two 10-shilling notes, barely enough to last him until the end of the week. It was a random attack by a total stranger for the sake of some quick cash. Harry Michaelson was small and sick, so there was unlikely to be a struggle. And with the attack swift, very little to steal, and no obvious point of entry or exit, the detectives had made a lazy assumption based on the evidence they had, but it was wrong, and they wouldn’t realise the truth until Harry Lewis made a full confession. Back in the flat, slumped upon his bed, as blood poured down his head, the detectives wouldn’t suspect that the thin casement window was how the burglar had got in, as – doing what anyone else would do having been attacked in their home – Harry Michaelson had locked it and drew the curtain. It’s tragic, but Harry could have survived his attack. Only, being helpless and alone, with his wife many miles south, the porters above and his neighbours asleep having heard nothing, stumbling about his lonely flat with no memory of what had happened, the sharp shards of his fractured skull dug into his brain, leaving him confused, bleeding and afraid. It’s likely he’d spent at least two hours, maybe three, either collapsed on his bed or wandering about unsure why his head was bleeding. But having momentarily regained a short sense of consciousness, he phoned for an ambulance at 5:12am, and called the porter “Porter!” three minutes after that. Thirty-three hours later, Harry Michaelson was dead. (End) Tried at the Old Bailey on 9th of March 1949, before Lord Chief Justice Goddard, Harry Lewis pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the murder of Harry Michaelson. He didn’t deny the burglary or the attack, stating “I saw in the newspapers a photo of the window I had got through, and I realised the man I had hit was dead. I did not know the dead man. It was just a chance shot that I entered the place that night. And although I hit him hard, I did not mean to kill him. I did it just to get away without being caught”. That same day, although one of the jury had to be expelled as he objected to the death penalty, a jury of ten men and two women deliberated for 35 minutes and unanimously found him guilty of murder. Sympathising with his tragic upbringing, the jury recommended mercy for Harry Lewis, but with his appeal was dismissed on the 21st of April, he was executed by hanging that very same day. Harry Michaelson was buried in East Ham Jewish Cemetery and Harry Lewis was buried in Pentonville Prison. That said, the murder of Harry Michaelson might never have been solved, had the detectives not been so dogged as to assume that he had let in his killer. As Eugene Fordsworthe said, “assumption is the mother of all mistakes” and by making a simple assumption, they had made the mother of all mistakes. And although there was a small chance that as he lay in his hospital bed, that ‘one minute Michaelson’ could sketch his killer as the detectives hoped, by that point, that’s all his memory was – sketches. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
47 Frith Street in Soho, formerly the Peeperama Striptease
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 THIRTY-TWO:
On Friday 23rd April 1960, 23-year-old Elaine Baker finished her shift as a striptease artiste at the Peeperama on 47 Frith Street in Soho. It was an odd job for her to do, as she was so quiet and shy. Fifteen minutes after her arrival back home at 19 Tredegar Square in Bow, East London, she stabbed her boyfriend to death. But 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.
The location is marked with a dark grey/sludgy coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Soho', among the mess of markers. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Frith Street in Soho, W1; one street north of the Taj Mahal killing, a few doors south of the five-shilling striptease, the same building as the last failed erection of The Blackout Ripper, and a few doors down from the shopkeeper who sold more than bacon - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 47 Frith Street currently stands Ronny Scott’s jazz club, a musical institution, where nightly swarms of hipsters’ form - wearing cravats, bowties, monocles, feather boas and top hats, as nothing says ‘I have no personality’ like dressing like a Victorian street urchin at a Mardi Gras – and where they hope to hear some nice jazz, like, you know, something with a recognisable melody? But instead they end up listening to that free-form bollocks which sounds like an asthmatic stomping a seal pup to death. Back in the 1960s, at 47 Frith Street was a seedy little strip-club called Peeperama, where sad losers got their jollies by ogling bored ladies jiggling their wobbly bits. One of those ladies was Elaine Baker, a young woman with dreams, who was described as “one of the shyest striptease artistes I have ever met”, and although it looked as if she was having fun, behind her painted-on smile lay pain and anger. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 232: Finally, a home. Everybody has a dream. For some, it’s something they can achieve by themselves; whether to paint, to write or to build a business, where all they need is themselves and belief. Whereas for others like Elaine, her dream of a home, a marriage and several children required a second person - a husband. Elaine Baker began life as Elaine Barkworth on the 10th of August 1936. She said she knew little about her early life, her family and her upbringing, incorrectly telling the Police that she was born in Manchester, but maybe her childhood was something she had chosen to forget? Raised in the district of Bucklow in Cheshire, she never spoke of her father, she didn’t have a loving relationship with her mother, and as at least one of five siblings, she had two brothers and two sisters, but being taken into care when she was only 12, she spent most of her formative years in foster care. Denied love and guidance, as she was bounced between care homes and foster parents owing to her parent’s neglect, although her abandonment had made her incredibly caring and maternal with a deep desire to be loved but also to give love, regressing into herself, she became the epitome of shyness. As a short curvy redhead with pale skin and freckles, she always looked young, and later described as “a pathetic little creature”, for the price of a kiss, a hug or a little compassion, often she was easily led. In 1954, when she was 18, her foster mother died. And although legally an adult, no longer being the burden of the council’s responsibility, she was out on her own, even though she was still only a child. Described as being of lower-than-average intelligence owing to inconsistent schooling, she earned her way as a single girl through a series of manual jobs in laundries and hotels, and through necessity, she received three minor convictions: for the theft of a coat and stockings, a breach of probation and ‘the use of insulting words’. She wasn’t a bad person, she just lacked trust in others, and for good reason. Her late teens were riddled with more tragedy than most people could cope with in a lifetime. In 1953, aged 17, she lost all contact with her mother and her father she couldn’t remember. On 18th of August 1955, aged 19, as part of her dream, she gave birth to a child, but being illegitimate in an era when a single mother was as sinful as theft, she was forced to give it up for adoption. And on 14th May 1956, after just three weeks of unhappy abusive marriage to Karl G Baker, yet another dream had shattered. In August 1958, with no family, no home, no children and no marriage, every part of her fantasy was broken, and being desperate to leave all of her pain behind, she fled to London to start a new life. Three months later, she would meet Ronnie, the man of her dreams. As a shy uncertain girl, it took real courage to come out from behind her shadow to work as a cinema usherette at the Troxy on East London’s Commercial Road. Burdened by a soft voice, a quiet manner and a pale face which blushed like a little cherry tomato whenever a stranger spoke a few words to her, although far from outgoing, maybe it was her childlike qualities which lured Ronnie towards her? Three years her junior, 20-year-old Ronald was born and raised in London. As a six-foot three-inch hunk of loveliness, with a boyish face, a mop of dark hair and a big beaming smile, although he towered over this tiny redhead, Elaine was instantly smitten. Seeing him as marriage material, they moved in together, and with him earning three times her wage as a labourer, life looked promising. Elaine would state “for six or seven months we have lived together as man and wife” in different parts of East London. Unable to afford much, at the start of March, they moved into a small basement room in a shared lodging at 19 Tredegar Square in Bow. And although it wasn’t much, it was their home. The kitchen they shared with several others, but that was no problem, as it was clean, it had the latest mod-cons and most of the lodgers were quiet and helpful. Barely 10 feet square and with not even enough space to swing the proverbial cat, although their bed sitting room was a little pokey, it had everything this young couple needed; a sofa which folded out into a bed, a radio to play their records on, a decent sized wardrobe for all of their clothes, and even two porcelain cats to make it look nice. It was the start of something special for Elaine. Finally, she had a home. A place to call her own. With a job that she liked, the man who she loved, and – having come from nothing – there was talk of the things that she dreamed of the most, a happy marriage, many babies and a life of unbridled happiness. Her dream had finally come true… …and yet, once again, it would end in tragedy. It made sense that Ronnie paid the lion’s share of the bills, as he earned £11 per week whereas she only took in enough for the rent and little more than that. But as a bone-idle dawdler who despised the daily grind and would rather spaff his cash up the wall by seeing his pals and quaffing pints, “I used to get annoyed”, Elaine would state “because Ron wouldn’t go to work”. In short, he couldn’t be arsed. In court, the judge described Ronnie as “a worthless creature who treated her like an oriental chattel”; little more than a skivvy who made his meals, cleaned his clothes, and funded his nights on the sauce. With the Troxy on its final year as a cinema, before it shut, shifts were short and with their being few jobs she could do, “we had one or two arguments about this, but we’d always make up afterwards”. It was then, that - instead of agreeing to get off his arse and earn an honest living like any prospective husband with half a brain cell and an ounce of love in his heart - he made Elaine an indecent proposal. It wasn’t her thing, but – it was said – that Ronnie had taken her to Freddie’s Tropicana Club on Greek Street in Soho. It served drinks and it played music, only it wasn’t a nightclub, but a seedy striptease. The Tropicana at 11 Greek Street was a sleezy little cesspit, hidden under a cheesy café and accessed by a set of dark-lit steps, it led down to a dingy basement which stunk of bad breath, body odour, stale ciggies and an unerringly salty stench which made anyone with a set of working nostrils gag and retch. As the only female customer, Elaine couldn’t help but feel a sickening wave of revulsion wash over her as a gaggle of perverted little gits, grinned lasciviously as they eyed her tiny body up and down. Only, Ronnie hadn’t brought her here for fun, but for work. Having nagged incessantly, although a shy girl who blushed uncontrollably and was insecure about her shape, he wanted her to become a stripper. Yes, she would hate it. Yes, she was afraid. And yes, just the thought of it made her feel nauseous. But with it paying £12 per week, three times her miniscule wage as a cinema usherette, a little bit of saucy nudity would clear their back rent and any unpaid bills, until he found work and got back on his feet. It was something she didn’t want to do, but for him, she would. And with the Tropicana’s owners also running the Peeperama on Frith Street, although the manageress said, “she was the shyest stripteaser there”, Elaine’s demureness lured in the perverts who – through her – fantasied about shy young girls. To cover their debts, she started stripping at the start of March. After that, Ronnie didn’t work again… …as with her earning more than him, he didn’t have to. Friday 23rd April 1960 started out as most days often did… with an argument. Over the past few weeks, as he became lazier, more self-entitled and often woke late with a hangover after a jolly night out with his pals paid for by her, and as their fights had become physical, she used make-up to hide her bruises. Three days before, Ronnie had finally got a job labouring on a building site. Elaine would say “I set the alarm for 7:30am, but he didn’t get up” – he didn’t want to and (in his mind) he didn’t have to. Having made breakfast, Elaine used a torch to navigate their messy bed-sitting room as the light-switch he had said he would fix was still broken, and with him “still in bed as I left at 11:05am, I asked him if he was going to work. He said he was. As I left our room, I left the door open thinking that would make him get up, but as I went up the stairs to head out, he slammed the door shut and that made me mad”. He wasn’t going to work, she knew that. With 10 shillings in her purse, she’d given him two-thirds to put food in the cupboard, which she hoped he would do. And although she’d work a 12-hour shift until nearly midnight to earn money for them, she guessed that by the time she got back, he’d be drunk. The Peeperama at 47 Frith Street was as equally seedy as the Tropicana. Being just shy of Old Compton Street, this side of Soho was surrounded by pubs, brothels and similarly seedy establishments, which catered for some of the most pathetic losers imaginable who lived for drinking, leering and wanking. Like any other striptease, this venue was as erotic as an abattoir, as a parade of bored women sat behind a foul-smelling curtain waiting to be ogled like pieces of meat before some drooling deadbeats. For these stars of the show, there was no dressing room, no glamour and no hints of Hollywood, just a few stools, a brimming ashtray, a curtain rail of unwashed slutty outfits they’d only wear for a few minutes at best, a cracked make-up mirror with a single stark bulb overhead, and an overflowing toilet. It was about as sexy as a dose of dysentery, but for a few sad gits that night, it was enough. For Elaine, “I learned the job, but I didn’t like it”, so as the purple curtains were pulled apart, again like a wound-up automaton, she started to dance. With no stage just a sticky carpet, a single light which was hardly flattering, and a cheesy track playing in mono through a crackly record player, surrounded by a semi-circle of creaky chairs and sleezy men stifling semis, a sea of leering eyes ate up every inch of her unveiling skin as with hands in their pockets, they all bobbed up and down to the sexy rhythm. Still painfully shy, as much as she hated it, Elaine did what she needed to do, to live and survive. Like so many others, although her body danced, behind her eyes she was dead, as the second she saw the sad bastards before her, she knew that all she wanted to do was to spit in their faces, or be sick, so as she jiggled her bare breasts a few feet from several possible rapists, three things occupied her mind: Hunger: as having given her boyfriend every penny she had, only able to afford a sandwich and a cup of tea all day, she was weak, and tired, and aware that the audience could hear her rumbling belly. Drugs: as being conscious of her weight, struggling to stay awake and needing something it soothe her pain and shame, she’d started drinking, and taking Preludin, an appetite suppressant and a stimulant. And finally, there was hope: as still believing that her dream could still come true, “I hope that Ronnie would get a job and that we’d get married”. But deep down, she must have known it was a lie… …as back home, a nightmare awaited her. At midnight, Elaine exited the tube at Bow, her feet aching after twelve hours tottering in high heels, dodging kisses and ducking gropes as a butt-crack of losers headed home to their wife’s cold shoulder. With her cheeks sore from grinning inanely, as she entered the dark silence of Tredegar Square, again her belly rumbled having barely eaten a thing all day. She hoped that she’d be welcomed home by her husband-to-be with a soft kiss, followed by a nice meal lovingly prepared by him, but it was not to be. “When I walked into the kitchen, I saw there was no meal”; there were no plates on the table, nothing boiling on the hob, and no food in the cupboard, just half a bag of old potatoes, barely at their best. “I went into the front room which was in darkness”, as after weeks of complaining, he hadn’t fixed the light switch, he hadn’t even attempted to fix the light switch. In fact, as always, he had done nothing. Flickering her lighter, by its limp orange glow “I saw Ronnie lying on the bed with his clothes on”, him all sprawled out like he’d had a hard day; the stale odour of beer and cigarettes on his breath, and the seven shillings she had given him for food was gone having been blown on getting pissed with his pals. “I asked him if he had been to work. He rolled over and said, ‘what’s it to you?’, I said ‘If I’m working so should you, or are you going to start your old tricks again?’ By this, I meant not bothering to work. He then said, ‘I’m sick’, I replied ‘the only thing you’re sick with is idleness’. He then called me a ‘bloody bastard’ and as I turned, he jumped out of bed, and we argued”. It was like every other night prior. He told lies, he made excuses, he never once thanked her for keeping them float by paying the rent, clearing the bills, and putting food in his belly. “And as he slapped me round the face, I tried to hit him back, but I could not reach him”, as this six-foot three-inch hulk towered over the tiny frame of Elaine. She told Detective Superintendent Beal, “I walked into the kitchen and went to a drawer and took out a knife”. When asked, “Is this the knife?”, showing her a small four-inch blade, she replied “yes, I was going to peel some potatoes and make chips. Ronnie came in behind me, I asked him if he wanted any, he said, ‘what do you care if I eat or not?’. We had words and hit me on the nose and forehead”. As her eyes filled and her nose bled red, knowing this would be another bruise she’d have to hide, she stood there shaking, knowing that this was what her life had become. There was no dream, only shit. What happened next may never be known, as Elaine’s recollection was hazy at best. Initially, she told the Police, “he walked into the kitchen and then called out”, (“Elaine!”) “when I went into the hall, he was lying there covered in blood”. The DS asked “as far as you were aware, you were the only person in the basement with him at that time. So, how do you suggest he was stabbed?”, at which she replied, “I don’t know. He might have done it himself. He was always saying he was fed up”. As those words stumbled from her fumbling mouth, they all knew it was a lie, as her fingerprints were found on the knife’s handle, and his blood had poured down her waist, her legs and her feet. Only it was clear that she was not evil woman hellbent on murdering her man, this was just a frightened girl who was in panic and fear, grasping at straws, as the life she had always dreamed of was now over. Later, Elaine would claim it was an accident “he walked out into the hall and called ‘Elaine! Elaine!’. At first, I thought he was fooling. I thought something must be wrong. I walked out and saw Ronnie lying on the floor, crouched up and a lot of blood, and I realised I must have stabbed him with the knife”. At that point, unsure what to do, Elaine shouted for Michael Molloy, a labourer who lodged in a back room on the ground floor who had always been very decent to both. Oddly, when questioned, Michael confirmed “I went to sleep and heard a scream. I thought I was having a nightmare, so I took no notice. A couple of minutes later, I heard Elaine calling me hysterically, and I thought something was wrong”. And it was. Michael would state “I found Ronnie lying at the bottom of the stairs on his stomach. I turned him over and saw blood. Elaine was kneeling over Ronnie; she was sobbing, calling his name”. As blood pooled around Ronnie like a sticky red halo, desperate to stop the bleeding, Michael started searching for a wound, “Elaine was very excited and in trying to find where the blood was coming from she tore the shirt completely off. I said, ‘this chap has been stabbed’, but she made no comment”. Dragging Ronnie to the kitchen, the only room with a working light, making do as best he could to save his life “I collected some clean underpants to dress the wound. He was coughing. I laid him on his back, had Mrs Hynes call for an ambulance, and I covered him with blankets as that seemed all I could do”. When asked why she’d changed out of her bloodied clothes and why Ronnie’s blood had been washed away, Michael replied “the floor was completely covered with blood which I mopped up. I told Elaine to get dressed and clean herself as she’d have to go to hospital” – as to him, this wasn’t a crime scene, but a shared house in which many people lived, including this young couple who often had fights. With the ambulance arriving faster than the police, as Elaine got in to accompany Ronnie to hospital, when PC Adams asked, “what happened?”, again in panic, she said “I don’t know. I didn’t see”. Not realising that everything thing she said and everything she did would be used in evidence against her. With Ronnie gasping for breath, when the ambulanceman asked “what happened?”; she said she didn’t know, she said she’d tell him later, and then “he was playing with a knife, he had an accident”. And when asked in court to recall her words, both of these professionals did so, without hesitation. And although they had sped just a short distance to Mile End hospital, by the time they had arrived, with a single stab wound to the heart, Dr Lucas would inform Elaine that Ronnie was dead. Becoming hysterical, she kept saying “it can’t be, it can’t be”, and on several occasions in the hospital and on route to Bow Police station, she became violent, and she had to be retained as she tried to flee. Questioned at 1:20am, an hour after their fight, asked to tell the truth, Elaine sobbed “I did do it. I was making chips, I had the knife in my hand, and I said, ‘have you been drinking?’, he said ‘yeah, so what, I’m not gonna to sit and wait about for you every evening’. I saw red and struck out with the knife”. An autopsy conducted by Dr F E Camps at Poplar Mortuary would confirm “he had superficial scratches to his right arm and his upper chest” indicative of a fight with a long-fingernailed woman, “and a single stab wound midway between the nipples, which passed between the ribs, and embedded four inches deep (the full length of the blade) through the end of the heart and part of one of the valves, resulting in extensive internal bleeding of the left side of chest”, which was the primary cause of death. And with the Scientific Officer of the Met’ Police Laboratory unable to find any trace of alcohol in his blood or urine, the knife having been wiped clean of his blood, and Elaine having changed her story several time to several witnesses, having started with nothing, now her life was over. (End) Held at Holloway Prison, the medical officer would state “she has shown no evidence of mental illness, she has extensive bruising to the left-hand side of her forehead, upper chest, upper arms, both thighs and lower legs. All of these injuries are recent, within the timeframe of the incident”, and although impulsive and emotional, she didn’t show any sign of aggression, but got upset talking about her past. With the press taking pity on her predicament, a nationwide appeal was made to find her parents, and – after almost seven years apart – Elaine and her mother Constance were reunited at Holloway Prison. Tried at The Old Bailey on the 21st of May 1960, she pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder owing to provocation, with the prosecution not asking if she had intended to kill him, but to do him harm. When cross-examined, the Met’ Police’s scientific officer stated that no alcohol was detected because “it is destroyed a rate of ¾ of a pint per hour”, and with the pathologist confirming that – although considerable force had been used to stab him - “if, at the time, the body was moving forward, it does not need a great deal of force. It is no more than just an ordinary push”. Implying that if he was moving forward to attack her, she could conceivably have stabbed him by mistake, as she had initially thought. Described by the judge as “a pathetic creature who was full of remorse for the man she still loved”, three days later and after four hours of deliberation, a jury of nine men and three women found her not guilty of murder and not guilty of manslaughter. When the verdict was read, it was said she wept. As she was led away to freedom, when interviewed on the steps of the Old Bailey, she said “I was very much in love. I felt I could reform him. Perhaps then for the first time in my life I would have a home”. 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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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 THIRTY-FOUR:
On Monday 18th of August 1952 at roughly 2pm, a scream came from Flat 8 on the third floor of 21 Hanson Street in Fitrovia, W1. The neighbours found the body of 23-year-old Georgia Andreou on her bed. She had died possibly by her own hand, but how did she die and who knew what?
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Hanson Street in Fitzrovia, W1; four streets south-west of the Charlotte Street robbery, one street east of the murder of ‘The Lady’, three streets east of the rape by the cowardly billionaire’s son, and two streets south of the gangster who lost it all - coming soon to Murder Mile. Hanson Street is quite possibly the dullest street in London. It’s so dull, the dogs bark out of boredom, each flat has its own yawn, if a gallery opened up it would be shut down for being too rowdy, and the only sound you’ll hear is as a moped roars by to deliver an overpriced substandard pizza from the place at the end of the road, to brainless deadbeats who refuse to wash up, will only eat the blandest of double syllable foods and then order “Alexa, hire a flunky to chew my food and then wipe my bum”. Halfway down is 21 Hanson Street, a red brick five-storey mansion-block from which a single sound is rarely uttered. And where families, couples and singletons go about their lives within a few feet of one another, but rarely mix or mingle, except for a perfunctory “hello” and an all all-too-hasty “goodbye”. And yet, on Monday 18th of August 1952 at roughly 2pm, a scream from Flat 8 on the third floor of 21 Hanson Street carried so far that many of the neighbours came flocking to see what the commotion was about. A woman was dead, possibly by her own hand, but how did she die and who knew what? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 234: Deadly Soap. When there’s no separation between religion and the law, too often the laws of our land are shaped by moralising policy makers who have very little connection with the side of the society that their law affects. And with almost no recourse, too often it’s the innocent who are driven to take drastic steps. Georgia Antoniou was born Georgia Andreou on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus on an unspecified date in 1929, as one of two daughters and a son to Anastasia. Being a traditional Greek Cypriot who was raised as a Greek Orthodox Christian, when they came to Britain five years before, they brought with them their language, culture and beliefs, which were hard to replicate in post war Britain. As a trained dressmaker, Georgia got work as a seamstress at a clothing company called Linda Lea off Oxford Street. In March 1949, she married George Antoniou who worked as a commission agent, and for the last two years, they had lived in a small self-contained flat at 21 Hanson Street in Fitzrovia. Something that rankled Georgia’s values was that she wasn’t married in a Greek Orthodox Church, but in a local registry office. It was never explained why, as her faith had never waivered (as far as we know), but it doesn’t make sense; as the first Greek Orthodox Church in London was built in nearby Soho in the 1700s, for centuries London has had a thriving Greek Cypriot community, and as a Crown colony from 1925, during World War Two, this city became the seat of the Greek government in exile. As a working-class woman who spoke limited English, like many, she found all the support she needed by keeping close to her family and community, especially during times when she needed them most. On 7th of June 1952, 23-year-old Georgia visited the surgery of Dr Michael Liassides in Kentish Town, as her mother Anastasia sat in the waiting room. Having examined her, although an initial test proved inconclusive, on the 10th of July, just one month later, Georgia got the news that she was pregnant. Like her mother, she would have made a great parent, and being fit, strong and healthy, there was no physical reason not to have a child. But as recent immigrants struggling to stay afloat in a foreign land and with her relationship with her loving husband a little strained, this wasn’t the right time for her. It was the wrong decision for her to have a child at that very moment. It was unfair on the baby to be born into a family which wasn’t ready to accept it. A baby should be welcomed into the world out of love not reluctance, having been forced to exist owing to laws written by men and demanded by large swathes of society who will never give birth. And as much as she would love her child dearly, it wasn’t right to burden it with a life of want, when she could wait until her dire circumstances had improved. Some might say, “well if she didn’t want a baby, then she shouldn’t have had sex”? But everything was against her; the pill didn’t exist yet, condoms were outlawed by her religion, and abstinence was an option, but how often is consensual sex ever consensual? Is it always an act of mutual passion, or does one party feel pestered into giving up a perfunctory ‘fuck and fumble’ just to get a good night’s sleep? Inside her body, the clock was ticking. In six months’ time, a baby would be born whether she liked it, or not. And as much as her religion forbade it, society scoffed, and the moralising lawmakers denied her any right to decide what she could do with her own body, she had an impossible decision to make… …to appease the people by what suited their moral values, or to break the law and risk everything she had worked hard for; her freedom, her citizenship, her home, her family, her health… …and – of course - her life. Until the Abortion Act of 1967, a series of unfair moralistic laws had led untold scored of good decent women to seek out the only alternatives they had to an unwanted pregnancy. Even in 1952, five years into the formation of the National Health Service, a taxpaying woman couldn’t have (what is in effect) an unwanted growth removed from their insides at a publicly funded hospital. So, many sought out unqualified backstreet abortionists, unreliable homemade remedies or drank a cocktail of unregulated poisons – which newspapers advertised as ‘a cure for menstrual blockages’ – many of which caused hair loss, fever, vomiting, bleeding, loss of kidney function, blindness, paralysis, and even death. In 1923, 15% of all maternal deaths were due to illegal abortions and the rate of unwanted pregnancies was climbing. One woman said “my aunt died self-aborting. She had three children and couldn’t feed a fourth… so she used a knitting needle and died of septicemia leaving all her children motherless”. In 1936, the Abortion Law Reform Association was set-up to campaign for the legalisation of abortion. In 1938, Dr Alex Bourne was acquitted of performing an abortion on a 14-year-old girl who had been gang-raped and was suicidal - which opened the doors to the legally acquired abortion, but only if her life was in danger and with a psychiatrist’s approval. And although the 1960s and the availability of the contraceptive pill changed women’s lives, far too many were still being killed by illegal abortions. In 1967, the Abortion Act became law which legalised abortion for pregnancies up to 23 weeks and 6 days, with no limit on a foetus with a fatal abnormality, or any birth which posed a risk to the mother. It’s a law which still exists today… …but for Georgia, living in 1952, she didn’t have that option. It’s understandable that Anastasia, Georgia’s mother, would deny all knowledge of the abortion, as under the Offences against the Person Act of 1861 and The Infant Life (Preservation) Act of 1929, even the act of aiding an illegal abortion risked her being imprisoned. So, what she knew or did is uncertain? Initially, she stated “I did not know my daughter was expecting a baby or had been to see a doctor”, which we know was untrue, but upon her arrest, the statements she gave may be nearer to the truth. Back in June 1952, Anastasia said of that time “my daughter told me that she had not seen her period for a few days”, and with it being spotty and inconsistent, “I told her perhaps it was a cold”. But with the pregnancy confirmed by Dr Liassides, Georgia’s nightmare had begun. “When we left the doctor’s house I said to my daughter ‘you have a husband and married women do have children’. Many times we spoke about the pregnancy. She said she did not want to have a child as she was not married in a church, and I used to tell her that many Cypriot ladies were not married in the church, but they did have children because the registry marriage is valid”. But as a Greek Cypriot with traditional values, Georgia was not convinced. Whether this is true or not, we shall never know. “A few days later, my daughter said to me ‘I have heard of a certain woman, and I want you to come with me so that we can see this woman. Perhaps she knows something to tell me about this matter’”. Taking the short walk along the Charing Cross Road from her mother’s house on Goodge Place to a poorly lit side-street off Shaftesbury Avenue, Georgia & Anastasia arrived at 54 New Compton Street. Anastasia would state “we went to the house of this woman, and I learned her name is Harita”. Which wasn’t entirely true, as her name was Haritini Mattheou, a 54-year-old widow with two children, who made a living as a seamstress, but – as a former nurse – helped those in need in the Greek community. Haritini would contradict “I have known Anastasia for three or four years. I met her on the corner of New Compton Street, and we talked together because we are both from Cyprus. She has been to my house many times and I have been to her address in Goodge Place about three months ago”. As the possible abortionsist, it’s also understandable why she would lie. But this is not to imply a kind of sinister conspiracy, far from it, as these were two working-class immigrant women who spoke very little English and had even less status engaging in an illegal act - not for profit, but because it was right. What their conversation was, we will never know, as – rightly afraid of the law and the ramifications of their actions – what was decided has been lost to the midst of time. Anastasia said, “my daughter and the woman were speaking together in English, which I do not understand”, whereas Haritini said “Mrs Andreou and another lady who she said was her daughter went into my flat and stayed about half an hour. Mrs Andreou talked about her feet and bad legs”, but apparently nothing else was said. As they left, Anastasia recalled “I heard the woman say to my daughter ‘it is nothing, don’t be afraid’, with Haritini stating, “they asked me to call on them at Hanson Street and I said ‘of course, one day’”. In their statements, neither of them say anything about an abortion… …and for good reason. Monday 18th of August 1952 was the day that – possibly by chance - Haritini Matheou popped by the flat of Georgia Antoniou for lunch, and Georgia’s mother, Anastasia dropped in to do some cleaning. According to Georgia’s husband, at 9:30am, “she got up, she was well, a baby was due”. And although, at 10am, he left for work as usual, he didn’t know that neither she nor the baby would survive the day. At 1pm, Haritini said she dropped by, with the door to Flat 8 of 21 Hanson Street opened by Georgia. A short while afterwards, Anastasia claimed “I thought it was right to call there and make the bed for her as usual, since I knew that she was starting work after the holiday”, having taken two weeks off. The flat was small, thin and practical; with a sitting room overlooking the street, a bedroom opposite the front door, a dining room at the back, and in the middle, a kitchen-cum-bathroom with a gas hob for cooking and a bath for bathing, as before central heating, that was how you heated the bath water. Anastasia said “I went upstairs, opened the door and I saw my daughter in the bedroom. When I saw her, I was surprised, and I said, ‘why did you not go to work’. She told me she was unwell. Then in the bedroom I saw the woman, but I had no right to say anything, it was not my room”. Which was odd as Haritini claimed “the three of us sat down and talked about the housework in general”, nothing more. In her defence, Anastasia said she was only there to make lunch, as proven by a half-cooked chicken in the kitchen - even though she also believed that her daughter was at work and was surprised by a guest in the flat which made no sense at all - and that Haritini had was only there for a chat and a tea. It was while she was in the kitchen that Anastasia said she noticed “a bowl on the gas, I don’t know that was in it, the water was coloured”, and feeling afraid “I wanted to leave the house, not to see or know anything. My daughter said to me ‘go and sit in the sitting room. It is nothing to do with you’”. It was then that both stories converged, as apparently Georgia said ‘I’ve got a headache’, her mother told her to lay down, and seconds later, both women stated “we heard a noise like something falling”. In the bedroom, Haritini said “Georgia was lying on the floor of the bedroom… the mother and I lifted her on the bed. I then put water on her forehead to bring her round, as I have nursing experience having been trained as a Registered Midwife in Cyprus and was given a certificate in 1931 and 1935”, which was either a brave or a stupid thing to admit, given the situation which had already unfolded. By their own accounts, they had no idea why she was ill, “she had a pain in her stomach”, and although Georgia was able to open her eyes, she could not speak, was barely conscious and barely breathing. Desperate to revive her from a mysterious collapse, they did whatever they could; Haritini massaged her heart and her unstockinged legs with eau-de-cologne, and raised her legs over her head, as in the 1950s, these were believed to be effective forms of artificial resuscitation; and according to Anastasia “I smacked her on the face, bit her thumb and did what I could to bring her to, but I could not do so”. Telephoning for Georgia’s GP and stating, “come at once, bring an injection to save my daughter, she has fainted’”, Dr Liassides arrived just after 2pm, but by then, Georgia Antoniou was already dead. A single scream echoed the length of Hanson Street that day… …only, it wasn’t the death throes of Georgia, but the grief of her mother, Anastasia. Karen Russell in Flat 8, two floors below, ran up the stairwell to see Anastasia collapsed on the step; hysterically wailing like her soul was full of nothing but tears, as – described as demented – she ran from room-to-room, pulling at her hair and hitting herself, unable to comprehend the sheer horror. Joined by two neighbours, as they stood in the doorway, Caroline Ferris and Margaret Poli both saw Georgia’s lifeless body semi-clad and sprawled across the bed, and it clear that she was dead; as her open mouth uttered nothing not even a breath, a glistening tear on her lid was the only movement in her staring eyes, and her sweat-soaked face was etched in terror as if she had seen the devil himself. Unable to get any sense out of Anastasia, when asked “‘what happened?’, Haritini said ‘I don’t know… she fell down here’”, and when asked, “‘why haven’t you sent for a doctor?’, even though she had, she lied ‘I don’t know her doctor’, as Haritini silently slipped out of the flat, unseen by anyone. By the time that Dr Liassides arrived, the ambulance had already been stood down, a local undertakers were aware, and the attending Police Constable had alerted Scotland Yard to a possible homicide. Headed up by Detective Inspector Percy Woolway, this was a scene he had seen far too frequently in the last few decades, as many good women were driven to do something drastic out of utter despair. As always, the evidence was self-explanatory: as upon entry, the acrid stench of disinfectant stunk the air, as well as the sheets, the pillow and the groin of the woman herself, as with her stockings, slippers and knickers on the floor, her pale bare legs were stained with a steady stream of congealed blood. In the basin lay the recently pared shavings of a block of Lifebuoy soap. On the stove, a soiled pan sat empty, as around it fizzed the white scum of a foamy lather. And between her legs, lay an assortment of items which hadn’t arrived by accident; several rolls of cotton wool, an enema syringe, and the remainder of a glass containing two ounces of stiff soapy jelly made up of one-third of carbolic soap. None of these items belonged in the flat, and when quizzed neither woman said they recognised them. Having already questioned Anastasia, Haritini Matheou was arrested one week later, and at her flat at 54 New Compton Street they found a similar syringe, an identical brand of soap, and “eleven ampules of an undisclosed drug” which she admitted was to aid only herself, owing to a bout of constipation. On 3rd of September, Anastasia Andreou and Haritini Matheou were charged “with the manslaughter of Georgia Antoniou and conspiring to procure an abortion”. Both women denied the charge, they both gave statements pleading their innocence, and they were both remanded on bail for seven days. They denied any involvement in this illegal abortion… …but the evidence of what happened to Georgia was irrefutable. Her autopsy conducted by Dr Donald Teare at St Pancras Mortuary told a tragically familiar story. Listed as young, healthy and free from disease, a few hours or maybe a day before her death, Georgia had laid on her bed, praying that her unwanted and unspoken pregnancy would vanish without a trace. With her undergarments removed for a procedure she couldn’t have done alone, the pared shavings of carbolic soap, of the type freely available to most households, was dissolved in a warm pan of water until it reached a frothy Luke-warm lather, as if she was about the scrub her kitchen. Partially made of carbolic acid, it acted as an antiseptic for cleaning wounds, unless it was administered in a purer form. As a common form of abortion, the dissolved carbolic soap was inserted directly into the uterus using a rubberised enema syringe. Containing 30% carbolic acid, as the frothy lather engulfed the womb, being an irritant, the acid would cause the lining to enlarge, enflame and bleed until the embryonic sack had burst, and a few days later, the deceased foetus would be expelled… or that was the idea. A bruise on the back of the uterus’ neck was consistent with an enema syringe, and although a white fizz had enveloped the recently deceased two-month-old foetus, the pathologist formed the opinion “that the amount of pressure needed to distend the uterus by 4 ½ inches could not have been caused by the girl herself”. The baby was dead, having drowned in acid, but with the foetus still un-detached, force had to be used, her placenta had ruptured, and the lethal froth had entered her bloodstream. Carbolic soap was a cheap and readily available form of abortion to the average woman in need, its effects were quick, effective and devastating to the foetus, but – all too often - lethal to the mother. It only took a small tear in the delicate lining of the placenta for a few air-bubbles to leak inside of her. Once within, even a microscopic bubble of carbolic acid or even just pure clean air could circulate her entire body in just three minutes resulting in an embolism in her veins, arteries, heart, lungs and brain. Suffering confusion, paranoia, anxiety and even audible and visual hallucinations, her prolonged death – which the pathologist said “took as much as ten minutes” – would have resulted from arrhythmia, heart failure, lung collapse and a stroke, as lying helpless, her last gasps of breath frothed with blood. With no way to revive her, all Anastasia could do was to watch the daughter she had tried to save, die. And although, just 15 years later, an abortion had become a legal day procedure in a local hospital… …owing to unjust laws by the moral few, Georgia was killed because she didn’t have a choice. (End) Tried at the Old Bailey on 28th of October 1952, dressed in black and weeping uncontrollably, Anastasia Andreou stood in the dock, alongside Haritini Matheou. Pleading not guilty to the charge of feloniously killing Georgina Antoniou and unlawfully conspiring to procure an abortion, with such a public outcry of sympathy over this case, the prosecution provided no evidence, and both women were dismissed. It’s a situation that neither woman should have found herself in, to be forced do something illegal and harmful to herself, over a choice which was made by a stranger whose own belief had shaped the law. We all have a right to speak, a right to think and a right to believe, but the laws should be there so we all have the right to choose what is best for us, not what is best for someone we don’t know whose beliefs and lives may be contradictory to ours. And if law results in thousands of innocents dying every year, you have to question whether it’s right that a belief takes precedence over the lives of others. Since the implementation of the 1967 Abortion Act, around 10 million abortions have occurred legally and safely in the UK, 214000 happen in England and Wales every year, and with a mortality rate of just 0.6 deaths per 100,000, it’s a comparatively safe medical procedure which is only getting safer. The International Classification of Diseases stated that the most common reason for 98% of abortions was "the risk to woman's mental health". Thankfully in the UK, woman have a choice. But back in 1952, and even today in some supposedly “civilised” countries, women like Georgia have no choice at all. So, ask yourself this? What do you want? A law which goes against your supposedly moral beliefs, or – once again – thousands of desperate women driven to their deaths and being killed by deadly soap. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
23 Greek Street, Soho, as it looks today
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 THIRTY-ONE:
On Sunday 31st of July 1904, at roughly 12:30am, a fight broke out near the doorway of 23 Greek Street in Soho between two young men; Edward Devanney and Raphael Ciclino. Amidst a mele of fists and drunken yells, although its witnesses spoke of the shouts they’d heard and blows they’d seen, it seems strange that no-one saw the truth.
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Greek Street in Soho, W1; a few doors south of William Crees‘ deadly dose of syphilis, a few doors west of Susan Latterney’s Stockholm syndrome, a few doors up from Joe Gynane’s drug-fuelled murder spree, and a few steps from the hobo tax-collector - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 23 Greek street currently stands a five-storey office block, with the shell of Pleasant Lady Jian Bing’s Chinese street-food stall below and the stench of avocadoes and falafel coming from the production companies above. And with a horrible pebble-dashed façade like a statue’s been sick, a set of nasty white windows reminiscent of a 1980s comprehensive, and its graffiti covered wall wreaking of wee-wee, it’s so ugly, it looks like an architect sat on a box on Meccano and thought “meh, that’ll do”. Back in 1904, at 23 Greek Street stood a provisions shop called Dearden’s ran by the Dearden family, and above, in a modest three-storey terrace house was their home with space for several lodgers. On Sunday 31st of July 1904, at roughly 12:30am, a fight broke out near the doorway of 23 Greek Street between two young men; Edward Devanney and Raphael Ciclino. Amidst a mele of fists and drunken yells in a brawl which risked one man’s execution and another’s death, although its many witnesses spoke of the shouts they’d heard and blows they’d seen, it seems strange that no-one saw the truth. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 231: The Good Samaritans. Drinking and fighting are nightly staples of most cities, as once the pubs are shut, a puke of insensible idiots, incapable of rational thought after they’ve had a whole pint of ‘happy juice’, grunt like flatulent pigs as their lonely braincells command sovereign-ringed fists to pummel another Neanderthal’s head. Some say good riddance to these dregs of society… …but sometimes, there can be more to a fist fight than at first glance. The night of Saturday 30th of July 1904 was a hot one, as steam rose from a recent downpour on the streets, and with the air sticky, it seemed like the only way to quell the city’s temper was by drinking. 25-year-old Edward Thomas Devanney was a superintendent at the Hippodrome in Leicester Square. Holding down a steady job and living in a one-roomed lodging on New Compton Street, he had no real plans for the future, as he was all about Saturday nights out with his pals, with a few pints and a fight. Described as a ne’er-do-well, a yob, an oaf and a lout, he wasn’t the best blessed with brains, and once he’d got a few pints inside of him, he didn’t care who got hurt, as it was all about his pride and his fun. With a conviction for stealing a purse and a watch, he served 8 months hard labour. Having not learned his lesson, he stole another watch and served another 12 months. And with 12 more months for more theft, and 12 more months for the assault of a policeman, he’d spent 4 of his 7 adult years in prison, and – having shat his life away – he was unlikely to deviate from a path of theft, drink and violence. But then again, morons will always be morons. Having finished his shift at the Hippodrome, Edward did what he always did and headed out to Soho for a few pints with his pals; Arthur Langley, Edward Lynch and his brother-in-law James Albert Lee. As a 32-year-old labourer with scars, tattoos and cut knuckles, Arthur Langley had served nine years plus for theft, burglary and assault. But having realised he had wasted a third of his life, having almost gone straight, he hadn’t been arrested in five years. As for the other two, Edward Lynch was a local tailor who – being red-faced and a bit too loud – was prone to brawling but rarely got into any trouble, and James Lee, who – as a sober man – often stood quietly at the back, as tall and thin as a bean pole. And not being much of a drinker, James tried his best to keep his brother-in-law out of trouble… …and although he would try, he would not always succeed. Finishing his shift at the Hippodrome at 11:30pm, during which (as he often did) he had got pissed, Edward met up in a pub on Shaftesbury Avenue with Edward Lynch, Arthur Langley and James Lee, where it is said he swigged back three pints, until the pub called ‘last orders’ at just gone midnight. Booted out of the beverage shop and (almost certainly) singing a dirty little ditty about an impressively bosomed girl called Sally, the lads headed into Soho, and – for reasons which were never explained – they slunk to 23 Greek Street, where one of the Hippodrome’s super’s called Freddy Hopkins lodged. With their drunken bravado echoing across the deserted street, at about 12:30am, although the shop was shut and lights in the lodging above were out, Edward banged hard, and rang the bell incessantly. Waking Maud Dearden with a start, the landlord’s 18-year-old daughter said she heard “singing and banging… men shouting, and what sounded like a something being smashed”, and with their raucous braying unsettling the sleeping children, Maud stormed downstairs, her little sister cowering behind. Among the dark of the hallway, as a light burst in from outside owing to the broken front door hanging off its hinges, all she saw was the sinister silhouettes of three men; Devanney, Lynch and Langley. As a petite young woman wearing just her nightdress, she should have been scared, but being so used to their obnoxiousness, all she saw was a bunch of slurring intoxicated arseholes staggering around like their hips were made of jelly and demanding “where’s Hopkins… where’s that fat bastard got to?”. This wasn’t a robbery and this wasn’t an assault, this was just three drunks being dickheads. With this being her home and her family, Maud ushered these mashed menaces out, hissing “no, you’ll have to go, he’s sleep, come back tomorrow”, and with bean-pole frame of James Lee – as motionless and vague as ever, and almost silently blending in with the streetlamps – as he slowly shepherded the rear two outside - “come on lads, home time I think” - at that point Edward was still trying to get in. When questioned by the Police, Edward Devanney said “we rang the bell, but did nothing more to get in. Miss Dearden came down... I asked for Hopkins... she tried to stop me going upstairs. That’s it”. But as the lads congregated outside of 23 Greek Street… …a dark and sinister stranger approached. As Freddy Hopkins peered from his window, too cowardly to confront the commotion below, he’d tell the court “I saw a foreign man come round the corner”. Stocky like a bulldog, strutting like a peacock, and as stiff as a seething cobra ready to strike, dressed entirely in black, the dark Italian spat furiously. Having never seen him before, the lads had no idea what he wanted, as in an indecipherable gibberish, the Italian shoved Edward hard - “’ere what’s he saying?”, “nah f**k off mate”, “leave it out”, “I don’t f**king know who he is, nutjob is what”, “are you mad or summat?”, “who the f**k does he think he is bossing me about in my country, it’s a bloody liberty innit?”, “he must be a nutter, bloody eyeties”. But with this foreigner’s fists balled like the heads of two sledgehammers, although they didn’t speak the same language – spoiling for a fight – as James ushered Lynch and Langley across the street to safety, Edward and the ‘foreigner’ got stuck in, knocking seven shades of shit out of each other. As I say, morons will always be morons. Their fisticuffs only lasted a minute at best, maybe two, and with both men pummelling each as much as the other; nobody won, nobody lost, face was saved and with James separating the two, they both went about their ways shouting obscenities from ever-increasing distances - “vaffanculo”, “f*ck you”. And as they walked in different directions – not doubt regaling their pals with a bullshit version of this pathetic little spat – for Edward, although fuming, he’d had a good night, a few pints and a fight. It had begun as quickly as it had ended… …or, at least, that’s what they thought. Having walked up Greek Street, going the wrong direction, Edward recalled “after eighty yards I said I was going home, and I went back down towards Old Compton”, as he lived on New Compton Street. But as they approached the corner, there he was, the ‘foreigner’, right outside of 23 Greek Street. With the Italian facing the other way, and Edward still fuming, instead of letting it be, being nothing more than a drunken lout “I got up to him and struck him with my fist two or three times”. As he often did, James tried his best to break-it-up, shouting "don't a fool, come away", but Edward was in deep. Punching fast and hard, although Edward had the upper hand being a few inches taller, all it took was a single mistake for his life to change forever. As having put the wrong foot in the wrong place at the wrong time, as he tripped over a kerbstone, “I slipped to the ground; and next, he was on top of me”. With the Italian raining down punches and Edward giving him sharp thumps to the gut, the two men pounded on, their bleeding fists slamming into each other’s bodies, as James tried to split them apart. As a mele of flying limbs and furious grunts, it was impossible for any witness on this partially lit street to see what had happened; as some saw fists, others only saw feet, some said several men were at it, others said it was just the two. And although several witnesses were heard to cry "don't two him" and “no blades, come on, play fair”, some saw a knife being pulled, and whereas others saw nothing. Rising to his feet and fearing retaliations from the angry men who surrounded him, as the Italian fled, Lynch recalled “he rushed across the road. Devanny got off the ground and went after him”. Running down Old Compton Street, “Devanney overtook him and struck him once in the face”, but hearing a cry of “Police! Help” from one of the eyewitnesses, as the Italian headed west, the lads headed east. Bleeding from a swelling eye, spitting bloodied spittle and limping ever more profusely as he staggered down Charring Cross Road, with his adrenaline still pumping, it was only as he took a moment to catch his breath, being aided by pals Lynch and Langley, that Edward realised that he had been stabbed. With blood over his hands, and pooling down his legs in a never-ending torrent, with a knife wound to his right buttock, but also his groin - a soft plateau of flesh containing vital arteries and veins - they caught a cab and sped to Charing Cross Hospital. Immediately admitted to casualty and given the very best available treatment for his wounds, a few hours later, 25-year-old Edward Thomas Devanney… …was discharged from hospital and made a full recovery. Mercifully, although he had two knife wounds; one an inch long to his right buttock, and the other in the lower part of his abdomen, having only punctured the skin, these superficial wounds were stitched and dressed, and – with no long-term damage to his vital organs - Edward left and went about his day. The fight had been bloody and brutal, but no-one had died… …no-one. At least, not yet. Like Edward, he didn’t know that he’d been stabbed, but seeing him stumble away from a raging crowd on Greek Street, a taxi driver drove him straight to Charing Cross Hospital. With a seemingly superficial wound to his abdomen, it was stitched and bandaged, but as he drifted in and out of consciousness, with the blade having punctured his intestines, the tall thin frame of the patient grew paler and sicker. As his own guts had poisoned him, knowing he was unlikely to recover, the doctor said, "you know you’re going to die?" and having mumbled "yes", a few minutes later, 22-year-old James Lee was dead. He hadn’t drank, he hadn’t argued, he hadn’t fought, as being a quiet sober man, this good Samaritan had simply stepped in to break up the fight, and yet the blade meant for Edward had ended his life. That night, in a dingy little lodging at 14 Arthur Street in West Brompton, James’ murderer returned. As the dark foreigner entered his gloomy hovel, pulling from his bloodied pocket a bone-handled clasp knife, before stashing the evidence in his drawer, he wiped the blade clean with a rag and a sharpener. Only this was not a callous killer impassive having taken a life, this was a man in panic. 32-year-old Italian Raphael Ciclino was so perturbed by his own actions, that when his landlady (Rosina Martin) came to deliver his breakfast in the morning, she’d state “the door was shut, the room was empty and the bed was dirty as if somebody with muddy clothes had lain on it, and someone had been sick”. Those who knew him said that Raphael wasn’t an uncouth lout, but “a quiet and reserved gentleman who was sober, peaceful and was no bother to anyone”. He didn’t drink or fight, he just worked. The next morning, being too terrified to flee but also too poor to not earn, Raphael returned to his job as a kitchen porter at the French Club on Lisle Street. Having misplaced his hat, although his tatty old waistcoat now sported a new hole and several fresh stains which no-one knew was blood, what made the cooks laugh was his black eye, as ‘apparently’ this stout little man had got into a fight. (laughs) (Banter) “who gave you that then, your missus?”, “men did it, Englishmen”, “ah yeah, right, and how many men we talking?”, “six, maybe ten, I not know”, “ha, six he says, maybe ten, my speckled arse”. He worked his shift as best he could, washing dishes with shaking hands and getting ribbed about his fight, but with his description circulated through Soho, it was only a matter of time until he was caught. On the morning of Monday the 1st of August, Raphael Ciclino was arrested at the French Club having been pointed out by the cowardly Freddy Hopkins. Taken to Vine Street police station, when Detective Inspector Drew stated, “I am charging you with stabbing two men in Greek Street, one of whom has since died”, barely able to converse in broken English, Raphael looked lost. And although it didn’t take an interpreter (who would later arrive) to translate “no fight; me no knife", although that was clearly a lie, his defence was not going to be easy, as the Inspector replied, “sorry mate, I don’t speak French”. So many details would be lost in translation… …and yet, ironically, that was how the fight had begun. The evidence against Raphael was overwhelming. Examined by Dr Mitchell, with extensive bruises to his jaw, nose, legs, knees and the back of his head, the Police surgeon would state “he had been very badly mauled”, and although clearly shocked at how deadly this brawl had been, although he shook and he cried and he repeatedly vomited, there was no denying that – regardless of how remorseful he was now – that fight had led to a man’s death. In his lodging, the Police found the knife hidden in the drawer. With a reddish-brown film on the blade from where he had wiped it clean, although an attempt to destroy evidence was seen by the Police, on the bloodied specks which remained, lay a black fluff matching his pocket’s lining and a sprinkling of tobacco identical to the brand he smoked. And with Dr Ludwig Freyberger confirming that the blade was the same size as the one which had stabbed James to death, Raphael was as good as guilty. Back at Vine Street police station, against a line-up of ten stocky men of Italian appearance, Raphael was picked out by Edward Devanney (his victim and brother-in-law of the deceased), their boozy pals Arthur Langley and Edward Lynch, Freddy Hopkins the coward and Maud Dearden of 23 Greek Street. Questioned with an interpreter present, although he gave a piecemeal statement in a mix of excitable Italian and broken English, repeatedly asserting “I had no knife, only my hands, everyone see that”, even though no-one could recall seeing a knife (not even Edward), it didn’t help that he had lied. Charged with the wounding of Edward Devanney and the wilful murder of James Lee, as two men who he didn’t know and had never met until that moment, the impact of his actions were so overwhelming, that on two occasions, as he sat inside his prison cell, Raphael would attempt to take his own life. Using whatever he could find, in the first instance, he ripped off the buttons from his jacket and (made of highly toxic lead and decorated with lethal-levels of an arsenic-based paint) he swallowed them. In the second instance - having survived owing to quick-witted officers - he strangled himself using his own coat sleeves, and running fast, he ran head-first into the cell’s stone wall until he fell unconscious. Suffering little more than bruises, cuts and a concussion, his suicide attempts would prove futile… …but what had driven this quiet little man to stab a stranger he didn’t even know? The night of Saturday 30th of July 1904 was a hot one, as steam rose from a recent downpour on the streets, and with the air sticky, it seemed like the only way to quell the city’s temper was by drinking. But not for Raphael. Being a sober man, although he was sat in the Swiss Hotel on Old Compton Street with Joseph Berger a cook from the French Club, there was no argument to rile his temper and no excess of drunk to cloud his judgement, as having supped a small wine, he left the pub at 12:30am. His plan was to head off home to bed after a 14-hour shift; he was alone as his pal had said ‘goodbye’, he was walking west towards Charing Cross Road to get his bus, in his pocket he carried a tin of tobacco (as he smoked) and a bone-handled knife (as being porter and often a cook, many men in his line of work carried the tools of their trade with them), and he only stopped because he heard a scream. It was a woman’s scream. Turning off Old Compton Street onto Greek Street, to the side of the provisions shop, he saw the petite frame of 18-year-old Maud, her front door hanging off its hinges, her little sister cowering behind her, and - surrounded by drunken louts - no-one was coming to her aid, not even cowardly Freddy Hopkins. Raised well, unlike others who would have walked by, although he wasn’t a brawler, Raphael came to this lone woman’s aid and - rightly - reprimanded Edward who was trying to force his way back in. He was just a stranger, but he was the good Samaritan that Maud needed in her moment of fear. Only, with no-one having a clue what he was saying - “’ere what’s he saying?”, “are you mad or summat?”, “who the f**k’s he think he is bossing me about in my country?”, “must be a nutter, bloody eyeties” – Raphael would state “I saw a man strike a woman. I spoke to him, but he did not understand me”. And there sits the irony, as at that moment, there wasn’t one good Samaritan, but two. As with both Raphael Ciclino and James Lee trying to stop Edward and protect Maud, these two quiet men had stepped in when others hadn’t, but unable to understand the other, details were lost in translation. Initially fleeing as he was scared, the only reason Raphael returned to 23 Greek Street was because he worried about Maud. Having crossed paths, the only reason James was stabbed was because he was protecting Edward. And the only reason that Raphael pulled a knife was because fearing for his life, as the drunken lout called Edward Devanney had sunk a few pints and was spoiling for a fight. (End) By the end of the month, on 31st of August 1904, before Judge Denman, 32-year-old Raphael Ciclino was tried at the Old Bailey on the charge of malicious wounding and murder. From the witness box and through a translator, he would claim he was set upon by Edward, but also Lynch, Langley and later attacked by James Lee, that as he hadn’t a knife in his possession, he’d defended himself with his fists. Unable to decide who was telling the truth as the evidence confirmed that someone had stabbed both men, as none of the witnesses had seen a knife and even Edward would state “I cannot say for certain who stabbed him”, with the defence claiming provocation, a jury took ten minutes to find him guilty of manslaughter. Sentenced on 15th September, Raphael Ciclino was given eight years' penal servitude. And with Edward seen as one of the victims, no charges of assault, intimidation, criminal damage or violence were brought against him, and – never changing his ways – he continued living his life like a drunken oaf; who stole to suit his needs, who terrorised young girls to make himself feel big, and as a loser, who got into pathetic fights with strangers over nothing, all because his life was worthless. James Lee was buried in Westminster, having only lived 22 years of his young life. Raphael served his sentence and returned to his family in Italy. Two good Samaritans who risked their lives for a stranger. 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. What happens if you ask Chat GPT or AI software "sarcastically explain who Jack the Ripper was"?25/10/2023  YOU GET THIS....
Oh, certainly! Jack the Ripper was obviously a misunderstood Victorian chef who was simply trying to promote his avant-garde culinary creations. You see, he had a peculiar taste for carving up the finest cuts of meat in the most unconventional and artistic ways possible. His "signature" style of arranging internal organs was just a way to express his passion for gastronomy. In his spare time, he must have moonlighted as a fashion consultant, offering free wardrobe makeovers to those "ladies of the night." His method of disrobing them so meticulously was just a testament to his commitment to the latest fashion trends. Of course, it all makes perfect sense when you look at it this way... or perhaps not. But in all seriousness, Jack the Ripper remains one of the most perplexing unsolved mysteries in criminal history. OR, IF YOU ASK "SARCASTICALLY, EXPLAIN WHO JACK THE RIPPER WASN'T"!? Well, it's safe to say that Jack the Ripper definitely wasn't a time-traveling extraterrestrial ninja with a penchant for parallel universe cuisine. I mean, that would be way too obvious, right? And there's absolutely no evidence to suggest that he was a misunderstood ballet dancer moonlighting as a sous-chef in a Victorian-era fast-food joint. It's also clear that Jack the Ripper couldn't have been a highly trained circus clown who specialized in acrobatic escapology. Such a flamboyant character would surely have left a trail of balloon animals and cream pies at crime scenes, and we have no record of that happening. And let's not forget that Jack the Ripper couldn't possibly have been a disgruntled Victorian-era poet who wrote murderous limericks in his spare time. That's just a bit too poetic for a serial killer, don't you think? LET'S BE HONEST, IT'S A BETTER ANSWER THAT THE CRAP IT USUALLY CHURN OUT :-) OR WIKIPEDIA.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
On Monday the 25th of February 1935 at 2:30pm, an unusual parcel arrived at Platform 19 of Waterloo Station. At 21 inches long, 9 inches wide and deep and weighing close to two stone, the train's cleaner found a severed paid of legs. And although to some this was just a piece of lost property, it would lead to one of the strangest criminal investigations in the Met Police’s history.
THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a black coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'London Waterlooo'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Waterloo Station, SW1; one street south of Peggy Richards’ “fall”, a short walk from the ‘happy slapping’ attack on David Morely, a few feet from the left luggage kiosk where the bloodied bloomers of Emily Beilby Kaye lay, and soon something grim - coming now to Murder Mile. As one of London’s busiest transport hubs, the lost property office at Waterloo Station is a treasure trove of bafflingly bonkers cast-offs which make the cleaners wonder who the hell these weirdos are; having found enough books to fill a branch of Waterstones, walking sticks to stabilise sixty-two wonky centipedes and crinkly-paged grumble mags to milk the saddest git’s love-plums dry. And occasionally, they also find a gimp mask, a llama, a breast implant and (far too often) a stool sample - a human one. But many moons ago, they also found something which sparked a nationwide hunt for a killer. It takes a lot to surprise those who work in this lost property office, and although they still diligently catalogue every object they receive to return each missing item to its rightful owner, what they found back in 1935 would lead to one of the strangest criminal investigations in the Met Police’s history. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 230: Pieces. Usually, at this point in the show, I would introduce you to the victim. With the sad music playing, we would hear about their life, their upbringing, their hopes, their struggles and their dreams, everything from the moment they were born to their last moment alive. But this time, I can’t do that… …I can’t even tell you a few pieces about his life, as that is all that was left of him. Monday 25th February 1935 was bitterly cold, as a Siberian blast had driven London’s winter as low as -28. But in contrast, with highs of 3 degrees and lows of -4, that ice-caked day was practically barmy. The day had begun as it always had, as the train (an electric locomotive with twenty-six carriages) pulled out of a railway siding at Hounslow in West London at exactly 6:48am. Scrubbed and polished by a team of cleaners, the train ran a regular route from Twickenham and Waterloo, stopping at twenty-two stations including Richmond, Mortlake, Barnes, Wandsworth and Clapham Junction. At 1:24pm, the train departed Twickenham Station with hardly a handful of passengers in its first-class coaches, some in the second-class and a smattering in the much cheaper third-class. By all accounts, the journey was uneventful and barring a delay owing to ice, it arrived at Waterloo just shy of 2:30pm. With a light dusting of anonymous passengers disembarking from Platform 19 on the north-west side - all of whom showed their tickets to the inspector – another team of cleaners set about removing any rubbish or lost property from the carriages; maybe some newspapers, some books, and occasionally a pair of missing gloves, a scarf or a woolly hat, although that was unlikely in this bitterly cold weather. A few minutes in, James Albert Eves, one of the cleaners made his way down the third-class carriage numbered 94806, carrying a refuse sack. The train was empty, except for an unidentified man who was dressed in a black suit and hat who – he believed - had boarded for the return leg of the journey. James hadn’t the time to consider the items he’d find and having spotted a brown paper parcel pushed right to the back under the seat - with the biggest crime being to delay the train on its predetermined route back to Twickenham - as it pulled out, James carried the large parcel to the lost property office. Handed to the office supervisor, John George Cooper, both men stared with concern at the parcel. At 21 inches long, 9 inches wide and deep, and weighing close to two stone, wrapped in an odd L-shape, it looked as if it was a fat stubby golf club. Only with its string fraying and the paper wet, James would state “I felt the weight was curious, as at the bottom, when I touched it, it felt like there were toes”. Peeping in through a split, there was no denying what was inside, as John said, “we found legs”. Having alerted the Metropolitan Police, Chief Inspector Donaldson headed up the investigation, aided by Dr Davidson of the Police Laboratory and Sir Bernard Spilsbury as the Home Office pathologist. The brown paper told them nothing, as like the string, it was generic. Unwrapping it, the legs had been swathed in tabloid newspapers; an issue of the Daily Express dated 21st September 1934, six months prior, and two sheets of the News of the World dated 20th January 1935, one month before. But being two of the most popular papers, bloodstains suggested that the dismemberment occurred two days earlier, and with the legs beginning to putrefy, that death had occurred at least eight days before that. Inside were the severed legs of an adult male; complete with shins, calves, ankles and feet, but nothing above the knees. With the lower legs and feet accounting for 12% body mass, weighing roughly 12lbs each, it was clear that he was once a man of 5 foot 8 to 5 foot 10 inches tall, but unable to determine his age – at that point – all they knew was that he was somewhere between 20 to 50 years old. It was impossible to identify him, as he had no scars and no tattoos. Examined at Southwark mortuary, they were able to define his details further, but not much. As being a white pale male, given his fair hair and his freckles, it was assumed that he worked outdoors, and having the musculature of a ‘healthy vigorous male’, x-rays showed no signs of ‘Harris Lines’ (the arrest of bone growth in his teens) or any ‘senile changes’, so it was likely he was in near to his late twenties. But as hard as they tried, the victim couldn’t be identified by his lower legs, and that’s all they had. The wounds told them even less about who had dissected them and why, as with “a clean cut through the soft tissue of the knee joint, just below the patella… it was carried out with extraordinary precision by a person with anatomical knowledge”. But who? A surgeon? A butcher? Or was it just blind luck? And yet, one detail would perplex these officers more than most. With the victim’s toes bent like clenched fists as if to make them smaller, given that his legs were shaved, it suggested that either this man had been so poor that he was forced to wear ill-fitting shoes as hand-me-downs, or he’d been masquerading as a woman. Whoever this man once was, the Police had little to go on… …but they were unwilling to give up. Every passenger who could be traced from the train was questioned, but no-one saw anyone carrying a large parcel or anything strange. But then, how often do we notice other people? And with the parcel deliberately pushed back under the seat, it was hidden, but why would anyone hide a pair of dismembered legs onboard of a train which was heading back to its original location? Had the early morning cleaners at the railway siding missed it by mistake, or had someone planned to dump them? Examining the generic brown paper using infra-red light and microscopic analysis, Dr Olaf Block of the Ilford Photographic Company was able to spot two very faint numbers; a partially erased ‘5’ written in black crayon on the bottom left-hand corner, and a ‘14’ written in pencil in the right-hand corner. Across the city and wider boroughs, Police questioned every courier, freight and removals firms, as they were most likely to mark a parcel with identifying numbers, but it came to nothing. And although this tatty brown paper had been used several times previously, not a single fingerprint was found. The newspapers were submitted to the same scrutiny, as with top-right-hand portion of the front page of the Daily Express having been cut away with a sharp knife or a razor, given that this is where some newsagents tend to write the address of the house where the paperboy should deliver it, the Police spoke to hundreds of vendors, but that cut wasn’t unique enough and the handwriting didn’t match. And although they had enlisted the help of two sculptors from the infamous Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum on Baker Street who made plaster casts of these unusual feet, no-one could identify them. Every piece of evidence had only led to dead ends, and every theory had hit a brick wall. It was suggested that – given how cleanly the legs were dissected – it could have been a prank by a medical student who had removed a pair of amputated limbs from a hospital incinerator. But with the feet being unwashed and the wound devoid of a surgical skin-flap, this theory was quickly discounted. Enquiries were made at hospitals, undertakers and mortuaries whether any body parts were missing, but this turned up nothing. As did the hunt for a butcher or abattoir worker who could have performed such a skilled dissection, “as the knees are particularly hard to disarticulate”, but this too drew a blank. And with the Police appealing for any relatives who were missing a loved one to get in touch, a deluge of families gripped with grief from across the country – regardless of whether their husband, brother or son was a 5 foot 9, fair-haired male in his late 20s, or not – they swamped the phonelines for weeks. So desperate were the Police to solve this case that they had begun to find similarities in the Brighton trunk murders from the year before. But later being dismissed as a theory by Sir Bernard Spilsbury, they were left wondering - why would anyone go to so much effort to disguise the victim’s identity? Or had they? Whether it was a murder or not, they still did not know. Whether he was still alive, they couldn’t tell. And although the Police had some evidence of who this man may have been… …that was all they had – pieces. Three weeks later, on Tuesday 19th March 1935 at about 5:30pm, three boys were playing on the bank of the Hanwell Flight of the Grand Union Canal. As a series of seven locks from the Hanwell Asylum to the River Thames at Brentford, passed a chocking swathe of factories and under two bridges for the Piccadilly Line tube and Southern Railways, Clitheroe Lock was the last before the Great West Road. Having had his tea, 14-year-old Ronald Newman was watching a 70-foot-long cast-iron barge exit the lock, as its weight displaced tonnes of water below it as it slowly headed downstream. But as the wake disturbed the dark calm of the water, “I saw something bobbing up and down”, a little patch of brown as a sack floated on the surface, as underneath a meniscus of mildew, the bulk of its contents dipped. Grabbing a stick, as Ronald drew it near, it was clear that this wasn’t a bag of rubbish, as the sack was as big as a medium sized dog, diamond shaped like a giant stinkbug, and weighed several kilos at least. Heaving with all their might, as the lads wrenched the drenched sack onto the bank, hearing a tearing, they quickly wrestled it ashore as the old rotten sack split. But as Ronald grabbed at its sodden base, as his hand slipped inside the sack, it also slid into a wet festering ooze which stunk like rotting meat. Withdrawing his hand, inside he saw a gaping wound of flesh, and as it slowly dried, within seconds a fever of hungry flies had begun to swarm and feast, at what Ronald knew was “a man’s severed neck”. Having alerted a local Bobby, within the hour, the Met’ Police were on the scene. Untying the string which sealed this hessian sack shut, inside lay a man’s torso; no forearms, no waist, no legs and no head, just a torso. Wearing a tatty brown woollen vest, he hadn’t any of the ordinary clothes a man in his era would wear, no jacket, no shirt nor a tie, just a vest. And with all but the top two buttons missing, and a portion of the lower-left corner having been cut away, it was likely that someone had tried to disguise his identity by removing the laundry marks - but this was just a theory. Having been submerged in the feted water of the canal for several weeks, owing to the decomposition, it was impossible to accurately determine when he had died, or even when he had been disposed of. With his breastbone, every rib and several vertebrae either broken or fractured, with a few ribs poking through the skin like white jagged spears, although the chest had been completely crushed, this wasn’t how he had died as these injuries had all occurred post-mortem, as the cast-iron barges rolled over it. Only this wasn’t an accident, or a body part missing from a morgue, this was undeniably a murder. With no hands nor head found, the erasing of his identity was paramount for the killers, but with the dissection lacking a surgeon or a butcher’s skill, this dismemberment was described as “rather crude”. Lacking the clean slices of a sharpened blade, it was as if someone had been in haste to dispose of this body as quickly as possible, or maybe several men of differing skills had taken it in turns at a side each? Severed at the elbow, the left arm was cleanly cut through the humerus, the radius and the ulna, and where-as the right had been hacked, as a rough jagged knife had ripped the skin and tore at the flesh. With the stomach as crudely ripped as if someone had split a bag of rice, spilling the intestines and its red lumpy guts like a slops bucket at an abattoir, across the top of the hips lay a band of rough tears where the blade had caught and tugged, as a skin flap hung over the innards like a damp cloth cap. And with the neck little more than a fleshy stump severed by blows with a blade and a swung axe, this wasn’t the work of a professional anatomist but a crude killer with a body to disguise. And yet, spotting two wounds to his heart which exactly matched two cuts in the vest, there was no denying… …he had been stabbed to death. The torso told the Police these few facts; as a white male with fair hair, pale skin, freckles and his age initially suspected to be in his 40s to 50s but later determined by x-rays to be in his late 20s, as a well-built broad-shouldered male of roughly 5 foot 9 inches in height, it was likely he was a manual worker. Removed to Brentford mortuary in the grounds of a local gas works, Sir Bernard Spilsbury determined several key details; one, this man was healthy when he died; two, his death was unnatural; and three, there was “a strong presumption” that this torso belonged to the two legs found at Waterloo Station. So, although submersion in water for several weeks had rendered a time of death impossible, based on the legs, it was likely he had been murdered near the 15th February and was dismembered on 23rd. And yet, another unusual detail would pepper this case, as along with his shaved legs and small feet which suggested he was “masquerading as a woman” (a theory which could never be proven), three four-inch-long dark hairs – possibly made from a woman’s real-hair wig – were found on his body. But were they a message, or a mistake? With this stretch of the canal being remote, although questioned, there were no witnesses who had seen anything suspicious, or heard a sack being dumped in the water. But how did he end up here? The Thames Police were requisitioned to drag and drain three miles of the canal, with several hundred yards of it dredged and manually searched, but nothing of significance was found. All barge crews travelling from Coventry to London were interviewed, as well as nomads on the banks, and officials of the Grand Union Canal supplied details about the sluice gates and water flow, but it proved fruitless. One theory as to why the torso was found here was owing to its location, as 200 yards above the lock sits Bridge 206A, which runs the Piccadilly Line train between Boston Manor and Osterley, and 300 yards below sits Bridge 207A, which runs Southern Railway trains from Hounslow to Waterloo Station. The Police mulled over the thought that the torso had been thrown from the train into the canal, and that – maybe - with the severed head and arms tossed into one of several miles of woods or ditches along the train track, and that – maybe - with too many passengers onboard, the killer hadn’t the time to dump the legs before the train reached its destination at Waterloo Station – this was considered. But although the Twickenham to Waterloo train doesn’t pass through Hounslow, and Bridge 207A was downstream from where the body was found, having checked every track siding, nothing was found. That said, the killers could have changed trains, or maybe it was just a coincidence? But with so much evidence leading to this neck of the woods, the Police truly believed that the murderers were local. But who were they, and where were they? With very little to go on, the Police set about tracing the brown woollen vest, hoping that its purchase would lead to the purchaser. Made by Harriot & Coy at a cost of 2 shillings and 6 pence, although this mass-produced vest was distributed to thousands of wholesalers each year, the label was used by one company – a Midlands based garment maker who also sold it to the North of England and Scotland. Every shop which sold the ‘Protector’ brand was questioned, from Bishopsgate to Argyl, Cheapside to Glasgow, but with few records kept of who had purchased this vest, this line of inquiry would stall. As for the sack, with it bearing the name ‘Ogilvie’, a flour manufacturer of Montreal in Canada, when examined, the company confirmed the sack was made in 1929, but was one of 1000s sent to the UK. And although missing persons reports were read for every British county against anyone who matched that description, every lead was checked and proved to be a dead end, and with a less-than-respectable tabloid reporting the discovery of a severed head in Ealing, that was proven to be a lie. With no fingerprints, no teeth, no ID, no laundry marks and no face, his identity was a mystery. Two of the most promising leads they had came in the weeks before the inquest. Continuing the use infra-red rays on the brown paper, Dr Olaf Block had found four words which had been erased – they were “Harry”, “Hanwell” and “Ward 14”. Interviewing the postal clerk at Hanwell Mental Hospital at the back of the Hanwell Flight of the Grand Union Canal, he confirmed the writing was his… but unable to trace who “Harry” was amongst those in “Ward 14”, that clue led to nothing. And the final lead occurred on Monday 25th February at 1pm, 90 minutes before the severed legs were found. At Hounslow Station, Harold Hillier, an attendant saw three men in the booking hall, at their feet lay a large brown-paper parcel. Only one of the men boarded the 1:06pm train to Waterloo, and although he was described as late 20s, medium build and fair-haired, we know he wasn’t the victim. Departing on time, this train didn’t originate in Twickenham, but it did cross the Grand Union Canal at Bridge 207A, downstream of the Clitheroe Lock, where the torso was found. And although the legs were found on a different train, he could have changed at Clapham Junction, or unable to throw them out the window, having arrived at Waterloo Station, maybe he hid them on an outward-bound train? Who these men were nobody knew, but with Harold’s statement backed-up by his colleague Thomas Shea, they confirmed this - that all three men were either Welsh or Irish miners, many of whom were employed locally by McAlpine, who were working on the sewage works and road construction. (End) That clue took the Police one step closer to the victim’s identity. Having questioned Alfred McAlpine, owner of McAlpine Construction, they went through the payroll and employment records for their workers over the last year. But with no-one known to be missing and many of them paid in cash, officers would state “this appeared a most likely clue, but it revealed little hope of success as the firm’s labourers are the flotsam and jetsam of Ireland and Wales”. They had so many clues, but equally as many dead ends and loose threads. On the 10th of April 1935, an inquest was opened at Southwark Mortuary. But with no suspects, no witnesses, no weapon, no fingerprints, and no crime scene to the murder or the dismemberment, on the 6th of June, an ‘open verdict’ would remain into an unknown male torso and a pair of severed legs. Chief Inspector Donaldson would state “every possible enquiry has been made to establish the identity of the victim, but without success. Vigorous but negative efforts have also been made to obtain the identity of the person or persons responsible for this offence”. And with that, the case was closed. Who the victim was will never be known, nor will the resting place of his forearms and head. We don’t know his name, his home or the location of family. We don’t know what he had done, why he was killed, or who by? And denied a proper burial, all that we know of him is all he will ever be… pieces. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.  The abolition of the death penalty in Britain marked a significant milestone in the history of criminal justice and human rights. This transformation, spanning over several decades, showcases a remarkable shift in societal values and the recognition of the fundamental importance of human dignity. In this article, we will explore the journey of how and why Britain abolished the death penalty.
For centuries, the death penalty was a ubiquitous part of the British legal system, with a wide range of crimes carrying the ultimate punishment, from murder to seemingly minor offenses like theft or forgery. Public executions were a gruesome spectacle, attended by large crowds. However, the 20th century saw a shift in attitudes towards capital punishment. The Role of World Wars. The devastation of the two World Wars played a crucial role in reevaluating the death penalty. The loss of millions of lives during these conflicts prompted a more critical reflection on the value of human life. The concept of retribution, central to the justification of the death penalty, came under scrutiny as societies grappled with the overwhelming human cost of war. The Homicide Act of 1957. One of the most significant legislative steps toward abolition was the Homicide Act of 1957. This act established the "partial defence" of diminished responsibility, which allowed courts to consider the defendant's mental state when determining the sentence. It was a recognition that not all murderers were equally culpable, and some may have been driven to their crimes due to factors beyond their control. The Abolition of the Death Penalty for Murder. The first practical step towards the abolition of the death penalty came in 1965, when the Murder (Abolition of Death Penalty) Act was passed. This act abolished the death penalty for murder in Great Britain and replaced it with a mandatory life sentence. While capital punishment for murder was retained in Northern Ireland, this marked a significant turning point in the broader movement against the death penalty. The United Nations and International Pressure. International pressure also played a role in Britain's decision to abolish the death penalty. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, adopted by the United Nations in 1948, emphasized the right to life and the incompatibility of the death penalty with human rights principles. This global shift towards human rights was reflected in British policies. Public Opinion and the Decline of Executions. As the 20th century progressed, public opinion began to turn against the death penalty. High-profile miscarriages of justice, like the case of Timothy Evans, who was wrongfully hanged for a murder he did not commit, stirred public outrage. Advocacy groups, such as Amnesty International, campaigned vigorously against capital punishment. The Death Penalty Abolished in Northern Ireland. In 1973, capital punishment was finally abolished in Northern Ireland, marking the end of executions throughout the United Kingdom. The decision was largely influenced by the same factors that led to the abolition in Great Britain, including shifting public opinion and international human rights considerations. The abolition of the death penalty in Britain reflects a broader global trend towards the recognition of the fundamental right to life and the rejection of the death penalty as a form of punishment. The role of international pressure, evolving societal values, and legislative changes like the Homicide Act of 1957 all played a crucial role in this significant transformation. The United Kingdom's decision to abolish the death penalty was a testament to the evolving understanding of justice and human rights, as well as a commitment to upholding the inherent dignity of all individuals.  Serial killers and murderers often display cunning and meticulous planning to evade capture, making them some of the most elusive criminals. However, history is replete with instances where these ruthless criminals made grievous mistakes, leading to their eventual capture. This blog explores some of the most astonishing cases of murderers who got caught due to bizarre blunders, reminding us that even the most cunning criminals can falter. The BTK Killer's Careless Taunting. Dennis Rader, known as the BTK Killer (Bind, Torture, Kill), terrorized Kansas from the 1970s to the 1990s. Despite his apparent intelligence, he made the crucial mistake of sending letters to local newspapers and the police, taunting them about his crimes. In one letter, he included a floppy disk containing metadata that could be traced back to a computer at his church. This slip-up led to his capture in 2005, ending his reign of terror. Ted Bundy's Reckless Traffic Stop. One of the most infamous serial killers, Ted Bundy, had a knack for escaping custody multiple times. However, his eventual capture was a result of a routine traffic stop in Utah. Bundy's Volkswagen Beetle was pulled over by the police, and upon searching his car, they found burglary tools and suspicious items. This arrest ultimately led to the discovery of his horrific crimes. 3. Richard Ramirez's Fingerprint Blunder The Night Stalker, Richard Ramirez, terrorized Southern California in the mid-1980s. He committed a series of gruesome murders and assaults. Ramirez's capture came about when he carelessly left behind a fingerprint on a mesh screen during one of his break-ins. When this print was matched to him, it led to his arrest, trial, and eventual conviction. 4. Gary Ridgway's DNA Oversight Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, targeted vulnerable women in the Pacific Northwest during the 1980s and 1990s. He managed to evade capture for many years, but his undoing came when DNA evidence was used to link him to the crime scenes. Years later, he was arrested and eventually confessed to murdering 71 women. 5. The Pizza Delivery That Unraveled Mark Goudeau Mark Goudeau, a serial rapist and murderer known as the "Baseline Killer" in Arizona, was captured in 2006 when he made the mistake of ordering a pizza for delivery from a crime scene. When the delivery driver arrived, they noticed the suspicious circumstances and called the police, leading to Goudeau's arrest. 6. The Facebook Post That Snared Antwone Fisher In a bizarre and almost unbelievable twist, Antwone Fisher, a convicted murderer, was captured in 2011 due to a Facebook post. Fisher had been on the run for several years when he posted a status update on his Facebook page, revealing his location. An astute tipster saw the post, contacted the authorities, and Fisher was apprehended. 7. A Zodiac Cipher Unraveled The Zodiac Killer is one of the most enigmatic and mysterious criminals in history. Despite taunting police and the media with cryptic ciphers in the late 1960s, he was never identified or caught at the time. However, in 2020, a team of amateur codebreakers finally cracked one of the Zodiac's unsolved ciphers. The deciphered message revealed the name of a deceased acquaintance of the killer, leading to speculation about his identity. While the Zodiac Killer remains unidentified officially, this codebreaking breakthrough brought the case back into the public eye. 8. Joseph DeAngelo's DNA Slip-Up Joseph DeAngelo, also known as the Golden State Killer, terrorized California in the 1970s and 1980s. He committed a string of burglaries, sexual assaults, and murders without being caught. But his downfall came in 2018, thanks to a combination of advancements in DNA technology and his own carelessness. Investigators used genealogical databases to trace his DNA back to distant relatives, eventually leading them to DeAngelo. They then collected his discarded DNA from a public place, confirming the match and ultimately arresting him. His decades-long reign of terror ended due to advances in forensic science and a misjudgment of his own genetic trail. 9. The Craigslist Killer's Digital Footprint Philip Markoff, dubbed the Craigslist Killer, lured victims through online classified ads and subsequently killed them in a series of brutal attacks. However, his foolish mistake was leaving a digital trail. He used his personal email and phone number when communicating with his victims, allowing investigators to trace him back to his online activities. The electronic evidence became a crucial factor in his arrest and conviction. 10. The Green River Killer's Intentional Oversight Gary Ridgway, known as the Green River Killer, committed a staggering number of murders, possibly exceeding 70 victims. His cunning tactic was to dump his victims' bodies in remote areas, making it difficult for law enforcement to connect the crimes. However, his audacious error was a result of the meticulous record-keeping he maintained regarding his murders. He maintained a list of victims and their locations, which eventually fell into the hands of investigators, leading to his arrest and life imprisonment. 11. Richard Ramirez's Failed Carjacking Richard Ramirez, the infamous "Night Stalker," terrorized Los Angeles in the 1980s. His reign of terror came to an end when he attempted to carjack a woman in 1985. The intended victim fought back, and Ramirez fled the scene on foot. The woman noted his description and his abandoned car, which contained critical evidence. This mistake, combined with the subsequent identification, led to his arrest and eventual conviction. 12. The Slip-Up in Ted Bundy's Beetle Ted Bundy, one of the most notorious serial killers in American history, had an intelligent and charming façade that allowed him to evade capture for years. However, in 1975, he was pulled over by police in Utah for a suspicious vehicle. Inside his Volkswagen Beetle, officers found burglary tools and ski masks. Bundy was arrested and later connected to a string of murders and abductions, ultimately leading to his execution. 13. Pedro Lopez - The Monster of the Andes Pedro Lopez, known as "The Monster of the Andes," was responsible for the murders of hundreds of young girls in South America. His reign of terror ended when he attempted to abduct a young girl in Ecuador, but her cries for help drew the attention of local villagers who captured and beat him. The police later took custody of Lopez, leading to his capture and eventual conviction. 14. The Shoe Fetish of Jerry Brudos Jerry Brudos, also known as the "Lust Killer" and the "Shoe Fetish Slayer," was a serial murderer who preyed on young women in Oregon in the late 1960s. Brudos had a bizarre fetish for women's shoes and was known to keep souvenirs from his victims. This obsession ultimately became his undoing when he was apprehended trying to steal shoes from a department store. Suspicious employees called the police, who discovered evidence linking him to the murders, leading to his arrest. 15. The Facebook Posts of Christopher Cullen In 2009, Christopher Cullen, a nurse at a New Jersey hospital, was convicted of killing 22 patients by injecting them with lethal doses of medications. He might have continued his murderous spree if it weren't for his own Facebook posts. Cullen had made numerous alarming and incriminating statements online, which led to an investigation into his activities. These posts provided crucial evidence linking him to the murders and ultimately led to his conviction. 16. Aileen Wuornos - The Prints on the Stolen Car Aileen Wuornos was one of America's most infamous female serial killers. Her killing spree came to an end when she was arrested in 1991 for an outstanding warrant, stemming from a routine check on a stolen car that she was driving. Subsequent investigations connected her to a string of murders, resulting in her conviction and execution. Of course, the United Kingdom has had its fair share of notorious serial killers and murderers who have struck terror into the hearts of the public. While many of these criminals eluded capture for extended periods, some were eventually brought to justice due to the most unexpected and seemingly trivial mistakes. In this blog, we'll explore the dark and chilling stories of British serial killers whose reigns of terror came to an end because of their own foolish errors. 17. Dennis Nilsen - The Strangely-Spacious Flat Dennis Nilsen, one of Britain's most infamous serial killers, was responsible for the murders of at least 12 young men in London during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Nilsen's spree of heinous crimes came to an end when a plumbing mishap in his apartment building led to the discovery of human remains clogging the drains. This blunder led to Nilsen's arrest, as it was determined that he had been dismembering his victims and flushing their remains down the toilet. 18. Harold Shipman - A Baffling Signature Harold Shipman, a trusted family doctor, carried out a horrific killing spree that spanned over two decades. He is believed to have murdered around 250 of his patients, administering lethal doses of prescription medication. It was not until a fellow doctor noticed an unusual pattern in the number of deaths under Shipman's care that suspicion was raised. His mistake? Shipman had forged the will of one of his victims, leaving her entire estate to himself. This blatant act of greed ultimately exposed his sinister deeds, leading to his arrest in 1998. 19. Peter Sutcliffe - A False Number Plate Peter Sutcliffe, infamously known as the "Yorkshire Ripper," terrorized the north of England in the late 1970s. He was responsible for the brutal murders of 13 women and the assault of several others. Sutcliffe's reign of terror was brought to an end in January 1981 when he was caught with false number plates on his car. Suspicion was raised, and a subsequent search of his vehicle revealed a hammer and knife, which linked him to the murders. This seemingly insignificant traffic offense led to his arrest, and he was subsequently convicted of multiple murders. 20. Levi Bellfield - A Simple Parking Ticket Levi Bellfield, a serial killer and rapist, operated in London during the early 2000s. His crimes involved the murder of several young women and girls. Bellfield's eventual downfall can be traced back to a relatively minor parking ticket. In 2004, he received a parking ticket near the scene of one of his crimes. This seemingly inconsequential detail later contributed to his arrest when detectives connected him to the location and his victims' disappearances. 21. Colin Ireland - The Bragging Letter Colin Ireland, also known as the "Gay Slayer," targeted gay men in London during the mid-1990s, committing a series of gruesome murders. In an astonishing act of arrogance, Ireland sent a handwritten letter to a local newspaper in which he claimed responsibility for the murders, signing it with his real name. Detectives quickly traced the letter back to him, leading to his capture and subsequent confession. 22. John Christie – The Rillington Place Strangler John Christie was a British serial killer responsible for the murders of at least eight people, including his wife, Ethel, and several women he lured to his residence at 10 Rillington Place, London. Christie's critical mistake came to light when the new tenant at Rillington Place discovered the concealed bodies of his victims in the garden and under the floorboards. Christie's heinous crimes were exposed, leading to his arrest and execution. 23. The Suffolk Strangler – Steve Wright Steve Wright, also known as the Suffolk Strangler, committed a series of murders in Ipswich, Suffolk, in 2006. The critical error that led to his capture was captured by surveillance cameras. Wright was recorded picking up his victims in his car, which later linked him to the crimes. His arrest and subsequent confession put an end to his killing spree. 24. Stephen Griffiths, the Crossbow Cannibal Stephen Griffiths, dubbed the "Crossbow Cannibal," was responsible for a series of gruesome murders in Bradford, England. He believed he could outsmart the police, but his desire for notoriety led to his downfall. Griffiths approached a police officer while wearing a bowler hat and told them, "I'm the Crossbow Cannibal." His bragging ultimately led to his arrest in 2010, and he was convicted of the murders. 25. Colin Pitchfork Colin Pitchfork is known as the first person in the world to be caught using DNA evidence. His murder of two teenage girls in the 1980s rocked the UK. However, it was not his careful planning that led to his arrest, but rather his arrogance. Pitchfork convinced a friend to take a DNA test in his place, but the friend's suspicious behavior raised alarms. When police investigated further, they found inconsistencies in Pitchfork's story, leading to his arrest. 26. The Moors Murderers - Ian Brady and Myra Hindley While Ian Brady and Myra Hindley were not caught due to a single mistake, their ultimate capture can be attributed to their ill-conceived recording of the abduction and murder of 10-year-old Lesley Ann Downey. The tape contained incriminating evidence, and the police, upon discovering it, were able to link the couple to the heinous crimes they had committed on Saddleworth Moor. 27. Ian Huntley - The Soham Murders One of the most shocking cases in recent British history was the murder of Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman in Soham, Cambridgeshire, in 2002. Ian Huntley, the school caretaker and perpetrator of the crime, made a series of errors that led to his capture. Notably, he lied about his involvement, and his account of events was inconsistent with the evidence. This inconsistency, along with other suspicious behaviors, eventually led to his arrest and conviction. 28. John Straffen John Straffen was a notorious British child killer who committed several murders in the 1950s. He was initially apprehended, but during his time at a psychiatric hospital, he managed to escape in 1952. However, his escape was short-lived as he made the mistake of asking a police officer for directions, not realizing that he was conversing with the very people he was trying to avoid. This error led to his recapture, and he remained in custody until his death. 29. Peter Manuel Peter Manuel was a Scottish serial killer who murdered multiple people during the 1950s. His capture was largely due to his arrogance and lack of caution. He sent taunting letters to the police, signed his real name, and even included a confession to one of the murders. This gave the police the break they needed to apprehend him, and he was later executed for his crimes. 30. John George Haigh John George Haigh, the notorious "Acid Bath Murderer," killed at least six people during the 1940s. His unique method of disposing of the bodies by dissolving them in sulfuric acid initially allowed him to escape detection. However, his ultimate mistake was attempting to cash in on his victims' assets. After forging their signatures and selling their belongings, he attracted the attention of authorities and was arrested. Haigh's confessions to the murders during his trial sealed his fate. While many serial killers and murderers seem to possess an uncanny ability to evade the law, their reigns of terror often come to an end due to unforeseen, sometimes trivial mistakes. The cases mentioned here are a stark reminder that even the most calculated criminals can falter, and justice can prevail. These blunders demonstrate the crucial role that diligence, technology, and the watchful eyes of the public play in bringing perpetrators to justice, ultimately making the world a safer place.  True crime has been a source of fascination for many people for decades. Whether it's through books, documentaries, podcasts, or TV shows, we are drawn to the mysteries and intrigue surrounding real-life criminal cases. However, there's a growing concern that our society's infatuation with true crime might be more harmful than we realize. In this blog, we'll explore why we shouldn't glamorize true crime and the potential consequences of doing so.
1. Human Tragedy and Sensationalism One of the most significant reasons to reconsider our fascination with true crime is the inherent exploitation of human tragedy. These stories often involve heinous crimes, violent acts, and profound suffering. By glorifying or sensationalizing these events, we risk disrespecting the victims and their families, who have already endured immense pain and loss. 2. Desensitization to Violence Exposure to graphic and disturbing content through true crime media can lead to desensitization to violence. When we consume such content regularly, it can become challenging to empathize with the real-life pain and suffering of those affected by crime. This desensitization may contribute to a broader societal issue of diminishing empathy and compassion. 3. Perpetuating Stereotypes True crime narratives often rely on stereotypes to tell their stories. This can perpetuate harmful biases and preconceived notions about certain groups of people. It's essential to recognize that the criminal justice system can be flawed, and by consuming true crime content without critical thinking, we may inadvertently support these harmful stereotypes. 4. Distraction from Important Issues Our fascination with true crime can sometimes serve as a distraction from more pressing social issues. Instead of focusing on systemic problems like poverty, inequality, or healthcare, we find ourselves engrossed in the minutiae of individual criminal cases. While true crime is undeniably interesting, we must strike a balance between consuming this content and addressing larger societal challenges. 5. Ethical Dilemmas in Entertainment The true crime genre often presents ethical dilemmas within the realm of entertainment. Exploiting real-life tragedy for the sake of entertainment raises questions about the boundaries of our moral responsibility as consumers of media. Where should we draw the line between entertainment and respect for the people involved in these stories? 6. Disturbing the Grieving Process For families and individuals affected by the crimes featured in true crime stories, the constant reminder of their trauma can be distressing. The rehashing of their experiences in the media can inhibit the healing process, as well as make it difficult for them to move forward and find closure. While it's natural to be curious about the mysteries and dark sides of human nature, we should be mindful of the potential consequences of glamorizing true crime. It's essential to engage with this content responsibly and critically, taking into account the real-life pain and suffering involved. Rather than glorifying these stories, we should strive to support and advocate for a more empathetic and compassionate society. By doing so, we can strike a balance between our natural fascination with crime and a more responsible, ethical approach to consuming true crime media.  True crime has become a global cultural phenomenon. It dominates our television screens, bookshelves, and podcasts, and countless online communities revolve around the discussion of real-life criminal cases. But what is it about tales of murder, mystery, and malevolence that keeps us so captivated? In this blog, we'll delve into the psychology and societal factors behind our obsession with true crime.
1. Human Nature and Curiosity. At its core, our fascination with true crime may be an extension of our innate curiosity. Humans are naturally drawn to puzzles and mysteries. We have an insatiable desire to understand the world around us, and true crime presents an opportunity to satisfy this curiosity. We want to know the "why" and "how" behind the crimes, and we're often left intrigued by the complexity of human behavior. 2. Voyeuristic Thrills True crime offers us a voyeuristic thrill—a chance to peer into the darkest corners of the human psyche. This experience can be both chilling and cathartic. It allows us to confront our fears from the safety of our own living rooms, experiencing the horrors without actually being in danger. 3. Empathy and Relatability Many people find themselves empathizing with the victims and their families in true crime stories. The shared experience of fear, grief, and trauma can make these stories feel relatable. This emotional connection helps us explore our own fears and vulnerabilities, making us feel more human in the process. 4. Morbid Fascination There's no denying that we're drawn to the macabre and the mysterious. The shock value of true crime stories can be both titillating and disturbing. Morbid curiosity, as some psychologists call it, leads us to explore the darker aspects of human existence, even if it's unsettling. 5. The Puzzle of Justice In many true crime stories, there is a pursuit of justice. We become armchair detectives, trying to solve the case alongside law enforcement. The search for the truth and the quest for justice can be deeply satisfying, reinforcing our belief in the triumph of good over evil. 6. Fear and Self-Preservation True crime can also serve as a form of self-preservation. By learning about real-life crimes, we become more aware of potential dangers and how to protect ourselves and our loved ones. Knowledge about past crimes can help us make safer choices in our own lives. 7. Social Connection The popularity of true crime has led to the formation of vast online communities, book clubs, and discussion groups. Engaging in these communities allows people to connect with others who share their interests, creating a sense of belonging and camaraderie. 8. Psychological Thrills The psychology behind criminal behavior is a fascinating field of study. True crime offers a unique window into the minds of criminals and the intricate motivations behind their actions. This intellectual aspect can be highly engaging for those who seek to understand the intricacies of human behavior. Our obsession with true crime is a complex interplay of human psychology, curiosity, and societal factors. While it might seem morbid to some, there's much more to it than a mere fascination with violence and mayhem. True crime stories provide us with an opportunity to explore the depths of the human psyche, to grapple with our own vulnerabilities, and to find solace in the pursuit of justice. Ultimately, the popularity of true crime is a testament to our enduring need to understand and connect with the darker aspects of the human experience. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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