BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, 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. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove 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 ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-ONE:
At 7 St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove once lived William Reason, his brother-in-law Daniel Hanrahan and his 35-year-old niece called Gladys, who everyone knew as Renee. Everyone loved Renee; she was sweet, petite and polite. On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at 10:30pm, the body of Renee was found in Regent’s Park, three miles east. She had been gagged, strangled and beaten. What happened to Renee? What was she doing in Regent’s Park after dark? Who did she meet and why? And what does this street and the location of her uncles’ off-licence on St Ervan’s Road have to do with her death?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black raindrop near the words Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MEPO 3/2856 - Unsolved murder of Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan at Regents Park, 1947 Oct 1 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258314
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on St Ervans Road in Westbourne Park, W10; two streets north of the Landor House murders, two streets east of the cinema where Reg Christie was once a projectionist, and a short walk from the last tragic moments in the sad life of Lena Cunningham - coming soon to Murder Mile. The original buildings on the eastern edge of St Ervan’s Road were demolished in the 1960s to make way for the A40 flyover, a delightful concrete monstrosity which blots the horizon with a grey sunset of hazy smog, a bird song of roaring trucks and a hooty jam of window lickers heading to a job they hate. In the pursuit of progress, the off-license at 7 St Ervans Road was erased; taking with it the home of William Reason, Daniel Hanrahan, his daughter Renee and the tragedy which befell this loving family. Her home was three miles west of where her body was found; no-one knew how she got there, where she had been and – more importantly – why anyone would murder someone so shy, kind and beloved? Believing this lone girl must have been attacked in a dark park by a random stranger, the residents of St Ervans Road were left in shock. And yet, a greater shock was yet to come. As this was a murder as ordinary as any other, and the street wasn’t just where she lived, but also where her killer called home. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 171: The Girl with a Smile for Everyone – Part Two. A smile can do many things; it can light up a room, soothe a mood and endear us to a person. But a smile isn’t an honest expression, it can exude happiness, whilst hiding truth, pain and fear. Wednesday 1st October 1947 at 10:30pm, at Cumberland Green on the eastern edge of Regent’s Park, Detective Inspector Jamieson and Superintendent Beveridge assessed this unusual crime-scene. The park was dark and empty, as it had been barely an hour earlier when Renee had been murdered. With the only witnesses being to her discovery, the detectives could only speculate that she had been beaten, strangled and gagged elsewhere, possibly transported by car, and her body dumped. But why here? Why not a canal, a drain, a bush or a bin? Why pick an open expanse of grass in a public park with no obstructions to disguise this despicable deed? Why commit such a heinous crime, only to lay her down with such reverence; her clothes neat, her limbs straight and her handbag like a pillow. With no robbery, no rape and no signs of a struggle, it was clear that her killer was someone who loved her intensely and hated her as fiercely. This was someone that she knew, loved and trusted. As a shy girl with good morals and a limited social circle, the prime suspects would be limited to just a few Suspect 1: William Reason, a widower known as Uncle Willy who for the last twenty years had given a home, love and safety to the niece he treated like his own child. Broken by the news of her death, he cancelled his 65th birthday, closed his shop and lost in his tears, he would never recover from the loss. Suspect 2: Daniel Hanrahan, Renee’s widowed father who had fought in court to get custody of her, who had threatened to tear her killer to pieces and like Willy became a shell of himself after her death. In Renee’s throat, an old torn hanky had been used to gag her. It was stitched with the laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. And although the hanky was his, his alibi was solid and his grief genuine. Suspect 3: James Locke, the yard hand at United Dairies who dated Renee, took her to Margate on his motorbike and made-up a foursome with Dorothy and Gedge. Police discounted him as a suspect as he was seen at the social club in Wembley from the time she went missing until after she was found. Police would examine the lives of everyone who knew Renee, whether family, friends, colleagues and acquaintances. With no motive, everyone would be ruled out, which left the police with one suspect; her friend, her neighbour and the man she once saw as a close family friend – Albert Edward Butler. Married for 24 years and having ran a grocery for 17, Bert epitomised the perfect neighbour to Daniel, Willy & Renee. Being a friend during the blitz and when Willy’s wife died, he supported them, he aided them in the shop, he drove them in his black Ford saloon on trips to Ascot and Brighton. Every night he drank tea, chatted and played dominoes in their back room, and then he helped Renee wash up. On the surface, he seemed like a second uncle to Renee… …but underneath, Bert was bubbling with danger. Thursday 2nd October 1947, at 8:30am, as a ravenous press swarmed St Ervans Road looking to get the scoop, a reporter who was unaware of which house was Uncle Willy’s blurted out the horror. To his wife Gladys, Bert said “something terrible has happened, Renee has been murdered” and having gone next door to support Daniel & Willy who stood in pale shock – without a prompt – he told them both “I had a drink with her, yesterday lunchtime at the Golden Cross” – a detail they hadn’t asked for and (as Daniel would state) “he related the whole of his movements from lunch-time till Renee was found”. Bert was an unusual man, friendly but a little direct. Being 49 years old, 5 foot 10 and thinly-built with square shoulders, he resembled any other hard-working man of the day. Only burdened by sharp eyes and a bald head – most strikingly – he had a stern angular face which didn’t flinch when he was furious. Depending on who you were, there were two sides to Bert; the sweet uncle and the imposing bully. His wife Gladys never spoke ill of him; they worked and lived together, and yet, sleeping in separate beds, she rarely joined him next-door for dominoes, and would state “some evenings, he goes out for long walks by himself. I do not as a rule know where he goes, unless he happens to mention it”. Every night, in the back-room of number 7, the routine was the same; Bert would arrive at 9pm, they’d have a snack, a chat, a game of dominoes, he would help Renee wash-up, and would leave by midnight, Daniel would state “he often helped her in the scullery, and in doing so, they were alone together”. Nothing sinister was thought of this as Bert was a family friend. Uncle Willy would state “he was so regular with his visits I thought it strange when he didn’t come” - as he wouldn’t on the night she died. Nine months earlier, while washing up next to the woman - a foot shorter, half his weight and fifteen years his younger - Bert accidentally nicked his finger on a knife. It was just a small cut, so to stem the flow, Daniel gave him an old torn hanky, stitched with the laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. Thinking nothing of it, Bert kept the hanky and Daniel forgot all about it… …only months later, Bert would use it to choke her screams and to end her life. The relationship between Renee & Bert seemed to be that of a kindly uncle and his smiling niece, some had queried if it was morally right, but nobody saw it as other than the kindness of a family friend. They got on well, they chatted, he helped her with the stock-check in the cellars of both shops, and – being so shy – as he did with Willy & Daniel, he drove Renee to Ascot Races… but this time, by herself. To Bert “she was a girl with a smile for everyone”. Only her smile would hide the pain of a girl who was leched over by a creepy uncle; a pest who was had admitted he was attracted to her, who had expressed his love for her and – in whispers from the scullery – that he wanted to have sex with her. Renee never wanted to burden her father or uncle with her pain… …so, she never said a word to them about Bert. Desperate to be near Renee, Bert drove her to work every Monday, and although he lived three miles west, he rented a garage for his car in Manchester Mews - right behind the dairy where she worked. As a frequent visitor to her home, Bert would later admit to the police “I was attracted to Renee, but for nothing more than being a good friend. I have been in her bedroom often, but only to do odd jobs”. Six months earlier, Daniel came back from a night-shift and found himself locked out of the house. As a pal, hearing his plea, Bert helped him out, and - wearing just his pyjamas - Bert climbed through the back window as Renee slept and entered their home. During his police interview, Bert would tell the detectives: “I have never been in the house during the night unknown to the members of the family”. Working at the dairy, Renee felt safe. But at home, she didn’t. One month before her death, she had confided to two friends that she was fed-up with him chasing her, and that she was scared, saying “he might do things if I refuse to have anything to do with him”. With no way to escape and not wishing to upset anyone, she told no-one else about this family friend. Only, the less Renee saw him, the more Bert’s love would grow from attraction to obsession. As a quiet girl with a small but trusted circle of friends, every Wednesday she went with her colleagues to the dairy’s social club at the sports ground in Wembley; to drink, to chat, to watch the footie and to dance. But across the August of 1947, Bert had followed her from her home at St Ervans Road, to Westbourne Park station, onto the train at Baker Street station and all the way to the sports ground. On Wednesday 27th August, six weeks before her death, at the social club, Dorothy & Gedge saw Renee in an unheard heated exchange with a bald stern-faced man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby hat. The next day, at work, Renee confided to a friend: “Butler had a terrible temper because I would not go out with him. He said ‘it was a good job I did not stay last night, or I should have done you in”. With obsession turning to stalking and threats, she looked distressed, but masked it with a smile. On Sunday 31st August, the foursome – Dorothy, Renee, Gedge and Jimmy - headed to Margate. It was an escape from her stresses and she had a wonderful time, but having been driven back home on the back of Jimmy’s motorbike, from behind the twitching curtains next door, Bert was jealously watching. On Wednesday 24th September, one week before her death, having followed her again to the sports ground, Renee asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t. She told him “It’s no use you waiting here, I shall be going home on the bike” – Jimmy’s bike – only Bert sternly replied “if I see you on it, I shall cut you off’”. Which was why so many people found it strange to see Bert at Renee’s funeral. In their eyes, the two were no longer friends, but at her service, Bert stood beside Daniel & Willy, crying like a relative. To keep up the pretence that everything was fine, Renee plastered on a smile. On the night of Tuesday 30th September, all four sat together chatting about the plans for Uncle Willy’s 65th birthday… …only the party would never happen, as by Bert’s hand, Renee would be dead. Wednesday 1st October 1947 began like any other day for Renee. At 8am, she made breakfast, she did the cleaning and helped out in the shop. At 12pm, she left, having a few errands to run for Uncle Willy. Witnessed by his wife, Bert made the spontaneous decision “I think I will have a walk… the air will do me good”. He popped on a fawn raincoat, a brown trilby, he headed into Ladbroke Grove, and what followed was an alibi that he would rigidly stick to throughout the duration of the coroner’s inquest. “The last time I saw Renee… I met her by chance in Portabello Road”. Seen waiting for her outside of Barclays Bank, “I asked her to have a drink with me… we went to the Golden Cross pub; Renee had two gin and limes and I had two pints of beer”. Being a thin man with a stern face and a tiny lady with frizzy hair, three people saw this easily recognisable twosome sitting in the saloon bar talking quietly. At 1pm, “Renee left me, she was going to Woolworths to buy a birthday card”, and he re-iterated to the police, “I have never been to the sports ground in Wembley… I was not near Regent’s Park that night and I am empathic that I left Miss Hanrahan at round 1pm and that I never saw her afterwards”. At 2pm, Renee and Uncle Willy had sausages, mash and peas, with peaches and custard for pudding. Bert’s wife had expected him back for lunch as usual: “however he did not return, but I did not worry”. It was then - as would happen to Renee - that for some reason, his routine would change. “I had gone on the impulse of the moment as I was at a bit of a loose end”. After the pub “I took the train to Brighton. The return fare was 15s 3d. I arrived at about 3:45pm” – the details of which he would have known having visited this seaside town with Renee, Daniel & Willy just two weeks before. “I walked to the sea front, sat down on the beach near the Palace Pier. I fell asleep and I did not wake up until 6pm. I then went to a snack bar with white tiled walls, I can’t remember the name, I had a cup of tea and a sandwich, and then I went to the station”. When asked if anyone could corroborate his movements, he would state “I spoke to no-one who can verify my story that I was in Brighton…”. Arriving back at Brighton station, “I got the 7:14pm train and arrived in Victoria at exactly 8:30pm”. He could provide no tickets to prove this journey, and there were no pebbles in his shoes or clothes. Being back in the city, with his shop shut and time to kill, he could have gone anywhere - a cinema, a theatre or a restaurant – instead “I got a No 11 bus to World’s End in Chelsea and had a walk around” as he had seen a property he liked and dusk seemed like the perfect time to go house-hunting. At the end of which time, “I went by No 31 bus to Great Western Road”, a road running just shy of his home. At around the time that it was believed Renee had been murdered, three miles west of Regent’s Park “I entered the Metropolitan pub at 9:45pm. I spoke to a young lady”, later identified as Rose Deveraux, “I stayed with Rose and her friend till closing. I then stood outside talking to them and I left to go home at 10:40pm”. Police tracked down Rose and her friend, but their accounts proved unreliable. According to his statement, Bert headed down Tavistock Crescent to St Ervans Road, “I intended to go into Willy’s” for a cup of tea and a game of dominoes in the backroom “but did not get back in time”, meaning half-an-hour after the detectives had arrived at the crime-scene, he had returned home. His wife Gladys would state “I was sat in the backroom listening to the wireless, it was 10:45pm, my husband came in. He said ‘hello dear’…” and – without a prompt – volunteered his movements for the day; the train, the beach, the sleep. “He poured himself a Guinness. He seemed his usual self. I did not talk with him much as I was tired. I left him and went to bed. He came up about 20 minutes later”. The alibi provided by Albert Butler would put him fifty-four miles south of London at the time when Renee was last seen alive, and three miles west of Regent’s Park during the hour when she was murdered. During the inquest, the coroner would ask “If anyone were to say they had seen you in London that afternoon, would they be wrong?”. Bert would reply “yes sir, they are mistaken”. And when asked “did you have anything to do with the death of Miss Hanrahan, Bert would reply “no sir, I did not”. That was Bert’s alibi, and as vague as his story was, he stuck to it throughout the inquest… …only, when the police dug deeper, other witnesses told a different story. At 5pm, Renee went to Smith’s at 63 Tavistock Crescent to buy cigarettes for her uncle as served by Mrs Underwood. Stating that Renee looked flustered, she was seen in a heated exchange across the road with a man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby. Although, she could not positively identify if this was Bert Butler – a neighbour and grocer who had lived one street away for the last two decades. At 5:30pm, Isabella Greenwood, an assistant who often worked for Bert & Willy said she had seen him standing behind the counter of his grocers alongside his wife, a sighting confirmed by regular customer Lillian Fudge. So, either his wife was badly mistaken, or she had changed her story to protect him? Both of these sightings were debated in court, but they could not be verified as conclusive proof. At 5:55pm, being the last time Renee was seen alive by a loved-one, she left 7 St Ervans Road with her plans for the night still undecided. She was dressed to go out, she had asked about films at the cinema and she had money in her purse. But for some reason she didn’t go to the sports ground in Wembley. As confirmed by a ticket found in her purse, the serial numbers confirmed that she had purchased a return ticket to Baker Street at Westbourne Park tube station between 6 and 7pm, as issued by ticket inspector Arthur Deadman, who knew Renee and remembered that she was alone. When discovered, it was found that her ticket had not been clipped, meaning that she had never boarded the train. Between the time she entered the station to the moment her body was found, Renee seemed to have vanished without a trace. No-one who knew her had seen her… but what about those who didn’t? Two days after her murder, Police issued her photo in the local newspapers alongside a description of this woman who was truly unique – 35 years old, four foot eleven, seven and a half stone, with pale skin, grey eyes, lips like a toffee apple and a sweet face topped with brown frizzy hair like candy floss. She was dressed in a light blue frock, a navy-blue coat, black shoes and brown leather handbag. Five hours were missing from her life, but slowly, even strangers began to recognise her. Three people came forward with three possible sightings of Renee. Between 7:50 and 8:20pm, Frances McLoughlin, barmaid of the Prince of Wales pub on Harrow Road, a short walk from Westbourne Park tube station saw Renee (who she knew) and Bert (who she didn’t) enter the pub. Her statement was back-up by Theresa Grimes, a customer who knew neither but said “they were easy to recognise”. They looked odd together; one tall, one short, one bald, one frizzy. Asked in court, Bert would state “I have not been to the Prince of Wales in over twelve months”. When asked by the coroner, if she recognised the man, although Bert was sat in the witness box, the barmaid said she could not. It later transpired that she had received an anonymous letter on the 15th October which read “To Mrs McLoughlin. We strongly advise you to keep your nose out of the Gladys Hanrahan case or perhaps you will find yourself in the same place as her” - the sender was never identified. At 8:55pm, just south of Regent’s Park, Lydia Malcolm saw a woman believed to be Renee and a man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby hat walking towards the Laurie Arms at 32 Crawford Place, W1. Bert would state “I was never there on that day or any other”, even though it was a few streets from the dairy where Renee worked and the rented garage in Manchester Mews where his car was parked. In Bert’s defence, the witnesses may have been mistaken; it might have been another couple, date or place, or maybe – having read about it in the paper – they made the whole thing up? As although the timeline put Renee & Bert near Regent’s Park at the time she was murdered, it may have been untrue. It was possible… but then there was this. At 9:10pm, one hour before her body was found, a postman called Francis Carter was walking along Chiltern Street, just south of Baker Street and the border of Regent’s Park. Heading home, he passed Portman Mansions; two long lines of seven-storey red-bricked buildings on either side of a quiet road. “A couple were walking in front of me. They stopped. I saw the man grab hold of the girl by the lapel and shake her, he then pushed her in the face”. Not knowing if this was a harmless bit of fun or a fight, “I followed them because I thought there was going to be trouble”, but he lost them at the lights. He described the woman as “about five feet tall, fragile build, frizzy hair and a blue coat”. Shown her body hours before her funeral, the postman positively identified Renee as the girl he saw. In court, he would point to the man he saw being “5 foot 10, late 40s, in fawn mac and a Trilby hat” as Bert. This sighting may seem a little spurious and maybe unconnected, as at no point did anyone see Bert kill Renee… but it does reveal two pieces of possible evidence that the police never released; where they thought that Renee had been murdered, or how her body had been dumped in Regent’s Park. Chiltern Street is a six-minute walk from Manchester Mews where Bert’s car was parked. If he offered Renee a lift home, maybe it was in that dark secluded garage where he beat, strangled and choked her, having rejected his love? Maybe, that’s where he placed her body in the boot? Maybe from here he drove to the Outer Circle on Regent’s Park and dumped her in Cumberland Green? And although this is only hypothetical, maybe it was him who the Police saw chain-smoking in a black Ford saloon, as he sat watching the detectives examine a strange body in an unusual crime-scene? (End) Albert Butler gave three statements to the Police in which he stuck to his story about being in Brighton. He denied being in Regent’s Park, Baker Street or Wembley, owing or using the handkerchief or driving his car that day. When asked why anyone would want her murdered, he blamed it on a fictional affair he said she had with a cousin and a yard hand at the dairy she was “sweet on” who rode a motorbike. An inquest was held at St Pancras Coroner’s Court before Mr Bentley Purchase. Given the gravity of the offence, Albert Butler was bound-over and told not to say anything which would implicate him. During the inquest, Bert was grilled hard by the prosecution on details in his alibi he should have known, only he repeatedly said “I don’t know”. For the detectives, Bert was their number one suspect; he had motive, purpose and means, and being unable to provide a single witness or piece of evidence to back up his story, everything was against him. If escalated to a criminal court, he risked a death sentence. Only the prosecution’s case had holes. Summing up, the coroner would state “there is no evidence that Butler, putting the worst case against him, is the person who murdered her. Even if the jury were to accept the evidence that he had not gone to Brighton, that is a very different thing from having any evidence that he was with the girl in Regents Park. That is the unsatisfactory feature of this case”. On 3rd December 1947, having deliberated for ten minutes, the jury returned with an open verdict that Renee had been “murdered by person or persons unknown”. And with that, Albert Butler walked free, he returned to St Ervans Road and continued his life living next-door to Renee’s grieving family. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, 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. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Cumberland Green in Regent's Park, the exact location where Renee's body was found
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY: On the eastern edge of Regent’s Park is Cumberland Green on the corner of Chester Road and the Outer Circle. It’s a non-descript expanse of grass with several intersecting paths and few trees.
On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at roughly 10:30pm, the body of a woman was discovered here. Her name was Gladys Hanrahan, also known as ‘Renée’, a 35-year-old book-keeper who worked in a local dairy. She was well-liked, popular and loved. She hadn’t been robbed, she hadn’t been sexually molested, there were no threats on her life, she didn’t owe money, she didn’t keep secrets, and – stranger still –her body had been posed. So, why was Gladys Hanrahan murdered and who by?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a purple raindrop near the words Regent's Park (far left). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. MEPO 3/2856 - Unsolved murder of Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan at Regents Park, 1947 Oct 1 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258314
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile Today I’m standing in Regent’s Park, NW1; two roads south and west of the first two possible murders by the Blackout Ripper, one road east of the college where Martine Vik Magnussen met a deadly friend and a short walk south of the brutal slaughter over the sacred elephant - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just north of Baker Street, Regent’s Park is one of several royal parks in London. Covering 395 acres, it has boating lakes, an open-air theatre, a zoo, and limitless space for everyone; whether a yappy little rat who soils itself every six feet like its writing its demands in a stinky Morse code, a Lycra-clad jogger whose sweaty whiff makes the flowers wilt, and an attention-seeking turd who ruins every picnic by bringing a guitar so their fragile ego can be massaged by the words “oooh, aren’t you talented”. Yawn. Cumberland Green is a wide expanse of grass on the far eastern edge of Regent’s Park, just shy of the perimeter road called the Outer Circle. Cross-crossed with a series of interconnecting paths, unlike the rest of Regent’s Park which is manicured and cultivated, Cumberland Green has no plants, no shrubs, no bushes, no pond and only a smattering of trees. It’s as if the planners simply ran out of ideas. Being flat and unincumbered by obstructions, it’s perfect for a game of cricket. But if you wanted to hide something - let’s say a dead body - this part of the park would be possibly the worst place to pick. On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at roughly 10:15pm, it was here that the body of a 35-year-old book-keeper called Gladys Hanrahan was found. Having been gagged, strangled and beaten, it was clear she had been dead for barely an hour. But what wasn’t clear was where she had died, as with the grass all wet and freshly-cut and her shoes all clean and dry, someone had carried her here. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 170: The Girl with a Smile for Everyone – Part One. It’s fair to say that everybody loved Gladys. Being a harmless little dot – barely four foot and eleven inches high and just seven and a half stone in weight – she was unmistakable and easy to spot. Known by her loved ones as Renee, she was the size of a child and as fragile as a deer. With pale skin punctuated big grey eyes, lips as red as a toffee apple and her sweet face topped with brown frizzy hair like candy floss, she was impossible not to love. Everybody said she was “a girl with a smile for everyone”. And although, when people die, the grieving often expel cherry-picked clips of a rose-tinted version of their life, in this case it was true. Renee was a truly beautiful person, inside and out. Being no bother to anyone, she was shy but without appearing rude, she was friendly without being too-familiar, and she was quiet but that was her way. She was truly lovely, as inside that tiny body would beat a big heart with enough love for everyone. Which is why it’s so hard to believe that anyone would hate Renee so much they would murder her… …but they would. Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan was born on the 3rd August 1912 in Marylebone, barely a few streets from where she would die. As the youngest of two, where-as her older brother was given the name Daniel after her father, with Gladys named after her mother, it’s no surprise that she preferred to be called Renee, as her birth name only reminded her of the mother she would have chosen to forget. Shortly after her birth, Daniel & Gladys separated. With mum having taken the girl and dad taking the boy, although this split fragmented the family, her brother got the better end of the deal. He only earned a modest wage as a night-porter and could never afford a place of his own, but Daniel was a good man, he was solid, honest and loving. Where-as Gladys was a drinker who drank till she was sick. Witnessing the neglect that Renee was subjected to, Daniel fought to get full custody of his children and won. In 1919, when she was only seven, Renee’s mother died. It was a tragedy but also a blessing, as for the rest of her life Renee would never be much of a drinker - a bottle of Guinness a night at best. For Daniel, providing stability for his family was vital. Having moved into his parent’s house at 27 Park Crescent Mews, just south of Regent’s Park, three generations lived side-by-side in supportive bliss. Living alongside his sister and her husband, William Reason, although they were not blood relations, Daniel & William were as close as any brothers. With no children of his own, Uncle Willy treated Renee like she was his own daughter. Since her birth, Renee had been cursed by the worst kind of mother-figure, but as she grew, she would be blessed with two fathers who would love her without question. In May 1929, Daniel and his kids moved in with Uncle Willy and his wife at 30 Northumberland Place in Westbourne Park, and having begun to bloom, Renee’s turbulent past made way for a bright future. Educated at Marylebone Grade School, Renee had an aptitude for maths. Leaving school aged 14, over the next 22 years – being loyal to her employer and hard-working – she would have only two jobs; as a book-keeper keeping tabs on the finances at Arthur’s Stores in Westbourne Grove for a decade, and – broken only by her death – 12 years at the Marylebone branch of United Dairies on Blandford Street. As her father had strived to achieve, her life was the epitome of stability… …and nothing in her life forewarned of her cruel demise. As a creature of habit, she worked six days-a-week except Sundays, taking every second Wednesday afternoon off. She hung out with a small but trusted crowd, she always told her dad or uncle where she was going, she rarely stayed out after 10:30pm, and she steered clear of any dangers or strangers. Her hobbies consisted of reading poetry and going to dances. Her one vice was that she liked to smoke. She was immaculately dressed with manicured nails and stylish clothes. And when she wasn’t working, she helped out in her Uncle Willy’s off-licence, by keeping the books and stocking the shelves. Whether it was owing to her shyness, by the age of 35, Renee had had a few boyfriends, but she hadn’t found ‘the one’. She wanted to be loved, but this lack of love in her life left a huge hole in her heart. Plagued with loneliness, even those closest to her would never know this, as batting it away with a beaming smile, she kept her feelings locked-up tight and never wanted to burden others with her pain. Outside, Renee was always smiling… …but on the inside, she was crying. On the 14th December 1938, with her brother having married, Renee and Daniel moved in with Uncle Willy and his wife into a three-storey terraced house at 7 St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove, W10. Situated north-west of Paddington, St Ervans Road was a quiet residential street in a working-class neighbourhood comprising of two lines of identical houses, with the ground floors of a few converted into small shops. Theirs at number 7 was an off-licence and next-door at number 5 was a grocer. It was a nice place where everyone was friendly and felt safe. If you left your house, you could expect to be greeted with a “good morning”, if you hadn’t got enough cash to buy your food it would go on the slate, and if you left your door unlocked, you knew your neighbours would watch your house. Nine months after they had moved in, war was declared and the world was plunged into chaos. It was a time of fear and anxiety, but – like so many streets – the residents of St Ervans Road stuck together. Next-door at number 5 lived Mr & Mrs Butler. Married for 24 years, for the last 17 they had run a small grocery shop on their ground-floor, selling tinned stuffs, powdered goods, bread, milk and eggs. Gladys Butler was a private woman who kept-to-herself, but being a local businessman and a good pal of Uncle Willy, Albert Butler (who everyone called ‘Bert’) was a regular visitor to their shop and home. Being businesses next-door to one-another, there was never any rivalry between Willy & Bert. Instead, they helped each other out. If they needed odd-jobs done, they knew who to call. As a book-keeper, Renee did stock-taking in the cellar and kept tabs on the finances for both shops. As Bert had a car – a 14 horse-power black Ford saloon - not only did they use it to pick-up stock (saving money) but also, Bert took Daniel, Willy and Renee on trips to the races at Ascot and day-trips to the sea at Brighton. From 9pm till bed-time, every night - without fail - Bert came around for a cup of tea, a snack, a natter and a game of dominoes. Just like Uncle Willy, Bert and his wife never had any children, but he would regard Renee as one of his own. Her life was blessed, she never really had a mother, but now she had three fathers, and although she was 35 years old, to them all, Renee would always be their “little girl”. Being so shy and fragile, their love was a vital part of her life… especially when tragedy struck. As her only female role model, on the 10th October 1944, Uncle Willy’s wife died leaving Daniel without a sister and Renee without an aunt. Rallying to support each-other, Renee took on her aunt’s duties of cooking and cleaning, and Bert came over more to ensure that this quiet girl wasn’t overworked. Conscious not to burden her family, she never spoke of her worries… …but by helping her with simple things like the washing-up, it a little pressure off. By 1947, with the war firmly over, Renee had been a book-keeper at United Dairies at 75 Blandford Street in Marylebone for over 12 years. She was quiet and polite, but well-liked and punctual. She had never been promoted, but not being an ambitious person, she liked the security of a familiar routine. Every day, she caught the Circle Line tube from Westbourne Park to Baker Street, taking just half an hour door-to-door, even with her little legs. She didn’t eat out, choosing to carry sandwiches. She rarely went out in the evenings, instead she stayed in with her dad and two uncles. But once a week, she and her small group of friends headed to the dairy’s social club, at Preston Road in Wembley. Having made up a foursome with three friends from the dairy - Dorothy Brown (a 34-year-old book-keeper), Frederick Gedge (a 40-year-old milk inspector) and James Lock (a 27-year-old yard hand) – Renee had recently become a little bit smitten by James, who everyone called Jimmy. Their first date was to see a film, each time he would pick her up and drop her off on his motorbike, and as a guest in her home, the three men in her life would give this young man the once-over with a cautious eye. On the bank holiday of Sunday 31st August 1947, four weeks before her murder, the foursome headed out to the seaside town of Margate. With Dot riding pillion on Gedge’s bike and Renee on the back of Jimmy’s, with the engine roaring and the wind in her hair, it was quite a thrill for her quiet little life. For Renee, she really hoped that Jimmy would be ‘the one’… …and although she wanted to be loved, it was not to be. Giving evidence at her inquest, James told the court, “Rene and I were only working friends, and no intimacy had never taken place between us”. The evening of Tuesday 30th September 1947 was as ordinary as any other, except for one reason. The Thursday would be Uncle Willy’s 65th birthday. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it, just an invite for a few friends and neighbours for drinks and a game of cards in the back-room at 7 St Ervans Road. From the scullery, as they washed-up the dirty crockery, Willy could hear Bert whispering to Renee. He didn’t like birthday surprises, but he needn’t have worried as the party would never take place… …as by the next night, his beloved Renee would be dead. Wednesday 1st October 1947 began like any other day for Renee. Typically, being her day-off, with the summer sun gone, the sky was dull blanket of grey which lay a fine wet drizzle on the ground. At 8am, she made breakfast for Uncle Willy and herself, and a meal for her dad as he came off his night-shift. She did the cleaning, a little washing, and helped out in the shop, speaking to a handful of customers. At 12pm, with a few errands to run for Uncle Willy, Renee took the 12-minute-walk to Barclays Bank at 137 Ladbroke Grove, she picked up a few odds and ends, and – as promised – she was back by 2pm. For lunch, they had sausages, mash and peas, with peaches and custard for pudding. And at 5pm, she went to Smith’s at 63a Tavistock Crescent, buying her uncle’s cigarettes as served by Mrs Underwood. So far, her day was unremarkable… but for some reason, her routine would change. That night, she appeared tired, although typical of Renee, she never complained. Being a Wednesday, she usually went to the dairy’s social club in Wembley, and although Jimmy, Dorothy and Gedge had expected to see her there, she never turned up. That evening, before his shift, she asked her dad what films were on at the cinema, he suggested ‘Master of Bankdam’ on Edgware Road, but she never went. Ready for a night out, she dressed in a light blue frock, a navy-blue coat, black shoes and – as always – her nails were brightly painted, her make-up was neat and her hair was as frizzy as ever. In her brown leather handbag was a make-up compact, £5 in notes and a cotton hanky (stylish, colourful and clean). Around her neck she wore a sapphire and diamond pendant, which had belonged to her belated aunt. At 5:30pm, she had a cup of tea and a piece of cake with Uncle Willy, and she was her usual pleasant self. As they sat there in the back-room, having had a coughing fit, Renee asked him ‘would you like me to stop with you’, but seeing that she needed a night off, he replied ‘no, you go and enjoy yourself’. They would be one of the last words which Uncle Willy would say to Renee. She had told no-one of her worries, as she didn’t want to burden those she loved… but a dark secret was plaguing her mind. At 5:55pm, she left her home at 7 St Ervans Road for the very last time, she walked to Westbourne Park tube station and purchased a return ticket to Baker Street… only she never boarded the train. Four and a half hours of her life would vanish… …as he next time she was seen, she was dead. The night fell at 7:12pm, although with the sky a murky grey, it was hard to tell. Being dark and a few hundred feet from a dotted line of street-lights on the Outer Circle, Regent’s Park was almost empty. Occasionally, the cross-crossing paths would feature a hint of life like a dog-walker, a cyclist heading home or an amorous couple kissing, but with the gardeners having packed up for the day, it was silent. Of the witnesses who found her body, nobody saw or heard what had happened to Renee. Nothing drew their attention nor aroused their suspicion. There were no screams and no sounds to mask them. At 10:15pm, Leonard Daniels, a cable worker from Greenwich was sitting on a bench in Cumberland Green with his girlfriend Menna August, a domestic servant who worked at nearby 6 Chester Place. Having finished work, they had been to the cinema, and were sitting quietly having a chat and a smoke. They had barely been there for five minutes when a short thick-set man in his early twenties came up saying “there’s a woman laying over there, I think she’s ill?”, Leonard asked “where?”, and he pointed to just fifty feet from where they were sat. Pulling out her torch, Menna shone it upon a wide expanse of grass with no bushes or trees in any direction, and there lay a woman, seemingly fast asleep. Alerted by the commotion, Thomas Hustwayte, a toolmaker from Hackney asked “has she fainted?”, but having briefly examined her, Leonard’s words were clear “no, she is dead”. Of those four, Menna, Leonard & Thomas walked to Albany Street police station, but the thick-set man was never identified. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Inspector Jamieson and Superintendent Beveridge. It was clear upon arrival that this was not an ordinary attack on a lone woman walking through a park at night. It had some of the hallmarks, but too many elements of the scene didn’t make any sense. There was no robbery; her sapphire and diamond pendant remained round her neck, the rings were on her fingers and her brown leather handbag hadn’t been opened or disturbed. Inside was the £5. There was no sexual assault; not a single item of her clothing or underwear had been ripped, scuffed or even disarranged. Everything looked as neat and pressed as when she had left her home that night. There had been an attack; as with broken nails and blackened eyes, it was clear that this tiny lady had valiantly tried and failed to put up a brave fight in her last seconds alive, but it hadn’t happened here. Whoever had attacked her had strangled her with a hand and inserted a handkerchief so far down her throat that she choked, only that hadn’t happened here. The detectives would comment “It looked like she had been laid down and her bag used as a pillow… it was like she was positioned with reverence…”. With straight arms, legs and body, she hadn’t collapsed here, but she had been placed. Renee had been dead for nearly an hour by the time she was found, but she hadn’t set foot in Regent’s Park that night. For the police, they knew this for certain, as with air moist with drizzle and the grass freshly cut, everyone’s shoes were wet and dotted with green sticky clippings… all except Renee’s. But who had attacked her, where had they strangled her and why did they dump her body here? It made no sense. Cumberland Park was one of the few parts of Regent’s Park without obstructions. With the nearest entrance being from the Outer Circle - a ring road which loops from Baker Street to Great Portland Street – she was far enough away from the street-lights and traffic, but to get to the place where her body was laid, somebody had carried her through a gate shrouded by dark thick trees. Clearly, she had been posed and placed in the open, but why did her murderer want her to be found? Whoever it was, they had both loved and hated Renee for whatever reason, and although this attack seemed like a crime-of-passion, in the heat of the moment, her assailant had made a single mistake. Down her throat a cotton handkerchief had been forced. It wasn’t hers, as being so stylish, Renee’s were always neat, clean and colourful, matching her clothes or nails. This was old, it was torn and it was used. It was a man’s handkerchief stitched with the blue laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. Police searched the surrounding areas – the streets, the park and made house-to-house enquiries – but there had been no sightings of Renee since she left her home at 6pm, and no sounds of the attack. With no suspect, the police had three possible theories as to what had happened. #1 – Renee had gone for a walk in a park (three miles from her home) and was attacked by a stranger. This was less likely, as she was not the sort of woman to go walking in a dark park, at night, by herself. #2 – Chosen at random, her murder was committed by a copy-cat killer, inspired by the film ‘Wanted for Murder’ where a killer strangles a woman in a London park - which was still playing at the cinema. Or #3 – Renee had met a man, he had killed her elsewhere, and he had dumped her body in the park. This seemed the most likely theory. Within two days, the police were convinced that her killer was someone she liked, someone she possibly loved, and – more importantly – someone she trusted. (End) The next morning, unsure which was the home of Uncle Willy, a reporter entered Bert’s grocery shop. Having been a little too eager to get the scoop, they blurted out the tragic truth before the police had a chance to inform her loved one’s. And within the hour, the whole street knew that Renee was dead. Informed by a ravenous press too insensitive of her grieving family’s feelings to tread carefully with a deadline looming, when Bert went next-door, he saw the ashen faces of his pals Daniel and Willy; their eyes red with tears and their anger evident, as through choked words, the dead girl’s father barked “If I get hold of the man who did it, I would tear him to pieces”. Knowing they needed his support, Bert stayed with them until 1:50pm, as the three men who loved her stood in silence and shock. With the door locked and his 65th birthday party cancelled, Uncle Willy put a sign on the door of his off-licence, which read “owing to the sudden death of my dear niece, this shop will be closed”. On Thursday 8th October 1947, just eight days after her murder, the funeral of Gladys Hanrahan known as Renee was held. Organised by Herbert Marshall, the depot manager at United Dairies, as a mark of respect, among the cortege was a long line of milk floats which passed her home at a solum pace, and on each van lay a brightly coloured wreath which typified this good woman’s warmth and love. The church was full of mourners; family, friends, neighbours and colleagues, everyone who loved her. With not a dry eye to be seen, no-one could fathom why anyone would hate Renee, let alone how any one would want her dead? And yet, somewhere in this church, someone she knew had murdered her. Renee was known as the girl with a smile for everyone… but maybe it was one smile too many? ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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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 ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE:
On the morning of Friday 17th July 1964, Kathleen Cotter, a mother of three who lived in the top floor flat of 7 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale found 77-year-old Samuel Bragg dead in his bed. The old man had been ill for many months owing to malnutrition and advancing dementia. As was protocol, the police were called, an investigation was conducted, but his autopsy would confirm what everyone suspected, that old Samuel had died in his sleep. It’s a tragic story which happens every day, in every town… …only, a small sound heard higher up in the house would lead to a truly disturbing story which nobody suspected and would lead to the arrest of the murderer of Samuel Bragg.
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The location is marked with a black raindrop near the words Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. COTTER, Timothy Noel(14): murder of Samuel BRAGG between 14 July 1964 and 18 July 1964 in Paddington, London by asphyxiation. Convicted of manslaughter (Boy smothers room mate) https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C3756486 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C5038655 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale, W9: two streets south of the arrest of Edward Walstrom-Lewis, a few hundred feet east of the frozen torso of Hannah Brown, and two roads west of the unsolved murder by a killer who claimed to be ‘the real ripper’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Nestled to the side of Little Venice, Randolph Avenue is a quiet, discrete and impressively clean road lined with an odd mix of building styles reflecting its ever-changing fortune over the centuries. Not too long ago it was full of run-down council tenements, but today, it’s mostly full of celebrities. But aside from featuring in the comedy ‘A Fish Called Wanda’, when Otto (played by Kevin Klein) side-swipes a car and shouts the immortal line “aaaaaassssshooole”, you’ll have no reason to know it. At 7 Randolph Avenue currently stands a five-storey townhouse worth £6 million. And although the loft and the white Doric columns around the door are recent additions, it looks as it did in the 1960s. Back in 1964, the front ground floor flat was the home of 77-year-old Samuel Bragg, a war-veteran who suffered with dementia and lived in squalor. The council were aware of his situation, but wanting to be left alone, there was nothing they could do. Thankfully, living in a house full of caring neighbours, when he needed help, they were always there, right up to the day that he passed away in his bed. It’s a sad story which happens every day in every town… …only, Samuel’s seemingly peaceful death would lead to his killer’s arrest. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 169: Samuel Bragg: The Miser’s Demise. Befitting a man who lived by himself, little is known about Samuel’s life. Born in 1887, Samuel Bragg was the youngest of four to Henry & Eliza Bragg of Union Street in Lambeth (South London); a working-class family with his mum a housewife and his dad a saw-dust dealer. Aged 14, he left school, becoming a building site labourer until he enlisted to fight for King & Country in the First World War, for which he was given a veteran’s pension. And that was all that was recorded about the life of Samuel Bragg. It’s as if his past had never existed and his present was coming to a close. In March 1955, aged 67, Samuel Bragg had moved into the small front-room on the ground-floor of 7 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale; a council-run lodging with Mr Rosen, a 60-year-old bachelor living on the first floor, Mrs De Troch a 75-year-old widow on the second, and on the third, the Cotter family – comprising of mother Kathleen, father Timothy, and three children; Jean, Anthony and Timothy Junior. Concerned for his well being, the tenants always kept tabs on ‘Old Samuel’, as it was clear that he had no-one. With no wife, no kids, no friends nor siblings to visit him, Samuel was very much a loner. The sadness was that he had not always been this way. As a little guy of just five foot three inches high with a fondness for felt hats and sporting an elegant moustache, he was clearly once a bit of a dandy. But with no-one to care for and no-one to love him, Samuel became a shadow of his former self. Isolated. Lonely. Unloved. Through his twilight years, this dapper gent had morphed into a ragged sack of bones, infected with bed sores, his eyes sunken and his skin unwashed and stinking. With his days spent alone in his squalid room, wearing soiled pants and muttering to himself in a rambling mumble. As a vulnerable man with advancing dementia, the Welfare Service had tried to get him a cleaner and a carer over the years, and to coax him to move into a nursing home, but he always refused any help. Samuel lived the life of a miser; saving every penny, spending nothing and living in abject squalor. Set to the side of the front door; his single-room (being just fifteen feet square) consisted of a bed, a chair, two chests of drawers and a small hob for cooking. With just one window which was never open, the stale stench of his depressing hovel remained in semi-darkness, as he was too tight-fisted to switch on the bare bulb over his head. Being too mean to buy a rug, his calloused feet crept about on icy cold floorboards. And unwilling to waste money on coal, the soiled sheets of his bed was his only warmth. It was a room of utter sadness. There was no colour, no music and no joy. In no part of this dingy filth lay family photos, love letters or fond memories of his past - as all it contained was just the basics. And although malnutrition had made him weak, his spendthrift ways made him live on a diet of sardines and potatoes - the cheapest food he could buy – as every day his mental and physical health declined. Samuel had no-one to love him… …but there was one person who cared. On the third floor of 7 Randolph Avenue lived 40-year-old Kathleen Cotter, a busy mother of four who earned an honest crust as an office cleaner as her husband’s wage as a labourer wasn’t enough. The Cotters had lived there for twelve years, and they had known Samuel since they day he had arrived. Initially, he was liked, but as his illness progressed and the peculiarities of his dementia surfaced, some of the tenants grew distant. When they were little, Kathleen’s youngest boys (Timothy and Anthony) often popped down to see Old Samuel. He was fun, he was kind and – although tight-fisted – he always had a few pennies to spare so the kids could buy sweets. But in later years, although the promise of coins would prove a powerful lure, Tim & Tony stopped visiting, as (in their words) “the room stank”. As a mother with a big heart and lots of patience, Kathleen did what she could for Samuel; she made him hearty meals, she darned his tatty clothes and she even washed his bed-sheets as he often stayed in bed for days at a time. So rancid were his sheets that although she boil-washed them separately to eviscerate the lice, she would have loved to have burned them, only she knew he wouldn’t buy more. In 1962, Kathleen was so worried about Samuel that she called the welfare officer, he was taken to St Mary’s hospital and having remained there for five months, when he returned home, he looked well. But within weeks, being back in the squalid stench of his own festering filth, Samuel began to decline; he got thin, pale, even more confused, and – now rejecting her help - he just wanted to be left alone. On the odd occasion that he ventured outside, he could often be found wandering the streets in a pair of soiled underpants, mumbling to himself, unable to recall who he was or where he was going. Inside, his conversation was limited to just ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers. And his hygiene was non-existent; he rarely bathed, his clothes smelled bad and he would urinate in a metal bucket which he kept beside his bed. With a communal toilet on the first floor, waking every day at 5:30am, Samuel would ascend the stairs, nab Mr Rosen’s newspaper and spend the next twenty minutes straining all manner of unpleasantness from his upset bowels. And when his symphony of rectal explosions was over, with shaky hands he would empty his bucket, often missing the bowl and slopping his feted waste over the seat and floor. It wasn’t malicious and she knew it, so without any complaint, his mess was cleaned up by Kathleen. As his illness got worse, Samuel’s paranoia turned to the only thing he had in life… his money. Samuel was a miser, he wasn’t mean, he just terrified of being robbed and left with nothing. Everyone knew that Samuel had money, as on the days when he couldn’t pick-up his pension, Kathleen would collect it for him. Being held in a tin box in the third drawer down of his chest of drawers, the tin was always fastened, the drawer was kept locked and the key was fixed to a chain on his belt. But as an old frail man - for any passing thief - he was an easy target. In January 1964, seven months before his death, Samuel had £26 stolen from his tin. With the front door left open and being too mean to fix the lock to his room, having left his trousers on his bed, the keys were used and – within seconds – the money was stolen. With the thief apprehended by Mrs Cotter, as Samuel didn’t want to report it to the police, the criminal agreed to pay back the full amount at a rate of ten shillings a week. And that’s what made the flats at 7 Randolph Avenue such a nice place to live… …as the tenants always looked out for one another. Tuesday 14th July 1964 was the last day that Samuel was seen alive. For the past three weeks he had been bed-bound, his breathing was laboured and his body was weak and pale. It took Kathleen a little off-guard to see him upright and alert; as she knelt scrubbing the steps, her mind distracted by a set of keys to the office she cleaned which had gone missing the day before. But there he was. Alongside Mrs De Troch, Kathleen asked “Mr Bragg. Are you feeling okay?”. Standing in the doorway of his unlit room, dressed in a stained pair of pyjamas, he croaked “no, no I’m not”, his face all long and drawn. “You really ought to see a doctor” Mrs De Troch begged. But just wanting to be left alone, the old man muttered “the doctors can do nothing for me”. And with that, he returned to his bed. That was the last time that anyone saw Samuel Bragg. The next day, Kathleen had given her son Timothy £1 to buy some bread and milk. Being a typical 14-year-old, his teenage years had made him selfish, so – having taken 3 shillings of her change (roughly £1 today) - he had spent it on pinball machines at The Phoenix Club, a youth club in West Hampstead. It had been fun, but knowing how hard she worked and how disappointed she’d be, at 10:30pm, as he came in (Timothy) “I heard Old Samuel moaning. I didn’t pay any attention as he was always like that. Besides, the room smelled of wee”. And worried about how he was going to apologise to his mum, Timothy passed Samuel’s room, ascended the stairs and returned to the family flat on the third floor. That was the last time that that anyone heard Samuel Bragg. On Friday 17th July, two days later, Kathleen had grown worried. Having entered the communal toilet at 7:10am, she had prepared herself to reel from the toxic horror of the old man’s ablutions. Only, it was as clean as she had left it before. Which was odd, as Samuel was a man of routine, even when ill. Kathleen would state: “I went down to his door. As it always was, it was wedged shut with a piece of paper. I listened outside and heard nothing. I pushed it and went in. The bed was behind the door. All I could see of him was his arm over the top of his chest outside the covers. His head was turned towards the wall and there was a pillow over the side of his face. I lifted it up and saw he was dead”. PC Horace Simms arrived at 8am, followed by police surgeon Dr Samuel Sanders who declared the life of 77-year-old Samuel Bragg extinct. With no signs of forced entry and nothing obviously stolen, robbery was ruled out. The room was messy, but no more than usual. And with his skin mottled with old and new bruises, this wasn’t seen as suspicious as the elderly bruise a lot easier than the young. With no signs of a struggle or assault, the most likely cause of death was an accidental suffocation as his pillow blocked his airways as he slept. His body was removed J H Kenyon, an undertaker, and taken to St Pancras Mortuary where Dr Molesworth Johnson confirmed ‘death by accidental smothering’. With no loved ones, no close friends and no known relatives left to mourn him, the body of Samuel Bragg was held at St Pancras Mortuary until someone either claimed him, or paid for a funeral. And with that, the inquest was closed… …it was nothing extraordinary, as being something which happens on most streets, in most towns, on most days, the death of Samuel Bragg was just another sad demise of old lonely miser. The tenants at 7 Randolph Avenue went back to living their regular lives, the council had the room fumigated, his few possessions were destroyed, and a new lodger moved into the ground-floor flat. Kathleen never found her missing keys, Timothy paid her back the three shillings he had taken and the toilet remained mercifully clean in the proceeding weeks, although a sadness still hung over the house. As often happens, some of the tenants spoke of how weird Samuel’s death was; of how the messiness of his room wasn’t right, of how he had bruised himself only he hadn’t left his bed, and even Kathleen would inform the police “I think Old Samuel’s been done in”. But with no evidence of foul play, the police knew (as often happens) that people often clutch at straws when they’re struggling with grief. One week later, on Wednesday 22nd July, Kathleen was enduring the typical day of a harassed mother. Being home for lunch, 14-year-old Tim & 15-year-old Tony were bickering as always. Their flat was too small for a family of six and with the boys sharing bunk-beds, they often got on each other’s nerves. With lunch finished, she was trying to wash-up the dishes when she heard her boys getting up in each other faces. “Boys, quit it” she barked, knowing they were due back at school and with Tim off on his paper-round soon enough, with the quibbling siblings split, the flat would quickly become quieter. From the front room, Tony called out “mum, he’s hiding something”, dobbing in his younger brother (as he does) like a massive swot, only Tim was adamant (Tim) “I’m not mum, I’m not hiding nothing”. Their father, a former heavy-drinker was more of a disciplinarian whose fast smacks could silence any nonsense, but their mother would be the first to admit that she was often a little too soft on her boys. Especially Tim, as although bright, he was often bullied for wearing thick glasses owing to a squint. Their bickering continued. (Tony) “mum, Tim’s hiding something in his jacket”, (Kathleen) “boys, quiet down”, (Tim) “mum, I’m not, he’s lying”, (Kathleen) “okay, enough now”, (Tony) “I can, I can heard it jangle”, (Tim) “he can’t, he’s lying”, (Tony) “prove it, gimme your jacket”, (Tim) “get off, mum?!” But it was the next sentence which stopped Kathleen in her tracks. (Tony) “he has, he’s got some keys”. A whole week she had searched for her keys, she had looked everywhere and she had asked everyone but nothing had been found, and now, furious at his little joke, the fun and games were over. With a look only a mother can give, the kind which makes all boy’s bits shrivel, she barked “Hand me back my work keys”. Timothy froze. “Hand over my keys… now”. But still he didn’t move, as the only movement was a single tear which trembled on his lid. But Kathleen was not joking “Timothy! Keys! Now!”. Unwilling to put up with his shit any more, Kathleen snatched his jacket off the chair, she reached inside his pocket, and – as was expected – with a distinctive jangle, she pulled out a set of keys. Tony grinned with glee, thinking “oooh, Tim’s gonna get it bad when dad gets up”. Only, these were not Kathleen’s keys… …and as she held them, her face became etched with horror. (Kathleen) “Timothy, what are you doing with Samuel’s keys?”. She didn’t want to think it, she daren’t, but as her youngest son began to cry, there seemed to be only one answer and it was the unthinkable. Unsure what to do, Kathleen sent him to school while she discussed it with the boy’s father. At 4:30pm, a little later than usual, he sheepishly returned, grabbed his bike, and headed out on his paper round. It was the right thing to do. It was a part-time job he had been doing since January, and earning £1 a week. 10 shillings he kept for himself, and the other 10 shillings were paid on a weekly basis to Samuel. Back then, his mother had protected him, as being a good lad, she had begged Samuel not to go to the police, and a local probation officer had arranged the repayment of the £26 which he had stolen. But this was different… …this was murder. At 7:15pm, Timothy returned home to 7 Randolph Avenue. For Kathleen, it was possibly the hardest decision that any mother would ever have to make, but she knew it was right. (Kathleen) “Tim? You know what we’ve got to do, don’t you?”, she calmly cooed. And he did. With a quivering lip, Tim cried “yes mum, I won’t hold it against you if you turn me in” and as he dressed, she said he cried bitterly. It was only a ten-minute walk down Edgware Road, but it would be the longest walk of their lives. At 8:30pm, Kathleen & Timothy Cotter arrived at Paddington Green police station, as this devoted mother and son stood quietly holding each other’s hands. Interviewed by Detective Superintendent Howlett, the DS asked the boy “your mother has told me she found Samuel Bragg’s keys in your pocket and that you told her you may be the cause of his death?”, Timothy nodded and he was cautioned. In a brief confession, he would state “I went into the room to get some money. I took his keys off his trousers and was looking through the drawers when Mr Bragg woke up. I panicked and picked up the pillow. I held it there for about 1 to 2 minutes. While I was holding the pillow, he grabbed my hand and I held his hand until he let go of mine. He was breathing when I left him. I knew he was. I saw his stomach going up and down”. Those words were Timothy’s own words, but as he was still only a child, his confession had to be counter-signed by his mum. Except for the keys, nothing else was stolen, but as he sat there, the boy’s motive became obvious. As Tim would cry “I stole three shillings of your change mum, I’m sorry, I wanted to make it up to you”. That evening, as no relative had claimed Samuel Bragg’s body, a second autopsy was conducted at St Pancras Mortuary to determine if this was in fact a case not of ‘accidental smothering’ but of murder. As before, his injuries were consistent with accidental asphyxiation. There was no sign of assault, no evidence of manual or ligature strangulation, nor any obstruction to the airways. But given that the man was old, frail and weak, the pathologist deduced that it was perfectly possible for a boy to press a pillow over the old man’s face for one to two minutes and induce unconsciousness and even death. This kind of injury would ordinarily have caused bruising to the lips, but as Samuel had taken his false teeth out, no bruising had occurred. Bruises to his right hand were found, as the confession suggested, but it could not be determined if the other bruises were caused by compression or everyday knocks. On Wednesday 22nd July 1964, following a further investigation and autopsy, in the presence of his mother, 14-year-old Timothy Cotter was charged with the murder of Samuel Bragg. (End) To many, Timothy Cotter was a harmless young boy who had made a mistake to pay back his mum. But as his story came out, the more people talked. Many knew he had stolen £26 from Samuel. But what only a handful knew was how much money the old man was worth. Had Timothy found the right key, he’d have seen that the cash tin contained an assortment of notes and coins worth £30 (£550 today), alongside some war certificates and a post office savings book with a credit of £3400 (£67000). Kathleen had seen this when she (as a good woman caring for an old man) had put Samuel’s pension in, but as she gossiped to her husband (in confidence) it was overheard by her son. Her sweet little angel had started hanging around with boys she disliked, who had become rude, distant and violent. Some may blame his friends, but others would state that Timothy had a dark side, as a few days after the murder, he relayed the facts of his burglary to a pal, with the cool calmness of a career criminal. Held at Ashford Remand Centre, Dr P D Scott conducted at psychological assessment of Timothy who stated “this boy is of superior intelligence, an IQ of 129… he displays a callousness towards his victim… and admits to stealing to feed his new tastes” – buying records, fancy clothes and going out to dances. “He has regretted the offence largely because of its implications to himself rather than because of sympathy for his victim… the only hint of violence is his fantasy in his description of how he would deal with homosexual men in cinemas” stating (“I would slam them, or stub them with cigarettes”). Tried on 8th September 1964, at the Old Bailey, he pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter and the jury accepted this. On 15th September, 14-year-old Timothy Noel Cotter was sentenced to ten years in prison. At which, his face was emotionless. Unlike his mother, who was in floods of tears. Timothy Cotter served his sentence at Stamford House Remand Centre in Shepherd’s Bush, where he boasted to the others of having “killed a man”, and he had to be separated from the other boys. He was placed on licence before his sentence expired and his current whereabouts are unknown. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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Westbound Metropolitan Line platform at King's Cross
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-EIGHT: On Saturday 30th January 1965, at 10:50am, two men met for the very first time on the west bound Metropolitan Line of King’s Cross underground station. The first was a 44-year-old porter called Lawrence Gwyther, and the other was a 42-year-old homeless alcoholic called John Ritchie. Until that very moment, the two men had never met. And although their brief interaction would last just a few seconds, this incident would change both of their lives forever. And yet, their paths would only cross owing to circumstances outside of their control.
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THE LOCATION
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The location of the attempted murder is marked with a purple raindrop near the words King's Cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. RITCHIE, John: attempted murder of Lawrence GWYTHER on 30 January 1965 in King's Cross underground station, London by pushing in front of train. Convicted of attempted grievous bodily harm http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10878991 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing at King’s Cross station; two roads south of where Glyndwr Michael’s heroic after-life began, one road north of the Sad Faced Killer’s hotel, a few feet from where the Camden Ripper picked up sex-workers, and one road east of the man who mumbled – coming soon to Murder Mile. Below King’s Cross sits a subsurface station which connects the Piccadilly, Northern, Victoria, Circle, Bakerloo, Hammersmith & City and the Metropolitan lines. As one of the busiest tube stations in Europe, more than a hundred and fifty thousand people a day pass through this station; for some it’s part of their commute or a place of work, and for others it’s somewhere to stay dry and beg for change. King’s Cross is a haven for the homeless. Here you’ll see such sights of sadness, as a family of haggard refugees huddled in a rain-sodden doorway, a ragged mess dressed in nothing but a soiled duvet, a brutally honest alcoholic “mate, I just wanna get pissed”, and my personal favourite, the red-headed man with the imaginative ploy who once said to me “I’m saving up for a boob job, ain’t I?”. Everyone of them has a tragic tale to tell; whether a life of hardship, struggle, addiction or abuse. Some are criminals, some are heroes, some are lost, and others never want to be found. We all make assumptions in the few seconds it takes to apologetically tap our pockets or toss them a few coins to feel better about ourselves. But no-one really wants to get involved… and that’s the real problem. On Saturday 30th January 1965 at 10:50am on the westbound Metropolitan Line of King’s Cross tube station, two men from very different worlds met for the first time. One was a 44-year-old porter called Lawrence Gwyther, and the other was a 42-year-old homeless alcoholic called John Ritchie. Their interaction was brief, their words exchanged were few and their lives need never have crossed. And yet - for reasons outside of their control - it did, and changed both of their lives forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 168: The Outcast. It was a day which began for both men like any other… Lawrence Francis Gwyther was a 44-year-old bachelor who lived a good life in a small lodging at nearby 23 Granville Square. As a hard-working warehouse porter, he did his job, he paid his taxes and he kept out of trouble. He was tall and slim but sturdy, and having suffered with epilepsy since childhood, he’d been unable to enlist as a war-time soldier, but he did his duty for King & Country as a messenger. Described as “a quiet thoughtful man” who was no bother to anyone, he kept to himself but he wasn’t afraid to speak up if he felt that something wasn’t right. That morning at 10:30am, as regular as clockwork, Lawrence began his walk to work, heading one mile north to King’s Cross station. (whistle) In contrast - according to his extensive criminal record - John Ritchie was a 42-year-old ‘vagabond’ with a long history of drunkenness, theft and violent assault. Having been unable to hold down even the most menial of jobs since his teens, he hadn’t worked a day in the last seven years, and living in a hostel funded by tax-payers, he leeched off the system and squandered his benefits on booze. That morning, having already sunk two bottles of wine, a quart of cider and a hip-flask of whiskey – at least that’s what he could recall – being broke, John stumbled onto the Victoria Line at Walthamstow. Having arrogantly leaped the barrier and barked abuse at the ticket inspector, this shambling mess rode the tube for free and accosted every commuter for cash, as this scruffy ne’er-do-well staggered about wreaking of piss - as on his shoulder and sleeve, a splash of last night’s puke slowly congealed. In court, he couldn’t account for how he got there, as being in an alcoholic haze of anger and hate, he “hated these bastards” and everything about them, and yet – the irony was - he needed their money. At 10am, eye-witnesses report seeing John in a tunnel to the side of the ticket hall of King’s Cross tube station. Sitting slumped, although sloshed, he begged for change by playing his mouth organ. For the station staff, John was a habitual pest, but – momentarily lost in his music - he wasn’t being abusive. At 10:45am, Lawrence entered the main hall, he purchased a ticket, he went through the turnstile and he turned right into the tunnel towards the Metropolitan Line. A few feet behind him was Eric Mueller-Ahsmann, a 40-year-old Planning Officer who would state “…my attention was drawn to a scruffy man playing the mouth organ”. Just as Lawrence would, “as I passed him, he kept playing, but held out his hand for money. I carried on by, and as we do, I said “not now, another time”, or something like that”. That was the first time that Lawrence and John had met; they didn’t speak nor interact, but the porter would have seen there was just a few pennies in the dirty outstretched hand of this pissed-up vagrant. At 10:46am, Lawrence descended the wide stone stairs, turned left onto the westbound Metropolitan Line platform, and stood near the mouth of the tunnel alongside thirty other people. Number 184, a six-car train was (add Tannoy) “about to depart Farringdon and would/will arrive in four minutes”. Eric continued: “a few minutes later, the man had made his way onto the platform. He was swaying about, I thought he was either off-his head or simple. I saw him go to two youngsters sitting on a seat”. Being schoolboys and intimidated by the rambling drunk, (Eric) “one of them gave him a penny”. But with a penny of the boy’s pocket-money not enough to buy booze, John held out his hand for more. Hugh Ferry, a 51-year-old interior decorator told the court; “another man told the mouth organ player he should not be begging”. Others would clarify what Lawrence had said “do your begging elsewhere”, followed by an afterthought of “maybe put your cap on the floor, you might be more successful?”. From the second they had first met to this final interaction, Lawrence and John’s encounter had lasted no longer than three minutes and ten words at best. They hadn’t made eye-contact, there were no raised voices, Lawrence’s words were neither abusive nor threatening, and – not wanting to cause a scene – the warehouse porter calmly moved a third of the way down the platform, away from John. (Tannoy) “The next westbound Hammersmith & City line train will be arriving in two minutes”. At 10:48am, being six hours into his shift manoeuvring the 184 from Whitechapel to Hammersmith, Albert Copeland had left Farringdon on time. Driving the six-car train at 40mph through the tunnels, although it would slow to 25mph as it approached the platform, even if the emergency brake is pulled in time, it would still take a few hundred feet for this two-hundred tonne train to come to a stop. Standing three feet from the platform edge, Lawrence was minding his own business. And to all who would witness what was about to be unleashed, it seemed as if the scruffy little vagrant was too, as his mouth-organ parped a little ditty and his filthy scratched hand reached out for change. Eric would state “…he turned to the people on the seat and said something, pointing to the man who just shrugged him off. He was making a nuisance of himself, passing remarks and appeared to be under the influence of drink. He seemed to be seeking their sympathy and carried on playing the mouth organ… then he stopped, and pointed to the man who was then standing at the edge of the platform”. To many, it looked as if John was mocking him, but (rightly so) Lawrence just ignored him. (Tannoy) “The westbound train will be arriving in one minute”. Whether what happened was fuelled by anger or stupidity - with any rational thoughts clouded by a booze-fuelled haze - as the shambling mess of a man sidled up the platform, having accosted all and sundry, he stopped behind Lawrence. Hugh would state “he came up behind him, and with his foot near his buttocks, he made a gesture as if he was going to push him. I took this to be a sort of joke”. Lawrence didn’t know this, he didn’t see it, and he didn’t feel it… but it was not a joke. (Tannoy) “Please stand back, as the train is now approaching”. At 10:50am, bang on time, as the westbound train hurtled through the pitch-dark tunnel into bright blinding light of the platform, (Eric) “the drunk man gave his buttocks a violent shove…” towards the 630-volt electrified track. “It was a heavy kick and the man lurched forward”. And although – being blessed with quick reflexes – having seen it happen, Albert had pulled the emergency brake… …but it was too late… (Albert Copeland) “…I heard him strike the train”. (Train stops… …silence… …alarm). The chance of anyone surviving being struck by a 200-tonne train at 25mph over a 630-volt track would be one-chance-in-a-million. But miracles do happen, as this was obviously not Lawrence’s day to die. Later, he would tell the court that “I felt a blow in the pit of my back, and this happened just as a train came out of the tunnel. I fell forward and managed to turn, at the same time I hit the side of the train”. Having been kicked a split-second too late, he had missed being smacked by the roaring train by inches or falling onto the track underneath the train’s wheels. Instead, the right hand side of his body hit the motorman’s cab, and having bounced off the window, Lawrence was thrown back onto the platform. Lawrence: “I don’t know what happened next, but I gathered my senses”. And as Albert brought the tube train to a standstill, he was amazed to see not only that Lawrence was alive, but still standing. The only injuries to his body were a bruise to his palm, a cut on his little finger and a ripped fingernail. Whether it was down to fate, luck or maybe just a drunk who couldn’t kick straight… …someone was watching over him. With John Ritchie attempting to flee, the train driver and two witnesses grabbed him by his sleeve and frogmarched the stinky reprobate to the Station Inspector’s office in the ticket hall. Kicking up a fuss and wreaking of whiskey, as he unleashed the foulest of language, when Lawrence told PC Dugdale “…this man tried to kill me”, John admitted “I did, and I’ll fucking do a proper job of it if I go down for this. I’ll kill the cunt. He’s not going to touch me up” - an alleged sexual assault that no-one had seen. With five eye-witnesses, John Ritchie was taken to Caledonian Road Police Station and charged with causing Actual Bodily Harm under Section 47 of the Offences Against Person Act of 1861. Tried at Clerkenwell Magistrates Court, the jury heard of his history as one of life’s wastrels. Described as a “scoundrel”, a “rogue” and a “vagabond”, John Ritchie was nothing more than a recalcitrant and a drunk. Since the age of 19, he had spent 9 years 10 months and 8 days of his 42-years in prison for a never-ending catalogue of crimes, such as; robbery, theft, burglary and assaulting three policemen. Throughout his life, repeated attempts were made to improve his behaviour - with three years spent in corrective training and six months in a psychiatric hospital - but as a remorseless drunk who flouted bail and often broke his probation, it was clear he didn’t care and was unwilling to change his ways. With the magistrate feeling that a charge of Actual Bodily Harm was a sentence too lenient given what could have happened, the case was escalated to the Old Bailey on the charge of attempted murder. (Cell door / silence). And that was it. There was nothing else to say. The evidence was water-tight, the witnesses were clear and – although drunk at the time of the attack – John Ritchie did not dispute these events. He did it. Those were his words. And he wouldn’t use an insanity plea or diminished responsibility as an excuse. The prosecution had put before the jury every reprehensible thing he had done in his life to paint him as the leech on society which (he would agree) that he was. But he also felt that unfairly this was only one side of his life-story and that there was more to him than just a criminal record. His was a history of hardship, and maybe if he appealed to a sympathetic ear, he wouldn’t go to prison for life? In a letter to the Court of Appeal, John wrote “My Lords, I have no wish to minimise the charges against me. It was a wrong and foolish act, and I am sincerely sorry. However, I feel that my case was badly defended and that the court was not informed as to my actual physical state at the time”. This was what the jury did not hear… John Ritchie was born on the 30th April 1922 in Paisley, Scotland, as the second eldest of eight siblings in a small cramped lodging where every week they struggled to make-ends-meet. When asked, John’s memory of his childhood was vague, as maybe he couldn’t recall or maybe he chose to forget? What he could remember was that his father was an angry abusive drinker who was handy with his fists. Until the age of 14, John was educated at Abercorn Public School in Paisley where he learned to read and write. As a short slightly-scrawny kid, although a chatty little fella, he got a reputation as a bit of a scrapper as the bigger bullies picked on the feisty lad at school, and then again when he got home. Whether he was abandoned or fled in fear, being barely in his teens, he would lose almost all contact with his family. As far as he knew; his siblings had scattered, his mother had died of cancer and his father was alive eleven years ago, although - by now – it was likely that he had drunk himself to death. His first job was as a newspaper boy in Glasgow, making a pittance for long hours standing in the cold and wet. Determined to earn his own money and stand on his own two feet, he slogged his guts out for two years and did himself proud. By 1938, aged 16, he was training as an apprentice car mechanic; he was learning a trade, he lived in a rented lodging, he had food in his belly and a bright future ahead. Socially he drank, as many would do to dull the edges of the daily grind, but his real joy was music. He would play his mouth organ to keep himself calm and to escape to a better place, far from his past. Life was going well for John… until the world changed everything. In August 1939, under orders to fight for King & County, 17-year-old John Ritchie was conscripted to fight as a rifleman in the Cameronian Rifles, seeing active service in the Middle East, Sicily and Italy. He was a just small frightened kid, sent off to fight, to kill, to die in a foreign land of unspeakable horrors. Images it was impossible to scrubs from his memory once the blood was etched into his brain. With no outlet for his trauma, he drank. And the more death he saw, the more he drank, until getting wasted was the only way to survive the moments when his eyes were open. Deep down he was a good lad, and (some say) decent when he was sober, but when he drank, the drink unleashed his demons. On 14th May 1943 and 4th January 1946, Private John Ritchie was court marshalled for two cases of ‘drunkenness and desertion’ and was sentenced to a total of 14 months in prison. During his desertion, he had turned to crime; being bound over for 3 years for ‘robbery with violence’, 3 months hard labour for ‘stealing cigarettes’ and 6 months for ‘burglary and theft’. Following this last conviction, he was discharged with ignominy from the Cameronian Rifles, making him ineligible for veteran’s benefits. Distanced from his family, traumatised by the war and denied the most basic of income he was owed, alcohol became his way to cope. This was his vicious circle; as the more he drank, the more he stole. With nothing of any value in his life, ‘John the Veteran’ became ‘John the Vagrant’; a shambling mess who drifted from town-to-town causing a nuisance. His crimes were minor; March 48, Marylebone, 3 months for stealing 29 shillings; September 48, Clerkenwell, 7 days for the theft of an egg-cup and gravy boat; August 49, Glasgow, 90 days for drink driving; October 49, Glasgow, 3 months for the theft of cigarettes; May 50, Bow Street, assaulting a policeman; and June 50, 6 months for drink driving. On paper, when read out to a jury, this brief passage from his lengthy criminal record makes him seem like a selfish remorseless thief. Only he wasn’t, he was an addict, and he was trying to fight it. In 1951, as he had done many times before, John had battled his demons and sobered up; from January 51 to July 52, he worked for eight months as a packer at Cowan de Groot in Holborn, and eleven months as a machine operator at Babcox & Wilcox nearby. He was sober, polite, prompt and well-liked. After a decade in the wilderness, he had finally got his life back on track… …only (of all his battles) drink was the most difficult demon to slay. In July 52, after his fourth conviction for driving while drunk, John was sentenced to 6 months at Long Grove Mental Hospital, where he would be detoxed under strict medical supervision. Every day was pain and every night he screamed, as his torturous demons refused to let his addled brain be free. But he did it and he was clean. In November 52, he found work as a handy-man at Frederick Simons in Holborn, and again got his life back on track. But as often happens, having kept his criminal record a secret (as no-one wants to hire an ex-con); he lost his job, his lodging and - gripped with depression - he fell back on booze. His life continued this way through the 1950s and into the 1960s; he was in and out of prison, on and off of jobs, and back and forth from the bottle. Some days he was clean, others he was sloshed. Some weeks he had a roof over his head, and others he slept shivering in a rain-soaked doorway. In prison, at least he was fed and dry, but regardless of his crimes, he was always a prisoner of his own body. From 53 to 58, he barely worked a few weeks or days as a packer in a factory, and being sacked from his last job as a kitchen porter in Margate, for the rest of his life he lived off benefits of £4 and 17s per week, which he squandered on drink – news which would only have rankled any tax-paying jury. On the 11th December 1964, John was released HMP Dartmoor; he had been unemployed for 7 years, a prisoner for 10, homeless for 15 and he had been battling alcoholism for almost quarter of a century. With a criminal record stretching over four pages, he was known to every pub or off-licence, constable or court, and his rap-sheet listed him as a “vagabond”, a “rogue” and a “scoundrel”. In short, he was dirt. One month after his release, John was living in a half-way-house at 99 Church Hill in Walthamstow; a depressing bedsit in a hostel crammed full of sex pests, druggies and drunks. He had no job, no roots, no friends, and with those old familiar demons calling his name, he knew that he needed help. John “As I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in prison, I tried to do something to affect a cure. I walked into St Mary’s in Paddington. The best they could do for me was to see a psychiatrist the next week. I attended” and seeing the seriousness of his sickness “I was recommended hospitalisation”. A possible cure for his illness was in sight, John “I was fixed an appointment for the 9th February 1965, and in the interval, I truly tried to do without alcohol… but the compulsion was too strong”; as it’s easier to stay sober on a ward, but almost impossible when you’re stuck in a dingy depressing bedsit. On Wednesday 27th January, he contacted the Probation Service who tried to intervene, as seeing his pain and desperation to get clean, they knew if he got back on the booze he would go back to prison. Somehow it worked. That day, John received confirmation. On Monday 1st February 1965, one week earlier, he would be committed to St Bernard’s psychiatric hospital to treat his alcoholism. This was John’s moment to kick his addiction forever… …all he had to do was to wade out the weekend without touching the booze. But that’s about as easy as telling a hungry mouse to stop nibbling a wheel of cheese. He would try, but he would fail. John: “I was arrested that night for drink and bailed when sober. I failed to appear in court. I was arrested again and fined, arrested again and bailed out. And I carried on like this in an alcoholic haze…”. On Saturday 30th January 1965 at 10:45am, as John Ritchie played his mouth organ to soothe his pain beside the westbound Metropolitan Line tube; having been drunk, tired and hungry for four days, and having sunk two bottles of wine, a quart of cider and a hip-flask of whiskey that morning alone, he had no memory of how he got there and - having fallen off the wagon – he had lost his one shot at sobriety. John was back to square one; a homeless drunk stuck in a vicious circle. And as every person passed him, no-one had any idea about his past or his struggle, as to them he was just a dirty drunk. (End) At 11:10am, having been dragged by a baying mob to the Station Inspector’s office of King’s Cross; as five witnesses spoke of how he had kicked Lawrence Gwyther into the path of a moving train, it was the drink who spoke up for John Ritchie – (Lawrence) “…this man tried to kill me”, (John) “I did, and I’ll fucking do a proper job of it if I go down for this. I’ll kill the cunt”. And with that, his fate was sealed Taken to Caledonian Road Police Station, he was charged with ABH and he was held at Brixton Prison. When his case was heard at Clerkenwell, the jury would learn of every bad deed he had done, but not the context for his drinking and his aggression. Escalated to the Old Bailey, on 11th March 1965 John Ritchie was tried on the more serious charge of ‘attempted murder’, which – if found guilty – would warrant a life behind bars. Again, his history was ignored, and he was sentenced to 5 years for ABH. Hoping to be heard by a sympathetic ear, he sent a handwritten letter to the Court of Appeal imploring “I truly state that although I was provoked into this assault, had I been of the right mind, reason would have controlled impulsive emotions, that - at the time through continual drinking, a lack of food and sleep - I was in a poor state both mentally and physically. Considering these facts my Lords, I consider the present sentence of five years is severe and I appeal for leniency. Yours. John Ritchie”. His appeal was rejected and he was sent to Wandsworth Prison. In March 1987, Lawrence Gwyther died in Hendon at the age of 67. And after his release, John Ritchie’s whereabouts remain unknown. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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The main door to 69 Eaton Place leading to flat 3
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVEN: On the morning of Sunday 10th August at 09:08am, Victor Ford-Lloyd the butler to Sir William Ackroyd entered the top floor flat at 69 Eaton Place after a night out. In the master bedroom, he found his friend, his lover and the man servant to Sir William dead. Having died several hours earlier, he was lying motionless, with a sticky pool of congealed blood about his head, having had his skull brutally smashed in with a hammer. But why?
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. Archive File - CRIM 1/5227 / DPP 2/4727 - - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11026966 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: On the morning of Sunday 10th August 1969, Victor Ford-Lloyd yawned as he staggered down Eaton Place, still feeling a little tipsy as he chuckled to himself at the night he just had. Looking rough after a long hot night, at about 9am, Sir William’s butler returned to 69 Eaton Place. (Sounds: door lock, stairs, “Frankie?”, door, dog whimpers, stairs, “Frankise?”). (Phone dials) “Hello Police? I am at Sir William Ackroyd’s residence… there is a body upstairs”. But as he stood, staring at the corpse of Frank hocking; his best friend, his lover and the man he owed his life to, Victor knew that everything which was good about his life had been stolen from him in an instant. Victor was nothing without Frank… and he knew it.It didn’t take long for Detective Chief Superintendent Ivor Reynolds to assess and dismiss the myriad of possible motives for Frank’s brutal murder. This wasn’t a robbery as nothing was stolen. This wasn’t a burglary as the outer doors and windows were intact. This wasn’t mistaken identity as over the bed hung Sir William’s portrait. And this wasn’t a homophobic assault, as Frank hadn’t been threatened. There were many details about the crime-scene which didn’t make sense, but what was obvious was that the killer knew the flat, he had a key, he had a motive and this attack was personal. At 9:45am, divisional police surgeon Dr Albert Lovell declared the life of Frank Hocking as extinct. Judging by the trail of detritus Frank had left in his last moments alive, he had undressed in a small bedroom placing his clothes on an armchair and a small pile of underwear on the floor. But having already been assaulted, with his shirt cuff stained with his blood – for whatever reason – someone had left him change into his night attire of blue pyjamas and white socks… only to then kill him. Prior to his death, a bitter argument had taken place; the bedroom door was forced open, a white lamp had been broken and a clump of Frank’s hair had been ripped-out at roots. At some point. Frank had voluntarily entered Sir William’s bedroom; he had got into the bed, and lying face-up and straight, he had covered himself in a crisp white sheet - as if he was going to sleep. But he didn’t call the police. Toxicology reported a high level of alcohol in his blood and a strong smell on his breath, as well as a considerable concentration of urine in his trousers and vomit on his shoulder, airway and bedsheets. The autopsy confirmed that – whilst lying down, yet still awake - Frank had been brutally bludgeoned over the head several times with a hammer. With no impact injuries to his hands or arms, he hadn’t attempted to protect his face, so it’s more than likely that the fatal blows were swift and unexpected. Upon examination, it was clear that Frank’s face and body was a patchwork of defensive wounds; some cuts, scratches and bruises, and although a few were fresh, the majority told tales of old assaults. Above his right ear lay a deep impression fracture - 1 ½ inches long, 1 ¾ inches wide and 2 inches deep – the weapon was heavy and leaving a hexagonal mark, it perfectly matched any household hammer. One blow would have been enough, but slightly above that wound was a second - 3 ½ inches wide. With his skull smashed in, as blood pooled across the pillows, he sustained extensive haemorrhaging to the brain stem and temporal lobes, which rendered him paralysed and unconscious. Examined just shy of 10am, he had been dead for 10 to 12 hours, but it had taken him an additional six hours to die. The crime scene itself wasn’t a great mystery for DCS Reynolds - as finding a pink bloodstained shirt hidden under a shelf in the utility room (matching the one Victor had worn to the casino) and a white bloodstained shirt in the laundry basket (matching the one he wore to Coq Au Vin, with two missing buttons later found under the chaise-lounge) - the question wasn’t whether he had done it, but why? In the utility room where Albert the pampered Pomeranian slept, a steel-headed, wood-handled, foot-long hammer was missing, and after a brief search, it was found under a cushion on a floral armchair. The blood on its head matched Frank’s and the fingerprints on the handle would later match Victor’s. With Frank dead and with Sir William in Scotland (as confirmed by many sources), the police had one prime suspect and enough evidence to prove his guilt, but what they really wanted was a confession… …only that would prove tricky. At 10:25am, in the upstairs hallway, the detective introduced himself “I am Chief Superintendent Reynolds. I request your assistance while I make enquires into Mr Hocking’s death”. And Victor agreed. Victor’s lack of emotion had intrigued him, as he professed to be upset, only his eyes said otherwise. There were no tears, no sobs nor quivers. It was as if his feelings for his late lover were switched off. Which was odd as Victor was a very emotional man. Everyone knew that especially when drunk - being unduly sensitive about his upbringing –he was prone to bursts of tearful anger, and when he did something wrong, he would lie until he could lie no more, even when the truth was glaringly obvious. At 11:05am, the first interview was conducted at Gerald Road, a small discrete police station two roads south of Eaton Place, which was nestled among a row of wealthy houses. During his questioning, he would give several accounts of his movements that night. The question was which one was right? (Police) “Where did you go yesterday?”, (Victor) “We went out to dinner at Noah’s Ark in Oxford”. (Police) “What did you drink?”, (Victor) “Quite a lot. Five or six big Martinis before dinner, and Frank had two or three brandies”. (Police) “When you arrived back at 69 Eaton Place about 1am, did you go in with Frank?”, (Victor) “No, I saw him to the front door. I was going on to get coffee and cigarettes”. (Police) “Did he know that?”, (Victor) “No. Frank was sloshed, so I didn’t want him to come, he’s always nagging, so I left him at the lift”. (Police) “And after that?”, (Victor) “…I went to Crockfords to play roulette. I stayed till 4am, winning £200. I tried to get into the Playboy Club, and - not wanting to wake anyone up - I stayed at the Hilton, Room 1215. I left at about 8:30am and got home by taxi at 9am”. The Police knew this was untrue but the best way to trap the guilty is to hang them with their own lie. (Police) “Was Frank expecting any friends or visitors?”, (Victor) “No, but you know what it is. He could have gone out after I had gone and picked up someone. There’s a men’s toilet at Pont Street”. Only, there was no evidence of sexual assault, and as for robbery, Frank still had £227 in his pockets. Examined by Dr Lovell, Victor had two scars running across his forehead from an old car accident, and five fresh abrasions to his lower lip, cheeks and mouth, which he blamed on shaving cuts. And although this was possible, it was as the Police probed further, that his answers became hazy and uncertain. (Victor) “I am a bit confused about the days and times. I am not trying to put up a defence of blaming this on liquor, I am trying to be helpful because things are coming back to me slowly. Let us start from the beginning; Frank & I work for Sir William Ackroyd. Frank is his man servant and I am his butler”. Only he was not Sir William’s butler… …and just like the bulk of his statements, most of it was a lie. In July 1968, having heard about his tragic upbringing – raised in a boy’s home, fleeing to Australia and his decent into petty crime – Frank introduced Victor to Sir William who wanted to help. All of that is true. (Victor) “When I went to 69 Eaton Place… I worked for Sir William as his butler”, but this was not. Sir William would state “I did not pay him and he was never in my employ”. With Frank as Sir William’s manservant and valet, Victor did odd jobs to help out; dog-walking, shopping, a little DIY (using the flat’s toolkit) and he was briefly a chauffeur, until he lost his licence owing to a drink/drive conviction. Using his contacts, Sir William found him some work; as a salesman at John Michael’s tailors on Saville Row which he lost owing to lateness; as a catering assistant at Searcy Tansley, a job he lost owing to a suspicion of theft; and at Fortum & Mason’s as a waiter, only Victor said “I was a butler”. Only he wasn’t. At the time of the murder, he was working part-time in this job, and although his employment was so he could pay £4-a-week to stay in Sir William’s spare room, not a single penny was paid in rent. And being a man who was used to the finer things in life, his meagre wage didn’t stretch far. It should have come as no surprise – given his criminal past – that Victor couldn’t stop his sticky fingers. Across their year-long friendship; he stole from Sir William, cashed stolen cheques, pawned a set of gold cufflinks and bought goods from Harrods, to such an extent that Sir William closed the account. It’s likely that this was overlooked as (Victor) “Sir William is an alcoholic and Frank is as well”. Having been an alcoholic since he was 16, although Sir William had twice paid for Victor to enter an exclusive detox clinic called The Priory, his return to Sir William’s flat was akin a sex-addict living above a brothel. There’s no denying that the relationship was complicated. Being three gay alcoholics, Victor described their love-life as a “complicated triangle”. As Frank was definitely having an affair with Victor (Victor) “as a result of my being there, a relationship grew between Frank and I... this was a purely homosexual relationship”. And although kept a secret, many close friends knew that Sir William was dating Frank. This was a toxic triangle he’d have done well to steer clear of, but being a lost lad from a broken past, his new life of a ‘butler’ got him a step nearer to being a pretty boy on a wealthy sugar daddy’s arm. (Victor) “After four months together, it terminated, on my part, but not on his. I tried to case it off by kindness but it developed into a holocaust of rows and screaming and scenes. As a result, Frank drank more, I drank more and so did Sir William… it reached the stage where physical violence came into it”. Being so hot-headed, it was not uncommon to see Frank & Victor bickering and coming to blows; with screeching voices, scratched faces and hair pulled with clumps yanked from its roots, being the smaller of the two, Frank’s face and body was often a patchwork of black-eyes, purple bruises and red cuts. Without the generosity of Frank and Sir William, Victor was nothing… …and he knew it… …he just couldn’t accept it. On Friday 1st August 1969, Sir William left 69 Eaton Place on a two-week break, leaving his flat in the capable hands of Frank, his manservant, as well as his house-guest Victor. For Frank, this should have been a chance to relax, but with their fights growing more volatile, the more they drank, the worse it got. On the night of Friday 8th August, not Saturday 9th as Victor would claim, James Olliffe the chauffeur drove both men to Noah’s Ark restaurant in Oxford, as confirmed by the head waiter. (Victor) “Frank & I were on friendly terms during the meal”, which was a matter of perspective, as always firing snide remarks and hurtful barbs at each other, no-one saw their bitter spat as anything other than normal. What they spoke of that night is unknown, but clearly Frank’s patience had worn thin. With generosity, he and Sir William had welcomed this troubled man into their life, only for Victor to bleed them dry. Over previous weeks, Frank (the part-time waiter) seemed flush with limitless funds, he wore tailored clothes he could never afford, and several items of Sir William’s went missing; such as a gold watch, a gold money clip, an antique lighter and cigarette holder, with a receipt found for a local pawnbroker. (Victor) “As I had paid for lunch, he picked up the bill”. This was confirmed by the restaurant. (Police) “When you arrived back at 69 Eaton Place about 1am, did you go in with Frank?”, (Victor) “No, I was going on to get coffee and cigarettes. Frank was sloshed, I didn’t want him to come, he’s always nagging, so I left him at the lift”. And although Victor would state that this happened on the Saturday, the evidence would dispute this, as by that point, Frank would have been dead for several hours. Saturday 9th August started as normally as any morning for a man who was about to be murdered. Frank awoke, he made coffee and toast, he fed the dog, he checked the post, he hoovered the flat and straightened-up (like any houseproud manservant would) and did all of the things he would normally do, only this time was for the last time… although he wouldn’t know that, and neither would his killer. After Noah’s Ark, Victor had headed-out to a club on the King’s Road; drinking, dancing and flirting (on whose money we shall never know). Only a call was about to rudely awaken his festering hangover. (Ark) “Frank? It’s the manager of the Noah’s Ark. Your cheque ’s been rejected”. (Frank) “My cheque? But I didn’t pay”, (Ark) “It’s a cheque in the name of F A Hocking, only the signature isn’t yours”. Having stolen another of Frank’s cheques, in his drunken stupor, Victor had signed it using his own name. That morning, neither Victor nor Frank were seen by another living soul, a bitter fight was overheard by two of the neighbours, but no-one called the police as their hate-filled spats were not uncommon. At 1pm, Frank sat alone in a French restaurant called Coq Au Vin. Dressed in the brown open-necked-shirt and fawn trousers – later found on Sir William’s bedroom floor – he silently mulled over his love-life, eating his last meal of spinach, potatoes and tomato, and slugging back several large dry Martinis. At 2:30pm, like a bad smell from a broken sewer, Victor walked in, a little sheepish at his actions but equally obstinate over the veracity of his lies – “so? I picked up the wrong chequebook, mistakes happen”. And yet, being dressed in a black jacket and trousers - worn when he later discovered his boyfriend’s body – and a crisp white shirt, Frank knew these were purchased on Sir William’s account. At 3pm, paying the £10 bill by signing his own cheque with his own name – another stark reminder of Victor’s mistrust – Frank left and Victor followed, as they both headed back to the same flat. With both men bitter and fuming, Frank felt cheated by his betrayal, but Victor remained unrepentant for his crimes, as when he spoke, lie was layered upon other lies, as – once again – he was broke. At 3:30pm, from the phone in the flat, Victor made a call to Boodle’s, the private member’s club in St James, posing as Sir William. Confirmed by Alfred Russell (the head porter), in an unconvincing upper-class voice, Victor said “I should like to send my chauffeur, Victor, with a cheque for £25”, as (having done this scam before) he knew that a cash loan over this limit required approval by the club secretary. It’s unclear whether Frank overheard this call, but if he did, maybe this was the last straw? Maybe having had enough, Frank asked him to leave his flat and his life? And without Frank, Victor knew that he was nothing. In a later confession, believed to be as truthful as Victor could be, he would state: (Victor) “we were both fairly ‘liquored up’ and he started screaming and carrying on… Frank had been stamping about the house banging doors and everything” – although with the neighbours out, this cannot be verified. (Victor) “In Frank’s room… he had thrown a vase at me. He had started getting violent and said, "You like watching the 'box' so much, see what joy you get out of this", and with a wallop, the TV went over” – the police later found a broken vase in the kitchen, and when switched on, the TV smoked. At this point, although it was still only late afternoon, being drunk, upset (and possibly having taken a sleeping pill) Frank got into his pyjamas - ready to stay in, as Victor headed for a wild night out. (Victor) “I went into the master bedroom – Sir William’s - whilst Frank was ranting and raving. I locked the door from the inside, but Frank bashed the door through and started screaming and raving” – which was true, the door was broken in, and the smashed door lock lay four feet inside the bedroom. Inside, the fight continued. (Victor) “he could hardly walk because he was so drunk. He got himself on to the bed still screaming and ranting. He said “come to bed”, but I said “no I’m going out for coffee”. As it always did, their bitter fight descended into physical violence. With long nails, Frank scratched at Victor’s face, leaving cuts he’d later claim were shaving wounds, (Victor) “and as he asked me who I’d been sleeping with and all this nonsense… the one thing Frank can't stand is having his hair pulled, so I grabbed his hair and a handful came out” – as noted by a clump of Frank’s hair found on the floor. But as much as the punches and kicks hurt his body, Frank knew where to dig the knife into his soul. As everyone knew, sometimes Victor’s emotions got the better of him and – being unduly sensitive about his upbringing – often he was gripped with anxiety and prone to short bursts of tearful anger. (Victor) “I went downstairs and got hold of the hammer from Albert’s room. I took it to warn Frank that if he did not shut his raving mouth, I was going to knock him out. It was just a threat… but then he started raving on about my mother being mental, that I go to bed with old men for money, that I had been to prison and I was a cheap dirty whore… it was then that I went behind him” - the evidence would prove that Victor was standing behind the bed head beside the broken lamp, when he attacked. (Victor) “I told Frank ‘If you don't shut-up I'll belt you with this’. He kept on ranting and threatened me to do it, it was then that I struck him. I hit him on the head with the hammer. Blood started pouring out, so I pulled over the blanket and struck him two or three times more” – as the autopsy confirmed. (Victor) “I covered up the whole scene. I picked up the pieces of the vase and put them into a red bag in the kitchen. I straightened up the television. I then had a wash, a shave and changed my shirt” – placing his bloodstained white shirt in the laundry basket, and popping on a freshly ironed pink one. This murder definitely happened before 5pm, as Frank’s father (William Hocking) telephoned the flat to speak to his son, only a muffled voice stated “he’s not in until after 6pm” and abruptly hung-up. But this still leaves us with an odd unanswered question… …having brutally murdered Frank inside a seclude flat – given that he didn’t call the police for sixteen hours – why didn’t he destroy any evidence of his crime? Instead, why did he head out for a long hot night of fun - did he not care about his dead lover, or did he know that this night would be his last? (Party music from Part One) Picked-up in a Daimler at 5:33pm, Hermanus Loggenberg the chauffeur drove a man who called himself ‘Sir William Aykroyd’ to Boodles. Inside, the pink-shirted man handed the Head Porter a letter supposedly written by Sir William, and his “butler” was handed £25 in notes. To toast his last night of freedom, at 5:55pm, he ordered a Bloody Mary at the Dorchester Hotel, he made a call to several pals, and - held in an ornate gold holder – he smoked an imported cigarette as lit using an antique gold lighter – all of which were stolen from Sir William before he left for Scotland. At 6:15pm, he ate vichyssoise, crab meat and glugged back a bottle of plonk at the Brompton Grill. As back at the flat, Frank’s blood pooled about his head - as although he was not dead, Victor’s lover lay dying. At 7:20pm, Victor met a pal for drinks at the Grove public house in Beauchamp Place, but by 8:10pm, the barman had refused to serve him any more booze, as the pie-eyed man “has had enough”. At 8:30pm, under a false name, the Concierge of the Hilton gave him an introduction to a member’s only casino, and from 9pm to 3am, a man known only as ‘Mr Canapper’ played roulette at Crockford’s Casino in Mayfair, where he won £200. At around the time that Victor’s winning streak paid off, after six hours of bleeding, Frank Hocking died of his injuries, only he wouldn’t be found for ten hours more. At 4am, he tried to get into The Playboy Club, a high-end seedy club full of Hugh Heffner’s bunny girls, but with his application rejected, he called it a night. He didn’t sleep at the Hilton, as he said, instead he most likely found a late-night bar and savoured his last dawn as a free man. It was hardly an amazing night out, but as it was his last, it was better than what he’d had before, or was yet to come. (End) On Sunday 10th August at roughly 9am, Victor yawned as he staggered down Eaton Place, still feeling a little tipsy as he chuckled to himself at the night he just had. (Keys/door/dog). Inside, having cradled Victor for one last time, he changed out of his now bloodstained pink shirt and hid it in the laundry. (Phone) “Police? I’m at Sir William Ackroyd’s residence, there is a body upstairs, I think it’s Sir William’s butler”. And with that, his privileged life was gone, as he would now be a guest of Her Majesty. At the end of his second statement – being the most truth of all his confessions - Victor would state “I’m sorry about the grief I have brought upon Frank’s parents, the effect on Sir William and his family, and the shame and guilt I shall bear for the rest of my life. I suppose in the years to come, I shall always remember that horrible night and I will no doubt pay for it in more ways than one”. On the 24th November 1969, at the Old Bailey, Victor Ford-Lloyd pleaded not guilty to the murder of Frank Hocking. Assessed at St Bernard’s in Southall (the same psychiatric hospital his mother was sent), Dr P D Scott (a consultant psychiatrist) diagnosed Victor as a “psychopathic personality”. Cursed with a lack of empathy for others, an inability to learn from his experiences, being incapable of forming lasting relationships and being amoral, although a textbook “psychopath”, he was declared fit to stand trial, but under the Homicide Act this abnormality of the brain reduced his responsibility. On 27th November 1969, Victor Ford Lloyd was found guilty of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, he was sentenced to life in prison and died in Birmingham in August 2003. Everything which was good about his life had been stolen in an instant… and it was all his fault. * LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, 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. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
69 Eaton Place in Belgravia, where the murder of Frank Hocking took place
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SIX:
On the next morning of Sunday 10th August at 09:08am, Victor Ford-Lloyd the butler to Sir William Ackroyd entered the top floor flat at 69 Eaton Place after a night out. In the master bedroom, he found his friend, his lover and the man servant to Sir William dead. Having died several hours earlier, he was lying motionless, with a sticky pool of congealed blood about his head, having had his skull brutally smashed in with a hammer. But why? Was this a robbery? A revenge killing? Or an attack on an openly gay man? With Sir William in Scotland and Victor at several clubs in the city at the time of the murder, neither witnessed the attack, or saw any potential suspects. So, what happened, and who murdered Sir William’s manservant?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the murder is marked with a black raindrop near the word Belgravia. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. Archive File - CRIM 1/5227 / DPP 2/4727 - - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11026966 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Eaton Place in Belgravia, SW1; three streets east of the unsolved death of Countess Lubienska, two streets south of acid-bath murderer John George Haigh, two streets west of not-so “lucky” Lord Lucan (a case so dull and done-to-death I won’t ever cover it on this podcast) and two streets south of the boy who killed because a film-star told him to – coming soon to Murder Mile. Eaton Place is a very posh neighbourhood. Being a wide semi-private street consisting of two lines of five-storey buildings made of Portland stone with huge Doric columns to the side of each main door, this area is so posh, the average house is worth £40million and most residents are knighted. Whether a CBE for tax-avoidance, an MBE for going to Eton, an OBE for being “a jolly good egg, what-what”, a KCG for covering up a politician’s “little snafoo with a pig and his willy”, a Ladyship for being pals with a royal (not that one) or a Lordship for services to charity, but only when it benefits their bank balance. Sadly, although architecturally pleasant, there’s no community. The most you’ll see of any resident is as the chauffeur pulls up, the butler fawns, the maid curtsies and they savour an evening with their fifth spouse and several lawyers to silence a string of sexual assaults with the swipe of a blank cheque. In 1969, Flat 3 of 69 Eaton Place was the home of Sir William Ackroyd, 3rd Baronet of Lightcliffe. Like many men of prestige, he kept a small staff; a housekeeper, a chambermaid, a live-in man-servant called Frank Hocking, and - by the summer - a butler called Victor Ford-Lloyd. It was a neat home, he led an elegant life, his staff got on well and Sir William was regarded as a kind and generous employer. Being wealthy, his house was deliberately secure and his staff took the necessary precautions to ensure their safety. But on the evening of Saturday 9th August 1969, a brutal and violent murder inside of this millionaire’s home would change all of their lives forever… and not just the victim. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 166: The Bloody Butler – Part One. No matter who you are or where you’ve come from, it’s hard to get through life without relying on the kindness of others. That was particularly true for Victor Ford-Lloyd, the butler to Sir William. On Sunday 10th August at roughly 9am, Victor yawned as he staggered down Eaton Place, still feeling a little tipsy as he chuckled to himself at the night he just had. Wow! What a night! With the boss away and no need to be up early, Victor hit the town to let off a bit a steam; he saw some chums, he sunk some beers, he saw in the wee small hours at the roulette table – winning £200 quid, which isn’t bad for an Essex lad who scraped by in maths – he tried to get into the Playboy Club but their admissions policy was a joke, and slept the last few hours of the night at the five-star Hilton hotel in Park Lane. Being knackered, he wanted breakfast, a shower and to get back to his place of work at the prestigious 69 Eaton Place, which he also had the pleasure of calling his home –a far cry from his humble roots. Oddly, although stylishly dressed, after a long hot night of fun, Victor looked a little rough; as his black jacket, trousers and pink shirt had creased. But there was still no denying he was handsome. Victor was a looker, as being a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pale-skinned 32-year-old who was tall and slender, this pretty boy had no problem pulling the twinks, but he preferred the older gentlemen of wealth who could keep this working-class kid away from poverty and in the lifestyle which he felt he deserved. Just after 9am, Victor popped his key in the black front-door, locking it behind him. From the hallway, he didn’t call out – “Frankie, I’m home” – as being a communal hallway to two other flats, that kind of hollering was uncouth. Besides, when drunk or upset, his posh accent slipped and the Essex pops out. Climbing the stairs, as he opened the door to the flat’s lower floor, his first thought was to pop in the storeroom; a utility room full of mops, linen and tools, as this was where Albert slept. Being a slightly pampered black Pomeranian, Albert was a little yappy, but when Victor saw him, he was whimpering. “Frankie?”, Victor called across the living room, dining room and kitchen. As he had left it the night before, these tastefully decorated rooms were as neat as a pin with nothing out of place. But what was odd was the silence, there was no sign of Frank; the man-servant, his best-friend and his lover. Climbing-up to the upper floor, although around him were two bathrooms and two small bedrooms (one each for Frank and Victor), his eyes were draw to the master bedroom – Sir William’s. Left ajar, it was clear that the white wooden door had been forced, as the smashed lock lay a few feet inside. Entering, he knew it didn’t look right, as someone had broken in, but they hadn’t touched much. As a very elegant room with exquisite furnishings, the bedroom was full of busts, vases, books and intricate little pieces of object d’art, but nothing appeared to have been vandalised, rifled or stolen. On an armchair, lay a set of clothes, as if someone had got ready for bed, on the floor lay a small pile of underwear, and to the side lay a broken lamp, but this could have been caused by an accident. The only obvious sign of disarray was the bed. Befitting a man of his status, Sir William’s bed was grand and stylish, a French chaise-lounge with a curved headboard, handsewn fabrics and soft white sheets. Only, the pristine white was now dotted with faint spots of red, as underneath lay a motionless lump. “Hello?”, Victor cooed to the lump, “Hello?”, but got no reply. With his right hand, he pulled back the bedsheet and instantly he wished that he hadn’t. What he saw was the red of a smashed head, its skull caved in with such violence that it made this pale lifeless face look as if – in that last moment of terror - it had tried to spawn a set of red wings to fly itself to heaven. Shivering with fear, although his lips quivered and his breathing was staggered, Victor was too confused to shed any tears and - although heaving at the sight - his guts couldn’t retch any sick. Grabbing the phone and dialling 999, at 9:08am, PC Sydney Gillingham at New Scotland Yard received his call: (Victor) “I am at Sir William Ackroyd’s residence. It’s in a state of turmoil”, (PC) “Do you mean a burglary?”, (Victor) “I don’t know but there is a body upstairs”, (PC): “A dead body?”, (Victor) “Yes, I think so, I think it’s Sir William’s butler”, (PC) “Are you sure he is dead?”, (Victor) “Yes”. Victor gave his name and the address, the officer stated (PC) “we’ll be right there, don’t touch anything”, (Victor) “yes sir, I won’t” and – having been dispatched from Gerald Road - the police arrived at 9:18am. As he stood there, staring at this freshly slaughtered corpse, Victor knew one thing for certain; with his colleague, his best friend, his lover and the man he owed his life to - murdered, the second Frank Hocking had died, everything which was good about his life had been stolen from him in an instant. Victor was nothing without Frank… and he knew it. To say that his upbringing was fractured would be an understatement. Victor Norman Ford-Lloyd was born on the 25th May 1937 in Hampstead, north London, as one of five siblings to three sisters and a brother. With his father deceased, his early life lacked stability, as with his mother absent, Victor spent much of the first twelve years of his life in foster homes and care. Which is not to say that his mother was negligent or uncaring, as having been diagnosed with chronic schizophrenic - one year after his birth and fourteen years before a drug could manage the symptoms – she was committed to both Bedlam mental hospital and St Bernard’s psychiatric unit in Southall. Like many boys starved of love, emotionally he developed slower than most, as still prone to thumb-sucking and bed-wetting until his teens, even as a grown-up he was terrified of the dark and he never went to sleep without searching the wardrobe, curtains or the underside of his bed for monsters first. As a war-time child, raised in a turbulent time of bombings, trauma and rationing, his education was sporadic and although literate, his academic level was – unsurprisingly - regarded as ‘unremarkable’. Given his early life, it’s amazing that this blonde-haired boy with a beautiful face even knew how to smile, but he did and as a charming lad who wanted to be hugged, people liked him and trusted him. But sometimes his emotions got the better of him and – being unduly sensitive about his upbringing – often he was gripped with depression, prone to short bursts of tearful anger, and - when he did something wrong - he would lie until he could lie no more, even when the truth was glaringly obvious. Leaving school aged 15, he tried to work hard and be a decent person, but life by himself was hard. HIs first job in August 1952 was as a junior clerk at a lino manufacturer in Holborn on the tiny wage of £2 a week. Sadly, he lasted just two months, as he was discharged for being untrustworthy. He lasted longer in his next jobs, but being unable to flee the poverty which haunted him, he turned to crime. In March 1954, at Lambeth Juvenile Court, he was given a 12-month conditional discharge for stealing a television and was sent to live in a boy’s hostel in Maida Vale. One year later, at Chelsea, he was again discharged for twelve months for taking and driving away a motor vehicle without consent. It’s no surprise that – riddled with anxiety and depression – as a drifter who lacked any purpose in life, by the age of 16, he had begun drinking heavily and never quit as the booze hide his pain. And although Sir William would describe him as “mild, kind, reliable”, he had a “bad temper when he was drunk”. Aged 16, as his sister had agreed to sponsor him in the hope of turning his life around, he moved to Ballarat in south-east Australia, and stayed with her for a year and a half. It was a new life and a fresh start, but still being haunted by his past, they quarrelled, he moved out and returned to petty crime. Across the four years he lived in Australia, he travelled far and wide, moving from Perth to Victoria and Melbourne to Canberra, stealing what he could and being convicted of theft in every state. In 1956, he was convicted four times in Perth for theft and served 15 months in prison. In 1957, he was tried twice in Victoria for receiving goods under false pretences and served 13 months. In 1959, in Canberra, he did 9 months hard-labour for buying goods on false credit. And in 1960 in Melbourne, he served nine months for passing worthless cheques. He was a drunk, a thief, but he wasn’t violent. As a British citizen who (as they saying goes) had dirtied his ticket, at his own request, Victor asked to be deported from Australia, and on the 15th June 1961, the SS Orontes docked in the port of Dover. In short, he was back where he had started… …and across his 24-years of life, he had achieved nothing. But being a pretty boy, he had learned that crime wasn’t the only way to live the life he wanted to live. Since his early years in a boy’s home surrounded by others who wanted to be loved, being gay came as naturally as being blonde. And as he travelled Australia, and later Spain, New York, Tangiers and Paris, his life became easier as a pretty little thing perched on an older gentlemen’s arm. The maths was simple, as by snuggling-up to a wealthy sugar daddy, he was loved, protected and pampered. As a millionaire’s plaything, he could leave his broken upbringing behind, and for the rest of his life he would eat the best food, drink the finest wine, wear only tailored clothes and - best of all - it was legal. In 1964, he attempted to move in the right circles by working as a private secretary and a club manager in the best parts of London, but the second they discovered his criminal record, he was out. Being homeless from 1964 to 66, he was convicted four times at Bow Street Magistrates Court for stealing wallets, passing worthless cheques and using it cover his expensive tastes… but his life was in decline. Struggling with depression and anxiety, in 1966 he took an overdose of sleeping pills, and three times he was committed to psychiatric hospitals for the treatment of his alcoholism, depression and anxiety. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed like Victor’s life was destined to implode… …and then, as if by fate, he met and fell in love with Frank. Frank Alfred Hocking was neither elderly nor wealthy, he was not the type of man Victor would usually go for, but being of similar ages and working-class backgrounds, together they became kindred spirits. They met in July 1968. It was never said where, maybe a bar as they were both fond of drink. Being five-foot two-inches tall with thick sideburns, dark thinning hair and his eyes arched with a monobrow, physically Frank was the mirror opposite of Victor, but both being gay, neat and highly strung, they fit. Having heard his tragic backstory, in July 1969, one year later, Frank invited Victor to come to his place of work at 69 Eaton Place and to meet his employer - Sir William Ackroyd, 3rd Baronet of Lightcliffe. Sir William was not the usual kind of aristocrat, all hoity-toity and fuelled by snooty glares, as although rich and elderly - as a gay man himself - he had a big heart. He sympathised with Victor; a homeless man trapped in a vicious circle where every time an employer discovered his criminal past, he was out. (Victor) “I became Sir William’s butler”. Given a generous wage of £14 per week (including food and sundry expenses), he paid £4 rent to live in a small bedroom inside the opulence of Sir William’s flat. Victor had hit the jackpot. As for the first time in his turbulent little life, he had a steady job, an honest wage, a roof over his head and he was in a loving (if occasionally fractious) relationship. After 32 years of struggles and failures; he finally had stability, safety, a family of sorts and a chance at a future… …and he owed it all Frank. The role of a butler required Victor to ensure that Sir William had everything he required; his wallet, his key, his money clip, his cheque book and his cigarettes. To make his master’s life run as smoothly as a well-oiled machine, Victor had contacts and accounts at many high-profile suppliers and outlets. At John Michael of Saville Row, Sir William’s tailored suits were ordered on account. To get him about, a chauffeur-driven car was on hand at his beck-and-call (and the staff for work purposes). Likewise, he never heard the words “we’re full”, as all Victor had to do was say “Sir William would like…” and it was done, whether staying at Dorchester or Hilton hotel, playing at Crockfords Casino, or fine dining at the Brompton Grill. And if his bulging wallet was ever a little light – in an era before ATMs - at Boodles; a very exclusive private member’s club, he could send his butler with a note and a cash loan was made. It's a very different world to how you or I live, but for Victor, this was where he wanted to be. On Friday 1st August 1969, seeking solitude and silence, Sir William headed off for a two-week break with an old pal in the Highlands of Scotland, leaving his home in the capable hands of Frank and Victor. This made sense as Frank was trusted and diligent, and Sir William saw Victor as “mild, kind, reliable”. On Saturday 9th August 1969, both of their lives would change forever… …but there was nothing which forewarned them of the danger ahead; there were no threats, no thefts nor break-ins, no vicious letters, no malicious calls nor strangers skulking in the shadows of the street. Neither Frank, Victor nor Sir William was disliked or in debt, as by all accounts, it was an ordinary day. As a seemingly motiveless crime, to help identity any possible suspects who might want to cause harm (and ultimately) murder Frank Hocking in cold blood, Victor provided the police with their movements. At 2:30pm, Frank and Victor sat in a French restaurant called Coq Au Vin in Knightsbridge; a stylish yet safe space for two gay men to enjoy each other’s company in an era when homosexuality was illegal. They sat together but not holding hands, they chatted but never loudly and Victor (having arrived late) shared a few coffees and dry Martinis with Frank who ate a meal of spinach, potatoes and tomato - as confirmed by his autopsy. The £10 bill was paid by cheque in the name of Mr F A Hocking, although the cost went to Sir William, being a chequebook to cover expenses but also to treat his staff to lunch. At 3pm, they returned home to Flat 3 at 69 Eaton Place, as verified by their taxi-driver. They completed a few chores, Victor made a call to Boodles on behalf of his boss, they fed Albert the Pomeranian, they then popped this pampered pooch in his bed, and having dressed for dinner, at 7:30pm, they left. Several witnesses - who knew both Frank and Victor – saw these easily-identifiable men of different heights and hair colour wearing the following clothes; Frank was in a brown open-necked-shirt and fawn trousers – which were later found on Sir William’s bedroom floor, and Victor was in a black jacket and trousers – which he wore when he discovered his boyfriend’s body – as well as a white shirt. On account, they hired a car from Claborn Hire at 7:30pm, and the chauffeur - Hermanus Loggenberg – wrote in his logbook that he drove them to The Punch Bowl in Abingdon and Noah’s Ark restaurant in Oxford – two venues which were owned by their friends – (Victor) “as Frank paid for lunch, I paid for dinner” – this was confirmed by cheque, and the chauffeur drove them back to 69 Eaton Place. Again, there were no issues, no incidents, and nothing which raised their suspicions. (Victor) “I told Frank I was going out for some coffee and cigarettes. Frank said something to the effect that with any luck he would see me in the morning, and I went out, leaving Frank alone in the flat”. Returning to the flat, the windows were locked, the doors were secure and the dog didn’t whimper. And yet, it’s impossible to accurately pin-point the exact time when Frank was attacked, as having been bludgeoned with a hammer, this rendered him unconscious… but wouldn’t die for several hours. According to Victor’s timings “I left Frank at the flat at about 1am” and heading out to let off a little steam, “…I went to Crockfords to play cards and roulette. I stayed till 4am, winning £200. I tried to get into the Playboy Club but they refused, and - not wanting to wake anyone up - I stayed the night at the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane. I left the Hilton at about 8:30am and got home by taxi at about 9am”. Each sighting was verified by witnesses and many of his payments were made by cheque. (Door opens) “Frankie?”. (Whimpering dog). (Phone dials) (PC) “Hello Police”, (Victor) “I am at Sir William Ackroyd’s residence… there is a body upstairs… I think it’s Sir William’s butler”, (PC) “We’ll be right there, don’t touch anything”, (Victor) “Yes sir, I won’t”. (Police sirens). But as he stood there, staring at the freshly slaughtered corpse of his best friend, his lover and the man he owed his life to, Victor knew that everything which was good about his life had been stolen from him in an instant. Victor was nothing without Frank… and he knew it. (End) At 9:45am, the Police divisional surgeon Dr Albert Lovell certified the life of Frank Hocking as extinct. Arriving a few minutes before, Detective Chief Superintendent Ivor Reynolds took charge of the scene, and – on first impressions – it looked like an almost motiveless attack on a defenceless man in his bed. With the neighbours, Sir William and Victor out; they had no eye-witnesses. The blood was Group A, being Victor’s and no-one else’s. And as for fingerprints, only those who resided in the flat were found. As crime scenes go, it was a muddle of misinformation. If this was a robbery? Why weren’t the drawers rifled or anything stolen? If this was a bungled kidnapping – if the culprits had mistaken Frank (who was asleep in the master bedroom) for Sir William – why kill Frank rather than use him as leverage? If this was a burglary - as the bedroom’s broken door-lock would suggest - how did they gain entry via the locked doors of 69 Eaton Place and Flat 3? And if this was a homophobic assault on a gay man, why did they murder him inside a secure flat, rather than on a dark quiet street, such as Eaton Place. Even without anyone hearing the sounds of screaming, the evidence pointed towards an argument between Frank and his assailant; as on the floor lay a broken lamp, on the carpet lay a clump of Frank’s hair having been ripped out by the root, and then – most bafflingly of all – at some point during the attack, with his prospective murderer still in the room, Frank returned to the bed and he lay down. But who had murdered him, when, and why? At 10:25am, the detective introduced himself, stating “I am Chief Superintendent Reynolds. I request your assistance while I make enquires into Mr Hocking’s death”. Victor agreed, being happy to help. But his helpfulness would also be his downfall, as the police’s prime suspect was a man who Frank knew, who was emotional, unduly sensitive, prone to anger when drunk, and - when he did something wrong - he would lie until he could lie no more, even when the evidence was glaringly obvious. Without Frank Hocking, Victor Ford-Lloyd knew that he was nothing… …which left the police with an unanswered question: “why did Victor murder Frank”? ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, 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. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms
The Regent Palace Hotel 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 ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE:
On Sunday 30th October 1932, Mabel & Herbert checked into Room 201, at the far-left end of the second floor. They had enjoyed a romantic week together, they been out to the theatre, they had savoured a last meal, they sent their personal belongings to their families, and having written their suicide notes, they laid on the bed, and kissed each other goodbye… having taken cyanide. It was ultimate love story of Bradford’s very own Romeo & Juliet. Or so it seemed.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of The Regent Palace Hotel is marked with a black coloured raindrop near the words Piccadilly. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. Tuesday 25th January - Murder of Mabel Hill by Herbert Turner at Regent Palace Hotel, London, on 30 October, 1932 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257718
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Glasshouse Street, W1; two streets west of the senseless stabbing of the unfortunate Mr Johnson, three hundred feet north-west of the tube stop where the cowardly killer of Camile Gordon fled, one street east of where The Blackout Ripper picked up several sex workers, and one road south of the (possible) suicide by the sportsman’s mistress - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just off Piccadilly Circus, at 32 Glasshouse Street, once stood the Regent Palace Hotel. Opened in 1915 and ran by J Lyons & Co - owners of the Cornerhouse Tearooms – being nine-stories high, across half a square block and with over a thousand bedrooms, the Regent Palace was the largest hotel in Europe. Since its post-war decline, it became little more than a brothel so bawdy that Canadian servicemen referred to it as ‘the riding school’, a youth hostel for overseas students slash shoplifters, and now its grand entrance is a showroom for Ugg - those hideous fleece-lined boots which supposedly make the wearer look as devastatingly sexy as cavewoman Raquel Welsh in the film One Million Years BC, but actually make them look like they’ve mistimed a kick up a sheep’s jacksie, and - being so toasty warm - they make the wearer’s tootsies stink like a Neanderthal’s butt-crack… but that’s just my opinion. On Saturday 29th October 1932, at a little after 9:30pm, a Mr & Mrs Turner of Bradford booked into Room 201 on the second floor of the Regent Palace Hotel. Not being locals, they looked as if they were here to see the vibrant sights of the big city. Kissing and holding hands, it was clear that this young couple were very much in love. And although their small suitcase re-iterated to the receptionist that they would only be staying a few nights, their plan was to never leave their room… at least not alive. The suicide pact of Mabel Hill and Herbert Turner was a tragedy reported by talentless hacks, whose bile has been regurgitated verbatim, as if every detail was fact. But having only scratched the surface of this sorry story, what every writer missed was the truth about these lovers and their last fateful act. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 165: To Love, To Die, Together. Love is a powerful emotion. Being stronger than anger and more vindictive than hate, it can turn the rational irrational in the blind pursuit of good, of bad, of joy and of pain. Fuelled by little more than a lethal burst of chemicals - even though our primary instinct is own preservation - mistakenly believing – as if by fate - that we have found our ‘one true love’, that love can lead to our own destruction. Mabel & Herbert were two such lovers… …but denied their togetherness in life, they would seek it in death. Mabel Hill was born Mabel Bentley on 9th December 1899 in Shipley, West Yorkshire. Raised in a two-storey sandstone terrace at 2 Alexandra Road, it was the kind of place where the kids played tig in the street, the wives scrubbed the stoops till the black slate shined and the men folk slunk back from the pit - all soot-sodden, calloused and hacking-up coal-dust – in a life without any dreams nor joy. Just the endless drudgery of everyday existence, with the majority married as that was what was expected. As the eldest of six to her widowed mother Clara, fate would be intensely cruel to the Bentley’s, as with the family being bereft of a father, before too long death would come for two of the children. With life being a struggle, to provide an income, the last of the family lived upstairs, as the downstairs was converted into a small confectionery shop selling boiled sweets, wine gums and liquorice. A few doors down at number 24 lived Herbert, the second eldest son of four boys to Charles and Augusta. And although our ‘lovers-to-be’ were raised just fifty yards apart – with Mabel being eleven years his senior, a huge age gap in a child’s perspective – she only knew him as the ‘Turner’s kid’ and their only interactions early-on was (possibly) as she ruffled his hair to gift him a half-penny sweet. In later life, many would describe Mabel as ‘matronly’, as although a little dour yet sturdily-built, being a formidable brunette, she had a steely strong will to do what she felt was right. To some, they may have seemed an odd couple – one short, one tall; one little, one big – but they made sense; as with Herbert being an eternal boy – almost as if they were mother and son – she became the voice to his silence and his decision-maker as he dithered over what was best for others, stammering a passive “yes dear” or a “no dear” as she wiped a tiny speck of dirt off his cheek with a hankie and a lick of spit. They were an odd mix, but as an unlikely couple they were two opposites who perfectly complimented each other’s strength and weaknesses. Always being happy, upbeat and never without a whistled ditty on his lips, Herbert brought the hope and joy to her life, where Mabel only saw darkness and woe. It’s unclear how much Herbert knew of her past, as having struggled with anxiety and depression – so severely, that the arrhythmic palpitations of her stuttering heart often caused her to collapse –she had once tried to take her life by slitting her own throat. And although her make-up often hid the bags under her eyes, it would take a thick scarf to shield (from prying eyes) her most deadly of scars. Mabel & Herbert’s curse was that they both wanted to be loved. For him, he treasured its simple pleasures; hugging, kissing, holding hands, and making the other as happy - if not happier - than him. But for Mabel, being ever the romantic fuelled by a daily-diet of fairy-tale romances, she had always dreamed of the perfect marriage to the perfect man, but as we know, dreams are rarely unattainable. And as the shame of spinsterhood loomed ever larger, as this 25-year-old singleton was left on the shelf, fearing a life of loveless solitude, she did as many women do – and she settled for second best. On the 24th May 1924 in Bradford Registry office, Mabel Bentley married 30-year-old Herbert Victor Hill, a textile-engineer from Bradford and the two moved in together at nearby 7 Daleside Road. As romances go, it was fine, perfunctory and pleasant. But lacking any spark, whether love or friction, although they would remain good friends, they drifted apart. And following a mutual agreement, in 1931, after seven years of marriage, they separated and Mabel moved back to 2 Alexandra Road. For Mabel, the breakdown of her marriage felt like a failure. And although when she had married, Herbert Turner was nothing but a scrawny little schoolboy - having returned to her childhood home – the boy had become a man, and as the two locked eyes in church, a new love had begun to blossom. It was a love which would lead to exquisite happiness… …but also, their deaths. With Mabel still legally married, although an amicable divorce looked likely, living barely a few doors apart, they had to keep their love-affair a secret from the local sticky beaks and wagging tongues. In their own words, they became “sweet-hearts”; two lovers who nipped off for sneaky walks, slipped each other love letters and snuck down alleys for a quick peck-on-the-cheek when no-one was looking. It may seem tame by today’s standards, but in a small town, a little scandal has big repercussions. No-one knew about Mabel & Herbert; not their friends, their families nor her ex-husband-to-be. By the start of October 1932, having barely been together for six months, they both believed they had found their one true-love. This was it. Their search was over. And being so besotted with each other that they could see nothing but a life of eternal bliss, their talk turned to their future together, forever. …but it was not to be. On Tuesday 18th October 1932, less than two weeks before their fateful decision, Mabel met her husband Herbert, as they often did, still being friends. Over a cup of tea, he mooted the thought that maybe they should get back together? As in his eyes, the marriage wasn’t dead. But in her eyes, it was. Without blinking, Mabel made it clear, they were over, finished, done, and although she kept her new beau out of the conversation, her future now rested in her husband’s hands. According to the law, the sanctity of marriage was paramount above everything, including her happiness and wishes, and as the separation was mutual with no accounts of infidelity, cruelty nor violence, she could not divorce him. Falling out of love was not an excuse to defy God, so blinded by love, Mabel and Herbert saw only one way out of their troubles… as being denied their love in life, they would find it together in death. On Saturday 15th October 1932, Herbert was fixing a car at Sherburn Garages on Town Lane in the village of Idle, where he worked as a motor mechanic for W & W Heggs. Walter Heggs, the proprietor liked Herbert; he was quiet, a little frail and easily-led, but a good lad who always worked hard. Mid-afternoon, Herbert piped up (Herbert) “Mr Heggs?”, (Walter) “Yes lad”, (Herbert) “If I… if I needed to destroy some puppies, would strychnine do?”. Which may seem an odd thing to say, but back then, it was perfectly fine. “No lad, best thing you can do is drown them”. And with that, Herbert thanked his boss and carried on with his job, but the ‘demise of these doggies’ weighed heavy on his mind. At a little before 5pm, George Leslie Todd, a local chemist parked his car at the Sherburn Garage as per usual. Asked the same question, Mr Todd replied “no son, you’ll want prussic acid’…” also known as hydrogen cyanide. And with its purchase being legal for everyday means, Mr Todd reassured him “pop by the shop, I’ll sort you out”. It was a casual transaction, made by a chemist and a customer many times prior for enough poison to kill a litter of puppies, or two persons intent on saying goodbye. On Tuesday 18th October at 11am, Herbert entered Mr Todd’s chemist shop at 17 Bradford Road. As legally obliged to, the chemist filled in the poisons book (writing) “Oct 18/32, Mr H Turner, HCW formula, destroy pups”, it was signed “H Turner” in a scrawl which would later match the register at the Regent Palace Hotel and the suicide note he would send to his mother, and having paid two shillings – one for each life - he was handed a small green bottle with a double fatal dose of cyanide. That night, back on Alexandra Road, away from the prying eyes, Herbert met Mabel in secret. (Herbert) “I told her I’d got it and she said “all right”. We didn’t take it then because she suggested we should come to London and do it. I agreed and gave her the bottle which she kept for safety in her handbag”. With the poison ready for this ‘Romeo & Juliet of the north’, all they had to do was slip away silently. As agreed, Herbert told his mum and dad that he was going away with a friend to Blackpool, a local seaside town frequented by millions every year. And although it would be too bitterly cold for a swim, as his trip would coincide with the famous illuminations, his parents weren’t worried for their boy. In fact, having asked their permission to go, his father gave him a few shillings to make sure he had fun. “On Saturday 22nd October, we went to Blackpool together and stayed at The Granville, a boarding house”, Herbert would state, “we stayed there as Mr & Mrs Turner and occupied the same bed”. Many hotels would refuse an unmarried couple a bed, so the ruse was a sensible precaution to lay low. With only one week of life before their demise, they made their final days as special as possible. With walks on the beach, eating candy-floss and riding rollercoasters by day; as by night, they lay cradled in each other’s arms, as Mabel’s matronly chest enveloped Herbert’s head with a smothering love. It should have been the perfect start to a tragic end, and although Mabel had told her mother she was going to Blackpool with a girl-pal, she also felt obliged to send a letter to her soon-to-be ex-husband. On the day they had arrived, Mr Hill had received a handwritten note telling him where she had gone and that she was planning to return by next Tuesday. Only her sign-off caused him great concern given the decline in her mental state, as it read; “please forgive me if you can. Goodbye. Love Mabel”. On Sunday 23rd October, having scoured the streets of Blackpool in search of the woman who was still legally ‘his wife’, on the seaside esplanade underneath the illuminations, Mr Hill spotted the sturdy shape of Mabel walking hand-in-hand with a small young man, who he later knew as Herbert Turner. Amidst the roar of trams and the screech of seagulls, Mr Hill harangued Mabel in public, as there was no way he would grant her a divorce, not now, not ever. It was a bitter fight in which Mabel gave as good as she got, but - as was his way - Herbert stayed silent, not wanting to be a bother. And needing to have this out with her husband once and for all, Mabel sent Herbert back to the boarding house. Only this was just a ruse, as making the excuse that she needed the loo, Mabel slipped out of the cafe’s back door and unable to find her again, Mr Hill returned to Bradford, as the two lovers went to London. On Monday 24th October, Mabel & Herbert arrived in London. It was the perfect place to hide out, as being a gargantuan metropolis which fizzed with a dizzying blur of passing people too busy to stop and talk, even if her husband went looking here, he could stand right next to them and never see them. To keep their profile low, for several nights, they stayed at an unnamed hotel at 28 Bloomsbury Street, signing in as Mr & Mrs Sinclair. They saw the sights; Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the British Museum, and savoured many pleasant meals at the Lyon’s Cornerhouse Tearooms, always splitting the bill. On Saturday 29th October, feeling a greater sense of security and freedom, they moved to the slightly less-affordable but certainly more resplendent Regent Palace Hotel, just off Piccadilly Circus. Opened in 1915 as Europe’s largest hotel, J Lyons & Co knew how to run a high quality establishment at a more affordable price. Featuring a cocktail bar, a small theatre and an opulent reception, although many rooms overlooked the backs of buildings and were bathed by the dizzying neon of the infamous lights of Piccadilly Circus; the beds were cosy, the rooms were clean, the fires were soothing, and with a phone and a bathroom on every floor, a maid was on hand to connect your call or run you a bath. At 9:40pm, Irene Ewart, the reception clerk of the Regent Palace Hotel welcomed two new guests; a larger lady in her early thirties and a shorter man just out of his teens. Giving their names as Mr & Mrs Herbert Turner of Shipley, he signed in, said they planned to stay at least one night maybe even two, and as the only luggage they had was a small battered suitcase and a handbag – which she clutched to her heart as tightly as any stranger in the big smoke – they were handed the keys to Room 201. The receptionist had no reason to be suspicious, as they made a sweet (if slightly odd) couple, and although she was a little bossy, he was pleasant and polite as he wished the receptionist a good night. No-one could have foreseen the horror which would be unleashed. Having entering the lift, as the lovers ascended to the second floor, they held hands and smiled, as he whistled a cheerful little ditty. Strangely, this wouldn’t be the first suicide pact at the Regent Palace Hotel. As just five months earlier, Captain John Blockley had bigamously married his new wife Helen Diamond. And seeing no way out; he shot her, shot himself, and their bodies were not discovered until at least twelve hours later. Suicides are not uncommon in hotels; some see a person’s sad demise once a month, a year or a decade, and although it’s frequency shouldn’t make the deaths of Mabel & Herbert any less tragic... …the real tragedy was hidden underneath. Sunday 30th October 1932 was their last day alive, so - as money no longer had meaning - they splashed out. They ate as best food their finances could afford, they went to a West End show – maybe The Cat and the Fiddle at the Palace, or Tell Her the Truth at the Savill – and by all accounts, they looked happy and devoted; holding hands and kissing, as they shared the last treats from a box of Swiss chocolates. At 6:15pm, a large parcel and two letters written on Regent Palace notepaper were received at a local postal sorting office. Addressed to their mothers, Mabel’s read: “My darling mother. I hope you will forgive me for what I am about to do. I cannot think of any other way out for a bad girl. I have caused enough trouble for you in this world and I hope the Good Lord will forgive me. I am broken hearted at what I have done and the world is well rid of me. Goodbye mother and try not to worry about me. Give my love to Clarice, Alan, Ralph and Grandma, and yourself, and my dear husband who was too good for me. Your broken-hearted daughter. Mabel”. Inside lay a card leaving everything to her mum. Her handwriting was neat, her spelling was good, and there were no corrections or mistakes. Herbert’s read: “Dear Mother. Can you ever forgive me for the trouble I have cause you, for by the time you receive this I shall not be on this earth. Please do not blame anyone for what I am doing, as it is all my own fault. I am sending you my things on by parcel post and please give them to Roland as it is my last wish that he should have them, and please tell him to cheer up, also please ask father to forgive me, as I have been a rotter to him. No doubt you will know who I am with, but please do not blame her as we cannot live without each other. Your loving son. Herbert xxx”. His letter was hesitant, messy, and having struggled to write his suicide note, this wasn’t a first draft, it was his third. At 9pm, they returned to the hotel… but only one of them had no plans ever to leave. Twenty minutes later, as if to cleanse himself of his sins, Herbert asked the chambermaid to run him a bath. She did so, he said “thank you”, he washed his woollen vest, his socks and his pants, and having returned to Room 201, he placed his wet undergarments on an armchair beside the roaring fire. Dressed in his blue patterned pyjamas, being sat on the bed, he saw that Mabel was dressed in her best clothes; a black dress with yellow trimming and light-coloured stockings, with her hair neat, her make-up on and a set of pearls which hid a faded scar from an earlier time when life got too much. Only she wasn’t dressed for a night on the town, but to check out of this life… once and for good. (Herbert) “While I was in the bathroom, she had placed the poison on the table near the bed. There was some already poured out in two glasses. There was more in her glass than in mine. I picked up the bottle (it was empty) and put it in a drawer. I then went to the bed and we both lay down”. The moment had come - a farewell to the sadness and a hello to their happiness in the ever-after. (Herbert) “I was nearest the wall. We got ourselves comfortable and bid each other goodbye”, sharing a last kiss in this life and sealing their love in the next. “She took hers first”. Raising the glass tumbler to her lips, Mabel swigged back the colourless liquid with the faint pale blue hue, and flinched at its taste of bitter almonds. “She handed me her empty glass which I put upon the table”. Cursed with a weak heart, she died within the minute, and with his lover gone, “I took my poison and drank it”. (Phone) On Monday 31st October at 8:45am, having received a parcel and a deeply troubling letter, Herbert’s father called the hotel demanding to speak to his son. Upon their door, the chambermaid knocked three time but got no reply, so she entered the dark cold room, softly cooing “sir, a trunk call for you”. Only neither stirred, as the two motionless figures lay on the bed, holding hands in silence. As the chambermaid reached over, she touched her face and saw that Mabel was icy cold… …but seeing a flicker in his eyes, she realised that Herbert was still alive. At her autopsy, detecting a purplish hue to her lips, neck and upper arms, rigor mortis determined that death had occurred twelve hours prior, and with no signs of a struggle, no smell of cyanide on her breath (as it evaporates quickly) and an empty green bottle beside her - suicide was suspected. At Charing Cross Hospital, as a precaution, Herbert had his stomach pumped and was injected with adrenaline, as a medic stated he was “apparently unconscious”. With his colour good, his breathing was fine and his heart soft but regular, the woozy lad complained of “a burning at the back of my throat”, but when the doctor looked, there were no burning, nor signs that he had taken any cyanide. But was this a mistake, fate, or deliberate? (End) On the 13th December 1932, at the Old Bailey, Herbert Turner was tried on the charge of “feloniously and wilfully murdering Mabel Hill by administering poison”, at which his terrified lips quivered ‘not guilty’. But as a death sentence loomed, so terrified was this frail boy, that he collapsed in the dock. Seeing through to the very heart of the evidence, John Maude (his solicitor) pleaded to the jury “he loved Mrs Hill passionately. It is clear that this woman had worked on the boy’s mind by her suggestion of suicide until he became obsessed with the idea that there was nothing worthwhile in life but death”. As a happy little lad who was easily-led, but never once had a dark thought or spoke of suicide, Herbert always put others and their needs before himself, and – even when stressed – he would never speak-up or answer back, as his way of coping with life’s worries was to whistle a cheerful little ditty. As a voice when his silence said little; she decided to buy the poison, to come to London, she poured it out, and although she was dressed for death - wearing his pyjamas – he was clearly dressed for bed. Her letter to mother was neat and direct; his took three attempts, the last of which was a muddle, as if he wasn’t fully committed to the terrifying prospect of death, but didn’t want to disappoint her. And besides, if he was really suicidal, why did he wash his pants, socks and vest, and hang them out to dry? Was his survival just luck having not taken enough, or did he take none having only pretended to die? Found guilty, Herbert Turner was sentenced to death for Mabel’s murder, but with the jury making a strong recommendation for clemency, Mr Justice Charles commuted his sentence to life in prison. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, 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. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms
8 Rupert Court, W1 where the shooting of Roy Martinson by Edward "Ted" Wahlstrom-Lewis took place
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR:
On 19th August 1967, 26-year-old Australian-citizen Edward Wahlstrom-Lewis paid a visit to the Rupert Court Club at 8 Rupert Court in London's Chinatown. Entering the club, Edward was given two options; spend £4 to sit and chat to a pretty hostess for a bit, or spend £8 for the whole night. He assumed he was going to spend the night with the lady and (in return) get some sexy time. But when he realised all he was going get was some idle chit-chat, and no nookie, Edward lost his rag and put three men in hospital. This is a truly bizarre story about a man who wanted some kiss kiss, what he delivered was bang bang.
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of 8 Rupert Court where Ted Wahlsdtrom-Lewis shot Roy Martinson is marked with a bright green coloured raindrop near the words Leicester Square. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. Archive File - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/record?catid=6276725&catln=6 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Rupert Court, W1; one street north of the death of Ken Snakehips Johnson, one street north-east of the club where the First Date Killer met his date, and just a few feet from the wannabe gangsters who acted like bell-ends - coming soon to Murder Mile, the YouTube channel. Nestled beside the ornate gates to Chinatown, Rupert Court is a narrow alley connecting Rupert Street and Wardour Street. At roughly six feet wide, one hundred feet long and three storeys high, every inch of space has a shop squeezed in; whether a Malaysian café, a Thai restaurant, a decent pub, a branded pizzeria and at 8 Rupert Court is Step-In - a one-stop shop for your relaxation and wellbeing needs. Of course, being a respectable establishment providing massage in this area, you half-expect to see a pasty wheezing pervert with a shuffling fist, hairy palms and bulging pants being politely ejected with a firm boot, as the only ‘happy finish’ he’ll receive here is in his soul. But that mistake is easy to make. Back in the sixties, Rupert Court was full of mucky book shops and sleezy porn palaces. At number 8 stood the (imaginatively titled) Rupert Court Club; a cheesy clip joint where gaggles of drunk and horny men – desperate to see a bit of boob - paid over the odds to be fooled by the oldest trick in the book. One such man was Edward Wahlstrom-Lewis, an Australian on a night out with his pals. Expecting nookie but receiving nowt - whereas most men would pay-up and walk-out rather than suffer the shame of calling the cops – having been denied a little ‘kiss kiss’, he would deliver some ‘bang bang’. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 164: Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang. The fascinating thing about murder is the tipping point. Everybody has a tipping point, that moment in life when a perfectly rational person is pushed beyond the limits of what they deem acceptable. For some, it can be the preservation of life, but for others… it can be something as simple as pride. Edward Robert Wahlstrom-Lewis, known as Ted was born on the 5th October 1941 in Shanghai, China. Raised two years into the Second World War and a full four years into the conflict between China and Japan – although Ted was still only a baby, his earliest memories were of a life behind prison bars. In 1943, with Shanghai occupied by Japanese forces, any Western citizen living on occupied land was interred in a concentration camp. Being Australian, the Wahlstrom-Lewis family were rounded-up with nothing but the clothes on their backs and separated, so his mother had to care for her son, alone. From the age of two, Ted spentthree years half-starved and ragged, as a prisoner-of-war in a cramped camp riddled with disease, filth and squalor, never knowing when the nightmare would end. It was no life for a child, and yet incarceration would become a familiar presence over his next three decades. In 1946, with the war finally over, the family were reunited and they returned to the safety of their home in Sydney, Australia. Being free, life should have got better. But for Ted, it would only get worse. In 1949, his father died of a heart-attack, leaving Ted and his three younger sisters without a dad. To try to regain a sense of stability for the family, his mother remarried. But when she fell ill, aged 8, Ted was put in a children’s home for 18 months - a second prison sentence for something he hadn’t done. With an erratic education, he attended several schools in Sydney and Wollongong, where he was described as an average student, who had issues with authority figures and often played truant. Aged 15, with his mother moving to the country, he stayed in the city and had little contact with her since. Ted would state that he had a good childhood, but with so much turmoil and upset, although everyone agreed he was a good bloke – because his first memories were of poverty - he was blessed with a strong sense of pride but cursed with a short fuse. So, whenever he felt cheated, he was easily stung. As a young lad, living alone, he tried his best to lead a good life. In 1955, he worked as an attendant at Underra Service Station. In 1956, he spent a year as a sales assistant at Mick Simmons Sports Shop. In 1957, he joined the Merchant Navy but never left port. And in 1958 he became a farm labourer in Wollongong. But frequently being in-and-out of work, by his late teens, he had turned to petty crime. Between March and June 1961, he was charged four times for twenty cases of theft, mostly for stealing cars but also an outboard motor. He was sentenced to 2 ½ years hard labour at Parramatta Prison, plus ten months for each charge which he served concurrently. In July 1963, having been released on bail, he fled to Melbourne and (in his own words) “lived of the proceeds of crime”. That same month, he was arrested and charged with five counts of shop-breaking, stealing and sentenced to five years. While held at McLeod Prison on French Island, he was further convicted of absconding legal custody and wilful damage, having attempted a prison break and was given a further nine months inside. Interestingly, he had no convictions for drunkenness, firearms or assault. In fact, the only unusual blip in his criminal record which hints at the crime which was to come was his first offence. As in May 1960, he was sentenced to six days hard labour for the unusually vague crime of ‘indecent behaviour’. On the 12th August 1966, Ted was paroled. Seeking a fresh start – not just from a life of crime, but also from his country – he cleaned-up his act, moved in with his grandmother, got a job as a fisherman, and - through honest toil and sweat - he saved-up his money so he could start a new life in England. On 26th July 1967, Ted arrived in London. In the interim, he stayed at a friend’s flat at 87 Ridgemount Gardens in Bloomsbury, he started working as a van-driver for a company called Instant Van earning a regular £14-a-week, and as a 26-year-old singleton, he was hoping to find himself a nice lady. Being a big drinker, it wasn’t uncommon for him to sink 15 bottles of beers a night, but he wasn’t a drunk. Three weeks in, Ted was still finding his feet, but so far, his new life was going well… By all accounts, Saturday 19th August 1967 was just an ordinary day. At 5pm, having finished his shift, Ted parked up the white Ford Transit in the garage at 9 Bristol Mews, just north of Paddington Station. Having been paid, he had already started saving to rent his own place as he didn’t want to keep kipping in his mate’s spare bed forever. But as this was Saturday night, he felt he deserved a little blow-out. At 6pm, Ted, Ken Smith (who was an old pal) and Martin Penny (who owned the flat) headed out for a night on the tiles in Martin’s black Armstrong Sidley. With no drink drive limit, Martin could happily sink a few suds and drive with impunity, as long as he didn’t hurt anyone. But he didn’t. Being sensible, he had a few but not too many, and although the two Aussies liked boozing, they weren’t dickheads, At 6pm, they headed to a pub in Bethnal Green and stayed for roughly 30 minutes. They had fun, the mood was good, and they all got on well. There were no issues, arguments or moments of conflict. If anything, they could have stayed there all night. But they didn’t. At 9pm, they arrived at a pub called the Cockney Pride, just off Piccadilly Circus. As before, they had a few beers, a few laughs and there was nothing to suggest that this night was about to turn sour. At 10pm, Ted said he “wanted a dance”, the other lads liked the idea, so they left and headed to Soho. It made sense, as this was an area synonymous with fun. Whatever floated your boat, Soho had a club to assuage the most specific of tastes; whether live music for the groovers, casinos for the cash flashers and something decidedly seedy for those whose idea of fun was bouncy boobs and bobbling butts. Like any city, it had its dangers, but taking that risk was part of the deal. Even a nice night out might end up with someone being fleeced, slapped or stabbed. But as these lads weren’t looking for trouble, just fun, even though Ted had a quick-temper, both Ken & Martin knew what to do if he lost his rag. At 11pm, they walked up the south-side of Wardour Street into what was yet to become Chinatown. Passing the dark-lit sleaze and flashing neon signs of a nearby alley, at 33 Wardour Street, they tried to get into the Whiskey-a-Go-Go – an infamous music venue which that year alone had hosted such greats as The Drifters, Ben E king and Stevie Wonder – but being full, they had to look elsewhere. The streets were busy, if a little aggressive, as the hot night made the drunks jittery. Beside the arched entrance to Rupert Court, Ted saw a Chinese guy agitatedly barking in broken English to two bobbies about how he’d been robbed by a woman. The lads tittered as they secured their wallets, knowing he probably wasn’t the first man she had fleeced and he wouldn’t be the last. Welcome to Soho. For about 15 minutes, the lads tried a few other venues, but got no joy. It was then that Ted changed his mind. He still wanted to dance, but a different kind of dance. Being single and (if he was honest) a little lonely as a stranger in a new country, he couldn’t be arsed with the hassle of chatting up a girl and buying her a drink, in the remote hope of getting a quick kiss and a little fondle - if he was lucky. What he needed was a place where some sexy-time with a pretty lady was a dead cert, as feeling a little bit horny, he had a solid gold boner in his pocket which he didn’t want to waste on a wank. At 11:30pm, beside the Whiskey-a-Go-Go, as his pals waited outside, Ted entered Rupert Court. This thin dark alley - four times taller than it was wide – was bathed in a sickly neon glow which pulsed like hot blood into a throbbing cock, as the sinister shadows foretold of both terror and thrills within. With signs flickering in single syllable words like ‘girls and ‘nude’ - as clearly long words are impossible to read when you’ve got a hard-on - in this seedy alley there was no denying what was for sale – sex. Along both sides were several ‘hostess’ clubs; including the Two Decks, the Casino and the Alphabet, many of which offered a lap-dance, a striptease, the purchase of porn, or a peep-show. The choice was his, and either of which might have left him a little lighter in the pants, but not heading to prison. Only he didn’t. To his left was the Rupert Court Club at 8 Rupert Court. Not that he would have known this, as with no sign outside, the windows were covered-up and the sills were painted sills in deep reds and fleshy whites. But outside, stood a slim attractive brunette, whose job was the lure the young men in. The name of this raven-haired temptress was Maureen. Hot! Maureen Chapman. Hot! And with a few keenly-chosen words, this sultry siren said the words which Ted (and his balls) wanted to hear. Sexily, Maureen cooed “are you looking for a girl?”. Playing it cool, Ted shrugged “yes, it depends”, as if he was the one chatting-up her. So, having said “come in and I’ll talk to you”. With that, the deal was done and having been lured in by the simplest of cons, so was Ted… only he didn’t know it. At any point, he could have changed his mind, but part of the con is to make the punter feel bad about backing out or rejecting the lady. So, the second he stepped foot beyond the tall dark screen which shielded the world from its raw sexiness, he was in. This was the club… and it wasn’t much. It consisted of a single room, 10 feet wide by 15 feet long, being no bigger than a caravan. With a few red lights - as much to bathe the peeling wallpaper in an unsubtle sexy vibe as to disguise the stains - Ted was sat in one of several mismatched chairs; one which looked like it was once part of a patio set, one borrowed from a granny flat and one had blatantly been ripped out of a crashed Ford Zephyr. As to the left, a tacky velvet curtain sectioned off a tiny bar which was littered with watered-down drinks. Ted could have said “f**k this for a dingo’s dinky” and fled, but he didn’t. Being seated and with his bill racking-up, this is where their statements deviate. Maureen would state “I said to him ‘if you would like company, it’s £4 to sit and talk for a bit, or £8 for as long as you like’”. Although what heard her say was “she asked me would I do sex with her. I said “yes”. She said “it’s £4 for a short time or £8 for all night”. In a quick decision made using his other brain, more than half of his week’s wage was blown… and as he sat there grinning, he hoped that soon he would be too. With his cash, Maureen popped behind the curtain and handed it to her boss, having got Ted to hand over another £2 for whatever sundry bullshit they said was essential, and there he sat and waited. For fifteen minutes, they sat side-by-side and chatted politely with no touching, kissing and certainly no sex. The con is simple; the hostess never mentions sex, but the man assumes he is getting some. When he realises he has been conned, he has three options; leave having learned his lesson, get rough only to be turfed out, or call the police, except with no evidence, it would be his word against theirs. With his mates still waiting outside, Ted was already becoming impatient, when a familiar face walked in. With the two bobbies able to help, the agitated Chinese guy stormed in, barking in broken English that he wanted his money back. Ted would later state “I knew then that I had been taken for a fool”. As many men do, Ted demanded his money back, but Maureen explained “I can’t get it, it’s booked in and we’re not allowed to refund it”. Ted insisted, his face turning puce as his temper grew fouler. This was his money, he had earned it, and – although he had made the mistake – he hated being cheated. Seeing his mood grow black, to pacify him (as her boss had vanished), she agreed to meet Ted in about twenty minutes time for a coffee at the Golden Egg on Oxford Street. Unsure if he’d get his money back or his money’s worth, calling her bluff, he threatened her: “if you don’t turn up, I’ll come back”. And with that, Ted walked out. Martin would state “when he came out, he was silent but I could see he was in a flaming mood. I asked him what was the matter and on the third time he said ‘nothing’. He wanted to go back to the flat”. With their fun night out well-and-truly buggered, Martin drove them back to 87 Ridgemount Gardens; they climbed the stairs to his flat, and by the stroke of midnight, the boys were getting ready for bed. Ted could have gone to sleep, he could have let it go, or he could have brushed it off as a silly mistake? But he couldn’t. His pride was damaged, his tipping point was reached, and somebody had to pay. Half an hour later, the lads realised that Ted, his bag and Martin’s car were missing… …but by then, it was too late. At 12:30am, Ted sat waiting outside of The Golden Egg, its drunken punters stumbling into this late-night café to feed on a feast of foods all served with chips… but none of them were Maureen. (Ted) “I waited a few minutes till I was sure she wasn’t coming”, then he headed back to Rupert Court. Twenty minutes later, having dumped the car, Ted got out. Still seething; he didn’t lock it and he didn’t think, as fuelled by raw emotions, he stormed down Rupert Court. His walk quick and his eyes fixed, as across his heaving chest he clutched a blue and white bag emblazoned with a Pan Am logo. The alley was just as he had left it an hour before; the nauseating hum of neon, the crunch of broken beer bottles and the stale stench of warm piss, as outside two guys argued with a girl over money. Ted would later state “I pushed past her and said ‘I wanna see the other one’”. Barging her aside, she grabbed his sleeve and asked him to leave, yelling “get out or I’ll call the police”. But Ted was tired of asking nicely, he meant business, as from his shoulder bag he pulled out a little gift from the Land of Oz. Through the gloom, the girl screamed “help”, “call the police”, as in his tightening fist he held a 12-bore sawn-off shotgun. The alley erupted into blind panic, “help, he’s got a gun”, as with a swift bolt action he loaded a cartridge of No4 lead shot into the barrel, and stormed into the dingy dark-lit club. Inside, although one punter had fled, several sat in the battered car-seats, too terrified to move. Hearing the commotion, as Maureen came from behind the tacky velvet curtain, Ted stuck the barrel of the shotgun in her startled face, (Ted) “I want my money”. With his eyes wide and his teeth bared, there was no negotiation to be had, no bullshit about a refund policy, as Ted barked “I want my fucking money”. Maureen knew she had to calm him and comply – (Maureen) “relax, I’ll get it, just chill out”. As she went into the backroom bar, Ted followed, standing half-way between the tacky velvet curtain, with one eye on the hostess and one on the punters. To Ted, this wasn’t an armed robbery, as with him being the victim of confidence trickster, he was just getting back what was his – only quicker. Outside, the panic had reached fever pitch as excitable crowds jostled for a peek. With the bar as big as a bank of urinals, she only had to count out ten quid, but the longer this took, the more wound-up Ted got. “You’re stalling, hurry up” Ted barked, as he focused on Maureen and not on the door. Roy Martinson had been standing outside of the Two Decks club with his pal Sammy the Turk, when he heard a hostess hysterically screaming “some man’s trying to shoot my friend” and went in to help. Only half-believing her story, as Roy sauntered into the club, seeing only a flank of frozen men sitting silently on threadbare seats, Roy quizzed them with a knowing smirk - “alright then, who’s got a gun?”. From beyond the curtain, the angry Aussie drawled “I have” as he poked the shotgun’s muzzle in Roy’s chest. Stuck in a stand-off, the Aussie glared the local lad down, but Roy was not intimidated. Not in the slightest, as he chuckled “that’s a silly thing to do, I should put that away if I were you”. With both men pumping too much testosterone, as if to challenge him, Ted said “do you want it?”. At this point, their statements deviate; as Roy said “I took that to mean did I want the gun. I reached out for it”, Ted would claim “he had a look of surprise on his face and he grabbed for the gun. It went round in an arc as we twisted”, only Maureen would later clarify “there was no struggle, no fight”. Either way, from just two feet apart, the shotgun went off. With a flash of yellow, as a shockwave echoed the tiny room, Roy was blasted in the stomach. Doubling over, as his shirt pooled with a flowing crimson, he stumbled out of the club and collapsed in the alley. Snatching the ten quid from Maureen’s trembling hand, Ted fled the club. With his getaway car parked barely fifty feet to the left, and that side of this narrow alley blocked by a group of panicked people tending to a bloodied Roy, turning right Ted ran into Wardour Street followed by a small furious crowd. (Ted) “As I reached the footpath, somebody hit me over the head with a bottle”. Having heard the shot, Dinos Mayromatis, a kitchen porter and Petro Neophytou, a waiter, chased after Ted, as blood streamed from his head wound, pouring down his back, as they hurtled Gerrard Street. Three times Ted waved the shotgun at the two men, hoping to scare them, but they kept chasing him, hurling whatever they could, whether bottles, bricks or traffic cones, to stop him or slow him down. Passing Macclesfield Street, having grabbed a broom handle, Dinos would state “I tried to hit him with it and we came face-to-face. I was about 6 feet away, when he pulled out the gun and shot me”. As hot balls of speeding lead blasted into his face, neck and chest, as he slumped onto the cobbled street. So indiscriminate was the shotgun’s blast, that a single shot zipped 200 feet down Gerrard Street, and outside of Rupert Court, it hit Barry Glatz in the neck, as he chatted to a pal outside the Alphabet Club. Petro gave chase from a cautious distance, but he lost sight of Ted on Shaftesbury Avenue. With his victims rushed to Charing Cross Hospital, Barry had a single pellet removed from his neck and needed only two stitches, Dinos’s blast from six-feet away left only superficial wounds although he would remain partially sighted in his left eye, and - miraculously – although he was on the critical list and underwent an emergency operation to his stomach, having contracted pancreatitis and gangrene, Roy was discharged after six weeks. Thankfully, there were no serious injuries and no loss of life. (End). In the following days, Ted laid low and although the incident was in the papers, no-one knew his name. Ten days later, finding a shotgun cartridge under his bed, Brian McDonald (a room-mate of Ted’s pal, Ken Smith) realised the connection to Ted who was seen bleeding and had fled, and called the police. At 7:45pm on 3rd November 1967, Ted was arrested as he pulled the white Ford Transit into the garage at 9 Bristol Mews. Technically, he was on the run, but needing money, he was still driving the van. Taken to West End Central police station, Ted confessed to the shooting, bluntly stating his motivation “they robbed me of money and I lost my temper”. But when Detective Sergeant Hopkins asked “so why did you cut down the shotgun’s barrel with a saw?”, Ted’s reply was as Aussie as it gets – “I was going to use it for shark fishing… only I didn’t realise that, in this place, they are no bloody sharks”. The trial was held at the Old Bailey on the 19th and 20th February 1968, before Mr Justice Thesiger. Blessed with a sympathetic jury and having pleaded guilty to two lesser charges, he was found guilty of wounding and possessing a firearm. But on the charges of ‘grievous bodily harm’ and ‘shooting with intent to murder’, he was found “not guilty”. Ted was sentenced to a total of ten years in prison. After his release, Ted moved back to Australia and settled in Riverwood in Sydney; where he married, had several children and grandchildren, and he recently passed away in July 2020, aged 78 years old. For the sake of £10, a little kiss-kiss and a flash of bang-bang, three lives were ruined and ten years of life were lost. It may seem ridiculous, but then again, everybody has a tipping point. So, what’s yours? ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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The bridge at 168 Hampstead Road where Harry & Alive lived
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE:
On the 14th March 1922, in a small ground-floor lodging at the back of 168 Hampstead Road, a baby girl was born. Conceived in secret by a young couple - 21-year-old Harry Gimber and 23-year-old Alice Crabbe - they hadn;t been able to abort it, the couldn't afford to keep, so having ran out of options, they decided to "abandon it". One week later, the body of a new born baby was found in Enfield, but with no way to identify Harry & Alice as the parents, its disposal should have remained a secret. So, what went wrong?
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of 168 Hampstead Road where the unnamed baby of Alice Crabb and Harry Gimber was murdered is marked with a mustard coloured raindrop near the words Mornington Crescent. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/record?catid=5098213&catln=6 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing at 168 Hampstead Road, NW1; a few streets east and several doors south of Edith Humphries and Mabel Church, the first possible murders by the Blackout Ripper, as well as a deadly feud at Regent’s Park Zoo which saw a keeper bludgeoned to death - coming soon to Murder Mile. The Hampstead Road is a busy thoroughfare heading from Mornington Crescent to Warren Street. As you pass a set of flats and a brown bridge over the trainline into nearby London Euston, on this site once stood a row of three-storey Georgian terraced houses, which have long since been demolished. Crammed-full of dozers as Cross Rail decimates the city, it’s no surprise they’ve gone over budget as you never see a construction worker actually work. You might spy one wetting a bit of road with a limp hose or ten men ‘supervising’ as one man digs, but most of the time, all they do is eat. Go to any café and you’ll be blinded by lines of hi-viz vests all chuntering ‘oi oi’, ‘fakin ewl’ and ‘lavely cappa tea’. Sadly, as a vital part of any city, although progress erases the past, sometimes that’s not a bad thing. Back in 1922, on this site stood a three-storey terrace at 168 Hampstead Road. As a lodging house for those with barely a few pennies to rub together, in a small back-room on the first floor lived a young couple – Harry Gimber and Alice Crabb. Being too poor to marry and too selfish to think of anyone but themselves, owing to the consequences of their carnal lust, it was here that a baby was born in secret. Having gone to full-term, it should have been a joyous day as a new life was born by two lovers. Only being seen as little more than a side-effect of their sex, even before its birth, the child was unwanted. And although this little baby would only live a very brief life, it wasn’t loved for a single second. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 163: ‘The Unloved’. The tragic tale of this little baby is truly heart-breaking; as it was unloved, unnamed and unwanted. Many may ask ‘how could anyone do something so horrific to someone so young and innocent?’ But it happens more often that you’d think, as even today, the most likely victims of murder are babies. Henry William Gimber, known to his pals as Harry was born in Islington in 1902. Given the cruelty he would inflict, you may expect me to impart you a story of hardship, violence and insanity? But I can’t. Like many young men, Harry was born into a working-class family who fought to keep a modest wage coming-in and the looming hunger at bay. They were good people who weren’t criminals nor wastrels. Mentally, he was just a very average lad, who wasn’t aggressive, moody or depressive. In fact, except for a grandmother who had died in the Hanwell Asylum owing to senile dementia, his family had no history of mental illness, and neither did he suffer any diseases or accidents - which could excuse this. At worst, he was immature and selfish. But find a young lad on the cusp of freedom who isn’t? Aged 14, Harry left school. Alongside his dad, he joined London Transport Company as an apprentice, but found the grit and grime of the railway wasn’t for him. In his teens, he still wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, so – although often working several low-paid jobs at a time – he flitted between many menial roles; whether as a waiter, a kitchen porter, a butcher’s assistant and a nightclub attendant. By his late teens - like many young men - Harry was desperate to move out of his parent’s house; to live his own life, to do his own thing and to finally become a man. Only, as we’ve all done, he still hadn’t got a grip on his responsibilities; like paying bills and rent, before buying treats and having fun. It was a big part of growing up which he was yet to learn. On the 20th March 1920, in Tottenham Court Road, 18-year-old Harry met 21-year-old Alice Crabb and the two fell in love. As a local girl born and raised in nearby Clement St Danes, although both parents were rarely home, she was raised under the supportive bubble of her grandmother and her niece. Living in a small lodging full of strong independent women who earned their own wage and ran their own household, it’s not surprising that – although society dictated that Alice could only follow one path in life, as a wife and mother – what she wanted was a little fun first and to enjoy being young. For Alice, marriage was not the be-all and end-all, and - with at least two decades of fertility ahead of her - she knew she had time to get a job, to live her life and to make her own mistakes, rather than being dragged kicking and screaming into the endless everyday exhaustion of cooking and cleaning. In April 1921, they began working at the National Orchestral Association at 14 Archer Street in Soho, with him as a doorman and her as a waitress – along-side her close friend, Dolly Oust. And having moved out of her parent’s home at 44 New Compton Street, Alice got her own lodging on Tottenham Street, where she could live as she saw fit. On 12th June 1921, Harry Gimber moved in… …and their relationship began. Harry Gimber & Alice Crabb were not bad people. They were two ordinary kids who were cursed with immaturity and a selfishness, and – some may argue –struggled in an era fuelled by the societal pressures of the morally upright and a series of cruel rules based on the law-maker’s religious beliefs. There is no denying that what they did was abhorrent… …but being little more than children in an adult’s world facing grown-up issues - even when a wealth of evidence stood against them - what we still don’t know is who was telling the truth? According to both Alice & Harry, it wasn’t until the first night together that they engaged in sex. Maybe they were careless? Maybe they didn’t know about contraception? Or maybe they cared little about the consequences? But that night, a baby was conceived - not out of love, but by mistake. In court, Harry would state “at first, I had no idea what to do. We were more or less astounded. We decided to make the best thing out of a bad job and get rid of it”. A feat which is easier said than done in an era where unwed sex was a scandal and abortions were illegal. But that’s when nature took over. In November 1921, being a little over five months pregnant, Alice suffered a miscarriage. Within their small lodging, she stifled her squeals to prevent her pain permeating the wafer-thin walls, as this slight girl gave birth to a cold lifeless child in the cramped confines of a communal bathroom. Not one of the tenants heard a sound nor saw a drop of blood, as their clean-up of the squalid toilet was thorough. Sadly, this was an all-too-common sight in an era when women were forced to give birth regardless of whether they were fit, well or could cope. Torn by the risk losing their job, home or family, most newspapers were full of stories of young unwed girls who had abandoned their babies in secret; whether in churches, doorways or bushes, in the hope they’d be found before succumbing to the cold. For many women, this was a desperate time. But for Alice & Harry, this wasn’t a life they held in their hands, it was a liability. And with the 10 inch long, half-formed foetus lying dead in the base of the bowl, they spoke of its disposal with the cold callousness of someone who didn’t care: (Harry): “I threw the miscarriage down the lavatory. Neither of us told anybody about it”, as this half-pound lump of life was flushed away like human waste. Of course, this may seem sad, but Alice’s miscarriage was a lie… …and it was one of many lies they would tell to hide the awful truth. By January 1922, Alice was seven months pregnant. It was winter, so hiding her bump wasn’t difficult, but reduced to a wage of just £1 and 10 shillings a week, they were lucky to have fivepence to spare. Unable to ask their parents for help, Alice & Harry moved into a small one-roomed lodging at the rear of 168 Hampstead Road. Being roughly 10 feet square – a space smaller than a prison cell - it had a horsehair bed, a tiny wash basin, a little fire and a small table for meals, but no kitchen or bathroom. It wasn’t much; but it was cheap, the landlady (Mrs Birch) bothered them just once a fortnight to wash the bedsheets, and – having been built on top of a busy trainline - the rumble of trains hid many sins. Being desperate, they had hoped for a miscarriage, but it was not to be. Being broke, they couldn’t procure a black-market doctor who could bring about a swift solution with a bottle of bleach, a coat-hanger and a high risk of infection and maybe death. So instead, they had to rely on quacks and tales. They had tried it all; everything from hot baths to neat gin, heavy lifting to icy swims, vigorous walks to (the new wonder cure) castor oil. An accident was a cheap option, but a punch to the gut or a fall down some stairs risked her own life. And even the tried-and-trusted purgatives like Penny Royal and Ergot only made her sick. So, with the baby just eight weeks away, they were running out of options. At the end of January 1921, with just six weeks till the birth, while working one of his jobs as a kitchen porter, a waitress called Grace heard his tale of woe and said “you ought to see my sister”. That night, Alice, Harry and Ada Cook met in a pub in Chalk Farm. They sat quietly and chatted in hushed tones about the best way to “flush it out”, and although Ada could help, she said “it won’t be cheap”. And it wasn’t. For a few capsules in a plain box, a bottle of an unknown liquid, a syringe, a funnel and a hand-written list of instructions, it would cost £4 - more than Harry earned in a single month. This was their last chance… but it failed. With Alice now eight months pregnant, their only option was to give birth. But then what? No-one knew about the pregnancy, not their families, friends nor landlady. In court, Harry would state “we agreed that should the child be born alive we were going to get rid of it by abandoning it”. When asked “what do you mean ‘abandon’?”, he admitted they hadn’t made plans to put it up for adoption, but that “we thought we’d knock and leave it on a doorstep”, denying his plan was to “leave it to die”. Quizzed by the prosecution, when Alice was asked “had you not arranged to get rid of it somehow?”, she would state “no sir, I would have kept the child but Harry did not want to”. Only this was a lie, as when asked “what preparations had you made?”, she had to admit “none sir, none whatsoever”. For the baby’s arrival, there was no food, no clothes, no toys and no crib. Conceived by accident and to be born in secret, the little baby was doomed to die in silence and to be disposed of by stealth… …as the only preparations her parents had made for her brief life was a few sheets of brown paper, a set of sharp scissors and a ball of string – these were the tools they needed to dispose of its body. On Saturday 10th March, with Alice’s bump too big to hide, her disappearance was excused with a lie. (Harry) “she twisted her leg, catching her heel in the tram lines on Hampstead Road, and was confined to bed for a week”. It was a tall but believable tale they would tell the landlady and (later) the police. Three days later, on the morning of Tuesday 14th March, Alice’s labour pains began. Sat silently in their small dingy room, although she wanted to scream as the afterthought inside her pulled apart her tiny pelvis - to disguise their dirty deed - they spoke only in hushed whispers. “It’s coming, Harry”, “right, what do I do?”, “I don’t know”. Without a midwife or mother present, these novices had no knowledge nor skills to cope with what would happen - whether they liked it or not. As her pains grew more powerful, Alice bit into her pillow to muffle her screams, only daring to expel an audible squeal as the trains roared by, without the fear of being caught by those in the next room. The baby was coming. Only they weren’t ready for a birth, they were ready for a death. As across the small bed where Alice lay, digging into her stretched and sweaty skin was the uncomfortably sharp crinkle of sheets of thick brown paper, a quick fix to soak up the blood which they landlady might see. At roughly noon, she knew it was time (Alice) “Harry, it’s coming out, I know it is, I can feel it’s head”. Shuffling to the foot of the bed, dressed only in her nightdress, Alice stood upright; sweaty incessantly as her pale knuckles tautly gripped the metal bed-frame. Breathing hard but keeping silent, as the top half of its head stretched her vagina wide, with tear-sodden eyes and gritted teeth she hissed at Harry “don’t fail me, don’t fail me”. Although, quite what she meant by that, we shall never know. With no witnesses, there were two possible ways that the baby was born. Alice’s way: (Alice) “I was standing by the bed. The child was born. It fell onto the floor”. With no-one to catch it, having fallen head-first onto the hard wooden floor, her defence was that a two-foot drop had shattered its skull – which is plausible. Only a pathologist would note; “the bones of a new-born are not fused and the skull is soft, so it may have rendered the child unconscious, but it did not kill it”. In court, Alice described the moment for the jury: “it was lying on the floor, I could see it, it was a girl, she was small”. But as much as she would play the grieving mother, the evidence told a different story, as never once did she pick it up, comfort it or cuddle it, she just let it lie there on the cold hard floor. And then there was Harry’s way: (Harry) “…when I saw the kiddie coming out, I made a grab at it and caught it by the neck. I held it hard because it was greasy and when I was hanging on it, I pulled it very hard and it went limp. As soon as it went limp, I started to tremble and dropped it on the floor…”. His defence being that he was frightened and inexperienced, not that he was cruel and wanted it dead. It’s possible that both births could be true, just as both could be lies. But then again, an autopsy would find no evidence of a fractured skull, a brain haemorrhage or a broken neck. And again, neither of its parents showed any compassion for the little baby girl which lay at their feet. All they could think of was their own lives, own jobs and own future now this little problem was gone. With it out, Alice got back into the bed covered in brown-paper, to rest and deliver the afterbirth, as Harry: “no sooner had it dropped, I thought to myself the best thing was to get it out of the way”. Only, if the baby was really dead? Then why they do what they did next? Alice would state “I was standing by the bed. I was conscious. I saw Gimber put his hand round it’s throat and try to strangle it. I asked him not to” - a statement which Harry would vehemently deny. But with this new-born baby still covered in the vernix caseosa – a greasy second skin which protects it in the womb - being too slippery to grip its throat, it’s likely that Harry chose to strangle it by ligature. Harry: “she gave me the bootlaces to tie around its neck” – a statement Alice would deny. But then again, although an autopsy would find both manual and ligature marks as well as a boot lace around its tiny neck, with no witnesses we only have their vague recollections as to what happened that day. And although an attempt to strangle it was made… that was not what killed this unnamed baby. (Alice) “He took a knife off the table”, at which Harry decried “that’s not true”. A large kitchen knife roughly six inches long. (Alice) “I saw him pick it up and put it to it’s throat”, which Harry protested “I never touched it, I didn’t”. And although he would shout “that’s not true” to all of her statements, in court, Alice would deal the fatal blow to his defence by stating “I saw him cut the child’s throat”. And as if to tug at the jury’s heartstrings, she would state “as he did it, I heard the child whimper”. Which begs the question; how could the child whimper if it was unconscious, and why were its tiny little lungs still half-full of amniotic fluid, as if she had barely had a chance to take her first breath? The timings made no sense. After its death, as Alice rested on the crinkled paper, Harry set about cleaning up, although “I can hardly remember what else I did”. But thankfully – unlike Alice & Harry - the evidence would not lie. Having folded the pale lifeless baby into a foetal position, this tiny ball-like bundle was wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string and stuck in a cupboard - out of sight, out of mind, out of conscience. Once the afterbirth was out, he washed the floor with a bucket of water, he disposed of the brown-paper bedsheets, and at the little dinner table beside the cupboard, the two ate eggs, then she slept. At 7pm, she was awoken by burning, as their small fire consumed all of the evidence, and the almost familiar smell of cooked liver emanated their tiny room as the child’s afterbirth burned in the grate. At no point, in any statement, do they admit to feeling guilt, upset or remorse for the baby… …only themselves. At 6pm, Harry took the parcel out of the cupboard, “I got on a tram to Lordship Lane in Wood Green. I know the district well. I got half way down, I went along the side street to Five Oaks. I dropped it in a ditch, then I got on a tram and returned home” - in a disposal which he said “was mutually agreed”. And that was it - their baby was dead, dumped and forgotten. On Saturday 18th March, four days later, 9-year-old Stanley Mathers was playing with a piece of wood on the water. Popping his pretend sailboat into a drainage pipe, “when I put it in, it usually came out, but it did not. I looked inside and saw a small wet parcel… a piece was torn and I saw a very small ear”. Examined by Dr Robinson Dixon, she had been dead for several days. With a bootlace around her neck and no other obvious injuries, death was caused by “a cut across the throat from one side to another… a very deep gash right down to its spine, and although the knife was very sharp and the child’s tissue was very soft, the cut was v-shaped, as the two cuts joined causing three gashes to the spine”. With no way to identify this abandoned child, a hushed inquest was held at Wood Green Coroner’s Court, which determined that the unnamed baby was “murdered by person or persons unknown”. The case was closed, the evidence was destroyed and the child was forgotten – loved by no-one. This was the dark little secret which Harry & Alice would take to their graves… …only a secret can only remain silent if both parties stay quiet. Three weeks after the murder, they moved out of 168 Hampstead Road and a new couple moved in. For the next six months, they shared several lodgings in Blackfriars, Westminster and Warren Street. Only the pressure of hiding such a dark secret inside them had taken a serious toll on their relationship. They argued at home, they fought at work, the screamed in the street, and - with their love affair now in tatters – behind Alice’s back, Harry had started seeing someone else – their close friend, Dolly Oust. On 17th October 1923, seeing Harry in Old Compton Street, Alice began throwing accusations at Harry and Dolly, as much to hurt him as to ruin their relationship. Out loud and in public, she accused Dolly of being pregnant, of being a whore, and of Harry murdering and disposing of their unwanted baby. With nothing else to lose, Alice dragged Dolly, followed by Harry, to their former lodging house at 168 Hampstead Road and expelled the whole sorry story to the landlady – Mrs Birch. They did the same at the abortionist Ada Cook’s – none of whom wanted anything to do with them – but with Harry in denial and Dolly all defensive, with no evidence to prove it, Alice’s words just sounded empty and sad. But then again, to quote William Congreve’s ‘The Mourning Bride’ – “Heaven has no rage like a love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned”. Two days later, upon hearing the news that Harry & Dolly had been married at Brixton Registry Office, Alice Crabbe went to the police. (End) At Albany Police Station, Alice confessed, in a way which made her as much of a victim as the baby. Although in court, she would admit that her motive wasn’t justice for the baby, but jealousy and spite. She blamed Harry for the death, the disposal, and said he had blackmailed her into keeping it a secret. Harry Gimber was arrested on 20th October, the day of his honeymoon, and gave a statement which – like Alice’s – was as vague as it was convenient. In it, he denied strangling or slitting the baby’s throat, but confessed to everything else – making him guilty of conducting an unlawful burial, but not murder. The trial began at The Old Bailey on the 4th December 1923 before Mr Justice Avery. On the charge of murder, Harry pleaded ‘not guilty’ and although ‘an accessory’, Alice only appeared as a witness. For the jury, the trial was indeed a trial, a trial of their patience; as Alice came across not as a grieving mother as “her arrogance and lack of compassion shone through”, Harry’s memory remained vague and he repeatedly littered his abusive curses with slang which (not only confused but) annoyed the court, and the judge was so old and deaf, that every statement was suffixed with “what did he say?”. And yet, through all of Alice & Harry’s bickering from the dock, it was thanks to the expert witnesses that a conclusion was reached. Having retired for half an hour, on 14th December 1923, Henry William Gimber was found guilty and sentenced to death, but this was later commuted to a life sentence. Alice Crabb was neither convicted nor tried for any offence, and she was released. And as for their unnamed, unplanned and unloved little baby? She remains buried in an unmarked communal grave. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". |
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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