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.
1 Gloucester Crescent, NW1 where Edith Eleonora Humphries was murdered
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 FIFTY-EIGHT:
In the second week of February 1942, six women were attacked on consequecutive days across London's West End; two were violently assaulted and four were brutally tortured and murdered. All were attributed to Gordon Frederick Cummins, who would later be dubbed 'The Blackout Ripper'. But was he a one-off spree-killer, or did this sadistic maniac have two more victims in his past?
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 Edith's murder is marked with a purple cross near the word Camden Town. 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/r/C1257978 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257977 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: The defining features of the Blackout Ripper’s murders were his sadism. This wasn’t the work of a mindless buffoon who bashed heads in with bricks, or a crazed loon who haphazardly hacked at limbs to feed his fantasy – this was different. As with calculated glee, he calmly and cruelly fileted the flesh as these ladies lay dead or dying, grinning as - through barely conscious slits - they watched with terrified eyes as he relished every slash and insertion, making their last seconds alive of pure terror. The pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury would state that the wounds he inflicted were not committed in a state of homicidal frenzy, as each cut was cold, deliberate and calculated. He wasn’t skilled with a knife or had a specific biological agenda, but he had clearly taken his time and savoured the moment. But was he a sadist? As if Mabel Church and Edith Humphries were his two earliest victims, of those he murdered, he only mutilated those in the latter half of his spree. So, were the first three interrupted before being defiled, was he yet to explore his sadism, or were these omissions a conscious choice? Psychologically, Gordon Frederick Cummins was a complicated man, who could be both kind and cruel, sociable and sociopathic. And although the police decried these attacks as the work of a “mad man” in whom the pathologist expected to find evidence of “sexual sadism” and/or “sexual abnormalities” - in Cummins, they found none. In fact, in court, Sir Bernard Spilsbury stated his opinion that “some of the wounds to the victims were deliberately made to look like the work of a sexual sadist”. If Cummins was truly fuelled by pathological sadism, we would expect to find clues in his past which hint at a disturbed mind where the seeds domination and mutilation were beginning to bloom; whether rapes, assaults or murders; peeping, peeing or perversions; knives, fetishes or strange habits. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you, the conclusion to Murder Mile’s original eight-part series. This is the final part of The Blackout Ripper: First Blood. The trial of Gordon Frederick Cummins was unusual, as although the evidence would point towards a sadist streak, his personality was more akin to a narcissist. Arrogance was often cited as his defining characteristic, as Cummins believed that he was smarter than the police, which made him complacent; he left fingerprints, clues and the souvenirs he stole from his victims were often found in plain sight. If he hadn’t been so careless, having left behind his gas mask and belt, he may never have been caught. Which begs the question; did he want to be caught? Some experts have suggested that he was seeking fame and notoriety; hence his sadism, his lack of disguise and being so easily arrested. But if this was true, why did he plead ‘not guilty’? Was it arrogance, or a desire to turn the trial into a media circus? Either way, it was not to be. Having been re-started owing to the prosecutions error, this half-day trial which was wrapped up by 4pm was at best perfunctory, even though he had professed his innocence. Which was not to say that an innocent man was executed – he wasn’t – but what was so fascinating about the trial was how vehemently his friends and family professed his innocence – which you would expect – but they couldn’t believe that Gordon and this spree-killer could possibly be the same man. In their eyes, the man they knew was not a sadist; he had no criminal record, no history of violence and no known mental illness; he worked hard, he was good fun and – although unfaithful – he loved his wife and was looking forward to becoming a father. Throughout his life, he had many girlfriends, affairs and frequented sex-workers, none of whom told tales of sadism, strangulation or cruelty. Lodged by his family, an appeal was submitted to the Home Secretary, with Gordon’s father John stating “my son has shown no tendencies (of sadism) and the fact that he has been happily married for years... he is known to be most patient, gentle and even-tempered, and has refuted any such idea”. John Robert Cummins and Gordon’s pregnant wife Marjorie both held to the belief that the police had planted evidence to frame him; including fingerprints on cups, bottles, razors, souvenirs and weapons. Accusations of which were investigated by the police and no evidence of corruption were found. They even accused the murders on a fellow cadet based in the same Regent’s Park billet, who was found with a bloodstained towel – but this was later attributed to a miscarriage or abortion by his girlfriend. On 29th April 1942, just days after his conviction, Cummins sent a letter from Brixton Prison to Dot & Laurie Williams, a Corporal and his close-friend who was stationed with Cummins at RAF Predannack. In this letter, one of a series, Cummins would state “…the past few days have been a dreadful ordeal and I am glad it is all over. Now that I am here, my father and legal counsel are, I hope, redoubling their efforts to find the guilty man and prove my innocence before it is too late...”. Giving us a hint at his sordid past in known brothels, he would go on to say “Jerry does seem to have made a mess of Bath, doesn’t he? I wonder if the Christopher has been touched? Or the Hole in the Wall? Perhaps not – dens of iniquity always escape unscathed”. And being a man who often rubbed people up the wrong way or relished that thin line in humour between being amusing and inappropriate, he ended this letter with a really creepy line: “My love to you, Dot and niece Sally. If there’s any justice in the world, I’ll be seeing you all again. If not, tell Gwen I’ll come and haunt her. Yours optimistically. Gordon”. And that is what makes this case so fascinating. How did this seemingly ordinary chap with no criminal record nor obvious trauma which could have triggered these attacks, go on to commit one of the most heinous spree-killing in British history, all whilst living his life and working a regular nine-to-five job? The Police would later state, he was a “viable suspect” in two earlier murders – those of Mabel Church and Edith Humphries; two strangers murdered in similar circumstances which occurred just five days and half a mile apart, almost as if these two were a rehearsal for the Blackout Ripper’s killing-spree. It’s possible that Mabel was... but was Edith one of his earlier murders? Very little was reported about Edith’s murder; as it was war-time, deaths were ten-a-penny and hers occurred at the end of a spate of unconnected murders which the Met Police were struggling to solve. Born in 1891, Edith Eleanora Humphries was on the cusp of her fifties by autumn 1941, making her the oldest (but not by much) of the Blackout Ripper’s potential victims. With no photo, it’s impossible to describe her, but - as we know - Cummins did not have a type. Edith’s life was as unremarkable as any other, full of high and lows, but mostly of steady respectability. For more than two decades, she was married to her loving but hard-working husband who – it is said – rose from the rank of a humble cab-driver to owing his own taxi-firm, but this cannot be clarified. She was educated, either through schooling or years of self-betterment, as she earned a decent living as a qualified accountant and – to do-her-bit for King and Country – she volunteered as a canteen cook and book-keeper at the Auxiliary Fire Service at the Islington station on the nearby Caledonian Road. Being widowed and left to raise her step-son Roy, it is unclear whether Edith inherited the family home - a three-storey semi-detached house at 1 Gloucester Crescent, just off Regent’s Park - and was either the landlady to several lodgers, or lived in a two-roomed ground-floor flat at the back of the property. Either way, she was comfortably off and with Roy having moved out, she lived there alone. Sadly, in the same way that Mabel’s virtue was besmirched before her body was even cold, it became open-season for any loon to cast aspersions against Edith’s life, all of which whiffed of victim shaming. With many drawing red rings around her “twenty possible men-friends” and a supposed torrid affair with a fireman –implying that it was her sexual appetite and therefore her fault which led to her death. But this was untrue. In her bedside drawer, two letters were found, both accusing and retracting the fireman’s wife statement as a “misunderstanding”. Of her “twenty men friends”; most were cabbies and pals of her late husband who were both ‘men’ and ‘friends’. And across that last year of her life, at different times, she had dated several men, but being a lonely widower, she was looking for love. She was pleasant, she didn’t cause problems and she was well-liked. She wasn’t much of a drinker; she didn’t live a salacious life and her only real issue was a boyfriend who was described as ‘persistent’. And that’s it. Her connections to Mabel Church were coincidental, being canteen staff who lived near Regent’s Park. She didn’t seem to frequent the same places as Gordon Cummins. And she was only as connected to those murdered during the Blackout Ripper’s four-day killing-spree, as anyone else in the West End. All that seemed to connect Mabel and Edith were the methods of their murders... ...as if they were a rehearsal by a fledgling serial-killer. Sir Bernard Spilsbury would state in court “some of the wounds to the victims were deliberately made to look like the work of a sexual sadist”. But were they? To answer that, set aside the shocking sight of each wound and ask the question “why did he inflict that wound at that point and for what reason?” On the night of Sunday 8th to Monday 9th February 1942, Evelyn Hamilton was attacked in an air-raid shelter on Montague Place. She had a two-inch bruise to her right cheek (this was his initial attack), a small cut to her left eye (possibly sustained during her fall) and around her neck, bruises in the shape of four fingers and a thumb - consistent with strangulation by a left-hander like the Blackout Ripper. With a few blood specks in her vagina, but no sperm nor contraceptives found, it was unlikely that she had been raped (as none of the others were), but she may have been violated with an unknown object. Partially stripped, with her legs spread and her exposed genitals facing the shelter’s entrance, she was posed to illicit shock. But it was not suggested that she was mutilated, as the only unexplained wounds to her body was a two-inch cut to her leg and several small abrasions to her right breast; none of which were confirmed as inflicted by a weapon, and could have been part of her struggle or his clawing. Evelyn Hamilton, as with Mabel and Edith lacked any of the typically sadistic wounds found on his later victims, but he may have been disturbed mid-attack, or was yet to explore this level of sadism? On the night of Monday 9th to Tuesday 10th February 1942, Evelyn Oatley was attacked in her Wardour Street flat. Again, with bruises to her sides (trapping her arms), a bruise to right cheek and left-handed bruises to her throat - with none of her long fingernails broken – this indicated there was no struggle. His initial attack was there to render her unconscious, but each wound after this point was a calculated ploy designed to maximise the horror of those who would find her and report their shock to the press. Again, stripped semi-naked, with breasts and genitals exposed, her body was positioned diagonally across the bed, facing the only entrance to this room. When found, she had twelve jagged rips to her flesh in and around her thighs and vagina, and spilling in thick pools from the bed to the door, her last drops of blood had pumped from a 5 ½ inch long gash to her neck – a truly shocking sight for anyone? But what is most fascinating are not the wounds, but the weapons he used and what he did with them. Having violated her with a six-inch metal torch, he left it poking out of her vagina, as if he was bragging: “look, this is what I did, and this is what I used”. Likewise; between her thighs lay a metal can-opener and a set of heated curling tongs, and beside her neck, a single bloodstained Ever Ready razor blade. This wasn’t a frenzied assault, it took time, it took thought and it took patience. In his eyes, he wasn’t a crazed maniac mutilating woman, he was a skilled artist perfecting his bloody masterpiece. The same sadistic performance art was inflicted on the bodies of his next two victims - Margaret Lowe and Doris Jouanett. Again, his initial attack was swift; they were trapped, punched and strangled. But once they were unconscious or dying, it was only then that his shocking new art-work could begin. With a six-inch candle poking out of her genitals, around Margaret’s body he proudly placed the tools of his talent; a bread knife, two table knifes and a potato knife. To many, these were nothing but humble household implements, but to him, they were like his brushes; inflicting a ten-inch-long three-inch-deep slice up her right thigh, and a clean and perfectly-straight five-inch gash along her abdomen, severing her uterus and exposing her intestines - all of which he finished off with stabs to her vagina. With Doris, he sliced-up her left breast, almost severing the nipple. He inflicted a series of deep slashes, between 2 ½ and 6 ½ inches long across her abdomen, and the only possible reason he didn’t insert anything inside of her vagina was that – in her last terrifying moments alive - she had wet herself. This time, he had removed the weapon (possibly a razor blade) that he’d used to inflict these wounds, but he had posed Doris; with her right hand by her genitals, as if she was drawing attention to her violation, and her left hand outstretched towards the door, as if she had died crying out for help. As a sexual sadist, there was no denying that he always took great relish in torturing these women; he assaulted them, he inflicted pain, he posed them and he watched them slowly die by his hand. To Cummins, this was his work. But being a narcissist, he seemed less concerned about how petrified these women felt as they died, and more focussed on his image, his art and his reputation as a ‘ripper’. So, was the murder of Edith Eleonora Humphries a rehearsal for his four-day masterpiece? On Friday 17th October 1941 at 6:45am, Jill Steele who lived on the first-floor of 1 Gloucester Crescent was awoken by the frantic yapping of a little black terrier. Edith had been dog-sitting this usually quiet pooch for a tenant in the top floor flat, but with its barks growing more perturbed, Jill went to check. Descending the stairs, Jill cooed “Edith?”, but got no reply. Approaching slowly, she saw the door was wide open, but inside it was dark owing to the blackout-blinds. “Edith?”, again she got no reply. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened as the meter had run out. So, always carrying her trusty torch as the area was prone to power-cuts, she shone its beam inside and was shocked by the sight. Found sprawled across her bed, Edith’s face had been beaten with such force that her jaw was broken in several places. Pummelling her head into a purple swollen pulp, he had strangled her until she was rendered unconscious. Then, as if her torture wasn’t cruel enough, he had slit open her throat so when she breathed, blood bubbled from its frothing gash. And then, with sadistic relish and in a swift single blow, he had stabbed her in the head, the cold blade splitting apart her skull and penetrating her brain. When the Police arrived, they found no witnesses to her attack. But with the terrier having been locked in her cupboard, it’s likely her assailant was disturbed by its barking and he had cut-short his assault. The investigation concluded; Edith had willingly let her attacker in, they had shared a cup of tea, she was wearing her nightdress (so either she or they had headed to bed), several items were stolen such as a gold ring and some costume jewellery, and – whoever he was – he had left behind his fingerprints. None of the neighbours heard a single sound or saw the man who Edith had invited home. All of her “men friends” were questioned and they all had alibis, including her very “persistent” boyfriend. But what shocked the Police most was this? Six hours after she was attacked... Edith was still alive. Rushed to the National Temperance Hospital at 126 Hampstead Road, Edith was taken straight into surgery to be operated upon by eminent brain surgeon Dr Guy Rugby Jones. She was barely alive, and her chance of surviving he thought was “one in a million”, but he felt she deserved that chance. Sadly, she died in surgery and - having never named her attacker - the case remains unsolved. So, were the murders of Mabel Church and Edith Humphries the work of the Blackout Ripper? They had similarities and differences, so maybe their deaths show a logical escalation in violence? Maybe in these murders he was exploring the sadistic techniques which would later become part of his tried and tested method, and those which would not? And maybe, if Edith and Mabel were a rehearsal, then there must be clues in his past which hint at him either being a spree-killer in the making... ...or a wannabe serial killer? Gordon Frederick Cummins joined the Royal Air Force on 11th November 1935, as a flight Rigger at Henlow in Bedfordshire. From 1936 to the outbreak of war in September 1939, he was billeted at RAF Felixstowe. And until January 1941 he was based at RAF Helensburgh in Dunbartonshire, Scotland. Based on-site, his job was as a mechanic repairing military aircraft, but as Britain entered the war and he worked on classified experimental planes, his timings and movements prove hard to pin down. From the 3rd February 1942 to his arrest at the end of his four-day killing-spree ten days later, Cummins was based at No3 Air-Crew Receiving Centre and was billeted in Flat 27 St James Close, all on the edge of Regent’s Park. But investigators were unable to verify his precise timings during these murders, as the RAF logbook held at Abbey Lodge had entries missing and soldiers often signed in for each other. During the murders of Mabel and Edith between 12th and 17th October 1941, his timings are impossible to verify. As having spent six months at RAF Fighter Command at Colerne in Wiltshire, although from the 6th October 1941 he was posted to 600 Squadron at RAF Predannack in Cornwall, he wasn’t billeted on-site. Instead, he would remain as a private lodger at the family home of Elisabeth Mary Field at Hall Farm, Thickwood Lane in Colherne until early November - where he could come and go as he pleased. Unfortunately, there is no record of Cummins being in London during the murders of Mabel or Edith. That said, with his wife living in London and regularly visiting the West End, he often travelled the 80 miles from Colerne and the 200 miles from Predannack, either by train or having hitch-hiked a ride. But what about his character? A man can disguise his movements, but he can never hide his true self. His landlady at Hall Farm would later state “he was an intellectual man, but prone to exaggeration, he was even-tempered and a very likeable person, but he had no extreme views”. A description backed-up by Sidney Butler, landlord of one of Gordon’s local pubs at the White Hart in Ford, Wiltshire, who said “he had childish mannerisms, I considered him to be mentally abnormal, he would drink to excess and would often run out of money, but was never objectionable and would never quarrel or fight”. Fuelled by a belief that he was not achieving greatness, Gordon was prone to lying and was nicknamed ‘The Count’ and ‘The Honourable Gordon Cummins’ having professed to being the black sheep of an aristocratic family. This mirrors what his family would state, that he was a dreamer but not a maniac. In his letter to Corporal Laurie Williams, his pal at RAF Predannack, it read “Jerry does seem to have made a mess of Bath, doesn’t he? I wonder if the Christopher has been touched? Or the Hole in the Wall? Perhaps not – dens of iniquity always escape unscathed”. Way beyond his killing spree, he had a history of visiting sex-workers, which was not something he was ashamed of; these included Quiet Street (a known pick-up place for prostitutes), The Hole in the Wall, the Christopher Hotel, the Francis Hotel and the Royal Hotel in Bath, all of which were deemed out-of-bounds to all military personnel. His sexual appetite was notorious, and yet he didn’t have a criminal record. So, either he was never caught, never charged, or the courts were unlikely to convict a war-time soldier for a minor offence? That said, none of the sex-workers he frequented complained of his behaviour. His sexual preferences were normal, he treated them well and he made no sadistic requests. His girlfriends said the same; there were no known incidents of assault, rape or strangulation, he was charming if a little immature. His main vice was theft. Being unable to maintain a lavish lifestyle on a mechanic’s wage, in November 1941, at the Blue Peter Club in Mullion, it was alleged that he stole £35 worth of jewellery from a flat above the club. The matter was dealt with privately and no formal complaint was made to the Police. That same month, Bath Police investigated reports of “an airman stealing handbags at the Hole in the Wall”, which – like tights and lipsticks – were low-cost but high-value items he was known to steal and would gift to his secret girlfriends. Police later tracked some of these ladies down, but no items were found relating to the victims of his four-day killing-spree, or Mabel Church and Edith Humphries. In fact, the only hint of violence prior these murders were two reports of women being assaulted by “an airman” on Quiet Street in Bath and in the village of Ford near Colerne. Sadly, they were unable to identify their attacker and therefore he was neither named or charged. But was this him? (End) So, did the Blackout Ripper murder Mabel Church and Edith Humphries? It’s possible, as they fit the profile of a fledgling spree-killer finding his feet, but they could easily match any of other murderer (whether deliberate or accidental) who was stalking the unlit streets of London during war-time. If they were him, this confirms he was not a spree-killer, but a serial killer; a man who was calm, callous and controlled, who could come across like an ordinary chap, and a sadistic killer in the very next beat. As of today, the police investigation files remain closed and will certainly be pushed back further. But whether the name Gordon Frederick Cummins appears in either of those case-files is debatable, as I can find no conclusive proof that the police ever publicly stated that he was a “viable suspect” in either of those first two murders. It was only stated by the press several decades after the murders. It also impossible to tell whether Cummins was a sadist, or whether – having never achieved greatness - he merely wanted the notoriety that a case such as this should get... but didn’t, as being war-time, the world had bigger issues. And as he died claiming his innocence, we shall never know his motives. The speed of his trial, his lack of confession and the gaps in his history leaves us with a lot of holes, as with his life riddled with lies and his crimes full of theories, we have very little in terms of a conclusion. So, maybe he did snap and go on a killing-spree? Maybe Edith and Mabel were a test-run? Maybe he did commit a string of rapes and assaults prior to this date, all of which went unreported? Or maybe, he didn’t only murder four women in the West End, and potentially two more over four months? Maybe - as a soldier who lived in untraceable accommodations, who frequented different locations and worked in a several classified military bases across the UK; from Cornwall to Wiltshire, London to Northumberland, Hampshire to Yorkshire, and several bases in Scotland from 1935 to 1942, as well as being posted to Regent’s Park five days prior to his killing-spree – it is likely there are other attacks and murders possibly committed by Gordon Frederick Cummins, which are yet to be unearthed? So, for now, this is not the end. The Blackout Ripper: First Blood will return. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was concluding part of this section of the Blackout Ripper: First Blood. The next part will take months if not years to research, as this has never been done before, so don’t expect it any time soon. This is the last official episode of Murder Mile for this year. The new season will begin on Thursday 24th February 2022. But if you would like to keep up to date with all of the research for the new season, as well as the book and enjoy a whole back catalogue of photos, videos and the exclusive podcast series – Walk With Me – which will be available for all subscribers over January and February. You can treat yourself to that by subscribing to Patreon for as little as £2, and help support this podcast. After the break is Extra Mile, which includes the usual non-compulsory nonsense by a fat bald man who is yet to demolish his Christmas treats, as well as extra details on this case and a little quiz. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #157: The Blackout Ripper: First Blood - Part 1 (Mabel Church)22/12/2021
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 location of where Mabel Church was murdered at 225 Hampstead Road, long since replaced by flats
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 FIFTY-SEVEN:
In the second week of February 1942, six women were attacked on consequecutive days across London's West End; two were violently assaulted and four were brutally tortured and murdered. All were attributed to Gordon Frederick Cummins, who would later be dubbed 'The Blackout Ripper'. But was he a one-off spree-killer, or did this sadistic maniac have two more victims in his past?
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 attack on Mabel Church is located with a black cross up near the words Summers Town near the top left of the map. 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/r/C1257978 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257977 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: *** 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”, 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, totalling 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.
The Barley Mow pub on Duke Street, as of today it's under construction
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 FIFTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Charlotte Flanagan, a trainee-nurse and a part-time barmaid who was always there for those who needed her most. But when someone she trusted needed her to be more than just a friend, their close bond ended in 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 Charlotte's murder is marked with a lime green cross near the word Mayfair. 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. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2237917.stm https://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/ukgwa/20110204013636/http://www.hmcourts-service.gov.uk/cms/144_10853.htm https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5992723.boyfriend-murder-charge/ https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5968926.date-fixed-murder-trial/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2237917.stm https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5943722.saved-killers-life/ https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/1082151.reclusive-giant-will-stay-jail-2014/ https://www.theboltonnews.co.uk/news/5943153.murder-case-man-may-have-flipped/ https://www.theboltonnews.co.uk/news/5943497.obsessed-loner-killed-woman-22/ https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1409830/Obsessed-man-killed-woman-after-fancy-dress-party.html https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/1236902.darwen-mans-murder-conviction-upheld/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2317285.stm 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 Charlotte Flanagan, a trainee-nurse and a part-time barmaid who was always there for those who needed her most. But when someone she trusted needed her to be more than just a friend, their close bond ended in 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 156: The “Old Acquaintance” of Charlotte Flanagan. Today I’m standing on Duke Street in Mayfair, W1; one street south of the stalker Joseph King, one street north of the assassination of Alexander Litvinenko, twenty feet south-east of the terrorist attack of flight El-Al 016, and a few doors from the unfortunate Evelyn Hatton - coming soon to Murder Mile. On the corner of George Yard, at 82 Duke Street once sat the Barley Mow public house; a five storey, corner-building built of brown brick and pale Portland stone with black wrought-iron detailing. Built in 1851 at 40 Duke Street, it was entirely renumbered in 1896 and rebuilt where it remains today. With an open-plan pub on the ground-floor, a kitchen and dining on the first, with an office and a small flat above – given how pretentious Mayfair can be – the Barley Mow was actually a proper pub where you could enjoy a good pint, a hearty meal and some friendly banter. Admittedly, when the rugby was on, it was chock-full of London’s unhealthiest, stretching their sweaty sports tops to the max, glugging back fifty pints, all while wheezing about how - having watched six slow-motion replays on Sky Sports– these “so-called professional sportsmen” are “lazy useless idiots, and other such insights by red-faced pundits whose only body parts they’ve exercised since Thatcher’s era was their gobs and arses. Sadly, like every other pub, it’s being turned into posh flats. The scaffolding is up, a tarp’ covers the crime and a sales sign is there to lure in any overpaid MP looking for a third home to house his mistress. Back on the New Year’s Eve 2001, a private party was in full swing here at the Barley Mow, the beer was flowing and the mood was festive. Seeking to say ‘goodbye’ to the old year and welcome in the new, everyone was dressed as either vicars or tarts. Behind the bar, 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was serving drinks and earning an honest wage before she began her new life - training to be a nurse. As midnight passed and Auld Lang Syne was sung, it should have been a moment of hope, and although this infamous but often misunderstood song asks that old acquaintances should never be forgotten, maybe the man who had come to visit Charlotte was a friend who should have been left in the past? As it was here, on the New Year’s Day of 2002, in the top floor-flat above the Barley Mow pub, that the kindness of Charlotte Flanagan became the cruellest excuse for her tragic death. (Interstitial) (Play audio of Auld Lang Syne) “Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. For days of auld lang syne”. Traditionally sung to welcome in the New Year, Auld Lang Syne began life as an old folk song collected and scribed by poet Robert Burns in 1788, having heard the words spoken by an old man on his travels. It tells the story of two friends, catching-up over a drink and their memories of times long gone. Few of us understand it, but often these are the first words many of us utter as the clock strikes twelve... ...they were also some of the last words uttered by Charlotte Flanagan. 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was born in 1979 in Darwen, a market town in Lancashire, just south of Blackburn. Described as bubbly, big-hearted and full of life, it was no surprise that Charlotte would enter the ‘caring profession’. Educated at St Cuthbert's primary school in Darwen and later at St Wilfrid's in Blackburn, she was raised locally, she had many friends and her upbringing was good. Raised in a pleasant family home, although Darwen was a former industrial town built on cotton mills and heavy industry, Melville Gardens was a quiet spot which overlooked miles of heathered moorland and peaceful walks. With her mum also being the local practice nurse, there was little doubt that this warm and nurturing environment was a big reason why Charlotte became such a decent person. Which is not to say that, during her life, she hadn’t been plagued by moments of anxiety or depression, but find a teenage girl who hasn’t. And if anything, battling brief bouts of mental illness wasn’t a thing she saw as a weakness, as it only made her more understanding of those who were also suffering. Having left school with a good education, Charlotte worked at the Trinity Partnership in Clitheroe, as a mentor for young children, believing that any future problems could be curtailed through care, compassion and giving a lost child a sense of hope, knowing that they are good, strong and loved. In 1999, aged twenty, Charlotte began working for Blackburn & Darwen Council in their social services department, gaining invaluable training and experience, but always with an eye on becoming a nurse. Life wasn’t particularly hard for Charlotte, as she was raised well, she had a kind soul and – although the most essential jobs are never properly paid - being a hard-worker with an astute head on her shoulders, she got a mortgage on a nice two-storey sandstone terraced-house in Walmsley Street, an eight-minute walk from the centre of Darwen near her workplace, her friends and her family. That year, working in the same department, Charlotte met a social worker called Gary and the two became friends. It was an unlikely relationship but beneficial for both; as needing help to pay her mortgage, Gary became Charlotte’s lodger; and being a little shy, she helped bring him out of his shell. Being a whopping six-foot-eight inches tall and weighing a hefty twenty-stone - looking like a dark-haired Honey Monster - Gareth Richard Horton always eclipsed Charlotte wherever they went and – like chalk and cheese - the two always stood out. And as bubbly as Charlotte was, Gary was a gentle giant, who kept-to-himself, rarely spoke up and - as friends - the two clearly cared for each other. ...but sometimes, even the simplest of friendships can be doomed from the start. In his own words, 29-year-old Gary Horton described himself as a "rather miserable personality”. Being a loner, he had suffered with feelings of rejection, self-doubt and anxiety around others. Spending much of his spare-time by himself; he had very few friends, he had never had a girlfriend and he was incredibly close to his mum Eileen, calling her daily as she was the one person who he truly trusted. Since his childhood and especially through puberty, Gary had gone from being a sweet little boy to a silent shell of his former self. Emotionally, his mental health had sharply declined, but nothing sinister, as he was too shy to be any trouble, too meek to be violent and the only person he hated was himself. His depression had stemmed from his school days when this mini ‘man mountain’ in the making was mercilessly bullied owing to his size, by dickheads too thick to see the real hurt they were inflicting. Riddled with low self-esteem, he under-achieved academically, he struggled to form close bonds and he found it difficult to express his feelings with others. Later diagnosed with clinical depression, across his life, this silent sensitive hulk required psychiatric help, but wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself. Being Charlotte’s friend was the best thing that ever happened to Gary; where-as he was quiet and insular, she was fun and bubbly, and although this match could have made for an unhealthy mix which made him worse, she hoped that by making him part of her world, he would re-find his confidence. Across the three years they were friends, colleagues and house-mates; they often went out in Darwen for a nice meal, a few cheeky drinks and a bit of a dance, as many friends would... ...but when he had been drinking, Gary’s feelings of self-loathing got the worst of him. In June 2001, after a night-out in Darwen’s Market Square, feeling a little bit tipsy after several drinks, Charlotte and Gary were making their way home by foot. As per usual, this eight-minute walk from Market Square to Walmsley Street took them north up a partially-lit semi-empty street. What they had spoken about that night remains between them; maybe she had spoken about her ex-boyfriends, maybe he had spoken of having never had a girlfriend, or maybe he told her how he felt? But whatever it was, maybe this boozy heart-to-heart had ignited something dark inside Gary’s mind? It was shortly after chucking-out time, when Charlotte and Gary stumbled up Atlas Road. Home was only a quick totter away, so they had no need to hail a taxi or a bus. But as they passed Darwen station, Gary ran up the concrete stairs and - from the platform edge– hurled himself onto the train tracks. Chasing after Gary, Charlotte pleaded with him to stop fooling about, but he refused to move. Instead, he just lay there, crying, with his head and body sprawled across the hard metal lines, as he awaited the swift slash of a passing train which would sever his body into bits with a fast clean slice. “Gary, stop being a dick”, Charlotte barked “this isn’t funny anymore”, but still he refused to budge. As the tracks rumbled, in the distance, she could hear the Rochdale train approaching - speeding like the grim reaper clutching a lamp - as its burning light drew ever nearer. But still, Gary remained still. Knowing they had just seconds to spare before her pal was pulverised, Charlotte grabbed his oversized hand and tried to pull him up off the tracks. But being over two metres tall and weighing 280 pounds, even with help she would have struggled to shift him, but – right there and then – Charlotte was alone. Only, as the train sped ever nearer, having grabbed hold of his hand to save his life, now he wouldn’t let go of hers. His grip was tight, her hand was held and the only thing she could do to save them both from a certain death was to make him see sense. (Noise silences) “Gary, come on now, let’s go home”. Because he liked her, he listened to her, and so – if only for that reason - he did as she had said. We can never be certain if Gary really wanted to die that night... ...but some had said he did it because he loved her. Around that time, barely six months before her murder, Gary had sought-out psychiatric help for his anxiety and depression. Again, he was not considered a threat to anyone but himself, and although Charlotte was a truly caring person who knew how to listen and to get the best out of those who needed her help, living and working with Gary had proven to be impossible. The terraced-house on Walmsley Street was hers, but now her little home felt like the kind of place where she didn’t feel happy or comfortable. Spending more time at her parents in Melville Gardens, her brother Luke once asked her why she wasn’t at home, Charlotte’s reply was simple - “he’s there”. She could have found anyone to be her lodger, but more out of kindness than need, she had welcomed him into her life, her home and her world, but now he was acting as if they were husband and wife. Whenever they went out, he always insisted on paying for the drinks. He squandered most of his life-savings on her, he even considered buying a car for them both, even though he didn’t have a driving licence. He once bragged to a mutual friend “we’ve got engaged”, only to claim it was just a lame joke moments later. But becoming possessive of who Charlotte saw and where she went, having booked a week’s holiday in Ibiza with a few girl pals, Gary pestered her with calls pleading with her not to go. She had made it abundantly clear – in the nicest way possible - that she was not attracted to him. But whether Gary’s obsession with her was less about sex, and more about the fact that he had never had a close friend and didn’t want to lose her is hard to fathom, as Gary kept his feelings to himself... ...but just four months before her murder, his life would be upended by chaos. In September 2001, Charlotte moved to West London. It was the break she needed being her first time away from her home-town of Darwen, seeking a fresh start with a promising new career training to be a nurse. To save money, she worked as a bar-maid at the Barley Mow pub in Mayfair and had begun seeing the step-son of one of the pub’s regular, a teacher from Nottingham called David Ivmey. Life was going well for Charlotte... but mentally, Gary was struggling. Without his only friend, he had regressed back to his old miserable self, sitting in isolation and brooding over the failings in his life. Seeing his decline and worried about her pal’s mental health spending Christmas by himself, Charlotte invited Gary down to London from Christmas Eve to New Year’s Day. Only, having already planned to take his own life, he regarded this trip less with festive cheer... and more as a farewell to a cruel world. On Christmas Eve 2001, Gary travelled three-hours from Darwen to London, staying for one week in a single room at the County Hotel, situated close to Euston station. Owing to the late hours she worked, he was unable to share with Charlotte, as she lived in the top-floor flat above the Barley Mow pub. It is uncertain if – at any point across the Christmas week – Gary either met, or was made aware of Charlotte’s new boyfriend, David Ivmey, but except for his usual gloom, nothing untoward happened. On Christmas Day, with the pub open, Charlotte worked and saw Gary when she was free. When she wasn’t, he kept himself amused watching the festive fare on the BBC, with such delights as; the original Mary Poppins featuring Dick Van Dyke’s god-awful cockney accent, the TV premiere of Sliding Doors and after the Queen’s Speech was Rolf’s Merry Christmas, starring convicted sex-offender Rolf Harris. On Boxing Day, she met Gary and then went out on a date with David at TGI Fridays in Leicester Square. And on Thursday 27th December, at King’s Cross station, Charlotte and David shared a kiss as he caught a train back home. She had planned to come up and stay with him in Nottingham on New Year’s Day... ...and although their kiss was only meant as a ‘see you soon’ smooch... ...for both, it was actually a ‘last goodbye’. The New Year’s Eve of 2001 began like an ordinary day for most. It drizzled, the sky was gloomy, the fireworks would be a wash-out as always, and the West End shops were full of idiots believing they were buying bargains, when in fact, they were paying over the odds for old tat the shop couldn’t shift. To get a few days off, Charlotte had worked Friday 28th, Saturday 29th and Sunday 30th December, and with David away, this gave her more time to spend with Gary. As far as we know, they hadn’t argued, Gary didn’t seem unusually depressed, and he hadn’t told her that he had thoughts of killing himself. At 4pm, having finished her afternoon shift at the pub, Charlotte and Gary went out for a meal, during which she told Gary about her boyfriend. What he said is unknown, but he gave no emotional reaction; there was no anger, no cross words and no tears, but neither were their congratulations, best wishes or kisses. He would later describe his mood that night as being his “normal rather-miserable self”. At 6pm, Gary phoned his mum (Eileen) to say he was “having a good time”. At 8pm, they returned to the Barley Mow where a private party was taking place. To ring in the New Year, everyone had dressed-up in costumes, with the theme of the party being ‘Vicars and Tarts’. Not being one to let the side down, Charlotte dressed as a sexy French Maid wearing a short black dress with white frills and black stockings. And although, even the simplest of vicar’s costumes would be nothing more than a suit and a cardboard dog-collar, Gary didn’t dress-up as he wasn’t in the mood. At 9:30pm, once again Gary called his mum, and again, (for him) he sounded in good spirits. At 11:30pm, Gary texted his friend, stating he was at the party, that he was enjoying himself, and that he was dressed in a skirt and that he had shaved his legs. Why he lied about this? We don’t know. And at the stroke of midnight, Big Ben rang out and fireworks erupted, as across the small bar-room of the Barley Mow, fifty-or-so merry regulars reverberated the room with that most-famous of songs. “Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. For days of auld lang syne” (continue underneath). Being personable, Charlotte kissed and hugged her regulars, as everyone else had done, and she wished a “happy new year” to her friend and house-mate, Gary. 2002 would mark a fresh start, with a new boyfriend and a bright future in nursing ahead. Only, for Charlotte, her future was to be a lot shorter than she could ever imagine... ...and although she had done so much to help her friend when he needed her most, maybe Gary Horton was an “old acquaintance” who should have been forgotten? Simply to save her life. A few minutes after the rousing reverie of Auld Lang Syne had quietened and the party-goers had sunk back a few more slugs of cheap champagne, Gary and Charlotte were seen at a table by the bar, having what many described as “a few minor words”. Something not unusual in a pub, post-midnight. At 12:15am, feeling a little drained after a long day with a tiring friend, she told the two barmen she was taking a break and headed up to her bedroom at the top-floor of the pub, leaving Gary in the bar. That is where he stayed; by himself, saying nothing, dressed in his own clothes and nursing a drink. At 1am, as Charlotte had failed to return from her break, Gary had said he would go and check if she was okay. The barmen didn’t need her as the party was dying down, but still, Gary seemed concerned. From the bar, he ascended the stairs to the first floor, and although her bedroom was still three floors higher (whether by chance encounter or deliberate choice), he made a brief stop at the empty kitchen. In court, the prosecution described this action as a “significant degree of planning or pre-meditation”, but the defence would argue that - owing to mental disorder – in that very moment, Gary had flipped. Opening a ‘staff only’ door, he climbed the stairs to the upper floors until he got to Charlotte’s room. And there she lay, curled-up peacefully on top of her bed, her head on a pillow. Still in her French Maid’s outfit, as if she had only planned to shut her eyes for a moment, but had drifted off to sleep. With her eyes shut, her breathing soft and her mind miles away in a land of dreams, she had no idea of what was about to happen, no way to defend herself and no idea that her friend wished her dead. Clutching a ten-inch knife stolen from the kitchen, with a fast single blow, Gary stabbed the blade with such force that it penetrated through the full width of her neck. With her jugular vein severed, her windpipe slit and being partially paralysed; she awoke and saw, but she could not move. And as every pint of blood spewed from the gaping wound in her neck, within the minute, Charlotte was dead. Why he did it, we don’t know? Maybe it was love? Maybe it was jealousy? Maybe it happened in a moment of madness? Or maybe the thought of losing his only real friend was too much pain to bear? And yet, the pathologist would state, he had intentionally cut part of her costume leaving her genitals exposed, but there was no obvious sexual motive and she had not been sexually interfered with. At 1:30am, Gary calmly left the pub, saying he needed “some fresh air”. Two hours later, from a public phone-box by Embankment tube, he rang his mother and confessed “Mum, I've killed Charlotte". With nothing left to live for, the man-mountain tried to drown himself by wading into the icy muddy silt of the River Thames, but failing miserably, at 4am, he called his mum, and she phoned the police. Thirty minutes later, at 4:30am, the body of Charlotte Flanagan was found and she pronounced dead. (End) Examined by a police doctor at Walworth Police Station, Gary was described as “orientated, but not confused”. In the presence of a solicitor and a social worker, he refused to answer any questions about the murder, but he gave a statement about his mental health. Interviewed for a second time, at 1:12am on 2nd January 2002, Gary Horton was charged with murder at Bow Street Magistrates Court. Tried at the Old Bailey between the 1st and the 11th October 2002, he pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, but he denied murder. The prosecution stated his actions “showed he had an obsession with Charlotte that was both sexual and emotional. The thought of Charlotte going out with another man was too much for him". And although both sides agreed he had a genetic pre-disposition to depression, exacerbated by “low self-esteem probably caused by years of bullying at school” over his height and weight, Gary denied that he was motivated by jealousy. After deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of guilty of murder by an 11 to 1 majority. Judge Brian Barker stated: "This was a horrendous crime which has resulted in the senseless waste of a woman who had everything to look forward to. You took the life of the most important person in the world to you, a person who you thought might be moving on". Gary Horton was sentenced to life in prison, with a minimum of 12 years to be served, after which he can only be released if the parole board feels he no longer poses a danger. And even then, he will remain on licence for the rest of his natural life. 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was returned to Darwen, where she was buried, near her family. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who take great pleasure in hearing a bloated baldy stuff a lethal number of cakes into his face, whilst he waffles on about rain, wind, Eva and coots. Stay tuned after the break for a non-compulsory bit of fun, with a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are K Reid and Cheryl Lyon. A big thank you to both of you, I thank you for supporting the show and a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the show, and leaves kind reviews of Murder Mile. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 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.
The bridleway at the back of Ismailia House in Fulham, where Ismailia Road once stood
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 FIFTY-FIVE:
Today’s episode is the final part about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall; a baby-faced killer who had brutally bludgeoned a woman to death, and although this could have been dismissed as an isolated drunken mistake, this murder may mark the beginning of a serial-killer in the making.
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 attack is located with a red cross at the middle near the words Fulham and Swedish Wharf. 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.
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 the final part about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall; a baby-faced killer who had brutally bludgeoned a woman to death, and although this could have been dismissed as an isolated drunken mistake, this murder may mark the beginning of a serial-killer in the making. 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 155: The Sadistic Little Drummer Boy – Part Two. Today I’m standing on the corner of De Morgan Road and Townmead Road in Fulham, SW10; a few roads south of Jane Andrew’s attack on her sleeping boyfriend Tommy Cressman, a ten-minute stroll from the home invasion by the Devil’s Child, and a few feet from the spot on the River Thames where an infamous murderer supposedly disposed of an unrecorded victim - coming soon to Murder Mile. Being typical of the hotch-potch way that most of London is built, this street is a mish-mash of styles from the last two centuries; there’s a long row of identical Victorian terraces, an old wharf refashioned as office space and posh flats, a 1970’s tower block with a recent lick of paint, an ugly Sainsbury’s, and - of course – near to what used to be Ismailia Road sits a set of flats imaginatively called Ismailia House. Like most new builds, Ismailia House was constructed in the time-old British tradition of whack it up fast, bish-bash-bosh and claim it’s for locals, only to flog-off 90% to a Saudi before a single brick is set. With the worst three flats reserved for council tenants and the obligatory 10% set aside for “local amenities” which means a few bins, a dentist’s, a Tesco Express and bookies – oh yes, all the essentials. Behind these flats once sat Ismailia Road, a small road connecting to Wandsworth Bridge Road, but - long since demolished - it is now just a bridle-way. On the ground-floor of number 5 lived Mabel Jean Hill, a 34-year-old divorced mother-of-three who had provided a safe place for herself and her family. By sheer misfortune, whilst travelling home from a nice night-out, she had struck-up a conversation with a small baby-faced youth who looked harmless enough. His name was Michael Douglas Dowdall. And it was here, on Saturday 10th October 1959, that Mabel would meet this fledgling serial-killer who had already murdered one woman, and – it looked likely – that Mabel would be his next. (Interstitial). (Michael) “I picked up a prostitute in Trafalgar Square. She called a taxi and I remember she gave an address as somewhere in Kilburn... I had sex with her and went to sleep”. (snoring). When questioned, her attacker would claim it was an accident and that was also what the evidence would suggest. On Friday 19th December 1958 at roughly 6pm, the body of 31-year-old sex-worker Veronica Murray was found in her first-floor bedsit at 58 Charteris Road in Kilburn. With no signs of forced entry and two sets of fingerprints on a tea-cup, this suggested she had let her attacker in and had sex with him. Naked, except for her brown pullover pulled-up over her head, Veronica had been brutally bludgeoned to death, with her skull smashed using ornamental cast-iron dumbbell taken from her mantlepiece. This suggested her attack was not pre-meditated, but was most likely a provoked act of aggression. With no items of any obvious value known to have been stolen from her room - except for a bottle of whiskey - the motive was unlikely to be a robbery, but more of an opportunist theft by drunken punter. So far, for the police, this case hadn’t any of the hallmarks of a fledgling serial-killer in their midst. If anything, it resembled any number of attacks on lone sex-workers in their own homes across the last several decades... although this one did have one or two unusual details which made it stand-out. Around her abdomen three identical circular abrasions in a V-shape marked her flesh. Inflicted post-mortem, they had been made using “a manufactured item” of unknown origin. They’re meaning was baffling, but as any sex worker will tell you, everyone has a strange sexual perversion; whether pain, pee or poo; tickling, smearing or strangling; some like feet, food, feathers and some like to inflict scars. It was an odd quirk, possibly accidental, which didn’t match any other cases the police had ever seen. Found with her legs splayed, it was difficult to determine if sex had taken place, but the pathologist had hypothesised that her attacker may have raped her using a wooden coat-hanger. Potentially being impotent, it is not uncommon for rapists to only become aroused by pain, strangulation and death. And having fled without reporting his offence, again this wasn’t unusual among pimps and punters. The police investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Evan Davies who found more dead-ends than fresh-clues. With no witnesses, they had no description of the assailant or an accurate timeline leading up to her murder. They had fingerprints, but it matched no known felon in their files. The taxi-driver was found, but remembered little of this unremarkable fare. And being such a private woman who very few people knew, they interviewed her friends, canvassed her haunts and made a public appeal on the front page of Britain’s most prominent tabloid... but no-one came forward. Having exhausted every possible avenue of enquiry, the case stalled and ground to a halt. Given the evidence, there was a high possibility that this was a one-off; a random attack by a drunk who got violent with a prostitute over something as simple as money. And given the clandestine nature of sex-work, the likelihood is that the man who murdered Veronica would never be caught. No-one suspected that this was the first flattering step of a potential serial-killer. And why would they? That night, having headed back to the Union Jack Club at Waterloo Station (a hostel for servicemen), Michael destroyed his bloodstained suit and shirt, erasing key evidence, and although the murder had briefly appeared in the newspapers, by the time that New Year had passed, it had been forgotten. Even Michael Douglas Dowdall thought that he had got away with murder... ...but this motive which caused him to kill would be awakened once again. The little drummer boy had served in the 1st Battalion of the Welsh Guards for almost four years. Being one of the lowest ranks, the boy was mercilessly bullied for being little, weak and Welsh. Michael: “my Army mates think I’m queer. So, I have a drink, and then I feel better and more important”. To prove his manhood; he drank, smoked and shagged to excess and unconsciousness. It was a fruitless mission which only made him look foolish and - far exceeding his pitiful wage - he needed another scheme. It seemed innocent enough – to pay his fellow soldiers to scrub his shirts and bull his boots to a high mirror shine for a few shillings a time – and the more the squaddies earned, the quicker Michael’s bullying ceased. No-one knew where he was getting the money from and nobody bothered to ask... ...but this money-making scheme helped to sow the seeds of a potential serial-killer. Many times, Michael went AWOL from the barracks at Pirbright and Chelsea, but this wasn’t just to sink some suds or dip his dirty wick inside a prozzie - this was part of his second career as a burglar. It seems almost unconceivable when you look at him; given his head shaped like a doughy little egg, popped with two dim dots for eyes and a set of ears like a crashed mini-cab with the doors wide open. And being too big for his weasily little body, at best he resembled a mixing-bowl spoon. It’s laughable that this boy was even considered a soldier, and being so unthreatening, he didn’t look like a burglar. But maybe that was it? Being small and weak, no-one suspected him. As the mark of every successful serial-killer isn’t the sadistic nature of their crimes, but how – in ordinary life – they seem to blend in. Across 1958 and 1959, this teenage tearaway committed a spree of at least twenty brazen burglaries in the more affluent parts of London, including Mayfair, Chelsea, Knightsbridge and Fulham. On Saturday 10th October 1959, at the exclusive Westbury Hotel at 37 Conduit Street in Mayfair, having wandered the corridors, he gained access to the penthouse suite, costing a whopping £35 per night. It’s occupant, who was in Paris that day with his wife Benita was the Hollywood actor George Sanders. Michael “I did not know it was the Hartnell Suite until I came out and saw it written across the door”. Having ransacked the drawers, he stole an undetermined stash of ladies’ jewels, a bottle of whiskey, a tube of toothpaste “I liked the taste of it... it belonged to George Sanders”, and having stolen a pair of George’s shoes, he left behind a pair of his own size sevens outside the door, which – seeing that “they looked like they had been through a mangle” – the service staff promptly had them polished. Having fled - feeling either a sense of guilt or knowing that one item in particular was too hot to handle - “I was going to send a bracelet back, but I threw it in the river”. As far as we know, it’s still there. When police investigated the scene, they had no witnesses to the crime and no description of the burglar, but his fingerprints did match those of a known sneak-thief who operated in the local area. His actions may seem harmless, even comical, but it was lucky that George & Benita were not there that night, as although petty theft was Michael’s motive, when confronted, he also had a sadistic side. One week later, on Sunday 18th October 1959, he broke in via a small window at the rear of 4 Skinner Place, at the back of Sloane Square. It was a small Victorian brown-bricked terrace sat in a dark unlit alley and was the home of 71-year-old seamstress Annie Belcher, who was fast asleep in her bed. As he ransacked every drawer and cupboard for valuables, the noise startled Annie and she began to scream, hollering so loud that it startled her neighbours Eric & Joyce Christmas at house number 1. Panicked and angered at his plans being thwarted, Michael repeatedly beat the defenceless old lady over her head with a cast-iron fire-poker, leaving her for dead. Rushed to St George’s hospital with a fractured skull, a broken wrist and her face so swollen she risked losing her eye, Annie returned home one week later to stay with her daughter, and – at least physically – she would make a good recovery. As before, although he had stolen nothing, he had left behind fingerprints matching the sneak thief. On Wednesday 21st November 1959, one month later, Michael broke into the home of William Sloane, an Australian businessman living on Markham Street in Chelsea. Thankfully, neither he nor his family were in, so no-one got hurt, but – as before – the burglar had left behind his fingerprints; stealing a clock, a pair of gloves, several bottles of gin and vermouth worth £10, several packs of cigarettes, and a distinctive red-and-white lighter emblazoned with the words and logo of ‘Texas Gulf Sulphur Co’. The police had no idea who this prolific burglar was. Having heard that his name was possibly ‘Mick’ and that he was either a local labourer or a West End musician, they canvassed the building sites and nightclubs and interviewed hundreds of men, but drew a blank. His description was vague; he was aged between mid-twenties to mid-thirties, he was slim to slightly-built, his height was “not short, but not tall”, and – possibly owing to political upset – many said he was Irish, when actually he was Welsh. In fact, the only detail they got right was that ‘Mick’ had a long scar down the right side of his nose. But who was he? The fingerprints found in almost all of the twenty-or-so burglaries he committed, matched those found at the murder scene of Veronica Murray, but they didn’t match any known felon in the police’s files. His MO was often similar; he stole saleable items like jewels, cigarettes and alcohol; when disturbed he would inflict a high level of violence whether by bludgeoning or strangulation, and in some cases, he marked their thighs and abdomens with three circles in a V-shape using “a item” of unknown origin. By November 1959, eleven months after the unsolved murder of Veronica Murray, having attributed at least twenty known burglaries and assaults to the man known only as ‘Scarface Mick’, Scotland Yard would launch “one of the largest man hunts” since 10 Rillington Place killer - John Reginald Christie. Police knew he had murdered one woman, and believed he had also killed five more... ...but uncertain of his exact description, Michael Douglas Dowdall was free to attack again. The date was Saturday 10th October 1959, barely a few hours after the burglary of George Sanders’ hotel room. The location was four-and-a-half-miles south-west in Fulham. And the victim’s name was Mabel Jean Hill; a 34-year-old divorced mother-of-three living in a ground-floor flat at 5 Ismailia Road. As a busy single-parent to Alan, Leslie and Jean, all aged between six and twelve, once in a blue-moon she rightfully felt she deserved a night-off, especially as that night was her birthday. As planned, she met her friends for drinks in Streatham, she went shopping with her mother in the West End, she had dinner in a good pub, went to the cinema, and caught the last tube out of Leicester Square station. Carrying bags of presents, as she stood on the southbound platform of the Piccadilly line tube, a young man with a babyish face asked her for a light. Given his slight slurring, it was clear he had been drinking and although his white overcoat was a little tatty, his shoes were unmistakably shiny and expensive. “Where you going?”, he asked, beaming a smile to this lady almost twice his age. “Home”, she politely piped, wisely giving him nothing more, but for him that was enough. Joining her in the carriage, for the rest of the journey he spoke about his Army career, the band and he said his name was Mick. And although she spotted the scar on his nose, his description was still days away from being in the papers. Hoping to lose her unwelcome admirer, Mabel changed at Earl’s Court, bidding him a polite goodbye. Only he continued his conversation, following her onto the southbound District Line train to Fulham. Again, she tried to shake off this little pest at Fulham Broadway, but he followed her out of the station and onto the deserted street, all the while rambling on about how he should come back to hers for “a coffee, or something”. It was 1am, the last bus had gone and with no taxis in sight, he persistently matched her step-for-step; south down Waterford Road and Harwood Road, west along New King’s Road, dog-licking onto Wandsworth Bridge Road and – after 25 minutes, during which he had tried to kiss her twice – she turned onto the unlit gloom of Ismailia Road, with Michael a few feet behind her. Opening the door to her ground-floor flat at 5 Ismailia Road, Mabel “I went in. He came in too. I said I did not want him in because it was late. He said he just wanted a cup of coffee and then he would go”. Wanting him to leave, to Mabel, a quick cuppa must have seemed like a harmless solution... ...but then again, everybody makes mistakes. Having seated her unwelcome guest at the kitchen table, she put on the kettle and popped into the bedroom to check on her three children, who were all fast asleep. For what must have seemed like an interminably long time; they sat, he talked and she waited for the coffee in his cup to be finished. But barely a few minutes in - without any provocation from Mabel - he removed his shirt and his jumper. Mabel “I told him to put the things on and go home... that’s the last thing I can remember”. It’s unlikely that this was a planned robbery or a premeditated murder, but as often happened in the sadistic mind of this fledgling serial-killer was that - with the sexual advances having been rejected – maybe his tears welled, his lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and his hate-fuelled violence erupted? Having grabbed a pair of stockings off the radiator, wrapping them both around her thin white neck, with his knuckles tight he pulled both ends, and – before she could even emit a decent scream to call out for help – Michael strangled Mabel on the floor, straining until she drifted into unconsciousness. Fixing the knot behind her head, as the nylons twisted about her crucifix, the sadistic maniac savagely ripped at her clothes until her pale white thighs and abdomen were exposed. And just as he had done with Veronica Murray, he could do something truly unimaginable to her body, which was now all his. Only, in his mission to mutilate Mabel, Michael had forgotten about three little things... ...her children. Disturbed by a brief but blood-curdling scream, dressed in just their pyjamas, 12-year-old Alan tiptoed from the bedroom followed by 11-year-old Joan and 7-year-old Leslie. Having fled, her assailant was nowhere to be seen and – thankfully - no danger to the children. But seeing their half-naked mother lying on the kitchen floor, her legs splayed and her head swollen and purple – terrified and unsure what to do – they ran into the Ismailia Street screaming “come quickly, we can’t wake up mummy”. Patrick Mahoney, their next-door neighbour cut the stockings, called the Police, Mabel was taken by ambulance to St Stephen’s Hospital, and being - saved by her children – she made a good recovery. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Inspector Peter Vibart of Chelsea Police Station. Questioning Mabel from her hospital bed, she bravely gave a solid description of a five-foot-seven-inch baby-faced Irish or Welshman called Mick, who was a heavy-drinking chain-smoking drummer in an Army band in the West End. She even remembered the long-scar down the right side of his nose. Robbery was ruled-out as a motive, as the only item he stole was a half-bottle of whiskey, but forensics did find several sets of fingerprints on a blue-patterned coffee cup, a cigarette tin and two milk bottles. Although (in this case at least) they could never determine why he had touched a wooden coat-hanger. Examined in hospital, the most startling aspect of the case were the marks on Mabel’s body. Made by a “manufactured item” of unknown origin, in several places were found a set of circular abrasions in a strange ‘V-shape’, as well as similar marks on her stomach, her chest and her feet. What they meant? He didn’t know, and not being part of the original investigation one year earlier at 58 Charteris Road, he had never seen anything like this before. But having contacted Kilburn Police, now he had a match. The notorious sneak-thief known only as ‘Scarface Mick’ was – without any doubt – the same sadistic maniac who had murdered Veronica Murray and had attempted to kill Annie Belcher and Mabel Hill. One of London’s largest man-hunts had been launched with Police working in shifts, but who he was remained a mystery? They had fingerprints and witnesses, but what they didn’t have was a name. So, who was he? Trawling through an extensive history on ‘Scarface Mick’, DI Vibart noted that = after 21st November 1959 - several assault victims had stated that ‘Mick’, who was a heavy-smoker, had used a distinctive red-and-white lighter emblazoned with ‘Texas Gulf Sulphur Co’, as stolen from William Sloane’s home. It seemed a long-shot, but desperate for any fresh-clues, a photo of the lighter was published in the newspapers. Having been sold for five shillings to a guardsman at the Welsh Guards Camp, on the 24th November 1959, just two days after Mabel’s attack, Michael Douglas Dowdall was arrested. (End) Interviewed at Chelsea Police Station, Michael came across as cocky and arrogant; a remorseless thief who stole to feed a petty addiction to drink and sex, and who was AWOL from his barracks at the time. Without any emotion, he confessed and was charged with several counts of burglary and theft. At that moment, he must have thought he had got away with murder, pleading to few light offences which could – if convicted – lead to a few months in prison. But the burglary charges were just a ploy, as the second he admitted to those robberies, that evidence would directly implicate him elsewhere. That same day, DCI Acott stated "In addition to housebreaking, we are investigating several serious offences I believe you committed in Chelsea, Fulham and Kilburn". At which, Michael’s face dropped and he gave a full confession stating “it is when I drink, I do these things. I am all right when I am sober. It has been worrying me for a long time. I am so glad it is all over ". Assessed by Dr Archibald D Leigh of Bethlehem Hospital, Michael was described as a ‘psychopath’ and a ‘sexual pervert’. In a two-day trial held in Court One of the Old Bailey, he pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. With the death penalty soon to be abolished, on 20th January 1960, Michael Douglas Dowdall was sentenced to life. Having served fifteen years in prison, suffering a lung infection and chronic hepatitis, in July 1975 he was released on licence, but died on 10th November 1976 at the Royal Free Hospital, aged just 36. Outside of Veronica Murray, Annie Belcher and Mabel Hill, he never confessed to any further murders or attempted murders, although the Police believed that he may have killed as many as five. So, was he just fledgling serial-killer in the making... or a fully-fledged sadist with many victims undiscovered? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who enjoy wondering how many cakes a fat bald man can stuff into his mouth without swallowing, join me after the break for a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporter, who is Lesley M – ooh, very mysterious. I thank you for supporting the show and a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to and support Murder Mile. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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58 Charteris Road in Kilburn, 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 FIFTY-FOUR:
Today’s episode is part one of two about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall. Described as a pathetic little mummy’s boy, his early crimes didn’t just set out to prove his bullies wrong, they also became the first faltering steps of - potentially - a fledgling serial-killer.
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
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 part one of two about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall. Described as a pathetic little mummy’s boy, his early crimes didn’t just set out to prove his bullies wrong, they also became the first faltering steps of - potentially - a fledgling serial-killer. 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 154: The Sadistic Little Drummer Boy – Part One. Today I’m standing on Charteris Road in Kilburn, NW6; right in the middle of the St John’s Wood home of Teddy Sieff where Carlos the Jackal botched his first assassination, the Harlesden house where 8-year-old Peter Buckingham took his last gasp, the Cricklewood Arms pub where Stephen Holmes met the ‘Kindly Killer’, and an unsolved attack by another potential ‘Ripper’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Charteris Road is lovely little residential street comprising of two long-lines of two storey terraces from the 1920’s and 30’s. It’s very quiet and very orderly, with a smattering of silver birch trees, the road carefully marked with white lines to denote who parks where and when, with a covered bicycle rack which is almost certainly chock full of Brompton’s. There’s no noise, no kids, no smells and no mess. The worst crimes you could imagine happening on this street might be a yappy little rat incessantly yipping for its millionth morsel that minute of roast-chicken tit-bits, a 90-inch TV briefly blurting too loudly and risking the neighbours knowing that they watch trashy shite like Love Island, something plastic being put in the glass recycling bin, or – scandalously - an Acado delivery replacing their beloved avocadoes with tins of baked beans. And not the good ones but the cheapo own brand. Oh, the shame. But every street has its dark secrets, and this street is no different. At 58 Charteris Road sits a nice two-storey terraced-house; with cream brick walls, white window sills, a thin front garden reserved for three bins, and a UPVC entrance door to the right. It’s currently someone’s home, but back in 1958, this was a lodging house. On the first floor was a bed-sitting room occupied by a new tenant named Veronica Murray, but being new to the area, almost no-one knew her name, her occupation, her history, or anything else about her life. She was a mystery. And yet, her death would become almost as mysterious as her life itself. As it was here, on Friday 19th December 1958 that her body was found. And although it asked more questions than it answered, it also marked the fledgling steps of a potential serial-killer. (Interstitial) (Michael) “My mates think I’m queer, I’ve tried to show them they’re wrong about me, I really have... but they always make me feel like I’m a nobody, a nothing. Well, I’ll show them, won’t I?”. It’s hard to tell what made Michael into a sadistic little monster; maybe it was the bullying, maybe it was the trauma, perhaps his appearance, possibly a crossed-wire in his genetic make-up, or maybe it was a mixture of them all? This is not to excuse his actions, as everybody’s life has challenges, but it’s how we choose to embrace these trials, which either shapes us for the better or for the worse. Michael Douglas Dowdall, known as ‘Mick’ was born on the 12th December 1940; fifteen months into the Second World War and three months into an eight-month-long blitz, a time of trauma and death. Gestated in the terrified womb of a lone woman whose husband was a British Army captain serving overseas, Michael entered this world to the persistent bang of bombs, as the hospital violently shook. Right into his adulthood, Michael would always look like a baby. With a stick-thin body perched above an oversized head, a mop of Charlie Brown hair, a set of sticky out ears and his skin the hue of stale porridge, although for some this youthfulness would be a blessing, for Michael, it was a curse. Raised as the youngest of two sons to a struggling-mother, Michael never knew his father and he never would, as Captain Dowdall was killed-in-action when the boy was barely one. With no memory of the man whose loss made his mother weep, it left a void in his life, but one he could never explain. Uprooted from a nice cottage in Uckfield (Sussex) to a lodging house in Paddington in West London, he was desperate to be the hero his father once was, but Michael was no military man. Being small, weak and prone to outbursts of tears, the little boy spent his early years clinging to his mummy’s leg. Without a father-figure to guide him, to admonish him or to rain him in, although his mother did her very best by herself; he resented his school, his teachers, and – being persistently bullied for looking and acting like a ‘baby’ – by the age of six-and-a-half, he was referred to a child care officer, owing to his volatile outbursts, his hysterical moods, his cruelty to animals and his uncontrollable violence. Mocked for being a mummy’s boy, he always felt he had to prove himself to the bigger boys. And yet, barely held together by a single speck of stability, that was about to vanish forever. In 1948, when he was only eight, his mother died. With both parents’ dead, once again he was uprooted from the big city of London to his aunt’s house in the remote mining village of Llanhilleth, near Abertillery in Wales. Michael was now a foreigner in his own family; surrounded by relatives he barely knew, in a place he had never lived, hearing a language he didn’t understand, and again, at school, this fragile little boy was mercilessly bullied for being an outcast and a nobody. And after a vicious fight where the length of his nose was slashed with a knife, he would forever be given the nickname of ‘Scarface Mick’. But no matter how hard his Aunt Alice tried, it was like Michael was driven to bring misery and pain. During his turbulent teenage years, twice he had tried to burn his aunt’s house to the ground. He often drank himself insensible going drink-for-drink with the men, like he had something to prove. Like a little magpie, he persistently stole anything which wasn’t nailed down, not because he needed it, but because he wanted it. And as his hormones raged – feeling sexually inferior, as a late-bloomer who the girls rightly avoided – as his sexual aggression grew, his desperation led him to pay for sex. In his eyes, a man was defined by how much he drank, fought and fucked... ...but no matter what, Michael would always be a baby. Not just because of his boyish body and a cherubic face, but because of his actions. Always bragging about his conquests, if anyone dared not to believe him? Tears welled, lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and a hate-fuelled violence erupted. In 1955, having left school, 15-year-old Michael Dowdall joined the 3rd Company of the 1st Battalion of Welsh Guards; based out of Pirbrlght in Surrey, and later at the Chelsea Barracks in West London. Having enlisted in the military (as his late father had) this should have been the making of him. Earning an honest wage, learning new skills and being mentored by a flank of disciplined father-figures, this wild little boy could easily have been modelled into a good little man... only the rot had already set in. Being a drummer boy - a role far from the fight of his heroic father and one of the lowest ranks in the battalion’s band - being surrounded by bigger boys, this only increased his anxieties. His commanding officer Lt Col Mansell Miller described him in court as “a bit odd... the boy had delusions of grandeur despite being small and weak”. Few knew him, even less liked him, and because of that, he was bullied. The torment would be so merciless, that in 1956, aged 16, he tried to hang himself in the guardroom. During the three years he spent in the Welsh Guards, he often went AWOL, disappearing from his duty to visit sex-workers in the West End. On his 18th birthday, he convinced three other guardsmen to join him for a few celebratory drinks at a hotel in Guildford, and although they only sunk a few beers to be polite - unable to reign-in his desperation - he sank three pints of gin and had to be carried home. Michael: “my Army mates think I’m queer. So, I have a drink, and then I feel better and more important. Once I started the heavy drinking, I liked it and kept it up. When I was drunk, very drunk, I would try anything. I wasn’t fussy about what I did, or what woman I went with. It made me feel... different”. Routinely mocked by squaddies for being a baby-faced mummy’s boy, he began paying the others to wash his shirts and to clean his boots. No-one knew where he was getting the money from, but seeing him less as a target and more of an extra income, the bullying stopped and it made him feel superior. For Michael, he had finally found a way to prove his masculinity... ...but what the soldiers didn’t know was that they had helped sow the seeds of a potential serial-killer. It’s unlikely that Michael knew much about his first victim, as very few people did. Veronica Murray was born in the Northern Irish town of Londonderry in or about 1927; she was raised a devout Catholic and she was educated at a convent, but – for whatever reason – she didn’t stay. Why she left, we shall never know; maybe she was fleeing an abusive father, maybe she was kicked-out having had sex out of wedlock, or maybe this was an act of rebellion against her strict upbringing? It’s hard to pin down exactly who Veronica was, as she changed her age to suit her needs, and although vivacious and chatty, many people knew her, but not well. She was personable but kept a professional distance, she rarely spoke about her private life, and she was mostly known as Ronnie or Monica. On an unspecified date in 1958, 31-year-old Veronica moved to London, seeking work in West End clubs. Being a fashionable lady with a neatly-coiffured brunette bob, Paris eyebrows and a thick set of red lips - she had a hint of the Hollywood star about her. So, it’s not surprising that she found work as night-club hostess... and yet, she also worked as a sex-worker. Police would later confirm that she had a criminal record for soliciting, but she didn’t turn to prostitution owing to desperation or addiction. Sex-work was a conscious choice; she chose the hours, the places and the punters. She was financially astute enough to spend and save her money well, hence she was always immaculately dressed. But also, she had the foresight to be able to afford her own rented flat at 58 Charteris Road in Kilburn. It was only small, but this first-floor front-facing bedsit was perfect. Perched on a residential street, it was the perfect space for such a private person, but it also afforded her the privacy to her bring clients back home, which is why neither her landlord nor any of the other lodgers knew very much about her. Being far from a shrinking wallflower, life in the big city didn’t scare Veronica, as she had street-smarts, she was savvy and she was cautious. She was chatty enough to make even the most nervous of men feel calm, but also, she had the confidence to stand her own ground when they got rough with her. Veronica was in a dangerous world where she knew how the handle herself... ...but then again, everybody makes mistakes. It was the bitterly cold winter’s night of Monday 15th December 1958. There was no snow, but typically it was cold and wet, as Veronica stood to the side of Trafalgar Square. This was a regular pick-up point for horny punters being conveniently situated near pubs, hotels, a train station and several theatres. Nearby, a Salvation Army band made merry music, the bells of St Martin’s rang, chestnuts (of dubious origin) slowly roasted in an old steel drum as (allegedly) mulled-wine was hocked from a cask, and the city was blessed with a Christmassy feel now that all of the war-time rationing was well-and-truly over. At an unspecified hour, in or near to midnight, Veronica was approached by a punter. He was just a boy, no bigger than Veronica but easily a few stones lighter. With a weak little body and a babyish face, he was barely out of his teen; but was desperate to act like a Billy Big Bollocks bragging about all of his sexual conquests... and yet, experience had told her, it was most likely his first time, Dressed in civvies, although he claimed to be in the Welsh Guards, with his dark suit and starched shirt hanging-off his weasily little frame like a sack of spuds, the best he could be was as a drummer boy. (Michael) “I had been drinking in the West End and I got very drunk”, he would later state. To Veronica, this would have been obvious given his slurred speech and staggering limbs, so perhaps she didn’t see this tipsy little boy with a boner as a threat? Maybe, he was easy money? She had been with pathetic little man-babies many times before, so it’s highly likely – having paid his £1 – he would struggle to raise his pointless little pecker, or as a two-pumps-and-a-squirt-merchant, he’d fart and fall asleep. “I picked up a prostitute in Trafalgar Square. She called a taxi and I remember she gave an address as somewhere in Kilburn”. The journey took 30 minutes, as the cab rode past Hyde Park and up Edgware Road. In his nasal Welsh drone, maybe Michael tried to impress her with a few bullshit tales, at which - being professional - she smiled. But so unmemorable was the journey, that during the investigation it was almost impossible for the Police to track down the driver, as to him, it was just a regular fare. Sometime after midnight, the cab pulled up at 58 Charteris Road. He paid the agreed amount, they entered the house, and both Michael and Veronica were quiet, as neither of the other tenants nor the landlord on the ground-floor heard them. “We got to her house and climbed the stairs to her room”. It was a small clean room with a floral double-bed, a wardrobe brimming with fashionable clothes, a neat dresser covered with curling tongs, brushes and a fine array of cosmetics, with a coin-operated meter for both the lights and the gas-heater, and on the mantelpiece for a fire which no longer existed lay a few personal possessions – some photos, a postcard, a trinket, and a pair of pink ornamental dumb-bells weighing 6lbs each. What they meant to her isn’t known but clearly, they held importance. According to his statement, “I had sex with her and went to sleep”, and that was that. But how much of that was true? When questioned, Michael Dowdall would state “when she woke me up, we had a row over something and she called me a ‘filthy little Welsh bastard’”. Only nobody heard a fight. “I threw a vase at her. I believe it smashed”. Which was true, but no-one knows how it smashed or when. “She came at me and hit me with something on the back of the neck and head, and scratched my nose and eyes”, but by the time he was interviewed, no marks or scars could be seen. So already, his statement had gaps. “I rushed at her, and I knocked her down and then grabbed an ornament off the mantlepiece and hit her on her head or face. I think she was half-getting up, I pulled her onto the bed and I remember chucking some clothes over her. I took a bottle of whiskey and then I left the place”. But why? Did she mock his tiny manhood, did he struggle to sexually perform, was this simply a bungled robbery, or did this man-baby erupt into an uncontrollably violent tantrum, because he couldn’t get his own way? “I went back to the Union Jack Club and went to sleep”. His stay at the serviceman’s hostel at Waterloo Station was proven, although this would suggest he was sober enough to travel back from a place he never knew, and begs the question, how he could have slept having inflicted such a level of violence. “When I woke up, I found blood on my hands, my shirt and suit. I chucked the shirt away in the dustbin having tried to wash it, and I sent the suit to the cleaners. A day or two afterwards, I read in the newspapers that a prostitute had been found murdered in Kilburn, and I knew I had killed the woman”. It seems likely, so perhaps this was an accident? Or maybe - for the most immature reason imaginable – his tears welled, his lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and his hate-fuelled violence erupted... ...marking this as one of the first-fledgling steps of a potential serial-killer? By Friday 19th December 1958, a girl-friend of Veronica’s had grown concerned, as no-one had seen or heard from her for five days, neither at the nightclubs she worked at nor on the Soho sex scene. At 6pm, she phoned the Turkish landlord of 58 Charteris Road – a man named Ratomir Tasic. He assumed that he wasn’t in; as the lights were off, the room was cold and the door was locked from the outside. But using his master key to gain entry, the inside of her room told a very different story. Drawers were opened, contents were scattered, and although the room was in disarray, nothing of any real value had been taken, except maybe a bottle of whiskey, to either be drank, sold or traded? On the bed, partially obscured by sheets lay a woman’s body, all silent and still. Her skin was sickly pale yet mottled with patches of purple, as the excitable buzz of flies and wriggle of maggots formed amidst the sheets caked with blood, and within the impacted recess of her very obvious wounds. Veronica had been dead for five days maybe six, but exactly what time she died - whether as she was going to bed, or just getting up - was impossible to tell, owing to her clothes. Sprawled across the bed, with both legs splayed, she lay naked except for her brown pullover, which had been partially pulled up over her head, as if her killer no-longer wanted to see into the black haemorrhages of her bloodshot eyes, but instead, he dreamed of doing something unimaginable to her body, which was now all his. What the pullover hid was what ultimately ended her life. From the mantlepiece, he had grabbed one of the pair of pink ornamental dumb-bells, made from heavy cast iron and weighing 6lbs a piece. One had remained untouched and clean, but the other lay on the floor, matted with her hair and dripping with her blood, as with the uncontrolled force of a petulant anger, he had bludgeoned her senseless, inflicting six wounds to her forehead and multiple fractures to her cracked and crushed skull. “I knocked her down and hit her on her head or face. She was half-getting up and then I left the place”. As her face swelled, fluid constricted her skull and the pressure forced her eyes to protrude from their sockets, a brain haemorrhage would have taken several agonising minutes for Veronica to die. But had her killer been so panicked at his actions, if this had been merely an accident? He wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to switch off the lights, to lock the door, and do what he did to her next. For this, he was calm, steady and in a state or either arousal or enjoyment. With steady hands, he had inflicted a most unusual wound. Around her thighs and abdomen were three identical marks, a set of circular abrasions on her skin, which formed an intricate v-shape. What it meant? We don’t know. What he had used? That was missing, but noted pathologist Dr Donald Teare concluded that they were not bite marks, but made by “a manufactured item with a flat end”. They made no sense, but one detail was certain. As each mark had occurred post-mortem, her killer hadn’t fled in panic. Instead, he had waited in that room with her body; and calmly inflicted each wound, either after her death, or as she lay dying, as the terrified woman helplessly lay there; her body bleeding, her eyes fixed and unable to breathe or scream – the mark of a true sadist. (End) The investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Evan Davies of Scotland Yard. The room was preserved for evidence and a set of fingerprints (other than Veronica’s) had been found; one on a teacup suggesting she had invited her killer in, and one on a bloodied coat-hanger, which was never conclusively proven, but he may have inserted it inside her. The fingerprints were examined, but they did not prove to be match to anyone with a criminal record, and neither did the MO of this murder. With no witnesses to the crime, being a sex-worker who kept herself-to-herself and a Northern Irish woman who was new to the area, Police contacted her friends and family but drew a blank. In the Christmas Eve edition of the Daily Mirror, Police posted her picture on the front-page pleading “did you see this woman?”, but with no witnesses, this produced no suspects and the investigation went cold. 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall was an unlikely suspect, being small, weak and baby-faced. With no prior convictions, this nobody had never come to the attention of the Police, therefore he was not on their radar; not even for theft or assault. But within this little boy lurked the heart of a sadist. (Michael) “My mates think I’m queer, I’ve tried to show them they’re wrong about me, I really have... but they always make me feel like I’m a nobody, a nothing. Well, I’ll show them, won’t I?”. Veronica Murray was his first, but more victims would feel the wrath of the sadistic little drummer boy. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who love hearing cake-crumbs fall from a fat man’s mush, while he waffles on about stuff n things, join me after the break for a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Barbara Anderson, Zoe Taylor and Julian Barnes. I thank you all for supporting the show and I hope you’ve received your goodies. With a special thank you to Bernadette H and an anonymous friend for your kind donation via the Supporter link. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #153: GEC and the Fourth Floor Girls (The Mansion House Fire)24/11/2021
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67 Queen Victoria Street 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 FIFTY-THREE:
Today’s episode is about a fire in an old building fitted with modern innovations to ensure its workers safety, and although everyone should have survived, it was the old-fashioned attitude towards one particular group of workers, which led to ten unnecessary deaths.
THE LOCATION
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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 a fire in an old building fitted with modern innovations to ensure its workers safety, and although everyone should have survived, it was the old-fashioned attitude towards one particular group of workers, which led to ten unnecessary deaths. 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 153: GEC and the Fourth Floor Girls. Today I’m standing on Queen Victoria Street by St Paul’s Cathedral; the furthest east we’ve been so far, being two streets north-east of the hanging of God’s banker Roberto Calvi, but very little else. Situated by Mansion House tube, sits the busy intersection between Cannon Street and Queen Victoria Street. It’s a dull vague space with little to see, so you’re more likely to pass through it, than to stop. Like most junctions, it is dotted with every conceivable safety measure to ensure you’re less likely to get hurt having not paid a basic level of attention for doing something as simple as walking. Therefore, there’s signs which say stop, go, slow, no-stop, no-go, no-slow, exit, entry, one-way, no-way and naff off. There’s hand-rails to hold, foot prints to follow, bollards at a good height to rest your bollocks on, and even a flashing green man to show you when to walk and (for the real thickies) how to walk. Often, this over-cautious molly-coddling by the Health & Safety Executive does feel like we’re one step away from every pedestrian being fitted with an inbuilt system which issues a cacophony of warnings each second of our lives; like ‘look left’, ‘mind the car’, ‘avoid poop’, ‘oh-oh charity mugger’, ‘BO ahead, limit breathing’, ‘cake is a no-no fatty’, ‘warning potentially unnecessary purchase ahead’, and for a certain niche subset of man-servants ‘get Eva her 3pm cocktail now, or feel her wrath you loser’. It may seem like over-kill, but what we forget is that before any laws are changed and measures are set-up, usually a tragic accident will have happened first. Pedestrian crossings and speed-cameras are often as a result of a loss of life, being a grim memorial to a life lost and the price we pay for progress. At 67 Queen Victoria Street now sits a six-storey concrete building. The original has long-since been demolished, but the third and fourth floors were once owned by GED, the General Electric Company; an innovative maker of electrical devices (like fire alarms) in an era long before electricity was standard in many homes, who prided themselves on their practices designed to ensure the safety of its workers. So, when a fire broke out on the second floor, everyone should have survived... only they didn’t. As it was here, on Monday 9th June 1902, that although the company’s methods were modern, their old-fashioned attitude towards the fourth-floor girls led to ten easily-avoidable deaths. (Interstitial) In 1901, Queen Victoria died, and although the country was gripped in grief for our then-longest reigning monarch, the impending coronation of Edward VII would mark the start of a modern era... The final years of the Victorian era saw many innovations we take for granted today; beginning with the first electric light bulb invented by Joseph Swann in 1878, the first electric iron by Henry Seeley in 1882, the fuse by Thomas Edison in 1890, the first electric kettle by Arthur Leslie Large in 1891, and the first transmission of radio waves in 1901, with many more modern inventions to swiftly follow. Electricity heralded a new era of innovation, it was rightly seen as the way of the future, and although most of London’s street-lamps had been converted from sodium and gas to electricity lamps by 1881 – the same year that Britain built its first public generator at Godalming - the country’s power supply wouldn’t be standardised and co-ordinated until 1926. By 1919, only 6% of homes had electric lighting, a prohibitive luxury reserved for only the most affluent. So, by 1901, even Buckingham Palace had only had been illuminated by electricity for the last thirteen years. But it would come to the masses. One such company ahead of the curve was GEC, the General Electric Company; a business similar in name and in spirit with the American multinational partly co-founded by Thomas Edison. Established by German immigrant Gustav Binswanger, G Binswanger & Co was already a successful electrical goods wholesaler, when in 1886 he partnered up with entrepreneurial salesman Hugo Hirst to produce the first catalogue of electrical appliances; such as bells, telephones, switches and wiring. Trading all across the world, the General Electric Company Ltd was formed, it became a private limited company and established its head-office on the top three floors of 67 Queen Victoria Street in London; with admin and executives on the third floors, and product assembly and packing on the fourth. Innovations in electricity was progressing at a previously unparalleled speed, as each company strove to be the first to invent the next mass-market appliance for the modern household. But electricity was dangerous and everybody knew it, as a single spark could ignite a devastating fire, especially in a city like London with so many old buildings constructed out of highly flammable materials. As a stark reminder, GEC was just half-a-mile from Pudding Lane, the epicentre of the 1666 Great Fire of London. It takes an event of such devastation to change laws, and – although the blitz helped form today’s fire brigade - between both of those events, little innovation had been made to prevent and control fire. It was said “firemen were asked to fight twentieth-century perils with nineteenth-century machinery”. As modern methods of construction meant that buildings grew ever taller, the out-dated appliances the fire crew used remained the same. The ineffective Factory and Workshop Act of 1895 had left the installation and regulation of safety equipment to the companies themselves, and - until 1938 and the creation of the Auxiliary Fire Service - fire crews were privately owned, many by insurance companies. Therefore, the fire-crew’s job wasn’t to protect lives, but to protect the buildings and its contents. Thankfully, GEC was a modern company who were better prepared to defend against fire than most businesses in that era, and even by today’s standards. Proudly proclaiming to be makers of ‘all things electric’, GEC was one of the first buildings in London to be fitted with a fire alarm, with ‘break glass buttons’ on every floor and in every stairwell, it had heavy iron fire doors between buildings, the staff conducted fire drills on a weekly basis, they had their own fire hoses connected to an endless water supply being two streets from the River Thames, and just 100 feet away was their own fire brigade. If a fire were to break-out at 67 Queen Victoria Street, everyone should have survived... ...but not every worker at GEC was treated as equally as the others. The day was Monday 9th June 1902 and the weather was bright with very little wind, as before 8am, a flank of workers exited the Metropolitan District Railway at Mansion House station. For the executives and admin staff employed by GEC, the location was perfect as this five-storey half-block wide building was both the train terminus and their workplace, with a Spiers & Pond restaurant above for luncheon. But for those less-well-paid workers - like the assembly girls on the fourth floor - many would arrive by public omnibus or by foot, dressed in a neat pinafore with their sandwiches wrapped in a cloth rag. The ground, first and second floors were occupied by Messrs Murdoch Nephews - purveyors of fancy goods, the kind of frivolous non-essential trinkets used to make a modern home look nice - with an enclosed central stairwell leading to the top two floors, owned by the General Electric Company. Being typically hierarchical, execs and admins were on third with the manual workers on fourth. Each floor was split, with the seniors sat by the windows and the juniors stuck in the shadows. This was not uncommon as being in keeping with the very Victorian class system; separate bathrooms, eating areas and even entrance doors ensured that those deemed important weren’t sullied by less vital staff. Only the workers wouldn’t have time to worry about things as trivial as equality, as with King Edward VIIth coronation two weeks’ away, GEC had to finish an order of electric street decorations. Desperate for cheap labour, they keep costs down by hiring the poor, the young and – of course – females. Hidden away on the top floor was the work-room, where GEC’s products were assembled and packed. In the middle, a large spiral staircase split the room in half; with the men sat separately, as - being staff – both their sex and seniority afforded them a better place to sit, beside the wood-burning stove. Where-as the thirteen young girls sat at a long bench, silently assembling the light’s floral wreaths. That day though, there was only one man at work, David Eveson, who managed the thirteen girls, many of whom – hired very recently - were new to the department, the company and its practices. Around the bench included 18-year-olds Violet Hodgson from Peckham and Florence Amor of Forest Gate, 17-year-old Mabel Amos from Clapham, 16-year-olds Mable Garrett from Camberwell and Lily Mansell of Brixton, 15-year-olds Jessie Hastie of Camberwell and Ada Steel from East Ham, and fresh out of school, 14-year-old Phyllis Elliott from Hackney and Gladys Chambers from Clapton Park. All were young girls earning a pittance to help their struggling parents feed and clothe their siblings. The most senior there - but far from the oldest - was 15-year-old Alice Thompson; one of four from Brixton who was hired 18 months earlier as an Electric Light Assistant, with her role to screw together the brass and porcelain parts before packaging a dozen completed lamps into a cardboard box. But that day, Alice would be forced to undertake a new job... ...one she hadn’t sign up for, but if she hadn’t, more girls would perish. As inequality at GEC wasn’t just as simple as what door you walked in or who sat nearest the stove, as the temporary staff and especially the young girls were not given the same basic training as the men, this included the assembling of lights, the repairing of circuits and – most important of all – fire safety. On the surface, GEC looked like a modern progressive company, but not everything was as it seemed. Fire escapes had recently been introduced to the UK from New York where they had been successfully used on inner-city tenements, so they could have fitted one to the building’s flat-front and thin ledges, or even at its unseen rear? But they didn’t. It was considered an eye-sore and an unnecessary expense. It’s true that GEC was one of the first companies in London to fit a fire-alarm system, only – two years since Pearson’s had installed it – they were yet to connect the switchboard to the local fire station. So, although the alarms would sound, no fire-fighters would be alerted until someone saw smoke. And that included their own fire brigade, situated two doors away at 71 Queen Victoria Street. They were a small crew of part-time fire-fighters working as full-time engineers whose ancient equipment was designed to cope with fires at a time when commercial premises were three-stories high, not five. And yes, each floor had been fitted with a ‘break glass’ button in case of emergencies, but only senior staff were trained and authorised to use them. To the regular workers, these were just decorations. Fire drills were regularly held, but only after working hours when most of the staff had gone home, and with the fourth-floor girls only ‘temporary staff’, they weren’t deemed ‘essential’ enough to train. So, in a company where different bells were used to communicate between different departments – with bells for deliveries, phone calls, tea-breaks or shift changes - only those deemed important to the company knew how to differentiate between the office bells, the warehouse bells and the fire bells. As an employer, GEC was regularly assessed by the Factories Inspectorate and each time they passed with flying colours, but as the fourth floor was not officially a designed workspace - it was really just a storage room repurposed for producing decorations for the King’s Coronation – it had no emergency signage and was the only floor in the building with no copies of the evacuation procedure on the wall. As the longest-serving of the girls, 15-year-old Alice Thompson was savvy enough to eavesdrop on the men’s chatter and pick-up a few titbits. So, she knew about the three ladders hidden under the bench in the packing room, but she didn’t know about the trapdoor leading from the fourth floor to the roof. And like the other girls, Alice had neither heard of nor was informed that – in case of an emergency – each floor had eight designated ‘fire police’ whose job it was to ensure that the staff were evacuated. Theirs was a man called John Tyndall; but they had never met him and they had never heard of him. This was a disaster waiting to happen... and it is about to get worse. Working with Messers Murdoch Nephews to create the coronation lights, the boxed-up floral wreaths on the second-floor were made of a mix of linen and wax. They were pretty, durable and waterproof, but when exposed to a naked flame, the wreaths didn’t just blacken or burn like any other decoration, a single heat source would cause them to explode in a flash of brilliant white light, like gunpowder. When questioned at the inquest, other than the electric lights and wires in the store-room, there were no other heat sources, but some staff did admit to smoking on the premises – which was forbidden. But that wasn’t the worst. As in that room, GEC had stored what they described as “a small quantity of liquid”, but was actually 76 kilos of Commudine – a highly flammable and very combustible fluid. The fuel had been stocked, the touchpaper had been set. and it was only a matter of time... ...before someone would die. The day had been uneventful for the girls on the fourth-floor. Assembling the wreaths had kept them busy and with all but a handful of the men no-where to be seen, they could chatter a little louder. One floor below, the admin staff were packing-up, but the assembly workers still had a few hours to do. At roughly 5pm, a fire broke-out in the second-floor stock-room. Whether its ignition was caused by an electrical spark or a carelessly discarded cigarette is unknown, but nobody noticed the blaze and the alarms wouldn’t activate until someone pushed a button, having seen a fire or smelled the smoke. So, for the next fifteen minutes... nothing happened, except the swelling of an angry inferno. At 5:15pm, a fire alarm was tripped, and the building echoed to the shrill of a persistent piercing bell. Trained to react, David Eveson, who managed the girls, recognized the bell and swiftly left via the stairwell, taking fourteen-year-old Stanley Chapman with him, but leaving the thirteen girls behind. Having never heard that particular bell before and smelling no smoke, being too afraid to leave their posts for fear of losing their badly paid jobs, the girls took a tea break and stayed on the fourth floor. With alarms ringing, four of the eight designated ‘fire police’ on shift began to evacuate the building’s 200 employees. They were methodical and calm to ensure no-one got hurt. Only John Tyndall, whose job was to clear the fourth-floor, only made it as far as the second step up the stairs, from where he shouted “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!”, except his words which were lost amid the alarm’s din. And ordered by his seniors to undertake a more vital task, he assisted in shuttling the accountancy ledgers across the street to the City & Midland Bank - putting a few books full of figures over the lives of the girls. It was a journey he would undertake three times, before he realised his tragic mistake... ...thankfully, there were others who took their roles seriously. The second the alarm sounded, the 25-strong crew of GEC’s own fire-brigade sprang into action, being co-ordinated by its captain, Max Byng. Alerted towards the second floor stock-room, Charles Frederick Trippe passed through the heavy iron double door connecting 67 and 69 and witnessed the inferno. The second floor was the epitome of hell; as acrid air swirled with thick black smoke which whiffed of gunpowder, heaving waves of reddish orange flames licked the dark peeling walls like the devil’s own tongue, and stacked boxes of wreaths exploded in white hot flashes, making breathing impossible and the stairwell impenetrable, even for a moderately experienced fire-fighter like Trippe. Outside on Queen Victoria Street, a crowd had begun to gather; a crew of fire-fighters, numerous nosy bystanders all gorping at the flames, and an excitable mess of close-to 200 employees, all recounting their own exciting tale of what might have been... but wasn’t. Doing his job, Captain Byng asked the lead of the ‘fire police’ “is everyone accounted for?”, and he was told they were, but this was untrue. From the street, through the rising flames and up beyond the thickening smoke, bystanders began to scream, as at the windows of the fourth-floor, the terrified faces of thirteen young girls peered down. The girls were trapped by smoke and heat which slowly filled the stifling room. Taking control, although only 15, Alice had led the girls down fiery stairwell towards an exit, but as they descended – being blinded by smoke, choked by fumes and with the sizzling hot metal of every handrail and door-knob scorching their skin – they were forced to retreat back-up to the fourth floor. Ironically, they had three ladders (which Alice knew of) and an escape route was just a few feet away. But having never been told of the trapdoor leading up-and-out to the roof, here they were trapped; stuck on the top floor of a flat-fronted building with no fire escape and windows with very thin ledges. The terrified girls of the fourth floor could do nothing but rely on the fire-fighters... ...a team of courageous but badly-funded and tragically equipped fire-fighters whose hoses had only enough pressure to pump water to the third floor, whose ladders could only reach to the second floor, and – having been only partially installed by Pearson’s two years earlier – the system wasn’t connected to the switchboard, which meant that the professional fire-fighters were not aware of the fire. Innovation had failed, but having been notified by Captain Byng, within minutes the professional crews of both Watling Street and Southwark fire stations were alerted and some were already on the scene... ...but even that wouldn’t be enough. Created and funded by an amalgam of 36 insurance companies, the Metropolitan Fire Brigade and the London Salvage Corps had what was described as “a deplorable lack of equipment”, with engines so old-fashioned that only “a museum would be glad to get London’s archaic fire-fighting appliances”. Their ladders were also ten-feet too-short; their engines lacked the necessary pressure to hit their marks, their hoses struggled to fully extinguish the flames and the ‘jump sheet’ (a twenty-foot-square patch of canvas designed to make a fall from a five-storey building survivable) - that was missing, But this didn’t prevent their bravery. Fighting the intense heat and smoke, one officer crawled on his belly to rescue Emily Johnson, dragging the unconscious girl up to the roof. Another called Hillman, dangled precariously from a wire, grabbing one girl from a burning window and lowering her to safety as the flames shot out. Calling out in the darkness and seeing the skylight beginning to collapse, Officer West succeeded in rescuing 17-year-old Mabel Amos from the flames, but she was so taut with terror, the young girl died of heart attack. With the heat and smoke becoming too intense for the firemen, they were unsure if any would survive, and with a 70-foot ladder on-route from Southwick, by the time that arrived, it may be too late. With quick thinking, a bystander ripped the tarpaulin off a fruit-vendor’s cart and gripped tight by two dozen firemen, they had made a makeshift ‘jump sheet’. “Jump!”, the crowds willed the girls, “Jump!” they called, but through the smoke, five-stories high, the sheet looked no bigger than a postage stamp. Five were trapped, four girls and a boy; as the flames licked their skin, the heat caused their clothes to combust and the smell which stung their nostrils was the scorching of their own hair. All wept and all prayed, as these children were given an impossible choice – burn to death, or jump into oblivion? It takes real courage to make that kind of life-or-death decision... ...so, it’s no surprise that the first to jump from the burning building was Alice. Smashing the far-west window, Alice perched herself on the thin window ledge; shutting her eyes tight, with her back to the world, she rolled backwards and from five-stories up, she disappeared into the dense smoke. (END) Hitting the sheet dead-centre and escaping with only cuts and burns, as the crowd erupted in cheers, Alice’s bravery encouraged the others to follow. Norah Jones, Emmeline Ambrose and Dora Cutter all survived. Jessie Hastie jumped, as her burning blouse streaked the sky like a firework, and she too was one of the lucky few. But having fainted before she could leap, Phyllis Elliot died inside, and 21-year-old Arthur Paget, a clerk with a widowed mother, jumped but missed the sheet, and died of his injuries. The 70-foot ladder arrived shortly afterwards and rescued those who were trapped on the roof, having escaped via the trap-door. And with the fire extinguished within twenty-minutes, the bodies of seven young girls were later recovered from the charred remains of the building and buried; Mable Garrett, Ada Steel, Lily Amelia Mansell, Gladys Chambers, Phyllis Elliot, Violet Hodgson and Florence Amor. An inquest was held two days later, at the Coroner’s Court in Golden Lane. 65 eyewitnesses gave their testimony, including Alice Thompson who spoke eloquently through her burns, cuts and trauma. After twelve days of testimony, on the 29th July 1902, the court found the London Building Act of 1894 to be inadequate, and recommendations were made to cover existing buildings. No-one was found guilty of manslaughter and although GEC admitted to negligence, a criminal trial was not requested. Except for a privately-funded plaque to two of the girls, a memorial to the dead was never erected at 67 Queen Victoria Street. Today, it is occupied by an office and a Sainsbury’s. And although forgotten, this little-known fire helped to shape many of the innovations and processes we use today to prevent more deaths. So, next time you hear a fire alarm? Forget about how this is a slight inconvenience to your busy day, and instead, think of the tragic souls who have already given their lives to save yours. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who enjoy listening to the wibble-wobble of a tubby loser droning on about pointless shit? Join me for a little quiz and some extra details about this case in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Tom Gillett, Sarah Freer and Sophie Chadwick. I thank you all. I hope you’re enjoying all the exclusive online treats, the lovely thank you card of goodies you will have received in the post, and (even while Murder Mile is off-line in January & February, when I do my research), you’ll still be receiving lots of goodies to keep you entertained. If that sounds lovely, you too can join Patreon and support the show, via the link in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 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.
The flats above King's Mall off Ashcroft Square in Hammersmith
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 FIFTY-TWO:
Today’s episode is about a family; cursed with a history of mental illness and hereditary blindness, it’s a strange relationship where their condition both united and divide them, but with sexual abuse added into the mix, it would lead to a brutal and horrifying murder.
SOURCES:
http://hundredfamilies.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/MARIA_CALERO_LON_06.07.pdf https://www.hammersmithtoday.co.uk/#!pages/hammersmithtoday:info:concrime117 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7625269.stm 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 a family cursed with a history of mental illness and hereditary blindness. It’s a strange relationship where their condition both united and divide them, but with sexual abuse added into the mix, it would lead to a brutal and horrifying 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 152: Blind Obsession. Today I’m standing... (static and muffled street sounds) somewhere in the borough of Hammersmith & Fulham in West London, possibly in a flat above Ashcroft Square in Hammersmith, W6. But none of this can be verified, as the most of the details were never published and many were redacted. If so, we’re streets from the home of one of John Monckton’s killers, the garage where the First Date Killer pulled up with Kate Beagley’s body in the boot, the house where schoolgirl Katerina Koneva died at the hands of The Beast, and the obsessions of Winston Goulbourne - coming soon to Murder Mile. It is often said that some stories are never meant to be told, as there are deep dark secrets that exist in a family which no-one would dare to discuss until someone steps over the line of what is right and wrong. This is a case which did not appear on the TV news and it barely made it into any papers, which is why – at times – the details may be vague and many statements cannot be independently verified. A detailed report by the mental health trust provided a fascinating insight into the life of the young woman involved, and although she was only referred to as Ms T, we know her name was Maria Calero. What follows is some of her story. (Interstitial) (Static) The date was Sunday 17th June 2007. It was early morning, at roughly 3am. And as for the exact location, that was never disclosed, but it was possibly a flat somewhere off Ashcroft Square. From an upstairs window, two unidentified boys, aged 12 and 13 attracted the attention of a passer-by having been locked inside their bedroom. With no smoke, alarms nor screams, this could have been a prank? Only the children were in a state of panic; not in fear for themselves, but for someone else. The Police were called and concerned for the boy’s welfare, they gained entry. Physically, they were unharmed, but mentally they had been through an ordeal, having heard a man being cruelly tortured. On the floor lay their father – Eduardo; slumped in a cold motionless puddle of his own blood, his walls and doors were spattered red as a kitchen knife and a set of scissors has ceaselessly severed his veins and arteries. As across his once-clean carpet, the sticky shadows of his bloodied hand-prints lay where the terrified man had dragged his body far from his assailants, leaving a long red trail like a dying slug. It was a brutal murder by someone with a lot of hatred in their heart. An attack so sustained, that if it began right now (insert torture sound and use throughout) it wouldn’t end until this episode stops. Three people were arrested for his death, his niece, his nephew and his brother. But proving who the culprit was would be problematic, as with the children locked in the bedroom, they saw very little. One of the accused would claim “I did not take part in the murder”, the other said “I didn’t kill, because I couldn’t see”, and with all three either partially sighted or almost entirely blind, that could be true? Only there was one who saw everything; a reliable eye-witness who could replay every second, every stab and every slash of the murder, and recount it in a court of law with irrefutable detail and accuracy. But that is for the end... so let’s go back to where all this began. (Rewind) Referred to in the report only as ‘Ms T’, Maria Calero was born 1986 in the South American country of Peru, with her brother Richard born one year later. The circumstances of their plight were unknown, but following a brutal conflict in their homeland - although their father Ricardo remained behind - six-year-old Maria, five-year-old Richard and their mother sought asylum in the UK in 1992. It made sense, as their mother’s brother - uncle Eduardo - was living in a West London flat with his wife, his daughter and - soon-to-become pregnant with the first of two sons - although Maria’s mother had very little to call her own, what she did have was a close-knit family for when times got tough. In April 1993, her mother’s mental health deteriorated as her immigration status remained uncertain, and against medical advice that she needed to be fully assessed, she discharged herself from hospital. A few days later, this lone mother stood on London Bridge looking across the dark and muddy waters of the raging River Thames. In her arms, she held all that loved - her children. Clutching them tight and kissing their heads – seeing this drastic measure as her only way out - she hurled both children off the bridge, herself following behind, as they plunged thirty-feet to a certain death at this suicide spot. Quick-thinking passers-by called the police, a nearby marine patrol was dispatched, and all three were rescued. The fall should have killed them and the water should have drowned them, but thankfully, their physical injuries weren’t critical. Their mother had fractured her spine, Richard suffered face and elbow abrasions, and Maria had fractured her pelvis. In time, they would all make a good recovery... ...but the psychological scars would never heel. In February 1994, Maria’s father Ricardo came to England seeking asylum, and given the fragility of his wife’s mental state, he was assessed as the ‘protective parent’ of Maria and Richard. Earning a living as a dental assistant, he supported the family while his wife sought the help she so badly needed. Only, she would struggle to find peace in her mind. Maria and Richard witnessed their mother’s mania on a regular basis; her outbursts, her threats and her suicide attempts. In one she sliced-up her wrists, in another she took an overdose of pills, and again, she would try to destroy those she loved most. In 1995, when Maria was aged only 11, her mother tried to drown her in a bath. For their safety, both children were placed on the child protection register, they were put into foster care, and Maria and her brother received child therapy from a Spanish-speaking therapist. The abuse she suffered made Maria feel “unloved and vulnerable”, and she struggled to form healthy relationships with her family. In 1998, when Maria was 12, her mother fled the family. Their relationship was torturous, so this break-up should have been a moment for Maria to rediscover herself? But having been bounced from foster homes, to temporary housing, to living with her uncle, daughter and his two sons, Maria’s early years were incredibly unstable, especially as this young girl entered her hormonally-charged puberty. Life was hard and although times were bad... ...for all of the Calero family, it was about to get worse. That same year, Maria’s father Ricardo was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, known as RP; a rare genetic disorder where the light-sensitive tissue in the retina aggressively degenerate, making even the simplest of tasks – whether reading, walking or recognising faces – difficult without assistance. Within the year, her father would be completely blind... and although his vision meant the family lost their main income, this diagnosis came with a terrifying footnote - Retinitis Pigmentosa is hereditary. Maria’s vision was fine for now... but how long would it last? (Torture sounds) By the turn of the millennium, Maria’s homelife was a mess. Her mum was back and her father was blind, so when she wasn’t in foster care, she found sanctuary in her uncle’s flat, off Ashcroft Square. Two years earlier, uncle Eduardo had separated from his wife, but stayed in the small flat with his two sons and their older sister. It seemed like a stable place for his niece to escape to, but depending on whose story you choose to believe, Maria and Eduardo had a very strange bond - one of love and hate. That same year, aged 14, Maria locked herself in her uncle’s flat and refused to come out. This makes some sense as this hormonal teenager had made allegations of bullying and abuse against her mother. Later in 2000, Maria claimed that her uncle had abused her, a social worker investigated the allegation but no action was taken, and having absconded from foster care, Maria returned to stay at his flat. Again, that same year, she alleged that her uncle had sexually assaulted her, an accusation backed-up by parents and some of her uncle’s children. Both the Police and Child Services were involved, but no action was taken, as often she would deny the assault took place, or withdrew the allegation. And yet, it is said – that being unable to maintain a healthy relationship within her family - she continued in a “sexual relationship” with uncle Eduardo, as finding very little love elsewhere, she feared his rejection. In February 2001, Maria’s parents alleged further ‘inappropriate behaviour’ by her uncle, a complaint was made to Child Services, but as both Maria & Eduardo denied this, again no action could be taken. Rightfully, the Police criticised Child Services for allowing this minor to sleep-over at her uncle’s while an allegation of sexual assault was pending, but they were powerless to take action. So, with no foster carer at that time, a social worker was assigned to monitor Maria while she stayed with her uncle. But there was only so much monitoring a social worker could do from a distance. In July 2001, another official allegation of child sexual abuse was made against uncle Eduardo and his now 15-year-old niece. This time, by his own daughter. Having fled, she told the Police she “was afraid to go home”, having seen Maria & Eduardo on the sofa - he was shirtless and putting on his trousers. Again, the allegations were denied by both, and being powerless to proceed, no charges were made. Allegations and denials flew thick-and-fast, and with the system designed to protect Maria seen as helpless or hopeless, her parents took matters into their own hands. They smashed his car windows and assaulted him in the street. It did nothing and it solved nothing, except to vent their frustrations. ...only, the stresses and strains of a fractured family were piling up on top of Maria. (Torture sounds) By February 2002, concerns were raised about Maria’s mental health, having been diagnosed with an “adjustment disorder with dissociative symptoms”. She had cut-off her hair, dropped-out of school and told her child therapist how “unloved” she felt, stating “even my spit isn’t worth anything”. And having become agoraphobic, she had become virtually housebound, living inside her uncle’s flat. Two years later, Child Services had to remove Maria following allegations that her uncle had punched one of his pre-teen sons in the face. Right then, the council had proved it had the power to protect a child from abuse... but for Maria, it was too-little-too-late, as by September 2004, she had turned 18. Officially an adult, the care order had ended with Hammersmith & Fulham Children’s Services, but she was transferred under the authority of Adult Mental Health Services, as Maria had “complex needs”. Her mental decline was understandable given her chaotic upbringing. Nobody could hope to come out unscathed, given what she seen, what she had heard and what she experienced; truancy, depression, anxiety, isolation, infighting, with allegations of physical assaults and sexual abuse (which – although unproven – could easily be real), as well as her own mother’s attempts to kill herself and Maria; once in a bath as a child and once having thrown her off London Bridge. It’s no surprise that Maria lacked trust, she felt no love, she was full of anger, and suffered with bouts of anxiety and depression. And yet, a psychiatrist would state she had “no major mental illness” and “medication was not required”. To those who knew her, Maria’s mental health was in a rapid decline, but this wasn’t just because of her past, as one very specific aspect of her future had been plaguing her mind for almost a decade... ...and now, her greatest fear had become a reality. In the summer of 2006, Maria was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, the same hereditary condition which had taken her father’s sight, and given how fast her vision had degenerated, her prognosis was not good. Specialists had confirmed that - within the year – she too would be almost entirely blind. Weighing heavy on her spiralling mental health, Maria admitted to her psychiatrist that - as the once-bright world around her became ever-darker – burning feelings of anger had begun to swell inside her, as she became more impulsive, anxious and started to experience hallucinations. In November 2006, she was prescribed the anti-depressant Sertraline, as - like her mother before her – she had expressed suicidal thoughts, as well as deep feelings of aggression towards others... especially her uncle. (Torture sounds) ...in less than one year, Maria Calero would brutally stab uncle Eduardo to death in a sustained torture in his Hammersmith flat, which would leave his two teenage sons traumatised... ...but who was the victim at this point, and why wasn’t the alleged abuse stopped? Unable to restrain her bubbling rage, Maria had assaulted her mother and admitted to her psychiatrist her desire to stab and blind her uncle. Born on the maternal line, Eduardo was not afflicted by this family curse, but – regardless of whether her hatred for him was fuelled by the abuse she had allegedly suffered, or (if you take the other side) as he had rejected her love - Maria wished blindness upon him. The psychologist was so concerned that he wrote to Eduardo making him aware of Maria’s desire to do-him-harm, and for him to consider this when and how he made contact with her next. And although her parents openly attacked him claiming he raped their daughter, Maria returned to his flat. To say that their relationship was confusing would be an understatement. Crippled with depression, anxiety and with her last vestiges of vision rapidly deteriorating to the point where even the simplest of tasks had become impossible without assistance, Maria became reclusive, a shut-in at uncle Eduardo’s flat and almost entirely reliant on him for food, clothes and prescriptions. With her mind plagued with thoughts of self-harm and aggression, as was her prerogative, she stopped seeing her therapist, ignored the calls from her social worker and often failed to take her medication. Having isolated herself inside her uncle’s flat, her anxieties and delusions only got worse; she would claim that voices would talk to her in the night and sometimes she saw their faces too. Whether real or imaginary, she became ever more distressed as her uncle’s sons mocked her, that her and Eduardo’s relationship had descended into frequent verbal fights, and again, she talked about “ending it all”. And although, she had threatened to harm him... ...her words soon turned into wounds. On the morning of Friday 15th June 2007, just two days before, Maria called her social-worker to confess “I’ve stabbed my uncle” and repeated her allegation that he had raped her seven years earlier. In an incident which erupted when he allegedly started to wind her up by threatening to bring his own daughter from Peru - in his words - “to make your life hell”, Maria stated “I felt rage, then I stabbed him in the back with a knife”. But was this assault fuelled by anger, jealousy or rejection? Assessed at the A&E of Charing Cross Hospital, Eduardo covered for his niece by claiming it was a work-related injury having fallen backwards onto a sharp metal tool, he was treated and discharged. Accompanied by her care-worker, Maria re-iterated her story at Hammersmith police station and later to the Sapphire Unit in Fulham (a specialist police team who handle sexual offenses against adults and children) for further investigation and she returned home, not to her uncle’s flat but to her parent’s. ...but by the time the investigation got underway, uncle Eduardo would be dead. (Torture sounds) On Sunday 17th June 2007, at roughly 2:30am, in (what is believed to be) a two-floor flat at the Ashcroft Square complex above the King’s Mall; stood Maria, her brother Richard and their father Ricardo. Exactly what happened may remain as vague as their vision, as with all three virtually blind and often helpless without some assistance, the details of this night are shrouded in a thick fog of confusion and allegations. How and when they got into the flat is unknown; maybe they had a key, maybe they broke in, or maybe they were let in on the ruse of this fractured family making peace? But at some point, Eduardo’s boys were locked inside their bedroom, and the real reason for the visit would come out. The torture of uncle Eduardo was slow and protracted. Clutching a kitchen knife and a set of scissors, Maria plunged and pierced each blade into his flesh, screaming at the top of her lungs “he raped me, he raped me” - an allegation she had both repeatedly admitted and denied over the last seven years. Seeking revenge for a rape only he or she would know was true, over the next twenty-four minutes, she would stab and slash the uncle (she both loved and hated) a total of one hundred and eleven times. An attack so sustained, if it began at the beginning of this episode, it still wouldn’t have stopped. In his last few moments alive, Uncle Eduardo pleaded for his life. And although his terrified sons heard every second of their father’s brutal murder, having flagged down a passer-by, the Police were alerted, the flat was sealed-off and all three members of the Calero family were arrested and charged. The evidence was irrefutable – the blood, the knife, the scissors and the testimony of what the boys had heard – but with all three suspects either visually-impaired or blind, as one claimed “I did not take part in the murder” and the other “I didn’t kill, because I couldn’t see”, how could this be proven? It was simple, unable to fully see what they were doing - whether to aid the attack, or as a sick souvenir of Maria’s revenge - Richard had filmed the entire murder on his mobile phone; every second, every stab and every slash of Eduardo’s demise which could be recounted in court, as an irrefutable fact. So shocking was the footage, that many jurors needed counselling over what they had seen and heard... ...but in that flat, that night, those 24 minutes of footage was the only reliable eye-witness. (END) Eduardo Mendoza was transferred to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, but was pronounced dead on arrival, owing to blood loss and shock. Richard, Ricardo and Maria Calero were arrested on the charge of murder. With Maria sobbing as she was led away from the crime-scene “the voices made me do it”. But if this was true, which voices made her commit murder – the angry ones, or the jealous ones? Ricardo and Richard were held in custody to wait their appearance at West London Magistrates Court. Having been assessed at Shepherd’s Bush Police Station, suspecting that Maria was hallucinating, she was held under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act and was transferred to a mental health hospital. So distraught was Maria’s mother upon hearing news of her brother’s murder at the hands of her own husband, son and daughter, that again Mrs Calero took her own life, only this time she did not survive. In a month-long trial at the Old Bailey, on the 30th June 2008, 21-year-old Maria – whose fingerprints proved she was solely responsible for the attack on Eduardo - admitted to his murder and pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. She was given an indefinite prison sentence with Judge Morris insisting that she serve at a minimum of three years. Cleared of both the charges of murder and manslaughter, Richard and Ricardo wept as they were released. And as for the rape and sexual assault allegations made by Maria against Eduardo? They remain unresolved. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy listening to the pendulous jowls of a cake-filled fat man, as he waffles on about his stupid little life in which pretty much nothing happens, except his imaginary relationship with the goddess Eva Green? Stay tuned till after the break for more info and a little quiz in Extra Mile. If you’ve ran out of episodes of Murder Mile, just to say there are more than 50 episodes of Walk With Me – the companion piece to Murder Mile – available via Patreon, as well as location videos and exclusive photos for more than 100 episodes, as well as our regular feature Cake of the Week. Yum. You can become a Patreon subscriber for as little as $3 a month, that’s £2 in real money, and I’ll also post you a very exclusive pack of goodies and a thank you card from me. Life can’t get any better. And if you fancy a Murder Mile mug of goodies, you can order one via the Murder Mile merch shop. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 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.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE:
Today’s episode is about Henry Hall, a loyal husband to his wife and father to three children, who made a honest living as a boot-maker. So, devoted was Henry, that he would willingly sacrifice everything to provide for his family; whether his energy, his health and even his sanity.
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 home of the Hall family at 65 Dean Street, it is right in the heart of Soho (not the one in Piccadilly) and is located with a black cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode. It's a link to YouTube so it won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below. 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 Henry Hall, a loyal husband to his wife and father to three children, who made a honest living as a boot-maker. So, devoted was Henry, that he would willingly sacrifice everything to provide for his family; whether his energy, his health and even his sanity. 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 151: No Way Out for Henry Hall. Today I’m standing on Dean Street in Soho, W1; ten doors south from the medical school where London’s Burke & Hare hawked a dead boy’s fresh corpse for cold hard cash, three doors east of the senseless beating of baby Richard, just to the rear of Dutch Leah’s death and five doors north of the suspicious ‘so-called suicide’ of ‘supposedly Peruvian’ priest - coming soon to Murder Mile... the book. On the corner of Bouchier Street, at 65 Dean Street currently sits Goldcrest, a post-production facility. Soho was once Britain’s film and TV capital, but as most companies failed to adapt to changes in the industry, some moved out and some were forced out, but most simply went bust. I worked nearby at two such companies. In one meeting, our producer barked “let’s make a film about a disabled African football team who are dying of AIDS”. You know, the kind of big-bucks blockbuster that audiences are crying out for. In another, being too thick to be original and desperate to leech off the fame of car-modification show ‘Pimp my Ride’, for an hour solid, the “creatives” (in inverted commas) piped-up with novel twists; like ‘pimp my bedsit’, ‘pimp my dog’, ‘pimp my anus’, ‘pimp my pimp’, ‘pimp my celebrity chef patio makeover from hell’ etc. As far as I know, both companies folded. But that is true of every industry; fashions change, and if they don’t keep up, they die. Back in 1877, 65 Dean Street was a four-storey lodging house inhabited by six working-class families. It was clean, safe and occupied by skilled tradespeople such as tailors, glovemakers, seamstresses, cobblers and bootmakers, whose small rooms doubled as where they lived and where they worked. On the second floor lived the Hall family; they were good, decent and loving. Like most families, they struggled to make-ends-meet as times-were-tough, but by working-hard, they survived. But when times became too tough to bear, Henry’s desperation would turn this doting dad into a danger. As it was here, on Friday 8th June 1877, seeing no way out from his abject poverty, that Henry did the unthinkable... only what drove him to kill were his feet and his teeth. (Interstitial) Love can be a powerful driving force. It can make the rational irrational; it can drive the sane insane... ...and it can even turn the most loving and mild mannered of men into a homicidal monster. In 1840, Henry Hall was born in the Shropshire town of Ludlow. As one of several sons to a bootmaker and a seamstress, he was blessed with an unremarkable upbringing, being burdened by no more trials and tribulations than others in that era. Built from sturdy country stock, he was raised with pride in his blood, and like the long line of men before him, he toiled to provide a good life for his loved-one’s. As a person, everyone described him as kind and attentive, with never a bad word said against him. In 1868, he married Jane, a woman six years his senior who hailed from Chalfont in Buckinghamshire. Being like two peas in a proverbial pod, they never spoke ill of each other nor slept with a curse-word spilled, as being hard-working and level-headed, they always found a way to resolve their issues. Therefore, it’s unsurprising that Mr & Mrs Hall would raise four children together, all of whom would turn out as bright and good. In 1869, having moved to Paddington (West London), their first daughter Jane was born. In 1871, the family moved to 11 King St in Soho on the eastern-edge of Old Compton Street, and it’s here that three more were born; Frank in 1871, Annie in 1873 and Louisa in 1876. With six mouths to feed, Mr & Mrs Hall held-down several jobs; with Jane working as a charwoman, a cleaner to a few well-to-do households, starting at 8am and often not finishing till midnight. Being a bootmaker - with his wife out - as Henry plied his trade in the second of their two-roomed lodging, a child-minder helped rear their kids so Henry could focus on his business, which was their main income. In the winter of 1876, the family moved into two smaller rooms on the second floor of 65 Dean Street; with a living space for this family-of-six at the rear, and next to a large bed, Henry’s tools of his trade. It wasn’t much, but it was home. They weren’t well-off, but they didn’t starve. Their life wasn’t wine and roses, but it was always warm and cosy. And although, Henry & Jane were often exhausted – even if it meant they didn’t eat or sleep - everything they did was for the sake of their children. As with an 8-year-old, a 6-year-old, a 4-year-old and a toddler; living off Two small incomes, times were hard... ...but they made it work. Raised as a skilled craftsman, the family’s main income had always come from Henry. Henry was a boot-maker; not a cobbler, not a clogger, nor a cordwainer. There is a big difference and legally – although to the layman they all make shoes – to the industry, they were each very distinct. In 1395, the Mayor of London decreed that each profession must form their own guild, which held each craftsman to a set of strict rules and regulations to ensure that competition was evenly spread, but it also kept those of a lower rank in their place, in this very old, very traditional industry. The guilds were set-out like so; cordwainers were shoemakers who made new shoes from new leather meaning their products were of the highest quality. Henry was a bootmaker, who made practical boots for working man and woman, which could only be made from second-hand leather. Below Henry were the cloggers who could not make boots out of any type of leather (only wood, twine or ceramics) and, at the bottom, cobblers were not permitted to make any shoes of any type, ever. Their job is to repair. In order to work, you had to be a member of a guild, at which, you had to pay your dues. If you didn’t pay your dues, you didn’t work, and if you didn’t work, you didn’t eat – simple as that. And although many craftsmen - at all ends - flouted the rules, Henry never jeopardised his family by taking that risk. Being a bootmaker, it may seem as if Henry was in a better position than most - and he was – but he could only succeed if there was more demand and less competition. Boot-making was an ancient skill, handed down from father-to-son, which had changed very little in the last few centuries... ...but the industry was about to get a very rude awakening, owing to innovation. The 1870’s were a difficult time for traditional craftspeople, especially in Soho, as not only were they surrounded by the high fashion stores of Oxford Street and Regent Street, but also, times had changed. By the mid-1800’s, shoemaking had gone from a cottage industry into a mechanised production. It began in 1812, when Marc Brunel invented an automatic sole-fastener to supply military boots during the Napoleonic War. In 1853, during the Crimean War, Tomas Crick patented a riveting machine which maximised production, and introduced steam-powered rolling and cutting machines which precisely cut hardened leather to an exact template. By 1864, Lyman Blake had perfected the shoe-stitching machine, and so – with cutting, rolling, fastening and stitching no longer done by hand - by the late 1870’s, the process of mass-producing shoes or boots to the people was almost entirely mechanised. Shoes were now cheaper, there was greater choice, and the size and quality had been standardised. For the people, it was win-win.... ...but for skilled working-class craftsmen like Henry, who still made boots by hand as his forefathers had done for centuries, it would be impossible to keep up... or even to keep going. Through the bitter winter and sodden spring of 1877, Henry had struggled. As a 37-year-old married father of four, he had earned an honest wage as a bootmaker for almost all of his life. It was all he had ever done, it was all he knew how to do and owing to the guild’s rules, it was all he was allowed to do. But now, struggling to cover even just the basics like paying the rent and putting food on the table, he wasn’t sleeping and he wasn’t eating, as the endless worry plagued his mind. With his wife already working a 16-hour day, every day, it still wasn’t enough, but they were certain they’d get through it. Only, one problem would plague them all... their teeth. For the last four months, Henry had been suffering with chronic toothache. Like many people in this era, his mouth looked more like a box of brown broken biscuits than a smile, but now these unsightly stumps bled red with profuse frothy rivers and his impacted jaw protruded like he’d been thumped. Worried sick with money-troubles - even if he could eat or sleep, which he couldn’t – the pain had meant that he rarely got a good night’s sleep, making him unusually moody. He was never nasty, cruel or violent, but he would sometimes snap for no reason, only to apologise with his head hung in shame. Admittedly, he could have gone to a dentist, but with Britain still two years from Parliament passing the Dentist Act, which established a register and required that all dentists were trained and qualified to a minimum standard, many barbers moonlighted as dentists with little or no experience or training. So bad was British oral health, that often patients in their teens to twenties would willingly have their teeth ripped-out and replaced with a false set made from wood or ceramics. The idea being it saved on pain, decay, any future dental costs and it remained a popular 21st birthday gift up until the 1940s. But with the procedure being risky, painful and each tooth costing five shillings-a-piece, Henry couldn’t afford this. Besides, as a good decent man - as bad as his pain got - his priority was always his family. With his wife, Jane, plagued by shards of festering stumps dangling from her puffy red ridge of swollen gums like bloodied stalactites, being riddled with a pain so intense it caught her breath and made her question her own sanity, the meagre funds he could scrap together were used to cure her, not him. This was a rational decision, as if she couldn’t work – as their new breadwinner - they would all starve... ...but that would be one of the last rational decisions he would ever make. To try to pacify the pain; for those who could afford it, they were prescribed cocaine. But for those who couldn’t, they took Laudanum; a legal but potentially lethal and highly addictive poison concocted from a 10% solution of opium in alcohol, which was used to treat pain, insomnia and nerves. As a reddish-brown liquid with a very bitter taste, when given to babies to suppress a chesty cough, many parents would disguise its retch-inducting essence with spices or tea. A safe dosage was just four-to-six drops in a glass of water, but this would be enough to induce a feeling of rest and euphoria. But by the mid-1800’s, with accidental overdoses having become too frequent – leading to respiratory depression, hypoxia, coma and death – and laudanum the drug of choice for the suicidally-inclined, although it could be purchased without a prescription (as it would be until the 1970s), chemists were instructed to follow two simple rules; they must insist that each customer has a valid excuse (“I’ve got toothache”, “my child won’t sleep”, “my wife’s back is killing her”) and only then, would a very specific dosage be provided via a pipet. (Drops heard times six) “Thank you Sir, that will be one penny”. It wasn’t a fool-proof system, but it had saved lives. By Wednesday 6th June 1877, just two days before, Henry was a physical and emotional wreck. With his impacted gums throbbing like he’d gone eight rounds with a heavyweight, and every time his heart thumped, a rush of blood made his deformed face feel like it was about to burst open, this incessant thrumming – every second, of every minute – was one of the worst tortures Henry had ever endured. Looking little more than a frail ghost with bloodshot eyes perched on top of a thin streak of grey sallow skin; his words were unintelligible, his hands were shaky, and once again, he became unusually rude. It was rare that Henry ever lost his temper, but having shouted at the kids for barely uttering a peep, and having spat some truly foul words at his beloved wife of nine good years, all because he hadn’t the pennies to pay his dues to the Bootmakers Guild and the dire consequences that would inflict... ...he snapped. But again, he was never violent or cruel, and as a thick slick of quivering tears flooded his tired eyes, as always, Henry’s heart fell heavy with regret and he apologised. “I’m sorry, I... I... I don’t... sorry”. Henry Hall was trapped in a vicious circle which wasn’t of his making; unable to work, he couldn’t earn, he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, and so the pain continued. There was no way out for Henry Hall. Working harder, Jane scraped-by six pennies to help him out, which left him with a fateful choice; to pay his dues to the guild, or to buy some drugs for the pain. But unable to make a rational decision... ...Henry chose to do neither. The same day that he snapped, Henry walked into Mr Hartnell’s chemist shop at 7 Titchbourne Street, off Great Windmill Street and ordered an eighth of a teaspoon’s worth of laudanum, declaring “it’s for my toothache”. With his speech slurred, his eyes sunken and his jaw bulging like a rotting sack of offal, it was clear to the assistant that his need was legit. As Henry pulled out a small vile - marked with a crow and ‘poison’ scrawled in Henry’s own hand - the chemist dispensed enough laudanum to suppress a week’s worth of pain, he issued a stern warning “four-to-six drops in a glass of water once-a-day, no more” and having written-up the purchase in the Poisons Book, Henry paid him two pennies. Henry could have taken the laudanum right there and then, and eased his pain... (long exhale) ...only, his frazzled brain was elsewhere (electrical sparks). A short while later, he stumbled into Cooper & Co, a chemist’s shop at 20 Moor Street, just off Old Compton Street and placed his order, slurring “it’s for my toothache”. Pulling out a second vile, marked and labelled correctly, the chemist dispensed a drachm and a scruple, roughly an eighth of a teaspoon of laudanum, stated “four-to-six drops in water, no more”, wrote-it-up in the Poisons Book (which no governing body was overseeing so the exercise was prone to abuse) and Henry paid him two pennies. Henry could have been pain-free, within minutes... (long exhale) ...only, this good man had taken a very bad turn (electrical sparks). On Thursday 7th June, one day before, Henry staggered into Crow’s Chemist’s at 49 Princes Street, at the bottom of Wardour Street, still wincing with pain having not touched a drop. “It’s for my tooth”; he popped out a vile, was warned, the purchase was noted and Henry paid him two pennies. Henry now had enough laudanum to end his pain forever, and his life... (long exhale) ...only, seeing no way out, it wasn’t his pain he was trying to ease (electrical sparks). At 8am on Friday 8th June 1877, Jane headed-out for another 16-hour shift as a charwoman. With 8-year-old Jane, 6-year-old Frank, 4-year-old Annie and 18-month-old Louisa left at home, as per usual, their neighbour Mrs Mary Tice popped in every so often, so Henry could focus on making boots. The children were well-behaved, they played but didn’t disturb their dad, and having kept their energy up with a cup of tea and a slice each of bread and treacle for lunch, Mary Tice saw nothing unusual. The time was roughly two-thirty pm. Their eldest daughter Jane would later state “father came into the room, we were running about with a ball, we were rather noisy and he told us not to make such a racket, but he never said why. My mother had left the teapot on the table, and from his work-room, my father pulled a bottle”. It was a bottle they had seen among his things many times before, one he himself had drunk from to make himself well, and now this very bottle (which held the contents of three purchases from three different chemists) was held in the hand of their beloved father; a good kind man who they all trusted. Into the remnants of the morning’s cold tea, Henry poured the reddish-brown liquid. “The baby was playing with us”, Jane would state, of the little mite who was barely the size of a small bundle of rags, “he took her into the back room... when he brought her back, I think I saw some sick on her pinafore”. Laying his youngest on their shared bed, as his head thrummed louder, the baby began to wail... only its cry was a tear-soaked sob which grew quieter and fainter as her little life slowly ebbed away. Being unusually grumpy, although their father was never one to strike them for misbehaving, not wanting to upset him any further, they did as he said, so the four little children could go back to playing quietly. 4-year-old Annie was next “she did not like it, she said it was nasty stuff, but my father promised her a penny if she drank it, so she did” and never being one to turn down a shiny penny, Frank was next. Feeling woozy and with a trickle of sick spewing down their chests, all three children lay on the bed. And as Jane, his eldest daughter stared into her dad’s dead soulless eyes, “I told him I did not want any”. Being bright, she wouldn’t have supped from a bitter cup had it been offered by anyone else. But as this was her father – a man she could never believe for a single second had an ounce of hate in his heart, or would ever wish her dead - “I drank from the same cup, it tasted nasty and I was sick”. And as Jane lay beside her sickening siblings, Henry sat motionless as aside from an endless thrumming inside his head, the only sound which filled the room was the choking as his children lay dying... ... ...but again, never being a violent or cruel man, as a slick of tears flooded his tired eyes and Henry’s heart fell heavy with regret, he apologised and ran out, sobbing “I’m sorry, I... I’ll fetch mother”. At 3pm, Jane returned home to find her eldest vomiting into a bucket, and the silent and seemingly motionless forms of her youngest lying on the bed, their breathing only slight. Aided by Mrs Tice, she dashed her dying babies to Dr Clark’s at 23 Gerrard Street, and - with their pupils like pin-points and smelling the bitter stench of laudanum on their breath - he administered an emetic, and rushed the four innocents to Charing Cross Hospital, as each child clung onto a very thin sliver of life. (end) Poverty had driven their doting father to murder them. In an exhausted state of confusion, he believed he was doing the right thing to spare them from starvation, and although his poverty had been the overriding reason that Henry had made this irrational decision, it was also the reason they survived. Thankfully, had he poisoned himself, he would definitely be dead. But being so broke that he couldn’t afford enough laudanum to kill them all, sharing it evenly among each child, on Thursday 14th June, one week later, the last of his four children were discharged from hospital, having made a full recovery. Having fled in shame, at 8pm, Henry Hall was arrested and transferred to Vine Street police station. The next day, he was charged at Marlborough Street Police Court, with his solicitor pleading that “this is a very painful case, and I appeal to the magistrate for leniency”, as the children had all survived, and Henry Hall was widely regarded by those who knew him as a loyal husband and a loving father. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 25th June 1877, two days later, he was found guilty of ‘administering a poison with the intent to murder’. And just as poverty had saved their necks, it too would save his, as having murdered no-one, he escaped a death sentence and was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Being a good strong mother, Jane moved her children a few doors away to 13 Little Dean Street and although she never remarried, all four of her children went on to live long and live well. But they would never again see their beloved father, as having served his sentence at Pentonville Prison, Henry Hall died in the spring of 1884, aged 43, in the St George’s workhouse... with not a penny to his name. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you like a little quiz, a lot of waffle, the sound of a kettle brewing and a cake which you can’t see or smell, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Grace Soria and Pam Kitchens. Thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. Plus, a thank you to everyone who leaves lovely reviews of Murder Mile on your favourite podcast app’, it really is very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY:
Today’s episode is about a music legend, a bandleader who could have been one of the all-time greats had his brilliance not been snuffed-out before his time. Only his untimely death wasn’t brought-about because he was black and gay, but owing to one of the most random of tragedies.
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 Cafe de Paris at 3-4 Coventry Street is located with a light blue cross, just 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.
Here's a video to go with the episode. They are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: Lancashire Evening Post - Monday 10 March 1941 Nottingham Evening Post - Saturday 05 April 1941 Leicester Evening Mail - Saturday 05 April 1941 Bradford Observer - Monday 08 September 1941 The Stage - Thursday 06 October 1994 The Stage - Thursday 11 October 2001 West London Observer - Friday 04 October 1957 Bradford Observer - Wednesday 10 September 1941 West Middlesex Gazette - Saturday 05 November 1938 The Era - Wednesday 15 January 1936 The Scotsman - Monday 07 April 1941 Sunday Post - Sunday 06 April 1941 Daily Mirror - Friday 14 March 1941 Derby Daily Telegraph - Saturday 05 April 1941 Lincolnshire Echo - Saturday 05 April 1941 Liverpool Echo - Saturday 05 April 1941 Halifax Evening Courier - Saturday 05 April 1941 http://uncover-ed.org/ken-snakehips-johnson/ https://londonist.com/london/history/when-a-music-legend-was-killed-playing-in-central-london https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpJ1hzoPB0A https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1264532/The-blitz-70-years-Carnage-Caf-Paris.html http://adrinkershistoryoflondon.com/eighty-years-on-cafe-de-paris-8-march-1941/ http://www.westendatwar.org.uk/page_id__246.aspx https://www.cwgc.org/find-records/find-war-dead/casualty-details/3123240/JOHNSON,%20KENRICK%20HYMANS/ https://www.blackhistorymonth.org.uk/article/section/music-entertainers/black-british-swing-caribbean-contribution-to-british-jazz-in-the-1930s-and-1940s/ https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2006/oct/05/secondworldwar.world https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/the-bombing-of-the-cafe-de-paris/#note-7422-20 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 a music legend, a bandleader who could have been one of the all-time greats had his brilliance not been snuffed-out before his time. Only his untimely death wasn’t brought-about because he was black and gay, but owing to one of the most random of tragedies. 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 150: The Day the Music Died. Today I’m standing outside of Café de Paris on Coventry Street, W1; one street west of the killing of David Knight, one street south of the unsolved shooting of Black Rita, one street east of the Blackout Ripper’s failed attack on Greta Hayward, and a few doors down from the most radioactive shisha bar in the West End - coming soon to Murder Mile... the book. Connecting Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square, Coventry Street is an eyesore; a hideous boil on the West End’s rear-end, dotted with the ugly bum-grapes of consumerism. Tourists flock here to see ‘the real London’ – like fish n chips, moaning and bad teeth - only to have their senses assaulted by a hotch-potch of tacky un-British tat; whether that’s the mecca to sickly American sweets at M&M World, a lisping Asian Frank Sinatra impersonator who croons “stwangers in the night”, flanks of hairy Turks peddling Indian-made rickshaws as five Croatians on a stag-do eat Falafel while dressed like Pikachu, and lines of garish hell-holes flogging-off trashy trinkets like a Princess Di car waxing kit, a Queen Mum toenail clipper, a Prince Andrew ‘wipe clean’ diary sponsored by Pizza Hut, and – Police Constable Arsenal Guinness’ favourite – a Princess Kate face flannel (PCAG) “ooh, put me down for three”. And although this particular street is a disgustingly lurid example of what happens when some of our worst cultural ideas are shared - when it’s done properly – it can be what makes Britain truly great. In the basement of 3-4 Coventry Street sits the Café de Paris; an opulent music venue famed for jazz and swing orchestras, and it’s here that the Charleston was introduced to London. Royals and regulars mixed, race and sexuality were unseen, and it hosted many famous names such as Judy Garland, Dita Von Teese, Dorothy Dandridge, Marlene Dietrich, Louise Brooks and Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson. Ken was a bandleader, who was tipped to breaking-through into the music mainstream, and the only reason he isn’t regarded as among the greats – like Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman and Glen Miller – is owing to a series of random and almost unbelievable events, which led to his untimely death. As it was here, on Saturday 8th March 1941 at roughly 9:45pm, that Ken ‘Snakes Hips’ Johnson would entertain his last ever crowd... and although the music died, his memory would live on. (Interstitial). Legends aren’t born fully-formed; some strive, some stutter and some spurt, but where-as others like Ken would be so musically untalented it’s unbelievable that he would ever be hailed as an infamous bandleader - even his own musicians would state "he couldn't tell a B flat from a pig's foot!"... ...although music wasn’t his real gift, what he had in spades was personality and enthusiasm. Kenrick Reginald Hijmans Johnson was born on the 10th September 1914 in Georgetown, Guyana; a former British colony on the north coast of South America between Venezuela, Suriname and Brazil. With his mother a nurse and his father a doctor (and the Minister of Health), pressure was put on him to enter the medical profession. In 1929, aged just 14, this young boy boarded the SS Nickerie and docked on 31st August in the British port of Plymouth. Being tall, skinny and clutching a small suitcase, Ken was alone in a foreign country with a population of 45 million, of whom barely 15000 (like himself) were black, and although this was the height of summer, the young boy shivered with cold and fear. To please his parents, Ken was privately educated at Sir William Borlase Grammar School near Marlow in Buckinghamshire. Being bright, he excelled. Sprouting-up to an impressive six-foot four-inches tall, he stood out in a crowd, as well as a cricketer and a goalie. And being so personable, he was well liked. In 1931, changing to law - it is said – that he studied at Edinburgh University. Only there are no records to prove this; so, either the files were lost, the archives had erased any evidence of a black student, or – maybe to shield his eager parents from the real truth – Ken only said he studied there, but didn’t. Music was in his blood, which was unsurprising as his uncle was the pianist, Oscar Dummett. In 1932, he enrolled in the West End dance-school of Clarence ‘Buddy’ Bradley, a successful African-American choreographer, and owing to Ken’s lithe body and fluid dance style, the nickname of ‘snake hips’ stuck. Touring Guyana, Trinidad and New York as part of a dance troupe, Ken used this time to broaden his skills; he ingratiated himself with the latest dance and music styles, he formed his first all-black dance-band alongside saxophonist David ‘Baba’ Williams; he honed his tap-dancing among Harlem’s finest, he drew inspiration from Bill ‘Bojangles’ Robinson and his infamous ‘stair dance’ as performed on the vaudeville stage, and – idolising Cab Calloway – he was inspired to become a band-leader. But not a ‘stick wiggler’, a technically-proficient if slightly-starchy conductor as too many band-leaders were, Ken wanted his band to entertain, with him as the tall elegant figurehead. Backed by a truly talented swing orchestra, all dressed in fine tails and bow-ties; Ken would bring his inimitable style and charm, as well as his fast feet and hypnotic snake-hips which always wowed the crowds. But as America had already embraced this style of swing, he needed a new audience... ...one, which he knew, was particularly stiff and lightly-uptight – Britain. Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson would go on to shape the sound of swing across London in the 1930s and 40’s, and – having let trumpeter Leslie Thompson direct the music - as "he couldn't tell a B flat from a pig's foot.... he had the gift of imparting his terrific enthusiasm to those who were talented". Returning to Britain in 1936, later renamed as ‘Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra’, the band toured the variety club circuit. Being an all-black orchestra, this was certainly a selling point and a novelty for many British audiences, seeing musicians from such exotic climes as Jamaica, Sierra Leone, Trinidad, South Africa and Cape Verde, with some hailing all the way from South Wales. But being unwilling to sully the mix by adding a white-face – as they couldn’t find two suitable trombonists - Reg Amore and Freddie Greenslade, two pasty-white musicians had to wear black-face to blend in. That said, it was the band’s talent and Ken’s electrifying personality which shone through. Becoming famous fast; they became the resident house-band at the Old Florida Club in Mayfair, played gigs at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, did stints on BBC World Service where they rose to the ranks of stars, and recorded their first discs - ‘Goodbye’, ‘Remember, ‘Washington Squabble’ and ‘Please Be Kind’. By 1939, Ken wasn’t even 24 years-old, but already he was a bandleader, an entertainer, a famous name and a well-known face; he was widely respected by the industry and audiences, he was on a good wage and he had a natural gift in an era for whom the music of swing was about to explode... ...only fate would deal an unfortunate hand for the man with rhythm in his hips. Everything could have gone so wrong for Ken in so many ways. Being a black man from a former enslaved colony, Britain wasn’t the most welcoming place for Ken. In 1863, the President of the London Anthropological Society had stated “the negro is intellectually inferior to the European and can only be civilised by Europeans”, a statement many still believed. By the 1940’s, barely 20,000 black people had made Britain there home, with many eking-out a living in badly-paid jobs in some of the most deprived areas. By the 1950’s, of 1000 landlords surveyed, only 15 would let a room to a black person, who had to pay double the rent of a white person. Persecution was wide-spread, segregation had become the norm’, and denied all but the most menial of jobs, black people were banned from entering many clubs, except as waiters and performers to white audiences. And even then, a black musician in an all-white band could be problematic, as the venues had the legal right to block their inclusion. So, performing as an all-black band was truly ground-breaking. To overcome this ingrained bigotry, Ken strove harder than most and pushed the band to excel; the music was impeccable, their professionalism was unparalleled, his showmanship was second-to-none, and for maximum impact, the band wore bright-white dinner-jackets with black bow-ties, establishing Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra as one of the best swing bands in Britain. Only being black wasn’t the only issue which made his life hard... ...as Ken was also gay. In the 1930’s; it was illegal to be gay, a crime to admit to being a homosexual, laws were drafted which pigeon-holed gay-sex alongside such moral debauchery as prostitution, incest and bestiality, with the act itself (often dubbed as ‘sodomy’ or ‘buggery’) punishable by 10 years in prison, and the consensual sex between two adults of the same gender wouldn’t be decriminalised for almost another 30 years. His sexuality was a secret he kept hidden from his family and all but his closest of friends, and for good reason too. In 1940, Ken met and fell in love with Gerald Hamilton; widely regarded as “the wickedest man in Europe”, Gerald’s former bunk-mate was the infamous occultist Aleister Crowley, he acted as an informer for Sinn Féin, Special Branch and the British Military Mission in Berlin, and served prison time for bankruptcy, theft, gross indecency and being seen by MI5 as “a threat to national security”. Only Ken wasn’t a political dissident hellbent on underpinning the state, what drew him to Gerald - a man 20 years his senior - was his fascinating life, his Edwardian airs and malicious anecdotes. The two were like chalk and cheese, but being in love, in 1941, they moved in together at 91 Kinnerton Street in Belgravia and later bought a cottage called Little Basing in Bray, overlooking the River Thames. Besides, it wasn’t like Ken could hide in the shadows, as being an elegant and handsome gentleman, a full half a foot taller than most males, his electrifying personality was his calling-card. Ken was a star, whose bright light was about to blow supernova... ...but even the brightest of stars don’t get to twinkle for long. The year was 1939, the world was at war and Ken’s plans for an overseas tour were scuppered. With British musicians conscripted to fight, his West Indian band were in high demand, but with theatres shut and nightclubs closed as the bombing raids ravaged the city, Westminster Council issued very few licences for fears of public safety, so - with gigs in short supply - many musicians found other work. But Ken wasn’t about to give up. Opened in 1924, Café de Paris was the epitome of sophistication. With its ballroom and supper club modelled on the opulent interiors of the Titanic, and featuring oval mirrored dance-floor and elevated stage encircled by ornate curved staircases, it was the night spot for London’s society elite. Given a licence, its owner Martin Poulsen would hail it as “one of the safety and gayest place in town”. Built below the Rialto Cinema, with four storeys of stone and steel above, hidden underground and encased in concrete, it dodged the blackout rules and was impenetrable to the Luftwaffe’s bombs. On 5th November 1940, eight weeks into the eight-month long blitzkrieg campaign in which German bombers levelled great swathes of the city, Café de Paris re-opened to great fanfare. Having stockpiled 25,000 bottles of champagne, even as the shock-waves shook its foundations, the people danced, because as hard as he tried to break the British spirit, this party was be a big f**k you to Adolf Hitler. To aid the war-effort, Café de Paris was requisitioned as a place of recreation for active servicemen. To return a sense of normality to a wider audience – not just its usual clientele like the Mountbatten’s, the Aga Khan, Cole Porter and King Edward VIII – it lowered its prices. And it also played host to many of Britain’s finest comedians; such as Frankie Howerd, Tommy Cooper, Tony Hancock, Michael Bentine and Benny Hill, as well as Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Spike Milligan from The Goon Show. Not to mention a whole host of famous musicians, singers, dancers, performers and band-leaders. During war-time, Café de Paris was the perfect place to be; it was friendly, popular and safe... ...only, a series of random, tragic and almost unbelievable events would lead to Ken’s untimely death. Bursting into the starlight, Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra were snapped-up as the resident band for the Café de Paris, often kicking-off the night or headlining at the top of the bill. With the venue fitted with state-of-the-art recording equipment, the band's popularity rose and their shows were broadcast on BBC Radio and BBC World Service across large parts of the UK and the world. But success wasn’t the only boon for Ken, as being a respected artist, he had the power to showcase any new and upcoming talents, many of whom – being black and/or female – would previously have been denied this opportunity, and this helped bridge the gap between music, business and oppression. Ken was at an all-time high... and his ascent into infamy had only just begun. Six months into the blitz, the British were yet to surrender as the bombing continued, so as they went about their everyday lives, the Luftwaffe targeted smaller cities giving London a little breathing space. For Ken and his band, they had settled into a comfortable life in the rumble-strewn chaos of the West End; the gigs were good, the pay was solid, crowds were appreciative and their popularity was rising. Saturday 8th March 1941 was an ordinary day; cloudy and rainy with a hint of drizzle. Having woken late, Ken had caught the river boat from the cottage he shared with Gerald from Bray to Embankment, where he did some shopping and met a few friends for drinks at the Embassy Club on Old Bond Street. At roughly 9:20pm, he politely excused himself, and although they wanted him to stay for one more drink, as he and his band due to be on stage at 9:45pm, Ken would never dream of being late. And there’s the irony, had he not been the epitome of professionalism... he may have lived? At 9:25pm, he exited the Embassy Club in Mayfair, with Café de Paris being less than one mile away, roughly a fifteen-minute walk. He considered hailing cab, but as the streets were busy and although relatively famous – being a black man - the chance of getting a taxi would be slim, so he chose to walk. Had he waited, he may have been late... and maybe have lived? Strolling towards Piccadilly, there was no real panic in Ken’s lengthy strides, as - like everyone else, eighteen months into the war – they heard the bombers and felt the blasts, but being finely-tuned to know which way they were heading, how close they were and how long it took to run to the nearest air-raid shelter - so commonplace had the blitz become - avoiding a bomb was like catching a bus. Had he sought to seek safety in an air-raid shelter, he may have lived... ...but he’d have also missed the start of his show. At roughly 9:40pm, Ken arrived at the Café de Paris. He dressed in his tailored white tails with a bright majestic flower in his button-hole and grabbed his slightly over-sized black baton. With the patrons either seated, supping chilled champagne or eager to groove, even though the bombers loomed closer and the explosion grew louder, from the safety of the club, the party was about to kick off. At 9:45pm, ’Snake Hips’ and his swing band entered the stage... ...to play the last song Ken would ever play. The bombing wasn’t particularly heavy that night. Around 130 tonnes of high explosives and 30,000 incendiaries pummelled the West End, as it had many times before. With British anti-aircraft batteries positioned in the parks unleashing volleys of flack, many German bombers flew outside their range at 20,000 feet (with some pressurised to fly higher), therefore the chance of a bomb hitting its target was slim. But this bombing campaign was no longer about precision, it was about maximum casualties. At roughly the same time that Ken instructed his band to play the opening bars of the Andrews Sisters' hit ‘Oh, Johnny’, a squadron of Heinkel HE 111’s had loomed over the blacked-out gloom of Piccadilly. As many bombs exploded across Regent Street, Shaftesbury Avenue and Haymarket, two hit Coventry Street. Dropped from high-up in the troposphere, two SC50 fifty-kilo high-explosive bombs fell at a rate of 400 feet-per-second. Being 110cm long and 20.3cm wide, to aid its direction and flight, as air rushes across its spiralled fins, this forced the projectile into a fast rotation causing it to nose-dive. So, as it gained speed, it hit the ground at maximum velocity, detonating the explosive warhead in its tip. By chance, these two bombs missed the glass roof of the Rialto Cinema. They missed stone and steel structure of the building above. And they both missed the concrete reinformed ceiling of the club. But being in a basement, with no windows and few doors to expel the noxious gases from the kitchen and to supply the customers with fresh-air, the club was fitted with one-metre-wide ventilation shafts. Had the bombs fallen flat, they would only have damaged the roof of the empty cinema, as many of them had. But falling tip-first, scoring an almost impossible bullseye into two different vents, both bombs flew straight down the four floors of the ventilation shaft and landed in the packed club below. Thankfully, one bomb hit the dance floor and failed to explode... but the other did not. In a blinding blue flash, a bomb exploded in the gallery directly above the band. Packed with 23 kilos of TNT, its steel shell shattered, firing hundreds of hot dense fragments in every direction, piercing anything in its path; whether glass or brick, bone or flesh. Eighty people were injured, many seriously. Survivors told the press of cuts, burns and broken bones, but many stories were too grim to be shared; one patron witnessed her lover’s back blown out as they sat eating supper, one saw a lady in a green dress sat at the bar, a champagne in hand, too shocked to realise that her other arm was blown-off, and a rescuer tripped over a dead girl’s head, only to see her decapitated body still sitting in a chair. Thirty people died, including the club’s owner Martin Poulsen, the head waiter, several staff and diners, and the band’s saxophonist Dave ‘Baba’ Williams, as well as the band-leader himself Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson. Being at the front of the stage, entertaining the crowd with his mesmeric hips and fluid dance style, as the bomb ignited, from his shoulders down, his lithe body was cut in half by the blast. The band's guitarist Joe Deniz later stated: “the next thing I remember was being in a small ambulance, as bombs lit up Dean Street. Then someone came to me and said: ‘Ken's dead’. It broke me up”. (End) The rescue was hampered by confusion, so as civilians and off-duty medics fought to save lives - in this so-called golden era, where you could leave your doors open - the looters descended. Nabbing purses, swiping bottles, filching the pockets of the dying, and cutting off fingers to steal their rings of the dead. The Westminster ARP declared the incident as closed at 11pm, civil engineers declared the structure as unsafe, and – being closed - Café de Paris wouldn’t re-open its doors for another seven years. The next day, Gerald Hamilton, Ken’s lover was informed of his death and was asked to identify the body at the Westminster Mortuary. Oddly, although Ken had been decapitated, most of his body was unmarked, parts of his suit were still white, and even his little flower in his button-hole was untouched. Ken’s funeral was held on 14th March 1941 at Golders Green crematorium with his ashes placed in the chapel of the Sir William Borlase's Grammar, where he went to school. For the rest of his life, Gerald kept a picture of Ken in his tuxedo, with him at all times, and called him “my husband" until his death. There was a huge out-pouring of love in the press, Melody Maker paid endless homage to Ken in the weeks after his death, and – albeit belatedly – the BBC broadcast a memorial one year later. But being too devastated, traumatised and (in many cases) injured, the band broke up and never played again. The impact that Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson had on swing, the innovation of sound and the elevation of black talent can never be understated, but given that he was only 26-years-old when he tragically died, this begs the question; what could he have achieved had he missed his death by mere minutes? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if your favourite part of the show isn’t the bit which takes days to research, write and edit, but the pointless bit where a fat bald man talks crap and makes a tea, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case, a little quiz and a treat in Extra Mile. But before that here’s a little promo. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Gaz Porter and Phelps Boyce, I thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. You get access to lots of exclusive goodies, plus you get to hear to episode of Walk With Me where I get attacked by a horse-fly. Ooh, exciting. Plus, if you liked this story and you want to learn more about Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson, check-out the Soho Bytes podcast starring the lovely Dom DeLarge. It’s an excellent podcast for fans of classic movies and local history. He’s also a jolly nice chap to share a pint with. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #149: The Abuse of Jane Andrews - Part 2 (Tommy's Story)27/10/2021
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-NINE:
On Sunday 17th September 2000, after a romantic break in the French Riviera, Tommy Cressman and Jane Andrews retired to bed. Their relationship was a tempestuous one, tensions were high and by the morning, Tommy would be dead. But did Jane kill him in an act of self-defence, or was this a cold-blood and brutal murder? Tbhis is Part Two of Two.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3kz304 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 19 March 2002 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 19 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 28 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 17 May 2001 Irish Independent - Wednesday 02 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Saturday 28 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Wednesday 25 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 01 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 03 May 2001 Irish Independent - Tuesday 24 April 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Thursday 17 May 2001 Evening Herald (Dublin) - Tuesday 24 April 2001 Irish Independent - Friday 04 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 20 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 29 April 2001 Irish Independent - Thursday 17 May 2001 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 01 October 2000 https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2003/aug/30/weekend7.weekend1 https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2003/aug/30/weekend7.weekend10 https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/may/21/royal-aide-jane-andrews-prison-release-murder https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2009/nov/23/jane-andrews-royal-absconds-prison https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2001/may/02/sarahhall https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2009/nov/25/jane-andrews-press-abuse https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2000/sep/20/jeevanvasagar https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2009/nov/24/jane-andrews-former-royal-aide https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2001/may/04/sarahhall https://www.birminghammail.co.uk/news/midlands-news/brothers-fury-murderer-jane-andrews-9307439 https://www.justiceforwomen.org.uk/sharon-akers-1 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8930949/Pictured-Sarah-Fergusons-killer-ex-dresser-way-new-Morrisons-shelf-stacking-job.html https://www.lccsa.org.uk/r-v-jane-dawn-elizabeth-andrews-2003/ https://www.casemine.com/judgement/uk/5a8ff7ac60d03e7f57eb1156# http://www.bailii.org/ew/cases/EWCA/Crim/2003/2750.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2003/sep/24/ukcrime.libbybrooks http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/3135464.stm To name but a few. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Having returned to 74 Maltings Place on Saturday 16th September 2000, the couple’s turbulent relationship had descended into a bitter argument (Tommy) "we are rowing and someone is going to get hurt". Jane had endured a long history of physical, emotional and mental abuse at the hands of her boyfriend Tommy; a sexual sadist aroused by pain, domination and cruelty. At roughly 3am, having already been anally raped, (Jane) "where do you want me to sleep?", (Tommy) "with me, of course", the abuse of Jane Andrews continued; (Jane) “he buggered me. I didn't resist because if I did it hurt like hell”, (Tommy) “you’ve got shit on my penis, lick it off”. And although she would find some peace in her sleep, the violence didn’t stop (Tommy) “I’m going to f**king kill you”. It was self-defence, plain and simple. Living in fear for her life, she had placed a cricket bat by the bed and a kitchen knife by her side solely for protection, and as this wild-eyed sadist yanked her by the hair back across their bed to teach this terrified lady a lesson she would never forget (Jane) "I was holding the knife as he came towards me. I don't know, it just went into him. It must have done". In a blind petrified panic over what this “sexual monster” would do if he ever caught her, Jane dashed into her white Volkswagen Polo and fled... not knowing that Tommy Cressman was already dead. That was Jane’s story. But how much of it was true? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 149: The Abuse of Jane Andrews – Part Two. (Interstitial) There are two sides to every story and this is Tommy’s... Thomas Ashley Cressman, known to his friends as Tommy was born 22nd October 1960 to Harry and Barbara Cressman, and with two older siblings - Rick and Cathy - Tommy was the baby of the family. Raised in Hampton-in-Arden, just outside Birmingham, Tommy was blessed with a privilege upbringing thanks to his father’s entrepreneurial spirit. Alongside his brother Albert, Harry Cressman had founded the car firm Bristol Street Motors, as well as several other businesses and he later become a director of Aston Villa football club. Harry was a hard-working man who had a love of family and a passion for classic cars, all of which rubbed off on Tommy as a boy, and made him the man that he would become. Given a great start in life, Tommy could easily have become a selfish, jaded, arrogant man-baby who took whatever he deemed to be his and treated others like dirt – but he didn’t. With twinkly brown eyes and a cheeky smile, Tommy was charming and caring with an infectious personality. He was the type of person you would naturally gravitate towards, as he exuded warmth and “always looked as if he had a laugh in his throat”. He was a lovely man who steered away from trouble and confrontation. It’s odd, as – so far – Tommy doesn’t seem like “a sexual monster” who Jane would later describe in court as “jealous, possessive and abusive with a violent temper”. But maybe he just hit it well? In 1986, Tommy trained as a stockbroker for Prudential-Basche Securities in New York, but later quit as he didn’t have the instincts to make a killing in this cut-throat industry, and besides, money wasn’t his passion. Tommy loved classic cars, he owed eight including four vintage Mercedes, and having set-up a business making specialist car-covers, he partnered-up with British racing-driver Sir Sterling Moss. It easy-to-see why many mistook Tommy as ‘immature’, as he didn’t fall into the traps laid down by life and society. His job wasn’t a nine-to-five grind to pay the bills; it was his passion. He loved fast cars, speed-boats and Tin-Tin cartoons, and although some said that he never grew-up, others would praise that fact that he never lost his enthusiasm for the things he loved as a child. Often, he was unfairly pigeonholed as a confirmed bachelor, but as marriage and children had never been his plan, he wasn’t ready to settle down, as he was only in his thirties and he still felt he had a lot of life to live. Tommy had many girlfriends, which was unsurprising as he was handsome, funny and kind, but sadly, they never lasted long. This wasn’t down to a dark sadistic streak or a nasty brutal violence he would inflict on these terrified ladies. It ended because he was married to his work. He knew that, they knew that, he hoped to marry one day if he found Miss Right, and he remained on good terms with his ex’s. As for Tommy’s dark side? It’s true, he collected British, American and German militaria, a hobby not uncommon among history buffs in a country still obsessed with World War Two. Some pieces were Nazi, others were not, and although it was a decent collection, it wasn’t a shrine to the Fuhrer. In his beside drawer, Police would later find two S&M magazines - Desire and Stiletto Heel. Everybody has an outlet for their stress, and Tommy’s was sex-lines, role-play and masturbation. It may seem seedy, but he did it in private, everything was consensual and he stopped before anyone got hurt. In intimate love letters, Police also discovered that he had a fondness for anal-sex, a predilection that some couples engage in, but many of his ex-girlfriends would state that Tommy was a considerate lover who never subjected them to physical or sexual abuse. Being a romantic at heart, he bought flowers, he was generous with money and he picked up his girlfriends from work as he worried about their safety. Tommy was kind, sweet and supportive, he disliked confrontation and he wasn’t a rapist. Tommy Cressman was no angel - who is - but he certainly wasn’t a beast, or a monster. In August 1998, at Min’s Restaurant in Knightsbridge, Tommy and Jane met on a blind date, and being instantly smitten with this stunning redhead, he swept her off her feet and their romance ensued. Having recently been divorced and made redundant by the Duchess, with her life collapsing all around her, she saw this millionaire’s son as her one chance to return to the luxuriant life that she had loved. Even a close friend of Jane’s would state “the relationship was very important to her. It became her new obsession” and for fear of slumping back into obscurity, she became fixated on marrying Tommy. Their first weeks of romance were passionate and loving. Tommy saw Jane as her friends would; “she was very sweet, quite shy. Jane reminded me of a delicate bird. You wanted to pick her up carefully so as not to damage her wings”. But there were many details about her past that Tommy didn’t know... ...especially about her dark side. In April 1989, Jane met and later married Christopher Dunn-Butler, a divorced IBM executive. It wasn’t love for her, but a step-up the social ladder. She even admitted “I craved someone to take care of me”, but having had a string of affairs behind his back (Jane) “I'm not proud of it", and they later divorced. In February 2001, she stated to a psychiatrist hired by the trial lawyers, "the relationship broke down amicably. There was never any violence or abuse". By November 2001, she told a different psychiatrist that “Christopher became violent and I was sacred to leave him”. His friends and family deny that any assault took place, there were no police reports and (as Jane also admitted) he was a good decent. Which explains why they remained on such good terms and whenever she needed a friend – including before and after Tommy’s murder – the first and only person Jane called was Christopher. Not only was Jane deeply manipulative, twisting facts to suit her needs, she was also abusive. In 1996, Jane fell in love with Dimitri Horne, the son of a Greek shipping magnate. He was single, rich and seeing him as her shot at happiness, Jane became obsessed with snaring this man in matrimony. Her friends would state “when things were going fine, she was lovely – prim and proper, like an English rose. But as soon as things didn’t go well, she would go absolutely crazy”. Dmitri said “I was living in fear... she followed me everywhere” and when he ended the relationship “she went berserk, turned violent, punching and kicking. I was afraid because when she got violent, she became unpredictable”. The abuse of Jane Andrews was relentless; she sent him death-threats, she vandalised his car, she ransacked his flat, she smashed his possessions and she stalked him wherever he went. So terrified was Dmitri that he paid her to leave him forever, and when she wouldn’t, he called the Police. Her violence erupted – as it often did – whenever the relationship and her hopes of marriage ended. But Jane – it is said - was not averse to concocting a tall tale to illicit sympathy when she needed it. As a teenage girl gripped with bouts of depression, anxiety and an eating disorder, she attributed some of her psychological issues to the sexual abuse she said she suffered as a child, at the hands of one of her brothers. In which the sex was “our little secret” and that “bad girls who tell go to prison”. An allegation denied by the alleged offender, her mother, and the first time she ever mentioned being abused was in the spring of 1999, a quarter of a century later and one year before Tommy’s murder. Child abuse became a key part of her conviction appeal, but it was rejected owing to a lack of evidence. It is even suggested, that of her several unsuccessful suicides, that these were not a concerted attempt to end a life she no longer wanted to live but to seek attention from those she sought something from. There are no police reports of rape or abuse perpetrated against Jane by any of her partners (including Tommy), but there are reports of violence, threats, assault and criminal damage perpetrated by her. Even going so far as to threaten to kill an unborn child, out of spite, if her partner didn’t take her back. Tommy had a few little secrets, as we all have... ...but then again, so did Jane. The relationship was self-destructive. As Jane rightly said “I was the ultimate in insecurity. He was the ultimate in commitment-phobia”. She was a 33-year-old former royal dresser for whom the biological clock was incessantly ticking, the curse of spinsterhood hung overhead and who was desperate to snare a 37-year-old bachelor, unwilling to settle down or grow-up. It was never meant to be. But Jane couldn’t see that, and she wouldn’t see that, as her life’s goal was to possess him. Tommy found her jealous and overbearing. If he so-much-as looked at another woman, she would give him the evil eye. If he talked to another woman, she would drag him away. When he went on a stag-do, the second he got off the plane, he was barraged with texts and voicemails demanding to know; “where are you?”, “what are you doing?”, “why haven’t you called me?”, and whenever they went out together with friends, she was very vocal about the fact that he was not committing to her. By the Autumn of 1999, barely a year into their relationship, they were no longer sleeping together. Jane was struggling to adjust to an ordinary life after her royal redundancy, and lasting just two months as the PR Manager for Claridges’ Hotel, she was entirely reliant on Tommy. And like so many couples trapped in a loveless existence, they hung on... believing this was just a blip, but unwilling to change. Maybe this is where and why they engaged in role-play and S&M? Maybe, like a couple disappearing off for a dirty weekend, this was an attempt to re-ignite and spice-up their love life? Maybe they both had a fondness for sexual sadism, with one playing the dominator and the other as the submissive (a fact impossible to prove, as one half of the couple was dead)? Or maybe, Jane only did this to please Tommy; “I would sleep with someone, because I was frightened if I didn't, they would go. I allowed men to do anything they wanted to me". Even acts which she said, she found abhorrent, like anal sex. Every relationship is full of secrets and lies, but the more theirs collapsed, the further they retreated into their own private spaces and fantasies. For him, it was fetishes and masturbation. For her, it was seeing a psychiatrist and (perhaps) inventing stories to illicit sympathy, in which she was the victim. We shall never know the real truth, as even the smallest details about their private lives can be inflated and twisted into unfair proportions to make them both look like the Holy Mother or a monster. But it was during their frequent fights that those secrets became a weapon with which to beat each other; she threatened to tell Tommy’s business partners and parents about his “dirty little habits”, and he threatened to go to the press or the police to expose the things she had seen in the royal household. It was these secrets which destroyed their relationship... ...but Tommy still had one more secret hidden away. At a conference in Las Vegas, Tommy met Deborah DiMiceli. They were never intimate together, but she was someone who shared his sexual predilections and they regularly corresponded. In January 2000, just nine months before Tommy’s death, Jane hacked into his laptop and found the emails. Described in court as being written in a ‘cheap novelette style’; some contained a sexual fantasy about a submissive woman in a maid's outfit tied to a four-poster bed and crying "finish tying me up and rape me", with many references to “large kisses and licks in all the right places” and vigorous anal sex. Jane admitted she was “very angry and very upset" by the emails, which Tommy said was "just a bit of fun" and he promised to stop. But what hurt her most was what he had written about her. In the emails, Jane is described as “getting a little like that pair of slippers I can't throw away!" The relationship was dead, the love was gone and they were both treading water... ...but Jane was still fixated on marrying Tommy... ...as somewhere there was hope. In the bin, at 74 Maltings Place, Police would later find an undated torn-up letter written by Tommy. In it, he wrote “Dearest Jane. I do care about you. Yes, times have been difficult for us over the last year but I do like you. However, over the last two months, I have felt like I’ve been walking on egg shells all the time. Your mood swings have been hard to predict”. In it, he admitted his mistakes, he apologised for his failings, he noted that he hadn’t tried hard enough, and he signed it off “Tom.xxx”. But was Tommy using her love as a weapon (Jane) “he knew which carrots to dangle and which strings to pull" in order to emotionally break her, or as a very loving man - deep down - did he really care? In the Summer of 2000, they went house-hunting in the Cotswolds. This definitely happened as they registered with an estate agent in Chipping Norton under the name of ‘Mr & Mrs Cressman’. But did he really want to buy a house with Jane? Did he want her to become his wife? Was he trying to make a disintegrating relationship work? Or was he simply pacifying her, to make a difficult life less terrible? Either way, it’s easy to see why Jane became confused. From the 1st to 15th September 2000, they went on a romantic holiday in the French and Italian Riviera; a taste of the luxuriant life she was so desperate to return to, and - she hoped - a marriage proposal. But it was not to be. Amidst the stunning sunsets which glistened over the clear-blue sea echoed their bitter words, as Tommy made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of marrying Jane... ever. As a last-resort to lure him back, she threatened suicide by driving off the edge of a cliff. But the love was gone, and it is alleged he replied: “don’t do that darling, that’s my brother’s car you’re driving”. By Friday 15th September 2000, Tommy and Jane had split-up, for good. At Nice Airport, the couple were seen bitterly arguing, an incident which Jane would later dispute. "If it was true that he said he wasn't going to marry me, then I'd say so”. And yet, she made several calls to her ex-husband Christopher and her friend Gil Hancox confirming “this time it is definitely over”, some of which were made in the car with Tommy and his mother in earshot. When later asked why, Jane stated “I was trying to goad him. I was being a complete bitch. It was the thing I said whenever we fought: 'You don't love me anymore, you don't want to marry me'. I'm not making excuses for what ended up happening, I'm just trying to get across that there was no premeditation, no plan to kill him". Over the next thirty-six hours, right up to the point when Tommy was murdered, the two were alone. According to Jane, they returned home to Maltings Place. Collecting their post, she took a small knife to the bedroom to open the letters, and later - although exhausted from arguing – they made love. Saturday 16th September 2000 - the next morning - was Tommy’s last day alive. As the couple had continue to argue throughout the day, Tommy went to his office nearby, as Jane had called in sick. At 8.47am, he called his mother, during which he sounded harassed. Jane made an appointment for both of them to see Michael Cameron, a relationship counsellor, but Tommy later cancelled this. At 11.35am, as they argued further, Tommy called the Police; stating "we are rowing and someone is going to get hurt", (officer) “is anyone hurt?”, (Tommy) “not yet, but if you don’t get here soon, someone is going to get hurt”. On the call, a woman can be heard screaming, and one minute later, Jane telephoned her ex-husband (Christopher) and told him “Tommy is attacking me”. Allegedly, a physically fight ensued and Tommy tried to throttle her... but neither of them sustained any injuries. It’s around this time that both version of the story dramatically deviates. At 12pm, moments after the call ended, according to Jane, he tied her to the bed with the cord of her dressing gown and anally-raped her, saying, "I'm really going to hurt you and nobody will believe you". Only, it was at that moment that Tommy was seen in the street, making a call to his friend Richie Gore, in which he said they’d had an argument, she had driven-off and that she’d threatened to kill herself. Police records prove that Tommy and Jane exchanged insults and accusations by mobile phone over the next few hours, with Tommy in or near Maltings Place, and Jane driving in her car in West London. But with neither party looking to deescalate their bitter fight, Tommy suggested ways in which - if she was actually serious –Jane could kill herself, and – out of spite - at 1.54pm, Jane faxed the illicit emails to the employer of Tommy’s secret sexy pen-pal Deborah DiMiceli and later to his parents. Across the next few hours, they both called their closest friends and family for support, explaining their versions of the events, but at no point did Jane accuse Tommy of violence, imprisonment or rape. At 8pm, Jane returned home. She would later state; "a part of me still wanted to go back. I couldn't believe what had happened in the morning. I remember watching him through the window. He was sitting in an armchair watching television. I was scared, and when he heard me, he leaped up. I thought he was going to be angry but instead he threw his arms around me and said 'welcome home'. It was all mind games". Later that night – having been made to feel worthless - Jane reluctantly returned to the bedroom they shared, asking (Jane) "where do you want me to sleep?", (Tommy) "with me, of course", as again he tried to anally rape her, shouting "you know you like it, you know you do". All of which was true... ...but only if you believe Jane’s version. A Police investigation would confirm that - when Jane returned home at 8pm - she packed a black bag with spare clothes, underwear and toiletries, and hid it in a cupboard. Earlier that day, she had already filled her car with fuel, and with a small kitchen knife (used to open the mail) still in the bedroom and Tommy’s prized cricket bat nearby, she placed an eight-inch carving knife under her side of the bed. That night, Tommy had sat quietly watching the Sydney Olympics, and at 10pm, he went to bed. He was dressed in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, and – being so short-sighted that he could barely see just 20cm in front of his face – he placed his glasses on the bedside table and drifted off to sleep. He didn’t wake in the middle of the night, he didn’t punch her in the face, he didn’t rape her, he didn’t drag her across the bed by her hair, and he didn’t scream “I’m going to f**king kill you”, as he strangled her... ...as when Jane attacked him with the cricket bat, Tommy was lying face down on the bed, fast asleep. Stunned but not unconscious, as Tommy slowly moved, Jane grabbed the eight-inch knife, later stating "I was holding the knife as he came towards me. I don't know, it just went into him ". Only, an autopsy would confirm that she hadn’t stabbed him in the front, but the back. And as the blade plunged deep into his rib-cage, through his left lung and nicked his heart - as his body filled with blood and he slowly drowned in a pool of his own fluids – she partially withdrew the blade and then twisted it, watching him in his last moments alive, as this terrified man struggled to remove the knife from his own body. Jane claimed she disliked S&M and his “dirty little habits” ... but that is epitome of a sadist. After that, she said she fled in panic. Only, she was calm enough to take a shower, to grab the bag she had hid, to get changed, to clean-up some of the blood, to call her ex-husband Christopher at 3:10am during which – again – she bemoaned how Tommy had refused to marry her (but said nothing about the murder or rape) and tied the cord of her bathrobe from the banister to the door handle - for fear of what this sexual monster would do if he ever caught her - even though, Tommy was dead. In Police interviews, Jane would state "I didn't go out of my way to hurt him, I was just protecting myself". (End) Jane Andrews’ trial began at The Old Bailey on the 23rd April 2001. In this three-and-a-half-week trial, where as the prosecution set-out to prove without a shadow of doubt that this was a premeditated cold-blooded killing by a woman scorned, Jane stuck to her story about rape and pleaded self-defence. A jury of ten women and two men deliberated for twelve hours and found her guilty of murder. On 16th May 2001, she was sentenced to life in prison, but owing to changes in the law, this was reduced to eleven years before parole can be considered. In 2012, having served the remainder of her term at HMP Bullwood Hall in Essex – a Category C, not a Category A prison, the type reserved for violent offenders – her parole was rejected as she was judged a 'danger to the public', especially men. That aside, on 19th June 2015, she was released on licence and sent to a probation hostel, with the hope of re-integrating her back into society. Three years later, she was arrested for breaching the terms of her licence having harassed a former lover. She was re-convicted, sent back to prison, but was re-released from prison on 8th August 2019 and is now living somewhere in the East of England. Jane Andrews; the former dresser to the Duchess of York, who dreamed of a great life, an amazing career, hobnobbing with the elite and settling down with a wealthy husband - a far cry from her upbringing – was last known to be stacking shelves for £8.50 an hour in a Morrison’s Supermarket... ...a job she could easily have got back home in Grimsby. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if the highlight of your day is listening to the aimless bluster of a fat bald loser with an Eva Green fixation and three bellies; one for tea, one for cake, and one for everything else, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case and a little quiz in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Claire Lou Bee and Barry Wilson. Thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. Plus, a belated thank you to Beth, James and two anonymous people who made donations via Supporter link. I thank you too. Plus, a thank you to everyone who listens to the show and shares it with their pals. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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”, 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, totalling 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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