Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #109: The Thames Towpath Murders - Part Three: The Suspect16/9/2020 
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This is a photo of 24 Sydney Road in Teddington, which was the former home of Alfred Charles Whiteway, and just three doors down, nine years earlier, the Songhurst family lived.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINE:
Across May & June 1953, a violent serial rapist who would attack lone women in isolated spots in and around Teddington, and yet, going against his own method, that same man would rape and murder two young girls at the same time. 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 of Sandy Lane where Alfed Whiteway was initially picked-up by the Police and questioned over the murders of Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed is located where the black triangle is, on the far left of the screen. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two videos to go with this week's episode; on the left is the "grassy-slope" at Teddington Lock where the bodies of Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed were disposed of in the river, and on the right is Alfred Whiteway's former home at 24 Sydney Road in Teddington. These videos are a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Photos left to right (top row): Alfred Whiteway, Alfred with Nelloe and Christina, a photo of Nellie with her two children (the second was born after Alfred was arrested) and Sydney Road today. On the bottom row: 11 Lower King's Road in Kingston (where Nellie's lived with her mum), 24 Sydney Road where Alfred lived, the alley behind 11 Lower King's Road where Alfred first spoke to Nellie (and often had sex) and Canbury Gardens where they last chatted before the murders.
The original police drawing of the murder location with comparison photos taken recently. I've marked each photo 1 and 2 and the black lines represent what angle the photo was taken at.
A comparison map of Alfred's route home from Nellie's house. The red line is the route he initially said he took from 2 (Nellie's house) to 1 (Alfred's house), entirely missing Teddington Lock, but the red line represents the route he took via the towpath and the murder scene 3.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified polcie investigation files held at the National Archives, as well as many other sources.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the hunt for the Thames Towpath Murderer; a violent serial rapist who attacked lone women in isolated spots in and around Teddington, and yet, going against his own method, he would rape and murder two young girls at the same time. But why? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 109: The Thames Towpath Murders – Part Three: The Suspect. Today I’m standing on Sandy Lane in Surrey; fifteen miles south-east of the rape of Patricia Birch in Windsor Great Park, eight miles south of the double murder of Barbara Songhurst & Christine Reed at Teddington Lock, one road north of the rape of 14-year-old Kathleen Ringham on Oxshott Heath, and just a few feet from the spot where Police would pick-up a possible suspect for all three attacks. Sandy Lane isn’t famous, vital or even a place of historical importance to the tourists or locals alike. In truth, it’s little more than a two-laned tree-lined country road with no footpath connecting the A244 on the north-east corner of Oxshott Heath to another insignificant little spot called Miles Lane. Being posh, secluded and selective about who they let live here, Sandy Lane is encircled by country houses, golf courses and a tennis club, but strictly no shops; as shops mean visitors, visitors mean riff-raff, and riff-raff means an infestation of poor people all dressed in track-suits who take selfies outside of a brick-built tax-dodge and wolf down fistfuls of McFood into the McMouth of their McBastard. In fact, except for a few furious curtain-twitchers yelling at any passers-by to “get back to your council tenement”, the only other people you’ll see here are walkers dressed in mountain gear to dawdle on the heath, builder’s dumping the debris they can’t be bothered to take to a tip, doggers doing ‘blowie Morse code’ with their headlights, and occasionally a stockbroker dumping the body of a golf rival. There’s not much to see or do and very few reasons to be here. There’s the heath, a small train station and a single road in the middle of the woods. It’s so remote you can only get here by train, car or bike. But why would you want to, unless you were fleeing a rape scene and seeking another victim? As it was here, on Wednesday 17th June 1953, at roughly 6:30pm, that a very plausible suspect for all three attacks was caught, and yet the Police (almost) let him slip through their fingers. (Interstitial) (Police) “28th June 1953, 4:30pm, statement by Alfred Charles Whiteway”. (Alfred) “Three weeks ago, I went for a ride on my cycle to see a friend in Englefield Green. I couldn’t see her, so I went to Windsor Great Park. As I was cycling along one of the footpaths, I saw a woman coming towards me, she smiled, said “good morning” and for some reason, I turned and followed her. I grabbed hold of her. I asked her to go in the bushes with me but she refused and struggled to get away. She talked me out of it and offered me about 17 shillings. I jumped on my cycle and rode away”. In his statement, Alfred conveniently forgot a few key details; like how he perched his blue bike by the park gate so he could seek-out lone females, why his saddlebag contained a seven-inch sheath knife and a foot-and-a-half long axe, how he stalked her up an isolated path, dazed her with the axe’s blunt curved butt, dragged her into a dense thicket, strangled her, raped her, stole her money and fled. It was a brazen attack in broad daylight, but to him, she was just a stranger who meant nothing, but sex. Patricia Birch gave the Police a detailed description of the attacker; “young, dark-haired, spotty with a cleft chin, rode a blue bike with white mudguards and a black saddlebag, he was scruffy-looking like he’d come off a building site and wore a crumpled blue-shirt, green gaberdine trousers, brown leather gloves and brown crepe-soled shoes” which matched a photofit of the Thames Towpath Murderer. By then, Alfred had fled… but having already raped once that day, and with his insatiable sexual lust clouding his every thought, he cycled a further fifteen miles south-east to Oxshott Heath to rape again. Spotted by two builders (“you know what, that looks a lot like Alf”), the Police were called, the suspect was identified and at 6:30pm Constables Oliver & Howard spotted the young man walking down Sandy Lane; a dark and isolated country road, lined with a dense thicket of trees, and no-one else in sight. (PC) “What’s your name son?”, (Alfred) “Alfred Whiteway”, which was true. (PC) “Address?”, (Alfred) “24 Sydney Road in Teddington”, which was true. (PC) “Empty your pockets”, which he did, but they only found ten shillings and two bike clips. (PC) “So where’s your bike?”, (Alfred) “I left it at home”, which was a lie as he’d stashed it in the bushes with his saddlebag. (PC) “You got a bag?”, (Alfred) “Nah, just what I got”. Had the officers searched him then, instead of later at the Police station, down his left leg they would have spotted a twenty-inch axe, still flecked with the blood of four women and with one more victim to add, as he lay-in-wait on Sandy Lane for another lone female. But they didn’t. Driven in the Police’s black Wolseley Saloon, Alfred was calm, pleasant and feigned a genuine interest in cars, as with the axe in his hand, he leaned forward to get a better look at the speedometer, (Alfred) “and as I was chatting to the copper, watching him in the mirror, I pushed it under the driver’s seat”. At roughly 7pm, at Kingston Police Station, Detective Inspector Brammell dismissed the spotty youth as a viable suspect and Alfred Charles Whiteway – the Thames Towpath Murderer – walked free. So, how did such a violent and dangerous predator slip under the Police radar? Alfred Charles Whiteway was born in Teddington on 21st June 1931. As the middle-child of eight - with two older brothers, three older sisters and two younger sisters, with one sister mentally disabled, one brother crippled by shell-shock, their father unable to work as a labourer owing to terminal cancer and their frazzled mother ran ragged by too many chores and so little money - being crammed into three small rooms in a tiny council flat on a scruffy dead-end at 24 Sydney Road, Alfred slept on the kitchen floor which he shared with Uncle Charles. Life was chaotic, impoverished and undisciplined. Educated at the nearby Stanley Road School, Alfred known as ‘Alf’ was described as a bully with an above average intelligence, who found it difficult to focus on anything but money, knives and girls. As a scrawny jug-eared youth with a spotty face and a cleft-chin, Alfred wasn’t a hit with the girls. Even as he lifted weights to become a lean yet powerfully built teen, being burdened by a bad attitude and a habit of forcing himself on a female which he called “seducing”, he lost his virginity early and never lost his appetite for sex. (Alfred) “I’d go any distance to get a bit from a girl who hadn’t had it before”. Alfred believed that rather than earning it, he had the right to take whatever he desired. On 4th June 1943, he was fined £5 and bound-over for stealing torches from a house - he was 11 years old. Three months later, aged 12, he stole a ladies’ purse, but was too young to be effectively punished. Quitting school, he struggled to stay employed as an errand-boy, a paint-sprayer and a coal-loader for more than a few months. And charged with stealing a bicycle, aged 15, Alfred was sent to the Cotswold Approved School; a borstal for young boys with emotional and behavioural problems. Described as “angry and difficult”, Alfred was rude, unruly and violent, he was obsessed with knives, fixated by sex, cruel to animals and was sexually aggressive towards the female teachers. On 22nd July 1948, having absconded from the school for a third time, aged 17 (and therefore an adult), being found guilty of the theft of a pair of gloves, Alfred was dismissed from borstal and sentenced to one year in prison. Discharged on 23rd March 1949, Alfred was given a chance to go straight or risk a lifetime inside. Having dreamed of earning an honest wage, learning a skill and seeing the world, like many of his pals who had enlisted, Alfred applied for National Service. He was young, strong and physically fit, but being so short-sighted he could barely read, let alone spot a relative from across the street, having flatly refused to wear glasses, he was declared unfit to serve and returned home with his pride severely dented. For the next three years, he drifted between temporary jobs whether by unloading vans, building walls or chopping down trees, and his love life was no better. Being single, it still stung that his ex-girlfriend (June Knight) had married Danny Songhurst; the eldest son of Gertrude & Daniel and the brother of their middle-child Barbara, who (until a few years earlier) had lived on Sydney Road, just three doors down from Alfred Whiteway. But his luck would soon change when he met and fell in love with Nellie. In April 1951, 16-year-old Nellie May Jones and her friend Dianne Isaacs went to Bushy Park; a Royal Park over the river which borders Teddington, Hampton Hill and the Thames towpath. Covering 1100 acres of rutting deer, paddling ponds, dense woods and meandering paths, it’s a popular place where kids feel safe and was large enough to still feel peaceful as the two young girls played on the swings. Being perched on his blue bike, 20-year-old Alfred spied-on the two girls as they paddled in the pond. Only he didn’t speak to them, he didn’t approach them, instead he just watched, waited and (hours later) he followed them through the park, over the river and up the towpath, a full mile to their homes. By 10pm, unnerved by the stranger pushing his bike slowly behind them, as the girls snuck up a dark unlit alley at the back of their homes on the Lower King’s Road, as Dianne darted into number 13, it was only when Nellie was by herself, with her exit blocked by a dead-end, that Alfred made his move. (Alfred) “It’s okay, don’t be afraid, I just wanted to talk to you”. And although an odd approach, having found him to be shy, charming and a little bit dishy; they talked for ten minutes, he asked her out on a date, their relationship blossomed and four months later he asked her to marry him. It was a whirlwind romance for the two young lovers… but it wouldn’t be easy. Aged just 16 and too young to legally wed, Nellie’s recently-widowed mother had refused to give them her blessing, and for good reason – Alfred was unemployed, impolite and a convicted thief - she didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him and she didn’t let him into their house at 11 Lower King’s Road. So, in a pique of teenage petulance - with their intimate relations limited to a few fumblings in Bushy Park, some sticky trysts on the towpath, or (rebelliously) sex up the alley behind her mother’s house - to force her hand, Nellie & Alfred got pregnant. On 27th February 1952, they married and on 20th May baby Christina was born, only as (Nellie’s mother had warned her) Alfred wasn’t there to provide for his wife and child, as at the time of the birth, he was serving six months in prison for theft and burglary. Upon his release, unable to afford a home, the couple lived apart. Feeling disconnected, their fights grew more frequent. Spending more time alone, instead of working every hour to feed his family, he would bunk-off to Old Ham Lock to practice throwing his knife and axe at a tree. And with one baby born and a second due in two months, his insatiable demands for sex was proving harder to assuage. Alfred Charles Whiteway wasn’t a crazed homicidal maniac with a string of assaults, rapes and murders in his wake. At worst, he was little more than a trouble youth, a bad parent and a very selfish boy, who (like many young men) had a odd fixation with knives and sex, but he wasn’t a killer… …and yet, just one week later, on the Thames towpath, two young girls would be raped and murdered. His first known attack was on Sunday 24th May 1953; nine days before the Queen’s Coronation, three weeks before the rape of Patricia Birch, and one week before the double murder of two best-friends. But there would be enough similarity to suggest a link for Detective Superintendent Herbert Hannan. At 10:30am, 14-year-old Kathleen Ringham went for a walk with her dog on Oxshott Heath. She would state “I saw a man on a blue bike with a blue shirt go by. As I got to an isolated path, I heard a bicycle behind me. I felt a blow on the back of my head, I was dazed and dragged into the bushes. He said it would be alright and that he was going to do me. I struggled to fight him off. He pulled up my blouse and pulled off my shorts, and then before he put his person inside me, he asked me how old I was, I said I was fourteen. I did not scream as it was a lonely spot and I was worried he would put his hands around my throat again. After he got off, I tried to get up but I felt dizzy and my head was hurting”. With a pain in her head and blood in her eyes, Kathleen gave a vivid description of her attacker, whose spotty face, blue bike, brown gloves, black saddlebag, crepe-soled shoes and twenty-inch long yellow and black axe would later prove a positive match to the attack – one month later - on Patricia Birch. Evidence was slim, no name was given and Police knew of no-known suspect who matched this very unique attacker, so ultimately the investigation stalled. And although Detective Inspector Brammell had mistakenly released a credible suspect who had no prior convictions for rape or assault, detectives had already began questioning Alfred Charles Whiteway in connection with the rapes of Kathleen Ringham, Patricia Birch and the double rapes and murders of Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed. But by then, one very crucial piece of evidence had gone missing. (Police) “28th June 1953, 4:30pm, statement by Alfred Charles Whiteway”. (Alfred) “Three weeks ago, I went for a ride on my cycle to see a friend in Englefield Green. I couldn’t see her, so I went to Windsor Great Park. As I was cycling along one of the footpaths, I saw a woman coming towards me, for some reason, I followed her, I grabbed hold of her. I asked her to go in the bushes with me but she refused. She talked me out of it, offered me 17 shillings and I rode away”. Although deliberately misleading, in that statement Alfred admitted to the minor offence of robbery, and not rape, but having been positively identified by Kathleen and Patricia, the Police had enough evidence to detain and question him, whilst all three cases were investigated. (Police) “29th June 1953, I am Detective Constable Virgo of Richmond CID. On the night of Sunday 31st May, two girls were murdered on the Teddington Lock towpath. Where were you at the time?”. In a statement backed-up by his wife, Alfred denied any connection to the murders. At that time “I was with my wife and child in Canbury Gardens until gone 11:30pm”, one mile south of the crime-scene. “I didn’t go near Teddington Lock. I rarely do. I cycle home by Kingston Bridge”, a longer route which avoids the towpath, and “I didn’t stop, I went straight home and got in about five to twelve, as seen by my Uncle Charles”. And although he admitted he knew Barbara, “they lived in our road years ago, Barbara was about six, but I haven’t seen her since and I don’t know Christine”, which was true. With no axe, knife or witnesses, Alfred knew the murders couldn’t be pinned on him. But then again, he hadn’t met Detective Superintendent Herbert Hannan; a highly-experienced Police interrogator and investigator who was smart, cunning and (worst of all) devious. (Hannan) “1st July 1953, 12:10pm. I am Detective Superintendent Hannan enquiring into the murders of Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed, I want to ask you a few questions”, but Alfred wasn’t playing ball “Nah, I’m keeping my mouth shut otherwise you’ll bloody pin it on me. I had nothing to do with them girls. You know I’d go any distance to get a bit from a girl who hadn’t had it before, but I’d never go that far”. But Hannan knew he had, he just needed to prove it, but this was proving fruitless. Having taken blood and saliva samples, although a search of Alfred’s home uncovered the blue bike, the brown gloves, the crepe-soled shoes and the black saddlebag, no knife or axe was found. In fact, having hidden it under the driver’s seat of the police car, the axe had since gone missing. On 8th July, with Alfred Whiteway formerly charged over the rapes of Patricia and Kathleen, as he awaited his sentence, Hannan had more time to question him, and more chances to make him slip. Hannan’s questions were nothing interesting, just a series of dull questions about Alfred’s routines. Questioned about his route to and from his wife’s house (Alfred) “sometimes I ride along the towpath and over lock bridge”, his obsession with knives “I keep some in my saddlebag for throwing at trees”, the knives’ blades “it’s a twelve-inch Ghurkha knife and an eight-inch sheath knife”, his route to the trees at Old Ham Lock, “I cycle over Kingston footbridge and passed my swimming place by Teddington Lock. I know that bit of the towpath well”, and as he nervously gabbled with the devious detective, Alfred even admitted that the last time he could recall throwing his twenty-inch black-and-yellow axe at a tree - was at Old Ham Lock, where the two girls were last seen, a few hours before their murders. Hannan was compiling a confession, but he needed something concrete. On 15th July, the same day that Alfred pleaded ‘guilty’ at The Old Bailey to the rape of Patricia Birch and Kathleen Ringham, Constable Arthur Cosh of Kingston police station made a startling realisation. While cleaning-out a black Wolseley Saloon before his shift, under the driver’s seat, he found an axe, but instead of handing it in, he took it home and used it to chop up firewood on the concrete floor. Three weeks later, realising its significance, PC Cosh handed the axe to Detective Hannan. But by that point; any fingerprints were missing, any blood traces were gone, the blade was blunt and - although the curved butt exactly matched the wounds to the girls’ heads – it was inadmissible as evidence. Without it, the entire case would collapse, unless Hannan could secure a confession from the killer. Alfred Whiteway was now a convicted rapist, and although his statements were shaky and the physical evidence was weak, there was no way Hannan would let him walk free on a technicality. So, what he did next was highly unethical. But then again, Detective Herbert Hannan, ‘the Policeman’s Policeman’ was a man who would drain a three-mile stretch of the River Thames to find a single little girl, and as he would later state “sometimes, you have to go beyond what it right, to see justice done”. On 30th July 1953, having repeatedly interviewed his heavily-pregnant wife, as much to fact-check his lies as to get under Alfred’s skin, Hannan showed his evidence. First, the Ghurkha knife that Police had dredged out of Old Ham Lock, at which Alfred barely blinked (Alfred) “oh, you got it out of the water, did you?”. Second, Alfred’s bloodstained shoe which was too faint to group, a tiny detail that Hannan failed to mention, and as he turned pale and trembled, Alfred spluttered “you know bloody well it was me, don’t you?”. At which, thinking this key piece of evidence was lost forever, Hannan thudded onto the table - the axe - it was inadmissible in a court of law, but Alfred didn’t know that. (Alfred) “It’s all up. You bloody know well I done it! That’s buggered me. I can’t stop myself. I must have a woman. I didn’t mean to kill them. I never wanted to hurt anyone”. And with that, Hannan had his confession. Alfred Charles Whiteway was charged with the murders of Barbara Songhurst & Christine Reed. Tried at the Old Bailey, he denied all charges and stated that the Police had fabricated his statement. But with a unanimous jury finding him guilty, on 23rd December 1953 he was hung at Wandsworth Prison. A killer was dead, streets would be safe and (as he had promised) justice had returned to Teddington, but several details about the attack still bothered Detective Superintendent Herbert Hannan. Alfred Whiteway was a serial rapist who attacked lone females in dark isolated spots; his motive was sex, his victims were strangers, he felt no anger towards them only lust and his method of attack never deviated. Chosen at random; each girl was spotted, stalked, struck, dazed, dragged, stripped, raped and – although bloodied and traumatised – all of them were left alive… except Barbara and Christine. But why? Why rape and murder two young girls at the same time? What if one screamed, or got away? The truest words that Alfred ever stated was during his confession, he said “I didn’t mean to kill them, I never wanted to hurt anyone”. And yet - for whatever reason – something drove him to kill. Sunday 31st May 1953 was a glorious sunny day, perfect for a little riverside picnic for two best-friends and their pals. But for Nellie & Alfred, married-life had soured, and as they strolled through Canbury Park - with one baby wailing, a second baby due, no home, no job and their fights becoming more frequent - although they kissed and made-up, at 11pm Alfred cycled-away to make his way home. He wasn’t angry or upset, but as the couple’s sex-life had stalled, his ever-insatiable urges lay unsated. At 11:10pm, having cycled one mile north to the Kingston footbridge, “I know that bit of the towpath well”; with moonless sky all dark and cloudy, occasionally spotting a lone female cycling by the dense thicket at Teddington Lock, his urges stirred. “You know I’d go any distance to get a bit from a girl who hadn’t had it before”. Hiding behind a tree, Alfred waited; his bike hidden, his bag stashed, his axe in his hand and an erection in his pants. “I can’t stop myself. I must have a woman”. He didn’t care who, a stranger’s a stranger, and being used to taking whatever he desired, all they meant to him was sex. The lock was the perfect place for a rapist to lurk… but not one with bad eyesight, who was so short-sighted he could barely read or spot a relative across the street, and was too proud to wear glasses. At 11:15pm, as Barbara & Christine left the picnic at Petersham Meadows and cycled south passed Old Ham Lock, their rickety bikes clattered down the dark uneven towpath as the girls rode in tandem. Barely illuminated by the single yellowy bike-light she had borrowed, Barbara cycled ahead, singing as she often did, as (unlit owing to a broken bulb) a slightly shyer Christine meekly followed behind her. Fifteen minutes later, as Alfred lay in wait, hidden by a tree; his eyes saw only one bike-light, not two, his ears heard one voice singing, not two, and thinking she was a lone female - with the curved blunt butt of his axe – Alfred struck and knocked Barbara clean off her bike. “She came round the tree where I was stood, I bashed her no harder than the (girl in the park) and she went down like a log”. Hearing her bike fall, as Christine stopped a few feet short; seeing a man, an axe and her best-friend lying all bloodied and slumped, Christine panicked. “I only saw one girl. Then the other one screamed”. With his perfect plan smashed and at the risk of her fleeing “I nipped over to shut her up”, with four swift blows to the head which rendered her dazed, immobile and disorientated, but not dead. Having dragged both girls into the dense dark thicket, for Alfred, although things had gone awry, the maths was very simple; two virgins, one rapist and an insatiable sexual urge to satisfy. So, in a shift to his plan, as they struggled, he strangled, stripped and raped both girls, as they lay side-by-side. Except… with a pain in her head and blood in her eyes, even as she drifted in-and-out of consciousness in the dark dense thicket, unlike Alfred, there was nothing wrong with Barbara’s eyesight. She was not a stranger (Barbara) “Alf? Alf Whiteway?”. She knew his name, he knew his face, she knew where he lived. “And then I tumbled, she knew me. If it hadn’t been for that, it wouldn’t have happened”. In a blind angry panic, he snatched the sheath-knife from his saddlebag and in a swift frenzied attack stabbed both girls to death; with Christine lying face-up and his old neighbour Barbara face-down, so he didn’t have to look into the petrified eyes of the little girl he last saw when she was six. Being dead, he dragged both girls down the grassy slope – their blood stained the coping stones and the oak timbers of the lock-wall – and as he cast both bodies out into the dark black river, the tidal waters carried them upstream and - he hoped - out to sea. He took the weapons, dumped the bikes, mistakenly left behind his green gaberdine rain-coat and believed he had got away with murder. (End) Only he hadn’t counted on Detective Superintendent Herbert Hannan. Across the five-day trial at The Old Bailey, the defence council for Alfred Whiteway picked holes in the evidence, stated that the confession was a complete fabrication and they questioned the ethics of this highly experienced but devious detective who “always got the job done”. With the eye-witness testimony of his 14-year-old Kathleen Ringham deemed irrelevant by the judge and the axe inadmissible, basing their conclusion on circumstantial evidence and a dubious confession, the jury took less than 45 minutes to find Alfred Whiteway guilty and his appeal was dismissed. On 12th November 1953, six weeks before his execution, Alfred sent the detective a handwritten letter from prison. It read “Mr Hannan, you were wrong. Why you made up that false confession I can’t say, but you knew your word would be more accepted than mine. I played into your hands too easily. You were so positive that it was me that you risked a lot to have me hanged. Well, you were successful”. A second letter Alfred sent to his own mother, it read “I’ll tell you this ma, I’ve done some rotten things in my life but this time they are wrong. I never did it, but I still reckon I deserve to die for that Oxshott affair. So, if anybody brings that up against me, you tell them they’re wrong. Your loving son. Alfred”. Whether the detective had lied, we shall never know. But the sentence brought closure to the grieving families, the girls were buried, a new era was ushered-in with a new Queen, and - just as Herbert Hannan had promised - peace returned to Teddington as the Thames Towpath Murderer was dead. Or was he? This episode is dedicated to the memory of Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed; two best-friends who lived as they died, side-by-side. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of the Thames Towpath Murders. Next week? Something different. And you love a bit of pointless waffle, Extra Mile is up next. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Shane Kinnair, Kathryn Williams, Cecelia Chang, Sharon Symonds, Michelle Anne Rogers and Lawrence McG, I thank you all muchly for your support. A thank you to Dawn Smith for your very kind donation via my website, and – I’m feeling very spoiled – John Lee, Annemieke (Anna-mick) and Mike Hughes, who weren’t put-off by that annoying advert that Acast forced into each episode, which I have since deleted, and donated via the Supporter link in the show-notes, I thank you too. And as always, a huge thank you to everyone who listens to the show… and doesn’t hate it. This show is for you. Everyone else? Meh. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #108: The Thames Towpath Murders - Part Two: The Investigation9/9/2020
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St Helena Pier as seen from Richmond Bridge
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT:
On the morning of Monday 1st June 1953, at 09:05am, the body of Barbara Songhurst was pulled out of the River Thames at Radnor Gardens and brought ashore at St Helena Pier, as many dead bodies are. But even before an autopsy was conducted, Scotland Yard were notified, as this was no accident, this was unmistakably a murder.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of St Helena Pier where the bodies of Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed were brought ashore is marked with a yellow triangle, at the bottom left of the screen by Ham and Petersham. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos to go with this episode; to the left is 15 Roy Grove, Christine's home where her parents last saw her and Barbara alive and to the right is St Helena Pier where the bodies of both girls were pulled ashore. Below are two more videos showing you the locations where each other girls bodies were found. These videos are a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
A comparison photo of the murder location at Teddington Lock of the Thames Towpath Murders; left is the original crime scene photo, and right is a photo taken by myself recently
A comparison photo of the slipiway, just outside of the locak entrance at Teddington where the two girls bodies were dragged and cast into the water. This is also where Christine's bike was found
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified polcie investigation files held at the National Archives, as well as many other sources.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the investigation into the vicious double-murder of two best-friends, Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed, who were stabbed, raped and disposed-of by an unknown attacker on a peaceful Thames towpath. But who was this man, and why did he kill? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 108: The Thames Towpath Murders – Part Two: The Investigation. Today I’m standing by St Helena Pier, just off the Thames towpath in Richmond; one mile north of the camp site at Petersham Meadows where Barbara and Christine enjoyed a last laugh, two miles north of their final sighting just shy of Old Ham Lock, two miles north-east of the shallow waters by Radnor Gardens where Barbara’s body was found, and a full three miles north of Teddington Lock. St Helena Pier is a popular place for tourists and locals alike, as you’re only a short totter from a posh shopping trip in Richmond town centre, a pleasant scoot along the oddly uneven towpath from Kew Gardens or a bobbly wind-swept boat ride to Hampton Court Palace, but this is a place of rest. Being an old-fashioned sloped boat-dock leading down to the water’s edge, although buses and trucks whizz passed on the nearby Richmond Bridge, St Helena Pier has a real slowness about it, as everything is done at a very a sedate pace. With a smattering of ale-houses and tea-shops set around a Georgian stepped terrace - if you ignore the modern monstrosity of the aluminium pier – it’s a lovely spot to soak up the view, feed the ducks, inhale some semi-fresh air and do a bit of people-watching. There’s several types you can see; there’s the strollers, the joggers, the sitters and the snoozers; there’s the pseudo-intellectuals who seem fully absorbed in every word of Albert Camu, except it’s just a dust-jacket covering the latest Jackie Collins smut-fest; there’s the hopeless romantics who’ve hired a boat and punt it like a limbless gondolier and think it’s original to sing the Cornetto song; there’s always a mahogany moron so sunburnt their reddening skin makes you wince, only you know (right now) they’re too drunk to feel it; and from a series of wooden boat sheds, cleverly called the Riverside buildings, four-and-eight man sculling crews row knife-like boats through the water while a mini Hitler barks order at them and gives everyone a hint at how this sad singleton spends his spare time (“stroke, stroke, stroke”). It’s not all pleasantness though, as with over two hundred bridges along the Thames, sadly each year, at least fifty bodies are recovered from the river. So many, that the Police set-up a marine force to fish the bodies out, several mortuaries were built under various bridges (including Tower Bridge) and many dead have been pulled out – right here - at St Helena Pier. One of whom was a sixteen-year-old girl. As it was here, on Monday 1st June 1953, that Barbara Songhurst’s body was pulled shore, but even before the autopsy had begun, it was clear that she hadn’t drowned, she was murdered. (Interstitial) Just one day before the Queen’s Coronation - as the streets were swept, railings were painted and the homeless were bussed-out so they didn’t sully the celebration - for many, this was the start of a public holiday, but for Detective Superintendent Herbert Hannan, a murder investigation was about to begin. At 09:05am, from a few inches of shallow water by the riverbank at Radnor Gardens, Sergeant George Cooper struggled to pull the tiny child-like body of this seven-stone and five-foot girl into his boat, as her blue jeans, white tartan blouse and white woollen coat were sodden with the silty river’s sludge. Who she was, how she had died and where she had entered the water was unknown, as although most of the evidence had washed away, with the river becoming tidal when the lock’s sluices are up, her body could have travelled many miles upstream or down, depending on the time of day or night. At a steady speed, Sergeant Cooper drove the boat north, passed Petersham Meadows, Duke’s Hole and fifteen minutes later he arrived at St Helena Pier, where an excitable crowd had already gathered. Attracted by the sight of a constable carrying a lump draped in a thick grey blanket, the chatter ceased and a silence descended, as although the gorpers spied a corpse, by its tiny size, it was clearly a child. Having commandeered a boat-shed at the Riverside Buildings, whilst they waited for an ambulance to arrive, in accordance with the law Dr Albert Bowtell confirmed her life as extinct. And with her injuries not consistent with a drowning, an accident or a fall, suspecting foul-play, Scotland Yard was notified. 44-year-old Detective Superintendent Herbert Hannan was a short but smart man, widely regarded as a highly experienced senior detective with many cases under his belt. Being nicknamed ‘The Count’ owing to his high-class aspirations and slightly affected upper-class accent (which hid the fact he was actually from working-class stock, being born in Paddington to an Irish mother and a Midlands father), that aside, being thorough and determined, he was a man who would leave no stone unturned to see justice done. At 12:10pm, the autopsy began at Richmond Mortuary, conducted by the pathologist Dr Arthur Mant. With the young girl’s identity determined and her cause of death confirmed, although he was not medically-trained, Herbert knew that every one of her wounds helped paint a picture of her attacker. With two impact craters to her head and cheekbone but no defensive wounds, this suggested the initial attack was sudden and premeditated. With the angle of the wounds being head-height, the killer was likely to be a foot taller than Barbara. Being well-built, he inflicted enough force to render her semi-conscious, but his motive wasn’t murder as he had struck her with the blunt curved butt of an axe and not its sharp deadly head, which risked her waking, fleeing or screaming. Both strikes were controlled, as was her violent rape and the disposal of her body, suggesting thar he had attacked before, and yet the three deep and frenzied stab wounds to her back - rather than her front - told a completely different story. It was as if – for whatever reason - something had compelled him to kill. Detective Superintendent Hannan had painted a rough picture, as the evidence suggested this man was a young well-built male of average height, possibly local, handy with a knife and an axe, who was likely to have prior convictions for a similar offence… only he matched no-known rapist or murderer. And yet, Herbert saw a strange similarity between Barbara’s murder and an attack, one week prior. On Sunday 24th May, eight miles south of Teddington, as 14-year-old Kathleen Ringham walked along an isolated path on Oxshott Heath, a vicious sadistic attack had left her dazed, raped and traumatised. Blinded by the pain in her head and the blood in her eyes, she caught a brief glimpse of her assailant; a young white male with dark hair and a cleft chin, who was grubby “like he’d come off a building site” and he had struck her across the head with the blunt curved butt of an axe. The investigation stalled owing to a lack of evidence and witnesses, but the Police had enough details to compile a photofit. At around the same time that the body of Barbara Songhurst was brought ashore at St Helena Pier, her murder location was discovered, almost three miles south, on the corner of Teddington Lock. Amid the cloudy moonless sky of the previous night, the raging river had seemed as black as the dense thicket of shadowy trees which shrouded the uneven towpath, but being in the bright light of the crisp summer sun, where red looked red and liquid was vivid, this was the unmistakable sight of a massacre. On the Ham side of the Thames, just down from the lockkeeper’s cottage, the two pedestrian bridges and the river’s triple locks, on an s-shaped kink to the path lay a green gaberdine rain-coat, several blood spots and some scuff marks in the soil. To the untrained eye it looked like the aftermath of a fight, but to Herbert Hannan, as his experienced eyes followed an obvious and unsettling trail from the towpath to the thicket to the river, it backed-up every detail that Barbara’s autopsy had suggested. From behind a lone tree, whilst the anxiously waiting assailant had hacked at its bark with an axe, with a swift strike as she cycled-by, he had knocked Barbara clean off her bike. As she fell to the path and perhaps screamed, to silence her, he struck her a second time to render her semi-conscious but alive. Into the dense thicket he dragged her, among the wooded undergrowth he scattered her clothes, on a patch of flattened grass he savagely raped her, and although he seemed to relish staring into the terrified eyes of this little girl – for whatever reason - having raped her while she was face-up, he then turned her face-down to brutally stab her, as a thick bloody pool slowly spread where she lay dying. With his evil deed done and his tiny victim dead, having dragged Barbara across the towpath, down the grassy slope - her blood staining the coping stones and the oak timbers of the lock-wall - as cast her out into the dark black river, the tidal waters carried her upstream and - he hoped - out to sea. He took the weapons, dumped her bike and mistakenly left behind his green gaberdine rain-coat. Everything about this crime-scene made sense to Detective Hannan… only this wasn’t just the sight of a young girl’s attack, as every detail had been duplicated. This was unmistakably a double murder. Down to the water, a second set of heels had been dragged. Among the undergrowth were two sets of girl’s low-heeled shoes; one black, one white and both bloodstained, as well as ripped pair of dark blue slacks. And in the dense thicket, lay two flattened patches of grass and two thick pools of blood, where two best-friends had died, side-by-side, as the last sound they heard were each other’s tears. The scene gave up very few definitive clues to the killer’s identity; there were no bikes, no weapons, no sightings, no witnesses, no shoe-marks and no fingerprints. A lot of vital evidence was missing… …but more importantly, so was Christine Reed… …and the likelihood was, she was already dead. The last days and hours of Barbara and Christine’s lives were investigated thoroughly; the places, the timings and their patterns, all meal-times, every social group and their flick-flacking back and forth between each other’s homes. Gertrude, Daniel and the Songhurst siblings gave solid and consistent statements, as did Herbert, Lucy and the rest of the Reed family. Everyone was questioned from the Blue Angel café, York House, the chemist shop, the factory and the church, but it all drew a blank. Five people were confirmed as the last to see both girls alive. Their three pals; John Wells, Albert Sparkes and Peter Warren all gave statements confirming the place and times that the girls had arrived and left the camp-site at Petersham Meadows; they explained what they said, what they did and who with; John admitted to a little light kissing with Barbara, Peter confirmed he had loaned her his bike light, the hand-axe that Albert had used to chop-up the firewood was deemed too small to be the murder weapon, and having gone to sleep fifteen minutes after girls had cycled away, they awoke, packed-up and left the next morning - as verified by the other campers. As for Basil Nixon and Sheila Daines, who heard the two girls on clattering bikes and chattering away just north of Old Ham Lock? At roughly midnight, needing to head home, Basil and Sheila walked down that same dark overgrown towpath; with the thunder of the black raging river to their right, a dense thicket of shadowy trees to their left, the cloudy moonless sky obscured by a heavy canopy of low-hanging branches and (even with a good torch) their visibility was only a few feet ahead. But as they walked along the towpath passed Teddington Lock, amidst the darkness… they saw and heard nothing. And that was it. With no eye-witnesses, no concrete evidence and Christine Reed still missing and presumed dead, the Police publicly released a photofit of the young scruffy man with the cleft-chin wanted for the rape of a minor in Oxshott Heath and possibly Barbara’s murder. But as no-one came forward, the case stalled. The next day, as the 27-year-old ex-princess was crowned as Queen Elizabeth II in Westminster Abbey, the grey streets of London erupted in a kaleidoscope of colour and sound as a new era dawned… …but for one family, this wasn’t a time of joy, but a time of dreaded anticipation, as with their daughter missing and her best-friend dead, the Police search continued unabated for either the girl, or her body. Nothing was left unchecked, as at the Police’s request, the Port of London Authority drained a three-mile long, four-hundred-foot-wide and forty-foot-deep stretch of the Thames from Teddington Lock to Richmond Bridge for almost a week. To find one little girl, the mighty river was turned into a trickle. Police boats scoured in packs, divers dredged the thick silty waters and long-lines of constables waded waist-deep along the shoreline for any hint or clue. On Tuesday 2nd, at about 10:30am, a few feet from the grassy-slope at Teddington Lock, Christine’s cream and blue BSA sports model bicycle was found. Four days later, on Saturday 6th June at 1:35pm, as a Police boat patrolled a popular fishing spot known as Duke’s Hole, among a thick blanket of green algae and a flash of pale white skin, the semi-clad body of a young girl was found face-down in the shallow water, just a few feet from Petersham Meadows. As before, the body was brought to St Helena Pier. Only this time, as two solemn constables carried the little lump ashore, respectfully hidden under a thick grey blanket, there was no excitable chatter from the people, only the silence of heads hanging low, as everyone’s worst fear had been realised. And at 2:40pm, in Richmond Mortuary, Herbert Reed identified the body of his daughter – Christine. With her body bloated and her face decomposed after six days in the cold silty water, just like Barbara, the autopsy was conducted by Dr Arthur Mant, with Detective Superintendent Hannan present. Time, weather and water had been cruel to her body. In short pale patches, her decaying flesh had been stripped by fish, pecked-at by birds and sharp rocks had torn at her soft skin as she tumbled in the raging river, but although deformed, it was clear which wounds were natural and which were not. Like Barbara, Christine had been struck, raped, stabbed, dragged and dumped in a premeditated and sudden attack, and although the same wounds had been inflicted by the same man with the same weapons, each of her injuries were more frenzied and brutal, as if he resented Christine being there. Rather than two, four deep craters impacted the back of her head as the blunt curved butt of an axe had repeatedly caved in her skull, crushing the bone and haemorrhaging her brain. Rather than three, six fast and savage stab wounds had ripped six-and-a-half inches deep into her left breast and chest, piercing her lung, liver and heart, and yet - unlike Barbara - when she was stabbed, she was face-up. Oddly, unlike Barbara, he stripped her lower half, scattering her black flat-heeled shoes and dark blue slacks into the bushy undergrowth, and yet her white cotton knickers were never found. And with lacerations to her hymen and cuts to her perineum, her virginity had been taken and her rape had been brutal, but during the very brief time he was at the crime scene - in both girls - he had ejaculated. The autopsy was conclusive, whoever had done this was young, strong, patient and dangerous. With no known suspects matching this sadistic and horrific attack, Detective Superintendent Hannan had no idea who this man was but he knew one thing for certain… having brazenly committed a double rape and murder, at the same time, in the same place, he had struck before and he would strike again. Two weeks later, he did. On the mid-morning of Wednesday 17th June, 15 miles west of Teddington, 49-year-old Patricia Birch left her home in Engelfield Green to walk her dog in Windsor Great Park. The day was clear, sunny and dry, and being a 5000-acre royal park full of rutting deer, wide lakes, dense woods and meandering paths, it’s a popular spot for picnics and walkers, but is large enough to still feel peaceful and private. As she crossed Wick Lane to enter a gate by Saville Gardens, she spotted a young man on a blue bike staring aimlessly as he watched the smattering of cars which trundled along on this quiet country lane. He was young, dark-haired and spotty-faced with a noticeable cleft to his chin. He rode a blue bike with white mud-guards and a black saddle-bag. And looking scruffy, as if he had come off a building site, he wore a crumpled blue-shirt, green gaberdine trousers, brown leather gloves and brown shoes with a crepe-sole. He looked a little bit odd, but thinking nothing more of it, she entered the heath. Playing fetch with her little dog, as Patricia sauntered along an isolated path toward the flat bleak beauty of Black Pond, she heard a clatter as behind her a bike slowly approached. Turning to see that same young man, she called her excitable little dog to her side, so it didn’t run in front of his wheels. But as she stooped to clip on its lead… suddenly her vision went very dark, very fast. Briefly seeing nothing but black and unable to tell up-from-down as her world spun around, as Patricia slumped hard onto the grassy ground as her weakened legs buckled under her, a trickle of blood ran down her face and pooled into her eyes, as she felt herself being dragged into a dense dark thicket. Dazed and partially blinded, although petrified and drifting in-and-out of consciousness, as his brown leather gloves gripped tightly around her gasping throat - as much to silence her as to suffocate her - during the attack, Patricia tried to memorise as many details as possible; his height, his age, his weight, his size, his spots, his birth marks, his bike, his saddle-bag and the terrifying sight of his axe. Big enough to chop logs, this yellow-handled, long wooden necked and black bladed axe with a curved blunt butt could inflict death in a single swift blow, being almost as long as an arm and as thick as a head. Fighting for her life and barely able move her weakened limbs as he tore the clothes off her body and cast them aside into the dense undergrowth – with no-one in sight, her screams muffled and her yappy little dog too small to be of any protection – amidst the dark thicket, he violently raped her. And when he was done, having stolen the pitiful sum of 17 shillings from her purse, he buttoned-up his trousers and packed-up his saddle-bag, as if this was the most normal thing to do in the world. He didn’t care that she had seen his face, heard his voice or been close enough to smell his breath. To him, they were nothing but strangers. Seeing an elderly man approach on the path, alerted by her lone dog barking at bushes, the young man rode off on his bike and – into the distance – he vanished. Patricia Birch was taken straight to Kingston Hospital; her skull hadn’t fractured, the wound only need three stitches, she gave a full statement to the Police, and she went on to make a good recovery. Sadly, the young man had disappeared… …but from people’s minds, his photofit had not. At 5:30pm, that same day, two builders - Harry Bradford & Bernard Hannam – were reading the paper, discussing the murders and looking at the photofit of the ‘possible suspect’ for the attacks on Barbara Songhurst, Christine Reed and an unnamed 14-year-old girl on nearby Oxshott Heath, when one of the men said “you know what, that looks a lot like Alf”. Having seen him earlier that day, sitting on a tree stump on Oxshott Heath with his bike and his saddle-bag by his side - knowing this local builder fitted the description and had a passion for knives - they did the right thing and called the Police. At 5:45pm, Constables Oliver & Howard left Kingston Police Station, picked up the builders and over the next 45 minutes they patrolled Oxshott Heath, until they found ‘Alf’. Casually strolling along Sandy Lane, although he had been positively identified, baring only a passing resemblance to the photofit and having no bike, no bag and – more importantly – no axe, the officers stopped and questioned him. (PC) “What’s your name son?”, (Alfred) “Alfred Whiteway”, (PC) “Address?”, (Alfred) “24 Sydney Road in Teddington”, (PC) “Yours?”, (Alfred) “Nah, I live with my mum”. (PC) “Empty your pockets”, which he did, but it only contained 10 shillings and two bike clips. (PC) “Bike-clips, so where’s your bike?”, (Alfred) “I left it at home”, (PC) “You got a bag?”, (Alfred) “Nah, just what I got”. And seeing a few spots of blood dotted down his crumpled blue shirt, accepting acne as a plausible excuse, the baby-faced youth agreed to come in for questioning and freely volunteered his time to assist the Police. Driven in the Police’s black Wolseley Saloon, 22-year old Alfred Charles Whiteway, known to his pals as ‘Alf’ was calm, pleasant and showed a genuine interest in cars, he even leaned forward from the back seat to ask the constables questions about the motor and get a better look at the speedometer. Never once did he act like a killer who had been caught and not for a single second did he seem like a sadistic sexual predator who had attacked one girl, murdered two more and having already raped one woman that day, had cycled a further fifteen miles south-east to Oxshott Heath, to attack again. At roughly 7pm, they arrived at Kingston Police Station. Brought before Detective Inspector Brammell who looked the spotty youth up-and-down, before he could be questioned any further, seeing only a vague similarity in the boy, the detective dismissed him, and Alfred Whiteway walked free. (End) Being in an era of typewriters, paper-files and index-cards, with just two telephones per office, no easy way to copy documents and little communication between the Police – by the time of Alfred’s release – the report on the attack of Patricia Birch had yet to be filed. It hadn’t been circulated to the press, other officers, or the detective heading-up the investigation into the murders of Barbara & Christine. Among the post-euphoric glow of the Queen’s Coronation, as war-time rationing wound down and the people dreamed of a better future for all, a sadistic sex maniac and violent double murderer was still in their midst. Free to go where he wished, to do as he pleased, and to rape whoever he desired. The press had dubbed him ‘The Thames Towpath Murderer’, but as invisible and invincible as this monster felt, with not a single shred of evidence to tie him to his crimes, the one person he hadn’t counted on was the one man who sought to bring him down, who was nicknamed ‘The Count’. Detective Superintendent Herbert Hannan was one of Scotland Yard’s most highly experienced and decorated officers, who was thorough, determined and precise, and would leave no stone unturned, even going so far as to drain a three-mile stretch of London’s largest river to find a single little girl. He was a loving husband, a doting father and a proud grandfather who wanted his girls (and every other girl) to be safe to walk the streets, paths or towpaths of the place they all called home. Described by the Force as ‘The Policeman’s Policeman’, Hannan was smart, cunning, devious and although a highly skilled interrogator and investigator who always got the job done, to get results he would later state “sometimes, you have to go beyond what it right, to see justice done”. Justice was coming to Teddington, but two big questions still plagued the mind of Detective Herbert Hannan - “who was this maniac” and “why did he attack both girls at the same time?” OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part two of three of the Thames Towpath Murders, with the final part next week. And there’s some aimless waffle after the break with Extra Mile, so turn off now, if you haven’t already. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Richard Saunders, Tony Hobden and Paige Spencer, I thank you all muchly for your support. A thank you to Sue Lloyd for your very kind donation via my website, and Gavin, Minna and Racheal P who donated via the Supporter link in the show-notes, I thank you too. I’m now off to buy a wheelbarrow load of cake. Yum. And as always, a huge thank you to everyone who listens to the show, as without listeners, I’m just a fat bald man talking to himself. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The exact location at Teddington Lock where the murders took place
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN:
On the night of Sunday 31st May 1953, Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed, two innocent and inseparable best-friends were brutally raped and murdered on a peaceful towpath and their bodies were dumped in the River Thames. But who would want these two young girls dead, and 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.
Here's two little videos; on the left is the exact location of the Thames towpath where Alfred Whiteway was hiding and where Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed would be murdered. And on the right is a short extract to show you part of the route both girls would have cycled. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left to right: a photo of Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed, Babrara's home at 75 Prince's Road in Teddington, Christine's home at 15 Roy Grove in Hampton, and then in the smaller photos (top left) Petersham Meadows, (bottom left) Teddington footbridge on the opposite side of the river, (top right) Teddington Lock looking down towards the Lockkeeper's Cottage and the murder location and (bottom right) the first Teddington footbridge, just passed the murder location.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original Police investigation files, as well as many other reliable sources, including first hand accounts, autopsy reports and personal experimentation. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4202459 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10887878 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4202445 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C555396 SOUNDS: Blackbird (klankbeeld) - https://freesound.org/people/klankbeeld/sounds/273810/ English Bird Song - https://freesound.org/people/kernowrules/sounds/233575/ Fringe Sounds - https://freesound.org/people/Udit%20Duseja/sounds/243708/ River Boats - https://freesound.org/people/echobones/sounds/122262/ MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the vicious double-murder of Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed; two innocent and inseparable best-friends brutally savaged on a peaceful riverside towpath. But who would want these two young girls dead, and why? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 107: The Thames Towpath Murders – Part One: The Girls. Today I’m standing by Teddington Lock on the south side of the River Thames, far beyond anywhere we’ve been to before, but oddly, every location (from Petersham Meadows, Old Ham Lock, St Helena Pier, Duke’s Hole and Teddington Lock Bridge, right across Twickenham, Kingston and Hampton Hill) can be seen from Richmond Hill where Kate Beagley watched her last sunset with the First Date Killer. At 215 miles long, the Thames is the second longest river in Britain, stretching from Kemble (west of Oxford), through the city of London, to Foulness Point on the east coast and the North Sea beyond. It’s fast, wide, strong and deadly, rising and falling 23 feet a day and flowing faster than most boats. For many Londoners, a walk along the Thames can make you feel like you’re in the country whilst still being in the city, as with buildings heavily-restricted, many stretches are full of wild fields, woodlands and deer parks. Of course, at weekends, the uneven towpaths are chock-a-block with Lycra-clad twats on pricey bikes swearing at any dog who disrupts their land speed record, sweaty-faced joggers (one step from a heart-attack) who feel obliged to make ‘that’ sound (hurgh) with every breath, and swarms of over-sugared seeds-of-Satan terrorising the wildlife because their parents would rather see a duck stamped to death than hire a babysitter, or ‘do their bloody job’. Thankfully, at other times of the week - being shielded by trees, shrubs and bushes - it’s actually a very nice place for a quiet walk. With the Thames being tidal, initially built over 200 years ago, Teddington Lock is a triple-lock between the Middlesex and Surrey sides of this 250 foot wide stretch of the river, allowing the safe passage of boats, as well as pedestrians via two footbridges interconnected over a small island. And where-as the Teddington side has many homes, pubs and shops, the Ham side of the lock is little more than an unlit over-grown towpath shrouded in a dense dark thicket of trees and bushes, where an endless series of dog-walkers, joggers and casual strollers breathe in the fresh sea air. So, it seems unthinkable that such a peaceful little spot could be scene of a brutal double-murder. But it was. As it was here, on the night of Sunday 31st May 1953, at the corner of Teddington Lock, that two young girls would be brutally murdered. But the question wasn’t how, or who by, but why? (Interstitial) As two loving and inseparable best-friends, Barbara and Christine lived as they died, side-by-side. Barbara Songhurst was born in Teddington on the 29th April 1937, as a middle-child of ten to Gertrude & Daniel; a loving couple, married for 23 years, who had stuck together through good times and bad. Being a good Anglican family of twelve crammed into a small white council-house on a long tree-lined street in Hampton Hill - although the two eldest boys (Danny and Robert) had moved out, Arthur was on National Service and Doris was hospitalised with spinal tuberculosis – with only three bedrooms for mum, dad, Pamela, Edwin, John and Nina, with 16-year-old Barbara sharing a bed with her eldest sister Rose. this little terraced house at 75 Prince’s Road was a squeeze for a family of eight. Having moved out of a tiny terrace at 18 Sydney Road just eight years earlier, since birth and for the rest of her life, Barbara would always live in and around Teddington, the place she called home. Life was busy, noisy and hard, as with their invalid father being confined to a steel jacket having broken his back, with the compensation spent and unable to work for ten years, as Gertrude was the full-time carer for her children and husband, they lived off benefits and what the siblings could earn. Homelife was difficult but never unkind, chaotic but never cruel, and although a little undisciplined, it was only as dysfunctional as was to be expected from a big family in a small house living (but surviving) in a difficult circumstance. But as with all of their children, Barbara was good, decent and raised well. Having graduated with a school certificate from the Victoria Girls School, a Church of England school a few doors down on Prince’s Road, aged 15, Barbara got a job as a shop assistant at Harwood & Halls chemist shop in Hampton Hill, earning £1 and 15 shillings-a-week, and – just as all of her work-age siblings did – more than half of what she earned went to feed and clothe the family. Described by everyone as bubbly, fun and energetic - as a slim petite brunette just shy of five-foot-tall; with a slender figure, a confident stance, a fashionable dress sense and a cheeky smile - Barbara was popular with the boys and she loved their attention, but being blessed with a forceful personality, she had held onto her virginity as (being religious) she was saving herself for ‘Mr Right’. Barbara wasn’t a silly little giggling girl who stumbled into trouble, as although she had a small child-like body and the excitable brain of a teen savouring her freedom, she also had an adult’s wisdom which belied her tender years. As a local girl, she had some serious street-smarts. She liked watching live music, but didn’t venture any place she didn’t feel safe. She liked thrills, but was never a bother to herself or anyone else. She freely cycled along the river, but rarely strayed far from the towpaths or bridges she trusted to get herself home. She stayed out late, but always kept her parents informed of her whereabouts. And although chatty and confident, she never, ever, talked to strangers. In fact, being both sensible and inseparable, always by Barbara’s side was her best-friend – Christine. Born two years and one month earlier on 18th March 1935, Christine Rose Reed was the middle-child of Herbert & Lucy. Living off Herbert’s modest wage as a shop assistant and with her housewife mother Lucy being deaf, they weren’t well-off, but their homelife was always happy, loving and stable. Having scraped by at school and described as a little bit educationally challenged, 18-year-old Christine had found work as a factory hand in Hampton, earning a wage of £3 18 shillings a week, and (just like her best pal) half of her wage went to support her family. Like a slightly taller twin, Christine was a slim petite brunette with olive skin, brown eyes, a small nose and a curly bob of hair, and although she also liked the boy’s attention, she often got less than her bubbly buddy being a little more shy, quiet and prim, but no less chatty once she felt comfortable. Living a few roads apart, Christine and Barbara’s life revolved around their friendship. Every moment of their free-time was spent by each other’s side; they ate, cried, prayed and (during their many sleep-overs) they even slept together, and although both girls often stayed out late, neither of their parents ever worried as the girls were always honest about where they had been, who with, when they would be home, and that – no matter what – these inseparable sisters would never be parted, even in death. Barbara Songhurst and Christine Reed were two innocent young girls living their ordinary little lives within the safety of the place they had always called home. Nobody wanted them dead. And yet, for no known reason, someone would brutally savage both girls in a truly horrifying way. (Interstitial) Eight years after the end of the Second World War, with the country smashed and battle-scarred, its charred cities pockmarked with bomb-craters and a weary people struggling under the twin burden of an economic slump and a population boom, 1953 marked a new dawn for Britain. Over the sweet smell of cakes being baked, the excitable squeal of children playing and the drab grey streets flecked with the patriotic red, white and blue of Union Jack bunting, a joyous thrum rippled across the city in anticipation of the impending Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, in just one week’s time. This wasn’t just a party, this was a fresh beginning, and with the typically unpredictable British weather actually playing ball for once – being a bank holiday – with shorts on, tops off and work done, swarms of Londoners flocked to the banks of the River Thames for picnics, walks and to set up camp. It was a moment of great celebration… …so, one weekend prior, on Sunday 24th May, following short spate of sexual assaults on lone females walking in isolated spots, a vicious sadistic attack occurred eight miles south of Teddington on Oxshott Heath, leaving a 14-year-old girl raped, bloodied and traumatised. But with very little evidence, the investigation came to nothing, and for now, such horrors would be put to the back of everyone’s mind. The seven days before their deaths were unremittingly ordinary for the girls; they saw nothing strange, they heard nothing weird and they met no-one odd; they had no fears, no worries and they felt need to ever be frightened; their families was fine, their friendship was solid and their life was simple. On Sunday 24th May, as per usual, they went to church, had a roast, cycled and came home. Monday 25th was a Bank Holiday, so with the shops shut, the day was much the same. Tuesday to Friday was a regular working week so Barbara assisted at Harwood & Halls chemist shop, Christine as an assembly-line worker at a nearby factory, and each evening, as if by clockwork, the two best-friends met-up to sit, chat and giggle. On Friday 29th, at the Blue Angel café in Hampton Hill - a local hang-out full of fizzy pop, rock-and-roll and pinball machines - John Wells who was Christine’s neighbour at 8 Roy Grove and her good friend for the last five years invited both girls to a camping party that Sunday at Petersham Meadows. It would a bit of fun with a few chums in a safe local place that they all knew, so both parents approved. And on Saturday 30th, Barbara, Christine and their pal Joy Woolveridge got dressed in their finest and went dancing at York House, a rather grand stately home in Twickenham. With the band packed-up by midnight, they cycled two miles home, partially down the unlit and overgrown towpath – which may sound dangerous but it was a damn-sight safer than sharing a potholed road with the nightly rumble of trucks and buses that thundered by – and at 12:45am, a little later than promised, both girls returned to 15 Roy Grove, as witnessed by Christine’s father and (as per usual) Barbara stayed over. The only thing that made the next day strange was that, by nightfall, both girls would be dead. Sunday 31st May 1953 would be a glorious day; the sun was out, the skies were blue, the breeze was kept the heat cool and it would be a perfect day for a friendly little picnic at a mate’s camping party. Waking-up at a little after 9am in Christine’s tiny bedroom, the two girls made their plans for the day, and as Christine dressed, Barbara cycled the eight-minutes home to 75 Prince’s Road, and at roughly the same time, they regaled their parents with last night’s fun and news of today’s picnic at Petersham Meadows with John Wells and a few pals. With tomorrow being a work day, they promised to be back in their own beds by 11pm, which both parents knew meant either midnight or just a touch later. At 10:30am - being fashionably and yet comfortably dressed in blue jeans, a white coat, a yellow tartan blouse, flat-heeled shoes with white socks and accessorised with a double row of imitation pearls and two brooches (one a patriotic pin for the Festival of Britain and a horseshoe for good luck) - being in a bright and perky mood, Barbara Songhurst left her home on her maroon-coloured Phillips sports cycle. Likewise – being semi-sensibly dressed in dark blue slacks, a yellow woollen cardigan, a white blouse, white ankle socks and a pair of low-heeled black shoes – as Christine cycled away on her cream and blue BSA sports model bicycle, her mood was typically upbeat, happy and carefree. At 11am, they met somewhere in Teddington, but no-one knows where, and they headed to John’s picnic at Petersham Meadows - which they would return to three times that day - although no-one else can recall seeing them. But then again, why would they? Barbara and Christine were two young girls in a sea of a few thousand people who flocked to the bustling riverbank on a gloriously sunny day. At 1:30pm, both girls briefly returned to Barbara’s home, although no-one can be unsure why, but with the shops shut, it may have been to find a spare battery or a bulb for her broken bicycle light. At 1:45pm, they left again, they were still happy and laughing, and by 2pm, they returned to 15 Roy Grove for lunch with Christine’s parents. At 4pm they left and at 5pm they returned, but this back-and-forth between each other’s homes was very typical of the two girls, who often flick-flacked across the town travelling as-and-where the mood took them, but – not for a single second – were they ever apart. At 7:30pm, as Christine cycled away from her home, down a side alley between 14 and 15 Roy Grove, with Barbara beside her, that was the last time that Herbert Reed would ever see his daughter alive. Roy Grove to Petersham Meadows was a familiar four-mile route that the two girls had already cycled twice that day and hundreds of times – both day and night - over the years they had been best-friends. Scooting down Uxbridge Road, they snuck across Bushy Park for a peek at the deer, headed through the hubbub of the High Street, down Ferry Road and at the river they crossed the two footbridges over Teddington Lock, turned left passed the lock keeper’s cottage, and followed the Thames north, up an over-grown and uneven towpath, passed Old Ham Lock, Eel Pie Island and – twenty minutes later, just passed Duke’s Hole - they would reach a little place known as Log Farm in Petersham Meadows. Of course, at 8pm, as they dumped their bikes in the long grass and sauntered up towards the joyous sounds of a tinny transistor radio, the delicious smell of fire-roasted sausages and sidled up to the camp-site to say “hi” to the boys, neither girl would know the significance that Duke’s Hole (or even St Helena Pier just half a mile north) would play in the final days and hours of their lives and deaths, as Barbara and Christine were here to have fun. Petersham Meadows was a large open field, just off the Thames towpath, with a small farm for felling trees on the south side, water-filled gravel-pits at the front and surrounded by a thick line of tree. That day, although typically, the bright sunshine had been masked behind a thick grey dollop of cloud, the field was still relatively full of campers, and although the numbers had dwindled a little since dusk had begun to fall, the nearest other camping party was only about one hundred and fifty feet away. As before, the party was small, just five chums in total; John Wells had erected a canvas tent for the three boys to sleep in, Albert Sparkes was chopping fire-wood with a small slightly blunt axe and Peter Warren was supposed to be the chef, but most of the sausages ended-up raw or burnt to a crisp. And that was it. Just like in the days before their deaths, they saw nothing strange, they heard nothing weird and they met no-one odd. This was just a simple little picnic with some old and new friends around a camp-fire by a river. Being teenagers and young men, there was a little drinking, some giggling, some kissing, a few larks, japes and high-jinx, but it was all pretty innocent stuff for such virtuous girls. Only this moment of fun and hilarity would be the last that the two girls would ever share With little of what was left of the sun having set almost two hours earlier, with only a hint of a moon, a dense cloud-cover having descended, and being nowhere near a single flickering street-light, head lamp or brightly-coloured bulb in celebration of this coming Tuesday’s Coronation, the five pals were only illuminated by the alluring glow of the crackling campfire. Darkness was upon them, and as the silences between the laughs grew longer, the party wound down and the girls knew it was time to go. As none of the group wore a watch, having heard a distant clocktower strike its eleventh chime, the girls knew that they would be slightly (but not unreasonably) late if they set-off now, which they did. With the woods, river and towpath being pitch-black at this time of night, as the batteries to Barbara and Christine’s bicycle lights had run flat and having been unable to find any spares earlier that day, Peter kindly loaned his bike light to Barbara. It wasn’t a great little lamp. In fact, it’s dull yellow glow barely shone further than a few feet ahead of her thin front wheel, but it was better than nothing. At roughly 11:15pm, having waved the girls goodbye, John, Albert and Peter finished off the sausages, turned off the radio and amidst the soft rustle of their sleeping-bags, all three went to sleep. The night was deathly quiet, except for a light wind, the leaves in the trees and the soothing rush of the river. The last sighting of Barbara and Christine was roughly fifteen minutes later, just shy of Old Ham Lock. As two pals - Basil Nixon and Sheila Daines - lay on the grass, from the north they heard the rickety clatter of two bikes riding in tandem, with two young girls loudly chatting back-and-forth, as up-front a single dull yellowy bike-light bobbed along the uneven towpath towards Teddington Lock, and as they were slowly swallowed-up by the dark dense woodland – with that - the two girls had vanished. Just shy of midnight, needing to head home, Basil & Sheila walked down that same dark overgrown towpath; with the thunder of the black raging river to their right, a dense thicket of shadowy trees to their left, the cloudy sky obscured by a heavy canopy of low-hanging branches and (even with a decent torch) their visibility was just a few feet ahead. So, as the couple dawdled south, along the towpath, passed Teddington Lock, the Lockkeeper’s Cottage and crossed over the double footbridges heading towards the distant lights of Teddington town, amidst the darkness… they saw and heard nothing. That night, 16-year-old Barbara Songhurst and 18-year-old Christine Reed didn’t return home. At 8:15am, on Monday 1st June, the next morning, as George Coster, a foreman for the Port of London Authority was working at Radnor Gardens (one mile north of Teddington Lock), just twenty feet from the riverbank, he spotted something floating in the shallow water. It was “probably a log” he thought, or “a bit of rubbish, or debris”, but as he threw a rope to draw it nearer – seeing a white coat, dark hair, a yellow tartan blouse and pale white skin – it was unmistakably the body of a young girl. Alerting the Police, at 9:05am, Sergeant George Cooper placed the cold damp body in a boat, and under a blanket took it to St Helena Pier - just one mile north of Petersham Meadows where barely twelve hours earlier this little girl had enjoyed a last laugh with her best-friend – and in a discrete wooden boat-shed at the Riverside Buildings, (as the law decrees) Dr Bowtell determined her life as extinct. Transferred to Richmond Mortuary and having already been declared as missing by her parents, later that morning, Gertrude Songhurst confirmed that the clothes, the brooch pin and the stone-cold body which lay before her, as that of her daughter – Barbara. She was dead, and had been in the water for nearly nine hours. But she didn’t drown. And seeing only her baby’s beautiful face, under a black rubber sheet, the worst of the young girl’s injuries were deliberately hidden from view. At 12:10pm, in the presence of Detective Superintendent Herbert Hannan and conducted by Dr Arthur Mant, the autopsy of 16-year-old Barbara Songhurst took place. Her face and head had two obvious wounds; under a one-inch gash to top of her skull, a crushing blow had cratered the bone and haemorrhaged her brain, and under a curved two-inch wound between her left eye and ear, a second swift strike had split her left cheekbone, as if – without warning - she had been forcibly struck by something heavy and hard but dull, perhaps the blunt end of an axe. On her torso, her tartan blouse and white coat (now sodden with the silty filth of the river) was only fastened by the top button, but through its once-white cloth, three deep stab-wounds could be clearly seen across her back; each one having punctured her left lung, her right lung and right into her heart, with several blades of severed grass poking out of the lowest of the wounds. With her socks still on but her shoes missing, the raging water had rearranged parts of her clothing, but with her top exposing her midriff, her blue jeans unbuttoned and the crotch of her thin cotton knickers ripped open, there was no denying that this innocent little girl had been raped, as she lay dying. And with a series of rough cuts to her hyman, bruises up her inner thighs and her vagina full of semen - with her very last breath - she had tried to put up a fight, as her attacker took her virginity. And once he was done - with her dead and raped - a series of long lacerations down her legs, buttocks, back and heels suggested she had been dragged along the towpath, down the side of the riverbank, into the tidal waters below, and – like an unwanted piece of rubbish – she was dumped in the river. Her shoes were gone, her other brooch had vanished, her bike was missing and so was Christine. (End) The murder of Barbara Songhurst was a perplexing mystery; no-one saw her attack, no-one heard her rape, no-one witnessed her murder or disposal, and no-one wanted her (or her best-friend) dead. They were two innocent young girls living their ordinary little lives in the place they felt safe, who would be brutally attacked in an isolated spot, on a public towpath, by a person or persons unknown. This should have been a fresh start for everyone, a time of celebration, but a violent killer was in their midst, and just one day from the Queen’s Coronation, the newspapers were all about a dead little girl. But the rape and murder of Barbara Songhurst didn’t make any sense. If it was pre-meditated, the murder location would have been somewhere dark, dense and isolated, perhaps a spot on the towpath up near the Lock. But if her rape was his motive, why did he attack two girls, on bicycles, at the same time, rather than just one? What if the other screamed, or got away? If the murder was personal, and a brazen double-murder of two little girls was his aim, why did the attacker strike Barbara twice across the head and face with a blunt end of an axe to render her semi-conscious, only to violently stab her to death with a knife? Why keep her alive, only to make her dead? Nothing made sense, and with no footmarks, no fingerprints, no witnesses, no sounds heard, no sights seen and no weapons found, Barbara’s murder would remain a mystery. And yet, as a second little girl would wash up on the river bank and the murder location was uncovered, it became very clear, that - as two loving and inseparable best-friends - Barbara and Christine had lived as they died, side-by-side. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part one of three of the Thames Towpath Murders, with the next part next week. But if you fancy learning some more details about the case and enjoy half an hour of utter waffle, stay tuned for Extra Mile. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Bridget O'Keeffe, Jacqueline Rutland, Samantha Woodhouse and Grace Ashby-Walker, I thank you all for your support, it’s much appreciated. A thank you to Kay Fillmore for your very kind donation, and Stevo and Patsy who donated via the Supporter link in the show-notes, I thank you too. And with a huge thank you to all supporters of the show, in whatever way you choose, whether by Patreon, donations, reviews, or simply by listening to it and saying “yeah, I like that, it was okay”. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
This photo is of 15 Linden Gardens in Chiswick, W4, where Nora Tenconi and Barbara Doyle lived in the basement flat, seen just behind the blue car.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIX:
On the morning of Friday 27th August 1971, in the basement flat at 15 Linden Gardens in Chiswick, W4; with her family life in tatters, her emotions frought and everything she had ever loved destroyed, being at a loss at her lover’s rejection, Nora Tenconi took several desperate steps which ended in 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 of 15A Linden Gardens, in Chicwick, W4 is located where the black triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left to right: 15 Linden Gardens as it looks today, a police plan of the basement flat at 15 Linden Gardens, a photo of the entrance to the basement flat and two photos of Linden Gardens.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified polcie investigation files held at the National Archives, as well as many other sources.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is a simple story about two like-minded ladies who found love, a nice flat and a happy home life having adopted many cats. Nora & Barbara were each other’s forever lovers, but true-love doesn’t always last, and when the romance died, it drove one lady to leave and her lover to kill. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 106: The Last Love of the Chiswick Cat Ladies. Today I’m standing in Linden Gardens in Chiswick, W4; a place we’ve only tenuously been to before as we’re one street south of where Kate Beagley picked-up Karl Taylor for their first and last date, a quick cycle east of the arrest of Edward Tickell for the bungled abortion of Helen Pickwoad, and a few stops from the six-day killing spree of Britain’s very own Bonnie & Clyde - coming soon to Murder Mile. Chiswick High Road is deeply pretentious and desperate to cling to its posh aspirations of yesteryear. It’s the kind of place you will always find avocados, humus, sold out copies of Horse & Hound and a broken wicker chair dumped in a skip only to be sold seconds later to a pipe-smoking Tweed-wearing numpty in red trousers for six hundred quid. Here ‘hiring a cleaner’ is still seen as high status, they still say nanny instead of baby-sitter, they don’t go on holiday they ‘holiday’ (big difference) and it’s illegal to order a single thing off a menu unless you insist the chef makes a tiny pointless change just for you (“less garlic”, “no wheat”, “use fair-trade spoons”, “yah, baby Tarquin loves black truffle cous-cous”). And although it thrives on its pseudo-posh pretentions, it’s also a bit shit. There’s an air of grubbiness about it, as it is just a through road from the city to Richmond, Kew and (if you keep going) Bristol. Linden Gardens is a peaceful little side-street just off Chiswick High Road and one road from Chiswick police station; it’s quiet, neat, safe and pleasant, with a line of trees on both sides, a line of cars (usually Audi’s) and several cats sunning themselves on the pavement pretending to be the best pal of every crazy but easily-duped and desperately lonely lady who smells of fish. (“che-che-che, here kitty”). Comprising of three and four-storey terraces with brown brick, cream plasterwork, white windowsills and black iron gates, some houses are wholly-owned and others are a mix of rented flats. But none of them have a front garden, just a set of stone steps leading to a small self-contained basement below. Almost fifty years ago, the basement flat at 15 Linden Gardens was the rented home of Nora Tenconi, her lover Barbara Doyle and their eight cats. This was their love-nest and the place they planned to grow old together, but their happiness was not to last, so - as the two lovers split - this peaceful little street was shattered by tears, cries and screams as a very fractious relationship came to a tragic end. As it was here, on Friday 27th August 1971, in the basement flat at 15 Linden Gardens, being at a loss at her lover’s rejection, Nora took several desperate steps which ended in death (Interstitial). Nora Tenconi was born Nora O’Donnell on the 7th September 1934 in the rural town of Charlesville in Country Cork (Ireland). As the seventh of eight siblings in a traditionally large Irish Catholic family who lived tip-to-toe in a small terraced house, Nora struggled for any shred of attention amongst the many O’Donnell siblings, but with those moments of affection being few-and-far between, this didn’t make her a little monster (as some love-starved kids tend to be), it actually made her a better person. Nora always loved a cuddle and a kiss, the warm reassuring feeling of another person’s embrace she would always cherish, and as much as her strict God-fearing mother seemed to love no-one other than the Lord, blessed with a big-heart and a smothering hug, it was always her father who she adored. Being small, thin, pale and painfully quiet, Nora became a very thoughtful person. She was emotional but never destructive, placid and always polite. If anything, she kept to herself-to-herself and learned to internalise her pain, but again, that only made her a better person. And although, as the second youngest in a tight squabbling brood of ten, being a level-headed and even-tempered young girl with boundless love for everyone, Nora was often the peacemaker, as the family bond was everything. Raised to be a good Catholic, Nora didn’t steal, swear and she renounced the temptations of the devil, whether theft, adultery, lustful impulses, homosexual acts, suicide, self-destruction and murder, which she feared but was deeply confused by as (being just a child) she was unlikely to commit or even understand. And yet, gripped by an innate sense of guilt over these vile things she had never done, her faith would be sorely tested. As a blameless child bullied into confessing the sins she was raised to renounce, being forced to invent sins to confess, as lies were a sin, confession had made her sinner. Nora was a good person with a deep love of people, animals and especially cats, but childhood was a confusing time, especially for a bright growing girl trying to work out who she was. Her emotions were conflicted. If homosexuality was a sin, gay-sex was as bad as murder and God would cast all sodomites down into the eternal fires of hell simply for being what they felt was right, how could she call herself a Christian (the very definition of caring) if her heart was filled with so much love but so much hate? For fear of being led-astray by the temptations of the flesh, Nora’s mother had banned her from going to dances or having a boyfriend; the simple things which blossom a young girl into a young woman. So throughout her early life, any romance was in secret and yet again, her faith had forced her to sin. Educated at the Charlesville Secondary School, a Catholic school with the sexes split, it was here that Nora enjoyed her first teenage crushes, fondles and kisses, but she didn’t fancy the boys, it was the girls who fuelled her passions. But was this of her own desires, hormones, or a cruel trick of the devil? In 1948, aged 14, Nora left school and – being naturally very caring – she started work as a nanny. But struggling with the conflicts of her lustful feelings towards woman, an inbuilt disgust of homosexuality and a strong traditional desire to marry a man, have children and make a home, Nora didn’t know who she was, or what she was meant to be. Feeling the overwhelming pressure to conform regardless of her own happiness, in 1952, aged 17, alongside her older sister Helen, Nora moved to London. It was a big step, a clean break and a difficult time for Nora, as being so far from her beloved family - and especially her father whose kisses and his cuddles she greatly missed - in the bright lights of the big city she sought a better life, a smattering of happiness and (she hoped) to discover her true self. Only her new life in London would also be full of angst, confusion, self-loathing and conflict. Having quit as a nanny, Nora worked a variety of jobs as a cashier in a butcher’s shop on Chiswick High Road, an orderly at St Steven’s Hospital in Fulham and an usher at the Gaumont Cinema in Camden, and although she was described as loyal, bright and efficient, she was prone to bouts of depression. In late 1954, aged 20, following her Irish Catholic instincts and driven by a desire to finally be happy, Nora met and fell in love with a 33-year-old Italian convict called Rene Clive Tenconi, a bad man with a bad past and a furious temper whose criminal ways would lead her astray. In May 1955, being found guilty of breaking into a branch of WHSmith’s on North End Road in Fulham to steal a rack of raincoats, hats and shirts worth £100, as a first-time offender Nora was charged with larceny, given a two-year probation order and bailed. But being a prolific thief who had been arrested stealing copper cables from a GPO store in Harlesden, Rene was sentenced to six months in prison. At this point, Nora could have run, as Rene was a violent abusive brute who regularly beat her black-and-blue… but she didn’t, as the pull of love and marriage was too great. Instead, in 1956, shortly after his release from prison, Nora O’Donnell married Rene Tenconi, she got pregnant and being so violently assaulted by him that she miscarried, shortly afterwards they separated, but (owing to their faith) they never divorced, hence she was stuck with her married name. It seemed as if Nora Tenconi was doomed to live an unhappy life where love would always elude her. Over the next six years, Nora had three short but fruitless romances with a man and two women, but it was not to be. Her life was a confusing mess, she had broken so many sins – theft, lust, adultery and homosexuality – and yet, she wasn’t bad, she was just a big-hearted woman who craved love and the simple things that romance brings; like kisses, cuddles, love letters, romantic meals and holding hands. By the age of 30, she had lost all hope of ever finding love. And then, she met Barbara. (Interstitial) Barbara Judith Doyle, known to her friends as ‘Judy’ was born on the 22nd September 1936 in the New Zealand city of Wellington, having come to Britain in 1962, just one year before she had met Nora. As a loving couple, Nora & Barbara were similar in many ways; born two years apart, both had parents living overseas, both had fled difficult relationships, both were raised Catholic but struggled with their faith’s persecution of their chosen romantic choices, and they both loved music, books, wine and cats. Separately, their differences complimented each other; where-as Barbara was a raven-haired fan-of-fashion who would confidently strut down the Chiswick High Road in a pair of high heels, a wide-brim hat and an outfit in shocking pink, Nora dressed more conservatively in a brown trouser suit, soft pumps and - being a creature of comfort - she loved nothing more than lounging on the sofa wearing her favourite (if slightly worn and a little threadbare) red bathrobe, tied at the waist with cotton cord. In contrast, Barbara was more dominant, outgoing and impulsive, but her boundless energy also drove Nora to become more confident in herself, and although she would still be plagued with bouts of self-doubt and depression, this period of her life had stability and progression. Having been promoted to cashier at Gaumont cinema in Waltham Green, manageress of a drycleaners on Portabello Road and later as a cashier at Hedges Butchers in Chiswick, with a combined wage of £35, Nora & Barbara moved in together and to everyone who knew them they were very much in love. As a gay couple, the only real conflict they encountered was in Nora’s own inner turmoil, as although Barbara had been a lesbian since her teens – still struggling with her faith, family and traditional urges – Nora was gripped with a tremendous guilt, as still fancying men, she felt she “didn’t feel completely gay”. And yet, as a faithful, loving and caring couple, they would remain together for almost a decade. In the spring of 1968, Nora & Barbara moved into a three-storey terraced-house at 15 Linden Gardens, just off Chiswick High Road. On the top floor lived the landlady Marguerite Perkins, an elderly widower and a sweet old-dear who was hard-of-hearing so was prone to play her radio a little too loud. On the ground-floor was Kathleen Bowden, a widowed housewife with two teenage sons (Dennis and James) and an older daughter (Diane). And in the self-contained basement flat were Nora and Barbara. The flat was small but it suited them fine. Situated on a quiet road and accessed down a set of stone steps to a small white door, it was private, neat and secure. And although a full-width window only afforded them the view of a small coal bunker below the road and several feet on the pavement above - for only £10 per week - they had a small kitchenette, a bedroom, a sitting room, a toilet outback and use of a tiny back garden where Nora was often seen with her trowel, weeding and planting flowers. They were happy in their new home; the tenants were welcoming, the area was good and with six cats of their own, two adopted strays and feeling the need to feed any feline which passed-by – although this was the kind of unconventionally gay set-up that her God-fearing mother refused to approve of – finally Nora had found love, happiness and contentment. And assuaging the pull of her traditional Irish urges, she also had a loving partner, a nice little home and a large family of children… all of them cats. 15A Linden Gardens would be their home for the next three years, but following the sudden death of Nora’s father in May 1968, coupled by frequent bust-ups and spiralling mood swings which fractured this once loving relationship, the Christmas of 1970 would mark an end for the Chiswick Cat Ladies. It wasn’t that things were bad; it was just that things weren’t as good as they once were. Life plodded on, love became stale and - like so many couples - those first special sparks of sexual attraction had been dampened down to the daily drudgery of predictable routines. It was nobody’s fault except time. They kissed less, they hugged less and they touched less. Even sitting on the sofa listening to the radio, where-as once they cuddled, now they sat ends apart with the wide void between them filled by cats. Like her smallest kitten, Nora was a homebody content to stretch-out and snooze by a warm fire with a nice meal in her belly and kisses on her head, all snuggled-up in her slightly-threadbare red bathrobe. Where-as Barbara was more akin to the stray tom-cat they had adopted; who popped in, said ‘hi’, got fed and headed-out to prowl the town looking for new friends and fun times ahead. So, it wasn’t surprising when the obvious happened. At a Christmas party held at her employer - The National Society of Operative Printers and Assistants in Borough Road – 34-year-old accounts clerk Barbara Doyle met 33-year-old secretary Sylvia Long; a lady with same hobbies, same style and the same love of music, the only downside being that Sylvia didn’t like cats, but (that aside) very quickly a friendship blossomed into a love affair and soon enough Barbara would be spending less nights with Nora in Chiswick and more night with Sylvia in Tooting. Being quiet and insular, Nora sensed something was wrong, but said nothing. And as each dreary month passed, the more they argued, the less they talked and the further they drifted apart. On 26th July 1971, needing a break, Nora headed back to Charlesville; to soak-up the reassuring sights of her hometown, to see her much-missed siblings and to lay flowers on her beloved father’s grave. It was the sanctuary she so badly needed in a moment of crisis, but it was not to be. As a devout Catholic sickened by her own child’s homosexual affair, a bitter family row erupted and choosing God over her little girl’s happiness, Nora left, vowing never to return to Ireland or to see her mother ever again. Nora was distraught, her head was a mess, her life was falling apart and having lost her father, her mother, her siblings, the land that she loved and her faith, all she had left was Barbara and her cats. On 7th August, Nora returned home to her basement flat at 15A Linden Gardens. Being told by Barbara that their eight-year relationship was over, that she had met someone else and they would be moving into a flat together as soon as possible, a blazing fight ignited as the two ladies’ screams wailed across the quiet little street, right throughout the night. And the very next day, in that flat, Nora met Sylvia. It was over. Nora had nothing. Her thoughts were muddy, her emotions were dull and later described by the prison psychiatrist that she had reacted “like a cornered rat, with her life totally destroyed, she suddenly became paradoxically angered in a way which was uncharacteristic for her”, drinking heavily, this usually calm, placid and thoughtful woman was reduced to a hysterical impulsive shell. On the morning of Monday 9th August, having phoned Barbara and threatened to smash-up her prized radio if she didn’t return to her, with her bluff called and her prized possession lying in pieces, Nora watched as the first of Barbara’s belongings were loaded into a car and driven away to Sylvia’s flat. And just like her life, once it was full of love and happiness, but now it was nothing but an empty void. That night, as she hysterically wept with only her cats for company, unable to imagine any kind of life and hurt by Barbara’s parting words describing their time together as “eight years of hell” – having knocked back two half-bottles of gin and rum - with a kitchen knife, Nora slashed open both wrists. Being bloodied and barely conscious, thanks to the compassion and quick-thinking of her landlady; Nora survived her suicide attempt, her wounds were stitched and being so depressed that she gave-up work, even though Nora was prescribed a cocktail of anti-depressants, tranquiliser and something to quell her anxiety, all she did was cry day and night - as without Barbara, she felt she was nothing. Resigned to her fate and a life of loneliness, Nora reluctantly agreed to a mutual split from Barbara on the condition that (as Nora wasn’t working) she helped her out with £8 40p a week for the rent, 50p for the cat’s fish and in two weeks’ time, on Friday 27th August 1971 Barbara would move out for good. It seemed a logical compromise… only it had a major flaw. Sylvia didn’t like cats. In fact, whenever she stayed at the Chiswick flat, she always insisted that Barbara locked them outside whenever she was in, so in their new flat together, these cats were not welcome. Left in Nora’s care, although she deeply loved each and every one of her cats like they were her own babies – being depressed, drugged and often drunk - unable to look after herself let alone her family of cats, Nora felt forced to make a fateful decision, and had a vet put all six of her cats to sleep. Their deaths hurt Barbara deeply, but feeling like she had destroyed her own babies, it affected Nora worse. Like a final stab to the heart, being unable to cope with their loss – with not a single meow or purr in the sparely furnished flat and its walls lined with packed bags and boxes - on the evening of Thursday 26th August, putting her head in the gas oven - once again -Nora tried to take her own life. Rescued by Marguerite, their elderly landlady, that night she sat down with both ladies in their sitting room for a chat over a cup of tea. Knowing that through the haze of drink, drugs and depression, deep-down Nora truly was a very loving person who was level-headed, caring and thoughtful, by 11:15pm, as all three went off to their respective beds, Nora & Barbara had agreed it was time to move on. For the first time in months, they both slept soundly, as around them lay the last of Barbara’s personal belongings, ready to be collected by Sylvia in the morning, for their new life ahead. As a devout Catholic, Nora hadn’t committed a single sin until her first confession. She wasn’t bad, she was just a big-hearted woman who craved love and the simple things that romance brings; like kisses, cuddles, love letters and holding hands. But as true-love eluded her, she would break so many sins; such as theft, lust, adultery, homosexuality, suicide and – soon - she would commit the ultimate sin. At 7am, on the morning of Friday 27th August 1971, after a humid night, Barbara awoke and ran a bath in the first-floor bathroom they shared with the rest of the house. After half-an-hour, she returned to the basement, she did her make-up and hair, and she dressed in a pink dress, a blue cardigan, black shoes and her favourite rain-mac in shocking pink, so by 8am, Barbara Doyle was finally ready to leave. In contrast to this immaculate lady she loved more than life itself, Nora was a mess of bed-hair, baggy eyes, a gaunt complexion and red puffy eyes, as – although they agreed to a mutual split – dressed in her tatty threadbare red bathrobe, Nora pleaded for her to stay, as tears streamed down her face. Nora’s words were fruitless, she knew it, and as her once forever-lover asserted “Nora. No! I’m leaving you. I’ve nothing more to say”, both ladies were unaware of how true that statement was, as Barbara would never utter another word. And from the door of the kitchen, as she took a last look at her home for the last three years - a place so full of good times and happy memories - as she turned away from the little back garden where their family of cats played among the posies, suddenly Nora snapped. Like “a cornered rat”, acting without thinking, instinctively she grabbed a garden trowel and smacked Barbara hard over the head with the small iron tool, as blood gushed down her pink waterproof mac’. In panic, Nora gave chase as Barbara staggered along the passageway towards the front door, pleading for her forgiveness and crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” as the dazed lady stumbled to make her escape. Blinded by the blood in her eyes, as Nora desperately yanked her jilted lover away from the door, they both tumbled into the sitting-room, tripped over the rug and hit the wooden floor hard, as Barbara’s head bounced off the cast-iron fire-place, and above her right eye, a large gash poured profusely. Grabbing a tea-towel to stem the bleeding, as Nora dabbed at the gaping wound, begging “I’m sorry, don’t, I didn’t mean to hurt you”, and tried to silence her by beseeching “don’t scream, please, don’t”, fearing for her life as her ex-lover bared-down upon her, Barbara’s screams only got louder. And before Nora even knew what she was doing – being angry, desperate and love-sick - having pulled the cord from her tatty red bathrobe and wound it swiftly around Barbara’s small pale neck, with both fists gripping it tight till her knuckles were white, Nora cried “don’t scream, don’t scream”, as Barbara’s face turned a dark shade of puce. And as Nora stared into the slowly reddening eyes of the woman who was once her lover, although a few faltering claw marks from her pink fingernails struggled to free her last living breath, before Nora knew it, the relationship was over and Barbara was dead. (End) Being sat alone and stroking her dead lover’s bloody head in the sitting-room they once shared, a short while later, Nora called her sister Helen who lived nearby and her young nephew Anthony who ran to Chiswick Police Station just one street over. Officers arrived at 10am, a doctor declared life as extinct and with the evidence matching Nora’s full and honest but emotional confession, the investigation conducted by Detective Chief Inspector Hurley and Detective Inspector Busby was short but thorough. Being full of remorse and confusion, there was no denying that this was a crime of passion committed whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed and without any premeditation. The autopsy confirmed the head injuries were caused by blunt force trauma by a trowel and the fire-place, her death was due to asphyxiation by strangulation, and along side the boxes, the packed bags, the broken bits of radio, the cries, the blood stains, the six dead cats and the tatty red bathrobe which – out of habit - Nora had hung-up on the back of the bedroom door, she was arrested for the murder of Barbara Doyle. On Tuesday 7th September 1971, barely ten days later, Nora Tenconi formerly O’Donnell was tried at the Old Bailey in a short trial of what was described as an ‘open-and-shut case’. With the psychiatrist of Holloway Prison concluding that being “trapped like a cornered rat, with no prior experience and feeling unable to cope, Nora had snapped”, at her trial, she pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty of manslaughter by diminished responsibility and as both the prosecution and defence accepted this plea, Nora was sentenced to three years in prison and after her release, her fate is unknown. All the Chiswick cat lady ever craved was a kiss, a cuddle and a hug, and for that, she paid the ultimate price. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. I hope you enjoyed the episode and all the hard work that goes into it. It may only be thirty minutes long, but it takes ages to research, a week to write and edit and it literally kills me to finish. But if you also like some pointless gobbledegook where nothing much happens; except I say some words, I drink some tea, we do a quiz, I eat cake and then I switch off the recording. If that sounds great, stay tuned. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Kath Mounce and Karl Phillips, I thank you all for your support, it’s much appreciated. A thank you to Anne-Marie Griffin for your very kind donation, I thank you too. And with a huge thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the podcast. There’s a lot of choice out there so I’m glad you’re staying with the show. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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This is a photo taken of the corner of Great Russell Street and Dyott Street where the Rookery and the back of the Horseshoe Brewery once stood, and wher ethe explosion took place.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE:
On Monday 17th October 1814, at 5:30pm, an iron hoop on a vat of Porter beer at the Horseshoe Brewery would slip, it didn't seem like an emergency, but it would unleash a deadly tidal wave which would change Great Russell Street and the residents of The Rookery forever
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of The Horseshoe Brewery is marked with a blood red triangle and is where the words Tottenham Court Road are. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left to right: the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Great Russell Street where the Horseshoe Brewery once stood, a photo of the Horseshoe Brewery in operation and a photo of the location (post 1920's) after the brewery had closed and the Dominion Theatre was being built.
Left to right: the corner of Great Russell Street and Dyott Street (later George Street) where the Rookery once stood and the explosion occured, a drawing of several of the huge vats inside the Horseshoe Brewery, and a picture of Sir Henry Meux.
Left to right: a copy of William Hogarth's Gin Lane (inspired by The Rookery), an example of a building inside the Rookery, a map (with the red lines denoting the Nrewery's boundary, the orange star denoting the point of explosion, and the black lines where the debris was spread) and on the smaller map, the two red stars denote 3 & 4 New Street and 23 Great Russell Street.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original court documents and many other sources.
SOUNDS: Geyser - https://freesound.org/people/MacFerret_20/sounds/198994/ Water Gushing - https://freesound.org/people/Tomlija/sounds/110103/ Water Gushing 2 - https://freesound.org/people/jakobthiesen/sounds/188427/ Earthquake 1 - https://freesound.org/people/OGsoundFX/sounds/423120/ Cracking Earthquake - https://freesound.org/people/uagadugu/sounds/222521/ Large Earthquake - https://freesound.org/people/LoafDV/sounds/148002/ Earthquake 3 - https://freesound.org/people/zatar/sounds/514381/ Lion Roar - https://freesound.org/people/qubodup/sounds/212764/ Waves - https://freesound.org/people/florianreichelt/sounds/450755/ Bottles Moving - https://freesound.org/people/BeeProductive/sounds/395602/ MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a tidal wave, a flood, right in the heart of London; a terrifying wall of heavy fast-flowing liquid so fierce it left a trail of death in its wake from Great Russell Street to Tottenham Court Road. Only this wasn’t caused by a river or rain, this very unnatural disaster was man-made. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 105: Meux and the Man-Made Tidal Wave. Today I’m standing on Great Russell Street in Bloomsbury, WC1; two streets north of the forgotten inferno on Denmark Place, one street east of the eatery where Jacques Tratsart massacred his entire family, two streets west of the misreported stabbings on Russell Square, and just a short stone’s throw from the end of the bloody killing spree of Daniel Gonzalez – coming soon to Murder Mile. Great Russell Street is an anonymous little side-street which connects the pricey electronics shops of Tottenham Court Road - where inflation runs riot, logic is lost and the ludicrous cost of every item makes you go “sorry mate, how much?” – all the way to Southampton Row, where hotel prices induce heart-attacks, meals require a mortgage and even a small scoop of ice-cream gets a frosty response. In fact, the only people who walk down this street are lost tourists, having uttered that familiar phrase “excuse please, where is Breeteesh Moozem?”, who vaguely follow my directions of “it’s passed the giant Freddie Mercury, right at the YMCA, down a bit, dodge the crack-addicts and straight ahead”, only to wonder which of the newsagent, car park or burger bar is actually the British Museum. This side of Great Russell Street has a real wealth of very old buildings and very new buildings, with an odd epicentre of modern monstrosities in and around the corner of Dyott Street, which is interspersed with historical gems like diarist Dr Johnson’s house, a tenuous link to Charles Dickens and lots of lovely little Georgian and Edwardian terrace-houses from the 1700’s and 1800’s, and - although Porter was a hugely popular drink – no trace of Meus & Co’s infamous Horseshoe Brewery exists. At present, on this spot, sits an uninspiring piece of brutalist architecture cobbled together from a vague grey mishmash of concrete and glass, known as The Congress Centre; a large conference hall, meeting point and series of office spaces. It is also the home of the TUC (the Trades Union Congress) and USDAW (the Union of Shop, Distributive and Allied Workers); two groups who fight hard for better pay, rights, safety and working conditions for every one of Britain’s workers in small or big businesses. Sadly, both were established too late to help the traumatised workers at the Horseshoe Brewery which stood on this site, as a colossal explosion and flood wrecked countless homes and lives, sending many of London’s poorest to an early grave - all caused by a man-made disaster in the pursuit of progress. As it was here, on Monday 17th October 1814, at 5:30pm, that the structural failure of a simple iron hoop would unleash a deadly tidal wave which would change Great Russell Street forever. (Interstitial) It may seem strange to build a brewery in the heart of London’s West End; with the persistent clank of lump-hammers, the bray of dray-horses and a thick sweet cloud of smoky malt belching from the four towering chimney stacks as it billowed down Oxford Street and wafted into Fitzrovia and Soho? But it wasn’t. In Soho alone, there were two breweries (The Lion and Golden) on Broadwick Street, two more (Ayre’s and David’s) on the appropriately-renamed Brewer Street, and on Glasshouse Street, just off Piccadilly Circus, were long lines of factories producing an endless supply of ceramic, pewter and glass drinking vessels for the pubs, clubs and patrons that the breweries supplied. Beer wasn’t illicit, as in the early 1800’s, with no sewer system, drainage and street-side pumps whose water was only fit for washing – as beer was brewed at a high temperature - even children would drink a weak beer for breakfast to keep their bodies hydrated and healthy, they even used it to brush their teeth. In the 1800’s, beer was just an ordinary part of everyday life for men, woman and children. Dating back to 1623, when The Horseshoe was little more than a small tavern, The Horseshoe Brewery opened in 1764 and covered almost a square block; with the length of its yard rubbing against the brick and timber houses on Great Russell Street, the back-yard stretching up to slums of New Street, covering two-thirds of Bainbridge Street and with its ornate steel gates at the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, it also had a side yard at what later became New Oxford Street. By 1785, as the eleventh largest producer of Porter – a dark malty beer with a nutty smoky taste which is served tepid and is blessed with a long shelf-life - The Horseshoe produced 40,000 barrels of Porter a year. But by 1809, with the site being purchased by the ambitious master-brewer Sir Henry Meux and his partner Charles Young (later of Young’s Brewery), by 1812, Meux & Co became the fifth largest producer in London, brewing 103,000 barrels of Porter a year - a total of 35 million pints. And although this rapid success let him acquire his rival – the Clowes & Co brewery of Bermondsey – Sir Henry knew he was way behind the industry leader, Samuel Whitbread, whose network of breweries churned out a whopping 150,000 barrels, amounting to a staggering fifty million pints of Porter every year. Sir Henry needed to be bigger and better to compete with the competition, or risk being swallowed-up by his rivals. To achieve this, in the preceding years, he followed his father’s successful example. To create this heady full-bodied brew, Meux’s brewery used a large sparklingly clean steam-engine to rhythmically stir barrow-loads of baked malt into a wide drum of boiling water, churning and chugging this super-heated liquid until – through a series of thick lead pipes – it was pumped into a fermentation vat. Porter usually matures for a few months or up-to a year for the best, but to achieve a high volume and keep a consistent flavour and strength, Meux’s Porter was fermented in large wooden vats. Constructed of thick oak pillars, these barrel-shaped vats were often twelve feet wide by twenty-three feet high, holding up-to 18,000 imperial gallons-a-piece and each weighing a colossal 571 tonnes. To keep this heavy and intensely hot liquid from buckling the structure, each gigantic vat was wrapped in a series of twenty-two iron hoops, each weighing seven hundred pounds. Some vats were so tall, they stood three-to-four stories high, higher than the wall along Great Russell and New Street, and standing end-to-end down the three sides of the brewery’s storeroom, stood almost seventy gargantuan vats. The 1800’s was an era of rapid industrialisation, where big business strived to meet the demand of an ever-expanding population and mechanisation had begun to make everything getting bigger, better and faster, but it was only a matter of time until something broke. To many, a failure was inevitable. In fact, it had happened before, and yet – this time - the simple buckling of a single iron hoop on a colossal vat of Porter would unleash on the West End a truly man-made disaster (Interstitial). The real devastation of this technological failure wouldn’t just impact on Sir Henry’s business and his profits, but on the poor wretches forced to live in the dank dark shadow of the Horseshoe brewery. Commonly known as ‘The Rookery’, set across from Soho, this filthy decaying slum sprawled over eight acres of the city’s filthiest and most squalid hovels, from the brewery’s storeroom wall at the back of Great Russell Street to the boundary of St Giles’ Church, in and around where Centrepoint now stands. Dubbed ‘Little Ireland’ or ‘The Holy Land’ owing to an influx of Irish Catholic immigrants, The Rookery was a semi-derelict rabbit’s warren of crumbling tenements, sinister alleys and open cess-pits perched at the precipice of rickety lines of crumbling shacks unfit for human habitation. So squalid, rancid and cramped was this smoky fume-cloaked shanty-town that - on George Street, Bainbridge Street and New Street, a dead-end which backed right up to the wall of the brewery’s storeroom –a single room would often house up-to six families or forty people, and where-as Kensington averaged roughly ten people per acre, The Rookery crammed-in more than two-hundred souls into the same sized space. Packed full of a ragged haggard people, too tired to work, too hungry to sleep and too sick to survive, they lived a life so depressing that hope was nothing but a dream. Crime was rife, sex was cheap, lives were disposable and – to numb the never-ending ache of their bleak little existence – from a nest of seedy brothels and gin-shops, its inhabitants often staggered, high on a lethal mix of homemade hooch - a fizzing stew of potato peel, acid, turps and sometimes urine – as they drank themselves into a slow soporific death. So depressing and debauched was this slum, it was said to be the inspiration for William Hogarth’s infamous painting of Gin Lane. And yet, around it, big business continued to flourish. This was no place to raise a family, and yet, many people had no choice. Bathed in the sunless claggy shadow of the brewery’s twenty-five-foot high walls, spewing chimneys stacks and its towering storerooms stacked high and wide with twenty-three-foot-high fermentation vats of bubbling Porter, The Rookery was dark, dank and dripping in the thick smog of the endless clank of industry. With no light, no fresh air and no sewers, unscrupulous landlords would charge their impoverished tenants for the right to live higher and further off this festering faeces-strewn street. Condemning the poorest of the poor to live at the lowest level, that meant that - when the rains came, the filthy streets were soaked and the cess-pits overflowed - into these crowded basements the sewage always ran. For those in The Rookery, life was hard… but for an unfortunate few, it would also be short. As a faceless people shunned by society and (just-as-quickly) forgotten by history, the only reason we know their names and a few scant details about their lives is because of how tragically they died. Prior to this disaster, which was largely unwritten and yet tallied more deaths than were recorded in the Great Fire of London of 1666, the eight people who perished meant nothing to no-one but those that they loved. And they certainly meant nothing to Sir Henry Meux in whose shadow they struggled. At the Tavistock Arms at 22 Great Russell Street, fourteen-year-old Eleanor Cooper earned a pittance as a servant-girl to keep her family fed. On the first floor of 3 New Street, Elizabeth Smith was carer to four-year-old Hannah Banfield and three-year-old Sarah Bates. And next door, down in the bowels of a dank basement at 4 New Street, aided by Catharine Butler, Mary Mulvey and her three-year-old son Thomas, Anne Saville made the last preparations for an Irish wake, as laid-out before her - draped in a homemade shroud as they were too poor for a pine box - was the body of Anne’s two-year-old son. Unlike a crazed-maniac, disasters are unscrupulously fair, killing the well and the sick, the able and the disabled, the young and the old alike, and often the rich and poor… but not in this case. None of the eight had done anything to deserve to be chosen, and the only reason they were was because they were there. And although this would be their last day alive, for the eight, it was just an ordinary day. Monday 17th October 1814 was an unusual day for a flood, let alone one in the heart of the city. After a long hot summer, with very little rain to feed the crops, to refill the water-wells or to mercifully dampen the stench of more than sixteen hundred unwashed souls in a baking hot slum, thankfully the city was (and still is) sustained by twenty-one hidden rivers – such as the Tyburn, the Kilburn, the Fleet, the Westbourne and the Walbrooke – which ran under the streets, supplying water and a makeshift sewer. But none of them were near a point of flooding and the week’s weather ahead was good. As for a tidal wave, of epic proportions, in the West End? Although the River Thames is fast and tidal, it rarely breaks its banks. When it does, it does so slowly, and being more than a mile south of Soho and with the North Sea a full forty miles away, that day the Embankment would remain dry and a tidal wave so far inland would be unheard of. And yet, it would happen. George Crick had been the storehouse clerk for Meux & Co for the last seventeen years, six since Sir Henry acquired the Horseshoe Brewery and eleven years prior at the Meux’s Griffin Brewery on Liquor Pond Street in Clerkenwell, where even larger fermentation vats were stored. He was loyal, trusted and experienced, so much so that he was able to get his brother (John) a job here as a labourer. Covering almost two acres, the Horseshoe Brewery was the epitome of efficiency with every square metre split into its component parts for the production of Porter; everything from mixing to boiling to pumping to fermenting to bottling to delivery, and fifty foot off the ground, above the storeroom sat a second level for the lead pipes, air-vents and inspection. To the uninitiated, the Horseshoe Brewery was noisy, hot and clammy, but ruthlessly organised with strict systems in place, as any deviation from their tried-and-trusted methods could spoil a vat of Porter, each which cost £40,000-a-piece. At the behest of the owners - Sir Henry and Mr Young - everything was noted, scrutinised and signed-off. At roughly 4:30pm, as George Crick passed the back of the storeroom (that butted-up just eight inches from the wall of the New Street slum), on one of the twenty-three-foot-tall fermentation vats, he had spotted that an iron hoop had slipped. As a professional, he wasn’t concerned and for good reason. Size-wise, the vat wasn’t the biggest. At only ten years it was far from the oldest. And being full of the more mature Porter which had been left to ferment for ten months, being a feisty brew, as its gases build-up, the vat’s lid was prone to blow-off, hence a gap of ten centimetres is left to let it to breathe. Being the third lowest hoop from the bottom of the vat, it wasn’t integral to its structure. As one of twenty-three 700lb iron-hoops which secured the oak-timbers, its slippage wasn’t an emergency. And as the 571-tonne oak vat was prone to expand and contract as it heated and cooled, at least three times-a-year a hoop would slip, only to be repaired or replaced. As part of protocol, George inspected it; the vat’s bottom was level, the sides were stable, there were no leaks of any gases or liquids, and the vat was creaking no more than 18,000 imperial gallons of slowly fermenting Porter should. A few moments later, as part of a formal process, George Crick informed his superior Mr Young, who was also the son of the co-owner Charles Young, that he had discovered a burst hoop. It would take several hours to repair the ironwork, one week to build a new hoop, and to get the wheels of progress moving, George would need to put in a written request to Messers Meux and Young, which he did. And that was it. One of twenty-two iron hoops on a medium sized fully-functional vat had slipped off one of seventy vessels which sat in a well-maintained storeroom with a solid track record in safety. It didn’t creak, crack or rumble. It didn’t split, fizz or shudder. There was no forewarning of what was to happen, no history of incidents where it had, and no clues of the fury which would be unleashed. No-one in the storeroom suspected a thing, as if they had, they would surely have run for their lives? No-one knows that happened. Maybe an oak timber was loose, another hoop was weak, or the 18,000 gallons of warm gassy Porter was unstable? Either way, at roughly 5:30pm, whilst George Crick stood over the storeroom on the overhead platform with a written request for the hoop’s repair in his hand… …the vat shattered. Even in a storeroom as colossal as this, George’s ear-drums popped as the air-pressure peaked and a violent shockwave knocked him off his feet, as the ceiling, walls and floors around him quaked. With its weak point at the rear, having imploded then exploded, it unleashed a force so fierce it was as if a giant fist had crushed the vat like a tin-can; splitting its two-tonne oak timbers like brittle twigs which shot across the brewery like it was under-attack by an army armed with spears, and snapping the 700lb iron hoops like a petulant child with an unwanted birthday bracelet, as thick chunks of sharp shards of hard metal were flung fast, smashed and thudded against the opposing walls. So powerful was the explosion, it demolished a 25-foot-high and two-and-a-half-brick thick wall at the rear of the brewery, toppling several of the four-storey timbers which held up parts of the storehouse roof. In a chain reaction of catastrophe, the vast fast deluge of thick heavy Porter which spewed from the shattered vat like a giant wet wall of terror caused devastation in its wake; knocking-off the stopcock off a neighbouring vat, the force of the blast smashed hogsheads of beer, barrels and casks, flooding the cellar and the storeroom in seconds with almost 300,000 imperial gallons of thick sticky Porter. That’s one million pints of beer or half an Olympic-sized swimming pool which flooded like a fast wall of warm sticky liquid, out of the brewery gates, up Tottenham Court Road and down Oxford Street. Thankfully, having just gone five o’clock, with the brewery reduced to a skeleton crew, only a handful of traumatised workers waded waist-deep in the warm sticky stew calling and searching for those who were missing amongst the shattered casks, floating wood and piles of rubble in a black steaming sea. Thirty minutes later, three men (including George’s brother John) were pulled alive from the ruins and being blessed with only minor injuries, all were taken to hospital, treated and discharged later that day. And although some men made a good recovery, others were unable to ever return to work. Given the colossal scale of the disaster, it was lucky that no-one had died inside the brewery… …but outside in the slum, that was a different story. At roughly 5:30pm, as George Crick stood in the storeroom with the written request in his hand, the weakened vat suddenly shattered. In a volatile explosion, the extreme pressure smashed apart the 25-foot-high, 60-foot-long and 22-inch-thick wall at the rear of the brewery, which led to The Rookery. So explosive was the blast that bricks were thrown two hundred feet away. Mercifully unoccupied, the crumbling slum-houses at 9 and 10 New Street were pummelled to dust as a whirlwind of timber and brick reduced it to rubble, smashing apart two more homes and scattering a thick blanket of debris half way down New Street, so that everything – from the basements to the first and second floors - were strewn with the brewery’s wreckage. Had this accident occurred an hour or two later, when more families were home and the streets and houses were full, this disaster may have claimed many more lives, but the loss would be no less tragic. As the brewery’s brick wall burst, having just sat down to tea in their ground-floor lodging at the back of a shop on 23 Great Russell Street, hearing a cataclysmic crash, the Goodwin family were swept off their seats and spat out into the street by what witnesses described as a fifteen-foot-high “tsunami of Porter”, a thick black wave of ferocity which left them wet, shaken and choking, but thankfully unhurt. Next door, in the back-yard of the Tavistock Arms public house at 22 Great Russell Street, 14-year-old Eleanor Cooper was earning a few pennies to feed her family by washing pots at a water pump at the base of the brick wall, when it collapsed. As hundreds of tonnes of brick and timber rained down upon the young girl, being pinned by timber, Eleanor survived unhurt. But at 8:20pm, although she was still standing upright when they rescued her, having suffocated, there was nothing anyone could do. With half of New Street smashed, flattened and strewn with rubble two-storeys deep, many families lay trapped, only to be dug out hours and even days later. But this debris was their saviour, as with so many basements blocked by bricks, this tsunami of Porter had to go somewhere. Some residents were swept out into the street and some scaled tables to escape to torrent, but others were not so lucky. On the first-floor of 3 New Street, after a gruelling day at work, Mary Banfield was taking tea with her child’s carer – Elizabeth Smith. As the fast flood hit, the thick black wave slammed Mary out of the first-floor window and although she landed broken, bloody and unconscious, she was later found alive, but only just. Sadly, seconds later, as the crumbling structure buckled, its top two floors collapsed and crushed the carer, 3-year-old Sarah Bates and (being trapped) Mary’s 4-year-old daughter Hannah was found drowned in her own bed. And although a horrific sight to witness, the worst was yet to come… As a rabbit’s warren of dead-end streets and tight alleys with no drains or sewers, with her ramshackle lodging at 4 New Street far enough from the blast-zone so only a smattering of rubble had barricaded her door, the full structure was still in-tact, but now, with 18,000 gallons of liquid unleashed, there was no way for her to escape the flood and no way to stop the tsunami. Having finished preparing for the wake, as her two-year-old child lay in state, a tidal wave of thick dark Porter flooded the basement. Later found floating face-down in the cellar, everyone from the boy’s grieving mother to the wake’s three mourners (Catharine Butler, Mary Mulvey and her young son Thomas) had drowned. (End) The aftermath was described as a scene of absolute reverence, as onlookers stood in silence so the rescuers and frantic families could listen out for the cries of loved-ones still trapped amidst the rubble, as right into the night and through to the following day, cartloads of debris and buckets of Porter were cleared by hand. Miraculously, countless numbers of people escaped with their lives and only a dozen needed to be seen by a doctor, but – in total – eight innocent people had lost their lives. And for weeks afterwards, the unforgettable stench of the sticky Porter clung to the street like a painful memory. Out of respect, the brewery’s watchmen charged people a penny to see the smashed vats, and at ‘The Ship’ public house and at the Horseshoe’s yard , the shrouded coffins of the dead lay in state, as long lines of mourners clinked pennies onto a plate which paid for all of the funerals. And although too poor to bury her beloved boy a pine box, finally Anne Saville, this grieving mother had a casket for her dead son (and now herself) as this mother and baby were buried together in St Giles churchyard. On Wednesday 18th October 1814, just two days later, an inquest into the disaster was held at the St Giles Workhouse. Eight people were dead, but with the coroner and jury reassured that this disaster wasn’t an act of negligence but “an act of God”, no criminal charges were brought against the owners, the Horseshoe Brewery returned to business, and Sir Henry Meux was compensated for £30,000 worth of damages and loss he had sustained (almost £1.75 million today). But the families received nothing. As a result of the disaster, oak-timbered vats were phased out, in 1921 the Horseshoe Brewery closed, in 1961 Meux & Co fell into liquidation, and yet, more than two-hundred-years on, there has never been a memorial to those who died; those who were poor, faceless, nameless and forgotten. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. I hope you enjoyed the episode, but if you fancy some extra stuff (which isn’t compulsory) you can stay behind like a naughty school-boy or girl and be forced to listen to Extra Mile, after the break. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Sheridan Fuller, Lori King and Kelly Garner, I thank you all for your support, it’s much appreciated. A thank you to Darren De-Rosa for your very kind donation, I thank you too. And with a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the podcast and spreads the word to their pals about how much they love it. That’s hugely appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Chalfont Court at 236 Baker Street, NWI, where William Raven lived and was murdered
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR:
On Thursday 15th October 1942, in flat 34 of Chalfont Court at 236 Baker Street, the body of William Raven was discovered. He was an elegant sociable divorcee and co-owner of a gentleman’s outfitters with no enemies, who was found battered to death in his own bed. Everybody liked him. But was this a bungled robbery, a revenge attack, or was it something a little more ordinary?
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Chalfony Court at 236 Baker Street, NW1 where William Raven was murdered is located where the rum and raison triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left to right: a photo of William Raven, the entrance to Chalfont Court and the back of Chalfont Court with the small arrow indicating the fire escape which Henry & George escaped via and the large arrow indicating William's bedroom where the murder took place.
Top, left to right: Two plans of the sixth floor of Chalfont Court and a plan of William's flat as created by the Met Police for the investigation, on the right, the 'wanted poster' in the Police Gazette relating to William's murder. Bottom are four sets of fingerprints found at the crime scene, matching Henry and George.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified polcie investigation files held at the National Archives, as well as many other sources.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the murder of William Raven, an elegant sociable divorcee and co-owner of a gentleman’s outfitters who was found battered to death in his own bed. Everybody liked him. But was this a bungled robbery, a revenge attack, or was it something a little more ordinary? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 104: The ‘Elementary’ Murder of William Raven. Today I’m standing on Baker Street in Marylebone, NW1; three streets east of the photographic studio where John Reginald Christie took naked snaps of one of his victims, one road south of Regent’s Park barracks where the Blackout Ripper was arrested, a ten minute walk from the Regents Business School where Martine Vik Magnussen first met the cowardly billionaire’s son who became her killer, and a short dawdle from the odd but unsolved murder of Gladys Hanrahan – coming soon to Murder Mile. Up by the tube station, at the junction of the Marylebone Road, the north side of Baker Street is a real disappointment to the millions of excitable tourists - who flock to stand next to a semi sort-of look-a-like waxwork of a pseudo-celebrity-nobody at Madame Tussauds - only to realise there’s nothing else here. Nothing but smog, smoke, bogs and bedsits choked by belching buses on a death-trap of a road. Baker Street is famous for a few things; there’s Gerry Rafferty’s sax solo (which every busker is forced to play every hour of every day or risk losing their licence to rip-off real artist’s records), the home of celebrated sci-fi author H G Wells (which is only memorialised by a small plaque), an obscure tribute to The Beatles (who fled their beloved Liverpool faster than they forgot how to say “ah, de-do-doh-don’t-de-doh”) and, of course, there’s the infamous residence of fictional detective Sherlock Holmes. Still being as smoggy and murder-strewn as it once was, at 221b Baker Street sits the Sherlock Holmes museum; a shrine to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s literary creation where avid-fans fork-out actual cash to “oooh” at the deerstalker this imaginary character never wore, “aah” at the pretend pipe that this made-up detective never smoked and “wow” at an out-of-work actor sitting behind a blatantly fake desk that Sherlock never sat at, only to get to the gift-shop and realise the tv series were once books. But as these museum patrons queue up, they have no idea that directly opposite, on the sixth floor of 236 Baker Street was a real murder; a baffling mystery so odd, it initially had the detectives perplexed, but through dogged persistence and a clinical Investigation, the Police would have it solved. As it was here on Thursday 15th October 1942, in flat 34 of Chalfont Court, that William’s Raven’s death looked like a case for the great detective himself, and yet its solution was ‘elementary’. (Interstitial). (Sherlock line) Real murders are rarely as thrilling as they may appear in detective stories. The victims and killers are almost always connected, whether as family, friends, lovers or rivals. Their motives are usually clear; whether wealth, love, revenge or pride. And although a tale full of plot-twists makes for a gripping story, real murders are rarely pre-meditated, carefully planned or cleverly executed. Killing is an act of extreme emotion, so being desperate to flee, murderers rarely leave clues or red-herrings. The murder of William Raven had all the tropes of a ‘locked-room’ mystery – a respected businessman is found beaten to death in his own bed, on the sixth floor of a secure mansion block; the door was locked from inside, the key was in place and there were no signs of a break-in. Nobody heard a sound or saw anything strange and although they hadn’t touched anything of any value, they had stolen two pounds from the victim’s wallet, a pair of shoes, a fawn suit and (oddly) two pairs of white underpants. And yet, even more bafflingly, having been seen by several witnesses that night; in that flat, the killers would leave their fingerprints, a pair of boots, a dirty uniform and two sets of soiled underpants, giving the police a big clue as to their description, occupation and – eventually - their names. But was this an unplanned murder, a message or a masterclass in deception and misdirection by a cunning criminal? So, who was the victim? Born on 26th November 1900, forty-one-year-old William Raven, known to his associates as Bill was an elegantly-dressed bachelor and well-regarded director of Horstman & Raven, a gentleman’s outfitters for the city’s well-heeled and high-status clientele based at 80 Regent Street, near Piccadilly Circus. Raised in Leeds, although his modest northern roots were hidden by a cut-glass English accent, being keen to be seen as prosperous and cultured, even as a boy he was always immaculate and polite, with dreams of being finely dressed in a tailored suit, handmade shoes and a silk handkerchief in his pocket. As an apprentice, seen a skilled tailor, William worked-hard to learn his craft and through long hours, patience, an innate sense of style and a meticulous eye for detail, he established a solid reputation among the society elite. Financially? He had some money, but every penny was invested in the shop. His shop’s manager was an old and trusted friend, his business partner was like the brother he never had; they had no rivals, no debts, no threats and although (being war-time) they had the savings to weather the storm, very little cash was kept on the premises, and his killers had never visited the shop. In terms of family? He had very little left, except for a married sister in Leeds. Sadly, his parents had long since deceased, he had amicably divorced from his wife and as she had recently passed-away, their two boys – John & Alan – were being raised by their mother’s parents in Cockermouth. As families go, they weren’t close, but there were also no disputes, no secrets and nothing which raised suspicion. During the war - being too old, too small but more importantly a pacifist – William did his duty as manager of the Merchant Navy Supply Association, issuing and repairing uniforms for military units, including a few bespoke orders for the Special Operations Executive, who just two years earlier had recruited the super-spy Christine Grenville and who were based only a few doors down from his Baker Street flat. And yet, although an interesting detail, William was not a spy, a soldier or a secret agent. Socially? William was a real character and being just five-foot-five, with a slim frame, pale skin, elfin-like features, black swept back hair and a ‘pug-like’ nose, he was well-known and easy-to-spot. He was charming, chatty and generous. He preferred wine but drank rum or ale to suit his guests, he didn’t gamble, fight, argue or do drugs, he was never rude or nasty, and he treated everyone with respect. Sexually? Since his divorce, although illegal, William had come-out as a gay-man. Feeling free, he kept a diary of his sexual conquests, but wasn’t looking for a lover, as he preferred the thrill of anonymous sex with a stranger. Usually they were rough young squaddies from tough backgrounds, many of which he picked-up in gay-safe pubs like The York Minster on Dean Street, The Swiss Tavern on Old Compton Street and The Volunteer opposite his flat on Baker Street, where he always ate his nightly supper. And that’s pretty much it. William Raven was a businessman who wasn’t rich, a widower who wasn’t disliked, and a gay man who wasn’t being blackmailed or bullied. He had no jealous lovers, no business rivals, no criminal connections, no secret past and no family feuds. His death made no sense. Of course, this could have been an attack on a known homosexual? But we know that wasn’t the case. So, if this was a robbery – believing this to be a two-man job as three sets of fingerprints (including William’s) were found - how did they get in? how did they get out? Why did they steal just enough cash to last one person for two days, but left behind his silver cigarette case, lighter and silver wrist watch? Why did they steal nothing of any value from the flat, just a fawn-coloured suit, a set of shoes and two pairs of white underpants, and yet they left behind a military uniform? Was the uniform his? Were his killers’ military? Or was this somehow connected to his business? Strangely, even though he had only lived at 236 Baker Street for thirteen weeks, this wasn’t the first and only unusual robbery which had occurred in Flat 34. On Sunday 11th October 1942, although there were no signs of a break-in, burglars had stolen every single item of his clothes. But once again, in a strange similarity, they touched nothing else; no art, no jewellery, no electricals and no paperwork. Was this copy-cat robbery just a coincidence, an insurance scam, a war-time crime of high-quality suits in short supply to be sold on the black market? Or was this heist merely a ruse to gain entry to his sixth-floor flat in a secure mansion block, as part of pre-meditated, carefully planned and cleverly executed murder? Rightly, he reported this burglary to the Police, but there was little they could do. Four days later, William Raven would be brutally beaten to death in his own bed (Interstitial). Thursday 15th October 1942 was William’s last day alive… only he wouldn’t know that, as compared to any other day, it was neither odd, unpleasant nor remarkable. After a good breakfast of egg, toast and tea, most of his morning was spent in his flat, where a young handsome locksmith replaced his door-lock (as a precaution having just been burgled) and although an invasion of his privacy, he wasn’t worried, as he knew that this kind of thing happened in a big city. With his shop under the care of its manager (Wallace Staggle), William had a spot of lunch with an old pal in Soho, did a stock-check at the Merchant Navy Supply Association and visited several outfitters in the West End as he liked to keep abreast of the current trend in men’s fashion. At 3pm, dressed in a blue pin-striped suit, a white shirt, a dark tie and pair of black shoes, William popped into his Regent Street shop and regaled Wallace with the tale of his unusual burglary. As was common practice, Wallace gave his boss £20 in £1 notes out of the till, which he signed for, and (to temporarily replace his missing clothes) into a bag William packed a stylish but inexpensive fawn-coloured suit, two white shirts, two pairs of white socks and two pairs of white underpants, identical to the ones which would be stolen, and then he left. His mood was upbeat and relaxed. That evening, being in his usual good spirits, William and an unidentified gentleman in his mid-forties known only as George - who was plump and small with a face caked in a thick white powder – met for drinks at The York Minster, a gay-safe pub at 49 Dean Street in Soho. Being war-time, the streets were full of squaddies and the pub was packed-to-the-rafters with artists, singers, drag acts, ladies seeking a safe place to drink, many openly homosexual locals and a smattering of secretly gay soldiers who had deliberately come here – away from their disapproving comrades – hoping to be themselves. As usually happened - as the camaraderie flowed, drinks were sunk and the hot bodies mingled in the tightly packed bar - William’s roving eye was instantly attracted to two boys who were just his type. Being half his age, with a come-hither finger he beckoned forth two short, slim but well-built boys in their early-twenties. One had jet-black parted hair, the other had mousey curls, and - as the mirror opposites to his elegant refinement and his high-class sophistication - these two Canadian soldiers were both scruffy, uncouth and rough-looking, but that was exactly the type that William liked. Greeting these two cuties by cooing “call me Bill” and engaging them in a bit of saucy banter, William made every stranger feel like a friend. And having treated both boys to a few cheeky beers, a little light supper and having (shockingly) discovered that they hadn’t booked a hotel for the night – being the epitome of generosity, living just a tube hop away and unwilling to turf two lovely young boys out on a bitterly cold night such as this –having sunk a few more beers at the notorious homosexual hang-out of the Swiss Tavern on Old Compton Street, William and his two new pals left the pub at 10:30pm, caught the Bakerloo line to Baker Street, and – as had become routine for a gay bachelor with a capacious sexual appetite and a gap in his diary of sexual conquests – William and the two young soldiers entered Flat 34 of Chalfont Court. They were happy, laughing and a little bit tipsy. That night; they sat, chatted, drank and - with not one witness hearing a single sound – they all went to bed. The next day, William was found dead and (once again) a very odd robbery had occurred. Detective novels thrive on many devices to make a hum-drum killing seem more thrilling; by adding plot-twists, misdirection, red-herrings and duplicitous characters, with the big clues being nothing and the smallest of details being everything. Sherlock Holmes knew that the solution to any case was down to the arrogance of the criminal mastermind who would make a tiny but elementary mistake. Real murders are usually self-explanatory, but strangely, the murder of William Raven was not. Almost all victims and killers have long-established connections, but in this case, they weren’t. Their motives are usually clear; whether wealth, love, revenge or pride, only this time it wasn’t. And although real murders are rarely pre-meditated, this murder looked entirely spontaneous. But was it? At 9:40am, William’s cleaner (Mrs Rose) unlocked the outer door to Flat 34, but found the inner door was locked from within. She left, alerted no-one and was the only other person with a spare key. At 11am, Margorie Vogt in Flat 35 - the flat immediately next door who heard nothing the night before - saw the morning’s newspaper still sticking out of William’s letterbox, but didn’t notify anyone till three hours later. At 2pm, having informed the head porter, Frederick Bowen climbed up the fire escape, entered the flat via the bathroom window, and in the bedroom, he found the body of William Raven. The room was messy, chaotic and bloody, but all of the violence had been contained in just one room. Having called the Police, at 2:35pm, PC Allan Ireland entered via the fire escape to preserve the crime scene for evidence. Clearly, the tastefully decorated bedroom was once small, neat and pristine white, but with the plush carpet scattered with a mishmash of khaki clothes and the once-fragrant air buzzing with feverish flies who fed off a thick soupy puddle of blood which pooled at the head of the double bed and slurped at the gloopy spatter which was too dry to drip down the patterned wall, seeing the slightly-build semi-naked man slumped face-down on the floor with his sweet features beaten to a mushy swollen pulp, PC Ireland stood guard over the dead body until the detective arrived. At 3:40pm, the Police Division Surgeon arrived to confirm life as extinct, but seeing a subtle rising and falling of the sticky pyjama-clad chest and a gentle pop as blood bubbles formed about the lips, the PC had missed an important clue. William Raven wasn’t dead but barely alive. A full twelve-to-fourteen hours after his brutal attack, William was rushed to nearby St Mary’s hospital, but he died at 6pm. He never regained consciousness, he never identified his attackers, he never gave a statement and he never said a single word. The last and only independent witness to his murder had been silenced. The only way to solve the case was through the evidence presented before them, and yet, this brutal Baker Street murder didn’t have the luxury of being investigated by an infamous yet fictional detective with books, films, a statue and even a museum in his honour… but they did have the next-best-thing. Detective Inspector John Smale; he was smart, methodical, savvy and – best of all – he was real. The crime-scene presented the detective with the following pieces of evidence which suggested that this wasn’t a pre-planned murder, but a spontaneous emotive attack and an opportunist robbery. With no sign of a break-in, the door was the only entry point and both men were welcomed in by William, who (as a habit) locked the inner door to the flat and popped the key on a hook in a cupboard. Neighbours said that William and the two young soldiers were happy, laughing and a little bit tipsy. In the sitting room, three sets of fingerprints were found on three glasses and a bottle of whiskey, rum and cordial, indicating they all continued to drink. One man sat in the armchair, two men shared the settee and (at some point) someone briefly slept in the small guest bed in the sitting room. With all but one bottle of white wine consumed, the three men retired to the bedroom. Here, they undressed; William hung-up his blue pin-stripe suit, and the two Canadian soldiers casually dumped their scruffy Army-issue uniforms on the floor; their khaki clothes were dirty and worn, but not torn. At some point during the night, all three men removed their underpants, which were found on the floor. According to his diary, William was a known homosexual, who frequented gay-friendly bars and had a capacious sexual appetite. If sex did take place, he didn’t note it in his diary, and yet, his post-mortem would confirm that the last three inches of his anus was dilated, congested and smooth, suggesting that – as a passive male – he had engaged in anal sex with another man shortly before his death. So far, this had been a very ordinary evening for William… but abruptly, the good mood would change. The post-mortem conducted by Sir Bernard Spilsbury confirmed that William had been subjected to a fast and viscous attack, by one or two men. The six lacerations to the back of the head matched the bloodied raffia of a broken bottle found at his feet, and six heavy blows from a fist to his left eye, left hand and mouth caused multiple skull fractures, unconsciousness and he died of a brain haemorrhage. The tell-tale signs on the wallpaper of pear-shaped blood spatter in a downward trajectory confirmed that William had been standing at the time at the time of the attack, the smeared bedsheets indicate where he had fallen, and a six-inch pool of blood around his swollen head was consistent with being unconscious for the twelve-to-fourteen hours, until he was found. So, at no point, had he been moved. Possibly out of panic and shock, the killers made no attempt to conceal the body or the crime. They stole nothing of any value; not even the silver lighter, cigarette case and watch. Instead, they took two pounds, a fawn suit, two shirts, a pair of socks, a pair of black shoes and two sets of white underpants. So, for Detective Inspector Smale, it was clear that the robbery wasn’t an act of greed, this was need. When questioned, none of the witnesses could recall the names of the two Canadian soldiers William was seen with that night, but they all agreed that the men were dishevelled, penniless, rough-looking and - having nowhere to sleep that night – William had invited them to stay at his flat. On William’s bedroom floor lay a crumpled Canadian Army issue forage cap, a pair of filthy black socks, two sweat-stained khaki shirts (with the label of Warrendale, a uniform manufacturer for the Canadian Army), a very worn pair of Army-issue boots (in size 7 with the soles worn down to the leather) and three pairs of underpants; one made by Horstman & Raven, a gentleman’s outfitter on Regent Street, and the other two pairs of underpants were Army-issued and very dirty, smelly and heavily soiled. Desperate to flee the murder scene, out of panic, they tried to unlock the flat’s front door using three keys they had found rather than the actual key which William had popped on a hook in a cupboard. So, unable to unlock the inner door, they fled by the bathroom window and out onto the fire-escape. Because of the overwhelming evidence, Detective Inspector Smale requested the fingerprints and details of all Canadian soldiers serving in Britain who had been reported missing since the time of the murder, or were being held under detention for being ‘Absent Without Leave’. Admittedly this was like searching for a needle in a haystack, as the list of possible suspects was huge, the war was raging on, the Army was not compliant and the interviews would take almost a year. But was the detective right? Was the evidence as simple as it seemed? Was the unplanned murder of William Raven really just a spontaneous attack and an opportunist robbery, or had this humble copper got it wrong, having been duped by a cunning criminal in a masterclass of deception and misdirection? On 17th July 1943, after nine long months of interviews, having dredged the bottom of his suspect list, Detective Inspector Smale went to Eire Camp in Headley Down (Hampshire) to question a twenty-year old Canadian Private called Henry Smith. With the murder having plagued his guilty conscience, Henry confessed and named his pal, twenty-one-year-old George Frederick Brimacombe as the murderer. The evidence supported his story, the witnesses identified their faces, their fingerprints were an exact match and being rough-looking young men, who wore uniforms and came from difficult backgrounds, although neither (for good reason) admitted they were gay - they were just the type that William liked. Having enlisted into the Army to escape the horrors of their family life, Henry & George absconded from their units at the end of September 1942, but with no plan and very little money, soon they were hungry, broke, homeless, and their uniforms and boots were worn-out, tatty and soiled. And (possibly) in return for companionship and anonymous sex, William Raven offered them food, drink and a bed. On the 14th September 1943, at the Old Bailey, Henry Smith and George Brimacombe were charged with murder, but with no evidence of pre-meditation, Henry was acquitted and sent back to Canada, and George was found guilty of manslaughter and served just three years at Wormwood Scrubs prison. So, you see, sometimes the simplest answer is usually the right one and although this story has all the hallmarks of a classic ‘locked-room’ mystery, it was really just a very simple tale of two young lads, on the run, in need of a few basic things; money, food, a place to sleep and a clean pair of pants. On the surface, William’s Raven’s death may have looked like a case for the great detective himself, and yet, even Sherlock Holmes would agree that its solution was ‘elementary’ (“Watson, the needle”). OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. For me, that’s the hard bit done; all the research, all the writing, with just three days of editing to go. Urgh! And now it’s time for pointless bit which takes zero effort. In fact, I couldn’t probably do it in my sleep… if Eva didn’t insist that I’m on hand all night to mix her cocktails. Huh! That woman eh? Sigh! Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Rhiannon Williams, Christina Hughes and Julie Davis, I thank you all for your support, it’s much appreciated. With a welcome to all new listeners and a thank you to the hard-core listeners who’ve been there since the dawn of time. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile 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. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THREE:
On Tuesday 4th October 1853, in a squalid first-floor lodging at 6 Little Dean Street, the beating of baby Richard began… and ten days later, he would be dead. Described as a ‘bastard’ child, his widowed mother struggled against insurmountable odds in the hope that he would survive, only those she was forced to trust with his care, became his killers.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of The Coach and Horses public house at 42 Wellington Street, WC2 is where the dark blue triangle in Covent Garden is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Photos left to right: a rare article on the case itself, two photos of Bourchier Street today, one where 6 Little Dean Street is belived to have stood and a photo of 3 Peter Street where Elizabeth Higgs lived
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified court transcripts from the Old Bailey, as well as the British History website, local knowledge, and several news sources from the time. . https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?id=t18531024-name-363&div=t18531024-1123#highlight MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the tragic little life of an eleven-month-old baby boy known only Richard. Described as a ‘bastard’ child, his widowed mother struggled against insurmountable odds in the hope that he would survive, only those she was forced to trust with his care, became his killers. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 103: The Beating of Baby Richard. Today I’m standing on Bourchier Street, in Soho, W1; one road west of the brutal attack on Parisienne sex-worker Jacqueline Birri, several doors down from the sex-shop slayer Richard Rhodes Henley, two hundred feet west of the deaf/mute murder of Rosa O’Neill, and with the rear windows of the Admiral Duncan pub and Dutch Leah’s pad peering over, we are only a one minute walk from The French House where William Raven met his lovers, his robbers and his executioners - coming soon to Murder Mile. Hidden amidst the gloomy darkness of Old Compton Street and Meard Street, Bourchier Street is little more than a side-alley between Dean Street and Wardour Street. First known as Milk Alley; from 1838 until 1937, it became Little Dean Street before being renamed after the late rector of St Anne’s church, and having been demolished three times - once by a bomb - nothing of historical significance remains. Seeing only the backs of four-storey buildings on both sides, Bourchier Street has no houses, no shops, no life nor colour. It’s little more than a series of brick walls, backdoors, fire escapes, gates, a bin store, the locked entrance to an underground car-park, a public relations firm, a set of flats, a single solitary tree (which looks lost) and half of a road which stops dead, smack bang in the middle, for no reason. Being grey, dark, gloomy and drab, it’s only used as a quick cut-through for savvy locals, a hidey-hole where taxi-drivers take sneaky tea-breaks, a little snook where embarrassed skateboarders repeatedly fail to do even the most basic of tricks, a breathing space where editors get high having wasted another day editing shite like ‘Britain’s Wackiest Celebrity Pet Patio Makeovers from Hell’, but - mostly – it’s a place where incontinent men come to piddle having just left the pub and wishing they wore Tenalady. It truly is a pointless part of Soho, a place so forgettable it’s almost as if someone has deliberately tried to erase its past. And maybe they did, as many years ago, when Little Dean Street was an impoverished slum, a desperate woman came here to put her cherished child in the care of another couple. And although, the street, the building and the people have long since been reduced to dust, unable to erase the horror of the crime, some people say that – even today - you can still hear the baby scream. As it was here, on Tuesday 4th October 1853, in a squalid first-floor lodging at 6 Little Dean Street, that the beating of baby Richard began… and ten days later, he would be dead. (Interstitial) Richard was doomed to live a sad and tragic life before his life had even begun… History is primarily concerned with four things; kings, colonies, creations and conquests, almost all of which are the pre-occupation of the prosperous and the privileged, and no matter how little they’re lives have amounted to, their drooling biographers detail the minutia of their frivolously pampered existence in microscopic detail. Where-as the poor and the ordinary? Unless their crime or their death is particularly cruel or grisly, they will only ever be listed a statistic, a footnote or entirely forgotten. Richard’s mother was a nobody, a nothing, a faceless worthless wretch whose name, age and place of birth wasn’t worth the courts recording correctly, so although she was known as Eliza Ryall (possibly the surname of the child’s father), Miss Banks (probably a mistake) and Elizabeth Higgs (supposedly her married name), as her birth name was unknown, all we do know was that Elizabeth Higgs was a middle-aged single-mother with dark ragged hair, pale anaemic skin and a gaunt haunted face. She was tatty, frail and weak, but her look made sense given the stress of her miserable little life. With so much confusion over her names, there are a few possibilities we can assume. If she was born Elizabeth Banks and became Mrs Higgs but was now an unmarried mother called Miss Ryall – with the life expectancy amongst the city’s poor being in the mid-to-late forties – it’s likely she was a widow. Being uneducated, unskilled and recently bereaved, with no known next-of-kin, no home, no savings and no regular income – beyond the meagre money she could scrape-up by toiling away in a series of poorly-paid jobs and being reduced to the shamed indignity of pleading poverty - Eliza was the poorest of the poor, who lived from day-to-day and penny-to-penny, never knowing how long she could last. According to her own account, she has three young children, but as none of them were listed as living in her squalid leaky lodging at 3 Peter Street, the only other option is that (being deemed by the state that she was incapable of raising them alone) all three were condemned to a life in the workhouse; where they would work hard, eat poorly, be beaten, and the odds of their survival was slim. And yet, these were her children who had survived, as this frail widow had three more who had died. Still being only babies, it began as flu-like symptoms; first with tiredness, restlessness and redness of the skin, descending into the agonising swelling of the baby’s body and brain, and gripped by a high fever - as hospitals were not a place for the poor to get well, they were only the sanctuaries for those whose money earned them the right to live – three of Eliza’s babies had died of ‘water on the brain’. On an unrecorded date in November 1852, in the district of Marylebone – being described by the court as a ‘bastard’ (as if his fatherless status meant that rightfully his life should be worth less) - the fourth of Eliza’s surviving children was born and she named him Richard. Being too poor to be baptised, his birth was sparsely recorded and he never received a surname - whether as Banks, Ryall or Higgs. With his birth father absent and the government having enslaved every woman into a marriage merely to survive - as the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1831 penalised and demonised all single mothers to be the sole-breadwinner of their brood of bastards or be condemned to a slow death in the workhouse – this morally self-righteous law had created an unjust system, which was hailed by the law-makers, but was ripe to be abused by cruel people keen to make money out of poor women in a bad way. Earning a pittance, working days and nights, in a series of menial demeaning jobs - where each day Eliza would race across the city to earn a few pennies, only being hired on a ‘first-come first-served’ basis, if she was too late, the job would be gone - so money, food and lodging was never guaranteed. At the start of November 1853, as a mild autumn slunk behind the thick brooding clouds and the sharp winter winds and bitter rains drew in earlier than expected, eleven-month-old Richard caught a cold. He had a little sniffle, a raspy cough and his putty white skin was all warm, red and sticky to the touch. And although his symptoms were mild, as Eliza knew, in 1853, a simple cold could kill. Her baby needed medicine, but without money, Eliza needed to work, but to work - as a single mother - she would be forced to find someone trustworthy but cheap to look after her baby. The young couple she was recommended lived at 6 Little Dean Street, and they were called Mr & Mrs Birch. (Interstitial) On the bitterly cold morning of Tuesday 4th October 1853, at a little after dawn, having wrapped baby Richard in several woollen layers – as still being sniffly, his blue eyes, red nose and pale cheeks were the only features which peeped out of this thick toasty bundle - Eliza left her lodging at 3 Peter Street, crossed over Wardour Street and entered Little Dean Street, a distance of less than one hundred feet. Working seven days-a-week, sixteen hours-a-day, just to afford the basics; food, lodging, a doctor’s fee, medicine and the half-a-crown-a-week the carer would cost, Eliza had to work flat out. But being local – although it ripped her soul apart to be parted for so long from her baby - knowing this was only a temporary measure until he was well and that a good woman would feed him, bathe him and wean him, she could still see her boy two or three times a day, and - when she needed to - she could sleep. As yet another dark and dingy Soho slum, Little Dean Street was a thin airless alley barely one hundred and fifty feet long by five feet wide with two long wooden lines of rickety ramshackle buildings stretching four and five storeys high on both sides. But as each tier overhung – so that every tossed bucket of festering human waste didn’t slop and drip down the window’s below – with barely a crack of skylight above, as both roofs almost touched, the sun rarely (if ever) shone on Little Dean Street. It was leaky, dirty and cold. It was overrun with rodents, over-flowing with effluent, every stair was a death-trap and the back-alley below was a seedy hideaway for gin-swiggers and the sexually depraved, as the feted air hung with the stench of an abattoir, tannery and an open cess pit - and although a rat-infested hovel prone to outbreaks of Typhoid and Cholera was not uncommon - for many, it was home. As planned, part way down Little Dean Street, Eliza knocked at the wooden door of house number six. Greeted by Mrs Birch, she handed the young woman (who she barely knew) a half-crown, a blanket, a woollen shawl, a small sack of food and – as many women would be forced to do - her baby too. That night, just shy of midnight, as a gaunt and haunted woman who was weak with exhaustion having worked from dawn-till-dusk, Eliza made the last of her three trips that day to see her baby boy in the Birch’s first-floor back-room lodging. She cradled him, she breast-fed him, she put him to bed, and she stumbled the short walk home back to Peter Street, for a few scant and anxious hours of sleep. Eliza’s day was as ordinary as many other working-class women in that era who had been forced into a very desperate situation simply to ensure the safety and the future of their families. By chance, putting trust in a stranger, Eliza had sealed her baby’s fate, and ten days later, Richard would be dead. In the ensuing trial into the death of a “bastard child” known only as Richard, as was common practice, Mr & Mrs Birch were permitted to face, question and interrogate their accuser – Miss Elizabeth Higgs – a mother still in grief as nature cruelly continued producing her dead baby’s milk in her aching breast. During the trial, many details would emerge, some were expected, others would be truly horrifying. Going under the seemingly respectable guise of Mr & Mrs Birch, neither were married and both were born liars. Described as ‘dirty-looking’, twenty-two-year-old Joseph Birch was a thief, a layabout and an abusive drunk with a fiery temper, spawned from a close but dishonest family of petty crooks. With a nine-month-old bastard of their own to feed, his girlfriend Caroline Nash claimed to be a carer, but lacking patience and cursed by a cruel and nasty streak, she was less of a mother, more of a monster. Earning a paltry fee, Caroline couldn’t care a hoot for some other woman’s sprog, let alone her own who was left to lie in his own filth, crying and sore, as she’d scream “shut up” and “be quiet” whenever it wailed. And yet, when Eliza was due, pretending to be all sweetness and cuddles, both babies were miraculously calm, quiet and a little bit sleepy, as their milk had been laced with a large slug of rum. So, by the end of the first night, as an exhausted Eliza fed her baby in the dark of the Birch’s backroom - although this clammy tot still wheezed and sneezed - as she put him to sleep, she was reassured as her little boy soundly slept… but his silence would bely the abuse that this helpless baby would suffer. On Wednesday 5th October, as the first of two visits this determined but drained woman could make that day - with three dead babies plaguing her thoughts and seeing similar symptoms return – in those few precious moments that her work would allow, she was focussed on keeping him fed, warm and soothed, so (as far as we know) she was unaware of what had and would happen to her baby. At two o’clock in the afternoon, although it always echoed with the hubbub of everyday life - a shout, a scream, a laugh and a cry - inside the wooden walls of 6 Little Dean Street, the familiar pained wailing of this feverish and restless boy had grown more even heart-rending, as the viscous scorn of two unfit adults (“shut up”, “bloody child”, “little devil”) did nothing to soothe or stifle his screams as Caroline & Joseph repeatedly slapped, smacked and beat Eliza’s helpless baby boy. From across the landing, fellow lodger and mother-of-three Ann Dakin shouted "for God's sake, don't beat the baby so", only to bruskly feel the hot lash of Caroline’s curt tongue, as she barked back “I will do as I see fit” and threatened “shut it, or I’ll hurl you down the stairs and snap your bloody neck”. All of which were backed-up by the drunken brutal bulk of a slurring bottle-swigging Joseph who kicked open Ann’s door and unleashed a volley of holy abuse, as she shielded her babies. And although Ann did threaten to call for a constable - fearing for her life - she didn’t. In fact, no-one said a word; not to the Police, the landlord, or even to Eliza. Moments later, the baby’s screams were smothered. Just shy of midnight, as an exhausted Eliza fed her subdued child – with his wheezing deep, his little chest rattling and his pallid skin all hot and blotchy – sensing the kind of fever which had already stolen half her brood, Eliza only saw the symptoms she feared the most, and not the obvious signs of abuse. In court, with the cruel couple’s litany of lies backed-up by his dishonest family, Joseph dismissed this beating as being just a few light pats on the bottom, Caroline claimed that when the baby came into her care that it was sicker than it actually was (saying “he was almost at death’s door”), and with her boyfriend’s next-of-kin concocting an alibi that neither Caroline nor Joseph were there that night, or any of the subsequent nights when similar beatings took place, often it was their word against Eliza’s. Twice that week, Eliza had taken Richard to see a doctor, and although this professional’s fee for five minutes of prodding was more than she earned in two days’ work, as the diagnosis was uncertain, the wheezing boy was given a mild decongestant and Eliza was told to bring him back if he got any worse. On the odd nights she had him home; sporadically sleeping, always screaming and with his mottled skin a vivid mix of reds, purples and blacks - as the common curse of bed-sores, lice and fleas nibbled at his flesh and as a spiking fever inflamed his swollen blotchy torso - even the doctor didn’t see the bruises, and so – crippled by the expense of doing her best - she returned her baby to Mr & Mrs Birch. Every day eleven-month-old baby Richard would cry, and every day the Birch’s would beat him… On Friday 7th October, at roughly 4pm, just three days into their care, two lodgers at 6 Little Dean Street would witness the abuse - Ann Dakin who lived opposite and Lydia Armstrong one floor above. Within the hard echoey confines of the tiny first-floor backroom, every sound echoed; from the baby’s cries, to the couple’s viscous screams, to the hard slaps as rough hands smacked soft bare flesh as the little boy endlessly cried until it could cry no more. By now, through threats and fear, the whole house had reluctantly become accustomed to its tears, but what Lydia would see next was truly awful. Having pulled a pitcher of water from the communal drum in the basement, as Lydia slowly crept back up the creaky stairs – for fear of incurring the Birch’s wrath – hearing its pained screams muffled for an interminably long time, only to cut the air as sharp and loud as ever (as if the little boy was fighting for his life), as Caroline screamed “it won’t silence, make it quit” and a furious drunken Joseph barked at the boy “you little bastard, I am the master of you”, Lydia peeped through a small crack in the wall. Inside their pitiful little lodging, she witnessed Joseph; his brown toothy shards all bared, his reddened glassy eyes all glared, his heaving brutal bulk towering tall as the tiny wailing tot cowered between his feet on the rough splintered floor. Yanking up the terrified boy by its thin pale arms like it was a rag-doll, being gripped in his hairy fist, Joseph smacked the little boy’s soft head against the hard-wooden skirting-board, a total of eight times, smashing his skull down again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again and again, until having cast him aside, the little boy lay limp and silent. Once more, nobody did anything or said anything to Eliza or the Police. Joseph denied he was there that night “I was at my brother’s in Borough Road”, Caroline pleaded ignorance “I never touched it, not once. I love my baby I do”, and their family swearing in court and on the Bible that both were elsewhere at the time of each beating… (add “we was at the theatre”, “he was helping me out down the market”, “our mother can vouch so he was”)… as all the while, baby Richard got sicker and weaker. On Saturday 8th October – as Eliza had eaten less to afford more, only to earn less as her work slowed - during one of her brief visits, whilst washing her wheezing boy, the fatigued woman thought she saw bruises on the mottled swollen skin of his skull. Paying more than she could afford for a doctor to dismiss this as abuse and state the obvious - “babies do fall” - seeing all of the symptoms she dreaded in her little boy – aches, swelling, limpness, sweating, shivers and a high fever – just as she had with her three dead babies before him, Eliza suspected that baby Richard had a swelling on the brain… …and he did. Only this fatal swelling of the brain wasn’t caused by a fever, but by his carers. And with his frail little body too weak to fight off his injuries, as his broken mother was tossed back into the viscous circle of an unjust system from which she would never escape - in order to work, to earn, to (barely) live, and (if she was lucky) to survive - she was forced to return her baby back to the Birch’s. In court, the Birch’s and their deceitful kin trotted-out an endless sluice of excuses to provide alibis for Joseph & Caroline’s crimes on the days in question. On Monday 10th, Joseph said “I were in Borough market, my brother’s a costermonger, I was pushing his barrow cos of his bad foot”, with George Birch affirming under oath “that’s true, he didn’t leave till gone nine”. On Tuesday 11th, their excuses were much the same. And on Wednesday 12th, Caroline testified to the court “me and him was at his mum’s all day”, which both parents swore blind was true. Only the lodgers (Lydia and Ann) would tell a very different story to the court, one about the slaps, the smacks and the screams they heard, every single day, at 6 Little Dean Street. But by Thursday 13th, everything would change… At one o’clock, from the first-floor back-room of 6 Little Dean Street, the caustic scorn of Caroline and Joseph was as loud and abusive as ever (“you little devil”, “shut that bastard up”), their slaps were as hard, their wrath was as bitter, and although muffled, the little cries from the baby’s lungs was weak. Being silent and still, suddenly his tiny body tensed, and as a foam of frothy white liquid formed about his lips, with every one of his little muscles trashing violently like he was possessed by a demon, baby Richard was enveloped in a convulsive fit. And for once, Caroline and Joseph’s mouths fell silent. An hour later, Caroline went to 3 Peter Street to tell Eliza that her child was “unwell”. Not dying, not fitting, not beaten to within an inch of its life, just “unwell”. Seeing the silent tot wrapped-up in his cloak with a barely a few pale features visible, she held him in her arms, cradling her limp baby boy. But by the morning, having suffered a second fit, eleven-month-old baby Richard was dead. (End) Grieving the loss of her fourth of seven babies, Eliza viewed her little boy’s cold body in the surgery of Dr Wakem, but even as a layman - having witnessed death by brain fever three times prior - in the stark light of unimaginable loss she could see that his symptoms were not right. With his body cooled, less red and swollen, the mottled bruises to his legs, arms, back and head were unmistakable. A post-mortem confirmed that his bruising was caused by beatings over several days, and – although his symptoms were consistent with a ‘brain fever’ – with no evidence of any diseases except for a cold, the fits and bloody congestion in his brain were attributed to his head being smacked hard against the skirting board. And although he had been a healthy little boy, with his stomach empty, it was clear that the food Eliza had provided, to feed and wean him, Caroline had given to her own boy instead. At the Coroner’s Inquest held at the Globe Tavern in Southwark, Caroline Nash and Joseph Birch were found guilty of manslaughter. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 27th October 1853, for the charge of “slaying a male ‘bastard’ child named Richard”, although Eliza was interrogated by her accusers and condemned as an unfit mother and a liar, she stood her ground and both were found guilty of murder. The life of baby Richard - a bastard whose surname was never determined - was deemed so unworthy that although they should have been executed, Joseph and Caroline were sentenced to just four years in prison. Joseph was sent to HMP Portland in Dorset, Caroline to Brixton Prison, and on their release, they married and moved to Warwickshire, where they had three more children and died in the fifties. Being too poor, baby Richard was buried in an unmarked grave, with several strangers, somewhere in London. And although his mother - Elizabeth Higgs - had done everything she could when faced with a difficult and insurmountable situation where the odds were always stacked against her, sadly being a nobody who meant nothing to no-one, she has vanished from history and her fate is unknown. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. The episode is complete, so feel free to switch off now… but if you’d like to know more details about this case, as well as listen to some meanderingly aimless unscripted waffle about cakes, coots and canal things, please stay tuned for Extra Mile, after the break. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Svetlana Bezverkhaya, Philippa Chapman and Paul Morrissey, I thank you all for your support. And thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the podcast, review it, share it, all the thing that keep it alive. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER
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Coach & Horses publiuc house at 42 Wellington Street, WC2. There's two entrance doors, to the left is to the (former) public bar and to the right was the entrance to the salloon, where James McCallum shot the barman Morris Sholman
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWO:
On Friday 20th December 1940, James Forbes McCallum robbed the Coach & Horses public house in Covent Garden; he was a desperate man whose first and only robbery was ill-judged, unplanned and such a catastrophic failure that it ended in death. And yet, when he was arrested, he was so panicked, he gave the Police five plausible alibis. But which alibi was right?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of The Coach and Horses public house at 42 Wellington Street, WC2 is where the dark blue triangle in Covent Garden is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Crime scene photos taken on the day of the murder and robbery, marked with red arrows so you can see where the bullet fragments hit, and the cracked panel on the serving hatch.
Left to right; a photo and map of the bombing of 24 Greek Street, 24 Greek as it looks today, 2 Bedford Place (the billet which James & Mac shared and where the gun was left), the Canadian Police HQ at 30 Henrietta Street in Covent Garden and The TRafalgar Hotel on Craven Street.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified police incvestigation files from the National Archives and form the Old Bailey.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about James Forbes McCallum, a desperate man whose first and only robbery was ill-judged, unplanned and such a catastrophic failure that it ended in death, and yet, when he was arrested, he was so panicked, he gave the Police five plausible alibis. But which alibi was right? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 102: The Five Alibis of James Forbes McCallum. Today I’m standing on Wellington Street, in Covent Garden, WC2; one street west of the brutal baker Alexander Moir, two streets north-west of the last days of Mary Ann Moriarty, a short walk from the home of the First Date Killer, and barely one hundred feet south of the former Bow Street Magistrates Court, where an infamous forensic scientist would categorically prove, without a single shred of doubt, that Dr Hawley Crippen had murdered his wife… only he hadn’t - coming soon to Murder Mile. East of Covent Garden is Wellington Street, a thin one-way street from The Strand to Bow Street which is home to the Royal Opera House, the Lyceum theatre and a wide variety of restaurants, cafés, bars and pubs. And although there’s also a museum, being British, the most important places are the pubs. We celebrate everything in pubs, whether births or deaths, commemorations or condolences, week days, weekends or (for those who don’t work hard enough) bank holidays. In fact, if an apocalypse was brewing, the British would probably all head to the pub to drown our sorrows in plop. Like most places, Wellington Street has many watering-holes; some are hideous hipster hovels serving Hoxton’s finest ale in tiny thimbles, some are brewery-owned dumps slopping-out factory produced drinks and nibbles to dull patrons who are allergic to imagination, and some are unashamedly fake boozers, where the décor of Guinness signs, old bikes, potatoes and cheeky leprechauns is so culturally insensitive they might as well have added some burned out cars, kiddie-fiddling priests and insisted that the band wears orange sashes, as the polish bar staff all utter “ta be shar”, as the St Patrick’s Day crowds flock to celebrate a world famous teetotaller by swigging back a mouthful of the “de black stuff”, only to grimace, struggle to swallow and dilute the rest of it with blackcurrant. “Aaah Jayzuz”. Thankfully, at 42 Wellington Street is a real pub. Established in 1753, The Coach & Horse is a staple of Covent Garden life. With its red-fronted facade, greenery above, a left door leading to the public bar and the right door to the saloon, this free-house is authentic, real and hospitable. It’s a great place for a pint, but eighty years ago, it was also the scene of an unplanned robbery and an unexpected murder. As it was here, on Friday 20th December 1940, that a good and decent man called James Forbes McCallum would be driven by a desperate decision to steal money and take a life. (Interstitial). James Forbes McCallum, known to his pals as ‘Jimmy’ was born on 20th Sept 1920 in Dalmuir, Scotland; a few miles north of the bustling ship-yard city of Glasgow. With his father working as a steel riveter- in the docks - being recently married with one boy born and a second soon to join their brood – his mother worked several jobs just to keep a tumbledown tenement over their heads. Known only as ‘Mrs McCallum’, his mother was a short but solid woman made of sturdy Celtic stock, who toiled away from dawn-till-dusk, from job-to-job, with one boy on her knee and one strapped to her chest. For the first few years of his life, James’ whole world revolved around his mother; she was all he would ever see or know. When she wasn’t there he screamed, but when she returned, he was soothed. As a neat and decent woman, seeing poverty as no excuse not to raise her boys well, they always knew their p’s and q’s, their manners and morals, and although she was undoubtably hard-working, she was also a little haughty. Contrasted by her rough callused hands, she wore a fine hat, a neat shawl, she spoke with an upper-class affection, and - to everyone, even her own sons – she was ‘Mrs McCallum’. On 1st December 1922, desperate to flee their grimy Glasgow slum, the McCallum’s set sail to Canada, having arrived in New Brunswick, just three days before Christmas, and set up home in Quebec. As a slightly-sickly intensely-pale child, having taken the bold but wise decision to raise her boys in the crisp fresh Canadian air, although – for the rest of his life – James would always be thin, frail, weak and prone to every cold and infection, his chance of survival was ten times better than in Glasgow. Being an average student, James was decent, likeable but unremarkable, he didn’t excel, but then, he was never in any trouble. And raised well by Mrs McCallum, after school and every weekend, James earned a small wage as an errand boy, half of which he always gave to his mother to earn his keep. In 1931, when James was eleven, his father died, leaving his mother a widower with no income. Being industrious, she turned their home at 391 Third Avenue into a boarding house, aided by her sons. But by his teens, living and working day-and-night alongside such a controlling woman, James felt trapped; he had no future, no fun and – under the harsh scrutiny of his disapproving mother - no girlfriend. Mrs McCallum wasn’t mean, she was just scared, as once her boys had grown-up, she knew she would be left with nothing. In 1938, having become unwell, she shut the boarding house. This was James’ chance to escape, and yet, it was a world-changing event which would provide him with freedom. On 5th September 1939, with Europe at war against the Nazis, eighteen-year-old James did his bit and signed-up to fight as part of Royal Canadian Regiment. Barely passing his medical, as a five-foot eight-inch, skinny and pasty-faced boy who would never see the battlefield, as part of the Canadian Provost Corps, he was assigned to protect London, as the city’s own police force had been decimated. Starting as a Private, within the year he was promoted to Acting Corporal on a wage of $80 a month, $50 of which he sent to his mother in his regular letters. Described by his seniors as a “sober, respected and an excellent officer”, he rarely drank and was never in any trouble. And as a welcome sight, being dressed in the easily Identifiable uniform of the Canadian Provost Corps - a peaked cap with a bright red top and a long grey gratecoat with a bright red emblem – being armed with a .455 calibre Smith & Wesson revolver and based out of nearby 30 Henrietta Street, James and his fellow officers were a familiar and reassuring sight, as they patrolled the streets in and around of Covent Garden market… …just one street from The Coach and Horses pub. James Forbes McCallum was well-mannered, polite and decent; he had a good career, a steady income and a bright future ahead; he didn’t argue or fight, and he had no criminal record or history of violence. And yet, fifteen months after his arrival in England, for the first time ever, in a totally unprovoked and spontaneous attack, he would commit an armed robbery and a homicide. (Interstitial) In a state of panic, as his terrified brain fumbled to find an ounce of logic in his truly abhorrent actions, James give the Police five logical (but equally plausible) alibis as to why he did what he did. Alibi #1 – Drink. Most crimes are committed whilst the culprit is intoxicated, causing a lack of judgment, co-ordination and a misguided confidence. James wasn’t much of a drinker, but in the weeks (and especially in the days) leading up to the incident, his best-friend – 44-year-old Lance Corporal John Osborne, known as ‘Mac’ - said that James had begun drinking heavily, just as he had the night before the robbery. If he was intoxicated, that could explain why his memory is so hazy, why he shouted “hands up! paper money!” but didn’t steal a penny, why he hid his face with a thick woollen balaclava but forgot about his long grey grate-coat emblazoned with a bright red emblem of the Canadian Provost Corps, and – more bafflingly – how James got shot in the arm, when he was the only person in the pub with a gun? And yet, if the barman had fought back (as James would later suggest); why did no-one hear a fight, where were the fingerprints if the barman had wrestled away the weapon, and how could two men have struggled together if there was a bulky set of brass and glass screens between them? That aside, we know that James wasn’t drunk, as – having got his dates wrong - he’d actually drank with Mac two nights earlier, barely drank the night before, and when he was arrested, he was stone cold sober. Alibi #2 – Money. Many crimes are perpetrated for financial gain, as too often, greed and needs can overrule a person’s morals and make even the most sensible do silly and spontaneous things. Sadly, a few weeks after his promotion to Acting Corporal – declared physically unwell – James was demoted to Lance Corporal. If he was broke, that could explain why he robbed the pub, why he felt forced to loan ten shillings off Mac just two days prior, why (as a good boy) he could only send $25 dollars to subsidise his sick mother in November, and why, by 14th December, just one week before, those regular payments would cease. And yet, it seems unlikely, as James wasn’t a greedy man, if anything, he was generous and charitable. Yes, he drank a little heavier, but he wasn’t a drunk or on drugs. And as a Lance Corporal, he still made a good wage, as – with his clothes, food and accommodation all paid for by the military - for the three weeks prior - he was living in a modest double-room at the Trafalgar Hotel, just off Trafalgar Square. Alibi #3 – Illness. As witnessed, thirty-two-years earlier, in the bank of Cartmell & Schlitte, just half a mile west of Covent Garden, a long history of illness and the weakened immune system of a sickly young boy had (possibly) triggered petit-mal seizures - under the grip of which - he robbed a bank, but could recall nothing. Always being pale, weak and frail, having moved from the crisp air of Canada to the chocking smog of London, James’ health had deteriorated. One year prior, having been struck down with pneumonia and pleurisy, the Army doctor had assessed James four times over the last four months – and being declared unfit – he was forced to take unpaid leave, and he was demoted, owing to his poor health. If he was ill, that could explain could explain the robbery, the shooting, the vagueness of the incident without being drunk, and how a good man could be driven to heinously break his own moral codes. And yet, even that seems a stretch, as James had no history of epilepsy nor any mental illness, he was never aggressive, delusional or disorientated. In fact, he was fully conscious of his actions. Being fit to stand trial, he didn’t take the insanity plea and although his memory was a little vague, he pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murder, as he knew the barman, he liked him and the two men had never had any issues. So, the question wasn’t if he had consciously done it. He had. The question was why? Alibi #4 – Trauma. The human body is a marvel of self-repair; skin can heal, blood can clot and bones can mend, but the hardest injury to recover from after an incident isn’t the physical affects but the psychological ones, as although the brain may escape unscathed from an unimaginable horror, trauma can still remain. On Friday 11th October 1940 at 12:35am, three days into the Blitz, a high-explosive bomb hit 24 Greek Street in Soho. It demolished the building, erupted the gas main and trapped dozens in the wreckage. Three people died, eight were injured and countless others escaped unhurt, but were left traumatised by this first brutal wave of bombings from the skies, as innocent civilians (going about their everyday lives) witnessed skin burned, limbs scattered and bodies blown apart, right in front of their eyes. One of those affected was James McCallum. Being psychologically traumatised by the bombing, seeing the Army doctor and complaining of a series of justifiable symptoms – such as tiredness, headaches and nerves - James drank to ease his pain, took sick leave on 16th December, and was recuperating well in quiet of Room 6 in the Trafalgar Hotel. And yet, it was unlikely that his trauma resulted in either the robbery or the murder, as the personality, behaviour, morals and attitude of James had not changed. Those who knew him said, he was still his same old self; quiet, calm, caring, keen to get back to work and was making a slow but steady recovery. Without doubt, all four alibis had (in their own small way) contributed to the crime; money had made him desperate, drink had clouded his judgment, illness had made him weak and trauma had fuelled his fragmented emotions. But these weren’t the main motivations for his crime… …as his fifth alibi was love. Strangely, having first met on the night of Friday 11th October 1940, the bomb which had blasted Greek Street apart had ignited a passion inside a passing couple and driven these two young lovers together. Swept-up in a whirlwind romance - as war-time sweethearts - twenty-one-year-old James McCallum had fallen for nineteen-year-old Irene Turnball, a local waitress and recent orphan. As a perfect match, both were quiet, shy and caring, and just as she was his first love, he was hers. In just nine weeks, they had met, fallen in love, moved into a hotel together and - one week before Christmas - they planned to be married. James had finally met ‘the one’, only there was one obstacle ahead of him… his mother. ‘Mrs McCallum’ would never approve of this girl, or any girl, as no girl would ever be good enough for her little boy, and - as she always feared - once he was gone, this lonely widow would be all alone. On Monday 16th December 1940, having slipped the best ring he could afford onto his beloved’s finger, James and Irene got engaged in the shadow of Trafalgar Square, with their plan to be together forever. On Tuesday 17th, having drank till he was insensible and being in a distressed state, James poured out his woes to Mac – his best-friend and a surrogate father-figure - who he always turned to for help, as - having telegrammed his mother to get her permission to marry - he anxiously awaited her reply. On Wednesday 18th, the day of their wedding, James received a telegram, it read; “Ridiculous idea. Seems very thoughtless towards me. I need your help”, and it was signed “Mrs McCallum”. The young lovers were distraught, their wedding was cancelled and the money they’d saved to marry was gone. On Thursday 19th, with his heart ripped apart by the gut-wrenching decision between disobeying his mother or finally finding love, although Irene was happy to wait, a furious James fired back a telegram to Canada, standing-up and damning her, with a curt “I shall marry, with your permission… or not”. That night, having prematurely signed into the Trafalgar Hotel as Mr & Mrs McCallum, the two timid lovers lay in bed, curled-up in each other’s arms, only James couldn’t rest. After months of illness, days without sleep, still half-hungover, and another night of reawakened trauma as bombers pummelled the West End, having loaned ten shillings off Mac, he knew this wasn’t enough money to get married. At 4am, James left saying he was going to buy some cigarettes. But instead, he did the unthinkable. The Coach & Horses at 42 Wellington Street had long been a family business; owned by Daisy & Harry Phillips, the pub was managed by their nephew David Sholman, with his brother Morris as bar-man. Described as a sweet and kind man, forty-one-year-old Morris, known as ‘Morry’ had only worked in the pub for the last nine months, having lost his job to the war, and although he wasn’t outgoing, the customers liked him, as he was a good man, who loved his wife, his family and kept to himself. Set on the ground-floor of a four-storey red-brick building, most of its regulars would perch with a pint on the pavement, as this small single-roomed pub was barely twenty-foot-deep by twenty-five feet wide. Dominated by a large central bar, the room was split into two; with the larger public bar to the left, and - separated by a partition - a small saloon to the right, which stands twenty people, at a push. And that’s it. With lines of tap-handles for pulling pints, spirit bottles with optics, water jugs as mixers and a tea urn for lightweights, it was a very regular pub. And as a way to serve food and to act as a security measure which kept any drunks from the booze, the bar-staff and the till, above the counter, from waist to head-height, were large brass and glass grilles with a series of spring-loaded windows. Licenced to serve from 5am, having put a £20 float in the till, Morris opened the doors and the day started as it always did… slowly. At 5:10am, fifty-four-year-old John Anderson, a short one-armed lift-operator entered the public bar, ordered a pint and sat reading the paper - he was the only customer. David was in the cellar, Dolly (Morris’s wife) was upstairs and Morris was cleaning the glasses. Less than one minute later, Morris would be dead. As James staggered up Wellington Street, with his mind clouded by equal measures of love and anger and his body stumbling with exhaustion, as this love-sick boy could only see a single solution to his problem – without his mother’s permission - he would be forced to commit his first and only crime. Only, being ill-judged and unplanned, this spontaneous robbery would end in a catastrophic failure. Outside the pub, James’ terrified fingers nervously pulled his woollen balaclava over his pale face. His breathing was fast and frantic, his head was thumping hard, and – having forgotten that his long grey grate-coat was emblazoned with the bright red emblem of the Canadian Police - fumbling his Army-issue revolver in his cold sweaty hands, James dashed into the empty saloon, intent on a quick robbery. Inside, James stammered “hands up! paper money”, only his order didn’t make sense, as with the pub having just opened, the till was full of coins. And yet, amidst the darkness of the sparsely-lit pub, with a bulky brass grille in their way, the two men couldn’t see each other, so although Morris had put his hands up and his eyes shut (in the hope that this would all go away), as James couldn’t tell if he had seen the gun, he swung open the glass of the head-height serving-hatch and poked his gun through. Only, not realising that the window was spring-loaded, the second his left hand let go, it swung back, the glass smacked the muzzle, and flipping his revolver ninety-degrees, James shot himself in the arm. The bungling bandit was dazed, confused and profusely bleeding from a self-inflicted flesh wound. The robbery was a catastrophe and – right then - he should have fled… but with his nerves frayed, his body tense and his hot balaclava riding up his sweat-soaked face, with the eye-holes obscuring any view, he hadn’t realised his mistake and thinking that the unarmed Morris had shot him, James retaliated. A single shot ripped through Morris’ throat, hitting the hard bone of his spine, the bullet then fractured into three pieces – one hit a glass panel, one hit a picture and one hit the tea urn – but the bulk of the lead had severed the barman’s spine, and – before he had even hit the floor – Morris was dead. (End) Being too panicked and traumatised by his actions, James fled empty-handed. Shaken-up, James called Mac, who rushed back to the billet they shared at 2 Bedford Place, and reassured by James that this was nothing serious, he had just “accidentally shot himself, off Covent Garden”, having dressed his wound with a field dressing and iodine, the two pals parted company. Mac went back to their base at nearby Henrietta Street, and James returned to the Trafalgar Hotel and his blushing bride-to-be. At 8am, hearing a bulletin that detectives were seeking a young Canadian Police officer in a long grey greatcoat, with a bullet-wound to his left arm – although they were friends, as Mac was a professional – he called it in. At 9:30am, four hours later, James was arrested for the murder of Morris Sholman. In a state of panic, confusion and exhaustion, being desperate to aid the Police with their investigation, although his memory of this traumatic event was a little hazy, James gave five possible (but equally plausible) alibis to his crime, all of which were back-up by witness statements and irrefutable evidence. Held at Brixton Prison, he was found fit to stand trial. Having refused the insanity plea and (as was his right) pleading ‘not guilty’ to the murder, James Forbes McCallum was tried at The Old Bailey on Tuesday 11th February 1941. After a two-day trial, he was found guilty, he was sentenced to death. On Friday 28th February 1941, a few days before his execution, Mrs McCallum died. Being distraught at the grief of losing his beloved mother, James’ won his appeal on compassionate grounds and owing to the trauma he had suffered in the bombing, and with his execution commuted to life in prison, James was deported back to Canada to serve his time. James Forbes McCallum was denied love by his mother, marriage to his lover, and being short of a few pounds for a very simple wedding, he would be forced to pay the ultimate price. James never married Irene and – being separated by a vast ocean - the two young lovers would never meet ever again. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the episode, and next is Extra Mile, the non-compulsory extra bit which you can choose to listen to, or you can choose not to, I’m good either way, it’s no biggie if you don’t. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Kelly Cook, Caroline King, Neill & Sharon Waugh (happy belated birthday Sharon) and Sioned Jones, I thank you. All of you will be receiving a thank you card full of goodies, and some lucky people will receive very rare Murder Mile key-rings too. Oooh. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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84 Shaftesbury Avenue, on the corner of Macclesfield Street in Chinatown, where the bank of Cartmell & Schlittle once stood, which was robbed by John "Jack" Esmond Murphy
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND ONE:
On Saturday 7th November 1908, at 11:40am, John Esmond Murphy walked into the bank of Cartmell & Schlittle at 84 Shaftesbury Avenue. Overwhelming evidence pointed to the fact that he bungled a heist, pulled a gun, shot and stabbed the manager dead, and was then captured, arrested, convicted and executed. But did he actually do it?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Cartmell & Schlittle at 84 Shaftebury Avenue is where the purple triangle in the middle between Soho and Chinatown is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos to aid your enjoyed / understanding of this week's episode; on the left is the murder location at 85 Shaftesbury Avenue, and on the right is a little video showing you what a typical petit mal seizure looks like. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified police incvestigation files from the National Archives and form the Old Bailey.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a very ordinary robbery, as the overwhelming evidence pointed to the fact that John Esmond Murphy walked into a bank, bungled a heist, pulled a gun, shot and stabbed the manager dead, and was then captured, arrested, convicted and executed. But did he actually do it? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 101: The Fatal Seizure of John Esmond Murphy. Today I’m standing on Shaftesbury Avenue, off Chinatown, W1; one street north of the fiery death of Reginald Gordon West, one street west of the hushed-up shooting at the Rose n Dale club, a few yards from the first failed assassination on Russian dissident Alexander Litvinenko and one street south of stabbing of Savvas Demetriades and the Cypriot code of silence - coming soon to Murder Mile. This bit of Shaftesbury Avenue lies on the border between Soho and Chinatown, only being little more than a busy road from Piccadilly Circus to Holborn, it has all of the traffic but none of the footfall. With nothing to see here and nowhere to go, the tourists pass through this West End wasteland as it’s a bit of a cultural dead zone, as there are no theatres, pubs, or sights of historical interest, just two long lines of very grey, very vague buildings and a lot of exhaust fumes. And with the bustling theatres deliberately keeping their distance, it’s as if this bit of Shaftesbury Avenue is an architectural leper. Of course, to anyone who loves staring blankly at some obscure arty subtitled twaddle, losing a shirt (and a hand) in a not-so legal Chinese casino, paying £3 for a warm flat can of Kosher Cola, wasting a night being yah-d at (“yah-yah-okay-yah”) in a pretentious club by some TV tossers, or overcharged by a Chinese herbalist for an extract of tiger anus to cure your piles, then this is your promised land. A high point is at 84 Shaftesbury Avenue; a five-storey mansion block with red-brick and cream colour pillars, built in the late 1800’s, which is now home to Olle – a Korean barbeque, where many satisfied munchers (like myself) have gorged themselves silly on a wide array of mouth-watering delights. And although, this is a fabulous place to fill your belly - as it was once the bank of Cartmell & Schlitte - it is also the site of a bungled robbery, an unfortunate death and a very strange miscarriage of justice. As it was here, on Saturday 7th November 1908, that John Esmond Murphy would be fatally seized with an uncontrollable urge to steal and kill for the very first and the very last time. (Interstitial) But did he actually do it? Well, yes, he did and the evidence was irrefutable. (Dizzy sounds) It’s a fact that on Saturday 7th November 1908, at 11:40am, twenty-one-year-old John Esmond Murphy of Paddington – having purchased a four-inch sheath knife and a .455 calibre Webley Fosbery revolver one day prior – entered the bank of Cartmell & Schlitte. Being penniless, he shot the manager once, stabbed him six times in the hands and chest, a struggle ensued, Murphy fled, and in his desperation to escape, he stabbed a van-driver and a police constable, who wrestled him to the ground, and he was swiftly arrested within sight of the bank and just a few seconds after the robbery. The incident occurred in broad daylight, on a busy city street, he wasn’t wearing a disguise and he was positively identified without hesitation by several eye-witnesses who all gave detailed statements. His fingerprints were found in the bank, on the gun, on the knife and the blood had stained on his clothes. Seven weeks later, being deemed medically fit to stand trial, although he pleaded his innocence by claiming that he had no memory of the event, with his insanity plea rejected and his laughable defence being down to a dose of malaria, two bouts of sunstroke and a hereditary form of epilepsy – as the robbery was clearly premeditated - he was found guilty in a court of law and executed for his crimes. If ever there was an open-and-shut case of robbery and murder, it was this. But did he actually do it? Well, no. I don’t think he did. John Esmond Murphy, known as Jack was born in Calcutta (India) in the summer of 1886, as the second of two siblings to British parents; his mother was a housewife, his father was a sergeant-major in the Army and he had one sister called Kathleen. Originating from Ireland, the Murphy’s were a loving but ordinary lower-middle-class family seeking a better life, as the British Empire expanded across Asia. Being a sensitive little boy, with a small thin frame, brown wavy hair and a beak-like nose, Jack was neat and clean, polite and calm, quiet and meek. He didn’t shout, cry or cause a disturbance, and being an intelligent lad with a love of engineering and poetry, he had a bright future ahead of him. But sadly, the Murphy’s were a family who were cursed with bad luck, illness and tragedy. In 1896, when Jack was aged ten, the Murphy family were struck down with Malaria; a deadly disease of the blood carried by mosquitos resulting in shivers, fever and death. And although not a cure, a lifelong course of Quinine would prove an effective treatment, sadly his father would not survive. As a small sickly boy, Jack would battle typhoid, scarlet fever, cholera and severe bouts of sunstroke which would almost take his life, and even though he bravely soldiered on, his life was to get worse. In 1902, when Jack was aged sixteen, having contracted pleurisy, his mother died of a brain fever. Jack & Kathleen were two grieving teens, all alone in India and four thousand miles from their nearest living relative. Anyone else would have struggled and failed, but being educated, hard-working and fluent in Bengali, gifted a small inheritance in their parent’s will, they would thrive for two more years. Only, unbeknownst to them, both parents had bequeathed them something more than money and a home, as the biggest inheritance the two siblings would receive was the hereditary curse of epilepsy. Initially Jack & Kathleen didn’t know they were epileptic, as with its onset often occurring in puberty, to the best of their knowledge they had never had a seizure. But then, there are two very distinct types of epileptic seizure; one which affects the whole body and the other which affects the brain. Commonly known as ‘grand-mal’ seizures, these attacks have familiar symptoms like a rigid stiffening of the body, a frothing at the mouth, a loss of bladder control, consciousness, and sometimes the ability to breathe, and (most noticeably) the violent uncontrollable spasm of the whole muscular system, which can last for seconds, take hours to recover and may require medical assistance. And although both types are caused by a violent electrical disturbance in the brain, ‘petit mal’ seizures are incredibly subtle, so subtle that sometimes even the sufferer and those around them are unaware that a seizure has taken place. Known as ‘absence seizures’, although symptoms vary, often being triggered by moments of emotional stress, an ‘absence seizure’ is typically denoted by a vacant look in the eyes, a slight fluttering of the eyelids, the ceasing of a conversation mid-sentence and - being physically unharmed - they often return to normal with no memory of those missing seconds. But sometimes, an atypical ‘petit mal’ seizure may be preceded by mood swings, aggression and (like a Jekyll & Hyde) a severe shift in personality. And although during a seizure they can still walk, move and interact with the world, unlike the people around them, they have no control over their actions. Thankfully, suffering intermittently from typical ‘petit mal’ seizures, neither Jack nor Kathleen let their disability stop them from leading an active and productive life, which would make their parents proud. In 1903, aged seventeen, Jack & Kathleen returned to the UK, first to Glasgow, and then to London. Having served eighteen months as a conscientious and dedicated Private in the British/Indian Army, being trained as a mechanic, Jack earned a good reputation as "reliable, trustworthy and hardworking engineer". In 1904, he trained as a driver and mechanic for the Automobile Market on Oxford Street where the manager praised him as “an asset to the company” and “quite a gentleman”. In 1905, he became a sub-station attendant for the Underground Electric Railways Company, responsible for the power supply at Ravenscourt Park tube station, where his supervisor said he was “steady, reliable and intelligent”. And remaining in employment until March 1908, as assistant to a civil engineer, Jack was only laid-off owing to an engineering strike, where his last employer hailed him as “a very well-trained engineer, perfectly sober and the meekest and quietest individual I have ever met”. He rarely drank, he didn’t do drugs, he didn’t lead a lavish lifestyle and had no expensive tastes; he never swore, shouted or stole, he didn’t have a bad bone in his body and he had no criminal record. And as a quiet lad with few friends – outside of engineering and poetry - his one passion was target practice. Once a week, having trained as a keen and careful marksman in the Army, he enjoyed the thrill of shooting at paper targets at the King’s Rifles shooting range in nearby Oxenden Street. Keen to develop a solid career, to live a good decent life and to aid his sister who had been diagnosed with a brain tumour, Jack had never taken a day-off sick. In fact, although an epileptic would never have been hired for such roles, his petit mal seizures were so infrequent, his colleagues barely noticed. On rare occasions he appeared forgetful, distracted,tired and sometimes had a glazed and vacant look about his eyes, and one time - having loaned the boss’s bike – whilst cycling, he fell off, and was found wandering aimlessly, unaware of how he’d got there, or where the bike was… but that was it. Six months later, a court of law would conclusively prove that John Esmond Murphy had robbed a bank, inflicted two violent assaults and brutally murdered a man for money. But did he? (Interstitial) It is said that atypical seizures are often triggered by moments of great stress. By the middle of October 1908, having eked-out a meagre existence in a series of part-time jobs, even though he had moved into a modest basement flat at 145 Shirland Road in Paddington, having pawned off his personal possessions, Jack couldn’t afford to pay his six shillings-a-week rent, or even to eat. Having deliberately moved one street away to be near his only surviving relative – his beloved sister, three times-a-day Jack would visit Kathleen. Having married well, she lived in a pleasant mansion block called Delaware Mansions in Maida Vale, but living apart from her husband and with a three-year-old daughter, Kathleen required constant care as she awaited an operation on her brain tumour. Burdened by no work, no money and no purpose, with the threat of homelessness looming, no bright prospects on the horizon and his last surviving family member knocking at death’s door, although Jack was still his usual self – a meek, placid and thoughtful boy - all too often, a cloud would descent over his head, as he morphed into someone else; someone darker, more depressive and unusually angry. Over the weeks, as his frequent seizures grew stronger and longer; his eyes were cold and dead, his face was vague and distant, and his lids fluttered almost imperceptibly, as if he was on auto-pilot. And yet, now there were new symptoms; as sometimes he would scratch his left wrist until it was red-raw and bleeding, often he’d rock back and forth on his feet muttering in an incoherent mumble, as waves of epileptic attacks came one-after-the-other, and then there were his dark and violent moods. In an instant, having been the epitome of meekness and compassion, who (just seconds earlier) had been supping his tea whilst reading poetry to soothe his sister, Jack would suddenly snap and change into someone unrecognisable; who was aggressive, violent and threatening. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it would end; he would return to his normal self, unaware that time had passed, that an incident had occurred, and unable to apologise for his actions, as he had no idea what he had done. As the rapidity of his petit-mal seizures escalated, as Jack became physically and emotionally drained by the persistent electrical assaults on his brain, it became almost impossible to work-out where old Jack ended and new Jack began. And yet, just two weeks before the robbery and the murder of the man who Jack had never met, something very sinister and out-of-character would happen. On Monday 19th October 1908, at 12:45am, Kathleen and her live-in carer called Stella Lynne had been out to Rayner’s bar in Haymarket and had returned by taxi to Delaware Mansions. Just as they had left it a few hours earlier, the door was locked, the fire was out, the lights were off and the flat was empty. Or so they thought. Having heard an odd noise; a creaking then a breathing, as if inside Kathleen’s bedroom someone was waiting, opening the door, they saw no-one but the sounds didn’t cease. And with no stranger hidden behind the door or inside the wardrobe, there was only one last place to check - underneath the bed. Striking a match, as Stella peered into the dark recess beneath, with his beak-like nose touching the bed-springs, Stella saw Jack; semi-clad, motionless and grinding his teeth, almost catatonic (as if he was asleep), but with his open eyes fluttering, and tightly gripped in his hand was a cutthroat razor. Stella was rightly terrified, as – barely a few days earlier – whilst sharing a cab into the West End with Jack, as another black mood descended, he had muttered “I am sick of this world. I am going to find my sister and end her life, and mine, and her child's". He didn’t. In fact, seconds later, he was fine and had forgotten everything he had just said, but Stella had forewarned Kathleen of this threat. That night, as Stella snatched away his razor, in an instant Jack snapped out of his strange slumber, wrapped both of his bloodied hands around his sister’s throat, and as Kathleen screamed in terror, he strangled her; his mouth wide and silent, his eyes vacant and dead, as if it meant nothing. Kathleen’s death was only stopped by Stella. And as swiftly as this attempted murder had begun, it had stopped. The incident was reported to the Police, two constables (PC Sanders and PC Hammond) attended the scene, a statement was made, but as Kathleen did not wish to press charges and Jack was now calm and unthreatening, the matter was dropped. For the next three days, although Kathleen’s throat was bruised and she couldn’t swallow, he refused to apologise, as (in his eyes) nothing had happened. This incident only formed a small part of Jack’s defence, as it was deemed irrelevant, but according to the prosecution, what happened next would clearly constitute premeditation of the robbery. On Friday 6th November 1908, at 9am, Jack reassured his landlady that he would pay his outstanding rent the very next day, only he had no money and no job. At 2pm, having loaned £4 off his sister to pay his back-rent, instead he went to the King’s Rifle gun range on Oxenden Street and bought a .455 calibre Webley Fosbery revolver, twenty-five bullets and a black handled four-inch switchblade knife. At 8pm, he sat with Kathleen, gave her a Quinine pill, took her temperature and read her Indian poetry to soothe her, as although the operation to remove a brain tumour was due the next day, being five guineas short of the full fee, her treatment looked unlikely. At 10:30pm, as she slept, he kissed her goodnight and assured her that everything would be okay, but that night, the cancer almost took her. The next day, for the first time ever, this timid boy would rob a bank and commit a brutal murder. All of the evidence proves that he did it. But was this Jack acting out of desperation in a moment of high emotional stress, or – as a ‘petit mal’ epileptic - was he caught in the grip of an absence seizure? At 84 Shaftesbury Avenue, on the corner of Macclesfield Street in Chinatown was Cartmell & Schlitte, a bank and foreign currency exchange, ran for fifteen years by George Cartmell and Fredrich Schlitte. Being barely twelve feet square, it was small and practical, but undeniably a ‘Bureau de Change’, as with large black lettering above, although impossible to see inside owing to its lightly frosted glass on both sides, in the windows (behind a locked screen) sat thirteen bowls of foreign notes and gold coins. Inside, through a thin wooden door, in an even smaller foyer was a large wooden counter with a heavy brass grille above, which kept the staff, the customers and the money at a distance. Across the counter was a neat array of banker’s books, paper bags, weights and scales, a cheque perforator and a till. And beyond an unlocked inner door to the left, behind the counter were rows of currency drawers and two safes. In total, the bank held almost £2000 in coins, notes and gold (roughly £250,000 today). With co-owner George Cartmell on leave and the manager George Calderwood heading out, the bank was left in the very capable hands his partner, 47-year old Fredrich Schlitte, a married father of two. Witnessed on the corner of Dean Street - dressed in a plain brown suit and a dark overcoat but nothing to disguise his face (not a mask or a hat) - Jack stood silently, rocking on his heels, as a trickle of blood ran freely down the red rash of his left wrist. But when questioned later, Jack could recall none of this. At 11:40am, as Benjamin Goodkin, the bank’s last customer exited the door, being unphased by any sound or sight, as if in a trance, Jack calmly crossed the busy street, a loaded gun by his side, and entered Cartmell & Schlitte; a place he had never been to before, nor had any reason to visit. The robbery was unlike any other; as with the gun outstretched and poking through the brass grille at the chest of Fredrich Schlitte, Jack never once shouted “hands up”, “this is a robbery” or “give me your money”, he didn’t utter a single warning or instruction, instead – with wide fluttering eyes – he fired. This sweet-natured and sensitive boy who had never fired a single bullet in his life at anything but a paper target, had – without provocation, emotion, words or sounds – shot Fredrich above his heart, and having fallen to the floor, as the bespectacled banker tried to defend himself with the hefty bulk of the cheque perforator, Jack – who had no history of sadism or violence – pulled out a black handled switchblade knife, and plunged the four-inches of steel into his chest, slashing at the terrified man’s hands, as the blade pierced his stomach, his bowel, his intestines, his shoulder and his left lung. And although Jack’s teeth were bared, Jack didn’t seem to be grinning with glee, but grinding his teeth. Desperate to raise an alarm as the pale boy with the vacant expression plunged the knife deep into his torso, having grabbed a brass weight, with all of his might, Fredrich hurled the half kilo lump and having smashed the locked screen and frosted front window, it landed with a thump on Shaftesbury Avenue, scattering shattered glass and almost hitting Benjamin Goodkin who’d forgotten something. Seeing Fredrich in an ever-increasing crimson pool of blood, Benjamin screamed “Police! Murder!”, alerting a constable, but the second he looked back, Jack had fled. And although the floor was strewn with almost £200 worth of paper money and gold coins, he didn’t steal a single penny. Instead, he fled down Shaftesbury Avenue towards Piccadilly Circus, at the corner of Wardour Street, he stabbed van-driver George Carter and Police Constable Albert Howe, but having his short pursuit cut-short by several passers-by, Jack was swiftly arrested, just yards and seconds after the robbery. In his cell, this small meek boy didn’t seem like a robber and a knife-wielding maniac, but having seen it all unfold with their own eyes, there was no denying that he was. Even as the constable commented that “he looked perfectly cool and calm, as if he had been out for a walk”, and yet, when questioned this placid young man always looked bemused, as he had no memory of the incident, what-so-ever. Two days later, Fredrich Schlitte died of his injuries and Jack was charged with murder. (End) The investigation was simple. Conducted by Inspector Fogwill, the robbery was conclusively proven to have been pre-meditated as Jack had purchased both weapons. His motivation was money for his rent and his sister’s operation. And although there was an abundance of irrefutable evidence to prosecute Jack – such as the gun, the knife, the fingerprints and multiple eye-witness statements from PC Howe, George Carter and (before his death) Fredrich Schlitte – there was very little evidence to defend him. Having apologised for his actions, although many colleagues testified to his placid character, they all admitted he had unusual quirks, ticks and (in recent weeks) was prone to unnatural violent outbursts. With an insanity plea dismissed, on 8th December 1908, at the Old Bailey, the medical experts (none of whom had any direct experience of absence seizures or petit mal epilepsy), all dismissed his claims. Dr Phillip Dunn, the Police surgeon stated “in my opinion, his condition was perfectly consistent with nervousness arising from his situation”. Dr James Scott, medical officer at Brixton Prison said “he was conscious of his acts and he knew whether they were right or wrong”. And with the judge deeming his sister’s deposition into his mental and physical health as inadmissible, having pled ‘not guilty’ to all charges, a unanimous jury found him guilty of murder, and on 6th January 1909, Jack Esmond Murphy was executed at Pentonville Prison for a crime the evidence proved that he did commit. But did he? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I go blah-blah blah, slurp-slurp-slurp, munch-munch-munch, and then we all switch off, if you haven’t already. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Christine Klassen and Beverley Cadel, I thank you. With a special thank you to Damian Twarogowski for the very kind donation. I thank you. Plus everyone who has recently left a lovely review of Murder Mile on your favourite podcast app’, it is hugely appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Caxton Hall where the assassination of Sir Michael O'Dwyer took place
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED:
On Wednesday 13th March 1940 at 4:30pm, in the Tudor Room of Caxton Hall, Udham Singh would murder Sir Michael O'Dwyer, a man he had never met before, but fuelled by hatred over twenty-one years, Udham’s reason to kill would make him not just a murderer, but a martyr.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Caxton Hall on 10 Caxton Street is where the bright green triangle near Westminster, just off The Thames. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left to right: Sir Michael Francis O'Dwyer, Udham Singh and General Reginald Dyer
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified police incvestigation files from the National Archives - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257785 MUSIC:
SOUNDS: Spent Cartridges - https://freesound.org/people/shelbyshark/sounds/501566/ 22 Rifle - https://freesound.org/people/gezortenplotz/sounds/19514/ Old Time Rifle - https://freesound.org/people/craigsmith/sounds/438581/ Enfield 303 - https://freesound.org/people/kyles/sounds/450854/ Chambered Round - https://freesound.org/people/shelbyshark/sounds/505203/ Sikh Music - https://freesound.org/people/CasaAsiaSons/sounds/240820/ Sikh Celebration - https://freesound.org/people/bangcorrupt/sounds/486622/
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the assassination Sir Michael O'Dwyer by Udham Singh; two strangers from very different worlds, who had never met before the day of his death. To many, his murder seemed almost random, and yet Udham’s reason to kill would make him a martyr. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 100: The Martyr and the Massacre. Today I’m standing on Caxton Street, in Westminster, SW1; four streets north of the left luggage kiosk where Patrick Mahon dumped the hacked-up bits of Emily Kaye, three streets west of the mysterious murder house of Lord Lucan, five streets south-west of the infamous Spaghetti House siege and three streets north of the hammer-wielding butler Victor Ford-Lloyd - coming soon to Murder Mile. Westminster is the heart of the British political system, as within spitting distance (a feat tested by so many protestors) is 10 Downing Street, the Foreign Office, the relevant Ministries and the Houses of Parliament; where laws are made, lies are spouted and the same useless toothless morons are made into Ministers, swiftly sacked for being crap and punished by being promoted – and that is democracy. Infamous for its protests, Westminster is often filled with more placards than people, as everybody’s voice has the right to heard… even the idiots. Except recently, when a very astute Police Constable saw five knuckle-scraping skinheads staggering towards the Black Lives Matter protest, and instead of riling them up by suggesting they weren’t welcome, she hit them were it hurts by saying “sorry lads, you can’t bring booze into Parliament Square”. And with that, they toddled off to The Jolly Racist pub, unaware that everything they love (beer, football and curries) was invented by the “bloody forunuz”. Two streets away from Parliament Square is Caxton Street; a small side-street crammed full of new offices, old houses, renovated flats, a single tree and Caxton Hall, a place not of protest, but of debate. Built in 1883, Caxton Hall is a five storey, grade II listed, former town hall with a history as colourful as the red and pink sandstone its sculpted from; having witnessed many musicals, speeches and the weddings of Peter Sellers, Ringo Starr, Elizabeth Taylor and Joan Collins (not to each other), as well as political movements, such as first Pan African Conference, the Women’s Social & Political Union and the first public meeting of the Homosexual Law Reform Society. And although, almost all of these events (except the marriages) ended peacefully, it was also home to a very political murder. As it was here, on Wednesday 13th March 1940, in the Tudor Room, where Udham Singh would come face-to-face with Sir Michael O'Dwyer, for the very first time… and would shoot him dead. (Interstitial) So, what connected the Indian killer and his Irish victim? Well, on the surface… nothing. Michael Francis O'Dwyer was born 28th April 1864 in Barronstown; a remote windswept farmstead in County Tipperary in the south-west of Ireland, four thousand miles from the Punjab in northern India. As the sixth of fourteen siblings to John, an affluent landowner and his wife Margaret; as Irish farmers who had struggled in the wake of the Great Famine which left almost a million people dead - with their country torn between independents and nationalists - the O’Dwyer’s turned their backs on their own homeland to climb the greasy pole of prosperity, having sided with their brutal British oppressors. From an early age, Michael was raised and educated to be British, not Irish. To be cold, ruthless and ambitious. To never give-in or give-up, no matter how unfair, unkind or inhumane his orders or goals. And being an Irish farm boy, his only assured route to success was through the Indian Civil Service. With India under the tyrannical boot of the British Empire, the careers and wealth of many infamous leaders and politicians - whose statues still stand tall on our streets – were forged in India’s blood, as seeing its people as uncivilised savages to subjugated, Michael adopted this attitude of supremacy. In 1884, having passed his Indian Civil Service exam, he was posted as an ICS officer to Shahpur in the Punjab, where – later promoted to the euphemistically titled ‘Director of Land Records’ – he oversaw the resettlement of Indian land to native people and tribes, but mostly British landlords and investors. With a total disrespect and disregard for Indian life, culture and sensitivities, he lived as the British did, with the invaders in privilege and the natives in poverty, their country ravage by colonialism. In 1887, assigned to ‘re-organise’ the separation of the North-West Frontier and the Punjab, after quarter of a century of re-writing laws, rules and boundaries for Westminster, in May 1913, he became Lieutenant Governor with total control over the Punjabi people, for which he would be knighted. Upon his succession, Viceroy Penshurst warned Sir Michael that “the Punjab was highly flammable and (if an explosion was to be avoided) it required careful handling”, a skill he was not blessed with. In 1914, with Britain losing the bloody conflict with Germany, although countless Indians had died in the fight for independence, now the master come crawling to its slaves for help. Under the Defence of India Act of 1915, 360,000 Punjabi men were enlisted to die for their captor’s King and country, in return for land, money and the promise of a better future. It was a promise which was agreed with a metaphorical handshake, only once they had turned, that same hand would stab them in in the back. Being short on soldiers, sensing an uprising of Punjabi nationalism and with the country on the brink of unrest, under “emergency war-time measures”, the Defence of India Act 1915 limited the civil and political liberties of the Indian people, a draconian act strongly favoured and enforced by Sir Michael. But by 1918, with the war over and the “emergency measures” obsolete, as Indian soldiers returned from the battlefield to their homeland with a sense of loss and every promise broken, seeing a rise in radical thought, the British sought to supress India’s freedom, by extending those war-time rules. The Rowlatt Act was passed by the British Government on 10th March 1919, and although Sir Michael wouldn’t be murdered for another twenty-one years, the date is significant, as just five weeks after it was signed, his actions would invoke of the one of the world’s bloodies and most shocking massacres. So, who was Udham Singh and why did he kill? Born on the 26th December 1899, in the impoverished Sangrur district of the Punjab, Udham’s birth name was Sher Singh. With his mother having died in child-birth, he was raised as the second of two sons to Sardar Tehal Singh Jammu, a widowed watchman of a railway crossing in the village of Upalli. Aged three, following the tragic sudden death of his father and with no family to raise two sensitive little boys who had nothing and no-one, Sher and his older brother Mukta were sent to the Central Khalsa Orphanage in Amritsar, where Sher was initiated as a Sikh and given the name of Udham Singh. Of those first two decades of his life, that is all we know; in 1916 he attended Khalsa College, in 1918 he graduated, and in 1919 he left the orphanage. Living under the brutal British boot, with the Rowlatt Act curbing his rights, Udham was conscripted to fight in the Third Anglo Afghan war against the Afghan rebels who would win their independence from the British. He served in Basra, East Africa and after four years’ service, he returned home to India to nothing but broken promises. With ‘killing in cold blood’ outlawed in Sikhism and with murder not a part of his curious heart, Udham wanted to see the world, develop his skills, expand his mind and escape his poverty. So, over the next sixteen years, he would travel far and wide, but the things he had seen would eat away at his soul. Setting sail to Mexico, under the alias of a Costa Rican seaman called Frank Brazil (as Indians weren’t permitted to sail on a US vessel), he lived in California, Chicago, Detroit and New York for several years, as well as France, Belgium, Germany, Lithuania, Hungary, Poland, Switzerland and Italy, only to earn his passage back to India, in July 1927, by working as a carpenter onboard SS Jalapa. Seeing his besieged country from afar, whilst in the US, Udham had become deeply influenced by the revolutionary nationalist Bhagat Singh, who sought to overthrow India’s colonial oppressors. Upon his return to his birth-place of Amritsar, Udham was arrested for possessing two unlicensed revolvers and a large stash of the prohibited Ghadar Party paper called ‘Ghadr-i-Gunj’, which in Punjabi means ‘Voice of Revolt’. Admitting in court a desire to murder his British oppressors, even though this was his first crime and the only time he had ever killed was in combat, he was sentenced to five years in prison. In 1931, he was released, and after that, everything fell apart. Being under constant surveillance - via Kashmir and East Germany - Udham came to England. For six years, as a committed nationalist, he was literally in the belly of the beast… but his life was in chaos. With no-one to guide him, he was indiscrete about his anti-British attitude; he used several aliases, lodged with known Bolsheviks, and applied for and received travel visas to Holland, Germany, Poland, Austria and Italy, as well as Eastern Europe and Russia, during the rise of Hitler’s fascist dictatorship. Living in a white protestant city, Uhdam wasn’t exactly anonymous; as being an Asian Sikh with a big beard and a bright turban, who drifted from job-to-job, bragged about smuggling arms to India and spouted extremist views, by the end of 1936, having embraced a British way of life, he was cohabiting with a “white woman in the West End” and was making his living as jobbing carpenter and a film extra. By 1938, he was charged with demanding money with menace. By 1939, being unemployed, he was living off benefits of just 17 shillings per week. And by 1940, with World War Two in full force and London ravaged by the blitz, the revolutionary wind had gone out of his sails and he felt like a failure. And yet, his martyrdom was just around the corner. But how? His motivation began more than two decades earlier, in the year that he left the orphanage, as 1919 was a flash point in the collapse of the British Empire and India’s struggle for Independence. With the country crippled by strikes, riots and mutinies, in the five weeks since the Rowlatt Act, seeing Amritsar as a city in revolt, as Lieutenant Governor of the Punjab, Sir Michael had implemented strict draconian rules to maintain his tyrannical strangle-hold on the people and deny them any freedom in their own city; protests were outlawed, leaders were exiled and curfews were brutally enforced. To impose his will and quash any rebellion, the policing of Amritsar was overseen by Acting Brigadier-General Reginald Dyer; a cruel sadistic cold-blooded bully who ruled with an iron rod and no emotion. On Sunday 13th April 1919, given a blank sheet by Sir Michael to enforce the rules at will, General Dyer banned all public meetings of more than four people, and imposed an 8pm curfew starting that night. Only this would be a warning which few locals would heed; as Amritsar was a city of many languages, where few people were literate enough to read the sparsely dispersed leaflets, and - more importantly - it was a key day in the Sikh faith. This was the festival of Baisakhi (Bah-saki); a sacred day where thousands of pilgrim families descend from the hills, to the city, for prayers, food and the cattle fair. Incensed that these peasants had flagrantly ignored his rule on public meetings, at 2pm, General Dyer shut down the cattle fair. But the people didn’t disperse. Instead, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, having already prayed and reluctantly heading home, many drifted aimlessly into Jallianwala Bagh. Jallianwala Bagh, known as the Bagh is a six-acre garden with a twenty-foot well, surrounded by ten-foot high walls and accessed by one entrance and five narrow alleys with lockable steel gates, as during the rainy season, the garden is used for farming, but being flat and arid for the rest of the year, it is also a public meeting place, a Sikh cremation site and somewhere to peacefully protest and debate. At 4pm, estimating the crowd at between 6,000 and 20,000 people, General Dyer did nothing to disperse this crowd, as in his mind, he had already warned them and they had chosen to ignored it. The evening was warm and peaceful, as although densely packed with a small but peaceful protest over two exiled leaders, the Bagh was full of thousands of families playing games, eating picnics and savouring the last few hours of sunlight; the mood was calm, happy and good natured. Only General Dyer didn’t see it that way. This wasn’t a picnic; this was a rebellion, an uprising and a revolt. At 8pm, as decreed, with his curfew in-force and these anarchic peasants deliberately disobeying his direct order, having blocked the main entrance, locked all of the side alley gates and formed a line of ninety Sikh and Gurkha soldiers, armed with .303 Lee–Enfield rifles, General Dyer gave no warning of his bloody intentions, except for his men to “make ready”, “take aim” and “fire”. (Mass shooting) It was like shooting fish in a barrel, as even as the terrified people fled, so thick were the crowds that Dyer ordered his men to fire at the densest part, so each bullet wound penetrate several bodies deep. Panicked, frightened but unable to escape - with nothing to hide behind but a bloody pile of mounting corpses –the fittest were shot climbing the locked gates, the elderly and the sick were crushed in the stampede, mothers died diving into the deep dry well to shield their babies, and with not a single shot being fired back, as the people were unarmed, the troops continued the slaughter for ten whole minutes, manually loading every single one of the 1650 bullets, until their ammunition was spent. With the carnage ceased and the Bagh bathed in blood, Dyer ordered his men to retreat. They didn’t offer any aid, or count the dead, instead with Dyer’s deadly curfew in-force until the morning and the city too terrified to enact a rescue effort, many of the wounded were condemned to lie there, dying. 192 were injured, 379 were dead, the eldest was eighty-two and the youngest was just six-weeks-old. The Amritsar massacre traumatised a nation and having witnessed to one of the worst atrocities ever inflicted by the British, many people were scarred for life. One of whom (it is said) was an 18-year-old boy from Amritsar orphanage, who was serving water at the festival - his name was Udham Singh. To cover his tracks, Sir Michael O’Dwyer initiated martial law in the Punjab on 15th April 1919, two days after the massacre, but backdated the paperwork to 30th March, two weeks before, giving a legal justification for General Dyer’s atrocity. And having re-enforced his side of the story to the British high-command, he sent a telegram to General Dyer saying “your actions were good, right and I approve”. Under the protection of Sir Michael, General Dyer was found innocent of any criminal charges, he was removed from duty, denied a promotion and he retired from the Army on a pension provided by the British people who felt what he had done was right. He died in 1927, unrepentant for the massacre. Arrogant to the end, Sir Michael O’Dwyer was relieved of his office by Edwin Montagu, the Secretary of State for India, to which he replied “well, that’s what comes of having a Jew in Whitehall”. He returned to London with his wife and children, to live out a comfortable retirement as a public speaker. Twenty-one years on, with Germany as the new enemy, many had forgotten about the massacre… but one man had not. And although murder was against his religion, Udham Singh still harboured enough hatred to kill. On Wednesday 13th March 1940 at 3pm, in the Tudor Room of Caxton Hall, a meeting of the East India Association and the Royal Central Asian Society was held to debate the conflict in Afghanistan. Hosted by Brigadier-General Sir Percy Sykes, chaired by Lord Dundas (2nd Marques of Zetland and Secretary of State for India) with lectures by such luminaries as Lord Lamington (2nd Baron and former Governor of Bombay), Sir Louis Dane (former Under Secretary for the State of Punjab) and Sir Michael O’Dwyer (former Lieutenant Governor of the Punjab). All were titled, all were white and all were British. Entering via the wooden double-doors of the red and pink sandstone of this former town-hall, Udham Singh was given a wide-birth as he cut through the throng of the white and privileged; as although he wore a dark suit, was clean-shaven and had swapped his turban for a trilby, to many Westerner’s eyes this brown skinned man seemed a strange addition in this discussion of Asian affairs. With his ticket in hand to this sold-out event and ushered into the small but snug wood-panelled room, as all one-hundred and thirty of the rickety wooden chairs were occupied, Udham stood with a small group of late-comers, in a thin aisle to the right of the room, a few feet from the speaker’s platform. Stood slightly behind, Bertha Herring, a self-described spinster from Wraysbury, later stated “I saw a dark coloured man five yards ahead. I wondered who this man was and how he came to be here. He appeared to be of very unpleasant appearance”. Being dressed in a clean white shirt, shiny black shoes and a smart woollen suit with bulges in both jacket pockets, Udham shrugged-off this racism, as her bigotry simply set the tone of the afternoon and besides, given what needed to do, he needed space. At 3pm, the lectures began, with a dull Anglo-centric diatribe by Lord Zetland; who exalted the British, vilified the Afghans and reminded the room of how “we know what’s best for them and their kind”. And although his crass comments were well-received with a polite applause, he wasn’t why the people were her. As the next speaker was Sir Michael O’Dwyer. Two decades on, this seventy-five-year-old former Governor of the Punjab was thin, grey and frail but fervently unrepentant for his past. In a twenty-minute speech, delivered in his notoriously “racy Irish manner” and littered with the kind of unabashed bigotry, lazy stereotypes and hate-filled xenophobia which (today) would end a career, Sir Michael was cheered and harrumphed as he frivolously joked about the Afghan invasion of India and his crushing of the Punjabi uprising – a tyrannical action for which he was awarded the Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Empire – whilst he conveniently side-stepped the tricky topic of the hundreds of unarmed civilians slaughtered, under his orders, at the Amritsar Massacre. As Sir Michael concluded his racist rant to a rapturous applause, a standing ovation and then took his seat on the right of the stage, although barely inches away from his would-be killer, through it all, Udham had remained stoic and remarkably calm. So calm, that he listened to the rest of the lectures. At 4:30pm exactly, as the meeting was concluded by Lord Lamington - and the densely-packed room echoed to the familiar hubbub of dying applause, appreciative murmurs, the shuffle of papers and the creak of wooden chairs as the audience slowly filed out and the speakers on stage all congratulated each other on how marvellous they were – clutching a British issue Smith & Wesson .455 calibre six-round revolver, Udham dashed forward and (from just eighteen inches away) he fired six quick shots. Caught off-guard by the gun’s sharp recoil, his last four shots missed their mark – as one nicked Lord Lamington’s right wrist, one grazed Sir Louis Dane’s forearm, one caused a superficial abrasion to Lord Zetland’s left lower ribs and one missed the stage entirely – but his first two shots were bang on target. Fired into Sir Michael’s back, the second bullet smashed through his 12th rib, his right kidney, his stomach and came to rest inside the front of his crisp white shirt. The first smashed his 10th rib, ripped through his right lung, the right ventricle of his heart and exploded out of the left of his chest. Unlike those who had been murdered at the Amritsar Massacre; his killing was by one man, not ninety; his injuries were caused by two bullets, not an exhaustive wall of shredding lead; and his death would be quick, not a ten-minute terrifying slaughter, followed by a long night of pain, tears and fear. Instead, he staggered, he collapsed and he died almost instantly; with no time to feel pain, to ask why, to face his killer, to apologise, or even to regret his decisions which sent countless thousands to an early grave. As the room erupted into panic, a stampede of screaming people tumbled over chairs and formed a bottle-neck by the only exit. Before Udham could reload or escape, having shouted to her sister to “bar the exit”, Bertha Herring had blocked the packed aisle, later stating “I did nothing. I merely put my fat body in the way to stop him”, and as Mr Wyndham Riches threw a coat over Udham’s head and wrestled him to the floor, although the assassination had descended to the depths of an old-fashioned farce, Udham Singh, the Indian Nationalist had surrendered, as his mission was finally complete. (End) Smiling and composed, Udham was arrested moments later. In his pocket, they found a linoleum knife, a box of twenty-five rounds, two French Francs, sixty Russian Roubles and a small red diary in which he had written the addresses of Lord Willingdon, the Marquez of Zetland, Sir Michael O’Dwyer, and in that day’s entry, it read - “3pm, Caxton Hall” and “Action. Only the way to open the door”. Under the alias of ‘Ram Mohammad Singh Azad’, a name which represented the three major religions of the Punjab and his anti-colonial views, Udham Singh was tried at the Old Bailey on Monday 3rd June 1940. After a two-day trial, being found guilty of murder, Mr Justice Atkinson sentenced him to death. Judged by his colonial masters and asked if he had anything to say, Udham made his protest, as angrily thumping the dock, he shouted about the brutality, the slavery, the indecency and the legalised murder of men, women and children, under the so-called flag of democracy and a civilisation drenched in blood. And as he was led away into the cells, cursing “down with British Imperialism, down with the dirty British dogs”, the Judge directed the press not to report a single word that Udham had spoken. With his appeal dismissed, on Tuesday 30th July 1940 at 9am, forty-year-old Udham Singh was hanged at Pentonville Prison, having befallen the same fate as any common killer, traitor or spy, which to the British he was. But to the Indian people, he was hailed as a hero. Posthumously, the humble carpenter and orphaned boy from Amritsar was honoured by the Indian people, the Punjabi press and Indian Prime Minister Nehru, who praised his selfless action by stating “he kissed the noose so that we may be free”. Udham was awarded the title of Shaheed (which means "the great martyr"), a district in the Punjab was named in his honour, and just seven year’s after his death, with the British Empire little more than a crumbling ruin, India had won its independence. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I shall yawn for a bit, I shall waffle about things I’ve done, I’ll make a tea, I’ll do a quiz which I’ll probably ruin, I’ll tell you some things which weren’t in the episode and then I shall stop. Whoopie-do. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Jennifer Cowles, Carol Gavin and Jane Louise Braun. I thank you all. With an extra thank you to Anne-Marie Griffin and Deryck Hughes for the very kind donations. As well as everyone who listens to Murder Mile and writes a lovely review on your favourite podcast app’, as without listeners, Murder Mile is nothing. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. |
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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