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.
EPISODE NINETY-NINE:
On Sunday 29th May 1887, in the first-floor flat of 29 Great Windmill Street in Soho, twenty-year-old Amelie Pottle had a "little accident" with an oil-lamp which would lead to her slow and painful death. But was it a mishap, or a murder?
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 29 Great Windmill Street, W1, is where the black triangle is - the one in the middle of Soho. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
It's impolssible to get into the back yard or the cellar of 29 Great Windmill Street, as it's a private property, but here's a few photos of the street, number 29 and the the side-street neatr the back yard. As well as an image of the Red Lion, and mentioned in the episode
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: Sadly, there was no police file in the National Archives, so I used the original transcripts of the court case at the Old Bailey, the Coronor's Court file, local knowledge and several other sources, which also included:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about an accident with an oil-lamp, an everyday mishap which was so common in Victorian London, that it was listed as one of the highest causes of unintentional death in the home. The deceased even admitted that it was all her fault. So where was the murder? Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 99: The “Accidental Death” of Amelia Pottle. Today I’m standing on Great Windmill Street in Soho, W1; two streets south-west of the bludgeoned sex-worker Jacqueline Birri, one street west of the stabbed hostess Camille Gordon, one street south of the sweet-natured ‘Ginger Rae’, five houses north from The Unfortunate Mr Johnson, and two streets west of the tragic death of eleven-month-old Richard Higgs – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated just off Piccadilly Circus, Great Windmill Street is a gloomy one-way road used by taxi-drivers as a sneaky cut-through to whizz from Shaftesbury Avenue to Oxford Street without being asphyxiated by the rush-hour smog. Back in the 17th century when Soho was a hunting ground, this small hillock known as Windmill Field was named after a wooden windmill which stood at its top end. But like many parts of a bustling city like London, over the decades, as the people change, so do the places. Back in the 1980’s, at the peak of Soho’s sleaziness, as a seedy side-street still living off the reputation of the defunct Windmill Theatre - where mucky-macked men watched tastefully posed nudie ladies in a ‘tableaux vivants’ with both eyes jutting out of their heads and one eye peeping out of their pants -Great Windmill Street was smut from top-to-bottom, as each business was listed like this; pub, porn palace, sex club, pub, sex club, sex club, brothel, porn palace, sex club, brothel, brothel, brothel, primary school, brothel, pub, pub, theatre, brothel, brothel, pub. And yes, I said primary school. Today, being barely three hundred feet long, although recently gentrified, it still packs in a lot for such a little street; being full of swanky cocktail bars, traditional boozers, slightly pretentious clothes shops for hipsters who love to show-off that they have no genitals, and only one lap-dancing club where a slew of very heterosexual lads pay for the privilege of getting a boner whilst sat next to their buddies. Near the top sits 29 Great Windmill Street; a three-storey flat-fronted brown-bricked terraced house built in the mid 1700’s; it’s simple, basic and forgettable. Just as it was in the 1880’s, today it has a shop on the ground-floor and accommodation above, and although these flats are much sought-after today, they were once lodgings for Soho’s most impoverished in a place of poverty, sadness and death. As it was here, on Sunday 29th May 1887, that twenty-year-old Amelie Pottle had a little accident with an oil-lamp which lead to her slow painful death. And yet, it wasn’t a mishap but a murder. (Interstitial) The life of Amelia Pottle was short, tragic and unremarkable. She was a nobody, a nothing, just one of thousands of working-class immigrant girls living in Soho whose pitiful little life took place in an anonymous slum more than one hundred and thirty years ago; she was raised in poverty, died in pain, dumped in a pauper’s grave and she was forgotten. The only reason we know about her life is because of her death, and the only reason we know about her death is because her injuries made it newsworthy, as the pain she endured became a grisly hook for an insatiable media with a few columns to fill… and nothing more. You may ask “why should I care? I didn’t know her and I’ve got nothing in common with her”, but you do. Amelia’s story is a poignant tale as resonant today as it was the day she died, but it’s not about death. It’s a very everyday story about love, trust, abuse and how far someone is willing to go to protect the person they love. Amelia Pottle was born in 1867, although the day and month we don’t know, as on different records she was listed as Amelie, Emily and even Eliza, although it could also have been her middle name, as being so common, there were six Amelia Pottle’s in and around the West End during that era. The likelihood is it wasn’t her real name, as with the parish records inaccurate, her birth details missing, her death certificate wrong and having arrived and died before the 1881 and 1891 census, as she had only lived in London for a few years, according to locals, she wasn’t English but French. As many immigrants did, it’s likely that she anglicised her birth name to blend-in, so although Emily or Amelie could have been correct, as an English name, Pottle may have been a misspelling of the French names Poulin, Poitile, or perhaps as a nod to her hometown of Poitier? But that we shall never know. Knowing almost nothing about her life prior to her seventeenth birthday, we don’t know why she left France, why she came to England, where her family were, or who (if anyone) she was running from. But with no loved-one’s to visit her in hospital, to attend her trial, or to lay flowers on her grave, with her meagre belongings claimed by her uncaring boyfriend, we can only assume that she was alone. In truth, as an immigrant girl, no-one cared when she was alive, and three years later, she would die. By 1887, aged just twenty, Amelia Pottle had become a shadow of the girl she once was. It is said, with dreams of being a dancer, she was lured to the West End and its burgeoning theatreland. Set at the back of Shaftesbury Avenue, twelve years before the Windmill Theatre was built as a picture-house for the latest films by Mutoscope & Biograph, Great Windmill Street was encircled by the Trocadero Music Hall, Dr Hunter's Anatomical Theatre, the First London Pavilion Music Hall and the stage doors of The Lyric theatre. But as close as she may have got to her dream, her life would become a nightmare. Although a mystery, her physical description tells us everything we need to know about Amelia. According to locals, she was an ordinary girl of an average height and weight, who walked with a slight limp in her left leg, which flared up during the cold winter months, but whether it was caused by illness or injury is unknown. Her hair was brown and tangled, her eyes were blue and bloodshot, her pale skin was a sickly pale yellow with mottled purple bruises, and – although her stick-thin arms and legs were as skinny and brittle as autumn twigs - with a large scar across her belly and a plumpness about her midriff, this told the sorry but all-too-familiar tale of a woman whose absent children had either been placed in a workhouse, far from their unfit mother, or that none of them had survived. She spoke French with a French accent, her German was good and her English was passable, but being unable to read or write, she hadn’t the skills or the education to pull herself out of poverty. As many women did, with blistered fingers, Amelia took on piece-work, working long hours for short pay, stitching decorative accessories for the garments she could never afford to wear, to be used by the tailors on Berwick and Wardour Street, and sold in the fashion stores on the nearby Oxford Street. Life was hard. Some days she ate and some days she didn’t, but forced to make that choice whether to live or die, what she could earn in a day by sewing, she could make more in an hour by selling sex. For at least the last two years of her life, Amelia Pottle had been a sex-worker, a ‘street walker’ as she was known, who sold her body for pennies in the local haunts of Regent Street and Leicester Square, and brought her many punters back to her squalid little lodging, limping passed the endless lines of adoring fans outside of the packed theatres where her dreams were now nothing but a faded memory. She sold sex to eat, she ate to live and - to forget her life - she drank, which she paid for with sex. It was a vicious circle of which she would never escape, but with some level of sex-work undertaken by at least one third of woman in that era, she was lonely, but she was not alone. With a pitiable story, like so many women, the misery of her life was not uncommon; she would be born, she would work, and she would die. Joy would be fleeting; dreams would be only dreams and hope was a lost cause. The best thing in her life was that she loved to be loved and wished one day to be married, but with only a string of short-term lovers, in August 1886, during one of her boozy sessions in a local pub, she met the man she would love, loathe and would defend with her very last breath. (Interstitial) Franz Schultz was a nobody, but unlike Amelia, he was once a somebody… or so it seemed. Although a mystery, his physical description tells us everything we need to know about Franz Schultz. According to locals, the thirty-two-year-old German arrived from Bremen half a decade earlier, having settled somewhere in the East End with a woman and several children, only now he was alone. Fuelled by an intense pride; his voice was gruff and Prussian, his pals were all Germanic, he never anglicised his name (although he was also known as Josef) and as a fervently political man, it is said he was once a teacher, but whatever he taught, it was no longer of practical use. He was too stubborn to give up, too angry to go home and too useless for manual labour, so with nothing but his education, he earned a pittance as an interpreter… only his command of the English language was pitiful. Being tall, broad, bearded and bespectacled, looking like an academic, he wasn’t a powerful man, but he could be loud, frightening and imposing. A passionate bookworm with a fiery temper, a selfish streak and uncontrollable emotions which swung from happiness to anger to tears in an instant. Maybe once he was something, but now, he was nothing; a failure, a leach and a drunk from dusk-till-dawn; with a slurred rhetoric, a threadbare suit and a foul mood clouded by booze, who stumbled from pub-to-pub all along Great Windmill Street - angry at a system which had failed him - from the Stone public house at number 50, to the Catherine Wheel at 45, from the Duke of Argyll at the top, all the way down to the Red Lion pub, where forty years earlier, the great Karl Marx had outlined the Communist Manifesto, just five doors down from where he would live at 29 Great Windmill Street. Amelia Pottle and Franz Schultz were two failures bound together by desperation; she was a hopeless dreamer in search of a happy life and her forever lover, where-as he was a homeless drunk. Amelia was trapped in a bad relationship, in a bad place, with a bad man, but she always had hope. In October 1886, after a week together, Amelia & Franz moved into a small shabby lodging at 29 Great Windmill Street; with a communal yard out back, a water-tank in the cellar, a cess-pit shared by the four streets and on the first floor, a cramped sparsely-furnished room with a stove for heating, water by the bucket, a coarse horsehair bed for sleeping (and sex-work), and the only light was by oil-lamp. Amelia worked hard to provide them both with a home, food, furniture and drink. And where-as she only drank to steady her nerves, to drown her sorrows and to get herself through another rotten day, he drank himself into oblivion. She provided everything for their lives and (she hoped) their future, she presumptively called herself Mrs Schultz. And where-as he provided nothing, but a big mouth, an angry face and – as a supposedly principled man - an intense jealousy anytime he saw her with another man. In his eyes, she was a whore and he hated it, but he didn’t have a problem living of her earnings. Over the next few months, as much as Amelia tried to make peace, pick up the pieces and stitch back together the ragged fragments of their disintegrating romance, Franz would never back down. Their love was gone, their fights were bitter, and of the few personal possessions of hers he hadn’t smashed in a drunken rage, what pieces she had left, he would pawn-off to buy himself some more booze. Their first-floor room so often echoed to the sounds of screams, squeals and smashes, that the other tenants often ignored it, as although Amelia gave as good as she got, she often came off worse. Her sickly pale skin was now a kaleidoscope of abuse; her blue and bloodshot eyes were lost behind two puffy black lumps, the fresh red welts on her back blended-in with the day-old purple sprains and the week-old yellow sores, and - with her stick-thin arms weak, her belly sore from being kicked, the mottled bruises down the length of her limping left leg made her more likely to stumble and trip, and with her fists swollen and her fingers fractured - she was now more prone than ever to “mishaps”. The days when he felt enough pity to stop the beating had passed. What held his anger back was that she was his meal-ticket, and he knew was that the more he beat her, the worse she looked and the less she earned. So, if he kept on thumping her, he knew nobody would pay to fuck that. After every brutal and sustained fight, with her body too woozy to feel the pain and her face so swollen it absorbed the punches, having fled to the safety of the communal yard, under the windows of several prying eyes, to keep the peace, it was always Amelia who apologised, blamed herself and when asked what had happened, she always lied to protect the man that she would love with her dying breath. Sunday 29th May 1887 was an ordinary day. For the wealthy, they rested. For the devout, they prayed. And with three breweries perched at the top of the street, for many locals, it was an excuse to booze. But for Amelia? She worked. The cupboards were bare, the rent was due and she was struggling. Burdened by a multicoloured mess of blotchy lumps, her battered face could no longer command the twelve shillings it once could, and – even in the dark and at a discount – it would fail to raise any punter’s passion, so Amelia had returned to piece-work while her bruises healed. Hours were long, pay was short and her work-rate was slow, as stitching was impossible with her fingers so swollen. Luckily, Amelia still had a regular customer who (no matter what) would visit her lodging every Sunday. He was never named in the court records, perhaps because of his status, all we know is he was young, decent and polite. He was a little lonely but he treated her well. And as an admirer of hers, he often treated her to something special, whether a wild flower, a love poem, or (as a rarity amongst the poor) a fresh tomato from the Berwick Street market, or sometimes a citrus fruit. Each fleeting visit was brief, but afterwards, buried in the midst of her mangled face, she could be seen to crack a smile. At 5pm, on the coarse horse-hair bed in her first-floor lodging at 29 Great Windmill Street, Amelia and her admirer were engaged in sex. On a bedside table, by a glass oil-lamp, lay ten shillings as payment. It’s unknown whether she charged him less because of the way she looked, or because she liked him, but (for that brief moment) he was a little ray of joy in her miserable little life… …a life ruined by Franz. While Amelia had been working, Franz had been boozing, and having been booted out of several pubs for spouting his angry political rhetoric, now he was drunk, broke and in need of more money. Staggering down Great Windmill Street, stumbling into number 29 and banging his way up the wooden stairs, on the first-floor landing, he stood silent and seething, as inside he heard Amelia making money. (Squeaking bed/sex) He knew what she did, how she did it and how much she charged, as not only did he contribute nothing to their food or rent, but to him; every pump was a pint, every suck was a shot and every fornication was a flagon. So, no-one really knows why it angered him so much this time. Having heard the squeals, screams and smashes, Theresa Marshall, a matronly Prussian woman had thundered down from the floor above. Seeing the door hanging off its hinges, the young man hurled out and the couple bitterly cursing one another, being furious - not only at Amelia’s infidelity having shagged another man, but being even angrier at how little she had charged him - before Franz could belt Amelia with the hard back of her broken wooden chair, Theresa had stopped him. Disarmed and alarmed by this strong-willed woman, who tossed aside the chair-back, Theresa ordered Franz to shut-up, calm down and to go to bed. And for the rest of the evening, he was silent. (Silence) A few hours later, from her death-bed and through the pain of her last gasping breath, Amelia Pottle who presumptively called herself ‘Mrs Schultz’ would insist that what happened next was an accident caused by her sore fingers, a fumbled oil lamp and that it was all her fault. But we know that it wasn’t. At roughly 1:30am the next morning, 29 Great Windmill Street was once again awoken by an almighty fight with furniture breaking, a single oil-lamp flickering the angry shadows as Amelia was beaten black and blue, and over it all, the gruff Germanic bark of obscenities like “dirty beast” and “you are whore”. With the tenants so used to her screams, many simply curled-up and waited for the inevitable to blow over, as a tearful Amelia would flee to the safety of the communal back yard, and under the scrutiny of the neighbour’s windows, she would apologise, he would calm down and silence would return. Only this time, it didn’t. Dressed in nothing but a red flannel nightdress, a stark shade which mirrored the blood which seeped from her busted nose, as Amelia’s bare feet hammered down the wooden stairs, screaming the whole house down with the words “Murder!” and “Police!”, behind her followed a furious Franz, his enraged face illuminated by the single oil-lamp and - in the dark of the unlit passageway, a few steps before the sanctuary of the back yard - neighbours heard the smashing of glass and a never-ending scream. The night was dark and the lamp was broken, but somehow the whole back yard was bathed in a bright orange glow, as if the sun had mistimed a new dawn. Struggling to adjust to this blinding light, the tenants heard no song-birds, only the screams of a young girl being burned alive, as with only the flailing of her terrified arms and legs to be seen, Amelia was enveloped by an intense ball of fire. Sunk to his knees and sat beside her, every time that Franz tried to extinguish the inferno, the panicked flapping of his hands just fanned the flames, as when he touched her, her hair sizzled-up into tufts of black ash and her nightdress fizzled as it melted into her bare skin, which came off in thick red clumps. Dampening her slightly down, as Franz scooped-up Amelia in his arms, the disintegrating remnants of her clothes, hair and skin littering the floor, as he carried her down into the cellar to dowse in water her scorched body, she was heard to whimper “take me to the hospital; I will say that I did it myself". Hand-cranking an old water-pump, filling a bucket and hearing it hiss as the cold liquid hit the burning skin of the blackened and charred woman, again she pleaded “Please. I am dying. Take me to the hospital. I will say I did it”. But instead, he dithered, filling a second bucket, pump-after-pump. Moments later, as a stranger had shouted “Police!”, hearing the distant sound of a police whistle and the murmur as crowds congregated outside, Franz changed his mind. And with her nightdress burned off, as well as much of her skin, having wrapped Amelia’s smoking and smouldering body in a blanket, he carried her out into the street, hailed a horse-drawn cab and took her to the hospital. After an interminably long thirty-minute journey, from Soho to Fitzrovia, over a series of cobbled and bumpy roads, Amelia finally arrived at Middlesex Hospital. Collapsed and barely conscious, a porter carried this unsightly steaming lump inside; her hair was gone, her features unrecognisable and – from her face to her feet - her purple and yellow bruises had all been replaced by a red and black mottling. Seen by the house surgeon (Dr Hedley Bartlett) her condition was described as “dangerous” and it was feared that she may not survive the night, but even before she was led in, Franz’s excuses had begun. To anyone who would listen – from the cab-driver, to the porter, to the surgeon and to the neighbours – he would forcibly argue his side of the story, angrily insisting against all evidence that “she did this”, “she threw a lamp at me”, “we burn, we both burn”, and although he only returned to the hospital once - to see if she was dead - it was clear that he didn’t care about her, he only cared about himself. At 3:40pm, that day, Inspector Edmund Burke arrested Franz Schultz for the violent assault of Amelia Pottle, to which he said almost nothing except “very well… is she dead?”. At 9pm, barely alive, used her last breath to make a statement to the Police. But by 10pm, having suffered more than 50% burns to her head, face, limbs and most of her torso, Amelia died of her injuries. (End) The Police investigation was simple, as although Franz would try to bribe several onlookers to change their story by gifting them some of his dead girlfriend’s personal affects, and with his sole defence being that she had accidentally tipped the oil-lamp over herself whilst in bed, all of the witnesses and all of the evidence – from the screams to the scorch marks, from the broken lamp to the paraffin residue, not a single thread of which was found in the bedroom – would find his guilt irrefutable. At the Coroner’s inquest held at the Marlborough Street Police Court on the 3rd June 1887, instead of trying him for the lesser charge of violent assault, the jury returned a guilty verdict for manslaughter, and the case was committed to a criminal trial, with the possibility of a death sentence looming. Held at the Old Bailey on the 27th June 1887, just four weeks after her death, thirty-two-year-old Franz Schultz was tried for the wilful murder of twenty-year-old Amelia Pottle. His defence was farcical, the evidence was damning and with single every eye-witness recounting the incident, the many times he had mercilessly beat her, and assassinating his character by describing him as “a drunk”, “a bully” and “a pimp”, a unanimous jury should have found him guilty of murder and watched as his pathetic little body dangled from a rope, with his neck snapped. But they didn’t. One witness would change everything, and she wasn’t in court that day, or even alive. To the Police Inspector and the hospital surgeon, keeping a promise from her death-bed, Amelia had made a statement that it was all “an accident”, that it was “her fault” and with that, Franz Schultz (the man who she loved and one day hoped to marry) was found innocent of her murder. Upon his release, he pawned off her personal belongings for booze, and that was the last time he was ever seen. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I shall tell you all the secrets of life, that’s if the secrets of life all involve tea, cake, coots and lots of waffling. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Len Adams, Roisin McGettigan and Matt Munnery. I thank you all. With an extra thank you to Sharon Brereton for the very kind donation. I know that now and the days ahead are hard for everyone, so I really do appreciate all of your support for this small independent podcast, whether as a Patron, by sharing the podcast with your pals, or by giving it a nice review on your favourite podcatcher. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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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.
'PLay 2 Win' at 23 Gerrard Street in Chinatown, formerly known as 'Leisure Amusements Limited' where Victor Castigador and his gang perpetrated a robbery and one of London's worst mass-murders
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE NINETY-EIGHT:
At just before midnight on Sunday 2nd April 1989, Victor Castigador and his small gang of cohorts robbed the Leisure Investments amusement arcade at 23 Gerrard Street in Chinatown, but owing to a very petty grudge, Victor would turn a simply robbery for a few thousand pounds into one of London's worst and most horrific mass-murders.
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 Leisure Investment amusement arcade, now known as 'Play 2 Win' at 23 Gerrard Street in Chinatown is where the orange triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's a little video shownig you 23 Gerrard Street in Chinatown, where the robbery and mass murder took place.It hasn't changed since that day back in 1989. I've also posted a link to the song - 'Burn It Up' by the Beat Masters, this was the song that Victor and his gang were singing to celebrate the robbery and the arson attack on their victims. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: Sadly, the original police investigation files is held in the National Archives until 1st January 2096, so I've had to use other sources and filter out the tabloid shite:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Victor Castigador; a liar, a thief and a deluded fantasist who held such a petty grudge having been rejected for a promotion in a West End arcade, that his simple plan for some quick cash would leave two innocents fighting for the lives and two others dead. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 98: The Petty Grudge of Victor Castigador. Today I’m standing in Gerrard Street, W1; one street north of the charred remains of Reginald Gordon West, two streets west of the shooting Michael Barry Porter in the Rose n Dale club, a few doors north of the stabbing of David Knight in the Latin Quarter, and two hundred feet west of James McDonald, the bank robber who may not have known that he was robbing a bank – coming soon to Murder Mile. To most visitors, Gerrard Street is commonly known as Chinatown, as although this area also consists of Rupert Street, Newport Place, Newport Court, Lisle Street, Coventry Street and a bit of Shaftesbury Avenue and Wardour Street, as the most central and decorated part, it’s also the most visited. After the blitz bombing by the German Luftwaffe of the city’s largest Chinese enclave in East London’s Limehouse Docks, by the early 1970’s, a few seedy side-streets south of Soho had spawned into a new Chinatown. Looking less like a real street and more like a tacky theme-park ride designed by a colour-blind architect who was obsessed with dragons, lanterns and pagodas, this pedestrianised street is full of the staples of Chinese life – such as restaurants, supermarkets and betting shops – but as if this oriental experience isn’t confusing enough, a demented ex-Disneyland designer has added a few weird flourishes; like a slew of non-Asian buskers – such as an Elvis, a Bee-Gee and an Edith Pief – and several characters in dirty threadbare costumes – including a Spiderman, a Pikachu and two Mickey Mouses. On the corner of Wardour Street at 23 Gerrard Street sits a four-storey wedge-shaped building with three non-descript white-fronted offices above and on the ground-floor an amusement arcade called Play 2 Win. With large frosted windows plastered with gambling symbols on both sides and illuminated by flashing neon signs, through the red Doric pillars of the corner door echoes the moan of cheesy pop music, the tinny tunes of slot-machines and the occasional machine-gun thrum as a few pound coins are excitedly pooped-out, only to be ploughed back-in before the supposed winner can crack a smile. All this colour and sound suggests ‘fun’, but this is also a place of loss; not just of money, but of life. As it was here, on Sunday 2nd April 1989 that Victor Castigador, a small security guard with a big grudge would turn a very simple robbery into one of West London’s most horrific mass-murders. (Interstitial) Open any trashy tabloid newspaper or turgid true-crime book and you will see the same lazy phrases trotted-out again-and-again to describe Victor Castigador – “he was mad”, “he was bad”, he was pure evil”, “the man was a maniac”. Many sources will gleefully tell you that the Spanish translation of his surname means the ‘punisher’ or the ‘enforcer’, as if a killing-spree was part of his birth rite. And even though, many writers still regurgitate the same tired facts that this so-called ‘Killer from Manilla’ was a violent and ruthless assassin for either the Philippine commandos, the President’s death squad or regime’s secret police – even though not a single shred of his sinister-history can be proven, every lie which emanated from his mouth is still rehashed even years after his incarceration and his death. So, why do we accept it? Firstly, it makes for a more exciting story. Secondly, as he’s dead, almost anything can be written about his life without legal ramifications. Thirdly, most readers believe that if it’s in a book then it must be true. And finally, because no-one wants to believe that a person so ordinary could perpetuate such a brutal and horrifying crime over a grudge so petty. But he did. The rage, resentment and rejection had built-up for decades, and yet sometimes all it takes is a single spark to turn a tiny flame into an inferno. So, who was Victor Castigador and why did he kill? Born in 1954, Victor Morales Castigador was raised in Quezon City, a densely populated metropolis in the south-east Asian country of the Philippines. As an archipelago of more than seven thousand islands between Japan, Taiwan and Indonesia, being surrounded by some of the world’s most active volcanos, infamously known as the ‘ring of fire’, the Philippines is also prone to earthquakes and typhoons. But as the fifth most populous country, it’s not just geologically unstable, but financially and politically. As spoils of the Spanish empire, the Philippines has been fought over by countless invaders for the last hundred years, from the Spanish to the Americans to the Japanese, and although the Treaty of Manilla saw this newly independent country become a democracy, like so many, it soon slid into a dictatorship. Raised in a period of political upheaval, as a poor boy from an impoverished background, very little is known about Victor’s family, his upbringing and therefore almost nothing has been documented. Being small and skinny, Victor was pushed around and bullied by the bigger boys; seen as insignificant in a world where men and boys needed be physically strong to succeed, this little sprat was easily forgotten, often neglected and readily angered and hurt by the constant rejection. To stand his ground and gain the respect he craved, Victor would assert his dominance over those who dared to say “no”. By the mid-1960’s - as President Ferdinand Marcos and his wife Imelda espoused to the cash-strapped country their hopes and dreams of a better future for everyone, only to embezzle billions of dollars of public funds to live a lavish lifestyle - being in his early teens, Victor dreamed of a better life. As a small kid keen to flee his bullies, Victor worked-out, hoping to make-up for his lack of height with width, and although he bulked-up to become a thickly-set teen, he wasn’t physically imposing, as this short squat guy with a boyish face, long black hair and a feeble goatee beard was barely five-foot-tall. Following the state of martial law declared by President Marcos in 1972, as imposed by his brutal army and sinister secret police - being an adult with the dreams of respect, control and the authority which comes with a rank, a title and a crisp black uniform - aged 21, Victor applied to both forces… …but was rejected. Having claimed to anyone who would listen to his lies that he had joined the Army, the Police and a “quasi-military death squad”, given that the minimum height requirement for a Filipino soldier in the 1970’s was five-foot-four and for a Policeman it was five-foot-two - as he was too short, partially deaf owing to a childhood infection, had only ever worked as a diver and he lacked the basic literacy skills for an administrative role - it’s more than likely that his “career in uniform” was as a security guard. But who would know any different and who could prove otherwise in such an unstable region? By 1983 - the year that the political rival of President Marcos was ‘conveniently’ assassinated – 29-year-old Victor, who described himself as a “part-time diver” and a “sort of Policeman” befriended Michael & Jacqueline Haddon, two ex-pats living in the Philippines whose seven-year marriage was at an end. Beguiled by his charm and mystery, Jacqueline and Victor began an affair, they fell in love, and having returned to England in 1984, they set-up home in the coastal village of Middleton-on-Sea. In October 1984, their son Adam was born. In August 1985, Victor & Jacqueline married. In October 1986 – as the Philippines erupted in a People’s Revolution after the corrupt election and subsequent death of Ferdinand Marcos - their daughter Robyn was born. But being a short-tempered and jealous man who beat Jacqueline and ill-treated their two toddlers, she told him to leave and they divorced. As a UK Citizen with a passport and a legal right-to-remain, by the winter of 1986 Victor had moved into a relative’s flat at Coventry Cross, a council estate in Bow, East London. Being too small for a career in the British military or the Police, he headed into the West End in search of a job. Victor Castigador - a short stocky bully with a patchy work record, no known convictions and a habit of lying to mask his inadequacies – had found work as a security guard in a low-rent amusement arcade at the edge of Chinatown. He was solid, prompt and ambitious. But four years later, in that basement, all because of a very petty grudge, this so-called assassin would kill. (Interstitial) Life was uneventful at the Leisure Investments amusement arcade at 23 Gerrard Street. Open from midday to midnight, Monday to Sunday, with a strict over 18’s only policy, the arcade consisted of two ground-floor rooms crammed full of the flashing lights and tinny tunes of thirty pinball, penny-drop, videos games and slot-machines. And although this alluring cacophony of sights and sounds suggested fun, excitement and possible riches, you would never see a smiling face here, as being a cash-cow for the owners only, the customers were guaranteed to lose more than they could ever hope to win. Overseen by the duty manager - 24-year-old Yurev Alejandro Gomez from Chile, known to his friends as Yuri - the average day in the arcade was often routine, dull and predictable. At 11am, escorted by one of two security guards, Yuri would deposit the night’s takings at Lloyds Bank in Piccadilly, while the second guard secured the arcade, as the cashier – 26-year-old Kenyan, Deborah Bernadine Alvarez, known as Debbi – ensured the slot-machines had enough coins for any pay-outs. At 12pm, as a simple security feature, the arcade’s only entrance or exit (situated on the corner of the ground-floor) was opened and every customer was watched by security and filmed by a CCTV system. The cash box on each slot machine was alarmed, the door to the strong-room below was locked (with the key held by Yuri) and the only other money was doled-out in denominations of 10, 20 and 50 pees by Debbi, up to a limit of £500 (£1500 today), whilst she was sat behind a secure metal cage. In the event of a robbery, all monies were kept to a minimum and the owners had told their staff to offer no resistance to the robbers and to surrender to their requests, as all losses were insured. With a high turnover of cash on the premises, Victor was one of three security guards who worked in shifts, with two on duty at all times. It was a simple job with regular hours, nice staff and an adequate wage, but as much as this barrel-chested boaster loved to strut-about in his crisp black uniform, using his rank to assert a modicum of authority, the hardest part of the job was the boredom. Being stuck in two small rooms, twelve-hours-a-day, seeing the same sights, the same faces and the same routines - as a little man with big dreams and even bolder lies – his days had become dull. Every midnight, with the customers gone and the slot machines shut down, as one guard kept an eye on the arcade floor, a second guard would escort Yuri and Debbi down into the basement. Behind a thick steel door stood the strong-room, a reinforced concrete hold with no windows, no vents and no way of breaking in. Inside of which was six-foot-square wire-cage where the takings were stored in a safe till the morning and - as no-one but Yuri had the key - this messy basement also worked as a makeshift storeroom stacked with cleaning products, newspapers and paints for any general repairs. By 12:30am, with the doors locked, the lights off and the alarms set, all of the staff would head home, only to start the whole process again, the very next day. By March 1989, after three years at the arcade, Victor had developed a reputation as a bit of a bulldog; he was short but strong, fun but fiery and was prone to snap when pushed too far, and although the staff had all been regaled with his fanciful stories – of how, as a commando, a secret police agent and an assassin to President Marcos’ personal death squad he had shot, drowned and burned alive twenty people – nobody believed his lies. He was just a little guy who liked playing tough, and had a very vivid imagination and a sadistic streak having watched too many video nasties. So, although he considered himself good at his job, superior to the other two guards – 21-year-old Ambikalpahan Anapayan known as ‘Pan’ and 28-year-old Kandiahkanapathy Vinayagamoorthy known as “Moorthy” – and felt that he deserved a promotion to deputy manager; owing to his lack of literacy, his short-fuse and his abundance of lies, he was denied the leg-up into a minor management role. Feeling spurned and angry at this rejection, Victor became lazy, abusive and unreliable, so much so that by the end of March 1989, he was dismissed as a security guard at the amusement arcade. Anyone else would have found themselves another job, but Victor harboured a very petty grudge. On Sunday 2nd April 1989, just shy of midnight, the tiny shadowy figure of Victor Castigador sculked behind a brick wall in Rupert Court; a thin unlit alley sixty-feet south of Gerrard Street. With Chinatown shutting down after a busy day trading, across the desolate street he had a perfect view of the arcade. His plan was simple; with the customers gone, the door unlocked and the staff cashing-up two day’s takings as the bank was shut on Saturdays, ordered to offer no resistance to robbers, he would raid the safe, lock the staff in the strong-room and escape; in short, get in, get out, in three minutes flat. Had Victor been a commando as he claimed, he would have known that an oversized hood, a slipping scarf and no gloves wasn’t a great disguise - but he didn’t. Had he been in the Secret Police, he would have known how to get a real gun rather than a child’s plastic toy – but he didn’t. And had he actually been a death-squad assassin, he could easily have robbed the arcade single-handed – but he didn’t. Instead, he roped-in four useless youths who he knew; 17-year-old Calvin Graham Nelson, 19-year-old Paul Stephen Clinton and – tagging along for the ride, the excitement and some easy money to be split five ways - their girlfriends, 17-year-old Karen Dunn and 20-year-old Allison Linda Woodside. But this robbery would be a breeze, as he knew the layout, the routine and the rules. As per usual, at 11:58pm, with both security guards on the arcade floor, as Pan got into position to lock the main door and Moorthy stood guard over Debbi and Yuri as they counted-up the cash, dashing across the unlit street five dark figures (four slight and thin, one short and stocky) stormed the arcade. Swinging open the frosted door, in an instant, the hard-fisted Victor punched Pan, knocking him to the floor, as Nelson and himself pulled pistols on the startled staff. Caught by surprise, overpowered by numbers and aiming toys guns which looked real enough in the neon-bathed arcade, Yuri and his team offered no resistance as the bulldog-shaped man and his excitable gang of accomplices - who towered over their tiny leader - herded the trembling staff down the stairs into the concrete basement. With the money insured, the well-trained staff knew it wasn’t worth risking their lives, so instead they were silent, they listened, they obeyed and memorised everything about the gang and the robbery. Standing at the heavy steel door of the strong-room, surrounded by the office supplies and paint pots of this badly-used space, as Victor pressed the gun’s muzzle against Yuri’s neck - in his thick Filipino accent - the five-foot-tall stockily-built bully-boy with the slipping disguise and the very familiar eyes, curtly ordered Yuri to unlock it, which he did, as the staff were ushered inside. The strong-room was cold and dusty. It was little more than a four-sided concrete shell, with a single metal door, no windows, no vents and to one-side, a six-foot square wire-cage, which housed the safe. Again, ordered by the miniature masked marauder to unlock it, the second that Yuri unveiled the stash of cash within, Victor thumped his former-employer hard across the back, flooring him, as the gang bundled £8,685 worth of used and untraceable notes into an anonymous black rucksack. Two minutes in; with the robbery over, to allow ample time for a clean getaway, knowing that the cleaners weren’t due until 8am, the next part of the plan would give them an eight-hour head-start. Inside the wire-cage, Victor ordered his ex-colleagues to their knees, he bound their hands behind their backs and – to ensure that they couldn’t escape till the morning – he would tightly wind the wire-cage’s lock with a metal coat-hanger and lock the steel door of the strong-room. By dawn, they would be cold, hungry and tired, but ultimately fine. And that would take the third of three minutes. It wasn’t a great robbery, one which was devised by a military or criminal mastermind, but it was more akin to a thug nicking of some easy-pickings having coerced some poor kids with a bullshit history and the promise of pocket-money which may have seemed like a fortune, but it was littered with mistakes. The slot-machines were full of cash and yet he ignored them. The CCTV had recorded it all, and yet he didn’t switch it off or remove the tape. With no gloves, his gang had left fingerprints everywhere. With no getaway car, they were forced to hop in a taxi. Having stolen the equivalent of £21,700 today – if evenly split between five – that was barely £4,500 each. And – worst of all - even though their disguises were truly awful, it was practically impossible to hide the fact that their short, stocky, foul-tempered Filipino gang-leader was a recently-sacked security-guard at the arcade called Victor Castigador. This was the moment that Victor should have fled, but he didn’t. We know what happened next wasn’t pre-planned as he hadn’t come prepared. Whether he did this to protect his identity, or as part of a petty grudge over the failed promotion is unknown. But seeing his old colleagues tied-up, helpless and kneeling - from a waste bin - he scattered piles of dry discarded paper around him. Down a drain, he emptied the only fire extinguisher until it was nothing but a dribble of water. And from a store-cupboard full of cleaning products and paints, he produced a one litre squeezy bottle of white spirit. The staff screamed as Victor soaked all four from head-to-foot in the highly flammable fluid. Yuri yelled “How can you do this? These are people just like you”, but his pleas fell on deaf-ears, even as his old work chum – Pan – begged for his life, screaming “Don't light it. I would rather you shoot me”. Besides, even if the gun had been real, Victor had no plans to give any of them a merciful death, as with gleeful cackles, he and Nelson fired a volley of flaming matches at the tinder-dry paper and volatile fluid. Getting to his feet, Moorthy tried to stamp the matches out, but there were too many. And as Victor secured the cage with a coat-hanger and slammed the heavy steel-door shut, being saturated in a lethal accelerant and igniting in a fog of explosive vapours, the abandoned staff were left to burn alive. (Street sounds, screams fade). This wasn’t the work of a professional assassin; this was the vengeful act of a petty-minded little man with serious psychological issues. Trapped in an airless basement with no vents to expel the smoke, or for their screams to be heard by neighbours, four good people were subjected to a slow and painful death; as their lungs choked on the toxic fumes, their hair was scorched by the licking flames, and the intense heat stripped the searing flesh from their bodies. But if he had been a real assassin, knowing he had enough time, he would have stayed behind to make sure that the job was done and that all the witnesses were dead - but he didn’t. (Screams fade back in). The charred bodies of Pan and Moorthy lay at the back of the wire-cage - smoking, collapsed and horrifically burned - as in their last moments alive, the two Tamil refugees who had fled the Sri-Lankan civil war to begin a new life for their families, uttered a final prayer, exhaled and expired. In the pitch-black basement, having freed his hands from behind his back, Yuri had used his rubber-soled shoes to kick open the scorching heat of the wire-cage. Describing the strong-room as like an oven, each time he rolled on the floor to extinguish the hot blue flames which enveloped his clothes that melted onto his skin, the searing heat re-ignited the fire, as he felt his whole body disintegrate. Blinded, chocking and exhausted, as Yuri dragged himself along the concrete floor, under a thick blanket of swirling flames and towards the impenetrable steel-door, he tried to push the blistering hot handle, but with no key, he knew he was trapped. And yet, this door would be their salvation. Having dragged Debbi to his side, barely able to breathe amid the acrid smoke and poisonous fumes, a small but vital supply of air was seeping through the key-hole and the thin gap under the steel-door. And although the hot metal blistered their lips, it was all they had left to save them from death. That night, as two people died and two more baked alive, Victor and his four compassionless cohorts - Calvin, Paul, Karen and Allison - celebrated their audacious robbery with a nice meal, a boogie at a nightclub and the next day they headed to Torquay for a holiday. There they drank, laughed and – as a private joke – they regaled their taxi-driver with a rendition of the Beat Masters tune ‘Burn It Up’. At 7:55am, eight hours later, smelling smoke, the cleaners called 999, and within minutes, fire fighters from Shaftesbury Avenue station were on-scene and heading towards the basement. As they unlocked the steel-door, everything was a smouldering black mess; all warped, charred and smoking; no-one could tell a wall from a door, or a box from a bench, but over the familiar smell of accelerant, they could also smell the overpowering and unforgettable stench of roasted flesh. Inside, amidst the darkness, on the scorched floor, lay the dark and lumpen shapes of four bodies – all black, silent and featureless. All four should have died, but somehow, two had survived. And although both were in critical condition, Yuri was able to utter three simple words - “Victor did it”. (End) All five were arrested a few days later in Torquay and in a joint operation between the Devon and Met Police, they were escorted back to Cannon Row police station, where – under questioning – Victor remained indifferent to the robbery, the injuries to the witnesses and the callousness of his crime. On 14th April 1989, he was charged with one count of robbery, two counts of murder and two counts of attempted murder at Bow Street Magistrates Court, with a full trial at the Old Bailey, one year later. At both trials, having sustained horrifying injuries – with Yuri suffering 30% burns to his left arm, chest, right arm and losing a lung having inhaled the scorching hot smoke, and Debbi with 28% burns to her arms, hands, back, thighs, lungs, and losing almost all of her face – through unquestionable strength, Yuri and Debbi testified against the accused and on 28th February 1990, all five were found guilty. Calvin Nelson and Paul Clinton were convicted of robbery, murder and attempted murder, with Calvin sent to a young offender’s institute for life, Paul was held in detention under Her Majesty’s pleasure, and both of their girlfriends - Karen Dunn and Allison Woodside - were found guilty of robbery. So cruel were Victor’s crimes, that James Mulcahy, Victor’s own defence said to the jury “it would be very surprising had you not come to the conclusion that he was a ruthless, callous and inhuman monster”. The Judge, Mr Justice Rougier concluded “I find it almost impossible to understand a mind as evil as yours”, and sentenced him to life in prison, to which Victor cockily crowed “fair enough”. Extended to a whole life tariff meaning that he would never be released, on the 21st March 2017, having served twenty-seven years, 62-year-old Victor Castigador died of a stroke. He was mourned by nobody. So, as much as trashy tabloids love to trot-out the same tired story about ‘the Killer from Manilla’ who was (supposedly) a hired assassin for President Marcos, if you really feel the need to share his tawdry tale to impress your true-crime chums, don’t glorify his actions, his exploits, or perpetuate the same unproven twaddle which only spewed from his lying lips. Instead, remember him for who he was – a small, pathetic, mentally unstable liar, who ruined four lives, and all because of a petty grudge. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I shall do some of this, a bit of that, some additional of the other, just as I did last time, only some of the words will be in a different order – and that I will call Extra Mile. Oooh. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Annette Milsom, David Evans and Mandy Belshaw, I thank you all. I hope you enjoy all the extra goodies which come with being a Patron, like locations videos, exclusive crime-scene photos and special discounts off Murder Mile merch. Oh yes, the list of benefits is endless. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Piccadilly Circus, seen from Coventry Street
Every-so-often I will be rolling out a new style of episode called Meander Mile, where I take you on a guided walk through a single street in London; I'll show you streets and murder cases you're already familiar with and others as yet untold. This week's episode focuses on Piccadilly Circus.
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 LOCATIONS For your enjoyment, I've posted photos of the locations discussed in this episode. They're all in chronological order. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile). 
Credits: Murder Mile was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.
The music featured in this episode include:
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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.
Gerrard Street in Chinatown, W1
Every-so-often I will be rolling out a new style of episode called Meander Mile, where I take you on a guided walk through a single street in London; I'll show you streets you're already familiar with and some you aren't, pointing out locations you'll recognise from the podcast, and introducing you to new true-crime tales, as yet untold.
This week's episode focuses on Gerrard Street, W1 (in the heart of Chinatown). You can listen to the episode via the link below, or if you fancy viewing the locations via photos, or via GoogleMaps there's a link to this below. 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 LOCATIONS
For your enjoyment, I've posted photos of the locations discussed in this episode. They're all in chronological order. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile).
Credits: Murder Mile was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.
The music featured in this episode include:
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #97: "Christine Granville" - The Fall of a Forgotten Hero9/6/2020
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE NINETY-SEVEN:
On the evening of Sunday 15th June 1952, just inside the front-door of the Shelbourne Hotel at 1 Lexham Gardens, a 44-year-old lady known as 'Christine Granville' was murdered. She looked like a nobody, and yet, living under an assumed name, she was actually a hero, a soldier, a secret-agent and one of the most amazing women who has ever lived. Her exploits were the stuff of legend, but being cast aside by a government who no longer needed her skills, her cruel death marked a sad demise for “Churchill’s favourite spy”.
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 former Shelbourne Hotel is where the mustard coloured triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos; one of myself showing you the location at 1 Lexhamn Gardens and another (shot a long while ago) showing you the former heaadquarters of the Special Opertion Executive (SOE) who 'Christine Granville' worked for, based at 64 Baker Street. These videos are a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Left to right: the doorway and the front of 1 Lexham Gardens as it looks today, a rare photo of Dennis Muldowney and a (copyright-free) photo of Krystyna Skarbek.
Crime scene photos taken by the Police from inside the hallway of The Shelbourne Hotel at 1 Lexham Gardens. Krystyna lies as she was found, by her side is the knife which was used by Dennis to kill her (it was removed by the hotel manager).
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: This was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archives,including:
MUSIC:
SOUNDS: (not created by me) Skiing - https://freesound.org/people/13FPanska_Marval_Lukas/sounds/379331/ Howling Wind - https://freesound.org/people/Bosk1/sounds/217186/ UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Ep97: 'Christine Granville' - The Fall of a Forgotten Hero. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Christine Granville; a hero, soldier, secret-agent and one of the most amazing women who has ever lived. Her exploits were the stuff of legend, but being cast aside by a government who no longer needed her skills, her cruel death marked a sad demise for “Churchill’s favourite spy”. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 97: “Christine Granville”: The Fall of a Forgotten Hero. Today I’m standing in Lexham Gardens, in Kensington, W8; four streets north of the home of Elizabeth McLindon’s deluded killer, three streets south of the former school of Katerina Koneva, three streets west of the basement where serial-killer John George Haigh dissolved the entire McSwan family and a quarter of a mile south of the first sadistic murder by Neville Heath – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated a mile from three of London’s best museums - but no-where near anything of interest except for a huge Sainsbury’s and half a billion hotels - this part of Kensington is posh but pointless. You know it’s posh, as nothing has prices and nobody smiles. You know it’s pointless, as although each flat is sold for a minimum of £1.5 million quid a pop, most of the owners only have enough money left for a faulty facelift, a scarf cut from road-kill, teeth made from Steinway keys, a teeny-tiny legless dog who lives in a bag and a personalised licence-plate which is meant to read ‘Anu 5’, but instead it looks like ‘Anus’. The only view here is the noisy A4 trunk road which rips through its heart. So, as the pseudo posh people sup a thimble’s worth of Balinese demi-capu coffee and nibble on a tiny custard tart from a box it takes longer to wrap than the cake takes to bake, as they eat alfresco by the side, each morsel is munched by a shot of grit as a sewage truck thunders-by and a whiff of part-digested burgers as a builder takes a dump by the bins and wipes his arse on a discarded copy of Horse & Hound. Just off the A4, at 1 Lexham Gardens, stands The Lexham Gardens Hotel; an unassuming five-storey townhouse built with white and yellow bricks, a stucco facade, Doric columns and wrought-iron gates. Formerly known as The Shelbourne, this was once a shabby place-to-stay for those who were down-on-their-luck. One of whom was a fearless woman and we all owe her our lives and our freedom. She was known as ‘Christine Granville’; but there are no statues, street names or public holidays in her honour, as – with her bravery, cunning and resilience no longer needed to defeat the Nazis – one of the greatest ever agents became a nobody, whose name is as neglected today as the day she died. Only Churchill’s favourite spy didn’t die the glorious heroic death that her life had been, instead - being abandoned, broke and unloved – her sad and tragic end was so mundane, it’s an insult to her memory. As it was here, on Sunday 15th June 1952, that ‘Christine Granville’ was murdered. Only her end wasn’t at the hands of a hired assassin, rogue state or bitter rival, but by a nobody with a grudge. (Interstitial) Until 1941, ‘Christine Granville’ did not exist. Her name was an alias, and although she was also known as Krystina Giżycki, Krystyna Gettlich, Pauline Armand and Olga Polovsky, her real name was Krystyna Skarbek. Her life was thrilling, dangerous and heroic... but it all could have been so very different. Maria Krystyna Janina Skarbek was born on 1st May 1908 near Warsaw, Poland; the youngest of two children to Count Jerzy Skarbek, a Catholic aristocrat, and Countess Stefania Goldfeder, heiress to a Jewish banking empire. Raised in wealth and privilege, Krystyna’s childhood was easy and carefree, as every whim was catered for by tutors, servants and stableman… but she was never a lady of leisure. As a perfect mix of both parents, Krystyna was a stunning girl blessed with her mother’s boundless compassion and radiant beauty, she was a tomboy with her father’s love of sports and adventure, all of which was combined with a Catholic guilt, a Jewish sense of injustice and a devout patriotism. Being a girl - although a fast learner who was fluent in Polish, French and Yiddish, who could pass as an Italian, a Russian or a Spaniard - she was only gifted a basic education. Being a tall elegant brunette who came sixth in the Miss Poland contest and whose captivating looks made many men tremble, her only career was to be as a wife and mother. And so, as a wealthy heiress who kept herself occupied by horse riding, hunting and skiing, she was bright, brave and beautiful, but also rebellious and bored. Following the Great Depression; in 1930 Krystyna’s father died, they were forced to sell their country estate and the Goldfeder empire collapsed, leaving Countess Stefania an impoverished widow. To pay her way, Krystyna moved out and worked a regular job at a car dealership, but seeing shadows on her lungs, coughing-up blood and diagnosed with tuberculosis (the same disease which killed her father), she was advised to find herself an outdoor occupation, which severely limited her options. That same year, having briefly married a dull businessman called Gustaw Gettlich which didn’t last the year, by 1932 she was ill, she was broke and – as a shameful divorcee – she was a lady without love. Krystyna could have been just another little rich-girl who fell on hard times. But blessed with guts, grit and determination, her privileged upbringing had been the perfect training for her new life as a spy. It all began (quite literally) by accident… as although she was an expert skier who easily-traversed even the deadliest of black-runs on the mountain retreat of Zakopane, having momentarily lost her footing, Krystyna’s life was saved by the giant physique and the huge personality of Jerzy Giżycki. Just like her, he was wealthy, loving and bored; being restless, he was a diplomat and an author; and burdened by a thirst for travel, a radical brain and a taste for danger, Jerzy was the perfect cure. On 2nd November 1938, they married in Warsaw, travelled to Africa and with Jerzy promoted to the post of Poland's Consul General, they moved to Ethiopia. Every day was a new adventure… …but the real excitement was yet to come. On 1st September 1939 Germany invaded Poland from the West, on the 17th the Soviets invaded from the East, and within four weeks, their entire country was smashed and World War Two had begun. Days later, Krystyna & Jerzy sailed to London and volunteered their services as allied spies to the British Secret Intelligence Service. As a well-travelled diplomat with a colourful past, Jerzy was accepted; but as a woman, a foreigner and a Jew, Krystyna was treated with derision and suspicion. In their hands, they had the perfect spy; she was brilliant, beautiful, cunning and bold; she was an expert skier, horse-rider and marksman; she had several aliases, spoke many languages, she blended-in with the privileged and the poor; she could pass for French, Italian, Spanish and Russian; and – best of all – she would die for her country. And yet, they almost let her slip-by… …but being described by a high-ranking official as a "flaming Polish patriot, an adventuress and absolutely bloody fearless", Krystyna was given a chance… …but they would greatly under estimate her. Her first mission was one she devised herself. On 23rd December 1939, with Hungary having allied with the Nazis, Krystyna snuck into Budapest, printed thousands of propaganda leaflets and - aided by old family friend Andrzej Kowerski and a Polish Olympic skier – she navigated cliff-faces, avalanches and deadly precipices in the sub-zero temperatures of the Tatra Mountains, and - as a half-Jewish spy - she re-entered Nazi-occupied Poland, completed her mission, and then remained there to sabotage the German intelligence, free any political prisoners and assist the resistance fighters to escape. All of which, if captured, she would be shot as a spy and exterminated as a Jew. But so successful were Krystyna and Andrzej’s secret missions, that a bounty was offered for their capture, arrest or death. Following the failure of Dunkirk, with the allies on the backfoot and the enemy poised to attack just miles from the English coast, Churchill no-longer saw this as a gentlemanly war, to be played by some old-school Generals according to the rules of engagement - it was now time to be dirty and devious. In July 1940, under a top-secret directive, the ‘Special Operations Executive’ was established with their headquarters at 64 Baker Street. Their mission was to confuse, sabotage and disrupt the enemy in a covert and deceitful way. Churchill didn’t want a soldier, as every SOE operative needed to be a master of escape, disguise and explosives, who was invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear, and yet deadly enough to kill an unarmed assassin with a knife, a rope, a makeshift shiv and even their bare hands. What he needed was a self-taught super-spy, what he got was Krystyna Skarbek, and she would quickly become SOE’s the first British female agent, their longest-serving spy and one of the most respected. Having adopted the alias of ‘Christine Granville’ to aid her return to English soil, Krystyna spied on enemy troop movements, transports and oil-fields; she assisted the French and Italian Resistance, she organised a smuggling network between Warsaw to Budapest, she sabotaged communications and bridges right up the River Danube, and – even though both countries had signed a nonaggression pact – she filmed the first evidence of German troops poised to invade their allies – the Soviet Union. On 22nd July 1941, as Hitler unleashed Operation Barbarossa, Churchill hailed Krystyna as his favourite spy. But she wasn’t just brave and ruthless, she was also cunning and inventive. In January 1941, whilst being interrogated by the Gestapo and fearing that that her true identity would be uncovered, by biting-down hard on her tongue and coughing-up blood, she feigned tuberculosis (a disease for which there was no cure), and worried that they might contract it, she was quickly released. Once stopped by German soldiers on the Italian border, when they ordered her hands up, under each arm she unveiled a live grenade and threatened to blow them all sky-high if they didn’t disappear. And in July 1944, having parachuted into southern France, she secured the release of two SOE agents and resistance fighters - who were held in a Nazi prison and were just hours from their execution - by lying, threatening and bribing the Gestapo commander with two million francs… that she didn’t have. Krystyna Skarbek, alias ‘Christine Granville’ had survived illness, poverty, accidents, interrogation, war and execution, there had been a ransom for her arrest, a death sentence on her head, and yet, having changed the outcome of the war - across both allies and enemies - she was feared and respected. But by May 1945, with the world was no longer at war, her new battle was about to begin. Many soldiers had died, but for those who had survived, their homecoming was bitter-sweet. Gone was the thrill, the camaraderie, the four-square meals and a steady wage, as having returned to the blackened smoking shell of a country they had fought for – with their homes bombed, their loved-ones missing and their lives shattered – in a simple ceremony their heroic deeds were honoured with a cheaply-made mass-produced medal, and (just as quickly) these brave soldiers were forgotten. One such soldier was Krystyna Skarbek. On 14th May 1945, just two weeks after Adolf Hitler’s death, Krystyna’s service as an SOE agent was terminated; communications ceased, she was trapped in Cairo, dismissed with one month’s salary and left to fend for herself. After six years of service and six years apart, Krystyna and her husband Jerzy had split, and - as the Allies had syphoned-off her Polish homeland from the tyrannical claws of the fascists to be ruled under an equally brutal Communist dictatorship - she no longer had a country, a home or a family, as both her mother and her brother had been exterminated in the Nazi death camps. To add insult to injury, in May 1947, her heroism was rewarded with Europe’s highest honours, as she was made an OBE, an MBE and awarded the George Medal, as well as the prestigious Croix de Guerre, which recognised her contribution to the liberation of France. Only she couldn’t afford to live; as the British Government would repeatedly deny her a work-permit, a passport and even British citizenship. Struggling to adapt to civilian life – to make-ends-meet - Krystyna Skarbek (OBE, MBE, George Medal, Croix de Guerre, the liberator of France, the saviour of England and Churchill’s favourite spy) was forced to undertake a series of badly-paid menial jobs, such as a switchboard operator, a café waitress and a sales-girl at Harrod’s. And as the months turned into years, she became depressed and isolated. On 3rd May 1951, after years in the civilian wilderness, Krystyna found work as a stewardess onboard the maiden voyage of the ‘MS Ruahine’, a luxury passenger-liner for the New Zealand Shipping Company, which sailed from the Port of London to Wellington and Auckland. Her duties were fruitless; she served drinks, she made beds and she took orders, but as the Captain had insisted all of his crew wear their wartime decorations – as many had only received a standard campaign medal – Krystyna’s chest full of citations created an uneasy sense of jealousy and resentment amongst her ship-mates. Just three weeks in, Krystyna wrote a letter to her childhood friend, SOE collaborator and occasional lover (Andrzej Kowerski). The letter was brief, her mood was sullen, and in it she wrote that “the other stewards are not very friendly… all except one”. She never mentioned his name, or gave any details, but this 41-year-old bathroom attendant was captivated by her beauty, enraptured by her heroic tales and his boundless attention and undying friendship made this lonely lady feel loved again. Krystyna Skarbek was a living legend, where-as Dennis Muldowney was a nobody. The early life of Dennis George Muldowney is impossible to verify as being a pitiful loser and a deluded fantasist, many aspects of his fictional upbringing were fiercely disputed by his all three of his siblings. Born on 16th July 1910 in Wigan (Lancashire), by the time of his trial, Dennis had concocted a fanciful tale to inflate his humdrum existence and excuse his appalling crime. His claims were that he had been beaten black-and-blue by his drunken father, abandoned by his abusive mother which left him with a fear of the dark, that both parents had sexually abused him and that all four siblings were bastards born out of incest. But none of this ever happened, in fact, his simple life was actually rather dull. Easily distracted as a boy, Dennis left school with no skills, friends or qualifications. He was boastful, lazy and prone to daydreaming. He liked reading, but mostly just comic books about spies. And having claimed he had been introduced to masturbation at the age of six, he was obsessed with sex. Unable to concentrate, between 1923 and 1952 he flitted from job-to-job working briefly as an errand-boy, a counterhand, a builder, a hairdresser, a butler, a fire warden, a waiter, a dispatch rider, a ship’s steward and a hall porter, with his work record never attaining a level higher than ‘satisfactory’, as he was often absent having suffered from frequent bouts of depression at his own failure. He married a local girl called Kath in 1929, they had a boy called John in 1940 and she divorced him in 1947 on the grounds of cruelty, owing to his fantasies, his masturbatory habits and his nightly demand for sexual intercourse - and he hadn’t seen either of them since. He didn’t drink, do drugs, he had no criminal record and – according to his siblings – there was no history of insanity in the family. So, it’s no surprise that, as an unattractive depressed failure, who was recently single, heavily in debt and had lived such a dull life that – unlike his shipmates who had all served in the war – he didn’t have a single medal to wear. But as both he and Krystyna ascended the ‘MS Ruahine’ in Glasgow Dock; he fell for her beauty, her pitied her loneliness and he marvelled at the thrilling life she had led. Happy to have a new friend, on the back of a breakfast menu Krystyna scribbled her phone number – WES 2691 – with the plan that once they’d docked back in London, they could remain as friends… …only, through Dennis’ fanciful eyes, he saw them both as lovers. Following his arrest, he told the Police about her many male admirers, of her endless sexual conquests and how he had tried to end their passionate affair. But lured in by all the cunning of this raven-haired beauty, as she cooed “you are the only man on this ship for me, all the rest are blank faces”, with that he became her “slave of love”, and having fallen under her spell, he later claimed “she murdered me”. In truth, Krystyna was stuck on a cruise-ship for the next two-and-a-half-month with a deluded loser, but as a woman who had duped the Gestapo and evaded the Nazis, she knew how to keep the peace. By July 1951, having docked in London, as promised Krystyna kept it cordial and introduced Dennis to her friends at the White Eagle Club, but being obsessed by Krystyna, he didn’t talk to anyone but her. By February 1952, being convinced that she “loves me” and “can’t live without me”, as he boarded his next ship – the MS Dunottar Castle which was bound for the Caribbean - whilst in the company of “some other man”, she supposedly kissed him goodbye and promised to write, but she never did. By April 1952, upon his return, as his unrequited love had been left to fester for two long months, and with no letters, no calls, no contact and as she had moved to a new hotel, seeing his goddess in the arms of “another lover”, as she “slammed the door in my face”, he swore he would kill her and himself. That night, he purchased a knife, a cosh and a vile of poison. He resigned as a ship’s toilet attendant, he got a job as a porter at the Reform Club so he could keep surveillance on her usual haunts – and even though she had left on a six-week voyage to Durban – his anger would fester for a very long time. On Friday 13th June 1952, six weeks later, a cruise-liner called the Winchester Castle docked in the Port of London. Down the walkway disembarked the tall dark-haired stewardess, as 44-year-old Krystyna Skarbek returned to the land she had fought for. Being older and wearier; her sprightly footsteps now shuffled, her lightning-fast reactions had slowed and her highly-tuned senses had dulled, as this once-great secret-agent was fatigue by a menial, lonely and demeaning existence. But the future for this forgotten hero looked truly hopeless, as –six years on – an ungrateful British Government still failed to issue her with the basics she deserved – like a passport, a work permit and her British citizenship. Being tired, broke and lonely, she dragged her trunk of memories and medals to The Shelbourne Hotel at 1 Lexham Gardens, a cheap but clean place-to-stay she had occupied several times before, and – having been rejected for every military and diplomatic post she had applied for – this lady ‘who had changed the course of the Second World War’ began a new job as the hotel’s housekeeper. On Sunday 15th June 1952, (Dennis’ voice) “This is what happened. At about 8pm, on Haymarket, I met a man I knew from one of my trips. He told me he had been on the Winchester Castle which had docked last Friday. Onboard was a polish stewardess who he had disliked very much, who had spoken to him about me, that she was cavorting with the ship’s stewards, and that made me mad. I decided to see her. I went back to my room. I collected my knife and cosh. I couldn’t make up my mind whether I was going to knife her, beat her, or just frighten her. I went to Lexham Gardens, and waited”. It had been another long day for Krystyna having scrubbed and swept the hotel from top-to-bottom and all for minimum wage. She had cleaned it all; from the guest rooms, to her bedroom to the dining room, all the way down the carpeted stairs to the white tiled hall by the ground-floor door, where – just a few moments later – her dead body would lay. Being a late night with an early start tomorrow, and having popped out for dinner and a few glasses of wine, she was tired-out and ready for bed. At 10:30pm, Krystyna ascended the stone steps up to the Shelbourne Hotel and entered the white door of the very thin hall. With her hearing weakened by the persistent bangs of the Nazi gunshots she had dodged and the boom of the enemy bridges she had blown to smithereens, she didn’t hear her assailant behind her – as having skulked among shadows for an hour-and-a-half – he followed her in; with a cosh in his waistband, a six-inch sheath knife in his jacket and a vile of poison in his pocket. Halfway up the carpeted stairs, hearing the door lock click, Krystyna turned to see Dennis Muldowney; the slim, dark-haired, sharp-nosed, 42-year-old former bathroom attendant, who was prone to lying, day-dreaming and masturbating. He had been pleasant company for a while, but had bloomed into a right-royal pain-in-the-backside, who had plagued her with love-letters, calls, gifts, and – after more than a year – had refused to get the message that they were not lovers, they were only friends. Trained to negotiate with Nazis, Krystyna didn’t argue, as being too smart and too tired, in a muted voice she calmly led Dennis back down to the hall, as she didn’t see him as a threat, he was just a pest. (Dennis’ voice) “I asked if she would give me my letters back, she said she had burned them. I did not believe her. I asked her how she felt about me and whether she was prepared to give me a reason for her appalling conduct. She told me that she didn’t want anything to do with me”. Dennis was angry, hurt and spurned, but – at no point during the incident – was there was shouting, shoving or a scuffle. As Krystyna calmly walked this pathetic little man across towards the door, having rejected many male advances before, she made it clear she was going away and that they would never see each other ever again. For Krystyna, this was the end of their friendship, but for Dennis, this was the end of their lives. (Dennis’ voice) “She was my Queen, my love, I was her love slave. She has dared me to kill her on three sperate occasions. She was the one who first put the idea into my head. That is what she wanted”. Being a tired broken shell of her former-self, whose brain was clouded by fatigue and whose senses were dulled by depression, she never saw the assassin’s weapon, she only felt a fast thud as his fist hit her chest, but looking down at her left breast, she saw a knife’s handle protruding, as the full six-inch blade had penetrated her breast-bone, severed the artery to the lungs and split her heart in half. Having collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, as her legs buckled under her, Krystyna slumped hard against the writing desk in a crumpled heap. With her eyes wide open, her mouth aghast and no blood spurting from the blade - as her body cavity quickly filled - in an instant, she was dead. (Interstitial) Dennis Muldowney was a liar, a fantasist and a failure. Desperate for attention, upon his arrest, in the hotel he swallowed the vile of poison, but as it was only granulated Aspirin, all the tacky white powder did was stick to his dentures. In prison, he fashioned his bedsheet into a noose, but it was only ever for show. In the press, he bitched about how she was getting more attention than he was. And on 9th September 1952, at the Old Bailey, standing with his hands in his pockets, he asked the judge to “hurry it up”, as during the three-minute trial, Dennis pleaded “guilty” and was hanged three weeks later. Krystyna Skarbek, alias ‘Christine Granville’ was the bravest, boldest and – without doubt – one of the most amazing women who has ever lived. She was brilliant, strong, courageous and resourceful; she was a self-taught secret-agent who liberated countries, thwarted Nazis, rescued resistance fighters and having risked her life - without her – we might not have the freedom and peace we enjoy today. Except for two small memorials, organised and paid-for by those who loved her, there are no statues, streets or holidays in her name. Her exploits aren’t even taught in schools, so yet another generation won’t know who to thank. Instead, her memory is sullied by a few tawdry tabloid articles about how ‘Churchill’s favourite spy’ was slain by the single blade of a deluded stalker. Only he didn’t kill her… …it was the British Government who did, six years earlier, having sacked her, abandoned her, fobbed her off with a few medals, a month’s salary, and routinely denied her a passport, a work permit and the British citizenship she deserved, having sacrificed everything and volunteered to protect us. As a final insult, on her death certificate, ignoring the fact that her name and her age are wrong, in the category of ‘occupation’, there is no mention of her heroism, her rank or her bravery, as instead of being listed as a spy, an agent or a soldier - as a divorcee - she is remembered only as a ‘former wife’. She was buried in St Mary's Cemetery in Kensal Green. In 2013, the Polish Heritage Society gave her a proper headstone emblazoned with her full honours, and today, at the foot of her grave, lies the ashes of her friend, agent and lover (Andrzej Kowerski) who - it is said - she was due to marry. Her name was Krystyna Starbek, alias ‘Christine Granville’; she was the hero we forgot, but we shall never forget. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I shall do what I did last week, and the week before, and the week before that, only using different words, but not the same cup of tea, as it would be mouldy by now. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Monique Stone, Holly-Jane, Corey Beecher, Gillian Bain and Jordan Lloyd Beck, who all received a personal ‘thank you’ card from me, exclusive Murder Mile stickers and badges, and lots of very exclusive videos and crime-scene photos which won’t be shared anywhere else. Ooh. And – feeling like a very lucky boy – a big thank you to those lovely people who have sent generous donations to keep Murder Mile alive, they were Miss Battenberg, Emma King, Anne-Marie Griffin and Tragic Tracey. Yes, I did spend it all on cake. And a big thank you to Danny Rolfe whose email many moons ago, reminded me of this case. I thank you too. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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