Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Fursecroft in Marylebone, the former home of Harry Michaelson
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE:
At 5:15am, on the Boxing Day morning of 1948, cartoonist Harry Michaelson was found on his doorstep of Flat 75 at Fursecroft in Marylebone, nursing a bloody wound to his head. With no memory of what had happened, the police relied on the evidence. But having made a lazy assumption, they almost derailed the entire investigation.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Marble Arch'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on George Street in Marylebone, W1; one street south of the first killing by the Blackout Ripper, two streets east of the failed hit on the exiled Iraqi general, a few doors down from the deaf son’s desperate mum, and a few doors up from Dot the Deadly - coming soon to Murder Mile. Built in the 1930s, Fursecroft is a posh ten-storey Edwardian mansion block, the kind you’d expect to see in Poirot, where for 90 minutes the famous Belgian detective twists his little moustache and jiggles his grey cells – all the while dreaming of waffles, chocolate, TinTin and moule et frites, as what else do Belgian’s do - only to conclude that – dun-dun-duuuuhn, the killer was the slutty bigamist… again. And yet, Marylebone’s own detectives almost failed to solve a simple case owing to an assumption. On the Boxing Day morning of 1948, 50-year-old Harry Michaelson was found on his doorstep at Flat 75. With a towel to his forehead, blood running down his face, and no memory of what had occurred, with no signs of forced entry, the police assumed they were hunting an assailant who Harry had let in. Only he hadn’t. And although they had supposedly interrogated every detail given by the eyewitnesses who knew Harry well, it took a sharp-eyed constable with a suspicious nose to truly trap his murderer. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 233: Sketches. Eugene Fordsworthe said, “assumption is the mother of all mistakes”. It’s a crime we’ve all committed, as sometimes, it’s too easy to assume the most logical answer must be the right answer. For us, it’s a mistake we can make with very little consequences, but for detectives, it can derail an investigation. Harry Saul Michaelson was born on the 14th of December 1898, being raised in a loving well-educated middle-class family and spending most of his five decades in and around Willesden and Paddington. Being five foot six and sparsely built, those who knew Harry described him as a cheery and pleasant gentleman who was always kind, and - as a talented cartoonist and an acclaimed commercial artist – he loved to wile away his free time by sketching friends and strangers over a cup of tea and a chat. But painting was also how he made his living. Nicknamed ‘one minute Michaelson’, Harry toured the theatres of Great Britain as a ‘lightening cartoonist’ who wowed the crowds with his speedy sketching as part of a music hall act. As an immensely creative man who brought joy to the masses, especially as the bombs of the Luftwaffe pummelled every British city while the Second World War raged on, it made sense that Harry would fall in love – possibly on the circuit - with a talented pianist called Anna. In November 1938, they married at Willesden Registry Office, and as performers with no children, it was said that they toured together. But with Harry having contracted malaria during the First World War – and still suffering from the long-term effects of fevers, chills, aches and pains, as well as stomach problems and nerves - described by his younger brother as “highly strung”, for the sake of his health, he gave up performing, and continued working from home with a set of paints and an easel by his bed. In 1941, Harry & Anna moved into a small bed-sitting room at Flat 75 of Fursecroft in Marylebone. As a basement flat, the view from its two casement windows wasn’t much as it overlooked the concrete wall below the corner of Brown Street and Nutford Place, but as a modern block with solid locks and being staffed by a team of porters, day and night, what they paid for was the amenities and security. For Harry, who spent most of his days alone in this tiny two roomed flat, it had everything he needed; a kitchen-cum-bathroom with a toilet and a bath in the same room as a gas hob (which for then was normal), and a bed-sitting room with two single beds, a phone, a gas fire, a wealth of artwork, a day bed for resting while he sketched with an easel, paints and heaped stacks of magazines and papers for reference, as well as a tubular metal chair where his guests could sit as they posed for their portraits. As a polite but solitary figure, he always greeted the porters, he went for his morning coffee at Maison Lyonese in nearby Marble Arch, and although a semi-regular guest at Sketch (an artist member’s club), not being much of a drinker owing to gastric issues, he spent most of his time alone in his flat, painting. He wasn’t well-off but he wasn’t broke, he wasn’t a bad man just kind and quiet, and although his wife had recently recovered from an overdose of sleeping pills owing to Harry uncovering her affair with a car dealer called George Jenkinson, they had contemplated getting a divorce, but resolved it amicably. Harry Michaelson was just an ordinary chap… …so, who would want to kill him, and why? Friday 24th of December 1948. Christmas Eve. Across the city, with rationing partially in force, a festive hum of excitement and frivolity rippled across this brightly lit city as the people shopped for presents. That day, from his Post Office savings account, Harry withdrew £3 (roughly £130 today) to purchase a “a chicken and a piece of lamb”, as well as £2 in silver so he could tip the porters over the holidays. The Christmas Day itself was bright, but with no snow, a cold wind whistled down George Street. Being a man whose body swung from fevers to chills owing to a distant bout of Malaria, even though it was barely above freezing, for the last seven years he’d left his thin bedroom window and his flat door ajar to help circulate the fresh air, but with a trusty team of porters on duty, Harry had always felt safe. Rising at 8am, as always, their little flat hadn’t a single Christmas decoration up, as being Jewish, they didn’t celebrate the holiday, so it didn’t bother them in the slightest that they would spend it apart. At 9am, hired to perform at a slew of hotels in the seaside town of Bournemouth until just after Boxing Day, Anna kissed Harry goodbye and headed off, not knowing that she would never see him again. For Harry, it was a simple day. Throughout the afternoon, as he came across them, he handed each porter several shillings as a thank you for their work and said to one-and-all “here’s wishing you all the best”, He asked the head porter if he could pop the chicken and lamb in their freezer ready for his wife’s return. And at 6pm, 8pm and 10pm, he left via the main door, as having run out of bread – being Jewish – he had also forgotten that today being Christmas Day that most of the bakers would be shut. At 10pm, he returned, and was greeted by the night porters - Samuel Freeland and Frederick Newman - who said that (as usual) he was in a good mood and - although breadless - he wished them both well. As was his routine, Harry undressed, putting his brown striped suit on the chair, his shoes by the bed, a glass of water by the bedside phone, and having finished a good book, in the single bed nearest the door, he drifted off to sleep, snoring loudly, as the fresh winter air ventilated this usually stuffy flat. For the two porters, it was a busy night, as of the 300+ tenants at Fursecroft, several Christmas parties ensured that a steady stream of guests entered and exited via both sets of main doors. Being routine, both were locked at midnight, only the porters had the keys, every guest or resident was only escorted in or out after that hour by the two night-porters, and both doors were only unlocked at 7:30am. Samuel and Frederick both confirmed that it was an uneventful night… …only for Harry, it was a night that (if he could) he would never forget. At 5:15am, night porter Samuel Freeland heard a voice he recognised calling from downstairs, as Harry shouted “Porter! Porter!”. At the door of Flat 75, dressed in his pyjamas and a robe, the ghostly white frame of Harry stood, holding a towel to his head, as a stream of blood ran down his panicked face. Samuel asked, “what happened?”, at which Harry bluntly replied, “never mind, call an ambulance, I’m bleeding like a pig”. Only what Samuel, and possibly Harry, didn’t realise was that Harry already had. With the ambulance on its way, as the porters led Harry to the reception, stumbling and trembling, it was clear that he was terrified, and although he cried – “I am a finished old man. I am dying. I can feel it in my bones and the blood pumping in my brain” - it was clear he had no idea what had happened. The porters assumed he’d had an accident, as nobody had heard a break-in, a scream or an assault. Arriving at St Mary’s hospital at 5:38am, with a single wound to his right temple which was no different to any other injury caused by a domestic slip or tumble, x-raying this 1 ½ inch laceration, a fracture to the skull was identified, a blood clot was removed, and although initially conscious, Harry repeated “I can’t tell you what happened. I don’t know. I have not been in a fight or been drinking. I have not hit my head. All I know is that I discovered a lump on my head which is bleeding and I know I won’t live”. Drifting into a coma, the next day at 12:45pm, Harry died of his injuries… …unable to tell the Police anything about his “accident”. With the investigation headed up by Superintendent Beveridge, DDI Jamieson and Inspector Grange, Harry’s flat didn’t seem like the scene of an assault. Far from it. It was messy, but there was no sign of a struggle. With all three windows locked from within, there was no forced entry. And with blood dotted in a steady line upon the carpets between the bedroom, bathroom and hallway, he grabbed a towel to stem the wound, he made a call for an ambulance, and then he collapsed upon his bed. If it was an attack, it was motiveless, as nothing seemed to be missing; his cheque book was on the side, he had 16 shillings in his suit pockets, and several pieces of saleable artwork hadn’t been touched. With no obvious weapon found, and only Harry’s hair and blood identified, it didn’t seem like a break-in by a stranger, so the police assumed that – if Harry had been attacked – he had let his assailant in. Several suspects were considered: every guest at the Christmas parties in that block were questioned and George Jenkinson (his wife’s former lover) was quizzed, but all had a cast iron alibi. With a wealth of sketches featuring unknown people who had posed for Harry found in his bedroom, although it was assumed that he may have sketched his killer before the attack, this was proven to be unlikely. And even though two of the porters had criminal records with one for violence, all eight were ruled out. The lack of evidence was driving the detectives towards a dangerous assumption, that “we believe he knew his killer”, and although “the theory that he was attacked by a walk-in thief has not been ruled out”, it didn’t seem logical that a stranger would break-in, steal nothing and leave as if he wasn’t there. On closer examination, Anna found that Harry’s black leather wallet was missing from inside of his suit jacket, and hidden by the steady stream of blood drops by his bed, on the leg of the metal tubular chair lay a finger and palm print which didn’t belong to Harry, Anna, the police or any of the porters. With the autopsy conducted by Dr Donald Teare, identifying two crescent shaped fractures to the right of his skull, one 5 ½ inches and the other 2 ½ inches long which split into sharp shards and punctured his brain, it was confirmed “that the tubular steel chair was the most likely cause of the wounds”. This was no accident. This was a murder. But who had killed Harry, and why? Three weeks after his death, the police had hit a brick wall. They had assumed that he had known his assailant, but with Harry being a solitary figure, they had exhausted every suspect, and with no sign of a break-in or a struggle, his killer was unlikely to be a burglar – so who had attacked him was unknown? The breakthrough in the investigation came down to an off-duty constable, unconnected to the case. On Tuesday 18th of January 1949, PC Walsh spotted two men in dark clothes acting suspiciously in St John’s Wood, outside of two affluent houses on Grove End and Hamilton Terrace. And as they dipped between the shadows, slipped down dark alleys, and furtively peeped in through unlit windows, calling for backup, at 5:55pm, PC Walsh arrested 26-year-old Thomas Collier and 21-year-old Harry Lewis. With the details of every local burglar being passed to the murder squad, taking their fingerprints, police found a perfect match to the murder of Harry Michaelson, which were linked to Harry Lewis. Questioned at Paddington police station, Harry Lewis would swiftly confess “it has come at last. I didn’t think I would get away with it. When I read about it in the newspapers, I knew he was the man I hit”. But who was he, and why had he murdered Harry? Born 28 years before and 170 miles north-west of Harry Michaelson’s birthplace, Harry Lewis was the illegitimate son of Annie Lewis, a single mother. Unable to support herself, being admitted to the Poor Law Institution at Hawarden in north-east Wales, aged three, Harry Lewis was abandoned and for the rest of his childhood, he would be bounced from foster parents to orphanages and penal institutions. From ages three to nine, he spent in the dark depressing gloom of the Cottage Homes orphanage in Holywell, where a lack of love left him feeling abandoned, lost and angry at the world. For one year, he was briefly boarded-out to a Mrs Williams in Leeswood, and although she said he was “likable and well-behaved”, getting sick, he was sent back to the orphanage where he would stay for nine years. Aged twelve, with the Second World War having erupted, against his will, he was sent to the Nautical Training School at Portishead, where destitute and neglected boys were giving hard military discipline, being barked at and bullied by authority figures, with the aim to find him a role in the Merchant Navy. Subjected to four years of compulsory discipline, his report describes him as “unsatisfactory… with numerous instances of dishonesty and theft… he is a boy greatly lacking in decent moral principles”. Booted out of the Nautical Training School and bounced back the Public Institution at Holywell, his file lists him as “troublesome, insolent, unmanageable and a confirmed thief”, and lasting a few weeks as a labourer at the Steel Works in Shotton, Harry was seen as “a poor workman and mentally weak”. What followed was a series of committals to institutions and petty criminal acts. In December 1943, aged 16, he was placed on probation back at the Holywell Public Institution, where he absconded. In January 1944, he was sentenced to 28 days for stealing cigarettes. The next month, he was committed to two years at the Approved Probation Home for Youths in Stonebridge Park. And although aged 17, having enlisted as a private in the Middlesex Regiment to avoid more time in borstal; he was fined £7 in Chester for forgery, sentenced to 2 years at Marylebone for theft, and discharged from the Army for theft and assaulting a woman, that had been his entire life up unto the age of 20. On 7th December 1948, just 18 days before, Harry Lewis was released from Wormwood Scrubs prison. Described as “a violent and undisciplined man whose record reveals no redeeming features”, even though he was married and had a three-year-old child; he didn’t have a job, he didn’t have a home, his wife had – rightfully – fled from her violent abusive husband, and he had nothing. Abandoned, just like he had been as a baby, he drifted across the city, with no money, no hope, no life and no future. By the Christmas Day of 1948, Harry Lewis had never met Harry Michaelson… …he didn’t know him, and he had nothing against him - he was a stranger. It’s a strange thought, but while the city celebrated Christmas, both Harry’s were sat alone; with Harry Michaelson in a basement flat in Marylebone, and Harry Lewis in a cheap B&B in Euston. And whereas one made his living bringing joy with his sketches, the other knew nothing but theft, “It was early on Sunday morning”, Harry Lewis said, “I’d no money and I thought I’d break into a house and get some”. It was between 2am and 3am, when passing the corner of Brown Street and Nutford Place, that Harry Lewis happened to stumble upon a thin window left open a crack, by a man whose dose of malaria 30 years before had left his body swinging from fevers to chills, even on a cold night like this. “There was a big drop down into the basement, so I jumped the railings and dropped”, far from the porter’s view. Hidden in the dark, as the convicted burglar crept along this concrete slit, “I opened the window and heard a man snoring”. Breaking into a dark but occupied flat was riddled with risks like injury, capture, arrest and even death, but being desperate, it was worth the risk, just as long as Harry was silent. “I climbed in. It was dark. I was feeling my way round and came to the bottom of a bed at the far end”. That being Harry’s bed, in which he slept, his slumber just a single sound from being broken. “A man’s trousers was lying on a metal chair, I took a wallet, some coins, and I then went out into the hall”. As a stranger staggering about in an unfamiliar flat, he had no idea that the hall only led to the kitchen-cum-bathroom with very little in it, the corridors of Furzecroft which were patrolled by night porters, a set of main doors which had been locked many hours before, and that the only item of any real value which was worth stealing was the wallet. Harry didn’t know that, but by then, his luck had run out. “When I got into the hall, a chap sat up in bed and said who’s there”, Harry: “who’s there?”. With the owner awake, the only way out was through him and the window from which he’d entered, “the chap was just getting out of bed. I was frightened of getting caught… so I picked up the metal chair. It was the first thing I could put my hands on, and I thought I could knock him out with it, just a bash on the head. He fell, but started getting up again. I swung the chair again and gave him another bash. He was then leaning against the wall on his left side. I then dropped the chair and left, the way I come in”. Fleeing into the cold night, and hopping into a taxi on Edgware Road, the burglar of 75 Fursecroft got away with four £1 notes and two 10-shilling notes, barely enough to last him until the end of the week. It was a random attack by a total stranger for the sake of some quick cash. Harry Michaelson was small and sick, so there was unlikely to be a struggle. And with the attack swift, very little to steal, and no obvious point of entry or exit, the detectives had made a lazy assumption based on the evidence they had, but it was wrong, and they wouldn’t realise the truth until Harry Lewis made a full confession. Back in the flat, slumped upon his bed, as blood poured down his head, the detectives wouldn’t suspect that the thin casement window was how the burglar had got in, as – doing what anyone else would do having been attacked in their home – Harry Michaelson had locked it and drew the curtain. It’s tragic, but Harry could have survived his attack. Only, being helpless and alone, with his wife many miles south, the porters above and his neighbours asleep having heard nothing, stumbling about his lonely flat with no memory of what had happened, the sharp shards of his fractured skull dug into his brain, leaving him confused, bleeding and afraid. It’s likely he’d spent at least two hours, maybe three, either collapsed on his bed or wandering about unsure why his head was bleeding. But having momentarily regained a short sense of consciousness, he phoned for an ambulance at 5:12am, and called the porter “Porter!” three minutes after that. Thirty-three hours later, Harry Michaelson was dead. (End) Tried at the Old Bailey on 9th of March 1949, before Lord Chief Justice Goddard, Harry Lewis pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the murder of Harry Michaelson. He didn’t deny the burglary or the attack, stating “I saw in the newspapers a photo of the window I had got through, and I realised the man I had hit was dead. I did not know the dead man. It was just a chance shot that I entered the place that night. And although I hit him hard, I did not mean to kill him. I did it just to get away without being caught”. That same day, although one of the jury had to be expelled as he objected to the death penalty, a jury of ten men and two women deliberated for 35 minutes and unanimously found him guilty of murder. Sympathising with his tragic upbringing, the jury recommended mercy for Harry Lewis, but with his appeal was dismissed on the 21st of April, he was executed by hanging that very same day. Harry Michaelson was buried in East Ham Jewish Cemetery and Harry Lewis was buried in Pentonville Prison. That said, the murder of Harry Michaelson might never have been solved, had the detectives not been so dogged as to assume that he had let in his killer. As Eugene Fordsworthe said, “assumption is the mother of all mistakes” and by making a simple assumption, they had made the mother of all mistakes. And although there was a small chance that as he lay in his hospital bed, that ‘one minute Michaelson’ could sketch his killer as the detectives hoped, by that point, that’s all his memory was – sketches. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
47 Frith Street in Soho, formerly the Peeperama Striptease
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO:
On Friday 23rd April 1960, 23-year-old Elaine Baker finished her shift as a striptease artiste at the Peeperama on 47 Frith Street in Soho. It was an odd job for her to do, as she was so quiet and shy. Fifteen minutes after her arrival back home at 19 Tredegar Square in Bow, East London, she stabbed her boyfriend to death. But why?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a dark grey/sludgy coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Soho', among the mess of markers. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Frith Street in Soho, W1; one street north of the Taj Mahal killing, a few doors south of the five-shilling striptease, the same building as the last failed erection of The Blackout Ripper, and a few doors down from the shopkeeper who sold more than bacon - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 47 Frith Street currently stands Ronny Scott’s jazz club, a musical institution, where nightly swarms of hipsters’ form - wearing cravats, bowties, monocles, feather boas and top hats, as nothing says ‘I have no personality’ like dressing like a Victorian street urchin at a Mardi Gras – and where they hope to hear some nice jazz, like, you know, something with a recognisable melody? But instead they end up listening to that free-form bollocks which sounds like an asthmatic stomping a seal pup to death. Back in the 1960s, at 47 Frith Street was a seedy little strip-club called Peeperama, where sad losers got their jollies by ogling bored ladies jiggling their wobbly bits. One of those ladies was Elaine Baker, a young woman with dreams, who was described as “one of the shyest striptease artistes I have ever met”, and although it looked as if she was having fun, behind her painted-on smile lay pain and anger. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 232: Finally, a home. Everybody has a dream. For some, it’s something they can achieve by themselves; whether to paint, to write or to build a business, where all they need is themselves and belief. Whereas for others like Elaine, her dream of a home, a marriage and several children required a second person - a husband. Elaine Baker began life as Elaine Barkworth on the 10th of August 1936. She said she knew little about her early life, her family and her upbringing, incorrectly telling the Police that she was born in Manchester, but maybe her childhood was something she had chosen to forget? Raised in the district of Bucklow in Cheshire, she never spoke of her father, she didn’t have a loving relationship with her mother, and as at least one of five siblings, she had two brothers and two sisters, but being taken into care when she was only 12, she spent most of her formative years in foster care. Denied love and guidance, as she was bounced between care homes and foster parents owing to her parent’s neglect, although her abandonment had made her incredibly caring and maternal with a deep desire to be loved but also to give love, regressing into herself, she became the epitome of shyness. As a short curvy redhead with pale skin and freckles, she always looked young, and later described as “a pathetic little creature”, for the price of a kiss, a hug or a little compassion, often she was easily led. In 1954, when she was 18, her foster mother died. And although legally an adult, no longer being the burden of the council’s responsibility, she was out on her own, even though she was still only a child. Described as being of lower-than-average intelligence owing to inconsistent schooling, she earned her way as a single girl through a series of manual jobs in laundries and hotels, and through necessity, she received three minor convictions: for the theft of a coat and stockings, a breach of probation and ‘the use of insulting words’. She wasn’t a bad person, she just lacked trust in others, and for good reason. Her late teens were riddled with more tragedy than most people could cope with in a lifetime. In 1953, aged 17, she lost all contact with her mother and her father she couldn’t remember. On 18th of August 1955, aged 19, as part of her dream, she gave birth to a child, but being illegitimate in an era when a single mother was as sinful as theft, she was forced to give it up for adoption. And on 14th May 1956, after just three weeks of unhappy abusive marriage to Karl G Baker, yet another dream had shattered. In August 1958, with no family, no home, no children and no marriage, every part of her fantasy was broken, and being desperate to leave all of her pain behind, she fled to London to start a new life. Three months later, she would meet Ronnie, the man of her dreams. As a shy uncertain girl, it took real courage to come out from behind her shadow to work as a cinema usherette at the Troxy on East London’s Commercial Road. Burdened by a soft voice, a quiet manner and a pale face which blushed like a little cherry tomato whenever a stranger spoke a few words to her, although far from outgoing, maybe it was her childlike qualities which lured Ronnie towards her? Three years her junior, 20-year-old Ronald was born and raised in London. As a six-foot three-inch hunk of loveliness, with a boyish face, a mop of dark hair and a big beaming smile, although he towered over this tiny redhead, Elaine was instantly smitten. Seeing him as marriage material, they moved in together, and with him earning three times her wage as a labourer, life looked promising. Elaine would state “for six or seven months we have lived together as man and wife” in different parts of East London. Unable to afford much, at the start of March, they moved into a small basement room in a shared lodging at 19 Tredegar Square in Bow. And although it wasn’t much, it was their home. The kitchen they shared with several others, but that was no problem, as it was clean, it had the latest mod-cons and most of the lodgers were quiet and helpful. Barely 10 feet square and with not even enough space to swing the proverbial cat, although their bed sitting room was a little pokey, it had everything this young couple needed; a sofa which folded out into a bed, a radio to play their records on, a decent sized wardrobe for all of their clothes, and even two porcelain cats to make it look nice. It was the start of something special for Elaine. Finally, she had a home. A place to call her own. With a job that she liked, the man who she loved, and – having come from nothing – there was talk of the things that she dreamed of the most, a happy marriage, many babies and a life of unbridled happiness. Her dream had finally come true… …and yet, once again, it would end in tragedy. It made sense that Ronnie paid the lion’s share of the bills, as he earned £11 per week whereas she only took in enough for the rent and little more than that. But as a bone-idle dawdler who despised the daily grind and would rather spaff his cash up the wall by seeing his pals and quaffing pints, “I used to get annoyed”, Elaine would state “because Ron wouldn’t go to work”. In short, he couldn’t be arsed. In court, the judge described Ronnie as “a worthless creature who treated her like an oriental chattel”; little more than a skivvy who made his meals, cleaned his clothes, and funded his nights on the sauce. With the Troxy on its final year as a cinema, before it shut, shifts were short and with their being few jobs she could do, “we had one or two arguments about this, but we’d always make up afterwards”. It was then, that - instead of agreeing to get off his arse and earn an honest living like any prospective husband with half a brain cell and an ounce of love in his heart - he made Elaine an indecent proposal. It wasn’t her thing, but – it was said – that Ronnie had taken her to Freddie’s Tropicana Club on Greek Street in Soho. It served drinks and it played music, only it wasn’t a nightclub, but a seedy striptease. The Tropicana at 11 Greek Street was a sleezy little cesspit, hidden under a cheesy café and accessed by a set of dark-lit steps, it led down to a dingy basement which stunk of bad breath, body odour, stale ciggies and an unerringly salty stench which made anyone with a set of working nostrils gag and retch. As the only female customer, Elaine couldn’t help but feel a sickening wave of revulsion wash over her as a gaggle of perverted little gits, grinned lasciviously as they eyed her tiny body up and down. Only, Ronnie hadn’t brought her here for fun, but for work. Having nagged incessantly, although a shy girl who blushed uncontrollably and was insecure about her shape, he wanted her to become a stripper. Yes, she would hate it. Yes, she was afraid. And yes, just the thought of it made her feel nauseous. But with it paying £12 per week, three times her miniscule wage as a cinema usherette, a little bit of saucy nudity would clear their back rent and any unpaid bills, until he found work and got back on his feet. It was something she didn’t want to do, but for him, she would. And with the Tropicana’s owners also running the Peeperama on Frith Street, although the manageress said, “she was the shyest stripteaser there”, Elaine’s demureness lured in the perverts who – through her – fantasied about shy young girls. To cover their debts, she started stripping at the start of March. After that, Ronnie didn’t work again… …as with her earning more than him, he didn’t have to. Friday 23rd April 1960 started out as most days often did… with an argument. Over the past few weeks, as he became lazier, more self-entitled and often woke late with a hangover after a jolly night out with his pals paid for by her, and as their fights had become physical, she used make-up to hide her bruises. Three days before, Ronnie had finally got a job labouring on a building site. Elaine would say “I set the alarm for 7:30am, but he didn’t get up” – he didn’t want to and (in his mind) he didn’t have to. Having made breakfast, Elaine used a torch to navigate their messy bed-sitting room as the light-switch he had said he would fix was still broken, and with him “still in bed as I left at 11:05am, I asked him if he was going to work. He said he was. As I left our room, I left the door open thinking that would make him get up, but as I went up the stairs to head out, he slammed the door shut and that made me mad”. He wasn’t going to work, she knew that. With 10 shillings in her purse, she’d given him two-thirds to put food in the cupboard, which she hoped he would do. And although she’d work a 12-hour shift until nearly midnight to earn money for them, she guessed that by the time she got back, he’d be drunk. The Peeperama at 47 Frith Street was as equally seedy as the Tropicana. Being just shy of Old Compton Street, this side of Soho was surrounded by pubs, brothels and similarly seedy establishments, which catered for some of the most pathetic losers imaginable who lived for drinking, leering and wanking. Like any other striptease, this venue was as erotic as an abattoir, as a parade of bored women sat behind a foul-smelling curtain waiting to be ogled like pieces of meat before some drooling deadbeats. For these stars of the show, there was no dressing room, no glamour and no hints of Hollywood, just a few stools, a brimming ashtray, a curtain rail of unwashed slutty outfits they’d only wear for a few minutes at best, a cracked make-up mirror with a single stark bulb overhead, and an overflowing toilet. It was about as sexy as a dose of dysentery, but for a few sad gits that night, it was enough. For Elaine, “I learned the job, but I didn’t like it”, so as the purple curtains were pulled apart, again like a wound-up automaton, she started to dance. With no stage just a sticky carpet, a single light which was hardly flattering, and a cheesy track playing in mono through a crackly record player, surrounded by a semi-circle of creaky chairs and sleezy men stifling semis, a sea of leering eyes ate up every inch of her unveiling skin as with hands in their pockets, they all bobbed up and down to the sexy rhythm. Still painfully shy, as much as she hated it, Elaine did what she needed to do, to live and survive. Like so many others, although her body danced, behind her eyes she was dead, as the second she saw the sad bastards before her, she knew that all she wanted to do was to spit in their faces, or be sick, so as she jiggled her bare breasts a few feet from several possible rapists, three things occupied her mind: Hunger: as having given her boyfriend every penny she had, only able to afford a sandwich and a cup of tea all day, she was weak, and tired, and aware that the audience could hear her rumbling belly. Drugs: as being conscious of her weight, struggling to stay awake and needing something it soothe her pain and shame, she’d started drinking, and taking Preludin, an appetite suppressant and a stimulant. And finally, there was hope: as still believing that her dream could still come true, “I hope that Ronnie would get a job and that we’d get married”. But deep down, she must have known it was a lie… …as back home, a nightmare awaited her. At midnight, Elaine exited the tube at Bow, her feet aching after twelve hours tottering in high heels, dodging kisses and ducking gropes as a butt-crack of losers headed home to their wife’s cold shoulder. With her cheeks sore from grinning inanely, as she entered the dark silence of Tredegar Square, again her belly rumbled having barely eaten a thing all day. She hoped that she’d be welcomed home by her husband-to-be with a soft kiss, followed by a nice meal lovingly prepared by him, but it was not to be. “When I walked into the kitchen, I saw there was no meal”; there were no plates on the table, nothing boiling on the hob, and no food in the cupboard, just half a bag of old potatoes, barely at their best. “I went into the front room which was in darkness”, as after weeks of complaining, he hadn’t fixed the light switch, he hadn’t even attempted to fix the light switch. In fact, as always, he had done nothing. Flickering her lighter, by its limp orange glow “I saw Ronnie lying on the bed with his clothes on”, him all sprawled out like he’d had a hard day; the stale odour of beer and cigarettes on his breath, and the seven shillings she had given him for food was gone having been blown on getting pissed with his pals. “I asked him if he had been to work. He rolled over and said, ‘what’s it to you?’, I said ‘If I’m working so should you, or are you going to start your old tricks again?’ By this, I meant not bothering to work. He then said, ‘I’m sick’, I replied ‘the only thing you’re sick with is idleness’. He then called me a ‘bloody bastard’ and as I turned, he jumped out of bed, and we argued”. It was like every other night prior. He told lies, he made excuses, he never once thanked her for keeping them float by paying the rent, clearing the bills, and putting food in his belly. “And as he slapped me round the face, I tried to hit him back, but I could not reach him”, as this six-foot three-inch hulk towered over the tiny frame of Elaine. She told Detective Superintendent Beal, “I walked into the kitchen and went to a drawer and took out a knife”. When asked, “Is this the knife?”, showing her a small four-inch blade, she replied “yes, I was going to peel some potatoes and make chips. Ronnie came in behind me, I asked him if he wanted any, he said, ‘what do you care if I eat or not?’. We had words and hit me on the nose and forehead”. As her eyes filled and her nose bled red, knowing this would be another bruise she’d have to hide, she stood there shaking, knowing that this was what her life had become. There was no dream, only shit. What happened next may never be known, as Elaine’s recollection was hazy at best. Initially, she told the Police, “he walked into the kitchen and then called out”, (“Elaine!”) “when I went into the hall, he was lying there covered in blood”. The DS asked “as far as you were aware, you were the only person in the basement with him at that time. So, how do you suggest he was stabbed?”, at which she replied, “I don’t know. He might have done it himself. He was always saying he was fed up”. As those words stumbled from her fumbling mouth, they all knew it was a lie, as her fingerprints were found on the knife’s handle, and his blood had poured down her waist, her legs and her feet. Only it was clear that she was not evil woman hellbent on murdering her man, this was just a frightened girl who was in panic and fear, grasping at straws, as the life she had always dreamed of was now over. Later, Elaine would claim it was an accident “he walked out into the hall and called ‘Elaine! Elaine!’. At first, I thought he was fooling. I thought something must be wrong. I walked out and saw Ronnie lying on the floor, crouched up and a lot of blood, and I realised I must have stabbed him with the knife”. At that point, unsure what to do, Elaine shouted for Michael Molloy, a labourer who lodged in a back room on the ground floor who had always been very decent to both. Oddly, when questioned, Michael confirmed “I went to sleep and heard a scream. I thought I was having a nightmare, so I took no notice. A couple of minutes later, I heard Elaine calling me hysterically, and I thought something was wrong”. And it was. Michael would state “I found Ronnie lying at the bottom of the stairs on his stomach. I turned him over and saw blood. Elaine was kneeling over Ronnie; she was sobbing, calling his name”. As blood pooled around Ronnie like a sticky red halo, desperate to stop the bleeding, Michael started searching for a wound, “Elaine was very excited and in trying to find where the blood was coming from she tore the shirt completely off. I said, ‘this chap has been stabbed’, but she made no comment”. Dragging Ronnie to the kitchen, the only room with a working light, making do as best he could to save his life “I collected some clean underpants to dress the wound. He was coughing. I laid him on his back, had Mrs Hynes call for an ambulance, and I covered him with blankets as that seemed all I could do”. When asked why she’d changed out of her bloodied clothes and why Ronnie’s blood had been washed away, Michael replied “the floor was completely covered with blood which I mopped up. I told Elaine to get dressed and clean herself as she’d have to go to hospital” – as to him, this wasn’t a crime scene, but a shared house in which many people lived, including this young couple who often had fights. With the ambulance arriving faster than the police, as Elaine got in to accompany Ronnie to hospital, when PC Adams asked, “what happened?”, again in panic, she said “I don’t know. I didn’t see”. Not realising that everything thing she said and everything she did would be used in evidence against her. With Ronnie gasping for breath, when the ambulanceman asked “what happened?”; she said she didn’t know, she said she’d tell him later, and then “he was playing with a knife, he had an accident”. And when asked in court to recall her words, both of these professionals did so, without hesitation. And although they had sped just a short distance to Mile End hospital, by the time they had arrived, with a single stab wound to the heart, Dr Lucas would inform Elaine that Ronnie was dead. Becoming hysterical, she kept saying “it can’t be, it can’t be”, and on several occasions in the hospital and on route to Bow Police station, she became violent, and she had to be retained as she tried to flee. Questioned at 1:20am, an hour after their fight, asked to tell the truth, Elaine sobbed “I did do it. I was making chips, I had the knife in my hand, and I said, ‘have you been drinking?’, he said ‘yeah, so what, I’m not gonna to sit and wait about for you every evening’. I saw red and struck out with the knife”. An autopsy conducted by Dr F E Camps at Poplar Mortuary would confirm “he had superficial scratches to his right arm and his upper chest” indicative of a fight with a long-fingernailed woman, “and a single stab wound midway between the nipples, which passed between the ribs, and embedded four inches deep (the full length of the blade) through the end of the heart and part of one of the valves, resulting in extensive internal bleeding of the left side of chest”, which was the primary cause of death. And with the Scientific Officer of the Met’ Police Laboratory unable to find any trace of alcohol in his blood or urine, the knife having been wiped clean of his blood, and Elaine having changed her story several time to several witnesses, having started with nothing, now her life was over. (End) Held at Holloway Prison, the medical officer would state “she has shown no evidence of mental illness, she has extensive bruising to the left-hand side of her forehead, upper chest, upper arms, both thighs and lower legs. All of these injuries are recent, within the timeframe of the incident”, and although impulsive and emotional, she didn’t show any sign of aggression, but got upset talking about her past. With the press taking pity on her predicament, a nationwide appeal was made to find her parents, and – after almost seven years apart – Elaine and her mother Constance were reunited at Holloway Prison. Tried at The Old Bailey on the 21st of May 1960, she pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder owing to provocation, with the prosecution not asking if she had intended to kill him, but to do him harm. When cross-examined, the Met’ Police’s scientific officer stated that no alcohol was detected because “it is destroyed a rate of ¾ of a pint per hour”, and with the pathologist confirming that – although considerable force had been used to stab him - “if, at the time, the body was moving forward, it does not need a great deal of force. It is no more than just an ordinary push”. Implying that if he was moving forward to attack her, she could conceivably have stabbed him by mistake, as she had initially thought. Described by the judge as “a pathetic creature who was full of remorse for the man she still loved”, three days later and after four hours of deliberation, a jury of nine men and three women found her not guilty of murder and not guilty of manslaughter. When the verdict was read, it was said she wept. As she was led away to freedom, when interviewed on the steps of the Old Bailey, she said “I was very much in love. I felt I could reform him. Perhaps then for the first time in my life I would have a home”. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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23 Greek Street, Soho, as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-ONE:
On Sunday 31st of July 1904, at roughly 12:30am, a fight broke out near the doorway of 23 Greek Street in Soho between two young men; Edward Devanney and Raphael Ciclino. Amidst a mele of fists and drunken yells, although its witnesses spoke of the shouts they’d heard and blows they’d seen, it seems strange that no-one saw the truth.
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Greek Street in Soho, W1; a few doors south of William Crees‘ deadly dose of syphilis, a few doors west of Susan Latterney’s Stockholm syndrome, a few doors up from Joe Gynane’s drug-fuelled murder spree, and a few steps from the hobo tax-collector - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 23 Greek street currently stands a five-storey office block, with the shell of Pleasant Lady Jian Bing’s Chinese street-food stall below and the stench of avocadoes and falafel coming from the production companies above. And with a horrible pebble-dashed façade like a statue’s been sick, a set of nasty white windows reminiscent of a 1980s comprehensive, and its graffiti covered wall wreaking of wee-wee, it’s so ugly, it looks like an architect sat on a box on Meccano and thought “meh, that’ll do”. Back in 1904, at 23 Greek Street stood a provisions shop called Dearden’s ran by the Dearden family, and above, in a modest three-storey terrace house was their home with space for several lodgers. On Sunday 31st of July 1904, at roughly 12:30am, a fight broke out near the doorway of 23 Greek Street between two young men; Edward Devanney and Raphael Ciclino. Amidst a mele of fists and drunken yells in a brawl which risked one man’s execution and another’s death, although its many witnesses spoke of the shouts they’d heard and blows they’d seen, it seems strange that no-one saw the truth. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 231: The Good Samaritans. Drinking and fighting are nightly staples of most cities, as once the pubs are shut, a puke of insensible idiots, incapable of rational thought after they’ve had a whole pint of ‘happy juice’, grunt like flatulent pigs as their lonely braincells command sovereign-ringed fists to pummel another Neanderthal’s head. Some say good riddance to these dregs of society… …but sometimes, there can be more to a fist fight than at first glance. The night of Saturday 30th of July 1904 was a hot one, as steam rose from a recent downpour on the streets, and with the air sticky, it seemed like the only way to quell the city’s temper was by drinking. 25-year-old Edward Thomas Devanney was a superintendent at the Hippodrome in Leicester Square. Holding down a steady job and living in a one-roomed lodging on New Compton Street, he had no real plans for the future, as he was all about Saturday nights out with his pals, with a few pints and a fight. Described as a ne’er-do-well, a yob, an oaf and a lout, he wasn’t the best blessed with brains, and once he’d got a few pints inside of him, he didn’t care who got hurt, as it was all about his pride and his fun. With a conviction for stealing a purse and a watch, he served 8 months hard labour. Having not learned his lesson, he stole another watch and served another 12 months. And with 12 more months for more theft, and 12 more months for the assault of a policeman, he’d spent 4 of his 7 adult years in prison, and – having shat his life away – he was unlikely to deviate from a path of theft, drink and violence. But then again, morons will always be morons. Having finished his shift at the Hippodrome, Edward did what he always did and headed out to Soho for a few pints with his pals; Arthur Langley, Edward Lynch and his brother-in-law James Albert Lee. As a 32-year-old labourer with scars, tattoos and cut knuckles, Arthur Langley had served nine years plus for theft, burglary and assault. But having realised he had wasted a third of his life, having almost gone straight, he hadn’t been arrested in five years. As for the other two, Edward Lynch was a local tailor who – being red-faced and a bit too loud – was prone to brawling but rarely got into any trouble, and James Lee, who – as a sober man – often stood quietly at the back, as tall and thin as a bean pole. And not being much of a drinker, James tried his best to keep his brother-in-law out of trouble… …and although he would try, he would not always succeed. Finishing his shift at the Hippodrome at 11:30pm, during which (as he often did) he had got pissed, Edward met up in a pub on Shaftesbury Avenue with Edward Lynch, Arthur Langley and James Lee, where it is said he swigged back three pints, until the pub called ‘last orders’ at just gone midnight. Booted out of the beverage shop and (almost certainly) singing a dirty little ditty about an impressively bosomed girl called Sally, the lads headed into Soho, and – for reasons which were never explained – they slunk to 23 Greek Street, where one of the Hippodrome’s super’s called Freddy Hopkins lodged. With their drunken bravado echoing across the deserted street, at about 12:30am, although the shop was shut and lights in the lodging above were out, Edward banged hard, and rang the bell incessantly. Waking Maud Dearden with a start, the landlord’s 18-year-old daughter said she heard “singing and banging… men shouting, and what sounded like a something being smashed”, and with their raucous braying unsettling the sleeping children, Maud stormed downstairs, her little sister cowering behind. Among the dark of the hallway, as a light burst in from outside owing to the broken front door hanging off its hinges, all she saw was the sinister silhouettes of three men; Devanney, Lynch and Langley. As a petite young woman wearing just her nightdress, she should have been scared, but being so used to their obnoxiousness, all she saw was a bunch of slurring intoxicated arseholes staggering around like their hips were made of jelly and demanding “where’s Hopkins… where’s that fat bastard got to?”. This wasn’t a robbery and this wasn’t an assault, this was just three drunks being dickheads. With this being her home and her family, Maud ushered these mashed menaces out, hissing “no, you’ll have to go, he’s sleep, come back tomorrow”, and with bean-pole frame of James Lee – as motionless and vague as ever, and almost silently blending in with the streetlamps – as he slowly shepherded the rear two outside - “come on lads, home time I think” - at that point Edward was still trying to get in. When questioned by the Police, Edward Devanney said “we rang the bell, but did nothing more to get in. Miss Dearden came down... I asked for Hopkins... she tried to stop me going upstairs. That’s it”. But as the lads congregated outside of 23 Greek Street… …a dark and sinister stranger approached. As Freddy Hopkins peered from his window, too cowardly to confront the commotion below, he’d tell the court “I saw a foreign man come round the corner”. Stocky like a bulldog, strutting like a peacock, and as stiff as a seething cobra ready to strike, dressed entirely in black, the dark Italian spat furiously. Having never seen him before, the lads had no idea what he wanted, as in an indecipherable gibberish, the Italian shoved Edward hard - “’ere what’s he saying?”, “nah f**k off mate”, “leave it out”, “I don’t f**king know who he is, nutjob is what”, “are you mad or summat?”, “who the f**k does he think he is bossing me about in my country, it’s a bloody liberty innit?”, “he must be a nutter, bloody eyeties”. But with this foreigner’s fists balled like the heads of two sledgehammers, although they didn’t speak the same language – spoiling for a fight – as James ushered Lynch and Langley across the street to safety, Edward and the ‘foreigner’ got stuck in, knocking seven shades of shit out of each other. As I say, morons will always be morons. Their fisticuffs only lasted a minute at best, maybe two, and with both men pummelling each as much as the other; nobody won, nobody lost, face was saved and with James separating the two, they both went about their ways shouting obscenities from ever-increasing distances - “vaffanculo”, “f*ck you”. And as they walked in different directions – not doubt regaling their pals with a bullshit version of this pathetic little spat – for Edward, although fuming, he’d had a good night, a few pints and a fight. It had begun as quickly as it had ended… …or, at least, that’s what they thought. Having walked up Greek Street, going the wrong direction, Edward recalled “after eighty yards I said I was going home, and I went back down towards Old Compton”, as he lived on New Compton Street. But as they approached the corner, there he was, the ‘foreigner’, right outside of 23 Greek Street. With the Italian facing the other way, and Edward still fuming, instead of letting it be, being nothing more than a drunken lout “I got up to him and struck him with my fist two or three times”. As he often did, James tried his best to break-it-up, shouting "don't a fool, come away", but Edward was in deep. Punching fast and hard, although Edward had the upper hand being a few inches taller, all it took was a single mistake for his life to change forever. As having put the wrong foot in the wrong place at the wrong time, as he tripped over a kerbstone, “I slipped to the ground; and next, he was on top of me”. With the Italian raining down punches and Edward giving him sharp thumps to the gut, the two men pounded on, their bleeding fists slamming into each other’s bodies, as James tried to split them apart. As a mele of flying limbs and furious grunts, it was impossible for any witness on this partially lit street to see what had happened; as some saw fists, others only saw feet, some said several men were at it, others said it was just the two. And although several witnesses were heard to cry "don't two him" and “no blades, come on, play fair”, some saw a knife being pulled, and whereas others saw nothing. Rising to his feet and fearing retaliations from the angry men who surrounded him, as the Italian fled, Lynch recalled “he rushed across the road. Devanny got off the ground and went after him”. Running down Old Compton Street, “Devanney overtook him and struck him once in the face”, but hearing a cry of “Police! Help” from one of the eyewitnesses, as the Italian headed west, the lads headed east. Bleeding from a swelling eye, spitting bloodied spittle and limping ever more profusely as he staggered down Charring Cross Road, with his adrenaline still pumping, it was only as he took a moment to catch his breath, being aided by pals Lynch and Langley, that Edward realised that he had been stabbed. With blood over his hands, and pooling down his legs in a never-ending torrent, with a knife wound to his right buttock, but also his groin - a soft plateau of flesh containing vital arteries and veins - they caught a cab and sped to Charing Cross Hospital. Immediately admitted to casualty and given the very best available treatment for his wounds, a few hours later, 25-year-old Edward Thomas Devanney… …was discharged from hospital and made a full recovery. Mercifully, although he had two knife wounds; one an inch long to his right buttock, and the other in the lower part of his abdomen, having only punctured the skin, these superficial wounds were stitched and dressed, and – with no long-term damage to his vital organs - Edward left and went about his day. The fight had been bloody and brutal, but no-one had died… …no-one. At least, not yet. Like Edward, he didn’t know that he’d been stabbed, but seeing him stumble away from a raging crowd on Greek Street, a taxi driver drove him straight to Charing Cross Hospital. With a seemingly superficial wound to his abdomen, it was stitched and bandaged, but as he drifted in and out of consciousness, with the blade having punctured his intestines, the tall thin frame of the patient grew paler and sicker. As his own guts had poisoned him, knowing he was unlikely to recover, the doctor said, "you know you’re going to die?" and having mumbled "yes", a few minutes later, 22-year-old James Lee was dead. He hadn’t drank, he hadn’t argued, he hadn’t fought, as being a quiet sober man, this good Samaritan had simply stepped in to break up the fight, and yet the blade meant for Edward had ended his life. That night, in a dingy little lodging at 14 Arthur Street in West Brompton, James’ murderer returned. As the dark foreigner entered his gloomy hovel, pulling from his bloodied pocket a bone-handled clasp knife, before stashing the evidence in his drawer, he wiped the blade clean with a rag and a sharpener. Only this was not a callous killer impassive having taken a life, this was a man in panic. 32-year-old Italian Raphael Ciclino was so perturbed by his own actions, that when his landlady (Rosina Martin) came to deliver his breakfast in the morning, she’d state “the door was shut, the room was empty and the bed was dirty as if somebody with muddy clothes had lain on it, and someone had been sick”. Those who knew him said that Raphael wasn’t an uncouth lout, but “a quiet and reserved gentleman who was sober, peaceful and was no bother to anyone”. He didn’t drink or fight, he just worked. The next morning, being too terrified to flee but also too poor to not earn, Raphael returned to his job as a kitchen porter at the French Club on Lisle Street. Having misplaced his hat, although his tatty old waistcoat now sported a new hole and several fresh stains which no-one knew was blood, what made the cooks laugh was his black eye, as ‘apparently’ this stout little man had got into a fight. (laughs) (Banter) “who gave you that then, your missus?”, “men did it, Englishmen”, “ah yeah, right, and how many men we talking?”, “six, maybe ten, I not know”, “ha, six he says, maybe ten, my speckled arse”. He worked his shift as best he could, washing dishes with shaking hands and getting ribbed about his fight, but with his description circulated through Soho, it was only a matter of time until he was caught. On the morning of Monday the 1st of August, Raphael Ciclino was arrested at the French Club having been pointed out by the cowardly Freddy Hopkins. Taken to Vine Street police station, when Detective Inspector Drew stated, “I am charging you with stabbing two men in Greek Street, one of whom has since died”, barely able to converse in broken English, Raphael looked lost. And although it didn’t take an interpreter (who would later arrive) to translate “no fight; me no knife", although that was clearly a lie, his defence was not going to be easy, as the Inspector replied, “sorry mate, I don’t speak French”. So many details would be lost in translation… …and yet, ironically, that was how the fight had begun. The evidence against Raphael was overwhelming. Examined by Dr Mitchell, with extensive bruises to his jaw, nose, legs, knees and the back of his head, the Police surgeon would state “he had been very badly mauled”, and although clearly shocked at how deadly this brawl had been, although he shook and he cried and he repeatedly vomited, there was no denying that – regardless of how remorseful he was now – that fight had led to a man’s death. In his lodging, the Police found the knife hidden in the drawer. With a reddish-brown film on the blade from where he had wiped it clean, although an attempt to destroy evidence was seen by the Police, on the bloodied specks which remained, lay a black fluff matching his pocket’s lining and a sprinkling of tobacco identical to the brand he smoked. And with Dr Ludwig Freyberger confirming that the blade was the same size as the one which had stabbed James to death, Raphael was as good as guilty. Back at Vine Street police station, against a line-up of ten stocky men of Italian appearance, Raphael was picked out by Edward Devanney (his victim and brother-in-law of the deceased), their boozy pals Arthur Langley and Edward Lynch, Freddy Hopkins the coward and Maud Dearden of 23 Greek Street. Questioned with an interpreter present, although he gave a piecemeal statement in a mix of excitable Italian and broken English, repeatedly asserting “I had no knife, only my hands, everyone see that”, even though no-one could recall seeing a knife (not even Edward), it didn’t help that he had lied. Charged with the wounding of Edward Devanney and the wilful murder of James Lee, as two men who he didn’t know and had never met until that moment, the impact of his actions were so overwhelming, that on two occasions, as he sat inside his prison cell, Raphael would attempt to take his own life. Using whatever he could find, in the first instance, he ripped off the buttons from his jacket and (made of highly toxic lead and decorated with lethal-levels of an arsenic-based paint) he swallowed them. In the second instance - having survived owing to quick-witted officers - he strangled himself using his own coat sleeves, and running fast, he ran head-first into the cell’s stone wall until he fell unconscious. Suffering little more than bruises, cuts and a concussion, his suicide attempts would prove futile… …but what had driven this quiet little man to stab a stranger he didn’t even know? The night of Saturday 30th of July 1904 was a hot one, as steam rose from a recent downpour on the streets, and with the air sticky, it seemed like the only way to quell the city’s temper was by drinking. But not for Raphael. Being a sober man, although he was sat in the Swiss Hotel on Old Compton Street with Joseph Berger a cook from the French Club, there was no argument to rile his temper and no excess of drunk to cloud his judgement, as having supped a small wine, he left the pub at 12:30am. His plan was to head off home to bed after a 14-hour shift; he was alone as his pal had said ‘goodbye’, he was walking west towards Charing Cross Road to get his bus, in his pocket he carried a tin of tobacco (as he smoked) and a bone-handled knife (as being porter and often a cook, many men in his line of work carried the tools of their trade with them), and he only stopped because he heard a scream. It was a woman’s scream. Turning off Old Compton Street onto Greek Street, to the side of the provisions shop, he saw the petite frame of 18-year-old Maud, her front door hanging off its hinges, her little sister cowering behind her, and - surrounded by drunken louts - no-one was coming to her aid, not even cowardly Freddy Hopkins. Raised well, unlike others who would have walked by, although he wasn’t a brawler, Raphael came to this lone woman’s aid and - rightly - reprimanded Edward who was trying to force his way back in. He was just a stranger, but he was the good Samaritan that Maud needed in her moment of fear. Only, with no-one having a clue what he was saying - “’ere what’s he saying?”, “are you mad or summat?”, “who the f**k’s he think he is bossing me about in my country?”, “must be a nutter, bloody eyeties” – Raphael would state “I saw a man strike a woman. I spoke to him, but he did not understand me”. And there sits the irony, as at that moment, there wasn’t one good Samaritan, but two. As with both Raphael Ciclino and James Lee trying to stop Edward and protect Maud, these two quiet men had stepped in when others hadn’t, but unable to understand the other, details were lost in translation. Initially fleeing as he was scared, the only reason Raphael returned to 23 Greek Street was because he worried about Maud. Having crossed paths, the only reason James was stabbed was because he was protecting Edward. And the only reason that Raphael pulled a knife was because fearing for his life, as the drunken lout called Edward Devanney had sunk a few pints and was spoiling for a fight. (End) By the end of the month, on 31st of August 1904, before Judge Denman, 32-year-old Raphael Ciclino was tried at the Old Bailey on the charge of malicious wounding and murder. From the witness box and through a translator, he would claim he was set upon by Edward, but also Lynch, Langley and later attacked by James Lee, that as he hadn’t a knife in his possession, he’d defended himself with his fists. Unable to decide who was telling the truth as the evidence confirmed that someone had stabbed both men, as none of the witnesses had seen a knife and even Edward would state “I cannot say for certain who stabbed him”, with the defence claiming provocation, a jury took ten minutes to find him guilty of manslaughter. Sentenced on 15th September, Raphael Ciclino was given eight years' penal servitude. And with Edward seen as one of the victims, no charges of assault, intimidation, criminal damage or violence were brought against him, and – never changing his ways – he continued living his life like a drunken oaf; who stole to suit his needs, who terrorised young girls to make himself feel big, and as a loser, who got into pathetic fights with strangers over nothing, all because his life was worthless. James Lee was buried in Westminster, having only lived 22 years of his young life. Raphael served his sentence and returned to his family in Italy. Two good Samaritans who risked their lives for a stranger. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
On Monday the 25th of February 1935 at 2:30pm, an unusual parcel arrived at Platform 19 of Waterloo Station. At 21 inches long, 9 inches wide and deep and weighing close to two stone, the train's cleaner found a severed paid of legs. And although to some this was just a piece of lost property, it would lead to one of the strangest criminal investigations in the Met Police’s history.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'London Waterlooo'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Waterloo Station, SW1; one street south of Peggy Richards’ “fall”, a short walk from the ‘happy slapping’ attack on David Morely, a few feet from the left luggage kiosk where the bloodied bloomers of Emily Beilby Kaye lay, and soon something grim - coming now to Murder Mile. As one of London’s busiest transport hubs, the lost property office at Waterloo Station is a treasure trove of bafflingly bonkers cast-offs which make the cleaners wonder who the hell these weirdos are; having found enough books to fill a branch of Waterstones, walking sticks to stabilise sixty-two wonky centipedes and crinkly-paged grumble mags to milk the saddest git’s love-plums dry. And occasionally, they also find a gimp mask, a llama, a breast implant and (far too often) a stool sample - a human one. But many moons ago, they also found something which sparked a nationwide hunt for a killer. It takes a lot to surprise those who work in this lost property office, and although they still diligently catalogue every object they receive to return each missing item to its rightful owner, what they found back in 1935 would lead to one of the strangest criminal investigations in the Met Police’s history. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 230: Pieces. Usually, at this point in the show, I would introduce you to the victim. With the sad music playing, we would hear about their life, their upbringing, their hopes, their struggles and their dreams, everything from the moment they were born to their last moment alive. But this time, I can’t do that… …I can’t even tell you a few pieces about his life, as that is all that was left of him. Monday 25th February 1935 was bitterly cold, as a Siberian blast had driven London’s winter as low as -28. But in contrast, with highs of 3 degrees and lows of -4, that ice-caked day was practically barmy. The day had begun as it always had, as the train (an electric locomotive with twenty-six carriages) pulled out of a railway siding at Hounslow in West London at exactly 6:48am. Scrubbed and polished by a team of cleaners, the train ran a regular route from Twickenham and Waterloo, stopping at twenty-two stations including Richmond, Mortlake, Barnes, Wandsworth and Clapham Junction. At 1:24pm, the train departed Twickenham Station with hardly a handful of passengers in its first-class coaches, some in the second-class and a smattering in the much cheaper third-class. By all accounts, the journey was uneventful and barring a delay owing to ice, it arrived at Waterloo just shy of 2:30pm. With a light dusting of anonymous passengers disembarking from Platform 19 on the north-west side - all of whom showed their tickets to the inspector – another team of cleaners set about removing any rubbish or lost property from the carriages; maybe some newspapers, some books, and occasionally a pair of missing gloves, a scarf or a woolly hat, although that was unlikely in this bitterly cold weather. A few minutes in, James Albert Eves, one of the cleaners made his way down the third-class carriage numbered 94806, carrying a refuse sack. The train was empty, except for an unidentified man who was dressed in a black suit and hat who – he believed - had boarded for the return leg of the journey. James hadn’t the time to consider the items he’d find and having spotted a brown paper parcel pushed right to the back under the seat - with the biggest crime being to delay the train on its predetermined route back to Twickenham - as it pulled out, James carried the large parcel to the lost property office. Handed to the office supervisor, John George Cooper, both men stared with concern at the parcel. At 21 inches long, 9 inches wide and deep, and weighing close to two stone, wrapped in an odd L-shape, it looked as if it was a fat stubby golf club. Only with its string fraying and the paper wet, James would state “I felt the weight was curious, as at the bottom, when I touched it, it felt like there were toes”. Peeping in through a split, there was no denying what was inside, as John said, “we found legs”. Having alerted the Metropolitan Police, Chief Inspector Donaldson headed up the investigation, aided by Dr Davidson of the Police Laboratory and Sir Bernard Spilsbury as the Home Office pathologist. The brown paper told them nothing, as like the string, it was generic. Unwrapping it, the legs had been swathed in tabloid newspapers; an issue of the Daily Express dated 21st September 1934, six months prior, and two sheets of the News of the World dated 20th January 1935, one month before. But being two of the most popular papers, bloodstains suggested that the dismemberment occurred two days earlier, and with the legs beginning to putrefy, that death had occurred at least eight days before that. Inside were the severed legs of an adult male; complete with shins, calves, ankles and feet, but nothing above the knees. With the lower legs and feet accounting for 12% body mass, weighing roughly 12lbs each, it was clear that he was once a man of 5 foot 8 to 5 foot 10 inches tall, but unable to determine his age – at that point – all they knew was that he was somewhere between 20 to 50 years old. It was impossible to identify him, as he had no scars and no tattoos. Examined at Southwark mortuary, they were able to define his details further, but not much. As being a white pale male, given his fair hair and his freckles, it was assumed that he worked outdoors, and having the musculature of a ‘healthy vigorous male’, x-rays showed no signs of ‘Harris Lines’ (the arrest of bone growth in his teens) or any ‘senile changes’, so it was likely he was in near to his late twenties. But as hard as they tried, the victim couldn’t be identified by his lower legs, and that’s all they had. The wounds told them even less about who had dissected them and why, as with “a clean cut through the soft tissue of the knee joint, just below the patella… it was carried out with extraordinary precision by a person with anatomical knowledge”. But who? A surgeon? A butcher? Or was it just blind luck? And yet, one detail would perplex these officers more than most. With the victim’s toes bent like clenched fists as if to make them smaller, given that his legs were shaved, it suggested that either this man had been so poor that he was forced to wear ill-fitting shoes as hand-me-downs, or he’d been masquerading as a woman. Whoever this man once was, the Police had little to go on… …but they were unwilling to give up. Every passenger who could be traced from the train was questioned, but no-one saw anyone carrying a large parcel or anything strange. But then, how often do we notice other people? And with the parcel deliberately pushed back under the seat, it was hidden, but why would anyone hide a pair of dismembered legs onboard of a train which was heading back to its original location? Had the early morning cleaners at the railway siding missed it by mistake, or had someone planned to dump them? Examining the generic brown paper using infra-red light and microscopic analysis, Dr Olaf Block of the Ilford Photographic Company was able to spot two very faint numbers; a partially erased ‘5’ written in black crayon on the bottom left-hand corner, and a ‘14’ written in pencil in the right-hand corner. Across the city and wider boroughs, Police questioned every courier, freight and removals firms, as they were most likely to mark a parcel with identifying numbers, but it came to nothing. And although this tatty brown paper had been used several times previously, not a single fingerprint was found. The newspapers were submitted to the same scrutiny, as with top-right-hand portion of the front page of the Daily Express having been cut away with a sharp knife or a razor, given that this is where some newsagents tend to write the address of the house where the paperboy should deliver it, the Police spoke to hundreds of vendors, but that cut wasn’t unique enough and the handwriting didn’t match. And although they had enlisted the help of two sculptors from the infamous Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum on Baker Street who made plaster casts of these unusual feet, no-one could identify them. Every piece of evidence had only led to dead ends, and every theory had hit a brick wall. It was suggested that – given how cleanly the legs were dissected – it could have been a prank by a medical student who had removed a pair of amputated limbs from a hospital incinerator. But with the feet being unwashed and the wound devoid of a surgical skin-flap, this theory was quickly discounted. Enquiries were made at hospitals, undertakers and mortuaries whether any body parts were missing, but this turned up nothing. As did the hunt for a butcher or abattoir worker who could have performed such a skilled dissection, “as the knees are particularly hard to disarticulate”, but this too drew a blank. And with the Police appealing for any relatives who were missing a loved one to get in touch, a deluge of families gripped with grief from across the country – regardless of whether their husband, brother or son was a 5 foot 9, fair-haired male in his late 20s, or not – they swamped the phonelines for weeks. So desperate were the Police to solve this case that they had begun to find similarities in the Brighton trunk murders from the year before. But later being dismissed as a theory by Sir Bernard Spilsbury, they were left wondering - why would anyone go to so much effort to disguise the victim’s identity? Or had they? Whether it was a murder or not, they still did not know. Whether he was still alive, they couldn’t tell. And although the Police had some evidence of who this man may have been… …that was all they had – pieces. Three weeks later, on Tuesday 19th March 1935 at about 5:30pm, three boys were playing on the bank of the Hanwell Flight of the Grand Union Canal. As a series of seven locks from the Hanwell Asylum to the River Thames at Brentford, passed a chocking swathe of factories and under two bridges for the Piccadilly Line tube and Southern Railways, Clitheroe Lock was the last before the Great West Road. Having had his tea, 14-year-old Ronald Newman was watching a 70-foot-long cast-iron barge exit the lock, as its weight displaced tonnes of water below it as it slowly headed downstream. But as the wake disturbed the dark calm of the water, “I saw something bobbing up and down”, a little patch of brown as a sack floated on the surface, as underneath a meniscus of mildew, the bulk of its contents dipped. Grabbing a stick, as Ronald drew it near, it was clear that this wasn’t a bag of rubbish, as the sack was as big as a medium sized dog, diamond shaped like a giant stinkbug, and weighed several kilos at least. Heaving with all their might, as the lads wrenched the drenched sack onto the bank, hearing a tearing, they quickly wrestled it ashore as the old rotten sack split. But as Ronald grabbed at its sodden base, as his hand slipped inside the sack, it also slid into a wet festering ooze which stunk like rotting meat. Withdrawing his hand, inside he saw a gaping wound of flesh, and as it slowly dried, within seconds a fever of hungry flies had begun to swarm and feast, at what Ronald knew was “a man’s severed neck”. Having alerted a local Bobby, within the hour, the Met’ Police were on the scene. Untying the string which sealed this hessian sack shut, inside lay a man’s torso; no forearms, no waist, no legs and no head, just a torso. Wearing a tatty brown woollen vest, he hadn’t any of the ordinary clothes a man in his era would wear, no jacket, no shirt nor a tie, just a vest. And with all but the top two buttons missing, and a portion of the lower-left corner having been cut away, it was likely that someone had tried to disguise his identity by removing the laundry marks - but this was just a theory. Having been submerged in the feted water of the canal for several weeks, owing to the decomposition, it was impossible to accurately determine when he had died, or even when he had been disposed of. With his breastbone, every rib and several vertebrae either broken or fractured, with a few ribs poking through the skin like white jagged spears, although the chest had been completely crushed, this wasn’t how he had died as these injuries had all occurred post-mortem, as the cast-iron barges rolled over it. Only this wasn’t an accident, or a body part missing from a morgue, this was undeniably a murder. With no hands nor head found, the erasing of his identity was paramount for the killers, but with the dissection lacking a surgeon or a butcher’s skill, this dismemberment was described as “rather crude”. Lacking the clean slices of a sharpened blade, it was as if someone had been in haste to dispose of this body as quickly as possible, or maybe several men of differing skills had taken it in turns at a side each? Severed at the elbow, the left arm was cleanly cut through the humerus, the radius and the ulna, and where-as the right had been hacked, as a rough jagged knife had ripped the skin and tore at the flesh. With the stomach as crudely ripped as if someone had split a bag of rice, spilling the intestines and its red lumpy guts like a slops bucket at an abattoir, across the top of the hips lay a band of rough tears where the blade had caught and tugged, as a skin flap hung over the innards like a damp cloth cap. And with the neck little more than a fleshy stump severed by blows with a blade and a swung axe, this wasn’t the work of a professional anatomist but a crude killer with a body to disguise. And yet, spotting two wounds to his heart which exactly matched two cuts in the vest, there was no denying… …he had been stabbed to death. The torso told the Police these few facts; as a white male with fair hair, pale skin, freckles and his age initially suspected to be in his 40s to 50s but later determined by x-rays to be in his late 20s, as a well-built broad-shouldered male of roughly 5 foot 9 inches in height, it was likely he was a manual worker. Removed to Brentford mortuary in the grounds of a local gas works, Sir Bernard Spilsbury determined several key details; one, this man was healthy when he died; two, his death was unnatural; and three, there was “a strong presumption” that this torso belonged to the two legs found at Waterloo Station. So, although submersion in water for several weeks had rendered a time of death impossible, based on the legs, it was likely he had been murdered near the 15th February and was dismembered on 23rd. And yet, another unusual detail would pepper this case, as along with his shaved legs and small feet which suggested he was “masquerading as a woman” (a theory which could never be proven), three four-inch-long dark hairs – possibly made from a woman’s real-hair wig – were found on his body. But were they a message, or a mistake? With this stretch of the canal being remote, although questioned, there were no witnesses who had seen anything suspicious, or heard a sack being dumped in the water. But how did he end up here? The Thames Police were requisitioned to drag and drain three miles of the canal, with several hundred yards of it dredged and manually searched, but nothing of significance was found. All barge crews travelling from Coventry to London were interviewed, as well as nomads on the banks, and officials of the Grand Union Canal supplied details about the sluice gates and water flow, but it proved fruitless. One theory as to why the torso was found here was owing to its location, as 200 yards above the lock sits Bridge 206A, which runs the Piccadilly Line train between Boston Manor and Osterley, and 300 yards below sits Bridge 207A, which runs Southern Railway trains from Hounslow to Waterloo Station. The Police mulled over the thought that the torso had been thrown from the train into the canal, and that – maybe - with the severed head and arms tossed into one of several miles of woods or ditches along the train track, and that – maybe - with too many passengers onboard, the killer hadn’t the time to dump the legs before the train reached its destination at Waterloo Station – this was considered. But although the Twickenham to Waterloo train doesn’t pass through Hounslow, and Bridge 207A was downstream from where the body was found, having checked every track siding, nothing was found. That said, the killers could have changed trains, or maybe it was just a coincidence? But with so much evidence leading to this neck of the woods, the Police truly believed that the murderers were local. But who were they, and where were they? With very little to go on, the Police set about tracing the brown woollen vest, hoping that its purchase would lead to the purchaser. Made by Harriot & Coy at a cost of 2 shillings and 6 pence, although this mass-produced vest was distributed to thousands of wholesalers each year, the label was used by one company – a Midlands based garment maker who also sold it to the North of England and Scotland. Every shop which sold the ‘Protector’ brand was questioned, from Bishopsgate to Argyl, Cheapside to Glasgow, but with few records kept of who had purchased this vest, this line of inquiry would stall. As for the sack, with it bearing the name ‘Ogilvie’, a flour manufacturer of Montreal in Canada, when examined, the company confirmed the sack was made in 1929, but was one of 1000s sent to the UK. And although missing persons reports were read for every British county against anyone who matched that description, every lead was checked and proved to be a dead end, and with a less-than-respectable tabloid reporting the discovery of a severed head in Ealing, that was proven to be a lie. With no fingerprints, no teeth, no ID, no laundry marks and no face, his identity was a mystery. Two of the most promising leads they had came in the weeks before the inquest. Continuing the use infra-red rays on the brown paper, Dr Olaf Block had found four words which had been erased – they were “Harry”, “Hanwell” and “Ward 14”. Interviewing the postal clerk at Hanwell Mental Hospital at the back of the Hanwell Flight of the Grand Union Canal, he confirmed the writing was his… but unable to trace who “Harry” was amongst those in “Ward 14”, that clue led to nothing. And the final lead occurred on Monday 25th February at 1pm, 90 minutes before the severed legs were found. At Hounslow Station, Harold Hillier, an attendant saw three men in the booking hall, at their feet lay a large brown-paper parcel. Only one of the men boarded the 1:06pm train to Waterloo, and although he was described as late 20s, medium build and fair-haired, we know he wasn’t the victim. Departing on time, this train didn’t originate in Twickenham, but it did cross the Grand Union Canal at Bridge 207A, downstream of the Clitheroe Lock, where the torso was found. And although the legs were found on a different train, he could have changed at Clapham Junction, or unable to throw them out the window, having arrived at Waterloo Station, maybe he hid them on an outward-bound train? Who these men were nobody knew, but with Harold’s statement backed-up by his colleague Thomas Shea, they confirmed this - that all three men were either Welsh or Irish miners, many of whom were employed locally by McAlpine, who were working on the sewage works and road construction. (End) That clue took the Police one step closer to the victim’s identity. Having questioned Alfred McAlpine, owner of McAlpine Construction, they went through the payroll and employment records for their workers over the last year. But with no-one known to be missing and many of them paid in cash, officers would state “this appeared a most likely clue, but it revealed little hope of success as the firm’s labourers are the flotsam and jetsam of Ireland and Wales”. They had so many clues, but equally as many dead ends and loose threads. On the 10th of April 1935, an inquest was opened at Southwark Mortuary. But with no suspects, no witnesses, no weapon, no fingerprints, and no crime scene to the murder or the dismemberment, on the 6th of June, an ‘open verdict’ would remain into an unknown male torso and a pair of severed legs. Chief Inspector Donaldson would state “every possible enquiry has been made to establish the identity of the victim, but without success. Vigorous but negative efforts have also been made to obtain the identity of the person or persons responsible for this offence”. And with that, the case was closed. Who the victim was will never be known, nor will the resting place of his forearms and head. We don’t know his name, his home or the location of family. We don’t know what he had done, why he was killed, or who by? And denied a proper burial, all that we know of him is all he will ever be… pieces. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
outside of 117 Piccadilly where Graham was found
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
On Friday 27th of March 1959 at 2:50am, Graham Osborn man was found slumped against the railings at 117 Piccadilly. Later dying of his wounds, no-one knew why he was there, few knew that had happened and no-one knew who had attacked him or why. And although the Police would bring his killers to trial, this little-known case would only lead to more questions than it answered.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a teal coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'The Green Park'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on the corner of Down Street in Piccadilly, SW1; two streets east of the stabbing by the Angel Delight killer, one street north of the pink-suited bully, one street south of the last drink for Ken ‘Snakehips’ Johnson, and a short walk from the burned mute - coming soon to Murder Mile. A few yards from this corner stands The Athenaeum, a four-star Mayfair hotel, where every guest is greeted by a dapperly dressed doorman; whether they’re a tourist exhausted having been fleeced to within an inch of their wallet by the most expensive city in Europe, or a hideously ugly businessmen who has chaperoned an inexplicably attractive girl (possibly his granddaughter) whose name he can’t recall, to test the springs on his bed for a period of approximately 58 minutes, but not a second more. Coincidentally, the corner of Down Street and Piccadilly is a place where prostitutes often frequent. On Friday 27th of March 1959 at 2:50am, an unidentified man was found slumped against the railings a few doors down. Later dying of his wounds, no-one knew his name, no-one knew why he was there, few knew what had happened and no-one knew who had attacked him or why. And although the Police would bring his killers to trial, this little-known case would only lead to unanswered questions. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 229: Dumped. When people talk about the good old days, they claim, “we all knew each other”, “there was no crime”, “you could leave your door open” and “we looked out for one another” - which we all know is utter crap. Almost every murder we’ve covered disproves this theory, and this case is no different, as with no-one coming to the victim’s aid, ‘not wanting to get involved’ is a skill we’ve mastered for centuries. Friday 27th of March 1959 was the start of a bank holiday weekend, therefore (as is typical in Britain, even on a God-fuelled day like Good Friday) there had been much merriment and quaffing of booze in the city, as the people got a lot more pissed than usual, especially as for many it was their payday. Being halfway between Piccadilly Circus and Hyde Park, although dark, being dotted with a dull yellow haze of streetlights and the murmur from a smattering of inebriates staggering home from pubs or clubs, the southerly corner of Down Street in Mayfair was as quiet and silent as Green Park opposite. At roughly 2:50am, Ralph Platt, a taxi-driver was circling the West End looking for fares. Passing Down Street, slumped against the cast-iron railings of T Browne at 117 Piccadilly, just shy of the Athenaeum, he saw the all-too-familiar sight of – what looked like – a drunk; his head flopped to one side, his suit all dishevelled, a dark stain down his once white shirt and his legs having buckled underneath him. Like an unwanted ragdoll cast outside for the binmen to collect, several people hadn’t thought to stop or were willing to wake him, so they walked on by – with one said to be “within touching distance”. Only Ralph was concerned, as something didn’t look right. “Mate, are you okay?” With the man’s face as pale as marble and his eyes as sunken as caves, as he slurred his words, Ralph saw that the stain on his chest wasn’t vomit, just as the liquid which seeped down his trouser legs wasn’t urine, but blood, as from a deep steaming wound to his stomach, his intestines poked through. At 2:54am, Ralph got on his radio and called his control room: “Zebra 42 to Dispatch”, “Dispatch here”, “Zebra 42 emergency, injured man at the junction of Down Street and Piccadilly, ambulance required, erm, yeah, better make it quick, he’s been stabbed and he’s losing a lot of blood”. “Roger Zebra 42”. Receiving the call on his radio at 2:55am, PC Coster of West End Central police station arrived at the scene within minutes, quickly followed by an ambulance who – identifying his urgent need for blood - sped this barely conscious man to St George’s Hospital on Hyde Park Corner, just three streets away. Taken to casualty, Dr Millar would state “he was severely shocked and incapable of answering any questions… his abdominal wound was obscured by six feet of small intestine and bowel protruding… and stabbed with a knife to a depth of four inches deep, the blade had penetrated the spine”. Being operated upon and given several blood transfusions, the man was taken to recovery, “but with the knife’s blade having pierced the left lobe of the liver”, at 1:52pm that day, he died of his injuries. With his cause of death being ‘blood loss’, had anyone who had seen him attacked or even those who had walked by as he lay bleeding stopped to see if he was okay, it was likely he may have lived… …but they hadn’t. With his autopsy held at Westminster Public Mortuary, Professor Keith Simpson identified that the blade had “almost completely severed one of the main arteries arising from the aorta at the back of the abdomen”, and although the man was described as “tall and powerfully built”, there were no signs that he had fought back. And with two splits to his eyebrow, a break to his nose and two cuts to his upper lip, it was possible he was punched (not with a fist) but “a weapon, probably a knuckle duster”. Alcohol was detected on his breath, but with a blood test unable to confirm how much he had drunk, it didn’t answer why a man with “a superior physique” hadn’t been able to defend against an attack? His murder made no sense at all. With his wallet, his keys and his watch in his pocket, he hadn’t been robbed. With no-one reporting an assault, his attack was quick, probably random and possibly unseen. And with no-one able to confirm where he had been, why he was there, who had attacked him or why, all they knew about this ordinary man - who was possibly drunk and maybe mistaken by a nasty gang of thugs who had pounced on him when he was at his most vulnerable - was a few innocent details: The dead man was Graham John Osborn, a 26-year-old former Guardsman, who being dressed in his traditional bearskin and red tunic had once stood guard outside of Buckingham and St James’ Palaces. But invalided out of the service, until the day he died, he earned an honest wage as a stockman, he was unmarried, he had no children, no criminal record, and he lived with his mother Gladys in Southall. His death made no sense. It seemed accidental and unprovoked… …and yet a code of silence was protecting his killers. The next day, The Daily Telegraph’s headline was ‘Stabbed Man Lay Dying in Piccadilly’ and underneath in bold capital letters the words MURDER HUNT. With the most serious crime having been committed, those who were protecting Graham’s cowardly killers weren’t talking, so the police were appealing to the innocent few who thought they had simply seen a drunk man slumped on the pavement. It read: “for thirty minutes yesterday morning, Graham John Osborn, 26, lay bleeding to death on the pavement in Piccadilly, with people passing by him before police and an ambulance were called. Last night, Police inquiries became a murder hunt”, meaning this was no longer an assault, this was serious. Having ignited a pang of guilt, it continued “Detective Superintendent Manning took charge and today detectives were visiting shelters and coffee stalls used by taxi-drivers to attempt to trace witnesses”. And it worked, as having ignited a sympathy for the dead man and assuring any possible witnesses that there was something they could do, a flood of taxi-drivers came forward, as well as passersby. The article continued: “Scotland Yard appeal for any person who was in the vicinity of Down Street and Piccadilly between 2:20am and 3am yesterday to tell the police immediately… especially those who gathered around Osborn, who was bleeding heavily from a deep stab wound to the stomach”. Having read that and felt ashamed, who wouldn’t call? And so, as those who weren’t held by the code of silence spoke, the mystery over who had murdered Graham Osborn slowly began to unravel. Martin McEvoy, a man of no job nor fixed abode who was walking towards Hyde Park Corner from Green Park Station would state “I saw a young redhaired girl and that man arguing with each other”. The man he positively identified as Graham Osborn, and given the detailed description of the girl he had given and the fact that the corner of Down Street - just to the side of the Athenaeum Hotel - was a popular hangout for prostitutes, officers at West End Central police station had one woman in mind. With a second witness, Andrew Fairlie, the night porter at the Athenaeum corroborating that sighting and with several sex-workers confirming her whereabouts that night, Police questioned 24-year-old Daphne Gillian Cantley, a flamed haired prostitute from Earls Court who was known locally as ‘Bobby’. Clearly terrified, at first, she denied it was her, or that she was even there. But with the Police agreeing to keep her details out of the papers for fear of reprisals, and her guarded at an undisclosed address by a flank of officers, Bobby gave a statement. And although her recall of her encounter with Graham was incredibly detailed, unsurprisingly, her memory of his attackers was patchy and hazy, at best… …but she did give a name. “I only knew one of the men”, she said, describing him as “25 to 30, medium height, stockily built”, but unable to recognise the other: “I had tears in my eyes as I went up to him because I had been crying and was shaking a great deal, but as far as I know, the guardsman and Chick were strangers”. All they had was a vague description and a nickname – Chick. But who was Chick? By the next day, as the name ‘Chick’ echoed across the newspapers as well as every television set, the city buzzed as people started asking ‘who’s Chick’ and ‘where is he hiding’? So worried were local hoodlums of being wrongly accused of murder, that many handed themselves in with satisfactory alibis, and with the description specific enough, even the killers were looking over their shoulders. At an insalubrious hangout called the Cockney Café at Back Church Lane in Stepney, seeing the name ‘Chick’ plastered over the TV news, a labourer called Terry Kenny turned to his pal, a 27-year-old street trader called ‘Chick’ who confided “I’m in bit of bother cos of that bloke in the ‘dilly who got stabbed”. Chick was a wanted man… …and having confessed, “oh Terry, I swear on my baby’s life, it wasn’t me’, although an accomplice, it wasn’t Chick who had murdered Graham Osborn, but a friend who he had unwisely chosen to protect. Born in Poplar, East London on 1st of March 1932, nicknamed ‘Chick’, his real name was William James Joyce. Named after the Irish author, as a young criminal for whom the borstal system had taught him nothing but theft, Chick wouldn’t gain any notoriety as his criminal acts were petty and pointless. In 1950, aged 18, he was fined 40 shillings for dodging the tax on imported cigarettes. In 1952, he was charged with GBH, car theft, housebreaking and larceny, as well as illicit gambling in 1956 and 1957. Of the eight years since he had turned 18, as he had spent four months in prison and four years bound over or on a conditional discharge, many might say, he was a Jack of all trades and a master of none. He was a minor criminal with a violent streak, but he hadn’t committed a murder. The guilty party was his friend, 26-year-old William Henry Heathcote, known as ‘Billy’. Described as cocky and arrogant, like Chick, in the eight years since he had turned 18, Billy had spent three years in borstal and just over three years in prison, for a baffling array of thefts which suggested if it wasn’t nailed down he would nab it, including; groceries, two shoes, a pair of gloves, four shirts, a camera, typewriter, a ophthalmoscope and a pair of bathing trunks, as well as being in possession of cannabis and living off the earnings of prostitution, with the next crime added to his rap-sheet being murder. A fruitless shield of criminal fear hadn’t help to protect them both from a murder investigation. And even though it was only one of them who had plunged the knife into Graham Osborn’s guts… …together, their cockiness would convict both. In the minutes after the murder, although a code of silence would protect them, they weren’t exactly silent about their crime. In a busy billiard hall on Great Windmill Street, Bobby the flame-haired sex-worker was heard to utter “thanks Chick, I won’t forget that” to the two out-of-breath men. She later told Margaret Welstead, another prostitute and her husband John what had happened, and seeing three Police cars speed towards the crime-scene, Chick stated “I’ve been in a little bit of trouble”. While still wearing his bloodstained clothes, Billy admitted to the server at the Bruno Café in Stepney, “the Police are looking for us, there’s been a right old rumpus”, as about him lay the latest news article about the murder, and then they both admitted to their girlfriends “I didn’t do it, it was Chick/Billy”. It wasn’t hard to track them down. Searching both flats, Police found the clothes they wore that night, including Billy’s jacket and shirt which had spots of Group A blood on the left sleeve, and several spots on the inside of Chick’s jacket, all an identical blood group to Graham, but not to Chick or Billy. Yanked out of bed, when the detective identified himself, Chick grinned “the papers say you’re looking for me” and as Billy was led away, he bragged “it’s nothing, I’ll be home tonight”. But with no knife found, what the Police needed was a witness and a confession, which was easier said than done. On Sunday 30th of March, both men were questioned. Cocky to the last, Billy laughed as the detective’s questions, and when asked “where were you at half past two on Good Friday?”, whilst lying down, he spat “fuck off cop, you’re wasting your time. I’m as safe as the fucking bank”, as all innocent men say. Having identified Chick as one of the men, to prove Billy’s guilt, they put him in an ID parade at West Central police station. As Martin McEvoy was yet to come forward, the first witness was Andrew Fairlie the night porter at the Atheneum Hotel, who (in fairness) hadn’t seen much so he didn’t pick him out. The second was Bobby, the redheaded prostitute. Released under guard from a police safe house, as she stood in the station’s courtyard before a line of eight men of similar appearance, she visibly shook. Hesitantly walking up the line from left to right, with Billy being the last man, as she crept nearer, with her voice trembling “no, that’s not him” to each man before her, seeing the scowl on his face, before she could speak, “she staggered back and collapsed into the arms of the inspector, who carried out”. In the line-up, no-one identified Billy. On Tuesday 1st April, although a lack of conclusive evidence meant a conviction was on shaky ground, unable to prove who had stabbed Graham Osborn, both Billy and Chick were charged with the murder. Terrified that he was about to lose his life for a crime he hadn’t commit, with a new witness giving a statement, when Billy was questioned again, he spat “I see, so Chick has opened his mouth. I’m not afraid of him. He’s well known as a grass. If he puts it on me, I shall put it on him”. And with that, both men blamed the other, the code of silence fell, and they told the Police a story that no-one expected. Friday 27th of March 1959 was the start the Bank Holiday. Being British, a smattering headed to church and prayed, most overate and watched the box, while the rest of the country got royally smashed. For Bobby, it was business as usual, as she hung about on the corner of Down Street, hoping to pick-up a punter after the post-pub surge of horny gits had all headed home to their unwitting wives. She’d state “I arrived down there to start business… I noticed this man to the right of me near the bus stop. I didn’t take much notice of him. He hailed a taxi which stopped right by me on the zebra crossing”. The man was Graham Osborn, he was a stranger to her, but then most of her customers were. “I don’t know whether he was worse for drink”, Bobby said, “or he was going to do something wrong. He was behaving very strangely. His eyes were glazed and a staring look in his eyes caused me to be very frightened. When I declined to go with him, he got aggressive. I was frightened for my life…”. By then, Martin McEvoy the passerby who had admitted he was “within touching distance”, saw Bobby & Graham arguing, and yet – like too many people who didn’t want to get involved – he did nothing. Bobby was terrified as Graham attacked her: “he pushed me into the back seat of the taxi. I tried to get out and he threw me back in”, her mind racing with fear she was about to be raped. And although, the cab driver sat barely inches away, “I screamed… but he didn’t even attempt to help”. Having got out, although she was crying desperately, “the taxi just drove away”. That driver was never identified. And yet, Bobby’s terror was far from over. With the taxi gone, she was alone on an almost empty street with a well-built former-Guardsman who wanted to do her harm, “he had me against the railings”. And although, just yards away, Andrew Fairlie the porter at the Atheneum had come out at the sound of the commotion, he also did nothing. What was on Graham’s mind will never be known, but based on his actions, he was desperate to do unspeakable things to Bobby, a lone woman who three men had ignored as she screamed in terror. It was then, as she initially stated that “two boys” came to her aid. Understandably fearful, she claimed she only knew one of them by nickname - “I had tears in my eyes as I went up to Chick” - and the other she had collapsed before she could identify him to the Police. But later, she would admit the truth. “I bumped into Chick and Billy. I said ‘Chick, I’ve been attacked in a taxi, please help me. I think he’s coming for me again”, as Graham stalked toward her. “Chick said ‘you’ll be alright now’”. And as the two men confronted her cowardly assailant; words were said, voices were raised and chests shoved, as Chick shouted, “what’s your game, mate?’, and Graham arrogantly spat “what’s the fucks it to you?” Bobby’s recollection of the fight was fuzzy and muddled, stating “Chick grabbed the man by the lapels and nutted him a couple of times with his head”, breaking his nose and cracking the bridge of his eyes, which the pathologist had said was caused (not by a fist) but “a weapon, probably a knuckle duster”. And although, Bobby would state “Billy hit the man in the stomach with his hand and then ran. I never saw a knife”, with Martin admitting “I saw a knife and it going into his stomach. It just went in and out fast through the man’s shirt. I was just walking by at the time. I was within touching distance”. Having confirmed that he knew Chick, he’d state “he was one of the two men. I couldn’t identify the other”. And there lied the problem, as for a short while, a code of silence had protected the killers of Graham Osborn. But as the men who had defended Bobby from her possible rapist, that same code of silence and ‘fear of getting involved’ would risk two men being convicted of murder; one who was guilty… … and the other, who was not. (Out) Having been committed for trial at Bow Street Magistrates Court on the 4th April, barely a week later, as Chick was led away in a police car, although Detective Manning suggested to Chick “keep your head down son, there’s photographers outside”, he bragged “I couldn’t care fucking less. My solicitor knows all about it. I admit to nutting the guy and I’ll do 18 months for GBH. But it was Billy who knifed him”. But with both men blaming each other in court, neither of the witnesses able to confirm who held the knife, and the knife itself having never been found, although there was irrefutable evidence (such as the blood on their clothes and several key witnesses) that a fight had occurred between Chick, Billy and Graham that night on that corner of Piccadilly, the jury had no option but to find them both guilty. With the trial held at The Old Bailey on the 26th of May 1959, on the 20th of June, both William Henry Heathcote known as ‘Billy’ and William James Joyce nicknamed ‘Chick’ were given life sentences for Graham Osborn’s murder… with no charges of assault posthumously brought against the dead man. Their convictions brought about a resolution to the case and having served their time, they were later released. But the evidence left more questions than answers; one being ‘why were the witnesses so fearful of Chick and Billy’, the other being ‘why did Graham attack Bobby’, and last ‘why did they kill Graham, were they merely rescuing a woman, or - if her pimps - were they protecting their product?’ It’s a question which will never be answered, as with no-one coming to either victim’s aid, nor ‘wanting to get involved’ (a skill we’ve mastered for centuries), the only two who know the truth are Chick & Billy. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT:
In the early hours of Sunday 3rd of February 1856, William Bousfield, a part-time tobacconist and wannabe actor mercilessly murdered his wife and three children as they slept. But what could have driven this quiet little dreamer to slaughter his family?
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on D’Arblay Street in Soho, W1; one road north of the second killing by the Blackout Ripper, one street west of the porn robbery by the randy Canadian sailor, a few doors from the racist attack on Brian Robinson, and the same street as the gentle garroter - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 4 D’Arblay Street on the ground-floor of a four-storey Georgian terrace currently stands Crème, a cookie shop. Only these are not those nasty British biscuits-like splats which are as flat as roadkill, as hard as tarmac and blessed with one flavour – sickly sweet. These are big fat gooey cookies, thick like muffins and soft like pillows, which melt-in-the-mouth and make you wish that diets didn’t exist. Yum. Being popular, you’ll often see long lines of eager-eyes keen to peep into through this curved window to drool over the gorgeous treats created within. And yet, it’s hard to stomach the fact that such an abhorrent brutal crime could have been committed where such sumptuous cookies are lovingly baked. Back in 1856, this was a prosperous tobacconist shop ran by mother-of-three, Sarah Bousfield. She worked long hours to support her three children, and many said, also her husband William, a pointless little man who dreamed of fame rather than fulfilling his responsibility as a father and as a husband. But what could have driven this quiet little dreamer to slaughter his entire family? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 228: William Bousfield and the Price of Fame. Everyone has a plan of what they wish their life to be, some achieve it, others don’t; some seek fame and fortune, others want routine and stability; and whereas some will fight to the death to ensure the safety of their loved ones, others will do the unthinkable when their dream drifts out of reach. Sarah was born in Westminster in 1827, the only child of John & Ann Jones. From her father, being a carpenter from South Wales who ran a successful joinery and purchased several properties earning an income as the landlord, he instilled in her a solid work ethic. From her mother, a native of Chelsea, she inherited a sense of love and – described as pleasant, friendly and affectionate, as well as an industrious girl – she had a devotion to her family which would never be split apart, except by tragedy. Sarah had brains and business-sense in an era when a woman’s place was solely as a mother, a wife, or (if she was a widow or a spinster) to earn a meagre pittance doing menial work. But as the perfect harmony of both parents, alone she could have done well. But with a big part of her life’s dream to marry and have children, that part of her dream required a man, whose name was William Bousfield. How and where they met is unknown. But having impressed both Sarah and her parents, he must have played the part of a loyal lover and a future breadwinner well, as they all liked him and loved him. Whether it was all an act or a role he was willing to play for a time, again is unknown. But for the first few years of their marriage, William would perform the part of a husband and father as best he could. As a native of Marylebone, William’s upbringing is mostly unrecorded as although raised with two sisters, he didn’t seem to be the epitome of loyal loving son, but a boy who exasperated his parents. Described as “being of a repulsive aspect”, he seemed taller than his 5-foot 8-inch frame suggested as his body was as thin as a witch’s broom and his pale face had the hollowed-out features of a ghost. And as a quiet and sullen man who was often lost in his thoughts, his conversations were punctuated by a blowing wind or the puff of his pipe, rather than words which unravelled the workings of his mind. Since his school years, his baffled parents had attempted to get this idle boy into a profession, first as an errand boy for a tradesman called Mortimer on The Strand (although he liked to lie that he was in fact a carpenter, when he wasn’t), and later as an office boy at a solicitor’s rising to the role of a clerk. But raised in the shadow of the blossoming West End theatres, as William yawned over spreadsheets, it wasn’t a desk-job he yearned for, but to tread the boards. As far back as he could recall, William had wanted to be an actor, to take his curtain call and to savour the sound as an adoring crowd applauds. Only his dream was not to be. Dubbed by his furious father as a “silly little hobby”, acting was not seen an honest career for a decent man by civilised society, but on the same level as whoring oneself on the street for a few coins. So, with William’s hopes of being a stage prancer or (God forbid) a singer at his parent’s discretion, fearing that their neighbours would ask ‘what’s wrong with the boy’, his dreams were royally stamped out. William’s life would be thus; to be born, to marry, to have children, and to die… …but with that little seed of a dream still alive, big problems had begun. In the winter of 1849, William Bousfield married Sarah Jones, becoming Mr & Mrs Bousfield. With one of Sarah’s dreams fulfilled and their first child conceived on their wedding night, this was the wake-up call which should have jolted William from his daze and made him the man his family would deserve. But having married without his father’s permission, with his parents disowned as an argument ensued, there was no-one left to force him to endure a dull job and to hold back his dreams… or so he thought. On the 16th of December 1849, Anne Eleanor Bousfield was born; as a healthy girl, unlike many others she was raised in a loving family home by a doting mother and adored by her grandparents John & Anne. But from her own father William? Sometimes he held and fed her, but little more than that. A neighbour stated: “he was fond of his children, but not excessively so”. And with the same said of his love of his wife, in the places where William failed as a husband, Sarah’s father had to step in. Described by another neighbour as “a good man, who always showed his daughter the most marked kindness and supplied her with everything they required”, Sarah and her children would never suffer any hunger or poverty, even though John would state “William has not earned a day’s wage in years”. William’s work ethic was non-existent, as although he had briefly trained as a French polisher, like many of life’s dreamers, he had his business-cards made up, but had no intention of doing the job. Unable to pay the rent or even a few basic bills, John, Sarah’s father purchased the family a ground-floor flat at 4 D’Arblay Street in Soho, and wisely moved himself and his wife into the flat above. As a small practical lodging, it had two purposes. In the back parlour, next to a cast-iron fire for cooking and heating, and a warm horsehair bed where William, Sarah and Anne would sleep, they had a place to live, but also, out front, a thriving business. Having purchased a tobacconist which sold tobacco, pipes and papers as expected, but also the essentials like logs and kindling – with their brood soon to be followed by Eliza in January 1852, and John in July 1855 - it was hoped that given a shop of his own, William could provide his family with an income and become a good father and a loving husband. It was hoped… …but hope is a cruel word. Having neglected his business as much as his role as a breadwinner, being “a worthless idle fellow” as his own wife would call him, Sarah & William had frequent fights, and with William unable to provide much (if anything) for this family, although she was a busy mother to three children all under the age of six and with one still suckling at her breast, Sarah ran the tobacconists. From dawn till dusk, she bathed the kids, she made the meals, she sewed their clothes, and having opened the shop – often with her little one’s at her feet when her mother couldn’t babysit - she served the customers, she purchased the goods, she made the money, and she got the babies ready for bed. Her days were long and exhausting, and with their marriage decaying as William’s nights were spent in a fruitless search for the wrong kind of work, Sarah & William had begun to sleep in separate beds. In a last attempt to get William into a job, around the same time, Sarah’s father had purchased him a set of workman’s tools, including a chisel. Made of iron with a wooden handle and an unblemished cutting edge sharp enough to sever the hardest grain, it was a chisel William would only use once… …to end the life of his wife. At this point, it would be expected that William’s descent into multiple murder would be preceded by a spiral of drink, depression and rage. Only, with no history of insanity, William was not a violent drunk or a drug addict, but a sullen man who was fixated on one thing - his dream of becoming an actor. During the first part of the winter of 1855 – a winter so cold it was dubbed ‘the great frost’ - William was working on a paltry wage of five shillings-a-week at The Princesses’ Theatre at 150 Oxford Street. That year, he performed in a pantomime, only – as neither a gifted actor nor (being quite taciturn) too quiet to project his voice - his name was not on the poster. Billed as ‘a young man’, William was little more than a background artiste, whose silent performance was there to add colour to each scene. He had no lines except for what he mimed, and he had no purpose except as a dash of window dressing. By January, with the newly rebuilt Royal Opera House in Covent Garden opening, William got work as a silent set-filler for ‘Professor Anderson’ the infamous magician billed as ‘the Wizard of the North’. As a polite young man, he didn’t chat with his fellow thespians. As a boy, he didn’t fraternise with any of the dancers. And as an actor, he wasn’t the best; as with his performance described as “lacking energy”, he found it difficult to even smoke authentically on set, even though he smoked at home. With a show every evening, plus a matinee every Wednesday and Saturday, although busy but earning a pittance, the only time he saw his wife and children was in bed, or in the tobacconist’s shop, where – as a charming young woman, who was bright, chatty and knew that the best way to keep her mostly male customers coming back was to engage them in a bit of banter - he didn’t like the role she played. Taught by her father who was a shrewd businessman, Sarah knew how to be polite and professional, she knew how to be friendly without being too familiar, and she knew how to be a little flirtatious as a striking young woman, but as a loyal mother dedicated to her three children, that’s all it ever was. It was only through his simmering jealousy that William was ever seen to be working in the shop, to act as a barrier between the wife he claimed to love and the customers he had learned to loathe. And yet, his suspicion was all in his mind, as Mrs Bennett, the second-floor lodger would state “several times he told me she was too free with her customers, he did not like the young fellows coming into the shop on that count”, when in truth “it was they who would rather be served by her, than by him”. With a mix of his laziness and her (perceived) infidelity, over the last few months of their marriage, they argued a lot, but it never got physical, and being unhappy together, Mr & Mrs Bousfield went through the motions - a successful tobacconist and a failed actor living apart in the same house. And yet, just a few weeks into the show’s theatrical run… …William brought the curtain down upon all of their lives. Saturday 2nd of February 1856 was an unremarkable day, as the only bitterness in the air was the biting wind as the great frost lingered on, and with snow under foot, all manner of feet precariously walked. At breakfast, they argued as they often did, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. And being Saturday, between his matinee performance and the evening show, William made his moody presence known in the shop, as a slew of young tradesmen came in to buy tobacco and to attempt to flirt with his wife. At 7:30pm, a witness heard them quarrelling over Sarah being ‘improper’, “I had not the slightest idea it was anything more serious than usual”, he said, and having made up, they went about their jobs. If those few bickering words had been the spark which ignited his rage and left four innocents dead, then his actions that followed and his performance at the theatre would have been off, only it wasn’t. He played his role, he fetched some milk, and through the snow he walked home to 4 D’Arblay Street. At 10:30pm, John saw William in the back parlour. With Sarah having gone out to get butter, 6-year-old Anne asleep in their bed and 4-year-old Eliza snuggled-up beside her, as William bounced their restless 8-month-old son John on his knee, he was said to be “calm and cheerful”. Thirty minutes later, Sarah returned, she was laughing and chatting, and having shut up the shop, they both went to bed. That night would be the first night that they had all shared a bed together in months, and according to the other lodgers in the house, “they bickered a little, but there was nothing odd in his manner”. With not a sound heard, no-one in that house (not the lodgers nor her parents) had any idea about the horrors which had occurred, and with six hours unaccounted for, the truth may never be known. (Night sounds, church bell, wind… …then footsteps in snow). As the dawn chorus broke and the church bell struck seven, with an odd calmness, William walked the ten-minute walk from his home to Bow Street police station. Described as sober yet distressed, when PC Fudge asked why he was here, William simply said “to give myself up. I have murdered my wife”. Pleading for the PC to kill him and to ease his pain, although an inch-long wound had been slit across his neck and a second was still flowing freely from a slash to his left wrist, not all of the blood was his. Across his aghast face, down his gulping throat, over his once white shirt and with a thick red goo dried into crusts on his shivering hands, he wasn’t delusional when he gave them his address, just distraught. Accompanied by PC Fudge, as the carriage carrying Inspector Dodd drove into D’Arblay Street, he was shocked to see this road so quiet, as still silently sleeping, a crowd hadn’t been roused by the murder. With the door locked, Inspector Dodd knocked, waking what he thought was a first-floor lodger. “Who are you? What is this racket about?”, as unaware that the Welshman was the victim’s father, Inspector Dodd bluntly stated “Police! A murder had been committed in the back parlour”, startling him awake. Unbolting the parlour door, along the shop’s stone floor lay spots of dried blood as a line of handprints daubed the walls with red smears. In his agony, John called out “Sarah?! Sarah?!”, but he got no reply. With the candles dead and the shutters drawn, the room was dark. With the fire out and a howling wind, it was deathly cold. And with no life heard, in the bed lay a silent lump under a woollen sheet. Touching his daughter’s pale and bloodied face, his fingers knew that she was dead, long dead, as not a breath rose from her body nor steam from the deep long wound which had ripped open her neck. James Hadaway, a surgeon from Berwick Street examined her in situ: “it had divided the skin and all of the soft parts down to the fourth and fifth vertebrae and splitting the carotid artery”. Inflicted using a razor, this initial wound had occurred as she slept, only her other wounds were more hateful. “It appeared there had been an intention to bleed the woman to death… with three cuts to the left elbow which had bifurcated the artery and two to the right, these were made to open the veins”, but with her heart found empty of blood, instead he stabbed her in the face, as if to deface her in death. For John, aside from the tragedy of losing his child was the irony that she had been murdered with the tool he had brought William to help him find work – as on the pillow, lay the chisel, drenched in blood. With the bedsheets disheveled and her blood spattered up the walls, what concerned the Inspector was why she had no defensive wounds upon her. In the minutes she had lived, she had fought for her life; only with her nails intact, no fingers broken and no slashes to her hands, why did she not fight back? It was only when he had moved her slowly stiffening body that he realised the reason why. As a good mother, a loving woman and her children’s sole protector, as William’s razor slit a four-inch-long wound across her throat and her bloodied airways gasped and gagged for an ounce of oxygen, her only thought was to protect her babies. And although she had shielded them as-best-she-could; Anne aged six, Eliza aged four and John who was only eight months old, all had their throats slit. With their bodies removed to the St James’ workhouse, back at Bow Street, William was arrested for the murder of his entire family. Confined to the Middlesex House of Detention, he gave no reason for his crimes, instead he repeatedly struck his head against the mantlepiece and cried “kill me, kill me”. With the inquest held at St James’ workhouse, so feverish were the locals to see justice, that the board room was full, the street was crammed with crowds, and the Police had officers guarding the house. Giving evidence, John could barely speak as his tears choked his voice, and with the jury having stood in stoney silence as in the freezing morgue the four bloodied bodies were splayed out before them, after a short deliberation, they returned a verdict of murder, and William was committed for trial. Paid for by a deluge of public donations, with Poland Street impassable, a series of black horse-drawn carriages lined up at the back of the workhouse morgue on Dufour’s Place. Weeping and furious, as the crowds jostled nearer, suddenly a hushed silence descended over the people, as through the door, four coffins emerged in ever decreasing sizes – with one so small, a single pallbearer held it in his arms. Sarah, Anne, Eliza and John were all buried in a single grave in West Brompton Cemetery. His trial at the Old Bailey was a mere formality, as declared sane, his guilt was evident. And described as “a most dreadful character”, although there was an absence of motive, he was sentenced to death. Throughout he was said to be “overwhelmed with grief”. Upon hearing his sentence, it is said that he had nearly fainted and had to be removed by a jailer. From Newgate prison, he callously wrote a letter to Sarah’s grieving father blaming her murder on her alleged adultery. And with his appeal denied, on Saturday 29th of March at 4pm, just one day before his execution, he attempted to take his own life. According to the turnkey, whilst sat in his bed staring intently at the fire, “he threw himself headfirst into the grate”; as the flames scorched his hair, the hot coals seared his skin, and - as the room stunk of burning flesh - his face became a mass of bubbling wounds which popped and spat like hot fat. But having been rescued within seconds, his fate wouldn’t be decided in this room, but at the gallows. Therefore it’s odd that, for William Bousfield whose deadly dream was of being an actor… …that he would fail to realise that his greatest performance was yet to come. On Sunday 30th of March 1856 at 6am, he rose from his prison bed, had his wounds bathed, and with his last request being “a little wine at breakfast”, the Sherrif, the Reverand and the Governor came to collect him. Only William, unless he was faking, was not well, as “held to a chair by two aides with one wiping a frothy liquid from his mouth, he appeared to be in a dying state, his limbs refusing to work”. Whether this was a symptom of his burns, a cunning ploy or just cowardliness, we shall never know. But although the doctor declared “his pulse was low, but his arteries were active”, with his face still red, blistered and swollen, although described as “an appalling sight”, his execution was imminent, At 8am, having to be carried to the scaffold by four men, with two at his arms and two at his legs, with a hemp noose around his scorched neck (which still bled from his tender burns); the Reverand read from the burial service, the prison bell rang its deathly toll, and the 5000 strong crowd fell silent. Only his death wouldn’t be a quick and kindly act of compassion, as with William Calcraft famed as an executioner who - like William – was a showman, seeing these executions as a form of entertainment rather than an act of punishment, as the crowd sat supping beer, he would wow them with his cruelty. So, with his hands and legs tied, as Calcraft removed the bolt, William Bousfield dropped… …only he didn’t fall a few feet as his neck snapped, but mere inches as his throat was strangled. Seeing his body twisting and flinching in pained agony as his bodyweight pulled on his neck, the crowd roared with glee as the man dangled, this being a joyous bit of entertainment as they ate with their picnics. And although it took most men several minutes to die, the show was far from over, as having somehow swung his feet up, as William secured himself precariously on the scaffold - the crowd cheered. Seeing his act of rebellion, Calcraft kicked his legs so his strangling could continue – and so the crowd booed. And so this went on, for several minutes, William swinging his legs up, and Calcraft kicking them off. Upon his fourth attempt at saving his skin and ten full minutes into his torture, as William exhaustedly stood there wobbling upon a slim slip of wood – with the crowd growing ever restless as his protracted agony descended from a bit of harmless fun to an act of wanton cruelty – keen to end it quick and to appease the turning masses, Calcraft threw himself at William’s legs, and with his 16-stone of weight, he hung off them. As for the next few minutes, William’s body was gripped in a convulsive twitch… …until suddenly, he went very still. Buried in an unmarked grave inside Newgate Prison, the last sound he possibly heard was the applause of the crowd, which marked the curtain call of William Bousfield. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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19-25 Harrington Gardens, SW7, formerly known as the Aban Court Hotel
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN:
This is 19-25 Harrington Gardens in Kensington, SW7. In the early hours of Tuesday 9th of March 1954, two immature young boys called Ted & Ian chose to get rich quick, by breaking in, tying up the night porter, and robbing the hotel of its haul of cigarettes and cash. It should have been a simple robbery for two simple boys… …but being so inept, their inexperience led to a good man’s murder.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Harrington Gardens in Kensington, SW7; two roads north of the unsolved killing of Countess Lubienska, just a few roads west of the murder of Detective Sergeant Raymond Purdy, and a short walk north of the union rep’ who blew the whistle to early - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 19 to 25 Harrington Gardens currently stands ‘The Other House’, a six-storey mid-Victorian terrace which (like it once was) is a residents’ club, where posh patrons enjoy the privilege of living in a hotel room for the year, without being blighted by their snot-nosed brats or nightly fights with their spouse. Imagine that, the bedsheets in your second home changed daily by a maid, a boy stocks your minibar with free Toblerone’s and you can even leave your skanky pants by the door for the valet to clean. Joy. Little has changed since 1954 when this was the Aban Court Hotel, a mid-level hotel for passing trades and long-term residents which catered for 1950s tastes; serving pies and puddings for dinner in the carvery, daily newspapers delivered to your door, and you could even buy cigarettes at the reception. For many, it was a place of safety in a hectic city. But in the early hours of Tuesday 9th of March 1954, two immature young boys called Ted & Ian chose to get rich quick; by breaking in, tying up the night porter, and robbing the hotel of its haul of cigarettes and the safe containing £700 (or £24,000 today). Only being so inept, their inexperience led to a good man’s murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 227: Silly Little Boys. This isn’t the story of a well-planned heist by hardened criminals hellbent on making a million, but two silly little boys from different backgrounds, who – being unable and unwilling to do even a decent day’s work for an honest wage - decided to take the easy-way-out and to steal it… no matter the risk. Kenneth Gilbert was born on 9th May 1932 in London, as the ‘illegitimate son of Hilda Gilbert’ according to the fragments which were recorded on his rather sparse birth certificate before he was abandoned. With no home, family or plan, Ted (as he liked to be called) drifted through life, unkempt and ruffled, with the few words he rarely spoke often grunted in a coarse and offhand manner. With no friends to chat to or hobbies to occupy his mind, he kept to himself and remained tight-lipped about everything. Assessed by a prison psychiatrist, Ted was described as “having a limited vocabulary and knowledge… he needs prompting in conversation… and his powers of judgement and reasoning are poor”. Raised in public institutions, aged 12, he was sent to borstal to be ’disciplined’. Imprisoned amidst grey concrete walls and thick iron bars, his education was to be barked at and beaten for disobedience (so it’s no surprise he was described as ‘a bully who resented authority’) and forced to work on a farm. As a troubled orphan who no-one wanted to deal with, he was bounced between approved schools in Rhyl, Liverpool, Nottingham, and having escaped from Salterford Senior, on 18th August of 1949, aged 17, he was committed to two more years of borstal training, where he was described as “difficult”. The system which should have been there to protect Ted had failed, and spawning an angry young man who was lost and hopeless, it was decided that what he needed was a stricter form of discipline. On 17th April 1952, released on licence from borstal (and therefore branding him a criminal), Ted was enlisted into the Royal Army Veterinary Corp at the Central Ordnance Depot at Chilwell in Nottingham, where again he was barked at by bullies, who he was forced to serve food to in the officer’s mess hall. Within three months, being described as ‘undisciplined’ and ‘mentally dull’, he was sent to the Army psychiatrist who recommended his discharge after 187 days service, unwisely stating “treatment after discharge is not necessary, but he may need assistance in settling into civilian life”… only he got none. On the 20th of October 1952, 20-year-old Ted was dumped in the bustling city of London; skilled only in farm work, he drifted between hostels and half-way-houses, he struggled to hold down menial jobs as a hotel porter, a trawlerman, a boiler stoker, and he had to see his probation officer once a week. On the 30th of April 1953, at the County of London Sessions, he was sentenced to two years’ probation for shop breaking and theft. On 13th of November 1953 in Grimsby, he was fined £3 for assault. And since he could remember, Ted had no purpose, and although silent, underneath lay a bubbling rage. Three months after his discharged, he met Ian Grant. Fifteen months later… …they were both charged with murder. As a spoilt child from a good family, Ian’s life was the mirror opposite of Ted’s, so it’s odd to see that both boys ended up in the same place; committing a petty crime for cash and taking a good man’s life. Ian Arthur Grant was born in Surrey on the 30th of December 1929, the only child of well-adjusted and middle-class parents who lived a nice life in a quaint village and gave him whatever he wanted when he wanted it. Only fine foods and limitless toys don’t always make for a good child, as being ‘spoiled rotten’, Ian was prone to temper tantrums and tears being a mummy’s boy who could do no wrong. Seen as a poor scholar, thanks to his parent’s financial security, he was sent to boarding school where - some say - a child gets the best education but denied any love it creates an intelligent but emotional husk of a human lacking in empathy, and that – being little more than a posh-boy’s borstal – it’s where many parents who can’t be bothered to raise their child, pay a series of strangers to do the dirty work. Unsurprisingly - like Ted – as he lacked any skills, order and focus, his downfall wasn’t his sullenness, far from it, as lacking the maturity to be silent for a single second, Ian was a chatterbox who would talk to anyone about anything just for the sake of filling the sound of nothing and making conversation. Leaving school, his expensive education was of little benefit, as failing to hold down a menial job as a factory machinist at the Marconi plant, this was followed by several short periods as a hotel porter. In May 1948, aged 19, with military conscription still enforced – like Ted – he was enlisted against his will into the Army, but described as “unstable”, “immature” and a “dull useless youth”, after seven months he was discharged, and he was dumped in London with no money, no skills and no purpose. What set both boys apart was that – although a product of a fractured family – as a respectable middle-class businessman, as Ian drifted between mindless jobs and filthy hostels, his father always stepped in to make his life easier and – hopefully – bring this petty selfish jabber-mouth back on the right path. When Ian struggled to cope with his mother’s death, his father sought the assistance of his probation officer. In April 1951, when Ian was arrested for car-theft, his father had the charge dropped having had Ian dealt with under the Mental Deficiency Act. Described by Dr Watterson as ‘not certifiable’ or ‘feeble minded’ but ‘dull and backward’, although they had tried to re-adjust him back into family life with his father and his stepmother, in September 1951 he left home and drifted towards Kensington. As young foolish men with no-one there to guide them, although two very different boys who were raised in very different ways, having both moved into a hostel at 90 Harwood Road in Fulham, Ian and Ted had found their kindred spirit. Later sharing a room and becoming the best of friends, they held down regular jobs as porters at the Ideal Home Exhibition, and earning an okay wage, they did well. But being restless and easily led, believing they had dreamed-up the perfect crime… …soon these best friends would be executed together. To say that the robbery was doomed to failure would have been an understatement. Ten days prior, with Ted short on cash as the exhibition was in-between events, he said to Ian “how about breaking into the Aban Court Hotel?”. As Ted had worked there as a boiler stoker for a full three months, he claimed he had seen where the head receptionist had hid 2500 cigarettes which they could easily sell, as well as the key to the safe containing £700, or £24,000 today, a year’s salary for both. Ted said “I had seen this girl put the money in a tin box and I thought she kept it in the reception’s drawer. I knew the run of the place and how to get in without breaking anything. I knew I could get over the railing and down into the basement through the stokehole without having to break any door”. Trusting Ted, Ian decided to go along with this half-witted heist for the sake of some ciggies and a paltry stash of cash, “as Ted knew how to get into the hotel without force and no-one would get hurt”. And over the following nights of what would be little more than a week, they chatted it over… a bit. Ted said, “I decided we’d do the job on Monday night, as the stock of coke would be low”, which was smart, as at night, every window and door was locked, and any smashed glass would raise the alarm. But with the basement boiler being coal-powered, having been the stoker, he knew that the coal hatch facing Harrington Gardens was always unlocked and that no-one would ever think to check it. Again, the timing was solid, as Ted said, “I decided the best time to break in was midnight to 1am, as I know that there would only be one porter on duty”, which there was. Aged 53, prone to drinking five pints of bitter before his shift and currently struggling with a chronic bout of bronchitis, George Smart was the night porter and until at least 7am the following morning, he would be by himself. Having got to know George’s timings during his night shift, Ted knew when and how to overpower him, where to tie him up, and having robbed the ciggies and cash, they’d be gone before anyone knew. “I told Ian that after we go to the dining room, we wait for the Hoover to start up”, as George always vacuum-cleaned the carpets at roughly 1am, and that this familiar sound makes for a good distraction. To lure him over, “from the back of the lift” where the switch was “we’d turn off the light, slam the door and call George over”, and with his back to the dining room door, “I’d grab him and lock him in the telephone box” near the reception. Tying his hands and feet, gagging his mouth and using a length of bandage to seal the door shut, “then we would go over the place and get what we could”. Job done. With the tools (a length of string and a crepe bandage) in their pockets, as well as the cunning disguise of a handkerchief to cover their faces and flat caps for their heads, the plan itself was not the problem. On paper, it was a simple robbery for a small reward in which no-one should get hurt… …only the problem was that these weren’t expert criminals, but silly little boys. Monday 8th March 1954 was a classic British day, with the weather a mix of chilly and drizzle. At 11pm, the boys left their hostel and strolled 30 minutes north-east, but with the street still a little busy as two policemen patrolled, “we walked around for half an hour before heading to the Aban Court hotel”. From the outside, the door was locked, the windows were shut, few lights were on, and there was no noise emanating except for the soft sounds of patron’s sleeping and the clunk of the basement boiler. Ian said, “we climbed over an iron gate at the side of the hotel in Harrington Gardens, then down some steps”, their faces covered by patterned cotton handkerchiefs like the highway bandits of yesteryear. Creaking open the wooden hatch to the stoke hole which was hidden under the footway, as predicted the coke level was low making it easy for the boys to clamber over, but owing to tonnes of black coal covered in a powdery but sometimes thick syrupy goo, they left prints across everything they touched. Creeping quietly through Boiler House #1, having snuck down the passageway, they sidled up the stairs to the ground floor and beside Room 10, they spied George the porter hoovering the dining room. Having had five pints of beer before work, he was muttering and hacking up his mucus filled cough. They were at the right side of the hotel to see the porter, but the wrong side of the ground floor to be near the phone-box. So with the hoover on, Ted sent Ian three doors south to the reception, with their plan to distract old George, tie him up, gag him, drag him to the phone-box, and make their escape. Only, this simple plan would be fatally flawed from the start. Ted would state “at the back of the lift, Ian would switch the light off, slam the door and call ‘George’”. It was that simple. Only the second he flicked the light switch he realised that the dining room hadn’t been plunged into darkness and Old George had carried on hoovering, so Ian returned to Ted, as the two whispered; “it’s not working”, “what’s not working?”, “the light”, what do you mean the light isn’t working, it’s a light, you flick the switch and it goes off”, “yeah, I know, but it didn’t”, “well did you flick the right switch?”, “what do you mean ‘did I flick the right switch?’ there was one bloody switch”. It should have been a foolproof plan, only these fools were proof that the plan was fucked. As a back-up, they could have waited, they could have left, or they could have crept about quietly with one lad as a lookout, which wouldn’t have been a terrible idea given that Old George was busy, sickly and a bit pissed. But being too keen to grab 2500 ciggies and maybe £700 quid, Ted had another plan. “Ian, go into the dining room, call out ‘George’ and get him to chase you”. That was it. Let the night porter see him, losing the element of surprise, possibly alert the sleeping staff and run like buggery. It was a bloody stupid idea, but – not being the best blessed with brains – it was the best idea they had. And what began as a silly little kid being chased around a half-empty hotel by a boiler-suited man… …although akin to the Keystone Cops, this seemingly comical caper would end with three lives ruined. Ian said, “I went in and called out ‘George, come here a minute’. He had his back to me. I don’t think he heard me, so I called out in a louder voice ‘George’. He saw me, the lights were on, and I panicked”. Repeatedly shouting ‘who are you’ at this disguised youth, as Old George struggled to keep-up as his rattling lungs wheezed after weeks battling bronchitis, Ian said “I ran down the corridor. George ran after me” and as he followed this would-be thief into the servery – a side-room where the food was prepared – Ian realised he was cornered, and as George grabbed him by the sleeves, he was trapped. Ian told the court of his fear, “he had his arm raised to strike me. It was coming down and I caught hold of it and turned his wrist. I gave him a light blow to the stomach with my hand, just to scare him”. But as he did, “Ted crept up behind him and he struck him some heavy blows to the face “, admitting “I turned him round and hit him twice on the jaw with my fist and he fell on the floor by the sink”. Dropping to the stone floor like a sack of spuds, as they tied his feet with the string, they realised they hadn’t enough to bind his wrists, so short on options, they used George’s tie. And with the scullery being nowhere near the phone-box where they would leave him, they decided to dump him there. Even at that point, they knew he wasn’t well, as one said, “he was groaning” and the other remarked “he was breathing heavy through his nose”, as the night porter lay motionless on the floor and a slowly forming pool of blood expanded around his stationary body, it bubbling as his nose breathed out. He was of no harm to anyone, but fearing for their capture and realising they hadn’t brought anything to gag him, they silenced him with several serviettes and an oven glove, held in place by a bandage. An autopsy confirmed that although George’s mucus-filled lungs had exacerbated his slow lingering death, it wasn’t the cause. Being punched, his jaw had fractured, and with it weaker than most owing to a buried tooth, with his nose and mouth covered by a gag, he had suffocated in his own blood. The autopsy also confirmed that “he was semi-conscious when the gag was applied, and he didn’t put up a struggle”, but with the porter still groaning, “Ted kicked him several times in the side of the head”. With the porter subdued (and creeping ever closer to death), being the epitome of incompetence, the two boys dashed to the reception desk to fill their pockets with the loot they felt they had earned. Unable to find the key to the reception, they had to get a chair to clamber over the six-foot partition, almost slipping and knocking over a lamp in the process. Unable to find the key to the cigarette drawer, they had to nick a screwdriver and jemmy the lock open, leaving fingerprints everywhere. And again, having seen A key, but not THE key to the hotel’s safe, having fled clutching all they could carry, Ian left behind his cap and having hailed a taxi to take them back home, Ted dropped half of their booty. Back at the hostel, on their bed, Ted & Ian laid out the riches from their robbery. Having promised a haul of 2500 cigarettes and a stash of cash worth £700 (a year’s salary for both), as these two silly little boys had tried and failed to play at being big-time gangsters, all they had got was 700 cigarettes (40 of which they had smoked), and from a petty cash tin, just £2 in assorted silver and copper coins. A fundamental question is ‘what price is a man’s life’? Of which, the answer should always be priceless. But in the case of George Smart, the night porter who was murdered for simply doing his job… …he died for as little as some ciggies and some cash, which today is worth just £320. Initially, the police were at a loss as to who had murdered George, as no-one had seen them enter or exit the hotel, and – having never robbed a hotel before – a manual search of the fingerprint database wouldn’t link to Ted and Ian. And yet, again, it was their incompetence which would collar them both. At 12pm, the next day, having gone into the work at the Ideal Home Exhibition, Ian said “Ted showed me the early edition of the Star. I saw the headlines and I realised that the night porter had died”. Panicked, desperate and knowing that neither of them had the slightest clue what to do, they lured into their confidence a colleague called Donald Chapman. With Don, they left the ticket to the stolen items they had hidden at the left luggage kiosk at Waterloo station, they told him of their plan to flee to Dublin, and with Ian being a chatterbox who - especially when he was nervous – was prone to fill in the awkward silences of a conversation with anything, Ian told Don everything about the robbery. And being a decent chap who was raised well, Don did the right thing, and notified the police. (End) Arrested the next morning, although they both denied any knowledge of the crime, being told that the other had blabbed, they both admitted to a minor part, but blamed the other for the bulk of it. During a quick investigation, the police found their gloves with coal dust on, their clothes with spots of George’s blood on, and – at their hostel – a man called Derek Quinnell, who Ted & Ian had discussed the crime with beforehand, asking him to be part of their caper, which – rather wisely – he declined. A psychiatric assessment of both boys described Ted as “of subnormal intelligence, he is immature and emotionally unstable, largely due to the circumstances of his birth and upbringing”, with Ian described as “immature, childish, selfish, spoiled and unable to control his emotions and desires”. Tried at the Old Bailey from the 10th to the 12th of May 1954, they both pleaded ‘not guilty’, with Ted stating, “we had no intention of causing injury, just to overcome him and place him in the phone box”, which he later admitted was a lie, as the bandage wasn’t long enough to secure the phone-box shut. Found guilty after just twenty minutes, although through their appeals they blamed one another, on Thursday 17th June 1954, Ted & Ian – two lost boys who had become soulmates – were executed at Pentonville Prison, and being hung side-by-side, they were the last double hanging in Britain. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX:
On Saturday 22nd of June 1968, a petty thief tried to steal a small amount of cash from Taj Mahal at 21 Romilly Street in Soho. It wasn’t a daring heist, but a petulant act which would have resulted in a fine or a few weeks in prison. And yet, allegedly using ‘acceptable force’ to restrain him, three men would be charged with murder.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a lemon exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Soho'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Romilly Street in Soho, W1; a few doors north of the loo irradiated for life by Russia’s most incompetent spies, two doors east of Dennis Nilsen’s favourite pub, and within sight of the restaurant where the daily special included a dose of death - coming soon to Murder Mile. Snuck between Old Compton Street and Shaftesbury Avenue, Romilly Street is a soulless void. Being nothing more than a dirty backstreet riddled with the ramshackle rear-ends of some very questionable restaurants, you won’t see a shop, but you may see a gang of rats roughing up a one-legged pigeon, two crack-addicts playing backgammon using their displaced teeth, and a stain-spackled chef keeping his filthy hands warm by ferreting about in his ‘back garden’ and then fondling his ‘trouser vegetables’. But oddly, this was (and still is) a place where people would come to find good food. At 21 Romilly Street currently stands Gauthier, a high-brow vegan restaurant ran by award-winning chef Alexis Gauthier, and back in the late 1960s, this was also an Indian restaurant called ‘Taj Mahal’. As an Indian eatery catering to bland British tastes, the staff at the Taj Mahal were well-used to a little spice in their day; whether being whinged-at by a halfwittery of has-beens who start every sentence with the words “I’m not a racist, but…”, or a spew of yobbos scoffing napalm-flavoured vindaloo to impress their pals, as on a regular basis the staff are threatened, attacked, spat at, abused and robbed. On Saturday 22nd of June 1968, a petty thief tried to steal a small amount of cash from Taj Mahal. It wasn’t a daring heist, but a petulant act which would have resulted in a fine or a few weeks in prison. And yet, allegedly using ‘acceptable force’ to restrain him, three men would be charged with murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 226: Overkill. By the end of the day, three men would be charged with the Taj Mahal murder - Ali Mian, Ali Mokbul and Abdul Subhan. Having committed (what many regard) as one of society’s most heinous crimes, you may assume that these three were all vicious, cruel and remorseless killers… only they weren’t. As the temporary manager of Taj Mahal, Ali Ahmed Mian was born on the 6th of April 1935 in Datra, a small rural village in the Comilla district of what was then British India, now known as Pakistan. Being the fourth of five siblings to two elderly parents and with his father said to be in his 90s, he was raised to be one of the family’s breadwinners and unlike his friends, he had the blessing of a good education. As farm labourers, many of the boys in his village were barely literate, but being intelligent and bright, up until the age of 23, Ali studied Bengali, English, Civics and Economics at college, and although he was part way through his degree, he had to quit to his education so he could work on his family’s farm. This was the way his life would be, by putting his family first and himself second. By 1962, as a married man with two sons aged 6 and 7, although he was earning a decent wage as a clerk for the Water and Power Development Authority in Rangpur, both he, his wife and his children still lived – as many men did – with his elderly parents, but with his plan – one day - to move out. It was then that a golden opportunity appeared. On the 14th of June 1962, his company sent him from the newly formed country of Pakistan to the old and slightly creaky land of England, with the plan to research how the British utility companies work. Britain on the cusp of the so-called swinging sixties must have been a shock to his system; a mess of sex, drugs and sausage rolls; a population of long-haired men and short-skirted ladies neither of whom wore enough clothes to keep warm in a sun-less summer of perpetual drizzle and sometimes snow; all while eating - without doubt - the blandest beigest food ever, so bad, it has to be drenched in salt. Still pockmarked with Victorian slums, crumbling ruins and bombsites from the Blitz, 1960s London was a fiery melting pot of different faces and voices, fighting for space and the right to earn a living as underneath a tension of hostility, sirens, strikes and (what would be known as) Paki bashing simmered. The city was a place of unease and disquiet, but for a man with a dream of a better life for his family and so many mouths to feed, London was a land of potential and promise, but also of peril and pain. Having arrived, he quickly terminated his contract with the company, and went in search of work. And there lied the problem, as although well-educated, his visa restricted him to menial jobs and being described as “thin and sparsely built”, Ali wasn’t physically equipped to be a bouncer or a labourer, so in September 1966, he started work as a waiter at the Taj Mahal Indian restaurant on Romilly Street. Promoted to manager during the months when the owner returned to Pakistan, regarded as “honest” and “reliable”, he worked long hours and slept in a squalid shared room above this busy restaurant. For six years he slogged his guts out, sending - from his wage of £18 per week - the lion’s share back to his wife, his children and his parents, hoping that – one day – he could return to his loved one’s. Ali Mian was a kind man, a good father and (to many) a loyal friend… …and then, on Sunday 23rd June 1968, along with two others, he was charged with murder. So, where did it all go wrong? When did his life go rogue, his morals vanish, and fuelled by drugs, a bad crowd led him down a path of doom and despair? Well, it didn’t. Ali was just a regular man doing his job on an ordinary day when his life was changed forever… the same was said of his two friends. Born in Mandaruka village in Eastern Pakistan in 1941, Ali Mokbul was the only brother to three sisters and two half-sisters, and with his 65-year-old father paralysed down his left-hand-side, he needed to put a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. But not being an academic, his skill was cookery. In 1963, as a married man with two children, keen to provide them with a good life, Ali Mokbul came to London and – working from the ground up – he was as a kitchen porter at ‘The Talk of the Town’, a cook at Anglo Steak House, and was later promoted to a cook at some of the West End’s most affluent restaurants, like Royal Garden Hotel, the White Hall Court and finally at the Café Royal in Piccadilly. Earning a decent wage of £20 a week, he could have partied hearty and lived the high life, but focussed on supporting his family, he worked late, rarely went out, and – rented out by the owner – he lived in small and cramped room on the third floor above the Taj Mahal restaurant with his pal, Abdul Subhan. Also born in Sylat in eastern Pakistan, as a married man with four children, Subhan had met Mokbul when they worked as lowly kitchen porters and dishwashers; and having been promoted to butcher and cook at the Royal Garden Hotel, they shared the £5 per week rent, they lived humbly, and although they had never worked at the Taj Mahal, they were good friends with its temporary manager, Ali Mian. As devout Muslims, they didn’t drink. As family men, they didn’t cause trouble. As law-abiding citizens, they had never been arrested or even questioned. And keen to continue being decent hard-working people, they didn’t break the rules, especially as Subhan was applying for his British citizenship. Their story was typical of many workers from overseas, who just wanted to do well… …but for one man, this chance at change was an opportunity he would squander. Bashir Meah was a 46-year-old unemployed wastrel and petty-thief who was described by the Police (as few people knew him as a friend) as short, stocky and unpleasant. Like Ali, Mokbul and Subhan, although he also came from eastern Pakistan, neither of them new him before the week of his murder. With his parents dead and with no known relatives still living in Pakistan, in 1947, 19-year-old Bashir fled to Britain, and according to his wife Eileen “he hasn’t worked a day in twenty years”. Living off National Assistance handouts, they drifted between council houses, and although they would have two children together – a daughter and a son – their 14-year-old boy was later placed into social care. With a lengthy criminal record and an aggressive streak, Bashir was the kind of blight on society that the Police often questioned, rounded up for line-ups and would turn a blind eye to if he got attacked. Within his first few months in the UK, he was sentenced to six months in prison for assault. In 1952, he served six months for armed robbery and ABH. In 1955, six weeks for stealing 15 cigarettes. In 1956, five years for armed robbery, but just three months after his release, he was back inside serving 21 months for robbery with violence. And so it went on, as like a foul whiff, he drifted between prisons, as being the epitome of a shitty half-witted criminal without a single brain cell, he always got caught. Again, after his release, in 1962 he served 2 years for the theft of a radio, 30 months in 1964 for stealing a briefcase, and 14 days for stealing 13 fruit dishes and 6 months for shoplifting both in 1967, which meant across his career, he spent more time inside than out, which was a blessing for his wife. By April 1968, Bashir and Eileen had moved into a dirty unfurnished council flat at 300 Lewisham Road in Deptford, where he returned to after his release from prison. On the 11th of June 1968, just eleven days before his murder, he was sentenced to three months at Woolwich magistrates court for the charge of shoplifting. But with the magistrate – for whatever reason - being lenient on this repeat offender, his sentence was suspended, and Bashir went back to being a petty thief, a notorious pest… …and a violent thug who beat his wife. Eileen stated: “we fought a lot”. Several times she had threatened to leave, and staying at a friend’s house, “I went home to collect my stuff… my husband arrived. I was frightened. I did not open the door. He picked up a brick and broke it down”, and although they argued, that night she left for good. The last time she saw him alive was on Friday 21st of June 1968 at about midnight, just 20 hours before his death. “He was in bed…”, Eileen said, “I asked him to leave, but he refused. I called the Police to eject him, but they were unable to do so”, and so having begun legal proceedings for a separation, “we were due to be heard at Greenwich Court on 22nd July”. But by then, her husband would be dead. Bashir wasn’t the big-time gangster he thought he was, as to those who had the displeasure of crossing his path, he was nothing but a petty thug and a pointless waste of space, a leech on society who would nick whatever wasn’t nailed down and extort paltry sums of money from hardworking persons. And as a notorious pest who never failed to annoy, one of the places he pestered and pilfered from…. … was the Taj Mahal on Romilly Street. Bashir seen as little more than a nuisance, as according to Isak the cook: “he came now and again for nothing, but sometimes he came to sell stolen items”, only now, he had become very desperate. On Thursday 20th June, two days prior, Ali Mokbul was lured out of his third-floor lodging over the Taj Mahal by Bashir Meah, supposedly “to get some fresh air”. Hailing a taxi, he didn’t know where they were going or why, and neither was he introduced to the stocky white males sitting either side of him. According to Mokbul, they drove for miles to somewhere unknown, until suddenly stopping the taxi “he put a big knife to my throat and said, ‘give me what you’ve got’”. They took his watch, two rings (including his wedding band) and the £5 he had placed in an envelope to send to his wife and children. Mokbul didn’t report the robbery to the Police as he didn’t want to risk losing his job and his visa… …but they all knew one thing, that (like a bad smell) Bashir would be back. Saturday 22nd of June was a day which began as ordinary as any other. Being a little after 5pm, the Taj Mahal on Romilly Street was ghostly quiet, except for Isak prepping the food in the basement kitchen, Ali in the manager’s office organising the cash float for the nights’ business, and three floors above, connected by a single stairwell, Mokbul and Subhan were in their bedroom, resting between shifts. According to their statements, the incident was as unremarkable as any Saturday night in Soho. Ali stated “I was about to open. I looked towards the counter and saw a man pick up my cash box and begin to make off with it”, the man was Bashir Meah, and the cash box held just £3 (or £50 today), but with Ali being the manager and the money belonging to the business, the responsibility was his. Like any decent person, Ali said “I ran after him and jumped on his back. I shouted for help”, screaming ‘come quick, he’s taking my money’, and hearing his cries, Mokbul and Subhan raced down to see this small-time petty thief trapped; in his left hand - the cash box, as in his right – a terrifyingly large knife which he thrust like a striking cobra in Ali’s petrified face, hissing with venom “I’m going to kill you”. Approaching stealthily from behind, Subhan said “I grabbed his right wrist, swung him round, we both fell to the ground. Mr Ahmed & Mr Mokbul assisted me to overpower him”. And with Bashir’s manner described as “aggressive” and “extremely violent”, “we keep him there until the Police came”. With the call logged at 5:38pm, PC Wright arrived at the Taj Mahal restaurant at 21 Romilly Street to the report that the manager and two others “had detained a man for the larceny of cash from a till”. And that was it. A petty-thief and a local pest had failed to steal £3 in loose change; he was cornered, restrained and receiving a few minor cuts and bruises to his face, hands and neck, with the room speckled with a few shards from a broken wine glass which broke in the struggle, the staff were questioned and with Bashir unable or unwilling to respond to questions, being semi-conscious he was taken to hospital for tests. The so-called incident was so uneventful, that with the restaurant late opening and the theatre crowd already queueing up outside, Isak the cook would claim “I went into the kitchen and lit the gas rings”, as to those who were there that night, this was nothing that they hadn’t witnessed many times before. Only this night was about to turn deadly. Taken to Charing Cross Hospital, Dr Dupere, the casualty officer stated “he was semiconscious, and he complained a pain in his leg and difficulty breathing. He was very shocked”. On initial assessment, his injuries were consistent with restraint but also a beating, “he had bruising to his back, grazes down his shins and knuckles, a black eye, a cut to his lip, and a circular wound which looked like a bite mark”. And suspecting “a fractured skull and possible broken ribs”, he was given two x-rays, but having deteriorated fast and with his heart having stopped, at 7:20pm Bashir Meah was declared dead… …and all three men (Ali, Mokbul and Subhan) were arrested and charged with his murder. Interviewed at West End Central police station by Detective Inspector George Chandler, together they had explained how they had caught and restrained him, how he had threatened them and struggled. But interviewed separately, suddenly the story fell apart and a different tale had begun to be told. Upon arrival at the Taj Mahal, PC’s Wright & Moore spotted that things were not as they seemed; “we were shown into a small poorly-lit backroom, on the floor a man lying was on his right side in a semi-prone position. His clothes were disarranged, there were bloodstains on his shirt, he had a deep cut on his upper lip from which blood was flowing, and he had bruises and reddening about the face”. Asked what had happened, the constables were told “we overpowered him and held him down until you arrived”, nothing more. But when asked by the officers “who tied his wrists and his ankles in front of him with rope?”, they all denied this, and according to PC Higgins “the Indians were all jabbering loudly…” as if – shielded by their own language - were they deciding what story they would tell. Isak confirmed that at 5:35pm, seeing all three men struggling with Bashir, “they said ‘we’ve caught a thief’ and I helped them drag him into the small room”. And although proven, none of them could answer why they had dragged him from the hallway to a small, secluded office behind the restaurant? When interviewed, their recollections of the night were vague to say the least. When asked “was Bashir tied up?”, separately they replied, “I don’t know”, “nobody tied him up”, and “I didn’t see that”. When asked “did anyone punch or kick him?”, Mokbul said “I didn’t kick him, I only tried to lift him” and stating “no-one else hit him”; Subhan admitted “I punched him once or twice” but he denied that anyone else did “I didn’t see anyone”; and although their statements varied between how many men were fighting – whether three, two, one or none – Subhan blamed Isak the cook, but he denied this. And although the full extent of the injuries which ended Bashir’s life were yet to be revealed, when asked “did you seen anyone jumping on him?”, separately they would all agree that they hadn’t… …contradicting the evidence of the autopsy. Conducted by Professor Keith Simpson at Westminster Public Mortuary at 10:30am the next morning, with the scuffs, grazes and abrasions set aside, although a fracture ran from the side of the skull into the right eye-socket, his death was not caused by a brain haemorrhage, or exacerbated any disease. It was the bruising to the chest that drew his attention “as there were no external injuries to the front”, where the victim’s wrists and ankles had been tied with rope, but only to the back. And although, all three men had all denied kicking Bashir and jumping on him, “both shoulder blades were fractured”. His back was a patchwork of black bruises and purple swollen lumps covering from his neck to his hips. X-Rays had proven that his cheekbones has shattered and that his right eye had ruptured, but also – underneath several flat wounds which bore the unmistakable outline of shoed feet – something akin to the weight of a man had repeatedly jumped and pummelled up and down, squarely upon his back. Fracturing the shoulder blades and breastbone, the force had snapped 21 of his 24 ribs like dry twigs as his whole chest cavity buckled in. With nothing to protect his internal organs, and these bones as sharp as glass shards; his diaphragm and his spleen ripped apart, both lungs were crushed, and as the life-giving air leaked his flattened chest, his body filled with blood suffocating his heart and his brain. His cause of death was certified as “haemorrhage owing to fractured ribs and crushed lungs” (End). Charged with murder at 4:35pm on Sunday 23rd of June 1968, Ali Ahmed Miah, Ali Mokbul & Adbul Subhan gave statements, and agreed to have their clothes, fingerprints and blood samples taken. Held at Brixton Prison, all three “gave a good account of the incident, knew the nature of the crime and were capable of knowing the acts were wrong”, so therefore they were declared “fit to stand trial”. Tried on the charge of murder – which would not only result in a prison sentence, but also the loss of their jobs and deportation back to Pakistan – their case was heard in a two-day trial at the Old Bailey. With the prosecution laying-out the evidence against them, uniquely for a murder trial such as this where – with no independent witnesses - it was hard to tell who had inflicted what injuries, each man had a different blood group; Bashir was O, Ali was A, Subhan was O negative and Mokbul was B. But with no blood found on either of their clothes and the accused sticking to their story that they had struggled and restrained a violent thief who was holding a knife, on the 11th of September 1968, Mr Justice Paull declared “in view of the evidence, it would be unsafe to ask any jury to convict. In those circumstances, I will take the responsibility of directing them to find the defendants not guilty”. Cleared of all charges – not GBH, ABH or even manslaughter – all three men walked from the court. But were they innocent of a crime, did they use ‘appropriate force’, was this a case of ‘overkill’ which the investigation couldn’t prove, or were the police given a tough choice – to convict three decent men who were pushed too far, or to bring justice to a petty thief who they knew no-one would miss? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Harlesden Police Station
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE:
On Saturday 4th August 1945, Private Cyril Patmore knocked on the door of 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a purple exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Wembley'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
Welcome to Murder Mile. On Saturday 4th of August 1945 at 8:55am, Frederick Keeling, a driver for Taxilux (a local cab company) pulled up outside of 16 Greenhill Road in Harlesden. The street was silent as the residents were roused by the chirp of a dawn chorus and the clatter of a milk cart. Having loaded the first of his fare’s luggage into the boot for what should have been an unremarkable day, it was then that Frederick saw Cyril. Standing outside of his wife’s lodging at 12 Greenhill Road, a short stocky man in an Army battledress slowly approached him, his face a ghastly white, his mouth agog with shock and his pale hands dripping with a deep red ooze, from his fingertips, up his sleeves and with dots spattered up his agonised face. Although slow, he didn’t stumble like a man in pain but a man in shock, as in his hand he held a curved knife, a souvenir from India, which continuously dripped with the warm fresh blood of his victim. Stopping by Frank’s car, the driver stared but didn’t feel afraid, as Cyril wasn’t seen as a threat but as someone who needed help. And as the soldier shook his bloody hands, spattering the pavement, in a quiet voice he uttered “Get the Police, I’ve done my missus”. Unable to comprehend that he had said, Frank asked him to repeat it, and (as if he couldn’t believe it himself) he did, “I’ve just done my missus”. And as Frank drove off to find a phone-box to call the Police, Cyril walked out of Greenhill Road. Only, this wasn’t his escape, as he didn’t he didn’t even attempt to flee. Keen to give himself up, amidst a gaggle of gobsmacked pedestrians, this bloodied and dazed soldier trudged half mile north to Harlesden Police Station, his sluggish demeanour like he had just emerged from a battlefield. And with Frank’s frantic call coming in, by the time Inspector Coote and Sergeant Firster had driven 100 yards, the unmistakable sight of Cyril Patmore was walking towards them. Pulling up, this killer didn’t run. Instead, he stated “I’ve done my wife in”; he gave them the address, he confessed “I did it with this” having handed them a small curved knife from his right trouser pocket, and being cautioned, Cyril’s only reply was “to think it was an Italian she’s been going with”. Having been to 12 Greenhill Road, at 10:30am, Inspector Coote told Cyril “I have seen the body of your wife Kathleen and I am making enquiries into the circumstances of her death”. Described as extremely distressed, clutching the last letters he had sent her, Cyril said “I want to tell you about my trouble”. At that, he made an accurate and lengthy statement, and throughout his main concern was for his family, stating “I live for my children and my wife. They’ve had a rough time since I’ve been away”. In a police report dated the 11th of August 1945, just days later, Inspector Coote wrote sympathetically of Cyril’s case, stating “the motive of the crime is most apparent, and it cannot be disputed that the moral character of the deceased woman (Kathleen Patmore) was of the lowest. There can be little doubt that her moral character during her husband’s absence has been utterly deplorable”. Lying slumped in a bloody heap, Kathleen was dead, and yet, he was the victim, and she was the villain. Across the investigation, it was the immorality of Mrs Patmore which was the motive for her murder. And yet, outside of Cyril and Kathleen, there was one other person who – it can be said – was to blame. The spiteful writer of a letter, send to Cyril in Burma, which told him everything… …and although anonymous, that someone was only known as ‘Joe’. It was during those dark lonely days of the war that Kathleen’s lack of morals came into question. As witnessed by landlords, lodgers, locals and even her own children, no-one was decrying her desire to be loved was lacking, as it’s a very human need. But it was the uncaring way in which she went about it, her unashamed sexual appetite that caused whispers to spread from Farmoor all the way to Burma. Described as ‘coarse and mouthy’, those who disliked Kathleen were said to be unsurprised when a welfare officer was called, when she got evicted from two farms, and her children were placed in their uncle’s care all within the space of a year. Many were shocked at how unashamedly she’d had sex in the woods and even with one-of-three (if not all three) lorry-drivers as her daughter slept beside her. But what riled them most was her fornicating with the Italian Fascists who Britain was fighting against. That level of disgust is how a gust of gossip travelled to Burma… …and set the seeds of her murder in motion. One of those who spoke-up was her sister May, who she had always had a fractious relationship with. When questioned, May selectively said to the police, “I have seen Kathleen on numerous occasions in a field having intercourse with the lorry driver named Gordon. She also carried on with the other driver called Bill. I have spoken to her about her conduct, and she has told me to mind my own business”. And although her statements of Kathleen’s morals were cherry-picked, it was like calling a ‘pot kettle black’, as according to the same witnesses, as a married mother herself, her morals were no better. George Podbery, the landlord of Woodend Cottages stated “I began to think that immoral things were taking place in the cottage. I then did what I could to keep these men away and I told the women I would not allow the men in. They took no notice. I received abuse and insults when I spoke to them”. Possibly out of spite, May had blabbed about her sister’s ‘filthy ways’, but according to Joseph Wiley, licensee of the Seacourt Bridge Hotel in Botley, often it was three women (identified as May, Kathleen and another, said to be one of May’s daughters) whose behaviour was so bad “I asked them to stop”. And whereas Horace, the brother of both women, who – let’s not forget, was the uncle put in charge of the children, instead of it being their Auntie May – he would state “I have seen both women going out at nights to woods near the cottages with Italian prisoners of war. I have also seen them returning at 7am, and it was obvious to me that they had spent the night in the woods with the Italians”. In her statements, May acted like she was an angel, only it’s hard to call someone immoral, when by your own actions, you’re no more moral than you are immoral. She told the Police, “I don’t know the names of any of the men. She was very secretive in nature and told me little about her men friends”. Which was a blatant lie, but as Edward, a lodger in the cottage would state “May was alright until Mrs Patmore arrived, then she seemed to lose control and told me once that ‘this sister would ruin her’”. And technically, she did, as on the 18th of December 1944, both Kathleen (who was pregnant by a man who wasn’t her husband), her sister May and their children were booted out of the cottages. But having moved elsewhere, the immorality continued. Between January and May 1945, at The Nunnery in Eynsham, the farm’s landlord Gordon Blake said Kathleen “was one of two women” (the other being May) “who were consorting with the prisoners”. When questioned, Antonio Frunzo and Mario Saviello of No45 Camp said that they knew both women “only to pass the time of day”; with Mario only “acquainted with ‘May’” and Antonio having “never had sexual relations with her”. Although even admitting to that during wartime was a criminal offence. But was there more to this than just sisterly spite and bitter jealousy? Maybe not. In late April, May discovered that Kathleen was pregnant. Shortly afterwards, Cyril received a letter in Burma, from an unidentified person known only as ‘Joe’, who told him everything and could provide a list of possible fathers. But not only was Joe the nickname Mario gave to May, not only did she draw up a list for the police, but the letter written by ‘Joe’ was said to be in a similar handwriting to May’s. May would state, she believed that Antonio Frunzo, the Italian prisoner of war was the child’s father. But that can’t be true, as with the child conceived between the 21st and the 28th November – easy to recall dates as Kathleen said she was celebrating their wedding anniversary and Cyril’s birthday – she didn’t move to The Nunnery until the January of 1945, two months later, when she first met Antonio. That letter led to Kathleen being investigated by a welfare officer; having her children removed from her care, to her eviction from her lodgings and a paying job, and it ended her relationship with Antonio. Whether that was May, we shall never be certain, but a second letter was also sent by ‘Joe’. Dated the 28th of May 1945, the day Kathleen left for London, it was sent to the Commandant of the No45 prisoner of war camp at North Hinksey, it read; “Dear Sir. I feel it is my duty write to you as it concerns a British soldier, a wife and their five children. One of your men, Antionio Frunzo (also a married man) is going with a Mrs Patmore, who is using the name Miss Stanton. Will you please stop this man seeing this woman as her husband is away in Burma. I am sorry to trouble you, but it is only fair to her husband and children. Perhaps the man could be sent to another camp. I wish this letter to be treated in confidence, as they may not know she is married. Yours respectfully. A British Citizen”. And although sent anonymously, Mario would confirm it was sent by ‘Joe’, as it impacted on him too. That day, Kathleen moved into 12 Greenhill Road to anxiously await Cyril’s arrival… … only May’s bitterness towards her ‘immoral’ sister was far from finished. Arriving at St Pancras on Sunday 29th of July 1945, granted 28-day leave owing to “his wife’s conduct” – news which had caused serious ramifications for his brigade, as his fellow soldiers were now worried about the faithfulness of their wives - he sorted a place to stay, and headed off to see his children. On Tuesday 31st of July, he savoured his time with his children – Reggie aged 16, Christina 12, Terry 6, Noreen 4, and Kathleen aged just 3 - at the home of their Uncle Horace at Lower End Farm in Thrupp. Whilst he was there, Cyril said “I asked Mr & Mrs Jenning and my wife’s relations”, including her sister May “what had been going on while I was away”, and they told him everything. In fact, so helpful was May to this mild-mannered man whose heart had been ripped in two, that according to Cyril “off her, I got a list of names. She said the list was of the men my wife had been going with”, and with her also adding quite maliciously “when you see your wife, ask her to pick the one out of that list”. But even he would admit, “this might have been done for spite because my wife and her sister fight like hell”. During his stay, May said “he questioned me about his wife’s behaviour. I told him the whole truth about everything” – except of course about her own immorality - “and he could not eat nor sleep”. Torn by his tired head and his broken heart, with his children by his side and the list of her lovers in his hand, Cyril (who had often had concerns of his wife’s fidelity, having cheated on her husband with him) had begun to question which of the four children that he assumed to be his, were actually his. Born in the period when he was stationed overseas, Cyril looked at his youngest daughter, 3-year-old Kathleen, and when Horace had asked “do you think it’s his”, it was said that Cyril replied “they’re just like the bastard”. And having wiped his hand with his brow, he huffed and gruffly uttered ‘Jesus Christ’. Cyril had always been suspicious of who his daughter’s father was, as ever since the previous Christmas when he had read a letter written by Kathleen to Frank Tobin, their landlord at 63 Randolph Avenue, which was signed off with the words ‘love especially from YOUR little Noreen”, with ‘your’ underlined. Unable to trust his own eyes, his own wife and the words of her spiteful and bitter sister – who would state, “she always told me that she never intended living with her husband again” - as hard as it was, he knew that the only person he could trust was his own daughter, Christine who was only 12. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a child, being torn between their loyalty to their parents, and in later life, possibly blaming themselves for their own mother’s murder, but he had to know the truth. Asked, Christine said “on at least six or seven occasions I’ve seen ‘Bill’ and ‘Gordon’ sleeping with my mother”. With the evidence undeniable, Maisie, May’s daughter said “Cyril was a devoted husband and father. I never heard him threaten to harm his wife”, but while he was there, “he acted like a man demented. He could neither sit nor stand” and upon leaving the house to head to London, he said one of either two things; “If anything happens, do what you can for the kids”, or a phrase impossible to verify… …“I will do her in and I shall hang for it”. On Wednesday 1st August, “I wandered about all day trying to pluck up the courage”, not to kill her, just to see her and to talk to her, as he knew that just the sight of her swollen belly would upset him. The next day, stealing his resolve with a few thick hits of rum, Cyril headed to 12 Greenhill Road. Being a little inebriated, with the list of his wife’s lovers in his hand, and May’s words still ringing in his ears - “when you see your wife, ask her to pick the one out of that list” – he was in no state to be rational. At about 2pm, Ernest and ‘Marg’, two of the lodgers were told by Kathleen “It’s my husband. I’m taking him upstairs. He’s had something to drink”. They didn’t see him, but both entered her first-floor room. Being drunk and tearful, Cyril claimed “I lost my temper with the way she had let me down. We talked for a while, and I asked her whatever made her do it”, only she didn’t reply to his question. Maybe she didn’t want to, or maybe she didn’t have an answer? Thrusting the list into her hand, she would defend “I don’t know who most of these people are”. And although Cyril was not a violent man, he hit her. Later that evening, ‘Marg’ saw Kathleen in the shared kitchen, her lip cut and her mouth bruised. “She was upset, she said her husband had hit her because she had been carrying on with Yanks and Italians”. In her room, he had spat “I could have forgiven you if it had been anyone else, but not our enemy”, and as several months of pent-up anger bubbled, “how could you expect me to own a child that wasn’t mine?’ he fumed - ignoring the fact that Reggie wasn’t his and possibly their youngest too – and although she pleaded with him to stay, “I couldn’t. I couldn’t be introduced as the father of the child she was carrying, so I left. She shouted, ‘if you go now, you’ll never see me again’. But still I left”. It was not how either of them had wanted this reunion to go, but tensions were high. Kathleen was said to be frightened that Cyril would return, only he didn’t. He needed to cool off, and he knew that. So, that night, having bedded down in a Salvation Army Hostel, being drained and exhausted, he slept. Early the next morning, he hand-delivered a letter through Kathleen’s door. It read “Dear Kath. I would like to have my personal articles”, some of which she had pawned, “please be good enough to meet me a half of an hour from now outside the Odeon. Pat”. On the envelope was scrawled “I love you”. He was sober, it was a safe place, and having vented their anger, they both had a lot of talking to do. At 9:45am, they met as planned. With Cyril’s head downcast and sore, and Kathleen’s mouth swollen and bruised, Cyril said “when I saw her, I felt sorry because I knew she was in trouble. I didn’t ask her for my things. I took her out for the day. It brought back memories of when we used to go together”. They walked in the park, went to the theatre, and they ate a meal in a café where they talked. He still loved her, but along with knowing the truth, he needed to see her remorse so he could forgive her. “I asked her why she had gone as ‘single”, having used an alias of Miss Stanton rather than her married name of Mrs Patmore, but she didn’t reply. Asked what the Italian wanted to do, even though she said she hadn’t seen him in a month, “he waits for me every night… the arrangements were, I would have the child and his people would come over, take it and give me a lump sum”, as if they were buying it. “From her bag, she took out a lot of Italian money and tore it up in front of me”. Whether she was committed to their future, their marriage or their children, he wasn’t sure. Together they could make it work, he knew that, but whether she could remain faithful, that he didn’t know. After a pleasant walk in Paddington Green, Cyril walked her to the bus stop, “here, I’ll wait with you till it comes”. Thinking they had reached a resolution, she said “you’re coming home with me”, being a woman who believed she could get whatever she wanted from a man by using her body. Only, with a bump between them due within the week, being a reminder of her infidelity, he turned her down. “I said ‘no, that’s impossible. How can you expect me to come back and sleep with you, when you’ve been with another man”. Like many servicemen, the one thing which had kept him alive was to come home to be with his beloved wife, “for years I’ve waited for this moment to return, but I was robbed of everything’. And with that, saying their goodbyes, and on the bus he put his heavily pregnant wife. Their ruined relationship had a slim hope of surviving… …but it all rested on whether she loved him. On Saturday 4th August 1945 at 8:50am, having slept fitfully, Private Cyril Patmore entered Greenhill Road in Harlesden. The street was silent, as the residents were roused by the chirp of a dawn chorus, the clatter of a milk cart, and Frederick Keeling, a driver for Taxilux pulling-up to await his passenger. Dressed in his battledress as expected of a soldier on leave, in his pockets Cyril held the list, his wife’s letters and a six-inch knife purchased as a souvenir at an Indian bazaar. “I did not know what to do, but I wanted to see her. I loved her so much. I had every intention of overlooking everything again”. Inside, Kathleen heard him knock at the front door. According to ‘Marg’, “Kathleen said ‘I expect that’s my husband’, she trembled and said ‘I’m finished. I don’t know whether to open the door’”. She froze, as his unmistakable shadow loomed over the frosted door-pane just a few feet away, as she whispered “I’ll let him knock again. Perhaps he’ll put the letter through the door and go away”. Only he didn’t. Informed of her immorality by her family, her sister, herself, and even his own children, for their sake, he wanted to give their marriage a chance. What he needed was the woman he had married and the mother of his children to show him that she still loved him… but – fed-up with his questions and having rejected her - what he got was an “uncouth and mouthy” Kathleen who was unashamed of her actions. From the hallway, she led him into the empty kitchen at the rear of the ground floor, so with the lodgers in their rooms, no-one would hear the foul words she would unleash in his reddening face. To the medical officer of Brixton Prison, Cyril confessed “it was her casual and indifferent attitude… she said ‘you’ve got a bag of nerves asking questions’, I said ‘are you coming, because I’m leaving’” -thereby giving her an ultimatum that if they left together, right now, there was still a possibility of saving what little was left – but with her shouting ‘do what the hell you like’, “I know I was finished”. “I only meant to scar her, so that nobody else could have her but me”, Cyril would state, “she struggled and I stabbed her in the wrong place”. Although whether that was true, only he would know. Hearing a scream, and Kathleen shouting ‘Marg! Marg!’, the tenants raced down to see Cyril, the knife in his hand, his sleeves bloodstained as he tottered into the street, and knowing his life was over, having uttered to Frank “Get the Police, I’ve just done my missus”, moments later, Cyril was arrested. At 9:05am, Dr Crowe, the Police Divisional Surgeon entered the ground-floor kitchen, to see the walls splashed with fresh warm blood, it dripping off the surfaces where the human ooze was yet to congeal. Lying face down on the tiled floor, wearing a print frock and blue ankle socks, Kathleen was pale and lifeless, as owing to her injuries, she was unconscious within a one minute and dead within three. Bleeding profusely from a gaping wound to her throat, with no wounds to her hands nor any signs of a struggle, Cyril’s blade had severed the small muscles of the neck, slicing open her right carotid artery and the right jugular vein, penetrating the upper lobe of the right lung, and draining her heart of blood. Kathleen was dead, but as Dr Crowe rolled over her still-warm corpse - seeing she was heavily pregnant and carrying inside of her a 10lbs and 4 ounce baby, which was barely a week from its birth - through her sopping wet bloody dress, he saw its final kick, as starved of life, the baby died inside of her. (End). Tried at the Old Bailey on 26th September 1945 before Mr Justice Charles, the jury of ten men and two women were said to be in tears as the testimony unfolded. Taking pity on Cyril, owing to the immoral ways of his wife, a verdict of manslaughter was returned, and he was sentenced to five years in prison. With Mr Justice Charles incensed at the jury’s decision, he stated “it would be the law of the jungle if a man finding his wife had been unfaithful once or even twenty times, was entitled to murder her and then say ‘but look at the provocation I have received’. But if manslaughter it be, and I am bound by the jury’s verdict… your counsel has said you were a sorely tried man. If you had not been so sorely tried, I should have been bound to give you a very very heavy sentence” – that sentence being death. As a key witnesses in the trial, May – who it was never proven was the anonymous writer of the letters penned by someone known only as ‘Joe’ - spoke openly of her sister’s ‘wholesale immorality’, which not only lessened her killer’s sentence, but also her spiteful words had condemned Kathleen to death. Serving his time at Wormwood Scrubs, throughout his prison term, Cyril’s concern was “the welfare of my children”, and not trusting his wife’s family, as far as we know, they were placed into care. Upon his release, Cyril Patmore went on to live a good life, he earned a living as a plumber, he remarried, he remained close to his children, and outliving his new spouse, he died in Southwark in 1999… …never fully knowing the truth about the ‘immoral’ Mrs Patmore. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR:
On Saturday 4th August 1945, Private Cyril Patmore knocked on the door of 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Greenhill Road in Harlesden, NW10; three roads west of Peter Buckingham’s last gasp, a short walk from the First Date Killer’s callous joyride, two streets east of Dennis Nilsen’s first day as a copper, and half mile from the body parts nobody claimed - coming soon to Murder Mile. As a regular residential street, Greenhill Road consists of two-storey semi-detached red-brick houses, a few trees doted for greenery, and two lines of contractor’s vans parked up outside of (what is often) the worst adverts for their skill; with a builder’s brickwork as smashed as a boxer’s smile, a plumber’s drain as leaky as a pensioner’s plonker and any award-winning driveway as lumpy as a teenager’s face. Only what sets 12 Greenhill Road apart from the others is not how it looks, but what happened within. On the morning of Saturday 4th August 1945, having travelled five and a half thousand miles from war-torn Burma, Private Cyril Patmore was here to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, as his ‘immoral’ wife had been unfaithful while he was fighting for his country, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died. The Patmore’s tale was as familiar as it was tragic, but with two sides to every story, this part was his. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 224: The ‘Immoral’ Mrs Patmore – Part One. The Second World War was a difficult time for many couples, as being ripped apart for a cause which wasn’t their doing, unsure if they would be together once again, and - occasionally being in need of a kiss, a cuddle or a night’s worth of affection - their morals drifted in a moment of regrettable passion… …but in Kathleen’s case, she loved to be loved whether she was married to the man, or not. Kathleen Marjorie Jenning was born in 1907 in the Oxfordshire village of Wallingford, as one of eleven children to Sarah, a housewife and William, a quarryman. With just six being blood-relatives as her mother had remarried, with barely a year between each child and her father dying young, struggling to feed them all, many of the older siblings had fled the chaos of this fractious squabbling brood. Therefore, it’s no surprise that as one of the youngest, Kathleen was desperate to feel loved. Raised by her widowed mother in Elmdon, Northamptonshire, Kathleen was far from the demure ideal of a 1920s teenage girl, as – shockingly – she drank alcohol, smoked cigarettes, regularly got into spats, and with her mood said to be “foul” and “uncouth”, she was later described as “coarse and mouthy”. As a scrapper, who liked the affections of boys and often fought bitterly with May, her sister nine years her senior, their spiteful childish rivalry would last for the rest of their lives. But as with many of the most impoverished of families forced together, as apart they had nothing – when they needed each other for the sake of survival, these sisters were always there – only not out of love, but necessity. In 1928, aged 21, Kathleen married Alfred Shaw, although how well this family regarded this union is uncertain as her brother Horace said he thought her husband’s name was Wildred. And although, the following year, Kathleen gave birth to a son who she named Reginald, before he was even three years old, she had already began looking elsewhere for love, and her eyes had rested on a man called Cyril. Born in Malta, although not Maltese, Cyril Patmore was the only child of Arthur, an actor, and May, a housewife. With no siblings and very few relations, when he met Kathleen – owing to his mother dying when he was only six, and losing his father aged nineteen – he had lost a lot and longed to be loved. In 1932, Cyril and Kathleen met while he was working as a waiter at the Hind Hotel in Wellingborough. She was local, married, a mother and he knew that, but still - within the month - they had eloped. So, is it so odd that he wouldn’t expect a woman who had cheated on her husband, to later cheat on him? Maybe he had? And having fled, with Cyril raising Reginald (another man’s son) as his own, they lived at Windmill Cottages in Blisworth, and Cyril was cited in the divorce paper between Katheen & Alfred. On 27th November 1937, Kathleen & Cyril married at Oxford Registry Office. Only it didn’t bode well, as on their marriage certificate she lied, stating she was a widow when Alfred was alive. But across their eight-year marriage, they had five children: Christine in 1933 (before the divorce), Terry in 1939, Noreen in 1941 and their youngest Kathleen in 1942, as well as Reginald to Kathleen’s ex-husband. In 1938, seeking work, they moved into a top floor flat owned by Beatrice Martin at 436 Edgware Road in London, who said “they appeared to be reasonably happy”, and although she wasn’t fond of Kathleen, “Cyril was a very decent chap” and a loyal father who took pride in his children’s appearance. And although fractious, their marriage could have survived… …but with the looming war coming to London, soon they’d be split apart. Barely five-foot-tall, stocky and sturdily built, whilst a waiter in London, Cyril had been an ARP warden watching the skies for bombers, and although he didn’t meet the height requirements, short of good men, in December 1940, he was conscripted as a Private in the 1st Battalion of the Royal Scots Fusiliers. As a shock to the system, Cyril went from a wet and cold Britain to a hot and steamy Burma, fighting as part of the 29th Independent Infantry Brigade in its dense and dangerous jungle, battling through a hideous onslaught of bullets and blood, but also rats, snakes, foot rot, man traps and dysentery. In 1942, he survived the bloody Battle of Madagascar and was seconded to the 36th Infantry in India. Like many servicemen forced to fight, all he ever thought of was his wife and children; their faces lost in the midst of his mind and their voices all but a distant memory, as the war drove them further apart. Being more than five thousand miles from home, having missed the birth of Noreen and their youngest Kathleen, his return would always be a special moment for Cyril, or at least that’s what he thought. According to May, Kathleen’s older sister “Cyril joined the Army after a quarrel with his wife”. Whether this was true, we shall never know, but it was clear that their marriage and love-life was struggling. In December 1941, as mother to then four children, Kathleen moved into a larger flat at 63a Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale, as owned by Frank Tobin, who stated “they were happy, he was a good husband. When he got leave, he came home” although “she spoke of being fed up when he was away”. While he was serving overseas, Frank remained a good friend to Cyril, a much-needed man-about-the house to Kathleen, and a friendly uncle figure to her children especially when baby Kathleen was born. And although he was ‘just a friend’, it was suspected that Frank was father to her youngest child. If he wasn’t, why did he send Kathleen £2 every week… …out of kindness, or a moral duty? As if this fractured family hadn’t suffered enough, owing to the endless onslaught of blitz bombs which illuminated this smouldering city with a choking cloud of raging red flames and deathly black smoke - as part of Operation Pied Piper – her five children were evacuated to the safety of the countryside in 1942, but owing to the V1 rockets which pummeled the West End, Kathleen followed in May 1944. Moved 60 miles west of London to the tiny village of Farmoor, it was as remote as you could get, being just a few farmhouses on the bank of the White Horse reservoir, a passing canal and a woody outcrop. With the city burning far on the horizon, but no reason for bombs to drop here, Kathleen and her kids moved in with her older sister May at Woodend Cottages, along with May’s daughters Cissie & Maisie, as well as the lodgers; three truck-drivers for Hudson & Hope haulage, called Gordon, Percy and Bill. For Kathleen, Farmoor was a place where this lonely lady could find the love she was longing, but as a space where strangers don’t go unnoticed, even the slightest whisper of immorality carried far. For May, Kathleen’s goings-on would risk the rented home she lived in with her husband and children, as (just three weeks in) her lodgers were getting a little more than bed and breakfast from Kathleen. May would say: “I saw Kathleen on numerous occasions in a field”, believed to be Bean Wood, “having intercourse with the lorry driver named Gordon. She also carried on with the other driver called Bill. I spoke to her several times about her conduct, and she has told me to mind my own business”. And as the gossip spread like wildfire, Kathleen quickly gained a bad reputation among those who would condemn her and “in addition, she was friendly with other men from the Forces stationed nearby”. At the Black Horse pub in Botley, the landlord said “when it came to closing time, she started singing, and when I asked her to leave, she told me to stick my pub up my arse… I have seen her drinking on many occasions with different men, mostly soldiers. She was a most horrible type of woman”. She had been there barely a month, and as a married mother of five children, whose faithful husband was risking his life for King and Country, she had no shame in her actions, even around her own family. When interviewed, 12-year-old Christine told the Police about when she was frightened by the distant bombings she would share her mother’s bed, and how she was not the only one who did: “sometime during the night, the three lorry drivers came to my mother’s room. One of them, Bill, got into bed with my mother and slept with her. The other two who had their own beddings, slept on the floor”, and in the same room as this young child, “I saw him sleep with my mother on six or seven times”. “When they began to suspect that I knew, my bed was put back into the attic”. And being out of sight and out of mind, that should have shamed her to stop, only it didn’t. When the landlord found out, Kathleen, along with May and her kids were kicked out of Woodend Cottages, and described as “living in unfit conditions”, Kathleen’s children were sent to be looked after by her brother Horace in Thrupp. But by that point, the catalyst for Kathleen’s murder had already begun… In a difficult letter to Cyril she wrote “you asked me why I didn’t tell you before, well shame, remorse, frightened, call it what you like, but each time I write to tell you about it I hadn’t the nerve… the pity is I was celebrating your birthday and our wedding day all in one”, suggesting that she had sex with an unnamed man between the 21st and the 27th of November 1944, “and having four miles to walk home, well evidently I didn’t make it… I didn’t go into it cold sober otherwise it wouldn’t have happened…”. …and being in Burma at the time of its conception, everyone knew that Cyril was not the father. Having said she felt “shame” and “remorse”, having been evicted and with her kids all being removed from her care, that should have shocked her into being decent, only it did not stop her immoral ways. Having found a place to stay and a spot of work on the farm of Gordon Blake in Eynsham, Oxfordshire, ironically called The Nunnery, although it had long since quit being a place of morality and chastity, a sense of unpatriotic filth would descend over this farm owing to Kathleen and her sexual appetite. Based at No45 Camp at North Hinksey, two Italian prisoners of war - Antonio Frunzo & Mario Saviello – worked the land to feed the British people as part of their punishment, but while the Allies (like Cyril, her loving and loyal husband) were risking their lives to fight the Fascists, she was busy fucking them. Farmer Blake would state “for four months she practically lived with four Italian prisoners of war”, and given her notice to leave in May 1945, he’d say “I desired her to leave the farm as soon as possible”. Kathleen’s life was a mess which was all her own doing. Although a sweet and mild-mannered man, she worried what he might say or do upon hearing that – having left his wife in charge of their life – she had been evicted twice, their five children were in care, and she was pregnant by another man. She was terrified of telling him what she had done… …but whispers can carry far, across land, sea and air, all the way to Burma. In April 1945, Cyril received an anonymous letter from someone in England called ‘Joe’. Arriving by air-draft and with the original destroyed, it told him she was pregnant by an Italian prisoner of war. Rightfully, he was angry, but – foremost, as a loving father – he contacted the ‘Soldier’s, Sailor’s and Airman’s Society’ and had a welfare officer check on his children, who were doing well with their uncle. Penning several letters, he asked Kathleen about the children, in which she replied: “my darling Pat”, being his nickname, “I was surprised you wrote to SSAFA. Rest assured they are in excellent health and going to school. Everything in England is looking lovely now and I’m sure you will be glad to get home. Mrs Martin is making the rest of the silk up for Kitty & Noreen’s dresses, you will be proud” and heartlessly, “Pat, you will have a few surprises all round. All my love for now. Yours as always. Kath”. With no mention of her infidelity or the pregnancy, when questioned, she’d reply… “My darling. …one thing I know is that you loved me, otherwise you wouldn’t have been so hurt… God knows I couldn’t go on without you… but should a moment of madness bring me a lifetime of sadness… I didn’t mean to do it, believe me sweetheart, and don’t start a divorce I just couldn’t stand that. I feel too ashamed for you to see me in this condition, yet how I wish I could see you to talk to you”, and as if to pre-empt her fate, she would chillingly write “it wouldn’t matter what you did to me. Yours Kath”. By May 1945, with Hitler dead and the war essentially over, a heavily pregnant Kathleen had moved back to the charred remains of London, with her children still living in Thrupp with their uncle Horace. On the 28th of May, 39-year-old Kathleen Patmore moved into a small furnished first-floor room at 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden, a two-storey semi-detached house with eight rooms for seven lodgers and a shared kitchen. Owned by Edward Treeves, an undertaker, along with Rebecca Ellie, a 22-year-old married woman known as ‘Marg’ who had become a new friend to Kathleen, they all liked her. Kathleen had changed. Being no longer a drunk, foul-mouthed or shagging strange men, as the tenants would testify, she was just a pregnant woman awaiting the arrival of her husband serving overseas. In their eyes, Kathleen was quiet and kind, as for them she made meals and mended clothes, and in reference to the bulging bump in her belly, she would joke “he’ll be walking in any day. I don’t know what he’ll do”, as even he didn’t know what he would do, “but he has threatened to strangle me”. In further letters, Kathleen spoke of her fears, “I’m wanting to see you, but I don’t think I will have the nerve to face you, you see you have always been a decent man and looked after me, how it hurts to know I have let you down. Oh darling, will I ever be happy again, not without you of that I am certain”. And in another, she spoke of her hope. “my greatest wish is to have my children with me, God knows I miss them… I suppose you will tell me it is my job to look after them, it is, but now I can’t, that’s where my heartbreak comes, apart from you and how I’ve let you down, the innocent are suffering for my mistakes. Don’t give this address to anyone, I’ve finished with the lot… yours as always, Kath”. With that last letter written one month before her murder, Kathleen’s spirits were buoyed by a reply dated Sunday 27th June, in which Cyril wrote: “Hullo dear… however I will take it for granted that you do love me in your in your kind of way, otherwise you wouldn’t give me such a lovely lot of children, my love for you is without a doubt, I haven’t come up to what a husband should be and perhaps it was because I was young and inexperienced, however for all the ups and downs, we had some good times and plenty of laughs and I am looking forward to all those days again, especially our little thrills when you used to faint, it’s going to be hard at first, however with your help we should be able to get a nice little home together and live happy ever after. Oh roll on the day when I can straighten things out a bit and settle down to the second chapter of married life. Love to all, yours always, Pat”. Upon his arrest, some suggested that her murder was premeditated. But with the weapon, a clasp knife purchased at an Indian bazaar months before he knew she had been cheating - that aside – his letters don’t sound like an angry vengeful husband hellbent on slicing open his cheating wife’s throat. If anything, having spoke of his hope, a wife, his kids and a home, being upset but not volatile, he knew that if he killed her, and was convicted, his children would have a worse life than if she had lived. So, although her murder was fated… …it wasn’t why he had come back. Granted 28 days of compassionate leave from his new posting in India, having travelled five and a half thousand miles to London, on the morning of Sunday 29th of July 1945, Private Cyril Patmore arrived at St Pancras station. Dressed in his battle fatigues and with a knapsack on his back, although in his possessions he had the knife he would take her life, he didn’t rush off to Harlesden in a crazed frenzy. Instead, seeking a trusted friend’s advice, he had a cup of tea with Frank Tobin, their former landlord at 63 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale. In need of accommodation, he visited Beatrice Martin, their other landlady at 436 Edgware Road who gave him a bed for the night, and having said of Kathleen “she has done a terrible thing to me”, he would state “she must be punishing me for this”, as if he was blaming himself for being sent overseas to fight for his country, even though the choice wasn’t his. Appearing “dejected and ill”, on Tuesday 31st July, he travelled to Lower End Farm in Thrupp, to see his children and to be reassured that their welfare was good in the hands of their Uncle Horace, and it was. Staying the night, he was happy that they were doing well, and seeing May who relayed the whole sorry tale of Kathleen’s infidelity, they were heartbroken at the way his wife had treated him. He was tired and upset, but there was no anger or rage in the man who would murder her. (End). On Saturday 4th August 1945, just shy of 9am, Cyril went to 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to see his wife. Being barely a week from giving birth, the day before, they had spent a few hours together. She apologised and explained, he spoke of how he had wished he hadn’t been away, how he had saved up to take them on a holiday, and – with their time together going as well as can be expected - they went to the theatre to watch a show, they had a nice meal, he saw her onto the bus to take her home, and although she had invited him back – hoping that he would stay over – politely he had declined. It wasn’t easy, no-one had expected it would be, but it didn’t feel like a precursor to a murder. “I explained to her that she was the only woman in my life” and although his heart was broken, given time, it could be repaired. But that morning, pushed to his limit, this quiet man would slit her throat. In a statement to the police, with her blood still on his hands, Cyril said “I live for my children and my wife. I hope they will be well looked after. They’ve had a rough time since I’ve been away”. Arriving in London, his manner mild and his thoughts far from murder, what plagued the investigation was what had whipped him into such a frenzy that it had driven him to kill the woman he still loved. The sex aside, it had all began with a letter from someone in England who was known only as ‘Joe’, and as a whisper of gossip which had travelled on the breeze, those words had led to Kathleen’s death. But who would be so spiteful, as to risk her life, by telling him about his ‘immoral’ wife? The ‘Immoral’ Mrs Patmore concludes next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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